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TALES OF CHIVALRY;

iPK^OLg liV ^L©©© hm® [FOIL©,

ILLUSTRATED WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS,
By Mr. S. WILLIAMS.

-Iff-

fiontion :

G. BERGER, HOLYWELL STREET, STRAND;

AND MAY BE HAD OF ALL BOOKSELLERS.

London : (J. Rerger, rrintr-r. Kolyvoll Stn ct, SIimivI

S£3

PREFACE.

In concluding the '' Tales of Chivalry," it becomes our pleasing-
task to present our heartfelt acknowledgments to the Public for the
very liberal patronage which has been extended to it — a patronage
which amply proves the power of the page of chivalric lore to
charm and interest the reader.

It has been our aim throughout the work to illustrate as vividly
as possible the manners and customs of the days of chivalry, both
in the engra\angs which adorn its pages, and in the rich store of
legends which are contained therein ; in most of which Romance,
blended with the choicest treasures of Poetry, combine to enliven
the imagination, and to purify the affections.

Remembering that the simple fact of a great battle being either
lost or won, makes but little impression on us, as it occurs in the
dry pages of an annalist, whilst our imagination and attention are
highly excited by the detailed account of a much more trifling event
— that a skirmish before a petty fortress, thus told, interests us
more than the general information that twenty thousand French-
men bled on the field of Cressy — we have endeavoured to adopt
as much as possible the colloquial — of all others the most interest-
ing— style of history, and to bring before our readers, as forcibly as
possible, the actors in the noble fields of love and war ; to follow

iv PREFACE.

them in the whirlwind of battle, in the savage fury of the on-
slaught, or the wild excitement of the melee; to recount not only
their deeds of heroic bravery in the battle-field, but to record their
sufferings on the stormy wave, in the dungeon, by the torture, or
on the block, and to present a faithful picture of the times in which
they lived.

Our efforts have been most ably seconded by the pencil of our
artist. To him our warmest thanks are due, both for the spirit he
has thrown into his illustrations, and for the great attention he has
paid to the correct delineation of costume.

Again thanking him, the gentlemen of the press, and the public
generally, we beg, in conclusion, to assure them, that a more
grateful Editor never existed than the Editor of the *^ Tales of
Chivalry."

TALES OF CHIVALRY;

OR,

iPi^^jLg ST ;f(l©.s)® hm® ^lELW.

U N D A ;

A TKADITION OF TVKOL.

When the wanderer, traversing the beau-
tiful valley called the Ort?.hall, in Tyrol,
has passed the magnificent waterfall of
Stuben, and the path, gradually becoming
narrower and steeper, winds on among
detached masses of rock, sometimes along
fearful abysses on the one hand, and
sometimes beneath immense perpendicular
walls of stone on the other, he comes to a
rude, uncultivated track, where, at the
foot of a beetling cliff, overhanging the
foaming torrent of the impetuous Ortz-
bach, there is a cavern almost closed by a
block of gigantic magnitude. Having
squeezed himself with difliculfy through
the narrow aperture, he discovers in the
interior, which is nearly choked up with
rubbish, seven crosses of black wood ; and,
in the rock forming the side of the cavern,
are to be seen the same number of crosses,
and an inscription, now nearly obliterated,
VOL. II. — 1.

l\xge 4.

cut in the decayed stone, and bearing the
stamp of very high antiquity. It cost me
considerable trouble to make out the date
119S, and the word Uxda. The roman-
tic wildness of the spot, the evidences of
some vast convulsion, and the singular
situation of the place itself, together with
these symbols apparently denoting some
fatal catastrophe, excited my curiosity ;
but neither my guide nor any of the per-
sons whom I met with could give me fur-
ther information than that this was the
burial-place of some people who had been
killed by lightning. The traveller in tliese
parts is accustomed to memorials of such
accidents, for he frequently meets with
votive tablets, as they are called, upon
which is to be seen painted tiie melancholy
story of one who has perished by the fall
of a' rock or a tree, or tumbled down a
precipice, or been drowned by the sudden
swelling of some mountain torrent. [
conjectured, therefore, that the more mo-
dern crosses migiit commemorate an event

B

TALES OF CmVAl.RV

of this kind ; but that there should be the
same number hevMi in the rock willi so
ancient a date and a long superscri[)tion,
to me, to be sure, illegible, piqued my
curiosity, and I suspected that this might
be the scene of some great catastrophe
or other remarkable event.

I hoped to obtain information on this
subject from the prie^^t at the parsonage
of the contiguous village of Solden, where
I experienced a kind reception, but was
referred to the archives of tlie neighbour-
ing hospice. I took the trouble to turn
over the not very copious collection of
manuscripts, and,' among several legends,
I met with the following, which, on ac-
count of the date, the name of Unda, and
the popular tradition, 1 could not help ap-
plying to this rude mausoleum.

When the emperor Frederic Rarbarossa
kept his court at Wimpfen on the Necker,
there lived at that place Unda von Wan-
gen, an orphan adorned with all the cliarms
of youth, beauty, and innocence. Henry
of 'Neiden, one of the tirst nobles of the
court, saw her by accident, conceived a
passion for her, and from tliat moment
never ceased to persecute her with his im-
portunities. Peremptorily as she rejected
the coarse advances of the knight, he was
not to be daunted. One evening, in a
lit of inebriety, he penetrated to her apart-
ment, and would liave clasped her in his
arms, but slipping from his grasp, she
darted down stairs with the speed of a
chased deer. Tlie knight followed, but
iiis limbs refused their office ; he fell in
descending the stairs; his dagger, being-
displaced by the shock, pierced his breast,
and he was found weltering in his blood.
The weak, the delicate Unda, was accused
of his murder. The emperor was enraged
at the loss of his favourite ; and Unda,
who protested her innocence, having no
other w itnesses but God and her own con-
science, was doomed to die.

Justice seems to have been in those
days tolerably rapid in its movements, and
to have begun with execution, and finished
with an investigation of the alleged crime.
On this point, however, the legend merely
intimates that she was made acquainted
with the sentence. At this ceremony,
Frederic of Reifenstein, who had been sent
to the emperor's court by his uncle, the
bishop of Trent, had an opportunity ol
seeing the fair Unda. He was captivated
by her beauty, enchanted by the innocence

of her look and demeanour, and deeply
affected by her melancholy fate. He
vowed within liimself to save her. But a
few hours were left for the accomplishment
of his de^ign. He bribed the guards, pro-
cured the keys of the prison — how, my le-
gend does not explain — and at midnight
bore off' the fainting Unda, who imagined
that she was to be led forth to die. Con-
signing her to the care of his faithful Ber-
tram, he ordered him to convey her to his
castle of Naturns, in the Vintschgau. He
himself remained tor some time at court,
as if nothmg had happened ; he then re-
turned to his uncle, and flew to Naturns to
receive the thanks of tlie lovely Unda.

Bertram had meanwhile conducted the
lady in safety to the castle, and delivered
her into the hands of the aged Buda, who
had been the knight's nurse, and whose
assiduous attentions and kindness dried
her tears and silenced her apprehensions.
The gratitude which she felt towards her
deliverer was soon changed, by the old
woman's praises of her master, into a
warmer feeling. Frederic arrived. My
legend says not a word about raptures,
or love ; nor is it till seven years after-
wards tliat J find Unda again mentioned,
as a wife and the mother of several bloom-
ing children.

This brings us to the precise period
when, pope Urban HI. having died of
fright and grief on receiving the melan-
choly tidings of the conquest of Jerusa-
lem by the great sultan Saladin, his suc-
cessor, Celestine HI., summoned all the
princes of the west to the rescue of the
holy city from the hands of the infidel?.
The kings of England and France, with
the bravest of their nobles, and the great
emperor Frederic Barbarossa, at the head
of the flower of German chivalry, obeyed
the call. Reifenstein, with his men-at-
arms, prepared to join the latter. Unda,
bathed in tears and filled with sinister pre-
sentiments, strained her husband to her
bosom. He connnended her and his
children to the care of the Almighty and
of his trusty castellan, Ulric of Gruns-
berg, tore himself from her embrace,
mounted his charger, hastened to JNleran,
and with many of the neighbouring gen-
try joined the main army on the Austrian
frontiers. He assisted to strike terror
into the Greeks, participated in the glory
of the victory over die Seldjukes, was en-
gaged in the storming of Acre, entwined

PKRILS BY FLOOD AM) FIELD.

hrs brow wrtli laurels, and bore several
scars as tokens of his \a1or.

Not far from the spot where the cold
waters of the Cydnus had well ni?h caused
the death of Alexander the Great, the
emperor Frederic perished by imprudently
bathing in the equally cold and impetuous
Saleph. His second son, of the same
nan e, conducted the troops further into
the Holy T^and, and took part in the siege
of Acre, where many soldiers and persons
of distinction fell. Our Frederic's brave
band, too, was reduced to a very small
number; and, as the discord which di-
vided the princes and the army prevented
further progress, he prepared, just at the
moment of the arrival of a fresh body of
warriors, to return to his country and to
his family.

Unda lived meanwhile in close retire-
ment in the castle of Naturns, and shed
many bitter tears on account of her be-
loved consort, attending mass twice a-day,
and offering up ardent prayers to heaven
for the speedy return of her beloved Fre-
deric. Ulric taught the boys to ride in
the castle-yard, while the lady Unda in-
structed the girls in the innermost bower ;
and thus the time passed slowly and sadly
away.

On the festival of St. Corbinian, Unda,
in fulfilment of a vow, repaired to Mais,
and, after performing her devotions in the
chapel dedicated to that saint, rested her-
self in the shade of the lofty chestnut-tree
whicii overhung it, contemplating, beside
the solitary spring, the beautiful prospect
presented by the surrotmding country.
Meek and pious as she was, Unda never-
theless had, unknown to herself, a most
malig-nant foe. Hermgard, the wife of
Rudolph of Vilenzano, had once cherished
hopes of obtaining the hand of Frederic.
He preferred Unda ; and Hermgard, in
despair, united herself whh Rudolph, with
whom she led a miserable life. She
accused Unda as the author of her wretch-
edness, conceived the bitterest hatred
against her, and vowed signal revenge.
Th^ tidings of her happiness only served
to strengthen tliis vile passion, wliich was
continually receiving fresh food from her
own unfortunate situation. Her dark
spirit did not meditate murder; she
sought a species of revenge of slower but
equally fatal operation : she wished to
enjoy the gratification of seeing her hated
rival pining under a protracted decay.

Long had she waited for an opportunity;
the favourable moment seemed now to
have arrived. She, too, had gone on the
same day to Mais, not indeed to perform
religious duties; but, inquisitive respect-
ing every movement of Unda's, she had
gained information of her intended jour-
ney, and it was only on such an occasion
that she could see her, for Ulric cautiously
guarded the entrance tols'aturns, and his
mistress never ventured beyond the pre^
cincts of the castle.

With syren look and speech she ap-
proached the pious pilgrim, whom Ulric
hail been prevented by illness from attend-
ing : she was overjoyed at having at last
an opportunity of making the personal
acquaintance of the noble lady of Reifen.
stein, described hei'self as a juvenile play-
mate of her Frederic's, pretended that she
had at home a palmer who had brought
news from tlie Holy Land, and invited
her to call as she returned at the castle of
Thursteis, situated near the high-road.
The virtuous L'nda, suspecting no harm,
and burning with desire to question the
palmer, who had perhaps seen her husband,
accepted the invitation; on which Herm-
gard parted from her with an hypocritical
embrace and a triumphant heart.

After the pi'gfrim had finished her devo-
tions, and fulfilled her vow by fotmding a
yearly mass at the shrine of the saint, she
hastened with her Bertha, an infant two
years of age, to her new friend, impatient
for the wished-for tidings. I'iie lady of
Vilenzano met her with demonstrations
of joy in the court-yard, conducted her
into the castle, and promised to introduce
her to the palmer. Scarcely iiad Unda
entered, with a heart throbbing with
expectation, when Hermgard suddenly
changed her tone.

" Have I thee in my power at last,
traitress ?" cried she, inflamed with rage ;
'* have I thee in my power at last, to
satiate my long -suppressed revenge!
Many years of sorrow and sadness have I
passed ; it is now thy turn to pass as
many. A slow poison shall consume thy
life, and despair shall be thy lot ! Now,
choose between the death of Ihis infant" —
she had meanwhile caught up the child,
and pointed a dagger to its breast — " or
an oath from wiiich no priest shall release
thee, nev er more to embrace thy husband,
but to repulse him fiom thy heart, that
thou mayst experience in thy turn the

TALFS Or CHIVALRY ; OR,

torture which thou hast prepared for me.
Choose — swear — or ihy child has not
another moment to hve."

Vain were the prayers and entreaties
of the half-fainting Unda, to be spared ihe
cruel oatii ; maternal atlection hnally
overcame every other feeling. " Hold !"
cried she to her tormentor, who had
already raised her arm to strike — " hold !
I vviU'swear." Upon the host, which a
confederate of the wretch, in the habit of
a priest, handed to her, she swore a horrid
oath, wliich was to embitter all her joys,
to destroy the iiappiness of her whole life.

"JNow," said Hermgard to her, with a
malicious sneer, " now mayst thou enjoy,
if thou canst, the society of thy loving

wliile his heart throbbed vehemently at
the idea of meeting once more the beloved
objects whom he had left behind.

Two months had elapsed, and the future
presented itself to Unda's imagination in
darker and still darker colours. The
fearful hope had stifled in her bosom every
emotion of joy, and tears, bitter tears,
which she had once shed only on account
of her husband's absence, were now wrung
from her by the thought of a meeting
equally desired and dreaded. For days
together she would sit silent in her
bower, with her eyes fixed on the distant
horizon, or pursuing tiie winding course
of the Adige, where every wave, hurrying
past to return no more, w as an emblem of

husband, who is not far off: such, at | her happiness which had fled for ever,
least, is the message which the pious Thus was she one day seated, her head
palmer was to bring thee ; for the same j supported on her hand, when a cloud of
ship conveyed them both from the Holy j dust appeared in the distance; it ap-
Land to Cyprus, where Reifenstein was 1 proached nearer, in the direction of the
detained for some time. Thou mayst | castle ; she recognized the plume and
now return to thy castle as soon as thou scarf of her husband ; she ru.-^hed down
%vilt." With these words she conducted | the staircase ; overpowered by her emo-
Unda, more dead than alive, into the fore- : tions, and forgetting the territic oath, she
court, where an old servant who had [ sank swooning into the arms of her be-
attended the lady on her pilgrimage, was loved crusader.

waiting for iier. Silent, and scarcely | The first moment of returning con-
conscious of what was passing around her, I sciousness brought with it the recollection
she arrived at the castle, clasping little | of her heinous offence. With a shriek of
Bertha closely to her bosom, as if appre- \ anguish she tore herself from his bosom,
hensive lest she should be again snatched 1 all the horrors of her violated oath burst
from her embrace. upon her soul, and she felt herself loaded

Frederic had meanwhile arrived at the with a curse from which she could never
island of Cyprus, which king Guy, on | more be relieved. She fled to her most
being driven from Jerusalem, had pur- retired chamber, locked the door, and
chased of the English monarch, Richard , tore her hair and wrung her hands in an
Coeur de Lion. A gloomy presentiment ' agony of despair. It was not till she had
urged him to hasten his departure, but he jthus passed two days, that, exhausted in
was obliged to stay against his will, in j mind and body, she listened to the en-
compliance with the especial desire of the ' treaties of her husband soliciting admit-
king and Lusignan, by whom he was held ' tance, and made him acquainted with the
in the highest esteem. Unfortunately, \ horrible story. There he stood, pale,
man cannot always act according to the gnashing his teeth with rage, shuddering
impulse of his feelings. Circumstances at the artifices of malice, thunderstruck,
often interpose an insuperable barrier, and as well at his own misfortune, as to be-
permit him to advance only step by step, ! hold in the wife of his bosom an alien
at a time when the most ardent wish ofl and a criminal laden with the guilt of
his heart would impel him to an eagle's j perjury. No language can describe
speed. I Unda's despair. Here the husband whom

At length he embarked, and soon arrived ■ she had been forced to renounce for ever
at Rome, where he had letters to deliver ' —there the idea of her soul doomed be-
to pope Celestine HI., and, strengthened | yond reprieve to eternal perdition— over-
by die blessing of his hcjliness, he set out [ powered her senses, and chilled every
for Tyrol. He flew through Ifalv, had , drop of blood in her veins. For a whole
already passed Meran and Partschins, and i week she lay, sometimes in speechless
once more beheld tiie turrets of'his castle, ' stupor, sometimes in frightful convuU

FF.RILS KY FLOOD AND FIELD

sions ; till one evening she secretly pat
on a hair garment, and Hed from the scene
of her former happiness, forsaking hus-
band, children, all, and pursued by the
keenest pangs of remorse for her supposed
crime.

She proceeded to the Carthusian con-
vent of Schnalls, and poured forth the
sorrows of her heart into tiie bosom of the
reverend prior ; but it was not in his
power to give her absolution. " Go, my
daughter," said he, kindly to her, while
the tears trickled down tiie deep furrows
in his cheeks, and fell upon his venerable
beard, " go, and expatiate thy sins witii
patience and resignation : I have not the
power to absolve thee. Seek a solitary
place, and in fasting and prayer reconcile
thyself to God. In a few years Heaven
may perhaps give thee a sign whether
thou mayst venture to throw thyself at
the feet of his holiness, and to implore
pardon." After wandering for some time
in the wild valleys of the neighbouring
country, she at length reached the dreary
tract of the upper Ortzhal : there she
found a spacious cavern, in which she
built a small chapel of stone ; this she
made her abode, moss her couch, and
roots and herbs her only food.

The fame of her piety soon spread
abroad. She was reverenced like a be-
neficent divinity by the whole country.
She expressed the juice of flowers and
plants, and cured the sick; she carried
peace and consolation into every dwell-
ing ; and whoever needed her assistance,
had only to apply to the pious recluse.
But for iier own heart there was no peace,
no consolation, and the tormenting thought
of the curse that lay upon her soul haunted
her incessantly.

Her husband had meanwhile employed
all possible means to find out his lost
Unda; he explored all Tyrol, with the
exception of that solitary spot, without
discovering any traces of her. He vowed
vengeance against Hermgard, but was
spared the trouble of executing it, for she
died miserably, and in the agonies of
remorse, in consequence of ihe ill-treat-
ment of her brutal husband.

Several years had now elapsed : care,
sorrow, and vexation, threw Reifenstein
upon a sick-bed ; his illness lasted several
months, and none could afford him relief.
The fame of the skill of " the pious wo-
man"— for so she was called — in the

healing art, had by this time reached the
Vintsfligau. The knight sent his son,
who was approaching to years of man-
hood, to consult her. Without asking his
name, she made enquiries concerning the
nature of the complaint, and gave him a
potion, with which Otto hastened home to
his sick father. Frederic took it, and re-
covered. Otto, and his blooming sister
Ottilia, resolved to perform a pilgrimage
to their benefactress, to express their gra-
titude. Unda received them kindly, but,
without speaking, extended her band to
the portrait which Ottilia wore suspended
from a gold chain at her bosom. " How
came you by this portrait ?" eagerly en-
quired she. " It is the likeness," re'plied
Ottilia, " of my dear, but, alas ! long lost
mother." — Daughter! son ! mother! were
the exclamations that burst from them as
they rushed into each other's embrace.
Their transport was unbounded. Ottilia
declared that she would never more leave
her mother, and Otto conjured the latter
to go back with them to their father.
*' No," said she, " I dare not see your
father till my guilt is completely expiated,
and an avenging God fully appeased.
Go, then, my children, entreat your father
to consult the venerable bisbop of Conrad,
as to what I have still to do to reconcile
myself with the Almighty : I may not yet
venture to appear before his sacred vice-
gerent." Otto hastened home with his
sister, for her mother would on no account
suffer her to remain in so wild and solitary
a retreat, and acquainted his father with
the joyful tidings. Both flew to Trent,
to the pious bishop, who referred them to
Pope Innocent HI., a pontiffdistinguished
for benevolence and kindness, who had
been elevated in the flower of his age to
the papal chair, and was just then paying
a visit to Arigo Dandolo, the aged doge
of Venice.

Frederic repaired to that famous city,
knelt before the pope, expatiated on the
long years of suffering and sorrow endured
by Unda and by himself, and implored
his holiness to give back to him a wife,
and to his children a mother. Innocent
was deeply moved ; he annulled the oath
extorted by force, and, for the sake of her
long penance and lier good works, he
acquitted her of the guilt of perjury, and
granted her full and complete absolution,
on condition that Frederic should build a
convent. He ordered a bull confirming

TALES OF CniVALRVj OR,

these grants to be prepared. Reifenstein
and liis .sun gratefully kissed the foot of
his holiness, and, overjoyed at their suc-
cess, hastened home with the utmost ex-

In ihe meantime, the other children,
instigated by filial aHecMon.set out to pay
a visit to their mother. The rapture of
all was l)eyond description. Sometimes
it was expressed in tiie long silent em-
brace; at others, it burst forlii in loud
congratulations. Ottilia informed her
mother that her father and brother were
gone to his holiness, and the first spark of
hope glimmered in Unda's bosom. She
had now with her four of her children,
Ottilia, Rupert, Albert, and Bertha — the
same Bertha for whose sake she had taken
the horrid oath which had embittered her
whole life. At this moment she forgot
much of her suffering, and regarded this
re-union as a sign of the renewal of the
favour of the Almight}^

The rest of the day passed in affec-
tionate converse, as they sat lovingly
together at the entrance of the cavern.
Evening arrived — the sun at times darted
his rays (hrough the majestic larches and
pines ; more and more faintly did they
tinge the summits of the distant moun-
tains, till tiiese were at length wholly
enveloped m a mantle of sable clouds.
Nothing but the roaring of the neigh-
bouring torrent, and the crash of descend-
ing avalanches, interrupted the stillness
and repose of nature. Night came on :
murky clouds suddenly began to collect
on ail sides; vivid flashes of lightning
issued from them ; and the tempest raged
with appalling fury.

Fatigued with their journey, and the
vehemence of their emotions, the children
had retired to their couch of moss, and
slept soundly, while the mother alone,
prostrate before the image of the Re-
deemer, poured forth her soul in prayer.
A tremendous clap of thunder shook the
cavern ; she trembled, sprang up, and
ran to her children, to see if they were
safe ; a second shock followed ; the sub-
terraneous abode was filled with sulphu-
reous flames; the roof fell in and buried
the unfortunate Unda and her beloved
children beneath the ruins.

On the very same day, Reifenstein and
his eldest son reached Meran. Without
stopping, they hastened onward by the
shorter route, through the wild but beau-

tiftd vale of Passeier, celebrated fur its
romantic scenery and its robust race of
inhabitants ; they determined to cross a
difficult and dangerous mountain, that
they n)ight be a tew hours earlier in the
arms of wife and mother. Evening ar-
rived, but still they hurried on by paths
hewn in the rocks, across an endless suc-
cession of bridges, where one false step
would be attended with inevitable destruc-
tion, over immense blocks of marble,
which frequently seemed to bar their fur-
ther progress, and loose stones which
rolled from under their feet. It was a
pitch-dark niglit when tliey reached the
lake of Passeier. They found no track
along the lake, either to the right or to
the left : all the roads had been destroyed
by avalanches. It was only by means of
the lightning that they discovered a boat
near the shore of the agitated lake ; they
leaped into it without further considera-
tion, and pushed off in order to reach the
opposite shore without loss of time. The
passage is short, but extremely dangerous,
on account of the sudden tempests to
which this lake is liable, and which cause
its waves to break with fury against the
perpendicular cliffs around it. On this
occasion all the elements were against
them. One moment their frail boat was
whirled on the crest of a mountain billow,
at anodier it was plunged into the depths
of the dark abyss. Exhausted with the
long and useless conflict, both at length
dropped their oars; a blast of unprece-
dented violence upset the boat, and buried
them in the bosom of the deep.

Eight days afterwards the bodies, firmly
clasped in each other's arms, were cast on
shore. The faithful Ulric conveyed them
to the remains of Unda and her children,
and one sepulchre now unites in death
those whose melancholy fate it was to be
separated in life, and whom Providence
removed thus early from the joys and
sorrows of this imperfect world to the
regions of everlasting peace.

A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

The clouds in heaving masses rolled
across the blue and tranquil sky, their
sides were tinged with the sun's fast
lingering rays, as he was departing from
this busy scene of human life, and the hill's
tree-covered tops were reflected in his
shining beam. — The crow was seen, as

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

from the fields lie held his hquid journey
to his solitary roost, and tlie rooks in one
thick compact body filled the air with
their discordant noises. — The moon peep-
ed o'er the hills, as she arose in glorious
majesty and splendour as queen of night.
The halls of Glenalvon were lighted up.
— The banners floated in the gentle breeze
— The noble earl of this ricii domain had
this day gained his five-and-twentieth
year. Five years his noble father had
departed from this life in a most strange
manner. He died suddenly — how, was
never learnt — how, was never known.
The handsome apartments were filled with
costly plate of every desci ipt ion, and shone
a gorgeous spectacle — tiie coujpany were
arriving in rapid succession, one party
followed anotlier up the lofty avenue of
trees, and then ascending the lofty steps
they entered the castle, and took (heir
seats at the banquet. Glenalvon himself
sat as emperor over this splendid scene.
But why is his noble eye dark ? why does
his lip quiver, why does his face grow
pale as with the ghastly hue of death ?
why does his bearing, once so lofty, stoop
in tearful agony ? He surely cannot feel
unhappy, he, the possessor of the most
splendid domains. He who can command
thousands of retinues armed and ready
for war, can he be unhappy ? Alas, it is
but too true. He is one and not the only
instance, of a possessor of riches feeling
the withering hand of wretchedness. — He
is not the only one, who can for a time
conceal or cover a wretched and blighted
mind with the outward appearance of
gaiety and joy, whilst the heart burns
with long-concealed crime and iniquity.
— The bowl is filled and often filled, tlie
minstrels strike their joyous chords. — The
Troubadours' songs make the hall re-echo
to their sweet and gladsome tune. But
the bowl is filled in vain. The minstrels
strike their chords uselessly. The Trou-
badours' songs no longeT strike upon his
ear with their wonted pleasure, and
gloomy forebodings darken o'er the lofty
brow of Glenalvon's noble lord. The
lamps blazing around the tapestried halls,
attract not his attention ; nor do the fre-
quent questions of his gay and laughing
companions obtain responses. — His re-
tainers bring him costly Malmsey of every
description. They, bending low and
cringing at his feet, look into his thought-
ful face. O how gladly would that per-

son, whom they think so happy, have
changed with the meanest of the lot ! but
no such happiness was portioned out for
him. 'Twas near ele\ en ; he arose and
thus addressed his friends :

" It is growing towards midnight, my
social companions ; let the banquet stop.
Dull care sits heavy upon my weary brow,
and affairs of importance must be executed
by me before tlie sun approaches this land ;
therefore, I will e'en seek my tranquil
couch. The first dawn, also, must see me
departing on a journey."

They all arose, drinking the health of
I the noble speaker, who, bowing low to
! the compliment, departed. Sleep had
' gained the victory over all the castle, and
silence hehl his awful dominion over all
i the darkened apartments. The owl alone
repeats his fearful screech, as he arose
I flapping his wings out of an old yew-tree
I which stood opposite the castle walls, and
I portended evil to its sleeping inmates.
j The castle clock sends forth its hollow
! sounds through the vaulted halls, and
, fearfully reverberates the hour of midnight.
' The fearful earl aroused, lifts up his eyes
I — he shrieks — he gives a hollow groan —
■ his eyes are fixed in startled haste on a
1 form which stands beside his bed. It
j speaks not — it mores not. Its hollow
' eyes stare wildly on him — its arrow is
i bent — its hand points to some blood
which trickles down its vest, which, flow-
ing round him as shaken by the passing
night air, opens wide and shews a horrid
gash, from which it was dropping — its
face was pale and haggard. It seems no
earthly form, but appears like some dead
inmate of the grave, who travels o'er his
old accustomed haunts, when midnight
flings its dreary stillness around. Thus
still and motionless, it stands and turns
upon the earl its ghastly look. He stares
wildly, and fearful words escape his trem-
bling form :

" Why cam'st thou here ? it was not I ;
why dost thou point ? I know not what
thou meanest. Why dost thou turn thy
sepulchred smile on me ? depart in peace."
The form moved slowly forwards, and
seemed about to touch the gasping lord.
1 hen lifting up his left arm, lie held a
bloody poignard to startle his view, and a
hollow tomb-like voice gave forth the
following words :

" Glenalvon ! base, degraded son of a
loving father, who is permitted to roam

TALKS OF nniVALRV ; OR

from out the tomb wiiicli you have con-
signed liim to, once in five years, beliokis
thee now — knowt^st thou me not — dost
thou not know this wound — dost thou not
know this dagger trembhng with a pa-
rent's blood ? Hast thou so soon forgotten
all these things ? does not tin conscience
smite thee, and does not thy tortured face
betray thee, if nothing else did ? Yes,
truly'; thou hast obtained what thou
wishedst for. Art thou not happy su-
premely happy r You must be." A wild
unearthly laugh resounded through the
lofty chamber. ** Hast thou not murdered
thy aged parent — didst thou not do this
for the wealth that you anxiously longed
for ? Thou hast obtained it ; but thou hast
lost thy happiness, thy peace of mind is
gone."

As thus he spake, the moon, which be-
fore had cast its beam around the cham-
ber, suddenly immerged amongst the
thickening clouds. A livid light shone
around the spectre, as it slowly walked
with unheard steps along the marble-co-
vered floor. When it approached the door,
it beckoned with a majestic air to the
horror-stricken earl, who followed every
movement with his eyes half starting, and
spake the following words :

" Earl of Glenalvon, follow me."
Tottering forwards he silently obeyed,
followed through the opening door, and
moved along the picture gallery, down
the noble flight of steps into the chief hall.
The phantom then turning, beckoned to
its staggering follower, who hastily un-
bound" the gate. They passed out into
the open air, the breezes blew freshly
upon them, and dreary darkness covered
all things with its mild and sleeping in-
fluence. The spectre's airy garmentsflung
around their shining white, and made a
fearful contrast. 1 bus on they passed,
o'er hill and dale, and still they speak no
more — and still they have no check, un-
til they came to a crag, a deep unfathomed
abyss opened wide its mouth with mea-
gre destruction. The spectre pointed,
then turning to his companion, thus ad-
dressed him :

" Thou knowest well this crag, this
you have seen before. This abyss, these
trees, this land, are all well known to the
most noble and generous earl of Glenal-
von. Wiiy dost thou tremble— why is
thy cheek so blanched — why sinks that
guilty eye — wity does that lip of thine

quiver — why do thy teeth chatter ? art
cold ?" Another hoUuw laugh rang
through the frightened vale. 'J'he owl,
screaming, burst from his solitude — the
bats come hoveling round — the wild
beasts started from their lairs and ran
with wildness through the woods; his
taunting words are not yet concluded, but
again he spoke : *' O illustrious Glenal-
von, behold ! dost thou know this piece
of green earth ? the poignard reached a
father's heart just on this spot ; here it
was that thy grim smile frightened thy
very self, as you obtained thy wretched
desire ; this is the very part of the crag
where you threw my human form over
the deep gulf; and now, brave Glenal-
von, you must follow me. Thy life of sin
has lasted long enough upon this earth —
follow !" Having thus spoken, he moved
towards the edge of the cliff, then looking
down, he again addressed his frightened
companion : " The water reaches mine
ear with a deep murmuring sound — an
awful depth below — wretched shall be the
one who ever sees the edge of this depth ;
never shall he see the light of the day
again ; cursed be the man who passeth
this way ; but now, most wretched, mise-
rable man, thy death approaches near
thee ; three minutes I grant thee, and
then thou must come with me." The
dreadful parricide fell to the eartli — he
groaned aloud : " Spare me, spare a
wretch ; I know not — 1 did not — 1 have
spent a horrid existence, since I commit-
ted that terrible deed." Thus he, in
broken sentences, implored for pity :
'* spare me, if only to live in wretched-
ness, to make some atonement for guilt ;
spare me ; oh ! spare me." He rose,
he tottered forwards again, and fell at the
phantom's feet, who, seizing him, address-
ed him for the last time, " Thou wantedst
thy life, to live in misery : Behold thy
death ; thou hadst no pity — thou didst
not spare tiiy father's life, when on his
knees he implored thee, giving up all
his wealth ; think, parricide, on that !
Think, glut thy mind with thy ferocity ;
but now, thy time is up ; we must away."
Tims speaking, he raised the almost dying
murderer from the ground, and leaped
from the precipice. A shriek, a long qui-
vering shriek, burst from the heart-strick-
en Glenalvon — a fearful plunge — a horrid,
fiendish laugh, and the parricide had
expiated a life of wickedness and sin.

OR, PF.RIT.S BY FLOOD AND FIF.LD.

THE SILVER LAMP:

A liEGEND OF THE UAKZ.

The Harz Foiesf, in Germany, or rather the
mountains called Blockberg, or' BrokenLerg are
the chosen scene for witches, djcmons, and appa-
ritions. Antiquary.

*' Here, then, dear Werdorf, we must
part — perhaps for ever ! Nay, I beseech
thee, do not tarry longer — every moment
places thy life still more in jeopardy. Fare-
well, W'erdorf ! —farewell ! — Forget not
— forsake not Hermione !"

** Forsake thee, mine own love — never!
sooner shall yon planiet forsake its parent
sky. No, my Hermione, in the hour of
triumph, or in the hour of danger — in the
cell of misery, or in the bovver of beauty,
whithersoever fate may guide me — come
weal, come woe, be sure this heart will
never cease to love thee !"

The youth wrung the hand of his mis-
tress, who, gently disengaging herself,
stealthily retraced lier steps towards a large
castellated building, the lower part of
which was closely concealed by several
tall heathy hills, leaving only its numerous
turrets to the view, and (hese, in this situ-

voi.. II. — 2.

ation, were only visible when (he evening
breeze disported the heavy branches of
pine and ash that rose against tiiem. The
rising moon was shining beautifully, and
enabled tlie lover to discern the fleeting
sylph-like form of his mistress, until she
had totally disappeared amid the hills that
skirted the castle.

Giving vent to his emotion in a deep
impassioned sigh, Werdorf now turned
his eyes and his steps in a different direc-
tion, and wandered for nearly the space of
an hour among the glades and copses of
the Harz Forest ; now threading some
sinuous and seemingly interminable pas-
sage, which, except where a stray moon-
beam found entrance through the closely
twisted fi)liage, lay in profound gloom.
Now would he pursue the tortuous wind-
ings of some rushing rivulet — now tra-
verse the brow of some fearful precipice,
and, assisted by his good tough hunting
spear, would hold on his course indif-
ferently through swamp and stream. At
length, however, he found himself utterly
at a stand. Scarcely having given it a
thought whither he was wandering, it
now appeared to him that he had pene-
c

10

TALES OF CHIVALRY, OR,

1 rated into the very heart of the forest,
and brasliwood, torrent and morass, from
which he found it im})Ossible to extricate
himself, hemmed him in on every side :
while numerous tall, gigantic trees, the
aborigines of the wood, shot up around
him, and their ponderous branches grasp-
ing each other over head, completely
shut out every gleam of moonlight. The
spot whereon he stood, however, was by
no means dangerous, and the sweet mossy
sward offered a favourable resting-place
for the night. He accordingly stretched
himself upon it, and a deep sleep speedily
visited his eyelids. This had not lasted
long ere an outcry in the forest bade him
start upon his feet, when, by some dim
exhalation on the swamp before him, he
behekl a man furiously attacked by an
immense wild boar. Werdorf's spear was
levelled in a moment, and the ferocious
monster fell, transfixed to the earth.
Meanwhile the momentary lustre had
passed away, and the swamp was again
involved in perfect darkness.

Presently Werdorf's attention was once
more arrested by a fluctuating point of
light, which seemed to spring up before
him: at first extremely diminutive, but
gradually expanding, it formed at length
a sort of halo around some singularly
dazzling object in human shape. The
bronzed and wrinkled brow of the figure
was encircled wiUi a beautiful silver dia-
dem, the points of which sent forth inces-
sant and beautiful coruscations of many
coloured fires, and a white tunic covering
his otherwise denuded li^ibs, was fastened
at the waist with a broad silver belt, which
likewise emitted brilliant sparks of flame.
Its large dark eyes, glowing like orbs of
fire, were fixed on our hero with an ex-
pression that seemed friendly, notwith-
standing which, however, the latter was
so completely astounded and terrified,
that not without great difficulty could he
at length contrive to stammer out — " Who
are ye ? — whence come ye ?"

The strange figure immediately replied
— *• Thy friend 1 am, for thou hast be-
friended me," and he therewith pointed
to the slain mo;ister at Werdorf's feet ;
** and I come from the centre of the
earth, of whose treasures I am master.
Hear, therefore, and obey my commands.
Return to the dwelling of thy enemy, and
here is a talisman which will shield thee
from all scathe ; present it to his view, he

will ask it of thee — nay, will offer thee
all in his possession for it — even the hand
of his lovely ward, and his castle to boot."

No sooner were these words uttered,
than all again was darkness: \A'erdorf
rubbed his eyes to assure himself that he
had not been dreaming, nor could he
believe to the contrary, until his eye hap-
pened to catch a tiny sparkle of flame that
appeared to oscillate around his right
hand. On examination, he found it to
proceed from a diminutive silver lamp
which had just been given him by his sin-
gular visitant, and which now revealed to
him a narrow vista of the forest that he
had hitherto sought in vain. Werdorf
instantly pursued it, and to his no small
surprise, beheld in a few moments, from
a beautiful moonlight glade to which it
conducted, the turrets of Von S>;liloppen-
hausen's castle, the grim guardian of the
gentle lady Hermione, peering over the
tree-tops at a trifling distance beyond.
Leaving him, therefore, to hold on his
journey thither, we will, in the mean-
while, introduce the reader to a ^ew of
its inmates.

In a room of considerable extent,
which was powerfully illuminated by
several massive iron lamps that drooped
in chains from the roof, and perambulated
by a clumsy oaken table, sat a vast and
diversified assemblage, each of whom
was diligently engaged in despatching
his share of the choice viands it sup-
ported. At the upper end of the board
sat the baron von Schloppenhausen, dis-
playing a long, gaunt shape, loosely en-
veloped in a dirty murray coloured
gabardine, and surmounted by a grim
unwieldy head, patched with long black
wiry hair, which extended likewise to his
chin and eyebrows, well nigh concealing
the tiny greyish orbs which from time
to time were glanced around the board.
This worthy was profoundly engaged in
dissecting the haunch of a wild buck,
which having happily effected, he turned
his attention to his guests, and thus
addressed them —

"Ha, knights! — ha, gentles! how say
ye ? Is't not a right goodly animal ?"

All unanimously agreed that it was
certainly of the very finest quality.

** Ay, by St. Hans, is't," replied the
baron ; " marry, sirs, 'twas pulled down
on the very spot where IMerse the Wild-
grave met the devil."

PKRILS BY FLOOD AND Fil.LD.

ly

All professed their entire ignorance of
any sucli spot existing^.

** Then, gentles," said the host, " ye
shall have the history on't, and that
speedily. Ho, there! Minnesinger —
sirrah Mirron, stand forth, and chirrup
me quickly the story of the Wildgrave !"

Mirron instantly obeyed the command,
and, aided by his instrument, thus began —

THE STORY OF MERSE THE WILDGRAVE.

Over heath and over hollow,

Forward, forward, hillo ho !
Through air, and fire, and water, follow,

Forward, forward, hillo ho !

Shrill the gnome his wild horn sounded,

• Hillo— liil—hil— hillo ho !'

Fast and fierce his wild steed bounded,
Forward, forward, hillo ho !

Through the Harz-wood's gloomy bowers,

Furious ride the demon-host,
'Mid Helvellein's haunted towers,

Man, and horse, and hound are lost.

"Whither, Wildgrave, dost thou wander ?

Enter not you dreary walls ;
Stay thy pace awhile, and i)onder,
Hark, what tearful cadence falls ; —

Der Wilde Jager Chonis.

" See the moon is rising red.
Spirits, spirits, hasten here ;
Corses from your earthy bed.
In your winding-sheets ajjpear.
Hasten hith. r
Ye who bide
Where tiery lava3

Glide ;
From sepulchre

And enarnel hie,
Where mortal relics
Lie,
And sluggish Acheron
Rolls darkly murmuring on.
Appear ! appear !"

Leaped the Wildgrave from liis steed,

Swifi unscabbarded his brand,
Pa'ss'd the porch with dauntless speed.

And euter'd 'midst the demon band.

Ghast as death the Wildgrave turn'd.
All was dark and,dismal there ;

Frightful forms around him charm'd.
And wildly danc'd 'mid earth and air.

In vain, in vain to shout he tries —
His tongue is parch' d, his breath is flame !

* • « * * * *
Harshly roll'd the muttering thunf'er,

Lightnings blazed athwart the sky ;
Earth and air seemed rent asunder,
As the viewless rout swept by.

Over heath and over hollow.

Forward, forward, hillo ho !
Througli air, and fire, and water, follow.

Forward, forward, hillo ho !

Oil they dash o'er rock and M\,

Sweeping now the murky air ;
Threading forest, maze, and dell,

'Mid thunder whoop and levin glare.

Over heath and over hollow.

Forward, forward, hillo ho !
Through air, and tire, and water, follow.

Forward, forward, hillo ho !

Through foaming torrents now they rush.

The napless NVildgrave still pursue ;
From dismal charnels now they gush.

Still hold ther fleeting prey in view.
Over heath and over hollow.

Still they wend through glare and gloom ;
Still their hapless victim follow —

Still pursue till " crack of doom !"

Scarcely had the minstrel ceased, when
a confused clan)our of voices, seemingly
in high altercation, was heard without,
whereat the baron, mightily exasperated,
started furiously on his feet, and in a tone
that com})letely drowned all others, de-
manded file cause of this unseemly riot.

"By my beard," cried he, " if ye dis-
turb us again, tiiere's not a varlet of ye
but shall deeply rue it."

The din continued, notwithstanding,

and the haron, in a towering passion, was

about to quit the apartment: the goodly

fio^ure of the seneschal, however, stageer-
. * , . , . ^°

mg at that moment into his presence,

caused him to halt and listen to the expla-
nation that he seemed eager to render
him. It was a proceeding, however, in
which the good steward entirely failed,
for his voice, as well as his limbs, was so
completely disordered by the deep pota-
tions he had swallowed, that scarce a word
could he stammer out. Meanwhile, the
drunken air of gravity which he had
thought proper to assume on addressing
his master, was so irresistibly ludicrous,
that every beholder laughed outright ;
wliich, serving only to anger the baron
still more, he thus exploded his mine of
wrath on the trembling retainer:

" Villain ! ban- dog 1 slave ! out of my
sight ; hence, J say — stop, move not from
that spot at thy peril ! Tell me, varlet —
reptile — who and what was the cause of,
that infernal brawl ? Who was't, I say ? —
answer me, slave, or — "

" My lord — my lord," replied the se-
neschal, trembling to the very ground,
**I — I — my lord — "

" Ha ! what !" interrupted the baron,
misconstruing his meaning, *' thou wert
— and hast the audacity to confess it !
Take that, sirrah !" — and he therewith
hurled a ponderous copper flaggon with all
his might at the head of the domestic.
Fortunately, however, his staggering
(h'unkenness protected it from the collision
that would have otherwise taken place, so
truly was it aimed. It will be readily
supposed, tiiat the seneschal waited not a
moment more to experience a furtlier
proof of the baron's gentle treatment.

\2

TALES OF CHIVALRY j OR,

Scarcely had lie quilted the apartment,
when a similar clamour again made itself
heard, and immediately a tribe of domes-
tics presented themselves on the corridor,
striving- apparently to force back some re-
fractory wight they had among them.
At the command of "the baron they imme-
diately desisted, and forth from the group
came Michael Werdorf.

Von Schloppenhausen looked upon him
somewhat after the manner that a hungry
tiger may be supposed to look upon his
prey ; his fingers clutched the hilt of his
dagger, which he suddenly drew forth,
and sprung furiously towards him. Wer-
dorf diew back apace or two, and shewed
the silver lamp, when instantly the whole
demeanour of tlie baron changed ; the wea-
pon fell to the ground, and he contem-
plated the singular object with admiration
and wonder.

"Sweet youth— sweet Michael Wer-
dorf," he exclaimed, after a while, " 1 see
thou lovest my ward, and 'tis useless to
check thee ; therefore, take her — take her
but — this bauble — "

"Is thine," repUed Werdorf: and he
therewith presented it.

The fingers of the baron clutched upon
it with such eager vehemence, tiiat every
one present, and even Werdorf himself,
marvelled that a thing so apparently
trifling in their eyes should seem in his of
such great worth. He divined their
thoughts ; and Mirron, at his command,
narrated the following legend, which will
serve in some degree to elucidate its
mystic properties : —

THE STORY OF AVELZHEIM, THE CHAR-
COAL-BURNER.

In the time of the emperor Frederick,
surnamed Red Beard, there dwelt on a
lonely heath in the Harz district, a solitary
being, who earned a scanty subsistence in
charring wood for the smelters. This,
however, it was well known, occupied but
a small portion of his time 5 how the rest
was spent, was a matter of uncertainty.
Some say it was devoted to the study of
alchemy, and swear to have found hiui
seeking the philosopher's stone. Some
having seen him wandering at a late horn-
round his miserable hut, with his face up-
turned to the starry firmament, set him
down for an astrologer : while others pro-
claimed him a necromancer, and protest
having seen him in confabulation with the

devil. Be this, however, as it may, cer-
tain it is that he possessed some familiar
or other. Now it befel, on one black gusty
starless night, that the solitary charcoal-
burner w-as aroused from a deep reverie
over his scanty fire by a loud knocking on
the door of his hut. He suffered the
alarm, however, to be repeated again and
again ere he arose, so profoundly was he
buried in thought. At length lie bestirred
himself, unbarred and threw open the
door, and a tall mantled figure entered the
dwelling.

" VV^hy did you keep me so long wait-
ing ?" was his immediate address to the
charcoal-burner.

" And why, sir stranger, let me ask,
disturbed ye the solitude of a wretch like
me ?"

" Hush !" said the stranger, "be wretched
no longer j here is the boon I promised
thee ;" — and he forthwith drew from be-
neath his mantle a small silver lamp,

" Ha ! Rhe ," exclaimed Welz-

heim, who recognized his companion ; he
was interrupted, however, from proceed-
ing, by the latter, who thus continued —
" this magic beacon will light thee to the
deepest recesses of the forest where shall
be revealed to thee the mighty treasures
of the earth ; the palace of the gnome will
appear to thee — enter boldly and fear-
lessly— and while the spirit sleeps, grasp
thou his magic sceptre, and thou art lord
of all the earth contains. Away — yet
mark me — while thou retainest that mys-
tic lamp, no harm can approach thee;
suflfer it to pass from thee, and be assured
thy life passes with it — follow thy fortunes
then — away !"

Obedient to the injunction, Welzheim
instantly set forth, and found himself
shortly threading the intricate labyrinths
of the Harz Forest, under the sole guid-
ance of the mysterious lamp. JNIore than
once he was fain to halt in his progress,
and listen to the strange hubbub of voices,
mingling with the loud yelling of hounds,
the winding of horns, and the neighing
and trampling of steeds, that ever and
anon came ringing in his ear, and which
dying gradually away in the extreme dis-
tance, would presently give place to the
wild melody of the bugle. At one time
the words of the Jager chorus —

" Over heath and over hollow !"

chaunted apparently by a tliousand nn-
eartiily voices, were rendered fearfully

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD-

13

distinct, and they liad scarce ceased when
a dazzling blaze of light shooting athwart
the profound gloom of heaven, revealed
some object darting with almost equal
rapidity amid the trees and copses of the
sable wood — 'twas the skeleton Wild-
grave !

Welzheim still went boldly on, and pre-
sently the stupendous Blockberg rose dark
and vast upon his view, and as he drew
nearer towards it, a ponderous portal, to
his utter astonishment, presented itself;
he was most familiar with the spot, but
never had he beheld that massive entrance
before. The radiance, however, streamed
through it, and he entered ; — all was pro-
found gloom till he had reached the fur-
ther end, and then it was that a scene of
dazzling magnificence smote upon his
view. Here a torrent of molten gold was
seen flashing over a huge rock of blazing
sapphire, into a seemingly unfathomable
gulf; here the topaz, the opal, the ruby,
and the diamond, sent forth their blaze
of splendour, while streams of boiHng
lavas and alkaline waters, catching and
reflecting their myriad hues, poured in
almost every direction ; millions and
millions of tiny globules glittered in the
dewy atmosphere, and all around, far as
the eye could reach, rocks of precious
stones and ores stretched themselves
away, till distance rendered them indis-
tinct.

A most insignificant thing amid that
scene of mighty vastness, Welzheim pass-
ed on uninterrupted, and scarce noticed
by the tribe of gnomes that were there
busied in their task of gold w^ashing, and
extracting the minerals and ores from
their strata, until a ponderous portal of
rugged gold opened on his view. He en-
tered, and the blaze of splendour which
immediately presented itself was so over-
powering, that he had well-nigh fallen to
the ground. So soon, however, as he
could gaze around him, he found himself
in a vast hall, the gigantic architecture of
which lerritied and amazed him : liuge
pillars, composed alternately of crystal,
sapphire, jasper, and lapis lazuli, support-
ing a lofty gallery, extended down either
side of the stupendous hall, till the eye
could no longer follow them. Welzheim
passed on, and having reached the further
end, his eyes fell upon a beautiful silver
diadem and sceptre, which reposed to-
gether on a gorgeous crystal tablet ; he

instantly ascended the high flight of mar-
ble steps which led to them, grasped un-
hesitatingly the magic sceptre, and en-
circled his brows with the silver diadem }
immediately it changed to flame, and sear-
ed his ten)ples through to the bone; in the
agony which it occasioned, both lamp and
sceptre fell from his grasp, a burst of un-
earthly laughter was heard, and a shiver-
ing groan announced the fate of the pre-
sumptuous charcoal-burner.

Mirron had scarce ended his narrative,
when a tremendous clang startled every
inmate of the castle. Every one of his
auditors huddled in a heap together, and
presently, to their inexpressible dismay,
they beheld the immense stained windows
of the apartment wherein they were as-
sembled shivered to atoms. The baron
was not among them, nor was he any where
to be found in the castle. No one had
observed him quit the apartment, and, in-
deed, he might well have escaped their ob-
servation, so profoundly were they all
buried in Mirron's history.

The morning, however, at length
dawned ; and in searching through the
forest, the body of Von Schloppenhausen,
horribly mutilated, was discovered ; whe-
ther a similar fate to that of Welzheim had
befallen him, we are unable to say ; but
certain it is, that the palm of his right hand
was burnt through to the bone, and his
face and body was rent and torn as if he
had been beset by a legion of wild cats.

MY UNCLE.

Many people, in affairs concerning
their family, carefully hide or forget every-
thing which they imagine low and igno-
ble, while they endeavour to shed around
themselves a sort of consequence, by re-
tailing the actions of any individual of
notoriety they can at all bring into their
coimexion. I might have been tempted
to follow this example ; but, fortunately,
1 have not a single being of sufficient im-
portance to make me forget my poorer
friends, and as to my uncle, he is too well
known in our neighbourhood to iiave my
veracity doubted, when I relate any of his
adventures. Without any other remarks
by way of introducing my relative, I will
at once give him as he really is, a rough
old tar, called by his associates. Uncle
Billy — not that he is related to one out
of fifty of them, but so they have named
him ; and not an urchin able to lisp out

14

TALES OF CniVALRY; OR,

the word, or to distinguish men from each
other, but uses it asfamiliailyas it'he really
had a right of relationship. Whoever has

been on the pier of P in fine weather

must have seen him, for there, with about
half-a-dozen others, remnants of the old
school of seamen, he may be found, making
wise remarks upon the shipping, or for
their mutual edification, telling long stories
(as it is technically culled spinning ayarn,)
of what they have seen or heard in their
voyages. Of this little group, my uncle
was by far the most able story-teller, and
wiien' in my hours of relaxation from
school exercises, I could contrive by any
means to mingle with the auditors, there
I stood with ears open to receive the won-
drous tale.

As he, like many others, was fond of
repeating the same adventure over and
over, I learnt several of them by heart ;
some of them were interesting only to the
individuals concerned ; others were re-
ported merely to show the bravery of the
narrator: the following, if 1 may guess
by the number of times I heard it, was
my uncle's favourite, and, as the transcrib-
ing it may keep the old tar in the memory
of his acquaintances when he parts his ca-
ble and runs on the shore of death, I will
try to give it in his manner to the world.

We were cruizing in the channel in the
summer of 18 — , when a fleet of home-
ward-bound West Indiamen ' hove in
sight; being rather short-handed, the
boats were ordered out to see if we could
not pick up a few good men ; our com-
mander went in one of them, and out of a
ship tolerably well-manned, he took the
second mate (Harry Trevillian) and two
seamen. There was nothing in the men
to attract attention ; but Trevillian, who
was a tine fellow about thirty, appeared to
suffer the loss of liberty most acutely.
Poor Harry ! — when he came on board,
the agony of his mind was plainly to be
seen in his countenance, and he seemed
the very picture of despair. I tried what
I could do to make him comfortable, but
the thought of his home was perpetually
rendering him uneasy ; and the rough
manners of our captain did not in the least
serve to allay his disquiet ; he had a wife
and two children living in a little village
on the southern coast of Devon, and was
returning home to them with his hard-
earned property ; fancy had painted to him
the pleasure of meeting them, and now,

when the port was almost in sight, and
all the worst of the voyage past, to be
snatched away from his promised enjoy-
ments, to go he knew not where, quite
unmanned him, and made his life un-
happy.

For all this he did his duty bravely,
and without a muripur, and had become
a little more reconciled to his fortune,
when, by stress of weather, we were dri-
ven into Torbay ; this was very near his
home, and he asked liberty to go on shore
to see his family, promising to return to
the ship the next morning. The captain,
without any regard for the feelings of a
man and a husband, peremptorily refused,
and ordered him to his post. There was
nothing particular in the look of Trevillian
when this was told him, but I could see
by his actions the whole of the evening,
something was in agitation.

In the morning he was missed ; some
one had noticed he never came below
when the watch was relieved, and know-
ing him to be a determined character
when his mind was bent on any particu-
lar purpose, it was immediately suggested
to the mind of the captain he had slipped
down the side and swam on shore ; this
was very possible, as he was an excellent
swimmer, and knew every creek in the
bay where he might safely land in.

A party was ordered on shore to retake
and bring him on board ; most of the men
were inclined rather to favour his escape
than otherwise, but among them were
some of the captain's own men, and they
were obliged to proceed. They found
him at his house — his wife dangerously
ill ; and he was bending over the bed in
sorrow at her situation and his own in-
ability to help her. Without the least
touch of pity they tore him away. Poor
woman, her sorrows were soon over, she
uttered a faint shriek when they entered,
and fell back on the bed insensible —
swoon succeeded swoon, and she died be-
fore he reached the ship. When the boat
came alongside, the captain was pacing
the deck like a fury, and ordered Harry
in irons ; there was not a man on board
but pitied him, and yet none durst dis-
obey.

The next morning at day-break all
hands were piped on deck, every man
was ordered to his station, and the boat-
swain and boatswain's mates ready to in-
flict the punishment ordered by their com-

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

15

mander. The prisoner was brought to
llie gangway ; we expected all this was
only a form, and he would be pardoned,
as he solemnly declared it was his inten-
tion to return on board after seeing his
family; but the captain had resolved to
punish those disobedient to orders, and
neither the prayers nor entreaties of liis
officers could turn him from his purpose.
'I'he articles of war were read, and Tre-
villian was seized up ; he uttered not a
word, and, when the lash came on him,
tearing awav the skin, and inflicting: a
severe wound at every stroke, not a groan
escaped his lips, but he looked with defi-
ance on the author of his torment — I would
not have had that look upon me for a
thousand worlds, and our commander felt
its influence to his dying day. The sur-
geon of the ship toid Trevillian, in the
kindest manner he could, of the death of
liis wife, and paid every attention to his
comfort; the wounds were soon healed,
but the mind had received an injury it
could never recover.

Soon after this we were ordered to the
coast of South America. Trevillian was
now permitted to come on deck, and or-
dered, as soon as possible, to return to
his duty : he did what he was ordered —
but the spirit of tl>e man was changed —
the spring of his actions was gone — he
moved about like an animated statue ;
he rarely spoke, yet his mind was work-
ing, and the thought could not be con-
trouled ; it tore down the strength of the
man, and rendered him almost helpless as
an infant. No one could have thought
the poor weak frame now before him was
Harry Trevillian, who, a few months since,
was the pride of the ship. The change
of climate from winter's cold to the exces-
sive heat of the tropics, brought a fever
among the crew ; many were laid down
by it, and among them was Trevillian ;
he was so weak that little carried him off,
and he died the first man. It was a mer-
ciful disposition of Providence, for then
the conflict of contending passions was at
rest, and though the wild waves of the
ocean battled over him, he sleeps as peace-
ful in death as if he had died in his own
little cot, and had been buried in the
church-yard of his native place with his
forefathers.

After the death of Trevillian, peace of
mind was a stranger to our captain ;
wherever he went, whatever he did, there

appeared to be a ruling power to thwart
his purpose ; it rendered him nerveless
and unfit for command ; the ship w as com-
pletely under the guidance of his officers,
and he stalked about, muttering to him-
self; at times it seemed as though he
talked to some other being, invisible to
all but himself. In the dark still nights,
he would come on the deck, trembling
and staring as if afraid to meet some dire-
ful foe, and he would utter the name of
Trevillian so supplicating and piteously,
that those who knew him in-. former days,
when in the pride and flush of vigour,
could not help feeling sorrow for his situa •
tion.

One evening, when cruizing on the
coast of Brazil, from a fine calm sunny
afternoon, all at once the wind began to
moan and whistle through the rigging
aloft ; the sea-birds screamed as they
endeavoured to make the land, and flew
about in w ild clamour around the ship ;
the vessel reeled to and fro, staggering
under the influence of the commotion m
the air; the sails were beating against
the masts, and every thing in confusion,
for we w ere hove aback by the sudden
change of wind ; yet, at that time, the
waters were smooth and tranquil as a
pond, and gave no sign of the approach-
ing hurricane. The offi'cers of the watch
gave order to take in sail and secure
every thing with all possible dispatch, —
but, before half was finished, it came on
our devoted heads ; the heaving and
struggling of the waters was fearful to
look at, and they seemed waiting for their
prey, as our destruction appeared inevi-
table.

Seeing the situation of the ship, and
the little probability of escape by any ex-
ertion they could make, the men became
dispirited, and in some instances refused
to obey orders ; the officers looked for
their commander to come on deck and
share theirperils, — to show^ some remains
of that courage and self-collection, which
the hurricane, tempest and battle, used to
call into action ; but he came not ; he lay
on the floor of his cabin in agony of spirit ;
his conscience would not suffer him to
rest, and when they came to him to re-
port what was doing, and ask his advice,
he prayed them to let him alone, that he
might die in peace, if peace could be
found. They left him, and came on deck ;
already the sky was become pitchy dark.

16

TAT.F.S OF CHIVATRY; OR,

and except when the lightning played
around them, scarce a man could distin-
guish his fellow ; the waves rose moun-
tains high, and the ship at times would be
darting aloft with the rapidity of a whirl-
wind, and again be immersed in the foam-
ing hollow. Tlie officers, by force of en-
treaty, had secured good order and atten-
tion ; every thing tiiey could devise to
secure the ship had been done, and we
only waited the day to discover where we
had been driven — when, all at once, with
one tremendous crash, the masts went by
the board, and the ship was grovelling
among the breakers on a reef, we knew
not vvliere, and every one gavehimself up
for lost.

This did not last many minutes, for the
huge seas completely lifted us over the
reef, and we were in comparatively smooth
water; the ship floated about twice her
length, and then sunk : at this moment,
though the rush of waters and the tempest
were most tremendous, yet the cry of
horror and despair as the ship went down
was heard above the din and roar of the
battling elements; the strong struggled
with the waves, and many reached the
shore ; others, by clinging to the loose
spars and floating wreck, escaped alive;
but many, and among them the captain,
perished ; he was supposed to have been
drowned in his cabin as the sliip went
down, for no one ever saw him on deck ;
only a few minutes before the ship struck,
his groans and cries were heard by those
who escaped alive, and for die world's
wealth I would not have died the death of
that man.

The next moining, any person walk-
ing on the beach would never have ima-
gined the storm could so alier the scene
as it had the night before ; tiie little rip-
ple was playing along the shore, bright
shells were clustered in the crevices of the
rocks, and the trees of tiie forest, close to
the margin of the strand, were full of life
and animation, for parrots and birds of all
colours flew about them ; the monkey
chattered and played his antic tricks on
tiie branches, and among the flowers at
their feet ; the humming-bird, searching
for its insect food, darted to and fro, with
its beautiful tinted plumage sparkling like
gems in the sun's rays. The night before,
all had been terrible; the waves beat
over the rocks with overwhelming fury,
and the cries of the dying, struggling with

the tempest, were heard in all directions.
Now, only the few scattered planks of the
ship showed the desolation the storm had
made. In the morning the natives came
down to assist us ; we were kindly taken
care of, and a few days after left the place
in a ship sent to convey us to Rio Janeiro.
Soon after this we were ordered to
England ; war was at an end, and peace
reigned triumphant o'er the world ; we
were paid oif, but, thanks to my country,
I am provided for handsomely. Still,
while I have a leg to stand on, and an
arm to maintain my country's cause, they
sliall be at her service, and as to the king
— God bless him !

SINGULAR DECEPTION OF A MUTINEER.

One of them pretended to be an idiot,
and had so far succeeded in deceiving the
oflKcers, that he was not put in irons like
the rest, but merely placed under the
charge of the sentinel at the cabin-door,
where his apparently insane and unmean.
ing gestures excited the mirth of all but
lord St. Vincent, who immediately read
him through and through, and said to
him, "I am very much mistaken, if you
are not the greatest villain of the whole."
The man kept up his disguise until the
trial, and even before the court ; but in
the course of the investigation, some start-
ling facts were elicited, and three of the
prisoners fell dov\n on their knees and
implored for mercy. From that moment,
the seeming madman shook oft' all dis-
simulation, and resuming his true cha-
racter, astonished the court with his ani-
mated countenance, and keenly reproach-
ed his accomplices for their meanness and
pusillanimity. " For shame !" he said,
'* is this the way you give yourselves up ?"
Then addressing the president, he said,
** Sir, I wish to cross-examine that wit-
ness." 'I'his lie did with the greatest
ability, and the most remarkable acute-
ness of observation. In fact, he proved
himself to be a man of superior talent and
education, and fully bore out the obser-
vations of the person who had recom-
mended him for the service, he having
been selected from among the rebellious
Irish to enter as a volunteer into the
navy, in order to sow the seeds of re-
belhon and mutiny in the fleet, or in
any regiment to which he miglit gain
access.

OR, rEKlI.S BV FLOOD AXD FIELD.

Page 20.

THE SEA-SIDE HUT.

** Mercy on us, what a storm !" ex-
claimed old Alice Biidport, as a flash of
lightning- momeniarily illuniined the
wretched hovel, accompanied, rather than
followed, bv an awful peal of thunder,
which seemed to shake the very bowels
of the earth. *' Where can my boy Will
be, tarrying at such a time ? — Grant hea-
ven, he's safe."

" Never fear, good mother," said her j
daughter Jane, " Will has been the road j
too often to mistake it, e'en were the night j
much darker than it is." I

"Open the lattice, Jane; if my ears de- '
ceive me not, I hear footsteps." Jane |
threw it open — but no sound, save the
wind and the roar of the proximate sea,
betokened Will's return. '* Heaven shield j
me in my old age," said the motlier, "for ,
it can boast no other tutelage. What i
matter — I shall soon take my long rest
beside my good old Jonathan."

"Aye, very soon," said a rough voice
from without.

" Good God ! what can that mean ?"
exclaimed Alice, hastily glancing at Jane,

VOL. II. — 3.

who stood aghast on hearing the ou)innus
words. " Look to the door ; is it barred ?"

" 'Tis fast," answered the girl, and
with a trembling hand she closed the win-
dow shutters.

" It can be no friend who calls at such
a time as this," said Alice, raising her
tottering form from her oaken chair.

" Open the door," shouted the same
hoarse voice ; "if ye give me not ready
admission now, it shall go hard with ye
when I've gained it by force."

" What want ye here ?" said old Alice ;
"if 'tis money, you will find none; for
I am poor, and need it, mayhap, more
than thee."

" You lie, dame Alice," said the ruf!ian ;
"you know — but open without further
parley, or I'll spare neither thee nor thy
young nursling." A tremendous blow,
which made the old door quiver on its
hinges, followed these menaces.

" He'll soon fcrce it," said the dame ;
"haste, haste, Jane, and fetch Will's pis-
tols— you know where they hang. Hie
thee, girl, or we are lost."

Jane hurried off, but returned imme-
diately with a face as pale as death.

18

TALES OP CHIVALRY ; OR,

" They are taken down, mother ; I j
think Will took theni with him wlien he
left us before sunset."

*' Mercy on us !" said Alice ; " keep
close, child, and trust to Providence."

Every blow which the ruflian dealt on
the door became more effectual, until, no
longer able to resist them, it violently
flew open. Jane screamed aloud as the
ruffian rushed in ; while old Alice, com-
pletely unnerved by terror, sank down in
her chair. The looks of the savage in-
truder bore an aspect conformably tierce
with his nature.

" How now, old hag," said he, with a
fiendish grin, ** I'll take vengeance on
thee for thine obstinacy. Hand me the
iron coffer, I know its contents— hand it
over — what, do you hesitate ? — then take
this," muttered the villain, drawing a
knife from his bosom, which, in another
moment, would have drank the blood of
its victim, had not the report of a pistol
been heard close by tlie doorway. The
knife dropped, and the ruffian, stagger-
ing a few paces, fell motionless to the
ground.

" What means this outrage ?" cried the
well-known voice of Will, rushing in, and
throwing the pistol he had just discharged
on the table. " Mother, Jane, ye arn't
hurt, are ye ?"

Old Alice raised her head, and ex-
claimed, *' God be praised for this deliver-
ance !"

Jane spoke not, terror had so over-
powered lier, that she sank to the floor.
Will gently raised and placed iier in a
chair ; then stooped to examine the face
of the ruffian.

" A grim fellow !" said he, ** methinks
I've seen his ugly mug before ; he's got
it though, whoever he is."

Old Alice and Jane gradually recovered
fiom their alarm. ** 'Twas the mercy of
Providence," said the former, "that you
came so opportunely. Will ; but where
tarried you so long ?"

♦' Oh, at a friend's, mother, some way
up the coast ; 'tis a dark night, which
much impetied my progress homewards ;
but good luck for us, it made no odds to
me in taking aim. What meant this fool
in breaking into this wretched hovel ?"

"He sought money of us," answered
Jane. ** He spoke of your iron coffer,
mother; I did not understand him."
" Nor I, child, unless he meant that old

iron chest which poor Jonathan used to
keep his writings and papers in ; but how
he should have known aught concern-
ing it, confounds my powers of concep-
tion."

" But where shall I stow the rogue's
carcase ?" asked Will, ** it strikes me I'd
better drop it over the cliffs."

*' Put it where you will," said Alice,
♦* it matters not, so as we get rid of it."

Will proceeded to execute his purpose,
when a deep groan issuing from the ruf-
fian's hps, proved that life was not yet
extinct.

** By heavens," said Will, " the wretch
breathes. No good can come of him, so
I'll finish him."

" Nay, brother," said Jane, catching
his arm, ** he must not die, if we can
save him. He is a fellovi-creature, and
though a villain, must not be butchered
like a dog. 'Tis folly to fear him now.
Consider, brother, I entreat you, should
he recover, he may live to repent his past
crimes."

Her entreaties were not fruitless. —
Will, after a little demur, scratched his
head, and at length ejaculated, *' You're
right, Jane, it shall be as you desire." So
saying, he raised the wounded man's
head.

** Now, Jane, bring the brandy flask,
and fetch a little water to staunch this
ugly wound."

Jane speedily produced both, and ap-
plied the brandy to the man's mouth,
which did not lack its noted efficacy. —
The ball had pierced the lungs, leaving
the heart untouched ; but from the ex-
treme difficulty of respiration, it was evi-
dent that the sufferer would not live long.
He half opened his eyes, and with a faint
voice begged a chair. Will raised him,
and placed him in the one which old Jona-
than occupied when living.

"Th-anks, thanks," said the man,
** for this unmerited kindness." But his
tones amply testified the agony he was
enduring.

" Compose yourself," said Will, ** we'll
treat you better than you seemed to treat
us."

*' Rebuke me not," said the wretch,
"my time is short; the pain I suffer tells
me so ; let me make the best use of it.
Dame Alice, you know me not."

Alice looked gravely on his haggard
features, and shook her hoary head.

PEirrLS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

1»

**TlierT, answer thfs question : was the
name of Martyn Gaunton ever mentioned
in thine hearing ?"

•' What !" said Ah'ce, starting, and eye-
ing him with the deepest scrutiny ; —
" What of him ? — he perished long since
at sea."

" Report said so," repHed the man,
** but spoke falsely. No ; 'twere better
for him if he had perished, than lived to
perpetrate a catalogue of crimes, the re-
collection of which now stings and racks
his conscience. Woman ! I am JMartyn
Gaunton ; I — the once bold buccaneer —
1 tell thee, though you knew it not, I
have cruised many a time with old Jona-
than, thy late hu.^band. Nay, stare not,
my words are truth ; I would not add
falsehood in my last moments to my for-
mer crimes." A fresh flow of blood fol-
lowed the exertion required in speaking.
Will stood staunching the woimd. — Jane
sat silent and motionless ; while old Alice
listened to the dying man's account with
increasing curiosity. After a short pause,
he again spoke : " Woman," said he,
*• I once claimed thy husband's friendship
and confidence ; some twenty years back
we belonged to the same ship, and fought
our country's battles side by side. I can
remember as well as if it were but yester-
day, how cordially we shook hands when
we beheld each other alive, after the
bloody but glorious 1st of June. Many
a time I have reflected on that day, and
sighed to view the contrast it formed
with my subsequent life. Madman that
I was, when I might have risen to an
honourable post in my king and country's
service! Through some whim or caprice,
I deserted, joined a numerous gang of
smugglers, and soon, from my experience
at sea, became their captain. In that
accursed hour I forfeited honour, and all
that made my former life happy ; among
other things, I lost the friendship of good
Jonathan. He had but one fault, and
that I abhorred — he was a miser."

" Say not so of old Jonathan," said
Alice, *' I knew his habits better than thee,
man."

*' I speak the truth, woman," said the
man, " though a sailor, thy husband was
a miser, if ever one lived, and 'twill be
proved ere long."

** Why scandalize the dead ?" said old
Alice.

" I do so in service to you," said the

man ; *• 'tis the only compensation for thy
wrongs T can offer. Had I not known
that my booty was rich, I had not thus
visited thy wretched abode. And now,
woman, to prove my words, fetch me the
iron coffer I demanded ; fetch it, I im-
plore you 1"

Old Alice, more to gratify her own cu-
riosity than from any other motive, bade
Will produce it. It resembled in shape
an old clumsy writing-desk, and the rust
which had partially corroded the exterior,
amply proved its antiquity. When it
was placed on the table, Old Alice
produced tlie key from a drawer in the
room.

"Now open it," cried the man, impa-
tiently.

The bolt, after a short tug with the
brawny hand of Will, at length receded.
The lid was raised, and dusty papers first
presented ihemseUes. These were care-
fully removed, under an idea that some
inexhaustible treasure was concealed be-
neath. But no such thing appeaVed.
After routing out every parcel of paper,
Wdi found a massy key at the boltom of
the coffer. All gazed on Martyn Gaun-
ton for an explanation — but it was too
late ; in the eager scrutiny his last con-
vulsive gasps had been unheard. In
death, his stern eyes were fixed on the
iron coffer. What was to be done ? —
What clue could be gained to the mys-
terious assertions of Martyn Gaunton?

** The papers. Will, the papers, peruse
them," said old Alice.

Will and Jane took the papers and ex-
amined them separately. They contained
mostly letters dated some time back ; but
the hand- writing bore no similarity with
that of old Jonathan.

'* 'Tis all a cheat," cried Will, some-
what chagrined at the event of his search ;
"the man either lied or was a fool." So
saying, he sulkily threw himself on a
chair.

Jane was soon tired of her job also.
The iron coflfer was replaced in its former
situation, but the key which had been
found in it was kept in the safe custody of
old Alice. No further step was taken to
realize the words of Martyn Gaunton.
About a year after the eventful nigiit, old
Alice died ; Jane shortly after was es-
poused to a sturdy member of the preven-
tive service; and Will became the soli-
tary inhabitant of the sea-side hut. Wind

w

TAT.FS OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

and weather had iinitecl their efforts
against its mouldering walls, and gained
an eas}' admittance through the chasms
which appeared in every diiection. Will
often thought of changing his wretched
abode, but he remembered tliat it iiad
been the shelter of iiis father for many
a year, and could n)ake no determination
of leaving it. One night, whilst sitting
in a somewhat meditative mood, beside
the expiring embers of his grate, the
wind whistling in his ears, and the dash
of the wave on the shore distinctly audi-
ble, Will's thoughts wandered back to
the night of Martyn Gaunton's death.
He ruminated on the villain's dying
words.

" What motive," said he to himself,
** could have induced the rogue to speak
false ? His looks were impressive, and
mayhap there is some foundation for his
assertions. Bui the more I try to solve it,
the more inexplicable the riddle seems.
The key, too, for what could that be con-
cealed under a parcel of papers ? I'll
e'en take another peep at the interior of
this iron coffer, as it's termed. I may as
well employ my mind in reading the let-
ters, as sit moping over this miserable fire."

With this determination he arose from
his seat, placed the coffer on the table,
and was soon busied in the perusal of his
father's papers. The writing was not
very legible, and somewhat puzzled Will,
who was anything but an apt scholar for
such a task. W^ill persevered in his re-
searches for two hours, but, unable to
derive the least information from the
papers, he gave over the task as hopeless,
and again despaired of a clue wherewith
he might unravel the tale of Martyn Gaun-
ton, which now impressed itself more
deeply than ever upon his mind.

" ify'" thought he, ** my father was in
truth a miser, would he not have trusted
my old mother with the secret ? Could he
possibly have concealed it from her ? —
And yet," continued he, ** misers have
been known to contrive secrecy so art-
fully, that no earthly wisdom could detect
it, and chance alone has revealed their
hidden treasures. Be that as it may, I
am resolved to satisfy my mind on this
subject, and an inward foreboding tells me
that my labour will not be lost. I'll search
in every crack and corner of this hut, and,
though house and home, I'll pull it down
and lay bare the very foundations."

That very night Will set about execut-
ing his purpose, and ere an hour from the
commencement of his operations had
elapsed, the mystery explained itself. It
may readily be supposed that the upper
room, which old Jonathan had always set
apart for himself, was deemed by Will to
be the more worthy of scrutiny. His
father had used to take his nightly repose
on a wooden couch of his own construc-
tion, which stood in a recess of the room.
Will removed it, and on applying his axe
to the flooring, discovered from the sound
there was a hollow beneath. The boards,
which were of a much harder substance in
that spot than in other parts of the room,
offered a stubborn resistance to Weill's
repeated blows. Will at length laid
down the axe, and began to reconnoitre
with the aid of a lantern. In a corner
he found a large key-hole bored in a
plank.

*' This looks well," he exclaimed, en
descrying it. ** I'll wager the key in the
iron coffer fits it."

So saying he fetched it, and on apply-
ing it, found he was not wrong in his cal-
culation. The lock yielded, the broad
plank was raised, and a neat vault deve-
loped itself beneath. In it two kegs, neatly
encircled by iron hoops, were carefully
deposited. On raising them. Will's hopes
mere strongly excited on account of their
immense weight. On breaking them open
those hopes were realized. Each keg
contained a vast quantity of gold and sil-
ver coins ; most of them bore the stamp
of queen Anne's time, some were of a
later period. Will was quite at a loss to
find a reason why his father had never,
not even on his death-bed, disclosed the
secret to his kindred, but he thanked
his kind stars which had thrown their
light upon the subject. It was ever a
mystery to him by wliat means his fa-
ther had amassed so much wealth. No
living soul could give evidence con-
cerning it. Martyn Gaunton had been
the only being whom old Jonathan had
trusted.

The sequel is obvious : W^ill was in
possession of more wealth than from his
humble station in life he knew how to
enjoy. When the circumstance became
known, the antiquaries were all on the
alert, and the ancient was soon exchanged
for double and treble its worth in the
then current coin. The contents of the

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

21

two kegs disappeared, witli the exception
of a queen Anne's guinea, whicli Will de-
termined to keep in commemoration of
the fortunate discovery.

Will inherited not the miserly propen-
sities of his father. He shared his profits
with his sister, and in his own affluence
did not neglect the wants of others. On
the site of the old hut he built a snug
iiouse ; and when sitting alone before his
cheerful fire, often reflected on the night
in which the statement of MartynGaunton
was verified.

A TRUE TALE OF SHIPWRECK.

It was in the autumn of 17 — , that I
left Italy in company with my daughter,
the last child of that family of brave and
fair ones who had made my fireside so
joyous, when 1 returned home from the
voyages which my calling of merchant
obliged me frequently to take. INIy two
boys had fallen gloriously on the field pf
battle j and of my girls, two had already
perisiied by an insidious disease ; to avoid
which, beneath the bright skies and gent-
ler airs of the south, I was now again,
for the sake of the remaining one, about
to become a wanderer.

We left our desolate home with feel-
ings we dared not acknowledge to each
other, and only spoke of the future. My
child seemed to be possessed with an in-
satiable yearning to rest in some quiet
retreat in Rome or Naples ; and, there-
fore, to avoid the fatigue of a long over-
land journey, we embarked at Falmouth,
on board a small vessel bound to Leghorn ;
resolvhig to reserve Switzerland, Fiance,
and the Rhine country, till our return ;
and, in dwelling upon our plans, we en-
deavoured, as much as possible, to forget
the chasm which death had made in our
affections in the short space of two
years.

Our voyage was prosperous for many
days; and, indeed, there seemed every
reason to think that the step I had taken
was a fortunate one ; for my invalid cer-
tainly looked less pale, and her colour was
less changeable than it had been since
we left Hampshire. Her spirits, too,
were relieved of a part of the oppression
they had borne so long ; and she loved to
sit on the deck for hours every day, and,
for the first time since our calamity,
would sing me my favourite romances,
and the wild airs I had brought her across

the seas. There is one Hindoo tune,
which, as it was my greatest favourite,
she always sung the last. I verily think
that to hear it 7iow would drive me to dis-
traction.

Towards the evening of the day when
we passed Marseilles, the sky darkened,
the sun shot behind a huge bank of heavy
clouds, and the wind began to arise, and
to sweep the waters with a loud nioaning
swell, which died fitfully into silence,
again to awaken with a wilder and sadder
tone. I had so often crossed the sea, and
been an attentive observer of the signs of
the heavens, that I foresaw a storm was
approaching ; and I persuaded Helen to
retire to our miserable little cabin earlier
than usual, — while I watched, with an
anxious heart, the gathering of the clouds
and the fading of the daylight. The cap-
tain was a silent and somewhat rude man,
(we had only chosen his vessel to avoid a
delay which, my daughter's physicians
had assured me, might be fraught with
peril) ; and the crew were mostly Mal-
tese and Spaniards, — a people who, on
the seas, are proverbially timid and insub-
ordinate. It was, however, too late to
think of these things : the gale presently
increased till I could hardly keep my
feet ; the sails were all close reefed, and
we scudded along with a fearful speed.
There was neither moon nor star that
night ; and the only light I could dis-
cern was the foam of the waters, which
boiled, like a mighty cauldron, on every
side.

The crew were now all thoroughly ter-
rified, and incapable of comprehending
or executing the captain's orders. They
rummaged their sea-chests for the images
of saints long forgotten, and knelt to
them, weeping like children, and pray-
ing, and vowing costly offerings to their
shrines, if they might be delivered from
their peril, while the storm increased
e\ery instant.

It was about midnight that the man at
the helm gave a loud cry, which I shall
remember to my dying day — the cry of
" Land !" It was even too true : we
had mistaken our course, and were fast
approaching an iron-bound and rocky
shore. Dreadful was now the uproar on
deck : shrieks, and oaths, and confessions
of crimes long concealed, were heard even
above the fiercest wrath of the storm. At
length the captain ordered the boats out ;

22

TAIES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

and while the men prepared to obey his
commands, 1 liunied below to prepare
my daugliter for the worst. I had been
several times that evening in her cabin,
and marvelled at, while I admired, (he
calm self-possessed courage she main-
tained, amid so much calculated to terrify
a woman's spirit. I now found her
dressed, and on her knees, though that
attitude was scarce possible from the deep
pitching of our crazy vessel. She arose,
and, without a word or expression of fear,
sufiered me to wrap her in my cloak, and
to support her up to the deck.

By this time the boats were lowered —
and only just in time. With a shock,
like the rending of the eternal hills, the
vessel struck upon a rock ; and the ter-
rified mariners crowded into the boats,
frail and leaky though they were, with
the selfish eagerness of fear. 1 waited
but an instant ere 1 committed my child
to these, our only insecure chance of life ;
for the vessel had sprung a leak, and was
fast filling ; and while I yet paused, there
came an immense wave which broke over
the vessel and boats with the roar of a
cataract. It subsided j — but 1 never saw
our companions more.

There was now little time to delibe-
rate : the shore seemed not very far,
(indeed, I had certainly seen a light in
that direction), and the vessel was rapidly
filling. I emptied, therefore, in haste,
two of the largest sea-chests I could find,
and binding them together by the handles
with a rope, lowered them from the ves-
sel's side. It was our only hope of life ;
and, almost without a word spoken, my
child placed herself by my side, though,
owing to the pitching of the vessel, this
was a work of difficulty ; and we committed
ourselves to the waves. From this mo-
ment 1 remember nothing.

» * * « *

When 1 returned to consciousness, 1
found myself lying in an old ruinous
shed, upon some straw. Helen was be-
side me J saved indeed, but so bruised
and exhausted, that, as she lay there, with
the water streaming from her garments
and her long loose hair, it was an instant
ere my dizzy senses could believe that she
yet lived. A lamp was placed beside her
on the clay floor, and a dark loose mantle,
which wore signs that some human being
had been there. T spoke to her, — I bent
ov-er her, — and supported her unresisting

head upon my knee. ** Father,'* said
she, softly, " 1 think I am dying."

" O God ! and is there no help ?"

** I know not," she said feebly, " and
yet, since 1 have been here, 1 have
seen twice an old man, who looked upon
me through the door, and who left this
lamp here." That instant a thought
struck me that there must be habitations
near, and 1 resolved to seek shelter and
assistance: but first I made my j)oor girl
more comfortable, if gathering up the
straw into a close heap under her head,
and covering her with the coarse rug or
mantle, could be called comfort; and
then, in an agony, rushed out into the
open air.

Tlie earliest dawn, which had partially
broken upon the stormy sky, enabled me
to discern, at a little distance, a small hut
or cabin, whence the light proceeded
which I had not been mistaken in imagin-
ing I had perceived. As far as I could
see, this, and the shed I had just left,
were the only dwellings of man near :
they stood upon a broken rock which
overhung the sea. The hope of obtain-
ing succour gave wings to my feet, though,
when I attempted to walk, the pain was
excessive, for I too was bruised and
wounded: but it mattered not; I thought
only of Helen, and, guided by the light,
made haste towards the cottage, which
was distant about one hundred yards.

Misfortune abolishes ceremony ; and,
perceiving from the sound of voices that
the inhabitants were yet astir in the house,
] raised the latch, unbidden, and entered
what seemed to be the cottage of a fisher-
man. The room, though small, was scru-
pulously clean, and neatly furnished : a
bright fire was blazing on the hearth.
The appearance of the place seemed to
promise a friendly shelter ; not so the
countenances of its inhabitants. By the
side of the fire sat an old man and woman,
decently clad in the provincial dress ; the
features of both were singularly stern and
hard, and they rose not, neither testified
surprise at my intrusion. I had therefore
to speak in French, as well as I could, and
tell them of our calamity. " We are Eng-
lish," I said —

" English !" interrupted the austere
old man, for the first time breaking silence,
and speaking in pure good French.
** Wife ! do you hear this ? Thank God,
our prayer is granted, and our vow shall

PKRILS BY FLOOD AXD FIELD.

23

be fulfilled ! Go, stranger, and clamour
elsewhere : I have no aid for you !"

" But," cried I, passionately, ** 1 am
shipwrecked and wounded, and have lost
every thing, and my daughter is dying
hard by; dying of cold and weariness.
Give us shelter and dry clothing; and I
promise you an ample reward, so soon as
I can send to Marseilles."

"What I will not give I will not sell,"
replied the old man, in the same cold and
unmoved tone. " Go back to your daugh-
ter ; I have brought you both from the
shore, and given you a light and a gar-
ment. \yhat would you have more ?
Go!"

" But, good heavens ! have you no
mercy ? no human feeling ? You, my
good woman, may have been a mother
yourself. You may — "

" Aye," cried she, bitterly, rising and
confronting me face to face ; ** 1 have
been a mother ! Listen to me — / had a
daughter. My husband, there, was cap-
tain and owner of the fairest ship that
♦sailed out of the port of Marseilles. I
sailed with him, and my child, who was
then eighteen, and fifty times as fair as
your pale girl — she was to be married
when we returned. Well, our vessel was
wrecked on the western coast of your is-
land ; the rocks were crowded with people,
but they put no boats out, nor came to
save the poor perishing wretches who
shrieked for aid, even in the struggles of
death. Of the crew, we three were alone
saved, with what treasure we could bear
about us ; and your people helped us
vastly ! They rifled us of our money, and
tore the rings from the ears and fingers
of my Rosalie, and broke open our chests,
while my husband and 1 were too weak
and wounded to resist their plunder, and
knew not a word of their language to
complain. And my Rosalie they left on
the cold wet sand in her swoon — left her
for an hour, with the spray dashing over
her; and then two rude men brought her
rudely into the hut where they had laid
us (believing we were dead), wounded,
and crushed, and pale, and bleeding : yet
they searched her for money, and she, old
man ! she died that night ! — and they
buried her in their churchyard.

** It pleased God, however, that we
both recovered, though none cared for us,
nor restored us the money or the clothes
they had robbed us of. VVe begged our

way through the country, through a land
of strangers w ho hated our nation. Even
the very children jeered at us as we pass-
ed them, and the magistrates put us in
prisons and stocks. But at last, thank
God! we got home ; and we bound our-
selves with a solemn vow, as your people
had dealt with us, so to deal with you,
should ever a like chance happen. That
vow we have broken aheady, this night.
Here" (giving me a bundle from a clothes-
press) "is clothing : and here" (handing
me, as she spoke, a crust of black bread
and a cup of water) " is food. Go,
old man! and as you sit by your dying
daughter, remember the tale I have
told you."

It was in vain to make further entreaty :
the inexorable old woman, when she had
ceased, returned to her seat ; nor could
prayer, or the anguish of a distracted fa-
ther, extract another word from her. It
was in the chill sickness of despair that I
turned away from the door, w hich I heard
immediately and closely barred behind
me ; and, with the wretched food and
raiment 1 had received, hastened eagerly
to the shed where my beloved child lay.

Tlje churlish aid had been given too
late, for the feeble spirit had left its clay
in my absence ; and I sat alone, in my
agony, beside her dust till the morning
dawned.

TRADITION OF THE NORSEMEN".

The Norsemen were the most prone to
superstitions, because it was a favourite
fancy of theirs, that, in many instances,
the change from life to death altered the
temper of the human spirit from benignant
to malevolent ; or, perhaps, that when the
soul left the body, its departure was occa-
sionally supplied by a wicked demon, who
took the opportunity to enter and occupy
its late habitation.

Upon such a supposition, the wild fiction
that follows is probably grounded ; which,
extravagant as it is, possesses something
striking to the imagination. Saxo Gram-
maticus tells us of the fame of two Norse
princes, or chiefs, who had formed what
was called a brotherhood in arms, imply-
ing not only the firmest friendship and
constant support during the adventures
which they should undertake in life, but
binding them by a solemn compact, that
after tlie death of either, the survivor

24

TALES OF CTIIVALRV; OR,

should descend alive into the sepulchre of
his biother-in-arnis, and consent to be
buried along widi him. The task of ful-
filling this dreadful compact fell upon
Asniund, his companion, Assueit, having
been slain in battle. The tomb was
formed after the ancient northern custom
in what was called the age of hills — that
is, when it was usual to bury persons of
distinguished merit or rank on some con-
spicuous spot, which was crowned with a
mound. VVilli this purpose a deep narrow
vault was constructed, to be the apartment
of the future tomb over which tlie sepul-
chral heap was to be piled. Here they
deposited arms, trophies, poured forth,
perhaps, the blood of victims, introduced
into the tomb the war-horses of the cham-
pions 5 and when these rites had been
duly paid, the body of Assueit was placed
in the dark and narrow house, while his
faithful brother-in-arms entered and sat
do\Mi by the corpse, without a word or
look which testified regret or unwilling-
ness to fulfil his fearful engagement. 'J'he
soldiers who had witnessed this singular
interment of the dead and living, rolled a
huge stone to the mouth of the tomb, and
piled so much earth and stones above
the spot, as made a mound visible from
a great distance, and then, with loud
lamentations for the loss of such undaunted
leaders, they dispersed themselves, like a
flock which has lost its shepherd.

Years passed away after years, and a
century had elapsed, ere a noble Swedish
rover, bound upon some high adventure,
and supported by a gallant band of fol-
lowers, arrived in the valley which took
its name from the tomb of the brethren-
in-arms. The story was told to the
strangers, whose leader determined on
opening the sepulchre, partly because, as
already hinted, it was reckoned an heroic
action to brave the anger of departed
heroes, by violating their -tombs ; partly
to attain the arms and swords of proof
with which the deceased had done their
great actions. He set his soldiers to
work, and soon removed tlie earth and
stones from one side of the mound, and
laid bare the entrance. But the stoutest
of the rovers started back, when, instead
of the silence of a tomb, they heard within
horrid cries, the clash of swords, the clang
of armour, and all the noise of a mortal
combat between two furious champions.
A young warrior was let down into the

profound tomb by a cord, vihicli was
drawn up shortly after, in hopes of news
from beneath. But when the adventurer
descended, some one threw him from the
cord, and took his place in the noose.
When the rope was pulled up, the soldiers,
instead of their companion, beheld As-
mund, the survivor of the brethren-in-
arms. He rushed into the open air, his
sword drawn in his hand, his armour half
torn from his body, the left side of his face
almost scratched off) as by the talons of
some wild beast. He had no sooner
appeared in the light of day, than, with
the improvisatory poetic talent which
these champions often united with heroic
strength and bravery, he poured forth a
string of verses, containing the history of
his hundred years' conflict w it hin the tomb.
It seems, that no sooner was the sepulchre
closed, than the corpse of the slain Assueit
arose from the ground, inspired by some
ravenous goule, and having first torn to
pieces and devoured the horses which had
been entombed with them, threw himself
upon the companion who had just given
him such a sign of devoted friendship, in
order to treat him in the same manner.
The hero, no way discountenanced by the
horrors nf his situation, took to his arms,
and defended himself manfully against
Assueit, or rather against the evil demon
who tenanted that champion's body. In
this manner the living brother waged a
preternatural combat, which had endured
during a whole centur\', uhen Asmund,
at last obtaining the victory, prostrated
his enemy, and by driving, as he boasted,
a stake through his body, had finally re-
duced him to a state of quiet becoming
a tenant of the tomb. Having chanted
the triumphant account of his contest and
victory, this mangled conqueror fell dead
before them. The body of Assueit was
taken out of the tomb, burnt, and the
ashes dispersed to heaven ; whilst that of
the victor, now lifeless, and without a
companion, v^as deposited there, so that
it was hoped his slumbers might remain
undisturbed. The precautions taken
against Assueit's reviving a second time,
remind us of those adopted in the Greek
islands, and in the Turkish provinces,
against the Vampire. It afl'brds, also, a
derivation of the ancient English law in
case of suicide, when a stake was driven
through the body, originally to keep it
secure in the tomb.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

2^'

Page 26.

THE MINER'S WIFE.

Thou know'st, that ia my desert halls
The pride of youth anil hope is o'er ;

That sunk, defaced, mj- crumbling walls
Repose or shelter yield no more.

Yet on this dark and dreary pile,
Thy love its tender wreathe hath hung ;

And all it asks, is still to smile.
Bloom, fade, and die, where once it clung.

C. H. TOWNSEND.

The young countess Blanch Volner
stood alone in the magnificent saloon
which had been just thronged with lordly
company. Slie had that day taken pos-
session of her immense property ; and
her high rank and remarkable beauty and
talent had gathered around her the no-
blest and wealthiest families of Vienna.
Not a guest returned home dissatisfied j
the dignity and simple grace of the coun-
tess, and the unaffected sweetne^ss of her
manners, had charmed even mure than
her surprising loveliness ; and much more
than the splendour of her entertainment.
But Blanch had far higher claims to the
admiration and love of all who really knew
her; every one talked with rapture of her
graces ancl accomplisjunents; a few hearts

yoL. 11. — 4.

thought chiefly of her unpretending con-
sistency of conduct, — her real, humble
goodness, the iair fruit of genuine piety.
Blanch stood alone, and sighed ; she
partly sighed over her beautiful flowers,
which hung in fading garlands round the
room \ she pressed her hand for a moment
over her eyes, for they ached with the
glare of the tapers still blazing around
her : with a true girlish fancy, she took
from the tall candelabra beside her, a
long drooping branch of white roses,
which seemed dazzled like herself with the
brilliant light; but as she touched them,
the rose-leaves fell on the ground ; she
sighed again, but from a very different
cause : her heart had not been in the
gaiety and splendour of the evening ; she
could not help reproaching herself for
having- shared in it at all, vvliile Herman
Alberti was exposed to the dangers of a
distant war. As the young countess was
about to retire to rest, the arrival of a
stranger, agitated and in haste, wiio ear-
nestly requested to see her, was announced.
She hesitated at first, but, after a few
minutes' consideration, she consented to
appear ; and, returning to the deserted

26

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

saloon, there vvaited till the stranger ^vas
introduced to the presence. The countess
desired her servant to remain in the ante-
room, for she observed that the young
stranger hesitated to speak. How often
did she turn pale ! — how often did she
tremble with agitation during that short
interview I The man was the servant of
the count Alberti, and he had Imrried to
inform her that his master had 'dangerously
wounded his commanding officer in a
duel, and that he had not been since heard
of, though a higii reward was offered for
his life. He had fought against the ex-
press command of the emperor.

Many months passed away — months of
sorrow and anxiety to the hapless lady
Blanch. The young deserter was never
heard of, and the festive magnificence that
had flashed for a moment in the palace of
the countess, -entirely disappeared ; but
she was not giving way to useless grief;
she had sought out the wretched and the
forsaken, and she relieved and consoled
them. Her money, her time, and her
prayers, were devoted to the afflicted ; and
it was not their giatitude, but their restored
happiness, which rejoiced her ; she loved
to watch the clouds of sorrow gradually
rolling away from the care-worn counte-
nance, and she knelt down to bless God,
that in all her own heart-breaking grief,
she could still be made the humble means
of diffusing happiness. The wounded
general was slowly recovering : there
seemed some hope that Alberti would be
pardoned. Alas ! at the very time that
the numerous petitions in his favour were
beginning to be attended to, he was
brought to Vienna with a gang of despe-
rate banditti, among whom he had been
taken. He told an improbable story about
his not being connected with the banditti,
but nobody believed him, and he spoke of
it no more. Blanch did believe him ; she
entreated to be allowed to see him, but
lier entreaties only extorted a promise,
that on the night before his execution she
should be admitted to his cell : he was
condemned to Ije broken on the wheel.

Tlie tale which count Herman related
was true : he had fled, all unknowingly,
to the wild haunts of the banditti amid
the mountains of Istria. Among those
n)ountains, which abounded with the dens
of the banditti, he was taken by the royal
troops. The true captain of the banditti
escaped ; but, hearing that the brave

Herman was mistaken for him, and having
been once a man of honour himself, he
came forward and gave himself up to
justice, relating every particular of the
count's refusal to join his band. The
sentence was changed. Was it a merciful
change ? The young and gallant count
Herman was condemned for life to become
a workman in the mines of Idria. Blanch
had been long the constant companion of
the old countess Alberti. The intelligence
of Herman's life having been spared, was
brought to them when they were together ;
they were about to visit Herman, and they
now hastened to the prison. The first
surprise which made known to the aged
countess her son's safety, was joyful ; but
iier grief soon returned, at the thought of
the dreadful sentence which still awaited
him : but Blanch seemed restored to hap-
piness, and entered the dark cell, trem-
bling indeed, but with overpowering joy.
A venerable priest, who had daily attended
the young count, had promised to meet
them in the prison ; and there Blanch and
the countess Alberti found him conversing
with Herman. After the first agitated
moments of this affecting interview were
over, Blanch rose up, and wiping away
her tears, said,

" I have a petition to make to you all,
and one that may easily be complied with.
What Task must not be refused, unless
^ou will hesitate to promote my happi-
ness. ' Tis a strange request for me to
make, but I do not blush to make it," she
said, as a deepening blush sp-read over
her downcast face, and completely belied
her assertion. *' Dear Herman," she
said, ** it was not always thus : must I
remind you of our long-plighted affection ?
I have known the time when you were
very eloquent in pleading a cause that
you appear now to have forgotten. I see
that you will not recall that time ; but do
not think me too bold in seeming to
forget my sex's modesty. You know,
my Herman, that I should not once have
spoken thus — I should not once have
come to you and otlered you my hand, as
I do now ; I should have waited, like a
bashful maid, to be entreated like all
bashful maids ; and when at last I yielded
to your suit, I should have done so but at
long entreaty. Dear Herman, will you
not accept my hand ?" Blanch looked up
through her blushes, and smiled, as she
held out her small white hand.

PFRILS BY FLOOD AND FIKI.D.

n

" Blanch," said Herman, while he
gently took her proffered hand, and,
having pressed it to his lips, still held it
trembling in his own. "Sweet Blanch,
I was prepared for this ; 1 knew that you
would speak as you do now ; I doubted
not but the same tin)id maid, whose mo-
desty sprung from true and virtuous love,
would think it a most joyful duty to prove
her faithfulness in such a time as this;
and yet I almost wish that you had been
less true, less like yourself; for to refuse
the most trifling of your chaste favours, is
a grief tome. I will not speak of poverty,
altliongh the change would be too hard
for }ou, a young and delicate lady of high
rank, whom Providence had nursed in the
soft lap of affluence and ease : but for a
woman, Blanch, a tender, helpless woman,
to be doomed to pine away in a dark,
horrid cavern, whose very air is poison — "

*• Herman, " said Blanch, eagerly,
" have not the miners wives now living
with them ?"

" It may be so," he answered ; " but
remember, those women must be poor,
neglected wretches ; accustomed to the
sorrows and hardships of their life, they
may be almost callous to distress."

" And think you, then," said Blanch,
her whole countenance brightening as she
spoke, " think you, that such cold and
deadened feeling can produce that forti-
tude, that patient, heavenly fortitude,
which the spirit of the Gospel gives, and
only gives? When I thus freely offer to
become the partner, the happy partner, of
your misery, I think not, dearest, of my
woman's weakness (though I can hardly
beheve that it would fail). No ; to
another's arm I look for strength ; to those
everlasting arms which now support the
burden of the whole world's sinking woes.
My strength is in my God ; and he will
hear my never-ceasing prayers. I have
no fears but that a miner's hut would be
a happy home ; it must be so to me, for
now the happiest lot for me, is to remain
with you. 1 should indeed be wretched
with my wealth and my titles — utterly
wi-etched, without one sweet consoling
thought, which conscience will often bring
in those dreary mines. Here, then, I am
pleading for my happiness, not so much
for your's, dear Herman. Kneel with
me, do kneel with me, to ask your nio-
ther's blessing ; for that is the request I
make to her; and then the third petition

may soon be guessed — that you, my holy
father, will consent to join the hands of
count Alberti and myself in marriage."

It was not her language — it was the
almost unearthly eloquence of tone and
manner, that gave to the words of the
lady Blanch an effect which it seemed im-
possible to resist. When she finished
speaking, her hand extended to Herman,
and her face, as she leaned forward, turn-
ing alternately to the aged countess and
the friar ; Ijer eyes shining with the light
of expression, and the pure blood flooding
in tides of richer crimson to her cheek and
parted lips — lips on which a silent and
trembling eloquence still hung; they all
sat gazing on her in speechless astonish-
ment ; one sunbeam had darted through
the narrow window of the cell, and the
stream of light, as Blanch moved, at last
fell on her extended hand. When Her-
man saw the pale transparent red which
her slender fingers assumed, as the sun-
beams shone through them, he thought,
with horror, that tlie blood now so purely
giving clearness to her fair skin, and
flowing so freely and freshly through her
delicate frame, would, in the mine's
poisonous atmospheie, become thick and
stagnant ; he thought how soon the lustre
of her eyes would be quenched, and the
light elastic step of youth, the life which
seemed exultant in the slight and graceful
form of Blanch, would be palsied for ever.
Herman was about to speak, but the old
priest interrupted him by proposino^ that
nothing should be finally settled till the
evening of the fourth ensuing day ; then
the lady Blanch, he observed, would have
had more time to consider the plan she
had formed ; and till then the young
count would be permitted to remain in
Vienna.

** I will consent, but on this one con-
dition," said Blanch — " that my proposal,
bold as it is, shall not be then opposed, \\\
as you say, my resolution be not changed.
You know, dear Herman, that I cannot
change."

Blanch went, and with her husband, to
the mines. The dismal hut of a workman
in the mines of Idria, was but a poor ex-
change for the magnificent palace of the
count Alberti, on the banks of the Danube,
which was now confiscated to the crovt^n ;
though a small estate was given to the
venerable and respected countess dining
her life. But Blanch smiled with a smile

28

TALES OF CFUVALRY; OR,

of satisified Iiappiness, as, leaning on hor
husband's am), slie stopped before the hut
whicli was to be their future home. Tiieir
conductor opened the door, but the count
liad forgotten to stoop, as he entered the
low door-way, and he struck his lofty
forehead a vi'olont blow. Blanch uttered
a faint shriek, her first and only exclama-
tion in that dark mine. The alarm which
Blanch betrayed at his accident, banished
the gloom which had began to deepen on
her husband's spirits : to remove her
agitation, he persuaded himself to speak,
and even to feel cheerfully ; and w hen
Blanch had parted away his thick hair, to
examine the effects of the blow, and had
pressed her soft lips repeatedly to his
brow, she said playfully, as she bent down
with an arch smile, and looked into her
husband's face, "After all, this terrible
accident, and my lamentations, have not
had a very bad effect, as they have brought
back the smiles to your dear features, my
own Herman."

The miner's hut became daily a more
happy abode ; the eyes of its inhabitants
were soon accustomed to the dim light,
and all that had seemed so wrapt in dark-
ness when thev first entered the mines,
gradually dawned into distinctness and
light. Blanch began to look with real
pleasure on the walls and rude furniture
of her two narrow rooms; she had no
time to spend in useless sorrow, for she
was continually employed in the necessary
duties of her situation ; she performed
with cheerful alacrity the most menial
offices ; she repaired her husband's clothes,
and she was delighted if she could some-
times take down from an old shelf one of
the few books she had brought with her.
Their days passed on rapidly ; and, as the
young pair knelt down at the close of
every evening, their praises and thanks-
givings to the Almighty were as fervent
as their prayers. Herman had not been
surprised at the high and virtuous enthu-
siasm which had enabled Blanch to sup-
port, at first, all the severe trials they
underwent without shrinking ; but he
was surprised to find that in the calm,
the dull and hopeless calm, of undi-
minished poverty and hardship, her spirit
never sank ; her sweetness of temper and
unrepining gentleness rather increased.

Another trial was approaching. —
Blanch, the young and tender Blanch,
was about to become a mother ; and one

evening, on returning from ^liis work,
Herman found his wife making clothes
for her unborn infant. He sat down
beside her, and sighed ; but Blanch was
singing merrily, and she only left off" sing-
ing to embrace her husband with smiles,
the sweetest smiles he thought he had
ever seen.

The wife of one of the miners, wliom
Blanch had visited when lying ill of a
dangerous disease, kindly offered to attend
her dining her confinement; and from
the arms of this woman Herman received
his first-born son — the child who, born
under different circumstances, would have
been welcomed with all the care and splen-
dour of noble rank. But he forgot this in
his joy that Blanch was safe, and stole on
tiptoe to the room where she was lying :
she had been listening for his footstep,
and as he approached, he saw in the gloom
of the chamber her white arms stretched
towards him.

" I have been thanking God in my
thoughts," said Blanch, after her husband
had bent down to kiss her ; *' but I am
so very weak ! Dear Herman, kneel
dow^n beside the bed, and offer up my
Vjlessings with your own."

Surprising strength seemed to be given
to this delicate mother by Him " who
tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,"
and she recovered rapidly from her con-
finement ; but when her infant was about
a month old, Blanch began to fear for his
health. It was a great sorrow for her to
part with her own darling child, but she
felt it to be her duty to endeavour to send
him out of the mines, to the care of the
old countess Alberti ; it w-as very hard to
send him away before he could lake into
the world the remembrance of those
parents who never would behold him more
— before his first smiles had seemed to
notice the love and the care of the mother
who bore him ; but Blanch did not dare
to think of her sorrowful regret, for it was
necessary to make every exertion to
effect this separation, so painful to herself.
She knew that the wretched inhabitants
of the immense mines were dropping into
the grave daily ; she knew that their
lives seldom exceeded the two first years
of their horrid confinement, and she panted
with eager desire to send her pallid child
to pure, untainted air.

it was at this time that Herman, as he
was at work in one of the galleries, be-

PFRILS BY FLOOD AND FIFLD.

29

held a stranger, attended by the surveyor
of the mines, approaching the place where
he stood. Herman turned away as the
stranger passed, but he started with sur-
prise to hear the tones of a voice w hich he
well remembered ; he could not be mis-
taken, for the person spoke also with a
foreign accent. At first he nearly re-
solved not to address him ; but the
stranger had not proceeded many steps
when Herman stood before him, and ex-
claimed, " Mr. Everard, have you for-
gotten me?" The Englishman, who had
come there to examine the mines, did not
indeed recognise at once, in the emaciated
being who addressed him, the young and
gallant count Alberti, whom he had
known at Vienna as one of the bravest
and most accomplished men of the court.
Who would not have been struck at such
a contrast ! Who could have refused to
grant the request that Herman m.ade ?
He entreated Mr. Everard to enable him
to remove his infant from the mines, and
to deliver him to the care of the old
countess. The generous Englishman
hesitated not to comply with his wishes ;
but his heart and soul w^re interested in
the cause when Albert conducted him to
the hut, and he beheld the pale and
drooping Blanch bending over her sick
infant like a drooping lily — preserving, in
the midst of toil and misery, all the sweet
and delicate graces of a virtuous and
high-born female ; when her beseeching
and melancholy smiles, and her voice, like
mournful music, pleaded for her infant's
lite.

Mr. Everard left the mines immediately,
to seek the means of the child's removal ;
but had no sooner reached the small vil-
lage which is nearest to the mines, than a
person arrived at the post-house there
express from Vienna, anxiously inquiring
if Alberti or his wife were still alive. In
a few hours after, another person arrived,
with the same haste, and on the same
errand ; they w ere, the one, a near rela-
tion to Blanch — the other, Alberti's fel-
low-soldier and most intimate friend.
Pardon had been at length granted to the
young exile, at the petition of the general
officer whom he had wounded ; and he
was recalled by the empress herself to the
court of Vienna.

The bearers of these happy tidings im-
mediately descended into the mines. As
they approached Alberti's hut, the light [

\^hich glimmered through some apertures
in the shattered duor, induced them to
look at its inmates before they entered.
Though dressed in a dark, coarse gar-
ment, and wasted away to an almost
incredible slightness, still enough of her
former loveliness remained to tell them
that the pallid female they beheld was the
young countess ; and the heart admired
her more, as she sat leaning over her
husband, and holding up to his kisses her
small infant, her dark hair carelessly
parted, and bound round her pale brow,
seeming to live but in her husband's love
— than when elegance vied with splen-
dour in her attire — when her hair sparkled
with diamonds, and, in full health and
beautv, she was the one gazed at and
admired in the midst of the noblest and
fairest company of Vienna. The door
was still unopened, for Blanch had begun
to sing, and had chosen a song w hich her
hearers had last listened to in her own
splendid saloon on the last night she had
sung there ; the soft, complaining notes of
her voice, had seemed out of place then,
where all was careless mirth and festivity ;
but its tone was suited to that dark soli-
tude— it was like the song of hope in the
cave of despair.

The feelings of Blanch, as she ascended
slowly in the miners' bucket, from the
dark mine, cannot be described ; she had
unwillingly yielded to her husband's en-
treaties, that she should be first drawn up,
and, with her infant in her bosom, her
eyes shaded with a thick veil, and sup-
ported by the surveyor of the mines, she
gradually rose from the horrible depths ;
the dripping damps that hung round the
cavern fell upon her, but she heeded them
not j once she looked up at the pale, pure
star of light, far, far above her, but im-
mediately after, she bent down over her
infant, and continued without moving or
speaking. Several times the bucket
swayed against the sides of the shaft, and
Blanch shuddered, but her companion
calmly steadied it 5 and at last she was
lifted out upon the ground: she did not
look up — she only rose to kneel ; and she
continued kneeling, till she heard the
bucket that contained her husband ap-
proaching. The chain creaked, and the
bucket swung, as it stopped above the
black abyss. Even now there was danger,
the chance of great danger : it was ne-
cessary for Herman to remain immove-

30

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

able ; at the highest certainty of hope, he
might yet be phinged at once into the
yawning depths below. Blanch felt this,
and stirred not — not a feature of her face
altered; she held in her breatii convul-
sively ; she saw, through her thick veil,
the planks drawn over the cavern's
mouth; slie saw Herman spring from the
bucket ; — some one caught her child, as,
stretching out her arms to her liusband,
she fell senseless on the ground. There
were some hearts that sorrowed over the
departure of the young Alberti and his
wife from the mines of Idria. The
wretched miners, with whom they had
lived so long, had learned to love them,
at a time when too many a heart had
almost forgotten to love and to hope ; had
learned from their kind counsel, but more
— oh, much more I — from their example,
to shake off the dreadful bands of despair,
and daily to seek, and to find, a peace
which passeth all understanding. Herman
and Blanch had taught them to feel how
happy, how cheerful a thing religion is 1
Was it surprising, then, that at his de-
parture his poor companions should crowd
around him, and weep with mournful
gratitude, as he distributed among them
his working tools, and the simple furniture
of his small hut ? Was it surprising, that
Blanch and her husband, as they sat on
the green hills that surrounded their
country residence, with a clear blue sky
above them, and the summer -breeze
bringing with it full tides of freshness,
and fragrance from the orange -trees
around them, watching the pure rose-
colour which had begun to tinge their
infant's fair cheek ; was it surprismg that
they should turn, with feelings of affec-
tionate sorrow, to the dark and dreary
mines of Idria ?

I must not forget to mention, that
Herman and his wife were publicly re-
instated in all their former titles and
possessions. A short time after their
return to Vienna, they made their first
appearance at court, for that purpose. At
the royal command, all the princes and
nobles of Austria, gorgeously dressed,
and blazing with gold and jewels, were
assembled. Through the midst of these,
guiding the steps of his feeble and vener-
able old mother, Alberti advanced to the
throne; a deep bUish seemed fixed upon
his manly features, and the hand which
supported his infirm parent, trembled

more than the one which he tenderly
clasped in his ; the empress herself hung
the order of the golden fieece round his
neck, and gave into his hand the sword
which he had before forfeited — but, as she
did so, her tears fell upon the golden
scabbard; the young soldier instantly
kissed them with quivering lips. And
now every eye was turned to the wife of
Alberti, who, with her young child sleep-
ing in her arms, and supported by the
noble-minded general who had obtained
her husband's pardon, next approached.
Blanch had not forgotten that she was
still only the wife of an Jdrian miner, and
no costly ornament adorned her simple
dress — not a tinge of colour had yet
returned to her cheeks of marble pa'le-
ness, and a shadowy languor still re-
mained about her large hazle eyes ; her
delicately shaped lips had, however, re-
gained their soft crimson dve, and her
dark brown hair, partly concealed by a
long veil, shone as brightly as the beau-
tiful and braided tresses around her. She
wore a loose dress of white silk, only
adorned with one large fresh cluster of
pink roses (for since she had left the
mines, she was more fond than ever of
flowers.) Every eye was fixed on her;
and the empress turned coldly from the
glittering forms before her, to the si«nple,
but elegant Blanch. Descending from
the throne, Maria Theresa hastened to
raise her before she could kneel, and
kissing her with the tender aflfection of a
dear and intimate friend, she led the
trembling Blanch to the highest step of
the throne; then, turnmg to the whole
assembly, and looking like a queen, as
she spoke, said,

" This is the person whom we should
all respect, as the brightest ornament of
our court. This is the wife, ladies,
whom I, your monarch, hold up as your
example, whom 1 am proud to consider
far our superior in the duties of a wife.
Let us all learn of her, to turn away from
the false pleasures of vanity and splendour,
and, like her, to act up modestly, but
firmly, to that high religious principle
which proves true nobility of soul ! Count
Alberti," continued the empress, " every
husband may envy you your residence in
the mines of Idria. May God bless you
both, and make you as happy witli the
rank and wealth to which 1 lestore you,
as you were in your miner's hut."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

31

A DISASTROUS VOYAGE.

In the year IG19, an able navigator,
named Jens Munk, was sent out on a
voyage of discovery towards the north-
west coast of America, by Christian IV.,
king of Deimiark. Saihng from Elsineur
on the 18th of May, he succeeded in
reaching Hudson's Bay. In passing
through the straits, after leaving Cape
Farewell to enter the bay, he conferred
npon them the name of Fretum Christiaui,
in compliment to the king of Denmark,
although they had been discovered and
.named before. Munk had two vessels,
one of them of small burthen, manned
with only sixteen hands; the largest had
a crew of forty-eight. He met with a
great deal of ice, which forced him to seek
lor shelter in what is now called Ciias-
terfield's Inlet. It was the 7th of Sep-
tember when he entered the inlet, where,
from the lateness of the season, it was but
too obvious he must winter. The ice
closed in around him, and every pi'ospect
of returning home the same season, was
shut out very speedily. Munk now began
to construct huts on shore for himself and
crews, which being completed, his people
set out to explore the country around,
and employ themselves in hunting for
their future subsistence. They fell in
with an abundance of game. Hares,
partridges, foxes, bears, and various wild-
fowl, were equally applied to secure them
a winter stock of provisions. On the 27th
of November they were surprised by the
phenomenon of three distinct suns, which
appeared in the heavens. On the 24th of
January they again saw two, equally
distinct. On the 18th of December they
had an eclipse of the moon. Tiiey also
saw a transparent circle round the moon,
and what they fancied a cross within it,
exactly quartering that satellite. These
particular appearances were regarded,
according to the spirit of those days, as
omens of no future good fortune. The
frost speedily froze up their beer, brandy,
and wine, so that the casks burst. The
liberal use of spirituous liquors, which in
high latitudes are doubly pernicious, was
quickly productive of disease. Their
bread, and such provisions as they had
brought from home, were exhausted early
in the spring, and the scurvy having
reduced them to a most miserable condi-
tion, they were unable to pursue or cap-
ture any of the multitudes of wild-fowl

which flocked to the vicinity of their-
miserable dwellings. Death now com-
mitted frightful ravages amongst them.
They were helpless as children, and died
in great numbers. In May, 1620, their
provisions were entirely consumed, and
famine aided disease in the work of death.
Never was the waste of life in such a
situation so terrible. Summer had nearly
arrived, but not to bring hope and conso-
lation to those who had lived through the
dark and dreary winter, but to show the
survivors the extent of the havoc death
had made among them. Munk was
among the living, but so weak as to be
unable to indulge a hope of recovery.
In despair, and perfectly hopeless, he
awaited the fate which seemed inevitable.
He had been four days withoiit food. Im-
pelled at length by liunger, and ignorant
of the fate of his companions, he gathered
strength enough to crawl out of his own
hut to inquire after the others, and try to
satiate his appetite. He discovered that,
out of fifty-two, only two remained alive
among the dead bodies of their comrades,
who lay unburied. Seeing they were the
remnant of the crews, and hunger-stung,
they encouraged each other to try for
food. By scraping away the snow, they
were fortunate enough to find some roots,
which they devoured with ravenous eager-
ness, and then swallowing some herbs
and grass which happened to be anti-
scorbutic, they found themselves bett^er.
They then made corresponding efforts to
preserve life. They were soon able to
reach a river, and to take fish, and from
that they proceeded to shoot birds and
animals. In this way they recovered
their strength. The two vessels lay in a
seaworthy state, but crewless and un-
tenanted. On seeing the ships, which
w^ere a few months before well appointed
and exulting in anticipated success, and
observing the numbers to which their
crews vi'ere reduced, what must have been
their sensations ! They, nevertheless,
took resolution from despair. They made
the snialler vessel ready for sea, taking
what stores they had a necessity for, from
the larger, and a crew of three hands
embarked in a ship to navigate her in a
perilous voyage, which had sailed from
home with a complement of sixteen.
They succeeded in re-passing Hudson's
Straits, enduring dreadful hardships. —
'I'heir passage was stormy. Day and

32

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

night they were necessitated to labour,
until the vessel was almost wholly aban-
doned to her own course. Nevertheless,
they succeeded in making a port in
Norway, on the 25th of September. The
sufferings of Mtmk and his crews have
perhaps never been equalled in the fearful
catalogue of calamity which the annals of
the early northern navigation present to
the pitying reailer. No fiction has ever
painted a scene so horrible as the gradual
death of 49 persons, in such a situation,
before the eyes of three survivors, whose
constitutional strength kept them alive,
the witnesses of misery, to the sigiit of
which death must have been far preferable.
The escape of the survivors and subse-
quent navigation to Europe, amid ice and
storms, is one of the most extraordinary
circumstances on record.

SIEGE OF ANCONA.

The misery to which this town was
reduced, may be estimated from the
returns made by commissioners instructed
to search for food, in order that it might
be applied to the public service. Their
utmost exertions, after carefully exploring
the most secret hiding-places in which the
avarice of want might be supposed to
treasure up its hoards, produced no more
than five pecks of various grain. Yet
the city at that moment contained no less
than twelve thousand souls within its
circuit. Food, the most disgusting at
other times, had been greedily coveted,
and was exhausted. Even the skins of
animals whose very flesh is conuuonly
rejected as unclean, the wild herbs which
grew on the ramparts, the sea- weed which
was reputed poisonous — all these had
been tried, and all had now failed. What-
ever may be the constancy of his endur-
ance, there is still a limit to the physical
powers of man ; and it cannot be a
matter of wonder, if nature sometimes
gave way under this accumulated and
hourly-increasing wretchedness. A sen-
tinel, worn with hunger, fatigue, and
watching, had sunk upon the ground at
his post, when a young and lovely
woman, of the noblest class in the city,
bearing an infant at her breast, observed
and rebuked his neglect. He replied,
that he was perisliing from famine, and
already felt the approach of deati). —
•* Fifteen days," answered the more than
Roman matron, "have passed, during

which my life has been barely supported
by loathsome sustenance, and a mother's
stores are beginning to be dried up from
my babe : place your lips, however, upon
this bosom, and, if auglit yet remains
there, drink it, and recover strength for
the defence of our country !" The soldier,
siiamed and animated by her words, and
recognising and respecting the (hgnity of
her birth, no longer required the profferetl
nutrinjent. He sprang from the ground,
seized his arms, and, rushing into the
enemy's lines, proved his vigour by slay-
ing no less than four combatants with liis
single hand. — One other, and a yet more
touching instance of the self-devotion of
female affection, may be produced in
striking contrast with the unnatural deed
recorded of the frenzied mother of Jeru-
salem, under circumstances of similar
destitution and horror. A woman of
Ancona, heart-broken by the exhaustion
of her two sons, and hopeless of other
relief, opened a vein in her left arm ; and
having prepared and disguised the blood
whicli flowed from it with spices and con-
diments (for these luxuries still abounded,
as if to mock the cravings of that hunger
which had slight need of any further stimu-
lant than its own sad necessity), presented
them with the beverage : thus prolonging
the existence of her children, like the bird
of which similar tenderness is fabled, even
at the price of that tide of life by which
her own was supported.

REVOLT OF THE JEWS.

The emperor Adrian havmg built a
temple to Jupiter Capitolinus in Jeru-
salem, the Jews, instigated by Barco-
chebas, an impostor, who persuaded them
that he was the Messiah, levolted against
the Romans, who instantly attacked them,
and, after having massacred 800,000 of
that wretched people, they sold the residue
for slaves, at a public auction. Judea,
after this heavy calamity, was renderetl
almost a desert.

TERTULLIAN.

When the Roman emperor Severus
published his edict against the CI)ristians,
TertuUian addressed to him a remon-
strance against it. " We till," said he,
"your cities and towns, your senate and
your armies; we only abandon your
temples and your theatres."

PERILS BY FT.OOD ANT:) FIELD.

J33

Page 37.

THE FORCE OF CONSCIENCE.

AN EPISODE OF REAL LIFE.

I AM sure, Cleveland, you have been
astonisjied at my silence, and 1 cannot
say that either amusement or occupation
has withheld me from performing the chief
dutv and pleasure of my existence. One
entire and absorbing interest has lately
taken possession of my whole soul, and
drawn, as it were, all my powers into
itself. It has been said that love is the
business of woman's life — but only an
episode in that of man. Though my
youth has sobered into manhood, and
manhood is gliding imperceptibly into
old age, yet one " episode" of my early
days has been treasured up with but too
faithful a remembrance. Judge, then,
my chosen friend, my second self in all,
except the weakness of my nature, what
my feelings must have been some weeks
ago, when, in a ghastly and attenuated
being, who leaned his head languidly on
the velvet lining of a splendid landau, as
it crept along Pall-mall, I recognized the

once liandsome and animated B . An

uncontrollable impulse led me to remain

VOL. II.— 5.

near the door of the United Service Club,
wliich he was about to enter. His trem-
bling frame was supported at either side
by two footmen as he ascended the steps
—Good God ! how painfully altered he
appeared ! his cheeks yellow and wrink-
led— his teeth weie broken and decayed
— his eyes, once so brilliant, black and
penetrating, d;n-ting and catching light,
now were sunken and changed both in
colour and size, and unmeaningly strayed
from object to object. It was only when
their dullness rested upon me, that any
thing like a feeling of life passed over his
countenance — then he paused, pressed
the servants' arms with his gloved hands,
and raised himself to his full height as he
peered into my face, viith a wandering,
undefined expression of dread and uncer-
tainty. This was the action of a moment,
his grasp relaxed, and he proceeded up
I the staircase, with the same restless and
bewildered air. My heart ached v\ithin
me, at the full tide of recollections that
rushed upon it ; I literally gasped for
breath, and involuntarily hastened to-
wards the park, eager to escape from tlie
vision that you will readily believe my

34

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

imagination conjunHl up at this strang:e
meeting, t walked rapidly onward, as if
memorv could be. obliterated by violence
of motion. I had scarcely turned the
corner of St. James's, when a powdered
menial arrested my steps, and politely
inquired if my name were not Ley den.
I replied in tlie athrmative, and he re-
quested that I would accompany him back
to the United Service Club, as his master
wished particularly to see me. I retraced
my path, and was shown into a private

room, at the upper end of which B

sat, or rather reclined, upon a sofa. On
entering I felt a chilliness steal over my
frame, as if the atmosphere I breathed
was tainted. As I approached, he endea-
voured to stand up, but the effort was
unavailing, and while extending his hand
he buried his face in the cushions that
supported him. For many minutes we
were both silent, but when he did speak,
his delivery was slow and broken, yet he
was the first who acquired self-possession
enouo^h to articulate.

*' Years have passed, Mr. Leyden," he
commenced, " since we have looked upon
each other. Years, sir ; yes, years have
passed — years of worldly prosperity — of
mental anguish — anguish — anguish," he
repeated, in a low and monotonous voice
that sounded like a death wail ; "angtnsh
— more than that — years of feelings that
have rendered this bosom," and he struck
it with his clenched hand, *' a living, an
eternal hell !"

What could I say, Cleveland ? Had you
seen him at that moment, as T did, you
would have forgotten the injuries he
heaped upon your friend, in witnessing
the misery he endured. You could not
have looked upon, and not have pitied
him.

*' Tell me," he continued, reading,
doubtless, the softened expression of my
countenance, for you must remember how
fatally skilled he was in every movement
of the human face, as well as in every
winding of the human heart — " tell me
where tliey have buried her ?" Little as
I had anticipated such a question, I felt
it was one that he ought to ask, and,
without faltering, replied : —

" A small black marble urn, supported
on a slight pedestal, in the south corner
of Old Windsor church-yard, marks the
spot ; it is near the vault of her ances-
tors."

" Who," he inquired, " who raised the
tablet ?"

" I did." He gazed, Cleveland, as if
into my very soul, and then muttered in
an under tone, " Black, why made you it
of black marble ? She was pure as God's
own light ; r ought to know it best, and
/say it; and why did they exclude her
from the vault ? — was her flesh less fair
than theirs r" After one of those dis-
tressing pauses, which come when the
mind is too full for utterance, he con-
tinued : — *' Leyden, you are not changed
as I expected ; your brow is smoother
than n)ine, though you are an older man,
and there is a look of peace — inivard
peace — about you. Strange that, after
an absence of twenty years, you were the
first of my old acquaintances to meet me
— you, whom I would have most av^oided,
and yet most wished to see: — there is
only one other "

*' There is no other," T interrupted ;
" her father died broken-hearted within
a year after her fatal act was known."

Cleveland, I cannot describe to you
the shudder that passed through Iiis frame
as I uttered these words ; it was a posi-
tive convulsion, and, sensible of the hide-
ous effect it produced, he covered his face
with his hands, while his limbs quivered
as if in mortal agony ; when the paroxysm
had subsided, I collected mj'self sufficiently
to say, that having communicated the in-
formation he seemed anxious to obtain I
would now leave him, sincerely hoping
that he might experience a return of the
tranquillity he had lost. He raised his
eyes to mine, and though they instantly
sank to the earth, in that one look there
was more of despair, more of hopelessness,
than I ever beheld conveyed by human
expression ; there is something like it in
a fine picture I once saw, but cannot re-
member where, that presented with fear-
ful reality the betrayer of his Saviour
flinging back to its purchasers the price
of his master's blood.

He then rang the bell, and with forced
composure inquired my address ; 1 pre-
sented my card, and he bowed with some-
what of his once courtly air, as the servant
conducted me to the door.

During the remainder of the day, Lon-
don was to me as a peopled solitude ; and
1 longed to escape from the multitude that
pressed me on every siile. I was out of
tune with all thing-s, and night itself

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

35

brought no repose. A few days after-
wards, I resolved upon a strange expe-
dient, suggested, doubtless, by a secret

wish to aj>certain if B had visited

poor Cicely's grave. I resolved to go to
Old \Mndsor, to look upon her mourning
tomb, and see if the clematis and flowers
I had planted with my own hands, were
flourishing there still.

Full of these feelings, I took my way
in solitude and silence to the church-yard,
so retired, and, as I have sometimes
thought, so picturesque. 1 stood for a
moment by tlie little white turnstile, look-
ing down that solemn avenue of stately
trees, the Thames gliding

" At its owo sweet will,"

a broad and polished mirror, reflecting
every passing cloud, and numbering the
stars as they betokened (he coming night.
All was deeply, beautifully still ; for the
occasional shout of noisy children, brought
upon the breeze from the sweet village of
Datchet, accompanied, at intervals, by
the deep bark or querulous yelping of
the household dogs, rendered more intense
the silence that succeeded. It was an
hour and a place fitted for deep medita-
tion— for self-examination ; and (dare I
confess it, even to you ?) for communion
with the invisible spirits that draw nearer
to our world, when the bustle and busi-
ness of life yield to that repose which the
soul delights in. I lingered where I had
first stayed, until the beams of the early
moon silvered the clustering ivy th.at
climbs the church-yard wall : this partial
light, while it deepened the darkness of
the avenue, warned me that the night was
come. A single beam, like a thread of
silver, rested on the urn when I knelt
upon her grave. I could hardly distin-
guish the flowers from the grass ; but all
was soft and green ; and I confess that it
afforded me a melancholy pleasure to think
that no rank weeds violated the little

mound which But I weary my friend

with the recital of feelings, that, if the
world knew, they would scoff" at, in a man
whose hair is grey.

I thought I heard an approaching foot-
step ; the little ray vanished; and, look-
ing up, I beheld B himself, restmg

against the monument, while his eyes
were fixed upon me with an expression I
cannot attempt to describe. I started
from the grave; but he seized my hand
with a strong grasp, and, throwing him-

self upon the spot I had just quitted,
almost dragged me to the earth.

** The time is fitting — the place is
fitting," he murnnu-ed ; " bear with me
for a little, and you shall know all — more,
aye, much more than you anticipate."

After the first or second sentence, his
manner was calm and collected ; but then,
his mind was so evidently wound up for
the exertion, that a fearful re-action might
well have been looked for.

'* Strange I should meet you here,
Leyden ; but there is a fate in all things,
and a cruel one has been mine ! 'I'here
are those, T know, who disbelieve this ;
but you shall hear. I need not ask if
you remember ]iei\ or the anxiety with
which I strove to win affections that, at
the very time, were comparatively worth-
less in my eyes. You seem astonished ;
but so it was. I was not half as eager to
possess lier, as I was to rival you. You
had boasted of your security; you had
openly defied me ; you had baflSe'd me, in
more ways than one ; you had preserved
your temper, your equanimity, in all our
differences. In all essential things you
were more than my superior; but the
peculiar tact that can call forth all the
fascinating littlenesses of every-day exist-
ence, and mould them to the best ad-
vantage, was fatally awarded to me. To
mortify you, and show forth my own
power as best I might, I resolved to try
my success with the innocent Cicely.
At first, I trifled in mere, but wicked
wantonness, as I had done with others ;
but gradually I felt her acquiring a power-
ful ascendancy. Her inncjcence, her pu-
rity, her full and perfect simplicity, and
the celestial character of her beauty, which
gained instead of losing by more Ultimate
acquaintance, overpowered me. 1 might
well be compared to a second Satan,
tempting a second Eve, who dwelt in the
paradise of pure and holy imaginings.
For a length of time the untaught girl of
eighteen baffled the practised libertine of
five-and- twenty. But, in the end, a secret
marriage, as I called it, gratified my pas-
sion, and gave me nothing more to woo
for. The rifled flower withered at my
touch. Cicely was too holy, too refined,
to enchain a wandering profligate. Fler
silent but visible virtues rose up in judg-
ment against me. Fresh beauties led
captive a heart laden with divers lusts ;
and the being that, but a httle month

36

TAIF.S OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

before, I bad slrained to my throbbing
bosom, as if to make it ber everla.sting
resting-place, I now loathed — Yes, Ley-
den, loathed as if she bad been a poisonous
serpent ! Her voice — Leyden, you re-
member her voice — its very tones gave
me positive pain ; her small white band,
Viben resting on my bosom, felt Ijeavy
and cold as lead ; and all those little
offices of kindness, wiiicb woman only
can bestow, became absolutely disgusting
to me. When, with blushes and many
tears, she told me that she must, in time,
become a mother, and begged me, for
my infant's sake, to confess our mar-
riage, I thrust her from me so rudely,
that she fell even at my feet 1 When
again we met, she did not curse, but
blessed me ! I urged my uncle to pro-
cure for me the situation in India [ liad
once ofFendecl him by refusing to accept.
He seemed pleased, as he expressed it,
* at my recovering my senses ;' and, much
sooner than I anticipated, I was informed
that my departure was immediately re-
quired.' I wrote to Cicely, whom, under
various pretexts, 1 had declined to see
from time to time, and whom I now
sought most particularly to avoid ; for,
as I said to one of my companions in
iniquity, * I hated scenes.' I enclosed
ber a sum of money, scathed with the
intelligence that she was not my wife ;
but (wretcb that 1 was !) containing the
cold assurance of my friendship and good
wishes. This I sent from ship-board,
where we were under sailing orders,
waiting only for a fair wind. While 1
was lounging the next evening on deck,
and longing for the moment when the
sails should till, and we should go rejoicing
over the clear blue waves, a note was pre-
sented to me from Cicely, returning my
money, containing no word of reproach,
but adjuring me in the most solemn
manner, to meet her for five minutes, for
the last time. The simple appeal con-
cluded by naming a little creek, where,
she said, she waited for me. My spirit
revolted at seeing that the note was
signed « C. B: I felt irritated that she
should presume to use a name to which I
had said she was unentitled. You can-
not conceive how that small circumstance
rankled in my bosom. 1 liad caroused,
more than usual, with my shipmates — my
brain was fe\ered and confused — my re-
solves bewildered and changing. From

the deck I could discern the trysting- place,
and distinguish the fluttering of a white
robe. I determined, at last, not to shrink
from a meeting with a uoniaUy and asked
the captain if he would lend me a boat,
adding, with a bravo's lone, and a bravo's
feeling, that an afl'air of gallantry called
me on shore for about an hour. As I
rowed towards the creek, the spire of
Milton church stood coldly, and I thought
reproachfully, out against the sky — there
was nothing else which indicated tlie
proximity of human habitation ; for the
little town of Gravesend, then only a
straggling village, was concealed by a
sudden winding of the river. Amid this
solitude the fiend was busy with me,
and whispered devilish suggestions in my
ear. Cicely seemed resolved to retain
my name. I felt that she would be an
everlasting barrier to my advancement,
as I called it ; and the affair, if bruited
abroad, was almost too serious to receive
the applause even of my gayest friends.
J believe I was coward enough to dread
the resentment of ber grey-headed father.
I trembled at my own imaginings, and
passed my hand across my burning brow,
as if to dissipate ideas, which, congre-
gating there, became too strong for my
enfeebled brain. My boat touched the
strand, and Cicely sprang upon my
bosom. God ! how I hated her, even
\i hen her arms were clasped, with all the
intensity of woman's love, around my
neck ! when, unmindful of the injuries I
had heaped upon her innocent head, she
covered my hand with kisses, not to de-
sert her — not to leave her to shame and
misery — to the scorn of the scorner — to
the bitterness of self-reproach. Her long
dark hair clustered over her figure, and
her soft eyes were turned upon me — as
the dove turns, in its agony, its last gaze
upon the vulture that destroys its most
sweet life — yet, in that hour, Leyden, I
hated with a deadly hatred "

As he pronounced (be last words, jny
blood run cold. I could neither speak
nor move — every power of vitality was
paralyzed ; and, v\ hen he recommenced,
I listened with swollen veins and straining
eye balls : — •

" 1 am sure she read my purpose ; for
she implored that, for the sake of the un-
born, I would spare her lite. I flung her
from n)e with violence ; she shuddered ;
and, exhausted by exertion, fainted at my

PKRILS BY FLOOD AND FULD.

37

feet. I grazed upon her pale and beau-
tiful features, vAliich grief had touched, '
but not destroyed. * Why,' whispered \
the ready demon that dwells within the |
bosom of the wicked, and impels him to I
destruction — ' why should she awaken to j
the shame and disgrace that must await
her ? Why should she awaken to mar
your fortunes ? What is death but ever-
lasting sleep ?' Leyden, I raised her in
my arms, and, turning away my head,
consigned her to the everlasting w aters !

0 God ! O God 1 that this had been all —
that she had departed without the know-
ledge which, for a brief moment, she ac-
quired. The sudden plunge revived her
paralyzed senses; and, with a wild and
fearful shriek, she sprank upwards. She
would have grasped the boat, but I — I — "

Cleveland, the blood rushed, foaming
and boiling through my brain. I was no
longer master of myself. Cicely's mur-
derer was there — there before me — her
acknowledged mm-derer. His vile sen-
tence remained unfinished — for my grasp
was on his throat, and the wretched
being, twisting like a reptile among the
tombs, was at my mercy. Suddenly I
remembered that your friend was but
anticipating the hangman's office; and,
letting loose my hands, and throwing
myself upon the long grass, which con-
tained her mouldering tomb, I found re-
lief in a violent burst of tears. One
weight, one dreadful weight, was removed
from my mind — She had not the horrid
guilt of self-destruction on her soul : for
that I fervently blessed the Almighty.
And, when I turned and beheld thecrea-
ture " who was clothed in purple and fine
linen, and fared sumptuously every day,"
crawling amid the receptacles of the tran-
quil dead, imable to arise, like a man, and
stand erect before his Maker, but trem-
bling with fear and sin, even in that hal-
lowed solitude, I felt ashamed that I had
degraded myself by yielding to the mo-
mentary impulse of re\enge.

" I deserved it, Leyden," he exclaimed,
in a low and broken tone ; " but justice
shall not be deprived of her prey. 1 came
to England with the intention of deliver-
ing myself as a murderer to the offended
laws of my country : for I could no longer
support the load of misery that each year
brings more heavily upon my soul. God
of mercy ! have 1 not been punished ?

1 seem to have lived an eternitv of re-

morse. Each night I see her at my bed-
side, with out-stretched arms, and the
same sad and unreproachful face as vihen
she sank into the pitiless waters. How
could / reply to her father's letter ? For
year^I wrestled with my feelings; 1 tried
to believe there w as no God ; 1 drank the
richest, the most intoxicating wines — they
blistered in my throat. The jest and the
song were as funeral music in mine ears.
The young and the beautiful would have
been mine — mine only ; but I could not
bring the earthly to meet the spirit bride.
Honours poured upon me ; gold cursed
me, w ith its yehow and pestilential abund-
ance. I was called brave — brave at the
very moment when I felt that I only
rushed into the battle, courting death to
be released from misery. Cicely is never
absent from me by day or night. It is
there now — now" — and he pointed his
finger upward as he spoke, " there — pure,
transparent, so transparent that 1 can
count the stars through its shadowy form ;
and yet, with that ever before me, the
world call me fortunate. Fortunate! ay,
as hell's own devils !"

Loud and terrific laughter succeeded
this horrid summary; and, at the same
instant, the bright moon discovered fea-
tures riven, as it were, by madness.

I conducted him to the inn, where his
valet assured me that his master was sub-
ject to such insane tits. " He says strange
things, sir," said the old man in a com-
passionate tone, " but the wildness soon
passes." 1 must hasten to conclude. The
wretched man was dying. I will not
harrow up your feelings by a detail of his
last agonies : they are over. Oh ! it was
awful to hear him iniploring the spirit of
the departed Cicely to stand away from
between him and heaven !

TOM CRINGLES DESCRIPTION OF THE
CAPTURE OF A MERCHANTMAN.

On this evening (we had by this time
progressed into the trades, and were within
three hundred miles of Barbadoes) the
sun had set bright and clear, after a most
beautiful day, and we were bowling along
right before it, rolling like the very devil ;
but there was no moon, and although the
stars sparkled brihiantly, yet it was dark,
and we were the sternmost of the men-
of-war, we had the task of whipping in the
sluggards. It was my watch on deck.

38

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

A gun from the commodore, who showed
a number of htrh(s. " Who is that, Mr,
Kennedy ?" said the captain to tiie old
gunner. " The commodore has made
the night signal for the stern-niost ships
to make more sail and close, sir." We
repeated the signal — and stood on hail-
ing tiie dullest of the merchantmen in our
neighbourhood to make more sail, and
firing a musket-shot now and then over
the more distant of them. By-and-bye
we saw a large West Indiaman suddenly
haul her wind, and stand across our bows.

" Forward there," simg out Mr. Splin-
ter, " stand by to fire a shot at that fellow
from the boat-gun, if he does not bear up.
What can he be after ? Sergeant Arm-
strong," to a marine, who was standing
close by him, in the waist; " get a muskei,
and fire over him." It was done, and the
ship immediately bore up on her course
again ; we now ranged along side of him
on his larboard quarter.

"Ho, the ship, a hoy!" "Hillo!"
was the reply. " Make more sail, sir,
and run into the body of the fleet, or I
shall fire into you; why don't you, sir,
keep in the wake of the commodore ?"
No answer.

"•What meant you by hauling your
wind just now, sir ?"

" Yesh, yesh," at length responded a
voice from the merchantman.

" Something wrong here," said Mr.
Splinter. " Back your maintopsail, sir,
and hoist a light at the peak ; I shall
send a boat on board of you. Boatswain's
mate, pipe away the crew of the jolly
boat." We also backed our main topsail,
and were in the act of lowering down the
boat, when the officer rattled out, " Keep
all fast with the boat ; I can't comprehend
the chap's manoeuvres for the soul of me.
He has not hove-to." Once more we
were within pistol-shot of him. " Why
don't you heave-to, sir ?" All silent.

Presently we could perceive a confu-
sion and noise of struggling on board,
and angry voices, as if people w^ere try-
ing to force their way up the hatchways
from below ; and a heavy thumping on
the deck, and a creaking of the blocks,
and rattling of the cordage, while the
mainyard was first braced one way, and
then another, as if tv\o parties were
striving for the mastery. At length a
voice hailed distinctly. " We are cap-
tured by a /' A sudden sharp cry,

and a splash overboard, told of some fear-
ful deed.

" We are taken by a privateer, or
pirate," sung out another voice. This
was followed by a heavy crunching blow,
as when the spike of a butciier's axe is
driven through a bullock's forehead deep
into the brain.

By this the captain was on deck, all
hands had been called, and the word had
been passed to clear away two of the
foremost carronades on the starboard side,
and to load them with grape.

*' On board there — get below, all you
of the Englisli crew, as I shall fire with
grape."

The hint was now taken. The ship
at length came to the wind — we rounded
to, under her lee — and an armed boat,
with Mr. Treenail, and myself, and six-
teen men, wiili cutlasses, were sent on
board.

We jumped on deck, and at the gang-
way Mr. Treenail stumbled, and fell
over the dead body of a man, no doubt
the one who had hailed last, with his
scull cloven to the eyes, and a broken
cutlass blade sticking in the gash. We
were immediately accosted by the mate,
who was lashed down to a ringbolt close
by the bits, with his hands tied at the
wrists by sharp cords, so tightly, that the
blood was spouting from beneath his nails.

" We have been surprised by a pri-
vateer schooner, sir ; the lieutenant of
her, and twelve men, are now in the
cabin."

'* Where are the rest of the crew ?"

" All secured in the forecastle, except
the second mate and boatswain, the men
who hailed you just now; the last was
knocked on the head, and the former was
stabbed and thrown overboard."

We immediately released the men,
eighteen in number, and armed them
with boarding pikes. " \Miat vessel is
that astern of us ?" said Treenail to the
mate. Before he could answer, a shot
from the brig fired at the privateer, showed
she was broad awake. Next moment
captain Deadeye hailed. " Have you
m.astered the prize crew, Mr. Treenail ?"
" Aye, aA-e, sir," " Then keep your
course, and keep two lights hoisted at
your mizen peak during the night, and
blue Peter at the maintopsail yardarm ;
vvlien the day breaks, 1 shall haul my wind
after the sus[)icious sail in your wake."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

39

Anotlier shot, and anotlier, from the
brig-. By this time the lieutenant liad
descended to the cabin, followed by his
people, while the merchant crew once
more took charge of the ship, crowding
sail into the bcdy of the fleet.

1 followed him close, pistol and cutlass
in hand, and I shall never forget the
scene that presented itself when I entered.
The cabin was that of a vessel of five
hundred tons, elegantly fitted up ; the
panels were filled with crimson clolh and
gold mouldings, with superb damask
hangings before the stern windows and
the side berths, and brilliantly lighted up
by two large swinging lamps hung from
the deck above, which were refjt^cted
from, and multiplied in, several plate-
glass mirrors in the panels. In the re-
cess, which in cold weather had , been
occupied by a stove, now stood a splen-
did cabinet piano, the silk corresponding
with tlie crimson cloth of the panels; it
was open, a Leghorn bonnet with a green
veil, a parasol, and two long white gloves,
as if recently pulled off, lay on it, with the
very mould of the hands in them.

The rudder case was particularly beau-
tiful : it was a richly carved and gilded
palm-tree, the stem painted white, and
interlaced with golden fret-work, like the
lozenges of a pine-apple, with the leaves
spread up and abroad on the roof.

The table was laid for supper, with
cold meat, and wine, and a profusion of
silver things, all sparkling brightly ; but
it was in great disorder, wine spilt, and
glasses broken, and dishes with meat up-
set, and knives, and forks, and spoons,
scattered all about. She was evidently
one of those London West Indiamen, on
board of which I knew there w-as much
splendour and great comfort. But, alas !
the hand of lawless violence had been
there. The captain lay across the table,
with his head hanging over the side of it
next to us, and unable to help himself,
with his hands tied behind his back, and
a gag in his mouth ; his face purple from
the blood running to his head, and the
white of his eyes turned up, while his
loud stentorious breathing but too clearly
indicated the rupture of a vessel on the
brain.

He was a stout portly man, and al-
though we released him on the instant,
and had him bled, and threw water on
his face, and did all we could for him, he

never spoke afterwards, and died in half
an hour.

Four gentlemanly-looking men were
sitting at table, lashed to their chairs,
pale and trembling, while six of the most
ruffian-looking scoundrels I ever beheld,
stood on the opposite side of the table in
a row fronting us, with the light fiom the
lamps shining full on them. Three of
them were small, but very square mulat-
toes ; one was a South American Indian,
with the square high-boned visage, and
long, lank, black glossy hair of his cast.
These four had no clothing besides tlu-ir
trousers, and stood with their arms folded,
in all the calmness of desperate men,
caught in the very fact of some horrible
atrocity, whicli they knew shut out all
hope of mercy. The two others were
white Frenchmen, tall, bushy-whiskered,
sallow desperadoes, but still, wonderful to
relate, with, if I may so speak, the man-
ners of gentlemen. One of them squinted,
and had a hair-lip, which gave him a hor-
rible expression. They were dressed in
white trousers and shirts, yellow silk
sashes round their waists, and a sort of
blue uniform jackets, blue Gascon caps,
with the peaks, from each of which de-
pended a large bullion tassel, hanging
down on one side of their heads. The
whole party had apparently made up their
minds that resistance was vain, for their
pistols and cutlasses, some of them
bloody, had all been laid on the table,
with the huts and handles towards us,
contrasting horribly with the glittering
equipage of steel, and crystal, and silver
things, on the snow-white damask table-
cloth. They were immediately seized,
and ironed, to which they submitted in
silence. We next released the passen-
gers, and were overpowered with thanks,
one dancing, one crying, one laughing,
and another praying. But, merciful
heaven ! what an object met our eyes !
Drawing aside the curtain that concealed
a sofa, fitted into a recess, there lay, more
dead than alive, a tall and most beautiful
girl, her head resting on her left arm,
her clotlies dishevelled and torn, blood in
her bosom, and foam on her mouth, with
her long dark hair loose and dishevelled,
and covering the upper part of her deadly
pale face, through which her wild spark-
hng black eyes, protruding from their
sockets, glanced and glared with the fire
of a maniac's, while her blue lips kept

40

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

gibbering an incoberent prayer one mo-
ment, and (be next imploring mercy, as
if slie bad still been in tlie bands of tbose
wbo knew not tbe name ; and anon, a low
hysterical laugb made onr very blood
freeze in our bosoms, wbicb soon ended
in a long dismal \ell, as slie rolled off (be
concb upon tbe bard deck, and lay in a
dead faint.

Alas tbe day ! a maniac she was from
that bour. Sbe was tbe only daugbter of
tbe murdered master of tbe sbip, and
never awoke in ber unclouded reason, to
tbe fearful consciousness of ber own dis-
honour and ber parent's death.

" Tom," said Bang, " that is a melan-
choly affair, I can't read any more of it.
What followed ? Tell us."

** Why the Torch captured the schooner,
sir, and we left tbe privateer's men at
Barbadoes, to meet their reward, and seve-
ral of the merchant sailors were turned
over to the guardship, to prove the facts
in the first instance, and to serve his ma-
jesty as impressed men in the second.'*

CAPTURE OP TRINIDAD.

When the British soldiers landed, they
broke open tbe boiling-house and distil-
lery, and made grog in a most original
manner, and on a very extensive scale.
'J'hey rolled out three hogsheads of sugar
and seven puncheons of rum, which they
emptied into a well of water, and drew up
the mixture in bucketfuls and drank it.
This singular mode of making grog was
introduced by the regiment under t lie com-
mand of colonel Picton — the immortal
Picton of Waterloo. During bis govern-
ment, he endeavoured to make the colo-
nial department reimburse the proprietor
of the plantation for tbe damage sustained
on (be landing of his regiment; this be
was not able to accon plisli. Sir Thomas
Picton was one of the most able governors
this island ever had. His way of treating
debtors that bad the means, but wanted
the will to pay, was original ; instead of
undergoing the heavy delay of a Spanish
law process, creditors were in the habit of
going to governor Picton. He would
summon the debtor before him, and ask
liim if the plaintiff's claim was just. If
tbe defendant answered in the aflirmative,
Picton rejoined, " Pay him, sir, imme-
diately." Perhaps tbe defendant would
remark that he had not the money at the
moment. *• When will you have it, sir ?"

" This day week." Here the governor
would say, addressin^^ the plaintiff, " Here
is your money," at the same time paying
him himself; and then, turning to tbe
defendant, he would add, ** Take care,
sir, that you produce tbe money within
ten days." This was enough, for lew
men would venture to trifle with (lie go-
vernor. He had the art of making him-
self loved and respected by the honest
members of the community, and feared
by the worthless.

COLONEL ASTON.

This gentleman, in 17^^, while absent
from his regiment, having been informed
of a quarrel between a lieutenant and
majors Picton and Allan, he declared, in
a private letter, that he considered the
two latter had acted towards the lieute-
nant with illiberality. This having come
to the ears of tbe majors, theydemanded
a court-martial, which was refused, and
the colonel himself was called upon for an
explanation. He answered that he could
not be called to account for his public
conduct by the officers of his corps, but
added that he should be ready to give
satisfaction to any one who could allege
any thing against him as a private gentle-
man. He was accordingly challenged by
major Picton, and a meeting followed,
when the major's pistol flashed in the pan,
and colonel Aston fired in the air. The
next day satisfaction was demanded of
him, in offensive language, by major
Allan, with whom he accordingly went
out, and having received his antagonist's
fire without showing signs of being hurt,
the colonel, in an erect posture, and with
the utmost composure, levelled his pistol,
to show that he had the power to dis-
charge it, and, then laying it across his
breast, said, " He was shot through the
body ; he believed the wound was mortal ;
and he therefore declined to fire, for it
should not be said of him that the last act
of his life was an act of revenge." He
languished for a week, in excessive pain,
which he bore without a murmur, and died
deeply regretted by all who knew him.

A NEW METHOD OF MAKING AN OFFER.

♦* Really," said a lady, " Mr. Von
Wheeler, you and your umbrella seem to
be perfectly inseparable." " We are ;
will you allow me to present you with
my umbrella ?"

PKRILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

41

Page 47.

THE E INI I S S A R Y.

A TALE OF THE KEIGN OF ELIZABETH.

Most of our readers, sa7is doubt, have
beard of the remains of a certain old inn
which might be seen at Ishngton some
twelve months back, y'clep'd the Queen's
Head. It was a low house of singular
architecture, apparently in the style of
the Elizabethian period — perhaps, for we
do not profess to be positive judges in
such cases, even of a later date. Lately,
however, it has been pulled down, and a
more modern edifice erected in its stead.
It is said that Elizabeth had honoured
this hostel with her presence on more oc-
casions than one, in company with a few
noble knights and ladies, condescending
freely to compliment mine host on the
good entertainment he offered both for
man and beast, and on the truth of the
assertion, that Aw wine "needed no bush."
Whether this account be " quite correct"
or not, we must leave to the scrutinizing
antiquarian and others interested in the
research, and proceed at once to the sub-
ject-matter of our tale.

It was on a cold frosty evening in the

VOL. II. — 6.

month of January, (59 — , that a party of
stragglers were seated around a blazing
fire in the tap-room of this inn. They
appeared to be, from their dress, artizaris
or shopkeepers of a middling order, deter-
mined to forget for a few short hours the
cares of business, and enjoy a drop and a
sup with their well-known " bully host."
One of the party, " a man of melancholy
mien," whose large cloak, apparently a
powerful protector against the roughest
winds and keenest snow, hung on ? })eg
close by, seemed in no very congenial
mood. He had withdrawn himself rather
apart, so as not to be too far from the in-
fluence of the cheering flame, and yet at
a respectable distance from the rest. His
liquor was placed on the table before him,
and appeared not to have been so well
plied as that of some of the others. With
his head restmgon his hand, beseemed
sunk in thought, save at intervals, when
his keen eye was anxiously fixed on the
door, or uneasily glanced over the small
latticed window of the apartment.

" Our old friend," half whispered an old
shrivelled looking being, " seems in an
unpleasant disposition j now, well, I

42

TALES OF CHIVALRY 1 OR,

warrant me that trade hath been bad with
him of late — losses have attended his busi-
ness; and who knows," added he, in a
still softer tone, ** but bankruptcy may
stare him in the face. Ah me! ah me!
how fortune declines ! I remember me
now, that when I was young profits were
good, and money ready j but out upon
the new-fangled methods of shopkeeping,
they leave no man the chance of earning
an honest penny with success — sad change.

sad chan

ge

Peace, old croaker 1" said a bold and
goodly favoured youth — "wilt never cease
bewailing the march of improvement ? —
Away ! I'd bet my bran new Sunday
doublet against thy every day hose, that
the stranger feels the smart inflicted by a
fair damsel's black eye. Prythee, friend,
draw thy stool nearer to us, and honestly
confess thou art in love."

The person thus addressed roused him-
self from his apathy.

" My friends," said he, "heed not my
listlessness, fancy me unwell, or — any-
thing— but tire me no more with heed-
less questions. Believe me, I am in no
mood to crack jokes with the young, or
lament over past ages with the old."

" Well, well," rejoined the other —
" each man here has a right to enjoy him-
self as it best suits him ; so we leave thee
to thine own communings, and be they
black or white, gloomy or delightful, it
signifieth nought to us. Come, friends,
fill your cups, and like * good men and
true,' drink with me to the health of Eli-
zabeth, queen of England."

This spirit-stirring toast was cordially
received, and drunk with much avidity.

" Aye," said the old shopkeeper, ** God
bless old queen Bess, and may she "

" Marry, friend," interrupted another,
" if report belies not, she would be little
pleased with thy homely truth. Elizabeth
hath been too long used to court flattery,
easily to digest such a sentence as that.
Old queen Bess ! why, she esteems her-
selfyouthful, and tender as Hebe. Did'st
thou not hear with what pleasure she re-
ceived the fawning address of those oily
foreigners the ambassadors, but last Tues-
day se'night ?"

" Silence thy irreverent tongue, mas-
ter Winlove," exclaimed a fat, burly-
looking man, assuming a frown of import-
ance, "nor blaspheme our lady sovereign's
name by such indecorous assertions. To

my plain understanding, the thing that
most approaches folly in the mind of her
sacred majesty (Heaven bless her chaste
name), is the complacency wherewith
she doth look upon those idle places called
playhouses, and the smiles with which she
greeteth the productions of that vain
scribbler. Will Shakspeare."

"Vain scribbler! in thy teeth, thou
paltry and envious calumniator," cried the
youth, animated with ardent zeal for the
honour of theShakspearean muse — " I tell
thee, master Wilford, that poet's works
shall live for ages after thou hast passed
the doom of rottenness. Thy musty folio
shall fall to pieces through sheer neglect,
whilst Shakspeare's fame shall bloom in
unchanging freshness through each suc-
cessive age. Scribbler, forsooth ! Now
fie upon thee for a puritanical churl."

What more might liave passed between
the two disputants it is impossible to say,
for just as the old man's face was colour-
ing up with indignant wrath, a loud knock-
ing was heard at the door of the house
(which the careful host always closed at
dusk), that at once startled the company,
and a large dog that was lying composedly
at the feet of one of them.

" How now," cried the host, approach-
ing the portal, " what person, at this
staid hour, thus rudely disturbs our
quiet ?"

" Open, varlet, open directly, or the
safety of thy door shall not be secured
another moment — Open, I say."

The warning was not in vain — the door
was opened, and in rushed a figure that
caused no little surprise to our merry-
makers. This was a man, apparently
young, and of extremely handsome ap.
pearance. His beard was ti-immed after
the most approved fashion of that day,
but in every other respect (save, indeed, a
light rapier which hung by his side) his
apparel and demeanour were those of a
plain artisan. A large cloak enveloped
his body, and nearly covered the form of
an almost senseless female he bore on
one arm. He cast a hurried glance around
him.

" How now, mine host," cried he,
" hast no other room wherein to bestow
a timid damsel and her friend, but amongst
a set of noisy roysterers. Aroint thee,
knave ! be quicker in thy movements,
and disclose the best room in tliy domicile
without more gaping, or, by St. George,

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

43

force more tlian tliy back will like to bear
shall be bestowed on thee in lieu of reckon-
ing."

" Verily, mostuncourteous sir," rejoined
the offended host, assuming a dignified
air, " thou talkest somewhat largely ;
hast not learnt the wholesome doctrine,
that a man's house is his castle ? Never,
while I have an arm to raise in my own
defence, shall the inn which Elizabeth
herself (Heaven bless her majesty!) hath
honoured with her most noble presence,
be made a refuge for a trifling youth and
his loose leman. — Nay, then," added he,
as the other lifted a menacing arm,
** gentlemen," (turning to the gaping
company), " if ye be men, assist an honest
innkeeper in the defence of his lawful
rights."

On the word, up started some three or
four of the most stalwart guests, and
ranged themselves on mine host's side.
A slight change passed over the counten-
ance of the assailant; he bit his nether
lip angrily, then drawing forth an appa-
rently well lined purse, he threw it towards
the offended host.

" Pardon me," he added quickly, "I
am to blame, friend — prithee obey my
command, and that speedily ; irritate me
by no farther dela^' — the damsel lacketh
assistance, and be assured none purer
than her in heart and deed ever crossed
thy threshold. Come, haste thee, man."

No mollifying ointment, bestowed by
the most skilful leech, ever assuaged the
wound of a disabled man with greater
celerity than did the chink of the purse
calm the mortified vanity of the inn-
keeper.

" Nay, now, indeed," said he, " thou
speakestlike a noble and generous youth,
and I will forthwith present unto your
worship's notice the best and neatest apart-
ment in Christendom. Verily, friends,"
turning to his coadjutors, " you may reseat
yourselves — the gentleman is an honest
gentleman, and "

" No more words," said the party al-
luded to, " but the room, good sir, the
room."

The other bowed and led the way up
the well-worn staircase with alacrity.

" Now fie upon these inconsiderate and
dissipated town youths!" said the old shop-
keeper, as the sound of receding foot-
steps gradually died away, " for that he
is a town-bred youth, I will wager my

yearly profits, by his bold assurance and
impudent swagger. I'll warrant me he
hath ruined the soul and body of that de-
luded damsel for ever and a day, by his
wicked artifices."

"Peace, thou grumbler," said the youth;
" more likely he hadi rescued her from
the fang of some luxurious veteran in sin,
who, though worn down with age, hath
still a longing for more youthful joys ;
or, perhaps, she flies from some stern
guardian, who, like thee, would fain
better her will, and force her to renounce
her first and truest love. I'd swear she's
pure — that lovely face betrayed no signs of
guilt, or ''

** Did'st see her features, then ?" asked
the gloomy stranger we before mentioned,
with an air of deep curiosity, if not in-
terest.

** Ay, marry, sir, one glance, and that
was all ; for in her companion's fury to-
wards our host, he disarranged the folds
of his mantle, and her face for one mo-
ment was exposed to view. Ay, and a
fairer I have seldom seen ; pale, indeed,
it was, but soft and placid as the sculp-
tures of a Pliidias."

" Indeed !" rejoined the other, and the
conversation for a time dropped.

The host shortly after returned, and
numberless were the questions proposed,
but to all was the same answer returned.

** Gentlemen, gentlemen, excuse me —
honour bright, you know — mum's the
word. Suffice it, they're an honest pair,
and will do our hostel no discredit. Ay,
and by George, 'tis now (mercy on us!)
ten of the clock, and my staid principles
ye all know, friends ; and the laws every
honest subject is bound to obey ; so pri-
thee, neighbours, retire like peaceable
and worthy gentlemen to your several
homes."

One after another they dropped away ;
the stranger, however, still remained in
his seat ; the admonition of the worthy
landlord was once more repeated to him,
when he roused himself —

" Hark ye, friend," said he, " business
of higher import than thy mind can guess
at, hath brought me hither ; and till my
task be done and my errand accomplished,
no power of thine shall make me budge
an inch."

*' Marry, then, shall the power of the
nearest constable place thee in the
stocks, thou saucy varlet," retorted the

44

TALES OF CHIVALRY: OR,

Other, or my name's not Wynkyn Gos-
port."

" Nay, I defy tliat too — but a truce to
folly ; listen, master Wynkjii — a word
in thine ear, man. When the queen
vouchsafed to honour thy hostelry with
her presence, thou didst remark a certain
ring she wore."

** Ay, marry, did I. Oh, the sparkling
of that ruby brightness — it caused my
very heart to beat at the thought of its
massy worth."

" True, and the slanderous say that thou
did'st — but no matter ; to refer to that
tale now, 'tis sufficient for my purpose
that thou rememberest the ring — now
behold it here again."

Tile host stretched forth his small twink-
ling eyes to their full extent, as witii an
amorous ogling he viewed the sparkling
treasure held by the stranger. *' By this
sign, then, know that my commission
comes from Elizabeth herself; listen to me,
therefore, and obey my words as thou
would'st her's, INay, luok not incredulous,
or refuse my bidding, lest it go hard with
tliee. I, too, have gold to feed thine
avarice, as well as yon fool that has so
lately crossed thy threshold : here, take
this purse, and now surrender to me the
person of the female thou hast just re-
ceived." Gosport looked aghast. "Nay,
stare not, man," resumed the other, " but
comply with my demand — give me a key
(if the door be fastened) of the chamber
where she and her lover are concealed,
and leave me to pursue mine own plans.
— What they may be is no business of
thine — be silent and obey, and thy reward
shall be doubled — trebled, mayhap ; but
if in thy folly thou darest resist, or shall
hereafter tell what thou may'st see or
hear to-night, dread the vengeance of in-
sulted majesty, — it will be swift and
sure."

Gosport, a notorious coward, save when
backed by his friends, hesitated but a short
time ; the threats were alarming ; the
messenger he could not doubt ; and then
his avarice was to be gratified — the re-
ward was noble.

" Far be it from me to doubt the queen's

Eower to revenge, most noble sir," replied
e, *' or mistrust her generosity in re-
warding her most humble servants, among
whom the host of this inn desires ardently
to be enrolled. Here is the key you wish
for ; yet allow me to hope that your de-

signs are not harsh ; the damsel, poor
thing, is but young and gentle as a lamb ;
she has a companion, too, fierce and hot-
headed, who might cause thee some trou-
ble."

** Fear not, I know the risks, and my
designs are nought to thee," rejoined the
other, *' be they dark or generous, it can
concern thee but little — now leave me ;
yet stay, one word, the damsel, from what
you hint, still continues with her pro-
tector," (there was a slight sneer as he
pionounced the latter word,) *'she is not
alone ?"

" No, fair sir, they are both in the same
room, — at least they were so when I left
the chamber some few minutes ago, and
indeed he seemeth to have much ado to
console her ; she soon, indeed, reco-
vered from her insensibility, but only
awoke to passionate grief and upbraid-
ings."

" He must be removed if possible,"
half muttered the other, " and yet how
can a contest be avoided ; I am well
armed, and more than a match for him in
sheer strength — but no, there must be no
scuffle. Is there no means to detach him
from her side ?" There was a slight noise
without. " Hark, Gosport, methinks I
hear the door above gently open — go, see,
and bring me news."

The host left the room. The emissary
paced up and down thoughtfully.

*' So," said he, half aloud, ** so my in-
formation was correct after all. He has
taken this road, and, as good luck will
have it, spared me much trouble and re-
search, by resorting to the same inn that
I myself have used. What imprudence
to bring her to a common hostel ! but
'tis like his rashness. Good luck, too,
did I say ? Alas ! wliat an undertaking
is before me. Rid me of the minion that
dares to alienate the noble Essex from the
duties he owes to the state that employs
him. And does Elizabeth think me so
blind to the real motive of this cruelty.
Thinks she I discern not the burning fever
of jealousy that urges her to such injus-
tice ? Alas ! the state might wait long
enough fur the services of the 7ioble Essex,
were but those services rendered to this
aged maiden queen. Rid me of this
minion — How ? She recks not — cares
not. Who is this girl, too, that so capti-
vates the luxurious earl ? Why am not I
trusted with her name ? young, they say,

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

45

and beautiful. Alack, poor wench ! how
art thou deceived. But if there be strength
in this arm, or wit in this brain, thou
shalt be saved from the snare of this fow-
ler. Thy heart, I trust, is pure, and if
thy betrayer has not succeeded in his
cursed artifices, thou may'styet be happy.
Whoever thou art, it signifieth nought
to me ; thy danger shall be shown thee,
and a path of safety pointed out, if hea-
ven but * prosper all my good intents.'
Hum ! — what saw the queen in my fea-
tures to insult me by such an employ-
ment ? Am I not a belted knight, poor
indeed in this world's pelf, but rich, 1 trust,
in honourable feeling ? Do I then possess
such a rufKan-like exterior ? Ah, Matilda,
thy unkindness hath indeed deprived my
cheek of colour, and imparted gloominess
to my behaviour — but, thank heaven, the
* milk of human kindness' still flows warm
within my heart. Hark ! I hear receding
footsteps — he is leaving her then ; now
let my purpose be swiftly carried into
execution ere he returns ; should a con-
test ensue, noble blood might flow ; or
should I fail, the queen's displeasure might
be fatal to me indeed. How now, mine
host," continued he, turning to Gosport,
who had just re-entered, *' has the gallant
gone ?"

** He -hath, most noble sir," returned
the other, " but not without vowing swift
vengeance on my unlucky head, should I
permit aught of harm to reach the fair '
treasure he hath left behind. He will be I
back anon, therefore, whatever thy good j
pleasure may be, (if thou wilt deign to |
receive the adxice of thy humble servitor) ;
it would be well to carry it into speedy
effect, if thou would'st not be interrupted :
by the presence of the lady's friend."

" Enough, enough, most courteous mas- |
ter Wynkyn, fear not yon gallant's threats ;
of vengeance, thou shalt be protected by !
a mightier power than his, and thy good
services shall not be forgotten by' Eliza- |
beth ; now, show me the apartment — yet \
stay, I will find mine own way thither. |
What thou hast already received is but a '
kind of first fruits of that which thou art
entitled to hereafter, if thou provest faith- '
ful ; but if thou betray'st me, once more I
warn thee, dread the vengeance of one
who remembereth her foes."

*• Fair sir, rely on thy servant — he is
dumb."

In a small but tastily arranged cham-
ber of this inn, sat the fair damsel who
seemed to have given the queen such
unlucky cause of uneasiness. Her ap-
pearance was that of a girl about the
" delightful age of sweet fifteen ;" her
figure (of the middle size) was exceed-
ingly proportioned, and her light auburn
ringlets shaded a face of extreme and
delicate beauty ; she had evidently been
weeping, for the remains of tears, " those
oracles of grief," were ' still wet on her
pale cheek. She cast many and anxious
glances towards the door of her apart-
ment.

*' Why did he leave me," she exclaim-
ed, " methinks, if it were for ever so short
a period, 1 would not be left alone. And
why thus timid now ! Was I not bold
enough to leave my father's home, and for
a mere stranger. Have I not dared to
quit the scenes of infancy, to wander in a
desert track ? Be still, thou peevish heart,
rely on Alfred's truth, for that is now thine
only stay — should that fail me — horror —
horror. Yet there is no retreat, even if I
would. Am I not in his power ; yea,
and my fame — pure as I know it — at the
mercy of his breath ? Away with these
doubts, these foolish fantasies, that strive
to scare my mind ? there is — there can be
no deceit in such a heart as his. Hark !
he comes — O joy !"

The door was cautiously, almost timidly,
opened, and a figure far diflf'erent to that
which she expected, appeared on the thres-
hold— it was that of the emissary. He
cast one hurried glance around, and then
fixed his clear dark eye on the female.
He started back as if struck by an assas-
sin. A deadly paleness passed over his
countenance, and he stood widiout power
to move or speak ; nor was the eflPect less
singular upon the damsel herself. A
flash of " rosy red" overspread her face,
and then suddenly forsook it, leaving it
still paler than before. With one faint
shriek she fell senseless at his feet. The
man hastily recovered himself; with a
trembling hand he wiped away the cold
dews that had gathered on his forehead,
and raised the poor girl from the ground.
" Merciful powers 1" he exclaimed, *' can
it be possible ? is it not all a dream, or
am I mocked by some phantom form that
has assumed the character of her I loved >
Alas ! no — these glossy ringlets gem no
phantom's brow ; that gentle face belongs

46

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

to one alone — one living, lovely image.
It is no dream — no false delusion mocks
my aching sight ; it is too real — too true.
O Matilda ! was it for this thou slighted'st
me, to become the minion of a man like
him— the object of aversion and revenge
to your sovereign. Wretched 1 wretched
girl I"

A few burning tears fell on the face of
Matilda. !She began slowly to recover
some degree of consciousness.

" So you are come at last," murmured
she. "'O Alfred, why have you kept me
thus long alone — alone ; I have had such
visions — such alarms ! methought the form
— ha !" she shrieked, seeing the emissary's
face, and suddenly comprehending her
real situation, she continued, " Is it not a
■vision then ? — no, it is indeed the very
form of him I wronged ! O mercy, Wal-
ter, mercy !

*' Guilty, unfortunate girl ! well may'st
thou cry for mercy, for thou need'st it.
Well may you supplicate protection from
the despised Walter, for he alone can aid
thee now. O Matilda ! could I have
believed this of thee, the slight thou didst
me I could soon have pardoned, but to
see thus lost to all sense of shame or
— but enough, I will not now upbraid
thee with thy sin ; time flies apace ; if
thou dost value thy life, (I dare not say
thine honour) arise, exert thy strength,
and follow me. Quick, lady — nay, never
frown ; I tell thee, if thou would'st have
safety, another moment must not be
passed in this spot, — thou must fly this
neighbourhood, and with me."

A flush passed over the damsel's face.
" Walter," cried she, *' whatever thoughts
thy mind may raise concerning my rash-
ness, never let them dare to imagine aught
against my honour. Is it manly in you,
sir — you, too, a rejected lover — to insinu-
ate such baseness as your tongue has just
uttered, to insult an unprotected, helpless
female, w hom once you vowed you loved ?"

" Once loved ! by heaven, Matilda !
thou knowest not how much my heart was
bound to thine. Once loved ! even now
methicks I love thee well nigh as wildly
as in those days of thy purity and truth,
when "

** Again, Walter, again those words."

" Have I not cause, lady ? why do I
find thee iiere, — away from thy friends, —
in the chamber of a common inn — in com-
pany with a — a — paramour ?"

" Tis, false unmannered sir, thy heart
can never feel such purity as dwells in
Alfred's bosom — no, nor such holy and dis-
interested love. Hence, if thou fearest
not death, before my lord returns to smite
thee to the earth for such audacity in
wronging him."

" I would rather face death at thy feet,
Matilda, than hear words like those drop
from thy lips again. I tell thee, girl,
thou art deceived — betrayed ; thy boasted
hero — thy virtuous lover, who, to prove
the depth of his disinterested love, hath
borne thee from thy father's roof, and lured
thee from thy friends. This demi-god —
this noble and romantic admirer, is "

** All virtue, honour, truth — as thou art
* all a lie.' "

" Pardon, fair lady, thou hast marred
my phrase. This Alfred is a man of parts
— thou knowest but half his virtues : I
must tell thee all. Know, then, thy lover
is of goodly favour in our sovereign's
court. Many are the fair hands that waft
him gentle salutation from young and
rosy lips, as he passes through * the glit-
tering throng' of gay and joyous compa-
nions— nay, royalty herself vouchsafes a
courtly smile at Alfred's manly grace, and
condescends to grant the favoured youth
full many an honour for services, which,
slander saith, are light. Nay, she is care-
ful of his virtue, too, for when she feareth
lest, tlirough headstrong passions, this
hero's foot should slip and be decoyed
from his duty's path into the service
of the fair, she sendeth one to watch iiis
wandering track, and bear away the cause
that leads to such * accursed effect.' Yet,
strange to say, the name by which his
courtly friends denominate this idol of thy
heart, is somewhat different from thatwhich
sounds so sweetly from thy mouth, — it
is "

"What, Walter — what?" gasped the
female.

" My lord of Essex, lady."

The girl sank back on her seat in a
kind of stupor. Walter looked aghast.

" What have I done ?" cried he, — " Mad-
man that I was to torture her thus rashly.
Alas ! have I murdered her ? — Why looks
she thus fearful ? Matilda, rouse thyself
from this apathy ! Look up and fly with
me ere it be too late. She heeds me not.
What's to be done ? Shall I call Gosport
to my aid ? The meddling trifler would
but hinder us. Shall I bear her off" e'en

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

47

as she is ? — the cold air, perchance, will
quicken her perceptions. Yes, it must be
so — it is the only hope now left me."

He gently raised her in his arms. There
was an outcry suddenly raised below, and
steps seemed rapidly approaching. The
sound reached the maiden. A sense of
danger seemed to inspire her with new
life.

•* Walter ! Walter !" she faintly ut-
tered, " he comes — 'tis Alfred's tread I
hear upon the stairs. Oh, take me from
his sight ! — Indeed, I am as pure, as un-
stained in virtue, as when first thou knew-
est me. I have been deceived, been light
and foolish, yet do not despise me, Walter.
Take me hence — restore me to my father
— to my home."

" Dearest, I will indeed restore thee
to thy home. Thou shalt be snatched
from this betrayer's grasp, and find the
path of happiness once more. At his
life's peril let him advance one foot be-
yond the threshold."

*' Walter" exclaimed the terrified girl,
as she saw the steel flashing in his hand,
*' for mercy's sake, be calm ! — traitor as
he is, spare, oh, spare his life ! For my
sake forbear ! in judgment, O remember
mercy."

She sunk upon the bed, and covered
her face with her trembling hands. The
door, which Walter had fastened on his
entrance, at length yielded to the repeat-
ed blows of the infuriated Essex, and the
two lovers met face to face.

" How now, sir Walter Arden," ex-
claimed the rash earl, " is it thus we
meet again ? What dost thou here ? —
Avaunt, if thy life be worth a thought,
lest I crush thee 'neath my feet as a de-
spised worm." He advanced upon the
other as he spoke."

"Proud lord," cried Arden, "I de-
spise thy words and thee. Depart thou,
whilst i bear back this gentle flower to
bloom in that fair garden from which
thou hast so basely torn her. Nay, sir, I
have warrant for my deeds — in the queen's
name, I warn thee — back."

He displayed, as he spoke, the ring we
have before mentioned. Essex started
and paused for a moment, but it was
only to burn forth with still fiercer rage.

"By whatever means thou did'st ob-
tain that bauble, I know not — care not. It
may be thou didst find the treasure —
borrow it, perhaps. Thou knowest my

meaning, ha ! Take it as ye list. But
even if indeed thou art commissioned by
the queen to dodge my paths, beware the
vengeance of an insulted man. Never
shall it be said that Essex wavered in his
designs through the mandate of ahaughty
woman. I scorn her signet, and refuse
allegiance to her fancies. No longer will
I yield a calm obedience to a foolish
tyrant, who plays such ' fantastic tricks
before high heaven as make the angels
weep.' Depart or die."

He made a furious lounge at sir Wal-
ter as he uttered the last words. The
contest was not of long duration : Arden
was one of the most skilful swordsmen
of the day, and the passionate Essex was
too intemperate to otTer a successful resist-
ance— he was thrown prostrate on the
ground. With the speed of lightning
Walter rushed upon him as he lay breath-
less, and twisting a scarf he wore between
the arms of the prostrate man, he dragged
him towards the bed, and fastened him
firmly to the low post thereof. Then,
raising the half-senseless Matilda in his
arms, rushed from the room, and barring
the door after him, hastened down the
stairs. H is horse he had left ready saddled
in the stable ; to this place he proceeded,
and holding Matilda still more firmly on
one arm, he vaulted in the saddle, and
spurring onwards, in a few minutes was
far from the inn of master W^ynkyn Gos-
port, and fast nearing the residence of
the father of Matilda.

A few explanations are necessary to
make our tale clearer, and we shall then
give a parting bow to our kind readers.

Every one but a downright dunce, who
has been well flogged at school for errors
in his historical reminiscences, knows of
the favourable eye with which Elizabeth
looked upon the young and handsome
earl of Essex. Old as she was, and faded
as were her charms at this period of her
hfe, her vanity made her still lend a
willing ear to the egregious compliments
of her courtiers, and delight in the com-
mon-place euphuism of the day. Essex,
from his fine person and well-stored mind,
had attracted her attention; but rash and
headstrong by nature, he seemed rather
to take delight in mortifying her feelings,
than in seeking her favours. Several of
his gallantries were well known at court,
and gave no small degree of scandal to
the queen. In a soUtary ride he had been

48

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

charmed by the fair form of Matilda Ar-
lington, the daughter of a retired baronet,
who, possessed of ample income and
loving a qniet life, dwelt a few miles
from Islington, apart from the troubles
and turmoils of court. This damsel was
betrothed to sir Walter Arden, a poor but
noble knight, whose necessities obliged
him to be but little better than a mere
hanger-on at court. This, however,
formed no obstacle to his wishes : the old
baronet was pleased with his manly and
disinterested character, and vowed that,
as he had plenty wherewith to line his
daughter's purse, money should form no
obstacle to her happiness, provided the
suitor were of honourable conduct and
noble birth. Matilda's mother had died
in giving birth to her only child, there-
fore nothing hindered sir Walter's being
received as Matilda's future husband.
But a slight quarrel (lovers will snarl at
each other now and then, like other folk)
had taken place between them, and Essex
came into the field just as the mortified
lady dismissed her lover with a frown.
The earl introduced himself as a young
student, one Alfred Welton, of poor birth
and no distinction ; and as this would
necessarily form a bar in the baronet's
eyes, it became a good excuse for his
wishing to meet Matilda in secret. We
have no time to detail the various schemes
he used to induce her to fly with him.
He had indeed ** a tongue could wheedle
like the devil." His artifices succeeded,
as we have shown. On their road an
accident occurred to the earl's horse, which
forced him to take refuge in the very
hostel where the emissary was sitting.

Walter, during this period had wan-
dered about court an altered and gloomy
man. Nor was the queen in a much
more enviable mood. The continued
absence of Kssex annoyed and displeased
her. She w^as not long in discovering
the cause, and determined to avenge her-
self on the being that dared to thwart her
affections. She cast her eyes on sir Wal-
ter Arden. He was summoned to her
presence ; the interview was long, and,
on the sovereign's part, subtle and cau-
tious.

*• The good of the state," she argued,
" required that one of the chief nobles of
the land should not be allowed to waste
his time in idle gallantries, which she
moi-eover, as a chaste queen, despised

and scorned. Example should be made of
her who dared seduce Essex from his duty."

Sir Walter saw her drift, and under-
stood her jealousy. At first he felt indig-
nant at being employed on such an errand,
but on consideration resolved to under-
take the charge of securing *' the person
of the damsel in the name of the queen,"
lest another more callous than himself
might fulfil the commands to the letter,
and fully accomplish her majesty's wishes
to *' be rid of the minion." At all ha-
zards he resolved to save the maiden, and
restore her to her friends. By some se-
cret means Elizabeth possessed a perfect
knowledge of the particulars of the in-
tended elopement. Full instructions were
given him, but the name of the maiden
was not mentioned, and Walter, careless
of the matter, did not make the inquiry.
Every means were put in his power —
money and information aflTorded him, and
he set forth on his commission. What
his plans might have been had he not so
luckily encountered the party, we cannot
say — certain it is, that after having search-
ed anxiously for them according to the
instructions he had received, he returned,
dispirited, to the ' Queen's Head,' hardly
expecting to find them, and attentively
listened for the sound of any horseman
that might pass by. But the result of all
this has been told, and we have now only
to relate the sequel.

Walter and the maiden reached the
baronet's home in safety. The astonish-
ed father's pardon to the offending child
was granted on condition of Arden's re-
acceptance asher suitor. This was readily
conceded to. Her love for Essex had
been more like a dream than reality, and
the discovery of his perfidy had alarmed
and disgusted her, while Walter's honest,
manly conduct, filled her heart with shame
at her neglect of him, and ardent wishes
for his returning love.

The discomfited Essex was soon re-
lieved by Gosport, who, in his terror at
the clash of arms, had hastily run for as-
sistance. The earl's fury passed beyond
bounds : the innkeeper was abused and
cuffed, and the hasty lord, flinging himself
across his horse, rode with all speed from
the place, lest his person might be recog-
nised by any of the half-dressed and
sleepy crowd that, roused from their beas,
thronged to the inn to know the ** matter
of the disturbance."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD,

49

THE BRIGAND OF EBOLI.

It was on a fine afternoon early in
summer, the day of the annual festival of
Santa Maria degli Angioli, that a troop of
peasants, coming in the direction of Sa-
lerno, took the steep mountain-path lead-
ing to the far-famed sanctuary of the Ma-
donna, which stands on the loftiest peak of
the grand chain of Apennine that extends
between AvelHnoand the Salernitan gulf.
They passed on with hurried steps, though
tliey were far too late to witness the miracle
performed every year by the uncouth
wooden statue of the Virgin, or to have
any part in the devotions of the day and
sport, which were always finished long
before noon. Perhaps they were only
anxious to lose as little as possible of the
feasting and dancing that always closely
follow the offices of religion, in the gay
south, on days like these ; but the way-
farers did not look so gay and careless as
men usually do when repairing on such
pleasant business. Their dark rough
brows were knit, their large coal-black
eyes were darting and restless, as though
habitually so, from fear or vigikmce ; and
VOL. II. — 7.

Page 52.

though they failed not most devoutly to
cross themselves at every one of the innu-
merable crucifixes, and little white cliapels,
that formed from the mountain's root an
avenue to its summit, the words on their
tongues were unholy and ungentle.

One among them, indeed, seemed more
light-hearted and unconcerned ; he went
I on caroling some simple ditty, but the
theme of the song was a robber's exploit,
and the boldness depicted on his bronzed
i countenance, partook of ferocity, and was
I bordered by an expression of wiliness or
j cunning. To judge from his figure, whicli
! was muci) exposed, as he wore only a
1 loose shirt open at the neck, and drawers
that descended no lower than the knee, he
must have been a young man ; but the
lines of his face had the depth and rigidity
that older years, or that hard life and vio-
lent passions, which can anticipate the
work of age, impress on the human coun-
tenance. His form was cast in a fine
manly mould, and his face, sun-burnt as
it was, would have been handsome, but
for those deep passion-furrows, and that
rigidity ; — indeed, it was handsome at mo-
ments when some soothing feeling occu-

H

50

TAIES OF CHIVALRY

|)ied Iiim, as it would now and then on his
way, wlien, emerging from a thick wood of
ilex, or turning some obstructing rock, the
view of the rich and smiling plain at his
feet would burst upon him, or a glimpse of
the white facade of the Sanctuary of the
Madonna, high above his head, with the
crowding, festive groups before it.

When they drew nearer to tlie sanctuary,
the merry sounds of the tabor and the
zampogna (a sort of bagpipe, which primi-
tive instrument, liighly modified, is found
in the higher regions of the Neapolitan
kingdom, as well as in nearly every moun-
tainous district of Flurope), somewhat
cleared up the countenances, and tran-
quilli/ied the uneasy eyes of the other
peasants, who walked towards the attrac-
tive scene with quic!vened steps.

*' We shall get a tune and a dance, and
a draught of good wine, under the shadow
of the Virgin, if we get nothing better,"
said one of the wayfarers.

** Aye, aye, a cup of Lachryma Christi,
and a slice of pre.sciutio, and a terraglio
or so," said another.

*' And a squeeze of the hand, and a
smile from a pretty girl or two!" joyfully
cried the least ill-looking one of the
party.

" Those pretty girls will be thy ruin,
sooner or later !" said one of the sourest-
\isaged of the peasantry, "take my word
for it they will, unless thou changest thy
fantasies, and ceasest to be caught by the
rustle of female garments after this
guise."

*' Peace to thee — bird of evil augury 1"
replied the other ; and he added, after a
short reflective pause : — ** But even if it
should be so, what matters it ? Some take
their way to the devil's mansion by cards
and dice, some with the wine-cup, some
go one way, some another ; and if woman
be as sure a way as any, it is certainly as
pleasant a one 1 But we are near the sanc-
tuary ! a j)rayer to the Madonna, my

connades !"

And in the next moment, these men,
who seemed occupied by any thing rather
than sentiments of religion and peace, de-
voutly crossed themselves, and pronounced
an *• Ave Maria," with much fervour.
They were now in a thick grove of hardy
mountain ash, and finishing their prayer
to the Virgin, they advanced to its ex-
tremity, at which they paused to observe
the scene. It was picturesque and ani-

mated. Before the snow-white sanctuary
which stood on a peak of bare rock, that
was ascended by a winding staircase cut
in the rock's face, there was an esplanade,
partly natural, and in part artiticial, of
considerable extent. On this elevated flat
the devotees from all the neighbouring
country, and many from distant parts of
the kingdom, and on the slopes of the
mountain, immediately beneath it, were
assembled in gay confusion, which was
increased and rendered the pleasanter to
the eye, by the variety of costume ; for
then, as now, nearly every district had its
peculiar mode of dress, and that of the
females was frequently graceful and strik-
ing to an extreme degree.

Some groups were refreshing themselves
with provisions and dainties, furnished co-
piously by certain itinerant venders or
other more sedate dealers, who had erected
temporary kitchens in the open air ; others
were exclusively engaged with the wine-
flask, that passed rapidly round, with a
brindisiy or rhymed toast or sentiment,
supposed at least to be an impromptu,
from each gay Bacchanalian ; whilst the
sweet nuts that grow so plentifully in the
romantic district of Avellino, were munch-
ed now and then as an accompaniment to
the juice of the grape. Conjurors, moun-
tebanks, and story-tellers, for whose extra-
vagant narratives the Neapolitans have
always had an extreme taste, occupied
several of the company. One of the in-
genious narrators entertained his auditors
with (he life and wonderful adventures of
the brigand chief, Benedetto Mangone,
the celebrated peasant of Eboli.

He stated that Mangone was a lion in
courage, a fox in cunning, a wolf in rapa-
city, a tiger in cruelty ; how he had at-
tacked whole hosts of travellers; how he
had beaten the nobles and i\\e\v armigeri ;
how all the Spanish troops of the viceroy
that had ever gone against him, had been
foiled and cut to pieces in detail ; and he
wound up the hair-breadth escapes and
the surprising adventures of his hero, by
an hypothesis of his own, that king Man-
gone nmst be the devil, or a direct lineal
descendant of his satanic majesty ; for,
otherwise, how could he do such deeds,
and escape ?

" I would shew to that don Bugiardo
that Benedetto Maugone has no cloven
feet," said one of the new comers in the
wood.

PERILS BY FLOOD AM) FltLD.

sr.

** Pr'jthee, be still, and don't let the
devil get the upper hand of thee here,"
whi>pered one of his companions, and
pointing to a dancing group, which,
one among many others, occupied an-
other part of the esplanade, he added,
" By St. Gennaro, that's a pretty taran-
tella, and better worth heeding than this
old ballad-monger !"

*' We will even go nearer, and see
those free-legged niaidens," said the man
who had first spoken ; " it is clear there are
none of the viceroy's most valiant niac-
car(jni eaters here, and, as for any of the
i'ew peasants who may have the honour to
know us personally, why, we are safe in
their fears, or indeed just as likely to
tind friends as foes." Saying this, he
walked out to the open esplanade, and
was followed by some of his comrades,
whilst others still hesitated in the wood.

As this man, whom I have described as
being the handsomest of the party we
have seen ascending the motmtain,
walked through the festive crowd, nobody
seemed to notice him, or if they did, it
was but to remark that he was a good-
natured looking fellow, for he had put on
his fair-weather countenance, and smooth-
ed his features to a holiday smile. But
as he approached a party of peasants,
whom their dress showed to be inhabi-
tants of some of the villages in the vast
open plain that extends between Salerno
and Eboli and the sea, the faces of every
one of them waxed pale as death, and an
old man muttered unconsciously, *' Bene-
detto Mangone !"

*' Well ! and what of that >" said Bene-
detto in his ear ; ** cannot I come to the
Madonna's shrine, and pray my prayer as
well as thou, and dance a turn or two in
the tarantella, as well as any lout here ?
Hold thy peace, good master shepherd —
1 am not here with evil intention — my
cotters are too well filled with the gold of
nobles and Spaniards, to feel the want of
a peasant's purse of copper, or his wife's
trinkets. — Hold thy peace, I say, and no
harm shall be done here by me or mine !"

" We are thy slaves, and here to do
thy bidding !" rephed the old man, in a
low, faltering voice, to Mangone, who had
turned round with a laughing face to
watch the merry dance.

*• Had we not better retire hence, with
the Madonna to our aid ?" intjuired one
of the pale peasants, — a woman who was

but too well acquainted, from the cir-
cumstance of near neighbourhood, with
the exploits and freaks of the formidable
banditti.

•* Not so, Annarella," replied tlfe old
man ; " the devil is not so black as he is
painted. Mangone always keeps his
word ; and be it said between us, is often
a better friend to the poor peasants than
their baron's steward, or the Spamards,
and the tax-gatherers of his excellency the
viceroy."

The group of dancers which had at-
tracted the attention and admiration of
the robbers, reposed for awhile, but now
began again with a fresh infusion of glee
and vigour. There were several pretty
girls engaged in this tarantella, but one
among them absorbed the faculties of
Mangone. She was the most youthful
and graceful of the party, and a life of
labour and exposure to the scorching sun
had not been able to spoil the beauty and
delicacy of her face and complexion.
There was an expression of innocence
mixed with her really heart-felt gaiety,
that might have charmed any heart ;
and as vice does not necessarily destroy
our taste for that quality in others, but,
on the contrary, rather increases it, the
bandit gazed on the thoughtless girl with
looks of intense interest ; and when her
joyful, laughing eyes met his, and were
tixed, wondering, by them, his heart be-
came her captive.

" By San Benedetto, I will try a taran-
tella with that maiden-, though all her
kindred should say nay I" whispered Man-
gone to his companion : and at the very
next st( p in the dance, heedless of the
frowns other previous partner, and of her
father and mother, who did not approve
of a stranger's attentions, he placed him-
self before her.

Had the young creature acted as pro-
priety required — for, strange as it may
appear, the peasantry of Italy have very
strict notions on that hear! — she would
have refused to dance with a man un-
known to her ; but she was fascinated by
Mangone's ardent gaze, and perhaps
felt already, although all unconscious of
it, that mysterious influence which will
not allow a being passionately loved, not
to love again.

With one momentary, deprecating look
at her displeased parents, the innocent
creature responded to the animated mo-

LP.RARY

isNiV-^rc-^TY OF ILLWOIS

52

TALES OF CFIIVALRV; OR,

tions of Mangone ; and if ever a dance
could express, or favour and forward the
passion of love, it is assuredly the taran-
tella! For some time the maiden, as the
forms of the dance required, and as the
feelings of her heart would have dictated,
moved at a distance from her partner ;
then by degrees she ap})roached him, or
permitted his approach ; then wiUi pretty
coquetry she bounded back from him,
and danced again afar off; then she came
nearer — nearer than before— then again
glided from him. After this alter-
nation of fond advance and coy retreat,
the maiden, as if vanquished, sank on her
knee, and die triumphant Mangone danced
round her ; but bounding from the ground
the next minute, and clapping her hands
together as if in joyful defiance, she re-
newed the coquetry and the dance until
her partner dropped on his knee at her
feet, and she finished the tarantella by
dancing round him in her turn.

While kneeling at her feet, the ena-
moured bandit whispered some fond words,
caught by no ear save that of the young
Nicoletta. Whatever they were, they were
evidently effective. When the dance was
over, Mangone went back to his com-
rades, who had all now come to the spot.
They procured and discussed some of the
choice refreshments the place afforded ;
but while he partook of them, Mangone
joined not the merry remarks and hearty-
laughs of his fellows, and never took his
eye from her, who he had sv^orn already
should be his love-mate or his victim.

