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Cornell University Library 
 
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 Historical romances. 
 
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Cornell University 
 Library 
 
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 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013517937 
 
NOVELS 
 
 OP 
 
 SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON 
 
 i^ffirarg lEUttton 
 
 HISTORICAL ROMANCES 
 Vol. I. 
 

"His countship," said I, "will accept your invitation." 
 
 Dt'verena. /. 80. 
 
DEYEREUX. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWAED BULWEE LYTTON 
 
 {LORD LYTTON.) 
 
 m TWO VOLUMES. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 LITTLE, BEOWN, AND COMPANY. 
 1896. 
 

 Copyright, 189S, 
 By Little, Brown, and CoMPAKr. 
 
 /^'^"^ 
 
 4^Sr^ 
 
 University Press; 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
 •J-<3HrL0:j 
 
NOTE TO THE EDITION OF 1852. 
 
 If this work possess any merit of a narrative order, it 
 •will perhaps be found in its fidelity to the characteristics 
 of an autobiography. The reader must, indeed, comply 
 with the condition exacted froin his imagination and 
 faith, — that is to say, he must take the hero of the story 
 upon the terms for which Morton Devereux himself 
 stipulates; and regard the supposed count as one who 
 lived and wrote in the last century, but who, dimly con- 
 scious that the tone of his mind harmonized less with his 
 own age than with that which was to come, left his biograr 
 phy as a legacy to the present. This assumption (which 
 is not an unfair one), liberally conceded, and allowed to 
 account for occasional anachronisms in sentiment, Morton 
 Devereux will be found to write as a man who is not 
 constructing a romance, but narrating a life. He gives 
 to love, its joy and its Sorrow, its due share in an event- 
 ful and passionate existence ; but it is the share of biog- 
 raphy, not of fiction. He selects from the crowd of 
 personages with whom he is brought into contact, not 
 only those who directly influence his personal destinies, 
 but those of whom a sketch or an anecdote would appear 
 to a biographer likely to have interest for posterity. 
 Louis XIV., the Eegent Orleans, Peter the Great, Lord 
 
vi NOTE TO THE EDITION OF 1852. 
 
 Bolingbroke, and others less eminent, but still of mark 
 in their own day, if growing obscure to ours, are intro- 
 duced, not for the purposes and agencies of fiction, but 
 as an autobiographer's natural illustrations of the men 
 and manners of his time. 
 
 And here be it pardoned if I add that so minute an 
 attention has been paid to accuracy that even in petty 
 details, and in relation to historical characters but slightly 
 known to the ordinary reader, a critic deeply acquainted 
 with the memoirs of the age will allow that the novelist 
 is always merged in the narrator. 
 
 Unless the author has failed more in his design than, 
 on revising the work of his early youth with the com- 
 paratively impartial eye of maturer judgment, he is dis- 
 posed to concede, Morton Devereux will also be found 
 with that marked individuality of character which dis- 
 tinguishes the man who has lived and labored from the 
 hero of romance. He admits into his life but few pas- 
 sions, — those are tenacious and intense; conscious that 
 none who are around him will sympathize with his deeper 
 feelings, he veils them under the sneer of an irony which 
 is often affected and never mirthful. Wherever we find 
 him, after surviving the brief episode of love, we feel — 
 though he does not tell us so — that he is alone in the 
 world. He is represented as a keen observer and a suc- 
 cessful actor in the busy theatre of mankind, precisely in 
 proportion as no cloud from the heart obscures the cold 
 clearness of the mind. In the scenes of pleasure there is 
 no joy in his smile ; in the contests of. ambition there is 
 no quicker beat of the pulse. Attaining in the prime of 
 manhood such position and honor as would first content 
 and then sate a man. of this mouldy he has nothing left 
 
NOTE TO THE EDITION OF 1852. vii 
 
 but to discover the vanities of this world, and to ponder 
 on the hopes of the next ; and his last passion dying out 
 in the retribution that falls on his foe, he finally sits 
 down in retirement to rebuild the ruined home of his 
 youth, unconscious that to that solitude the Destinies 
 have led him to repair the waste and ravages of, his own 
 melancholy soul. 
 
 But while outward dramatic harmonies between cause 
 «nd effect, and the proportionate agencies which charac- 
 ters introduced in the drama bring to bear upon event and 
 catastrophe, are carefully shunned, — as real life does for 
 the most part shun them, — yet there is a latent cohe- 
 rence in all that, by influencing the mind, do, though 
 indirectly, shape out the fate and guide the actions. 
 
 Dialogue and adventures which, considered dramati- 
 cally, would be episodical, considered biographically, 
 will be found essential to the formation, change, and 
 development of the narrator's character. The grave con- 
 versations with Bolingbroke and Eichard Cromwell, the 
 light scenes in London and at Paris, the favor obtained 
 with the Czar of Eussia, are all essential to the creation 
 of that mixture of wearied satiety and mournful thought 
 which conducts the Probationer to the lonely spot in 
 which he is destined to learn at once the mystery of his 
 past life, and to clear his reason from the doubts that had 
 obscured the future world. 
 
 Viewing the work in this more subtle and contempla- 
 tive light, the reader will find not only the true test by 
 which to judge of its design and nature, but he may also 
 recognize sources of interest in the story which might 
 otherwise have been lost to him; and if so, the author 
 will not be without excuse for this criticism upon the 
 
vm NOTE TO THE EDITION OF 1852. 
 
 scope and intention of his own work. For it is not only 
 the privilege of an artist, hut it is also sometiines his 
 duty to the principles of art, to place the spectator in 
 that point of view wherein the light hest falls upon the 
 canvas. " Do not place yourself there, " says the painter, 
 "to judge of my composition; you must stand where I 
 place you." 
 
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHER'S INTRODUCTION. 
 
 My life has been one of frequent adventure and constant 
 excitement. It has been passed, to this present day, in 
 a stirring age, and not without acquaintance of the most 
 eminent and active spirits of the time. Men of all 
 grades and of every character have been familiar to me. 
 War, love, ambition, the scroll of sages, the festivals of 
 wit, the intrigues of states, — all that agitate mankind, 
 the hope and the fear, the labor and the pleasure, — the 
 great drama of vanities, with the little interludes of wis- 
 dom, — these have been the occupations of my manhood; 
 these will furnish forth the materials of that history 
 which is now open to your survey. Whatever be the 
 faults of the historian, he has no motive to palliate what 
 he has committed, nor to conceal what he has felt. 
 
 Children of an after century, the very time in which 
 these pages wiU greet you destroys enough of the con- 
 nection between you and myself to render me indifferent 
 alike to your censure and your applause. Exactly one 
 hundred years from the day this record is completed will 
 the seal I shall place on it be broken, and the secrets it 
 contains be disclosed. I claim that congeniality with 
 you which I have found not among my own coevals. 
 Their thoughts, their feelings, their views, have nothing 
 kindred to my own. I speak their language, but it is 
 not as a native, — tJiey know not a syllable of mine! 
 
X AUTOBIOGRAPHEE S INTRODUCTION. 
 
 With a future age my heart may have more in common, 
 — to a future age my thoughts may be less unfamiliar, 
 and my sentiments less strange ; I trust these confessions 
 to the trial. 
 
 Children of an after century, between you and the 
 being who has traced the pages ye behold — that busy, 
 versatile, restless being — there is but one step; but 
 that step is a century ! His now is separated from your 
 now by an interval of three generations! While he 
 writes, he is exulting in the vigor of health and man- 
 hood; while ye read, the very worms are starving upon 
 his dust. This commune between the living and the 
 dead — this intercourse between that which breathes and 
 moves and is, and that which life animates not, nor 
 mortality knows — annihilates falsehood, and chills even 
 self-delusion into awe. Come, then, and look upon the 
 picture of a past day and of a gone being, without appre- 
 hension of deceit; and as the shadows and lights of a 
 checkered and wild existence flit before you, watch if 
 in your own hearts there be aught which mirrors the 
 reflection. 
 
 MORTON DEVEREUX. 
 
DEDICATORY EPISTLE 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHK AULDJO, Esq., etc. 
 
 AT NAPLES. 
 
 London. 
 My deae Auld jo, ^t Permit me, as a memento of the 
 pleasant hours we passed together, and the intimacy 
 we formed, by the winding shores and the rosy seas of 
 the old Parthenope, to dedicate to you this romance. 
 It was written in perhaps the happiest period of my 
 literary life, — when success began to brighten upon my 
 labors, and it seemed to me a fine thing to make a name. 
 " The Disowned " and " Devereux " were both com- 
 pleted in retirement, and in the midst of metaphysical 
 studies and investigations, varied and miscellaneous 
 enough, if not very deeply conned. At that time I was 
 indeed engaged in preparing for the press a philosophical 
 work, which I had afterwards the good sense to postpone 
 to a riper age and a more sobered mind. But the effect 
 of these studies is somewhat prejudicially visible in both 
 the romances I have referred to ; and the external and 
 dramatic colorings which belong to fiction are too often 
 forsaken for the inward and subtle analysis of motives, 
 characters, and actions. The workman was not suffi- 
 ciently master of his art to forbear the vanity of parading 
 the wheels of the mechanism, and was too fond of call- 
 
XU DEDICATORY EPISTLB. 
 
 ing attention to the minute and tedious operations by 
 ■which the movements were to be performed, and the 
 result obtained. I believe that an author is generally 
 pleased with his work, less in proportion as it is good 
 than in proportion as it fulfils the idea with which he 
 commenced it. He is rarely, perhaps, an accurate judge 
 how far the execution is in itself faulty or meritorious ; 
 but he judges with tolerable success how far it accom- 
 plishes the end and objects of the conception. He is 
 pleased with his work, in short, according as he can say, 
 " This has expressed what I meant it to convey. " But 
 the reader, who is not in the secret of the author's origi- 
 nal design, usually views the work through a different 
 medium, — and is perhaps, in this, the wiser critic of 
 the two; for the book that wanders the most from the 
 idea which originated it, may often be better than that 
 which is rigidly limited to the unfolding and denouement 
 of a single conception. If we accept this solution, we 
 may be enabled to understand why an author not unfre- 
 quently makes favorites of some of his productions most 
 condemned by the public. Por my own part, I remem- 
 ber that " Devereux " pleased me better than " Pelham " 
 or " The Disowned, " because the execution more exactly 
 corresponded with the design. It expressed with toler- 
 able fidelity what I meant it to express. That was a 
 happy age, my dear Auldjo, when, on finishing a work, 
 we could feel contented with our labor, and fancy we 
 had done our best ! Now, alas ! I have learned enough 
 of the wonders of the art to recognize all the deficiencies 
 of the disciple; and to know that no author worth the 
 reading can ever in one single work do half of which he 
 is capable. 
 
 What man ever wrote anything really good, who did 
 not feel that he had the ability to write something bet- 
 
DEDICATOliY EPISTLE. XIU 
 
 ter ? Writing, after all, is a cold and a coarse interpreter 
 of thought. How much of the imagination, how 
 much of the intellect, evaporates and is lost while we 
 seek to emhody it in words! Man made language, and 
 God the genius. Nothing short of an eternity could 
 enable men who imagine, think, and feel, to express 
 all they have imagined, thought, and felt. Immor- 
 tality, the spiritual desire, is the intellectual necessity. 
 
 In " Devereux " I wished to portray a man flourishing 
 in the last century, with the train of mind and senti- 
 ment peculiar to the present; describing a Ufe, and 
 not its dramatic epitome, the historical characters intro- 
 duced are not closely woven with the main plot, like 
 those in the fictions of Sir Walter Scott, but are rather, 
 like the narrative romances of an earlier school, designed 
 to relieve the predominant interest, and give a greater 
 air of truth and actuality to the supposed memoir. It is 
 a fiction which deals less with the picturesque than the 
 real. Of the principal character thus introduced (Lord 
 Bolingbroke), I still think that my sketch, upon the' 
 whole, is substantially just. We must not judge of the- 
 politicians of one age by the lights of another. Happily,' 
 we now demand in a statesman a desire for other aims 
 than his own advancement; but at that period ambition 
 was almost universally selfish, — the statesman was yet 
 a courtier; a man whose very destiny it was to intrigue, 
 to plot, to glitter, to deceive. It is in proportion as 
 politics have ceased to be a Secret science, in proportion 
 as courts are less to be flattered and tools to be managed, 
 that politicians have become useful and honest men; 
 and the statesman now directs a people, where once he 
 outwitted an antechamber. Compare Bolingbroke, not 
 with the men and by the rules of this day, but with the 
 men and by the rules of the last. He will lose nothing 
 
XIV DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 
 
 in comparison with a Walpole, with a Marlborough, on 
 the one side, — with an Oxford or a Swift upon the 
 other. 
 
 And now, my dear Auldjo, you have had enough of 
 my egotisms. As our works grow up, like old parents, 
 we grow garrulous, and love to recur to the happier days 
 of their childhood: we talk over the pleasant pain they 
 cost us in their rearing, and memory renews the 
 season of dreams and hopes; we speak of their faults 
 as of things past, of their merits as of things endur- 
 ing; we are proud to see them stiU living, and, after 
 many a harsh ordeal and rude assault, keeping a certain 
 station in the world; we hoped, perhaps, something 
 better for them in their cradle, but as it is we have good 
 cause to be' contented. You, a fellow-author, and one 
 whose spirited and charming sketches embody so much 
 of personal adventure, and therefore so much connect 
 themselves with associations of real life as well as of the 
 studious closet, — you know, and must feel, with me, 
 that these our books are a part of us, bone of our bone 
 and flesh of our flesh! They treasure up the thoughts 
 which stirred us, the affections which warmed us, 
 years ago; they are the mirrors of how much of what 
 we were ! To the world they are but as a certain number 
 of pages, — good or bad, tedious or diverting ; but to 
 ourselves, the authors, they are as marks in the wild 
 maze of life by which we can retrace our steps, and be 
 with our youth again. What would I not give to feel 
 as I felt, to hope as I hoped, to believe as I believed, 
 when this work was first launched upon the world! 
 But time gives, while it takes away; and amongst its 
 recompenses for many losses are the memories I referred 
 to in commencing this letter, and gratefully revert to at 
 its close. From the land of cloud and the life of toil I 
 
DEDICATORY EPISTLE, XV 
 
 turn to that golden clime and the happy indolence that 
 so well accords with it, and hope once more, ere I die, 
 with a companion whose knowledge can recall the past 
 and whose gayety can enliven the present, to visit the 
 Disburied City of Pompeii, and see the moonlight 
 sparkle over the waves of Naples. Adieu, my dear 
 Auldjo, 
 
 And believe me 
 
 Your obliged and attached friend, 
 
 E. B. LYTTON. 
 
DEVEREUX. 
 
