Skip to main content

Full text of "Bracebridge hall; or, The humorists"

See other formats 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bracebridgehallo01irvirich 


In  July  mil  be  published,  in  22  volumes  18mo, 

SOLD    TOGETHER    OR    SEPARATELY, 

AN 

EASY  COURSE 

OF 

DOMESTIC   EDUCATION; 

COMPRISING 

a  &erie0  of  tlttmntavp  ^vtati^t^ 

ON    THE 

VARIOUS  BRANCHES  OF  JUVENILE  INSTRUCTION; 

TOGETHER    WITH 

ADVICE  TO  PARENTS  AND  TUTORS 

FOR    CONDUCTING    THE    EDUCATION    OF    CHILDREN. 
DESIGNED 

FOR  THE  USE  OF  FAMILIES 

AND  OF 

SCHOOLS. 


By  WILLIAM  JILLARD  HORT, 

AUTHOR    OF    THE   NEW   PANTHEON,  &C. 


LOKBOK: 

PRINTED    FOR 

LONGMAN,  HURST,  REES,  ORME,  AND  BROWN, 

PATERNOSTER-ROW. 


-Parents  and  others  who  have  wished  to  conduct  or  super- 
intend the  education  of  children,  have  often  been  discouraged 
by  their  inability  to  plan  a  suitable  course  of  studies  for  their 
young  pupils,  and  by  the  difficulty  of  selecting,  among  the 
multitude  of  school-books,  those  which  possess  the  greatest 
merit,  or  are  best  adapted  to  their  respective  objects.  The 
design  of  this  publication  is  to  supply  such  persons  with  the 
best  directions  on  these  points,  and  to  afford  them  the  means, 


tural  Societies,  and  all  other  Improvements  both  foreign  and 
domestic  up  to  the  present  time;  and,  considering  the  great 
number  of  Engravings  and  the  immense  quantity  of  matter  it  con- 
tains, it  is,  perhaps,  the  cheapest  book  ever  published.  It  is  cal- 
culated by  its  Indexes  to  serve  both  as  a  Gardener'' s  Kalendar  and 
Gardener's  Dictionary ;  it  contains  a  copious  Introduction  to  Botany; 
engraved  plans  and  elevations  of  all  manner  of  hot-houses,  orna- 
mental buildings,  kitchen  gardens,  flower  gardens,  shrubberies, 
pleasure  grounds,  and  parks  ;  of  many  curious  fruits  and  flowers  ; 
of  all  the  garden  implements,  utensils,  and  machines.  Besides  the 
culinary,  fruit,  and  flower  gardening,  and  the  laying  out  of  grounds, 
it  treats  of  trees,  planting,  forest  management,  nurseries,  market 
gardens,  and  botanic  gardens ;  of  gardeners'  societies,  and  lodges ; 
of  the  duties  of  head  gardeners  in  every  situation  and  servitude, 
from  that  of  the  tradesman's  town  garden,  of  a  few  poles  in  extent, 
to  the  first  rate  gardens  of  the  nobility,  including  public  and  royal 
gardens ;  it  treats  of  the  improvement  of  the  taste  of  the  patrons' 
and  employers  of  gardeners ;  of  the  education  of  young  gardeners, 
and  the  general  conduct  of  a  gardener's  life  :  in  short  it  is  of  itself 
a  gardener's  library,  and  contains  more  matter  than  the  four  folio 
volume3  of  Miller's  Dictionary. 

No  work  is  so  well  fitted  for  being  presented  by  a  gentleman  to 
his  head  gardener,  or  by  a  head  gardener  to  his  deserving 
apprentice. 


I^reparing  for  Publication, 

AN  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  AGRICULTURE. 

By  J.  C.  LOUDON. 

This  Work  is  on  the  Plan  of  the  Encyclopaedia  of  Gardening,  by  the  same 

Author. 


EDINBURGH   REVIEW 


OP 


BOWDLER'S  FAMILY  SHAKSPEARE, 

ISfQ.lh^  October,  1821, 


Art.  III.  The  Family  Shakspeare,  In  Ten  Volumes  12mo. 
In  'which  nothing  is  added  to  the  Text ;  but  those  Words  and 
Expressions  are  omitted  tjohich  cannot  with  Propriety  be  read 
aloud  in  a  Family.  By  Thomas  Bowdler,  Esq.,  F.R.S.  & 
S.  A.     Price  Si.  Ss.     London.     Longman  and  Co.,  1818. 

VV  E  have  long  intended  to  notice  this  very  meritorious  publica- 
tion ;  and  are  of  opinion,  that  it  requires  nothing  more  than  a 
notice  to  bring  it  into  general  circulation.  We  are  not  ourselves, 
we  confess,  particularly  squeamish  about  incorrect  expressions  and 
allusions  ;  and  in  the  learned  languages  especially,  which  seldom 
come  into  the  hands  of  the  more  delicate  sex,  and  can  rarely  be 
perused  by  any  one  for  the  grutification  of  a  depraved  taste,  we 
have  not  been  very  anxious  about  the  dissemination  of  castrated 
editions ;  but  in  an  author  of  such  unbounded  and  deserved  popu- 
larity as  our  great  Dramatist,  whose  volumes  are  constantly  in  the 
hands  of  almost  all  who  can  read  of  both  sexes,  it  is  undoubtedly 
of  great  consequence  to  take  care  that  youth  runs  no  risk  of  corrup- 
tion in  the  pursuit  of  innocent  amusement  or  valuable  instruction; 
or  rather,  that  no  offence  is  offered  to  delicacy  in  the  midst  of  the 
purest  gratification  of  taste. 

Now  it  is  quite  undeniable,  that  there  are  many  passages  in 
Shakspeare,  which  a  father  could  not  read  aloud  to  his  chil- 
dren—  Si  brother  to  his  sister  —  or  a  gentleman  to  a  lady:  —  and 
every  one  almost  must  have  felt  or  witnessed  the  extreme  awk- 
wardness, and  even  distress,  that  arises  from  suddenly  stumbling 
upon  such  expressions,  when  it  is  almost  too  late  to  avoid  them, 
and  when  the  readiest  wit  cannot  suggest  any  paraphrase,  which 
shall  not  betray,  by  its  harshness,  the  embarrassment  from  which 
it  has  arisen.  Those  who  recollect  such  scenes,  must  all  rejoice, 
we  should  think,  that  Mr.  Bowdler  has  provided  a  security  against 
their  recurrence  ;  and,  as  what  cannot  be  pronounced  in  decent 
company  cannot  well  afford  much  pleasure  in  the  closet,  we  think 
it  is  better  every  way,  that  what  cannot  be  spoken,  and  ought  not 
to  have  been  written,  should  now  cease  to  be  printed. 


We  have  only  farther  to  observe,  that  Mr.  Bowdler  has  not  exe- 
cuted his  task  in  any  thing  of  a  precise  or  prudish  spirit ;  that  he 
has  left  many  things  in  the  text  which,  to  a  delicate  taste,  must  still 
appear  coarse  and  reprehensible :  and  only  effaced  those  gross 
in(|ecpi^cie§  \fhiph  eye^y  qne  must  hav^  felt  ^9  blemishes,  an^  ^y 
the  removal  of*  wnich  no  imaginable  excellence  can  be  affected. 
It  is  comfortable  to  be  able  to  add,  that  this  purification  has 
been  accomplished  with  surprisingly  little  loss  either  of  weight 
or  value ;  and  that  the  base  alloy  m  the  pure  metal  of  Shakspeare 
has  been  found  to  amount  to  an  inconceivably  small  proportion. 
It  is  infinitely  to  his  credit  that,  with  the  most  luxuriant  fancy 
which  ever  fell  to  the  lot  oFa  mortal,  and  with  no  great  restraints 
from  the  training  or  habits  of  his  early  life,  he  is  by  far  the 
purest  of  the  dramatists  of  his  own  or  the  succeeding  age,  —  and 
ha&  resisted,  in  a  great  degree,  the  corrupting  exampl^  of  his 
contemporaries.  In  them,  as  well  as  in  him,  it  is  indeed  remark- 
able, that  the  obscenities  which  occur,  are  rather  offensive  than 
corrupting —-;  and  seem  suggested  rather  by  the  misdirected  wan- 
tonness of  toQ  lively  a  fancy,  than  by  a  vicious  taste,  or  partiality 
to  profligate  indulgence ;  —  while  in  Dryden  and  Congreve,  the 
indecency  belongs  not  to  the  jest,  but  to  the  character  and  actipp; 
and  imn\odest  speech  is  the  cold  and  impudent  exponent  of  licen- 
tious principle^.  In  the  one,  it  is  the  fantastic  colouring  of  a 
coarse' and  grotesque  buffoonery  —  in  the  other,  the  shameless 
speech  of  rakes,  who  make  a  boast  of  their  profligacy.  It  is  owin^ 
tb  this  circurnstapce,  perhaps,  that  it  has  in  general  been  found  easy 
to  extirpate  the  offensive  expressions  of  our  ^reat  poet,  without 
any  injury 'to  the  context,  or  any  visible  scar  or  Dlank  in  tbe  compo- 
sition.' They  turn  out  not  to  be  so  much  can^ters  in  the  flowers, 
as  weeds  that  have  sprung  up  by  their  side  —  not  flaws  in  thei 
metal,  but  impurities  that  nave  gathered  on  its  surface.  —  and  that, 
SQ  far  from  being  missed  on  their  removal,  the  work  generally 
appears  more  natural  and  harmonious  without  them.  We  do  not 
prfetend  to  have  eone  over  the  whole  work  with  attention  — '■  or  even 
to  iiave  actually  collated  any  considerable  part  of  it :  but  we  have 
examined  three  plays  of  rather  a  ticklish  description  —  Qthello, 
Troilus  and  Cres^ida,  and  Measure  for  Measure  —  and  feel  quite 
assured,  from  these  specimens,  that  the  work  has  been  executed  iii 
the  spirit,  and  with  the  success  which  we  have  represented.  '' 

IVIr.  B.  has  in  general  followed  the  very  best  text  —  and  the  work 
is  very  neatly  printed.  We  hope,  however,  that  the  publishers  will 
soon  be  encouraged  to  give  us  another  edition,  on  a  larger  letter.  1^ 
For  we  rather  suspect,  from  some  casual  experiments  of  our  own, 
that  feyv  papas  will  be  able  to  read  this,  in  a  winter-evening  to  their 
children,  without  the  undramatic  aid  of  spectacles. 

*  The  Publishers  beg  to  say  that  hint  is  taken,  and  that  they  are 
printing  a  handsome  octavo  edition,  for  the  accommodation  ©/"papas, 
while  the  smaller  edition  may  continue  to  please  their  younger  Jriendsi 


JpXYj  1822. 

WORKS  IIECENTI.Y  PUBLISHED, 

BY 

LONGMAN,  HURST,  REES,  OJIME,  AND  BROWN, 

LONDON. 


1. 

TRAVELS  IN  THE  iNTEif^QU  OF  SOUTHERN  AFRICA. 

By  WILLIAM  J.  BCJRCHELL,  Esq. 

With  an  entirely  new  large  Map,  numerous  coloured  Engravings,  and 

Fifty  Vignettes,  from  the  Author's  original  Drawings. 

In  4to.    Vol.  T.    Price  41.  14s.  6d. 

Mr.  Burchell's  Researches  in  the  Interior  of  Africa,  during  five  years,  over 
4500  miles  of  ground,  besides  numberless  lateral  excursions,  in  regions  never 
before  trodden  by  European,  foot,  have  produced  a  multitude  of  discoveries  ai^d 
observations  which  have  never  until  now  been  laid  before  the  public. 


tTHE  PRIVATE  AND  CONFIDENTIAL  CORRESPONDENCE 

OF 

CHARLES  TALBOT,   BUKE  OF   SHREWSBURY, 

Principal  Minister  of  King  William  for  a  considerable  Period  of  his  Reign. 

By  the  Rev.  ARCHDEACON  COXE. 

In  1  Vol.    4to.    Price  St.  3s.   Bds. 

Also,  by  the  same  Author, 

MEMOIRS  of  the  DUKE  of  MARLBQROUGH.     6  Vols.     8vo.,  and 

4to.  Atlas.     Price  51.  5s.    Boards. 

HISTORY  of  the  HOUSE  of  AUSTRIA,  from  1218  to  1792.     5  Vols. 
Svo.      Price  3^.  135.  6d.   Boards. 

HISTORY  of  the  BOURBON  KINGS  of  SPAIN,  1700—1788.     5  Vols. 
Svo.     Price  3/.    Boards. 

MEMOIRS   of   SIR   ROBERT  WALPOLE.      4  Vols.      Svo,     Price 
21.  8s.   Boards. 

MEMOIRS    of    HORATIO,    LORD    WALPOLE.      2   Vols.      Svo. 
Price  li.  6s.   Boards. 

3. 
TRAVELS  IN  PALESTINE, 

THROUGH    THE   COUNTRIES    OF    BASHAN   AND    GILEAD, 

EAST    OF    THE    RIVER    JORDAN  : 

Including  a  Visit  to  the  Cities  of  Geraza  and  Gamala,  in  the  Decapolis. 

By  J.  S.  BUCKINGHAM,  Esq. 

Member  of  the  Asiatic  Society,   Calcutta;    and  of  the  Literary  Societies  of 

Madras  and  Bombay. 

In  2  Vols,     8vo.     Second  Edition.     With  Maps,  Plates,  and  Vignettes. 
Price  i;.  11*.  6d.  Boards. 


2     Works  printed  for  Longman^  Hurst ^  Rees,  Orme^  a  nd  Brofw^^ 

4. 

TRAVELS  IN  GEORGIA,  PERSIA,  ARMENIA, 

ANCIENT  BABYLONIA,  &c.  &c. 

DURING   THE   YEARS    1817,    1818,    1819,    1820. 

By  SIR  ROBERT  KER  TORTER,  &c.  &c. 

Vol.  II.  which  completes  the  Work.     In  4to.      With  numerous  Engravings  of 

Portraits,  Costumes,  Antiquities,  &c.  &c.     Price  4/.  145,  6rf,   Boards, 

Also  may  be  had, 

Vol.  I,     Price  4/.  14*.  6d.  Boards, 

5. 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  Court  of  King  JAMES  the  FIRST, 

By    LUCY    AIKIN. 
Second  Edition.     In  2  Vols.     8vo.     With  a  Portrait,     Price  II.  4a.  Boards. 

6. 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  Court  of  QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 

By  LUCY  AIKIN. 
In  2  Vols.     8vo.     Price  \l.  5s.     Boards.     With  a  Portrait.     Fourth  Edition, 

7. 
ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES,  IN  VERSE. 

By  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH,  Esq. 
In  8vo.     Price  6s,  6d.  Boards. 

8. 

MADELINE,  A  TALE. 

By  MRS.  OPIE. 
In  2  Vols.     12mo.     Price  145.   Boards. 

9. 

THE  THREE  PERILS  OF  MAN; 

OR,    WAR,    WOMEN,    AND    WITCHCRAFT. 

A   BORDER   ROMANCE. 

By  JAMES  HOGG, 

Author  of  "  Winter  Evening  Tales,"    "  Brownie  of  Bodsbeck," 

"  Queen's  Wake,"  &c.  &c. 

In  3  Vols.     12mo.     Price  1/.  4*.   Boards. 

10. 
BODY  AND  SOUL. 

CONSISTING    OF    A    SERIES    OF    LIVEI^Y    AND    PATHETIC    STORIES. 
Calculated  to  excite  the  attention  and  interest  of  the  Religious  World. 

Contents :  —  The  Town  Rector.  —  Philosophical  Painter.  —  Merchant's  Fa- 
mily. —  Sick  Penitent.  —  Unitarian.  —  Clerical  Conference.  —  Lunatic  Asy- 
lum. —  Liturgy,  —  Assizes. —  Athanasian  Creed.  — Sea  Captain,  —  Domiciliary 
Visits. 

In  Post  8vo.     Price  12s, 


Works  printed  Jbr  Longman,  Hurst,  Rees,  Orme,  and  Broivn*    3 

11. 
PATERSON'S  ROADS  op  ENGLAND  and  WALES 

AND  THE  SOUTHERN  PART  OF  SCOTLAND. 

By  Mr.  EDWARD  MOGG. 

Dedicated,  by  Permission,  to  his  Majesty.     In  8vo.     Witii  Maps. 
A  new  Edition. 

This  Edition  is  arranged  upon  a  plan  entirely  novel,  and  very  considerably  im- 
proved by  tlie  addition  of  numerous  new  Roads,  and  new  admeasurements ;  with 
original  and  correct  accounts  of  Noblemen  and  Gentlemen's  Seats,  Antiquities, 
romantic  Scenery,  Curiosities,  and  other  remarkable  objects  throughout  the 
kingdom. 

12. 

THE  PRESENT  STATE  OF  ENGLAND 

IN    REGARD    TO   AGRICULTURE,    TRADE,    AND    FINANCE, 

With  a  Comparison  of  the  Prospects  of  England  and  France. 

By  JOSEPH  LOWE,  Esq. 

In  8vo. 

This  work  contains  an  historical  summary  of  the  remarkable  fluctuations  that 
have  taken  place  in  our  national  resources  since  1792  ;  and  explains,  at  consider- 
able  length,  the  respective  operation  of  War  and  Peace.  The  revolutions  to 
which  our  Agriculture,  our  Trade,  our  Paper  Currency  have  been  successively 
subjected,  are  passed  in  Review,  as  well  as  the  rapid  increase  of  our  population, 
and  its  effect  on  our  public  Revenue.  The  situation  of  France,  in  those  respects, 
is  explained  and  compared  with  that  of  England  j  and  the  concluding  chapters 
of  the  Book  are  appropriated  to  the  consideration  of 

The  disproportion  still  existing  in  the  ease  of  Wages,  Salaries,  and  other 

money  incomes 

The  operation  of  a  Sinking  Fund  —  and 

The  expediency  of  a  change  in  our  financial  system* 

13. 
ORIENTAL  LITERATURE. 

APPLIED    TO    THE   ILLUSTRATION    OF    THE    SACRED    SCRIPTURES  ; 

Especially  with  Reference  to  Antiquities,  Traditions,  and  Manners ;  collected 

from  the  most  celebrated  Writers  and  Travellers,  Ancient  and  Modem. 

Designed  as  a  Sequel  to  Oriental  Customs. 

By  the  Rev.  SAMUEL  BORDER,  A.M. 

In  2  large  Vols.     8vo.      Closely  printed.     Price  1/.  10*.     Boards. 

This  Work,  besides  a  great  body  of  interesting  matter  selected  from  the  most 
important  modern  Publications,  coatains  much  valuable  Criticism  from  a  Work  of 
Dr.  Rosenmiiller,  of  Leipsig,  lately  published  in  German,  and  now  first  trans- 
lated into  English. 

Just  published,  by  the  same  Author. 

ORIENTAL  CUSTOMS ;  or,  an  Illustration  of  the  Sacred  Scriptures,  by 
an  Explanatory  Application  of  the  Customs  and  Manners  of  the  Eastern  Nations. 
In  2  Vols.  8vo.  The  Sixth  Edition,  considerably  enlarged.  Price  11.  5^, 
Boards, 

14. 
TALES    OF    THE    MANOR. 

By  MRS.  HOFLAND, 
Author   of    "Tales   of  the    Priory." 

4  Vols.     12mo.     Price  1/.  4«. 


4  Worh printed jfor  Longmmx  Hu^st,  ReeS)  Orme,  andBro^n. 

15,. 
THE  REMAINS  QF  HENRY  KII^KE  WRITE, 

^KLEpiEQ,    WITH    PREFATORY    REMARjf*, 

By  EGBERT  SQUTHEY,  Es^. 

Yolmne  1J)9  Third.     In  8vq.     Pricp  9^.   Bqard^ 

Also  Vi^y  b^  li9/i. 

The  first  Two  Volumes.     Price  11.  U. 

V    -^        .'     •     ■  •     '.•    -  f  ■■,■■    r  •  c  c, 

16. 
SGNGS  OF  ZION, 

BEING   IMITATIONS   OF    PSALMS. 

By  J.  MONTGOMERY. 

In    Foolscap    8vo.       Price    5s. 

By  the  same  Author, 
GREENLAND,  and  otljer  Poems.     Second  Edition.     Price  8s.  Boards. 
The  WORLD  before  the  ELaQD.     I<;ift|i  Editjoi^.     Price  9s. 
The  WEST  INDIES,  and  other  I*oems.     Fifth  Edition.      Price  65. 
The  WANDERER  of  SWITZERLAND.     Eighth  Edition.     Price  6s. 
.VERSES  to  the  MEMORY  of  R.  REyi^QLD,^.     Vmq  2^. 
]^QLyHYM¥IA;  or  Select  Airs  of  celefcirated  I'o^eign  Cpiflpos.§i:^,  a^aipt?^ 
tot  Eiiglisb  "Words,  Fritter  expre?isly  for  this  Wp^k,     P^rice  ^. 

1^ 
I^I^flELLANEQUS  Wplf^I^S 

O^    Xi^E 

RIGHT  HON.  IIESrY  QRATTAN. 

In  8vo.     Price  12s  Boards.. 
18. 

CONVERSATIONS  ON  MINERALOGY: 

With  Plates,  engraved  by  Mr.  an(|  Miss  Lo-jvry,  fwp^  Pri^inal  Drawings. 
In  2  Vols.    "l2mo.     t*rice'l4s.   Boards. 

RECOLLECTIONS  ANEf  REFLECTIONS, 

PERSONAL  AND  POJ^JTIt^A:^. 

As  con^ect^d  witi^  Pu,blic  Affairs  during  the  Reign  of  George  the.  "j^Iu^. 

By  JOHN  NICHQLi^S,  Esq. 
I^eDpibey  of  the  House  of  Comrabns  iri  the  Fif'teerith,,  Sixteenth,  and  Eighteenth 

o.^.c-     '    ■'■'        ■    '      Parliaments  of  Great  Britain.  .,     ^    v 

In  2  Vols.     8v».     Price  19s.   Boards. 

The  Second  Volume  of  the  above  Work,  which  is  entirely  new,  may  be  had 

§ep^ately  by  the  Purchasers  of  the  First  Volume. 

20. 

EVENINGS  IN  AUTUMN; 

A   SERIES    OF   ESSAYS,    NARRATIVE  AND   MISCELLANEOUS. 

By  NATHAN  DRAKE,  M.D. 

In  2  Yols.    Post  ^70,     Pij^oe  II.  Is.  Boards. 


21. 
THE  TRAVE:^.^  Qf  THEpDORE  DUCAS 

IN  vAi^io^l  coij:?j:^RiE^^  qF  Europe^  at^  ti^e  REyiY4L  or 

LETTERS    AND    ARTS. 

Edited  by  CHARLES  MILLS, 
Al^tl^or  qi  the  IIi§tory  of  the  Cr^sades. 

Part  the  First,  Italy.     2  Vols.     8vo.     Price  1(.  4s.   Boards. 

22. 
ILLUSTRATIONS  AND  PROOFS  OF 

THE  PRINGIPLE  OF  POPULATION: 

Including  an  Examination  of  the  propp^sed  Remedies  of  Mr.  Malthus,  and 
a  Reply  to  the  Objections  of  Mr.  Godwin  and  others. 

By  FRANCIS  PLACE. 

In  8vQ.       Price  8*.     Bogjrds. 

%%, 

AN  ACCOUNT  OF  CEYLON, 

WITH    TRAVELS    IN    THE    INTERIOR   OF    THE    ISLAND. 

By  JOHN  DA¥Y,  M.D.  F.R.S. 

In  4to.     With  a  new  Map  and  other  Engravings.     Pj-ice  3^.  13^.  6d,  Boards. 

TWO  YEARS'  RESIDENCE 

IN    THE 

SETTLEMENT  OF  THE  ENGLISH  PRAIRIE, 

I^    TH5   ILLIIJO^S   Cp,U^TRy,    UN^T|:D    S,TfAT|iS. 

With  an  Account  of  its  Animal  and  Ye^et^ble  Productions,  Agriculture,  &c.  &c. 

A  Description  of  the  principal  Towns,  V'illages,  &c.  &c.  with  the 

Habits  and  Gustoms  of  the  Back- Woodsmen. 

By  JOHN  WOODS. 

In  8vo.     With  a  Map.     Price  10s,  6d.  Boards. 

25. 
THE  HISTORY 

OF 

THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    JERUSALEM, 

AS   CONNECTED    WITH    THE    SCRIPTURE    RROPHECIES. 

By  the  Rev.  GEORGE  WIL]^I?^JS,  A.M. 

Domestic  Chaplain  to  the  Ea.y^  of  Kinnoull,  Vicar  of  St.  Mary's  in  the  Town, 

and  of  iibwdham  in  the  tounty,  of  Nottingham. 

In  Svo.     Price  105.  6d.  Bo^ds.     The  Third  Edition. 

26. 
AN  ATLAS  OF  ANCIENT  GEOGRAPHY, 

FOR   THE   USE   OF    SCHOOLS. 

By  S.  BUTLER,  D.D. 
Author  of  a  Sketch  o£  MQd^rn  a©^  A^CWPt  Gg^gj^hy^ 

Consisting  of  20  Coloured  Maps  in  4to.  and  Half-bound  in  Svo.     Price  I2st 


6    Works  printed  for  Longman,  Hurst,  Rees,  Orme,  and  Brotvn, 

27. 
ITALY,  A  POEM. 

Part  the  First.     Neatly  printed  in  Foolscap  8vo.     Price  7$, 
28. 

TWO  VOYAGES  TO  NEW  SOUTH  WALES 

AND  VAN  DIEMEN'S  LAND; 

Including  a  Description  of  the  present  Condition  of  that  interesting  Colony. 

By  THOMAS  REID. 

In  1  Vol.     8vo.     Price  12s.   Boards. 


OLD    STORIES. 

By  Miss  SPENCE. 
Author  of  "  Letters  from  the  Highlands,"  "  Traveller's  Tale,"  &c. 

In  2  Vols.     12mo.     Price  10*.  6d.  Boards. 
30. 

THE  REFUGEES,  AN  IRISH  TALE. 

By  the  Author  of  "  Correction/'  «  Decision,"  &c. 

In  3  Vols.     12mo.      Price  1/,  I5.   Boards. 

By  the  same  Author, 
CORRECTION,  a  Novel.     In  3  Vols.     12mo.    Price  U.  Is.  Boards. 

31. 

MALPAS;   or,  LE  POURSUIVANT  D'AMOUR. 

A    ROMANCE. 

By  the  Author  of  «  The  Cavalier.' 

In  3  Vols.      12mo.      Price  1/.  U. 

By  the  same  Author, 

THE  CAVALIER,  a  Romance.     In  5  Vols.     12mo.     Price  1/.  u.     Bds. 

32, 

SKETCHES  OF  MANNERS,  SCENERY,  &c. 

IN  THE  FRENCH  PROVINCES; 

WITH    AN    ESSAY    ON    FRENCH    LITERATURE. 

By  the  late  JOHN  SCOTT,  Esq.     Author  of  the  «  Visit  to  Paris,"  &c. 

Second  Edition,     In  8vo.     Price  14s, 

33. 
TRAVELS  IN  THE   INTERIOR   OF   BRAZIL; 

WITH   A    rARTICULAR.   ACCOUNT    OF    THE    GOLD    AND    DIAMOND    DISTRICTS. 

INCLUDING   A   VOYAGE    TO    THE   RIO    DE    LA    PLATE. 

By  JOHN  MAWE,  Mineralogist. 

Second  Edition.     Illustrated  vrith  coloured  Plates  and  a  Map. 
8vo.     Price  18s.   Boards, 


Works  printed  Jbr  Longman,  Hurst,  Rees,  Orme,  and  Brotun*  7 

34. 

RECENT  BIOGRAPHY, 

LIVES  OF  CELEBRATED  PERSONS 

WHO     HAVE     DIED     WITHIN     THE     LAST     SIX     YEARS  ; 

Containing  upwards  of  200  Memoirs  of  distinguished  Individuals,  and  general 

Biograpiiical  Notices  of  many  others. 

In  6  Vols.      8vo.     Price  4/.  10s.   Boards. 

This  Work  is  continued  annually,  under  the  Title  of  "^The  Annual  Biography 

and  Obituary." 

35. 
THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  REBELLION, 

IN  1745  AND   1746, 

Containing  the  Causes  of  the  Pretender's  Defeat  at  CuUoden,  and  a  variety  of 

interesting    Ancedotes    hitherto     unknown. 

By  CHEVALIER  JOHNSTONE, 

Aid-de-Camp  to  Prince  Edward  Charles  Stewart,  and  Lord  Geoi'ge  Murray. 

8vo.     Second  Edition.     With  Portraits.     Price  15s.   Boards. 

36. 
THE  PRINCIPLES  AND  DOCTRINES  OF 

ASSURANCES,    ANNUITIES    ON    LIVES, 
AND  CONTINGENT  REVERSIONS, 

STATED  AND    EXPLAINED, 

By  WILLIAM  MORGAN,  Esq.   F.R.S. 

Actuary  of  the   Equitable   Life    Insurance  Office. 

1  Vol.     8vo.     Price  12s. 

37. 
MEMOIRS  OF  THE  Protector  OLIVER  CROMWELL, 

AND    HIS    SONS,    RICHARD    AND    HENRY. 
By  OLIVER  CROMWELL,  Esq. 

A  Descendant  of  the  Family. 

With  Portraits,  from  original  Pictures. 

Second  Edition.     2  Vols.     8vo.     Price  \L  8s.  Boards. 


A  SYSTEM  OF  UNIVERSAL  GEOGRAPHY. 

By  M.  MALTE  BRUN, 

Editor  of    the    "  Annales   des  Voyages,"    &c. 

Parts  I.  to  V.      Price  7^.  6d.  each. 

The  Work  is  to  be  completed  in  Seven  Octavo  Volumes,  Five  of  which  have 

been  already  published  in  the  Original,  containing  6G5  pages  of  letter-press  each, 

nearly  double  the  quantity  of  an  ordinary  volume. 

The  Translation  is  printed  on  fine  demy  paper,  and  will  be  published  Quarterly, 
in  Parts,  or  Half- Volumes.     Price  7s.  6d.  each. 

39. 
A  COURSE  OF  LECTURfig  6JJ 

DRAWING,  PAINTING,  AND  ENGRAVING^ 

CONSIDBRED    AS    BRANCHES    OF    ELEGANT   EDUCATION. 

By  W.  M.   CRAIG. 

Delivered  in  the  Royal  Institution. 

In  1  Vol.     8vo.     With  Plate  and  Wood  Cuts*     Price  14a.  Boards. 


10  Works  printed  for  Longman j  Hursts  Rees,  Qrme,  and  Brotun, 

53. 
THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  CRUSADES, 

FOR  THE  RECOVERY  AND  POSSESSION  OF  THE  HOLY  LAND. 

By  CHARLES  MILLS,  Esq. 

Authqr  of  "  A  History  of  Muhammedanism." 

The  Second  Edition.     In  2  Vols.     8vo.     Price  1/.  4s.  Boards. 

54. 

ANNALS  OF  THE 

REIGN  OF  KING  GiEORGE  THE  THIRD; 

BROUGHT    DOWN    TO    HIS    DEATH. 

By  JOHN  AlKIN,  M.D. 

The  Second  Edition.     In  2  Vols.     8vo.     Price  1/.  5s.     Boards. 

55. 

ELLEN  FITZ-ARTHUR; 

A     METRICAL     TALE,     IN     FIVE    CANTOS. 
The  Second  Edition.     In  Foolscap  8vo.     Price  6s.  6d.  Boards. 

56. 

THE  WIDOWS  TALE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

By  the  Author  of  Ellen  Fitz- Arthur. 
In  Foolscap  Svo.     Price  6s.  6d.   Boards. 

57. 
SELECT  WORKS  OF  THE  BRITISH  POETS, 

WITH    BIOGRAPHICAL    AND    CRITICAL    PREFACES, 

By  Dr.  AIKIN. 

In  10  Vols.     Royal  1  Brno.      Price  S/.  —  10  Vols.      Post  ISmo.      Price  2/, — 
Also  in  1  large  Vol.  Svo.  of  812  Pages,  Price  18*.   Boards. 

58. 
PRINCIPLES  OF  EDUCATION, 

INTELLECTUAL,  MORAL,  AND  PHYSICAL. 

By  the  Reverend  LANT  CARPENTER,  LL.D. 

In  Svo.     Price  125.   Boards. 

59. 

SYSTEMATIC  EDUCATION; 

OR,   ELEMENTARY   INSTRUCTION    IN    THE    VARIOUS    DEPARTMENTS 

OF    LITERATURE   AND    SCIENCE, 

With  Practical  Rules  for  studying  each  Branch  of  Useful  Knowledge. 

By  the  Rev.  W.  SHEPHERD,  the  Rev.  LANT   CARPENTER,  LL.D. 

and  the  Rev.  J.  JOYCE. 

Third  Edition.     In  2  Vols.     8vo.     Illustrated  veith  Plates  by  Lowry,  &c. 

Price  1/.  lis.  6d.   Boards. 

60. 

SERMONS 

ON    THE 

iJATURE,    OFFICES,    AND    CHARACTER   OF    JESUS   CHRIST. 

By  the  Rev.  T.  BOWDLER,  A.M. 

A  New  Edition,     In  2  Vols.     8vo.     With  Sixteen  Additional  Sermons. 


Pi# 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


'J> 


BRACEBRIDGE    HALL; 


OR, 


THE  HUMORISTS, 


BY  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  Gent,  /^^^y 


Under  this  cloud  I  walk,  gentlemen ;  pardon  my  rude  assault.  I 
am  a  traveller,  who,  having  surveyed  most  of  the  terrestrial  angles  of 
this  globe,  am  hither  arrived  to  peruse  this  little  spot. 

Christmas  Ordinary. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  I. 


LONDON : 
JOHN  MURRAY,  ALBEMARLE-STREET. 

1822. 


LONDON : 

PRINTED    BY    THOMAS    DAVISON,    WHITEFRIARS. 


CONTENTS 


VOL.  I. 


Page 

THE  AUTHOR     . 

3 

THE  HALL 

• 

15 

THE  BUSY  MAN 

21 

FAMILY  SERVANTS 

31 

THE  WIDOW       . 

43 

THE  LOVERS       . 

50 

FAMILY  RELIQUES 

'57 

AN  OLD  SOLDIER 

.      66 

THE  widow's  RETINUE       . 

.      73 

READY-MONEY  JACK 

.       80 

BACHELORS 

.      91 

WIVES        .... 

.       98 

STORY  TELLING 

.     109 

THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN 

.     112 

FOREST  TREES 

.     134 

LITERARY  ANTIQUARY 

.     145 

THE  FARM-HOUSE 

.     156 

HORSEMANSHIP 

.            , 

.     165 

iw316042 


IV 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

LOVE-SYMPTOMS 

.     173 

FALCONRY           .            .            . 

.     179 

HAWKING 

.     187 

ST.  mark's  eve 

.     199 

GENTILITY          .... 

.    216 

FORTUNE  TELLING     . 

.    2M 

LOVE-CHARMS 

.     23S 

THE  LIBRARY                 .            .            .            . 

.     241 

THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA     . 

.246 

BRACEBRIDGE  HALL, 


VOL.  I. 


THE  AUTHOR. 


WORTHY  reader! 

On  again  taking  pen  in  hand,  I 
would  fain  make  a  few  observations  at  the 
outset,  by  way  of  bespeaking  a  right  under- 
standing. The  volumes  which  I  have  already 
published  have  met  with  a  reception  far 
beyond  my  most  sanguine  expectations.  I 
would  willingly  attribute  this  to  their  intrinsic 
merits ;  but,  in  spite  of  the  vanity  of  author- 
ship, I  cannot  but  be  sensible  that  their  suc- 
cess has,  in  a  great  measure,  been  owing  to  a 
less  flattering  cause.  It  has  been  a  matter  of 
marvel,  that  a  man  from  the  wilds  of  America 
should  express  himself  in  tolerable  English. 
I  was  looked  upon  as  something  new  and 
strange  in  literature  ;  a  kind  of  demi-savage, 
with  a  feather  in  his  hand,  instead  of  on  his 

B  2 


THE    AUTHOR. 


head;  and  there  was  a  curiosity  to  hear  what 
such  a  being  had  to  say  about  civilized  society. 

This  novelty  is  now  at  an  end,  and  of  course 
the  feeling  of  indulgence  which  it  produced. 
I  must  now  expect  to  bear  the  scrutiny  of 
sterner  criticism,  and  to  be  measured  by  the 
same  standard  with  contemporary  writers; 
and  the  very  favour  which  has  been  shown  to 
my  previous  writings,  will  cause  these  to  be 
treated  with  the  greater  rigour  ;  as  there  is 
nothing  for  which  the  world  is  apt  to  punish 
a  man  more  severely,  than  for  having  been 
over-praised.  On  this  head,  therefore,  I  wish 
to  forestall  the  censoriousness  of  the  reader ; 
and  I  entreat  he  will  not  think  the  worse  of 
me  for  the  many  injudicious  things  that  may 
have  been  said  in  my  commendation. 

I  am  aware  that  I  often  travel  over  beaten 
ground,  and  treat  of  subjects  that  have  already 
been  discussed  by  abler  pens.  Indeed,  various 
authors  have  been  mentioned  as  my  models,  to 
whom  I  should  feel  flattered  if  I  thought  I 
bore  the  slightest  resemblance ;  but  in  truth 


THE    AUTHOR.  5 

I  write  after  no  model  that  I  am  conscious  of, 
and  I  write  with  no  idea  of  imitation  or  com- 
petition. In  venturing  occasionally  on  topics 
that  have  already  been  almost  exhausted  by 
English  authors,  I  do  it,  not  with  the  pre- 
sumption of  challenging  a  comparison,  but 
with  the  hope  that  some  new  interest  may  be 
given  to  such  topics,  when  discussed  by  the 
pen  of  a  stranger. 

If,  therefore,  I  should  sometimes  be  found 
dwelling  with  fondness  on  subjects  that  are 
trite  and  common-placed  with  the  reader,  I 
beg  the  circumstances  under  which  I  write 
may  be  kept  in  recollection.  Having  been 
born  and  brought  up  in  a  new  country,  yet 
educated  from  infancy  in  the  literature  of  an 
old  one,  my  mind  was  early  filled  with  historical 
and  poetical  associations,  connected  with  places, 
and  manners,  and  customs  of  Europe;  but 
which  could  rarely  be  applied  to  those  of  my 
own  country.  To  a  mind  thus  peculiarly  pre- 
pared, the  most  ordinary  objects  and  scenes, 
on  arriving  in   Europe,   are  full   of  strange 


O  THE    AUTHOIl. 

matter  and  interesting  novelty.  England  is 
as  classic  ground  to  an  American  as  Italy  is 
to  an  Englishman;  and  old  London  teems 
with  as  much  historical  association  as  mighty 
Rome. 

Indeed, it  is  difficult  to  describe  the  whimsical 
medley  of  ideas  that  throng  upon  his  mind  on 
landing  among  English  scenes.  He  for  the 
first  time  sees  a  world  about  which  he  has 
been  reading  and  thinking  in  every  stage  of 
his  existence.  The  recollected  ideas  of  in- 
fancy, youth,  and  manhood ;  of  the  nursery, 
the  school,  and  the  study,  come  swarming  at 
once  upon  him ;  and  his  attention  is  distracted 
between  great  and  little  objects ;  each  of  which, 
perhaps,  awakens  an  equally  delightful  train 
of  remembrances. 

But  what  more  especially  attracts  his  notice 
are  those  peculiarities  which  distinguish  an 
old  country  and  an  old  state  of  society  from  a 
new  one.  I  have  never  yet  grown  familiar 
enough  with  the  crumbling  monuments  of 
past  ages,  to  blunt  the  intense  interest  with 


THE    AUTHOR.  7 

which  I  at  first  beheld  them.  Accustomed 
always  to  scenes  where  history  was,  in  a  man- 
ner, in  anticipation ;  where  every  thing  in  art 
was  new  and  progressive,  and  pointed  to  the 
future  rather  than  to  the  past ;  where,  in  short, 
the  works  of  man  gave  no  ideas  but  those  of 
young  existence,  and  prospective  improvement ; 
there  was  something  inexpressibly  touching  in 
the  sight  of  enormous  piles  of  architecture, 
gray  with  antiquity,  and  sinking  to  decay.  I 
cannot  describe  the  mute  but  deep-felt  en- 
thusiasm with  which  I  have  contemplated  a 
vast  monastic  ruin,  like  Tintern  abbey,  buried 
in  the  bosom  of  a  quiet  valley,  and  shut  up 
from  the  world,  as  though  it  had  existed  merely 
for  itself;  or  a  warrior  pile,  like  Conway 
castle,  standing  in  stern  loneliness,  on  its  rocky 
height,  a  mere  hollow  yet  threatening  phantom 
of  departed  power.  They  spread  a  grand, 
and  melancholy,  and,  to  me,  an  unusual  charm 
over  the  landscape  ;  I  for  the  first  time  beheld 
signs  of  national  old  age,  and  empire's  decay, 
and  proofs  of  the  transient  and  perishing  glories 


&  THE    AUTHOR. 

of  art,  amidst  the  ever-springing  and  reviving 
fertility  of  nature. 

But,  in  fact,  to  me  every  thing  was  full  of 
matter;  the  footsteps  of  history  were  every 
where  to  be  traced  ;  and  poetry  had  breathed 
over  and  sanctified  the  land.  I  experienced 
the  delightful  freshness  of  feeling  of  a  child, 
to  whom  every  thing  is  new.  I  pictured  to 
myself  a  set  of  inhabitants  and  a  mode  of  life 
for  every  habitation  that  I  saw,  from  the 
aristocratical  mansion,  amidst  the  lordly  repose 
of  stately  groves  and  solitary  parks,  to  the 
straw-thatched  cottage,  with  its  scanty  garden 
and  its  cherished  woodbine.  I  thought  I  never 
could  be  sated  with  the  sweetness  and  fresh- 
ness of  a  country  so  completely  carpeted  with 
verdure;  where  every  air  breathed  of  the 
balmy  pasture,  and  the  honeysuckled  hedge. 
I  was  continually  coming  upon  some  little 
document  of  poetry  in  the  blossomed  hawthorn, 
the  daisy,  the  cowslip,  the  primrose,  or  some 
other  simple  object  that  has  received  a  super- 
natural value  from  the  muse.     The  first  time 


THE    AUTHOR. 


that  I  heard  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  I  was 
intoxicated  more  by  the  dehcious  crowd  of 
remembered  associations  than  by  the  melody 
of  its  notes ;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  thrill 
of  ecstasy  with  which  I  first  saw  the  lark  rise, 
almost  from  beneath  my  feet,  and  wing  its 
musical  flight  up  into  the  morning  sky. 

In  this  way  I  traversed  England,  a  grown- 
up child,  delighted  by  every  object  great  and 
small ;  and  betraying  a  wondering  ignorance, 
and  simple  enjoyment,  that  provoked  many  a 
stare  and  a  smile  from  my  wiser  and  more  ex- 
perienced fellow-travellers.  Such  too  was  the 
odd  confusion  of  associations  that  kept  break- 
ing upon  me  as  I  first  approached  London. 
One  of  my  earliest  wishes  had  been  to  see  this 
great  metropolis.  I  had  read  so  much  about  it 
in  the  earliest  books  that  had  been  put  into 
my  infant  hands ;  and  I  had  heard  so  much 
about  it  from  those  around  me  who  had  come 
from  the  ^'  old  countries."  I  was  familiar  with 
the  names  of  its  streets  and  squares,  and  public 
places,  before  I  knew  those  of  my  native  city. 


10  THE    AUTHOR. 

It  was,  to  me,  the  great  centre  of  the  world, 
round  which  every  thing  seemed  to  revolve.  I 
recollect  contemplating  so  wistfully  when  a 
boy,  a  paltry  little  print  of  the  Thames,  and 
London  Bridge,  and  St.  Paul's,  that  was  in 
front  of  an  old  magazine;  and  a  picture  of 
Kensington  Gardens,  with  gentlemen  in  three- 
cornered  hats  and  broad  skirts,  and  ladies  in 
hoops  and  lappets,  that  hung  up  in  my  bed- 
room ;  even  the  venerable  cut  of  St.  John's 
Gate,  that  has  stood,  time  out  of  mind,  in  front 
of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  was  not  without 
its  charms  to  me  ;  and  I  envied  the  odd  looking 
little  men  that  appeared  to  be  loitering  about 
its  arches. 

How  then  did  my  heart  warm  when  the  towers 
of  Westminster  Abbey  were  pointed  out  to  me, 
rising  above  the  rich  groves  of  St.  James's 
Park,  with  a  thin  blue  haze  about  their  gray 
pinnacles !  I  could  not  behold  this  great  mau- 
soleum of  what  is  most  illustrious  in  our  pater- 
nal history,  without  feeling  my  enthusiasm  in  a 
glow.  With  what  eagerness  did  I  explore  every 


THE    AUTHOR.  11 

part  of  the  metropolis !  I  was  not  content  with 
those  matters  which  occupy  the  dignified  re- 
search of  the  learned  traveller ;  I  delighted  to 
call  up  all  the  feelings  of  childhood,  and  to 
seek  after  those  objects  which  had  been  the 
wonders  of  my  infancy.  London  Bridge,  so 
famous  in  nursery  song ;  the  far-famed  Monu- 
ment ;  Gog  and  Magog,  and  the  Lions  in  the 
Tower,  all  brought  back  many  a  recollection 
of  infantine  delight,  and  of  good  old  beings, 
now  no  more,  who  had  gossiped  about  them 
to  my  wondering  ear.  Nor  was  it  without 
a  recurrence  of  childish  interest  that  I  first 
peeped  into  Mr.  Newberry's  shop,  in  St.  Paul's 
Church-yard,  that  fountain-head  of  literature. 
Mr.  Newberry  was  the  first  that  ever  filled  my 
infant  mind  with  the  idea  of  a  great  and  good 
man.  He  published  all  the  picture  books  of 
the  day;  and,  out  of  his  abundant  love  for 
children,  he  charged  "  nothing  for  either 
paper  or  print,  and  only  a  penny-halfpenny 
for  the  binding!" 

I  have  mentioned  these  circumstances,  worthy 


12  THE    AUTHOR. 

reader,  to  show  you  the  whimsical  crowd  of 
associations  that  are  apt  to  beset  my  mind  on 
mingling  among  English  scenes.  I  hope  they 
may,  in  some  measure,  plead  my  apology, 
should  I  be  found  harping  upon  stale  and 
trivial  themes,  or  indulging  an  over-fondness 
for  any  thing  antique  and  obsolete.  I  know 
it  is  the  humour,  not  to  say  cant  of  the  day, 
to  run  riot  about  old  times,  old  books,  old 
customs,  and  old  buildings ;  with  myself,  how- 
ever, as  far  as  I  have  caught  the  contagion,  the 
feeling  is  genuine.  To  a  man  from  a  young 
country  all  old  things  are  in  a  manner  new ; 
and  he  may  surely  be  excused  in  being  a  little 
curious  about  antiquities,  whose  native  land, 
unfortunately,  cannot  boast  of  a  single  ruin. 

Having  been  brought  up,  also,  in  the  com- 
parative simplicity  of  a  republic,  I  am  apt  to 
be  struck  with  even  the  ordinary  circumstances 
incident  to  an  aristocratical  state  of  society.  If, 
however,  I  should  at  any  time  amuse  myself 
by  pointing  out  some  of  the  eccentricities,  and 
some  of  the   poetical    characteristics   of  the 


THE    AUTHOR.  IS 

latter,  I  would  not  be  understood  as  pretend- 
ing to  decide  upon  its  political  merits.  My 
only  aim  is  to  paint  characters  and  manners. 
I  am  no  politician.  The  more  I  have  con- 
sidered the  study  of  politics,  the  more  I  have 
found  it  full  of  perplexity ;  and  I  have  con- 
tented myself,  as  I  have  in  my  religion,  with 
the  faith  in  which  I  was  brought  up,  regulating 
my  own  conduct  by  its  precepts  ;  but  leaving 
to  abler  heads  the  task  of  making  converts. 

I  shall  continue  on,  therefore,  in  the  course 
I  have  hitherto  pursued ;  looking  at  things 
poetically,  rather  than  politically ;  describing 
them  as  they  are,  rather  than  pretending  to 
point  out  how  they  should  be ;  and  endeavour- 
ing to  see  the  world  in  as  pleasant  a  light  as 
circumstances  will  permit. 

I  have  always  had  an  opinion  that  much 
good  might  be  done  by  keeping  mankind  in 
good  humour  with  one  another.  I  may  be 
wrong  in  my  philosophy,  but  I  shall  continue 
to  practise  it  until  convinced  of  its  fallacy. 
When  I  discover  the  world  to  be  all  that  it 


14  THE    AUTHOR. 

has  been  represented  by  sneering  cynics  and 
whining  poets,  I  will  turn  to  and  abuse  it  also ; 
in  the  mean  while,  worthy  reader,  I  hope  you 
will  not  think  lightly  of  me,  because  I  cannot 
believe  this  to  be  so  very  bad  a  world  as  it  is 
represented. 

Thine  truly, 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON. 


THE  HALL. 


The  ancient  house,  and  the  best  for  housekeeping  in  this  county 
or  the  next ;  and  though  the  master  of  it  write  but  squire,  I 
know  no  lord  like  him.  Merry  Beggars. 


The  reader,  if  he  has  perused  the  volumes 
of  the  Sketch  Book,  will  probably  recollect 
something  of  the  Bracebridge  family,  with 
which  I  once  passed  a  Christmas.  I  am  now 
on  another  visit  at  the  Hall,  having  been  invited 
to  a  wedding  which  is  shortly  to  take  place. 
The  squire's  second  son,  Guy,  a  fine,  spirited 
young  captain  in  the  army,  is  about  to  be 
married  to  his  father's  ward,  the  fair  Julia 
Templeton.  A  gathering  of  relations  and 
friends  has  already  commenced,  to  celebrate 
the  joyful  occasion;  for  the  old  gentlemaa  is 
an  enemy  to  quiet,  private  weddings.    '^  There 


16  THE    HALL. 

is  nothing,"  he  says,  "  like  launching  a  young 
couple  gaily,  and  cheering  them  from  the 
shore ;  a  good  outset  is  half  the  voyage." 

Before  proceeding  any  further,  I  would  beg 
that  the  squire  might  not  he  confounded  with 
that  class  of  hard-riding,  fox-hunting  gentle- 
men so  often  described,  and,  in  fact,  so  nearly 
extinct  in  England.  I  use  this  rural  title  partly 
because  it  is  his  universal  appellation  through- 
out the  neighbourhood,  and  partly  because  it 
saves  me  the  frequent  repetition  of  his  name, 
which  is  one  of  those  rough  old  English  names 
at  which  Frenchmen  exclaim  in  despair. 

The  squire  is,  in  fact,  a  lingering  specimen 
of  the  old  English  country  gentleman ;  rusti- 
cated a  little  by  living  almost  entirely  on  his 
estate,  and  something  of  a  humorist,  as  En- 
glishmen are  apt  to  become  when  they  have 
an  opportunity  of  living  in  their  own  way.  I 
like  his  hobby  passing  well,  however,  which  is, 
a  bigoted  devotion  to  old  English  manners 
and  customs;  it  jumps  a  little  with  my  own 
humour,  having  as  yet  a  lively  and   unsated 


THE    HALL.  17 

curiosity  about  the  ancient  and  genuine  cha- 
racteristics of  my  ''  father  land." 

There  are  some  traits  about  the  squire's 
family  also,  which  appear  to  me  to  be  national. 
It  is  one  of  those  old  aristocratical  families, 
which,  I  believe,  are  peculiar  to  England,  and 
scarcely  understood  in  other  countries ;  that 
is  to  say,  families  of  the  ancient  gentry,  who, 
though  destitute  of  titled  rank,  maintain  a 
high  ancestral  pride :  who  look  down  upon  all 
nobility  of  recent  creation,  and  would  consider 
it  a  sacrifice  of  dignity  to  merge  the  venerable 
name  of  their  house  in  a  modern  title. 

This  feeling  is  very  much  fostered  by  the 
importance  which  they  enjoy  on  their  here- 
ditary domains.  The  family  mansion  is  an 
old  manor-house,  standing  in  a  retired  and 
beautiful  part  of  Yorkshire.  Its  inhabitants 
have  been  always  regarded  through  the  sur- 
rounding country,  as  "  the  great  ones  of  the 
earth ; "  and  the  little  village  near  the  hall  looks 
up  to  the  squire  with  almost  feudal  homage. 
An  old  manor-house,  and  an  old  family  of  this 

VOL.  I.  c 


18  THE    HALL. 

kind,  are  rarely  to  be  met  with  at  the  present 
day;  and  it  is  probably  the  peculiar  humour 
of  the  squire  that  has  retained  this  secluded 
specimen  of  English  housekeeping  in  some- 
thing like  the  genuine  old  style. 

I    am    again    quartered    in    the   panelled 

chamber,  in  the  antique  wing  of  the  house. 

The  prospect  from  my  window,  however,  has 

quite  a  different  aspect  from  that  which  it  wore 

on  my  winter  visit.  Though  early  in  the  month 

of  April,  yet  a  few  warm,  sunshiny  days  have 

drawn  forth  the  beauties  of  the  spring,  which, 

I  think,  are  always  most  captivating  on  their 

first  opening.  The  parterres  of  the  old  fashioned 

garden  are  gay  with  flowers ;  and  the  gardener 

has  brought  out  his  exotics,  and  placed  them 

along  the  stone  balustrades.     The  trees  are 

clothed  with  green  buds  and  tender  leaves; 

when  I  throw  open  my  jingling  casement,  I 

smell  the  odour  of  mignionette,  and  hear  the  hum 

of  the  bees  from  the  flowers  against  the  sunny 

wall,  with  the  varied  song  of  the  throstle,  and 

the  cheerful  notes  of  the  tuneful  little  wren. 


THE    HALL.  19 

While  sojourning  in  this  strong  hold  of  old 
fashions,  it  is  my  intention  to  make  occasional 
sketches  of  the  scenes  and  characters  before 
me.   I  would  have  it  understood,  however,  that 
I  am  not  writing  a  novel,  and  have  nothing  of 
intricate  plot,  or  marvellous  adventure,  to  pro- 
mise the  reader.     The  Hall  of  which  I  treat, 
has,  for  aught  I  know,  neither  trap-door,  nor 
sliding-panel,  nor  donjon-keep;    and  indeed 
appears  to  have  no  mystery  about  it.     The 
family  is  a  worthy  well-meaning  family,  that, 
in  all  probability,  will  eat  and  drink,  and  go 
to  bed,  and  get  up  regularly,  from  one  end  of 
my  work  to  the  other ;  and  the  squire  is  so 
kind-hearted  an  old  gentleman,  that  I  see  no 
likelihood  of  his  throwing  any  kind  of  distress 
in  the  way  of  the  approaching  nuptials.     In  a 
word,  I  cannot  foresee  a  single  extraordinary 
event  that  is  likely  to  occur  in  the  whole  term 
of  my  sojourn  at  the  Hall. 

I  tell  this  honestly  to  the  reader,  lest,  when 
he  finds  me  dallying  along,  through  every-day 
English  scenes,  he  may  hurry  ahead,  in  hopes  of 

c  2 


2Q  THE    HALL. 

meeting  with  some  marvellous  adventure  fur- 
ther on.  I  invite  him,  on  the  contrary,  to  ramble 
gently  on  with  me,  as  he  would  saunter  out 
into  the  fields,  stopping  occasionally  to  gather 
a  flower,  or  listen  to  a  bird,  or  admire  a  pro- 
spect, without  any  anxiety  to  arrive  at  the 
end  of  his  career.  Should  I,  however,  in  the 
course  of  my  loiterings  about  this  old  mansion, 
see  or  hear  any  thing  curious,  that  might 
serve  to  vary  the  monotony  of  this  every-day 
life,  I  shall  not  fail  to  report  it  for  the  reader's 
entertainment : 

For  freshest  wits  I  know  will  soon  be  wearie. 
Of  any  book,  how  grave  so  e'er  it  be. 
Except  it  have  odd  matter,  strange  and  merrie. 
Well  sauc'd  with  lies  and  glared  all  with  glee*. 

*  Mirror  for  Magistrates. 


THE  BUSY  MAN. 


A  decayed  gentleman^  who  lives  most  upon  his  own  mirth  and 
my  master's  means,  and  much  good  do  him  with  it.  He  does 
hold  my  master  up  with  his  stories,  and  songs,  and  catches, 

and  such  tricks  and  jigs,  you  would  admire ^he  is  with 

him  now.  Jovial  Cbew. 


By  no  one  has  my  return  to  the  Hall  been 
more  heartily  greeted  than  by  Mr.  Simon 
Bracebridge,  or  Master  Simon,  as  the  squire 
most  commonly  calls  him.  I  encountered  him 
just  as  I  entered  the  park,  where  he  was 
breaking  a  pointer,  and  he  received  [me  with 
all  the  hospitable  cordiality  with  which  a  man 
welcomes  a  friend  to  another  one's  house.  I 
have  already  introduced  him  to  the  reader  as 
a  brisk  old  bachelor-looking  little  man ;  the  wit 
and  superannuated  beau  of  a  large  family  con- 
nexion, and  the  squire's  factotum.     I  found 


22  THE   BUSY    MAN. 

him,  as  usual,  full  of  bustle ;  with  a  thousand 
petty  things  to  do,  and  persons  to  attend  to, 
and  in  chirping  good-humour;  for  there  are 
few  happier  beings  than  a  busy  idler ;  that  is 
to  say,  a  man  who  is  eternally  busy  about 
nothing. 

I  visited  him,  the  morning  after  my  arrival, 
in  his  chamber,  which  is  in  a  remote  corner  of 
the  mansion,  as  he  says  he  likes  to  be  to  him- 
self, and  out  of  the  way.  He  has  fitted  it  up 
in  his  own  taste,  so  that  it  is  a  perfect  epitome 
of  an  old  bachelor's  notions  of  convenience  and 
arrangement.  The  furniture  is  made  up  of 
odd  pieces  from  all  parts  of  the  house,  chosen 
on  account  of  their  suiting  his  notions,  or  fitting 
some  corner  of  his  apartment ;  and  he  is  very 
eloquent  in  praise  of  an  ancient  elbow  chair, 
from  which  he  takes  occasion  to  digress  into 
a  censure  on  modern  chairs,  as  having  de- 
generated from  the  dignity  and  comfort  of 
high-backed  antiquity. 

Adjoining  to  his  room  is  a  small  cabinet, 
which   he    calls   his  stiidy.     Here    are   some 


THE    BUSY    MAN.  ^S 

hanging  shelves,  of  his  own  construction,  on 
which  are  several  old  works  on  hawking,  hunt- 
ing, and  farriery,  and  a  collection  or  two  of 
poems  and  songs  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
which  he  studies  out  of  compliment  to  the 
squire  ;  together  with  the  Novelists'  Magazine, 
the  Sporting  Magazine,  the  Racing  Calendar, 
a  volume  or  two  of  the  Newgate  Calendar,  a 
book  of  peerage,  and  another  of  heraldry. 

His  sporting  dresses  hang  on  pegs  in  a  small 
closet ;  and  about  the  walls  of  his  apartment 
are  hooks  to  hold  his  fishing-tackle,  whips, 
spurs,  and  a  favourite  fowling-piece,  curiously 
wrought  and  inlaid,  which  he  inherits  from  his 
grandfather.  He  has  also  a  couple  of  old 
single-keyed  flutes,  and  a  fiddle,  which  he  has 
repeatedly  patched  and  mended  himself,  affirm- 
ing it  to  be  a  veritable  Cremona;  though  I 
have  never  heard  him  extract  a  single  note 
from  it  that  was  not  enough  to  make  one's 
blood  run  cold. 

From  this  little  nest  his  fiddle  will  often  be 
heard,  in  the  stillness  of  midday,  drowsily  saw- 


24  THE    BUSY    MAN. 

ing  some  long-forgotten  tune;  for  he  prides 
himself  on  having  a  choice  collection  of  good 
old  English  music,  and  will  scarcely  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  modern  composers.  The 
time,  however,  at  which  his  musical  powers 
are  of  most  use,  is  now  and  then  of  an  even- 
ing, when  he  plays  for  the  children  to  dance 
in  the  hall,  and  he  passes  among  them  and  the 
servants  for  a  perfect  Orpheus. 

His  chamber  also  bears  evidence  of  his 
various  avocations :  there  are  half-copied  sheets 
of  music;  designs  for  needlework;  sketches 
of  landscapes,  very  indifferently  executed ;  a 
camera  lucida;  a  magic  lantern,  for  which 
he  is  endeavouring  to  paint  glasses;  in  a 
word,  it  is  the  cabinet  of  a  man  of  many  ac- 
complishments, who  knows  a  little  of  every 
thing,  and  does  nothing  well. 

After  I  had  spent  some  time  in  his  apart- 
ment, admiring  the  ingenuity  of  his  small  in- 
ventions, he  took  me  about  the  establishment, 
to  visit  the  stables,  dog-kennel,  and  other  de- 
pendencies, in  which  he  appeared  like  a  ge- 


THE    BUSY    MAN.  ^5 

neral  visiting  the  different  quarters  of  his  camp ; 
as  the  squire  leaves  the  control  of  all  these 
matters  to  him,  when  he  is  at  the  Hall.  He 
inquired  into  the  state  of  the  horses ;  examined 
their  feet;  prescribed  a  drench  for  one,  and 
bleeding  for  another;  and  then  took  me  to 
look  at  his  own  horse,  on  the  merits  of  which 
he  dwelt  with  great  prolixity,  and  which,  I 
noticed,  had  the  best  stall  in  the  stable. 

After  this  I  was  taken  to  a  new  toy  of  his 
and  the  squire's,  which  he  termed  the  falconry, 
where  there  were  several  unhappy  birds  in 
durance,  completing  their  education.  Among 
the  number  was  a  line  falcon,  which  Master 
Simon  had  in  especial  training,  and  he  told 
me  that  he  would  show  me,  in  a  few  days, 
some  rare  sport  of  the  good  old-fashioned 
kind.  In  the  course  of  our  round,  I  noticed 
that  the  grooms,  game-keeper,,  whippers-in, 
and  other  retainers,  seemed  all  to  be  on  some- 
what of  a  familiar  footing  with  Master  Simon, 
and  fond  of  having  a  joke  with  him,  though 


^6  THE    BUSY    MAN.    ■ 

it  was  evident  they  had  great  deference  for  his 
opinion  in  matters  relating  to  their  functions. 
There  was  one  exception,  however,  in  a 
testy  old  huntsman,  as  hot  as  a  pepper-corn ; 
a  meagre,  wiry  old  fellow,  in  a  thread-bare 
velvet  jockey-cap,  and  a  pair  of  leather  breeches, 
that,  from  much  wear,  shone  as  though  they 
had  been  japanned.  He  was  very  contra- 
dictory and  pragmatical,  and  apt,  as  I  thought, 
to  differ  from  Master  Simon  now  and  then, 
out  of  mere  captiousness.  This  was  par- 
ticularly the  case  with  respect  to  the  treat- 
ment of  the  hawk,  which  the  old  man  seemed 
to  have  under  his  peculiar  care,  and,  accord- 
ing to  Master  Simon,  was  in  a  fair  way  to 
ruin :  the  latter  had  a  vast  deal  to  say  about 
casting,  and  imping,  and  gleaming,  and  enseam- 
ing,  and  giving  the  hawk  the  rangle,  which  I 
saw  was  all  heathen  Greek  to  old  Christy; 
but  he  maintained  his  point  notwithstanding, 
and  seemed  to  hold  all  this  technical  lore  in 
utter  disrespect. 


THE    BUSY    MAN.  TJ 

I  was  surprised  at  the  good  humour  with 
which  Master  Simon  bore  his  contradictions 
till  he  explained  the  matter  to  me  afterwards. 
Old  Christy  is  the  most  ancient  servant  in  the 
place,  having  lived  among  dogs  and  horses  the 
greater  part  of  a  century,  and  been  in  the  ser- 
vice of  Mr.  Bracebridge's  father.  He  knows 
the  pedigree  of  every  horse  on  the  place,  and 
has  bestrode  the  great  great  grandsires  of  most 
of  them.  He  can  give  a  circumstantial  detail 
of  every  fox-hunt  for  the  last  sixty  or  seventy 
years,  and  has  a  history  for  every  stag's  head 
about  the  house,  and  every  hunting  trophy 
nailed  to  the  door  of  the  dog-kennel. 

All  the  present  race  have  grown  up  under 
his  eye,  and  humour  him  in  his  old  age.  He 
once  attended  the  squire  to  Oxford  when  he 
was  a  student  there,  and  enlightened  the  whole 
university  with  his  hunting  lore.  All  this  is 
enough  to  make  the  old  man  opinionated,  since 
he  finds  on  all  these  matters  of  first-rate  im- 
portance, he  knows  more  than  the  rest  of  the 
world.     Indeed,  Master  Simon  had  been  his 


28*  THE    BUSY    MAN. 

pupil,  and  acknowledges  that  he  derived  his 
first  knowledge  in  hunting  from  the  instruc- 
tions of  Christy ;  and  I  much  question  whether 
the  old  man  does  not  still  look  upon  him  as 
rather  a  greenhorn. 