In the course of the afternoon, Bene-
detto, in spite of some opposition, con-
trived to dance another taranrella with
Nicoletta, and to pour more words of pas-
sion and temptation into her innocent ear.
He learned from her,moreover, the village
she belonged to, and the road she was to
take homeward. This was all the infor-
mation he required ; and having obtained
it, he despatched one of his trusty band to
bring round horses, and to await him at
a certain point at the mountain's base.

At the approach of evening, the festive
parties began to break up from the holy,
but most jocund spot, and to take their
separate roads to their frequently distant
homes, whence they had started the pre-
ceding night, with the dischare of fire-
works and long-echoing acclamations, for
the mountain-shrine of the blessed Virgin.
I'heir retreat was picturesque, and other-

wise impressive. Long troops were seen,
n)arching two by two, down the steep and
narrow mountain paths ; they chaunted a
hymn to the Madonna as they went.

Benedetto Mangone, with his comrades,
mingled with one of these troops, closely
following the fair Nicoletta, until the de-
scent of the mountain was performed, and
the plain, traversed by numerous diverg-
ing paths, was before them. They did not
go much further with the peaceful pea-
sants, for at the point fixed they found
the messenger and several others of
Mangone's robbers armed to the teeth,
waiting with a horse for each of them.

The peasants were thrown into con-
sternation ; the women screamed ; — but
Nicoletta, who little suspected the part
he had in this sudden and alarming appa-
rition, instinctively rushed to her bold-
looking admirer, — to the handsome
stranger — to Mangone himself — for pro-
tection.

*' Fear not, my sweet one ! it is plea-
santer and fitter for pretty feet like thine
to ride than to walk ; tliis is only an es-
cort for thee, and this thy steed," said
Mangone, bending his face to bar's. The
next moment his arm was round her
waist, and he had leaped into his saddle,
widi the maiden, who had screamed and
fainted, before him ; and the movements
of his companions being almost as quick,
they at once cantered from the peasants,
among whom the bereaved parents of
Nicoletta shrieked and tore their hair
with the wildest demonstrations of grief.

For a quarter of an hour the robbers
rode at a rapid pace ; but being then far
away from the villagers, and at the foot
of a mountain they had to cross, they re-
laxed their speed, and Mangone, stopping
for a few minutes, attended to his fair
burthen. Nicoletta recovered her senses,
but her alarm was extreme, and she pite-
ously begged to know who he was that
had such a command of men and of
horses, and whither he was carrying her,
away from her father and her dear
mother,

" I am not what I seem," said Bene-
detto; " instead of this labourer's attire,
I can clothe myself in the noble's mantle,
or the cavalier's inlaid armour ; and I am
carrying thee where I will deck that pretty
head and neck of thine willi gold and
jewels, such as few princesses possess,
an' thou wilt but love me."

PERILS BY' FLOOD AND FIF.ID.

53

" I did love thee but now," said tlie
artless girl, *' but tel! me who — what art
thou ?" and as, waiting for his reply, she
gazed on his face, which indeed wore
the touching expressions of love, and love
for her, she felt her own impetuous feeling
revive, in spite of her fears and affliction.

*• Whatever I may be, I will be thy
fond lover, thy husband, an' thou wilt,"
said the bandit — " there ! cheer thee, and
tremble no more ! Is not wealth better
than poverty — ease and luxury, where
others shall do thy every bidding, better
than hard labour and subjection ? my
love better than" —

"True, true," interrupted the maiden ;
** but how is that wealth acquired ? and —
Oh, tell me ! who art thou ?"

"The wealth," he replied, "is the
bleeding of our oppressors, and I am" —

" Benedetto Mangone ! why loiterest
thou ? Brave captain, our road is long,"
exclaimed one of the banditti, who were
all impatient to reach their homes.

"Mangone ! — dost thou answer to that
dreadful name, thou so gentle ?" wildly
inquired tlie poor girl.

" For want of a better, I do," replied
the robber, composedly.

The maiden again screamed and faint-
ed ; and when she recovered at length in
the robber's embrace, she so struggled to
escape from him, that they had both well
nigh fallen from the horse. His mild per-
suasive voice, his vows and assurances
that to her he meant nothing but good,
and the utter impossibiUty of doing any
thing to avert her fate, whatever it might
be, at length tranquillized her, and she
rode on with him in the silence of woe
and despair, and that agonizing senti-
ment that must accompany the disclosure,
that the being who has warmed the heart
to love, is the object of the world's detes-
tation, and cannot be loved without risk-
ing one's happiness here and hereafter.

Night had now closed in, but the broad
bright moon shone on the robber's moun-
tain paths, which they pursued for many
hours, until they crossed tlie lofty and ex-
tended chain, and reached a secluded
village on the borders of a far-spreading
and apparently desolate level. Here
they seemed on a perfectly good under-
standing with the inhabitants, who were
all shepherds and goatherds, and Man-
gone not only procured refreshments for
her, which she refused to partake of, but

allowed Nicoletta time for that repose, of
which she stood in need.

When they continued their journey the
day dawned, and the wondering maiden
found that she was crossing a wide plain
bounded semicircularly by mountains, and
edged afar off by the blue sea.

The robbers went on at a rapid pace,
the mountains on the opposite side of the
plain, which had seemed unapproachably
remote, gradually became higher, bolder,
anil nearer to the eye ; a rapid river was
crossed by a difhcult ferry kept bv men,
evidently the comrades of Mangone's
troop, and the party plunged into a deep
thick wood. They had advanced for
some time in this mysterious neighbour-
hood, when Nicoletta's ears were assailed
by a tremendous barking of dogs.

" Our faithful friends keep good watch
over our woodland homes, where we shall
presently be, and where thou shalt be as
queen !" said the robber-chief, who had
not failed, at frequent intervals of the hur-
ried journey, to speak kindly and en-
couragingly to his prize, and to endea-
vour to reconcile her to her destiny.

And in a few minutes, having passed a
strange-looking edifice, and some ranged
columns which seemed to the peasant girl
like skeletons of some giant's abode, she
found herself in the midst of a group of
cabins and huts that formed a little ham-
let in the depth of the wood, where no
eye could see them, until so near that the
hand might almost touch them. A num-
ber of ferocious-looking men, and some
women and children, came out to welcome
the returning troop and their chief, Man-
gone, who, with briefer courtesy to them
than he usually practised, hfted Nicoletta
from the horse, and carried her, terrified
and almost lifeless as she was, into the
largest and best of these sylvan abodes.

The interior of this cabin was far dif-
ferent from any thing she had ever seen ;
and when with timid eyes she had
glanced over the bright arms, and the
wolfskins that hung on its walls; on the
huge chests — rich garments, inlaid cuiras-
ses, and massive plate, piled with pictures-
que confusion in open recesses, or in the
corners of the room, she threw herself
on its earthen floor, and wept for her own
poor cottage at home among the moun-
tains of Atripalda. Mangone, seeing he
laboured in vaiu to cheer her drooping
spirits and dissipate her alarm, after he

54

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

had witli difficulty prevailed upon her to
take some goat's milk and bread, left her
to repose. He did not again intrude
upon iier for some hours ; but when he
did, instead of finding her in the enjoy-
nient of restoring and lran(]uil sleep, or
refreshed bv its genial effects, he found
his beautiful prize burning with a tre-
mendous fever, and alu.ost. delirious.
(I'o be coiitiyiued.)

MILITARY EXECUTION OF TWO HAITIAN
CAPTAINS.

Mr. S. told us, that the two unfortu-
nates in question were, one of them, a
Guernsey man, and the other a man of
colour, a native of St. Vincent's, whom
the president had promoted to the com-
mand of two Haytian ships tliat had been
employed in carrying cofree to England ;
but on their last return voyage, they had
introduced a quantity of base Birming-
ham coin into the republic ; which fact
having been proved on their trial, they
had been convicted of treason against the
state, conden)ned, and were under sen-
tence of death ; and the government
being purely military, they were to be shot
the next morning. A boat was imme-
diatelv sent on board, and the messenger
returned with a prayer-book ; and we
prepared to visit the miserable men.

Mr. Bang insisted on joining us, ever
first where misery was to be relieved ;
and we proceeded towards the prison.
Following the sailor, who was the mate
of one of the ships, presently we arrived
before the door of tlie place w here the un-
fortunate men were confined. We were
speedily admitted ; but the house where
they were confined, had none of the com-
mon appurtenances of a prison. There
were neither long galleries, nor strong
iron-bound and clamped doors, to pass
through ; nor jailors with rusty keys jing-
ling; nor fetters clanking; for we had
not made two cteps past the black grena-
diers who guarded the door, when a Ser-
jeant shewed us into a long ill-lighted
room, about thirty feet by twelve — in
truth, it was more like a gallery than a
room — with the windows into the street
open, and no precaution taken, apparently
at least, to ])revent the escape of tlie con-
demned. In truth, if they had broken
forth, I imagine the kind-hearted presi-
dent would not have made any serious
enquiry as to the how.

There was a small rickety old card
taljle, covered with atatteret! green cloth,
standing in the middle of the floor, which
was composed of dirty unpolished pilch
pine planks; and on this table glimmered
two brown wax candles, in old-fashioned
brass candlesticks. Between us and the
table, forming a sort of a line across the
floor, stood four black soldieis, with their
muskets at their shoulders, while beyond
themsat,in old-fashioned armchairs, three
figures, whose appearance 1 never can
forget.

'I'he man fronting us rose on our en-
trance. He was an unconunon hand-
some elderly personage ; his age I should
guess to have been about fifiy. He was
dressed in white trousers and shirt, and
wore no coat, his head was very bald, and
very daik whiskers and eyebrows, above
which towered a most splendid forehead,
white, massive, and spreading. His eyes
were deep-set and sparkling, but he was
{)a]e, very pale, and his fine features were
sharp and pinched. He sat with liis
hands clasped together, and resting on
the table, his fingers twitching to and fro
convulsively, while his under jaw had
dropped a little, and from the constant
motion of his head, and the heaving of
his chest, it was clear that he was breath-
ing quick and painfully.

The man on his right hand was alto-
gether a more vulgar-looking j)ersonage.
He was a man of colour, his caste being
indicated by his short curly black hair,
while his African descent w as vouched for
by his obtuse features ; but he was com-
posed and steady in his bearing. He
was dressed in white trousers and waist-
coat, and a blue surtout ; and on our en-
trance he also rose, and remained stand-
ing. But the figure on the elder prisoner's
left hand, riveted my attention more than
either of the other two. She was a re-
spectable-looking little thin woman, but
dressed with great neatness, in a plain
black silk gown. Her sharp features
were high and well formed ; her eyes and
moutli were not particularly noticeable, but
her hair was most beautiful — her long
shining auburn hair — although she must
have been forty at the youngest, and her
skin was like the driven snow. When we
entered, she was seated on the left hand
of the elder prisoner, and was lying back
on her chair, with her arms crossed on her
bosom, her eyes wide open, and staring

PERILS BV FLOOD AM) FIELD.

55

upwards towcinls the roof, with the (ears
coiH-sinof ead) other dou n over her cheeks,
while her lower jaw had fallen down as if
slie Ijad been d^^ad — her breathing was i
scarcely perceptible — her bosom remain-

all the while the poor woman never
moved a muscle, every faculty appearing
to bp frozen up by grfef and misery. At
length the elder piisoner again spoke : " I
know J have no claim on vou, gentle-

ing still as the frozen sea, for the space of men ; but I am an Englishman — at least,

I hope 1 may call myself an Englishman,

and my wife there is an English woman j

i —when I am gone — oh, gentlemen, what

I is to become of her ! — If I were but sure

that she would be cared for, and enabled

' to return to her friends, the bitterness of

I death would be past." Here the poor

woman threw herself round her husband's

' neck and gave a shrill sharp crv, and re-

I laxing her hold, fell down across'his knees,

with her head hanging back, and her face

. towards the roof, in a dead faint. For a

minute or two, the poor man's sole con-

[ cern seemed to be the condition of his

a minute, when she would draw a long
breath, with a low moaning noise, and
then succeeded a convulsive crowing
gasp, like a child in the hooping cough,
and all would be stil! again.

At length captain N addressed the

elder prisoner: ''You have sent for us,
Mr. * • • ; what can we do for you, in
accordance with our duty as English
officers r"

The poor man l<x)ked round at us with
a vacant stare — h\\\ his fellow-stifferer in-
stantly spoke : ** Gentlemen, this is very
kind — verv kind. I sent mv mate to

borrow a prayer-book from you, for our } wife. " I will undertake that your wife

consolation now must flow from above-
man cannot comfort us." The female,
who was the elder prisoner's wife, suddenly
leant forward, and pn'ered instantly into
Mr. Bang's face — "Prayer-book," said
she — *' prayer-book — w hy,I have a prayer-
book — I w ill go for my prayer-book," and
she arose quickly from her seat. — ** Res-

I shall be sent safe to England, my good
! man," said Mr. Bang. The felon looked
: at him — drew one hand across his eyes,
. which were misty with tears, held down
i his head, and again looked up — at length,
; he found his tongue : " That God w ho
! rewardeth good deeds here — that God
i whom I offended — before whom I must
/e»," quoth the black sergeant. The word | answer for my sins by daybreak to-mor-
recalled her senses — she laid her head on : row, will reward you — T can only thank
her hands, on the table, and sobbed out, ' yon." He seized Mr. Bang's' hand,
as if her heart was bursting, ** Oh, God ! i and kissed it. With heavy hearts we
oh, God ! is it come to this r" the frail left the miserable group ; and I may men-

table treujbling benealli her, witii her
heart-crushing emotion. His w ife's misery
now seemed to recall the elder prisoner
to himself. He made a strong effort, and
in some degree recovered his composure.
"Captain Ts ," said he — "I be-
lieve you know our story. That we have
been justly condemned I admit ; but it is
a fearful thing to die, captain, in a
strange country, and by the hands of
these barbarians, and to leave my own

dear ." Here his voice altogether

failed him — presently he resumed : " The

tion here, that Mr. Bang was as good as
his word, and paid the poor woman's pas-
sage home, and, so far as I know, she is
now restored to her family.

We slept that night at Mr. S "s,

and as morning dawned we mounted our
horses, which our worthy host had kindly
desired to be ready, in order to enable us
to take our exercise in the cool of the
morning. As we rode past the Place
d'Armes, or open space in front of the
president's palace, we heard sounds of
military music, and asked the first chance

have sealed up my papers ' passenger what was going on. *' Execii-

and packages, and I have neither Bible
nor prayer-book : will you spare us the
use of one, or both, for this night, sir ?"
The captain said, he had brought a
pra\er-book, and did all he could to com-
fort the fellows. Bat, alas ! their grief
** knew not consolation's name."

Captain N read prayers, which

were listened to by both the miserable

tion nu'litaire, or raiher," said the man,
** the two sea captains, who introduced
the base money, are to be shot this
morning — there, against the rampart."
Of the fact we were aware, but we did
not dream thai we had ridden so near the
whereabouts. ** Aye, indeed," said Mr.
Bang. He looked towards the captain.
" My dear N , I have no wish to wit-

men with the greatest devotion, while ness so horrible a sight, but still, what

56

TALF.S OV CHIVALRY ; OR,

SHy you, shall we pull up, or ride on ?"

The truth was, that captain N an^l

myself were both of us desirous of seeing-
the execution — from what impelHng mo-
tives, let learned blockheads, who have
never gloated over a hanging, determine ;
and quickly it was determined that we
should wait and witness it.

First advanced a whole regiment of I he
president's guai ds, and then a battalion
of infantry of the line, close to which
followed a whole bevy of priests clad in
white, which contrasted conspicuously
with their brown and black faces. After
them, marched two firing parties of
twelve men each, drafted indiscriminately,
as it wotild appear, from the wliole garri-
son ; for the grenailier cap was there
intermingled with the glazed shako of
the battalion company, and the light
morion of the dismounted dragroon.
Then came the prisoners. The elder
culprit, respectably clothed in white
shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, and blue
coat, with an Indian silk yellow hand-
kerchief bound round his head. His
lips were compressed together with an
unnatural firmness, and his features were
sharpened like those of a corpse. His
eyes were half shut, but every now and
then he opened them wide, and gave a
startling rapid glance about him, and
occasionally he staggered a little in
his gait. As he approached the place
of execution, his eyelids fell, his under-
jaw diopped, his arms hung dangling by
his side like empty sleeves; still he
walked steadily on, mechanically keeping
time, like an automaton, to the measured
tread of the soldiery. His fellow-sufferer
followed him. His eye was bright, his
complexion healthy, his step firm, and he
immediately recognized us in the throng,

made a bow to captain N , and held

out his hand to Mr. Bang, who was
nearest to him, and shook it cordially.
The procession moved on. The troops
formed into three sides of a square, the
remaining one being the earthen mound
that constituted the rampart of the place.
A halt was called. The two firing parties
advanced to the sound of muffled drums,
and having arrived at the crest of the
glacis, right over the counterscarp, they
halted on what, in a more regular fortifi-
cation, would have been termed the
covered way. The prisoners, perfectly
unfettered, advanced between them, step-

ped down with a firm step into the ditch,
each led by a grenadier. In the centre
of the ditch they turned and kneeled,
neither of their eyes being bound. A
priest advanced, and seemed to pray with
the brown man fervently; another oflfered
spiritual consolation to the Englishman,
who seemed now to have rallied his torpid
faculties, but he waved him away impati-
ently, and taking a book from his bosom,
seemed to repeat a prater with great fer-
vour. At this very instant of time, Mr.
Bang caught his eye. He dropped the
book on the ground, placed one hand on
his heart, while he pointed upwards to-
wards heaven with the other, calling out,
in a loud clear voice, *' Remen)ber !"
Aaron bowed. A mounted ofllicer now
rode quickly up to the brink of the ditch,
and called out, *' DepechezJ"

The priests left the miserable men, and
all was still as death lor a minute. A
low solitary tap of the drum — the firing
parties came to recover, and presently
taking the time from the sword of the
staff-officer who had spoken, came down
to the present, and fired a rattling, strag-
gling volley. The brown man sprung
up into the air three or four feet, and fell
dead ; he had been shot tlirough the
heart; but the white man was only
wounded, and had fallen, writhing, and
struggling, and shrieking, to the ground.
I heard him distinctly call out, as the
reserve of six men stepped into the ditch,
** Dans la tete, dans la tele.'' One of
the grenadiers advanced, and putting the
musket close to his face, fired. The ball
splashed into his skull, through his left eye,
setting fire to his hair andclothes, and the
handkerchief bound round his head, and
making the brains and blood flash up all
over his face, and the person of the soldier
who had given him the coup de grace.

A strong murmuring noise, like the
rushing of many waters, growled amongst
the ranks and the surrounding spectators,
while a short sharp exclamation of horror
every now and then gashed out shrill and
clear, and fearfully distinct above the
appalling monotony.

The miserable man instantly stretched
out his legs and arms straight and rigidly,
a strong sliiver pervaded his whole frame,
his jaw fell, his muscles relaxed, and he
and his brother in calamity became por-
tion of the bloody clay on which they were
stretched.

PKRILS BY FLOOD ANT) FIELD.

57

THE ROYAL MARRIAGE.

AN HISTORICAL SKETCH.

The queen of Poland entered the apart-
ment of the princess Maria Joseplia of
Saxony, her daughter, with a quick step
and animated countenance, and, making
a sign for the young lady's governess to
withdraw, she said —

" I come to announce to you, my dear
cliild, the joyful inteUigence that the king
of France has demanded you in uiariiage
for his son the dauphin."

A slight colour suffused the usually pale
clieek of the young Joseplia, as she looked
up from her embroidery frame in surprise,
exclaiming, —

" The king of France cannot mean ipe,
mamma."

" Why not, my dear ?' ,

*' I am so plain, you know, mj^ dearest
mamma ; I am sure," pursued she, blush-
ing and casting down her eyes, wiiich
filled with tears as she spoke, "the dau-
phin would be sadly disappointed on re-
ceiving such a bride as your poor Josepha,"

" The dauphin has seen your picture,
my love."

Vol ii. — 8.

Page 60.

*'Oh! but, mv d^aiest mamma, tiiat
picture was such a flattering resemblance,
that he will liave reason to say he has
been deceived when he beholds the ori-
ginal. Pray let him be informed how
very inattractive I am,"

'* Nay, nay, my simple child, that
would be indeed very far from th^^ truUi,"
replied the queen ; " for if I i'orui any
adequate idea of the word attraction, it is
a quality in which you are tar from defi-
cient. The dauphin is aware that you
are not beautiful, but he has been in-
formed that you are amiable, sweet tem-
pered, and hitjli principled : in short,
that the charms of your mind more than
compensate for the absence of th;it our-
ward beauty \\hich is to him a fnattor of
perfect mdiiference ; for his heart is buried
in the grave of l)is firs! wife, tiie lovely
Maria Theresa of Spain."

** Why then does he marry again ? '

*' Because it is the will of liis royal
father that he should sacrifice his private
feelino:s to the wishes of iiis country."

** And I, then, dearest mamma, am to
be torn from your tender arms, to be
consicrned to a reluctant hus!jand, who

58

Tales of chivalry ; or,

has never seen me, and wlio will regard
me with coldness and distaste," said the
weeping princess,

" My dear child," replied the queen,
"you are, no less than the dauphin, the
property of the state, and, like him,
bound to submit your own inclinations to
the good of your country and the autho-
rity of your parents. It is the lot of
royalty."

" Cruel heritage !" sighed the princess ;
** yet, dearest mamma, tliink not tliat J am
about to embitter our approaching separa-
tion with unavaihng opposition to my
royal father's will. I know my duty, both
as a daughter and a subject, and I submit
myself to the disposal of my king and
country."

" Spoken like my own noble girl,"
replied the queen, embracing her daugh-
ter, and fondly kissing away the sorrow-
ful drops that still hung on her cheek.
** Go, my child," continued she ; " fulfil
the glorious destiny that awaits thee.
Thou art worthy to reign over a mighty
nation. Qualities like thine cannot fail to
conciliate the res|iect, and finally to win
the love, of any husband who has a heart
to appreciate virtue and mental charms.
Instead of thy father's^ thou slialt have
children whom thou mayest make princes
in all lands."

"But, oh ! my mother," said tlie prin-
cess, pressing closer to the maternal^ bo-
som from wiiich she was so soon to be
spp irateil, " how shall I meet the queen
of France, and who is the daughter of the
traitor Stanislaus Luzinski, who endea-
voured to rob my father of the throne of
Poland ; nay, even succeeded, through
the assistance of the conquering arms of
Charles of Sweden, in driving him from
liis dominions, and wresting for a season
the sceptre from his hands ?"

" You must forget the circumstance,
and treat her ,witli 'thejreverence that is
due to your sovereign, and the mother of
your consort."

*' But how, dearest mamma, will the
daughter of the deposed usurper, Stanis-
laus, endure tlie presence of the child of
the royal Augustus, whom Poland, with
an unanimous voice, recalled to his right-
ful throne, when released from the foreign
domination of the king of Sweden ? Will
she not make use of her power as queen
of France, and, above all, as the mother of
mv husband, to treat me with unkindness

and neglect ? And my husband, too, may
not he regard me as the daughter of an
enemy ?"

" My child, you will be placed in a de-
licate situation," returned the queen ; " but
you are aware of its diflficulties, and are,
I trust, possessed of sufficient greatness
of mind, sweetness, and forbearance, to
meet and conquer them."

It was a severe trial for the youthful
Josephs, when the dreaded moment came
for her to bid adieu to her fond parents
and weeping friends. She struggled to
appear composed, and in some measure
succeeded in concealing her grief, and the
strong reluctance she entertained against
this marriage ; but though she bore her-
self like a princess and a heroine, she felt
like a timid, tender-hearted girl, on quit-
ting the scenes of her childhood, and the
beloved objects of her affection and rever-
ence, for an unknown land of strangers.

Tlie French hastened in crowds to ob-
tain a sight of the new dauphiness, on her
public entrance into France ; but they are
a people so influenced by externals, that,
alihough they could not help admitting
that her countenance was ingenuous, and
indicative both of talent and sweetness,
there was a murmur of disapprobation
when they contrasted her appearance with
the recollection of her beautiful prede-
cessor.

The bride was painfully aware of this
impression, which was the niore distress-
ing to so young a female, when deprived
of the soothing support of a mother's en-
couraging presence, and for the first time
in her life thrown on her own resources,
to think, to speak, and to act for herself:
but, with the true dignity of a superior
mind, sh^ summoned all the slumbering
energies of her character to meet the
trying scenes that awaited her.

Her first interview with the dauphin
and his royal parents was at hand, and
she was compelled to stifle alarm, agita-
tion, and childish tremors, to comport her-
self in a manner likely to conciliate the
regard of these arbiters of her future
destiny.

The queen, Maria Luzinski, received
her with frigid politeness, but uttered no
word of soothing or encouragement.

" It is plain," thought poor Josepha,
'* that her majesty remembers the rela-
tive situation of our fathers, and dislikes
me for the sake of mine."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FiELD.

53

There was a g^reater show of friendli-
ness on the part of Louis the Fifteenth in
the reception of his danghter-in-Iaw, as far
at least as complimentary phrases and ex-
pressions of affectionate regord went;
yet the slight but perceptible shrug with
which the royal profligate scanned her
from head to foot, when she ad\anced to
offer him the homage of her knee, was
sufficiently indicative of his contemptuous
opinion of her person.

Josepha saw and felt it all ; but she
had strength of mind and magnanimity
enough to endure the mortification with
calmness. Her keenest pang was caused
by the unanswered appeal for sympathy
and compassion which her meek eye ad-
dressed to the pale statue-like being to
whom a marriage of state policy was
about to unite her.

The touch of his hand, as with formal
courtesy and averted looks the dauphm
raised her from her kneeling posture,
chilled her with the contact of that mor-
tal coldness which is of the heart.

"Why did they take me from aflrec-
tionate parents and a happy home ?"
thought the otFended bride, suppressing,
with a powerful effort, the gush of bitter
tears which appeared ready to overflow
her eves, in spite of her struggles to re-
strain them.

It was diflScult for one so young and
unaccustomed to disguise, to conceal the
feelings of wounded pride, and all the
other painful emotions that filled her
lieart. Yet she commanded herself suffi-
ciently to make graceful and appropriate
replies to the observations which the king
addressed to her ; and so well did she
acquit herself, that his majesty, after she
had withdrawn with the ladies of the bed-
chamber, was pleased to express his appro-
bation of the ease and elegance of her
manners, her ready wit, and the agree-
able tones of her voice. Even her coun-
tenance, he said, became pleasing when
she spoke.

Poor Josepha, meantime, unconcious
of these commendations, had quitted the
royal presence with a heavy heart, and
was preparing to exchange the simplicity
of her virgin attire for tlie splendid robes
prescribed for the a|)proaching nuptial
solemnity. Far, however, from betraying
llie secret anguish and proud reluctance
of her troubled spirit, with which she
assumed the jewelled tiara and glittering

decorations of a danphiness of France,
she conver.-ed with tho^e about her with
a sweetness and iiff'ability that made them
almost f<aget her want of beauiy.

The fair courtiers even carried their
complaisance so far as to pronounce the
princess " trea charmante,'' when the
duties of her tedious toilette were at
length completed, and she stood arrayed
in all the pomp of her bridal magnifl-
cence ; and thev vied with each other in
laxishimj; all the expressions of admira-
tion, their language could convey on
the beauty of her luxuriant flaxen hair,
which was, in truth, deser\ing of all that
could be said in its praise.

In compliance with the urgent entrea-
ties of these ladies, Josepha walked to the
mirror, but with a deep sigli she w ithdrew
her e\es, after a hasty glance, which at
the same mo rent showed her the reflec-
tion of a full-length portrait of the late
danphiness, who><e angel fea'ures and
graceful titjure, as there depicted, ap-
peared to render her own want of per-
sonal attraction more apparent from the
contrast.

" Alas !" said she, " why did they
cruelly select, for tlie second wife of the
dauphin, one so little calculated to bear a
comparison with his first ?"

"The most beautiful woman in the
world would be regarded by my brother, the
dauphin, with the same feelings of indif-'
ference, when considered as the succes-
sor of his lost Theresa," observed Madame
Louise of France, w ho had entered while
the young dauphiness was thus speaking,
'• Courage, my sister !" continued this
amiable lady, affectionately embracing
the dejected biide : *' the race is not
always to the swift, nor the batile to the
strons: : y on may, by unobstrusive gentle-
ness and softness, obtain an influence over
the heart of your husband which beauty
might fail of acquiring, unless assisted by
the charms of n)ental superiority. That
you possess those charms in no ordinary
degree, I am persuaded. Be patient ;
and the time may come when you will be
as much to him as her for whom he
laments with such passionate regret."

Thus comforted and encouraged, the
princess Jose{)ha was enabled to present
iierself to the scrutinising eyes of the
French court, with the self-possession
wliich the formidable ceremonial that
awaited her presence required.

60

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

** I must forget the sensitive feeling
of woman's delicacy and woman's pride,
v\hicl) prompt me to shrink from exchang-
ing the nuptial plight with a man to
whom lam too evidently an object of dis-
like ; and remembering only that 1 am a
princess, act in conformity with the duty
I owe to my country and my parents,"
thought she, as she encountered the tear-
ful melancholy glance of the dauphin,
when he took his place beside her at the
altar ; and when the archbishop united
their trembling hands, the mortal coldness
of his touch again thrilled her heart with
a foreboding pang which shook her frame
with a tremor of agitation tliat subsided
not till the conclusion of the momentous
ceremony which had united her for life to
one in whose ear the officious congra-
tulations of courtiers and friends appeared
to sound more dismally than a knell.

Painfully aware as she was of her
husband's feelings, it was impossible for
her to pause for the indulgence, or even
the analysation, of lier own.

She was compelled to smile, to appear
composed, to exchange appropriate com-
pliments with the king, the queen, and
the whole court. She liad a prescribed
part in the heartless drama of courtly
ceremonial, and she saw the necessity of
performing it well ; and in this she was
engrossingly occupied till the hour arrived
for her to 'withdraw to her own apart-
ment.

The magnificence of the bridal cham-
ber, the richness of its decorations, the
blaze of its lights, and the glittering coup
d'oeil of the toilet that was prepared fur
her, oppressed her full heart with the
sickening consciousness of how much at
variance was aU the pomp and splendour
with which she was surrounded, with the
dark and joyless aspect of her destiny.

The ladies of the bedchamber were ur-
gent in their entreaties to be allowed to
assist her in disrobing.

She stood for a n)oment irresolute :
then feeling it impossible to overcome
her reluctance, she implored them to
retire for half an hour, that she might
enjoy the unrestrained opportunity of per-
forming her devotions.

It was in the first moments of this pri-
vacy, so eagerly desired by the gilded
puppet who had so sorely wearied of the
part she had been reluctantly performing
in the pageant of that festive day, that

she gave vent to the long restrained flood
of tears which could no longer be sup-
pressed, and throwing herself upon her
knees, and burying lier face in iier hands,
she fervently implored counsel and sup-
port of her heavenly Father ; and so
deeply was she absorbed in the earnest-
ness of her tearful supplications, which
she at length breathed in audible mur-
murs, mixed with convulsive sobs, that it
was not till a heavy sigh near her inform-
ed her she was not alone, that she became
aware of the presence of an earthly wit-
ness of her communings with God.

Starting from her kneeling attitude,
the trembling agitated girl encountered,
for the first time, the mournfully intense
gaze of lier husband.

Her timid eyes sought the ground in
confusion, and she stood, covered with
blushes, waiting, with a fluttering heart,
for only one kind look or word of en-
couragement from him with whom her
destiny was now irrevocably united. But
he was silent; and when she again sum-
moned courage to direct a glance towards
him, she discovered that his eyes were
averted from her, and turned with a
glance of agonising recognition on the
jewels of his late wife, with which the
toilet was covered ; and, with a cry of
anguish, he exclaimed,

" Is it not enough, that I have been
compelled to give thy name and place to
another ; but must they mock my grief
by arranging for me to keep a second
bridal in this very room, my lost Theresa,
where every object so painfully reminds
n»y v\ido\ved heart of thee."

At these words the weeping dauphi-
ness approached, and, throwing herself at
his feet, exclaimed, ** Fear not, my lord,
that I shall ever seek to intrude upon the
love and regret which are given to my
lamented predecessor. We are equally
the victims of state policy, in being com-
pelled to a marriage in which you must
be aware my inclinations have been as
little consulted as your own. All I ask
of you is compassion and endurance : 1
am too evidently an object of aversion to
you, yet I entreat you not to hate a
young, a helpless, and a very friendless
creature, who is thrown upon your pro-
tection, and who is anxious to devote
herself to your will, either as the most
dutiful of wives, or tiie tenderest of
friends."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

61

The unexpected frankness of her ad-
dress— llie modesty, yet the boldness of
her elocjuent appeal to his justice and his
sympathy — the touching sweetness of her
voice, and the pleading tears which filled
the eyes of the youthful wife, made their
way resistlessly to the heart of the dau-
phin.

He raised her from the lowly posture
of supplication which she had not dis-
dained to assume, and, begging her to
forgive the coldness and abstraction of
his manner, and the inconsiderate indul-
gence of his passionate grief for his first
wife, he gently drew her to him, and,
injprinting a first kiss on her lips, said —

"The confidence, the friendship, and
the esteem of a widowed heart, Josepha,
is all I can offer to any one — dare 1 ask
yon to accept these ?"

*' The confidence, the friendship, and
the esteem of a heart like your's, is much
for me to have gained in one day, my
lord," replied the dauphiness, pressing
her consort's hand to her lips ; " doubt
not of my valuing these precious offerings
at their full worth, and making it the
study of my whole life to improve and
deserve them ; and perhaps a time may
come "

She did not finish the sentence, her
apprehensive delicacy checking the ex-
pression of hopes which might alarm the
fastidious feelings of the dauphin ; but
the time, the happy time, which then
arose before her in blissful anticipation,
did at length arrive, when the grateful
husband acknowledged that the fond
soother of his cares — the tender mother of
his numerous and hopeful progeny — the
prudent counsellor on whose wisdom he
could confidently rely in every situation
of doubt and difficulty ; and the afifec-
tionate nurse who watclied over his sick,
and, finally, his dying bed, was dearer to
him than even his adored Theresa in the
bloom of her bridal beauty.

THE BRIGAND OF EBOLI.

(Concluded from p. b4.)
Every assistance that he, aided by an
old woman of the lawless colony, to which
she was sole medical practitioner, could
bestow, was lavished on the young Nico-
letta; but, in spite of all this, which was,
perhaps, not always of the most judicious
nature, she continued to suffer from the

fever brought on by the excitement of
the mind, and the fatigues of the rapid
journey ; nor was it until several days
had elapsed, that she was so far convales-
cent as to leave the couch of wolf and
sheep skin that her dreaded host had
affectionately prepared for her. On the
evening of that day that she felt so far
recovered, as she was sitting alone in the
robber's cabin, wondering at the wealth it
contained, and almost forgetting by what
unlawful means that wealth had been ac-
quired, Mangone appeared suddenly before
her, humanized by the feehng of lo\ e, and
with the same expression of countenance,
the same attitude, and the same sweet
tones of voice, by wiiich he had captivated
her simple heart in the tarantella, at the
Monti degli Angioli. She had been sensi-
ble of his tender, unwearying care, during
her illness — she had caught his sighs on
her lip — she had seen the tears in his
eyes, which had never glanced with their
fatal ferocity on her, or on any one in h^,r
presence — and now, uninformed as she
was, wanting of that strong moral feeling
which only education can give, and which,
even in the educated, cannot always sub-
due the passion of love for an unworthy
object, it is not surprising if her heart
softened towards her captor, and she
regarded with less horror her separation
from her family and friends — the condi-
tion he proposed to her of becoming a
robber's bride.

That night, being passed with the
restlessness which fever generally leaves,
and which was increased by her peculiar
situation, the young peasant opened the
door of the cabin, and remarking that the
whole of the robber-hamlet was buried in
deep repose, issued from the confined
apartment, to breathe the cool, nocturnal
air. It was a calm, lovely night, the
broad moon illuminated an open glade of
the deep wood, which ran inmiediately
before her hut ; she walked along this
with slow, meditating steps, until she
came to an ancient edifice, like that she had
passed in another part of the wood, when
carried thither by Mangone. This, like
its fellow, was one of the three glorious
temples of Paestum j those sublime re-
mains of antiquity which have since
attracted the wondering travellers from
all the civilized countries of the world,
but which were then, as they remained
for many years, buried in a wild wood.

62

TAIKS OF CHIVALRY

and unknown, save fo llie robber?, who
made them their haimt, or to the wander-
ing goat-herd, or the fisherman, who might
catcli a glimpse of them peering over the
trees from the contiguDiis coast.

She was proceeding witii hurried steps,
when her allention was attracted by an
object that lay on the ground beside one
of' these moonlit columns. Whatever it
was, it gleamed with a wax-light ghastly
hue, in the rays of the sweet planet — she
stooped to ascertain it, and saw wiUi hor-
ror, a human body streaked with blood !
With her own young blood congealing in
her veins, she rushed onward without
purpose, — but what other object was that,
glaring at her from the diverging branches
of an old tree ? It was another human body
in the attitude of crucifixion, with the
writhed countenance of one who had died
in torture, displayed by the pale moon-
light. With the fascination of horror —
w^ith eyes starting out of her head, she
stood rooted to the spot, gazing on the
spectacle of atrocity. Then she ran wildly
forward to escape its sight, to the temple;
but there, even on the holy ara, other
objects of dread disgust met her sight ;
and at her sudden intrusion, a swarm of
ravens and night-birds, that were batten-
ing on the mutilated victims of the rob-
bers' barbarity, flew on high to the archi-
traves of the ancient edifice, where tiiey
croaked and screamed in wild, horrific
discord. This was too much for Nicoletta
to bear, and with a shriek she fainted and
fell on the floor of the temple.

How long she remained in this state,
she knew not; but with her returning
senses came the dreary conviction of
Mangone's hellish guilt, and the firm de-
termination to escape from him or die.
INot knowing whither she went, she ran
through the thick wood that closed imme-
diately beyond the open space in wliich
the temple stood. Yox a long time she
wandered in its intricacies, but at length,
guided by chance, followed a narrow
opening that led to its issue, near the
sea- shore. Day was now beginning to
dawn on the beautiful and tranquil gulf,
and she saw, by its light, the little town of
Acropoli, standing on a cliff that is washed
by the sea. Thitherward she was direct-
ing her steps, when she perceived a
fisherman's bark preparing to leave tiie
shore, close at hand. With a supplii'atiug,
piteous cry, and with tottering limbs, she

ran towards it : she reached it breathless,
and a grey-headed mariner was easily
persuaded to receive the exhausted, pallid,
lionor-stricken maiden, on board his bark,
which instantly glided from the atrocious
neighbourhood.

It was not until several hours after her
escape, that Mangone, previously to start-
ing on an expedition to intercept the
viceroy's pj-ocaccio, or mail, repaired to
the cabin to commune in gentleness and
love with his captive, whom he destined
for his wife as soon as she should be well.
His consternation and rage at not finding
her in the hut — nor in the hamlet — were
such as only a fiery, volcanic nature like
his, could feel with such intensity. The ex-
pedition was abandoned, and himself and
his somewhat murmuring comrades went
off in different directions, to scour the
country in quest of the peasant girl.

But Nicoletta was safe with the old
fisherman, who carried her to his own
town of Salerno, at the opposite end of
the gulf: nor was it until weeks after
that her tiger-lover, who never gave up
his endeavours to recover her, learned
from one of his numerous emissaries, that
a girl answering to her description had
been received into the service of a noble-
man of that fair city. With this intimation,
and under cover of a skilful disguise, the
daring, fearless Mangone, flew from his
retreat to Salerno, and ventured within
the walls of the city, where he soon traced
out the fugitive, who, dreading to return
among her kindred and frieniis with the
suspicion of dishonour upon her, so readily
entertained by those jealous, susceptible
people of the south, and so acutely felt by
the female peasantry, and by all the lower
classes of Italians (v\hatever be the morals
of their superiors) — had indeed deter-
mined to live among strangers, and had
obtained service in tiie noble mansion to
which he iiad traced her. His ever-ready
wits, now sharpened by the value he
attached to the prize at stake — by the
passion that raged in his breast, and
aggravated by disappointment — at once
busied themselves in devising the means
of decoying Nicoletta from the town, and
carrying her off again to his haunt. He
watched about the nobleman's house in
which he supposed her to be, during the
whole day. A glance he caught of her
beaulifnl 'face at^ a window, almost mad-
dened him, and his prudence could scarcely

PFRII.S BY FLOOD AND FFFT.D.

63

prevent him from rushing- into the mansion
anH seizing her at that moment.

The gloom and stillness of night fell on
the town of Salerno; the inhabitants had
gone to their peaceful sluml)ers, and the
robber Mangone was still prowling round
the dark walls which contained tiie object
of his fierce affection, when he saw a
person enveloped in a large Spanish cloak
ap[)roach the silent mansion. He glided
into a deep shadow, where he remained
unseen, but whence he could watch the
proceedings of ihe mysterious visitor.

Presently, the man in the cloak clapped
his hands ; the signal was answered by
opening of a window : the man threw up
the ends of a rope-ladder he carried con-
cealed under his mantle, and in the next
instant, before Mangone could reach him
and stab him to the heart, he ascended
with the active steps of youih and love,
and entered the house.

It never entered into Mangone's mad-
dened brain, that in the mansion there
must be other women ; absorbed himself
by one image, he felt that the beautiful
Nicoletta must be the object of this night
visit, and burning with furious jealousy
and revenge, he stayed to kill his fancied
rival when he should descend into the
street. Just at this moment of absolute
madness, a Spanish patrol approached the
spot, and the robber bethought him of a
recent and sanguinary law : — to put a
stop to the immorahties and intrigues
carried to a sliameful excess by the law-
less young nobles of that day, the viceroy
had decreed that any individual found
entering another's house, or even detected
carrying a rope-ladder by night, should be
instantly punished vvitli death ; and the
Spartan severity of this law, as the robber
well knew, had been really put in prac-
tice. Now, therefore, fearful of being
apprehended himself — fearful that his rival
might escape the vengeance of his arm —
blinded and mastered by the jealousy of
the moment — he rushed to the guard, and
informed them of what he had so unwil-
lingly witnessed. The captain of the
Spaniards instantly roused the house, and
while he entered with part of the men the
gate the porter opened, the rest remained
stationary under the window, or went to
the rear of the mansion to intercept the
retreat of the offending lover. In a few
seconds, a young man in the garb of a
cavalier — for he had thrown off the large

mantle that impeded his flight — appeared
at the window where Mangone had seen
jjim enter ; and though he perceived but
too plainly the Spanish guard in the street,
he tlirew out the cords, and drawing his
sword, glided down in the midst of them.
However strong and expert his arm, and
valiant his spirit, he could in no respect
have offered a successful resistance ; but
as he reached the ground, he stumbled
and fell, and was at once pinioned bv the
soldiers. He was scarcely secured, when
a young lady — a very different person
indeed from Nicoletta, for she was the
daughter of the noble owner of the man-
sion— to escape the first fury of her dis-
honoured father, and perhaps, still more,
to witness her lover's fate, or to intercede
for him, descended into the street by the
same giddy, unsafe rope-ladder, and call-
ing piteously on the name of Luigi — her
dear Luigi — she rushed to the captive
youth.

At this sight, which proved to him his
jealousy had committed an awkward mis-
take, Mangone would have gone off and
evaded inquiries as to himself, which he
felt would be rather difficult to answer.
But as he was slinking round the corner
of the mansion, some of the Spanish
guards stopped him, and told him he must
go with them to the guard-house. And
away therefore he went, with the weeping
lady, and the astounded, enraged knight.

They had scarcely entered this strong-
hold, whose iron-bound doors and iron
gratings somewhat damped the spirit of
the imprudent robber, when the lady's
infuriated father arrived with the captain
of the guard. On perceiving who was
the lover — that he was noble as himself,
though estranged by a family feud, and
unmarried and free — the old baron's heart
relented, and as his passion cooled, he
listened to the cavalier Luigi, who repre-
sented, that not only might he be saved
from the law's severity, but the honour of
all parties preserved, by his immediate
marriage with the young lady, whom he
had wooed and won in secresy, solely
because the existing enmities of their
families prevented him from pursuing any
other course. The captain of the guard,
who now found that in arresting Luigi he
had placed a friend's life in jeopardy,
joined him in his endeavours to conciliate
the old nobleman, and to make up matters
at once.

64

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

" We must tlms avoid fiirtlier scandal
and remark," said lie; "none but my
faithful men here, and a few of your own
domestics, as yet know aught of the un-
pleasant occurrence — except, indeed, this
fellow, who turned informer."

"And who is he?" cried Luigi.

"Aye, who is he ?" echoed the guard,
and some of them rushed to bring the
robber (who would have sunk in the earth,
or buried himself in eternal darkness) to
the light of a cresset lamp that hung from
the hfgh roof of the apartment.

But though thus caught in his own
trap — though confused with the sense of
his own folly, and pent up and surrounded
by armed men, the bandit's presence of
mind did not quite forsake him : approach-
ing the captain, he said, boldly, —

" I am a peasant of Apulia, poor and
houseless, and seeking for work, but a
faithful subject of his majesty the king of
Spain, to whom 1 did my duty in obeying
the orders of his excellency the viceroy !"

One thing, however, he forgot ; he did
not disguise his natural voice, which was
but too well known to one present and
most deeply interested.

"By the saints! I have heard the
tones of that voice before now, and llion
art not what thou sayest," exclaimed
Luigi, coming forward to the light, and
confronting the robber : " if thou art not
Benedetto Mangone, hold out thy right
hand !"

" Benedetto Mangone ! on whose head
is a taglio of a tliousand golden ducats!
Is our fate so fortunate?" cried the Spanish
soldiers, closing round the robber, who
did not hold out his hand, but, pale as
ashes, gazed with fixed eyes on the cava-
lier, whom he indeed had too late recog-
nized as one whom he had robbed and
captured not many weeks before.

" The villain is well disguised," con-
tinued the cavalier ; " but I know that
peculiar voice, and I could swear to Man-
gone, among thousands, by an extraor-
dinary wound under his wrist : let him
hold out his right hand I"

" 'Tis here !" said the robber, gnashing
his teeth, and drawing his arm forth from
his bosom, on which it had been crossed ;
but he drew a dagger from beneath his
vest with it, and would have stabbed his
detector to the heart, but for one of the
guards, who levelled him to the earth
with a tremendous blow of his halbert.

In falling, his high conical cap, and a
quantity of false red hair, flew from his
bleeding head ; the soldiers who stooped
to remove him, found a breastplate under
his peasant's dress; and I^uigi recognised
the wounded hand of Mangone.

When the robber came to his senses, he
muttered, "Old Pasquale's prediction is
verified, and I am lost for woman !" but
no other words could be forced from him.
On the morrow, when hundreds of the
Salernitans, attracted by the astounding
news, that the long-dreaded Mangone
was at length taken, thronged to the
prison, his person was sworn to by
many, and he w as sent under a formidable
guard to Naples, to meet the death he so
richly merited. But the horrid tortures
that preceded that death, and the mode in
which it was finally inflicted, are such as
humanity shudders to think of. He was
dragged through the streets on a hurdle,
executioners tearing his skin as he went
with iron pincers ; and, after months of
captivity, he was broken on a wheel by
blows of hammers, in the Mercato, or
great market-place of TNaples. " And of
no avail," says the Neapolitan historian,
Giannone, " was this dreadful spectacle,
and horrid example, for others : almost
immediately after Mangone's death, an-
other famous robber, called Marco Sciarra,
took the field, and in imitation of king
Macroneot Calabria, another bandit, styled
himself the king of Campagna, and, with
a troop of 600 men, surpassed the exploits
and the atrocities of his predecessors.

But, to conclude my tale with plea-
santer matter : the young cavalier Luigi
was united to the fair daughter of the
Salernitan baron ; and the pretty Nico-
letta, instead of being a robber's wife,
soon made a more fitting match with one
of the pages of her mistress's husband.

FACING CANE.

A man in middling circumstances com-
plained to the celebrated military chief,
Facino Cane, that he had been stripped
of a cloak by one of his sokliers. Facino,
seeing that he had a good coat on, asked
him if he was dressed in the same way
when his cloak was taken. The man
answered that he was. " Then get about
your business," said Facino : " the man
who robbed you is none of my soldiers ;
none of them would have left you so good
a coat upon your back."

PERILS ijy FLOOD AND FiELD.

05

Pa-e 67.

THE BULL-FIGHTER OF MADRID

A SPANISH STOllV.

At a vine-encircled cotta£:e, embow-
ered amidst llie Ijeautiful sierras of a
valley about three lenjj^ues from xMadrid,
a gioiip of liglit-liearted damsels Ijad met
to enjoy ilie dance and sonw ciiai act eristic
of a holiday excursion. The day had
been a delightful one, and the evening
lustre of a sunset sky irradiated the
charming landscape with its mellow rays.
The wide expanse of the surrounding
v^ley presented the somewhat crowded
features of Spanish scenery — goigeous
groves of orange-trees displaying their
golden load, encircled by the vernal relief
of the ilex and algorobo — hedges of rose-
mary, myrtle, or the thorny pear, inter-
sected with thickets of geranium. To
the left were iieafhy declivities, from
which was wafted the aromatic smell of
the balm of Gilead ; and to the right were
clusters of wooded roqks, on the steep and
pointed sunmiits of which browsed the
shaggy goat, whilst duwn their dangei-ous
sides paced the weary muleteer. The

VOL. 11. — 9.

glow of eve cast upon the Mooiish gardens
and fountains a hue of solemnity beiitting
well the regretful mood inspired by the
contemplation of the scenes of departed
chivalry and glory, of which Spain, in the
era of Moorisli doujination, was the well-
adapted theatre.

Inez de Lavedoz, the mislress of the
ceremonies of this rural merry-making,
was t!;e'4anghter of the keeper of one of
(he principal fondas, or hotels, in Madrid.
A young nian uf some literary eminence
had long paid his court unto her; but he
was more renowned for love of study
than for love of his mistress : that very
day he had strolled into the vicinity of
the spot selected by Inez as the rendezvous
of her happy party — his object in this
country rami)Ie being to make a few
sketches of ihe adjacent scenery, for (he
enriching of his portfolio. Inez boie
from her more gay companions no little
bantering on the score of ht-r lover's lack
of gallantry. Siie had a natural taste for
poetry, uhich Alvarez omitted no oppor-
tunity of fostering: she could play iih'.
improvisalrice occasionally ; and, on
being solicited by her cheerful associates
K

66

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

to g'ive them a ditfy, accompanied by the
guitar, 5he sang the following : —

TO MY STUDENT LOVER.

Alva, anght so coM as thou

Could mv sorrowin'j^ song but move,
Inez would no longer vow

Thine to be an icy love.
If a casuyl smile we see

O'er thy pallid features flit, —
Inez, it is" not for thee.

But for old Cervantes' wit.
If perchance thv chant,Mng eyes

Fire with thought, or flash at wrong,
Prnmptin'Z unrespotiding sighs—

'Tis at Garcilasso's song.
Sculpture is a speechless god,

From the (Grecian's frigid bust —
Fireless as the valley's clod,

Moveless as its maker's dust —
From the pictur'd Moorish lines,

Rushing to the red afTray —
From Murillo's mute designs.

Turn thy doting eyes awaj-.
Here, beneath the evening star.

Are we merry maidens met ;
Singing to the "soft guitar.

Dancing to the Castanet.
Thy delights abjuring now,

Kneel, and here thy passion prove ;
Inez then no more will vow

Thine is but an icy love !

The song was bat just ended, when the
whole group were startled by the sudden
intrusion of two strangers, one of whom
Inez immediately recognized as Alvarez.
Each damsel promptly let fall her flowing
veil, thus rendermg herself incognito to
the two gallants.

Alvarez, in returning from his jaunt in
search of the picturesque, overtook an
old comrade, whose avcjcation differed as
much with his own as does the profession
of the dancing- master with that of the
pugilist. This quondam conipanion on
whom the scholar had accidentally stum-
bled, was no other than Gomeo de San-
terros, the celebrated mattadore, or bull-
fighter of Madrid. Despite the severity
of the student's general demeanour, he
liad been induced, by his jolly fellow-tra-
veller, and the excellent wine at the inn
where they tarried, to take a bottle too
much.

" Take note of your steps, senhor Al-
varez," said the superstitious Gomeo,
stretching forth his hand to guide his
unsteady companion up the steps of the
garden terrace : " to fall now, in the pre-
sence of such an assen)blage of beauties,
would augur some matrimonial fatality."
•' By the petticoat of the Virgin !"
ejaculated the student, •* I forgot, Gomeo,
tiiat you were a believer in the absurd

doctrine of destimj. Ha, ha ! I'll ask
one of these smiling hourisforherthonghts
on that fantastic theory. Tell me, fair
senhora !" said he, addressing a black-
eyed, olive - complexioned girl in the
group, " can you spell my fate ?"

"Overlooking your indecorous intru-
sion," answered she (for Inez had apprised
her of their identity), " on account of the
quantify of wine which I perceive yon
have drunk, I will venture to spell each
his fate: you, senhor" (looking Alvarez
full in the face), ** will marry niy compa-
nion here," pointing to Inez, ** live a long
life, and die hapj)y."

" Jesu !" exclaimed Gomeo de San-
terros, "thou art so marvellously pleasant
in thy prophecies, that thou shall look in
my face, and tell me my des.tiny !"

Struggling to prevent Alvarez from
approaching Inez, with whom he vowed
he would exchange greetings, as she was
adjudged to be his livelong companion,
the dark-eyed maid appeased him by
requesting that he would desist, to hear
the destiny of his temulent associate.
Alvarez became all decorum, as, gazing
in Gomeo's face, the little hypocrite
faltered out —

"I am sorry to divulge it, ill-fated
senhor! — May the church pray for you !
Your destiny is, to be slain by a black
bull!"

There breathed not, in all king Ferdi-
nand's dominions, a more superstitious
mortal than Gomeo de Santerros. At
the hearing of this sporlive prophecy,
uttered by one who was informed of the
nature of his profession, intoxicated as he
was, the temporary glow kindled by the
exhilarating wine, left his rough, rude
cheek — his knees smote each other in the
quaking of his heart, and he reeled to the
steps of the terrace for siipport. As he
spoke not one word as to the cause of 'his
apprehension, the laughing assembly con-
jectured that the prophecy had made little
impression upon him, and that the visible
change which his carriage and counte-
nance had undergone, was neither more
nor less than the effect of the sherris he
had drunk. They paid him every atten-
tion \ and after seeing him safely under
the con.mc/ewr-ship of Alvarez, they be-
held the two take their abrupt and silent
departure, without either of them having
recognized any one of the group.

Ere the lapse of a fortnight, it chanced

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIKID.

67

that Alvarez was uniled to Inez de~La-
vedoz — thus singularl}^ fulHUincr one part
of the prophecy. F'rom a reprehensible
delicacy, Inez had refrained from reveal-
ing to her husbarul the innocent hoax
played off upon him and Gomeo. The
decease of a relative at a considerable
distance from Madrid, called her from
lionie on the fourth day of her marria£;e ;
and it was arranged that, some immediate
business transacted, Alvarez should follow
her on the succeeding day.

The student, on the evening prior to
his departure, was thoughtfully sitting,
gazing on some exquisite pieces by
Alnrillo and Velasquez, theluxury of whose
liandiwork he was about to forego for an
uncertain sojourn in ihe country, when
his valet announced die arrival of Gomeo,
who entered the apartnif^ut, and who, but
for such aforesaid announcen.ent, would
have been as utterly unknown to Alvarez
as the veriest stranger. Sixteen days had
hardly transpired since the student had
last beheld him — stout, florid, and mus-
cular— the sanguine and desperateGomeo,
the mattadore or bull-fighter of Madrid ;
and now the only vestige whereby could
be recognized the fearless man, was his
voice ! Emaciated, haogard, blighted,
grown old in the interim, stood Gomeo
de Santerros, and with his phrenzied eye
fixed on Alvarez, he addressed him as
follows : —

** Aye, you may wonder, Alvarez, to
beiiold me thus ; but I am doomed to
death to-morrow ! — I come to convince
you of your cursed heresy as regards the
doctrine of destiny, before I leave this
world. Know, then, that since that cala-
mitous evening I have rested not — my
life has been a perpetual fever, which
has consumed my flesh. Last night I
dreamed that the fated hour had arrived,
— to wit, the splendid bull-fight which is
to take place to morrow, — and that I
stood before my old enemy, which proved
to be a black bull, for the first tiuie in my
life, with trembling. He made some
tlesperate rushes at me, which were but
iamely evaded ; until at last, as I was
advancing with the bare instrument of
death pointed at him, lie made a precipi-
tate leap uncontemplated by me, and,
passing his horns through my ribs, tossed
me aloft in the air, and I fell at the feet
of the identical girl who pointed out my
doom ! In the agonies of death, with

every bone crushed and mutilated, I
gazed up to her, and beheld on her
countenance the same devflish laugh with
which she foretold my end! I awoke in
horror, dressed myself, and without suf-
fering a morsel of food to pass my parched
lips, f sought the cottage, where, Alvarez,
we strolled lo on that momentous even-
ing. I asked the goatherd's wife if she
knew and could direct me to any of lur
guests of that day, so that some word of
comfort might mitigate the intolerable
agony of existence. She knew but one of
them, and liiat, oh! unbelieving Alvarez!
was Inez de Lavedoz, now thy wife 1
Her becoming so has rendered valid the
prophecy as regards thyself and I ! — to-
morrow will bring u ith it my last hour :
I am commanded to combat the bull at
the grand fight in honour of the English
nation. It would be folly in me to at-
tempt to evade the battle — it is destiny !"

*' Wretched Gomeo !" said the asto-
nished Alvarez, as he held up the lamp,
the light of which flashed on the despair-
struck linenments of the unhappy matta-
dore ; " you are next to mad ! Alas !
what can I do to alleviate your misery ?
My wife is at some leagues' distance
from Madrid, whither I must, on the
morrow, follow her : here, take this purse,
and, ere it be midnight, commence your
flight from the capital, never to return to
it, — retire to Segovia, resun^e your agri-
cultural pursuits, and be iiappy !"

Gomeo, pursing his lips into an ex-
pression of fanatical contempt, thrust from
him the extended hand of Alvarez, which
held the purse containing the proffered
assistance. He stood with his eyes stu-
pidly fixed upon him for a moment, and
then, suddenly relaxing into tears, he
embraced Alvarez, and rushed out of the
apartment.

The student was overwhelmed with
grief and perplexity. To tarry in Ma-
drid till the bull-fight took place was
impossible j as the necessity to follow his
wife, starting by day-break, was impera-
tive. He half resolved to go in search
of the mattadore, and attempt, with more
collecteil arguments, to disarm him of his
terror — but time pressed : the prepara-
tions for his journey, scholar-like, had
been procrastinated to the latest hour :
thus he had no alternative but that of
leaving the miserable f;.ita!ist to the forlorn
forebodings of his diseased imagination.
K 2

68

TALKS 01' CHIVALRY; OR,

Three hours after siinri'^e, on ihe
morrow, the hroad streets of the cnpital
were crowded with gay multitudes hur-
rying to the bull- fight, which was to be
in the magnificent square of the Placs
Mayor, the area and iiouses of which
were covered with spectators to witness
the warfare. Every thing wore the ap-
pearance of joyous exultation at this some-
what gladiatorial festival in honour of
** the great English," The time drew
very near to the anxiously expected mo-
ment, and the bull was at length let
loose, when — wo to the mattadore ! — it
proved to be a black one ! After every
device for irritating the savage animal
had been exhausted, and his mounted
assailers had become weary of the lengih
and fatigue of the equivocal sport, the
introduction of the mattadore — prepara-
tory to the last scene — took place ; and
the thousands of eyes bent on the
arena of the conflict, beheld in the midst
of it, dressed in the most s[)lendid and
costly manner, Gomeo de Santerros, the
celebrated mattadore ; but so changed was
he in bulk and features, as to be scarcely
recognizable : he looked but the phantom
of his former self, and the richness of his
robes seemed but to mock his miserable
depression. The spectators near him
noticed, also, that he shook violently ;
and it was generally observed that his
escapes from the infuriated animal were
most awkwardly made, insomuch that he
narrowly escaped being gored on one or
two occasions. The finish of the sangui-
nary spectacle, by the sacrifice of the
bull, was now decreed ; and Gomeo,
casting aside the scarlet mantle which he
bad used to irritate his formidable oppo-
nent, drew forth his naked weapon,
similar to a stiletto, and approached the
bull with the point directed to iiis most
vulnerable part. At this breathless junc-
ture tlie countenance of the infatuated
mattadore assumed a deatlily sallowness,
and his frame quivered with terror, so
that he lost all command of his weapon,
and making a false thrust at the bull, he
missed his point, — the animal rushed
forwards, and he fell amongst the horri-
fied spectators, a disembowelled corpse !
— Thus was the unfortunate mattadore a
victim, — not to the caprice of destiny,
but to his own wayward belief in its in-
scrutable awards.

PERILS OF THE SOLWAY.

The Sol way is well known to be a bay
which deeply indents the west side of our
island, between the coimty of Cumberland
on the one side, and those of Dumfries
and Kukcudbiight on the other. I'his is
a remarkable arm of the sea, as its waters,
owing to the great shallowness of the
channel, recede, at every ebb of the tide,
for not much less than forty miles, leaving
a waste of sand of about that length, and
eight miles at an average in breadth.
Through this far-s{)reading tract, the
channels of various rivers, as the Eden,
the Esk, the Kirtle, the Annan, and the
Nith, are coji'inued fiom the land part of
their courses, forming, with some large
pools, the only conspicuous features by
which the uniformity of the surface is
broken. When tiie tide is in ebb, and
the sands are left dry, it is possible to ride
or walk over them without danger; but
when there is any water on the surface,
however little, the sands are apt to give
way beneath the feet, and allow those
who may be upon tliem to sink into a
stratum of soft marl or clay which lies
beneath, and from which it is scarcely
possible to extricate one's-self. In many
places, the sands are much thinner than in
others, and these thin places are continu-
ally shifting with the tide ; so that it is
not easy for any but the most experienced
persons to avoid them. When any one
is so unfortunate as to get upon a place
which allows him to sink into the marl, he
usually finds it quite impossible to extricate
himself, but sinks deeper and deeper every
moment, till, after beating for some time
the surface of the water with his extended
arms, his head becomes immersed, and
he dies by suflfocation. Horsemen, find-
ing themselves on a cjuicksand, have a
chance of escaping by putting their steeds
to full speed — in which case the sand does
not open quickly enough to retard the
animal's feet. Having companions also
affords a chance of escape in case of
danger. The usual plan of rescue for a
sinking friend, is to tread him out — which
is thus performed : a layer of straw or
brushwood is laid round him, or if nothing
better is at hand, a greatcoat or twoj
upon this some person must tread nimblj^
either in a circle or backward and for-
ward, and the ground, being pressed by
the weight, will gradually squeeze up
the sinking man till he can get on the

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

63

artificial stratum, when both must run for
their hves.

Owing^ to the shallowness of the SoUvay,
it is scarcely a fit place for the ferry com-
munication, even at high tide; at low-
tide, on the other hand, the sands are
open to travellers, but are known to be
danj^erous. Yet for fifteen miles from
the head of the estuary, it is quite com-
mon fur travellers to take the latter mode
of crossing between Cumberland and
Dumfriesshire, especially in clear weather,
and when the tide has chanced to recede
during daylight. The only alternative is
to go round by the bridges on the Eden
and Esk, which, in some instances, im-
plies an addition of between twenty and
thirty miles to the length of what might
otherwise be a short journey. When we
consider the general disinclination to
roundabout ways, it is not surprising that
the sands are so much travelled, even
although we have not yet reckoned up all
the perils of the passage. The tide, as
might be expected, makes very rapidly in
a channel so extremely shallow. Even in
clear weather, and in otherv^ise favourable
circumstances, this is a source of great
danger ; but when the wind blows strong
from the west, the sea comes with more
than its usual rapidity, and usually in one
lofty wave, like a wall. The swiftest
horse is then unable to bear oflT the tra-
veller. A reminiscence, communicated
by the late Dr. Currie to the editor of the
Border Minstrelsy, may be quoted with
reference to this danger. "I once," says
he, " in my early days, heard (for it was
night, and' I could not see) a traveller
drowning in the Firth of Solway. The
influx of the tide had unhorsed him, in the
night, as he was passing the sands from
Cumberland. The west wind blew a
tempest, and, according to the common
expression, brought in the water three
foot ah-east. The traveller got upon a
standing net, a little way from the shore.
There he lashed himself to the post, shout-
ing for half an hour for assistance — till the
tide rose over his head ! In the darkness
of the night, and amid the pauses of the
hurricane, his voice, heard at intervals,
was exquisitely mournful. No one could
go to his assistance — no one knew where
he was — the sound seemed to proceed
from the spirit of the waters. But morn-
ing rose — the tide had ebbed — and the
poor traveller was found lushed to the

pole of the net, and bleaching i.i the
wind."

The following anecdote also commu-
nicates a slriking idea of the dangers of
the journey across Solway Sands : — In the
month of February, 1825, a party, consist-
ing of thirtv well-mounted Dumfriesians,
who had been at the horse fair of Wigton
in Cumberland, and wished iuthe evening
to return, resolved to do so by an estab-
lished route across the sands between the
fishing town of Bowness, and a point at
Whiunyrigg near Annan, the breadth of
the waste being there above two miles.
They left B jwness about nine at night,
accompanied, as is usual, by a guide : the
night was calm, clear, and starry. *' No
thought of danger occurred to them," says
a chronicle of the day, " until they had
proceeded nearly a mile on their way, and
were about to ford the united waters of
the Esk and Eden. And here a thick
mist obscured the sky, and gradually be-
came so dense and opaque, that they
literally knew not which way they were
moving, and could scarcely see a yard
before them. On getting througli the
water, the party halted, and held a hasty
council of war ; but their opinions were
various and jarring in the extreme. While
some were for putting to the right-about,
others were for pushing straight forward ;
but these words had lost their meaning,
as no one could tell how the direct path
lay, whether he was bound for England
or Scotland. Amidst their bewilderment,
many would not believe that they had
crossed the Esk, and plunged and re-
plunged into the bed of the river, some
going up, others down, and describing
over and over again the same narrow
circle of ground. In this emergency,
Mr. Thomas Johnston, Thorny waite, and
Mr. Hetherington, Lochmaben, kept
closely together, and by recollecting that
the water runs from east to west, and
observing how the foam fell from their
horses' feet, they rightly conceived how
the shore lay, and moved on in the direc-
tion of Annan. But this clue was soon
lost, and after wandering about for nearly
an hour, they appeared to be just as far
from their object as ever. At every little
interval, they paused to listen to the in-
cessant cries, of distress and encourage-
ment, that reached the ear in all direc-
tions— from England, Scotland, the middle
of the Firth — from every point, in short,

70

TALES OF CHIVALRY J OR,

of the compass. But where there was no
system whatever in the signals, the stoutest
callers only seemed to lie mocked by the
mournful echoings of their own voices.
Amidst this confusion, horns were sounded
from the Bowness side, and anon the
solemn peals of a church bell added not a
little to the interest of a scene which,
abstracting from its danger, was truly
impressive, if not sublime. The rising
tide was gradually narrowing tiie dry land ;
and should it come roaring up two feet
abreast before they escapf'd from their
present perils, where was the power on
earth that could save them ? The two
individuals named above, after pushing on
quite at random, fortunately rejoined nine
of their companions. And now the joyful
cry was raised that they had found a guide
in the person of Mr. Brough, of Wliinny-
rigg, who, hearing their cries, and know-
ing their danger, had, even at the risk of
his ovin life, traversed the sands in the
hope of being useful. But greatly as they
rejoiced at his presence, the danger was
not yet over. In a little time even the
generous guide got bewildered, and lite-
rally knew not which hand to turn to.
Stil'l his advice was that the tide was
coming — that they had not a moment to
lose — that every thing depended on de-
cision and speed. At times he dismounted
and groped about until he came to some
object or spot of ground which he fancied
he knew, and then galloped off" at full
speed to some other point, and by reckon-
ing the time it required to get thither,
anil repeating the experiment eight or
ten times, he succeeded in rescuing four-
teen fellow-creatures from the imminent
dnnger in which they were placed. A
friend reports, that when wholly at a loss
wiiat to do, he accidentally stumbled over
the trunk of a tree, which some former
flood had left indented in the sand, and
that, by accurately examining the position
of an object he had frequently seen in day-
light, he knew at once the bearings of the
coast, and thus facilitated the almost mi-
raculous escape of the party. Be this as
it may, his presence was of the greatest
possible use ; his local knowledge in-
spired a confidence that was previously
wanting ; and, as the event proved, every
thing depended on the decision and sj)eed
he so strictly enjoined. Though, under
ordinary circumstances, twenty minutes
may suffice to trot across the sands, nearly

three hours had been c()nsumed in zig-
zagging to and fro ; and within a quarter
of an hour or less from the time the party
touched the beach, the tide ascended with
a degree of force which must soon have
proved fatal to the boldest rider, and the
stoiitest horse which the treacherous
Solway ever ensnared. Tlie fog that
occasioned all the danger, was one of the
densest ever known. We should here
mention the meritorious conduct of Mr.
Lewis Bell, residing near Dornock, and
two other farmers, whose names we have
not heard. By crossing a few minutes
earlier, these individuals had weathered
the mist ; but on hearing repeated cries
of distress, they very humanely retraced
their steps, and jijined the wanderers on
the Scotcli side, much about the same
time as Mr. Brough. But, in place of
guiding, they required to be guided, and
actually shared all the perils of those to
whose assistance they had so promptly
hastened.

And l>ere we must return to the other
half of the travellers, who, after the hasty
council of war, replunged through the
river with the view of returning to the
village of Bowness. The guide was
amongst them, but what with the ringing
of bells, the blowing of horns, and the
shouts of distress that were every where
raised, he became, it is said, as deaf as a
post, and the most bewildered man of the
whole. Different routes were tried and
abandoned ; and so little was known of
their real situation, that some of them
followed as closely the course of the
stream as if they had been anxious to
meet, rather than flee from, the coming
tide. But the church bell at last proved
a sort of beacon ; and after different per-
sons had ventured with lights to the
river's edge, the whole party were attract-
ed to the spot, and conveyed to a com-
fortable home for the night.

CAPTURE OF A SPANISH SLAVE-BRIG.

Mr. Leonard, in his records of a voyage
to the western coast of Africa, gives the
following description of slavery and the
ships employed.

*' The tender had only two guns mount-
ed, eighteen-pounders, and forty-four
men. The action was most gallantly
contested, and, taking place during the
nigiit in calm weather, when each vessel

PERILS BY FLOOD AXD FIELD.

71

was obliged to use her sweeps, lasted for
several hours. Tlie Spaniard did every
thing in his power to escape, until a light
breeze sprang up, when, finding the
tender gained upon him, he shortened
sail, and prepared to defend his vessel to
the utmost ; and the action only termi-
nated by running the tender alongside,
boarding, and taking possession of him.
The tender lost one man, and had six
wounded, among whom was her resolute
and excellent commander, lieutenant Wil-
liam Ramsay. The prize had fifteen of
her crew killed, four desperately wound-
ed, and several slightly ; and, I regret to
say, there were also unfortunately two of ,
the slaves killed, and a few wounded, by j
the shot from the capturing vessel, and '
the cutlasses of the boarders in the
scuffle.

*♦**»♦

When our brave fellows got on board,
and the decks wer« cleared, which was
but the work of a moment, the scene of
misery which presented itself, was truly
heart-rending. Ihe inhuman crew (among
whom, I regret to say, were several
Englishmen) were not to be pitied, but
tlieir wounded received every assistance
from Mr. Douglas, the medical otKcer of
the tender. It was their victims, the
poor helpless slaves, that demanded the
commisserafnn and the fullest exertion of
the humanity of the captors. It has been
said, lliat during the action two of them
were killed, and several wounded : and,
when we consider the mass of human
beings on board, so small a number is
truly surprising. Crowded to excess
below — frightened by the cannonading —
without water to drink, the allowance of
which is at all times scanty — and almost
without air during the whole of the
engagement, — death had already begun
to make frightful ravages among them.
In two days from the period of capture,
thirty of tliem had paid the debt of nature.
One hundred and seven were placed in
the wretched hole called an hospital, at
Fernando Po, where every day still added
one or two to the fatal list, from privation,
terror, and mental afHiction. The rest,
little able to undertake the voyage, were
sent, under the snperintendance of Mr.
Bosanquet, mate of the tender, to Sierra
Leone in the prize, for adjudication in the
court of mixed commission there. Im-
mediately after the vessel was secured,

the living were found sitting on the heads
and bodies of the dead and dying below.
Witnessing their distress, the captors
poured a large quantity of water into a
tub, for them to drink out of; but, being
unused to such generosity, they merely
imagined that their usual scanty daily
allowance of half-a-pint per man was
about to be served out ; and when given
to understand that they might take as
much of it, and as often as they felt in-
clined, they seemed astonished, and rush-
ed in a body, with headlong eao^erness,
to dip their parched and feverish tongues
into the refreshing liquid. Their heads
became wedged in the tub, and were
with some difficulty got out — not until
several were nearly suflfbcated in its con-
tents. The drops that fell on the deck
were lapped and sucked up with a most
frightful eagerness. Jugs were also ob-
tained, and the water handed round to
them ; and in their precipitation and anx-
iety to obtain relief from the burning
thirst which gnawed their vitals, they
madly bit the vessels with their teeth,
and champed them into atoms. Then, to
see the look of gratification — the breath-
less unwillingness to pait with the vessel
from which, by their glistening eyes, they
seemed to have drawn such exquisite en-
joyment ! Only half satisfied, they clung
to it, though empty, as if it were more
dear to them, and had afforded them more
earthly bliss, than all the nearest and
dearest ties of kindred and affection. It
was a picture of such utter misery from
a natural want, more distressing than any
one can conceive who has not \\itnessed
the horrors attendant on the slave-trade
on the coast of Africa, or who has not
felt, for many years, the cravings of a
burning thirst under a tropical sun. On
their way ashore to this island from the
prize — their thirst still unquenched — they
lapped the salt water from the boat's side.
The sea to them was new ; until they
tasted of its bitterness, they, no doubt,
looked upon it as one of their own ex-
tensive fresh-water streams, in which they
were wont to bathe, or drink with unre-
strained freedom and enjoyment. Be-
fore they were landed, many of the Afri-
cans already liberated at this settlement,
went on board to see them, and found
among them several of their friends and
relations."

72

TALES OF CHIVALRY . OR,

A DOLPHIN CHASE.

Shortly after observing the cluster of
flying-tish rise out of the water, we dis-
covered two or three dolphins ranging past
the ship in all their beauty, and watched
with some anxiety to see one of these
aquatic chases, of which our friends, the
Indianien, had been telling us siuch won-
derful stories. We had not long to wait j
for the ship, in her progress through the
water, soon put up another shoal of ihese
little things, which, as the otheis had done,
took their flight directly to windward.
A large dolphin, which had been keeping
con)pany with us abreast of the weather-
gangway at the depth of two or three
fathoms, and, as usual, glistening most
beautifully in. the sun, no sooner detected
our poor dear little friends take wing,
than he turned his head towards them,
and, darting to the surface, leaped from
the water with a velocity little short, as it
seemed, of a cannon-ball. But although
the impetus with which he shot hiuiself
into the air, gave him an initial velocity
greatly exceeding (hat of the flying-fish,
tile start v\hich his fated prey had got
enabled Ihem to keep a-head of him for a
considerable time. The length of the
dolphin's first spring could nut be less
than ten yards ; and after he fell we could
see him gliding like lightning through the
water for a moment, when he again rose
and shot forwards with considerably
greater velocity than at first, and, of course,
to a still greater distance. In this manner
the merciless pursuer seemed to stride
along the sea with fearful rapidity, while
his brilliant coat sparkled and flashed in
the sun quite sjjlendidly. As he fell
headlong on the water at the end of each
huge leap, a series of circles were sent far
over the still surface, which lay as smooth
as a mirror ; for the breeze, although
enough to set the royals and top-gallant
studding-sails asleep, was hardly as yet
felt below. The group of wretched flying-
fish, thus hotly pursued, at length dropped
into the sea ; but we were rejoiced to
observe that they merely touched the top
of the swell, and scarcely sunk in it ; at
least they instantly set off again in a fresh
and more vigorous flight. It was par-
ticularly interesting to observe that the
direction they now took was quite different
from the one in which they had set out,
implying but too obviousl}.' that they had
detected their fierce enemy, who was fol-

lowing them with giant steps along the
waves, and now gaining rapidly upon
them. His terrific pace, indeed, was tw o
or three times as swift as theirs — poor
little things ! The greedy dolphin, how-
ever, was fully as quick-sighted as the
flying-fish which were trying to elude
him ; for whenever they varied their flight
in the smallest degree, he lost not the
tenth part of a second in shaping a new
course, so as to cut off the chase, while
they, in a manner really not unlike that of
a hair, doubled more than once upon their
pursuer. But it was soon too plainly to
be seen, that the strength and confidence
of the flying- fish were fast ebbing. Their
flights became shorter and shorter, and
their course more fluttering and uncer-
tain, while the enormous leaps of the
dolphin a})peared to grow on!}' moie
vigorous at each bound. Eventually, in-
deed, we could see, or fancied we could
see, that this skilful sea-sportsman ar-
ranged all his springs with such an assur-
ance of success, that he contrived to fall,
at the end of each, just under the very
spot on which the exhausted flying- fish
were about to drop ! Sometimes this
catastr(!phe took place at too great a dis-
tance for us to see from the deck exactly
what hajipened ; but on our mounting
high into the rigging, we may have been
said to have been in at the death; for
then we could discover that the unfortunate
little creatures, one after another, either
popped right into the dolphin's jaws as
tliey lighted on the water, or were snapped
up instantly afterwards.

NOTION OF HONOUR.

M. (le Vaiiban once sent a common
soldier to examine the outposts of the
enemy. The n)an cheerfully obeyed the
order, and though exposed to a sharp fire,
remained until he received a ball in his
bodv. He returned to make his report
with a calm air and aspect, although die
blood was streaming from his wound.
Vauban praised his courage, and offered
him money, which the soldier refused.
" No, general," said he, " it would spoil
the credit of the action."

A DISSATISFIED NATION.

The author of Gil Bias says, the English
** are the most unhappy people on the
earth — with liberty, and properly, and
three meals a day."

PERILS ny FLOOD AND FIF.LF).

73

LAUTREC THE PAINTER ;

A PBOVENCAD LEGEND.

If nature had given to count Laurent
Clievillion a rough and unprepossessing
exterior, she had, at the same time,
moulded his disposition to fit it for a form
which it was impossible to beheve could
belong to an~ amiable or virtuous being.
His stature was large and commanding;
his legs muscular, but ill-shaped ; his chest
ample; and the lineaments of his coun-
tenance, at least such as were visible
through a thick beard and moustachios
of raven blackness, at once forbidding
and repulsive. His disposition was sul-
len, morose and sanguinary, and but
few of his neighbours ventured to be
upon terms of intimacy with him. His
conduct towards his dependants was arbi-
trary and cruel ; to offend him was to
provoke inevitable destruction, and only
the most reckless and desperate were to
be found among his household.

Clievillion was, in fact, the most un-
amiable noble in all Provence, and happy
it was for tliose who lived near his estate,
that his time was chiefly occupied in the

VOL II. — 10.

Page 75.

chase — a recreation he seemed to prefer
to all others. If, however, there was one
being who could mollify the heart of the
fierce count, it was his daughter, his only-
child, — as fair a maid as ever formed the
subject of the countless lays for which her
country has been so famed. But the
beauty of the lady Isaura was not her
only attraction ; as if to perfect the con-
trast, her disposition was as gentle and
amiable as lier father's was harsh and
cruel ; and it was a matter of astonish-
ment to all that a being so mild and good
could be the daughter of one of such
opposite qualities. Carefully watched by
the jealous eye of her father, who had
been left a widower upwards of five years,
and who doated on his child, though he
appeared to sympathise with no other
earthly being, the lady Isaura rarely left
the chateau, and when she did quit it for
a time, it was always in company with
her stern parent. A circumstance, how-
ever, occurred that tended to relieve the
monotonous life she was leading. It
chanced that as tlie count was one day
abroad on a hunting excursion, he met,
in one of the romantic dells on his estate,

L

74

TAT.es of CniVAI.RY : OR,

with a young artist, vvlio was so busily
engao:ed in making a sketch of the sur-
rounding scenery, that he did not observe
the approach of the count, until Clievil-
lion rode up to the spot where he sat.
Startled at his unlooked-for appearance,
and taking his visitor for a person of
title, the young man sprung to his feet,
and saluted the count with a profound
obeisance. The haughty noble returned
the salute, and enquired the name of the
young artist.

" My name," said the ycuth, " is Lau-
trec du Biez ; Geneva is my native
city, but 1 longed to see the land of
which so much has been said and sung in
times gone by."

*' You are a cunning limner," observed
the count, looking at the sketch in pro-
gress. *♦ Have you much skill in por-
traiture ? I would shew thee a fair sub-
ject for thy pencil at my chateau which
thou see'st yonder."

" You may command me, my lord,"
replied the artist, "and I will do my
poor endeavour to please you ; but I
must to Avignon to-night — to-morrow I
shall be proud to wait on you."

" Be it so, tiien," said the count, turn-
ing his horse's head, ** I shall expect you
by mid-day."

The youth bowed, and Chevillion,
widi a grim smde, which he intended
should be conciliating, rode off to join his
attendants, who were waiting at some
distance, leaving the young artist over-
joyed at the prospect of a lucrative engage-
ment with, and the patronage of, a man
of such consequence.

At noon on the following day, Lautrec
arrived at the chateau, a gloomy struc-
ture, erected in the twelfth century, but
repaired and modernized in after ages.
Its base was washed by the rapid waters of
the Rhone, and a deep fosse surrounded the
whole building, which was partly covered
by ivy, the growth of many years. The
young painter paused for a moment on
the drawbridge, to indulge his love of the
picturesque, and then entered by the
larg^e Gothic gate, in which the huge port-
cullis grinned like a row of gigantic teeth.

** Ah me !" sighed the youth, as he
reached the court-yard, in which little
was seen to attract the attention of the
visitor, " the days of song and romance
are gone, and in this dull chateau, which
perhaps once echoed to the strains of

Brulez or Jacques de Chison, naught now
is heard but the blastof its lord's Imnting-
horn."

'* And what then !" said a voice near
him ; *' wouldst thou quarrel with that,
monsieur !"

Lautrec turned quickly round, and be-
held a square-built man, whose physiog-
nomy was the very reverse of prepossess-
ing. His swarthy complexion, hooked
nose, and coarse features, added to a
disagreeable squint, gave to his counten-
ance a most sinister expression. The
painter at first recoiled from this omi-
nous looking personage, who was no
other than the count's huntsman, Gau-
bert ; but, judging it prudent to dissem-
ble a little, tfiough he could ill conceal the
disgust he felt, he enquired for the count.

" You will find him in the second
chamber of that tower," said Gaubert j
" he bade me send you thither."

Lautrec was about to proceed there,
when the huntsman, seizing his arm in a
familiar manner, continued —

" Harkee, monsieur, no talking of
Trouveres and love ditties — my master
likes them not ; our music, as thou saidst
but now, is of a rougher fashion."

He was proceeding in the same strain
when Lautrec, disengaging his arm,
bounded across the court-yard, and as-
cended the stairs of the turret to vvhicli the
huntsman had pointed. Here he found
the count sitting in a large high-backed
arm-chair, and playing with a hawk
which was perched on his hand.

*' You are punctual," said Chevillion ;
" I love the man who respects the time of
others. Beshrew me, you are tirmly built,
and would make a proper man-at-arms."

The count spoke truly : Lautrec was
indeed a comely figure ; his height ex-
ceeded that of most men, and his broad,
though well made shoulders, attested his
great bodily strength ; yet such was the
symmetry of his frame, that the most
scrupulous could not characterize it as
rough or clownish ; whilst his counten-
ance, expressive of frankness and good
temper, had in it a slight dash of hauteur,
which added to the dignity of his appear-
ance. The young painter blushed deeply
on hearing himself thus flattered by the
count, who enquired why he had adopted
such a profession ?

'* I had ever a love for the arts, my
lord," said, Lautrec ; *' and in happier

PERILS BY FLOOD AXD FIELD.

75

days it proved my greatest pleasure.
My father fell in the service of the
prince of Conde, in whose cause lie had
expended the whole of his patrimony."

**I should have chosen a more stir-
ring employment," said Chevillon, *' an'
I had thy frame ; but, fall ! you are right ;
your man of valour now fighteth for j-cais
and gashes only, since your roystering
Rutter or Lanznecht migiit be had to cut
throats at per guilder. Follow me,
young man ; I will shew thee this rare
piece of workmanship, of which I would
fain see thy representation."

He rose from his seat, and opening a
door, passed through a long passage, and
arriving at another, struck on it with his
knuckles. A waiting-woman appeared
and admitted the count, who beckoned
Lautrec to follow him into the room.
Here sat a young female, whose dress
and mien proclaimed her rank : she was
busily engaged with her women in em-
broidering a piece of tapestry, but rose
on the entrance of her father, and offered
her cheek, which the count brushed with
his huge moustaches, and turning to Lau-
trec, introduced him to his fair daughter.
It was arranged that the beautiful Isaura
should sit for her portrait on the follow-
ing day, and Lautrec, until the evening
came, found in the count's library
abundant amusement.

The young painter rose early the next
morning, and betook himself to a romantic
spot in the neighbourhood, which he
began to sketch, when he was startled at a
voice behind him : hastily turning round,
his eye fell on the burly figure and ominous
physiognomy of Gaubert, who, grinning
a ghastly smile, gave him " good morrow."
Lautrec returned the salute with a slight
inclination of the head, and continued to
work at his sketch; but the huntsman
would not be foiled.

*' \Vhy, how now ?" he cried — " your's
is a cold greeting, monsieur. 'S'death I
you do not hold yourself too high for me,
who am the count's huntsman."

The bullying tone with which this was
uttered somewhat disconcerted Lautrec.
He dreaded a quarrel with such a rutfian,
merely because he was a sen-ant of the
count's, who might take it ill, while at the
same time he wished to shew the intruder
that he could not insult him with im-
punity : he therefore replied, carelessly —

'* 1 came not here to meet acquaint.

ances, good fellow, and 1 would wish now
to be alone."

*' Mass !" exclaimed the enraged Gau-
bert, •* dost thou felloic me ! Know that
I esteem myself a better man than thee
and thy whole tribe, who are a race of
thieves "

He was proceeding in this strain when
the painter interrupted him.

** Insolent hireling !" said he, his blood
rising at this insult, *' get thee gone
from my sight, or [ may forget thy basa
birth, and punish thee for thy daring !"

The huntsman champed his teeth with
fury on hearing these words ; he paused
for a moment, and then unsheathed his
hanger.

" Look to thyself," he cried, rushing
towards Lautrec ; " draw, boy, and take
thy last look at sun and sky." And
suiting the action to the word, he struck
at the painter with all his force.

Lautrec had not time to unsheath his
weapon, but, stepping lightly on one side,
he avoided the blow, and, ere the hunts-
man had recoverecl himself, he closed
witli him, threw him violently to the
ground, and wrenched the hanger from
his grasp. Had the painter been merely
a spectator, instead of an actor, in this
scene, he might have been furnished with
an excellent subject for his pencil. The
figures in the ancient paintings of Saint
Michael and his enemy, the Arch-tiend,
present not a more perfect contrast to
each other, than did Lautrec and his
brutal adversary. Gaubert lay foaming
with rage beneath the fuot of his victor,
vi'hose elegant figure, noble countenance,
and long auburn hair, served to make the
burly frame, uncouth visage, and black
curly locks of the huntsman, appear to
more disadvantage. Gaubert struggled
hard to rise, but the foot of the painter
prevented it, and perceiving him endea-
vour to reach the hilt of his dagger, Lau-
trec, for the first time, unsheathed his
sword.

" Minion !" cried he, " desist ! If thou
oflTerest any shew of resistance, I will
smite off thy right hand."

" Let me rise, then — take thy foot
from my throat," growled the huntsman.

" Swear," replied his antagonist, " that
thou wilt cease to molest me, or, by
heaven, I will stab tliee as thou liest !"

As he uttered this threat, he brought
the point of his sword in contact with the

7^

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

prostrate ruffian's throat. Gaubert gnasli-
ed his teeLli with rage, but the naked wea-
pon of his adversary gleamed before his
eyes, and he reluctantly took the oatli
required of him. The young painter
suffered him to rise, and the huntsman,
recovering his legs, shook himself, picked
up his hanger, which had in the struggle
flown some paces from the spot, sheathed
it, and plunged into a neighbouring brake
to hide his shame, muttering, as he went,
curses upon the youth by whom he had
been so roughly handled. Lautrec, much
chagrined at this rencontre, returned to
the chateau immediately, and shortly after
commenced tlie portrait of the lady
Isaura.

Reader, if thou hast ever sketched the
features of a beautiful woman, thou wilt
readily imagine the emotion of the young
painter when tracing the likeness of one
of the fairest maidens in France. Lau-
trec had painted the peasant beauties of
Italy and his own country, and not a few
dames of quality, but Isaura was the
realization of his fondest dreams— he had
never beheld a face and figure at once so
beautiful and winning. He pursued his
delightful task, wondered and loved, with-
out dreaming for a moment of the danger
of encouraging his passion. A life so
secluded, with so few opportunities of ob-
serving the youth of her country, exposed
Isaura to the same danger ; she began by
admiring the personal comeliness of the
painter, and ended w here hearts as young
and as susceptible as her own, are sure to
end. A few days' intercourse ripened
their mutual regard into love.

The completion of the portrait was, of
course, delayed, — the work of one day
was obliterated the next, and excuses
were not wanting. Love not only makes
lovers blind to the faults of each other,
but renders them insensible to the ap-
proach of danger. Our fond couple had
quickly cultivated an acquaintance, and
dreamt that it was unknown to all but
themselves. But they erred. Lautrec's
enemy, the vvily and malignant rutiian
Gaubert, had watched him narrowly, and
waited but for an opportunity to crush him.
He had, through the treachery of one of
the lady Isaura's maids, become acquaint-
ed with their evening meetings in a small
apartment which the count seldom enter-
ed j and one morning, as Chevillion rode
out to the chase, he threw out some hints

for his master's ear, which the count heard
in silence, but appeared not to notice.
Gaubert was, therefore, agreeably sur-
prised when, about mid-day the countleapt
from his horse, and sitting down on the
fragment of a broken column, by the side
of a small spring, desired him to be more
explicit.

" Gaubert," said he, *' I would fain
hear more of this j think'st thou this
painter loves — pshaw ! I would say, dares
to "

" Dares !" interrupted the liuntsman,
"what will not such as he dare, my lord?
The prize is worth some ri*k, and "

"Villain !" cried Chevillion, starting on
his feet, and clutching his sword.

" I am your vassal, my lord," replied
Gaubert, " and you may sacrifice me in
your anger, but I have done my duty ; I
say your house is dishonoured by this
beggar painter."

The count uttered a volley of impreca-
tions against the young painter, wlien he
was again interrupted by the huntsman.

" My lord," said the vvily villain, "com-
mand but this arm, and the cause of your
anger shall not look upon to-morrow's
sun."

" Thou art a fool," said the count, " he
would prove thy master: I must deal with
him mjself;" (Gaubert shrugged his
shoulders, and gulped the rebuke, bitter as
it was, for it reminded him of the morn-
ing's scufHe,) " call together my people,
and proceed liomeward."

As they returned to the chateau, the
huntsman took care to possess his master
with all that had come to his knowledge
respecting the lovers ; and the count, after
dispatching a hasty meal, retired to his
private ro(mi, resolving to wait the ap-
pointed time, and be himself a witness of
the tiuth of what he l^ad heard from
Gaubert.

Iwening came, and with it the hour at
which the lovers usually met. Chevillion,
swallowing a large goblet of wine, pro-
ceeded to the apartment, and stationed
liimself at the door, listening attentively.

He heard voices in earnest conversation,
but HI an inaudible tone, and he doubted
not but that the guilty pair had met; yet
he resolved to wait and receive confirma-
tion, lest he might be deceived, and create
an alarm ere he had sufficient evidence.
The sound ceased for awhile — was re-
newed— and some one approached the

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

77

door. The count stepped aside — the door
opened, A flood of Hght which entered
at the laige window on the opposite side
of the apartment, streamed across the
gloomy corridor ; and ChevilUon, liis
vision distempered by rage, the sudden
burst of light, and the wine he had drank,
imagined that he saw his enemy emerge
from tile doorway, and leaping forward,
struck his dagger against the approaching
figure. But, oh ! liorror of horrors ! — the
faint and stifled shriek of a female smote
his startled ear, and his only child fell at
his feet bathed in blood. A cry as of
some wild animal in the agonies of death,
rung through the chateau, and the domes-
tics, hastening to the scene of blood, dis-
covered tlie wretched father gazing, with
the distorted eyes of a maniac, on the
lifeless form of his child, and still clutch-
ing the fatal weapon with which he had
destroyed her.

The count was with difficulty removed
to his chamber, where his paroxysms were
such, that nature yielded to their violence,
and, ere morning dawned, Laurent de
ChevilUon was numbered with his fathers.
Lautrec was never seen again, and his
fate was unknown until many years after-
wards, when a monk received the con-
fession of a criminal at Avignon, who was
sentenced to be broken on the wheel,
wherein the penitent stated, that he had
murdered the young painter on the even-
ing that the event we have recorded took
place, and that he had secretly interred the
body in a neighbouring wood. The pri-
soner was the huntsman Gaubert.

Reader, if thou wouldst desire more,
ask it of the murmuring waters of the
Rhone, which daily receive the moulder-
ing fragments of the ruined chateau de
ChevilUon ; or of the owl, that on its only
remaining turret, nightly sings the re-
quiem of its once proud owners.

THE POLISH REGALIA.

In the outskirts of the forest of Bia-
lowlez, one of those wild tiacks of wood-
land which are scattered over Lithuania,
stands a small cottage, apparently built
for a hunting-box, or temporary residence
during the season of the bear-chase ; but
several circumstances show that it has not
been of late years the mere resort of a
migratory visitant. A narrow strip of
ground has been cleared, though the soil
submits but sullenly to the innovation of

culture ; and, here and there, a few fruit-
trees have dispossessed the lords of the
forest of their ancient domain. The little
hermitage, however, is now fast verging
to decay ; and the weeds and bushes are
contending for possession of the patch of
ground.

The family circle which lately tenanted
the cottage, was one in which death
had made the most capricious, and, at
the same time, most extended devasta-
tion, having reduced it to two members
— a hoary-headed patriarch and a youth,
who, together with two or three serfs,
composed the whole household. The
old man's features were of that character
which speak of mind, and whose expres-
sion was too marked to be merely the
secondary formation of habit or circum-
stance ; while his white hair and bent
figure proved that he had weathered
many winters. Count Zaleski was the
title by which his serfs addressed him ;
but neither they nor the youth knew any
thing of his history. He called the boy-
Victor, and would sometimes add the
epithet, ** son ;" but on these occasions a
tear might always be seen stealing down
his wrinkled cheek, and he would after-
wards sit buried in thought for hours.

In the beginning of November, 1830,
the arrival of a horseman at the cottage,
and his hasty departure, after being
closeted v^'ith the count a short time,
excited much speculation in this little
society. Some weeks, however, passed
on in the usual " leaden-footed" mono-
tony : Zaleski made no communication
to Victor on the subject ; and, at length,
even the domestic's curiosity was fairly
tired out. Victor observed, or imagined
he observed, a considerable change in the
deportment of his venerable guardian :
new vigour seemed to be infused into his
languid veins ; and, ever and anon, the
flashes of former ardour would light
up his faded eye. But the boy was
obliged to content himself with con-
jecture as to the reason of this apparent
alteration, and llie object of the stranger's
visit. There were never any two persons
between whom there existed more unre-
strained intercourse, than Victor and his
aged relative ; all the frost of Zaleski's
manner melted away at a glimpse or a
sound of the boy ; but there were sub-
jects which were forbidden to be touched
on. Zaleski would sometimes ransack

78

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

all the stores of his well-furnished mind,
for the amusement or information of his
young companion — would often tell him
the glorious tales of Poland's ancient
annals, the deeds of war and chivalry
achieved by the Casimirs and Sobieskis ;
but, if questioned on the events which
had occurred in his own time, the old
man would convulsively draw his hand
across his brow and relapse into his
customary taciturnity.

Nearly a month had crept away since
the mysterious visit, and the little fiimily
had been one evening wiling away the
time with their usual avocations, Zaleski
musing, Victor reading ; the count was
even more absorbed in thought than in
general, when, after gazing intently at
the youth some minutes, as if fathoming
his very soul, he started from his seat ;
and, seizing an old sabre, which hung over
the fire-place, he drew it from the scab-
bard, and waved to the servants to leave
the apartment.

"Victor !" said the old man, in a loud
impassioned voice, " throw away your
books ; a more glorious page than those
w ill yet be added to Poland's history, and
we may have a share in it. This night,
I say, is the last of Russian despotism ;
perliaps the blow is already struck, and
Poland is free !"

Zaleski then explained to the astonish-
ed youth, that the stranger, whose visit
had' excited so much curiosity, was a
messenger from one of his friends at
Warsaw, who were acquainted with his
hermitage, bringing tidings of the con-
spiracy that was in active preparation to
shake off the Russian yoke. This niglit,
the glorious 29th of November, was the
time concerted for striking the blow ; and
by this hour," said Zaleski, " the stand-
ard of independence is waving on the
walls of Warsaw." The old man now,
for the first time, informed Victor of his
personal history ; the narrative, occasion-
ally broken by sighs and a few tears,
was to the following effect :

Count Zaleski was one of those patriotic
Polish nobles who fought so long and
valiantly against foreign oppression ; he
was aLithuanian by birth, of considerable
wealth, though his estates had now jiassed
into the possession of the Russians. He
had engaged heart and soul in the unfor-
tunate confederacy of Bar, and had stood
by the side of the gallant Kosciusko, in

the fatal field of Macieiowicz ; after which
he had shared the fate of his other brothers
in arms, being severed from his wife and
child, a boy of ten or twelve years old, and
dragged to the wilds of Siberia. On the
death of Catherine, in 17y<3, Paul, who
then ascended the Russian throne, pro-
claimed a general amnesty ; Zaleski was
restored to the arms of his wife and child,
and retired into an obscure nook of Li-
thuania, v\ilh the '.recks of his fortune, to
pine over the sad fate of his unfortunate
countr}^ and to bring up his boy to be an
avenger of its wrongs. Time rolled on,
and Zaleski saw himself the grandfather
of the little Victor. Shortly after his birth
the gigantic army of Napoleon marched to-
wards Moscow, to lay low the arch enemy
of Napoleon ; and the count and his son
were marshalled in its ranks. That awful
and ill-starred expedition bereaved Zaleski
of his child, and Victor of his father ;
grief leagued with war to thin this unfor-
tunate family; and the old man and the
infant were all that were left.

"Think not," said tlie count, with
energy, '* that the crown which has bound
the temples of a Boleslas, a Casimir, and
a Sobieski, has ever adorned the head of
a Nicholas. No, the glittering bauble
which, in the disgraceful pageant of last
year, was prostituted to the gratification
of a despot's pride, was as new as his hated
dynasty. The diadem of Poland shall
only grace the head of a Piast ! See T'
exclaimed Zaleski, as he drew forth a
small key which was suspended round his
neck, and throwing open a closet, raised
the floor, which was constructed so as to
form the lid of a large chest. The asto-
nished youth beheld five crowns, four
sceptres, three golden apples, t^vo chains
of gold, and a curiously wiought sword.

" Swear upon the cross of this holy
sword," said Zaleski, as he presented him
the sabre to kiss which was once wielded
by the great Boleslas, " that you will never
reveal the secret J am now about to dis-
close, till a Piast shall be on the throne of
Poland!"

" I swear !" said Victor.

"Count Bielski,** continued the old
man, " was one of my oldest and best
friends : he fought with me under Kosci-
usko, but the close of that unfortunate
campaign severed us ; I was dragged to
Sileria, and heaid nothing of his late till
some years afterwards. In our dreadful

PERILS BY FLOOD AM) FitLD.

79

retreat from Moscow we were continually
liarassed by the Cossacks, who invariably
seized and butchered any straggler from
the main corps, whetiier in the van or
rear. One of their victims was one day
lying in our road ; and the soldiers, who
had lost all commisseralion in the absorb-
ing feeling of self-preservation, •svere heed-
lessly ridingoverthe body, when I chanced
to pass by, and, imagining that I saw
the blood still oozing from the wounds,
ordered the men to remove and examine
it. It proved to be a Polish officer ; he
had received some severe cuts in the head ;
but, by dint of what few restoratives we
t«uld furnish, animation returned. You
may imagine my surprise and horror,
when, on looking at his pale but handsome
features, 1 recognised my dear friend. At
the sound of my exclamation, he opened
his eyes, and faintly uttered my name,
and, at the same time, made a motion for
me to bring my ear nearer to his mouth.
I could only distinguish the word " se-
cret ;" and in a few moments his eyes
were again closed, and his voice sus-
pended ; he was exhausted with loss of
blood ; and as proud a heart as ever beat
in mortal bosom then ceased to throb for
ever. I hung for some time lingering
over the corpse, straining my ears to
catch if it were but the slightest murmur
from those pale lips ; but they had closed
for the last time, and the beautiful mind
which had peopled that brain wiili exalt-
ed ideas, had fluwn to heaven, and car-
ried its secret with it !

** The anxiety and bustle of the retreat,
for a while, banished the circumstance
from my thoughts. I should have follow-
ed the waning fortunes of the Corsican with
my brave countrymen, but there was ano-
ther little voice calling to me for protection.
I laid by my sword for the third time,
and taking you, Victor, in my arms, set
out to seek for a seclusion where the Rus-
sian blood-hounds might not hunt me out,
and where I might not be insulted with
the despot's mercy. I wandered on from
day to day ; and, having got into the
rear of the enemy, who followed up the
fugitives, I bent n)y way into Lithuania,
seeking shelter by night in the huts of
the serfs. On these occasions, the image
of poor Bielski continually haunted me ;
and 1 frequently started from sleep with
the word " secret" ringing in my ears.
Grief and fatigue had perhaps somewhat

unhinged my mind, and I began to ima-
gine that the spirit of my friend could
not rest until this secret were discovered,
and that it was perpetually reproaching
me with not doing so. One night, after
having lulled you to sleep, and tossing
some hours on the hard couch which
chance gave me, haunted with super-
stitious imaginations, nature seemed quite
tired out, and I fell into one of those
delightful slumbers which appear to flow
over the parched brain, with a faint mur-
muring whisper of all the joys of by-gone
days. Bielski was by my side as in
former times; and we were threading
the mazes of this very forest, as was often
our custom, when we suddenly emerged
from the wood, and he pointed to this
cottage, which was formerly his hunting-
seat, to which I often accompanied him,
and exclaimed, 'There!' I turned, but he
was gone ; and with the exertion I awoke.

"I will not deny that this dream made
a deeper impression on my mind than
my philosophy can account for ; but, at
the san^e time, nothing could be more
natural than, after thinking so much of
my friend, that my ideas should revert
to the scenes where we spent so many
happy days together ; and in no place
was I so likely to arrive at a discovery of
the secret as in this cottage, which he
always made his residence during many
months of the year, being passionately
fond of the chase, and which it was most
probable he had made his hiding-place
after the unfortunate campaign under
Kosciusko. This was the reasoning with
which I excused myself for obeying
the command of my spectral visitant j
and, being at no great distance from this
spot, I hastened on with the determina-
tion of making it my abode. I found the
cottage much gone to decay, but tenanted
by two or three serfs, who had served
Bielski, and who instantly recognised me
as his friend, and volunteered their
services. I was soon established in tliis
little domicile ; but still the secret haunt-
ed me night and day. I searched the
house with care, but nothing was to be
found ; I questioned the serfs closely,
but they could not give me any informa-
tion : at length I despaired of success,
and tried to drive away the thought by
turning over a few books and papers
which Bielski had left here.

•' One day, when putting some writ-

80

TALES OF CniVAl.RV ; OR,

ings, with vvhicii I had been amusing
myself, into tlie escritoire, I saw that the
da nip had warped \he wood ; and, on
closer inspection, I found that the bottom
was loose, and artfully constructed to con-
ceal a small partition. I eagerly tore it
up, and, to my gratification, met with a
sealed paper addressed * To Count Za-
leski.' The envelope told me that the en-
closed papers would reveal to me a secret
of some importance, in case of Bielski's
death, and that I was the only person to
whom it was to be confided, until old age
rendered me an unsafe guardian of it.
The writing consisted of the following
narrative : —

"During the glorious struggle for
independence, in 17^4, it will be re-
membered that the traitorous governor
of Cracow, Winiawski, surrendered that
city to the Prussians without a blow ;
and among other things, the castle, which
contained the royal treasury, fell into the
hands of the enemy. The news reached
Kosciusko's camp, which was before War-
saw, in which Bielski served as a volun-
teer; and every mouth was full of impre-
cations against the treacherous governor.

One night, shortly after this event,
Bielski was roused from sleep by a foot
gently stealing into his tent : his mid-
night visitant was enveloped in a cowl,
but presently made himself known as his
brother. Thaddeus Bielski was from
infancy a superstitious enthusiast, and
had entered the ecclesiastical profession
from principle, with a mind whose very
perceptions of the most natural events or
phenomena were so morbidly exaggerat-
ed, that circumstances which appeared
trivial to others, exercised over him the
most unbounded influence. * Brother,
said he, in a solemn voice, * the royal
treasury is in the possession of the
enemy ; the impious Lutherans have,
perhaps, ere this, laid their unhallowed
hands on the sacred diadem of Mieczylas,
and the holy sword of Boleslas, and the
sceptre has passed away from Poland !
Vow to aid me in the recovery of these
sacred relics, before it be too late !'

" Although Bielski did not share in his
brother's superstitious adoration of the
regalia, he readily promised, from an
appetite for enterprise, to lend himself to
the undertaking. He obtained leave of
absence the next day ; and the two
brothers, both habited as ecclesiastics, set

out towards Cracow, on the perilous
design of passing through the Prussian
lines, and carrying oft* the regalia from
the vaults of the castle. Fortunately,
the enemy were concentrating their ibrces
on Warsaw, and were so engaged with
that object, that the two adventurers
arrived safely at Cracow, where the dis-
cipline being rather relaxed, their sacred
habit served them as a passport into the
town. What was the indignation of
Thaddeus at finding the magnificent castle,
and even the cathedral, turned into bar-
racks ! A portion of the castle w as
transferred into a hospital for the Polish
prisoners ; and the two brothers occa-
sionally obtained admission to them in
the character of ecclesiastics. After
several visits, they had sufficiently recon-
noitred, and, taking advantage of a dark
night, they went to the castle, accom-
panied by six locksmiths, in the disguise
of pall-bearers, whom they had sworn to
secresy, and were admitted by the
soldiers with little demur, as they had
before performed the funeral ceremony
of several deceased Poles in the hospital,
at that hour. Without loss of time, they
proceeded to the treasury, and breaking
open the doors, threw the pall over the
chest containing the regalia, and left the
castle with a solemn pace, as if they were
bearing a corpse to the grave. They
passed all the guards : the treasure was
deposited in a vehicle without the town,
and conveyed to a place of safety, and
Bielski hastened back to Warsaw to join
Kosciusko, with his six followers as re-
cruits. Bielski sin-vived the horrir) mas-
sacre at Prega, and escaped with his
brother ; and, when peace was restored,
returned to his country, and removed his
treasure to this cottage, where he took up
his abode. It was concealed where you
now see it, and the key was inclosed in
the bundle of papers. Bielski's fate you
already know ; and f suppose his brother's
was similar. I have been," continued
Zaleski, ** for some years the guardian
of this secret ; but my life is drawing to
a close, and you must succeed me in the
charge. You will leave me to-morrow
to join the brave patriots of Warsaw ;
and may this fourth flight of liberty be
more happy than the last; and may the
hour shortly arrive, when you, Victor,
may place the true crown of Poland on
the head of a Piast !'

PKRIl.S BV FLOOD AND I IKLD,

81

THE BOY OF EGREMOND.

A TALE OF BOLTON ABBEV.

"Heavens, what anight! it thunders
as though hell ueie battling with earth,"
said the rough herdsman, Chnnington, as,
sh^iking the rain from his doublet, he en-
tered his cottage, which was slieltered by
one of the principal hills in Craven.

*' Wae's me, child !' exclaimed the
withered old Alice Dinmer, raising her
palsied head in the chimney-corner, ** it
is not for nothing that ye iiear the thun-
der roar, and the wind howl through the
welkin : the heir of Embsay sleeps right
cozily to-night, with liis body stretched on
feathers, and his head pillowed on down ;
but his next bed will be the bottom of the
Wharfe, with the water-rat. I have
dreamed, Chnnington, what I may not
tell thee. My curse was on Fitz-Duncan
— the Scottish fiend ! — when he tilled
his stolen fields with the flesh and blood
of Craven's best and bravest 1 — when he
slew my son, my bright- haired Alison, in
that figiit which left many a mother child-
less. God's wrath is on him for that
deed, and life for life is deujanded, — even

VOL. II. — 1 I.

Page b2.

that of his darling, the heir of Embsay,
from whose destiny none can deli\er
him !"

" You rave, Alice," said Chnnington.

*' Hold your peace," answered she,
** poor, unbelieving, short-sighted mortal !
Ye cannot track the ways of God, nor ken
ye his voice in the thunder whicli is now
rolling over us, and which declares that
youno- Romille's hours are numbered !"

" When dies he, then ?"

"To-morrow, before noon."

" And where, and how ?"

" Ah ! may be ye would frustrate the
orderings of heaven, and prevent a death
due to justice, by saving the offspring of
Fitz-Duncan. Seek to know no more
than this, Chnnington. If I spell my
vision rightly, those yellow locks of his
will twine with the weeds in the black
waters of the subtle Wharfe — those dainty
feet, wont to be attired in silken shoon,
will wade its unfathomed mud ; and he
at whose beck the stout yeoman bows,
shall stretch his hands, and cry for suc-
cour to the mocking winds ! Monks
shall wander, and masses be said, where
rest the slain of Fitz-Duncan."

8"i2

TALES OP CHIVALRY: OR,

■ "Where slielter the flock to-night?"
asked the wife ofChnaington.

" I drove them to the slack beneath
Bardon knoll," said he ; " pray God some
of them be not swept away, for the floods
rush heavily from the hills !"

'* Fear not any such mishap," rejoined
Alice ; " thy flock is safe ; not a lock of
their wool will be harmed."

Clinnington doffed his saturated upper
garments, and sat him down on the squab
by tlie crackling fire on the hearth. The
mysterious prophecy, delivered in menac-
ing attitude by A'ice Dinmer, had awed
him into thoughtful silence, for he was
aware of her notoriety for the gift of
soothsaying. Slie iiad lost her son in the
liapless fight of Bolton, where the Scots,
led on by Fitz-Duncan, the nepliew of
David, king of Scotland, were stoutly
opposed by the Craven men. The victor,
Fitz-Duncan, usurped the patrimony he
then possessed, married Adeliza de Ro-
mille, and — a popular fiirce in those days
— founded the priory of Embsay, as
atonement for his savage and indiscrimi-
nate massacre of the undisciplined York-
shiremen on the banks of the Wharfe.
Clinnington, out of pure pity, had adopt-
ed the bereaved old Alice as one of his
family. She was no less feared than
famous, on account of having predicted
some remarkable mishaps to the dis-
turbers of the peace of her mountain
home, which had been literally fulfilled ;
and, notwithstanding Fitz-Duncan's affect-
ed penitence in establishing the priory at
Embsay, it was ordained by a trackless
Providence, that Romille, his own child,
should be the expiatory sacrifice for such
lawless and sanguinary outrage.

The herdsman retired to rest both puz-
zled and perplexed. Independently of
earning his subsistence under the haughty
Fitz-Duncan, he had tiie most profound
reverence for the character of the lady
Adeliza, distinguished as it was by acts
of benevolence and mercy; and he would
liave ventured any thing, even to the
risking of his own life, to avert the
augured fate of the boy of Egremond.
He arose with tlie sun, and hied him unto
the brow of the highest hill in the vicinity
of the Wharfe, expecting that young
Romille might that day be following
some sport in the woods lining its banks,
and trusting to the power of his voice to
warn him off the margin of the dreaded

Wharfe, should he be fortunate enough
to espy him.

The night had been a rough one ; but
the morning brought its benison of cheer-
ful sunshine, developing the varied pros-
pect of continuous lines of mountainous
elevation ; brown heaths, dense woods,
and fertile dales, peculiar to the wild and
romantic district of Craven. With hawk
and hound, the blithe young Romille left
his father's hall, and bore down to the
woods of Barden, winding his way through
many a verdant field-path, and rocky and
romantic glen. He was a beautiful and
fascinating child —

The Hamadrads* haunt — the Muses' bower,
which imagination might plausibly have
conceived to have been in the sylvan
solemnity of the old woods of Barden, could
not have presented or portrayed a more
god-like being. His long flaxen ringlets
disported them on his glossy brow, and
his azure eyes shone out beneath them
with a lustre equal to that of the pearly
morn ; while the frequent display of his
milk-white teeth, and his merry laugh as
he prattled to the hound, bespoke that
envy-exciting rapture of infantine joy,
which mocks alike the seriousness of youth,
the sorrows of manhood, and the infirmi-
ties of age.

** Ah ! Dian," said he to the hound, "I
fear for our fortune to-day: we shall have
but meagre sport — an ugly magpie flies
over us — I would there had been three."

Shaping his course to the central wood
skirting the Wharfe, young Romille's
attention was attracted by the rising of a
hern on the opposite bank of the river.
Lucklessly, he chanced to be within a
kw paces of the Strid, a place where the
Wharfe, suddenly contracted, rushes
through the fissure in a rock there con-
stituting the bed of the river, and which
is so narrow as to admit of a person be-
striding it — hence its name, the Strid.
He hastened to the spot, dragging behind
him the reluctant hound, which, aware of
his approach to the water, showed great
disinclination to proceed. The immense
volume of the river, passing through so
confined an outlet, roared and hissed with
intimidating effect, throwing upon the
overhanging herbage and bordering
trees a continual spray, which imparted
to them an inviting greenness, tempting
to the foot of the youthful adventurer.
Here and there amongst the long and

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD

83

luxuriant grass were tufts of the daisy
and the primrose, nourished by the ever-
descendinor shower thrown up from the
foamy river. The hound hung back still
more as they neared the point at which it
was intended to cross ; but not so his
master : he had many a time overleaped
that dangerous torrent, and he now moved
forward to accomplish such feat with
greater alacrity than ever.

*' \\liat startles ye, cur ?" peevishly
exclaimed he to the hound ; " mayhap a
cold bathe would benefit your cowardly
carcass this fair morning."

He tugged at the leash which held the
animal, casting his eyes now and then to
the flying hern. He had taken his last
stride, and, planting one foot on the edge
of the cavernous bank, he made a fatal
spring with the intent of alighting on the
opposite mound — but the hound was im-
moveable, and, thrown off his balance by
such detention, he was instantaneously
drawn backwards into the dreadful abyss,
which received in its oblivious embrace
the hapless boy of Egremond and his
favourite merlin !

Clinnington, gazing from the summit
of the hill, had beheld young Romille
advancing to the Strid; he called to him,
but the distance from which he stood
from him, and the emotion which partly
paralyzed his voice, rendered the attempt
to deter him abortive. The shepherd
bounded down the side of the eminence,
struck through the woods, and ran along
the margin of the Wharfe until he arrived
at the Strid ; where, rambling about
amidst the fern and brushwood, he found
the timid young animal which had been
the cause of the disaster. Clinnington
hopelessly wandered to the brink of the
Strid ; but all that he could discover of
the fate of Romille, was the print of his
feet in the clayey earth — he knew the
rest. He attempted to catch the liberated
hound, which eluded him, and with
fleet footsteps made its way back to Emb-
say, whither the herdsman despondingly
followed it.

The lady Adelizawas seated in an ante-
room at Embsay, when the fawnsome
hound which had set out from thence
with Romille, rushed in. Overjoyed at
having arrived at home, he leaped up
and licked the hand of the lady, capered
about the room, and tossed about the
rushes with which it was strewn. She

playfully bade him desist, and exclaimed
as to his release from his young master,
wondering how it had occurred. The
herdsman entered at this moment out of
breath ; his countenance wet with per-
spiration, and his hose covered with dust.
Vacantly gazing on the lady Adeliza,
who read tiie mournful story on his visage,
he wildly exclaimed —

" The Mother of God support ye, lady !
Solve me what is left us earthly sinners,
when hope is taken from us !"

" Alas ! herdsman," cried she, falling
down and clasping his feet in the bitterest
agony, *' I can but answer thee, from the
dismal tidings written on thy face —
continual tears !"

"Nay, comfort ye, lady, comfort ye j
say ye know not the issue — your boy may
have got into the thicket below the great
Mear. Holy Mary ! she is dying — why
do I trouble her !"'

Thus spoke the affrighted herdsman as
the domestics of Embsay lifted up the
fainting lady Adeliza, over whom stood
Fitz-Duncan, with his fixed, glassy eye
bent on the shepherd. The wailings of
the house of Embsay pitifully pealed
around him, but he spoke not — his grief,
doomed to last with life, could find no
words, and, tearing himself from the
scene, he sought the wide woods, where
to unburden him of that proud and
haughty sorrow, which scorned all sym-
pathy save that with the savage solitude
of rock and glen. His slaugliler of the
unaggressive Craveners was avenged
— in the shelving depths of that river
which had been dyed with their blood,
lay the body of the drowned Romille, his
oun and only cliild.

The prior of Embsay was removed to
the woods of Barden, and re-endowed by
Fitz-Duncan, in order to commemorate
the tragic death of the heir of Embsay.
The stately forestry of Bolton, encircling
the crumbling arches of the sumptuous
abbey, — the most attractive of all monas-
tic ruins, as regards the natural adjuncts
of scenery and situation, — tiie boisterous
rush of the fatal Strid, and the sublime
outline of heath-clad mountains surround-
ing that part of the district of Craven, —
often recall to the tourist and antiquary
the destiny of the boy of Egremond.

84

TALES OF CHIVALRY

SCOTTISH LEGENDS.

It was about the year of redemption
one thousand twelve hundred and eighty-
five, wlien king Alexander the Third of
Scotland lost his daughter Margaret,
whose only child, of the same name,
called the Maiden of Norway (as her
father was king of that country), became
the heiress of the kingdom of Scotland, as
well as of her father's crown. An un-
happy death was this for Alexander, who
had no nearer heirs left of his own body
than his grand-child. She indeed might
claim his kingdom by birthright ; but the
difficulty of establishing such a claim to
inheritance must have been anticipated
by all who bestowed a thought upon the
subject. The Scottish king, therefore,
endeavoured to make up for his loss by
replacing his late queen, who was an
English princess, sister of our Edward
the First, with Juletta, daughter of the
count de Deux. The solemnities at the
nuptial ceremony, which took place in
the town of Jedburgh, were very great
and remarkable, and particularly, when,
amidst the display of a pageant which
was exhibited on the occasion, a ghastly
spectre made its appearance in the form
of a skeleton, as the King of Terrors is
said to be represented. Shortly after the
appearance of this apparition, king Alex-
ander died, to the great sorrow of his
people, and the Maid of Norway, his
heiress, speedily followed her grandfather
to the grave.

It was about the era above mentioned,
that the Castle Douglas (called by sir
Walter, under the peculiar circumstances
related by him, * Castle Dangerous') was
held in trust by sir John de Walton for
the Englisli king, under the stipulation,
that if, without surprise, he should keep
it from the Scottish power for a year and
a day, he should obtain the barony of
Douglas, with its appendages, in free
property, for his reward ; while, on the
other hand, if he should suffer the fortress
during this space to be taken, either by
guile or open force, he would become
liable to dishonour as a knight, and to
attainder, as a subject ; as also that the
chiefs who took share with him, and
served under him, should share in his
guilt and his punishment ; when the
young lord Douglas, accompanied by a
minstrel named Hugo Hugonet,set forth
on the dangerous exploit of redeeming

the lost honours of his house. On their
arrival at the castle, they found it a scene
of tumult, and succeeded in entering it
unobserved by the sentinels. They
made their way undiscovered to the
library, where they thought it prudent to
remain for a time to discuss the plan of
future operations. Here Hugonet, on
scanning the contents of the library,
discovered a book of poetry, to which he
had been attached of old, and aware that
the lord Douglas had been a man of some
reading, he uas doubly anxious to secure
it. This book contained the lays of an
ancient Scottish bard, distinguished by
the name of * Thomas the Rhymer,'
v^hose intimacy, it is said, became in his
time so great with the gifted people,
called the faery folk, that he could, like
them, foretell future deeds before they
came to pass, and united in his own
person the qualities of bard and of sooth-
sayer. The time and manner of his
death were never publicly known, but the
general belief was, that he was not
severed from the land of the living, but
removed to the land of faery, from
whence he sometimes made excursions,
and concerned himself only about matters
which were to come hereafter. Hugo-
net was the more earnest to prevent the
loss of this ancient bard, as many of his
poems and predictions were said to be
preserved in the castle, and were sup-
posed to contain much, especially con-
nected with the old house of Douglas, as
well as other families of ancient descents,
who had been subjects of the old man's
prophecies ; and, accordingly, he deter-
mined to save this volume from destruc-
tion. With this view, he hurried up into
a little old vaulted room, called the
' Douglas study,' in which there might be
some dozen old books written by the
ancient chaplains, in what the minstrels
call the letter black. He immediately
discovered the celebrated lay, called * Sir
Tristem ;' Hugonet, who well knew tiie
value in which this poem was held by
the ancient lords of the castle, took the
parchment volume from the shelves of
the library, and laid it upon a small desk.
Having made such preparation for putting
it in safety, he fell into a brief reverie,
when, as he bent his eyes upon the book
of the ancient Rhymer, he was astonished
to observe it slowly removed from the
desk on which it lay by an invisible hand.

PKRILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

85

The old man looked with horror at the
spontaneous motion of the book, for the
safety of whicli he was interested, and
had the courage to approach a little
nearer the desk, in order to discover by
what means it had been withdrawn.
Close to the table on which the desk was
placed, stood a chair ; and it had now so
far advanced in the evening as to render
it difficult to distinguish any person
seated in the chair, though it now appear-
ed, upon close examination, that a kind
of shadowy outline of a human form was
seated in it, but neither precise enough
to convey its exact figure to the mind, or
to intimate distinctly its mode of action.
The bard of Douglas, therefore, gazed
upon the object of his fear as if he had
looked upon something not mortal ;
nevertheless, as he gazed more intently,
be became more capable of discovering
the object which offered itself to his
astonished eyes, and they grew by de-
grees more keen to penetrate what
they witnessed. A tall thin forai, attired
in, or rather shaded with, a long flowing
dusky robe, having a face and physiog-
nomy so wild and overgrown with hair
as to be hardly human, were the only
marked outhnes of the phantom ; and,
looking more attentively, Hugonet was
still sensible of two other forms, the out-
hnes, it seemed, of a hart and a hind,
which appeared half to shelter themselves
behind the person and under the robe of
this supernatural figure. The phantom
addressed Hugonet in an antique lan-
guage.being a species of Scotch or Gaelic :
• You are a learned man,' said the appari-
tion, * and not unacquainted with the dia-
lects used in your country formerly, al-
though they are now out of date, and you
are obliged to translate them into the
vulgar Saxon of Deira or Northumber-
land; but bright must an ancient bard
prize one in this * remote term of time,'
who sets upon the poetry of his native
country, a value which invites him to
think of its preservation at a moment of
such terror as influences the present even-
ing.'

" * It is indeed,' said Hugonet, * a
night of terror, that calls even the dead
from their grave, and makes them the
ghastly and fearful companions of the
living. Who or what art thou, in God's
name, who breakest the bounds which
•divide them, and revisitest thus strangely

the state thou hast so long bid adieu to ?'

" * I am,' said Thomas the Rhymer,
* by some called Thomas of Erceldoun,
or Thomas the True Speaker. Like other
sages, I am permitted at times to revisit
the scenes of my former life, nor am I in-
capable of removing the shadowy clouds
and darkness which overhang futurity j
and know, thou afflicted man, that what
thou now seest in this afflicted country, is
not a general emblem of what shall
herein befall hereafter ; but in propor-
tion as the Douglasses are now suffering
the loss and destruction of their home,
for their loyalty to the rightful heir of the
Scottish kingdom, so has heaven appoint-
ed for them a just reward ; and as they
have not spared to burn and destroy their
own house, and that of their fathers' in
the Bruce's cause, so is it the doom of
heaven, that as often as the walls of
Douglas Castle shall be burnt to the
ground, they shall be again rebuilt still
more stately and more magnificent than
before.'

" A cry was now heard, hke that of a
multitude, in the court-yard, joining in a
fierce shout of exultation ; at the same
time, a broad and ruddy glow seemed to
burst from the beams and rafters, and
sparks flew from them as from the smith's
smithy, while the element caught to its
fuel, and the conflagration broke its way
through every aperture.

" ' See ye that,' said the vision, cast-
ing his eye towards the windows, and

disappearing ' Begone! the fated hour

of removing this book is not yet come,
nor are thine the destined hands. But it
will be safe where I have placed it, and
the time of its removal shall come.'

" Tlie voice was heard after the form
had vanished, and the brain of Hugonet
almost turned round at the wild scene
which he had beheld ; his utmost exer-
tions were scarcely sufficient to withdraw
him from the terrible spot, and Douglas
Castle that night sunk into ashes and
smoke, to arise, in no great length of
time, in a form stronger than ever.

•* In conclusion, this strange tale, though
incredible, is so far undeniable, that
Castle Douglas was three times burned
down by the heir of the house and the
barony, and was as often reared again by
Henry lord Clifford, and other generals
of the English, in a manner rendering it
more impregnable than it had previously

85

TALES OF chivalry; OR,

existed : thus verifying the prediction of
Thomas the Rliymer."

THE UNFORTUNATE MAJOR ANDRE.

OLoTappan, wliich con.sists of only two
or three small houses, was the place se-
lected for the execution of the once brave,
noble-hearted, patriotic and accomplished
major Andre. I was anxious to make a
pilgrimage to the grave of my unfortu-
nate countryman; and, as the wind was
scarcely sufficient to bear us up against a
strong ebb-tide, I easily prevailed on the
captain to anchor his charge, and allow the
small boat to go on shore. Major Andre,
you may recollect, was taken prisoner by
the Americans during the revolution, as a
British spy. The house or hut in which
he was kept in confinement had only very
lately gone into rnins. It was then a
tavern, and its landlord, now extremely
old, still resides close by, and recites the
melancholy tale with much affection and
feeling. He witnessed the gentlemanly
manners and equanimity of this heroic
soldier while in his house, under the most
trying circumstances, and from its thres-
hold to the fatal spot. In his room the
prisoner could hear the sound of the axe
employed in. erecting the scaffold ; and
on one occasion, in the presence of a friend,
when these sounds, terrible to all but him-
self, were more than usually distinct, he is
said to have observed, with great compo-
sure, *' that every sound he heard from
that axe was indeed an important lesson ;
it taught him how to live and how to die."
When conducted to the place of execution,
and on coming near to the scaffold, he
made a sudden halt, and momentarily
shrunk at the sight ; because he had, to
the last, entertained hopes that his life
would have been taken by the musket,
and not by the halter. This apparent
want of resolution quickly passed away,
and the disappointment he felt told more
against the uncompromising spirit of the
times, than against himself. Rejecting
assistance, he approached and ascended
the platform with a steady pace and lofty
demeanour, and submitted to his fate with
the pious resignation of a great and good
man. A large concourse of spectators,
among whom were several well-dressed
females, had assembled on this sorrowful
occasion ; and it is reported that scarcely
a dry cheek could be found throughout the
whole multitude. Andre was then seen

as he always had been, and moved by that
which had through life presided over all
his actions, resolved beyond presumption,
and firm without ostentation.

" The person and appearance of major
Andre were prepossessing : he was well
proportioned, and above the common size
of men ; the lines of his face were regular,
well marked, and beautifully symmetrical,
which gave him an expression of counten-
ance at once dignified and commanding.
His address was graceful and easy; in
manners he was truly exemplary, and in
conversation affable and instructive. Po-
lite to all ranks and classes of people, he
was universally respected ; fond of disci-
pline, and always alive to the just claims
iind feelings of others, he was beloved in
the army, and generally appealed to as
the common arbitrator and conciliator of
the contentions of those around him. In
a word, he was a sincere friend, a scholar
and accomplished gentleman, a patriot, a
gallant soldier, an able commander, and a
Christian.

** General Washington, when called
upon to sign his death-warrant, which he
did not do without hesitation, it is said,
dropped a tear upon the paper, and spoke
at the same time to the following effect :
— * That were it not infringing upon the
duty and responsibility of his oftice, and
disregarding the high prerogative of those
who would fill that office after him, the
tear, which now lay upon that paper,
should annihilate the confirmation of an
act to which his name would for ever stand
as a sanction. He was summoned that
day to do a deed at which his heart re-
volted ; but it was required of him by the
justice of his country, the desires and ex-
pectations of the people : he owed it to
the cause in which he was solemnly en-
gaged, to the welfare of an infant con-
federacy, and safety of a newly organised
constitution which he had pledged his
honour to protect and defend, and a right
given to him that was acknowledged to be
just by the ruling voice of all nations."

*' Andre, after he had heard his con-
demnation, addressed a letter to Washing-
ton : it contained a feeling a[)peal to him
as a man, a soldier, and a general, on the
mode of death he was to die. It was his
wish to be shot. This, however, could not
be granted ; he had been taken and con-
demned as a spy, and the laws of nations
had establishecf the manner of his death.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

87

But where were the humanity and feeling-
of the British on this occasion ? Why did
they not give up the dastardly Arnold in
exchange for the brave Andre, as it was
generously proposed by (he United States >
This they refused on a paltry plea, and
suffered, in consequence, the life of one of
their finest officers to be ignominiously
taken."

HARDRESS FITZGERALD.

The Dublin University Magazine for
February, among other articles of interest,
contains a narrative of the singular adven-
tures of Hardress Fitzgerald, an eminent
Irish royalist, who contrived to elude the
strictest search for his person, after the
battle of the Boyne had all but annihilated
his party. The narrative, from which we
propose to make a short extract, purports
to be written by the hero himself, and
commences with an amusing account of
his living in disguise in Dublin ; it then
proceeds to state, that, becoming anxious
to join the wreck of king James's forces in
Limerick, he ventured on travellingacross
the country as a pedlar ; how, while on
the way, he had an interview with general
Sarsefield, and received from him certain
papers to convey to the unhappy royalists ;
after which, on pursuing his journey, he
had the misfortune to fall into the hands of
some soldiers, and was brought before
captain Oliver, a leader in the ranks of his
opponents. At this point we shall allow
him to tell his story in his own words,
which give a fearful idea of the cruelties
committed at that disastrous period in
Ireland.

** Unbuckle your pack," exclaimed the
corporal ; " unbuckle your pack, fellow,
and show your goods to the captain — here,
where you are."

I proceeded to present my merchandise
to the loving contemplation of the officers,
who thronged around me, with a strong
light from an opposite window. As I
continued to traffic with these gentlemen,
I observed with no small anxiety the eyes
of captain Oliver frequently fixed upon
me with a kind of dubious inquiring gaze.
** 1 think, my honest fellow," he said at
last, ** that I have seen you somewhere
before this. Have you often dealt with
the military ?" " I have traded, sir," said
I, " with the soldiery many a time, and
always been honourably treated. Will
your worship please to buy a pair of lace
ruffles ? vary cheap, your worship." "Why

do you wear your hair so much over your
face, sir ?" said Oliver, without noticing
my suggestion. " I promise you, I think
no good of you ; throw back your hair,
and let me see you plainly. Hold up
your face, and look straight at me ; throw
back your hair, sir."

I felt that all chance of escape was at an
end, and stepping forward as near as the
table would allow me to him, I raised my
head, threw back my hair, and fixed my
eyes sternly and boldly upon his face. I
saw that he knew me instantly, for his
countenance turned as pale as ashes with
surprise and hatred ; he started up, placing
his hand instinctively upon his sword-hilt,
and glaring at me with a look so deadly,
that I thought every moment that he
would strike his sword into my heart, he
said, in a kind of whisper, " Hardress
Fitzgerald ?" " Yes," said I, boldly, for
the excitement of the scene had effectually
stirred my blood, " Hardress Fitzgerald
is before you. I know you well, captain
Oliver. I know how you hate me. I
know how you thirst for my blood ; but in
a good cause, and in the hands of God, I
defy you." "You are a desperate villain,
sir," said captain Oliver ; " a rebel and a
murderer. Hollo there, guard, seize him."
As the soldiers entered, I threw my eyes
hastily around the room, and observing a
glowing fire upon the hearth, I suddenly
drew general Sarsefield's packet from my
bosom, and casting it upon the embers,
planted my foot upon it. " Secure the
papers," shouted the captain, and almost
instantly I was laid prostrate and sense-
less upon the floor by a blow from the butt
end of a carbine.

I cannot say how long I continued in a
state of torpor; but at length, having
slowly recovered my senses, I found my-
self lying firmly handcuffed upon the floor
of a small chamber, through a narrow
loophole in one of whose walls the evening
sun was shining. I was chilled with cold
and damp, and drenched in blood, whicli
had flowed in large quantities from the
wound on my head. By a strong efl^ort
I shook off the sick drowsiness which still
hung upon me, and weak and giddy I rose
with pain and difficulty to my feet. The
chamber, or rather cell, in which I stood,
was about eight feet square, and of a
height very disproportioned to its other
dimensions— its altitude from the floor to
the ceiling being not less than twelve or

88

TALES OK CTIIVALRY ; OR,

fourteen feet. A narrow slit placed high
in the wall admitted a scanty light, but
sufficient to asure me that my prison con-
tained nothing to render the sojourn of
its tenant a whit less comfortless than my
worst enemy could have wished. My
first impulse was naturally to examine the
security of the door — the loophole which I
have mentioned being too high and too
narrow to afford a chance of escape. I
listened attentively to ascertain if possible
whether or not a guard had been placed
upon the outside. ISot a sound was to be
heard. I now placed my shoulder to the
door, and sought, with all my combined
strength and weight, to force it open ; it,
however, resisted all my efforts, and thus
baffled in my appeal to mere animal power,
exhausted and disheartened, I threw my-
self on the ground. It was not in my
nature, however, long to submit to the
apathy of despair, and in a few minutes I
was on my feet again. With patient
scrutiny I endeavoured to ascertain the
nature of the fastenings which secured the
door. The planks fortunately having been
nailed together fresh, had shrunk consider-
ably, so as so leave wide chinks between
each and its neighbour. By means of
these apertures, I saw that my dungeon
was secured, not by a lock as I had feared,
but by a strong wooden bar, running hori-
zontally across the door, about midway
upon the outside.

[Contriving to make an opening, he
reaches the door of the apartment in which
he had been seized, and overhears an order
given by Oliver for his execution, which he
declared should take place in the evening,
ere the moon rose.]

There was a kind of glee in Oliver's
manner and expression which chilled my
very heart. " He shall be first shot like
a dog, and then hanged like a dog ; shot
to-night, and hung to-morrow ; hung at
the bridge head ; hung, until his bones
drop asunder !"

It is impossible to describe the exultation
with which he seemed to dwell upon, and
to particularise the fate which he intended
for me. A chill, sick horror, crept over
me as they retired, and J felt, for the mo-
ment, upon tlie brink of swooning. This
feeling, however, speedily gave place to a
sensation still more terrible — a state of ex-
citement so intense and tremendous as to
border upon literal madness, supervened ;
my brain reeled and throbbed as if it would

burst ; thoughts the wildest and the most
hideous, scared my very soul ; while, all
the time, 1 felt a strange and frightful im-
pulse to burst into uncontrolled laughter.
Gradually this fearful paroxysm passed
away. I kneeled and prayed fervently,
and felt comforted and assured ; but still
1 could not view tlie slow approaches of
certain death without an agitation little
short of agony.

I returned again to the closet in which
I had found myself upon recovering from
the swoon.

The evening sunshine and twilight was
fast melting into darkness, when I heard
the outer door, that which communicated
with the guard-room in which the officers
had been amusing themselves, opened,
and locked again upon the inside ; a mea-
sured step then approached, and the door
of the wretched cell in which I lay being
rudely pushed open, a soldier entered, who
carried something in his hand, but, owing
to the obscurity of the place, I could no.t
see what.

" Art thou awake, fellow ?" said he, in
a gruff voice. ** Stir thyself; get upon
thy legs." His orders were enforced by
no very gentle application of his military
boot.

" Friend," said I, rising with difficulty,
" you need not insult a dying man. You
have been sent hither to conduct me to
death. Lead on ! My trust is in God,
that he will forgive me my sins, and re-
ceive my soul, redeemed by the blood of
his Son." There here intervened a pause
of some length, at the end of which the
soldier said, in the same gruff voice, but
in a lower key, *' Look ye, comrade, it
will be your own fault if you die this night.
On one condition I promise to get you
out of this hobble with a whole skm ; but
if you go to any of your gammon, before
two hours are passed, you will have as
many holes in your carcase as a target."
*' Name your conditions," said I; "and
if they consist with honour, I will never
baulk at the ofler."

*' Here they are : you are to be shot
to-night, by captain Oliver's orders ; the
carbines are cleaned for the job, and the
cartridges served out to the men. I tell
you the truth."

Of this I needed not much persuasion,
and intimated to the man my conviction
that he spoke the truth.

(To be continued.)

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIEID.

89

Page 91,

BLACK-GANG CHINE.

" God protect us ! — that was a cry of
blood !" exclaimed Plioebe, the wife of
Tom Fenton, an Isle of Wight smuggler,
as they sat at their scanty supper, late
on a summer's evening — an expression
which she uttered on hearing a stifled
shriek come from the direction in which
lay the grounds of the almost adjoining
villa of sir Hugh Standen.

*• Finish your mess, and go to your
hammock, girl," said Tom ; " [ am to be
up at four. You are ready to blubber at
every squall."

This rough rejoinder of Fenton did not
emanate either from want of conjugal
gentleness, or a desire to screen any deed
of darkness committing under the auspices
of sir Hugh Standen ; but he had learned,
during tlie precarious routine of contra-
band trade, to attach a fatal importance
to the sound of alarm. He left his wife,
however, to her own fears, and withdrew
to bed. But the terror of Phcebe had
** murdered sleep" for her; and, on hear-
ing a second shriek, which she tlien knew
to be that of a female, she hastened to the

vol. II. — 12.

garden behind their cottage, which was
separated by an intervening lawn from
the pleasure-grounds of sir Hugh, at the
distance of about ten roods from whose
residence was an out-house, appropriated
to the use of the gardener. This hovel
was immured in a cluster of dark pines
and Portugal laurel ; its roof was over-
run by ivy, and it v/as lighted from a
window looking out upon the lawn which
interfered with it and Fenton's garden.
From this recess issued the sounds of
mystery which had so troubled Phoebe
Fenton, and she resolved to discover their
cause, at all hazard. Nerved with that
mental courage which is so inherent in
the female character, and uhich is pro-
minent when displayed in defence of their
own sex, she stretched out her hands,
and catching hold of the twisted boughs
which grew over the vine-embowered
wall, scrambled to the other side. It was
a fine moonlight night ; but she perceived,
through the thickly-pl-inted trees behind
the villa, some one carrying a lantern,
with which they entered the garden-
house. There was a light also moving
in the drawing-room ; but, owing to the

N

90

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR-

closely- drawn curtains of gauze, she could
not. distinguish the person of the mover.

Gliding across the lawn, she drew
near to the window in the gable-end of
the garden-house, through which she
beheld a female rudely seated on the
ground, her hands tied behind her, moan-
ing most piteously. It was but the fear
of sharing her destiny which deterred
Phcebe Fenton from attempting her
deliverance ; for, by the glimmer of the
suspended lantern, she beheld three ruf-
fians occupied in adjusting a rope, which
they fastened to a beam behind their
beauteous victim, leaving a noose for her
neck. Shifting the lantern, the light
fell upon their cut-throat countenances,
and Phoebe, uttering a faint cry, recognis-
ed them to be of her husband's gang,
three of the crew of the * Saucy Anne,'
then lying about a mile and a half out
from Chale Bay, with a contraband
cargo. Horrified beyond measure at this
discovery, she could scarcely manage to
support herself by clinging to the creep-
ing ivy attached to the building. She
was a daring and stout-hearted woman,
however, inured to the beholding of such
strange escapes and rencontres as dis-
tinguish a smuggler's life. She again
looked through the window, and saw one
of the murderers issue forth, closing the
door after him, to keep watch on the
outside. The remaining two, then, under
the pretence of soothing the liapless
female, slipped the cord over her neck,
and instantly drew her up to the beam,
where, hanging, she struggled so violently
and so long, that one of them snatched up
a crow-bar, and struck her on the head so
ferociously, that the blood streamed in
torrents down her dishevelled hair, and
splashed against the window, through
which the pale-faced Phoebe was looking.
The latter, terrified to fainting, dropped
on the turf of the shaven sward. On
recovering, she crept across it on her
hands and knees, until she gained the
wall, and, after many an effort, the
cottage.

Fenton, startled by a noise, awoke out
of his slumber, and heard a feeble call of
** Fenton, get up !" Huddling on some
of his clothes, he descended the stair,
lifted up his fallen wife, and bore her to
the bed. Half an hour elapsed before
she was able to give an account of what
she had witnessed. Having resumed

sufficient command of her feelings, she
told her husband the terrifying story.
Indignant at discovering himself the
partner of such atrocious murderers, and
bent upon sifting the secret, he over-
leaped the boundaries of the two enclo-
sures, and was soon at the dismal spot,
where, prying about amongst the trees,
he discovered a spade stuck in the ground,
close to a hole which some one had been
digging. The door of the out-house was
fastened, and baffled his essays to force
it. He bent his ear to the rocky ground,
and heard footsteps at some distance, de-
scending the cliff" and proceeding towards
the bay. Retracing his way, he emerged
from the front of his cottage, and advanc-
ing to the most towering part of the
cliffs, he took his stand on the highest
point.

The moon lit up the scenery with a
lustre equal to that of noon-day. The
undulating sea murmured with a subdued
gentleness that bespoke a parley with
the adventurous voyager. Fenton shaded
his eyes with his hand, and gazed on
the quietly anchored * Saucy Anne,' seen
within half-a-league of land ; below him
lay the melancholy wreck of the * Mel-
ville Watson.' On his right, the chalky
outline of Freshwater, proximate to the
Needles, gleamed in the moonshine ;
while, in dark relief, the sable shores of
Atherfield were traceable in the fore-
ground. On his left, the island, sloping
to its easternmost extremity, wore the
warm and golden hues of one of the
clustering cyclades, — the moon's rays
vividly illumining the verdant heights of
Ventnor, and the craggy steeps of Bon-
church. Behind, arose the giant hill of
St. Catherine's 5 the grey ruins of the
chantry, and the abandoned light- house,
mouldering on its cone. More imme-
diately, and forming a part of the line of
rock on which Fenton was standing, the
gloomy fall of Black-Gang Chine diversi-
fied the otherwise unbroken chain of
crags parallel with the shore. The heat
of summer had dried up the mountain-
springs, the united streams which com-
posed the roaring waterfall of Black-
Gang Chine, and their diminished waters
fell down the dank and blackened sides
of the curving precipice with a hollow,
trickling sound, which added to the terror
inspired by gazing on its repulsive form.

The peering eyes of Tom Fenton

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

91

glanced in every direction, his ears were
open to every quarter, to catch either
sight or sound of the remorseless trio of
which he was in quest. His endeavours
to obtain information by means of the
latter medium, were abortive —

" The pebbly music of the rippling bay"

prevented his hearing the trampling of
the murderers ; but, looking intently, he
plainly beheld them, within pistol-shot,
moving along the shingled beach, bearing
amongst them what he took to be the
body of the mangled maiden, the lovely
mistress of the blood-guilty sir Hugh
Standen. At the centre of the bay,
where was moored their boat, the smug-
glers made a stand, and, embarking with
their burden, put out to sea. They
rowed from the entrance of the bay
towards the defined edge of a bristling
reef of rocks which constituted the terror
of every mariner. There Fenton saw
them lay-to, for the purpose, he had no
doubt, of dropping the corpse. Their
business dispatched, tliey made for land;
while Fenton, with all speed, shaped his
course to Black-Gange Chine, to the
recess at the bottom of which he knew
they would resort.

After a most hazardous scramble down
the stony ridge which formed the eastern
side of that tremendous precipice, forty
feet in height, he alighted with his feet
on a level space immediately on the side
edge, and overlooking part of Black-
Gang Chine. In a short time, his com-
rades entered at the bottom, and took
their stand in the recess, which, as he
stood, was directly beneath him. He
could hear every syllable of their con-
versation distinctly, and, from their voices,
discovered them to be three of the most
ruflSanly w^retches in the whole gang.

" The devil seize me !" said one of
them ; ** I know not how I shall get the
blood out of my shirt and trousers : we
sliall be nosed, after all. Hang me, she
was a ripe 'un j for when I hit her, the
juice spurted a yard high !"

" Was sir Hugh tired of her ?" asked
one of the others.

** Partly," answered the tiiird, *' and
partly afeard of her. She had a chirper
to him, and he gave it a gripe one day,
and settled its account. The foolish jade
threatened to split ; and so, to save his
own neck, he has had her put out of his
way."

** Well," said the first, " she's far
enough out of his latitude now. Come,
my lads, out with the prize-money, and
let us settle: the sneaking lubbers who
are out of this job, will be very inquisi-
tive to know how we came by so many
shiners."

It was with the utmost difficulty that
Tom Fenton could suppress his feelings.
What could he do ? With chagrin he
recollected his want of fire-arms ; for he
had left his wife in such perturbation,
that his pistols had been overlooked.
Luckily, the three were similarly un-
provided. But Fenton discovered a means
of attack equally effectual. Upon the
verge of the yawning cavern, and where
he leaned, was a piece of loose and shelv-
ing rock, of half a ton in weight, to
appearance, which he found he could
move, and, if needful, throw down upon
the heads of his despicable companions
beneath. The ground where they stood
was difficult of access, and to and from it
they could pass, but by one at a time.
Fenton knew this ; he felt emboldened,
and, turning to clasp the piece of rock in
his arms, so that he might be prepared, in
case of discovery, to give decisive battle,
his foot loosened a fragment of stone,
which rolled down and fell amongst
them. The alarm was given, and, look-
ing up, they perceived Tom Fenton
clinging to the detached portion of rock,
ready to hurl it on their heads ; a circum-
stance of which they were not imme-
diately aware.

** Ah ! we are betrayed !" exclaimed
one of the trio ; *vril either cut his throat,
or he shall mine 1 On, my boys ! let us
give him chase !"

** Stir one foot," shouted Tom Fenton,
" and, by the God of heaven ! I will crush
the three of you into a mummy ! Look
here ! d'ye see this stone ?"

Aghast with fear, they tempted not the
extremity, but tried to reason Tom out
of his resentment.

♦* Don't argue with me, you gibbet
villains," cried Tom. *' Close with my
proposal, or your bones shall swing in
the wind, on high St. Catherine's. Two
of you are brothers: leave one, and let
the others to boat immediately, and if, on
your way, you make any attempt to
grapple me, I will instantly, as I expect
mercy from God, hurl down the stone
on your brother's head. Jem Whitely, I

92

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

will not move from ihis place until I see
you alongside the ' Saucy Anne 1' "

Gladly enough did they embrace this
offer, one of the brothers staying behind.
Immediately Fenton was certified of their
being on board, he called to the remain-
ing Whitely to surrender himself, or
fight for the issue. He chose the latter ;
and Tom Fenton descended to the beach,
and drew his cutlass. After exchanging
a few desperate gashes, Tom closed with
bis antagonist, disarmed, and threw him.
To insure more certainly his passiveness,
lie bound his hands strongly with a piece
of cord, and then conducted him to the
adjacent hamlet of Chale, where he left
him in custody tell the morning.

Through the information of Tom Fen-
ton, two of the custom-house cutters gave
chase to the * Saucy Anne,' boarded, and
look her. The murderers were appre-
hended, tried, convicted, and executed at
Winchester ; and their bodies were sus-
pended in chains on St. Catherine's,
overlooking the scene of their crime. Sir
Hugh Standen, the abettor of the foul
deed, escaped the justice of his country,
and died abroad. As for Tom F'enton,
he became a new man: he was admitted
into the preventive service, and consti-
tuted, wliile he lived, one of its most
active and uncompromising officers, dating
his reformation from the awful night of
his discovery of the murderers of Black-
Gang Chine.

HARDRESS FITZGERALD.

(Concluded from page 8S.J
"Well, then," he continued, ** now for
the means of avoiding this ugly business.
Captain Oliver rides this night to head-
quarters, with the papers which you car-
ried. Before he starts he will pay you a
visit, to fish what he can out of you, with
all the fine promises he can make. Hu-
mour him a little, and, when you find an
opportunity, stab him in the throat above
the cuirass."

*' A feasible plan, surely," said I, rais-
ing n)y shackled hands, " for a man thus
completely crippled, and without a wea-
pon." " I will manage all that presently
for you," said the soldier. •* When you
have thus dealt witli him, take his cloak
and hat, and so forth, and put them on ;
the papers you will find in the pocket of
his vest, in a red leather case ; walk boldlv

out — T am appointed to ride with captain
Oliver, and you will find me holding his
horse and my own by the door ; mount
quickly, and I will do the same, and then
we will ride for our lives across the bridge.
You will find the holster pistols loaded in
case of pursuit, and with the devil's help
we shall reach Limerick without a hair
hurt. My only condition is, that when
you strike Oliver, you strike home, and
again and again, until he is Jinished — and
1 trust to your honour to remember me
when we reach the town."

I cannot say whether 1 resolved right
or wrong, but 1 thought my situation, and
the conduct of captain Oliver, warranted
me in acceding to the conditions pro-
pounded by my visitant, and with alacrity
I told him so, and desired him to give me
the power, as he had promised to do, of
executing them. With speed and promp-
titude he drew a small key from his pocket,
and in an instant the manacles were re-
moved from my hands. How my lieart
bounded within me as my wrists were re-
leased from the iron gripe of the shackles I
— the first step towards freedom was made
— my self-reliance returned, and I felt
assured of success. ** Now for the wea-
pon," said I. "I fear me you will find it
rather clumsy," said he ; " but if well
handled it will do as well as the best To-
ledo ; it is the only thing I could get, but
I sharpened it myself; it has an edge like
a skean."

He placed in my hand the steel head of
a halberd, and with a low savage laugh
left me to my reflections. Having ex.
amined and arranged the weapon, 1 care-
fully bound the ends of the cravat with
which I had secured the cross part of the
spear-head, firmly round my wrist, so that
in case of a struggle it might not be easily
forced from my hand j and having made
these precautionary dispositions, I sat down
upon the ground with my back against the
wall, and my hands together under my
coat, awaiting for my visitor. The time
wore slowly on ; the dusk became dim-
mer and dimmer, until it nearly bordered
on total darkness. *' How's this ?" said
1, inwardly. *' Captain Oliver, you said
I should not see the moon rise lo-night j
methinks you are somewhat tardy in fulfil-
ing your prophecy." As I made this
reflection, a noise at the outer door
announced the entrance of a visitant. —
I knew that the decisive moment was

Perils uy flood and field.

93

come, and letting my head sink upon my
breast, and assuring myself tiiat my hands
were concealed, I awaited, in the atti-
tude of deep dejection, the approach of
my foe and betrayer. As I had ex-
pected, captain Oliver entered the room
where I lay : he was equipped for instant
duty, as far as the twiliglit would allow
me to see ; the long sword clanked upon
the floor, as he made his way through the
lobbies which led to my place of confine-
ment ; his military cloak hung upon his
arm, his cocked hat was upon his head,
and in all points he was prepared for the
road. This tallied exactly with what my
strange informant had told me. I felt
my lieart swell and my breath come thick,
as the awful moment which was to wit-
ness the death-struggle of one or other of
us approached. Captain Oliver stood
within a yard or two of the place where
I sat, or rather lay, and folding his arms
he remained silent for a minute or two,
as if arranging in his mind how he should
address me.

" Hardress Fitzgerald," he began at
length, " are you awake ? Stand up, if
you desire to hear of matters nearly touch-
ing your hfe or death ; get up, 1 say."

I arose, doggedly, and affecting the
awkward movements of one whose hands
were bound.

" Well," said I, " what would you of
me ? Is it not enough that I am thus im-
prisoned, without a cause, and about, as I
suspect, to suffer a most unjust and vio-
lent sentence, but must ] also be disturbed
during the few moments left me for reflec-
tion and repentance, by the presence of
my persecutor ? What do you want of
me ?"

*• As to your punishment, sir," said he,
** your own deserts have no doubt sug-
gested the likelihood of it to your mind j
but I now am with you to let you know,
that whatever mitigation of your sentence
you may look for, must be earned by your
compliance with my orders. You must
frankly and fully explain the contents of
the packet which you endeavoured this
day to destroy ; and, further, you must
tell all that you know of the designs of the
popish rebels."

** And if I do this I am to expect a
mitigation of my punishment — is it not
so ?" Oliver bowed.

** Well, sir, before I make the desired
communication, I have one question more

to put. What is to befall me, in case that
I, remembering the honour of a soldier
and a gentleman, reject your infamous
terms, scorn your mitigations, and defy
your utmost power ?" *• In that case," re-
plied he, coolly, " before half an hour you
shall be a corpse."

** Then, God have mercy on your soul !"
said T, and springing forward, I dashed the
weapon which I held at his throat. I
missed my aim, but struck him full in the
mouth with such force that most of his
front teeth were dislodged, and the point
of the spear-head passed under his jaw, at
the ear. My onset was so sudden and
unexpected that he reeled back to the
wall, and did not recover his equilibrium
in time to prevent my dealing a second
blow, which 1 did with my whole force 5
the point unfortunately struck the cuirass,
near the neck, and, glancing aside, it in-
flicted but a flesh wound, tearing the skin
and tendons along the throat. He now
grappled with me, strange to say, without
uttering any cry of alarm. Being a very
powerful man, and if any thing rather
heavier and more strongly built than I, he
succeeded in drawing me with him to the
ground. We fell together, with a heavy
crash, tugging and straining in what we
were both conscious w'as a mortal struggle.
At length I succeeded in getting over him,
and struck him twice more. The weapon
which I wielded had lighted upon the eye,
and the point penetrated the brain ; the
body quivered under me, the deadly grasp
relaxed, and Oliver lay upon the gi'ound
a corpse ! As I arose and shook the wea-
pon and the bloody cloth from my hand,
the moon, which he had foretold I should
never see rise, shone bright and broad
into the room, and disclosed, with ghastly
distinctness, the mangled features of the
dead soldier. It is hard to say with what
feelings I looked upon the unsightly and
revolting mass which had so lately been
a living and comely man. I had not any
time, however, to spare for reflection ; the
deed was done ; the responsibility was
upon me, and all was registered in the
book of that God who judges rightly.

With eager haste I removed from the
body such of the military accoutrements
as were necessary for the purpose of my
disguise. I buckled on the sword, drew
off the military boots, and donned them
myself, placed the brigadier wig and cock-
ed hat upon my head, threw on the cloak.

94

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

drew it up about my face, and proceeded
with the papers, which I found as the
soldier [haa foretold me, and the key of
the outer lobby, to the door of the guard-
room; this I opened, and with a firm and
rapid tread walked through the otTicers,
who rose as I entered, and passed without
question or interruption to the street door.
Here I was met by tiie grim-looking cor-
poral, Hewson, who, saluting me, said,
"How soon, captain, shall the tile be drawn
out, and the prisoner dispatched?" "In
half an hour," I replied, without raising
my voice. The man again saluted, and
in two steps I reached the soldier who
held the two horses, as he had intimated.

** Is all right ?" said lie, eagerly. —
" Aye," said I : *' which horse am I to
mount ?" He satisfied me upon this point,
and I threw^ myself into the saddle ; the
soldier mounted his horse, and dashing
the spurs into the flanks of the animal
which I bestrode, we thundered along the
narrow bridge. At the far extremity, a
sentinel, as we approached, called out,
" Who goes there ? — stand and give the
word ?" Heedless of the interruption,
with my heart bounding with excitement,
I dashed on ; so did also the soldier who
accompanied me. The sentinel fired.

*• Hurrah !" I shouted ; " try it again,
my boy," and away we went, at a gallop
which bade fair to distance every thing
like pursuit. Never was spur more
needed, however ; for soon the clatter of
horses' hoofs, in full speed, crossing the
bridge, came sharp and clear through the
stillness of the night. Away we went,
with our pursuers close behind. One
mile was passed, another nearly com-
pleted. The moon now shone forth, and
turning in the saddle, I looked back upon
the road we had passed. One trooper
had headed the rest, and was within a
hundred yards of us. I saw the fellow
throw himself from his horse upon the
ground. I knew his object, and said to
my comrade, ** Lower your body ; lie flat
over the saddle ; the fellow is going to
fire." I had hardly spoken when the
report of a carbine startled the echoes,
and the ball striking the hind leg of my
companion's horse, the poor animal fell
headlong upon the road, throwing his
rider head foremost over the saddle. My
first impulse was to stop and share what-
ever fate might await my comrade ; but
my second and wiser one was to spur on,

and save myself and my dispatch. I
rode on at a gallop. Turning to observe
my comrade's fate, I saw his pursuer,
having remounted, ride rapidly up to him,
and on reaching the spot where the man
and horse lay, rein in and dismount. He
was hardly upon the ground, when my
companion shot him dead with one of the
holster pistols which he had drawn from
the pipe, and leaping nimbly over a ditch
at the side of the road, he was soon lost
among the ditches and thorn bushes which
covered that part of the country. Another
mile being passed, I had the satisfaction
to perceive that the pursuit was given
over, and in an hour more I crossed
Thomond Bridge, and slept that night in
the fortress of Limerick, having delivered
the packet, the result of whose safe arrival
was the destruction of William's great
train of artillery, then upon its way to the
besiegers.

Years after this adventure, I met in
France a young officer, who I found had
served in captain Oliver's regiment, and
he explained what I had never before un-
derstood— the motives of the man who
had wrought my deliverance. Strange to
say, he was the foster-brother of Oliver,
whom he thus devoted to death, in re-
venge for the most grievous wrong which
one man can inflict upon another !

THE FISHERMAN.

From the early part of August to the
end of October, every little creek on the
coast of Cornwall puts forth its boats and
men in pursuit of the pilchard fishery.
The large boats, with nets of immense
extent, called seans, lie close to the shore,
watching the approach of the fish, while
others of a different construction, with
smaller nets, are engaged in what is
termed the drift fishery, at a distance
from the coast. The fishing-towns of
Newlyn and Mousehole, in the Mount's
Bay, are particularly active in this occu-
pation. In the afternoons may be seen
the little fleet getting under weigh, and
one after another sailing out to the different
fishing-stations ; the drift is always in the
evening, and continues throughout the
night; with the first dawn of day, like a
cloud, nearer and nearer comes the little
fleet, returning to their home with the
produce of the night's fishing. The beach
then is a most animating scene; it is
covered with women, old men, and child-

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

95

ren, helping ashore tlie nets, taking the
ftsh to the cellars for salting, or to the next
market-town for sale ; even wee toddling
things, hardly able to stagger under the
burden, marching away triumphantly
with the large boots used by the fisher-
men, wet jackets, &c., to be dried and got
in order for the next trip.

To the most indifferent stranger, this is
a scene to be viewed with pleasure ; and
to a Cornishman, whose pride is in the
fishery, it is ever a subject of delight.
Every age finds employment at this season,
from tenderest childhood to extreme old
age ; the light, laughing countenance of
youth and beauty (for the fishermen's
daughters of Newlyn and Mousehole bear
off the prize from the whole country
round), is contrasted with rough faces
which have weathered the gales of more
than half a century, and who now, exempt
from the toils of the sea, remain on shore
to secure and preserve the finny spoil.

Yet sometimes, in all this, the sudden
tempest destroys the labour of the fisher-
man ; his nets and boats are lost ; his
means of subsistence are gone, and poverty
iisurps the place of plenty ; occasionally
even lives fall a sacrifice. It is then that
the season of joy is changed into mourn-
ing, and what was looked forward to with
pleasure, is for a long time remembered
with grief.

The boats, in the month of September,
182 — , had been on the drift with a fine
breeze for two or three hours, with every
prospect of success ; the evening had been
cloudy, but nothing serious was appre-
hended : suddenly the breeze increased in
violence, and the nets were taken up by
the major part of the fishermen, in order
to make their way home. Some, in the
hope that the wind would not continue
boisterous, remained at their fishing ; but
the gale freshened up, and that which at
first was an easy task, became dangerous
in the extreme. One solitary little boat,
much to leeward of the rest, manned by a
father and three sons, toiled to get all
right, and made most desperate eflx)rts to
secure their property ; but the heavy sea
breaking around, obliged them to cast oflf
and try to save their own lives. The wind
was dead oflf the shore, and the distance
at this time, from being obliged to beat
up for the pier, was a subject not to be
looked at with pleasure : it was attempted ;
but, instead of working to windward, they

lost ground, and, in the end, were obliged
to run before it.

Harder and harder blew the wind, and
the hope which had animated the little
crew, became fainter every moment. The
father looked on his sons, but dared not
utter a word to the elder ones ; he saw
the agitation of their minds, and feared to
ask a question, lest even the bare answer-
ing it would take off the attention abso-
lutely required for their preservation ; for
the sea roared and broke incessantly
around them, and the distraction of their
thoughts but for an instant would, per-
haps, have been fatal. In this distress the
eye was strained to catch a glimpse of
any object from which succour might be
derived, and, at the same time, to watch
the seas and trim their little boat.

The youngest child, the last blossom,
apparently so soon to be blighted, sat at
his father's feet ; the awfulness of the
scene, to which he was a stranger, had for
some time stopped the inquiries he was
used to make : he was looking attentively
on what was doing, and his little speaking
eye seemed to ask, could he assist. The
father, seeing the poor boy so unusually
quiet, asked him if he was afraid ?

** If you are not, father," said the little
fellow.

*' But should you not be afraid to die,
Joe ?"

"No, father, for mother says, God
watches over the poor fisherman, and I
am sure she prays for us now ; and if we
should die, I should not be afraid, father."

At that time the mother was praying
for her family, and watching anxiously the
tempest ; her heart was full, even to
bursting, but her distress broke not fortii
in loud complaints — it was the silent yet
impressive submission to the will of God,
yet looking to him for assistance. The
whole of that night passed ; at break of
day the fisherman's wife was on the cliff,
looking with fearful anxiety for the return
of her husband. The other boats were
arrived, but he came not. The day passed,
the night came, and yet no tidings. The
neighbours, who pitied and felt for her
forlorn situation, tried to comfort her; they
told of many who had escaped the storm
in all its fury, and had returned to the
bosom of their families ; though her hus-
band was not now among them, he might
still be saved and live many years. They
were thanked for their kindness, and she

96

TALES OK CHIVALRY ; OR,

tried to believe wliat tl)ey said might be
true ; yet, at llie same time, the heart
failed to give comfort, for the idea of her
loss would not allow her mind to cherish
hopes seemingly never to be realized.

When the storm was past, and fair
weather returned to cheer the fishermen,
they went out and came in as usual ;
though at first they mourned the loss of
Norton andhissons, whom they considered
dead ; yet when six months were passed,
the memory of them was fast fading away
from all but the widow and her orphan
daughter.

One afternoon in April, three men and
a little lad were seen toiling along the

road from P-

they had apparently

walked far, and each carried his bundle
slung over the shoulder. Some of the
men lounging about uttered a cry of sur-
prise, and a little girl darted away from
them towards the advancing party — the
only word she spoke was " Fatlier !" and
in an instant jumped into the arms of the
eldest of the group.

It was indeed the fisherman and his
sons ; they had escaped the perils of the
storm, they had traversed the great ocean,
and now once more returned to throw light
upon the dark hours, and cause sunshine
and smiles again to illumine the cottage
of her who thought herself desolate ; she
was no longer the widow mourning the
death of her husband and family, but the
happy wife, and the mother of sons who
had been her pride and support : nor was
the enjoyment solitary ; old faces dropped
in to see their lost comrades restored to
them, to wish them joy on their return,
and offer assistance sliould they need it.
They asked them by what miracle they
had escaped, and why they had not before
informed them of their safety ? It was
soon told : — they had passed that night
and the next morning in great distress j
the gale had not decreased ; when at
their last extremity, they were taken up
by an outward-bound vessel on her voyage
to South America : they had no means of
returning, or even sending home to their
family, and were obliged to wait on board
until they could obtain a passage to Eng-
land. The captain had allowed them
handsomely for their assistance ; they
were grateful to him, and thanked heaven
for the blessing of deliverance from death,
and giving them something to assist in
recovenng the loss they had sustained.

The next season the fisherman's family
were engaged in their former occupation,
with a fresh boat and nets, purchased by
the money they had brought with them,
and the kind assistance of tiieir friends.
They have since weathered many a gale,
and been signally favoured by Providence :
but this was the principal feature of their
lives — it formed a tale for many wintry
nights ; and the recital of the adventure
always convinced them that God protects
those who put their trust in him.

napoleon's march over the great

ST. BERNARD.

On the 6th of May, in the year 1800,
Napoleon, then first consul of France, set
off from Paris to assume the command of
the army of Italy. On the 13th, he arrived
in the neighbourhood of Lausanne. —
Having reviewed his troops, he pursued
his journey along the north banks of the
Lake of Geneva, and passing through
Vevey, Villeneuve, and Aigle, arrived at
Martinach, situated near a fine sweep of
the Rhone, near its confluence with the
Durance. From this place the modern
Hannibal (not more resembling that
warrior in military talent than in perfidy)
passed through Burg and St. Brenchier ;
and, after great toil, (iif}iculty,and danger,
arrived with his whole army at the top of
the Great St. Bernard. The road up this
moimtain is one of the most difficult, and
the scenes which it presents are as magni-
ficent as any in Switzerland. Rocks,
gulphs, avalanches, or precipices, pre-
sented themselves at every step. Not a
soldier but was alternately petrified with
horror, or captivated with delight — at one
time feeling himself a coward — at another,
animated with the inspirations of a hero !
Arrived at the summit of that tremendous
mountain, and anticipating nothing but a
multitude of dangers and accidents in
descending from these regions of perpetual
snow, on suddenly turning a road, they
beheld tables, covered, as if by magic,
with every kind of necessar}' refreshment.
The monks of St. Bernard had prepared
the banquet. Bending with humility and
grace, those holy fathers besought the
army to partake the comforts of their
humble fare. I'he army feasted, returned
tumultuous thanks to the monks, and
passed on. A few days after this event,
the battle of Marengo decided the fate of
Italy.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

97

Page 98.

THE LEGACY

A SKETCH.

" Allez, allez, vitel" cried Jean Henri
Latour to his mule, as he trotted along the

road to T , under the blaze of an

autumn sun. Jean was the only son of
an old merchant in the town, and had been
absent more than five years; and his eye
gazed with delight on the landscape, still
as familiar to him as in his boyish days,
when his headstrong disposition urged
him to seek adventures in another country
— far away from the strict discipline of his
father, who, for a Frenchman, was one of
the most austere devotees that ever mor-
tified a mad-brained son, or offered a bait
to a designing batch of monks. Jean re-
sembled liis mother, who was possessed of
all the natural vivacity of a Frenchwoman :
she sung and played with taste, danced
admirably, and wrote an elegant letter ;
but monsieur was unworthy of such per-
fection : he loved business and his money
better than his wife, and, finding remon-
strance useless, he suffered her to have her
own way ; and his plan succeeded, for,

VOL. II. — 13.

when their son was only five years old,
Madame Latour over-exerted herself at a
ball, caught cold, and came home alarm-
ingly ill, was blistered, cupped, and dosed,
and — died ! Her jiusband made a decent
show of mourning, but bore his loss like a
stoic. Many of his neighbours were so
uncharitable as to hint that his grief was
artificial, or, as the English say, "all my
eye !" Be this as it may, the calamity
was not great enough to offer a serious
check to the speculations of our widower,
who became more assiduous than ever,
and his business increased with his exer-
tions.

Jean Henri was instructed in all the
various branches of polite education, until
the age of sixteen, when his father resolved
to make him a man of business, and trans-
ferred him to his counting-house ; but
Jean was incorrigible, and could not bend
his mind to business, despite of his father's
remonstrances and threats to disinherit
him : his hand-writing was illegible, and
his accounts quite unintelligible to any one
but himself. This conduct caused his
father much chagrin and vexation, for
monsieur loved his son, and wished to
o

98

TAT.F.S or CniVAf.RY; OR,

make him like liimself— a tiling morally
impossible. At length, disgusted with the
dull monotonous life lie was leading, Jean
determined to seek his fortune elsewhere,
and not obtaining his papa's consent
thereto, he determined to take French
leave of his parent — which determination
he put in force one morning before the
merchant had risen from his bed. Where
he went, is of little consequence : he was
absent five years, and saw many strange
things, as all travellers are allowed to see ;
and wlien he returned he was a head and
slioulders taller than when he left France,
had quite as good, or even a better opinion
of himself than ever, and, of course, thought
every girl in love with him. He had,
however, come home almost penniless,
and his last louis was expended. Giving
the mule a liberal taste of his riding-
whip, Jean soon reached the town, and
hastened to the house of the parent he had
abandoned, when he received die chilling
intelligence Uiat his father had been dead
upwards of six months. This was a bitter
draught for poor Jean, who thus suddenly
found himself without a friend in the wide
world ; and his grief was as violent as it
was sincere. As soon as he had sufficiently
recovered from the shock which this neus
had occasioned him, he ventured to inquire
how his father had disposed of his large
property ; and, to his horror aad chagrin,
was told that it was bequeadied by the
deceased merchant to the monks of a
neighbouring abbey. To die abbey the
young Frenchman immediately went, and
begged an interview with die superior,
who confirmed the intelligence by pro-
ducing an extract from the merchant's
will.

" You see, my son," said die father,
" that your parent had given you up for
lost : w hat says he : —

" I leave to the good fathers of the
convent of S the whole of my pro-
perty, after such debts as may be owing
by me are paid ; but if my son should
return, I desire that tliey may give him
such a portion as they may choose," &c.

Jean read over die extract again and
again, and then ventured to ask the supe-
rior what portion had been allotted to him ?
The abbot stared at this question, scratched
his head, and replied that the whole of the
money had been expended ; that a new
wall had been built round the abbey ; that
many himdred poor and sick persons had

been relieved ; and that missionaries had
been sent out to convert the savages in
distant lands, by means of the money
which die good merchant had bequeathed
to them.

During this explanation, Jean eyed the
superior widi an air of distrust, and found
it in his heart to tell him that belied ; but
the sanctity of the place checked his in-
dignation, and he quitted the abbey, dis-
gusted at what he had heard, and half
inclined to turn misanthrope. So much
did the strange will which his father had
made, and thecupidity of die abbot, occupy
his mind, that he almost ran over one of
liis old friends in the street, who greeted
him most cordially, and invited him to
dinner.

While enjoying his friend's wine, Jean
informed him of his ill-fortune, and begged
his advice. The advocate looked thought-
ful for a moment, and then assured his
guest that lie would certainly recover, not
only the part which die merchant had left
to his son, in the event of his return, but
the whole of it. Our prodigal listened
attentively, and assured his friend that he
would amply remunerate him if he suc-
ceeded in making the monks disgorge the
wealth they had so unjustly appropriated
to themselves.

Not to tire the reader with an account
of all that took place previous to the day
on which die cause was heard, we shall
proceed to recount what then took place.
The advocate, in a long and eloquent
speech, inveighed against the rapacity and
cruelty of the monks, and concluded with
these words : — '* Tlie father of my client
thus words his will — * I leave to the good

fathers of die convent of S- the whole

of my property, &c. ; but if my son should
return, I desire that they give him such a
portion as they may choose,' &c. Now,
these avaricious brothers have chosen the
whole : is not, then, my client entiUed to
the whole of his father's property ?"

7'his piece of logic was irresistible ; the
judge declared in favour of the plaintiff,
and Jean Henri Latour was once more a
happy man. Cured of his rambling pro-
pensities, he devoted his time to business,
got married to a lovely girl in the neigh-
bourhood, and lived contentedly to a
good old age.

PERILS BY FLOOD AN[7 FIELD.

m

A RECOLLECTION OF THE OLD SCHOOL.
BY A GREENM ICH PENSIONER,

When admiral John Willet Payne, of
facetious memory, was first lieutenant of

the , at that time commanded by the

very eccentric captain James, or, as he
was more usually called, Jemmy Fergu-
son, there often occurred scenes between
these two extraordinary characters, of so
ludicrous a nature, that they not only re-
lieved the monotony of the ship's daily
routine of duty in port, but seemed to
cheer, by their repetition, many a dull
hour at sea, and to arouse the hearty
laugh of tiiose to whom they were re-
counted on board the other ships of the
fleet, who all highly enjoyed the practical
jokes the senior lieutenant presumed to
play off on his hot-headed but warm-
hearted commander, while they were
equally astonished at the address by which
he escaped the punishment his wit and
temerity but too often richly merited.
One of those feats of dexterity, the genuine
offspring of liis ever-fertile mind, occurred
shortly after the breaking up of the frost
in the ice-bound harbour of Halifax, where
the frigate had been laid up for the
winter.

Before she sailed, it was determined by
the inhabitants to add one concluding ball
to the festivities that had reigned through-
out the dreary months of the past year,
as a friendly fareweh to the officers of the
ship, with whom they had lived in an un-
interrupted course of hospitality. Prepa
rations were therefore made on a more
tiian usually splendid scale, to render this
lasty>/e the most brilliant of all, and invi-
tations were soon sent on board, :md were
joyfully accepted. But it so happened,
that, on the appointed day, captain Fer-
guson and his mad-brained lieutenant
had several high words on some trifling
occasion, which proceeded, as customary,
to epithets of no measured description on
the part of the enraged commander, and
of calm ironical retort on that of his officer;
and as the superior considered his dignity
would be more compromised in acknow-
ledging the impropriety of his foul lan-
guage, than in using it (a very common
error), so he would not condescend to
apologise ; neither would the inferior
yield the point relative to his impertinent
presumption and sarcastic replies, both
continuing to remain in a temnoiarv state

of hostility and cross-purposes — no un-
common case with them.

As the wished-for evening advanced,
the captain, having had leisure to dress
himself for the gay scene of revelry and
dance, came suddenly on deck, ordered
his barge, and at (he same time directed
Meester Payne not to leave the ship on
any account whatsoever, but to remain on
board, and prepare for sea at daylight.
The half-adoni/.ed premier, thunderstruck
with this despotic and unlooked-for man-
date, attempted to remonstrate ; but he
soon found it was totally in vain, by that
infallible token, that ominous sign of
settled displeasure, the formal appellation
" Meester Payne . I say, Meester Payne,
selence. Meester Pavne, I tull ye,
selence : doe as I tull ye," — while, with
imperturbable gravity and stateliness, he
descended into liis barge ; but no sooner
had the boatswain's long, loud crescendo-
pipe proclaimed his friend's departure,
than Mister Payne, casting a hasty but
satisfactory look at his own well-made
limbs, already cased in kerseymere and
silk, resolved they should not be deprived
of the pleasure of exhibiting themselves
once more in tiie mazy dance, before they
resumed their sea- worthiness : he there-
fore hastily descended, completed his
toilette as a private gentleman,. and left
the ship in charge of his secontl, taking
care to land at a distance from wheie the
barge had grounded, giving strict orders
for the boat's crew not to hold any inter-
course whatsoever with the bargemen,
and to be ready at a moment's notice ;
then bending his way towards the assem-
bly-rooms, he requested an interview with
the stewards and a few other trusty friends,
who had already expressed their surprise
at his not appearing, but from the brief
and crabbed answers of captain Ferguson,
had easily divined the truth. His un-
expected arrival, therefore, gave great
pleasure, and they readily agreed to fall
in with the humour of his proposal — to
personate a stranger from the province,
well knowing there was not an individual
in the room but would aid in supporting
the assumed character, however palpable,
as a just revenge for the captain's ill-
humour in depriving them of his officer's
company. Tliis preliminary step being
taken, he entered the splendid hall of
Terpsichore, with that frank, easy, and
gallant bearing, which denoted him a

100

TALES OF CHIVALRY

true and favoured worshipper at her soul-
inspiring shrine. The ladies received his
salutations with gracious smiles, the gen-
tlemen, with hearty congratulations —
being all of tiiem secretly apprised by the
stewards with the reason for his adopting
plain clothes.

During his entrecy and the friendly
greetings of the company, he was unno.
ticed by his commander, who had entered
into a profound dissertation with the col-
lector of customs, on the comparative
merits of Scotch haddock and Newfound-
land codhsh ; but no sooner had the new-
comer began to flourish away one of the
gayest of the throng, than his eagle eye
caught the well-known symmetry and
light step of his very obedient first officer.
An involuntary feeling of amazement
caused him to half rise from his seat, but
a momentary doubt, as Payne partially
escaped his view while turning his fair
partner, as quickly reseated him again ;
but although the collector earnestly at-
tempted to recal his attention, it was in
vain. Scotland and its salting superiority,
the fish and their unrivalled good qualities,
were as far and as free from his thoughts
as they were themselves in the bleak
northern seas, or on the misty banks of
Terra Nuova. His ears, his eyes, his
every sense, was too insensibly fixed on
the real or ideal form of the gay Lothario,
now arrived at the head of the set imme-
diately opposite, and within a few yards
of himself. He could no longer restrain
the forcible impulse that urged him to
utter his rage and astonishment ; with a
convulsive bound he sprang on his feet,
and in nearly breathless accent, exclaimed,

** By ! look, te's him, mon ! te's

Payne ! that rascal Payne ! haw dar he
come here !" and was hastening to a
personal attack, when his friend the col-
lector, the stewards, and others, quickly
interposed, and mildly inquired what
excited his indignation ? " Why, don't
ye see, don't ye see that scoundrel
Payne ?" — '* Where, my dear sir ?" said
those around, affecting to look in the
direction indicated. ** Why, there, to be
sure, at the head of the dance, wei that
bonny lassie for a partner ;" at the same
time advancing, in despite of every effort
to restrain his impetuosity.

Payne, who was fully prepared, received
his first salutation with the greatest sati^-
froid, begging to know (in a well-feigned

tone) whom he had the honour to listen
to ; at the same time declaring his entire
surprise at so rude an address from a
perfect stranger. ** Weel," said Ferguson,
** if e'er in aw my life did I see such im-
pudence ! What, not kna yer awn cap-
tain, ye dog ? Didna I tuU ye, ye munna
come here ? Out aw the room j on board
we ye instantly, and get the ship ready
for sea." — ** My dear sir," replied the
incorrigible, *' your discourse is quite a
riddle ; you are mistaken in my person,
I assure you, sir ! ] have neither the
honour of knowing you, or the Mister
Payne you mention ; and as to a ship, I
was scarcely ever on board one in my
life." Lost in utter amazement, Ferguson
could hardly refrain from laying hold of
the daring impostor ; the whole assembly
had by this time collected around this
aiverting scene ; and knowing the parties,
and the precautions taken to prevent a
disagreeable denouement, they enjoyed in
the highest degree so rich a treat, being
barely able to restrain their laughter,
while they listened to the following con-
tinuation of this extraordinary dialogue —
Ferguson nearly choked with rage, while
Payne was as calm and collected as a
Stoic. " Why, are you not Payne, you
rascal ? are ye not him ? Can ye, dare
ye deny it to my face — tell me that, I say !"
— " You are, sir, in an egregious error,
and I regret much your importunities and
ill manners should lead you to annoy me,
and interrupt the reigning harmony ;"
then, making a profound bow, resumed
his nonchalance. "Deed ye ever see
the like of his confounded impertinence ?"
said Ferguson, turning to the company.
*' Why, ye aw ken him as weel as I do
mysel ! Look on him, and say is not that
my own Payne ? Speak, an' ye would
that J should nae burst !" The company,
thus appealed to, readily acknowledged
the resemblance in form and features, but
at the same time declared the voice was
materially different, and, moreover, that
the gentleman's declaration clearly and
absolutely negatived the presumption.

But as it was too evident (however dis-
tinct the gentleman was from Mr. Payne,
in the pretended opinions of all present)
no persuasion could remove the thorough
conviction from captain Ferguson's mind
that they were one and the .same indivi-
dual, the company were therefore content
to entreat his piesent forbearance, and to

PERILS BV FLOOD AN U KIKLI).

101

permit the dancing to proceed without
farther altercation, hinting, that if the
gentleman was not really Mr. Payne, he
was acting very unjustly towards him,
and, on the other hand, he would know
the truth when he returned on board :
these pressing instances, added to the
confusion of his mind, caused by excessive
exasperation at the effrontery and bold
denial of his hopeful right arm, induced
him to forego all farther contention, but
not until he had shook his head, and fist
too, at the provoking mco^weVo, muttering
between his teeth, " that he'd pay him off
when he got on board." This farce being
ended, the entertainments were gaily
renewed till past midnight, when Fer-
guson, feeling his anxiety too great to
wait for supper, hastily arose, and casting
a fierce glance at the new Dromio, was
followed by the good wishes of the com-
pany, as he proceeded with hurried steps
to his barge, determined to revenge him-
self on Payne.

The whole room now resounded with
applause, at the success of the stratagem,
yet mixed with some apprehensions of the
final issue, from which Payne soon relieved
them by assurances that he had fully pro-
vided for his safety, by sending a trusty
messenger to the bargemen, with a guinea
in the captain's name, desiring them to
enjoy themselves, as they w-ould not be
wanted until daylight; and, in conse-
quence of such timely precaution, they
were all long since too drunk to be col-
lected before he could get on board in his
own boat. But as there was now no time
to lose, he bade and received the farewells
of all his kind and joyous friends, and
hurried down to the landing-place, whence
he rowed rapidly off to the ship. To
hoist up the jolly-boat, and change his
ball-dress for his uniform, was but the
work of a few minutes; and long before
the barge came alongside, he was on deck
to receive his impatient and furious cap-
tain, whose face and gestures exhibited
an amazement far surpassing what they
had done on shore, when he stepped on
deck and beheld his supposed disobedient
and mutinous first lieutenant, with a half-
suppressed yawn and rubbing his eyes,
waiting in utatu quo, as if just awoke,
and determined by his presence to show
a more than usual respect towards his im-
perious commander.

When Ferguson could recover the use

of his speech, his scarcely articulated
words were — " Why, Jock ! mon — why,
Jock, is that ye yersel ? Can it be pos-
sible ? and have ye ne'er been to the
ball ?" ** The ball, sir ! how could I go
to the ball, when you so positively pro-
hibited my leaving the ship ? But, sir, I
beg your pardon — I beg to waive this
discourse. I see you are inclined to be
merry at my expense, after depriving me
of once more enjoying the company of
my friends before our sailing, for which I
am excessively obliged to you." ** Why^
Jock, I am quite bewildered, mon. —
Zounds ! I either saw ye or yer ghaist at
the dance. Gude Lord deliver us aw, it
may have been the de'el himself! How
I have abused a gentleman there, think-
ing aw the while it war ye, ye rogue!"
— ** Not at all uncommon with you, sir !
And I should not be surprised at some
very awkward consequences from your
rudeness to a stranger," said Payne, while
he secretly chuckled at the evident uncer-
tainty and embarrassment of his captain,
and more so at the complete success of his
ruse. Nor was it until long after that the
truth was told to the old commodore, who,
being an excellent- hearted man, laughed
heartily at his rascal Jock's trick, and
whom he sincerely forgave, from that
affectionate regard he always felt, as he
declared, towards a scapegrace — but who
was at the same time a gentleman, and
an honour to his profession.

THE SOLDIER'S HOME.

•* Home — we shall soon be home !" was
the joyful sound which ran through the
British army in the south of France, when
its successful career was stopped by the
cessation of arms, previous to the final
arrangement of the terms of peace by the
belligerent powers : to none came the
word more welcome than to lieutenant
Tremayne ; lying on a bed of sickness,
severely wounded, and tired of the scenes
of blood he had witnessed, home had
more charms for him than to many other
persons. Animated with the enthusiasm
which pervaded all classes of society, at
the time when the struggle for liberty
against the tyranny of France had almost
entirely rested with Britain, Arthur Tre-
mayne entered the British army as a
volunteer in one of the regiments about
to embark for Portugal He took upon
[ him the profession of arms from the pure

102

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

motive of resisting tyranny and oppres-
sion, and to give liis aid to a people
striving to repel a foreign invader who
songlit to banish freedom from (he world.
With this idea in his mind, he was the
foremost in every engagement in which
his regiment took a part, and acted on all
occasions as became a British soldier: but
when he saw the deadly hatred of man
against man, the secret murderous attacks,
and the demoniac rage which influenced
the contending parties, the scathed and
ruined villages, and all the horrors of
protracted warfare, he sickened at the
carnage and misery by which he was sur-
rounded, and sighed once more to behold
the peaceful and happy home he had left
in his native land.

But he was doomed to have his fill of
horrors even to loathing ; and though he
was not deficient of the desire to win
renown, yet to obtain peace, and to see
the fine, fertile country, now lying waste,
once more cultivated by a contented and
cheerful peasantry, he would have given
up all worldly glory and honour to accom-
plish it. Singular as it may appear, he
saw the British army enter Lisbon, and
pass throughout the whole of Spain — was
at Albuera, Badajoz, Salamanca, and
Vittoria, without receiving a wound, or
suffering anything beyond what the ordi-
nary course of events might have occa-
sioned ; but the moment the army entered
the French territory, and the peace he
wished for was hourly expected to put an
end to the war, in almost the last engage-
ment, under the walls of Bayonne, a
cannon-ball struck him in the leg, and he
fell amongst a heap of dead and wounded.

Unable to move from where he lay,
and suffering the most acute pain from his
wound, he saw the battle raging around,
and was exposed to the fire of both parties.
As the place where he fell was of import-
ance, the possession of it was warmly
contested ; and in the continued advance
and retreat of the troops, he was trampled
on without any regard to the anguish
inflicted, and expected death every mo-
ment, from some of those who in wanton
cruelty mangled and cut the wounded
and helpless soldiers with their sabres.
The battle at last ceased. He had re-
mained in this situation the whole day,
and now night came on with all the
horrors of rapine and murder the field of
battle is witness to after the combat j but

Arthur Tremaine saw it not — he knew
not the fate of many of his comrades in
whom life still remained, and who were
mercilessly deprived of existence by the
marauders, fearful of interruption in their
work of plunder ; for, faint with the loss
of blood, he was not conscious of his situ-
ation, and was for some time in the friendly
care of one of the neighbouring peasantry,
who, forgetting national animosities, had
kindly taken him under his roof, and
given him every attention and comfort
his situation afforded : it was here he
heard the joyful intelligence of peace, and
the sound of home which echoed from
every quarter.

The pleasing anticipation of returning
to his home — to the friends he had left,
and the scenes of his earliest days, on
which his memory delighted to rest, for
they brought to recollection the brightest
and happiest season of his life — cheered
Tremaine in his anguish, and enabled
him to bear his misfortune as a man and
a Christian : he knew that in his native
village he should meet with many friends,
and there was one above all he wished to
behold — one who had breathed a prayer
for his safety when he left England, and
whom he still hoped thought of him. The
chances of war, the continual change of
place, and the difficulty of communication
with Britain, had prevented his hearing
from her for some time ; but the con-
fidence he had in her affection, was a
beacon-light which bore him through (he
stormy path he trod, and pointed out,
from the darkness which enveloped him,
the accomplishment of his desires, and the
road to happiness.

The month of June, 1814, will be long
remembered as the tern)ination of a pro-
tracted and ruinous war, and the an-
nouncement of a general peace among
the nations of Europe. The good people

of D had been celebrating the joyful

intelligence ; the bells were merrily ring-
ing, the inhabitants were assembled in
parties, talking over the blessings of
peace, the girls were thinking on the
return of their sweethearts from the wars,
and not a heart but what enjoyed the
prospect with pleasurable anticipations —
when a chaise (a rare occurrence at

D ) drove rapidly through the village,

and stopped at (he door of Goodman 'J're-
maine. Speculation and conjecture were
instantly on foot to discover who and what

PF.Rir.S BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

103

were its contents: they were soon set at
rest, for in a moment a military officer,
by the help of a crutch, descended and
entered the house : it was Arthur, tlieir
son, returned once more to bless the old
couple by his presence ; but their hearts
sunk within them when they observed the
paleness of his countenance, and the weak-
ness of his whole frame. The old dame
bustled about, and got a glass of cordial
to strengthen him, the pride of her old
days — and the father moved with greater
celerity than he had exhibited for many
years, to get an easy chair, that he might
rest his wounded limb.

That evening was a season of triumph
to the old couple : their son was returned
from fighting his country's battles, with
the honourable badges of distinction,
gained in a cause worthy a Briton : even
his wound was talked of with proud exul-
tation, and his battles were fought over
again in the kitchen, by the old man and
some friends who dropped in to wish him
joy. To give the subject more effect,
they made an attack on the ale and cyder,
as firm and determined as ever was
attempted by mortal man, inflamed with
a desire to show his good will towards his
neighbour, in marvellous large draughts of
good old mellovi' October, while volumes
of smoke issued from a battery of pipes
enough to give some idea of the smother
arising from the discharge of several
pieces of artillery. While this was doing
below, the person whose feats were so
much talked of, lay quietly in a little room
over their heads, with a lieart overflowing
with gratitude to that kind Providence
which had permitted him to return and be
the comfort of those who in childhood
watched over his head, and passed many
anxious hours on his account ; they now
stood in need of his support, though even
tliat support was feeble.

The next morning, Tremaine arose
refreshed and invigorated by the repose
he had enjoyed : once more he took his
seat at the little breakfast-table ; and
though three years had passed since he
last occupied that place, it appeared but
as a dream, and the troubled scenes of war
and desolation he had witnessed, were but
as the visions of the night ; but there was
something wanted — something looked
for — the want of which rendered him
uneasy, and evidently engrossed his whole

to the questions of the old couple, who
were anxious to make liim comfortable,
and who had discovered that there was a
cause o^ uneasiness, and tried to find it
out. Tlieir endeavours were useless; it
lay not with them, but from without, for
the door never opened, or a footstep ap-
proached, but it could be plainly seen
some one was expected. Was it the
doctor's daughters, who came full of
smiles and empty compliments ? — or the
parson's niece, languishing, and ready to
fall in love with the first hero she could
find > — or the sister of the lawyer, grave
and solemn, with thoughts soaring to
heaven, drinking inspiration from the
elorious sun, or the tender moon ? No !
They all came, and were kindly received,
but the restless eye of the soldier showed
he was unsatisfied — there was one looked
for, who came not.

After breakfast, Tremayne silently took
his crutch, and proceeded through the
village to see the alterations of three
years, and call on those old friends who
were unable to leave their homes to come
and welcome him : house after house was
visited, yet there was one he appeared
afraid to enter, although it seemed to
possess the power of attraction, for, spite
of opposition, and something like reluc-
tance, he found himself at the door, with-
out for a moment seeming aware of his
proximity. It was the house of tlie widow
Ross, one of his earliest friends, and the
home of some one more than a friend —
the being in whom all his hopes centred
— her daughter Jane ; she had seen his
approach, and came to meet him : there
was more in the few words she spoke than
in all the fine speeches about heroism told
him in the morning ; and in the full round
tear which trembled in her eye, the tear
through which a smile beamed in aflfec-
tionate recognition, there was a tale told
which spoke more eloquently to the heart,
than the parade of elegant compliment,
frequently so liberally bestowed without
ever conveying any thing but empty
sound. Mutual inquiries and explanations
soon renewed the feelings they had for-
merly felt for each other. Arthur's coun-
tenance (a sure index to his mind) pointed
out the tranquillity within, and in a short
time he was exactly on the same footing
as in former days, though Jane could not
help looking with anxiety on the pale
cheek, the efFects pf his recent iJlnesif,

104

TAIES OF CHIVALRY ; OR

and affectionately inquired of him, could
she at all promote his return to health ?

It was evening when the invalid left
the cottage to return home, and the next
and succeeding mornings he was again
an early visitor ; the widow, now very
weak and infirm, would sit in the warm
sunshine in the porch of her little mansion,
and listen to the details of engagements
in which their visitor had taken a part :
the eye of the daughter told the interest
she took in them, and the narrator seemed
full as eager to give pleasure by the
account of his adventures.