 BOOK I. — CHAPTER I. 
 
 Of the Hero's Birth and Parentage. Nothing can differ more 
 from the End of Things than their Beginning. 
 
 Mt grandfather, Sir Arthur Devereux (peace be with 
 his ashes!), was a noble old knight and cavalier, pos- 
 sessed of a property sufiSciently large to have maintained 
 in full dignity half-a-dozen peers, — such as peers have 
 been since the days of the First James. Nevertheless, 
 my grandfather loved the equestrian order better than 
 the patrician, rejected all offers of advancement, and left 
 his posterity no titles but those to his estate. 
 
 Sir Arthur had two children by wedlock, both sons. 
 At his death my father, the younger, bade adieu to the 
 old hall and his only brother, prayed to the grim por- 
 traits of his ancestors to inspire him, and set out — to 
 join as a volunteer the armies of that Louis afterwards 
 surnamed le Grand. Of him I shall say but little ; the 
 life of a soldier has only two events worth recording, — 
 his first campaign and his last. My uncle did as his 
 ancestors had done before him, and, cheap as the dignity 
 had grown, went up to court to be knighted by Charles II. 
 He was so delighted with what he saw of the metropolis 
 that he forswore all intention of leaving, i4,_ took to 
 
 VOL. I. — 1 
 
2 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Sedley and Champagne, flirted with Nell Gwynne, 
 lost double the value of his brother's portion at one 
 sitting to the chivalrous Grammont, wrote a comedy 
 corrected by Btherege, and took a wife recommended 
 by Rochester. The wife brought him a child six 
 months after marriage, and the infant was born on the 
 same day the comedy was acted. Luckily for the honor 
 of the house, my uncle shared the fate of Plimneus, 
 King of Sicyon; and all the offspring he ever had (that 
 is to say, the child and the play) " died as soon as they 
 were born." My uncle was now only at a loss what 
 to do with his wife, — that remaining treasure whose 
 readiness to oblige him had been so miraculously evinced. 
 She saved him the trouble of long cogitation, — an 
 exercise of intellect to which he was never too ardently 
 inclined. There was a gentleman of the court cele- 
 brated for his sedateness and solemnity; my aunt was 
 piqued into emulating Orpheus, and six weeks after 
 her confinement she put this rock into motion, — they 
 eloped. . Poor gentleman! it must have been a severe 
 trial of patience to a man never known before to trans- 
 gress the very slowest of all possible walks, to have had 
 two events of the most rapid nature happen to him in 
 the same week: scarcely had he recovered the shock of 
 being run away with by my aunt, before, terminating 
 forever his vagrancies, he was run through by my uncle. 
 The wits made an epigram upon the event; and my 
 uncle, who was as bold as a lion at the point of a sword, 
 was, to speak frankly, terribly disconcerted by the point 
 of a jest. He retired to the country in a fit of disgust 
 and gout. Here his natural goodness soon recovered the 
 effects of the artificial atmosphere to which it had been 
 exposed, and he solaced himself by righteously govern- 
 ing domains worthy of a prince, for the mortifications 
 
DEVEREUX. 3 
 
 he had experienced in the dishonorable career of a 
 courtier. 
 
 Hitherto I have spoken somewhat slightingly of my 
 uncle, and in his dissipation he deserved it; for he was 
 both too honest and too simple to shine in that galaxy 
 of prostituted genius of which Charles II. was the centre. 
 But in retirement he was no longer the same person; 
 and I do not think that the elements of human nature 
 could have furnished forth a more amiable character 
 than Sir William Devereux presiding at Christmas 
 over the merriment of his great hall. 
 
 Good old man! his very defects were what we loved 
 best in him, — vanity was so mingled with good-nature 
 that it became graceful, and we reverenced one the most, 
 while we most smiled at the other. 
 
 One peculiarity had he, which the age he had lived 
 in and his domestic history rendered natural enough, — 
 namely, an exceeding distaste to the matrimonial state: 
 early marriages were misery, imprudent marriages idiot- 
 ism, and marriage, at the best, he was wont to say, with 
 a kindling eye and a heightened color, — marriage, at 
 the best, was the devil ! Yet it must not be supposed 
 that Sir William Devereux was an ungallant man. On 
 the contrary, never did the beau sexe have a humbler 
 or more devoted servant. As nothing, in his estima- 
 tion, was less becoming to a wise man than matrimony, 
 so nothing was more ornamental than flirtation. 
 
 He had the old man's weakness, garrulity; and he 
 told the wittiest stories in the world, without omitting 
 anything in them but the point. This omission did 
 not arise from the«want either of memory or of humor, 
 but solely from a deficiency in the malice natural to all 
 jesters. He could not persuade his lips to repeat a 
 sarcasm hurting even the dead or the ungrateful; and 
 
4 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 when he came to the drop of gall which should have 
 given zest to the story, the milk of human kindness 
 broke its barrier, despite of himself, and washed it 
 away. He was a fine wreck, a little prematurely broken 
 by dissipation, but not perhaps the less interesting on 
 that account; tall, and somewhat of. the jovial old 
 English girth, with a face where good-nature and good 
 living mingled their smiles and glow. He wore the 
 garb of twenty years back, and was curiously particular 
 in the choice of his silk stockings. Between you and 
 me, he was not a little vain of his leg, and a compli- 
 ment on that score was always sure of a gracious 
 reception. 
 
 The solitude of my uncle's household was broken by 
 an invasion of three boys, — none of the quietest; and 
 their mother, who, the gentlest and saddest of woman- 
 kind, seemed to follow them, the emblem of that pri- 
 meval Silence from which all noise was born. These 
 three boys were my two brothers and myself. My 
 father, who had conceived a strong personal attachment 
 for Louis Quatorze, never quitted his service, and the 
 great king repaid him by orders and favors without 
 number; he died of wounds received in battle, — a 
 count and a marshal, full of renown, and destitute of 
 money. He had married twice: his first wife, who 
 died without issue, was a daughter of the noble house 
 of La Tremouille; his second, our mother, was of a 
 younger branch of the English race of Howard. Brought 
 up in her native country, and influenced by a primitive 
 and retired education, she never loved that gay land 
 which her husband had adopted as his own. Upon his 
 death, she hastened her return to England, and, refus- 
 ing with somewhat of honorable pride the magnificent 
 pension which Louis wished to settle upon the widow 
 
DEVEREUX. 5 
 
 of his favorite, came to throw herself and her children 
 upon those affections which she knew they were entitled 
 to claim. 
 
 My uncle was unaffectedly rejoiced to receive us. To 
 say nothing of his love for my father, and his pride at 
 the honors the latter had won to their ancient house, 
 the good gentleman was very well pleased with the idea 
 of obtaining four new listeners, out of whom he might 
 select an heir ; and he soon grew as fond of us as we were 
 of him. At the time of our new settlement I had 
 attained the age of twelve ; my second brother (we were 
 twins) was born an hour after me ; my third was about 
 fifteen months younger. I had never been the favorite 
 of the three. In the first place, my brothers (my young- 
 est, especially) were uncommonly handsome, and at 
 most I was but tolerably good-looking; in the second 
 place, my mind was considered as much inferior to 
 theirs as my body. I was idle and dull, sullen and 
 haughty ; the only wit I ever displayed was in sneering 
 at my friends, and the only spirit in quarrelling with 
 my twin brother, — ■ so said or so thought all who saw us 
 in our childhood; and it follows, therefore, that I was 
 either very unamiable or very much misunderstood. 
 
 But, to the astonishment of myself and my relations, 
 my fate was now to be reversed, and I was no sooner 
 settled at Devereux Court than I became evidently the 
 object of Sir William's pre eminent attachment. The 
 fact was, that I really liked both the knight and his 
 stories better than my brothers did; and the very first 
 time I had seen my uncle, I had commented on the 
 beauty of his stocking, and envied the constitution of 
 his leg: from such trifles spring affection! In truth, 
 our attachment to each other so increased that we grew 
 to be constantly together; and while my childish antici- 
 
6 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 pations of the world made me love to listen to stories 
 of courts and courtiers, my uncle returned the compli- 
 ment, by declaring of my wit, as the angler declared of 
 the river Lea, that one would find enough in it if one 
 would but angle sufficiently long. 
 
 Nor was this all : my uncle and myself were exceed- 
 ingly like the waters of Alpheus and Arethusa, — 
 nothing was thrown into the one without being seen 
 very shortly afterwards floating upon the other. Every 
 witticism or legend Sir William imparted to me (and 
 some, to say truth, were a little tinged with the licen- 
 tiousness of the times he had lived in), I took the first 
 opportunity of retailing, whatever might be the audience ; 
 and few boys at the age of thirteen can boast of having 
 so often as myself excited the laughter of the men and 
 the blushes of the women. This circumstance, while 
 it aggravated my own vanity, delighted my uncle's; 
 and as I was always getting into scrapes on his account, 
 so he was perpetually bound, by duty, to defend me 
 from the charges of which he was the cause. No man 
 defends another long without loving him the better for 
 it; and, perhaps. Sir William Devereux and his eldest 
 nephew were the only allies in the world who had no 
 jealousy of each other. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 A Family Consultation. — A Priest, and an Era in Life. 
 
 " You are ruining the children, my dear Sir William," 
 said my gentle mother one day , -when I had been par- 
 ticularly witty ; " and the Abbe Montreuil declares it 
 absolutely necessary that they should go to school." 
 
 "To school!" said my uncle, who was caressing his 
 right leg, as it layover his left knee, — "to school, 
 madam! you are joking. What for, pray?" 
 
 " Instruction, my dear Sir William," replied my 
 mother. 
 
 "Ah, ah! I forgot that; true, true! " said my uncle, 
 despondingly ; and there was a pause. My mother 
 counted her rosary, my uncle sank into a reverie, my 
 twin brother pinched my leg under the table, to which 
 I replied by a silent kick; and my youngest fixed his 
 large, dark, speaking eyes upon a picture of the Holy 
 Family, which hung opposite to him. 
 
 My uncle broke silence ; he did it with a start. 
 
 " Od's fish, madam" (my uncle dressed his oaths, 
 like himself, a little after the example of Charles II.), 
 — " od's fish, madam, I have thought of a better plan 
 than that; they shall have instruction without going to 
 school for it. " 
 
 "And how, Sir William?" 
 
 " I will instruct them myself, madam ; " and Sir 
 William slapped the calf of the leg he was caressing. 
 
 My mother smiled. 
 
8 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 "Ay, madam, you may smile, but I and my Lord 
 Dorset were the best scholars of the age; you shall read 
 my play." 
 
 " Do, mother," said I, " read the play. Shall I tell 
 tier some of the jests in it, uncle ? " 
 
 My mother shook her head in anticipative horror, and 
 taised her finger reprovingly. My uncle said nothing, 
 but winked at me; I understood the signal, and was 
 about to begin, when the door opened and the Abbd 
 Montreuil entered. My uncle released his right leg, 
 and my jest was cut off. Nobody ever inspired a more 
 dim, religious awe than the Abbe Montreuil. The 
 priest entered with a smile. My mother hailed the 
 entrance of an ally. 
 
 "Father," said she, rising, "I have just represented 
 to my good brother the necessity of sending my sons to 
 school; he has proposed an alternative which I will 
 leave you to discuss with him." 
 
 "And what is it?" said Montreuil, sliding into a 
 tehair, and patting Gerald's head with a benignant air. 
 
 " To educate them himself," answered my mother, 
 with a sort of satirical gravity. My uncle moved 
 uneasily in his seat, as if, for the first time, he saw 
 something ridiculous in the proposal. 
 
 The smile, immediately fading from the thin lips of 
 the priest, gave way to an expression of respectful 
 approbation. "An admirable plan," said he, slowly, 
 " but liable to some little exceptions, which Sir Wil- 
 liailk. will allow me to point out." 
 
 My mother called to us, and we left the room with 
 h6r. The next time we saw my uncle, the priest's 
 reasonings had prevailed. The following week we all 
 three went to school. My father had been a Catholic, 
 my mother was of the same creed, and consequently we 
 
DEVEEEUX. 9 
 
 were brought up in that unpopular faith. But my 
 uncle, whose religion had been sadly undermined at 
 court, was a terrible caviller at the holy mysteries of 
 Catholicism; and while his friends termed him a 
 Protestant, his enemies hinted, falsely enough, that he 
 was a sceptic. When Montreuil first followed us to 
 Devereux Court, many and bitter were the little jests 
 my worthy uncle had provided for his reception; and 
 he would shake his head with a notable archness when- 
 ever he heard our reverential description of the expected 
 guest. But, somehow or other, no sooner had he seen 
 the priest, than all his purposed railleries deserted him. 
 Not a single witticism came to his assistance, and the 
 calm smooth face of the ecclesiastic seemed to operate 
 upon the fierce resolves of the facetious knight in the 
 same manner as the human eye is supposed to awe into 
 impotence the malignant intentions of the ignobler 
 animals. Yet nothing could be blander than the 
 demeanor of the Abb6 Montreuil, — nothing more 
 worldly, in their urbanity, than his manner and 
 address. His garb was as little clerical as possible, 
 his conversation rather familiar than formal, and he 
 invariably listened to every syllable the good knight 
 uttered, with a countenance and mien of the most 
 attentive respect. 
 
 What then was the charm by which this singular 
 man never failed to obtain an ascendancy, in some 
 measure allied with fear, over all in whose company he 
 was thrown ? That was a secret my uncle never could 
 solve, and which only in later life I myself was able 
 to discover. It was partly by the magic of an extraordi- 
 nary and powerful mind, partly by an expression of 
 manner, if I may use such a phrase, that seemed to 
 sneer most when most it affected to respect; and partly 
 
10 DEVEREUX. 
 
 by an air like that of a man never exactly at his ease : 
 not that he was shy, or ungraceful, or even taciturn, — 
 no! it was an indescribable embarrassment, resembling 
 that of one playing a part, familiar to him, indeed, but 
 somewhat distasteful. This embarrassment, however, 
 was sufficient to be contagious, and to confuse that 
 dignity in others which, strangely enough, never for- 
 sook himself. 
 