On  our  return  homewards,  as  we  were  cross- 
ing the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house,  we  heard 
the  porter's  bell  ring  at  the  lodge,  and  shortly 
afterwards,  a  kind  of  cavalcade  advanced  slowly 
up  the  avenue.  At  sight  of  it  my  companion 
paused,  considered  it  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
making  a  sudden  exclamation,  hurried  away 
to  meet  it.  As  it  approached  I  discovered  a 
fair  fresh-looking  elderly  lady,  dressed  in  an 
old-fashioned  riding-habit,  with  a  broad-brim- 
med white  beaver  hat,  such  as  may  be  seen  in 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  paintings.  She  rode  a 
sleek  white  pony,  and  was  followed  by  a  foot- 
man in  rich  livery,  mounted  on  an  over-fed 
hunter.  At  a  little  distance  in  the  rear  came 
an  ancient  cumbrous  chariot,  drawn  by  two 
very  corpulent  horses,  driven  by  as  corpulent 
a  coachman,  beside  whom  sat  a  page  dressed 


THE    BUSY    MAN.  QQ> 

in  a  fanciful  green  livery.  Inside  of  the  cha- 
riot was  a  starched  prim  personage,  with  a 
look  somewhat  between  a  lady's  companion 
and  a  lady's  maid,  and  two  pampered  curs, 
that  showed  their  ugly  faces  and  harked  out 
of  each  window. 

There  was  a  general  turning  out  of  the  gar- 
rison to  receive  this  new  comer.  The  squire 
assisted  her  to  alight,  and  saluted  her  affec- 
tionately ;  the  fair  Julia  flew  into  her  arms, 
and  they  embraced  with  the  romantic  fervour 
of  boarding-school  friends :  she  was  escorted 
into  the  house  by  Julia's  lover,  towards  whom 
she  showed  distinguished  favour ;  and  a  line  of 
the  old  servants,  who  had  collected  in  the  Hall, 
bowed  most  profoundly  as  she  passed. 

T  observed  that  Master  Simon  was  most 
assiduous  and  devout  in  his  attentions  upon 
this  old  lady.  He  walked  by  the  side  of  her 
pony  up  the  avenue ;  and,  while  she  was  re- 
ceiving the  salutations  of  the  rest  of  the  family, 
he  took  occasion  to  notice  the  fat  coachman ; 
to  pat  the  sleek  carriage  horses,  and,  above  all. 


50  THE    BUSY    MAN. 

to  say  a  civil  word  to  my  lady's  gentlewoman, 
the  prim,  sour-looking  vestal  in  the  chariot. 

I  had  no  more  of  his  company  for  the  rest  of 
the  morning.  He  was  swept  off  in  the  vortex 
that  followed  in  the  wake  of  this  lady.  Once 
indeed  he  paused  for  a  moment,  as  he  was  hur- 
rying on  some  errand  of  the  good  lady's,  to  let 
me  know  that  this  was  Lady  Lilly  craft,  a  sister 
of  the  squire's,  of  large  fortune,  which  the 
captain  would  inherit,  and  that  her  estate  lay 
in  one  of  the  best  sporting  countries  in  all 
England. 


FAMILY  SERVANTS 


Verily  old  servants  are  the  vouchers  of  worthy  housekeeping. 
They  are  like  rats  in  a  mansion,  or  mites  in  a  cheese,  bespeak- 
ing the  antiquity  and  fatness  of  their  abode. 


In  my  casual  anecdotes  of  the  Hall,  I  may 
often  be  tempted  to  dwell  on  circumstances  of  a 
trite  and  ordinary  nature,  from  their  appearing 
to  me   illustrative   of  genuine  national  cha- 
racter.   It  seems  to  be  the  study  of  the  squire 
to  adhere,  as  much  as  possible,  to  what  he 
considers  the  old  landmarks  of  English  man- 
ners.    His  servants  all  understand  his  ways, 
and  for  the  most  part  have  been  accustomed 
to  them  from  infancy ;  so  that,  upon  the  whole, 
his  household  presents  one  of  the  few  tolerable 
specimens  that  can  now  be  met  with,  of  the 
establishment  of  an  English  country  gentle- 
man of  the  old  school. 


3^  FAMILY    SERVANTS. 

By  the  by,  the  servants  are  not  the  least 
characteristic  part  of  the  household :  the  house- 
keeper, for  instance,  has  been  born  and  brought 
up  at  the  Hall,  and  has  never  been  twenty 
miles  from  it ;  yet  she  has  a  stately  air  that 
would  not  disgrace  a  lady  that  had  figured  at 
the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

I  am  half  inclined  to  think  that  she  has 
caught  it  from  living  so  much  among  the  old 
family  pictures.  It  may,  however,  be  owing 
to  a  consciousness  of  her  importance  in  the 
sphere  in  which  she  has  always  moved ;  for  she 
is  greatly  respected  in  the  neighbouring  vil- 
lage, and  among  the  farmers'  wives,  and  has 
high  authority  in  the  household,  ruling  over 
the  servants  with  quiet,  but  undisputed  sway. 

She  is  a  thin  old  lady,  with  blue  eyes  and 
pointed  nose  and  chin.  Her  dress  is  always 
the  same  as  to  fashion.  She  wears  a  small, 
well-starched  ruff,  a  laced  stomacher,  full  pet- 
ticoats, and  a  gown  festooned  and  open  in 
front,  which,  on  particular  occasions,  is  of  an- 
cient silk,  the  legacy  of  some  former  dame  of 


FAMILY    SERVANTS.  83 

the  family,  or  an  inheritance  from  her  mother, 
who  was  housekeeper  before  her.  I  have  a 
reverence  for  these  old  garments,  as  I  make 
no  doubt  they  have  figured  about  these  apart- 
ments in  days  long  past,  when  they  have  set 
off  the  charms  of  some  peerless  family  beauty ; 
and  I  have  sometimes  looked  from  the  old 
housekeeper  to  the  neighbouring  portraits,  to 
see  whether  I  could  not  recognize  her  anti- 
quated brocade  in  the  dress  of  some  one  of 
those  long-waisted  dames  that  smile  on  me 
from  the  walls. 

Her  hair,  which  is  quite  white,  is  frizzed  out 
in  front,  and  she  wears  over  it  a  small  cap, 
nicely  plaited,  and  brought  down  under  the 
chin.  Her  manners  are  simple  and  primitive, 
heightened  a  little  by  a  proper  dignity  of 
station.  ^ 

The  Hall  is  her  world,  and  the  history  of 
the  family  the  only  history  she  knows,  except- 
ing that  which  she  has  read  in  the  Bible.  She 
can  give  a  biography  of  every  portrait  in  the 

VOL.  I.  D 


S4t  FAMILY    SERVANTS. 

picture  gallery,  and  is  a  complete  family  chro- 
nicle. 

She  is  treated  with  great  consideration  by 
the  squire.  Indeed,  Master  Simon  tells  me 
that  there  is  a  traditional  anecdote  current 
among  the  servants,  of  the  squire's  having 
been  seen  kissing  her  in  the  picture  gallery, 
when  they  were  both  young.  As,  however, 
nothing  further  was  ever  noticed  between 
them,  the  circumstance  caused  no  great  scan- 
dal; only  she  was  observed  to  take  to  reading 
Pamela  shortly  afterwards,  and  refused  the 
hand  of  the  village  innkeeper,  whom  she  had 
previously  smiled  on. 

The  old  butler,  who  was  formerly  footman, 
and  a  rejected  admirer  of  hers,  used  to  tell  the 
anecdote  now  and  then,  at  those  little  cabals 
that  will  occasionally  take  place  among  the 
most  orderly  servants,  arising  from  the  com- 
mon propensity  of  the  governed  to  talk  against 
administration;  but  he  has  left  it  off,  of  late 
years,    since   he    has   risen    into   place,   and 


FAMILY    SERVANTS.  85 

shakes  his  head  rebukingly  when  it  is  men- 
tioned. 

It  is  certain  that  the  old  lady  will,  to  this 
day,  dwell  on  the  looks  of  the  squire  when  he 
was  a  young  man  at  college;  and  she  main- 
tains that  none  of  his  sons  can  compare  with 
their  father  when  he  was  of  their  age,  and  was 
dressed  out  in  his  full  suit  of  scarlet,  with  his 
hair  craped  and  powdered,  and  his  three-cor- 
nered hat. 

She  has  an  orphan  niece,  a  pretty,  soft- 
hearted baggage,  named  Phoebe  Wilkins,  who 
has  been  transplanted  to  the  Hall  within  a 
year  or  two,  and  been  nearly  spoiled  for  any 
condition  of  life.  She  is  a  kind  of  attendant 
and  companion  of  the  fair  Julia's;  and  from 
loitering  about  the  young  lady's  apartments, 
reading  scraps  of  novels,  and  inheriting  second- 
hand finery,  has  become  something  between  a 
waiting-maid  and  a  slip-shod  fine  lady. 

She  is  considered  a  kind  of  heiress  among 
the  servants,  as  she  will  inherit  all  her  aunt's 
property;  which,  if  report  be  true,  must  be  a 

D  2 


/ 


36  FAMILY    SERVANTS. 

round  sum  of  good  golden  guineas,  the  accu- 
mulated wealth  of  two  housekeepers'  savings ; 
not  to  mention  the  hereditary  wardrobe,  and 
the  many  little  valuables  and  knick-knacks 
treasured  up  in  the  housekeeper's  room.  In- 
deed, the  old  housekeeper  has  the  reputation 
among  the  servants  and  the  villagers  of  being 
passing  rich;  and  there  is  a  japanned  chest  of 
drawers  and  a  large  iron-bound  coffer  in  her 
room,  which  are  supposed,  by  the  housemaids, 
to  hold  treasures  of  wealth. 

The  old  lady  is  a  great  friend  of  Master 
Simon,  who,  indeed,  pays  a  little  court  to 
her,  as  to  a  person  high  in  authority ;  and  they 
have  many  discussions  on  points  of  family  hi- 
story, in  which,  notwithstanding  his  extensive 
information,  and  pride  of  knowledge,  he  com- 
monly admits  her  superior  accuracy.  He  sel- 
dom returns  to  the  Hall,  after  one  of  his  visits 
to  the  other  branches  of  the  family,  without 
bringing  Mrs.  Wilkins  some  remembrance  from 
the  ladies  of  the  house  where  he  has  been 
staying. 


FAMILY    SERVANTS.  37 

Indeed,  all  the  children  of  the  house  look  up 
to  the  old  lady  with  habitual  respect  and  at- 
tachment, and  she  seems  almost  to  consider 
them  as  her  own,  from  their  having  grown  up 
under  her  eye.  The  Oxonian,  however,  is  her 
favourite,  probably  from  being  the  youngest, 
though  he  is  the  most  mischievous,  and  has 
been  apt  to  play  tricks  upon  her  from  boy- 
hood. 

I  cannot  help  mentioning  one  little  cere- 
mony, which,  I  believe,  is  peculiar  to  the  Hall. 
After  the  cloth  is  removed  at  dinner,  the  old 
housekeeper  sails  into  the  room  and  stands  be- 
hind the  squire's  chair,  when  he  fills  her  a  glass 
of  wine  with  his  own  hands,  in  which  she  drinks 
the  health  of  the  company  in  a  truly  respect- 
ful yet  dignified  manner,  and  then  retires.  The 
squire  received  the  custom  from  his  father,  and 
has  always  continued  it. 

There  is  a  peculiar  character  about  the  ser- 
vants of  old  English  families  that  reside  prin- 
cipally in  the  country.  They  have  a  quiet, 
orderly,  respectful  mode  of  doing  their  duties. 


> 


i 


38  FAMILY    SERVANTS. 

They  are  always  neat  in  their  persons,  and  ap- 
propriately, and,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  tech- 
nically dressed;  they  move  about  the  house 
without  hurry  or  noise ;  there  is  nothing  of  the 
bustle  of  employment,  or  the  voice  of  com- 
mand ;  nothing  of  that  obtrusive  housewifery 
that  amounts  to  a  torment.  You  are  not  per- 
secuted by  the  process  of  making  you  comfort- 
able ;  yet  every  thing  is  done,  and  is  done  well. 
The  work  of  the  house  is  performed  as  if  by 
magic,  but  it  is  the  magic  of  system.  Nothing 
is  done  by  fits  and  starts,  nor  at  awkward  sea- 
sons ;  the  whole  goes  on  like  well-oiled  clock- 
work, where  there  is  no  noise  nor  jarring  in 
its  operations. 

English  servants,  in  general,  are  not  treated 
with  great  indulgence,  nor  rewarded  by  many 
commendations;  for  the  English  are  laconic 
and  reserved  towards  their  domestics ;  but  an 
approving  nod  and  a  kind  word  from  master 
or  mistress,  goes  as  far  here,  as  an  excess  of 
praise  or  indulgence  elsewhere.  Neither  do 
servants  often  exhibit  any  animated  marks  of 


FAMILY    SERVANTS.  39 

affection  to  their  employers  ;  yet,  though  quiet, 
they -are  strong  in  their  attachments;  and  the 
reciprocal  regard  of  masters  and  servants, 
though  not  ardently  expressed,  is  powerful 
and  lasting  in  old  English  families. 

The  title  of"  an  old  family  servant"  carries 
with  it  a  thousand  kind  associations  in  all  parts 
of  the  world;  and  there  is  no  claim  upon  the 
home-bred  charities  of  the  heart  more  irre- 
sistible than  that  of  having  been  "  born  in  the 
house."  It  is  common  to  see  gray-headed  do- 
mestics of  this  kind  attached  to  an  English 
family  of  the  "  old  school,"  who  continue  in  it 
to  the  day  of  their  death,  in  the  enjoyment  of 
steady  unaffected  kindness,  and  the  perform- 
ance of  faithful,  unofficious  duty.  I  think  such 
instances  of  attachment  speak  well  for  both 
master  and  servant,  and  the  frequency  of  them 
speaks  well  for  national  character. 

These  observations,  however,  hold  good  only 
with  families  of  the  description  I  have  men- 
tioned ;  and  with  such  as  are  somewhat  retired, 
and  pass  the  greater  part  of  their  time  in  the 


40  FAMILY    SERVANTS. 

country.  As  to  the  powdered  menials  that 
throng  the  halls  of  fashionable  town  residences, 
they  equally  reflect  the  character  of  the  esta- 
blishments to  which  they  belong ;  and  I  know 
no  more  complete  epitomes  of  dissolute  heart- 
lessness,  and  pampered  inutility. 

But  the  good  '^  old  family  servant!" — The 
one  who  has  always  been  linked,  in  idea,  with 
the  home  of  our  heart;  who  has  led  us  to 
school  in  the  days  of  prattling  childhood ;  who 
has  been  the  confidant  of  our  boyish  cares,  and 
schemes,  and  enterprises ;  who  has  hailed  us  as 
we  came  home  at  vacations,  and  been  the  pro- 
moter of  all  our  holiday  sports ;  who,  when  we, 
in  wandering  manhood,  have  left  the  paternal 
roof,  and  only  return  thither  at  intervals,  will 
welcome  us  with  a  joy  inferior  only  to  that  of  our 
parents ;  who,  now  grown  gray  and  infirm  with 
age,  still  totters  about  the  house  of  our  fathers 
in  fond  and  faithful  servitude ;  who  claims  us, 
in  a  manner,  as  his  own ;  and  hastens  with 
querulous  eagerness  to  anticipate  his  fellow^ 
domestics  in  waiting  upon  us  at  table;  and 


FAMILY    SERVANTS.  41 

who,  when  we  retire  at  night  to  the  chamber 
that  still  goes  by  our  name,  will  linger  about 
the  room  to  have  one  more  kind  look,  and  one 
more  pleasant  word  about  times  that  are  past 
— who  does  not  experience  towards  such  a 
being  a  feeling  of  almost  filial  affection  ? 

I  have  met  with  several  instances  of  epitaphs 
on  the  gravestones  of  such  valuable  domestics, 
recorded  with  the  simple  truth  of  natural  feel- 
ing. I  have  two  before  me  at  this  moment ; 
one  copied  from  a  tombstone  of  a  churchyard 
in  Warwickshire : 

"  Here  lieth  the  body  of  Joseph  Batte,  con- 
fidential servant  to  George  Birch,  Esq.  of  Ham- 
stead  Hall.  His  grateful  friend  and  master 
caused  this  inscription  to  be  written  in  me- 
mory of  his  discretion,  fidelity,  diligence,  and 
continence.  He  died  (a  bachelor)  aged  84, 
having  lived  44  years  in  the  same  family." 

The  other  was  taken  from  a  tombstone  in 
Eltham  churchyard : 

''  Here  lie  the  remains  of  Mr.  James  Tappy, 
who  departed  this  life  on  the  8th  of  September, 
1818,  aged  84,  after  a  faithful  service  of  60 


42  FAMILY    SERVANTS, 

years  in  one  family ;  by  each  individual  of  which 
he  lived  respected,  and  died  lamented  by  the 
sole  survivor." 

Few  monuments,  even  of  the  illustrious,  have 
given  me  the  glow  about  the  heart  that  I  felt 
while  copying  this  honest  epitaph  in  the  church- 
yard of  Eltham.  I  sympathised  with  this  '^  sole 
survivor"  of  a  family  mourning  over  the  grave 
of  the  faithful  follower  of  his  race,  who  had 
been,  no  doubt,  a  living  memento  of  times  and 
friends  that  had  passed  away;  and  in  con- 
sidering this  record  of  long  and  devoted  ser- 
vice, I  called  to  mind  the  touching  speech  of 
Old  Adam  in  "As  You  Like  It,"  when  tottering 
after  the  youthful  son  of  his  ancient  master : 

"  Master,  go  on,  and  I  will  follow  thee 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  love  and  loyalty  \" 

Note. — I  cannot  but  mention  a  tablet  which  I  have  seen 
somewhere  in  the  chapel  of  Windsor  Castle,  put  up  by  the  late 
king  to  the  memory  of  a  family  servant,  who  had  been  a  faithful 
attendant  of  his  lamented  daughter,  the  Princess  Amelia. 
George  III.  possessed  much  of  the  strong,  domestic  feeUng  of 
the  old  English  country  gentleman;  and  it  is  an  incident  curious 
in  monumental  history,  and  creditable  to  the  human  heart,  a 
monarch  erecting  a  monument  in  honour  of  the  humble  virtues 
of  a  menial. 


THE  WIDOW. 


'She  was  so  charitable  and  pitious 
She  would  weep  if  that  she  saw  a  mous 
Caught  in  a  trap^  if  it  were  dead  or  bled  ; 
Of  small  hounds  had  she,  that  she  fed 
With  rost  fleshj  milke,  and  wastel  bread. 
But  sore  wept  she  if  any  of  them  were  dead. 
Or  if  man  smote  them  with  a  yard  smart. 

Chaucer. 


Notwithstanding  the  whimsical  parade 
made  by  Lady  Lillycraft  on  her  arrival,  she 
has  none  of  the  petty  stateliness  that  I  had 
imagined;  but,  on  the  contrary,  she  has  a 
degree  of  nature,  and  simple-heartedness,  if  I 
may  use  the  phrase,  that  mingles  well  with 
her  old-fashioned  manners  and  harmless  osten- 
tation. She  dresses  in  rich  silks,  with  long 
waist ;  she  rouges  considerably,  and  her  hair, 
which  is  nearly  white,  is  frizzed  out,  and  put 


44  THE    WIDOW. 

up  with  pins.  Her  face  is  pitted  with  the 
small-pox,  but  the  delicacy  of  her  features 
shows  that  she  may  once  have  been  beautiful ; 
and  she  has  a  very  fair  and  well-shaped  hand 
and  arm,  of  which,  if  I  mistake  not,  the  good 
lady  is  still  a  little  vain. 

I  have  had  the  curiosity  to  gather  a  few 
particulars  concerning  her.  She  was  a  great 
belle  in  town  between  thirty  and  forty  years 
since,  and  reigned  for  two  seasons  with  all  the 
insolence  of  beauty,  refusing  several  excellent 
offers ;  when,  unfortunately,  she  was  robbed  of 
her  charms  and  her  lovers  by  an  attack  of  the 
small-pox.  She  retired  immediately  into  the 
country,  where  she  sometime  after  inherited 
an  estate,  and  married  a  baronet,  a  former 
admirer,  whose  passion  had  suddenly  revived ; 
"  having,"  as  he  said,  "  always  loved  her  mind 
rather  than  her  person." 

The  baronet  did  not  enjoy  her  mind  and 
fortune  above  six  months,  and  had  scarcely 
grown  very  tired  of  her,  when  he  broke  his 
neck  in  a  fox-chase,  and  left  her  free,  rich,  and 


THE    WIDOW.  4JJ 

disconsolate.  She  has  remained  on  her  estate 
in  the  country  ever  since,  and  has  never  shown 
any  desire  to  return  to  town,  and  revisit  the 
scene  of  her  early  triumphs  and  fatal  malady. 
All  her  favourite  recollections,  however,  revert 
to  that  short  period  of  her  youthful  beauty. 
She  has  no  idea  of  town  but  as  it  was  at  that 
time ;  and  continually  forgets  that  the  place 
and  people  must  have  changed  materially  in 
the  course  of  nearly  half  a  century.  She  will 
often  speak  of  the  toasts  of  those  days  as  if 
still  reigning ;  and,  until  very  recently,  used 
to  talk  with  delight  of  the  royal  family,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  young  princes  and  princesses* 
She  cannot  be  brought  to  think  of  the  present 
king  otherwise  than  as  an  elegant  young  man, 
rather  wild,  but  who  danced  a  minuet  divinely ; 
and  before  he  came  to  the  crown,  would  often 
mention  him  as  the  ^^  sweet  young  prince." 

She  talks  also  of  the  walks  in  Kensington 
Garden,  where  the  gentlemen  appeared  in  gold- 
laced  coats  and  cocked  hats,  and  the  ladies  in 
hoops,  and  swept  so  proudly  along  the  grassy 
avenues ;  and  she  thinks  the  ladies  let  them- 


46  THE    WIDOW. 

selves  sadly  down  in  their  dignity,  when  they 
gave  up  cushioned  head-dresses,  and  high-heeled 
shoes.  She  has  much  to  say  too  of  the  officers 
who  were  in  the  train  of  her  admirers ;  and 
speaks  familiarly  of  many  wild  young  blades, 
that  are  now,  perhaps,  hobbling  about  water- 
ing-places with  crutches  and  gouty  shoes. 

Whether  the  taste  the  good  lady  had  of 
matrimony  discouraged  her  or  not,  I  cannot 
say ;  but,  though  her  merits  and  her  riches  have 
attracted  many  suitors,  she  has  never  been 
tempted  to  venture  again  into  the  happy  state. 
This  is  singular  too,  for  she  seems  of  a  most 
soft  and  susceptible  heart ;  is  always  talking 
of  love  and  connubial  felicity ;  and  is  a  great 
stickler  for  old-fashioned  gallantry,  devoted 
attentions,  and  eternal  constancy,  on  the  part 
of  the  gentlemen.  She  lives,  however,  after 
her  own  taste.  Her  house,  I  am  told,  must 
have  been  built  and  furnished  about  the  time 
of  Sir  Charles  Grandison :  every  thing  about 
it  is  somewhat  formal  and  stately ;  but  has  been 
softened  down  into  a  degree  of  voluptuousness, 
characteristic  of   an    old   lady   very   tender- 


THE    WIDOW.  47 

^  hearted  and  romantic,  and  that  loves  her  ease. 
The  cushions  of  the  great  arm-chairs,  and  wide 
sofas,  almost  bury  you  when  you  sit  down  on 
them.  Flowers  of  the  most  rare  and  delicate 
kind  are  placed  about  the  rooms  and  on  little 
japanned  stands  ;  and  sweet  bags  lie  about  the 
tables  and  mantel-pieces.  The  house  is  full  of 
pet  dogs,  Angola  cats,  and  singing-birds,  who 
are  as  carefully  waited  upon  as  she  is  herself. 
She  is  dainty  in  her  living,  and  a  little  of  an 
epicure,  living  on  white  meats,  and  little  lady- 
like dishes,  though  her  servants  have  substantial 
old  English  fare,  as  their  looks  bear  witness. 
Indeed,  they  are  so  indulged,  that  they  are 
all  spoiled ;  and  when  they  lose  their  present 
place,  they  will  be  fit  for  no  other.  Her  lady- 
ship is  one  of  those  easy-tempered  beings  that 
are  always  doomed  to  be  much  liked,  but  ill 
served  by  their  domestics,  and  cheated  by  all 
the  world. 

Much  of  her  time  is  past  in  reading  novels, 
of  which  she  has  a  most  extensive  library,  and 
has  a  constant  supply  from  the  publishers  in 


48  THE    WIDOW. 

town.  Her  erudition  in  this  line  of  literature 
is  immense ;  she  has  kept  pace  with  the  press 
for  half  a  century.  Her  mind  is  stuffed  with 
love-tales  of  all  kinds,  from  the  stately  amours 
of  the  old  books  of  chivalry,  down  to  the  last 
blue-covered  romance,  reeking  from  the  press ; 
though  she  evidently  gives  the  preference  to 
those  that  came  out  in  the  days  of  her  youth, 
and  when  she  was  first  in  love.  She  maintains 
that  there  are  no  novels  written  now-a-days 
equal  to  Pamela  and  Sir  Charles  Grandison; 
and  she  places  the  Castle  of  Otranto  at  the 
head  of  all  romances. 

She  does  a  vast  deal  of  good  in  her  neigh- 
bourhood, and  is  imposed  upon  by  every  beggar 
in  the  county.  She  is  the  benefactress  of  a 
village  adjoining  to  her  estate,  and  takes  an 
especial  interest  in  all  its  love-affairs.  She 
knows  of  every  courtship  that  is  going  on; 
every  love-lorn  damsel  is  sure  to  find  a  patient 
listener  and  a  sage  adviser  in  her  ladyship. 
She  takes  great  pains  to  reconcile  all  love- 
quarrels,  and  should  any  faithless  swain  persist 


THE    WIDOW.  49 

in  his  inconstancy,  he  is  sure  to  draw  on  him- 
self the  good  lady's  violent  indignation. 

I  have  learned  these  particulars  partly  from 
Frank  Bracebridge,  and  partly  from  Master 
Simon.  I  am  now  able  to  account  for  the 
assiduous  attention  of  the  latter  to  her  lady- 
ship. Her  house  is  one  of  his  favourite  resorts, 
where  he  is  a  very  important  personage.  He 
makes  her  a  visit  of  business  once  a  year, 
when  he  looks  into  all  her  affairs;  which,  as 
she  is  no  manager,  are  apt  to  get  into  con- 
fusion. He  examines  the  books  of  the  overseer, 
and  shoots  about  the  estate,  which,  he  says,  is 
well  stocked  with  game,  notwithstanding  that 
it  is  poached  by  all  the  vagabonds  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

It  is  thought,  as  I  before  hinted,  that  the 
captain  will  inherit  the  greater  part  of  her 
property,  having  always  been  her  chief  fa- 
vourite ;  for,  in  fact,  she  is  partial  to  a  red 
coat.  She  has  now  came  to  the  Hall  to  be 
present  at  his  nuptials,  having  a  great  disposi- 
tion to  interest  herself  in  all  matters  of  love 
and  matrimony. 

VOL.  I.  E 


THE  LOVERS. 


Rise  up,  my  love,  my  fair  one,  and  come  away :  for  lo  the  win- 
ter is  past,  the  rain  is  over  and  gone ;  the  flowers  appear  on 
the  earth,  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is  come,  and  the 
voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land. 

Song  of  Solomon. 


To  a  man  who  is  a  little  of  a  philosopher, 
and  a  bachelor  to  boot ;  and  who,  by  dint  of 
some  experience  in  the  follies  of  life,  begins  to 
look  with  a  learned  eye  upon  the  ways  of  man, 
and  eke  of  woman;  to  such  a  man,  I  say,  there 
is  something  very  entertaining  in  noticing  the 
conduct  of  a  pair  of  young  lovers.  It  may 
not  be  as  grave  and  scientific  a  study  as  the 
loves  of  the  plants,  but  it  is  certainly  as  in- 
teresting. 

I  have  therefore  derived  much  pleasure, 
since  my  arrival  at  the  Hall,  from  observing 
the  fair  Julia  and  her  lover.     She  has  all  the 


THE    LOVERS.  51 

delightful,  blushing  consciousness  of  an  artless 
girl,  inexperienced  in  coquetry,  who  has  made 
her  first  conquest;  while  the  captain  regards 
her  with  that  mixture  of  fondness  and  exulta- 
tion, with  which  a  youthful  lover  is  apt  to 
contemplate  so  beauteous  a  prize. 

I  observed  them  yesterday  in  the  garden, 
advancing  along  one  of  the  retired  walks. 
The  sun  was  shining  with  delicious  warmth, 
making  great  masses  of  bright  verdure,  and 
deep  blue  shade.  The  cuckoo,  that  ''  har- 
binger of  spring,"  was  faintly  heard  from  a 
distance ;  the  thrush  piped  from  the  hawthorn, 
and  the  yellow  butterflies  sported,  and  toyed, 
and  coquetted  in  the  air. 

The  fair  Julia  was  leaning  on  her  lover's 
arm,  listening  to  his  conversation,  with  her 
eyes  cast  down,  a  soft  blush  on  her  cheek,  and 
a  quiet  smile  on  her  lips,  while  in  the  hand 
that  hung  negligently  by  her  side  was  a  bunch 
of  flowers.  In  this  way  they  were  sauntering 
slowly  along,  and  when  I  considered  them, 
and  the  scene  in  which  they  were  moving,  I 

E  2 


52  THE    LOVERS. 

could  not  but  think  it  a  thousand  pities  that 
the  season  should  ever  change,  or  that  young 
people  should  ever  grow  older,  or  that  blossoms 
should  give  way  to  fruit,  or  that  lovers  should 
ever  get  married. 

From  what  I  have  gathered  of  family  anec- 
dote, I  understand  that  the  fair  Julia  is  the 
daughter  of  a  favourite  college  friend  of  the 
squire  ;  who,  after  leaving  Oxford,  had  entered 
the  army,  and  served  for  many  years  in  India, 
where  he  was  mortally  wounded  in  a  skirmish 
with  the  natives.  In  his  last  moments  he  had, 
with  a  faltering  pen,  recommended  his  wife 
and  daughter  to  the  kindness  of  his  early 
friend. 

The  widow  and  her  child  returned  to  Eng- 
land helpless,  and  almost  hopeless.  When  Mr. 
Bracebridge  received  accounts  of  their  situa- 
tion, he  hastened  to  their  relief.  He  reached 
them  just  in  time  to  soothe  the  last  moments 
of  the  mother,  who  was  dying  of  a  consump- 
tion, and  to  make  her  happy  in  the  assurance 
that  her  child  should  never  want  a  protector. 


THE    LOVERS.  53 

The  good  squire  returned  with  his  prattling 
charge  to  his  strong  hold,  where  he  had  brought 
her  up  with  a  tenderness  truly  paternal.     As 
he  has  taken  some  pains  to  superintend  her 
education,  and  form  her  taste,  she  has  grown 
up  with  many  of  his  notions,  and  considers 
him  the  wisest,  as  well  as  the  best  of  men. 
Much  of  her  time^  too,  has  been  passed  with 
Lady  Lillycraft,  who  has  instructed  her  in  the 
manners  of  the  old  school,  and  enriched  her 
mind  with  all  kinds  of  novels  and  romances. 
Indeed,  her  ladyship  has  had  a  great  hand  in 
promoting  the  match  between  Julia  and  the 
captain,  having   had   them   together    at   her 
country  seat,  the  moment  she  found  there  was 
an  attachment  growing  up  between  them;  the 
good  lady  being  never  so  happy  as  when  she 
has  a  pair  of  turtles  cooing  about  her. 

I  have  been  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with 
which  the  fair  Julia  is  regarded  by  the  old 
servants  at  the  Hall.  She  has  been  a  pet  with 
them  from  childhood,  and  every  one  seems  tp 
lay  some  claim  to  her  education ;  so  that  it  is 


54  THE    LOVERS. 

no  wonder  that  she  should  be  extremely  ac- 
complished. The  gardener  taught  her  to  rear 
flowers,  of  which  she  is  extremely  fond.  Old 
Christy,  the  pragmatical  huntsman,  softens 
when  she  approaches ;  and  as  she  sits  lightly 
and  gracefully  in  her  saddle,  claims  the  merit 
of  having  taught  her  to  ride ;  while  the  house- 
keeper, who  almost  looks  upon  her  as  a  daugh- 
ter, intimates  that  she  first  gave  her  an  insight 
into  the  mysteries  of  the  toilet,  having  been 
dressing-maid  in  her  young  days  to  the  late 
Mrs.  Bracebridge.  I  am  inclined  to  credit  this 
last  claim,  as  I  have  noticed  that  the  dress  of 
the  young  lady  had  an  air  of  the  old  school, 
though  managed  with  native  taste,  and  that 
her  hair  was  put  up  very  much  in  the  style 
of  Sir  Peter  Lely's  portraits  in  the  picture- 
gallery. 

Her  very  musical  attainments  partake  of 
this  old  fashioned  character,  and  most  of  her 
songs  are  such  as  are  not  at  the  present  day  to 
be  found  on  the  piano  of  a  modern  performer.  I 
have,  however,  seen  so  much  of  modern  fashions. 


THE    LOVERS.  55 

modern  accomplishments,  and  modern  fine  la- 
dies, that  I  relish  this  tinge  of  antiquated  style 
in  so  young  and  lovely  a  girl ;  and  I  have  had 
as  much  pleasure  in  hearing  her  warble  one  of 
the  old  songs  of  Herrick,  or  Carew,  or  Suck- 
ling, adapted  to  some  simple  old  melody,  as  I 
have  had  from  listening  to  a  lady  amateur  sky- 
lark it  up  and  down  through  the  finest  bravura 
of  Rossini  or  Mozart. 

We  have  very  pretty  music  in  the  evenings, 
occasionally,  between  her  and  the  captain, 
assisted  sometimes  by  Master  Simon,  who 
scrapes,  dubiously,  on  his  violin ;  being  very 
apt  to  get  out,  and  to  halt  a  note  or  two  in 
the  rear.  Sometimes  he  even  thrums  a  little 
on  the  piano,  and  takes  a  part  in  a  trio,  in 
which  his  voice  can  generally  be  distinguished 
by  a  certain  quavering  tone,  and  an  occasional 
false  note. 

I  was  praising  the  fair  Julia's  performance 
to  him  after  one  of  her  songs,  when  I  found 
he  took  to  himself  the  whole  credit  of  having 


56  THE    LOVERS. 


O 


formed  her  musical  taste,  assuring  me  that  she 
was  very  apt ;  and,  indeed,  summing  up  her 
whole  character  in  his  knowing  way,  by  adding, 
that  "  she  was  a  very  nice  girl,  and  had  rio 
nonsense  about  her." 


FAMILY  RELIQUES 


My  Infelice's  face,  her  brow,  her  eye. 

The  dimple  on  her  cheek :  and  such  sweet  skill 

Hath  from  the  cunning  workman's  pencil  flown. 

These  lips  look  fresh  and  lively  as  her  own. 

False  colours  last  after  the  true  be  dead. 

Of  all  the  roses  grafted  on  her  cheeks. 

Of  all  the  graces  dancing  in  her  eyes. 

Of  all  the  music  set  upon  her  tongue. 

Of  all  that  was  past  woman's  excellence 

In  her  white  bosom ;  look,  a  painted  board 

Circumscribes  all !  De  k  k  e  r. 


An  old  English  family  mansion  is  a  fertile 
subject  for  study.  It  abounds  with  illustra- 
tions of  former  times,  and  traces  of  the  tastes, 
and  humours,  and  manners,  of  successive  ge- 
nerations. The  alterations  and  additions,  in 
different  styles  of  architecture  ;  the  furniture, 
plate,  pictures,  hangings;  the  warlike  and 
sporting    implements    of  different   ages   and 


58  FAMILY    RELIQUES. 

fancies ;  all  furnish  food  for  curious  and 
amusing  speculation.  As  the  squire  is  very 
careful  in  collecting  and  preserving  all  family 
reliques,  the  Hall  is  full  of  remembrances  of 
the  kind.  In  looking  about  the  establishment, 
I  can  picture  to  myself  the  characters  and 
habits  that  have  prevailed  at  different  eras  of 
the  family  history.  I  have  mentioned  on  a 
former  occasion  the  armour  of  the  crusader 
which  hangs  up  in  the  Hall.  There  are  also 
several  jack-boots,  with  enormously  thick  soles 
and  high  heels,  that  belonged  to  a  set  of  cava- 
liers, who  filled  the  Hall  with  the  din  and  stir 
of  arms  during  the  time  of  the  Covenanters. 
A  number  of  enormous  drinking  vessels  of 
antique  fashion,  with  huge  Venice  glasses,  and 
green  hock-glasses,  with  the  apostles  in  relief 
on  them,  remain  as  monuments  of  a  generation 
or  two  of  hard-livers,  that  led  a  life  of  roaring 
revelry,  and  first  introduced  the  gout  into  the 
family. 

I  shall  pass  over  several  more  such  indica- 
tions of  temporary  tastes  of  the  squire's  pre- 


FAMILY    RELIQUES.  59 

decessors ;  but  I  cannot  forbear  to  notice  a 
pair  of  antlers  in  the  great  hall,  which  is  one 
of  the  trophies  of  a  hard-riding  squire  of  former 
times,  who  was  the  Nimrod  of  these  parts. 
There  are  many  traditions  of  his  wonderful 
feats  in  hunting  still  existing,  which  are  re- 
lated by  old  Christy,  the  huntsman,  who  gets 
exceedingly  nettled  if  they  are  in  the  least 
doubted.  Indeed,  there  is  a  frightful  chasm, 
n  few  miles  from  the  Hall,  which  goes  by  the 
name  of  the  Squire's  Leap,  from  his  having 
cleared  it  in  the  ardour  of  the  chase ;  there  can 
be  no  doubt  of  the  fact,  for  old  Christy  shows 
the  very  dints  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  rocks 
on  each  side  of  the  chasm. 

Master  Simon  holds  the  memory  of  this 
squire  in  great  veneration,  and  has  a  number 
of  extraordinary  stories  to  tell  concerning  him, 
which  he  repeats  at  all  hunting  dinners ;  and 
I  am  told  that  they  wax  more  and  more  mar- 
vellous the  older  they  grow.  He  has  also  a 
pair  of  Rippon  spurs  which  belonged  to  this 
mighty  hunter  of  yore,  and  which  he  only 
wears  on  particular  occasions. 


60  FAMILY    RELIQUES. 

The  place,  however,  which  abounds  most 
with  mementos  of  past  times,  is  the  picture  gal- 
lery ;  and  there  is  something  strangely  pleasing, 
though  melancholy,  in  considering  the  long 
rows  of  portraits  which  compose  the  greater 
part  of  the  collection.     They  furnish  a  kind  of 
narrative  of  the  lives  of  the  family  worthies, 
which  I  am  enabled  to  read  with  the  assistance 
of  the  venerable  housekeeper,  who  is  the  family 
chronicler,  prompted  occasionally  by  Master 
Simon.     There  is  the  progress  of  a  fine  lady, 
for  instance,  through  a  variety  of  portraits. 
One  represents  her  as  a  little  girl,  with  a  long 
waist  and  hoop,  holding  a  kitten  in  her  arms, 
and  ogling  the  spectator  out  of  the  corners  of 
her  eyes,  as  if  she  could  not  turn  her  head.  In 
another  we  find  her  in  the  freshness  of  youth- 
ful beauty,  when  she  was  a  celebrated  belle, 
and  so  hard-hearted  as  to  cause  several  unfor- 
tunate gentlemen  to  run  desperate  and  write 
bad  poetry.     In  another  she  is  depicted  as  a 
stately  dame,  in  the  maturity  of  her  charms ; 
next  to  the  portrait  of  her  husband,  a  gallant 
colonel  in  full-bottomed  wig  and  gold-laced 


FAMILY    RELIQUES.  Gl 

hat,  who  was  killed  abroad ;  and,  finally,  her 
monument  is  in  the  church,  the  spire  of  which 
may  be  seen  from  the  window,  where  her  effigy 
is  carved  in  marble,  and  represents  her  as  a 
venerable  dame  of  seventy-six. 

In  like  manner  I  have  followed  some  of  the 
family  great  men  through  a  series  of  pictures, 
from  early  boyhood  to  the  robe  of  dignity,  or 
truncheon  of  command,  and  sa  on  by  degrees, 
until  they  were  garnered  up  in  the  common 
repository,  the  neighbouring  church. 

There  is  one  group  that  particularly  inte- 
rested me.  It  consisted  of  four  sisters  of  nearly 
the  same  age,  who  flourished  about  a  century 
since,  and,  if  I  may  jtidge  from  their  portraits, 
were  extremely  beautiful.  I  can  imagine  what 
a  scene  of  gaiety  and  romance  this  old  mansion 
must  have  been,  when  they  were  in  the  hey-day 
of  their  charms ;  when  they  passed  like  beau- 
tiful visions  through  its  halls,  or  stepped  dain- 
tily to  music  in  the  revels  and  dances  of  the 
cedar  gallery ;  or  printed,  with  delicate  feet,  the 
velvet  verdure  of  these  lawns.  How  must  they 


62  FAMILY    RELIQUES. 

have  been  looked  up  to  witli  mingled  love,  and 
pride,  and  reverence,  by  the  old  family  ser- 
vants; and  followed  with  almost  painful  ad- 
miration by  the  aching  eyes  of  rival  admirers  ! 
How  must  melody,  and  song,  and  tender  sere- 
nade, have  breathed  about  these  courts,  and 
their  echoes  whispered  to  the  loitering  tread  of 
lovers !  How  must  these  very  turrets  have  made 
the  hearts  of  the  young  galliards  thrill,  as  they 
first  discerned   them   from  afar,  rising   from 
among  the  trees,  and  pictured  to  themselves 
the  beauties  casketed  like  gems  within  these 
walls!    Indeed  I  have  discovered   about   the 
place  several  faint  records  of  this  reign  of  love 
and  romance,  when  the  Hall  was  a  kind  of 
Court  of  Beauty.     Several  of  the  old  romances 
in  the  library  have  marginal  notes  expressing 
sympathy  and   approbation,  where  there  are 
long  speeches  extolling  ladies'  charms,  or  pro- 
testing eternal  fidelity,  or  bewailing  the  cruelty 
of  some  tyrannical  fair  one.  The  interviews,  and 
declarations,  and  parting  scenes  of  tender  lovers, 
^Iso  bear  the  marks  of  having  been  frequently 


FAMILY    RELIQUES.  63 

read,  and  are  scored,  and  marked  with  notes  of 
admiration,  and  have  initials  written  on  the 
margins ;  most  of  which  annotations  have  the 
day  of  the  month  and  year  annexed  to  them. 
Several  of  the  windows,  too,  have  scraps  of 
poetry  engraved  on  them  with  diamonds,  taken 
from  the  writings  of  the  fair  Mrs.  Philips,  the 
once  celebrated  Orinda.  Some  of  these  seem 
to  have  been  inscribed  by  lovers ;  and  others, 
in  a  delicate  and  unsteady  hand,  and  a  little 
inaccurate  in  the  spelling,  have  evidently  been 
written  by  the  young  ladies  themselves,  or  by 
female  friends,  who  have  been  on  visits  to  the 
Hall.  Mrs.  Philips  seems  to  have  been  their 
favourite  author,  and  they  have  distributed  the 
names  of  her  heroes  and  heroines  among  their 
circle  of  intimacy.  Sometimes,  in  a  male  hand, 
the  verse  bewails  the  cruelty  of  beauty,  and  the 
sufferings  of  constant  love ;  while  in  a  female 
hand  it  prudishly  confines  itself  to  lamenting 
the  parting  of  female  friends.  The  bow-window 
of  my  bed-room,  which  has,  doubtless,  been  in- 
habited by  one  of  these  beauties,  has  several  of 


64  FAMILY    RELIQUES. 

these  inscriptions.  I  have  one  at  this  moment 
before  my  eyes,  called  "  Camilla  parting  with 
Leonora :" 

"  How  perished  is  the  joy  that's  past;, 
The  present  how  unsteady  ! 
What  comfort  can  be  great  and  last^ 
When  this  is  gone  akeady  ?  " 

And  close  by  it  is  another,  written,  perhaps,  by 
some  adventurous  lover,  who  had  stolen  into 
the  lady's  chamber  during  her  absence : 

'^  THEODOSIUS    TO    CAMILLA. 

I'd  rather  in  your  favour  live. 

Than  in  a  lasting  name ; 
And  much  a  greater  rate  would  give 

For  happiness  than  fame. 

Theodosius.  1700." 

When  I  look  at  these  faint  records  of  gal- 
lantry and  tenderness ;  when  I  contemplate  the 
fading  portraits  of  these  beautiful  girls,  and 
think  too  that  they  have  long  since  bloomed, 
reigned,  grown  old,  died,  and  passed  away,  and 
with  them  all  their  graces,  their  triumphs,  their 
rivalries,  their  admirers ;  the  whole  empire  of 
love  and  pleasure  in  which  they  ruled — "  all 
dead,  all  buried,  all  forgotten,"  I  find  a  cloud 


FAMILY    RELIQUES.  65 

of  melancholy  stealing  over  the  present  gaieties 
around  me.  I  was  gazing,  in  a  musing  mood, 
this  very  morning,  at  the  portrait  of  the  lady, 
whose  husband  was  killed  abroad,  when  the 
fair  Julia  entered  the  gallery,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  the  captain.  The  sun  shone  through 
the  row  of  windows  on  her  as  she  passed  along, 
and  she  seemed  to  beam  out  each  time  into 
brightness,  and  relapse  into  shade,  until  the 
door  at  the  bottom  of  the  gallery  closed  after 
her.  I  felt  a  sadness  of  heart  at  the  idea,  that 
this  was  an  emblem  of  her  lot :  a  few  more 
years  of  sunshine  and  shade,  and  all  this  life, 
and  loveliness,  and  enjoyment,  will  have  ceased, 
and  nothing  be  left  to  commemorate  this  beauti- 
ful being  but  one  more  perishable  portrait ;  to 
awaken,  perhaps,  the  trite  speculations  of  some 
future  loiterer,  like  myself,  when  I  and  my 
scribblings  shall  have  lived  through  our  brief 
existence  and  been  forgotten. 


VOL.  I. 


AN  OLD  SOLDIER. 


I  've  worn  some  leather  out  abroad ;  let  out  a  heathen  soul  or 
two;  fed  this  good  sword  with  the  black  blood  of  pagan 
Christians;  converted  a  few  infidels  with  it— But  let  that 
pass.  The  Obdinary. 


The  Hall  was  thrown  into  some  little  agita- 
tion, a  few  days  since,  by  the  arrival  of  General 
Harbottle.  He  had  been  expected  for  several 
days,  and  had  been  looked  for,  rather  impa- 
tiently, by  several  of  the  family.  Master  Simon 
assured  me  that  I  would  like  the  General 
hugely,  for  he  was  a  blade  of  the  old  school, 
and  an  excellent  table  companion.  Lady  Lilly- 
craft,  also,  appeared  to  be  somewhat  fluttered, 
on  the  morning  of  the  General's  arrival,  for  he 
had  been  one  of  her  early  admirers;  and  she 
recollected  him  only  as  a  dashing  young  ensign, 
just  come  upon  the  town.  She  actually  spent 
an  hour  longer  at  her  toilette,  and  made  her 


AN    OLD    SOLDIER.  #7 

appearance  with  her  hair  uncommonly  frizzed 
and  powdered,  and  an  additional  quantity  of 
rouge.  She  was  evidently  a  little  surprised  and 
shocked,  therefore,  at  finding  the  lithe  dashing 
ensign  transformed  into  a  corpulent  old  ge- 
neral, with  a  double  chin;  though  it  was  a 
perfect  picture  to  witness  their  salutations;  the 
graciousness  of  her  profound  curtsy,  and  the 
air  of  the  old  school  with  which  the  general 
took  off  his  hat,  swayed  it  gently  in  his  hand, 
and  bowed  his  powdered  head. 

All  this  bustle  and  anticipation  has  caused 
me  to  study  the  general  with  a  little  more  at- 
tention than,  perhaps,  I  should  otherwise  have 
done ;  and  the  few  days  that  he  has  already 
passed  at  the  Hall  have  enabled  me,  I  think, 
to  furnish  a  tolerable  likeness  of  him  to  the 
reader. 

He  is,  as  Master  Simon  observed,  a  soldier 
of  the  old  school,  with  powdered  head,  side 
locks,  and  pigtail.  His  face  is  shaped  like  the 
stern  of  a  Dutch  man  of  war,  narrow  at  top, 
and  wide  at  bottom,  with  full  rosy  cheeks  and 

F  2 


68  AN    OLD    SOLDIER. 

a  double  chin ;  so  that,  to  use  the  cant  of  the 
day,  his  organs  of  eating  may  be  said  to  be 
powerfully  developed. 

The  general,  though  a  veteran,  has  seen  very 
little  active  service,  except  the  taking  of  Se- 
ringapatam,  which  forms  an  era  in  his  history. 
He  wears  a  large  emerald  in  his  bosom,  and  a 
diamond  on  his  finger,  which  he  got  on  that 
occasion,  and  whoever  is  unlucky  enough  to 
notice  either,  is  sure  to  involve  hiniself  in  the 
whole  history  of  the  siege.  To  judge  from  the 
general's  conversation,  the  taking  of  Seringa- 
patam  is  the  most  important  affair  that  has 
occurred  for  the  last  century. 

On  the  approach  of  warlike  times  on  the  con- 
tinent, he  was  rapidly  promoted  to  get  him  out 
of  the  way  of  younger  officers  of  merit ;  until, 
having  been  hoisted  to  the  rank  of  general,  he 
was  quietly  laid  on  the  shelf.  Since  that  time 
his  campaigns  have  been  principally  confined 
to  watering  places;  where  he  drinks  the  waters 
for  a  slight  touch  of  the  liver  which  he  got  in 
India ;  and  plays  whist  with  old  dowagers,  with 


AN    OLD    SOLDIER.  69 

whom  he  has  flirted  in  his  younger  days.  In- 
deed he  talks  of  all  the  fine  women  of  the  last 
half  century,  and,  according  to  hints  which  he 
now  and  then  drops,  has  enjoyed  the  particular 
smiles  of  many  of  them. 

He  has  seen  considerable  garrison  duty,  and 
can  speak  of  almost  every  place  famous  for 
good  quarters,  and  where  the  inhabitants  give 
good  dinners.  He  is  a  diner  out  of  first-rate 
currency,  when  in  town;  being  invited  to  one 
place,  because  he  has  been  seen  at  another.  In 
the  same  way  he  is  invited  about  the  country 
seats,  and  can  describe  half  the  seats  in  the 
kingdom,  from  actual  observation ;  nor  is  any 
one  better  versed  in  court  gossip,  and  the  pedi- 
grees and  intermarriages  of  the  nobility. 

As  the  general  is  an  old  bachelor,  and  an 
old  beau,  and  there  are  several  ladies  at  the 
Hall,  especially  his  quondam  flame  Lady  Joce- 
lyne,  he  is  put  rather  upon  his  gallantry.  He 
commonly  passes  some  time,  therefore,  at  his 
toilette,  and  takes  the  field  at  a  late  hour  every 
morning,  with  his  hair  dressed  out  and  pow- 


70  AN    OLD    SOLDIER. 

dered,  and  a  rose  in  his  button-hole.  After  he 
has  breakfasted,  he  walks  up  and  down  the 
terrace  in  the  sunshine,  humming  an  air,  and 
hemming  between  every  stave,  carrying  one 
hand  behind  his  back,  and  with  the  other 
touching  his  cane  to  the  ground,  and  then 
raising  it  up  to  his  shoulder.  Should  he,  in 
these  morning  promenades,  meet  any  of  the 
elder  ladies  of  the  family,  as  he  frequently  does 
Lady  Lillycraft,  his  hat  is  immediately  in  hia 
hand,  and  it  is  enough  to  remind  one  of  those 
courtly  groups  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  in 
old  prints  of  Windsor-terrace,  or  Kensington- 
garden. 

He  talks  frequently  about  "  the  service," 
and  is  fond  of  humming  the  old  song. 

Why,  soldiers,  why. 

Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys  ? 

Why,  soldiers,  why. 

Whose  business  'tis  to  die! 

I  cannot  discover,  however,  that  the  general 
has  ever  run  any  great  risk  of  dying,  excepting 
from  an  apoplexy,  or  an  indigestion.  He  cri- 
ticises all  the  battles  on  the  continent,  and 


AN    OLD    SOLDIER.  71 

discusses  the  merits  of  the  commanders,  but 
never  fails  to  bring  the  conversation,  ultimately, 
to  Tippoo  Saib  and  Seringapatam.  I  am  told 
that  the  general  was  a  perfect  champion  at 
drawing-rooms,  parades,  and  watering-places, 
during  the  late  war,  and  was  looked  to  with 
hope  and  confidence  by  many  an  old  lady, 
when  labouring  under  the  terror  of  Bonaparte's 
invasion. 

He  is  thoroughly  loyal,  and  attends  punc- 
tually on  levees  when  in  town.  He  has  treasured 
up  many  remarkable  sayings  of  the  late  king, 
particularly  one  which  the  king  made  to  him 
on  a  field-day,  complimenting  him  on  the  ex- 
cellence of  his  horse.  He  extols  the  whole 
royal  family,  but  especially  the  present  king, 
whonl  he  pronounces  the  most  perfect  gentle- 
man and  best  whist-player  in  Europe.  The 
general  swears  rather  more  than  is  the  fashion 
of  the  present  day;  but  it  was  the  mode  in  the 
old  school.  He  is,  however,  very  strict  in  re- 
ligious matters,  and  a  stanch  churchman.  He 
repeats  the  responses  very  loudly  in  church. 


7£  AN    OLD    SOLDIER. 

and  is  emphatical  in  praying  for  the  king  and 
royal  family. 

At  table  his  loyalty  waxes  very  fervent  with 
his  second  bottle,  and  the  song  of  '*  God  save 
the  King"  puts  him  into  a  perfect  ecstacy.  He 
is  amazingly  well  contented  with  the  present 
state  of  things,  and  apt  to  get  a  little  impatient 
at  any  talk  about  national  ruin  and  agricultural 
distress.  He  says  he  has  travelled  about  the 
country  as  much  as  any  man,  and  has  met  with 
nothing  but  prosperity ;  and  to  confess  the 
truth,  a  great  part  of  his  time  is  spent  in  vi- 
siting from  one  country  seat  to  another,  and 
riding  about  the  parks  of  his  friends.  "  They 
talk  of  public  distress,"  said  the  general  this 
day  to  me,  at  dinner,  as  he  smacked  a  glass  of 
rich  burgundy,  and  cast  his  eyes  about  the 
ample  board;  "  they  talk  of  public  distress, 
but  where  do  we  find  it,  sir  ?  I  see  none.  I  see 
no  reason  any  one  has  to  complain.  Take  my 
word  for  it,  sir,  this  talk  about  public  distress 
is  all  humbug !" 


THE  WIDOW'S  RETINUE. 


Little  dogs  and  all ! 

Lear. 


In  giving  an  account  of  the  arrival  of  Lady 
Lillycraft  at  the  Hall,  I  ought  to  have  men- 
tioned the  entertainment  vs^hich  I  derived  from 
witnessing  the  unpacking  of  her  carriage,  and 
the  disposing  of  her  retinue.  There  is  some- 
thing extremely  amusing  to  me  in  the  number 
of  factitious  wants,  the  loads  of  imaginary  con- 
veniences, but  real  incumbrances,  with  which 
the  luxurious  are  apt  to  burthen  themselves. 
I  like  to  watch  the  whimsical  stir  and  display 
about  one  of  these  petty  progresses.  The 
number  of  robustious  footmen  and  retainers  of 
all  kinds  bustling  about,  with  looks  of  infinite 
gravity  and  importance,  to  do  almost  nothing. 


74  THE    widow's    retinue. 

The  number  of  heavy  trunks,  and  parcels,  and 
bandboxes  belonging  to  my  lady;  and  the 
solicitude  exhibited  about  some  humble,  odd- 
looking  box,  by  my  lady's  maid ;  the  cushions 
piled  in  the  carriage  to  make  a  soft  seat  still 
softer,  and  to  prevent  the  dreaded  possibility 
of  a  jolt;  the  smelling-bottles,  the  cordials, 
the  baskets  of  biscuit  and  fruit ;  the  new  pub- 
lications ;  all  provided  to  guard  against  hunger, 
fatigue,  or  ennui ;  the  led  horses  to  vary  the 
mode  of  travelling ;  and  all  this  preparation 
and  parade  to  move,  perhaps,  some  very  good- 
for-nothing  personage  about  a  little  space  of 
earth ! 

I  do  not  mean  to  apply  the  latter  part  of 
these  observations  to  Lady  Lillycraft,  for  whose 
simple  kindheartedness  I  have  a  very  great 
respect,  Bud  who  is  really  a  most  amiable  and 
worthy  being.  I  cannot  refrain,  however,  from 
mentioning  some  of  the  motley  retinue  she  has 
brought  with  her ;  and  which,  indeed,  bespeak 
the  overflowing  kindness  of  her  nature,  which 
requires  her  to  be  surrounded  with  objects  on 
which  to  lavish  it. 


THE    widow's    retinue.  7^ 

In  the  first  place,  her  ladyship  has  a  pam- 
pered coachman,  with  a  red  face,  and  cheeks 
that  hang  down  like  dew-laps.  He  evidently 
domineers  over  her  a  little  with  respect  to  the 
fat  horses ;  and  only  drives  out  when  he  thinks 
proper,  and  when  he  thinks  it  will  be  "  good 
for  the  cattle." 

She  has  a  favourite  page  to  attend  upon  her 
person :  a  handsome  boy  of  about  twelve  years 
of  age,  but  a  mischievous  varlet,  very  much 
spoiled,  and  in  a  fair  way  to  be  good  for  nothing. 
He  is  dressed  in  green,  with  a  profusion  of  gold 
cord  and  gilt  buttons  about  his  clothes^  She 
always  has  one  or  two  attendants  of  the  kind, 
who  are  replaced  by  others  as  soon  as  they 
grow  to  fourteen  years  of  age.  She  has  brought 
two  dogs  with  her  also,  out  of  a  number  of  pets 
which  she  maintains  at  home.  One  is  a  fat 
spaniel,  called  Zephyr — though  heaven  defend 
me  from  such  a  zephyr !  He  is  fed  out  of  all 
shape  and  comfort ;  his  eyes  are  nearly  strained 
out  of  his  head ;  he  wheezes  with  corpulency, 
and  cannot  walk  without  great  difficulty.  The 


7^  THE    widow's    retinue. 

other  is  a  little,  old,  gray-muzzled  curmudgeon, 
with  an  unhappy  eye,  that  kindles  like  a  coal 
if  you  only  look  at  him ;  his  nose  turns  up ; 
his  mouth  is  drawn  into  wrinkles,  so  as  to  show 
his  teeth ;  in  short,  he  has  altogether  the  look 
of  a  dog  far  gone  in  misanthropy,  and  totally 
sick  of  the  world.  When  he  walks,  he  has  his 
tail  curled  up  so  tight  that  it  seems  to  lift  his 
feet  from  the  ground;  and  he  seldom  makes 
use  of  more  than  three  legs  at  a  time,  keeping 
the  other  drawn  up  as  a  reserve.  This  last- 
wretch  is  called  Beauty. 

These  dogs  are  full  of  elegant  ailments  un- 
known to  vulgar  dogs;  and  are  petted  and 
nursed  by  Lady  Lilly  craft  with  the  tender  est 
kindness.  They  are  pampered  and  fed  with 
delicacies  by  their  fellow-minion,  the  page ;  but 
their  stomachs  are  often  weak  and  out  of  order, 
so  that  they  cannot  eat;  though  I  have  now 
and  then  seen  the  page  give  them  a  mischievous 
pinch,  or  thwack  over  the  head,  when  his  mis- 
tress was  not  by.  They  have  cushions  for  their 
express  use,  on  which  they  lie  before  the  fire. 


THE  widow's  retinue.  77 

and  yet  are  apt  to  shiver  and  moan  if  there  is 
the  least  draught  of  air.  When  any  one  enters 
the  room,  they  make  a  most  tyrannical  barking 
that  is  absolutely  deafening.  They  are  insolent 
to  all  the  other  dogs  of  the  establishment. 
There  is  a  noble  stag-hound,  a  great  favourite 
of  the  squire's,  who  is  a  privileged  visitor  to 
the  parlour ;  but  the  moment  he  makes  his  ap- 
pearance, these  intruders  fly  at  him  with  furious 
rage ;  and  I  have  admired  the  sovereign  in- 
difference and  contempt  with  which  he  seems 
to  look  down  upon  his  puny  assailants.  When 
her  ladyship  drives  out, these  dogs  are  generally 
carried  with  her  to  take  the  air;  when  they 
look  out  of  each  window  of  the  carriage,  and 
bark  at  all  vulgar  pedestrian  dogs.  These 
dogs  are  a  continual  source  of  misery  to  the 
household :  as  they  are  always  in  the  way,  they 
every  now  and  then  get  their  toes  trod  on,  and 
then  there  is  a  yelping  on  their  part,  and  a 
loud  lamentation  on  the  part  of  their  mistress,  • 
that  fills  the  room  with  clamour  and  confusion. 
Lastly,  there  is  her  ladyship's  waiting-gentle- 


78  THE  widow's  retinue. 

woman,  Mrs.  Hannah,  a  prim,  pragmatical 
old  maid ;  one  of  the  most  intolerable  and 
intolerant  virgins  that  ever  lived.  She  has 
kept  her  virtue  by  her  until  it  has  turned  sour, 
and  now  every  word  and  look  smacks  of  ver- 
juice. She  is  the  very  opposite  to  her  mistress, 
for  one  hates,  and  the  other  loves,  all  mankind. 
How  they  first  came  together  I  cannot  imagine ; 
but  they  have  lived  together  for  many  years ;  and 
the  abigairs  temper  being  tart  and  encroach- 
ing, and  her  ladyship's  easy  and  yielding,  the 
former  has  got  the  complete  upper  hand,  and 
tyrannises  over  the  good  lady  in  secret. 

Lady  Lilly  craft  now  and  then  complains  of  it, 
in  great  confidence,  to  her  friends,  but  hushes 
up  the  subject  immediately,  if  Mrs.  Hannah 
makes  her  appearance.  Indeed,  she  has  been 
so  accustomed  to  be  attended  by  her,  that  she 
thinks  she  could  not  do  without  her ;  though 
one  great  study  of  her  life  is  to  keep  Mrs. 
Hannah  in  good  humour,  by  little  presents 
and  kindnesses. 

Master  Simon  has  a  most  devout  abhorrence. 


THE  widow's  retinue.  79 

mingled  with  awe,  for  this  ancient  spinster. 
He  told  me  the  other  day,  in  a  whisper,  that 
she  was  a  cursed  brimstone — in  fact,  he  added 
another  epithet,  which  I  would  not  repeat  for 
the  world.  I  have  remarked,  however,  that 
he  is  always  extremely  civil  to  her  when  they 
meet. 


READY  MONEY  JACK 


My  purse,  it  is  my  privy  wyfe. 
This  song  I  dare  both  syng  and  say. 
It  keepeth  men  from  grievous  stryfe 
\VTien  every  man  for  hymself  shall  pay. 
As  I  ryde  in  ryche  array 
For  gold  and  sylver  men  wyll  me  floryshe ; 
By  thys  matter  I  dare  well  saye. 
Ever  gramercy  myne  owne  purse. 

Book  or  Hunting. 


On  the  skirts  of  the  neighbouring  village 
there  lives  a  kind  of  small  potentate,  who,  for 
aught  I  know,  is  a  representative  of  one  of  the 
most  ancient  legitimate  lines  of  the  present 
day ;  for  the  empire  over  which  he  reigns  has 
belonged  to  his  family  time  out  of  mind.  His 
territories  comprise  a  considerable  number  of 
good  fat  acres  ;  and  his  seat  of  power  is  in  an 
old  farm-house,  where  he  enjoys,  unmolested. 


READY    MONEY    JACK.  81 

the  stout  oaken  chair  of  his  ancestors.  The 
personage  to  whom  I  allude  is  a  sturdy  old 
yeoman  of  the  name  of  John  Tibbets,  or  rather 
Ready  Money  Jack  Tibbets,  as  he  is  called 
throughout  the  neighboiirhood. 

The  first  place  where  he  attracted  my  atten- 
tion was  in  the  churchyard  on  Sunday;  where 
he  sat  on  a  tombstone  after  the  service,  with 
his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  holding  forth  to  a 
small  circle  of  auditors ;  and,  as  I  presumed, 
expounding  the  law  and  the  prophets ;  until, 
on  drawing  a  little  nearer,  I  found  he  was 
only  expatiating  on  the  merits  of  a  brown 
horse.  He  presented  so  faithful  a  picture  of  a 
substantial  English  yeoman,  such  as  he  is  often 
described  in  books,  heightened,  indeed,  by  some 
little  finery,  peculiar  to  himself,  that  I  could 
not  but  take  note  of  his  whole  appearance. 