In a few months Tremaine entirely
recovered his health, and, besides this,
had made such good use of his time, as to
obtain the consent of Jane Ross to unite
her fortunes with his — to the manifest
dismay of the doctor's daughters, the
parson's niece, and the lawyer's sister — all
of whom had marked him as a prize ; but
in possession of the heart he had gained,
the soldier finds more real pleasure, than
when surrounded with the pomp and
panoply of war, and receiving the hollow

smiles of heartless flatterers. At D

may be seen the soldier's home, where he
quietly passes through life, envying and
injuring none, but doing good to all.
Many a time may the traveller be seen to
linger near his dwelling, for, thougii
simple and unadorned with architectural
ornament, there is a charm, a quiet feeling
of repose about it, that it seems rather
(he abode of something beyond that of an
earthly being, and finely illustrates that
sentence of Holy Writ which says, " How
beautiful are the feet of them who bring
glad tidings of peace."

napoleon's tomb.
When at Saint Helena, I started one
morning, with a small party of brother
officers, to survey the spot where the
remains of the world's agitator are depo-
sited. The character of the scene is pro-
found and awful loneliness — a dell, girt in
by huge naked hills — not an object of
vegetable life to relieve the general aspect
of desertedness, except the few weeping
willows which droop above the grave.
The feeling of solitude is heightened by
an echo that responds on the least eleva-
tion of the voice. With what singular
emotions I took my stand upon the slab
which sheltered the dust of him for whom
the crowns, thrones, and sceptres, he

wrung from their possessors, would 'of
themselves have furnished materials for a
monument ! There the restless was at
rest ; there the emperor of the French,
king of Italy, protector of the Confedera-
tion of the Rhine, grand master of the
Legion of Honour, reposed, vvitji almost
as little sepulchral pomp as the humble
tenant of a country church-yard : —

"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well 1"
I withdrew my foot — removed with my
handkerchief the traces it had left upon
the stone, and gave a tear to the fate of
the exile. I also was a soldier of fortune.
Our party quitted the place with dejected
faces, and scarcely a word was spoken
until we reached our quarters.

On the following morning a French
frigate arrived from the Isle of Bourbon,
having on board a regiment of artillery.
The officers solicited and obtained per-
mission to pay a tribute of respect to their
old leader's ashes. I accompanied them
to the ground, and rarely have I witnessed
enthusiasm like theirs. On the way not
an eye was dry, and some who had served
immediately under * the emperor,' wept
aloud. As they drew nearer to the spot,
their step became hurried and irregular ;
but the moment they saw the tomb, they
formed two deep, and advanced with un-
covered heads, folded arms, and slow and
pensive pace. When within five or six
yards of their destination, they broke off
into single files, and surrounding the
grave, at uniform intervals knelt silently
down. The commander of the frigate,
and the others in succession, then kii^sed
the slab ; — when they arose, every lip was
fixed —every bosom full.

In a few days subsequently, the officers
of both countries met at Soliman's table,
and after dinner the first toast proposed
by the French commodore was, "The
king of England — three times three !" I
really thought that the "Hip — hip —
hurra !" of our ancient enemies would
never have an end. An English gentle-
man returned thanks, and proposed, "The
memory of that great warrior. Napoleon
Buonaparte." The pledge wen t solemnly
round, each wearing, in honour of the
mighty dead, a sprig of his guardian
willow. The evening was spent in con-
cord, many patriotic toasts were recipro-
cated, many good things were said, and
the blunt sincerity of military friendship
presided over our parting.

PERILS nv FLOOD AXD FiF.LD.

105

THE DEATH-SOUND.

The peasantry of the north of Yorkshire
have a superstitious dread of the g^abrielle-
ratchard, the name of an imaginary bird,
which is said to shriek in the neighbour-
hood, or immediately at the doors, of the
sick who are destined not to recover.
The fear consequent on the hearing of
this dreadful visitant, has no doubt been
the means of terrifying many an invalid
to death. Nevertheless, the superstition,
old as our Saxon ancestors, is so firmly
believed in, that not to give credence to it
is considered, by some, to be a crime little
short of blasphemy.

It was on a fitful evening in the scowl-
ing month of November, that the family
of the good Mr. Tobitt, the curate of Kil-
vington, were clustering round the fire,
talking over the contemplated marriage
of Maria Ripley, the arch little niece of
Mrs. Tobitt, to a spruce London draper,
who had come down to settle the prelimi-
naries to the wedding, much to the an-
noyance of Maria, whose real lover was a
young farmer yclept Dawson Furnaby.
Maria had pretended indisposition for

VOL. II, — 14.

Page 107.

some days, in order to prevent her good-
natured aunt from burdening herself with
the expense of preparations for an event
which Maria had determined sliould not
take place. She looked exceedingly pale,
and was a little feverish, in consequence
of an emetic which she had secretly taken.
Mr. James Woolington, the Cheapside
draper, showed her all the attention in his
power, and had now taken his seat by
her, crossing his legs in ovrler to display
a handsome pair of tartan trousers, down
the sides of which were run broad black
bands, dragoon-like, A half-crown eye-
glass hung from his neck, by a broad
black ribbon, and inside his waistcoat his
double-frilled shirt, in which was a mock-
diamond brooch, was crossed by a thick
red silk watch-guard. He wore a blue
coat, vvith velvet collar, and buttons of the
king's pattern. Mr. James had a perpetual
simper on his countenance, with a self-
satisfied curl of the upper lip, which
showed that, however satirical and severe
he might be upon others, he was on the
best possible terms with himself. He
spoke bad French, was a dabbler in
politics, and a critic in poetry — having
p

lor,

T.\LK.S OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

addressfid sir Francis Bnrdett across llie
counter, and liaxing once attended lord
Byron to his carriage. Yet, with all
these accomphshnients, he failed to win
tiie affections of Maria Ripley, tiiough en-
couraged hv her foolish aunt.

Maria acted her part extremely well,
though the fictitious hue of sickness
cloaked a heart which was all expectancy
and joy. Mr. James VVoolington wore
away the evening in relating his ** voyages
andadventures"^ to Bordeaux and Havre
(!e Grace ; and, encouraged by Maria's
arch smiles, which he mistook for those of
admiration, he spared not to exaggerate
his "hair- breadth 'scapes" on the wide
ocean, and his daring ventures on land.
Suddenly the whole group were terrified
on hearing a dismal screech, coming,
apparently, from the elms edging the
chiuxh-yard. The women screamed ; the
men turned pale ; the jaws of Mr. James
AVoolington distended like those of an
articulated skeleton.

"A barn-owl!" exclaimed the old
curate, mechanically stretching forth liis
hand to his loaded gun, which was slung
from the old-fashioned ceiling of the room.

"The gabrielle-ratchard !" shrieked
Mrs. Tobitt.

"The gabrielle-ratchard!" roared out
Betty, who, in her terror, had uncere-
moniously entered the apartment.

" I will wager a bottle of sherry and
sixpennyworth of biscuils," faintly ob-
served Mr. James, after smelling his bottle
of salts, " that it is a strange bird which
has escaped from some ship in the nearest
port — one of the eagle species ; I have
heard such a noise oft' Dover. I hope you
are not frightened, my love, Maria ?"

** Indeed but I am, Mr. James," replied
she.

The eyes of Mrs. Tobitt were mourn-
fully fixed on Maria, and her superstitious
apprehension doomed the intrigiiiiig g'ir\
10 approaching dissolution — the event of
iier deatli being inferred, by the sagacious
dame, from the doleful cry of the alleged
gabrielle-ratchard.

" Alack-a-day !" exi;laimed she; "as
we are all here this blessed night, I knew
we should have dismal tidings before
long. My poor Maria ! what shall I do
with your wedding-dress, and what with
your" — and here she paused, to absorb
with her handkerchief the foolish tear
trickling down her furrowed cheek.

" Cheer up, aunt," replied Miss Ripley,
** I shall wear my wedding-dress yet,
depend upon it."

" More likely your siiroud," whispered
the old lady to herself — in which senti-
ments the thoughts of the frivolous Mr.
James Woolington coincided ; and so
firmly had the ominous look of Mrs. Tobitt
fixed itself upon his imagination, that he
already looked upon Maria as a withering
rose. After the alarm had subsided, and
Maria, acting well the invalid, had with-
drawn to her apartment, the said Mrs. T.
apprised him of her forebodings as to the
fate of Miss Ripley ; and it was mutually
agreed that the wedding should be post-
poned for a few days. Mr. Tobitt said
little ; he smiled at the ridiculous augury
of his spouse, and persisted in his aflfirma-
tions, that tlje bird which had terrified
with its awful voice the whole neighbour-
hood, was the large duslcy owl, commonly
haunting barns and ruinous buildings.
Cordials and restoratives were put in re-
quisition for Maria, who, the trembling
dame was sure, had the "death-sickness j"
— the noise of that ghostly bird portended
a speedy passage to the grave, she was
certain ; and she went on enumerating
the times she had heard it, and the un-
varying consequences which infallibly
followed. Mr. James Woolington became
horrified, his teeth chattered, and he
retired to his chamber in dismay.

In the morning, Maria feigned to be
a little better. The attendance of the
stupid old doctor from the adjacent town
iiad been procured. He advanced, big
with importance, to the bedside of the
sham invalid, without removing his hat or
taking off his coat with its enormous
capes. Maria held out her fair wrist, at
his request to feel her pulse. He pro-
nounced her to be in some danger, agreed
to send her a mixture, and departed. "If
I be in any danger," thought Miss Ripley,
" it is that of having my plot discovered."

Mr. James sat by her bedside for some
houis during the day, and annoyed her
no little by his shallow conversation. In
the broad sunlight he laughed away the
alarms of the previous night, and dangled
his eye-glass on his finger with all the
nonchalance of a most courageous gentle-
man, cracking his jokes upon the ungrace-
ful ploughman passing beneath the win-
dow, and boasting of the many tricks he
had played off upon "joskins" he had

PERILS BY I-LdOD AND FIELD.

107

casually met with in London. Evening
approached, but not a uord of apprehen-
sion, as to the repelition of the gabrielle-
ratchard's visit, escaped the lips of any of
the faniily. Certainly, as night set in,
they looked in each other's faces with
silent meaning. Each of their chairs were
drawn closer round the fire, and their
conversation was mutually interrupted by
significant listenings. Ten o'clock came,
and the announcement of its arrival had
scarcely ceased to sound from the steeple
bell, when the shriek of the gabrielle-
ratchard, piercingly shrill, broke on the
fireside silence, and scared the whole
group into one general cry of terror. For
a long time they stirred not from their
seats, but clung closer to each other, until
the dreaded repetition of the screams of
the supposed death- bird had died away.
At last, poor Mrs.Tobitt ventured to the
window, with the candle in her hand,
when, imagining she heard the bird tap
its beak against one of the panes of glas-^,
she drew aside the window-curtain to
look. The curate became more grave,
and declared his intention to procure the
assistance of Nathan Elgie, the parish
clerk, to discover the bird, should its visit
be repeated on the following evening.

The morrow dawned, and found Maria
in much the same condition — save that,
from having feigned to be sick for so long
a period, she was likely to become so in
earnest. However, it was the last day
which the bewitching valetudinarian was
doomed to pass in her chamber, and it
elapsed in a similar manner to the pre-
ceding. The curate, in the interim, had
conferred with his clerk, the pugnacious
Nathan Elgie, who took his seat amongst
the family group on the third night of the
gabrielle-ratchard's serenading. Fortified
interiorly with a glass or two of Mrs.
Tobitt's "particular cordial," and, exte-
riorly, by a pair of pocket-pistols, lent him
by Mr. James Woolington, the parisli
clerk sat in hourly expectation of hearing
the cry of the feathery visitant. As an
auxiliary to his oflfensive preparations, the
curate's gun lay, ready loaded, on a table
at the elbow of Nathan Elgie. The hour
arrived, and the anticipated screech was
heard, Nathan leaped up from his seat,
buttoned his coat, and, armed with the
pistols and gun, sallied forth into the
church yard. The gardener preceded
bim, carrying a lantern, aided by the light

of which they gazed up to the boughs of
the sullen elms which grew by the church-
vard, but in vain ; for, spite of Tom Mills
(the gardener) fancying, at every shake
of the trees, that it was caused by the
movement of the ominous bird, they
neither heard ncr saw anything coming
under the description of a bird, natural or
supernatural. They stood mutely listen-
ing for the screech to be repeated, which
it was within ten minutes. Nathan was
now convinced that it was from the interior
of the church that the sound came, and
turning the key in the ponderous door,
they paced the vaulted isles, and looked
up to the roof, in expectati('n of making
tlje desired discovery, but all to no par-
pose ; when, on passing through the inner
door, preparatory to crossitig the porch,
Tom Mills was startled ])y the falling of
a large piece of plaister, which dropped
on the hand that held I he lautern. Hold-
ing it up, they perceived the legs and
feet of a boy hanging over a stone projec-
tion immediately over the door- way.

" Pull him down, whether he be man
or devil!" said Nathan, pointing the
loaded piece to the spot.

*' He is neither, but your own son
Josh," replied the shrewd little urchin,
descending from his elevation.

Nathan was astounded at beholding his-
own boy in the artful little rogue just dis-
lodged from his perch. He glared upon
him with a mingled expression of morti-
fication and anger on his countenance ;
but Josh stood inflexible to the impression
of fear ; when at last Nathan relaxed, and
promised him, on the condition of a *' full"
confession, to exonerate him from punish-
ment.

" Who taught you to imitate the ga-
brielle-ratchard. Josh ?" said he ; *' tell
me truly, and I'll spare your hide, you
rascal !"

" Why, father," replied he, " as it's no
matter now, I'll tell you — it was Daw'son
Furnaby."

" Oh, the villain !" exclaimed Nathan ;
'* what will Mrs. I'obitt and xMiss Ripley
say to this? — poor Miss Ripley, who is
more likely to die than to live !"

" Ask Dawson about that," said the
jeering young trickster.

But Dawson was many a mile ofl^, even
with Miss Riplny, and both on their way
to Leake Church, to be n)arried. A de-
serted room, an open vvitidovv, with the

108

TALES OF CHIVALRY

gardener's ladder placed immediately be-
neath it — lhe.se circumstances, together
with Ihe disapj)earance of the wediling-
dress, declared tlie upshot of the whole
affair. Mr. and Mrs. Tobitt were very
angry, and Mr. James Woolington was
astonished. On cool consideration, they
consoled themselves with laughing at the
plor, and determined to regard its issue
with kindness. I'he person most aggrieved
by the stratagem, Mr. James Woolington,
the London draper, "packed up his duds,"
and made the best of his way to town,
fully determined, in his next essay at
wife-hunting, to fix on some more propi-
tious region than the North Riding of
Yorkshire.

THE EVIL OMEN.

A DREADFUL and distressing circiim-
stance occurred while we lay becalmed off

the island of C . The vessel lay

motionless and still, while not a breath of
air so much as ruffled the glassy smooth-
ness of the water: at the same time, the
heat was so intense, that it was particu-
larly painful to walk the deck in the thin
slippers that are usually worn on board.
The paint all rose in blisters, and it was
deemed necessary to keep the men con-
stantly employed in laving the sides and
deck with water, to prevent the tar and
pitch from oozing away from between the
planks. Three days had we remained
almost stationary — a slight difference in
the inclination of the vessel's head, alone
showed that the ship had moved. Fears
began already to be entertained, that,
should the calm continue, our supply of
water would be insufficient. A thick scum
or film had, within the last two days, been
collecting on the surface of the vvater,
which was only disturbed by the buckets
of the sailors, or the long fins and tails of
the numerous sharks which were skimming
and hoverino- about within cable's length,
awaiting, as ttie sailors superstitiously
af!irn)e(i, the carcase of some one of their
unlucky crew. Two albatrosses, which
liad been floating at an immense height,
almost perpendicularly over the ship, and
which had been discovered at the first
dawn of day, were adduced as corrobora-
tive evidences that some ill was portended
either to the ship or crew.

A young, thoughtless, good-tempered
fellow — one of our cabin passengers, w ho,
having finished his education in England,

was returning to his friends at Calcutta —
was supposed by our bigots on board to
be the Jonah on whose account we were
to be visited — from having, some three or
four days before, shot a petrel, either to
show his dexterity as a marksman, or to
add to the collection of curiosities he was
formino- ; which, in the eyes of the sailors,
was a greater crime than any sacrilege
whatever.

Several attempts had been made, with-
out success, to catch one of the sharks that
swam around the ship j at length, a sailor
who had been leaning over the taffrail,
watching the motions and movements of
the long-finned monsters, hastily cried out
that a shark was approaching the bait —
a piece of pork, which the above-men-
tioned Mr. \V had begged of the

captain, and which was floating some
twenty or thirty yards from the stern, on
the starboard quarter. Hearing a com-
motion overhead, I hastened up the com-
panion-ladder, and joined the crowd who
were thronging the bulwarks and the
main and mizen channels, intentl}' await-
ing the approaching capture of the victim,
who seemed somewhat aware that there
was " more than met the eye," from his
not immediately doing as ** sharks are
w-ont to do."

Nothing could be seen of the rascal
but a long, black, slender, and pointed
tail, which rose almost upright from the
water, about three feet in height, and
occasionally his nose, as he neared the
bait. It was really beautiful to observe
with what swiftness and grace he per-
formed his evolutions round the focus of
attraction — leaving behind a wake which
was the more distinctly traced, owing to
the scum alluded to. At length, he
could withstand the temptation no longer,
and having at last made up his mind,
dashed with astonishing velocity to the
devoted piece, first upturning himself, as
he neared, upon his side, and showing,
for the first time, his light grey belly,
and the most tremendous mouth that can
be conceived. His upper jaw and nose
projecting considerably beyond his lower,
is the reason assigned for the singular
manner in which all sharks take their
prey. The shark having, in rising, shown
almost his whole body, immediately after
sunk, but in a few seconds rose, evidently
smarting from the hook. No time was
lost in attempting to haul him in, which,

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD,

109

however, leqnlred great caution in the
execution, for fear the hne, which was
not a stout one, should fail, or the hook
might slip, which sometimes happens, for
the shark made most desperate plunges
in his efforts to escape, and which required
some score fathoms of additional line to
be given out.

We could now better calculate his size,
for, having weakened and exhausted him-
self by his exertions, his evolutions were
less rapid, and he showed himself more
frequently abo\e the surface. He was of
the largest size, certainly not less than
fifteen or eighteen feet, and of a species
remarkable for their great voracity. It
was at this period that the romantic and
restless W , anxious to finish the ad-
venture, insisted upon gh'ing the coup- de-
grace with the harpoon, after the manner
of the Greenland tishers. The captain
and others most strenuously opposed the
mad scheme so fraught with danger, and
failing by argument to convince, was
obliged to refuse him the boat. Foiled
in his designs, he stationed himself on the
mizen channels, armed with a harpoon,
and there, with uplifted arms, awaited the
next appearance of his opponent. The
shark neared him — he gathered himself
up, and with desperate force sent the har-
poon whizzing from his hand.

A lurch which the shark made at the
moment, prevented it from taking effect,
and it (xhe shark) remained unhurt, saving
the hook, which must have annoyed him.
A far more dreadful and certain fate

awaited the hapless W : the effort

had been made with such energy, that he
lost his equilibrium ; he tottered some
time in vain endeavouring to regain it,
and, without being able to snatch hold of
the shrouds or ratlings behind him, was
precipitated into the sea, within a few
yards of the infuriated monster. A loud
and piercing shriek from the unhappy
wretch was responded to by most of the
spectators on boartl. A rope was thrown
hastily over, to which the poor sufferer
endeavoured to cling : the jolly-boat, too,
was instantly manned, and was being
lowered from the davits — when another
dreadful shriek announced that the shark
was preparing for an attack. The poor,
ill-fated wretch, had seized the rope ; the
splash of water told that the boat was
already on its way to the rescue ; already
the hurrah of the crew anticipated success

— when, horrible to relate, the shark, who,
on the first dash of the poor youth into the
water, had retired some distance, no
sooner saw tiie cause, than he wore round,
remained a few minutes stationary, and
then, alike regardless of the noise occa-
sioned by the men — the splash of the boat,
as it touched the water — and its contiguity
to the ship — impelled by that insatiable
voracity which so pecuharly distinguishes
sharks, he neared his victim, who was
now hanging suspended some feet above
the water, when, at this awful and pecu-
liarly painful moment,a tremendous splash
of the water was heard — and, at the same
time, the huge monster, throwing itself
entirely out of the water, apparently with
as much ease as a salmon or dolphin,
seized its devoted victim — and when,
with a dreadful plunge, it returned to its

native element, the legs of poor W

were missing from above the knees. The
thighs, dreadfully lacerated, streamed with
blood : but for a few seconds did he main-
tain his hold — pale, and apparently con-
vulsed, one long shriek was all he uttered,
before, relaxing his hold, he fell into the
sea — when he immediately disappeared.
A slight gurgling in the water, succeeded
by a splash, gave evidence that he sunk
not alone.

Whether, in the excusable flurry of the
moment, the coil of line to which the
shark was attached, had been dropped
overboard, or whether the shark, in itJv
last retreat, had silently drawn it away,
was never ascertained — for certain, it was
never more seen. A few minutes after-
wards, a corn-motion in the water being
observed some hundred yards a-head, the
boat rowed to the spot — which commotion
ceased as soon as the boat arrived near :
and there, on the surface, surrounded for
many yards by blood, floated all that re-
mained of poor \y , a portion of his

entrails.

Such was the end of a gay, kind, high-
spirited, but thoughtless youth — one who,
a short half-hour before, had been the life
of the ship's company, and who had con-
duced, more than any one else on board, to
dissipate and lessen the monotony and
tediousness of the voyage — who, with
youth, fortune, education, and powerful
friends, had a brighter prospect than
many. This soUtary tale — if any proof
was wanting — is enough to convince us
of the certainty and immutability of fate.

no

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

A singular coincidence, as connected
witli the sailors' predictions, occmved, and
which not a little confirmed them in their
prejudices. While the above sad adven-
ture was taking place, the albatrosses had
disappeared : in less than an hour after,
the air became njore cool ; and in a few
minutes more, the wind freshened into a
breeze, which soon bore us from a spot
fraught with such horrible and tragic asso-
ciations.

HENRY AND EMMA.

In the little town of St. Mary's, the
capital of the Scilly Islands, resided two
families, who were united to each other
by more than common friendship : the
one was that of general S., governor of
the isles, and commander of the garrison ;
the other was captain T., an old veteran
naval officer, who, worn out in the service
of his country, had retired upon half-pay
and the hard-earned gleanings of a long
series of toils and adventures ; he was a
widower, with an only daughter, dear to
him as bringing to remembrance days of
happiness long gone by, and as being the
only ofTspring of a wife he tenderly loved :
his daughter's affection consoled him for
the loss of the mother, and this affection
he sincerely returned : he was a kind
parent, and his child's happiness was the
thing most dear to him on earth. Cap-
tain T. was not a native of Scilly ; his
principal, indeed, almost only inducement
to reside, was his friendship for the general,
with whom he had contracted an intimacy
when on service abroad, and which a suc-
cession of mutual good offices had after-
wards ripened into an almost brotherly
affection. The secluded life of the Scil-
lonians render them more dependent on
each other for amusement and society,
than persons inhabiting large towns ; and
to this may be attributed the social feel-
ing spread througiiout the islands : the
families of the general and captain T.
w^ere rarely separated : to Emma T., as an
orphan, the whole of the household of
general S. were particularly kind ; but in
Henry, one of his sons, she found a simi-
larity of taste, which gave a charm to his
conversation, and this was much more
heightened by the discovery, that he re-
garded her with a warmer feeling than
mere friendship.

Henry S. was an officer in one of his

majesty's ships, at that time stationed in
the Channel ; and as Scilly was within
the limits of their cruise, he was enabled
to pay fie(|uent visits to his friends. In
these visits, the goodness of heart and
manly boldness which he evinced, won
the love of Emma, and nothing but filial
piety prevented her from blessing the
young sailor with her hand ; the captain's
infirmities increased very considerably,
and his daughter considered that without
her society the poor old man would be
almost destitute ; his friends would, she
knew, pay him every attention, but who
so proper as a daughter, to comfort and
support his aged head ? She therefore
determined never to leave him in the
hands of strangers, but remain and minister
to his wants and wishes, until death should
release him from his sufferings. Know-
ing the wish of Emma to remain with her
father, Henry forbore pressing his suit ;
he thought, and justly so, that she who
had proved so good a daughter, would
make him as good a wife : it was a prize
worth waiting for ; and in the meantime
he would have an opportunity of increas-
ing his fortune, and thus be enabled to
offer her something equal to what he be-
lieved she deserved : the love of such a
woman was a treasure to be purchased at
any rate, and he determined, by his exer-
tions, to show how highly he estimated
and prized it.

During the period Henry was stationed
in the Channel, the intercourse between
the lovers was fVequent ; but in a cruise
during the winter the ship he belonged to
received such serious damage as to be
obliged to bear up for Plymouth, and, on
examination, was declared not sea-worthy,
and put out of commission. The neces-
sities of the country, then at war with
France and Spain, would not allow any
inactivity, and Henry was immediately
re- appointed to another ship, then under
sailing orders for the East Indies : a very
short interval was allowed him to prepare
for Ris voyage, and he was obliged to sail
without seeing either Emma or any of his
family. A letter hastily written to apprize
his friends of the circumstances in which
he was placed, was all he could do : to
Emma he wrote more particularly ; it
was a letter in which tenderness was
mixed with the manly boldness of the
British sailor, expressing hopes and wishes
for her welfare, and little schemes of hap-

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

Ill

piness, which were doomed never to be
fulfilled.

The voyage out was accomplished with
safety, and for some time every thing
seemed to smile ; but fortune, ever way-
ward, assumed a frowning aspect, and a
succession of accidents quickly followed
each other. On the change of the mon-
soons or trade winds, the Indian seas are
subject to hurricanes or tornadoes, which
blow with a violence scarcely to be con-
ceived by an- inhabitant of this country
who has not witnessed their effects. —
Trading vessels usually lie in port until
the monsoon begins to blow with its ac-
customed regularity : but at the period
this narrative refers to, war was carried
on with vigour in the east, and the go-
vernment cruisers were obliged to keep
to sea, lest the enemy, seeing the coast
clear, might embrace the opportunity of
throwing supplies of men and arms into
their different forts and establishments.
The ship in which Henry sailed was thus
employed on the watch, when it encoun-
tered the fury of one of these gales. From
the experience of the commander, and the
readiness with which his orders were
obeyed, joined to the firmness of the ship,
very little damage was sustained ; but
they were driven out of their course a
considerable distance, and it became ne-
cessary, when the weather cleared, to
bear up for some harbour and refit, as
well as to obtain a supply of fresh provi-
sions and water. In an attempt to go on
shore on one of the islands of the eastern
Archipelago, for the purpose of obtaining
this supply, lieutenant S. was cut off (after
a brave resistance) by some Malay proas
lurking about the coast for plunder, who
immediately made off with their prisoners
with the speed they were so celebrated
for, to another island. From the know-
ledge he had of the cruelty of the Malays,
he expected immediate death, or, at most,
a very short respite ; but, though often
threatened on any appearance of Impa-
tience of restraint, contrary to expectation
he arrived at the port to which the proas
belonged, and was delivered up to an
agent of the French government, who,
with a view to annoy the British interests,
had offered a considerable reward for any
vessels or prisoners captured.

After waiting several hours for the
return of the boat with lieutenant S., the
ship, which before had a considerable

offing, ran in shore as near as could be
done with safety, and another boat was
dispatched to ascertain the cause of de-
lay : the search was fruitless — not a mark
could they discover on the beach, or any
sign of a landing being effected : night
obliged them to close the search, and the
vessel lay-to, with a light hoisted as a
signal : hopes were entertained that the
party with Henry were driven to leeward,
and in that case the light would guide
them in making the ship. The night
passed, and search was again made j the
boat was at last discovered, nearly broken
in pieces by the violence of the surf, and
some of the seamen, dreadfully mangled,
lying near it. As none of the seamen
had seen the skirmish, and the reports of
the muskets had not been heard on board
the ship, the impression on the minds of
the crew was, that the boat had been
caught in the breakers, and that all had
perished ; the mutilation of the bodies
was supposed to be caused by their beat-
ing against the sharp coral rocks common
to the Indian seas, and of which an exten-
sive reef ran nearly along the whole shore
of the island.

In a few months the news reached
England. Poor Emma, who about this
time expected a letter, as usual, full of
high hopes and promises, was surprised at
the delay ; from motives of kindness, the
reason was not immediately told her.
She was surprised, on her visits to the
general's, to find the family moving about
with an unusual solemnity ; and though
their greeting was equally kind and affec-
tionate as at former times, still there was
a restraint in their behaviour which ap-
peared to her as very singular : from the
eyes of love it is impossible to hide any
thing of this nature, and Emma was, at
length, told of the sad fate of her lover.
Though Emma endeavoured, as much as
possible, to reconcile her mind to the loss
she had sustained, the effect of the be-
reavement soon became visible : the un-
certainty of the fate of Henry, the thoughts
of her own destitution on the deadi of a
parent now tottering on the verge of the
grave, and whose infirmities demanded
the whole of her attention, so harassed her
mind, as finally to bring her health into
such a state as to leave very little hope of
her being long an inhabitant of this world.
Often at night would she start in terror
from her pillow, and fancy she saw Henry

112

TALES 01' CHIVALRV ; OR,

strug^gling with tho waves, exhausted, and
in the agonies of death ; sometimes a
faint hope would spring up, that lie was
still alive, and that by the next packet
she would hear from him as usual ; but as
time wore away, and no farther tidings
arrived, this hope disappeared, and left
a blank in her mind — a heart-chilling
vacancy, which the endearments of her
friends, who tried all they could to divert
her melancholy, failed to obliterate. Some
of the young men of the islands, who
knew not the strength of her attachment,
hoped to gain her love ; — they were, one
after another, rejected : she thanked them
for their kindness, but Henry had been
her first, her only love, and the sole wish
of her heart was to rejoin him in heaven.

At the time Henry's comrades were
lamenting his supposed death, he was
confined in a fort held by the French of
one of the native Indian princes. The
commander of it treated him with much
kindness, and allowed him every liberty
he could, consistent with the orders of his
government, yet slowly and painfully
passed the hours of his captivity : the
uncertainty of its duration rendered it the
more irksome •, hours would he pass when
all around him were at rest, looldng from
his prison window on the world of waters
which dashed at its foot, and then thoughts
of home came fresh in his memory : hours
of happiness, long since fled, passed in
review before him, when all was joy and
gaiety. Months rolled on, when one
morning he was hurried on board a
French ship, to be sent as a prisoner to
Europe. Off (he island of Bourbon he
had the good fortune to be captured by
an English frigate homeward bound; and
after a voyage of more than common
quickness, the pleasure of which was in-
creased by the joy he anticipated from the
society of her he loved best, the shores of
Britain greeted his sight. Safe landed in
England, his first step was to secure a
passage to his dear, his native isle.

It was a lovely summer evening when
the packet hove in sight, and every eye
was eager to watch who were its passen-
gers, and inquire the news from England.
The arrival of the packet is ever a subject
of curiosity to the inhabitants of Scilly, as
it is almost the only means they have of
hearing vshat is passing among their
brethren on the continent. How many
anxious inquiries are made for letters or

tidings from those away ! what joy and
exultation is shown, if they hear that
friends are well, and will soon be among
them ! — and how great the contrast be-
tween those and the looks of despondency
unable to be suppressed by thern who are
not so fortunate !

Emma's health was at this time very
precarious; with all the flattery of pjil-
monary complaints, her friends little
imagined how soon (without any extraor-
dinary event happening) she would cease
to be among the living. She had this
evening taken a little walk, and had been
watching the packet working into the
harbour, when Henry, who had then
landed, hurried towards her. Was it only
imagination, or he himself? — a moment,
and she was convinced of its reality ; but
the excitement of that moment was fatal:
—the tremor, the agitation on a frame
already shattered and weakened by anx-
iety, was more than nature could bear —
a blood-vessel was broken internally, and
in less than an hour the world and all its
pleasures had ceased to be thought of,
and her soul had winged its way, to join
its sister spirits in the mansions of the
blest !

Schooled as he lately had been by
adversity, Henry had hoped, that with his
arrival at Scilly his troubles would cease
— an event so fatal he had never thought
of: he was prepared to see her in a low
and depressed state ; but to have all he
loved on earth snatciied from him at a
moment, when, as a recompense for all
his fatigues and troubles, he hoped to be
rewarded with the hand and heart of his
beloved one, was a death-blow to all his
hopes of happiness. He endeavoured to
bear up against his evil fortunes, but
Scilly had become hateful to his sight: he
sought employment from the government,
and was appointed to a ship on the coast
of Africa, where, in a few months after, a
fever terminated his existence, in that
grave of Europeans, Sierra Leone.

The remainder is soon told; the ge-
neral had others who demanded his atten-
tion, and tin)e lent its aid in smoothing
over and filling up the chasm ; but the
poor old captain, missing his daughter's
attention and kindness, soon found his
resting-place and home in the grave. His
old friend caused a small tablet to be
erected in memory of him and his beloved
Emma.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIF.LD.

113

Page 119.

D E

LINDSAY

A TALE.

Rupert de Lindsay was an orphan of
ancient family and extensive possessions.
With a person that could advance but a
slight pretension to beauty, but with an
eager desire to please, and a taste the
most elegant and refined, he very early
learned the art to compensate, by the
graces of manner, for the deficiencies of
form ; and before he had reached an age
when other men are noted only for their
horses or their follies, Rupert de Lindsay
was distinguished no less for the brilliancy
of his toUy and the number of his con-
quests, than for his acquirements in lite- \
rature, and his honours in the senate.
But while every one favoured him with i
env3% he w as, at heart, a restless and dis- j
appointed man.

Among all the delusions of the senses,
among all the triumphs of vanity, his
ruling passion, to be really, purely, and
deeply loved, had never been satisfied.
And while this leading and master-desire
pined at repeated disappointments, all
other gratifications seemed rather to mock

VOL. II. — 15.

than to console him. The exquisite tale
of Alcibiades, in Marmontel, was appli-
cable to him. He was loved for his ad-
ventitious qualities, not for himself. One
loved his fashion, a second his forttme ; a
third, he discovered, had only listened to
him out of pique at another ; and a fourth
accepted him as her lover, because she
wished to decoy him from her friend.
These adventures, and these discoveries,
brought him disgust ; they brought him,
also, knoviledge of the world ; and nothing
hardens the heart more than that know-
ledge of the world which is founded on a
knowledge of its vices — made bitter by
disappointment, and misanthropical by
deceit.

I saw him just before he left England,
and his mind was then sore and feverish.
] saw him on his return, after an absence
of five years in the various courts of Eu-
rope, and his mind was callous and even.
He had then reduced the art of governing
his own passions, and influencing the pas-
sions of others, to a system ; and iiad
reached the second stage of experience,
when the deceived becomes the deceiver.
He added to his former indignation at tlie
Q

114

TALES OF CHIVALRY

OR,

vices of human nature, scorn for its weak-
ness. Still many good, though irregular
impulses, lingered about his heart. Still
the appeal, which to a principle would
have been useless, was triumphant when
made to an afTection. And though selfish-
ness constituted the system of his life,
there were yet many hours ivhen the sys-
tem was forgotten, and he would have
sacrificed himself at the voice of a single
emotion. Few men of ability, who neither
marry nor desire to marry, live much
among the frivolities of the world after
the age of twenty-eight. And de Lindsay,
now waxing near to his thirtieth year,
avoided the society he had once courted,
and lived solely to satisfy his pleasures
and indulge his indolence. Women made
his only pursuit, and his sole ambition :
and now he had arrived at the time
when, in the prosecution of an intrigue,
lie was to become susceptil.le of a passion,
and the long and unqut^nched wish of his
heart was to be matured into completion.

In a smali village not far from London,
there dwelt a f;imily of the name of War-
ner ; the father, piously termed Ebenczer
Ephraim, was a merchant, a bigot, and a
saint- the brother, simply and laically
christened James, was a rake, a boxer,
and a good fellow. But she, the daughter,
wlio claimed the chaste and sweet name of
Mary, simple and modest, beautiful in
feature and in heart, of a temper rather
tender than gay, saddened by the gloom
which hung for ever upon the iiome of
her childhood, but softened by early habits
of charity and benevolence, unacquainted
witli all sin even in thought, loving all
things from the gentleness of her nature,
finding pleasure in the green earth, and
drinking innocence from the pure air,
moved in her grace and holiness amid
her rugged kindred, and the stern tribe
among whom she had been reared — like
Faith sanctified by redeeming love, and
passing over the (horns of earth on its
pilgrimage to heaven.

In the adjustment of an ordinary amour

with the wife of an officer in the

regiment, then absent in Ireland, but who
left his gude-woman to wear the willow

in the village of T , Rupert saw,

admired, and coveted the fair form I have
so faintly described. Chance favoured
his hopes. He entered one day the cottage
of a poor man, whom, in the inconsistent
charity natural to iiim, he visited and

relieved. He found Miss Warner em-
ployed in the same office ; lie neglected
not his opportunity, he addressed her;
he accompanied her to the door of her
home ; he tried every art to please a
young and una wakened heart, and he
succeeded. Unfortunately for Mary, she
had no one among her relations calcu-
lated to guide her conduct, and to win
her confidence. Her father, absorbed
either in the occupations of his trade or the
visions of his creed, of a manner whose
repellant austerity belied the real warmtji
of his affections, supplied but imperfectly
the place of an anxious and tender mother ;
nor was this loss repaired by the habits
still coarser, the mind still less soft, and
the soul still less susceptible, of the frater-
nal rake, boxer, and good fellow.

And thus was thrown back upon that
gentle and feminine heart all the warmth
of its earliest and best affections. Her
nature was love ; and though in all things
she had found wherewithal to call foriii
the tenderness which sh'.^ could not re-
strain, there was a vast treasure as yet
undiscovered, and a depth beneath that
calm and unruffled bosom, whose slumber
had as yet never been broken by a breath.
It will not therefore be a matter of sur-
prise, that de Lindsay, who availed him-
self of every opportunity — de I^indsay,
fascinating in manner, and consummate
in experience — soon possessed a dangerous
sway over a heart too innocent for suspi-
cion, and which, for the first time, felt the
luxury of being loved. In every walk,
and her walks hitherto had always been
alone, Kupert was sure to join her; and
there was a supplication in his tone, and a
respect in his manner, which she felt but
little tempted to chill and reject. She
had not much of what is termed dignity ;
and even though she at first had some
confused idea of the impropriety of his
company, which the peculiar nature of her
education prevented her wholly perceiving",
yet she could think of no method to check
an address so humble and diffident, and
to resist the voice which only spoke to her
in music. It is needless to trace the
progress by which aflfection is seduced.
She soon awakened to the full knowledge
of the recesses of her own heart, and
Rupert, for the first time, felt the certainty
of being loved as he desired. " Never,"
said he, " will I betray that affection ; she
has trusted in me, and she shall not be

PERILS iJV FLOOD ANf) KIKLr).

115

deceived : she is innocent and hapj)y — I
will never teach her misery and guilt !"
Thus her innocence reflected even upon
him, and purified his heart while it made
the atmosphere of her own. So passed
weeks, until Rupert was summoned by
urgent business to his estate. He spoke
to her oF his departure, and he drank
deep delight from the quivering lip and
the tearful eye with which his words were
received. He pressed her to his heart,
and her unconsciousness of guilt was her
protection from it. Amid all his sins, and
they were many, let this one act of for-
bearance be remembered.

Day after day went oii its march to
eternity, and every morning came the
same gentle tap at the post-otfice window,
and the same low tone of inquiry was
heard ; and every morning the same light
step returned gaily homewards, and the
same soft eye sparkled at the lines which
the heart so faithfully recorded. I said
eveiy morning, but there was one in each
week which brought no letter — and on
Monday Mary's step was listless, and her
spirit dejected — on that day she felt as if
there was nothing to live for.

She did not strive to struggle with her
love. She read over every word of the
few books he had left her, and she walked
every day over the same ground which
had seemed fairy-land when with him ;
and she always passed l)y the house where
he had lodged, that she might look up to
the window where he was wont to sit.
Rupert found that landed property, w'here
farmers are not left to settle their own
leases, and stewards to provide for their
little families, is not altogether a sinecure.
He had lived abroad like a prince, and his
estate iiad not been the better for his ab-
sence. He inquired into the exact profits
of his property ; renewed old leases on
new terms ; discharged his bailiff; shut
up the roads in his park, which had seemed
to all the neighbourhood a more desirable
way than the turnpike conveniences ; let
ofl' ten poachers, and warned off ten gen-
tlemen ; and, as the natural and obvious
consequences of these acts of economy
and inspection, he became the most un-
popular man in the county.

One day, Rupert had been surveying
some timber intended for the axe ; the
weather was truly English, and changed
suddenly from heat into rain, A change
of clothes was quite out of Rupert's ordi-

nary habits, and a fever of severe nature,
which ended in delirium, was the result.
For some weeks he was at the verge of
the grave. The devil and the doctt)r do
not always agree, for the moral sailh that
there is no friendship among the wicked.
In this case the doctor was ultimately
victorious, and his patient recovered.
" Give me the fresh air," said Rupert,
directly he was able to resume his power
of commanding, *' and bring me whatever
letters came during my illness." From
the pile of spoilt paper from fashionable
friends, country cousins, county magis-
trates, and tradesmen who take the liberty
to remind you of the trifle which has
escaped your recollection — from this olio
of precious conceits Rupert drew a letter
from the Irish officer's lady, who, it will
be remembered, first allured Rupert to
Mary's village, acquainting him that she
had been reported by some good-natured
friend to her husband, immediately upon
his return from Ireland. Unhap[)ily, the
man loved his wife, valued his honour,
and was of that unfashionable temperament
which never forgives an injury. He had
sent his Ach-tes twice during Rupert's
illness to de Lindsay Castle, and was so
enraged at the idea of his injurer's depart-
ing this life by any other means than his
bullet, diat he was supposed in conse-
quence to be a little touched in the head.
He was observed to walk by himselt*,
sometimes bursting into tears, sometimes
muttering deep oaths of vengeance ; he
shunned all society, and sate for hours
gazing vacantly on a pistol placed before
him. All these agreeable circumstances
did the unhappy fair one (who picked up
her information second-hand, fur she was
an alien from the conjugal bed and board)
detail to Rupert with very considerable
pathos.

** Now then fur Mary's letters," said the
invalid; "no red-hot Irishman there, I
trust ;" and Rupert took up a large heap,
which he selected from the rest as a child
picks the plums out of his pudding by
way of a regale at the last. At the perusal
of the first three or four letters, he smiled
with pleasure; presently, his lips grew
more compressed, and a dark cloud settled
on his brow. He took up another — he
read a few lines — started from his sofa.
*' What ho, there ! — my carriage-and-fbur
directly 1 — lose not a moment ! Do- you
hear me r Too ill, do you say ? — Never

IIG

TALKS OP CHIVALRY

SO well in my life ! Not another word,

or My carriage, 1 say, instantly ! Put

in my swiftest horses! — I must he at

T to-nigiit hefore live o'clock !" and

the order was oheyed.

To return to Mary. 7Mie letters which
had hlest her through the livelong days,
suddenly ceased. What could be the
reason } Was he faithless — forgetful —
ill ? Alas ! whatever might be the cause,
it was almost equally ominous to her. —
** Are you sure there are none ?" she
said, every morning, when she inquired
at the office, from which she once used to
depart so gaily ; and the tone of that
voice was so mournful, that tlie gruff post-
man paused to look again, before he shut
the lattice and extinguished the last hope.
Her appetite and colour daily decreased ;
shut up in her humble and tireless cham-
ber, she passed vThole hours in tears, in
reading and repeating, again and again,
every syllable of the letters she already
possessed, or in pouring forth, in letters
to him, all the love and bitterness of her
soul. ** He must be ill," she said at last;
** he never else could have been so cruel !"
and she could bear the idaa no longer.
** I will go to him — I will soothe and
attend him. Who can love him, who can
watch over him, like me ?" and the kind-
ness of her nature overcame its modesty,
and she made her small bundle, and stole
early one morning from the house. "If
he should despise me," she thought ; and
she was almost about to return, when the
stern voice of her brother came upon her
ear. He had for several days watched the
alteration in her habits and manners, and
endeavoured to guess at the cause. He
went into her room, discovered a letter in
Iier desk which she had just written to
Rupert, and which spoke of her design.
He watched, discovered, and saved her.
There was no mercy or gentleness in the
bosom of Mr. James Warner. He carried
her home, reviled her in the coarsest and
most taunting language, acquainted her
father, and, after seeing her debarred from
all access to correspondence or escape,
after exulting over her unupbraiding and
heart-broken shame and despair, and
swearing that it was vastly theatrical,
Mr. James Warner mounted his yellow
stanhope, and went his way to the Fives
Court. Bu^ these were trifling misfor-
tunes, compared with those which awaited
this unfortunate girl.

There lived in the village of T one

Zacharias Johnson, a godly man and a
rich, moreover a saint of the same chap-
ter as Kbenezer Ephraim Warner ; his
voice was the most nasal, his holding forth
the most unctuous, his aspect the most
sinister, and his vestments the most
threadbare, of the whole of that sacred
ti ibe. To the eyes of this man there was
something comely in the person of Mary
Warner : he liked her beauty, for he was
a sensualist ; her gentleness, for he was a
coward ; and her money, for he was a
merchant. He proposed both to the father
and to the son ; the daughter he looked
upon as a concluding blessing sure to
follow the precious assent of the two rela-
tions. To the father he spoke of godli-
ness and scrip — of the delightfulness of
living in unity, and the receipts of his
flourishing country-house : to the son, he
spoke the language of kindness and the
world — he knew that young men had
expenses — he should feel too happy to
furnish Mr. James with something for his
innocent amusements, if he might hope
for his (Mr. James's) influence over his
worthy father : the sum was specified, and
the consent was sold. Among those do-
mestic phenom.ena which the inquirer
seldom takes the trouble to solve, is the
magical power possessed by a junior
branch of the family over the main tree,
in spite of the contrary and perverse di-
rection taken by the aforesaid branch.
James had acquired and exercised a most
undue authority over the paternal patri-
arch, although in the habits and senti-
ments of each there was not one single
trait in common between them. But
James possessed a vigorous and un-
shackled, his father a weak and priest-
ridden, mind. In domestic life, it is the
mind which is the master. Mr. Zacharias
Johnson had once or twice, even before
Mary's acquaintance with Rupert, urged
his suit to Ebenezer ; but as the least hint
of such a circumstance to Mary seemed to
occasion her a pang which went to the
really kind heart of the old man, and as he
was fond of her society, and had no wish
to lose it, and as, above all, Mr. James
had not yet held those conferences with
Zacharias which ended in the alliance of
their interests — the proposal seemed to
Mr. Warner like a lawsuit to the lord
chancellor, something rather to be talked
about than to be decided. Unfortunately,

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

117

about the very same time in which Mary's
proposed escape had drawn upon her the
paternal indignation, Zacharias liad made
a convert ofthe son ; James took advantage
of his opportunity, worked upon his father's
anger, grief, mercantile love of lucre, and
saint-like affection to sect, and obtained
from Ebenezer a promise to enforce the
marriage — backed up his recoiHng scru-
ples, preserved his courage through the
scenes with his weeping and wretched
daughter, and, in spite of every lingering
sentiment of tenderness and pity, saw the
very day fixed which was to leave his
sister helpless for ever.

It is painful to go through that series of
inhuman persecutions, so common in do-
mestic records ; that system, which, like
all grounded upon injustice, is as foolish
as tyrannical, and which always ends in
misery, as it begins in oppression. Mary
was too gentle to resist ; her prayers be-
came stilled ; her tears ceased to flow ;
she sat alone in her *' helpless, hopeless,
brokenness of heart," in that deep despair
which, like the incubus of an evil dream,
weighs upon the bosom, a burden and a
torture from which there is no escape nor
relief. She managed at last, within three
days of tliat fixed for her union, to write
to Rupert, and get her letter conveyed to
the post,

" Save me," it said in conclusion ; " I
ask not by what means, I care not for what
end — save me, I implore you, my guar-
dian angel. I shall not trouble you long;
I write to you no romantic appeal : God
knows that I have little thought for ro-
mance, but I feel that I shall soon die —
only let me die unseparated from you ;
you, who first tauglit me to live, be near
me, teach me to die, take away from me
the bitterness of death. Of all the terrors
of tiie fate to which they compel me,
nothing appears so dreadful as the idea
that I may then no longer think of you
and love you. My hand is so cold that I
can scarcely hold my pen, but my head is
on fire. I think 1 could go mad, if I
would J but I will not, for then you could
no longer love me. I hear my father's
step — oh, Rupert I on Friday next — re-
member— save me, save me !"

But the day, the fatal Friday arrived,
and Rupert came not. They arrayed her
in the bridal garb, and her father came up
stairs to summon her to the room in which
the few guests invited were already as-

sembled. He kissed her cheek ; it was
so deathly pale, that his heart smote him,
and he spoke to her in the language of
other days. She turned towards him, her
lips moved, but she spoke not. " My
child, my child !" said the old man, "have
you not one vi'ord for your father ?" — *' Is
it too late?" she said; "can you not
preserve me yet ?" There was relenting
in the father's eye, but at that moment
James stood before them. His keen mind
saw the danger ; he frowned at his father
— the opportunity was past. " God for-
give you!" said Mary; and cold, and
trembling, and scarcely alive, she de-
scended to the small and dark room,
which was nevertheless the state chamber
of the house. At a small table of black
mahogany, prim and stately, starched and
whaleboned within and without, withered
and fossilized at heart by the bigotry, and
selfishness, and ice of sixty years, sat two
maiden saints ; they came forward, kissed
the unshrinking cheek of the bride, and
then, with one word of blessing, returned
to their former seats and resumed their
former posture. There was so little ap-
pearance of life in the persons caressing
and caressed, that you would have started
as if at something ghastly and supernatural
— as if you had witnessed the salute of the
grave. The bridegroom sat at one corner
of the dim fireside, arrayed in a more
gaudy attire than was usual with the sect,
and which gave a grotesque and unnatural
gaiety to his lengthy figure and solemn
aspect. As the bride entered the room,
there was a faint smirk on his lip, and a
twinkle in his half-shut and crossing eyes,
and a hasty shuffle in his unwieldy limbs,
as he slowly rose, pulled down his yellow
waistcoat, made a stately germflexion,
and regained his seat. Opposite to him
sat a little lank-haired boy, about twelve
years old, mumbling a piece of cake, and
looking with a subdued and spiritless
glance over the whole group, till at length
his attention rivetted on a large dull-
coloured cat sleeping on the hearth, and
whom he durst not awaken even by a
murmured ejaculation of " Puss !"

On the window-seat, at the farther end
of the room, there sat, with folded arms
and abstracted air, a tall, military-looking
figure, apparently about forty years of
age. He rose, bowed low to Mary, gazed
at her for some moments with a look of
deep^inlerest, sighed, muttered something

118

TALES OF CHlVALItY: OR,

to himself, and remained motionless, «itli
eyes fixed upon the ground, and leaning
against the dark wainscott. This was
Monkton, the husband of the woman who

had allured Rupert to T , and from

whom he had heard so threatening an
account of her liege lord. Monkton had
long known Zacharias, and, always in-
clined to a serious turn of mind, he had
lately endeavoured to derive consolation
from the doctrines of that enthusiast. On
hearing from Zacharias, for the saint had
no false notions of delicacy, that he was
going to bring into the pale of matrimony
a lamb which had almost fallen a prey to
the same wolf that had invaded his own
fold, Monkton expressed so warm an
interest and so earnest a desire to see the
reclaimed one, that Zacharias had invited
him to partake of the bridal cheer.

Such was the conclave ; and never was
a viedding party more ominious in its
appearance. ** We will have," said the
father, and his voice trembled, ** one drop
of spiritual comfort before we repair to the
house of God. James, reach me the holy
book !" The Bible was brought, and all,
as by mechanical impulse, sank upon their
knees. The old man read with deep
feeling some portions of the Scriptures
calculated for the day ; there was a hushed
and heartfelt silence ; he rose — he began
an extemporaneous and fervent discourse.
How earnest and breathless was the atten-
tion of his listeners — the very boy knelt
with open mouth and thirsting ear. There
was a long pause — they arose ; even the
old women were affected. Monkton re-
turned to the window, and throwing it
open, leant forward as for breath. Mary
resumed her seat, and there she sat mo-
tionless and speechless. Alas ! her very
heart seemed to have stilled its beating.
At length James said (and his voice,
though it was softened almost to a whisper,
broke upon that deep silence as an un-
looked-for and unnatural interruption),
** 1 think, father, it must be time to go,
and the carriages must be surely coming,
and here they are — no, that sounds like
four horses." And at that very moment
the rapid trampling of hoofs and the hur-
ried rattling of wheels were heard — the
sounds ceased at the gate of the house.
The whole party, even Mary, rose and
looked at each other — a slight noise was
heard in the hall — a swift step upon the
stairs — the door was flung open, and, so

wan and emaciated that he would scarcely
have been known but by the eyes of
affection, Rupert de Lindsay burst into
the room. " Thank God !" he cried, " I
am not too late !" and, in mingled fond-
ness and defiance, he threw his arms
round the slender form which clung to it
all wild and tremblingly. He looked
round. " Old man," he said, " I have
done you wrong ; I will repay it; give
me your daughter as my wife. What are
the claims of her intended husband to

mine ? Is he ri

-my riches trebleliis.

Does he love her? — I swear that I love
her more! Does she love him ? Look,
old man — are this cheek, w hose roses you
have marred — this pining and wasted
form, which shrinks now at the very
mention of his name, tokens of her love ?
Does she love me ? You her father, you
her brother, you her lover— aye, all, every
one amongst you, know that she does ;
and may heaven forsake me if I do not
deserve her love ! Give her to me as
my wife — she is mine already in the sight
of God. Do not divorce us — we both
implore you upon our knees." *' A vaunt,
blasphemer !" cried Zacharias. *• Be-
gone !" said the father. The old ladies
looked at him as if they were going to
treat him as Cleopatra did the pearl, and
dissolve him in vinegar. ** Wretch !"
muttered, in a deep and subdued tone,
the enraged and agitated Monkton, who,
the moment Rupert entered the roon),
had guessed who he was, and stood frown-
ing by the sideboard, and handling, as if
involuntarily, the knife which had cut the
boy's cake, and been left accidentally
there. And the stern brother, coming
towards him, attempted to tear the cling-
ing and almost lifeless Mary from his
arms.

" Nay, is it so ?" said Rupert, and with
an effort almost supernatural for one who
had so lately recovered from an illness so
severe, he dashed the brother to the
ground, caught Mary in one arm, pushed
Zacharias against the old lady with the
other, and fled down stairs, with a light
step and a lighter heart. "Follow him,
follow him !" cried the father, in his
agony ; ** save my daughter — why will
ye not save her ?" and he wrung his hands
but stirred not, for his grief had the still-
ness of despair. " I will save her," said
Monkton ; and still grasping the knife, of
which, indeed, he had not once left hold,

PERILS BY FLOOD \ND FIKLD.

119

he darted after Rupert. He came up to
the object of his pursuit just as the latter
liad placed Mary (who was in a deep
swoon) within his carriage, and had him-
self set his foot on the step. Rupert was
singing-, with a reckless daring natural to
his character, ** She is won, we are gone
over brake, bush, and scaur !" when
Mcmkton laid his hand upon his shoulder.
** Your name is de Lindsay, I think," said
the former. " At your service," answered
Rupert, gaily, endeavouring to free him-
self from the unceremonious grasp. —
" This, then, at your heart !" cried Monk-
ton, and he plunged his knife twice into
the bosom of the adulterer. Rupert stag-
gered and fell. Monkton stood over him
with a brightened eye, and brandishing
the blade wliich reeked with the best blood
of his betrayer. ** Look at me !" he
shouted, "I am Henry Monkton! — do
you know me now ?" — " Oh, God !" mur-
n)ured the dying man, "it is just, it is
just !" and he writhed for one moment
on tiie earth, and was still for ever !

Mary recovered from her swoon to see
the weltering body of her lover before
her, to be dragged by her brother over the
very corpse into her former prison, and to
relapse, with one low and inward shriek,
into insensibility. For two days stie
recovered from one fit only to fall into
another ; on the evening of the third, the
wicked had ceased to trouble, and the
weary was at rest !

It is not my object to trace the lives of
the remaining actors in this drama of real
life — to follow the broken-hearted father
to his grave — to see the last days of the
brother consume amid the wretchedness
of a gaol — or to witness, upon the plea of
insanity, the acquittal of Henry Monkton :
these have but little to do with the thread
and catastrophe of my story. There was
no romance in the burial of the lovers —
death did not unite those who in life had
been asunder. In the small church-yard
of her native place, covered by one simple
stone, whose simpler inscription is still
fresh, while the daily passions and events
of the world have left memory but little
trace of the departed, the tale of her sor-
rows unknown, and the beauty of her life
unrecorded, sleeps Mary Warner !

And they opened for Rupert de Lind-
say the mouldering vaults of his knightly
fathers ; and amid the banners of old
triumphs and the escutcheons of heraldic

vanity, they laid him in his pallid and
gorgeous cotfin !

I attempt not to extract a moral from
his life. His existence was the chase of a
flying shadow, that rested not till it slept
in gloom and for ever upon his grave !

REEFING TOPSAILS — FOR THE FIRST
TIME.

Towards midnight I had managed to
fall into an uneasy kind of dose, from
which I was aroused by a strange and
astounding clamour. The ship was lying
down nearly on her beam-ends, the waves
rushed madly past her sides, and the wild
blast mourned shrilly and sadly on the
night air, dashing the loose sails against
the masts with the noise of thunder ;
while, at intervals, the voices of the crew
mingled with, or rose above, the elemental
clamour. Presently, t recognized the
voice of Sellis issuing a peremptory com-
mand. Instantly there was a confused
trampling of feet overhead, a clattering of
blocks and slackened cordage, and a voice,
broken by a thousand fogs, dismally sum-
moned, " All hands, reef topsails !"

I am not ashamed to confess that I
clung to my hammock in considerable
trepidation ; but when the master-at-arms
presented himself at my side, and de-
manded, *' Why do you not turn out ?"
I fairly shivered with affright. " Come,
come," said he, rudely shaking me by the
shoulders ; " every one that cracks a bis-
cuit in this ship must do something for it."

Resistance I knew to be wholly una-
vailing; I quitted my hammock, and,
scarcely aware of what I was about, drew
on my trousers, and followed him up the
companion-ladder, my teeth chattering
with cold and apprehension. The night
was pitchy dark ; and the ship, close upon
a wind, drove furiously through the long
heavy sea, occasionally throwing up vast
sprays from under her bows, and flooding
her decks fore and aft : sky above, and
sea beneath, presented alike black and
dismal murkiness, save a long line of
phosphoric radiance, which the vessel left
behind her, and the momentary dismal
brightness that succeeded to the breaking
of each long swell as it swept across her
laboured track. The wind came in sullen
gusts, for a moment laying the ship nearly
on her broadside, and straining her every
spar and timber in a fearful manner ; and
then dying away, left her rolling and

120

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

pitchino: in the trough of a trememlons
sea. One of these squalls had just spent
itself as I put my head on deck, and the
cross swell catching the ship on her
weather- quarter, bore her larboard-bow
under water ; but as suddenly righting
Iierself, the masts creaked and nodded, as
though about to fall, and the sails (thrown
back for the moment), fluttered loosely
against tliem with a tremendous noise ;
and the deluge of water she had taken in
forward descended again to its parent
source with the force of a cataract.

My tormentor, the lieutenant (Sellis)
immediately perceived me, and said,
**Ha, ha, shipmate, is it you? Come,
jump into the mizen-rigging. Let go the
topsail halyards !" he sung out in an au-
thoritative tone.

"Ay, ay, sir!' responded a gloomy
voice.

I could scarcely see my hands before
me, but as remonstrance w^ould only sub-
ject me to some new mortification, I
groped my way to the weather-rigging ;
and when all else had began to ascend,
I placed my feet in the lanyards, and
cautiously followed them to the topsail
yard. For the service 1 was of, I might
quite as well have remained on deck.
Absolute terror utterly incapacitated me
from any exertion, save that of clinging
with convulsive tenacity to the yard. Sus-
pended on the tottering spar over the
midnight and stormy sea — a false step, a
sudden yaw of the ship, might sweep me
into its inexorable vortex ; and before 1
was missed, she might have passed miles
on her trackless way. I thought of this,
and my faculties and limbs seemed para-
lyzed.

When I again found myself safe in my
hammock

A PREDICTION. — LOUIS XVIII.

When seated within the walls of the
Tuilleries, the officers of Louis's household
frequently heard him exclaim, '* Modena
is right," or ** Modena is wrong." But
the former words fell oftenest from his
lips when his bodily sufferings were most
excruciating. No one about him was
able to account for either exclamation ;
nor should I have had it in my power to
solve the enigma, had it not been ex-
plained to me by an aide-de-camp of the
emperor Alexander.

The count de Modena, who was one of

the leading officers at the court of mon-
sieur, when count de Provence, used to
amuse himself with necromancy, and,
having a quick and lively imagination,
wrouglit himself into sucli high repute,
that all the world ran after him to learn
their future destinies. One evening,
when monsieur was relaxing in a private
circle of friends, he ol)served to the merry
teller of fortunes, "Modena, the success
of your predictions has reached my ears ;
and am I to be the only one left in the
lurch as to my future luck ?" — " Mon-
seigneur," replied the count, "you have
but to command me." Cards were im-
mediately laid upon the table, and the
operations began. After meditating on
them for several minutes, Modena ex-
claimed, " Monseigneur, the crown of
France will sit upon your brow." A loud
roar of laughter broke from the bystanders
— for at that moment Louis XVI. was in
all the vigour of health and youth; and
the duke of Normandy, the dauphin's
brother, was still in the land of the living.
Modena joined in the general merriment,
but carried on his operations. ** Yes,
monseigneur," he continued, after a tran-
sient pause, " I do not deceive myself,
you will one day wear the French crow n ;
but be assured of this — you will never be
anointed." The incongruity of the two
prophecies added notably to the general
ferment and hilarity.

Louis XVI IL treasured this seemingly
ridiculous prediction in his memory ; and
when the course of events had placed the
French sceptre in his hands, and a glim-
mering of returning health bade him look
forward to his solemn inauguration at
Rheims, he was often heard to exclaim,
"Modena is wrong;" but when violent
attacks of the gout dispelled the fond
hopes he had indulged, he would exclaim,
" Modena is right." And the result was,
that Modena was right.

VANITY OF NAPOLEON.

When Buonaparte was at Schoen-
brunn, he occasionally amused himself
with a game at vingt et un. One even-
ing, having been fortunate, and w-on a
small sum, he boastingly sliook the pieces
in his hand, saying, " The Germans love
these little Napoleons, don't they?" —
" Yes," answered general liapp, " they
do, sire, but they are not at all fond of
the great one."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

121

ALICE DACRE;

OR,
THE gambler's DAUGHTER.

" Then you have no faith in witches,
wraiths, second-sight, and all the won-
ders wrought by supernatural agency,"
said my gay young college chum, Frank
Evelyn, as we sat together one winter
night, in the oriel chamber at the priory,
his paternal estate (bearing, no doubt,
that sacred title from being erected
on the site of some monastic establish-
ment, levelled to the du'st in the reform-
ing days of the eighth Harry). " And
yet," continued he, " if you look at my
fair ancestress in the corner, and listen
to the legend [ could tell of her, your
scepticism would be put to flight ;" and
rising, he stirred the already blazing fire
into fresh brilliancy, and holding the wax
candles to a picture, rallied me on my
infidelity, which I confess I persisted in
the more steadily, in the hopes of luring
him on to the promised story ; for Frank
was one of those careless creatures, who
are apt to wjiet your curiosity to the
utmost, and then fly off to some other

VOL. ir. — IG.

Page 124.

subject, leaving you in all the tortures of
uncertainty, as to whether you may ever
hear the termination of the previous anec-
dote. His " fair ancestress" was painted
in the attire of an Arcadian shepherdess,
but with all the free and graceful outlines
and classical arrangements of drapery,
which distinguish the productions of the
Italian school. Her large -round straw
pastoral hat, with its floating green rib-
bons and cluster of wild roses, which
caught up on one side some of the rich
profusion of her fair silken curls, suited
the expression of a sweet girlish face,
whose features had no pretensions to re-
gularity, but to which their smiling youth-
fulness, and a certain piquant air of arch-
ness, gave an indescribable charm ; blue
eyes, whose " violet light" had more of
fire than languor ; lips like twin straw-
berries, fresh with the honey- dew of
morning, and dimple cheeks tinted with
the delicate bloom

The apple blossom shows,

were the principal beauties of the pastoral
nymph ; her form was slight and grace-
ful, her attitude airy and Dryad-like, and
you might gaze upon her picture till,

122

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

amid tlie floating^ and varying liglit, it
almost appeared that wilh that bounding
joyonsness of motion, she was about to
step forth from her sylvan paradise, to
woo you to her dwelling in Arcadia.
*• Don't you expect," said Frank, smiling,
** this prettiest lass that ever ran o'the
green sward, this Perdita, to oflfer you her
store of

violets dim,

But sweeter than the lids ©f Juno's ej'cs,
Oi Cytherea's breath.

" But come, you must not fall in love,
for the original was my great grand-
mother, so we will remove from the fas-
cination of eyes, whose light has long
been the tomb, to the emerald gleam of
my father's veritable Hockheim glasses,
w hose antique tracing, and good old Ger-
man inscription, never show to such ad-
vantage, as when the rich wine sparkles
through the green lustre of its crystal
prison ; and now we are comfortable
again, 1 will try to confute your sceptical
arguments, by the simple facts which
have been handed down to the descend-
ants of the fair Alice Dacre.

" Sir Reginald Dacre inherited from
his ancestors not only their unsullied
name, but extended possessions, whose
revenue was almost princely ; his esta-
blishment at Dacre Hall, his principal
seat, was magnificent in the extreme ;
and he wedded, early in life, the orphan
daughter of a noble house, whose rich
dowr}'" increased his almost boundless
wealth. The beautiful Blanche had been
his bethrothed from childhood, and blest
alike by love and fortune, the heir of the
house of Dacre was the brightest star of
* exclusive society.' Years fled away,
and a change was in the liall of his fathers;
dissipation had bowed the proud form of
sir Reginald, and the young and broken-
hearted Blanche had faded away into the
grave. Gambling, ' the worm that dieth
not,' was the fiend which had blighted his
paradise; and the vast possessions of his
ancestors, the princely dowry of his bride,
were madly cast upon the altar of the
demon. Old in heart, and scathed by
the contlicting passions attending his in-
fatuated career, sir Reginald found him-
self, at thirty-five, an irritable hypochon-
driac, whose morbid feelings could only
be excited by the fatal passion which had
destroyed him, and whose revenues were
bounded by the produce of the rents
attached to the state of Dacre Hall, where

he lived in comparative obscurity, a prey
to wild and unavailing memories of the
past. Alice, his only child, grew up
there, disregarded by her fatlier, a lady
of nature's own —

' A maid whom there were few to see,
And very few to love.'

But those who did see, loved her. Dora
Evelyn, her school friend, rather older
than herself, was Alice's chosen one ; and
how joyous were the gay holidays they
spent, chasing the deer through the green
sunny glades of Dacre, with the sylvan
feasts of cream and wood strawberries, in
some pastoral nook where they sat and
sang together, sweet as wild thrushes in
the depths of the green woods,

' In the leafy month of June.'
And, oh, how sad were their partings,
when Dora Evelyn returned to school,
and Alice, by the stern decree of her in-
flexible father remained alone at the hall,
with no companion save her own favourite
fawn, and a pair of white doves, the part-
ing gift of her friend. Occasionally, she
was summoned from her little aviary and
her fairy garden, to appear before her
father and amuse him with the playful
sallies of her wit and youthful gaiety of
imagination (which even solitude, and a
certain dread which, in spite of herself,
mingled with her love for her father, had
not the power to repress) ; even the cold
heart of the misantlirope seemed yielding
to the charm, and the few ancient do-
mestics he retained, dared to hope for
smiles once more on the countenance of
sir Reginald. The silvery laugh and
joyous carol of Alice, met with no reproof,
and she was allowed to bring her dewy
violets and fresh strawberries to his morn-
ing meal, at which she presided with looks
of sunshine and of love. Sir Reginald
appeared about to enter on a new era of
his life, a second Eden, the bliss of a
peaceful home — the happiness of a father,
when a nobleman, once the inseparable
associate of his short and splendid career,
purchased a hunting-box near Dacre
Hall, and with a select party, stormed the
* Castle of Indolence,' as they called it,
and carried off * Giant Despair' in tri-
umph. A few convivial parties, from
which he returned early, gave sir Regi-
nald a fresh zest for that society he had
so long abandoned, and which he now
wondered how he could have forsaken ;
the re-action of his spirits gave a flush

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

123

to his cheek, and a firmness to his tread,
which had long been banished. Alice
was exiled to her garden and her birds,
and invitations given and received, filled
the halls of Dacre, and led sir .Reginald
day by day, to the gay revels of his noble
friends. Time thus passed away till, after
one of those petit soirees, sir Reginald
returned home long after midnight much
excited, and his noble steed exhausted by
the speed to which lie appeared to have
been urged. Sir Reginald was heard
pacing his room for a long interval of
time, and in the morning his countenance
bore the traces of some strange revulsion
of feeling. Alice was summoned, but
she had wandered away far into the
forest glades, and some time elapsed ere
she could obey the call; with a bounding
step she rushed into the apartment, but
suddenly stopped on perceiving two gen-
tlemen, with whom her father appeared
in violent dispute. * Robbers ! demons !'
furiously exclaimed sir Reginald, * do you
come to brave me in my own halls ? the
spirit of my ancestors rises within the de-
generate bosom of their son ; begone, can
I not produce the evidence of your guilt,
and brand ye to the world as ye deserve ?
begone, or dread the chastisement which
your indignant victim' — rising suddenly
as he spoke, sir Reginald raised his hunt-
ing-whip, his daughter rushed forward to
arrest the blow, and the next minute he
lay at her feet a lifeless corpse 1 — a blood
vessel had burst, and, without a groan,
the spirit of sir Reginald Dacre passed to
the world we know not of. * * *
" Dora, the only friend of the orphan
Alice, wrote to her father, the Rev. Arthur
Evelyn, who, alive to the call of sorrow,
arrived instantly at Dacre. Sir Reginald
had few relations, and those so distant,
and so long banished, that no one came
forward. Mr. Evelyn arranged the fune-
ral ceremonies, and followed as mourner.
When sir Reginald was laid amid his
ancestors, the nobleman with whom the
fatal quarrel originated, produced such
proofs of debts (of honour) with the sig-
nature of the deceased, that the impo-
verished estate of Dacre could hardly
satisfy them. Mr. Evelyn had no legal
right to contest his claims, and after
making some slight arrangements in fa-
vour of Alice, the Jioble gambler took
possession of the hall ; the old servants
were discharged — the antique furniture

(for there had always been preserved the
Gothic grandeur of the olden day) sold
or scattered about the world, and Alice
Dacre left the hall of her fathers, an
almost portionless orphan !

" Business called Mr. Evelyn to I>on-
don, and Alice and Dora accompanied
him ; his son was about to make his
debf/t at the bar, and the anxious heart of
the father was too interested in the suc-
cess of his boy to remain at a distance.
The enchantments of the metropolis, the
gay society of Clarence Evelyn, the young
advocate, and the true kindness of her
friends, ameliorated the (at firstj exce.s-
sive sorrow of the orphan girl ; but she
still loved the solitude of her own chamber
and the mournful reveries which she could
not help indulging. Seated one evening
alone, just as the twilight began to deepen
around her, Alice fancied she saw an
unusual appearance at the extremity of
the apartment — a slight mist appeared to
gather, and as it became more defined, it
was broken and confused, like the fieeces
of summer clouds driven by the wind;
forms and hues floated over its surface,
and growing stronger, it at last resolved
itself into what almost seemed a picture
reflected on the surface of a polished
mirror — it represented part of an oriel
chamber; through the windows of richly
stained glass, a faint light dimly gleamed
like the departing sunset, only so shadowy,
that though the gorgeous colouring of
crimson and azure in the heraldic devices
was distinguishable, the forms were indis-
tinct; a Grecian tripod stood on each side
of the vrindovv, supporting white marble
vases filled with flowers, and the centre
space was occupied by an Indian cabinet,
which Alice instantly remembered as
having been in her father's study, and
whose nest of fairy drawers, inlaid with
ebony and mother-of pearl, always ap-
peared to her as treasure- cells of Indian
wonders ; the scene was so distinct, and
became every moment so palpable, that
Alice almost imagined it must be reality,
and stepped forward to assure herself of
its truth, when the hues became broken
and dim, the objects confused and shape-
less, the mist gathered up in dark and
cloudy masses, and as she approached if,
suddenly vanished, leaving the apartment
with its usual appearance.

** Alice, amazed and terrified, sank
upon a sofa, almost disbelieving the evi-

124

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

dence of her own senses ; for a long time
she remained debating with herself, whe-
ther to mention the circumstance or not,
but her dread of the laugh of Clarence,
who iiad rallied her on the superstitious
romance of her disposition, at lengUi pre-
vailed, and the mysterious day-dream
remained a secret which even Dora was
not allowed to share.

*• The time of the family's departure
arrived, and Alice still accompanied her
friends ; it was sunset when the carriage
drove up the avenue of the priory, and
as the crimson light gleamed through the
boughs of the magniticent chesnuts, Alice
thought of far distant Dacre, and wept in
silence.

*' * Welcome to my house, to your
home, my Alice, my sister !' whispered
Dora, as they entered the portal ; Alice
blushed — she knew not why, but the
paternal w^elcome of Mr. Evelyn, banished
all feelings save reverence and gratitude,
and the happy group entered the oriel
chamber of the priory. Alice gazed around
her with a sudden exclamation of surprise ;
the setting sun gleamed through the richly
tinted panes, casting a thousand hues of
amethyst and amber on the white marble
vases, with their store of silvery lilies and
Provence roses, and the gold and ebony
of the Indian cabinet : it was the very
apartment of the vision, and she could no
longer be silent on a subject which ap-
peared to her so wonderful ; a new thought
seemed on the recital to strike the mind
of Clarence — the Indian cabinet had been
purchased at the sale of Dacre, for Dora to
arrange her shells and specimens of mine-
ralogy— in a moment the carpet w^as co-
vered with corals, spars and glistening
shells, but the search was vain — no pri-
vate drawer was discoverable, and even
the enthusiastic Dora was about to yield,
when her hand accidentally pressing the
head of an enamelled bird, w Inch fluttered
on one of the compartments, the whole
slid back, and a roll of papers fell from
the secret receptacle it disclosed ; they
were eagerly examined, and amongst
them carefully folded was a written paper,
which contained the secrets of the petit
L'Enfer established at the noble marquis's
hunting seat: it appeared, from this docu-
ment, that after luring sir Reginald by
slow degrees again to the gaming-table,
tliey had by one desperate effort left him
a beggar 3 afterobtaining his signature,

which he gave in a paroxysm of frenzied
agony, he rushed out of the apartment
into the garden to cool, if possible, his
burning brow ; throwing himself on the
wet grass beneath the window, he lay
long meditating suicide, when the loud
laugh of the revellers within struck upon
his ear, and some indistinct words thrilled
through his frame like lightning ; in the
heat of the CNening banquet, some one of
the party had thrown open the French
window, and the crimson curtains were
all that intervened between the speakers
and sir Reginald — they made a mockery
of his easy folly, his blindness to the arti-
fices by w hich they had long made him their
prey, and echoed with triumphant laughter
tiieir fiendish joy at having levelled with
the dust the once proud lord of Dacre ;
in a moment their victim stood before
them, the pistols with whicli he had medi-
tated his own destruction, levelled at their
heads. Paralysed with the mean fear of
their coward hearts, the discovered trai-
tors signed a paper which he produced,
acknowledged their guilt, as well as giving
up all claims on his possessions ^ and with
this document in his possession, sir Regi-
nald left the den of infamy with the speed
of a whirlwind. Through the long night
he debated within himself whether to dis-
close them at once to the world, and save
others from the ruin they had lured him
to — but then to blight so many illustrious
names w'ith infamy ! his noble nature dis-
dained the thought, and placing the record
of their guilt in the secret panel of the
Indian cabinet, he determined never to
reveal the circumstance. Urged and aided
by the fiendish daring of one of his despe-
rate colleagues, the marquis arrived at
Dacre m tlie morning, and discovering
the transaction of the evening, slightly
mentioned his claims of honour j the sud-
den paroxysm of sir Reginald's rage at
the audacity of the attempt, was too much
for his enfeebled and excited frame, and
the triumph of the gamblers was complete.
" The discovery of this paper was suf-
ficient for Clarence Evelyn ; proceedings
were instantly instituted against the noble
marquis and his colleagues ; the brilliant
and pathetic oratory of the young advo-
cate, as he alluded to the orphan Alice,
touched every heart ; the production of
the written document banished all doubts,
and Clarence left the court in triumph,
bearing with him the decree which rein-

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

125

stated the daughter of sir Reginald in her
lawful rights. The noble marquis evaded
the hands of justice ; for, long before tiie
decision of the trial, he had fled a seducer
and a murderer to the continent, and was
supposed to have fallen in some midnight
broil in one of the low gambling houses
of Paris. The day of Alice's triumphant
return was, indeed, a festival to every
heart, whether in the college or in the
hall ; but the bells rang a blither peal,
and the flowers were scattered with more
profusion in her path, when, as the white
streamers floated in the summer wind,
Clarence Evelyn led forth from the vil-
lage church his wedded wife, the lady of
Dacre Hall."

A TALE OF THE BUREAU DE POLICE.

1 USED frequently, on a summer's even-
ing, some years ago, after putting in my
pocket a volume of a favourite author, to
stroll away to the Thuilleries gardens,
intending to pass away an hour or two on
one of the seats. It was that one on the
terrace, near the palace, where I could
see the craft passing along the Seine, and
the bustle of the quays from one side, and
the crowd of loungers in the garden on
the other j although I fully intended read-
ing the work 1 had put in my pocket, yet
it rarely happened 1 did so, for I had con-
tracted the acquaintanceship of a gentle-
man, whom I used frequently to meet on
the same bench. He was a man far ad-
vanced in years, and who rather added
in appearance to his age by wearing his
hair, which was of a shade 'twixt grey
and silver, combed back from off his fore-
head, and turned into a queue behind j
but there was a lurking something in his
eye I could not for the world describe ;
whenever I found his gaze fixed upon me,
I shrunk from him as I would have done
from a baisilisk ; he seemed to force the
very secrets of my heart from me, by
reading their imprint on my face ; but he
was a friend of never-failing amusement,
his conversation teemed with anecdotes
of men and circumstances, with whom,
and in which, he had borne part in many
a deadly strife, and many an act of bold-
ness and cunning, the recounting of which,
I have sat and listened to, until the grow-
ing darkness of the evening, and the still-
ness of all around, have made me fancy
that I sat listening to he of the other
world, registering the deeds of wicked-

ness of his children on earth. The old
gentleman (I mean my friend of the seat)
had been one of a most useful body of
society, though but a little esteemed in
his own country, that of a commissary of
police, in which capacity he had seen
much of the varied ways of life ; and
some few of his adventures and narrations
I have tried to remember as he told them,
and as nearly as possible in his own
words ; one of the iirst things he related
to me, was as follows : —

At the time I first became commissary,
my arrondissement was that part which
included the Rue St. Antoine, which you
know has a great number of courts, alleys,
culs de sac, issuing from it in all direc-
tions, and from their proximity to a very
great thoroughfare, gave me no inconsi-
derable deal of trouble. The houses in
these alleys and courts are for the most
part inhabited by wretches wavering be-
twixt the last shade of poverty and actual
starvation, ready to take part in, any dis-
turbance, or assist in any act of rapine or
violence. In one of these alleys, there
Hved at that time a man named Jean
Monette, who was tolerably well-stricken
in years, but still a hearty man. He was
a widower, and with an only daughter,
occupied a floor, *' au quatrieme," in one
of the courts ; people said he had been in
business, and grown rich, but that he had
not the heart to spend his money, which
year after year accumulated, and would
make a splendid fortune for his daughter
at his death. With this advantage, Emma,
who was really a handsome girl, did not
want for suitors, and thought that being
an heiress she might wait till she really
felt a reciprocal passion for some one,
and not throw herself away upon the first
tolerable match (according to the sense
of the word) that presented itself. It
was on a Sunday, the first in the month
of June, that Emma had, as an especial
treat, obtained sufficient money from her
father for an excursion with some friends,
to see the water works at Versailles.

It was a beautiful day, and the basin
was tlironged around with thousands and
thousands of persons, looking, from the
variety of their dresses, more like the
colours of a splendid rainbow, than aught
beside ; and when at four o'clock, Triton
and his satellites threw up their immense
volumes of water, all was wonder, asto-
nishment, and delight, but none were

126

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

more delighted than Emma, to whom the
scene was quite new, and then it was so
pleasant to have found a person who could
explain every thing and every body ;
point out the duke of this, and count that,
and the other Hons of Paris ; besides such
an agreeable and well-dressed man ; it
was really quite condescending in him to
notice them ; and then towards evening,
he would insist they should all go home
together in a fiacre, and that he alone
should pay all the expenses, and when,
with a gentler pressure of the hand and a
low whisper, he begged her to say when
he might come, and throw himself at her
feet, she thought her feelings were dif-
ferent to what they had ever been before ;
but how could she give her address — tell
so dashing a man that she lived in such a
place — no, she could not do that, but she
would meet him at the " Jardin d'Ete"
next Sunday evening, and dance with no
one else all night.

She met him on the Sunday, and again
and again, until her father began to sus-
pect, from her frequent absence .of an
evening, which w'as formerly an unusual
circumstance with her, that something
must be wrong ; the old man loved his
money, but he loved his daughter more.
She was the only link in hfe that kept
together the chain of his affections ; he
had been passionately fond of his wife,
and when slie died, had filled up the void
in his heart, by placing in its stead his
daughter; they were the only things, save
his money, he had ever loved ; the world
had cried out against him as a hard-
hearted rapacious man, and he, in return,
despised the world. He was, therefore,
much grieved at her conduct, and ques-
tioned Emma as to where her frequent
visits led her, but could only obtain for
answer, that she was not aware she had
been absent so much as to give him un-
easiness. This was unsatisfactory, and
so confirmed the old man in his suspi-
cions, that he determined to have his
daughter watched ; this he got effected
through the means of an ancien ami, then
in the profession of what he called an
inspector, though his enemies (and all
men have such) called him a mouchard ;
however, by what name he called himself,
or others called him, he understood his
business, and so effectually watched the
young lady, that he discovered her fre-
quent absence to be /or the purpose of

meeting a man, who, after walking some
distance with her, managed, despite of
the inspector's boasted abilities, to give
him the slip. This naturally puzzled him,
and so it would any man in his situation;
now only fancy, gentle reader, the feel-
ings of one of the chief government em-
ployed in the argus line of business, a
man renowned for his success in almost
all the arduous and intricate affairs that
had been committed to his care, to find
himself baffled in a paltry private intrigue,
and one which he had merely undertaken
for the sake of friendship. On the second
time, he tried the plan of fancying himself
to be well paid, thinking this would sti-
mulate his dormant energies, knowing
well a thing done for friendship's sake, is
always badly done ; but even here he
failed ; he watched them to a certain
corner, but before he could get round it,
they were no where to be seen : this was
not to be borne, it was setting him at de-
fiance ; should he call in the assistance of
a brother in the line — no, that would be
to acknowledge himself beaten, and the
disgrace he could not bear — his honour
was concerned, and he would achieve it
single-handed ; but then it was very per-
plexing, the man, to his experienced eye,
seemed not as he had done to Emma, a
dashing gentleman, but more like a bird
in fine feathers ; something must be wrong,
and he must find it out — but then again
came that confounded question, how? —
he would go and consult old Monette — he
could, perhaps, suggest something ; and,
musing on the strangeness of the adven-
ture, he walked slowly towards the house
of the old man to hold a council with him
on the occasion. On the road, his atten-
tion was attracted by a disturbance in the
street, and mingling with the crowd, in
hopes of seizing some of his enemies
exercising their illegal functions, on whom
the whole weight of his oflScial vengeance
might fall, he for the time forgot his ad-
venture ; the crowd had been drawn toge-
ther by a difference of opinion betwixt
two gentlemen of the vehicular profession,
respecting some right of preference, and,
after all the usual kind and endearing
expressions of esteem usual on such occa-
sions, had been exhausted, one of them
drove off, leaving the other, at least
master of the field, if he had not got the
expected job. Tiie crowd began to dis-
perse, and with them also was going our

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

127

friend of the " surveillance," when, on
turning round, he came in contact with
Mademoiselle Monette, leaning on the
arm of the object of his inquietude ; the
light from a lamp above his head, shone
inmiediately on the face of Emma and her
admirer, showing them both as clear as
noonday, so that when his glance turned
from the lady to the gentleman, and he
obtained a full view of his face, he ex-
pressed his admiration of the discovery
he had made by a loud whew, which,
though a short sound, and soon pro-
nounced, meant a great deal ; for first, it
meant he had made a great discovery ;
secondly, that he was not astonished he
had not succeeded before in his watchful
endeavours ; thirdly, that, but perhaps the
two mentioned may be sufficient ; for,
turning sharp round, he made the greatest
haste to reach Monette, and inform him
this time of the result of his espionage ;
which, after a long prelude, stating how
fortunate he was to have such a friend as
himself, a man who knew every body and
every thing, proceeded to inform him of
the pleasing intelligence, that his daugh-
ter was in the habit of meeting, and
going to some place (he forgot to say
where) with the most desperate and aban-
doned character in Paris ; and one who
was so extremely dexterous in all his
schemes, that the police, though perfectly
aware of his kind intentions towards his
Catholic majesty's subjects, had not been
able to fix upon him in the commission of
any one of his kind acts, for he changed
his appearance so often, as to set at
nought all the assiduous exertions of the
corps des Espions, whose industry and
caution in their avocations have reached
the acme of praise, viz., to be proverbial,
and the unhappy father received from his
friend at parting, the assurance that they
would catch him yet, and give him an
invitation (those French people do use
such polite words) to pass the rest of his
days in seclusion.

On Emma's return, her father told her
the information he had received, wisely
withholding the means from which his
knowledge came, saying, he knew she
had that moment parted from the man
who would lead her to the brink of de-
struction, and .>then cast her off like a
child's broken plaything ; he begged, nay,
he besought her with tears in'his eyes, to
promise she would never again see him.

Emma was thunderstruck, not only at the
accuracy of her father's information, but
at hearing such a character of one whom
she had painted perfection's self, and
calling to her aid those never-failing
woman's arguments, a copious flood of
tears, fell on her father's neck, and pro-
mised never again to see him, but, if
possible, to banish all thoughts of him
from her mind,

*' My child," said the old man, ** I be-
lieve you from my heart — I believe you —
I love you, but the world says I am rich
— why, I know not ; you know I live in
a dangerous neighbourhood, and all my
care will be necessary to prevent my
losing either my child or my reputed
wealth ; therefore, to avoid all accidents,
I will take care you do not leave this
house for the next six months to come,
and in that time your gallant will have
forgotten you, or what will amount to the
same thing, you will have forgotten him ;
but I am much mistaken if the man's
intentions are not to rob me of my money,
rather than my child."

The old man kept his word, and Emma
was not allowed for several days to leave
the rooms, au qualrieme ; she tried,
during the time, if it were possible to
forget the object of her affections, and
thought if she could see him but once
more to bid him a long and last farewell,
she might in time wear out his remem-
brance from her heart ; but in order to
do that, she must see him once more ;
and having made up her mind that this
interview would be an essential requisite
to the desired consummation, she took
counsel with herself how it was to be
accomplished, and there was only one
great obstacle presented itself to her view,
which was " she couldn't get out." Now
woman's invention (I mean of those who
are in love, or fancy it, for its pretty much
the same thing) never fails them, when
they have set their hearts upon any de-
sired object, and it occurred to her, that
although she could not get out, yet it was
not quite so apparent that he could not
get in ; and this point being settled, it
was no very difficult matter to persuade
the old woman, who occasionally assisted
her in the household arrangements, to be
the bearer of a short note, purporting that
her father having been unwell for the last
few days, usually retired early to rest, and
that if her dear Despreau would come

128

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

about eleven o'clock on the following
evening, her father would be asleep, and
she would be on the watch for a signal,
which was to be three gentle taps on the
door.

The old woman executed her commis-
sion so well, that she brought back an
answer, vowing eternal fidelity, and pro-
mising a punctual attendance at the ren-
dezvous. Nor was it likely he meant to
fail ; seeing it was the object he had for
months in view, and he reasoned with
himself, that if he once got there, he
would make such good use of his time, as
to render a second visit perfectly unne-
cessary ; therefore, it would be a pity to
disappoint any one, and he immediately
communicated his plans to two of his con-
federates, promising them an adequate
share of the booty, and also the girl her-
self, if either of them felt that way in-
clined, as a reward for their assistance.

His plans were very w'ell managed,
and would have gone on exceedingly
well, but for one small accident which
happened through the officious inter-
ference of the inspector, who, the moment
he had discovered who the Lothario was,
had taken all the steps he could to catch
him, and gain the honour of having
caught so accomplished a gentleman ;
*"'8"'itly judging that it could not be long
before he could pay a visit to Monette's
rooms, and the letters, previously to their
being delivered by the old woman, liad
been read by him, and met with his full
approbation.

I was much pleased on being informed
by the inspector, that he wanted my as-
sistance, one evening, to apprehend the
celebrated Despreau, who had planned
the commission of a robbery near the
Rue St. Antoine, and me acquainted with
nearly all the before-mentioned circum-
stances ; so about half-past ten o'clock,
I posted myself with the inspector and
four men, where I could see Despreau
pass, and at eleven o'clock, punctual to
the moment, he and his two associates
began to ascend the stairs ; the two con-
federates were to wait until he had been
admitted some time, when lie was to
come to the door on some pretext and let
them in ; after the lapse of half an hour
they were let in, when we ascended after
them, and the inspector having a dupli-
cate key, we let ourselves gently in,
standing in the passage, so as to prevent

our being seen ; in a few minutes we
heard a loud shout from Emma, and old
Monette's voice crying out murder and
thieves most vociferously, and on enter-
ing the rooms, perceived that the poor
girl was lying on the ground, while one
of the men was endeavouring to stifle her
cries by either gagging or suffocating
her, though in the way he was doing it,
the latter would have soon been the case ;
the old man had been dragged from his
bed, and Despreau stood over him with a
knife, swearing, that unless he showed
him the place where his money and valu-
ables were deposited, it should be the last
hour of his existence. Despreau, on
seeing us, seemed inclined to have made
a most desperate resistance, but not being
seconded by his associates, submitted to
be pinioned, expressing his regret that
we had not come half an hour later, when
we might have been saved the present
trouble ; I begged to assure him J did
not think it so ; but, on the contrary, we
should be delighted with his company,
which we hoped to have for many years
to come, and begged to have the honour
of escorting him to the lodgings, provided
in expectation of his visit.

Despreau was shortly after tried for the
offence, which was too clearly proved to
admit of any doubt. He was sentenced
to the gallies for life, and is now at Brest,
undergoing his sentence. Emma soon
afterwards married a respectable man,
and old Monette behaved on the occasion
much more liberally than was expected.

A FEARLESS AMBASSADOR.

John Basilowitz, or Joan IV., Grand
Duke of Muscovy, was so cruel and fero-
cious a prince, that he ordered the hat of
an Italian ambassador to be nailed to his
head for presuming to be covered in his
presence. The ambassador of the queen
of England, however, was bold enough to
wear his hat before him ; upon which
Basilowitz asked him, if he knew how he
had treated an ambassador for the like
behaviour. " No," replied the intrepid
Englishman, " but I am sent here by
queen Elizabeth ; and, if any insult is
offered to her minister, she has spirit
enough to resent it." " What a brave
man!" exclaimed the czar; "which of
you," added he, to his courtiers, " would
have acted and spoken in this manner to
support my honour and interests ?"

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

12a

WALTON:

A TALE FROM LIFE.

Perhaps, in our weary journey through
life, there are no recollections so dear to
us, amit! the noise and bustle of a jarring
world, as those of our youth : when we
recall to mind long-past scenes of earlier
and happier days, when the heart was a
stranger to the corroding influence of
care and anxiety, and the mind, strung
with hope — young, deluding hope! —
looked forward to the world as to a garden
strewn with ever-blooming flowers, that

"Wooed the hand, courting to be pluck 'd,"
Ah ! thoughtless, careless, light-hearted
youth ! how little do you deem, when
longing, in the enthusiasm of your young
and ardent nature, to plunge into the
world, of exchanging a life of gaiety and
pleasure for one of disappointment and
sorrow. After all, " ignorance is bliss."
How many a sensitive and aching heart,
undeceived by the cold world, sighs over
the blighted and withered hopes of its
youth in secret !

It fell to my lot to receive the greater

VOL. II.— 17.

Page 135.

part of my education at a public school in
Cumberland, where I mixed in (he sports
and amusements usually incident to a
public seminary ; and, like others before
me, left it when my turn came to enter
myself a pupil of that great finishing-
school, the world, over which fortune pre-
sides as mistress with unlimited sway.
Though, perhaps, as successful as many
in winning her favours, yet have I fre-
quently, in moments of contemplation and
retirement, found a melancholy pleasure
in recalling to my mind the sports and
amusements of my school-days ; and have
thought of the probable fortunes and fate
of those once my intimates and constant
companions — now, perhaps, scattered
throughout the four quarters of the globe,
in various capacities, professions, and
situations. Out of three hundred school-
fellows, it has been my fate to meet but
few in this great and varied scene of
strife : to meet an old croneij — to sit over
a glass of wine, and bring hack times of
"aula lang s)ne" — the various charac-
ters, pursuits, and eccentricities of our
former mates — with the many accidents
that once " teemed by flood and field'*-=-
s

130

TALES OF CHIVALRY: OR,

is a pleasure that has but too rarely fallen
to my lot.

One circunistance, invariably connected
with the reminiscences of my boyhood, I
cannot help remarking- : it is the melan-
choly and unhappy fate that appears to
have attended the steps of those distin-
guished in youth for genius. It would
seem to have been the bane to prosperity
anrl happiness, in those th:it f)ossessed
this almost fatal " gift sublime." Whereas,
the common, dull, plodding lad, of acknow-
ledged stupidity, has, singularly enough,
generally been successful in his sphere of
life. It is a harrowing reflection, that
those sensitive and finely-strung minds
should be the most subject to the keen
arrows of disappointment and misfortune.
Among all the companions of my boyish
pleasures, this has never, perhaps, been
more strikingly displayed, with some other
strange and coinciding circumstances,
than in the unhappy fate of the subject
of this slight and imperfect sketch.

From very early youth, Vecy Walton
was imbued with one of those wild and
daring dispositions — more often read of
than met with — that, though calculated
to raise its possessor to some notice in the
world, is seldom known to lead to happi-
ness. At school, he was always more
distinguished for genius than application
— for skill in *' King Senio," and " Pri-
soner's Base," than for his attainments in
learning ; and was known by far to prefer
writing verses of his own, to scanning
those of Horace or Virgil. Excelling in
proficiency at the sports of swimming,
running, and climbing, froni a very early
age, it was common to see Vecy first in
the field and the last in his class.

Possessing a romantic temperament,
open-hearted, sincere and enthusiastic,
Vecy was a greater favourite with his
mates than his masters ; while nature had
gifted him in no ordinary degree with
respect to his person, which was tall,
straight, and rem.arkable for strength and
symmetry, while it was adorned with a
countenance intellectually handsome and
prepossessing, shaded by jet black curly
hair, with eyes of the same raven colour,
that, in times of excitation or passion,
gave a glimpse of the wild soul within.

Many are the daring feats that now
crowd upon my memory, in which Vecy
Walton bore conspicuous parts. One I
well remember, that may serve to show

the fearless tenor and daring of his mind
to plan and execute. On the long winter
nights, it was a practice in bed with us to
beguile the time by reciting tales im-
promptu, or from memory. If J recollect
correctly, Vecy was a great favourite in
his narratives, which generally had some
fearful superstition for their subject, turn-
ing upon supernatural agency. One
night, when we had been listening with
tlie deepest attention to one of his narra-
tives, sleep, as usual, gradually over-
powered us, and one after another dropped
off into the arms of Morpheus, leaving
Vecy, who had got prosing and dull (like
myself, perhaps, at present, reader), as
both speaker and auditor, to finish by
himself. Now, it was the practice of one
of the ushers on duty to visit the different
wards every night, previous to retiring to
rest, to see that every thing was right,
and in order ; at which time, it being
very late, we were usually sound asleep.
On the aforesaid night it so happened
that this inspecting visit took place rather
earlier than was customary, and we were
all not a little astonished at the unusual
circumstance of being awakened from our
slumbers by the visiting deputy, who, by
the way, was a short, snub-nosed fellow,
of brutal manners, and very much disliked
as an idle tale-bearer, and a great enemy
of poor Vecy's.

" Where's Walton ? — how comes it he
is not in bed ?" savagely demanded Mr.
Ralph, or rather "Old Rap," as we used
to designate him, for fun and brevity's
sake.

*' Not in bed, sir ?" echoed two or three
of us, who had roused ourselves in asto-
nishment at the uncommon interruption ;
and looking in the corner of the ward in
which Walton slept, we were indeed sur-
prised to perceive that his couch was empty,
though we could scarcely fancy it more
than ten minutes since we had heard him
holding forth to us. For several moments
we sat gaping and rubbing our eyes,
wondering where he could possibly be —
as down stairs he certainly could not have
gone, without some of the inmates know-
ing it.

" So ! so ! my young gents, you doubt-
less think this mighty clever ! I see how
this is — it's a planned scheme among you,
to screen that imp of a lad, who's the
devil's own for mischief. However, I'll
make you repent pretending ignorance.

PERILS BV FLOOD ANH FIELD.

131

I warrant me, for the doctor shall know it
this minute." So saving, and|turning- a
deaf ear to our frequent protestations,
after scrutinizing the chamber, he was
about to depart pro tempore only, when
an open window, at the farther extremity
of the apartment, arrested his attention.*

** How came this window thrown up ?"
he demanded, in a stern voice.

But of this circumstance no one, in
truth, could tell him. This was a bow
window overlooking a broad deep stagnant
ditch, that separated the road from the
Ijigh railings of the playground, at least
five-and-twenty feet to its base. So, after
looking out in the clear frosty moonlight,
and apparently confident, in his own
mind, that he could not have made his
exit that way, he shut it down, and pro-
ceeded with quickened steps down stairs,
eager to make his report, uttering on his
way a long low savage growl, for which
at times he was remarkable — as if already
anticipating the pleasure of soon hearing
the switch of the birch and the groans of
his victims.

No sooner had he left the room, than
we began to wonder and conjecture what
could possibly have become of Walton,
when, suddenly, to our surprise, we heard
a noise outside of the wall, and presently
after, a rap against the identical window
overlooking the ditch and road ; and on
one or two of us jumping up and opening
it, who should spring in but Vecy, breath-
less with haste, and dragging after him a
single rope about an inch in diameter,
with which, as it afterwards appeared, he
liad been, *' at the peaceful midnight
hour," in the habit of descending and
ascending at pleasure.

His surprise at seeing us all on the qui
Vive was excessive ; and hardly had we
time to give him a brief and hurried
sketch of what had passed, and he to un-
dress himself and enjoin strict secresy,
when we heard the doctor's heavy and
stately tread, accompanied by Rapp's
obsequious skulking shuffle on the stairs.
In a moment all were in bed, and half
asleep again, apparently ; but it availed
us not — tlie doctor was up to us, although
we were doim to him — as some of our
wits at the time had it.

The astonishment of the informer was
excessive, on beholding Walton snoring
and apparently fast asleep in bed, and
was displayed by many contortions of his

prominent sharp-set countenance, as
though the change before him had been
the result of magic.

*' Why, how now, Mr. Ralph !" said
the doctor, "I thought you told me, just
now, that Walton uas not in bed, and
nowhere to be seen. I'here he is, fast
asleep !"

'* So it would seem, sir," answered the
usher, as he peered in his anticipated
victim's face ; " but I can positively aver
he was not five minutes ago; neither
were his garments visible."

Upon this, the doctor turned and ques-
tioned us, when, taking the hint, we all
exclaimed, U7ia voce, that he had never
been out of the room. It was a bold
assertion, truly, given co7i spirito — and,
were I to live for a century, 1 could not
forget the petrified and confused look of
astonishment depicted on the mean, lan-
tern-jawed face of " 01(1 Rap," whom we
all cordially hated for a mean, cringing,
and unprincipled spirit. Though many
years and sadder things have rolled be-
tween, it still sometimes flits before my
mind, and provokes the laugh that then in
triumph we were scarcely able to suppress,
as we gazed upon his discomfited face,
with his rat-like eyes glancing from under
their shaggy, pent-up brows, in rage and
suspicion around.

Of course he denied it, and asserted
we were in general league ; but there
was something so overwhelming in the
common and circumstantial evidence, that
I do believe, at length, from his confusion,
that he began to doubt the reality of what
had passed, and imagine that his senses
had played him false, as his affirmatives
grew fainter and fainter, as the general
appearances went stronger against him.

With very excellent judgment, Vecy,
who had shammed sleep to tlie very acme
of perfection, now, as if awakened out of
his doze b}' the noise of the investigation
going forw^ard, after one or two restless
yawns and moves, opened his eyes, sud-
denly exclaiming, in the wondering and
confused face of ** Old Rap" — ** Good
heavens, sir ! is anything die matter ?" —
This was so well contrived and apropos —
instead of being awakened by Rap — that
it formed a complete chef-d'oeuvre, and
seemed at once to overset him, as he
looked now, indeed, literally to borrow a
nautical phra.-fe, " dumb- foundered."

" R's evident, you see, sir, you have

132

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

been strangely mistaken — the lad has
never quitted the bed ; the other wartls
are locked, and down stairs he could not
have gonewiihout discovery," uttered the
doctor, with a look of displeasure at his
mortified assistant, as he walked towards
the door, followed by his humbled deputy.

The doctor was in the door-way, and
Rap had the handle in his hand, just
making- his exit — his little piercing eyes
sparkling with suppressed rage ; already
had those behind the door started up in
bed, in the attitude of silent congratula-
tion— when, oh ! dire mishap ! — in that
eventful moment, the glancing eyes of the
usher seemed attracted by something
under the bed — he hesitated half a second
—peered again — and then, re-entering,
put his hand under Vecy's bed, and, w itl)
a long-drawn whistle of satisfaction, drew
forth — oh, moment of scholastic horror ! —
the fatal rope. It was the act of a minute.
Suffice, a discovery took place, and we
were all punished — Walton severely so ;
but he bore it, I well remember, like a
Trojan.

One thing, indeed, the doctor vainly
endeavoured to discover, and that was,
the place of Walton's resort on his nightly
wanderings. The senior even went so
far as to threaten renew ed flagellation and
expelling; but he was firm, and perhaps
I was the only one entrusted with the
secret, that, even at his early age, he was
warmly susceptible of the charms of female
beauty — a susceptibility he ever carried
through an ill-fated life — and that he was
frequently in the habit of offering up his
adoration, by nightly assignation, to the
charms of a certain little rustic beauty,
the daughter of a neighbouring miller,
and the belle ideal of female perfection
throughout the whole school.

From the period of this anecdote may
be dated the commencement of a very
sincere friendship that took place between
Walton and myself, and we were soon
distinguished throughout the forms as
intimates, though many of our thoughts
and ideas had little of reciprocality in
them. I then, indeed, compared Iiim, in
his adventures and sufferings, with no less
a hero in the classics than Leander, when
he swam the Hellespont to visit his mis-
tress— though I little thought, at the time,
that they were both to have an unhappy
termination.

Notwithstanding the disgrace attached

to our expose, confident in our numbers,
it did not prevent us from determining to
be even with " Old Rap," who had as-
sumed a fresh degree of importance and
impudence, and who took every malicious
means of annoying and mortifying us.
Accordingly, as lex talionis was a rule we
ever acted upon, it was carried among us,
in full council, to plan some scheme of
revenge, which we forthwith did. Suffice
it, without tiring the reader with a repe-
tition of scholastic detail, our scheme was
admirably put into execution, to his no
small bodily detriment and fear ; while
we, the authors, hidden under an impe-
netrable veil, escaped. But there would
be no end, were 1 to recount one half of
our boyish sports, in almost all of which
Walton bore his share ; and I can truly
say, 1 never knew him to flinch or betray,
however difficult the task assigned him.

And yet, notwithstanding an excellent
flow of animal spirits, there were times of
contemplation, when a strange melancholy,
bordering on reserve, crept apparently
insensibly over young Walton's manners ;
when he seemed wrapt up in a fairy world
of his own creation, in which he would
dreamingly indulge for days together. At
such times he seemed to take a solitary
pleasure in those poetic moods which were
generally followed by some inspired pro-
duction of his pen — in wandering alone,
on the half-holidays, among the wild and
magnificent scenery the country abounded
with. No longer, at such periods, was he
to be observed the first among the noisy,
giddy throng, sporting on the green : but
was more likely to be found by some ad-
venturous birds'-nest hunting party.seated
upon some elevated crag, commanding a
fine view of the ocean and the surround-
ing country.

On such occasions it was frequently
found difficult to rouse him from these fits
of abstraction, which seemed to possess a
strong power over a mind that was early
sensible of the wild beauties of nature,
and of those peculiar charms whose in-
fluence is insensibly calculated to attract
and exalt the imagination to realms of its
own imagining.

Inseparably as I grew with Walton, in
almost all our sports and studies, t had an
opportunity of marking the various shades
and bearings of a character strangely
original, vvliose very vices were not of the
common order, too frequently springing

pi:rils by flood and field.

133

from a wrong and mistaken bias in the
mind. Among many curious beliefs Vecy
possessed, v\ as a belief m predestination ;
how it was gradually engendered, I know
not, but he was a fatalist. He acknow-
ledged the action of free-will centered in
the mind, but contended that that free-
will was previously registered in the book
of fate. Many were the controversies we
used to have on this subject, but never
was I successful in reasoning him out of
the fallacy of a credence which, first im-
bibed in boyhood, held its sway through
the maturer years of his after life.

At school it was a common practice with
us on the holidays, for parties of us to
obtain leave to go out for the afternoon
on some specious pretext or other, when
we frequently set out on what we used
facetiously to dignify at the time with the
imposing name of a voyage or travel of
discovery ; the former of these consisted
in hiring a boat, in the use of which habit
had made us tolerably expert — with which,
manned by a chosen crew, we sailed
along, or, to carry on the conceit, ex-
plored the neighbouring coast. A far
tramp, in which we thought nothing of
crossing hill and valley, to reach some
wood or other favourite spot, came under
the latter denomination.

It was in returning from one of these
travelling excursions, wet-footed, weary,
and hungry, that Walton, three others,
and myself, agreed to stop and rest our-
selves at the mouldering remnants of an
abbey, some three or four hundred yards
before us, generally known to the country
people around by the name of " The
Hermit's Ruin," so designated in conse-
quence of having, in the last century,
been the abode of an anchorite or recluse.
Seated on the sunmiit of a rising ground,
through which flowed the murmuring
waters of a rivulet, it stood partially em-
bowered in woodland, whose gigantic
spreading arms, supporting in many parts
the crumbling walls, formed a screen in
the winter's blast, and a shade in the
summer's sun. Like most ancient and
deserted ruins, there were many super-
stitious and idle tales afloat respecting it,
among the vulgar and the ignorant, that
have long since faded away in my recol-
lection ; but not so the strange occur-
rence that took place there on that night,
when, confident in our numbers, and
prompted by feelings of boyish bravado,

to say we had fearlessly ventured within
its terrific precincts, we drew nigh its still
tall and towering turrets.

The last faint, flickering light of the
declining sun, disappeared on the crum-
bling and ivy-bouud walls, hke a smile on
the aspect of venerable age, leaving the
ruin dimly discernible in the dusk of ap-
proaching night, as, desperately fatigued
with our days ramble, we drew ourselves
up to the remnants of a small octagon
portico, under the cover of which — none
of us caring to enter the building — we
ensconced ourselves, though not without
some slight touches of fear and awe.

These feelings by no means decreased,
as, huddled together on the damp stones
that formed the seats of our retreat, we
recalled the dark reports of the ruin,
which now received, if possible, an addi-
tional hue of faded melancholy grandeur,
as the beams of the moon, w hich now rose
in splendid majesty over the distant line
of blue hills that bounded the horizon,
gilded the time-worn structure, whose
lofty fretted roof once resounded with the
loud peal of the swelling anthem of min-
gled voices, of those whose tones of woe
or gladness have long since sunk in the
oblivious stream of time : —

" Yet were they here— but now are gone ;
The J' form the dust we tread upon !"

As feelings of a similar uncongenial
kind with the tenor of our minds began
to rise, which too often are apt to set ima-
gination on the wing — and, moreover, as
the damp, moss-clad stones formed any
thing but comfortable seats, we hastily
rose to pursue our way home, which was
still more than two long miles, but little
relieved by our short sojourn.

Traversing the side of the abbey to
cross over the slope on which it stood,
and occasionally stumbling over the stones
and skulls that plentifully lined our path,
we had advanced within ten yards of wJiat
had once been the grand entrance ; —
whistling, shouting, and making various
noises, putting a brave exterior upon
those fears we could not entirely suppress
— when we all suddenly halted, and drew
silent and breathless together at the sight
of a human figure in the bright moon-
shine, sitting upon the remaining frag-
ment of a pillar ; it appeared that of a
little oldwonjan in a scarlet cloak, reclin-
ing with her back towards us, wrapt appa-
rently in sleep, or in such profound medi-

134

TALES OF CFUVAI.UY : OR,

tation as not even our precious noisy
bravado seemed to have in any way dis-
turbed. As we grouped closer to each
other, forming a small and close circle, a
feeling of fear and surprise pervaded our
litile band, as, keeping our eyes fixed
suspiciously on the lone object of our
doubt and conjecture, a low timorous
whisper went on among us. At the same
time there was a tucking up of coat tails,
buttoning up of jackets, and other slight
*' preparations of note" for a hasty flight,
in case things chanced to turn out as our
fears suggested they might do.

" My life upon it !" whispered one of
our party, " she's none other than * Old
Janet,' the witch that lives in the hut on
the black hill nigh the east ford. She's
come here to cull some of the dead men's
bones and poisonous herbs to put in her
hellish cauldron, that she may work some
wicked spell as a grudge upon some of
the folks, surrounding poultry or cattle :
it was only last week that she destroyed
farmer Baker's crop with a sudden blight,
which before was quite prospering, mere-
ly because he had ordered her off his
grounds. She's a spiteful, malignant, bad
woman, is * Old Janet.' "

** No, no, you mistake," said another,
whose optics were not so distorted by
fear ; ** it would take at least three of the
little old dumpy lady sitting there, to
make one of Janet."

** Hush, Williams — don't speak of her
in that way ; its well known she can
make herself any size she likes best. Not
that I fear her much," said the first
speaker, a tall, thin lad, named Ennisley,
and the swiftest runner of the party. —
*' But I think we had better scamper; for
who knows," he continued, in a low
whisper that grew more timorous every
moment he directed his view to the almost
inanimate looking object of his fears —
*• wlio knows but she may presently tr.ke
it into her head to turn round upon us and
strike us, as she did labourer Dobbs, with
a sudden palsy, for daring to watch
her."

Prepossessed with this notion, without
more ado, the speaker, confident in the
powers of his only acquisition and pro-
tection in danger, after having fixed his
cap tighter on his head, and made other
dispositions for his favourite pastime, by
seizing a coat skirt in each hand, was on
the eve of starting, which would have

been followed doubtless by a general
hasty and disgraceful flight; when, partly
by entreaties that he would not desert,
but more perhaps by force — several less
skilfulyoo<6o?/6' having laid forcible hands
on his skirts, as though determining to
be dragged with him — he was induced,
though much against his will, and not
before he had made several vain attempts
to free himself, to stop awhile longer and
await the result of the adventure.

'* Hist, see !" uttered one who had not
yet spoke ; *' as I look, she seems the
very image of old crutchy Dolly Wimple,
whom you used to be always teasing,
Walton, and who died a fortnight ago in
a fit."

** True," assented another, while a cold
sweat and tremor ran through the party,
" she had just such a cloak and hat, I
well remember."

" Her exact figure, I swear," responded
a third, his teeth chattering wjiile he kept
a firm and determined hold of the coat-
laps of Ennisley, whose fears were at their
highest pitch, as he made several convul-
sive efforts to throw his hangers-on off,
to the great endangerment of his garment,
which threatened every instant to give
way under their united efforts.

At this eventful crisis, when nothing
prevented a common flight but the circum-
stance of Ennisley's coat, Walton, what-
ever his real feelings might be, was the
only one that appeared undismayed and
collected.

** Psha !" he exclaimed, as he gazed on
the knot; "to be frighted at a poor old
gipsey woman sitting down and resting
herself, and fancy her a witch. Oh, you
cowards ! Is there any one who accom-
panies me, for I am going to speak to
her," he continued.

" Lord a' mercy ! is he mad ? W'e shall
surely have some awful visitation, and get
stricken dead or blind, at least, if he dis-
turbs her. Let me go I let me go !" said
Ennisley, in a voice of terror he dared not
raise above a hissing whisper, again turn-
ing, kicking, and scrambling, to get away
from the three that held him.

" Will no one accompany me, then ?"
said Vecy, as he looked at me. I felt the
appeal, and thought this a good opportu-
nity to distinguish myself, though I could
not suppress unpleasant ideas at the scene,
and the strange immovable object before
me, whom all had agreed in recognizing,

PERILS HY FT-OOD AND FIFLD.

135

except Walton and myself, as an old
woman, remarkable for swearing and
drunkenness, who had died some ten days
previous in the neighbouring village.
Accordingly, with an outward air of firm-
ness, though I quaked greatly within, I
followed him. Vecy had walked within
a few paces of the object without having
disturbed her, when he waited for me.

" She looks a gipsey woman — how shall
I address her ?" he whispered, as, with
feelings of doubt and curiosity, we both
scrutinized the object of our conjecture
closer ; but nothing new met our sight :
it was evidently the diminutive form of
the somewhat anciently dressed figure of
an old woman of the lower orders. —
*' Well, here goes at once," said Vecy,
evidently summoning up no small resolu-
tion to his aid, as, walking witiiin a yard
of her side, he stamped, coughed, and
whistled, making repeated noises to attract
her attention ; but the being moved not,
nor showed any consciousness of his pre-
sence.

There is a certain kind of fear, very
different from the common, that frequently
prompts an individual in uncertain danger
to know the worst at once — nothing being
so torturing as suspense. It was actuated
by some such feeling, doubtless, that
Walton suddenly placed his hand upon
her shoulder, uttering, with a quivering
voice close to her bowed head —

** What, ho ! mother, do you sleep ?'*

The figure slowly and gradually raised
its head, whose features were undiscerni-
ble under the shadow of its broad-brimmed
hat.

" What seek ye hither of me, that I am
disturbed ?" it exclaimed, in solemn, se-
pulchral tones, that at the time seemed to
thrill through us.

"Nothing, nothing," replied Vecy;
" only — only, we thought you asleep or
dead."

*' My death had then been far happier
than yours may be in time to come," she
rejoined in the same impressive voice, as,
turning her head full towards him, he
thought he beheld the glance of a pair of
glassy grey eyes fixed upon his face in
full contemplation.

**Then my death !" exclaimed Vecy,
with a shudder : " know you when that
will be ?"

" Seek you to know ?" uttered the
woman, in a hissing derisive whisper.

" I do : when do you tliink that will be ?"

** Think ? ha, ha, ha !" echoed the
being, with a fearful, scornful laugh, that
froze the current in our veins.

" Ay — when say you it shall be that I
depart this life ?"

" Years ' years ! years ! hence !" was
the reply.

*• How am T destined to die, then ?"
demanded Vecy, spurred on, as he after-
wards informed me, by a strange unac-
countable curiosity.

For a minute the little being remained
immovable as stone, when Vecy, em-
boldened, repeated —

" How shall I die ?"

*' A criminal, by poison — in madness
and misery 1" she yelled : suddenly spring-
ing up, her eyes seemed to flash flame in
malignant rage.

The effect so instantaneously produced
was electrifying. Walton spnmg back-
wards a space of three yards, overturning
me in his way, while a loud shriek of
terror rose in chorus from the anxiously
watching party a short way off", who,
hearing the words poison, madness, and
misery, yelled in a shrill voice of venom,
and perceiving Walton spring back,
thought beyond doubt that he was visited
by some dreadful calamitous curse — the
reward of his rashness. Ennisley, as I
learned afterwards, taking this oppor-
tunity, made one convulsive effort, and
sprang from his holders, leaving his coat-
tails in their hands ; while Walton and
myself, with the rest, urged by our fears,
came in the rear at full speed, and such
an impetus had fear leant to our wearied
limbs, that not one rested until he had
reached the house.

The alarm was first given at school by
Ennisley, who, having long distanced us,
arrived panting with fatigue and terror,
and asserted that he had seen Walton
struck dead by a flash of lightning from a
witch, and that most of the others were
probably dead or maimed for life at least
by that time. But, as the rest came in
one after the other, each congratulating
himself on his escape, the tale was again
recounted and variously told, with any
thing but slight additions, as the different
fancies or fears of the party had dictated.
But the upshot of it was that we were all
laughed at by the teachers and the elders,
as a parcel of cowards, in being frightened
by some poor old woman. Walton said

136.

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

little or nothing : I well remember sup-
pressing the facts with regard to himself,
affecting to laugh at it as a mere frolic;
but as I observed at the time, notwith-
standing his outward bearing, in reality
it had made a great and deep impression
on his mind, as, frequently musing for
many weeks after, the ominous words,
*' poison, madness, and misery," at times
unguardedly escaped his lips.
{To be continued.)

LEGEND OF THE THREE SAINTS.

In the year 134J, an inundation, of
many days' continuance, had raised the
water three cubits higher than it had ever
before been seen in Venice ; and during
a stormy night, while the flood appeared
to be still increasing, a poor old fisherman
sought what refuge he could find, by
mooring his crazy bark close to the Riva
di San Marco. The storm was yet raging,
when a person approached, and offered
him a good fare if he would ferry him
over to San Giorgio Maggiore. *' VVho,"
said the fisherman, "can reach San
Giorgio on such a night as this ? Heaven
forbid that I should try !" But as the
stranger earnestly persisted in his request,
and promised to guard him from harm,
he at last consented. The passenger
landed, and, having desired the boatman
to wait a little, returned with a companion,
and ordered him to row to San Nicoli di
Lodi. The astonished fisherman again
refused, till he was prevailed upon by a
further confident assurance of safety, and
excellent pay. At San Nicoli they picked
up a third person, and then instructed the
boatman to proceed to the Two Castles at
Lido. Though the waves ran fearfully
high, the old man, by this time, had be-
come accustomed to them ; and more-
over, there was something about his mys-
terious crew, which either silenced his
fears, or diverted them from the tempest
to his companions. Scarcely had they
gained the Strait, when they saw a galley,
rather flying than sailing along the
Adriatic, manned (if we may so say) with
devils, who seemed hurrying with fierce
and threatening gestures, to sink Venice
in the deep. The sea, which had hitherto
been furiously agitated, in a moment
became unruffled, and the strangers, cross-
ing themselves, conjured the fiends to
depart. At the word, the demoniacal
galley vanished, and the three passengers

were quietly landed at the spots at which
each respectively had been taken up.
The boatman, it seems, was not quite
easy about his fare; and, before parting,
he implied pretty clearly that the sight of
this miracle, after all, would be but bad
pay. *' You are right, my friend," said
the first passenger ; " go to the doge and
the procuratori, and assure them that, but
for us three, Venice would have been
drowned. I am St. Mark ; my two com-
panions are St. George and St. Nicolas.
Desire the magistrates to pay you ; and
add, that all this trouble has arisen from a
schoolmaster at San Felice, who first
bargained with the devil for his soul, and
then hanged himself in despair." The
fisherman, who seems to have had all his
wits about him, answered, that he might
tell that story, but he much doubted whe-
ther he should be believed. Upon which
St. Mark pulled from his finger a gold
ring, worth about five ducats, saying,
" Shew them this ring, and bid them look
for it in my treasury, whence it will be
found missing." The ring was disco-
vered to be absent from its usual custody,
and the fortunate boatman not only re-
ceived his fare, but an annual pension to
boot. Moreover, a solemn procession
and thanksgiving were appointed, in gra-
titude to the three holy corpses which had
rescued from such calamity the land
affording: them burial.

ALEXANDER THE SIXTH.

This pope, in passing through the
Romagna with his hopeful Csesar Borgia,
after a contested election for the pope-
dom, in which at first he was unsuccess-
ful, observing the inhabitants of some
petty town very busy in taking down the
statue of his unfortunate rival from a
pedestal, and placing it upon a gallows,
which they had erected for the purpose
on the spur of the occasion very near it,
said very coolly to Coesar, ** Observe, my
son, how short the distance is from a
statue to a gibbet. Upon how slender
a foundation, then, does that man build,
whose foundation of fame or honour is
the breath of the rabble."

HOPEFUL princes.

Dean Swift once observed, ** that, con-
sidering how many hopeful princes we
have had, it is astonishing that we have
had so few tolerable kinase

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

137

THE SPIRIT BRIDE.

"There again that beauteous figure
flits before me : am I then in love with
a being to whom I liave never spoken
even a passing word, whose name I know
not, or whether she be worthy of being
treasured for an instant in my imagina-
tion ? But then a form so lovely, a face
so fair, and eyes that sparkle with a lustre
such as woman's never did before. I can
scarce believe it is one of earth's crea-
tures : however, be it what it may, should
we again meet, I will boldly declare my
passion. She may disdain it, laugh at
me, call me presumptuous ; well, well,
call me as she will, I shall have spoken to
her."

The quickly passing figure of an elegant
being had drawn forth the above soliloquy
from Albert Meenen, a young Hungarian
by birth, and nearly related to some of
the first families in Presburg. He had
often in his ramblings met the object who
had gained such strong hold upon his
affections, and fancied she did not alto-
gether gaze upon him with indifference :
but who was she ? nobod}' knew. The

VOL. 11. — 18.

Page 140.

spies he had employed to watch her had
always been baffled, and there appeared a
mystery hanging around her tliat was
quite beyond his power to unravel. Could
she be a stranger staying a short time in
Presburg ? He caused inquiries to be
made at every hotel in the town, whether
liigh or low, but there v.as no one at all
answering the description had been stay-
ing there.

Uncertain whither to go, he one after-
noon dashed his horse through the mag-
nificent suburbs of Presburg, and found
himself, in a short time, gallnping across
the wide and open plain. He was com-
pletely wrapped up in his meditations,
allowing the animal to go where and as
he would, until the creature, suddenly
shying, nearly threw him from his saddle.
This made him look up to see what had
occasioned ir. A few paces before him
stood the fair incognita he had so dili-
gently and ineffectually sought 5 her gaze
seemed fi>:ed upon hiu). Albert was now
some leagues from Presburg ; the wide
plain seemed untenanted except by them-
selves ; it was far out of the beaten track
— this he saw at a glance — how, then,

T

138

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

came she there ? Her long and flowing^
dress, of the purest white, and shght veil
thrown partially over her beautiful tresses,
were not sucii as the proud Hungarian
dames were in (he habit of wearing. He
threw himself off his hoi-se, and approach-
ing towards her, said —

" Maiden, I have sought thee every
where, and, until this moment, never
have I been so blest as to have it in my
power to express the feelings of my
heart."

** You say you sought me : yes, as such
as you do seek far and wide, midst the
haunts of men. Think you it was there
I passed, otherwise than as a flittering
shadow ? Had you sought me here, in
the wide-extended plains, in solitude and
quiet, you would have found me, where
only I could listen to you."

" Oh ! maiden, be you what you may,
hear me while I say I love thee, as man
never loved before. It is not a passion
of earth, but more approaching the nature
of thyself — pure as the air which plays
around us. I will worship thee, will leave
all to follow and love thee : do but Hsten
t) me."

" Your love is like that of all earth's
creatures, fickle and changing as the
wind •, amongst yourselves you win affec-
tions, and then cast off the softer of your
kind, to linger on for years in heart-broken
anguish, or fall the prey of misplaced
fondness. With us it is not so ; the roll-
ing course of time still finds us the same,
and we know not the sorrows of blighted
affection."

" Oh, do not cast me from you, fair
being, for the faults of others : I swear,
by all I hold most sacred, by thyself, that
lengthened years will find no change —
ever shall J be the same, the fondest, most
devoted."

** You promise bravely ; but I have
been warned against the promises of
men, and bid to seek those amongst my
own kind with whom to plight my faith.
Had I not seen you, I might have done
J50, but now it is too late : I have ventured
much for thee, more than thou canst ever
know. Should I be deceived, then fare-
well all^"

*' Nay, maiden, speak not thus, but
augur for the best."

*• Dare you venture to meet me here,
just as the evening star is shining forth,
^lone ?"

" For your sake, I would face the arch
fiend himself."

" You promise me ?"

"f do."

"Till then, farewell!" and, waving her
hand towards him, hpr form gradually
became indistinct, until not a trace re-
mained to shew that a moment since she
had been there.

Albert found his horse at some little
distance from him, quietly grazing j the
animal allowed itself to be taken without
difficulty, and was soon on the road to-
wards Presburg. At the suburbs, ihey
met the throng returning from the pro-
menade, and as Albert rode slowly on,
many a fair hand was waved to him from
a carriage window, and many a dashing
Hungarian officer, as he proudly curveted
by, made a friendly salutation ; but all
passed unheeded — he was counting the
hours, the minutes, nay, the very seconds,
until he should again behold his fair
spirit.

" Are you turned exchange broker, and
counting the bales of merchandize, duly
consigned ?" said a gentleman on horse-
back, riding up to him.

** Alas, no !" sighed Albert, scarce
knowing what he was saying.

** Alas, no ! Mercy on us, what a sigh !
How much would many a fair maiden give
for such an one fiom you, Albert I"

"Did I sigh, Storwald?"

" Why, something very like it, I must
confess."

" I was thinking of my poor aunt, who
lies buried in the church we are passing :
you know she used to be very fond of
me."

" Why, she has been dead these three
years, and, often as I have ridden by the
church with you, I never heard you sigh
for the poor old lady before : but it won't
do; that was not a sigh for an aunt — it
was too deep, too heartfelt. I'll wager all
I'm worth, it's for the sweet daughter of
the countess Eitlingen, that you waltzed
with so much at the court fete."

" Storwald, I pledge you my honour
you are mistaken ;" but he had spurred
on his horse, and was out of hearing.
" This is very provoking ; it will be
bruited about everywhere, that I am
smitten with the countess's daughter, and
there are people foolish enough to be-
lieve it."

Albert gave his horse to the servant,

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

I39i

and retired to his own room, there lo
await, in patience, until it was time to
seek the plains. He attired himself in a
ligiit hunting-dress, and armed only with
a small sword, which he carried more for
ornament than protection, sought the ap-
pointed rendezvous. As he reached the
spot, the growing gloom was increasing
to darkness ; all around was still as death
— not even the distant sound of the even-
ing chimes was borne towards him : he
looked up, and saw the evening star
shining brightly, but nowhere through
the gloom could he trace the figure of her
he sought.

" Maiden, I am here alone to seek
thee." As he spoke these words, he per-
ceived an indistinct form, which, as it
approached towards him, he saw was that
of the spirit maiden. He flew to clasp
her in his arms, but she motioned him
back with an air of offended dignity.

" Creature of earth, listen to me, and
I will say why I have wished thee to
meet me here. In my wanderings I
have seen thee often — have loved thee —
nay, more, would be thy bride : will you
forsake the creatures of thy kind, to dwell
with me and mine ? Tiiou shall have all
thy fancy or imagination can paint — all
thy most unbounded wishes can suggest,
as conducing to thy liappiness. I ask in
return, only thine affections, pure and
unalloyed."

*' Oh ! fair being ! for thee alone I will
forsake all : the most I could have wished
would be to dwell with thee j I want not
other aids for perfect hap[)iness. Believe
me, sweet creature, for I speak with all
sincerity."

" But one thing more : with us, when-
ever our faith is plighted, if by word,
deed, or action, we sully those vows of
faith but for an instant, then must we for
ever part. It is our law — we must obey :
wilt thou bear it in thy remembrance ?"

" Dearest maiden, for ever."

** There, then, is my hand : look up
towards the evening star, and swear that
thou art mine — mine forever — and wholly
mine."

•* I swear !"

As soon as he had uttered these words,
he perceived a dense mist gathering
around them ; his hand remained clasping
that of his bride, but she spoke not : the
mist was too thick to allow him to see her
features, and he feared to question her,

lest it should imply that he had no con-
fidence.

In a few seconds a breeze came sweep-
ing by, and quickly dispersed the mist.
Albert looked up, and perceived before
him a palace more magnificent than even
his fancy could have imagined : lights
streamed from every window, of all hues
and shades ; whilst from out the doors
burst troops of beings, some making the
air resound with most melodious music,
and others singing sweet welcome to Eva
the bride, and the creature of earth. On
every side were bands of spirit beings
seeking amusement in a thousand various
ways, but joining their voices in the loud
chorus of weL'ome: all seemed in search
of pleasure and happiness, when and as
they would ; and the loud laugh, which,
at intervals, burst forth with such hearty
good will, was repeated by the echo until
it died faintly away, or mingled with the
music's sounds.

" This is now our home : think you it
will cause you to regret the dwellings of
mankind ?"

" It is indeed beautiful," replied Albert ;
"imagination could not paint such; to
pass my days here, and with thee, my
charming bride, will be happiness such as
we could not feel on earth."

" Each seeks for pleasure as the fancy
prompts : our laws are so simple that we
scarce know of their existence ; tliey are
only for the general good ; one individual
cannot oppress another ; nor have we the
vain ranks and shadows of authority like
you on earth. We live always in one
continued round of enjoyments, and the
cares of old age and decrepitude are un-
known : but let us onward."

They joined the pomp which had come
out to meet them, and entered together
the palace, the interior of which was
of corresponding magnificence with all
around : one saloon was lighted with
lamps, sending forth a soft blue shade,
which gave the appearance of a beautiful
clear moonlight night, whilst another,
throwing fortii rays of chastened red,
seemed to imitate the fiery aspect of the
setting sun. The festivities were long
continued, and often and loudly did the
walls resound with the praises of the
bride, each voice joining in the full chorus,
whilst some sweet singer gently breathed
forth the melody.

Time passed away unheeded ; each day

140

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

saw the recurrence of llie joyous scene,
but, unlike the pleasures of earth, they
never pallied. Albert felt a gaiety, an
elasticity of spirits, such as he had never
known on earth. It seemed one continued
summer season — the dull and dreary
winter was unknown ; day after day he
wandered forth with the fair Eva, who
would point out to him the various beau-
ties of their fairy world.

" Look at that sweeping dale, and yon
bine mountain rising so majestically : is
there not a softened boldness which har-
monizes with all around ?"

*' It is indeed a lovely scene : where on
earth could we look for such ?"

" Look again at this vast plain, so
richly studded with forest beauties, and
the shining river working its irregular
way through the midst, and breaking out
at intervals in smaller streams."

" 'Tis beautiful."

" And the temple which crowns the
summit of yon rising ground, and over-
looks the whole : it is a lonely spot, whose
quiet is only broken by the bird's sweet
warblings : I used to love it once, and
have passed many an hour alone, when I
could not join the merry throng, and
share their mirth ; but of late the path
thither has been untrodden — let us to-
wards it now."

*' Aye, and we will sit there and bring
to mind the by-gone time when first we
met ;" saying which, they turned and
sought its path.

Albert was one day sitting alone in an
arbour formed by the overhanging boughs
of the willow ; his gaze was fixed upon
the vast expanse of the calm unruffled
lake before him, whilst his thoughts wan-
dered unheeded. A light bark had pushed
off from the side of the lake, and seemed
to fly along the waters, its only tenant
being a fair spirit, who was evidently
making towards the arbour in which Albert
was reclining. As she approached, he
perceived it was one whom he had fre-
quently before remarked, not alone for
her exceeding beauty, but because often,
when suddenly turning, he had found her
looking intently upon hini, and as their
eyes met, a slight blush mantled o'er her
cheeks, and she would turn away with an
air of confusion : she drew up the bark to
the side of the arbour, which she entered.

'* Why, creature of earth, have you
sought this solitary spot ? X had thought

your kind had only loved to be in quiet
and seclusion when the heart was sad, to
pour out its griefs unheeded : you should
be happy."

'* So, fair being, am I."

" So, too, is the gentle Eva."

" Indeed I hope so, but there are times
when sadness seems to weigh upon her ;
a sudden tliought flashes on her mind,
that in an instant dispels the snjiles that
have been playing on her countenance :
often have I asked her to tell me the
reason, but never has she done so."

The fair spirit turned to look towards
the lake, for her cheeks were suffused
with a crimson hue, which she strove to
conceal.

*' 'Tis well you should not know."

** I will not add to her sadness by
further questioning."

** Tell me, creature of earth, whether,
amongst your kind, men love but once,"

Albert looked up ; the eyes of the fair
creature were fixed upon him, and he
slowly replied — " Once only with the true
fervour of love ; the second time it is
but "

"There is then a second time: have
you loved more than once ?"

" But once."

*' Then you may love again," and she
drew towards him ; " think you there are
none, save Eva, who have seen and loved

you

? Have vou looked with indifference.

on all besides ? There is one who, from
the moment you first entered our spirit
land, has never ceased to feel for you, as
for one "

**I must not listen further," said Albert ;
'* let me beseech you to consider "

•* I have considered, and, for your sake,
will risk all ! Oh, do not cast me from
you — say you will not hate me ;" and she
sank upon her knees before him. " I
will pray for you to the evening star whom
we all worship — I will watch over you —
but oh, do not, do not hate me."

Albert gently raised her from the
ground ; his arm had encircled her waist,
and her head fell upon his breast ; he
looked an instant at her lovely face, and,
in token that he felt not hatred, imprinted
on her lips a chaste and gentle kissj — a
boat at that moment passed before the
arbour, and, to his horror, he perceived it
contained the gentle Eva — he flew to-
wards her.

"Eva, hear me — J have not wronged

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

mi

thee; but listen to me for one short in-
stant, Eva ! Eva !"

She faded from his sight, and he saw
a thick mist was gathering^ around him,
which every moment became more dense ;
in a short time it died away, and he per-
ceived he was again in the plains of
Hungary — it was in the open glare of
broad day.

"Eva !" he sighed faintly, *' I have not
deserved this — never have my Thoughts
an instant wronged thee :" he looked up,
and saw, standing a few paces before him,
the lignre of her he called upon ; her
arms were folded across her breast, and
her countenance seemed worn by grief;
whilst burning tears were fast chasing
each other down her cheeks.

" Albert, fare thee well — for ever, fare
thee well : it is our law — I must obey."

He flew towards her to clasp her in his
arms, but they encircled only the thin air
— she was gone for ever. His feelings
overpowered him, and he sank swooning
to the earth, where he lay until the cool
air of the evening restored him : deject-
edly he sought the road to Presburg.

Many were the inquiries as to where
liis months of absence had been passed,
but he always maintained the strictest
silence when questioned concerning it;
refusing to give any account of himself
during the tinie he had been away. It
was apparent, however, to all, that he had
become an altered man ; the charms and
pleasures of life he carefully avoided,
preferring always to wander forth alone.
Often was he pressed by his friends to
enter into an alliance with some of the
noble Hungarian families, who were
desirous of the connexion : it was in vain,
for, to the last hour of his existence, the
dearest object of his life was Eva, his
Spirit Bride.

WALTON : A TALE FROM LIFE.

{Continued from 2J. 136.)
Time rolled on, and the adventure of
the ruin had sunken into partial oblivion,
or was only recalled with a laugh by all,
except Walton, when a circumstance oc-
curred that was destined to bind me still
closer to him by the ties of gratitude. As
I have previously remarked, it was a
custom with us to request permission, in
companies of three or four, to go out in
the half-hohdays, on various excursions

we might previously have planned, and
which was invariably granted, when the
duty of the morning had been properly
executed.

On the occasion I allude to, Walton,
two others, and myself, had obtained
leave one day, and hiring a boat, after
rowing about half a mile from the land,
the day being remarkably fine, we agreed
to bathe. Undressing, three of us jumped
into the sea, leaving the fourth in charge
of the boat. Not the breathing of a zephyr
disturbed the glassy surface of the water,
as it reflected the w arm sunlight of a day
in June, while we sported about, swim-
ming, floating, and diving, as our various
fancy prompted. Imperceptibly almost I
had swam beyond my two companions,
\\ alton and Stubbs, the other lad, when,
just as I was in the act of turning round
to regain their company, I was seized
with the cramp in the left side — so instan-
taneously, that I had only time to utter a
cry for assistance, and throw up my con-
vulsively grasped hands, when the bub-
bling waters closed over my sinking head.
1 shall never forget that moment of hor-
ror. A thousand lights flashed tumul-
tuously before my eyes, while the thun-
dering roar of rushing waters assailed
my ears, as, suffocating, I sunk tlirough
the liquid element, despair of agonised
life struggling in the fast encircling arms
of death. Since that period, to my sur-
prise, I have heard many persons assert,
that drowning, of all violent deaths, was
the most easy — a theory, by the way, that
will be found most inconsistent with sage
experience.

No sooner had my shriek for help been
heard — as I was since informed — than
Walton and Stubbs made towards me
w ith all possible expedition ; but had not
Walton very greatly distanced his com-
petitor, it would evidently have been of
no avail ; for he only reached the place in
time to see me sinking the third time,
within a few yards of him, when, diving,
at which he was very expert, he contrived
to seize me by the hair of the head, and
bring me up to the surface of the water,
where he held me until the boat came to
his assistance and took us both in, when,
after some time, by chafing and wrapping
me up warmly, they succeeded in reco-
vering me.

On the following morning, when I
proceeded to express my gratitude in a

142

TALES OF chivalry; OR,

calmer and more intelligible manner than
I had previously been enabled to do, be
stopped me short, exclaiming^,

** Don't make me ashamed of a simple
act of duty : the facts refer to our old
argument ; you were destined to be nigh
drowned — and I, as the unworthy instru-
ment of Providence, to save you."

" Yet, nevertheless," 1 rejoined, " as
the unworthy instrument of Providence,
it is no less my duty to thank yon, which
I do in words that ill express the sincerity
of my feelings."

He cordially grasped my hand, as he
uttered one of his singular opinions.

" You see, then," he said, ** upon a
close inspection of the circumstances,
thanks are not my due. I was actuated,
as when I put the' question to the woman
of the ruin, by one of those irresistible
feelings of the soul we cannot define, that
though coming under the denomination
of good or bad, are, in fact, both equally
the offspring of chance and circumstance,
emanating from resistless fate."

As he alluded to the adventure of the
ruin, a slight gloom passed across his
countenance, like the cloud on a summer
sky. Perceiving that the circumstance,
notwithstanding his dislike to admit it,
dwelt upon his mind, and willing, if pos-
sible, to eradicate it, I exclaimed —

** You surely cannot for a moment,
Walton, have allowed the random words
of a crazed and malignant old woman to
aflect you in the least. Pardon me," I
continued, ** for alluding to a circum-
stance that, whether named by others or
yourself, seems, to my surprise, to cast a
gloom over your countenance and de-
meanour, as if, indeed, you dreaded the
accomplishment of a prophecy silly and
improbable."

*' 1 have not forgotten it : I do not say
I put faith in it, but I assert that far
stranger and more improbable circum-
stances are on indisputed records, both
ancient and modern."

Since that period he evinced an evident
desire not to refer to the prophecy of the
ruin.

From very early choice, Walton, though
an only and indulged son, was intended
by his father, a widower, and eminent
stock-broker, for the noble profession of
arms, of which he was enthusiastically
fond. Having just passed his sixteenth
year, he was now in quarterly expectation

of leaving. But the event was partly
hastened by unhappy circumstances con-
nected with the blooming little rustic
beauty previously mentioned, whom Wal-
ton had been in the habit of meeting —
over which I would fain draw a veil. II.
was the first act that dimmed the lustre
of his honour; i)ut if sincere remorse and
contrition might be received in palliation
for the first fatal effects of youthful passion,
he certainly felt them severely.

To be brief, Walton left the academy

for the military college of S h, to

qualify himself for the profession he was
to enter ; I need scarcely say that he
went attended by the sympathy and friend-
ship of nearly the whole school, f, on
my own part, was sorely grieved to part
with the first sincere and truly disinterested
friend I had ever known. However, as
some alleviation to the sorrow we mutu-
ally expressed, we both agreed to keep
up a regular correspondence.

During the space of eleven months, I
had the pleasure of constantly hearing
from Walton, who, with the exception of
a duel, in which he had wounded his op-
ponent, had written nothing out of the
common course of gossip between two
young men. The last letter I ever re-
ceived from him in Cumberland, which
followed close upon a previous one, seemed
written in the very eflPervescence of hope
and high spirits, as he informed me that
a commission had been procured him in

the Dragoons, and that he had

orders to repair to W , the depot of

the regiment, immediately, which was in
expectation of receiving orders for the
Peninsula, the war having just then broke
out. Scarce a month after this, and much
sooner than I had expected, I received a
visit from an uncle, under whose guar-
dianship I was placed, who came for the
purpose of accompanying me to that great
capital and trading mart of the British
empire, London, where an appointment
had been procured for me in an office
under government. Accordingly, bidding
good-bye to my playmates and scholastic
tuition, I immediately lost no time in
complying with an order so gratifying in
every way to my then exulting feelings of
enfranchisement.

On my arrival in town, I immediately
wrote to Walton, informing him of my
removal, and giving him the latest news
of the old seat of our education ; among

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIF.LD.

143

which I remember telling him of Ennesly
(the lad so conspicuous for cowardice in
the adventure of the ruin), having left
since my last letter. But days grew into
weeks, and weeks into months, and I was
much surprised at receiving no answer to
my epistle. At the time I gradually got
into the belief, that, mixed in the gaiety
of a military life, and surrounded by new-
friends, he had ceased to think of an old
crony and schoolfellow. Such were the
pain'fid thoughts diat filled my mind at his
supposed contemptuous neglect, that at
length, hurt and indignant at his conduct,
I determined to forget him, and diink no
more of tlie fickle friendship of one whom
the world had so soon estranged.

I had been three month? in town, when
I received an invitation to a splendid
evening party given by an East India
director, at which I anticipated no small
gratification, as it promised to abound
with beauty and fashion. Dressed out to
what I considered the utmost advantage,
on the evening mentioned in the card of
invitation, I was announced, and made
my entrance into the splendid and bril-
liantly lit-up drawing-room, where, after
going through the usual compliments and
salutes with some nervous embarrass-
ment— for I had just commenced being
initiated into fashionable society — I took
a chair facing the door, watching for the
arrival of some friends.

While sitting in my somewhat lonely
situation, and occasionally eyeing tlie gay
and elegantly dressed groups interspersed
over the room, chatting and laughing, I
observed that the two only daughters of
the director, with a whole bevy of young
ladies, had taken a station close to my
side, where, giggling and prattling, they
appeared watching, like myself, the en-
trance of some one.

" And is he then, really, so very — very
handsome and engaging ?" inquired one
lisping young miss.

" I tell you, Letitia, he is the most
charming young fellow you ever beheld.
So noble-looking and accomplished — it's
impossible not to like him !" was the
animated reply of the eldest of the host's
fair daughters.

" Well, I must confess," said another
of die group, " from all I have heard, I
should extremely like to see this young
cornet, just — ^just merely to see if 1 approve
of your taste."

"Oh, it's utterly impossible, Isabel, you
could see him without admiring him.
The only thing I fear is, that some of you
may go away with aching hearts !"

Tliis was uttered with a seriousness of
expression that produced a general laugh,
as all declared there was no fear. "

" Does he sing ?" inquired one.

** Delightfully — and composes, too."

" Does he dance ?" uttered another.

" Delightfully well 1"

Here a long conversation followed, in
which the aforesaid cornet's qualifications
were discussed ; which, to equal the cata-
logue held out by the two young ladies,
must indeed have been numerous. In
fact, I had heard sufficient to inspire me
with some slight curiosity to see diis pro-
digy of fascination in our sex.

" Is that him ?" would exclaim in a
wliisper, at least some half-a-dozen voices,
as the door opened, and a handsome
young man chanced to enter \ when fol-
lowed a negative proportionably con-
temptuous to the appearance of the indi-
vidual.

The fair cluster near me were just
getting on the tip-toe of expectation, in
consequence of many disappointments,
when the young friends whom I had ex-
pected to meet arrived. I had just quitted
my seat, and walked across the room to
join them, when the hastily whispered
words of, " That's him 1 — that's him 1"
from the group of young ladies, made me
turn hastily round. But words are ill
adequate to express my astonishment,
when, in this military favourite, I beheld
none other than my old crony Walton,
most elegantly habited, and looking to far
greater advantage than I had ever seen
him before. It is true, the eflfect of dis-
sipation was visible : there was no longer
the ruddy look of health in his counten-
ance— nor had his figure retained that
look of stoutness it formerly possessed ;
but there was a fashionable ease and ele-
gance in his manners, bordering upon
noyichalance, as he addressed the hostess
of the mansion, who evidently treated
him with great distinction. After return-
ing the recognizances of many about
him, with whom he seemed acquainted,
he sauntered towards the group of young
ladies who had so anxiously, within my
own knowledge, been waiting his arrival,
and with a courtly assurance commenced,
to judge by their united reprisals and

144

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

bursts of laugliter, a light, witty, and
animated strain of conversation.

Hitherto, I had kept my eye upon him,
in the vain expectation of encountering
his, not without the doubtful feeling, as I
had reason to suppose that the change in
hi% exterior might have communicated to
his heart, and that, in reality, he might
not be particularly anxious to acknow-
ledge one very much his inferior in ap-
pearance, and that fashionable air of courtly
breeding, such an essential requisite in
polished society.

Determined to ascertain, beyond dis-
pute, whether he had indeed, as the
fashionable phrase goes, " cut me," I
made up my mind that he should never
plead ignorance of not having seen me,
and for this purpose, after refreshments
had gone round, and all were repairing to
cards, music, or conversation, I walked uj)
to a circle he was surrounded by, of
fashionable young men, to whom he was
holding forth, in a mock heroic, on tiie
folly and uncertainty of all sublunary joys,
in a tone and manner that set his auditors
in a roar of laughter.

Suddenly his glancing eye rested and
fixed upon mine — a nervous twinge ran
through my frame for a moment ; in the
next, he was through the croud, calling
me by my name, and had given me a
wring of the hand that reminded me of
his former celebrily for grappling. After
being seated and making the usual inqui-
ries, he was the first to tax me with un-
kindness and want of friend.ship, in not
writing and letting him know of my
having left the north ; at the same time
informing me he was the more surprised,
as he had written three letters directed to
me at the school. In return, I informed
him, that I had written to him two months
since, telling him of having come up to
town, likewise not forgetting penning my
address, and was much surprised at re-
ceiving no answer ; which, as time went
on, I could not help attributing to the
hurry and bustle attending new friends,
fresh scenes, and a new life altogether.

"Then you wronged me greatly," was
his reply. " With respect to yom" letter,
which I never received, I can only account
for it, by supposing it must have been lost
or mislaid by a drunken fellow of a
servant whom I some time since dismissed
on account of his drowning the few senses
he had in liquor. But, tell me, how is it

you never received my letters, for, unlike
you, I wrote no fewer than three, one
after the other ?"

"Ti)at is easily accounted for," J said,
** as my address in town is unknown in
Cumberland ; consequently, they were
unable to forward them."

I learned likewise from Walton, during
the course of conversation, that he had
only come up from Chatham a week ago,
on a month's leave of absence, which, he
gaily inforn)ed me, he intended spending
in the pleasures of the metropolis, previous
to being shot off in the Spanish Peninsula,
where the regiment was in expectation of
being ordered.

(7'o be continued.)

TOURNAMENTS

Were first introduced into Germany
by the emperor Henry, stunamed the
Fowler, who died in i)36. He was
allowed to be the greatest prince and
ablest statesman of his time, in Europe.
Amongst other ordinances relating to
these sports, he forbade the admission of
any person to joust, who could not prove
liis nobility for four descents. This prince
was so solicitous to promote valour, and
increase the military strength of liis king-
dom, that he published a general amnesty
in favour of all thieves and banditti, pro-
vided they would enlist in his armies :
those who took advantage of this, he
actually formed into a regular troop. The
first tournament in Germany was ap-
pointed to be at Magdeburgh, in Lower
Saxony. There was a great difference
between the tilt and the tournament,
which consisted in this: — a tournament
was a prelude of war, and fought by many
persons together, with blunted weapons ;
wlicreas, jousts could only be fought by
two. Tiiese last were often used for tiie
purpose of duels, and military trials of
offences.

THE HUNS.

Such was the dread of these ferocious
hordes, that even the Romans were occa-
sionally obliged to bribe and flatter them.
In the sixth century (he Danube. was
frozen over, and the Huns, passing it,
spread themselves throughout Greece,
Thrace, and the neighbouring countries,
carrying with them dismay and terror.
They even menaced Constantinople ; but
Belisarius, with the promise of an annual
tribute, prevailed upon them to retire.

PF.RILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

145

PAULINE LETROBE.

[As our limited space prevents us from giving
the introduction to the following tale, it is ne-
cessary to premise, that the author, having a
penchant for visiting mad-houses on his travels,

becomes acquainted with M. C , the kei'per

of one of those abodes of sorrow at Abbeville,
who presented him with a manuscript containing
the melancholy fate of one of the unfortunates
committed to his charge.]

The father of Pauline was an opulent

farmer in the villag^e of S , in Pieardy.

He had been a soldier in his youth, and,
having amassed a considerable sum, had
married, and turned his thoughts to agri-
culture. His wife died shortly after the
birth of Pauline, leaving her, an only
child, to the care of her sorrow-stricken
parent. At the time our story opens
(about August of the year 17^ — ) few
men were more respected in the province
than Gaspard Letrobe, then in his 60th
year ; and no maiden, for miles round,
could vie, in point of beauty, with Pauline.
She was just twenty, and the dazzling
charms of girlhood were softening down
into the mature beauties of the woman.
Pauline was a brunette, and a most lovely

VOL. n. — 19.

Page 147.

one ; her raven hair flowed in luxuriant
natural ringlets over a neck and shoulders
of tiie most perfect symmetry; and her
form might have served at once for a model
both to the painter and the sculptor. But
her eye ! here was the charm ; it was a
mild eye — albeit a most speaking and
eloquent eye ! See her — the buoyancy
of her feelings raised by the dance or the
song — no eye flashed more brightly than
her's ; and'yet, anon it grew calm and
pensive, for of that turn was her mind, by
reason of her retired education and habits.
It was altogether a most commanding
eye, and one that few could gaze on un-
moved. She had many lovers, but on
none did she deign to waste a thought,
anxious as Gaspard was to see her com-
fortably settled— for Pauline's mind did
not seem formed for love.

In tlie same village, and not far from
the house of M. Letrobe, resided an old
woman, verging, as the villagers said,
upon a century, alone witli her grandson.
Mabel Demourier was one more feared
than loved by her neigjibours ; no one
remembered the period of her settHng at

S , but she was evidently possessed of

u

146

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

properfy, for neitlier she nor lier grand-
son, Fdonarfl, were engaged in any com-
mercial or agricultural pursuits. Old
Mabel was, in person and manners, repul-
sive to the last degree, never joining with
her neighbours in their fetes and rejoic-
ings, nor svnipathizing in any way with
their feelings. Her great age, the un-
known source of her wealth, the superior
nature of her conversation, together widi
the ancient fashion of her garments, did
not fail to procure her the reputation such
characters so generally obtained in a
country and at a period when the minds
of the lower classes were universally
tainted with the grossest superstition —
namely, of dealing in forbidden arts.
Mabel Demourier w^as considered as a
witch all over the village. Neither was
Edouard much bettor respected ; moody,
and subject to fierce bursts of passion on
the most trivial occasions, he was, as a
boy, banished from the society which, in
maturer years, he did not seek to regain.
He seemed to consider himself as superior
to all around him, and, in consequence,
w as only tiie object of their contempt and
hatred. Yet was he one of Pauline's
suitors, and a most constant one, for she
could scarcely stir from the house without
being pestered by his odious attentions,
which nothing could repulse, until at
length, with a great apparent effort to
allay his pride, he asked her hand in mar-
riage of Gaspard Letrobe. The old man
consulted his child, and, on her decision,
denied him without hope of repeal. How
shall we describe the enraged feelings of
Edouard Demourier at this ? He had
evidently considered it a lowering offer
from him to the daughter of a farmer —
and to be repulsed ! He could not venture
to meet the triumphant glances of the
villagers — much less the angered and
contemptuous looks of his ancient relative ;
and immediately on quitting the roof
which had witnessed his disgrace, he left
the village, and joined the army as a
volunteer.

It was a joyful day to the rivals of
Edouard that made them acquainted with
his departure, for they feared that his
wealth would have tempted Gaspard to
become his advocate with Pauline : but
what effect had it on Mabel Demourier?
Truly, none, to a casual observer, unless
we except a more perceptible bend of her
proud neck, and a deeper furrowing of

her withered cheek, for she loved — she
adored him ; he had been her sole stay,
and, like a building deprived of its sup-
port— like a tree after the loss of its sap —
she drooped, and the villagers doubted
not she would soon cease to deplore him
in this life.

* ♦ ♦ *

It was a lovely evening ; the glorious
rays of the setting sun glancecl their
dying lustre over hill and dale, corn-field
and meadow, as if reluctant to leave so
fair a scene, as Pauline slowly sauntered
down a shady lane to meet iier father
returning from the vinejard. It was a
lonely spot amid much sj^lendid scenery ;
on either side of the lane rose a high
bank, covered with hemlock, briony, and
other rank weeds, and skirted with two
rows of alternate elms and beeches, w hose
thickly-foliaged branches, meeting over
the pathway, formed a roof almost imper-
vious to the cheering sun-beams. Pauline
was more than usually dull, and she
quickened her steps to quit the lane,
which she had entered heedlessly — for of
it strange tales were told ; andl besides
this, Pauline knew it to be the favourite
haunt of old Mabel, whom she had not
seen since her grandson's departure, and
who was one of the last persons she would
wish to meet. She had almost attained
the farther end of the dreary pathway,
when a sound smote her ear, as of one
moving along among the dry and withered
leaves of autumn. She looked up, and
beheld, slowly advancing from the oppo-
site end of the lane, no less a personage
than the dreaded Mabel herself — although
a{)parently not aware of Pauline's ap-
proach. She would have given worlds to
have been spared this meeting; but as
she saw that it was impossible to avoid it,
she walked towards her. As she came
near to Mabel, and perceived that tears
were trickling down the care-worn furrows
of her cheeks, and heard the half-re-
pressed sobs of the aged woman — when
she saw her misery, and considered how
instrumental she herself had been to that
misery — she felt a strange kind of pity
creep into her breast towards her ; and,
as she was now close to her, in a soft voice
she bade her " a good evening."

Mabel started — threw her eyes, flashing
fire through their moisture, on the maid
— and, in a suppressed tone, answered —

*' You here ! I dreamt there crept an

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

147

adder in my path. Go on your way, for
I have had enough evil from your sex !"

PauHne shuddered, when the old woman,
seeming suddenly to recollect something,
stood before her path, with a menacing
air.

" Yet, hold !" she continued, " I remem-
ber me : you are she whom my Edouard
would have wedded. Fool ! fool 1 knew
he not that the young eagle pairs not with
the raven ? You refused him ! that was
nobly done — refused hira. Girl ! I tell
you, he has blood in his veins, one drop
of which were basely compared to all that
foul and craven tide which now deserts
3^our face beneath my gaze. Ha, ha, ha !
you are passing fair. Look at me : I was
once called Fair Mabel. See these
withered lips: were they not fit for a
monarch to gaze upon and sigh for ? — now
all withered and shrunken. Such, I tell
ye, vrill one day be the beauties you
prize. Girl ! girl ! where is my Edouard ?"

Pauline trembled from head to foot, but
answered not. Again old Mabel spoke :

" Where is he ? I ask. He that was
my hope — my life ? Gone. You have
deprived me of my joy : a curse is all that
is left me, and to you "

Pauline screamed, and threw herself on
her knees before the infuriated old woman.

*' Oh ! no — no — no ; for mercy's sake,
not a cLirse — not ymircnrse !" For much
was old Mabel's ill- word dreaded by all
who knew her.

" Not my curse ! — and why ? Will it
not make you wretched ? — you have made
me so. Mercy ! — showed you any to me
and mine ? Yes, my curse — Mabel's
curse be on you ; and, as you have made
me childless, friendless, so may you die —
fatherless — friendless — and a murderer!'''

Pauline heard no more ; her eyes grew
dim, and she fell prostrate on the rank
grass. When she recovered, she was on
the same spot, supported in the arms of
her father ; but some time had elapsed, for
the sun had vanished, the breeze that
fanned her cheek was chill, and a few pale
stars twinkled through the leafy roof
above her.

" My poor, poor child," said Gaspard,
tenderly, "my friends and I have sought
you long and anxiously. Tell me, Pauline,
what has befallen you ?"

She raised her head with a deep sob,
and cast her eyes wildly around her.
They fixed at length on an object oppo-

site ; and clinging convulsively to the arm
that supported her, she pointed it out to
her father's obseivation. A ray of the
moon just then poured its lustre through
the overhanging- branches, and fell on the
figure of Mabel Demourier, seated on the
opposite bank, her eyes apparently fixed
upon Pauline. Gaspard advanced a few
steps.

" How now, beldame !" he said, com-
prehending at once the whole truth ;
" what do ye here ? We'll have no more
of this: away! begone!"

There was no answer; and he followed
his speech by a rude thrust, when the
body tottered, and in an instant lay at his
feet.

" Good God !" ejaculated Gaspard,
" Mabel is dead !"

•' Dead !" ejaculated Pauline, in horror
— " dead ! oh, say not so." She fiew to-
wards the helpless corpse, and gazing for
a moment on the half-closed eyes, which
had so shortly before darted their fury at
her, turned away with a sickening heart.jj

*' Heaven's will be done 1 I have heard
her death-words, and they will surely be
fulfilled ! What said she ? — a murderer .'
Father, lend me your arm — support me :
hark ! do you not hear — the air is full of
voices, calling your Pauline a murderer !
She gasped for breath, and the next in-
stant lay senseless in her parent's arms.
« * » «

Months passed away, and winter's
hand had imprisoned the broad stream of
the Seine in his chill embrace ; the late
luxuriant banks now presented a very
different, yet even now cheerful, aspect.
In the lower lands, which had been par-
tially overflowed during the months of
October and November, and seemed now
one sheet of polished mirror, broken at
intervals by some rising bank, or the
knotty trunk and grotesque branches of
an aged willow — the eye was occasionally
delighted by the graceful evolutions of
some group of experienced partineurs^
who had left Abbeville and iis suburbs, to
enjoy their favourite amusement free from
the gaze of the co.nailh. In the higher
portions, which had escaped the flood —
such, for instance, as the Bois-de-Lavier,
and the many inferior woods along the
banks — the bright and red-berried holly,
and the luxuriant laurels, were in brilliant
contrast to the snow-clad bosom of the
earth whence they sprung.

148

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

All in the humble village of S ,

wore the cheerful and busy appearance
which industry and content confer in the
most dreary seasons — but more especially
in this joyful one of Christmas. It was a
week after the holy Jour de Noel, and
the festivities of that high day were still
scarcely on the wane in many of the su-
perior farm-houses, and the blazing log
still cheered and illuminated even the
poorest chaumiere. We shall take the
liberty of conducting our readers into the
principal apartment of one of the superior
farm-houses of S . Never was a hap-
pier party witnessed than that now as-
sembled to celebrate the wedding of one
* of the prettiest little brunettes of the vil-
lage with the son of an opulent marchande
of St. Valarie. On this jovial occasion,
the host (the father of the bride) had
broached his strongest and clearest cyder.
Apples and nuts, too (the peculiar fruit of
Picardy), were there in abundance — the
huge vaulted chimney-corner smoked and
blazed with its clieering load — and frank
good-nature, that leven of a company, was
there — far more contributing to the general
content and satisfaction, than cyder, nuts,
apples, or fire. All were resolved to be
happy, and, consequently, all were happy.

A laughing trio was assembled in (he
apartment of the]_bride ; and as their con-
versation may prove interesting, inasmuch
as it concerns some of our former charac-
ters, we shall take the liberty of recount-
ing a portion of it.

" Dear Lisette," said one, addressing
the bride, "how dull you are; cheer up,
or I will summon Claude to rouse you.
Tell me, what ails you ? I am positively
ashamed of you."

" Nay, Amie," replied the girl, ** in-
deed I do not know why 1 should be dull
— but it is getting late, and our poor
friend Pauline Letrobe promised, at my
repeated solicitations, to visit us, and par-
take of our revelry."

" I should more have wondered, love,
if she had come, for you know she has
attended none of our fetes since she lost
her "

" Hush," said Lisette, placing her hand
on the mouth of her bridesmaid — " do not
mention that : you know that Dr. Roland
gives us hopes that her senses will recover
the shock they received on that fatal day
— and she will become as gay and happy
as the best of us."

Amie shook her head doubtingly, and
moving towards the piece of mirror hung
against the wall, began arranging her
hair, and turned the current of the conver-
sation. They shortly after joined their
companions in the lower apartment.

1 he room was now cleared of the tables
and chairs, and the party commenced the
favourite and mirth-inspiring game of
*^ Colin-maillard'" — vulgo, ** Blind-man's
buff." We will not pause to describe the
progress ofthegame,or many little favours
given and taken by the rustic revellers :
suffice it — they were shortly at high
rcjmps.

The large clock at the upper end of the
room told it to be near nine (a late hour

in the unsophisticated village of S ),

when suddenly the door opened, and those
nearest to it retreated from the figure that
entered, with a universal shudder, as one
after the other repeated the name of —

** Pauline Letrobe !"

Very different was the Pauline we must
now describe, to the lovely and graceful
being whom we before introduced to our
readers. She wore no hat or bonnet, and
the snow, which was falling heavily, had
settled on her black, dishevelled hair, now
dripping with moisture. The ren)ainder
of her attire was hidden by a long red
cloak, which she kept closed around her
with one hand ; — but her face — oh ! it was
in her face that was more plainly to be
traced the ravages of a few months. Her
once blooming cheek was now sallow and
sunken — her lips of a pale, unnatural blue
colour — and her eye, that eye which we
once described v\ilh such enthusiasm — it
was sadly altered ; not that it was less
bright — but the expression was so differenf,
that none would have recognised, in the
wild - looking figuie that entered, the
laughing and gleeful Pauline of other
days !

She proceeded to the upper end of the
apartment, where the bride was seated,
and all made way for her — some from
pity, some from fear, until she stood facing
the shrinking Lisette.

" Pauline !" cried slie, ** my own Pau-
line, you are cold and wet : why did you
not come before ?" — and she proceeded to
place a seat for her near the tire. " Come,
give me your cloak."

*' No," said Pauline, with fearful vvild-
ness, and grasping her cloak with a tight-
ened hold ; " no — not that."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

149

** And where is your father, dear Pau-
hne ?" asked Lisette.

*• My father !" she answered slowly, as
if striving for recollection ; then gazing
around her on the pitying group, who
had left tlieir sports on her appearance —
" My father ! he is well — he sleeps ! 'Tis
good to behold the innocent and free
sleep," she continued, half aloud ; *' his
eyelids seemed scarcely to be pressed by
slumber, so gentle was its influence. And
I thought, it must be pleasant to die thus
— sleeping, and calm, like an infant. Ah,
me ! I would that I could sleep as the
old man slept — as the old man sleeps !
I gazed on him as he lay — long — long,
and fondly ; and lie seemed to smile in his
dream — and yet I — "

She paused, as if some hateful recollec-
tion broke upon her brain j and then her
dark eye was fixed on some imaginary
object of terror, and she spoke in low,
beseeching accents : '* And yet, it was
not my fault; I loved him — oh, how
dearly ! But the curse was on me, and
old Mabel was with me ; and she is there
now — look, look, Lisette ! She threatens
me with her crutch. Pardon ! pardon !
Mabel — I have done your bidding ! Save
me, Lisette — oh, save me from her !"
Her feelings quite overpowered her, and
she threw herself fainting into Lisette's
arms.

** Cheer up, dear Pauline," she cried,
*• none but friends are near you now.
Alas !" continued Lisette, turning to the
guests, *' she is wet with the snow — I feel
it on my arms. Aid me to support
her."

They proceeded to move her to a
couch, in doing which, her cloak became
loosened, and they all started back with a
cry of horror — for the wliole front of her
white robe was saturated with blood !
Lisette, too, wlio had supported the poor
creature, was stained with tlie same fatal
colour. While they stood, gazing in
speechless terror from each other's faces
to the sickening object before them — the
door was suddenly thrown open, and a
labourer entered the room, out of breatli,
and pale from agitation —

** Messieurs," said he, " I have seen a
horrible sight : old Gaspard Letrobe lies

murdered in his bed !"

« * « «

Here the original manuscript ended :
but a postscript by M. C informed

me, that Pauline was tried and convicted
of the murder of her father ; but the
evidences of her insanity were so nume-
rous, that the sentence of death was com-
muted into one of imprisonment for life.
Accordingly, she had been entrusted to
his charge ; which charge death had just
concluded.

Such was the awful recital my friend
had submitted to my perusal, and which
filled me with the profoundest feehngs of
interest and pity. Its heroine was in-
terred in the cimitiere of St. B ; and

a plain marble slab, with the name ** Pau-
line Letrobe," alone point out the spot
where lies this hapless victim of Super-
stition !

WALTON : A TALE FROM LIFE.

{Continued from p. 144.)

Oh, fie, Mr. Walton 4" exclaimed the
eldest of the hostess's fair daughters, as
she broke in upon our conversation ;
** how can you be so ungallant in spend-
ing so much time upon your own sex,
when there are so many sighing for a
glance and a word among our's ? Come,"
she added, laying her jewelled fingers
very complacently on his arm, " you must
positively attend me with your friend to
the music-rooms below, where the sons
and daughters of harmony are already
assembling ; and where 1 shall expect
you positively to sing that delightful song
of your own composition, which you once
favoured us with. I have pledged my
word for you."

The young lady's harangue admitting
of no appeal, we repaired below, where
the tuning of instruments, and rustling of
silks and music-paper, gave " note of pre-
paration." It was after several popular
pieces had been very tolerably executed
by some amateurs, that Walton was re-
quested by a knot of young ladies to sing.
As I remaiked, unlike many others, with-
out any pressing, he seated himself at the
piano, and ran over the keys of the in-
strument in a manner in which taste was
more conspicuous than science. The
verses were some he bad composed at
school, which I well remembered ; in
themselves they were simple and trivial —
but rich, full of sweetness and melody, the
tones of his voice sounded with pathos
and feeling as he sung them : —

150

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

SONG.

Give me a kiss from thj- pure lip,
By thee, clear Ella, given,

'Tis like Elysian dew we sip,
For, oh ! it tastes of heaven.

Then give me all I ask— a kiss,

That melts the soul in trembling bliss-
Do not— do not deny me !

Give me a kiss, nor turn thine eye
Away, its dark blue beaming,

Like moonlijjht from Italia's sky,
In mild refulgence streaming.

Then give me all I ask — a kiss,

That melts the soul in trembling bliss-
Do not — do not deny me !

Give me a kiss, there's naught 1 prize
On earth one half so dearly !

I swear it by those soul-lit eyes,
There's none loves more sincerely.

Then give me all I ask — a kiss.

That melts the soul in trembling bliss-
Do not— do not deny me !

A murmur of approbation and pleasure
sounded among his auditors as he finished,
who placed him in constant request during
the evening : and it was after spending
the time most pleasantly, that the party
broke up early in the morning, when
Walton and I separated, engaged in the
service of the ladies, under a promise of
meeting on the morrow.

I shall pass over that and several sub-
sequent interviews, which enabled me to
perceive a change in Walton's real man-
ners and habits, that a little reflection
might have led me to expect in one of his
impetuous and enthusiastic nature. —
Young, handsome, admired, and courted,
his once frank, careless demeanour, had
become confident, vain, and haughty.
While plunged into, and revelling in the
very depths of dissipation, with funds to
gratify his almost every wish, he had
become a mark for the shafts of the vicious
and designing. Hence arose those after-
scenes of misery and desolation that
marked the course of one qualified for a
splendid ornament of society.

Half the period allotted for his leave of
absence had scarcely expired, when I
perceived a gloom upon Walton's coun-
tenance, which the sunshine of pleasure
and gaiety seemed inetiectual to disperse.
To my anxious inquiries, he at first alleged
some trivial cause ; but perceiving me,
perhaps, incredulous, he at lengtli in-
formed me, with apparent indiflierence,
that his father had sustained a loss of a
few thousands in a banking-house in
which he had much confided, that had
vexed the old man, and occasioned him-
self a temporary inconvenience. But a
few days made it generally known, through

the medium of the papers, that those few
thousands, as Walton had termed them,
were, in fact, a large capital.

Notwithstanding the reports that were
afloat in consequence of this circumstance,
Walton was gayer and more dashing than
ever ; the number of his horses and
servants was increased, but it was evident
his spirits were no longer the same-, they
were depressed, except when elevated by
wine to a fearful contrast of unnaturally
wild exuberance. Latterly, too, Walton
had formed a close intimacy, much to my
surprise, with Ennesley, whom the reader
may remember as the superstitious, cow-
ardly lad, some pages back, and who was
destined to be closely connected with the
future fate of Walton. At school, there
had always been something so despicably
mean, sly, and cowardly, in his deport-
ment, that Walton and myself had ever
treated him with a marked contempt,
while it had entitled him generally, from
the rest of the school, with the name of
" the Fox," by which appellation lie
usually went. His history is shortly as
follows : —

Richard Ennesley was the eldest son of
a gentleman who filled the situation of
confidential clerk in a first-rate mercantile
house. He was early destined for a desk
in the office which his father conducted,
with credit to himself and his principals.
When very young, Ennesley gave indica-
tions of the bent of his mind : few boys
were better accountants, could solve a
question of figures sooner, or could write
a better hand ; but, at the same time, few
in the whole class were so utterly ignorant
of every other requisite and necessary
acquirement. His chief pleasure seemed
always coupled with his profit, in buying,
changing, selling, and lending on interest
to those in want ; in all of w hich he was
noted for taking contemptible and petty
advantages, that many times drew upon
him severe correction. At the age of
eighteen he had quitted school, an object
of contempt and dislike to all who had
known him, to fill a mercantile situation.
''' Though parsimonious and selfish to a
degree, a love of dress and frequenting
public amusements marked his character,
and grew upon him. Servile and flatter-
ing when anything was to be gained,
Richard Ennesley's tall, spare figure, and
small grey eye, was a true index of his
mind. By an insinuating and flattering

PERILS BY FLOOD AM) MF.Ll).

151

address, in which a wish to oblige seemed
prominent, he had contrived to get intro-
duced into some circles, where his station
in life would hardly have entitled him.
It was in one of these circles that Wall on
met him, and, infinitely to my surprise,
commenced the acquaintance with Ennes-
ley, whose pride — and, strange to say, he
had pride — seemed highly gratified in so
often occupying a place in Walton's
elegant curricle.

There were one or two, who, like my-
self, knowing something of Ennesley,
perceived the acquaintance with sorrow ;
and even Walton himself, I thought, at
times felt a touch of shame in introducing
him, even though it was very evident he
made a complete cat's-paw of him. " Good
fellow — goes through business like a lion
— none like him for raising the wind, or
quieting a dun — knows every turn of
London — cannot do without him !" Such
was the kind of half- apology Walton
usually made, whenever his name was
mentioned.

From a circumstance that occurred, I
felt for Walton, and presaged the worst
from his new acquaintance, while it ac-
counted in some measure for Walton's
constant absence from some of those
parties I had been in the habit of meeting
liim at in an evening.

It was about three in the morning ; I
was walking down a street at the back of
St. James's, returning home from a party,
when two men, in high spirits, muffled up
in cloaks, came out of a house before me,
in the grated doorlight of wliich was
burning a square lamp. "Done them,
in high style 1" they bodi exclaimed, in
loud boisterous terms, rattling the gold in
their pockets, as, with flushed counten-
ance and hasty steps, they walked on
before me. The voices were not to be
mistaken — they were those of Walton
and Ennesley. I crossed the street w ith a
sigh, in the conviction that he had at
length obtained the high road to perdition,
in the occupation of a gamester.

To one to whom I was so much in-
debted as Walton, I could not but perceive
the dangers that environed and threatened
him, and reflected with pleasure that in a
fortnight he would be necessitated to join
his regiment, when he would be placed
out of the reach of a man I firmly believed
to be a designing villain.

Though animated and gay^ fashionable

and witty, as usual, driving his elegant
ecjuipage about the parks and St. James's,
it was to me very evident but a semblance
to hide that inward anguish there were
times he could not entirely suppress.
With evident design he had avoided the
usual confidential discourse tliat had ever
existed between us, while a foreboding
darkness gathered darker on his brow, as
the expiration of his leave of absence
drew nigh.

It was within a week of the time ap-
pointed for him to join his regiment, that
I called upon him at the superb hotel
where he resided during his stay in town.
His blood- shot eyes and pale countenance
sufficiently announced the little rest he
had received since the preceding night,
as he reclined upon an easy chair, in his
dressing-gown, at an elegantly set out
breakfast-table.

** I have written for renewed leave of
absence," he uttered, after I had been
seated ; " and I am sorry to say it has
been refused me."

•* And the difference is, I am very glad
of it," I observed.

"The deuce you arel — and why is
that, I pray ?" he asked, with some as-
perity.

" Walton," I said, with greater serious-
ness than he had ever heard me before,
" I believe you know the sincere gratitude
I bear you — that, in fact, binds me to
)'our service, and which I can never
forget. It is not my purpose to allude to
anything disagreeable, but what I feel
will be for your benefit. I merely appeal
to your own sense and feelings, whether
a longer stay from your profession would
not be more prejudicial, detrimental, and
more ruinous, I would say, in every re-
spect, to your interests ?"

He was touched : a shade of pensive
sadness passed over his features, as be
hung his head for a minute, as if in bitter
reflection on the past.

"But coine — away with these unmanly
feelings of regret. What's done cannot
be undone !" he suddenly exclaimed, as,
with an action approaching to the wild-
ness of despair, he struck off the top of a
champaigne bottle on the breakfast-table,
and filled tv\o glasses. " Here — pledge
me a short life and a happy one 1" he
continued, in a manner that afl'ected me
greatly at the moment, as he drank off
the wine, and dashed the glass into a

134

TALES OF CHIVALRY }

thousand pieces against the fire-place,
with a look of bitter anguish.

** You join, however, on Thursday," I
observed.

" You mistake : / shall never join, if
I can retire or sell out .'"

"Never join your regiment, when you
are on the point of being called into
service, and realizing, perhaps, all your
boyhood's dream of glory you have so
often can^•assed vvilh me ? — Impossible !
Walton, you joke," I exclaimed, greatly
surprised and shocked at his declaration.

" Would to heaven it were all a joke !"
he uttered, as he sank back upon his chair.

I perceived that the only chance of
effecting any good was, to use a homely
phrase, to strike w hile the iron was hot ;
and immediately proceeded to expostulate
with him on the headlong course he was
running — and the end that, sooner or
later, inevitably awaited it.

** It's too late, my dear fellow, now to
preach a sermon," he exclaimed, with
bitterness.

** It can never be too late," I answered,
with the energy I felt at the moment.
*♦ Many a gallant vessel has struck upon a
rock during her voyage, that has been
gotten off, and saved by perseverance."

** Yes — assisted by a rising tide," he
said, madly. " Alas ! there's no tide to
assist me in my extremity. I am but
fulfilling my fate. Yet," he exclaimed,
after a pause of some duration, " if I
could but clear the mesh that envelopes
me — "

The opportunity I had wished for had
now presented itself. Gradually inspiring
confidence that circumstances might not
be so bad — and that, in fact, by a little
care and attention in the close investiga-
tion, they might be placed to rights — I
was proceeding ; when, after two or
three efforts, in which I perceived a fierce
mental struggle, the pride of his natme at
length yielded before better feelings, as,
with a request of my assistance and advice,
he laid open to me a statement of his
affairs.

I cannot but say that 1 was greatly
shocked at the enormous amount of his
debts, considering his very short residence
in town. But even these, I learned, were
con^paratively trifling to the enormous
losses he had sustained by other means,
less creditable to himself, in the more pro-
fligate fashionable vices of the age.

I was aware of the difficulties I had to
contend with, in a mind so fine and sen-
sitive as Walton's, who, at times, during
a necessary investigation, that took up an
hour, shrunk like a patient under the
probe of the surgeon. I persevered, how-
ever, and at length obtained the desired
information. One thing I learned that I
had long suspected, and that was, that his
father had been reduced from a state of
affluence to coujparative indigence by the
failure of the bank previously mentioned
— while Walton, to set off debts to tlie
amount of eight hundred pounds, and
maintain himself in his profession, pos-
sessed but some freehold property that his
father had presented him with a short
time previous, bringing in an income of
two hundred a year.

I did not fail to observe what Walton
— maddened by the loss of that fine for-
tune he had been led to expect, and im-
mersed in debt and a thousand wild ex-
travagances— had overlooked, that, with
economy and circumspection, he might
still have suflBcient, besides his pay, for a
genteel maintenance in his profession,
after he had discharged his debts, by
mortgaging or disposing of his freehold.
Suffice it : adopting my advice, he sold
off his horses and other superfluities, and
dismissed his servants, taking private
apartments during his remaining week in
London ; while, employing a solicitor, in
a few days he succeeded in raising the
requisite sum, by mortgage, that enabled
him to stand free in the world.

I shall pass over the grateful and kind
feelings displayed towards me by Walton,
for being the chief means of effecting that
which procured me the sincerest pleasure,
in serving one to whom I was indebted
for the prolongation of my ow n existence.
He was evidently agreeably surprised in
the turn his own affairs had taken, which,
in his utter ignorance of business, he had
imagined far more complicated ; so that,
notwithstanding the loss of that fortune
he had been led to expect one day, he
seemed restored to a degree of calm con-
tent, that had been a stranger to his mind
during his eventful stay in the metropolis.
[To he continued.)

The sun never sets on the British do-
minions, for before his evening rays leave
Quebec, his morning beams have en-
lightened the banks of the Ganges.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

153

THE MERCHANT OF LYOXS.

Jacques St. Julien and Suzette de
Vallois, the father of the former, who was
one of the principal merchants of Lyons,
had seen, with unbounded satisfaction,
that his son was passionately enamoured
with the amiable daughter of one of his
oldest friends. It was a match in every
way suitable for him. Monsieur de Val-
lois was a man of considerable wealth,
though not engaged in commerce; he
had at first been much averse to the union
taking place, on account of the wild and
reckless disposition of the young St. Ju-
lien ; and strange accounts had reached
Lyons, of his proceedings during a two
years residence at Paris; but upon his
return to Lyons, the charms of the fair
Suzette had so worked upon him, that his
irregularities were abandoned, and he
sank from the gay and dissipated man of
fashion, into the staid and industrious
merchant ; and it is but justice to him to
say, that it was not outwardly alone that
he had become an altered man. Some
scenes in which he had borne a part at
Paris, and his narrow escapes from infamy

VOL. H. — 20.

and destruction, had determined him to
make a strong effort to effect a total
change in his habits and dispositions;
and the presence of his dear Suzette had
strengthened these resolutions, until their
practice had convinced him, that during
the eighteen months he had been at
Lyons, after his return from Paris, he had
been for the first time in his life, a happy
and contented man. There was but one
thing galled him, and that was, any allu-
sion to his residence at Paris. It was
clear there was something connected with
it which he could not drive from his re-
membrance, and since it seemed sensibly
to annoy him, all mention of it was stu-
diously avoided.

The change that had taken place re-
moved the only objection entertained by-
Monsieur de Vallois to the marriage, who
willingly gave his consent to the union
taking place ; and on the appointed day,
young St. Julien led to the altar the fair
and blooming Suzette, and in the face of
heaven, they interchanged their vows of
constancy and fidelity.

Jacques St. Vallois felt that he was
now a truly happy man ; possessed of the

154

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

being he so fondly loved, enjoying the
sweet communion of reciprocal affection,
unclouded by the discontent of poverty,
his course of life flowed on as gently
and as calmly as the summer's brook that
musically ripples on, without impedi-
ment.

He was one day sitting with his wife
in their dining-room, conning over some
circumstances of domestic life, looking
upon the busy groups that thronged the
quay, and, at times, upon the merry
laughing tenants of the boats that shot
along the Rhone's swift stream, whose
loud joyous laugh gave token of their
presence, even when the gloom of the
closing summer's evening had began to
envelope them in its obscurity. He was
holding one of his wife's hands, listlessly
playing with her fingers, and felt that he
was enjoying one of those moments of
life, when the lightness of our spirits bid
us feel for a short space, a sensation of
true and pure happiness ; the door opened,
and the servant announced a gentleman,
who wished to speak with Monsieur " St.
Julien."

** Did he mention his name ?"
** He said his name was not of conse-
quence, though his business was."

" Oh, show him into the counting-
house, some of the clerks will attend to
him,"

" I wished to have done so, sir ; but
he said he was no merchant, and that his
business was with you alone."

" Well, show him in, since he is de-
sirous of seeing me."

The person advanced ; he was a man
of middle age, with a countenance of a
dark and sinister expression, and his
clothes, which were covered with dust,
showed that he had just completed a long
journey. After cautiously looking to see
the door was closed, he approached towards
de Vallois, and, gazing at him, said —

** You have not forgotten me, have
you ?"

*' Good heavens ! it cannot be the
Chevalier Arnaud ?"
** The same."

" Why is this ? why, sir, am I to be
hunted down in this manner ? do you again
seek to entangle me in your meshes ?"

" Softly, softly, my good sir, you are
alarming this lady without cause."

" Suzette, my love, will you leave us a
iJew moments ? It is long since I have

seen this gentleman, and we have some-
thing of importance to speak about."

His wife obeyed with reluctance,
pausing at the door, to say they were
engaged to spend tlie evening at her
father's, and it was almost time they were
gone. She scarce noticed the chevalier's
attention in opening the door as she
passed through, and left him and her hus-
band together.

" Arnaud," said St. Julien, advancing,
** you have broken the compact betwixt
us ; when I furnished you with money
to begin the world as an honest man, you
promised never again to obtrude yourself
upon me."
" I did."

" Nay, more, you professed gratitude
to me, for doing that you had no right to
expect."

" I did so, and felt it."
" Felt it," echoed the other, with a
bitter laugh.

" Yes, 1 say again, felt it."
** And yet, yet you show it, by break-
ing the only promise I exacted from you."
*• Listen to me, and I will explain my
conduct. You, of course, remember that
night at Paris, when having lost at the
salons far more than you were enabled
to pay, we "passed a forged bill of ex-
change."

** Oh ! merciful heaven ! after all the
anguish I have suffered, must I still have
my crimes thrown in my face by my very
associates."

'* Be calm, and listen : you remember
too, it was a bill at three years' date, and
that a few days after we had passed it —
you gave me the monev to take it up."
"I did! I did!"

" Of course you did, and I don't deny
it ; and I was going to the person to do
so, but somehow or other, passing by the
salons, I just looked in to see what they
were about, and — and — I lost the money
before — I knew I had been playing —
I was afraid to tell you the circumstance,
so I said the bill had been taken up, and
that 1 had destroyed jt — but it was all a
fiction."

** Ha, ha, ha," said the agonised St.
Julien, *• now you are laughing at me ;
come, laugh, and say it is all a jest."

*' I wish it were, "but the worst part of
the story is, that the bill being due, has
been discovered to be a forgery, and is
now in the possession of the police, who

PERILS BY FLOOD AN I) FIKLI>.

155

are tracing it through the hands of the
different holders until (hey ^vill come upon
you ; now, as I felt I owed you a debt of
gratitude, I have travelled day and night
from Paris, to give you notice to save
yourself."

'* Then am I a lost and ruined man !"

" Not at all, the frontiers of Savoy are
but a few leagues from hence, and there
you are in safety."

" I will not flV."

" Not fly ?"

"No!"

" Are you mad ?"

** If I am not, I soon shall be."

" This is folly."

** Call it madness, desperation, or what
you will. Oh, tliou villain, you taught
me first to play — led me on step by step,
squandered my money, and then plunged
me in the lowest depth of crime. 1 am
lost fur ever," saying which, he paced the
room to and fro with quick and agitated
steps, until a gentle knocking at the door
attracted 'Jns attention, and his wife's
voice, saying —

** St. Julieu, shall you be much longer ?
I am dressed, and only waiting until you
are read}'."

" Longer ! Heaven only knows. T will
follow ycu to your father's — do not wait
for me."

" I cannot go without you," replied his
wife. ** I'll wait up stairs," and she
slowly turned away.

** Well, St. Julien," said Arnaud, *' are
you determined not to seek your safety in
flight ? Come, think better of it, and be
guided by me."

" Yes, 1 have before trusted to your
guidance, and what has been the result :
I am a lost and ruined man — no, I will
stand and face the danger. My reputa-
tion— my name — all blasted and destroyed.
Oh ! guilt ! guilt ! when once a man has
been contaminated by thee, thou wilt not
be shaken off by him, but with the course
of time, comest rushing on to overwhelm
him,"

*• Well, I can see no use in moralizing ;
I shall not consider myself safe until I am
at Chambery ; I have horses waiting at
hand — so, for the last time, will you ac-
company me ?"

" I will not."

" Then, fare thee well," said the che-
valier, leaving the room, muttering to
himself about the folly of staying for the

police, when he may so easily gain the
start of them.

The night brought neither rest nor
sleep to St. Julien ; his wife, who per-
ceived the agony of mind under which he
laboured, forbore to question him ;'^ she
saw that she could not alleviate his suf-
ferings, but determined in the morning to
see his father, and mention the circum-
stance of the preceding evening to him,
not doubting, that if any thing were
wrong, it was in his power to rectify it.

As St. Julien ascended the stairs in
the morning, he was informed a gentle-
man was waiting in the breakfast room
to speak to him ; as he entered, he per-
ceived a person dressed in black, who
rose to return his salutation.

" I am speaking, I believe, to Mons.
St. Julien ?"

" The same, sir."

•* I am sorry to say my business is of
an unpleasant nature : I am the commis-
sary of the town, and have this morning
received orders from Paris to arrest you.
I am afraid there must be some mistake,
but, as your name and address are so par-
ticularly described, I have no aiternative
but obeying my instructions."

** Heaven's will be done," said St.
Julien, passing his hand across his eyes,
and trying to suppress a rising sigh,
" Oh that this had happened ere I had
mixed my wife's fate with mine. Suzette !
Suzette ! I did not wrong thee willingly ;
as heaven knows all, I have striven to be
an honest and an upright man ; but the
crimes of former days are marshalled
against me, and cry out for justice."

The comm.issary turned away, to avoid
hearing the sentence uttered by St. Ju-
lien ; " my instructions, sir," said he,
*' are simply to arrest you ; they do not
state the cause, but merely say, further
instructions will be sent ; in the absence
of these, I do not wish to act harshly ;
from the known respectability of your
family, I am willing to run some risks.
If you will promise me not to leave the
town, I will not alarm your family by
taking you from them, until I hear from
Paris, that such a proceeding is abso-
lutely necessary — have I } our promise ?"

** This is, indeed, kind ; I can safely
i promise you, since my inclinations do not
j prompt me to avoid any charge that may
be brought against me."

The commissarv rose to withdraw, after

156

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

tljis assurance, expressing his belief that
the charge against him arose from his
having incautiously uttered some expres-
sions against the government, and which
a little explanation might set to rights.

St. Julien thought, and knew, other-
wise ; he saw that he was now lost, with-
out the least chance of escaping the im-
pending accusation ; nothing would now
avail him ; not even the high character
and respectability of his connexions would
have any influence ; justice would have
its victim, and he must be that victim.

As soon as she had risen, Suzette
hastened to her father-in law to inform
him of the agony of mind under which
her husband suffered, and to beseech him
to ascertain the cause, if it were not in
his power to alleviate it. The elder St.
Julien was surprised at Suzette's recital ;
he could not conceive that any thing could
have occurred to distress her husband, as
she had told him their affairs were in a
highly prosperous situation ; he would
walk over, however, and speak to him on
the subject.

On arriving at the house, they entered
the breakfast- room— St. Julien was not
there j they therefore ascended to his own
room ; it was true they found him, but what
a sight for a wife and father ! The body
of St. Julien lay distended on the ground,
whilst in one of his hands was grasped a
pistol, the contents of which had been
lodged in his head ; the blood oozing from
his forehead, streamed down his face,
working its way along the ground. The
unhappy man, driven to desperation by
seeing fiis character and prospects in life
blasted for ever, and unable to bear the
dreadful images conjured up by his excited
imagination, had, in a moment of frenzy,
seized the pistol, and by his own hand
closed his career of life.

WALTON : A TALE FROM LIFE.

{Continued from p. 152.)

The day at length arrived for Walton's
departure ; and, with a warm grasp of
hands, and anticipations of a happy meet-
ing, we parted. Alas ! what is life but a
stormy passage over a sea of sorrow,
piloted by hope ? As I said, we parted in
anticipation of a happy meeting ; but fate
liad willed it otherwise. Poor Walton,
indeed, seemed marked out by fate as an
object of resentment. A fortnight after

hisjoining his regiment, they were ordered
for Spain, to assist in the operations of the
Peninsula, overrun by the victorious troops
of the then formidable Napoleon.

At the battle of Vittoria he conspi-
cuously distinguished himself, taking pri-
soner with his own hand a French general
officer; and at the siege of San Sebas-
tian, shortly following, an opportunity
again presented itself, in which he acquired
the praise of iiis colonel, and immediate
promotion. But it was but a brief sun-
shine, preluding the bursting of the dark
clouds his destiny was fraught with.

It is perhaps scarcely necessary for me,
in this eventful sketch of an unhapj)y
being, to enumerate the particulars of the
sudden reverse of fortune that awaited
him, or rather, that was brought on, pro-
bably, by an irritable temper, and a high
sense of etiquette. Instigated by some
fancied wrong, he challenged his superior
officer, and shot him ; for which, under
the bearings of the case, he was brought
to a court-martial, deprived of his com-
mission, and declared unworthy of again
serving.

Such were the facts that rumour, with
her hundred tongues, sent home with the
news from Spain, previous to a letter I
received from him, written apparently in
all the gloomy despair incident to his un-
happy belief. After recapitulating the
particulars of the fatal encounter — which
he considered pre-ordained — he acknow-
ledged the justice of the sentence in the
capacity of a soldier, but felt himself
justified as a man on the score of oppres-
sion. His epistle concluded in the sub-
joined reniarkable way : —

" You may remember our old argu-
ment respecting fatality, in the once
happy days of our boyhood, when we
mutually looked forward for that happiness
in the world, that I, alas ! fee} I shall
never attain. This unhappy affair with

poor major H is another instance

that confirms me in my dark belief: he
acted, as I've said — I was irresistibly
swayed': I had no choice : necessitated by
the feelings I've been bred up with, I
challenged him — we fought — he fell — so
was it written and pre-ordained to be.

" As adversity closes around me, there
is a circumstance that flashes across my
memory — even in those moments of ex-
uberant gaiety that at times chequer
my sad existence — that you probably, long

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

157

ere this, have ceased to think of — perhaps,
in fact, forgotten. I allude to an adven-
ture that took place some some years hack,
when thoughtless lads at school, which, at
the time, we both designated the ' pro-
phecy of the ruin.' That prophecy re-
garded me only. Shall I say it, that the
remembrance is still fresh in my mind, as
though it occurred but yesterday. 'Tis
strange, unaccountably so, that a thing
apparently so idle and worthless in itself,
should leave so deep an impression on my
miod. I vainly endeavour to banish it.
The words of the old withered hag, in
moments of depression, still seem to ring
in my ears. Even now, as I write on the
subject, they press indelibly on my brain
with an indefinite feeling of future evil.
As you read, you may be led to suspect
that the little understanding dame Nature
vouchsafed me at my birth, is impaired
by the train of misfortunes that have over-
taken me — perhaps I am superstitious.
In the latter you would be right — I confess
I am. Like the mariner tossed upon a
sea of doubt and uncertainty, circumstance
— that all-powerful and nameless guiding
engine of Providence — has made me so,
as it has men of distinguished abilities
and transcendant genius, in times both
ancient and modern.

" I am sick — oh ! how sick of the world,
already. All the prospects — those bloom-
ing prospects — that treacherous hope had
painted in colours of heaven's brightest
hue, in dreaming visions of by-gone hap-
pier hours, are fled or blighted. Fare
thee well, my best, my warmest friend —
oh ! that you may never feel that misery
it is my lot to experience. I am now
about to hide my sorrows, and endeavour
to seek, if possible, a new existence in a
far foreign climate, where fate, perhaps,
may cease to persecute.