 He was of low origin, but his address and appearance 
 did not betray his birth. Pride suited his mien better 
 than familiarity; and his countenance, rigid, thought- 
 ful, and cold, even through smiles, in expression was 
 strikingly commanding. In person he was slightly 
 above the middle standard; and had not the texture of 
 his frame been remarkably hard, wiry, and muscular, 
 the total absence of all superfluous flesh would have 
 given the lean gauntness of his figure an appearance of 
 almost spectral emaciation. In reality, his age did not 
 exceed twenty-eight years; but his high, broad forehead 
 was already so marked with line and furrow, his air was 
 so staid and quiet, his figure so destitute of the round- 
 ness and elasticity of youth, that his appearance always 
 impressed the beholder with the involuntary idea of a 
 man considerably more advanced in life. Abstemious 
 to habitual penance , and regular to mechanical exactness 
 in his frequent and severe devotions, he was as little 
 inwardly addicted to the pleasures and pursuits of youth 
 as he was externally possessed of its freshness and its 
 bloom, 
 
 Nor was gravity with him that unmeaning veil to 
 imbecility which Eochefoucauld has so happily called 
 " the mystery of the body." The variety and depth of 
 his learning fully sustained the respect which his 
 demeanor insensibly created. To say nothing of his 
 
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DEVEEEUX. 11 
 
 lore in the dead tongues, he possessed a knowledge of 
 the principal European languages besides his own, — 
 namely, English, Italian, German, and Spanish, — not 
 less accurate and little less fluent than that of a native ; 
 and he had not only gained the key to these various 
 coffers of intellectual wealth, but he had also possessed 
 himself of their treasures. He had been educated at 
 St. Omer; and, young as he was, he had already acquired 
 no inconsiderable reputation among his brethren of that 
 illustrious and celebrated Order of Jesus which ha^^ 
 produced some of the worst and some of the best me 
 that the Christian world has ever known, — which h 
 in its successful zeal for knowledge, and the circulatme 
 of mental light, bequeathed a vast debt of gratitude l- 
 posterity; but which, unhappily encouraging certain 
 scholastic doctrines, that by a mind at once subtle and 
 vicious can be easily perverted into the sanction of the 
 most dangerous and systematized immorality, has already 
 drawn upon its professors an almost universal odium. 
 
 So highly established was the good name of Montreuil, 
 that when, three years prior to the time of which I now 
 speak, he had been elected to the office he held in our 
 family, it was scarcely deemed a less fortunate occur- 
 rence for us to gain so learned and so pious a preceptor 
 than it was for him to acquire a situation of such trust 
 and confidence in the household of a Marshal of France, 
 and the especial favorite of Louis XIV. 
 
 It was pleasant enough to mark the gradual ascendancy 
 he gained over my uncle, and the timorous dislike which 
 the good knight entertained for him, yet struggled to 
 conceal. Perhaps that was the only time in his life in 
 which Sir William Devereux was a hypocrite. 
 
 Enough of the priest at present, — I return to his 
 charge. To school we went. Our parting with our 
 
12 DEVEREUX. 
 
 uncle was quite pathetic, — mine in especial. " Hark 
 ye, Sir Count," whispered he (I bore my father's title), 
 — " hark ye, don't mind what the old priest tells you; 
 your real man of wit never wants the musty lessons of 
 schools in order to make a figure in the world. Don't 
 cramp your genius, my boy; read over my play, and 
 honest George Etherege's ' Man of Mode ; ' they '11 keep 
 your spirits alive, after dozing over those old pages 
 *• which Homer (good soul!) dozed over before. God bless 
 ^■^lu, my child; write to me, — no one, not even your 
 +r^ ther, shall see your letters; and — and be sure, my 
 £^j fellow, that you don't fag too hard. The glass of 
 i -Tjis the best book, and one's natural wit the only 
 g^]y<aaond that can write legibly on it." 
 y Such were my uncle's parting admonitions ; it must 
 oe confessed that, coupled with the dramatic gifts 
 alluded to, they were likely to be of infinite service to 
 the debutant for academical honors. In fact, Sir Wil- 
 liam Devereux was deeply impregnated with the notion 
 of his time, that ability and inspiration were the same 
 thing, and that, unless you were thoroughly idle, you 
 could not be thoroughly a genius. I verily believe that 
 he thought wisdom got its gems, as Abu Zeid al Hassan ' 
 declares some Chinese philosophers thought oysters got 
 their pearls, — namely, by gwping I 
 
 I In his Commentary on the Account of China by Two Travellers, 
 
DEVEREUX. 13 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A Change in Conduct and in Character. — Our evil Passions will 
 sometimes produce good Effects ; and, on the contrary, an 
 Alteration for the better in Manners wiU, not unfrequently, 
 have amongst its Causes a little Corruption of Mind ; for the 
 Feelings are so blended that, in suppressing those disagree- 
 able to others, we often suppress those which are amiable in 
 themselves. 
 
 Mt twin brother, Gerald, was a tall, strong, handsome 
 boy, blessed with a great love for the orthodox aca- 
 demical studies, and extraordinary quickness of ability. 
 Nevertheless, he was indolent by nature, — in things 
 which were contrary to his taste, — fond of pleasure, 
 and amidst all his personal courage ran a certain vein 
 of irresolution, which rendered it easy for a cool and 
 determined mind to awe or to persuade him. I cannot 
 help thinking, too, that, clever as he was, there was 
 something commonplace in the cleverness; and that his 
 talent was of that mechanical yet quick nature which 
 makes wonderful boys, but mediocre men. In any 
 other family he would have been considered the beauty ; 
 in ours he was thought the genius. 
 
 My youngest brother, Aubrey , was of a very different 
 disposition of mind and frame of body: thoughtful, 
 gentle, susceptible, acute; with an uncertain bravery, 
 like a woman's , and a taste for reading that varied with 
 the caprice of every hour. He was the beauty of the 
 three, and my mother's favorite. Never, indeed, have 
 I seen the countenance of man so perfect, so glowingly 
 yet delicately handsome, as that of Aubrey Devereux. 
 
14 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 Locks, soft, glossy, and twining into ringlets, fell in 
 dark profusion over a brow whiter than marble; his 
 eyes were black and tender, as a Georgian girl's; his 
 lips, his teeth, the contour of his face, were all cast in 
 the same feminine and faultless mould ; his hands would 
 have shamed those of Madame de la Tisseur, whose 
 lover offered six thousand marks to any European who 
 could wear her glove ; and his figure would have made 
 Titania give up her Henchman, and the King of the 
 Fairies be anything but pleased with the exchange. 
 
 Such were my two brothers, — or, rather (so far as 
 the internal qualities are concerned) , such they seemed 
 to me : for it is a singular fact that we never judge of 
 our near kindred so well as we judge of others ; and I 
 appeal to any one, whether, of all people by whom he 
 has been mistaken, he has not been most often mistaken 
 by those with whom he was brought up. 
 
 I had always loved Aubrey, but they had not suffered 
 him to love me ; and we had been so little together that 
 we had in common none of those childish remembrances 
 which serve, more powerfully than all else in later life, 
 to cement and soften affection. In fact, I was the 
 scapegoat of the family. What I must have been in 
 early childhood, I cannot tell; but before I was ten 
 years old, I was the object of all the despondency and 
 evil forebodings of my relations. My father said I 
 laughed at la gloire et le grand monarque, the very 
 first time he attempted to explain to me the value of the 
 one and the greatness of the other. The countess said 
 I had neither my father's eye nor her own smile ; that 
 I was slow at my letters, and quick with my tongue; 
 and throughout the whole house nothing was so favorite 
 a topic as the extent of my rudeness, and the venom 
 of my repartee. Montreuil, on his entrance into our 
 
DEVEREUX. 15 
 
 family, not only fell in with, but favored and fostered 
 the reigning humor against me, — whether from that 
 divide et impera system which was so grateful to his 
 temper, or from the mere love of meddling and intrigue, 
 which in him, as in Alberoni, attached itself equally to 
 petty as to large circles, was not then clearly apparent; 
 it was only certain that he fomented the dissensions and 
 widened the breach between my brothers and myself. 
 Alas! after all, I believe my sole crime was my candor. 
 I had a spirit of frankness, which no fear could tame, 
 and my vengeance for any infantine punishment was in 
 speaking veraciously of my punishers. Never tell me 
 of the pang of falsehood to the slandered ; nothing is so 
 agonizing to the fine skin of vanity as the application of 
 a rough truth ! 
 
 As I grew older, I saw my power, and indulged it; 
 and, being scolded for sarcasm, I was flattered into 
 believing I had wit; so I punned and jested, lam- 
 pooned and satirized, till I was as much a torment to 
 others as I was tormented myself. The secret of all 
 this was that I was unhappy. Nobody loved me. I 
 felt it to my heart of hearts. I was conscious of injus- 
 tice, and the sense of it made me bitter. Our feelings, 
 especially in youth, resemble that leaf which, in some 
 old traveller, is described as expanding itself to warmth, 
 but, when chilled, not only shrinking and closing, but 
 presenting to the spectator thorns which had lain con- 
 cealed upon the opposite side of it before. 
 
 With my brother Gerald I had a deadly and irrecon- 
 cilable feud. He was much stouter, taller, and stronger 
 than myself; and, far from conceding to me that respect 
 which I imagined my priority of birth entitled me to 
 claim, he took every opportunity to deride my preten- 
 sions, and to vindicate the cause of the superior strength 
 
16 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ind vigor which constituted his own. It would have 
 lone your heart good to have seen us cuff one another, 
 we did it with such zeal. There is nothing in human 
 passion like a good brotherly hatred! My mother said, 
 with the most feeling earnestness, that she used to feel 
 us fighting even before our birth ; we certainly lost no 
 time directly after it. Both my parents were secretly 
 vexed that T had come into the world an hour sooner 
 than my brother; and Gerald himself looked upon it as 
 a sort of juggle, — a kind of jockeyship by which he 
 had lost the prerogative of birthright. This very early 
 rankled in his heart; and he was so much a greater 
 favorite than myself, that, instead of rooting out so 
 unfortunate a feeling on his part, my good parents made 
 no scruple of openly lamenting my seniority. I believe 
 the real cause of our being taken from the domestic 
 instructions of the abb^ (who was an admirable teacher) 
 and sent to school, was solely to prevent my uncle 
 deciding everything in my favor. Montreuil, however, 
 accompanied us to our academy, and remained with us 
 during the three years in which we were perfecting 
 ourselves in the blessings of education. 
 
 At the end of the second year, a prize was instituted 
 for the best proficient at a very severe examination ; two 
 months before it took place we went home for a few 
 days. After dinner my uncle asked me to walk with 
 him in the park. I did so: we strolled along to the 
 margin of a rivulet which ornamented the grounds. 
 There my uncle, for the first time, broke silence. 
 
 " Morton," said he, looking down at his left leg, — 
 " Morton, let me see, thou art now of a reasonable age, 
 — fourteen at the least. " 
 
 "Fifteen, if it please you, sir," paid I, ejeyating my 
 stature as much as I was able. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 17 
 
 " Humph ! my boy ; and a pretty time of life it is, 
 too. Your brother Gerald is taller than you by two 
 inches." 
 
 " But I can beat him for all that, uncle," said I, 
 coloring, and clinching my fist. 
 
 My uncle pulled down his right ruffle. " 'Gad so, 
 Morton, you 're a brave fellow," said he; "but I wish 
 you .were less of a hero and more of a scholar. I wish 
 you could beat him in Greek as well as in boxing. I 
 will tell you what Old Eowley said ; " and my uncle 
 occupied the next quarter of an hour with a story. The 
 story opened the good old gentleman's heart, — my 
 laughter opened it still more. " Hark ye, sirrah! " said 
 he, pausing abruptly, and grasping my hand with a 
 vigorous effort of love and muscle, — " hark ye, sirrah: 
 I love you, — 'sdeath, I do. I love you better than, 
 both your brothers, and that crab of a priest into the- 
 bargain ; but I am grieved to the heart to hear what I 
 do of you. They tell me you are the idlest boy in the- 
 school, — that you are always beating your brother 
 Gerald, and making a scurrilous jest of your mother or- 
 myself." 
 
 " Who says so? who dares say so? " said I, with an, 
 emphasis that would have startled a less hearty man, 
 than Sir William Devereux. "They lie, uncle; by 
 my soul, they do. Idle I am, — quarrelsome with my 
 brother I confess myself; but jesting at you or my 
 mother, — never, never! No, no; you, too, who have 
 been so kind to me , — the only one who ever was ! No, 
 no ; do not think I could be such a wretch ! " and as I 
 said this the tears gushed from my eyes. 
 
 My good uncle was exceedingly affected. " Look ye, 
 child," said he, " I do not believe them. 'Sdeath, not 
 a word, — I would repeat to you a good jest now of 
 
 VOL. I. — 2 
 
18 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Sedley's, 'Gad, I would, but I am really too mticli 
 moved just at present. I tell you what, my boy, — I 
 tell you what you shall do : there is a trial coming on 
 at school, eh? — well, the abbe tells me, Gerald is 
 certain of being first, and ycu of being last. Now, 
 Morton, you shall beat your brotlier, and shame the 
 .Jesuit. There, — my mind's spoken: dry your tears, 
 any 'boy, and I^'Utell you the jest Sedley made; it was 
 in the Mulberry .Garden one day — " And the knight 
 itold his story. 
 
 I dried my tears, pressed ray uncle's hand, escaped 
 ♦from him as soon as I was able, hastened to my room, 
 and surrendered myself to reflection. 
 
 When my uncle so good-naturedly proposed that I 
 should conquer Gerald at the examination, nothing 
 appeared to him more easy : he was pleased to think I 
 had more talent than my brother; and talent, according 
 to his creed, was the only master-key to unlock every 
 science. A problem in Euclid or a phrase in Pindar, 
 a secret in astronomy or a knotty passage in the 
 fathers, were all riddles, with the solution of which 
 application had nothing to do. One's mother-wit was 
 a precious sort of necromancy , which could pierce every 
 jnystery at first sight; and all the gifts of knowledge, 
 in his opinion, like reading and writing in that of the 
 sage Dogberry, "came by nature." Alas ! I was not 
 under the same pleasurable delusion ; I rather exag- 
 gerated than diminished the diificulty of my task, and 
 thought, at the first glance, that nothing short of a 
 miracle would' enable me to excel my brother. Gerald, 
 a boy of natural talent, and as I said before of great 
 assiduity in the orthodox studies, — especially favored 
 too by the instruction of Montreuil , — had long been 
 esteemed the first scholar of our little world; and 
 
DEVEEEUX. 19 
 
 though I knew that with some branches of learning I 
 was more conversant than himself, yet, as my emulation 
 had been hitherto solely directed to bodily contention, 
 I had never thought of contesting with him a reputation 
 for which I cared littk, and on a point in which I had 
 been early taught that I could never hope to enter into 
 any advantageous comparison with the " genius " of the 
 Devereuxs. 
 