He  was  between  fifty  and  sixty,  of  a  strong, 
muscular  frame,  and  at  least  six  feet  high, 
with  a  physiognomy  as  grave  as  a  lion's,  and 
set  off  with  short,  curling,  iron-gray  locks. 
His  shirt-collar  was    turned    down,  and   dis- 

VOL.  I.  G 


82  READY    MONEY    JACK. 

played  a  neck  covered  with  the  same  short, 
curling,  gray  hair;  and  he  wore  a  coloured 
silk  neckcloth,  tied  very  loosely,  and  tucked  in 
at  the  bosom,  with  a  green  paste  brooch  on 
the  knot.     His  coat  was  of  dark  green  cloth, 
with  silver  buttons,  on  each  of  which  was  en- 
graved a  stag,  with  his  own  name,  JohnTibbets, 
underneath.      He  had  an  inner  waistcoat  of 
figured  chintz,  between  which    and   his  coat 
was  another  of  scarlet  cloth,  unbuttoned.    His 
breeches  were    also   left   unbuttoned   at   the 
knees^  not  from  any  slovenliness,  but  to  show 
a  broad  pair  of  scarlet  garters.     His  stockings 
were  blue,  with  white  clocks ;  he  wore  large 
silver  shoe-buckles ;  a  broad  paste  buckle  in 
his   hatband ;    his    sleeve-buttons    were  gold 
seven  shilling  pieces ;  and  he  had  two  or  three 
guineas  hanging  as  ornaments  to  his  watch^ 
chain. 

On  making  some  inquiries  about  him,  I 
gathered,  that  he  was  descended  from  a  line 
of  farmers  that  had  always  lived  on  the  same 
spot,  and  owned  the  same  property ;  and  that 


READY    MONEY    JACK.  83 

half  of  the  churchyard  was  taken  up  with  the 
tombstones  of  his  race.     He  has  all  his  life 
been  an   important   character   in   the  place. 
When  a  youngster,  he  was  one  of  the  most 
roaring  blades  of  the  neighbourhood.    No  one 
could  match  him  at  wrestling,    pitching  the 
bar,  cudgel  play,  and  other  athletic  exercises. 
Like  the  renowned  Pinner  of  Wakefield,  he 
was  the  village  champion;  carried  off  the  prize 
at  all  the  fairs,  and  threw  his  gauntlet  at  the 
country  round.  Even  to  this  day  the  old  people 
talk  of  his  prowess,  and  undervalue,  in  com- 
parison, all  heroes  of  the  green  that  have  suc- 
ceeded him;  nay,  they  say,  that  if  ready  money 
Jack  were  to  take  the  field  even  now,  there  is 
no  one  could  stand  before  him. 

When  Jack's  father  died,  the  neighbours 
shook  their  heads,  and  predicted  that  young 
hopeful  would  soon  make  way  with  the  old 
homestead;  but  Jack  falsified  all  their  pre- 
dictions. The  moment  he  succeeded  to  the 
paternal  farm  he  assumed  a  new  character : 
took  a  wife ;  attended  resolutely  to  his  affairs. 


84  READY    MONEY   JACK. 

and  became  an  industrious,  thrifty  farmer. 
With  the  family  property  he  inherited  a  set 
of  old  family  maxims,  to  which  he  steadily 
adhered.  He  saw  to  every  thing  himself;  put 
his  own  hand  to  the  plough;  worked  hard; 
ate  heartily;  slept  soundly;  paid  for  every 
thing  in  cash  down ;  and  never  danced  except 
he  could  do  it  to  the  music  of  his  own  money 
in  both  pockets.  He  has  never  been  with- 
out a  hundred  or  two  pounds  in  gold  by  him, 
and  never  allows  a  debt  to  stand  unpaid. 
This  has  gained  him  his  current  name,  ^  of 
which,  by  the  by,  he  is  a  little  proud ;  and 
has  caused  him  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  very 
wealthy  man  by  all  the  village. 

Notwithstanding  his  thrift,  however,  he 
has  never  denied  himself  the  amusements  of 
life,  but  has  taken  a  share  in  every  passing 
pleasure.  It  is  his  maxim,  that  ^'  he  that 
works  hard  can  afford  to  play."  He  is,  there- 
fore, an  attendant  at  all  the  country  fairs  and 
wakes,  and  has  signalized  himself  by  feats  of 
strength  and  prowess  on  every  village  green 


READY    MONEY    JACK.  85 

in  the  shire.  He  often  makes  his  appearance 
at  horse  races,  and  sports  his  half  guinea,  and 
even  his  guinea  at  a  time ;  keeps  a  good  horse 
for  his  own  riding,  and  to  this  day  is  fond  of 
following  the  hounds,  and  is  generally  in  at  the 
death.  He  keeps  up  the  rustic  revels,  and 
hospitalities  too,  for  which  his  paternal  farm- 
house has  always  been  noted ;  has  plenty  of 
good  cheer  and  dancing  at  harvest-home,  and, 
above  all,  keeps  the  "  merry  night*,"  as  it  is 
termed,  at  Christmas. 

With  all  his  love  of  amusement,  however.  Jack 
is  by  no  means  a  boisterous  jovial  companion. 
He  is  seldom  known  to  laugh  even  in  the  midst 
of  his  gaiety;  but  maintains  the  same  grave, 
lion-like  demeanour.  He  is  very  slow  at  com- 
prehending a  joke ;  and  is  apt  to  sit  puzzling 
at  it,  with  a  perplexed  look,  while  the  rest  of 


*  Merry  Night.  A  rustic  merry-making  in  a  farm-house 
about  Christmas,  common  in  some  parts  of  Yorkshire.  There 
is  abundance  of  homely  fare,  tea,  cakes,  fruit,  and  ale ;  various 
feats  of  agility,  amusing  games,  romping,  dancing,  and  kissing 
withal.     They  commonly  break  up  at  midnight. 


86  READY    MONEY   JACK. 

the  company  is  in  a  roar.  This  gravity  has, 
perhaps,  grown  on  him  with  the  growing  weight 
of  his  character;  for  he  is  gradually  rising 
into  patriarchal  dignity  in  his  native  place. 
Though  he  no  longer  takes  an  active  part  in 
athletic  sports,  yet  he  always  presides  at  them, 
and  is  appealed  to  on  all  occasions  as  umpire. 
He  maintains  the  peace  on  the  village-green  at 
holyday  games,  and  quells  all  brawls  and  quar- 
rels by  collaring  the  parties  and  shaking  them 
heartily,  if  refractory.  No  one  ever  pretends 
to  raise  a  hand  against  him,  or  to  contend 
against  his  decisions;  the  young  men  having 
grown  up  in  habitual  awe  of  his  prowess,  and 
in  implicit  deference  to  him  as  the  champion 
and  lord  of  the  green. 

He  is  a  regular  frequenter  of  the  village 
inn,  the  landlady  having  been  a  sweetheart  of 
his  in  early  life,  and  he  having  always  continued 
on  kind  terms  with  her.  He  seldom,  however, 
drinks  any  thing  but  a  draught  of  ale;  smokes 
his  pipe,  and  pays  his  reckoning  before  leaving 
the  tap-room.    Here  he  "  gives  his  little  senate 


BEADY    MONEY   JACK.  87 

laws;"  decides  bets,  which  are  very  generally  re- 
ferred to  him ;  determines  upon  the  characters 
and  qualities  of  horses ;  and  indeed  plays  now 
and  then  the  part  of  a  judge,  in  settling  petty 
disputes  between  neighbours,  which  otherwise 
might  have  been  nursed  by  country  attornies 
into  tolerable  law-suits.  Jack  is  very  candid 
and  impartial  in  his  decisions,  but  he  has  not  a 
head  to  carry  a  long  argument,  and  is  very  apt 
to  get  perplexed  and  out  of  patience  if  there  is 
much  pleading.  He  generally  breaks  through 
the  argument  with  a  strong  voice,  and  brings 
matters  to  a  summary  conclusion,  by  pro- 
nouncing what  he  calls  the  "  upshot  of  the 
business,"  or,  in  other  words,  "  the  long  and 
the  short  of  the  matter." 

Jack  once  made  a  journey  to  London  a  great 
many  years  since,  which  has  furnished  him  with 
topics  of  conversation  ever  since.  He  saw  the 
old  king  on  the  terrace  at  Windsor,  who  stop- 
ped, and  pointed  him  out  to  one  of  the  prin- 
cesses, being  probably  struck  with  Jack's  truly 
yeoman-like  appearance.     This  is  a  favourite 


88  READY    MONEY    JACK. 

anecdote  with  him,  and  has  no  doubt  had  a 
great  effect  in  making  him  a  most  loyal  subject 
ever  since,  in  spite  of  taxes  and  poors'  rates. 
He  was  also  at  Bartholomew-fair,  where  he  had 
half  the  buttons  cut  off  his  coat ;  and  a  gang  of 
pickpockets,  attracted  by  his  external  show  of 
gold  and  silver,  made  a  regular  attempt  to 
hustle  him  as  he  was  gazing  at  a  show  ;  but  for 
once  they  found  that  they  had  caught  a  tartar ; 
for  Jack  enacted  as  great  wonders  among  the 
gang  as  Samson  did  among  the  Philistines. 
One  of  his  neighbours,  who  had  accompanied 
him  to  town,  and  was  with  him  at  the  fair, 
brought  back  an  account  of  his  exploits,  which 
raised  the  pride  of  the  whole  village  ;  who  con- 
sidered their  champion  as  having  subdued  all 
London,    and   eclipsed    the    achievements    of 
Friar  Tuck,  or  even  the  renowned  Robin  Hood 
himself. 

Of  late  years  the  old  fellow  has  begun  to 
take  the  world  easily ;  he  works  less,  and  in- 
dulges in  greater  leisure,  his  son  having  grown 
up,  and  succeeded  to  him  both  in  the  labours 


READY    MONEY    JACK.  89 

of  the  farm^  and  the  exploits  of  the  green.  Like 
all  sons  of  distinguished  men^  however,  his 
father's  renown  is  a  disadvantage  to  him,  for 
he  can  never  come  up  to  public  expectation. 
Though   a   fine    active   fellow    of  three   and 
twenty,  and  quite  the  "  cock  of  the  walk,"  yet 
the  old  people  declare  he  is  nothing  like  what 
Ready-money  Jack  was  at  his  time  of  life.  The 
youngster  himself  acknowledges  his  inferiority, 
and  has  a  wonderful  opinion  of  the  old  man, 
who  indeed  taught  him  all  his  athletic  accom- 
plishments, and  holds  such  a  sway  over  him, 
that  I  am  told,  even  to  this  day,  he  would  have 
no  hesitation  to  take  him  in  hands,  if  he  re- 
helled  against  paternal  government. 

The  squire  holds  Jack  in  very  high  esteem, 
and  shows  him  to  all  his  visitors  as  a  specimen 
of  old  English  "  heart  of  oak."  He  frequently 
calls  at  his  house,  and  tastes  some  of  his  home- 
brewed, which  is  excellent.  He  made  Jack  a 
present  of  old  Tusser's  *'  Hundred  Points  of 
good  Husbandrie,"  which  has  furnished  him 
with  reading  ever  since,  and  is  his  text  book 


90  READY    MONEY    JACK. 

and  manual  in  all  agricultural  and  domestic 
concerns.  He  has  made  dog's  ears  at  the  most 
favourite  passages,  and  knows  many  of  the 
poetical  maxims  by  heart. 

Tibbets,  though  not  a  man  to  be  daunted  or 
fluttered  by  high  acquaintances ;  and,  though 
he  cherishes  a  sturdy  independence  of  mind 
and  manner,  yet  is  evidently  gratified  by  the 
attentions  of  the  squire,  whom  he  has  known 
from  boyhood,  and  pronounces  "  a  true  gentle- 
man every  inch  of  him."  He  is  also  on  excel- 
lent terms  with  Master  Simon,  who  is  a  kind 
of  privy  counsellor  to  the  family ;  but  his  great 
favourite  is  the  Oxonian,  whom  he  taught  to 
wrestle  and  play  at  quarter-staff  when  a  boy, 
and  considers  the  most  promising  young  gen- 
tleman in  the  whole  county. 


BACHELOES. 


The  Bachelor  most  joyfully 

In  pleasant  plight  doth  pass  his  daies, 
Goodfellowship  and  companie 

He  doth  maintain  and  kepe  alwaies. 

Evan's  Old  Ballads. 


There  is  no  character  in  the  comedy  of 
human  life  that  is  more  difficult  to  play  well, 
than  that  of  an  old  Bachelor.     When  a  single 
gentleman,  therefore,  arrives  at  that  critical 
period,  when  he  begins  to  consider  it  an  im- 
pertinent question  to  be  asked  his  age,  I  would 
advise  him  to  look  well  to  his  ways.     This 
period,  it  is  true,  is  much  later  with  some  men 
than  with  others  ;  I  have  witnessed  more  than 
once  the  meeting  of  two  wrinkled  old  lads  of 
this  kind,  who  had  not  seen  each  other  for 
several  years,  and  have  been  amused  by  the 
amicable  exchange-  of  compliments  on  each 


92  BACHELORS. 

others'  appearance  that  takes  place  on  such 
occasions.  There  is  always  one  invariable  ob- 
servation ;  "  Why,  bless  my  soul !  you  look 
younger  than  when  last  I  saw  you  ! "  When- 
ever a  man's  friends  begin  to  compliment  him 
about  looking  young,  he  may  be  sure  that  they 
think  he  is  growing  old. 

I  am  led  to  make  these  remarks  by  the  con- 
duct of  Master  Simon  and  the  general,  who 
have  become  great  cronies.  As  the  former  is 
the  youngest  by  many  years,  he  is  regarded  as 
quite  a  youthful  blade  by  the  general,  who 
moreover  looks  upon  him  as  a  man  of  great 
wit  and  prodigious  acquirements.  I  have  al- 
ready hinted  that  master  Simon  is  a  family 
beau,  and  considered  rather  a  young  fellow  by 
all  the  elderly  ladies  of  the  connexion  ;  for  an 
old  bachelor,  in  an  old  family  connexion,  is 
something  like  an  actor  in  a  regular  dramatic 
corps,  who  seems  ^^  to  flourish  in  immortal 
youth,"  and  will  continue  to  play  the  Romeos 
and  Rangers  for  half  a  century  together. 

Master  Simon,  too,  is  a  little  of  the  camelion. 


BACHELORS.  93 

and  takes  a  different  hue  with  every  different 
companion :  he  is  very  attentive  and  officious, 
and  somew^hat  sentimental,  w^ith  Lady  Lilly- 
craft;  copies  out  little  namby-pamby  ditties 
and  love-songs  for  her,  and  draws  quivers,  and 
doves,  and  darts,  and  Cupids  to  be  worked  on 
the  corners  of  her  pocket  handkerchiefs.  He 
indulges,  however,  in  very  considerable  latitude 
with  the  other  married  ladies  of  the  family ; 
and  has  many  sly  pleasantries  to  whisper  to 
them,  that  provoke  an  equivocal  laugh  and  a 
tap  of  the  fan.  But  when  he  gets  among  young 
company,  such  as  Frank  Bracebridge,  the 
Oxonian,  and  the  general,  he  is  apt  to  put  on 
the  mad  wag,  and  to  talk  in  a  very  bachelor- 
like strain  about  the  sex. 

In  this  he  has  been  encouraged  by  the  ex- 
ample of  the  general,  whom  he  looks  up  to  as 
a  man  that  has  seen  the  world.  The  general, 
in  fact,  tells  shocking  stories  after  dinner,  when 
the  ladies  have  retired,  which  he  gives  as  some 
of  the  choice  things  that  are  served  up  at  the 
Mulligatawneyclub :  a  knot  of  boon  companions 


94  BACHELORS. 

in  London.  He  also  repeats  the  fat  jokes  of 
old  Major  Pendergast,  the  wit  of  the  club,  and 
which,  though  the  general  can  hardly  repeat 
them  for  laughing,  always  make  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge  look  grave,  he  having  a  great  antipathy 
to  an  indecent  jest.  In  a  word,  the  general  is 
a  complete  instance  of  the  declension  in  gay 
life,  by  which  a  young  man  of  pleasure  is  apt 
to  cool  down  into  an  obscene  old  gentleman. 

I  saw  him  and  Master  Simon,  an  evening  or 
two  since,  conversing  with  a  buxom  milkmaid 
in  a  meadow ;  and  from  their  elbowing  each 
other  now  and  then,  and  the  general's  shaking 
his  shoulders,  blowing  up  his  cheeks,  and 
breaking  out  into  a  short  fit  of  irrepressible 
laughter,  I  had  no  doubt  they  were  playing 
the  mischief  with  the  girl. 

As  I  looked  at  them  through  a  hedge,  I 
could  not  but  think  they  would  have  made  a 
tolerable  group  for  a  modern  picture  of  Su- 
sannah and  the  two  elders.  It  is  true,  the  girl 
seemed  in  no  wise  alarmed  at  the  force  of  the 
enemy;    and  I  question,  had  either  of  them 


BACHELORS.  9^ 

been  alone,  whether  she  would  not  have  been 
more  than  they  would  have  ventured  to  en- 
counter. Such  veteran  roysters  are  daring 
wags  when  together,  and  will  put  any  female 
to  the  blush  with  their  jokes ;  but  they  are  as 
quiet  as  lambs  when  they  fall  singly  into  the 
clutches  of  a  fine  woman. 

|In  spite  of  the  general's  years,  he  evidently 
is  a  little  vain  of  his  person,  and  ambitious  of 
conquests.  I  have  observed  him  on  Sunday 
in  church,  eying  the  country  girls  most  sus- 
piciously ;  and  have  seen  him  leer  upon  them 
with  a  downright  amorous  look,  even  when 
he  has  been  gallanting  Lady  Lillycraft,  with 
great  ceremony,  through  the  churchyard.  The 
general,  in  fact,  is  a  veteran  in  the  service  of 
Cupid  rather  than  of  Mars,  having  signalised 
himself  in  all  the  garrison  towns  and  country 
quarters,  and  seen  service  in  every  ball-room 
of  England.  Not  a  celebrated  beauty  but  he 
has  laid  siege  to;  and,  if  his  word  may  be 
taken  in  a  matter  wherein  no  man  is  apt  to  be 
over  veracious,  it  is  incredible  the  success  he 


96  BACHELORS. 


^ 


has  had  with  the  fair.  At  present  he  is  like  a 
worn-out  warrior,  retired  from  service ;  but 
who  still  cocks  his  beaver  with  a  military  air, 
and  talks  stoutly  of  fighting  whenever  he  comes 
within  the  smell  of  gunpowder. 

I  have  heard  him  speak  his  mind  very  freely 
over  his  bottle,  about  the  folly  of  the  captain 
in  taking  a  wife ;  as  he  thinks  a  young  soldier 
should  care  for  nothing  but  his  "  bottle  and 
kind  landlady."  But,  in  fact,  he  says,  the  service 
on  the  continent  has  had  a  sad  effect  upon  the 
young  men ;  they  have  been  ruined  by  light 
wines  and  French  quadrilles.  "  They've  no- 
thing," he  says, "  of  the  spirit  of  the  old  service. 
There  are  none  of  your  six-bottle  men  left,  that 
were  the  souls  of  a  mess-dinner,  and  used  to 
play  the  very  deuce  among  the  women." 

As  to  a  bachelor,  the  general  affirms,  that  he 
is  a  free  and  easy  man,  with  no  baggage  to  take 
care  of  but  his  portmanteau ;  but  a  married 
man,  with  his  wife  hanging  on  his  arm,  always 
puts  him  in  mind  of  a  chamber  candlestick, 
with  its  extinguisher  hitched  to  it.     T  should 


BACHELORS.  97 

not  mind  all  this  if  it  were  merely  confined  to 
the  general ;  but  I  fear  he  will  be  the  ruin  of 
my  friend.  Master  Simon,  who  already  begins 
to  echo  his  heresies,  and  to  talk  in  the  style  of 
a  gentleman  that  has  seen  life,  and  lived  upon 
the  town.  Indeed,  the  general  seems  to  have 
taken  Master  Simon  in  hand,  and  talks  of 
showing  him  the  lions  when  he  comes  to  town, 
and  of  introducing  him  to  a  knot  of  choice 
spirits  at  the  Mulligatawney  club ;  which,  I 
understand,  is  composed  of  old  nabobs,  officers 
in  the  company's  employ,  and  other  "  men  of 
Ind,"  that  have  seen  service  in  the  East,  and 
returned  home  burnt  out  with  curry,  and 
touched  with  the  liver  complaint.  They  have 
their  regular  club,  where  they  eat  Mulliga- 
tawney soup,  smoke  the  hookah,  talk  about 
Tippoo Saib,  Seringapatam,  and  tiger-hunting; 
and  are  tediously  agreeable  in  each  other's 
company. 


VOL.  I.  H 


WIVES. 


Believe  me,  man,  there  is  no  greater  blisse 
Than  is  the  quiet  joy  of  loving  wife ; 
Which  whoso  wants,  half  of  himselfe  doth  misse ; 
Friend  without  change,  play-fellow  without  strife. 
Food  without  fulnesse,  counsaile  without  pride. 
Is  this  sweet  doubling  of  our  single  life. 

Sir  p.  Sidney. 


/  There  is  so  much  talk  about  matrimony 
going  on  round  me,  in  consequence  of  the 
approaching  event  for  which  we  are  assembled 
at  the  Hall,  that  I  confess  I  find  my  thoughts 
singularly  exercised  on  the  subject.  Indeed, 
all  the  bachelors  of  the  establishment  seem  to 
be  passing  through  a  kind  of  fiery  ordeal ;  for 
Lady  Lilly  craft  is  one  of  those  tender,  romance- 
read  dames  of  the  old  school,  whose  mind  is 
filled  with  flames  and  darts,  and  who  breathe 
nothing  but  constancy  and  wedlock.  She  is 
for  ever  immersed  in  the  concerns  of  the  heart; 


WIVES.  99 

and,  to  use  a  poetical  phrase,  is  perfectly  sur- 
rounded by  ''  the  purple  light  of  love.**  The 
very  general  seems  to  feel  the  influence  of 
this  sentimental  atmosphere;  to  melt  as  he 
approaches  her  ladyship,  and,  for  the  time,  to 
forget  all  his  heresies  about  matrimony  and 
the  sex. 

The  good  lady  is  generally  surrounded  by 
little  documents  of  her  prevalent  taste ;  novels 
of  a  tender  nature ;  richly  bound  little  books 
of  poetry,  that  are  filled  with  sonnets  and  love 
tales,  and  perfumed  with  rose-leaves ;  and  she 
has  always  an  album  at  hand,  for  which  she 
claims  the  contributions  of  all  her  friends. 
On  looking  over  this  last  repository  the  other 
day,  I  found  a  series  of  poetical  extracts,  in 
the  squire's  handwriting,  which  might  have 
been  intended  as  matrimonial  hints  to  his 
ward.  I  was  so  much  struck  with  several  of 
them,  that  I  took  the  liberty  of  copying  them 
out.  They  are  from  the  old  play  of  Thomas 
Davenport,  published  in  I66I,  intitled  "  The 
City  Night-cap ;"  in  which  is  drawn  out  and 

H  2 


100  WIVES. 

exemplified,  in  the  part  of  Abstemia,  the  cha- 
racter of  a  patient  and  faithful  wife,  which,  I 
think,  might  vie  with  that  of  the  renowned 
Griselda. 

I  have  often  thought  it  a  pity  that  plays 
and  novels  should  always  end  at  the  wedding, 
and  should  not  give  us  another  act,  and  another 
volume,  to  let  us  know  how  the  hero  and  heroine 
conducted  themselves  when  married.  Their 
main  object  seems  to  be  merely  to  instruct 
young  ladies  how  to  get  husbands,  but  not  how 
to  keep  them :  now  this  last,  I  speak  it  with 
all  due  diffidence,  appears  to  me  to  be  a  de- 
sideratum in  modern  married  life.  It  is  ap- 
palling to  those  who  have  not  yet  adventured 
into  the  holy  state,  to  see  how  soon  the  flame 
of  romantic  love  burns  out,  or  rather  is 
quenched  in  matrimony ;  and  how  deplorably 
the  passionate,  poetic  lover  declines  into  the 
phlegmatic,  prosaic  husband.  I  am  inclined 
to  attribute  this  very  much  to  the  defect  just 
mentioned  in  the  plays  and  novels,  which  form 
so  important  a  branch  of  study  of  our  young 


WIVES.  101 

ladies ;  and  which  teach  them  how  to  be 
heroines,  but  leave  them  totally  at  a  loss  when 
they  come  to  be  wives.  The  play  from  which 
the  quotations  before  me  were  made,  however, 
is  an  exception  to  this  remark  ;  and  I  cannot 
refuse  myself  the  pleasure  of  adducing  some 
of  them  for  the  benefit  of  the  reader,  and  for 
the  honour  of  an  old  writer,  who  has  bravely 
attempted  to  awaken  dramatic  interest  in  fa- 
vour of  a  woman,  even  after  she  was  married ! 

'The  following  is  a  commendation  of  Abstemia 
to  her  husband  Lorenzo : 


She's  modest,  but  not  sullen,  and  loves  silence ; 

Not  that  she  wants  apt  words  (for  when  she  speaks. 

She  inflames  love  with  wonder),  but  because 

She  calls  wise  silence  the  soul's  harmony. 

She 's  truly  chaste ;  yet  such  a  foe  to  coyness. 

The  poorest  call  her  courteous ;  and,  which  is  excellent, 

(Though  fair  and  young)  she  shuns  to  expose  herself 

To  the  opinion  of  strange  eyes.     She  either  seldom 

Or  never  walks  abroad  but  in  your  company; 

And  then  with  such  sweet  bashfulness,  as  if 

She  were  venturing  on  crack'd  ice,  and  takes  delight 

To  step  into  the  print  your  foot  hath  made. 

And  will  follow  you  whole  fields ;  so  she  will  drive 

Tediousness  out  of  time  with  her  sweet  character. 


102  WIVES. 

Notwithstanding  all  this  excellence,  Ab- 
stemia  has  the  misfortune  to  incur  the  un- 
merited jealousy  of  her  husband.  Instead, 
however,  of  resenting  his  harsh  treatment  with 
clamorous  upbraidings,  and  with  the  stormy 
violence  of  high,  windy  virtue,  by  which  the 
sparks  of  anger  are  so  often  blown  into  a 
flame;  she  endures  it  with  the  meekness  of 
conscious,  but  patient,  virtue  ;  and  makes  the 
following  beautiful  appeal  to  a  friend  who  has 
witnessed  her  long  suffering : 


Hast  thou  not  seen  me 


Bear  all  his  injuries^  as  the  ocean  suffers 
The  angry  bark  to  plough  thorough  her  bosom. 
And  yet  is  presently  so  smooth,  the  eye 
Cannot  perceive  where  the  wide  wound  was  made  ? 

Lorenzo,  being  wrought  on  by  false  repre- 
sentations, at  length  repudiates  her.  To  the 
last,  however,  she  maintains  her  patient  sweet- 
ness, and  her  love  for  him,  in  spite  of  his  cruelty. 
She  deplores  his  error,  even  more  than  his 
unkindness ;  and  laments  the  delusion  which 
has  turned  his  very  affection  into  a  source  of 


WIVES.  103 

bitterness.     There  is  a  moving  pathos  in  her 
parting  address  to  Lorenzo  after  their  divorce : 

Farewell,  Lorenzo, 


Whom  my  soul  doth  love :  if  you  e'er  marry. 
May  you  meet  a  good  wife;  so  good,  that  you 
May  not  suspect  her,  nor  may  she  be  worthy 
Of  your  suspicion :  and  if  you  hear  hereafter 
That  I  am  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words. 
And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  I  lov'd  you. 
And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice. 
Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me. 
Imagine  that  you  see  me,  lean  and  pale. 

Strewing  your  path  with  flowers. 

But  may  she  never  live  to  pay  my  debts :  (weeps) 

If  but  in  thought  she  wrong  you,  may  she  die 

In  the  conception  of  the  injury. 

Pray  make  me  wealthy  with  one  kiss :  farewell,  sir : 

Let  it  not  grieve  you  when  you  shall  remember 

That  I  was  innocent :  nor  this  forget. 

Though  innocence  here  suffer,  sigh,  and  groan. 

She  walks  but  thorow  thorns  to  find  a  throne. 

In  a  short  time  Lorenzo  discovers  his  error, 
and  the  innocence  of  his  injured  wife.  In  the 
transports  of  his  repentance,  he  calls  to  mind 
all  her  feminine  excellence ;  her  gentle,  un- 
complaining, womanly  fortitude  under  wrongs 
and  sorrows : 


104  WIVES. 


Oh^  Abstemia ! 


How  lovely  thou  lookest  now !  now  thou  appearest 
Chaster  than  is  the  morning's  modesty. 
That  rises  with  a  blush,  over  whose  bosom 
The  western  wind  creeps  softly ;  now  I  remember 
How,  when  she  sat  at  table,  her  obedient  eye 
Would  dwell  on  mine,  as  if  it  were  not  well. 
Unless  it  look'd  where  I  look'd :  oh  how  proud 
She  was,  when  she  could  cross  herself  to  please  me ! 
But  where  now  is  this  fair  soul  ?  Like  a  silver  cloud 
She  hath  wept  herself,  I  fear,  into  the  dead  sea. 
And  will  be  found  no  more. 

It  is  but  doing  right  by  the  reader,  if  in- 
terested in  the  fate  of  Abstemia  by  the  pre- 
ceding extracts,  to  say,  that  she  was  restored 
to  the  arms  and  affections  of  her  husband,  ren- 
dered fonder  than  ever,  by  that  disposition  in 
every  good  heart,  to  atone  for  past  unjustice, 
by  an  overflowing  measure  of  returning  kind- 
ness : 

Thou  wealth  worth  more  than  kingdoms ;  I  am  now 

Confirmed  past  all  suspicion ;  thou  art  far 

Sweeter  in  thy  sincere  truth  than  a  sacrifice 

Deck'd  up  for  death  with  garlands.    The  Indian  winds 

That  blow  from  off  the  coast,  and  cheer  the  sailor 

With  the  sweet  savour  of  their  spices,  want 

The  deKght  flows  in  thee. 


WIVES.  105 

I  have  been  more  affected  and  interested  by 
this  little  dramatic  picture  than  by  many  a 
popular  love  tale ;  though,  as  I  said  before,  I 
do  not  think  it  likely  either  Abstemia  or 
patient  Grizzle  stand  much  chance  of  being 
taken  for  a  model.  Still  I  like  to  see  poetry 
now  and  then  extending  its  views  beyond  the 
wedding-day,  and  teaching  a  lady  how  to 
make  herself  attractive  even  after  marriage. 
There  is  no  great  need  of  enforcing  on  an  un- 
married lady  the  necessity  of  being  agreeable ; 
nor  is  there  any  great  art  requisite  in  a  youth- 
ful beauty  to  enable  her  to  please.  Nature 
has  multiplied  attractions  round  her.  Youth 
is  in  itself  attractive.  The  freshness  of  budding 
beauty  needs  no  foreign  aid  to  set  it  off;  it 
pleases  merely  because  it  is  fresh,  and  budding, 
and  beautiful.  But  it  is  for  the  married  state 
that  a  woman  needs  the  most  instruction,  and 
in  which  she  should  be  most  on  her  guard  to 
maintain  her  powers  of  pleasing.  No  woman 
can  expect  to  be  to  her  husband  all  that  he 
fancied  her  when  he  was  a  lover.     Men  ^re 


106  WIVES. 

always  doomed  to  be  duped,  not  so  much  by  the 
arts  of  the  sex,  as  by  their  own  imaginations. 
They  are  always  wooing  goddesses,  and  marry- 
ing mere  mortals.  A  woman  should  therefore 
ascertain  what  was  the  charm  that  rendered 
her  so  fascinating  when  a  girl,  and  endeavour 
to  keep  it  up  when  she  has  become  a  wife. 
One  great  thing  undoubtedly  was,  the  chari- 
ness of  herself  and  her  conduct,  which  an  un- 
married female  always  observes.  She  should 
maintain  the  same  niceness  and  reserve  in  her 
person  and  habits,  and  endeavour  still  to  pre- 
serve a  freshness  and  virgin  delicacy  in  the 
eye  of  her  husband.  She  should  remember 
that  the  province  of  woman  is  to  be  wooed, 
not  to  woo;  to  be  caressed,  not  to  caress. 
Man  is  an  ungrateful  being  in  love;  bounty 
loses  instead  of  winning  him.  The  secret  of 
a  woman's  power  does  not  consist  so  much  in 
giving,  as  in  withholding.  A  woman  may  give 
up  too  much  even  to  her  husband.  It  is  to  a 
thousand  little  delicacies  of  conduct  that  she 
must  trust  to  keep  alive  passion,  and  to  protect 


WIVES.  107 

herself  from  that  dangerous  familiarity,  that 
thorough  acquaintance  with  every  weakness 
and  imperfection  incident  to  matrimony.  By 
these  means  she  may  still  maintain  her  power, 
though  slie  has  surrendered  her  person,  and 
may  continue  the  romance  of  love  even  heyond 
the  honey-moon. 

''  She  that  hath  a  wise  husband/*  says  Jeremy 
Taylor,  ^'  must  entice  him  to  an  eternal  dear- 
nesse  by  the  veil  of  modesty,  and  the  grave 
robes  of  chastity,  the  ornament  of  meeknesse, 
and  the  jewels  of  faith  and  charity.  She  must 
have  no  painting  but  blushings ;  her  bright- 
ness'must  be  purity,  and  she  must  shine  round 
about  with  sweetnesses  and  friendship ;  and 
she  shall  be  pleasant  while  she  lives,  and  de- 
sired when  she  dies." 

I  have  wandered  into  a  rambling  series  of 
remarks  on  a  trite  subject,  and  a  dangerous 
one  for  a  bachelor  to  meddle  with.  That  I 
may  not,  however,  appear  to  confine  my  ob- 
servations entirely  to  the  wife,  I  will  conclude 
with  another  quotation  from  Jeremy  Taylor, 


108  WIVES. 

in  which  the  duties  of  both  parties  are  men- 
tioned ;  while  I  would  recommend  his  sermon 
on  the  marriage  ring  to  all  those  who,  wiser 
than  myself,  are  about  entering  the  happy 
state  of  wedlock. 

"  There  is  scarce  any  matter  of  duty  but  it 
concerns  them  both  alike,  and  is  only  distin- 
guished by  names,  and  hath  its  variety  by  cir- 
cumstances and  little  accidents :  and  what  in 
one  is  called  love,  in  the  other  is  called  re- 
verence; and  what  in  the  wife  is  obedience, 
the  same  in  the  man  is  duty.  He  provides,  and 
she  dispenses;  he  gives  commandments,  and 
she  rules  by  them ;  he  rules  her  by  authority, 
and  she  rules  him  by  love ;  she  ought  by  all 
means  to  please  him,  and  he  must  by  no  means 
displease  her." 


STORY  TELLING. 


A  FAVOURITE  evening  pastime  at  the  Hall, 
and  one  which  the  worthy  squire  is  fond  of  pro- 
moting, is  story  telling,  '^  a  good  old-fashioned 
fire-side  amusement,"  as  he  terms  it.  Indeed,  I 
believe  he  promotes  it  chiefly,  because  it  was 
one  of  the  choice  recreations  in  those  days  of 
yore,  when  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  not  much 
in  the  habit  of  reading.  Be  this  as  it  may,  he 
will  often,  at  supper  table,  when  conversation 
flags,  call  on  some  one  or  other  of  the  com- 
pany for  a  story,  as  it  was  formerly  the  custom 
to  call  for  a  song ;  and  it  is  edifying  to  see  the 
exemplary  patience,  and  even  satisfaction,  with 
which  the  good  old  gentleman  will  sit  and 
listen  to  some  hackneyed  tale  that  he  has 
heard  for  at  least  a  hundred  times. 

In  this  way  one  evening  the  current  of  anec- 


110  STORY    TELLING. 

dotes  and  stories  ran  upon  mysterious  person- 
ages that  have  figured  at  different  times,  and 
filled  the  world  with  doubt  and  conjecture; 
such  as  the  Wandering  Jew,  the  Man  with  the 
Iron  Mask,  who  tormented  the  curiosity  of  all 
Europe;  the  Invisible  Girl,  and  last,  though 
not  least,  the  Pigfaced  Lady. 

At  length  one  of  the  company  was  called 
upon  that  had  the  most  unpromising  physiog- 
nomy for  a  story  teller  that  ever  I  had  seen. 
He  was  a  thin,  pale,  weazen-faced  man,  ex- 
tremely nervous,  that  had  sat  at  one  corner  of 
the  table,  shrunk  up,  as  it  were,  into  himself, 
and  almost  swallowed  up  in  the  cape  of  his 
coat,  as  a  turtle  in  its  shell. 

The  very  demand  seemed  to  throw  him  into 
a  nervous  agitation,  yet  he  did  not  refuse.  He 
emerged  his  head  out  of  his  shell,  made  a  few 
odd  grimaces  and  gesticulations,  before  he 
could  get  his  muscles  into  order,  or  his  voice 
under  command,  and  then  offered  to  give  some 
account  of  a  mysterious  personage  that  he  had 
recently   encountered   in   the   course   of   his 


STORY    TELLING.  Ill 

travels,  and  one  whom  he  thought  fully  enti- 
tled of  being  classed  with  the  Man  with  the 
Iron  Mask. 

I  was  so  much  struck  with  his  extraordinary 
narrative,  that  I  have  written  it  out  to  the  best 
of  my  recollection,  for  the  amusement  of  the 
reader.  I  think  it  has  in  it  all  the  elements 
of  that  mysterious  and  romantic  narrative,  so 
greedily  sought  after  at  the  present  day. 


THE  STOUT  GENTLEMAN 

A  STAGE  COACH  ROMANCE. 


"  I'll  cross  it,  though  it  blast  me !" 

Hamlet. 


It  was  a  rainy  Sunday,  in  the  gloomy  month 
of  November.  I  had  been  detained,  in  the 
course  of  a  journey,  by  a  slight  indisposition, 
from  which  I  was  recovering ;  but  I  was  still 
feverish,  and  was  obliged  to  keep  within  doors 
all  day,  in  an  inn  of  the  small  town  of  Derby. 
A  wet  Sunday  in  a  country  inn !  whoever  has 
had  the  luck  to  experience  one  can  alone  judge 
of  my  situation.  The  rain  pattered  against 
the  casements  ;  the  bells  tolled  for  church  with 
a  melancholy  sound.  I  went  to  the  windows 
in  quest  of  something  to  amuse  the  eye ;  but 
it  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  placed  completely 


THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN.  113 

out  of  the  reach  of  all  amusement.  The  win- 
dows of  my  bed-room  looked  out  among  tiled 
roofs  and  stacks  of  chimneys,  while  those  of 
my  sitting-room  commanded  a  full  view  of  the 
Stable-yard.  I  know  of  nothing  more  calcu- 
lated to  make  a  man  sick  of  this  world  than  a 
stable-yard  on  a  rainy  day.  The  place  was  lit- 
tered with  wet  straw  that  had  been  kicked  about 
by  travellers  and  stable-boys.  In  one  corner 
was  a  stagnant  pool  of  water,  surrounding 
an  island  of  muck ;  there  were  several  half- 
drowned  fowls  crowded  together  under  a  cart, 
among  which  was  a  miserable,  crest-fallen 
cock,  drenched  out  of  all  life  and  spirit ;  his 
drooping  tail  matted,  as  it  were,  into  a  single 
feather,  along  which  the  water  trickled  from 
his  back ;  near  the  cart  was  a  half-dozing  cow, 
chewing  the  cud,  and  standing  patiently  to  be 
rained  on,  with  wreaths  of  vapour  rising  from 
her  reeking  hide ;  a  wall-eyed  horse,  tired  of 
the  loneliness  of  the  stable,  was  poking  his 
spectral  head  out  of  a  window,  with  the  rain 
dripping  on  it  from  the  eaves;   an  unhappy 

VOL.  I.  I 


114  THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN. 

cur,  chained  to  a  doghouse  hard  by,  uttered 
something  every  now  and  then,  between  a  bark 
and  a  yelp  ;  a  drab  of  a  kitchen  wench  tramped 
backwards  and  forwards  through  the  yard  in 
pattens,  looking  as  sulky  as  the  weather  itself; 
every  thing,  in  short,  was  comfortless  and  for- 
lorn, excepting  a  crew  of  hard-drinking  ducks, 
assembled  like  boon  companions  round  a 
puddle,  and  making  a  riotous  noise  over  their 
liquor. 

I  was  lonely  and  listless,  and  wanted  amuse- 
ment. My  room  soon  became  insupportable. 
I  abandoned  it,  and  sought  what  is  technically 
called  the  travellers'-room.  This  is  a  public 
room  set  apart  at  most  inns  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  a  class  of  wayfarers,  called  travellers, 
or  riders ;  a  kind  of  commercial  knights  er- 
rant, who  are  incessantly  scouring  the  king- 
dom in  gigs,  on  horseback,  or  by  coach.  They 
are  the  only  successors  that  I  know  of  at  the 
present  day,  to  the  knights  errant  of  yore. 
They  lead  the  same  kind  of  roving  adventurous 
life,  only  changing  the  lance  for  a  driving- 


THE    STOUT    qENTLEMAN.  115 

whip,  the  buckler  for  a  pattern-card,  and  the 
coat  of  mail  for  an  upper  Benjamin.  Instead 
of  vindicating  the  charms  of  peerless  beauty, 
they  rove  about,  spreading  the  fame  and  stand- 
ing of  some  substantial  tradesman,  or  manu- 
facturer, and  are  ready  at  any  time  to  bargain 
in  his  name  ;  it  being  the  fashion  now-a-days 
to  trade,  instead  of  fight,  with  one  another.  As 
the  room  of  the  hostel,  in  the  good  old  fighting 
times,  would  be  hung  round  at  night  with  the 
armour  of  way-worn  warriors,  such  as  coats 
of  mail,  falchions,  and  yawning  helmets  ;  so  the 
travellers'-room  is  garnished  with  the  harness- 
ing of  their  successors,  with  box  coats,  whips 
of  all  kinds,  spurs,  gaiters,  and  oil-cloth  co- 
vered hats. 

I  was  in  hopes  of  finding  some  of  these 
worthies  to  talk  with,  but  was  disappointed. 
There  were,  indeed,  two  or  three  in  the  room ; 
but  I  could  make  nothing  of  them.  One  was 
just  finishing  his  breakfast,  quarrelling  with 
his  bread  and  butter,  and  huffing  the  waiter  ; 
another  buttoned  on  a  pair  of  gaiters,  with 

I  2 


116  THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN. 

many  execrations  at  Boots  for  not  having 
cleaned  his  shoes  well ;  a  third  sat  drumming 
on  the  table  with  his  fingers  and  looking  at  the 
rain  as  it  streamed  down  the  window-glass; 
they  all  appeared  infected  by  the  weather,  and 
disappeared,  one  after  the  other,  without  ex- 
changing a  word. 

I  sauntered  to  the  window  and  stood  gazing 
at  the  people,  picking  their  way  to  church, 
with  petticoats  hoisted  midleg  high,  and  drip- 
ping umbrellas.  The  bell  ceased  to  toll,  and 
the  streets  became  silent.  I  then  amused  my- 
self with  watching  the  daughters  of  a  trades- 
man opposite ;  who,  being  confined  to  the  house 
for  fear  of  wetting  their  Sunday  finery,  played 
off  their  charms  at  the  front  windows,  to  fasci- 
nate the  chance  tenants  of  the  inn.  They  at 
length  were  summoned  away  by  a  vigilant 
vinegar-faced  mother,  and  I  had  nothing  fur- 
ther from  without  to  amuse  me. 

What  was  I  to  do  to  pass  away  the  long- 
lived  day  ?  I  was  sadly  nervous  and  lonely ; 
and  every  thing  about  an  inn  seems  calculated 


THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN.  117 

to  make  a  dull  day  ten  times  duller.  Old 
newspapers,  smelling  of  beer  and  tobacco 
smoke,  and  which  I  had  already  read  half  a 
dozen  times.  Good  for  nothing  books,  that  were 
worse  than  rainy  weather.  I  bored  myself  to 
death  with  an  old  volume  of  the  Lady's  Maga- 
zine. I  read  all  the  common-place  names  of 
ambitious  travellers  scrawled  on  the  panes  of 
glass;  the  eternal  families  of  the  Smiths  and 
the  Browns,  and  the  Jacksons,  and  the  John- 
sons, and  all  the  other  sons  ;  and  I  decyphered 
several  scraps  of  fatiguing  inn-window  poetry 
which  I  have  met  wdth  in  all  parts  of  th^ 
world. 

The  day  continued  lowering  and  gloomy ; 
the  slovenly,  ragged,  spongy  clouds  drifted 
heavily  along;  there  was  no  variety  even  in 
the  rain ;  it  was  one  dull,  continued,  mono- 
tonous patter — patter — patter,  excepting  that 
now  and  then  I  was  enlivened  by  the  idea  of  a 
brisk  shower,  from  the  rattling  of  the  drops 
upon  a  passing  umbrella. 

It  was  quite  refresJmg  (if  I  may  be  allowed 


118  T'HE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN. 

a  hackneyed  phrase  of  the  day)  when,  in  the 
course  of  the  morning,  a  horn  blew,  and  a 
stage  coach  whirled  through  the  street,  with 
outside  passengers  stuck  all  over  it,  cowering 
under  cotton  umbrellas,  and  seethed  together, 
and  reeking  with  the  steams  of  wet  box-coats 
and  upper  Benjamins. 

The  sound  brought  out  from  their  lurking- 
places  a  crew  of  vagabond  boys,  and  vagabond 
dogs,  and  the  carroty-headed  hostler,  and  that 
non-descript  animal  ycleped  Boots,  and  all  the 
other  vagabond  race  that  infest  the  purlieus  of 
an  inn;  but  the  bustle  was  transient;  the  coach 
again  whirled  on  its  way;  and  boy  and  dog, 
and  hostler  and  Boots,  all  slunk  back  again  to 
their  holes  ;  the  street  again  became  silent,  and 
the  rain  continued  to  rain  on.  In  fact,  there 
was  no  hope  of  its  clearing  up ;  the  barometer 
pointed  to  rainy  weather;  mine  hostess's  tor- 
toise-shell cat  sat  by  the  fire  washing  her  face, 
and  rubbing  her  paws  over  her  ears ;  and,  on 
referring  to  the  Almanack,  I  found  a  direful 
prediction  stretching  from  the  top  of  the  page 


THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN.  119 

to  the  bottom  through  the  whole  month, ''  ex- 
pect— much — rain  — about — this — time !" 

I  was  dreadfully  hipped.  The  hours  seemed 
as  if  they  would  never  creep  by.  The  very 
ticking  of  the  clock  became  irksome.  At 
length  the  stillness  of  the  house  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  ringing  of  a  bell.  Shortly  after 
I  heard  the  voice  of  a  waiter  at  the  bar  :  "  The 
stout  gentleman  in  No.  \S,  wants  his  break- 
fast. Tea  and  bread  and  butter,  with  ham 
and  eggs ;  the  eggs  not  to  be  too  much  done." 

In  such  a  situation  as  mine  every  incident  is 
of  importance.  Here  was  a  subject  of  specu- 
lation presented  to  my  mind,  and  ample  exer- 
cise for  my  imagination.  I  am  prone  to  paint 
pictures  to  myself,  and  on  this  occasion  I  had 
some  materials  to  work  upon.  Had  the  guest 
up  stairs  been  mentioned  as  Mr.  Smith,  or  Mr. 
Brown,  or  Mr.  Jackson,  or  Mr.  Johnson,  or 
merely  as  "  the  gentleman  in  No.  18,"  it  would 
have  been  a  perfect  blank  to  me.  I  should  have 
thought  nothing  of  it;  but  "  The  Stout  Gentle- 
man !" — the  very  name  had  something  in  it  of 


1^  THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN. 

the  picturesque.  It  at  once  gave  the  size  ;  it 
embodied  the  personage  to  my  mind's  eye,  and 
my  fancy  did  the  rest. 

He  was  stout,  or,  as  some  term  it,  lusty ;  in 
all  probability,  therefore,  he  was  advanced  in 
life,  some  people  expanding  as  they  grow  old. 
By  his  breakfasting  rather  late,  and  in  his  own 
room,  he  must  be  a  man  accustomed  to  live  at 
his  ease,  and  above  the  necessity  of  early  rising; 
no  doubt  a  round,  rosy,  lusty  old  gentleman. 

There  was  another  violent  ringing.  The 
stout  gentleman  was  impatient  for  his  break- 
fast. He  was  evidently  a  man  of  importance ; 
^'  well  to  do  in  the  world ;"  accustomed  to  be 
promptly  waited  upon ;  of  a  keen  appetite,  and 
a  little  cross  when  hungry ; ''  perhaps,"  thought 
I,  "  he  may  be  some  London  Alderman ;  or  who 
knows  but  he  may  be  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment r 

The  breakfast  was  sent  up,  and  there  was  a 
short  interval  of  silence  ;  he  was,  doubtless, 
making  the  tea.  Presently  there  was  a  violent 
ringing;  and   before  it   could   be   answered. 


THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN.  121 

another  ringing  still  more  violent.  **  Bless 
me !  what  a  choleric  old  gentleman  !**  The 
waiter  came  down  in  a  huff.  The  butter  was 
rancid,  the  eggs  were  over-done,  the  ham  was 
too  salt : — the  stout  gentleman  was  evidently 
nice  in  his  eating ;  one  of  those  who  eat  and 
growl,  and  keep  the  waiter  on  the  trot,  and 
live  in  a  state  militant  with  the  household. 

The  hostess  got  into  a  fume.  I  should  ob- 
serve that  she  was  a  brisk,  coquettish  woman;  a 
little  of  a  shrew,  and  something  of  a  slammerkin, 
but  very  pretty  withal;  with  a  nincompoop  for 
a  husband,  as  shrews  are  apt  to  have.  She 
rated  the  servants  roundly  for  their  negligence 
in  sending  up  so  bad  a  breakfast,  but  said  not 
a  word  against  the  stout  gentleman ;  by  which 
I  clearly  perceived  that  he  must  be  a  man  of 
consequence,  intitled  to  make  a  noise  and  to 
give  trouble  at  a  country  inn.  Other  eggs,  and 
ham,  and  bread  and  butter  were  sent  up.  They 
appeared  to  be  more  graciously  received ;  at 
least  there  was  no  further  complaint. 

I  had  not  made  many  turns  about  the  tra- 


122  THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN. 

vellers'-room,  when  there  was  another  ringing. 
Shortly  afterwards  there  was  a  stir  and  an 
inquest  about  the  house.  The  stout  gentle- 
man wanted  the  Times  or  the  Chronicle  news- 
paper. I  set  him  down,  therefore,  for  a  whig; 
or  rather,  from  his  being  so  absolute  and  lordly 
w^here  he  had  a  chance,  I  suspected  him  of  being 
a  radical.  Hunt,  I  had  heard,  was  a  large 
man;  '^who  knows,"  thought  I,  '^but  it  is 
Hunt  himself  r 

My  curiosity  began  to  be  awakened.  I  in- 
quired of  the  waiter  who  was  this  stout  gentle- 
man that  was  making  all  this  stir ;  but  I  could 
get  no  information :  nobody  seemed  to  know 
his  name.  The  landlords  of  bustling  inns 
seldom  trouble  their  heads  about  the  names 
or  occupations  of  their  transient  guests.  The 
colour  of  a  coat,  the  shape  or  size  of  the  person, 
is  enough  to  suggest  a  travelling  name.  It  is 
either  the  tall  gentleman,  or  the  short  gentle- 
man, or  the  gentleman  in  black,  or  the  gentle- 
man in  snuff-colour ;  or,  as  in  the  present  in- 
stance, the  stout  gentleman.  A  designation  of 


THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN.  123 

the  kind  once  hit  on  answers  every  purpose, 
and  saves  all  further  inquiry. 

Rain — rain — rain  !  pitiless,  ceaseless  rain ! 
No  such  thing  as  putting  a  foot  out  of  doors, 
and  no  occupation  nor  amusement  within.  By 
and  by  I  heard  some  one  walking  over  head. 
It  was  in  the  stout  gentleman's  room.  He 
evidently  was  a  large  man  by  the  heaviness  of 
his  tread ;  and  an  old  man  from  his  wearing 
such  creaking  soles.  "  He  is  doubtless," 
thought  I,  "  some  rich  old  square-toes  of 
regular  habits,  and  is  now  taking  exercise 
after  breakfast." 

I  now  read  all  the  advertisements  of  coaches 
and  hotels  that  were  stuck  about  the  mantel- 
piece. The  Lady's  Magazine  had  become  an 
abomination  to  me ;  it  was  as  tedious  as  the 
day  itself.  I  wandered  out,  not  knowing  what 
to  do,  and  ascended  again  to  my  room.  I  had 
not  been  there  long,  when  there  was  a  squall 
from  a  neighbouring  bed-room.  A  door  opened 
and  slammed  violently;  a  chambermaid,  that 
I  had  remarked  for  having  a  ruddy,  good-hu- 


124  THE    STOUT   GENTLEMAN. 

moured  face,  went  down  stairs  in  a  violent  flurry. 
The  stout  gentleman  had  been  rude  to  her ! 

This  sent  a  whole  host  of  my  deductions  to 
the  deuce  in  a  moment.  This  unknown  per- 
sonage could  not  be  an  old  gentleman ;  for  old 
gentlemen  are  not  apt  to  be  so  obstreperous 
to  chambermaids.  He  could  not  be  a  young 
gentleman ;  for  young  gentlemen  are  not  apt 
to  inspire  such  indignation.  He  must  be  a 
middle-aged  man,  and  confounded  ugly  into 
the  bargain,  or  the  girl  would  not  have  taken 
the  matter  in  such  terrible  dudgeon.  I  confess 
I  was  sorely  puzzled. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  heard  the  voice  of  my  land- 
lady. I  caught  a  glance  of  her  as  she  came  tramp- 
ing up  stairs ;  her  face  glowing,  her  cap  flaring, 
her  tongue  wagging  the  whole  way.  *'  She'd 
have  no  such  doings  in  her  house,  she'd  war- 
rant !  If  gentlemen  did  spend  money  freely,  it 
was  no  rule.  She'd  have  no  servant  maids  of 
hers  treated  in  that  way,  when  they  were 
about  their  work,  that's  what  she  wouldn't!" 
As  I  hate  squabbles,  particularly  with  women. 


THE    STOtJT    GENTLEMAN.  1^5 

and  above  all  with  pretty  women,  I  slunk  back 
into  my  room,  and  partly  closed  the  door ;  but 
my  curiosity  was  too  much  excited  not  to 
listen.  The  landlady  marched  intrepidly  to 
the  enemy's  citadel,  and  entered  it  with  a 
storm :  the  door  closed  after  her.  I  heard  her 
voice  in  high,  windy  clamour  for  a  moment  or 
two.  Then  it  gradually  subsided,  like  a  gust 
of  wind  in  a  garret ;  then  there  was  a  laugh ; 
then  I  heard  nothing  more. 

After  a  little  while  my  landlady  came  out  with 
an  odd  smile  on  her  face,  adjusting  her  cap, 
which  was  a  little  on  one  side.  As  she  went  down 
stairs  I  heard  the  landlord  ask  her  what  was 
the  matter  ;  she  said, ''  Nothing  at  all,  only  the 
girl's  a  fool." — I  was  more  than  ever  perplexed 
what  to  make  of  this  unaccountable  personage, 
who  could  put  a  good-natured  chambermaid 
in  a  passion,  and  send  away  a  termagant  land- 
lady in  smiles.  He  could  not  be  so  old,  nor 
cross,  nor  ugly  either. 

I  had  to  go  to  work  at  his  picture  again. 


126  THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN. 

and  to  paint  him  entirely  different.   I  now  set 
him  down  for  one  of  those  stout  gentlemen  that 
are  frequently  met  with  swaggering  about  the 
doors  of  country  inns.     Moist,  merry  fellows, 
in  Belcher  handkerchiefs,  whose  bulk  is  a  little 
assisted  by  malt-liquors.     Men  who  have  seen 
the  world,  and  been  sworn  at  Highgate ;  who 
are  used  to  tavern  life ;  up  to  all  the  tricks  of 
tapsters,   and  knowing  in  the  ways  of  sinful 
publicans.     Free-livers  on  a  small  scale ;  who 
are  prodigal  within  the  compass  of  a  guinea ; 
who  call  all  the  waiters  by  name,  touzle  the 
maids,  gossip  with  the  landlady  at  the  bar,  and 
prose  over  a  pint  of  port,  or  a  glass  of  negus, 
after  dinner. 

The  morning  wore  away  in  forming  of  these 
and  similar  surmises.  As  fast  as  I  wove  one 
system  of  belief,  some  movement  of  the  un- 
known would  completely  overturn  it,  and  throw 
all  my  thoughts  again  into  confusion.  Such 
are  the  solitary  operations  of  a  feverish  mind. 
I  was,  as  I  have  said,  extremely  nervous ;  and 


THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN.  1^7 

the  continual  meditation  on  the  concerns  of 
this  invisible  personage  began  to  have  its 
effect : — I  was  getting  a  fit  of  the  fidgets. 

Dinner-time  came.  I  hoped  the  stout  gentle- 
man might  dine  in  the  travellers'-room,  and 
that  I  might  at  length  get  a  view  of  his  per- 
son ;  but  no — he  had  dinner  served  in  his  own 
room.  What  could  be  the  meaning  of  this 
solitude  and  mystery  ?  He  could  not  be  a 
radical;  there  was  something  too  aristocratical 
in  thus  keeping  himself  apart  from  the  rest  of 
the  world,  and  condemning  himself  to  his  own 
dull  company  throughout  a  rainy  day.  And 
then,  too,  he  lived  too  well  for  a  discontented 
politician.  He  seemed  to  expatiate  on  a  variety 
of  dishes,  and  to  sit  over  his  wine  like  a  jolly 
friend  of  good-living.  Indeed,  my  doubts  on 
this  head  were  soon  at  an  end ;  for  he  could 
not  have  finished  his  first  bottle  before  I  could 
faintly  hear  him  humming  a  tune;  and  on 
listening,  I  found  it  to  be  ''  God  save  the  King." 
'Twas  plain,  then,  he  was  no  radical,  but  a 
faithful  subject ;  one  that  grew  loyal  over  his 


MI8  THE    StOUT    GENTLEMAX. 

bottle,  and  was  ready  to  stand  by  king  and 
constitution,  when  he  could  stand  by  nothing 
else.  But  who  could  he  be !  My  conjectures 
began  to  run  wild.  Was  he  not  some  person- 
age of  distinction  travelling  incog.  ?  ''  God 
knows !"  said  I,  at  my  wit's  end ;  ''  it  may  be 
one  of  the  royal  family,  for  aught  I  know,  for 
they  are  all  stout  gentlemen !" 

The  weather  continued  rainy.  The  myste- 
rious unknown  kept  his  room,  and,  as  far  as  I 
could  judge,  his  chair,  for  I  did  not  hear  him 
move.  In  the  mean  time,  as  the  day  advanced, 
the  travellers'-room  began  to  be  frequented. 
Some,  who  had  just  arrived,  came  in  buttoned 
up  in  box-coats ;  others  carne  home  who  had 
been  dispersed  about  the  town.  Some  took 
their  dinners,  and  some  their  tea.  Had  I  been 
in  a  different  mood,  I  should  have  found  enter- 
tainment in  studying  this  peculiar  class  of  men. 
There  were  two  especially,  who  were  regular 
wags  of  the  road,  and  up  to  all  the  standing 
jokes  of  travellers.  They  had  a  thousand  sly 
things  to  say  to  the  waiting-maid,  whom  they 


THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN.  129 

called  Louisa,  and  Ethelinda,  and  a  dozen 
other  fine  names,  changing  the  name  every 
time,  and  chuckling  amazingly  at  their  own 
waggery.  My  mind,  however,  had  become 
completely  engrossed  by  the  stout  gentleman. 
He  had  kept  my  fancy  in  chase  during  a  long 
day,  and  it  was  not  now  to  be  diverted  from 
the  scent. 

The  evening  gradually  wore  away.  The 
travellers  read  the  papers  two  or  three  times 
over.  Some  drew  round  the  fire  and  told  long 
stories  about  their  horses,  about  their  adventures, 
their  overturns,  and  breakings-down.  They 
discussed  the  credits  of  different  merchants  and 
different  inns ;  and  the  two  wags  told  several 
choice  anecdotes  of  pretty  chambermaids,  and 
kind  landladies.  All  this  passed  as  they  were 
quietly  taking  what  they  called  their  night- 
caps, that  is  to  say,  strong  glasses  of  brandy 
and  water  and  sugar,  or  some  other  mixture 
of  the  kind ;  after  which  they  one  after  another 
rang  for  "  Boots"  and  the  chambermaid,  and 

VOL.  I.  K 


]L#0  THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN. 

walked  off  to  bed  in  old  shoes  cut  down  into 
marvellously  uncomfortable  slippers. 

There  was  only  one  man  left ;  a  short-legged, 
long-bodied,  plethoric  fellow,  with  a  very  large, 
sandy  head.  He  sat  by  himself,  with  a  glass 
of  port  wine  negus,  and  a  spoon ;  sipping  and 
stirring,  and  meditating  and  sipping,  until 
nothing  was  left  but  the  spoon.  He  gradually 
fell  asleep  bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  with  the 
empty  glass  standing  before  him;  and  the 
candle  seemed  to  fall  asleep  too,  for  the  wick 
grew  long,  and  black,  and  cabbaged  at  the 
end,  and  dimmed  the  little  light  that  remained 
in  the  chamber.  The  gloom  that  now  pre- 
vailed was  contagious.  Around  hung  the 
shapeless,  and  almost  spectral,  box-coats  of 
departed  travellers,  long  since  buried  in  deep 
sleep.  I  only  heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock, 
with  the  deep-drawn  breathings  of  the  sleeping 
toper,  and  the  drippings  of  the  rain,  drop — 
drop: — drop,  from  the  eaves  of  the  house.  The 
church  bells  chimed  midnight.     All   at  once 


~       THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN.  131 

the  stout  gentleman  began  to  walk  over  head, 
pacing  slowly  backwards  and  forwards.  There 
was  something  extremely  awful  in  all  this, 
especially  to  one  in  my  state  of  nerves.  These 
ghastly  great  coats,  these  guttural  breathings, 
and  the  creaking  footsteps  of  this  mysterious 
being.  His  steps  grew  fainter  and  fainter, 
and  at  length  died  away.  I  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  I  was  wound  up  to  the  desperation 
of  a  hero  of  romance.  ''  Be  he  who  or  what 
he  may,"  said  I  to  myself, ''  I'll  have  a  sight  of 
him !"  I  seized  a  chamber  candle,  and  hurried 
up  to  number  13.  The  door  stood  ajar.  I 
hesitated — I  entered :  the  room  was  deserted. 
There  stood  a  large,  broad-bottomed  elbow- 
chair  at  a  table,  on  which  was  an  empty  tumbler, 
and  a  ''  Times"  newspaper,  and  the  room  smelt 
powerfully  of  Stilton  cheese. 

The  mysterious  stranger  had  evidently  but 
just  retired.  I  turned  off,  sorely  disappointed, 
to  my  room/  which  had  been  changed  to  the 
front  of  the  house.  As  I  went  along  the  corridor, 
I  saw  a  large  pair  of  boots,  with  dirty,  waxed 

K  2 


132  THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN. 

tops.  Standing  at  the  door  of  a  bed-chamber. 
They  doubtless  belonged  to  the  unknown ;  but 
it  would  not  do  to  disturb  so  redoubtable  a  per- 
sonage in  his  den  ;  he  might  discharge  a  pistol, 
or  something  worse,  at  my  head.  I  went  to 
bed,  therefore,  and  lay  awake  half  the  night  in 
a  terribly  nervous  state ;  and  even  when  I  fell 
asleep,  I  was  still  haunted  in  my  dreams  by 
the  idea  of  the  stout  gentleman  and  his  wax- 
topped  boots. 

I  slept  rather  late  the  next  morning,  and 
was  awakened  by  some  stir  and  bustle  in  the 
house,  which  I  could  not  at  first  comprehend ; 
until  getting  more  awake,  I  found  there  was 
a  mail-coach  starting  from  the  door.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  cry  from  below,  "  The  gentleman 
has  forgot  his  umbrella !  look  for  the  gentle- 
man's umbrella  in  No.  18 !"  I  heard  an  im- 
mediate scampering  of  a  chambermaid  along 
the  passage,  and  a  shrill  reply  as  she  ran, "  here 
it  is !  here 's  the  gentleman's  umbrella !" 

The  mysterious  stranger  then  was  on  the 
point  of  setting  off.    This  was  the  only  chance 


THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN.  133 

I  should  ever  have  of  knowing  him.  I  sprang 
out  of  bed,  scrambled  to  the  window,  snatched 
aside  the  curtains,  and  just  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  rear  of  a  person  getting  in  at  the  coach- 
door.  The  skirts  of  a  brown  coat  parted  be- 
hind, and  gave  me  a  full  view  of  the  broad 
disk  of  a  pair  of  drab  breeches.  The  door 
closed — "  all  right!"  was  the  word — the  coach 
whirled  off: — and  that  was  all  I  ever  saw  of 
the  stout  gentleman ! 


FOREST  TREES. 


A  living  gallery  of  aged  trees. 