" Fare thee well, perhaps for ever" —
Fate commands, and friends must sever.

Once again, farewell : although we may
never meet again, that you may be happy
is the warm prayer of '

" Your sincere and unhappy friend,
"Vecy Walton."
Oh ! the vanities and vicissitudes of
this ever varying and changing life — the
fluctuations of hope and despair, with a
hundred other passions, in the human
breast, but too truly inform us of our frail
nature J while they indeed would almost
favour the casuist's opinion, that " circum-

stance and chance" alone weie the revolv-
ing hinges upon which our fates of weal
or woe depended. At least, so it almost
seems to me : looking back upon the past,
as connected with the present subject of
my pen, memory, that faithful mirror of
the mind, brings back, unweakened by
time, those scenes and circumstances,
that, though here under diflferent names,
will never be effaced from my painful re-
collection.

But to proceed without retrospection.
Year after year passed away until they
had numbered six; and, never having
heard of or from Walton, I was but too
inclined to believe that death had freed
him from an unhappy existence. Ennes-
ley, indeed, his former schoolfellow and
acquaintance, I frequently beheld ; for-
tune, and the world, consequently, seemed
to smile propitiously upon him in all his
undertakings. Shortly after Walton's de-
parture, he had unexpectedly come in for
a handsome fortune, left by an old lady, a
distant relative, into whose good graces
he had ingratiated himself successfully.
Established as one of the firm of a flourish-
ing bank — for his desire of gain induced
him to speculate — his property had in-
creased, and his once cringing manners
had undergone a vast change, having
grown proud, supercilious, and haughty,
while his equipage, liveries, town and
country houses, exhibited a style of first-
rate city importance.

Great heaven ! that a man, such as I
knew him to be, insincere and heartless,
should roll in luxury and splendour —
should prove fortunate in all he attempts;
when the generous, confiding, and open-
hearted Walton, is made the sport of for-
tune— who, bowed down, the victim of
sorrows, probably sleeps in an unknown
and unlamented grave, in a foreign laud !
Such was my frequent melancholy re-
flection, as Ennesley, with a cold nod of
recognition, has driven by me in his
elegant carriage. Alas ! had the impe-
netrable wisdom of Providence allowed
me to look into the future, how different
would my sentiments have been !

It was at that season of the year when
the members of fashion, tired for awhile
of the dissipation of the metropolis, seek
the reiuvigoration of their health and
spirits in the umbrageous retreats of the
country, or the genial air of the sea-side,
which bustle, racket, and late hours, are

15S

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

calculated to depress — that myself, most
gentle reader, humbly following in the
rear of that all powerful and alDsorbing
tiling, sought a tem})orary relaxation
from the duties of my office, in a sojourn
at Boulogne-sur-Mer.

There is something curiously singular
in chance. It might be about a week
after my arrival, 1 sauntered forth to
take my usual walk in the cool of the
summer evening. I had chosen a narrow
path through the rich luxuriance of the
verdant meadows skirting the high road
to St. Omer. The sunlight of day was
just giving place to the sober twilight
preceding night, when I perceived a lady
and gentleman approaching at a short dis-
tance. As my eye dwelt upon them, I
could not help thinking that, in figure and
deportment, they might serve as a model
of perfection in the sexes. Both above
the common stature, dressed apparently
with more regard to neatness than cost-
liness, they might both have been taken
for foreigners — the lady decidedly so.
Tliere was something in their appearance
that interested me. As they advanced at
a slow pace facing me, the lady appeared
endeavouring to rouse her more gloomy
companion from a fit of abstraction in
which he seemed sunken, by that delicate
show^ of interest and endearment, as she
gazed in his face, and whose very appear-
ance spoke more eloquent than words.
There was something in the figure and
firm elegant carriage of the gentleman
that struck me as having met with him
before, but where I could not recollect.
The next instant, in passing, as I gave up
the foot-path, he happened to turn his
head full upon me, displaying features,
bold, prominent, dark, and sun- burnt
almost to a degree of swarthiness, with an
immense pair of whiskers and moustachios.
1 could scarcely be mistaken — the form
and expression of that countenance, though
changed by years and a tropical climate,
were not to be forgotten. The well-known
name of Walton was just trembling on my
lips, as, gazing intently, his full, dark eye,
encountered mine in recognition. Pro-
nouncing my name in accents of surprise,
he saluted me witii the same frank and
friendly cordiality that had ever marked
his manners, expressing his pleasure at
our meeting, and introducing the lady as
his wife, whom I perceived could only
•ipeak a few words of broken English.

Such were the circumstances that again
so unexpectedly led to the renewal of our
friendship. Though frequently in his
company during our mutual stay at Bou-
logne, 1 learnt little how he had spent the
long interval since our previous parting.
From all I could learn at different periods,
he seemed to have led a wild, wandering,
and uncertain existence, under an eastern
sun. How he liad en)ployed himself, did
not appear. He seldom or ever spoke of
his past residence abroad, and I thought
at times seemed uneasy when any one
questioned or alluded to it.

The same strange mystery, from some
reason or other, was attached to the lady
he designated his wife, who, young and
beautiful, seemed born and bred an Asiatic,
her features possessing all the admired
classical outline of the Grecian. Truly
applicable were those exquisite lines of
Byron —

" Iter's was a form of life and lij?ht.
That, seen, became a part of sight,
And rose where'er we turn'd the eye,
The morning-star of memory. "

It was impossible not to observe the deep
undying love that seemed to bind them.
The very fibres of Walton's heart seemed
entwined in her existence, as he humour-
ed her every wish with a fondness and
devotion almost approaching idolatry ;
while she, no less fond of him, seemed
never so happy as when dwelling, with all
of woman's love pictured in her large,
dark, brilliantly- expressive eyes, upon
him, for whose smile she seemed to look
as for that of some superior being. Her
feelings seemed but too expressive, per-
haps, of that eloquent and admired couplet
of Moore's, which I cannot refrain from
quoting —

" I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart ;
1 but know that I love thee, whatever thou
art !"

A short time sufficed to show me Wal-
ton had received that ascetic change that
so frequently may be observed in men
whose prospects in life have been bliglited
through unforeseen occurrences. What-
ever his real feelings were, in outward
semblance he was no more the sanie free,
reckless, and open hearted being I had
known him in earlier days. The sus-
picion and distrust engendered by a
residence in the world, seemed to liave
shut up the free sluices of a heart naturally
disposed to be candid and sincere, while
his broad and expansive forehead had re-

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

159

ceived the impressive lines of care and
anxiety. There were times, too, when,
perhaps, in the sudden burst of a high,
fierce, and wounded spirit, he deHvered
sentiments of democracy, that in some
ears would have sounded daring and law-
less in the extreme.

At different periods, there were mo-
ments when Walton seemed immersed
in fits of the deepest and saddest reflec-
tion, from which he was only roused by
the silvery voice of his fairy-formed com-
panion. In tones of plaintive sweetness,
as frequently she sung to iier harp the
songs of anotiier clime, then would the
firm compression of his brow relax, and
the dark clouds of bitter reflection dis-
perse, as he met the glance of those bril-
liant orbs trembling with the pearly tear
of devoted tenderness. Tliere was some-
thing beautiful and uncommon, in behold-
ing the all-pervading feeling that en-
shrouded their mutual existence,enhanced,
perhaps, by seeming clouds of mystery
and romance that enveloped them.

As I have observed, he had never
spoken or alluded to the family or the
land of the birth of Inez, as he familiarly
and fondly termed her, while there was a
naivete and guileless simplicity in the
beautiful foreigner, as she sometimes,
without reflection, endeavoured to ex-
press herself in the little English she knew
relative to those past scenes Walton
evidently desired should remain un-
known.

The spot Walton had chosen for a
residence, was admirably well adapted for
the summer sojourn ; standing about a
mile from the town, and within two or
three hundred yards facing the sea. I
had called one evening, and after taking
tea in the favourite sitting-room, com-
manding a view of the out-stretched coast
and ocean, we sat admiring the beauty of
an uncommonly fine evening in August.
All was so stilled and hushed in the air
around, that scarce the breathing of a
zephyr trembled tiie honeysuckle that
wound itself luxuriantly clustering in at
the bay-window, out of which we gazed
on the broad and expanded bosom of the
ocean, reflecting the rich light and beau-
tifully bright colours of the declining sun,
in whose fading beam the white sails of
many a vessel were visible. There was
that beauty in the scene, the stilly air,
the slumbering sea, bright blue and crim-

son sky, calculated to raise and elevate
the mind to pure and holy thought. At
least, some such might have been our
feelings, as, immersed in silence, we sat
gazing on that sinking orb of day that
was then gradually enlightening far lands
and waters. Turning my head for a mo-
ment round, I perceived the brow of the
lovely foreigner was paler than I had ever
seen it before. A liquid pearl had gathered
in her brilliant eye, impelled by some
saddened feelings of remembrance. As
though almost involuntarily, without being
sensible of it, she struck the harp beside
her, which emitted a melody wild and
irregular, but tenderly expressive of
emotion, giving a kind of momentary
magic to the minute. Suddenly, as If
overpowered by feelings of the past, the
stronger from temporary suppression, she
ceased, leant over the instrument, and
wept.

"It tell me of dem I never see more,
and the land so beautiful where I once
live," she sobbing uttered, in her imper-
fect English, as she endeavoured to stop
with her slender delicate fingers the spring
remembrance had caused to flow.

Impelled by a tenderness he had ever
displayed towards her, Walton raised in
his arms her sylph-like form, that con-
trasted strikingly with the muscular breadth
and height of his own. I could not but
perceive that he seemed hurt as he spoke
to her in a language apparently eastern,
in tones so low and gentle, that I could
only guess their import by her answer, as
she said, with energetic simplicity —

** Oh, yes, once more and again — me
leave dem all — all my own — for your
ship to run me away cross sea !"

" Come, love, put your cloak on ; I
think a walk on the sands will dispel these
vapours," uttered Walton, in some em-
barrassment. Accordingly, we proceeded
down to the sands, where, in a snort time,
I parted from them with those mingled
feelings of surprise and curiosity I could
not suppress.

Walton, as a short time sufficed to show
me, ever improvident of the future, and
foolish in respect to pecuniary matters,
from a number of little circumstances
needless to mention, was but indifferently
well off, living in a styk far above any
apparent income he had. In fact, I had
heard him more than once jocularly re-
mark, that fate had sent hira there, and he

160

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

trusted it would take him off. By that
alhiding- to many heavy debts he had con-
tracted, the payment of which was grow-
ing more urgent every week.

•' Whom do you think I met and dined
with yesterday, at the Hotel d'Angle-
terre ?" uttered Walton, when I saw him
one day.

** I cannot possibly tell," was my reply.

** Wiiy, none other, I assure you, than
our old school-fellow, * Fox Ennesley,'
whom you may recollect."

*' Proud as Lucifer, I suppose," I re-
marked.

" Far from it as possible," continued
Walton ; " the fellow has vastly improved,
seemingly in every respect, since last I
saw him. He was exceedingly kind and
friendly in his professions, and appeared
only desirous how he might testify his old
friendship for me."

A smile half ironical sat upon his fea-
tures as he spoke, which I vainly endea-
voured to read.

" And do you put faith in his profes-
sions, knowing his early character so
well ?"

" I may try them — no harm can result
from that, whatever. He may be of
service in enabling me to raise some cash,
which I am endeavouring to do. By this
time he is in England — having seen him
aboard the packet this morning, when he
gave me a most cordial invitation to take
up my residence at his house in Portland
Place, on my return across the Channel,
until I could suit myself with a mansion."

" I most sincerely trust," I rejoined,
" that you may not have cause to legret
the testimonies of that man's friendship.
For myself, notwithstanding his advance-
ment in the world, I never can associate
him in my mind with any real kindness,
without believing he has some end or
other of his own to gain."

** Pooh ! my dear fellow, never fear for
me — though I hardly think you do him
justice. The boy should be forgotten in
the man."

" 'Tis a degrading reflection — but man-
hood is spent too frequently in maturing
the designs of our boyhood."

Without intending it, my observation
seemed momentarily to affect the spirits
of Walton, who changed the conversation
to some indifferent subject.

Two days after this, Walton received a
letter, informing him of the dangerous

illness of iiis father, who was not long
expected to survive. Urged by those
feelings of filial affection, which neither
sorrows nor years of absence had been
able to weaken, his perplexity and anxiety
were great, how he was to be enabled to
quit Boulogne; his debts being to that
large amount as to preclude entirely the
possibility of present payment, without
which there was no prospect of leaving.

" 1 have it !" he said, suddenly, as we
conferred together ; " desperate circum-
stances require desperate remedies !"

On the following morning, calling by
appointment, I was surprised to learn that
his wife had embarked that morning for
Dover, with his two EngHsh servants : at
the same time he informed me of his in-
tention, which was to endeavour to make
his escape in an open boat that night;
when he doubted not, if the wind con-
tinued favourable, to make the Enghsh
coast in the morning. Though the plan
was rash and full of peril, I knew the folly
of attempting to dissuade him from that
which he seemed fully bent upon. So,
after making a tender of my services,
which he told me in the present case
could not avail him, we parted, under the
mutual understanding that I was to hear
from him immediately if he succeeded.

That same night, at a late hour, the
wind rose in gusty squalls, while the rain
in big drops patted against my chamber
windows, intimating the approach of a
storm, as I walked to and fro, sincerely
hoping that he could never have been mad
enough to have run into almost certain
destruction, in putting to sea in an open
boat in sucli weather. Luckily, however,
the anticipated storm died away in its
infancy, for the next morning a fishing-
boat being missing, and inquiries made,
it was soon known, and generally bruited
about, that an English officer 1/ad gone off
without his passport, and left his creditors
in the lurch.

{To be continued.)

Charles the Tenth, of France, being
once prevented from attending divine
service at the usual hour, the priest deter-
mined to wait his majesty's arrival. After
the celebration of the mass, (he king sent
for the holy father, and thanking him for
his attention, " In future," said his ma-
jesty, " you will not wait for me — in the
house of God I am no longer king."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

161

Page 1G3.

THE FOUR FUGITIVES:

A TALE OF 1658.

The storm, which had long threatened,
burst forth about midnight with astonish-
ing fury, and loud peals of thunder roused
from their dog-like slumbers the three in-
mates of a miserable hut, which then stood
on a cliff jutting over the sea, near to the
inconsiderable little village of Brighthelm-
stone.

The walls of this hut were formed of
mud, and a partition of similar material
divided the interior into two unequal
parts: in the largest of the two, a few
flickering embers yet blazed on the rude
hearth, while on a block of wood, serving
for a table, stood an expiring lamp, from
wiiicli occasionally a fitful blaze would
spring, and light with sudden glare sur-
rounding objects. By its aid miglit be
discovered little that every fisher's cabin
might not boast of possessing ; no article
of furniture adorned the hut, save an old
high-backed chair; strings of dried fish
decorated the roof; a bench fastened to
the wall on one side the hearth, supplied
the place of chairs. Immediately opposite

VOL. II. — 21.

the resting-place, was the door which
afforded egress to the inmates,and between
that and the hearth was a decayed and
broken casement, before which was hung
a piece of old and dirty sail-cloth ; a door-
way led into the other chamber, and a
shelf, on which was displayed a few drink-
ing-cups, completed the miserable aspect
of the place.

Seated on the chair, which was placed
before the hearth, and gazing on tlie dying
embers with a vacant stare, sat a young
man attired in tattered and mean habili-
Uients ; his skin, always dark, when seen
by the uncertain light which the hut af-
forded, appeared ahnost to approach a
Muorish tint ; his eyes, likewise dark,
were larsze and penetrating ; now abound-
ing witii deep thought, and then anon
flashing with glee, as (hough their owner
was one on whom the frowns of Dame
Fortune had fallen in no trifling degree,
but who possessed spirits of so mercurial
a character, tliat the severest misfortune
would descend upon him lightly ; as
though that which would bow another
with misery to the earth, would but with
him serve to vary life with son)e slight

Y

162

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

portion of seriousness. His features were
so strong^ly marked, as to approach coarse-
ness in their expression j but a certain air
of nobleness in his appearance, as though
his spirit scorned llie clothes which pru-
dence commanded him to wear, proclaim-
ed him elevated far above that rank which
at the first glance would have been as-
signed him. His dark hair, curling in
wild confusion over his shoulders, an-
nounced him to be one of those cavaliers
W'ho were at that unfortunate period forced
by stern fate to adopt almost incredible
disguises to escape the barbarous warfare
of their fanatical and victorious adver-
saries.

A second person reclined at full length
on the bench, and displayed a stout, short,
square-built figure, whose garb showed
his occupation to be that of a fisherman,
and whose sleepy, passionless eye and
features, announced his Dutch parentage ;
this was Hans Molken, the owner of the
hovel; while, at a trifling distance from
the other two, lying stretched on the floor,
and muffled up in a large cloak, reclined
the manly figure of a person of middle
age.

The fire-watcher had dropped his eye-
lids ; loud snoring testified the profound
repose Hans Molken enjoyed, and he who
lay on the floor was buried in slumber,
when the sudden bursting of the storm
aroused them.

"Richard! to arms!" shouted the young
man, addressing his startled companion,
and springing from his seat ; a second
burst of thunder passed over ther heads,
and distinctly might the waves be heard,
lashing with angry power the base of the
cliflT.

*• 'Tis but the storm," muttered he to
whom the ejaculation was addressed, with
half-closed lips; "sleep on, sir ; to-mor-
row we may perchance pass without rest ;"
and following precept with practice, he
again threw himself on the ground, and
composed himself to slumber.

" Right — right," answered the other,
and sutfering his form to sink into the
capacious chair, once more he fixed a
•wondering gaze upon the embers. Hans
Molken, more accustomed to these storms
in all tiieir fury, did but turn upon his
side, mutter " Der dey vil !" and sleep
again.

*' Loud roared the spirit of the storm,"
mighty gusts of wind swept o'er the deep,

but, sheltered by a rising rock from their
violence, the little hut remained safe from
all danger of destruction. Bright flashes
of lightning played across the horizon,
and when the wind paused in its wild
career, torrents of rain descended.

Suddenly the young man bent forward
with convulsive motion, and then, starting
from his seat, he uttered, in the loudest
whisper possible,

" Richard ! Richard ! arouse thee —
this cursed lamp ' (and he dashed it to
the ground) "has betrayed us."

" How now, my lord ? I hear nothing,"
sleepily answered he who reposed on the
ground.

" Then arouse thy drowsy ears, and
listen well. — There ! Did'st not hear it
then ? They come — they come : out with
thy trusty blade, good liichard ; let us not
die like children !"

The person addressed had started from
his recumbent position, and listened at-
tentively.

** Good sir, your ears deceive you ; 'tis
not the sound of pursuers, but the cry of
some bewildered traveller that comes
borne on the blast."

" A traveller, Richard ? What should
a tra\eller on a barren cliff like this at
midnight ? A feint, sir — a mere feint to
diaw us forth. Confusion on this vile
disguise, uhich forced me to discard my
trusty sword." At that moment the wind
having sunk to a mere whisper, a loud
and anguished cry for help distinctly
reached the ears of all.

" My life on't, there's no disguise in
that!" exclaimed Richard ; " there's agony
in the very sound" — and he hastened to-
wartls the door.

" How !" shouted the cavalier, "would
you betray me ? — sacrifice me for a
stranger ?'

Richard looked at him reproachfully,
yet hesitated.

" Der deyvil !" exclaimed the Dutch-
man ; " would'st pause and sufl^er him to
die ? Shall we not be three to one ?" he
added, contemptuously, as he rushed from
the hut.

" Follow him, an' ye think it no decep-
tion — follow him, in the name of heaven !"
Richard waited no second bidding, but
vanished instantly.

Few moments elapsed ere the Dutch-
man and his companion re-entered the
hut, accompanied by a stranger : he was

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIKLD.

163

a man of athletic yet finely formed figure,
as near as might be judged from a person
enveloped in the folds of a large cloak ;
on his head he wore a broad-brimmed
hat, with drooping feathers, which partly
concealed his features, and in his arms he
bore a slight female figure, closely en-
wrapped likewise in a large roquelaire.

The cavalier advanced and tendered
his services, but the arm of the stranger
waved him away ; the latter advanced to
the hearth, and seated his fainting com-
panion in the chair : in the act of stoop-
ing, the hat she wore fell oflf" and although
rich clusters of ringlets fell over her neck
and shoulders, enough might be discovered
to prove her countenance was bewitch-
ingly beautiful. The discovery of her
face produced a great variety of feelings
in the breast of the cavalier; his colour
came and went with astonishing rapidity,
and the look with which he turned to
survey again the person of her compa-
nion, betrayed the mingled tVelings which
swelled his bosom. His agitation, how-
ever, passed away unnoticed : the Dutch-
man proceeded to open a cupboard, which
would have defied the scrutiny of any
supervisor, and drew a bottle of Nantz
from it, uhich he handed to the stranger.

" A thousand thanks, good fellow," he
cried; " I will repay you for this kind-
ness. But, prithee, have you any place in
which this lady can repose for a short
period ? Your hospitality shall not go
unrewarded."

"There is yonder room," answered
Hans, in his best English ; " but it has no
better bed than straw."

The stranger had knelt by the side of
the chair which sujiported the lady, who
now seemed somewhat recovered from her
exhaustion.

** Dearest Roselle, will a straw bed
content you ?"

" Oh yes, Robert ; grateful will any
resting-place be. But you — you require
repose."

*' Fear not for me, dearest : a soldier
is not accustomed to sumptuous fare or
lodging ; the threshold of your door will
well content me."

The lamp was relit, and Roselle, taking
it in her hand, bent gracefully to those
around, and, supported to the door by her
companion, entered the inner chamber.

•' Drink, friends," cried the stranger,
handing the bottle to Richard ; " and

many thanks to } ou for your timely as-
sistance."

"Name it not, sir," replied Richard;
" the man who can liear the voice of dis-
tress, and not fly to the aid of the sufferer,
is unfit for civilized society." The stranger
grasped the hand of the speaker, and sliook
it cordially ; the young man, who inter-
preted these words, however differently
meant, as intended to satirize his suspi-
cious tardiness, regarded the speaker
with a scowl, which, however, passed un-
noticed. He seated himself again in the
chair, and, apparently regardless of the
persons around, or the conversation which
ensued, appeared deeply engaged in
thought. The stranger threw liimself
across the entrance to the inner chamber,
and placing his cloak for a pillow, appear-
ed fast resigning himself to slumber. —
Richard lay near him ; and Hans Molken,
with whom sudden impulses were rare,
and consequently overpowering, when at-
tended, as in the present instance, with
physical exertion, lay sleeping on the
bench.

** The storm is dying away, sir," said
Richard ; " J think you buffeted the
worst."

No answer followed, and Richard, dying
with curiosity to know what circumstances
had placed the stranger and his fair com-
panion in so perilous a situation, puzzled
his brains to discover some mode of ascer-
taining this fact without adventuring a
direct question : this, indeed, he cared
not to hazard ; for there was a certain
flashing in the stranger's eve, which
seemed to say, mere idle curiosity would
not obtain its paltry end from him ; and
Richard wisely considered, that to arouse
anger in the man whom he had assisted
to save from destruction, particularly one
so well armed (for having thrown off his
cloak, pistols and a sword were plainly
visible) would be neither generous nor
prudent.

A short pause ensued, and then the re-
flections of Richard, struggling with his
curiosity, produced the following remark :

" 'Twas fortunate, sir, you had not
horses : had you been mounted, the
chances are fifty to one, the headstrong
animals would have sprung from the cliff."

" We were mounted," was the reply ;
" but, terrified at the lightning, our jaded
steeds refused to move, and, fearful of
goading, lest they should become des-

164

TALES OF CHIVALRY

perate, and carry ns to death, and like-
wise obserxino- the light from this cnt, we
determined to dismount and seek shelter
here until the dawn. Fatigued before,
the lady found herself inadequate to the
exertion of climbing- the steep, and being
unable to discover any way to this door,
and unknowing likewise whether trenches
crossed the path, [ shouted loudly, and
you kindl\- came to my assistance."

** Can ihen the light in this cottage be
seen from the road to Brighfhelmstone ?"
demanded Richard, well knowing that it
might, but wisliing to ascertain if that
place had been the stranger's destination.

*• Plainly. We were journeying to
that village for the purpose of going on
board a vessel which sails to morrow.
But you are, I presume, a stranger here,
by that question ?"

However wilhng to learn the affairs of
others, it was by no means the intention
of Kichard to discover his own : he there-
fore mumbled out an inarticulate answer,
and pretending to be overpowered with
slumber, stretched himself on the ground,
and counterfeited snoring, which speedily
changed to real nasal oratorv.

One hour passed away, and then the
cavalier, who liad carefully r^^plenished
the fire, cautiously rose, took a flaming
brand, and advancing to the stranger,
passed it repeatedly before his eyes. He
slept profoundly : the brand was thrown
down, and the inquirer grasped the arm of
Richard, and shook it geiitiy ; the first
touch aroused him, and lie sprang from
the ground.

" Is there danger, sir ?" he demanded,
and his hand caught his sword.

*' No : silence, and follow me," was the
reply ; and Richard obeyed.

The cavalier threw open the door of
the hut, and stepped out on the cliff; fol-
lowed closely by his companion. Having
closed again the door, and advanced some
trifling distance, he paused, and looked
around him. The storm had died away,
and a clear night had succeeded its vio-
lence ; the moon was now sinking, while
in the east, a few streaks of early light
foretold the approach of dawn. The cliff"
on which the hovel stood divided the
common road to Brighthelmstone from
the coast ; the ascent to it from the road
was steep, but far from difficult, while the
part that fronted the ocean overhung it in
some trifling degree. A rugged path.

dangerous to inexperienced climbers, led
from the hut to the sea-shore beneath it ;
and the tattling neighbours sometimes
said, that Hans Molken might be seen
occasionally toding up it with a hamper
on his back : but perhaps this was mere
scandal.

Clifford — for such was the name, as-
sumed or real, of the ca\a1ier — appeared
lost in thought, and Richard stood by his
side with his arms folded on his breast,
patiently awaitinij whatever liis compa-
nion might eventually choose to commu-
nicate,

" You remember," at length he said,
" that while concealed in the house of
sir Roger IVIyrston, I became desperately
enamoured of his fair daughter, the lady
Roselle."

"1 do remember it well, sir," answered
his companion, drily ; "and I also remem-
ber that you fell likewise desperately in
love, at the same period, with her cousin
who was visiting there, and her cousin's
sister, and also her own waiting- woman."

"Nonsense, Richard, nonsense; it was
the beauteous Roselle, and her only, 1
adored."

" Perhaps so, sir ; and I recollect I
used to think then that your passion was
increased because you knew she loved
another."

" It might be so. The girl must surely
be bewitched to love a rascally Round-
head, with his sanctimonious phiz, and
hypocritical eye, impious conversation,
and rebellious sentiments."

** I never, I must confess, sir, saw colo-
nel Selworth ; but people do say he is
very diflferent from the character you
describe, except in the last particular, and
that, perchance, renders him interesting
in the lady's eves."

*' Well, well, a truce to this trifling,"
said ClifTord, warmly : ** listen to me : of
all that I have loved, or fancied I loved,
the daughter of Myrston reigns pre-emi-
nent ; nay, so much do I adore her, that
the greatest love I ever felt before sinks
into mere admiration in the comparison.
Richard," and he grasped his arm almost
convulsively, " give me but your assist-
ance, and she shall become the partner of
my exile."

His companion staggered back several
steps, overcome with sudden astonishment
at its unexpected conclusion.

" Is it possible ? Do I hear aright ?"

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

165

" Yes, yes, she has fled from her father,
the firm old royahst, with Cromwell's
officer, Robert Selworth; and tiiey now
are "

" Where ?" demanded Richard.

Clifford pointed to the cottage : " they
sleep there ; they are the fugitives,"

"Then that," said Richard, exultiugly,
" explains why they came to be travelling
so late. Doubtless they leave England,
she to fly from her father's resentment, for
having dared to love a Roundhead ; he
to free himself from the power of Crom-
well, having dared to love the daughter of
a cavalier."

** Pause not now to speculate so use-
lessly, but listen to my plan, and remem-
ber that, in assisting to rob a Roundhead
of his intended bride, you assist to avenge
your king on one of his enemies. Here
is a powder — it is a powerful soporific ;
mix it with brandy, and dexterously con-
trive to induce the Roundhead colonel to
take it. It will immediately take effect;
and, undeterred by his presence or inter-
ference, we can bear the lovely Roselle
to yonder smack :" his finger pointed out
a light which shone on the ocean's surface
at some distance. " We will conceal the
colonel as she passes from her sleeping
room ; and a well-told tale that he awaits
her coming, in the boat, will induce her
to descend the cliff in quietness : we can
pretend to suppose lie is gone on board,
and left us to follow him : once there,
leave to me the charge of deprecating her
anger."

" Pardon me, sir — with this wild plot I
will have nought to do." The speaker
had expected a burst of anger at this plain
avowal, but it came not, and, consequently
emboldened, he continued —

" To rob a Roundhead of his intended
bride, I would have no objection ; but to
oppress one who has fled to your refuge
for safety, agrees not with my tempera-
ment, nor will it with your's, I am certain,
if you will but dispassionately observe
your purposed conduct. Moreover, sir, it
will be but ill requiting the hospitality and
loyalty of sir Roger Myrston, to carry
away his daughter to a distant land,"

" Have you done, sir ?" inquired Clif-
ford.

Richard bowed.

" I cannot say," continued the former,
" that I ever heard Barebones. the leather-
seller, of Fleet Street, preach ; but it

appears to me, that you would far eclipse
him in lessons of morality. Be this as it
may, allow me to congratulate you on
your conversion from staunch cavalier to
Roundhead preacher ; inform the worthy
burgesses you have had a miraculous call ;
relate all you know respecting that repro-
bate fellow called Charles Stuart— not
forgetting to receive a reward for the
same ; bring a guard to this hovel, deliver
into their hands the person of your obe-
dient servant ; and then, as a return for
what silly persons w ill call treachery, preach
and expound to him all the way to the
scaffold. Away, sir !"

Richard bowed lowly, and turned to
withdraw.

(To be continued.)

WALTON: A TALE FROM LIFE.

(Concluded from p. 160.^
My only fear now was, that he had not
succeeded in crossing in safety ; from
this, however, I was freed in a week, by
the receipt of a packet from him, inform-
ing me of his safe arrival, after some
dangers, having made Romney, on the
English coast, whence he had proceeded
and joined his wife at Dover. Starting
directly to London, he had arrived just in
time to close his parent's eyes. Enclosed
were five Napoleons he desired me to give
the fisher whose boat he had cut out ; like--
wise the address where he would find it
at Romney ; while there were also several
letters for his creditors, containing as-
surances that the different amounts of
their bills should be remitted soon.

After executing his various commis-
sions, in three weeks afterwards, the ex-
piration of my leave of absence having
expired, I returned to London and the
duties of my office. Two days after my
arrival, I called upon Walton, who was
strangely altered since last I had seen him :
a dark brooding care sat upon his haggard
countenance, vvhich he endeavoured to
account for by the recent death of his
father. In my own mind I attributed it
to some far diflferent cause, as remote as
his careworn look was to the kind of grief
felt for the death of a relative, whose ad-
vanced age must previously have fitted
the mind lor that event.

That same day Ennesley made his
appearance at the dinner table, and I
could not but observe that his late super-
cihous manners to me were changed to

166

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

great affUbility, as, circulating' (he bottle
freely after Walton's lovely companion
had retired, he rallied him upon his low
spirits, with what in my eyes then seemed
a boisterous and affected mirth, more cal-
culated to depress than raise the mind.

I perceived with wonder the close inti-
macy that seemed suddenly to have taken
place between Walton and Ennesley, the
latter of whom was almost constantly at
Walton's apartments, which were sump-
tuous and elegant in the extreme — so
much so as to excite my surprise, con-
sidering the very small resources I had
reason to believe he possessed. I re-
marked, too, that the sly, half-smirking
expression of Ennesley's sharp-set coun-
tenance, when he thought himself un-
noticed, wore a look of restless anxiety,
which he generally endeavoured to conceal
under an artificial exterior.

It chanced one evening, when at Wal-
ton's, as I handed a chair to the tea-table,
perceiving a piece of paper under the
table, resembling in size a checque or
bill stamp : I picked it up, with some re-
mark on carelessness. The moment En-
nesley's ferret-eyes glanced on the paper,
he snatched it from me with a sudden
exclamation of fear and horror, while looks
of mutual alarm and doubt were exchanged
between him and Walton. Some trivial
excuses and apologies immediately fol-
lowed, but from that minute a vague and
undefined suspicion arose in my mind
that all was not right. Ennesley's well-
known wealth and credit at the time alone
dissipated a black and tangible idea that
at first was rising in my mind. Besides,
there were other reasons for unpleasant
supposition ; Walton's style of living,
sumptuous at first, had grown extrava-
gantly so, without any apparent means;
his father, who had but a life annuity,
having left no property. His lodgings
were now exchanged for an elegant
house, a short way out of town, that was
furnished in excellent style, with a car-
riage, servants, and every other requisite
for a man of large fortune. At times
Walton could not but perceive my sur-
prise, as some new and extensive purchase
came to my knowledge; at which times
he seldom failed to put on a cheerful
look, and hint at some very successful
mercantile speculations he was engaged
in, in conjunction with Ennesley.

Thus things went on until the winter,

and I thought that, but for an occasional
absence of mind, Walton had recovered
the greater portion of his wonted cheer-
fulness— exchanging visits among many
of his former acquaintance, and becomiug
once more the delight of the society he
moved m. About a week previous,
Walton had issued cards of invitation to a
few particular friends for Christmas-Day ;
during which period, as I saw him once
or twice, I perceived a return of his
former anxiety, which at the period I
naturally enough attributed to a tender
care respecting his wife, who was within
a month of her confinement.

On the day of invitation, being among
the number of invited guests, I was in-
troduced to a select party of ladies and
gentlemen, assembled to dine ; after
which meal, the ladies, as usual, retired,
leaving the gentlemen over the bottle, to
crack their nuts and jokes. Perhaps in
my life I had never seen Walton in more
exuberant spirits, or to better advantage,
as he sat presiding at the festive board,
the very soul and essence of conviviality,
joking, laughing, and singing, by turns.

Ennesley seemed infected with some
of Walton's high-flown spirits, as his loud,
chuckling laugh and noisy merriment —
drinking deep to the toasts that passed
round — contrasted strongly with his usual
apparent staid, and, latterly, melancholy
demeanour. I had at different times re-
marked, with respect to this man, that the
immense quantity of wine he was in the
habit of drinking never produced signs of
intoxication in him. There was a slight
circumstance occurred, which, but for the
sequel of that day, I should never have
recollected, and which served to illustrate
the truth of a superstition I have known
very many sensible and even learned
people place faith in. It was remarked
by one of the company, an elderly gentle-
man, that there were thirteen at table,
with tlie half-jocose and half-serious ob-
servation, that he trusted we should all
be alive to enjoy the next Christmas.
The observation was followed by a laugh
or jest from all, except two, whom I ob-
served affected — those two were Walton
and Ennesley : in the former it seemed
to cause the gloomy reflection of a single
minute, while the laugh the latter was
uttering at the time died faltering off
his lips, followed by a visible diminution
of animal spirits.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

167

Supper time arrived, and everything
went on jovial and pleasant, promising a
separation with regret. But who can
look into the dark pages of fate, to per-
ceive the rising tempest about to burst
over our devoted heads when least ex-
pected. Walton was at the head of the
supper table, laid out in the drawing-
room, carving, and facing his beautiful
partner, whose pale and delicate coun-
tenance, as she assisted in the duties of
the table, seemed overspread with what
I often ^afterwards thought a sadness and
melancholy prophetic of the future, which
not the tender attentions of Walton, or
the hilarity of the convivial party could
in any way dispel — it hung like a dark
speck upon the serene and brilliant firma-
ment, the sign and forerunner of a storm.
As r have said, Walton was at the head
of the festive board, carving, with Ennes-
ley on his right hand, who had regained
his mirth, and was joining vociferously in
the merriment produced by Walton's sal-
lies of wit, when all were suddenly startled
by the reverberating sounds of feet and
high altercation of voices below in the
hall, in which the fatal word ** warrants"
was very audibly pronounced, while a
voice, loud and coarse, shouted, " Secure
the front and back entrances, and see no
one passes." All present had started up
in dire dismay and alarm, except Ennes-
ley, whose terror and conscience-stricken
countenance w^as deadly pale, as with con-
vulsive quivering hands he pulled several
slips of paper from a pocket-book, and
thrust them in the fire, exclaiming, in a
husky whisper, to Walton by his side —
(heavens! how his voice was changed at
that moment) — " It's all up — the game's
over, and we are dead men." At the
same time sinking back on his chair,
striking off the drops of perspiration from
his cold and clammy forehead.

'* Never ! fate has not sealed while
there is breath — head to plan and hand to
execute," replied Walton, the flush of
desperation mantling his countenance and
firing his eye, as turning from the pallid
and horror-stricken Ennesley, he snatched
a pair of pistols from a recess in the wall,
sprang across the room to his lovely and
unfortunate partner, upon whose blanched
lips he impressed a hasty kiss, on which
his soul seemed to linger a moment in
trembling ecstacy, and whispered a few
words in her native tongue — the last she

was ever destined to hear. As the hur-
ried and irregular noise of feet sounded
on the rich-carpetted staircase, he leaped
to a door that opened into a dressing-
room, overlooking a large spacious garden.
: Scarcely hail he passed the door, turning
the lock and bolt, which from the first
I moment of alarm, scarcely occupied a
i minute and a half, when two officers
I rushed in at the other. One of them
j locked the door and stood sentinel w ith a
I drawn cutlass, whilst the other advanced,
i and scanning the company with an eagle
: eye, immediately made the trembling
Ennesley prisoner on a charge — (oh !
what a light burst on me as he named) —
" Forgery."

** But how is this ?" exclaimed the
ofTicer, with a sudden imprecation before
the astounded spectators, upon whom the
occurrences of the last five minutes seemed
more like a dream than reality — '* The
other bird flown — mizzled by G — d 1 —
we'll nab him yet though."

Transferring Ennesley to the custody
of his companions, the oflficer proceeded
to break open the door, which the ill-fated
Walton had escaped through info the
garden below, from whence he had pro-
ceeded to the stable by a back way, and
in a minute had saddled and mounted one
of the fleetest horses in his possession.
Moving quietly at first, he had just cleared
the paddock-gate, when he was challenged
and fired at ineffectually, by a man at the
front door. The next minute, Walton,
having put the animal to his full speed,
near half a mile was placed between them.
Walton's wretched wife, whose small
knowledge of England and its customs
seemed just suflScient to be fully sensible
of the scene and her husband's danger,
with a heart-rending shriek had fainted
I away, the pale image of wretchedness and
despair, at the report of the fire-arms. In
that moment of terror and confusion, call-
j ing to one or two of the servants that had
I congregated in amazement on the stairs,
j I saw the wretched wife borne to her
' chamber, more dead than alive ; while
j I desired one to run for a doctor, it being
I but too probable that the shock, consider-
ing her situation, might be too much for
I her tender frame to bear.

I shall pass over all further description

of a scene my recollection still sickens at

I — the confusion and breaking up of the

visitors — the search of the officers — and

168

TALES OF CHIVALRY: OU,

the weak and pitiable exclamations of the
pale and abject wretched Ennesley, as
rendered wild and delirious by his awful
situation, he ofiered immense sums for his
liberation — by turns calling upon and
conjuring the by-standers, in the most
piteous manner, to sav e him from an igno-
minious death, as the officers bore him off
to the carriage in waiting.

On the ensuing day, the papers were
teeming with the occurrence, while it
produced no small sensations of surprise
and alarm in the city, at the lengthened
detail of a scheme of forgery, almost sur-
passing credibility, which, for the last ten
vears, Ennesley had enacted with perfect
success, to the ruin of many hundreds of
individuals, whose property had thus be-
come the prey of his extensive villainy.
It is now almost scarce necessary to say,
that Walton — who, notwithstanding the
strictest search, and a proclamation, offer-
ing a reward for his apprehension, had
not been heard of— had latterly, tempted
by poverty, and seduced by the plausibi-
lity of the scheme, become a coadjutator,
which but too well accounted for his ill-
gotten wealth.

Nor was the measure of human misery
yet full. The alarming and unexpected
events of the Christinas night had taken
such a sudden and fatal etiect upon the
mind and nerves of Mis. Walton, that she
was seized with prematiu-e labour — call-
ing upon him fondly in the quivering
pangs of agony she endured, as ^he died
in giving birth' to a being destined not to
survive its unhappy mother. When this
news reached me, my thoughts involun-
tarily dwelt upon what the tormented and
self-stricken feelings of Walton must be,
when this finish of his blasted hopes
reached him in the death of a being he
so fondly idolized, in whom his soul almost
seemed to have a second particle of exist-
ence.

Six months afterwards the trial of En-
nesley came on, wlidn he was found guilty
and condemned. The wretched man
fainted on hearing the last impressive
sentence of the judge, that he should suffer
the extremity of tlie law, and was carried
senseless out of the dock. Since his com-
mittal, indeed, to Newgate, he had shown
an abject and pusillanimous spirit in the
extreme, vainly endeavouring to obtain
mercy from the fountain-head of those
laws he had so dreadfully outraged, and

for which he was justly condemned to
sufier unpitied and unlamented.

On the fatal day of his execution, fear
had taken such possession of his faculties,
as to produce a listless kind of insensibi-
lity, from which he trembling passed into
that dreaded and unknown eternity —
"from whose bourne no traveller returns"
— leaving an awful lesson behind on the
minds of men, that crime, though it may
be suffered by an all-wise providence to
flourish for a while, never fails, sooner or
later, to meet a fitting punishment.

Time, upon whose crowded tablets we
recorded our joys and sorrows, swept on
in his swift career, and many years had
rolled away, leaving the past upon the
public mind like " the baseless fabric of a
vis^ion," buried in partial oblivion, the
temporary interest and bustle of which
had been succeeded by that of a thousand
other occurrences. It was alone occa-
sionally recalled to my mind by the con-
tinued disappearance of Walton since the
night of Ennesley 's arrest, of whom no
news had ever been heard, though it was
believed by many that he had succeeded
in making the shores of America. The
generality of the public, indeed, credited
tliat he had met a violent death, from the
circumstances of a body being (bund in
the Thames, some time after, in a com-
plete state of decomposition, which, from
appearances connected with it, there was
some reason to have believed was his —
the remnant of a suicide! But certain it
was, that never, since that fatal night,
had any thing certain been heard of the
wretched and conscience-stricken W^alton ;
and, v^hether he had really found a mise-
rable refuge in a foreign land, or an ob-
scure grave in his own, is, perhaps, for
ever buried in oblivion !

A RACE OF TEN THOUSAND.

In the attack of Toulouse, the Spaniards,
anxious to monopolise all the glory, made
their movement a little too soon. The
consequence was, they got into a fire their
nerves could not sustain, and the whole of
them setoff on the full run to the rear. The
duke of Wellington regarded them for some
time, expecting they would stop in the
rear of the English, who had obliged the
French to retire : but no — they absolutely
ran out of sight — when the Duke ex-
claimed, " Well ! hang me if ever I saw
ten thousand men run a race before."

PERILS 15 V FLOOD AND FIELD.

169

Page 172.

THE FORCED ZNIARRIAGE.

Time was, when the grandfathers of tlie
present race of cockneys could, by tra-
velling a couple of miles north or south of
their great kind-mark, enjoy a walk in the
country, smoke a pipe at a village ale-
house, and drink prosperity to the house
of Hanover, and perdition to the pretender.
Time was, when the almost eternal roar
of the great metropolis could not be heard
at Walworth turnpike ; when he who had
escaped for a short period from the toils of
business, found, at that distance, the rum-
bling of carriages, the hum of voices, and
the shuffling of countless feet, exchanged
for the tinkle of the sheep-bell, the occa-
sional mu'^ic of the country team, and the
buzz of the bee and the cockchafer. In
those days, some few people of fashion did
not disdain to reside at Peckham and
Camberwell, when their important duties
required not their attendance in town.
It is not so now. A continuous line of
dwellings stretches from the city to these
villages, and a rapid succession of short
stages whisks you in a few minutes from
one to the other. We have authors of

VOL.11. — 22.

quality now, and so we had a century
ago — witness the neglected duodecimos
on the book-stalls : "A Satyr; written by
a Person of Honour" (alas ! that such
aristocratic productions should be tumbled
about by the paws of plebeians). Our
nobility, as heretofore, seek alliance with
actresses. But our very merchants de-
spise the red -bricked, long- windowed
houses of the two last generations of aris-
tocrats. Nay, your retired tailor displays
Ids carriage and liveries in " the west-
end," and scorns to live in such habita-
tions. These neglected tenements have
their traditions, as well as the castles of
our feudal barons. Two or three houses
of this description overlook the Green at
Camberwell ; and one of them, if we may
credit the domestic servants, was the
scene of strange pranks ; but they are of
such a description, that the vulgar origin
of the ghost who haunts v. is quite obvious.
Who, for instance, ever heard of the shade
of a peer or a baronet, sudiienly shutting
the drawer and ciushing (he fingers of him
who had opened it ? Whose ghost, save
that of a washer-woman or a cook-maid,
would take the trouble to turn a rump-

170

TALES OF CrilVALRY ; OR,

steak, wliist hissing on the gridiron, or
entering ihe larder at the " witching hour,"
stick a mould candle bolt upright in the
centre of a jam tart ! Such things have
occurred, or I have been grossly deceived.
But to my story : —

In the year \7'2 — , a gentleman, whom
I shall name Mr. Charles Aspinall, pur
chased of the proprietor the house referred
to. He was a tall, handsome man, with
a pale oval face and dark hair; but, al-
though apparently not more than thirty,
he had the staid demeanour of a man of
nearly twice that age. He kept but little
company, and seemed to find in his books
the delight and amusement which most
men endeavour to discover in society.
Mr. Aspinall was a very temperate man ;
he ate and drank but sparingly, slept little,
and studied hard. Constant attendance
at church led the more grave part of his
neighbours to look upon him as a man of
singular piety; and he had performed
some acts of charity, which the officious
who wished to cultivate an acquaintance
with him, took especial care to magnify.

It is a false and dangerous philosophy,
which teaches a man to avoid the society
of his fellows : excessive mortification and
self-denial is as dangerous. The crimes
of recluses have not been the least in the
black catalogue of human iniquity ; and
not a few, who in early life devoted them-
selves to a life of austerity, have perished
in infamy. Mr. Aspinall was not conscious
of this: he did not perceive that the ex-
tremes of self denial and dissipation often
lead to the same results. He had resided
at Camberwell about twelve months,
when he became acquainted (the world
never knew how) with a young lady of
considerable beauty, who lived vvith her
family in the immediate neighbouihood.
Their acquaintance was, for some time,
kept a profound secret ; but it vvas after-
wards discovered by the brothers of the
lady, who insisted upon her seducer
making her his wife. They expressed
their determination to wreak their ven-
geance upon him, in case of his non-com-
pliance with their wishes ; but in the
event of his accepting their terms, tlipy
solemnly assured him the circumstance
should not be known beyond their own
circle. These conditions would have been
spurned by many men, however they
might have wished to make reparation to
an injured woman and an insulted family;

yet, strange to say, Mr, Aspinall consented
to make the lady his wife, and the mar-
riage was immediately solenmized, but in
the most private manner.

Mr. Aspinall was a dissembler and a
coward. He dreaded a rencontre with
the Ijrothers, and, to avoid it, had married
their sister; but whatever love he might
have entertained for her previous to his
adopting this alternative, it is certain that
every trace of affection was obliterated by
this forced marriage — he conceived the
most deadly hatred against his bride, and
resolved to destroy her. The accomplish-
ment of this was, however, deferred until
the congratulatory visits of his wife's and
his own friends had ceased. But he was
repeatedly thwarted in his designs, and
during the whole time never treated his
partner with cruelty, although his cool
behaviour occasioned her much unhappi-
ness. The birth of a child would have
appealed to the heart of one less cruel
than Aspi null's ; but his was the fell deter-
mination of a coward, the most cruel of
mankind, if an indifFerence to human
suffering acrompanies his natural timidity.
About two months after the birth of the
infant, Aspinall resolved to put his dia-
bolical plan into execution. His wife had
one evening retired to rest and disniissed
her servant, when the monster entered the
bed-chamber, closed the door, and ap-
proaching the bed-side, presented a phial
and a glass to his victim, telling her that
he had procured a draught which would
relieve the headache of which she had
complained during the day. The unsus-
pecting woman took the draught, and un-
corking the phial, poured the liquid into
the glass. It was thick and of a dark
colour ; but supposing it to be in reality
a draught prepared by a chemist, she
drank it ofT, while her fiend-like husband
regarded her vvith a look of deep intensity.
He then took the phial and glass from her
hand, and placing both on the table,
walked hurriedly up and down the roonj.
Mrs. Aspinall was not surprised at this
strange demeanour of her husband ; s!ie
had become familiarized to his peculiar
habits, and not wishing to disturb him
whilst in what she supposed to be one of
his moody fits, she endeavoured to com-
pose herself to sleep. Her sleep was the
long ami dreamless slimiber of the dead ;
for when her husband approached the bed,
he found that the fatal draught had effected

PERILS BY FLOOD AM) MFXr).

171

liis deadly purpose. Those wlio are aware
of (he sympathy between the mother and
the child, will scarcely need he told, that
the poison which deprived Mrs. A«pinall
of life, had closed the earthly career of her
infant; the little innocent had breathed
its last on the bosom of its mother. The
cold gray eye of AspinuU regarded the
bodies for a few moments, but no tear of
pity or remorse dimmed its sullen glare :
he turned from the spectacle, and striding
acioss the room, \\hispered to some person
on the landing-place, and his Italian
servant Jacopo entered. We must draw
a veil over the scene which followed. To
dwell on such, would argue a bad taste
and want of feeling. Mr. Aspinall and
his servant that night secretly buried the
bodies of his victims in one of the wine
cellars.

To account for the disappearance of his
partner, required the utmost ingenuity of
the murderer; but a tale was soon trumped
up, and ready by the next morning. —
Mis. Aspinall in due time was missed —
the household was in alarm, and every
one in a state of anxiety — vidien Jacopo,
with apparent rehictance, stated that
having occasion to rise e;;rly in the morn-
ing, he had seen a carriage waiting at
day-break on the green, and that, sus-
pecting it was there for some improper
purpose, he had kept watch, until he saw
with surprise, his mistress pass out and
proceed towards it, when she was received
by a gentleman in an untlress military
frock, who handed her into the carriage,
which immediately drove at a rapid rate
towards towu.

He who had planned so diabolical a
murder, would not, it may be supposed,
find much diliiculty in counterfeiting sur-
prise and grief at this piece of pretended
information. Mr. Aspinall acted his part
so well, that the story was never for a
moment doubted by any one.

From that day, however, he became
an altered man ; his demeanour, always
haughty and unprepossessing, was now
harsh and repulsive ; he was more gloomy
than ever, and seemed as though worn
down by inward grief, which those wjio
knew him, attributed to a far different
cause than the true one. Remorse
haunted him like a shadow ; his sluml)ers
were broken by ghastly visions, in which
his murdered wife bore ajMominent part :
tiie blood of the innocent was upon him,

and he knew not where to turn for refuge
from the phantoms that incessantly pur-
sued him. Such a state of mind so har-
rassed a constitution naturally healthy
and vigorous, that Mr. Aspinall was near
sinking under this accumulation of misery.
Physicians were suuimoned to his aid, and
change of scene and climate were recom-
mended : he was urged to travel, and he
did so. He proceeded to Paris, and re-
velled with the gayest of tiiat great city ;
but he could not drown the recollection of
the past. He visited Switzerland ; but
the smiling faces and cheerful hearts of the
inhabitants, contrasted too strongly with
the tumult of his own bosom. He atfected
an air of gaiety in Rome and Naples,
though his liaggard features too plainly
told of the inwartl lire that consumed him,
and he returned to England pale and
attenuated, the remnant of a man, with his
Italian s^^rvant, who had accompanied
him in his travels. It was observed that
this man took greater liberties with his
master than his situation warranted, and
it was evident that, although Mr. Aspinall
did not relish the fellow's familiarity, he
did not like to part with him ; perhaps he
feared him, but no one could divine the
reason, and the death of this man, which
happened but a short time after, was not
regretted by any of the household. Mr.
Aspinall, evidently relieved of a cause of
much uneasiness, now kept company at
his house, and endeavoured to be gay,
but it was an abortive attempt to scare
the demon that haunted him ; his mirth
was forced, his smile was the grin of a
skeleton, and the sound of his laugh was
cheerless. Still he lacked not visitors.
Tlie second anniversary of the murder of
his wife and her infant arrived, and Mr.
Aspinall, dreading the recollection of that
frightful evening, had a large \)aity to sup
with him. They did not break up until
late, when several of the guests were in-
vited to stay until the morning, and beds
were accordingly provided. One of them
was a hair-brained young man of fortune,
named Powis, who, complaining of a
violent headache, besought his host to
allow him to retire to rest a little earlier.
The request being complied with, the
beau was conducted to his chamber : he
knew not that it was the one in which the
wife of his entertainer had been so foully
murdered — Mr. Aspinall dared not sleep
in that. I'lie guests dropped of}' one by

172

TALES OK CHiVAl.RY ; OR,

one, till at length those only remained
who had resolved to pass (he night where
they were — when suddenly a loud shout
was lieard, and some one, hastily ascend-
ing the stairs, burst into the roou). It
was Mr. Powis: his right hand, which
shook violently, grasped the candlestick,
from which the candle had escaped in his
flight ; his cravat and perriwig were left
behind, and he stood before them in an
agony of affright, without the power to
articulate a word.

*' Powis ! Powis !" said Mr. Aspinall,
affecting a composure which he was far
from feeling, " What ails thee, man ? art
thou mad ?"

*' Aye, T believe so," faultered the beau ;
" but if 1 be not, I have seen that which
would turn the head of a wiser one than
I. Give me, I beseech you, a glass of
brandy (he sunk into a chair), or 1 shall
surely faint with terror."

'* I'his is foolery, Powis," said Aspinall,
whitening with alarm ; " one of thy mad
pranks."

•* Yes, it was a mad prank, to follow a
ghost into your wine-cellar, Aspinall ; Til
say with the sciiool-boys, that I'll never
do so again. Some foul play has been
acted in this house. I believe I was drunk
just now, but this has sobered me."

"Let us know what you have seen,"
said several of the company, pressing
round him. In the meantime, Mr. Aspi-
nall, unobserved, had left the room.

" Let me have breathing-room, then,"
said Powis, " and you shall hear all. You
must know that I had stolen off to bed, in
the hope that a sound sleep would rid me
of a bad headache, which I feel returning.
I had fastened my chamber door, and
hung my perriwig on a chair-back, when,
finding my cravat had become too tightly
knotted, I approached the glass and en-
deavoured to unfasten it. 1 had not been
engaged thus many seconds, when, oh,
heavens ! I became conscious that some
one was standing near me j and turning
niy head, I saw, as plainly as 1 see you
all before me, a lady with a little child in
her arms."

"A lady and a child!" echoed half a
dozen voices.

" Aye, a lady and a child !" said Powis,
** but hear the issue of it: I was disposed
to be a little merry with the intruder ; but
when I looked in her face, there was an
expression in it which assured me — un-

believer as I have hitherto been — that my
visitor was not of this world. I was about
to address the figure, when it laid its
finger ou its pale lips, and glided out of
tile room — not through the keyhole nor
the pannel of the door, for it fiew wide
open at her approach, and then proceeded
down stairs. I was literally confounded,
but, after a moment's pause, I snatched
up the candle, and followed the figure. —
A rushing wind, which seemed to fill the
house, extinguished my light; but I had
no need of one — a pale glimmering
guided my steps, and I followed my con-
ductor into the cellar, when she appeared
to enter one of the vaults ; I pressed for-
ward, and striking my head violently
against the door, fell backwards. My fit
of courage, or rather desperation, had novv
ended ; and quickly regaining my per-
pendicular, I flew up stairs, and entered
the room just as you beheld me."

All who heard this wild tale stared for
a mon)ent on the narrator, and then each
began to make his comments. One
agreed with Powis, that it told of some
foul deed of murder ; another voted for an
investigation of the cause of the fearful
visitation ; while a third enquired for
Mr. Aspinall, who they then found had
quitted the room. A servant was desired
to request his attendance ; but the mes-
senger returned in a few seconds, and
informed them that he had been to the
door of his master's chamber, which was
locked, and that he had heard a low moan-
ing within.

All flew to the chamber : the door was
immediately forced, and Mr. Aspinall was
found stretched on the floor deluged in
blood, and quite insensible. He had with
his penknife severed the radial artery
with such fatal determination, that his
wrist was fairly cut to the bone. A sur-
geon was summoned, but the hemorrhage
had been too great ; the wretched suicide
was lifeless before his arrival. A scrap of
paper lay on his dressing-table, and on
it was written in pencil a confession of his
crime. It expressed his resolution rather
to perish by his own hands, than be made
a spectacle for the multitude.

The bodies of Mrs. Aspinall and her
infant were discovered in the vault, and
consigned to a more hallowed spot j whilst
that of their destroyer was interred in a
neighbouring cross-road, with the custo-
marv formalities.

PKRILS BY FLOon ANO FIKLD.

173

THE FOUR FUGITIVES.

(Continued from page 165.)

ClifTdrd watched his proceedings with
troubled surprise, and having allowed him
to advance several steps towards the
hovel, followed and caught his arm.

*' Richard, where go you ?"

*' I go, sir, to my resting-place, to sleep
for another hour: with the dawn I will
return to London."

" Do so," replied Clifford, throwing
violently away the arm he had grasped -,
*' do so, and prithee do not forget my
instructions respecting your future con-
duct."

"Ere I leave here, I trust, sir, to see
you in safety in yonder vessel."

" Richard, Richard, why will you not
assist me ? Add to your inestimable ser-
vices but this one action, and my gratitude
will be everlasting."

A long and somewhat impatient argu-
ment ensued, and, as it generally happens,
that when a superior condescends to en-
treat and flatter an inferior, he gains his
point, so Richard at length agreed to for-
ward the designs of the cavalier.

On returning to the hovel, they disco-
vered the Dutchman still sleeping soundly;
the stranger, or rather Selworth, slept
restlessly, probably overcome by excess of
fatigue, and the two confederates, as had
been agreed, commenced roaring a revo-
lutionary song, or psalm, of the time, with
astonishing vigour. Almost the first word
produced what they aimed at, and Sel-
worth started up perfectly free from the
influence of Morpheus.

" How now, friends ? Is it dawn ?"
be demanded.

"No," answered Richard ; " time flies
not so swiftly when danger lurks around.
Drink," he added, handing him a cup of
brandy, and dexterously shpping in the
powder, " drink to our toast, down with
Charles Stuart !"

"Charles Stuart," said Selworth, *' folks
say, has abandoned all hopes of playing
tyrant here, and only now wishes to escape
from England. I, for one, will not exult
over a fallen enemy. Let us, therefore,
change the toast to * A safe escape from
all enemies,' and Ml pledge you with all
my heart."

'"Amen, amen," responded Richard;
and Selworth took a hearty draught, and
then returned the cup.

Very few minutes elapsed ere, wrapped

in profound slumber, Selworth once more
reclined on the ground, and the cavalier
now watched him with eager attention;
in doing so, the cup caught his eye. —
" 'Sdeath ! he has not drank it all ! We
have no time to lose — his slumber will
scarcely exceed two hours. What, ho!
Hans Molken, would'st sleep for ever,
man ?" An inarticulate grunt answered
this question, and the Dutchman, distend-
ing his jaws most fearfully, rose gradually
from his resting-place. Richard withdrew
the rugged sail-cloth which hung before
the window, and disclosed the eastern
atmosphere glow ing with embryo day :
the light which now shone in, rendered
the lamp unnecessary.

" Hans Molken, haste down to the
coast, and row with all possible speed to
yonder smack ; ask captain Tattersal if he
can take two passengers instead of one :
fail not to tell him the reward he will
receive shall be proportionately increased.
We will await thee on the beach ; and
now, good fellow, be quick — remember
life and death depends on speed."

One might as well talk of speed to a
tortoise or to a snail, as to a Dutchman —
the one will appreciate the meaning of
the word as well as the other. Hans
Molken left the hovel at a most unpro-
mising pace, followed by divers impatient
looks from the cavalier, who at length
pursued his footsteps with renewed pro-
mises of reward, to the edge of the cliff,
and from thence watched him as he de-
scended the rugged path before mention-
ed, to the beach. Arrived at the bottom,
he proceeded to drag a small boat from a
little cavity in the rock, wholly concealed
at high tide, and, after divers delays, at
last started, and, with tolerable speed,
began to row towards the vessel, which
the brightening daw^n now revealed, al-
though somewhat indistinctly.

Clifford returned to the cottage, and
found his companion had not been idle ;
he had removed the sleeping colonel to
the farthest corner of the room, and co-
vered him with a cloak, which effectually
prevented his being noticed by a mere
passer through the hut, and yet did not in
the slightest degree tend to prevent res-
piration.

" Good," said Clifford ; " now for the
lady." Richard sighed, and the speaker
approached the door which led into the
inner chamber, and tapped gently against

174

TAl.liS Ol- CHIVALRY J OB,

it: it was i mm ed lately opened by the
lady Roselle, looking still more lovely,
and ready for immediate departure.

" I am ready, dearest Robert," she said,
as, without raising her eyes^ she advanced
a step, and presented her hand to Clilford ;
**letus leave this place. Oh, heavens !
who art thou ?"

** A friend, lady Roselle IMyrston," re-
plied Clifford, bowing- lowly, and speaking
in a hoarser tone than natural, and without
taking her hand, which iiad been instantly
withdrawn; "a friend and fugitive like
thyself, commissioned by my esteemed
comrade, colonel Robert Selworth, to con-
duct you to tlie beach ; he has been for-
tunate enough to secure a passage from
England without entering the village of
Biighelmstone, and now impatiently
awaits your coming at the boat."

"But why did he go before me?"' in-
quired Roselle, no suspicion of treachery
entering her mind, but feeling somewhat
offended with her lovtir for what she might
justly esteem neglect.

** It is a smuggler's vessel, lady, and it
was necessary that the colonel should per-
sonally negotiate a passage with the cap-
tain : lie is accordingly just now gone. It
is highly probable that, if we haste, we
shall join him ere he leaves the beach."

** Oh, let, us haste then," added Roselle,
taking the offered arm ; and they left the
cottage, followed at a little distance by
Richard, on whose countenance might be
traced with ease the most dissatisfied
feelings.

" My master is certainly mad," he mut-
tered almost audibly ; ** no man who
retains the slightest portion of that useful
commodity, common sense, would ever
embark in such a piece of baseness as this,
when, if he regarded his own life in the
least, he would embark in that vessel
which would convey him from these
shores."

It was a labour of much time, danger,
and difTiculty, to descend ; and when they
succeeded in reaching the strand, no trace
of the Dutchman's arrival could they dis-
cover: the mist, however, shortly cleared
away, and then the keen eye of Richard
detected his boat close to the vessel : in
fact, he had not commenced his return to
the sh(ne.

" We are too late, madam," said Clif-
ford, speaking still in his affected tone of
voice, and concealing his features as much

as possible without actually exciting sus-
picion ; " the colonel has reached the
ship ; but fear not — the boat \m11 quickly
return and convey us on board ;" and,
as though in corroboration of his words,
Hans Molken jumped into the boat, and
began to row towards the shore. Richard
discovered a broken crag, and on this the
trio seated themselves, all awaiting, with
equal anxiety, the arrival of the tardy
boatman.

Our story now returns to Robert Sel-
worth.

The guess of the cavalier, that his sleep
would last two hours, was very near the
truth : in about three- fourths of that time,
he became slowly conscious of existence ;
and noises having aroused him somewhat
before the full power of the powder had
been exhausted, his ideas were for several
minutes wild and unconnected. Strange
visions floated before him ; but, as his
senses slowly recovered their pristine ex-
cellence, and burst from the bonds of
uneasy sleep, he surveyed with astonish-
ment the scene around him. His j)osition
was, as we have seen, v^holly tlifferent
from that in which he had first slumbered ;
the door leading to the inner chamber
was open, and the sound of several hoarse
voices within petrified him with fear, not
for himself, but Ivoselle ; while a man
with a drawn swoid paraded before the
door leading to the cliff, apparently for
the purpose of preventing the egress of
any one from the hut.

Selworth was far from having recovered
from the stupifying effects of the drug j
and, instead of springing from his recum-
bent position and disarming the sentinel,
as with his usual promptitude he would
have done, he lay partly concCvaled by the
old arm chair — peering from under the
cloak with which Richard had covered
him, with sleepy surprise and consterna-
tion. A loud shout from the inner cham-
ber did much towards awakening him,
and the appearance of a noble-looking
man, of middle age, who rushed from it,
holding in his hand a bracelet which had
the preceding evening derived beauty
from clasping the wrist of Roselle, also
contributed much to arouse his faculties.

"She has been here! she has been
here!" distractedly exclaimed this per-
sonage, gazing on the bracelet ; " follow
me, friends — she cannot be far away."
He rushed from the hut, and two or three

PERILS BY FLOOD AXO FIELD.

175

attendants, who had likewise issued from
the inner chamber, and the man who had
guarded the door, quickly vanished after
their leader. Their disappearance seemed
the signal for Selvvorth's becoming- per-
fectly sensible ; he now rose, and pressing
his burning forehead, he shouted *' Do 1
dream ?" so loudly, that it is utterly im-
possible to surmise why they who had just
left did not hear the exclamation.

" Am r awake ?" pursued the wretched
lover, as he burst into the room in whicii
his mistress had reposed ; and ocular de-
monstration fatally convinced him she had
disappeared.

*' Roselle ! Roselle ! speak and save
me from distraction !" No voice re-
sponded to his anguished cry, and he cast
himself on the ground in utter despair.
A very few minutes, however, beheld him
rise from the ground, to all appearance an
altered man.

The soldiers of Cromwell were taught
to avoid all tumultuous feelings ; emotions
of all kinds, save fanatical revenge on
their enemies, were forbidden th^m ; and
all human passions being condensed to
one object, had produced a result pre-
cisely similar to that which their politic
leader and tutor had expected. A mis-
taken view of the objects and points in
dispute had originally induced Robert
Selworth's father to join the Parliament in
the civil wars, and having once espoused
the cause of "Liberty," he devoted his
whole energies to it, and educated his
only child in the fiercest republican sen-
timents. Robert Selworth, like many
distinguished characters of the same era,
was a man naturally of strong and power-
ful passions : intrusted to revolutionary
preceptors, he was early taught to govern
his emotions according to the doctrine of
Cromwell, and only allow free scope to
their ardour in fanatical bigotry and re-
venge against the enemies of the Com-
monweahh. The former, his good sense
taught him to despise ; the latter, bred in
a camp, appeared more pleasing to his
eyes, and, in the course of time, he gave
a freer scope and definition of it to him-
self, and added revenge against private
enemies to revenge against the supporters
of what Cromwell's partizans termed
" tyranny." Tiius, in this anguished
moment, education came to his aid, and
ideas of revenge — deep revenge — proba-
blv saved him from distraction.

" Idiot ! fool that I am 1 Was it not
evident the inhabitants of this place were
cavaliers ? And u hat could I expect from
royalty but deception and treachery ? I
have slumbered on my post, and they have
profited by my folly ; but let them beware
— Robert Selworth is neither child nor
churchman, calmly to receive an injury."
Let it not be supposed that he stood un-
occupied while thus giving vent to his
feelings — far from it ; he uttered the sen-
tences coolly, and witii intervals between,
during which time he employed himself
in charging his pistols, and having re-
placed them in his belt, he drew his
sword, and rushed from the hovel.
{To be continued.)

THE CRUSADES.

No age of the work) ever presented
such a spectacle as did France for some
montlis after the Council of Clermont.
Everywhere were to be heard the sermons
of the clergy, exhorting the people to take
the cross ; all who hesitated to do so, from
whatever motive, were branded as infidels
and traitors: wives stimulated their bus-
bands to abandon their families and their
homes ; for this cause the monk deserted
his cell, the priest his church, the artisan
left his workshop, the peasant his fields :
women put on the dress of men, to share
in the glory and the gain. A ruddy cross
on the right shoulder designated the
wearer as a warrior in the sacred cause.
The crossed {croises), as they were named,
poured from all quarters to the appointed
place of rendezvous; with the arrival of
spring, some came down the rivers in
boats, some on foot, some on horseback.
Here might be seen a peasant, with his
wife and children and household goods, in
a cart drawn by oxen shod with iron, the
children crying out, at the sight of every
town or castle, " Is that Jerusalem ? Is
that Jerusalem ?" There a knight, witii
hawk and hound, prepared to take the
pleasures of the chase as he journied
towards the terra incognita for wliich he
was bound. Few had any clear notion of
where Jerusalem lay, what was the dis-
tance to it, or what countries were to be
passed through to reach it. Books were
rare, and few could read ; maps were
nearly unknown ; and since the Turks
had seized Asia Elinor, the pilgrims had
mostly gone by sea to the Holy Land, and
the land track had fallen into oblivion.

176

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

The as^emblao:es of the pilorrims also
presented a motley aspect. Pavilions,
tents, booths, huts, rose around llie towns
and castles ; old and youngs, women and
children, warriors and clergy, were min-
gled in the strangest confusion : the
crossed robber or murderer became the
associate of the crossed saint or eremite —
the virtuous wife or maiden w'as conta-
minated by the proximity of the pilgrim-
courtezan. Hard by the spot where the
priest had erected his altar, and celebrated
the divine mysteries, the pilgrims of either
sex abandoned themselves to sensual gra-
tifications. Each day a tale of some sign
or wonder, sent or wrought by heaven,
awakened the attention of the pilgrims,
and assured them of the divine favour.
Now it was a report that the glorious
Charlemagne would rise from the dead,
and visit, as erst, the holy sepulchre, at
the head of the sacred bands. Again, they
heard how a priest had seen in the sky,
at the ninth hour of the day, two men on
horseback fighting, one of whom smote
the other with a huge cross, and, after a
protracted conflict, overcame him; or how
a priest, as he walked with two compa-
nions in a wood, saw a sword carried by
the wind through the air ; or shepherds
beheld a great city in the sky. Comets
and northern lights, of unusual brilliancy,
appeared, and, previous to tlie Council of
Clermont, the stars had fallen in showers
from the sky. Men lived by faith, and
not by sight : heaven, it was firmly be-
lieved, woukl, as of old, miraculoush' sup-
ply the wants of the chosen people. —
Europe was thus, as the princess Anna
Comnena expressed it, about to precipi-
tate itself upon Asia. Everywhere lands
and other possessions were offered for sale
or pledge —

" They sold the pasture now to buy tlio steed,"
Arms, military equipments, and solid
money, were alone in request: the market
was so glutted with lands and houses,
that purchasers could only be obtained at
low prices ; and those who had money
and were wise enough to stay at home,
got dead bargains in abundance.

ANECDOTE OF THE PLAGUE.

In the village of Careggi, whether it
were that due precautions had not been
taken, or that the disease was of a pecu-
liaily malignant nature, one after another

— first the young, and then the old, of a
whole family — dropped oflf. A woman
who lived on the opposite side of the way,
the wife of a labourer, the mother of two
little l)oys, felt herself attacked by fever in
the night ; in the morning it greatly in-
creased, and in the evening the fatal
tumour appeared. Tliis was during the
absence of her husband, vvho went to work
at a dist:mce, and only returned once a
week. Terrified by the example of the
neighl)ouring family, moved by the fondest
love for her children, and determining not
to communicate the disease to then), .she
formed the heroic resolution of leaving
her home, and going elsewhere to die.
Having locked them in a room, and sacri-
ficed to their safety even the last and sole
comfort of a parting embrace, she ran
down the stairs, carrying with her the
sheets and coverlid, that she might leave
no means of contagion. She then shut
the door, with a sigh, and went away.
But the biggest, hearing the door shut,
went to the window, and, seeing her run-
ning in that manner, cried out, " Gnod
bye, mother," in a voice so tender, that
she involuntarily stopped. *' Good bye,
mother," repeated the youngest child,
stretching its little head out of the window.
And thus was the poor afflicted mother
compelled, for a time, to endure the
(headful conflict between the yearnings
which called her back, and the pity and
solicitude which urged her on. At length
the latter conquered ; and, amid a flood
of tears, and the farewells of her children,
who knew not the fatal cause and import
of those tears, she reached the hou^e of
those who were to bury her. She recom-
mended her husband and children to them,
and in two days she was no more.

IRISH COMMODORE.

An Irish commodore being confined to
his bed by a severe fit of the gout, some
svv'eeps vvere employed to sweep the
chimnies of the house next door to him ;
and one of the boys, by mistake, came
down into the commodore's apartment.
The boy, confused at his mistake, and
seeing the commodore in bed, said, "Sir,
my master will come for you presently."
" Will he, by Job !" exclaimed the com-
modore, leaping out of bed ; " I beg to
be excused staying here any longer, then,"
and immediatelv ran down stairs.

PF.RII.S BY FLOOD AND FIFXD.

177

EMMA POULTOX:

A LEGEND OF THE CIVIL, MAES.

The small chajjel in the village of

E , in tlie county of Wiltshire, though

not noticed in the " Beauties of England
and Wales," is by no means an object
devoid of interest. Its shape and evident
antiquity would justify the supposition
that it was once one of our primitive
churches; at any rate, the few Gothic
ornaments still remaining on its walls
indicate that its foundation belongs to a
very remote period. The spot, too, on
which it stands, is not without its asso-
ciations : tradition says, that it was once
the site of a Roman encampment, which
is partly borne out by the existence of a
deep and extended trench that reaches to
the river which winds round the foot of
the hill on which the chapel stands. The
churchyard, too, where,

" Each in his narrow cell for ever laid.
The rude foreiathers of the hamlet sleep,"

contains many tributes to departed worth,
erected by those whose children shall in
turn perform for them the same melancholy
duty. But there is one lonely, though not
VOL. II. — 23.

Page 180.

wholly forgotten grave, to N'^hich a tale is
attached, that furnishes a striking illustra-
tion of the manners of that period when
the unfortunate Charles incurred the dis-
pleasure of his rebellious subjects, and the
country was disturbed by the strife of the
contending parties ; while the ties of
friendship and kindred were severed by
the violent factions, then known by the
several names of Cavaliers, Independents,
Anabaptists, Fifth -monarchy. men, Pres-
byterians, and a multitude of others; all
professing to be guided by their zeal for
religion, or love for their king ; while the
licentious freedom of one party was only
exceeded in iniquity by the cool and de-
liberately atrocious acts of the other. But
to turn from our digression : — The small
stone slab which covers the grave alluded
to, is now cracked in many places, and
round its margin the grass has risen so
as to screen it from view, and the weeds,
forcing themselves through the fissures,
spread over the tablet, from which time,
assisted, perhaps, by the foot of the wan-
ton school-boy, has long since erased the
inscription.

It was only upon mv last visit to this
2 a'

17S

TAT.F.S OF CHIVALRY : OR,

spot, that I obtained from the old sexton
the materials which enable me to present
the following tale. I tell it because it is
of other times; to the stories of which, I
have, from mv infancy, been most pas-
sionately attached.

Emma Pouiion was the only child of
a country gentleman, in the Village of
E — — , who had sacrificed his life, and
nearly the whole of his property, in the
cause of Charles the First. At "the com-
mencement of the " troubles," as they
were then emphatically called, he mort-
gaged the greater part of his estate to a
grasping attorney in the neighbouring
town, and with it equipped a troop of
horse, which did good service for Charles
in the desperate engagement at Nazeby ;
but their leader, and the chief of his com-
pany, perished in the field. One of those
who escaped the disastrous conflict was
Reginald Berkley, the son of a wealthy
yeoman of Pmto'n ; and it fell to his lo't
to be the bearer of the sad tidings to the
widow and ciiild of the fallen royalist.
With a heavy heart the young soldier
returned home. The mission was doubly
painful to him, for he was the betrothed
of the gentle Emma. Those who are
lovers can tell how they met, after absence
on a service fraught with much danger ;
and those who have loved, may still call
to mind such scenes ; but the pen cannot
describe those moments of rapture. The
maiden's second thought was of her father
(and who will not pardon its being her
second thought ?), when her joy was sud-
denly clouded by her lover informing her
of his death. Her widowed mother, her
first burst of grief being over, saw with
alarm their destitute condition ; while
Emma consoled herself in that particular
by a reliance on the honour of Iter lover,
whose conduct became more marked and
affectionate than it had been even in the
lifetime of her father. Reginald returned
to his family at Purton, but made frequent
visits to his beloved, during which time
nothing occurred to interrupt their tran-
quillity. The prince, afterwards Charles
the Second, had, after many hair-breadth
escapes, evaded his pursuers, and reached
the continent in safety. But this state of
things did not last long ; news soon
arrived that the exiled prince had landed
in Scotland, and was advancing with a
powerful army to claim his just rights.
This intelligence once more aroused bodi

friend and foe to monarchy ; and while
some of the royalists set out to join their
prince, the parliamentarians assembled
their forces in that prompt, yet steady-
manner, which always characterized their
proceedings, and strongly contrasted with
tiie headstrong zeal of the other party,
and prepared to resist him " to whom,"
says the author of "Boscobel," "they
could afford no better title than Charles
Stuart." It was then that the young
soldier tore himself from the arms of his
beloved, and hastened to prove again that
valour which had gained for him the ap-
plause of older and more experienced
cavaliers.

We shall not follow Reginald through
his journey, which was one of neither
pleasure nor security, for the prince had'
many bitter enemies, who were continually
on the watch to entrap his adherents —
but return to her in whom all his earthly
hopes were centred. Many mondis passed
away, during which period no tidings
were heard of Reginald. At length it
was known that the prince's army had
entered England. All was anxiety and
excitement; Emma had heard that a
battle would soon be fought, and her heart
sunk within her when she reflected, that
though the \ictory miglit be given to the
royalists, her lover might be one of the
victims in the fight.

She remained for some days in tortur-
ing suspense, when intelligence arrived
that the army of Charles was advancing
upon Worcester. Anxious, yet dreading
to hear the issue of the contest, the maiden
would sit for hours at lier casement, and
watch the landscape till the sun had de-
scended, and left every object imdistin-
guishable. She had thus watched one
evening while the sun was yet above the
horizon, intently gazing on every figure
that appeared in sight ; but the form of
her lover met not her gaze. The rays of
the setting sun still lit up the latticed
windows of the small chapel, and glowed
in the stream which wound rcundthe base
of the hill. In the distance stood the
town, the spire of its noble church rising
majestically above the houses which sur-
rounded it. Not a breeze moved a leaf
of the stately elms which shaded the house
of the once happy family. Twilight sue
ceeded, and the fight-shunning bat flitted
in the cool evening, and flapped its lea-
thern wing as it flew in fantastic circles

PERILS BY FLOOD AND* FIELD.

179

round (heir dwelling ; but the hour had
no charms for its inmates : Reginald had
not appeared, to remove their anxiety,
and the widowed lady, as the night ar-
rived, sought consolation in iier Bible, a
chapter of which she was reading to her
daughter, who sat absorbed in her own
meditations, while her inward prayers
were directed to the great Author of all
things — when the distant clatter of horses'
hoofs arrested their attention.

** 'Tis Reginald !" exclaimed Emma,
in a half-smothered tone, ])artaking both
of pleasure and doubt — and her hand was
upon the bolt of the door, ere her mother
was aware of the cause.

** Wist, child, what would ye do ? — Are
we not alone, and unprotected ? What if
it should be some of the wild and lawless
troopers abroad — would ye give such as
them entrance ? Priihee, withdraw thy
hand from the fastening, and come hither."

To these remonstrances the maiden
made no reply, but turning from the door,
was about to resume her seat, when the
noise of footsteps was heard, and a gentle
knock was given on the outside.

" Who's There r" demanded the matron,
shutting her Bible, and looking over her
spectacles, while she motioned her daugh-
ter to keep the door fast.

*"Tis I," replied a well-known voice ;
and the next moment the bolt was drawn,
and Reginald Berkley entering, received
in his arms the almost fainting form of
Emma. In a few brief words he informed
them of the issue of the battle, and of his
own danger. His buff" coat, the sleeves
of which were sprinkled with blood, was
cut and torn, and but a remnant of the
feather in his morion was left ; his face
looked wild and haggard, and his whole
appearance gave evident token that he
had not been idle in the bloody strife.

** All is lost !" he mournfully exclaim-
ed ; " our army is dispersed, and the
prince has fled, heaven knows whither !
I have ridden hard to escape from the
bloodhounds, who may be even now at
my heels, for they followed me and Ockle
of Marston for twenty miles. The poor
fellow had his arm broken by a harque-
buize shot ; but he is safely housed now,
and may escape."

"You will remain here to-night?" said
the widow and her daughter, at the same
time.

" 'Tis impossible !" replied Reginald j

" I must go to Purton before daybreafk,

and conceal myself, or ha l' what

noise is that ?" he suddenly cried, as the
distant clatter of horses' hoofs struck on
his ear — "by heaven! the blood-hounds
are here : whither shall I fly ?"

" To the secret place," cried Emma,
eagerly; "there is a sliding panel in
the wall of the little red chamber above —
there you may lie secure." As she spoke,
the noise became more distinct, and
the voices of several men were heard.
Without loss of time, they proceeded to
the little chamber Emma had spoken of,
when the hangings were drawn aside,
and the maiden, touching a spring in the
oak wainscot, a panel slid back, and dis-
covered a recess capable of holding two
or three persons. Reginald had scarcely
entered it, ^^hen voices were heard under
the window, and immediately after a loud
knocking sounded at the door. To have
remained with the fugitive would have
only tended to excite the suspicion of the
pursuers : the widow and her daughter
therefore hastened down, just as a female
servant (their only domestic) had opened
the door, when five or six men, habited as
troopers, entered the house. The state of
their dress and accoutrements told that
they had been engaged in the work of
death ; and as the light flashed on their
grim and determined features, the terrified
woman shrank from their gaze in alarm.

" Woman," said the foremost of the
troop, "where is the young malignant ye
have sheltered ?"

" What mean ye, sir ?" enquired the
matron, endeavouring to conceal her agi-
tation.

" It is not for thee to interrogate," re-
plied the trooper ; " waste not our time,
but tell us where he is hidden, for the
Lord hath this day delivered into our
hands these sons of the ungodly, whom
we have smitten till the going down of
the sun."

" He is gone hence," said the widow,
in an almost inarticulate voice.

" Daughter of JMoab," replied the
trooper, taking the light, and holding it
before her beautiful face, \\hile a tear
glistened on her blanched cheek ; " thy
trembling frame, and faultering voice,
tell me that thou hast spoken the words of
falsehood. In, brethren, in, and search
the dwelling of these JNloabitish women."
As soon as the signal for havoc was given.

ISO

TAI,ES OF CHIVALRY • OR,

the rest of the troopers drew their swords,
and dispersed themselves over the house,
while the females remained in the room
below, half dead with fear ; but in a short
time they were summoned to open the
several cupboards and presses in which
the rebel troopers imagined their victim
might be concealed.

The room to which they principally
confined their search, was that in which
Reginald was secreted; and they hesi-
tated not to tear down and destroy those
pieces of furniture v^hich they supposed
might furnish a shelter for the fugitive ;
during which the females remained in a
state of frightful apprehension. Some of
the troopers bore off the bedding, and
pierced the furniture with their swords ;
while others struck on the panels of the
oak wainscot, in the hope that they might
discover by the sound the hiding-place of
their victim, who they knew, from the
agitation of the women, must be some-
where in the house. On a sudden, one
of them struck the panel which concealed
the recess with the hilt of his sword, when
a hollow sound was returned, which
plainly indicated that it did not cover the
wall alone.

" Come hither, brethren," cried the
trooper, in a tone of exultation, ** lend me
your aid to tear down this w'ainscot, for I
have a shrewd suspicion that a secret
place is behind it. Zebulon-fear-the-
Lord, prithee, lend me thy dagger — it is
much stronger than mine, and will serve
to force out this panel."

The dagger was handed to him ; but
his efforts to break the hard oak of which
the panel was formed, proved abortive.

*' Hold !" cried one of his companions,
as he drew a petrionel from his belt —
" this will tell if any one is concealed be-
hind it. I will fire through the wood !"

These words were like an electric shock
to the nerves of the poor maiden, who, in
a frantic manner, besought the ruffian to
spare the life of her lover, and falling on
her knees before them, she entreated them
to have mercy, while her fair eyes stream-
ed with tears, and her heaving bosom
betrayed her mind's agony. But she
spoke to men whom a gloomy fanaticism
had rendered callous to human misery,
and a grim smile played on their counte-
nances, as they beheld her distress, for it
told them their victim was already within
their grasp.

" Daughter," said the first trooper, as
he coolly wound up the lock of the large
horse pistol, or petrionel, he held in his
hand ; " we are none of those who do
their work negligently ; the Lord of Hosts
hath delivered him into our hands : is it
not written, * the ungodly shall be cut off",'
even as "

"Oh, spare him! spare him!" cried
the agonised girl, clasping the knees of
the trooper — " spare liim,, and all we have
is your's."

" Tempt not a soldier of Emanuel
with the riches of this world," replied the
trooper ; " away with thee, thou child of
the ungodly !" and striding forward, he
fired at the wall. The report shook the
house, but high above it rose the shriek of
the almost frantic Emma ; the glass in the
latticed window showered down on the
floor, and the chamber was filled with
smoke. The terrified youth, uninjured by
the bullet — which, however, passed near
him during the confusion — gently drew
aside the panel, and emerged into the
chamber. He immediately made towards
the door, thinking to escape unobserved ;
but two of the troop were already there,
and shouted loudly at his appearance,
while their drawn swords were presented
at his breast, and he was desired to sur-
render. They pressed forward to seize
him, when, quickly drawing a pistol from
his belt, he presented it at the foremost,
while with his right hand he drew his
sword.

*' Down with the son of BeHel !" cried
the sergeant of the troop ; *' smite him
dead !" but Reginald's menacing attitude
kept them at bay, when the sergeant fired
his pistol. The shot was deadly, and the
unhappy )'outh staggering back a few
paces, fell prostrate, while a torrent of
blood deluged the floor. Who shall de-
scribe the anguish of the hapless Emma
at this moment ? As her lover fell, she
rushed from the arms of her mother, and
threw herself upon the corpse with a
shriek so loud and shrill, that it sounded
like no human cry. It was followed by a
death-like silence, interrupted only by the
convulsive sobs of her widowed mother.

"Thus perish the ungodly," said the
sergeant, in a drawling tone. "Now,
brethren, get to your horses, for it waxeth
late, and there are more abroad who must
be smitten with the edge of the sword j
tarry not, but let us away, lest, peradven-

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

181

ture, the son of the late man, whom the
ungodly call king, escape from the land.
But first," he continued, as if a sudden
thought had occurred to him, ** let us
possess ourselves of the vessels of gold and
silver which this Midianitish woman hath."
He quitted the room as he spoke, after
casting a glance of satisfaction on the
corpse of the ill-fated young royalist, from
which the distressed lady, assisted by her
servant, was endeavouring to raise her
child. The heavy tramp of the troopers
was heard throughout the house, and the
violence to which they resorted to obtain
every thing of value, was indicated by the
crashing of the various arcicles of furniture
which contained any thing portable. At
length their footsteps were heard in the
court in front of the house j immediately
after, the trampling of their horses told
that they were mounting, and in a few
minutes they quitted the place at a round
trot. The agonized mother listened to
the hollow sound of the horses' hoofs, until
it died away in silence, when she again
endeavoured to raise her child, who still
remained in a state almost as death-like
and as pale as the corpse of her lover.
Having succeeded in raising her, they
bore her to her chamber, where she re-
mained for several days in a state which
left but little hope of her recovery.

Intelligence of Reginalds murder was
conveyed to Purton, from whence, how-
ever, the Berkleys had fled, to escape the
vengeance of the parliamentarians, who,
from their having espoused the cause of
Charles, were much incensed against
tbem. The corpse of the murdered youth

was interred in the church-yard of E ,

and was attended to the grave by the
widow and her daughter. It was not
until this awful ceremony took place, that
Emma returned to a state of conscious-
ness ; her tears then relieved in some de-
gree her heart's anguish, but no smile
was ever seen on her fair cheek j her once
cheerful and melodious voice was changed
for a tone of n:ielancholy and sadness ; her
form wasted, and as each year revolved,
those who knew her saw with sorrow that
death was gaining fast upon his victim.
At length her slight strength began more
rapidly to fail, and showed tliat the affec-
tionate anxiety and attention of her be-
loved parent were of no avail. The only
request she was wont to make was, when
the evening was drawing in, to be sup-

ported to the porch of the door where she
had often sat with her lover, in happier
days. She was thus sitting one evening,
while her mother read from a volume of
tracts, a passage in which the afflicted are
told to look for comfort through the merits
of Him whose life while on earth was one
of sorrow and sutfering, when a horsemaa
was seen approaching. As he advanced,
the widow saw that it was her brother,
who had fled from England with prince
Charles. The cavalier, dismounting, re-
ceived her in his arms, and with a smiling
countenance informed her that the exiled
prince had returned, to fill the throne of
his fathers. His attention was next drawn
to Emma, whose condition he beheld with
evident sorrow, and affectionately pressing
her hand, he bade her take comfort, for
that her friends were hastening home,
and the prince was now in quiet posses-
sion of the throne. The maiden feebly
returned the warm pressure of her uncle's
hand ; her pallid cheek flushed for a mo-
ment ; a smile (her first since the death of
her lover) illumined her wan, though still
beautiful, countenance ; she essayed to
speak, but the sound died away in a
scarcely audible murmur, and bowing her
head, her gentle spirit fled for ever !
» • * ♦
Her remains, and those of her lover,
have long since mingled with their kin-
dred dust in the church-yard of E ,

and the mutilated and defaced slab which
covers their grave, is all that remains to
tell of their ill-fated love !

THE FOUR FUGITIVES.

{Concluded from page 1/5.)
Selworth surveyed tlie quiet waters
which spread unruffled before him, as
though mocking his impatience, and the
sails of the smuggler's vessel speedily
caught his eye : he advanced to the cliff,
and the sound of voices below excited his
attention ; he leant over the dizzy height,
and the form of his beloved Roselle met
his eager gaze, as did likewise those of
Clifford and his companion. They were
watching anxiously a boat which rapidly
neared the shore, and which was rowed
by a man whom Selworth recognized as
being one of diose he had seen in the
cottage.

He rushed along the edge of the cliff
and surveyed it with the keen accastomed
eve of a soldier, endeavouring to discover

182

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; 01

some path by means of which he might
descend to the beach ; nor was it long ere
the jutting craig attracted his attention ;
he pushed it slightly, and it moved — he
forced it rudely from its position, and the
carefully concealed path became visible.
Down he sprang, and with dexterous, yet
speedy step, he sought the spot where
stood his Roselle. The boat now touched
the shore, and Hans Molken having nod-
ded assent to the inquiring looks of Clif-
ford, as to the success of his errand, placed
a board from the shore to the boat, and
w^ith great astonishment did the colonel
behold lady Roselle step on it, not un-
willingly, but with joy.

*' Roselle ! Roselle ! " he shouted —
*' would you leave me ?"

A loud scream escaped her, and quickly
turning, she beheld her lover springing
from craig to craig with dangerous rapi-
dity, and violently waving his sword,
which gleamed brightly in the rising sun.

*' Merciful heavens ! how is this ?" she
exclaimed.

*'Lady," answered Clifford, who now
perceived that speed or force alone could
secure his prize ; ** I cannot pause to
answer questions — you must come with
me," and seizing her in his arms, he at-
tempted to bear her into the boat. Again
her screams were echoed, and she strug-
gled so violently, that, forced to relinquish
her, lest the fragile board on which they
stood should give w^ay, he snatched the
sword which Richard had drawn.

*' Since you will have it so, your lover
dies," and he rushed to meet SeUvorth,
who, panting with rage and ire, yet ex-
hausted by the rapidity of his descent,
could scarce summon sufficient strength
to defend himself against the fierce and
masterly attack of Clifford, who fought
with a determination which showed him
alike possessed of will to retain, and skill
to defend his prize. In a few passes, the
sword of Selworth was forced from his
hand, and staggering back three or four
paces, his foot slipping, he fell upon the
strand. Clifford pressed forward, but
Roselle, escaping from the gentle hold of
Richard, rushed forward, and caught his
arm.

*' Hold, monster ! Would'st tliou de-
stroy a fallen adversary ?"

" Intercede not for me, Roselle — I can
save you yet : die, villain !" and he drew
a pistol from his belt, and presented it at

Clifford : anotlier moment would have
beheld him stretched lifeless upon the
ground, had not Richard, who had closely
followed Roselle, in turn caught his aveng-
ing arm.

" Pause, sir, pause : in him you seek to
destroy — behold your king !"

*' I scorn," said Charles — for it w^as in-
deed that ever thoughtless and vicious
monarch — •* to owe my life to my name.
Fire, sir — an' ye miss me, your life pays
the forfeiture."

*' I own no king," said Selworth, rising
unopposed from the ground, and lowering
his pistol — *' an' if ye be Charles Stuart,
I can but say your present conduct coun-
tenances your banishment from these
realms !"

*• 'Tis well, sir," replied Charles, bit-
terly ; " your pistols make you master of
my person, until your followers arrive,
and then you will, I presume, deliver me
to a death similar to that of my royal
father ;" and he pointed to about a dozen
men who were (yet at some distance) ad-
vancing along the coast to Brighthelm-
stone.

*' If ye were to perish on a scaffold,
perhaps it would be well for England,"
pursued the republican officer ; *' but it
must not be through Selworth : in to
yonder boat, sir. I will advance to those
who approach us ; I know them not, but
will, either by words or actions, for a few
moments, delay their coming. Although
I dislike your principles, I regret and sym-
pathise with your misfortunes."

" Oh, Selworth, Selworth, let us haste
away !" exclaimed Roselle ; " he who
now approaches, comes to tear us asunder
for ever ! 'Tis my father !"

** Rejoice, sire, rejoice," shouted Ri-
chard ; '* they who approach are friends :
it is your loving subject, sir Roger Myrs-
ton, and his attendants."

Robert Selworth clasped Roselle in his
arms, and endeavoured to soothe her agi-
tation, and Charles, after a moment's he-
sitation, addressed him :

*' Colonel Selworth, in attempting to
separate you and that lady, I wronged you
both : accept the only reparation in my
power — the passage for two persons is
secured in yonder vessel to Normandy :
this boatman will take you on board, and
heaven speed your passage !"

*' Sire, what will become of you ?" de-
manded Richard.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

183

" I must await in yonder hut tbtj de-
parture of another boat."

** Charles Stuart," said Selworth, " de-
ceive not yourself; your disguise and re-
treat are discovered, and long ere yonder
sun sinks in the west, the cot will be sur-
rounded by the brave soldiers of the com-
monwealth."

"I have spoken," said the king — "if
you would escape, pause not to parley :
enter the boat and fly."

'• Never !" cried Selworth, firmly ; his
proud soul would not permit him to re-
ceive safety from one whom his principles
taught him to despise.

"'Your obstinacy," said Charles, "de-
serves punishment; and here are they
who will administer it."

" Seize them all !" exclaimed the voice
which Selworth had heard in the cottage.
" Ungrateful girl," said her father, ad-
dressing the miserable Roselle : " but I
will not reproach you ; eternal separation
from the presumptuous roundhead who
has dared to love the daughter of Myrston,
shall prove your punishment."

"That iVorbid, sir," said Charles, in
his assumed tone.

" You ! and who are you ?"

Charles drew off the false beard which
had adorned his chin, and then addressed
the knight in his natural voice —

" Do you know me ?"

Sir Roger bent the knee of reverence,
and his followers, forgetting the precaution
which was essential, shouted loudly —
•* Long live king Charles !"

" Listen, sir Roger Myrston : ere five
minutes have past, I shall have bid a long
farewell to the shores of England, and it
is my last injunction that you unite these
two in holy wedlock. What say ye ?"

" Sire, your commands are law."

" And what say ye, master Selworth ?"

" I thank you heartily," replied the
colonel ; " but by accepting your inter-
ference, I must sacrifice, or at least com-
promise, what is dearer to me than lady
Roselle — my honour. I scorn to accept
assistance from the man who — but no
matter — fare ye well, sire."

" Fare ye well, most pugnacious," re-
plied Charles, gaily. " Remember, sir
Roger, my commands: — when this round-
head colonel, whose iron heart even love
cannot soften, will hear reason ; that is,
will remain neuter in this struggle (I do j
not expect him to become cavalier), give '

him thy fair daughter, — but not till then.
Now, Hans Molken, show thy loyalty in
the strength of thy arms," and he sprang
into the boat. " Farewell, Richard," he
said, leaning back, and giving him his
hand, which the latter enthusiastically
kissed on bended knee : " I shall not
forget thee." The Dutchman, who had
been listlessly gazing on the scene, now
proceeded to exercise his oars, and Charles
waving his hand, exclaimed, " A kind
farewell to all." A loud shout answered
him'; the httle boat in which he sat swiftly
cut the silver waves, and carried him from
England : and in the evening of the same
day, accompanied by lord Wilmot and
colonel Gunter, Charles safely landed at
Fecamp, on the coast of Normandy.

The boat was followed by the eyes of
all until it reached the vessel, and then sir
Roger said to Selworth —

" You heard my promise, sir ; when
you fulfil the annexed condition, my
daughter becomes your bride."

" Farewell, then, Roselle — farewell for
ever," and, with a last embrace, the lovers
parted.

« » » « »

The reception of colonel Selworth at the
court of Cromwell was far from being
cordial : it was well known that he loved
the daughter of a cavalier ; and when it
was discovered that Charles had escaped
from England, and had embarked at
Brighthelmstone — a place from whence
Selworth had posted direct to London —
in spite of past services, strong suspicion
was attached to him. These suspicions
Cromwell hesitated not to notice to him ;
and Selworth having indignantly rebutted
the charge of having changed his opinions,
acknowledged that he had seen Charles
depart without throwing any obstacle in
his way.

Beloved as Selworth was by his sol-
diers, Cromwell deemed it not prudent
openly to punish conduct, of which he
could bring no certain proof; he therefore
affected to believe, that it was not in his
power to seize the person of the king,
and, at the same time, sent a private in-
timation that his services were no longer
required. Selworth left London in dis-
gust, and retired to the estate which the
death of his father had left him in posses-
sion of: here the recollection of Roselle
haunted his mind, and the resignation of
his commission, which speedily occurred,

184

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

was immediately followed by his marriage

to the idol of his affections.

* # * ♦ #

As all my readers know, nine years
after his clandestine departure, Charles
returned the acknowledged sovereign. —
This event gave some uneasiness to Sel-
worth, who feared that a recollection of
the rough exposure of his sentiments still
lurked in the breast of Charles : his alarms
were, however, without foundation. With
a strange inconsistency, the king (with
some slight exceptions) alike neglected to
reward his friends or punish his enemies-,
but with unpardonable folly, to give it no
harsher term, heaped those benefits with
which he should have rewarded his staunch
adherents, on those who, with no uncom-
mon motives, changed from avowed con-
temners of the exiled Charles Stuart, to
venal flatterers of the English king. Thus
the peace and harmony of Selworth Castle
remained undisturbed.

There is one whom we have as yet
neglected to notice — the most faithful of
friends, the most loyal of subjects : reader,
wouldst thou perform a pilgrimage to his
tomb, go to the churchyard of that noble
edifice dedicated to St. Giles, and then
and there shalt thou behold a stone, which
bears a name well known in English his-
tory— Richard Penderel.

Peace to his ashes !

AN EXECUTION ON SHIPBOARD.

The author of " The Naval Officer,"
says — "That the execution of a man on
board of a ship of war, does not always
produce a proper effect upon the minds of
the younger boySj the following fact may
serve to prove. There were two little
fellows on board the ship ; one was the
son of the carpenter, the other of the
boatswain. They were both of them sur-
prised and interested at the sight, but not
proportionably shocked. The next day I
was down in one of the wings, reading
by the light of the purser's dip — vulgo, a
farthing candle — when these two boys
came sliding down the main-hatchway by
one of the cables. Whether they saw me,
and thought I would not 'peach, or whether
they supposed I was asleep, I cannot tell ;
but they took their seats on tlie cables in
the heart of the tier, and for some time
appeared to be in earnest conversation.
They had some articles folded up in a

dirty shirt and pocket-liandkerchief ; they
looked up at the battens to which the
hammocks are suspended, and producing
a long rope-yarn, tried to pass it over one
of them ; but unable to reach, one boy
climbed on the back of the other, and
effected two purposes, by reeving one end
of the line, and bringing it down to the
cables again. They next unrolled the
shirt, and, to my surprise, took out the
boatswain's kitten, about three months
old ; its fore-paws were tied behind its
back, its hind-feet were tied together, and
a fishing-lead attached to them ; a piece
of white rag was tied over its head as a
cap. It was now pretty evident what the
fate of poor puss was likely to be, and why
the lead was made fast to her feet. The
rope-yarn was tied round her neck ; they
each shook one of her paws, and pretend-
ed to cry. One of the urchins held in his
hand a fife, into which he poured as much
flour as it would hold out of the handker-
chief— the other held the end of the rope-
yarn : every ceremony was gone through
that they could think of. * Are you
ready ?" said the executioner, or he that
held the line. * All ready,' repHed the
boy with the fife. * Fire the gun,' said
the hangman. The boy applied one end
of the fife to his mouth, blew out all the
flour, and in this humble imitation of the
smoke of a gun, poor puss was run up to
the batten, where she hung till she was
dead. I am ashamed to say I did not
attempt to save the kitten's life, although
I caused her foul murder to be revenged
by the cat. After the body had hung a
certain time, they took it down, and
buried it in the shot- locker: this was an
indi liable oflence, as the smell would have
proved — so I lodged the information : tiie
i)ody was found, and, as tlie facts were
clear, the law took its course, to the great
amusement of the bystanders, who saw
the brats tied upon a gun and well flogged.
The boatswain ate the kitten ; first, he
said, because he had 'lamed' to eat cats
in Spain ; secondly, because she had not
died a natural deatli (I tliought other-
wise) ; and his last reason was more sin-
gular than eidier of the others : he had
seen a picture in a church in Spain, of
Peter's vision of the animals let down in
the sheet, and there was a cat among
them : observing an alarm of scepticism
in my eye, he thought proper to confirm
his assertion with an oath."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

185

THE WILL:

A TALE OF LONDON BRIDGE.

Few of our readers will require to be
informed, that in the reign of our first
James London Bridge supported many
gates and towers of considerable strength,
and that its shops and houses were te-
nanted by some of the wealthiest citizens.
It will also be remembered that many
mills were turned by the rapid current
which passed beneath its arches. The
dwellings on either side hung in a terrific
manner over the river, which, together
with the tremendous roaring of the water
beneath, rendered them only habitable to
those v\ho were accustomed to such a re-
sidence. Notwithstanding its narrow-
ness, the bridge street was always a scene
of bustle and activity, and the resort of all
classes, from the gallant ruffling in silk
and velvet, to the sturdy porter and nim-
ble 'prentice. Here, too, the dame of
quality and the rich citizen's wife came to
make their purchases, for (he shops in
the bridge street were then held in great
repute.

At the commencement of (he reign of

VOL. II. — 24.

Page 189.

James the First, nearly opposite the chapel
of St. Thomas, which stood on the eastern
side of the bridge, dwelt one master Bar-
tholomew Wyv il, an old merchant, who
was accounted passing rich by most of his
neighbours. In early life he had taken
unto himself a wife, but after a few short
years of uninterrupted happiness, dame
\Vyvil quitted this sublunary world for
another, and it is to be hoped a better,
bequeathing him two fine boys. The
death of his wife, w'hom he loved most
tenderly, was a severe trial for master
VVyvil ; but time and his children did
much towards alleviating his grief. He
determined to spare no expense in edu-
cating them ; and as soon as they had
arrived at a proper age, they were sent
to the grammar-school in Southvvark. For
the first few years, the progress the boys
made in their learning exceeded the most
sanguine expectations of their indulgent
father, who never forgot to visit them
every Sunday, after leaving St. Magnus'
church, at which he was a constant at-
tendant. Perhnps it was not the good
curate's pious exhortations alone vvliich
made the old merchant so constant and
2b

186

TAI.r.S OF CIUVAI.RY ; 0T{,

regular a vi!«i(or. 'Tvvas there lie had
first beheld the fair form and bkie eyes
of the being- who liad been so sudtlenly
snatched from him, and who now lay
beneath the cold marble slab near the seat
which lie usually occupied. His whole
care was directed to his children, whom
he anticipated would be a solace and a
comfort to him in his declining years; —
but these visions of happiness were soon
dispelled: the boys were growing up,
and it was clearly perceptible that the
youngest, who was named Edward, paid
less attention to his studies than his brother
Osborne, whom the old merchant had
named after his deceased wife. Edward
became tetchy, wayward, and stubborn,
and set many examples of insubordination
to iiis school- fellows. Chastisement only
tended to inflame his spirit the more, and
at length, wearied in his fruitless endea-
vours to subdue his fierce and fiery tem-
per, he was dismissed fiom school by his
master, who dreaded the consequence to
the other boys if he remained any longer.

The good merchant, on receiving his
son back, determined to treat him with
all possible kindness, well knowing that
harsh measures seldom succeed in reclaim-
ing such spirits. Edward was therefore
treated with great tenderness by his father,
and all but old Martha, his housekeeper,
thought he had succeeded : she, on the
contrary, always maintained that he was
" an imp of the old one," and would again
resume his proper character. These sage
sayings were heeded not by the old mer-
chant ; but on Osborne's leaving school,
he soon experienced the truth of them.
The brothers (spite of Osborne's peace-
able disposition) were perpetually quar-
relling. Master Wyvill witnessed it with
evident concern ; for three years his house
was a scene of strife and contention
whenever they met ; even the presence of
their father could not restrain them. The
good merchant at length began to dread
the issue, as they had almost arrived at
man's estate, and the conduct of Edward
became every day more fierce and violent.
After considering a long time on the
most expedient means of separating them,
master Wyvil resolved to send his eldest
son into Italy. He fixed on Osborne, not
because he loved him less, but that he
feared to entrust Edward with such a
journey.

Osborne accordingly left England with

letters of introduction to some of the first
merchants at Leghorn, with whom his
father had become acquainted in the course
of business.

On the departure of Osborne, master
Wy vill's house became once more a scene
of quietude. The brothers were sepa-
rated, and the object which had so often
kindled Edward's ire, no longer troubled
him ; yet he showed no stronger inclina-
tion to business than before. The count-
ing-house was seldom visited, unless for a
fresh supply of money, which the old
merchant — such was the ascendancy Ed-
ward had gained over him — dared not
refuse him. Much of his money was
spent at taverns, and on different articles
of dress. His doublet and hose were
made after the fashion of the most cutting
gallants, and a long rapier of Spanish
steel, of the newest and most approved
shape, dangled by his side. He was
known by every one from his father's
house to St. Paul's, where he daily
lounged, with several gallants of his ac-
quaintance, jingling his spurs and assum-
ing the looks and airs of his superiors.
A year had passed since Osborne left
England, and the old merchant evinced
great anxiety for his return ; but on men-
tioning it to Edward, he flew into violent
paroxysms of rage, and used many threats
against his father and his brother, till at
length the old merchant abandoned his
intentions for a time. Osborne had been
heard from several times since his depar-
ture, but his letters did not express any
wish to return, which no doubt arose from
the recollection of his brother's violent
temper. This, however, served as an
excellent pretext for his brother, who failed
not to taunt his father with it. Yet it had
but little weight with the old man. An-
other year passed, during which Edvi'ard's
conduct grew more violent ; his father
gave up all thoughts of his ever reforming,
and became melancholy and dejected ; his
health declined, and his life became a
burthen to him. He at length, unknown
to Edward, wrote to his absent son, beg-
ging him to return speedily.

On a fine evening in the spring of the
year, two horsemen were seen advancing
along the High Street in the Borough.
The soiled and dirty condition of their
apparel, and the jaded state of the beasts
they rode, told that their journey had
been long and^unpleasant. He who rode

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FILLD.

187

6rst appeared, from the superiority of his
habihments, to be the master, while the
other wore the garb of a menial, and
though he barely kept at the distance
usually prescribed to those of his class,
and laughed and chatted with the ottier,
yet he preserved a degree of respect
which the good nature and gentlemanly
bearing of his master commanded. Their
steeds seemed almost incapable of pro-
ceeding much farther, and the foremost
horseman by turns laughed at the knave's
remarks on the passers-by, and coaxed
and patted his steed.

" So-ho !" cried the latter, eyeing a
respectable looking couple u ho were walk-
ing on one side of the way, followed by a
strapping wench with a fine infant in her
arms. " Mistress Joyce is married at last
to Ralph, the felt-maker's son, and has a
fine boy, too. And there," continued he,
pointing to a demure-looking personage,
** there's Puritan Peter Cole, o' the Bank
Side, with his Bible stuck in his girdle,
and his rapier hanging behind him, like
the tail of a lean rat. And there's Gufier
Robbins, with iiis buxom daughter, an
arch little Jezebel that. And here is the
White Hart, with a fresh daub of paint,
which has been laid on pretty thickly."
With these remarks, he followed his
master, who rode under the gateway of
the White Hart. It will be hardly neces-
sary to inform our readers that the travel-
lers were Osborne Wyvill and his man.
He had obeyed his father's orders, and left
Italy immediately on the receipt of the
letter.

Osborne walked hastily along, and
entered the Bridge Street, after passing
through Southwark Gate. In a short
time he arrived at his father's house, at
the door of which he knocked loudly. It
was opened by old Martha, the house-
keeper, whose wrinkled face assumed a
smile on beholding her young master
again. " Well, Martha,"- said Osborne,
" how fares my honoured father and my
brother Ned ? — has he grown steady yet ?"
To these interrogatories Martha made no
reply. The smile which had lit up for a
moment her aged features, gave place to
a look of sadness ; she shook her head,
and on being again questioned, raised her
apron and covering her face, wept aloud.
Osborne's mind misgave him, and on
Martha's recovering herself, his worst
fears were realized. On hearing of his

father's death, he bitterly reproached him-
self for not having returned sooner. To
add to his grief, he learned that his bro-
ther's conduct had become worse and
worse — that he was an object of hatred
and execration to all his neighbours ; and,
to crown all, she informed him that his
father had willed all his property to the
worthless Edward. However sincerely
Osborne might have mourned the death
of his father, his chagrin and vexation
overmastered his sorrow, on hearing that
the old merchant had left him destitute.
His further inquiries only tended to con-
firm what Martha had informed him of.
He learned, too, that the house was a
nightly scene of riot and debauchery, and
had been complained of to the city autho-
rities. Martha sympathized with the dis-
tress of her young master, who had flung
himself into a chair, and remained for
some time in a state of stupor. When he
recovered his self-possession, he enquired
for his brother.

" Alas !" replied Martha, " I know not
w hither he is gone ; no doubt he is drink-
ing at the White Horse with his trusty
companion Bradshawe, or some other
swinge buckler."

" I will seek him — I will seek him this
instant," cried Osborne, starting up — "I
will examine the will myself: my own
eyes shall be witness that it bears my
father's seal and his own signature." As
lie said this, he hastily threw his cloak
round him, and passed out, followed by
his trusty Jasper. A few minutes sharp
walking brought them to the Bankside,
and Osborne eagerly sought for the tavern
spoken of by Martha. The sun was sink-
ing fast and poured itslight on the Thames,
which glowed like molten gold. The
noble steeple of Su Mary Overies threw
its long shadow across the church -yard,
and seemed to look down with an air of
pride and protection on the gable fronted
and whitewashed houses which surrounded
it. Amongst the houses alluded to, stood
one more conspicuous than the rest,
having its door-post ornamented with
cheques of white, red, and gold. Over
the door was fixed an uncouth figure, but
little resembling the animal it was in-
tended to represent ; underneath which
was painted, in legible characters, "This
IS YE Whyte Horse." Osborne abruptly
entered the house, bidding Jasper remain
without. He had alreadv laid his hand

iSi

TAI,i:S OF ClIlVALUYi OR,

on the handle of the door which coniniu- ]
nicated with the pubHc room, when the i
sound of several voices caHino;- lor a song '
arrested his attention : he paused awhile,
thinking he might recognise his biother's
voice amongst them, when the following
song was sung in a deep base, but not
unmusical tone, though it was evident the
singer's voice had suffered from long and
frequent potations : —

Drain, drain the bowl.

If ye would not have your soul

Onpressed by grisly care,

Tnat lank imp o' the devil ;

With us he'd badly fare,

For merrie are they who revel

In bherris and canarie.

Hasten, hasten here,
Mot an eyelid drops a tear.
Save what laughter does shed.
If your damsel'a unkind.
Here a refuge you'll find ;
Lij^ht o' heart,'light o' head.
The slirrup-cup to the niinde

Is sparkling canarie.

Hither, hither fly.
If the sherieves man be nigh,
"SVith his freedom killing paw ;
Or if boldly you'd essay.
Your bilboe to draw.
You'd find (he right way

Is to drink bright canarie.

A loud roar of applause followed, when
Osborne entered the room : his dark eye
glanced hristily round the apartment ; but
his brother was not there.

*' Ned's brother I" whispered some of
the company, as they gazed with vacant
countenances on Osborne, whose face and
figure strikingly resembled Ed^vard's.

" Yes, gentlemen," replied he, some-
what hastily ; " I am indeed the brother
of that Edward \Yyvill — would to God it
were not so."

" Why so, fair sir ?" enquired a tall
gaunt figure, who sat with his elbow rest-
ing on a table, on which stood a Venice
glass and a flask of Canary ^ — his high
crowned and narraw briuimed hat, in
which was stuck a tuft of cock's feathers,
was placed on one side of his head, from
which flowed a profusion of black hair ;
he wore a pourpoint of Milan fustian, with
silver points — a broad belt sustained his
dagger and a Bilboa blade of great length,
and his high-heeled boots were orna-
mented with a pair of gilt spurs.

Osborne made no reply to this man's
question, but enquired of one of the com-
pany if he had seen his brother Edward.

"He has just left us," replied several
voices ; " for his friend, the captain there,
has won hisjast purse."

Osborne glanced scornfully at the per-
son alkided to, who was, in fact, he whom
we have just described.

The captain noticed it with a "You
seem chafed, gentle sir."

"Chafed!" echoed Osborne. "Yes,
sir captain, I am grieved that my brother
hath so far forgotten himself as to si)end
his time in dicing and drinking, to the
neglect of his business."

" Truly, you are a moralizing young
gentleman," said the captain, rolling back
in his chair, and stretching out his legs;
"but mine host here does not favour
Puritans, so ye may e'en depart the way
ye came."

Osborne's blood boiled at this insult,
and he answered the captain sharply.

"Sir Stranger," said he, "I can ill
brook such language ; bridle your tongue,
or your coat may suffer for your want of
courtesy."

J' Thou answerest like a malapert boy,"
replied the captain; "Mike Bradshaw
hath slain his man ere now for a less word.
But come," continued he, " chafe it not;
I would forgive thee for thy brother's
sake, who is a promising fellow, believe
me: — wilt drink, my young master?"
As he said this, he filled a glass, and pre-
sented it to Osborne, who, provoked at the
captain's indifference, seemed too full for
words, and as the latter held out the glass,
he raised his arm, and dashed it to the
ground.

" By buff and bilboe !" cried the cap-
tain, " thou shalt pay the forfeit of thy
daring!" and springing up, he unsheathed
his rapier, and called on Osborne to de-
fend himself. Osborne's blade was bared
in an instant, and their swords crossed.
The captain was well skilled in fence, and
pressed hard upon his adversary, but Os-
borne threw aside his passes, and returned
them with great skill and strength. For-
tunately he had, while in Italy, received
instructions from some of the most skilful
masters of the art. The combat was not
of long duration, for the captain, enraged
at being foiled by one of such youthful
appearance, fought with less caution ; and
Osborne, watching his opportunity, passed
his rapier through the body of his adver-
sary with such force, that the hilt struck
him on the breast, and he fell heavily on
the floor.

" Away ." cried several voices, on per.
ceiving Osborne attempt to raise the

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

189

body. " If thou hast a light pair of heels,
thou niay'st save thy neck. Fly to the
water-side and take boat — the constable
and his knaves will be here anon."

These persuasions were lost upon
Osborne. They all crowded round the
wounded man, who raised himself upon
his elbow, and throwing back the long
dark hair which overshadowed his face,
he faintly articulated, '* 'Tis a just judg-
ment. Come hither, youth — closer still,"
he continued, as Osborne knelt by his
side — " Mike Bradshaw is sped, but he
would make some atonement for the in-
jury he has helped to do thee: here,"
taking a bale of false dice from his breast
— " here is that which will bring thy
brother to an end as untimely," and he
threw them on the floor.

•* \y[\\ any of ye hasten for a surgeon ?"
enquired Osborne.

"'Tis of no use — none," said the dying
man ; " I have not long to live, but the
time left me shall — Oh ! 1 faint — thou
knowest the chest which standeth in thy
late father's counting-house ?"

" I do."

** Hasten thiiher — it contains the will
— the forged will ! the one thi/ brother
made and I witnessed ! Possess thyself

of that — and " The miserable man

could no longer articulate — the eflTort he
had made to reveal his villainy over-
powered him — the death-rattle choked his
speech — his clenchtJ hands relaxed — his
jaw fell, and the next moment he was a
corpse.

Osborne stood for some moments fixedly
regarding the body of his fallen adversary,
when he was aroused from his stupor by
the entrance of the constable, followed by
half-a-dozen men bearing brownbills, the
usual weapons then carried by those
oflEicers.

" Make room," said the officious con-
stable, forcing his way into the apart-
ment; "what!" cried he, espying the
corpse of the captain, ** what, the captain
dead at last ! Which of ye have robbed
the hangman of his due ?"

*' A truce with your jesting, sir !" said
Osborne ; *' the unhappy man died by
my hand, but he drew on me first."

" Ah, ah, ah !" laughed the constable ;
** then you are likely to take a short
journey to Tyburn ere long, if I mistake
not."

*' My heart is too full," said Osborne,

'* or I would resent your gibes. Come
with me, sir, I command you, for I have
much need of your assistance." The
constable \\ as about to reply, when one of
those who had witnessed the encounter
acquainted him with what had passed,
particularly the captain's dying confes-
sion.

" Oh, oh !" cried the man in authority,
" that alters the case : 'tis a foul conspiracy
to defraud an honest gentleman. I am
read}' to attend ye, sir."

" Then on to the Bridge Street," said
Osborne ; and the whole party proceeded
thither. On arriving at the house, Os-
borne, together with the constable and his
fellows, were admitted. The chest men-
tioned by the captain was quickly forced,
and the first object that presented itself
was the forged will. Osborne emptied
the contents of the chest, which chiefly
consisted of papers, and, to his great joy,
discovered the will his father had made,
but it was not witnessed. Old Martha
beheld this scene with mute surprise ;
while Osborne waited impatiently for his
brother's return. In a short time, a loud
knocking was heard at the door, and, on
its being opened, Edward entered. —
Without knowing of his brother's return,
he abruptly strode into the apartment
where Osborne and the constable were
waiting. He started on beholding them,
and, in a voice of mingled surprise and
displeasure, welcomed his brother.

" Edward Wyvill," said Osborne, *' I
know thee well : do not attempt to de-
ceive me. I know my presence troubles
thee much, and that my return was not
expected." Edward surveyed his brother
from head to foot, and whether it was from
the violence of his passion, which he was
endeavouring to smother, or the effect of
conscious guilt, his whole frame was
palsied, and the fingers of his right hand,
which played with tlie handle of his dag-
ger, shook like the aspen.

" These are strange words, brother
Osborne," replied he, ** and thy bearing
still more strange : it lacks of that bro-
therly feeling thou didst once love to boast
of. But," continued he, " what brings
these men here ? Speak, knaves, who
brought ye hither ?"

** Marry, sir, this good gentleman, your
brother," said the ofticious constable, when
Osborne interrupted him.

" Edward," said he, *' I have heard of

190

TALES OF CHIVALRY

thy misdeeds during- my absence, and
much does it grieve me to act in tiie
manner I am now forcetl to do. I always
thought thee wild and turbulent, but
never did I consider thee capable of doing
a deed so black as that thou hast been
guilty of. I see thine eye flash, and thy
lip quiver : nay, speak not till I have
shewn thee the instrument you and your
confederate have forged." As he uttered
these words, he drew the forged wili from
his bosom, and lield it up. Edward re-
garded it for some moments with a fixed
stare, while his brother cried, '* See, here
is thy infernal contrivance to rid me of
my just heritage."

" Liar !" shouted Edward, springing
forwaid, "dost thou doubt that document?
Does it not bear thy father's signature ?
and is it not witnessed in due form ?"

"Thy father never saw- this parchment,"
said Osborne, firmly ; ** 'tis thine own
writing, and he who witnessed it was
bribed for the purpose."

" Ah !" cried Edward, while his coun-
tenance grew deadly pale, and every
limb quivered with emotion. " Osborne,
thy art will not avail thee : I'll seek the
gentleman who witnessed my father's
will." He was about to leave the room,
when the constable and his men inter-
posed.

** What 1" cried Edward, in a voice of
thunder, ** am I a prisoner in my own
house r Make room, varlets, or, by
heaven "

•* Profane not that word," interrupted
Osborne. " Thou goest not hence : guard
well the door : and know, thou heartless
son of a fond and indulgent father, that
the wretched man who aided thee in thy
villainy, sleeps in death : I slew him not
half an hour hence, and he confessed
that "

** 'Tis false !' screamed Edward — " 'tis
false, thou lying varlet !" and drawing a
small dag or pocket-pistol from his breast,
he discharged it at the head of his brother.
Ti»e ball passed through Osborne's left
arm, but luckily without touching the
bone, and lodged in the oak wainscot.
Edward started back on perceiving that
his brother did not fall, then suddenly
drew his sword, and rushed upon him.
Luckily, Osborne had drawn his rapier in
time, and succeeded in parrying his bro-
ther's lunges, when the constable and his
men interposed. Osborne's superior skill

at his weapon had enabled him to wrest
his brother's rapier from his hand, which,
flying to the side of the apartment, dashed
to fragments a large mirror which hung
against the wall.

Maddened with rage, Edward drew his
dagger and rushed upon Osborne, when
a blow from a bill brouglit liim to the
ground ; the weapon fell from his hand,
and the constable's men secured him.
They raised him up, and one of the men
was sent to procuie cords to bind his
arms, when Osborne spoke —

"Unhand him," said he, in a voice
almost choked with grief. " Edward,
acknowledge thyself guilty, and 1 will
forgive thee for our father's sake."

The men released their prisoner, and
Edward, putting aside with his hand the
long auburn locks which were dyed w-ith
the blood from the wound he had received,
replied —

*« Osborne Wyvill, I thank thee : trust
me, I could not live to hear the yellings
of a Tyburn mob enjoy thy father's wealth
undisturbed : live amidst thy merchan-
dize, and forget thou ever hadst a broti)er.
Curse on my folly, and the fiend that
tempted, and curse the drivelling fool
who died betra^'ing me." With these
words, ere those present could interpose,
he leapt on a chair which stood under the
window overlooking the river, and sprang
from it into the roaring tide beneath.
Osborne flew to the casement, but it was
only to see the body of his brother borne
along by the resistless current.

ANDREAS VEIT WOODIR ;
THE MYSTERIOUS GERMAN FORESTER.

In a lonely castle among the Hartz
mountains, embosomed in trees and high
rocks, lived, as tradition says, Andreas
Veit Woodir, a mysterious German
forester, and the best archer among those
hills, which are celebrated for game. This
w^as at a remote date, when the moun-
tains were infested by desperate gangs of
plunderers and robbers, which made Veit
Woodir, it is said, choose such a retreat
for himself and daughter ; for, many years
before that, he had lost his immense
wealth in speculations at Lubeck, where
he had been a merchant of great opulence.

Little was for many years known of
this rigid forester, he being seldom visible,
either by day or night, to the shepherds,
who eagerly watched to behold him, and

PERILS iJY FI.OOIJ AXD FIELD.

191

were always sure to be disappointed.
Time wore on ; and little was seen of this
recluse of the hills, except sometimes when
snow lay in drifts upon the ground, when
he was seen hunting on the heights, and
chasing the goats down with wonderful
force and agility — for on these he chiefly
subsisted in the winter season. His
daughter was said not only to possess ex-
traordinary beauty, but a very fine talent
for music. She was never seen on the
hills, but sometimes by the river Oities,
or among the woods, wandering with her
harp, and singing pathetic and melancholy
airs, in all the enchanting pathos of nature.
Her name was Theresa. She was remem-
bered to have been baffled in a love affair
at Lnbeck, when extremely young, which
ever since that period had left her very
dejected.

Her extraordinary lovely person, en-
chanting appearance, and form light as
air, caused all the young men in the
neighbourhood to be in love with her ;
many made attempts to gain an inter-
view, but the wary Theresa beheld this
with contempt, and tripped lightly, on the
approach of a lover, into the intricate
labyrinths of the mountains, laughing as
if a legion of witches had disappeared,
having drawn their victim into utter dis-
appointment and dangerous snares.

After some time, a young man, whose
name was Angelo, an Italian, came over
into these parts, to view, at the proper
season, that singular phenomenon, the
Spectre of the Brocken — and saw, whilst
walking among the mountains, this nymph
in all her grace, reclining on a rocky
hillock, singing sweetly a song in the
Dutch language. He approached, and
leaning down beside her, she became so
alarmed, that her shrieks were re-echoed
from mount to mount, and from crag to
crag. A rough form was instantly seen
on the hills above, clad in a forester's habit
of German green, and a Dutch bandit's
slouched hat. His dress was adorned
with many grotesque figures, and his
features were bony, gaunt, and marked
with age. It was Andreas Veit Woodir,
who smiled as he saw the innocent face of
Angelo gazing on his beloved Theresa ;
while she, attempting to run to her father,
was held in the grasp of Angelo, who was
still more in love with her than ever.

Andreas now appeared ; and, as if dis-
pleased, struck Angelo a blow with the

sliaft which he held. This raised the
choler of Angelo, who, in his turn, let go
Theresa, and struck the old man with his
sword. Andreas fought dexterously, and
after an equal combat for some time, he
fell, covered with wounds. Theresa in
the mean time laughed, and seemed de-
lighted, which surprised the youthful
I Angelo. Indeed, he little thought she
I rejoiced in the agonies of her dying parent
— a few groans from the aged sufferer
! completed his life for ever. When the
mysterious man was dead, Theresa threw
i herself at the feet of her deliverer, and
i briefly related to him the incidents of her
I eventful life.

This old wretch was not her father ; he
! was an amorous mortal, who had torn her
from her parents, and compelled her to
lead a miserable life among the solitary
Hartz mountains, in consequence of an
oath she had been compelled to take, in
order to redeem her father from a foreign
prison. Having thus bound herself to
him for Hfe, he advanced money suflficient
for her father's redemption ; and she
sufficiently fulfilled her oath, and never
left the old miscreant, always appearing
to the world as his daughter. He was
said to have supernatural agency ; but
whether this was true or false she could
not decide, and love towards him had
never entered her bosom.

When she had concluded, she begged
the mercy of Angelo, who was in raptures
to think he had at length liberated the
lovely woman. They travelled together
to \Virtemburg, where Angelo proposed
to marry her. In this city she found her
father in great prosperity ; and after each
of the parties had related their little his-
tories, Angelo and Theresa were united
in marriage.

Strange, however, as it may appear, at
midnight, when the parties were feasting,
the lights were suddenly extinguished,
and a tall meagre spectre appeared to the
partner of Theresa, whom she instantly
recognised to be Andreas Veit Woodir.
He said nothing, but clasping his long
hands round Angelo and Theresa, bore
them through the bosom of the earth, and
no more was heard of these lovers. Yet
it is said that they are visible every New
Year's Eve, at the bottom of Wirtemburg
Cathedral ; and a stern menacing figure,
leaning over them, shews himself the
spectre of Andreas Veit Woodir.

192

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

THE HUMANITY AND GENEROSITY OK
CAPTAIN CLAPFERTON.

The following mDgnanimous conduct
of this celebrated traveller, is related as
having taken place during his Canadian
career : —

During the winter, he was in com-
mand of a blockhouse on Lake Huron,
with a part}^ of men, for the purpose of
defending it ; he had only one small gun
for its defence. He was attacked by an
American schooner ; the blockhouse was
soon demolished by the superiority of the
enemy's fire, and he found that himself
and party must either become prisoners
of war, or form the resolution of imme-
diately crossing Lake Michigan upon the
ice, a journey of nearly sixty miles, to
York, the capital of Upper Canada, and
the nearest British (iepot. Notwithstand-
ing the difficulty and danger attending a
journey of such length over the ice in the
depth of winter, the alternative was soon
adopted, and the party set out to cross
the lake; but had not proceeded more
than ten or twelve miles, before a boy,
one of the party, was unable to proceed
on account of the cold ; every one of the
sailors declared that they were unable to
carry him, as they were so benumbed
with the cold, and' had scarcely strength
sufficient to support themselves. Clap-
perton's generous nature could not bear
the idea of a fellow-creature being left to
perish under such appalling circumstances,
for a dreadful snow-storm had commenced;
he therefore took the boy upon liis back,
holding him with his left hand, and sup-
porting himself from slipping with a staff
in his right. In this manner he continued
to go forward for eight or nine miles,
when he perceived (hat the boy relaxed
his hold, and on Clapperton examining
the cause, he found that the boy was in a
dying state from the cold, and he soon
expired. The sufferings of the whole
party were great before they reached
York ; their stockings and shoes were
completely worn off their feet, and their
bodies were in a dreadful state from the
want of nourishment which they had ex-
perienced, having had nothing during the
journey except one bag of meal. From
the long inaction of Clapperton's left
hand, in carrying the boy upon his back,
he lost, from the elTects of the frost, the
first joint of his thumb.

A MEDITERRANEAN SQUALL.

Emerson, in his Letters from the
/Egean, says — ** As we were seated at
breakfast, a sailor put his liead within the
door, and saying briefly that it looked
squally to windward, hurried again upon
deck. We all followed, and on coming
up saw a little black cloud on the verge of
the horizon, towards the soudi, which was
every instant spreading over tlie sky, and
drawing nearer to us. The captain
altered his course instantly, preferring to
scud before it, and in the meantime or-
dered all hands aloft to take in sail ; but
scarcely an instant had elapsed ere the
squall was upon us, and all grew black
around ; the wind came rushing and
crisping over the water, and in an instant
the ship was running almost gunwale
down, whilst the rain was dashing in tor-
rents on the decks. As quick as thought
the foresail was torn from the yards, and
as the gust rushed through the rigging,
the sheets and ropes were cracking with a
fearful noise. The crew, however, accus-
tomed to such sudden visitants, were not
slow in reefing the necessary sails, trim-
ming the rigging, and bringing back the
vessel to her proper course ; and in about
a quarter of an hour, or even less, the
hurricane had all passed by — the sun
burst again through the clouds that swept
in its impetuous train — the wind sunk to
its former gentleness, and all was once
more at peace, with the exception of the
agitated sea, which continued for the re-
mainder of the day, agitated and billowy.

HEROIC ANSWER OF PRINCE RUPERT.

A gentleman who assisted prince Ru-
pert in putting on his armour before the
battle of Marston, perceiving him tremble,
asked what could cause such emotion in a
man of such known bravery ? The prince
answered, " JNIy flesh trembles at the
dangers into which my soul will lead it."

WAR music of THE ANCIENTS.

It is the custom of all nations to stir up
themselves to fight by the sound of some
musical instrument or other. The ancient
inhabitants of Etruriaused the trumpet for
this purpose ; the Arcadians, the whistle ;
the Sicilians, an instrument called the
pecrida; the Cretians, the harp ; the La-
cedemonians, the pipe ; the Thracians,
the cornet ; the Egyptians, the driun ;
the Arabians, the cymbal.

PERILS BV FLOOD AND FIKLD.

193

I ril;i)!lK»'':„ii;;ilSB!i;'

MARY FEXWICK.

During a short journey in the north,
my attention had been much excited by
the modest demeanour of an interesting
young woman, accompanied by a vener-
able-looking old man, wiio, on the arrival
of the coach at Berwick-upon-Tweed,
Jook leave of her with an almost filial
farewell, saying, " God bless and reward |
you." She then drew a black veil over I
her facf, and sat down opposite to me. '
I never felt more inclined, and at the I
same time at a loss, to open a C(jnversa- i
tion. To intrude on female sorrow is
unjustifiable ; to treat it with indifference,
impossible. I at length summoned up ,
courage, and observed to her, that I sup- i
posed, like myself, she was not going far.
She answered, that she was on her way to
London. Perceiving a tear trickle duvvn
her pale cheek, and imagining that fur-
ther conversation must be fraught with
more of pain than pleasure, 1 therefore
suppressed my curiosity, and we remained
silent until the arrival of the coach at my
friend's gate, with whom I intended to
sojourn a few hours. Now that all idea
VOL. II. — 25.

Page 198.

of intrusion was at an end, I could venture
upon kindness ; 1 observed to her that tlie
idea of her going such a journey by her-
self grieved me, and asked her if I could
be of any service in recommending lier to
the protection of the guard. She thanked
me a thousand times, and I think, if we
had been destined to go another stage, f
should have known her history. Time,
however, on all occasions despotic, is in-
exorable when armed with a mail-coach
horn, and I had only time to shake hands
will) tiie gentle being, slip a crown into
the guard's palm to look well after her,
ere the coach started, bearing her from
my view for ever. I passed an agreeable
few hours with my friend, enjoying his
old claret and older stories, and then
started to fulfil an engagement in Edin-
burgh. No sooner did I find myself once
more at the door of the inn from whence
the coach was to start, than the circum-
stance brought full on my memory the
romantic occurrence of the previous day.

I found myself a few minutes too
early ; and as [ stood on the steps, shiver-
ing in the cold evening breeze, and pon-
dering on tile vicissifutles of a northern
2c

194

TALKS OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

April (lay, I could not lielp asking- the
landlord (a civil, old-fashioned Bi-niface),
*' Pray, sir, do you know any thing of the
history of that nice decent-looking young
woman \vho started from your house v^itli
me this morning, for London ?"

*' Know, sir!" said he, as if in com-
passion for my ignorance ; ** aye, that I
do ! and so does all Berwick, and it would
be well if all England and Scotland knew
it too. If ever there was a kind heart and
a pretty face in Berwick bounds, it's surely
Mary Fenvvick's !

*' It's ratlier a long story, though, sir,
and the horses are just coming round ;
but I'm thinking there is one goes with
you as far as Haddington, that won't
want pressing to give you the outs and
ins on't." So saying, he pointed to a
stout, grazier-looking personage, in a
thick great-coat and worsted comforter,
who, by his open countenance and manly
yeoman-like bearing, might have been
own brother to Dandie Dmmont himself.
"This gentleman," said the landlord, with
a respectful glance at myself, and a fami-
liar nod to the borderer (a substantial
wool-stapler in Berwick, but passing, in
quest of his pasloral commodity, half his
life among the neighbouring farms),
" wishes to hear all about Mary Fenwick.
You've knoun her from the egg, I may
say, and been in court yourself on the
trial yesterday ; so you'll be able to give
it him to his heart's content."

The last words were drowned in the
rattle of the advancing coach ; in jumped
I, and in clambered the borderer — recon-
ciled to the durance of an inside berth by
the sharp east wind, and the pleasure of
talking of Mary Fen vAick.

Having ex})lained, for the sake of pro-
priety, that my interest in the damsel
arose from the singular circumstance of
one so young, and apparently inexpe-
rienced, travelling above six hundred
miles, to pass one day in Berwick, my
portly vis avis civilly begged my pardon,
and assured me that no one there felt the
least uneasiness on the score of Mary's
journey. "There's a blessing on her
errand, and that the very stones on the
road know ; and, besides, she's so staid
and sensible, and has so much dignity
about her, that she's as fit to go through
the world as her grandmother."

To all this I assented the more readily,
that this very dignity had made me forego

all inquiry into what I wished so much to
know ; and even now I listened to it with
all the more satisfaction for the hint she
had thrown out, as if of regret, for not
having told me herself. " Does she be-
long to this place," asked I, "that you
seem to know her so well ?"

" Yes, sir ; born and bred in Berwick
bounds. She was a farmer's daughter, a
mile out of town, and just what a farmer's
daughter should be. Her mother, a clever
notable woman, taught her to bake and
brew, and knit and sew ; in short, every
thing that many girls in her station are
now too fine to do. They think these
good old-fashioned things make them un-
genteel, but they never made Mary Fen-
wick so ; for I am sure, sir, but for her
suitable dress and simple manners, you
might have taken her for a lady.

" Well : Mary came often in her father's
little cart to market, to sell her butter and
eggs (we've a great trade in eggs here,
you know, sir) ; and, somehow or other,
she fell in with a young man of our town,
a merchant's clerk, who was taken with
her good looks, and cared for very little
else. His old fatlier, however (the old
man who put Mary in the coach this
morning), made many inquiries about his
son's sweetheart ; and as he heard no-
thing but good of her, he had the sense to
see, that though one of a large, hard-
working family, she would be the very
wife to reclaim his gay, idle, thoughtless
son, if any thing would.

"And very idle and extravagant he
was, sir ! The only son of people well to
do in the world, and a good deal spoilt
from a child, he neglected his business
whenever he could, and loved company,
and dress, and horse racing, far too well.
But he really loved Mary Fenwick ; and
no sooner saw that she would not so much
as listen to him while all this went on,
than he quite left off all his wild courses,
and became a new man, to gain her
favour.

" It was not done in a hurry ; for Mary
had been brought up very piously, and
had a horror for every thing evil. But
Dick Mansel was very clever, as well as
handsome ; and, when he pleased, could
make one believe any thing ; and really,
to give him his due, as long as he had
any doubts of Mary's love, no saint could
behave better. At last, however, he
fairly gained her innocent heart ; though

PERILS BY FLOOD ANP FIELD.

195

I believe it was as much by the aid of
bis good father and mother's constant
praises of himself, and doating fondness
for Mary, as by his own winning ways.

" When he saw she loved him, and it
was not by halves, though in her own
gentle way, he wanted to marry her im-
mediately ; and Mary's father would have
consented, for it was a capital match for
his portionless girl. But Mary said,
*' Richard, you have kept free of cards,
and dice, and folly, one half year, to gain
your own wishes ; let me see you do it
another, to make my mind easy, and then
I'll trust you till deaih divides us." Dick
stormed, and got into a passion, and swore
she did not love him ; but she answered,
•* It is just because I do, that I wish to
give you a habit of goodness before you
are your own master and mine. Snrelv,
it is no hardship to be for six m.onths what
you intend to be all the rest of your life ?"

" Richard was forced to submit ; and
for three of the six months behaved better
than ever. But habit, as Mary said, is
everything ; and his had for years set the
wrong way. Witlf the summer came
fairs, and idleness, and junkettings, and,
worst of all, races, into the neighbourhood.
Dick first stayed away with a bad grace;
then went, just to show how well he could
behave ; and ended bv losing his money,
and getting into scrapes, just as bad as
ever.

" For a time he was much ashamed,
and felt real sorrou- ; and feared Mary
would never forgive him. But when she
did so, sweet gentle soul I once or twice
(though her pale face was reproach enough
to any man), he began to get hardened,
and to laugh at what he called her pen-
siveness. Mary was twenty times near
giving him up ; but his parents hung
about her, and told her she only could
save him from perdition ; and, in truth,
she thought so herself; and this, joined to
the love for him, which was all the deeper
for its slow growth, n)ade her still ready
to risk her own welfare tor his.

'• It is not to be told how much she
bore of idleness, extravagance, and folly —
for vice was never as yet laid to his door
— in the hopes that when these wild days
were past, Richard would settle again
into a sober man of business. At last,
however, to crown all, there came players
to the town; and Dick was not to be kept
from either before or behind the curtain.

He fell in with a gay madam of an actress,
very showy, to be sure, but no moie to be
compared with Mary Fenwick, than a
flaring crockery jug to my best China
punch-bowl. She persuaded him, that to
marry a poor farmer's daughter was quite
beneath him ; and to be kept in awe by
her, more contemptible still. So, to make
a long story short, sir, Dick, after trying
in vain to force his poor heart-broken
Mary to give him up (that he might lay
his ruin at her door), had the cruelty to
tell her one night, as he met her going
home to her father's from nursing his own
sick mother, that he saw she was not a fit
match for him, either in birih or breed-
ing ; and that if ever he married, it should
be a wife of more liberal ways of thinking
than she was !

" He had been drinking a good deal,
it is true, and was put up to this base
conduct by his stage favourite ; but when
he found, that instead of a storm of re-
proaclies, or even a flood of tears, poor
Mary only stood pale, and shaking, and
kept saying, " Poor Richard ! poor, poor
Richard !' he grew sobered, and would
fain have softened matters a little ; but
she summoned all her strength, and ran
till she came to her father's gate : and
two days after, when the old Mansels
drove out in a post-chaise, to try and
make it all up, and get their son put once
more upon his trial, Mary was otF — her
parents would not tell whither."

•• And where did she go ?" asked I, for
the first time venturing to interrupt the
honest Berwicker's con amore narration.
*' It came out, sir, afterwards, that an
uncle in London liad feirmerly invited her
to come up and visit him ; and now that
her engagement was so sadly broken offi
she told her parents it would save her
much misery to leave home f(jr a while,
and even go to service, to keep out of the
way till Dick should be married. * Or
hanged !' cried her father, in his passion
(as he afterwards acknowledged), little
thinking how near it was being the case.
There was a salmon-smack lying in the
river just then, whose master was Mary's
cousin ; so she slipped quietly on board
in the dark, and got safely to London."

" How long was this ago ?" said I. —
" Oh ! about tive or six months, perhaps :
let me see, it was in October, and liiis is
April. Well, sir, Marystayeil but a short
time at her uncle's, as idleness was &
2c2

196

TALES OF CIIIVAI.RY ; OR,

thing she never liked ; but thiouwh his '
wife (who had been housekeeper to a
nobleman), slie got u delightCul place in
the same family, as upper nur.ser\-maid ;
which her gentle manners, steady temper,
and long experience in her father's family,
made her every way ht for.

"She had not been long with them,

when lord S was appointed to a

government in the Indies ; and as he
resolved to take out some of his younger

childer, nothing would serve lady S

but INIary must go with them. They
were grown so fond of her, that her cares
on the voyage would be worth gold ; and
then her staid, sober, dignified ways,
made her a perfect treasure in a country
where I understand girls' heads are apt to

be turned. Lady S knew her story,

and thought it recommendation enough ;
so her parents were written to, half Mary's
ample wages secured them, by her desire ;
and she went down to the sea-side to be
in the way to embark at the last moment,
when all the tedious outfit for a great
man's vovage was over."

•*So this explains a hint she threw out,
about gomg to the world's end !" said I.

" Yes, sir ; she would have been half-
way there already, if it had not pleased
God to send a contrary wind, to save
Dick Mansel's life." " His life, poor
wretch [" said I : *' did he take to worse
courses still?" " Pretty bad, sir; but not
quite so bad as he got credit for. I'll
tell you as short as I can.

" There came about Berwick, now and
then, a scamp of a fellow, whom every
body knew to be a gambler and a cheat ;
and whom none but such idle dogs as
Dick Mansel would keep company with.
This man, sir, was known to be in or
about town last autumn, and to have won
money of Kichard, both on the turf and
at the card-table. They had a row about
it, it seems, high words, and even a scuffle;
but few knew or cared ; and Jack Osborne
went away as he came, with none the
wiser.

"But about six weeks or two months
ago, it began to be whispered that he had
been missed of late from his old haunts,
and that Berwick was the last place where
he had been seen ; and, good for nothing
as he was, he had decent relations, who
began to think it worth while to inquire
into it. The last person in whose com-
pany he had been seen, in our town, was

certainly Dick Mansel, who, when asked
about him, denied all knowledge of liis
old comrade. But Dick's own character
by this time w as grown very notorious ;
and though no one here, from respect to
his family, would have breathed such a
notion, Jack Osborne's stranger uncle
felt no scruple in insinuating that his
nephew had met with foul play, and in-
sisted on an inquiry.

" In the course of this, a very suspicious
circumstance came out : a pair of pistols,
well known to have been Osborne's, were
found in Dick's possession ; and a story
of his having received them in part pay-
ment of some gambling debt, was of
course very little, if at all, believed.
There were plenty of people who could
depose, that on the 23rd of October, at a
tavern dinner, the two had quarrelled, and
had high words ; though they were after-
wards seen to go out separately, and
seemingly good friends.

" The next step in evidence was, two
people having returned late that evening,
and on passing a little stunted diicket,
about half a mile from town, hearing
something like groans and cries — which,
however, they paid little attention to,
being in a great hurry. This caused the
place to be searched ; and in an old sand-
pit near the spot, to the surprise and liorror
of all Berwick, were found the remains of
poor Jack Osborne ; his clothes, from the
dry nature of the ground, were in good
preservation.

" Things now began to put on a face
terribly serious for Dick Mansel ; espe-
cially as another man now came forward
to say (people should be very cautious,
sir!) that he had met Dick — or some one
so like him, that he had no doubt of its
being him — on the road to that very spot,
just before the hour when the groans
were heard ; and that, on being addressed
by his name, he passed on, and gave no
answer.

" Between the quarrel, and the pistols,
and the groans, and the dead body — and,
above all, the evidence of this man — a
complete case was made out for a jury :
there were many things besides to give
it a colour ; especially poor Dick's own
reckless habits, and his evident confusion
when first asked what he had been doing
on the evening of the 23rd of October.
To diose who saw his conscience-stricken
look, when taken by surprise, and his

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

197

angry defiance afterwards, when aware of
the drift of the question, there was no
doubt of his guilt.

** Dick was committed for trial ; and,
oh ! sir, it was a sail day for all who
knew his worthy parents, and liad seen
the creature himself grow up before ihem,
a pretty, curly-haired child, and then a
manly, spirited boy ! His behaviour in
prison was chiefly dogged and sullen ;
and he seemed to scorn even denying the
fact to those who could suppose him
guilty, as most did ; — but on his poor
father (who never would credit it) urging
him to think, for the sake of his gray hairs,
whether some means of proving his inno-
cence migiit not yet be found, he at
length said, though it seemed wrung
from him by his parent's •'distress —
" There's one person on earth who could
clear me of this horrible charge (but even
if she were angel enough to do it, I sup-
pose she's left England), and that's Mary
Fenwick ! This is a judgment on me,
father, for my usage of that girl !"

The agonised parents lost not a moment
in writing to Mary the most pathetic
letter broken heart ever penned. They
feared she would have sailed, but it
pleased God otherwise ; and though the
wind that first kept them had changed,
they were detained one week longer for
reasons of state. Mary carried the letter
to her good mistress, and told her all.

" She readdy got leave for the journe} ,
and was offered a fellow-servant to take
care of her, but she was steadfast in de-
clining it. ' I would wish no unnecessary
witness of poor Richard's shame and his
parents' sorrow, my lady,' said she ; * and
God will protect one who is going to
return good for evil.'

" There was not a moment to be lost,
to let Mary appear at the assizes yester-
day, and get back to Portsmouth in time;
so into the mail she stepped, and arrived
here as soon as a letter could have done.
When they saw her, the poor old Mansels
almost fainted for joy. They kissed and
wept over her, as they had done many a
time when their son's wildness grieved
her gentle spirit; but they soon came to
look up to her as a guardian angel come
to save their gray hairs from despair and
disgrace.

"They would have proposed to her to
see and comfort Richard, but she said,
mildly, * We have both need of our

strength for to-morrow. Tell him t for-
give him, and bless God for bringing me
to save iiim ; and pray that it may not be
from danger in this world alone.'

" She was quite worn out with fatigue,
it may be supposed, and glad to lay her
innocent head down once more on her
mother's bosom, in the bed where she
was born, and where she had hardly ex-
pected ever to lay it again. She rose
quite refreshed, and able for the hard
trial (and hard it was to one so modest
and retiring) of appearing in court before
her whole towns- people on so melancholy
an occasion.

"She was indulged with a chair, and
sat as much out of sight as possible, sur-
rounded by kind friends, till she should be
called on. The case for the proseciition
was gone into ; and a chain of circum-
stantial evidence made out so desperately
against poor Dick, that the crown counsel
— a rather flippant young man — i^aid,

• This is a hollow case, you will see, my
lord. Nothing short of an alibi can bring
him off.'

"'And that shall be proved imme-
diately, my lord,' replied, very unexpect-
edly, some of the prisoner's friends. —

* We have a w itness here, come more
than three hundred milns for the purpose ;'
and Mary, shaking like a leaf, and deadly
pale, was placed in the box. The counsel
had nothing for it but to examine her. I
should be sorry to say, sir, he wished to
find her testimony false, but lawyers have
a frightful pride in showing their inge-
nuity ; and he did not quite like his ' hol-
low case' to be overturned. At all events,
his manner was any thing but encouraging
to a poor frightened girl ; but he little
knew that Mary could be firm as a rock
where duly was concerned.

" On being desired to say what she
knew of this business, Mary simply
averred, in as few words as possible, that
Richard Mansel could not have been in
Overton wood at the hour assigned for
the murder of Jack Osborne ; as he was
at that very time with hei-, on the road to

S farm, exactly on the other side of

the town.

" Very pleasantly engaged, I dare say,
my dear,' said the counsel, flippantly ;
' but I am afraid the court will not be the
more disposed to admit your evidence on
that account.'

" ' I am sure they ought,' said Mary, in

198

TAT,ES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

a tone of deep and solemn sincerity,
which dashed the lawyers a good deal.
" • But,' said he, recovering himself,

* Richard Mansel met you, yon say, on

tiie road to S , at a little after the

hour of nine, on a certain evening. Pray
what reason may you have for remem-
bering the hour ?'

*• ♦ Because I stayed to give his mother
her nine o'clock draught before I left
town ; and because, just as I got to my
father's gate, the church clock struck ten.'

« « Very accurate ! And pray what
leads you to be so positive as to the day ?'

"'Because, the very next evening I
sailed for London in a smack, whose sail-
ing day is always on a Friday, and Thurs-
day must have been the 23rd.'

" Very logical, indeed I And now, my
dear, to come more to the point, how
come you to remember Ihis meeting itself
so very particularly ? It was not the first,
1 dare say.'

" * No, sir,' said Mary, her paleness
giving way to a flush of insulted dignity ;

* but it was the last ! I remember it,
because we were engaged to be married ;
and on that very night (and I bless God
it was no other) Richard Mansel told me,
and not very kindly, I was not a fit wife
for him ; and all that had been going on
between us so long was for ever at an
end ! 1 have a right to remember this,
sir, I think.'

" Mary had made, to muster strength
and utterance for this testimony, all the
exertion nature would permit. She fell
back, fainting, into her father's arms, and
a murmur of admiration ran through the
court.

" * This is an alibi, with a witness,' said
an old shrewd barrister. * 'Tis not likely
a discarded sweetheart would come six
hundred miles to perjure herself for a
scoundrel like this !' In corroboration of
Mary's simple testimony, should any be
required, there was handed to the jury a
housewife, or pocket-book, whose few
leaves of simple memoranchims contained
(evidently written down at the moment,
and blotted with a small discernible tear),
' Oct. 26, — This day, parted for ever in
this world with poor Richard Mansel. God
grant we may meet in the next.' "

** And did they meet again in this
world, sir ?" said I, when my honest friend
had got rid of something troublesome in
his eyes.

** No, sir ; Mary felt it was better other-
wise, and no one durst press it upon her.
She wrote him a letter, though, which no
one else saw ; and I hear he says his life
was hardly worth saving, since he has lost
Mary. Poor devil ! we'll see if this great
escape will sober him !"

Little more passed between me and my
friend, as the lights of Dunbar were now
in view. I have since been in Berwick,
and find Richard lives with his parents —
a sadder and a wiser man than they ever
expected him to be ; and Mary is mar-
ried, in India, to a young chaplain, up the

country, to whom lord S has pro-

mised a living in her own native north,
on his return lo Britain.

A NIGHT ON THE ATLANTIC.

How faithfully the sacred writer of the
Psalms pictured the situation of the sea-
man in a storm, when he wrote — "They
that go down to the sea in ships, that do
business in great waters, these see the
works of the Lord, and his wonders in the
deep," &c. It is the actual, the living
semljlance brought to the mind's eye;
while the ocean in its sublime workings,
as described in the verses following that
quoted above, is no less truly depicted.
Indeed, so universally have these wonders
been unfolded, that scarcely a seaman
exists who has not his tale of storms and
tempests to relate ; but where is the being
who can tell half the wonders of the
mighty sea, when the spirits of the vasty
deep have lashed it into fury ? So awfully
sublime and terrible is it, that the recol-
lection of its vastness only leaves the
mind oppressed with the littleness of man,
and it shrinks from attempting to describe
one of the greatest works of its Creator.
In whatever situation it is seen, whether
in calm sleep under the sunmier's sky,
when only the light zephyr plays sportive
on its bosom, so softly that not a ripple
disturbs the surface, or in the furious
tumult of the hurricane, only in parts can
its greatness be told.

Among the many scenes of w'onder that
have occurred, the following, which hap-
pened one night on the Atlantic, shews
the sweeping destruction which a few
minutes will effect upon this awful ele-
ment ; and, though but feebly related, it
will give some idea of the disasters inci-
dent to a seaman's life.

His majesty's brig B was return-

PERILS BY FLOOD AM) S-IKLD.

199

ing home from the West Indies in the
latter end of the year IS29 : fine weather
and favourable gales had brought her far
on her course ; tlie officers and seamen
were looking out joyfully for land ("they
were returning to their homes again") —
when, one evening, the sky assumed a
dark and threatening aspect, and the w ind
shifting round to an opposite quarter,
baffled these hopes, and made the proba-
bility of meeting their friends an object of
greater speculation than they had before
anticipated. Still, the weather was not
of such consequence as to keep niore than
the usual watch on deck, though, as the
night advanced, the daikness increased,
until one could scarcely see the ship's
length, and the wind rose to a smart
breeze.

Twelve o'clock came — eight bells were
struck, the watch changed, and the ship
secure, when the man on the look-out
gave the word, " A sail right a-head !"
Before the helmsman had power to shift
the helm, and alter the position of the brig,
the sliips met with a force inconceivable
to one who has not witnessed a scene
similar to this which now occurred. In a
moment another crash took place, as the
strange sail came with her quarter on the

bow of the B . A loud and piercing

shriek was heard — the dark body of the
ship disappeared — and all again was silent
as the grave, save the roaring surges of
the ocean.

For some time, the crew of the brig
only looked at each other in silent sorrow
and amazement ; they knew not what
damage their own vessel had sustained
by the shock, while the disappearance of
the other caused a sad feeling in their
minds as to the fate of the beings whom
they supposed to have sunk into an ocean
grave : yet, when the alarm of the mo-
ment had subsided, and they found their
own damage to have been but trifling, the
possibility that some part of the crew
might yet be saved, or that the vessel was
still floating on the waters, induced them
to make every exertion to rescue their
fellow-men from the perilous situation in
which this unhappy meeting had placed
them. Lights were immediately hoisted
on diflferent parts of the ship, signal-guns
fired, and the vessel hove-to, near about
the spot where the accident happened.
All was useless — no return was made to
the signals, nor a sign appeared that any

of the crew were yet alive ; when, at the
moment they had given over the hope of
saving any of their fellow-creatures, one
of the seamen, going forward, discovered
a man clinging to the foremast rigging.
How he was not perceived before sur-
prised them, and that he had not ventured
on the deck was equally singular ; but to
suffer him to remain in the situation he
then was, the humanity of a British sea-
man would not allow, and some of the
crew pioceeded to assist him on board.
It was with some difficulty that they re-
moved him, for he clung with an eager
and convulsive grasp to the rigging,
while his frenzied look showed the des-
perate effort he had made to save himself;
but when they had unclasped his hands,
and got him on board, he suffered them to
lead him about like a child. By degrees
his features lost their stern appearance,
and something like consciousness return-
ed ; but their intelligence had fled, and
he appeared plunged into a state of help-
less lethargy, or melancholy madness.
Whatever question was asked about his
ship or himself, he only looked at the
inquirer with a vacant stare, and then
said, " Lost, lost — all gone !" and then
resumed his former appearance.

As they could not gain any information
from him, the vessel continued to cruize
about the spot all night, so that nothing
should remain untried to save any Pro-
vidence might have been pleased to spare
from destruction ; but no sign appeared
to indicate such was the case, though the
weather gradually cleared up, and the sea
became so smooth that a boat might have
lived on it with little difficulty. The next
morning the weather was beautifully mild;
vessels were continually passing and re-
passing ; of every one enquiry was eagerly
made, but none had seen the wreck, or
any thing to mark that such an event had
taken place : indeed, the whole would
have appeared but a troubled dream, had
not the poor stalking wretch, moving
listlessly about, convinced them of its
reality.

Day after day passed on, and he was
still the same melancholy being, though,
as he refused to take any food, he was
become so emaciated as to have the ap-
pearance of a living skeleton. They
attempted by force to make him eat, but
he resisted all their efforts, and showed
such signs of madness, that the crew,

200

TALES OV CHIVALRY

though unwilling-, were obliged to give
up their benevolent design. The first
few days he had been on board the brig,
every morning he would go aloft, and
remain there for hours, apparently look-
ing out for his lost companions ; but by
the time the vessel entered the Cliannel,
he was so reduced as to be unable to
come on deck, and it was evident he
would not live to reach the shore. From
the first moment he was brought on board,
the ship's surgeon had declared, that in
the end he would recover his reason ; but
he feared that the recollection of the loss
he had sustained, and his own providential
escape, would be too much for his weak-
ened frame to bear, and that he would
sink under it to the grave. The crisis
was now arrived : as his weakness in-
creased, his faculties appeared less clouded,
and, according to the doctor's report, he
became sensible of his situation. After a
long sleep, the first he had ever enjoyed
on board the brig, he awoke and faintly
enquired where he was ? The doctor
was immediately called, and ordered him
to be kept quiet ; but it was plainly to be
seen that his end was at hand— his sand
had just run out — a few grains only were
left ; they fell — his eyes closed, and he
was no more ! His end was so soon after
the recovery of his senses, that he could
not explain much as to who he was, or of
the vessel to which he belonged ; his only
words were — ** Write mv father, James

B B , Devon."" Poor fellow !

his wanderings are over, and his cares
past : wrapped up in a hammock, the sea
received him to itself! On its bosom he
had lived, on it he had died, and beneath
its bosom are his last remains placed !

told de Witte that he must challenge the
English captain to go to sea and fight
him, with sixty seamen and seventy sol-
diers. Captain Harman readily accepted
his proposal ; and, on a day fixed, both
ships stood to sea, and began to engage
within pistol-shot of each other. In a
short time, the Dutch ship's mainmast
was shot away. Captain Harman availed
himself of the confusion into which this
disaster had thrown the enemy, boarded,
and compelled him to surrender, with the
loss of one hundred and forty men. The
English had nine men killed, and fifteen
wounded ; among the latter was captain
Harman, who received a shot which went
in at his left eye, and came out between
the ear and jaw-bone. He was perfectly
cured of this wound, and lived several
vears after.

FIGHTING FOR FRIENDSHIP.

The laws of honour are so imperative
as to render them in many cases ex-
tremely painful. We think there are few
of our readers, on perusing the following
anecdote, but will coincide with us in our
opinion — in this instance, at least : —

The Tiger frigate, commanded by cap-
tain Harman, lying in the port of Cadiz,
at the same time that a Dutch squadron
was there, de Witte, a captain of one of
the Dutch frigates, was particularly inti-
mate with captain Harman — which made
the Spaniards insinuate that he dared not
fight the English frigate. Evertzen, the
Dutch admiral, on hearing this report,

the duke of YORK AND THE SOLDIER S
GOOSE.

The day after the battle of Alkmaer,
his royal highness the duke of York, who
had taken no sleep the preceding night,
sat down upon the rising bank of a wind-
mill to rest himself. He soon saw a sol-
dier with a piece of provision in his hand,
the smell of which had reached him. The
duke bid one of his attendants to see what
the soldier had. The latter cam*^, and it
was a goose, about three parts plucked,
and roasted at a camp fire. Tlie duke
asked him if he could spare a bit ? 'I'iie
n)an immediately proceeded to make
apologies about the bad dressing. The
duke replied — " Prithee, my good fellow,
don't make compliments to an hniigiy
stomach," and he began eating eagerly,
with a biscuit for his plate; some of (he
other conmianders ate a bit also. The
private ran back for some diink, and
brought a firkin of Hollands. After the
relish was finished, the duke took a pull
out of the firkin's mouth ; the other
officers also drank. " I hope, comrade,
I have not spoiled your dinner ?" "No,
your honour ; my five comrades in the
mess are now eating another goose." —
'♦ Then," said the duke, " take a louis for
yourself, and five others for your com-
rades."

The love of adventure is a sort of
mental spirit- drinking, as hard to be
overcome as the passion for strong waters
itself.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

201

Pase 205.

THE IMPORTOsATE LADY.

The lady Estifana was one of the most
agreeable ladies of the court of Spain, and
was, in truth, as good as she was handsome,
if a little haughtiness of demeanour and
excessive proneness to jealousy may be
overlooked. She was the only child of
the rich old marquis d'Olina, and heiress
of his great wealth ; so that it is not to
be wondered at that the marquis was very
watchful over her conduct, especially as
he was by nature suspicious. This noble
lady much loved, and was much loved by,
don Alvarez, the nephew of the then
minister of the king. He was a noble
youth, well bred in all honourable senti-
ments, and accomplished in all the arts of
a cavalier ; and, moreover, possessed of a
calm and temperate mind, not often found
in one of his age.

It happened at this time that the infanta
was not betrothed; and, being unengaged
in heart to any royal lover, she took much

delight in the young duke of M 's

company, who was over ready, as the
king and his minister thought, to show to
her all those soft attentions by which the

VOL. II. — 26.

hearts of women, be they illustrious prin-
cesses or poor peasants, are too apt to be
ensnared. Whether in the tournament,
the bull-fight, or the making of madrigals
and love sonnets, the princess was ever
the lady of the duke's devotion, until it
came to be marked by the most dull ob-
servers. Such conduct did not go un-
blamed by the king and the more grave
part of his court ; but, for weighty reasons,
it not being convenient at that time to
banish the duke, the great minister was
obh'ged to furnish some other mode of
getting rid of this sad and growing evil.
After divers consultations with the king,
and much parleying among the elders of
the court, both ladies and lords, it was
proposed by the ministers, because neither
the king nor any of the grandees could
think of any other feasible plan, that the
lady infanta should be privately conveyed
away to the convent of Santa Barbara,
the lady abbess whereof boasted of the
royal blood ; and in the privacy and holi-
ness of which place it was hoped the prin-
cess would regain those lofty thoughts
befitting her high state. This being de-
termined on, the next difficult considera-
2d

202

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OU,

tion was the selectincr an hidalgo wise
enough to be trusted with such an im-
portant mission as the conveying the
heiress of Spain, in secresy, to the con-
vent— young enough to defend her in case
of need from any rude attack — and poHtic
enough to fashion his conduct so as not
to betray the royalty of her whom he
escorted, and yet so as not to approach
too familiarly his sacred charge. Where
was this Phoenix to be found ? At length
the minister ventured to propose his ne-
phew, don Alvarez, as one whom he
would stake his life to be worthy of such
great confidence. Accordingly he was
appointed to the perilous office.

Don Alvarez received many and strong
injunctions as to his conduct and secresy ;
and the infanta, having by much and
long discoursing with her ghostly confes-
sors, royal father, and governing ladies,
been subdued into an obedient quiet,
prepared to set off, with her proper attend-
ants, to the lady abbess of Santa Barbara,
under the disguise of a lady travelling
with her brother, to become a noviciate
thereat. You may be assured that don
Alvarez did not fail to present himself to
his dear Estifana, and lament the neces-
sity of his absence ; and when she, with
woman's natural curiosity, sought the
purport of that absence, he excused him-
self with some double-meaning apology,
that ofttimes they who deal in the world's
politics are forced to invent. The lovers
parted with much grief, for young and
tender hearts make much of parting, even
for fleeting weeks.

It is easily to be supposed that a lady
so noble, so hantlsome, and so great in
wealth as donna Estifana, was not without
many and persevering suitors, who re-
doubled their gallantries on the departure
of him whom they had strong suspicion
to be more favoured than themselves.
And there was one among them, a man
noted for his deep and crafty spirit, who
had wonderful softness of manner, and
took it much to heart that he could not
prevail in her good graces. He had so
far fallen from his true Castilian honour,
as to darkly vilify his absent rival. But
in this it needed his utmost caution, for
the lady Estifana possessed a most pure
soul, and right ready wit, that would have
soon discovered and scorned such base-
ness. However, by his great sagacity
and long experience in the ways of women,

he perceived her weak side, which was a
too great susceptibility of any fancied
slight, and a great proneness to suspicion
— qualities for the most part ever joined;
and by most subtle modes he insinuated
don Alvarez to be gone at that very time
secretly to conduct a lady to some un-
known retirement. The lady Estifana,
though she would not manifest the slightest
care at this notification, pondered much
on it privately, until at length, by too
frequent meditation thereon, it took sole
possession of the fancy, and then raised a
storm of doubt, and fear, and anger in her
breast, which nothing but disproof could
allay. The tormentor, seeing his poison
work, threw out a hint that don Alvarez
would, at a certain time, rest at the mar-
quis Piombo's, whom he knew to be a
much-prized friend of the marquis d'Olina.
And this was the truth, however he came
by it ; for the marquis Piombo being, it
was said, a creature of the government,
had had orders from the minister to receive
tlie travellers as persons of rank, but, on
pain of deep displeasure, to make no
enquiries who they were, whence they
came, or whither they were going. Pos-
sessed of this information, Estifana pre-
tended to grow sick of the town, and
wearied her father to pay a visit to the
marquis Piombo, and, after some delays,
they arrived at his noble castle, where
much gay company was assembled, and
where she anxiously sought for don Alva-
rez, but did not find him. Already had
she begun to repent of her misgivings,
and to take to task her unconfiding heart,
for thus daring to impugn the faith of a
knight so loyal and so tender as Alvarez.
She had begun to detest his base rival tor
his false news, when, as she stood at her
window, looking out on the setting sun,
that ever driveth pensive minds to medi-
tation, she heard tones of impleading,
tones which made her shake from head to
foot, for they were those of don Alvarez.
She listened again — again she heard them
in tender entreaty, to which a soft female
voice made answer. Her rage flashing
up, and towering into haughty wrath, she
was about to seek a door to rush in on the
perfidious man, when her foot catching in
the arras, drew it aside, and discovered a
little circular hole, which had been de-
vised by some spy for cunning purposes.
Forgetting in her frenzy the laws of ho-
nour— so debasing is passion — she looked

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

203

through it, and saw don Alvarez beseech-
ing at the feet of a bewitching lady.
Overcome by emotions, she struggled to
her bedside, and, throwing herself on it,
gave way to a convulsion, which ended in
floods of tears.

It was don Alvarez she saw : it was
don Alvarez beseeching his princess not
to faint in her good resolves, but to pro-
ceed in the same unknown manner to her
destined abode at tlie convent, as most
befitting her royal heart, and most pro-
ductive, in the end, of her glory and joy.

The hour of the common banquet ap-
proached, and as he was to quit the castle
on the morrow, he felt it his duty to be
present at it.

Estifana having, by this time, called
pride and resentment to her aid, resolved
not to give cause for any notice of her
father, by absenting^ herself from this
meal ; and, having endeavoured to recom-
pose her features, and smooth her swollen
eyes, she entered the great hall a few
minutes previous to the serving of the
banquet. Scarcely had she entered, ere
don Alvarez, enraptured and astonished,
beheld her, and approaching her with joy,
expressed his unexpected delight. But
what were his sensations, when, turning
abruptly from him, she called out to a
nobleman near her, " Don Louis, oblige
me by conducting me to my seat, and
relieving me from the presence of an
impertinent intruder." Unconscious of
deserving such treatment, Alvarez stood
bewildered, until reminded the banquet
was served, joining which, he did all he
could to conceal his chagrin. At length
the company separated, and he wandered
forth he knew not whither, lost in conjec-
tures and alarm. Sometiiiies he fancied
Estifana must have lost her senses j the
next moment that she had become ena-
moured of some other. With a soul thus
disturbed, he wandered back, and passing
through the great gallery, he perceived
Estifana sitting at a window overlooking
the now star-lit scene, abstracted and in
tears ; approaching her, in the most sup-
plicating tone, he said, " Estifana !" —
*• Ah !" and, overcome with mingled
emotions of shame, regret, and anger, she
slowly and dignifiedly walked up the hall.
"Est'ifana," cried he'—" by all mv happi-
ness on earth, I conjure you tell me what
this means ? what have I done ? ^^hat do

you mean ?" She had not been unob-
servant of don Alvarez' emotion at the
banquet, and already repenting her of her
fatal curiosity, and grieved at knowing
the truth, as she conceived, love and
regret had taken the place of resentment :
" Leave me," she now said, in a voice
scarcely audible — " there is no necessity
for further insult." " Insult ! impossible
— you cannot think it I you, whom I
cherish with a devotion second only to
that which is due to heaven — Estifana!"
" Leave me, sir ; I did not deem you so
accomplished a hypocrite." " I know not
\\hat you mean, nor why you thus torture
me. Nay, you shall not go — my dis-
traction overcomes all delicacy. Hear
me, Estifana I Tell me, Estifana, what I
have done, to merit this cruelty." "Un-
hand me, sir !" " I cannot, till I know
the cause of your great anger." " You
knew^ it when you made it, sir." " You
speak in riddles : if I have done any
thing, oh ! tell me quickly." " You're
adding to it now." " Hear me on my
knees aver before the saints, and in the

presence of " " Oil ! perjure not

yourself. You have knelt before to-day."
" Ah !" He started to his feet, and for
the first time the hapless don Alvarez
caught a glimpse of the suspicious situa-
tion he stood in with the princess. "Now,
sir, if you can explain," said Estifana, with
a dignity more awful than her anger.
" Oh, Estifana ! oh, touch not upon that
— I must not, dare not." " It is well^
sir ;" and she moved to retire. " Oh !
no, hear me, I conjure you." " I do."
" It is a state affair — a secret of the go-
vernment. That lady can be of no con-
sideration to me." "Indeed! and do
you kneel to all ladies thus ?" "Estifana,
have I for years made you the confidant
of every thought, that now you will not
trust to my solemn assurance once ?" —
" Have I ever failed in my fidelity and
secresy ?" " No ! no ! but now ! — "
" Sanchez" — seldom did the lady address
him by his Christian name ; let all those
who have ever loved, and been so named
by the lady of their love, judge how it
thrilled upon him — "Sanchez, I have been
prodigal, and given every thought to
you — never withheld the slightest shadow
of a thought from your inspection ; and
do you now, when our love hangs on the
disclosure, refuse to n)ake it ?" " Ye;^, I
must, for duty bids'" "Then, sir, let

204

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

duty conquer love." ** Ob, stay, stay !"
" What for ? — to be ag^ain told I am not
worthy of your confidence ? Had I not
with my own eyes and ears witnessed and
heard — oh, sir! I wrong my sex to falter
thus." And she advanced a considerable
way. Don Alvarez faltered — " Hear me,
then, Estifana; hear me, and acquit." —
** Well, sir ?" ** That lady is the infanta !"
and don Alvarez dropped his voice, but
not so low that the marquis d'Olina, who
had been passing through the hall, and
seeing his daughter in conversation with
her lover, had had all his meanness
aroused, and resolved to listen to their
conversation. *' The infanta ? How ?
Why? What for?" asked the astonished
Estifana. *' Come into this embrasure,
and, since you demand it, I will put my
secret and my life into your keeping ;"
and he related the particulars of his mis-
sion, and all that had passed, to the lady
Estifana. She was relieved, bewildered,
and grieved — grieved at the manner she
had forced his secret from his keeping.
She said, ** Oh, Sanchez ! you know your
life to me is dearer than my own — what
could I think ? The infanta !" *' Hush !
those syllables might cost my head," —
••Oh, forgive me, Alvarez — forgive my
mean suspicions, my hard belief — it can-
not harm you." *' Oh, did it — cost it my
life — your anxiety would repay it, Esti-
fana ! The princess will soon be confided
to the convent, and then you can no longer
delay; after all this, my Estifana — vou
will not." " Of that hereafter." — " Pro-
mise." •' I do." ** I am too blest !" —
*' Hush, Alvarez ! Oh, heaven, should —
I thought I heard — " '* No I it is no-
thing," and Alvarez stepped out into the
hall. The Marquis had adroitly slipped
behind an abutment, and there was no-
thing to be seen but the faint checquer-
ings of the reflected windows by the star-
light on the floor. " Oh ! we must part —
farewell, Sanchez ; say again you pardon
me ! Would 1 had confided more! Should
it be known, and you — oh !" "It cannot
— never can." *' Farewell !" ** I'll see
you to the gallery." And don Alvarez,
having conducted her thither, withdrew
to his chamber.

The next day he proceeded with his
royal charge, and in due time delivered
her safe into the hands of the abbess.
At taking leave, the infanta presented
don Alvarez with a ring, as a token of her

sense of the noble way he had conducted
himself in his odious task. With speed
he returned to the capital, and in the
smiles of Estifana, and the approbation of
his uncle, who, in reward for his judicious
conduct in so nice an affair, granted his
long withheld consent to his formal asking
of the hand of the marquis d'Olina's
daughter. The future smiled before them,
and the anxiety the lady Estifana occa-
sionally felt at being the depositary of so
weighty a secret, only served to add an
additional charm to her tenderness to-
wards him.

But in this world we walk as upon ice,
which, when most smooth, is also most
shppery. 'J'he marquis d'Olina having,
by such nefarious means, acquired the
important knowledge of the destination
of the infanta, lost no time in making use
of it in political cabals. He had been
long in the confidence of the duke of
M ; and had he not thought the ne-
phew of a reigning minister better than
the heir of one who had only a chance of
becoming such, he would not have con-
sented to his daughter's union with don
Alvarez. Possessing this information, he
knew he could nowhere take it to a better
market than the raging duke, who would
have parted with ten times the advantages
he had rather than have foregone the
knowledge. The marquis, though cun-
ning, was never far-seeing, and, reckless
and careless of consequences to others,
merely stipulated that the duke should
not, in any case, reveal his informant ;
and thus he satisfied himself no ill con-
sequences could accrue to don Alvarez.

The duke lost no time in making the
most of his information ; and the ardour
of the lover so far overcame the prudence
of the politician, that it soon reached the
minister's, and finally the king's ears,
that the infanta's retreat had been be-
trayed. Don Alvarez one morning en-
tering his uncle's cabinet in his usual
high spirits, perceived a strange alteration
in his countenance. After a pause, in
which he appeared to be deeply engaged
with some papers, the minister suddenly
rose, and drawing himself up — he was a
full-made, majestic man — he demanded of
don Alvarez thus — '* What are you?"
" A Castilian," proudly replied Alvarez.
"Then put your hand on your sword,
and swear, by the honour of your country,
you never revealed to human soul the

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

205

mission for which I selected you from out
the hidalgos of Spain." Don Alvarez
was confounded. " You hesitate. You
refuse to deny it. I'hat hanging of the
head is sufficient." " But, sir, hear me :

she I did betray it to " " Fool !"

muttec^d his uncle ; " nay, you confess,
and I have but one course," and going to
the arras, he drew it aside, and opening a
small door, beckoned some persons, and
merely saying, ♦' He is your prisoner,"
they immediately grappled his sword.
*' Nay," cried don Alvarez, *' not with

force ; be gentle, and I foil " but ere

lie could utter the sentence, he was enve-
loped in a rough mantle, and conveyed
into the anti-chamber, and thence through
innumerable passages, so muffled up he
could scarcely breathe, by four athletic
men, and a strong guard, might he judge
from the trampling he indistinctly heard.
He was finally left in a small dark apart-
ment, which, whether it were above or
beneath ground, he had no means of as-
certaining.

Gradually recovering his reflection,
despair at first overwhelmed him ; but re-
gaining the composure so much the habit
of his mind, he endeavoured to nerve him-
self for the worst. He had lain here for
many hours, without hearing the sound of
living creature, when he was aroused by
the approach of feet, and presently an
oflScer entered his apartment with attend-
ants. " Signor," said he, addressing
Alvarez, ** speak not : I now for the first
and last time address you ; if you signify
your assent by bowing your head to my
proposals, follow me. Promise, on the
oath of a Castilian, not to attempt to
break the laws of the state prison by ad-
dressing any of its attendants, and you
will be furnished with an apartment more
befitting your rank. You comply : it is
well ; follow me." Don Alvarez and the
alguacils arranging tliemselves around
him, they proceeded through many pas
sages to an apartment, which, though dim
and secluded, was preferable to the dreary
hole he had left. Throwing himself on his
couch, the current of his thoughts revived
by even this slight event j and the pros-
pect of an ignominious and secret death,
the blighting of all his hopes, and thus
being torn from the consunjmation of all
his joys, mingled with the upbraidings of
his judgment for his failure in firmness,
alternately lashed him into desperation,

and sunk him into despondency. A
repast was served — the server first osten-
tatiously tasting all the dishes. When
the attendants came to remove it, it was
untouched, and was removed without the
slightest expression of surprise. Shortly
after, an unusual bustle somewhat aroused
him ; and with marks of the most slavish
homage, his uncle, the minister, entered.
The attendants withdrew, and they were
left alone together. Dan Alvarez arose,
and stood erect in silence. "I come to
announce to you death !" said the mi-
nister. The colour forsook and returned
to Alvarez' cheek — a slight tremor ran
through his frame — but he became firm as
marble the next moment. "You have
betrayed the confidence of your king —
you have frustrated the plans of your
master and relative. You have put me
into the power of the duke. I am accused
of being engaged in a counter-plot. You
are possessed of secrets of the state, which
the tomb alone can be trusted with. I
have raised and supported you, young
man, and I will shew you I can pluck you
down and crush. The king would have
pardoned, but the blood of Alvafez can
alone atone for the dishonour of Alvarez.
I forbade it. Ere another sun rises and
sets, you inhabit another world. These
are the last accents of mortal that will
reach your ear, save those of your father
confessor. May God pardon what I can-
not." And, so saying, he withdrew. —
" It is just !" murmured Alvarez ; ** O,
Estifanal Estifana !" and he fell on the
floor.

We must now leave Alvarez and seek *
the lady Estifana. When she learned
the sad' tidings of the imprisonment of
her betrothed, her heart poured forth a
torrent of self-upbraidings. " It is I who
have murdered him — my importunate
jealousy has thus cut him oflT in the bloom
of his 'life. I will die also — I will not
live."

When don Alvarez had been so hurried
to prison, his uncle proceeded to the
cabinet of the king, where a council was
sitting to examine the proofs of the charge
against Alvarez. They were incontest-
ible, and the sentence was pa.ssed which
the minister himself conveyed to Alvarez.
The king, who was by nature of a clement
disposition, on re-considering the youth
and fidelity in all other matters of don
Alvarez, called for_the minister the night

206

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

before the morning destined for the exe-
cution, and transmuted the sentence into
one of secret imprisonment. The minister
at length fell in with the king's clemency,
on condition tliat none but themselves
knew of his redemption, and that he should
be sent to some distant fortress, where
not even his keeper should be aware who
he was. The wretched Alvarez had com-
posed himself to meet his fate : and means
had been allowed him to write to donna
Estifana, which he did, conjuring her, by
all their hours of love, not to cast away
her own happiness in vain regrets. The
letter was dispatched, and he, taking
leave, as much as he could, of worldly
concerns, resigned himself to the ghostly
consolations of a holy father. But before
the hour appointed for his final suffering
arrived, his uncle again appeared, and
informed him of the king's mercy. At
the first news of prolonged life, the natural
man swayed in his bosom, and hope and
the world again danced before his eyes.
But on hearing the doom of perpetual
and solitary confinement, it seemed but
an aggravation of his torments. He en-
treated, he commanded to be led to death
— but no answer was returned to his
ravings; he was again left alone, and at
the close of the day a mask and mantle
were put into his chamber, with com-
mands to array himself in them, and an
intimation, that to attempt to utter a
word to those who would shortly come to
conduct him to his final destination, would
be answered by a poniard, and death.
He habited himself as directed, and
awaited the coming of liis guards. When
darkness had completely set in they ap-
peared, and in a close carriage he tra-
velled two nights and a day, in what direc-
tion he knew not. At length he was
conveyed to the tower, in the uppermost
chamber of which, overhanging the river
and the cliflf, he was immured. No com-
munication with existence allowed him
but his mute attendant, he passed the
slow hours in alternate agonies of misery,
and attempts at recovering his steadiness j
of soul — the fate of his betrothed, his
newly espoused Estifana, unknown. —
Months had elapsed in this undisturbed
monotony of misery, when one morning,
watching the dawn of day, as was his
frequent custom, what was his surprise to
see a female, in dishevelled apparel,
seated on a small ledge that overhung

the stream. Absorbed in deep medita-
tion or melancholy, she remained, regard-
less of the dawning day, until the violent
chirping of the birds around seemed to
restore some faint traces of animation.
She rose — he darted against the bars of
his window — his heart leaped ag^st his
breast — it was Estifana ! " Oh, God 1"
he cried; "Estifana! Estifana! My
beloved, it is Alvarez calls you !" She
looked up with a vacant countenance to
the tower. It was, indeed, the lady
Estifana, on whom a deep melancholy had
settled, accompanied by frequent aberra-
tions of reason. Sometimes she would'
walk up and down her chamber for hours,
repeating such incoherent words as — "I
will go to the king — Yes, yes 1 — Haste
my mantle — there — yes, yes ! But I did
not betray — no, no, Alvarez, I did not.
Alvarez I ay, his head — lay it in my lap
— he is gone to sleep" — and such like.
She had been ordered by her physicians
to change the scene entirely, and had
been conveyed to a seat not much fre-
quented, it happened to be near the
unknown prison of Alvarez, and she,
having eluded her attendants the previous
night, had wandered to the place he now
saw her on. Long and loud did he call
on her, and he pronounced his own name;
and she started, and cried in a maniac
tone, "I am called! Yes, Alvarez! I
come !" Don Alvarez maddened — he
tried the door — he called on his gaolers —
they were deep sunk in sleep. He rushed
again to the window — " My Estifana !
Estifana !" "Yes, it is Alvarez' voice !
I come, my beloved Sanchez, I come ;"
and gathering her mantle closely round
her, she cast herself into the river. —
" God 1 God I" raved the mad Alvarez,
and, with the vigour of despair, he tore
the bars from the aperture. He saw her
body just rising, and her lovely arms
waving in the waters : he cast himself
from the tremendous height, and was
dashed on the edge of the rock, and
thence into the stream. Their families
were informed of the mournful occur-
rence; and their bodies, parted in life,
were borne to one cemetery, where, toge-
ther, they have long since mouldered
into dust !

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

207

DUELLING IN AMERICA.

The following is from the New York
Spectator: — " We received a letter from
a friend in the West, a short time since,
from which we extract the following ac-
count of a duel, which, for novelty and
brutality, the reader must confess, has not
been surpassed : —

* Writing of their genteel and honour-
able mode of settling disputes, I uill en-
deavour to give you a description of a
duel whicli took place in a southern city
not long since ; and, to do the narration
justice, 1 must inform you of its origin.
One night, a stranger — a tall, bony, and
powerful man — stepped into the bar-room
of a fashionable hole), and swaggered
about, to the no small amusement of the
company. His dress was unique, being
a coarse Petersham coat, deer-skin pan-
taloons, and heavy water -boots. His
head was graced with a huge Mexican
hat, with a brim half a yard wide. The
bulls of two large horse- pistols protruded
from either pocket of his coat, and the
handle of a bowie-knife projected from
under his vest. The strangeness of the
man's appearance rivetted the attention
of all present, and those who did not boast
the bump of combativeness, shrank from
the swing of his giant arm. " I'm a gen-
tleman," said he, by way of introduction.
No one appeared to dispute it, so he pro-
ceeded : *' I own three thousand acres of
prime land, two sugar plantations, and
one hundred negroes, and t can chew up
any man in this room." Still no one dis-
puted him ; and looking round with a
sneer, he exclaimed, " I've killed eleven
Indians, three white men, and seven
panthers ; and it's my candid opinion you
are all a set of cowards !" With this de-
nunciation he jolted against Dr. B , a

man of high honour and unquestionable
courage. The doctor immediately threw
the disgraceful epithet back on him, and
at the same time spat in his face. The
bowie knife of the stranger immediately
glistened in the light, but the timely rush
of several gentlemen prevented his plung-
ing it into the heart of his opponent.
Matters were soon brought to an under-
standing, and a formal challenge was
given and accepted by both parties. Dr.

B was a thickset, muscular man, and

considered one of the best shots in the
states ; and even the arrangements of the
duel did not shake his determination to

humble the arrogance of the stranger.
The terms were these: — Tlie parties were
to be locked up in a dark room (the
seconds remaining outside), each to be
stripped of his clothing with the exception
of pantaloons, and the arms and shoulders
to be greased with lard. Each had a pair
of pistols and a bowie knife. At a given
signal from the seconds, the butchery was
to commence. The doctor, who survived
the dreadful conflict, stated that for nearly
a quarter of an hour they kept at bay,
and scarcely a tread or breath could be
heard after the cocking of the pistols. At
moments he could see the cat- eyes of his
antagonist ; and when he was about to
fire, they would disappear, and appear
again in another part of the room. He
at length fired : as quick as thought the
shot was returned, and the ball passed
through the shoulder. In his agony he
discharged the second pistol at random ;
the flash brought a return from his oppo-
nent, and another ball passed through the
fleshy part of his thigh. Faint with the
loss of blood, he staggered about the
room, and at length fell heavily upon the
floor. The stranger chuckled when he
heard the noise of his fall, but soon became
silent, and slowly and softly approached
his victim, W'ith the intention of dispatch-
ing him with his knife. This, however,
the doctor, with much presence of mind,
though barely alive, prevented — for the
grey eyes of the stranger betrayed him ;
and while they glared like fire balls over
him, he struck his knife upwards, and it
went through the heart of his antagonist,
who fell by his side without a groan. The
door was then opened, and the duellists
were found weltering in each other's
blood."

DUKE OF WELLINGTON AND SIR JAMES
M'DONNELL.

Some three years ago, the duke of Wel-
lington was waited upon at Apsley House
by two gentlemen, who announced to
him, that, as executors of the will of a
deceased friend of eccentric habits, who
had left £500 to the bravest man in the
British army, they called for the purpose
of handing to his grace a check for that
amount ; being fully satisfied that in so
doing they should religiously fulfil the
duty imposed on them by the testator.
The duke thanked them for the compli-
ment they had paid him, but resolutely

208

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

declined to receive the money, alleging
that the British army contained many as
brave men as himself. After several
pressing remonstrances, his grace's visitors
earnestly requested that he vs^ould consent
to become arbitrator in the matter, and
indicate the individual on whom the be-
quest should be conferred. To this appeal
he acceded, promising, in the course of
two or three days, to give the matter his
consideration, and report to them the
result. At the appointed time they again
made their appearance at Apsley House.
The duke received them with great cour-
tesy, but assured them tiiat he had found
the task a great deal more difficult than
he had anticipated. After enumerating
to them the various battles in which he
had been engaged, and some of the most
striking feats of heroism he had witnessed,
he suggested that, if they had no objec-
tion, he would make his selection from
the battle of Waterloo, that being the
last, the greatest, and most important
action of the war. This point being ad-
justed, his grace proceeded to state, that
Hougomont having been the key to his
entire position, and tliat post having been
defended not only with the most complete
success, but with the most chivalrous
bravery, by major-general sir James Mac-
donnell, who commanded there, he could
point out no one so fully entitled to the
legacy as that officer. The executors
repaired accordingly to sir James Mac-
donnell, and having acquainted him with
the decision of the duke of Wellington,
tendered him the money. Sir James
expressed himself highly flattered by so
distinguished a mark of his grace's ap-
proval, and observed, that although he
should not attempt to dispute altogether
the propriety of his decision, yet, as he
knew a man who had conducted himself
with at least equal gallantry in the same
battle, he must insist on sharing the prize
with him. He then went on to say, that
at one period of the day the French troops
rushed upon Hougomont with such irre-
sistible force, that the gates of the farm
were burst open, and for a moment the
fate of the position appeared doubtful,
when a powerful serjeant-major of the
Coldstream Guards, of the name of Fraser,
assisted him in closing the gates, whicli
they did by dint of sheer physical strength,
upon the enemy. Shortly afterwards,
the French were driven back with great

slaughter, and the fate of Hougomont was
decided. Sir James added, that the duke
of Wellington had evidently selected him
because he was able to make good a post
which was a key to his position ; and he
could not, on the same principle, with-
hold from the gallant officer who assisted
him, at so critical a moment, in forcing
out the enemy, his proper sliare of the
reward. He would, therefore, accept the
£500, and divide it with serjeant-major
l^'raser, to whom he accordingly paid
£250 of the money. — United Service
Journal,

HEROIC CONDUCT OF MOREAU.

In the conflict that proved fatal to
general Moreau, a cannon-ball struck
his right knee, and passing through the
body of his horse, carried away the calf
of his left leg. He fell into the arms
of his aide-de-camp, but soon recovered
his power of perception. Seeing the tears
fall from the eyes of the emperor of
Russia, he faintly uttered, ** Though I
am little more than a trunk, my head and
heart are still your majesty's !" He was
immediately borne away on the lances of
the Cossacks to the tent of the emperor,
where his right leg was amputated by
Dr. Wylie. During this painful opera,
tion, he smoked a cigar witii great com-
posure ; scarce a muscle of his counten-
ance moved. The doctor then examined
the left, and uttered an exclamation of
alarm. '* What ! must I lo^e this, too r"
cried Moreau ; **well, well ! set to work !"
This second torture he bore with equal
fortitude.

RUSSIAN SUBMISSION TO DISGRACE.

There is scarcely one family of any
distinction in Russia which has not some
relation exiled in Siberia; and, what is
still stranger, the family of the exile never
long bewails his loss, but give parties
soirees as usual : it is the will of the
emperor, and his will is law.

HEROIC REPLY.

A Spartan once joined the ranks of
his countrymen, who were proceeding to
battle. He was lame, and the circum-
stance of his appearing under such disad-
vantage provoked the ridicule of his com-
panions. " / came tojif^ht—not to fly .'"
was the response of the limping hero.

PrRII.S BY Fl.OoI) AND F'lKLD.

209

THE GOLDSMITH OF WESTCHEAP.

At the close of the fourteenth century,
old London presented a noble and pic-
turesque appearance. Tlie eye was not
then wearied with unbroken lines of brick-
work, pierced full of squares for windows ;
but the streets displayed rows of hjfty
houses, lifting their sharp-pointed orables, i
adorned with many a fanciful and gro-
tesque device ; and the massive stone
mansions of the superior class of citizens
emulated the castellated dwellings of the
nobles of the land. And then, enriched
with all the decorations of Gothic archi-
tecture, arose the various religious esta-
blishments, each with its fair chapel and
spacious refectory, surrounded by its wide
and well-cultivated garden, and oversha-
dowed by century-aged trees; while, on
every side, the stately churches, with their
pinnacled towers or tall airy spires, stood
proud trophies of an era most unjustly
termed barbarous.

One of the handsomest and most fre-
quented of the streets, at the period when
the following tale commences (although
its Goldsmith's-row, subsequently the

VOL. II. — 27.

Page 216.

boast of the old city, was not yet built),
was Westcheap, the Cheapside ofmod^>ra
times. As the inhabitants were mostly
dealers in delicate and costly commodities,
being mercers, embroiderers, and gold-
smiths, and as at ti)is period too (1399),
according to the united testimony of all
contemporary historians, luxury had at-
tained a greater height thau had ever
been anticipated, " alle exceedinge in
gorgeous and costly apparel, farre above
theyr degre ; yeotnen and grooms clothed
in silke, saten, and damaske, bothe doub-
lets and gownes — and hadde their gar-
ments cutte farre otherwise thanne it hadde
beene before, withe broidered worke,
ryche furres, and goldsniythes work," as
Master Robert Fabian sets forth ; it is
easy to imagine tiie splendid aj)pearance
of the diflfl^rent shops. Here, a mercer
displayed to view damasks, saiins, and
velvets — even that ctjstly fabric, forbidden
to all but the highest order of nobiUty,
" cloth of gold ;" and beside him the
broiderer exhibited his hoods, girdles,
purses, and ecclesiastical vestments em-
bellished with the most delicate needle-
work ; while the precious stores of the
2 E

210

TALES OF CmVAT.RY , OR,

goldsmitli, from flie jewelled buckle for
the head to the silver chain that fastened
the lono^ peaked shoe to the knee; hum
the postel-spoon given by the godmother
to the infant, to the hvge silver dish, or
enamelled chalice, given by the noble to
*• holy church," — all courted' the admiring
gaze of the passenger, from beneath the
overhanging penthouse of the low un-
glazed window.