 A new spirit now passed into me. I examined myself 
 with a jealous and impartial scrutiny; I weighed my 
 acquisitions against those of my brother ; I called forth 
 from their secret recesses the unexercised and almost 
 unknown stores I had from time to time laid up in my 
 mental armory to moulder and to rust. I surveyed 
 them with a feeling that they might yet be polished 
 into use; and, excited alike by the stimulus of affection 
 on one side and hatred on the other, my mind worked 
 itself from despondency into doubt, and from doubt into 
 the sanguineness of hope. I told none of my design ; I 
 exacted from my uncle a promise not to betray it; I 
 shut myself in my room; I gave out that I was ill; 
 I saw no one, not even the abbe ; I rejected his instruc- 
 tions, for I looked upon him as an enemy; and, for the 
 two months before my trial, I spent night and day in 
 an unrelaxing application, of which till then I had 
 not imagined myself capable. 
 
 Though inattentive to the school exercises, I had 
 never been wholly idle. I was a lover of abstruser 
 researches than the hackneyed subjects of the school, 
 and we had really received such extensive and judicious 
 instructions from the abbe during our early years that 
 it would have been scarcely possible for any of us to 
 have fallen into a thorough distaste for intellectual 
 pursuits. In the examination I foresaw that much 
 
20 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ■which I had previously acquired might be profitably 
 displayed, — much secret and recondite knowledge of 
 the customs and manners of the ancients, as well as 
 their literature, which curiosity had led me to obtain, 
 and which I knew had never -entered into the heads 
 of those who, contented with their reputation in the 
 customary academical routine, had rarely dreamed of 
 wandering into less beaten paths of learning. Fortu- 
 nately, too, for me, Gerald was so certain of success 
 that latterly he omitted all precaution to obtain it; and 
 as none of our schoolfellows had the vanity to think of 
 contesting with him, even the abbe seemed to imagine 
 him justified in his supineness. 
 
 The day arrived. Sir William, my mother, the 
 whole aristocracy of the neighborhood, were present at 
 the trial. The abbe came to my room a few hours 
 before it commenced ; he found the door locked. 
 
 " Ungracious boy," said he, " admit me, — I come at 
 the earnest request of your brother Aubrey, to give you 
 some hints preparatory to the examination. " 
 
 " He has indeed come at my wish," said the soft and 
 silver voice of Aubrey, in a supplicating tone; "do 
 admit him, dear Morton, for my sake! " 
 
 "Go," said I, bitterly, from within, "go, — ye are 
 both my foes and slanderers; you come to insult my 
 disgrace beforehand: but perhaps you will yet be 
 disappointed. " 
 
 " You will not open the door 1 " said the priest. 
 
 " I will not, — begone ! " 
 
 " He will indeed disgrace his family," said Montreuil, 
 moving away. 
 
 " He will disgrace himself," said Aubrey, dejectedly. 
 
 I laughed scornfully. If ever the consciousness of 
 strength is pleasant, it is when we are thought most 
 weak. 
 
DEVEREUX. 21 
 
 The greater part of our examination consisted in the 
 answering of certain questions in writing, given to us 
 in the three days immediately previous to the grand 
 and final one; for this last day was reserved the paper 
 of composition (as it was termed) in verse and prose, 
 and the personal examination in a few showy but 
 generally understood subjects. When Gerald gave in 
 his paper, and answered the verbal questions, a buzz of 
 admiration and anxiety went round the room. His 
 person was so handsome, his address so graceful, his 
 voice so assured and clear, that a strong and universal 
 sympathy was excited in his favor. The head-master 
 publicly complimented him. He regretted only the 
 deficiency of his pupil in certain minor but important 
 matters. 
 
 I came next, for I stood next to Gerald in our class. 
 As I walked up the hall, I raised my eyes to the gallery 
 in which my uncle and his party sat. I saw that my 
 mother was listening to the abb^, whose eye, severe, 
 cold, and contemptuous, was bent upon me. But my 
 uncle leaned over the railing of the gallery, with his 
 plumed hat in his hand, which, when he caught my 
 look, he waved gently, as if in token of encouragement, 
 and with an air so kind and cheering that I felt my 
 step grow prouder as I approached the conclave of the 
 masters. 
 
 " Morton Devereux, " said the president of the school, 
 in a calm, loud, austere voice, that filled the whole hall, 
 " we have looked over your papers on the three previous 
 days, and they have given us no less surprise than pleas- 
 ure. Take heed and time how you answer us now. " 
 
 At this speech a loud murmur was heard in my uncle's 
 party, which gradually spread round the hall. I again 
 looked up, — my mother's face was averted; that of the 
 
22 DEVEREUX. 
 
 abbe was impenetrable; but I saw my uncle wiping his 
 eyes, and felt a strange emotion creeping into my own. 
 I turned hastily away, and presented my paper; the 
 head-master received it, and, putting it aside, proceeded 
 to the verbal examination. 
 
 Conscious of the parts in which Gerald was likely to 
 fail, I had paid especial attention to the minutiae of 
 scholarship, and my forethought stood me in good stead 
 at the present moment. My trial ceased, — my last 
 paper was read. I bowed, and retired to the other end 
 qi the hall. I was not so popular as Gerald, — a crowd 
 was assembled round him, but I stood alone. As I 
 feaned against a column, with folded arms, and a counte- 
 nance which I felt betrayed little of my internal emo- 
 tions, my eye caught Gerald's. He was very pale, and 
 I could see that his hand trembled. Despite of our 
 enmity, I felt for him. The worst passions are softened 
 by triumph, and I foresaw that mine was at hand. 
 
 The whole examination was over. Every boy had 
 passed it. The masters retired for a moment, — they 
 reappeared and reseated themselves. The first sound 
 I heard was that of my own name. I was the victor of 
 the day: I was more, — I was one hundred marks before 
 my brother. My head swam round, — my breath for- 
 sook me. Since then I have been placed in many trials 
 of life, and had many triumphs; but never was T so 
 overcome as at that moment. I left the hall, — I scarcely 
 listened to the applauses with which it rang. I hurried 
 to my own chamber, and threw myself on the bed in a 
 delirium of intoxicated feeling, which had in it more of 
 rapture than anything but the gratification of first love 
 or first vanity can bestow. 
 
 Ah! it would be worth stimulating our passions if it 
 were only for the pleasure of remembering their effect; 
 
DEVEREUX. 23 
 
 and all violent excitement should be indulged less for 
 present joy than for future retrospection. 
 
 My uncle's step was the first thing which intruded on 
 my solitude. 
 
 " Od's fish, my boy, " said he, crying like a child, 
 "this is fine work, — 'Gad, so it is. I almost wish I 
 were a boy myself to have a match with you, faith I do : 
 see what it is to learn a little of life. If you had never 
 read my play, do you think you would have done half 
 so ^yell ? — no, my boy ; I sharpened your wits for you. 
 Honest George Etherege and I, — we were the making 
 of you; and when you come to be a great man, and are 
 asked what made you so, you shall say, ' My uncle's 
 play,' — 'Gad, you shall. Faith, boj', — never smile! — 
 Od's fish, — I'll tell you a story as apropos to the 
 present occasion as if it had been made on purpose. 
 Kochester and I and Sedley were walking one day, — 
 and, entre nous, awaiting certain appointments, — hem! 
 — for my part, I was a little melancholy or so, thinking 
 of my catastrophe, — that is, of my play's catastrophe ; 
 'And so,' said Sedley, winking at Rochester, 'our friend 
 is sorrowful. ' ' Truly, ' said I, seeing they were about 
 to banter me, — for you know they were arch fellows, — 
 ' Truly, little Sid ' (we called Sedley Sid), ' you are 
 greatly mistaken ; ' — you see, Morton, I was thus sharp 
 upon him, because, when you go to court, you will dis- 
 cover that it does not do to take without giving. And 
 then Rochester said, looking roguishly towards me, the 
 wittiest thing against Sedley that ever I heard : it was 
 the most celebrated ion-mot at court for three weeks, — 
 he said — no, boy, od's fish, it was so stinging I can't 
 tell it thee; faith, I can't. Poor Sid! he was a good 
 fellow, though malicious, — and he's dead now. — I'm 
 sorry I said a word about it. Nay, never look so dis- 
 
24 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 appointed, boy. You have all the cream of the story 
 as it is. And now put on your hat, and come with me. 
 I've got leave for you to take a walk with your old 
 uncle. " 
 
 That night, as I was undressing, I heard a gentle rap 
 at the door, and Aubrey entered. He approached me 
 timidly, and then, throwing his arms round my neck, 
 kissed me in silence. I had not for years experienced 
 such tenderness from him ; and I sat now mute and sur- 
 prised. At last I said, with the sneer which I must 
 confess I usually assumed towards those persons whom I 
 imagined I had a right to think ill of, — 
 
 " Pardon me, my gentle brother, there is something 
 portentous in this sudden change. Look well round the 
 room, and tell me at your earliest leisure what treasure 
 it is that you are desirous should pass from my possession 
 into your own. " 
 
 " Your love, Morton, " said Aubrey, drawing back, 
 but apparently in pride, not anger, — "your love; I ask 
 nothing more." 
 
 " Of a surety, kind Aubrey, " said I, " the favor seems 
 somewhat slight to have caused your modesty such delay 
 in requesting it. I think you have been now some years 
 nerving your mind to the exertion. " 
 
 " Listen to me, Morton, " said Aubrey, suppressing his 
 emotion ; " you have always been my favorite brother. 
 From our first childhood, my heart yearned to you. Do 
 you remember the time when an enraged bull pursued 
 me, and you, then only ten years old, placed yourself 
 before it and defended me at the risk of your own life ? 
 Do you think I could ever forget that, child as I was ? 
 Never, Morton, never ! " 
 
 Before I could answer, the door was thrown open, and 
 the abbe entered. " Children, " said he, and the single 
 
DEVEEEUX. 25 
 
 light of the room shone full upon his unmoved, rigid, 
 commanding features, — " children, be as Heaven intended 
 you, — friends and brothers. Morton, I have wronged 
 you, I own it, — here is my hand; Aubrey, let all but 
 early love, and the present promise of excellence which 
 your brother displays, be forgotten. " 
 
 With these words, the priest joined our hands. I 
 looked on my brother, and my heart melted. I flung 
 myself into his arms and wept. 
 
 " This is well, " said Montreuil, surveying us with a 
 kind of grim complacency, and, taking my brother's 
 arm, he blessed us both, and led Aubrey away. 
 
 That day was a new era in my boyish life. I grew 
 henceforth both better and worse. Application and I, 
 having once shaken hands, became very good acquaint- 
 ance. I had hitherto valued • myself upon supplying 
 the frailties of a delicate frame by an uncommon agility 
 in all bodily exercises. I now strove rather to improve 
 the deficiencies of my mind, and became orderly, indus- 
 trious, and devoted to study. So far so well; but as I 
 grew wiser, I grew also more wary. Candor no longer 
 seemed to me the finest of virtues. I thought before 
 I spoke, and second thought sometimes quite changed 
 the nature of the intended speech; in short, gentlemen 
 of the next century, to tell you the exact truth, the 
 little Count Devereux became somewhat of a hypocrite ! 
 
26 DEVEEEUX 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 A Contest of Art, and a League of Friendship. — Two Characters 
 in matual Ignorance of each other, and the Eeader no wiser 
 than either of them. 
 
 The abbe was now particularly courteous to me. He 
 made Gerald and myself breakfast with him, and told 
 us nothing was so amiable as friendship among brothers. 
 We agreed to the sentiment, and, like all philosophers, 
 did not agree a bit the better for acknowledging the 
 same first principles. Perhaps, notwithstanding his 
 fine speeches, the abbe was the real cause of our con- 
 tinued want of cordiality. However, we did not fight 
 any more, — we avoided each other, and at last became 
 as civil and as distant as those mathematical lines 
 which appear to be taking all possible pains to approach 
 one another, and never get a jot the nearer for it. Oh, 
 your civility is the prettiest invention possible for .dis- 
 like ! Aubrey and I were inseparable, and we both 
 gained by the intercourse. I grew more gentle, and he 
 more masculine; and, for my part, the kindness of his 
 temper so softened the satire of mine that I learned at 
 last to smile full as often as to sneer. 
 
 The abb^ had obtained a wonderful hold over Aubrey ; 
 he had made the poor boy think so much of the next 
 world that he had lost all relish for this. He lived in 
 a perpetual fear of offence ; he was like a chemist of con- 
 science, and weighed minutiae by scruples. To play, 
 to ride, to run, to laugh at a jest, or to banquet on a 
 melon, were all sins to be atoned for; and I have found 
 
DEVEEEtrX. 27 
 
 (as a penance for eating twenty-three cherries instead of 
 eighteen) the penitent of fourteen standing, barefooted, 
 in the coldest nights of winter, upon the hearthstones, 
 almost utterly naked, and shivering like a leaf, beneath 
 the mingled effect of frost and devotion. At first I 
 attempted to wrestle with this exceeding holiness ; but 
 finding my admonitions received with great distaste and 
 some horror, I suffered my brother to be happy in his 
 own way. I only looked with a very evil and jealous 
 eye upon the good abbe, and examined, while I 
 encouraged them, the motives of his advances to myself. 
 What doubled my suspicions of the purity of the priest 
 was my perceiving that he appeared to hold out different 
 inducements for trusting him to each of us, according 
 to his notions of our respective characters. My brother 
 Gerald he alternately awed and persuaded, by the sole 
 effect of superior intellect. With Aubrey, he used the 
 mechanism of superstition. To me, he on the one 
 hand never spoke of religion, nor on the other ever 
 used threats or persuasion to induce me to follow any 
 plan suggested to my adoption; everything seemed to be 
 left to my reason and my ambition. He would converse 
 with me for hours upon the world and its affairs ; speak 
 of courts and kings in an easy and unpedantic strain; 
 point out the advantage of intellect in acquiring power 
 and controlling one's species; and whenever I was dis- 
 posed to be sarcastic upon the human nature I had read 
 of, he supported my sarcasm by illustrations of the 
 human nature he had seen. We were both, I think 
 (for myself I can answer), endeavoring to pierce the 
 real nature of the other ; and perhaps the talent of 
 diplomacy for which, years afterwards, I obtained some 
 applause, was first learned in my skirmishing warfare 
 with the Abbe Montreuil. 
 
28 DEVEREUX. 
 
 At last the evening before we quitted school for good 
 arrived. Aubrey had just left me for solitary prayers, 
 and I was sitting alone by my fire, when Montreuil 
 entered gently. He sat himself down by me, and, after 
 giving me the salutation of the evening, sank into a 
 silence which I was the first to break. 
 
 " Pray, Abbe, " said I, " have one's years anything to 
 do with one's age 1 " 
 
 The priest was accustomed to the peculiar tone of my 
 sagacious remarks, and answered dryly, — 
 
 " Mankind in general imagine that they have. " 
 
 " Faith, then, " said I, " mankind know very little 
 about the matter. To-day I am at school and a boy ; 
 to-morrow I leave school, — if I hasten to town, I am 
 presented at court ; and lo ! I am a man ; and this change 
 within half-a-dozen changes of the sun! therefore, most 
 reverend father, I humbly opine that age is measured 
 by events, not years." 
 