One  of  the  favourite  themes  of  boasting  with 
the  squire  is  the  noble  trees  on  his  estate, 
which,  in  truth,  has  some  of  the  finest  that  I 
have  seen  in  England.  There  is  something 
august  and  solemn  in  the  great  avenues  of 
stately  oaks  that  gather  their  branches  together 
high  in  air,  and  seem  to  reduce  the  pedestrians 
beneath  them  to  mere  pigmies.  "  An  avenue  of 
oaks  or  elms,"  the  squire  observes, "  is  the  true 
colonnade  that  should  lead  to  a  gentleman's 
house.  As  to  stone  and  marble,  any  one  can 
rear  them  at  once,  they  are  the  work  of  the 
day;  but  commend  me  to  the  colonnades  that 
have  grown  old  and  great  with  the  family,  and 


FOREST    TREES.  185 

tell  by  their  grandeur  how  long  the  family  has 
endured." 

The  squire  has  great  reverence  for  certain 
venerable  trees,  gray  with  moss,  which  he  con- 
siders as  the  ancient  nobility  of  his  domain. 
There  is  the  ruin  of  an  enormous  oak,  which 
has  been  so  much  battered  by  time  and  tem- 
pest, that  scarce  any  thing  is  left ;  though  he 
says  Christy  recollects  when,  in  his  boyhood,  it 
was  healthy  and  flourishing,  until  it  was  struck 
by  lightning.  It  is  now  a  mere  trunk,  with 
one  twisted  bough  stretching  up  into  the  air, 
leaving  a  green  branch  at  the  end  of  it.  This 
sturdy  wreck  is  much  valued  by  the  squire  ;* 
he  calls  it  his  standard-bearer,  and  compares 
it  to  a  veteran  warrior  beaten  down  in  battle, 
but  bearing  up  his  banner  to  the  last.  He  has 
actually  had  a  fence  built  round  it,  to  protect 
it  as  much  as  possible  from  further  injury. 

It  is  with  great  difficulty  that  the  squire  can 
ever  be  brought  to  have  any  tree  cut  down  on 
his  estate.  To  some  he  looks  with  reverence, 
as  having  been  planted  by  his  ancestors ;  to 


136  FOREST    TREES. 

others  with  a  kind  of  paternal  affection,  as 
having  been  planted  by  himself;  and  he  feels 
a  degree  of  awe  in  bringing  down  with  a  few 
strokes  of  the  axe,  what  it  has  cost  centuries 
to  build  up.  I  confess  I  cannot  but  sympathize, 
in  some  degree,  with  the  good  squire  on  the 
subject.  Though  brought  up  in  a  country 
overrun  with  forests,  where  trees  are  apt  to  be 
considered  mere  incumbrances,  and  to  be  laid 
low  without  hesitation  or  remorse,  yet  I  could 
never  see  a  fine  tree  hewn  down  without  con- 
cern. The  poets,  who  are  naturally  lovers  of 
trees,  as  they  are  of  every  thing  that  is  beauti- 
ful, have  artfully  awakened  great  interest  in 
their  favour,  by  representing  them  as  the 
habitations  of  sylvan  deities ;  insomuch  that 
every  great  tree  had  its  tutelar  genius,  or  a 
nymph,  whose  existence  was  limited  to  its 
duration.  Evelyn,  in  his  Sylva,  makes  several 
pleasing  and  fanciful  allusions  to  this  supersti-  , 
tion.  "  As  the  fall,"  says  he,  ^^  of  a  very  aged 
oak,  giving  a  crack  like  thunder,  has  often 
been  heard  at  many  miles  distance;  constrained 


FOREST    TREES.  137 

though  I  often  am  to  fell  them  withreluctancy, 
I  do  not  at  any  time  remember  to  have  heard 
the  groans  of  those  nymphs  (grieving  to  be 
dispossessed  of  their  ancient  habitations)  v^ith- 
out  some  emotion  and  pity."  And  again,  in 
alluding  to  a  violent  storm  that  had  devastated 
the  woodlands,  he  says  :  "  Methinks  I  still 
hear,  sure  I  am  that  I  still  feel,  the  dismal 
groans  of  our  forests ;  th^  late  dreadful  hurri- 
cane having  subverted  so  many  thousands  of 
goodly  oaks,  prostrating  the  trees,  laying  them 
in  ghastly  postures,  like  vrhole  regiments  fallen 
in  battle  by  the  sword  of  the  conqueror,  and 
crushing  all  that  grew  beneath  them.  The 
public  accounts,"  he  adds,  ''  reckon  no  less 
than  three  thousand  brave  oaks  in  one  part 
only  of  the  forest  of  Dean  blown  down." 

I  have  paused  more  than  once  in  the  wilder- 
ness of  America,  to  contemplate  the  traces  of 
some  blast  of  wind,  which  seemed  to  have 
rushed  down  from  the  clouds,  and  ripped  its 
way  through  the  bosom  of  the  woodlands ; 
rooting    up,    shivering    and    splintering    the 


138  l^REST    TREES. 

stoutest  trees,  and  leaving  a  long  track  of 
desolation.  There  was  something  awful  in  the 
vast  havoc  made  among  these  gigantic  plants ; 
and  in  considering  their  magnificent  remains, 
so  rudely  torn  and  mangled,  and  hurled  down 
to  perish  prematurely  on  their  native  soil,  I 
was  conscious  of  a  strong  movement  of  the 
sympathy  so  feelingly  expressed  by  Evelyn.  I 
recollect,  also,  hearing  a  traveller,  of  poetical 
temperament,  expressing  the  kind  of  horror 
which  he  felt  on  beholding,  on  the  banks  of 
the  Missouri,  an  oak  of  prodigious  size,  which 
had  been,  in  a  manner,  overpowered  by  an 
enormous  wild  grape-vine.  The  vine  had 
clasped  its  huge  folds  round  the  trunk,  and 
from  thence  had  wound  about  every  branch 
and  twig,  until  the  mighty  tree  had  withered 
in  its  embrace.  It  seemed  like  Laocoon 
struggling  ineffectually  in  the  hideous  coils  of 
the  monster  Python.  It  was  the  lion  of  trees 
perishing  in  the  embraces  of  a  vegetable  boa. 
I  am  fond  of  listening  to  the  conversation  of 
English  gentlemen  on  rural  concerns,  and  of 


FOREST    TREES.  139 

noticing  with  what  taste  and  discrimination, 
and  what  strong,  unaffected  interest  they  will 
discuss  topics,  which  in  other   countries   are 
abandoned  to  mere  woodmen,  or  rustic  culti- 
vators.    I  have  heard  a  noble  earl  descant  on 
park  and  forest  scenery  with  the  science  and 
feeling  of  a  painter.     He  dwelt  on  the  shape 
and  beauty  of  particular  trees  on  his  estate, 
with  as  much  pride  and  technical  precision  as 
though  he  had  been  discussing  the  merits  of 
statues  in  his  collection.     I  found  that  he  had 
even  gone  considerable  distances  to  examine 
trees  which  were  celebrated  among  rural  ama- 
teurs ;  for  it  seems  that  trees,  like  horses,  have 
their   established   points  of  excellence;    and 
that  there  are  some  in  England  which  enjoy 
very  extensive  celebrity  among  tree-fanciers 
from  being  perfect  in  their  kind. 

There  is  something  nobly  simple  and  pure 
in  such  a  taste  :  it  argues,  I  think,  a  sweet  and 
generous  nature,  to  have  this  strong  relish  for 
the  beauties  of  vegetation,  and  this  friendship 
for  the  hardy  and  glorious  sons  of  the  forest. 


140  FOREST    TREES. 

There  is  a  grandeur  of  thought  connected  with 
this  part  of  rural  economy.  It  is,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  figure,  the  heroic  line  of  hus- 
bandry. It  is  worthy  of  liberal,  and  freeborn, 
and  aspiring  men.  He  who  plants  an  oak 
looks  forward  to  future  ages,  and  plants  for 
posterity.  Nothing  can  be  less  selfish  than 
this.  He  cannot  expect  to  sit  in  its  shade,  nor 
enjoy  its  shelter;  but  he  exults  in  the  idea, 
that  the  acorn  which  he  has  buried  in  the 
earth  shall  grow  up  into  a  lofty  pile,  and  shall 
keep  on  flourishing,  and  increasing,  and  bene- 
fiting mankind,  long  after  he  shall  have  ceased 
to  tread  his  paternal  fields.  Indeed,  it  is  the 
nature  of  such  occupations  to  lift  the  thoughts 
above  mere  worldliness.  As  the  leaves  of  trees 
are  said  to  absorb  all  noxious  qualities  of  the 
air,  and  to  breathe  forth  a  purer  atmosphere, 
so  it  seems  to  me  as  if  they  drew  from  us  all 
sordid  and  angry  passions,  and  breathed  forth 
peace  and  philanthropy.  There  is  a  serene 
and  settled  majesty  in  woodland  scenery,  that 
enters  into  the  soul,  and  dilates^and  elevates 


FOREST    TREES.  141 

it,  and  fills  it  with  noble  inclinations.  The 
ancient  and  hereditary  groves,  too,  that  em- 
bower this  island,  are  most  of  them  full  of 
story.  They  are  haunted  by  the  recollections 
of  great  spirits  of  past  ages,  who  have  sought 
for  relaxation  among  them  from  the  tumult  of 
arms,  or  the  toils  of  state,  or  have  wooed  the 
muse  beneath  their  shade.  Who  can  walk,  with 
soul  unmoved,  among  the  stately  groves  of 
Penshurst,  where  the  gallant,  the  amiable,  the 
elegant  Sir  Philip  Sidney  passed  his  boyhood; 
or  can  look  without  fondness  upon  the  tree 
that  is  said  to  have  been  planted  on  his  birth- 
day ;  or  can  ramble  among  the  classic  bowers 
of  Hagley ;  or  can  pause  among  the  soli- 
tudes of  Windsor  Forest,  and  look  at  the  oaks 
around,  huge,  gray,  and  time-worn,  like  the 
old  castle  towers,  and  not  feel  as  if  he  were 
surrounded  by  so  many  monuments  of  long- 
enduring  glory  ?  It  is,  when  viewed  in  this 
light,  that  planted  groves,  and  stately  avenues, 
and  cultivated  parks,  have  an  advantage  over 
the  more  luxuriant  beauties  of  unassisted  na- 


142  .FOREST   TREES. 

ture.  It  is  that  they  teem  with  moral  asso- 
ciations, and  keep  up  the  ever-interesting  story 
of  human  existence. 

It  is  incumbent,  then,  on  the  high  and  ge- 
nerous spirits  of  an  ancient  nation,  to  cherish 
these  sacred  groves  that  surround  their  an- 
cestral mansions,  and  to  perpetuate  them  to 
their  descendants.  Republican  as  I  am  by 
birth,  and  brought  up  as  I  have  been  in  re- 
publican principles  and  habits,  I  can  feel  no- 
thing of  the  servile  reverence  for  titled  rank, 
merely  because  it  is  titled ;  but  I  trust  that  I 
am  neither  churl  nor  bigot  in  my  creed.  I 
can  both  see  and  feel  how  hereditary  distinc- 
tion, when  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  generous 
mind,  may  elevate  that  mind  into  true  nobility. 
cit  is  one  of  the  effects  of  hereditary  rank,  when 
it  falls  thus  happily,  that  it  multiplies  the 
duties,  and,  as  it  were,  extends  the  existence 
of  the  possessor.  He  does  not  feel  himself  a 
mere  individual  link  in  creation,  responsible 
only  for  his  own  brief  term  of  being.  He 
carries  back  his  existence  in  proud  recollection. 


FOREST    TREES.  143 

and  he  extends  it  forward  in  honourable  an- 
ticipation. He  lives  with  his  ancestry,  and  he 
lives  with  his  posterity.  To  both  does  he  con- 
sider himself  involved  in  deep  responsibilities. 
As  he  has  received  much  from  those  that  have 
gone  before,  so  he  feels  bound  to  transmit 
much  to  those  who  are  to  come  after  him. 
His  domestic  undertakings  seem  to  imply  a 
longer  existence  than  those  of  ordinary  men ; 
none  are  so  apt  to  build  and  plant  for  future 
centuries,  as  noble-spirited  men,  who  have  re- 
ceived their  heritages  from  foregone  ages. 

I  cannot  but  applaud,  therefore,  the  fondness 
and  pride  with  which  T  have  noticed  English 
gentlemen,  of  generous  temperaments,  and 
high  aristocratic  feelings,  contemplating  those 
magnificent  trees,  which  rise  like  towers  and 
pyramids,  from  the  midst  of  their  paternal 
lands.  There  is  an  affinity  between  all  nature, 
animate  and  inanimate :  the  oak,  in  the  pride 
and  lustihood  of  its  growth,  seems  to  me  to 
take  its  range  with  the  lion  and  the  eagle,  and 
to  assimilate,  in  the  grandeur  of  its  attributes. 


144  FOREST    TREES. 

to  heroic  and  intellectual  man.  With  its  mighty 
pillar  rising  straight  and  direct  towards  heaven, 
bearing  up  its  leafy  honours  from  the  impurities 
of  earth,  and  supporting  them  aloft  in  free  air 
and  glorious  sunshine,  it  is  an  emblem  of  what 
a  true  nobleman  should  he  ;  a  refuge  for  the 
weak,  a  shelter  for  the  oppressed,  a  defence 
for  the  defenceless ;  warding  off  from  them  the 
peltings  of  the  storm,  or  the  scorching  rays  of 
arbitrary  power.  He  who  is  this,  is  an  orna- 
ment and  a  blessing  to  his  native  land.  He 
who  is  otherwise,  abuses  his  eminent  advan- 
tages ;  abuses  the  grandeur  and  prosperity 
which  he  has  drawn  from  the  bosom  of  his 
country.  Should  tempests  arise,  and  he  be 
laid  prostrate  by  the  storm,  who  would  mourn 
over  his  fall?  Should  he  be  borne  down  by 
the  oppressive  hand  of  power,  who  would 
murmur  at  his  fate?—''  why  cumbereth  he 
the  ground  V* 


A  LITERARY  ANTIQUARY. 


Printed  bookes  he  contemnes,  as  a  novelty  of  this  latter  age; 
but  a  manuscript  he  pores  on  everlastingly;  especially  if  the 
cover  be  all  moth-eaten,  and  the  dust  make  a  parenthesis  be- 
tweene  every  syllable. 

MICO-COSMOGRAPHIE,  1628. 


The  squire  receives  great  sympathy  and 
support,  in  his  antiquated  humours,  from  the 
parson,  of  whom  I  made  some  mention  on 
my  former  visit  to  the  Hall,  and  who  acts  as  a 
kind  of  family  chaplain.  He  has  been  che- 
rished by  the  squire  almost  constantly  since  the 
time  that  they  were  fellow  students  at  Ox- 
ford ;  for  it  is  one  of  the  peculiar  advantages 
of  these  great  universities,  that  they  often  link 
the  poor  scholar  to  the  rich  patron,  by  early 
and  heart-felt  ties,  that  last  through  life,  with- 
out the  usual  humiliations  of  dependence  and 

VOL.  I.  L 


146  A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARY. 

patronage.  Under  the  fostering  protection  of 
the  squire,  therefore,  the  little  parson  has  pur- 
sued his  studies  in  peace.  Having  lived  almost 
entirely  among  books,  and  those,  too,  old  books, 
he  is  quite  ignorant  of  the  world,  and  his  mind 
is  as  antiquated  as  the  garden  at  the  Hall, 
v^^here  the  flowers  are  all  arranged  in  formal 
beds,  and  the  yew-trees  clipped  into  urns  and 
peacocks. 

His  taste  for  literary  antiquities  was  first 
imbibed  in  the  Bodleian  Library  at  Oxford; 
where,  when  a  student,  he  past  many  an  hour 
foraging  among  the  old  manuscripts.  He 
has  since,  at  different  times,  visited  most  of 
the  curious  libraries  in  England,  and  has  ran- 
sacked many  of  the  cathedrals.  With  all  his 
quaint  and  curious  learning,  he  has  nothing  of 
arrogance  or  pedantry;  but  that  unaffected 
earnestness  and  guileless  simplicity  which  seem 
to  belong  to  the  literary  antiquary. 

He  is  a  dark,  mouldy  little  man,  and  rather 
dry  in  his  manner ;  yet,  on  his  favourite  theme, 
he  kindles  up,  and  at  times  is  even  eloquent. 


A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARY.  147 

No  fox-hunter,  recounting  his  last  day's  sport, 
could  be  more  animated  than  I  have  seen  the 
worthy  parson,  when  relating  his  search  after 
a  curious  document,  which  he  had  traced  from 
library  to  library,  until  he  fairly  unearthed 
it  in  the  dusty  chapter-house  of  a  cathedral. 
When,  too,  he  describes  some  venerable  manu- 
script, with  its  rich  illuminations,  its  thick 
creamy  vellum,  its  glossy  ink,  and  the  odour  of 
the  cloisters  that  seemed  to  exhale  from  it,  he 
rivals  the  enthusiasm  of  a  Parisian  epicure, 
expatiating  on  the  merits  of  a  Perigord  pie, 
or  a  Fate  de  Strasbourg, 

His  brain  seems  absolutely  haunted  with 
love-sick  dreams  about  gorgeous  old  works  in 
"  silk  linings,  triple  gold  bands,  and  tinted 
leather,  locked  up  in  wire  cases,  and  secured 
from  the  vulgar  hands  of  the  mere  reader;" 
and,  to  continue  the  happy  expressions  of  an 
ingenious  writer,  "  dazzling  one's  eyes  like 
eastern  beauties,  peering  through  their  jea- 
lousies *." 

*  D' Israeli.    Curiosities  of  Literature. 


148  A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARY. 

He  has  a  great  desire,  however,  to  read  such 
works  in  the  old  libraries  and  chapter-houses 
to  which  they  belong ;  for  he  thinks  a  black- 
letter  volume  reads  best  in  one  of  those  ve- 
nerable chambers  where  the  light  struggles 
through  dusty  lancet  windows  and  painted 
glass ;  and  that  it  loses  half  its  zest  if  taken 
away  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the  quaintly- 
carved  oaken  book-case  and  Gothic  reading- 
desk.  At  his  suggestion  the  squire  has  had 
the  library  furnished  in  this  antique  taste,  and 
several  of  the  windows  glazed  with  painted 
glass,  that  they  may  throw  a  properly  tem- 
pered light  upon  the  pages  of  their  favourite 
old  authors. 

The  parson,  I  am  told,  has  been  for  some  time 
meditating  a  commentary  on  Strutt,  Brand, 
and  Douce,  in  which  he  means  to  detect  them 
in  sundry  dangerous  errors  in  respect  to  po- 
pular games  and  superstitions ;  a  work  to 
which  the  squire  looks  forward  with  great 
interest.  He  is,  also,  a  casual  contributor  to 
that   long-established   repository  of  national 


A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARY*  149 

customs  and  antiquities,  the  Gentleman's  Ma- 
gazine, and  is  one  of  those  that  every  now  and 
then  make  an  inquiry  concerning  some  obso- 
lete custom  or  rare  legend ;  nay,  it  is  said  that 
several  of  his  communications  have  been  at 
least  six  inches  in  length.     He  frequently  re- 
ceives parcels  by  coach  from  different  parts  of 
the  kingdom,  containing  mouldy  volumes  and 
almost  illegible  manuscripts  ;  for  it  is  singular 
what    an    active   correspondence   is    kept    up 
among  litjerary  antiquaries,  and  how  soon  the 
fame  of  any  rare  volume,  or  unique  copy,  just 
discovered  among  the  rubbish  of  a  library,  is 
circulated  among  them.     The  parson  is  more 
busy  than  common  just  now,  being  a  little 
flurried  by  an  advertisement  of  a  work,  said 
to  be  preparing  for  the  press,  on  the  mythology 
of  the  middle  ages.     The  little  man  has  long 
been  gathering  together  all  the  hobgoblin  tales 
he  could  collect,  illustrative  of  the  superstitions 
of  former  times  ;  and  he  is  in  a  complete  fever,v 
lest  this  formidable  rival  should  take  the  field 
before  him. 


i$9  A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARY. 

Shortly  after  my  arrival  at  the  Hall,  I  called 
at  the  parsonage,  in  company  with  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge  and  the  general.  The  parson  had  not 
been  seen  for  several  days,  which  was  a  matter 
of  some  surprise,  as  he  was  an  almost  daily 
visitor  at  the  Hall.  We  found  him  in  his 
study ;  a  small  dusky  chamber,  lighted  by  a 
lattice  window  that  looked  into  the  church- 
yard, and  was  overshadowed  by  a  yew-tree. 
His  chair  was  surrounded  by  folios  and  quartos, 
piled  upon  the  floor,  and  his  table  was  covered 
with  books  and  manuscripts.  The  cause  of  his 
seclusion  was  a  work  which  he  had  recently 
received,  and  with  which  he  had  retired  in  rap- 
ture from  the  world,  and  shut  himself  up  to  en- 
joy a  literary  honeymoon  undisturbed.  Never 
did  boarding-school  girl  devour  the  pages  of  a 
sentimental  novel,  or  Don  Quixote  a  chivalrous 
romance,  with  more  intense  delight  than  did 
the  little  man  banquet  on  the  pages  of  this 
delicious  work.  It  was  Dibdin's  Bibliographical 
Tour ;  a  work  calculated  to  have  as  intoxicating 
an  effect  on  the  imaginations  of  literary  an- 


A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARY.  151 

tiquaries,  as  the  adventures  of  the  heroes  of 
the  round  table,  on  all  true  knights ;  or  the 
tales  of  the  early  American  voyagers  on  the 
ardent  spirits  of  the  age,  filling  them  with 
dreams  of  Mexican  and  Peruvian  mines,  and  of 
the  golden  realm  of  El  Dorado. 

The  good  parson  had  looked  forward  to  this 
Bibliographical  expedition  as  of  far  greater 
importance  than  those  to  Africa,  or  the  North 
Pole.  With  what  eagerness  had  he  seized 
upon  the  history  of  the  enterprise  !  with  what 
interest  had  he  followed  the  redoubtable  biblio- 
grapher and  his  graphical  squire  in  their  ad- 
venturous roamings  among  Norman  castles 
and  cathedrals,  and  French  libraries,  and  Ger- 
man convents  and  universities ;  penetrating 
into  the  prison  houses  of  vellum  manuscripts, 
and  exquisitely  illuminated  missals,  and  re- 
vealing their  beauties  to  the  world ! 

When  the  parson  had  finished  a  rapturous 
eulogy  on  this  most  curious  and  entertaining 
work,  he  drew  forth  from  a  little  drawer  a 
manuscript,  lately  received  from  a  correspond- 


152  A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARY. 

ent,  which  had  perplexed  him  sadly.  It  was 
written  in  Norman  French,  in  very  ancient  cha- 
racters, and  so  faded  and  mouldered  away  as 
to  be  almost  illegible.  It  was  apparently  an 
old  Norman  drinking  song,  that  might  have 
been  brought  over  by  one  of  William  the  Con- 
queror's carousing  followers.  The  writing  was 
just  legible  enough  to  keep  a  keen  antiquity 
hunter  on  a  doubtful  chase ;  here  and  there  he 
would  be  completely  thrown  out,  and  then 
there  would  be  a  few  words  so  plainly  written 
as  to  put  him  on  the  scent  again.  In  this  way 
he  had  been  led  on  for  a  whole  day,  until  he 
had  found  himself  completely  at  fault. 

The  squire  endeavoured  to  assist  him,  but 
was  equally  baffled.  The  old  general  listened 
for  some  time  to  the  discussion,  and  then  asked 
the  parson,  if  he  had  read  Captain  Morris's,  or- 
George  Stevens',  or  Anacreon  Moore's  baccha- 
nalian songs ;  on  the  other  replying  in  the  ne- 
gative, "  Oh,  then,"  said  the  general,  with 
a  sagacious  nod,  "  if  you  want  a  drinking 
song,  I  can  furnish  you  with  the  latest  collec- 


A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARY.  153 

tion — I  did  not  know  you  had  a  turn  for  those 
kind  of  things ;  and  I  can  lend  you  the  Ency- 
clopedia of  Wit  into  the  bargain.  I  never 
travel  without  them ;  they're  excellent  reading 
at  an  inn." 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  describe  the  odd 
look  of  surprise  and  perplexity  of  the  parson, 
at  this  proposal ;  or  the  difficulty  the  squire 
had  in  making  the  general  comprehend,  that 
though  a  jovial  song  of  the  present  day  was 
but  a  foolish  sound  in  the  ears  of  wisdom, 
and  beneath  the  notice  of  a  learned  man,  yet 
a  trowl,  written  by  a  tosspot  several  hundred 
years  since,  was  a  matter  worthy  of  the  gravest 
research,  and  enough  to  set  whole  colleges  by 
the  ears. 

I  have  since  pondered  much  on  this  matter, 
and  have  figured  to  myself  what  may  be  the  fate 
of  our  current  literature,  when  retrieved,  piece- 
meal, by  future  antiquaries,  from  among  the 
rubbish  of  ages.  What  a  Magnus  Apollo,  for 
instance,  will  Moore  become,  among  sober  di- 
vines and  dusty  schoolmen!  Even  his  festive  and 


154  '    A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARY. 

amatory  songs,  which  are  now  the  mere  quick- 
eners  of  our  social  moments,  or  the  delights  of 
our  drawing-rooms,  will  then  become  matters 
of  laborious  research  and  painful  collation. 
How  many  a  grave  professor  will  then  waste 
his  midnight  oil,  or  worry  his  brain  through  a 
long  morning,  endeavouring  to  restore  the 
pure  text,  or  illustrate  the  biographical  hints 
of  ''  Come,  tell  me,  says  Rosa,  as  kissing  and 
kissed;"  and  how  many  an  arid  old  book-worm, 
like  the  worthy  little  parson,  will  give  up  in 
despair,  after  vainly  striving  to  fill  up  some 
fatal  hiatus  in  "  Fanny  of  Timmol !" 

Nor  is  it  merely  such  exquisite  authors  as 
Moore  that  are  doomed  to  consume  the  oil  of 
future  antiquaries.  Many  a  poor  scribbler, 
who  is  now,  apparently,  sent  to  oblivion  by 
pastry-cooks  and  cheesemongers,  will  then  rise 
again  in  fragments,  and  flourish  in  learned 
immortality. 

After  all,  thought  I,  time  is  not  such  an  in- 
variable destroyer  as  he  is  represented.  If  he 
pulls  down,  he  likewise  builds  up ;  if  he  im- 


A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARY.  155 

poverishes  one,  he  enriches  another ;  his  very 
dilapidations  furnish  matter  for  new  works  of 
controversy,  and  his  rust  is  more  precious  than 
the  most  costly  gilding.  Under  his  plastic 
hand  trifles  rise  into  importance  ;  the  nonsense 
of  one  age  becomes  the  wisdom  of  another ; 
the  levity  of  the  wit  gravitates  into  the  learn- 
ing of  the  pedant,  and  an  ancient  farthing 
moulders  into  infinitely  more  value  than  a  mo- 
dern guinea. 


THE  FARM-HOUSE. 


'*  Love  and  hay 


Are  thick  sown,  but  come  up  full  of  thistles." 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


I  WAS  SO  much  pleased  with  the  anecdotes 
which  were  told  me  of  Ready  money  Jack 
Tibbets,  that  I  got  Master  Simon,  a  day  or 
two  since,  to  take  me  to  his  house.  It  was  an 
old-fashioned  farm-house,  built  of  brick,  with 
curiously  twisted  chimneys.  It  stood  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  road,  with  a  southern  ex- 
posure, looking  upon  a  soft,  green  slope  of 
meadow.  There  was  a  small  garden  in  front, 
with  a  row  of  beehives  humming  among  beds 
of  sweet  herbs  and  flowers.  Well-scowered 
milking-tubs,  with  bright,  copper  hoops,  hung 
on  the  garden  pailing.  Fruit-trees  were  trained 
up  against  the  cottage,  and  pots  of  flowers 


THE    FARM-HOUSE.  157 

stood  in  the  windows.  A  fat,  superannuated 
mastiff  lay  in  the  sunshine  at  the  door ;  with  a 
sleek  cat  sleeping  peacefully  across  him. 

Mr.  Tihbets  was  from  home  at  the  time  of 
our  calling,  but  we  were  received  with  hearty 
and  homely  welcome  by  his  wife ;  a  notable, 
motherly  woman,  and  a  complete  pattern  for 
wives;  since,  according  to  Master  Simon's 
account,  she  never  contradicts  honest  Jack,  and 
yet  manages  to  have  her  own  way,  and  to  con- 
trol him  in  every  thing. 

She  received  us  in  the  rnain  room  of  the 
house,  a  kind  of  parlour  and  hall,  with  great 
brown  beams  of  timber  across  it,  which  Mr. 
Tibbets  is  apt  to  point  out  with  some  exulta- 
tion, observing,  that  they  don't  put  such  timber 
in  houses  now-a-days.  The  furniture  was  old- 
fashioned,  strong,  and  highly  polished;  the  walls 
were  hung  with  coloured  prints  of  the  story  of 
the  Prodigal  Son,  who  was  represented  in  a  red 
coat  and  leather  breeches.  Over  the  fire-place 
was  a  blunderbuss,  and  a  hard-favoured  like- 
ness of  Ready  money  Jack,  taken,  when  he  was 


15fe 


THE   FARM-HOUSE. 


a  young  man,  by  the  same  artist  that  painted 
the  tavern  sign ;  his  mother  having  taken  a 
notion  that  the  Tibbets  had  as  much  right  to 
have  a  gallery  of  family  portraits  as  the  folks 
at  the  Hall. 

The  good  dame  pressed  us  very  much  to 
take  some  refreshment,  and  tempted  us  with  a 
variety  of  household  dainties,  so  that  we  were 
glad  to  compound,  by  tasting  some  of  her 
home-made  wines.  While  we  were  there,  the 
son  and  heir-apparent  came  home ;  a  good- 
looking  young  fellow,  and  something  of  a 
rustic  beau.  He  took  us  over  the  premises, 
and  showed  us  the  whole  establishment.  An 
air  of  homely  but  substantial  plenty  prevailed 
throughout ;  every  thing  was  of  the  best  ma- 
terials, and  in  the  best  condition.  Nothing 
was  out  of  place,  or  ill-made;  and  you  saw 
every  where  the  signs  of  a  man  that  took  care 
to  have  the  worth  of  his  money,  and  that  paid 
as  he  went. 

The  farm-yard  was  well  stocked ;  under  a 
shed  was  a  taxed  cart,  in  trim  order,  in  which 


THE    FARM-HOUSE.  15^ 

Ready  money  Jack  took  his  wife  about  the 
country.  His  well-fed  horse  neighed  from  the 
stable,  and  when  led  out  into  the  yard,  to  use 
the  words  of  young  Jack,  "  he  shone  like  a 
bottle  ;"  for  he  said  the  old  man  made  it  a  rule 
that  every  thing  about  him  should  fare  as  well 
as  he  did  himself. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  pride  which  the 
young  fellow  seemed  to  have  of  his  father. 
He  gave  us  several  particulars  concerning  his 
habits,  which  were  pretty  much  to  the  effect 
of  those  I  have  already  mentioned.  He  had 
never  suffered  an  account  to  stand  in  his  life, 
always  providing  the  money  before  he  pur- 
chased any  thing ;  and,  if  possible,  paying  in 
gold  and  silver.  He  had  a  great  dislike  to 
paper-money,  and  seldom  went  without  a  con- 
siderable sum  in  gold  about  him.  On  my  ob- 
serving that  it  was  a  wonder  he  had  never  been 
waylaid  and  robbed,  the  young  ^  fellow  smiled 
at  the  idea  of  any  one  venturing  upon  such  an 
exploit,  for  I  believe  he  thinks  the  old  man 


l60  THE    FARM-HOUSE. 

would  be  a  match  for  Robin  Hood  and  all  hi« 
gang. 

I  have  noticed  that  Master  Simon  seldom 
goes  into  any  house  without  having  a  world  of 
private  talk  with  some  one  or  other  of  the 
family^being  a  kind  of  universal  counsellor  and 
confidant.  We  had  not  been  long  at  the  farm, 
before  the  old  dame  got  him  into  a  corner  of 
her  parlour,  where  they  had  a  long,  whisper- 
ing conference  together ;  in  which  I  saw  by  his 
shrugs  that  there  were  some  dubious  matters 
discussed,  and  by  his  nods  that  he  agreed  with 
every  thing  she  said. 

After  we  had  come  out,  the  young  man  ac- 
companied us  a  little  distance,  and  then,  draw- 
ing Master  Simon  aside  into  a  green  lane,  they 
walked  and  talked  together  for  nearly  half  an 
hour.  Master  Simon,  who  has  the  usual  pro- 
pensity of  confidants  to  blab  every  thing  to 
the  next  friend  they  meet  with,  let  me  know 
that  there  was  a  love  affair  in  question  ;  the 
young  fellow  having  been  smitten  with  the 


THE    FARM-HOUSE.  l6l 

jcharms  of  Phoebe  Wilkins,  the  pretty  niece  of 
the  housekeeper  at  the  Hall.  Like  most  other 
love  concerns,  it  had  brought  its  troubles  and 
perplexities.  Dame  Tibbets  had  long  been 
on  intimate,  gossiping  terms  with  the  house- 
keeper, who  often  visited  the  farm-house  ;  but 
when  the  neighbours  spoke  to  her  of  the  like- 
lihood of  a  match  between  her  son  and  Phoebe 
Wilkins,  ^'  Marry  come  up  !"  she  scouted  the 
very  idea.  The  girl  had  acted  as  lady's  maid, 
and  it  was  beneath  the  blood  of  the  Tibbets, 
who  had  lived  on  their  own  lands  time  out 
of  mind,  and  owed  reverence  and  thanks  to 
nobody,  to  have  the  heir-apparent  marry  a 
servant ! 

These  vapourings  had  faithfully  been  carried 
to  the  housekeeper's  ear,  by  one  of  their  mutual 
go-between  friends.  The  old  housekeeper's 
blood,  if  not  as  ancient,  was  as  quick  as  that 
of  Dame  Tibbets.  She  had  been  accustomed 
to  carry  a  high  head  at  the  Hall,  and  among 
the  villagers ;  and  her  faded  brocade  rustled 
with  indignation  at  the  slight  cast  upon  her 

VOL.  I.  M 


163  THE    FARM-HOUSE. 

alliance  by  the  wife  of  a  petty  farmer.  She 
maintained  that  her  niece  had  been  a  com- 
panion rather  than  a  waiting-maid  to  the  young 
ladies.  ''  Thank  heavens,  she  was  not  obliged 
to  work  for  her  living,  and  was  as  idle  as  any 
young  lady  in  the  land  ;  and  when  somebody 
died,  would  receive  something  that  would  be 
worth  the  notice  of  some  folks,  with  all  their 
ready  money." 

A  bitter  feud  had  thus  taken  place  between 
the  two  worthy  dames,  and  the  young  people 
were  forbidden  to  think  of  one  another.  As 
to  young  Jack,  he  was  too  much  in  love  to 
reason  upon  the  matter;  and  being  a  little 
heady,  and  not  standing  in  much  awe  of  his 
mother,  was  ready  to  sacrifice  the  whole  dignity 
of  the  Tibbets  to  his  passion.  He  had  lately, 
however,  had  a  violent  quarrel  with  his  mis- 
tress, in  consequence  of  some  coquetry  on  her 
part,  and  at  present  stood  aloof.  The  politic 
mother  was  exerting  all  her  ingenuity  to  widen 
this  accidental  breach;  but,  as  is  most  com- 
monly  the  case,  the  more  she  meddled  with  this 


THE    FARM-HOU»K.  l6S 

perverse  inclination  of  her  son,  the  stronger  it 
grew.  In  the  mean  time  Old  Ready-money 
was  kept  completely  in  the  dark ;  both  parties 
were  in  awe  and  uncertainty  as  to  what  might 
be  his  way  of  taking  the  matter,  and  dreaded 
to  awaken  the  sleeping  lion.  Between  father 
and  son,  therefore,  the  worthy  Mrs.  Tibbets 
was  full  of  business,  and  at  her  wit's  end.  It 
is  true  there  was  no  great  danger  of  honest 
Ready-money's  finding  the  thing  out,  if  left  to 
himself;  for  he  was  of  a  most  unsuspicious 
temper,  and  by  no  means  quick  of  appre- 
hension ;  but  there  was  daily  risk  of  his  atten- 
tion being  aroused  by  those  cobwebs  which  his 
indefatigable  wife  was  continually  spinning 
about  his  nose. 

Such  is  the  distracted  state  of  politics  in  the 
domestic  empire  of  Ready-money  Jack ;  which 
only  shows  the  intrigues  and  internal  dangers 
to  which  the  best  regulated  governments  are 
liable.  In  this  perplexed  situation  of  their 
affairs,  both  mother  and  son  have  applied  to 
Master  Simon  for  counsel ;   and,  with  all  his 

M  2 


l64  THE    FARM-HOUSE. 

experience  in  meddling .  with  other  people*s 
concerns,  he  finds  it  an  exceedingly  difficult 
part  to  play,  to  agree  with  both  parties,  seeing 
that  their  opinions  and  wishes  are  so  diame- 
trically opposite. 


HORSEMANSHIP.        "*^ 


A  coach  was  a  strange  monster  in  those  days,  and  the  sight  of 
one  put  both  horse  and  man  into  amazement.  Some  said  it 
was  a  great  crabshell  brought  out  of  China,  and  some  imagined 
it  to  be  one  of  the  pagan  temples,  in  which  the  canibals  adored 
the  divell.  Taylor,  the  water  poet. 


I  HAVE  made  casual  mention,  more  than  once, 
of  one  of  the  squire's  antiquated  retainers,  old 
Christy  the  huntsman.  I  find  that  his  crabbed 
humour  is  a  source  of  much  entertainment 
among  the  young  men  of  the  family;  the 
Oxonian,  particularly,  takes  a  mischievous 
pleasure  now  and  then  in  slyly  rubbing  the 
old  man  against  the  grain,  and  then  smoothing 
him  down  again ;  for  the  old  fellow  is  as  ready 
to  bristle  up  his  back  as  a  porcupine.  He 
rides  a  venerable  hunter  called  Pepper,  which 
is  a  counterpart  of  himself,  a  heady,  cross- 


166  HORSEMANSHIP. 

grained  animal,  that  frets  the  flesh  off  its  bones; 
bites,  kicks,  and  plays  all  manner  of  villanous 
tricks.  He  is  as  tough,  and  nearly  as  old  as 
his  rider,  who  has  ridden  him  time  out  of  mind, 
and  is,  indeed,  the  only  one  that  can  do  any 
thing  with  him.  Sometimes,  however,  they 
have  a  complete  quarrel,  and  a  dispute  for 
mastery,  and  then,  I  am  told,  it  is  as  good  as 
a  farce  to  see  the  heat  they  both  get  into,  and 
the  wrongheaded  contest  that  ensues ;  for  they 
are  quite  knowing  in  each  other's  ways,  and  in 
the  art  of  teasing  and  fretting  each  other. 
Notwithstanding  these  doughty  brawls,  how- 
ever, there  is  nothing  that  nettles  old  Christy 
sooner  than  to  question  the  merits  of  his  horse ; 
which  he  upholds  as  tenaciously  as  a  faithful 
husband  will  vindicate  the  virtues  of  the  ter- 
magant spouse,  that  gives  him  a  curtain  lecture 
every  night  of  his  life. 

The  young  men  call  old  Christy  their  '*  pro- 
fessor of  equitation,"  and  in  accounting  for  the 
appellation,  they  let  me  into  some  particulars 
of  the  s^quire's  mode  of  bringing  up  his  children. 


HORSEMANSHIP.  iGj 

There  is  an  odd  mixture  of  eccentricity  and 
good  sense  in  all  the  opinions  of  my  worthy  host. 
His  mind  is  like  modern  Gothic,  where  plain 
brick-work  is  set  off  with  pointed  arches  and 
quaint  tracery.  Though  the  main  ground- 
work of  his  opinions  is  correct,  yet  he  has  a 
thousand  little  notions,  picked  up  from  old 
books,  which  stand  out  whimsically  on  the 
surface  of  his  mind. 

Thus,  in  educating  his  boys,  he  chose  Peachem, 
Markam,  and  such  like  old  English  writers,  for 
his  manuals.  At  an  early  age  he  took  the  lads 
out  of  their  mother's  hands,  who  was  disposed, 
as  mothers  are  apt  to  be,  to  make  fine,  orderly 
children  of  them,  that  should  keep  out  of  sun 
and  rain,  and  never  soil  their  hand^,  nor  tear 
their  clothes. 

In  place  of  this,  the  squire  turned  them  loose 
to  run  free  and  wild  about  the  park,  without 
heeding  wind  or  weather.  He  was  also  par- 
ticularly attentive  in  making  them  bold  and 
expert  horsemen;  and  these  were  the  days 
when  old  Christy,  the  huntsman,  enjoyed  great 


l68  HORSEMANSHIP. 

importance,  as  the  lads  were  put  under  his 
care  to  practise  them  at  the  leaping-bars,  and 
to  keep  an  eye  upon  them  in  the  chase. 

The  squire  always  objected  to  their  riding 
in  carriages  of  any  kind,  and  is  still  a  little 
tenacious  on  this  point.  He  often  rails  against 
the  universal  use  of  carriages,  and  quotes  the 
words  of  honest  Nashe  to  that  effect.  "  It  was 
thought,"  says  Nashe,  in  his  Quaternio,  "  a 
kind  of  solecism,  and  to  savour  of  effeminacy, 
for  a  young  gentleman  in  the  flourishing  time 
of  his  age  to  creep  into  a  coach,  and  to  shrowd 
himself  from  wind  and  weather :  our  great 
delight  was  to  out-brave  the  blustering  Boreas 
upon  a  great  horse ;  to  arm  and  prepare  our- 
selves to  go  with  Mars  and  Bellona  into  the 
field  was  our  sport  and  pastime ;  coaches  and 
caroches  we  left  unto  them  for  whom  they 
were  first  invented,  for  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
and  decrepit  age  and  impotent  people." 

The  squire  insists  that  the  English  gentle- 
men have  lost  much  of  their  hardiness  and 
manhood  since  the  introduction  of  carriages. 


HORSEMANSHIP.  169 

"  Compare,"  he  will  say,  "  the  fine  gentleman 
of  former  times,  ever  on  horseback,  booted 
and  spurred,  and  travel-stained,  but  open, 
frank,  manly,  and  chivalrous,  vy^ith  the  fine 
gentleman  of  the  present  day,  full  of  affectation 
and  effeminacy,  rolling  along  a  turnpike  in  his 
voluptuous  vehicle.  The  young  men  of  those 
days  were  rendered  brave,  and  lofty,  and  ge- 
nerous in  their  notions,  by  almost  living  in 
their  saddles,  and  having  their  foaming  steeds 
'  like  proud  seas  under  them.'  There  is  some- 
thing," he  adds,  "  in  bestriding  a  fine  horse 
that  makes  a  man  feel  more  than  mortal.  He 
seems  to  have  doubled  his  nature,  and  to  have 
added  to  his  own  courage  and  sagacity  the 
power,  the  speed,  and  stateliness  of  the  superb 
animal  on  which  he  is  mounted." 

"  It  is  a  great  delight,"  says  old  Nashe, 
"  to  see  a  young  gentleman  with  his  skill  and 
cunning,  by  his  voice,  rod  and  spur,  better  to 
manage  and  to  command  the  great  Bucephalus, 
than  the  strongest  Milo,  with  all  his  strength ; 
one  while  to  see  him  make  him  tread,  trot  and 


170  HORSEMANSHIP. 

gallop  the  ring;  and  one  after  to  see  him 
make  him  gather  up  roundly ;  to  bear  his  head 
steadily ;  to  run  a  full  career  swiftly ;  to  stop 
a  sudden  lightly ;  anon  after  to  see  him  make 
him  advance,  to  yorke,  to  go  back  and  side 
long,  to  turn  on  either  hand ;  to  gallop  the 
gallop  galliard ;  to  do  the  capriole,  the  cham- 
betta,  and  dance  the  curvetty." 

In  conformity  to  these  ideas,  the  squire  had 
them  all  on  horseback  at  an  early  age,  and 
made  them  ride,  slap  dash,  about  the  country, 
without  flinching  at  hedge,  or  ditch,  or  stone 
wall,  to  the  imminent  danger  of  their  necks. 

Even  the  fair  Julia  was  partially  included 
in  this  system ;  and,  under  the  instructions  of 
old  Christy,  has  become  one  of  the  best  horse- 
women in  the  county.  The  squire  says  it  is 
better  than  all  the  cosmetics  and  sweeteners 
of  the  breath  that  ever  were  invented.  He 
extols  the  horsemanship  of  the  ladies  in  former 
times,  when  Queen  Elizabeth  would  scarcely 
suffer  the  rain  to  stop  her  accustomed  ride. 
**  And  then  think,"  he  will  say,  *'  what  nobler 


HORSEMANSHIP.  171 

and  sweeter  beings  it  made  them.  What  a 
difference  must  there  be,  both  in  mind  and 
body,  between  a  joyous  high-spirited  dame  of 
those  days,  glowing  with  health  and  exercise, 
freshened  by  every  breeze  that  blows,  seated 
loftily  and  gracefully  on  her  saddle,  with 
plume  on  head,  and  hawk  on  hand,  and  her 
descendant  of  the  present  day,  the  pale  victim 
of  routs  and  ball-rooms,  sunk  languidly  in  one 
corner  of  an  enervating  carriage." 

The  squire's  equestrian  system  has  been  at- 
tended with  great  success,  for  his  sons,  having 
passed  through  the  whole  course  of  instruc- 
tion without  breaking  neck  or  limb,  are  now 
healthful,  spirited,  and  active,  and  have  the 
true  Englishman's  love  for  a  horse.  If  their 
manliness  and  frankness  are  praised  in  their 
father's  hearing,  he  quotes  the  old  Persian 
maxim,  and  says,  they  have  been  taught  "  to 
ride,  to  shoot,  and  to  speak  the  truth." 

It  is  true  the  Oxonian  has  now  and  then 
practised  the  old  gentleman's  doctrines  a  little 
in  the  extreme.    He  is  a  gay  youngster,  rather 


l?J5i  HORSEMANSHIP. 

fonder  of  his  horse  than  his  book,  with  a  little 
dash  of  the  dandy ;  though  the  ladies  all  de- 
clare that  he  is  "  the  flower  of  the  flock."  The 
first  year  that  he  was  sent  to  Oxford,  he  had  a 
tutor  appointed  to  overlook  him,  a  dry  chip  of 
the  university.  When  he  returned  home  in 
the  vacation,  the  squire  made  many  inquiries 
about  how  he  liked  his  college,  his  studies,  and 
his  tutor. 

'^  Oh,  as  to  my  tutor,  sir,  I've  parted  with 
him  some  time  since." 

"  You  have ;  and,  pray,  why  so  ?" 

*^  Oh,  sir,  hunting  was  all  the  go  at  our 
college,  and  I  was  a  little  short  of  funds ;  so  I 
discharged  my  tutor,  and  took  a  horse,  you 
know." 

"  Ah,  I  was  not  aware  of  that,  Tom,"  said 
the  squire,  mildly. 

When  Tom  returned  to  college  his  allow- 
ance was  doubled,  that  he  might  be  enabled  to 
keep  both  horse  and  tutor. 


LOVE-SYMPTOMS, 


I  will  now  begin  to  sigh,  read  poets,  look  pale,  go  neatly,  and 
be  most  apparently  in  love.  Marston. 


I  SHOULD  not  be  surprised  if  we  should  have 
another  pair  of  turtles  at  the  Hall,  for  Master 
Simon  has  informed  me,  in  great  confidence, 
that  he  suspects  the  general  of  some  design 
upon  the  susceptible  heart  of  Lady  Lillycraft. 
I  have,  indeed,  noticed  a  growing  attention 
and  courtesy  in  the  veteran  towards  her  lady- 
ship ;  he  softens  very  much  in  her  company, 
sits  by  her  at  table,  and  entertains  her  with 
long  stories  about  Seringapatam,  and  pleasant 
anecdotes  of  the  Mulligatawney  club.  I  have 
even  seen  him  present  her  with  a  full  blown 
rose  from  the  hot-house,  in  a  style  of  the  most 
captivating  gallantry,  and  it  was  accepted  with 


I'j4f  LOVE-SYMPTOMS* 

great  suavity  and  graciousness ;  fox  Her  lady- 
ship delights  in  receiving  the  homage  and  at- 
tention of  the  sex. 

Indeed,  the  general  was  one  of  the  earliest 
admirers  that  dangled  in  her  train  during  her 
short  reign  of  beauty ;  and  they  flirted  together 
for  half  a  season  in  London,  some  thirty  or 
forty  years  since.  She  reminded  him  lately,  in 
the  course  of  a  conversation  about  former  days, 
of  the  time  when  he  used  to  ride  a  white  horse, 
and  to  canter  so  gallantly  by  the  side  of  her 
carriage  in  Hyde  Park ;  whereupon  I  have  re- 
marked that  the  veteran  has  regularly  escorted 
her  since,  when  she  rides  out  on  horseback ; 
and,  I  suspect,  he  almost  persuades  himself 
that  he  makes  as  captivating  an  appearance  as 
in  his  youthful  days. 

It  would  be  an  interesting  and  memorable 
circumstance  in  the  chronicles  of  Cupid,  if  this 
spark  of  the  tender  passion,  after  lying  dormant 
for  such  a  length  of  time,  should  again  be 
fanned  into  a  flame,  from  amidst  the  ashes  of 
two  burnt  out  hearts.    It  would  be  an  instance 


LOVE-SYMPTOMS.  175 

of  perdurable  fidelity,  worthy  of  being  placed 
beside  those  recorded  in  one  of  the  squire's 
favourite  tomes,  commemorating  the  constancy 
of  the  olden  times ;  in  which  times,  we  are 
told,  '^  Men  and  wymmen  coulde  love  togyders 
seven  yeres,  and  no  licours  lustes  were  be- 
twene  them,  and  thenne  was  love,  trouthe  and 
feythfulnes  ;  and  lo  in  lyke  wyse  was  used  love 
in  Kyng  Arthurs  dayes*." 

Still,  however,  this  may  be  nothing  but  a 
little  venerable  flirtation,  the  general  being  a 
veteran  dangler,  and  the  good  lady  habituated 
to  these  kind  of  attentions.  Master  Simon,  on 
the  other  hand,  thinks  the  general  is  looking 
about  him  with  the  wary  eye  of  an  old  cam- 
paigner ;  and  now  that  he  is  on  the  wane,  is 
desirous  of  getting  into  warm  winter  quarters. 
Much  allowance,  however,  must  be  made  for 
Master  Simon's  uneasiness  on  the  subject,  for 
he  looks  on  Lady  Lillycraft's  house  as  one 
of  his  strong  holds,  where  he  is  lord  of  the 
ascendant ;  and,  with  all  his  admiration  of  the 

*  Morte  d' Arthur. 


lyG  LOVE-SYMPTOMS. 

general,  I  much  doubt  whether  he  would  like 
to  see  him  lord  of  the  lady  and  the  establish- 
ment. 

There  are  certain  other  symptoms,  notwith- 
standing, that  give  an  air  of  probability  to 
Master  Simon's  intimations.  Thus  for  instance, 
I  have  observed  that  the  general  has  been  very 
assiduous  in  his  attentions  to  her  ladyship's 
dogs,  and  has  several  times  exposed  his  fingers 
to  imminent  jeopardy,  in  attempting  to  pat 
Beauty  on  the  head.  It  is  to  be  hoped  his 
advances  to  the  mistress  will  be  more  favourably 
received,  as  all  his  overtures  towards  a  caress 
are  greeted  by  the  pestilent  little  cur  with  a 
wary  kindling  of  the  eye,  and  a  most  venomous 
growl. 

He  has,  moreover,  been  very  complaisant 
towards  my  lady's  gentlewoman,  the  immacu- 
late Mrs.  Hannah,  whom  he  used  to  speak  of 
in  a  way  that  I  do  not  choose  to  mention. 
Whether  she  has  the  same  suspicions  with 
Master  Simon  or  not,  I  cannot  say;  but  she 
receives  his  civilities  with  no  better  grace  than 


LOVE-SYMPTOMS.  177 

the  implacable  Beauty;  unscrewing  her  mouth 
into  a  most  acid  smile,  and  looking  as  though 
she  could  bite  a  piece  out  of  him.  In  short, 
the  poor  general  seems  to  have  as  forniidable 
foes  to  contend  with  as  a  hero  of  ancient  fairy 
tale  ;  who  had  to  fight  his  way  to  his  enchanted 
princess  through  ferocious  monsters  of  every 
kind,  and  to  encounter  the  brimstone  terrors 
of  some  fiery  dragon. 

There  is  still  another  circumstance  which 
inclines  me  to  give  very  considerable  credit  to 
Master  Simon's  suspicions.  Lady  Lillycraft  is 
very  fond  of  quoting  poetry,  and  the  conversa- 
tion often  turns  upon  it,  on  which  occasions 
the  general  is  thrown  completely  out.  It  hap- 
pened the  other  day  that  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen 
was  the  theme  for  the  great  part  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  poor  general  sat  perfectly  silent. 
I  found  him  not  long  after  in  the  library,  with 
spectacles  on  nose,  a  book  in  his  hand,  and  fast 
asleep.  On  my  approach  he  awoke,  slipt  the 
spectacles  into  his  pocket,  and  began  to  read 
very  attentively.    After  a  little  while  he  put  a 

VOL.  I.  '  N 


178  LOVE-SYMPTOMS. 

paper  in  the  place,  and  laid  the  volume  aside, 
which  I  perceived  was  the  Fairy  Queen.  I 
have  had  the  curiosity  to  watch  how  he  got 
on  in  his  poetical  studies  ;  but,  though  I  have 
repeatedly  seen  him  with  the  book  in  his  hand, 
yet  I  find  the  paper  has  not  advanced  above 
three  or  four  pages ;  the  general  being  ex- 
tremely apt  to  fall  asleep  when  he  reads. 


FALCONRY. 


Ne  is  there  hawk  which  mantleth  on  her  perch. 
Whether  high  tow'ring  or  accousting  low. 

But  I  the  measure  of  her  flight  doe  search. 
And  all  her  prey  and  all  her  diet  know. 

Spenser. 


There  are  several  grand  sources  of  lamenta- 
tion furnished  to  the  worthy  squire,  by  the 
improvement  of  society,  and  the  grievous  ad- 
vancement of  knowledge  ;  among  which  there 
is  none,  I  believe,  that  causes  him  more  fre- 
quent regret  than  the  unfortunate  invention  of 
gunpowder.  To  this  he  continually  traces  the 
decay  of  some  favourite  custom,  and,  indeed, 
the  general  downfall  of  all  chivalrous  and 
romantic  usages.  ''  English  soldiers,"  he  says, 
'^  have  never  been  the  men  they  were  in  the 
days  of  the  cross-bow  and  the  long-bow ;  when 
they  depended  upon  the  strength  of  the  arm. 


180  FALCONRY. 

and  the  English  archer  could  draw  a  cloth- 
yard  shaft  to  the  head.  These  were  the  times 
when  at  the  battles  of  Cressy,  Poictiers,  and 
Agincourt,  the  French  chivalry  was  completely 
destroyed  by  the  bowmen  of  England.  The 
yeomanry,  too,  have  never  been  what  they  were, 
when,  in  times  of  peace,  they  were  constantly 
exercised  with  the  bow,  and  archery  was  a 
favorite  holiday  pastime." 

Among  the  other  evils  which  have  followed 
in  the  train  of  this  fatal  invention  of  gun- 
powder, the  squire  classes  the  total  decline  of 
the  noble  art  of  falconry.  "  Shooting,"  he  says, 
''  is  a  skulking,  treacherous,  solitary  sport  in 
comparison ;  but  hawking  was  a  gallant,  open, 
sunshiny  recreation ;  it  was  the  generous  sport 
of  hunting  carried  into  the  skies." 

"  It  was,  moreover,"  he  says,  "  according  to 
Braithwate,  the  stately  amusement  of  ^  high 
and  mounting  spirits ;'  for,  as  the  old  Welsh 
proverb  affirms,  in  those  times  ^  You  might  know 
a  gentleman  by  his  hawk,  horse,  and  grayhound.* 
Indeed,  a   cavalier  was  seldom  seen   abroad 


FALCONRY.  181 

without  his  hawk  on  his  fist ;  and  even  a  lady 
of  rank  did  not  think  herself  completely 
equipped,  in  riding  forth,  unless  she  had  her 
tassel-gentel  held  by  jesses  on  her  delicate 
hand.  It  was  thought  in  those  excellent  days, 
according  to  an  old  writer,  ^  quite  sufficient 
for  noblemen  to  winde  their  horn,  and  to  carry 
their  hawke  fair ;  and  leave  study  and  learn- 
ing to  the  children  of  mean  people/  " 

Knowing  the  good  squire's  hobby,  therefore, 
I  have  not  been  surprised  at  finding  that, 
among  the  various  recreations  of  former  times 
which  he  has  endeavoured  to  revive  in  the 
little  world  in  which  he  rules,  he  has  bestowed 
great  attention  on  the  noble  art  of  falconry. 
In  this  he,  of  course,  has  been  seconded  by  his 
indefatigable  coadjutor.  Master  Simon ;  and 
even  the  parson  has  thrown  considerable  light 
on  their  labours,  by  various  hints  on  the  sub- 
ject, which  he  has  met  with  in  old  English 
works.  As  to  the  precious  work  of  that  fa- 
mous dame  Juliana  Barnes ;  the  Gentleman's 
Academic,  by  Markham ;  and  the  other  well- 


182  FALCONRY. 

known  treatises  that  were  the  manuals  of  an- 
cient sportsmen,  they  have  them  at  their  fingers' 
ends ;  but  they  have  more  especially  studied 
some  old  tapestry  in  the  house,  whereon  is 
represented  a  party  of  cavaliers  and  stately 
dames,  with  doublets,  caps,  and  flaunting 
feathers,  mounted  on  horse,  with  attendants 
on  foot,  all  in  animated  pursuit  of  the  game. 

The  squire  has  discountenanced  the  killing 
of  any  hawks  in  his  neighbourhood,  but  gives 
a  liberal  bounty  for  all  that  are  brought  him 
alive ;  so  that  the  Hall  is  well  stocked  with  all 
kinds  of  birds  of  prey.  On  these  he  and  Master 
Simon  have  exhausted  their  patience  and  in- 
genuity, endeavouring  to  "  reclaim"  them,  as 
it  is  termed,  and  to  train  them  up  for  the  sport ; 
but  they  have  met  with  continual  checks  and 
disappointments.  Their  feathered  school  has 
turned  out  the  most  untractable  and  graceless 
scholars ;  nor  is  it  the  least  of  their  trouble  to 
drill  the  retainers  who  were  to  act  as  ushers 
under  them,  and  to  take  immediate  charge  of 
these  refractory  birds.     Old  Christy  and  the 


FALCONRY.  183 

gamekeeper  both,  for  a  time,  set  their  faces 
against  the  whole  plan  of  education ;  Christy 
having  been  nettled  at  hearing  what  he  terms 
a  wild-goose  chase  put  on  a  par  with  a  fox- 
hunt ;  and  the  gamekeeper  having  always  been 
accustomed  to  look  upon  hawks  as  arrant 
poachers,  which  it  was  his  duty  to  shoot  down, 
and  nail,  in  terrorem,  against  the  out-houses. 

Christy  has  at  length  taken  the  matter  in 
hand,  but  has  done  still  more  mischief  by  his 
intermeddling.  He  is  as  positive  and  wrong- 
headed  about  this,  as  he  is  about  hunting. 
Master  Simon  has  continual  disputes  with  him 
as  to  feeding  and  training  the  hawks.  He 
reads  to  him  long  passages  from  the  old  authors 
I  have  mentioned ;  but  Christy,  who  cannot 
read,  has  a  sovereign  contempt  for  all  book- 
knowledge,  and  persists  in  treating  the  hawks 
according  to  his  own  notions,  which  are  drawn 
from  his  experience,  in  younger  days,  in  the 
rearing  of  game-cocks. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  between  these 
jarring  systems,  the  poor   birds  have  had   a 


184  FALCONRY. 

most  trying  and  unhappy  time  of  it.  Many 
have  fallen  victims  to  Christy's  feeding  and 
Master  Simon's  physicking ;  for  the  latter  has 
gone  to  work  secundem  artem,  and  has  given 
them  all  the  vomitings  and  scourings  laid  down 
in  the  books ;  never  were  poor  hawks  so  fed 
and  physicked  before.  Others  have  been  lost 
by  being  but  half ''  reclaimed/'  or  tamed :  for 
on  being  taken  into  the  field,  they  have  "  raked" 
after  the  game  quite  out  of  hearing  of  the  call, 
and  never  returned  to  school. 

All  these  disappointments  had  been  petty, 
yet  sore  grievances  to  the  squire,  and  had  made 
him  to  despond  about  success.  He  has  lately, 
however,  been  made  happy  by  the  receipt  of  a 
fine  Welsh  falcon,  which  Master  Simon  terms 
a  stately  highflyer.  It  is  a  present  from  the 
squire's  friend.  Sir  Watkyn  Williams  Wynne ; 
and  is,  no  doubt,  a  descendant  of  some  ancient 
line  of  Welsh  princes  of  the  air,  that  have 
long  lorded  it  over  their  kingdom  of  clouds, 
from  Wynnstay  to  the  very  summit  of  Snow- 
den,  qn  t}ie  brow  pf  Penmanmawr. 


FALCONRY.  185 

Ever  since  the  squire  received  this  invaluable 
present,  he  has  been  as  impatient  to  sally  forth 
and  make  proof  of  it,  as  was  Don  Quixote  to 
assay  his  suit  of  armour.  There  have  been 
some  demurs  as  to  whether  the  bird  was  in 
proper  health  and  training;  but  these  have 
been  overruled  by  the  vehement  desire  to  play 
with  a  new  toy ;  and  it  has  been  determined, 
right  or  wrong,  in  season  or  out  of  season,  to 
have  a  day's  sport  in  hawking  to-morrow. 

The  Hall,  as  usual,  whenever  the  squire  is 
about  to  make  some  new  sally  on  his  hobby, 
is  all  agog  with  the  thing.  Miss  Templeton, 
who  is  brought  up  in  reverence  for  all  her 
guardian's  humours,  has  proposed  to  be  of  the 
party,  and  Lady  Lillycraft  has  talked  also  of 
riding  out  to  the  scene  of  action  and  looking  on. 
This  has  gratified  the  old  gentleman  extremely ; 
he  hails  it  as  an  auspicious  omen  of  the  revival 
of  falconry,  and  does  not  despair  but  the  time 
will  come  when  it  will  be  again  the  pride  of  a 
fine  lady  to  carry  about  a  noble  falcon  in  pre- 
ference to  a  parrot  or  a  lap-dog. 


186  FALCONRY. 

I  have  amused  myself  with  the  bustling 
preparations  of  that  busy  spirit.  Master  Simon, 
and  the  continual  thwartings  he  receives  from 
that  genuine  son  of  a  pepper-box,  old  Christy. 
They  have  had  half  a  dozen  consultations  about 
how  the  hawk  is  to  be  prepared  for  the  morn- 
ing's sport.  Old  Nimrod,  as  usual,  has  always 
got  in  a  pet,  upon  which  Master  Simon  has 
invariably  given  up  the  point,  observing,  in  a 
good-humoured  tone,  ^'  Well,  well,  have  it 
your  own  way,  Christy;  only  don't  put  your- 
self in  a  passion  f  a  reply  which  always  nettles 
the  old  man  ten  times  more  than  ever. 


HAWKING. 


The  soaring  hawkj  from  fist  that  flies. 

Her  falconer  doth  constrain 
Sometimes  to  range  the  ground  about 

To  find  her  out  again; 
And  if  by  sight,  or  sound  of  bell. 

His  falcon  he  may  see. 
Wo  ho !  he  cries,  with  cheerful  voice — 

The  gladdest  man  is  he. 

Handefull  of  Pleasant  Delites. 


At  an  early  hour  this  morning  the  Hall  was 
in  a  bustle,  preparing  for  the  sport  of  the  day. 
I  heard  Master  Simon  whistling  and  singing 
under  my  window  at  sunrise,  as  he  was  pre- 
paring the  jesses  for  the  hawk's  legs,  and  could 
distinguish  now  and  then  a  stanza  of  one  of 
his  favourite  old  ditties  : 

"  In  peascod  time,  when  hound  to  horn 

Gives  note  that  buck  be  kill'd  ; 
And  little  boy  with  pipe  of  com 

Is  tending  sheep  a-field,"  &c. 


188  HAWKING. 

A  hearty  breakfast,  well  flanked  by  cold 
meats,  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall.  The 
whole  garrison  of  retainers  and  hangers-on 
were  in  motion,  reinforced  by  volunteer  idlers 
from  the  village.  The  horses  were  led  up  and 
down  before  the  door ;  every  body  had  some- 
thing to  say,  and  something  to  do,  and  hurried 
hither  and  thither ;  there  was  a  direful  yelp- 
ing of  dogs ;  some  that  were  to  accompany  us 
being  eager  to  set  off,  and  others  that  were  to 
stay  at  home  being  whipped  back  to  their  kennels. 
In  short,  for  once,  the  good  squire's  mansion 
might  have  been  taken  as  a  good  specimen  of 
one  of  the  rantipole  establishments  of  the  good 
old  feudal  times. 