It was a stirring and a lively scene that
this street presented one autumn evening,
between vespers and complin ; for there
walked the city dame in bright-coloured
sweeping mantle, lier gold-iiafted knife
and tasselled purse hanging from her
broad girdle ; and the city damsel with
silken kirtle and laced bodice; and the
sober citizen, warden perchance of his
company, or common- councilman of his
ward (proud office in those early days),
wrapped in his sad-coloured long gown,
and lingering with a kind of quiet osten-
tation the well-filled velvet purse, or ad-
justing the rich enamelled brooch that
fastened his hood ; while, in that strangely
grotesque dress, the silken long coat wiih
hanging sleeves that swept the pavement,
the tiglit party-coloured hose, and shoes
which turned sip " six inches at the end,"
and his hood worked with j)oppinjays,
appeared the extjuisite of the fourteenth
century. Nor were the common {)eoj)le
wanting. There, close beside the conduit,
was a crowd of apprentices vociferously
joining chorus to a ballad sung l)y a
green-coated minstrel, which asserted
with laudable patriotism that undoubted
fact, in their estimation, that London was
the first of cities, and her citizens the first
of men. A little further on, a more quiet
and elderly group surrounded another
minstrel (or rather disour), who stood
detailing in a kind of monotonous recita-
tive the prowess of king Brut and his very
apocry[)hal descendants, from that ancient
compendium of metrical history, " The
Chronikyl of Englande." Still farther
on, mounted on the shopboard of one of
his zealous disciples, a portly gray friar,
with stentorian voice, and vehement ac-
tion, recounted to a large and greatly
edified auditory some outrageous miracles
from the life of liis founder, St. Francis of
Assissi, not forgetting, in the pauses of
his long narration, to send round the bag
for the contril)utions of the faithful.

In the midst of this lively scene, two

men closely wrapped in those large coarse
cloaks whicli formed the common travel-
ling dress of the period, and were often
used for purposes(j|' concealment, appeared
near the contluit, apparently engaged in
deep conversation, and making their way
through the crowd in a manner that be-
tokened either a haste which admitted no
delay, or a pride which brooked no oppo-
sition. Wliatever were the cause, it was
not without many an angry look and angry
word that the multitude gave way ; and
the strangers, on their arri\al opposite to
the conduit, inquired of some of the ap-
prentices, in a tone of command, where
Arnold de Rothing resided.

*' Two worthy personages to ask after
goldsmiths I" answered one of the 'pren-
tices, irritated at the haughty manner of
the inquirer : " and what do ye lack ? an
enamelled brooch, a jewelled thumbring,
a forty-mark girdle to match your goodly
mantles — eh, lordings ?" And a loud
laugh burst from his well-pleased com-
panions.

" Nothing but a plain answer to my
question," retorted the stranger peremp-
torily.

" Well, then, master questioner," sul-
lenly replied the 'prentice, as Master de
Nothing is not looked upon by his frater-
niiy, 1 sliou'd like to treat him to two
such goodly customers as ye. Yonder's
his house, next to old Forster's, the mer-
cer, who hath turned the white hart of
king Richard into that spotted antelope
in honour of our good king Henry, by
cutting off his horns and collar, and spot-
ting him all over."

** Alas, the goodly white hart !" said
the other stranger, in a suppressed tone ;
but low as was the ejaculation it did not
escape the quick ears of the 'prentices.

" Ay, my good master, no w'onder ye
lament for the white hart," cried one;
" ye ruffled in silks and damasks then,
perchance, instead of your goodly mantle ;
but those days are gone, I trow."

" Come on !" whispered the other
stranger.

" Ay, on with ye !" cried the first
'prentice, " with the malison of all true
English hearts on ye, and the white hart
too ! Up witli your caps, boys, for king
Henry of Lancaster, the friend of the
commons, who hath driven pilling and
polling clean out of the land ! St. Mary,
though, I should like to know what yon

PiRILS BY FLflODAXD FIELD.

211

twoscatterlingscan want Willi O.e Kothing.
An' I had tliought their pouches had been
lined with rose-nobles, 1 liad sent them to
the Silver Unicorn."

*' Trust nut to outside, Syniond," re-
plied his companion 5 ye may have lost
your master two good customers : see,
there they go !"

" Ay, there they go !" responded a
stern voice ; " but the cunning shall be
taken in his craftiness,"

As this was said in Latin, and as the
valiant 'prentices were no " Latiners/'
the solemn denunciation excited not the
surpi ise which was caused by the sudden
appearance of the speaker, who was in-
stantly addressed with every mark of the
profoundest respect. He seemed to be a
very old man ; yet it was not his white
locks or flowing beard that excited their
spontaneous homage ; but his shaggy long
coat, iron-shod staff) the large wallet,
and high-crowned broad hat, bearing the
escallop shell — each part of the apj-ro-
priate garb of pilgrimage — that caused
the 'prentices to gather round and pray a
blessing from the holy man, whose weaiy
feet had traversed many a far distant land,
and who had, perchance, even beheld the
deep blue skies, and breathed the spicy
airs, of heaven-favoured Palestine. The
pilgrim hastily pronounced a blessing,
and proceeded onward, keeping his ej es
steadily fixed on the two men, who now
entered a shop, where the meagre show
of *' vessayle of golde and sylvere" con-
trasted most disadvantacjeously with tiie
splendid appearance of its neighbours ;
and, taking his stand, opposite, he seem.ed
as though he intended to keep watch until
they should come out again ; but it was
in vain. The news that a pilgrim so
venerable in appearance was to be seen
spread rapidly among the crowd. The
minstrel was left to finish his song alone;
the reciter of ** Chronykil of Englande"
was deserted by his auditors, even in the
midst of his description of king Bladud's
marvellous works at Bath ; and the j)ortly
gray friar found himself superseded in his
vocation — the fickle congregation at the
first intelHgenre having scampered off)
nothing doubting that they should feast
their eves on some veritable relic, a tooth,
or thumb-nail at least, of some wonder-
working saint. Nothing of this kind did
the pilgrim produce — no marvels nor
miracles had he to detail ; but, apparently

vexed at beiijg made the object of un-
wished-for attention, pronouncing a few
words of counsel to the assembled throng,
he disappeared from view so suddenly and
so comj)letely, lliat the populace, ever fond
ol" wonders, were almost ever inclined to
affirm that he had vanished away.

The great attraction gone, the throng,
warned by the darkening twilight, and
ringing of the complin bells, quietly took
their way to their respective homes; and
the heretofore crowded street was de-
serted, save by two or three 'prentices,
who lingered near Arnold de Rothing's
door, anxious again to see the two
strangers: but in vain; so, marvelling
what their eriand might be, and deter-
mining not to rest until they knew some-
what about it, they reluctantly returned
to their habitations.

Tiie following morning an unwonted
smoke was seen issuing from the work-
shop of the uhfortunuie goldsmith ; his
only assistant seemed bustling about with
looks of importance, and the careworn
features of de Rothing himself seemed to
have assumed a more satisfied expression.

" I should wonderfully like to know
the meaning of all tiiis," said the gold-
smith of the Silver Unicorn to his 'pren-
tice, "for, an' I find those two strangers
ye [told me of have given de Rothing a
good order, I'll swinge ye soundly for
your rudeness to them. Had ye been
more mannerly, and told them the best
of work could be done at the Silver Uni-
corn, perchance they Uiight have come
to me."

" St. IMary ! a likely story, for such
beggars to give an order," replied the
'prentice: "two scatterlings, forsooth,
who were most likely some of the dis-
banded Cheshiremen, and who, having
mayhap but one groat between them,
wanted it changed into rosenobles by the
craft of multi})lication, and so went to
de Rothing" — for this unlucky goldsmith,
in addition to his other troubles, had the
misfortune to be addicted to the " beg-
garly pursuit of alchemy."

" Ay, boy," returned" the master, " see
what comes of book-learning, and being
wiser than our neighbours ; had Master
de Rothing never read Latin, he had
never been seeking after new diings, but,
seeking after new things, he nuist needs
go abroad, and there must finti out, for-
sooth, that the Lombani guldsml:hs under-.

212

TALES OF CHIVALRY

Stand polishing- and enan^.elling better
tlian we — a tiling not to be lliought of—
and then mnst lie seek to bring a Lombard
among ns, even to our very hall. I knew
it woiild be his ruin, and so it was."

*' Ay, truly," said the 'prentice, " for
none of the guild will even speak to him,
and our lady knows had I thought these
men had brought an order, they should
never have cairied it to him. ]No, no;
if Master de Rothing be so fond of out-
landish men, let them help him."

** They have helped him but scantilv,
it seems," returned the master ; " for,
methinks, he must soon take up his lodging
in Ludgate. Soothly though, I'm sorry
for Sybilla; she was brought up to dif-
ferent expectations, and a fairer or better
nurtured damsel ye may not meet in a
long summer's day. \A'ell, boy, mind
this one thing, whatever else ye forget,
never seek after book-learning, and neVer
consort with foreigners."

" That will J," returned the 'prentice.
** Saints know I had liefer hammer by the
day than spell the Ciniscross-row for an
hour, and far liefer welcome an outlandish
man with my club than with my hand."

** 'Tis a good lad, after all,'"' said the
master, as he went out ; " ay, 'tis a good
lad, for he speaks like a worthy citizen."
But a few days passed away, and a
new marvel was prepared for the wonder-
ing inhabitants of Wesfcheap. On de
Rothing's shopboard, lately so bare, were
placed six gold chains and two enamelled
broocljes, of such delicate workmanship,
that a reluctant tribute of adndration was
extorted even from the lips of the gold-
smith of (he Silver Unicorn. " 'Tis an
excellent workman," said he, addressing
the alderman of the ward, who stood ad-
miring these beautiful specimen of *' the
arte of the goldsmiihe;" ** but, 1 marvel
who gave him the order."

'* So do r," returned the alderman,
" for de Rothing says they are quite un-
known to him, but they will bring the
money, and take them away to-niuht."
: The goldsmith of the Silver Unicorn
went his way, determined to give his
'prentice a pleasant taste of his cudgel,
for his rudeness to men who seemed
likely to prove such good customers, and
the alderman entered de Rothing's shop,
to order a gold chain of a similar pattern,
and a parcel gilt salver, 'i'he poor gold-
smitli, overjoyed at this second piece of

good fortune, now began really to believe
that prosperity was about to revisit his
long deserted dwelling, and with grateful
heart returned thanks to heaven.

The same evening de Rothing, wearied
with the labours and anxiety of the day,
had gone out to solace himself with that
usual recreation of the J-,ondoners at this
period, a walk in the adjacent fields,
leaving his daughter Sybilla (their altered
fortunes now permitting them to retain a
single domestic) in charge of the house.
Suddenly there was a loud and peremp-
tory knocking at the door, and Sybilla,
cautiously opening it, perceived two men
wrapped in large coarse mantles, who
inquired if de Roihing were within. The
answer in tlie negative seemed greatly to
perplex' them, but, after some conversa-
tion, carried on in too low a tone to
enable her to hear a single word, they
demanded the chains and the brooches,
producing at the same time a purse, so
well filled with marks and nobles, that it
might have purchased the whole stock of
the shop twice over.

*' I would we could see Arnold de
Rothing," said the first, entering and
closing the door, *' for our errand brooks
no delay, and the city is not the best place
for us to sojourn in — but what must we
do ?" contin\ied he, addressing his com-
panion ; and again they commenced a
low and earnest conversation, from time
to time casting their eyes on the gold,
smith's daughter, as though she were the
subject of it.

At length, counting out the sum agreed
upon for the chains and brooches, and
placing them in his purse, the first speaker,
in a voice and manner very different from
his first address, said, *' Well, young
maiden, ye must lead a merry life here,
for ye have a goodly view of all the shows
and ridings in Cheap. Didst see the
earl of Salisbury's last tournament ? 'tis
said he went in gallant array — dost know
him ?"

" In sooth I do not : we have little
pleasure in juusts or ridings," was the
maiden's answer, surprised at the abrupt
and af)parent unimportant question.

*' Dust know the duke of Exeter ? the
earl of Huntingdon? — surely ye must
know In/n ;?"

" Truly, I know none of them, save by
name," returned she.

"Nor your father ? Surely so good a

PERILS BY FLOOD ANO FIKLF).

213

workman must have been often employed
by them ?"

*' I know nut whether my father know
them, but they have never employed
him," was her answer.

♦' Well, young maiden," said the first,
resuming his commanding and haugiity
air, ** ye seem discreet ; so we must even
leave our errand with you — now, mark it
well : bid de Rothing make twelve gold
rings, each enamelled with this device ;
gauntleted hand stretched out, and around
it this motto, * prest a fayre.' Now,
bid your father keep counsel, and show
the rings to no one, as he values our
favour ; for tell him, if he be careful to
do our will, he shall ere long see himself
placed among the first of his fraternity.
So remember, a gauntleted hand stretched
out, and the motto, * prest a fayre.' "

The speaker again closely muffled him-
self in his cloak, and taking the arm of
his companion, wilh a haughty step de-
parted. With a feeling of curiosity she
could not resist, Sybil la watched the mys-
terious strangers till they were lost in the
misty distance, when, turning round, she
perceived an old man in the garb of a
pilgrim close behind the door, apparently
like herself anxiously gazing after them.

" Alas, my fair maiden, ye little know
the danger that threatens you," said he;
and his solemn melancholy tone struck
ominously on her ear.

" Danger ?" replied she ; ** holy father,
wherefore say ye so ? Surely heaven hath
sent these men to us ;" and she glanced
an emphatic look at the heap of gold that
gleamed with such tantalizing brightness
on the board.

*' Ah ! trust not to the red gold when
it shineth," continued he, in the same
mild but solemn voice ; *' and yet how
shall I give ye such counsel, when I well
know how much ye lack money ? Take,
then, advice of me, and follow my bid-
bing." Sybilla raised her eyes to the face
of the pilgrim, anxious to scan his mean-
ing. There was nothing in the coun-
tenance that betokened either fraud or
deceit, while the kindly yet mournful
expression with which he regarded her
gained greatly on the feelings of one,
who, though so young, had already
learned the bitter lesson, that friendly
counsels and kind looks are seldou) be-
stowed on the unfortunate. *' Now, be
counselled by me," he continued ; '* ye

remember the twelve rings with the
gauntleted hand, and the motto, * prest
A fayre.'" The astonished girl started
at these words : how could tlie pilgrim
have become acquainted with this ? The
door had been closed the whole time the
strangers were within, and they had
spoken in so low a tone that it was utterly
impossible for any other standing outside
to have heard them. Apparently regard-
less of her wonder, the old man went on.
** Now, bid your father make thirteen
rings, carefully and secretly as they or-
dered you ; let them be left in readiness
for these strangers; then do you take out
the thirteenth, and convey it whither
I shall direct. Now, take heed to this;
for your father's safety depends on closely
following my advice : take strict heed ;
and the blessing of heaven be on you !"
Astonished at the strange events of the
evening, and absorbed in vague conjec-
tures of impending danger, Sybilla me-
chanically bent her head and folded her
arms to receive the pilgrim's benediction,
but when she raised her eyes he was
gone.

It was not with those feelings of delight
which his daughter had fondly anticipated
that de Rothing, on his return, beheld
the heap of gold ; for the vague news that
some unexpected good fortune had be-
fallen him had reached the quick ears of
his creditors, rendering them doubly im-
portunate for payment, while the one to
whom he owed most had that evening
threatened to send him to Ludgate, un-
less he repaid two hundred marks by the
morrow of St. Martin, to which 'little
more than a fortnight was now wanting.
With intense eagerness, therefore, even
as the shipwrecked mariner siezes the
rope on which his safety depends, or the
dying man drains the chalice that is to
restore him to life and health, did the
friendless goldsmith listen to his daugh-
ter's account, and devoutly thank heaven
that such good fortune had so unexpect-
edly been thrown in his way. Days
passed on ; the furnace smoked ; de Roth-
ing was evidently busily employed, and
the neighbours looked anxiously for the
result, but in vain.

" Ye were right, Symond," said the
goldsmith at the Silver Unicorn ; " de
Rothing is at his old trade of multiplying,
and with his usual success, for we see
nothing but smoke."

214

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

** Well, whatever lie be after, I'll find
it out," replied the 'prentice. " St. Marv !
I shall never rest till I know who those
two men can be." It was in vain that,
in pursuance of this laudable intention,
Syniond, to the great loss of his master's
time, was constantly standing at the door,
or lingering about the conduit, hoping
that chance might again throw in his way
the two mysterious strangers.

Two weeks had elapsed, the thirteen
rings were completed, but no one came
for them. Martinmas drew near, and the
short sunshine of de Rotliing's prospects
again became overclouded with fear. It
now wanted but three days to the feast of
St. Martin ; and collecting all the money
he possessed, which, however, din not
amount to half the requisite sum, de
Rothing set out in the evening to endea-
vour to propitiate his chief creditor, and
obtain a farther extension of the time of
payment. As though his mysterious visit-
ants liad watched for his absence, scarcely
had he departed when they entered and
demanded the rings. Favoured in iier
project by the absence of her father,
Sybilla, securing the supernumerary one,
presented the twelve.

" We have more work for de Pothing,"
said the first; '• but he must closely keep
our counsel, for there will be somewhat of
risk ; though, what of that ? he shall be
well paid ; and we well know what need

he hath of money ; so bid him ."

But here his arm was caught with an
expression of great anxiety by his com-
panion, and the unfinished sentence died
away on his tongue. There was again
a low and earnest conversation ; at length
producing his purse, the first speaker
counted out a hundred marks, and push-
ing them toward the astonished girl, said,
" You see, my fair maiden, we can well
reward those who fulfil our bidding ; so
tell de Rothing to be ready, for ere long
we shall need him."

The stranger departed, when, like their
evil genius compelled to track their foot-
steps, or rather like some guardian spirit
commissioned to watch over the friend-
less goldsmith and his daughter, tlie pil-
grim appeared. ** Follow my bidding,
fear not, and waver not," said he ; *' but,
ere the bell summons to morning service
to-morrow, take that ring to the chapel
of St. Thomas on London Bridge ; stand
on the right, beside the second pillar, and

give the ring to a man whom ye shall see
holding a white greyhound by a red and
blue leash."

" Alas, holy father !" said Sybilla, " 'tis
a perilous errand, and we are surrounded
by d;-.ngers ; — how can ye ensure our
safety ?"

'• My fair girl, I could well show ye
how your father's only security lies in fol-
lowing my counsel," replied he, "but I
may not : however, by this ye may judge
I know more about your concerns than
you or even your father. Ye know he is
gone to old Fitz-Martyn to pray his
charitable forbearance for a few days :
now, that cunning old usurer will dismiss
him with hard words and an utter refusal
— but afterwards, this very night, will he
send a wondrous kind message, bidding
your father use his own convenience, and
pay when he pleases. When ye find this,
metliinks ye will not fear to follow my
counsel ;" and then again repeating his
directions, lie retired.

All came to pass precisely as the pilgrim
had foretold ; and, fully determined strictly
to follow the counsel of one so much better
acquainted with their affairs than herself,
Sybilla, ere the thick darkness of a No-
vember morning had been wholly chased
away by the struggling light, wrapped
herself in her mantle, and quitting the
house unobserved, took the back road to
the bridge. Threading many an intricate
passage, w here the tall overhanging houses
combined to prevent the admission of the
little light already perceivable, and fording
many a perilous stream, the united tribute
of the neighbouring springs and the neigh-
bouring sewers, she at length entered the
beautiful little chapel of Si. Thomas. It
was empty, and taking her stand beside
the second pillar, she anxiously awaited
the arrival of the unknown object of her
mission. In a little time a man, leading
a white greyhound by a blue and red
leash, his hood drawn so closely over his
face that but a very imperfect view could
be obtained of his countenance, entered
from the door leading to the river. She
presented the ring, which the stranger
narrowly examined, and commending her
conduct, and assuring her that the danger
w hich threatened her father could only be
averted by her giving him, from time to
time, such* information respecting the two
mysterious visitants and their proceedings,
as chance njight throw in her way, he de-

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

215

parted, and Sybilla, with mingled feelings
of hope and fear, returned home.

" By the s^hrine of Sr. Erkenwald ! ye
get worse and worse, like die old woman's
})arcel-gilt spoon. Two hours only gone
into Kish Street, ye losel 1" was the salu-
tation of Master Denny of the Silver
Unicorn to his 'prentice, a few da\ s after.
" St. Mary ! but I'll swinge ye soundly."

*' Not so fast, good master," answered
Symond, too well accustomed to his mas-
ter's objurgations to feel them very keenly,
and well aware that on this occasion lie
brought a sufficient excuse to hold him
iiarmless, in the cargo of news which he
thus proceeded to produce : " St. Mary !
but methinks you should give me a cup of
clary, or a cup of charneco, master, for all
the news I've got to tell vou : here was I
ready to come back full an hour ago,
walking along Cornhill 'in the peace of
God and the king,' as the petitioners say,
when, behold you, methought 1 caught a
gliuipse of those two men ; so I ran after
them, and got close behind them ; and
sure enough in they went to de Rothing's :
but who, think ye, went in after?"

'* Sweet lady I if I can tell," replied the
master, his short-lived anger all evaporated
at the very thought of some wonderment ;
*' so let's have it ?"

" Why, there, creeping along in the
dark like a bat, came old Fitz-Martyn,
and the door opened, and in he went ; so
there I stood outside, wishing I could get
in, somewhat like the knight in the don-
jon— only he wished to get out; so, after
a while, as I could hear nought, and as
my eyes cannot pierce through thick walls,
I went over to Master Twyford's ; and
sure enough there was Martin, that tall
'prentice of his, on the look-out also.
* Symond,' saith he, * 'tis a mad world we
live in : ye mind how old Fitz-Martyn
quarrelled with Master de Rothing, and
how he swore by the holy rood, and St.
Peter and St. Paul, that he would clap
him up in Ludgate to keep Christmas ?'
•Truly I do,' said I; 'for 'tis as well
known as Bow steeple.' * Well, now,
look you,' saith he ; ' this same old Fitz-
Martyn hath lent him now another two
hundred marks, and told my master to-
day that he would lend him three times as
much more. But there are strange doings
over yonder, without question or lesing,'
quoth he. * Do you see yon man ?' So
out I looked, and as the moon gave some

little light, I saw some one standing, me-
thought, dressed like a pilgrim. * He
yonder is always prowling about,' quoth
he j * and I would give my best kersey
jerkin to know^ wherefore. Moreover,'
saith he, * de Rothing hath had the two
quarries of glass in the best room put in,
and the cracked one mended, and hath
ordered a scarlet in- grain kirtle for his
daughter, and a sad-coloured gown for
himself, and spoke somewhat about hang-
ings.' "

" Our sweet Lady be gracious !" eja-
culated Master Denny ; " it must be
through the craft of multiplication — ay,
that it must — or he would never have
turned old Fitz-Martyn into a friend. I
would I had a notion of it; for saints
know I'd soon lay aside tongs, hammer,
and graver."

" No, no,' replied Symond, " 'tis not by
multiplication. We 'prentices think he is
making goldsmith's work for some out-
landish people, for he but yesterday bought
fifty marks' worth of tine gold. 'Tis no
good that he is after, for nobody can see
aught he does : well, we'll keep close
watch on him, and observe what comes
to pass."

Notwithstanding all the efforts of de
Rothing's neighbours to discover his occu-
pation, his affairs were still wrapped in
impenetrable mystery ; and Christmas
drew near — not in the quiet and almost
unperceived manner in which it now steals
upon us, but in all that preparation and
solemn observance becoming a festival,
which, beyond every other, our forefathers
determined

" That it in golden letters should be set
Among the high titles (ay, highest) uf the ca-
lendar."

And with a lighter heart and less care-
worn countenance did de Rothing antici-
pate the holy tide, and by many little
domestic arrangements did he give proof
to his marvelling and suspicious neigh-
bours, that bitter and hopeless poverty
was no longer his lot.

" Here, girl," said he, entering the

room where Sybilla, with many an anxious

thought that would not be banished, sat

beside the cheerful hearth, engaged in the

homely labour of the distaff: " here, girl,"

j throwing a purse on her lap, " blessings

I on the saints ! I'm a free man again, all

I my debts paid, and somewhat to put in

die coffer — so lay aside your distaff, and

216

TATE«; OF CHIVALRY : OR,

bring forth your gittern, for Master Fitz
Martyn and I will take a cup of clary
together, and have a merry evening ; and
ye shall don your brave new kirtle, Sybilla,
at Christmas ; and methinks we nmst get
new hangings," glancing a look at the
faded and moth-eaten tapestry. " Ay,
we will not do as of yore, blessings on the
saints ! Whv", good Master Fitz-Martyn,
methinks I seem raised from the dead."

While the joyful goldsmith, released
from that heavy pressure of poverty and
anxiety which for so many years had
bowed him down, was thus giving utter-
ance to his grateful feelings, the old
usurer, with the eye of a basilisk, kept
alternately watching his host and his
daughter, and starting at even the slightest
sound ; while SybiUa, laying aside the
distaff, took up her long relinquished
gittern, and, with a mind filled with me-
lancholy, though vague, forebodings, com-
menced the follow ing song : —
" Dost thou ask what life can be ?
Soothly, we'll PU answer thee :
'Tis a coil of joy and snrrow ;
Smilinj? eve, and cloudy morrow ;
A changeful web to fancy's sight,
With warp of black and "woof of white ;
A chalice strange, commingling still
Sweet and bitter, good and ill ;
Or. likeliest, an April sky,
When swift the passin'^ shadows fly,
And now is darkness, now is li^M,'
And the sunbeam glanceth bright ;
Then a dark cloud saileth on.
And the goldt-n light is gone : —
Such is life to thee and me^ —
Such hath been, and so will be."

*' Grammercy, girl ! but that song likes
me not," interrupted de Rothing, "though
soothly, 'tis true enough ; but we must
have somew hat merrier, and more suited
to Christmas — to meiry Christmas. Come,
pledge me, Master Fi'z- Martyn, to a
merry Christmas ; and Sybilla will sing
us somewhat more pleasant." Again
Sybilla tuned her gittern, and, with feel-
ings little suited to her song, commenced :
" 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in blithe spring tide.
When flowers are blooming on every side.
And the hawthorn buddeth, and slii'es are clear,
And all things rejoice in the morn of the year ;
And knights and fair dames to the tourney ride ;
'Tis merry, ay merry, in blithe spring-tide.
'Tis merry, ay merry, in summer hours.
For brighter the sky'and sweeter the flowers.
And with hound and horn, and mickle glee,
The hunter hies to the greenwood tree.
Chasing the hart 'mid his leafy bowers ;
•Tis merry, ay merry, in summer hours.
And men-}' it is when autumn sere,
Cometh to" tell of the closing year.
When the joyful villagers' gladsome din
Telleth the harvpst is gathered in.
And the vintage is ripe — though frosts appear:
'Tis merry, ay merry, in autumn sere.

But merrj', most merry, when winter's snow
Spreads His mantle of white on the plains below,
For then is the midnight minstrtdsy.
And the wassail-bowl decked with carol and glee ;
Ay, merriest, m hen yule-logs blaze cL ar and high,
For sport-loving Christmas draweth nigh."

" Lady Mary ! w hat noise is that ?'
cried de Kothing, starting up. " Be not
fearful," replied Fitz-Martyn, at the same
time moving towards the door with a
quicker step than his bent and feeble
figure might have warranted. Ere he
reached it, however, a party of men-at-
arms rushed in and seized the unfortunate
goldsmith.

" What means this ? on what charge
am 1 taken ?" cried he, looking with ter-
rified wonder at the well-armed company
that now filled the room.

"What charge, you scatteriing, and dis-
grace to our good city ?" returned their
leader : " is it not for imagining and com-
passing the death of the king — ay, for
high treason ?" {To be continued.)

LAVALETTE AXD THE POST MASTER.

M. de Lavalette, after escapmg mira-
culously from the Conciergerie, succeeded
in reaching, in the deepest disguise, tlie
last post in France. The post-master,
who was at the door, went to the carriage
while the horses were chang^ed, and, in
spite of the English regimentals, disco-
vered his old superior. " Have you heard
any thing," said he, "of the escape of M.
Lavalette ? I should like to know if he
has left Paris. A description of him has
been sent to all the post-houses on the
road to Brussels, and he will, most likely,
take that road to get out of France."
M. de Lavalette, who supposed he was
betrayed, replied, lisping, with an English
accent, "That he did not know — that he
was an English officer travelling as a
courier for his government, and going to
Brussels." *' Very good," added the
post-master, after a momentary absence,
" since you are going to Brussels, do me
the pleasure of taking charge of these one
hundred Louis which I owe him."

In such a situation, even the expression
of gratitude is to be dreaded ; and though
M. Lavalette had to do with a man whose
fortune he had made, he was obliged drily
to refuse, concealing the tears which began
to moisten his eyes. On arriving at the
frontiers, he said to the postillion, " Here,
my friend, are ten Louis for you ; and tell
your master Lavalette is saved."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIF.LD.

217

ROTTLAXD STA1ST.EY :

A TALE OF THE LOW COUNTRIES.

"It was a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced
out." Byron.

It was on a cold winter's evening in tlie
last year of the reign of Elizabeth, that a
party of gallants sat enjoying themselves
in the Devil Tavern in Kleet Street. The
various liquors on the tables before them,
plainly showed that they were determined
to fortify their stomachs, while within
doors, ae:ain^t the effects of the cold with-
out. There was Malmsey, Biirgundy,^
and Sherris sack in plenty, and it was
easy to perceive that they had gone far
to rouse the sj)irits of the company, though
without making them absolutely up-
roarious.

" Well, Frank Marley," said one of the
gallants, slapping the shoulder of him who
sat on his right hand, " by cock and pye,
it glads my heart to see thee here : and
hast thou left thy books, and quitted the
close air of the Temple, for the good cheer
of mine host of the Devil ? By mine
honour, Frank, thou art regenerated :

VOL. II.— 2S.

thou shalt be baptized in sack, and ad-
mitted again into the society of Christian
men,"

"Christian men 1" retorted the student;
"why, callestthou thyself Christian, Ned,
while carousing under the sign of the very
Devil himself? I'll wager a pottle o'
Malmsey thou hast not seen the inside of
a church since last Penticost-tide."

" Thou wilt lose thy wager, Frank : ask
Barnaby, the sexton of St. Martin's, if I
was not the most devout of the congrega-
tion on Sunday last."

" Aye, truly," cried another of the
company, ** thou wert there, doubtless ;
but it was Mistress Bridget Barlow, the
rich goldsmith's widow, who attracted
thee. Here's to thy success !"

He drank off a glass of wine as he
spoke, and his example was followed by
the rest of the couip;iny, when the student
called for a song. The first speaker (who
was the son of one of the richest merchants
in the Chepe), after giving a few prepa-
ratory hems, sung as follows : —
" Merrily, merrily drain the bowl,
11 care "ye would' not dree ;

Here's Malmsey, Sack, and Hippocras,
Sherris and liurgundj-.

2f

218

TAT.ES OF CHIVALRY j OR,

Come, ye spiritless wights, who are wedded to
scolds.

Those shrews who are inatch for the devil —
'Tis wisdom to flee from th( ir music, 1 trow.

So join in our merry j-evel.
And ye gallants who scorch 'neath your maiden's
dark glance,

"Who swear that your souls are like tinder —
O, hasten away fro'm such kirtle durance.

If ye would not he burnt to a cinder."

**By this light'.'' exclaimed the student,
" thou hast a marvellous proper voice,
Ned. Have \ e no love-tale to tell us ?
Thou hadst once a store."

" Marry, I have forgotten them : thou
knowest my father likes not my travelling-,
so that I have small chance of hearing the
adventures of love-sick damsels and gal-
lant knights ; but yonder sits a gentleman
who has, methinks, seen service."

The person alluded to by the young
merchant was a stout, hale man, about
the middle age, whose buff coat and broad
belt, sustaining a sword and dagger of
Spanish workmanship, plainly indicated
his profession: he had lost an arm, and
the empty sleeve of his doublet was fas-
tened by a point to his breast.

** Gentlemen," said he, on being pressed
to join the party, " J have, as you suppose,
seen some service, and have left an arm
in the Low Countries. 1 commanded a
body of pikemen at the siege of St. Ge-
trudenberg, in Brabant; 'twas there I
became acquainted with an Englishman
of good family, whose unhappy fate I
shall ever lament. I will, witli your per-
mission, relate the history of our acquaint-
ance, and his death."

To this the company gladly assented,
and the captain, emptying his glass,
began as follows : —

" On my arriving in Brabant, prince
Maurice was before St. Getrudenberg,
which he had assaulted several times
without success. The company under my
command were picked men, and I was
soon actively engaged, for the besieged
made frequent sallies, and it required
some of the best troops to repulse them.
In one of these sallies, I was posted, with
my troop, to support the charge of a regi-
ment of English pistoliers. The action
was short, but bloody. The enemy's
harquebussiers and cross-bowmen made
sad havoc amongst our horse; at their
first discharge full twenty saddles were
emptied, and a fresh body of their bill-
men rushing in, completed the overthrow
of our cavalry — they broke ground and

retreated. A desperate charge of the
pikemen under my command checked the
pursiiit of the enemy. In the midst of
the rout, I suddenly beheld a horse gal-
loping by, and dragging its rider, who
lay upon the ground, his foot having be-
come entangled in the stirrup. I flew to
his assistance, and with some difficulty
succeeded in extricating the stranger
from his perilous situation. He pressed
my hand with great warmth, and thanked
me a thousand times for my timely assist-
ance. He had, luckily, received only a
few slight bruises, from the efl'ects of
which he recovered in a few days, and a
friendship was cemented between us,
which nothing but death could terminate.
I learned that his name was Rowland
Stanley, and that he was the youngest
son of a rich family in the West Riding
of Yorkshire.

"I will not tire you, gentlemen, with
an account of the many affairs we had
wilh the enemy, whicli were attended
with various success. Near to the town
of St. Getrudenberg is the little village of
Stanlo, in which was a fort of some con-
sequence. Prince Maurice was resolved
to get possession of it, as it commanded a
weak quarter of the town. It chanced
that Stanley's troop and my own were
ordered upon this expedition, together
with six culverins ; but it totally failed :
the enemy sallied out, and, in spite of
the most obstinate valour on the part of
our troops, we were beaten back, with the
loss of many men. Stanley's horse fell
under him, pierced by a harquebuize shot,
and he was seized and dragged into the
fort by the enemy, while our shattered
troops made good their retreat. Judge of
the mortification and sorrow I felt at being
thus deprived of my friend ; indeed, I
had some fears for his safety, for the
prisoners on either side ofttimes expe-
rienced rough, and in many instances
cruel, treatment, at the hands of their
captors.

*' The alarm we were kept in the few
succeeding days diverted my melancholy ;
but the enemy, weakened by the con-
tinual checks we had given them, became
less venturous, and kept within their
walls, and I was again left to deplore the
loss of my friend.

** One" night, while sitting in my tent
absorbed in thought, I heard the hasty
challenge of the sentinel, and at the same

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

219

moment Stanley entered. I am not na-
turally superstitious, but this sudden ap-
parition of my friend, whom 1 had con-
sidered lost to me, stag-g-eted my senses.
His dress was wet and disordered, and
covered with green weeds, and his long
dark hair was dripping with moisture.
The warm pressure of the hand with
which 1 was greeted, convinced me that
it was he, and f eagerly inquired how he
had escaped ?

" ' We will talk of that anon,' said he ;
* but first give me a cast of your clothes,
for I have been playing the otter, and am
wet to the skin.'

" 1 complied with his request ; and
when he had changed his dress, he gave
me an account of his escape.

" * H(nvard,' said he, ' am not 1 a lucky
wight, to make a conquest while a pri-
soner in yonder fort ?'

" ' A conquest !' echoed I, incredu-
lously : * what mean you ? I cannot solve
your riddle.'

'* * Marry, no less than this : the go-
vernor of that fort has a niece, as fair a
maid as e'er set free a captive knight.
Would'st thou believe it, while I lay this
evening in my dungeon, mourning the loss
of my freedom, and moreover my coat of
mail and Bilboa blade, which those Wal-
loon dogs have despoiled me of, the door
opened, and that sweet girl entered my
prison. She bore a small lamp, and was
followed by a dwarfish figure, who carried
a small basket.

" * Stranger,' said she, * this conduct
may seem to thee unmaidenly, but you
are an Englishman, and will not judge
me harshly for my rashness. You must
liasten from this place, or your head will
be set on the walls by sunrise, a sad spec-
tacle for your gallant countrymen.'

•"Had'st thou been there, my friend,
thou woul'st have thought me eloquent;
for methinks I never poured out my
thanks so freely — no, not even when I
experienced thy kind and timely assist-
ance. To be brief, she enjoined silence,
and the dwarf was ordered to file the
fetters which secured my legs, and in a
iew minutes I was free.

** * Now,' said my fair deliverer, 'follow,
but be silent — your life depends upon it 1'

*" We passed from the dungeon with
stealthy pace, and after passing through
several passages, we ascended a flight of
steps. Here the measured tread of a sen-

tinel was audible. The dwarf was dis-
missed, and I neglected not to improve
the opportunity. Short as it was, I suc-
ceeded, and my fair deliverer promised to
be mine. A hasty kiss sealed the com-
pact, and I sohnenly swore to bear her
away from the fort to-morrow evening.
The sentinel, whose steps 1 had heard,
produced a rope, which he fastened to the
wall, and I quickly lowered myself into
the fosse which surrounds the fort, swam
across, and arrived here without moles-
tation.'

" Such, gentlemen, was the account he
gave me of his escape. I listened to him
with serious attention, and though I saw
clearly the danger of the attempt to carry
off' his mistress, I resolved to aid him in
the enterprize. Not to tire you with an
account of our preparations, I will proceed
with my story. Night arrived, and found
us with about fifty men, near the walls of
the fort. A raft, constructed of light tim-
ber, served us to cross the ditch. Stanley
and myself crossed, and a postern gate
admitted us, with five men. The sen-
tinels were bribed, and all was still, save
the howling of the dogs within the fort.
Leaving our men at the gate, we pro-
ceeded on tiptoe along a dark passage.
The soldier who had admitted us then
cautiously unlocked a small door in the
wall, and ascended a flight of steps: we
followed him, and on gaining the top,
were told to wait awhile. He then left us,
but returned in a few minutes, and de-
sired Stanley to follow him. This pro-
ceeding somewhat alarmed me. What if
it should be a concerted plan to betray us ?
However, I resolved to meet my fate, if it
should prove so ; and after cocking my
petronels, which I had taken from the
holsters of my saddle, I placed them again
in my girdle, and loosening my sword in
its sheath, I stood prepared for any attack
that might be made upon me, looking
cautiously round on all sides. The room
in which I stood had three doors ; the one
opposite to that by which I had entered
stood open, and on looking through it I
perceived that a flight of stairs descended
into a dark and gloomy passage. At this
instant I was somewhat startled on hear-
ing a noise as of cautious footsteps, and
looking down into the space below I per-
ceived a man approaching; he had a torch
in his hand, and I saw him cautiously step
over the bodies of two soldiers, who lav

220

TALES OF ClllVAltJY ; OR,

sleeping upon tl)e floor. Tlieir calivers
lav on the ground, with their hgljted
matches at ahttle distance. Drawing my
cloak around nie, and shading the light of
tl)e lamp I held, I awaited the ajjproach of
this person, wliose footsteps I socm heard
ascending the stairs, and tlie next moment
he entered the room. He was a man of
tall and commanding stature ; his hatless
head was bald, his forehead high, and he
glanced round the room with an air of
mistrust. I had retreated into a corner,
in the hope that he would pass without
perceiving me ; but I was deceived, for he
demanded to know who I was, and at the
same time cocked a pistol. 1 drew my
sword, and rushed upon him ; lie snapped
liis pistol, but it missed fire, and my thrust
was broken by the cloak which "he had
thrown over his left arm. This gave him
time to draw his sword, and he pressed
upon me with great vigour. The clash of
our weapons would have certainly alarmed
the guards who slept beneath, had not
their liquor been drugged. The noise,
hov\ever, roused Stanle}^ who entered
■with his mistress. I conjured him to fly
instantly, while I kept my adversary at
sword's point. He obeyed me, and in-
stantly left the apartment, though he had
already diawn liis sword to assist me. My
antagonist swore deeply on perceiving his
niece. This sight probably threw him off
liis guard, fur a thrust striking him on the
breast, he reeled, and staggering back-
wards, fell down the stairs. His coat of
mail saved him, and shattered my sword to
pieces, but the fall was terrible, and I
heard his armour ring as his body bounded
from step to step till he reached the bot-
tom. Not a moment was to be lost ; I
quickly secured the door so that he could
not pursue us, and flew to Stanley, who
liad borne oft' his prize. We had reached
the gate, when the loud ringing of a bell
told that the garrison was alauued, and in
an instant a roar of voices was heard
within the fort. The men who had re-
mained at the gate, seized with fear,
jumped on the raft — Stanley followed with
his fair burden, — and that moment it
upset! * * • ♦

I'hat night will never be effaced from my
memory ! One loud shriek of mortal
agony burst from the unfortunates, whose
armour did not allow them a chance of es-
cape ! Tiie fosse was deep — they sunk
down, and the next moment the raft rose

to the surface of the water ! A heavy fire
from the troops, who now lined the walls,
rendered any attempt to save them im-
practicable,— indeed, 1 was in much dan-
ger myself; but having cut with my dag-
ger the straps of my corslet, I threw it off,
and swam across the fosse, uninjured by
the shower of balls which was rained from
the fort, and regained my troop, over-
whelmed with sorrow for the fate of my
young friend. The fort was taken a few
days afterwards, when a shot from a cul-
\erin took off" my left arm.

" Gentlemen, pardon these tears for the
untimely fate of a valued friend and com-
rade. The recollection of it has rendered
me unfit for your company. — Give you
good night."

The captain rose as he spoke, and
throwing his cloak around him, bowed to
the company, and notwithstanding their
entreaties, departed.

THE GOLDSMITH OF WESTCHEAP.

(Concluded from p. 2 1 6. J

*' St. Paul and St. Erkenwald watch
over us !" ejaculated Master Denny, of
the Silver Unicorn, the following morn-
ing; *' alack! vaIio had thought of plots
and conspiracies, and one of the guild and
fraternity of goldsmiths among them }
Saints know, that though I had but a
sorry opinion of de Rothing, yet I never
thought him so bad as this."

"Ay, master," retorted Symond, **me-
thinks you should give me somewhat for
thecudgellingye treated me with, because
I did not ask these scatteriings to come to
the Silver Unicorn. Truly, they m'ght
well give a high price for their rings, when
the man worked with a halter about his
neck for them."

*' And how came it to pass ?" cried old
Master Forster, the mercer : " I saw the
gold chains, but methinks there could be
no treason in them."

" No, truly," returned Symond, ** but
he made rings w ith a device and motto ;
and those very rings, they say, have been
sent to those lords who joined in the con-
spiracy to kill our goodly king Henry at
the masquing that is to be held at Wind-
sor— the fiend confound them ! — for who
ever heard of treason and foul murder at
Cliristmas ?"

" And there are some of the first nobles
in the plot," said Master Denny ; " the

PERILS BY FLOOD AVD FIELD.

221

duke of Exeter, and the earls of Hunting-
don and Salisbury."

** St. Mary confound them all, and pay
off on them the murder of the good earl
of Arundel and the good duke of Glou-
cester !" responded the bystanders.

** But, Master Fitz-Martyn, ye can tell
us all about it?' cried Master Forster ;
*' for I mind ye were with de Rothing but
y ester- even."

** I have but scant to tell ye," returned
the old usurer, " save that he will be
hanged, and rightly so."

*' Alack, poor soul !" cried Master
Denny, his hostility to iiis lival in trade
giving way before his feelings of commi-
seration ; " he was hardly put to it, or he
would not have done so ; but we all know
when coin is scant, a man is fain almost
to take Sathanas' money rather than go
penniless."

** But we know de Rothing of old,"
returned Fitz-Martyn, with a malicious
grin ; " did he not try to bring in fo-
reigners among ye ? was he not always
seeking after new things ? Nought's too
bad for him to do. ^^'hy, if it was said
he were a worshipper of Mahound I would
believe it."

Alas, for poor de Rothing 1 Hated by
his fraternity, and an object of suspicion
for so many years to his neighbours, it
was in vain that he protested his innocence
of treason, his attachment to Henry, and
his total ignorance of this deeply-laid plot ;
he had taken money of the traitors, he
had worked at their bidding, and though,
with the exception of the rings, there was
nothing in the nature of the work (it
being chiefly ornaments to be worn at the
ensuing masquing) to have excited his
suspicions j yet all his protestations were
received with indignant scorn, for every
one seemed determined to find him guilty.
In the meantime, nothing was thought
or talked of throughout London, save this
discovered plot. The green-coated min-
strel's salutation of •' Good morrow, merry
gentlemen 1" passed disregarded ; the
portly fraternities, *' black, white, and
gray," chanting, on their gift-seeking
perambulations, some saintly carol, found
few to listen to their melody ; and when,
to " startle the dull ear of night," the city
waits came forth, in their anxious converse
about ** treasons, stratagems, and death,"
the worthy householders forgot to bring
forth the spiced tankard, as of yore, and

reciprocate ** wassail" with these wan-
dering musicians.

As the ill omened usurer had predicted,
de Rothing was speedily put on his trial,
and, as a matter of course, found guilty.
Although nothing was proved against him
save his iiaving made ornaments which
were afterwards traced to the possession of
the principle movers of the plot ; although
the names and abode of the two myste-
rious strangers were wholly unknown to
him } and although old Fitz-Martyn, who
now took upon himself the credit of being
the first discoverer of the plot, appeared
as a principal witness against the man
whom he had evidently trepanned into it;
yet such was the hostility of the citizens
against any one who should seek again
to place uj)on the throne a monarch from
whose rapacious exactions and arbitrary
conduct they had formerly suffered so
severely, that the intelligence, that the
unfortunate goldsmith was to take his last
journey to Tyburn the following morning,
was received, if not with joy, certainly
without any expression of sorrow.

But where was Sybilla ? and with what
feelings did she behold all her disn)al fore-
bodings realised ? From the fatal night
when de Rothing was conveyed from his
home, even to the morning of his trial,
she remained calm, for she felt confident
of his ultimate acquittal, the mysterious
pilgrim having assured her of his safety ;
but now, when sentence of death was
passed, and his execution ordered for the
following morning, her anxiety knew no
bounds. The name, the dwelling of the
pilgrim, were alike unknown ; and yet she
felt that on seeing him her only chance of
success depended.

At length, as evening closed in, uncer-
tain what course to pursue, she bent her
footsteps towards London Bridge, hoping
(for who even in the most desperate cir-
cumstances, hath not some faint hope,
some shadow of expected succour, to
which the mind clings with a pertinacity
as strong as, often, it is vain ?) that
heaven might throw in her way the pil-
grim, or that equally mysterious stranger
to whom, in the chapel of St. Thomas,
she had delivered the ring. As she
approached the bridge -foot, there was
a confused murmur of voices, the tramp
and neighing of horses, and the clank of
armour, while the broad ruddy glare of
the cressets, borne by a numerous com-

222

TALKS OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

pany of the city watch, gave to view a
confused assemblage of citizens, appren-
tices, and nien-at-arnis, all with eyes
anxiously cast up to the turreted gate-
way extending across the entrance to the
bridge, wliere two gory heads frowned
grimly even in death on the appalled yet
apparently gratified multitude. Sickened
at this unexpected sight, and fearful to
encounter the rude pressure of the crowd,
Sybilla drew back, when the firm grasp
of an unseen hand arrested her, and, turn-
ing round, she beheld the very object of
her anxious search, the venerable pilgrim.

•* Come hither," said he, drawing her
nearer tto the gateway. ** Look up :
know ye not these faces ?"

The shuddering girl glanced one look,
and started back, exclaiming, '* Too well !
they are the very strangers who have
brought us into this sore jeopardy."

** Ay," continued the pilgrim, fixing
his eyes on the pale, blood-stained coun-
tenances, where the impress of fierce pas-
sions yet remained, adding a deeper horror
to the ghastliness of death : " ay, and
such is the end of wealth, and power, and
high ancestry — of the earls of Salisbury
and Huntingdon ! Yes," continued he,
and a smile of triumph seemed to light up
his placid features ; " and here is motive
for ye to place firm trust in Providence.
These two wicked men pursued the good
earl of Arundel to death ; and the cup
they prepared for him, have they not
drunk ? Did not these very eyes see the
earl of Huntingdon, when, with that per-
fidious Richard, he feasted at Plashey with
the good duke of Gloster, and the next
day led him forth and embarked him for
Calais, where he was foully murdered ?
And what did these eyes behold but yes-
ter-even ? — that very earl of Huntingdon,
driven back in his frail bark on the coast
of Essex, and seized and led to the very
spot where he arrested the good duke of
Gloster, and there was his head stricken
off. Now, be not cast down, Sybilla de
Rothing : if Heaven so surely tracks the
wicked to destruction, will it suffer the
innocent to perish ?"

"Alas! but to-morrow morning 1" cried
Sybilla.

** Fear not," replied the pilgrim : " all
shall be well."

** But, holy father !— " cried she. The
sentence was not completed, for the pil-
grim had vanished among the crowd j

and, uncertain what course to pursue, she
took the fatal resolution of proceeding to
the lord mayor's, and communicating to
him her discovery of the names of the
two strangers.

" My fair maiden," said he, with a look
of deep commisseraticn, "it is all in vain ;
for even had I been able to do aught for
your father, your own confession would
put it out of my power. It now appears
that he was actually in communication
with the leaders of the plot j and your
assertion, that he knew them not, would
have no chance of belief. Alas! ye must
seek succour of lieaven, for nought can
avail you."

The last morning that Arnold de Ro-
thing was to behold, broke slowly but
clearly on his sight. It was the depth of
winter, yet the sun shone forth with a
clear and steady lustre from the faint blue
sky, as though to repeat that lesson so
often given in vain, that the material
world, though made for man, sympathises
not (as the visionary has so often and so
fondly imagined) in his joys or his sor-
rows ; and a look of mournful reproach
did the hapless goldsmith glance up to
that bright sky which seemed shining as
in mockery, and many a lingering gaze
did he cast on the fair landscape stretched
before him, as with his only attendant,
the worthy priest of his parish, he pro-
ceeded on the fatal road to Tyburn. And
along Holborn, then a road bordered
with hedge- rows, and scarcely exhibiting
a single house, the procession passed,
until at length the hurdle stopped before
the gate of the hospital of St. Giles-in-the-
Fields, where, according to the benevo-
lent yet strange custom of our ancestors,
the porter had to present the frothing
bowl of "good ale" — the last draught of
the condemned malefactor.

De Rothing turned away his head as
he gave back the untasted bowl. " On-
ward," said he : " alas ! all will soon be
over." And yet, as the procession moved
forward, he again gazed around at scenes
on which he was soon to close his eyes
for ever; as if a lingering love of them
(though to him so clouded) yet held pos-
session of his breast. A low murmur
arose and gradually increased among the
crowd that followed, and a horseman witli
breathless speed galloped forward to the
sheriff and presented a sealed billet. The
sheriff" reverently doffed his bonnet and

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

223

bowed his head, as his eye glanced over
its contents, for it was an order, signed
by the king's own hand, instantly to send
Arnold de nothing back to Guildhall.

Ere the astonished goldsmitii could re-
cover his self-possession, he was taken
from the hurdle, placed on one of the
sheriff's own horses, and, with a speed
that left the marvelling crowd at an im-
measurable distance, again conveyed to
the city. There all was bustle and anx-
iety; for the lord Cobham had just ar-
rived on a mission, it was said, of import-
ance ; and every citizen left his business,
and every 'prentice his occupation, to
welcome that nobleman, whose father
(the earl of Arundel) was canonized in
the memory of a grateful people, as the
martyr of their liberties, and who, him-
self, had been among the foremost to un-
sheath the brand in the cause of Henry.

** My good citizens," cried he, as he
entered Guildhall, " it is to perform an
act of justice to a worthy member of the
brotherhood of goldsmiths that I now ap-
pear before you. Long since, from an
unknown hand, I had notice of that plot
now so happily discovered and put down,
and I have sufficient reasons for knowing
that Arnold de Rothing was neither art
nor part in it. I know, too, that from
his daughter information was obtained,
and even a pattern of their rings. The
pursuit and overthrow of those traitors
hindered me from hastening earlier to
rescue good Master de Rothing from the
fate that seemed to await him ; but I
rejoice in having it now in my power to
make some amends to a man to whom
lady Fortune hath been so strangely
despiteous. King Henry hath commanded
that five hundred marks be paid to the
person who gave the first notice of the
plot : this, therefore, is due to Sybilla de
Rothing, his daughter ; and I shall add
to it other five hundred marks, as some
scant reparation to her father, for all that
he has suffered."

" My lord ! my very good lord !" ex-
claimed old Fitz-Martyn, pushing for-
ward ; " that reward is mine : did not I
give the first intelligence ?"

" Ho 1 Master Fitz-Martyn," returned
lord Cobham ; " the master ye have so
long served hath doubtless sent you here.
St. Mary ! but I was e'en about offering
a reward for your head. Know ye this
letter ?" holding up a small piece of

parchment. " O, ye are a worthy usurer 1
ye'll turn cat i' th' pan with Sathanas
himself. Seize him, good people ! as
arrant a traitor as ever stretched halter !
for he was in communication with lord
Huntingdon while he so bitterly pursued
Master de Rothing to death." Fitz-
Martyn was quickly seized, and, ere the
week's end, took the same road from
which de Rothing had so unexpectedly
returned.

Who shall describe the joy of the gold-
smith and his daughter at this sudden
revolution of fortune ? Bowed to by the
very men who, but one short hour before,
had followed his hurdle with execrations;
welcomed home by neighbours who for
years had looked on him with suspicion ;
and, (more grateful than all besides,)
warmly greeted by that fraternity from
whose friendly companionship he had
been so long exiled, Arnold de Kothing
returned to his home the happiest man in
all London. It need not be said, that his
after-life was marked by uninterrupted
prosperity. If any thing were wanting to
complete his felicity, it was the circum-
stance, that, notwitstanding the most se-
dulous inquiries, no tidings could ever be
obtained of the mysterious pilgrim : from
the evening when he met Sybilla at the
bridge-foot, he was never seen again.
Many were the conjectures respecting
him : some thought he had been a servant
of the duke of Gloster's, who, subse-
quently to his master's death, had gone
on pilgrimage, and returned just in time
to witness the retribution of heaven (per-
haps to aid it) on his murderers. This
opinion, which derived considerable plau-
sibility from the intimate knowledge he
certainly possessed of all the actors in the
plot, and also from the joy and gratitude
he expressed when the gory heads of
Salisbury and Huntingdon were exhibited
to the view of the citizens, did not, how-
ever, suit the wonder-loving taste of a
generation that considered supernatural
agency as necessary to the succour of an
individual as to the salvation of an em-
pire, and invoked and expected the assist-
ance of superior intelligences to perform
that to which mere human agency was
perfectly adequate. Another party, tliere-
fore — and it was by far the most numerous,
since it comprehended all the servants of
the church and all the city apprentices —
maintained that he was nothing less than

224

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

some saint, who, won by the sincere de-
votion of the unfortunate goUlsmith, and
the unprotected lovehness of liis fair
daughter, had condescended to quit the
realms of bliss and assume the humble
garb of a pilgrim, to succour those for
whom all hope of liuman aid was vain.
The only obstacle to complete uniformity
of belief on this momentous subject, was
the difl^culty of determining to which of
the crowd of saints in the Roman calen-
dar this honour should be assigned. The
most devout vehemently supported the
claims of St. Martin, whose real benevo-
lence gave him a far better right to cano-
nization than at least tvvo-thu-ds of " the
blessed host," whose protection each morn
and evening they duly invoked ; while
the 'prentices, unwilling that a Londoner
should be rescued save by the interven-
tion of some indigenous saint, strenuously
maintained the claim of St. Erkenwald,
reminding their opponents, that it vi^as on
the very eve of his translation (that fes-
tival so devoutly kept by all good citi-
zens), that the pilgrim for the last time
appeared. Long did these conflicting
opinions continue to agitate the minds of
the good people of London, even until
Arnold de Rothing, full of years and
honours, slept in peace. But long after-
wards, and through many generations,
was his singular tale handed down ; and
many a desponding mind was encouraged
to hope, and many a sorrowful heart urged
to a more firm reliance on Providence,
by the eventful history of " The Gold-
smith of Westcheap."

HIGHLAND HARDIHOOD.

John, lord Reay, was long held in du-
rance, in the tolbooth of Edinburgh, during
the Protectorate. The manner of his de-
liverance from prison, according to tradi-
tion, exhibits a striking instance of High-
land hardihood : — " Lord Reay's delivery
from his confinement (tradition says) was
effected thus : — his lady, the daughter of
Hugh Mackey of Scoury, was uncommonly
beautiful and handsome; and having been
introduced to the protector, she fell down
on her knees before him, and in the most
impressive manner, begged that her hus-
band might be liberated. He was so
struck with her beauty and deportment,
that he said he would do all in his power
to gratify her; lord Reay, he added, was
a state prisoner, and he could not of iiim-

self order his liberation, but if she could
manage so as to get him out of prison, he
would grant him a protection or pass to
secure him from farther trouble, and which
he delivered to her accordingly. A gre;U
difficulty still remained, how to get his
lordship beyond his prison wall. His lady
and his servant, John Mackay, one of the
clan Abrach, always had free access to him.
There were two grenadiers, sentinels,
before the front entry to the prison. John
said, if lady Reay could get his lordship
brought that length, he would at the liHzard
of his life, prevent the sentinels from ob-
structing him. The lady effected her part,
and as lord Reay was ready to advance
towards the sentinels, John laid hold of
them both, and with the greatest ease laid
them prostrate, the one above the other,
and then disarmed them. As his master
was now under cover of the protection,
John surrendered himself, and was imme-
diately put in prison and laid in irons. —
He was afterwards brought to trial, at
which Cromwell himself assisted. He
said, that the servant no doubt had for-
feited his life ; but his conduct, which went
to obtain his master's liberty, and perhaps
to save his life, was heroical ; and if this
man was put to death f(jr an act of this
nature, which proceeded wholly from his
fidelity to his master, and was attended
with nothing hurtful in itself, it would dis-
courage their own and other servants from
entertaining that degree of attachment to
their masters, which a pardon granted to
this prisoner would insure. His opinion,
therefore, was, that for the sake of justice,
the panel should be condemmed to die ;
but that, in the circumstances of the case,
the punishment siiould be remitted, which
was agreed to unanimously. After the
sentence was intimated to the prisoner,
Cromwell, having taken a full view of his
large hooked nose, impending eye-brows,
fierce manly aspect and proportional figure,
exclaimed, *May I be kept from the devil's
and that man's grasp.' "

GENEROUS REASONING.

The steward of the duke of Guise re-
presenting to him the necessity there was
of more economy in his houseliold, gave
him a list of persons whose attendance was
superfluous. The duke, after reading it,
said, "It is true lean do without all
these people, but have you asked them if
they can do without me ?"

PERILS BV FLOOD AND FIKLF).

225

THE GARTER:

A ROMANCE OF ENGLISH HISTOKV.

England resumed her ascendancy over
Scotland soon after Edward the Third had
commenced that brilhant reign, which
was destined to attract tlie eyes of all
Europe towards him. Nature and for-
tune seemed to have concurred in distin-
guishing this prince from all other mo-
narchs. He was very tall, but well
shaped ; and of so noble an(1 majestic an
aspect, that his very looks commanded
esteem and veneration. His conversation
was easy, and always accompanied with
gravity and discretion. He was affable
and obliging, benevolent and condescend-
ing ; and although the most renowned
prince, warrior, and statesman, of the
age in which he lived, his manners and
conduct were courteou*^, unaffected, and
even iiumble. His heart, filled with
visions of glory, was as yet ignorant of a
passion which few men know how to
combat: young Edward was unacquainted
with love. He only aspired to resume
those conquests which had escaped from
the feeble grasp of his unhappy father.

VOL. II, — 29.

Page 230.

He burned with the desire of subjecting a
neighbouring kingdom, the conquest of
which had ever been a favourite project
of England. Robert Bruce was in his
grave; and bis successor, although he
inherited his courage, did but hasten the
destruction of the Scottish monarchy.

The English monarch was served hy-
men who were worthy of their master.
William Munlacute had fought, with dis-
tinction and success, against the French
and Scots, and raised by the king to the
rank of earl of Salisbury, he desired no-
thing but the continuance of his sove-
reign's fa\ our, which Edward confirmed,
by engaging the baron de Grandison, one
ot his ministers, to give his eldest daugh-
ter to him in marriage.

Katharine de Grandison had not yet
appeared at court, but lived in seclusion
and solitude at her father's castle, in Glou-
cestershire. To a tall and stately form,
j she added the most sylph-like grace and
; lightness of figure. Her features were
: perfectly symmetrical, and her face was
i exquisitely fair; her eyes of an intense
blue ; and her voice rich, powerful, and
melodious. The accomplishments, both
2 G

226

TALES OF CHIVALRY , OR,

mental and acquired, with which she was
endowed, were of as higii an order as those
of her peison ; and to both, she united a
sweetness and gentleness of disposition,
which made her the idol of all who were
acquainted with her.

Her father, the lord de Grandison, was
of a lofty and imperious character : nei-
ther very mild or amiable, he had a stern
and inflexible spirit of justice and probity.
Incapable of sycophancy, although he re-
sided at court, and adoring iiis sovereign
without being able to degrade himself to
the rank of a flatterer, he would gladly
have sacriHc/^d his life for the king, but
his honour was dearer even to him than
Edward. ISJext to the monarch and the
statp, the object to which he was most at-
tached was his daughter ; and he lost no
time in acquainting Katharine with the
wishes of his master, who demanded her
hand for the earl of Salisbury. The father
did not observe the daughter's emotion,
but letired, convinced that he should be
obeyed. He had, however, not long
quitted the apartment before her youngest
sister, Alice, entered it, and found her
bathed in tears.

" Sweet sister," said Alice, "what mean
those tears ?"

"Alas !" returned the lady Katharine,
" I am no longer to be mistress of myself.
Thy love, and my father's protection, were
all I wished to form my happiness; andl
am about to pass under the yoke of a hus-
band whom 1 have never seen, nor ever
wish to see."

It was in vain that Alice endeavoured
to impress on her sister's mind the advan-
tages which would attend her union with
king Edward's favourite. "It is true,"
she replied, "that the earl of Salisbury,
stands high in the favour of the greatest
monarch in Europe. But hast thou ever
seen the king, Alice ? Is he not worthy
of the homage of all mankind? Lives there
any one who can so irresistibly command
our respect, our veneration, our love ? I
beheld him but once, at an entertainment
to which my father accompanied me j but
one glance was sufficient ! Oh ! how
happy will that princess be who calls him
husband !"

At these words the young lady paused,
and blushed; yet notwithstanding such
very unpromising symptoms the day for
the nuptials was immediately fixed, as the
old l(jrd never dreamed of asLinsr his

daughter if his own and the king's choice
were agreeable to her. The Abbey of
Westminster was chosen for the celebra-
tion ; the primate performed the ceremony,
the kmg gave away the bride, and Katha-
rine, accompanied by her husband and
her sister, proceeded to spend the honey-
moon at the earl's castle of Wark, in
Northumberland. His lordship had not,
however, many weeks enjoyed the society
of his beautiful wife, before he was sum-
moned to attend the earl of Suffolk on a
warlike expedition to Flanders, on which
occasion his usual good fortune for the
first time forsook him. Both the earls
were defeated in the first battle in which
they engaged, and were sent prisoners to
the court of France, until they could be
ransomed or exchanged.

This piece of intelligence was commu-
nicated to the lady Katharine, at the same
time with another, by which she learned
that king Edward had been solemnly be-
trothed to the lady Philippa, of Hainault.
The treaty for the marriage gave gene-
ral and unmixed pleasure to all his sub-
jects ; the count of Hainault, the lady's
father, being one of the most powerful
allies of England on the continent, who
had been mainly instrumental in rescuing
it from the tyranny of Mortimer, earl of
March, and the old queen, Isabella, and
thus securing the crown for Edward the
Third. The lord de Grandison, in parti-
cular, was delighted by the prospect of an
union between the houses of England and
Hainault ; hut no sooner was this news
conmiunicated tothecountess of Salisbury,
than she was overwhelmed with the most
poignant sorrow ; whether the earl's cap-
tivity, or the king's marriage, had the
greatest share in causing it, we must leave
our fair readers to determine.

" Why, my sweet Katharine," said
Alice, " why do you take the earl's cap-
tivity so much to heart ? the court of
France must be the most agreeable prison
in the world : there he will find every
thing to solace him in his misfortunes,
and enable him to sustain his separation
from you."

" Let him forget me, let him cease to
love me, 'tis no matter !' sighed the
countess.

" You deceive me, Katharine," said
Alice, "you conceal something from me,
for it is impossible that the capture which
lias placed } our lord in the hands of gene-

PKIULS UY FLOOD VXD FIELD.

227

rous foes, can be the occasion of so deep a
grief as yours."

" True, true, my sweet Alice," said the
countess, throwing herself into her sister's
arms, " I am the most wretched of wo-
men ; I love "

"The earl," said Alice.

" The king !" said Katharine, hiding
her face in her sister's bosom.

" Ha 1" said the latter, ** what is't I
hear ? I am your friend, your sister, Ka-
tharine, and would fain administer to
your peace ; but whither will this fatal
passion lead you ?"

"To death ! sweet Alice ! to death ! or,
at least, to a life made miserable by the
consciousness of nursing in my heart a
sentiment, to which honour and virtue
are alike opposed. And I have a rival,
Alice ! oh ! save me, save me from my-
self! speak to me of Salisbury, of my
iiusband, of his renown, his truth, his
valour ! and I will forget this king, whose
conquests cannot be bounded by France
and Scotland, but must include even the
affections of his subjects."

The heart of Katharine was tender,
and susceptible, but bold and firm ; and
in the society of her sister, and in the ac-
tive discharge of the various duties de-
volving upon her elevated rank, she en-
deavoured to repress that fatal passion
which the recent intelligence had strength-
ened to a height almost bordering upon
insanity.

In the meantime, king Edward openly
declared war against the Scots ; who, in-
stead of waiting to be attacked, resolved
to become the assailants, and, with a large
army, invaded England ; ravaged the
northern counties ; attacked Newcastle ;
took and burned the city of Durham ; and,
finally, laid siege to Wark castle, which
was left to the defence of the countess of
Salisbury, sir William Montacute, the son
of her husband's sister, and a very slender
garrison. This heroic lady, however, by
her beauty and firmness, inspired all with
courage, and devodon to her cause,
though the assault of the enemy was too
fierce and unremitting for them to hope
lung to defend the castle, without assist-
ance from king Edward, which sir Wil-
liam Montacute volunteered to obtain.

" I know your loyally and heartiness
towards the lady of this house," said the
gallant knight to- the beleaguered garri-
son, " and so, out of my love fur her, and

for you, I will risk my life in endeavour-
ing to make the king acquainted with our
situation ; when I doubt nut to be able to
bring back with me such succour as vyill
effectually relieve us."

This speech cheered both the countess
and her defenders; and at midnight sir
William left the fortress, happily unob-
served by the Scots. It was so pitiless
a storm that he passed through their army
without being noticed, until about day-
break, when he met two Scotsmen, half
a league from their camp, driving thither
some oxen. These men sir William at-
tacked and wounded very severely ; killed
the cattle, that they might not carry tiiem
to their army; and then said to them,
"Go and tell your leader, that William
Montacute has passed through his troops,
and is gone to seek succour from the king
of England, who is now at Berwick ;"
which intelligence being speedily com-
municated to tlie king of Scotland, he lost
no time in raising the siege, and retreat-
ing towards the frontier.

Within a very few hours, king Edward
arrived to (.he relief of the garrison, and
proceeded to poy his respects to the coun-
tess, who went to meet him at the castle
gates, and there gave him her thanks for
his assistance. They entered the castle
hand in hand, and the king kept his eyes
so continually upon her, tiiat the gentle
dame was quite abashed ; after which, he
retired to a window, where he feli into a
profound reverie ; and, as Froissart tells
us, upon the countess enquiring the sub-
ject of his thoughts, and whether it was
public business on which he mused, the
king replied —

" Other affairs, lady, touch heart niore
nearly ; for, in truth, your perfections
have so suiprised and affected me, that
my happiness depends on my nieeling
from you a return to that love with which
my bosom burns, and which no refusal can
extinguish."

" Sire," replied the countess, " do not
amuse yourself by laughing at me, for I
cannot believe that you mean what you
have just said ; or, tliat so noble and gal-
lant a prince would think of dishonouring
me, or my husband, who now is in prison
on your account."

The lady then quitted the king, who,

after {)assing the whole of that day, and a

restless and sleepless night, at the castle,

at dawn the next morning dc-purted in

2g2

228

TALES OF CTIIVAI.RY ; Ott,

chase of the Scots. Upon taking leave
of the countess, he said, " Dearest lady,
God preserve you ! Think well of what I
have said, and give me a kinder answer."
Her reply to which solicitation was, how-
ever, similar to all the former, though
Edward would have been amply revenged
for the rejection of his suit, had he pos-
sessed the keen eyes of Alice de Grandi-
son ; for to their piercing scrutiny her
sister's heart, with all the storm of passions
by which it was agitated, was laid entirely
open,

" Alice," she said, **it is too true, I do
not love alone ! Edward returns my fatal
passion. But my mind is fixed. I will
behold him no more ; would to heaven
that my husband were here !"

As she uttered these words, the coun-
tess sunk into the arms of Alice, and at
that moment she received a letter from
the earl. "Heaven be praised!" said
she, "Salisbury is on his return, and his
arrival will alike prevent the king and me
from nursing a sentiment which ought to
be stifled in its birth." Upon the old lord
de Grandison's arrival on a visit to his
daughter, he observed the profound sor-
row in which she was plunged. " But
rejoice, Katharine!" said he, "your hus-
band will soon be here. By an arrange-
ment between king Edward and the
courts of France and Scotland, he has
been exchanged for the earl of Moray.
Check, then, this immoderate grief: Salis-
bury has suffered defeat, but it is without
disgrace."

I'he countess felt all the pangs of con-
scious guilr, when she heard her father
attribute her grief to the absence of her
husband. Oh ! my father," she said,
when left to her own painful thoughts,
"even thee, too, do I deceive : I am the
betrayer of all who surround me, and dare
I meet the gaze of Salisbury ? Alas ! my
misfortune, and my crime, are traced in
indelible characters on my brow,"

Edward, on his return to his capital,
though surrounded by dazzling splendour
and enticing pleasures, could not chase
from his mind the image of the countess ;
and, unable any longer to bear her ab-
sence, he wrote to the lord de Grandison,
commanding him to bring his daughter to
court, for the purpose of awaiting the
speedy arrival of her husband. " My
father," said she, as soon as the old lord
had communicated to her the royal com-

mand, " will not the earl come hither to

me ?"

" Katharine !" answered de Grandison,
" the slightest wishes of the king it is our
imperative duty to obey."

" My lord, if you knew — I am a stran-
ger to the capital ; does it not abound
with dangers ? is there not "

"Nay, nay, my child ; you have wis-
dom, education, and virtuous example, to
protect you. Once more, your father and
king command you ; and you must ac-
company me."

De Grandison then made the necessary
preparations for his own return to the me-
tropolis ; and the countess, under the
pretext of indisposition, was able to delay
her own journey but for a short period.
News from her father, however, speedily
informed her of her husband's arrival ;
and this was quickly followed by a letter
from Salisbury himself, full of the most
passionate expressions of attachment, and
urging her immediate presence. To both
these, she answered by a plea of continued
illness; and to the latter, added an earnest
entreaty that her lord would himself come
to Wark Castle, where she had matter of
importance to communicate to him; being
resolved to explain the cause of her re-
luctance to visit London, and, confiden-
tially, to acquaint the earl with the solici-
tations of the king.

This latter letter had remained unan-
swered for a considerable time ; and the
countess feared that she had given offence to
both her husband and her father, when at
length an)essenger arrived from London.
The countess snatched the packet from
his hand, and eagerly perused it ; it was
from her father, and ran thus : —

•' My dearest Daughter,
" The moment has arrived when you must arm
yourself w ith all that fortitude wh'ich you have
inherited from me. True grandeur resides in our
own souls ; that which we derive from fortune
vanishes with the other illusions of which this
life is compounded. You were anxiously expect-
ing your husband ; and he was about to receive
further honours from his master; but the King of
kings has decreed that Salisbury should not live
to enjoy the bounty of his monarch. A sudden
illness has just removed him from this world,
" Your affectionate father,

" De Gr.\ndison."

The decease of the earl of Salisbury
was deeply lamented by the countess.
Gallant, generous, and affectionate, he had
won her esteem, and had she had an op-
portunity of knowing him longer, might
have gained her love. Her dehcacy, too.

\

%

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

229

loaded her with self-reproaches, from
which she did not attempt to escape ; and
made her feel the loss she had sustained
still more acutely. *' I will repair my
crime," she said ; ** I will revenge the
manes of Salisbury. The king, although
aflSanced, and by proxy espoused, to
Philippa of Hainault, will renew his suit
to me ; but he shall learn that esteem and
duty are sometimes as powerful as love
itself. "

By the death of the gallant earl, king
Edward found himself deprived of one of
the main supports of his crown, and he
regretted him not less as a useful citizen,
of whom the nation was justly proud, than
as a loyal servant, who was sincerely at-
tached to his master. Love, neverthe-
less, mingled with the king's regrets ;
since he could not but be sensible that he
was now without a rival ; and that the
countess was free from a constraint, which
had hitherto separated them from each
other. The earl died without children ;
and the law compelled his widow to re-
nounce the territorial possessions which
were attached to the title, and which now
reverted to the crown This event, there-
fore, rendered her presence in London
unavoidable ; and, on her arrival in the
metropolis, her father, desirous to relieve
her from the melancholy in which she was
plunged, wished to introduce her at court,
and present her to the king. This pro-
posal, however, met her firm refusal.
*' What is it that you propose to nie, my
lord ?" said she ; " ere these mourning
habiliments are well folded round me,
would you have me parade them in so-
lemn mockery at the foot of the throne ?
Never ! Leave me, I conjure you, my
lord ; leave me to solitude and despair."

De Grandison wished not to constrain
the inclinations of his daughter j and upon
communicating the reasons of herabsence,
the king affected to be satisfied with them.
He had, however, communicated his pas-
sion to sir William Trussell, one of the
most artful intriguers and insinuating
sycophants about his court ; who, anxious
only to secure his place in the king's fa-
vour, had encouraged him in the prosecu-
tion of this amour, and even violence,
should it be necessary towards the attain-
ment of his object.

"The ingrate !" said the king, when
he found himself alone with Trussell, —
" she refuses me even the innocent grati-

fication of beholding her. I ask but an
interview ; I wish but to look upon her
beauty ; and she refuses to grant me even
this niggardly boon for all that she has
made me suffer."

*' My liege," said Trussell, " it is com-
promising your honour, and your dignity,
to submit to such audacity. The daugh-
ter of de Grandison ought to feel but too
much flattered that king Edward deigns
to bestow a glance, or a thought, upon
her. Her luisband is in the tomb; she
is free from all restraint ; and you have
tendered your love : what is it that she
opposes to your offer ? Her virtue ! Is
not obedience virtue ? Is not compliance
the first duty of subjects to their sove-
reign ? My liege, this daughter of de
Grandison hides intrigue under the
name of virtue. Your grace has a
rival."

" Ha !" said Edward, while his lip
quivered, and his whole gigantic frame
trembled like an aspen leaf: "by hea-
ven, thou hast it, Trussell ! Fool that I
was to feign that reserve for which this
haughty minion now despises me ! Fly
to her, then ; demand an audience, and
command her to appear at court j tell her
that I will brook no answer but compli-
ance."

Trussell hastened to execute the mo-
narch's orders; and the king, left to him-
self, began to ponder on the course which
he was pursuing. " I have yielded, then,"
said he, " to the fiend's suggestions ; and
thus abased myself to a level with the
weakest and most despicable of mankind.
I am preparing to play the tyrant with
my subjects, and my first victim is an
unhappy woman, whose only crime is
the obstinacy with which she repels my
unworthy addresses. Hither," he added,
clapping his hands, and immediately one
of his pages stood before him ; " hasten
after sir William Trussell : bid him attend
me instantly."

*' Trussell," said the king, as he re-
turned equipped for the errand he was
about to undertake, " I have consulted my
heart; I have held communion with my-
self; and I have learned that it befits not
Edward of England to employ force or
artifice to achieve the conquest of the
heart of Katharine ; ** I will vanquish her
obstinacy by other means."

" What, my liege !" said Trussell, "will
you then submit— — "

230

TALES OP CHIVALRY : OR,

" To any thing', rather than suffer the
countess of Sahsbury to accuse me of
despotism."

*• In your grace's place — *' eaid Trus-
sell.

*' In tny place," interrupted Edward,
"you would act as I do : 1 wish to show
that I possess the soul, as well as the sta-
tion of a king. Katharine of Salisbury
shall not be the victim of my caprice, —
Go; and, in future, give me ouly such
counsel as shall be worthy of us."

The king congratulated himself on this
heroic effort; and it was one which cost
him many pangs : nor was the countess
without her struggles and anxieties;
for, while the imnge of her lost husband
was hourly becoming more effaced from
her heart, that of the king was more
deeply engraven there than ever. She
received many letters from him, but an-
swered none ; and the pride of the royal
lover began to take fire again at the neg-
lect and contumely with which his mis-
tress treated his addresses; whilst Trussell
used every means of nourishing this feel-
ing, and of insinuating that both the
father and daughter were anxious only to
enhance the price at which the virtue of
the latter was to be bartered.

De Grandison, w ho began to think that
his daughter carried her grief for her hus-
band to an immoderate height, now re-
monstrated with her, somewhat impetu-
ously, on her absence from court.

" Do you think," said he, "that I will
willingly behold you in a state of eternal
widowhood ? or'that I will suffer you to
fail in the respect and duty which we owe
the king ? Is there a monarch in the
world so worthy of his subjects' love i"'

" Alas I" said the countess, ** who can
feel more deeply than I do, how much we
are indebted to him. But take care, my
father, that he performs the contract for
which his royal word and your own are
irrevocably given. See that he weds,
and that speedily, Philippa de Hainault."

" Wherefore should I doubt that he will
do so ?" said de Grandison. ** Is he not
pledged, in the face of all Europe, to be-
come her husband? and, was I not the
bearer of his promise to the earl of Hain-
ault to that effect ?"

*' He will never wed her, my father,"
said the countess ; " you are yourself wit-
ness that front day to day he defers the
marriage, on the most frivolous pretexts." :

"Nay, nay, sweet Katharine," said
the old lord, " wherefore should you
take so much interest in this marriage ?
This is but a stratagem to put me from
my suit. I am going this evening to
attend the king, so you must accompany
me."

" Pardon me, my dearest father, pardon
me, but I cannot go."

" I entreat, I command you," said de
Grandison. " I have too long permitted
your disobedience, and now "

" Father ! behold me a suppliant on
my knees before you ; defer, but for a
few da}'s, this visit to the court, and then
I will obey you."

** What means this emotion, Katharine ?"
said her father, " I find it difficult to refuse
you any thing. Do not forget, however,
that the delay which I grant, must be but
a short one ; in three days you must ac-
company me."

This interview, however, which the
baron had been unable to efl'ect either
by his commands or his entreaties, he at
last managed to accomplish by a strata-
gem. He persuaded his daughter to con-
sent to accompany him to a masqued ball,
to which she had been invited by the
countess of Suffolk, at her seat, a few miles
distant from London : and the fair and
noble widow no sooner made her appear-
ance among the assembled company, than
every eye was fixed upon her. Her tall
and stately, yet graceful figure, glided
down the rooms like a visitant from an-
other sphere, when an unfortunate acci-
dent completely disconcerted her. A
mask, richly dressed, had long followed
her through all the apartments ; when, as
she was endeavouring with some embar-
rassment to escape from his pursuit, by
hurrying to a vacant seat, her garter
dropped upon the floor ; the mask eagerly
stooped down and seized it, and she, as
eagerly, instantly demanded its restora-
tion.

** Nay, gentle madam," said he, " this
is a prize too precious to be lightly parted
with, and I "

*• Discourteous knight," said the lady,
" know you whom you treat with so much
indignity ?" and at these words, she re-
moved the mask from her face, hoping
thus to awe her pt^rsecutor into acquie-
scence. Her surprise, howe\er, was
equal to that of any one present, when
hei- tormentor, removing his own visor.

PERILS RY FLOOD A'fD FIELD.

231

discovered the features of king Edward.
Tlie lady sank on her knees before the
monarch, and the whole company followed
her example.

*' Behold !" cried the king, holding up
the ravished garter, a treasure, of the
possession of which I own myself unwor-
thy ; yet I will not part with it, for any
ransom wealth or power can offer." An
ill-suppressed burst of laughter followed
this speech. *^ Honi soit quimalypena !'''
exclaimed the king. "Laugh on, my
lords and gentlemen ! but in good time
the merriest of ye, yea, and the greatest
sovereigns of Europe, shall be proud to
wear this garter." Thus saying, the king
whispered a few words to the countess,
which seemed to occasion her consider-
able embarrassment ; and then, making
a lowly obeisance, left the apartment.

The declaration which he had that night
made, he shortly afterwards accomplished,
by instituting the far renowned order of
the garter; which, with the ceremonies
and entertainments consequent upon it,
for some time occupied the almost un-
divided attention of king Edward. His
love for the countess of Salisbury was,
however, now openly avowed ; and the
arrival of the princess Philippa, to whom
he had already been married by proxy,
was delayed in consequence of his not
sending the necessary escort. The peo-
ple soon began to nmrmur at this delay,
since not only the honour of the king,
but of the nation also, was concerned in
keeping faith with the count of Hainault,
whose alliance was of such vital import-
ance to the interests of England. It was
at this jimcture, that the lord de Grandi-
son presented himself to the king, and
demanded a private audiance.

*• I have letters, my liege," said the
baron, "from the count of Hainault, who
bitterly complains of the delay in execut-
ing the treaty, with the conclusion of
which your grace was pleased to honour
me."

At these words, the king changed co-
lour, which the baron was nut sluw in
observing, as he coniinued, " Wherefore
mv liege, should this intelligence dis-
please you ? 1 perceive in your glance
traces of dislike towards this union, which
all England expects witli such impa-
tience."

" De Grandison," said Edward, *' kings
are formed of the same materiaLs as other

men. I'hey have hearts, and mine is
consumed by a passion which makes me
sensible that rank and power are not hap-
piness."

" What, my liege ! have your eyes
betrayed your heart to another object ?
Can you forswear your royal word ? —
Honour, fame, policy, all forbid it; all con-
spire to hasten your marriage with the
lady Philippa."

"If you knew the beauty of my own
court who has inspired my passion, my
lord, you would not press this subject."^

" I know nothing but your grace's in-
terest and honour," said de Grandison.
" Pardon my frankness, but there can be
no motive to occasion any further delay."

" No motive, lord de Grandison ?" said
Edward, and he sighed. "Alas! I see
that age has chilled your blood, and frozen
up your heart."

"' My liege, I burn more than ever with
devotion to your service. If this marriage
be not solemnized, and speedily, you will
offend a powerful prince, to whom you are
indebted for many benefits, and also dis-
appoint the fond hopes of a loyal people.
You forget yourself, my liege ; remem-
ber that you are king of England ! I
speak to Edward, who, stripped even of
the splendours of royalty, should still be
worthy of the respect and admiration of
mankind."

" We shall see, my lord de Grandison,"
said the king ; " but now leave me, leave
me."

The old baron had no sooner left Ed-
ward, than the king summoned Trussell
to an audience, and informed him of his
recent interview, and of its unfavourable
result, adding, " I wished to speak to him
of his daughter, and of my love for her ;
but I know not wherefore I was unable
to explain myself. There is a fierce in-
fiexibility about that old man, which
irritates me. I reverence, and yet I fear
him."

" And is your grace deceived by this
de Grandison's affectation of inflexibility
and virtue ? Believe me, my liege, that
they both have their price, although it is
somewhat an extravagant one. But suf-
fer me to undertake your grace's suit, and
I will so manage it, that the baron himself
shall be the first to give the lovely coun-
tess to your arms."

Upon leaving the'king, Trussell speed-
ily sought and found the baron alone in

232

TALES OF CHIVALRY, OR,

his apartment, perusing" and sighing over
his dispatches from the count of Hainault.
De Grandison had that instinctive aver-
sion for liis visitor, which was natural to
a mind Uke his; still he could not refuse
to listen to a messenger from the king ;
and Trussell accordingly called up all the
resources of an artful genius to explain
the object of his visit with as much deli-
cacy as possible. The old lord listened
with a cold and disdainful attention till
the conclusion of his harangue, and then
replied, ** sir William Trussell, you ex-
plain yourself very clearly. Tiie king
loves my daughter, and you come to per-
suade me to use my influence in inducing
her to yield to his grace's wishes."

" Nay, nay, my lord," said Trussell,
" your lordship misconceives me. I spoke
merely of management, of modes of con-
duct to be observed by your lordship and
the countess. You have been more than
fifty years a courtier, my lord, and I can-
not be speaking a language which you do
not understand. It is for your lordship,
therefore, to decide what answer I shall
bear to the king."

"I will bear it myself, sir William,"
said de Grandison, ** and that instantly."

" You cannot mean it, my lord," said
Trussell.

" Any further conversation between
us," said de Grandison, " is quite unne-
cessary. His giace shall shortly see
me."

Scarcely was the unhappy father re-
lieved from the presence of Trussell, than
he sank upon a seat in a state of distrac-
tion. " This then was Edward's reason
for desiring the presence of my daughter,

and he would ! But he is incapable

of such baseness; it is that villain Trus-
sell who has corrupted the princely cur-
rent of his thoughts and feelings: or can
my daughter be acquainted with the king's
weakness ? Can Katharine be an accom-
plice in this amour ? If but in thought

she has dishonoured these grey hairs "

His look grew black as midnight, as he
grasped his sword and rushed from the
apartment.

The interview v^ith his daughter at once
removed the most painful of the old man's
suspicions, and with an anxious but de-
termined heart, he then presented himself
before the king.

" Welcome, my lord de Grandison,"
said the monarch ; " my good friend,

IVussell, has revealed to you the precious
secret of my lieart ; and you come to tell
me I have not relied in vain upon your
friendship and your loyalty ; your daugh-
ter "

" I have just left her, my liege ; and
she has laid open lier whole heart to
me."

*' And she hates me ?" said the king,
impatiently.

•* The most dutiful and loyal of your
grace's subjects, Katharine offers you a
homage the most respectful and profound.
But she is the daughter of de Grandison j
she is the widow Salisbury ; and that
neither of those names have yet been
tainted with dishonour, is a truth of which
the king of England needs least of all men
to be reminded."

"What have I heard?" said the
king.

" Truth, my liege, truth ; to whose
accents your minions would close your
ears, but whom you hear speaking by my
mouth. My daughter is not fitted for the
rival of the princess of Hainault ; and

to be If I offend, my liege, my head

is at your grace's disposal. I have finished
my course, and shall soon be no longer in
a condition to serve you. VV^hy, then,
should 1 care for the few days which na-
ture might yet permit me to live ? At
least I shall die with the assurance, that
my daughter will cherish the memory of
her father, and of his honour. Dispose
of me as you please, my liege ; you are
master."

" Yes, traitor," answered Edward ;
" and I would be your protector, and
your friend ; but you compel me to ex-
hibit myself only as your sovereign. In-
stantly commandyour daughter's presence
here, or prepare yourself for a lodging in
the Tower."

"The Tower, my liege," rephed de
Grandison ; **I will hasten thither with
as much alacrity as I interposed my shield
between your grace's breast, and the
arrow which was pointed at it, on the field
of battle."

{To be co7itinued.)

LEONIDAS.

A soldier saying at Thermopylae, that
the arrows of the barbarians were so nu-
merous as to hide the sun — " Then,"
said Leonidas, *' we shall have the great
advantage of fighting in theshade."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIKLD.

2.13

r^Si?^

THE PAGAN HYPOCRITE;

OR, THE

DANISH PIRATE.

Shortly after the death of Charle-
magne, Lobroc, or, as some historians call
him, Lodbrog, king of Denmark, finding
his kingdom had become too populous,
which created great distress and clamour
among the people, became anxious to rid
himself of the more turbulent part of his
subjects ; accordingly, to put this into
etfect, he revived the ancient law of expul-
sion. In order, however, to give every
one the chance of remaining at home, with
some resemblance of justice, it was deter-
mined to cast lots. Among those upon
whom the lot fell was his own son, Biorn,
(surnamed C6te-de-fer, from the iron
plates of his armour.) A great number of
vessels were prepared, and the king en-
trusted the command of the expedition,
and the charge of the royal youth, to Has-
tings or Hading, a veteran pirate. As
soon as the fleet was ready to sail, the old
king affectionately parted with his son,
and Hastings rowed for Picardy, which
was the first object of his attack. He as
VOL. II. — 30.

Page 234.

cended the river Somme, and, with his
followers, committed the greatest ravages
in the adjacent countries, set fire to the
towns, violated the women, and murdered
the inhabitants. There was not a ciiurch
or monastery but what they destroyed,
drowned the bishop and clergy of St.
Quentin, and grossly profaned their sa-
cred relics. To these dreadful depreda-
tions no effective resistance could be of-
fered in the distracted state of France,
immediately after the death of Charle-
magne ; Charles the Bald, his favourite
son, having so weakened the army, by his
repeated contests with his eldest brother,
Lothaire, that he was utterly unprepared
to resist or puni«h so formidable a body
as these northern invaders, who having,
therefore, wreaked their demoniac fury
on the province, they betook themselves
to their fleet, and proceeded on to Neus-
tria. At Fescamp, the nuns disfigured
their countenances to escape the brutal
violence of the pagans, who, if they spared
their chastity, sacrificed their lives, and
the convent was destroyed by fire. The
magnificent abbey of Jumieges shared the
same fate ; but the greatest portion of its
2h

234

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

nine hundred monks fortunately contrived
to escape with their relics.

Rouen had its full sliare of the calamity ;
and from thence the devastating tide flowed
over all Nenstria, Brittany, and even to
the very gates of Paris. The people
scarcely knew where to fly from these
" children of hell,"' as they were deno-
minated. All France was in consterna-
tion, and as they successively assailed the
towns on the western frontier, the monks,
surprised that their venerated relics were
of so little avail on so pressing an occasion,
were compelled to flee also.

Though years rolled on, no simulta-
neous movement was made by the French,
to stem a torrent, which in all probability
they considered as irresistible. At length,
not satisfied with the immense booty which
had been acquired in that kingdom, Has-
tings resolved to visit Rome, of the riches
of which he had heard exaggerated ru-
mours. He accordingly put to sea, pil-
laged in his course several maritime towns
of Spain and Africa, and, landing on the
coast of Tuscany, he assailed Lucca, which
he mistook for Rome. Failing in his as-
sault against that city, he had recourse to
one of the most diabolical and hypocriti-
cal stratagems that a demon in the shape
of man could devise, and one which lias
been often since employed by other ad-
venturers of his nation.

He caused it to be circulated to the in-
habitants of Lucca, that he was disgusted
with his present mode of life ; that he
wished for nothing but liberty to purchase
ample provisions for his men, which he
would fairly pay for ; that his followers
were about to return to their native coun-
try ; and he was labouring under a mor-
tal disease, which made his conscience
very uneasy, as he was extremely soli-
citious about his eternal salvation ; and
he even requested of the clergy pardon
and absolution for his sins, and permis-
sion to enter the bosom of the Christian
church.

Such a pious request could not but be
regarded with joy by the pious ecclesiastics
of the city : they, in great pomp, waited
upon the governor, and after much per-
suasion, prevailed on him to grant a tem-
porary suspension of hostilities. This
being accomplished, great and splendid
pr-^parations were made by tliem for the
public baptism of so renowned a pagan.

On the day appointed for the perform-

ance of this ceremony, Hastings was
carried to the cathedral, feigned extreme
sickness, and acted his part so well, that
none ever expected him to recover. After
submitting, with much apparent contrition
for his manifold sins, to the sacred rites,
he dwelt on his approaching dissolution,
and, as the last favour, fervently begged
in the most humble manner that the arch-
bishop would permit his body to be laid in
one of the vaults beneath the consecrated
building. To refuse such an entreaty, so
earnestly and pathetically made, was not
in the nature of the good brethren, and
they readily assured him of their consent,
should his death take place in their city.

Totally exhausted, as if struck by the
relentless hand of death, he was slowly
borne back to his ship. No sooner had
he arrived on board than he assembled
his leaders, and acquainted them with the
design and means he had formed of ob-
taining immediate possession of the place.
In pursuance of his instructions, he was
laid in a coffin, and shrowded in the
habiliments of the grave, ready for inter-
ment.

His followers then left their ships, and
I entering the city, suddenly raised a cry of
loud lamentation, and informed the inha-
bitants of the death of the neophyte; and
the clergy were requested to make the
necessary preparations for his interment.
On the day appointed, the Norman chiefs,
accompanied by a great number of the
pirates, and all covered with long black
mourning cloaks, followed the coffin of
their leader to his last mortal home. It
was placed on a bier within the spacious
edifice. The unsuspecting archbishop,
his bishops and inferior priests, with the
governor and the principal inhabitants,
were assembled to do honour to the me-
mory of one, who, whatever might have
been his life, had died as became a true
penitent and son of the Holy Mother
Church.

The solemn funeral rites proceeded ;
the office and mass had been sung, when
the attendants advanced to deposit the
corpse into its narrow bed of earth. At
that moment Hastings leaped from the
bier, drew his sword, and cleft the head
of the archbishop in tvro. This treacher-
ous act was the signal for the other Nor-
mans to draw their deadly weapons, which
they had concealed under their cloaks.
They threw off their incumbrance, fast-

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIKLD.

235

ened the doors of the cathedral, and com-
menced a horrid carnage. The governor,
bis barons, and the clergy, were all mas-
sacred ; and the whole city was soon aban-
doned to pillage and slaughter.

After this atrocious act, Hastings re-
turned to France, which, even during his
absence, had suffered no intermission from
the ravages of his countrymen. His return
threw Charles the Bald into still greater
consternation. That monarch's attempts
at resistance proving abortive, heat length
obtained peace by ceding to the dreaded
pirate valuable landed possessions, and
granting him a large annual pension, with
the honour and dignity of the count de
Chatres, without requiring him to do
homage.

To France, Hastings was one of the
greatest scourges she had ever expe-
rienced. Neither Goth nor Saracen had
committed greater depredations on her
fair territory, for neither remained long
in the country. Bound by no laws, hu-
man or divine, he committed deeds which
almost overwhelm us with horror. He
converted smiling provinces into desarts,
covering them with the smoking ruins of
towns and villages. Clergy and laity,
high and low, felt the effects of his san-
guinary character. He s-pared neither
the feebleness of age, nor the helplessness
of infancy : he sacrificed the priest at the
altar, and the infant at the breast of its
mother. Female chastity was violated
even in the sanctity of the cloisters ; and
the murders of the victims of their brutal
lust not unfrequently followed their dis-
honour.

From these treacherous and diabolical
invaders of life and honour, and property,
the present Normans are descended.

THE GARTER.

(Concluded from page 232.J
" Audacious traitor !" said the monarch,
*' away with him to the Tower !" De
Grandii-on was immediately hurried off,
closely guarded : and at that moment, sir
Neele Loving, a gallant knight, who was
one of the tirsi invested with the order of
the garter, rushed into the royal presence,
exclaiming, " What have I beheld, my
liege ?"

•' The punishment due to outraged ma-
jesty," replied the king.

"Nay, nay, my liege, \Aheref()re de-
prive your old and faithful servant of his

liberty ? and for what crime ? can it be
king Edward to whom lam speaking?
Can it be Edward who would load the
limbs of old de Grandison with fetters ?
But you relent, — your grace remem-
bers "

At that instant Trussell entered ; " My
liege, de Grandison vents his anger in
violence and threats ; he would write to
his daughter, but I have denied him per-
mission so to do."

"You hear, sir Neele," said the king,
♦* the old traitor indulges in threats to-
wards our royal person ; but I am weary
of your boldness, sir knight; I am the
king of England, and my subjects shall
obey me."

The bold knight had no sooner disap-
peared, than the countess of Salisbury
presented herself. Pale and trembling,
witb dishevelled locks and streaming eyes,
but still surpassingly beautiful, the lovely
Katharine threw herself at the king's
feet.

" Sire ! sire !" she shrieked, " give me
back m\ father !"

A blush of self-reproach mantled on the
brow of Edward, as he extended his hand,
and raised the lovely suppliant from her
knees. " Pardon, madame," said he,
" pardon the acts to which a lover's de-
spair drives him. Remember that the
tirst sight of you kindled in my breast a
flame which 1 stilled during the lifetime
of your gallant husband. Salisbury, Hea-
ven assoil his soul ! is now in his grave j
and yet now, when I acquaint you vvilii
my sufferings, and my hopes, you answer
me only with your reproaches and tears "

*' My tears, my liege, are all that re-
main to me for my defence ; and yet they
touch you not."

** Say'st thou that they touch me not ?
Is it for you, sweet Katharine, to doubt
your empire over my heart ? I am no
longer able to impose laws on that passion
which you repay with ingratitude."

"lam no ingrate, most dread sove-
reign," replied tlie countess ; " but, my
liege, can I, ought I, to forget that my
aged father is in fetters ?"

" They shall be broken," said the king.
" He shall resume his station as my best
trusted counsellor, and his daughter "

" Forbear, my liege, to finish va hat you
would say. 1 speak not of his daugli-
ter."

•' Then her father — Katharine "

236

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

" My father can but die, sire ; v\ hat
right have I, mj hege, to entertain your
g^race's love, when the princess of Hain-
ault is waiting to take her seat beside you
upon the throne of England. But, release
my father, and I will wander from your
presence, where the sight of the unhappy
Katharine never more shall trouble you.
Restore my father to me, and we will be
gone from hence for ever I"

** No, adorable Katharine !" said the
^'"g j "your father shall be free; and
you shall still know your sovereign your
lover, and see him worthy of your love."

Thus saying, he left the countess alone
in the Presence Chamber, where she re-
mained a considerable time, much won-
dering at his behaviour, and suffering
great uneasiness of mind. At length sir
Neele Loring approached, and sinking on
his knee before her, said — " Madam, per-
mit me to conduct you to the place which
the king's commands have assigned for
you."

The countess, much troubled and
trembling, silently gave the knight her
hand, and traversed with him a vast suite
of splendid apartments, until they at length
arrived at a door, which opening led into
a magnificent saloon, where she beheld
Edward seated on his throne, surrounded
by his courtiers; all of whom, and even
the sovereign himself, were decorated
with the insignia of the garter. Upon
her entrance, the king rushed towards
her, and with one hand taking hold of
her's, with the other placed the crown
upon her head.

*' Approach, dearest lady !" said he,
" and share the throne of the king of Eng-
land, and the homage of his subjects. Be-
come my consort, my queen. Beauty,
truth, and virtue, call you to the throne ;
and in placing you there, I equally fulfil
my own wishes, and those of my people.
They will applaud my choice, fur it is
worthy of me. Your father is free, and
both to him and yon will I repair the in-
justice which I have committed."

*' Beauty, my liege," said sir Neele
Loring, " was made to reign, for it was
man's first sovereign."

The countess, overwiielmed with the
suddenness of her surprise, was scarcely
able to articulate. " My liege," said
siie, " the throne is nut my place, the
princess of Hainault

" Yes," said the lord de Grandison,

bursting into the apartment, " she only
must sit there ! — What, my liege ! my
daughter crowned, and about to ascend
the tiirone 1 Is that the price at w liich my
chains are broken ? Back with me to the
Tower, rather eternal slavery, than free-
dom purchased by dishonour."

" My lord de Grandison," said the
king, "hsten to me : I have given your
daughter my hand, she is my queen, and
wherefore would you oppose our happi-
ness ?"

** My daughter queen !" exclaimed the
baron ; ** Katharine," he added, address-
ing her in a tone of supplication, " wilt
thou lend thyself to the cause of falsehood
and perjury ? Wilt thou aid thy king to
break a promise plighted in the face of
Europe ? Listen to me, and prove thy-
self my daughter. Put off that diadem.
Fall at the kings feet for pardon ; or, if
thou canst not perforni the dictates of
duty, then die, and heaven pardon thee !"

He drew a dagger from his bosom as he
spoke, and as the king arrested his hand,
he continued —

" Approach me not, my liege, or I bury
this dagger in her heart. Give me thy
royal vAord that she shall not be queen,
or "

" My liege !" said the countess, lifting
the crown from her brow, and falling at
Edward's feet, '* it must not be, your
royal word is pledged, the nation's honour
is its guarantee, and war and desolation
would follow the violation of your plighted
promise. I am Katharine of Salisbury,
your grace's most faithful subject, but dare
not be your queen."

** Generous beings," said the king, "it
is you who teach me iiow to reign. Rise,
gracious madam ! rise, my good lord de
Grandison. You, my noble friend, shall
instantly proceed to the court of Hainault,
to bring over my affianced bride. Your
lovely daughter must not be my wife, but
you will suffer her to remain at my court,
its brightest ornament."

Thus ended the adventure of the garter,
without any of those disastrous conse-
quences which once seemed so threaten-
ing. The princess of Hainault filled the
throne to wfiich she was called by the
voice of the nation, and won and merited
the love of her royal consort. Anxious to
give to the virtuous object of his former
passion, a splendid testimony of the sen-
timents which he still entertained towards

PERILS BY FLOOD A\D FIELD.

237

her, the king, on his marriage, renewed
the institution of the order of the garter.
De Grandison long continued to hold the
highest place in the royal favour 5 the
countess of Salisbury appeared at court
as the friend of queen Philippa, and long
continued the object of the respectful pas-
sion of the greatest monarch who had ever
filled the throne of England.

THE PRISONERS OF MOUNT CAUCASUS.

The Caucasian mountains have for a
long time past been inclosed within the
bounds uf the Russian empire, without
being subject to it. Their wild and savage
inhabitants, separated by language and
conflicting interests, form a number of
small tribes, which have very little politi-
cal intercourse or correspondence with one
another, but which are all animated by
the same love of mdependence and of
plunder.

One of the most numerous and most
formidable of those tribes is that of the
Tchetchenges, who inhabit the great and
little Kabarda, provinces whose extensive
valleys extend almost to the sun)mit of the
Caucasus. The men are handsome, brave,
and intelligent, but they are determined
and cruel robbers, almost in a constant
state of warfare with the troops of the
line.

It is amidst those dangerous hordes,
and in the very centre of that immense
chain of moimtains, that Russia has es-
tablished a road of communication with
her possessions in Asia. Redoubts or forts,
placed at short intervals, defend the way
as far as Georgia, but no traveller would
ever venture even over that small distance
alone. Twice a-week a convoy of infantry
with cannon, and a strong party of Cos-
sacks, escort government dispatches and
travellers. One of these redoubts has be-
come a village pretty well peopled. From
its commanding situation it received the
name of Wladi-Caucasus : it is the resi-
dence of the officer commanding the troops
which perform the hard service we have
just now mentioned.

Major Kascambo, of the regiment of
Wologda, a man of family in Russia,
though of Greek origin, was to take the
command of the Fort of Lars in the defiles
of the Caucasus. Impatient to reach his
post, and brave to rashness, he had the
imprudence to undertake that journey
with the small escort of fifty Cossacks

whieh he had at his command, and the
still greater imprudence to speak of his
intention, and to boast of it beforehand.

The Tchetchenges situated near the
frontier, who are called Pacific Tchet-
chenges, are subjects of Russia, and have
in consequence a free access to jMosdok,
but the greater part of them keep up a
correspondence and secret intercourse with
the mountaineers, and very often take
part in their robberies, and share their
plunder. The latter, secretly informed of
Kascambo's intended journey, and of the
very day of his departure, came down in
great numbers, and lay in ambuscade on
his route. At about twenty versis from
Mosdok, on turning a small hillock covered
with brushwood, he was attacked by seven
hundred horsemen. Retreat was impos-
sible : the Cossacks dismounted and stood
the attack with great firmness, hoping to
be succoured by the troops of a redoubt
which was not very far off.

The inhabitants of the Caucasus, though
individually very courageous, are incapa-
ble of attacking in a dense body, and are
in consequence not very formidable to a
stead}' and well-disciplined body of men ;
but they have very good arms, and are
excellent marksmen. Their great num-
bers on the present occasion made the
conflict too unequal. After keeping up
for a considerable time a brisk fire, more
than one-half of the Cossacks were killed
or disabled ; the remainder had formed a
circular rampart with the dead horses,
behind which they were employing their
ammunition to the best effect. The
Tchetchenges, who have always among
them some Russian deserters, \\homthey
employ as interpreters, made them cry
out, " Give up the major, or you shall be
killed to the last man!" Kascambo, see-
ing that the total destruction of his party
was inevitable, resolved to surrender, to
save the lives of those who still survived.
He gave his sword to his Cossacks, and
proceeded alone towards the Tchetchen-
ges, who instantly ceased their fire, their
sole object being to take him alive, and
thereby obtain a ransom. He had scarcely
been a moment in the enemy's hands when
he perceived in the distance the expected
succours approaching. It was, alas ! too
late — the robbers hurried him otf.

His denchick, or soldier-servant, had
remained behind with the mule carrying
the major's baggage. Concealed in a

238

TALES OF CHIVALRY

lioUow, he waited the event of the com-
bat. When he was informed by the Cos-
sacks of his master's misfortune, the brave
fellow immediately resolved to share his
destiny, and, driving his mule before him,
followed without loss of time the track of
the Tchetchenges. He was beginning to
lose sight of the hoof-marks in the dark-
ness, when he fortunately fell in with a
straggler, who conducted him to the place
of rendezvous.

One may easily conceive what must
have been the prisoner's feelings when he
saw his denchick come spontaneously to
share his miserable fate. The Tchetchen-
ges immediately divided the booty. They
left nothing to the major but a guitar which
they restored to him in derision. Ivan
(this was the denchick's name) took pos-
session of it, and although ordered by his
master to throw it away, refused to obey
him. ** Why should we lose courage ?"
said he ; "the God of the Russians is
great ! — it is the interest of these dogs to
take care of you j they will do you no
harm."

After a halt of a few hours, the hcrde
of robbers was in the act of resuming the
march, when one of their spies brought in-
formation that the Ru:<sians were still ad-
vancing, and that most likely the troops
of the other redoubts would join in the
pursuit. A council was held ; the object
was, not only to keep their prisoner, but
so conceal their retreat, and also carry
him far from their villages, so as to avoid
reprisals. They accordingly dispersed by
various roads. Ten men on foot were
left in charge of the prisoners, while above
a hundred horsemen remained together
and proceeded in quite a different direc-
tion. They forced the major to take off
his boots, whose impressions the enemy
might have recognised, and obliged Ivan
and him to walk thus barefooted all the
first part of the day.

On reaching a torrent, the small party
ran back on the grassy banks for about a
mile, and then descended at the most pre-
cipitous and thorny part of the bank, so
as to leave no trace of their passage. The
major was so exhausted that they had to
support him with belts and ropes to drag
him across the water. His feet were all
bleeding, and they were forced to give
him back his boots to enable him to ac-
complish the remainder of his journey.

When they arrived at the tirst village,

Kascambo, suffering more from grief than
from actual fatigue, appeared to his keep-
ers so wasted and so weak, that they
treated him with more humanity than at
first. They allowed him some rest and a
horse for the journey ; but to baffle all the
investigations of the Russians, and make
it impossible for the prisoner himself to
inform his friends of his place of confine-
ment, they carried him from village to
village, and from one valley to another,
often blindfolded. He thus crossed a large
river, which he supposed to be the Sonja.
They took great care of him during these
expeditions, and allowed him sufficient rest
and food. But when once he reached the
distant village in which he was finally to
be confined, the Tchetchenges suddenly
altered their conduct towards him, and in-
flicted every species of bad treatment on
him. They put irons on his hands and
on his feet, and a heavy chain about his
neck, the end of which was fixed to a large
log of oak. The denchick was treated
with less rigour. His irons were lighter,
which allowed him to perform some ser-
vices to his master.

In that situation, and at every new
vexation he received, a man who spoke
Russian came to him and advised him to
write to his friends to procure his ransom,
which was fixed at ten thousand roubles.
It was impossible for the unfortunate pri-
soner to pay such a large sum, and his
only hope was in the efforts of govern-
ment, as they had formerly released a
colonel who had thus faflen into the
brigands' hands. Tlie interpreter pro-
mised to provide him with paper, and to
forward the letter safely ; but after ob-
taining liis consent, he was several days
without appearing again, and the whoJe
of that time was employed in aggravating
the major's hardships and sufferings.
They starved him ; they took from him
the mat on which he lay, and the cushion
of a Cossack's saddle which he used as a
pillow ; and when the ruffian who acted
as a mediator reappeared, he informed
him, in a confidential manner, that, in case
his ransom should be refused, the Tchet-
chenges were resolved to get rid of him,
in order to put an end to the anxieties
and expense he caused them. The ob-
ject of this cruel behaviour was to induce
him to write in a more pressing manner.
They gave him at last a reed cut in the
shape of a pen, and some paper ; they

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

239

took off tlie irons from his hands and
neck, that he might write more at ease ;
and when the letter was finished, it was
translated to the chiefs, who took charge
of forwarding it to the Russian lines.
From that moment he was treated with
less severity, and only loaded with a
single chain confining the right hand and
foot.

His jailor was a man about sixty, of a
gigantic stature and most ferocious aspect,
quite in harmony with his real character
and natural dispositions. Two of his sons
had been killed in a skirmish with the
Russians, on which account he was chosen
as the fittest keeper of the prisoner. The
family of this man, called Ibrahim, con-
sisted of the widow of one of his sons,
about thirty- five years of age, and a young
child seven or eight years old, called Ma-
met, whose mother was at least as wicked,
and still more whimsical, than the old man.
Kascambo suffered much from her ; but
the caresses and the attentions of young
Mamet were to him, in the course of his
captivity, a solace and real relief. The
poor child formed such an attachment to
him, that all the ill humour and bad usage
of his grandfather could not prevent him
from coming to play with the prisoner on
every opportunity. He called him his
koniack, which, in the language of the
country, means a guest, a friend. He
shared secretly with him the fruit he
could procure, and, during the long fast
the major had to suffer, little Mamet
cleverly took advantage of the absence of
his parents to bring him bread or potatoes
baked under the ashes.

A few months had passed over since
the dispatch of the letter, without bring-
ing forth any remarkable event. In that
space of time, Ivan had managed to con-
ciliate both the woman and the old man,
or rather, he had contrived to make him-
self necessary to them. He possessed to
perfection the skill required for a young
officer's kitchen. He brewed kislitchi
(a kind of drink made with fermented
bread) admirably, and dressed salt cucum-
bers in a superior manner, and had accus-
tomed his hosts to all the little additions
and improvements he introduced in their
daily fare.

To establish himself still farther in their
confidence, he also assumed the character
of a buffoon, imagining every day some
new jest to amuse them, Ibrahim was

particularly delighted widi his perform-
ance of the Cossack-dance. When any
of the inhabitants of the village came to
visit them, they took off Ivan's irons and
bade him dance : he always did it with a
good grace, adding every time some new
ridiculous gambol. By such means he
obtained the liberty of walking through
the village, where he was generally fol-
lowed by a crowd of children, attracted
by his buffoonery, and, as he knew already
the Tartare language, he soon learned
the language of the country, which is
only a dialect of it.

The major himself was often forced to
sing Russian songs with his denchick, and
to play on the guitar to amuse that wild
company. In the beginning they used to
take off the irons from his right hand ; but
the woman having observed that he some-
times did play with the irons on to amuse
himself, they never granted that favour
again, and the unfortunate musician re-
pented more than once having shown his
talent.

To obtain the liberty so ardently wished
for, the two prisoners formed many and
many a plan, but they were all very diflS-
cult to execute. When they had first
arrived in the village, the "inhabitants
used to send every night an additional
man to increase the guard. Insensibly
this precaution was neglected — the indi-
vidual very often did not come. The
woman and the child slept in an adjoin-
ing room, and old Ibrahim remained
alone with them ; but he used to keep the
key of the irons carefully in his pocket,
and awoke at the slightest noise. The
prisoner was treated every day more
severely, and as the answer to his letter
did not arrive, the Tchetchenges often
used to come to the hut to insult him,
and threaten him with the most barbarous
treatment. They deprived him almost
entirely of food, and he had one day the
affliction of seeing poor little Mamet most
unmercifully flogged for having brought
a few meddlars to him.

A very remarkable circumstance in
Ka«cambo's painful situation, was the
respect and confidence which his perse-
cutors could not help feeling for him, and
the profound esteem with which he had
inspired them. While the barbarians
heaped on his head every sort of insult,
and every species of oppression, they not-
withstanding very often consulted him in

240

TALES OF CIIIVAT.RY ; OR,

their private affairs, and made him the
judge of their differences. Among other
disputes of which lie stood umpire, the
following deserves lo be quoted for its
singularity.

One of these ruffians had intrusted a
Russian note of five roubles to a comrade
who was setting out for a neighbouring
valley, charging him to remit it to some
one there. The fellow went off accord-
ingly, but lost his horse, which died on the
road, and persuaded himself that he had a
right to keep the five roubles as an in-
demnification for the loss he had met with.
This mode of reasoning, very worthy of
the Caucasians, was by no means to the
taste of the proprietor of the cash. At
the return of the traveller, there was a
great uproar in the village.

These two men had gathered around
them their relations and their friends, and
the quarrel would have terminated in
bloodshed, had not the elders of the tribe,
after endeavouring in vain to calm them,
advised them to submit the case to the
decision of the prisoner. The whole po-
pulation of the village proceeded tumul-
tuously towards his habitation, that they
might sooner learn the issue of this ridi-
culous case. Kascambo was brought out
of prison, and seated on the small plat-
form, which served as a roof to the house.

Almost every house in the valleys of
Caucasus is partly dug under ground, and
is only elevated four feet above the level
of the soil ; the roof is horizontal, and
formed of liard-beaten clay. The inha-
bitants, the women especially, are in the
habit of reposing upon these terraces after
sunset, and frequently even spend the
whole night there in fine weather.

When Kascambo made his appearance
on the roof, a profound silence ensued.
It was, no doubt, a wonderful sight to
behold before this singular tribunal, infu-
riated clients, armed with pistols and dag-
gers, submitting their cause to a judge
loaded with chains, and half dead with
hunger and miseries of all sorts, but who
judged, nevertheless, without appeal, and
whose sentence was always respected and
obeyed.

Having lost all hopes of making the
defendant understand reason, the major
ordered him to approach ; and resolved to
win the laughers at least over to the side
of justice, he put to him the following
question : — "If, instead of giving you the

five roubles, your comrade had merely
charged you with his compliments, would
your horse not have died all the same ?"

** Perhaps," answered he.

" Well, then," added the judge, " what
would you have done with the compli-
ments ? Would you not have been obliged
to keep them as a payment, and be con-
tent ? I order, in consequence, that you
shall give back the note, and your com-
rafle shall giv^e you his compliments."

As soon as this sentence was translated
to the spectators, a universal roar of
laughter proclaimed afar the wisdom of
the new Solomon. The defeated man
himself, after some fartlier discussion, was
forced to yield, and said, giving up tlie
money, " 1 knew beforehand that I should
lose, if that dog of a Clu-istian had any-
thing to do with it." That extraordinary
confidence shows what an idea these peo.
pie must entertain of European superiority,
and it is also a proof of the innate senti-
ment of justice which exists even among
the most ferocious and most suvage of
men.

Kascambo had written three letters
since his detention without receiving any
answer : a year had passed over. The
unfortunate prisoner, deprived of linen,
and in utter want of every comfort of life,
found his health fail rapidly, and was
giving way to despair. Ivan himself had
been ill for some time. The stern and
severe Ibrahim, however, to the great
surprise of the major, had taken off the
young man's irons while his indisposition
lasted, and left him still at liberty. The
major interrogating him one day on that
subject, "Master," said Ivan, " I have
wished for a long time to consult you
upon an idea that has come into my head.
It strikes me it would be wise in me to
become a Mahometan."

" You are become mad, I suppose."

" No ; it is the only way in which I can
be useful to you, and at least procure you
some good food and linen — in short, who
knows ? — when I am free. The God of
the Russians is great! — we shall see."

" But God himself will forsake you,
wretch that you are, if you betray him."
(To he continued.)

It is said that when Amurat the Fourth
began his reign, he found the treasury
empty, and that at his death he left Fif-
teen MUliovs of Gold !

PERILS BV FLOOD AND FIKLD.

341

THE RIVAL SUITORS.

" Should you like to be a queen,
Christina ?" said count Piper, in a tone
of affected carelessness, to his beautiful
young daughter, who was reclining upon
a couch, nursing a lap-dog.

" Queen of Hearts," said the petite
Venus, without raising her head.

** That empire is your owii already,"
returned the politician.

"Then 1 have no ambition to extend
my dominions. I have more subjects, at
present, than I know how to manage."

" How ! I was not aware, madam,
that you had lovers. Surely you are
too prudent to encourage their addresses."
•* Indeed ! I am not so obligingly
grateful for homage which I consider as
my due. There is only one man in the
world for whom I feel the least tender re-
gard." The brow of the prime minister
of Sweden darkened.

"And pray, w hois the favoured Adonis ?"
Christina blushed, looked enchantingly
simple, and redoubled the caresses she
was bestowing upon her dog. The count
repeated the question.

VOL. II. — 31.

Page 345.

** My cousin, Adolphus Von Hesse."

*♦ You have not been so foolish as to
fall in love with that boy ?"

'• Boy, indeed ! No, I walked into love
with him ; for I cannot remember the day
when he first appeared lovely in my
eyes."

*' Nonsense ! You have been brought
up together. 'Tis but a mere sisterly
regard."

" I should be very sorry if Adolphus
were my brother."

*' But the youth is portionless ; — has no
other maintenance than his commission
and my bounty."

" He is handsome and brave ; and,
when I discovered that he had fine eyes,
and that they spoke the most eloquent
language in the world, I never examined
the depth of his purse."

" My dear girl, you must forget him,"
said the count, passing his arm tenderly
round her waist.

" My dear sire, J don't mean to try.
You are not indifferent to his amiable
qualities, and love him yourself."

*• Not well enough to make him my
heir."

2 1

342

TALKS OF CHIVALRY; OR,

" And you will not render ns the hap-
piest couple in the world ?" said Christina,
her fine eyes sparkling like sapphires
through her tears.

" Christina, you have been a spoilt
child. I ha\ e given you too much your
own way, and now you demand impossi-
bilities. You are not old enough to
choo.'^e a husband for yourself. Be a good
girl, and your aunt shall introduce you at
court ; and then you will see our brave
young king."

*' 'I'he rnde monster! I have no wish to
see liim. Besides, he hates women."

** 'Tis a libel. He is in love with
you."

•' With me I I never saw him in mv
life."

** But he has seen you, and he says — "

" Ah, my dear father, what does he
say ?"

"You do not care for the opinion
of a rude monster, and a woman-hater ?"

*• Ah, but he is a king. What did he
say?" But the count was determined
to keep the secret j and no coaxing, in
which feminine art the little flirt «as a
perfect adept, could wheedle it out of
him.

** Christina, I shall bring an officer
home to sup with me : you must treat
him with respect, as I intend him for your
husband."

" But I will never have him," said
Christina, laughing, as the count left the
room. " U I do not marry my soldier, I
will die a maid."

** Bravely resolved, sweetheart," cried
Von Hesse, stepping from behind the ar-
ras. ** It is worth playing at hide and
seek, to hear you advocate a cause so
hopeless as mine."

** Hopeless! — why, the, battle is half-
won. My father's anger is like the dew
upon the grass, which the first sunny
smile evaporates. Prythee, do not sigh,
and fold your arms, and look so sentimen-
tally solemn. Love will pay the piper,
and we shall yet dance to a merry tune."
" You suffer hope to deceive you,
Christina. I know your father better.
Ah, Christina ! you will not be able to
refuse the magnificent bribe he will
offer in exchange for the warm heart
and devoted attachment of your cousin."
" I perceive that you are determined
that I shall increase the list of faithless
lovers," said Christina, pouting, *' in

spite of the late convincing proof you
so treacherously obtained of my con-
stancy."

" Dearest love, you mistake my mean-
ing. Dry these tears, Christina : I am
not Stoic enough to withstand such elo-
quence."

" Why did you cause them to flow ?"
said Christina, still sobbing. '* Was it
merely to inckilge in the levity of kissing
them away ; or were you jealous of some
imaginary rival ? W hat think you of that
antidote to the tender emotions of the
heart, count Ericson ?"

*• Ah, Christina ? "

" Why that sigh, Adolphus ?"

*' Your father will introduce to you, to-
night, a new lover, and 1 — I shall be for-
gotten."

" You deserve the fate you anticipate,
for entertaining these unjust suspicions.
But, you are a man — and I forgive
you."

" Then you really love me, Chris-
tina ?"

** Am I to tell you so a hundred times!
You must be tired of the repetition of
that word."

"On the contrary, 'tis ever new to
me."

" We love each other," said Chris-
tina ; " but my father will not, at pre-
sent, give his consent to our union ;
and we must wait patiently till he
does."

'•And if that period should not ar-
rive ?"

•• Never fear."

" But, Christina, I do fear."

" Our happiness would not be increased
by an act of disobedience."

" I thought as much, Christina ; you
have grown very prudent."

" I cannot break my father's heart."

" But mine ?"

" Adolphus, if I am not your's with my
father's consent, I will never wed another.
But he is so kind — so good — I am his
only child. No, no — I cannot disobey
him."

The young soldier frowned, and walked
several times hastily across the room, at
every turn stopping to contemplate the
fair tyrant who held his heart in her chains.
Christina was trying to look grave ; but
the roguish dimples, which gave such a
charm to her rosy mouth, were ready to
expand, upon the first provocation, into a

PERILS BY FLOOD ANO FIELD.

343

hearty laugh. It was impossible for the
little beauty to look sad for two minutes
together. Von Hesse was in no laugh-
ing mood. He was in the very heroics of
love 5 and his distorted fancy magnified
the reasonable impediments to his union
with Christina into mountains, guarded
by those hope-extinguishing monsters,
ambition and avarice. Ignorant of her
father's designs, and firmly confiding in
his parental love, Christina saw no diffi-
culty in the matter ; and she was greatly
diverted by the perplexed and jealous
askances of her lover. Von Hesse was
out of humour. He dared not complain
of Christina's coldness ; and he, therefore,
endeavoured to draw upon her compassion
by railing at himself.

" Christina, I have suffered a fatal pas-
sion to mislead me. I will not repay the
debt of gratitude I owe your father by
robbing him of his child. Farewell,
Christina. I go to join my regiment.
Should I fall in battle, sometimes think of
Von Hesse." His voice faltered — the
tears rushed into Christina's eyes — Von
Hesse was at her feet. All his magnani-
mous resolutions vanished; and the lovers
parted more enamoured with each other
than ever.

If Adolphus was inclined to despair of
the success of his suit, Christina, on the
other hand, was too sanguine in believing
that small opposition would be made to
her wishes. The influence she maintained
over her father was great ; but it was not
without limitation. She reigned an abso-
lute queen over his household. Her
comfort, her taste, and her inclinations,
were consulted in every thing ; but her
power extended no further. To Christina,
politics were a forbidden subject : the count
suffered no female interference in state
atfairs. But, latterly, he had retailed
much of the court news to his daughter,
and was always eulogising the young
monarch, whose favourite he had the good
fortune to be, and who was daily heaping
upon him fresh marks of his affection and
esteem. This brave prince, whose eccen-
tricities had filled all Europe with asto-
nishment, had been introduced, incognito,
to Christina, and, in spite of his professed
antipathy to the sex, was secretly among
the train of her admirers j a circumstance
which gratified the pride, and called forth
all the ambitious hopes, of her father.
Nor was it unreasonable for the politician

to suppose, that the youth who had com-
menced his reign by crowning himself,
and beating the united forces of Denmark,
Saxony, and Russia, would scrupulously
consult the etiquette of courts, in the
choice of a wife. In his charming daugli-
ter, count Piper thought he beheld the
future queen of Sweden.

The hint which he had dropped about
the young king's admiration of her per-
sonal charms, did not fail to make an im-
pression upon the lively Christina. She
knew she was beautiful ; and the agree-
able consciousness of the fact was display-
ed with such natural ease and gaiety, that
what would have appeared absurd in an-
other female, increased the attractions of
Christina. Fond of admiration, she was
pleased with those gallant attentions from
the other sex which all women secretly
love to receive. Her attachment to Von
Hesse was steady and sincere ; but she
thought it no treason against the sove-
reignity of love to appear as agreeable as
she could in the eyes of all men. She
received their homage as a matter of
course j but it was only when Adolphus
approached that her voice became tremu-
lous, the brilliancy of her eyes softened,
and her heart beat with reciprocal tender-
ness. Christina would not have died for
love; but she would have retained through
life a painful impression of the lost object
of her early affections.

In spite of her lover's jealous fears, the
spirit of coquetry induced her to bestow
an extra ten minutes on the business of
the toilette ; and, when she entered the
hall, where supper was prepared for her
father and his solitary guest, with unusual
magnificence, she looked perfectly capti-
vating. The stranger advanced to meet
her, and, in an awkward and constrained
manner, led her to her seat at the head of
the table. Great was Christina's disap-
pointment in recognizing, in her new
lover, an old familiar face. "Count Eric-
son?" she muttered to herself: "what
does my father mean by introducing such
a dull wooer to me ?"

And who was count Erlcson ? Patience,
gentle reader : — a tall, raw-boned youth,
in a captain's uniform, with large blue
eyes, a high aquiline nose, ruddy cheeks,
and yellow curling hair ; slovenly in his
dress, ungraceful in all his movements,
and so blunt and uncuurteous in conver-
sation, that he had long been Christina's

344

TALES OF CmVALnYl OR,

butt and aversion. For some weeks past,
tin's half-grown man had been a constant
visitor at her father's table, with whom he
was often closeted for hours. Christina,
out of very mischief, had played off, upon
this luckless wight, all her artillery of
bright glances and wreathed smiles, w ith-
out being able to extort from him a single
compliment. He would sit and stare at
her for hours, without speaking a word ;
and sometimes, but this was seldom the
case, lie had condescended to laugh at
her brilliant sallies. Christina had given
him up in despair : great was her indig-
nation at her father's providing her with
such a spouse, and she determined to af-
front him the first time they were left to-
gether. As if aware of her hostile inten-
tions, the silent youth endeavoured to
exert his powers of pleasing, and, for the
first time, commenced a conversation
with his fair enslaver, by abruptly asking
her what she thought of Alexander the
Great ?

Christina burst out a laughing, and re-
plied, with great simplicity, that " she had
never thought much about him ; but she
remembered, whilst reading his history,
considering him a madman."

Ericson eagerly demanded her reason
for pronouncing non compos mentis the
greatest conqueror the world ever saw ?

" Had Alexander been as wise a man
as he was a great conqueror," said Chris-
tina, "he would have learned to govern
himself before he undertook the subjuga-
tion of the world."

Ericson reddened, and his proud eye
flashed, as he replied, with some warmth,
"Cannot you, madam, enter into the
noble zeal which hurries a brave man
into the focus of danger, and induces
him to relinquish life, and all its petty
enjoyments, to gain the wreath of immor-
tal fame ?"

" No, indeed," returned Christina ; "I
have no feelings in common with the de-
stroyer. I would rather be celebrated for
conferring blessings upon my fellow-crea-
tures, than be immortalized by their
curses, I have ever looked upon great
conquerors as fools or madmen — a scourge
to their own people, and an intolerable
pest to society."

"My lord," said the minister, striving
to mollify the rising choler of his guest,
"you must pay no heed to my daughter's
impertinences. Her knowledge of bat-

tles and conquerors is confined to the
chess-board. On that limited sphere,
she enacts the general so well, that even
an old soldier like me finds some difficuhy
in taming her audacity."

Ericson regained his composure, and
turning to the laughter-loving Christina,
with more gallantry than she had ima-
gined him capable of displaying, chal-
lenged her to play a game with him.

" With all my heart," said Christina j
" but if I should beat you ?"

" It would not be the first time that I
have been vanquished by you, lady
Christina," said Ericson, looking her full
in the face. Christina coloured, and cast
her eyes to the ground, only to flash them
again upon the count with a proud glance
of mingled coquetry and disdain. But
the ice was broken — the bashful youth
had gained more confidence ; and he met
her indignant look with an expression of
admiration and defiance.

" There is more mettle in this proud
boy than I imagined," thought Christina,
as she took her seat at the chess-board ;
" my father has set me to play a danger-
ous game." She shaded her glowing
cheek with her hand, and fixed her eyes
immoveably on the board, determined, out
of pure contradiction, to play as stupidly
as she possibly could, to mortify her op-
ponent. The game, however, required no
particular skill to ensure a conquest on
her part. Ericson scarcely looked at his
pieces. His moves were made without
judgment ; they were rash, and easily
counter-planned.

" My queen gives check to the king,"
said Ciiristina, with a triumphant air.

" Fair tyrant," said the defeated, " do
not ^'ou wish that you could make the king
your prisoner ?"

" No, it is enough that I have him in
my power."

" Most completely," said Ericson,
rising and pushing the board from him :

"you have check- mated me."

*** * * * **

" Father, how could you impose upon
me by bringing count Ericson here as my
wooer ? Do you imagine that a girl of any
sensibility of taste, could condescend to
marry that awkward boy ?"

" He is nineteen; just two years your
senior ; is brave, wealthy, and nobly born.
What would you desire more ?"

" My cousin," said Christina. " As to

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

345

this count Ericson, I detest him, and mean
to tell him so the very next time I have
the misfortune to spend a whole evening
in his company."

But many days passed away, and
Christina was too much amused in tor-
menting- her unfortunate lover, to put her
threat into practice. Besides, Von Hesse
purposely absented himself from the hoirse ;
or, when present, behaved in so cold and
distant a manner, that Christina saw no
other way of restoring him to his senses
than by flirting with the count.

" I had the misfortune to dream of you
last night," she said one morning to the
enamoured youth : " I wish, for the future,
that you would not presume to disturb my
slumbers by your unwelcome presence."
"I, too, iiad a dream," said Ericson;
** I dreamt that you smiled upon me, and
I was happy."

** You must take dreams by their oppo-
sites," said Christina. "I know better,
waking, where to bestow my smiles."

** How did I appear to you last night ?"
said the count.

*' Oh, just as agreeable as you do to-
day."

*' Scornful girl, teach me iiow to woo
you," cried Ericson, suddenly imprinting
a kiss upon her ruby lips. This freedom,
the rudeness of which he was not quite
aware of, was repaid by so smart a blow,
that the offender, as he rubbed his crim-
soned cheek, marvelled how it could have
been inflicted by a hand so soft and deli-
cate.

" Your father led me to imagine," he
said, in a sullen tone, ** that you would
not receive my addresses with in differ-
ence."

" My father knew nothing about the
matter," said the indignant Christina,
*' or he never would have introduced to
his daughter such an unmannerly youth.
But you are not an object of indiffer-
ence"

Before she could conclude the omi-
nous sentence. Von Hesse stood before her.
" Who are you, sir ?" demanded Eric-
son, fiercely.

'* A soldier," said Von Hesse, flinging'
his sword carelessly upon the table : —
" one who has bled in the cause of his
country, and is ready to die in her ser-
vice."

** We must be friends," said Ericson,
extending his hand.

" We are rivals," said Von Hesse,
drawing back.

" Does Christina love you ?"
•* She has told me so a thousand times.
See what it is to trust the faith of a wo-
man. You are no longer an object of
indifference, and I resign my claims."

'• To whom ?" said Christina, the tears
slowly gathering in her eyes.

"The king," said Von Hesse, turning
away.

*' Stay !" said Charles. The young man
reluctantly obeyed. '* I have seen your
face before — what is your name ?"

"Adolphus Von Hesse, the son of a
brave officer, who died on the field of
battle, and left me no other heritage
than his good name and my mother's
tears."

"And where did you receive that scar
upon your left temple ?"

•* In the battle of Narva, where your
majesty, with a handful of men, defeated
the armies of Russia."

" You need no other passport to my
favour," said Charles, raising him from
the ground, as he attempted to kneel and
kiss his hand. ** That glorious day made
me act the part of a soldier, and feel like
a man. Then, turning to Christina, who
had already dried up her tears, he said
with an air of pleasantry, " By my sword,
maiden, I am a sorry wooer. That blow
of thine has frightened away all the Cu-
pids that had taken possession of my heart.
Do you love this brave youth ?"
" Most sincerely."
** What prevents your union ?"
" My father refuses to make us happy."
" On what plea ?"

*' He has higher views for his daugh-
ter."

"Umph 1" said Charles, " I see through
them now ; but love has outwitted the
politician. Christina, if your father re-
fuses to bestow you in marriage on the
man of your heart, why — I will. Charles,
though an uncourteous lover, is not an
ungenerous friend."

The delighted pair sunk at his feet ;
and, with blunt good humour, he united
their hands. Then, bending over the
blushing Christina, he pressed upon her
snowy brow the last kiss of love he ever
proffered to woman.

" Will your majesty pardon me," whis-
pered Christina, ** for inflicting such a
severe blow upon your royal cheek ?"

346

TALES OF CFllVALRY , OR,

not amply revenged tlie injury ? My
bride must be wooed in the field of battle,
and won 'mid the shouts of victory I"

The following week he honoured the
marriage of Christina and Adolphus with
his royal presence ; and the disappointed
politician alone wore a grave counten-
ance at the feast.

THE PRISONERS OF MOUNT CAUCASUS.

(Continued from page 240.^

Kascambo, whilst he was lecturing his
servant, could scarcely refrain from laugh-
ing at liis absurd plan ; but when he [)ro-
ceeded to forbid him peremptorily to go
on with it, *' Master," replied Ivan, "it is
out of my power to obey you, and it would
be useless to conceal it any longer : the
thing is done ; 1 have been a Mahometan
since the very day you thought me ill, and
my irons were taken off". I am called
Houssein now. Where is the harm ? I
shall become a Christian again whenever
I like, and as soon as ] am free. See, I
have already no more irons on, and I can
break oft' yours at the first favourable op-
portunity, which I hope will soon present
itself."

According to the promise made, he was
no longer chained, and enjoyed from that
moment a greater liberty ; but that very
liberty had nearly proved fatal to him.
The principal leaders of the expedition
against Kascambo soon began to fear lest
the new Mussulman should desert. The
long stay he had made among them, and
the knowledge he had acquired of their
language, enabled him to know them all
by their names, and to give their descrip-
tion at the Russian lines, sujjposing he
should reach them, which would expose
them individually to the vengeance of
the Russians : and they in consequence
highly disapproved of the ill-judged zeal
of their priest. On the other hand, the
strict Mussulmans who had favoured him
at the moment of his conversion, soon ob-
served that when lie said his prayers on
the roof of the house, as is the custom,
and as the Mollali had particularly recom-
mended him to do, by way of conciliat-
ing the public good-will, he often hap-
pened by mistake to intermix some signs
of the Cross among his prostrations to-
wards Mecca, to which place, by another
still more unfortunate blunder, he at times

turned his back — a series of accidents,
which made them rather suspicious as to
the sincerity of his conversion.

A few months after his feint apostaey,
he perceived a great change in the man-
ners of the inhabitants towards him, and
could not mistake the manifest signs of
their ill will. He was seeking in vain
the cause of that alteration, when some
young men, with whom he was particularly
intimate, came and proposed to him to
accompany them in an expedition they
were about to undertake. Their plan
was to pass the Tereek, to plunder some
merchants who were going to Mosdok.
Ivan accepted without hesitation. For
a long time he had wished to procure
himself some arms ; and they promised
him, besides, a share of the spoils. He
thought, also, that on seeing him return
to his master, those who suspected him
of wishing to desert, would no longer
have any grounds to justify their suspi-
cions. However, the major having
strongly opposed his joining the party, he
pretended to have given up the thoughts
of it, when, one morning, Kascambo awak-
ing, saw the mat upon which Ivan used
to sleep, carefully rolled up against the
wall; he had gone off' during the night.
His companions were to pass the Tereek
the following night, and attack the mer-
chants, whose march was known and fol-
lowed by their scouts.

The confidence of the Tchetchenges
ought to have created suspicions in Ivan's
mind. It was not natural in men, so
cautious and so cunning, to admit so
freely a Russian, their prisoner, in an ex-
pedition directed against his own country
people. It was, indeed, found out some
time afterwards, that they had invited
him to accompany them with the sole in-
tention of murdering him. As his quality
of a convert obliged them to some sort of
regard, they had proposed to keep a close
look-out upon him on the road, and to
make away with him at the moment of
the attack, leaving it to be supposed that
lie had perished in the fight. Only a few
members of the party v\ ere in the secret ;
but the event bafliled all their sanguinary
designs. Their troop was hardly placed
in ambush, to attack the merchants, when
it was itself surprised by a regiment of
Cossacks, and so vigorously charged, that
ihey had infinite trouble in passing the
river again. The intensity of the danger

pi;rils by flood and field.

347

made (hem forget their plot against Ivan,
who followed them in their retreat.

While the pnnic-struck band was cross-
ing the Tereek in complete disorder, tiie
horse of a young Tchetchenge stumbled
in the middle of the river, and was im-
mediately carried off' by the rapid stream.
Ivan, who was behind him, pushed his
horse forward, at the risk of being drowned
himself^ and taking a firm hold of the
youth, at the moment he was disappear-
ing under the foaming waters, succeeded
in carrying him safely to the opposite
shore. The day was then beginning to
dawn, and the Cossacks, rocognising his
uniform, immediately marked him out,
and shouted, *• A deserter ! Kill the de-
serter!" His clothes were completely
riddled with balls. At last, after having
fought with the courage of despair, and
burnt all his cartriges, he returned to the
village with the glory of having saved
the life of one of his companions, and of
having made himself useful to the whole
troop.

If his conduct on this occasion did not
gain over all the party to him, it won him
at least a friend ; the young man he had
saved adopted him for liis koniak, (a rela-
tion held sacred by the mountaineers of
the Caucasus), and swore to defend and
protect him against each and every one.
But this union and friendship were not
sufficient to protect him against the hatred
of the principal inhabitants. The cou-
rage he had displayed, his attachment to
his master, increased to a great degree
the fears with which he had inspired
them. They could no longer look upon
him as a bufibon, incapable of any design
or enterprise, such as they had supposed
him to be till then j and when they re-
flected on the failure of the expidition, to
which he had been admitted, they began
to wonder how the Russian troops had
come upon them so completely in the op-
portunity of time, in a place so distant
from their ordinary residence, and they
suspected him of having secretly commu-
nicated with tliem. Although their con-
jecture was completely without foundation,
they watched him more closely. Old
Ibrahim himself, fearing some plot for the
prisoner's escape, prevented all conver-
sation between them ; and the brave
denchick was menaced, and even some-
times beaten, when he wished to converse
with his master.

In this miserable and distressing situa-
tion, tlie two prisoners contrived new
means of conversing, without raising the
suspicions of their keeper. As they were
in the habit of singing Russian songs to-
gether, the major took his guitar, when
he had any thing important to communi-
cate to Ivan in the presence of Ibrahim,
and sang out his questions. Ivan an-
swered to the same tune, and his master
accompanied him w ith the instrument :
this arrangement presenting nothing new,
their enemies never found out the strata-
gem, to which, besides, they resorted but
very seldom.

More than three months had elapsed
since the unfortunate expedition we have
mentioned, when Ivan thought he per-
ceived son)e extraordinary stir and agita-
tion in the village. Some mules, laden
with powder, had arrived from the plain.
The men were busily engaged cleaning
their arms, and making cartridges. He
soon learned that a grand expedition was
in preparation. The whole nation was
to unite in attacking a neighbouring tribe,
which had placed itself under the protec-
tion of the Russians, and allowed them to
construct a redoubt on their territory.
The object of this campaign was no less
than to exterminate the whole population,
along with the Russian battalions who
protected the construction of the fort.

A few days after, Ivan, on leaving the
hut in the morning, found the village com-
pletely deserted. Kvery man capable of
carrying arms had gone oft' during the
night. In the short turn he took through
the village to gather information, he ob-
tained new proofs of the bad intentions
entertained towards him. The old men
evidently shunned him. A little boy
plainly told him that his father was re-
solved to kill him ; and as he was return-
ing, absorbed in mournful thoughts, he
saw on the roof of a house a young
woman, who raised her veil, and, with
signs of the greatest alarm, motioned him
with her hand to be off, pointing towards
Russia.

When he entered the house, he found
the old man busy examining Kascambo's
irons. A new comer was seated in the
room ; it was a man whom a slow fever
had prevented from accompanying his
comrades, and who had been sent to Ibra -
him as an additional guard over the pri-
soners, till the return of the inhabitants.

348

TALES OF CHIVALRY

OR,

Ivan marked that precaution, but without
showing the slightest surprise. The
absence of all the men from the village
presented an admirable opportunity for
the execution of his designs ; but the in-
creased vigilance of their jailor, and the
presence of the invalid, rendered their
success very uncertain. However, his
death was inevitable, if he waited the
return of the warriors : he foresaw that
their expedition would be unsuccessful,
and that, in the fury of disappointment,
they would not spare him. He had no
other alternative than to abandon his
master, or deliver him forthwith. He
would have rather suffered a thousand
deaths than adopt the first resolution.

Kascambo, who was beginning to lose
every sort of hope, had fallen into a kind
of stupor, and preserved a profound silence.
Ivan, on the contrary, was more calm
and more gay than usual ; he fairly sur-
passed himself in preparing the dinner,
and kept singing the whole time Russian
songs, in which he introduced some words
of encouragement for his master. *' The
time has come," said he, adding at every
phrase the insignificant chorus of some
Russian popular song, ** Hai lull, hai
lull — the time has come to put an end to
our misery or to die. To-morrow, hat
lull, we shall be on the road to a town, a
pretty town, hai luli, which I shall not
name. Courage, dear master ! the God
of the Russians is great !"

Kascambo, completely indifferent to life
or death, and ignorant of his denchick's
plan, merely answered, "Do as you please,
and hold your tongue." Towards the
evening, the sick man, whom they had
treated generously to make him stay, and
who, besides a very copious meal, had
amused himself the whole day eating
chislik (mutton roasted in small bits at the
end of a sharp stick), was seized with
such a violent access of fever, that he had
to give up, and retired to his own house.
He was allowed to depart without great
diificulty ; Ivan having completely re-
moved every fear of the old man by his
extraordinary gaiety. To remove more
entirely every cause of suspicon, he with-
drew very early to the end of the room,
and laid himself down on a bench against
the wall, waiting till Ibrahim should fall
asleep; but the latter had resolved to
watch all night. Instead of spreading
himself on a mat near the fire, as usual.

he sat himself down on a large log of
wood, opposite to his prisoner, and sent
away his daughter-in-law, who retired to
the next room where her child was. and
shut the door.

From the dark corner in which he was
placed, Ivan observed attentively the
scene before him. By the glimniering
light of the fire, which flashed at times a
transient blaze, an axe glittered in a
recess of the wall. The old man, over-
come with sleep, would at times let his
head fall heavily on his chest. Ivan saw
it was time, and rose to his feet. The
suspicious jailor immediately noticed it.
•* What are you doing there, you dog ?''
cried he, harshly, Ivan, instead of an-
swering, proceeded towards the fire,
yawning and stretching himself, like a
man coming out of a deep sleep. Ibrahim,
who felt overcome with sleep, ordered
Kascambo to play the guitar to keep him
awake. The major was about to refuse,
but Ivan brought the instrument to him,
making the usual sign: "Play, master,"
said he ; " I want to speak to you." Kas-
cambo tuned the guitar, and beginning
immediately, they sang together the ter-
rible duet which follows : —

Kascambo, — Hai luli, hai luli — what
have you got to say ? — be cautious !" (At
every question and every answer they
sang a verse of a Russian song.)

Ivan. — " See that axe, but do not look
at it. Hai luli ! It shall dash out that
villain's brains. Hai luli, hai luli !"

Kascambo. — '* Useless murder ! Hai
luli ! How could I escape with my
irons ?"

Ivan. — "The key will be found in the
rascal's pocket. Hai luli V"

Kascambo. — "The woman will give
the alarm. Hai luli, hai luli l"'

Ivan. — "Never mind; happen what
may, will you not perish all the same —
hai luli ! — of hunger and of misery ?"

Tiie old man becoming attentive, they
repeated a double allowance of hai lulls,
accompanied by a loud arpeggio. "Play,
master," added the denchick, " play the
Cossack : I shall dance round the room
to get near the axe; play boldly !"

Kascambo. — " VVell, let it be so ; this
hell will be over." He turned aside his
head, and began to play the dance with
all his might.

(To he continued.)

PF.RII.S BV FT.OOl) AND FIF.m.

349

THE BRIGAXD AND THE XUX.

CHAPTER J.

Lovely as was that of Eden is the sky
that bends over the terraces of Naples,
arches the rocky castle of St. Elmo, and
lends its magic colouring to the romantic
bay. Beneath its sunny influence fair
flowers and fairer women spring to early
maturity, and passionate hearts glow with
its pervading warmth 5 but stern as well
as gentle passions are nurtured by its sun,
and love, hate, revenge and cruelty, grow
in unison together.

Gasparoni was a gay and passionate
Neapolitan ; young, brave and ardent,
and at sixteen years of age he had the
form and feelings of a man. Passion
shone in the eyes that gleamed beneath
their black brows ; daring and resolution
might be read in the lines prematurely
traced in the lower portion of his face.
He was not without accomplishments, for
he could troll a barcarole and touch a
guitar, danced witii grace and spirit, and
handled a stiletto and reined a steed in a
manner which proclaimed him a gentle-
man. But, alas ! he was poor, and on his

VOL. II. — 32.

Page 452.

bearing alone rested his claims to a noble
origin, for he was the oflfs^pring of a love
on which the priest had never breathed
his benison, and he knew neither his father
nor his mother. At stated times he re-
ceived small sums of money, but they were
conveyed to him with such precaution
that he could not discover the person who
sent him his slender remittances. None
of the youth of Naples dared reproach
him with his birth, for they knew the
blood of Gasparoni to be fiery as the lava
of Vesuvius, and his hand as prompt to
crush as to caress. It was in his seven-
teenth year that the young Neapolitan
saw and loved the beautiful Leonora, the
only daughter of a rich old merchant of
the city. He loved her with all the fer-
vour of which his passionate heart was
capable, and had the happiness of being
loved in return. The lovers met only by
stealth, for Leonora's father had conceived
a violent dislike to Gasparoni, from his
poverty, and from the guilt of his unknown
parents. But Leonora's kindness com-
pensated her lover for every rebuff, and
when, awakened by liis nightly serenades,
she bent from her window and dropped
2 K

350

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

some flowers as a token of lier presence
and her love, he felt that he lived for her
alone.

One night, v^hen Gasparoni repaired as
usual to the dwelling of his beloved, he
suddenly encountered her enraged father,
who, in' tones of the wildest excitement,
bade him begone. Gasparoni replied
with equal warmth ; a war of words en-
sued, and, in the height and frenzy of
passion, the young man struck his oppo-
nent to the earth. An instant after, the
lovely Leonora, pale and with disordered
tresses, rusheil from the house.

•* You have slain him !" she cried.

*' 'Tis true !" answered Gasparoni, still
gasping with passion ^ "he was insolent,
and I have chastised him."

"Begone!" exclaimed the excited girl,
** Monster, begone ! The hand that has
been raised against my father's person
shall never clasp mine in love, amity, or
marriage 1"

*' Leonora, hear me !''

** 1 swear it. Begone !"

" You will think better of this !"

"Never I"

With a glance of scorn and indignation,
she waved him off. Gasparoni stood one
moment looking at her with a demoniac
expression ; then he bowed low with
mock respect and gravity, and quitted
the scene of his quarrel with a hasty step.

CHAPTER II.

Daylight is dying along the stern
heights of the Abruzzi. Surrounded by
impending crags, and clustering in dis-
array, a bandit group are carousing
noisily together, and toasting the depart-
ing god of day in overflowing cups of
fiery wine. A portion of the wild com-
pany sit in the dark shadow of the rocks,
while others bask in the last rosy hues of
sunset. Among the latter is one distin-
guished by his lofty air and st;itnre from
the rest, and wearing a somewiiat richer
garb than his companions. His conical
hat is decked with gay ribbands, his green
velvet jacket is studded with gold buttons,
and his lower garments are seamed with
the richest lace. An ornamented carbine
was slung by a band of snowy leather st
his back, and a pair of richly mounted
pistols glittered in his girdle. Neither
was he without the Italian's bosom friend,
a broad stiletto, wliich reposed in a silver
sheath, with its ivory handle protruding
from the robber's sash. But all this rich-

ness of atlire contrasted strangely with the
worn, haggard, stern and vicious expres-
sion of the bandit. It was Gasparoni —
now tv^enty years of age.

** To the health of our captain !" said
one of the robbers, raising a cup to his
lips. "Ah!" added he, after swallowing
its contents, "your vvine of Sicily tastes
none the worst for mantling in a sacra-
mental chalice. Commend me to our
captain, for teaching us the true use of
the church. Until he came among us
we were a poor set of superstitious devils,
who couldn't cut a throat wiiitout making
a vow to the virgin — but he has changed
all that."

Gasparoni smiled bitterly.

" And now, noble captain," said the
spokesman of the gang, " I humbly beg
you'll tell us what is passing in your
scheming brain. I knovv' by the knitting
of your eyebrows that you are revolving
some mighty project."

" Right, Anselmo," said the bandit
leader, rising. " But hist ! what noise is
that ?"

"The vesper bell," answered Anselmo.
"Your predecessor, now, would have had
us down upon our knees in a trice."

" Ay, the vesper bell," repeated Gas-
paroni, in a melancholy tone. " Methinks
it steals very softly on the ear, calling the
erring to penitence and prayer. It is very
mu^ic to a weary soul."

" Our captain's turned preacher," said
a robber.

" Hear the end of my sermon," replied
Gasparoni, with one of his ambiguous
smiles. "It were a good deed, methinks,
to free yon pining beauties from their
thraldom. Report says that the nuns are
lively, ripe, and tempting; and some of
them belong to noble families. The lady
abbess was a countess when she was of
the world ; she shall wear her coronet and
title again ; such charms v^ere never
njeant to wither in a convent. What
say you, comrades, shall we liberate the
nuns ?"

A deafening roar of applause replied in
the affirmative. By midnight the band
were on their march, and ere long halted
before the asylum doomed so soon to be
roused by a rude alarm. Imposing silence
by a gesture, Gasparoni approached tiie
gate of the convent, and ra[)ped upon the
wicket with the hilt of his stiletto. After
waiting for a brief space, the feeble light

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

351

of a taper glimmered through the bars of
a grated a})ertiive, and a trembling voice
asked what was wanted.

•* We are certain reverend friars,
sweeting," answered Gasparoni, in a
canting tone, " come at the order of his
holiness to examine into the condition of
his well-beloved."

** Away, rude man !" cried the nun.

*' Nay, you will force me to be rude
unless you give me a(hiiittance," said the
brigand, in his natural tone. " Here are
thirty stout fellows, to whom sacrilege is
pastime, and who know how to relieve the
unfortunate of vows it is troublesome to
keep. I have obeyed the scriptural in-
junction, do ye verify the words — * knock,
and it shall be opened.' You see I am not
altogether so graceless as you believe me."

But the latter part of his address was
breathed to empty air, for the frightened
nun had fled to the interior of the building,
to alarm the abbess and the sisterhood.

** To the gate, brigands, with your
bludgeons 1" shouted Gasparoni. His
order was obe\ed — beneath heavy and
repeated blows the wicket gave way.
Anselmo would have entered first.
" Way for your captain !" sternly shouted
Gasparoni. " Dispute my precedence
and die !" The appalled robber stepped
back hastily, and Gasparuni was the first
to step witiiin the hallowed precincts.

Several doors in the body of the build-
ing were successively forced, and the
armed heels of the brigands rang along
the stone-paved corridors, as, headed by
their captain, they strode onward to their
crime. The nuns had assembled in the
chapel, and were now cowering within the
precints of the altar. The lady abbess
alone was self possessed and dignified.
She was a woman of middle age, of a
lofty stature, and possessing some claims to
the epithet of beautiful, though her counte-
nance was somewhat worn and furrowed.

Commanding his band to halt on the
threshold of the chapel, Gasparoni doffed
his hat, walked with a firm step up the
central aisle, and halted at the railing
of the altar, on the lowest step of which
the abbess stood. There was something
in her bearing that awed even the lawless
brigand. Sensible of the feeling she in-
spired, and determined to profit by it, the
lady addressed tlie intruder.

" Ay, pause," she said, " well may
you, for you are in the house of GoH, and

I shall pronounce his curse, which now
hangs suspended over you, if you do not
instantly retire, nor farther molest those
devoted to his service."

•* Dear lady, I came to do you a ser-
vice," answered Gasparoni, recovering
his bitterness and self-possession. " 'Tis
really a pity such a bevy of beauties
should die in a convent. I cannot an-
swer for you, madam, for you are past
the hey-day of your youth ; but for these
sweet girls, I believe they are ready to
quit \ our roof w ithout conjpulsion."

** Hear him !" cried the abbess, lifting
up her hands in holy horror. " Hear the
unhallowed infidel." She gave a private
signal, which was understood and an-
swered as she wished. The notes of the
organ suddenly broke upon the midnight
air, the echoes rolled along the vaulted
roof, and died away like distant thunder.
Then rose the sweet, wailing voices of
die nuns, clustering around their altar,
and chanting to their Maker — Sanctum
et terribile nomeii ejus; Iniliuiii sapi-
enticB timor domini. Then the voices
ceased, and all was mute. Perhaps even
the brigand chief would have fled the holy
spot, appalled and chilled, had he not seen
among the shrinking nuns, a lovely, a
well-known face — it was Leonora's. He
sprang over the frettetl barrier, and seized
his victim. She shrieked with pious horror
as his burning lips pressed those she had
vowed to purity and prayer.

** Each to his nun !" shouted Gaspa-
roni, lifting the fainting girl from her
feet — " and let those who are covetous
bear ofl'" the crucifix and plate. Away !
before the morning comes to tell the tale."

His orders were obeyed with all the
promptness of inclination. Some tore the
loveliest nuns from the pillars to which
they clung convulsively, while others
seized the gold and silver vessels of the
chapel. One gigantic robber wTenched
the golden cross from its pedestal, and
bore it off" in triumph. Long before the
daylight dawned, the sacrilegious band
had secured its retreat; still breaking the
solemn silence of the early hour, the
mighty bell of the convent was heard
tolling forth a dolorous alarm.

CHAPTER III.

As the weary robbers reached their

mountain fastness, the clear rays of broad

daylight bathed the heights ofthe Abruzzi.

Fatigued with toil they flung themselves

2 K 2

352

TALKS OF CmVAI.UY

upon tlie ground to sleep, regardless of
their victims, who, half- dead with terror,
awaited the conclusion of their unfortu-
nate adventure. Tlie captain, alone, re-
fused to sleep, but, seated on an isolated
crag-, watched over the inanimate form of
Leonora. At length sensation revisited
the wretched girl. She arose from her
recumbent posture, opened her eyes, and
then closed them again with a heavy sigh.

" Where am I ?" she murmured,
faintly.

*' In the arms of a lover," answered
Gasparoni.

*' I am the bride of heaven 1" shrieked
the horror-stricken nun.

" Do I look like a celestial bride-
groom ?" asked the robber, bitterly.
*' No ! I am of the earth — earthly. But,
Leonora, you can reform me — you can
make me happy."

" Away ! your hands are stained with
blood."

** Penitence shall make them white as
snow, or gold shall purchase absolution of
the pope himself — only be mine."

" My vow!"

'* Ay — vows do very well for the un-
initiated, but not for us who know the
world. The noble takes a vow of alle-
giance to his sovereign, but he turns
traitor when interest commands him.
The sovereign swears to protect the
people, but, notwithstanding this, he be-
trays the people. Why should the vows
of a nun be more binding than those of
prince or noble ?"

" Gasparoni, I abhor you ! Sooner
than submit toyour sacrilegious embraces,
I will dash this frail person from the emi-
nence on which I stand, and roll a man-
gled corse, before your eyes, to the foot
of the mountain. Sooner — "

More she would have said, but from
their very feet there broke the wail of a
solitary trumpet. In a moment the crags
were bristling with bayonets, and emer-
ging from concealment the arms of cui-
rassiers and light infantry glistened in
the rising sun.

" Saved ' saved !" cried Leonora ;
** saved from worse than death. Tlie
bell has been heard — our prayers have
been heard — and the Lord hath saved his
servants !"

*' Too late they come !" cried the rob-
ber, struggling to bear away the almost
frantic girl "There is yet time for retreat."

** Quick! quick! for the love of heaven,
gentlemen !" shrieked the nun.

" Too late !" repeated Gasparoni.
** Away !" And he succeeded in forcing
her from the rock to which she clung.

" A hundred ducats to the man who
puts a ball through the heart of Gaspa-
roni !" cried a dismounted colonel of dra-
goons, rushing up the rocky steep. A car-
bineer sprang upon a rock, levelled his
piece, and fired. Santa Maria I the
bullet pierced the heart (jf Leonora, and
mortally wounded the brigand chieftain.
No sooner had the wretched girl sunk at
his feet, than the robber uttered a deep
groan. For an instant he seemed crushed,
and then all his energy returned. Though
the blood was pouring freely from his
wound, he cocked his gun, aimed at the
unlucky carbineer, and fired. The sol-
dier sprang into the air, and fell headlong
from the precipice, on the verge of which
he had been standing.

The fight was over. The brigands
were all slain, captured, or put to flight.
On one side of Leonora's body kneeled
the lady abbess, on the other Gasparoni,
drawing his breath with difficulty, and
momentarily expecting to breathe his last.

" Requiescat in pace /" cried the ab-
bess. *' She was the lawful daughter of
the man to whom I surrendered my
honour in my early days. Her mother
wiled away my betrayer from me, there-
fore I had a natural right to hate her ; but
I loved her — I loved Leonora Cariale as
if she had been my child."

Here the dying brigand groaned hea-
vily. " Open his vest," said the abbess,
compassionating even the fallen sinner.
** Give him air, it may revive him."

Some of the soldiers bared the breast of
the robber, from which the life-blood was
fast flowing.

" Mother of God, what do I see!"
cried the abbess. '* That cross indelibly
imprinted in the flesh, that in after years
I might recognize the child of my shame.
My son ! my son ! from what horror has
not this death freed you. She whom you
pursued with your fatal love — Leonora —
was your sister."

The dying man bowed his head upon
his breast. ** Sister ! mother !" were the
words he feebly uttered. They were his
last. Gasparoni, the brigand, has gone
to his account.

pi:ril8 uy flood asd fjeld.

353

THE PRISONERS OF MOUNT CAUCASUS.

( Continued from page 24S.J
Ivan beo^an the steps and grotesque
attitudes of the Cossack, which pleased
the old man most particularly, making
ridiculous leaps and gambols, and utter-
ing loud shrill cries, to distract his atten-
tion. When Kascambo saw that the
dancer was near the axe, his heart beat
violently in his chest, and he panted w'ith
anxiety ; that instrument of their deli-
verance was in a little press without a
door, cut in the wall, but at an elevation
which Ivan could not very easily attain.
To bring it within his reach, he seized a
favourable instant, caught it rapidly, and
put it on the ground, in the very shade
formed by Ibrahim's own body. When
the latter looked round at him, he was
already far from the spot, and continued
the dance. This dangerous scene had
lasted for some time, and Kascambo, tired
with playing, began to think that his den-
chick's courage was failing, or that he
did not judge the opportunity favourable.
He raised his eyes towards him at the
moment when the intiepid dancer, with
the uplifted axe, was advancing in steady
strides to strike the old brigand. The
emotion the major felt at this sight was
such, that he ceased playing, and dropped
the guitar u[)on his knees. At the same
moment, the old man had stooped, and
made a step forward to push some bram-
bles into the fire : the dry leaves blazed
up immediately, and threw a great light
into the room : Ibrahim turned round to
sit himself down.

If at that moment Ivan had persevered
in his enterprise, a struggle man to man
became inevitable, and the alarm would
have been given, which was to be avoided
above all things ; but his presence of
mind saved him. He no sooner perceived
the major's agitation, and saw Ibrahim
get up, than he put down the axe imme-
diately bellied the log he used as a seat,
and resumed the dance. " Play, play!"
said he to his master ; *' what are you
thinking of?" The major, seeing the
imprudence he had committed, quietly
recommenced playing. The old jailor had
not a suspicion, and sat down again ; but
he ordered them to stop the music and
go to rest. Ivan brought calmly the
guitar-case, which he placed on the stove ;
but, instead of receiving the instrument
from his master's hand, as quick as light-

ning he seized tlie axe behind Ibrahim,
and struck him such a terrible blow on
the head, that the unfortunate wretch did
not even give a sigh, l.ut fell dead with
his face in the tire : his long grey beard
was instantly in flames ; Ivan pulled him
aside by the feet, and covered him over
with a mat.

They were listening to know if the
woman had been awake, when — asto-
nished, no doubt, at the profound silence
which had succeeded such a noise — she
opened the door of her room. " What
are you about here ?" said she, advancing
towards the prisoners ; *' what means that
smell of burnt hair ?" The fire, which
had been scattered about, produced almost
no light. Ivan lifted the axe to strike
her — she saw- it in time to throw aside her
head, and received the blow in the chest —
she fell with a groan : a second blow, as
rapid as a thunderbolt, caught her in her
fall, and laid her dead at Kascambo's feet.
Frightened and horror-struck at this se-
cond murder, which he did not expect,
the major, seeing Ivan proceed to the
child's room, rushed forward to stop him.
*' Where are you going, wretch ?" said
he ; *• would you have the ferocity to
sacrifice also that poor child who has
shown me so much affection ? If you
were to deliver me at such a price, nei-
ther your attachment nor your services
could save you whenever we reach the
line."

*' At the line," said Ivan, "you will do
as you please, but here we must put an
end -to all this."

Kascambo, gathering his whole
strength, caught him by the collar, as he
was forcing his way. '• Villain !" cried
he, ** if you dare to attempt his life, if
you touch one hair of his head, I swear
here, before God, that I shall give myself
up to the Tchetchenges, and your cruelty
will be fruitless."

•• To the Tchetchenges !" repeated the
excited denchick, raising the axe over his
master's head ; '* they shall never take
you alive again: I shall murder them,
you, and myself, before that shall happen.
That child can ruin us by giving the
alarm, and, in your present condition, a
woman might drag you back to prison."

" Stop, stop i" cried Kascambo, out of
whose hands Ivan was trying to escape;
*' stop, monster ; you shall kill me before
you commit this crime !" But, alas !

354

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

weak as lie was, and embarrassed with his
irons, he could not hold the excited young
man, who pushed him violently aside, and
he fell heavily to the ground, half dead
with surprise and horror. Wliilst, all
covered with the blood of the first victims,
he was struggling to get upon his feet, he
cried out incessantly, " Ivan, I entreat
you, do not kill him ; in the holy name of
God, spill not the blood of that poor inno-
cent creature !"

As soon as he could, he ran to his as-
sistance ; but on reaching the door of the
room, he knocked himself in the dark
against Ivan,vvho was returning. "Master,
all is over; let us lose no time, and make
no noise. Don't make any noise," an-
swered he, to the bitter and desperate
reproaches which his exasperated n)asler
addressed to him. *' V\liat is done, is
done ; now there is no drawing back.
Till we are free, every man I meet is
dead, or he shall kill me ; and if any one
enter this door before our departure,
I consider not whether it be man, woman,
or child — I shall stretch them there with
the others."

He lighted a splinter of larch-wood, and
began to search the pouch and the pockets
of the dead brigand. The key of the
irons was not there. He sought it also
in vain in the woman's clothes, in a
trunk, and every where he imagined it
might be concealed. Whilst he was en-
gaged in this pursuit, the major was
giving way, without any prudence or
controul, to the bitterness of his grief:
Ivan consoled him after his own manner.
** You ought rather," said he, " to mourn
the loss of the key of your irons, which
•an't be found ; what can tempt you to
regret these wretches, who have tor-
mented you more than fifteen months ?
They wanted to make away with us.
Well, their turn has come before ours.
Is it my fault ?"

The key of the irons not being found,
all that had been done for the liberation
of major Kascambo seemed to have been
done in vain, unless the irons could be
broken. Ivan, with tlie corner of the axe,
managed to loosen the ring attached to
the hand, but that fixed to the foot re-
sisted every effort ; he was afraid of hurt-
ing his master, and did not dare to use
all his strength. On the other hand, the
night was advancing, and the danger was
becoming pressing ; they resolved to de-

part. Ivan tied the chain firmly to the
major's belt, so as to annoy him as little
as possible, and to make no noise. He
placed in a pouch a quarter of mutton
with some odier provisions, and armed
himself with the deceased's pistol and
dagger. Kascambo took his bear-skin
cloak ; they went out in silence, and,
turning round the house, to avoid meet-
ing any one, they struck into the hills
without following the ordinary road to
Mosdok, supposing that they would be
pursued in that direction. They skirted
for all the rest of the night the mountains
on their right, and when daylight began
to dawn, they entered a beech -wood,
which crowned the summit of the hill,
and screened them from the danger of
being discovered at any distance. It was
in the month of February : the ground on
those heights, and especially in the forest,
was still covered with hard snow, which
offered a firm footing to the travellers
during the night and part of the morning ;
but towards noon, when it became melted
by the sun, they sunk at every step, which
made their progress very slow. After a
most painful and most difficult march,
they arrived at the side of a deep valley
they had to cross, at the bottom of which
the snow had disappeared ; a well-beaten
path ran along the windings of the rivulet,
and showed that the spot had been fre-
quented. This consideration, added to
the excessive fatigue and exhaustion of
the major, determined the travellers to
remain in that place till night : they esta-
blished themselves among some isolated
rocks which rose from the centre of the
snow. Ivan cut a quantity of fir branches
to make a soft bed for his master, who
lay down immediately. Whilst he was
resting, Ivan was reflecting on the safest
plan for continuing their route. The
valley over which they now stood was
surrounded with high hills through which
no passage was visible. He saw that the
beaten path could not be avoided, and
that it was necessary to follow the course
of the rivulet to get out of this labyrinth.
It was eleven o'clock at night, and the
snow was becoming harder and firmer
w hen they descended into the valley ; but
before starting, they set fire to their esta-
blishment, as much to warm themselves
as to prepare a small meal of chislik, which
they needed much. A handful of snow
was all they had to drink, and a mouthful

PERILS BY FLOOR AVD FIKLD.

355

of brandy crowned the fpast. They luckily
crossed the valley without seeing any
body, and entered the narrow pass where
the road and the rivulet lay contracted
on each side by precipitous hills ; they
walked on at the utmost of they speed,
knowing well how dangerous it was for
them to be met in that narrow passage,
which they only cleared fairly at nine in the
morning. It was only then that this dark
defile opened all of a sudden before them,
and displayed over the tops of the lower
mountains the immense horizon of Russia,
spreading jtself afar like a distant sea.
One could hardly form a true notion of
the pleasure the major experienced at this
unexpected sight : " Russia ! Russia !"
were the only words he could pronounce.

The travellers sat down to rest them-
selves, and to enjoy in anticipation their
approaching liberty. This prospect of
happiness was embittered in the major's
mind by the remembrance of the horrid
catastrophe he had witnessed, and which
his fetters and blood-stained garments
presented in such vivid colours to his ima-
gination. While contemplating at a dis-
tance the termination of his labours, he
calculated in silence and anxiety the dif-
ficulties of the journey. The sight of the
long and dangerous route which still re-
mained to be performed, encumbered as he
was with irons, and his limbs swollen with
fatigue, soon effaced the last trace of the
momentary pleasure created by the view
of his own native land. The torments of
a burning thirst added to the anguish and
distress of his mind. Ivan, ran down
towards the rivulet to bring some water
to his master : a bridge formed of two
trees was thrown over it, and he saw a
habitation at a small distance. It was a
sort of chalet, or summer residence of the
Tchetchenges, which was deserted. In
the situation of the fugitives, that isolated
house was a most precious discovery.
Ivan interrupted his master's" reflections
to conduct him to the refuge he had so
fortunately discovered, and, after esta-
blishing him as comfortably as possible,
he proceeded to search for the magazine.

The inhabitants of the Caucasus being
often exposed to the incursions of their
neighbours, have always near to their
houses subterranean recesses in which
they conceal their provisions and their
utensils. These magazines, in the shape
of a narrow well, are closed with a plank

or a large stone, carefully covered over
with eartii, and generally placed in a spot
where there is no grass, lest the difference
of shade should betray the deposited trea-
sure. In spite of all these precautions,
the Russian soldiers often find diem out.
They go over the beaten paths around the
habitation, knocking about the ramrod of
their guns, and the sound indicates to
their practised ear the cavities they are
seeking. Ivan discovered one under a
shed close to the house, and found in it
some earthen jars, a few stalks of maize,
a bit of crystal salt, and several house
utensils. He ran for some water to begin
cooking : the quarter of mutton, with some
potatoes he had brought, were placed on
the fire. During the preparation of the
dish, Kascambo roasted the stalks of In-
dian corn, and some nuts, found also in
the magazine, completed the meal.

Ivan, having now more time and more
means, succeeded in freeing his master
entirely from his fetters, and the latter,
now more composed and more calm, and,
besides, well restored by a meal excel-
lent under present circumstances, fell fast
asleep, and the night had quite closed in
when he awoke. Notwithstanding this
favourable rest, when he wished to re-
sume his route, his swollen legs had
stiffened to such a fearful degree, that he
could not make one movement without
experiencing intolerable agony : it was,
however, necessary to depait. Supported
by his servant, he started mournfully,
convinced that he should never reach the
term so ardently wislied for. The motion,
however, and the heat of the walk, calmed
by degrees the pain he suffered. He
walked all night, halting frequently, and
almost immediately continuing his jour-
ney. But sometimes giving way to de-
spair, he would throw himself on the
ground, and entreat Ivan to abandon him
to his fate. His intrepid companion not
only encouraged him by his speeches and
example, but employed almost violence
to raise him to his feet and drag him off.
They came to a most difficult and dan-
gerous passage, which they could not
avoid ; to wait for daylight would have
caused an irreparable loss of time. They
resolved to go through, at the imminent
hazard of being precipitated from the
heights. But before engaging his master
in tins peril, Ivan resolved to reconnoitre
the pass, and to survey it alone. While

356

TALKS OF CHIVALRY , OR,

he was going down, Kascambo remained
on the edge of a rock, in a state of anxiety
by no means easy to describe. The night
was dark : he beard under bis feet the
distant murmur of a rapid river, whose
agitated waters were rolling tumultuously
through the valley ; the noise of the stones
detached from the mountain's side by bis
companion's feet, indicated to him the
immense depth of the precipice on which
he was standing. At this moment of
anguish and of distress, which might be
the last of his life, he thought of bis be-
loved mother, who had given him her
blessing at his departure^ from the line,
with that tender maternal affection which
no other love can ever equal ; that thought
renewed all his courage: a pleasing pre-
sentiment that he should once more see
her arose in bis mind. '* Merciful God 1"
he exclaimed ; " do grant that her bless-
ing shall not have been given in vain !"

As he was just finishing this short but
fervent prayer, Ivan returned. The pas-
sage was not so difficult as they at first
supposed it to be. After descending a
few fathoms between the rocks, it was
necessary, in order to gain easier ground,
to skirt a narrow ridge of rock, inclined,
and, besides, cov^ered with slippery snovv,
under which the mountain formed a steep
and abrupt precipice of fearful depth.
Ivan made openings in the hard snow
with his axe to facilitate the passage ;
they both commended their souls to God.
*' Now," said Kascambo, " if I perish, let
it not be for want of courage; sickness
and misery alone could ever damp my
spirits ; I shall go now as long as the Al-
mighty will give me strength." They
surmounted all difficulties, successfully
accomplished their perilous passage, and
continued their route. The paths were
becoming more frequented and well
beaten ; they only found snow in the
spots exposed to the north wind, and in
the hollows where it had gathered. They
had the good fortune to meet no one till
daybreak, when the sight of two men, who
appeared at a great distance, obliged them
to lie down flat on the ground to avoid
discovery.

After leaving the mountains in those
provinces, the forests disappear, and the
eye looks in vain for a single tree to re-
lieve the nakedness of the country, ex-
cept on the banks of large rivers, where
they are even very scarce : this circum-

stance is very extraordinary, considering
the fertility of the soil. They had been
following for some time the course of the
Sonja, which they had to cross to reach
Mosdok, and were looking out for a
spot where the stream, being less rapid,
would afford them a safer passage, when
they discovered a figure on horseback
coming straiglit towards them. The
country, totally uncovered, presented nei-
ther tree nor bush for concealment. They
squatted down under a ridge of rock near
the water's edge. The traveller passed
within a few yards of their hiding-place:
their intention was merely to defend them-
selves if they were attacked. Ivan drew
his dagger, and gave the pistol to the
major. Perceiving, however, that the
rider was but a boy of twelve or thirteen,
he sprang abruptly on him, seized him by
the neck, [and threw him down. The
youth attempted to resist ; but on seeing
the major appear at the river side, pistol
in band, he ran away at full speed. The
horse was without a saddle, and with only
a haltar passed in his mouth by way of a
bridle. The two fugitives made use im-
mediately of their capture to pass the
river. This rencontre was most fortunate
for them, for they very soon saw that it
would have been impossible to cross it on
foot as they intended. Their chaiger,
although burdened with tvio men, was
very nearly carried away by the rapidity
of the stream. They reached the shore,
however, in safety, but it was too steep
to allow the horse to land ; they dis-
mounted tg^ease him. As Ivan was pul-
ling him with all his might to make him
climb the bank, the halter gave way.
The poor animal was carried off by the
current, and, after many an unsuccessful
attempt to land, was fairly overpowered
and drownefl.

(To be concluded in our next.)

DE MONTMORENCY.

Of the sanguinary character of this con-
stable of France, some idea may be formed
by the specimen which Brantome, a
French historian, has given of bis fa-
vourite orders — " Go ! let me see those
rascals stabbed or shot directly. Hang me
that fellow on yonder tree. Hack me
to pieces those scoundrels, who dared to
defend that church against the king's
forces. Set fire to that village. Burn me
all the country for a mile round this spot."

PERILS BY FLOOD AXD FIELD.

357

THE FREXCH DRAGOON AXD
SPANISH MAIDEN.

A TREMBLING ray of light, traced on
the ground by the crevice of the door,
indicated the spot to Montefiore, and he
tapped gently. Juana opened the door,
and xMontefiore, with a throbbing heart,
entered. The noble countenance of the
recluse bore an expression of artless
curiosity, with an entire ignorance of the
danger she was incurring, and an unequi-
vocal admiration of the soldier's manly
appearance. He was struck for a moment
by the sanctity of the picture presented to
his eyes, the result of the admirable har-
mony which existed between this elegant
retreat and the delicious creature that in-
habited it.

The four walls were hung with grey
tapestry, embroidered with violet-coloured
flowers. A small chest of sculptured
ebony, an antique mirror, an old and
roomy arm-chair of ebony, covered with
tapestry, and a table with fancifully-
twisted feet, a Turkey carpet on the floor,
and a chair near the table — this was the
whole of the furniture. Upon the table

VOL. II. — 33.

were scattered flowers, and an unfinished
piece of embroidery. In one corner was
a light and narrow couch, on which
Juana lay absorbed in reverie. Over the
bed were three paintings of saints, and
just above the pillow were a crucifix, and
a small vase of beryl for holy water, be-
tween which was a prayer engraved in
letters of gold and framed. A slight per-
fume of flowers was perceptible ; a soft
j and gentle light was thrown from the wax
; tapers ; and all was calm, pure, and holy.
' Tlie dreamy fancies of Juana seemed to
' have communicated a heavenly charm to
everything around, upon which the im-
' press of her soul was stamped, like the
, jewel in its shell of mother-of-pearl. She
I w^as dressed in white, and her beauty was
I her only ornament ; she had laid down
' her rosary to think of love, and would
' have inspired respect even to Montefiore,
if the silence, the night, the hour, Juana
herself, her white bed with its snowy-
sheets, and her pillow the confidant of her
confused and soft dreams, had not fired
the daring soldier with their united temp-
tations.

Montefiore remained a considerable
2 L

358

TALKS Ol' CTTiVALRY ; OR,

time standing-, intoxicated with a rapture
he liad never known before, Hke that,
perhaps, of Satan gazing at the sky through
a sudden opening of the clouds which ob-
scured it.

** Directly I saw you," whispered he
in pure I'uscan, and with the melodious
accents of his Italian voice, *' I loved you.
My heart and soul are centred in you,
and, if you will, shall be so for ever."

Juana listened, inhaling the breath of
these words, which the language of love
made magnificent to her.

*' Poor little dear, how long have you
been able to bear the restraint of this
gloomy dwelling, without perishing by
its tediousness i* You, who were formed
to reign over men's hearts, to inhabit a
prince's palace, whose days should be one
long holiday, who should live on those
joys you inspire in every bosom, and see
everything at your feet, effacing each
other rare and costly thing by the splen-
dour which can never meet a rival — how
have yo-u lingered here so solitary, with
only this old merchant and his wife for
companions ?"

This question was not without a motive,
for he wished to learn if Juana had ever
iiad a lover.

** Yes," she answered ; " but how could
you have known my secret thoughts ?
For some months I have been sorrowful
to death — oh ! T would prefer dying to
remaining much longer in this house!
Look at this embroidery — there is not a
thread of it that has been worked without
a thousand sad thoughts. How often have
I wished to run away, and throw myself
into the sea, and yet I did not know for
what. Little childish trifles, but very
teazing, notwithstanding their silliness !
I have often kissed my mother, of an
evening, as if for the last time, while
I said to myself — * Tomorrow I will die.'
But I could not do it, because suicides
are sent to purgatory, and I am so afraid
of that, I preferred to live on — to rise,
and to go to bed, to do the self-same work
at the self-same hours, and everything in
the usual order. It was not weariness,
but anguish — and yet my father and mo
ther adore me ! Ah ! I am very wicked,
and I tell my confessor so very often."

" And have you any pleasure or amuse-
ments here ?"

"Oh! I have not always been so!
Till I was fifteen, I was delighted with

the songs, the music, and the festivals of
the chincli. I was l)ap[)y to think that
1 was like the angels, without sin, and to
be able to take the communion every
week, because then I loved God. But
for the last three years, everything has
changed for me. First, I could not do
without flowers, and I had very beautiful

ones ; then 1 wished But I want for

nothing now," added she, after a pause,
and smiling on Montefiore — ** have you
not just written to me that you love me,
and always will ?"

" Yes, my Juana," whispered Monte-
fiore, in his sweetest tones, lifting this
delightful creature by the waist, and
clasping her to his heart. ** But let me
talk to you as you speak to heaven. Are
you not lovelier than the Mary of our
worship ? Listen ! I swear to you," re-
joined he, kissing her long curls, " I swear
that I will take your fair brow as the
richest and holiest of altars, that I will
make you my idol, and lay at your feet
all the joys of the world. For you I have
carriages, and a palace at Milan — all the
jewels and diamondsofmy ancient family j
and each d;iy there shall be some new
enjoyment, some fresh dress — all that
there is of happiness and rapture shall be
sought for you !"

** Yes," she answered, " I shall like
all that very well ; but I feel in my heart
that, what I should love better than any-
thing in the world, would be my dear and
darling husband."

Mio caro sposa ! for it would be im-
possible to attach to any three English
words the wonderful tenderness, and the
amorous elegance of tone with which the
Italian language and pronunciation invest
these three delicious words. " In him,"
she continued, looking at Montefiore with
a glance in which the purity of a seraph
was beaming, " I shall regain my che-
rished religion in Itim. He and heaven,
heaven and him. Will not you be that
person ? Certainly — I am sure you will !
Ah ! come, and look at the painting
which my father brought me from Italy."

Slie took a light, beckoned to Monte-
fiore, and showed him at the foot of her
bed a Saint Michael trampling on the
demon.

" Look !" she said. ** Has he not got
your eyes ? And so, when I saw you in
the street, the meeting seemed like an
intimation from heaven. During my

PKRll.S BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

359

morning dreams, before my mother called
me to prayer, 1 had so often gazed upon
this painting, that I ended by making a
husband of this angel. But, gracious
heaven ! I am talking to you as if I was
only talking to myself. I must appear
very foolish to you — but if you only knew
how a poor recluse sighs to utter the
thoughts which oppress her. When I am
alone I converse with these flowers and
these clusters of tapestry, and it appears
to me that they understand me better
than my grave and serious father and
mother."

" Juana !" cried Montefiore, interrupt-
ing her, while he seized both her hands,
and kissed them with a transport which
flashed in his eyes, was read in his ges-
tures, and heard in his accents, " speak
to me as to a husband, as to your other
self; I have suffered all that you have
suffered ; there is no need of many words
for us to understand the past, but no lan-
guage can ever express the happiness in
store for us. Place your hand upon my
heart — feel how it beats. Let us promise
before heaven, that sees and hears us, to
be true to each other all our life. Come,
take this ring — give me yours."

*' Give 3'ou my ring!" she cried with
alarm ; " but it came from our holy father
at Rome, and was placed on my finger,
in my infancy, by a very grand and
beautiful lady who brought me up, put
me in this house, and told me always to
keep it."

*• Juana, do you not love me then ?"

*• Oh !" she 'said—" take it. If you
have it, it is the same thing."

She held the ring out tremblingly, and
pressed it between her fingers, w hile she
looked at him with a clear and piercing
gaze. For this ring was herself, and in
surrendering it, she gave herself with it.

** Oh, my Juana," said Montefiore,
clasping her in his arms, " he must be a

monster who would deceive you

I must love you to eternity "

Juana was absorbed in reverie.

Montefiore thought within himself that,
in this first interview, it would be hazard-
ous to attempt anything which might
injure so yonng and pure a creature,
whose imprudence arose from her virtue
and innocence. He trusted to his fea-
tures, to his beauty, whose influence he
well knew, and to the simple marriage of
the ring, the most magnificent of unions.

the slightest and yet the most binding
of ceremonies, tlie wedding of the heart.
He knew that Juana's vivid imagination
would be his best auxiliary during the
rest of the night, and through the next
day. Therefore, he restrained himself to
be as respectful as he was tender, and
with this idea, strengthened by his pas-
sion and the emotions Juana inspired him,
he was caressing and honeyed in his
tones. He embarked the girl's fancy in
all the projects of a new existence, painted
the world in the most seducing colours,
discoursed with her upon those household
details which are so pleasing to young
girls, and entering into those agreements
which give a consistency and reality to
love. Then ha\ing fixed the hour for
their next night's interview, he left Juana
happy but clianged. The pure and holy
Juana no longer existed. In the last
glance she threw upon him, in her grace-
ful movement to bend her brow to her
lover's lips, there was already more of
passion than it is permitted to girls to
avow. Her solitude, her wearisomeness,
and her work, which were all contrary to
her disposition and temper, had brought
this about. To liave kept her prudent
and virtuous she should have been habi-
tuated by degrees to the world, or have
been concealed entirely from it.

** To-morrow will seem very long to
me," said she, receiving on her forehead
a kiss, which was still chaste. " But do,
I beg you, stay as long as you can in the
hall, and talk loud, that I may hear your
voice — for it fills my heart."

Three nights afterward, IMontefiore,
instead of retiring to his own apartment,
entered into Juana's in order to take leave
of her for a few days, under pretence of
an order of departure which he said he
had received from marechal Suchet, who
then commanded in Tarragona.

Juana, like a true Spaniard and Italian,
with the blood and passion of both in her
veins and heart, was transported by his
boldness, which was imputed to the fer-
vency of his love.

To realise the stolen pleasures of illicit
indulgence in the pure and innocent joys
of wedlock; to hide her own husband be-
hind her own bed-curtains ; to deceive
her adopted father and mother, and in the
event of being discovered, proudly to say
to them — " I am the marchioness of Mon-
2 L 2

360

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

tefiore !" — this was a real excitement for
a young and romantic girl, who for three
years had dreamed of nothing but love,
and love environed with perils.

The tapestried door fell back upon
them, and its curtain was a veil to their
happiness and enjoyment.

It was about nine o'clock, and the mer-
chant and his wife recited their evening
prayers j when, suddenly, the sound of a
carriage drawn by several horses disturbed
the quiet street ; hurried knocks were
heard at the shop-door, and the servant
flew to open it.

In two bounds, rather than steps, a
woman rushed into the old hall, magnifi-
cently attired, although she had alighted
from a travelling carriage all covered with
the mud of a thousand roads. She had
traversed Italy, France, and Spain. It
was Marana ! that Marana, who, in spite
of her six-and-thirty years, and her disso-
lute life, was still in all the splendour of
that heltafolgorunte — (that lightning flash
of beauty — the superb compliment created
for lier by her passionate Milanese ador-
ers)— that Marana, who, although she
was the avowed mistress of a king, had
quitted Naples, its feasts, and its skies, at
the very apogee of her existence of gold,
of sonnets, of perfumes, and of silk, the
same instant she heard from her royal
lover the events in Spain, and the siege of
Tarragona.

*' To Tarragona ; I must be in Tarra-
gona before its capture j I will be in Tar-
ragona in ten days !"

And without another thought of a court,
or a crown, she had arrived in Tarragona,
furthered in her rapid course by that w hich
is like an imperial firman, gold, by whose
influence she dashed through the French
empire, with the velocity and brilliancy of
a musket flash. There is neither time
nor space to a mother ; she forbodes every-
thing ; and has her mind's eye fixed upon
her child though poles intervene.

*' My child ! my child !" shrieked Ma-
rana.

At that voice, that hurried entrance,
and the sight of that small-footed queen
of beauty, the prayer-book fell from the
hands of Perez and his v^ife ; for her voice
sounded like thunder, and her eyes gleam-
ed with the flashes of lightning.

"She is there," the merchant calmly
replied, after a pause, during which he

recovered from the emotion which the
hurried arrival, the eager look, and voice
of Marana had caused him. " She is
there," he repeated, pointing to her little
closet.

•* Yes — but has she not been sick ? —
has she been "

" Entirely well," interposed Donna
Lagounia.

*' Oh heaven ! crush me now with thy
wrath, at this moment, if it so pleases
thee," cried Marana, falling quite ex-
hausted and lifeless in an arm chair.

The high colour, excited by her anxiety,
suddenly departed from her cheeks. She
had strength to support her sufferings, but
she sunk under the excess of joy. " Yet,"
she inquired, " how can it be ? Was not
Tarragona taken by storm ?"

" Undoubtedly," replied Perez. *' But
when you see me alive, methinks the
question is needless. Must they not
have killed me to reach Juana ?"

At this answer, the courtesan seized
Perez's rough hand, and kissed it, while
she dashed away the tears which rushed
to her eyes.

" Kind Perez," she said at length.
" But have you had no soldiers quartered
on you ?"

** Only one," answered the Spaniard,
" and luckily he is one of the most ho-
nourable of men, formerly in the Spanish
service, an Italian, who detests Bonaparte
as he does the demon ; he is married, and
scarcely notices anything. He rises very
late, and retires early. At present he is
in bad healih."

" An Italian. What is his name ?"

** The captain Montefiore "

" Then it cannot be the marquis of
Montefiore ?"

" The same, senora."

" Has he seen Juana ?"

** No," answered Donna Lagounia.

*' You are mistaken, wife," interrupted
Perez. " The marquis only caught a
glimpse of her for an instant, it is true ;
but he must certainly have seen her on
that evening when she entered while we
were at supper."

•* Ah 1 then I must see my daughter
this minute."

*' Nothing easier," said Perez. " She
is now asleep. But if she has locked the
door, we shall have to wake her."
(To he continued.)

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

361

THE PRISONERS OF MOUNT CAUCASUS.

{Concluded from p. 356.)

Deprived of this resource, but less tor-
mented now by the fear of being pursued,
they made for a rocky hillock, wliich they
perceived in the distance, intending to
hide there, and rest till night. By their
calculation of the distance they must have
gone over, they judged that the habita-
tions of the Pacific Tchetchenges could
not be very far away. But it was by no
means safe to trust to these men, whose
possible treachery would ruin them for
ever. However, in the desperate state of
weakness to which Kascambo was now
he could not reach the Tereek without
a.ssistance. Their provisions were ex-
hausted ; they spent the rest of the day
in sullen and mournful silence, not daring
to communicate one to another their mu-
tual anxieties. Towards the evening, the
major saw the denchick strike his forehead
with his hand, and give a deep sigh.
Surprised at this sudden mark of despair,
which his intrepid companion had never
yet displayed, he inquired the cause of it.
** Master," said Ivan, '* I have committed
a great fault !"

*• May God forgive it us !" replied
Kascambo, with great compunction.

" Yes," continued Ivan ; ** I have for-
gotten to carry off that splendid rifle,
which was in the child's room. But it
cannot be helped ; it did not occur to me;
you made such a moaning up there, that
you put it out of my head. You laugh ;
it was indeed the prettiest rifle in the
W'hole village. I would have made a pre-
sent of it to the first man we meet to make
a friend of him, for I do not exactly see
how we can, in your present condition,
accomplish our journey."

The weather, which had hitherto fa-
voured them, changed suddenly in the
course of the day. The cold wind of
Russia blew with violence, and covered
them with sleet. They started again at
nightfall, uncertain whether to risk enter-
ing one of the villages, or to avoid them
entirely. But the long journey which on
that alternative awaited them, became
utterly impossible in consequence of a
new misfortune which happened to them
towards the end of the night.

As they were crossing a small ravine,
on a wreath of snow which covered the
bottom of it, the ice broke under their
feet, and they sank up to their knees in

water. The efforts Kascambo made to
extricate himself, completely drenched his
garments. From the moment of their
departure the cold had never been so
intense \ the whole country was covered
with sleet. After half an hour of the most
painful and laborious travel, nipped by
the cold, he fell down, exhausted by fa-
j tigue and pain, and refused peremptorily
[ to go a step farther. Convinced of the
utter impossibility of ever reaching the
term of his journey, he considered it an
useless cruelty to detain his companion,
who could easily escape alone. " Listen
to me, Ivan," said he ; ** God knows
I have done every thing in my power till
this very moment, to take advantage of
your help and assistance ; but you see
now that the}' cannot save me, and that
my fate is sealed. Go to the line, my
dear and faithful Ivan — return to our re-
giment, I command you ; tell my old
friends, and my superior officers, that you
1 have left me here a prey to the ravens,
' and that I wish them a better fate. But,
before leaving me, remember the oalh you
took up there in the blood of our jailors.
You swore that the Tchetchenges should
never take me alive again : keep your
word !" So saying, he lay down, and co-
vered himself all over with his bear-skin
cloak. " There is still a resource left,'*
replied Ivan ; " it is to seek a habitation
of Tchetchenges, and bribe the master
with promises ; if he betray us, we shall
have notiiing to reproach ourselves with.
Try to drag yourself so far; or," said he,
seeing his master's exhaustion, " I shall
go alone, and try to gain over a Tchet-
chenge ; if things turn out well, I shall
come back with him, and carry you away.
If they go wrong, if I perish and cannot
return, there, take the pistol." Kas-
cambo stretched out his hand, and took it.
Ivan covered him up with herbs and
brushwood, for fear he should be seen
during his absence. He was about to
depart, when his master called him back.
" Ivan," said he, ** listen again to my
last request. If you ever succeed in
pa^iring the Tereek, and see my mother

again without me"

" Master," interrupted Ivan, " fare-
well for a few hours. We shall meet again
in the course of this day. But, if you die,
neither your mother nor mine shall ever
see me again!"

After an hour's walk, he perceived,

362

TAT.es of chivalry ; OR,

from a small rising gronnd, two or tliree
villages, at about four miles' distance: it
was not what lie wanted ; lie wished fo
find a solitary house, which he might
enter without being observed, and se-
cretly gain over the master. The distant
smoke of an isolated chimney discovered
to him what he wished for. * The master
of the house was seated on the floor,
busily repairing one of his boots. ** I come
here," said Ivan, " to offer you an oppor-
tunity of winning two hundred roubles,
and to ask of you a service. You have,
no doubt, heard of major Kascambo, a
prisoner among the mountaineers. Well,
I have carried him off— he is here close
by — sick, exhausted, and in your power.
If you deliver him up to his enemies, they
will praise you certainly, but, you know
it well enough, they will not reward you.
If, on the contrary, you consent to save
him, by keeping him only three days in
your house, I shall go to Mosdok, and
bring back two hundred roubles in fine
sounding silver for his ransom. But if
you dare stir one inch from your place,"
added he, drawing his dagger, " and give
the alarm to get me arrested, I murder
you this instant. Give me your word this
moment, or you are a dead man."