 " And are you not happy at the idea of passing the 
 age of thraldom, and seeing arrayed before you the 
 numberless and dazzling pomps and pleasures of the 
 great world 1 " said Montreuil, abruptly, fixing his dark 
 and keen eye upon me. 
 
 " I have not yet fully made up my mind, whether to 
 be happy or not," said I, carelessly. 
 
 "It is a strange answer," said the priest; "but" 
 (after a pause) " you are a strange youth, — a character 
 that resembles a riddle is at your age uncommon, and, 
 pardon me, unamiable. Age, naturally repulsive, 
 requires a mask, and in every wrinkle you may behold 
 the ambush of a scheme; but the heart of youth should 
 be open as its countenance ! However, I will not weary 
 you with homilies. Let us change the topic. Tell 
 me, Morton, do you repent having turned your attention 
 
DEVEEEUX. 29 
 
 of late to those graver and more systematic studies 
 which can alone hereafter obtain you distinction? " 
 
 "No, father," said I, with a courtly bow; "for the 
 change has gained me your good opinion." 
 
 A smile, of peculiar and undeflnable ^expression, 
 crossed the thin lips of the priest; he rose, walked to 
 the door, and saw that it was carefully closed. I 
 expected some important communication, but in vain. 
 Pacing the small room to and fro, as if in a musing 
 mood, the abbe remained silent, till, pausing opposite 
 some fencing-foils, which, among various matters (books, 
 papers, quoits, etc.), were thrown idly in one corner of 
 the room, he said, — 
 
 " They tell me that you are the best fencer in the 
 school. Is it so ? " 
 
 " I hope not, for fencing is an accomplishment in 
 which Gerald is very nearly my equal ," I replied. 
 
 "You run, ride, leap, too, better than any one else, 
 according to the votes of your comrades. " 
 
 " It is a noble reputation," said I, " in which I be- 
 lieve I am only excelled by our huntsman's eldest son." 
 
 " You are a strange youth," repealed the priest; " no 
 pursuit seems to give you pleasure, and no success to 
 gratify your vanity. Can you not think of any triumph 
 which would elate you ? " 
 
 I was silent. 
 , "Yes," cried Montreuil, approaching me, — "yes," 
 cried he, " I read your heart, and I respect it; these are 
 petty competitions and worthless honors. You require 
 a nobler goal and a more glorious reward. He who 
 feels in his soul that Fate has reserved for him a great 
 and exalted part in this world's drama, may reasonably 
 look with indifference on these paltry rehearsals of 
 common characters." 
 
30 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I raised my eye, and as it met that of the priest, I 
 was irresistibly Struck with the proud and luminous 
 expression Which Montreuil's look had assumed. Per- 
 haps something kindred to its nature was perceptible in 
 my own ; for, after surveying me with an air of more 
 approbation than he had ever honored me with before, 
 he grasped my arm firmly, and said : " Morton, you 
 know me not; for many years I have not known you, 
 — that time is past. No sooner did your talents develop 
 themselves than I was the first to do homage to their 
 power. Let us henceforth be more to each other than 
 we have been: let us not be pupil and teacher; let us 
 be friends. Do not think that I invite you to an 
 unequal exchange of good ofifices : you may be the heir 
 to wealth and a distinguished name, I may seem to 
 you but an unknown and undignified priest; but the 
 authority of the Almighty can raise up, from the sheep- 
 fold and the cotter's shed, a power which, as the organ 
 of His own, can trample upon sceptres, and dictate to 
 the supremacy of kings. And/ — I — " The priest 
 abruptly paused, checked the warmth of his manner, as 
 if he thought it about to encroach on indiscretion, and, 
 sinking into a calmer tone, continued; " Yes, I, Morton, 
 insignificant as I appear to you, can, in evei'y path 
 through this intricate labyrinth of life, be more useful 
 to your desires than you can ever be to mine. I offer 
 to you in my friendship a fervor of zeal and energy 
 of power which in none of your equals, in age and 
 station, you can hope to find. Do you accept my , 
 offer? " 
 
 "Can you doubt," said I, with eagerness, "that I 
 would avail myself of the services of any man, however 
 displeasing to me and worthless in himself? How, 
 then, can I avoid embracing the friendship of one so 
 
DEVEREUX. 31 
 
 extraordinary in knowledge and intellect as yourself? 
 I do embrace it, and with rapture." 
 
 The priest pressed my hand. " But," continued he, 
 fixing his eyes upon mine, " all alliances have their 
 conditions. I require implicit confidence; and for 
 some years, till time gives you experience, regard for 
 your interests induces me also to require obedience. 
 Name any wish you may form for worldly advancement, 
 opulence, honor, the smile of kings, the gifts of states, 
 and — I — I will pledge myself to carry that wish into 
 effect. Never had Eastern prince so faithful a servant 
 among the Dives and Genii as Morton Devereux shall 
 find in me ; but question me not of the sources of my 
 power, be satisfied when their channel wafts you the 
 success you covet. And more, when I in my turn (and 
 this shall be but rarely) request a favor of you, ask me 
 not for what end, nor hesitate to adopt the means I 
 shall propose. You seem startled. Are you content 
 at this understanding between us, or will you retract 
 the bond 1 " 
 
 "My father," said I, " there is enough to startle me 
 in your proposal; it greatly resembles that made by 
 the Old Man of the Mountains to his vassals; and it 
 would not exactly suit mj' inclinations to be called upon 
 some morning to act the part of a private executioner." 
 
 The priest smiled. "My young friend," said he, 
 " those days have passed ; neither religion nor friend- 
 ship requires of her votaries sacrifices of blood. But 
 make yourself easy ; whenever I ask of you what offends 
 your conscience, even in a punctilio, refuse my request. 
 With this exception, what say you? " 
 
 " That I think I will agree to the bond; but, father, 
 I am an irresolute person. I must have time to 
 consider." 
 
32 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Be it so. To-morrow, having surrendered my charge 
 to your uncle, I depart for France." 
 
 " For France ! " said I ; " and how 1 Surely the war 
 will prevent your passage.'' 
 
 The priest smiled. Nothing ever displeased me more 
 than that priest's smile. "The ecclesiastics," said he, 
 " are the ambassadors of Heaven, and have nothing to 
 do with the wars of earth. I shall find no difficulty in 
 crossing the Channel. I shall not return for several 
 months, perhaps not till the expiration of a year. I 
 leave you till then to decide upon the terms I have 
 proposed to you. Meanwhile gratify my vanity by 
 employing my power. Name some commission in 
 France which you wish me to execute." 
 
 "I can think of none; yet stay," — and I felt some 
 curiosity to try the power of which he boasted, — "I 
 have read that kings are blessed with a most accom- 
 modating memory, and perfectly forget their favorites 
 when they can be no longer useful. You will see, 
 perhaps, if my father's name has become a Gothic and 
 unknown sound at the court of the Great King. I 
 confess myself curious to learn this, though I can have 
 no personal interest in it." 
 
 "Enough, the commission shall be done. And now, 
 my child. Heaven bless you, and send you many such 
 friends as the humble priest, who, whatever be his 
 failings, has at least the merit of wishing to serve those 
 whom he loves." 
 
 So saying, the priest closed the door. Sinking into 
 a reverie, as his footsteps died upon my ear, I muttered 
 to myself, " Well, well, my sage ecclesiastic, the game 
 is not over yet; let us see if, at sixteen, we cannot 
 shuffle cards and play tricks with the gamester of thirty. 
 Yet he may be in earnest, and, faith, I believe he is; 
 
DEVEREUX. 33 
 
 but I must look well before I leap, or consign my actions 
 into such spiritual keeping. However, if the worst 
 come to the worst, — if I do make this compact, and am 
 deceived ; if, above all, I am ever seduced or led blind- 
 fold into one of those snares which priestcraft sometimes 
 lays to the cost of honor, — why, I shall have a sword, 
 which I shall never be at a loss to use, and it can find 
 its way through a priest's gown as well as a soldier's 
 corselet. " 
 
 Confess that a youth who could think so promptly of 
 his sword was well fitted to wear one. 
 
 VOL. 1. — 3 
 
34 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Rural Hospitality, an extraordinary Guest. — A fine Gentleman is 
 not necessarily a Fool. 
 
 We were all three (my brothers and myself) preeocious 
 geniuses. Our early instructions, under a man like the 
 abb^ at once learned and worldly , and the society into 
 which we had been initiated from our childhood, made 
 us premature adepts in the manners of the world ; and 
 I, in especial, flattered myself that a quick habit of 
 observation rendered me no despicable profiter by my 
 experience. Our academy, too, had been more like a 
 college than a school; and we had enjoyed a license 
 that seemed, to the superficial, more likely to benefit 
 our manners than to strengthen our morals. I do not 
 think, however, that the latter suffered by our freedom 
 from restraint. On the contrary, we the earlier learned 
 that vice, but for the piquancy of its unlawfulness, 
 would never be so captivating a goddess ; and our errors 
 and crimes in after life had certainly not their origin 
 in our wanderings out of academical bounds. 
 
 It is right that I should mention our prematurity of 
 intellect, because otherwise much of ray language and 
 reflections, as detailed in the first book of this history, 
 might seem ill-suited to the tender age at which they * 
 occurred. However, they approach, as nearly as pos- 
 sible, to my state of mind at that period; and I have, 
 indeed, often mortified my vanity, in later life, by 
 thinking how little the march of time has ripened my 
 
DEVEEEUX. 35 
 
 abilities, and how petty would have been the intel- 
 lectual acquisitions of manhood, — if they had not 
 brought me something like content! 
 
 My uncle had always, during his retirement, seen as 
 many people as he could assemble out of the " mob of 
 gentlemen who live at ease." But on our quitting 
 school, and becoming men, he resolved to set no bounds 
 to his hospitality. His doors were literally thrown 
 open; and as he was by far the greatest person in the 
 district, — to say nothing of his wines and his French 
 cook, — many of the good people of London did not 
 think it too great an honor to confer upon the wealthy 
 representative of the Devereuxs the distinction of theit 
 company and compliments. Heavens! what notable 
 samples of court breeding and furbelows did the crane- 
 neck coaches, which made our own family vehicle look 
 like a gilt tortoise, pour forth by couples and leashes 
 into the great hall; while my gallant uncle, in a new 
 periwig, and a pair of silver-clocked stockings (a present 
 from a ci-devant fine lady), stood at the far end of the 
 picture-gallery to receive his visitors with all the graces 
 of the last age. My mother, who had preserved her 
 beauty wonderfully, sat in a chair of green velvet, and 
 astonished the courtiers by the fashion of a dress only 
 just imported. The worthy countess (she had dropped 
 in England the loftier distinction of Madame la Mare- 
 chale) was, however, quite innocent of any intentional 
 affectation of the mode; for the new stomacher, so 
 admired in London, had been the last alteration in 
 female garniture at Paris, a month before my father 
 died. Is not this " fashion " a noble divinity to possess 
 such zealous adherents ? — a pitiful, lackey -like creature, 
 which struts through one country with the cast-ofl" finery 
 of another ! 
 
36 DEVEREUX. 
 
 As for Aubrey and Gerald, they produced quite an 
 eifect; and I should most certainly have been thrown 
 irrevocably into the background, had I not been born 
 to the good fortune of an eldest son. This was far 
 more than sufficient to atone for the comparative plain- 
 ness of my person ; and when it was discovered that I 
 was also Sir William's favorite, it is quite astonishing 
 what a beauty I became! Aubrey was declared too 
 effeminate; Gerald too tall. And the Duchess of 
 Lackland one day, when she had placed a lean, sallow 
 ghost of a daughter on either side of me, whispered my 
 uncle in a voice, like the aside of a player, intended 
 for none but the whole audience , that the young count 
 had the most imposing air and the finest eyes she had 
 ever seen. All this inspired me with courage, as well 
 as contempt; and not liking to be beholden solely to 
 my priority of birth for my priority of distinction, I 
 resolved to become as agreeable as possible. If I had 
 not in the vanity of my heart resolved also to be 
 "myself alone," Fate would have furnished me at the 
 happiest age for successful imitation with an admirable 
 model. 
 
 Time rolled on, — two years were flown since T had 
 left school, and Montreuil was not yet returned. I had 
 passed the age of eighteen, when the whole house, 
 which, as it was summer, when none but cats and 
 physicians were supposed gifted by Providence with 
 the power to exist in town, was uncommonly full, — 
 the whole house, I say, was thrown into a positive fever 
 of expectation. The visit of a guest, if not of greater* 
 consequence, at least of greater interest, than any who 
 had hitherto honored my uncle, was announced. Even 
 the young count, with the most imposing air in the 
 world and the finest eyes, was forgotten by everybody 
 
DEVEREUX. 37 
 
 but the Duchess of Lackland and her daughters, who 
 had just returned to Devereux Court, to observe how 
 amazingly the count had grown! Oh, what a prodigy 
 wisdom would be, if it were but blessed with a memory 
 as keen and constant as that of interest ! 
 
 Struck with the universal excitement, I went to my 
 uncle to inquire the name of the expected guest. My 
 uncle was occupied in fanning the Lady Hasselton, a 
 daughter of one of King Charles's beauties. He had 
 only time to answer me literally and without comment ; 
 the guest's name was Mr. St. John. 
 
 I had never conned the " Flying Post," and I knew 
 nothing about politics. " Who is Mr. St. John 1 " said 
 I, — my uncle had renewed the office of a zephyr. The 
 daughter of the beauty heard and answered, " The most 
 charming person in England." I bowed and turned 
 away. "How vastly explanatory! " said I. I met a 
 furious politician. " Who is Mr. St. John? " I asked. 
 
 " The cleverest man in England," answered the poli- 
 tician, hurrying of? with a pamphlet in his hand. 
 
 " Nothing can be more satisfactory," thought I. Stop- 
 ping a coxcomb of the first water, " Who is Mr. St. 
 John ? " I asked. 
 
 " The finest gentleman in England, " answered the 
 coxcomb, settling his cravat. 
 
 "Perfectly intelligible!" was my reflection on this 
 reply; and I forthwith arrested a Whig parson, — " Who 
 is Mr. St. John?" said I. 
 
 " The greatest reprobate in England ! " answered the 
 Whig parson, and I was too stunned to inquire more. 
 
 Five minutes afterwards the sound of carriage-wheels 
 was heard in the court-yard, then a slight bustle in the 
 hall, and the door of the ante-room being thrown open, 
 Mr. St. John entered. 
 