Breakfast  being  finished,  the  chivalry  of  the 
Hall  prepared  to  take  the  field.  The  fair 
Julia  was  of  the  party,  in  a  hunting  dress, 
with  a  light  plume  of  feathers  in  her  riding- 
hat.  As  she  mounted  her  favourite  galloway, 
I  remarked,  with  pleasure,  that  old  Christy 
forgot  his  usual  crustiness,  and  hastened  to 
adjust  her   saddle    and  bridle.     He    touched 


HAWKING.  189 

his  cap  as  she  smiled  on  him  and  thanked  him ; 
and  then,  looking  round  at  the  other  attend- 
ants, gave  a  knowing  nod  of  his  head,  in  which 
I  read  pride  and  exultation  at  the  charming 
appearance  of  his  pupil. 

Lady  Lillycraft  had  likewise  determined  to 
witness  the  sport.  She  was  dressed  in  her 
broad  white  beaver,  tied  under  the  chin,  and  a 
riding-habit  of  the  last  century.  She  rode  her 
sleek,  ambling  pony,  whose  motion  was  as  easy 
as  a  rocking-chair ;  and  was  gallantly  escorted 
by  the  general,  who  looked  not  unlike  one  of 
the  doughty  heroes  in  the  old  prints  of  the 
battle  of  Blenheim.  The  parson,  likewise, 
accompanied  her  on  the  other  side ;  for  this 
was  a  learned  amusement  in  which  he  took 
great  interest;  and,  indeed,  had  given  much 
council,  from  his  knowledge  of  old  customs. 

At  length  every  thing  was  arranged,  and  off 
we  set  from  the  Hall.  The  exercise  on  horse- 
back puts  one  in  fine  spirits ;  and  the  scene 
was  gay  and  animating.  The  young  men  of 
the  family  accompanied  Miss  Templeton.    She 


190  HAWKING. 

sat  lightly  and  gracefully  in  her  saddle,  her 
plumes  dancing  and  waving  in  the  air  ;  and  the 
group  had  a  charming  effect  as  they  appeared 
and  disappeared  among  the  trees,  cantering 
along,  with  the  hounding  animation  of  youth. 
The  squire  and  Master  Simon  rode  together, 
accompanied  by  old  Christy,  mounted  on  Pep- 
per. The  latter  bore  the  hawk  on  his  fist,  as  he 
insisted  the  bird  was  most  accustomed  to  him. 
There  was  a  rabble  rout  on  foot,  composed  of 
retainers  from  the  Hall,  and  some  idlers  from 
the  village,  with  two  or  three  spaniels,  for  the 
purpose  of  starting  the  game. 

A  kind  of  corps  de  reserve  came  on  quietly 
in  the  rear,  composed  of  Lady  Lillycraft, 
General  Harbottle,  the  parson,  and  a  fat  foot- 
man. Her  ladyship  ambled  gently  along  on 
her  pony,  while  the  general,  mounted  on  a  tall 
hunter,  looked  down  upon  her  with  an  air  of 
the  most  protecting  gallantry. 

For  my  part,  being  no  sportsman,  I  kept 
with  this  last  party,  or  rather  lagged  behind, 
that  I  might  take  in  the  whole  picture ;  and 


HAWKING.  191 

the  parson  occasionally  slackened  his  pace  and 
jogged  on  in  company  with  me. 

The  sport  led  us  at  some  distance  from  the 
Hall,  in  a  soft  meadow,  reeking  with  the  moist 
verdure  of  spring.  A  little  river  ran  through 
it,  bordered  by  willows,  which  had  put  forth 
their  tender  early  foliage.  The  sportsmen 
were  in  quest  of  herons,  which  were  said  to 
keep  about  this  stream. 

There  was  some  disputing,  already,  among 
the  leaders  of  the  sport.  The  squire.  Master 
Simon,  and  old  Christy,  came  every  now  and 
then  to  a  pause,  to  consult  together,  like  the 
field  officers  in  an  army ;  and  I  saw,  by  certain 
motions  of  the  head,  that  Christy  was  as  po- 
sitive as  any  old  wrong-headed  German  com- 
mander. 

As  we  were  prancing  up  this  quiet  meadow 
every  sound  we  made  was  answered  by  a  di- 
stinct echo,  from  the  sunny  wall  of  an  old 
building,  that  lay  on  the  opposite  margin  of 
the  stream;  and  I  paused  to  listen  to  this 
"  Spirit  of  a  sound,"  which  seems  to  love  such 


192  HAWKING. 

qniet  and  beautiful  places.  The  parson  in- 
formed me  that  this  was  the  ruin  of  an  ancient 
grange,  and  was  supposed,  by  the  country 
people,  to  be  haunted  by  a  dobbie,  a  kind  of 
rural  sprite,  something  like  Robin-good-fellow. 
They  often  fancied  the  echo  to  be  the  voice  of 
the  dobbie  answering  them,  and  were  rather 
shy  of  disturbing  it  after  dark.  He  added, 
that  the  squire  was  very  careful  of  this  ruin, 
on  account  of  the  superstition  connected  with 
it.  As  I  considered  this  local  habitation  of  an 
"  airy  nothing,"  I  called  to  mind  the  fine  de- 
scription of  an  echo  in  Webster's  Duchess  of 
Malfy: 

"  'Yond  side  o'  th'  river  lies  a  wall. 


Piece  of  a  cloister,  which  in  my  opinion 
Gives  the  best  echo  that  you  ever  heard : 
So  plain  in  the  distinction  of  our  words. 
That  many  have  supposed  it  a  spirit 
That  answers." 

The  parson  went  on  to  comment  on  a  pleasing 
and  fanciful  appellation  which  the  Jews  of  old 
gave  to  the  echo,  which  they  called  Bath-kool, 
that  is  to  say, "  the  daughter  of  the  voice ;"  they 


HAWKING.  103 

considered  it  an  oracle,  supplying  in  the  second 
temple  the  want  of  the  urim  and  thummim, 
with  which  the  first  was  honoured*.  The 
little  man  was  just  entering  very  largely  and 
learnedly  upon  the  subject,  when  we  were 
startled  by  a  prodigious  bawling,  shouting, 
and  yelping.  A  flight  of  crows,  alarmed  by 
the  approach  of  our  forces,  had  suddenly  rose 
from  a  meadow ;  a  cry  was  put  up  by  the 
rabble  rout  on  foot.  "  Now,  Christy !  now  is 
your  time,  Christy !"  The  squire  and  Master 
Simon,  who  were  beating  up  the  river  banks 
in  quest  of  a  heron,  called  out  eagerly  to 
Christy  to  keep  quiet ;  the  old  man,  vexed  and 
bewildered  by  the  confusion  of  voices,  com- 
pletely lost  his  head ;  in  his  flurry  he  slipped 
off  the  hood,  cast  off  the  falcon,  and  away  flew 
the  crows,  and  away  soared  the  hawk. 

I  had  paused  on  a  rising  ground,  close  to 
Lady  Lillycraft  and  her  escort,  from  whence 
I  had  a  good  view  of  the  sport.  I  was  pleased 
with  the  appearance  of  the  party  in  the  meadow, 

*  Bekker's  Monde  enchante. 
VOL.  I.  • 


194  HAWKING. 

riding  along  in  the  direction  that  the  bird  flew  ; 
their  bright  beaming  faces  turned  up  to  the 
bright  skies  as  they  watched  the  game ;  the 
attendants  on  foot  scampering  along,  looking 
up,  and  calling  out,  and  the  dogs  bounding  and 
yelping  with  clamorous  sympathy. 

The  hawk  had  singled  out  a  quarry  from 
among  the  carrion  crew.  It  was  curious  to 
see  the  efforts  of  the  two  birds  to  get  above 
each  other ;  one  to  make  the  fatal  swoop,  the 
other  to  avoid  it.  Now  they  crossed  athwart 
a  bright  feathery  cloud,  and  now  they  were 
against  the  clear  blue  sky.  I  confess,  being 
no  sportsman,  I  was  more  interested  for  the 
poor  bird  that  was  striving  for  its  life,  than 
for  the  hawk  that  w^as  playing  the  part  of  a 
mercenary  soldier.  At  length  the  hawk  got  the 
upper  hand,  and  made  a  rushing  stoop  at  her 
quarry,  but  the  latter  made  as  sudden  a  surge 
downwards,  and  slanting  up  again  evaded  the 
blow,  screaming  and  making  the  best  of  his 
way  for  a  dry  tree  on  the  brow  of  a  neighbour- 
ing hill ;  while  the  hawk,  disappointed  of  her 


HAWKING.  195 

blow,  soared  up  again  into  the  air,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  "  raking"  off.  It  was  in  vain  old 
Christy  called,  and  whistled,  and  endeavoured 
to  lure  her  down ;  she  paid  no  regard  to  him  : 
and,  indeed,  his  calls  were  drowned  in  the 
shouts  and  yelps  of  the  army  of  militia  that 
had  followed  him  into  the  field. 

Just  then  an  exclamation  from  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  made  me  turn  my  head.  T  beheld  a 
complete  confusion  among  the  sportsmen  in 
the  little  vale  below  us.  They  v/ere  gallop- 
ing and  running  towards  the  edge  of  a  bank ; 
and  I  was  shocked  to  see  Miss  Templeton's 
horse  galloping  at  large  without  his  rider.  I 
rode  to  the  place  to  which  the  others  were 
hurrying,  and  when  I  reached  the  bank,  which 
almost  overhung  the  stream,  I  saw  at  the  foot 
of  it,  the  fair  Julia,  pale,  bleeding,  and  ap- 
parently lifeless,  supported  in  the  arms  of  her 
frantic  lover. 

In  galloping  heedlessly  along,  with  her  eyes 
turned  upward,  she  had  unwarily  approached 
too  near  the  bank  ;  it  had  given  way  with  her, 

o  2 


196  HAWKING. 

and  she  and  her  horse  had  been  precipitated 
to  the  pebbled  margin  of  the  river. 

I  never  saw  greater  consternation.  The 
captain  was  distracted ;  Lady  Lillycraft  faint- 
ing ;  the  squire  in  dismay,  and  Master  Simon 
at  his  wits*  ends.  The  beautiful  creature  at 
length  showed  signs  of  returning  life ;  she 
opened  her  eyes ;  looked  around  her  upon  the 
anxious  group,  and  comprehending  in  a  moment 
the  nature  of  the  scene,  gave  a  sweet  smile, 
and  putting  her  hand  in  her  lover's,  exclaimed, 
feebly,  ''  I  am  not  much  hurt,  Guy !"  I  could 
have  taken  her  to  my  heart  for  that  single 
exclamation. 

It  was  found,  indeed,  that  she  had  escaped 
almost  miraculously,  with  a  contusion  of  the 
head,  a  sprained  ankle,  and  some  slight  bruises. 
After  her  wound  was  stanched,  she  was  taken 
to  a  neighbouring  cottage,  until  a  carriage 
could  be  summoned  to  convey  her  home ;  and 
when  this  had  arrived,  the  cavalcade,  which 
had  issued  forth  so  gaily  on  this  enterprise, 
returned  slowly  and  pensively  to  the  Hall. 


hAwking.  197 

I  had  been  charmed  by  the  generous  spirit 
shown  by  this  young  creature,  who,  amidst 
pain  and  danger,  had  been  anxious  only  to 
relieve  the  distress  of  those  around  her.  I 
was  gratified,  therefore,  by  the  universal  con- 
cern displayed  by  the  domestics  on  our  return. 
They  came  crowding  down  the  avenue,  each 
eager  to  render  assistance.  The  butler  stood 
ready  with  some  curiously  delicate  cordial ; 
the  old  housekeeper  was  provided  with  half  a 
dozen  nostrums,  prepared  by  her  own  hands, 
according  to  the  family  receipt  book ;  while 
her  niece,  the  melting  Phoebe,  having  no  other 
way  of  assisting,  stood  wringing  her  hands, 
and  weeping  aloud. 

The  most  material  effect  that  is  likely  to 
follow  this  accident  is  a  postponement  of  the 
nuptials,  which  were  close  at  hand.  Though 
I  commiserate  the  impatience  of  the  captain 
on  that  account,  yet  I  shall  not  otherwise  be 
sorry  at  the  delay,  as  it  will  give  me  a  better 
opportunity  of  studying  the  characters  here 
assembled,  with  which  I  grow  more  and  more 
entertained. 


198  HAWKING. 

I  cannot  but  perceive  that  the  worthy  squire 
is  quite  disconcerted  at  the  unlucky  result  of 
his  hawking  experiment,  and  this  unfortunate 
illustration  of  his  eulogy  on  female  equitation. 
Old  Christy  too  is  very  waspish,  having  been 
sorely  twitted  by  Master  Simon  for  having  let 
his  hawk  fly  at  carrion.  As  to  the  falcon,  in 
the  confusion  occasioned  by  the  fair  Julia's 
disaster,  the  bird  was  totally  forgotten.  I 
make  no  doubt  she  has  made  the  best  of  her 
way  back  to  the  hospitable  Hall  of  Sir  Wat- 
kyn  Williams  Wynne ;  and  may  very  possibly, 
at  this  present  writing,  be  pluming  her  wings 
among  the  breezy  bowers  of  Wynnstay. 


ST.  MARK'S  EVE. 


O  'tis  a  fearful  thing  to  be  no  more. 

Or  if  to  be,  to  wander  after  death  ! 

To  walk  as  spirits  do,  in  brakes  all  day. 

And,  when  the  darkness  comes,  to  glide  in  paths 

That  lead  to  graves ;  and  in  the  silent  vault. 

Where  lies  your  own  pale  shroud,  to  hover  o'er  it. 

Striving  to  enter  your  forbidden  corpse. 

Dryden. 


The  conversation  this  evening  at  supper- 
table  took  a  curious  turn  on  the  subject  of  a 
superstition,  formerly  very  prevalent  in  this 
part  of  the  country,  relative  to  the  present 
night  of  the  year,  which  is  the  Eve  of  St. 
Mark.  It  was  believed,  the  parson  informed 
us,  that  if  any  one  would  watch  in  the  church 
porch  on  ^this  eve,  for  three  successive  years, 
from  eleven  to  one  o'clock  at  night,  he  would 
see,  on  the  third  year,  the  shades  of  those  of 


200  ST.  mark's  eve. 

the  parish  who  were  to  die  in  the  course  of 
the  year,  pass  by  him  into  church,  clad  in  their 
usual  apparel. 

Dismal  as  such  a  sight  would  be,  he  assured 
us  that  it  was  formerly  a  frequent  thing  for 
persons  to  make  the  necessary  vigils.  He  had 
known  more  than  one  instance  in  his  time.  One 
old  woman,  who  pretended  to  have  seen  this 
phantom  procession,  was  an  object  of  great 
awe  for  the  whole  year  afterwards,  and  caused 
much  uneasiness  and  mischief.  If  she  shook 
her  head  mysteriously  at  a  person,  it  was  like 
a  death  warrant ;  and  she  had  nearly  caused 
the  death  of  a  sick  person  by  looking  ruefully 
in  at  the  window. 

There  was  also  an  old  man,  not  many  years 
since,  of  a  sullen,  melancholy  temperament, 
who  had  kept  two  vigils,  and  began  to  excite 
some  talk  in  the  village,  when,  fortunately  for 
the  public  comfort,  he  died  shortly  after  his 
third  watching ;  very  probably  from  a  cold  that 
he  had  taken,  as  the  night  was  tempestuous. 
It  was  reported  about  the  village,  however. 


ST.  mark's  eve.  got 

that  he  had  seen  his  own  phantom  pass  by  him 
into  the  church. 

This  led  to  the  mention  of  another  super- 
stition of  an  equally  strange  and  melancholy 
kind,  which,  however,  is  chiefly  confined  to 
Wales.  It  is  respecting  what  are  called  corpse 
candles,  little  wandering  fires,  of  a  pale  bluish 
light,  that  move  about  like  tapers  in  the  open 
air,  and  are  supposed  to  designate  the  way 
some  corpse  is  to  go.  One  was  seen  at  Lanylar, 
late  at  night,  hovering  up  and  down,  along 
the  bank  of  the  Istwith,  and  was  watched  by 
the  neighbours  until  they  were  tired,  and  went, 
to  bed.  Not  long  afterwards  there  came  a 
comely  country  lass,  from  Montgomeryshire, 
to  see  her  friends,  who  dwelt  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  river.  She  thought  to  ford  the 
stream  at  the  very  place  where  the  light  had 
been  first  seen,  but  was  dissuaded  on  account 
of  the  height  of  the  flood.  She  walked  to  and 
fro  along  the  bank,  just  where  the  candle  had 
moved,  waiting  for  the  subsiding  of  the  water. 


"202  ST.  mark's  eve. 

She  at  length  endeavoured  to  cross,  but  the 
poor  girl  was  drowned  in  the  attempt*. 

There  was  something  mournful  in  this  little 
anecdote  of  rural  superstition,  that  seemed  to 
affect  all  the  listeners.  Indeed,  it  is  curious 
to  remark  how  completely  a  conversation  of 
the  kind  will  absorb  the  attention  of  a  circle, 
and  sober  down  its  gaiety,  however  boister- 
ous. By  degrees  I  noticed  that  every  one 
was  leaning  forward  over  the  table,  with  eyes 
earnestly  fixed  upon  the  parson,  and  at  the 
mention  of  corpse  candles  which  had  been  seen 
about  the  chamber  of  a  young  lady  who  died 
on  the  eve  of  her  wedding-day.  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  turned  pale. 

I  have  witnessed  the  introduction  of  stories 
of  the  kind  into  various  evening  circles  ;  they 
were  often  commenced  in  jest,  and  listened  to 
with  smiles ;  but  I  never  knew  the  most  gay 
or  the  most  enlightened  of  audiences,  that 
were  not,  if  the  conversation  continued  for  any 

*  Aubrey's  Miscel. 


ST.  mark's  eve.  203 

length  of  time,  completely  and  solemnly  in- 
terested in  it.  There  is,  I  believe,  a  degree  of 
superstition  lurking  in  every  mind;  and  I 
doubt  if  any  one  can  thoroughly  examine  all 
his  secret  notions  and  impulses  without  detect- 
ing it,  hidden,  perhaps,  even  from  himself.  It 
seems  indeed  to  be  a  part  of  our  nature,  like 
instinct  in  animals,  and  to  act  independently  of 
our  reason.  It  is  often  found  existing  in  lofty 
natures,  especially  those  that  are  poetical  and 
aspiring.  A  great  and  extraordinary  poet  of 
our  day,  whose  life  and  writings  evince  a  mind 
subject  to  powerful  exaltation,  is  said  to  believe 
in  omens  and  secret  intimations.  Caesar,  it  is 
well  known,  was  greatly  under  the  influence 
of  such  belief;  and  Napoleon  had  his  good 
and  evil  days,  and  his  presiding  star. 

,  As  to  the  worthy  parson,  I  have  no  doubt 
that  he  is  strongly  inclined  to  superstition. 
He  is  naturally  credulous,  and  passes  so  much 
of  his  time  searching  out  popular  traditions 
and  supernatural  tales,  that  his  mind  has  pro- 
bably become  infected  by  them.    He  has  lately 


^04  ST.  mark\s  eve. 

been  immersed  in  the  Demonolatria  of  Nicholas 
Remigius,  concerning  supernatural  occurrences 
in  Lorraine,  and  the  writings  of  Joachimus 
Camerarius,  called  by  Vossius  the  Phcenix  of 
Germany ;  and  he  entertains  the  ladies  with 
stories  from  them,  that  make  them  almost 
afraid  to  go  to  bed  at  night.  I  have  been 
charmed  myself  with  some  of  the  wild,  little 
superstitions  which  he  has  adduced  from  Blef- 
k^nius,  Scheffer,  and  others ;  such  as  those  of 
the  Laplanders  about  the  domestic  spirits 
which  wake  them  at  night,  and  summon  them 
to  go  and  fish ;  of  Thor,  the  deity  of  thunder, 
who  has  power  of  life  and  death,  health  and 
sickness,  and  who,  armed  with  the  rainbow, 
shoots  his  arrows  at  those  evil  demons  that  live 
on  the  tops  of  rocks  and  mountains,  and  infest 
the  lakes;  of  the  Juhles  or  Juhlafolket,  va- 
grant troops  of  spirits,  which  roam  the  air,  and 
wander  up  and  down  by  forests  and  moun- 
tains, and  the  moonlight  sides  of  hills. 

The  parson  never  openly  professes  his  belief 
in  ghosts,  but  I  have  remarked  that  he  has  a 


ST.  mark's  eve.  Q05 

suspicious  way  of  pressing  great  names  into 
the  defence  of  supernatural  doctrines,  and 
making  philosophers  and  saints  fight  for  him. 
He  expatiates  at  large  on  the  opinions  of  the 
ancient  philosophers  about  larves,  or  nocturnal 
phantoms,  the  spirits  of  the  wicked,  which 
wandered  like  exiles  about  the  earth ;  and 
about  those  spiritual  beings  which  abode  in 
the  air,  but  descended  occasionally  to  earth, 
and  mingled  among  mortals,  acting  as  agents 
between  them  and  the  gods.  He  quotes  also 
from  Philo  the  rabbi,  the  contemporary  of  the 
apostles,  and,  according  to  some,  the  friend  of 
St.  Paul,  who  says  that  the  air  is  full  of  spirits 
of  different  ranks  ;  some  destined  to  exist  for  a 
time  in  mortal  bodies,  from  which,  being  eman- 
cipated, they  pass  and  repass  between  heaven 
and  earth,  as  agents  or  messengers  in  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Deity. 

But  the  worthy  little  man  assumes  a  bolder 
tone  when  he  quotes  from  the  fathers  of  the 
church ;  such  as  St.  Jerome,  who  gives  it  as 
the  -Opinion  of  all  the  doctors,  that  the  air  is 


S06  ST.  mark's  eve. 

filled  with  powers  opposed  to  each  other; 
and  Lactantius,  who  says  that  corrupt  and 
dangerous  spirits  wander  over  the  earth,  and 
seek  to  console  themselves  for  their  own  fall 
by  effecting  the  ruin  of  the  human  race ;  and 
Clemens  Alexandrinus,  who  is  of  opinion  that 
the  souls  of  the  blessed  have  knowledge  of 
what  passes  among  men,  the  same  as  angels 
have. 

I  am  now  alone  in  my  chamber,  but  these 
themes  have  taken  such  hold  of  my  imagina- 
tion, that  I  cannot  sleep.  The  room  in  which 
I  sit  is  just  fitted  to  foster  such  a  state  of  mind. 
The  walls  are  hung  with  tapestry,  the  figures 
of  which  are  faded,  and  look  like  unsubstantial 
shapes  melting  away  from  sight.  Over  the 
fireplace  is  the  portrait  of  a  lady,  who,  accord- 
ing to  the  housekeeper's  tradition,  pined  to 
death  for  the  loss  of  her  lover  in  the  battle  of 
Blenheim.  She  has  a  most  pale  and  plaintive 
countenance,  and  seems  to  fix  her  eyes  mourn- 
fully upon  me.  The  family  have  long  since 
retired.     I  have  heard  their  steps  die  away. 


ST.    MARK*S   EVE.  207 

and  the  distant  doors  clap  to  after  them. 
The  murmur  of  voices,  and  the  peal  of  remote 
laughter,  no  longer  reach,  the  ear.  The  clock 
from  the  church,  in  which  so  many  of  the  former 
inhabitants  of  this  house  lie  buried,  has  chimed 
the  awful  hour  of  midnight. 

I  have  sat  by  the  window  and  mused  upon 
the  dusky  landscape,  watching  the  lights  dis- 
appearing, one  by  one,'from  the  distant  village ; 
and  the  moon  rising  in  her  silent  majesty,  and 
leading  up  all  the  silver  pomp  of  heaven.  As 
I  have  gazed  upon  these  quiet  groves  and 
shadowy  lawns,  silvered  over,  and  imperfectly 
lighted  by  streaks  of  dewy  moonshine,  my 
mind  has  been  crowded  by  "  thick  coming 
fancies"  concerning  those  spiritual  beings 
which 

'^ walk  the  earth 


Unseeiij  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep." 

Are  there,  indeed,  such  beings  ?  Is  this  space 
between  us  and  the  deity  filled  up  by  innumer- 
able orders  of  spiritual  beings,  forming  the 
same  gradations  between  the  human  soul  and 


S08  ST.  xM ark's  eve. 

divine  perfection,  that  we  see  prevailing  from 
humanity  downwards  to  the  meanest  insect? 
It  is  a  sublime  and  beautiful  doctrine,  in- 
culcated by  the  early  fathers,  that  there  are 
guardian  angels  appointed  to  watch  over  cities 
and  nations ;  to  take  care  of  the  welfare  of 
good  men,  and  to  guard  and  guide  the  steps  of 
helpless  infancy.  "  Nothing,"  says  St.  Jerome, 
"  gives  us  a  greater  idea  of  the  dignity  of  our 
soul,  than  that  God  has  given  each  of  us,  at 
the  moment  of  our  birth,  an  angel  to  have  care 
of  it." 

Even  the  doctrine  of  departed  spirits  return- 
ing to  visit  the  scenes  and  beings  which  were 
dear  to  them  during  the  body's  existence, 
though  it  has  been  debased  by  the  absurd 
superstitions  of  the  vulgar,  in  itself  is  awfully 
solenrn  and  sublime.  However  lightly  it  may 
be  ridiculed,  yet  the  attention  involuntarily 
yielded  to  it  whenever  it  is  made  the  subject 
of  serious  discussion;  its  prevalence  in  all 
ages  and  countries,  and  even  among  newly 
discovered  nations,  that  have  had  no  previous 


ST.  mark's  eve.  209 

interchange  of  thought  with  other  parts  of  the 
world,  prove  it  to  be  one  of  those  mysterious, 
and  almost  instinctive  beliefs,  to  which,  if  left 
to  ourselves,  we  should  naturally  incline. 

In  spite  of  all  the  pride  of  reason  and  phi- 
losophy, a  vague  doubt  will  still  lurk  in  the 
mind,  and  perhaps  will  never  be  perfectly 
eradicated ;  as  it  is  concerning  a  matter  that 
does  not  admit  of  positive  demonstration. 
Every  thing  connected  with  our  spiritual  na- 
ture is  full  of  doubt  and  difficultv.  *'  We  are 
fearfully  and  wonderfully  made ;"  we  are  sur- 
rounded by  mysteries,  and  we  are  mysteries 
even  to  ourselves.  Who  yet  has  been  able  to 
comprehend  and  describe  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
its  connexion  with  the  body,  or  in  what  part  of 
the  frame  it  is  situated  ?  We  know  merely 
that  it  does  exist;  but  whence  it  came,  and 
when  it  entered  into  us,  and  how  it  is  retained, 
and  where  it  is  seated,  and  how  it  operates, 
are  all  matters  of  mere  speculation,  and  con- 
tradictory theories.  If,  then,  we  are  thus  igno- 
rant of  this  spiritual  essence,  even  while  it  forms 

VOL.  I.  p 


210  ST.  mark's  eve. 

a  part  of  ourselves,  and  is  continually  present  to 
our  consciousness,  how  can  we  pretend  to  ascer- 
tain or  to  deny  its  powers  and  operations  when 
released  from  its  fleshly  prison-house  ?  It  is  more 
the  manner,  therefore,  in  which  this  superstition 
has  been  degraded,  than  its  intrinsic  absurdity, 
that  has  brought  it  into  contempt.  Raise  it 
above  the  frivolous  purposes  to  which  it  has 
been  applied,  strip  it  of  the  gloom  and  horror 
with  which  it  has  been  surrounded,  and  there 
is  none  of  the  whole  circle  of  visionary  creeds 
that  could  more  delightfully  elevate  the  ima- 
gination, or  more  tenderly  affect  the  heart. 
It  would  become  a  sovereign  comfort  at  the 
bed  of  death,  soothing  the  bitter  tear  wrung 
from  us  by  the  agony  of  our  mortal  separation. 
What  could  be  more  consoling  than  the  idea, 
that  the  souls  of  those  whom  we  once  loved  were 
permitted  to  return  and  watch  over  our  welfare  ? 
That  affectionate  and  guardian  spirits  sat  by 
our  pillows  when  we  slept,  keeping  a  vigil 
over  our  most  helpless  hours?  That  beauty 
and  innocence,  which  had  languished  into  the 


ST.  mark's  eve.  211 

tomb,  yet  smiled  unseen  around  us,  revealing 
themselves  in  those  blest  dreams  wherein  we 
live  over  again  the  hours  of  past  endearment  ? 
A  belief  of  this  kind  would,  I  should  think,  be 
a  new  incentive  to  virtue ;  rendering  us  cir- 
cumspect even  in  our  most  secret  moments, 
from  the  idea  that  those  we  once  loved  and 
honoured  were  invisible  witnesses  of  all  our 
actions. 

It  would  take  away,  too,  from  that  loneliness 
and  destitution  which  we  are  apt  to  feel  more 
and  more  as  we  get  on  in  our  pilgrimage 
through  the  wilderness  of  this  world,  and  find 
that  those  who  set  forward  with  us,  lovingly 
and  cheerily,  on  the  journey,  have  one  by  one 
dropped  away  from  our  side.  Place  the  super- 
stition in  this  light,  and  I  confess  I  should  like 
to  be  a  believer  in  it.  I  see  nothing  in  it  that 
is  incompatible  with  the  tender  and  merciful 
nature  of  our  religion,  nor  revolting  to  the 
wishes  and  affections  of  the  heart. 

There  are  departed  beings  that  I  have  loved 
as  I  never  again  shall  love  in  this  world ; — that 

p2 


212  ST.  mark's  eve. 

have  loved  me  as  I  never  again  shall  he  loved ! 
If  such  heings  do  ever  retain  in  their  hlessed 
spheres  the  attachments  which  they  felt  on 
earth;  if  they  take  an  interest  in  the  poor 
concerns  of  transient  mortality,  and  are  per- 
mitted to  hold  communion  with  those  whom 
they  have  loved  on  earth,  I  feel  as  if  now,  at 
this  deep  hour  of  night,  in  this  silence  and 
solitude,  I  could  receive  their  visitation  with 
the  most  solemn,  but  unalloyed,  delight. 

In  truth,  such  visitations  would  be  too  happy 
for  this  world ;  they  would  be  incompatible  with 
the  nature  of  this  imperfect  state  of  being. 
We  are  here  placed  in  a  mere  scene  of  spiritual 
thraldom  and  restraint.  Our  souls  are  shut  in 
and  limited  by  bounds  and  barriers  ;  shackled 
by  mortal  infirmities,  and  subject  to  all  the 
gross  impediments  of  matter.  In  vain  would 
they  seek  to  act  independently  of  the  body, 
and  to  mingle  together  in  spiritual  intercourse. 
They  can  only  act  here  through  their  fleshly 
organs.  Their  earthly  loves  are  made  up  of 
transient  embraces  and  long  separations.    The 


ST.  mark's  eve.  213 

most  intimate  friendship,  of  what  brief  and 
scattered  portions  of  time  does  it  consist !  We 
take  each  other  by  the  hand,  and  we  ex- 
change a  few  words  and  looks  of  kindness,  and 
we  rejoice  together  for  a  few  short  moments, 
and  then  days,  months,  years  intervene,  and  we 
see  and  know  nothing  of  each  other.  Or  grant- 
ing that  we  dwell  together  for  the  full  season 
of  this  our  mortal  life,  the  grave  soon  closes  its 
gates  between  us,  and  then  our  spirits  are 
doomed  to  remain  in  separation  and  widow- 
hood ;  until  they  meet  again  in  that  more  perfect 
state  of  being,  where  soul  will  dwell  with  soul 
in  blissful  communion,  and  there  will  be  neither 
death,  nor  absence,  nor  any  thing  else  to  inter- 
rupt our  felicity. 


*^*  In  the  foregoing  paper  I  have  alluded  to 
the  writings  of  some  of  the  old  Jewish  rabbins. 
They  abound  with  wild  theories ;  but  among 
them  are  many  truly  poetical  flights ;  and  their 
ideas    are    often    very    beautifully    expressed. 


214  ST.  mark's  eve. 

Their  speculations  on  the  nature  of  angels  are 
curious  and  fanciful,  though  much  resembling 
the  doctrines  of  the  ancient  philosophers.  In 
the  writings  of  the  Rabbi  Eleazer  is  an  account 
of  the  temptation  of  our  first  parents  and  the 
fall  of  the  angels,  which  the  parson  pointed 
out  to  me  as  having  probably  furnished  some 
of  the  ground-work  for  "  Paradise  Lost." 

According  to  Eleazer,  the  ministering  angels 
said  to  the  Deity,  "  What  is  there  in  man  that 
thou  makest  him  of  such  importance  ?  Is  he 
any  thing  else  than  vanity  ?  for  he  can  scarcely 
reason  a  little  on  terrestrial  things."  To  which 
God  replied,  ''  Do  you  imagine  that  I  will  be 
exalted  and  glorified  only  by  you  here  above  ? 
I  am  the  same  below  that  I  am  here.  Who  is 
there  among  you  that  can  call  all  the  creatures 
by  their  names  ?"  There  was  none  found  among 
them  that  could  do  so.  At  that  moment  Adam 
arose,  and  called  all  the  creatures  by  their 
name.  Seeing  which,  the  ministering  angels 
said  among  themselves,  ''  Let  us  consult  to- 
gether how  we  may  cause  Adam  to  sin  &^3,inst 


ST.  mark's  eve.  215 

the  Creator,  otherwise  he  will  not  fail  to  be- 
come our  master." 

Sammael,  who  was  a  great  prince  in  the 
heavens,  was  present  at  this  council,  with  the 
saints  of  the  first  order,  and  the  seraphim  of 
six  bands.  Sammael  chose  several  out  of  the 
twelve  orders  to  accompany  him,  and  de- 
scended below,  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  all 
the  creatures  which  God  had  created.  He 
found  none  more  cunning  and  more  fit  to  do 
evil  than  the  serpent. 

The  rabbi  then  treats  of  the  seduction  and 
the  fall  of  man ;  of  the  consequent  fall  of  the 
demon,  and  the  punishment  which  God  inflicted 
on  Adam,  Eve,  and  the  serpent.  "  He  made 
them  all  come  before  him  ;  pronounced  nine 
maledictions  on  Adam  and  Eve,  and  condemned 
them  to  suffer  death;  and  he  precipitated 
Sammael  and  all  his  band  from  heaven.  He 
cut  off  the  feet  of  the  serpent,  which  had  be- 
fore the  figure  of  a  camel  (Sammael  having 
been  mounted  on  him),  and  he  cursed  him 
among  all  beasts  and  animals." 


GENTILITY. 


True  Gentrie  standeth  in  the  trade 

Of  virtuous  life,  not  in  the  fleshly  line ; 
For  bloud  is  knit,  but  Gentrie  is  divine. 

Mirror  for  Magistrates. 


I  HAVE  mentioned  some  peculiarities  of  the 
squire  in  the  education  of  his  sons ;  but  I  would 
not  have  it  thought  that  his  instructions  were 
directed  chiefly  to  their  personal  accomplish- 
ments. He  took  great  pains  also  to  form  their 
minds,  and  to  inculcate  what  he  calls  good  old 
English  principles,  such  as  are  laid  down  in 
the  writings  of  Peachem  and  his  contempora- 
ries. There  is  one  author  of  whom  he  cannot 
speak  without  indignation,  which  is  Chester- 
field. He  avers  that  he  did  much,  for  a  time, 
to  injure  the  true  national  character,  and  to 
introduce,  instead  of  open  manly  sincerity,  a 


GENTILITY,  S17 

hollow  perfidious  courtliness.  *'  His  maxims/' 
he  affirms,  ^^  were  calculated  to  chill  the  de- 
lightful enthusiasm  of  youth ;  to  make  them 
ashamed  of  that  romance  which  is  the  dawn  of 
generous  manhood,  and  to  impart  to  them  a 
cold  polish  and  a  premature  worldliness. 

"  Many  of  Lord  Chesterfield's  maxims  would 
make  a  young  man  a  mere  man  of  pleasure ; 
but  an  English  gentleman  should  riot  be  a 
mere  man  of  pleasure.  He  has  no  right  to 
such  selfish  indulgence.  His  ease,  his  leisure, 
his  opulence,  are  debts  due  to  his  country, 
which  he  must  ever  stand  ready  to  discharge. 
He  should  be  a  man  at  all  points ;  simple, 
frank,  courteous,  intelligent,  accomplished,  and 
informed  ;  upright,  intrepid,  and  disinterested ; 
one  that  can  mingle  among  freemen  ;  that  can 
cope  with  statesmen ;  that  can  champion  his 
country  and  its  rights  either  at  home  or  abroad. 
In  a  country  like  England,  where  there  is  such 
free  and  unbounded  scope  for  the  exertion  of 
intellect,  and  where  opinion  and  example  have 
such  weight  with  the  people,  every  gentleman 


^18  GENTILITY. 

of  fortune  and  leisure  should  feel  himself  bound 
to  employ  himself  in  some  way  towards  pro- 
moting the  prosperity  or  glory  of  the  nation. 
In  a  country  where  intellect  and  action  are 
trammelled  and  restrained,  men  of  rank  and 
fortune  may  become  idlers  and  triflers  with  im- 
punity ;  but  an  English  coxcomb  is  inexcusable ; 
and  this,  perhaps,  is  the  reason  why  he  is  the 
most  offensive  and  insupportable  coxcomb  in 
the  world." 

The  squire,  as  Frank  Bracebridge  informs 
me,  would  often  hold  forth  in  this  manner  to 
his  sons  when  they  were   about  leaving  the 
paternal  roof;  one  to  travel  abroad,  one  to  go 
to  the  army,  and  one  to  the  university.     He 
used  to  have  them  with  him  in  the  library, 
which  is  hung  with  the  portraits  of  Sydney, 
Surrey,  Raleigh,  Wyat,  and  others.  "  Look  at 
those  models  of  true  English  gentlemen,  my 
sons,"  he  would  say  with  enthusiasm ;  *'  those 
were  men  that  wreathed  the  graces  of  the  most 
delicate  and  refined  taste    around  the    stern 
virtues  of  the  soldier ;  that  mingled  what  was 


GENTILITY.  219 

gentle  and  gracious,  with  what  was  hardy  and 
manly;  that  possessed  the  true  chivalry  of 
spirit,  which  is  the  exalted  essence  of  manhood. 
They  are  the  lights  by  which  the  youth  of  the 
country  should  array  themselves.  They  were 
the  patterns  and  the  idols  of  their  country  at 
home ;  they  were  the  illustrators  of  its  dignity 
abroad.  *  Surrey/  says  Camden,  ^  was  the 
first  nobleman  that  illustrated  his  high  birth 
with  the  beauty  of  learning.  He  was  acknow- 
ledged to  be  the  gallantest  man,  the  politest 
lover,  and  the  completest  gentleman  of  his 
time.*  And  as  to  Wyat,  his  friend  Surrey  most 
amiably  testifies  of  him,  that  his  person  was 
majestic  and  beautiful,  his  visage  '  stern  and 
mild  ;*  that  he  sung,  and  played  the  lute  with 
remarkable  sweetness ;  spoke  foreign  languages 
with  grace  and  fluency,  and  possessed  an  in- 
exhaustible fund  of  wit.  And  see  what  a  high 
commendation  is  passed  upon  these  illustrious 
friends  :  '  They  were  the  two  chieftains,  who, 
having  travelled  into  Italy,  and  there  tasted 
the  sweet  and  stately  measures  and  style  of 


220  GENTILITY. 

the  Italian  poetry,  greatly  polished  our  rude 
and  homely  manner  of  vulgar  poetry  from  what 
it  had  been  before,  and  therefore  may  be  justly 
called  the  reformers  of  our  English  poetry  and 
style.'  And  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  who  has  left 
us  such  monuments  of  elegant  thought,  and 
generous  sentiment,  and  who  illustrated  his 
chivalrous  spirit  so  gloriously  in  the  field.  And 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  the  elegant  courtier,  the 
intrepid  soldier,  the  enterprising  discoverer, 
the  enlightened  philosopher,  the  magnanimous 
martyr.  These  are  the  men  for  English  gen- 
tlemen to  study.  Chesterfield,  with  his  cold 
and  courtly  maxims,  would  have  chilled  and  im- 
poverished such  spirits.  He  would  have  blighted 
all  the  budding  romance  of  their  tempera- 
ments. Sydney  would  never  have  written  his 
Arcadia,  nor  Surrey  have  challenged  the  world 
in  vindication  of  the  beauties  of  his  Geraldine. 
Thes^e  are  the  men,  my  sons,"  the  squire  will 
continucyi  "  that  show  to  what  our  national 
character  may  be  exalted,  when  its  strong  and 
powerful  qualities  are  duly  wrought  up  and 


GENTILITY.  221 

refined.  The  solidest  bodies  are  capable  of  the 
highest  polish ;  and  there  is  no  character  that 
may  be  wrought  to  a  more  exquisite  and  un- 
sullied brightness,  than  that  of  the  true  En- 
glish gentleman." 

When  Guy  was  about  to  depart  for  the 
army,  the  squire  again  took  him  aside,  and 
gave  him  a  long  exhortation.  He  warned  him 
against  that  affectation  of  cold-blooded  indif- 
ference, which  he  was  told  was  cultivated  by 
the  young  British  officers,  among  whom  it  was 
a  study  to  "  sink  the  soldier"  in  the  mere  man 
of  fashion.  ''  A  soldier,"  said  he,  ''  without 
pride  and  enthusiasm  in  his  profession,  is  a 
mere  sanguinary  hireling.  Nothing  distin- 
guishes him  from  the  mercenary  bravo  but  a 
spirit  of  patriotism,  or  a  thirst  for  glory.  It  is 
the  fashion,  now-a-days,  my  son,"  said  he,  "  to 
laugh  at  the  spirit  of  chivalry ;  when  that  spirit 
is  really  extinct,  the  profession  of  the  soldier 
becomes  a  mere  trade  of  blood."  He  then  set 
before  him  the  conduct  of  Edward  the  Black 
Prince,  who  is  his  mirror  of  chivalry ;  valiant. 


222  GENTILITY, 

generous,  affable,  humane ;  gallant  in  the  field ; 
but  when  he  came  to  dwell  on  his  courtesy  to- 
wards his  prisoner,  the  king  of  France ;  how 
he  received  him  into  his  tent,  rather  as  a  con- 
queror than  as  a  captive ;  attended  on  him  at 
table  like  one  of  his  retinue ;  rode  uncovered 
beside  him  on  his  entry  into  London,  mounted 
on  a  common  palfrey,  while  his  prisoner  was 
mounted  in  state  on  a  white  steed  of  stately 
beauty ;  the  tears  of  enthusiasm  stood  in  the 
old  gentleman's  eyes. 

Finally,  on  taking  leave,  the  good  squire  put 
in  his  son's  hands,  as  a  manual,  one  of  his  fa- 
vourite old  volumes,  the^Life  of  the  Chevalier 
Bayard,  by  Godefroy  ;  on  a  blank  page  of  which 
he  had  written  an  extract  from  the  Morte  d'Ar- 
thur,  containing  the  eulogy  of  Sir  Ector  over 
the  body  of  Sir  Launcelot  of  the  Lake,  which 
the  squire  considers  as  comprising  the  excel- 
lencies of  a  true  soldier.  "  Ah,  Sir  Lancelot ! 
thou  wert  head  of  all  Christian  knights ;  now 
there  thou  liest :  thou  were  never  matched  of 
none  earthly  knights-hands.     And  thou  wert 


GENTILITY.  223 

the  curtiest  knight  that  ever  bare  shield.  And 
thou  were  the  truest  friend  to  thy  lover  that 
ever  bestrood  horse ;  and  thou  were  the  truest 
lover  of  a  sinfull  man  that  ever  loved  woman. 
And  thou  were  the  kindest  man  that  ever  strook 
with  sword ;  and  thou  were  the  goodliest  person 
that  ever  came  among  the  presse  of  knights. 
And  thou  were  the  meekest  man  and  the 
gentlest  that  ever  eate  in  hall  among  ladies. 
And  thou  were  the  sternest  knight  to  thy 
mortal  foe  that  ever  put  speare  in  the  rest." 


FORTUNE  TELLING. 


Each  city,  each  town,  and  every  village. 

Affords  us  either  an  alms  or  pillage. 

And  if  the  weather  be  cold  and  raw. 

Then  in  a  barn  we  tumble  on  straw. 

If  warm  and  fair,  by  yea-cock  and  nay-cock. 

The  fields  will  afford  us  a  hedge  or  a  hay^cock. 

Mekey  Beggars. 


As  I  was  walking  one  evening  with  the  Ox- 
onian, Master  Simon,  and  the  general,  in  a 
meadow  not  far  from  the  village,  we  heard  the 
sound  of  a  fiddle,  rudely  played,  and  looking 
in  the  direction  from  whence  it  came,  we  saw 
a  thread  of  smoke  curling  up  from  among 
the  trees.  The  sound  of  music  is  always  at- 
tractive ;  for,  wherever  there  is  music,  there  is 
good  humour,  or  good-will.  We  passed  along  a 
footpath,  and  had  a  peep,  through  a  break  in 
the  hedge,  at  the  musician  and  his  party,  when 


FORTUNE    TELLING.  225 

the  Oxonian  gave  us  a  wink,  and  told  us  that 
if  we  would  follow  him  we  should  have  some 
sport. 

It  proved  to  be  a  gipsy  encampment,  con- 
sisting of  three  or  four  little  cabins,  or  tents, 
made  of  blankets  and  sail  cloth,  spread  over 
hoops  that  were  stuck  in  the  ground.  It  was 
on  one  side  of  a  green  lane,  close  under  a  haw- 
thorn hedge,  with  a  broad  beech-tree  spread- 
ing above  it.  A  small  rill  tinkled  along  close 
by,  through  the  fresh  sward,  that  looked  like 
a  carpet. 

A  tea-kettle  was  hanging  by  a  crooked  piece 
of  iron,  over  a  fire  made  from  dry  sticks  and 
leaves,  and  two  old  gipsies,  in  red  cloaks,  sat 
crouched  on  the  grass,  gossiping  over  their 
evening  cup  of  tea ;  for  these  creatures,  though 
they  live  in  the  open  air,  have  their  ideas  of 
fireside  comforts.  There  were  two  or  three 
children  sleeping  on  the  straw  with  which  the 
tents  were  littered  ;  a  couple  of  donkeys  were 
grazing  in  the  lane,  and  a  thievish-looking  dog- 
was  lying  before  the  fire.    Some  of  the  younger 

VOL.    I.  Q 


226  FORTUNE    TELLING. 

gipsies  were  dancing  to  the  music  of  a  fiddle, 
played  by  a  tall  slender  stripling,  in  an  old 
frock  coat,  with  a  peacock's  feather  stuck  in 
his  hatband. 

As  we  approached,  a  gipsy  girl,  with  a 
pair  of  fine  roguish  eyes,  came  up,  and,  as 
usual,  offered  to  tell  our  fortunes.  I  could  not 
but  admire  a  certain  degree  of  slattern  elegance 
about  the  baggage.  Her  long  black  silken 
hair  was  curiously  plaited  in  numerous  small 
braids,  and  negligently  put  up  in  a  picturesque 
style  that  a  painter  might  have  been  proud  to 
have  devised.  Her  dress  was  of  figured  chintz, 
rather  ragged,  and  not  over  clean,  but  of  a 
variety  of  most  harmonious  and  agreeable  co- 
lours ;  for  these  beings  have  a  singularly  fine 
eye  for  colours.  Her  straw  hat  was  in  her 
hand,  and  a  red  cloak  thrown  over  one  arm. 

The  Oxonian  offered  at  once  to  have  his 
fortune  told,  and  the  girl  began  with  the  usual 
volubility  of  her  race ;  but  he  drew  her  on  one 
side,  near  the  hedge,  as  he  said  he  had  no  idea 
of  having  his  secrets  overheard.     I  saw  he  was 


FORTUNE   TELLING.  227 

talking  to  her  instead  of  she  to  him,  and  by  his 
glancing  towards  us  now  and  then,  that  he  was 
giving  the  baggage  some  private  hints.  When 
they  returned  to  us,  he  assumed  a  very  serious 
air.  ''  Zounds ! "  said  he, "  it's  very  astonishing 
how  these  creatures  come  by  their  knowledge ; 
this  girl  has  told  me  some  things  that  I  thought 
no  one  knew  but  myself!" 

The  girl  now  assailed  the  general :  ^'  Come, 
your  honour,"  said  she,  *'  I  see  by  your  face 
you're  a  lucky  man;  but  you're  not  happy  in 
your  mind ;  you're  not,  indeed,  sir  :  but  have 
a  good  heart,  and  give  me  a  good  piece  of 
silver,  and  I'll  tell  you  a  nice  fortune." 

The  general  had  received  all  her  approaches 
with  a  banter,  and  had  suffered  her  to  get  hold 
of  his  hand ;  but  at  the  mention  of  the  piece  of 
silver,  he  hemmed,  looked  grave,  and  turning 
to  us,  asked  if  we  had  not  better  continue  our 
walk.  "  Come,  my  master,"  said  the  girl, 
archly,  "  you  *d  not  be  in  such  a  hurry,  if  you 
knew  all  that  I  could  tell  you  about  a  fair  lady 
that  has  a  notion  for  you.     Come,  sir,  old  love 

Q  2 


228  FORTUNE    TELLING. 

burns  strong;  there's  many  a  one  comes  to  see 
weddings  that  go  away  brides  themselves ! " — - 
Here  the  girl  whispered  something  in  a  low 
voice,  at  which  the  general  coloured  up,  was  a 
little  fluttered,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  drawn 
aside  under  the  hedge,  where  he  appeared  to 
listen  to  her  with  great  earnestness,  and  at  the 
end  paid  her  half-a-crown  with  the  air  of  a  man 
that  has  got  the  worth  of  his  money. 

The  girl  next  made  her  attack  upon  Master 
Simon,  who,  however,  was  too  old  a  bird  to  be 
caught,  knowing  that  it  would  end  in  an  attack 
upon  his  purse,  about  which  he  is  a  little  sen- 
sitive. As  he  has  a  great  notion,  however,  of 
being  considered  a  royster,  he  chucked  her 
under  the  chin,  played  her  off  with  rather  broad 
jokes,  and  put  on  something  of  the  rake-helly 
air,  that  we  see  now  and  then  assumed  on  the 
stage,  by  the  sad-boy  gentlemen  of  the  old 
school.  '^  Ah,  your  honour,"  said  the  girl,  with 
a  malicious  leer,  "  you  were  not  in  such  a 
tantrum  last  year,  when  I  told  you  about  th^ 
widow  you  know  who ;  but  if  you  had  taken  a 


FORTUNE    TELLING.  229 

friend's  advice,  you'd  never  have  come  away 
from  Doncaster  races  with  a  flea  in  your  ear !" 

There  was  a  secret  sting  in  this  speech  that 
seemed  quite  to  disconcert  Master  Simon.  He 
jerked  away  his  hand  in  a  pet,  smacked  his 
whip,  whistled  to  his  dogs,  and  intimated  that 
it  was  high  time  to  go  home.  The  girl,  how- 
ever, was  determined  not  to  lose  her  harvest. 
She  now  turned  upon  me,  and,  as  I  have  a 
weakness  of  spirit  where  there  is  a  pretty  face 
concerned,  she  soon  wheedled  me  out  of  my 
money,  and,  in  return,  read  me  a  fortune ; 
which,  if  it  prove  true,  and  I  am  determined  to 
believe  it,  will  make  me  one  of  the  luckiest 
men  in  the  chronicles  of  Cupid, 

I  saw  that  the  Oxonian  was  at  the  bottom 
of  all  this  oracular  mystery,  and  was  disposed 
to  amuse  himself  with  the  general,  whose  tender 
approaches  to  the  widow  have  attracted  the 
notice  of  the  wag.  I  was  a  little  curious,  how- 
ever, to  know  the  meaning  of  the  dark  hints 
which  had  so  suddenly  disconcerted  Master 
Simon :  and  took  occasion  to  fall  in  the  rear 


230  FORTUNE    TELLING. 

with  the  Oxonian  on  our  way  home,  when  he 
laughed  heartily  at  my  questions,  and  gave  me 
ample  information  on  the  subject. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that  Master 
Simon  has  met  with  a  sad  rebuff  since  my 
Christmas  visit  to  the  Hall.     He  used  at  that 
time  to  be  joked  about  a  widow,  a  fine  dashing 
woman,  as  he  privately  informed  me.     I  had 
supposed  the  pleasure  he  betrayed  on  these 
occasions  resulted  from  the  usual  fondness  of 
old  bachelors  for  being  teased  about  getting 
married,  and  about  flirting,  and  being  fickle 
and  false-hearted.  I  am  assured,  however,  that 
Master  Simon  had  really  persuaded  himself  the 
widow  had  a  kindness  for  him ;  in  consequence 
of  which  he  had  been  at  some  extraordinary 
expense  in  new  clothes,  and  had  actually  got 
Frank  Bracebridge  to  order  him  a  coat  from 
Stultz.     He  began  to  throw  out  hints  about 
the  importance  of  a  man's  settling  himself  in 
life  before  he  grew  old ;  he  would  look  grave 
whenever  the  widow  and  matrimony  were  men- 
tioned in  the  same  sentence;  and  privately 


FORTUNE    TELLING.  231 

asked  the  opinion  of  the  squire  and  parson 
about  the  prudence  of  marrying  a  widow  with 
a  rich  jointure,  but  who  had  several  children. 

An  important  member  of  a  great  family 
connexion  cannot  harp  much  upon  the  theme 
of  matrimony  without  its  taking  wind ;  and  it 
soon  got  buzzed  about  that  Mr.  Simon  Brace- 
bridge  was  actually  gone  to  Doncaster  races, 
with  a  new  horse  ;  but  that  he  meant  to  return 
in  a  curricle  with  a  lady  by  his  side.  Master 
Simon  did,  indeed,  go  to  the  races,  and  that 
with  a  new  horse ;  and  the  dashing  widow  did 
make  her  appearance  in  her  curricle ;  but  it 
was  unfortunately  driven  by  a  strapping  young 
Irish  dragoon,  with  whom  even  Master  Simon's 
self-complacency  would  not  allow  him  to  ven- 
ture into  competition,  and  to  whom  she  was 
married  shortly  after. 

It  was  a  matter  of  sore  chagrin  to  Master 
Simon  for  several  months,  having  never  before 
been  fully  committed.  The  dullest  head  in 
the  family  had  a  joke  upon  him ;  and  there  is  no 
one  that  likes  less  to  be  bantered  than  an  ab- 


232  FORTUNE    TELLING. 

solute  joker.  He  took  refuge  for  a  time  at 
Lady  Lillycraft's,  until  the  matter  should  blow 
over;  and  occupied  himself  by  looking  over 
her  accounts,  regulating  the  village  choir,  and 
inculcating  loyalty  into  a  pet  bullfinch,  by 
teaching  him  to  whistle  '^  God  save  the  King." 

He  has  now  pretty  nearly  recovered  from 
the  mortification  ;  holds  up  his  head,  and  laughs 
as  much  as  any  one ;  again  affects  to  pity  mar- 
ried men,  and  is  particularly  facetious  about 
widows,  when  Lady  Lillycraft  is  not  by.  His 
only  time  of  trial  is  when  the  general  gets  hold 
of  him,  who  is  infinitely  heavy  and  persevering 
in  his  waggery,  and  will  interweave  a  dull  joke 
through  the  various  topics  of  a  whole  dinner- 
time. Master  Simon  often  parries  these  attacks 
by  a  stanza  from  his  old  work  of  "  Cupid's  So- 
licitor for  Love :" 

"  *Tis  in  vain  to  wooe  a  widow  over  long. 

In  once  or  twice  her  mind  you  may  perceive ; 
Widows  are  subtle,  be  they  old  or  youngs 
And  by  their  wiles  young  men  they  will  deceive/' 


LOVE-CHARMS. 


Come,  do  not  weep,  my  girl. 


Forget  him,  pretty  pensiveness ;  there  will 
Come  others,  every  day,  as  good  as  he. 

Sir  J.  Suckling. 


The  approach  of  a  wedding  in  a  family  is 
always  an  event  of  great  importance,  but  par- 
ticularly so  in  a  household  like  this,  in  a  re- 
tired part  of  the  country.  Master  Simon,  who 
is  a  pervading  spirit,  and,  through  means  of 
the  butler  and  housekeeper,  knows  every  thing 
that  goes  forward,  tells  me  that  the  maid-ser- 
vants are  continually  trying  their  fortunes,  and 
that  the  servants'-hall  has  of  late  been  quite  a 
scene  of  incantation. 

It  is  amusing  to  notice  how  the  oddities  of 
the  head  of  a  family  flow  down  through  all  the 
branches.     The  squire,  in  the  indulgence  of 


234  LOVE-CHARMS. 

his  love  of  every  thing  that  smacks  of  old 
times,  has  held  so  many  grave  conversations 
with  the  parson  at  table,  about  popular  super- 
stitions and  traditional  rites,  that  they  have 
been  carried  from  the  parlour  to  the  kitchen 
by  the  listening  domestics,  and,  being  appa- 
rently sanctioned  by  such  high  authority,  the 
whole  house  has  become  infected  by  them. 

The  servants  are  all  versed  in  the  common 
modes  of  trying  luck,  and  the  charms  to  ensure 
constancy.  They  read  their  fortunes  by  draw- 
ing strokes  in  the  ashes,  or  by  repeating  a 
form  of  words,  and  looking  in  a  pail  of  water. 
St.  Mark's  eve,  I  am  told,  was  a  busy  time 
with  them ;  being  an  appointed  night  for  cer- 
tain mystic  ceremonies.  Several  of  them  sowed 
hemp-seed  to  be  reaped  by  their  true  lovers ; 
and  they  even  ventured  upon  the  solemn  and 
fearful  preparation  of  the  dumb-cake.  This 
must  be  done  fasting,  and  in  silence.  The 
ingredients  are  handed  down  in  traditional 
form.     '^An  eggshell  full  of  salt,  an  eggshell 


LOVE-CHARMS.  235 

full  of  malt,  and  an  eggshell  full  of  barley- 
meal."  When  the  cake  is  ready,  it  is  put  upon 
a  pan  over  the  fire,  and  the  future  husband 
will  appear ;  turn  the  cake,  and  retire ;  but  if 
a  word  is  spoken,  or  a  fast  is  broken,  during 
this  awful  ceremony,  there  is  no  knowing  what 
horrible  consequences  would  ensue ! 

The  experiments,  in  the  present  instance, 
came  to  no  result ;  they  that  sowed  the  hemp- 
seed  forgot  the  magic  rhyme  that  they  were 
to  pronounce,  so  the  true  lover  never  appeared; 
and  as  to  the  dumb-cake,  what  between  the 
awful  stillness  they  had  to  keep,  and  the  awful- 
ness  of  the  midnight  hour,  their  hearts  failed 
them  when  they  had  put  the  cake  in  the  pan ; 
so  that,  on  the  striking  of  the  great  house- 
clock  in  the  servants'-hall,  they  were  seized  with 
a  sudden  panic,  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  to 
which  they  did  not  return  until  morning,  when 
they  found  the  mystic  cake  burnt  to  a  cinder. 
The  most  persevering  at  these  spells,  how- 
ever, is  Phoebe  Wilkins,  the  housekeeper's 
niece.  As  she  is  a  kind  of  privileged  personage. 


S36  LOVE-CHAHMS.     ' 

and  rather  idle,  she  has  more  time  to  occupy 
herself  with  these  matters.  She  has  always 
had  her  head  full  of  love  and  matrimony.  She 
knows  the  dream-book  by  heart,  and  is  quite 
an  oracle  among  the  little  girls  of  the  family, 
who  always  come  to  her  to  interpret  their 
dreams  in  the  mornings. 

During  the  present  gaiety  of  the  house, 
however,  the  poor  girl  has  worn  a  face  full  of 
trouble ;  and,  to  use  the  housekeeper's  words, 
*^has  fallen  into  a  sad  hystericky  way  lately." 
It  seems  that  she  was  born  and  brought  up  in 
the  village,  where  her  father  was  parish  clerk, 
and  she  was  an  early  playmate  and  sweetheart 
of  young  Jack  Tibbets.  Since  she  has  come 
to  live  at  the  Hall,  however,  her  head  has  been 
a  little  turned.  Being  very  pretty,  and  na- 
turally genteel,  she  has  been  much  noticed 
and  indulged;  and  being  the  housekeeper's 
niece,  she  has  held  an  equivocal  station  between 
a  servant  and  a  companion.  She  has  learnt 
something  of  fashions  and  notions  among  the 
young  ladies,  which  have  effected  quite  a  meta- 


LOVE-CHARMS.  237 

morphosis  ;  insomuch  that  her  finery  at  church 
on  Sundays  has  given  mortal  offence  to  her 
former  intimates  in  the  village.  This  has  oc- 
casioned the  misrepresentations  which  have 
awakened  the  implacable  family  pride  of  Dame 
Tibbets.  But  what  is  worse,  Phoebe,  having 
a  spice  of  coquetry  in  her  disposition,  showed 
it  on  one  or  two  occasions  to  her  lover,  which 
produced  a  downright  quarrel ;  and  Jack,  being 
very  proud  and  fiery,  has  absolutely  turned  his 
back  upon  her  for  several  successive  Sundays. 

The  poor  girl  is  full  of  sorrow  and  repent- 
ance, and  would  fain  make  up  with  her  lover ; 
but  he  feels  his  security,  and  stands  aloof.  In 
this  he  is  doubtless  encouraged  by  his  mother, 
who  is  continually  reminding  him  what  he 
owes  to  his  family ;  for  this  same  family  pride 
seems  doomed  to  be  the  eternal  bane  of  lovers. 

As  I  hate  to  see  a  pretty  face  in  trouble,  I 
have  felt  quite  concerned  for  the  luckless 
Phoebe,  ever  since  I  heard  her  story.  It  is  a 
sad  thing  to  be  thwarted  in  love  at  any  time, 
but  particularly  so  at  this  tender  season  of  the 


238  LOVE-CHARMS. 

year,  when  every  living  thing,  even  to  the  very 
butterfly,  is  sporting  with  its  mate ;  and  the 
green  fields,  and  the  budding  groves,  and  the 
singing  of  the  birds,  and  the  sweet  smell  of 
the  flowers,  are  enough  to  turn  the  head  of  a 
love-sick  girl.  I  am  told  that  the  coolness  of 
young  Ready-money  lies  very  heavy  at  poor 
Phoebe's  heart.  Instead  of  singing  about  the 
house  as  formerly,  she  goes  about  pale  and 
sighing,  and  is  apt  to  break  into  tears  when 
her  companions  are  full  of  merriment. 

Mrs.  Hannah,  the  vestal  gentlewoman  of  my 
Lady  Lillycraft,  has  had  long  talks  and  walks 
with  Phoebe,  up  and  down  the  avenue,  of  an 
evening ;  and  has  endeavoured  to  squeeze  some 
of  her  own  verjuice  into  the  other's  milky  na- 
ture. She  speaks  with  contempt  and  abhor- 
rence of  the  whole  sex,  and  advises  Phoebe  to 
despise  all  the  men  as  heartily  as  she  does. 
But  Phoebe's  loving  temper  is  not  to  be  curdled ; 
she  has  no  such  thing  as  hatred  or  contempt 
for  mankind  in  her  whole  composition.  She 
has  all  the  simple  fondness  of  heart  of  poor. 


LOVE-CHARMS.  239 

-weak,  loving  woman ;  and  her  only  thoughts 
at  present  are,  how  to  conciliate  and  reclaim 
her  wayward  swain. 

The  spells  and  love-charms,  which  are  matters 
of  sport  to  the  other  domestics,  are  serious 
concerns  with  this  love-stricken  damsel.  She 
is  continually  trying  her  fortune  in  a  variety 
of  ways.  I  am  told  that  she  has  absolutely 
fasted  for  six  Wednesdays  and  three  Fridays 
successively,  having  understood  that  it  was  a 
sovereign  charm  to  ensure  being  married  to 
one's  liking  within  the  year.  She  carries  about, 
also,  a  lock  of  her  sweetheart's  hair,  and  a 
riband  he  once  gave  her,  being  a  mode  of  pro- 
ducing constancy  in  a  lover.  She  even  went 
so  far  as  to  try  her  fortune  by  the  moon,  which 
has  always  had  much  to  do  with  lovers'  dreams 
and  fancies.  For  this  purpose  she  went  out  in 
the  night  of  the  full  moon,  knelt  on  a  stone  in 
the  meadow,  and  repeated  the  old  traditional 
rhyme : 

''  All  hail  to  thee,  moon,  all  hail  to  thee  ; 
I  pray  thee,  good  moon,  now  show  to  me 
The  youth  who  my  future  hushand  shall  be." 


240  LOVE-CHARMS. 

When  she  came  back  to  the  house,  she  was 
faint  and  pale,  and  went  immediately  to  bed. 
The  next  morning  she  told  the  porter's  wife 
that  she  had  seen  some  one  close  by  the  hedge 
in  the  meadow,  which  she  was  sure  was  young 
Tibbets ;  at  any  rate,  she  had  dreamt  of  him 
all  night ;  both  of  which,  the  old  dame  assured 
her,,  were  most  happy  signs.  It  has  since  turned 
out  that  the  person  in  the  meadow  was  old 
Christy,  the  huntsman,  who  was  walking  his 
nightly  rounds  with  the  great  stag-hound ;  so 
that  Phoebe's  faith  in  the  charm  is  completely 
shaken. 


THE  LIBRARY. 