The determined tone of Ivan convinced
the Tchetchenge without intimidating
him. *' Young man," said he, pulling
quietly on his boot, *' I have also got
a dagger in my belt, and yours does
not frighten me. Had you entered here
as a friend, I should never have betrayed
a man who had crossed the threshold of
my door ; now, I promise nothing. Sit
down there, and explain your wish."
Ivan, seeing at once who he had to do
with, sheathed his dagger, sat down, and
repeated his proposal. ** And what secu-
rity do you offer me," asked the Tchet-
chenge, *• for the execution of your pro-
mise ?" *' I shall leave you the major
himself," replied Ivan. *' Do you think
I would have suffered for fifteen months,
and brought my master to your house, to
desert him there ?" " Well, I believe
you ; but two hundred roubles are too
little — I must have four hundred." *' Why
not ask four thousand ? — it's just as easy j
only, as I intend to keep my word, I offer
you the two hundred, because I know
where to get them, and not another ko-
peck. Would you place me under the
necessity of deceiving you ?"

" Well, let it be done for the two hun-
dred roubles ; and you come back in three
days, and alone ?" ** Yes, alone, and in
three days ; I give you my word for it ;
but have you given me your own ? — is
the major your guest ?" " He is, and so
are you from this moment ; you have my
solemn word for it."

They took each other's hand, and ran
for the major, whom they brought back
half dead with cold and hunger.

Instead of going to Mosdok, Ivan hear-
ing that he was nearer to Tchervelians-
kaya-Staniza, where there was a consi-
derable post of Cossacks, hastened directly
thither. He had no great trouble in
making up the necessary sum. The
brave Cossacks, several of whom had
been present at the unfortunate engage-
ment which had cost Kascambo his liberty,
were happy to put their purses together to
complete his ransom. On the appointed
day, Ivan departed to go and deliver at
last his master ; but the colonel who com-
manded the post, fearing some new trea-
son, would not allow him to return alone ;
and, in spite of the convention and agree-
ment made with the Tchetchenge, he sent
a detachment of Cossacks with him.

This ill-judged precaution was very
near being fatal to Kascambo. His host
no sooner perceived the lances of the
Cossacks in the distance, than he thought
himself betrayed; and displaying at once
the ferocious courage of his nation, he
conducted the major, still weak and sick,
to the roof of the house, tied him to a
pillar, and placed himself before him, with
his rifle in his hand.

" If you advance," cried he, as soon as
Ivan was within hearing distance ; " if
you make another step, I blow the major's
brains out ; and I have fifty cartridges
left for my enemies, and for the traitor
who has brought them."

** You are not betrayed !" exclaimed
the faithful denchick, trembling for his
master's life ; *' I have been forced to
come back accompanied ; but I have
brought the two hundred roubles, and
my word."

" Let the Cossacks retire," added the
Tchetchenge, ** or 1 fire."

Kascambo himself begged of the officer
to retire. Ivan followed the detachment
for some distance, and came back alone.
But the suspicious brigand would not
allow him to approach. He bade him

PERILS BY FLOOD WD FIELD.

363

count the 'roubles on the footpath, at a
liuntlred yards from the house, and be off.

As soon as he had secured them, he re-
turned to the roof, and, throwinor himself
at the major's feet, beg-ged his pardon,
and entreated him to forget tlie bad usage
he had been forced to make him endure
for his own safety. ** I shall only re-
member," said Kascambo, " that 1 have
been your guest, and that you have kept
your word faithfully ; but instead of beg-
ging my pardon, I should rather prefer
you take off these ropes."

Without answering, the Tchetchenge,
seeing Ivan return, bounded from the
roof, and disappeared like lightning.

In the course of the same day, the
brave Ivan had the satisfaction and glory
of restoring his master to his dear friends,
who had lost all hopes of ever seeing him
more.

The author of this narrative, happen-
ing to pass legorensky some months
after, arrived during the night before a
small house, of very elegant appearance,
and particularly well lighted up. He
jumped from his kibick, and approached
a window to enjoy the sight of a most
lively and animated ball which was taking
place on the ground-floor. A young
officer was also looking on, and appeared
particularly taken up with the gay scene
in the interior of the apartment.

" Who gives this ball ?" inquired the
traveller.

** It is our major, who was married to-
day."

" And what may be his name, pray ?"

" His name is Kascambo."

The traveller, who was acquainted w ith
tlie singular history of this gentleman,
congratulated himself on having yielded
to his curiosity, and admired the bride-
groom, who, glowing with pleasure, had
completely forgot for the moment the
Tchetchenges and their cruelty.

" Have the kindness to show me also
the brave denchick who delivered him."
Tlie young officer, after some hesitation,
answered, *' I am the man."

Doubly surprised at this extraordinary
coincidence, and still more at the youth
of the speaker, the traveller asked him
what his age was. He had not completed
his twentieth year, and had just received
a sum of money and the rank of officer as
a reward for his courage and fidelity.

This brave young man, after having
voluntarily shared his master's misfor-
tunes, and restored him to life and liberty,
was now enjoying his happiness on his
marriage-day, gazing at the feast through
the window. But the stranger happen-
ing to express his astonishment that lie
should not be in the ball-room, and ap-
pearing also to imply some suspicion of
ingratitude in his old master, Ivan glanced
towards him a fierce and angry look, and
walked into the house whistling the tune
" Hai lull, hai luli !" He very soon ap-
peared in the ball-room, and the inquisi-
tive traveller jumped into his kibick, quite
thankful not to have received the fatal
axe over his skull.

THE SAXON WIDOW.

It was on the 7th of August, 1802. I
was then about 18, and serving in quality
of chasseur in the fourth battalion of light
infantry. Beaten in several engagements,
the imperialists had strongly entrenched
themselves behind the ruins of an old
Saxon village, w hich had been surrounded
the night before, and was now a prey to
the flames. The monastery and grave-
yard, distant about half a league from the
scene of devastation, had been alone re-
spected. By the merest accident, I found
myself, towards the dead of the night,
posted sentinel in advance of the first line.
The silence, truly solemn, that reigned on
all sides, was only interrupted by the
"All's well" of the Austrian videttes, the
relief of sentinels, and the mournful rust-
ling of the cypress and the pine, borne
on the midnight blast — all of which was
heard in passing by, but disregarded.

The emanation which arose from a
number of bodies very hastily interred the
previous day, exhaling from their recent
tombs, brought to my mind a multitude of
grotesque and fearful images. This
species of phosphoric phenomenon, the
effect of which I had often witnessed be-
fore, particularly in those sultry evenings,
when, under the influence of the Canicule,
or dog-star, brought me back to the happy
state of boyhood, and rekindled in my
thoughts those tales of sylphs and goblins
which 1 had listened to (not without awe,
be it said) while gravely seated at the
patrimonial hearth.

These recollections, which the time of
night had very much contributed to ex-
cite, produced a tone of feeling of which it

364

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

was not altogether easy to give a just ac-
count. But with what force my heart
responded, as through the lengthy lane of
eglantine, which served as boundary to
the cemetry, I distinguished by the pale
moon's light, a stately form — phantom-
like— glide past, habited in a dress of
snowy whiteness ! Soon recovering from
sensations so utterly unworthy of a French-
man and a soldier, I hastily seized my
arms, and in a firm voice challenged,
**Quivive?" No answer; all was hushed.
** Qui vive ?" a second time. Still the
same death-like silence. Faithful to my
trust, mv piece is levelled at the object,
whose winding drapery served as a mark
to aim at. Tiie powder ignites — the
whizzing of the ball is heard — -heart-rend-
ing groans instantly follow the explo-
sion !

The report of my rifle had given the
alarm ; and in a moment it is succeeded
by that of the sentinels on both sides !
Life and agitation now succeeded to sleep
— the drums beat to arms — the mounting
of the troops commences — and the bay-
onets of the inlying picquets, together
with those of the several corps turned out,
flash a thousand tires, which the reflection
aids, and multiplies without end. A small
reinforcement from the nearest post is
quickly detached, and sent in all haste to
join us. Our steps were now directed
towards the spot where the spectre first
appeared ; and, by the faint light of a lan-
tern, with which the chief of the detach-
ment was provided, we distinguished — O
heavy spectacle ! — a tall, aged female —
extended — motionless — and without life
— at the foot of a tomb, surmounted by a
small iron cross, grained in black. — My
ball had struck the unhappy victim to the
heart, and a small, slender stream of blood
i'illed slowly over the turf. Her robe was
of the clearest white, and along covering
or veil of the same colour, partly conceal-
ed her head, now blanched with age or
care — most probably by both. Although
the icy hand of death had passed upon her,
the countenance still wore the look of piety
and resignation. Her hands were firmly
joined together, and two large tear-drops,
just escaped from her half-closed eyelids,
left their trace on her discoloured cheeks.
At the break of day, two Saxon peasants,
sent in quest of her, gave this short sad
detail of her history. Widow of a Luthe-
ran clergyman above twenty years, Marie

Bulmer had made a vow to visit his grave
daily, and offer up her orisons according
to that ritual, and leave there her garland
of fresh flowers. Victim of a lamentable
and almost unprecedented fate, she had
met her death in the accomplishment of
this sacred duty, from which no obstacles,
however hazardous, could divert her. The
next day she was laid beside her well be-
loved, in the same grave, quietly, and
without ostentation. I assisted at the rite,
and kneeling down upon the grassy tomb,
I prayed heaven to give me a partner
just as worthy and as true. In latter
years, when I have heard examples cited
of conjugal devotion, I never failed tore-
collect with unfeigned sorrow and regret
the tragical end of the " Saxon Widow."

MARSHAL DE TURENNE.

The celebrated marshal de Turenne
was no less remarkable for the extraor-
dinary affability and coolness of his dis-
position, than for his uncommon penetra-
tion and heroic achievements in war. One
day, in summer, having returned from
hunting, he was lying over his window
enjoying the cool air, dressed in a hunter's
uniform, viz. a short coat, leather breeches,
and boots. One of his valets coming into
the room, and seeing only his buckskin
breeches and hunter's jacket, took him for
one of his fellow-servants; and, out of
sport, gave the marshal a severe stroke
with his hand on the breech. Turenne,
smarting with the blow, turned about a
little angry ; the valet, seeing his mas-
ter, fell upon his knees, entreating his
forgiveness, saying, ** I thought, my lord,
it was John!" "And although it had been
John," said the marshal, with great cool-
ness, "you need not have struck so
hard."

A DOUBTFUL CASE.

The gates of the Tower are closed every
night at a certain time ; after which there
is no egress or ingress without some little
trouble. A very corpulent gentleman,
who had been spending the evening
there with a friend, and staid till the very
last moment, on his way to the gate met
a soldier, whom he accosted with — " Pray,
my good fellow, can I get out at this
gate ?" — " I don't know," said the soldier,
eyeing him, ** I don't know j but a bag-
gage waggon can."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

365

rase 369.

RETRIBUTION. )

I BELONGED to a regiment of cniras- I
siers, which formed a part of the rear of !
the " grand army," on its retreat upon '
Leipsic, and the shades of night had de- j
scended long ere we arrived at the spot ■
in which we were to bivouac ; watchfires '
w^ere blazing along our whole line, sur-
rounded by the fatigued soldiers.

After obtaining some little refresh-
nient, I walked for\Aard u few paces to
observe our position. From the proximity
of the countless watchtires in the direction
of the enemy, I judged that immediately
morning dawned, the battle would com-
mence.

What an imposing scene I Two of the
greatest armies that had ever followed
Jiuropean leaders, lay hushed in repose.

How soon would this repose be dis-
turbed by the deafening thunder of can-
non— the rude shock of cavalry — the close
and deadly bayonet charge ! Before the
setting of to-morrow's sun, how many
brave men, who were now full of lusty
vigour, would be stretched upon the bare
earth, stiffening in their gore.

VOL. II. — 34.

In the midst of n)y recollections I was
joined by an officer of my own troop : he
had entered the regiment at the same
time as ni} self, and we had formed a sin-
cere friendship for each other. His usually
cheerful countenance now wore an ex-
pression of deep thought, if not of melan-
choly. L'pon my rallying him upon his
rueful visage, in a subdued tone he thus
addressed me : " My dear friend, 1 feel a
strange presentiment that to-morrow my
mortal career will terminate. I know
you will laugh at me for indulging in
what you deem chimerical forebodings :
but the conviction that I shall fall in to-
morrow's contest is indelibly fixed in my
imagination. You have always expressed
a sincere regard for me, let me now bring
you to the proof; promise me that }ou
will deliver these two packets. The first is
addressed to one for wliom myjieart beats
with an affection that shall cease not till
I am a lifeless corse : it contains a minia-
ture and a lock of my hair. The other is
addressed to my father, M. d'OUiever, and
contains a locket which is composed of
his and my sister's hair. Promise me that
in the event of niv death, you will de-
'2 M

366

TALES OF CIIIVAMIY; OR,

liver these with your own liand. I have
cog^ent reasons for being thus urgent ; for
I more than susjiect a villain of calum-
niating nie in the tenderest quarter — my
love to Helene de Chaluz, to whom you
will find the packet addressed." I pledged
myself to comply with his request, but
at the same time endeavoured to chase
those sombre forebodings from his mind:
my efforts were ineffectual, however, and
lie continued plunged in settled gloom.

Our conference was scarcely finished,
before tlie faint streaks of day appeared in
the horizon : we hastily joined our divi-
sion, when all was bustle and confusion,
which, however, was soon hushed, and
every man mounted and ready for action.
We were not kept long in suspense, for
our veteran colonel received orders to
take up a position in the rear of a large
wood which protected our left flank : here
we were qnickly joined by f-quadron aftpr
squadron, until we mustered some thou-
sands strong. It was now evident that
one of those sudden and irresistible shocks
of cavalry, with which Napoleon was so
wont to surprise his enemy, was in con-
templation. The enemy, however, soon
showed himself to be aware of our move-
ments, by sending several rounds of artil-
lery crashing through the wood ; no time
was therefore to be lost: we were quickly
wheeled into line, and at the command of
a voice which every horseman knew well,
every blade flashed in the faint morning
light ; again that voice was heard, " For-
ward 1 Charge I" — and on we rushed, the
solid earth trembling beneath the thunder
of our horses' hoofs — our brave chief, who
had led so many charges, several yards in
advance, his sabre flashing above his
head, and his long dark locks waving like
war-pennons on the breeze.

Terrific as our onset was, it was unsuc-
cessful ; for the enemy, having received
notice of our intention, had so strength-
ened his position by bringing up his
bravest troops, that we were unable to
force his ranks.

Our charge seemed to have been the
signal for the commencement of the
general engagement, which now raged
along the whole line with a fury which
I have never seen equalled : one inces-
sant roar of cannon and musketry rolled
from the opposing lines. The proximity
of the two armies was so great that every
volley did most deadly execution j whole

ranks were struck to the earth, and regi-
ments were reduced to skeletons without
once changing (he position they had oc-
cupied in the morning.

Night was drawing on apace; but not
a foot of ground had been won or lost on
either side. Owing to the sanguinary
contests in wliicli we had been constantly
engaged since the break of day, our regi-
ment had suffered severely — but our ser-
vices were not yet to be dispensed with :
in conjunction with some regiments of
chasseurs, we were ordered to attack and
drive back a division of Polo-Russian
infantry, and charge several regiments of
Austrian cuirassiers. While forming for
this service, 1 bantered my friend upon
his melancholy forebodings, for, like my-
self, he had hitherto escaped without a
single wound : before he could reply, we
received orders to charge, and I saw him
no more alive. Upon our charging the
Austrian cuirassiers, they retreated, leav-
ing the infantry to their fate ; they formed
in squares, and fairly waited our attack.
How my heart bled for these gallant men,
thus compelled to maintain a contest so
unequal. In vain did we endeavour to
break in upon them ; firm as the earth
that supported them, they withstood our
repeated shock ; again we returned to the
charge, and again we were received by
the steady huzza, the deadly shower of
balls, and the bristling ranks of bayonets.

In the third charge which we made at
this devoted band, a ball not twenty yards
from the muzzle struck my bridle-arm ;
almost at the same moment my horse was
shot under me — in falling, he pitched me
forward on my head, and I fell insensible
on the plain. Upon recovering my
senses, I found myself in total darkness,
stretched on the field of battle with my
arms broken, and my body sore from the
bruises I had received in my fall. After
some efforts I raised myself upon my feet
and endeavoured to walk, but the spot
upon which I had fallen was so thickly
covered with the dead and wounded that
I could not stir, without disturbing some
dying wretch. Oh, heavens ! the me-
mory of that dreadful night clings to my
recollection with a tenacity that bids de-
fiance to the efforts of time to efface it.
Shrieks of despair and agony, accompa-
nied by fearful curses and imprecations,

resounded from but enough ! enough !

let me no longer dwell upon the harrow-

PERILS BY FLOOD \ND FIELD,

367

ing theme. In a short lime I was dis-
covered by a party sent out to collect the
wounded, and conveyed to a hospital at
Leipsic. From the inquiries I made con-
cerning the fate of my friend, I learned
that he had been so desperately wounded
that he was not expected to survive many
hours; he also had been conveyed to
Leipsic.

In that city the utmost confusion
reigned ; the streets were crowded with
waggons bearino' the wounded soldiery to
the hospitals. The inhabitants were in
the utmost consternation : from the issue
of the first day's conflict, they fully ex-
pected to have the victorious allies thun-
dering at their gates ; it was even re-
ported (hat the king of Saxony had sent
proposals of capitulation to the allied
sovereigns.

After my wound had been dressed,
I went the round of the hospitals, hoping
to gain some intelligence of my friend.
After a toilsome search, 1 was so far suc-
cessful as to find his remains, for his spirit
had fled some hours before my arrival:
he had been shot through the lungs, and
all human aid was futile. As I gazed
upon his lifeless form, my imagination
conjured up visions of the fond relatives
and friends to whom I should shortly have
to communicate the sad narrative of his
tragical end, and my eyes were uncon-
sciously dimmed with tears. I resolved
to execute the commission with as little
delay as possible; but the hazards inci-
dent to a soldier's life, rendered the ac-
complishment of it doubtful.

1 will not detain the reader by a reca-
pitulation of the memorable events which
occurred subsequently to those I have en-
deavoured to relate ; it will suffice to
say, that the TJth of October beheld
Napoleon and the wreck of his splendid
army retreating through Leipsic, totally
disorganised : of four hundred thousand
men witli whom he had commenced tlie
campaign, barely ninety thousand escaped
beyond the Rhine.

This disastrous chain of events at length
terminated in the abdication of the em-
peror, and I then found myself at liberty
to fulfil my promise. After spending a
few weeks with my friends, in order to re-
cruit my shattered health, I set out on my
melancholy mission. My journey lay
through some of the most beautiful pro-
vinces of southern France ; and to one

who had so long been accustomed to the
blasting scenes of war, nature seemed
clothed in double charn)s.

At the conclusion of my second day's
journey 1 arrived at my place of destina-
tion, w hich was a retired village. Jt being
late in the evening, I determined to post-
pone my errand until the following morn-
ing, when I might make n)y debut in
some decent trim. The cal)aret I found
did not furnish accommodation in the most
superior style of elegance, but I had seen
too much of the bivouac to stand upon
niceties.

Scarcely- had morning dawned before I
was roused from my slumbers by the merry
peals of the village bells, and other joyful
demonstrations, with which the populace
are wont to celebrate some happy event.
When the landlord entered with my morn-
ing meal, I enquired the reason of those
joyful ebullitions.

" Why, monsieur," exclaimed he, ** I
tho\]glit all the world knew this was to be
tlie wedding-day of count de Lenois and
Helene de Chaluz — it is the talk of the
whole province. The count is the richest
man in this part of France; and who will
assert that Helene de Chaluz is not as
handsome as he is rich ? No one who
has once seen her, I think. Yes, yes ; a
splendid fete shall we see this day, I pro-
mise you."

So saying, he hastily left me, to attend
to the numerous guests who were now
rapidly filling his little hostelry.

His unexpected information filled me
with perplexity and astonishment. Helene
de Chaluz about to be married ! Could
she then so soon forget the devoted affec-
tion of him, who, in the dark hour of
death, had dwelt upon her remembrance
uith such intense emotion? Louis had
expressed his suspicions of the machina-
tions of a villain — was that villain count
de Lenois ? Possibly so. At all events I
resolved to redeem the pledge I had so
solemnly given my friend, and that with
as little delay as possible. Inquiring,
therefore, of the landlord, he directed me
to the mansion which was about to be-
come tke scene of so much festivity. I
found it surrounded by equipages of every
description, and crowded with company
invited for the occasion. Upon request-
ing to see madame de Chaluz, I was
ushered into an ante-room, and after a
short delay an elderly lady entered, and

368

TALES OF CHIVALRY

announced lierself by that title. I in-
stantly concludecl that she was the mother
of the lady I wished to see.

** I am extremely sorry, madam," said
I, " to intrude at so unseasonable a junc-
ture, but 1 am compelled by unavoidable
circumstances to request a short inter-
view with your daughter."

" Why, really, sir," she replied, ** you
have reason to apologise for your ill-
timed intrusion. What business of so
pressing a natiue can you have with my
daughter, that you are compelled to inter-
rupt her in the mkht of her nuptials ?
Cannot you communicate it to me ? you
may rely upon her hearing it the earliest
convenient opportunity. You cannot
possibly see her now, for she only awaits
my return to enter the carriage with the
count."

I again apologised for my interruption,
but declined acquainting her with my
errand, which was, I said, intended for her
daughter's ear alone. After some farther
urging on my part, she acceded to my
request, but manifestly with the greatest
reluctance. She left the apartment, and
in a few minutes returned with a young
lady, whom she introduced as her daugh-
ter, and again retired. Her appearance
instantly struck me : as she was rather
above the middle height, of a majestic and
graceful figure ; her handsome counten-
ance was strikingly expressive, causing
emotion in the most phlegmatic observer.
She was arrayed in all the splendour be-
coming the wealth and rank of her in-
tended husband : but her speaking fea-
tures were darkened by a cloud of the
deepest melancholy, forcing the beholder
to the conviction that the blighting fangs
of grief had already fixed upon her young
heart.

As I gazed upon her speaking counten-
ance, the conviction that the image of
Louis was still engraved upon her heart,
and that she was encompassed in the toils
of some designing villain, irresistibly
fastened upon my mind.

For some seconds I stood perfectly at a
loss how to open my melancholy embassy,
being convinced that the direful intelli-
gence at such a moment would produce
overwhelming effects. At length, in a
faltering voice, I commenced the melan-
choly narrative. At the mention of her
lover's name, the truth flashed like light-
ning through her brain, her face assumed

a deadly paleness, she sunk upon a seat,
and seemed gasping for breath. This
was too much for me ; I hastily produced
the packet directed to her, and placing it
in her trembling hand, turned away t o
avoid seeing the troubled emotion I was
convinced it would occasion. I heard her
tear open the envelope — a silence of
some minutes ensued — at length I ven-
tured to cast my eyes toward her — she
had read the letter, and was slowly un-
twirling a lock of his beautiful hair, which
he had wound about her miniature. Tl»e
torrent of her emotions at length found
vent.

** I knew it — I said it," cried she, in
frenzied tones. " I have been deceived,
I have been entangled in the snares of a
villain. Oh ! wretch that I was, to listen
to his vile calumnies, to have had my mind
poisoned by the breath of this reptile. But
thou shalt be revenged, Louis ; never,
never, will I be his 1 but am not I, at this
moment, arrayed, ready to be led forth
his victim ? Thus, thus perish the wretch's
hopes !" As she uttered these words, she
snatched the rich coronet of diamonds
that glittered in her dark hair, and dashed
it to the floor, at the same time shrieking
violently, and, in the paroxysm of her
passion, tearing from her person the valu-
able jewels with which she was decorated,
and throwing them from her with frantic
energy, Nature could endure no more,
she fell violently to the floor in deep con-
vulsions.

Her screams, and the noise of her fall,
brought her mother and several of the
bridal party into the room ; a gentleman,
whom 1 supposed to be the count, hasten-
ed to raise and support her in his arms,
others of the company crowding round
her with looks of astonishment and dis~
may. Upon ajiplying restoratives, she
slowly recovered ; but no sooner did she
perceive the person who supported her
than she renewed her shrieks, writhing in
his embrace w'ith signs of the utmost
loathing.

" Unhand me, wretch," she cried, " thy
touch strikes horror to my soul ! Away,
reptile ! lest thou would have me expire
at thy feet." She relapsed more violently
than before, and was speedily borne to
her apartment, followed by the wonder-
ing group.

I remained perfectly unnoticed in the
midst of the general confusion, and there-

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIF.LD.

369

fore determined to quit a spot where my
presence had caused so much excitement.
Before I had advanced two steps towards
the accon)phshment of my purpose, how-
ever, I received a shght tap on the
shoulder : upon facing round, the count
stood before me. He was a man of mid-
dle age and stature, possessed of a good
face and figure, but the former was cha-
racterised by a pecuHar cold and sinister
expression, wliich in my eyes betrayed a
selfish and treacherous disposition. After
eyeing me for st)me seconds, he thus ad-
dressed me : " I know you ; you are some
minion of Louis d'OUiever ?"

*• And I know you," shouted T, in my
turn ; " you are a most consummate
scoundrel !"

" Enough, sir," said he, leading me to
a window, " enough ! you see that wall
which skirts the garden : if yon will meet
me there in ten minutes, I will join you
with weapons that shall settle this affair
without more brawling."

I signified my assent to this proposal,
and left the house by a private door which
he pointed out. I had not arrived at the
appointed spot more than five minutes,
ere I was joined by my adversary, who
carried a brace of pistols muffled in a silk
handkerchief. He said nothing, but pro-
duced a powder-flask and bullets. Having
loaded, I desired him to take his ground.

" We will each walk six paces," said
he, " and then turn and fire."

To this arrangement I assented. Plac-
ing ourselves back to back, he gave the
word *' ready," and I stepped forward ;
but ere 1 had taken three steps, the villain
turned and fired. The ball struck me in
the back ; and the shock was so great,
(hat I thought I was shot through the
body. Believing myself to be mortally
wounded, I exerted all my remaining
strength, and wlieeled round, determined
to take vengeance on my cowardly assas-
sin. He had not stirred a single step
from tlie spot, when a smile of malignant
pleasure at the success of his murderous
scheme, was visible on his countenance;
on seeing my movement, he hastily pro-
duced a second pistol, which he had till now
concealed. I could hear the slight tick
of the lock as he cocked it, but my arm
was already raised, and before he could
level, I touched the trigger, and with a
shriek and a bound he fell a lifeless corse
to the earth. I now grew sick and faint

my head grew gidd\ , the objects around
me seemed rapidly w hirling round, and 1
at length fell insensible to the ground,
beside my prostrate enemy.

When [recovered my faculties, I found
myself in bed, wiih my wound dressed ;
but T was so reduced with the loss of
blood, that I was scarcely able to move.
To my bewildered sen<e, the strange
scenes' in which I had so lately been an
actor, resembled the creations of a dis-
ordered imagination rather than actual
events. AVhile I was endeavouring to
reduce my ideas to some degree of order,
the curtains of my bed were slowly drawn
aside, and a female countenance of exqui-
site loveliness greeted my wandering
eyes; it was but for a moment, however,
for no sooner did she see that I was con-
scious of her presence, than she vanished
as suddenly as she had appeared. Before
T had recovered the surprise occasioned
by this beautiful vision, she again appear-
ed, accompanied by an elderly gentleman,
attired in deep mourning. He sat down
by me ; and after expressing his satisfac-
tion at my recovery from the stupor in
which 1 had so long been plunged, he
informed me, that I was in the house of
the father of my ill-fated friend, Louis
d'Olliever. I was aware that he resided in
the same vicinage as madame de Chaluz,
but I was perfectly at a loss to compre-
hend how he had discovered my intimacy
with his son. He shortly satisfied my
curiosity on that head, by giving me the
following particulars: —

It appeared that the movements of the
count and myself had not been conducted
so secretly as to escape the observation of
several of the guests ; one of them had
followed the count, and witnessed the
whole transaction. Upon the alarm being
given, the spot was quickly surrounded
by the inhabitants of almost every house
in the village. Among others was M
d'Olliever. On my being undressed that
the wound might be examined, the packet
addressed to him was discovered. The
reader will easily see the result ; I was
conveyed to his house, where everything
that could facilitate my recovery had been
done.

f nder the hands of my fair nurse, I
grew rapidly convalescent. M. d'Olliever
watched over my couch with the solici-
tude of a parent, and in his attentions to
me seemed to lose a portion of that grief

370

TAT.es of chivalry ; OR,

for the loss of his brave boy, which I was
the means of acquainling him with in so
extraordinary a manner.

I have httle more now to conmiunicate,
with the exception that one fine moon-
light night found me at the feet of her
who had tended me throughout my illness
with more tlian the care of a sister or
mother. What I said upon the occasion,
I will not trouble the reader with — the
sister of Louis d'Olliever is now — my
wife.

Madame de Chaluz was the widow of
an officer, who, falling in battle, left her
with an only daughter, (the ill-starred
Helene) : she received a small pension
from governnjent, with which, and the
little property left her by her husband, she
maintained an appearance of gentility,
and educated her daughter in a manner
suitable to her station in life. Ever since
she had taken up her residence in the
village, the strictest intimacy had arisen
between her and the d'Ollievers. Helene
and Louis were much about the same age,
and an attachment slowly but deeply
wound mutually around their hearts.
Madame de Chaluz saw this growing
affection ; but innately resolved that her
daughter's beauty should win her an alli-
ance more conducive to the ambitious
views she nourished, than that of Louis,
who would have to depend solely upon
his own exertions for fortune. The ap-
pearance of count de Lenois as a suitor
for the hand of Helene confirmed this
determination, and the departure of Louis
for the army, which he had chosen as his
profession, was hailed by her as a fortu-
nate occurrence.

No sooner had Louis departed than the
count uiged his suit with ten-fold vigour,
but his efforts to win her affections were
abortive ; his wealth was despised, and
his cold and heartless demeanour contrast-
ed too strongly with the frank and manly
bearing of his rival ; the death of her lover
occasioned a shock ^^hich, to a frame
already worn down by grief and anxiety,
proved fatal. Her reason was completely
overthrown, she languished in that state
a few months, when death kindly stepj)ed
in, and released her from her woes. " She
sleeps well," and the first tears shed by
myself and by my happy bride fell fast
upon the tomb of plighted love.

THE FRENCH DRAGOON AND SPANISH
MAIDEN.

( Concluded from p. 360. J

In rising to get the pass- key, the mer-
chant's eyes were raised fortuitously to
the lofty window. There, in the circle of
light thrown upon the black wall of the
inner court, from the oval window of
Juana's closet, he perceived the outline
of a group, which, until the graceful Ca-
nova's days, no sculptor had ever conceiv-
ed. The Spaniard turned round, and
said to Marana, " 1 know not where this
key has been put."

** But you are very pale," she replied.

'* You shall know why," lie screamed,
seizing his poniard, striking violently on
Juana's door, and calhng, " Juana, open,
open !"

His tone expressed the very extremity
of despair, and froze up the hearts of the
two women. But Juana did not open,
because it took her some time to conceal
Montefiore. She knew nothing of what
was going on in the hall, the double door
curtains deadening the sounds.

"Madame, I lied when I said I knew
not where the key was. Here it is," said
lie, taking it from a drawer. ** But it is
useless. Juana's key is in the lock, and
her door is fastened. Wife, we are de-
ceived," said he, turning to her. " There
is a man in Juana's room."

** By my hopes of salvation, it cannot
be !" said she.

" Swear not at all. Donna Lagounia.

Our honour is gone, and this woman "

He pointed to Marana, who had risen, but
stood motionless, paralysed by the words
he had uttered. ** This woman has a right
to despise us. She saved our life, and re-
deemed our fortune and our reputation,
and all we have done is to take care of
her money ! Open immediately, Juana,
or I will break down the door l"

And his voice, increasing in violence,
resounded from cellar to garret ; but he
was composed, resolute, and stern. He
knew that he held the life of Montefiore
in his hands, and had made up his mind
to wash away his sorrow and remorse with
every drop of the Italian's blood.

*' Begone, depart, leave me alone here !"
exclaimed Marana, leaping with the elas-
ticity of a tiger upon Perez, and wrench-
ing thtj dagger from his hands. *• Perez,
leave me," resumedshe, with tranquillity ;
" J'^u* youi" \vife, your apprentice, and

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

371

your servant. There will be a murder
"here, and you might all be shot by the
French. Have nothing to do with this
business ; it concerns nie only. Between
my daughter and myself there is only
heaven ; but this man belongs to me, and
nothing on earth shall save him from my
hands. Go, go, all of ye ; I pardon you
all. I see that tliis girl is a Marana. You,
your religion, your probity, and your
honour, were powerless to contend against
my blood that is in her."

The door was flung open ; and, at the
sight of her daughter, Marana forgot
everything. Pere/, making a sign to his
wife, stood at his post. Like an oUI
Spaniard, implacable when the point of
honour was in question, he determined to
assist in revenging the deceived mother,

Juana, lightly clothed, with the light in
lierhand beaming softly on her white dress,
stood calm and serene in the middle of the
room, and asked, " what was wanted with
her."

Marana could not suppress a slight
shudder; "Perez," she inquired, "is
there any other door to this closet ?"

Perez shook his head negatively.

She then stepped forward into the
room — "Juana, I am your mother, find
your judge, and you have placed youiself
in the only situation in which I can dis-
close myself to you. You have descended
to me, when I wished to elevat-e you to
heaven — and ohi how deep you have
fallen ! You have a lover with you ?"

" Madame, no one should, or can, be
found here but my husband," she answered
firmly. " I am the Marchioness of Mon-
tefiore."

Marana trembled.

" Then there are two of you," said
Perez, in his stern tone. " He told me
he was already married."

" Montefiore, my heart's treasure !"
cried the young girl, tearing away the
curtains, and showing the oflScer — " come,
these people are dishonouring you !"

The Italian was pale and spiritless ; he
saw the dagger in Marana's hand ; and
this was not the first time he had met her.
With one bound he darted through the
door, and shouted, with a voice of thunder
— " To the rescue ! to the rescue ! they
are murdering a Frenchman. Soldiers
of the sixth of the line, bring captain
Diard here, to the rescue of his friend !"

Perez had seized the marquis, and had

thrust his large hand into his mouth as a
gag, when the courtesan stopped him, and
said, " Hold him fast, but let him scream.
Now open all the doors, fling them wide
open, and then get you all gone, I repeat.
As for vou," she said, turning to Monte-
fiore, " shout and call for assistance

but the instant I hear the soldiers' foot-
steps, I plunge this blade in your heart.
Are you married ?"

Montefiore, who had fallen on the thres-
hold of the door, two paces from Juana,
heard nothing, and saw nothing but the
dagger, whose bright rays seemed to
blind him.

" He would have deceived me, then,"
said Juana, slowly and sadly. " He swore
to me lie was free."

*• He admitted to me that he was mar-
ried," said Perez, in his grave voice.

" Holy Virgin 1" interposed Donna
Lagonnia.

" Will you answer, soul of clay ?" said
Marana, stooping, and whispering into
the marquis's ear.

" Is she your daughter ?" inquired
Montefiore.

" The daughter I had is already dead,
or at the point of death," answered Ma-
rana. " I have no longer a daughter,
and do not repeat that word again. Tell
me, are you a married man ?"

" No, madame," replied Montefiore,
wishing to gain time. " I can marry
your daughter."

" My noble Montefiore !" said Juana,
clapping her hands in transport.

" Then why did you attempt to escape,
and call for assistance ?" demanded the
Spaniard.

Juana said nothing, but she wrung
her hands, and flung herself into her arm-
chair.

At this moment a noise was heard in
the street, easily discernible through the
profound silence that prevailed in the
hall.

A soldier of the sixth regiment of the
line, crossing the street by chance, when
Montefiore called for assistance, ran and
informed Diard of the circumstance. The
quartermaster, who, luckily for himself, as
it afterwards turned out, had returned
home, immediately hastened to Perez's,
attended by a few friends.

" Why did I try to escape ?" repeated
Montefiore, hearing his friend's voice.
'I have told you the truth! Diard!

372

TALTiS OF CHIVALRY; OR,

Diard !" lie shouted, at the utmost stretch
of his voice.

But at a sign from his master, who was
resolved that the marquis should not
escape, the apprentice shut the door, and
the soldiers were some time in forcing it
open. Before they made their appear-
ance Marana struck at the guilty Italian
with her poniard ; but her rage and agi-
tation prevented her taking an exact aim,
and the blade glanced off' from Monte-
tiore's epaulette. Still she had o^iven so
much strength to the blow, that he fell at
Juana's feet.

Marana leaped upon him ; and, not to
fail in her second attempt, she held him
by the throat, kept him down with a
vigontus arm, held flie dagger to his
heart as if to measure the distance, and
then raised it aloft to strike.

"I am free, and I will marry her! I
swear it, by heaven, by my mother, by
all that's holy in earth and sky ! I am
single — I will marry her — on my word of
honour!" shrieked the struggling wretch,
biting the courtes:m's arm, and striving
to extricate himself from her grasp.

*• Kill him, mother," said Juana — " kill
him out of my sight. He is too cowardly
and base ; and I will not have him for a
husband, were he ten times as handsome."

•* Ah ! I have recovered my daughter!"
exclaimed the mother.

*' What is going on here ?" inquired
the quartermaster, as lie entered.

•' They want to assassinate me on ac-
count of this girl, wlio pretends that I am
her lover. She led me into a trap, and
now they want to make me marry against
my will."

*' And can you decline ?" said Diard,
struck by the sublimity of Juana's beauty,
enhanced by the indignation, scorn, and
hatred which inspired her. ** Really, you
are very difficult to please ! If she wants
a husl)and, she need not go far — I am
here 1 But, pray put up your weapons,
good people !"

Marana took the Italian by the collar,
lifted him up, and whispered to him —

" If I forgive you, you may thank your
last words. But remember, if you ever
slander my daughter, we shall meet again.
What is her present fortune ?" demanded
she of Perez.

" She has two hundred thousand dol-
lars, madame," answered he.

"That shall not be all, sir," added she,

addressing herself to Diard. " Pray, sir,
who and what are you ? You may retire,
sir," she said, turning contemptuously to
the marquis, who, when he heard the
n)oney mentioned, came Ibrward, saying,
" I really am single "

But a withering glance from Juana
checked him, and he withdrew.

"Alas! sir," said the young girl to
Diard, *' I thank you, and admire your
generosity. But my spouse is in heaven,
it is the Saviour of us all. To-morrow 1
shall enter the convent of "

"Juana, my Juana, be silent," cried
her njother, imploringly, and pressing her
to her bosom. '* Who are you, sir?" she
inquired of him.

" At present," said he, ** I am only a
quartermaster in the sixth regiment of ihe
line. But, for such a woman, I feel the
heart to become a marechal of France.
My name is Pierre-Francois Diard. My
father was provost of the merchants of
Thoulouse 5 so you see I am not "

"Ah, you are an honest man, and that's
enough," interrupted Marana. ** If you
can make yourself agreeable to the sig-
nora Juana de Manchini, you may both
be happy."

"Juana," continued she, in a serious
tone, " you will become the wife of this
brave and worthy man, and the greatest
happiness I can wish you is, that we may
never see each other again," and her tears
flowed abundantly. " Poor child — you
might have been happy in your cell —
more than you tliink. Let it be your
business that she has never cause to re-
gret it," concluded she, as she bowed to
her future son-in-law, and quitted the
apartment.

A QUEEN CONSORT.

Bishop Burnet tells us that though
affairs had been a little embroiled between
the princess of Orange (afterwards queen
Mary) and the prince of Orange, her
husband, yet she declared, in case she
should come to the crown, that the prince
shoiild always bear rule. " She was con-
tented to be his wife."

FORFEITURES.

James I., passing by a nobleman's
seat, and being told of his great posses-
sions, replied, with an oath, "That he
would njake a bonny traitor."

PERIT.S BY FLOOD .AND FIELD.

373

Page 375.

THE EXTHUSIAST.

A TALE OF THE POLISH WARS.

The ruinous but beautiful casde of
I , in Podolia, once the scene of con-
test and bloodshed, of jubilee and revelry,
and likewise of words and acts of self-
devoted patriotism well worthy to be re-
corded, though I do not mean to attempt
that task here, was some time since in-
iiabited by a widow and her children
alone. ]\Iadame Czialenski was French
by birth ; general Czialenski, when so-
journing in Burgundy, had been so arrest-
ed by her charms at the age of fifteen, j
when she trudged weekly past his dwell- '
ing to take to market the produce of her
fatlier's garden, that he transformed lier, |
from the toiling and carolling country [
girl, into the sharer of his rauk and pos- j
sessions. He partook, in a large degree,
of the self-devoted enthusiasm for pure j
and genuine liberty wiiich distinguished [
so many of his countrymen ; therefore, I
when he returned with madame to his I
castle, he was a little mortified to find in
her no helpmate to his visions of national {
deliverance and prosperity. Let it not be

VOL. II. — 35.

inferred that she opposed them : she was
exceedingly fond of her husband, and an
exceeding good housekeeper, and thereto
were all her energies bounded; she had
no notion of being the heroine of a siege,
or of casting away substantial comforts in
order to struggle for a national independ-
ence, which seemed to her a phantom
quite immaterial wliether secured or not.
JMucli attached to the general, she was
yet more attached to a comfortable home;
so, whenever he was on warlike expedi-
tions, she confined herself to matters in
the castle more congenial to her taste.
In a few years, however, he died, leaving
her a son and daughter, to whose care,
and to that of her little household, she
devoted herself with much assiduity. Of
course their personal care is all that is
here meant ; as to forming their princi-
ples, or directing tlieir feelings, her own
intellect did not enable her to fulfil such a
task.

Ejjhene Czialenski had arrived at the
age of sixteen, her brother Stanislaus
being four years younger, without any
other knowledge of the world than books
could give her ; consequently, with very
2 N

374

TALES OF CHIVALRY

incorrect ideas of if. The history of her
own country, leg^ends, romances, and
poetry, were her (reasure ; but especially
her heart kindled over the virtues, tlie
sufferings, the gallantry, and the achieve-
ments of her oppressed conntrymen. Her
mother never interfered with her reading,
and there was in the library a congrega-
tion of such records, which had been
hoarded in it for centuries, and never
opened till Ephene's avidity explored
them. Her feelings were all confined to
her own bosom ; slie had frequently
attempted to converse on her favourite
topics to madame, but her glowing ima-
gination was always opposed by a chilling
sarcasm, or a matter-of-fact apathy, which
soon silenced her; and those undisciplined
wanderings of unappropriated sensibility,
which might have been elicited and tutor-
ed by conversation, were left to find food
for themselves, or to prey npon them-
selves, as they might.

As to Stanislaus, he was too much a
child for his character to have developed
itself so as to be judged of with accuracy.
Yet it is said, and with much truth, that
the childhood shows, in some degree, the
manhood; and therefore the traits of
character in childhood are interesting.
In Stanislaus were observable many signs
of excellence, but they were such as be-
longed to a girl ; he was certainly devoid
of that masculine firmness and energ}^
which should have marked his father's
son.

Autumn was far advanced, and the sun
was shedding his soulraisiug last beams
upon the (hnk pines that surrounded

I CMSfle, when Ephene one evening,

as usual, laid aside her embroidery, m
order to join her motlier and brother at a
huge fire and plentiful meal in the hall.
She paused a few moments in the little
casement, and contemplated the beautiful
scenery around, with a thrilling ecstasy
not to be expressed. The construction,
situation, and associations of the castle,
were calculated to excite romantic ideas :
the setting sun, and the pure sky above,
feelings of a higher and more sublime
character — Ephene's imagination em-
braced, and combined, and revelled in all.
When she gazed on the majestic and
glorious luminary, she was worshipping
with the angels in heaven; when she
turned to the cedar grove, and the an-
cient banner waving over the dilapidated

tower, she was on the bosom of a beau-
tiful hero of Poland, more beautiful per-
haps in her fancy than any that ever really
existed, and listening to the trumpet
which sunimoned him to fight and hW for~
her suffering and beloved country. Tears
of emotion filled her eyes, and she could
not help exclaiming, " Oh that I had been
destined for such a husband! Oh that I
had been born to aid in redeeming and
blessing my dear — my persecuted coun-
try !" She knew that she was not within
madame's hearing, or she would instinc-
tively not have given utterance to this
wild effusion, which would most likely
have been visited with a well-meant but
ill-operating sarcasm.

Near to one side of the castle was a
bye- road, which, from its winding up a
gradual a'cclivity, might be seen for some
distance. As Ephene stood gazing, she
discerned a horseman coming slowly
down it, a circumstance that excited her
attention, the road being very unfrequent-
ed, and especially in the evening. As he
came nearer, she perceived by his dress
that he was an oflficer of the Russian
army. Her first impulse was a shudder
of indignation and horror at the very
sight of one whose hands had, in all pro-
bability, been dipped in Polish blood ;
but this was superseded by one of gene-
rous pity, when she observed him to be
wounded, and so weak that he could
scarcely keep the saddle, while his horse,
covered with blood, was evidently almost
dying. Ephene hastened to inform her
mother, whose hospitable good nature
prompted her instantly to give orders
that the gates should be opened, and the
stranger desired to alight. Accordingly,
a superannuated porter, who kept an
entrance as decayed as himself, sped to
withdraw bolt and" bar, bespectacling his
visage in order to scan the traveller. The
horse had stumbled but a few yards from
the castle, and the rider, after vainly try-
ing to raise him, was feebly endeavour-
ing to extricate himself; but the exertion
caused his wounds to gush afresh, and he
sank on the ground exhausted. Madame
and Ephene hastened to him with the
whole muster of domestics, by whom he
was conveyed into the hall. Madame
disencumbered him of his trappings, in
which her daughter assisted her, though
torrents of tears flowed from the eyes of
Ephene, who, living in times of war, had

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FHaD.

375

yet hardly in her hfe seen a wound, and
who shuddered and trembled almost to
faintino-, at the sight of the blood which
completely bathed the unfortunate Rus-
sian. He was too much exhausted to
speak, and was, indeed, all but insen-
sible.

" He shall be put to bed," said ma-
dame, " and John shall set out to-night
for doctor Kropoff. I'll bind his wounds
myself, and Ephene and her maid shall
sit up with him, for it always makes me
ill. Stanislaus, my dear, leave off crying,
and give a little help ; go and see that
John and Nicholas make a good fire in
the chamber in the keep;^'and bring down
my chest of salves, 1 hope he will be better
to-morrow, and then father Timothy shall
come to him."

All her directions were put in execu-
tion; and in about an hour Ephene and
Ehzabeth took their station beside the
sleeping invalid. It was a rather incon-
gruous office to be deputed to two girls,
but madame's honest impulses and good-
natured intentions never weighed de-
corums, or any thing else, when they
obstructed the straightforward accomplish-
ment of her object. She suffered, as she
said, by night- watching, and she was not
one of those very few who would sacrifice
their own health to restore that of another,
more particularly of one whom it was a
sin not to look upon as an enemy. Still,
when she took a good deed in hand, she
would not fulfil it slackly ; there was not
such a thing as an old nurse within two
leagues of the castle ; and as to one of
the men servants sitting up, she would
on no account suffer it, for, she said, he
would neglect the patient, and fall asleep,
and set the whole place in a flame. So
that she had no resource but to appor-
tion the task to her daughter, who, she
observed, though fanciful, and sometimes
rather absent, was a well-meaning girl,
and she could trust her in a matter of
importance.

One of Ephene's first movements was
naturally to examine the countenance, of
her charge. It was one of conspicuous
beauty j and though pale and languid by
pain, was still strikingly expressive of a
manly and martial spirit. Ephene was
no physiognomist, and surveying only
the effect of the whole, exclaimed, " What
a beautiful face !" But Elizabeth, who,
though only a servant and a girl, piqued

herself upon her scientific penetration,
added, with the approval of a critic, " It
is an admirable countenance. Miss
Ephene ; look at the open, decided brow,
and the generous, interesting expression
of the mouth. I wish you would read
Lavater, and you would see w hat a de-
scription he gives of such a countenance ;
could you not love it. Miss Ephene ? I
wish I had such an one to love ; I would
soon forget Poland then, and thmk Russia
the dearest country in the world. Do,
now, let me get Lavater, and we can
read it so comfortably while this poor
fellow is asleep."

" Oh ! no, no," said Ephene ; ** we
have something else to do than to read
comfortably ; would yon give your atten-
tion to a book, Elizabeth, when you are
commissioned to watch by a dying man ?
I tiionght you knew your dutv better."

" On, I did not mean to overlook my
duty — but you are so particular. But
you are quite right, dear Miss Ephene,
and I'll be as good as you are."

Although John set off that night for a
physician, so grea^t was die distance, and
so many were the obstacles he had to
encounter, that he did not return with
one until late on the following evening.
The young Russian had scarcely awaked
through the day, and was again fast
slumbering when the professional gentle-
man arrived ; the latter declined giving
an opinion on tlie state of his patient,
who he desired should not be disturbed.

"But he may be fed at such intervals
as he is awake ?" said Ephene.

" By no means," rejoined Kropoff, " I
leave medicine for him ; I shall visit him
again to-morrow, and till then do not
give him any thing besides what I leave;
his life depends upon it."

" How ?" asked Ephene, doubtfully.

" ISay, young lady, if I were to give
you a technical explanation, you would
not understand it, and if you mistrust me,
I had better not act. But madame Czia-
lenski is the best judge, and I flatter my-
self she does not."

" No, no," said madame, " never mind
Ephene's nonsense; she is a self-willed
girl, and I will not have her consulted."

Ephene, though silent, was by no means
satisfied with tlie Escuiapinn's doctrine,
and after he was gone, attempted to re-
monstrate with her mother on adopti.ig
his prescriptions. " Dear mother, I am
2 N 2

376

TALES OF CHIVALRY

OR,

sure tbat is not right ; I am sure no one
ought to He in so weak a state without
nourishment : and I shall make some
jelly, notwithstanding doctor KropofF,
and give it to the poor stranger when he
awakes."

" I will not have you so opinionative,
Ephene," answered madame ; " doctor
Kropoif knows better than you do, and I
hope you will not dare disobey him."

Ephene was so"accustomed to lose her
point by urging it, that she did not now
hope for success from farther remon-
strance. She therefore offered none.
But after her mother was gone to bed,
she made jelly and broth privately, and
in the course of the night administered a
good portion to her patient, who rallied
so much the next morning as to enquire
w^liere he was, and to express his grati-
tude to his young nurse. Her plan of
cure seeming thus far successful, she was
no wayfdelighted at the re-appearance of
doctor KropofF, who soon arrived, and,
consistently enough, concluded his medi-
cine had been the only agent in the pa-
tient's convalescence. Ephene permitted
him his triumph, not apprising him that
she had given the invalid no opportunity
of benefiting by it. He prescribed a
quantity more, as well as several opera-
tions, which the fair nurse, who showed
unusual obstinacy on this occasion, was
very unwilling to have put in force.
*' Mother, I am certain this is not suitable,
and that doctor KropofF is not taking the
right means to cure this poor fellow, and
I very much doubt if he knows how. You
saw how much better his patient was this
morning, and how exultingly he ascribed
the change to his physic, which he thought
I had administered — but I did no such
thing,"

" You did not administer the physic ?"
interrupted^ her mother ; "then you are
very unjustifiable, and I am very angry
with you. I will take care it is not
omitted to-night, and if you disobey
doctor Kropof!", I must nurse the Russian
myself, though it will make me ill to sit
up, as you very well know." The poor
girl thus missed herobject, by asserting,
in her earnestness, a circumstance which
she had designed 'not to betray.

All the prescriptions were adopted that
night, yet subsequently the invalid re-
lapsed. KropofF expressed no surprise,
but ordered additional remedies, which

day after day were applied ; yet day after
day, though the Russian still lived, he
seemed, if j)ossible, to grow worse.
Ephene implored a discontinuance of the
prescriptions, since it was evident they
did no good ; but madame had implicit
faith in KropofF, who, however, began to
look more mysterious and significant than
at first, and upon one occasion brought
with him a brother Esculapian to examine
the patient. They were in solitary con-
sultation for a long time, and at length
repairing to madame, she, with some
difficulty, culled from out a vast pile of
technical logic, the information that they
considered he must inevitably die.

"Then," said she, much mortified,
"your farther attendance is useless."

" Yes, madame," replied KropofF, " we
can do no more. I am truly sorry your
generous hospitality should be thus dis-
appointed of its object, but so, I fear, it
must be — medical skill cannot save in
this instance." The Esculapian now took
his final leave, the lady having first dis-
charged a first-rate Esculapian account,
with every prospect of a similar outlay
shortly, for tlie interment of her guest.

All this time Ephene was watching by
him, now being given to understand each
hour would be his last. Father Timothy,
too, watched and prayed, and with deep
earnestness did she join in his petitions :
never before had she prayed with such
enthusiastic sincerity : her heart beat for
the dying stranger as it would have beat
for her mother, or her brother, or any
being most dear to her. She had scarcely
quitted the bed-side, except, indeed,
sometimes to steal an hour or two of rest
in the day-time, for she would never
commit her charge for a night to the fide-
lity and attention of any deputy, not
excepting even Elizabeth.

She was now permitted to adopt her
own method of cure, rather as an experi-
ment than with any other view, for ma-
dame was too implicit a disciple of doctor
KropofF to imagine that the bounds of
possibility extended to the Russian's
recovery, when he had asserted to the
contrary. Accordingly, Ephene took his
treatment entirely into her own hands,
and madame was excessively puzzled,
when, at the end of another week, she
found he was still living. Her still in-
creased perplexity and Ephene'sexuUation
may be conceived, when the officer, freed

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

377

from the fever which had oppressed him,
attained sutiicient strength to sit up, de-
claring himself almost without pain. But
she was quite convinced that his ultimate
recovery was impracticable. "Oh," she
said to herself, " it is only the evanescent
rally which often happens before the final
exhaustion : he cannot live — it is impos*
sible, or doctor KropofF would not have
given him over. My dear child, do not
deceive yourself by fancying you can cure
him ; you had better not waste your own
health in nursing him any longer. Go to
rest, and I'll take care he is not neglected,
though I am sure it is foolish to suppose
he may be saved."

"No, mother, no," exclaimed the as-
siduous nurse, " I can save him ; T know-
it is only tender care and simple remedies
that will do it. Kropoff is not an advo-
cate of eitlier, and 1 wish he had never
come near him."

•' It quite provokes me to hear you
dispute doctor KropofF's skill. What
should you know about it ?"

" I know very little ; but, dearest mo-
ther, I appeal to you only to see what t
can do. Did I not cure Elizabeth, when
she cut herself by a fall ?"

" Yes, your care and your simples did
that, it is true ; but you cannot suppose
they will carry you through now. How-
ever, take your own way. Simple reme-
dies are all very fine, and you may have
whatever you please to get — only, t say,
do not expect success."

With this cold encouragement Ephene
returned to her occupation. She might
have had "some misgivings, for she knew
nothing of medical science, except what
she had gathered from two or three old
books in the' library. She depended
chiefly on her knowledge of herbs, and on
a perception that enabled her to adapt to
simple injuries the simple remedies with
which she was acquainted. Of course
she would never have attempted to
manage a complicated disorder ; nor in-
deed would she have undertaken the task
at all, though her patient's injuries,
frightful as they were, were yet only flesh
wounds, had there been a physician in
whom she could place confidence. Kro-
poff was the only one witiiin an immense
distance, and concerning him the truth
was she had her own suspicions, although
she dared not even hint them to her mo-
ther -J and in her own mind she taxed less

his ignorance than his wilfulness in leav-
ing, or helping, a wounded Russian to
die. It may be remarked, that her sus-
picions were justified by his own subse-
quent departure from the world, which
took place by artificial means, in conse-
quence of his having, by poison, furwarded
that of six Russians whom he w as com-
missioned to cure.

Ephene's assiduity was unremitting.
All through the rigour of a Polish winter,
though her cheek was pale, and her eye
dim, she continued to watch and tend the
stranger in whom she was so deeply in-
terested. She soon began to do this for
her own gratification as well as his benefit,
for, in listening to the deep tones of his
melodious and heart searching voice, she
found a thrilling delight which nothing
else aflfbrded her. Thus oftentimes, when
all in the castle was still, and her helpmate
Elizabeth luxuriously slumbering at her
post, while the bitter night wincl howled
through the battlements, and the storm
beat against the casement, the Russian
would recount to his gentle nurse the ad-
ventures and hardships, the sufferings
and escapes, he had gone through, with
which he mixed up a great deal of intelli-
gent information respecting Russia, and
a few flowers of romance, wliich she loved
still better. His name was Eugene
Liarte ; he was a Hungarian by birth,
but had been brought up in the Russian
camp, in which he had met with many
curious adventures. The occurrence
which made him a solitary fugitive in the

road to I castle, was a skirmish,

which the Russians had gained, but with
great loss : he and others pursued the
enemy off the field to a great distance,
when he became so weak by his wounds,
that he could go no farther ; whereupon
his companions, continuing the chase, left
him. Subsequently he encountered a
party of Poles, and was then compelled
to ride for his life, which he would not
have done successfully but for an extra-
ordinarilv swift charger. Thus, ignorant
whither he was going, he got into the bye-
road, where tlie poor animal was obliged
to slacken its pace, and where it presently
died. *' And the same fate would have
been his master's," said Eugene, " but for
the generosity of those from whom he
might have expected different treatment."
(To he concluded.)

378

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

WATERLOO.

BY A PRIVATE SOLDIER.

On the IHth of June, our troops got in
motion ; all the Biitisli were advancing
with all possible speed towards the enemy,
who was wailing our approach, and iiad
already made an attack upon some Ha-
noverian troops, and on that account we
had a forced march. The brigade which
I belonged to marched a distance of
above titty miles, and taking their posts
the same evening about seven o'clock,
and being the first cavalry that arrived,
we remained underarms all night, during
\thicli time several brigades of cavalry
and most of our infantry arrived ; but the
enemy was so strongly posted, that it was
thought prudent not to attack them in
their works, but to fall back. The infantry,
therefore, about ten in the morning of
the l/th, began to fall back, leaving us to
cover tlieir retreat. The French, perceiv-
ing this, did not long remain inactive,
but soon brought up their lancers to attack
us ; but we were not to bring them to
action, but to retreat, which was accord-
ingly done. — General Vivian, who com-
manded our brigade, conducted the re-
treat ; in a most able and skilful manner
did he complete it, covering with our
brigade the retreat of the whole army,
which fell back upon this point. The ene-
my, seeing us retreat, was quite delight-
ed, and followed us with all speed, cheer-
ing and hallooing at us, thinking to alaim
and frighten us ; but in this they were
disappointed, for we Mid not lose a man,
although they attempted to charge us
several times, but our skirmishers beat
them back, in spite of their boasted
bravery. Thus was our retreat com-
pleted after having fallen back about
eight miles. Thus far were they to come,
but no farther ; but we were much hurt
by a thunder-storm, which brought with
it the most heavy torrents of rain that I
ever beheld ; nor did it abate during the
night, nor till about nine next morning,
and we were exposed to it all the time,
for we took up our abode in a wood all
night, so that^ve were like drowned men
more than soldiers; but as many of us
have long been inured to hardships and
deprivations of almost all descriptions, it
went off cheerfully, and none seemed to
repine, for when the motives of the mind
are strong for execution, all things are set
asdde to gain the wished-for purpose.

This it is that makes us think light of
misfortunes, and bear deprivations be-
yond conception to those wlio never trod
this thorny path, yet with us they are
borne without a murmur ; but I ani wan-
dering from my subject.

About nine in the morning of the 18th,
the clouds dispersed, and gave over rain,
ing, and the enemy drew up in order of
battle, and our line had been formed all
night, so w^e were quite ready for them.
Our troops were posted upon a chain of
rising heights which commands the plain
before it, whilst that of the French was
posted on a rising ground in parallel line
with ours, and their position was covered
by a long chain of woods, which favoured
and hid many of their movements, so that
we had no advantage of them, for we had
the plain before us, and they the same :
thus all was ready, and about twelve the
onset commenced by a brisk fire from the
skirmishers, (or, jierhaps, what you call
sharpshooters,) and soon after a very
heavy cannonade ensued, and by twoihe
action became general, and most des-
perate did it rage, for both sides seemed
determined to keep their ground ; but
the enemy showed us that they did not
only mean to have their own ground, but
ours also. With this seeming determina-
tion did they bring up a strong force of
cavalry and infantry, and pushed with
all their might upon the centre of our line,
thinking to break it ; but in this they
were disappointed, for our cavalry met
them, and drove them back as fast as
they advanced. Finding, therefore, that
they could not move our centre, they then
endeavoured to turn our left flank by
pressing upon it in the same manner.
Upon this point our brigade was posted,
but they met with the same reception as
before ; so, finding that we stood firm at
this place also, they took up their own
ground, and soon after endeavoured to
advance at all points, but their attention
was then arrested by a large body of Prus-
sians, who came point blank upon their
right flank, and opened a very heavy fire
upon the Frencli from their artillery.
This for a little time put them in a con-
sternation, but even this they recovered,
and altering their line, seemed to sutler
but little from this our new reinforce-
ment.

This was about five in the evening,
and the victory seemed still doubtful.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

379

TI:e enemy then made one more attempt
to vanquish n>;, by bringing the most of
his force on our right flank, trying to force
it, and to gain the high road to Brussels,
a large town in Flanders, in wiiich, if he
had succeeded, our defeat would have
been complete ; and here it was that our
commander, the duke of Wellington, was
put to the test, for they advanced with a
vast and immense body of cavalry, sup-
ported by infantry, and covered by artil-
lery, and seemed determined to have this
road, and did gain ground in spite of all
the general's endeavours to prevent them,
driving our brave infantry from their,
ground very fast. The chief of our artil-
lery was then brought to this point, and
their's also in a line with ours, and such
a tremendous peal of thunder did they
ring one against the other as I never
knew since my name was Marshall. The
whole of the cavalry belonging to the
British was also brought to the right of
our line, and charged them in brigades;
and ours also left its post where it had
been all day on the left, and came to the
right, and having the greatest distance to
come, we, of course, were the last, and
the whole of our cavalry nearly had
charged them. This stopped their pro-
gress in advancing in great measure.
Our brigade was then formed in line, and
there we stood, showin^i: them that we
ivould have the ground, or perish in the
attempt ; but they did not much like our
sturdy front, and remained at a small
distance off, but would not charge us;
but we stood under a most galling and
destructive fire from infantry for near an
hour. Yet this could not move us, but
firm as a rock we stood, except those poor
fellows who fell victims to their bravery.

It was now near eight in the evening,
and still the battle raged with redoubled
fury, and still there was much to be done
and little time to do it in, for night was
fast approaching, therefore, no time was
to be lost.

Our brigade was then formed into
three lines, each regiment composing' its
own line, \\hich was the 10th, ISth, and
a regiment of German legion hussars, my
ow^n regiment forming the first line. The
general then came in front of the line,
and spoke in the following manner : —
*' Tenth," sajs he, "you know what you
are going to do, and you also know what
is expected of you, and I am well assured

it will be done. T shall therefore say no
more, only wish you success ;" and with
that he gave the order for us to advance.
I am not ashamed to say, that well know-
ing what we were going to do, I offered
up a prayer to the Almighty, that for the
sake of my children and the partner of my
bosom, he would protect me, and give me
strength and courage to overcome all that
opposed me, and with a firm mind I went,
leaving all that was dear to me to the
mercy of that great Ruler, who has so
often in the midst of peril and danger
protected me. After advancing about a
hundred yards, we struck into a charge
as fast as our horses would go, keeping
up a loud and continued cheering, and
soon we were among the imperial guards
of France, the 18th also charging as soon
as we got among them, which so galled
them, that we slew and overcame them
like so many children, although they rode
in armour and carried lances ten feet
long ; but so briskly did our lads lay the
English steel about them, that they threw
off tlieir armour and pikes, and those that
could get away flew in all directions; but
still we had not done, for there w^ere two
great and solid squares of infantry, who
had hurt us much with their fire whilst
we were advancing, and still continued to
do so whilst we were forming again. In
short, they were all around us ; we there-
fore formed as well as we could, and at
them we went.

In spite of their fixed bayonets, we got
into their columns, and like birds they fell
to the ground, and were thrown into con-
fusion, and it ran like wild-fire among
their troops, that their guards were beaten,
and panic- struck they flew in all directions.
But still we had not done our part, and
left those to pursue who had seen the on-
set. We took sixteen guns at our charge,
and many prisoners, but we could see no
longer, it was so dark, and at length we
assembled what few we had got tog-ether
of the regiment, and the general of the
brigade formed us in close column, so that
we might all hear him, and he addressed
us in the following manner : — " Now,
Tenth," he said, "you have not disap-
pointed me ; you are just what I thought
you were ; you were the first regiment
that broke their lines, and to you it is that
we are indebted for turning the fate of the
day, and depend upon it that your prince
shall know it, for nothing but the bravery

380

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

and disci[)line of llie regiment could ha\e
completed such a work." We then gave
bini three cheers, and since that he has
given us at a great length in our orderly
books his thanks and praise for our con-
duct.

You may perhaps think, that because I
have spoken of this it shows my vanity,
but my motive for having done so is, be-
cause J saw in an English newspaper that
the Life Guards were the only cavalry
who had been of any use ; it therefore
did not much please me nor my regiment,
because we knew it to be a base falsehood.
I'he guards certainly made a very bril-
liant charge, and so it ought to be spoken
of: you will, however, see by what 1 have
stated that the regiment did its duty, and
that is all tliat we wish to be understood
of us. I am sorry to say that we have to
lanient the loss of a most brave and gal-
lant officer, major Howard, who led the
squadron that I belonged to, and most
nobly did he show himself formed to let
them know he was an Englishman ; but
when he charged the infantry, one of
them shot him dead just as we got within
bayonet's length of them. It will be a
lieart-breaking blow, I fear, for his wife,
for they were said to be a most happy
pair. She has sent for his remains to
England.

We had two officers killed, three cap-
tains and two lieutenants wounded ; but
liow n)any privates we have lost I do not
know, but not so many as might have
been expected, for the French fired so
high, that when we were close to them,
Ijalf their shots did not tell, or they might
have killed every man of us ; but Provi-
dence is ever on the watch, and orders
every thing as it pleases, and I can never
return too many thanks to the Almighty
for preserving me through that day's
perils and dangers, for never did I be-
hold such a day's slaughter as that, nor
did British troops ever try more for victory,
and never were they nearer being beat ;
but, tljanks to heaven, the \^ork was at
last completed, for the Prussian troops
completed what we had begun, pursuing
and driving them all night, the darkness
of which helped to add to their horror-
struck minds.

Tlius was this proud and destroying
tyrant once more beaten and compelled
to fly to his capital for shelter, leaving his
troops to their destructive fate. This

proves him to be a coward, for he aban-
doned them in the hour of danger. His
fate and that of all Europe depended upon
that day, but the evening clouds saw him
a wretched fugitive, not daring to stop,
nor yet to go on. We took from them
240 pieces of cannon, and stores of all de-
scriptions, and many prisoners. He had
during the action in many places the
black flag fly ing,which signifies no quarter.
No, if they had beat us, I dare say they
would have showed us no quarter ; and
I am myself an eye-witness to it, that
many of them were laid to the ground,
which would not have been but for that.
He had covered his cavalry with armour
to secure them, but we wanted no steel
covering, but hearts proved to be already
steeled, and we let them know it. We
have followed them to the gates of Paris,
which gave up to us on the 6th of this
montli ; but Napoleon is missing, so what
will be done I do not know. Alter hav-
ing given this short but true account of
what has transpired, I shall bring my
military scribble to a close, for I have no
doubt but my reader is weary of it.

GOOD PILOTAGE.

Nothing is more amusing than the
alacrity of Irishmen in getting into
scrapes, and the happy naivete and blun-
ders by means of v\hich they endeavour
to extricate themselves. A captain of a
man-of-war newl)- appointed to a ship on
the Irish station, took the precaution, in
" beating out" of harbour, to apprise the
pilot that he was totally unacquainted
with the coast, and therefore he must rely
entirely on the pilot's local knowledge for
the safety of his ship.

" You are perfectly sure, pilot," said
the captain, **you are well acquainted
with the coast ?"

•' Do I know my own name, sir ?"
** Well, mind, I warn you not to ap-
proach too near to the shore."

" Now, make yourselfa^sy, sir ; in troth
you may go to bed if you plase."
"Then, shall we stand on ?"
" Why, — what else would we do ?"
" Yes, but there may be hidden dan-
gers, which you know nothing about."

** Dangers ? — I like to see tiie dangers
dar hide themselves from Mick. — Sure,
don't I tell you I know every rock on the
coast;" (here the ship strikes) "and
that's one of 'em !"

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

381

Pase 3 83.

THE GHOST-HUXTER AND HIS
FAMILY.

All became still within and \^ithout
the house ; but Morris did not sleep. The
candle, which he had neglected to extin-
guish, was nearly expiring, occasionally
sending up glares of light, and then sink-
ing into dimness. At length/'gradually,
and to himself imperceptibly, his eyes
began to close ; slumber was just stealing
over his faculties. Suddenly he bounced
up in his bed and stared around him,
asking, *' Who calls me by my name ?"

The candle gave its last strong flicker
upward ; and, in the (to his eyes) lurid
supernatural light which it threw over the
apartment, he did indeed see a pallid face
looking at him through the little window
at the foot of tiie bed. He winked his
eyes, and then 'glared tliem wide open.
** 'Tis there still," he cried, jumping out
on the floor. The candle finally sunk in
the socket, leaving him in darkness. He
groped to the window, flung it open, but
saw nothing without, save the white
gleamings of the moon, here and there
contrasted with some shadows, wherever

VOL. II.. — 36.

an object interrupted the sickly light.
" I'll be aftlier you," he uttered, groping
about for his clothes. He was half- dressed
when he heard his brother's voice asking
him what he was doing. His father's re-
peated commands rushed to his recollec-
tion, and he was shortly in bed again.
Now, hoviever, he did not relapse into
sleep. The morning dawn found him
watching the window ; but there was no
return of the real or fancied vision.

We all know that the desire of attain-
ing an object is, proverbially, strong in
proportion to the difficulties in our way.
Morris's t hi rs^t for hunting down Joe Wil-
son's ghost increased from hour to hour.
For many nights he slept but little, still
on the watch ; his pulses throbbed at tiie
least sound ; but night after night passed
away, and he received no second visit.

His desire heated to passion, of which
the effects were visible in the almost
trembling abruptness of his manner and
utterance, and in the redness of his wild,
yet fine eyes, he began to level the ob-
stacles which lay between him and the-
gratification of his yearnings. Exclusively
of the peculiar relish he had for the feat
2 o

382

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

be burned to undertake, an encounter
with the poor troubled spirit was, he
argued, a good action in itself, and this he
showed in the following clear manner.

It was partly the univ ersally: received
creed appertaining to ghostly appearances,
that their wanderings among us arise
from something connected with their
previous sojourn on earth — for their leav-
ing undone, for instance, some action,
upon the due performance of which de-
pended their repose and happiness in
eternity ; and that they haunt their former
dwelling-places in the flesh, until some
daring mortal questions them, obtains
from their lips instructions what to do —
because no ghost can perform his own
work on earth without human agency
— and then faithfully goes through what
is necessary to secure their rest in an-
other world, and their final departure
from this.

We will not follow the wayward Morris
in his arguments against his sense of
duty.

The tenth night after the opening of
our story, his brain whirling with uncon-
trolable desire, and fiercely banishing, in
a fit of frenzied resolve, the better prompt-
ings of his nature, he hurried on his
clothes, without, as he thought, awaking
his brother; cautiously unlocked and un-
barred the door of the house, and bounded
over the threshold. He would not pause
— onward he hastened.

The nearest path to the place he sought
lay through the neighbouring church-
3'ard, to gain which he had to cross a
garden slightly enclosed, and an open field.
As he approached the stile leading into
the burial ground, a large dun-coloured
dog, which seemed to have been couched
upon its steps, started up, and its red eyes
glared into his. For an instant he paused
terror-stricken : he had heard of evil
spirits assuming, among other strange
ones, such an appearance. But he soon
sprang forward. The dog jumped into
the church-yard, Morris vaulted over the
stile, and stood sternly in the path, looking
around him ; but around him were only
the tomb-stones, and the head-stones, and
the little grassy mounds which covered
the dead — things to which he was by this
time quite accustomed. The dog had
vanished.

He paused awhile in the shade of his
old friends the yew-trees, which were

motionless, and black in the night, like
gigantic plumes above a huge hearse.
Holdintr his head darinolv hioh, he sent a
scrutinismg glance mto every famihar
nook and corner of the dreary place, but
not a living or a moving thing was visible.
This, after the disappearance of the dog,
must be considered as only a passing i-epe-
tition of the many former challenges to
the ghosts of the whole mass of mouldering
or mouldered mortality in the church-yaixl.
Being on the spot, it was but right to give
them, all and each, a renewed chance of
availing themselves of his service. He
soon held on, in his pursuit of the indi-
vidual ghost which had lured him forth on
the present occasion.

Bounding over the graves, and, now
and then, boyishly vaulting over the head-
stones, he stood on the stile that gave
entrance to the burial-ground at the side
opposite to that by which he had approached
it. The next instant he was in Joe Wil-
son's bosheen.

This little green lane, lately become so
celebrated, led, with many a curve, from
one extremity of the suburbs to another.
It was altogether lonely. Its breadth
might be about four paces. Here and
there it was overshadowed by trees ; and
bounded, at either hand, by hedges of
sufficient growth to cast a gloom over it,
even in daylight.

When Morris Brady jumped into this
deep and solitary lane, he found that he
was at some distance from the middle,
where Joe Wilson's murdered body had
been found. The moon w^as on the wane ;
but, as the night had more than gained
its noon, it stood high in the heavens.
The sky was frosty-clear, and the cold
light struck fully down upon the narrow
way, shining brightly on the centre, and
distinctly showing the broad stone and its
indents; while at either side, under the
shadow of the overhanging hedges, al-
though they were now nearly leafless,
nothing could be perfectly distinguished.
A piece of wall, inserted into the mass
of earth on which the hedges grew, to
prop it up in that particular place, marked
the spot whei-e murder had lately been
done ; and on a broad stone in the wall
was, as we already know, a terrible me-
morial of the event. Nor had old Hesther
Bonnetty exaggerated when she vowed
that the middle of the road, opposite to
the wall, was yet uncleansed of blood.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD

383

The dull red stains were even now dis-
tinctly visible in the line of brilliant moon-
shine, which, as we have said, ran along
the centre of the bosheen.

As Morris Brady approached the well-
known place, he did not fail to recognise
the fatal tokens ; and, notwithstanding the
continued boldness of his advance, and all
liis previous audacity, he felt dread and
awe stealing over his heart at the sight.
Scarcely slackening his pace, howe\er, he
stood on tiie very spot — on the marks
themselves. He did not, at once, turn
liis regards towards the wall. Yet a kind
of stir, without the accompaniment of noise,
caught his side vision. He jumped fully
round, and confronted the appearance ;
and there, bending over the remarkable
stone, and too visible to leave a doubt of
its presence — although, owing to the deep
shade of the hedge above, somewhat in-
distinctly shaped forth — stood a human
figure.

Morris's skin crept, in spite of him, as
if in horror at the cold current now run-
ning beneath it. He took off his hat,
crossed his forehead, and repeated aloud
the names of the Trinity. The figure
slowly raised its drooping head, and Morris
saw the features of Joe Wilson — pal 'id,
indeed, and strangely changed — yet still
the man's well-known features ; and again
did the ghost-seer wince under the cold,
unwinking, passionless, mindless, lifeless
stare that was fixed upon him.

Suddenly his courage returned — or
rather, a daring determination re-nerved
him — and, in a wild and startling tone,
he exclaimed —

" In the most holy Name, this night,
I, Morris Brady, command you to tell me
who and what you are ?"

Tliere was a moment's dead pause, in
which Morris heard the hollow beating of
his own heart. A deep, but low voice
replied to him, "The spirit of the man
murthered on the spot where you stand."

" In the same name, once more, tell me
what it is that puts throuble on you ?" and
now Morris's own voice sunk low,

""None dared to ask before; and the
dead must be silent till they are ques-
tioned."

•' I know it — can I give rest to you ?"

** You can — if you have the heart to do
it."

" I have the heart," answered Morris,

not sinful I'll do, if living Christian has
the power."

*' Listen, then !"' and Morris conceived
that the figure rose to more than mortal
height: *' listen : — to-morrow night, as
the clock sounds twelve, meet me in John's
Abbey church-yard, at the head of my own
grave; on that spot meet me, or, Mori is
Brady, rue your challenge !"

As the last strangely-cadenced words
died away, the figure, which had previously
began to move, was no longer visible.

For a moment, Morris stirred not. A
great confusion of mind, though not un-
mixed with fear, chained him to the spot.
Suddenly he recovered himself, and
bounded after the apparition, which had
disappeared round a turningof the bosheen,
a few paces from the wall. Clear of the
turning, Morris's eye could follow a con-
siderable portion of the length of the lane j
but he saw no object in motion.

He became faint, and leaned against
the fence of the bosheen for support, and
it was some time before he could assume
sufficient bodily strength to return home.
He succeeded' at length, however, in
gaining his bed without discovery; but
sleep was further than ever from his eyes.
" To-morrow night, in John's Abbey
church-yard," rang in his ears. He seemed
to hear the words repeated in the silence
of his hushed soul.

Although, during the day, his conscience
did not fail to upbraid him with his disobe-
dience to his father — although he feared
to encounter his father's look, and fancied
that the old man's mild eye was glancing
severe reproach at him — still Morris would
not recede from the self-sought adventure.
A gloomy- spell, a fate, seemed to his mind
to bind hmi to go on. Nor did he forget
the last words — " On that spot meet me,
or, Morris Brady, rue your challenge 1"
(To be continued.)

his impetuosity returning ; " and what's

THE ENTHUSIAST.

(Cojicludedfrom page Z77.)
The natural result of this intercourse
was a deep interest on both sides, which
soon amounted to aflfection. Ephene,
indeed, was not aware of this. As to love,
her ideas of it were of a singular kind.
She had seen scarcely a person, except
the domestics in the castle ; and of course
iier notions of the species were formed
by analogy with those she knew ; conse-
quently precluding the indulg^^nce of any
"2 o 2

384

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

prepossession. She bad read romances,
which, to be snre, tended to enervate lier
mind ; but more than this, she felt what
is called romance, of the most irreclaima-
ble genus, for she had all that exquisite
tenderness and self-devotion of heart,
which in our enlightened days are con-
temned in a heap with knight-errantry
and magic. Let me not be mistaken for
an apologist of the latter, a delight in
which is, I am sure, equally absurd and
injurious; but I would distinguish from
that delight those fine and susceptible
feelings which are so often condemned by
the mercenary narrow-mindedness of
worldly people as prejudicial to policy
and a business-like spirit, and therefore
despicable. As if our feelings were given
to us only to be drilled into subservient
instruments for the accumulation of
money ; or as if we expected, by traffick-
ing our path through the earth, to be able
to traffic it into heaven. But to return to
Ephene. Her ideas of humanity unsatis-
fied by the specimens she knew, she had
created to herself an idol of imagination
which she was contented to conceive and
adore, not even trying to impose upon
herself the conclusion that there were any
such, actually, upon the earth. But
Eugene dissipated, or rather realised, her
vision ; he was to her

" The very object she had dream'd,"
the very embodying of the shadow her
fancy had pictured and worshipped. But
he was not a Pole ; and the consideration
of that, as it passed over the picture,
seemed to darken and unhallow it. Yet
it could not operate permanently. Her
fair hands had stanched his wounds, her
tears had bathed them, she had watched
over him by day and by night, and re-
stored him by tenderness, when treachery
or ignorance had brought him near to
death, and she had listened to the tales of
his joys and sorrows — and could they but
love each other ?
" She loved him for the dangers he had

And he loved her that she did pity them."
But time passed on, and the spring came,
and Eugene got quite well, and would
needs leave the castle. Then was the
conflict for poor Ephene ; she must either
separate from the idol of her heart, or quit
for him her equally beloved country, and
with it the dreams and hopes she had
cherished of one day contributing to its

prosperity. Many were the arguments,
and more theintreaties, by which he tried
to obtain her assent to the latter. But
she was more inflexible than he had ex-
pected. " Can I dwell among the de-
stroyers of my country, and become in-
corporated with them ? Can I forego all
my long-cherished visions, and tamely
see it annihilated, and feel that, no longer
its child, I have deserted it, and belong
to its oppressors ? And my dear mother,
though she loves it not as I do, can she
willingly see me the wife of an invader ?
And poor Stanislaus — perhaps in time to
come he will defend his country, and one
of you may fall by tlie hand of the other ;
and how shall I bear that ? No — I will not
go — I will be a Polish maiden still — and
for ever, doubt not that."

*' Say notso, Ephene," pleaded Eugene :
** be a Polish maiden, but, a Russian bride.
Come with me ; I may be selfish in ask-
ing you to partake of my sorrows, but,
remember, you shall share my joys also.
If you will still demur upon one point,
listen to reason, and look around impar-
tially for an instant ; you can do nothing
for Poland ; do not delude yourself with
the supposition that she can eventually
triumph. Look at her size, her situation,
and her fate heretofore, and then com-
pare them with those of Russia, and own
that she must at last give way."

*' Ah," exclaimed Ephene, with a tor-
rent of tears, through which her eyes
flashed with heart-bursting enthusiasm,
" but can Russia, with all her numbers
and resolution, call together the unshrink-
ing ardour and soul of freedom and pa-
triotism that will bleed — that have bled —
for Poland ? Oh, no, she cannot ! And
while the doctrine lives in the world that
right shall overcome might, Poland must
eventually prosper. If, indeed, cursed
might do prevail, and our land be blotted
from the map, surely it shall be a puny
conquest — a country without inhabitants,
a barren and desolate cemetery for the
invader to ravage !"

'* Then we part for ever," said Eugene.
"Kiss me for the last time, my beloved
— more dear, more worthy to be adored,
for that patriotism which will sacrifice
eveiy personal feeling to public duty.
But I, too, am bound to my country ; I
love Russia as you love Poland, and I
must not be a recreant to it. May your
worth and your excellence be rewarded ;

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

385

may you be loved and be blessed as you
deserve. Weep when I fall, Ephene —
niy Ephene : I am selfish, for I would
have yon think of me, when the thought
can be only one of bitterness."

" Oh, shall I not think of you ?" inter-
rupted Ephene. " Will not my heart be
with you, my praj-ers be for you ; will not
my tears and sorrows — my desolation
and regrets — all be cheered by the tiiought
that you are in the world, prosperous,
famed, and happy, surrounded by those
who estimate you, and whose estimation
you prize ? I do not say, think of me —
but I v\ould say, if you have loved me,
think of Poland, pity Poland, and spare
her, when, on some day while your fame
is highest, your rapacious autocrat shall
commission you to destroy her !"

"Trust my word," answered the Rus-
sian. " For the love I bear you, all the
influence I have, or ever may have, shall
be exerted to save Poland."

The good-natured Madame Czialenski
was quite delighted at her guest's recovery,
though literally astounded at its being
effected by such an agent. Ingenuously
allowing her daughter full praise, and
judging her joy at her success must equal
her own, she could not account for the
extreme depression Ephene evinced.
" Why are you so low-spirited, my dear ?"
she inquired. ** You have done w onders,
and I should expect a girl of your age,
who had accomplished such a performance,
to be ready to jump over the moon with
exuhation ; instead of which, you are
moping about the place as if the invalid
had died under your hands. You do not
know how many hearts may be made
happy by his return — as happy as I
should have been, had it been possible
for any power to restore your father to me.
He has friends in Russia, perhaps parents,
perhaps brothers and sisters; and the
thought of how much good you may have
done, ought to make you glad. Perhaps
he has a wife, who — "

Here Ephene's tears fell in such tor-
rents, accompanied by sobs whicli seemed
to burst from her heart, that madame
stopped short, and gazed at her in as-
tonishment, saying, "What can be the
meaning of this, Ephene ? Are you sorry
this Russian is cured? or sorry he is
going away ? — or can it be possible that
you really love him ?"

Ephene, throwing herself at her mo-

ther's feet, could only exclaim, " Forgive
me ! dearest mother, do not be angry —
forgive me 1"

•• Forgive you, child ! what is there to
forgive ? There is nobody wliose forgive-
ness you need ask, if you can forgive
yourself for throwing away your affection
where you know^ it will meet only con-
tempt. If I had liad the most remote
idea you would fling yourself into this net,
the Russian should have died ten deaths
before I would have employed you to take
care of him : — not but 1 should be very glad
if he did hke you, and would marry you ;
but of course that is not the case."

** Yes, dear mother, he says — he says
he loves me."

" Indeed 1 But he would not marry
you, I suppose ; and that's worse still."

" Yes, dear mother, he would j he
wishes it."

*' Why, then, in the name of fortune, do
you cry and pine as if you must leave liim
for ever ? Did you think I would not give
you my consent ? You could not tell that
till you had asked for it."

"'No, dear mother, I thought you might
perhaps not refuse. But—"

" But what ? What other drawback
could there possibly be ?"

"Oh, mother, think of our country —
of what it has suffered, and is still suffer-
ing ! I am very insignificant, and per-
haps I nourish an absurd notion of my
own importance in supposing that it can
be of the least consequence to Poland
what I do, or whether I exist or not But
yet, were it but for my own soul's repose,
I would not league it with one whose
profession, and object, and pride, are to
persecute and annihilate my country.
No; — personally and individually, 1 must
worship Eugene ; but duty shall so far
prevail above passion, tliat he shall return
alone to his own place, and I will never
see him again. He will not desert his
country for my sake ; and were he capa-
ble of doing that, he would cease to be
capable of possessing my admiration and
love."

" Here is a fine run of Quixotism !"
cried madame. "Now pray, Ephene,
leave off" these dreams, and do not, like
the dog in the fable, drop the meat in
catching at the reflection. You see how
much good those Poles who think as you
do, have obtained : come, give over these
fantasies, and act like a person of reason."

396

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

** Dear motlier — do not tempt me ; my
mind is made up."

" Well, then, I must leave A'ou to the
enjoyment of it ; I cannot pretend to in-
terfere with a young person whose
thoughts are flying in some region that
ordinary people ccjuld not find, and who
sticks to her opinions as if they were the
fruit of eighty years' experience."

Eugene returned to Russia, andEphene,
wounded by her mother's continued rail-
lery, shut herself up in solitude as much
as possible. Months passed without any
momentous occurrence, till the Russians
renewed the campaign which invaded and
desolated Poland. Ephene had visibly
declined in health ; her large liquid eyes
were sunk and dim, her slender figure
was sharpened, and her complexion en-
tirely colourless. Madame's sarcasm was
consequently suspended, and she treated
her child with extreme gentleness and
tenderness : she was both grieved and
mortified, for she loved Ephene, and took
pleasure in her beauty, which now, though
deeply interesting, was painfully so, and
fast decaying.

The castle of I was besieged ; for,

dilapidated as it was, it was still worth
gaining, provided that could be accom-
plished without much sacrifice, and from
such a garrison as it contained little re-
sistance was to be expected. The v/hole
muster of domestics did not exceed seven
or eight, of whom one half were infirm old
soldiers, and the other country clowns.
Of ammunition and provisions there were
plenty, it is true, and there was a well-
garrisoned fort at no great distance ; but
it was no easy matter to send to it for
men, nor very probable they would be
obtained if sought. In this dilemma ma-
dame was almost distracted : the oppres-
sion she had condemned others for resist-
ing now came home to herself, and she at
once execrated the Russians as the most
infamous wretches in existence, for plun-
dering and destroying an unoffending
family. Her agitation was increased by
the state of Ephene's health, to which she
feared this calamity would give a finish-
ing stroke, though she was told that ex-
citem.ent might not be injurious by her
new Hygeian oracle, (b'or she had, in
high dudgeon, discarded doctor Kropoff
for his inability.) She cried like a child.
*' Oh, what shall 1 do ?" she said • " what
am I to do ? to think that we must turn

out, my poor sick girl and all, and give
up our home to a pack of plundering ruf-
fians— it is very hard !" But Ephene's
spirit seemed to rise instead of being
additionally depressed ; she roused her-
self to animation and activity; her eye
lightened, and her cheek flushed, as she
exclaimed, *' Dearest mother, repress this
agitation ; we will not leave our home j
my father's castle shall be kept for my
father's countrymen, and if that be impos-
sible, it shall fall, and we will perish in
its ruins — but we will hold out awhile,
only do not be disheartened." This
young creature now actually took upon
herself the management of the defence,
which she directed with extraordinary
discretion ; but the deficiency of men was
so great a drawback, that she began to
scheme how to procure some from the fort.
She consulted on this point the most in-
telligent of her troop — an old man, who
performed tlie office of butler in tlie
family, and who all his best years had
served under her father. He assured her
of the excellence of her plan, but con-
fessed his doubt whether it could be com-
passed. *' For ye see they're not willing
to let the men out of the garrison ; and,
besides, how are we to get out of the
castle to ask for them ? and moreover,
who can be spared on such an errand ?
I trow there's quite few enough on the
battlements as it is."

" Oh, do not trouble yourself about
that," said Ephene : " I will undertake to
find a messenger."

** A}', my dear young lady, you will
find any of us, I hope, ready to go for
you; but I mean, what is the castle to do
in the mean time? I'll set off myself,
my lady, if you like ; for it's a journey I
should hardly choose an v body less sea-
soned than I am to undertake. It is a
matter of two leagues over the snow% and
through the rascally foragers, which is
worse ; for my head and body will soon
part company, if they get a peep of me ;
and I must of necessity start in the night,
to give them the slip, if possible. So I'll
prepare to be off to-night."

"No," replied the gouvernante, "I
will find some one of less consequence in
the defence, to which you and the other
men must give all your exertions."

Ephene then wrote an energeticaddress
to the commander of the garrison, des-
cribing her situation, and imploring assist-

PEHIIS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

387

ance ; she next sought a bearer in her
brotlier Stanislaus, whom she selected as
beings a diminutive person not readily
descried, and ao^ile in eludintr observation,
well acquainted with the route, and easily
spared from the castle. But he met the
proposal with trembling and tears, pro-
testing his terror was such, that he could
not undertake so hazardous an embassy.
This want of heroism roused his sister's
indignation, and she reproached his effe-
minacy. He scarcely heard her reproaches ;
his sense of them was lost in horror lest
she sliould send out any one with the
letter such a night as was then drawing
on. " Never mind about otliers," said
Ephene, scornfully ; *' I do not require
you to go out in the snow. Go and sleep,
effeminate child, and rest safely — until,
indeed, the invading despot fires the roof
over your head ; then you will, no doubt,
think yortr life worth running for."

Leaving him to his cogitations, she re-
volved in her mind who else could be
dispensed with to bear her message. But
there was none without his post, and that
a critical and important one ; so that she
came to the determination of devoting
herself to the task, without the knowledge
of anybody. Accordingly she pretended
to postpone the dispatch for that night,
and, making such additional arrange-
ments for present security as she could,
she said that, feeling indisposed, she would
rest until the morning, and desired she
might not be disturbed. Madame was
heartily satisfied with her intention, and
congratulated her upon taking some heed
to her health at last, observing that it
was of much more consequence than the
defence of the castle, and slie wished they
had only some kind of dwelling to retire
to, and then the Russians should be wel-
come to the castle.

Ephene, well pleased at her success in
deception, retired, as to her room. Poor
madame's repose would have been rather
more broken than it was, had she known
the kind of repose in which her daughter
passed the night. The summer was over,
and the nights were bitterly cold ; more-
over, Ephene had much reason to fear
she would lose the way in the dark, as
she had been but very seldom to the place
where the fortress was situated. But this
did not deter her; she was so enthusiastic
in her cause that her personal safety was
wholly absent from her mind. The only

thought she gave to herself was so far as
she was connected with Eugene ; to
whom, indeed, at intervals, her heart
turned with a sickening feeling of disap-
pointment. " He never loved me, or he
might have spared me this," was her re-
verie. "Surely, surely, with his influence,
he might have obtained the exemption of
our castle. Would I not have given my
life to save the smallest thing to him ?
and when a word only from him w^ould
have preserved to my poor motlier what
he knew was her only home, might he not
have afforded it ? No — there is no reason
that he should. I am not an object of
interest to him, and I am deservedly
punished for presuming to fancy he could
regard me with a feeling in any degree
similar to that which I cherish for him.
Oh ! Eugene, Eugene, I would, for your
sake, I had been the fairest and noblest
in Russia." But she instantly reproach-
ed herself for this deviation from the
idolatry to her country which she was
resolved should overcome that towards
her alien lover; audit was an entirely
involuntary, perhaps unconscious move-
ment, by which she drew out of her bosom
a lock of his hair, and kissed it many
times.

An hour or two before midnight she
stole out at a low^ postern, and hastened
resolutely, though cautiously, forward.
She had proceeded no great distance,
when she heard the voices of a party of
Russians, whereupon she ran a long way
aside, trembling lest her steps in the snow
should betray her, and laid herself down
behind a hillock until they should have
passed. The darkness, however, pre-
vented their observing the tracks, and she
again set forward unmolested. After
many similar risks, she arrived at her
destination, where, with much difficulty,
she obtained an interview with the com-
mander. She had not premeditated what
she would say, but fluency and energy
directed her speech, which so acted upon
the officer that he promised twenty-five
men should be instantly sent up to the
castle. He desired her to remain where
she was for the present, representing that
she would be more secure ; but she would
not for a moment listen to the proposal.
So she set off again, accompanied by her
escort, and some time before day-break
returned from her successful embassy.
How madame and Stanislaus stared, and

388

TALES OF CHIVALRY •, OH,

how the men on tliebaltienients shouted,
may be conceived. The final defeat of
the besiegers now appeared probable, and
Ephene shared her post with the officer
who commanded the auxiharies.

Among the topics of conversation, when
indeed an interval occurred wliich per-
mitted that indulgence, Russia and the
Russians of course stood foremost. It was
therefore without much difficulty that
Ephene found an opportunity of carelessly
enquiring after the young general Iriarte.
The officer expressed no small degree of
surprise at her being ignorant that he had
many months since fallen a sacrifice to an
unaccountable lenity which he had testi-
fied, endeavouring to deter the autocrat
from his ravages in Poland. For a brilli-
ant victory Iriarte had obtained over a
Prussian force he had received the especial
favour of the autocrat, who, with other
unparalelled privileges, bade him ask what
reward, what spoil, he would, and it
should not be refused. Eugene, faithful
to his word, immediately petitioned for a
cessation of that relentless oppression
towards Poland which had hitherto cha-
racterised Russia in the contest. The
autocrat broke his promise ; the barbarity
of his ravages was, if possible, increased ;
and Eugene, displaced from renown and
caresses, lost at once his object and hislife.

The tale was told to Ephene in few
words, and awakened feelings not to be
expressed. She was not aware that hope
had mingled vvith her love, until now that
she found its place assumed by despair.
By an instantaneous revulsion in her heart,
Poland seemed to lose its value to her,
because it had in such a manner cost the
life of him whom she loved better, though
she would not believe it. When, however,
the power of reasoning returned, her de-
votion to her country was enhanced by
the consideration that he had loved and
pitied it. And, amidst all her sorrow, and
the maddening self-reproach with which
she felt, "This is what my love has brought
upon him !" a gleam of gratification arose
with the thought that such a spirit, as she
considered his, should fix its affection on
her.

To detail the siege of the castle is not
my intention ; it is sufficient to say that,
after all, the defenders lost it — not, indeed,
by surrender, but by fire. Scarcely was
one stone left upon another. The inmates
did not perish in it, but most of tiiem

foiind as dreadful a death at tiie hands of
the invaders. More experienced and better
equipped generals than Ephene could not
redeem Poland, and tl)e heroine's visions
faded, her hopes were blighted, and her
exertions parahsed. The l)esieger, how-
ever, treated her generously ; hee and
honourable departure to the garrison was
offered her, on condition she went unac-
companied, save by her maid, a deaf and
dumb girl, who, consequently, was inca-
pacitated for all manoeuvres — such was the
similitude into which, for his safety, she
had transformed her unaspiring brother.
She apparently agreed to the stipulation,
but far was she from intending to avail
herself of it. With the imperative manner
she had lately assumed, and by which
madame was overawed, slie employed a
stratagem, novel in Poland, although
more than once successfully resorted to in
other countries ; she disguised her mother
as herself, and, making Stanislaus attend
her, she sent them both in safety to the
garrison. Then, assuming the dress and
manner of her mother, for whom, had
Ephene hetrajed herself, there would have
been no hope of escape, she remained in
the flaming castle, and perished.

REWARD OF BRAVERY.

When Solyman, emperor of the Turks,
took the castle of Buda, in 1529, he found,
in one of the dungeons of the castle, JNe-
dasti, the governor of the place. He was
curious to know the cause of so extraor-
dinary a circumstance, when the Germans
confessed to him, that Nedasti having
reproached them as cowards and traitors,
because they pressed him to come to a
capitulation, they had thrown him into a
dungeon in order to free themselves from
his controul. The sultan, filled with ad-
miration at the fidelity and bravery of the
noble-minded governor, loaded him with
presents and commendations of his con-
duct— granted him his liberty, and con-
demned to death all those who had violated,
in so shameful a manner, the laws of mili-
tarv subordination.

HENRY IV.,

Being importuned to allow the prosecu-
tion of a person who had written a libel
on him, magnanimously replied, "I cannot
in conscience do any harm to a man who
tells truth, although it may be unpalatable."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIKM).

389

THE BROKEN HEART.

There was a large and gay party as-
sembled one evening, in the memorable
month of June, 1815, at a house in the
remote western suburbs of London.
Throngs of handsome and well-dressed
women — a large retinue of the leadhig
men about town — the dazzling light of
chandeliers blazing like three suns over-
head— the cliarms of music and dancing
— together with that tone of excitement
then pervading society at large, owing
to our successful continental campaigns,
which maddened England into almost
daily annunciations of victory ; — all these
circumstances, I say, combined to supply
spirit to every party. In fact, England
was almost turned upside down with uni-
versal fieting ! Mrs. , the lady whose

party I have just been mentioning, was
in ecstacy at the eclat with which the
whole was going off, and charmed wiih
the buoyant animation with which all
seemed inclined to contribute their quota
to the evening's amusement. A young
lady of some per^^onal attractions, most

VOL. II.— 37.

Page 393.

amiable manners, and great accomplish-
ments— particularly musical — had been
repeatedly solicited to sit down to the
piano, for the purpose of favouring the
company with the favourite Scottish air,
" The Banks of Jlla?i fVaterr For a
long time, however, she steadfastly re-
sisted their importunities, on the plea of
low spirits. Tliere was evidently an air
of deep pensiveness, if not melancholy,
about her, which ought to have corro-
borated the truth of the plea she urged.
She did not seem to gather excitement
with the rest; and ratlier endui-ed, than
shared, the gaieties of the evening. Of
course, the young folks around her of her
own sex, whispered their suspicions that
she was in love ; and, in point of fact, it
was well known by several present, that

Miss was engaged to a young officer

who had earned considerable distinction
in the Peninsular can>paign, and to whom
slie was to be united on his return from
the continent. It need not therefore be
wondered at, that a thought of the various
casualties to which a soldier's life is ex-
posed— especially a bold and brave young
soldier, such as her intended had proved
2 P

390

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

himself— and (lie possibility, if not pro-
bability, that he might, alas ! never

" Keturn to claim his blushing bride,"
but be left behind among the glorious
throng of the fallen — sufficed to overcast
her mind with gloomy anxieties and ap-
prehensions. It was, indeed, owing
solely to the affectionate importunities of
her relatives, that she was prevailed on to
be seen in society at all. Had her own
inclinations been consulted, she would
Iiave sought solitude, where she might,
with weeping and trembling, commend
her hopes to the hands of Him *'who
seeth in secret," and "whose are the

issues" of battle. As Miss 's rich

contralto voice, and skilful powers of ac-
companiment, were much talked of, the
company would listen to no excuses or
apologies ; so the poor girl was absolutely
baited into sitting down to the piano,
when she ran over a few melancholy
cliords with an air of reluctance and dis-
placency. Her sympathies were soon
excited by the fine tones — the tumultuous
melody — of the keys she touched — and
she struck into the soft and soothing sym-
phony of "The Banks of Allan Water."
The breatiiless silence of the bystanders
— for nearly all the company was thronged
around — was at length broken by her
voice, stealing, *' like faint blue gushing
streams," on ihe delighted ear of her au-
ditors, as she commenced singing that
exquisite little ballad, with the most touch-
ing pathos and simplicity. She had just
commenced the verse,

*' For his bride a soldier sought her,
And a winning tongue had he !"

when, to the surprise of every body
around her, she suddenly ceased playing
and singing, without removing her hands
from the instrument, and gazed steadfastly
forward with a vacant aii', while the colour
faded from her cheeks, and left them pale
as the lily. She continued thus for some
moments, to the alarm and astonishment
of the company — motionless, and appa-
rently unconscious of any one's presence.
Her elder sister, much agitated, stepped
towards her, placed her hand on her
shoulder, endeavoured gently to rouse
her, and said hurriedly, *' Anne, Anne 1

what now is the matter?" Miss

made no answer ; but a few moments
after, without moving her eyes, suddenly

burst into a piercing shriek ! Consterna-
tion seized all present.

** Sister — sister ! — Dear Anne, are you
ill ?" again inquired her trembling sister,
endeavouring to rouse her, but in vain.

Miss seemed neither to see or hear

her. Her eyes still gazed fixedly forward,
till they seemed gradually to expand, as
it were, with an expression of glassy
horror. All present seemed utterly con-
founded, and afraid to interfere with her.
Whispers were heard, " She's ill — in a
fit — run for some water. Good God,
how strange — what a piercing shriek,"

&c. &c. At length Miss 's lips

moved. Slie began to mutter inaudibly j
but by and bye those immediately near
her could distinguish the words, •' There !
— there they are — with their lanterns.
Oh ! they are looking for the d — e — a — d.
They turn over the lieaps. Ah ! — now
— no ! — that little hill of slain — see, see !
— they are turning them over, one by one
— There ! — there he is ! — Oh, horror !

horror ! horror ! Right through

THE HEART !" and, with a long shudder-
ing groan, she fell senseless into the arms
of her horror-struck sister. Of course all
were in confusion and dismay — not a face
present but was blanched with agitation
and afifright on hearing the extraordinary
words she uttered. With true delicacy
and propriety of feeling, all those whose
carriages had happened to have already
arrived, instantly took their departure, to
prevent their presence embarrassing or
interfering with the family, who were al-
ready sufiiciently bewildered. The room
was soon thinned of all except those who
were immediately engaged in rendering
their services to the young lady ; and a
servant was instantly despatched, with a
horse, for me. On my arrival, I found
her in bed, (still at the house where the
party was given, which was that of the
young lady's sister-in-law.) She had
fallen info a succession of swoons ever
since siie had been carried up from the
drawing-room, and was perfectly sense-
less when I entered the bedchamber
wliere she lay. She had not spoken a
syllable since uttering the singular words
just related j and her whole frame was
cold and rigid — in fact, she seemed to
have received some strong shock, which
had altogether paralysed her. By the
use, however, of strong stimulants, we
succeeded in at length restoring her to

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

sn

something like consciousness, but I think
it would iiave been better for her — ;judg-
ing from the event — never to have woke
again from forge tfulness. She opened her
eyes under the influence of the searching
stimulants we applied, and stared vacantly
for an instant on those standing round her
bedside. Her countenance, of an ashy
hue, was damp with clammy perspiration,
and she lay perfectly motionless, except
when her frame undulated with long deep-
drawn sighs.

** Oh, wretched, wretched, wretched
girl !" she murmured at length, " why
have I lived till now ? Why did you not
suffer me to expire ? He called me to join
him — T was going — and you will not let
me — but 1 MUST go — yes, yes."

** Anne — dearest ! — why do you talk
so ? Charles is not gone — he will return
soon — he will, indeed" — sobbed her
sister.

" Oh, never, never ! You did not see
what I saw, Jane;" she said. ** O'^
it was frightful ! How they tumbled about
the heaps of the dead ! how they stripped
— oh, horror, horror !"

* 'My dear Miss , you are dreanr-

ing — raving — indeed, you are," said I,
holding her hand in mine — " Come, come
— you must not give way to such gloomy,
such nervous fancies you must not, in-
deed. You are frightening your friends
to no purpose."

" What do yon mean ?" she replied,
looking me suddenly full in the face.
** I tell you it is true ! Ah me, Charles is
dead — 1 know it — I saw him ! Shot
right through the heart. They were

stripping him, when " And heaving

three or four short convulsive sobs, she

again swooned. Mrs. , the lady of

the house, (the sister-in-law of Miss ,

as I think I have mentioned) could endure
the distressing scene no longer, and was
carried out of the room, fainting, in the
arms of her husband. With great ditfi.

culty, we succeeded in restoring Miss

once more to consciousness ; but the fre-
quency and duration of her relapses be-
gan seriously to alarm me. The spirit,
being brought so often to the brink, might
at last suddenly flit off into eternity, with-
out any one's being aware of it. I, of
course, did all that my professional know-,
ledge and experience suggested ; and,
after expressing my readiness to remain
all night in the house, in the event of any

sudden alteration in Miss for the

worse, I took my departure, promising
to call very early in the morning. Before

leaving, Mr. had acquainted me with

all the particulars above related ; and, as
T rode home, I could not help feeling the
liveliest curiosity, mingled with the most
intense sympathy for the unfortunate
sufferer, to see whether the corroborating
event would stamp the present as one of
those extraordinary occurrences which
occasionally " come o'er us like a summer
cloud," astonishing and perplexing every
one.

The next morning, about nine o'clock,

I was again at Miss 's bedside. She

was nearly in the same state as that in
which- 1 had left her the preceding evening
— only feebler, and almost continually
stupified. She seemed, as it were, stunned
with some severe but visible stroke. She
said scarcely any thing, but often uttered
a low, moaning, indistinct sound, and
whispered at intervals, "Yes — shortly,
Charles, shortly — to-moriow !" There
was no rousing her by conversation ; she
noticed no one, and would answer no
questions. I suggested the propriety of
calling in additional medical assistance ;
and, in the evening, met two eminent
brother physicians in consultation at her
bedside. We came to the conclusion
that she was sinking rapidly, and that,
unless some miracle intervened to restore
her energies, she would continue with us
but a very little longer. After my brother
physicians had left, I returned to the sick

chamber, and sat by Miss 's bedside

for more than an hour. My feelings
were much agitated at witnessing her sin-
gular and affecting situation. There was
such a sweet and sorrowful expression
about her pallid features, deepening, oc-
casionally, into such hopelessness of heart-
broken anguish, as no one could contem-
plate without deep emotion. There was,
besides, something mysterious and awing
— something of what in Scotland is called
second-sight — in the circumstances which
had occasioned her illness.

" Gone — gone !" she murmured, with
closed eyes, while 1 vvas sitting and
gazing in silence on her; "gone, and in
glory ! Ah, I shall see the young con-
queror— I shall 1 How he will love me 1
Ah, I recollect," she continued, after a
long interval ; ** it was the * Banks of
Allan Water' these cruel people made me

392

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR.

sing, and mv heart breaking- tlie while !
What was the verse I was singing when
I saw" — slie shucklered — " oh ! — this —
" For his bride a soldier sought her,
And a winning tongue had lie —
On the banks of Allan AVater,

None so gay as she.
But the summer grief had brought her,
And her soldier — false Avas he — '

Oh, no, no, never — Charles — my poor
murdered Charles —never." She groaned,
and spoke no more that night. She con-
tinued utterly deaf to all that was said in
the way of sympathy or remonstrance ;
and if her lips moved at all, it was only to
utter faintly some such words as, " Oh,
let me — let me leave in peace !" During
the two next days, she continued drooping
rapidly. The only circumstance about
her demeanour particularly noticed, was,
that she once moved her hands for a mo-
ment over the counterpane, as though
she were playing the piano — a sudden
flush overspread her features — her eyes
stared, as though she were startled by the
appearance of some phantom or other, and
she gasped, "I'here, there!" after which
she relapsed into her former state of
stupor.

How will it be credited, that on the

fourth morning of Miss 's illness, a

letter was received from Paris by her
family, with a black seal, and franked by
the noble colonel of the regiment in which

Charles had served, communicating

the melancholy intelligence that the young
captain had fallen towards the close of the
battle of Waterloo ; for while in the act of
charging at the head of his corps, a French
cavalry officer shot him with his pistol
right through the heart ! The whole
family, with all their acquaintance, were
unutterably shocked at ttie news — almost
petrified with amazement at the strange

corroboration of Miss 's prediction.

How to communicate it to the poor
sufferer w-as now a serious question, or
whether to communicate it at all at pre-
sent. The family at last, considering
that it would be unjustifiable in them any
longer to withhold the intelligence, in-
trusted the painful duty to me. I there-
fore repaired to her bedside alone, in the
evening of the day on which the letter
bad been received : that evening was the
last of her life ! I sat down in my usual
place beside her, and her pulse, counten-
ance, breathing, cold extremities — toge-

ther with the fact, that she had taken no
nourishment whatever since she had been
laid on the bed — convinced me that the
poor girl's sufferings were soon to termi-
nate. I was at a loss, for a length of time,
how to break the oppressive silence. Ob-
serving, however, her fading eyes fixed
on me, I determined, as it were accident-
ally, to attract them to the fatal letter
which I then held in my hand. After a
while she observed it ; her eye suddenly
settled on the ample coronetted seal, and
the sight operated something like an
electric shock.

She seemed struggling to speak, but in
vain. I now wished to heaven I had
never agreed to undertake the duty which
had been imposed upon me. I opened
the letter, and looking steadfastly at her,
said, in as soothing tones as my agitation
could command, '* My dear girl — now,
don't be alarmed, or I sliall not tell you
what I am going to tell you." She trem-
bled, and her sensibilities seemed suddenly
restored ; for her eye assumed an expres-
sion of alarmed intelligence, and her lips
moved about like those of a person who
far'ls them parched with agitation, and
endeavours to moisten them. " This
letter has been received to-day from Paris,"

1 continued ; ** it is from colonel lord ,

and brings word that — that — that — " I
felt suddenly choked, and could not bring
out the words.

*' That my Charles is dead — I know it.

Did I not tell you so ?" said Miss ,

interrupting me, with as clear and distinct
a tone of voice as she ever had in her life.
I felt confounded. Plad the unexpected
operation of the news I brought been able
to dissolve the spell which had withered
her mental energies, and afford promise of
her restoration to health ?

Has the reader ever watched a candle
which is flickering and expiring at its
socket, suddenly shoot up into an instan-
taneous brilliance, and then be utterly
extinguished ? I soon saw it was thus

with poor Miss . All the expiring

energies of her soul were suddenly col-
lected to receive the corroboration of her
vision — if such it may be called — and
then she would,

" Like a lily drooping,

Bow her head and die."

To return : — she begged me, in a faltering

voice, to read her all the letter. She

listened with closed eyes, and made no

PERIIS BV FLOOD AND FIELD.

393

remark wlien I bad concluded. After a
long pause, I exclaimed, "God be praised,

my dear Miss , tliat you have been

able to receive this dreadful news so
firmly "

" Doctor, tell me, have you no medicine
that could make me weep ? Ob, give it
me, give it me — it would relieve me, for
I ftel a mountain on my breast — it is
pressing me," replied she feebly, uttering
the words at long intervals. Pressing her
hand in mine, I begged her to be calm,
and the oppression would soon disappear.

** Oh — oh — oh — that I could weep,
doctor." She whispered something else,
but inaudibly. I put my ear close to her
mouih, and distinguished something like
the words, •' I am — I am — call her —
hush — " accompanied with a faint, flutter-
ing, gurgling sound. Alas ! I too well
understood it. With much trepidation I
ordered the nurse to summon the family
into the room instantly. Her sister Jane
was the first that entered, her eyes swollen
WMth weeping, and seemingly half suf-
focated with the effort to conceal her
emotions.

" Oh, my darling, precious, precious
sister Anne !" she sobbed, and knelt
down at the bedside, flinging her arms
round her sister's neck, kissing the gentle
sufferer's cheeks and mouth.

'* Anne ! — love ! darling ! — don't you
know me ?" she groaned, kissing her
forehead repeatedly. Could I help w^eep-
ing ? All who had" entered were standing
around the bed, sobbino, and in tears. I
kept my fingers at the wrist of the dying
sufferer, but could not feel whether or not
the pulse beat, which, however, I attri-
buted to my own agitation.

*' Speak — speak — my darling Anne!
speak to me — I am your poor sister
Jane !" sobbed the agonizing girl, con-
tinuing fondly kissing her sister's cold lips
and tbreiiead. She suddenly started,
exclaimed, " Oh, God ! she is dead !" and
sunk instantly senseless on the floor. —
Alas, alas ! it was too true — my sweet and
broken-hearted patient was no more.

THE GHOST- HUXTER AND HIS FAMILY.

{Concluded from p. 383.)

The weather had changed during the
day. It was a gloomy November night :
the rain fell over the blackened sky ; the
wind came in gusts, heralding its approach

by hollow moanings, which grew louder
and louder as it advanced, until at last it
swept, hissing, and whistling, and roaring
through the mouldering but beautiful
arches of the ruin, beside which our ad-
venturer paused.

The seared leaves of the alders, and the
other chance- sown trees (hat increased
the gloom of the unroofed space within,
rustled against each other as the gusts
swept by ; then their branches waved
and rattled, casting the leaves in crispy
showers to the ground ; and then those
which remained trembled as the bluster-
ing visitation passed away. The rushing
river was not far off, and the noise of its
waters filled up the pauses of the blast.

The moon, which had shone out so
vividly the preceding night, as if to assist
in turning Morris to his doom, now re-
fused him a beam to cheer the darkness
around him, and, morally speaking,
within him ; for it was not surprising
that a night like this, approaching its
dead noon, should, in such a place, have
a sympathetic effect on his distempered
imagination. He stood awaiting the
striking of the hour of midnight, his head
drawn back, his dark brows knitted toge-
ther, his eyes flashing through the gloom
in the interior of the old building, and his
ear catching every sound, in anticipation
of the appearance of the being he had
come to meet.

At length the sonorous town -clock
slowly began to toll twelve. Each vibra-
tion met an answering throb in Morris's
bosom. He counted the last stroke as it
swung along the returning gust, and, in
an instant after, started back, raising his
hands before him in an attitude of intense
and solemn wonder. It could not be the
echoes of the ruin which returned that last
clang so distinctly. JSo : it was a bell
fixed in a mouldering steeple of the abbey,
which never tolled, save to welcome the
dead to their homes within its precincts.
Morris felt that the sound was produced
by no mortal hand.

It had scarce died away, half suffocated
by the wind, when he heard his name
uttered within, in the same deep tones
which had replied to his questions in the
bosheen, on the previous night.

'• I am here," he answered, in a voice
scarcely less thrilling than that to which
he responded.

*' Enter the abbey," continued the un-

394

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OH,

seen one. Morris, coUectint;^ his firmness,
bent his body to pass thionoh a low,
arclied door-way, half choked up with
rubbish and weeds. Standing to his full
height in the interior of the building, he
scowled around him, and jerked his head
from side to side, as was his fashion when
much excited. In those parts of the
ruinous space around which were not
sunk in utter blackness, he could perceive
nothing of the apparition of Joe Wilson.

'* Your bidding is done," resumed
Morris, after a pause ; *' I am standing
in the middle of the place."

"Stand at the head of the prior's tomb,"
still commanded his invisible companion.

Morris endeavoured to ascertain the
spot whence the voice came, but the
careering gust seemed to bear it round
and round the building. He knew the
prior's tomb well. In his early boyhood
it had been one of the rallying-points of
his sports. Often had he and his compa-
nions contended for its possession, carry-
ing on a small warfare as if for a fortress ;
and often did their youthful shout ring
above the ashes of the forgotten dignitary.
Nay, often had the identical Joe Wilson,
whose ghost now summoned Morris to a
conference at the prior's tomb, been one
of the thoughtless rioters ; and he was
always the last who remained with Morris,
when the evening row was over, seated
on the crumbling and weed- hampered
old monument, until the shades of night
began to creep over the ruin ; and here
they would perse veringly excite each
other's supernatural predilections — not
fears — by the recital of the most approved
and authentic tales of horror.

Notwithstanding the profound darkness
of the corner in which the monument
stood, Morris found no difficulty in occu-
pying at its head the position he named.

'* Are you here with me to hold to
your pledge !>" resumed the voice.

"I am here to give you rest and quiet,
if I can."

** The mortal man who questions the
dead, ought to hold a fearful heart, or woe
be to him."

'* My heart is sthrong," said the cour-
ageous though eccentiic lad ; yet he
uttered the words with some effort, for
the voice which spoke now seemed fear-
fully menacing.

" Tile secrets of the dead must be kept
as close as the grave keeps their rotting

bones ; or treble woe on the betrayer's
head."

'* I'll guard the silent tongue."

" He who meets the dead, and chal-
lenges the dead, must obey the dead, or
tenfold woe be to him."

*• Morris Brady will obey the dead !"

"Swear an oath ! swear it to the dead !"

Morris hesitated.

" Swear ! or rue this night ! Swear !"
— It seemed to the young man as if,
mingling with the gust, the tones were
re-echoed, in shrieks, through every
corner of the ruin.

" I will swear to you !" he, in his turn,
screamed forth, as he stamped his foot on
the rubbish on which he stood.

" Lay your hand upon the prior's head."

Morris grasped the figure ; but instead
of touching, at the point where he expected
to find it, the marble head of the a^gyt
his fingers passed over the front of a
skull ; he felt the eye-holes, and the nasal
orifice, and that for the mouth. He re-
coiled an instant, but sufficiently reco-
vered himself to replace his hand on the
disagreeable object.

" Swear by the soul of him who has
been murthered ! swear by your own
soul ! swear by the darkness of the night 1
and swear by every spirit that hearkens
to the oath — to be silent, and obey the
dead !"

" Swear !" and Morris again spoke in
a shout, and as if some will other than liis
own had moved his tongue.

*' Follow me, now," continued the
voice J and, as it ceased, the figure of the
bosheen glided through the low^ archway
into the burial-ground without. Morris
sprang after it. The apparition glided
into an adjacent street of the town, by a
turnstile at the boundary of the church-
yard, and, with noiseless steps, hurried on.

MARSHAL LOUDON AND THE COBBLER.

The marshal was a native of Scotland,
and entered young, as a soldier of fortune,
into the service of the elector of Bavaria,
wherein he held the rank of captain.
Having had the misfortune to kill his
colonel in a duel, he was obliged to quit
Bavaria very precipitately. He went to
Berlin, and requested a commission from
the king of Prussia ; but Frederick the
Great received him very cavalierly, and
said to him, among other bad compliments,
" You have more the air of a monk than

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD,

395

of a soldier ; and, besides, I have no fancy
for English officers."

Loudon now made way for Vienna,
where he did his utmost to procure an
appointment from the minister of war, but
unsuccessfully : until at length, wearied
of making applications, he left the capital,
and took a lodging in one of the faubourgs,
at the house of a shoemaker named Pan-
crace, wiiere he remained some time in a
state of great destitution, and supported
by his landlord out of mere charity. It
happened, at this epoch, that marshal
Daim, who commanded the Austrian
army in Silesia, against the king of Prus-
sia, wrote to the empress Maria-Theresa,
and to the prince de Lichtenstein, to
obtain good officers, accustomed to a war
of partisanship, having none such attached
to his corps. On a conference following
between the empress and prince, the latter
bethought him of Loudon, who had been
represented to him as skilful in this par-
ticular branch, but whom, he told the
empress, it would now be difficult to find.
*' Is he in the Austrian dominions, think
you?" inquired Maria- Theresa. "There
is no doubt of it," answered the marshal.
** \^^ell, then," rejoined her majesty, " I
tliink we may get at him. Give orders
to post up a description of this same
Louden, and promise a thousand ducats
to whosoever will find out his abode."

The empress's commands were executed
next morning, and before the day closed,
bills to this efl^ect were stuck up in almost
every street of the metropolis. Pancrace,
who had gone into the city to get work,
observing so many of these bills, which
attracted general notice, read one of them,
and without going any further, he returned
to his house, and finding his lodger there,
said, •• You are a pretty fellow ! no doubt,
some great criminal ; if I had known you
before, you should never have come into
my house." Loudon, who was conscious
of no other offence than owing his land-
lord money, replied, " My dear Pancrace,
you know well that I can't pay you ju>t
now ; I have not even a sous." ** Oh, it
is not about the money I am speaking
just now. All I want is for you to quit
my house. There is a ducat for you.
Begone ! If I were malignantly dis-
posed, I might obtain a thousand ducats
by denouncing you. But, no ! I will not
stain my hands with your blood. Away !
you have no time to lose."

Loudon, more astonished than ever,
demanded of his host what he meant ; and
when Pancrace related the fact of his
being advertised for in the manner above
mentioned, penetrating the whole affair,
he cried out, ** My dear Pancrace, this is
the best news for us in the world ! They
want me for the military service. Go to
the office of the minister of war, and say
that I am lodging with you, but am too
badly clothed to appear myself." After
a short interval, the minister himself
arrived at the shoemaker's habitation,
gave him the promised reward, and fur-
nished Loudon with means to equip him-
self properly. He was then presented to
the empress, who gave him the appoint-
ment of colonel, and sent him to the army,
where he distinguished himself so highly^
as to become, at the end of four years, a
field-marshal. He lived to beat, repeat-
edly, Frederic the Great, by whom his
services had been refused ; and who fre-
quently, when speaking of Loudon to his
friends, lamented that he should have
committed the egregious blunder of turn-
ing such an officer away.

ACCOUiNT OP A FIGHT BETW^EEN" A TIGER
AND AN ELRl'HANT.

In the midst of a grassy plain, about
half a mile long, and nearly as much in
breadth, about sixty or seventy fine ele-
phants were drawn up in several ranks,
each animal being provided with a maha-
wat and a hauda, which was empty. On
one side were placed convenient seats ;
the governor, mandarins, and a nimierous
train of soldiers, being also present at the
spectacle. A crowd of spectators occupied
the side opposite. The tiger was bound
to a stake placed in the centre of the plain,
by means of a stout rope fastened round
his loins. We soon perceived how un-
equal was the combat. The claws of the
poor animal had been torn out, and a
strong stitch bound the lips together, and
prevented liim from opening his mouth.
On being turned loose from the cage he
attempted to bound over the plain, but,
finding all attempts to extricate himself
useless, he threw himself at length upon
the grass, till, seeing a large elephant
with long tusks approach, he got up and
faced the coming danger. The elephant
was by this attitude, and the horrid growl
of the tiger, too much intimidated, and
turned aside, while the tiger pursued him

396

TA! ES OK CHIVALRY ; OR.

heavily, and struck liim with his fore-paw
upon the liind quarter, quickening his
pace not a little.

I'he niaiiawat succeeded in bringing
the elephant to the charge again before he
liaa gone far, and this time he rushed on
furiously, driving his tusks into the earth
under the tiger, and, lifting him up fairly,
gave him a clear cast to the distance of
about thirty feet. This was an interest-
ing point in the combat. The tiger lay
along the ground as if he were dead, yet
it appeared that he had sustained no mate-
rial injury, for on the next attack he threw
liimselt into an attitude of defence, and,
as the elephant was again about to take
him up, he sj)rung upon his forehead,
fixing his hind-feet upon the trunk of the
former.

The elephant was wounded in this
attack, and so much (lightened, that no-
thing could prevent him from breaking
tiiruugh every obstacle, and fairly running
otF. 'i'lie maliawatwas considered to have
failed in his duty, and soon after was
brought up to the governor, w ith his hands
bound beliind his back, and on the spot
received a hundred lashes of the rattan.

Anotlier elephant w^as now brought, but
the tiger made less resistance on each
successive attack. It was evident that
the tosses he received must soon occasion
his death.

All the elephants were furnished with
tusks, and the mode of attack in every
instance — for several others were called
forward — was that of rushing upon the
tiger, thrusting their tusks under him,
raising him, and throwing him to a dis-
tance. Of their trunks they evidently
were very careful, rolling them cautiously
up under the chin. When the tiger was
dead, an elephant was brought up, who,
instead of raising the tiger in his tusks,
seized him with his trunk, and in general
cast him to the distance of thirty feet.

EFFECTS OF AN EARTHQUAKE.

Having experienced, during my resi-
dence at Coquinibo, on the coast of Chili,
no less than sixty-one smart shocks of
earthquakes in twelve months, without
taking minor ones into consideration, I
was induced to obtain from an oflficer of
H. M. S. Volage, the particulars of a de-
structive visitation which occurred at Lima
in 1S28.

On the 30th of March, H. M. S. Volage
was lying moored with two chain cables
in tjje bay of Calloa ; the weather was
remarkably fine and clear, when, at half-
past seven o'clock, a light cloud passed
over the ship, at wiiich moment the noise
usually attendant on earthquakes in that
country, resembling heavy distant thunder,
was heard ; the ship was violently agitated,
and, to use the words of my informant,
** felt as if placed on trucks, and dragged
rapidly over a pavement of loose stones."
The water around " hissed as if hot iron
was immersed in it;" immense quantities
of air-bubbles rose to the surface, the gas
from which was offensive, resembling, to
use my friend's phraseology again, " rotten
pond-mud." Nimibers of tish came up
dead alongside ; the sea, before calm and
clear, was now strongly agitated and
turbid, and the ship rolled about two
streaks, say fourteen inches, each way.
A cry of, " there goes the town," called
my friend's attention towards it ; a cloud
of dust, raised by the agitation of the
earth and the fall of the liouses, covered
the town from view, whilst the tower of
the garrison chapel, the only object visible
above the dust, rocked for a few seconds,
and then fell through the roof; and, from
tlie high perpendicular rock at the north
end of the island of St. Lorenzo, a slab,
supposed thirty feet thick, separated from
the top to the bottom of the cliff, and fell
with a tremendous noise into the sea.
The wharf or pier was cracked three parts
across, showing a chasm of eighteen
inches wide ; the chronometers on shore,
except those in the pocket, and most of
the clocks, stopped, wliilst the rates of
chronometers on board were in many
instances altered. A great number of
lives were lost, amongst which were four
priests, killed in the churches, one of them
by the falling of an image, at whose base
he was at prayer.

The Volage's chain-cables were lying
on a soft muddy bottom, in thirty-six feet
water ; and, on heaving up the best
bovver anchor to examine it, the cable
thereof was found to have been strongly
acted on, at thirteen fathoms from the
anchor, and twenty-five from the ship.
On washing the mud from it, the links,
which are made of the best bolt or cylinder
wrought iron, about two inches in dia-
meter, appeared to have undergone partial
fusion for a considerable extent.

PERILS BY FLOOD A\D FIELD.

297

PafjeSOJ.

A LEGEND OF HUXGARY.

As tiie Danube approaches the ancient
city of Biida, it traverses a vast and almost
uninhabited plain, surrounded upon every
side by rude and barren mountains. This
tract, tliickly wooded with forest trees of
great age and size, is now called the
•' Black Forest" of Hungary, and has
been long celebrated as the resort of the
wild boar and the elk, driven by winter
to seek a shelter and cover which they
would in vain look for upon the rocky and
steep mountains around : there, for at
least five months of every year, might
daily be heard the joyous call ol the jager
horn, and at night, around the blazing
fires of the bivouac, might parties of
hunters be seen carousing and relating
the dangers of the chase. But when once
the hunting season was past, the gloom
and desolation of this wild waste was
unbroken by any sound save the shrill cry
of the vultures, or the scream of the wood
squirrel as he sprang from bough to bough,
for the footsteps of the traveller never trod
this valley, which seemed as if shut out
by nature from all intercourse with the

VOL. II. — 3S.

remainder of the world. Hunting had
been for years the only occupation of the
few who inhabited it, and the inaccessible
character of the mountains liaa long con-
tributed to preserve it for them from the
intrusion of others ; but at lengtii the chase
became the favourite pastime of the young
noblesse of Austria as well as Hungary;
and to encourage a taste for the " mimic
fight,'" as it has been not inaptly termed,
the example of the reigning monarch
greatly contributed. Not a little vain of
his skill and proficiency in every bold and
warlike exercise, lie often took the lead
in these exercises himself, and would re-
main weeks, and even months away, joy-
fully enduring all the dangers and hard-
ships of a hunter's life, and by his own
daring, stimulate others to feats of dif-
ficult and hardy enterprise. Some there
were, however, who thought they saw in
this more than a mere fondness for a
hunter's life, and looked on it, with
reason, perhaps, as a deeply laid political
scheme ; that, by bringing the nobles of
the two nations more closely into contact,
nearer intimacy, and eventually friend-
ships, would spring up and eradicate tlut
2 Q

298

TAT.ES OF CUlVVLRY; OR,

feelinof of jealous}^ with which, as rivals,
they had not ceased to regard each
other.

It was the latter end of December, of
the year 1754; the sun had o^one down,
and the shadows of night were fast falling-
npon the dreary valley, whilst upon the
cold and piercing blast were borne masses
of snow-drift and sleet, and the low wail-
ing of the night wind foreboded the ap-
pioach of a storm, that a solitary wanderei-
was vainly endeavouring to disentangle
himself from the low brushwood which,
heavy and snow-laden, obstructed him at
every step. Often he stood, and putting
his horn to his lips, blew till the forest
rang again with the sound, but nothing
responded to his call, save the dull and
ceaseless roar of the Danube, which poured
along its thundering flood, amid huge
masses of broken ice or frozen snow,
which, rent fron) their attachment to the
banks, were carried furiously along by the
current of the river.

To the bank of the Danube the w^an-
derer had long directed his steps, guided
by the noise of the stream ; and he had
determined to follow its guidance to the
nearest village, where he might rest for
the night. After much difficulty he
reached the bank, and the moon, which
hitherto had not shone, now suddenly
broke forth, and showed the stranger to
be young and athletic ; his figure, which
was tall and conniianding, was arrnyed in
the ordinary hunting-dress of the period ;
he wore a green frock or kurtha, which,
trimmed with fur, was fastened at the
vaist by a broad strap of black leather;
from this was suspended his jaged messer,
or couteau de chm.'ie, the handle and iiilt
of which were of silver richly chased and
ornamented ; around his neck hung a
small bugle, also of silver, and these were
the only parts of his equipment which
bespoke liim to be of rank, save that air
of true born nobility, which no garb, how-
ever homely, can effectually conceal. His
broad-leafed bonnet, with its dark o'er-
hanging herons' feathers, concealed the
npper part of his face ; but the sliort and
curved moustache which graced his upper
lip, told that he was either by birth Hun-
garian, or one who from motives of policy
had adopted this national peculiarity to
court favour in the eyes of Joseph, who
avowed his preference for that country on
every occasion. The first object that met

his eyes as he looked anxiously around for
some place of refuge from "that storm,
which long impending, was already about
to break forth va ith increased violence,
was the massive castle of Cfervitzen,
whose batdemented towers rose high
above the trees on the opposite side of the
Danube ; between, however, roared the
river, with the impetuosity of a mountain
torrent, amid huge fragments of ice, which
were hither held by their attachment to
rocks in the channel, or borne along till
dashed to pieces by those sharp reefs so
frequent in this part of the stream ; he
shuddered as he watched the fate of many
a ledge of ice or snow now smoothly
gliding on, and in the next mom.ent
shivered into ten thousand pieces, and lost
in the foam and surge of '* the dark rolling
river." He seemed long to weigh within
himself the hazard of an attempt to cross
the stream upon those floating islands
with the danger of a night passed in the
forest ; for he now knew too well, no vil-
1 ge lay within miles of him. But at last
he seemed to have taken his resolution ;
for, drawing the belt tightly around him,
and throwing back his jaged messer lest
it should impede the free play of his left
arm, he seemed to prepare himself for the
perilous undertaking — this was but the
work of one moment — the next saw him
advancing upon the broad ledge, which,
frozen to the bank, stretched to a consi-
derable distance in the stream. Now
arrived at the verge of this came his first
difficulty, for the passage was only to be
accomplished by springing from island to
island over the channels of the river, which
ran narrov». ly tb.ough rapidly between;
the loud crashes which every moment
interrupted the silence of the night, as
each fragment broke ujion the rocks be-
fore him, told too plainly what fate
awaited him, should he either miss his
footing, or the ice break beneath his
weight; in either case death would be
inevitable. He once more looked back
upon the dark forest he had left, and again
seemed to hesitate ; 'twas for an instant —
with a bold spring he cleared the channel.
No time w as, however, given him to look
back on the danger he had passed ; for
scarcely had his feet irached their land-
ing-place, than the ice, yielding to the
impulse of his fall, gave way and separated
widi a loud crash from its connexion with
the remaining mass, and in an instant

PERiLS BY FLOOD \M) FIELD.

299

was flying down the stream, carrying him
along with it — unconscious of all around,
he was borne onward — the banks on
either side seemed to fly past him with
tiie speed of lightning, and ihe sound of
the river now fell upon his ear like the
deep rolling of artillery ; and from this
momentary stupor, he only awoke to look
forward to a death as certain as it was
awful. The rocks upon which the ice-
bergs were dashed and shivered to atoms
as they struck, were already within sight.
Anodier moment and all would be over ;
he thought he^ heard already the rush of
the water as the waves closed above his
head — in an agony of despair he turned
and looked on every side to catch some
object of hope or assistance. As he floated
on, between him and the rock upon which
the castle stood, now coursed a narrow
channel, but yet too broad to think of
clearing with a single leap. Along this
came a field of ice, wheeling in all the
eddies of the river ; he saw that yet he
might be saved — the danger was dread-
ful, but still no time was now left to think
— he dashed his hunting spear towards
the floating mass, and with the strength
which desperation only can give, threw
himself, as if on a leaping pole, and cleared
both the channels in a spring. As he
fell almost lifeless on the bank, he saw
the fragment he so lately had trusted to,
rent into numberless pieces — his strength
failed, and he sank back upon the rock.
How long he thus laj- he knew not ; and
when he again looked up, all was wrapped
in darkness ; the moon had gone down,
and nothing recalled him to a sense of his
situation save the dull monotonous roar-
ing of the Danube, wliich poured its flood
quite close to where he lay.

Light now gleamed brighdy from the
windows of the castle above him, and he
felt fresh courage as he thought a place
of refuge was so near; and although
stunned by the violence of the shock with
which he fell, and half frozen by the cold
ice which had been his bed, he made
t(nvards the drawbridge. Tliis, to his
glad surprise, was already low-ered —
and the wide gates lay open. As he
passed along, he met no one — he at length
reached a broad stair j ascending this, the
loud tones of many voices met his ear —
he opened a door which stood before him,
and entered the apartment where the
family now were assembled at supper.

The possessor of tlie baronial schloss of
Cfervitzen, was one of the last remnants
of the feudal system in Hungary ; and to
whom, neither the attractions of a court,
nor yet the high rank and favour so la-
vishly bestowed upon his countrymen —
were inducements strong enough to with-
draw him from that wild and dreary abode,
wdiere he had passed his youth and his
manhood, and now adhered to in his old
age, with an attachment which length of
years had not rendered less binding. Tiie
only companion of his solitude was a
daughter, upon whom he heaped all that
fondness and affection which the heart
estranged from all the world can bestow
upon one. She was, indeed, all that his
most sanguine wishes could desire ; beau-
tiful as the fairest of a nation celebrated
for the loveliness of its women, and
endowed with all the w armth of heart and
susceptibility of her country. Of the
world she was ignorant as a child, and
long learned to think that the mountains
which girt their broad valley, enclosed all
that was worth knowing or loving in it.

Hospitality has not in Hungary at-
tained the rank of a virtue, it is merely
the characteristic of a nation. .Shelter is
so often required and afforded to the deso-
late wanderer, through vast and ahnost
uninhabited tracts of mountain and forest,
that the arrival of a stranger at the even-
ing meal of a family would create but
little surprise among its members, and in

the present instance, the intiu(

had he so wished it, have supped and
rested for the night, and gone (jut on his
journey on the morrow, without one ques-
tion as to whence he came, or whither he
should go. But such evidently was not
his intention, for either not understand-
ing, or, if he understooi!, not caring to
comply with the hints which were given
him, to seat himself below the daes, he
boldly advanced to the upper end of the
apartment, where the baron and his
daughter were seated upon a platform
slightly elevated above the surrounding
va>sals and bundsmen, who were as-
sembled in considerable numbers. Tiie
stranger did not wait until tlie baron had
addressed him, but at once said, " The
Graf von Sobenstein claims yonr Jiospi-
lality here, baron ; hunting with the im-
perial suite, I lost my way in the forest,
and, unable to reg;iio my companions,
I esteem mvself fortunate to have reached
2 Q 2

300

TALES OF CHIVALRY j OR,

such an as^'lum." To tliis speecli, vvliich
was made in the Hnno^arian language,
the baron replied by welcoming afier the
friendly fashion of his country ; and then
added, in a somewhat severe tone — ** A
Hungarian, I suppose." ** A Hungarian
by birth," answered the count, colouring
deeply, " but an Austrian by title." To
this there succeeded a short pause, when
the baron again said, ** You were hunting
with the emperor — how crossed you the
Danube ? no boat eould stem the current
now." The count, evidently offended at
the question of his host, replied, coldlv,
*• On the drift ice." " On the drift V'
cried the baron aloud. ** On the drift
ice !" echoed his daughter, who bad
hitherto sat a silent, though attentive
listener to the dialogue. The count, who
had all along spoken with the air of a
superior to one beneath him in rank and
station, deigned not to enter into any
explanation of a feat, the bold daring of
which warranted incredulity. This awk-
ward feeling of some moments duration
was dispelled by the entrance of a vassal,
who came in haste to inform the baron,
that some person who had left the oppo-
site shore of the Danube, had been car-
ried down upon the drift; he had ever
since been in search of him along the
bank, below the rocks, but in vain. This
was enough — the count repressed the
rising feeling of anger that his own short
and startling assertion should be ques-
tioned, and suffered the baron to press
him down upon a seat beside him, and
soon forgot, amid the kind iniqtiiries of
the baron's daughter, his former cold and
distant demeanour ; he gradually became
more and more free and unconstrained in
manner ; and at last so eflfectually had the
frank and hospitable air of the baron, and
the more bewitching tmivete and simpli-
city of his daughter gained upon the good
opinion of their guest, that throwing off
his reserve, a feeling evidently more the
result of education and habit, than natural,
he became lively and animated — de-
lighted his host by hunting adventures,
and stories of the mistakes and awkward
feats of the Austrian nobles in the field
(a grateful theme to a Hungarian), and
captivated the fair Adela, by telling the
fetes and gay carnivals in Vienna, to all
of which, though an utter stranger, she
felt a strong and lively interest in, when
narrated by one so young and handscone.

as he who now sat beside her. He also
knew many of the baron's old friends and
acquaintances, who had taken up their
residence at the Austrian court; and thus
conversing happily together, when the
hour of separation for the night arrived,
they parted pleased with each other, and
inwardly rejoicing at the event which had
brought about the meeting.

On the following morning the count
rose early, and quite refreshed from the
toils of the preceding day, descended to
die breakfast-room ; the family had not
as yet assembled, and Adela was sitting
alone in the recess of a window which
overlooked the Danube; as he approacheti
and saluted her, she seemed scarcely able
to rouse herself from some deep reverie
in which she appeared to have fallen ; and
after briefly bidding him " good morn-
ing," laconically asked, *' Can it be that
you crossed tlie stream there ?" at the
same moment pointing to where the river
rolled on beneath them, in waves of white
and toiling foam. The count sat down
beside her, and narrated his entire ad-
venture, from the time he had lost sight
of his companions ; and so earnestly did
she listen and he speak, that they were
unaware of the entrance of the baron, who
had twice saluted the count, and was now
heard for the first time, as he entreated
him to defer his departure for that day
at least, pleading the impossibility of
venturing on leaving the castle in so
dreadful a storm of snow and wind. To
this request, warmly seconded by Adela,
the count gladly acceded : ere long the
baron commended his guest to the care of
his daughter, and left the room.

To Adela, who was unacquainted with
all the forms of '* the world," and knew
not any impropriety in the advances she
made towards intimacy with her new
acquaintance — for she felt none — her only
aim was to render his imprisonment less
miserable, and enable him to pass away
the hours of a winter- day with fewer feel-
ings of ennui and weariness than other-
wise. It will not then be wondered at if
the day passed rapidly over, her songs and
legends of her native land, found in him
an impassioned and delightful listener,
and, ere he knew it, he was perfectly cap-
tivated by one of whose very existence
but a few hours before he was perfectly
ignorant.

It was evident that he felt as flattery

PERILS BY FLOOD AVD Fir:LD

301

tlie frank and intimate tone she assumed
towards] liim, and knew not sLe would
have treated any other similarly siluated,
with the same unsuspecting and friendly
demeanour. It was then with a feeling
of sorrow, he watched the coming dark-
ness of evening. *' In a few hours more,"
thought he, " I shall be far away, and no
more spoken of or remembered, than as
one of the many who came and went
again." The evening passed happily as
the day had done, and they separated,
the count having promised not to leave
the castle the following day until noon,
when the baron should accompany him,
and see him safely on the road to Vienna.
The hour of leave-taking at length
arrived, and amid the bustle and pre-
paration for departure, the count ap-
proached a small tower, which opening
from one of the angles of the apartments
served, in time of warfare, to protect that
part of the building, but which had been
devoted to the more peaceful office of a
lady's boudoir. Here was Adela sitting,
her head resting on her hand, and her
whole appearance divested of that gay
and buoyant character which had been
peculiarly her own ; she rose as he came
forward, and glancing at his cap, which
he held on one arm, took hold of his
hand, and endeavoured, as carelessly as
possible, to allude to his departure : but
her heart failed, and her low trembling
voice betrayed her feeling when slie asked
— "Will you then leave us so suddenly ?"
The count muttered something, in which
the words — " the emperor — long absence
— Vienna," were alone audible, and
pressing closely that hand, which since he
last touched it, had never left his, seated
himself beside her. There was a silence
for some moments: they would both wil-
lingly have spoken, and felt dieir minutes
were fe\v, but their very endeavours ren-
dered the difficulty greater ; at length,
drawing her more closely to him, as he
placed one arm round her, he asked —
'• Will you then soon forget me — shall
I be no moi e recollected ?" " No, no,"
said she, interrupting him, hurriedly ;
"but will you return, as you have already
promised ?" " I do intend, but then — "
*' What then ?" cried she, after a pause,
expecting he would finish his sentence.
He seemed but a moment to struggle
with some strong feeling, and at last
spoke as if he had made up his mind to

a decided and fixed resolve. *• It were
better you knew all — I cannot — that is —
I ma}' not — " — her e\ es grew tearful as
he spoke — he looked — then added — " I
will return — at all hazards — but first |)ro-
mise to wear this for my sake, it was u
present from the emperor :" saying which,
and unfastening the breast of his kurtha,
he took from round his neck a gold chain,
to which fastened a seal-ring bearing the
initial J. ; " Wear this," said he, " at least
till we meet again :" for she hesitated,
and needed the qualification he made, of
its being one day restored, ere she ac-
cepted so valuable a present.

A servant now entered to say that the
baron was already mounted and waiting j
their adieus were soon spoken, and the
next instant the horses were heard gal-
loping over the causeway which led to-
wards the road to Vienna. She gazed
after them till the branches of tlie dark
wood closed around them, and tlien saw
them no more. The baron returned n.ot
till late in the evening and spoke only of
the day's sport, and merely once alluded
to the stranger, and that but passingly ;
the following day came, and there was
nothing to convince her that the two pre-
ceding ones had not been as a dream ; so
rapidly had they passed, and yet so many
events seemed crowded into this short
space. The chain she wore alone re-
mained, to assure her of the reality of the
past.

Days, weeks, and even months, rolled
on, and although the count had promised
to write, yet no letter had ever reached
them, and now^ the winter was long past
and it was already midsummer, when the
baron and his daughter were strolling
one evening along a narrow path which
flanked the Danube. It was the hour of
sunset, and all was quiet and peaceful as
the grave ; the very birds were hushed
upon the boughs, and no sound was heard
save the gentle ripple of that river whose
treacherous surface so lately was borne
on with the dread roaring of a cataract.
As they watched the curling eddies broken
upon the rocks, and then floating in bub-
bles so silently, they stood by the spot
where months before the stranger had
crossed the Danube ; *' I wonder," .said
the baron, ** that he never wrote. Did
he not promise to do so ?" " Yes," re-
plied she, •' lie did ; but at the same time
spoke of the possibility of his absence from

302

TALES OF CHIVALRY

OR,

Vienna, perbaj3s with liis n giment, vvliich
was, I believe, in Gralz. And then, too,
we know the courier from Buda is not
too punctual in his visits to our valley."
" And, in siioit," said ihe baron, " you
could find at least a hundred reasons for
your friend not keepins^ promise, rather
than for a moment suspect ihe real one —
that he has forjjotten us. Ah, my poor
child, 1 fear you know not how little such
a meeting- as ours was, will impress the
mind of one who lives in courts and
camps, the favoured and honoured of his
sovereign. The titled Graf of Austria
will think, if he ever even returns to the
circumstance in his memory, that he did
the poor Hungarian but too much honour,
when he accepted of his hospiiality. And
— but stop — did you not see a horseman
cross the glen there, and then enter yonder
coppice ? There ! — there he is again ! —
I see him now plainly. It is the Austrian
courier, coming, perhaps, to refute all
I have been telling you. I am sure he
brings tidings from Vienna, by taking
that path."

The rider to whom their attention was
liovv directedj'vvas seen advancing at the
full speed of hoise, and but a few seconds
elapsed ere he emerged from the trees.
Although at first his course had been
directed to the castle, it was now evident
]ie[ made for the place where the father
and daughter stood in breathless anxiety
for his arrival. As he came nearer, they
could see that he wore the deeply-slouched
hat and long flowing cloak of a courier.
Then was there no doubt of his being one.
He drew nearer and nearer, and never
.slackened his pace, till within a few yards
of the place where they awaited him ;
then throwing off his hat and cloak, he
sprang from his horse, and flew into their
arms. It was tlie count himself. Excla-
mations of surprise and delight burst from
both, and, amid a thousand welcomes,
they took the path back to the castle.
Questioning and reproaching for forget-
fulness, with an interest which too plainly
told liow dearly the inquirer felt the im-
plied neglect, with many a heartfelt confes-
sion of joy at the present meeting, filled
up the hours till they retired for the night.

When the count found himself alone in
ills chamber, he walked hurriedly to and
fro, liis hands clasped, and his brow
knitted; his whole air bespeaking Ihe
feelings of one labouring under some

great mental agitation. Al let}gt!) lie
threw himself uj)on his bed; but when
morning broke, he rose weary and un-
refreshed, and had to plead fatigue lo the
baron, as an excuse for not accompanying
him on an intended excursion for that day.
Another reason might also have influenced
the count — Adela was again his companion
for the entire day ; and amid many a kind
inquiry for his health, and hopes but half
expressed, that his present slay would re-
cruit his strength and vigour, she plainly
showed, if forgetfulness had existed on
either side, it could not have been laid to
her charge. It was also plain that his
feeling for her, if not already love, was
rapidly ripening into it ; and yet tliere
came ever across him some thoughts that
at once damped the very praise he spoke
to her, and chilled the w-arm current of
affection with which she answered her
(juestions. The day passed, however, but
too rajiidly, and another followed it, like
in all things, save that every hour which
brought them together, seemed but to
render them dearer to each other. They
rode, they walked, they sang, they read
together; and it may be conjectured how
rapidly the courtly address and polished
mind of the count gained upon one so
susceptible, and so unpractised in the
world ; and, in fact, ere the first week of
his stay passed over, she loved — and more
— confei-sed to him her love.

Had she been at all skilled in worldly
knowledge, she would have seen that her
lover did not receive her confession of
attachment with all the ardour with which
he might have heard such an avowal —
and from one so fair, so young, and so
innocent. But, even as it was, she thought
him more thoughtful than usual at the
moment. He had been standing, leaning
upon her harp — she had ceased playing —
and he now held her hand within his own,
as he pressed for some acknowledgment
of her feelings for him ; but when she
gave it, he scarcely pressed the hand
which trembled as she spoke ; and then
lettinii' it drop, he walked slowly to a
window, and l)eveiled his face within his
hands for some minutes. When he re-
turned again to her side, he appeared
endeavouring to calm his troubled mind,
and suppress some sad thoughts which
seemed to haunt him like spirits of evil :
he looked kindly on her, and she was
happy once more.

PE1?1LS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

303

Sucli was tlie bnpppy term of their
lives, that they felt not the time rolling
over. A second week was drawing to a
close. As they were one morning- pre-
paring for an excursion into the forest, a
servant entered to announce the arrival of
a courier from Vienna, with letters for the
count. He seemed very much agitated
at the intelligence, and apologizing to
Adela, and promising to return at once,
he ordered that the courier should he
shown into his apartment. Ashe entered
the room a few minutes after, tlie courier
was seen to issue from the portals of the
castle, and, at the top of his speed, take
the road to Vienna. The count had evi-
dently heard disagreeable tidings, and
strove in vain to conceal the agitation he
laboured imder. " No bad news from
Vienna, I hope," said she : ** has any
thing occurred to trouble you there ?"
** I am recalled," said he, hastily ; " or-
dered, I know not where — periiaps to
Poland, However, I am expected to join
immediately." '* But you v.iil not do
so ?" said the innocent girl, passionately —
** you will not go ?" ** How am I to help
it ?" answered he. " Have you not told
me," said she, ** a thousand" times, that
the emperor was your friend — that he
loved you, and would serve you ? ^^'ill
he not give you leave of absence ? Oh,
if he will not hear you, let me entreat
him. T will go myself to Vienna. I will
fall at his feet, and beseech him ; and if
ever an Hungarian girl met with favour
in tlie eyes of a monarch who loves her
nation, he will not refuse me." ** Adela,"
said he, " do not speak thus : — I must
go — but I hope to obtain the leave myself.
Come, cheer up. You know you may
trust me. You believed me once before —
did I deceive you ? Pledge me but your
word not to forget me — to be my own
when I return." *' I swear it," cried she,
falling upon his neck ; ** nothing but
deatli shall change me, if even that — and
if I ever cease to feel for you as I do at
this moment, you shall hear it from my
own lips. But let us not speak of that.
You will come — is it not so ? and we shall
again be happy ; and you will never leave
me then." As she spoke these words,
she looked into his face with a sad smile,
while the tears trickled fast down her
clieek, and fell upon his shoulder.

He pressed her hand, and tried to
soothe her, but in vain. At last he made

one desperate effort, and pressing her to
his bosom, kissed her cheek, and, bidding
a long and last adieu, he hurried from the
apartment : his horse stood saddled at tlie
door — he sprang to his seat, and was soon

far fi

the schloss.

With the departure of him she loved,
all happiness seemed to have fled. The
places she used with him to visit, in th.eir
daily excursions, on foot or horseback,
served only to call up recollections of tlie
past, and render her present soliti;de more
lonely than she had ever felt ; and after
weeks of anxious expectancy, when nei-
ther letters nor any other tidings of the
count arrived, her health gradually de-
clined— her cheek grew pale, her eye
lustreless, and her step infirm ; while her
low sad voice told too plainly, the wreck
of her worldly happiness had been accom-
plished ; all the misery of hope deferred
burst on her whose path had, until now,
been only among flowers, and whose
yotmg heart had never known grief.

A few months afterwards, crowned with
laurels, the count returned to her whom
he so fondly loved. But, alas! the course
of true love never did run smooth ! the
happiness which he had fondly expected
again to enjoy in her company, was never
destined to be his. His long absence had
been too much for h^r gentle spirit. She
had sunk to rest, and been gathered to
her fathers !

THE ENCOUXTER BETWEEN WALLACE AND
THE RED ROVER.

During the brief career of the cele-
brated patriot, sir William Wallace, and
when his arms had for a time expelled tlie
English invaders from his native country,
he is said to have undertaken a voyage
to France, with a small band of trusty
friends, to try what his presence (for he
was respected through all countries for his
prowess) might do to induce the French
monarch to send to Scotland a body of
auxiliary forces, or other assistance, to
aid the Scots in regaining their inde-
pendence.

The Scottish champion was on board a
small vessel, and steering for the port of
Dieppe, when a sail appeared in the dis-
tance, which the mariners regarded with
doubt and apprehension, and at last with
confusion and dismay. Wallace de-
manded to know what was the cause of
their alarm. The captain of the ship in-

304

TAl.FS OF CHIVALUY

formed him, lliat llie tall vessel which was
bearing down, with the purpose of l)oard-
ing tiiat which he commanded, was the
sliip of a celebrated rover, equally famed
for his courage, strength of body, and sue-
cessful piracies. It was commanded by a
gentleman named Thomas de Longueville,
a Frenchman by birth, but by practice one
of those })irates who called themselves
friends to the sea, and enemies to all who
sailed u})on that element. He attacked
and plundered vessels of all nations, like
ancient Norse Sea-kings, as they were
termed, whose dominion was upon the
moimtain waves. The master added, that
no vessel could escape the rover by flight,
so speedy was the bark he commanded ;
and that no crew, however hardy, could
hope to resist him, when, as was his usual
mode of combat, he threw himself on
board at the head of his followers.

Wallace smiled sternly, while the master
of the ship, w ith alarm in his countenance,
and tears in his eyes, described to him
the certainty of their being captured by
the Red Rover, a name uiven to De
I<ongueville, because he usually displayed
the blood-red flag, which he had now
hoisted.

" I will clear the narrow seas of this
rover," said Wallace.

Then calling together some ten or
twelve of his own followers, Boyd, Kerlie,
Seton, and others, to whom the dust of the
most dpsperate battle was like the breath
of life, he commanded them to arm them-
selves, and lie flat upon the deck, so as to
be out of sight. He ordered the mariners
below, excepting such as were absolutely
necessary to nianage the vessel ; and he
gave the master instructions, upon pain of
death, so to steer, as that, while the vessel
had the appearance of attempting to fly,
he should, in fact, permit the Red Rover
to come up with them and do his worst.
Wallace himself then lay down on tlie
deck, that nothing might be seen which
could intimate any purpose of resistance.
]n a quarter of an hour De Longueville's
vessel ran on board that of the Champion,
and the Red Rover, casting out grappling-
irons to make sure of his prize, jumped on
the deck in complete armour, followed by
his men, who gave a terrible shout, as if
victory had been already secured. But
the armed Scots started up at once, and
the Rover found himself unexpectedly
engaged with men accustomed to consider

victory as secure, when they v\ere only
opposed as one to two or three. Wallace
himself rushed on the pirate captain, and
a dreadful strife began betwixt them with
such fury, that the others suspended their
own battle to look on, and seemed by
common consent to refer the issue of the
strife to the fate of the combat between
the two chiefs. 'J'iie pirate fought as well
as man could do ; but Wallace's strength
was beyond that of ordinary mortals. He
dashed the sword froni the Rover's hand,
and placed him in such peril, that, to
avoid being cut down, he was fain to
close with the Scottish champion, in hopes
of overpowering him in the grapple. In
this also he was foiled. They fell on the
deck, locked in each other's arms, but the
Frenchman fell undermost ; and Wallace
fixing his grasp upon his gorget, com-
pressed it so closely, notwithstanding it
was made of the finest steel, that the
blood gushed from his eyes, nose, and
mouth, and he was only able to ask for
quarter by signs. His men threw down
their weapons and begged for mercy,
when they saw their leader thus severely
handled. The victor granted them all
their lives, but took possession of their
vessel, and detained them prisoners.

IRISH COURAGE AND READY WIT.

In 1563, the earl of Desmond, a herce
and powerful chieftain, made an inroad on
the possessions of Butler, earl of Ormond,
who collected his followers, and repelled
the assailants. Their petty war ended in
the defeat of Desmond, who was wounded
and taken prisoner. As the Osmondians
bore him from the field, stretched on a
litter, his supporters exclaimed, with
triumph " Where is now the great lo)d of
Desmond r" " Where !" retorted Des-
mond, in a scornful tone ; *' w^here, but in
his })roper place ? — still on the neck of the
Butlers!''

REGAL BLISS.

Hyder Ali having been observed by
one of his intimate friends, Gholaun Ali,
to start in his sleep, was asked, when he
awoke, whether he had not been dream-
ing ? '* My friend," replied Hyder, ** the
state ofayokee (a religious mendicant) is
more, far more delightful and to be envied
than my entire monarchy. Awake, he
sees no conspirators 5 asleep, he dreanis
of no assassin !"

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FII LD.

305

MARY HUGHES.

A TALE OF THE -WELCH HIGHLANDS.

Many years have passed since tlie
heroine of these memoirs found a refuge
from her sorrows in the bosom of the
grave. The inscription on her grave-
stone is now defaced and almost illegible,
and the green hillock that marked the
spot in which she rests has sunk down to
a level with the surrounding earth. Yet
she still hves in the hearts of those who
had been familiar with her beauty, and
had known her when her cheek was
radiant with the hues of health, and her
lin)bs were buoyant with the elasticity of
youth. To the memory of the old, to the
recollections of those whose heads are
now whitened with the snows of age, and
whose forms are bowed down by the iron
hand of Time, I have been indebted for
much of my materials. Sitting in their
hun)ble cottages, hid in the most wild and
picturesque scenery of North Wales, after
the telyn (the wildharp of the mountains)
had sounded the high deeds of their
fathers and the glory of their land, I lieard
the particulars forming the simple story
Vol. II. — 39.

Page 306.

of Mary Hughes, and the affecting inci-
dents of her fate. It is a tale that will
hardly awaken the sensibilities of those
w hose delight is fixed on novels of fashion-
able life; they, perhaps, will turn with
affected disgust from a legend that has its
foundation on the vulgar basis of nature
and truth. But their approbation I do
not seek. Those whose hearts are open
to the sympathies of humanity, whose
feelings are most deeply influenced by
the simplest, which are the most natural
causes, and whose passions do not require
to be called into action by strong and arti-
ficial excitements, are far more likely to
feel and understand this unpretending
narrative, than those whose intellectual
appetites seek for food of a higher though
less innocent character.

Captiiin Hughes had retired from the
service upon half-pay, after having served
during most part of the Peninsular war
with acknowledged bravery. He had
received a musket-ball in the leg, while
leading a detachment against the enemy,
which obliged him to quit the army.
Taking his daughter with him from a
school in England, where she had been
2 R

306

TALES OF CHIVALRY j OR,

placed since tlie death of her motlier, he
had retired to the home of his fathers,
which was situated aniong^ the almost
inaccessible fastnesses of tlie Denbigh-
shire hills. There was little about him
to provoke inciuiry. He had a well cul-
tivated mind, in)))roved by observation of
the manners and customs of other nations.
He possessed the frankness of a soldier,
mingled with the high bearing of a gentle-
man, proud of being descended from an
ancient and illustrious house. He took
pride in keeping up the hospitality for
which the name of his ancestors had ever
been famous ; and the offices which had
been filled in his household in a bygone
age were not allowed to be vacant in his
own. He was generous and brave, kind
to his dependants, and loved his daughter,
who was his only child, far above all
earthly things.

Mary had attained her fifteenth year,
and was just budding into womanhood.
She was tall, well formed, exquisitely
beautiful. Her limbs were moulded in a
form of surpassing grace ; her features
were modelled into an expression of un-
equalled loveliness ; her light hair hung
in luxuriant ringlets over her snowy fore-
head, dancing in the breeze that stirred
them, and seemed to be clothed with
smiles when the golden sunbeams played
upon their tresses. Yet she was as uncon-
scious of her own loveliness as the statue
of the divine Aphrodite is of that beauty
which has taken captive the hearts of so
many general ions. She was a child of
nature, knowing no evil, and fearing
none. Her mind was warmed wiili a high
and eloquent enthusiasm, which made her
look upon the goodness and excellence of
the things by which she was surrounded
with a feeling of exalted joy and unutter-
able love. She was kind and gentle to
all around her, participating in their plea-
sure, and enjoying their happiness. The
peasantry, by whom she was almost wor-
shipped, called her, in their wild dialect,
*' The Flower of the Hills ;" and it is a
name by which she is most remembered
by those who knew her, when her beauty
fully deserved so flattering a title. A vene-
rable bard, infirm and blind, who had long
been attached to her family, taught her to
play upon the harp, in which she quickly
excelled. He sang to her the national
records of his country — ths glory of
Llev\ellyn, and the fame of Glyndwr.

He taught her to appreciate the rich
poetry of the mountain bards, and to
execrate the memory of the tyrant by
whose order they had been so inhumanly
massacred. She listened to him with the
niost profound attention, as if she could
never be weary of so delightful a theme;
and by these means she accumulated in
her mind a rich store of mountain min-
strelsy. Often would she wander far
among the mountains, to some spot made
precious to her remembrance by a glorious
struggle, in which the resistless valour of
her fathers had triumphed over their in-
vaders ; or made holy to her memory by
a deluge of blood shed by their unavail-
ing bravery, when put in opposition to
the superior numbers and discipline of
tlieir conquerors. One day, when she was
returning from an excursion of this nature,
and was quickening her pace as she saw
the shadows descending on the mountains,
she heard a low bellow at some distance:
she turned her head, and to her unspeak-
able terror saw a bull, of a short thick
breed, peculiar to that part of Wales,
pursuing her with an appearance of the
most savage ferocity. She knew there
was no house nearer than a mile off, and
she saw no help at hand. Her only
chance of escape was over a rustic bridge
at no great distance, which the animal
could not cross. Summoning up all her
courage, and with what little strength she
possessed, she speeded on with a velocity
as if fear had lent her wings ; but she had
not proceeded far, before she heard the
enraged beast approaching nearer and
nearer, snorting, bellowing, and tearing
up the ground, as he bounded along the
earth. She already seemed to feel his
hot breath upon her shoulder, and, after
uttering a short prayer, was sinking from
excess of terror, when, jtist as the wild
animal was on the point of wreaking his
raving vengeance on her unoffending
body, a strong arm caught her round the
waist and drew her on one side. Tlie
beast, missing his aim, slipt and fell ; and
before he had time to recover his footing,
his intended victim was hurried out of his
reacli.

Edward Morris, the son of a neighbour-
ing clergyman, was quietly engaged fish-
ing for trout in a stream sheltered from
observation by a few willows that grew on
its bank, when his attention was forcibly
awakened by the noise the bull made in

PERILS UY FLOOD AND FIELD.

307

trrs progre??!. He -.vas jnst in time to save
the beauliful girl from a horrid death ;
and \vi;h breathless haste carried her over
the bridge tiiat kept her safe from the fury
of her pursuer. She had fainted. Ed-
ward Morris used the only remedy that
suggested itself to him— that of sprinkling
iier face with water from the neighbouring
stream. He gazed upon her, and owned
that even his poetic fancy, fond of ima-
ginary creatures of ideal excellence, had
never presented liim with the resemblance
of a being of such exceeding loveliness as
the beautiful and helpless female that lay
extended at his feet. He knelt as he
raised her from the ground, and watched
the appearance of returning animation
with feelings of the most intense int^^rest.
At length she opened the silken lashes of
her eyeii, as if awaking from a strange and
fearful dream, and met the impassioned
gaze of her preserver, who, like Adam,
enraptured with the beauty of his new-
created bride,

" Hung over her enamoured."

The sun at that moment was setting
behind the distant hills, leaving the horizon
in that blaze of splendour more frequently
visible in the wild romantic scenery of a
mountainous country. Flakes of crimson
and gold, of dark purple and light orange,
intermixed here and there with fleecy
clouds of the purest white, appeared at
some little distance from the departing
limiinary, whose immediate vicinity seem-
ed one blaze of fire, clothing the far off'
hills with a robe rivalling, in the joyous
richness and variety of its colour, the most
costly apparel in which the rulers of the
earth have sought to bestow dignity upon
their persons. Far in the heavens was
one vast expanse of blue, darkening in the
distance to the more sober hue of the
coming night. The sea, stretching far and
wide, was visible at the distance of a few
miles, where its waters were occasionally
relieved by the white sails of the distant
ships ; and the tall masts of the colliers
and trading vessels, as they lay at anchor
in the bay, were seen peeping over the
rugged cliffs of the coast. The river
was meandering in its serpentine course
through the valley that lay at their feet,
till it was lost in the waters of the ocean.
The little stream by which they stood, one
of the many torrents that were tributary to
the river, was taking its way in a series of
the most wild and picturesque falls, leap-

iusr, like a chamois-hunlcr, from crag to
crag, over the rocky prommences that in-
terrupted its course. Around rose hills
rising over hills, and mountains towering
over their giant brethren into the clouds
above them, till the eye ached with their
immensity, and the head grew dizzy at
the bare' imagination of their height.
Below them the gentle valley spread out
its alluring beauties, dotted here and there
with a cluster of simple cottages, from
among which the unpretending church
arose like a modest matron in the midst of
her offspring. Occasionally, where some
eminence presented a commanding situa-
tion, the baronial castle rose in its pride
of power ; or the well-built mansion of
more modern architecture, the hospitable
residence of some country gentleman,
threw its protecting smile over the adja-
cent villages. Yet more frequently was
seen the moss-covered ruin of a mighty
fabric, that was once perhaps the refujje of
the Saxon, or the stronghold of the Nor-
man, from whence they had issued to
spoil and lay waste with fire and sword
the possessions of the nati\ e lords ; till the
people, roused to vengeance by a sense of
their wrongs, rose en masse, washed away
their just hatred in the blood of their op-
pressors, leaving the homes of their tyrants
a heap of stones, as a monument for after-
ages, on which the antiquary might waste
his useless erudition in conjectures upon
its structure, or speculations upon its u«e.
In the most savage spots of this landscrpe
appeared cairns, or heaps of stones, mark-
ing probably a place of burial, and crom-
lechs, which are arrangements of masses
of stone, and are almo.^t the only existing
records of the Druids, a people whose
existence is clothed with so much fable
and mystery. These were the most con-
spicuous features of the landscape that met
the eye ; yet were they little heeded by
the two beings who seemed the only spec-
tators of a scene of so much loveliness and
grandeur.

Mary gazed on the handsome features
and athletic form of him to whom she
owed her life : their eyes met ; and in that
mute look he felt that she had thanked him
more than if her tongue liad expre.ssed all
the eloquence of the Grecian orators. He
raised tier from the ground wi;h as much
care as if .she was a fragile flower beaten
to the earth by the weight of the passing
storm.

2r2

308

TALES OF CIllV.ALRY; OR,

Edward was enraptured at the idea of
being the protector of a creature of such
fascinating beauty as she who tremblingly
]iung upon his arm. In passing over a
dark and fathomless ravine, only to be
crossed on the dangerous footing of a
felled tree, in a sudden feeling of terror
she clung to him for support. He felt
a thrill of unspeakable delight darting
throuo^h his frame ; and had he not shaken
off' its influence, and hurried from the spot,
it is probable the indulgence of such happy
'feelings, in such a situation, would have
led to the destruction of both. The rest
of their journey was of a less hazardous
character, and therefore more favourable
for conversation. It was a time when the
feelings of the heart overpower all other
sensations — when thought is most eloquent
of meaning, but when the tongue is voice-
less. The pleasing influence of a tirst
impression takes possession of soul and
sense, and there revels on unchecked ;
those sympathies w hich nature has planted
in the human heart, for the best and wisest
purpose, gather power, increase in force,
and become more pleasing, until the im-
pression becomes less and Jess efFaceable,
and the germ of a fond and passionate
attachment rises into being. Silence at
such a time renders the most powerful
assistance ; fancy is allowed to dwell upon
the theme, and the imagination to colour
it in its brightest hues ; afl^ection gathers
in the bud, puts forth its leaves, and soon
becomes too strong to be blighted in its
early growth.

Edward Morris w-as the only son of a
clergyman, the rector of a neighbouring
village a few miles distant from the re-
sidence of Captain Hughes. His father
had been considered one of the best clas-
sical scholars of the university to which
he belonged : his mother had died in his
infancy ; and his remaining parent found
a sweet and precious solace in directing
the education and watching the progress
of his child's mind. He devoted nearly
the w hole of his attention to so pleasing a
study, and he never had occasion to regret
it. Edward proceeded rapidly in his
studies, at an early age giving promise of
future excellence. Now, in his eighteenth
year, he was thoroughly conversant with
the greatest of the poets, philosophers,
and historians of the ancient world, and
with the most valuable portion of the lan-
guage and literature of modern Europe.

He had visited almost every corner of the
mountain land that gave him birtii ; and
his footste[)S were as familiar with the
summits of Snowdon and Cader Idris, as
they were with the green pathwl^ys in the
valleys of Clwyd and Glyndwrdwy. His
mind was stored with the local traditions
of the hospitable peasantry, among whom
he was always a welcome guest. From
the romantic annals and tlie legendary
minstrelsy they iiad furnished him with,
together with the influence of the sublime
scenery in which he had ever moved and
breathed, he possessed an imagination of
a highly poetical character. Had he en-
joyed those advantages which are neces-
sary to its favourable development, such
an imaginai'on would have ranked him
high anion Of the possessors of " the faculty
divine." With such attainments his father
proposed sending him to college, that he
might pursue his studies into the higher
branches of education, be ordained, and
become his successor in the church.

Mary was approaching home, when they
met her father mounted on his old black
pony, and accompanied by several of the
labourers on his estate. He had been
alarmed by her prolonged stay, and had
set out, with some of his men, for the pur-
pose of seeking her. When they disco-
vered the object of their search, the wild
Highlanders, to many of whom Mary was
personally known, sent up a shout of re-
cognition, which he returned with as much
gratification. The old man alighted, em-
braced his daughter, and expressed his
joy at her return. He appeared as if
overjoyed at once more beholding his
child, for whose safety he had lately en-
tertained such fearful forebodings ; and
the warm-hearted Celts that accompanied
him seemed to feel as strongly the general
joy — for they danced about like wild deer,
and sang snatches of songs, in an idiom
almost as ancient as their mountains.
When the captain was made acquainted
with the particulars of his child's preserva-
tion, heightened as the relation was by the
enthusiasm of her gratitude, it aj)peared
as if he thought he could never express
his thanks sufficiently. He shook Edward
by the hand again and again, and invited
him to his house, with many expressions
of esteem and good will.

" GryfTydd !" called out the veteran, to
a wild-looking son of the hills, who seemed
as ha[)py as the rest j " why stand ye

PERILS BV FLOOD AXD FIELD.

309

capering like a yoinior goat in the snn-
sliine ? Haste to the liouse of mv fathers,
and bid my people welcome, with feasting
and with songs, the preserver of the
Flower of the Hills — the bright- eyed
daughter of Morgan, ap Gwylym, ap
Hughes."

** Heaven bestow good on thee !" ex-
claimed the Celt to Edward, looking on
him with a countenance expressive of the
sincerest pleasure, and then darting off" to
do the bidding of his lord with the speed
of an antelope.

They proceeded homewards in all joy-
fulness of heart, when they were met by
the whole population of the district, men,
women, and children, who seemed to par-
ticipate in the gladness of their lord, to
whom they were much attached. Captain
Hughes, as he alighted at the gate of his
house, which had been in possession of his
family for centuries, welcomed Edward to
the home of his fathers, and led the way
to the hall, where sat the old harper,
twining his bony fingers in the strings of
his ancient harp.

*'Prichard !" said the lord of the man-
sion, in the language with which he always
addressed his people; "let the tuneful
chords of thy harp sound a welcome to the
stranger ; for we owe him thanks for
having saved from death the last of our
house. Sound the bardic welcome to the
brave, and thou shalt have the blue hirlas
full of yellow mead to drink his health."

It was a generally-received superstition,
that the bards of old were gifted with a
knowledge of fuluiity, and could, in their
wild and irregular numbers, give notice
to the living of danger and death. From
this cause they had been held holy by the
many ; and even by those who have been
thought most free of such influence, they
were treated with the most profound vene-
ration and respect. What, then, could
equal the astonishment all felt, when the
old man, after striking a few chords, broke
out into a symphony of melancholy sweet-
ness and sorrowful lamentation ?
Wo! wo! to the halls of thy fathers, fur they
shall become desolate !
The bats shall congregate in thj- chambers,
And the owls be busy on thy liearths.
Wo ! wo ! to the stranger, for his days shall be
but few ;
Old a-^'i- shall never whiten his dark hair,
And his b;ight eye shall see the grave.
Wo ! wo ! to tlie la^st of thy race, fur she shall
perish.
Even the bright FloMt r oi the lliJls
Shall wither iu the bud.

Wo! wo ! to Morgan, apGwylara, ap Merydydd,
aplluirhos;
For he shall be left, like a blighted tree.
On the rocks of Craig yr ^^ yddva.

The bard closed his minstrelsy with a
sigh that seemed almost to break the
heart whence it issued.

"What, Prichard !" exclaimed his lord,
" is this the way thou welcomest my guest ?
Bat when I ask thee to honour us with
thy minstrelsy again, it is to be hoped thy
muse may produce something more ap-
propriate."

He proceeded to the usual sitting-room,
followed by Edward and Mary, both of
whom were musing on the melancholy
import of the harper's melody. On them
it had succeeded in making a deeper im-
pression than it could be supposed to make
on the strong mind of the rough soldier,
who seldom allowed his senses to be
worked upon by the superstitions of the
peasantry. From, the mind of Edward it
was soon erased by the cordiality of his
host : but Mary never forgot it ; she
treasured it up in her remembrance, till
death blotted from her memory all that
was sad and all that was pleasing.

In the course of conversation, the cap-
tain disoovered that the father of his young
friend had been the college chum and con-
fidential companion of his early days.
This w-as a fresh call upon his friendship,
and he allowed the kindlier feelings of
his heart to exercise their full sway, and
to possess their strongest influence. He
would hear no excuse, but forced him to
accept an invitation to pass the night in
his house, making the hours run on wMth
the most agreeable rapidity, by the rela-
tion of his campaigns in the Peninsula, or
his freaks at college.

When Edward awoke the next morning,
he looked from his window over the sur-
rounding country, and saw the sun rising,
and the mists retreating from the valleys
to the higher grounds. He prepared him-
self for a walk, and stepped out upon the
lawn opposite the liouse : the grass was
wet witli the last night's dews, which the
air had not yet yet gained sufficiently
warm a temperature to imbibe. He bent
his footsteps towards a garden, whose
gravel walks presented a more agreeable
footing. He saw there flowers in their
glowing hues, filling the air with their
fragrance, and delighting the eye with
their beauty. He stayed a short time to
admire them, and passed on to an antique

310

Tales of Chivalry ; or,

summer-house tliat appeared at tlie bottom
of one of the walks. He was proceechng
to enter it, when he was stojiped by hear-
ing the sounds of a liarp, which appeared
at the bottom of one of the walks. He
was proceeding to enter it, when he was
stopped by hearing the sounds of a harp,
which appeared to issue from the buikiing.
He paused, and heard one of his own wild
mountain melodies, sung in a tone of such
surpassing sweetness, and sucii ciiaracter-
istic simplicity, tiiat he felt as spell-bound
with the witchery of the sounds. When
the voice had ceased, he entered the build-
ing, and discovered Mary Hughes, in a
neat and graceful morning dress, bending
over the harp, and still employed in pro-
ducing chords from its melodious strings.
She turned her head as he entered, and
when she saw who it was, she welcomed
him with one of her most winning smiles,
placed her hand in his, and as she had
never felt the necessity of concealing her
natural feelings, she did not attempt to
disguise her joy at seeing him. Edward
was enraptured at the kind reception he
had met with, and gazed on the lovely
being before him with eyes that seemed
to drink in the image of her beauty witii
an intensity of pleasure too powerful for
the most talented writer to describe.

Edward loved her — fondly, dearly, and
ardently loved her; in his soul he wor-
shipped, in his heart he adored her ; the
ground she trod on was made only by her
footsteps, the things she handled were
sanctified by her touch. Even the very
atmosphere in which she moved seemed
to him to borrow light and purity from
the rich splendour of her loveliness ; and
the bright lustre of her dove-like eyes
appeared to confer unimaginable beauty
upon every thing on which they dwelt.

One evening they left their fathers en-
gaged in discussing the merits of an object
of disputed antiquity, and proceeded on
one of their usual walks. The night was
uncommonly fine, the air pure as it gene-
rally is in a mountainous country, the sky
without a cloud, and the stars possessing
more than their accustomed brilliancy.
The moon, on such scenery as this, pro-
duces an effect upon which no imagina-
tion can confer due justice : the trees, the
waters, and the fur-ofl^ hills, were touched
with a featherly mantle of the most bril-
liant white, and the tops of the most dis-
tant mountains were as clearly visible as

they are in the brightest day. In the dark
waters of the lake the stars shone as vividly
as in their own element ; and the trees
upon its bank seemed sleeping on the still
bosom of the waters, like things without
life, and without motion. Never was a
scene more fitted to iunnortalize the hand
of a painter — never a landscape that more
clearly displayed the immortality of its
Creator. Their walk led them towards
the ruins of an old monastery, which had
lately become a favourite resort. It
looked glorious in the moonlight: its
fragments covered a vast extent of ground.
One magnificent window was entire, and
several smaller ones imperfect, but what
was visible of them was marked by sculp-
ture by no mean hand. There were
arches, several of which were covered
with beautiful traceries; and pillars, most
of them in fragments, but many possessing
sullicient solidity to give the beholder an
idea of the vast structure to which they
once belonged. One or two chambers
were still perfect ; the rest, an undistin-
guished heap of ruins. Here and there
was an empty niche, that plainly told to
what service it had formerly been devoted ;
but the figure of the saint or virgin which
once filled up its vacant corner, had long
since crumbled into dust. Most of the
stone-work was concealed by a profusion
of lichens and wild flowers, that grew
there in all the luxury of undisciplined
vegetation.

Wales is rich in picturesque ruins, more
so than any country of similar extent; for
the troubles that have so often desolated
the hearths of her people have passed over
other lands less frequent lyand less severely:
but the relics of the old monastery is cha-
racterized with a beauty of a peculiar cha-
racter, touching the heart more deeply
than the more glorious wrecks of a more
glorious time. There was something
holy in the solitary loneliness of its walls
— something sublime in the desolate
grandeur of its masses. Many legends
were connected with it. The peasantry
allowed it to be haunted with the ghosts
of the departed monks, and seldom dared
to venture within its immediate neigh-
bourhood. But such idle tales had little
infiuence on those who were now journey-
ing thither. They walked under its ruined
arches, and seated themselves upon the
pedestal of a fallen column. Here they
sat watching the beautiful effect of the

PERILS BY FLOOD A\D nELD.

311

moonbeams stealing through the inters-
tices in the ivy, and breaking into a thou-
sand fragments of light, that fell upon (he
green and discoloured pavement at their
feet. They had been engaged some time
talking of the delightful effect of light and
shade, when INIary heard, or fancied that
she heard, sounds like those of a man's
voice ; but Edward assured her it was
most probably a bat shrieking in some
distant part of the building ; and she ex-
pressed herself satisfied. It was not long,
however, before they again heard the
same sounds, and heard them more plainly.
He was certain there were others in the
ruins besides themselves, and, with the
natural impetuosity of youth, jumped up
to know who they were. He received
Mary's assurance that she would not be
alarmed if he left her for a few moments,
and sallied out in the direction whence he
though.t the sounds proceeded. He had
gone on some little distance, treading with
cautious footsteps the perilous ground
over which he passed, and had entered
what had probably been once a cell, when
he heard a long and piercing scream,
followed by cries for help in a voice he
could not mistake. A bar of iron had been
displaced, by rust or violence, from its
position across the window, and was con-
nected with the wall by one part only ;
he easily wrenched it from its hold, and
leaped over the shaking stones like a w ild
deer along the lieather. He returned in
time to see his beautiful Mary struggling
in the arms of two ruffian-looking sailors,
and shrieking out his name for help.
They were carrying her off. Edward, as
he approached, called out to the villains
to let her go. One of them, leaving his
destined prey, discharged a pistol at his
head, which fortunately missed its aim.
Before he had time to draw the other he
was levelled to the ^jround with tlie iron
bar. The other ruthan, seeing his com-
panion fall, thought best to seek safety in
flight. H« escaped not scathless ; for
Edward fired at him the pistol he had
taken possession of from his fallen com-
rade; and it was evident he was severely
wounded, for a shepherd, the next morn-
ing, traced blood upon the grass to a con-
siderable distance.

When Mary found herself free from her
assailants, she rushed into the arms of her
deliverer, who could not refrain from
pressing her to his heart. She looked up

into his face with her bright eyes over-
flowing with love and gratitude — their lips
met — and one prolonged delicious kiss
was the seal of their mutual affection.
How long tlrey remained in this state of
delight and happiness it matters not; it was
time sufficient for liim to tell the love that
had so long lain brooding in his breast,
and sufficient for him to hear her, in
return, own how dearly she loved him.
The outpourings of his heart, when once
allowed vent, were discharged in a flood
of eloquence and trutli. He told her of
the growth of his passion, from its com-
mencement to its confession — how his
soul had yearned for her beauty — how his
heart had tliirsted for her presence — how
the world had become dark to him when
the light of her fair eyes had ceased to
dwell upon the air he breathed — and how
nature had become neglected by him
when her loveliness no longer appeared,
to shine forth the brightest feature in the
landscape. There was a fire in his words
and an energy in his manner which there
was no withstanding. Again and again
— her eyes beaming with the ecstasy of
her feelings — her bosom panting with the
intensity of lier affection — her cheeks
suffused with the glow of passionate ex-
citement— did the lovely girl press him
closer and closer to her heart, in gushes of
an uncontrollable transport, of which before
she had never experienced a tithe of the

joy-
In the meantime the ruffian whom Ed-
ward had left for dead upon the ground,
but who was merely stunned, began to
recover from the effects of the blow ; and
seeing his late antagonist so much en-
gaged as not likely to pay much attention
to his movements, he took himself off in
the most cjuiet way he possibly could, not
wishing to risk another blow from so for-
midable a weapon.

As they walked home, they agreed that
their fathers were not to know any thing
of what had occurred until the following
day — when she consented, after much
persuasion, that he should ask their per-
mission to their union.

(To be continued.)

THE ESCAPE OF SIR SIDNEY SMITH.

M. BoiSGERARD was a Frenchman of
good extraction, and, at the period of the
French Revolution, w^as attached to the
royal party. When sir Sidney Smith

312

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

was confined in the Temple, Boisgeravd
acted up to his principles l)y attempting,
and, with great personal risk, eflecting,
the escape of that distinguished officer,
whose friends were making every effort
for his liberation. Having obtained an
impression of the seal of the directorial
government, lie affixed it to an order,
forged by himselT, for the delivery of sir
Sidney into his care. Accompanied by a
friend, disguised, like himself, in .the
uniform of an officer of the revolutionary
army, he did not scruple personally to
present the fictitious document to the
keeper of the Temple, who, opening a
small closet, took thence some original
document, with the writing and seal of
which he carefully compared the forged
order. Desiring the adventurers to wait
a few minutes, he then withdrew, and
locked the door after him. Giving them-
selves up for lost, the confederates deter-
mined to resist, sword in hand, any attempt
made to secure them. The period which
thus elapsed may be imagined as one of
the most horrible suspense to Boisgerard
and his companion ; his own account of
his feelings at the time is extremely in-
teresting. Left alone, and in doubt
whether each succeeding moment might
not be attended by a discovery involving
the safety of his life, the acuteness of his
organs of sense was heightened to pain-
fulness: the least noise thrilled through
his brain, and the gloomy apartment in
wliicli he sat seemed filled with strange
images. They preserved their self-pos-
session ; and, after the lapse of a few
minutes, their anxiety was determined by
the re-appearance of the gaoler, accom-
panied by his captive, who was delivered
to Boisgerard. But here a new and un-
looked-for ditficulty occurred : sir Sidney
Smith, not knowing Boisgerard, refused,
for some time, to quit the i)rison ; and
considerable address was required, on the
part of his deliverers, to overcome his
scruples. At last the precincts of the
Temple were cleared ; and, after going a
short distance in a fiacre, then walking,
then entering another carriage, and so on,
adopting every means of bafHing pursuit,
the fugitives got to Havre, where sir
Sidney was put on board an English
vessel. Boisgerard, on his return to Paris
(for he quitted sir Sidney at Havre), was
a tliousand times in dread of detection :
tarrying at an auberrre^ he was asked

whether he had heard the nevrs of sir
Sidney's escape : the querist adchng, that
four persons had been arrested on sus-
picion of having been instrumental in it.
However, he escaf)ed all these dangers,
and continued at Paris until his visit to
England, which took place after the peace
of Amiens. A pension had been granted
to sir Sidney Smitli for his meritorious
services ; and, on Boisgerard's arrival
here, a reward of a similar nature was
bestowed on him, through the influence
of sir Sidney, who took every opportunity
of testifying his gratitude.

CAPTAIN JEREMIAH COGHLAN, R. N.

Whilst in the command of his majesty's
sloop Renard, captain Coghlan fell in with
the Lily, a French privateer ship (formerly
an English sloop of war, captured by the
enemy on the Halifax station), off St,
Domingo, and brought her to action.
During the height of the engagement, the
French captain, by way, as he supposed,
of intimidating our tars, hailed them to
" Strike !" Captain Coghlan, who heard
it, instantly took his trumpet, and replied,
** Ay, ril strike, and hard too, my lad,
directly." The next broadside fired from
the Renard sunk the Lily, with the greater
part of her crew.

Whilst commanding the same vessel off
St. Domingo, captain Coghlan had the
good fortune to fall in with the French
brig of war, Prudent ; and though larger,
and carrying more men and guns than the
Renard, she struck without firing a shot.
On the French captain's coming on board,
and observing the comparative smallness
of the English vessel to that which he
had just given up the command of, he
with the greatest coolness requested per-
mission to return to his ship, that he might
try his skill in fight; which of course
captain Coghlan laughed at. He then
with equal gravity sohcited a certificate,
saying that he had not acted cowardly.
Captain Coghlan replied — "No ; I cannot
do that; but I will give you one that
shall specify you have acted prudentl?/ y

A Dutchman's climax of happiness.

It is better to walk than to run ; it is
better to stand than to walk ; it is better
to lie down than to sit ; it is better to
sleep than to lie down ; it is better to die
than to sleep.

PERILS BY FLOOD ^ND FIELD.

313

THE MERCHANT'S SON;

OR, THE PROFLIGATES.

Eric Edelman was the only son of
Christiern Edeltnan, an eminent merchant
in Copenhagen. His amiable disposition
and good understanding were improved
by the advantage of a liberal education.
But, unfortunately, after finishing a course
of such studies as were held not unsuitable
to his condition, and about to enter into
business with his father, he became con-
nected with some young men of enticing,
but very dissolute manners. Among
others, a person considerably older than
himself, named Geysler, descended from a
respectable family in Jutland, of agreeable
appearance and insinuating address, but
who had squandered away a large estate
that had been left him by his parents, and
had now no other means of subsistence
but by pky, in which lie was very expert,
became the principal friend of Eric. It
is needless to enumerate the assiduities,
flatteries, and plans of seduction that were
contrived and employed to ensnare him.
They were not very numerous. Gay,
lively, unsuspicious, glowing with the
VOL. II. — 40.

Page 315.

passions, and elate with the arrogance
and self-importance of youth, he became
impatient of all controul, and abandoned
every worthy pursuit. The remonstrances
of his father were ineffectual, and the
traces of good instruction were altogether
effaced. But though he became as pro-
fligate as any of his new associates, he
had not acquired their dexterity in pro-
fligate arts and attainments. Seduced
by their example, and corrupted by their
impious maxims, he now became the dupe
of their rapacious craft. His losses at
play were great and frequent. His re-
! sources were soon exhausted. The slave
I of dissolute vices, without money, without
I credit, avoided by men of worth, and now
I despised by his mean and unfeeling asso-
I ciates, is it wonderful he should despair ?
I But his despondency was reprimanded
by the seeming friendship of Geysler.
; ♦• Go," said he, " to your father. You
'. are his only son. His wealth is immense.
j Your conduct is not more censurable than
j that of others. Or, do you think your
father himself was not, in his youth, as
' debauched and as expensive as his for-
tune permitted ? He must, indeed, be an

314

TALES OF CHIVALRY • Oil,

unjust and unnatural parent, if be will
not free you from your present embar-
rassment."

Suffice it to say, tbat bis fatber, vexed
at bis follies, sliocked vviib bis enormities,
and weary witb baving^ frequently, and
even to excess, supplied bis extravagance,
now* not only refused bim, but refused
bim witb a severity wbicb bis conduct
merited. Tbe young man was incensed.
His seducer justified, even praised bis
displeasure; be called it spirit, and im-
proved it into resentment. Resentment
against a fatber ! But Geysler bad formed
a dark and deep design to possess bimself
of Edelman's fortune; for tbis purpose
he embraced tbe present opportunity of
plying bis inconsiderate son witb extraor-
dinary assiduity. He supplied bim witb
as much money, from bis own funds, rapa-
ciously accumulated, as enabled bim to
leave bis father's family and retire to
Elsinore, a place the next in importance
to Copenhagen. " Conceal yourself
there," said be, ** for a little time, and
I shall fall upon some method of bis dis-
charging your deUls, and of enabling you
to appear as unembarrassed, and with as
much splendour as usual." Eric's grati-
tude was expressed witii rapture ; and bis
false friend did not miss the opportunity
of promoting iiis resentment against tiie
venerable Cbristiern.

Young Edelman bad not been many
days at Elsinore, when he received the
following letter from Geysler : ** If I were
childish enough, my dearest friend, to
believe the fables of priests, 1 would say
that a noble interposiiion of Providence
in your behalf had now taken place. I am
this instant informed tbat your inhuman
father is suddenly dead ; an apoplectic
stroke did its duty in an instant. Hasten,
then, to meet me in the Birchwood, at
your father's, rather your country-bouse,
by the sea-side, between Elsinore and
Copenhagen. The old fellow is dead
without a will, so you are sole heir of his
immense estate. Hasten to meet me,
tbat we may concert several things re-
specting your re-appearance in the metro-
polis. Your ever faithful and affectionate
Geysler."

This letter threw the heart of Eric into
great agitation. He shed some tears, and
felt some remorse. He read it again ;
and was folding it up with extreme emo-
tion, when be received the following note

from bis friend : " I just now learn tbat
your father had given orders for having a
deed written, by which you were to be
disinherited, and your fortune bestowed
on your hypocritical kinsman Kenrick.
But, thank your stars, the old fellow had
not time to sign it."

The resentment of Eric was thus re-
newed ; and bis imagination rioted in tbe
prospect of unbounded opulence. He
hastened to the place appointed ; and the
sight of an elegant bouse and gardens, of
which he now thought himself tbe sole
proprietor, transported bim with exulta-
tion. " Here," said be, " I shall have
many a smart party witb Geysler." —
Geysler soon arrived, but with a counte-
nance clouded with seeming anxiety and
disappointment. Eric flew eagerly to his
embrace, and to receive his congratula-
tion. ** Nay," said bis artful associate,
" we have been shamefully and most
vilely deceived. The report of your fa-
ther's death was without foundation. It
was invented and circulated by himself;
and with the base intention of imposing
upon me, so that I might reveal your
situation, and tbe place of your conceal-
ment. He is now leagued with your cre-
ditors ; wishes you may languish out your
life in a gaol, or go in a most dependent
condition to some Danisb factory in tbe
East or West Indies. In the meantime
he has actually made the settlement I told
you of, and has declared Kenrick the heir
of his fortune." The various effects pro-
duced by this guileful narrative on the
mind of Eric may easily be conceived.
Need it be added, Ibat rage, envy, and re-
venge, were the three furies tbat scourged
his heart ?

But tbe skies and groves did not frown
with corresponding horror. The sky was
serene, and the sun was setting bright in
the west. The Birch-wood was adorned
with his rays, that crowned with splendour
tbe opposite mountains of Sweden. The
intervening sea was calm ; and a multi-
tude of the vessels of all nations lay at
anchor in the Sound. The father of Eric
was then returning from Copenhagen,
whose steeples and edifices were seen at
a little distance. His intention was to
pass the night at bis charming villa, and
derive from its peaceful retreat as much
consolation as affliction for his son's mis-
conduct would suffer him to enjoy. He
was descried at a little distance by the

PERILS BY FLOOD AXD FIELD.

315

dissolute pair, \^ho concealed themselves
by the side of a thicket. He was walking
slowly, and alone, by a solitary path,
which he had reserved for his own conve-
nience, that he might not be disturbed
by carriages or passengers, as he went to
or returned from the city.