38 DEVEREUX. 
 
 He was in the very prime of life, about the middle 
 height, and of a mien and air so strikingly noble that 
 it was some time before you recovered the general effect 
 of his person sufl&ciently to examine its peculiar claims 
 to admiration. However, he lost nothing by a further 
 survey : he possessed not only an eminently handsome, 
 but a very extraordinary countenance. Through an air 
 of nonchalance, and even something of lassitude ; through 
 an ease of manners sometimes sinking into effeminate 
 softness, sometimes bordering upon licentious effrontery, 
 — his eye, thoughtful yet wandering, seemed to announce 
 that the mind partook but little of the whim of the 
 moment, or of those levities of ordinary life over which 
 the grace of his manner threw so peculiar a charm. His 
 brow was, perhaps, rather too large and prominent for 
 the exactness of perfect symmetry ; but it had an expres- 
 sion of great mental power and determination. His 
 features were high, yet delicate; and his mouth, which, 
 when closed, assumed a firm and rather severe expres- 
 sion, softened, when speaking, into a smile of almost 
 magical enchantment. Eichly but not extravagantly 
 dressed, he appeared to cultivate rather than disdain 
 the ornaments of outward appearance; and whatever 
 can fascinate or attract was so inherent in this singular 
 man that all which in others would have been most 
 artificial was in him most natural; so that it is no 
 exaggeration to add that to be well dressed seemed to 
 the elegance of his person not so much the result of art 
 as of a property innate and peculiar to himself. , 
 
 Such was the outward appearance of Henry St. John ; 
 one well suited to the qualities of a mind at once more 
 vigorous and more accomplished than that of any other 
 person with whom the vicissitudes of my life have ever 
 brought me into contact. 
 
DEVEREUX. 39 
 
 I kept my eye on the new guest throughout the whole 
 day; I observed the mingled liveliness and softness 
 which pervaded his attentions to women, the intel- 
 lectual yet unpedantio superiority he possessed in his 
 conversations with men; his respectful demeanor to 
 age, his careless yet not over-familiar ease with the 
 young; and, what interested me more than all, the 
 occasional cloud which passed over his countenance at 
 moments when he seemed sunk into a reverie that had 
 for its objects nothing in common with those around 
 him. 
 
 Just before dinner St. John was talking to a little 
 group, among whom curiosity seemed to have drawn 
 the Whig parson whom I have before mentioned. He 
 stood at a little distance, shy and uneasy; one of the 
 company took advantage of so favorable a butt for jests, 
 and alluded to the bystander in a witticism which drew 
 laughter from all but St. John, who, turning suddenly 
 towards the parson, addressed an observation to. him in 
 the most respectful tone. Nor did he cease talking 
 with him (fatiguing as the conference must have been, 
 for never was there a duller ecclesiastic than, the gen- 
 tleman conversed with) until we descended to. dinner. 
 Then, for the first time, I learned that nothing can 
 constitute good breeding that has not good-nature for 
 its foundation; and then, too, as I was leading Lady 
 Barbara Lackland to the great hall by the tip of her 
 forefinger, I made another observation. Passing the 
 priest, I heard him say to a fellow-clerk, — 
 
 " Certainly, he is the greatest man in England; " and 
 I mentally remarked, " There is no policy like polite- 
 ness ; and a good manner is the best thing in the world, 
 either to get one a good name or to supply the. want 
 of it." 
 
40 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI, 
 
 A Dialogue, which might be dull if it were longer. 
 
 Three days after the arrival of St. John, I escaped 
 from the crowd of impertinents, seized a volume of 
 Cowley, and, in a fit of mingled poetry and melancholy, 
 strolled idly into the park. I came to the margin of 
 the stream, and to the very spot on which I had stood 
 with my uncle on the evening when he had first excited 
 my emulation to scholastic rather than manual conten- 
 tion with my brother. I seated myself by the water- 
 side, and, feeling indisposed to read, leaned my cheek 
 upon my hand, and surrendered my thoughts as pris- 
 oners to the reflections which I could not resist. 
 
 I continued, I know not how long, in my meditation, 
 till I was roused by a gentle touch upon my shoulder; 
 I looked up, and saw St. John. 
 
 " Pardon me. Count," said he, smiling, " I should not 
 have disturbed your reflections had not your neglect of 
 an old friend emboldened me to address you upon his 
 behalf. " And St. John pointed to the volume of Cowley 
 which he had taken up without my perceiving it. 
 
 " Well," added he, seating himself on the turf beside 
 me, " in my younger days poetry and I were better 
 friends than we are now ; and if I had had Cowley as 
 a companion, I should not have parted with him as you 
 have done , even for my own reflections. " 
 
 " You admire him then ? " said I. 
 
 " Why, that ,is too general a question. I admire 
 what is fine in him, as in every one else, but I do not 
 
DEVEREUX. 41 
 
 love him the better for his points and his conceits. He 
 reminds me of what Cardinal Pallavicino said of Seneca, 
 that he ' perfumes his conceits with civet and amber- 
 gris.' However, Count, I have opened upon a beautiful 
 motto for you : — 
 
 ' Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, 
 Hear the soft winds above me flying, 
 With all their wanton boughs dispute, 
 And the more tuneful birds to both replying ; 
 Nor be myself too mute.' 
 
 What say you to that wish? If you have a germ of 
 poetry in you, such verse ought to bring it into 
 flower. " 
 
 ",Ay," answered I, though not exactly in accordance 
 with the truth ; " but I have not the germ. I destroyed 
 it four years ago. Reading the dedications of poets 
 cured me of the love for poetry. What a pity that the 
 Divine Inspiration should have for its oracles such mean 
 souls! " 
 
 " Yes, and how industrious the good gentlemen are in 
 debasing themselves! Their ingenuity is never half so 
 much shown in a simile as in a compliment; I know 
 nothing in Nature more melancholy than the discovery 
 of any meanness in a great man. There is so little to 
 redeem the dry mass of follies and errors from which 
 the materials of this life are composed, that anything 
 to love or to reverence becomes, as it were, the sabbath 
 for the mind. It is bitter to feel, as we grow older, 
 how the respite is abridged, and how the few objects 
 left to our admiration are abased. What a foe not only 
 to life, but to all that dignifies and ennobles it, is 
 Time ! Our affections and our pleasures resemble those 
 fabulous trees described by St. Oderic , — the fruits 
 
42 DEVEREUX. 
 
 which they bring forth are no sooner ripened into 
 maturity than they are transformed into birds and fly 
 away. But these reflections cannot yet be familiar to 
 you. Let us return to Cowley. Do you feel any sym- 
 pathy with his prose writings ! For some minds they 
 have a great attraction. " 
 
 " They- have for mine," answered I; "but then I am 
 naturally a dreamer, and a contemplative egotist is 
 always to me a mirror in which I behold myself." 
 
 " The world," answered St. John, with a melancholy 
 smile, "will soon dissolve, or forever confirm, your 
 humor for dreaming; in either case, Cowley will not 
 be less a favorite. But you must, like me, have long 
 toiled in the heat and travail of business, or of pleasure, 
 which is more wearisome still, in order fully to sympa- 
 thize with those beautiful panegyrics upon solitude 
 which make, perhaps, the finest passages in Cowley. 
 I have often thought that he whom God hath gifted 
 with a love of retirement possesses, as it were, an extra 
 sense. And among what our poet so eloquently calls 
 'the vast and noble scenes of Nature,' we find the balm 
 for the wounds we have sustained among the 'pitiful 
 shifts of policy ; ' for the attachment to solitude is the 
 surest preservative from the ills of life: and I know not 
 if the Romans ever instilled, under allegory, a sub- 
 limer truth than when they inculcated the belief that 
 those inspired by Feronia, the goddess of woods and 
 forests, could walk barefoot and uninjured- oyer burning 
 coals. " 
 
 At this part of our conference the bell, swinging 
 hoarsely through the long avenues and over the silent 
 water, summoned us to the grand occupation of civilized 
 life ; we rose and walked slowly towards the house. 
 
 " Does not," said I, '-' this regular routine of petty 
 
DEVEEEUX. 43 
 
 occurrences, this periodical solemnity of trifles, weary 
 and disgust you ? For my part, I almost long for the 
 old days of knight-errantry , and would rather be knocked 
 on the head by a giant, or carried through the air by a 
 flying griffin, than live in this circle of dull regulari- 
 ties, — the brute at the mill." 
 
 "You may live even in these days," answered St. 
 John, " without too tame a regularity. Women and 
 politics furnish ample food for adventure, and you must 
 not judge of all life by country life. " 
 
 " Nor of all conversation," said I, with a look which 
 implied a compliment, " by the insipid idlers who fill 
 our saloons. Behold them now, gathered by the oriel 
 window, yonder; precious distillers of talk, — sentinels 
 of society with certain set phrases as watchwords, which 
 they never exceed; sages, who follow Face's advice to 
 Dapper, — 
 
 ' Hum thrice, and buzz as often.' " 
 
44 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 A change of prospects. — A new insight into the character of the 
 Hero. — A conference between two brothers. 
 
 A DAY or two after the conversation recorded in my 
 last chapter, St. John, to my inexpressible regret, left 
 us for London; however, we had enjoyed several con- 
 ferences together during his stay, and when we parted, 
 it was with a pressing invitation on his side to visit 
 him in London, and a most faithful promise on mine to 
 avail myself of the reqiiest. 
 
 No sooner was he fairly gone than I went to seek my 
 uncle ; I found him reading one of Farquhar's comedies. 
 Despite my sorrow at interrupting him in so venerable 
 a study, I was too full of my new plot to heed breaking 
 off that in the comedy. In very few words I made the 
 good knight understand that his descriptions had infected 
 me, and that I was dying to ascertain their truth ; in a 
 word , that his hopeful nephew was fully bent on going 
 to town. My ' imcle first stared, then swore, then 
 paused, then looked at his leg, drew up his stocking, 
 frowned, whistled, and told me at last to talk to him 
 about it another time. Now, for my part, I think there 
 are only two classes of people in the world authorized to 
 put one off to " another time," — prime ministers and 
 creditors; accordingly, I would not take my uncle's 
 dismissal. I had not read plays, studied philosophy, 
 and laid snares for the Abb^ Montreuil, without deriv- 
 ing some little wisdom from my experience ; so I took 
 to teasing, and a notable plan it is too I Whoever has 
 
DEVEREUX. 45 
 
 pursued it may guess the result! My uncle yielded, 
 and that day fortnight was fixed for my departure. 
 
 Oh, with what transport did I look forward to the 
 completion of my wishes, the goal of my ambition ! I 
 hastened forth; I hurried into the woods; I sang out in 
 the gladness of my heart, like a bird released; I drank 
 in the air with a rapturous sympathy in its freedom; 
 my step scarcely touched the earth, and my whole frame 
 seemed ethereal — elated, exalted — by the vivifying 
 inspiration of my hopes. I paused by a little streamlet, 
 which, brawling over stones and through unpenetrated 
 thicknesses of wood, seemed, like confined ambition, not 
 the less restless for its obscurity, 
 
 " Wild brooklet," I cried, as my thoughts rushed into 
 words, " fret on, our lot is no longer the same : your 
 wanderings and your murmurs are wasted in solitude 
 and shade; your voice dies and re-awakes, but without 
 an echo; your waves spread around their path neither 
 fertility nor terror; their anger is idle, and their fresh' 
 ness is lavished on a sterile soil ; the sun shines in vain 
 for you, through these unvarying wastes of silence and 
 gloom; Fortune freights not your channel with her 
 hoarded stores, and Pleasure ventures not her silken 
 sails upon your tide ; not even the solitary idler roves 
 beside you, to consecrate with human fellowship your 
 melancholy course ; no shape of beauty bends over your 
 turbid waters, or mirrors in your breast the loveliness 
 that hallows earth. Lonely and sullen, through storra 
 or sunshine, you repine along your desolate way, and 
 only catch , through the matted boughs that darken over 
 you, the beams of the wan stars, which, like human 
 hopes, tremble upon your breast, and are broken, even 
 before they fade, by the very turbulence of the surface 
 on which they fall. Eove, repine, murmur on! 
 
46 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Such was my fate, but the resemblance is no more. I 
 shall no longer be a lonely and regretful being; my 
 affections will no longer waste themselves upon barren- 
 ness and stone. I go among the living and warm world 
 of mortal energies and desires ; my existence shall glide 
 alternately through crested cities, and bowers in which 
 Poetry worships Love ; and the clear depths of my heart 
 shall reflect whatever its young dreams have shadowed 
 forth, — the visioned form, the gentle and fairy spirit, 
 the Eve of my soul's imagined and foreboded paradise. " 
 
 Venting, in this incoherent strain, the exultation 
 which filled my thoughts, I wandered on, throughout 
 the whole day, till my spirits had exhausted themselves 
 by indulgence; and, wearied alike by mental excitement 
 and bodily exertion, I turned with slow steps towards 
 the house. As I ascended the gentle acclivity on which 
 it stood, I saw a figure approaching towards me; the 
 increasing shades of the evening did not allow me to 
 recognize the shape until it was almost by my side, — 
 it was Aubrey. 
 
 Of late I had seen very little of him. His devotional 
 studies and habits seemed to draw him from the idle 
 pursuits of myself and my uncle's guests; and Aubrey 
 was one peculiarly susceptible of neglect, and sore, to 
 morbidity, at the semblance of unkindness; so that he 
 required to be sought, and rarely troubled others with 
 advances: that night, however, his greeting was unusu- 
 ally warm. 
 
 "I was uneasy about you, Morton," said he, drawing 
 my arm in his ; " you have not been seen since morn- 
 ing; and, oh! Morton, my uncle told me, with tears in 
 his eyes, that you were going to leave us. Is it so t " 
 
 " Had he tears in his eyes ? Kind old man ! And 
 you, Aubrey, shall you, too, grieve for my departure 1 " 
 
DEVEREUX. 47 
 
 " Can you ask it, Morton? But why will you leave 
 us 1 Are we not all happy here now 1 No)/) that there 
 is no longer any barrier or difference between us, — now 
 that I may look upon you, and listen to you, and love 
 you, and own that I love you? Why will you leave us 
 now? And," continued Aubrey, as if fearful of giving 
 me time to answer, — " and every one praises you so 
 here ; and my uncle and all of us are so proud of you. 
 Why should you desert our affections merely because 
 they are not new? Why plunge into that hollow and 
 cold world which all who have tried it picture in such 
 fearful hues? Can you find anything there to repay 
 you for the love you leave behind? " 
 
 "My brother,'' said I, mournfully, and in a tone 
 which startled him, it was so different from that which 
 I usually assumed, — "my brother, hear, before you 
 reproach me. Let us sit down upon this bank, and I 
 will suffer you to see more of my restless and secret 
 heart than any hitherto have beheld." 
 