Yesterday  the  fair  Julia  made  her  first 
appearance  down  stairs  since  her  accident; 
and  the  sight  of  her  spread  an  universal  cheer- 
fulness through  the  household.  She  was  ex- 
tremely pale,  however,  and  could  not  walk 
without  pain  and  difficulty.  She  was  assisted, 
therefore,  to  a  sofa  in  the  library,  which  is 
pleasant  and  retired,  looking  out  among  trees ; 
and  so  quiet,  that  the  little  birds  come  hopping 
upon  the  windows,  and  peering  curiously  into 
the  apartment.  Here  several  of  the  family 
gathered  round,  and  devised  means  to  amuse 
her,  and  make  the  day  pass  pleasantly.  Lady 
Lilly  craft  lamented  the  want  of  some  new 
novel  to  while  away  the  time ;  and  was  almost 
in  a  pet,  because  the  ''  Author  of  Waverley " 

VOL.  I.  R 


242  THE    LIBRARY. 

had  not  produced  a  work  for  the  last  three 
months. 

There  was  a  motion  made  to  call  on  the 
parson  for  some  of  his  old  legends  or  ghost 
stories ;  but  to  this  Lady  Lillycraft  objected, 
as  they  were  apt  to  give  her  the  vapours. 
General  Harbottle  gave  a  minute  account,  for 
the  sixth  time,  of  the  disaster  of  a  friend  in 
India,  who  had  his  leg  bitten  off  by  a  tyger, 
whilst  he  was  hunting ;  and  was  proceeding  to 
menace  the  company  with  a  chapter  or  two 
about  Tippoo  Saib. 

At  length  the  captain  bethought  himself, 
and  said,  he  believed  he  had  a  manuscript  tale 
lying  in  one  corner  of  his  campaigning  trunk, 
which,  if  he  could  find,  and  the  company  were 
desirous,  he  would  read  to  them.  The  offer 
was  eagerly  accepted.  He  retired,  and  soon 
returned  with  a  roll  of  blotted  manuscript,  in 
a  very  gentlemanlike,  but  nearly  illegible,  hand, 
and  a  great  part  written  on  cartridge  paper. 

'*  It  is  one  of  the  scribblings,"  said  he,  '^  of  my 
poor  friend,  Charles  Lightly,  of  the  dragoons. 


THE    LIBRARY.  243 

He  was  a  curious,  romantic,  studious,  fanciful 
fellow ;  the  favourite,  and  often  the  unconsci- 
ous butt  of  his  fellow  officers,  who  entertained 
themselves  with  his  eccentricities.  He  was  in 
some  of  the  hardest  service  in  the  peninsula, 
and  distinguished  himself  by  his  gallantry. 
When  the  intervals  of  duty  permitted,  he  was 
fond  of  roving  about  the  country,  visiting  noted 
places,  and  was  extremely  fond  of  Moorish 
ruins.  When  at  his  quarters,  he  was  a  great 
scribbler,  and  passed  much  of  his  leisure  with 
his  pen  in  his  hand. 

''  As  I  was  a  much  younger  officer,  and  a 
very  young  man,  he  took  me,  in  a  manner, 
under  his  care,  and  we  became  close  friends. 
He  used  often  to  read  his  writings  to  me,  having 
a  great  confidence  in  my  taste,  for  I  always 
praised  them.  Poor  fellow  !  he  was  shot  down 
close  by  me  at  Waterloo.  We  lay  wounded 
together  for  some  time,  during  a  hard  contest 
that  took  place  near  at  hand.  As  I  was  least 
hurt,  I  tried  to  relieve  him,  and  to  stanch  the 
blood  which  flowed  from  a  wound  in  his  breast. 

r2 


244  THE    LIBRARY* 

He  lay  with  his  head  in  my  lap,  and  looked 
up  thankfully  in  my  face,  but  shook  his  head 
faintly,  and  made  a  sign  that  it  was  all  over 
with  him ;  and,  indeed,  he  died  a  few  minutes 
afterwards,  just  as  our  men  had  repulsed  the 
enemy,  and  came  to  our  relief.  I  have  his  fa- 
vourite dog  and  his  pistols  to  this  day,  and 
several  of  his  manuscripts,  which  he  gave  to 
me  at  different  times.  The  one  I  am  now  going 
to  read,  is  a  tale  which  he  said  he  wrote  in 
Spain,  during  the  time  that  he  lay  ill  of  a  wound 
received  at  Salamanca." 

We  now  arranged  ourselves  to  hear  the 
story.  The  captain  seated  himself  on  the  sofa, 
beside  the  fair  Julia,  who  I  had  noticed  to  be 
somewhat  affected  by  the  picture  he  had  care- 
lessly drawn  of  wounds  and  dangers  in  a  field 
of  battle.  She  now  leaned  her  arm  fondly  on 
his  shoulder,  and  her  eye  ghstened  as  it  rested 
on  the  manuscript  of  the  poor,  literary  dragoon. 
Lady  Lilly  craft  buried  herself  in  a  deep,  well- 
cushioned  elbow-chair.  Her  dogs  were  nestled 
on  soft  mats  at  her  feet ;  and  the  gallant  ge- 


THE    LIBRARY.  245 

neral  took  his  station,  in  an  arm-chair,  at  her 
side,  and  toyed  with  her  elegantly  ornamented 
work-bag.  The  rest  of  the  circle  being  all 
equally  well  accommodated,  the  captain  began 
his  story ;  a  copy  of  which  I  have  procured  for 
the  benefit  of  the  reader. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 


What  a  life  doe  I  lead  with  my  master;  nothing  but  blowing 
of  bellowes,  beating  of  spirits,  and  scraping  of  croslets !  It  is 
a  very  secret  science,  for  none  almost  can  understand  the  lan- 
guage of  it.  Sublimation,  almigation,  calcination,  rubification, 
albification,  and  fermentation ;  with  as  many  termes  unpos- 
sible  to  be  uttered  as  the  arte  to  be  compassed. 

Lilly's  Gallathea. 


Once  upon  a  time,  in  the  ancient  city  of 
Grenada,  there  sojourned  a  young  man  of  the 
name  of  Antonio  de  Castros.  He  wore  the 
garb  of  a  student  of  Salamanca,  and  was  pur- 
suing a  course  of  reading  in  the  library  of  the 
university;  and,  at  intervals  of  leisure,  in- 
dulging his  curiosity  by  examining  those  re- 
mains of  Moorish  magnificence  for  which  Gre- 
nada is  renowned. 

Whilst  occupied  in  his  studies,  he  frequently 
noticed  an  old  man  of  a  singular  appearance. 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  247 

who  was  likewise  a  visitor  to  the  library.  He 
was  lean  and  withered,  though  apparently  more 
from  study  than  from  age.  His  eyes,  though 
bright  and  visionary,  were  sunk  in  his  head, 
and  thrown  into  shade  by  overhanging  eye- 
brows. His  dress  was  always  the  same :  a 
black  doublet,  a  short  black  cloak,  very  rusty 
and  threadbare,  a  small  ruff,  and  a  large  over- 
shadowing hat. 

His  appetite  for  knowledge  seemed  insati- 
able. He  would  pass  whole  days  in  the  library 
absorbed  in  study,  consulting  a  multiplicity  of 
authors,  as  though  he  were  pursuing  some  in- 
teresting subject  through  all  its  ramifications  ; 
so  that,  in  general,  when  evening  came,  he  was 
almost  buried  among  books  and  manuscripts. 

The  curiosity  of  Antonio  was  excited,  and 
he  inquired  of  the  attendants  concerning  the 
stranger.  No  one  could  give  him  any  informa- 
tion, excepting  that  he  had  been  for  some 
time  past  a  casual  frequenter  of  the  library; 
that  his  reading  lay  chiefly  among  works  treat- 
ing of  the  occult  sciences,  and  that  he  was  par- 


248  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

ticularly  curious  in  his  inquiries  after  Arabian 
manuscripts.  They  added,  that  he  never  held 
communication  with  any  one,  excepting  to  ask 
for  particular  works  ;  that,  after  a  fit  of  studious 
application,  he  would  disappear  for  several 
days,  and  even  weeks,  and  when  he  revisited 
the  library,  he  would  look  more  withered  and 
haggard  than  ever.  The  student  felt  interested 
by  this  account ;  he  was  leading  rather  a  de- 
sultory life,  and  had  all  that  capricious  curio- 
sity which  springs  up  in  idleness.  He  deter- 
mined to  make  himself  acquainted  with  this 
book-worm,  and  find  out  who  and  what  he 
was. 

The  next  time  that  he  saw  the  old  man  at 
the  library  he  commenced  his  approaches,  by 
requesting  permission  to  look  into  one  of  the 
volumes  with  which  the  unknown  appeared 
to  have  done.  The  latter  merely  bowed  his 
head  in  token  of  assent.  After  pretending  to 
look  through  the  volume  with  great  attention, 
he  returned  it  with  many  acknowledgements. 
The  stranger  made  no  reply. 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  249 

"  May  I  ask,  senor,"  said  Antonio,  with  some 
hesitation,  ^*^niay  I  ask  what  you  are  searching 
after  in  all  these  books  ?" 

The  old  man  raised  his  head,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  surprise,  at  having  his  studies  inter- 
rupted for  the  first  time,  and  by  so  intrusive  a 
question.  He  surveyed  the  student  with  a  side 
glance  from  head  to  foot:  ^^  Wisdom,  my  son," 
said  he,  calmly ;  '^  and  the  search  requires  every 
moment  of  my  attention."  He  then  cast  his 
eyes  upon  his  book  and  resumed  his  studies. 

"  But,  father,"  said  Antonio,  ''  cannot  you 
spare  a  moment  to  point  out  the  road  to  others  ? 
It  is  to  experienced  travellers,  like  you,  that  we 
strangers  in  the  paths  of  knowledge  must  look 
for  directions  on  our  journey." 

The  stranger  looked  disturbed :  "  I  have 
not  time  enough,  my  son,  to  learn,"  said  he, 
^'  much  less  to  teach.  I  am  ignorant  myself 
of  the  path  of  true  knowledge ;  how  then  can 
I  show  it  to  others  ?" 

«  Well,  but  father—." 

"  Senor,"    said  the  old   man,   mildly,   but 


2oO  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

earnestly,  "  you  must  see  that  I  have  but  few 
steps  more  to  the  grave.  In  that  short  space 
have  I  to  accomplish  the  whole  business  of  my 
existence.  I  have  no  time  for  words ;  every 
word  is  as  one  grain  of  sand  of  my  glass  wasted. 
Suffer  me  to  be  alone." 

There  was  no  replying  to  so  complete  a 
closing  of  the  door  of  intimacy.  The  student 
found  himself  calmly,  but  totally  repulsed. 
Though  curious  and  inquisitive,  yet  he  was 
naturally  modest,  and  on  after-thoughts  he 
blushed  at  his  own  intrusion.  His  mind  soon 
became  occupied  by  other  objects.  He  passed 
several  days  wandering  among  the  mouldering 
piles  of  Moorish  architecture,  those  melancholy 
monuments  of  an  elegant  and  voluptuous  peo- 
ple. He  paced  the  deserted  halls  of  the  Al- 
hambra,  the  paradise  of  the  Moorish  kings.  He 
visited  the  great  court  of  the  lions,  famous  for 
the  perfidious  massacre  of  the  gallant  Aben- 
cerrages.  He  gazed  with  admiration  at  its 
mosaic  cupolas,  gorgeously  painted  in  gold  and 
azure ;  its  basins  of  marble,  its  alabaster  vase. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.    251 

supported  by  lions,  and  storied  with  inscrip- 
tions. 

His  imagination  kindled  as  he  wandered 
among  these  scenes.  They  were  calculated  to 
awaken  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  youthful  mind. 
Most  of  the  halls  have  anciently  been  beauti- 
fied by  fountains.  The  fine  taste  of  the  Arabs 
delighted  in  the  sparkling  purity  and  reviving 
freshness  of  water,  and  they  erected,  as  it  were, 
altars  on  every  side,  to  that  delicate  element. 
Poetry  mingles  with  architecture  in  the  Alham- 
bra.  It  breathes  along  the  very  walls.  Where- 
ever  Antonio  turned  his  eye,  he  beheld  inscrip- 
tions in  Arabic,  wherein  the  perpetuity  of 
Moorish  power  and  splendour  within  these 
walls  was  confidently  predicted.  Alas  !  how 
has  the  prophecy  been  falsified !  Many  of  the 
basins,  where  the  fountains  had  once  thrown 
up  their  sparkling  showers,  were  dry  and 
dusty.  Some  of  the  palaces  were  turned  into 
gloomy  convents,  and  the  bare-foot  monk  paced 
through  those  courts,  which  had  once  glittered 
with  the  array,  and  echoed  to  the  music,  of 
Moorish  chivalry. 


252  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

In  the  course  of  his  rambles,  the  student 
more  than  once  encountered  the  old  man  of  the 
library.  He  was  always  alone,  and  so  full  of 
thought  as  not  to  notice  any  one  about  him. 
He  appeared  to  be  intent  upon  studying  those 
half-buried  inscriptions,  which  are  found,  here 
and  there,  among  the  Moorish  ruins,  and  seem 
to  murmur  from  the  earth  the  tale  of  former 
greatness.  The  greater  part  of  these  have 
since  been  translated ;  but  they  were  supposed 
by  many,  at  the  time,  to  contain  symbolical 
revelations,  and  golden  maxims  of  the  Arabian 
sages  and  astrologers.  As  Antonio  saw  the 
stranger  apparently  decyphering  these  inscrip- 
tions, he  felt  an  eager  longing  to  make  his  ac- 
quaintance, and  to  participate  in  his  curious 
researches ;  but  the  repulse  he  had  met  with 
at  the  library  deterred  him  from  making  any 
further  advances. 

He  had  directed  his  steps  one  evening  to 
the  sacred  mount,  which  overlooks  the  beau- 
tiful valley  watered  by  the  Darro,  the  fertile 
plain  of  the  Vega,  and  all  that  rich  diversity 
of  vale  and  mountain,  that  surrounds  Grenada 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  253 

with  an  earthly  paradise.  It  was  twilight  when 
he  found  himself  at  the  place,  where,  at  the 
present  day,  are  situated  the  chapels  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Sacred  Furnaces.  They  are 
so  called  from  grottoes,  in  which  some  of  the 
primitive  saints  are  said  to  have  been  burnt. 
At  the  time  of  Antonio's  visit,  the  place  was  an 
object  of  much  curiosity.  In  an  excavation  of 
these  grottoes,  several  manuscripts  had  re- 
cently been  discovered,  engraved  on  plates  of 
lead.  They  were  written  in  the  Arabian  lan- 
guage, excepting  one,  which  was  in  unknown 
characters.  The  pope  had  issued  a  bull,  for- 
bidding any  one,  under  pain  of  excommuni- 
cation, to  speak  of  these  manuscripts.  The  pro- 
hibition had  only  excited  the  greater  curiosity ; 
and  many  reports  were  whispered  about,  that 
these  manuscripts  contained  treasures  of  dark 
and  forbidden  knowledge. 

As  Antonio  was  examining  the  place  from 
whence  these  mysterious  manuscripts  had  been 
drawn,  he  again  observed  the  old  man  of  the  li- 
brary, wandering  among  the  ruins.  His  curiosity 


S54  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

was  now  fully  awakened ;  the  time  and  place 
served  to  stimulate  it.  He  resolved  to  watch 
this  groper  after  secret  and  forgotten  lore, 
and  to  trace  him  to  his  habitation.  There  was 
something  like  adventure  in  the  thing,  that 
charmed  his  romantic  disposition.  He  followed 
the  stranger,  therefore,  at  a  little  distance ; 
at  first  cautiously,  but  he  soon  observed  him 
to  be  so  wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts,  as  to 
take  little  heed  of  external  objects. 

They  passed  along  the  skirts  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  then  by  the  shady  banks  of  the  Darro. 
They  pursued  their  way,  for  some  distance 
from  Grenada,  along  a  lonely  road  that  led 
among  the  hills.  The  gloom  of  evening  was 
gathering,  and  it  was  quite  dark  when  the 
stranger  stopped  at  the  portal  of  a  solitary 
mansion. 

It  appeared  to  be  a  mere  wing,  or  ruined 
fragment,  of  what  had  once  been  a  pile  of 
some  consequence.  The  walls  were  of  great 
thickness ;  the  windows  narrow,  and  generally 
secured  by  iron  bars.    The  door  was  of  planks^ 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  ^55 

studded  with  iron  spikes,  and  had  been  of 
great  strength,  though  at  present  it  was  much 
decayed.  At  one  end  of  the  mansion  was  a  ruin- 
ous tower,  in  the  Moorish  style  of  architecture. 
The  edifice  had  probably  been  a  country  re- 
treat, or  castle  of  pleasure,  during  the  occupa- 
tion of  Grenada  by  the  Moors,  and  rendered 
sufficiently  strong  to  withstand  any  casual 
assault  in  those  warlike  times. 

The  old  man  knocked  at  the  portal.  A  light 
appeared  at  a  small  window  just  above  it,  and 
a  female  head  looked  out :  it  might  have  served 
as  a  model  for  one  of  Raphael's  saints.  The 
hair  was  beautifully  braided,  and  gathered  in 
a  silken  net ;  and  the  complexion,  as  well  as 
could  be  judged  from  the  light,  was  that  soft, 
rich  brunette,  so  becoming  in  southern  beauty. 

"  It  is  I,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man.  The 
face  instantly  disappeared,  and  soon  after  a 
wicket-door  in  the  large  portal  opened.  An- 
tonio, who  had  ventured  near  to  the  building, 
caught  a  transient  sight  of  a  delicate  female 
form.     A  pair  of  fine  black  eyes  darted  a  look 


S56  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

of  surprise  at  seeing  a  stranger  hovering  near, 
and  the  door  was  precipitately  closed. 

There  was  something  in  this  sudden  gleam 
of  beauty  that  wonderfully  struck  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  student.  It  was  like  a  brilliant 
flashing  from  its  dark  casket.  He  sauntered 
about,  regarding  the  gloomy  pile  with  in- 
creasing interest.  A  few  simple,  wild  notes, 
from  among  some  rocks  and  trees  at  a  little 
distance,  attracted  his  attention.  He  found 
there  a  group  of  Gitanas,  a  vagabond  gipsy 
race,  which  at  that  time  abounded  in  Spain,  and 
lived  in  hovels  and  caves  of  the  hills  about  the 
neighbourhood  of  Grenada.  Some  were  busy 
about  a  fire,  and  others  were  listening  to  the 
uncouth  music  which  one  of  their  companions, 
seated  on  a  ledge  of  the  rock,  was  making  with 
a  split  reed. 

Antonio  endeavoured  to  obtain  some  in- 
formation of  them  concerning  the  old  building 
and  its  inhabitants.  The  one  who  appeared 
to  be  their  spokesman  was  a  gaunt  fellow, 
with  a  subtle  gait,  a  whispering  voice,   and 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     257 

a  sinister  roll  of  the  eye.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  on  the  student's  inquiries,  and  said 
that  all  was  not  right  in  that  building.  An 
old  man  inhabited  it,  whom  nobody  knew,  and 
whose  family  appeared  to  be  only  a  daughter  and 
a  female  servant.  He  and  his  companions,  he 
added,  lived  up  among  the  neighbouring  hills  ; 
and  as  they  had  been  about  at  night,  they  had 
often  seen  strange  lights,  and  heard  strange 
sounds  from  the  tower.  Some  of  the  country 
people,  who  worked  in  the  vineyards  among  the 
hills,  believed  the  old  man  to  be  one  that  dealt 
in  the  black  art,  and  were  not  over  fond  of 
passing  near  the  tower  at  night ;  ''  but  for  our 
parts,"  said  the  Gitano,  ^'  we  are  not  a  people 
that  trouble  ourselves  much  with  fears  of  that 
kind." 

The  student  endeavoured  to  gain  more  pre- 
cise information,  but  they  had  none  to  furnish 
him.  They  began  to  be  solicitous  for  a  com- 
pensation for  what  they  had  already  imparted  ; 
and  recollecting  the  loneliness  of  the  place, 
and  the  vagabond  character  of  his  companions, 

VOL.  I.  s 


S58     THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

he  was  glad  to  give  them  a  gratuity,  and  to 
hasten  homev/ards. 

He  sat  down  to  his  studies,  but  his  brain 
was  too  full  of  what  he  had  seen  and  heard ; 
his  eye  was  upon  the  page,  but  his  fancy  still 
returned  to  the  tower,  and  he  was  continually 
picturing  the  little  window,  with  the  beautiful 
head  peeping  out ;  or  the  door  half  open,  and 
the  nymph-like  form  within.  He  retired  to 
bed,  but  the  same  objects  haunted  his  dreams. 
He  was  young  and  susceptible ;  and  the  excited 
state  of  his  feelings,  from  wandering  among  the 
abodes  of  departed  grace  and  gallantry,  had 
predisposed  him  for  a  sudden  impression  from 
female  beauty. 

The  next  morning  he  strolled  again  in  the 
direction  of  the  tower.  It  was  still  more  for- 
lorn by  the  broad  glare  of  day  than  in  the 
gloom  of  evening.  The  walls  were  crumbling, 
and  weeds  and  moss  were  growing  in  every 
crevice.  It  had  the  look  of  a  prison  rather 
than  a  dwelling-house.  In  one  angle,  however, 
he  remarked  a  window  which  seemed  an  ex- 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  259 

ception  to  the  surrounding  squalidness.  There 
was  a  curtain  drawn  within  it,  and  flowers 
standing  on  the  window-stone.  Whilst  he  was 
looking  at  it  the  curtain  was  partially  with- 
drawn, and  a  delicate  white  arm,  of  the  most 
beautiful  roundness,  was  put  forth  to  water 
the  flowers. 

The  student  made  a  noise  to  attract  the  at- 
tention of  the  fair  florist.  He  succeeded.  The 
curtain  was  further  drawn,  and  he  had  a  glance 
of  the  same  lovely  face  he  had  seen  the  even- 
ing before ;  it  was  but  a  mere  glance ;  the 
curtain  again  fell,  and  the  casement  closed. 
All  this  was  calculated  to  excite  the  feelings 
of  a  romantic  youth.  Had  he  seen  the  unknown 
under  other  circumstances,  it  is  probable  that 
he  would  not  have  been  struck  with  her  beauty ; 
but  this  appearance  of  being  shut  up  and  kept 
apart  gave  her  the  value  of  a  treasured  gem. 
He  passed  and  repassed  before  the  house  several 
times  in  the  course  of  the  day,  but  saw  nothing 
more.  He  was  there  again  in  the  evening. 
The  whole  aspect  of  the  house  was  dreary. 

s  2 


260  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

The  narrow  windows  emitted  no  rays  of  cheer- 
ful light,  to  indicate  that  there  was  social  life 
within.  Antonio  listened  at  the  portal,  but  no 
sound  of  voices  reached  his  ear.  Just  then  he 
heard  the  clapping  to  of  a  distant  door,  and 
fearing  to  be  detected  in  the  unworthy  act  of 
eaves-dropping,  he  precipitately  drew  off  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  and  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  a  ruined  archway. 

He  now  remarked  a  light  from  a  window  in 
the  tower.  It  was  fitful  and  changeable; 
commonly  feeble  and  yellowish,  as  if  from  a 
lamp ;  with  an  occasional  glare  of  some  vivid 
metallic  colour,  followed  by  a  dusky  glow.  A 
column  of  dense  smoke  would  now  and  then 
rise  in  the  air,  and  hang  like  a  canopy  over 
the  tower.  There  was  altogether  such  a  lone- 
liness and  seeming  mystery  about  the  building 
and  its  inhabitants,  that  Antonio  was  half  in- 
clined to  indulge  the  country  people's  notions, 
and  to  fancy  it  the  den  of  some  powerful 
sorcerer,  and  the  fair  damsel  he  had  seen  to  be 
some  spell-bound  beauty. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     261 

After  some  time  had  elapsed,  a  light  ap- 
peared in  the  window  where  he  had  seen  the 
beautiful  arm.  The  curtain  was  down,  but  it 
was  so  thin  that  he  could  perceive  the  shadow 
of  some  one  passing  and  repassing  between  it 
and  the  light.  He  fancied  that  he  could 
distinguish  that  the  form  was  delicate ;  and' 
from  the  alacrity  of  its  movements,  it  was 
evidently  youthful.  He  had  not  a  doubt  but 
this  was  the  bed-chamber  of  his  beautiful 
unknown. 

Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  guitar, 
and  a  female  voice  singing.  He  drew  near 
cautiously,  and  listened.  It  was  a  plaintive 
Moorish  ballad,  and  he  recognised  in  it  the 
lamentations  of  one  of  the  Abencerrages  on 
leaving  the  walls  of  lovely  Grenada.  It  was 
full  of  passion  and  tenderness.  It  spoke  of 
the  delights  of  early  life ;  the  hours  of  love  it 
had  enjoyed  on  the  banks  of  the  Darro,  and 
among  the  blissful  abodes  of  the  Alhambra.  It 
bewailed  the  fallen  honours  of  the  Abencer- 
rages, and  imprecated  vengeance  on  their  op- 
pressors.    Antonio  was-aflPected  by  the  music. 


^62  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

It  singularly  coincided  with  the  place.  It  was 
like  the  voice  of  past  times  echoed  in  the  pre- 
sent, and  breathing  among  the  monuments  of 
its  departed  glories. 

The  voice  ceased  ;  after  a  time  the  light  dis- 
appeared, and  all  was  still.  "She  sleeps!" 
said  Antonio,  fondly.  He  lingered  about  the 
building  with  the  devotion  with  which  a  lover 
lingers  about  the  bower  of  sleeping  beauty. 
The  rising  moon  threw  its  silver  beams  on  the 
gray  walls,  and  glittered  on  the  casement. 
The  late  gloomy  landscape  gradually  became 
flooded  with  its  radiance.  Finding,  therefore, 
that  he  could  no  longer  move  about  in  obscurity, 
and  fearful  that  his  loiterings  might  be  ob- 
served, he  reluctantly  retired. 

The  curiosity  which  had  at  first  drawn  the 
young  man  to  the  tower  was  now  seconded  by 
feelings  of  a  more  romantic  kind.  His  studies 
were  almost  entirely  abandoned.  He  main- 
tained a  kind  of  blockade  of  the  old  mansion  ; 
he  would  take  a  book  with  him,  and  pass  a 
great  part  of  the  day  under  the  trees  in  its 
vicinity ;  keeping  a  vigilant  eye  upon  it,  and 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     263 

endeavouring  to  ascertain  what  were  the  walks 
of  his  mysterious  charmer.  He  found,  how- 
ever, that  she  never  went  out  except  to  mass, 
when  she  was  accompanied  by  her  father.  He 
waited  at  the  door  of  the  church,  and  offered 
her  the  holy  water,  in  the  hopes  of  touching 
her  hand ;  a  little  office  of  gallantry  common 
in  catholic  countries.  She,  however,  modestly 
declined,  without  raising  her  eyes  to  see  who 
made  the  offer,  and  always  took  it  herself  from 
the  font.  She  was  attentive  in  her  devotion ; 
her  eyes  were  never  taken  from  the  altar  or 
the  priest ;  and,  on  returning  home,  her  coun- 
tenance was  almost  entirely  concealed  by  her 
mantilla. 

Antonio  had  now  carried  on  the  pursuit  for 
several  days,  and  was  hourly  getting  more 
and  more  interested  in  the  chase,  but  never  a 
step  nearer  to  the  game.  His  lurkings  about 
the  house  had  probably  been  noticed,  for  he  no 
longer  saw  the  fair  face  at  the  window,  nor 
the  white  arm  put  forth  to  water  the  flowers. 
His  only  consolation  was  to  repair  nightly  to 


^64  THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

his  post  of  observation  and  listen  to  her  warbling, 
and  if  by  chance  he  could  catch  a  sight  of 
her  shadow,  passing  and  repassing  before  the 
window,  he  thought  himself  most  fortunate. 

As  he  was  indulging  in  one  of  these  evening 
vigils,  which  were  complete  revels  of  the  ima- 
gination, the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps 
made  him  withdraw  into  the  deep  shadow  of 
the  ruined  archway,  opposite  to  the  tower.  A 
cavalier  approached,  wrapped  in  a  large  Spanish 
cloak.  He  paused  under  the  window  of  the 
tower,  and  after  a  little  while  began  a  serenade, 
accompanied  by  his  guitar,  in  the  usual  style 
of  Spanish  gallantry.  His  voice  was  rich  and 
manly  ;  he  touched  the  instrument  with  skill, 
and  sang  with  amorous  and  impassioned  elo- 
quence. The  pkime  of  his  hat  was  buckled  by 
jewels  that  sparkled  in  the  moon-beams  ;  and, 
as  he  played  on  the  guitar,  his  cloak  falling  off 
from  one  shoulder,  showed  him  to  be  richly 
dressed.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  a  person 
of  rank. 

The  idea  now  flashed  across  Antonio's  mind. 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  265 

that  the  affections  of  his  unknown  beauty  might 
be  engaged.  She  was  young,  and  doubtless 
susceptible ;  and  it  was  not  in  the  nature  of 
Spanish  females  to  be  deaf  and  insensible  to 
music  and  admiration.  The  surmise  brought 
with  it  a  feeling  of  dreariness.  There  was  a 
pleasant  dream  of  several  days  suddenly  dis- 
pelled. He  had  never  before  experienced  any 
thing  of  the  tender  passion ;  and,  as  its  morn- 
ing dreams  are  always  delightful,  he  would  fain 
have  continued  in  the  delusion. 

"  But  what  have  I  to  do  with  her  attach- 
ments ?"  thought  he, ''  I  have  no  claim  on  her 
heart,  nor  even  on  her  acquaintance.  How  do 
I  know  that  she  is  worthy  of  affection  ?  Or  if 
she  is,  must  not  so  gallant  a  lover  as  this,  with 
his  jewels,  his  rank,  and  his  detestable  music, 
have  completely  captivated  her?  What  idle 
humour  is  this  that  I  have  fallen  into  ?  I  must 
again  to  my  books.  Study,  study  will  soon 
chase  away  all  these  idle  fancies !" 

The  more  he  thought,  however,  the  more  he 
became  entangled  in  the  spell  which  his  lively 


^66  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

imagination  had  woven  round  him;  and  now 
that  a  rival  had  appeared,  in  addition  to  the 
other  obstacles  that  environed  this  enchanted 
beauty,  she  appeared  ten  times  more  lovely  and 
desirable.  It  was  soma  slight  consolation  to 
him  to  perceive  that  the  gallantry  of  the  un- 
known met  with  no  apparent  return  from  the 
tower.  The  light  at  the  window  was  extin- 
guished. The  curtain  remained  undrawn,  and 
none  of  the  customary  signals  were  given  to 
intimate  that  the  serenade  was  accepted. 

The  cavalier  lingered  for  some  time  about 
the  place,  and  sang  several  other  tender  airs 
with  a  taste  and  feeling  that  made  Antonio's 
heart  ache  ;  at  length  he  slowly  retired.  The 
student  remained  with  folded  arms,  leaning 
against  the  ruined  arch,  endeavouring  to  sum- 
mon up  resolution  enough  to  depart ;  but  there 
was  a  romantic  fascination  that  still  enchained 
him  to  the  place.  "  It  is  the  last  time,"  said 
he,  willing  to  compromise  between  his  feelings 
and  his  judgment,  "  it  is  the  last  time ;  then 
let  me  enjoy  the  dream  a  few  moments  longer." 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  26? 

As  his  eye  ranged  about  the  old  building  to 
take  a  farewell  look,  he  observed  the  strange 
light  in  the  tower,  which  he  had  noticed  on  a 
former  occasion.  It  kept  beaming  up  and  de- 
clining as  before.  A  pillar  of  smoke  rose  in 
the  air,  and  hung  in  sable  volumes.  It  was 
evident  the  old  man  was  busied  in  some  of  those 
operations  that  had  gained  him  the  reputation 
of  a  sorcerer  throughout  the  neighbourhood. 

Suddenly  an  intense  and  brilliant  glare 
shone  through  the  casement,  followed  by  a 
loud  report,  and  then  a  fierce  and  ruddy  glow. 
A  figure  appeared  at  the  window,  uttering 
cries  of  agony  or  alarm ;  but  immediately 
disappeared,  and  a  body  of  smoke  and  flame 
whirled  out  of  the  narrow  aperture.  Antonio 
rushed  to  the  portal,  and  knocked  at  it  with 
vehemence.  He  was  only  answered  by  loud 
shrieks,  and  found  that  the  females  were  al- 
ready in  helpless  consternation.  With  an 
exertion  of  desperate  strength  he  forced  the 
wicket  from  its  hinges,  and  rushed  into  the 
house. 


268  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

He-found  himself  in  a  small  vaulted  hall,  and 
by  the  light  of  the  moon  which  entered  at  the 
door,  he  saw  a  staircase  to  the  left.  He  hurried 
lip  it  to  a  narrow  corridor,  through  which  was 
rolling  a  volume  of  smoke.  He  found  here  the 
two  females  in  a  frantic  state  of  alarm  ;  one  of 
them  clasped  her  hands,  and  implored  him  to 
save  her  father. 

The  corridor  terminated  in  a  spiral  flight 
of  steps,  leading  up  to  the  tower.     He  sprang 
up  it  to  a  small  door,  through  the  chinks  of 
which  came  a  glow  of  light,  and  smoke  was 
spuming  out.     He  burst  it  open,  and  found 
himself  in  an   antique  vaulted   chamber,  fur- 
nished with  furnace,  and  various  chemical  ap- 
paratus.    A  shattered  retort  lay  on  the  stone 
floor ;  a  quantity  of  combustibles,  nearly  con- 
sumed, with  various  half-burnt  books  and  pa- 
pers, were  sending  up  an  expiring  flame,  and 
filling  the  chamber  with  stifling  smoke.     Just 
within  the  threshold  lay  the  reputed  conjuror. 
He  was  bleeding,  his  clothes  were  scorched, 
and  he  appeared  lifeless.    Antonio  caught  him 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  269 

up,  and  bore  him  down  the  stairs  to  a  chamber 
in  which  there  was  a  light^  and  laid  him  on  a 
bed.  The  female  domestic  was  despatched 
for  such  appliances  as  the  house  afforded ;  but 
the  daughter  threw  herself  frantically  beside 
her  parent,  and  could  not  be  reasoned  out  of 
her  alarm.  Her  dress  was  all  in  disorder ;  her 
dishevelled  hair  hung  in  rich  confusion  about 
her  neck  and  bosom,  and  never  was  there  be- 
held a  lovelier  picture  of  terror  and  affliction. 

The  skilful  assiduities  of  the  scholar  soon 
produced  signs  of  returning  animation  in  his 
patient.  The  old  man's  wounds,  though  severe, 
were  not  dangerous.  They  had  evidently  been 
produced  by  the  bursting  of  the  retort ;  in  his 
bewilderment  he  had  been  enveloped  in  the 
stifling  metallic  vapours,  which  had  overpow- 
ered his  feeble  frame,  and  had  not  Antonio 
arrived  to  his  assistance,  it  is  possible  he  might 
never  have  recovered. 

By  slow  degrees  he  came  to  his  senses.  He 
looked  about  with   a   bewildered  air  at  the 


270  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

chamber,  the  agitated  group  around,  and  the 
student  who  was  leaning  over  him. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  said  he,  wildly. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  his  daughter  ut- 
tered a  faint  exclamation  of  delight.  "My 
poor  Inez !"  said  he,  embracing  her  ;  then  put- 
ting his  hand  to  his  head,  and  taking  it  away 
stained  with  blood,  he  seemed  suddenly  to 
recollect  himself,  and  to  be  overcome  with 
emotion. 

"  Ay !"  cried  he,  "  all  is  over  with  me !  all 
gone!  all  vanished!  gone  in  a  moment!  the 
labour  of  a  lifetime  lost !" 

His  daughter  attempted  to  soothe  him,  but 
he  became  slightly  delirious,  and  raved  inco- 
herently about  malignant  demons,  and  about 
the  habitation  of  the  green  lion  being  de- 
stroyed. His  wounds  being  dressed,  and  such 
other  remedies  administered  as  his  situation 
required,  he  sunk  into  a  state  of  quiet.  Antonio 
now  turned  his  attention  to  the  daughter, 
whose   sufferings  had  been   little  inferior  to 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  T]l 

those  of  her  father.  Having  with  great  dif- 
ficulty succeeded  in  tranquillizing  her  fears, 
he  endeavoured  to  prevail  upon  her  to  retire, 
and  seek  the  repose  so  necessary  to  her  frame, 
proffering  to  remain  by  her  father  until  morn- 
ing. ''  I  am  a  stranger,"  said  he,  *'  it  is  true,  and 
my  offer  may  appear  intrusive ;  but  I  see  you  are 
lonely  and  helpless,  and  I  cannot  help  ventur- 
ing over  the  limits  of  mere  ceremony.  Should 
you  feel  any  scruple  or  doubt,  however,  say 
but  a  word,  and  I  will  instantly  retire." 

There  was  a  frankness,  a  kindness,  and  a 
modesty  mingled  in  Antonio's  deportment  that 
inspired  instant  confidence;  and  his  simple 
scholar's  garb  was  a  recommendation  in  the 
house  of  poverty.  The  females  consented  to 
resign  the  sufferer  to  his  care,  as  they  would 
be  the  better  able  to  attend  to  him  on  the  mor- 
row. On  retiring,  the  old  domestic  was  pro- 
fuse in  her  benedictions;  the  daughter  only 
looked  her  thanks ;  but  as  they  shone  through 
the  tears  that  filled  her  fine  black  eyes,  the 
student  thought  them  a  thousand  times  the 
most  eloquent. 


^7^  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

Here,  then,  he  was,  by  a  singular  turn  of 
chance,  completely  housed  within  this  myste- 
rious mansion.  When  left  to  himself,  and  the 
bustle  of  the  scene  was  over,  his  heart  throbbed 
as  he  looked  round  the  chamber  in  which  he 
was  sitting.  It  was  the  daughter's  room,  the 
promised  land  towards  which  he  had  cast  so 
many  a  longing  gaze.  The  furniture  was  old, 
and  had  probably  belonged  to  the  building  in  its 
prosperous  days  ;  but  every  thing  was  arranged 
with  propriety.  The  flowers  that  he  had  seen 
her  attend  stood  in  the  window ;  a  guitar 
leaned  against  a  table,  on  which  stood  a  cruci- 
fix, and  before  it  lay  a  missal  and  a  rosary. 
There  reigned  an  air  of  purity  and  serenity 
about  this  little  nestling  place  of  innocence ;  it 
was  the  emblem  of  a  chaste  and  quiet  mind. 
Some  few  articles  of  female  dress  lay  on  the 
chairs  ;  and  there  was  the  very  bed  on  which 
she  had  slept;  the  pillow  on  which  her  soft 
cheek  had  reclined!  The  poor  scholar  was 
treading  enchanted  ground ;  for  what  fairy 
land  has  more  of  magic  in  it  than  the  bed- 
chamber of  innocence  and. beauty  ? 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  27^ 

From  various  expressions  of  the  old  man  in 
his  ravings,  and  from  what  he  had  noticed  on 
a  subsequent  visit  to  the  tower,  to  see  that  the 
fire  was  extinguished,  Antonio  had  gathered 
that  his  patient  wis  an  alchymist.  The  phi- 
losopher's stone  was  an  object  eagerly  sought 
after  by  visionaries  in  those  days ;  but  in  con- 
sequence of  the  superstitious  prejudices  of 
the  times,  and  the  frequent  persecutions  of 
its  votaries,  they  were  apt  to  pursue  their 
experiments  in  secret;  in  lonely  houses,  in 
caverns  and  ruins,  or  in  the  privacy  of  cloistered 
cells. 

In  the  course  of  the  night  the  old  man  had 
several  fits  of  restlessness  and  delirium ;  he 
would  call  out  upon  Theophrastus,  and  Geber, 
and  Albertus  Magnus,  and  other  sages  of  his 
art ;  and  anon  would  murmur  about  fermenta- 
tion and  projection,  until,  towards  daylight,  he 
once  more  sunk  into  a  salutary  sleep.  When 
the  morning  sun  darted  his  rays  into  the  case- 
ment, the  fair  Inez,  attended  by  the  female  do- 
mestic, came  blushing  into  the  chamber.    The 

VOL.  I.  T 


^4  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

student  now  took  his  leave,  having  himself  need 
of  repose,  but  obtained  ready  permission  to  re- 
turn and  inquire  after  the  sufferer. 

When  he  called  again,  he  found  the  alchy- 
mist  languid  and  in  pain,  but  apparently  suffer- 
ing more  in  mind  than  in  body.  His  delirium 
had  left  him,  and  he  had  been  informed  of  the 
particulars  of  his  deliverance,  and  of  the  sub-» 
sequent  attentions  of  the  scholar.  He  could 
do  little  more  than  look  his  thanks,  but  An- 
tonio did  not  require  them ;  his  own  heart  re- 
paid him  for  all  that  he  had  done,  and  he  almost 
rejoiced  in  the  disaster  that  had  gained  him 
an  entrance  into  this  mysterious  habitation. 
The  alchymist  was  so  helpless  as  to  need  much 
assistance ;  Antonio  remained  with  him  there- 
fore the  greater  part  of  the  day.  He  repeated 
his  visit  the  next  day,  and  the  next.  Every 
day  his  company  seemed  more  pleasing  to  the 

•  invalid ;  and  every  day  he  felt  his  interest  in 
the  latter  increasing.  Perhaps  the  presence  of 
the  daughter  might  have  been  at  the  bottom 
of  this  solicitude. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     S75 

He  had  frequent  and  long  conversations  with 
the  alchymist.  He  found  him,  as  men  of  his 
pursuits  were  apt  to  be,  a  mixture  of  enthusiasm 
and  simplicity ;  of  curious  and  extensive  read- 
ing on  points  of  little  utility,  with  great  in- 
attention to  the  every-day  occurrences  of  life, 
and  profound  ignorance  of  the  world.  He  was 
deeply  versed  in  singular  and  obscure  branches 
of  knowledge,  and  much  given  to  visionary 
speculations.  Antonio,  whose  mind  was  of  a 
romantic  cast,  had  himself  given  some  atten- 
tion to  the  occult  sciences,  and  he  entered  upon 
those  themes  with  an  ardour  that  delighted  the 
philosopher.  Their  conversations  frequently 
turned  upon  astrology,  divination,  and  the 
great  secret.  The  old  man  would  forget  his 
aches  and  wounds,  rise  up  like  a  spectre  in  his 
bed,  and  kindle  into  eloquence  on  his  favourite 
topics.  When  gently  admonished  of  his  situa- 
tion, it  would  but  prompt  him  to  another  sally 
of  thought. 

"  Alas,  my  son !"  he  would  say,  "  is  not  this 
very  decrepitude  and  suffering  anoth^-  proof 

T  2 


S76    THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

of  the  importance  of  those  secrets  with  which 
we  are  surrounded  ?  Why  are  we  trammelled 
by  disease,  withered  by  old  age,  and  our  spirits 
quenched,  as  it  were,  within  us,  but  because 
we  have  lost  those  secrets  of  life  and  youth 
which  were  known  to  our  parents  before  their 
fall  ?  To  regain  these  have  philosophers  been 
ever  since  aspiring ;  but  just  as  they  are  on  the 
point  of  securing  the  precious  secrets  for  ever, 
the  brief  period  of  life  is  at  an  end ;  they  die, 
and  with  them  all  their  wisdom  and  experience. 
'  Nothing,'  as  De  Nuysment  observes,  ^  nothing 
is  wanting  for  man's  perfection  but  a  longer 
life,  less  crossed  with  sorrows  and  maladies,  to 
the  attaining  of  the  full  and  perfect  knowledge 
of  things.'" 

At  length  Antonio  so  far  gained  on  the  heart 
of  his  patient,  as  to  draw  from  him  the  outlines 
of  his  story. 

Felix  de  Vasquez,  the  alchymist,  was  a  native 
of  Castile,  and  of  an  ancient  and  honourable 
line.  Early  in  life  he  had  married  a  beautiful 
female,  a  descendant  from  one  of  the  Moorish 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  TjJ 

families.  The  marriage  displeased  his  father, 
who  considered  the  pure  Spanish  blood  con- 
taminated by  this  foreign  mixture.  It  is  true, 
the  lady  traced  her  descent  from  one  of  the 
Abencerrages,  the  most  gallant  of  Moorish 
cavaliers,  who  had  embraced  the  Christian 
faith  on  being  exiled  from  the  walls  of  Gre- 
nada. The  injured  pride  of  the  father,  how- 
ever, was  not  to  be  appeased.  He  never  saw 
his  son  afterwards ;  and  on  dying  left  him  but 
a  scanty  portion  of  his  estate ;  bequeathing  the 
residue,  in  the  piety  and  bitterness  of  his  heart, 
to  the  erection  of  convents,  and  the  perform- 
ance of  masses  for  souls  in  purgatory.  Don 
Felix  resided  for  a  long  time  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Valladolid  in  a  state  of  embarrassment 
and  obscurity.  He  devoted  himself  to  intense 
study,  having,  while  at  the  university  of  Sala- 
manca, imbibed  a  taste  for  the  secret  sciences. 
He  was  enthusiastic  and  speculative ;  he  went 
on  from  one  branch  of  knowledge  to  another, 
until  he  became  zealous  in  the  search  after  the 
grand  Arcanum. 


278  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

He  had  at  first  engaged  in  the  pursuit  with 
the  hopes  of  raising  himself  from  his  present 
obscurity,  and  resuming  the  rank  and  dignity 
to  which  his  birth  entitled  him  ;  but,  as  usual, 
it  ended  in  absorbing  every  thought,  and  be- 
coming the  business  of  his  existence.  He  was 
at  length  aroused  from  this  mental  abstraction 
by  the  calamities  of  his  household.  A  malig- 
nant fever  swept  off  his  wife  and  all  his  child- 
ren^ excepting  an  infant  daughter.  These 
losses  for  a  time  overwhelmed  and  stupefied 
him.  His  home  had  in  a  manner  died  away 
from  around  him,  and  he  felt  lonely  and  for- 
lorn. When  his  spirit  revived  within  him,  he 
determined  to  abandon  the  scene  of  his  hu- 
miliation and  disaster ;  to  bear  away  the  child 
that  was  still  left  him,  beyond  the  scene  of 
contagion,  and  never  to  return  to  Castile  until 
he  should  be  enabled  to  reclaim  the  honours  of 
his  line. 

He  had  ever  since  been  wandering  and  un- 
settled in  his  abode.  Sometimes  the  resident 
of  populous  cities,  at  other  times  of  absolute 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAHANCA.  ^79 

solitudes.  He  had  searched  libraries,  medi- 
tated on  inscriptions,  visited  adepts  of  different 
countries,  and  sought  to  gather  and  concen- 
trate the  rays  which  had  been  thrown  by 
various  minds  upon  the  secrets  of  alchymy. 
He  had  at  one  time  travelled  quite  to  Padua 
to  search  for  the  manuscripts  of  Pietro  d*Abano, 
and  to  inspect  an  urn  which  had  been  dug  up 
near  Este,  supposed  to  have  been  buried  by 
Maximus  Olybius,  and  to  have  contained  the 
grand  elixir*. 

While  at  Padua  he  had  met  with  an  adept 
versed  in  Arabian  lore,  who  talked  of  the  in- 


*  This  urn  was  found  in  1533.  It  contained  a  lesser  one,  in 
which  was  a  burning  lamp  betwixt  two  small  vials,  the  one  of 
gold,  the  other  of  silver,  both  of  them  fuU  of  a  very  clear  hquor. 
On  the  largest  was  an  inscription,  stating  that  Maximus  Olybiu/s 
shut  up  in  this  smaU  vessel  elements  which  he  had  prepared 
with  great  toil.  There  were  many  disquisitions  among  the 
learned  on  the  subject.  It  was  the  most  received  opinion,  that 
this  Maximus  Olybius  was  an  inhabitant  of  Padua,  that  he  had 
discovered  the  great  secret,  and  that  these  vessels  contained 
liquor,  one  to  transmute  metals  to  gold,  the  other  to  silver.  The 
peasants  who  found  the  urns,  imagining  this  precious  Uquor  to 
be  common  water,  spilt  every  drop,  so  that  the  art  of  transmuting 
inetals  remains  as  much  a  secret  as  ever. 


280  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

valuable  manuscripts  that  must  remain  in  the 
Spanish  libraries,  preserved  from  the  spoils  of 
the  Moorish  academies  and  universities;  of 
the  probability  of  meeting  with  precious  un- 
published writings  of  Geber,  and  Alfarabius, 
and  Avicenna,  the  great  physicians  of  the 
Arabian  schools,  who,  it  was  well  known,  had 
treated  much  of  alchymy;  but  above  all,  he 
spoke  of  the  Arabian  tablets  of  lead,  which 
had  recently  been  dug  up  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Grenada,  and  which,  it  was  confidently 
believed  among  adepts,  contained  the  lost  se- 
crets of  the  art. 

The  indefatigable  alchymist  once  more  bent 
his  steps  for  Spain,  full  of  renovated  hope.  He 
had  made  his  way  to  Grenada :  he  had  wearied 
himself  in  the  study  of  Arabic,  in  decyphering 
inscriptions,  in  rummaging  libraries,  and  ex- 
ploring every  possible  trace  left  by  the  Arabian 
sages. 

In  all  his  wanderings  he  had  been  accompanied 
by  Inez ;  through  the  rough  and  the  smooth, 
the  pleasant  and  the  adverse ;  never  complain- 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  281 

ing,  but  rather  seeking  to  soothe  his  cares  by 
her  innocent  and  playful  caresses.  Her  in- 
struction had  been  the  employment  and  the 
delight  of  his  hours  of  relaxation.  She  had 
grown  up  while  they  were  wandering,  and  had 
scarcely  ever  known  any  home  but  by  his  side. 
He  was,  family,  friends,  home,  every  thing  to 
her.  He  had  carried  her  in  his  arms  when 
they  first  began  their  wayfaring ;  had  nestled 
her,  as  an  eagle  does  its  young,  among  the 
rocky  heights  of  the  Sierra  Morena ;  she  had 
sported  about  him  in  childhood  in  the  solitudes 
of  the  Bateucas ;  had  followed  him,  as  a  lamb 
does  the  shepherd,  over  the  rugged  Pyrenees, 
and  into  the  fair  plains  of  Languedoc;  and 
now  she  was  grown  up  to  support  his  feeble 
steps  among  the  ruined  abodes  of  her  maternal 
ancestors. 

His  property  had  gradually  wasted  away  in 
the  course  of  his  travels  and  his  experiments. 
Still  hope,  the  constant  attendant  of  the  alchy- 
mist, had  led  him  on;  ever  on  the  point  of  reap- 
ing the  reward  of  his  labours,  and  ever  dis- 


28^  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

appointed.  With  the  credulity  that  often  at- 
tended his  art,  he  attributed  many  of  his  dis- 
appointments to  the  machinations  of  the  malig- 
nant spirits  that  beset  the  path  of  the  alchy- 
mist,  and  torment  him  in  his  solitary  labours. 
"  It  is  their  constant  endeavour,"  he  observed, 
'^to  close  up  every  avenue  to  those  sublime 
truths,  which  would  enable  man  to  rise  above 
the  abject  state  into  which  he  has  fallen,  and 
to  return  to  his  original  perfection."  To  the 
evil  offices  of  these  demons  he  attributed  his 
late  disaster.  He  had  been  on  the  very  verge 
of  the  glorious  discovery;  never  were  the  in- 
dications more  completely  auspicious ;  all  was 
going  on  prosperously,  when,  at  the  critical 
moment  which  should  have  crowned  his  labours 
with  success,  and  have  placed  him  at  the  very 
summit  of  human  power  and  felicity,  the  burst- 
ing of  a  retort  had  reduced  his  laboratory  and 
himself  to  ruins. 

^^  I  must  now,"  said  he,  ''  give  up  at  the 
very  threshold  of  success.  My  books  and 
papers  are  burnt ;  my  apparatus  is  broken.    I 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  283 

am  too  old  to  bear  up  against  these  evils. 
The  ardour  that  once  inspired  me  is  gone  ;  my 
poor  frame  is  exhausted  by  study  and  watch- 
fulness, and  this  last  misfortune  has  hurried 
me  towards  the  grave."  He  concluded  in  a 
tone  of  deep  dejection.  Antonio  endeavoured 
to  comfort  and  reassure  him ;  but  the  poor 
alchymist  had  for  once  awakened  to  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  worldly  ills  that  were  gather- 
ing around  him,  and  had  sunk  into  despond- 
ency. After  a  pause,  and  some  thoughtful- 
ness  and  perplexity  of  brow,  Antonio  ventured 
to  make  a  proposal. 

"  I  have  long,"  said  he,  "  been  filled  with  a 
love  for  the  secret  sciences,  but  have  felt  too 
ignorant  and  diffident  to  give  myself  up  to 
them.  You  have  acquired  experience ;  you 
have  amassed  the  knowledge  of  a  lifetime ;  it 
were  a  pity  it  should  be  thrown  away.  You 
say  you  are  too  old  to  renew  the  toils  of  the 
laboratory,  suffer  me  to  undertake  them.  Add 
your  knowledge  to  my  youth  and  activity,  and 
what   shall  we   not  accomplish?      As  a  pro- 


284"         THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

bationary  fee,  and  a  fund  on  which  to  proceed, 
I  will  bring  into  the  common  stock  a  sum  of 
gold,  the  residue  of  a  legacy,  which  has  enabled 
me  to  complete  my  education.  A  poor  scholar 
cannot  boast  much ;  but  I  trust  we  shall  soon 
put  ourselves  beyond  the  reach  of  want ;  and 
if  we  should  fail,  why,  I  must  depend,  like 
other  scholars,  upon  my  brains  to  carry  me 
through  the  world." 

The  philosopher's  spirits, however,  were  more 
depressed  than  the  student  had  imagined.  This 
last  shock,  following  in  the  rear  of  so  many 
disappointments,  had  almost  destroyed  the  re- 
action of  his  mind.  The  fire  of  an  enthusiast, 
however,  is  never  so  low,  but  that  it  may  be 
blown  again  into  a  flame.  By  degrees  the  old 
man  was  cheered  and  reanimated  by  the  buoy- 
ancy and  ardour  of  his  sanguine  companion. 
He  at  length  agreed  to  accept  of  the  services 
of  the  student,  and  once  more  to  renew  his  ex- 
periments. He  objected,  however,  to  using 
the  student's  gold,  notwithstanding  that  his 
own  was  nearly  exhausted^  but  this  objection 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  285 

was  soon  overcome ;  the  student  insisted  on 
making  it  a  common  stock  and  common  cause ; 
— and  then  how  absurd  was  any  delicacy  about 
such  a  trifle,  with  men  who  looked  forward  to 
discovering  the  philosophers'  stone ! 

While,  therefore,  the  alchymist  was  slowly 
recovering,  the  student  busied  himself  in  get- 
ting the  laboratory  once  more  in  order.  It 
was  strewed  with  the  wrecks  of  retorts  and 
alembics,  with  old  crucibles,  boxes  and  phials 
of  powders  and  tinctures,  and  half-burnt  books 
and  manuscripts. 

As  soon  as  the  old  man  was  sufficiently  re- 
covered, the  studies  and  experiments  were 
renewed.  The  student  became  a  privileged 
and  frequent  visitor,  and  was  indefatigable  in 
his  toils  in  the  laboratory.  The  philosopher 
daily  derived  new  zeal  and  spirits  from  the 
animation  of  his  disciple.  He  was  now  enabled 
to  prosecute  the  enterprise  with  continued  ex- 
ertion, having  so  active  a  coadjutor  to  divide 
the  toil.  While  he  was  poring  over  the  writings 
of  Sandivogius,  and  Philaletehs,  and  Dominus 


286  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

de  Nuysment,  and  endeavouring  to  compre- 
hend the  symbolical  language  in  which  they 
have  locked  up  their  mysteries,  Antonio  v^ould 
occupy  himself  among  the  retorts  and  cru- 
cibles, and  keep  the  furnace  in  a  perpetual 
glow. 

With  all  his  zeal,  however,  for  the  discovery 
of  the  golden  art,  the  feelings  of  the  student 
had  not  cooled  as  to  the  object  that  first  drew 
him  to  this  ruinous  mansion.  During  the  old 
man's  illness,  he  had  frequent  opportunities  of 
being  near  the  daughter ;  and  every  day  made 
him  more  sensible  to  her  charms.  There  was 
a  pure  simplicity,  and  an  almost  passive  gen- 
tleness in  her  manners ;  yet  with  all  this  was 
mingled  something,  whether  mere  maiden  shy- 
ness, or  a  consciousness  of  high  descent,  or  a 
dash  of  Castilian  pride,  or  perhaps  all  united, 
that  prevented  undue  familiarity,  and  made 
her  difficult  of  approach.  The  danger  of  her 
father,  and  the  measures  to  be  taken  for  his 
relief,  had  at  first  overcome  this  coyness  and 
reserve;  but  as  he  recovered  and  her  alarm 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     S87 

subsided,  she  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  fami- 
liarity she  had  indulged  with  the  youthful 
stranger,  and  to  become  every  day  more  shy 
and  silent. 

Antonio  had  read  many  books,  but  this  was 
the  first  volume  of  womankind  that  he  had 
ever  studied.  He  had  been  captivated  with 
the  very  title-page ;  but  the  further  he  read 
the  more  he  was  delighted.  She  seemed  formed 
to  love ;  her  soft  black  eye  rolled  languidly 
under  its  long  silken  lashes,  and  wherever  it 
turned,  it  would  linger  and  repose ;  there  was 
tenderness  in  every  beam.  To  him  alone  she 
was  reserved  and  distant.  Now  that  the  com- 
mon cares  of  the  sick  room  were  at  an  end, 
he  saw  little  more  of  her  than  before  his  ad- 
mission to  the  house.  Sometimes  he  met  her 
on  his  way  to  and  from  the  laboratory,  and  at 
such  times  there  was  ever  a  smile  and  a  blush; 
but,  after  a  simple  salutation,  she  glided  on 
and  disappeared. 

"  'Tis  plain,"  thought  Antonio, "  my  presence 
is  indifferent,  if  not  irksome  to  her.     She  has 


S88  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

noticed  my  admiration,  and  is  determined  to 
discourage  it ;  nothing  but  a  feeling  of  grati- 
tude prevents  her  treating  me  with  marked 
distaste — and  then  has  she  not  another  lover, 
rich,  gallant,  splendid,  musical?  how  can  I 
suppose  she  would  turn  her  eyes  from  so  bril- 
liant a  cavalier,  to  a  poor  obscure  student, 
raking  among  the  cinders  of  her  father's  labo- 
ratory r 

Indeed,  the  idea  of  the  amorous  serenader 
continually  haunted  his  mind.  He  felt  con- 
vinced that  he  was  a  favoured  lover ;  yet,  if  so, 
why  did  he  not  frequent  the  tower  ?  Why  did 
he  not  make  his  approaches  by  noon-day  ? 
There  was  mystery  in  this  eaves-dropping  and 
musical  courtship.  Surely  Inez  could  not  be 
encouraging  a  secret  intrigue  !  Oh,  no !  she 
was  too  artless,  too  pure,  too  ingenuous !  But 
then  the  Spanish  females  were  so  prone  to 
love  and  intrigue ;  and  music  and  moonlight 
were  so  seductive,  and  Inez  had  such  a  tender 
soul  languishing  in  every  look. — *'  Oh!"  would 
the  poor  scholar  exclaim,  clasping  his  hands. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     289 

"  Oh  that  I  could  but  once  behold  those  loving 
eyes  beaming  on  me  with  affection !" 

It  is  incredible  to  those  who  have  not  expe- 
rienced it,  on  what  scanty  aliment  human  life 
and  human  love  may  be  supported.  A  dry 
crust,  thrown  now  and  then  to  a  starving  man, 
will  give  him  a  new  lease  of  existence ;  and  a 
faint  smile,  or  a  kind  look,  bestowed  at  casual 
intervals,  will  keep  a  lover  loving  on,  when  a 
man  in  his  sober  senses  would  despair. 

When  Antonio  found  himself  alone  in  the 
laboratory  his  mind  would  be  haunted  by  one 
of  these  looks,  or  smiles,  which  he  had  received 
in  passing.  He  would  set  it  in  every  possible 
light,  and  argue  on  it  with  all  the  self-pleasing, 
self-teasing  logic  of  a  lover. 

The  country  around  him  was  enough  to 
awaken  that  voluptuousness  of  feeling  so  fa- 
vourable to  the  growth  of  passion.  The  win- 
dow of  the  tower  rose  above  the  trees  of  the 
romantic  valley  of  the  Darro,  and  looked  down 
upon  some  of  the  loveliest  scenery  of  the  Vega, 
where  groves  of  citron  and  orange  were  re- 

VOL.  I.  u 


290  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

freshed  by  cool  springs  and  brooks  of  the 
purest  water.  The  Xenel  and  the  Darro  wound 
their  shining  streams  along  the  plain,  and 
gleamed  from  among  its  bowers.  The  sur- 
rounding hills  were  covered  with  vineyards, 
and  the  mountains  crowned  with  snow,  seemed 
to  melt  into  the  blue  sky.  The  delicate  airs 
that  played  about  the  tower  were  perfumed  by 
the  fragrance  of  myrtle  and  orange  blossoms, 
and  the  ear  was  charmed  with  the  fond  war- 
bling of  the  nightingale,  which,  in  these  happy 
regions^  sings  the  whole  day  long.  Sometimes, 
too,  there  was  the  idle  song  of  the  muleteer, 
sauntering  along  the  solitary  road;  or  the 
notes  of  the  guitar  from  some  group  of  pea- 
sants dancing  in  the  shade.  All  these  were 
enough  to  fill  the  head  of  a  young  lover  with 
poetic  fancies ;  and  Antonio  would  picture  to 
himself  how  he  could  loiter  among  those  happy 
groves,  and  wander  by  those  gentle  rivers,  and 
love  away  his  life  with  Inez. 

He  felt  at  times  impatient  at  his  own  weak- 
ness, and  would  endeavour  to  brush  away  these 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     29 X 

cobwebs  of  the  mind.  He  would  turn  his 
thought,  with  sudden  effort,  to  his  occult  stu- 
dies, or  occupy  himself  in  some  perplexing  pro- 
cess ;  but  often,  when  he  had  partially  suc- 
ceeded in  fixing  his  attention,  the  sound  of 
Inez'  lute,  or  the  soft  notes  of  her  voice,  would 
come  stealing  upon  the  stillness  of  the  cham- 
ber, and,  as  it  were,  floating  round  the  tower. 
There  was  no  great  art  in  her  performance ; 
but  Antonio  thought  he  had  never  heard  music 
comparable  to  this.  It  was  perfect  witchcraft 
to  hear  her  warble  forth  some  of  her  national 
melodies ;  those  little  Spanish  romances  and 
Moorish  ballads  that  transport  the  hearer,  in 
idea,  to  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquiver,  or  the 
walls  of  the  Alhambra,  and  make  him  dream 
of  beauties,  and  balconies,  and  moonlight  sere- 
nades. 

Never  was  poor  student  more  sadly  beset 
than  Antonio.  Love  is  a  troublesome  com- 
panion in  a  study  at  the  best  of  times ;  but 
in  the  laboratory  of  an  alchymist  his  intrusion 
is  terribly  disastrous.     Instead  of  attending 


292  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

to  the  retorts  and  crucibles,  and  watching  the 
process  of  some  experiment  intrusted  to  his 
charge,  the  student  would  get  entranced  in  one 
of  these  love-dreams,  from  which  he  would 
often  be  aroused  by  some  fatal  catastrophe. 
The  philosopher,  on  returning  from  his  re- 
searches in  the  libraries,  would  find  every 
thing  gone  wrong,  and  Antonio  in  despair 
over  the  ruins  of  the  whole  day's  work.  The 
old  man,  however,  took  all  quietly,  for  his  had 
been  a  life  of  experiment  and  failure. 

"  We  must  have  patience,  my  son,"  would  he 
say,  "  as  all  the  great  masters  that  have  gone 
before  us  have  had.  Errors,  and  accidents, 
and  delays,  are  what  we  have  to  contend  with. 
Did  not  Pontanus  err  two  hundred  times  be- 
fore he  could  obtain  even  the  matter  on  which 
to  found  his  experiments  ?  The  great  Flamel, 
too,  did  he  not  labour  four  and  twenty  years, 
before  he  ascertained  the  first  agent  ?  What 
difficulties  and  hardships  did  not  Cartilaceus 
encounter,  at  the  very  threshold  of  his  disco- 
veries ?  And  Bernard  de  Treves,  even  after  he 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  ^93 

had  attained  a  knowledge  of  all  the  requisites, 
was  he  not  delayed  full  three  years  ?  What 
you  consider  accidents,  my  son,  are  the  machi- 
nations of  our  invisible  enemies.  The  trea- 
sures and  golden  secrets  of  nature  are  sur- 
rounded by  spirits  hostile  to  man.  The  air 
about  us  teems  with  them.  They  lurk  in  the 
fire  of  the  furnace,  in  the  bottom  of  the  crucible 
and  the  alembic,  and  are  ever  on  the  alert  to 
take  advantage  of  those  moments  when  our 
minds  are  wandering  from  intense  medita- 
tion on  the  great  truth  that  we  are  seeking. 
We  must  only  strive  the  more  to  purify  our- 
selves from  those  gross  and  earthly  feelings 
which  becloud  the  soul,  and  prevent  her  from 
piercing  into  nature's  arcana." 