Jt will readily occur to the reader, that
the abandoned Geysler was not unap-
prised of his coming, nor need it be
difficult to conceive, that he meant to
profit by the frenzy of Eric's passions, and
prompt him to desperate parricide. He
might, no doubt, have perpetrated the
crime himself; but he chose to have rt
done by the unhappy victim of his ava-
rice, in order that, being privy to his
guilt, he might for ever detain him in
bondage, and extort from him wliat he
chose as the price of his silence. He
accordingly represented to him, that if
Ijis father were to be slain in the wood,
it would naturally be supposed that he
had been killed by the band of robbers
which at tliis time infested Denmark, and
particularly the island of Zealand. Yet,
incensed and furious though Eric was,
his seducer had to encounter difficultv
and hesitation, before he could prevail
with him to grasp the sword which he
offered him.

With irresolute and trembling step,
ferocious but timid look, eyes glaring
with the horror of self-condemned resent-
ment, and a heart wrung with conflicting
passions, the youth advanced. His father
saw him — shuddered. " Whence ?" said
he, with faltering accents, "and what is
your savage purpose ?" Eric paused.
" Pause not," subjoined his father, now
recovering from his amazement ; ** per-
petrate the bloody deed, and free me from
a life which your follies and vices have
rendered miserable." The sword fell
from the hand of Eric. He threw himself
at his father's feet, and hid his face on the
ground. The seducer was seized witli
terror. He saw they would immediately
be reconciled, and beheld in that recon-
ciliation his own infamy and destruction.
No other resource was left him ; both
father and son must perish. He fired a
pistol ; missed his aim ; Eric started up
at the report ; seized his sword ; rushed
upon the assassin, who was drawing the
trigger of another pistol ; plunged the
steel in his heart, and had liis own bosom
at the same instant pierced with the fatal

bullet. Geysler died on the spot; but
Eric, languishing for several days, afforded
his father and other relations the sad con-
solation of hearing his confession, and wit-
nessing his sincere and pious repentance.
Dying, he said it affbrHed some relief to
his sufferings, tliat " he had saved his
father's life, and bequeathed him to the
care of an affectionate and worthy kins-
man."

MARY HUGHES.

{Concluded from ^.311.)

The next day Edward went on his de-
licate mission. \Mien her father was
made aware of the fresh debt of gratitude
he had contracted, he met his young
friend's demand with the greater pleasure,
as he was then conscious of having it in
his power to bestow a suitable acknow-
ledgment on his exertions. He said he
had but one gift worth his acceptance,
and that was his daughter. She was a
treasure he felt loth to part with ; yet, as
no one could possibly deserve her so well'
as one who had twice perilled liis life to
save hers, if she loved him, and he pos-
sessed his father's consent, they should
have his, and his blessing, whenever they
were desirous of possessing them.

With his own father Edward was not
so successful. The old gentleman ima-
gined, that if he was married at so early
an age, he might probably become indo-
lent and unfit for his vocation ; he there-
fore stated to him, that if he immediately
proceeded to college, and obtained there
those honours he knew he had sufficient
ability to expect, he should, after having
been ordained for holy orders, possess the
hand he coveted, with his most fervent
prayers for their happiness. Nothing, he
said, could give greater pleasure to him,
than to unite the daughter of liis ancient
friend with his only son ; but he could
not tfiink it accordant with his duty as a
Christian minister, and his duty as a
father, to give his consent to their union
till such considerations had been fulfilled.
With such (as he considered) hard terms
as these, Edward was obliged to ac-
quiesce.

jNIary was soon acquainted with the
circumstances: an arrangement like this
was quite unexpected to her. It was not
without some misgivings that she acceded
to it. Her feelings had been raised to a
2 s 2

316

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

height of rapturous excitement by the near
approach of her felicity ; and it was with
a proportionate fall she heard the proposed
delay. Again the voice of the blind
harper sounded in her ears the prophetic
warning, and a conviction came upon her
mind that the separation would be fraught
with danger — would be fatal to one or
both of them. But she could not persuade
herself to attempt changing the course of
events, and she allowed the fortnight that
elapsed before his departure to pass with-
out mentioning her fears.

Day after day went by, and still found
them together roaming the levels, climb-
ing the hills, or seated on the declivities,
with hearts brimming with the fulness of
their affection, and eyes glistening with
the rapture of their bliss. Little he said
of his departure. His joy was in the
present, nor had he fears for the future.
No plans were formed, no promises given,
no anticipations considered. The time
passed rapidly and joyously, in the sweet
indulgence of their mutual love. The last
day arrived. Edward rode over to his
friend's mansion to take his farewell. He
found her in the antique summer-bouse,
playing on her harp a melody she knew
he loved to hear. She always forgot her
fears when she found him by her side ;
but this morning she had woke to the cer-
tainty of its being the last day of their
meeting. In spite of his caresses, she
could not refrain from unburdening to him
the fearful anticipations she cherished —
her regret at his departure — and her fears
for his safety. He endeavoured to per-
suade her that her fears were vain, but
met with little success. She hung upon
his shoulder, her eyes glistening with
tears, imploring him to remember her
when away, to think of her often, to write
to her frequently — but, above all, to be
sure to be always attentive to his own
safety ; for if any thing was to happen to
him, she could not live ; her heart would
break, and an early grave would be her
portion. Overpowered with the agony of
her feelings, she sank exhausted on his
arm. Edward gazed upon her pale fea-
tures, while her bright hair was streaming
over her shoulders, and her fair form was
reclining on his for support, and vowed to
himself that never, in word or deed, in
thought or action, would he do any thing
that might give her pain. He felt almost
subdued by the force of his own sensa-

tions. He could not look unmoved on
the spectacle before him, nor could he
observe the intensity of her afl'ection with-
out being deeply affected by it.

She soon recovered, raised herself from
his arm, and looked upon him for a time
steadily and composedly ; then, in a fresh
burst of uncontrollable transport, she
pressed him fondly to her breast, and
clung upon his lips in a paroxysm of pas-
sionate feeling. Every promise was made
to her that could tend in the least degree
to mitigate her sorrows, or to quiet her
fears ; and at last, with frequent vows of
fidelity on both sides, and parting gifts
given and received, she allowed him to
depart.

Edward sought his gallant friend, and
found him seated on his pony, with a de-
termination of seeing him to his father's,
near which the coach passed that was to
carry him to his destination. On they
jogged ; the sure-footed animals on which
they rode, like the mules in the moun-
tainous districts of Spain, seemed to pos-
sess a more than natural instinct in climb-
ing the dangerous passes that lay in their
direction. They never stumbled, even
upon the most hazardous footing; but
trod with as much safety their rugged
pathways, and felt as much at ease, as a
modern exquisite on the broad pave of
Kegent Street or St. James's. When
they parted, it was not widiout some
emotion that the veteran left his young
friend, as he shook him heartily by the
hand, and wished him all success at Alma
Mater.

Months passed, years were following,
and Mary still continued to improve in
loveliness and excellence. She frequently
received letters from her lover, all breath-
ing the tenderest affection ; and she had
intelligence from his father (who generally
managed to ride over once a-week to see
his old friend) of his progress and success.
She felt almost happy ; and she looked
forward to the close of the last year, when
she expected to be quite so. As she ap-
proached nearer and nearer to the time
appointed for the full enjoyment of her
happiness, she shook off the fear that had
oppressed her, and determined to consider
the blind bard as a false prophet.

In their neighbourhood, a few miles
distant from them, lived a young man,
named Walter Jones, who had just suc-
ceeded to a small property left him by his

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

317

father. Walter had never borne a good
character among his more respectable
nei^libours. He liad from a boy been
violent and headstrong, fond of mischief,
partial to bad company, and addicted to
hard drinking. It was said that he had
been lately recognised on the coast with
a party of smugglers who were known to
frequent there ; and it was generally sus-
pected that he was their leader. He was
tall, athletic, and not unhandsome, either
in form or features. His dark eyes, which
many a simple girl thought beautiful,
when lighted up by passion or revenge,
flashed upon the object of his hatred an
almost supernatural light ; and his black
hair, which had never been cut, curled
over his forehead, and hung down upon
his shoulders, giving an appearance of
wild beauty to his features, whose deli-
neation would have done honour to the
pencil of a Salvator Rosa. He was the
dread of many of the peasantry for his
dark eye, and the fear of others for his
great strength. He was reckless and
daring as a young lion, but savage and
ferocious as a wild tigress. Still, he was
admitted into the society of the small
farmers of the vicinity, where his courage
made him acceptable to some, his quali-
fications in hard drinking to many, and
his paternal acres and good figure brought
with them no small recommendation to
others — of which careful mothers and
ambitious daughters formed a large por-
tion. They knew little, it is to be hoped,
of his more exceptionable deeds — nothing
but the romantic interest that was attached
to his name. Whisperings came to them
of daring enterprises, in which he had
acted a principal character; but among a
people where such things have always
been looked upon as more glorious than
blameable, it was not to be supposed it
could much injure him in their estimation.
Nothing dark, in which his name was
mixed up with deeds of blood and with
victims of treaciiery, ever came to their
ears ; for he was in the habit of managing
matters in a much surer way.

At the house of a gentleman in the
neighbourhood, Mary and her father met
him for the first time. He was not un-
known to captain Hughes ; but his know-
ledge of him was derived from the report
of his tenants, and from facts learned in
his professional capacity as a magistrate.
Mary had never seen him before j but it

was suspected by some that he had seen
her, although he had previously' had no
opportunity of speaking to her ; for it was
afterwards discovered that the two men
who attacked her at the ruins of the old
monastery belonged to the smugglers on
the coast; and what object they could
have in carrying her off, was supposed to
be best known to himself. He seemed
inclined to pay her much attention, and
endeavoured to make himself agreeable ;
but she shrunk from his attentions with
feelings of disgust. He was not a man
to be easily disheartened by the little
hopes that could be entertained from the
result of his first interview ; so he still
continued his views, and still flattered
himself with hopes of succeeding. He
had met with so few disappointments in
his intercourse with the fair sex, that he
imagined a siniple girl would soon fall a
willing victim to the shrine of his vanity.
Of captain Hughes he stood somewhat
in awe ; for his power was great — he was
much beloved bv the people, who to
defend him and his daughter would have
rallied round them in a mass ; and his
reputation for courage was unquestion-
able ; therefore he did not venture inside
his house. But he contrived to meet
Mary in all her walks. She could not stir
out the shortest distance without finding
him by her side. He pretended the most
ardent attachment and the most devoted
love, to which she would not listen, and
would not believe. At last, finding that
all his expressions were attended to with
a deaf ear, and all his vows and protesta-
tions taken very little notice of — fearing
to come to extremities with her father, and
burning to possess the beautiful girl, he
most generously, as he thought, made her
an offer of his hand and fortune, which was
refused as politely as possible.

She felt so much annoyed at his perse-
cutions, that, although she had at first
determined to keep them a secret, she
told her father the w hole particulars. He
advised her not to leave tlie house with-
out him ; and if he then attempted to
annoy her, he should suffer for it.

When \^'alter Jones found all his ex-
pectations conclude with so little profit —
that he had been actually rejected, he
would hardly beheve it. He thought it
preposterously strange ; and, from his
experience in such matters, pronounced
it a mere artifice of the sex. Finding

318

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

liimself deprived of the usual opportunities
of seeing her, he determined upon having
an interview with her father, to see what
his powers of persuasion would do in his
favour. Captain Hughes heard him out
with asnnicli patience as he could possibly
assume. He then very civilly refused
him for a son-in-law, telling him that iiis
daughter was engaged, and even had her
hand been free, Mr. Walter Jones was
the last man in the world he should feel
inclined to bestow her upon ; assuring
him, at the same time, that he had heard
of the annoyances to wiiich he had sub-
jected her; but if ever he caught him on
his estate again, with any such intentions,
his power as a magistrate, and his feelings
as a father, would force him to be under
the painful necessity of punis'.jing him as
he deserved. Walter Jones left the room
vowing revenge.

Time passed on, and the last year was
drawing to a close. Letters were received
from college, in which it was stated th.at
Edward Morris had received the higliest
honours of the university, and was looked
upon as one of the brightest ornaments
w ithin its walls. He wrote to Mary a
long and kind letter, in which he expressed
liimself as being overjoyed at the near
approach of his happiness, and informed
her of the day when she might expect
him. Her anticipations of future joy were
exceedingly great. Every preparation
was made for his arrival ; and it was
arranged between the delighted fathers,
that the union should take place the day
after. All on the estate, with whom he
was a general favourite, looked to his
coming with feelings of the sincerest plea-
sure ; and the day on which he was ex-
pected having got known, they deter-
mined to welcome him in a style worthy
a descendant of the ancient Cymry. All
but old Prichard participated in the gene-
ral pleasure; and he was frequently heard
striking melancholy chords from his harp,
and giving prophetic warnings of ap-
proaching danger.

Tbe day arrived, and Edward left the
coach to hurry across the mountains. As
he hastened on, with a light step and
lighter heart, imagining the joy of his
beloved one at their meeting after so
long a separation, he came to a wild pass
in the mountains, about a mile distant
from the estate of captain Hughes. It
was a savage-looking place, the scene of

many a fearful legend ; a gloomy ravirip,
with no appearance of vegetation near it,
save a few stunted trees. The dark and
huge fragments of the rocky soil were
shut in by an amphitheatre of desolate
hills. Within a short distance, the waters
of one of the wildest of the mountain
torrents were seen leaping down a tre-
mendous depth, with an uproar almost as
great as the continual discharge of a
piece of artillery.

Edward Morris walked on in the full
joy of his heart, thinking of no evil, and
fearing none; vv'lien, just as he approached
the centre of the pass, he was surprised at
beholding a man standing opposite to him,
with a seeming determination to dispute
his passage. It was Walter Jones. His
dark eyes were flashing fire, and his look
was like that of a savage of the \\ilder-
ness in the act of springing on his prey.

" Edward Morris !" shouted the ruf-
fian, "your hour is come, and my revenge
comes with it. You have dared to cross
my path — to love the only girl I ever
thought worthy of my favour. She re-
jected me — her father rejected me ; and
it was for you they did it. But my re-
venge shall be terrible, and you shall be
its first victim. So, fool and madman as
you are, to have provoked my anger,
breathe vour shortest prayer — for you
shall die !"

** Not yet!" exclaimed Edward, leap-
ing with the agility of a young snake upon
his antagonist, and grappling him with a
power that even the athletic smuggler
found would be difficult to shake off.
Long and deadly was the struggle.
Walter had overcome all competitors at
wrestling; for his superior strength gave
him a powerful advantage. His heart
was on fire with revenge and wounded
pride. All the ferocious nature of his
disposition came to his assistance, in the-
determination that his victim should di-e.
Edward knew every foot of ground on
which he trod ; and, knowing what must
be the result of the contest, all the ener-
gies of his soul were brouglit into action,
and he strained every muscle with an
exertion that seemed gigantic.

Walter, in an effort he made to throw
his adversary, missed his footing, stag-
gered, and fell.

" Now!" cried Edward, with his knee
upon his fallen enemy—" Now, who shall
die ?"

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

319

" Thou r' shouted the ruffian, as he
diseng^ao^ed a pistol from his belt, which
he had not possessed an opportunity of
doing before, and discharged it in the
breast of his triumphing foe. The ball
went through his lieart, and the dead
body of Edward Morris fell upon his
murderer. The survivor shook off the
encumbrance, and looked upon his pros-
trate victim with a smile of most malicious
satisfaction ; then was proceeding to de-
part from the spot, when he was alarmed
at seeing the surrounding hills covered
by a multitude of people, and men in
different directions approaching him.

The kind-hearted peasantry of the dis-
trict had made every preparation in their
power to welcome the friend of their lord
home to his native hills, and had set out
to meet him, with the intention of bearing
him home in triumph. They had pro-
ceeded as far as the hills that overlooked
the spot where his last footsteps rested,
and were in time to witness the combat
between him and his enemy. They saw
a struggle between two men — a pistol
fired, and one of them fall. The distance
was too far to distinguish the features of
the combatants, yet some there were
among them who positively affirmed that
one of them was him they sought. With
some misgivings as to the result, some of
the men separated into different parties,
completely surrounding the ruffian. As
they approached the scene of the murder,
recognised the friend of their loid welter-
ing in his blood, and discerned him who
had done the deed, the brave Celts sent
up a yell of horror and despair, which was
answered by the hills around. With
gloomy looks and scowling eyes they
advanced upon the nmrderer, witli the
determination of exacting a just and hor-
rible vengeance.

Waller Jones still stood with arms
folded and lips compressed, revolving in
his mind the extent of his danger. He
knew he could hope for no mercy from
the people who were pursuing him, and
he saw there was but little chance of
escaping from the certainty of their re-
venge. He was pausing to consider, and
in tlie meantime his pursuers were gain-
ing ground. He was now completely
enclosed on every side — hemmed in by
all parties. Seeing no hope remaining if
he stood still, he determined to make one
effort for his escape, and rushed with all

speed towards the end of the defile. Here
lie was met by a stout highlander, who
threatened to fell him to the ground with
a heavy club which he carried ; at him
he discharged his remaining pistol, and
the Celt fell, cursing the dark eye of his
enemy. He saw in the same path, at
no great distance, several others making
towards him at full speed. He turned
off" in a different direction ; but had not
proceeded far, when he found that a whole
host of them would be upon him in a few
minutes. He stood now upon a rock that
overlooked a tremendous rapid we have
described in a preceding page — the waters
were boiling and foaming directly under
him — he was compressed on both sides —
his pursuers were close upon him in front
and rear — the foremost of them was but a
few yards distant from his body. Walter
Jones stood up the whole height of his
person, glared upon his pursuers a look
of scornful hatred and demon malice, and
then with a giant's leap plunged headlong
into the roaring torrent.

We cannot describe the feelings of
Mary Hughes when the sorrowing and
faithful Celts brought to her the dead
body of him whose living form she had
so eagerly expected. Like the painter,
we will draw a veil over features we dare
not attempt to delineate. She died. Hers
was no lingering disease that eats into
the heart as rust does into metal. Hers
was a morbid earthquake, whose explo-
sion burst asunder every feeling, passion,
and affection of earthly humanity. She
died of a raving brain and a broken
heart; and her unhappy father followed
her in the course of a few weeks. When
his lord died, the blind bard was heard to
sing his prophetic warning — but his voice
was feeble, and the chords of his harp less
powerful than they were wont. A few
years passed, and that voice was silent
for ever.

THE BATTLE OF ABOUKIR.

While Napoleon was pursuing his
career of victory in the interior of Egvpt,
Nelson, having scoured the Mediterra-
nean in quest of him, once more returned
to that coast. He arrived within sight
of the town of Alexandria on the 1st of
August, 1798, ten days after the battle
of the Pyramids had been fought and won,
and found Brueyes still at his moorings
in the bay of Aboukir.

320

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

Nothing seems to be more clear than
that the French admiral ought to have
made the best of his way to France, or at
least to Malta, the moment the army had
taken possession of Alexandria. Napo-
leon constantly asserted that he had urged
Brueyes to do so ; Brueyes himself lived
not to give his testimony, but Gantheaume,
the vice-admiral, always persisted in
stating, m direct contradiction to Buona-
parte, that the fleet remained by the
general's express desire. The testimonies
being thus balanced, it is necessary to
consult other materials of judgment, and
it appears extremely difficult to doubt that
the French admiral, who, it is- acknow-
ledged on all hands, dreaded the en-
counter of Nelson, remained off Alexan-
dria for the sole purpose of aiding the
motions of the army, and in const quence
of what he at least conceived to be the
wish of its general. However this might
have been, the results of his delay were
terrible.

'J"he French fleet were moored in a
semi-circle in the bay of Aboukir, so near
the shore, that their admiral believed it
was impossible for the enemy to come
between him and the land. He expected,
therefore, to be attacked on one side only,
and thought himself sure that the English
could not renew their favourite mancBuvre
of breaking the line ; and so at once
dividing the opposed fleet, and placing
the ships individually between two fires.
But Nelson daringly judged that his ships
might force a passage between the French
and the land, and succeeding in this at-
tempt, instantly brought on the conflict,
in the same dreaded form which Brueyes
had believed impossible. The details of
this great sea-fight belong to the history
of the English hero. The battle was
obstinate, it lasted more than twenty
hours, including the whole night. A soli-
tary pause occurred at midnight, when
the French admiral's ship L'Orient, a
superb vessel of one hundred and twenty
guns, took fire and blew up in the heart
of the conflicting squadrons, with an ex-
plosion that for a moment silenced rage
in awe. The admiral himself perished.
Next morning two shattered ships, out of
all the French fleet, with difficulty made
their escape to the open sea. The rest
of all that magnificent array had been
utterly destroyed, or remained in the
hands of the English.

Such was the battle of Aboukir, in
which Nelson achieved, with a force much
inferior to the French, what he himself
called, " not a victory, but a conquest."
Three thousand French seamen reached
the shore, a great number died. Had
the English admiral possessed frigates, he
must have forced his way into the harbour
of Alexandria, and seized the whole stores
and transports of the army. As things
were, the best fleet of the republic had
ceased to be, the blockade of the coast
was established, and the invader, com-
pletely isolated from France, must be
content to rely wholly on his own arms
and the resources of Egypt.

On hearing of the battle of Aboukir,
a solitary sigh escaped from Napoleon.
" To F ranee," said he, ** tlie fates have
decreed the empire of the land — to Eng-
land, of the sea."

A TRUE PATRIOT.

In 1784, when the Austrians were in
possession of Genoa, the republic were
in want of money, and to raise a supply,
were about to levy some new taxes.
M. Griilo, a citizen of wealth and conse-
quence, on the morning when the edict
was to be passed, strewed the lobby of
the council-room with pieces of rope.
On being asked his meaning, he replied,
** That the people having exhausted all
their resources, it was but fair to furnish
them with the means of leaving a world
which could be no longer worth living in."
" But," replied the senators, " we want
money ; the urgencies of the state demand
it, and where else is it to be had ?' *' I'll
tell you," said Griilo, and quitting the
palace, he shortly after returned, followed
by porters loaded with five hundred thou-
sand livres in gold and silver. ** Let
every one of you," he cried, " follow my
example, and the money you want will
be found." The tax was no more men-
tioned ; the nobility made a voluntary
contribution, and Genoa was saved.

At the coronation of his late majesty,
a gentleman paid six guineas for a seat
in Westminster Abbey. The instant the
king entered, he turned to a friend beside
him, and protested he was the greatest
fool in Britain, ** Indeed," said his
friend ; " how so ?" " Why, I have paid
six guineas for a seat here, when his
majesty comes in for a crown."

PKRJjS bV FtOOJ) AND FIKI.D.

321

SIR GABRIEL VESTNYDEN.

The bell at even- song tolled loudly,
and the surrounding cottages were one by
one involved in darkness, as a weary tra-
veller crossed the well-known Salisbury
Plain on his way to the town. The sun
bad sunk behind the distant hills, and the
ignis fatuus danced o'er the swamp, as if
rejoicing in its departure. Tlie peasant
returned to his hut, the shepiierd led his
flock to the told, and the bee and the
beetle flew jiumniing to their cells, while
the"^^deer-steeler cautiously issued tVoni
liis iiovel, with his cross-bow concealed
beneath the ample folds of his coarse
mantle, and sought the neighbouring
forest. The stranger moved on, although
bis weary step and dusty sandals plainly
told that he had travelled far that day.
He bore upon his back a small harp, and
supported himself on a stout oak staff";
his venerable beard descended to his
girdle, in which was stuck a small horn-
hafted whittle. He passed those huge
monuments of antiquity, which were
then, as they are now, the wonder and
admiration of all who visited them j and

VOL. II. — 41.

Page 321.

in a sbort time had crossed the plain.
The road to the town now lay before him,
when tiie turrets of a strong castle over-
shadowed it, and the sound of merry
wassail struck on the stranger's ear.
Resting on his staff', he paused awhile, not
knowing that he was observed by a man
on the walls ; he listened to the rude
shouts of mirth and laughter wbich
sounded within; when he was suddenly
awakened from his reverie by a voice
near him ; the traveller looked up, and
perceived the man who had been watch-
ing him, who acco'^ted him widi —
i ** Well, old sir Pilgrim, hast had thy
I musing flt out ? Art an honest man, or a
t thief ? Or wilt have a goodly bolt through
thy hide ?"

The stranger rep]i^'d —
"Methinks, if thou dost desire a mark,
there is a fairer one in the merry green-
wood ; there was better quarry at Cress\
! and Puictiers "

I ♦* Ah ! ah ! say'^^t thou so ? then thou

j canst sing of such ; I see thou hast a harp

j at thy back. Wait awhile, and 1 will

admit thee. By my fackins, this is no

time for hard blows and broken cox.

2t

322

TALES OF CIirVALRY ; OR,

combs." As he said tliis, he disappeared
whistling, and in a f«w minutes the heavy
drawbridge fell, and the stranger crossing
it, entered the castle. His com; anion
led him through the vaulted passages, and
entering one of the rooms, placed on a
table some venison and a loaf of bread,
together with a stoup of ale. The stranger
ate little, vrhich tlie man observing, said,

*• Hast thou no stomach for such cheer,
old sir?"

** Little, indeed, my son, for I have
walked far, and am sore weary."

** Then thou shalt have a good litter of
clean rushes anon ; but thou must needs
give my master and his guests a ballad ;
they are making merry in the hall, for he
weds the fair lady Beatrice to-morrow ;
and I, Launcelot Dowbiggin, am ap-
pointed her ladyship's falconer. Art fond
of hawking, old sir, or can'st draw a bow,
or play backsword, or — " Here Launcelot
paused, as he perceived the stranger was
much moved on hearing his news ; but
the latter, recovering himself, replied,

" T was a proper hand in all these
pastimes ; but diose days are gone by :
there was a time when Dick Moncley
could hit the white, or rein a horse, or
throw the bar, with any youth in Glou-
cestershire— but 'tis past. I have seen
many strange countries since then ; my
youth is gone, and I am now a withered
and sapless tree : but I have lived to see
French pride humbled, and have seen our
brave king's banner floating in the breeze
on their highest towers."

" Ah ! 'tis a goodly sight ; can'st sing
of these same things?" inquired Laun-
celot.

** Some few lays and ballads," replied
the stranger.

" Then follow me," said Launcelot,
taking up a torch 5 " I warrant thou wilt
find con)pany who will well repay thee
for thy minstrelsy." As he said this, he
led the way, followed by the stranger.

As they passed through one of the
passages, the large mantle and frock in
which the stranger was enveloped caught
by a nail, and Launcelot hastily turning
round, saw to his astonishment that his
companion wore a jazerant of steel under
his vestments. Launcelot, though some-
what daunted at this discovery, plucked
out his dagger, when a well-known voice
stariled him.

"My dear master, my much honoured

sir Gabriel," cried he, flinging himself at
the feet of the harper, who had plucked
off his sham beard ; " by what miracle
art thou arrived here ? — I thought th^e
dead. Say, art thou my honoured master,
or do mine eyes deceive me ?"

" Thou see'st him here alive and well,"
replied the knight; •* but prithee restrain
thy joy (if joy it be), and help me to attire
myself in this disguise, for I would not
have my being under this roof dis-
covered."

Launcelot instantly led his master into
a small room, and while he helped him
with his disguise, the knight related to
him some of his adventures, and in return
begged to be informed of what had taken
place during his absence.

♦' I have heard," said he, " that my
honoured father is dead, and that my
cousin, Ralph Vestynden, has been left
in care of the castle. How fares the lady
Beatrice ?"

" Sorrily, I fear," replied Launcelot,
shaking his head. " There was a report
that thou wert dead, and sadly has she
grieved. Heaven forbid that I should
say aught against your kinsman, but I
fear good lies not under that heavy brow
of his,"

" He is a villain," passionately ex-
claimed sir Gabriel ; ** he is a villain and
a murtherer ! He has murthered the
father, and would destroy the son ; but
Heaven ha^ reserved me to hurl destruc-
tion on him. I will tell thee, Launcelot,
when near Poictiers, I was one of the
advanced guard ; we were marching in
the dead of night, when an arrow struck
me : my trusty coat was proof against the
shaft, and a voice cried, ' Ralph Vestyn-
den greets thee.' I spurred my horse to
the place where the voice seemed to come
from, and there beheld, by the light of the
moon, two men crouched beneath the un-
derwood ; I slew one with a blow of my
mace, and my men secured the other
villain. He confessed that 'twas my kins-
man who had hired them."

*' Then he is the villain I thought him,"
said Launcelot ; ** often have we had
messengers here, rough fellows whom we
never saw before, who, after having seen
and spoken with sir Ralph, have ridden
oflf again : trust me there are many lying
in ambush for thee, my master."

*' I doubt it not ; but did'st thou not
tell me sir Ralph would marry the lady

PFRITS BT FLOOD AND FIELD.

323

Beatrice fo-morrow ? Does she consent
to the njatcli ?"

" I know not, but she always looks pale
and sad, and will sometimes weep when
she hears your name meniioned j and sir
Ralph has forbidden us to speak of you in
her presence."

The knicrht's eyes flashed fire; he bit
his lip, and seemed to be maintaining a
violent struggle with his feelings.

•* Launcelot," at length he said. " this
marriage must be prevented : are thy
fellows still attached to me ?"

"Attached!" cried Launcelot; "they
would all fight for ye ; nay, would render
up their lives to do ye service ; but
caution must be used, for sir Ralph has
several ruffianly fellows at his command,
whose hands know as well the way to the
sword-hilt as to their neighbours' purset :
we like them not, but grumbling would
surely bring us to the oak branch. There
is Rough Robin to be sure, and Will-le-
Dale, and Jack the Miller, with his five
sons ; all good men and proper, and shrewd
Lands at the long bow ; and there are
some half score of us here, who would
stand by ye*. Tlie miller says that your
worthy father died somewhat sudden, and
sir Ra'iph threatened ; but as he is not bis
vassal, the miller laughs at him."

"Enough," said the knight; "lead me
to the hall, and say I am a wandering
minstrel, who would fain enliven them
with a tune. — Lead on."

Launcelot led his young master to the
door of the hall, and bidding him wait
awhile, proceeded to ask sir Ralph if he
would like to have the minstrel admitted.
He soon returned, and led sir Gabriel
into the hall. There, at a large table, sat
sir Ralph, totally unconscious of the pre-
sence of his greatly wronged kinsman.
He and his companions sat over their
cups, and their unsteady hands and in-
flamed eyes told that their draughts had
been deep and frequent. The hawks,
perched on the rafters above, were startled
by the boisterous mirth below them, and
sir Ralph was in the act of calling on one
of his companions for a song, when
Launcelot led forth the miustrel.

" Well, Launcelot," said sir Ralph,
"what old greybeard hast there r — whence
comes he ? — ^Speak, sir Minstrel — from
wlience comest thou ?"

** From France and the Low Countrie.
I have travelled far and wide."

•' Ah ! France dost thou say ? Hast
ever heard of one sir Gabriel Vestynden,
w ho fought in the English army ?"

"'Tissaid he was murthered just be-
fore the battle of Poictiers," replied the
minstrel ; " but whether it be true or
false, I know not."

Sir Ralph's heavy brow was raised for
a moment, and a grim smile illuminated
his dark countenance, as he thought that
his kinsman had probably fallen beneath
the hands of his hired assassins, and he
replied —

"Tiien the heavy tidings we received
last week are true': God rest my kins-
man's soul !"

As he said this, he took a deep draught
of wine, and setting down the empty gob-
let, he desired the minstrel to begin. Sir
Gabriel, after a short prelude, sung the
following song, accompanying it with his
harp : —

Friar Ambrose, that right merrie elf,
Bids ye teep in your pouches your pelf ;

f'or the flas^on and bowl '

Endangers the soul ;
But he loves wine and wassail himself.

He tells us he knows full well,
That Sathan, that foul fiend of hell.

Has a bait in each lass

Who may chance to pass —
But we know who was found in his cell.

And fat Abbot Boniface says.
Wine will certainly shorten our days ;
But we'll tell him he lies.
And that wine and bright eyes,
In spite of them both, shall have praise.

•' By the coals that grilled St. Law-
rence," exclaimed sir Ralph, " 'tis a right
merry song !" and he poured out a goblet
of wine with his own hand, and presented
it to the minstrel. Sir Gabriel felt as
though he could have dashed the goblet
and its contents in the face of his kinsman ;
but he checked himself, and muttering —
" Grammercy, sir knight 1" (though well
aware, that if sir Ralph knew whom he
had offered it to, he would have wished it
a cup of hemlock), he drank off the wine,
and placing the goblet on the table, drew
his hood closer to his face, and watched
his kinsman narrowly.

Sir Ralph observed him not, and after
a few moments had elapsed, he said —
" Hast thou any love-tale, tit for a fair
lady's ear ?"

" Many, noble knight," was the hasty
reply of sir Gabriel ; for he divined the
reason of the question,, and was not mis-
2 T 2

324

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

taken, for sir Ralph desired one of his
Trien to hrino; the ladv Beatrice into the
hall.

She shortly after entered, and sir Ralph
rose [and handed her to a seat, with as
mnch gallantry as he was capable of.
He then commanded the minstrel to play
another air. Sir Gabriel saw with sorrow
the altered appearance of his beloved
Beatrice. She was pale and sad, and sat
with her head resting on her hand, appa-
rently unconscious of all that was passing:
she heeded not sir Ralph when he spoke
to her, but caressed a small spaniel which
sat looking in her face, as if it felt its
mistress's sorrows.

Sir Gabriel sat intently gazing on his
lady-love and her spaniel, which he had
presented to her just before he left Eng-
land, when his kinsman bade him play
another air. Sir Gabriel struck his harp
again, and commenced playing a ballad,
which he had often sunij to Beatrice be-
fore he left England. As her ear caught
the first notes, she was sensibly affected,
and ere he had finished one stanza, siie
covered her face with her hands, whilst
the tears fast flowing, gushed between
the^interstices of her fair lingers.

Sir Ralph rose, and staggering up to
her, attempted to put his arm round her
waist, when Beatrice repulsed him, and
sir Gabriel, forgetting his disguise, threw
down his harp, and grasped the handle of
his whittle ; but at the same moment
Launcelot whispered in his ear, •* For our
Lady's sake, do not discover yourself, or
you are lost !"

Sir Ralph, however, observed the inin-
strel's anger, and hurhng a goblet at him
with all his force, he commanded his men
to seize the harper, and hurry him to one
of the dungeons below the foundation of
the castle. The men rose, and staggered
up to sir Gabriel to obey their master,
when Launcelot interfered —

" Hold !" cried he, " the knave has
deceived me ; therefore the securing of
him rests with me. Leave him to my
care; I will teach him to respect his
betters."

As he said this, he seized sir Gabriel
(whose pretended age gave sir Ralph no
fear that he would escape), and hurried
him out of the hall. Launcelot spoke not
till he had led his master into one of the
deepest dungeons of the castle.

" This," said he, " is a sorry room, but

wait till to-morrow, and I will then release
you."

" To-morrow ! — to-morrow to me will
be an age," cried the knight. *' Hast
thou not said that my \ illainous kinsman
weds the lady Beatrice to-morrow?
Dost thou think I will live to see this?"

"Sohly, softly, my dear sir Gabriel,"
cried Launcelot ; " compose thyself, and
I will unfold to thee a plan by which we
may prevent this marriage, and seize
your kinsman. To-morrow the castle
gates will be thrown open, and all the
country will come to partake of the good
cheer. You will be forgotten in this
dungeon, and ere the hour arrives that
makes the lady Beatrice your vile kins-
man's bride, I will bring in the stout
miller and his sons. Fear not, but wait
patiently."

Launcelot left his master, and shortly
after brought in a litter of straw, with
which he strewed the floor of the dun-
geon. He then produced a flask of wine,
bidding sir Gabriel hide it amongst the
straw if he should be visited by any of
the other domestics; and leaving a lamp
burning, he quitted his master, promising
to visit him early the next morning.

On the following morning, Launcelot
failed not to wait on his master in the
dungeon. He brought with him a stout
sword, together with a bugle. The knight
was soon ready, and Launcelot bidding
him be of good cheer, desired him not to
venture out till he came to him. In a
short time all was ready, and Launcelot
returned.

" Now," said he, ** my dear master, the
wished for moment has arrived for you to
sally forth. The vile sir Ra'ph is in the
hall with the lady Beatrice — the abbot has
arrived — tlie company are flocking in,
and may God speed ve !"

" I will," said sir' Gabriel ; " but I

would fain go in the same disguise as I

had on yesterday. In that I will enter

the hall, and when thou and thy fellows

hear the blast of my bugle, be ready to

rush in with thy aid."

• * ♦ •

All was life and bustle in the great hall
of the castle. Sir Ralph thought he had
all now within his grasp. The abbot
entered, and took his stand at the tem-
porary altar. Shortly after sir Ralph en-
tered the hall, leading the lady Beatrice.
Five of his followers stood near him, and

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

325

seemed fo exult in llie sacrifice which was
al)out to be made. Beatrice advanced a
few steps towards the altar, then paused,
a>« if she iiad formed a sudden resolution,
when sir Ralph cried —

" Fair lady, tiiis ill bearing becomes
not a damsel at such a lime as this. Ad-
vance, and let the holy father abbot pro-
ceed with the ceremony."

Beatrice replied not ; her eyes filled
with tears, and she was near falling, when
one of her maids supported her. All
pitied her, though they durst not avow it,
as they feared sir Ralph and his grim
followers. Enraged at ;he delay, sir
Ralph seized her arm, and rudely dragged
her towards the altar, when sir Gabriel
entered the hall disguised as on the pre-
ceding night ; and observing the violence
of sir Ralph, he said —

" Forbear thy rasliness ! dost thou not
fear the just anger of offended heaven ?"

** Ah !" cried sir Ralph, as he stamped
on the marble floor of the hall ; " dost
thou come to beard a knight in his own
castle ! Away with thee, or by my
father's crest I will have thee flayed alive."

*• Villain !" cried sir Gabriel, tearing
oflThis false beard, and throwing aside his
disguise, " thy hour is come ; draw, and
look upon thy death 1"

Sir Ralph was thunderstruck at the
apparition of his kinsman ; he stood mo-
tionless for some moments, as if strug-
gling for an utterance, then fuming to
his followers, he bade them seize him,
saying, " Cousin, thou art welcome to
n)y wedding I"

But ere they advanced to lay hands on
him, sir Gabriel blew a loud blast on his
bugle; it was answered instantly, and
Launcelot and his friends entered the
hall.

"Death to him who moves to the
rescue I" cried the miller, drawing his
siiaft to the head : " throw down your
weapons — the first who stirs has a cloth-
yard shaft through his doublet."

Sir Ralph's men, finding that the odds
were against them, gave up their swords;
while sir Kalpl), finding all lost, deter-
mined to sell his life as dearly as possible.
Turning to his kinsman, he said, in a
voice almost choked wiih rage —

•' Gabriel Vestynden, thou hast not
saved thy bride yet."

And he aimed a blow at the breast of
Beatrice. Sir Gabriel parried the stroke,

and his kinsman turning, attacked him
with great fury. Beatrice closed her
eyes, and fell almost senseless into the
arms of one of her maidens. She heard
the hurried tramp of feet, and the clash
of steel, and she called aloud on the Virgin
to succour her true love, sir Galiriel. Her
prayers were not unheard — sir Ralph fell
covered with wounds, and while he lay
in the throes of death, Beatrice flung
herself into the arms of her lover, and
sobbed out his name.

Need we add, that sir Gabriel was soon
after wedded to his true love ; need we
tell our readers that honest Launcelot was
rewarded for his attachment and corn-age;
or need we tell how many knights and
their " ladys faire" graced' the wedding
feast ? Such rejoicings were long re-
membered by all. Sir Gabriel and his
Beatrice lived many years in uninter-
rupted happiness, while|;the body of his
false kinsman mouldered in its tomb in
the Cathedral at Salisbury. That tomb
bore only this inscription : — " Of your
charity pray for ye sowle of Raufe Ves-
tynden."

RICHARD CCEUR DE LION.

Six centuries have passed, and this
name is still a spell-word to conjure up all
the brightest and noblest visions of the
age of chivalry. What glorious phantoms
rise at the sound ! Saladin — the great,
the valiant, the generous Saladin — again
wheels at the head of his cavalry. — Fre-
deric Barbarossa, the conqueror of Ico-
nium — the brave but political Philip of
France — the gallant but unfortunate mar-
quis of Montserrat — the whole host of
red-cross warriors. The knights of the
Temple and St. John start again into
existence from their graves in the Syrian
deserts, and their tombs in Christian
Europe, where still their recumbent
effigies grasp the sword in stone. The
lion - hearted Plantaganet once more
flourishes with a giant's strength the
tremendous battle-axe, wherein ** were
twenty pounds of steel," around the
nodding broom -plant in his cylindrical
helmet ; while his implacable foe, Leopold
of Austria, leans frowning on his azure
shield; his surcoat of cloih of silver,
"dappled in blood!" that ten ible token
of his valour at Ptolemais, which is to
this day the blazon of his ancient house.

Yonder walls have echoed to the clank

326

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

of the fetters with which his unknightly
vengeance loaded Richard of England —
to the minstrel moan of " the lord of Oe
and No;" and (for who can coldly pause
to separate such romantic facts from the
romance they have inspired ?) to the lay
of the faithful Blondel, which, wafted by
the pitying winds to his royal master's
ear, soothed his captivity, and brightened
his hopes of freedom. Many are the
ca.xtles on the banks of the Danube,
pointed out to the traveller as the prison
of Coeur de Lion. The fortresses of
Aggstein and Gruffenstein both assert a
similar claim to our interest, our venera-
tion ; and it has been not improbably
conjectured that Richard was in turn the
resident of each, being secretly removed
from fortress to fortress, by his subtle and
malignant captor, in order to baffle the
researches of his friends and followers.
Notwithstanding this dispute, Durrenstein
has by general consent and long tradition
been established as the principal place of
his confinement ; and no one who with
that impression has gazed upon its majes-
tic ruins, could thank the sceptic who
should endeavour to disturb his belief.
They stand upon a colossal rock, which,
rising from a promontory picturesquely
terminated by the little town of Durren-
stein, is singularly ribbed from top to
bottom by a rugged mass of granite, in-
dented like a saw. On each side of this
natural barrier, a strip of low wall, with
small towers at equal distances, straggles
down the rock, which, thus divided, is
here and there cut towards its base into
cross terraces, planted with vines, and in
the ruder paths left bare or patched with
lichens and shrubs of various descriptions.
On its naked and conical crest, as though
a piece of the cragg itself, rises the keep
of the castle, square, with four towers at
its angles, and not unlike the fine ruin at
Rochester.

EVENING AT DELFT.

"Now," said the portly Gerrit van
Wy ck, as he buttoned up his money in the
pockets of his capacious breeches — " Now
rU home to Vonrbooch, and to-morrow
I'll buy neighbour Jan Hagen's two cows,
which are the best in Holland."

He crossed the market-place of Delft,
as he spoke, with an elated and swagger-
ing air, and turned down one of the streets

which led out of the city, when a goodly
tavern met his eye. Thinking a dram
would be found useful in counteracting
the effects of a fog which was just begin-
ning to rise, he entered, and called for a
glass of Schedam. This was brought, and
drank by Gerrit, who liked the flavour so
much, that he resolved to try the liquor
diluted. Accordingly, a glass of a capa-
cious size was set before him. After a few
sips of the pleasing spirit, our farmer took
a view of the apartment in which he was
sitting, and, for the first time, perceived
that the only person in the room, besides
himself, was a young man of melancholy
aspect, who sat near the fire-place, appa-
rently half asleep. Now Gerrit was of a
loquacious turn, and nothing rendered a
room more disagreeable to him than the
absence of company. He therefore took
the first opportunity of engaging the
stranger in conversation.

*' A dull evening, mynheer," said the
farmer.

"Yaw," replied the stranger, stretching
himself, and yawning loudly, "very foggy,
I take it" — and he rose and looked into
the street.

Gerrit perceived that his companion
wore a dress of dark brown, of the cut of
the last century. A thick row of brass
buttons ornamented his doublet ; so
thickly, indeed, were they placed, that
they appeared one stripe of metal. His
shoes were high-heeled and square-toed,
like those worn by a company of maskers
represented in a picture which hung in
Gerrit's parlour at Voorbooch. The
stranger was of a spare figure, and his
countenance was, as we before stated,
pale ; but there was a wild brightness in
his eye, which inspired the farmer with a
feeling of awe.

After taking a few turns up and down
the apartment, the stranger drew a chair
near to Gerrit, and sat down.

" Are you a citizen of Delft ?" he
inquired.

" No," was the reply ; " I am a small
farmer, and live in the village of Voor-
booch."

" Umph 1" said the stranger ; " you
have a dull road to travel. See, your
glass is out. How like ye mine host's
Schedam ?"

"'Tis right excellent."

" You say truly," rejoined the stranger,
with a smile, which the farmer thought

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIliLD.

32;

greatly improved his countenance ; " but
here is a hquor which no burgomaster in
Holland can get. 'Tis fit for a prince."

He drew forth a pliial from the breast
of ills doublet, and mixing a small quantity
of the red liquid it contained witii some
water that stood on the table, he poured
it into Gerrit's empty glass. The farmer
tasted it, and found it to excel every liquid
he had ever drank. Its effect was soon
visible: he pressed the hand of the
stranger with great warmth, and swore
he would not leave Delft that night.

*' You are perfectly right," said his
companion ; ** these fogs are unusually
heavy ; they are trying, even to the con-
stitution of a Hollander. As for me, I
am nearly choked with them. How dif-
ferent is the sunny clime of Spain, which
1 have just left."

" You have travelled, then ?" said
Gerrit, inquiringly.

** Travelled ! Ay, mynheer, to the
remotest corner of the Indies, amongst
Turks, Jews, and Tartars.'*

"Eh, but does it please ye to travel
always in that garb, mynheer?"

*' Even so," replied the stranger ; ** it
has descended from father to son through
more than three generations. See you
this hole on the left breast of my doublet?"

The farmer stretched out his neck, and
by the dim light perceived a small perfo-
ration on the breast of the stranger's
doublet, who continued —

" Ah, the bullet that passed through it
lodged in the heart of my great grandsire
at the sack of Zutphen."

*' I have heard of the bloody doings at
that place from my grandfather, heaven
rest his soul !"

Gerrit was startled on perceiving the
unearthly smile which played o'er the
countenance of the stranger, on hearing
this pious ejaculation. He muttered to
himself, in an inaudible tone, the word
** Duyvel .'" but he was interrupted by
the loud laugh of his companion, who
slapped him on the shoulder, and cried —
** Come, come, mynheer, you look sad
— does not my liquor sit well on your
stomach ?"

" 'Tis excellent ! " replied Gerrit,
ashamed to think that the stranger had
observed his confusion : " will you sell
me your phial ?"

" I had it from a dear friend, who
has been long since dead," replied the

stranger ; "he strictly enjoined me never
to sell it ; for, d'ye see, no sooner is it
emptied, than at the wish of the possessor
it is immediately re-filled. But, harkee,
as 3'ouseem a man of spirit, it shall be left
to chance to decide who shall possess it."
He took from his bosom a bale of dice —
" I will stake it against a guilder."

"Good!" said"" Gerrit; "but I fear
there is some devilry in the phial."

" Pshaw !" cried his companion, with
a bitter smile ; " those who have travelled
understand these things better. Devilry,
forsooth !"

" I crave your pardon," said Gerrit ;
" I will throw for it ;" and he placed a
guilder on the table.

The farmer met with ill luck, and lost.
He took a draught of his companion's
liquor, and determined to stake another
guilder; but he lost that also! Much
enraged at his want of success, he drew
forth the canvass bag which contained (he
produce of the sale of his corn, and re-
solved either to win the phial (the contents
of which had gone far to fuddle his senses),
or lose all. He threw again with better
luck ; but, elated at this, he played with
less caution, and in a few moments he
was left pennyless. The stranger then
gathered up the money, and placed it in
liis pocket.

" You are unlucky to-night, mynheer,"
said he, with provoking indifference,
which greatly increased the farmer's cha-
grin ; " but come, you have a goodly ring
on your finger — will you not venture that
against my pliial ?"

The farmer paused for a moment — it
was the gift .of an old friend — yet he could
not stomach the idea of being cleared of
his money in such a manner ; what would
Jan B rower, the host of the Van Tromp,
and little Rip Winkelaar, the schoolmaster,
say to it ? It was the first time he had
ever been a loser in any game, for he was
reckoned the best hand at nine-pins in his
village ; he therefore took the ring from
his finger — threw again — and lost it !

He sank back in his chair with a sup-
pressed groan, at which his companion
smiled. The loss of his money, together
with this ring, had nearly sobered him,
and he gazed on the stranger with a
countenance indicative of any thing but
good will ; while the latter drew from his
bosom a scroll of parchment.

" You grieve, " said he, " at the loss of

328

TALKS OF CTWVAT.RY; OR,

a few paltry guilders ; but know, that I
have the power to make you amends for
your loss — to make you rich— ay, richer
than the stadholder l"

** Ah, the fiend !" thought Gerrit,
growing still soberer, while he drank in
every word, and glanced at the legs of
the stranger, expecting, of course, to see
them as usual terminate with a cloven
foot! but he beheld no such unsightly
spectacle ; the feet of the stranger were as
perfect as his own, or even more so.

'* Here," said his companion, " read
over this, and if the terms suit you, sub-
scribe your name at the foot." Tlie farmer
took the parchment, and perceived that it
was closely written, and contained many
signatures at the bottom. His eye hastily
glanced over the few first lines, but they
sufficed.

"Ha! now I know thee, fiend!"
screamed the affrighted Genit, as he
dashed the scroll in the face of the stranger,
and ruslied wildly out of the room. He
gained the street, down which he fled
with the swiftness of the wind, and turned
the corner c^uickly, thinking he was safe
from the vengeance of him, whom he now
supposed was no other than the foul fiend
himself; when the stranger met him on
the opposite side, his eyes dilated to a
monstrous size, and glowing like red-hot
coals. A deep groan burst from the sur-
charged breast of the unfortunate farmer,
as he staggered back several paces.

"Avannt! avaunt !" he cried; ** Sa-
than, I defy thee ! I have not signed thy
cursed parchment!" He turned and fled
in an opposite direction ; but though he
exerted his utmost speed, the stranger,
without any apparent exertion, kept by
his side. At length he arrived at the
bank of the canal, and leaped into a boat
which was moored alongside. But the
stranger followed, and Gerrit felt the iron
grasp of his hand on the nape of his neck.
He turned round and struggled hard to
free himself from the gripe of his compa-
nion, roaring out in agony —

"Oh, Mynheer Duyvel ! have pity for
the sake of my wife and my boy Karel !"
But when was the devil known to pity ?
The stranger held him tightly, and spite
of his struggles dragged him ashore. He
felt the grasp of his pursuer like the clutch
of a bird of prey, while his hot breath
almost scorclied him ; but disengaging
himself, with a sudden botmd he sprung

from his enemy, and pitched headlong
from his elljow-chair on to the floor of his
own room at Voorbooch.

The noise occasioned by the fall of the
burly Hollander aroused his affrighted
helpmate from the sound slumber she had
been wrapped in for more than two hours,
during uhich time her husband had been
indulging in potations deep and strong,
until, overpowered with the potency of his
beloved li(jUor, he had sunk to sleep in his
elbow chair, and dreamed the dream we
have endeavoured to relate. The noise
of his fall aroused the vrow from her slum-
bers. Trembling in every limb on hear-
ing the unruly sound below, she de-
scended by a short flight of steps, scream-
ing loudly for help against thieves, into
the room where she had left lier spouse
when she retired to rest, and beheld
Gerrit, her dear husband, prostrate on the
stone floor, the table overturned, his glass
broken, and the remainder of the accursed
liquor flowing in a stream from the stone
bottle, which lay upset on the ground.

TRUE PATRIOTISM.

When the emperor Vespasian peremp-
torily ordered a particular senator to give
his voice against the interest of his coun-
try, and threatened him with death in case
he spoke otherwise — the intrepid patriot
answered, with a smile, " Did I ever tell
you 1 was immortal? My virtue is my
own — my life, yours. Do what you will,
I shall do what I ought ; and if I lall in the
service of my country, I shall have more
triumph in my death than you in your
laurels."

A tar's account of a funeral.

A sailor who had been for several years
on a foreign station, and had hardly ever
been ashore, asked leave to have a trip by
land, and accordingly proceeded to Alver-
stoke, where, for the first time, he wit-
nessed a funeral. He was very much
surprised at the ceremonial, and vvheu he
returned on board at night could talk of
nothing but what he had seen in the church-
yard. " Why, what d'ye think they does
with the dead corpseses ashore ?" " How
should I know ?" said the other. " Why,
then, Bill, may J never stir," replied Jack,
♦' but they ])uts 'em up in boxes, and
directs 'em."

PFRII.S BV FLOOD AND FIELD.

329

THE MILLER OF WIXKLEIGH :

A DEVONSHIRE LEGEND.

In tlie reign of the profligate Charles 11.
there lived in the village of Winkleigh, in
Devonshire, a young man named Roger
Buckland. At the age of twenty-two,
he found himself sole heir to his father's
estate, which consisted of a substantial
mill, and about ten acres of land, in a
tolerable state of cultivation. Many were
the deliberations of the calculating fathers
and sharp-eyed mothers of Winkleigh,
upon young Buckland's succeeding to his
father's possessions, and they took especial
care that none of their daughters should
be absent on Sundays at the village church.
Roger was a comely and well-proportioned
youth, though the fastidious might say
he was somewhat too sturdy ; but this is
a fault which is easily overlooked in De-
vonshire, where skill in wrestling is so
much in repute, and strength of body is
often found to make amends for any defi-
ciency in the mental faculty. He had
made no slight impression on the fair-
eyed girls of his native village, though
there were some damsels whose charms

VOL. II. — 42.

Page 331.

were on the wane, who hinted that the
flourishing business of Roger Buckland
was the most powerful magnet. Be this
as it may, there were many families who
would have been proud of an alliance with
the young miller ; but the charms of no
maiden had as yet enslaved him, though
there were many in his neighbourhood
who could boast of a fair proportion of
that beauty for which the damsels of De-
vonshire are so justly famous. Many
were the invitations he received, and no
rustic fete was given to which he was not
invited.

Three years had passed away since the
death of his father, when Roger at length
seriously determined to take unto himself
a wife, and he was not lung in fixing upon
one whom he thought in every respect
likely to render him happy. He accord-
ingly waited one morning upon the father
of the object of his choice, and after some
preliminary formula, Roger was permitted
to visit the house of the wealthy farmer,
in the qualify of a lover, or, in more
modern parlance, to *' pay his addresses"
to the old man's darling, the beautiful
Alice Clevelly. Her's was that beauty, at
2 u

330

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

which your city dames may scoflT, but her
fair cheek, glowing with the rosy l)ue of
heahh, her white and even teeth, and dark
brown ringlets, though all partaking of a
certain degree of rusticity, \Aere not less
winning, and her triumph over the lusty
young miller was complete. Between
two such beings there is little fear of a
lack of affection, and, ere the year was
out, each village lass pointed to the happy
couple as they strolled along, and, with
laugliing eye and significant gestures, be-
trayed her allowal)le envy.

i3ut the dark veil of superstition was
still spread over the peasantry of England.
Evil spirits were believed to roam throuoh
the world, blighting the fair hopes of the
young and sanguine heart. A dark and
fearful tale had oft been whispered by the
elders of the village, that Roger Buckland
was the last of his race, and that an evil
destiny hung over him. But he heard
not these things, or, if he did hear them,
they were unheeded, and their forebodings
troubled him not.

At length the day was fixed for their
marriage, and the busy fingers of the
bride and her friends were employed in
preparing her bridal dress. In three
weeks they were to be made man and
wife, and each looked forward to the happy
day uhich should see them united by the
lioly and indissoluble bond of wedlock.
Young Buckland was in the habit of
riding over to Hatherleigh market every
week, and he had left liome one day for
that purpose, intending to make a purchase
of some corn of a farmer widi whom he
had had n)any dealings. His stay at
Hatherleigh was much protracted, in con-
sequence of his not finding this person in
the town as he expected, and night was
advancing, when he determined to return
home. Before he had quitted the town
half an hour, it became quite dark ; this
made him urge his horse forward with
some speed, for the roads in those days
were not over safe to travel in the night
time. He had arrived within a mile of
his home, when the horse he rode, with an
instinct peculiar to that animal, suddenly
shyed, and in doing so, nearly threw the
young miller into the road j at the same
moment a faint voice cried out for help.

" Whoa ! whoa ! jade '." said the miller,
stroking the neck of his horse ; then rais-
ing his voice, he cried out, in the familiar
dialect of the west, to the person who had

spoken, and whom, owing to the darkness
of the night, he could not see distinctly,

** Wlu) bist thee, friend? — and what
brings thee here at this time o' night?"

A deep pause ensued, interrupted only
by the snorting and pawing of the miller's
horse. No answer was returned, and
Roger, dismounting, perceived that a
yotmg and well- dressed man was lying in
the middle of the road apparently in a
state of intoxication. After a moment's
deliberation, he drew the stranger from
the road, and placing him on the green
sward, re-mounted his horse, and rode
hastily home for assistance. This was
soon procured, and in half an hour the
stranger was under the roof of the young
miller, in a state, to all appearance, of
total unconsciousness to all that had been
done for him by his generous preserver.
Hock and soda-water, the modern tippler's
remedy fur such cases, were not known in
these days to the unsophisticated inhabit-
ants of Winkleigh : the miller had none,
but such simple restoratives as his gene-
rous disposition prompted him to use were
not spared to render his guest sensible of
the kindness with which he had been
treated. Old Dorcas, the miller's house-
keeper, not unused to such scenes in the
lifetime of her old master, ventured to
suggest that a night's sleep would restore
the stranger to consciousness ; accordingly
he was placed with much care in the best
chamber, and the household retiring to
rest, left the crickets to their nightly gam-
bols on the deserted hearth.

The miller arose betimes, and set about
his accustomed labour. When breakfast-
time came, the stranger, to his astonisli-
ment, entered the room, and thanked his
preserver, in the most grateful terms, for
the kindness shewn him. There were no
marks left on his countenance of the excess
of the previous evening, and his gait and
manner were those of a man who had
seen the world, and mixed with polished
society, though there was something like
a bluntness in his discourse, which indi-
cated that he had been used to the sea.
His face was eminently handsome; his
eyes were large, dark, and lustrous ; his
nose beautifully formed ; his mouth some-
what large, but well-shaped, though when
he smiled there was a writhing of the
nether lip, as though it were a pain to
him. His hair was jetty black, and fell
in large curls over his shoulders, beautifully

PFfllLS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

331

contrasting witli bis liigli, pale forehead,
on which age had not yet stamped a
single wrinkle. His figure was such as
the most fastidious might essay in vain to
find fault with : his age might be about
thirty. Upon his entering the room, the
miller handed him a chair, and then helped
him to the good things he had provided
for breakfast. Tea, cofl^ee, and chocolate,
were not known in those days to persons
in his station of life, but there was no
lack of ham, beef, and good ale, while a
flask of choice wine was added to the list
by the generous young miller. The
stranger, however, made but a sorry meal,
which he said was owing to the last
night's debauch.

" 'Tis ever so with me," said he, " after
I have drank too freely overnight. 'Tis
lucky that I escaped without a broken
limb, for my mare is a winsome jade, and
requires a tight hand."

** You had a horse, then ?" inquired the
miller, hastily ; •* pardon me, sir, I wot
not that you had been riding last night,
though, fool that I am, T remember draw-
ing off your boots and unbuckling your
spurs: 1 will send over the country for it
immediately," and rising from his seat, he
gave orders to two of his men to go in
search of the stray horse.

As they sat at breakfast, the stranger
conversed freely with the young miller,
and scrupled not to tell him that he had
been engaged in more than one scene of
plunder and devastation on the coast of
South America.

"Here," said he, producing a massive
gold chain ; ** I took this from the neck
of the governor of a Spanish fort near
Panama. I slew him with a pistol shot,
just as he was about to give fire to one of
his culverins. I cannot now bestow it on
a more worthy gentleman than yourself;"
and rising from his seat, he hung it round
the neck of the astonished miller, who,
thunderstruck at such an instance of ge-
nerosity, was with diflneulty persuaded to
keep it. " 'Tis but a trifle," said the
stranger — " a mere bauble. I have a few-
things here, though, which I should have
much grieved for the loss of, had I fallen
into some hands." He took from his
vest, as he spoke, a steel casket, which he
opened with a small key, and displayed a
quantity of jewels of such dazzling bright-
ness, that old Dorcas literally screamed
with astonsshment, w hile the young miller

doubted not but that he had given shelter
to the king himself; and he already saw
himself at court, a dubbed knight, rutting
in silk and gold lace, and wearing a rapier
of Bilboa steel by his side. The stranger's
manner was bland and courteous, and his
marvellous relations of perils by land and
sea, "and hair-breadth 'scapes i' th' im-
minent deadly breach," completely turned
the head of Roger Buckland, who paid but
little attention to his accustomed labour
that day. Ere dinner-time arrived, the
men who had gone in search of the
stranger's horse returned without it, and
informed their master that no traces of the
stray animal had been obtained.

Not to tire our readers with all (hat
passed between young Buckland and his
guest, we must inform thein, that at the
end of three days the latter discovered no
inclination to depart. These days seemed
but so many hours to the miller. Sunday
morning came, and it was then that he,
for the tirst time, remembered he had not
seen his beloved Alice since the day he
set out for Hatherleigh market. Stung
by self-reproach, he hastened to his cham-
ber, and dressed himself in his best, to
attend the village church, for the tinkle of
its bell now summoned the inhabitants
under its hallowed roof. Roger soon
completed his rustic toilet, and was de-
scending the stairs, when he met the
stranger, whom we shall now call Herrick,
and who accosted him with — " Wliiiher
now. Master Buckland ?" — Then glancing
at his dress, " Truly those hozen become
your leg passing well, and your points are
tied right jauntily. Where would ye, fair
sir?"

" To church," replied Roger ; " why
ask ye. Master Herrick ? Will ye not go
with me ?"

The lip of Herrick curled with a bitter
smile, as he replied —

" Go with thee. Master Buckland ! —
marry, I would as lief hang. What, sit,
for a whole hour, and hear a long discourse
from that feeble and short-sighted piece of
mortality ye pointed out to ine yesterday ?
Never !"

** Prithee, forbear!" replied Buckland,
somewhat hastily; " he is a worthy, pious
man, and is beloved by his^flock j' and as
to his discourse, why —

♦' Pshaw ! " interrupted Herrick, ** it
may do very well for the clowns of this
village ; but shall f, who have studied in
2 r 2

332

TALLS OF CHIVALRY ; OR.

Aiaby, and learnt that secret whicli places
the wealth of the Indies at my disposal,
listen to a teacher of clodpoles ? Nay,
chafe it not, man ; I do not include thee,
for there is that in thy looks which tells
me thou wert born to a better fortune."
(Roger smiled.) " Ay," continued Her-
rick, ** I see that thou art possessed of
more spirit than the clowns of this dull
village, in which no man can raise him-
self. What say ye, sir, to a visit to Lon-
don ?— where the merits of a gallant like
yourself are soon known and appreciated."

"I will talk of that when I return,"
replied Koger, brushing past him ; " but
if I stay to hear you now, I shall not get
to the church in time, and I must go to-
day."

He bounded from the house as he spoke,
to the evident chagrin of Herrick, and
soon gained the church, in which the
inhabitants of the village were already
assembled. He passed up the aisle, and
entered Master Clevelly's pew, where sat
his beloved Alice, her countenance red-
dened with a mingled feeling of gladness
and displeasure. A reproachful glance
from Alice struck to his heart, and he
bitterly upbraided himself for his neglect
of the beautiful and fond girl, who loved
him with the unalloyed affection of a first
and early passion. Who could blame
them, if they rejoiced at the conclusion of
the morning service ? As they gained
the church-yard, the lovers separated from
the throng, and Roger sought and ob-
tained pardon fur his neglect.

We shall not dwell on all that passed
between them. Those who have been
lovers can picture to themselves such
scenes; while to those who have never
loved (and where are they ?), the pen
cannot convey an adequate description.
Wlien Roger returned home, the vivid
description of London which Herrick
gave him completely turned his brain, and
he swore that he would see the city, and
taste of its pleasures, ere that moon was
out. And he kept his word, for in less
than a week afterwards he bade adieu to
the village of Winkleigh, and was on his
road to London, accompanied by Herrick.

It was not without regret that he qiiitted
Alice, but then he consoled himself with
the reflection that he should reap advantage
by a visit to London, and appear more
refined and polished when he returned.
On arriving there, they put up at one of

the best inns in Fleet Street, and Buckland
was soon the gayest of the wild gallants
who frequented that celebrated part of
London. Herrick mingled with the polish
of a courtier, the recklessness and careless-
ness of a sailor, and, ere a week had
passed, Roger, under his guidance, had
drank deep at the dark and inky fountain
of vice. His appearance soon altered ;
his face lost its healthy and sunburnt hue,
and his languid eye told too plainly that
dissipation had done its work upon him.
His step was much like that of the gal-
lants of London — he turned out his toes
so as to shew the rosettes on his shoes, or,
when booted, to shew his spur leathers ;
but it wanted that firmness and elasticity
which was once the pride of Winkleigh.

The heartless and sensual miscreant,
Charles, held at this time his court at
Whitehall, and London was crammed
with all the gay and thoughtless in Eng-
land. Every one knows, or at least
ought to know, what society was in this
reign ; a reign in which Gates, Danger-
field, Blood, and other such ruffians, w^ere
not only allowed to live, but were even
patronized and sheltered by the court.
This was the age in which the witty and
talented, but depraved, Rochester roamed
about; at one time amusing the rabble in
the guise of a Charlatan ; at another,
frightening the credulous out of their wits
in the garb of an astrologer ; and not un-
frequently obtaining, by the latter means,
secrets from those by whom he was sur-
rounded at court, which gave him a fearful
ascendancy over them. The civil wars
had made many needy and desperate, and
many who had once lived in affluence,
were content to exist upon the bounty of
the powerful and vicious. Licentiousness
and vice had reached their utmost height,
and to be virtuous was to be an object of
ridicule and contempt.

It wouUl, then, have been wonderful
indeed, if Roger had remained three weeks
in London without contamination ; more
espeeially in the company of Herrick,
whose manners were as loose as his wealth
was boundless.

Unaccustomed to a life of riot and de-
bauchery, Roger soon began to feel the
effects of indulging in such excesses, and
having been confined to his chamber one
day by indisposition, he retired to bed
early, but not to sleep, for his fevered
brain forbade it. He lay till long after

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

333

he heard the midnight chimes: it was
then that he slept, but dreams of a dark
and fearful kind haunted his slumbers.
He beheld, as if reflected in a mirror, the
church-yard of his native village, and he
looked and saw a newly- formed grave, on
which some friends of the departed had
scattered a profusion of wild flowers, now
fast fading in the noon-day sun — and
anon, the scene changed, and a dark cloud
rolled before him, and, as it dissolved, an
awful scene was disclosed. He beheld a
figure like himself bow before a throne of
dazzling brightness, on which sat one
whose countenance shone like the face of
the prophet when he descended from
Mount Sinai, and ten thousand celestial
beings gathered round. Suddenly, a
voice loud and fearful pealed through the
vault of heaven, and one of giant size and
height appeared, and claimed the soul of
him who had thus humbled himself. Then
came forth one arrayed in white, and low
she bowed, and in meek and piteous
accents supplicated for the soul of him
who thus knelt. And the figure was that
of his deserted love, his fondly devoted
Alice ! He started from his couch with
a deep groan of anguish ; cold drops of
moisture stood on his brow ; he essayed to
pray, but his tongue moved noiselessly,
his parched lips quivered with agony, and
he sunk back in a swoon.

When he recovered, the first rays of
the morning sun gleamed on the latticed
window of liis chamber. Throwing him-
self on his knees, he implored mercy for
his numerous sins, and prayed with an
intensity like that of a criminal who is
about to be sacrificed to the offended laws
of his country. Tears, bitter, scalding
tears, such as he had never shed before,
rolled down his hectic cheek, and his
faltering tongue poured forth the anguish
of his troubled spirit.

He was aroused by a gentle tap at the
door, and quickly rising from his recum-
bent posture, he opened it, and Herrick
entered in his gown and slippers,

" Good morrow. Bully Buckland," said
he ; " what has troubled ye so much, my
good friend ? You look scared."

" Oh, Herrick !" replied Roger, " I
am sick at heart ; this night has disclosed
to me such awful — "

** Pshaw !" interrupted Herrick ; "then
you have been only dreaming ; by this
fight I thought so, for as I lay in the next

chamber I could hear you mutter and ex-
claim in your sleep. Why, thou art not
cast down because thou hast had a dream.
Courage, man; what will the gallants of
Fleet Street say to thee if it should come
to their ears ?"

** Peace," said Buckland, hastily ; " I
have had such a warning in that dream,
that I would not stay another day in Lon-
don, were it to obtain the treasures of the
east. No, Herrick, no earthly power
shall keep me here ; to-day I set off for
Winkleigh. If thou art still my friend,
thou wilt bear me company."

It was in vain that Herrick attempted
to turn him from his determination ; he
was alike insensible to reasoning or ridi-
cule ; and ere the morning was far ad-
vanced, they quitted London, and were
on their road to Winkleigh.

Nothing worthy of relation occurred
during their journey, which was one of
some diflficultyln those days. Roger was
moody and thoughtful, and at times a prey
to the deepest melancholy, which all the
jokes and witticisms of his friend could not
dispel.

Day had began to dawn when they
arrived in sight of the village of Wink-
leigh. A faint streak of light appeared
in the east, but not a single chimney as
yet sent forth its wreath of smoke, so
grateful to the eye of the weary traveller.
Every window and door was fastened, and
Roger beheld, with a moistened eye, his
house and mill, which reared its long vanes
high above the surrounding houses.

Old Dorcas, aroused from her slumbers
by the arrival of her young master and
his friend, immediately set about prepar-
ing breakfast ; but, as she did so, the
miller could perceive that she was very
dejected. He dreaded to ask after Alice
when he first entered, as many do who
are prepared for the worst, yet are loth to
have their fears confirmed ; but he could
now no longer delay the question. How
shall we describe his feelings upon receiv-
ing the news of the maiden's death ?
There are some living who have been
thus stripped of all they loved in this
world, but can they describe their agony
at the harrowing moment which makes
them acquainted with their loss ? No !
All that poets wrote or minstrel sung
would fall short of the description : — how
then shall we describe the anguish of the
souU&tiuck lover ?

334

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OH,

His first torrent of o^rief being over, the
young miller inquired when and how she
died.

" Alas !" replied Dorcas, ** slie took
your leaving her so much to heart, and
especiailv the cruel letter you sent her,
that >'

** Ha !" cried Roger, starting on his
feet, and staring wildly, " what letter ? —
A letter, say ve ? I wrote none. Where
is it ?"

Here Herrick interposed. "'Twasthe
vile art of some cursed rival, my good
friend," said he. "Now, as I wear a
sword, it shall drink his base blood."

** 'Twill not bring her back again, poor
innocent !" said the dame ; " a fairer
maid, or one more gentle, never sun
slione on. But she is gone — they buried
her yesterday. Alas, that I should ever
live to see this day !"

Roger quitted the room at this moment,
W'ilh a hurried step, threw his cloak around
liim, and strode towards the church-yard.
He soon discovered the grave, the like-
ness of which he had beheld in his dream.
There was the fresh-turned earth, and the
scattered flowers, now withered and love-
less, but newly placed. He had scarcely
reached the spot, when he was conscious
that he had been followed, and turning
quickly round, he beheld Herrick. He
saw before him the author of his sufferings,
and giving vent to his indignation, he
upbraided him in bitter terms. Herrick
heard him with a smile, and tauntingly
bade him remember that he alone was the
cause of all. This reproach stung him to
the soul, and he groaned bitterly as Her-
rick, with a malicious satisfaction, ran
over a list of his excesses while with him
in London.

"So!" said he, folding his arms, and
looking on the wretched young man, as
the basilisk is fabled to look upon his
victim — " So this is my reward for having
treated you like a noble. Was it I who
introduced ye to that pretty wench with
whom you were so taken, and who drew
so largely on your purse, that you were
fain to come to me for a supply ? Or was
it I alone who helped to fleece the young
Templer whose monev burthened him ? —
Was it I "

" Peace, peace, malicious fiend !" cried
Buckland ; " had'st thou the heart of a
man, thou would'st pity my distress — get
thee gone from my sight — would 1 had

been laid in my grave ere I had met with
thee !"

A wild laugh was Herrick's only reply,
but it stung Roger to the soul, and he
clutched the handle of his sword, which,
however, with all his strength, he could
not draw from its scabbard,

" Desist," said Herrick ; " take thy
hand from thy toasting-iron, or I will
paralyze tliy frame and make thee as help-
less as an aged man."

Buckland knew too well the power of
Herrick, by whose means his sword had
been rendered useless, and he groaned
bitterly.

" Pitiful minion !" said Herrick, glanc-
ing fiercely on him ; " I thought thee
possessed of a firmer soul. Will thy
whining bring back the dead ?"

The miller made no reply, but covering
his face with his hands, wept bitterly,
while his companion beheld his distress
with evident satisfaction.

" Leave me," said Roger, imploringly.

" Nay," replied Herrick, with a sneer,
" you had better quit this place, for yon-
der comes he who was to have been your
brother-in-law."

The miller raised his head, and per-
ceived that Herrick spoke truly, for Wil-
liam Clevelly, the brother of his departed
Alice, leaping over a low style, entered
the church-yard, and advanced towards
them.

" Ah, thou detestable villain, Buckland,"
cried he, " art tliou returned with thy vile
companion, to exult over lier now she is
in her grave ?"

" Oh, William," replied Buckland, " do
not upbraid me — 'tis punishment enough
to look upon this green bank — my heart
is broken."

" Nay — thy hypocrisy shall not screen
thee !" said the fiery youth ; " 1 yesterday
swore upon this grave that I would re-
venge her death. Therefore, prepare, for
one of us must fall."

He unclasped the cloak in which he was
muffled, and threw it on the ground, then
drawing his sword, lie called upon Buck-
land to defend himself. Roger essayed to
unsheath his weapon, but his trembling
hand refused its office ; — when Herrick
spoke —

"Courage, Master Buckland," said he;
" out with your fox, and shew this clod-
pole a little of your fence."

*' 1 may be left to try yours," remarked

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

335

young Clevelly, " but lie at present is my
man."

" We shall see to that anon, boy,"
replied Henick, with bitter emphasis.
*' Take your stand, young sir, my friend
is ready for you." As he spoke, Roger
threw off his cloak, then stepping a few
paces aside, stood opposite young Clevelly,
and waited for his attack.

The miller, during his stay in London,
had not, with other accomplishments, neg-
lected to improve himself in the art of
defence, but it proved of little use against
the strengdi and impetuosity of his adver-
sary, and ere they had exchanged half-a-
dozen passes, Buckland fell on the green
sward, pierced through the body. The
sword of William Clevelly was already
descending to finish the work of death,
when Herrick, unsheathing his rapier,
parried the thrust with great dexterity,
and presented his point so as to keep off
the enfuriate young man. Enraged at
this interference, he attacked Herrick with
great fury, but at the first lunge his sword
bent like' a bull-rush, and the blade and
handle became red-hot \ With a shout of
terror he dashed the weapon to the ground,
and fled from the church-yard with the
speed of lightning, not doubting but that
he had crossed swords w^ith the fiend him-
self. Herrick smiled at his affright, and
then slieathing his weapon, directed his
attention to the wounded youth, whose
blood was fast flowing from the deep
wound he had received — so fast, indeed,
that nothing but prompt assistance could
prevent his dying on the spot. Raising
the body in his arms, Herrick bore it
home, and summoned Dorcas to his assist-
ance, who was about to send for a surgeon,
when he interposed, and after placing the
body in Roger's own chamber, began to
strip it and examine the wound, wliich he
dressed with great care and skill. An
hour had passed ere Roger returned to
consciousness, and when he did, he found
Herrick and Dorcas watching by his side.

The arrival of one or two of the neigh-
bours was at the same time announced,
and they entered the room with open
mouths, and with the evident intention of
demanding an explanation of the strange
scene in the church-yard; but Dorcas
very unceremoniously shewed them into
another room, and bidding them wait a
few moments, returned to her patient,
whom she found supported by pillows, in

earnest though faint conversation with
Herrick. A word or two which she over-
heard induced her to draw back, and she
saw that Herrick held a parchment in the
one iiand and a pen in the other, which he
offered to Buckland.

'* Psha ! this is foolery," said he, per-
ceiving him irresolute; ** subscribe your
name, and health and boundless wealth,
are your's for years to come."

Roger's reply was scarcely audible ; but
she could distinguish that he refused to
sign.

" Then die in thine obstinacy and
guilt," said Herrick ; and he w^as turning
from the bed, when Roger motioned him
to return — and again they spoke together
— when suddenly the wounded man sprung
convulsively in the bed, and clasping his
hands wildly together, he cried,

" Aroint thee, fiend ! In the name of
heaven, I charge thee be gone !"

Scarcely were these words uttered,
when Herrick's frame seemed to dilate
and tremble — his eyes streamed forth a
supernatural light — and with a diabolical
smile of disappointed malice, the tempter
immediately disappeared! No light or
vapour accompanied his departure — it
seemed as though he had suddenly dis-
solved into air. Dorcas and the neigh-
bours rushed into the chamber, and as one
of them drew aside the window-curtains,
the morning sun burst with all its radiance
into the apartment ; it fell upon the face
of the wounded man, now^ clad in the pallid
livery of death, and disclosed to their view
all that was mortal of the ill-fated miller
of Winkleigh !

THE FORLORN pOLDIER.

Some few years ago, when I was a
solitary wandererthrough a world in which
I had few definite objects or personal
interests, I took my station in a coach in
London, bound for Portsmouth. We had
nearly reached the outskirts of the metro-
polis, when the vehicle suddenly stopped,
and a portly, good- humoured -looking
woman opened the door, and, addressing
us, said that she was going to put into the
coach a child whose mother w^as dying at
Portsmouth, where her husband was doing
garrison duty as a lieutenant. The little
girl, she added, did not know of the illness
of her mother. She was then lifted up and
placed in the seat beside me. She ap-
peared to be about four yearsof age, with

336

TALKS OF CinV.M.RY

(lark locks cmling cjiaoefully round her
temples, and her bright gray eyes beam-
ing with a merry sparkle through the
shade of i)er bonnet.

" All right," and on we dashed again :
the passengers now begin to look at each
other with the scrutiny uhich so clearly
indicates that the comfort of the hours to
come depended on those with whom we
are brought into contact. Two grave,
quiet, and elderly men, were seated oppo-
site to myself and child ; and having sur-
veyed them with a short glance, I directed
my attention to the little girl my near
companion. She had a look of animation
and intelligence, but was evidently timid
and abashed. I began to talk to her, and
after I made a few attempts at familiar
conversation, she began to play with the
buttons of my coat, and looked up in my
face with an intelligent smile, again
lowering her head as if she was afraid
of venturing farther familiarity with a
stranger. Before many more minutes
transpired, we were the best possible
friends, and the little innocent began to
ask me a number of questions, and to open
her bright eyes with wonder, or to laugh
and crow with delight at every object that
attracted her attention on the road. She
pointed, clapped her little hands, or re-
peated inarticulate fragments of a song,
as we passed among the heathy hills, or
gained a view over the teeming prospects
of Hampshire. Thus the hours sped
away, and the spirits of the child con-
tinued to bubble forth in all their vivacity,
till the gray elders who sat opposite to us,
and who had at tirst been deeply engaged
in politics, began to unbend in a smile of
relu*;tant and half-unconscious synipathy.

When the evening began to close, my
little companion dropped asleep, and her
head nestled against my side in tranquil
pleasing slumber. The night proved dark
and gusty, and the wind seemed to blow
louder and colder as we approached to-
wards the sea. The rain was driven
violently against the coach windows, and
the old gentleman shivered and coughed
at the chill breeze and dreary noise ihat
now assailed us. A thousand dim recol-
lections arose in my mind, and many
fancies sprung up, on looking at the child
now beside me, and I sighed to think that
so fair a creature should have crossed my
path but for a moment ; and that in her,
and all the other blossoms oF the earth, I

could claim no share. It was mournful to
think that this now happy child was tra-
velling to a home where its mother might
be lying cold in the arms of death. In
such a gloomy night, and in like gloomy
thoughts, I passed through the fortifica-
tions of Portsmouth at a kite hour. A
harsh voice was heard, and the coach sud-
denly stopped. The child awoke ; the
door was opened, and the face of a pale,
middle-aged man, in a military dress, was
scarcely distinguishable by the dim glare
of the lamp. The eyes and ears of the
little girl were soon satisfied that one of
her early friends was near, and she im- "
mediately exclaimed, " Papa! papa !"

The lieutenant seized on the child with
an eagerness that appeared harsh, and
pressed her to his bosom ; and before the
vehicle again moved, I caught the half-
stifled sobbing exclamation, " My child !
my child ! you have now no mother '"
In heaviness of heart I went to my inn,
and for fashion's sake took a little supper,
though my appetite was gone. I went to
bed soon after, but the cry still sounding
in my ears, I could not sleep soundly,
being disturbed by dreams. I awoke
feverish, and looked on the gray clouds
flitting rapidly across the sky, and listened
to the sotmd of the brattling waves on the
adjoining shore. From my early days I
had loved the green sea ; and after view-
ing it some time from my window, I dressed
myself and uent out to take a walk along
the shore. With my eyes stretched out to
view the Isle of Wight, now seen dimly
through the driving spray and rain, I
looked more intensely on the intermediate
space of waters, when I was suddenly
aroused by the cries of some boatmen hard
by, who in a few minutes brought to land
the bodies of a man and a child. What
were my feelings when, on a nearer ap-
proach, I perceived the body of my little
fellow-traveller, still clinging to its father,
who held it fast in his embrace ; tlie ago-
nizing grief of the father for the loss of a
beloved wife, had turned to frenzy, and,
unconscious of what he saw, felt, or did,
he, with the dear pledge of their mutual
love in his arms, plunged into tiie sea !

Alphonsus, king of Arragon, used to
say, there were four things the better for
age : " Old wood to burn, old wine to
drink, oki friends to trust, and old books
to read."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FILLD.

337

STAPYLTON HALL.

The experience Henry the Seventh had
acquired in his youth, from observing the
proud and factious t:pirit of the nobihty,
taught him, as a necessary step towards
securing his seat upon the English throne,
the importance of curbing that restless
disposition among the nobles, which had
been so fatal to the peace of the nation
from the Conquest upwards, and given
licence to the needy and mercenary.
Before the accession of that prince, might
constantly triumphed over right, and the
devastating and bloody wars between the
rival Roses had created a spirit of disaffec-
tion and rebellion throughout the land.
I'ravelling was at all times dangerous ;
and, even in I.ondon, though surrounded
with walls, the lives and properties of the
citizens were nut always secure. During
the reign of this crafty and politic prince,
the arts were encouraged, commerce re-
vived, and the carriages lately employed
in the service of the contending parties,
were now laden with merchandize ; the
many villages, and even some towns, which
are scattered over the country, first arose ;
VOL. II. — 43.

Page 339.

and the gloom and desolation which had
overspread the kingdom, gradually dis-
persed. The people, tired of a long and
sanguinary civil war, gladly hailed (he
return of peace, and were not to be easily
roused into rebellion again, as may be
seen from the failure of the two attempts
of Simnel and Warbeck.*

During the time of the violent struggles
we have alluded to, there stood between
the town of Fairford and the little village
of Marston Maisey, in Gloucestershire, a
castellated building, held by sir John
Stapylton, a knight of an ancient and
honourable family, whose ancestors had
dwelt there from the time of the Norman
conquest. He was devotedly attached to
the house of Lancaster, and when an
app-'al to arms was made by the two
factions, he sold the greater part of his
estates and joined the standard of Henry,

• The adventures of this youth far exceed the
wildest fiction, and his untimely fate cannot but
excite our commiseration. liis real pretensions
are to this day a subject of dispute, for we are told
that the confession extorted from him b}- Henry
was so full of contradictions, that it raised doubts
in the minds of some who were before disposed
to consider him as an impostor,
2x

338

TALCS OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

with his two sons, who were destined to
return no move. At the battle of Morti-
mer's Cross, Robert, the eldest, was slain
by an arrow ; and the youngest fell at
Hexham, while bravely defending his
father from the attacks of a band of spear-
men, led by sir William Haviland, a
knight of gigantic stature, who savagely
slew him, after he had been beaten down
and disarmed. In this battle, sir John
himself received several wounds, some of
which were too serious to admit of his
ever taking the field again. A cross-bow-
bolt had shattered the bone of his left arm
so dreadfully, that it was rendered entirely
useless.

Vexed at being thus incapacitated, and
inwardly vowing to be revenged on the
destroyer of his son, the bereaved father
returned to his home almost heart-broken.
Perhaps he would have sought his own
death by rushing into the midst of his
enemies, had not the recollection of his
daughter, now fast growing up to woman-
hood, withheld him. Who would protect
lier in those unsettled times, if he should
die ? It was the gentle Agnes who made
his life supportable, and in her society he
sought to bury for a time the recollection
of his loss. But there were times when
the remembrance of his first-born's death
flashed across his brain, and made the
unhappy father curse the faction that had
torn asunder the ties of friendsiiip and
kindred. Robert had died in his arms,
as he vainly endeavoured to pluck the
arrow from his breast ; and Edward was
struck, mangled and bleeding, to the
ground before his face.

The remembrance of those scenes would
often recur, when the pain of his many
wounds had occasioned a temporary deli-
rium ; and nought but the attentions of his
beloved child could soothe his mind and
make existence supportable. Beautiful
she was — fit subject for a poet's pen or
painter's pencil ; and her njind was fitted
ibr such a shrine. Although she had not
numbered twenty summers, there lacked
not wealthy suitors for such a perfection.
Her father was a man of great learning
for that rude age, when some of England's
stoutest knights could neither read nor
write; but he was not the less skilled in
warlike exercises, and had done good
s'^rvice on the part of the weak-minded
Henry and his amazon queen; indeed
this had considerably reduced his posses-

sions, and, when he returned home, the
coldness of those of his neighbours who
had not taken part in the quarrel, stung
him to the quick. But he concealed his
indignation, and appeared but little abroad,
seldom venturing to leave his estate, unless
upon particular occasions.

Several years had elapsed since the
death of his sons, during which time the
deadly feuds of the Roses had raged with
unabated fury. At length the Yorkists
prevailed, and Henry was in their power.
Not long after, queen Margaret landed
in England, accompanied by her son,
resolved to try the issue of another battle,
and being encamped near Tewksbury, she
waited the approach of Edward.

Sir John had heard of the landing of
the queen, and although he forgot not the
heavy losses he had sustained by espousing
her cause, he would have gladly joined her
standard, had not his wounds rendered
him incapable of bearing arms. The
knight was well aware that a battle must
be fought as soon as the tw^o armies met
each other, and he waited anxiously for
the result of the combat.

One evening, in the month of May, sir
John sat in a small room, which he used
as a study : he had once or twice attempted
to read, but the agitation of his mind
would not allow him. His jewelled
fingers held down the leaves of a splen-
didly illuminated book, but his eye wan-
dered from the page, and glanced sorrow-
fully on a suit of battered armour, which
stood in one corner of the room. A lance,
a sword and a mace, hung against the
wall ; they had once been wielded by a
vigorous and skilful hand, but were now
to be used by their possessor no more !
He thought on the time vshen he had
vaulted on his horse amidst the shouts of
his retainers, armed in that harness which
he was never to fill again : he thought
also on the fate of his two sons, and then
on his only remaining child, his beautiful
and virtuous Agnes: no marvel that his
book was unheeded. He sat for some
time in this mood, until night had closed
in, when the clatter of horses' hoofs struck
on his ear. He listened attentively. Had
the battle been fought? — It miglit be a
party of the conquerors come to burn and
spoil his dwelling — no, it was a single
hoisenian. Scarce had the thoughts risen
in his mind, when a servant entered, and
informed him that a traveller waited

P1£RILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

339

without, refjiiiring a night's shelter under
his roof — having- been attacked by a band
of men who had slain his servant. The
knight commanded them to show the
stranger every attention, and having
descended into the hall, he welcomed him
W'ith much courtesy.

In answer to sir Jolm's inquiries, the
stranger, in a few words, informed him
that his name was Godfrey Haviland, and
that he was on his way to Cirencester,
when he was waylaid by a party of men,
who killed iiis only attendant, and that
he escaped through the fleetness of his
horse.

*' Aye, aye," said sir John ; " some of the
cursed fore-riders belonging to one of the
armies which must now he in the neigh-
bourhood : but I hope, sir, they have not
despoiled you of any vahiables ?"

"No, nothing, save a jerkin and hose,
which my poor knave had strapped behind
him."

*"Twas lucky that you escaped with
your life, sir : these are unsettled times,
and the strongest arm takes most. What
ho ! Will, a flagon of Malmsey, and a
pasty for my guest."

In a few minutes a table was spread,
and a venison pasty, together with a large
gammon of bacon, and a flagon of wine,
was set before the stranger, who ate
heartily. Having finished his repast, he
begged to know the name of his enter-
tainer.

On the knight's replying to this ques-
tion, the stranger's face was flushed for a
moment, and then turned deadly pale ;
but sir John noticed it not, and desired a
servant to bid the lady Agnes attend him.
She shortly entered, and was introduced
by her father as his daughter — his sole
remaining child. The breast of the
stranger heaved, and a burning blush
passed across his fine and manly counte-
nance ; but the knight attributed this to
bashfnlness — his guest was but a }oath,
and had, perhaps, been little in the com-
pany of females ; but Haviland's emotion
was occasioned by a far different feeling.
He knew that his father, sir William Havi-
land, was the man who had slain the son
of his kind and hospitable entertainer,
whose hall now sheltered him in a time of
danger and uncertainty. It was fortunate
that sir John knew not the name of the
destroyer of his son, or his dwelling might
have been a scene of murder — but he had

never learnt the name and title of the man
who had slain his boy.

The beauty of Agnes made a strong
impression on young Haviland, who more
than ever regretted the fierce rashness of
his father. He saw clearly that there
was little hope of a union with the family
who had suffered such a loss by the hand
of his parent, and when ffight arrived he-
retiied to rest, his mind disturbed by a-
multitude of painful reflections. Sleej)
fled his couch, and when morning dawned
he rose unrefreshed. After dressing hinv
self, and preparing for his departure, he
passed out from his chamber, when the
first object he beheld was Agnes,

Great was his astonishment on perceiv-
ing her at so early an hour j but ere he
had spoken, she moved slowly away on
tiptoe and waved lier liand. He followed
her until she had descended into a lower
apartment, when the maiden, \^hile her
heart throbbed wildly, said —

" Fly from this place if you value your
life, sir ! — you are known to one of my
father's men."

'♦ Known, dearest lady !" faltered Havi-
land.

" Aye— known as the son of the fierce
man who destroyed my poor brother,"
replied Agnes, while her blue eyes swam
with tears ; *' but fly, if you would not
sutler a dreadful death. My maid told me
yesterday that our falconer, who was with
my father at Hexham, swore that you are
the son of sir William Haviland 1— 'twill
soon reach my father's ears."

" Oh, dearest lady, how shall I express
my gratitude ? — but, believe me, I had no
share in your brother's death."

" Talk not of that now— quick to the
stables, and ride hard, for my father will
soon be stirring."

" But how shall I pass the gate r"
*' T have the keys here — haste, or you
will be lost."

As she spoke, she led the way to the
stables, and Haviland, with all haste, sad-
dled his horse.

'i'he gates were cautiously unlocked.
He pressed the hand of Agnes to his lips,
while his sobs impeded his voice ; but the
danger was great, and vaulting on his
steed, he faltered " farev^ ell," and soon
left the hall behind him.

Leaving Godfrey Haviland on his way,
we must return to Stapylton Hall.
As the morning advanced the t>ld knig
'Jx*2

340

TAT.es of CniVALIiY; OR,

arose, and breakfast being laid in a small
room adjoining 'iiis study, he waited the
presence of his guest. Agnes shortly
entered, pale and dejected.

" Why, what ails thee, my child ?" said
sir John, as he kissed her blanched cheek ;
•* thou hast been weeping."

Agnes pleaded illness, and took her
seat by her father, who wondered at the
absence of his guest. After waiting for
some time, a servant was sent to rouse
him from his slumbers, when his flight was
discovered.

The old knight was astonished beyond
measure at the disappearance of his guest,
and concluding that he was some adven-
turer who had paid him a visit with a
sinister intention, he desired his servants
to look to the plate and other valuables ;
when, in the midst of the confusion, the
falconer came, and informed his master
that he had entertained the son of his
deadly foe.

Words cannot paint the astonishment
arid chagrin of sir John upon receiving
this intelligence. He stood for some mo-
ments as if paralysed, then stamping furi-
onsh on the floor, he desired that his
park-keepershouldattendhim,andstriding
into his study, slammed to the door with
great violence. Agnes, alarmed for the
safety of the fugitive, to whose flight she
had been a party, flew to her chamber to
conceal her agitation.

In the meantime, her father paced the
room with hurried step. He stopped at
times and looked on his battered harness,
then struck his forehead with the palm of
his hand, and vented his rage in a low,
half-stifled voice, by excitement rendered
inarticulate, and resembling the growl of
an angry wolf. A tap at the door of the
study roused him.

** Enter !" he cried, and a man strode
into the room, cap in hand ; he was rather
under the ordinary height, but broad-
shouldered and muscular. His face full,
but distinctly marked, and his hair cut
quite close to his head. His neck was bare
and brawny, and his face, by constant
exposure to the weather, had become of a
dark bro\^ n. His dress was a coarse tunic
of green, witli trunk hose of red serge, and
buskins of buff leather. A short sword
hung at his belt, which was buckled tight
round his body. His whole appearance
bespoke the perfect woodsman.

" Wat Fluister," said the knight, ** thou

hast been a faithful follower of mine for
these twenty years : — Harkee, I have
need of thy assistance : — quick, don thy
jazerant."*

" I have left it with Will the armourer,
at Fairford, to be mended," said Wat.

** I'ake this then," reaching a jazerant
from the wall: — "haste, and on with it;
and look ye, take your bow and three of
your best shafts ; begone I and come to
me as soon as thou art ready."

Wat left the room, but in a few minutes
returned. He had put on the knight's
mailed coat, and a sallet or light iron cap.
He carried his bow in his hand, and bore
on his elbow a small target or buckler, like
those worn by the archers of that period.

" That's my nimble servitor," said the
knight ; *' and now saddle Cob, my gel-
ding, take the bloodhound,,and ride after
the fellow who left this morning: — and
harkee, Wat," in a suppressed voice, ** see
that he travel no more — thou knowest
what I mean ? Thou hast sharp shafts,
and a trusty bow — give him not the same
'vantage as thou would'st thine own
enemy — he is mine ■' shoot him from his
horse, ere he knows that thou art near
him !"

Wat stopped not a moment to question
this command : it was enough that it was
given by his master, whose word with
him was law. In less than five minutes
he passed out on the knight's own horse,
at full speed, followed by the hound.
After riding a short distance, Wat distin-
guished the marks of the fugitive's horse's
hoofs, and the dog was immediately laid
on. He well knew that Haviland would
find it difl&cult to pick his way over a part
of the country he was unacquainted with,
and he doubted not that he should come
up with him before he had got any dis-
tance.

Godfrey Haviland was not far off. He
heard the yelp of the dog, and a cold tremor
ran through his frame as he discovered
that he was tracked. Wat, though he
could not see his victim, knew well that
he was not far off, he therefore increased
his pace, and moved on rapidly. Havi-
land, in the meantime, had struck out of
the road, and gallopped across the country.
It was not long before a brook stopped
his progress : he beheld it with joy, as he

* Jazerant.— A frock of twisted or linked mail,
■without sleeves, somewhat lighter than the hau-
berk worn by the knights.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

341

well knew it was the only refuge fron] the
enemy that tracked him.

" ISow, my good steed," said he, "bear
thy master through this trial, or he will
never press thy trusty sides again."

He plunged into the brook as he spoke.
The stream was swollen, but the noble
animal swam with its master for several
yards, when the water became shallower.
Fearing to land again, Haviland dashed
down the stream, which ran through a
wood at a little distance. He arrived
there just in time to escape from the view
of his pursuers, who came up to the brook
as Haviland entered the wood. Wat
swore deeply on finding that he was
baulked.

*' Ah ! 'tis of no use. Fangs," said he
to the dog, as he saw the animal run up
and down the bank of the stream. ** We
have been tracking an old hand — let us
both return and prepare our backs for the
cudgel."

Afier several endeavours to regain the
scent, W'at turned his horse's head towards
home. He soon reached the hall, and
having replaced Cob in the stable, he
repaired to sir John's apartment.

" Well, Wat," said the knight eagerly,
** hast thou revenged me ?"

" No," replied he, sullenly, scarce know-
ing what to say — *' he has 'scaped."

"Ha! thou knave!" cried sir John,
starting on liis feet ; — ** escaped, didst
thou say ? Then am I foiled, and through
tiiy mischance — There, villain, take thy
guerdon."

As he spoke, he struck Wat a violent
blow on his broad chest, which, spite of
the jazeranthe wore, made the woodsman
stagger, and proved that the knight had
one powerful arm left. The blood mounted
in Wat's dark face — his eyes flashed fire,
and with a thrust of his hand he sent the
knight reehng to the wall — then grasped
the handle of his short sword, which he
half unsheathed j but it fell back harm-
lessly in its scabbard — its wearer's head
sunk upon his breast — a tear fell on the
floor, but the foot of the woodsman was
quickly drawn over it, and he stood
motionless for several moments without
speaking.

" Wat," said the knight, after a long
pause, *' thou hast raised thy hand against
thy master, and "

** I have," interrupted Wat ; " and will
not the poor worm turn on the foot that

treads it down ? I am your vassal, 'lis
true ; I have eaten of your bread these
twenty years, and ne'er took blow before.
You are my master, or your blood should
wash this floor."

" These are high words for one of thy
stamp," said the knight, in a tone of re-
monstrance—fearing to anger the resolute
woodsman, whose temper was always mild
and gentle, except when roused : — " a
rope and a swing from the wall would
have been thy fate, if thou had'st some
masters ; but thou hast served me faith-
fully "

*' And been struck like a dog in return,"
said Wat.

" Nay, nay, Wat, dwell not on that —
but how came the springald to escape?"

" He made for the brook, and baulked
the hound — 'twas no fault of mine."

" Well, well," continued the knight, in
a calmer tone, " it can't be helped now —
but I am vexed at his escape. His father
slew my Edward when the poor boy lay
on the ground disarmed and helpless."

Sir John drew his hand across his face
as he spoke, and wiped the tear away
which hung on his eyehd. What's stern
nature was softened.

" My honoured master," said he, " would
I had known that yesternight— you should
have been revenged."

" I know thee, Wat — I know thee,"
said the knight ; " and methinks thou hast
had time to know thy master, and bear
with him when he speaks tliee harshly.
Here, let this make amends."

He placed several gold pieces in Wat's
hand. The woodsman received the money
on his broad palm, looked earnestly at it
for several moments, then let it slip be-
tween his fingers, and it fell on the floor.

" I will not take it, sir John," he said ;
" my master's love and protection is the
only wage I crave."

He then abruptly left the room, before
the knight had time to reply.

** Strange fellow !" exclaimed sir John ;
** there's not a pampered knave on my
poor estate that possesses half thy feeling !
thou, at least, art faithful."

We must now return to Godfrey Havi-
land, whom we left after he had baffled
his pursuer. He held on his way at full
speed until he had quite cleared the wood,
when he resolved at all hazard to inquire
of the next person he met, the way to the
town of Tewkesburv. It was not long

342

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

before be obtained the necessary informa-
tion, and found that he had deviated con-
siderably from the road. After an hour's
hard riding;, he came in sight of the town,
and beheld the tents of tlie Lancastrian
forces spread over the fields ; \vhil« from
one of the largest, the queen's banner
floated in the breeze. Various bodies of
soldiers were in motion, and their armour
and weapons tlashed brightly in the morn-
ing's sun, which shone resplendent on the
Coteswold hills, that rose above the exten-
sive landscape, covered with the verdure
of spring.

It was not long before a body of mount-
ed soldiers appeared advancing rapidly
into the plain. The Jjancastrians per-
ceived their approach, and a large party
of their fore- riders pushed forward to
attack them. They met in a narrow lane,
and in an instant a wild shout arose, and
a cloud of dust obscured the combatants.
Haviland raised himself in his stirrups for
a moment, then, driving his spurs into
his horse's flanks, rode hastily towards
them. As he approached, he could easily
perceive his father's pennon fluttering
over the heads of the party, while cries of
"A Haviland ! A Haviland !" were echo-
ed by more than two hundred voices. —
Though armed only with his sword, he
dashed forward, and struck down a raw-
boned figure, who had engaged his father.

"Thanks, my boy," cried sir William,
as he clove the head of his nearest foe,
" thou hast arrived in time. Ah, these
rogues give ground ! upon 'em, knaves!
hurrah !"

The knight spoke truly : — the Lancas-
trian soldiers were broken by the charge
of the remainder of his followers, who had
now come up, and fled precipitately. To
have pursued them, would have been to
rush upon the main body of the queen's
army, who were now drawn up.

*' Aye, there they go, helter-skelter, as
if the devil drove them !" said the knight,
as the scattered troop scoured'back j ** we
must not follow them.

He wiped his bloody sword as he spoke
on his horse's mane, and, sheathing it,
received his son in his mailed arms, with
an embrace that made Godfrey writhe
with the violence of the pressure.

" And now, my boy," said he, " let us
return, or we shall have a fresii body upon
us — see the king is approaching : — I have
a suit of harness for thee."

The party gallopped back to some dis-
tance, and waited the arrival of Edward's
army. It approached slowly along the
lane. First, came a troop of light horse-
men, armed with jack and iron pof, and
carrying long lances; then followed a
band of archers, covered with dust and
sweat, greatly exhausted by their long
march, tlieir bows strung, and an arrow
ready in their hand, while their leaden
mells were slung at their backs. A body
of men-at-arms came next, and then seve-
ral pieces of artillery drawn on clumsy
and unwieldly carriages. The king fol-
lowed, surrounded by his friends and
brothers, arrayed in a suit of polished
steel ; his rich surtout, emblazoned with
the arms of England and France quarterly,
soiled with dust and dirt from the toilsome
march. A page rode by his side, and
carried his gilded helmet, which was orna-
mented with white plumes. A large body
of spearmen and bill-men came next, to
the number of several thousands, then
another band of archers, and then a horde
of raggamufflns, who followed the army
in the hope of obtaining plunder. Arriv-
ing on a more open ground, they began
to form, while the king's brothers, Cla-
rence and Gloster, left him, and took their
respective posts.

Tlie Lancastrian force immediately
moved forward, and prepared for battle.
In the meantime, sir William had pro-
cured a suit of armour for his son, who now
rode by his side. The battle soon com-
menced with great fury, but the particu-
lars Iiave been so often described, that it
would be useless to repeat them here.
The Lancastrians, as is well known, suf-
fered a signal defeat, and were chased off
the field with great slaughter. Many
noblemen fell in the combat, and the
queen's son w^as most barbarously mur-
dered by Edward and his brothers, after
he was taken prisoner.

The news of the battle soon reached
the ears of sir John Stapylton, who fore-
saw the danger he was in from the ma-
rauders who had been introduced into
the neighbourhood, and who now prowled
about the country, under pretence of
taking vengeance upon those who were
hateful to the house of York, committing
all sorts of disorders. He therefore kept
his gates closed, and summoned his ser-
vants together. His fears were realized,
for on the following morning a party of

PERaS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

343

men arrived at Stapylton Hall, and de-
manded admittance. In answer to the
knight's questions, they informed him,
tliat they were Lancastrian soldiers, who
had escaped from the battle, and begged
that he would assist them with food and
money. Not doubting the truth of this
story, sir John desired his servants to
adiuit tliem, when they threw off the mask,
and gave the signal for plunder. The
most costly tapestry was soon torn from
the walls. The plate, and other valua-
bles, was seized, and the knight himself
treated with the greatest indignity. Sir
John was unable to resent these out-
rages ; his servants were too weak to
make any resistance, and he retired to
one of the remotest apartments, with his
daughter the lady Agnes, in the hope that
the villains would depart after they had
been satiated with plunder.

The leader of this band was a man of
great stature and strength. A frock of
mail over a leathern jerkin descended as
low as his knees ; he wore a scull-cap of
iron, and from a belt with which he was
girted, hung a ponderous sword and a
long dagger. Walter Harden had been
engaged in, and had shared in the plunder
obtained in the various battles between
the rival houses. His undaunted bravery
made him a great favourite with his des-
perate band, who were inured to every
kind of hardship and danger. He was
now most active in encouraging his fellows
to plunder, and in a short time the place
was stripped of every thing valuable.
Several pipes of wine had been brought
from the cellars into the hall, and their
contents had rendered tliej-e marauders
still more wild and boisterous. In the
midst of the uproar, Walter Harden
lliought of Agnes.

" Comrades," said he, " we have wine,
but where is the beauty that filed from us
v\lien we entered ? — shall we not have her
here to grace our carousal ?"

A loud roar of assent arose from the
band ; and Walter, rising from a bench on
which he had been seated, staggered out
of the hall in search of Agnes, followed by
three or four of his comrades. After
searching for some time in vain, they
came to the room into which the knight
and his daughter had retreated. The door
was fastened on the inside, and resisted
the efforts of all but Walter hinjself, who
with his foot dashed it into the middle of

the apartment, and discovered sir John,
his daughter, and Wat Fluister. The
marauder reeled towards Agnes, when
Wat interposed, but was desired to remain
quiet by his master.

" Fair mistress," said \\'alter, "we have
much need of your company below, for we
find your sex passing scarce in thiscountry.
Prithee give me thy hand."

He took the hand of Agnes as he spoke,
and threw his arm around her waist, when
Wat started forward, and stabbed the
giant with his short sword. So deadly
was the thrust, that the weapon passed
through his neck, and came out on the
other side full a hand's breadth. Walter
Harden fell to the ground with a gasp, and
expired, while his companions sprung
upon Wat Fluister, and though he wounded
one of them severely, they disarmed and
bound him. He was instantly dragged
below with fierce oaths. Loud" were the
execrations of the band wlien they heard
of the death of their leader, and they held
a council how they should punish the
slayer, wiio was brought before them.
Some advised that he should be hanged,
others that he should be thrown headlong
from the \Aalls, while a third party pro-
posed that he should be roasted over a
slow fire. Several archers begged that
he might be made a target of, and bound
to a tree as a mark for their arrows. The
latter proposition received the assent of
the greater part of the band, and Wat was
led forth to death.

Sir John and the lady i\gnes were shut
up in anodier room, ami one of the band
was placed at the door as a guard. The
knight's fears for his own safety were
forgotten, when he thought on the treat-
ment his child would probably receive
from the ruflfians, after they had wreaked
their vengeance upon Wat. He buried
his face in his hands, and remained for
some moments insensible to the entreaties
of Agnes, who besought him not to despair.
At length a flood of tears came to his
relief.

•* Alas ! my child," cried he, " 'tis not
for myself that I grieve — I can but die —
while thou wilt be given up to the brutal
violence of these demons."

As he spoke, a hollow sound, like the
noise of horses' hoofs was heard, and the
next moment a wild cry of alarm sounded
without, mixed with the clash of weapons,
and cries of — " Haviland ! Havilaud to

344

TALF.S OF CIIIVALRV J OR,

tlie rescue !" The name acted upon sir
John like an electric shock —

** Ah !" he exclaimed, while every limb
was palsied with emotion — " my enemy
is come to look upon my ruin, and strike
the last blow •"

" Dearest father !" said Agnes, ** if it
be sir John Haviland and his son, we may
yet hope "

But the knight heeded not what she said.
Tiie noise without increased, and blows
and shouts were distinctly heard, while
the man stationed at the door of their
prison forsook his post, and ran down
stairs. In a short time the noise became
fainter, and sounded more distant, wliile
footsteps were heard ascending the stairs ;
the bolts which fastened the door were
w ithdrawn — itopened, and Godfrey Havi>
land entered — his drawn sword in his
hand, and his right arm splashed with
blood.

*' Sir John Stapylton," he said, sheath,
ing his sword, *' you are free; the hell-
hounds, who have plundered ye, are
scattered by my troop."

** Oh, youth 1" cried the knight, in a
half-stifled voice, "1 did thee wrong;
but forgive me ; thy faUier "

** Fell at Tewkesbury," said Haviland.
** Let not your wrath descend into his
grave ; believe me, he sorely repented
him of your son's death."

" Then may heaven pardon him, as
J do !" said sir John, emphatically ; *' but
how shall I find words to thank thee,
gallant youth ? — I am poor in worldly
goods."

" Oh, say not so," interrupted Godfrey,
** while so fair a maiden calls you father."
Then turning to Agnes, whose face was
suffused with blushes, he said — " Dear
lady, to you I owe my life — say, can con-
stant love requite thee ?"

Agnes spoke not; she placed her small
hand in the gauntletted palm of Godfrey,
while the old knight pronounced his
blessing on the pair. The union of the
lovers took place after Havi land's term of
mourning had expired. Godfrey's timely
arrival had rescued Wat from his perilous
situation, and the sturdy woodsman forgot
not the service. Sir John lived tobeiiold
a group of chubby grand-children smiling
around him, and died at an advanced age,
after seeing the factions of the Red and
White Roses for ever extinguished.

THE ARETHUSA AND GAIETE CORVETTE.

Who has not heard of the Arethusa ?
This was a fine frigate, of 38 guns, com-
manded by captain 'I'liomas WoUey, who
being in latitude 30^ 49' north, longitude,
55" 50' west, on the 1 0th of August 17^7,
at daylight in the morning, discovered
three strange sail to windward. She had
then a detained Prussian ship in tow.
At about half-past seven a. m., one of the
ships, under French colours, bore down
to within half gun-shot, and then opened
her fire, v^hich the "haughty Arethusa"
was not slow in returning. The French
ship who thus boldly faced the British
frigate, was only a corvette, of 20 lonj^
8-pounders,andmade no show of flinching,
until she had fought a British 18-pounder
frigate for half an hour ; and sustained,
besides considerable damage in her sails
and rigging, a loss of two seamen killed,
and eight wounded. The fire of the
Gaiete was not without effect, as the
Arethusa lost one seaman killed, the cap-
tain's clerk, and two seamen wounded ;
the former had his leg amjjutated. The
Gaiete, at the commencement of the
action, had 186 men on board, and was
commanded by Enseigne de Vaisseau
Jean Francois Guignier. One of the
ships in her company, was the brig-cor-
vette Espoir, of 14 guns. The latter kept
to windward until the action had ceased,
and then stood away. It does not appear
what was the force of the other vessel ;
but, unless she was a sijip of nearly equal
force to her consort, the Gaiete, M. Guig-
nier may be accused of temerity in pro-
voking an attack, with so little chance of
success or escape. It appears, however,
evident that the two consorts of the Gaiete
did not feel inclined to run the hazard of
an engagement, nor to partake of tUe
danger to which the temerity of the Gaiete
had exposed her. After gallantly defend-
ing her for the half hour, the Enseigne de
Vaisseau struck his colours.

The Gaiete was quite a new vessel,
measuring 5 14 tons, and being a fine ship,
no doubt her gallant commander was very
sorry to lose her. Slie afterwards proved
a great acquisition to the service, as a fine
British 20-gun vessel.

After all the talk about the mountain
billows of the ocean, the height of waves
in a storm is only about twenty- four
feet.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIFXD.

345

THE CONVENT OF CATANIA.

The stranger who, for the first time,
visits that district of Sicily, of which Ca-
tania is the principal town, will find as
n)uch to delight him in the ruins of art, as
in the freshness and luxuriance of nature.
An Eden in all but its insecurity; the
base of Etna is beautified by flowers of
every hue, and forest trees of all climates;
the hamlets that peep out from the clusters
of ricli wood, give to that prospect a live-
liness which more populous tracts of level
scenery can never attain ; and the Arca-
dian look and dresses of the peasantry,
complete the picture, which might have
served for the model of a poet's fairy-land.
But the fertile beauty of St. Adata, or
I'remisteri, moved not my wonder more
strongly than an object of a very different
nature, which used to greet me on my
rambles with the solemnity of a spectre.
It was a ruin — not a storied pile, with
venerable ivy, and columns of scrupulous
architecture — a place of no primeval note
or superstition, but a confused mass of
fallen walls, and unsightly fragnients,
which, at no distant period, seemed to
VOL. II. — 44.

Page 347.

have been the prey of a dreadful confla-
gration. Around me were scattered the
blackened stones and crumbling timbers,
and here and there an ornamented frieze,
or other gorgeous relic, that seemed to
have belonged to an edifice sacred to some
uses of the Catholic church. I wandered,
witliout knowing why, for hours, amid
this desolation, and its image haunted my
mind, and would not be driven away
from it.

Thou art gone from this world of sorrow,
old Carmelo, my merry host of the * Ele-
phant !' I may not hear that garrulous
tongue of thiue again ; thy customary
seat is vacant ; but I remember well the
accents and purport of thy voice, and in
no matter more taithfully'than when our
converse was about this tenantless old
ruin. How thy lip quivered to proclaim
its histoj-y ! and the eye, not dimmed by
seventy winters, lost something of its
brightness when so sad a tale was to be
recounted. If an interval of some half
dozen years, and the treachery of all
human recollections, be not too severely
estimated, I may, even now, be able to
present a detail of those occurrences,
2r

346

TALES OF CHIVALRY: OR,

whicli were so eloquently described by
thee, to a listener neither uninterested nor
forfyetful.

In tile vicinity of Catania, \\here the
links of family descent are preserved with
such jealous care, there existed no prouder
or more noble house than that of the
Alessi. The old count, in whom were
now vested all the hereditary dignities of
his race, felt for his daughter Kosina, a
love deeper and more solicitous than
mio^ht have been expected from the stern-
ness of his general character. But her
mother, with a dying injunction, charged
him to be gentle as herself to the deserted
girl ; and in that hour, when all his manly
spirit was broken, these viords wound
themselves around his heart, beloved as
the earthly farewell of his dear companion,
and sacred as the counsel of one so soon
to be divine.

And for Rosina — did she not merit all
the tenderness that the most affectionate
parent could bestow ? What eye was
brighter — whose smile could return a
readier expression of love, than that of
his only daughter ? She was the most
" gracious creature born ;" with all tlie
liglit-hearted innocence and prattle of a
mere child — matured by the tirst dawn-
ings of womanhood. Grave or g^y, ac-
cording to her mood — disguising nothing,
affecting nothing, but by her fatlier's side
ever to be found, like a ray of sunshine
in his path. It was beautiful to see the
fair tiling, with all her gentleness and
feminine timidity, contrasted with the
rugged old soldier, whose frowns, multi-
plied by long trials in a world he hated,
were scarcely ever softened by aught else
around him. He had a son — not such a
son as a father's hopes had pourtrayed ;
and Rosina was the only staff of his de-
clining years.

It happened that a young Neopolitan
was at this time a visitor on their island.
He came with no passports of admission
into the principal families, and was,
therefore, held as an adventurer, or one of
doubtful blood. He had wandered over
the beautiful scenes of Sicily, and by
chance encountered, in one of tiie most
lovely of them all, that innocent girl, who
had hitiierto known nothing of life but its
smiles. It were needless to recount by
what accidents they met again, and by
what expedients they afterwards repeated
their interviews; still more needless would

it be to say how the stranger at first
amused, then attracted the companion of
many concealed meetings; which were
concealed, not from any fear on her part,
but because he so desired it ; and the
experience of young love soon showed
them that these stolen moments were the
" sweeter for the theft." The light-hearted
girl lost something of her natural deport-
ment ; her mood was not so variable, nor
her step so light as formerly. In her
solitude, she mused or looked on all things
wistfully. With her father she had lost
the quick speech, and listening look, of
former days ; and she, who had been as
the shadow of river-trees, thrown upon
the water, ever moving, and restless, and
uncertain, but still the image and compa-
nion of her sturdy sire, was now become
solitary and abstracted, and fixed, as
though her young spirit had been already
blighted.

The old man watched this decay, and a
sigh, or an unusual tremor of voice, was
all the counsel he could give. He felt
that his own support was gone, but he
checked not the strong impulses that led
away from him the fond heart of his
daughter. It was a severe pang that
accompanied the dismissal of his proud
plans, and interested hopes. He could
not see his child taken from him without
a selfish sense of sorrow ; but that her love
should be given to an unknown foreigner,
looked upon with suspicion, and credited
as one of gentle birth only on the faith of
his unsupported word — this was the woe
that struck hardest on his heart ; and
when he affianced her to young Montalto,
the prejudices of an old patrician lingered
long after the regrets of a desolate and
lonely father. They were affianced ; but
one necessary preliminarv was yet to be
accomplished. The heir of the conte
d'Alessi had not hitherto been acquainted
with the occurrences of his own family,
and his presence, from a distant part of
the island, w-as recjuired before the cere-
mony of his sister's nuptials. A messenger
was despatched, and the summonses were
answered in an uncourteous strain by the
dissolute young nobleman ; \\ ho, while
expressing his disapproval of the alliance,
intimated that his reasons were more than
he could state, otherwise than, as he in-
tended, by a personal conference. In a
few days he arrived, but positively refused
to see the stranger to whom he so myste-

PERILS BY FLvOOD AND FIELD.

347

riously objecled. He conversed witli his
father in an unintelligible manner, but
gave glimpses of a serious meaning in
the halt-imputations he threw out against
Montalto. Still no entreaty or remon-
strance of the old man could gain from him
an explicit accusation. The charge, in-
coherent, and left to his conjecture, con-
jured up a thousand phantoms before his
eyes; he feared he knew not what: — his
dear daughter might be the prey of a
criminal or a dishonoured outcast : — there
might be the brand of public guilt, or
personal shame, on this young foreigner.
He appealed, he implored his son, to reveal
w hat he had to disclose ; but no answer
came, but in dark looks and equivocal
hints.

It was during one of these conferences
that the object of suspicion, by accident,
found his way into the apartment of the
count. He entered, ignorant of the pur-
pose and parties of the conversation •, but
his eyes no sooner fell on the countenance
of one of these, than a change, violent
and terrible, convulsed his features. The
placid expression of the young lover was
agitated with all the passions of astonish-
ment and rage ; his eye beamed with fury,
and as the colour deserted his cheek, it
was with an emphasis of deadly purpose
that he uttered his first words.

" Villain !" he exclaimed ; ** thou tre-
mendous villain ! art thou come at last to
satisfy me ? Thank God for this !"

He paused — but the eye of the young
count fell, and no answer came from him,
as his father, with vain earnestness, sought
for an explanation of this strange address.
"Wretch '."continued Montalto, ** would
you ask him to confess his villany — to
convict himself? No, no; he has not
that honesty : one thing only I entreat to
know, by what base acts he wormed him-^
self here ? Oh, sir ! trust him not with
the confidence of a moment. I know
too horribly how he will betray it. Yet,
once again, I ask, how came the monster
here ?"

" Are you mad, Montalto ?" answered
the old count. " Would you, by this
paroxysm, attempt to change my whole
nature ? would you, by your wild speech,
strive to overcome the warm feelings of a
father ?"

" A father !" shrieked the other; " gra-
cious heaven, forbid it ! It cannot be that
one so vile has sprung from that noble

root ! Oh, no ! I have mistaken your
words — say not you are his father."

"And wherefore not, Montalto? What
madness urges you to these excesses ?"

The voice of the other was checked —
he softened the violence of his look, and
after a pause, proceeded in a milder tone.
" Sir, you have known me long enough
to be assured that I am not wantonly dis-
turbing your quiet ; it was not w ith any
foresight of tiiis catastrophe that I came
here:— I could not guess that this man
called you by the honoured title of parent
— I can hardly now believe it: — but my
words have awakened your fears, and
I cannot rest without satisfying them."

He stopped, and for a moment appeared
to undergo a conflict of various emotions ;
then, directing his gaze fixedly to the
quailing countenance of the young Alessi,
he continued in these solemn words : —

" Enrico, your own conscience, written
on that cheek, will tell far better than my
words, that I have not been raving. As
I look at you now, I cannot recognise the
courtly and accomplished nobleman, to
whom a seat at my paternal table was
ofTered with all the frankness of unsus-
pecting hearts, and disgraced by ingrati-
tude blacker than malice could have
painted. The result of our hospitality is
known in the country which I left
despairing, and the infamy which you
threw on the fair sister of my heart, has
been followed by the dispersion and
wretchedness of our whole house. You
left her in the hour of seduction, afraid
to meet the resentment you had earned.
But the remembrance of the hateful time
is strongly enough perpetuated by the tears
of an undone family; and your escape
from retribution is not now effected. You
will understand me."

These words, uttered in a deep tone of
subdaed emotion, will indicate sufficiently
some of those circumstances that were the
forerunners of this tale. The young Alessi
had betrayed the daugfiter of a Neapolitan
noble ; and to the baseness of a seducer,
united also the meanness of a coward.
He fled from the scene of his guilty
pleasure, and was overtaken in Sicily by
Montalto ; w ho, partly from a desire to
wipe away the local associations of per-
sonal andj family sorrows — partly in the
faint hope of meeting with the author of
them, liad wandered from his home, with-
out a companion, without a plan. These
2 Y 2

348

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

words may also lead to a surmise of many
conspquent evenis. The distraction of
t.lie old count, the hesitation and subter-
fuges of his son, were but natural issues
of so unexpected a disclosure. By the
latter, no species of vindication could be
urged ; and he stood before his fatlier as
a man gJiilty of all that he would have
imputed to the injured Montalto, had his
boldness been equal to his deceit.

And, for Rosina, what was the sorrow
which this event entailed ? Her young
heart still beat high with the expanding
hopes of iier betrothal : her brow was not
overcast with any new care — she heard
not the history of her brother's disgrace ;
and vNhen he departed from his home,
sufficient was the slight pretext used to
account for his untimely disappearance.
With a burning heart, Montalto let him
go — doubting, in pain and perplexity,
whether the revenge he had so long
coveted was not too precious to be lost,
though he thereby remained master of
another jewel, and respected, as his duty
bade him, the parental intercession of the
Conte d'Alessi.

Four days had elapsed, and Rosina was
attending one of the ceremonies of her
religion in the principal church of Catania.
Her eyes were bent on the ground during
the whole service of vespers, and the
obscure light scarcely marked out a little
roll of paper that had fallen, she knew not
how, at her feet. She was on the point
of rising from her devotions, when the
object first caught her attention. She
gently took it up, and, to her surprise,
<ound it directed to herself. It was opened
and perused without loss of a moment;
the contents were these :— ** If you are
wise, warn Montalto against disaster ; let
him be wary, and act in nothing without
foresight and preparation: — there is some
one at his elbow." The girl started, and
reperused the paper; her senses almost
forsook her, as_;;^tl)e apprehension of an
unknown danger floated before her; she
looked fearfully about her, and hurried
homewards with a wildness of step and
look, that were strange to her graceful
demeanour. That night she slept, not as
she had done, but her dreams were dis-
turbed and fantastic ; and she arose from
her feverish couch, not the airy and happy
creature who had always blest her father's
eye with a brightness more cheerful than
that of the sunny morn. The morning

came, and the customary hour of meetings
Montalto; but he tarried longer than usual.
Time passes heavily in the solitude of
young lovers ; but Rosina started as th«
mid-day bells rang out their peal, and an
apprehension of some mischance flashed
upon her mind at the instant. She con-
nected his delay with the warning of the
little note, and with an anxious voice she
begged her father tliat some messenger
might be dispatched, to see what hindered
the young Montalto that he came not, as
was his custom. I'he old man smiled and
comforted her fears, which yet he thought
not utterly groundless, and lost no tinje
in complying with her wishes. Alas!
what was the result ? The messenger
returned, but no answer could he give to
their inquiries. Montaltohad been absent
from his lodging during the night, and
had not since been heard of. His apart-
ment was left in disorder, and no clothing
or other part of its furniture removed.
He had been expected, and watched for
from the hour of midnight, but no tidings
of him had reached tliem. Who shall
describe the agony of the young girl, who
became now too well convinced of the
truth of the secret counsel ? What cries
of anguish — what natural laments fell from
her in that moment of suspense, deepened
almost into the horror of certainty !

In vain were the sympathy of the father
and admonition of friends applied to miti-
gate her grief. Each hour, as it brought
a sort of confirmation of her fears, left her
more determined in her conviction — more
complete in her despair. Montalto came
not again, and all his virtue, and beauty,
and manly attractions, had passed away,
none could tell where ; and only were
recorded in the gossip of busy bodies, and
in the heart of a fond girl, where they
were embalmed as in a faithful sepulchre.

Yet the course of her pious tears was
destined to be checked. It was about a
month after this occurrence that a letter
was put into her hands, whose super-
scription seemed to be written in familiar
characters, which only her fears would
have distrusted. It was from the beloved
Montalto — he was yet alive 1 She hurried
through the contents with a heaving bosom
and brightened countenance, and with an
inarticulate burstof joy fell into her father's
arms, exhausted and senseless. The
happy communication was to the following
effect : —

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

349

On the last night of tlieir meeting, which
her Ibiebodings liad protracted beAond
the usual hour, Montalto iiad returned by
the customary road to the house of his
lodging. In a solitary place, he was
suddenly surprised by the appearance of
disguised men, \Yho, rushing from their
concealment, deprived him of the means
of defence — pinioned, and blindfolded him.
He was raised into a sort of litter, to
w hich he was fastened, and thus conveyed
along, until he heard the roar of the sea-
waves, and found himself deposited in an
open boat. Here one of the party, after
giving some orders, left his companions ;
and in the feigned tones he could recog-
nise the hated voice of his enemy — the
young Alessi. They presently made sail,
and having restored to him the use of his
limbs, and relieved him from the bandage
thrown over his eyes, he was enabled to
discover that they were coasting in a
northerly direction, though for what pur-
pose he could not gather. The crew con-
sisted of six men — rough and hard featured
mariners — who replied to his interroga-
tions with sullen brevity, and seemed to
be acting under the orders of one whose
mien might, indeed, be distinguished from
that of his companions, but was, never-
theless, such as could only belong to a
person of subordinate rank. During the
night, they kept close into shore ; but
with the first beams of morning, pushed
further out to sea, without materially
verging from their former course. The
next morning they glided through the
straits of Messina, and made for the
island of Stromboli. It was a placid and
delicious scene ; the wind just verging
onward the little bark without motion or
irregularity : ISIoutalto lay on the deck,
but uncertainty of his fate prevented
slumber : around him were grouped the
forms of the lusty mariners, perfecting the
allotted sleep which yet remained to them
before the more active season of daylight :
only the helmsman continued at his ordi-
nary work, and the one seaman, to whom
the direction of the vessel was entrusted.
The deep meditations of Montalto were
arrested by the approach of this officer.
He came near, and without noise, re-
quested him to move to the forepart of
the deck, as he had something of import-
ance to communicate. His injunction was
obeyed. In a moment they were to be
seen in the glorious light of that southern

morn, side by side, as if in conversation.
The sea-captain, in a quick low tone,
might be heard recounting his secrets ;
and the breathless interest of his hearer
might prove that it was no common sub-
ject of confidence. Ever and anon, the
eyes of the narrator turned anxiously
around, to catch the first movements of a
disturbed sleeper, or prevent the curiosity
of the steersman at his post. The tale he
told was strange. He had been the
chosen servant of the young Alessi for
some years ; he had aided him in his
enterprises — he had shared in his counsels.
At Catania, he had learnt the story of
Montalto; and — he knew not why — his
pity had been moved. From the first
threat of danger whispered by his master,
he had resolved to befriend the destined
victim. His intimation to Rosina, at her
prayers, had failed ; and the evil, which
could not be prevented, he had now deter-
mined to remedy. To him was entrusted
the guidance of the present scheme.
None else knew the object or system of
his measures. His orders were to dis-
patch or get rid of their prisoner in any
way that might be most convenient ; but
he defied the wicked command, and was
resolved to save him. They could not
return to Sicily, for his re- appearance
would be the signal for the most atrocious
acts of barbarous revenge. Neither could
they long be absent, for already had suffi-
cient time elapsed for the execution of his
master's orders, and suspicion would be
excited by their long continuance at sea.
All he could do would be to land his pri-
soner on some point of the continent, and
leave him with a reconmiendation to make
the best of his way to Naples. His only
condition was, that an immediate return
to Catania would not for a moment be
contemplated by him, as he valued the life
of his benefactor.

This was the substance of his disclosin-e.
Montalto, in mute gratitude, heard the
extraordinary tale, and without evincing
any change of deportment, watched with
impatience the progress of the vessel, as
it changed once more its course in an
easterly direction, and, favoured by the
wind, at last safely reached the headland
on which rises the town of Argentina. In
the interval between the above conver-
sation and their arrival in the harbour,
all his efibrts had been applied to liberate
Antonio, the servant of Alessi, from the

350

TALES OF CHIVALRY; Olt,

thraldom of his villany. His endeavours
proved successful. When he quilted the
bout, he went not alone, but was accom-
panied by his preserver. The next in
command was charged with tlie safe con-
duct of the vessel to Catania, as though
this had been part of a premeditated plan.
As they took their leave of Argentina, on
the road to Naples, they could discern the
white sail of their bark HlHng with the side
wind, and pursuing its silent way towards
the south. Montalto's letter was des-
patched from his fathers palace. He had
intreated for permission and means to
return immediately to his love, but the
old nobleman doubtfully listened, and re-
quired that his son should serve one cam-
paign in the wars of his country, before
his benediction could be gained for the
nuptials. To this parental wish he had
reluctantly acceded. He should for a short
time, in obedience to his father, deviate
from the path of his inclination ; but he
owed something as an equivalent for the
heart which she had given to him, and his
laurels, could he win any, might in some
sort be a compensation.

This was the substance of that letter,
which gave a revival to the hopes, and
animation to the fading beauty of Rosina.
We will leave her for awhile, and observe
the proceedings of young Alessi, after the
night when he carried off Montalto. In
concealment he still lurked about the
neighbourhood of his father's house, anxi-
ously awaiting the return of his boat, and
the announcement of his enemy's destruc-
tion. Tlie boat came — Antonio's place
was filled by another — and to their master's
almost delirious questions, the unwelcome
answer was given, which assured him of
all that he now for the first time foreboded.
His wicked mind was instantly agitated
with schemes of fresh revenge. He
despatched confidential agents to track
the movements and communicate all the
actions of Montalto ; he learnt his present
occupation, and in a spite that seemed to
have no premeditated plan, he circulated,
through various channels, a rumour that
Montalto, upon the first collision with the
foe, had fallen in the field. I'his, corro-
borated by the assent of many hired wit-
nesses, did not fail to reach the ears of
Rosina. Disbelief, shadowed sometimes
with a fear of its authenticity, caused in
her mind a conflict of the most opposite
and terrible emotions. But conviction

was at length urged upon her by the
receipt of a despatch purporting to be
from the father of Montalto, in which all
particulars of his son's death were pain-
fully detailed. For a time, the poor girl's
agony broke forth in paroxysms which
seemed to convulse her whole system.
She was wild, tumultuous, and wayward
in her grief. She refused the solace of
friends, she listened to no alleviation of
her calamity. She was " like sweet bells
jingled harsh and out of tune ;" and never
did it appear that their order and beauty
would come again. Oh! how dreadful
w'as the violence of her sorrow, which
seemed a thing strange to one of such
gentleness. The songs which she had
sung to him were forgotten, or only re-
membered in fragments to add intensity
to her suffering. The ringlets — of which
the fairest lay, as she supposed, upon his
clay-cold heart— now lay unarrayed upon
her shoulders. Weeping, and recounting
the valour and attraction of him whom she
could see no more, up and down the lonely
corridors she wandered like a ghost — in
vain appealed to, in vain hindered.

But this season passed away ; and when
the voice of the thunder-clap no longer
rang in her ears, but was remembered
only in a serener moment, the sorrow,
which had been almost frenzy, was tem-
pered to an honourable regret. Her eye
had lost its brilliancy, and she cared not
for the world : — tor it was a desert to her,
though all its sweetness, and grandeur,
and eternal beauty were there, and only
one of the countless creatures gone from
its surface.

But her dejection was equable and ra-
tional ; and it was from a settled purpose,
rather than at the impulse of an uncertain
fancy, that she resolved to abandon her
home and kindred, and in perpetual se-
clusion give to her God that broken heart,
which might have been too much given
to a mortal being. She took the veil,
and, in the convent of which I spoke at
the opening of this paper, was enrolled a
member of the holy sisterhood.

Time passed on j the Neapolitan war-
fare suf?*ered a pause, and in tiie interval
Montalto lost no time in returning to
Catania. Upon his arrival, what was his
dismay and astonishment when informed
of his supposed death, and the effect it had
produced in the life of poor Rosina 1

Uncertain what steps to pursue eventu •

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

351

ally, it was his first natural impulse to
inform her of his safety, and still enduring
attachment. In an evil hour the announce-
ment of this unexpected news visited her
in her solitude. In an evil hour the chords
of her mind were once more unstrung,
and the harmonies newly heard were
turned into dissonance. The sorrows of
the past came upon her afresh, but under
another aspect. For she had estranged
herself from her love, and by her own
act had effected that sad reverse, that
horrible privation, which had been more
tolerable, whatever else had been the
cause. What remedy now remained ?
With all its original force, the tide of her
love rolled in its former channels ; and
the infirmity of human resolution could
not now withstand the strength of the
current. Her spirit was weaned from her
holy occupations. Sickened with her
garb, her daily duties, her associates, her
very thoughts]! she longed to cast oflf the
self-imposed thraldom. Never to the eye
of enthusiastic childhood, did the distant
hill-tops gleam with such a beauty as now
that she contemplated them — a love-sick
j)risoner. The hopeless schemes of relief,
which such a condition suggested, were
all that now remained for her meditation
and her solace. To abandon her rigid
profession was impossible: to desert it
and escape, seemed more practicable. By
day, as she gazed through the grated
windows at the fair prospect before and
around her, this was the vision which came
with every object, and beautified the whole.
Bv night, it filled thelong interval between
iier faint slumbers : and as she slept, the
more obscure and rude conceptions still
occupied her fancy with the same theme,
the same never-varied purpose. It was,
perhaps, in a midnight hour, that the
dreadful project was formed — which surely
must have been the last resource of the
despairing maid — when, by constant agi-
tation, the turbulence of her spirit had
become a sort of frenzy. Then it was
that her reckless and determined love
found itself a way ; and by an effort more
appalling, perhaps, than any that history
can furnish, grasped at the attainment of
its coveted end. Without admitting into
her counsel one of all those on whose fide-
lity she might have reposed, the measures
fur this awful expedient were deliberately
concerted. She planned, she determined,
she prepared it in secresy and alone.

It was in the mid-watdres of the night,
that the sisters were aroused from their
rest by the cry of " fire 1" from some one
hurrying along the dormitories. It was
Rosina who urged them to fly — it was
Rosina who discovered the danger — it was
Rosina who plotted the conflagration !
The flames were rushing wildly, and high
up the outer walls of theT building, but she
would not yet retire. From cell to cell
she went quickly along, calling on all to
escape, yet not daring to think of her own
safety until assured that no living creature
could be left in peril. She went like a
beneficent being, amid the havoc and
ruin that she had achieved. Not yet
would she desert the dangerous place, for
she shuddered to think there might still
be some one, whose blood, if shed, would
fall so surely on herself. At last, the huge
edifice was deserted and voiceless ; and,
secure of the preservation of her innocent
associates, she passed along the passages
and apartments, now almost undistinguish-
able. As she went, tlie sheets of fire
flashed hotly and fiercely around her.
The heat became more intense — the
hideous enemy approached her, and half
enveloped inflames, she fled precipitately,
but too late, from the tottering ruin.
Overtaken in her flight, she yet had
strength and surviving consciousness to
move in the premeditated track, and when
the morning dawned, it showed her lying
a disfiguied corpse under the doorway of
her beloved IMontalto.

BON MOTS OF TALLEYRAND.

On one occasion, Talle\ rand was asked
what he thought of a sitting of the
chamber of Paris, where a very animated
discussion had taken place between baron
Pasquier and the bishop of Hermopolis,
minister of ecclesiastical affairs. "The
minister," said he, " was like the three
per cents, always beloiv par.''

During the consulate, it was insinuated
to Buonaparte, that M. de Talleyrand
availed himself of his place, as minister of
foreign afl^iiirs, to speculate at the bourse,
and that he had thus gained immense
sums. The first consul had a mortal anti-
pathy to stock- jobbing in general, and
felt particularly indignant that his prin-
cipal minister should be so devoid of ^r?w-
ct'ple as to enrich himself by such undue
means. I'he next day, transacting busi-

352

TALES OF CHIVALRY^ OR,

ness with his great factotum, he sharply
said, " 1 under.stantl, sir, that you are rich,
very rich ; and that you have gained your
weaUh at the bourse : you have specu-
lated, then, in the funds ?" *' Never but
once, ' replied the wily statesman. " How
is that ?" *' 1 bought in, sire, the day
before the 18th Bruinaire, and sold out
the day after." Napoleon could not help
smiling at this clever repartee, and the
gathering storm on his brow was dissi-
pated. Tlie reader will remember that
it was on the I8th Brumaire, General
Buonaparte so unceremoniously cashiered
the council of Five Hundred, a la Crom-
icell.

One of Napoleon's weaknesses was to
attach much importance to the opinion of
the Fauxbourg Saint Germain, the quarter
where the emigrant nobility principally
resided : he could not get the better of it.
" What says the F'auxbourg Saint Ger-
main ?" was his frequent question. After
the victory of Austerlitz, addressing him-
self to M. de Narbonne, one of his aid-de-
camps, whose mother's attachment to the
Bourbons, and hatred to Buonaparte, were
well know n — " Well," said the emperor,
" does your mother love me this time ?"
Talleyrand, who saw the young officer's
hesitation, replied for him — *' Sire, ma-
dame de Narbonne has not yet got farther
than admiration.''^

The tirst individual who demanded of
the constituent assembly the abolition of
the titles of nobility, and who renounced
his own armorial bearings, was monsieur
Mathieu de Montmorency. This ancient
family descends from an apothecary called
Bouchard. The evening of that memo-
rable debate, M. de Talleyrand met M.
Mathieu de Montmorency at a party, and,
approaching him, addressed him in the
following terms : — " How does monsieur
Mathieu Bouchard ?" *' Bouchard," re-
plied the other, '* you are mistaken, sir ;
my name is Montmorency : I descend
from the celebrated constable who fought
so valiantly at Bovines, and also from that
constable who fell upon the battle Held of
St. Denis." " Yes," replied his witty
persecutor ; *' and, to do you justice, you
are the first of your family who ever laid
down his arms.''

INTREPIDITY.

Charles the Twelfth having, in the
year I/IG, taken the town of Frederick-

shald, all the women and children fled to
a retreat in the neighbourhood. Hans
Colbiornsen, commander of the volunteers,
accompanied by a fellow citizen, presented
an address to his Swedish majesty on
behalf of those unfortunates. On Mr.
Colbiornsen's approach, Charles the
I'welflh severely chid him for the active
parts himself and brother, thougli not
military men, had always taken against
him, to his repeated and severe losses ;
concluding with expressing an intention
to retaliate. The king's displeasure,
however, produced no effect on Mr. Col-
biornsen, who boldly repHed : ** It is the
duty of every man to defend his country j
nor will I ever relinquish my duties.
I am so far from regretting my opposition
to your majesty's views, that I truly lament
my having done no more." As he spoke,
a shell from the fort Fredericksteen burst
through the roof into the room, and the
splinters wounded the king and Colbiorn-
sen. " It is too hot here," said Charles,
and instantly left the house, charging
some officers to convey Colbiornsen to
Torpom, and confine him closely till fur-
ther orders. They accordingly set off",
but as they crossed the bridge, a cannon
bail from the fort whistled close by them,
and struck terror into his guard, Colbi-
ornsen, perceiving his advantage, plunged
into the rivulet, and swam to his estate,
Eskevig, where he remained in conceal-
ment for some time.

SICILIAN SUPERSTITION.

The superstition of the Sicilians, and
the confidence entertained by them of
deriving supernatural power from tlie
supplications offered to saints, is most
extraordinary. Their conviction in such
assistance is strongly exemplified in the
following anecdote. At one particular
period, the French fleet appeared off the
town of Syracuse, which threw the inha-
bitants into the greatest alarm. Appre-
hensive it might be captured and pillaged,
the whole of them turned out, and walked
to one particular spot, where they so-
lemnly invoked the assistance of St. Lucie,
the tutelary saint of Syracuse, to avert a
landing of the French. In consequence
of this, she saved the whole town by
raising a violent storm, which had the
effect of blowing the whole fleet ofl' the
island of Sicilv.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

353

THE PEASANT COUNTESS.

A TALE OF FRANCE.

"You have often, my dear friend,"
said the count Montauban to his brother,
*• pressed me to relate the history of my
union with tiie countess. Tiiis evening
is suited for a tale of happiness. Sit here,
my friend and brother, under this natural
tapestry of leaves and flowers, and listen to
the history of our love, and the disclosure
of onr felicity.

•* It is now two summers since our
commune was nightly ravaged by a wolf
of more than comaiou savageness and
stealthiness. Young and old, children
and men, had been assailed by this mon-
ster of the woods : the cattle of our farmers
had been carried off, and devoured, or else
torn and maimed, by this ruthless savage ;
even the dogs, which had been hitherto
deemed a sufficient protection for their
untended flocks, were overmastered by his
courage, or defeated by his craftiness;
and though every heart of peasant and
hunter had been exerted to discover his
den, and drag hitn to death, effort after
effort failed to track him to his sanguinary

VOL. II. — 45.

Page 354.

lair. It then became my duty, as the
natural protector of my faithful peasantry,
to search out and destroy this foe to their
cattle-folds ; and, summoning my hunts-
men together, we set out, well armed and
confident, for the woods which border my
domain. For two days, however, success
followed not our steps. It was therefore
concluded, that the crafty enemy, scenting
perhaps the staunch huunds, which had
been mustered in more than common force
to destroy him, had shrunk from before
them to a lair more distant, where he
could securely conceal himself till the cry
of revenge had subsided. Believing this,
I had given up the immediate pursuit, and
had divided my force into small parties,
and dispatched them to more distant
quarters, to unkennel the monster, and
drive him back into our foils ; and, with
four followers, I contented myself with
beating up the wood on the south. Our
diligence was unrewarded, and, grown
weary of the hopeless pursuit, I resigned
the sport to my still-eager attendants ;
and, as the evening was more than usually
beautiful, even for our happy clime, I
w andered on in pleasant contemplation of
2z

354

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

the glorious hues of cloud and sky, as ever
and anon theyburstupon my view, through
the interstices of the wood. Gently and
gradually the dayliglit died, and the dusky
shadows of evening came stealing over
the wood, till its thick foliage became
black and melanclioly. I then thought of
retracing my steps ; for weariness had
succeeded to'the delight I felt in the silent
contemplation of the beauties around me.
The usual fatality which attends the late
wanderer befel me ; I mistook the ambi-
guous path I had first followed, and still,
the further I pursued it, strayed more
remotely from the road which led back to
the chateau. While thus perplexed in the
mazes of this labyrinth, a rustling arose
from the thick underwood about me : I
started, grasped my spear more firmly, and
felt to assure myself tliat my side-arms
were safe. The sound ceased, and I
stepped a few paces forward. Again the
sound, and I stood on the defensive ; but
again it cea>ed, and I pursued my way.
I paused once more for a moment; and
then I could distinctly hear that, whatever
living thing it was which stirred, whether
savage or man, it followed my steps —
stopped when I stopped, and stirred when
I stirred — and that so guardedly, that
when the sound of my footstep died, the
rustle of Its pursuit was silent. I stood
therefore with more caution, and then I
could hear, though faintly, that my pursuer
was gliding on its belly over the clinging
moss and through the stunted fern, wliich
carpeted and clothed the ground beneath
the underwood. 'It is the wolf!' I ex-
claimed ; and for a moment a throb of fear
ran through my veins. I felt that I was
too weary, tob weak, to endure the fray,
which must ensue if we met. The stoutest
heart in France would perhaps have felt as
mine did, and no sliame sully his courage.
1 had not long to dream of fear, for the foe
approached nearer and nearer still ; and
a low savage growl told who was the
enemy I had to contend with. My sinews
knit as I grasped my good spear. A
moment more, and a crash, as if the
mighty arm of an oak had been struck to
the earth, startled the awful silence, and
made wood and earth vibrate with the
sound. It was plain that the wolf had
made a leap for the spot on which I stood,
but had alighted short of the mark. An-
other low rustle among the underwood,
and by the gloomy light which still

lingered after the day, I perceived, and
started, as I beheld the eyes of the savage
creature glaring their horrid lustre on me.
It was in vain to think of retreat — courage
might do much, but craven cowardice no-
thing. With a resolute heart, therefore,
I advanced upon him. It was, indeed,
the wolf!

** And now came the struggle. With
a loud growl, that made tlie wood re-echo
as to the cry of a thousand wolves, he
advanced upon me, and I upon him. We
were within two paces of each other —
reckless man and ruthless savage. He
gazed at me a moment, and then crouched
as if to lie down ; but it was to make more
powerful his leap. In an instant he sprang,
and my spear had penetrated the chest of
the shaggy savage. From the force of
the concussion with which we met, I fell,
and at the same instant was wounded.
With horrid jaws extended, again he
sprang upon me, and again I wounded
him ; but felt at the same moment that
his fangs had fast hold of me. I was im-
mediately hurled to the ground, and gave
up myself as lost. Despair made me
desperate, and not craven. Might to
might, I grappled with the huge savage,
and as he was about to give the death-
bite, I seized with both hands his tusked
jaws, and held him with more than human
strength. His brutal powers, meanwhile,
were not inactive, for I felt the blood
trickling down from my torn arms, as I
lay under him on the ground. Hope had
not then forsaken me. VVe struggled, till,
by a convulsive spring, he had flung him-
self behind the trunk of a tree which now
seemed to stand between me and death.
We were thus parted ; and as we stootl
struggling, I could have smiled — but it
was no moment for mirth. My dagger
was now the only weapon on which I could
hope for safety. I trusted to it, and loosed
my hold. He returned to the attack with
more than his former ferociousness — the
last desperate effort was made — I stabbed
him in the throat, and he fell — I repeated
the blow, and exultingl} heard his blood
gush with a whistling noise from the
double-mouthed wound. The struggle
was not over yet, for once more his fangs
fastened on me ; but it was his last effort ;
exhausted by the force which was to
revenge his overthrow, he fell dead at my
feet. And at the same instant, m v powers,
which had been strained beyond the natural

PERILS BY FLOOD A\D FIELD.

355

strength of man, gave way, and I dropped
exhausted acroj-s liis lifeless carcase.

" The moon had risen, and here and
there her light glimmered through the
top-most boughs of the trees ; but all was
dark about my feet. I remained on the
ground till I had recovered my regular
breath ; but finding that I grew fainter
and fainter with loss of blood, no time was
to be lost in making my way out of the
wood ; for if I had lingered there long, 1
must have bled to death. With enfeebled
steps I resumed the tangled path, and
conquering pain with resolution, reached
at last the border of thp wood. Then
exhausted nature could no longer bear
up, and I fell helplessly to the ground.
The moon was now high in the heavens,
and by her light I could perceive that f
was not far distant from a small hamlet,
situated, however, more than two leagues
in an opposite direction to the chateau.
Lights were glittering in the distance, and
now and then the bark of some honest
guardian of flock and fold gave assurance
of human neiglibourliood, and I summoned
the small remainder of strength to reach
it; but pain and loss of blood had ex-
hausted me too much for further strug-
gling, and again I sank to the ground.
1 then gave up myself for lost, if I could
not bring succour to me by calling for it.
I hallooed, thinking it possible that the
wind might waft my cry to some cottager,
and induce him to seek out the spot from
whence it proceeded. Even this hope
failed me, and I grew cold and rigid as
death with pain. At length I could hear
footsteps approaching. Again I hallooed,
and the sound came nearer. A peasant
youth now approached within reach of
converse. He demanded to know my
distress. I explained to him that I had
been wounded by the wolf which had so
long been the terror of the commune. At
the very mention of the wolf, the recreant
wretch fled from the spot with all the speed
which fear gives to the coward. My heart
then died within me, for I thought I must
perish. Another step now came towards
the spot. I saw, by the help of the moon-
light, he was a priest, who had perhaps
been journeying thus late to shrive some
dying sinner. I hailed him, and entreated
he would succour a benighted wretch who
had been wounded in the woods : the re-
putation of the wolf had made even the
holy father too much alive to his own

safety to heed that of another; and he
hurried past. Another step approached,
so light, that for a while I doubted whether
my fainting senses had not deceived me.
It came nearer, and as the moon silvered
over the distant object, I beheld with joy-
it was a woman ! If compassion for the
suffering is to be found anywhere, it is
within her gentle bosom. God and all
good men side ever with that gentle sex !
I could no longer speak ; but my groans
reached her ear. She ceased the sin)ple
melody, with which I could hear she was
lightening the loneliness of her way, and
she stopped to listen. 1 found voice suffi-
cient to tell her that t was dying for suc-
cour. Like an angel of pity, she flew to
the spot, and in a moment I was partly-
raised from the grounti, and I rested in
her arms. Fortunately, she had a small
flask of homely wine in her basket ; she
held it to my lips — I drank, and strength
came back tome. Meanwhile her gentle
hand wiped away the clammy drops of
agony' which moistened my forehead ; and
her voice, which was as sweet as sounds
of mercy to the ear of the un pitied wretch,
bade me to take cheer ; and cheered I
was by her assiduous tenderness. Dew
falling in the desert, and reviving the
fevered pilgrim ; light breaking in upon
the darkness of the blind ; music bursting
in upon the opening ear of the deaf;
liberty upon tlie captive ; joy upon the
sorrowful ; hope upon the despairing ;
were never more welcome than were those
welcome sounds to me ! E\ en woman's
fragile strength is sometimes powerful
enough to support superior man in his
worst need. Persuaded by her prevailing
gentleness, I got again on my feet ; and
her arms supported my painful steps till
we had reached a small farmhouse. A
light was burning at the lattice ; the
wicket opened the moment her voice was
heard without ; and an aged woman care-
fully inquired if it was Estelle. * Yes, my
good mother,' answered the gentle girl ;
' and 1 have brought with me a poor
wounded cavalier, who is dying through
lack of assistance.' Estelle and her mo-
tlier sustained me in — I was placed on a
spare pallet — wine was brought to refresh
my fainting spirits — my hunter's habit
carefully stripped off, and my wounds
staunched and bound up with the skill of
a surgeon, and the superior tenderness of
woman.

2z2

356

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

" It was then that I recovered strength
sufficient to inform the kind creatures how
I iiad fallen into so painful a plight. They
compassioned me the more — for the wolf
had also visited tliem, and spread terror
and destruction around. Fruits and bread
were placed before me, and I was pressed
to accept freely such hospitality as they
could bestow. But himger, weariness, and
wounds, were soon forgotten in new
sensations ; for as I gazed on the young
Estelle, I felt that J had never till that
hour beheld those beauties which men
adore in women — never till then had been
thrilled by that undefinable emotion which
softens man's sterner nature, and expands
liis heart to receive that best treasure of
life — love; sole remainder of that heavenly
nature which has survived man's too- early
fall. The admiration and the awe with
which beauty first affects us — the thrilling
emotion succeeding the first amazement
of the senses at the dazzling wonder — the
throb of the heart — the half-formed wish ;
the hope, the fear — the thousand thoughts
and feelings which intoxicate the youth,
for the first time sensible of beauty — the
ineffectual struggles of the tongue to tell
the fulness of the soul — the despair that
words cannot half eloquently express sen-
sations new, and therefore indescribable ;
the silence, which is more eloquent — the
long rapturous gaze when not observed,
and the glance withdrawn when it is, only
to return with more fervour to the absorb-
ing object ; these circumstances were so
new to me, that my confusion must have
been apparent; but, fortunately, it was
attributed to the feverish excitement at-
tending my wounds, and I was persuaded
to retire to rest. I was, indeed, almost
glad to be alone, that I might recal my
scattered senses — meditate on my feelings,
and have the bright recollection of Estelle
in my solitary thoughts, wliom I could not
look at, when before me, without betraying
by speech, eyes, and a trembling, hurried
eagerness of manner, the emotions with
which her presence touched me. Yes,
the insect of (he evening, whose little life
is lengthened by having that light snatched
away by which it had been allured, and
doated on so fondly that it seemed ready
to sacrifice itself to its flame, could not, if
it were capable of gratitude, be more
indebted to the hand which thus saved it,
than I to the tender mother of Estelle,
when she withdrew her daughter's beauty

from my dazzled and bewildered sight,
and left me in darkness and solitude —
darkness did I say ? — no, her image made
the night more beautiful than day ! — soli-
tude ? — her form was as present as if she
had stood before me ; and had I been in
a desert, I should not have felt that I was
alone. Sleep never brushed my eyelids
with lier downy wing, nor shed one
honey-drop of her refreshing dew upon
my brow that blissful night. It passed
away in one long, delicious, waking
dream, worth all the dreams of sleep ; and
seemed only too short for the visions of
happiness which were opening before me.
Agony and weariness had left me ; and
I could have encountered a troop of
wolves, and welcomed a wound from each,
if they might purchase a night of happy
delirium such as then was mine !

" Early in the morning, a gentle tap
at the door, which was intended to arouse
me, found me still awake, still unwearied
and unexhausted with thoughts of the
beautiful Estelle. The door immediately
opened, and she entered, and approaching
my pallet, took my feverish hand in her's :
then how my heart thrilled — thrilled
through its innermost core. Her tender-
ness, her affection, still increasing, and
diminishing nothing in their devoted ser-
vices, should I not have been as insensible
as the clod at my feet, if these had not
bred a like affection — a tenderness as en-
tire, as devoted as her's ? — Yes, I confess
that the light of life she shed around my
painful hours, made pain a delicious plea-
sure— sickness happier than health ! The
day seemed too short for the happiness of
the day, the night too brief to dream of
the day's delights. Time passed too
rapidly away, and I daily gained strength,
and my wounds were less and less re-
membered.

" I should have mentioned that I had
taken care to entrust a peasant, in whom
I could confide, with the secret of my
safety, lest my continued absence from
the chateau should cause a search to be
made after me, and so interrupt pleasures
enjoyed within the walls of a cottage
such as I had never known in my own gay
saloons. Happiness is happiness, wher-
ever it is found ; the lowly more often
find it without seeking, than the proud
and lofty, who hunt and hurry after it
through all the primrose paths of plea-
sure.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD,

357

** On the fouilli day I was so much re-
covered, that 1 could pace my chamber j
and in the evening, indulge in the porch,
beautifully entwined with rose and honey-
suckle. There, with Estelle near me,
diligently turning her wheel, interrupted
only by her pausmg to make some aflec-
tionate inquiry, or to utter her guileless
thoughts in as guileless words, I spent
moments which I could have wished had
been months I listened to the voice of
Estelle, as to music, when, to while away
my sickness, she narrated some melan-
choly tale of lady's love, and troubadour's
fidelity ; and as she told the story, wished
myself its hero, and yet wished it not —
for 1 felt that I was the hero of a tale of
happier passion yet untold. Won by my
attention, her own history followed. Her
father — I will be brief — her father had, it
seems performed a service of much danger
for the count, our dear father — blessed be
his memory ! — and had left, at his death,
an antique ring, which had been given
to him by the count, that, if ever he stood
in need of assistance, he might prefer that
claim of recompence which he had reso-
lutely refused when the count would have
rewarded him. I could not conceal my
emotion — I shed tears of filial piety when
I beheld that well remembered ring,
which so forcibly brought back to my
memory the sacred image of our good
father. How often had I kissed that
tender hand which had worn it ! — how
often had that kind hand been laid in
gentle approbation on my head, in the
father winning days of childhood — those
halcyon days, which are the proudest and
happiest of an affectionate parent's life !

*' Estelle, it seems, intended to visit the
chateau, to remind the heir of Montauban
that he had one grateful legacy to dis-
charge, of his dear father's leaving. She
had some simple favour to ask — I forget
what — but it did not concern her own
interests. " And have you no fears, my
gentle girl," I asked, " no apprehensions
of trusting your beauty within the view
of a gay young lord, who might be struck,
as / a/rt, with your charms ?" This inad-
vertent disclosure of the impression she
had made on me, startled her ; her eyes,
her face, betrayed the emotions of her
heart. I resumed, more guardedly —
*• Who might admire, as who would not,
those excelling beantit s of feature, and
graces of person, which nature has so

liberally bestowed on my gentle physician
and friend ?" She interrupted me. " But
the young count is generous, and chari-
table' to the poor ; and charity and gene-
rosity reside not in the same breast with
vice." A flush of pleasure reddened over
my face; Estelle perceived it. "You
blush, sir," she said, in an artless manner ;
"surely you are not the count's brother,

who is " — no matter what, my dear

brother ; but your reputation for gallantry
is known where you would not expect it.
**]No, dear Estelle," I said, interrupting
her suspicions, *' I am not the brother of

count INIontauban : I — I am " I could

have thrown myself at her feet, and con-
fessed that I was the count himself; but,
fortunately, I diverted the mixed suspicion
and curiosity with which she regarded me,
by exclaiming, almost, involuntarily,
" Oh ! happy, happy count Montauban !
thus to be praised for goodness by the
good and the beautiful ! I assumed a
forced calmness, to conceal the turbulence
of my mind, and said, ** Will my dear
Estelle defer urging her suit till her friend
is so far recovered as to partake in her
visit to the chateau ? I am a servitor, an
humble friend of the count, and one word
of mine may conclude her claim." She
pressed my hand, and consented that 1
should accompany her. At that moment
her mother joined us, and was not un-
willing that I should be her daughter's
friend and protector "at court." — "Es-
telle," I said " need but make known her
claim, and who would refuse her, though
she asked to share a kingdom I" She
blushed, and hung down her head.
" Come, my dear children," said her
mother; "our simple supper is spread,
and waits but your presence, and a
thought of thankfulness, to be a sweeter
meal than monarchs partake of." I was
assisted in by my gentle ministrate, and,
after a frugal supper, signified that I
would retire to repose. I wished, indeed,
to be once more alone, that I might agnin
muse over the happiness of the day, and
meditate again in solitude on that which
was springing up for my enjoyment in the
future. I acknowledged the kindness of
the good mother, and pressing the hand
of Estelle between mine with a modest
warmth, we separated for the night — she
to " rosy sleep and slumber's light," and
I to a couch where sleep was less desirable
than a waking consciousnebs of a felicity.

358

TALES OF CHIVALRY J OR,

more happy tliantlie most delicious dreams
of slumber.

*' So passed the next day ; and on the
morrow we were to set out for tiie cha-
teau. A thousand thoughts, made up of
pleasure, with some discomposing thoughts
of pride, threw a feverish anxiety over my
soul; and that night was the only uneasy
one which I passed under that lowly roof.
Pride whispered, '* Was it fit that a man
of my rank, should unite himself with the
iiumble daughter of a peasant ?" Then
love painted her image to my mind — her
beauty, her grace, iier virtues, and above
all, her pity and her courage, which suc-
coured me ill that hour of pain, and almost
of death, when, like a ministering angel,
slie brought me back to life and love.
Yes, gratitude counselled well, and I re-
solved that she should be mine ! — Did I
not nobly, my brother ? Why should we
sacrifice to the empty vanities of rank the
best feelings of the heart — the realities of
happiness to the shadows of pride ? No,
my brother, when we have discovered
where our liappiness lies, let us take it to
our hearts, tliough we stoop lower than
our feet for it.

*' I will not dwell on the progress whicli
love made in both our hearts in these two
days — each one too short for the happiness
of the day, yet long enough to make that
hope, which was but a dream, the certainty
of years. Estelle had begun to discover
(by unerring sio^ns, which she, who is the
object of love, however unwise in the daily
atl'airs of life, can read as learnedly as the
wisest) how deep, tliough silent, was the
passion which engrossed my soul. I too,
as unerringly, discerned that she was not
unaffected by the same happy contagion.
Her tenderness, which was at first pity,
had unconsciously become love. Her eyes,
which were continually turning their lustre
on mine — the gradual abstraction of man-
ner— the gentle hand lingering in mine —
the studious attention which prevented my
wants, and sometimes invented them, that
she might dissipate them by the service
she delighted in ; — these were signs such
as I could not fail to perceive, and cherish,
as happy hopes, without a shade of
fear !

** The morning came, when we were to
set out for the chateau. I need not de-
scribe to you the anxiely which affected
me in spite of myself, as we approached
nearer and nearer to our destination.

Estelle, however, perceived not my agita-
tion : yet she seemed more thoughtful
than was her wont. There was a serious-
ness in her smile, as if her heart's affec-
tions had become intertwined with mine,
and she had not discovered it till the hour
approached in which we were to part,
never perhaps to meet again. Her arm
pressed closer to mine : — I turned to gaze
upon her ; she averted her eyes, but the
next moment they met mine, and that look
was more eloquent than words, however
eloquent. I could not speak — and she
was silent. We had reached the chateau
before either perceived its neighbour-
hood. Then surprise, perhaps, brought
back speech to me. Love will ratlier
stammer than not speak. "Dear Estelle,"
I said, " you are now to be made happy ;
for you are almost in the presence of count
Montauban, who will refuse you nothing
that you can ask. Oh ! might I be but
equally fortunate with Estelle, and obtain
at her hands all that is necessary to com-
plete my wishes, and render me the hap-

piest of men " She grew pale, and

trembled. " NA'hat will not Estelle do,"^
she replied, '* that virtue does not forbid,
to make her friend as happy as herself!"
I seized the occasion. " Will Estelle be

mine ? — will she give me her hand

heart — affections ?" She fell into my arms.
That moment was worth an age of exist-
ence ! " Oh, my Estelle !" I exclaimed,
" I will no longer conceal from you that I
love you more than man loved till now !
Gratitude, inspired by your devotedness
in the hour of need — tenderness, bred of

your tenderness admiration of your

beauty— pride in your virtues — these, and
a thousand sentiments and endearing qua-
lities, which love, all e'oquent as it is, can
neither define or name, have made me
your willing captive, were I a ransom
worth the world ! Convert not, then, the
Eden, which I have planted, into a soli-
tude, by refusing to share its new happi-
ness with me ! We were born for each
other, though our lots have been different.
Let, then, this embrace be the silent sign
that you consent to be mine !" I clasped
her to my heart, as a miser hugs his new-
acquired*^ gold, and felt that her heart
answered to mine. Siie was mine, bro-
ther— she was mine. * One word, my
adored Estelle — tor love can never be too
thoroughly assured of his possession — do
you love as I do ? and are you wholly and

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

35U

willingly mine — mine for ever ?' * For
ever !' she replied faintly. ' Enter then,
this chateau — no longer Estelle Leclair,
but the countess Montauban !' This dis-
closure was too abrupt ; but passion and
pleasure had made me rasli. She fainted
in my arms. I bore in the lovely prize,
the richest argosy that ever noble mer-
chant welcomed to the haven of home ;
and that day, ere the sun had reached the
highest heaven of noon, the holy church
had made us one and indissoluble.

"But see — as if to perfect the happi-
ness of my recollection of the happiest
day of my life^see where she comes ! —
the fairest creature of heaven — the ad-
mired of all beholders — the u ise, the good,
the beautiful, the true ! How does she
dignify the rank she has raised to her,
and not been raised to ! Splendour may
decorate, but cannot dignify the mean ;
no, for the noble nature still is wanting.
But the native grace of my Estelle, which
is diffused around her as unconsciously as
the violet breathes its perfume, confers
honour upon rank, and not derives it.
Behold, my brother, with what harmo-
nious motion she glides along, as if magic
was in her steps 1 Let me fly to meet
her — for my devotion is as fervent as in
that happy hour which made the lowly
Estelle Leclair lady of the proudest peer
of France !"

THE EARL OF il'RREY.

Thomas Howard, earl of Surrey, who
was knighted for his remarkable courage
at the battle of Barnet, fought between the
Yorkists and Lancastrians, in the time of
Edward the Fourth, was afterwards made
a knight of the garter by his brother,
Richard the Third. He was taken pri-
soner in the batde of Bosworth, and com-
mitted to the Tower by Henry the Seventh,
and attainted by parliament. King Henry
asked him how he durst bear arms in
behalf of that tyrant Richard, to which he
answered — " He was my crowned king,
and if the parliamentary autliority of
England set the crown upon a stock, I will
fight for that stock ; and as I fought then
for him, I will fight for you, when you are
established by the same authority." In
the rebellion against the king, by the earl
of Lincoln, the lieutenant of the Tower
offered the earl of Surrey the keys of the
Tower, in order to set himself at liberty ;
but he replied, " That lie would not be

delivered by any povi^er, but by that which
had committed him." After he had been
imprisoned three years and a half, the king
gave him his liberty, and knowing his
worth and nice sense of honour, he took
him into favour, and delivered up to hiui
all his estates. The earl took all occasion
of relieving the oppressed subjects, and
was accounted one of the ablest anil
greatest men in the kingdom. The Scots
made an irruption into England, and be-
sieged Norham castle. The earl raised
the siege, took the castle of Ayton, and
made all the country round a desert.
James IV. of Scotland, incensed at this,
sent a herald with a challenge to him, to
which he made a sensible and spirited
answer — *' That his life belonged to the
king, whilst he had the command of his
army, but when that was ended, that he
would fight the king on horseback, or on
foot 5" adding, " that if he took the king
prisoner, he would release him without
any ransom ; and that, if the king should
vanquish him, he would then pay such a
sum for his liberty as was competent for
the degree of an earl." In 150/, two
years before the death of Henry the
Seventh, the earl was ambassador to the
king of France (Louis the Twelfth).
Henry the Eighth, in the second year of
his year, made him earl marshal for life ;
and in the \ear 1511, he was appointed
one of the commissioners at the court of
Arragon. When Henry the Eighth heard
that the Scots were preparing to invade
England, he said, *' That he had left a
nobleman who would defend his subjects
from insults." After the battle of Flodden,
the earl presented king James's armour
to the queen regent. In 1514, the earl
was created duke of Norfolk, and a grant
was given hiui in special tail of several
manors. He hated and opposed cardinal
AVolsey, because he advised the king to
pursue measures hurtful to the liberties of
the people; finding that his opposition
availed nothing, he resigned his post, and
retired from court.

NOBLENESS OF SIR HERBERT TAYLOR.

A young man, a native of Dunkeld,
the son of respectable parents in humble
circumstances, entered the army early in
life, and, by hjs steady conduct and good
talents, gradually raised himself from the
ranks to be adjutant of his regiment.
About twelve years ago, his father was to-

360

TAKES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

(ally disabled by {)alsy ; and ihe rest of his
family being in ' idigent circumstances,
the sole charge of supporting his parents
devolved on the son. 'i'his duty he cheer-
fully fulfilled till his death, by allowing
them an annuity out of his pay. He was,
however, cut o/F suddenly last year whilst
with his regiment at Gibraltar. By his
death his parents were left totally desti-
tute, and government was applied to in
vain ; it being, it seems, inconsistent with
their regulations to grant relief in such
cases, except in the event of death in the
field of battle. This was communicated
by sir Herbert Taylor, through whom, as
colonel of the regiment, the application
had been made : but the simple tale of
their sorrow^s had found a friend for the
aged pair where they could not have looked
for it — sir Herbert himself came in the
room of their son, and continued the same
annuity ; and, with singular generosity,
even thanked the gentleman who had
conmiunicated w ith him, " for the oppor-
tunity that had been afforded him of
relieving the aged parents of a brother
officer."

NOVEL ARTILLERY.

A gentleman of the name of Sievier,has
recently invented a method of projecting
shot — which consists in making the shot
with a cylindrical chamber, so as to pass
freely on to a maundid or bar, fixed on
trunnions, a powder chamber being formed
at the bottom of the cylindrical cavity in
the shot. The powder is inflamed by
means of a touch-hole in the shot, in the
usual way. A charge of powder, thus
used, is found to produce effects very
much surpassing those of a shot of equal
weight thrown from a cannon ; and thus
accounted for, by supposing that the force
of recoil — which in a cannon is so great as
to throw it a considerable distance back-
ward— is added in the new form of shot
to the usual quantity of projectile force.
The experiments made with shot weigh-
ing, up to twenty five pounds, were suc-
cessful both as to force and direction, and
the advantage gained as to lightness in
the apparatus is extraordinary.

a party of royalists, purposed to stop at
Ripley, the seat of sir William Ingleby ;
and having an officer of his troop a rela-
tion of sir William's, he sent him to an-
nounce his arrival. Having sent in his
name, and obtained an audience, he was
answered by the lady that no such persons
should be admitted there ; adding, that
she had force sufficient to defend herself
and that house against all rebels. The
officer, on his part, represented the extreme
folly of making any resistance, and that the
safest way would be to admit the general
peaceably. After much persuasion, the
lady took the advice of her kinsman, and
received Cromwell at the gate of the lodge
with a pair of pistols stuck in her apron-
strings ; and having told him that she
expected neither he nor his soldiers would
behave improperly, led the way to the
hall, where, sitting on a sofa, she passed
the whole night. At his departure, in the
morning, the lady observed : — '* It was
well he had behaved in so peaceable a
manner; for that, had it been otherwise,
he should not have left that house
alive."

LADY INGLEBY 'S RECEPTION OF OLIVER
CROMWELL.

After the battle of Marston Moor,
Cromwell, returning from the pursuit of

THE BOXING ADMIRAL.

Some years since, the barge's crew of
the Berwick, then at Spithead, quarrelled
with the barge's crew of admiral Milbank's
ship, and heartily drubbed them, to the
no small mortification of the admiral, who
had been, in his younger days, exceed-
ingly athletic, and' as much addicted to
boxing heads as to boxing the compass.
A few days after, the admiral called the
crew together, abused them as a set of
cowardly lubbers, dressed himself in a
common jacket and trowsers, and, ob-
serving the Berwick's barge rowing
ashore, ordered his own to be immediately
manned, and took an oar as one of the
crew. The coxswain, as particularly
directed, ran the head of his barge against
the quarter of the Berwick's barge, in
consequence of which a broadside of oaths
was given and returned, wliich produced
a challenge to a boxing match. Accord-
ingly, to oblige them, the admiral, as
champion of his crew, beat the whole of
the crew of the other barge, (eleven in
number,) one after the other; and then,
after making himself known to his anta-
gonists, went ashore and visited his
friends, as if nothing had happened.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIFLD.

361

MAra.\X GODFREY.
A SKETCH OF 1651.

** Why, how now, son ? Is tliere any
news stilling, that thou hast thus hurried
hither? — or have an v of our ships foun-
dered in the late g^ale ?" were the ques-
tions asked by Matthew Godfrey, of his
son, as the latter entered the usual sitting
room of the family, seemingly fraught with
some monienlous intelligence.

" No, no, father ! the ships are safe, as
yet, for aught I know to the contrary," lie
replied ; *' but f hastened from the city
to tell you the glorious news ; praised be
God ! the lord general Cromwell has
gained a great and decisive victory over
the royalists at Worcester; a victory
which will strike terror into the hearts of
the disaffected, and completely overthrow
the hopes entertained by Charles Stewart
of wearing the crown of these king-
doms."

" Truly, this is important news," said
the elder Godfrey ; "and much does it
behove the nation to lift up the voice of
tiianksgiving on the occasion. But how
fares it with thelord general, who has been

VOL. II. — 46.

Page 365.

made the blessed instrument of effecting
tiiis deliverance ?"

" He has been protected from the arrows
of the ungodly, and is in good health.
He is marching with his victorious army
towards Jjondon ; and it is the intention
of the lord mayor, aldermen, and sheriffs,
with the council of state, to meet the lord
general to morrow at Acton, and enter
London with him in becoming order."

" I am right glad to hear it," said Ins
father : " it is fitt ing that tlie citizens should
show general Cromwell the respect which
they entertain for his character, and the
gratitude they feel for the services which
he has rendered the state."

•' Are there many wounded in the battle
you speak of, Philip ?" inquired his sister,
in a tremulous voice, who was sitting at
an embroidery frame at the farther end of
the apartment, an unnoticed, but not an
inattentive hearer of their discourse. Her
brother turned towards her at the sound
of her voice.

*• Good Marian," he said, " trouble not

thyself concerning this matter : stiffice,

that the loss which the lord general has

sustained is very small ; but liie enemy

3 a

362

TALES OF CmVALRY j OR,

stiffered dreuHfully j and the number of
prisoners taken is considerable. Why,
how now, what ails thee, foolish girl?" he
said, as lie observeti ihat tears were in his
sister's eyes ; ** art thou ready to weep for
tidings which should make England raise
a joyful cry unto God for her final deliver-
ance from the yoke of the oppressor ?
I had. well nigh forgotten to tell you,"
continued Pliilip, turning to his father,
"that young Herbert Lisle, the son of sir
Thomas Lisle — whom we have formerly
seen at our kinswoman, mistress More-
ton's — is among the number of tlie pri-
soners."

A convulsive sob here arrested his
attention; and, turning round, he beheld
his sister, pale as death, attempting to leave
the room ; but her strengtii failed her^ and
she would have fallen, had not Philip
hastened towards her, and supported her
with his arm.

" What has thus moved you, Marian ?"
he said.

" A sudden giddiness," she replied ;
** I shall be better anon — 'lis nothing — it
has already passed !" and she attempted to
smile, but there was anguish in her smile;
and her brother led her to her apartment,
and, tenderly kissing her, bade her try to
gain a little repose:

Matthew Godfrey was a merchant of
great respectability in the city of London.
He was a stern republican, but a consci-
entious one; and, in the wars between
the unfortunate Charles and his parlia-
ments, he had constantly taken part with
the latter, because he believed their cause
to be just and right, and thei/ taking up
arms for the sole purpose of delivering
the nation from tyranny and injustice.
He was a puritan ; but he did not carry
his religious zeal to the extent practised
by many of that sect : his piety was with-
out hypocrisy. Matthew Godfrey had
been njany years a widower, with two
children ; and his son had, for the last two
or three years, principally managed his
mercantile concerns; and for some little
time previously to tlie commencement of
this narrative, he had been left by his
father in the house in Aldersgate Street,
as he had a perfect reliance upon his skill
and prudence to manage his affairs ; while
he himself occupied a house in Holborn,
which had been lent him by a friend, and
v\hich, being more cheerful and airy,
wuuKI, he hoped, restore Maiian's health, |

that had seemed sadly drooping of late,
while its vicinity to the city enabled him
to see his son daily, and to render his
assistance in any atTair of moment, should
it be requisite.

Marian Godfrey was in her nineteenth
year. She had passed much of her lime
with mistress Moreton, who was a half
sister of her still fondly remembered mo-
ther. That lady's husband had espoused
the cause of king Charles, and had fallen
fighting for that cause in the civil wars.
At her house, Marian was thrown much
into the society of the gallant and devoted
chevaliers of the royalist party ; and, while
she listened to their polite conversation,
and witnessed their generous self-devo-
tion, and the privations which they under-
went rather than forsake the interest which
they had espoused, her republican princi-
ples were gradually undermined, and she
deplored in^cret the tragical death of her
sovereign, and the extinction of royalty in
England. The change which had taken
place in her sentiments she carefully
abstained from speaking of, as she knew
her father's inflexibility too well to believe
that he could be brought to approve of it ;
and she loved him too tenderly to grieve
him by open opposition. With respect to
her brotlhir, it was still worse ; he was a
relentless persecutor of the royalists, and
was wholly destitute of his father's mode-
ration in party matters. Matthew God-
frey had tenderly loved his wife, and for
her sake he respected mistress Moreton,
and saw no impropriety in permitting his
daughter to visit her frequently. As to
the unfortunate adherents of the Stewart
party, whom she might there meet with,
he believed her early education had forti-
fied her against imbibing their principles ;
and, while he condemned their conduct
and opinions, he himself pitied their mis-
fortunes. Marian had thus an opportunity
at her aunt's, of frequently meeting the
young and accomplished Herbert Lisle.
Insensibly they became attached to each
other. lilarian wept over his ruined for-
tunes, and the perils to which he was ex-
posed ; and he loved to look on her beau-
tiful c(juntenance, and listen to her gentle
voice; yet, even more than that, did he
love Iu?r purity of heart, her simplicity of
soul, and her noble and confiding dispo-
sition. In the first dawn of their attach-
ment, they remembered not the perils by
which they were surrounded, nor how

PERILS EY FLOOD AND FITLD.

363

evcntiially hopeless llieir lo\ e mi^lit prove.
Soon, however, ihey were awakened from
tlieir dream of bli^s, and the young soldier
was obliged to follow llie fortunes of his
royal master. Yet he went secure in the
possession of Marian's faithful and un-
changing love. When he left her, though
Marian had fears for him, she had none
for herself: she had bestowed her affection
on Herbert Lisle, and she was resolved
that no earthly power should compel her
to abandon him. When the young king
marched into Eng-jand, after the unfortu-
nate battle of Dunbar, Herbert Lisle
obtained a short leave of absence ; and,
disguisetl, he reached London, where he
again beheld his beloved Marian. But a
thousand fears for his safety tormented
feer, an-d she urged his immediate depar-
ture. Herbert, however, refused to leave
her : he might never see her more, or her
friends might oblige her tO' forsake him.
He tormented her and himself with a
thousand groundless suspicions and haras-
sing thoughts — (for man knows not the
unchanging nature of woman's true affec-
tion)— arKl he eloquently urged that no-
thing sliort of her consenting to a private
marriage would satisfy him, or calm his
melancholy forebodings.

It were vain to dwell on hjs affectionate
entreaties. Marian, overpowered bj his
distress, and by her desire of hastening his
departure from the metropolis, ultimately
consented; and, in the presence of mis-
tress Moreton, and the old nurse of her
childhood — who had also been a faithful
attendant upon her mother — did Marian
become the wife of Herbert Lisle. On
the bridal day they separated ; and, as
Herbert pressed her with rapture to his
heart, and imprinted a farewell kiss on
her lips, Marian seemed oppressed wkh a
fearful presentiment tliat her happiness
liad vanished, and she trembled to think
of the dangers to which her beloved Her-
bert was about to be exposed.

From the day of their parting, Marian's
health declined, and her depression of
spirits became evident to every one. I
Indeed, for some time, siie scarcely dared |
raise her eyes to her father's face, lest he i
should discover her secret ; and lier bro- !
ther evidently seemed to suspect that she j
had some cause for her unhappiness.
Marian, however, soon harl ostensible
reason for her melancholy, in the death
of mistress Moreton, which took place

suddenly, about a week after Hf rbert's
departure; and her father readi'y accepted,
on her account, the offer which was m:u!e
to him, of laking up his abode for a short
time in Holborn. The house which he
inhabited had, at the back of it, an un-
interrupted view of fields, meadows, and
pasture lands, with pleasant shady lanes
and humble cottages — a space of ground
now occupied by Red Lion Square, and
the streets adjacent and beyond. Marian
loved her new abode, as her dear old nurse
lived only about two or three fields off,
and she could therefore visit her frequently,
and talk to her of her gallant husband.

After the battle of Worcester, when
Marian was made acqtiainted with the
dreadful tidings tiiat her husband was a
prisoner, and tliut in aJl probability his life
would be sacrificed, fnom tiie known stern
devotion and unbending loyahy, both of
himself and hi^ father, her distress was
nearly insupportable. She resolved, how-
ever, that, if she could not save him, she
would die with him; and, comforting
herself with this assurance, she calmly
prepared to make the only effort in her
power on his behaif, r/^., that of a personal
appeal to general Cromwell. Tliis was a
bold step for one so young, but Marian
stopped not to weigh either the peril or the
possible consecfuences of the undertaking.
She imparted her detes^mihation to no one
but her nurse. " Gx)d will be my guide,"
she said to the old woman-, who would fain
have dissuaded her from the attempt;
"but give thou to me that trinket of my
mother's — the watch w hich she gave thee ;
I may need it."

" Well, but you know not, perhaps,
the tale that belongs to it," said the old
woman.

" Yes ! yes !" said Marian ; ** I know
it all ; I have heard it many times."

Thus admonished, the nurse unlocked a
small drawer, and drew forth a small watch
hanging to a steel chain, which was partly
rusted. The case of the watch was of
gold ; it had small steel beads aiound k,
and a raised border of flowers of the same
metal on the back. Exactly in the centre
was a small painting of a female head,
exquisite in expression and beauiy. The
dark raven hair parted on the lorehead,
the eyes full of tenderness, and the faint
blush just tinging the fair cheek, made
Marian weep as slie gazed on it ; and,
pressing the trinket to her h[)s, she ex-
3 A -2

364

TALES OF CHIVAIRY; OR,

cliang^ed an affectionate farewell with her
nurse, and hastened iioinewards.

In honour of tiie victory which general
Cronnvell had obtained at Worcester, the
citizens of London resolved on giving a
grand entertainment. Great preparations
were made on the occasion, and he was
to be feasted in Guildhall. Matthew God-
frey intended to be present at the civic
festival, and, the day before it was fo take
place, he went to his house in Aldersgate
Street, from which he did not intend to
return until the day after the dinner given
to general Cromwell and his officers.
This was the time which Marian judged
as the most favourable for her purpose ;
and, soon after her father had left Hol-
born, she, with a beating heart, and in
her most simple apparel, with her lovely
countenance shrouded in a black silk
hood, set off for the palace at Whitehall,
where she had been informed the general
then was.

On making known her desire to the
attendants, she was told that the lord
general had been occupied nearly all the
day with business of importance, and that
it was not likely she would be able to see
him, but that she could wait if she pleased.
Marian accordingly sat down on a bench
in a corridor leading to the principal
apartments. Here she waited in ago-
nising suspense; persons passed to and
fro, but none seemed to notice her, and
she thought with bitterness of the precious
moments thus passing away, which might
probably be fraught with danger to her
beloved Herbert. An elderly man, in the
garb of a puritan minister, entered the
gallery j his look seemed benevolent, and
Marian resolved to address hin), and
request his assistance. At first he looked
at her suspectingly ; but a second glance
at her noble brow and modest countenance
reassured him. He saw^ that her distress
was real, and, certain that her object could
be one of no common interest, he promised,
if possible, to obtain her an interview with
the lord general.

This person, who was the celebrated
Hugh Peters, was as good as his word.
In a few moments he again approached
her, and, taking her hand, he led her to
the door of an apartment, and whispering
— " The Lord prosper thy petition," the
door was thrown open, and Marian found
herself in the presence of general Crom-
well. ^

The room into which Marian was
ushered was a high and noble apartment,
commanding a spacious view of the
Thames, with all the varied and bustling
scenery constantly observable thereon.
Three sides of the room were occupied by
book-shelves, filled with large and seem-
ingly ponderous volumes ; at the upper
end stood a table, covered with a Turkey
carpet, on which lay numerous papers^
and, in a plain high backed chair, covered
with black leather, sat the man who was
soon to be raised to the supreme power
in these kingdoms — Oliver Cromwell,
He was plainly dressed, in a sufit of mul-
berry colour, with a short cloak of the
same. His hat lay beside him on the table.
His hair was partially grey, and his whole
countenance spoke the decision and quick
penetration that belonged to his character,
though, at times, theie was a softening
expressson in the eyes which moderated
the effect his stern features would other-
wise have produced. At tirst he looked
harshly at Marian ; but when he saw that
her whole frame treu)bled with agitation,
he said, mildly — " Maiden, what is thine
errand ?"

** I would implore your aid," replied
Marian ; *' your powerful assistance in the
case of Herb«rt Lisle, an unhappy prisoner
in the late battle."

V " Herbert Lisle ! sayest thou ?" replied
Cromwell ; " thou speakest vain words,
and knowest not what thou askest. Is he
not an avowed enemy to the good cause >
And has not the Lord delivered him into
our hands, that we should deal with him
even as it should seem gc^jd in our eyes ?"

*' O, sir, speak not thus, I beseech you,"
said Marian ; ** have mercy on his youth ;
it may be diat the persuasions of others
have led him to oppose the government ;
give him then time for repentance !"

" It were more fitting, maiden, for thee,"
said Cromwell, ** to meddle not with this
matter: itisnot seemly forayoung maiden
topleadthus earnestly forastrangeryouth ;
betake thee to thine home."

The blood rushed into Marian's cheeks
and forehead, and she replied hastily —

*' Is it, then, a crime for woman to plead
for mercy ? Be it so ! Yet the laws, boih
of God and man, are on my side, when
I would ask your aid for my unhappy
husband."

•' Ha !" he said, " I looked not for this,
but thine appeal is vain," and he glanced

PF.BILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

365

pil\ingl\' on lier. "In these stirring
times domestic ties must be rent asunder,
w lien tlie glory of tlie Lord and the wel-
fare of the state require it."

** Alas ! alas !" cried Marian ; " and
will you consign my husband to perish ?
What is his crime ? He did but follow
a kind master, and fight in support of his
cause, as he was bound by l;is oath of
loyalty. Thou thyself hast done as much ;
but, aUis ! thou hast chosen a more fortu-
nate path."

Cromwell's brow darkened : ** Say,
rather," he added, ** that the Lord hath
guided me to choose light rather than
darkness. But, touching this matter of
thine, Herbert Lisle will be dealt with as
the state shall think fit j and, if his life be
forfeited, pray thou unto the Lord, and he
will comfort thee in thine aflfliction."

*• Not so," said Marian eagerly ; *' I
know thou art all powerful, and that a word
from thee could save him. Mercy, then,
mercy ! Bethink thee how this gracious
act would gladden thy dying hour, and
rob death of its bitterness."

Cromwell shook his head, and Marian,
in the energy of her supplication, dropped
on her knees, and held up, with both her
hands, the watch she had received from
her nurse, and which she had kept till now
concealed in her bosom.

The moment Cromwell's eyes rested
upon it, he started from his seat, and
advanced towards Marian. " Where got
ye this ?" he said, while his strong frame
trembled with emotion, and he snatched
the trinket from her hands ; and as he
gazed on the sweet face painted thereon,
he turned aside, and Marian saw the big
drops of sorrow fall on his weather-beaten
cheek.

" Know ye whose watch this once was ?"
he said, as he turned to Marian.

** It was my mother's, who has been
dead many years," she replied; "and
my father is Matthew Godfrey, citizen of
London."

Cromwell started. He approached
Marian, who was still on her knees, and,
pushing aside her brown hair, which had
fallen over her white forehead, he paused
a minute, then added — "Thine is a face
fair to look upon ; and ye have your mo-
ther's noble brow, but not her raven hair
and eye. In days long past, ulien I uas
a student at the innsol court, I loved your
mother fondly and tiuly 3 but her parents

suffered her not to listen (o my words.
Perchance they acted wisely, for mine
has been a stormy course ;" and he sighed.
" The Lord's will be done !"

Marian saw that Cromwell's spirit was
softened ; and she resumed her pleadings
for her husband ; and she called on him,
in remembrance of her mother, to be
merciful.

" Thou hast touched a tender string,"
he said; "and for thy mother's sake, if
I have any influence, thy husband shall
depart harmless."

Marian sprung on her feet, and began
pouring out her thanks.

" Nay !" said the general ; " if the life
and liberty of Herbert Lisle be granted,
it will be on the sole condition that he
leave England immediately, and make no
farther attempt to subvert the present
government of these kingdoms."

" May God reward you for this !" said
Marian ; and she folded her cloak around
her, and prepared to depart.

" Rest in peace," said Cromwell ; " and
\Ahen thine husband is set at liberty, ye
shall hear from him. Take this with
thee ;" and he held out to her her mother's
watch. " It has stirred sad thoughts
within me, and the memory of thy mo-
ther, as I last saw her, comes over me as
a pleasant dream." He looked on the
picture, and sighed as he put it info her
hands. " Farewell," he said ; " all I can
do for thee I will, and God's blessing be
ever with thee!" He pressed her hand
kindly. Marian's heart was full, and she
could but weep her thanks, as the general
touched a small silver bell, when the door
was opened, and she passed forth from the
presence of general Cromwell, with re-
newed hopes and a thankful spirit.

Not many days after this interview,
Marian's nurse came to her, and informed
her that Herbert Lisle, her beloved hus-
band, was at liberty ; that he had been
with her, and desired her to tell Marian
he was impatient to behold her once more,
and to bid her farewell, as he had given
his promise to the state to depart forth-
with, and his steps were therefore watched
by their emissaries. She added, that he
would expect Marian at her collage, at
the close of that same evening.

It were needless to speak of Marian's
gratitude, when ^he heard that Herbert
was really at liberty — of the many affec-
tionate messages to him with which she

366

TALKS OF CHIVALRY : OiT,

charged her nurse — of the trembling
impatience with which siie awaited the
appointed hour to beiiokl him.

Evening came, at length, and the dark-
ening clouds, and the moaningof the wind,
seemed to portend a storm ; btit Marian
heeded not these gloomy appearances.
She had kept aloof in lier chamber from
the family all that day, under the plea of
indisposition ; and it was quite dusk, and
all was still in the liouse, ere she ventured
forth. With noiseless steps she passed
down the garden at the back of the house,
and unfastened the door at the extremity
of it, which led into the fields, and hast-
ened onwards, as she believed, unheard
and unobserved. Once or twice, as Marian
proceeded through the lane which led to
the cottage of her nurse, she thought she
heard a footstep behind her. She stopped,
and listened intensely, but all was per-
fectly still, and she felt certain that she
had been deceived — that the sound had
been merely the rustling of the viind
through the hedge.

In a few minutes she gained the cottage,
and, hastily unfastening the latch, she en-
tered. There was a light in the room,
but Marian saw no one but her nurse.
** Where is he ?" she exclaimed. The old
woman pointed to an inner apartment ;
but Herbert had heard the sound of her
voice, and he rushed forth, and caught
Marian in his arms.

*• Beloved of my soul 1" said the young
cavalier, as he tenderly bent over his
weeping wife ; " what a debt of gratitude
do I owe thee ! Alas ! must the joy wath
which I now enfold thee so soon pass
away ? And must I be banished from
thy dear presence ? Cruel, cruel fate !"

*' Nay, dear Herbert I" replied Marian,
" let us not embitter the few moments
which remain to us by useless repinings;
let us feel grateful that thy life is spared !"
" Banishment from thee is worse than
death !" said Herbert.

** When thou art abroad, and in safety,
I may find means to join thee," replied
Marian. " Happy hours may yet be in
store for us."

"Bless thee, dearest!" saidherhusband,
as he passed his arm around her waist, and
her head reclined on his shoulder.

They had thus stood for a few seconds
beside the window, when Herbert quitted
his position, and advanced towards the
inner apartment, whither a sudden call

from the nur«e invited him. Marian had
tukf-n but a single step to follow him,
when the report of n pistol was heard, and
Marian, vvith a deep groan, sunk on the
cottage floor.

Herbert flew towards her : he raised
her in his arms ; but the ball had entered
her side, and the blood flowed freely.
Herbert bent ovei- her in indescribable
agony. Her face was deathly pale ; but
her eyes turned vvith fondness on her hus-
band, as, with difficulty, she articulated —
*' This stroke wasdoubtless meant for thee.
Oh, the bliss that thou art safe, and that
I may die for thee! My poor father!"
she murmured faintly, as her head dropped
exhausted on his shoulder.

*' Help ! — instant aid, in the name of
God !" wildly cried Herbert ; and the
nurse, scarcely less distracted, hastened to
obtain assistance.

" Help is vain/' said Marian ; ** I feel
it here ;" and she pressed her chilly hand
on her side. The dews of death were on
her foreheadj but her arms were clasped
firmly around her husband's neck.

*• It is a bitter pang to leave thee I"
sighed Marian ; " but a few more years^
and thou wilt be with me, free from sorrow
and from suffering."

The last word was scarcely distinguish-
able. She sighed heavily : Herbert felt
the arms^ which were around him relax in
their grasp — her gentle soul had fled — it
was only the lifeless corse of his beloved
Marian which he pressed distractedly to
his bosom, and gazed on in mute unutter-
able despair.

♦ ♦ ♦ •

It was Philip Godfrey who had followed
Marian on that fatal night. He had
w^atched her into the cottage — he saw her
in the arms of a young cavalier, though
he distinguished not that it was Herbert
Lisle ; he witnessed their endearments,
and, fraught with madness at the disgrace
which he imagined had been thus brought
upon his family, he drew forth his pistol
and aimed it at Herbert. But Marian,
his sister, was fated to be the unhappy
sufferer from his deadly purpose. He
stayed not to know the event ; as, fearful
of pursuit, he hastened immediately from
the spot. Bitter was his repentance, when
he had found that he had sacrificed his
beloved sister ; and w hen the true circum-
stances of the case were made known to
him, he w as unable to bear his reflections,

PERILS BY FLOOD A\D FIELD.

367

and sailed soon after for America, where
he died at liie close of a few years.

From the moment of Marian's death,
Herbert Lisle was a melancholy man ; and
though Matihew Godfrey, softened and
almost broken-hearted by the misfortune
which had befallen his family, blessed and
forgave him ere he left Eij^jland, he moved
no more in scenes of gaiety, for the light
of his existence had passed away for ever;
and, soon after the restoration of king
Charles the Second, he died at his paternal
mansion, in Kent, young in years, but
willingly resigning the load of life which
had pressed heavily upon liim since the
death of his evej- fondly-remembered
Marian.