 We sat down upon a little mound, — how well I 
 remember the spot ! I can see the tree which shadows 
 it, from my window at this moment. How many 
 seasons have the sweet herb and the emerald grass been 
 withered there and renewed! Ah, what is this revival 
 of all things fresh and youthful in external Nature, but 
 a mockery of the wintry spot which lies perished and 
 irrenewahle within ! 
 
 We drew near to each other, and as my arm wound 
 around him, I said: " Aubrey, your love has been to me 
 a more precious gift than any who have not, like me, 
 thirsted and longed even for the love of a dog, can 
 conceive. Never let me lose that affection! And do 
 not think of me hereafter as of one whose heart echoed 
 all that his lip uttered. Do not believe that irony, and 
 
48 DEVEREUX. 
 
 sarcasm , and bitterness of tongue flowed from a malig- 
 nant or evil source. That disposition which seems to 
 you alternately so light and gloomy had, perhaps, its 
 origin in a mind too intense in its affections, and too 
 exacting in having them returned. Till you sought my 
 friendship, three short years ago, none but my uncle, 
 with whom I could have nothing in common but attach- 
 ment, seemed to care for my very existence. I blame 
 them not, — they were deceived in my nature ; but blame 
 me not too severely if my temper suffered from their 
 mistake. Your friendship came to me, not too late to 
 save me from a premature misanthropy, but too late to 
 eradicate every morbidity of mind. Something of stern- 
 ness on the one hand, and of satire on the other, has 
 mingled so long with my better feelings that the taint 
 and the stream have become inseparable. Do not sigh, 
 Aubrey. To be unamiable is not to be ungrateful ; and 
 I shall not love you the less if I have but a few objects 
 to love. You ask me my inducement to leave you. 
 ' The World ' will be sufficient answer. I cannot share 
 your contempt of it, nor your fear. I am, and have 
 been of late, consumed with a thirst, — eager and burn- 
 ing and unquenchable — it is ambition ! " 
 
 "Oh, Morton!" said Aubrey, with a second sigh, 
 longer and deeper than the first, — "that evil passion! 
 the passion which lost an angel heaven. " 
 
 " Let us not now dispute, my brother, whether it be 
 sinful in itself or whether if its object be virtuous, it 
 is not a virtue. In baring my soul before you, I only 
 speak of my motives, and seek not to excuse them. 
 Perhaps on this earth there is no good without a little 
 evil. When my mind was once turned to the acquisi- 
 tion of mental superiority, every petty acquisition I 
 made increased my desire to attain more, and partial 
 
DEVEREUX. 49 
 
 emulation soon widened into universal ambition. Wg 
 three, Gerald and ourselves, are the keepers of a treasure 
 more valuable than gold, — the treasure of a not ignoble 
 nor sullied name. For my part, 1 confess that I am 
 impatient to increase the store of honor which our father 
 bequeathed to us. Nor is this all; despite our birth, 
 we are poor in the gifts of fortune. We are all depend- 
 ants on my uncle's favor; and, however we may deserve 
 it, there would be something better in earning an inde- 
 pendence for ourselves." 
 
 " That," said Aubrey, " may be an argument for mine 
 and Gerald's exertions, but not for yours. You are 
 the eldest, and my uncle's favorite. Nature and afli'ec- 
 tion both point to you as his heir." 
 
 " If so, Aubrey, may many years pass before that 
 inheritance be mine! Why should those years, that 
 might produce so much, lie fallow ? But though I 
 would not affect an unreal delicacy, and disown my 
 chance of future fortune, yet you must remember that 
 it is a matter possible, not certain. My birthright 
 gives me no claim over my uncle, whose estates are in 
 his own gift; and favor, even in the good, is a wind 
 which varies without power on our side to calculate tho 
 season or the cause. However this be, — and 1 love the 
 person on whom fortune depends so much that I cannot, 
 without pain, speak of the mere chance of its passing 
 from his possession into mine, — you will own at least 
 that I shall not hereafter deserve wealth the less for the 
 advantages of experience." 
 
 "Alas! " said Aubrey, raising his eyes, " the worship 
 of our Father in Heaven finds us ample cause for occu- 
 pation, even in retirement: and the more we mix with 
 His creatures, the more, I fear, we may forget the 
 Creator. But if it must be so, I will pray for you, 
 
 VOL. I. — 4 
 
50 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Morton; and you will remember that the powerless and 
 poor Aubrey can still lift up his voice in your behalf." 
 
 As Aubrey thus spoke, I looked with mingled envy 
 and admiration upon the countenance beside me, which 
 the beauty of a spirit seemed at once to soften and to 
 exalt. 
 
 Since our conference had begun, the dusk of twilight 
 had melted away; and the moon had called into lustre 
 — living, indeed, but unlike the common and unhal- 
 lowing life of day, — the wood and herbage, and silent 
 variations of hill and valley, which slept around us; 
 and as the still and shadowy light fell over the upward 
 face of my brother, it gave to his features an additional 
 and not wholly earth-born solemnity of expression. 
 There was indeed in his face and air that from which 
 the painter of a seraph might not have disdained to 
 copy, — something resembling the vision of an angel in 
 the dark eyes that swam with tears, in which emotion 
 had so little of mortal dross; in the youthful and soft 
 cheeks, which the earnestness of divine thought had 
 refined by a pale but transparent hue ; in the high and 
 unclouded forehead, over which the hair, parted in the 
 centre, fell in long and wavelike curls; and in the lips, 
 silent, yet moving with internal prayer, which seemed 
 the more fervent because unheard. 
 
 I did not interrupt him in the prayer, which my soul 
 felt, though my ear caught it not, was for me. But 
 when he had ceased, and turned towards me, I clasped 
 him to my breast. " My brother," I said, " we shall 
 part, it is true, but not till our hearts have annihilated 
 the space that was between them ; not till we have felt 
 that the love of brotherhood can pass the love of woman. 
 Whatever await you, your devoted and holy mind will 
 be, if not your shield from affliction, at least your 
 
DEVEEKUX. 51 
 
 balm for its wounds. Remain here. The quiet which 
 breathes around you ■well becomes your tranquillity 
 ■within; and sometimes bless me in your devotions, as 
 you have done now. For me, I shall not regret those 
 harder and harsher qualities which you blame in me, if 
 hereafter their very sternness can afford me an oppor- 
 tunity of protecting your gentleness from evil, or redress- 
 ing the wrongs from which your nature may be too 
 innocent to preserve you. And now let us return home, 
 in the conviction that we have in our friendship one 
 treasure beyond the reach of fate. " 
 
 Aubrey did not answer; but he kissed my forehead, 
 and I felt his tears upon my cheek. We rose, and 
 with arms still embracing each other as we walked, 
 bent our steps to the house. 
 
 Ah, earth! what hast thou more beautiful than the 
 love of those whose ties are knit by nature, and whose 
 union seems ordained to begin from the very moment 
 of their birth? 
 
52 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 First LoTe. 
 
 We are under very changeful influences in this 
 would'! The night on which occurred the interview 
 with Aubrey that I have just narrated, I was burning 
 to leave Devereux Court. Within one little week 
 from that time my eagerness was wonderfully abated. 
 The sagacious reader will readily discover the cause of 
 tliii« alteration. About eight miles from my uncle's 
 house was a seaport town ; there were many and varied 
 ridies leading to it, and the town was a favorite place 
 of visitation with all the family. Within a few hun- 
 dred yards of the town was a small cottage, prettily 
 situated in the midst of a garden, kept with singular 
 neatness, and ornamented with several rare shrubs and 
 exotics. I had more than once observed in the garden 
 of this house a female in the very first blush of youth, 
 and beautiful enough to excite within me a strong curi- 
 osity to learn the owner of the cottage. I inquired, 
 and ascertained that its tenant was a Spaniard of high 
 birth, and one who had acquired a melancholy celebrity 
 by his conduct and misfortunes in the part he had taken 
 in a certain feeble but gallant insurrection in his native 
 country. He had only escaped with life and a very 
 small sum of money, and now lived in the obscure 
 seaport of — — , a refugee and a recluse. He was a 
 widower, and had only one child, — a daughter; and I 
 was therefore at no loss to discover who was the beauti- 
 ful female I had noted and admired. 
 
DEVEREUX. 53 
 
 On the day after my conversation with AuWey, 
 detailed in the last chapter, in riding past this cottage 
 alone , I perceived a crowd assembled round the entrance ; 
 I paused to inquire the cause. 
 
 " Why, your honor," quoth a senior of the village, 
 " I believe the tipstaves be come to take the foreigner 
 for not paying his rent ; and he does not understand our 
 English liberty like, and has drawn his swotd, and 
 swears, in his outlandish lingo, he will not be made 
 prisoner alive." 
 
 I required no further inducement to make me enter 
 the house. The crowd gave way when they saw me 
 dismount, and suffered me to penetrate into the first 
 apartment. There I found the gallant old Spaniard 
 with his sword drawn, keeping at bay a couple of sturdy- 
 looking men, who appeared to be only prevented from 
 using violence by respect for the person or the safety 
 of a young woman, who clung to her father's knees, and 
 implored him not to resist where resistance \vas so 
 unavailing. Let me cut short this scene, — T dismissed 
 the bailiffs, and paid the debt. I then endeavtored to 
 explain to the Spaniard in French, for he scarcely 
 understood three words of our language, the cause of a 
 rudeness towards him which he persisted in calling a 
 great insult and inhospitality manifested to a stranger 
 and an exile. I succeeded at length in pacifying him. 
 I remained for more than an hour at the cottage, and I 
 left it with a heart beating at the certain persuasion 
 that I had established therein the claim of acquaintance 
 and visitation. 
 
 Will the reader pardon me for having curtailed this 
 scene ? It is connected with a subjection which I shall 
 better endure to dwell as my narrative proceeds. From 
 that time I paid frequent visits to the cottage; the 
 
54 DEYERE0X. 
 
 Spaniard soon grew intimate with me, and I thought 
 the daughter began to blush when I entered, and to 
 sigh when I departed. 
 
 One evening I was conversing with Don Diego 
 D'Alvarez (such was the Spaniard's name) , as he sat 
 without his threshold, inhaling the gentle air that stole 
 freshness from the rippling sea that spread before us, 
 and fragrance from the earth, over which the summer 
 now reigned in its most mellow glory. Isora (the 
 daughter) sat at a little distance. 
 
 " How comes it," said Don Diego, " that you have 
 never met our friend Seiior Bar — Bar — These Eng- 
 lish names are always escaping my memory. How is 
 he called, Isora? " 
 
 "Mr. — Mr. Barnard," said Isora (who, brought 
 early to England, spoke its language like a native), 
 but with evident confusion, and looking down as she 
 spoke, — "Mr. Barnard, I believe, you mean." 
 
 "Right, my love," rejoined the Spaniard, who was 
 smoking a long pipe with great gravity, and did not 
 notice his daughter's embarrassment, — "a fine youth, 
 but somewhat shy and over-modest in manner." 
 
 " Youth ! " thought I ; and I darted a piercing look 
 towards Isora. "How comes it, indeed," I said aloud, 
 " that T have not met him 1 Is he a friend of long 
 standing ? " 
 
 " Nay, not very, — perhaps of some six weeks' earlier 
 date than you, Seiior Don Devereux. I pressed him, 
 when he called this morning, to tarry your coming; 
 but, poor youth, he is diffident, and not yet accustomed 
 to mix freely with strangers, especially those of rank ; 
 our own presence a little overawes him," — and from 
 Don Diego's gray mustachios issued a yet fuller cloud 
 than was ordinarily wont to emerge thence. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 5^ 
 
 My eyes were still fixed on Isora ; she looked up, met 
 them, blushed deeply, rose, and disappeared within the 
 house. I was already susceptible of jealousy. My lip 
 trembled as I resumed: "And will Don Diego pardon 
 me for inquiring how commenced his knowledge of this 
 ingenuous youth ? " 
 
 The question was a little beyond the pale of good 
 breeding; perhaps the Spaniard, who was tolerably 
 punctilious in such matters, thought so, for he did not 
 reply. I was sensible of my error, and, apologizing 
 for it, insinuated, nevertheless, the question in a more 
 respectful and covert shape. Still Don Diego, inhaling 
 the fragrant weed with renewed vehemence, only — like 
 Pion's tomb, recorded by Pausanias — replied to the 
 request of his petitioner 6y smoke. I did not venture- 
 to renew my interrogatories, and there was a long; 
 silence. My eyes fixed their gaze on the door by 
 which Isora had disappeared. In vain , — she returned 
 not; and as the chill of the increasing evening begani 
 now to make itself felt by the frame of one accustomed; 
 to warmer skies, the Spaniard soon rose to re-enter his, 
 house, and I took my farewell for the nigM. 
 
 There were many ways (as I before said) by which I 
 could return home, all nearly equal in picturesque^ 
 beauty ; for the county in which my uncle's estates, 
 were placed was one where stream roved and woodland 
 flourished even to the very strand, or cliff of the sea. 
 The shortest route, though one the least frequented by 
 any except foot-passengers, was along the coast, and it 
 was by this path that I rode slowly homeward. On 
 winding a curve in the road, about one mile from 
 Devereux Court, the old building broke slowly, tower 
 by tower, upon me. I have never yet described the 
 house, and perhaps it will not be uninteresting to the 
 reader if I do so now. 
 
56 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 It had anciently belonged to Ealph de Bigod. From 
 his possession it had passed into that of the then noblest 
 branch of the stem of Devereux, whence, without break 
 .or flaw in the direct line of heritage, it had ultimately 
 descended to the present owner. It was a pile of vast 
 extent, built around three quadrangular courts, the 
 farthest of which spread to the very verge of the gray 
 tall cliffs that overhung the sea; in this court was a 
 rude tower, which, according to tradition, had contained 
 the apartments ordinarily inhabited by our ill-fated 
 namesake and distant kinsman, Robert Devereux, the 
 ifavorite and the victim of Elizabeth , whenever he had 
 [honored the mansion with a visit. There was nothing, 
 dt is true, in the old tower calculated to flatter the 
 ■tradition, for it contained only two habitable rooms, 
 ■communicating with each other, and by no means 
 iremarkable for size or splendor ; and every one of our 
 household, save myself, was wont to discredit the idle 
 irumor which would assign to so distinguished a guest 
 so unseemly a lodgement. But, as I looked from the 
 narrow lattices of the chambers over the wide expanse of 
 ocean and of land which they commanded, — as I noted, 
 too, that the tower was utterly separated from the rest 
 of the house, and that the convenience of its site enabled 
 .one, on quitting it, to escape at once, and privately, 
 .either to the solitary beach, or to the glades and groves 
 of the wide park which stretched behind, — I could not 
 help indulging the belief that the unceremonious and 
 not unromantio noble had himself selected his place of 
 retirement, and that, in so doing, the gallant of a stately 
 .court was not, perhaps, undesirous of securing, at well- 
 chosen moments, a brief relaxation from the heavy 
 honors of country homage; or that the patron and 
 poetic admirer of the dreaming Spenser might have 
 
DEVEREOX. 57 
 
 preferred, to all more gorgeous accommodation, the 
 quiet and unseen egress to that sea and shore which, 
 if we may believe the accomplished Koman,^ are so 
 fertile in the powers of inspiration. 
 