''  Alas  !"  thought  Antonio, "  if  to  be  purified 
from  all  earthly  feeling  requires  that  I  should 
cease  to  love  Inez,  I  fear  I  shall  never  discover 
the  philosophers'  stone !" 

In  this  way  matters  went  on  for  some  time 
at  the  alchymist's.  Day  after  day  was  sending 
the  student's  gold  in  vapour  up  the  chimney ; 


^94  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANGA. 

every  blast  of  the  furnace  made  him  a  ducat 
the  poorer,  without  apparently  helping  him  a 
jot  nearer  to  the  golden  secret.  Still  the 
young  man  stood  by,  and  saw  piece  after  piece 
disappearing  without  a  murmur :  he  had  daily 
an  opportunity  of  seeing  Inez,  and  felt  as  if 
her  favour  would  b'e  better  than  silver  or  gold, 
land  that  every  smile  was  worth  a  ducat. 

Sometimes,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  when 
the  toils  of  the  laboratory  happened  to  be 
suspended,  he  would  walk  with  the  alchymist 
in  what  had  once  been  a  garden  belonging  to 
the  mansion.  There  were  still  the  remains  of 
terraces  and  balustrades,  and  here  and  there 
a  marble  Urn,  or  mutilated  statue  overturned> 
and  buried  among  weeds  and  flowers  run  wild. 
It  was  the  favourite  resort  of  the  alchymist  in 
his  hours  of  relaxation,  where  he  would  give 
full  scope  to  his  visionary  flights.  His  mind 
was  tinctured  with  the  Rosycrucian  doctrines. 
He  believed  in  elementary  beings ;  some  favour- 
able, others  adverse  to  his  pursuits;  and  in 
the  exaltation  of  his  f ancy>  had  often  imagined 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  ^9^ 

that  he  held  communion  with  them  in  his  so- 
litary walks  about  the  whispering  groves  and 
echoing  walls  of  this  old  garden. 

When  accompanied  by  Antonio,  he  would 
prolong  these  evening  recreations*  Indeed,  he 
sometimes  did  it  out  of  consideration  for  his  dis- 
ciple, for  he  feared  lest  his  too  close  application, 
and  his  incessant  seclusion  in  the  tower,  should 
be  injurious  to  his  health.  He  was  delighted 
and  surprised  by  this  extraordinary  zeal  and 
perseverance  in  so  young  a  tyro,  and  looked 
upon  him  as  destined  to  be  one  of  the  great 
luminaries  of  the  art.  Lest  the  student  should 
repine  at  the  time  lost  in  these  relaxations,  the 
good  alchymist  would  fill  them  up  with  whole- 
some knowledge,  in  matters  connected  with 
their  pursuits ;  and  would  walk  up  and  down 
the  alleys  with  his  disciple,  imparting  oral  in- 
struction, like  an  ancient  philosopher.  In  all 
his  visionary  schemes  there  breathed  a  spirit 
of  lofty,  though  chimerical,  philanthropy,  that 
won  the  admiration  of  the  scholar.  Nothing 
sordid,  nor  sensual ;  nothing  petty  nor  selfish 


296     THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

seemed  to  enter  into  his  views,  in  respect  to 
the  grand  discoveries  he  was  anticipating.  On 
the  contrary  his  imagination  kindled  with  con- 
ceptions of  widely  dispensated  happiness.  He 
looked  forward  to  the  time  when  he  should 
be  able  to  go  about  the  earth  relieving  the 
indigent,  comforting  the  distressed ;  and,  by  his 
unlimited  means,  devising  and  executing  plans 
for  the  complete  extirpation  of  poverty,  and 
all  its  attendant  sufferings  and  crimes.  Never 
were  grander  schemes  for  general  good,  for 
the  distribution  of  boundless  wealth  and  uni- 
versal competence,  devised,  than  by  this  poor, 
indigent  alchymist  in  his  ruined  tower. 

Antonio  would  attend  these  peripatetic  lec- 
tures with  all  the  ardour  of  a  devotee ;  but 
there  was  another  circumstance  which  may 
have  given  a  secret  charm  to  them.  The  garden 
was  the  resort  also  of  Inez,  where  she  took  her 
walks  of  recreation ;  the  only  exercise  that 
her  secluded  life  permitted.  As  Antonio  was 
duteously  pacing  by  the  side  of  his  instructor, 
he  would  often  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  daughter. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     297 

walking  pensively  about  the  alleys  in  the  soft 
twilight.  Sometimes  they  would  meet  her 
unexpectedly,  and  the  heart  of  the  student 
would  throb  with  agitation.  A  blush  too  would 
crimson  the  cheek  of  Inez,  but  still  she  passed 
on,  and  never  joined  them. 

He  had  remained  one  evening,  until  rather 
a  late  hour,  with  the  alchymist  in  this  favourite 
resort.  It  was  a  delightful  night  after  a  sultry 
day,  and   the  balmy   air  of  the  garden  was 
peculiarly  reviving.     The  old  man  was  seated 
on  a  fragment  of  a  pedestal,  looking  like  a  part 
of  the  ruin  on  which  he  sat.     He  was  edifying 
his  pupil  by  long  lessons  of  wisdom  from  the 
stars,  as  they  shone  out  with  brilliant  lustre  in 
the  dark  blue  vault  of  a  southern  sky  ;  for  he 
was  deeply  versed  in  Behmen,  and  other  of 
the    Rosicrucians,    and    talked    much    of  the 
signature  of  earthly  things,  and  passing  events, 
which  may  be  discerned  in   the  heavens  ;  of 
the  power  of  the  stars  over  corporeal  beings, 
and  their  influence  on  the  fortunes  of  the  sons 
of  men. 

By  degrees  the  moon  rose,  and  shed  her 


"^98  THE   STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

gleaming  light  among  the  groves.  Antonio 
apparently  listened  with  fixed  attention  to  the 
sage,  but  his  ear  was  drinking  in  the  melody 
of  Inez'  voice,  who  was  singing  to  her  lute  in 
one  of  the  moonlight  glades  of  the  garden. 
The  old  man  having  exhausted  his  theme,  sat 
gazing  in  silent  reverie  at  the  heavens.  An- 
tonio could  not  resist  an  inclination  to  steal  a 
look  at  this  coy  beauty,  who  was  thus  playing 
the  part  of  the  nightingale,  so  sequestered  and 
musical.  Leaving  the  alchymist  in  his  celestial 
reverie,  he  stole  gently  along  one  of  the  alleys. 
The  music  had  ceased,  and  he  thought  he 
heard  the  sound  of  voices.  He  came  to  an 
angle  of  a  copse  that  had  screened  a  kind  of 
green  recess,  ornamented  by  a  marble  foun- 
tain. The  moon  shone  full  upon  the  place, 
and  by  its  light,  he  beheld  his  unknown  sere- 
nading rival  at  the  feet  of  Inez.  He  was  de- 
taining her  by  the  hand,  which  he  covered  with 
kisses ;  but  at  sight  of  Antonio  he  started  up 
and  half  drew  his  sword,  while  Inez,  disen- 
gaged, fled  back  to  the  house. 

All  the  jealous  doubts  and  fears  of  Antonio 


tHE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  299 

were  now  confirmed.  He  did  not  remain  to 
encounter  the  resentment  of  his  happy  rival 
at  being  thus  interrupted^  but  turned  from  the 
place  in  sudden  wretchedness  of  heart.  That 
Inez  should  love  another  would  have  been 
misery  enough ;  but  that  she  should  be  capable 
of  a  dishonourable  amour,  shocked  him  to  the 
souL  The  idea  of  deception  in  so  young  and 
apparently  artless  a  being,  brought  with  it 
that  sudden  distrust  in  human  nature,  so 
sickening  to  a  youthful  and  ingenuous  mind ; 
but  when  he  thought  of  the  kind,  simple  pa-* 
rent  she  was  deceiving,  whose  affections  all 
centered  in  her,  he  felt  for  a  moment  a  senti- 
ment of  indignation,  and  almost  of  aversion. 

He  found  the  alchymist  still  seated  in  his 
visionary  contemplation  of  the  moon.  "  Come 
hither,  my  son/'  said  he,  with  his  usual  en- 
thusiasm; "  come>  read  with  me  in  this  vast  vo- 
lume of  wisdom,  thus  nightly  unfolded  for  our 
perusal.  Wisely  did  the  Chaldean  sages  affirm^ 
that  the  heaveti  is  as  a  mystic  page,  uttering 
speech  to  those  who  can  rightly  understand  X 


300  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

warning  them  of  good  and  evil,  and  instructing 
them  in  the  secret  decrees  of  fate." 

The  student's  heart  ached  for  his  venerable 
master ;  and,  for  a  moment,  he  felt  the  futility 
of  all  his  occult  wisdom.  **  Alas  !  poor  old 
man ! "  thought  he,  "  of  what  avails  all  thy 
study  ?  Little  dost  thou  dream,  while  busied 
in  airy  speculations  among  the  stars,  what  a 
treason  against  thy  happiness  is  going  on  under 
thine  eyes ;  as  it  were,  in  thy  very  bosom! — Oh 
Inez !  Inez !  where  shall  we  look  for  truth  and 
innocence ;  where  shall  we  repose  confidence 
in  woman,  if  even  you  can  deceive  ?" 

It  was  a  trite  apostrophe,  such  as  every  lover 
makes  when  he  finds  his  mistress  not  quite 
such  a  goddess  as  he  had  painted  her.  With 
the  student,  however,  it  sprung  from  honest 
anguish  of  heart.  He  returned  to  his  lodgings 
in  pitiable  confusion  of  mind.  He  now  de- 
plored the  infatuation  that  had  led  him  on 
until  his  feelings  were  so  thoroughly  engaged. 
He  resolved  to  abandon  his  pursuits  at  the 
tower,  and  trust  to  absence  to  dispel  the  fasci- 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     301 

nation  by  which  he  had  been  spell-bound.  He 
no  longer  thirsted  after  the  discovery  of  the 
grand  elixir :  the  dream  of  alchymy  was  over ; 
for  without  Inez,  what  was  the  value  of  the 
philosophers'  stone  ? 

He  rose,  after  a  sleepless  night,  with  the  de- 
termination of  taking  his  leave  of  the  alchymist, 
and  tearing  himself  from  Grenada.  For  several 
days  did  he  rise  with  the  same  resolution,  and 
every  night  saw  him  come  back  to  his  pillow 
to  repine  at  his  want  of  resolution,  and  to  make 
fresh  determinations  for  the  morrow.  In  the 
meanwhile  he  saw  less  of  Inez  than  ever.  She 
no  longer  walked  in  the  garden,  but  remained 
almost  entirely  in  her  apartment.  When  she 
met  him,  she  blushed  more  than  usual;  and 
once  hesitated,  as  if  she  would  have  spoken ; 
but  after  a  temporary  embarrassment,  and  still 
deeper  blushes,  she  made  some  casual  observa- 
tion, and  retired.  Antonio  read  in  this  con- 
fusion, a  consciousness  of  fault,  and  of  that 
fault's  being  discovered.  "  What  could  she 
have   wished   to   communicate  ?     Perhaps   to 


302    THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

account  for  the  scene  in  the  garden ; — but  how 
can  she  account  for  it,  or  why  should  she  ac- 
count for  it  to  me  ?  What  am  I  to  her  ? — or 
rather,  what  is  she  to  me?"  exclaimed  he, 
impatiently ;  with  a  new  resolution  to  break 
through  these  entanglements  of  the  heart,  and 
fly  from  this  enchanted  spot  for  ever. 

He  was  returning  that  very  night  to  his 
lodgings,  full  of  this  excellent  determination, 
when,  in  a  shadowy  part  of  the  road,  he  passed 
a  person,  whom  he  recognised,  by  his  height 
and  form,  for  his  rival:  he  was  going  in  the 
direction  of  the  tower.  If  any  lingering  doubts 
remained,  here  was  an  opportunity  of  settling 
them  completely.  He  determined  to  follow 
this  unknown  cavalier,  and,  under  favour  of 
the  darkness,  observe  his  movements.  If  be 
obtained  access  to  the  tower,  or  in  any  way  a 
favourable  reception,  Antonio  felt  as  if  it  would 
be  a  relief  to  his  mind,  and  would  enable  him 
to  fix  his  wavering  resolution. 

The  miknown,  as  he  came  near  the  tower, 
was  more  cautious  and  stealthy  in   his   ap^ 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  303 

proaches.  He  was  joined  under  a  clump  of 
trees  by  another  person,  and  they  had  much 
whispering  together.  A  light  was  burning  in 
the  chamber  of  Inez,  the  curtain  was  down, 
but  the  casement  was  left  open,  as  the  night 
was  warm.  After  some  time,  the  light  was 
extinguished.  A  considerable  interval  elapsed. 
The  cavalier  and  his  companion  remained 
imder  covert  of  the  trees,  as  if  keeping  watch. 
At  length  they  approached  the  tower  with 
silent  and  cautious  steps.  The  cavalier  re- 
ceived a  dark  lantern  from  his  companion,  and 
threw  off  his  cloak.  The  other  then  softly 
brought  something  from  the  clump  of  trees, 
which  Antonio  perceived  to  be  a  light  ladder : 
he  placed  it  against  the  wall,  and  the  sere- 
nader  gently  ascended.  A  sickening  sensation 
came  over  Antonio.  Here  was  indeed  a  con- 
firmation of  every  fear.  He  was  about  to 
leave  the  place,  never  to  return,  when  he  heard 
a  stifled  shriek  from  Inez'  chamber. 

In  an  instant  the  fellow  that  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  ladder  lay  prostrate  on  the  ground. 


304  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA- 

Antonio  wrested  a  stiletto  from  his  nerveless 
hand,  and  hurried  up  the  ladder.  He  sprang 
in  at  the  window,  and  found  Inez  struggling 
in  the  grasp  of  his  fancied  rival :  the  latter, 
disturbed  from  his  prey,  caught  up  his  lan- 
tern, turned  its  light  full  upon  Antonio,  and 
drawing  his  sword,  made  a  furious  assault; 
luckily  the  student  saw  the  light  gleam  along 
the  blade,  and  parried  the  thrust  with  the 
stiletto.  A  fierce,  but  unequal  combat,  en- 
sued. Antonio  fought  exposed  to  the  full 
glare  of  the  light,  while  his  antagonist  was 
in  shadow :  his  stiletto,  too,  was  but  a  poor 
defence  against  a  rapier.  He  saw  that  nothing 
would  save  him,  but  closing  with  his  adversary 
and  getting  within  his  weapon :  he  rushed 
furiously  upon  him,  and  gave  him  a  severe 
blow  with  the  stiletto ;  but  received  a  wound 
in  return  from  the  shortened  sword.  At  the 
same  moment  a  blow  was  inflicted  from  behind, 
by  the  confederate,  who  had  ascended  the 
ladder ;  it  felled  him  to  the  floor,  and  his  an- 
tagonists made  their  escape. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.    305 

By  this  time  the  cries  of  Inez  had  brought 
her  father  and  the  domestic  to  the  room.  An- 
tonio was  found  weltering  in  his  blood,  and 
senseless.  He  was  conveyed  to  the  chamber 
of  the  alchymist,  who  now  repaid  in  kind  the 
attentions  which  the  student  had  once  be- 
stowed upon  him.  Among  his  varied  know- 
ledge he  possessed  some  skill  in  surgery,  which 
at  this  moment  was  of  more  value  than  even 
his  chymical  lore.  He  stanched  and  dressed 
the  wounds  of  his  disciple,  which  on  examina- 
tion proved  less  desperate  than  he  had  at  first 
apprehended.  For  a  few  days,  however,  his 
case  was  anxious,  and  attended  with  danger. 
The  old  man  watched  over  him  with  the 
affection  of  a  parent.  He  felt  a  double  debt 
of  gratitude  towards  him  on  account  of  his 
daughter  and  himself:  he  loved  him  too  as  a 
faithful  and  zealous  disciple ;  and  he  dreaded 
lest  the  world  should  be  deprived  of  the  pro- 
mising talents  of  so  aspiring  an  alchymist. 

An  excellent  constitution  soon  medicined 
his  wounds ;  and  there  was  a  balsam  in  the 

VOL.  I.  X 


306  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

looks  and  words  of  Inez,  that  had  a  heaHng 
effect  on  still  severer  wounds  which  he  carried 
in  his  heart.  She  displayed  the  strongest 
interest  in  his  safety;  she  called  him  her  de- 
liverer, her  preserver.  It  seemed  as  if  her 
grateful  disposition  sought,  in  the  warmth  of 
its  acknowledgments,  to  repay  him  for  past 
coldness.  But  what  most  contributed  to  An- 
tonio's recovery,  was  her  explanation  concern- 
ing his  supposed  rival.  It  was  some  time  since 
he  had  first  beheld  her  at  church,  and  he  had 
ever  since  persecuted  her  with  his  attentions. 
He  had  beset  her  in  her  walks,  until  she  had 
been  obliged  to  confine  herself  to  the  house, 
except  when  accompanied  by  her  father.  He 
had  besieged  her  with  letters,  serenades,  and 
every  art  by  which  he  could  urge  a  vehement, 
but  clandestine  and  dishonourable  suit.  The 
scene  in  the  garden  was  as  much  of  a  surprise 
to  her  as  to  Antonio.  Her  persecutor  had  been 
attracted  by  her  voice,  and  had  found  his  way 
over  a  ruined  part  of  the  wall.  He  had  come 
upon  her  unawares;    was  detaining  her    by 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.    307 

force,  and  pleading  his  insulting  passion,  when 
the  appearance  of  the  student  interrupted  him, 
and  enabled  her  to  make  her  escape.  She  had 
forborne  to  mention  to  her  father  the  perse- 
cution which  she  suffered ;  she  wished  to  spare 
him  unavailing  anxiety  and  distress,  and  had 
determined  to  confine  herself  more  rigorously 
to  the  house ;  though  it  appeared  that  even 
here  she  had  not  been  safe  from  his  daring 
enterprise. 

Antonio  inquired  whether  she  knew  the  name 
of  this  impetuous  admirer  ?  She  replied,  that 
he  had  made  his  advances  under  a  fictitious 
name ;  but  that  she  had  heard  him  once  called 
by  the  name  of  Don  Ambrosio  de  Loxa. 

Antonio  knew  him,  by  report,  for  one  of  the 
most  determined  and  dangerous  libertines  in 
all  Grenada.  Artful,  accomplished,  and,  if  he 
chose  to  be  so,  insinuating ;  but  daring  and 
headlong  in  the  pursuit  of  his  pleasures ; 
violent  and  implacable  in  his  resentments.  He 
rejoiced  to  find  that  Inez  had  been  proof 
against  his  seductions,  and  had  been  inspired 

x2 


308  THE    STU1>ENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

with  aversion  by  his  splendid  profligacy ;  but 
he  trembled  to  think  of  the  dangers  she  had 
run,  and  he  felt  solicitude  about  the  dangers 
that  must  yet  environ  her. 

At  present,  however,  it  was  probable  the 
enemy  had  a  temporary  quietus.  The  traces 
of  blood  had  been  found  for  some  distance 
from  the  ladder,  until  they  were  lost  among 
thickets ;  and,  as  nothing  had  been  heard  or 
seen  of  him  since,  it  was  concluded  that  he  had 
been  seriously  wounded. 

As  the  student  recovered  from  his  wounds, 
he  was  enabled  to  join  Inez  and  her  father  in 
their  domestic  intercourse.  The  chamber  in 
which  they  usually  met  had  probably  been  a 
saloon  of  state  in  former  times.  The  floor  was 
of  marble;  the  walls  partially  covered  with 
remains  of  tapestry ;  the  chairs,  richly  carved 
and  gilt,  were  crazed  with  age,  and  covered 
with  tarnished  and  tattered  brocade.  Against 
the  wall  hung  a  long,  rusty  rapier,  the  only 
relique  that  the  old  man  retained  of  the  chivalry 
of  his  ancestors.    There  might  have  been  some- 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     309 

thing  to  provoke  a  smile  in  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  mansion  and  its  inhabitants ;  between 
present  poverty  and  the  traces  of  departed 
grandeur;  but  the  fancy  of  the  student  had 
thrown  so  much  romance  about  the  edifice  and 
its  inmates,  that  every  thing  was  clothed  with 
charms.  The  philosopher,  with  his  broken- 
down  pride,  and  his  strange  pursuits,  seemed 
to  comport  with  the  melancholy  ruin  he  inha- 
bited ;  and  there  was  a  native  elegance  of  spirit 
about  the  daughter,  that  showed  she  would 
have  graced  the  mansion  in  its  happier  days. 

What  delicious  moments  were  these  to  the 
student !  Inez  was  no  longer  coy  and  reserved. 
She  was  naturally  artless  and  confiding;  though 
the  kind  of  persecution  she  had  experienced 
from  one  admirer  had  rendered  her,  for  a  time, 
suspicious  and  circumspect  towards  the  other. 
She  now  felt  an  entire  confidence  in  the  sin- 
cerity and  worth  of  Antonio,  mingled  with  an 
overflowing  gratitude.  When  her  eyes  met  his, 
they  beamed  with  sympathy  and  kindness  ;  and 


310  THE    STUDENT    OF  iSALAMANCA. 

Antonio,  no  longer  haunted  by  the  idea  of  a 
favoured  rival,  once  more  aspired  to  success. 

At  these  domestic  meetings,  however,  he  had 
little  opportunity  of  paying  his  court,  except 
by  looks.  The  alchymist  supposing  him,  like 
himself,  absorbed  in  the  study  of  alchymy, 
endeavoured  to  cheer  the  tediousness  of  his 
recovery  by  long  conversations  on  the  art.  He 
even  brought  several  of  his  half-burnt  volumes, 
v^hich  the  student  had  once  rescued  from  the 
flames,  and  rewarded  him  for  their  preservation, 
by  reading  copious  passages.  He  would  enter- 
tain him  with  the  great  and  good  acts  of  Flamel, 
which  he  effected  through  means  of  the  phi- 
losophers' stone,  relieving  widows  and  orphans, 
founding  hospitals,  building  churches,  and  what 
not ;  or  with  the  interrogatories  of  King  Kalid, 
and  the  answers  of  Morienus,  the  Roman 
hermit  of  Hierusalem ;  or  the  profound  ques- 
tions which  Elardus,  a  necromancer  of  the  pro- 
vince of  Catalonia,  put  to  the  Devil,  touching 
the  secrets  of  alchymy,  and  the  Devil's  replies. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     311 

All  these  were  couched  in  occult  language, 
almost  unintelligible  to  the  unpractised  ear  of 
the  disciple.  Indeed,  the  old  man  delighted  in 
the  mystic  phrases  and  symbolical  jargon  in 
which  the  writers  that  have  treated  of  alchymy 
have  wrapped  their  communications  ;  rendering 
them  incomprehensible  except  to  the  initiated. 
With  what  rapture  would  he  elevate  his  voice 
at  a  triumphant  passage,  announcing  the  grand 
discovery !  "  Thou  shalt  see,"  would  he  ex- 
claim in  the  words  of  Henry  Kuhnrade  *,  "  the 
stone  of  the  philosophers  (our  king)  go  forth 
of  the  bedchamber  of  his  glassy  sepulchre  into 
the  theatre  of  this  world  ;  that  is  to  say,  rege- 
nerated and  made  perfect,  a  shining  carbuncle,  a 
most  temperate  splendour,  whose  most  subtle 
and  depurated  parts  are  inseparable,  united 
into  one  with  a  concordial  mixture,  exceeding 
equal,  transparent  as  chrystal,  shining  red  like 
a  ruby,  permanently  colouring  or  ringing,  fixt 
in  all  temptations  or  tryals ;  yea,  in  the  exa- 
mination of  the  burning  sulphur  itself,  and  the 

*  Amphitheatre  of  the  Eternal  Wisdom. 


31^  THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

devouring  waters,  and  in  the  most  vehement 
persecution  of  the  fire,  alv^ays  incombustible 
and  permanent  as  a  salamander !" 

The  student  had  a  high  veneration  for  the 
fathers  of  alchymy,  and  a  profound  respect  for 
his  instructor  ;  but  what  was  Henry  Kuhnrade, 
Geber,  Lully,  or  even  Albertus  Magnus  him- 
self, compared  to  the  countenance  of  Inez, 
,  which  presented  such  a  page  of  beauty  to  his 
perusal  ?  While,  therefore,  the  good  alchy- 
mist  was  doling  out  knowledge  by  the  hour, 
his  disciple  would  forget  books,  alchymy,  every 
thing  but  the  lovely  object  before  him.  Inez, 
too,  unpractised  in  the  science  of  the  heart, 
was  gradually  becoming  fascinated  by  the 
silent  attentions  of  her  lover.  Day  by  day 
she  seemed  more  and  more  perplexed  by  the 
kindling  and  strangely  pleasing  emotions  of 
her  bosom.  Her  eye  was  often  cast  down  in 
thought.  Blushes  stole  to  her  cheek  without 
any  apparent  cause,  and  light,  half-suppressed 
sighs,  would  follow  these  short  fits  of  musing. 
Her  little  ballads,  though  the  same  that  she  had 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.    313 

always  sung,  yet  breathed  a  more  tender  spirit. 
Either  the  tones  of  her  voice  were  more  soft 
and  touching,  or  some  passages  were  delivered 
with  a  feeling  which  she  had  never  before  given 
them.  Antonio,  besides  his  love  for  the  abstruse 
sciences,  had  a  pretty  turn  for  music  ;  and 
never  did  philosopher  touch  the  guitar  more 
tastefully.  As,  by  degrees,  he  conquered  the 
mutual  embarrassment  that  kept  them  asunder, 
he  ventured  to  accompany  Inez  in  some  of  her 
songs.  He  had  a  voice  full  of  fire  and  tender- 
ness :  as  he  sang,  one  would  have  thought,  from 
the  kindling  blushes  of  his  companion,  that  he 
had  been  pleading  his  own  passion  in  her  ear. 
Let  those  who  would  keep  two  youthful  hearts 
asunder  beware  of  music.  Oh !  this  leaning  over 
chairs,  and  conning  the  same  music  book,  and 
entwining  of  voices,  and  melting  away  in  har- 
monies ! — the  German  waltz  is  nothing  to  it. 

The  worthy  alchymist  saw  nothing  of  all 
this.  His  mind  could  admit  of  no  idea  that 
was  not  connected  with  the  discovery  of  the 


314     THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

grand  arcanum,  and  he  supposed  his  youthful 
coadjutor  equally  devoted.  He  was  a  mere 
child  as  to  human  nature ;  and,  as  to  the  pas- 
sion of  love,  whatever  he  might  once  have  felt 
of  it,  he  had  long  since  forgotten  that  there  wa^ 
such  an  idle  passion  in  existence.  But,  while 
he  dreamed,  the  silent  amour  went  on.  The 
very  quiet  and  seclusion  of  the  place  were 
favourable  to  the  growth  of  romantic  passion. 
The  opening  bud  of  love  was  able  to  put  forth 
leaf  by  leaf,  without  an  adverse  wind  to  check 
its  growth.  There  was  neither  officious  friend- 
ship to  chill  by  its  advice,  nor  insidious  envy 
wither  by  its  sneers,  nor  an  observing  world  to 
look  on  and  stare  it  out  of  countenance.  There 
was  neither  declaration,  nor  vow,  nor  any  other 
form  of  Cupid's  canting  school.  Their  hearts 
mingled  together,  and  understood  each  other 
without  the  aid  of  language.  They  lapsed  into 
the  full  current  of  alFection,  unconscious  of  its 
depth,  and  thoughtless  of  the  rocks  that  might 
lurk  beneath  its  surface.     Happy  lovers !  who 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  315 

wanted  nothing  to  make  their  felicity  com- 
plete, but  the  discovery  of  the  philosophers' 
stone ! 

At  length  Antonio's  health  was  sufficiently 
restored  to  enable  him  to  return  to  his  lodg- 
ings in  Grenada.  He  felt  uneasy,  however,  at 
leaving  the  tower,  while  lurking  danger  might 
surround  its  almost  defenceless  inmates.  He 
dreaded  lest  Don  Ambrosio,  recovered  from  his 
wounds,  might  plot  some  new  attempt,  by 
secret  art,  or  open  violence.  From  all  that  he 
had  heard,  he  knew  him  to  be  too  implacable 
to  suffer  his  defeat  to  pass  unavenged,  and  too 
rash  and  fearless,  when  his  arts  were  unavail- 
ing, to  stop  at  any  daring  deed  in  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  purposes.  He  urged  his  ap- 
prehensions to  the  alchymist  and  his  daughter, 
and  proposed  that  they  should  abandon  the 
dangerous  vicinity  of  Grenada. 

'^I  have  relations,"  said  he,  "in  Valentia, 
poor  indeed,  but  worthy  and  affectionate. 
Among  them  you  will  find  friendship  and  quiet, 
and  we  may  there  pursue  our  labours  unmo- 


316  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

lested."  He  went  on  to  paint  the  beauties  and 
delights  of  Valentia  with  all  the  fondness  of  a 
native,  and  all  the  eloquence  with  which  a 
lover  paints  the  fields  and  groves  which  he  is 
picturing  as  the  future  scenes  of  his  happiness. 
His  eloquence,  backed  by  the  apprehensions  of 
Inez,  was  successful  with  the  alchymist,  who, 
indeed,  had  led  too  unsettled  a  life  to  be  par- 
ticular about  the  place  of  his  residence ;  and  it 
was  determined,  that,  as  soon  as  Antonio's 
health  was  perfectly  restored,  they  should 
abandon  the  tower,  and  seek  the  delicious 
neighbourhood  of  Valentia  *. 

*  Here  are  the  strongest  silks,  the  sweetest  wines,  the  exceU 
lent'st  almonds,  the  best  oyls  and  beautifuirst  females  of  all 
Spain.  The  very  bruit  animals  make  themselves  beds  of  rose- 
maryy  and  other  fragrant  flowers  hereabouts ;  and  when  one  is 
at  sea,  if  the  winde  blow  from  the  shore,  he  may  smell  this  soyl 
before  he  come  in  sight  of  it  many  leagues  off,  by  the  strong 
oderiferous  scent  it  casts.  As  it  is  the  most  pleasant,  so  it  is  also 
the  temperat'st  clime  of  all  Spain,  and  they  commonly  call  it 
the  second  Italy,  which  made  the  Moors,  whereof  many  thou- 
sands were  disterr'd,  and  banish'd  hence  to  Barbary,  to;  think 
that  Paradise  was  in  that  part  of  the  heavens  which  hung  over 
this  citie. 

\.        Howell's  Letters. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     317 

To  recruit  his  strength,  the  student  sus- 
pended his  toils  in  the  laboratory,  and  spent 
the  few  remaining  days,  before  departure,  in 
taking  a  farewell  look  at  the  enchanting  envi- 
rons of  Grenada.  He  felt  returning  health  and 
vigour  as  he  inhaled  the  pure  temperate  breezes 
that  play  about  its  hills ;  and  the  happy  state 
of  his  mind  contributed  to  his  rapid  recovery. 
Inez  was  often  the  companion  of  his  walks. 
Her  descent,  by  the  mother's  side,  from  one  of 
the  ancient  Moorish  families,  gave  her  an  in- 
terest in  this  once  favourite  seat  of  Arabian 
power.  She  gazed  with  enthusiasm  upon  its 
magnificent  monuments,  and  her  memory  was 
filled  with  the  traditional  tales  and  ballads  of 
Moorish  chivalry.  Indeed  the  solitary  life  she 
had  led,  and  the  visionary  turn  of  her  father's 
mind,  had  produced  an  effect  upon  her  cha- 
racter, and  given  it  a  tinge  of  what,  in  modern 
days,  would  be  termed  romance.  All  this  was 
called  into  full  force  by  this  new  passion ;  for, 
when  a  woman  first  begins  to  love,  life  is  all 
romance  to  her. 


318  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

In  one  of  their  evening  strolls,  they  had 
ascended  to  the  mountain  of  the  Sun,  where  is 
situated  the  Generaliffe,  the  palace  of  pleasure, 
in  the  days  of  Moorish  dominion,  but  now 
a  gloomy  convent  of  capuchins.  They  had 
wandered  about  its  garden,  among  groves  of 
orange,  citron,  and  cypress,  where  the  waters, 
leaping  in  torrents,  or  gushing  in  fountains,  or 
tossed  aloft  in  sparkling  jets,  fill  the  air  with 
music  and  freshness.  There  is  a  melancholy 
mingled  with  all  the  beauties  of  this  garden, 
that  gradually  stole  over  the  feelings  of  the 
lovers.  The  place  is  full  of  the  sad  story  of  past 
times.  It  was  the  favourite  abode  of  the  lovely 
queen  of  Grenada,  where  she  was  surrounded 
by  the  delights  of  a  gay  and  voluptuous  court. 
It  was  here,  too,  amidst  her  own  bowers  of 
roses,  that  her  slanderers  laid  the  base  story  of 
her  dishonour,  and  struck  a  fatal  blow  to  the 
line  of  the  gallant  Abencerrages. 

The  whole  garden  has  a  look  of  ruin  and  neg- 
lect. Many  of  the  fountains  are  dry  and  broken ; 
the  streams  have  wandered  from  their  marble 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.    319 

channels,  and  are  choked  by  weeds  and  yellow 
leaves.  The  reed  whistles  to  the  wind  where 
it  had  once  sported  among  roses,  and  shaken 
perfume  from  the  orange  blossom.  The  con- 
vent bell  flings  its  sullen  sound,  or  the  drowsy 
vesper  hymn  floats  along  these  solitudes,  which 
once  resounded  with  the  song,  and  the  dance, 
and  the  lover's  serenade.  Well  may  the  Moors 
lament  over  the  loss  of  this  earthly  paradise ; 
well  may  they  remember  it  in  their  prayers, 
and  beseech  heaven  to  restore  it  to  the  faithful ; 
well  may  their  ambassadors  smite  their  breasts 
when  they  behold  these  monuments  of  their 
race,  and  sit  down  and  weep  among  the  fading 
glories  of  Grenada ! 

It  is  impossible  to  wander  about  these 
scenes  of  departed  love  and  gaiety,  and  not 
feel  the  tenderness  of  the  heart  awakened.  It 
was  then  that  Antonio  first  ventured  to  breathe 
his  passion,  and  to  express  by  words  what  his 
eyes  had  long  since  so  eloquently  revealed. 
He  made  his  avowal  with  fervour,  but  with 
frankness.     He  had  no  gay  prospects  to  hold 


3^0  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

out :  he  was  a  poor  scholar,  dependent  on  his 
''  good  spirits  to  feed  and  clothe  him."  But  a 
woman  in  love  is  no  interested  calculator.  Inez 
listened  to  him  with  downcast  eyes,  but  in  them 
was  a  humid  gleam  that  showed  her  heart 
was  with  him.  She  had  no  prudery  in  her 
nature ;  and  she  had  not  been  sufficiently  in 
society  to  acquire  it.  She  loved  him  with  all 
the  absence  of  worldliness  of  a  genuine  woman; 
and,  amidst  timid  smiles  and  blushes,  he  drew 
from  her  a  modest  acknowledgment  of  her 
affection. 

They  wandered  about  the  garden  with  that 
sweet  intoxication  of  the  soul  which  none  but 
happy  lovers  know.  The  world  about  them 
was  all  fairy  land ;  and,  indeed,  it  spread  forth 
one  of  its  fairest  scenes  before  their  eyes,  as 
if  to  fulfil  their  dream  of  earthly  happiness. 
They  looked  out  from  between  groves  of 
orange  upon  the  towers  of  Grenada  below 
them;  the  magnificent  plain  of  the  Vega  beyond, 
streaked  with  evening  sunshine,  and  the  distant 
hills   tinted   with    rosy   and  purple  hues;    it 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  321 

seemed  an  emblem  of  the  happy  future  that 
love  and  hope  was  decking  out  for  them. 

As  if  to  make  the  scene  complete,  a  group 
of  Andalusians  struck  up  a  dance,  in  one  of 
the  vistas  of  the  garden,  to  the  guitars  of  two 
wandering  musicians.  The  Spanish  music  is 
wild  and  plaintive,  yet  the  people  dance  to  it 
with  spirit  and  enthusiasm.  The  picturesque 
figures  of  the  dancers ;  the  girls  with  their  hair 
in  silken  nets  that  hung  in  knots  and  tassels 
down  their  backs,  their  mantillas  floating  round 
their  graceful  forms,  their  slender  feet  peeping 
from  under  their  basquinas,  their  arms  tossed 
up  in  the  air  to  play  the  castanets,  had  a 
beautiful  effect  on  this  airy  height,  with  the 
rich  evening  landscape  spreading  out  below 
them. 

When  the  dance  was  ended,  two  of  the 
parties  approached  Antonio  and  Inez ;  one  of 
them  began  a  soft  and  tender  Moorish  ballad, 
accompanied  by  the  other  on  the  lute.  It 
alluded  to  the  story  of  the  garden,  the  wrongs 
of  the  fair  queen  of  Grenada,  and  the  mis- 

VOL.  I.  Y 


3^2  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

fortunes  of  the  Abencerrages.  It  was  one  of 
those  old  ballads  that  abound  in  this  part  of 
3pain,  and  live,  like  echoes,  about  the  ruins  of 
Moorish  greatness.  The  heart  of  Inez  was  at 
that  moment  open  to  every  tender  impression  ; 
the  tears  rose  into  her  eyes  as  she  listened  to 
the  tale.  The  singer  approached  nearer  to 
her ;  she  was  striking  in  her  appearance ; 
young,  beautiful,  with  a  mixture  of  wildness 
and  melancholy  in  her  fine  black  eyes.  She 
fixed  them  mournfully  and  expressively  on 
Inez,  and  suddenly  varying  her  manner,  sang 
another  ballad,  which  treated  of  impending 
danger  and  treachery.  All  this  might  have 
passed  for  a  mere  accidental  caprice  of  the 
singer,  had  there  not  been  something  in  her 
look,  manner,  and  gesticulation,  that  made  it 
pointed  and  startling. 

Inez  was  about  to  ask  the  meaning  of  this 
evidently  personal  application  of  the  song, 
when  she  was  interrupted  by  Antonio,  who 
gently  drew  her  from  the  place.  Whilst  she 
had  been  lost  in  attention  to  the  music,  he  had 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  3^S 

remarked  a  group  of  men,  in  the  shadows  of 
the  trees,  whispering  together.  They  were 
enveloped  in  the  broad  hats  and  great  cloaks, 
so  much  worn  by  the  Spanish,  and  while  they 
were  regarding  himself  and  Inez  attentively, 
seemed  anxious  to  avoid  observation.  Not 
knowing  what  might  be  their  character  or  in- 
tention, he  hastened  to  quit  a  place  where  the 
gathering  shadows  of  evening  might  expose 
them  to  intrusion  and  insult.  On  their  way 
down  the  hill,  as  they  passed  through  the 
woods  of  elms,  mingled  with  poplars  and  ole- 
anders, that  skirts  the  road  leading  from  the 
Alhambra,  he  again  saw  these  men,  apparently 
following  at  a  distance ;  and  he  afterwards 
caught  sight  of  them  among  the  trees  on  the 
banks  of  the  Darro.  He  said  nothing  on  the 
subject  to  Inez,  nor  her  father,  for  he  would 
not  awaken  unnecessary  alarm ;  but  he  felt  at 
a  loss  how  to  ascertain  or  to  avert  any  machina- 
:tions  that  might  be  devising  against  the  help- 
Jess  inhabitants  of  the  tower. 
..    He  took  his  leave  of  them  late  at  night,  full  of 


3£4  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

this  perplexity.  As  he  left  the  dreary  old  pile, 
he  saw  some  one  lurking  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wall,  apparently  watching  his  movements.  He 
hastened  after  the  figure,  but  it  glided  away, 
and  disappeared  among  some  ruins.  Shortly 
after  he  heard  a  low  whistle,  which  was  an- 
swered from  a  little  distance.  He  had  no 
longer  a  doubt  but  that  some  mischief  was  on 
foot,  and  turned  to  hasten  back  to  the  tower, 
and  put  its  inmates  on  their  guard.  He  had 
scarcely  turned,  however,  before  he  found  him- 
self suddenly  seized  from  behind  by  some  one 
of  Herculean  strength.  His  struggles  were  in 
vain ;  he  was  surrounded  by  armed  men.  One 
threw  a  mantle  over  him  that  stifled  his  cries, 
and  enveloped  him  in  its  folds;  and  he  was 
hurried  off  with  irresistible  rapidity. 

The  next  day  passed  without  the  appearance 
of  Antonio  at  the  alchymist's.  Another,  and 
another  day  succeeded,  and  yet  he  did  not 
come ;  nor  had  any  thing  been  heard  of  him 
at  his  lodgings.  His  absence  caused,  at  first, 
surprise  and  conjecture,  and  at  length  alarm. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     325 

Inez  recollected  the  singular  intimations  of 
the  ballad-singer  upon  the  mountain,  which 
seemed  to  warn  her  of  impending  danger,  and 
her  mind  was  full  of  vague  forebodings.  She 
sat  listening  to  every  sound  at  the  gate,  or 
footstep  on  the  stairs.  She  would  take  up  her 
guitar  and  strike  a  few  notes,  but  it  would  not 
do ;  her  heart  was  sickening  with  suspense  and 
anxiety.  She  had  never  before  felt  what  it 
was  to  be  really  lonely.  She  now  was  con- 
scious of  the  force  of  that  attachment  which 
had  taken  possession  of  her  breast ;  for  never 
do  we  know  how  much  we  love,  never  do  we 
know  how  necessary  the  object  of  our  love  is 
to  our  happiness,  until  we  experience  the  weary 
void  of  separation. 

The  philosopher,  too,  felt  the  absence  of  his 
disciple  almost  as  sensibly  as  did  his  daughter. 
The  animating  buoyancy  of  the  youth  had  in- 
spired him  with  new  ardour,  and  had  given  to 
his  labours  the  charm  of  full  companionship. 
However,  he  had  resources  and  consolations  of 
whi€h  his  daughter  was  destitute.  His  pur- 
suits were  of  a  nature  to  occupy  every  thought. 


326  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMAKCA. 

and  keep  the  spirits  in  a  state  of  continual 
excitement.  Certain  indications,  too,  had  lately 
manifested  themselves,  of  the  most  favourable 
nature.  Forty  days  and  forty  nights  had  the 
process  gone  on  successfully ;  the  old  man's 
hopes  were  constantly  rising,  and  he  now  con- 
sidered the  glorious  moment  once  more  at 
hand,  when  he  should  obtain  not  merely  the 
major  lunaria,  but  likewise  the  tinctura  Solaris, 
the  means  of  multiplying  gold,  and  of  pro- 
longing existence.  He  remained,  therefore, 
continually  shut  up  in  his  laboratory,  watch- 
ing his  furnace ;  for  a  moment's  inadvertency 
might  once  more  defeat  all  his  expectations. 

He  was  sitting  one  evening  at  one  of  his  soli- 
tary vigils,  wrapped  up  in  meditation ;  the  hour 
was  late,  and  his  neighbour,  the  owl,  was  hooting 
from  the  battlement  of  the  tower,  when  he  heard 
the  door  open  behind  him.  Supposing  it  to  be 
his  daughter  coming  to  take  her  leave  of  him 
for  the  night,  as  was  her  frequent  practice,  he 
called  her  by  name,  but  a  harsh  voice  met  his 
ear  in  reply.  He  was  grasped  by  the  arms, 
and  looking  up,  perceived  three  strange  men 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  3^7 

in  the  chamber.  He  attempted  to  shake  them 
off,  but  in  vain.  He  called  for  help,  but  they 
scoiFed  at  his  cries. 

''  Peace,  dotard !"  cried  one,  "  think'st  thou 
the  servants  of  the  most  holy  inquisition  are 
to  be  daunted  by  thy  clamours  ?  Comrades, 
away  with  him !" 

Without  heeding  his  remonstrances  and 
entreaties,  they  seized  upon  his  books  and 
papers,  took  some  note  of  the  apartment 
and  the  utensils,  and  then  bore  him  off  a  pri- 
soner. 

Inez,  left  to  herself,  had  passed  a  sad  and 
lonely  evening ;  seated  by  a  casement  which 
looked  into  the  garden,  she  had  pensively 
watched  star  after  star  sparkle  out  of  the  blue 
depths  of  the  sky,  and  was  indulging  a  crowd 
of  anxious  thoughts  about  her  lover,  until  the 
rising  tears  began  to  flow.  She  was  suddenly 
alarmed  by  the  sound  of  voices  that  seemed  to 
come  from  a  distant  part  of  the  mansion.  There 
was  not  long  after  a  noise  of  several  persons 
descending  the  stairs.  Surprised  at  these  un- 
usual sounds  in  their  lonely  habitation,  she 


328     THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

remained  for  a  few  moments  in  a  state  of 
trembling,  yet  indistinct  apprehension,  when 
the  servant  rushed  into  the  room,  with  terror 
in  her  countenance,  and  informed  her  that  her 
father  was  carried  off  by  armed  men. 

Inez  did  not  stop  to  hear  further,  but  flew 
down  stairs  to  overtake  them.  She  had  scarcely 
passed  the  threshold,  when  she  found  herself 
in  the  grasp  of  strangers. — "Away! — away!" 
cried  she,  wildly ;  "  do  not  stop  me — let  me  fol- 
low my  father." 

"  We  come  to  conduct  you  to  him,  senora," 
said  one  of  the  men,  respectfully. 

"  Where  is  he,  then  ?" 

"  He  is  gone  to  Grenada,"  replied  the  man: 
"  an  unexpected  circumstance  requires  his  pre- 
sence there  immediately;  but  he  is  among 
friends." 

"  We  have  no  friends  in  Grenada,"  said  Inez, 
drawing  back ;  but  then  the  idea  of  Antonio 
rushed  into  her  mind ;  something  relating  to 
him  might  have  called  her  father  thither.  "  Is 
senor  Antonio  de  Castros  with  him  ?"  demanded 
she  with  agitation. 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  3^9 

"  I  know  not,  senora,"  replied  the  man.  '^  It 
is  very  possible.  I  only  know  that  your  father 
is  among  friends,  and  is  anxious  for  you  to 
follow  him." 

"  Let  us  go,  then,"  cried  she,  eagerly.  The 
men  led  her  a  little  distance  to  where  a  mule 
was  waiting,  and,  assisting  her  to  mount,  they 
conducted  her  slowly  towards  the  city. 

Grenada  was  on  that  evening  a  scene  of  fanci- 
ful revel.  It  was  one  of  the  festivals  of  the  Mae- 
stranza,  an  association  of  the  nobility  to  keep 
up  some  of  the  gallant  customs  of  ancient  chi- 
valry. There  had  been  a  representation  of  a 
tournament  in  one  of  the  squares ;  the  streets 
would  still  occasionally  resound  with  the  beat 
of  a  solitary  drum,  or  the  bray  of  a  trum- 
pet, from  some  straggling  party  of  revellers. 
Sometimes  they  were  met  by  cavaliers,  richly 
dressed  in  ancient  costumes,  attended  by  their 
squires,  and  at  one  time  they  passed  in  sight  of 
a  palace  brilliantly  illuminated,  from  whence 
came  the  mingled  sounds  of  music  and  the 
dance.  Shortly  after  they  came  to  the  square, 
where  the  mock  tournament  had  been  held. 


330  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

It  was  thronged  by  the  populace,  recreating 
themselves  among  booths  and  stalls  where  re- 
freshments were  sold,  and  the  glare  of  torches 
showed  the  temporary  galleries,  and  gay-co- 
loured awnings,  and  armorial  trophies,  and 
other  paraphernalia  of  the  show.  The  con- 
ductors of  Inez  endeavoured  to  keep  out  of 
observation,  and  to  traverse  a  gloomy  part  of 
the  square ;  but  they  were  detained  at  one 
place  by  the  pressure  of  a  crowd  surrounding 
a  party  of  wandering  musicians,  singing  one  of 
those  ballads  of  which  the  Spanish  populace  are 
so  passionately  fond.  The  torches  which  were 
held  by  some  of  the  crowd,  threw  a  strong  mass 
of  light  upon  Inez,  and  the  sight  of  so  beau- 
tiful a  being,  without  mantilla  or  veil,  looking 
so  bewildered,  and  conducted  by  men,  who 
seemed  to  take  no  gratification  in  the  sur- 
rounding gaiety,  occasioned  expressions  of  cu- 
riosity. One  of  the  ballad  singers  approached, 
and  striking  her  guitar  with  peculiar  earnest- 
ness, began  to  sing  a  doleful  air,  full  of  sinister 
forebodings.  Inez  started  with  surprise.  It 
was  the  same  ballad-singer  that  had  addressed 


"fHE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  331 

her  in  the  garden  of  Generaliffe.  It  was  the 
same  air  that  she  had  then  sung.  It  spoke  of 
impending  dangers ;  they  seemed,  indeed,  to 
be  thickening  around  her.  She  was  anxious 
to  speak  with  the  girl,  and  to  ascertain  whether 
she  really  had  a  knowledge  of  any  definite 
evil  that  was  threatening  her ;  but  as  she  at- 
tempted to  address  her,  the  mule,  on  which 
she  rode,  was  suddenly  seized,  and  led  forcibly 
through  the  throng  by  one  of  her  conductors, 
while  she  saw  another  addressing  menacing 
words  to  the  ballad-singer.  The  latter  raised 
her  hand  with  a  warning  gesture  as  Inez  lost 
sight  of  her. 

While  she  was  yet  lost  in  perplexity,  caused 
by  this  singular  occurrence,  they  stopped  at 
the  gate  of  a  large  mansion.  One  of  her  at- 
tendants knocked,  the  door  was  opened,  and 
they  entered  a  paved  court.  "  Where  are  we  ?" 
demanded  Inez,  with  anxiety.  "At  the  house 
of  ia  friend,  senora,"  replied  the  man.  *'  Ascend 
this  staircase  with  me,  and  in  a  moment  you 
will  meet  your  father." 

They  ascended  a  staircase  that  led  to  a  suite 


332  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

of  splendid  apartments.  They  passed  through 
several  until  they  came  to  an  inner  chamber. 
The  door  opened,  some  one  approached ;  but 
what  was  her  terror  at  perceiving,  not  her  fa- 
ther, but  Don  Ambrosio ! 

The  men  who  had  seized  upon  the  alchymist 
had,  at  least,  been  more  honest  in  their  pro- 
fessions. They  were,  indeed,  familiars  of  the 
inquisition.  He  was  conducted  in  silence  to 
the  gloomy  prison  of  that  horrible  tribunal.  It 
was  a  mansion  whose  very  aspect  withered  joy, 
and  almost  shut  out  hope.  It  was  one  of  those 
hideous  abodes  which  the  bad  passions  of  men 
conjure  up  in  this  fair  world,  to  rival  the  fancied 
dens  of  demons  and  the  accursed. 

Day  after  day  went  heavily  by  without  any 
thing  to  mark  the  lapse  of  time,  but  the  decline 
and  re-appearance  of  the  light  that  feebly  glim- 
mered through  the  narrow  window  of  the  dun- 
geon, in  which  the  unfortunate  alchymist  was 
buried,  rather  than  confined.  His  mind  was 
harassed  with  uncertainties  and  fears  about 
his  daughter,  so  helpless  and  inexperienced. 
He  endeavoured  to  gather  tidings  of  her  from 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.    333 

the  man  who  brought  his  daily  portion  of 
food.  The  fellow  stared,  as  if  astonished,  at 
being  asked  a  question  in  that  mansion  of 
silence  and  mystery,  but  departed  without  say- 
ing a  word.  Every  succeeding  attempt  was 
equally  fruitless. 

The  poor  alchymist  was  oppressed  by  many 
griefs ;  and  it  was  not  the  least  that  he  had  been 
again  interrupted  in  his  labours  on  the  very 
point  of  success.     Never  was  alchymist  so  near 
attaining  the  golden  secret — a  little  longer, 
and  all  his  hopes  would  have  been  realised. 
The  thoughts  of  these  disappointments  afflicted 
him  more  even  than  the  fear  of  all  that  he 
might   suffer  from  the  merciless   inquisition. 
His  waking  thoughts  would  follow  him  into 
his  dreams.     He  would  be  transported  in  fancy 
to  his  laboratory,  busied  again  among  retorts 
and  alembics,  and  surrounded  by  Lully,  by 
D ' Abano,  by  Olybius,  and  the  other  masters  of 
the  sublime  art.     The  moment  of  projection 
would  arrive ;  a  seraphic  form  would  rise  out 
of  the  furnace,  holding  forth  a  vessel,  contain- 
ing the  precious  elixir ;  but,  before  he  could 


334  THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

grasp  the  prize,  he  would  awake,  and  find  him- 
self in  a  dungeon. 

All  the  devices  of  inquisitorial  ingenuity 
were  employed  to  ensnare  the  old  man,  and  to 
draw  from  him  evidence  that  might  be  brought 
against  himself,  and  might  corroborate  certain 
secret  information  that  had  been  given  against 
him.  He  had  been  accused  of  practising  ne- 
cromancy and  judicial  astrology,  and  a  cloud 
of  evidence  had  been  secretly  brought  forward 
to  substantiate  the  charge.  It  would  be  tedious 
to  enumerate  all  the  circumstances,  apparently 
corroborative,  which  had  been  industriously 
cited  by  the  secret  accuser.  The  silence  which 
prevailed  about  the  tower,  its  desolateness,  the 
very  quiet  of  its  inhabitants,  had  been  adduced 
as  proofs  that  something  sinister  was  perpe- 
trated within.  The  alchymist's  conversations 
and  soliloquies  in  the  garden  had  been  over- 
heard  and  misrepresented.  The  lights  and 
strange  appearances  at  night,  in  the  tower, 
were  given  with  violent  exaggerations.  Shrieks 
and  yells  were  said  to  have  been  heard  from 
thence  at  midnight,  when,  it  was  confidently 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  3S5 

asserted,  the  old  man  raised  familiar  spirits  by 
his  incantations,  and  even  compelled  the  dead 
to  rise  from  their  graves,  and  answer  to  his 
questionings. 

The  alchymist,  according  to  the  custom  of 
the  inquisition,  was  kept  in  complete  ignorance 
of  his    accuser;   of  the    witnesses    produced 
against  him ;  even  of  the  crimes  of  which  he 
was  accused.     He    was    examined  generally, 
whether  he  knew  why  he  w  as  arrested,  and 
was  conscious  of  any  guilt  that  might  deserve 
the  notice  of  the  holy  office  ?  He  was  examined 
as  to  his  country,  his  life,  his  habits,  his  pur- 
suits, his  actions,  and  opinions.     The  old  man 
was  frank  and  simple  in  his  replies ;  he  was 
conscious  of  no  guilt,  capable  of  no  art,  prac- 
tised in  no  dissimulation.     After  receiving  a 
general  admonition  to  bethink  himself  whether 
he  had  not  committed  any  act  deserving  of 
punishment,  and  to  prepare,  by  confession,  to 
secure  the  well-known  mercy  of  the  tribunal, 
he  was  remanded  to  his  cell. 

He  was  now  visited  in  his  dungeon  by  crafty 
familiars  of  the  inquisition;  who,  under  pretence 


336  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

of  sympathy  and  kindness,  came  to  beguile  the 
tediousness  of  his  imprisonment  with  friendly 
conversation.  They  casually  introduced  the 
subject  of  alchymy,  on  which  they  touched 
with  great  caution  and  pretended  indifference. 
There  was  no  need  of  such  craftiness.  The 
honest  enthusiast  had  no  suspicion  in  his  na- 
ture :  the  moment  they  touched  upon  his  fa- 
vourite theme,  he  forgot  his  misfortunes  and 
imprisonment,  and  broke  forth  into  rhapsodies 
about  the  divine  science. 

The  conversation  was  artfully  turned  to  the 
discussion  of  elementary  beings.  The  alchy- 
mist  readily  avowed  his  belief  in  them ;  and 
that  there  had  been  instances  of  their  attend- 
ing upon  philosophers,  and  administering  to 
their  wishes.  He  related  many  miracles  said 
tohave  been  performedby  ApolloniusThyaneus 
through  the  aid  of  spirits  or  demons ;  insomuch 
that  he  was  set  up  by  the  heathens  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  Messiah ;  and  was  even  regarded 
with  reverence  by  many  Christians.  The  fa- 
miliars eagerly  demanded  whether  he  believed 
Apollonius  to  be  a  true  and  worthy  philoso- 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  337 

pher.  The  unaffected  piety  of  the  alchymist 
protected  him  even  in  the  midst  of  his  sim- 
plicity; for  he  condemned  Apollonius  as  a 
sorcerer  and  an  impostor.  No  art  could  draw 
from  him  an  admission  that  he  had  ever  em- 
ployed or  invoked  spiritual  agencies  in  the  pro- 
secution of  his  pursuits,  though  he  believed 
himself  to  have  been  frequently  impeded  by 
their  invisible  interference. 

The  inquisitors  were  sorely  vexed  at  not 
being  able  to  enveigle  him  into  a  confession  of 
a  criminal  nature ;  they  attributed  their  failure 
to  craft,  to  obstinacy,  to  every  cause  but  the 
right  one,  namely,  that  the  harmless  visionary 
had  nothing  guilty  to  confess.  They  had 
abundant  proof  of  a  secret  nature  against  him ; 
but  it  was  the  practice  of  the  inquisition  to 
endeavour  to  procure  confession  from  the  pri- 
soners. An  auto  da  f^  was  at  hand  ;  the  worthy 
fathers  were  eager  for  his  conviction,  for  they 
were  always  anxious  to  have  a  good  number  of 
culprits  condemned  to  the  stake,  to  grace  these 
solemn  triumphs.  He  was  at  length  brought 
to  a  final  examination. 

VOL.  I.  .    z 


338  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

The  chamber  of  trial  was  spacious  and 
gloomy.  At  one  end  was  a  huge  crucifix,  the 
standard  of  the  inquisition.  A  long  table  ex- 
tended through  the  centre  of  the  room,  at  which 
sat  the  inquisitors  and  their  secretary ;  at  the 
other  end  a  stool  was  placed  for  the  prisoner. 

He  was  brought  in,  according  to  custom, 
bare-headed  and  bare-legged.  He  was  en- 
feebled by  confinement  and  affliction ;  by  con- 
stantly brooding  over  the  unknown  fate  of  his 
child,  and  the  disastrous  interruption  of  his  ex- 
periments. He  sat  bowed  down  and  listless ; 
his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast ;  his  whole  ap- 
pearance that  of  one  "  past  hope,  abandoned, 
and  by  himself  given  over." 

The  accusation  alleged  against  him  was  now 
brought  forward  in  a  specific  form;  he  was 
called  upon  by  name,  Felix  de  Vasquez,  for- 
merly of  Castile,  to  answer  to  the  charges  of 
necromancy ,  and  demonology.  He  was  told 
that  the  charges  were  amply  substantiated; 
and  was  asked  whether  he  was  ready,  by  full 
confession,  to  throw  himself  upon  the  well- 
known  mercy  of  the  holy  inquisition. 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  339 

:  The  philosopher  testified  some  slight  surprise 
at  the  nature  of  the  accusation,  but  simply  re- 
plied, "  I  am  innocent." 

"  What  proof  have  you  to  give  of  your  in- 
nocence T 

"  It  rather  remains  for  you  to  prove  your 
charges/'  said  the  old  man.  ^^  I  am  a  stranger 
and  a  sojourner  in  the  land,  and  know  no  one 
out  of  the  doors  of  my  dwelling.  I  can  give 
nothing  in  my  vindication  but  the  word  of  a 
nobleman  and  a  Castilian." 
.  The  inquisitor  shook  his  head,  and  went  on 
to  repeat  the  various  inquiries  that  had  before 
been  made  as  to  his  mode  of  life  and  pursuit. 
The  poor  alchymist  was  too  feeble  and  too 
weary  at  heart  to  make  any  but  brief  replies. 
He  requested  that  some  man  of  science  might 
examine  his  laboratory,  and  all  his  books  and 
papers,  by  which  it  would  be  made  abundantly 
evident  that  he  was  merely  engaged  in  the 
study  of  alchymy. 

To  this  the  inquisitor  observed,  that  alchymy 
had  become  a  mere  covert  for  secret  and  deadly 
sins.     That  the  practisers  of  it  were  apt  to 

^2 


340     THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

scruple  at  no  means  to  satisfy  their  inordinate 
greediness  of  gold.  Some  had  been  known  to 
use  spells  and  impious  ceremonies;  to  con- 
jure the  aid  of  evil  spirits ;  nay,  even  to  sell 
their  souls  to  the  enemy  of  mankind,  so  that 
they  might  riot  in  boundless  wealth  while 
living. 

The  poor  alchymist  had  heard  all  patiently, 
or,  at  least,  passively.  He  had  disdained  to 
vindicate  his  name  otherwise  than  by  his  word ; 
he  had  smiled  at  the  accusations  of  sorcery, 
when  applied  merely  to  himself;  but  when 
the  sublime  art,  which  had  been  the  study  and 
passion  of  his  life,  was  assailed,  he  could  no 
longer  listen  in  silence.  His  head  gradually 
rose  from  his  bosom ;  a  hectic  colour  came  in 
faint  streaks  to  his  cheek ;  played  about  there, 
disappeared,  returned,  and  at  length  kindled 
into  a  burning  glow.  The  clammy  dampness 
dried  from  his  forehead ;  his  eyes,  which  had 
been  nearly  extinguished,  lighted  up  again, 
and  burned  with  their  wonted  and  visionary 
fires.  He  entered  into  a  vindication  of  his 
favourite  art.     His  voice  at   first  was  feeble 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     341 

and  broken ;  but  it  gathered  strength  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, until  it  rolled  in  a  deep  and  sonorous 
volume.  He  gradually  rose  from  his  seat  as 
he  rose  with  his  subject ;  he  threw  back  the 
scanty  black  mantle  which  had  hitherto  wrap- 
ped his  limbs  ;  the  very  uncouthness  of  his 
form  and  looks  gave  an  impressive  effect  to 
what  he  uttered ;  it  was  as  though  a  corpse 
had  become  suddenly  animated. 

He  repelled  with  scorn  the  aspersions  cast 
upon  alchymy  by  the  ignorant  and  vulgar.  He 
affirmed  it  to  be  the  mother  of  all  art  and  sci- 
ence, citing  the  opinions  of  Paracelsus,  Sandivo- 
gius,  Raymond  Lully,  and  others,  in  support  of 
his  assertions.  He  maintained  that  it  was  pure 
.  and  innocent,  and  honourable  both  in  its  pur- 
poses and  means.  What  were  its  objects? 
The  perpetuation  of  life  and  youth,  and  the 
production  of  gold.  *'  The  elixir  vitae,'*  3aid 
he,  "  is  no  charmed  potioUj,  but  merely  a  con- 
centration of  those  elements  of  vitality  which 
nature  has  scattered  through  her  works.  The 
philosophers '  stone,  or  tincture,  or  powder,  as 
'it  is  variously  called,  is  no  necromantic  talis- 


342     THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

man,  but  consists  simply  of  those  particles 
which  gold  contains  within  itself  for  its  re- 
production ;  for  gold,  like  other  things,  has  its 
seed  within  itself,  though  bound  up  with  incon- 
ceivable firmness,  from  the  vigour  of  innate 
fixed  salts  and  sulphurs.  In  seeking  to  dis- 
cover the  elixir  of  life,  then,*'  continued  he, 
"  we  seek  only  to  apply  some  of  nature's  own 
specifics  against  the  disease  and  decay  to  which 
our  bodies  are  subjected;  and  what  else  does 
the  physician,  when  he  tasks  his  art,  and  uses 
subtle  compounds  and  cunning  distillations  to 
revive  our  languishing  powers,  and  avert  the 
stroke  of  death  for  a  season  ? 