ANECDOTE OF KING CHARLES THE SECOND.

King Charles the Second, when at
Brussels, being desirous and resolved to
see his sister, the princess of Orang<i, b«t
withal under a necessity to make the
journey with theutmOst secresy, did com-
nmnicate his design to no person whatso-
ever. He ordered — Fleming, a servant
of the earl of Wigton — who was in his
service, anil of whose fidelity he neither
then nor ever after did doubt — secretly to
provide a couple of good horses, and have
them ready at a certain place and time of
the next ensuing night by his majesty
appointed ; tliat Fleming, with these
horses, should remain alone, till he heard
fioni the king. At the time appointed,
the king — (having gone to bed, and after-
wards dressed himself, and privately gone
out at a back-door, and leaving only a
letter to some one of his servants in whom
he confided, with an account of his having
gone from thence for a few days, and with
directions to keep his absence as secret as
possible, under pretence of being indis-
posed)— came to the place, where he
found Fleming with the horses, as he had
directed. He then acquainted Fleming
of his design to see his sister at the
Hague; arid, not regarding the hazards
he might be exposed to, away he went
with thisslender equipage and attendance,
travelling through the most secret bye-
ways, and contriving it so that he came
to the Hague by six in the morning, and
alighted at a scrub inn in a remote part
of the town, where he was confident none
would know him, under the disguise he
was then in. He immediately sent

Fleming to acquaint his sister where lie
was, and to leave it to her to contrive the
way and manner of having access t<j her,
so as not to be known. Fleming having
dispatched his commission in a verv
short time, (in less than an hour), was
no sooner returned to tl)« king — whom
he found in the room where he had left
him, and where he had been still alone —
than an unknown person came and asked
of the landlord, if two Frenchmen had not
alighted at his house that morning. The
landloixl replied, that indeed two men had
come, but of what country he knew not.
The stranger desired him to tell them that
he wanted to speak with them ; which he
having done, the king was much surprised,
but withal inclined to see the person.
Fleming opposed it; but the king being
positive, the person was introduced, being
an old reverend like man, with a long
grey beard and ordinary grey clothes, v\ho
looking and speaking to the king, told
him he was the person lie wanted to speak
to, and that all alcHie, on matters of im-
portance. The king, believing it might
be, perhaps, a return from his sister, or
being curious to know the result of such
an adventure, desired Fleming to with-
draw, which he refused, till the king,
taking him aside, told him there could be
no hazard from such an old man, for whom
he was too much, and commanded him to
retire. They were no sooner alone, than
the stranger bolted the door, (which
brought the king to think on what might
or would happen), and at the same time
falling down on his knees, pulled off his
very nice and artificial mask, and disco-
vered himself to be Mr. Downing, (after-
wards well known by the name of sir
George, and ambassador from the king to
the states after his restoration,) then envoy
or ambassador from Cromwell to the
states ; being the son of one Downing,
an independent minister, who attended
some of the parliament- men who were
once sent to Scotland to treat with the
Scots to join against the king, and who
was a very active and virulent enemy to
the royal family, as appears from lord
Clarendon's history. The king, you may
easily imagine, was not a little surprised
at the discovery, but Downing gave him
no time for reflection, having immediately
spoke to him in the following manner : —
That he hoped his majesty would pardon
him for any share he had acted, during

368

tat.es of chivatry; or.

the rebellion nofainst his; royal Interest ;
and assured hlin, that Ihougli he was just
now in the service of the usurper, he
wished his majesty as well as any of his
subjects, and would, when an occasion
olK-red, venture all for his service ; and
was hopeful wh;it he was about to say,
would convince his majesty of his since-
rity. But before he mentioned the cause
of his coming to him, he must insist that
his majesty would solenmly promise him
not to mention what had happened, either
to Fleming or any other person whatso-
ever, till it pleased God to restore his
majesty to his crown, when he said he
should not desire it to be concealed ;
though, even then, he must likewise have
his n)ajesty's promise not to ask him, or
expect he should discover, how or when
he came to know of his being there.
The king having solemnly protested, and
engaged on the terms required. Downing
proceeded and told him, that his master,
the usurper, being now at peace with the
Dutch, and the states so dependent and
obsequious to him, that they refused no-
thing he desired, liad, with the greatest
secresy, in order to make it more effectual,
entered into a treaty, by which, among
other trifling matters agreed to hinc inde,
the chief, and indeed main end of the
negociafion was, that the states stood
engaged to seize and deliver up to the
usurper the person of his majesty, if so be
at any time he should happen, by chance
or design, to come within their territories,
VA hen required thereto by any in his name;
and that this treat}^ having been signed
by the states, was sent to London, from
whence it had returned but yesterday
morning, and totally finished yesterday
night, betwixt him and a secret committee
of the states. He represented his master's
intelligence to be so good, that a discovery
would be made, even to himself (Down-
ing), of his majesty's being there ; and if
he neglected to apply to have him seized,
liis master would resent it to the highest,
which would infallibly cost him his head,
and deprive his majesty of a faithful ser-
vant. And being desirous to prevent the
miserable consequences of what would
follow, if his being here were discovered,
he resolved to communicate the danger
he was in ; and, for fear of a discovery, he
had disguised himself, being resolved to
trust no person with the secret. He then
proposed that his majesty would imme-

diately mount his iiorse, and make all the
dispatch imaginal)leout of the states terri-
tories; that he himself would return home,
and under pretence of sickness lie longer
a-bed than usual : and that, when he
thought his majesty was so far off' as to be
out of danger to be overtaken, he would
go to the states, and acquaint them, that
he understood his majesty was in town,
and re(|uire his being seized on the terms
of tlie late treaty ; that he knew they
would comply, and send to the place
directed ; but on finding his majesty was
gone off so far as to be safe, he would
propose to make no further noise about it,
lest it should discover the treaty, and
prevent his majesty's falling afterwards
into their hands. The king immediately
followed his advice, and he returning
home, every tljing w as acted and happened
as he proposed and foretold. The king
having thus escaped this most imminent
danger, most religiously performed what
he had promised, never mentioning any
part of this history till after his restoration,
and not then desiring to know how
Downing's intelligence came, (which he
never discovered), though he (the king)
often said it was a mystery. For no
person knew of his design till he was on
horseback, and that he could not think
Fleming went and discovered him to
Downing ; besides, he so soon returned
from his sister that he could not have had
time ; Downing having come much about
the time Fleming returned.

Some years after this occurrence, when
the restoration had taken place, the king
being in company with the earl of Cro-
martie, the duke of Rothes, and several
other Scotch noblemen, enjoying their
wine, they all complained of an imperti-
nent speech Downing had made in par-
liament, reflecting on the Scotch nation;
which they thought his majesty should
resent, so as to discard him from court,
and withdraw his favours from him. The
king replieJ, he did not approve of what
he had said, and would reprove him for
it ; but to go farther he could not well do,
because of an important service he had
rendered him during his exile, the circum-
stances of which he ref)ealed in the terms
above narrated: the king's detail made
such an impression on all present, that
they freely forga\e what had passed, and
Rothes asked liberty to drink his healtli
in a bumper.

I'ERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

369

THE ROSICRUCIAN.

"And, after all," said Lubeck Schieffel,
soliloquising aloud, ** what do 1 know ?
It is true I have obtained the first honours
of the university — have learned all the
professors can teach, and am considered
the ablest scholar in Gottingen : still, how
little do I know, and how unsatisfactory
that knowledge is !" " Aye, what do you
know ?" said a voice so near that it made
him start. *' I know," said Lubeck, '* that
you are some idle fool, to be prating here
at this time of night," for he felt ashamed
and angry his soliloquy had been over-
heard : but both shame and anger gave
way to surprise, when, upon turning sud-
denly round to discover the speaker, he
was not able to perceive any one, though
the moon shone brightly, and for a
considerable distance around was a level
plain, without a single tree or other object
which could have afforded concealment.

The astonishment of Lubeck was beyond
description : he tried to persuade himself
that it was some trick, but the nearness
of the voice, and the nature of the place,
forbade such a conclusion. Fear now

VOL. II. — 47.

Page 370,

urged him to hasten from the spot ; being
resolved, however, that if it were a trick
of a fellow-student, he should have no
advantage, he exclaimed, in as jocular a
tone as he could command — *' Tush, I
know you, and wish you better success
the next time you attempt the incognito."
He then made the best of his way to the
high road ; and, musing upon this curious
and unaccountable circumstance, returned
to his apartments.

Next morning, Lubeck went to the site
of the preceding night's adventure, with
the intention of ascertaining the manner
in which this curious tiick had been per-
formed, (for with returning daylight he felt
reassured that it was such j) but his dismay
was very considerable when he arrived at
the spot — for, owing to the nature of the
ground, he was at once compelled to
decide, tiiat it could not be a trick per-
formed by human actors.

How unsteady is the balance of the
human mind ! The manner in which the
strongest understandings are sometimes
swayed by the most minute circumstances
is perfectly unaccountable; and the smallest
foundation, like the stt^m of a tree, often
3b

370

TALES OF CHIVAIRY; OR,

carries a wide-spreading superstructure.
The wild stories of his romantic country-
men were, for a time, eagerly perused by
Lubeck ; and the mind, which had before
delighted in them as entertaining compo-
sitions, lent them that deep attention
which admitted the possibility of their
reality.

Expecting that the invisible person (for
such he was now persuaded existed) would
again address him, Lubeck went night
after night to the same spot, but in vain !
till at length, as the event became more
remote, the impressions of that night be-
came more faint ; at last, he felt convinced
that the whole must have been the result
of his own imagination, and was quietly
pursuing his studies, when one morning a
stranger was ushered into his apartment.

" I believe," said the stranger, ** I am
addressing Lubeck S(.:hieffel, who gained,
with so much honour, the last prize of this
university ?"

Lubeck bowed assent.

*' You may probably feel surprised,"
continued he, ** that a perfect stranger
should obtrude himself upon you ; but I
concluded that a person who had already
obtained so much information, would natu-
rally be desirous of embracing any means
of increasing it, and I believe it is in my
power to point out to you a way by which
tiiat increase may be obtained."

** I certainly feel an ardent thirst for
knowledge," said Lubeck ; " as yet, I
cannot but agree with him who said, * all
I know is, that I know nothing.' I have
read the books pointed out by the profes-
sors, and all that I have read only confirms
the justness of this conclusion."

*' And rightly," said the stranger; "for
of what use are the majority of the ancient
writings, but as they furnish excellent
rules of morality, and specimens of elegant
or amusing compositions ! We may
admire the descriptions of Tacitus, the
simple style of Livy — be dazzled by the
splendid imagery of Homer, or melted by
the tender traits of Tibullus or Euripides ;
we may laugh with Anacreon, or enjoy the
still beauties of nature with Theocritus ;
we have love in Sappho, satire in Juvenal,
and man in Horace ; we — "

*' Stay, stay," said Lubeck. ** Swell
the list no farUier : from all these books
some knowledge I have drained, but am
still not satisfied. 1 still thirst — still pant
for knowledge ; and am sick to the soul

of knowing no more tlian the rest of tiie
world. 1 woukl — "

"If you look to gain," said the stranger,
interrupting him, " for such universal
knowledge from books, you must be dis-
appointed. It would consume nearly a
life to read all that has been written upon
any one science, which, when known, is
but one step forward, and while we are
striving to reach wisdom, death overtakes
us. Besides, you learn nothing new from
books, for invention must precede science,
and clear a path for her, while the com-
pilers of books but follow at a distance,
and record her ste[)S. Still you need not
despair, for though thousands in vain
strive to open the portals to that know-
ledge— which is closed by a bar which no
force can remove — still, to some it may
be given to find a hidden spring, which,
touched — "

** And you have found this spring ?"
said Lubeck, sarcastically.

*' It has been found !" said the stranger;
** it has been touched ! The hitherto
sealed portals have been opened, and the
hidden knowledge — full, complete — is
revealed, but only to few, and even to
those conditionally."

" You speak allegorically," said Lubeck,
" what mean you ?"

" You must be aware," said the stranger,
" that he who wishes to excel in any one
science, gives it his undivided attention ;
is it not rational then to suppose, that
something extraordinary must be exacted
of him who wishes to excel in all ?"

" Full — complete attention," said Lu-
beck ; ** and intense and unwearied appli-
cation."

** If undivided attention, or intense and
unwearied application would have avail-
ed," said the stranger, ** would you now
have been seeking it ? Attend. Suppose
a fraternity had existed for many centu-
ries, living in a place rendered invisible
to all the world but themselves, by an
extraordinary secret, who are acquainted
with every science, some of which they
have improved to the highest degree of
perfection, and who possess a multitude
of valuable and almost incredible secrets.
Possessed of the art of prolonging life very
much, indeed, beyond its usual limits, and
having so great a knowledge of medicine
that no malady can withstand them, they
laugh at the diseases which you consider
mortal. Tliey possess a key to the Jewish

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELJ).

371

Cabbala — they bave copit^ of the Sybilline
books. Bat, alas! how many discoveries
which they have made, and liave divulgfed,
with the intention of benefiting mankind
generally, have proved, in the event, a
heavy curse to part !"

Lubeck began to feel a strong conviction
that he was hstening to either the dreams
of some wild enthusiast, or the reveries
of a madman ; but, though the ideas of
the stranger were so wild, neither his look,
tone, nor manner, seemed to warrant such
a conclusion ; he, therefore, was greatly
embarrassed how to proceed. At length
he observed : — " For what purpose, may
I ask, do you endeavour to amuse me,
with relating what to me seems simply
impossible ?"

** Impossible 1" repeated the stranger ;
** impossible! thus it ever is with mankind.
Whatever escapes their investigation —
whatever they cannot readily comprehend
or explain, they pronounce to liave no
existence, or to be utterly inexplicable.
Consider how many things, which to you
appear possible, to one of less information
would appear what you pronounce this to
be ; and thus was Galileo imprisoned, and
forced to deny truths which were not
comprehended. You admitted to me, a
short time past, that all your knowledge
amounted to nothing. Still, the moment
I tell you of what you cannot comprehend,
you at once pronounce it to be impossible.
Listen !" continued the stranger, and
immediately the same remarkable voice,
which Lubeck had before heard, exclaimed,
"-Aye ! what do you know ?"

The tenor of the stranger's conversation
had not recalled to Lubeck Schieffel the
events of that memorable night, but now it
rushed upon him in an instant, and before
him he conceived was the supernatural
being \^ho had haunted his steps.

" This extraordinary society, of which 1
was telling you," continued tlie stranger,
** received its name from Christian Rosen-
crux, who was born in Germany, in the
year 1359. He was educated in a mo-
nastery, and excelled in most ancient and
modern languages. A powerful desire
urged him to seek a more extensive range
of information than could be obtained
within the precincts of a cloister, and he
determined to travel The religious
feelings, common about the close of the
fourteenth century, led him to visit the
holy land. Having seen the holy sepul-

chre, he proceeded to Damascus, where
he was in great danger of losing his life.
This circumstance, luAve\er, was the
cause of all his fame and greatness; for he
learned from the eastern physicians, or (as
they are sometimes called) philosophers,
who undertook and completed his ctire,
the existence of many extraordinary
secrets, by which his curiosity was so
highly excited, that he spent much time
travelling over most of ilic eastern parts,
till he became master of tJKj'^e most won-
derful secrets, which had been preserved
by tradition from the ancient Egyptians,
Chaldeans, Brahmins, Gymnosophists,
and the Magi. Upon the return of Ro-
sencrux into his own country, he collected
together several nen of simikir pursuits
with himself, and to them he communi-
cated those secrets, the fruits of his labours
and discoveries. This was the origin of
the Rosicrucians, or, Brolhers of the
Rosy Cross : they were likewise called
Immortales, because of their long life ;
Illuminatiy on account of their knowing
all things ; Invisible Brothers, because
they appeared not. Its existence was
concealed till about the year 1600, when,
by some unaccountable means, it became
known. Some time after, two books were
published, which, it was pretended, were
the productions of members of this society.
The one was entitled, * Fama fraterni-
tatis laudabilis ordinis Roscpcrucis,' —
the Report of the Laudable Order of the
Fraternity of the Rosy Cross ; the other,
* Confessio Fraternitalis" — the Confes-
sion of the Fraternity. These books gave
a pretended account of the society and
its views. That these books were the
production of those they were pretended
to be, was openly denied in 1620 by
Michael Bede, who publicly declared that
he knew the whole to have been fabricated
by some ingenious persons. A great
number of persons falsely pretended to
belong to this society, especially Robert
Hudd, an English physician — Michael
Mayer, and above all, in the year 1600,
Jacob Behmen, (often called the Teutonic
philosopher ;) but he was a mere enthu-
siast. Ft was believed that Rosencrux
died in the year 1448: but, in truth, so
famous a man could not disappear from
the world, (as he was bound to do by the
rules of the society,) without the greatest
curiosity existing to ascertain the parti-
culars. It was therefore pretended that
3b2

372

TALFS OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

lie died, aUliougli lie lived in the society
for above two hundred years after that
feigned event."

"Two hundred years !" said Lubeck,
in astonishment.

" i'he way of prolonging life is, as I
told you, one of our great secrets, which
can onI\ be communicated to the initiated;
but thus far I may tell you — its duration
depends on the influence of the stars."

" J^o all men's lives depend on them ?"
asked Lubeck. " I have often heard that
the j)lanets have influenced the actions of
men — which to nie seemed strange ; but
how can they atlect the existence of you,
and you only ?"

*' i wonder not at your question ; but
I may tell no more, for an attempt to di-
vu'ge certain secrets would cost my life."
The stranger continued : "The renowned
Paracelsus was also one of our fraternity,
and it was to him that we are indebted
for the elixir of life. He was reported to
have died, also, in the year 1541, but he
survived above a century. The members
of our society or fraternity bind themselves
by a solemn oath to keep our secrets
inviolable ; the nature of this oath is so
extraordinary, that even a mere attempt
to violate it, is prevented by death. Sup-
pose this fraternity to consist of a stated
number of persons, one of whom occasion-
ally retired — if you had an offer to become
one of them, would you accede to it ?"

*' But do I not recollect," said Lubeck,
" you said sometiiing extraordinary would
be required ?"

"We have conditions,"said the stranger,
"but by you they are easily to be fulfilled.
You must be free from crime — you must
separate yourself from t!)e world, and all
that is in it — parents, relations, friends —
and take a vow of celibacy I"

The look of eager hope and delight with
which Lubeck had, till now, listened to
the latter words of the stranger, changed
at once to disappointment and sorrow.
His expectations, which had been raised
to the highest pitch of excitement, were
now dashed to the ground at once.

** Jt cannot be ! it cannotbe !" he hastily
exclaimed ; " never, never, can I consent
to abandon Hela ! I am engaged to be
married — nay, the day is fixed."

" Can you be so infatuated as to reject
my offer ?"

The lover, in his imagination, has no
compuri&ou to her he loves; her form

exists — perfect, supreme, and all absorb-
ing— in his mind. No tasteful imagerv,
no descriptive words, could give the
feelings as they there exist ; to him the
plainest language speaks the best, for iiis
own mind then adds the most to that which
gives the least. Lubeck briefly replied,
" You never saw her !"

** Consider, 1 pray you," resumed the
stranger, "that, in fifty or sixty years, your
earthly career will be run — and in how
much less time will beauty have passed
away ! that beauty, at whose altar you are
now about to sacrifice continued youth,
health, and a surpassing knowledge."

" But," added Lubeck, " even when
her beauty shall have faded, her mind will
still remain."

" Still l" said the stranger — " still !
what mean you ? — some fifty or sixty
years ! And can you balance these few
years with centuries of that enjoyment
which you so late desired > Believe nie,
if your marriage be happy, joy will make
yon grieve for the brevity of life ; but if,
as it too often happens, you find the temple
of Hymen borders too closely upon the
burying-place of love, then sorrow will
cause you to be weary of its length."

The stranger here paused a few mo-
ments, and then continued : — " It is said,
mankind petitioned Jupiter, that Hymen
and Love should be worshipped together
in the same temple ; for, in consequence
of their dwelling apart, many an offering
had been given to Love which should
have been dedicated to Hymen ; and that
Hymen had many a vow which ought first
to have been offered to Love. 'J'o this
reasonable request the god promised com-
pliance, and Hymen and Love descended
to earth to erect a temple for that purpose.
For some time, the two gods were unde-
cided as to where the structure should be
placed, till at length they fixed upon a
spot in the don^ains of youth, and there
they began erecting it. But, alas ! it was
not yet completed, when age came and
usurped the place, turned their temple to
a ruin, and used them so harshly, that they
fled. From thence they roamed about.
Hymen disliking one place, and Love
another ; here, parents consented, and
children refused ; there, children solicited,
and parents forbade ; and the world was
continually throwing obstacles in their
way. Poor Love, who was a wavering
and tender child, felt the effects of this.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

373

and was already thinking of returning,
when they fortunately hit upon a spot
which they thought would suit them. It
was situated about midway up a hill ; the
prospect was neither extensive nor con-
fined ; one half was in the domain of
wealtii, while the other stood on the
precincts of poverty ; before them was
content; pleasure resided in a splendid
palace on one side, and industry in a cot
on the other ; ambition was above them,
and vice below. Here, then, they erected
their temple. But Love, who had been
wearied with the length of the road, and
fatigued with the hardships of the journey,
in less than a month afterwards, fell sick
and died. He was buried within the
temple; and Hymen, who has ever since
lamented him, dug with his own hands
his grave, and on the monument erected
to the memory of the little god, whose
effigy was carved in marble, he laid his
own torch. And there, before the torch of
Hymen, and on the tomb of * lost Love,'
many a vow was offered up, and many
plighted hearts have wept to find tlie
temple of Hymen the burying place of
Love. Alas ! your happiness is like po-
lished steel, rusted by a breath ; nor can
you hope to quaff the full cup of pleasure,
and find no dregs."

'* Life may be like an ocean of troubled
water," said Lubeck ; *' but there is a
pearl for which we venture on its bosom.
In vain, in vain, you endeavour to change
my determination. No — love is all of life
worth living for. If I were to enter your
fraternity, shall I quaffthe waters of Lethe ?
No ! Remember, then, our memory is
like a picture-gallery of past days; and
would there not be one picture which
would haunt me for ever ? and should I
not curse the hour in which I bartered
happiness for knowledge ? Do you not
think — '•

" It is vain," said the stranger, inter-
rupting him, " it is vain to argue with you
now; a heart boiling, as your's does, with
violent emotions, must send intoxicating
fumes to the head. I give you a month
to consider — 1 will then see you again ;
time may change your present resolutions.
I should regret that an unstable, evanes-
cent passion, like love, should part us ;
however, should your mind change in the
meantime, remember where I was first
heard. Till then, adieu!"

" Till then," said Lubeck, "■ will never

be; but, before we part, pardon an inju.s.
tice which I did you in my own thoughts.
The extraordinary nature of your conver-
sation led me at first to conceive that I
was listening to the reveries of a madman.
Farewell ! you cannot give me happiness
like that you would deprive me of."

The stranger smiled, and, bowing, left
the apartment.

The time was rapidly approaching which
had been fixed for Lubeck Schieffel's mar-
riage with Hela, when, on the morning
following his conversation with the
stranger, he received the Intelligence that
she was attacked by a violent illness. The
most celebrated physicians of the place were
summoned to attend her ; but the symp-
toms, which from the first had been serious,
resisted their utmost efforts, and now be-
came alarming. Day after day passed
on, and the ilisorder still increased, and it
appeared that a few days, at farthest, and
she would no longer exist, for whom
Lubeck had so lately given up length of
life and surpassing knowledge.

The crisis arrived, and the dictum of the
physicians destroyed that hope to which
the lover till then had clung.

Lubeck, nearly distracted, was gazing
intently on that fair and faded form which
lay before him, and marked the hectic red
slowly give place to that pale wan hue,
the sure foreteller of the approach of death.
On one side the bed of his dying child,
sat the aged father of Hela ; he was
silent — for he was hopeless : on the other
side stood the physician, who, to the fre-
quently uplifted and enquiring eye of the
old man, shook his head expressive of no
hope.

" Will nothing save her ?" whispered
Lubeck, his tremulous voice broken by
sobs.

" Nothing, save a miracle !" was the
reply.

*' Nay, then it must be," said Lubeck,
and rushed out of the room.

A week only had elapsed, and we find
Hela restored in a most unaccountable
manner, to health and beauty, by an un-
known medicine, procured by Lubeck
from an unknown source, which no in-
quiry could induce him to divulge. Week
passed after week, and nothing had been
said by Lubeck relating to the approach-
ing marriage ; he was oppressed by a
deep melancholy, which every attention
of Hela seemed but to increase.

374

TALES OF CIirVALRY; OR,

They were (nking one of their accus-
tomed rambles; it, was one of those beau-
tiful evenings, which are frequent towards
the latter end of autumn; the sun was
just sinking beliind the dark blue moun-
tafns, and the ^ky seemed one continued
sheet of burnished gold. The bright
leaves of the trees, the surrounding rocks,
and the dis!ant hills, were gilded by the
same heavenly alchymy. This gradually
changed to a deep red, glowing like the
rul)y, mingling beautifully with ihe brown
and yellow lints which autumn had spread
over the scene. Not a sound was heard,
save, at measured intervals, the long
drawn melancholy note of some distant
unseen bird, and, but for this, they two
might have seemed the sole inhabitants of
a silent world ; 'midst nature's beauties
the most beautiful, the blight setting sun
seemed to have lent its lustre to their eye,
its colour to their cheeks, and to delay his
setting, as if unwilling to quit a scene so
lovely. Slowly he set, and as slowly,
and almost imperceptibly, the glowing red
changed to the soft pale twilight, and the
moon, then in her full, gradually ascended,
mistress of the scene ; and then the stars
peeped forward, one by one, as if fearful
of the light ; at length another, and ano-
ther came, till the whole face of heaven
was filled with brightness.

It was Hela's voice, that, almost in a
whisper, broke on the silence around.
*' It will be fine to-morrow — it always is
after such a sun -set as this."

** I think it will — and I hope it may,"
said Lubeck, " if you would have it so !
but why to-morrow ?"

** Oh, to-morrow was to have been our
— wedding-day."

There are remembrances we would fain
suppress; thoughts, which, recalled, weigh
heavy on the heart ; ideas, which we have
struggled to keep down, on which to
dwell were far too great a pain, and these
the mind, when wearied, liad forgotten.
And yet — one word, one little word, shall
recall every thought, bring in an instant
eacji remembrance forth, and waken
meiuory though it slept for years.

I'Hela !" exclaimed Lubeck, dreadfully
agitated, — " that day can never be !"

"What! Lubeck'?" she replied, doubt-
ing that she heard correctly.

" Hela," continued he, "when you lay
upon your bed of sickness ; when mortal
aid seemed unavailing— your life des-

paired of — remember it was then I
brought the medicine which so unaccount-
ably restored you ; — driven to desperation
by your impending fate, — I sought relief
from beings who had the power to give it
— even then, — from them obtained that
medicine, but it was purchased by my
happiness, — I took a vow which parted us
for ever !"

♦' Dreadful," said Hela, ** What—" ?

" I cannot tell you more," he hur-
riedly exclaimedo " In your absence, I
have often resolved to tell you this, but
never before could I mention it when we
were together. I feared it would break
your heart — I felt it was breaking mine.
I could not bear to think of it — I would
have forgotten all — but that I saved you.
Alas ! I could not hide it from myself, and
it was cruel to have hidden it longer from
you. Hela, I could not bear to hear that
day nam.ed, and not to tell you that day
can never be !"

" What mystery ! Lubeck speak

plainly — let me know all 1"

"Listen," he continued, "since I must
tell you. You have heard of the Rosi-
crucians, and believed, perhaps, that they
existed only in the imagination of the
superstitious and foolish ; too truly I can
prove the truth of what you have heard.
Vast, indeed, their knowledge ; vast, in-
deed, their power; to them maybe given
to penetrate the secrets of nature — to them
a being co-existent with a world ; but to
me they possessed that, which was more
valued than their power, than knowledge,
or than life itself — it was that medicine
that saved you ! To obtain it, I was
compelled to take that fearful oath which
separated us for ever — an oath of celibacy.
— /am a Rosicruciari .'"

Ijong — long was Hela silent ; the dread
with which this avowal had at first filled
her mind, was slowly giving way to what
was to her more terrible, a doubt of its
truth ; her tearful eye marked the long
painful hesitation between rooted affection,
and disdain of his supposed perfidy.

" Farewell ;" she at length exclaimed.
" Had you loved me with half the devoted
fervour that I loved, you sooner would
have died than have given me up ; but,
let it be. Farewell ! Time will soon take
my remembrance from your heart — if
ever love existed there for me ; go, seek
some other favourite — and in your levgfh
of years, quit her as easily as you part

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

375

from me ; boast to her of the foolisli fond-
ness of an innocent lieart, and tell the
simple tale of 07ie who could not live to
prove your story false I"

*■* False! VLeX-d— false !'' exclaimed
Lubeck, driven to desperation by her
reproach, " you never more shall doubt
n)e ! I had thought that when I gave up
all my happiness, dooming myself to a
long life of misery (for life without you is
misery,) — I had thought, that she, for
whom this sacrifice was made, would, at
least, have been grateful, and have praised
my motives: this was my only hope ; but
now, when I have told the oath that gave
her to life, and me to misery, she thinks
me false. Tlie only consolation I expected
was her thanks, and these I have not —
No, Hela, no, you nevermore shall doubt
me ! 1 cannot spare you this, my last re-
source, to prove how true is the heart you
have doubted

" Hela, look on the beautiful heavens;
liow often have I gazed with deepest re-
verence on its varied liglits, but never
with that intensity of feeling that I do
now ; for I feel that I partake a being
with them. There is a star this night
sheds its last ray — a world shall cease to
exist — a life must perish with it. See yon
small cloud, that comes slowly over the
face of heaven ; and mark, — it wings its
light way to that pale star ! Now, Hela,
now, you never more shall doubt me 1 —
on that star depends my "

She turned — and lifeless at her feet
lies what was once her lover: silent
awhile she stood, as if she doubted what
she saw was real ; then her clasped hands
convulsive pressed her head ; and in her
heart she felt ages of anguish in one mo-
ment's woe.

Hark ! what is it that troubled echo so
repeats ; that wakes the fox, and startles
all around ? — the wolf bays fearfully ; the
startled owl screams harshly as she takes
her iiurried flight.

It was a shriek, a long and fearful
shriek — and oh ! the tale it tells is of
despair — that every joy is fled, that hope
is vanished, and a heart is broken !

Silent is echo now ; the angry wolf is
heard no more ; the startled owl has rested
from her flight and terror, and stillness
once again commands the scene.

'I'he moon has climbed her highest, and
sinking, follows darkness to the west ; a
little while, and then — full in the east

appears the pale small arch of light, that
darkens, and then brigiiter comes again ;
and then the long faint rays of the ap-
proaching sun, and last himself, in all his
brightness comes, like a conqueror, and
deposes night.

The birds are chirping gladly on the
trees ; and gently on the ear comes, by
degrees, the distant hum of an awaking
world. But there is a silence man can
never break, there is a darkness suns can
never light — there is a sleep that morn
shall never awaken — and such is deallis
and Mela's.

THE WOODEN SWORD.

There were two brothers in one regi-
ment— the one a serjeant, the other a
private — and both given very much to
liquor. The serjeant happened in his
cups, one night, to fall over his sword, by
its getting between his legs, and h^id
snapped the blade in half j to remedy
which, and until he could conveniently
get another put into the hilt, he had sub-
stituted a wooden one, which, when
placed in the scabbard, could not be dis-
covered ; but, on his punishing a private
for some offence, who w as one of the very
few that knew of the circumstance, he, in
revenge, told his commanding officer of it,
who strictly enjoined tiie soldier to se-
cresy, thinking to have a laugh at the
Serjeant's expense : he, therefore, told all
the officers at the mess-house of the joke,
and promised them a treat. At the
evening parade, he called the serjeant.

" Where's your brother, sir ?" " In the
black hole, your honour," answered the
serjeant. " Take a tile of men, and fetch
him here." He brings him forward.
The commander proceeds. "You are
such an infamous drunken scoundrel, and
you have degraded the regiment for so
many years, that I am determined, as no
other punishment will reform you, to
make you an example, by having your
head taken off in front of the battalion ;
therefore, kneel : and do you, serjeant,
draw your sword, and cut it ofl^." The
criminal pleaded, but in vain. The ser-
jeant then begged of his honour, that if
his brother must die, not to let him be
the executioner. " If you do not in-
stantly obey, I'll strike off your head,"
rejoins the officer. The serjeant fell on
his knees, and exclaimed, " Pray, hea-
ven, hear my prayers 1 and before I

376

TALKS OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

should be the slaughterer of my brother,
may the blade ot my sword inrn into
wood. My prayers are heard," cried he,
and drew it out, and turned the laugh
against tho.se who came to hmgh at him.
The brothers were both pardoned.

PERSIAN HEROISM.

Twelve men had been robbed and mur-
dered under the walls of Shiraz. The
perpetrators of this atrocious act could not
for a long period be discovered ; but Ker-
reemKhan Kend, d<-eniing this occurrence
so deeply injurious to that impression of
security and justice which it was the labour
of his life to establish, commanded the
officers of justice to persevere in their
search till the offfnclers were detected —
threatening them and others, who had
heard the cries of the murdered men, with
vengeance, unless they effected a disco-
very, which he considered essential to his
own reputation. After some months had
elapsed, it was discovered by accident that
a small branch of Kerreem Khan's own
tribe of Zend, at that time encamped near
Shiraz, were the murderers. Their guilt
was clearly proved, and all who had been
actually engaged in the murder were
sentenced to death. Powerful interces-
sion was made that some at least should
be pardoned ; but Kerreem Khan, the
prince, had vowed that every man should
suffer, and tliey being of his own favoured
tribe made him more inexorable. They
bad, he said, brought disgrace upon him
as their sovereign and as their chief, and
could not be forgiven. When the pri-
soners were brought before him to receive
sentence, there was amongst them a youtli
of twenty years of age, whose appearance
interested every spectator ; but their
anxiety was increased to pain when they
saw the father of this young man rush
frirward and demand, before they pro-
ceeded to the execution, to speak to the
prince. Permission was granted, and he
addressed him as follows: — "Kerreem
Khan, you have sworn that these guilty
men shall die, and it is just; but I, who
am not guilty, come here to demand a
boon of my chief. My son is young — he
has been deluded into crime : his life is
forfeited, but he has hardly tasted the
sweets of life: he is just betrothed in
marriage : I come to die in his stead : be
merciful ! let an old worn out man perish,
and spare a youth, wiio may long be

useful to his tribe ; let him live to drink
of the waters and till the grt)und of his
ancestors." Kerreem Khan is stated to
have been greatly moved by the old man's
appeal : he could not pardon the offence,
having sworn on the Koran that all con-
cerned should be put to death ; and, with
feelings very different from our ideas of
justice, but congenial to those of the chief
of his tribe, he granted the father's prayer,
and the old man went accordingly to meet
his fate. While all around were filled
with pity, his son, wild and distracted with
grief, was loud in imploring the prince to
reverse his decree — to inflict on him that
death which he merited, and to save the
more valuable life of his aged, devoted,
and innocent parent.

DISTRIBUTIVE JUSTICE.

When the English fleet was bearing
down to attack the enemy, off Trafalg.n-,
the first lieutenant of the Revenge, on
going round to see that all the crew were
at their quarters, observed one of the men
devoutly kneeling beside his gun ; so \ ery
unusual an attitude in an English sailor,
exciting his surprise and curiosity, he
asked the man if he w as afraid ? " Afraid !"
answered the tar, with a look of disdain ;
" no ! I was only praying that the enemy's
shot might be shared like the prize-
money — the greatest part among the
officers."

GENEROSITY.

At the taking of the town of Oia, by
the Portuguese, in 1508, an officer named
Sylveiro, perceiving a good - looking
negro, who stole away by a path with a
young woman of uncommon beauty, ran
towards them, in order to stop them.
The negro seemed little concerned for
himself; but, after having faced about in
his own defence, he made a sign to his
mate to betake herself to flight, whilst he
was going to fight. She, on the contrary,
obstinately insisted on remaining near
him, assuring him that she preferred rather
to die, or be taken prisoner, than to fly by
herself. Sylveiro, moved at this sight,
gave them liberty to retire, saying to those
he was followed by — *' God forbid my
sword should cut off such tender ties."

Honour, like the shadow, follows those
that flee from it, but flees from those that
pursue it.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FILLD.

377

BASILTA:

A TALE OF MODERN ATHENS.

On the decease of Mahomet III. in the
year 1604, the sceptre of the east de-
scended to his son and successor, Achmet
in., surnamed " the Vohiptiiuus," the
fourteenth sultan from Othman, the
founder of tlie Turkish dynasty, and the
seventh who had ascended the throne
from the conqueror of Constantinople.
Unlike the representative of that warlike
race who had led the tribe of Seljuk from
the wilds of Asia Minor to the fairest
garden of Europe, this prince sought
rather to enjoy, in inglorious ease, the
dominions won by the valour of his an-
cestors, than to add fresh conquests to the
inheritance of his successor. On his in-
vestiture with the imperial sword, his
first negotiation was a truce of twenty
years' contuiuance with the monarchs
of Christendom, which was followed with
a rapid suppression of hostilities on his
Asiatic frontier. During his long and
peaceful reign, the camp and the field
were deserted for the harem and the
serai, and the liours ^et apart by his

VOL. II. — 48.

Page 383.

fathers to war, and to empire, were
consumed by him in luxury and retire,
ment.

Throughout his domains, the manly
pursuits of the Ottomans were exchanged
for the soft delights of peace ; the hardy
spear was replaced by the light djereed ;
the flashing scimitar was abandoned for
the amber chibouque, and those energies
once devoted to conquest in "an empire's
strife," were now solely bent on supe-
riority in the games of the Atmeidan.
The halls of the seraglio resounded no
longer with the clank of the warrior's
mail, but gently echoed back the dulcet
notes of the voluptuous lute j the arsenals
and magazines of Stambuul stood idle
and unimproved, whilst the countless
hoards of former sultans were lavished
upon gay pavilions and glittering kiosks,
in the gardens of Achmet on the banks of
the Bosphorus. His harem was crowded
with the fairest daughters of the east, and
each revolving month saw a fresh suc-
cession of beauties arrive at the palace of
the luxurious monarch. Throughout the
divisions of his empire, power was no
longer to be purchased v\iih money, nor

o C

378

TALES OF CHIVALRY: OR,

place to be maintained, unless its possessor
would furnish to the seraglio the loveliest
females that the respective provinces could
produce. The aim of every Sangiac,
therefore, and of every Bey, ^vas bent on
the discovery of the brightest charms in
his dominions ; and these were in turn
secured and seized on, to be transported
to the harem of the abandoned prince.
The privacy of domestic life was on all
occasions outraged by the minions of pro-
vincial despots ; the rights and properties
of individuals were no longer held sacred
throughout the empire; and from the
throne to the cottage all was abandon-
ment and exaction, oppression and misery.

During the epoch of debasement, one
of the most distinguished citizens of Athens
was Theodore Pa'aeologus, a descendant
of Thomas, the brother of the " last Con-
stantine," who, on the conquest of the
Morea by Mahomet 11. had fled from
thence to 'Corfu, and finally settled in one
of the states of Italy. It was upwards of
a century afterwards that Theodore had
fixed his residence in Greece, and pre-
ferred a dwelling in the land of his fathers,
degraded as it was, to an inheritance,
however splendid, amidst strangers. Here,
by sedulous industry in the cultivation of
his olive groves and vineyards, he had
succeeded in accumulating considerable
wealth, and by the upright dignity of his
demeanour had raised himself to distinc-
tion among his fellow-citizens. He had
been appointed one of the " Vecchiados,"
or council of the people, and his person
and authority were ahke revered by the
Athenians.

His growing influence, however, soon
raised against liim the suspicious jealousy
of the Turkish authorities, whilst his
wealth was of itself a sufficient bait to
induce them to attempt his overthrow.
Already in the reign of Mahomet III.
he had been stripped of his landed pos-
sessions by the local government, and
was forced to pay to his oppressors an
annual sum for permission to till the very
vineyard, which years before he had pur-
chased from their predecessors. His
house, too, near the base of the Acropolis,
liad lately been seized by the officers of
the Waywode ; and Theodore, aware of
the inefficacy of remonstrance, was ob-
liged to retire with his wife and daughter
to a wretched cottage beyond the walls,
on the banks of the Ilyssus. Basilia, his

only child, was now entering on her six-
teenth year, and possessed in an eminent
degree all those charms for which her
countrywomen have been, in all ages, so
celebrated. Her figure was slight, but
cast in the purest mould of elegance : her
glossy raven hair would almost sweep the
ground, when it hung in unbraided clusters
around her; and her dark luxuriant eye
combined at once the sparkle of the lynx
and the languishing gentlenessof the fawn.
If her figure possessed one fault, it was
that of too much delicacy, and an air of
weakness and relaxation, arising from her
close confinement to her own apartments,
in order to secure her from the prying
eyes and ceaseless insults of the Turkish
tyrants around her. Her mind, too, was
of no ordinary cast, and in the downfall of
his fortunes, its cultivation had been the
almost exclusive occupation of her father.
From him she inherited an unmeasured
detestation of her Ottoman lords, and from
hour to hour her resentment was kept alive
by tales of new acts of cruelty, and fresh
indignities, heaped upon her unoflfending
countrymen. From the endurance of
these, Theodore flattered himself that he
had escaped for ever — it only remained
for him to behold and to deplore them :
the last visitation of tyranny had torn from
him the remnant of his wealth ; avarice
had nothing more to grasp at, and the
decaying energies of a poor old man were,
he thought, too powerless to attract the
attention or draw down the vengeance of
despotism. It was now but seldom that
he entered the gates of Athens ; his time
was solely spent in the seclusion of his
comfortless dwelling, and his attention de-
voted to his wife and his beloved daughter.
With them, it was his determination, in a
short time, to bid farewell for ever to the
devoted city. He had still living one
brother, who was resident at Rome, and
supported by the mimificence of the Vati-
can, to whom he w as resolved on returning,
as soon as his afl^airs in Attica could be so
arranged as to admit of his departing for
Italy ; and in the meantime he was sedu-
lously employed in the disposal of his re-
maining interests at Athens. It was now
spring, and he hoped by the end of autumn
to have succeeded in completing his pre-
parations, and, before the close of w inter,
to be settled for life in the vicinity of
Rome.

Month after month rolled rapidly away.

PEniLS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

379

Summer, with its flowers, had fade(i into
the sere and yellow leaf; and at length,
towards the opening of September, the
desolate household began to make ready
for their departure. Ere he bade adieu for
ever to the haunts and home of his youth,
Tiieodore prepared to pay a final visit to
those scenes w Inch had been so long fami-
liar to his eye, and take a last farewell of
the fields and the ruins of Athens. The
Turkish festival of the Ramadan had just
commenced, and all the Ottoman inhabi-
tants of the fallen city were occupied with
their devotions, or confined to their own
homes, awaiting wiih prayer and fasting
tiie arrival of sunset, ere which the injunc-
tion of the prophet forbids them to taste
of meat. The streets were all silent and
untrodden, when Theodore, accompanied
by his wife and daughter, closely veiled,
took their last walk tlnough the melan-
choly passages of the mouldering city.
They had strayed round the foot of the
Acropolis to the columns of Jupiter Olym-
pius; and thence, returning by the Arch
of Adrian, had visited the monument of
Lysicrates and the Temple of the Winds.
They passed out at the Piraean gate, and
turning up the hill towards theTheseium,
seated themselves on the steps of the temple
to contemplate in mournful silence the
frowning cliff of the Acropolis, and the
gigantic Parthenon on its summit. Even-
ing at length closed in around them, and
the sun was fast declining towards the hills
of Argolis, when Theodore, awaking from
his reverie, warned them to return ere the
Turks should be hurrying out to the plains
to enjoy the cool sports of the evening, in
compensation for the morning's privations.
They were descending the path, and taking
the direction of the Ilyssus, whenan ofl^cer
of the Waywode, mounted on his prancing
Arab, and followed by a crowd of attend-
ants, rode furiously towards them. Basilia
drew hastily her veil across her features,
but not before the Disdar had obtained a
full view of her beauty, and reined up his
impatient steed to admire her. Theodore
hurried past after a slight sahitafion, and
the Disdar, again touching his steed with
his pointed stirrup, dashed on impetuously
towards the gates of the city. In a few
minutes more, Pa!aeolo2:us was seated on
his own divan ; his coffee was presented
by the hands of his daughter, and long ere
they retired to rest, the incident of the
Disdar and his attendants was forgotten.

It was nearly a month afterwards, when
the fast of the Ramadan v\as concluded,
and the Beiram feast began, that one
morning, before Theodore had left his
house to pay his accustomed visit to his
olive-grove on the road to the Piraeus, he
was surprised to see the \Va\ wode and his
suite approaching his cottage, at a quick
pace, by the bridge across the Ilyssus.
Basilia and her mother immediately retired
to their own chambers, and Theodore
himself advanced to meet them. Sulei-
man approached him haughtily, and with-
out farther preface informed him that he
was come to demand the surrender of his
daughter, in order that she should be forth-
wiih transmitted to Constantinople. The
insulted father asked indignantly on what
pretence ; the Waywode answered with a
sneer, that he could not possibly pretend
ignorance of the tax which sets apart a
portion of tlie children of all the rayahs
throughout the empire to the service of the
seraglio. *'But you," replied Theodore,
" must be well aware of the provision
made by the charter of Mahomet, which
exonerates the inhabitants of Athens from
the devissirme, and prohibits any claim
from being advanced against the child of
a citizen." " The inhabitants of Athens,
I grant you," rejoined Suleiman, "are
free j but do you, who dwell w ithout the
walls, presume to call yourself a citizen ?
or do you not observe that all the giaours
who till the fields around you, pay from
year to year the forfeiture we now demand
of you ?"

Theodore was but too well aware of the
inefficiency of argument or remonstrance j
he perceived in an instant the advantage
which the Waywode had taken of his
change of dwelling, occasioned by the po-
verty he himself had created. He offered
no reply ; and Suleiman, having coolly
repeated his demand, rode off towards the
city gate, after directing that Basilia should
be sent in the morning to the citadel, else
his janissaries should be despatched to
bring her by force, and her parents should
pay the penalty of resistance to the firh-
maun of the Porte.

The wretclied father returned to his
miserable household, and c/^mmunicated
the substance of the Way wode's commands.
Tears and terror were their only answer,
and all were but too conscious of their
melancholy lot to attempt consolation or
suggest relief. Esc;tpe was impossible;
3c2

380

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

l])c port of tlie Piryeus was too closely
guarded to admit the possibility of con-
cealed flight ; and, without a passport from
the cadi, no subject was permitled to leave
the empire, or even to pass from port to
port. The remainder of the day wa> spent
in sadness and despair ; night brought no
solace to their suffering; and with the
dawn of the following day, the family pre-
pared to set out on the melancholy errand
of bidding a last farewell to a beloved child,
and delivering over an only daughter to
dishonour.

They entered the chamber of the go-
vernor, and Basilia, veiled as she was, was
committed into the hands of the ^^ ay-
wode's attendants. Theodore parted with
lier apparently without a struggle; but
when her mother advanced to claim a
parting kiss of affection, and press her for
the last time to her bosom, her emotions
were almost too powerful for endurance.
** Basilia," she at length addressed her,
*' for yourself, there now remains in this
world nothing more to hope for ; your
name and your happiness are blasted and
banned for ever, and no future honours or
exaltation can wipe away the fadeless stain
of your disgrace. For your family, they
will soon cease to live and to regret you ;
for them your grief is unavailing, and
your only consolation for their woes must
be forget fulness. But there remains one
object still worthy your ambition. You
are destined to be the companion of the
monarch of the east ; your youth, your
innocence, and your charms, may one day
win the way to his affections ; and should
the hour ever arrive in which your influ-
ence can be beneficial, my last and my
only injunction is, that you be ever mindful
of the religion of your fathers and the woes
of your country."

At the degraded court of Achmet, it is
natm-al to suppose that the influence of his
political advisers was powerless, when
compared with that of the ministers of his
pleasures. The goveiiirnent of the empire
was, in fact, transferred from the members
ofthe Divan to the guardians of the Harem;
and the swarthy Nubian, who watched over
the slaves of the seraglio, dispensed at the
same time the places and the honours of
the crown. Aware of this important fact,
the females transported to the palace of
the monarch were charged by their re-
spective patrons with gorgeous gifts, to be
presented to those who might have the

rea-liest means of advancing Iheirinteresfs
with the sultan ; and each, as she left her
home, assumed the double character of the
abandoned paramour and the political
intriguante. AmidNtthe crowd of attend-
ants, none possessed so easy an access to
his private ear as the Kislar Aga, the chief
of the Ethiopian Odalics: under his im-
mediate inspection were all the affairs of
the harem and its inmates; and it was he
who, on each fickle change in the affections
of the inconstant prince, recommended to
his notice the newest charnis and the
freshest beauties of the seraglio. He was,
in fact, the Grand Vizier of the Ottoman
court, and to his all-powerful influence the
officers of the empire, from the Mufti to
the meanest Sangiac, owed their elevation
and their honours.

On the departure of Basilia from Athens,
Suleiman seemed to form a true presenti-
ment of the future eminence to which fate
had destined her. Ere she bade adieu for
ever to the land of her birth, he visited
her on board the Kirlangitsch, in which
she was embarked for Stamboul, and dis-
played before her a mass of wealth, which
seemed the vast accumulation of long years
of prosperous extortion. He told her that
all she saw was hers, and that on her judi-
cious disposal of the treasures she beheld,
amongst the officers of the palace, must
depend her future advancement, and the
acquisition of those honours for which
nature had destined her, and which fortune
now placed within her reach. Basilia
spurned the dazzling heap with a glance
of proud disdain. *' She owned," she
said, *' no treasures but her name and her
parents ; he had already despoiled her of
the one, and the other was too soon to
become a disgrace and a by- word. Tiie
honours which he spoke of were founded
upon guilt — the path which led to them
was only to be won by vicious servility ;
and far be it," she exclaimed, " from the
daughter of one in whose veins is still
flowing the blood of a long line of kings,
to purchase distinction by the borrowed
hoards of a tyrant, or deem that eminence
an honour which springs from debasement,
and is sustained by infamy." Threats and
persuasions were alike employed in vain
by Suleiman, to induce her to accept and
to make use of the glittering gifts ; her
only reply was reproaches, and her. only
emotions were scorn and abhorrence of
her oppressor.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

381

The vessel in which she sailed soon
reached its destination, and Basilia, as she
landed at Constantinople, was conducted
to the gardens of the seraglio. As she
passed beneath the gate of the harem, the
Jithiop who opened it to admit lier, whis-
pered in her ear a hope that she might be
more fortunate than her last predecessor,
who brought no gifts for the Odalics, and,
after pining in obscurity, had died unno-
ticed. Her heart was full of other thoughts,
and she cast on him a mingled smile of
pity and contempt. She passed along in
silence to the cachuc-oda, the chamber in
which the newly-arrived inmates of the
harem are first received. Here, as slie
unveiled lier charms before the Kadun
Kiaia, the chief female attendant of the
women, the aged beldame started with an
expression of admiration and surprise.
" What pacha," she exclaimed, ** or what
fortunate bey, lias sent such surprising
loveliness to glad the eyes of the monarch
of the east ? From thy auspicious arrival
may he date the seal of his fortunes ; thy
charms, my daughter, will procure his
pardon for a long life of crimes, and thine
eyes alone are sufficient to expiate a thou-
sand avaniahs !" Basilia made no reply,
save her blushes and her tears. She was
ushered into the apartment of her fellow-
slaves, w^ho each saluted her, and gazed
in admiration on the lonely and mourning
Athenian. Her innocence, and the me-
lancholy gentleness of her air, soon won
the way to every heart, and each in turn
caressed and soothed her sorrows by assur-
ances of coming triumphs and future years
of happiness. " Oh, never !" replied the
weeping girl ; " never shall my bosom
know the voice of happiness again ; it is
a stranger in the palaces of princes ; I
have abandoned it, alas ! for ever. A
court, with all its pageantry, bears no
charms for me, when compared with my
home and the love of my parents ; and
our cottage by the stream of the Illyssus
is fairer a thousand-fold than all the domes
and minarets of Stamboul."

Day after day rolled past, and still she
remained the beloved but unnoticed in-
mate of the harem. Often when her com-
panions, unable to understand her sadness,
would ask of her, had she no patron in the
palace, no influence with the chief of the
slaves, or no friend to introduce her to the
notice of Achmet, she would sigh and
answer them, that "she longed not for

admiration or for eminence ; and even if,
by chance, her heart had harboured one
thought devoted to ambition, she had no
golden flowers with which to strew the
path that led to it — she hail no wealth but
her contentment and her family, and no
friend but her parents. How, alas, could
she confer gifts on her guards, since she
came from a land of slaves ! Her home
was the dwelling of penury ; and even
could she assign to them the ruined city
of her birth, the worthless gift would be
too poor for their acceptance." Under the
endurance of such protracted and hopeless
melancholy, the charms of Basilia began
to fade with the lightness and buoyancy
of her spirits ; her eye lost in a great
degree its fire and brilliancy, but its gen-
tleness was heightened a hundred-fold ;
her cheek was no longer tinted with its
pure Vermillion hue, but its softened tinge
was now more pleasing and attractive ;
her voice was less loud and joyous than
in her day of happiness and retirement;
but, oh ! it was far more melting and
melodious than before.

She was one evening straying beneath
the orange groves in the gardens of the
harem, whilst her thoughts were bent upon
her parents and her home ; she ascended
a gt^ntle acclivity which commanded a view
of the rolling Bosphorus, and seated her-
self in a rich pavilion on its summit. She
gazed upon the bright-glad waters beneath
her, which were rippling and shining, and
flashing back in a thousand tints the golden
dies of sunset; her eyps were bent upon
the sea, but her soul was wandering

" In far abstractedness, away, away."

She was unaware of the approach of any
one, till, all at once, the favourite sultana
appeared before her, leaning upon the arm
of Achmet. She started instantly from
her seat. It was the first glance she had
gained of the sultan ; but, conjecturing
from the splendour of his dress that it could
be no other than the prince, she bowed
herself to the earth whilst he should pass,
and prepared to retire from the pavilion.
Achmet surveyed her with astonishment.
A vision so lovely had never before shone
within the walls of Stamboul ; and as
Basilia withdrew in confusion, he halted
on his step, and followed her retreating
figure with a gaze of intense admiration.
She disappeared in one of the winding
passages of the garden, and the sultan
turned in breathless surprise to ask of the

382

TALES OF CHIVALRY: OR,

lady who rested on his arm the name of
the beautiful strang^er.

The sultana had marked with alarm the
emotion of the prince ; she replied hur-
riedly, that slie had never before beheld
her; but a single glance at the features of
Achmet sufficed to convince her that, since
the appearance of Basilia, her reign of
beauty was closed for ever. Achmet re-
turned to the serai, with his thoughts still
bent upon the enchanting Greek, and
Mustafa, the Kislar Aga, was summoned
to attend him. Of him, he eagerly in-
quired the name and history of Basilia,
but the chief of the slaves could only inform
him that she had arrived at the harem
some montiis before, from Suleiman, the
Waywode of Athens. He directed that
she should, without farther delay, be
introduced to his presence, and Mustafa,
bending himself to the ground, retired to
prepare her for the interview.

The following morning she was intro-
duced, decked in all the dazzling apparel
of an eastern queen, to the presence of the
delighted prince. He was sitting at the
moment in one of the gorgeous chambers
which overlook the Sea of Marmora, sur-
rounded by a crowd of his favourites, who
were amusing themselves with the motions
of a piece of splendid mechanism, which
had just been purchased by the sultan of a
Christian merchant who had lately arrived
at Stamboul. On the entrance of Basilia,
the attention of all was directed towards
her, as she stood with her arms folded
gracefully across her breast, and eyes bent
calmly on the ground. Achmet addressed
her widi an expression of tenderness, and
she raised her head with a mournful smile,
which shone for an instant above the fixed
expression of her saddened features. At
his request she approached the seat where
he reclined, and the sultan questioned her
concerning her birth, her parents, and her
home, whilst every look bespoke the emo-
tions of her heart, and every glance of his
dark flashing eye was attempered by love
and admiration. The ladies of the harem
retired to the latticed windows to criticise
her charms, and finally withdrew in envy
and disappointment to their own apart-
ments, whilst Basilia remained alone with
the monarch. He inquired how she came
to have been so long in the seraglio, and
yet had never once been presented to him.
She replied with a sigli, that she had
entertained no wish to court the advances

of preferment ; and that, even had she
been ambitious of such iionour, she was
too poor to bribe the officers who possessed
the means of furthering her advancement.
Achmet rais^ himself upon the divan,
and thrice clapping his hands above his
head, a slave entered the apartment, to
whom he gave a hasty message, and, mo-
tioning him to retire, again resumed his
discourse with his new favourite. She
told him of her parents, and her childhood,
of being torn from her home, and of her
arrival at Stamboul ; Achmet listened to
all with the eager attention of a lover, and
was about to reply, when he was inter-
rupted by the entrance of two mutes,
bearing the most costly sabres, jewelled
yataghans, embroidered vests, silken
shawls, and purses of gold, which they
deposited at the feet of the sultan, and re-
tired in silence as they came. " These,"
said the prince, in pointing to the invalu-
able heap, "are destined for you, Basilia ;
for it must not be said that the fairest trea-
sure of my harem has entered the palace
of Achmet less richly portioned than the
crowd of my ordinary attendants. With
these you may secure the favour of my
Odalics, and the guards of the serai ; but
their influence you can no longer want.
Take them, and let their distribution be
worthy of the sultana of the east."
"Never!" replied Basilia; no! never
shall it be said that a descendant of the
royal line of Constantine accepted gifts at
the hand of her enslavers, or purchased the
favour of menials by the wages of guilt.
Fate, it is true, has placed me in the power
of the sultan, but ill would it become the
daughter of an Athenian to gild instead
of rending her chains." The sultan was
struck with her magnanimity, and awed
by her demeanour ; her air convinced hira
at once that her resolution was taken, and
without farther entreaty he ordered the
rejected presents to be removed.

It was some days ere she was again
summoned to an interview ; as she passed
through the antichamber of his apart-
ments, each slave of tlie harem came clad
in the garments which had been offered
to her by the sultan, and arrayed in the
arms and jewels she had spurned, to cast
themselves at her feet, and pour out a Hood
of thanks for her princely munificence. It
was in vain that she declined these expres-
sions of gratitude, and assured them they
were mistaken in supposing her the giver,

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

383

since all assured her that the gifts they
VYore had been distributed to them by the
sultan in the name of the beautiful Greek.
Slie entered the saloon, and found Achmet
reclining on the divan, in anxious expec-
tation of her arrival. He rose to meet her,
and she received his impassioned saluta-
tion without emotion or excitement, whilst
the gentle coldness of her manner at once
charmed and embarrassed the voluptuous
monarch ; his expectant glances, too,
shewed that he awaited her acknowledg-
ments for his kindness to her attendants ;
but Basilia rewarded iiim neither with
thanks nor approval, and after the lapse
of an hour withdrew, in order to permit
the sultan to join the council of the divan.

Time gradually rolled along, but its
lapse produced no change in the feelings
or situation of Basilia. She was now the
chief favourite of the sultan, and to her
his every hour and every moment was
devoted, whilst the other beauties of his
seraglio were forgotten, and on none did
he cast an approving glance, save her,
alone, who valued not his favour. Her
charms, in the meantime, were fast fading
away, and the workings of her agonised
mind were making deadly ravages on the
graces of her form. Achmet beheld the
change with alarm and anxiety, but Ba-
silia contemplated its progress with delight
and exultation ; she would soon, she felt,
be freed from the stigma of dishonour,
and that name would shortly be forgotten,
which disgrace had rendered a burthen
to her who bore it. To the prince, her
demeanour never underwent any altera-
tion ; the consciousness that she was his
slave rendered her at all times respectful
and submissive, but her air, her melan-
choly, and her fading form, all declared
that she was disconsolate and unhappy.

For the sultan, habit at last began, in
some degree, to teach her a sort of attach-
ment, if not affection; bat it was rather
as an indulgent lord than a devoted lover.
She could not avoid seeing that he deeply
and sincerely loved her; in all his actions,
he was more than kind to her, and for this
she was forced to cherish a feeling of gra-
titude towards him ; his manner was always
impassioned and devoted, nor could she
recall one instance in which he had failed
to treat her with dignity and respect.

On the other hand, the bosom of Ach-
met was glowing with the fiercest flame
of adoring love. In her absence he had

no moment of happiness, and when by her
side, her coldness and her beauty kept his
mind in one continued fever of dissatis-
faction and excitement.

Frequent illness and increasing debility
began at last to preclude the possibility of
her leaving her own apartments, or re-
ceiving so often as formerly the visits of
the prince: confirmed sickness at length
confined her to her couch, and the physi-
cian of the seraglio, after many days of
anxious attention, was on the point of
announcing to Achmet the slight proba-
bility which remained of her recovery.
It was during this awful crisis that Basilia
sent to make her first request of the sultan :
it was a simple and unambitious one.
Achmet was delighted at the announce-
ment of an incident so new and unex-
pected ; but his chagrin was excessive,
when he learned that the only wish of the
dying girl was that a message should be
sent to Athens, to learn some particulars
of her family, and to bear to them her last
and aflTectionate farewell.

Her desire was readily complied with,
and in the course of a few weeks the Tar-
tar despatched on tiie errand was expected
to return with a reply from Suleiman.
Basilia awaited his arrival with the
mingled anxiety of hope and dread ; and
during that month of suspense, her colour
was more vivid and her eye more bright
than it was wont to be for a long series of
time before it. It was during one of those
rich and glorious evenings that are only
known in the clime of the east, that the
Tartar retiirned to Stamboul, Bdsilia
was seated with the sultan in the same
bright pavilion in which she had first met
him, when a slave approached bearing the
despatches of the Waywode. They con-
tained the melancholy intelligence of the
decease of her mother, and the departure
of Theodore for Rome, which had taken
place but a few months after her removal
from Athens. The facts were little other
than she expected, but still the dreaded
confirmationofher fears was overwhelming
in its effects. Aclmiet beheld her grief,
and felt at the same moment the cruel in-
efiicacy of any efforts of his to check it.
He rose, and placing in her hands a small
packet directed to herself, retired from the
pavilion, leavingBasilia drowned in tears,
and her face buried in one of the silken
cushions of the ivory sofa.

(To he continued.)

384

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

THE RUSSLAN AMBASSADOR AND
NAPOLEON.

Of the stern unbending character of the
Russians, we have a forcible example in
the behaviour of count Markow to Napo-
leon Buonaparte, at whose court he was
ambassador.

In the year 1803, the marquis d'En-
traigues, a French emigrant, but coun-
sellor of state in the Russian service, was
sent on a mission from St. I-*etersburgh to
Rome, where he was arrested and thrown
into prison by order of Napoleon. As
soon as the emperor Alexander was made
aware of this circumstance, he sent an
express to count Markow, to demand the
liberation of Entraigues. The count
made official representations accordingly ;
but these were wholly disregarded. One
Sunday, when there was public audience
given to the diplomatic body at the Tuil-
leries, the first consul, addressing himself
to the marquis de Lucchecini, ambassador
from Prussia : — ** What think you, mar-
quis ?" said he ; ** Russia is striving even
to protect the emigrants." Count Mar-
kow, immediately interposing, observed,
*• Sir, if his majesty the emperor of Russia,
my august master, wills to extend pro-
tection to any one, I am sure he has both
right and reason." Upon this, Buona-
parte, looking at Markow with a look of
extreme disdain, said, " It was not to you,
count, I spoke." " Sir," answered the
Russian, " if any one speaks in my pre-
sence of my sovereign, I always reply."
Having said this, he turned his back upon
the first consul, and left the audience.

Buonaparte, extremely irritated, gave
orders to his minister that count Markow
should be forthwith sent back to Russia :
but the latter, on this command being
signified to him, at once refused, saying
that he would not stir from Paris until his
master recalled him. Both he and the
first consul despatched respectively mes-
sengers to St Petersburg!! with details
of this affair — Buonaparte requiring the
recall of the ambassador : whereupon Alex-
ander sent M, Oubriel to replace him ;
but, as a mark of his majesty's satisfaction
at the spirited conduct of Markow, he
transmitted to the count, by the hands of
his successor, the insignia of a Russian
order, (enriched with diamonds,) and an
ukase, conferring on him a pension of fifty
thousand rubles. Oubriel was instructed
to demand anew the release of the mar-

quis d'Entraigues, which was ultimately
conceded by Buonaparte.

When, subsequently, count Markow
met the grand-duke Constantine at a
party at St. Petersburgh, that prince said
to him—" Upon my honour, count, you
must possess great courage to speak in
such terms to Buonaparte. They say that
man jokes not ; what would you have
done, had he by any chance laid hands
upon you V " 1 would have chastised
him on the spot," replied the courageous
Markow.

FREDERICK THE GREAT AND GENERAL
SWIETEN.

Frederick of Prussia was wont to say,
*' No war was ever carried on without
spies, and no administration without cor-
ruption ;" and he certainly evinced his
faith in this doctrine by the measures he
pursued. His favourite, general Svvieten,
who used to take considerable liberties on
the strength of his favouritism, was bold
enough to observe to the king, one day
when the troops were in want of neces-
saries, and complaining — that his majesty
spent more money in spies than he did in
bread and clothing for his army. ** You
are a fool !" answered the king, *' a down-
right fool! One piece of information, of
the worth of 500 rix dollars, has saved me
a million of money, and 10,000 men!
Don't talk to me of bread and clothing ! —
talk to me of advancing without bloodshed,
and of saving my men. Their icants will
be easily supplied when I know where
the enemy's magazines are. My death's
heads will soon fill their empty stomachs,
and purses too. You great fool ! how did
I take possession of Saxony ? Not with
my army, but with a gold cabinet-key."

ALEXANDER THE GREAT,

Whilst on one of his marches, was over-
taken by a storm of snow, which compelled
him to halt. Being seated near a fire, he
chanced to perceive an aged soldier so
benumbed by the cold, as to be almost
deprived of animation. At this discovery,
he ruslied hastily to the spot where the
suflTerer was, took him up in his arms,
and brought him to the seat he had lately
occupied, and placed him therein, at the
same time observing, " that what would
have been death by the laws of Persia —
(meaning the act of sitting on the king's
throne) — should to him be life."

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIliLD,

385

HEXKEHWYSSEL'S CHALLENGE.

A TALE OF DORDT.

I HAVE never been in Dordt ; and yet
I seem to have in my mind's eye all its
principal features — its canals, its quays,
its quaint old cathedral, and formal mu-
nicipal edifices — as though 1 had been a
resident there. Most especially do I know
an old narrow house near the bridge, on
the right hand of the great canal ; and it
is to this that my first visit shall be paid,
ifeverlsail down the Maes. It is asserted,
on competent authority, that the devil is
to be seen there, at stated periods.

I cannot easily say how the first com-
munication of this fact consoled and re-
freshed me. For I am a steady believer in
the faith of the good old trustful times ;
and do hold as gospel the wholesome
histories delivered by that founder of our
creed. Dr. Lutlier, in his Tischreden, or
'J'able-talk, and by other weighty autho-
rities, respecting Satanic incarnations ; —
a belief sorely combated by the sceptical
moderns. I will relate the manner of my
introduction to the above interesting in-
stance, for my own especial oblectation,

VOL. n. — 49.

Page 387.

and to the strengthening of my fellow-be-
lievers ; if, indeed, there yet survive any
such.

I was at Boulogne in the autumn of
17 — ; living in a retired manner, and not
mixing much with the members of the
table d'hote ; the rather, that my temper,
naturally testy, had been rendered unusu-
ally irritable by recent vexations. There
was, however, one of the company, a
middle-aged Dutchman, towards whom
I felt strongly attached. He was, like
myself, a man of sparing conversation and
solitary habits, and an exemplary smoker
withal. But what entirely won my heart,
was his profound conviction of the authen-
ticity of all recorded narrations of ghosts,
— fire, water, and land- spirits, and of the
bodily presence of Beelzebub — not to
speak of witches, mermaids, and wild
huntsmen. This I discovered by chance.
Walking one evening on the Boulevards,
1 observed him seated, with his never-
failing pipe, engaged in the perusal of a
promising looking volume. I ventured,
upon the strength of a slight acquaintance,
to enquire the subject of his studies, and
was delighted to learn that the worthy
3d

386

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

man was a reader, and a believer, of that
precious ancient, Gervasius Tiburiensis.
XVe were friends in an instant. Before
five minutes bad elapsed, we were deeply
engaged in reciprocal lamentations over
the extinction of the pious creed, so wor-
thily set forth in fhe pages of the venera-
ble chronicler, accompanied with pensive
exhalations from our meerj^chaums.

" Woeful it is, truly — though not, in-
deed, surprising," said I j " for this incre-
dulous age rejects the evidence of past
worthies, and insists, presumptuously,
upon ocular proof."

*'It is not proof they lack," ejaculated
my companion ; ** they would dispute facts
as notorious as the Reformation j aye, were
they to happen under their very noses."

" Alas, worthy sir, even these are no
longer afforded us : the spirit of unbelief
has laid all others— the very existence of
Lucifer himself is doubted in these perilous
times !"

" Say you so ?" replied my Dutch friend,
with extraordinary vivacity ; " what, when
he hath been abroad like a raging lion ?
and there are yet living tliose who have
seen him in bodily presence ?"

*' How — when-^where ?" I eagerly en-
quired ; and the old gentleman, knocking
the ashes out of his fourth pipe, indulged
my curiosity with the following narrative,
ere he ventured to replenish it.

** It is not twenty years since one Hans
Henkerwyssel, a stranger, arrived in my
native city of Dordt, and bought a fair
house overlooking the great canal, over
against the hanging bridge. He was
middle-aged and robust, and seemed to
have been a sea-faring man ; while, from
the situation of his purchase, and the
manner of his living, he was conjectured
to have wealth. He soon made himself
acquaintances in the neighbourhood ; but
they were principally amongst the wilder
and more dissolute of the inhabitants ;
indeed, the violence of his manners, and
his habits of profane and irreverent com-
munication, deterred grave and cautious
people from his society. And there were
noised abroad — from what source it were
hard to say — rumours of an evil nature
respecting his former life and conversa-
tion— as though he had been a pirate or
rover — wiUi other tales of like sort. We
are, however, an industrious people, and
do not much perplex ourselves with the
affairs of our neighbours ; so that mynheer

Henkerwyssel lived, after his fashion, un-
molested, and, ere long, almost unnoticed.
Now, you must know, worthy sir, that
Hans was a remarkable smoker — (the best
gifts may be unworthily bestowed) — and
took no small pride in exceeding in
number of pipes all those whom he had
collected around him, in a sort of club, at
the tavern known by the name of the
* Three Blue Sausages,' on the Boom
Quay ; although some of his associates
were themselves renowned for tlieir devo-
tion to that pleasant herb, tobacco. You
will, therefore, conceive that pre-eminence
in so weighty a matter of reputation was
not conceded to him without some strug-
gle. All his competitors were however
silenced, at last, saving one sturdy old
schiffer, by name Peter Van Funk, cap-
tain and owner of the stately and broad-
bottomed galliot Die Juffrow Bomsterwyk,
engaged in trading between Holland and
the Straits. The latter insisted upon a
solenm trial of their respective powers,
which Hans readily agreed to. The two
were plentifully supplied with pipes, Oro-
nooko, and Schiedam, and locked them-
selves up in a room in the tavern above-
mentioned ; with the understanding, that
he who first gave in should unclose the
door, and announce his defeat. It was
six of the evening when they began, and
those who were parties to the trial awaited
the result in vain, until midnight com-
pelled them to depart.

" On the following morning they found
the doors still closed — nor did they open
during the whole of the day ; while so
earnest were tlie efforts of Hans and his
antagonist, that the magistrates twice sent
to enquire if any thing was amiss, that so
much smoke issued from Nicholas Ver-
boorn's stove. At eleven the same evening,
the bystanders could no longer be re-
strained, and the door was broken open.
So soon as the dense atmosphere of the
room was sufliciently cleared by means of
bellows and other expedients, to allow
objects therein to be discernible, the issue
of the contest became apparent enough.
Hans, though seemingly unconscious, was
still erect in his seat, and stoutly plying
the last of all the pipes, which had been
left with them to the number of six hun-
dred j whereas Van Funk was taken up
insensible from the floor. How long he
had lain there was not to be discovered, as
he never spoke more, and expired shortly

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

387

afterwards. This signal victory established
mynheer Henkeruyssel's pretensions ;
and he subsequently, at different times,
testified an unbounded exultation there-
upon ; truly, an unchristian one, consider-
ing the melancholy issue to the unfortunate
Van Funk. One evening, in particular,
when alluding to it in the presence of
sundry compotators, he went so far as to
challenge the devil himself to surpass him
in his favourite occupation ; an ill-advised
boast, seeing that the latter may be said,
as it were, to live in smoke all his days.
And therewith he uttered many strange
and fearful sayings, which I have heard,
but will not repeat. ' Have a care, bruder
Hans,' said one of his comrades, who,
although rude, were astounded at his ex-
travagant words ; ' it is said that such
jests as these are sometimes recorded !'

* Thou art an ass, and a white-livered one,
Claus Odenkel,' replied Hans ; ' the devil
knows me better — he will try his hand on
easier game — and so will I tell him one
day;' with several unholy imprecations,
which no one cared to answer, but which
were recollected afterwards. Some years,
however, passed away, and the thing
seemed to liave been forgotten.

" Now Henkerwyssel was, as you may
believe, a man who cared neither for priest
nor prayer-book : he had more than once
evilly entreated the sacristan, who came
to solicit the customary offering at Christ-
mas ; and had emptied a bowl of punch
upon the wig of worthy doctor Vandegger,
when he called to remonstrate with him
upon his habits of profane talking. It
was, therefore, with great wonder and some
fear that the good man received, one cold
November njorning, an eager entreaty
from Hans' only domestic, that he would
come to her master without loss of time.
'But, my worthy woman,' exclaimed the
divine, from the window, * what can I do
for your master ? will not the affair rest
for a matter of two hours ? it lacks full so
much of mine accustomed hour of uprising.'

* Alack, your reverence, I wot not what is
the matter ; there have been such noises
in his chamber all night as have well nigh
crazed me with fear ; and there has been a
strange man sitting with mynheer — though
how he entered, the Lord alone knows ;
sure am I, that he came not in at the
door, nor in any Christian fashion 1 — for
tlie love of goodness, your reverence,
come down without delav — it is a case

requiring a weight of divinity to master,
for such cries as mynheer hath uttered
these two hours past, are not like the
sounds of any earthly evil !' Upon this,
the good divine arose as speedily as his
bulk w ould allow, and proceeded to Hen-
kerwyssel's house. All was silent as he
ascended the staircase ; and he began to
feel alarmed lest his intrusion might be
resented by so violent a man as Hans —
thinking it possible that the servant had
been needlessly frightened by the uproar
of some nocturnal debauch. However,
at her pressing instances, he opened the
chamber- door. There were truly two
persons in the apartment. The master
of the house was sitting upright, as usual,
with his pipe between his lips, but they
were withered into a ghastly expression ;
his eyes, which were wide open, were
staring and glassy — the man was plainly
dead. At liis side sat a little old man,
dressed in grey, with large bright eyes,
and a smile — which, it seemed to the
divine, had something inexpressibly fearful
in it — upon his shrivelled brown face. He
arose, however, and saluted the doctor
courteously.

" 'Good morrow, mynheer Vandegger!
pity, that you have lett a warm bed upon
a fool's errand : you are too late ; friend
Hans has, as you see, departed, without
benefit of clergy !'

" The divine'felt a strange fear creeping
over him ; but replied, as boldly as he
might — 'How died this unhappy man r —
why have you not called earlier for assist-
ance ?'

" The little old man laughed bitterly.

" * Faith, your reverence, I have done
passing well without any help ; my old
friend must needs smoke w ith n)e, and you
see he is taking a nap after it. Have you
any commands for him when he awakes ?
Stay, ijoii siiall not lack a whiff this raw
morning,' — taking from his lips the pipe,
and putting it into the doctor's hand. His
fingers mechanically closed upon it, but
he relaxed his grasp in an instant with a
cry of pain — it was scorching hot ! The
little man laughed a second time. ' Your
reverence, it seems, does not like my pipe
as well as bruder Hans — once^more, any
commands ? I shall be with him as soon
j as he awakes.'

" Poor Vandegger now groaned and
' gasped for breath, and had barely spirit
enough left to stammer out, '1 do not
3d2

388

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

understand you, sir — the wretched man
is dead !'

"The old man coolly replied — * It is
quite simple ;' making a significant gesture
with his finger downwards ; ' perha[)s,
however, your reverence will wait until
you meet him there. 1 have no objection.'
This was too much for the alhighted
Dommie ; he turned round and rushed
headlong down stairs, while the same
dreadful laugh, sounding behind him for
a third time, added wings to his speed.
When the neighbours entered the house
in the morning, no trace was seen either
of the body of Hans, or of his stranger
guest — only there was found in the room
where he liad last been, a pipe of an ex-
ceedingly curious construction, and a iieap
of ashes,

" Tlie house has since been untenanted ;
no one dares to inhabit it ; and grave and
goodly men have averred that, once eveiy
year, on the same night that Hans died,
or whenever a vessel from Virginia is
wrecked on the perilous sands at Goree, a
light appears in the windows of Henker-
wyssel's chamber, and there may be seen
the little old man and Hans smoking to-
gether, from ten of the night until the first
cock-crowing — I have myself seen the
liglit more than once." Here my narrator
paused ; and, lighting his pipe, puffed
away in meditative silence.

I was overjoyed with tliis veracious his-
tory ; and, in subsequent interviews with
the worthy Dutchman, obtained further
particulars respecting the circumstances
connected with it, and many interesting
details relative to his native city. I will
certainly visit it the first possible oppor-
tunity.

Since writing the above, I have jour-
neyed to Dordt. It was on a fine spring
morning that the packet boat, which
brought me from Rotterdam, entered the
harbour; it was also market-day, and the
numerous boats of the country people,
laden with provisions — the bustle upon the
quays, and the arrival of several vessels
froH) foreign voyages, gave uncommon
liveliness to the scene. But this attracted
me not. My first care, on landing, was
to visit this house, already well known, by
description, as the scene of the foregoing
narrative. It is, indeed, standing ; but,
alas, for my disappointment ! I found it

occupied by a thriving dealer in marine
stores, who had never heard of Hans and
his guest; and who did not believe one
word of the whole story respecting them,
which I was at the pains of relating to
him (out clu long. I am a mortified and
ill-used man, and will never put faith in
Dutchman more.

BASH.IA.

(Continued from page 383,^
After a short interval slie arose, and
examined the parcel which she held in her
hand ; it contained a small silver coin of
Athens, which bore on one side the head
of Adrian, and on the other *' the friend
of the Athenians." The simple relic was
enveloped in a shred of crimson sdk, em-
broidered with a small golden cross, which
Basilia recognised in a moment as the
work of her mother. For some moments
she gazed on it in silence ; she could not
doubt from whom it came, but still it was
rather an unusual pledge of parting affec-
tion. Suddenly, however, recollection
seemed to Hash across her mind ; she
awoke as if from a long dream of forget-
fulness ; the cross, the coin, the name of
Athens, the effigy of its benefactor, re-
called like a magic spell the last, and she
blushed to acknowledge, the forgotten
commands of her departed mother — "to
remember, in her exaltation, her God and
the woes of her country." -Abashed at the
consciousness of her fault, she again and
again condemned herself for the unworthy
motives which had so long actuated her
grief; she felt that all her vain regrets had
sprung from selfishness ; her ow n sorrows
alone had lived in her remembrance,
although, for them, she knew that her
despondency was unavailing ; whilst the
miseries of her home, w hich lier influence
might have alleviated, were forgotten or
disregarded. She threw herself on the
ground, and pressing w arm kisses on the
precious memorial of her parents, vowed
upon the cross which lay before her, that
from that hour, during the few remaining
days of her existence, her energies should
be solely directed to the fulfilment of her
last promise to her mother. She rose,
strengthened by her new deterinination ;
she brushed a gathering tear- drop from
her eye, and, forcing a faint smile as she
placed the invaluable relic of her country
in her bosom, resolved that, from that
moment, sadness should be banished from

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

3S9

her brow, liowever heavily corroding
sorrow might press in secret at her
heart.

Achmet advanced to meet her as she
issued from th.e pavilion, and was sur-
prised to find her composed and cheerful.
In reply to his fond inquiries, she answered
him that she was now convinced of the
imputencyofimpassioned regret toassuage
the cureless agony of a woimded h.eait.
The last tie which connected her with hu-
manity was loosened for ever ; her parents
were no more ; she stood alone in the
crowd of existence ; henceforward her
grief for others was to cease, and she was
now to begin to live solely for herself. If
she was destined to be blessed by the
envied smiles of the commander of the
faithful, what had she lo seek beyond
them ? If her eyes were to be brightened
by his approving glances, and her heart
made glad by the possession of his love,
what more had B isilia to regret or to sigh
for ? The sultan hailed with rapture the
long looked-(or change in her feelings ;
he lavished on her a thousand fond endear-
ments, and \owed that henceforth Basiiia
alone should be the light of liis harem and
the peerless mistress of his heart.

From that day her manners and her
habits underwent a thorough alteration.
Her spirits, which before seemed oppressed
by one endless silence, were now buoyant
as the breezes that sigh along the vales of
Erivan ; and her heart, which so lately
appeared the abode of sadness, became
light as when, in the days of her childhood,
she sported amidst the olive groves of her
own beloved Attica. Her raven tresses,
which lately flowed unbraided over her
ivory shoulders, were now plaited into
glossy bands, and folded gracefully above
lier brow ; a string of golden coins was
wreathed around them, and a dropping
pearl of dazzling whiteness shone upon
her snowy forehead. Her dress, in every
particular, combined tlie rarest grace with
the most unwonted elegance ; her liglit
papooshes were covered with spangles and
sparkling flowers ; shawls, purchased by
the wealihof provinces, were draped round
her; her dresses were wrought from the
richest silks of Damascus, and herjelic was
bound aronnti her waist by a zone glitter-
ing with jewels from the mines of Bukdiri.
When she moved, a cloud of perfume
floated around her, and when she reclined
on her luxurious divan, every voice was

hushed, and every eye was chained in
admiration.

Beneath all this assumed pageant of
happiness and splendour, however, the
canker uorm was silently gnawing at her
heart, and hours of convulsive sorrow and
writhing despair, in secret, served to
produce a reaction of excitement which
sup|)Orted her esertionsto appear delighted
amidst the admiring crowd. She now
applied herself with eager, but concealed
anxiety, to discover the hidden springs of
the divan, and the secrets of the Ottoman
court. Her well known influence on the
n)ind of the sultan served to procure her
the requisite information from the officers
around her ; and in the course of a few
short months sb.e learned, without appear-
ing to court the information, the cabals
and intrigues of every pachalic from the
Danube to the Nile. By means of
attached and faithful emissaries, she was
enabled, at the same time, to carry on her
correspondence with her countrymen, and
inform them of her wishes and opportu-
nities of befriending them. Their only
reply, however, was, that they sought no
other reform than the enforcement of the
hitherto violated charters of Mahomet ;
that their constitution, as granted by him,
was more mild than the other less favoured
spots of the empire could hope for beneath
the sceptre of a Moslem, and contained
few poinis which necessity could not render
tolerable. But, unfortunately, they were
placed at too great a distance from the
throne to be enabled to speak of their
grievances ; and their complaints, if utter-
ed at all, died away like an unrepeated
echo, ere it reached the ears of those who
alone could redress their wTongs. Under
these circumstances, she found that it nmst
be to some fortunate event, some lucky
occasion, that Athens must be indebted
for her deliverance ; and the advent of
the propitious moment she applied herself
to watch for, with the devotion at.d
anxiety of a captive who awaits some un-
expected, but certain accident, to procure
his freedom.

The deliglit of the sultan on the recovery
of his favourite could only be equalled by
his astonishment at the suddenness by
which it was elfected. For himself, he
had long forgotten that the bounds of his
dominions included the fairest gardens of
Europe and of A^ia ; his empire was, in
his mind, conflned to tiie walla of his sera-

390

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

glio. But his desires were now crowned
with full fruition. BasiJia, he imagined,
Ibved him ; and at tiiat moment he felt,
for the first time in his existence, that he
was truly a monarch in the dominions
which his heart had chosen. No hour
now saw him apart from her he loved; in
the harem and the hall, Basilia and
Achmet were inseparable ; and days of
pure unalloyed delight, the first he had
ever known, shone upon the lot of the
enchanted sultan To crown his happi-
ness, the queen of his affections promised
shortly to present him with an heir to the
throne of 0th man, and throughout every
quarter of the capital, the most gorgeous
preparations were making for the happy
event. To Basilia, his attentions and his
bounty knew neither bounds nor reason ;
lier chambers were converted into a fairy-
land ofsplendour and delights, and the most
magnificent decorations were lavished
upon her household and attendants. On
her part, however, the munificence of the
sultan was forced upon her, ratlier than
accepted ; those portions of it, which her
situation prevented the possibility of her
declining, she received with respectful
submission, rather than a pleased acquies-
cence ; and on every occasion she studied
to avoid those favours and distinctions
which would convert the sultan from her
lord to her benefactor. Often as she sat
beside him, when he pressed upon her
acceptance some gift of countless price,
or some present of inestimable value, she
would twine her snowy arms around him,
and whilst her dark expressive eyes were
turned to meet the gaze of his, she would
exclaim, "that his kindness was oppres-
sive to her, and that his proffered bounty
seemed to hint that her love was to be
won by gold, or his affection enhanced by
his kingly munificence. May the favour
of heaven rest upon the head of Achmet,
and the light of paradise beam for ever
around him ; but tor Basilia, she seeks no
treasure save the glance of his eyes, and
cherishes no ambition beyond the attain-
ment of his love." The sultan hung
upon her words in rapture, but yet his
delight was mingled with chagrin, for he
found that Basilia \^'as more absolutely a
queen in her beauty, than he a monarch
in his power; they stood united, and yet
apart ; she was his slave, and still he vvas
her dependent; he knew himself her
master, and yet she vvas too proud to

permit him to become her friend, or to
mingle kindness with control.

At length, when her advancement in the
favour of the sultan had enabled Basilia
to decide on the steps she was to take for
the performance of her vow, she prepared,
with a swelling and anxious heart, to put
her designs into execution. Since her in-
troduction to Achmet, Mustafa, the Kislar
Aga, had on every occasion shown himself
her friend. His disposition betrayed none
of those vices inherent to the other ofhcers
of the seraglio, whilst his influence with
the sultan was unbounded ; and could
Athens be but placed under his protection,
its injuries would be certain of at least
partial redress, whilst its inhabitants would
at all times possess in liis successors re-
presentatives and friends nigh the throne
of the monarch. A moment favourable
for the trial at length arrived. Achmet
was one evening pressing on her, as he
was wont, some offer of his bounty, and
he started with delight on finding, for the
first time, that she was about to ask of him
a kindness. '* Behold me at last," she
cried, *' a supplicant to the king of kings ;
may the light of Allah and the prophet
smile upon the days, and his favour rest
upon the head of my sultan ! may victory
attend his footsteps abroad, and glory gild
his hours of retirement and of ease ! I
seek no honours for myself, who am but
too highly exalted in being permitted to
enjoy the countenance, or contribute to the
happiness of the sublimest of monarchs.
I ask no bounty for strangers ; for why
should my lord lavish upon distant
dependents those royal gifts which should
adorn the court of the sultan of the earth ?
I intercede alone for the domestic of my
sovereign — for the grateful guardian of his
household — for Mustafa, to whose care t
am indebted for so many tender atten-
tions, and so much unremitting devotion.
Nor even for him do I implore a splendid
gift, nor a costly endowment ; I ask only
a boon of poverty and a herdage of ruins ;
I seek for Iiim the mouldering city of my
birth, and the government of the faded
remnant of the people of Athens." The
enamoured prince smiled to her a ready
consent — but again his pride was wounded
to the core ; he found that, alfhougli Ba-
silia had demanded a favour at his hands,
its advantages were destined for another;
nor had he yet been able, by any conces-
sion to herself, to entail upon her an obli-

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

391

gation of gratitude. In the same hour
was the estate of Athens conferred upon
the fortunate Kislar Aga ; and on the
same day was a Tartar despatched from
Slamboul to apprise SuHeman of the ter-
mination of his vice- royalty, and prepare
the way for a Waywode to be nominated
by the happy Mustafa.

The deed was done, the vow was per-
formed, the object of Basiha was accom-
plisiied, but her heart was broken ; anx-
iety, sorrow, and regret, had worn away
her feeble constitution ; the excitement of
hope and of affectionate ambition had for
some time past been her only stay ; that
weak support was now removed, and again
she relapsed into despondency and despair.
As the period of her confinement ap-
proached, her declining health was marked
by the sultan and the Ottoman court with
alarm and apprehension. Already had
preparations for the joyful event of the
birth of the imperial child been completed
throughout the capital. A palace was
prepared for the reception of Basilia, as
mother of the heir-apparent to the crown ;
the Validi Agasi was appointed over her
slaves, and the Eschatradelar was nomi-
nated to take charge of the royal infant on
its birth. These precautions were, alas !
in vain. She for whom they were de-
signed beheld them without emotion or
delight ; already she felt that she was
never designed to enjoy them.

The fatal hour arrived, and the sultan
sat in his divan to await the issue, when a
slave advanced, and announced, with the
joyful tidings of a royal heir, the intel-
ligence of the death of the sultana in
giving birth to her child. The grief of
the bereaved monarch was bordering on
madness, and rage and sorrow swayed his
mind by turns. With the same breath he
directed the most sumptuous preparations
for the obsequies of Basilia, and ordered
the immediate execution of six of the most
beautiful women of his harem, whom, in
his cruelty, he falsely accused of being
accessory to the death of his mistress.
On the same day, and at the same mo-
ment, the unhappy victims of his fury were
hurled from the battlements of the seraglio
into the waters of the Bosphorus, and the
remainsof Basilia were interred, with regal
honours, in the cemetery adjoining the
mosque of Abu Ayoob, the last of the
companions of Mahomet, who fell in the
first siege of Byzantium by the Saracens.

Centuries have now elapsed since the
inheritance of Athens was conferred on the
chief of the Ethiopian Odalics, and in the
line of his successors the blessings of the
change have descended to the forlorn in-
habitants of Attica. Occasionally, during
the mornless night of her captivity, some
despot has swayed the destinies of the
devoted city, but his tyranny has lasted
but an hour, and the influence of the Kislar
Aga has been extended to claim redress
and to restore tranquillity. Nor have the
descendants of the subjects of Achmet
forgotten their ancient benefactress ; still
is the name of the unfortunate sultana
combined with those of the friends of At-
tica ; and often when, by the calm light of
even, the maids of Athens assemble round
the wells in die valley, or join in the dance
on the banks of the Illysus, they beguile
the Ungering twilight by repeating the
tale of Basilia, or chaunt in alternate
strophies the song which recounts her
patriotism and misfortunes.

THE ESCAPE OF THE QUEEiST AND INFANT
SON OF JAMES THE SECOND FROM
WHITEHALL.

On the 6th of December, in the even-
ing, the queen, with the nurse, carrying
the prince, then five months old, in her
arms, and accompanied by the count de
Lausune, so famous for his own misfor-
tunes, and by a few attendants, went pri-
vately from Whitehall. She crossed the
Thames in an open boat, in a dark night,
in a heavy rain, in a liigh wind, whilst
the river was swollen, and at the coldest
season of the year. A common coach
had been ordered to wait for her on the
opposite side, but by some accident it had
been delayed for an hour. During this
time, she took shelter under the walls of
an old church at Lambeth, turning her
eyes, streaming with tears, sometimes on
the prince — unconscious of the miseries
attendant upon royalty, and who upon
that account raised the greater compassion
in her breast — and sometimes to the in-
numerable lights of the city, amidst the
glimmerings of vihich she in vain explored
the palace in which her husband was left,
and started at every sound she heard from
thence.

The above is from sir John Dalrymple's
" Memoirs of Great Britain ;" the fol-
lowing is the account which king James

392

TALES OF CHIVALRY: OR,

himself gives of this event, in his own
Memoirs : —

" All things being ready by this tinie for
the queen and prince's departure, it fell
out opportunely enough that the count
Lazune, a French gentleman, was then at
the court of England, whither he came to
offer his services to the king; but treachery
and desertion of so many false friends,
made the zeal and fidelity of his true ones
useless, at least in reference to the war ;
so his majesty accepted of his offer another
way, as thinking him a proper person to
attend upon the queen in this voyage, and
that, under the notion of his returning to
his own country, (there being no business
for him in England,) a yacht might be
prepared, and the queen and prince pass
unsuspected in his company.

** The queen had a great reluctancy to
this journey, not so much for the hazards
and inconveniences of it, as to leave the
king in so doubtful a situation, she having
never done it hitlierto in his greatest diffi-
culties and dangers. And therefore, when
it was first proposed, her majesty abso-
lutely refused it in reference to herself^—
telling the king she was very willing the
prince her son should be sent to France,
or where it was thought most proper for
his security ; that she could bear such a
separation with patience, but could never
bear it with reference to himself; that she
would infinitely rather share his fortune,
whatever it should prove, than abandon
him in his distress ; that all hardships,
hiizards, or imprisonment itself, would be
more acceptable to her in his company,
than the greatest ease and security in the
world without him, unless he really pur-
posed to come away himself too, then she
was willing to be sent before him, if he
thought it a more proper method to con-
ceal their departure ; which the king as-
suring her he really did, her majesty con-
sented to it at last.

•'This journey and separation, therefore,
being at "length resolved on, the queen,
disguising herself, crossed the river upon
the 6th of December, taking with her only
the prince, his nurse, and two or three
persons more, along with her, to avoid
suspicion ; and had sent to have a coach
ready prepared on the other side, in which
she went down to Gravesend, and got safe
aboard the yacht, which, considering tliat
the rabble was up in all parts to intercept
and plunder whoever they thought were

making their escape, was such a provi>
dence, that nothing but a greater danger
could excuse from rashness and temerity
in attempting ; but in such afflicting cir-
cumstances, where the government of a
distressed prince is not only returned, but
himself and royal family in just appre-
hensions of the most barbarous treatment,
all other hazards and hardships pass unre-
garded. Otherwise, for the queen to cross
the river in a tempestuous night, with the
prince not six months old ; to wait in the
open air for a considerable time, till the
coach was ready, and not only exposed to
the cold, but to the continual danger of
being discovered, which the least cry of
the prince might have done; to travel in
the middle of an enraged people, without
guards, servants, or convenience sufficient
to preserve them from common dangers,
or even to defend them from the cold, had
been a tempting of providence on a less
pressing occasion ; however, it pleased
God to bring them through all those
dangers."

FRANCIS I., KING OF FRANCE.

This monarch, who was the most dis-
tinguished of the kings of France, whether
considered as a- warrior, or a patroniser
of learning or the liberal arts, being about
to invade Italy, called a council of war to
advise witii his officers which way he
should lead his forces over the Alps, which
Amaril, the king's fool, overhearing, told
them they should rather consult liow to
bring them back again out of Italy, as
being an affair of the greatest importance.
Well had it been for the brave monarch
and his followers, had he listened to the
wise advice of his witty dependant, for
scarce a man of them ever saw France
again.

UNION OF COURAGE AND COMPASSION.

When the duke of Wellington advanced
towards Paris, in the July of 1815, "it
was suggested that there was plunder
enough to raise a magnificent monument
to the victor." The conqueror replied —
'• a monument to our army must never be
built with pillage.'" As' he approached
the city he was reminded that " when he
entered the metropolis of France in 1814,
the British troops had behaved to the
French people with excessive delicacy ;"
" and I promise you," he answered, ** that
they shall behave with equal delicacy now.' '

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIFLD.

393

YALDRWULF ;
On, THE FIEXD OF THE MOOR.

A SCALDIC LEGEND.

Valdrwulf was illustrious in war ; he
was the Etheling of the isles beyond the
eastern ocean of mists.

Hewas the pride of the Scald, descended
from the father of ages, whose glory fills
the halls of Valhalla. He was tall and
gi-aceful as a pine on the mountain tops
of Scandia ; his strength was like the oak's
in the forest of Andreswald; his flowing
locks streamed on the winds like the golden
banner of Ella ; his face was beautiful as
the countenance of Balder, and his eyes
bright and sunny as those of the luminous
genii who dwell in the boundless heaven ;
his voice to his friends was sweet as the
honey-dew that blesseth the night-blown
flowers of the valley, dropping from the
fountain of past time : but his shout in the
day-battle, rang like the voice of Thor,
when he thunders in the stormy chaniber
of his clouds; his sinewy limbs were
marked with spell-figures and devices of
many colours, for he was of the warlike
race of the Angles.

VOL. II. — 50.

Page 394.

Ella, who had won dominion in the
sea-encircled land of the Brifons, whose
raven- banner had conquered its southern
shores, but could not his kingly state pro-
tect in peace, sent to Valdrwulf for aid
against his foes, that he might take Caer-
Andred, tlieir chief city of strength.

Valdrwulf drew his sword, and clashed
on his sounding buckler the signal of war-
fare ; he girded on his garments of ringing
steel, brightly gleaming like the meteor
visions of the northern skies.

His valiant companions followed him
to the crowded shore ; there he dispensed
bracelets of gold and gems, the spoils of
his might, and filled with money-gifts the
hands of the brave. His banner floated
on (he ocean winds, from the tall mast of
his war- ship, stored with the weapons of
Hilda, with the glittering apparel of he-
roes, and vessels of fine gold and silver.

The white bosomed maiden of Rothgar
had often viewed with delight the noble
form of Valdrwulf, and listened in her
father's chamber of shields to the song of
the Scalds, as, from the harp, came the
sweet sounds of song to the praise of his
gallant exploits.

3e

394

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

But VaUlrwiilf vowed to Odin, to the
father of spells, never to know the joys of
love, till he had won rule and power in the
white isle of the west.

The maiden of Rothgar forsook her
father's bannered halls 5 she was no longer
a cupbearer in the gilded chamber of
Thegns, nor witnessed its joyous games, or
listened to the music that wandered from
the harp of the Scald : she fled in sorrow j
no one knew the place of her abode.

There came to Valdrwulf, as he mounted
the deck, a lovely youth in the habiliments
of the field; his white buckler, without
device, hung on his arm, which showed
he yet liad won no trophies in fight; his
seaxan glittered by his side, but his eyes
of diamond fire outshone the lustre of his
brand ; while his hair flowed over the rings
of his mail in dark clusters, rich as the
tresses of Freya, the goddess of love and
beauty.

" I swear to follow Valdrwulf," cried
the youth, "over the field of pirates, the
stormy path of the merchant, to the white
land 'in the west, which lies beyond the
mists of the hazy ocean — to be his loving
brother in arms,' and if he fall, to perish
by his side."

Valdrwulf, the giver of bracelets, was
charmed with the noble beauty and bold-
ness of the youth. They vowed eternal
friendship in each other's arms ; they
pierced their veins — they tasted each
other's blood, mingled with wine, from a
golden cup, the pledge of truth and con-
stancy ; and poured forth the remainder
to Odin, king of battles.

The sea-winds are filling the lifted sails
of the kingly war-ship of Valdrwulf. She
tilts the white surge from her prow, and
mounts gallantly the wide-rolling billows.
The waves of ocean are turned to gold,
and the heavens glow like the choicest
ruby ; the purple-cloud throne of the sun,
the king of splendours, rests on the ocean's
sapphire verge ; sea and sky are enshrined
in glory, while, afar off, the dim vessel
appears like a shadowy spot on the bright

orb of the moon.

* * * *

Ella sits thoughtful on the dais, retired
from the place of combat, the meeting of
the armed.

He sits gloomy and sad, at the feast of
warriors in his lofty pavilion, hung with
gleaming web, and pictured cloth of purple
and gold, in the miilst of his camp, near

the vyalls of Caer- Andred. Hard fought
had been the battle of the day, for the
Britons stood firm on their bulwarks of
strength. Saxon blood drenched the
mounds that encompass the hill city of the
Cymry, and many places are eiDpty at the
banquet, wont to be filled with the dark-
browed warriors of renown.

But it is not the battle alone that thins
the ranks of weaponed men in the host of
the war-king of the south. The giant
fiend of the moor, a monster demon that
delights in murder, enters the camp when
deep sleep falls on the Thegns, and dyes
his iron club in their gore.

How he enters undiscovered, or how
he returns, sated with hot blood, none can
tell.

But now the mead-cup circles joyously
round the lord of his kinsmen in that tent
of shields, and the Scald of the feast strikes
his harp to valiant deeds of other years.

A shout rings through the camp ! Ella
starts from his high seat, and the British
watclmien sound the loud trump of alarm,
snatching their weapons from the walls of
their fortress.

A messenger informed king Ella that
Valdrwulf Etheling of the isles, and his
valiant-looking bands, were arrived at the
camp from their wave journey over the
deep waters of the loud-sounding ocean.
Joyously were they welcomed to the pa-
vilion of the princely son of Odin. Now
came forth Elgitha the queen to the ban-
quet of the men of strength ; her robes of
needle-work were wrought with figures of
gold and crimson ; on her head and arms
were bands of starry jewels, and her white
veil flowed down her shoulders, like the
mantling foam of the rock o'er-leaping
torrent. Her eye was bright with plea-
sure, and her voice like music that comes
over the moonlight waters of summer.
She gave the hydromel cup to the illus-
trious strangers of battle, and filled the
horn of hospitality to its golden brim.

Then was told by king Ella, sitting on
his stool of power, the strange tale of the
fiend of the moor, the Thyrse of the black
valley. Valdrwulf vowed to encounter
him alone. The paleness of fear came
over the cheek of his youthful friend, like
the white cloud passing athwart the glory-
ful moon ; but the warriors marked not
the change which fell on him, pondering
deep on the nightly visitation of the blood-
quaffing fiend of the moor.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

395

The hour of rest came on ; Ella and his
queen, with her damsels, beautiful as tlie
shining elves, withdrew to the bright web-
liung tent of repose. The warders pre-
pared the cotich of sleep for the strangers ;
they took the mail of gleaming rings, the
cap of steel, with its eagle plumes, from
the weary Etheling of the isles ; he sunk
with his chiefs on the rushy couch, and
his spirit wandered in the fairy land of
dreams.

There was a mournful sound in the black
valley j the wind of midnight came forth,
shaking its hundred groves of oak. The
dark fiend of the moor arose j he forsook
his gloomy solitude : the dim cloud of the
mountain was his robe, and the red meteor
t)f the fen cast its wavering light on his
hideous visage.

Onward he strode through the camp of
the Saxons ; he thirsted for noble blood,
he sought the royal pavilion. Sleep went
before him ; death was at his side ; the
warders saw not his coming. He stood
HI the tent-door — dreadful as Loke the
evil one, fiercely savage as the wolf who
shall destroy the spouse of Erigga, when
the twilight of the gods shall cover all
things!

He saw the beautiful form of Valdrwulfs
friend, and savagely laughed aloud with
joy. He aimed his club at the head of
the fair youth, whose darkly flowing locks
became red with gushing blood !
Shrieks rang through the pavilion.
Valdrwulf awoke, and saw the ghastly
fiend standing over his dying friend,
shouting with joy ! He snatched his magic
anlace from his pillow — he rushed, like
an evening lion seeking his prey, on the
hideous monster.

Terrible are their blows ! flames flash
from the eyes of the grim demon — but he
cannot prevail against the sword of Vald-
rwulf. He flies from the strong arm of the
Etheling, yelling like the mighty torrent
in its headlong course through the valleys
of winter, and escapes to the buggy moor
of the desert.

Valdrwulf knelt by his friend — his bro-
ther; he called for the leech, but it was in
vain ! He raised the youth in his arms,
who hung over his shoulder with gory
brow and blood-streaming locks, like a
lovely flower smote down by the northern
blast !

" Valdrwulf, I go to my narrow house,
and thou shall see me no more for ever

Thou hast loved me as thy companion in
war, and though ihou didst scorn Helga in
her father's halls, i-he left her home and
friends to follow thee o'er sea and land ;
she has won thy love, she dies in thy arms,
and she dies happy and blest ! Yes,
dearest Valdrwulf, I glory in my fate !
for now shall I meet thee in the halls of
Valhalla, where we shall dwell together in
the fellowship of the gods; for this blood,
flovving from my veins, shall win my
entrance to the refulgent palace of Odin.
Farewell, Valdrwulf, till we meet in glory
at the banquet of skulls ! I see the shining
maids of war, on their white steeds, wait-
ing to bear me to the feast of warriors.
Lay me on the blazing pile, raise high
my tomb in the land of strangers, that it
may tell distant ages where Helga's ashes
rest in peace. Mourn not forme, but lift
the mead-cup high in revelry, and banquet
round my hillock of death, for I shall be
joyous in the paradise of the brave, before
the thunder- veiled throne of the king of
spells. Ah, Valdrwulf!"

Her lips moved, but no sound came
from them ; her last sob was breathed oa
the bosom of Valdrwulf.

* * * •

The morning davi'ned, king Ella arose,
his Thegns harnessed him in the proud
apparel of war. He bowed at his tent-
door to the white horse of Bincombe Hill,
whom he worshipped, and which his army
had there marked out as a proud and
sacred trophy of their victories over the
Britons. He now heard that the fiend of
the moor had been put to flight, and he
presented the hero of the isles with a
splendid garment of steel, and a helmet
of costly workmanship.

That day was another battle fought
under the walls of Caer Andred. But
ere the fight began, a British captive was
selected, of noble height and daring, with
whom Valdrwulf was chosen, amid the
shouts of the assembled host, to wage
single combat, that the fate of the general
conflict might be known.

Valdrwulf was sad and heavy of heart,
for the loss of his beloved Helga ; but his
spirit rose with the battle, and her death
added fury to his soul. He rushed on the
Briton in combat, as the storm-swollen
river rolls against the dark rocks in the
valley of Restormal, They met like two
foaming surges of the ocean, dashed
against each other by the raging tempest.
3e2

396

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

But the crooked seaxan of Vakirwnlf clove
in twain tlie helmet of the Briton, and he
fell divided on the bloody plain. A thou-
sand shouts echoed thrc.ugh the forest of
Andreswald, and the Saxons rushed on
to the battle, proud in the assurance of
victory.

The Britons came forth from the city of
their strength to meet them — the banners
moved forward like a thousand meteors
flashing- over the skies of the north.

As the torrents of winter rush down the
rocky steeps of Snovvdon, so descended
from their hill-city the Britons to battle.
As the sturdy oaks, the children of ages,
in the forest of Malvern, scorn the coming
of the tempest, so the illustrious Saxons
met the arrows-storms of the Britons.

Like the sound of a thousand thunders
echoing round the heights of Penmaen-
mawr ; like the roar of a thousand billows
dashing on the rocky cliffs of Guithor ; so
loud and fierce was the onset — so met
the sons of the sword in the shock of
bucklers.

Ella, the destroyer of kings, was a raging
pillar of fire ! Valdrwulf outshone him-
self in arms ; his anlace clove the echoing
shields asunder; he drove the Britons
before him like herds of frighted deer,
when the howling of wolves comes on the
blast, that shakes the leafless oaks of
Ardenn.

That day was the Cymry defeated ;
they retired to their hill-fortress wearied
and sad ; help was far away, and none of
their tribe came to their relief; yet the
Saxons took not their defences that day.
The sun went down on the gory fieW, on
the dead bodies of the slain — the evening
food of the wolf, amid the red shields of
battle. The banners no longer glanced
brightly, the spears sent forth no gleams ;
the croaking of the raven was heard, the
howl of the wolf hastening to his prej, and
the Saxons retired to their camp on the
plain, loaded with the spoils of the foe.

Again there was much joy in their tents.
The pavilion of the king vvas illuminated
with blazing lights, the mead banquet vvas
prepared, the warriors sat on high stools
covered with golden web, the silver horns
of plenty overflowed with wine and the
blood of mulberries. The queen and her
damsels of beauty poured forth the hy-
dromel liberally, and Etheling, Korl, and
Thegn, rejoiced in their smiles. The
Scalds of the king awoke the songs of

Odin — a hundred voices joined the melo-
dious tones of the harp.

All was joyous but Valdrwulf; sad was
his heart for the loss of Helga, and the
tear of silent sorrow fell on the gilded brim
of his mantling wine cup.

The king sought to soothe his grief; he
commanded that a splendid banner should
reward his valour in tent and field ; he
w'aved his hand, and six noble steeds were
led into the pavilion, and presented to the
chief of the isles ; they were covered with
ricli mantlings of needlework, and their
saddle bows shone with gems and gold.

Then rose the queen Elgitha from amidst
the fair maidens, and presented him with
her armlets, curiously sparkling with pre-
cious jewels.

" King of Eorls, helmet of thy people,"
said Valdrwulf, *' my deservings equal not
thy liberal gifts, but my short-lived day of
fame draws to a close. Helga, my
beloved Helga, soon must the struggling
flames consume thy lovely form. 1 have
sworn, as thy friend and companion in
war, not to survive thee. Grant then,
great Odin, father of gods, that my re-
nown, like the sun, when the tempests of
noon have passed away, may set in
transcendant glory. Give me, O king of
shields, the noblest of these war-steeds,
and 1 will go forth and seek this night, in
the black valley, the fiend of the moor, the
demon who has destroyed thy people, and
slain my own true Helga. I will revenge
her death or fall in the conflict. I will
bring the head of the monster at my saddle
bow, or never again appear in thy tent.
Amid the stormy mists of the moor, the
dark-rolling clouds of the desert, I shall
glory to wrestle with the fiend !"

The warriors shout applause, he leaps
on the gallantsteed, he rushes forth through
the starless night to seek the foul destroyer,
the blood- drinking Thyrse of the black
valley.

« * « •

Grey morning dawned in the east, the
clouds blushed at the coming of the king
of liglit, and the landscape gleamed afar
with the smiles of day.

Warriors were seen through the white
mists that rested on the lofty ramparts of
Caer-Andred.

Her watchmen looked forth towards the
camp of the Saxons, and fear came upon
them, because of the power and number
of their invaders.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

397

King Ella issues from his tent ; he
moves, a pillar of flashing brightness
against the rising sun, scattering liglit on
the yellow shields of his gathering host.

Scouts, ere dawn, went forth from the
camp ; but they return not — they bring
no tidings from the gloomy moor, the
black valley of fear.

The king mourns for Valdrwulf as for
one departed to the lofty abode of ancient
heroes I

The horn of battle sounds, the brazen
clamour of the regal shield awoke the
shout of the mighty ones in fight. Tiie
glancing bannersmovehere and there, like
the red meteors of the heath. The Saxons
and Angli, led by king Ella, march against
the ramparts of the Cymry. Downward
pour the Britons, in their glittering arms,
to meet them, like lightning streaming in
shattered masses from the dark clouds of
midnight : buckler against buckler, anlace
against claymore, clash like the roar of a
thousand thunders !

Who dashes on his white steed into the
midst of (he arrowy tempest, the tumult
of the men of strength, where the sharp
weapons pour forth showers of blood, and
the noise of the battle waxelh louder and
louder ?

His garments of locked steel are'stained
with gore, the plumes of his helm are
broken and soiled, and sad is his counte-
nance, though victorious.

It is the illustrious prince of the isles,
the redoubted Valdrwulf, returned from
the dark moor, the gloomy habitation of
the fiend : he returns a conqueror from the
midnight combat, and at his saddle-bows
hangs the grim and blood-streaming head
of the fiend !

His sword glances, like a gleam of light-
ning, along tlie dark van of battle ; he
rushes on the foe like a thunderbolt dashed
against the echoing cliffs of Cheddar.

The Britons fall in heaps, like showery
meteors, when the winds rush along the
northern skies; they sink like the waves
on the shore; they retreat within their
ramparts, like the surges of the tide, when
they go back to the unknown depths of the
ocean, from whence they came.

Valdrwulf hath seized the red dragon
of the Cymry ! he waves their standard of
glory above his head ; he mounts their
ramparts, but he lifteth not, as he was wont,
the shout of triun)ph to his warriors.

The Saxons pursue their foemen like a

band of wolves chasing the sheep-flocks
in the flowery valleys of Avon.

Caer-Andred is taken ! the Saxons
conquer the whole city, and the red-edged
seaxan devours its inhabitants. The war-
riors of the north spare not the feeble nor
the old. The sun sunk from the heavens,
and with it died the wailings of despair;
it set on the silent city of death, and there
was no one to weep over the slain, no man
to bury the dead !

The eagle and the wolf were gorged
with feasting J the forest bear dwelt in the
habitation of princes, and the horn-beaked
raven croaked with joy over the banquet
of blood !

The Saxons returned to their camp
loaded with spoils. That night were
great shouting and mirth in the pavilions
of king Ella: the crown of the south was
set on his brows, he received the worship
of his Eorls, the homage of his people ;
the mead-cups overflowed with hydromel
and delicious morat; the festive horns went
merrily round, filled with the golden tears
of morning flowers.

The lord of shields, the lion of battle,
divided his boundless treasures among the
brave ; glittering swords, meet for the
thighs of the illustiious in war, and money-
gifts, and chains of gold for the necks of
the conquerors.

Valdrwulf laid the dragon banner of the
Cymry, and the ghastly head of the moor
fiend, on the regal dais, at the glittering
footstool of the king. But no sound came
from his lips ; he answered not Ella's
congratulations, he spoke not to the noble
Eorls around him : the death-spell of the
fiend was on him, and the silence of the
grave sat on his lips 1 he tasted not the
wine-cup, he mingled not with the merry-
hearted at the banquet ; he retired in
mystery to his tent, and wept over the
dead body of his Helga.

The morning came, but it brought not
joy to Valdrwulf. He prepared with his
chiefs the death-pile j and the pale corse
of Helga was borne on a shield to the place
of fire by ethel-born warriors. The king
attended the burning, and the queen, with
her damsels, strewed the funeral pyre with
flowers.

Helga was laid on a noble shield, and
a mountain of armour raised around her.

Valdrwulf divided in portions, for his
mighty men and the Thanes of Elfe, all
his splendid treasures; they were laid in

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

lieaps far asunder along the plain of Mer-
Ihin.

Then mounted the chief princes their
fleet steeds, to seize the war- gifts. Osric,
whose horse was the swiftest, tirst reached
the most distant pile, and won the noblest
treasure.

The race was boldly sustained ; many
fell, and much spoil was scattered abroad,
\^hile tlw army-shouts rang through the
woody retreats of Andred's wolds.

Then were slain six steeds, white as the
untrod snows of Helvellyan ; and ten cap-
tive slaves fell by the sword of Valdrw ulf,
to feed the flames, and attend their lovely
mistress, that she might enter with high
pomp and glory the halls of Valhalla.

The pile was fired — the blaze ascended
brightly to heaven ; propitious omen that
the gods would receive her spirit, and seat
her at the banquet of skulls, before the
throne of the eternal king of armies.

Then rose the voice of the Scalds, and
the loud harp rang with the death-song of
Odin. The funeral feast was prepared,
and the dark browed warriors were joyous
round the dead.

Valdrwulf, with his blood-dyed sword,
approached the blazing mount of fire —
he plunged the blade into his bosom, the
fiend-spell of silence was broken, and he
leaped, shouting, amid the flames.

A LEGEND OF NORWAY.

Long ages ago, when the whole of
northern Europe was sunk in barbarism
and dark idolatry, a young and beautiful
maiden was found at sun-rise upon the
rugged coast of Norway. There she stood,
and looked wistfully over the retiring
waves, which had left their fringes of sil-
very surf at her small naked feet.

The night had been stormy, and a vessel
lay wrecked among the rocks. All the
crew had perished but that gentle lady.
The savage people gathered about her,
wondering much at tiie rare fashion and
the richness of her flowing garments, and
at her fresh and delicate beauty ; but most
of all at the sweetness and dignity of her
demeanour.

It was this maiden who became the wife
of Regnar, the young prince of Norw ay ;
she was of equal birth with him, being a
king's daughter, but obliged to flee from
the usurper of her father's throne. Tiie
prin(5ess Gurilh (for so she was called,)
was not an idolater, yet for nearly a }ear

after her marriage, few persons but her
husband knew the name of her religion.
They soon learned, however, that in her
it was pure and peaceable, gentle and easy
to be entreated, full of mercy and good
fruits, without partiality and without hy-
pocrisy ; and so she was loved by all, and
might have been happy, had not queen
Temora, the widow of the king's eldest
son, visited the court of Norway. Now,
this Temora was very beautiful, but proud
and revengeful, and so skilled in magic,
that by many she w as named the sorceress.
Temora was queen, in her own right, of
the far Orkney isles; and, notwithstanding
her husband's sudden death, she had che-
rished the hope to reign in Norway also ;
for Regnar, then the younger brother,
though now the heir, had wooed her,
when, from ambition, she preferred the
elder prince.

When I'emora came to court, hiding
her fiery passions with a smiling face, and
saw^the beauty of the innocent Gurith, and
the influence she had won in the hearts of
those around her, she devoted her to ruin*
It is said that she went at midnight, far up
among the hills, into the depths of a black
pine forest, where stood a rude but famous
temple of the idol Woden, (the ruins are
now scattered about the place,) and there
sprinkling her own blood upon the altar,
vowed to accomplish a deep and horrible
revenge. From that hour she left no way
untried to reach her ends. At first, she
sought, under the mask of friendship, to
introduce into the heart of Gurith some
dark suspicion of her husband's faith, and
so, at length, to break that gentle heart j
but the young princess was above suspi-
cion J love, and her perfect confidence in
him she loved, was as a breast-plate of
adamant to her, from which every weapon
that was aimed against it fell of!' not only
blunted, but leaving no trace to show
where it had struck. Thus Temora was
confounded and perplexed, for she had
judged the princess by her own principles
and feelings.

Still, notwithstanding all these deep^
devices, the guileless lady Gurith grew in
favour and tender love wiih all who knew
her, and the sorceress inwardly cursed her-
self, w hen she belield the effect of Gurith's
presence upon the barbarous Norwegians;
an eflect far more grateful to her woman's
heart than the most awful influence of her
own magic spells. W'hen Giuith came

PERIT.S BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

399

forth into the banqiiet-liall, they met her
with a reverence only next to adoration.
Theh- brutal manner caught for the time
somewhat of her gentleness j their fierce
disputings stopped ; their coarse jests and
roarsof laughter sounded move faintly; the
very minstrels touched their harps more
lightly, and turned their war-songs to some
plaintive lay, such as a gentle woman loves
to hear. But the secret of this influence
was a mystery to the consummate artful-
ness of queen Temora ; slie could not
comprehend that simple humility and un-
affected kindness can win their way to the
most savage bosom.

For instance, after a battle, when the
wounded were brought home, a band of
warriors came forward to the terrace, on
which Gurith and queen Temora sat, sur-
rounded by their ladies. They had brought
the richest spoil, and laid it at the feet of
the two princesses. Temora snatched at
once a coronet of gems, and placed it with
a haughty smile upon her head. They
that stood by shuddered as they saw her
bright eyes flashing, and the rich blush of
pleasure on her cheek — for a few dark
drops clung in the threads of yellow hair
upon her brow, and then trickled down
her face. There was human blood upon
that coronet. Gurith had scarcely looked
upon the glittering baubles set before her;
she had seen a wounded soldier fall ex-
hausted at the gate, and she flew to raise
him. They that stood by smiled with
tender and admiring love, as they beheld
her hands and garments stained with blood,
for she had torn her long white veil to
staunch the blood, dressing the wounds of
the dying man with her own soft hands ;
and then, as other wounded soldiers were
brought from the field, she had forgot her
rank, and the feebleness of her sex, to
administer also to their relief. It was in
such instances as these that the character
•of Gurith was discovered ; was it strange
that she should seem almost a being of a
higher order to the untutored savages ?
But soon Temora began to fear that Gurith
was herself an enchantress, for every with-
ering spell of witchcraft had been tried in
vain against her. She had met at mid-
night with the weird women in their
murky caverns ; there they sung their
cliarmed rhymes together, and held their
horrid incantations ; Gurith was still un-
harmed, still lovely, still happy in the love
of her husband, and of all the people.

By a mere chance, the sorceress at length
discovered what she felt convinced to be
the secret of Gurith's hidden strength.
There was a chamber, in a small lonely
tower that joined the palace, to which the
young princess retired, not only at stated
periods every day, but often, very often,
at other times. There she would some-
times remain shut up for hours, and no one
dared to break upon her privacy ; even
her husband humoured her wishes, and
had never, since his marriage, visited that
chamber. If sometimes she entered it
mournful, dispirited, and with downcast
looks, she never failed to come forth from
her retirement with a new spirit, calm and
smiling, and all the fair beauty of her face
restored. This, then, was the chamber
where those spells were woven which had
baffled all the skill of the sorceress.

Not long after the queen had made the
discovery of the chamber, the aged king,
her father in-law, while visiting the prin-
cess Gurith, was struck with blindness.
Temora began to rejoice, for an opportu-
nity, well suited to her own dark purposes,
had at last occurred.

There was a solemn festival held in
honour of the goddess Freya. In the
midst of the rejoicing, the sorceress (her
yellow hair streaming upon her shoulders,
and her rich robes all rent,) rushed into
the hall. With frantic i . ies she bade the
feasting cease, and, seizing from an aged
Scald the harp that he was striking, she
tore away the strings, and then, in sullen
silence, she sat her down before the idol's
image. Again she rose, and with a dag-
ger's point scratched a few rough charac-
ters upon the altar. The priests had ga-
thered round her, and when they saw those
letters, they also shrieked aloud with
horror ; they fell before the idol, and
bowed their faces to the ground, howling,
and heaping dust upon their heads. Upon
this, with a fixed and dreamy stare, Te-
mora arose, and, beating upon a sort of
I shapeless drum, commenced a low and
j melancholy chaunt.

She told them that the nation had cause
to mourn that heavy calamities had fallen
I upon them, that the gods had sent a curse
among them. A monster had been cast
up by the treacherous waves, and none
had known their danger. Their king,
their prince — nay, she herself, had been
deceived ; for that fearful monster had
come among them in a human form, even

400

TALES OF CIIIVAT.RY ; OR,

as a beautiful nialcK^n. Tliev liad clierished
her, and now tliejudorinent had fallen upon
them: it had begun with the king — he
was sduck with blindness — where would
it fall next ? with j)rophetic glance she
could foresee. But here the drum dropt
from her hands ; at once her frantic
violence was stilled : she sunk upon the
ground, and her long hair fell like a veil
over her stern features. She had said
enough. As she began, a smothered
sound of cursing arose on all sides ; now
the whirlwind of furious passion burst
forth, and knew no bounds. The tumult
spread far and wide among the people.
Led by the wizard priests, they rushed to
the palace, and demanded that their king
should come forth to them. Now the poor
old king, being in his dotage, and almost
governed by the priests, had been per-
suaded and tutored to think and to answer
just as they suggested. Led by the sor-
ceress, he came forth, sightless and trem-
bling, and his few faltering words confirmed
all that the artful Temora had declared.

All this time, prince Regnar had been
absent. He came in from hunting just
when Temora had brought his father forth.
Horror-struck, he soon perceived the pur-
pose of the fiend-like woman, but in vain
he sought to quell the furious tumult ; his
father was totally under the dominion of
the priests ; and when a cry was raised,
demanding, as their victim, the young and
innocent Gurith, the king's assent was
given. As for the princess, she was not
to be found. Two persons, however, who
at once had guessed the place of her
retreat, met at the door of her mysterious
chamber. For once, that door was scarcely
closed. It opened at the gentle touch of
Regnar, but there was something arrested
him. " Stop, stop," he whispered, holding
the door firmly with one hand, whilst he
thrust forth the other to prevent Temora
from advancing : " stop but a little while.
Let us not disturb her yet." Temora
obeyed. Curiosity for a time mastered
her'vengeance. She wished to hear dis-
tinctly the words which were pronounced
in that chamber ; but what were the words
that fell upon her ear ? The low, sweet
voice of Gurith, breathing forth prayers
to the God she worshipped ; pleading for
her worst enemy, praying that he, whose
favour is life, would give a new spirit, and
sweet peace of mind, and every blessing
to her sister Temora ' The voice o

Gurith ceased, and Regnar entered softly.
Temora had sunk upon the step where she
had stood ; she did not enter, though at
last that chamber stood open before her ;
but with still greater astonishment than
that with which she had listened, she gazed
upon its inmate. Gurith had not heard
the light step of her husband. She was
kneeling, with both her hands covering
her face. The tears that trickled througli
her fingers too well betrayed the anguish
that had stopped her voice in prayer.
And this, then, was the secret of the
mysterious chamber ? Gurith had trusted
to no spell but that of innocence ; her
strength had been in the confession of her
utter weakness to him with whom she held
her high andspiritual communion — to him
whose strength is made perfect in the
weakness of his children. To him who
hath borne our griefs and carried our sor-
rows— whose gracious invitation is to the
weary and heavy laden — she had gone in
every time of trial ; and from the foot of
his cross, where she ever laid the burden
of her griefs, she had brought forth into
the world that sweet and holy cheerful-
ness which passed even the understanding
of the wretched Temora. Struck to the
heart, the sorceress slunk silently away.
Some feelings of remorse had seized upon
her, and now she would have gladly
stopped the tumult. Alas ! she had no
power to calm the storm which she had
raised. The frantic multitude had burst
the palace gates. Regnar was over-
powered, and they were dragging their
meek and innocent victim to the altar of
the horrid idol, when suddenly, and it
seemed miraculously, a higher power in-
terposed and stopped their blind fury. The
aged monarch fell dead into the arms of
his attendants ; the excitement of the last
few hours had proved too much for his
feeble frame. Instantly, and almost at a
venture, a single voice cried out, " Long
live king Regnar !" There was a breath-
less pause — and then the cry was echoed
by the shouts of all the people. Gurith,
the Christian Gurith, was saved.

REPLY OF JAMES THE FIRST.

A corporation, in addressing James the
First, hoped that he might reign as long
as the sun, moon, and stars endured !
" Gude faith, mon," said the king, " then
my son maun reign by candle-light.''

PERILS BY FLOOn AND FIF.T.D.

401

THE SPECTRE SHIP.
AN AYR LEGEND.

Bryce Gullbyland was a tall, raw-
boned, middle-aged man, with two liigh
cheek-bones; his nose thin and somewhat
hooked ; two small grey eyes that had taken
up their residence in the inner chambers
of his head, which were thatched with a
pair of eye-brows of long grey hair ; h:s
mouth was drawn together — not unlike a
purse that had long been in the possession
of a spendthrift — and was seldom unpuck-
ered but to utter some monosyllable, for
he was extremely tenacious of his words
on all occasions. This, with a considera-
ble bend in iiis shoulders, gave him some-
what of an odd appearance, although he
had given a little more in to the new order
of things, that were beginning to make
considerable inroads on the wardrobes of
our forefathers.

But this piece of animal machinery —
ornamented with a large white wig, com-
posed of goat's hair, a huge cocked hat,
a coat of brown grogram with large cuffs,
and every button (of which there were no
lack) of the size of a silver crown, a pair

VOL. II. — 51.

Page 403.

of petticoat-trowsers, composed of Osna-
burgh sail-cloth, and large silver buckles
that covered the greatest portion of his
instep — made up altogether a sort of am-
phibious animal, neither landsman nor
seaman, but yet something of both. Such
was the hero of the tale that I am about
to narrate.

It was in the year 1723, that the good
ship, the ♦' Golden Thistle," of Ayr, was
chartered by the Virginia company to
sail for Maryland, in ISouth Carolina, for
a cargo of tobacco ; and the said Bryce
Gullbyland was appointed captain, (to the
no small loss of Johnny Towlines, who had
long sailed her with profit to his owners —
although Johnny was one of those people
that could discover a dozen meridians in
the four-and-twenty hours,) through the
interest of Bailie M'llwhang, whose sister
Bryce had married a few weeks previous
to this date. She was a virgin maiden of
fifty; and her featuies might have been
fixed on the bow of the fire-ship, the
Medusa, or would have formed an appro-
priate ornament over the gateway of a
vinegar- yard.

The Sundav previfu^ to (he sailing of
3f

402

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

the Golden Thistle, captain Gullbyland
went to church at the head of his crew ;
when the reverend Robert Adair, then
minister, and the congregation, joined
most fervently in prayer for a successful
voyage : and that day, Jenny Whitelees,
the most popular spa'eu ife in the parish,
had observed the model- ship, that is sus-
pended over the sailor's-loft, to veer round
in the direction that the Golden Thistle
was bound, and return back to its former
station. This she afterwards told Mrs.
Gullbyland, when called to look into futu-
rity through the dark clouds of Bohea dust,
or mayhap it might be black-leafed Con-
gou. The voyage, she said, would turn
out both short and prosperous — for the cup
boded every thing that was desirable, and
tiie motion of the ship was an augury that
never failed. She further avowed, that
since her husband was lost off the Ouchar
Rocks, in 1702, no ship had left the bar
of Ayr, but she could foretell the fortune
of the voyage by its motion.

This promising augury, with a few little
items of scandal, was rewarded by Mrs.
Gullbyland with half-a-poimd of lamb's
wool, to make Jenny a pair of hose.

It was on the 1st of April that the Golden
Thistle crossed the bar of Ayr, decked out
in all the finery of jack, ensign, pendant,
and streamer ; while her white swelling
sails were borne on the gale like a summer
cloud. A favourable breeze sprung up,
and in two hours the Golden Thistle ap-
peared but as a speck on the blue horizon
of the ocean. Towards evening, the wea-
ther became thick and hazy, and the wind
rose into what a seaman would have called
a stiff gale ; but to Bryce Gullbyland, who
was but a fresh water mariner, (for he never
had sailed beyond the narrow seas that
surround Scotland,) it became an alarm-
ing storm, and by daylight next morning
he had lost all calculation of what course
he was in, or to what quarter of the globe
he had been blown. This weather con-
tinued for a fortnight, nor could Bryce,
during that period, come to any conclu-
sion, whether he was in terra incognita,
the broad Atlantic, or in the Sound of Kil-
brannan; for, although the worthy baillie,
his good brother, had avowed to the Vir-
ginia Company, that Bryce was deeply
skilled in navigation, yet it appeared to
be somewhat doubtful on this occasion —
since, if possessed of the theory, he did not
put it in practice.

At last the storm subsided, and the
weather clearing up, he found the ship
within sight of land j but it was still un-
known to Bryce whether he was drawing
near to the Anthropophagi. It was, how-
ever, a beautiful spring morning, and the
bosom of the ocean lay, like a boundless
mirror, enveloped in a thin blue vapour :
all hands were called upon deck, as the
land lay under the lea bow. It appeared,
at first sight, to be composed of collonades,
pillars, arches, and spires, of all the orders
architecture could boast ; but as the ship
drew near, they disappeared, and a fresh
creation rose out of the ocean, of ruined
minsters, towers, and cities, in endless
variety, which made Bryce exclaim, " This
is perilous strange !" A small boat, with
four people, was seen approaching the
ship, when Bryce left the deck, and shortly
appeared with a long musketoon on his
shoulder — which had been left in the cita-
del of Ayr by one of Oliver Cromwell's
soldiers — and paced the quarter-deck with
long martial strides, every step sounding
like a declaration of war to the approach-
ing boat, which was nearing the ship very
fast, and soon got along-side. It was then
discovered that the land was the Isle of
Skye, and the people no men-eaters. 'I'he
boatmen civilly proposed piloting the ship
into secure anchor-ground ; and the sun,
gaining more strengtii, soon dispelled the
clouds that enveloped the shore, when the
magic scenery disappeared, leaving a cold,
bleak, iron-bound coast, with a few fisher-
mens' huts scattered upon the beach.

The boatmen were soon informed of the
unskilful voyage; and one of them advised
captain Gullbyland to apply to the weird
wife, who dealt largely in fair wind, for as
much as would carry the ship to her
destined port. Bryce, who thought a fair
wind might stand him in lieu of naviga-
tion, for he was a firm believer in the power
of witchcraft — as a proof of which, he was
one of three that sat up with Maggie Os-
burne, previous to her execution at Ayr,
to prevent her from making her escape
through the key-hole of the prison-door —
instantly gave into the proposal, and pre-
paration was immediately set about for the
journey. Into a canvass bag, a junk of
salt beef, a small quantity of sea biscuit,
and two bottles of rum were put, as a re-
taining fee for Nor'westMeg — which was
the name by which she was known among
the mariners of the surrounding islands.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

403

Bryce, piloted by Willie Barnacle, an
old fisherman, and Davie Hassel, one of
his cabin-boys, carrying the bag, set out
for a cargo of fair wind. The road lay
through a narrow defile, betwixt two high
wild projecting cliffs, where the lichen and
dwarf- oak clung to the shelves and fissures
of the shattered face of the rock — from
which the head and venerable beard of the
mountain-goat were now and then seen
peeping, while their occasional bleats re-
echoed from the sun-ounding dens, awa-
kening the yell of the eagle, iliat claimed,
as it were, an hereditary right to the un-
disturbed dominion of the neighbouring
heights.

After climbing over broken disjointed
masses of granite for two miles, they came
to a clear rivulet, that flowed into a little
glen, in all the varied beauties of cascade,
stream, and pool — where spring had
already begun to strew with profusion the
fragrant primrose, the pied daisy, and dark
blue cuckoo-flower. They now reached
the top of a hillock, when old Barnacle,
exclaiming, ** Yonder's the canny wife's
bield !" pointed to a spot where stood a
group of gigantic figures, from the centre
of which arose a small curling volume of
smoke. As they drew nigh, they found
the figures to be nine rudely-formed pil-
lars, standing erect ; in the centre of which
there was a large broad stone, supported
by three upright ones. In short, it was
what an antiquary would have called a
Cromlech, or Druid's temple, which Nor'-
west Meg had metamorphosed, with the
assistance of turf, stone, and clay, into a
hovel or cavern, which she had occupied
for many years.

Old Barnacle, who on many former
occasions had officiated as high-priest to
this old sybil, ordered the skipper (as he
called Bryce) and the boy to halt at a short
distance. He approached the farthest of
the nine pillars, and lifting a long polished
pebble struck three distinct times, when a
creature of the most singular appearance
was seen creeping out from beneath the
large stone.

It appeared a mass of rags, without
symmetry, shape, or form — but which was
no other than the weird wife herself!
Rising upright, she commenced pacing
round the pillars in measured steps,
uttering a Runic rhyme in cadence to the
movement of her feet, at the same time
waving her arms wildly to and fro. When

she came opposite to old Barnacle, she
made a pause, and some words were ex-
changed ; but what they were, neither
Bryce nor the boy could understand.
They were now beckoned to approach
more near by the fisherman, when Meg
again renewed her steps and contortions,
uttering : —

" Children of the world's strife.
What seek ye from the weird wife ?
Is't wind for your bark, or storm for the foe-
Calm for your lines, or gales that blow-
Hope to the maiden, joy to the wife —
Tliat brings you to the weird wife ?"

Here, after making a pause opposite to
Bryce — for, with all her skill in futurity,
although the four elements were at her
command, in the opinion of the ignorant,
yet she could not tell what wind had blown
her such a votary, as his petticoat, trowsers
were not unlike the kilt of an Argyllshire
drover — once more commencing her
movements, she proceeded ; —

" Or is it from the ujjland fell —
To save the lamb from the eagle's yell,
From the wolf's fang, or the raven's beak—
That ye come Nor'west Meg to seek ?"

I'he fisherman, taking the bag fromthei
boy, laid the contents out upon the grass,
within the circle; while the hag, never
deigning to look at the articles, still kept
pacing round. At length, however, making
a full stand, they had a better opportunity
of scrutinising this strange being.

She was a dwarfish creature, not exceed-
ing three feet and a half high, her head
coming in for a third portion of the whole ;
her chin resting upon one of her breasts,
the opposite shoulder appearing over the
crown of her head ; her elf-locks dangling
over her face, and her garments, that
scarcely reached to her knees, displaying
a pair of crooked legs, half-covered by the
tattered remnants of chequered hose. She
now snatched up the empty bag, and rushed
into the cavern ; when Bryce, for the first
time opening his lips, exclaimed — " This
is perilous strange !"

Old Barnacle now gave Bryce to under-
stand tiiat this was the great crisis, and to
treasure up the words that she should utter
when she appeared next ; for, after that,
her skill ceased for fbur-and~twenty hours.
While uttering this admonition, she ap-
peared again, with the bag in her hand,
which she threw from her, without the
circle, repeating : —

" Sail west, till the blue craig meet your eyes—
This bag shall wind you on your way —
And tarrj- till the red sun rise :
Mark vour departure from that day,

3f2

404

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

And ye shall speed! — and j'e shall speed !—
Nor need j'e throw the deep sea lead —
For Nor' west Meg shall waleh the moon,
And give the current wind and tide :
O'er hidden rocks your bark shall swim—
O'er waves and oceans smoothly glide ;
No fears nor tears sliall dim jour eyes —
Sail west, for there your journey lies."

Here, giving a wild scream, as if ex-
hausted, she rushed into tlie cavern, while
Bryce exclaimed — " This is perilous
strange !"

The bag was now examined, whicli ap-
peared to be empty, the mouth tied with a
mystic knot of human hair ; and old Bar-
nacle, on delivering it to Bryce, gave strict
injunctions not to open it till the end of
the voyage, else all the fiends that untirl
the churches, or ride upon the shrouds of
the storm-tossed bark, would be their
companions during the voyage — as all ac-
cidents that happened to Nor'west Meg's
votaries arose out of yielding to this idle
curiosity.

Bryce no sooner got on board, than the
sails were once more unfurled, the wind
and tide being both favourable. By the
evening of the second day, they were
within sight of the blue craig of Ailsa.
Bryce, whose faith in the augury of the
weird wife was founded on the broad basis
of superstition, took the helm in his own
hand, and bore down for the craig. The
clouds of night began to rest on the bosom
of the ocean, and nothing was heard but
liie rippling of its surface on the bow of the
bark, as she glided on her way through the
silent tide. The moon now burst through
a large mass of black clouds, illuminating
all around with a bright silvery light.
Bryce, whose mind was wound up to the
highest point at this crisis, as he knew that
he was close upon the craig, discovered a
vessel edging away from under his lee-
bow, not two hundred yards distant. He
looked again — the cut of her sails and rig
of her mizen were the same as his own
ship ! — and, taking up the speaking trum-
pet that lay on the binnacle before him,
hailed her with — " What ship, a-hoy ?"
Bryce, who was all attention, heard his
own question repeated. This was not
altogether according to marine etiquette ;
he, however, once more shouted — *' The
Golden Thistle of Ayr, Bryce Gullbyland
master l" when, to his no 'small astonish-
ment, at the expiration of a few seconds,
he heard repeated distinctlv — *' The
Golden Thistle of Ayr, Bryce Gullbyland
master !"

*' This is perilous strange !" said he to
himself: "two square-cut top-sails, two
taught-rigged mizens, two Golden This-
tles, and two Biyce Gullbylands masters,
— it is perilous strange, indeed !"

He, however, thought he would make a
little more inquiry into the mystery that
appeared to envelope the two ships, and
again shouting — *' From whence, to
u here ?" it was instantly repeated back.
Bryce, in desperation, instantly replied —
" From Ayr, to Maryland in Virginia —
last from the Isle of Skye !" when, to com-
plete his horror, he heard in a loud sono-
rous voice — *' From Ayi-, to Maryland in
Virginia — last from the Isle of Skye !'*
Bryce now, letting go the helm, rushed
below, exclaiming — " Perilous delusion !"
and to w ind up the catastrophe, he caught
Davie Hassel, his cabin-boy, in the very
act of untying Nor'west Meg's bag of fair
wind. This was the climax of poor Bryce's
imaginary evils : he immediately bawled
out — *' I have seen it I 1 have seen it \ I
have seen it 1"

A part of the crew anxiously asked him
wliat he had seen. ** Why, I have seen
the spectre of the Golden Tiiistle, and
the wraith of Bryce Gullbyland, and I'll
shortly be a ghost myself: perilous, peri-
lous strange t"

One of the crew, who had been forward
in the bows during the parley betwixt
Biyce and the spectre ship, now came
below, to convince him that the imagined
ship was but the shadow of his own vessel,
reflected by the moon on the face of the
ocean !

*' Perilous nonsense t" exclaimed Bryce ;
" true and of verity it is that shadows have
no words 1"

*' Why, captain," said one of the sea-
men, ** we were so near the craig, that J
could have chucked a biscuit on the bluff
rock that overhangs the Mermaid's Cave,
where there is an echo that I have listened
to many a moonlight night such as this.
You should put away these fresh-water
vapours — for what were the words you
heard but the echo of my own mouth !"

But Tom Bobstay might as well have
lectured to the bulkhead as to Bryce : he
was now in a state of confirmed delirium,
muttering incoherent nonsense, and it was
with no little ditiiculty they got him into
his hammock. By daylight next morning
they were off the bar of Ayr, and Johnny
Smooth water, the pilot, (as there was no

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

405

surf that morning,) came alongside; when
Biyce — \vho was now in a high brain-
fever, having grown worse during the
night — was carried ashore, supported by-
two of the pilot's crew, to his own house,
where Mrs. Gullbyland, meeting him at
the door, anxiously inquired : —

" Dear Bryce ! sweet Bryce 1 what sort
of a voyage liad you ?"

" From Ayr, to Maryland in Virginia !"
exclaimed Bryce.

" What is the matter with you, my dear
Bryce ?"

" ' For Nor'west Meg will ■watch the moon,
And give the current wind and tide :'

But it is all delusion — all delusion 1"

"My dear brother, the baillie, is dead !"
said Mrs. Gullbyland : "he went to May-
bole, to a sp;ce-and-wine entry* — took a
surfeit — came home — went to bed — and
never rose again ! But he has left us all
he had !"

'* My dear brother dead and gone ! —
Yes, yes — to the Isle of Skye, or the up-
land fell !" exclaimed Bryce.

" Remember yourself — you are now in
your own comfortable parlour, sitting by a
good sea-coal fire."

" Captain of the Golden Thistleof Ayr !"
shouted Bryce.

The skipper, still continuing thus to in-
terrupt every conxersaticm with these in-
coherent ravings, was confined to his room
under the charge of one of the most skilful
physicians of Ayr, and soon recovered of
his malady ; for, a few days after, some of
his neighbours saw him settling a small
account with an inkle-weaver from Leith.
For the further information of the reader,
Jenny Whitelees, having for ever lost her
reputation as a spaewife, left off reading
of cups for the more profitable practice of
reading her Bible ; and Johnny Towlines
was again appointed captain of the Golden
Thistle.

If there is any moral to be derived from
this tale, it can only amount to this ; —
Put no trust in augury.

THE STUDENT OF HEIDELBURG.

Tn the year 1/9 — , the university of
Heidelburg differed but little from that of

• It was an ancient custom in the burgh of
Maybole, thutv.hen a candidate to become a bur-
gess w as the son of a freeman, the fine levied,
being ten shillings sterling, was commuted into
a treat of spice ami wine, for behoof of the town-
council.

the present day, save in point of numbers;
the same mixture of ranks and classes, and
the same swaggering half-military looking
personages, pipe in mouth, were then, as
now, to be seen at all times parading the
principal streets. The student at a Ger-
man university is a strange being, an odd
compound of duelling, smoking, billiard-
playing, love-making, and study; but still
there are some whose object is study alone,
who lead a quiet regular life, and pass
through their terms unnoticed, save by
their immediate class fellows — and just
such an one was Karl Leibetz. He lodged
at the house of a widow lady, who had
hitherto declined receiving any of the stu-
dents, her reasons being two-fold; first, she
Ijad not wlierewithal to make her yearly
expenses meet without much straining ;
and secondly, lier care and solicitude for
the welfare of the pretty Adeline, her only-
daughter, clearly pointed out to her that a
gay and rattling student would ill accord
with her arrangements. Her scruples
were, however, removed b}' a note from
Mr. Reisthans, the principal banker, re-
questing to know whether she would have
any objection to receive as an inmate a
young man whose connexions were of the
highest respectability, and for whom he
would enter into any guarantee she might
desire. The recommendation of the wor-
thy banker was not to be refused, and a
reply in the atifirmative, stating how happy
madame Hartmann would feel in receiving
any friend of Mr. Reisthans, was inmie-
diately sent, and in due course Mr. Karl
Leibetz arrived.

In a short time madame Hartmann be-
gan to find that Mr. Karl was a ren)ark-
ably pleasant young man : he was so quiet,
that she could scarcely believe she had
received any addition to her household :
there was no smoking from morn till night,
no bottles of beer strewed about the rooms
in all directions, and no carousing all night
with his fellow students ; in fact, she began
to consider him more as a friendly guest
than a lodger. On his first arrival, the
pretty Adeline, whose expectations and
curiosity had been excited in the highest
degree, had expressed herself rather dis-
appointed ; there was a chilling hauteur
about him which she could not at all
understand, but in a short time this wore
away, and Adeline began partly to coin-
cide with her mother's opinion, in think-
ing him very agreeable, and partly to go

406

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

ratlier farther than madume Hartiiiann
had done, in finding him a very handsome
man.

Mr. Karl became at length to be so
much considered as one of the family, that
in any invitations to madame and her
daughter, he was always included, and
never failed of accompanying them, and
became elsewhere as great a favourite as
with madame Hartmann.

I believe it to be a general rule with all
narrators of " historiettes," never to allow
a young couple to become domiciled under
the same roof without engendering the
tender passion, and I mean shortly, in a
work of fiction, boldly to strike out a new
reading for myself; but, at the present
time, as I have to do with stubborn facts,
I must be content to jog on in the old-
fashioned way, and admit that there was
some truth in the surmises of an attach-
ment existing between Mr. Karl and the
pretty Adeline; and perhaps it was not so
wonderful that such should be the case —
all things considered — for Adeline was, in
honest truth, a remarkably pretty girl, with
a sometiiing so piquante and lively about
her, that you were lured away by her fas-
cinations, ere you had time altogether to
make up your mind that you were doing
any thing more than considering her as a
very agreeable sort of a person. As for
Mr. Karl, I can't, as an honest historian,
quite agree with Adeline, in saying he
was very handsome. He was quiet in his
manners, elegant in his appearance, and
particularly attentive as to the make and
arrangement of his dress ; in fact, it
appeared as if he embodied in a German
person, that in England we generally^
believed, (at least before prince Puckler
Muskau taught us otherwise,) to be only
found as belonging to an English gentle-
man.

It was not until some time had elapsed
that Mr. Karl, finding himself extremely
annoyed by the attentions of a provokingly
handsome puppy towards mamselle Ade-
line, began to question himself as to why
he felt so nmch irritated, and then it
occurred to him, in the strongest manner
possible, suddenly as it were, without any
mental train of reasoning, that he was in
love. Now the first thing we do, after
discovering that we are thus caught, is to
wonder at our stupidity in not sooner being
aware of it, because, should circumstances
or necessity render it advisable, we may

have an opportunity of quietly backing out
before matters are carried too far, and in
Karl's case, he clearly saw that lie was too
far advanced to be able to retreat — how-
ever much stern necessity might point
out the prudence of such a step. In con-
sulting with himself, he could only see one
great obstacle that presented itself: — his
father, in sending him to Heidelburg, and
speci lying the various acquirements ne-
cessary for his son, had never said a word
about a wife, and he much doubted whe-
ther such a thing had ever been thought
of; and even had it been in contempla-
tion, he was tolerably sure that, much as
he might admire the charms, the elegance
and disposition of Adeline, his father would
not consider them as sufficient, without
the balance was equipoised by rank and
wealth.

If Karl, or even the pretty Adeline, had
been slow in discovering the grovvth of
their affections, madame Hartmann had
been somewhat quicker; she had had ex-
perience in these matters, and could under-
stand the various little incidents, which,
unheeded by the parties themselves, speak
volumes to a careful and interested ob-
server ; and as a wise and prudent mother
ought to do, she deemed it right, before
matters went too far, to know something
more about Mr. Karl Leibetz : it was true
Mr. Reisthans had stated his family to be
of the highest respectability^ and that he
was instructed to honour his drafts to any
amount ; all that might be very well as far
as their original position was concerned,
but something more she thought ought to
be known, as matters seemed to be taking
a different turn. So one day, finding the
opportunity of making up some accounts
with Mr. Reisthans to be very convenient,
she stated at once what were her suspi-
cions, and begged to know who and what
the elder Mr. Leibetz might be.

The worthy banker seemed somewhat
posed at such a downright question, for he
stared at madame through his spectacles
as if she had been anewly^-discovered error
in his ledger ; but the scrutiny was unsa-
tisfactory, for the lady had screwed up her
countenance in the most determined man-
ner— and, like Brutus, she paused for a
reply.

" This is an awkward business, madame,"
rejoined the banker.

" An awkward business ["responded the
lady, in surprise.

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD,

407

" Very."

•* I really don't understand you, Mr.
Reistbans."

** I am sorry for it, madame ; but to ex-
plain, it is a pity your daughter should
love Mr. Karl, and it is a pity Mr. Karl
should be enamoured of the young lady,
because there can be no marriage in the
case."

*' What!" screamed the astonished mo-
ther, •• not marry my daughter !"

*' Perfectly out of the question."

" Is he married already ?" asked madame
Hartmann.

" Certainly not," returned the banker.

*' Then what is there to prevent him ?"

*' He has a father," said the banker.

" Doubtless," interrupted the lady.

" And his father is — "

*' What ?"

*' Why, madame, I am not exactly at
liberty to explain ; but as a friend to your-
self and family, believe me, when I say, it
is quite impossible that a marriage can,
under any circumstances, take place ; there-
fore I would advise you, as soon as possi-
ble, to put a stop to this courting."

The banker looked so serious, and ma-
dame knew him so well for a matter-of-fact
personage, that slie determined on follow-
ing his ad\ ice ; therefore, on her return
home, without much circumlocution, she
stated her mind pretty freely. Mr. Karl
hummed and ha'd, like a man who had a
great deal to say, but did not know exactly
how to explain himself; but madame cut
the matter extremely short, by stating that,
as a mother, anxious for the welfare and
peace of mind of her daughter, she was
desirous of preventing her affections being
irrevocably fixed where the object of them
was altogether beyond her reach, and if
perfectly agreeable to Mr. Karl Leibetz,
his absence alone woidd bring about so
desirable an object.

Mr. Karl looked very angry, and tried
to expostulate, but madame remained firm,
and the result was his departure from Hei-
delburg on the following day.

The pretty Adeline pined for some time
for the loss of her companion, but as time
wore on, and as neither he nor tidings of
him ever reached her afterwards, she gra-
dually began to listen to the addresses of
a young merchant, named Reiter ; and
though he wanted the grace, ease, and
dignity of Mr. Karl, yet the match was so
desirable, and the young man so agreeable,

that she at length consented to become
madame Reiter.

Time wore away, and some few years
passed on, madame Reiter having followed
the prosperous fortunes of her husband,
who had finally settled at ]\Iunich : as they
were but recently arrived, with the inten-
tion of permanently residing at the Bava-
rian court, it was necessary that they should
be presented.

The important day being arrived, found
madame Reiter arrayed in all the splendour
of a court dress, and plumes " en suite,"
looking more blooming and handsome than
ever, and the admiration of the crowd of
courtiers waiting their turn for presenta-
tion. When her name was announced as
the next in rotation, she felt a passing
tremor of the moment, but the gracious
bow of the sovereign instantly re-assured
her, and she raised her eyes until they
met those of the king, when, to her no
small surprise and astonishment, she re-
cognised Mr. Karl Leibetz : it appeared
tile recognition was mutual; but the king,
looking around, and pressing his finger on
his lips, to prevent any breach of court-
etiquette, she merely bowed, and passed
onward.

What were the precise results of this
** eclaircissement," I know not, or even
whether madame explained to her hus-
band the circumstances of her " premieres
amours ;" but I believe not, for the worthy
Mr. Reiter was often heard to congratu-
late himself on the lucky chance which had
led him to carry on his business at Munich,
since he had prospered even beyond his
most sanguine hopes.

INCIDENT AT KILLICRANKIE.

During the battle of Killicrankie, or of
Renrorie, as the highlanders call it, one of
those incidents occurred, which were too
frequent in those troublesome times. Sir
Ewen Cameron, of Lochiel, with his clan,
had joined lord Dundee in the service of
the abdicated king, while his second son,
a captain in the Scotch fusileers, was,
under general Mackay, on the side of the
government. As the general was observing
the highland army drawn up on the face of
a hill, a little above the house of Urrard,
to the westward of the great pass, he turned
round to young Cameron, who stood next
to him, and, pointing to the Camerons,
said — " Here is your father with his wild
savages ; how would you like to be with

408

TALES OF CHIVALRY : OR,

him ?" " It signifies little," replied the |
other, *' what I would like, but 1 recom-
mend to you to be prepared, or perhaps
my father and his wild savages may be
nearer to you before night than you would
like." And so it happened : Dundee de-
layed his attack till, according to an eye-
witness, ** the sun's going down, when the
highlandmen advanced on us like n)ad-
men, without shoes or stockings, covering
themselves from our fire with their targets.
At last they cast away their muskets, drew
their broad-sw ords, and advanced furiously
upon us — broke us, and obliged us to re-
treat; some fled to the water, some another
way." Never were such strokes given in
Europe, as were given that day by the
highlanders. " IVIany of general Mackay's
officers and soldiers were cut down through
the skull and neck to the very breast j
others had their skulls cut off above their
ears, like nightcaps ; some soldiers had both
their bodies and cross-belts cut through at
one blow; and pikes and small swords were
cut like willows." In short, the charge
was like a torrent, and the rout complete ;
but Dundee fell early in the attack. The
consternation occasioned by the death of
the general prevented an immediate pur-
suit tlirough the great pass. If they had
been closely followed, and if a few men
had been placed at the soutliern entrance,
not a man of the king's troops would have
escaped. This uninterrupted retreat caused
general jVIackay to conclude that some
misfortune had befallen lord Dundee.
" Certainly," said he, " Dundee has been
killed, or I could not thus be permitted to
retreat."

The force of the attack was irresistible.
After the right of the line had given way,
the regiments on the centre and left (the
left being covered by the river Garry, and
the right by a woody precipice below the
house of Urrard,) stood their ground, and
for a short time withstood the shock of the
highlanders' charge with the broad-sword ;
but at length they gave way on all sides.
Hastings' regiment fled through the pass
on the north side. The fusileers, dashing
through the river, were followed by the
highlanders, one party of whon) pressed on
their rear, while the others climbed up the
hills on the south side of the pass, and
having no ammunition, rolled down stones,
and killed several of the soldiers before
they re-crossed the river at Invergarry.
This was the only attempt to pursue.

In this battle, Lochiel was attended by
the son of his foster-brother. This faithful
adherent followed him like his shadow —
ready to assist him with his sword, or cover
him from die shot of the enemy. Soon
after the battle began, the chief missed his
friend from his side, and turning round to
look what had become of him, saw him
lying on his back with his breast pierced
by an arrow. He had hardly breath
enough, before he expired, to tell Lochiel
that, seeing an enemy — a highlander in
general Mackay's army — aiming at him
with a bow and arrow from the rear, he
sprung behind him, and thus sheltered
him from death by receiving himself the
fatal shaft.

HORSES.

When the duke of Marlborougli was at
Berlin, Frederick I., king of Prussia, ex-
hibited a battle of wild beasts. A trooper's
horse and bull were first turned out, and
soon after were let loose a lion, a tiger, a
bear, and a wolf, kept hungry for the pur-
pose. The tiger crawled along upon the
ground like a cat, and jumped upon the
bull's back, which soon brought the bull
down, and then the great scramble began,
the beasts tearing the bull to pieces, and
likewise one another. The wolf and the
tiger were next dispatched. The lion and
the bear had a long contest. The lion,
with his teeth and his claws, wounded the
bear in several places, but could not pene-
trate much farther than the skin. The
bear, somehow or other, took the lion at
an advantage, got him within his grasp,
and gave him such a squeeze, as squeezed
the breath out of his body. The bear then
furiously attacked the trooper's horse, who
stood grazing all this while at a little
distance, and not minding what had been
done; but the horse, with his hind-leg,
gave the bear such a kick on the ribs, as
provoked him into ten-fold fury. At the
second attack, a second kick, which fell
upon his head, broke both his jaws, and
laid him dead upon the ground. So that,
contrary to all expectation, the trooper's
horse remained master of the field of
battle.

THE DANISH CREED.

" A brave man," said the Danish creed
of honour, " should attack two, stand firm
against three, give ground a little to four,
and only retreat from five."^

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

4oy

THE BRAHMIN'S PREDICTION.
A TALE OF THE EAST.

It was in the year 1775, at the presi-
dency of Bombay, that an English lady
was, for several weeks, every ev^ening,
observed to walk on the beach, anxiously
looking towards the horizon. A Brah-
min, well known among the English for
some extraordinary instances of second-
sight, noting her resort to this place, and
her anxious looks, watched, and when no
persons were visible, accosted her, and
asked the cause of her anxiety ; and she,
knowing the character of the man, and
moreover believing in his power, replied,
** Why should a man, so gifted as you are,
ask what you must well know ?"

The Brahmin was affected, and stead-
fastly fixing his countenance upon her —
which, aided by the placid air that per-
vaded it, and heightened by his venerable
beard of snowy whiteness, gave him the
appearance of a saint — said,

" Woman, I know the cause of your
sorrow : your son lives ; the ship will soon
arrive in safety ; but — " here he became
more fixed, and his eyes assumed the ap-

voL. II. — 52.

Page 410.

pearance of deep intensity — " you will
never more behold him !"

This was an awful blow to her ; for a
moment she was bewildered by the an-
nunciation, and turning round to ask some
further question, and, if possible, to obtain
an explanation, the Brahmin was gone !
and to the day of her death she never saw
him more, nor was he ever heard of after-
wards in the neighbourhood of Bombay.

This intelligence, as may be expected,
threw her into a state of dejection, from
which nothing could arouse her. Mrs.
Mortimer, before she married the gentle-
man whose name she then bore, was left
a young and beautiful widow, with two
children, a son and daughter. The former
was sent to England for education — the
latter remained with her.

A short time previous to her meeting
with the Brahmin, she received letters from
her friends and son in England, stating
that he had obtained the appointment of
writer, and hoped soon to see his mother.
It was after all the ships of the season had
arrived, that the fond mother lingered
every evening on the lonely beach,
crossed and agitated bv a variety of feei-
3g

410

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

ings, wondering at her son's non-arrival,
and imagining a thousand evils which
might have attended the ship's voyage ;
and the "perils of waters" did not tend
to lessen her feelings of melancholy. But
after the encounter with the Brahmin,
hope fled ; and the heavy gloom which
settled upon her could not be erased or
lightened by the endearing attentions of a
doting husband, or the kindness of friends.
They attempted to argue with her upon
the folly and weakness of giving way to
such ideas ; that it was morally impossible
the Brahmin could be so gifted. No ; no
arguments, no persuasions could alter her ;
the blow was too deeply struck. Those
who know how sensitive women are, how
prone to superstition, and more especially
in cases where the tenderest feeiings of
their lovely nature are concerned, a
mother — the pangs and exquisite bliss of
maternal love, and that too centred in an
only son, from whom she had been sepa-
rated since he was an infant — will not too
harshly judge of her conduct, or accuse her
of more than a common degree of super-
stition.

At length a vessel was announced as
arrived, and now was to be proved the
truth or falsehood of the Brahmin's words,
at least the first part, that he lived. What
lano^uage can portray the agitated feelings
of Mrs. Mortimer, between the contention
which in her bosom arose, as to whether
the Brahmin's declaration were to be be-
lieved, or she should banish all thoughts
of it, and fondly anticipate her son. She
would have flown to the beach, interrupted
every passenger — but strength was denied
her ; her anxiety had then risen to such a
pitch, that it quite incapacitated her from
all exertion, and she remained in a state of
mental stupor from the receipt of the news
to the time when her husband disclosed to
her the truth.

Mr. Mortimer, in the meantime, had
learnt every information which he thought
necessary, and hastened to liis wife with
the details ; when she saw him, she cried
out franticly — *' Where — where is he ?"

He replied, ** The Brahmin's prediction
as yet is true."

" He lives, then — he lives !" said she.

" He does," replied her husband.

" Tell me where he lives — what coun-
try, uhat city ?"

** The ship," said Mr. Mortimer, " oh
its passage, lotiched at Rio Janeiro, and

by what inducements or artifice Greville
(the first husband's name) was persuaded
to become a Jesuit, is not shewn or known.

*• A Jesuit !" exclaimed the mother ;
" oh, my Henry, my child, who were thy
religious instructors ?"

*' It is, indeed, too true," continued Mr.
Mortimer, ** that he has become a Jesuit,
and has been entered as a novice in their
college."

This was the fact: of that aider he pro-
fessed himself, and for many years corres-
ponded with his fond mother, stating that,
of his own free-will, he had adopted the
religion of which he then was a member,
and expressed himself as perfectly happy.

Tn this manner he kept up a corres-
pondence witli his mother and friends, till
suddenly the intercourse ceased, and she
never heard from him more. Then all the
terrors of the past, and the Brahmin's pre-
diction, flashed anew on the mind of Mrs.
Mortimer with redoubled horror. She
gave herself up to grief, and wept for him
as if slie were already certain of his death.
Mrs. Mortimer, after she had given up all
hopes respecting her son, retired to Eng-
land with her husband and family, where
shelost her daughter, the sister to Greville.
This was a fresh source of sorrow and
grief. She sank into a state of despond-
ency, from which neither time, religion,
nor the efforts of an affectionate husband,
could awaken her.

About ten years after the death of Gre-
ville's sister, an intimate friend of the
family, having money remitted from India
by bills on Portugal, went to Lisbon to
receive it. Walking near a prison in the
city, an Englishman, through the grate of
a subterraneous dungeon, asked charity.
He stopped to relieve his countryman,
and inquired into the circumstances of his
imprisonment.

" I am," the prisoner said, " a Jesuit
in religion, but an Englishm;in by birth ;
by the uprightness and integrity of my
conduct, I won the love and esteem of my
order at Rio Janeiro, and quickly rose in
rank and eminence. Sir, no doubt you
have heard of Pombal, the merciless mi-
nister of the Portuguese king ?"

*' I have,'" replied the other.

*' From my rank," continued the pri-
soner, " I grew to be an object of suspicion,
and at last fell one of Pombal's countless
victims ; and the order of Jesuits having
been suppressed, there was no restraint to

PEPJLS IJY FLOOD A\D FIELD.

411

the malignant and despotic temper of that
odious minister, and he cast me into this
prison, where every hour I am nearing to
the time of death. Yet how my soul, in
my dying hour, would be lightened — how
the sting of death would be softened, could
I but hear of one — my mother — oh ! my
mother!" and he burst into tears.

The stranger started at this declaration;
Mrs. Mortimer flashed across his mind, and
he said to the prisoner, ** Your mother —
have you a mother ?"

**Alas, sir !" said the unhappy being,
" I know not if she lives."

** Your name ! your nam.e ?"

*' Henry Greville."

** Gracious Providence ! your mother is
my most intimate friend !"

*' Oh, does she stiil live ?"

" She was living when I left England,
but in dreadful despondency at your sup-
posed death, coupled with the loss of your
sister !"

" What ! and is my poor sister dead ?"
and the wretched prisoner heaved a deep
sigh.

The odious Pombal being still in power,
it was impossible to obtain the prisoner's
release for some time, and it became ne-
cessary to petition the king. In the mean
time, nothing was left undone to make
Greville's situation as comfortable as pos-
sible, by supplying him with the means
of purchasing food and proper clothing,
and as an amelioration, he was removed
to a more airy and healthy cell. At the
same time, advices were despatched to Mr.
Mortimer, who, with all possible tender-
ness and prudence, communicated the
intelligence to his unhappy wife, adding,
there was no doubt of his deliverance.
The news did create a momentary joy,
but it was succeeded by keener pangs of
sorrow, and she continually exclaimed —
*' O, the Brahmin ! the Brahmin 1"

If the evil one possessed the power of
making us miserable, it would be by giving
us the power of viewing the future. The
Brahmin had told her that her son lived,
but that she would never see him more j
the first part of the prediction had been
fultilled, and she could not doubt the truth
of the latter.

After some little difficulty, the release
of the ex-Jesuit was obtained ; he heard
of life, and light, and joy, ami maternal
love. He had lived, like a toad, in the

bowels of the earth ; but air and liglit be-
came poison to one who had so long dwelt
in darkness. The transition was too great
for human nature, and he died immediately
after his deliverance. His unhappy mo-
ther did not long survive him, and to her
last hour exclaimed, "The Brahmin ! the
Brahmin !"

Thus was accomplished, in all its parts,
after a lapse of thirty years, The Brah-
min's Prediction !

A BRITISH SAILOR.

The seamen of the squadron took each
their turn for the military service on the
walls- of Acre. One of them, belonging
to the Tigre, liad observed, in his spell
ashore, the body of a French general,
in his splendid uhiform, laying exposed
in the very centre of the ditch. This dwelt
on the mind, though — the truth must be
told — of the obtuse-minded tar. In-
deed, he had never shown himself remark-
able either for intellect or activity, and held
no higher office in the ship than a waister.
Yet, by some unexplained mental process,
the fate and the unburied corpse of the
French general had fixed themselves so
strongly on his imagination, that he was
determineil, at all risks, to give his glit-
tering dead opponent the riglits of sepul-
ture. The next day, though out of his
turn, he asked and obtained permission to
take his spell on the walls. Nothing di-
vided the hostile entrenchments but this
same ditch, and so closely placed were the
foes to each other, that a moderate whisper
could be easily heard from one embank-
ment to the other. Nothing appeared
above these embankments but a solid line
of bayonets, for if a hat or head, or any
thing tangible, appeared on either side, it
was saluted with a volley of perforating^
balls. It was about noon, and the respec-
tive hostile lines were preserving a dead
silence, anxiously waiting for the oppor-
tunity of a shot at each other. Our sea-
man— who, without informing any one of
his intention, had provided himself with
a spade and pickaxe — suddenly broke the
ominous silence by shouting out, in a sten-
torian voice, " Mounseers, a-hoy ! 'vast
heaving there a-bit, will ye ? and belay
over all with your poppers for a spell."
And then he shoved his broad unmeaning
face over the lines. Two hundred mus-
kets were immediately pointed at him, but
seeing him with only the implements of
^ 3 G 2

412

TALES OF CHIVALRY; OR,

digging, and not exactly understanding
liis demand for a parley, the French forbore
to fire. Jack very leisurely then scranjbied
over the entrenchment into the ditch, the
muzzle of the enemy's muskets still fol
lowing his every motion. All this did not
in the least chsturb \\\s sang froid ; but
going up to the French general, he took
his measure in quite a business-like man-
ner, and dug a very decent grave close
alongside the defunct in glory. When
this was finished, shaking what was so
lately a French general very cordially and
affectionately by the hand, he reverently
placed him in his impromptu grave, then
shovelled the earth upon, and made all
smooth above him. When all was pro-
perly completed, he made his best sailor's
bow and foot-scrape to the French, should-
ered his implements of burial, and climbed
over into his own quarters, with the same
imperturbability that had marked his pre-
vious appearance. This he did amidst
cheers.

THE RIVAL SARACENS.

The tumultuous preparations of the day
had yielded to the soft stillness of even-
ing, and scarcely a sound was heard in
the infidel camp, save the occasional ex-
change of the watch word, or the heavy
measured tread of the sentry, as he passed
his allotted space, when Orasmin issued
from his tent, and hastened to meet his
beloved Zelmira, the fairest of tlie nume-
rous maids who attended on the lovely
Irene, the favourite mistress of the bold
Argantes. The pagan camp was situated
in tlie midst of extensive plains, delight-
fully interspersed with groves of orange
and citron, which, agitated by the gentle
breeze, spread a delightful odour around ;
at its eastern extremity was erected the
sj)lendid pavilion of the Saracenic leader,
at the back of which, in a small and ro-
n)antic valley, and nearly hid from view
by surrounding shrubs, was the remains
of an ancient grotto, formerly the resi-
dence of some religious solitary, but now
fast falling into decay. It was here the
lovers would meet, and, unseen by mortal
eye, breathe forth the sentiments of their
hearts. It was one of those delightful
evenings so peculiar to the soft climate
of Palestine, not a cloud was to be seen
in the heavens, when Orasmin, proceed-
ing to the well-known spot, a female of
enchanting beauty rushed into his fond

embrace, and for a few moments the
lovers regarded each other with all the
ardour of mutual affection. ** Oh, this is
bliss, indeed," cried Orasmin, gently un-
twining his arms from around the lovely
maid, "to hold thee in these arms, and
call thee niine — but why that tear, my
beloved," and he kissed the pearly in-
truder from her cheek ; ** at such a time
as this, joy alone ought to be the tenant
of thy fair bosonu" '* Alas, I know not
why, my Ora>^min, but a mysterious dread
rushes through niy frame, as though some
fearful and uncontrollable calamity was
about to happen." " Nay, heed it not,
my love," cried Orasmin, folding the
ti-embler to his breast, " 'tis but the ex-
citation of your imagination, which you
must strive to conquer." " I will do so,"
returned the beauteous maid ; " but look,
what is that ?" at the same time directing
his attention to a dark object a short dis-
tance before her. " Oh 'tis but the shadow
of some neighbouring tree, waved by the
passing breeze," exclaimed Orasmin,
"and yet it cannot be — no, by Ali, 'tis
some vile spy," and grasping his sabre he
rushed to the spot, but the person as
quickly retreated, but not before he had
a full view of his retiring figure — " That
gigantic form bespeaks it Ben Mulac, or
I am much deceived." — "Ben Mulac,"
responded Zelmira, clinging to her lover,
and terror blanching her fair cheek, *' gra-
cious powers, what does he here ?' —
" That I should have asked him," ex-
claimed Orasmin, " had he not, like a
craven, fled ; but why this agitation ?
what has occurred, coupled with that
name, to occasion this emotion, tell me,
I conjure you ?" " Listen, then," cried
the still trembling Zelmira, "and I'll
explain. You are aware Ben Mulac was
the early suitor for my hand ; you also
know, that my father, yielding to my re-
peated entreaties, prevailed on him, upon
the plea of my extreme youth, to with-
draw his suite ; and with joy i found my-
self freed from his detested proposals, and,
as I hoped, for ever ; but in this I was de-
ceived, for but a short time had elapsed
after that fatal battle in which my beloved
lather fell, ere he again appeared, and
renewed his pretensions with all his former
ardour, but he was again rejected, and
vain were his efforts to conceal his rage
at ihis second refusal, which he vehe-
mently averred, arose from my love for

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

413

some more favoured rival. 'Nay, deny
it not,' lie cried, as he observed me about
to interrupt him. " I know the presump-
tuous stripling who has dared to cross my
wishes, but let him beware. Tor Ben Mulac
is his deatlly foe ;" and with these words
he left me. From that lime his conduct
became completely changed ; that ani-
mated and ardent expression which Iiad
till now illumined his features, whenever
we met, was supplanted by a gloomy
scowl, and he would fix his large dark
eyes upon my face, with a fierce intensity
that filled me with dismay. This morn-
ing, as he hastened from the pavilion,
after his private conference with the noble
Argantes, I abruptly met him ; fire seem-
ed to flash from bis eyes. With difficulty
could 1 suppress an ejaculation of terror
as I turned to avoid iiim, but, seizing my
arm, he exclaimed, "The time will soon
come when Zelmira shall have cause to
repent the rejection of Ben Mulac. Think
not, proud ^irl, ever to become the bride
of Orasmin ; no, 1 swear by the immortal
A!i, rather than that, my dagger should
stretch thee lifeless at my feet. Never
shall the boy Orasmin triumph o'er Ben
Mulac ;" and throwing me rudely from
him, with the word " Remember," rushed
from my sight. It was the recollection of
these dreadful words, coupled with his
sudden appearance, that occasioned my
terror. I am convinced he has a iieart
black enough to carry his threat into ex-
ecution ; therefore avoid him, Orasmin,
for, should you meet, I tremble at the
consequences." "jNay, fear it not, my
beloved." The sound of distant footsteps
now Inoke on the surrounding stillness,
atid •' Zelmira 1" borne on the gentle
breeze, reached their ears. This was an
unwelcome sound to the lovers, as it bid
the return of Zelmira to attend on the
favourite Irene. " Farewell, Orasmin,"
faintly escaped her lips. " Farewell, my
love," returned he, folding her to his
bosom; *' to morrow at the same hour
and place we will meet again ; till then,
farewell :" for a moment their lips met,
then sighing, tore themselves away from
each other. Orasmin followed her with
his eyes, until the closing of the small
pobtern, (that led to a small enclosed plot
of ground at the back part of the pavilion;
hid her from his view ; then drawing his
cloak around him, he proceeded towards
hisown tent, musing on the threatening ;

words uttered by Ben Mulac. Lost in
these reflections he proceeded forward,
heedless of the surrounding objects, until
a sudden exclamation startled him, when
looking towards the spot from whence the
sound proceeded, he again beheld the
same figure he had seen in the grotto,
who was slowly preceding him, apparently
unconscious of being observed. The hot
blood rushed to the cheeks of Orasmin,
and his proud heart swelled to repay the
insult offered to his beloved, and hasten-
ing forward, the next moment beheld him
by the side of the object of his resentment.
Ben Mulac started at his sudden appear-
ance, but there was a storm gathering in
those dark penetrating eyes, as he fixed
them on the intruder, that would have
appalled the heart of any one less bold
than Orasmin, who, returning his scathing
glance with one of scorn, exclaimed,
" Nay, reserve thy fierce looks, man, for
one who fears them ; methinks they sit
but ill upon the features of a mean listener,
and one who, on discovery, fled, like a
vile caitiff as he was." '* By Ali, 'tis false,"
vociferated Ben Mulac, with fury; "'twas
chance, alone, that led me to that spot,
which I as quickly quitted ; but," added
he, with a galling sneer, " 'twas not
through fear of thee." *' And was it
chance that kept thee there till now ?"
returned Orasmin. " Peace, babbler as
thou art," interrupted Ben Mulac, "or
not even thy immeasurable inferiority
shall save thee from the chastisement you
deserve." " 'Twas nobly spoken," re-
turned Orasmin, with cutting irony, " and
well befits the being who would rather
utter the threats in the ear of a defence-
less maid, than face the object of his hatred
as a man." ** Detested slave, I'll hear no
more," cried Ben Mulac, franticly grasp-
ing his sabre, " that falsehood shall be
refuted." '* Now I understand thee,"
dauntlessly exclaimed Orasmin," " and
my answer is in my scabbard," *' Then
pluck it forth, and see if thou canst guard
thy life." *' Nay, look to thy own," re-
turned Orasmin, as his bright blade
gleamed in the air. The cloaks of the
combatants had fallen oflT, and the con-
trast in their appearance was strikingly
evident. Orasmin stood a model of manly
symmetry, \\hile his opponent appeared
like a second Hercules, the gigantic pro-
portions of his limbs indicating strength
nearly supei human. A look of defiance

414

TALES OF CHIVALRY ; OR,

flashed from the eyes of each ; that of Ben
Mulac had in it the mahce of a fiend,
while Orasmin's was one of determined
courage. Ben Mulac rushed to the onset
with the ferocity of a tiger, but Orasmin
received him with unshrinking valour,
that bade defiance to liis efforts ; until,
roused to madness by the coolness dis-
played by his antagonist, Ben Mulac
grasped his ponderous weapon. With
both his hands he raised it high above his
head ; descending, it cleft the air, but
Orasmin, stepping aside, avoided the
stroke, and ere Ben Mulac could recover
himself, he by a side blow laid him pros-
trate on the earth ; then placing his foot
upon his broad chest, he bade him ask his
life. " Never," exclaimed Ben Mulac,
in accents scarcely audible from passion,
*' Strike — the pangs of death are less bitter
than those I now teel." Oiasmin, taking
his foot from iiis body, cried, *' No, Ben
Mulac, 'tis enough, I do not want thy life.
Take it, and endeavour to forget the oc-
currence of the evening, as 1 sliall ;" and
returning his steel to its scabbard, he has-
tened towards the camp. For a few mo-
ments Ben Mulac seemed scarcely to
believe his senses, then starling on his
feet, revenge, like a demon, raging in his
breast, and crushing every nobler feeling
— " forget my base defeat," he cried, in a
voice hoarse and convulsed — "never;
'twere easier to forget myself — no, re-
venge is still within my power, and like
lightning shall it fall on thy detested
head," and he rushed franticly from the
spot. The loud bray of the trumpet as
the morning dawned, aroused Orasmin
from his uneasy slumbers, and speedily
arming himself, he obeyed the summons.
The clang of martial music, borne upon
the breeze, quickly directed his attention
to the distant hills, whose summits were
crowned witii the warriors and gorgeous
banners of the cross. The Saracen troops
were immediately marshalled under their
respective leaders, and silently awaited the
approach of their foes, who, winding down
the heigiits, soon reached the plains be-
neath, when (contrary to the expectations
of the pagans) after selecting an advan-
tageous spot, they instantly commenced
pitching their tents. This proof of the
deferring the attack, was observed with
pleasure by the infidels, who, from the
sudden appearance of their foes, were but
ill prepared at the present moment to re-

pel tliem. They therefore immediately
proceeded to strengthen the outposts of
their camp, and make preparations against
any sudden attack, but the day silently
glided on, and evening found them un-
disturbed.

The sun was fast sinking beneath the
western horizon, and still Orasmin and
the other leaders were engaged in council
with the bold Argantes, arranging the
positions of the several troops. At length
the assembly broke up, and he hastened
to keep his appointment at the grotto —
on reaching it, however, Zelmira was not
there ; this, at first, surprised him, as
their usual time of meeting had long since
passed; but concluding that something
had occurred to detain her, he entered the
ruins, with the intention of waiting, but
scarcely had he seated himself for that
purpose, on one of the overthrown pillars,
when a confused noise but a short dis-
tance from him, struck upon his ear ; he
sprang upon his feet, and in doing so,
kicked against something on the ground,
which on taking up proved to be a brace-
let, which he instantly recognised, and
exclaimed in astonishment, " 'Tis Zel-
mira's. ' Hardly had the words escaped his
lips, ere the noise was again repeated,
and, *' Orasmin, save me, save me," was
uttered by a voice, the first tones of which
thrilled to his heart. ** Save thee 1"
thundered a hoarse voice, as Orasmin
rushed forward, " no power on earth shall
save thee," and the shriek that followed,
curdled the blood in his veins, and rooted
him to the spot. ** All powerful Ali,"
escaped his lips; at that instant a dark
figure glided past, he sprung forward and
seized it, but the treacherous cloak alone
remained in his grasp — a lovv moan, and
his own name faintly repeated, now broke
upon bis ear. ** Ha ! J come, 1 come,"
exclaimed he, franticly rushing towards
the spot, but madness seized upon his
brain, as he beheld the horrid spectacle.
At his feet lay the body of her whom he
loved more than all created beings — on
her fair bosom was a large gaping wound,
from which the blood still fiowed, a hea-
venly smile played around her coral lips,
from between which the last breath had
newly issued, in ejaculating the name of
that frenzied being, who now stood gaz-
ing on her. He moved not, no sound
escaped him ; he stood as though some
deadly blow had palsied every faculty, a

PERILS BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

415

slight tremor afflicted his frame, his breast
heaved convulsively — '* Zelmira," burst
in hysteric accents from his brealiing
heart, his limbs refused their office, and
with a cry of agony, he fell by the body
ef his murdered idol. The rosy beam of
morn found Orasmin still stretched on the
earth. But the loud clamour of viar that
re-echoed o'er the plain, aroused him from
his lethargy, and he started up as though
awakened from some horrid dream : his
eyeballs glaring wildly around, at length
they became fixed upon the body, and
the dreadful calamity struck upon his
heart. At this moment he beheld some-
thing on the ground, he eagerly seized it
— it was a dagger incrusted with blood.
** 'Tis Zelmira's blood," cried he, in a
convulsed voi-ce, and was about to dash
the weapon to the ground, wlien he ob-
served some letters on the blade — 'twas
the name of his deadly rival. " Oh,
heartless villain, is this the return for the
life I gave thee," exclaimed he, furiously,
** but thou hast not yet escaped me, nor
shalt thou, for even now I come to cleave
thee to the dust," and thrusting the dag-
ger between the folds of his garment, and
casting a glance of anguish on the body,
he rushed to the scene of strife. The
infidels fought like men reckless of death,
but vain were their efforts to penetrate
the firm ranks of the Christians, who, in
return, charged upon them like an over-
whelming torrent, and they were com-
pelled to give way on all sides ; the
greatest confusion now took place, and
the slaughter that followed was dreadful,
A smile of unutterable meaning curled
the nether hp of Orasmin, as he beheld
their defeat ; *' Fly, base cowards," he ex-
claimed, '* and save thy worthless lives ;
but shall I follow thy example ? no, rather
let me rush upon that death I so much
covet." "Then take it from my hand,"
cried a voice, and turning, he belield the
gaunt figure of a Christian, about to strike
him to the earth. " Ha, that voice," ex-
claimed he, as he received the stroke on
his sabre. *' I know thee, base traitor,
apostate alike to thy country and thy God,"
and aiming a furious blow as he spoke,
the helmet of his adversary bounded on
the plain, and the renegade Ben Mulac
stood exposed to view. A shout of ex-
ultation burst from the lips of Orasmin as
he rushed forward, and the next moment
his opponent reeled, his head nearly cleft

in twain ; then, seizing him near the
shoulder, for revenge had made him bar-
barous— " here is thy dagger, Ben IMulac,"
he exclaimed, as he raised it high in the
air, *• take it," and he buried it in the
throat of its owner. An hysteric laugh
followed the blow, ** Zelmira, thou art
ave — " avenged he would have uttered,
but ere that word had left his lips, a dozen
swords from his now thronging foes trans-
fixed him ; he staggered, and breathing
forth the name of Zelmira, fell by the side
of his mutilated rival.

A CHINESE ANECDOTE.

Hamti, the best and wisest emperor that
ever filled the throne, after having gained
three signal victories over the Tartars,
who had invaded his dominions, returned
to Nankin, in order to enjoy the glory of
his conquest. After he had rested for
some days, the people, who are naturally
fond of processions, impatiently expected
the trium|3lial entry, which emperors upon
such occasions were accustomed to make.
Their murmurs came to the emperor's
ears. He loved his people, and was will-
ing to do all in his power to satisfy their
just desires. He therefore assured them
that he intended, upon the next feast of
the Lantherns, to exhibit one of the most
glorious triumphs that had ever been seen
in China. The people were in raptures
at his condescension, and on the appointed
day assembled at the gates of the palace
with the most eager expectations. Here
they waited for some time without seeing
any of those preparations which usually
precede a pageant. The lanthern with
ten thousand tapers was not yet brought
forth ; the fireworks, which usually covered
the city wall, were not yet Hghted ; the
people once more began to murmur at this
delay ; when, in the midst of their impa-
tience, the palace gates flew open, and the
emperor hi mself appeared, not in splendour
and magnificence, but in an ordinary habit,
followed by the blind, the maimed, and the
strangers of the city, all in new clothes,
and each carrying in his hand money
enough to supply his necessities for the
year. The people were at first amazed,
but soon perceived the wisdom of their
king, who taught them that, to make one
man happy, was more truly great than
having ten thousand captives groaning at
the wheels of his chariot.

416

TALES OF CHIVALRY, SzC.

RICHARD THE FIRST.

The two noblest trails in the character
of this monarch, were undaunted valour
and g^enerosity, qualities which counter-
balance a multitude of faults. It may be
said by some» that an undutiful son cannot
make a good king ; but, amidst all his
schemes to raise money for his mad expe-
dition to Palestine, not one act of cruelty
or extortion is alleged against Richard.
Tliat his temper was not vindictive, may
be argued from his conduct to his unwor-
thy and unnatural brother John, and of his
magnanimity there are numerous anec-
dotes. At such a distance of time, it must
be impossible to examine minutely the
character of this monarch, or those of his
predecessors; it is from their acts alone that
we are enabled to draw conclusions ; but
from the little that can be gleaned from
our histories, Richard was a prince who
deserved the love of his subjects, not only
for his courage, but for his more gentle
qualities. Of his wit some anecdotes are
told, of which the following is the most
conspicuous. A priest of Normandy once
told him that he had three daughters.
" How can that be ?" said Richard, *' see-
ing that I never knew of one." " Yes,"
replied the priest, *' you have three, and
their names are Pride, Covetousness, and
Lust." The monarch laughed heartily at
this speech, and calling his courtiers around
him, said, ** I am told by this priest here,
that 1 have three daughters ; now I desire
tliat you will see how I would have them
besto'wed. To the templars and hospi-
tallers, I give Pride ; to the white monks,
Covetousness; and to the clergy. Lust."
The manner of his death is well known.
He fell by the hand of a cross-bowman,
before the castle of Chaluz, in the year
1199, and nobly pardoned the man who
had dealt him his death's wound.

That part of his will which relates to
the disposal of his mortal remains, is as
singular as it is affecting. He desired
that his bowels might be buried at Charan,
amongst his rebellious subjects the Poic-
tovins ; his heart at Rouen, to show his
sense of the loyalty and attachment of the
citizens ; and, touched with remorse for
his unfilial conduct, he commanded that

his body might be interred at the feet of
his father at Font-Everard.

The person of this monarch was pre-
possessing: his complexion fair and clear,
and his hair of a bright auburn. His
frame was large and athletic, and his
courage and prowess have been the theme
of historians and poets. The ** lord of Oc
and No" holds a conspicuous place in the
songs of the Provencal troubadours.

VALOUR.

A French officer, commanding a be-
sieging party, offered a considerable sum
of money to any grenadier who would plant
the first fascine in a fosse exposed at that
instant to a tremendous fire. Not one of
his men stepping forward, he reproached
j all with cowardice. ** Not so, generaJ,"
1 was the prompt and generous reply ;
" every man present would have volun-
teered, had no mention been made of
money as the inducement to courage."

Admiral Dumanoir, who attempted to
save his four ships at Trafalgar by flight,
was afterwards taken, with his squadron,
by admiral Strachan. He fought well, and
when brought to Tiverton, was wounded
in three places. On being congratulated
on his prospect of being exchanged, he
shook his head, and observed, ** I shall be
tried by a court-martial on my return, and
as my ships were taken, I know my fate."
However, instantly recovering himself, he
added, with true French nonchalance f*^hy
gar, monsieur, Vempereur will very soon
have no admirals left; for all that will
fight, you shoot ; and all that will not
fight, he shoots."

The Romans owed their origin to vaga-
bonds ; Britain to savages ; and Botany
Bay to thieves. Future heraldists will be
puzzled to determine which of the abori-
gines are entitled to the most dignified
coat of arms.

REWARDS TO SOLDIERS.

Under Germanicus, the rewards of the
soldiers' valour were — a chain, a bracelet,
a spear, and a branch of oak.

INDEX.

Ancona, Siege of, 32

Alice Dacre, 121

Alexander, 136

Andrew A^eit Woddir, 190

Adventure, Love of, 20()

Amurat the Fourth, 240

Aboukir, Battle of, 319

Arethusa and Gaiete Corvette, 344

Alexander the Great, 384

Brigand of Eboli, 49, 61
Bullfighter of Madrid, 65
Boy of Egremond, 81
Black Gang Chine, 89
Bureau de Police, 125
British Dominions, 152
Brigand and the Xun, 249
Broken Heart, 289
Bon Mots of Talleyrand, 351
Boxing Admiral, 360
Basilia, 377, 388
Brahmin's Prediction, The, 409
British Sailor, 411

Conscience, Force of, 33

Capture of a Merchantman, 37

Capture of Trinidad, 40

Colonel Aston, 40

Capture of a Spanish Slaver, 70

Charles X., 160

Crusades, 175

Captain Clapperton's Humanity, 192

Captain J. Coghlan, 312

Coeur de Lion, 325

Convent of Catania, 345

Charles IL, Anecdote of, 367

Chinese Anecdote, 412

Deception, Singular, 16

Disastrous Voyage, 31

Dolphin Chase, 72

Dissatislied Nation, 72

Death Soxmd, 105

De Lindsay, 113

Duelling in America, 207

De Montmorency, 256

Doubtful Case, 264

Dutchman's Climax of Happiness, 312

Distributive Justice, 376

Danish Creed, 408

Emissary, The, a Tale of Elizabeth, 41
Execution of Two Haytian Captains, 54
Evil Omen, 108
Emma Poulton, 177
Execution on Shipboard, 184'
Enthusiast, The, 273, 277
Effects of an Earthquake, 296
Evening at Delft, 327
Escape of the Queen and Lifant of
James II., 391

Facino Cane, 64

Fisherman, The, 94

Fearless Ambassador, 128

Four Fugitives, The, 161, 173, 181

Forced Marriage, The, 169

Fighting for Friendship, 200

French Dragoon and the Greek

Maiden, 257, 370
Forlorn Soldier, The, 335
Frederic the Great and General Swieten, 384
Francis I., 392

Goldsmith of Westcheap, 209, 220

Generous Revenge, 224

Garter, The, 225, 235

Good Pilotage, 280

Ghost Hunter and his Family, 281, 293

Gabriel Vestynden, 321

Generosity, 376

I Honour, Notion of, 72

Hardress Fitzgerald, 87, 92
I Home, The Soldier's, 101
i Henry and Emma, 110
1 Hopeful Princes — Bad Kings, 136

Huns, The, 144

Heroic Reply, 208

Highland Hardihood, 224

Henry IV., 288

Height of the Waves, 344

Honour, 376

Henkerwyssel's Challenge, 385

Horses, 408

Irish Commodore, 176
Importunate Lady, The, 201
Irish Courage and Ready Wit, 304
Intrepidity, 352

Jews Revolt, 32 ,

Kings imd Commoners, 820
Killicrankic, Incident at, 407

Lautrec the Painter, 73

Legacy, The, 97

liegend of tlie Three Saints, 13(>

Lavallette and the Postmaster, 217

Leonidas, 2o2

Legend of Ilnngary, 297

Lad)' Ingleby and Cromwell, .'i(iO

Legend of Norway, 398

IMy Uncle, 13

iAliner's Wife, The, 25

JMaking an Offer, 40

INIerchant of Lyons, io3

Mediterranean Squall, 192

]Mary Fen wick, 193

ZVIoreau's Heroism, 208

Marshal Loudon and the Cobbler, 294

INIary Hughes, 305, 315

ISIerchant's Son, The, 313

Miller of WinUleigh, 329

Marian Godfrey, 361

Norsemen, Tradition of the, 23
Napoleon at St. Bernard, 96
Napoleon's Tomb, 104
Night on the Atlantic, 198
Novel Artillery, 360

Old School, Recollections of the, 99

Perils of the Solway, 68

Polish Regalia, 77

Prediction— Louis XVIII. , 120

Pauline Letrobe, 145

Plague, Anecdote of the, 176

Prince Rupert, 192

Pagan Hypocrite, or the Danish Pirate,

Prisoner of the Caucasus, 237,246,253,

Patriot, a True, 230

Patriotism, 328

Peasant Countess, The, 353

Persian Heroism, 376

Queen Consort, The, 272

Royal Marriage, 57

( Reeling Toi»sai!s for the First Time, I 19

I Race of Ten Thousand, 168

I Russian Submission, 208

j Roland Stardcy. 217

I Rival Suitors, The, 241

i Retribution, 266

! Reward of Bravery, 288

I Regal Bliss, 304

' Rosicrucian, The, 369

I Russian Ambassador and Napoleon, 384

1 Reply of James II., 400

! Silver Lamp, The, 9
Sea-side Hut, The, 17
Shipwreck, a True Tale of, 21
Scottisli Legends, 84
Spirit Bride, The, 137
Sidney Smith, 31 I
Stapylton Hall, 337
Sicilian Superstition, 352
Surrey, Earl of, 359
Saxon AVidow, The, 363
Spectre Siiip, The, 401
Student of Heidelberg, 405

Tale of the Fourteenth Century, 6

TertuUian, 32

Tournaments, 144

Turenne. 264

Tiger and Elephant Fight, 295

Tar's Account of a Funeral, 328

Unda, a Tradition of Tyrol, 1
Unfortunate Major Andre, 86
Union of Courage and Compassion, 392

I Vanity of Napoleon, 120

I Valdrwulf ; or, the Fiend of the Moor, 393 j

I Valour, 412

233 i
261 1

Vv'elzheim the Charcoal Burner, 12
AV'alton, a Tale from Life, 129, 141, 149,

156. 165
Will, The, 185

War Music of the Ancients, 192
Wellington and M'Donnel, 207
Waterloo, 278

Wallace and the Red Rover, 303
Wooden Sword, 375

York, Duke of, and the Goose, 200

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