"  In  seeking  to  multiply  the  precious  metals, 
also,  we  seek  but  to  germinate  and  multiply, 
by  natural  means,  a  particular  species  of  na- 
ture's productions;  and  what  else  does  the 
husbandman,  who  consults  times  and  seasons, 
and,  by  what  might  be  deemed  a  natural  magic, 
from  the  mere  scattering  of  his  hand,  covers  a 
whole  plain  with  golden  vegetation  ?  The  my- 
steries of  our  art,  it  is  true,  are  deeply  and 
darkly  hidden;  but  it  requires  so  much  the 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  34^ 

more  innocence  and  purity  of  thought  to  pene- 
trate unto  them.  No,  father !  the  true  alchy- 
mist  must  be  pure  in  mind  and  body  ;  he  must 
be  temperate,  patient,  chaste,  watchful,  meek, 
humble,  devout.  '  My  son,'  says  Hermes  Tris- 
megestes,  the  great  master  of  our  art,  ^  My  son, 
I  recommend  you  above  all  things  to  fear  God. ' 
And  indeed  it  is  only  by  devout  castigation  of 
the  senses  and  purification  of  the  soul,  that  the 
alchymist  is  enabled  to  enter  into  the  sacred 
chambers  of  truth.  *  Labour,  pray,  and  read,'  is 
the  motto  of  our  science.  As  De  Nuysementwell 
observes,  ^  these  high  and  singular  favours  are 
granted  unto  none,  save  only  unto  the  sons  of 
God,  (that  is  to  say,  the  virtuous  and  devout), 
who,  under  his  paternal  benediction,  have  ob- 
tained the  opening  of  the  same,  by  the  helping 
hand  of  the  queen  of  arts,  divine  Philosophy.' 
Indeed,  so  sacred  has  the  nature  of  this  know- 
ledge been  considered,  that  we  are  told  it  has 
four  times  been  expressly  communicated  by 
God  to  man,  having  made  a  ^art  of  that  ca- 
balistical  wisdom  which  was  revealed  to  Adam 
to  console  him  for  the  loss  of  Paradise ;  and  to 


34f4f  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

Moses  in  the  bush,  and  to  Solomon  in  a  dream, 
and  to  Esdras  by  the  angel.       ■y^^-f^'f^f' 

'^  So  far  from  demons   and  malign  spirits 
being  the  friends  and  abettors  of  the  alchy- 
mist,  they  are  the  continual  foes  with  which 
he  has  to  contend.     It  is  their  constant  endea- 
vour to  shut  up  the  avenues  to  those   truths 
which  would  enable  him  to  rise  above  the  abject 
state  into  which  he  has  fallen,  and  return  to 
that  excellence  which  was  his  original  birth- 
right.    For  what  would  be  the  effect  of  this 
length  of  days,  and  this  abundant  wealth,  but 
to  enable  the  possessor  to  go  on  from  art  to 
art,  from  science  to  science,  with  energies  un- 
impaired by  sickness,  uninterrupted  by  death  ? 
For  this   have   sages   and  philosophers   shut 
themselves  up  in  cells  and  solitudes ;  buried 
themselves  in  caves  and   dens   of  the  earth ; 
turning  from  the  joys  of  life,  and  the  pleasance 
of  the  world ;  enduring  scorn,  poverty,  persecu- 
tion.    For  this  was  Raymond  LuUy  stoned  to 
death  in  Mauritania.  For  this  did  the  immortal 
Pietro  D*Abano  suffer  persecution  at  Padua, 
and  when  he  escaped  from  his  oppressors  by 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  345 

death,  was  despitefuUy  burnt  in  effigy.  For 
this  have  illustrious  men  of  all  nations  intre- 
pidly suffered  martyrdom.  For  this,  if  unmo- 
lested, have  they  assiduously  employed  the 
latest  hour  of  life,  the  expiring  throb  of  exist- 
ence; hoping  to  the  last  that  they  might  yet 
seize  upon  the  prize  for  which  they  had  strug- 
gled, and  pluck  themselves  back  even  from  the 
very  jaws  of  the  grave ! 

''  for,  when  once  the  alchymist  shall  have 
attained  the  object  of  his  toils;  when  the 
sublime  secret  shall  be  revealed  to  his  gaze, 
how  glorious  will  be  the  change  in  his  con- 
dition! How  will  he  emerge  from  his  soli- 
tary retreat,  like  the  sun  breaking  forth  from 
the  darksome  chamber  of  the  night,  and  dart- 
ing his  beams  throughout  the  earth !  Gifted 
with  perpetual  youth  and  boundless  riches,  to 
what  heights  of  wisdom  may  he  attain !  How 
may  he  carry  on,  uninterrupted,  the  thread  of 
knowledge,  which  has  hitherto  been  snapped 
at  the  death  of  each  philosopher !  And,  as  the 
increase  of  wisdom  is  the  increase  of  virtue, 
how  may  he  become  the  benefactor  of  his  fel- 


346  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

low-men ;  dispensing  with  liberal,  but  cautious 
and  discriminating  hand,  that  inexhaustible 
wealth  which  is  at  his  disposal;  banishing 
poverty,  which  is  the  cause  of  so  much  sorrow 
and  wickedness ;  encouraging  the  arts ;  pro- 
moting discoveries,  and  enlarging  all  the  means 
of  virtuous  enjoyment !  His  life  will  be  the  con- 
necting band  of  generations.  History  will  live  in 
his  recollection ;  distant  ages  will  speak  with  his 
tongue.  The  nations  of  the  earth  will  look  to 
him  as  their  preceptor,  and  kings  will  sit  at  his 
feet  and  learn  wisdom.  Oh  glorious!  Oh 
celestial  alchymy !" — 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  the  inquisitor, 
who  had  suffered  him  to  go  on  thus  far,  in 
hopes  of  gathering  something  from  his  un- 
guarded enthusiasm.  "  Senor,"  said  he,  "  this 
is  all  rambling,  visionary  talk.  You  are  charged 
with  sorcery,  and  in  defence  you  give  us  a 
rhapsody  about  alchymy.  Have  you  nothing 
better  than  this  to  offer  in  your  defence  ?" 

The  old  man  slowly  resumed  his  seat,  but 
did  not  deign  a  reply.  The  fire  that  had 
beamed  in   his   eye  gradually   expired.     His 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  347 

cheek  resumed  its  wonted  paleness;  but  he 
did  not  relapse  into  inanity.  He  sat  with  a 
steady,  serene,  patient  look,  like  one  prepared 
not  to  contend  but  to  suffer. 

His  trial  continued  for  a  long  time,  with 
cruel  mockery  of  justice,  for  no  witnesses  were 
ever,  in  this  court,  confronted  with  the  accused, 
and  the  latter  had  continually  to  defend  him- 
self in  the  dark.  Some  unknown  and  powerful 
enemy  had  alleged  charges  against  the  unfor- 
tunate alchymist,  but  who  he  could  not  ima- 
gine. Stranger  and  sojourner  as  he  was  in  the 
land ;  solitary  and  harmless  in  his  pursuits,  how 
could  he  have  provoked  such  hostility  ?  The 
tide  of  secret  testimony,  however,  was  too 
strong  against  him ;  he  was  convicted  of  the 
crime  of  magic,  and  condemned  to  expiate  his 
sins  at  the  stake,  at  the  approaching  auto  da  fe. 

While  the  unhappy  alchymist  was  under- 
going his  trial  at  the  inquisition,  his  daughter 
was  exposed  to  trials  no  less  severe.  Don  Am- 
brosio,  into  whose  hands  she  had  fallen,  was,  as 
has  before  been  intimated,  one  of  the  most  daring 
and  lawless  profligates  in  all  Grenada.    He  was 


348  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAxMANCA. 

a  man  of  hot  blood  and  fiery  passions,  who  stop- 
ped at  nothing  in  the  gratification  of  his  de- 
sires ;  yet  with  all  this  he  possessed  manners, 
address,  and  accomplishments,  that  had  made 
him  eminently  successful  among  the  sex.  From 
the  palace  to  the  cottage  he  had  extended  his 
amorous  enterprises;   his  serenades  harassed 
the  slumbers  of  half  the  husbands  in  Grenada; 
no  balcony  was  too  high  for  his  adventurous 
attempts;  nor  any  cottage  too  lowly  for  his 
perfidious  seductions.    Yet  he  was  as  fickle  as 
he  was  ardent ;  success  had  made  him  vain  and 
capricious ;  he  had  no  sentiment  to  attach  him 
to  the  victim  of  his   arts,  and  many  a  pale 
cheek  and  fading  eye,  languishing  amidst  the 
sparkling   of  jewels ;    and  many  a  breaking 
heart,  throbbing  under  the  rustic  boddice,  bore 
testimony  to  his  triumphs  and  his  faithlessness. 
He  was  sated,  however,  by  easy  conquests, 
and  wearied  of  a  life  of  continual  and  prompt 
gratification.     There  had  been  a  degree  of 
difficulty  and  enterprise  in  the  pursuit  of  Inez, 
that  he  had  never  before  experienced.     It  had 
aroused  him  from  the  monotony  of  mere  sensual 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     349 

life,  and  stimulated  him  with  the  charm  of 
adventure.  He  had  become  an  epicure  in 
pleasure ;  and  now  that  he  had  this  coy  beauty 
in  his  power,  he  was  determined  to  protract 
his  enjoyment,  by  the  gradual  conquest  of  her 
scruples,  and  downfall  of  her  virtue.  He  was 
vain  of  his  person  and  address,  which  he  thought 
no  woman  could  long  withstand ;  and  it  was 
a  kind  of  trial  of  skill,  to  endeavour  to  gain 
by  art  and  fascination,  what  he  was  secure  of 
obtaining  at  any  time  by  violence. 

When  Inez,  therefore,  was  brought  into  his 
presence  by  his  emissaries,  he  affected  not  to 
notice  her  terror  and  surprise ;  but  received  her 
with  formal  and  stately  courtesy.  He  was  too 
wary  a  fowler  to  flutter  the  bird  when  just  en- 
tangled in  the  net.  To  her  eager  and  wild 
inquiries  about  her  father,  he  begged  her  not 
to  be  alarmed ;  that  he  was  safe,  and  had  been 
there,  but  was  engaged  elsewhere  in  an  affair 
of  moment,  from  which  he  would  soon  return ; 
in  the  meantime  he  had  left  word,  that  she 
should  await  his  return  in  patience.  After  some 


350  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

stately  expressions  of  general  civility,  Don  Am- 
brosio  made  a  ceremonious  bow  and  retired. 

The  mind  of  Inez  was  full  of  trouble  and 
perplexity.  The  stately  formality  of  Don  Am- 
brosio  was  so  unexpected  as  to  check  the  ac- 
cusations and  reproaches  that  were  springing 
to  her  lips.  Had  he  had  evil  designs,  would  he 
have  treated  her  with  such  frigid  ceremony  when 
he  had  her  in  his  power  ?  But  why,  then,  was 
she  brought  to  his  house  ?  Was  not  the  myste- 
rious disappearance  of  Antonio  connected  with 
this?  A  thought  suddenly  darted  into  her 
mind.  Antonio  had  again  met  with  Don 
Ambrosio — they  had  fought — Antonio  was 
wounded — perhaps  dying  ! — It  was  him  to 
whom  her  father  had  gone. — It  was  at  his  re- 
quest that  Don  Ambrosio  had  sent  for  them  to 
soothe  his  dying  moments !  These,  and  a  thou- 
sand such  horrible  suggestions  harassed  her 
mind;  but  she  tried  in  vain  to  get  informa- 
tion from  the  domestics ;  they  knew  nothing 
but  that  her  father  had  been  there,  had  gone, 
and  would  soon  return. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.    351 

Thus  passed  a  night  of  tumultuous  thought 
and  vague  yet  cruel  apprehensions.  She  knew 
not  what  to  do,  or  what  to  believe :  whether 
she  ought  to  fly,  or  to  remain  ;  but  if  to  fly, 
how  was  she  to  extricate  herself?  and  where 
was  she  to  seek  her  father  ?  As  the  day  dawned 
without  any  intelligence  of  him,  her  alarm  in- 
creased ;  at  length  a  message  was  brought  from 
him,  saying  that  circumstances  prevented  his 
return  to  her,  but  begging  her  to  hasten  to 
him  without  delay. 

With  an  eager  and  throbbing  heart  did 
she  set  forth  with  the  men  that  were  to  con- 
duct her.  She  little  thought,  however,  that 
she  was  merely  changing  her  prison-house. 
Don  Ambrosio  had  feared  lest  she  should  be 
traced  to  his  residence  in  Grenada ;  or  that  he 
might  be  interrupted  there  before  he  could 
accomplish  his  plan  of  seduction.  He  had  her 
now  conveyed,  therefore,  to  a  mansion  which 
he  possessed  in  one  of  the  mountain  solitudes 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Grenada;  a  lonely, 
but  beautiful  retreat.  In  vain,  on  her  arrival, 
did  she  look  around  for  her  father,  or  Antonio ; 


35^  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

none  but  strange  faces  met  her  eye ;  menials 
profoundly  respectful,  but  who  knew  nor  saw 
any  thing  but  what  their  master  pleased. 

She  had  scarcely  arrived  before  Don  Am- 
brosio  made  his  appearance,  less  stately  in  his 
manner,  but  still  treating  her  with  the  utmost 
delicacy  and  deference.  Inez  was  too  much 
agitated  and  alarmed  to  be  baffled  by  his 
courtesy,  and  became  vehement  in  her  demand 
to  be  conducted  to  her  father. 

Don  Ambrosio  now  put  on  an  appearance 
of  the  greatest  embarrassment  and  emotion. 
After  some  delay,  and  much  pretended  con- 
fusion, he  at  length  confessed  that  the  seizure 
of  her  father  was  all  a  stratagem;  a  mere 
false  alarm  to  procure  him  the  present  oppor- 
tunity of  having  access  to  her,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  mitigate  that  obduracy,  and  conquer 
that  repugnance,  which  he  declared  had  almost 
driven  him  to  distraction. 

He  assured  her  that  her  father  was  again 
at  home  in  safety,  and  occupied  in  his  usual 
pursuits ;  having  been  fully  satisfied  that  his 
daughter  was  in  honourable  hands,  and  would 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  353 

soon  be  restored  to  him.  It  was  in  vain  that 
she  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  and  implored  to 
be  set  at  liberty ;  he  only  replied,  by  gentle  en- 
treaties, that  she  would  pardon  the  seeming 
violence  he  had  to  use;  and  that  she  would 
trust  a  little  while  to  his  honour.  "  You  are 
here,"  said  he,  "  absolute  mistress  of  every 
thing :  nothing  shall  be  said  or  done  to  offend 
you ;  I  will  not  even  intrude  upon  your  ear  the 
unhappy  passion  that  is  devouring  my  heart. 
Should  you  require  it,  I  will  even  absent  my- 
self from  your  presence ;  but  to  part  with  you 
entirely  at  present,  with  your  mind  full  of 
doubts  and  resentments,  would  be  worse  than 
death  to  me.  No,  beautiful  Inez,  you  must 
first  know  me  a  little  better,  and  know  by  my 
conduct,  that  my  passion  for  you  is  as  delicate 
and  respectful  as  it  is  vehement." 

The  assurance  of  her  father's  safety  had  re- 
lieved Inez  from  one  cause  of  torturing  anxiety, 
only  to  render  her  fears  the  more  violent  on 
her  own  account.  Don  Ambrosio,  however, 
continued  to  treat  her  with  artful  deference, 

VOL.  I.  A  A 


354f  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

that  insensibly  lulled  her  apprehensions.  It  is 
true  she  found  herself  a  captive,  but  no  ad- 
vantage appeared  to  be  taken  of  her  helpless- 
ness. She  soothed  herself  with  the  idea  that 
a  little  while  would  suffice  to  convince  Don 
Ambrosio  of  the  fallacy  of  his  hopes,  and  that 
he  would  be  induced  to  restore  her  to  her  home. 
Her  transports  of  terror  and  affliction,  there- 
fore, subsided,  in  a  few  days,  into  a  passive,  yet 
anxious  melancholy,  with  which  she  awaited 
the  hoped-for  event. 

In  the  mean  while  all  those  artifices  were 
employed  that  are  calculated  to  charm  the 
senses,  ensnare  the  feelings,  and  dissolve  the 
heart  into  tenderness.  Don  Ambrosio  was  a 
master  of  the  subtil  arts  of  seduction.  His 
very  mansion  breathed  an  enervating  atmo- 
sphere of  languor  and  delight.  It  was  here, 
amidst  twilight  saloons  and  dreamy  chambers, 
buried  among  groves  of  orange  and  myrtle, 
that  he  shut  himself  up  at  times  from  the  prying 
world,  and  gave  free  scope  to  the  gratification 
of  his  pleasures. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     355 

The  apartments  were  furnished  in  the  most 
sumptuous  and  voluptuous  manner ;  the  silken 
couches  swelled  to  the  touch,  and  sunk  in 
downy  softness  beneath  the  slightest  pressure. 
The  paintings  and  statues  all  told  some  classic 
tale  of  love,  managed,  however,  with  an  in- 
sidious delicacy ;  which,  while  it  banished  the 
grossness  that  might  disgust,  was  the  more 
calculated  to  excite  the  imagination.  There 
the  blooming  Adonis  was  seen,  not  breaking 
away  to  pursue  the  boisterous  chase,  but 
crowned  with  flowers,  and  languishing  in  the 
embraces  of  celestial  beauty.  There  Acis  wooed 
his  Galatea  in  the  shade,  with  the  Sicilian  sea 
spreading  in  halcyon  serenity  before  them. 
There  were  depicted  groups  of  fawns  and 
dryads,  fondly  reclining  in  summer  bowers, 
and  listening  to  the  liquid  piping  of  the  reed ; 
or  the  wanton  satyrs  surprising  some  wood- 
nymph  during  her  noontide  slumber.  There, 
too,  on  the  storied  tapestry,  might  be  seen  the 
chaste  Diana,  stealing,  in  the  mystery  of  moon- 
light, to  kiss  the  sleeping  Endymion;  while 

A  A  2 


356  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

Cupid  and  Psyche,  entwined  in  immortal  mar- 
ble, breathed  on  each  other's  lips  the  early  kiss 
of  love. 

The  ardent  rays  of  the  sun  were  excluded 
from  these  balmy  halls;  soft  and  tender  music 
from  unseen  musicians  floated  around,  seeming 
to  mingle  with  the  perfumes  that  were  exhaled 
from  a  thousand  flowers.  At  night,  when  the 
moon  shed  a  fairy  light  over  the  scene,  the 
tender  serenade  would  rise  from  among  the 
bowers  of  the  garden,  in  which  the  fine  voice 
of  Don  Ambrosio  might  often  be  distinguished ; 
or  the  amorous  flute  would  be  heard  along  the 
mountain,  breathing  in  its  pensive  cadences  the 
very  soul  of  a  lover's  melancholy. 

Various  entertainments  were  also  devised  to 
dispel  her  loneliness,  and  to  charm  away  the 
idea  of  confinement.  Groups  of  Andalusian 
dancers  performed,  in  the  splendid  saloons, 
the  various  picturesque  dances  of  their  country; 
or  represented  little  amorous  ballets,  which 
turned  upon  some  pleasing  scene  of  pastoral 
coquetry  and  courtship.  Sometimes  there  were 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     357 

bands  of  singers,  who,  to  the  romantic  guitar, 
warbled  forth  ditties  full  of  passion  and  tender- 
ness. 

Thus  all  about  her  enticed  to  pleasure  and 
voluptuousness ;  but  the  heart  of  Inez  turned 
with  distaste  from  this  idle  mockery.  The 
tears  would  rush  into  her  eyes  as  her  thoughts 
reverted  from  this  scene  of  profligate  splendour, 
to  the  humble  but  virtuous  home  from  whence 
she  had  been  betrayed ;  or  if  the  witching, 
power  of  music  ever  soothed  her  into  a  tender 
reverie,  it  was  to  dwell  with  fondness  on  the 
image  of  Antonio.  But  if  Don  Ambrosio,  de- 
ceived by  this  transient  calm,  should  attempt 
at  such  time  to  whisper  his  passion,  she  would 
start  as  from  a  dream,  and  recoil  from  him 
with  involuntary  shuddering. 

She  had  passed  one  long  day  of  more  than 
ordinary  sadness,  and  in  the  evening  a  band  of 
these  hired  performers  were  exerting  all  the 
animating  powers  of  song  and  dance  to  amuse 
her.  But  while  the  lofty  saloon  resounded 
with  their  warblings,  and  the  light  sound  of 
feet  upon  its  marble  pavement  kept  time  to 


358  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

the  cadence  of  the  song,  poor  Inez,  with  her 
face  buried  in  the  silken  couch  on  which  she 
reclined,  was  only  rendered  more  wretched  by 
the  sound  of  gaiety. 

At  length  her  attention  was  caught  by  the 
voice  of  one  of  the  singers,  that  brought  with 
it  some  indefinite  recollections.  She  raised 
her  head,  and  cast  an  anxious  look  at  the  per- 
formers, who,  as  usual,  were  at  the  lower  end 
of  the  saloon.  One  of  them  advanced  a  little 
before  the  others.  It  was  a  female,  dressed  in 
a  fanciful,  pastoral  garb,  suited  to  the  cha- 
racter she  was  sustaining ;  but  her  counte- 
nance was  not  to  be  mistaken.  It  was  the  same 
ballad-singer  that  had  twice  crossed  her  path, 
and  given  her  mysterious  intimations  of  the 
lurking  mischief  that  surrounded  her.  When 
the  rest  of  the  performances  were  concluded, 
she  seized  a  tambourine,  and  tossing  it  aloft, 
danced  alone  to  the  melody  of  her  own  voice. 
In  the  course  of  her  dancing  she  approached  to 
where  Inez  reclined ;  and  as  she  struck  the 
tambourine,  contrived,  dexterously,  to  throw  a 
folded  paper  on  the  couch.  Inez  seized  it  with 


i 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.    359 

avidity,  and  concealed  it  in  her  bosom.  The 
singing  and  dancing  were  at  an  end ;  the  motley 
crew  retired;  and  Inez,  left  alone,  hastened 
with  anxiety  to  unfold  the  paper  thus  my- 
steriously conveyed.  It  was  written  in  an 
agitated,  and  almost  illegible,  hand-writing; 
*'  Be  on  your  guard !  you  are  surrounded  by 
treachery.  Trust  not  to  the  forbearance  of 
Don  Ambrosio;  you  are  marked  out  for  his 
prey.  An  humble  victim  to  his  perfidy  gives 
you  this  warning ;  she  is  encompassed  by  too 
many  dangers  to  be  more  explicit. — Your 
father  is  in  the  dungeons  of  the  inquisition !" 

The  brain  of  Inez  reeled  as  she  read  this 
dreadful  scroll.  She  was  less  filled  with  alarm 
at  her  own  danger,  than  horror  at  her  father's 
situation.  The  moment  Don  Ambrosio  ap- 
peared, she  rushed  and  threw  herself  at  his 
feet,  imploring  him  to  save  her  father.  Don 
Ambrosio  started  with  astonishment;  but 
immediately  regaining  his  self-possession,  en- 
deavoured to  soothe  her  by  his  blandishments, 
and  by  assurances  that  her  father  was  in  safety. 
She  was  not  to  be  pacified ;  her  fears  were  too 


360  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

much  aroused  to  be  trifled  with.  She  declared 
her  knowledge  of  her  father's  being  a  prisoner 
of  the  inquisition,  and  reiterated  her  frantic 
supplications  that  he  would  save  him. 

Don  Ambrosio  paused  for  a  moment  in  per- 
plexity, but  was  too  adroit  to  be  easily  con- 
founded.    *'  That  your  father  is  a  prisoner," 
replied  he,  ''  I  have  long  known.     I  have  con- 
cealed it  from  you,  to  save  you  from  fruitless 
anxiety.     You  now  know  the  real  reason  of 
the  restraint  I  have  put  upon  your  liberty :  I 
have  been  protecting  instead  of  detaining  you. 
Every  exertion  has  been  made  in  your  father's 
favour ;  but  I  regret  to  say,  the  proofs  of  the 
offences  of  which  he  stands  charged  have  been 
too  strong  to  be  controverted.     Still,"  added 
he,  "  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  save  him ;  I 
have  influence,  I  have  means  at  my  beck ;  it 
may  involve  me,  it  is  true,  in  difficulties,  per- 
haps in  disgrace ;  but  what  would  I  not  do  in 
the  hopes  of  being  rewarded  by  your  favour  ? 
Speak,  beautiful  Inez,"  said  he,  his  eyes  kindling 
with  sudden  eagerness,  "it  is  with  you  to  say 
the  word  that  seals  your  father's  fate.  One  kind 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  36l 

word,  say  but  you  will  be  mine,  and  you  will 
behold  me  at  your  feet,  your  father  at  liberty 
and  in  affluence,  and  we  shall  all  be  happy !" 

Inez  drew  back  from  him  with  scorn  and 
disbelief.  ''  My  father,"  exclaimed  she,  "  is 
too  innocent  and  blameless  to  be  convicted  of 
crime ;  this  is  some  base,  some  cruel  artifice ! " 
Don  Ambrosio  repeated  his  asseverations,  and 
with  them  also  his  dishonourable  proposals; 
but  his  eagerness  overshot  its  mark ;  her  in- 
dignation and  her  incredulity  were  alike 
awakened  by  his  base  suggestions;  and  he 
retired  from  her  presence  checked  and  aw^ed 
by  the  sudden  pride  and  dignity  of  her  de- 
meanour. 

The  unfortunate  Inez  now  became  a  prey 
to  the  most  harrowing  anxieties.  Don  Am- 
brosio saw  that  the  mask  had  fallen  from  his 
face,  and  that  the  nature  of  his  machinations 
was  revealed.  He  had  gone  too  far  to  retrace 
his  steps,  and  assume  the  affectation  of  tender- 
ness and  respect ;  indeed  he  was  mortified  and 
incensed  at  her  insensibility  to  his  attractions, 
and  now  only  sought  to  subdue  her  through 


362     THE  STUDENT  OF*  SALAMANCA. 

her  fears.  He  daily  represented  to  her  the 
dangers  that  threatened  her  father,  and  that 
it  was  in  his  power  alone  to  avert  them.  Inez 
was  still  incredulous.  She  was  too  ignorant 
of  the  nature  of  the  inquisition  to  know  that 
even  innocence  was  not  always  a  protection 
from  its  cruelties ;  and  she  confided  too  surely 
in  the  virtue  of  her  father  to  believe  that  any 
accusation  could  prevail  against  him. 

At  length,  Don  Ambrosio,  to  give  an  effec- 
tual blow  to  her  confidence,  brought  her  the 
proclamation  of  the  approaching  auto  da  f6,  in 
which  the  prisoners  were  enumerated.  She 
glanced  her  eye  over  it,  and  beheld  her  father's 
name,  condemned  to  the  stake  for  sorcery. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  transfixed  with 
horror.  Don  Ambrosio  seized  upon  the  tran- 
sient calm.  "  Think,  now,  beautiful  Inez," 
said  he,  with  a  tone  of  affected  tenderness,  "  his 
life  is  still  in  your  hands ;  one  word  from  you, 
one  kind  word,  and  I  can  yet  save  him." 

''  Monster !  wretch ! "  cried  she,  coming  to 
herself,  and  recoiling  from  him  with  insu- 
perable abhorrence :   "  'tis  you  that  are  the 


\ 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     363 

cause  of  this — 'tis  you  that  are  his  murderer ! " 
Then,  wringing  her  hands,  she  broke  forth 
into  exclamations  of  the  most  frantic  agony. 

The  perfidious  Ambrosio  saw  the  torture  of 
her  soul,  and  anticipated  from  it  a  triumph. 
He  saw  that  she  was  in  no  mood,  during  her 
present  paroxysm,  to  listen  to  his  words ;  but 
he  trusted  that  the  horrors  of  lonely  rumi- 
nation would  break  down  her  spirit,  and  sub- 
due her  to  his  will.  In  this,  however,  he  was 
disappointed.  Many  were  the  vicissitudes  of 
mind  of  the  wretched  Inez ;  one  time  she  would 
embrace  his  knees  with  piercing  supplications ; 
at  another  she  would  shrink  with  nervous  hor- 
ror at  his  very  approach ;  but  any  intimation 
of  his  passion  only  excited  the  same  emotion  of 
loathing  and  detestation. 

At  length  the  fatal  day  drew  nigh.  "  To- 
morrow," said  Don  Ambrosio,  as  he  left  her 
one  evening,  "  To-morrow  is  the  auto  da  f(6. 
To-morrow  you  will  hear  the  sound  of  the  bell 
that  tolls  your  father  to  his  death.  You  will 
almost  see  the  smoke  that  rises  from  his  fu- 
neral pile.     I  leave  you  to  yourself.     It  is  yet 


364  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

in  my  power  to  save  him.  Think  whether  you 
can  stand  to-morrow's  horrors  without  shrink- 
ing ?  Think  whether  you  can  endure  the  after- 
reflection,  that  you  were  the  cause  of  his  death, 
and  that  merely  through  a  perversity  in  re- 
fusing proffered  happiness." 

What  a  night  was  it  to  Inez!  Her  heart, 
already  harassed  and  almost  broken  by  re- 
peated and  protracted  anxieties ;  her  strength 
wasted  and  enfeebled.  On  every  side  horrors 
awaited  her ;  her  father's  death,  her  own  dis- 
honour ;  there  seemed  no  escape  from  misery 
or  perdition.  "Is  there  no  relief  from  man — 
no  pity  in  heaven  ?"  exclaimed  she.  "  What — 
what  have  we  done  that  we  should  be  thus 
wretched?" 

As  the  ..dawn  approached,  the  fever  of  her 
mind  arose  to  agony ;  a  thousand  times  did  she 
try  the  doors  and  windows  of  her  apartment, 
in  the  desperate  hope  of  escaping.  Alas !  with 
all  the  splendour  of  her  prison,  it  was  too 
faithfully  secured  for  her  weak  hands  to  work 
deliverance.  Like  a  poor  bird,  that  beats  its 
wings  against  its  gilded  cage,  until  it  sinks 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     S65 

panting  in  despair,  so  she  threw  herself  on  the 
floor  in  hopeless  anguish.  Her  blood  grew 
hot  in  her  veins,  her  tongue  was  parched,  her 
temples  throbbed  with  violence,  she  gasped 
rather  than  breathed ;  it  seemed  as  if  her  brain 
was  on  fire.  *'  Blessed  Virgin !"  exclaimed 
she,  clasping  her  hands  and  turning  up  her 
strained  eyes,  "  look  down  with  pity,  and  sup- 
port me  in  this  dreadful  hour !" 

Just  as  the  day  began  to  dawn,  she  heard 
a  key  turn  softly  in  the  door  of  her  apart- 
ment. She  dreaded  lest  it  should  be  Don  Am- 
brosio ;  and  the  very  thought  of  him  gave  her 
a  sickening  pang.  It  was  a  female,  clad  in  a 
rustic  dress,  with  her  face  concealed  by  her 
mantilla.  She  stepped  silently  into  the  room, 
looked  cautiously  round,  and  then,  uncover- 
ing her  face,  revealed  the  welUknown  fea- 
tures of  the  ballad-singer.  Inez  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  surprise,  almost  of  joy.  The 
unknown  started  back,  pressed  her  finger  on 
her  lips  enjoining  silence,  and  beckoned  her  to 
folio w\  She  hastily  wrapped  herself  in  her 
veil  and  obeyed.     They  passed  with  quick  but 


366  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

noiseless  steps  through  an  antechamber,  across 
a  spacious  hall,  and  along  a  corridor ;  all  was 
silent ;  the  household  was  yet  locked  in  sleep. 
They  came  to  a  door,  to  which  the  unknown 
applied  a  key.  Inez'  heart  misgave  her;  she 
knew  not  but  some  new  treachery  was  me- 
nacing her;  she  laid  her  cold  hand  on  the 
stranger's  arm :  '^  Whither  are  you  leading 
me  ?"  said  she.  ''  To  liberty,"  replied  the 
other,  in  a  whisper. 

^^  Do  you  know  the  passages  about  this 
mansion  ?" 

"  But  too  well !"  replied  the  girl,  with  a 
melancholy  shake  of  the  head.  There  was  an 
expression  of  sad  veracity  in  her  countenance 
that  was  not  to  be  distrusted.  The  door  opened 
on  a  small  terrace,  which  was  overlooked  by 
several  windows  of  the  mansion. 

"  We  must  move  across  this  quickly,"  said 
the  girl,  "  or  we  may  be  observed." 

They  glided  over  it  as  if  scarce  touching 
the  ground.  A  flight  of  steps  led  down  into 
the  garden ;  a  wicket  at  the  bottom  was  rea- 
dily unbolted:    they  passed   with  breathless 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.    367 

velocity  along  one  of  the  alleys,  still  in  sight 
of  the  mansion,  in  which,  however,  no  person 
appeared  to  be  stirring.  At  length  they  came 
to  a  low  private  door  in  the  wall,  partly  hidden 
by  a  fig-tree.  It  was  secured  by  rusty  bolts, 
that  refused  to  yield  to  their  feeble  efforts. 

"  Holy  Virgin !"  exclaimed  the  stranger, 
"  what  is  to  be  done  ?  one  moment  more,  and 
we  may  be  discovered." 

She  seized  a  stone  that  lay  near  by :  a  few 
blows,  and  the  bolts  flew  back;  the  door 
grated  harshly  as  they  opened  it,  and  the  next 
moment  they  found  themselves  in  a  narrow 
road. 

"  Now,"  said  the  stranger,  ''  for  Grenada  as 
quickly  as  possible !  The  nearer  we  approach 
it,  the  safer  we  shall  be ;  for  the  road  will  be 
more  frequented." 

The  imminent  risk  they  ran  of  being  pur- 
sued and  taken  gave  supernatural  strength  to 
their  limbs ;  they  flew  rather  than  ran.  The 
day  had  dawned ;  the  crimson  streaks  on  the 
edge  of  the  horizon  gave  tokens  of  the  ap- 
proaching sunrise :    already  the  light  clouds 


368     THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

that  floated  in  the  western  sky  were  tinged 
with  gold  and  purple ;  though  the  broad  plain 
of  the  Vega,  which  now  began  to  open  upon 
their  view,  was  covered  with  the  dark  haze 
of  morning.  As  yet  they  only  passed  a  few 
straggling  peasants  on  the  road,  who  could 
have  yielded  them  no  assistance  in  case  of  their 
being  overtaken.  They  continued  to  hurry 
forward,  and  had  gained  a  considerable  di- 
stance, when  the  strength  of  Inez,  which  had 
only  been  sustained  by  the  fever  of  her  mind, 
began  to  yield  to  fatigue :  she  slackened  her 
pace,  and  faltered. 

"  Alas !"  said  she, "  my  limbs  fail  me !  I  can 
go  no  further !"  ''  Bear  up,  bear  up,"  replied 
her  companion  cheeringly ;  "  a  little  further 
and  we  shall  be  safe  :  look !  yonder  is  Grenada, 
just  showing  itself  in  the  valley  below  us.  A 
little  further,  and  we  shall  come  to  the  main 
road,  and  then  we  shall  find  plenty  of  pas- 
sengers to  protect  us." 

Inez,  encouraged,  made  fresh  eflForts  to  get 
forward,  but  her  weary  limbs  were  unequal  to 
the  eagerness  of  her  mind ;    her  mouth  and 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     369 

throat  were  parched  by  agony  and  terror  :  she 
gasped  for  breath,  and  leaned  for  support 
against  a  rock.  '^  It  is  all  in  vain !"  exclaimed 
she ;  ''  I  feel  as  though  I  should  faint." 

^'  Lean  on  me,"  said  the  other ;  "  let  us  get 
into  the  shelter  of  yon  thicket,  that  will  con- 
ceal us  from  the  view ;  I  hear  the  sound  of 
water,  which  will  refresh  you." 

With  much  difficulty  they  reached  the  thicket, 
which  overhung  a  small  mountain  stream,  just 
where  its  sparkling  waters  leaped  over  the  rock 
and  fell  into  a  natural  basin.  Here  Inez  sank 
upon  the  ground  exhausted.  Her  companion 
brought  water  in  the  palms  of  her  hands,  and 
bathed  her  pallid  temples.  The  cooling  drops 
revived  her;  she  was  enabled  to  get  to  the 
margin  of  the  stream,  and  drink  of  its  crystal 
current ;  then,  reclining  her  head  on  the  bosom 
of  her  deliverer,  she  was  first  enabled  to  mur- 
mur forth  her  heartfelt  gratitude. 

"  Alas!"  said  the  other,  "  I  deserve  no 
thanks;  I  deserve  not  the  good  opinion  you 
express.     In  me  you  behold  a  victim  of  Don 

VOL.  I.  B  B 


SyO  THE    STUDENT    OF   SALAMANCA. 

Ambrosio's  arts.  In  early  years  he  seduced 
me  from  the  cottage  of  my  parents :  look ! 
at  the  foot  of  yonder  blue  mountain  in  the 
distance  lies  my  native  village :  but  it  is  no 
longer  a  home  for  me.  From  thence  he  lured 
me  when  I  was  too  young  for  reflection;  he 
educated  me,  taught  me  various  accomplish- 
ments, made  me  sensible  to  love,  to  splendor, 
to  refinement;  then,  having  grown  weary 
of  me,  he  neglected  me,  and  cast  me  upon 
the  world.  Happily  the  accomplishments  he 
taught  me  have  kept  me  from  utter  want ;  and 
the  love  with  which  he  inspired  me  has  kept 
me  from  further  degradation.  Yes !  I  confess 
my  weakness ;  all  his  perfidy  and  wrongs  can- 
not efi*ace  him  from  my  heart.  I  have  been 
brought  up  to  love  him;  I  have  no  other 
idol :  I  know  him  to  be  base,  yet  I  cannot  help 
adoring  him.  I  am  content  to  mingle  among 
the  hireling  throng  that  administer  to  his 
amusements,  that  I  may  still  hover  about  him, 
and  linger  in  those  halls  where  I  once  reigned 
mistress.     What  merit,  then,  have  I  in  assist- 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  371 

ing  your  escape  ?  I  scarce  know  whether  I  am 
acting  from  sympathy,  and  a  desire  to  rescue 
another  victim  from  his  power;  or  jealousy, 
and  an  eagerness  to  remove  too  powerful  a 
rival!" 

While  she  was  yet  speaking,  the  sun  rose  in 
all  its  splendor  ;  first  lighting  up  the  mountain 
summits,  then  stealing  down  height  by  height, 
until  its  rays  gilded  the  domes  and  towers  of 
Grenada,  which  they  could  partially  see  from 
between  the  trees,  below  them.  Just  then 
the  heavy  tones  of  a  bell  came  sounding  from 
a  distance,  echoing,  in  sullen  clang,  along  the 
mountain.  Inez  turned  pale  at  the  sound. 
She  knew  it  to  be  the  great  bell  of  the  cathe- 
dral, rung  at  sunrise  on  the  day  of  the  auto 
da  fe,  to  give  note  of  funeral  preparation. 
Every  stroke  beat  upon  her  heart,  and  inflicted 
an  absolute,  corporeal  pang.  She  started  up 
wildly.  "  Let  us  be  gone ! "  cried  she  ;  ^^  there 
is  not  a  moment  for  delay ! " 

''  Stop ! "  exclaimed  the  other,  ^^  yonder  are 
horsemen  coming  over  the  brow  of  that  distant 

B  B  ^ 


37^  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

height ;  if  I  mistake  not,  Don  Ambrosio  is  at 
their  head. — Alas !  'tis  he  ;  we  are  lost.  Hold  V* 
continued  she,  "  give  me  your  scarf  and  veil ; 
wrap  yourself  in  this  mantilla.  I  will  fly  up 
yon  footpath  that  leads  to  the  heights.  I  will 
let  the  veil  flutter  as  I  ascend ;  perhaps  they 
may  mistake  me  for  you,  and  they  must  dis- 
mount to  follow  me.  Do  you  hasten  forward  : 
you  will  soon  reach  the  main  road.  You  have 
jewels  on  your  fingers  :  bribe  the  first  muleteer 
you  meet  to  assist  you  on  your  way." 

All  this  was  said  with  hurried  and  breath- 
less rapidity.  The  exchange  of  garments  was 
made  in  an  instant.  The  girl  darted  up  the 
mountain-path,  her  white  veil  fluttering  among 
the  dark  shrubbery;  while  Inez,  inspired  with 
new  strength,  or  rather  new  terror,  flew  to  the 
road,  and  trusted  to  Providence  to  guide  her 
tottering  steps  to  Grenada. 

All  Grenada  was  in  agitation  on  the  morn- 
ing of  this  dismal  day.  The  heavy  bell  of  the 
cathedral  continued  to  utter  its  clanging  tones, 
that  pervaded  every  part  of  the  city,  summon- 


THE  STUDEN^T  OF  SALAMANCA.     373 

ing  all  persons  to  the  tremendous  spectacle 
that  was  about  to  be  exhibited.  The  streets 
through  which  the  procession  was  to  pass 
were  crowded  with  the  populace.  The  win- 
dows, the  roofs,  every  place  that  could  admit 
a  face  or  a  foothold,  was  alive  with  spectators. 
In  the  great  square  a  spacious  scaffolding,  like 
an  amphitheatre,  was  erected,  where  the  sen- 
tences of  the  prisoners  were  to  be  read,  and 
the  sermon  of  faith  to  be  preached  ;  and  close 
by  were  the  stakes  prepared,  where  the  con- 
demned were  to  be  burnt  to  death.  Seat« 
were  arranged  for  the  great,  the  gay,  the 
beautiful;  for  such  is  the  horrible  curiosity  of 
human  nature,  that  this  cruel  sacrifice  was 
attended  with  more  eagerness  than  a  theatre, 
or  even  a  bull  feast. 

As  the  day  advanced,  the  scaffolds  and  bal- 
conies were  filled  with  expecting  multitudes  ; 
the  sun  shone  brightly  upon  fair  faces  and 
gallant  dresses;  one  would  have  thought  it 
some  scene  of  elegant  festivity,  instead  of  an 
exhibition  of  human  agony  and  death.  But 
what  a  different  spectacle  and  ceremony  was 


3/4  THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

this  from  those  which  Grenada  exhibited  in 
the  days  of  her  Moorish  splendor.  "  Her 
galas,  her  tournaments,  her  sports  of  the  ring, 
her  f^tes  of  St.  John,  her  music,  her  Zambras, 
and  admirable  tilts  of  canes !  Her  serenades, 
her  concerts,  her  songs  in  Generaliffe !  The 
costly  liveries  of  the  Abencerrages,  their  ex- 
quisite inventions,  the  skill  and  valour  of  the 
Alabaces,  the  superb  dresses  of  the  Zegries^ 
Mazas,  and  Gomeles*!" — All  these  were  at  an 
end.  The  days  of  chivalry  were  over.  Instead 
of  the  prancing  cavalcade,  with  neighing  steed 
and  lively  trumpet ;  with  burnished  lance,  and 
helm,  and  buckler ;  with  rich  confusion  of 
plume,  and  scarf,  and  banner,  where  purple, 
and  scarlet,  and  green,  and  orange,  and  every 
gay  colour  were  mingled  with  cloth  of  gold  and 
fair  embroidery ;  instead  of  this  crept  on  the 
gloomy  pageant  of  superstition,  in  cowl  and 
sackcloth ;  with  cross  and  coffin,  and  frightful 
symbols  of  human  suffering.  In  place  of  the 
frank,  hardy  knight,  open  and  brave,  with  his 
lady 's  favour  in  his  casque,  and  amorous  motto 

*  Rodd's  Civil  Wars  of  Grenada. 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  375 

^n  his  shield,  looking,  by  gallant  deeds,  to  win 
the  smile  of  beauty,  came  the  shaven,  unmanly 
monk,  with  downcast  eyes,  and  head  and  heart 
bleached  in  the  cold  cloister,  secretly  exulting 
in  this  bigot  triumph. 

The  sound  of  the  bells  gave  notice  that  the 
dismal  procession  was  advancing.  It  passed 
slowly  through  the  principal  streets  of  the 
€ity,  bearing  in  advance  the  awful  banner  of 
the  holy  office.  The  prisoners  walked  singly, 
attended  by  confessors,  and  guarded  by  fa- 
miliars of  the  inquisition.  They  were  clad  in 
different  garments,  according  to  the  nature  of 
their  punishments  ;  those  who  were  to  suffer 
death  wore  the  hideous  Samarra,  painted  with 
flames  and  demons.  The  procession  was  swelled 
by  choirs  of  boys,  by  different  religious  orders 
and  public  dignitaries,  and,  above  all,  by  the 
fathers  of  the  faith,  moving  '^  with  slow  pace, 
and  profound  gravity,  truly  triumphing,  as 
becomes  the  principal  generals  of  that  great 
victory*.*' 

As  the  sacred  banner  of  the  inquisition  ad- 

*  •Gonsalvius,  p.  135. 


376  THE    STUDENT    OF   SALAMANCA. 

vanced,  the  countless  throng  sunk  on  their 
knees  before  it ;  they  bowed  their  faces  to  the 
very  earth  as  it  passed,  and  then  slowly  rose 
again,  like  a  great  undulating  billow.  A  mur- 
mur of  tongues  prevailed  as  the  prisoners  ap- 
proached, and  eager  eyes  were  strained,  and 
fingers  pointed,  to  distinguish  the  different 
orders  of  penitents,  whose  habits  denoted  the 
degree  of  punishment  they  were  to  undergo. 
But  as  those  drew  near  whose  frightful  garb 
marked  them  as  destined  to  the  flames,  the 
noise  of  the  rabble  subsided;  they  seemed 
almost  to  hold  in  their  breaths  ;  filled  with 
that  strange  and  dismal  interest  with  which 
we  contemplate  a  human  being  on  the  verge 
of  suffering  and  death. 

It  is  an  awful  thing — a  voiceless,  noiseless 
multitude !  The  hushed  and  gazing  stillness  of 
the  surrounding  thousands,  heaped  on  walls, 
and  gates,  and  roofs,  and  hanging,  as  it  were, 
in  clusters,  heightened  the  effect  of  the  pageant 
that  moved  drearily  on.  The  low  murmuring 
of  the  priests  could  now  be  heard  in  prayer 
and  exhortation,  with  the   faint  responses  of 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  37? 

the  prisoners,  and  now  and  then  the  voices  of 
the  choir  at  a  distance,  chanting  the  litanies  of 
the  saints. 

The  faces  of  the  prisoners  were  ghastly  and 
disconsolate.  Even  those  who  had  been  par- 
doned, and  wore  the  Sanbenito,  or  penitential 
garment,  bore  traces  of  the  horrors  they  had 
undergone.  Some  were  feeble  and  tottering 
from  long  confinement;  some  crippled  and 
distorted  by  various  tortures ;  every  counte- 
nance was  a  dismal  page,  on  which  might  be 
read  the  secrets  of  their  prison-house.  But  in 
the  looks  of  those  condemned  to  death  there 
was  something  fierce  and  eager.  They  seemed 
men  harrowed  up  by  the  past,  and  desperate 
as  to  the  future.  They  were  anticipating, 
with  spirits  fevered  by  despair,  and  fixed  and 
clenched  determination,  the  vehement  struggle 
with  agony  and  death  which  they  were  shortly 
to  undergo.  Some  cast  now  and  then  a  wild 
and  anguished  look  about  them  upon  the 
shining  day ;  the  ''  sun-bright  palaces,"  the  gay, 
the  beautiful  world,  which  they  were  soon  to 
quit  for  ever ;  or  a  glance  of  sudden  indigna- 


x578  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

tion  at  the  thronging  thousands,  happy  in  li- 
berty and  life,  who  seemed,  in  contemplating 
their  frightful  situation,  to  exult  in  their  own 
comparative  security. 

One  among  the  condemned,  however,  was 
an  exception  to  these  remarks.  It  was  an 
aged  man,  somewhat  bowed  down,  with  a 
serene,  though  dejected  countenance,  and  a 
beaming,  melancholy  eye.  It  was  the  alchy- 
mist.  The  populace  looked  upon  him  with  a 
degree  of  compassion,  which  they  were  not 
prone  to  feel  towards  criminals  condemned  by 
the  inquisition ;  but  when  they  were  told  that 
he  was  convicted  of  the  crime  of  magic,  they 
drew  back  with  awe  and  abhorrence. 

The  procession  had  reached  the  grand 
square.  The  first  part  had  already  mounted  the 
scaffolding,  and  the  condemned  were  approach- 
ing. The  press  of  the  populace  became  ex- 
cessive, and  was  repelled,  as  it  were,  in  billows 
by  the  guards.  Just  as  the  condemned  were 
entering  the  square,  a  shrieking  was  heard 
among  the  crowd.  A  female,  pale,  frantic, 
dishevelled,  was  seen  struggling  through  the 


THE    STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.    379 

multitude.  ''  My  father  !  my  father  !"  was  all 
the  cry  she  uttered,  but  it  thrilled  through 
every  heart.  The  crowd  instinctively  drew 
back,  and  made  way  for  her  as  she  advanced. 
The  poor  alchymist  had  made  his  peace 
with  Heaven,  and,  by  hard  struggle,  had  closed 
his  heart  upon  the  world,  when  the  voice  of 
his  child  called  him  once  more  back  to  worldly 
thought  and  agony.  He  turned  towards  the 
well-known  voice ;  his  knees  smote  together ; 
he  endeavoured  to  stretch  forth  his  pinioned 
arms,  and  felt  himself  clasped  in  the  embraces 
of  his  child.  The  emotions  of  both  were  too 
agonizing  for  utterance.  Convulsive  sobs,  and 
broken  exclamations,  and  embraces  more  of 
anguish  than  tenderness,  were  all  that  passed 
between  them.  The  procession  was  interrupted 
for  a  moment.  The  astonished  monks  and 
familiars  were  filled  with  involuntary  respect 
at  this  agony  of  natural  affection.  Ej  aculations 
of  pity  broke  from  the  crowd,  touched  by  the 
filial  piety,  the  extraordinary  and  hopeless 
anguish  of  so  young  and  beautiful  a  being. 


380  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

Every  attempt  to  soothe  her,  and  prevail  on 
her  to  retire,  was  unheeded;  at  length  they 
endeavoured  to  separate  her  from  her  father 
by  force.  The  movement  roused  her  from 
her  temporary  abandonment.  With  a  sudden 
paroxysm  of  fury,  she  snatched  a  sword  from 
one  of  the  familiars.  Her  late  pale  counte- 
nance was  flushed  with  rage,  and  fire  flashed 
from  her  once  soft  and  languishing  eyes.  The 
guards  shrunk  back  with  awe.  There  was 
something  in  this  filial  frenzy,  this  feminine 
tenderness  wrought  up  to  desperation,  that 
touched  even  their  hardened  hearts.  They 
endeavoured  to  pacify  her,  but  in  vain.  Her 
eye  was  eager  and  quick  as  the  she-wolf's 
guarding  her  young.  With  one  arm  she  pressed 
her  father  to  her  bosom,  with  the  other  she 
menaced  every  one  that  approached. 

The  patience  of  the  guards  was  soon  ex- 
hausted. They  had  held  back  in  awe,  but  not 
in  fear.  With  all  her  desperation  the  weapon 
was  soon  wrested  from  her  feeble  hand,  and 
she  was  borne  shrieking  and  struggling  among 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     381 

the  crowd.  The  rabble  murmured  compassion ; 
but  such  was  the  dread  inspired  by  the  inqui- 
sition, that  no  one  attempted  to  interfere. 

The  procession  again  resumed  its  march. 
Inez  was  ineffectually  struggling  to  release 
herself  from  the  hands  of  the  familiars  that 
detained  her,  when  suddenly  she  saw  Don 
Ambrosio  before  her.  "  Wretched  girl !"  ex- 
claimed he  with  fury,  "  why  have  you  fled  from 
your  friends  ?  Deliver  her,"  said  he  to  the  fa- 
miliars, ''  to  my  domestics ;  she  is  under  my 
protection." 

His  creatures  advanced  to  seize  her.  ^'  Oh 
no !  oh  no !"  cried  she,  with  new  terrors,  and 
clinging  to  the  familiars,  "  I  have  fled  from  no 
friends.  He  is  not  my  protector !  He  is  the 
murderer  of  my  father !" 

The  familiars  were  perplexed ;  the  crowd 
pressed  on  with  eager  curiosity.  "  Stand  off!" 
cried  the  fiery  Ambrosio,  dashing  the  throng 
from  around  him.  Then  turning  to  the  familiars, 
with  sudden  moderation,  "My  friends,"  said 
he,  "  deliver  this  poor  girl  to  me.  Her  distress 
has  turned  her  brain ;  she  has  escaped  from 


382  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

her  friends  and  protectors  this  morning ;  but  a 
little  quiet  and  kind  treatment  will  restore  her 
to  tranquillity." 

'^  I  am  not  mad !  I  am  not  mad !"  cried  she 
vehemently.  "  Oh,  save  me ! — save  me  from 
these  men !  I  have  no  protector  on  earth  but 
my  father,  and  him  they  are  murdering !" 

The  familiars  shook  their  heads  ;  her  wild- 
ness  corroborated  the  assertions  of  Don  Am- 
brosio,  and  his  apparent  rank  commanded 
respect  and  belief.  They  relinquished  their 
charge  to  him,  and  he  was  consigning  the 
struggling  Inez  to  his  creatures. — 

"  Let  go  your  hold,  villain !"  cried  a  voice 
from  among  the  crowd,  and  Antonio  was  seen 
eagerly  tearing  his  way  through  the  press  of 
people. 

^'  Seize  him !  seize  him !"  cried  Don  Am- 
brosio  to  the  familiars :  ''  'tis  an  accomplice  of 
the  sorcerer." 

"  Liar !"  retorted  Antonio,  as  he  thrust  the 
mob  to  the  right  and  left,  and  forced  himself 
to  the  spot. 

The  sword  of  Don  Ambrosio  flashed  in  an 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     383 

instant  from  the  scabbard;  the  student  was 
armed,  and  equally  alert.  There  was  a  fierce 
clash  of  weapons;  the  crowd  made  way  for 
them  as  they  fought,  and  closed  again,  so  as  to 
hide  them  from  the  view  of  Inez.  All  was  tu- 
mult and  confusion  for  a  moment ;  when  there 
was  a  kind  of  shout  from  the  spectators,  and 
the  mob  again  opening,  she  beheld,  as  she 
thought,  Antonio  weltering  in  his  blood. 

This  new  shock  was  too  great  for  her  already 
overstrained  intellects.  A  giddiness  seized 
upon  her  ;  every  thing  seemed  to  whirl  before 
her  eyes  ;  she  gasped  some  incoherent  words, 
and  sunk  senseless  upon  the  ground. 

Days — weeks  elapsed  before  Inez  returned 
to  consciousness.  At  length  she  opened  her 
eyes,  as  if  out  of  a  troubled  sleep.  She  was 
lying  upon  a  magnificent  bed,  in  a  chamber 
richly  furnished  with  pier  glasses  and  massive 
tables  inlaid  with  silver,  of  exquisite  workman- 
ship. The  walls  were  covered  with  tapestry ; 
the  cornices  richly  gilded :  through  the  door, 
which  stood  open,  she  perceived  a  superb 
saloon,  with  statues  and  crystal  lustres,  and  a 


384  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

magnificent  suite  of  apartments  beyond.  The 
casements  of  the  room  were  open  to  admit  the 
soft  breath  of  summer,  which  stole  in,  laden 
with  perfumes  from  a  neighbouring  garden; 
from  whence,  also,  the  refreshing  sound  of 
fountains  and  the  sweet  notes  of  birds  came  in 
mingled  music  to  her  ear. 

Female  attendants  were  moving,  with  noise- 
less step,  about  the  chamber ;  but  she  feared 
to  address  them.  She  doubted  whether  this 
were  not  all  delusion,  or  whether  she  was  not 
still  in  the  palace  of  Don  Ambrosio,  and  that 
her  escape,  and  all  its  circumstances,  had  not 
been  but  a  feverish  dream.  She  closed  her  eyes 
again,  endeavouring  to  recall  the  past,  and  to 
separate  the  real  from  the  imaginary.  The 
last  scenes  of  consciousness,  however,  rushed 
too  forcibly,  with  all  their  horrors,  to  her  mind 
to  be  doubted,  and  she  turned  shuddering 
from  the  recollection,  to  gaze  once  more  on 
the  quiet  and  serene  magnificence  around  her. 
As  she  again  opened  her  eyes,  they  rested  on 
an  object  that  at  once  dispelled  every  alarm. 
At  the  head  of  her  bed  sat  a  venerable  form 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     385 

watching  over  her  with  a  look  of  fond  anxiety 
— ^it  was  her  father ! 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  scene  thas 
ensued;  nor  the  moments  of  rapture  which 
more  than  repaid  all  the  sufferings  that  her 
affectionate  heart  had  undergone.  As  soon  at 
their  feelings  had  become  more  calm,  the  al- 
chymist  stepped  out  of  the  room  to  introduce 
a  stranger,  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  his 
life  and  liberty.  He  returned,  leading  in  An- 
tonio, no  longer  in  his  poor  scholar's  garb,  but 
in  the  rich  dress  of  a  nobleman. 

The  feelings  of  Inez  were  almost  over- 
powered by  these  sudden  reverses,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  she  was  sufficiently  composed 
to  comprehend  the  explanation  of  this  seeming 
romance. 

It  appeared  that  the  lover,  who  had  sought 
her  affections  in  the  lowly  guise  of  a  student, 
was  only  son  and  heir  of  a  powerful  grandee 
of  Valentia.  He  had  been  placed  at  the  uni- 
versity of  Salamanca ;  but  a  lively  curiosity  and 
an  eagerness  for  adventure  had  induced  him 

VOL.  I.  c  c 


386 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 


to  abandon  the  university,  without  his  father's 
consent,  and  to  visit  various  parts  of  Spain.  His 
rambling  inclination  satisfied,  he  had  remained 
incognito  for  a  time  at  Grenada,  until,  by  fur- 
ther study  and  self-regulation,  he  could  pre- 
pare himself  to  return  home  with  credit,  and 
atone  for  his  transgressions  against  paternal 
authority. 

How  hard  he  had  studied  does  not  remain 
on  record.  All  that  we  know  is  his  romantic 
adventure  of  the  tower.  It  was  at  first  a  mere 
youthful  caprice,  excited  by  a  glimpse  of  a 
beautiful  face.  In  becoming  a  disciple  of  the 
alchymist,  he  probably  thought  of  nothing  more 
than  pursuing  a  light  love-affair.  Further  ac- 
quaintance, however,  had  completely  fixed  his 
affections ;  and  he  had  determined  to  conduct 
Inez  and  her  father  to  Valentia,  and  to  trust 
to  her  merits  to  secure  his  father's  consent  to 
their  union. 

In  the  mean  time  he  had  been  traced  to  his 
concealment.  His  father  had  received  intelli- 
gence of  his  being  entangled  in  the  snares  of  a 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  387 

mysterious  adventurer  and  his  daughter,  and 
likely  to  become  the  dupe  of  the  fascinations 
of  the  latter.  Trusty  emissaries  had  been 
despatched  to  seize  upon  him  by  main  force, 
and  convey  him  without  delay  to  the  paternal 
home. 

What  eloquence  he  had  used  with  his  father 
to  convince  him  of  the  innocence,  the  honour, 
and  the  high  descent  of  the  alchymist,  and  of 
the  exalted  worth  of  his  daughter,  does  not 
appear.  All  that  we  know  is,  that  the  father, 
though  a  very  passionate,  was  a  very  reason- 
able man,  as  appears  by  his  consenting  that 
his  son  should  return  to  Grenada,  and  conduct 
Inez,  as  his  affianced  bride,  to  Valentia. 

Away,  then,  Don  Antonio  hurried  back, 
full  of  joyous  anticipations.  He  still  forbore 
to  throw  off  his  disguise,  fondly  picturing  to 
himself  what  would  be  the  surprise  of  Inez, 
when,  having  won  her  heart  and  hand  as  a  poor 
wandering  scholar,  he  should  raise  her  and  her 
father  at  once  to  opulence  and  splendour. 

On  his  arrival  he  had  been  shocked  at  find- 


388  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

ing  the  tower  deserted  by  its  inhabitants.  In 
vain  he  sought  for  intelligence  concerning 
them;  a  mystery  hung  over  their  disappear- 
ance which  he  could  not  penetrate,  until  he 
was  thunderstruck,  on  accidentally  reading  a 
list  of  the  prisoners  at  the  impending  auto  da 
f6,  to  find  the  name  of  his  venerable  master 
among  the  condemned. 

It  was  the  very  morning  of  the  execution. 
The  procession  was  already  on  its  way  to  the 
grand  square.  Not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost. 
The  grand  inquisitor  was  a  relation  of  Don 
Antonio,  though  they  had  never  met.  His 
first  impulse  was  to  make  himself  known ;  to 
exert  all  his  family  influence,  the  weight  of  his 
name,  and  the  power  of  his  eloquence,  in  vin- 
dication of  the  alchymist.  But  the  grand  in- 
quisitor was  already  proceeding,  in  all  his 
pomp,  to  the  place  where  the  fatal  ceremony 
was  to  be  performed.  How  was  he  to  be  ap- 
proached ?  Antonio  threw  himself  into  the 
crowd,  in  a  fever  of  anxiety,  and  was  forcing 
his  way  to  the  scene  of  horror,  when  he  ar- 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  3^9 

rived  just  in  time  to  rescue  Inez,  as  has  been 
mentioned. 

It  was  Don  Ambrosio  that  fell  in  their  con- 
test. Being  desperately  wounded,  and  think- 
ing his  end  approaching,  he  had  confessed,  to 
an  attending  father  of  the  inquisition,  that  he 
was  the  sole  cause  of  the  alchymist's  con- 
demnation, and  that  the  evidence  on  which  it 
was  grounded  was  altogether  false.  The  testi- 
mony of  Don  Antonio  came  in  corroboration  of 
this  avowal ;  and  his  relationship  to  the  grand 
inquisitor  had,  in  all  probability,  its  proper 
weight.  Thus  was  the  poor  alchymist  snatched, 
in  a  manner,  from  the  very  flames ;  and  so 
great  had  been  the  sympathy  awakened  in  his 
case,  that  for  once  a  populace  rejoiced  at  being 
disappointed  of  an  execution. 

The  residue  of  the  story  may  readily  be 
imagined  by  every  one  versed  in  this  valuable 
kind  of  history.  Don  Antonio  espoused  the 
lovely  Inez,  and  took  her  and  her  father  with 
him  to  Valentia.  As  she  had  been  a  loving 
and  dutiful  daughter,  so  she  proved  a  true  and 
tender  wife.     It  was  not  long  before  Don  An- 


390  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

tonio  succeeded  to  his  father's  titles  and  estates, 
and  he  and  his  fair  spouse  were  renowned  for 
being  the  handsomest  and  happiest  couple  in 
all  Valentia. 

As  to  Don  Ambrosio,  he  partially  recovered 
to  the  enjoyment  of  a  broken  constitution  and 
a  blasted  name,  and  hid  his  remorse  and  dis- 
graces in  a  convent ;  while  the  poor  victim  of  his 
arts,  who  had  assisted  Inez  in  her  escape, 
unable  to  conquer  the  early  passion  that  he 
had  awakened  in  her  bosom,  though  convinced 
of  the  baseness  of  the  object,  retired  from  the 
world,  and  became  a  humble  sister  in  a  nun- 
nery. 

The  worthy  alchymist  took  up  his  abode 
with  his  children.  A  pavilion,  in  the  garden 
of  their  palace,  was  assigned  to  him  as  a  labo- 
ratory, where  he  resumed  his  researches,  with 
renovated  ardour,  after  the  grand  secret.  He  was 
now  and  then  assisted  by  his  son-in-law;  but 
the  latter  slackened  grievously  in  his  zeal  and 
diligence,  after  marriage.  Still  he  would  listen 
with  profound  gravity  and  attention  to  the 
old  man's  rhapsodies,  and  his  quotations  from 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  391 

Paracelsus,  Sandivogius,  and  Pietro  D'Abano, 
which  daily  grew  longer  and  longer.  In  this 
way  the  good  alchymist  lived  on  quietly  and 
comfortably,  to  what  is  called  a  good  old  age, 
that  is  to  say,  an  age  that  is  good  for  nothing, 
and,  unfortunately  for  mankind,  was  hurried 
out  of  life  in  his  ninetieth  year,  just  as  he  was 
on  the  point  of  discovering  the  Philosophers' 
Stone. 


Such  was  the  story  of  the  captain's  friend, 
with  which  we  whiled  away  the  morning.  The 
captain  was,  every  now  and  then,  interrupted 
by  questions  and  remarks,  which  I  have  not 
mentioned,  lest  I  should  break  the  continuity 
of  the  tale.  He  was  a  little  disturbed,  also, 
once  or  twice,  by  the  general,  who  fell  asleep, 
and  breathed  rather  hard,  to  the  great  horror 
and  annoyance  of  Lady  Lillycraft.  In  a  long 
and  tender  love-scene,  also,  which  was  par- 
ticularly to  her  ladyship's  taste,  the  unlucky 
general,  having  his  head  a  little  sunk  upon  his 
breast,  kept  making  a  sound  at  regular  inter- 


392  THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA. 

vals,  very  much  like  the  word  pish,  long  drawn 
out.  At  length  he  made  an  odd  abrupt  gut- 
tural sound,  that  suddenly  awoke  him;  he 
hemmed,  looked  about  with  a  slight  degree  of 
consternation,  and  then  began  to  play  with  her 
ladyship's  work-bag,  which,  however,  she  rather 
pettishly  withdrew.  The  steady  sound  of  the 
captain's  voice  was  still  too  potent  a  soporific 
for  the  poor  general ;  he  kept  gleaming  up  and 
sinking  in  the  socket,  until  the  cessation  of  the 
tale  again  roused  him,  when  he  started  awake, 
put  his  foot  down  upon  Lady  Lillycraft's  cur, 
the  sleeping  Beauty,  which  yelped,  and  seized 
him  by  the  leg,  and,  in  a  moment,  the  whole 
library  resounded  with  yelpings  and  exclama- 
tions. Never  did  a  man  more  completely  mar 
his  fortunes  while  he  was  asleep.  Silence 
being  at  length  restored,  the  company  ex- 
pressed their  thanks  to  the  captain,  and  gave 
various  opinions  of  the  story.  The  parson's 
mind,  I  found,  had  been  continually  running 
upon  the  leaden  manuscripts,  mentioned  in  the 
beginning,  as  dug  up  at  Grenada,  and  he  put 
several  eager  questions  to  the  captain  on  the 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.     393 

subject.  The  general  could  not  well  make  out 
the  drift  of  the  story,  but  thought  it  a  little 
confused.  "  I  am  glad,  however,"  said  he, 
"  that  they  burnt  the  old  chap  of  the  tower ;  I 
have  no  doubt  he  was  a  notorious  impostor." 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


LONDON: 

PBINTBD  BT  1H04IAS  DAVISON,  WHITEFRlARf. 


m^eo^