 However this be, I had cheated myself into the belief 
 that my conjecture was true, and I had petitioned my 
 uncle, when on leaving school he assigned to each of 
 us our several apartments, to grant me the exclusive 
 right to this dilapidated tower. I gained my boon 
 easily enough ; and, so strangely is our future fate 
 compounded from past trifles, I verily believe that the 
 strong desire which thenceforth seized me to visit 
 courts and mix with statesmen, which afterwards hur- 
 ried me into intrigue, war, the plots of London, the 
 dissipations of Paris, the perilous schemes of Peters- 
 burg, nay, the very hardships of a Cossack tent, was 
 first formed by the imaginary honor of inhabiting the 
 same chamber as the glittering but ill-fated couitier of 
 my own name. Thus youth imitates where it should 
 avoid ; and thus that which should have been to me 
 a warning became an example. 
 
 In the oaken floor to the outer chamber of this tower 
 was situated a trap-door, the entrance into a lower room, 
 or rather cell, fitted up as a bath; and here a wooden 
 door opened into a long subterranean passage that led 
 out into a cavern by the sea-shore. This cave, partly 
 by nature, partly by art, was hollowed into a beautiful 
 Gothic form; and here, on moonlight evenings, when 
 the sea crept gently over the yellow and smooth sands, 
 and the summer tempered the air from too keen a fresh- 
 
 1 " mare, O litus, verura secretumque Mova-eiov, quara multa 
 dictatis, quam multa invenitis ! " — Plinids. 
 
 " sea, O shore, true and secret sanctuary of the Muses, how 
 many things ye dictate, how many things ye discover ! " 
 
58 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ness, my uncle had often in his younger days, ere gout 
 and rheum had grown familiar images, assembled his 
 guests. It was a place which the echoes peculiarly 
 adapted for music; and the scene was certainly not 
 calculated to diminish the effect of " sweet sounds. " 
 Even now, though my uncle rarely joined us, we were 
 often wont to hold our evening revels in this spot ; and 
 the high cliffs, circling either side in the form of a bay, 
 tolerably well concealed our meetings from the gaze of 
 the vulgar. It is true (for these cliffs were perforated 
 with numerous excavations) that some roving peasant, 
 mariner, or perchance smuggler would now and then, 
 at low water, intrude upon us. But our London 
 Nereids and courtly Tritons were always well pleased 
 with the interest of what they graciously termed " an 
 adventure ; " and our assemblies were too numerous to 
 think an Unbroken secrecy indispensable. Hence, 
 therefore, the cavern was almost considered a part of 
 the house itself; and though there was an iron door at 
 the entrance which it gave to the passage leading to 
 my apartments, yet so great was our confidence in our 
 neighbors or ourselves, that it was rarely secured, save 
 as a defence against the high tides of winter. 
 
 The stars were shining quietly over the old gray castle 
 (for castle it really was), as I now came within view of 
 it. To the left, and in the rear of the house, the trees 
 of the park, grouped by distance, seemed blended into 
 one thick mass of wood; to the right, as I now (descend- 
 ing the cliff by a gradual path) entered on the level 
 sands, and at about the distance of a league from the 
 main shore, a small islet, notorious as the resort and 
 shelter of contraband adventurers, scarcely relieved the 
 wide and glassy azure of the waves. The tide was out ; 
 and passing through one of the arches worn in the bay, 
 
DEVEEEUX. 59 
 
 I came somewhat suddenly by the cavern. Seated 
 there on a crag of stone I found Aubrey. 
 
 My acquaintance with Isora and her father had so 
 immediately succeeded the friendly meeting with Aubrey 
 which I last recorded, and had so utterly engrossed my 
 time and thoughts, that I had not taken of that inter- 
 view all the brotherly advantage which I might have 
 done. My heart now smote me for my involuntary 
 negligence. I dismounted, and fastening my horse to 
 one of a long line of posts that ran into the sea, 
 approached Aubrey and accosted him. 
 
 "Alone, Aubrey? and at an hour when my uncle 
 always makes the old walls ring with revel! Hark, 
 can you not hear the music even now ? It comes from 
 the ball-room, I think, does it not? " 
 
 " Yes! " said Aubrey, briefly, and looking down upon 
 a devotional book, which (as was his wont) he had made 
 his companion. 
 
 "And we are the only truants! Well, Gerald will 
 supply our places with a lighter step, and, perhaps, a 
 merrier heart." 
 
 Aubrey sighed. I bent over him affectionately (I 
 loved that boy with something of a father's as well as a 
 brother's love) ; and as I did bend over him, I saw that 
 his eyelids were red with weeping. 
 
 "My brother, my own dear brother," said I, "what 
 grieves you? — are we not friends, and more than 
 friends 1 — what can grieve you that grieves not me ? " 
 
 Suddenly raising his head, Aubrey gazed at me with 
 a long, searching intentness of eye; his lips moved, 
 but he did not answer. 
 
 " Speak to me, Aubrey," said I, passing my arm over 
 his shoulder; " has any one, anything, hurt you? See, 
 now, if I cannot remedy the evil." 
 
60 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "Morton," said Aubrey, speaking very slowly, "do 
 you believe that Heaven pre -orders as well as foresees 
 our destiny 1 " 
 
 "It is the schoolman's question," said I, smiling, 
 " but I know how these idle subtleties vex the mind, — 
 and you, my brother, are ever too occupied with con- 
 siderations of the future. If Heaven does pre-order 
 our destiny, we know that Heaven is merciful, and 
 we should be fearless as we arm ourselves in that 
 knowledge." 
 
 "Morton Devereux," said Aubrey, again repeating 
 my name, and with an evident inward effort that left 
 his lip colorless, and yet lit his dark dilating eye with a 
 strange and unwonted fire, — " Morton Devereux, I feel 
 that I am predestined to the power of the Evil One ! " 
 
 I drew back, inexpressibly shocked. " Good Heavens ! " 
 I exclaimed, "what can induce you to cherish so terrible 
 a phantasy ? What can induce you to wrong so fearfully 
 the goodness and mercy of our Creator ? " 
 
 Aubrey shrunk from my arm, which had still been 
 round him, and covered his face with his hands. I 
 took up the book he had been reading ; it was a Latin 
 treatise on predestination, and seemed fraught with the 
 most gloomy and bewildering subtleties. 1 sat down 
 beside him, and pointed out the various incoherences 
 and contradictions of the work, and the doctrine it 
 espoused ; so long and so earnestly did I speak that at 
 length Aubrey looked up, seemingly cheered and 
 relieved. 
 
 " 1 wish," said he, timidly, — " I wish that you loved 
 me, and that you loved me only ; but you love pleasure 
 and power and show and wit and revelry, and you 
 know not what it is to feel for me as I feel at times 
 for you ; nay, perhaps you really dislike or despise me I " 
 
DEVEEEUX. 61 
 
 Aubrey's voice grew bitter in its tone as he concluded 
 these words, and I was instantly impressed with the 
 belief that some one had insinuated distrust of my 
 affection for him. 
 
 " Why should you think thus? " I said. "Has any 
 cause occurred of late to make you deem my affection 
 for you weaker than it was ? Has any one hinted a 
 surmise that I do not repay your brotherly regard 1 " 
 
 Aubrey did not answer. 
 
 " Has Gerald," I continued, " jealous of our mutual 
 attachment, uttered aught tending to diminish it? Yes, 
 I see that he has! " 
 
 Aubrey remained motionless, sullenly gazing down- 
 ward, and still silent. 
 
 " Speak," said I, " in justice to both of us, — speak! 
 You know, Aubrey, how I have loved and love you: 
 put your arms round me, and say that thing on earth 
 which you wish me to do, and it shall he done! " 
 
 Aubrey looked up; he met my eyes, and he threw 
 himself upon my neck, and burst into a violent par- 
 oxysm of tears. 
 
 I was greatly affected. "I see my fault," said I, 
 soothing him: "you are angry, and with justice, that 
 I have neglected you of late ; and, perhaps, while I ask 
 your confidence, you suspect that there is some subject 
 on which I should have granted you mine. You are 
 right, and at a fitter moment I will. Now, let us 
 turn homeward: our uncle is never merry when we are 
 absent ; and when my mother misses your dark locks 
 and fair cheek, I fancy that she sees little beauty in the 
 ball. And yet, Aubrey," I added, as he now rose from 
 my embrace and dried his tears, " I will own to you 
 that I love this scene better than any, however gay, 
 within;" and I turned to the sea, starlit as it was and 
 
62 DEVEREUX. 
 
 murmuring with a silver voice, and I became suddenly 
 silent. 
 
 There was a long pause. I believe we both felt the 
 influence of the scene around us, softening and tran- 
 quillizing our hearts; for at length Aubrey put his hand 
 in mine, and said, "You were always more generous 
 and kind than I, Morton, though there are times when 
 you seem different from what you are ; and I know you 
 have already forgiven me." 
 
 I drew him affectionately towards me, and we went 
 home. 
 
 But although I meant, from that night, to devote 
 myself more to Aubrey than I had done of late, my 
 hourly increasing love for Isora interfered greatly with 
 my resolution. In order, however, to excuse any future 
 neglect, I, the very next morning, bestowed upon him 
 my confidence. Aubrey did not much encourage my 
 passion: he represented to me Isora's situation, my 
 own youth, my own worldly ambition ; and, more than 
 all (reminding me of my uncle's aversion even to the 
 most prosperous and well-suited marriage), he insisted 
 upon the certainty that Sir William would never yield 
 consent to the lawful consummation of so unequal a 
 love. I was not too well pleased with this reception of 
 my tale, and I did not much trouble my adviser with any 
 further communication and confidence on the subject. 
 Day after day T renewed my visits to the Spaniard's 
 cottage; and yet time passed on, and I had not told 
 Isora a syllable of my love. I was inexpressibly jealous 
 of this Barnard whom her father often eulogized, and 
 whom I never met. There appeared to be some mystery 
 in his acquaintance with Don Diego, which that per- 
 sonage carefully concealed; and once, when I was 
 expressing my surprise to have so often missed seeing 
 
DEVEREUX. 63 
 
 his friend, the Spaniard shook his head gravely, and 
 said that he had now learned the real reason for it; 
 there were circumstances of state which made men fear- 
 ful of new acquaintances, even in their own country. 
 He drew back, as if he had said too much, and left me 
 the conjecture that Barnard was connected with him in 
 some intrigue, more delightful in itself than agreeable 
 to the government. This belief was strengthened by 
 my noting that Alvarez was frequently absent from 
 home, and this, too, in the evening, when he was 
 generally wont to shun the bleakness of the English 
 air, — an atmosphere, by the by, which I once heard 
 a Frenchman wittiiy compare to Augustus placed be- 
 tween Horace and Virgil; namely, in the bon mot of 
 the emperor himself, — between sighs and tears. 
 
 But Isora herself never heard the name of this 
 Barnard mentioned without a visible confusion, which 
 galled me to the heart; and at length, unable to endure 
 any longer my suspense upon the subject, I resolved to 
 seek from her own lips its termination. I long tarried 
 my opportunity; it was one evening, that, coming rather 
 unexpectedly to the cottage, I was informed by the single 
 servant that Don Diego had gone to the neighboring 
 town, but that Isora was in the garden. Small as it 
 was, this garden had been cultivated with some care, 
 and was not devoid of variety. A high and very thick 
 fence of living box-wood, closel}' interlaced with the 
 honeysuckle and the common rose, screened a few plots 
 of rarer flowers, a small circular fountain, and a rustic 
 arbor, both from the sea-breezes and the eyes of any 
 passer-by, to which the open and unsheltered portion 
 of the garden was exposed. When I passed through 
 the opening cut in the fence, I was somewhat surprised 
 at not immediately seeing Isora. Perhaps she was in 
 
64 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the arbor. 1 approached the arbor tremblingly. What 
 was my astonishment and my terror, wlien I beheld her 
 stretched lifeless on the ground! 
 
 I uttered a loud cry, and sprang forwards. I raised 
 her from the earth, and supported her in my arms; her 
 complexion — through whose pure and transparent white 
 the wandering blood was wont so gently yet so glow- 
 ingly to blush, undulating, while it blushed, as youngest 
 rose-leaves which the air just stirs into trembling — was 
 blanched into the hues of death. My kisses tinged it 
 with a momentary color not its dwn ; and yet, as I 
 pressed her to my heart, methought hers, which seemed 
 still before, began, as if by an involuntary sympathy, 
 palpably and suddenly to throb against my own. My 
 alarm melted away as I held her thus, — nay, I would 
 not, if I could, have recalled her yb^ to life: I was 
 forgetful, — I was unheeding: I was unconscious of all 
 things else, — a few broken and passionate words 
 escaped my lips, but even they ceased when I felt her 
 breath just stirring and mingling with my own. It 
 seemed to me as if all living kind but ourselves had, 
 by a spell, departed from the earth, and we were left 
 alone with the breathless and inaudible Nature from 
 which spring the love and the life of all things. 
 
 Isora slowly recovered; her eyes, in opening, dwelt 
 upon mine, — her blood rushed at once to her cheek, 
 and as suddenly left it hueless as before. She rose 
 from my embrace, but I still extended my arms towards 
 her; and words over which I had no control, and of 
 which now I have no remembrance, rushed from my 
 lips. Still pale and leaning against the side of the 
 arbor, Isora heard me, as — confused, incoherent, 
 impetuous, but still intelligible to her — my released 
 heart poured itself forth. And when I had ceased, 
 
DEVEREUX. 65 
 
 she. turned her face towards me, and my blood seemed 
 at once frozen in its channel. Anguish — deep, ineffa- 
 ble anguish — was depicted upon every feature; and when 
 she strove at last to speak, her lips quivered so vio- 
 lently that after a vain effort she ceased abruptly. I 
 again approached, — I seized her hand, which I covered 
 with my kisses. 
 
 "^Will you not answer mej Isora?" said I, trem- 
 blingly. " Be silent, then ; but give me one look, one 
 glance of hope, of pardon, from those dear eyes, and I 
 ask no more." 
 
 Isora's whole frame seemed sinking beneath her 
 emotions: she raised her head, and looked hurriedly 
 and fearfully round; my eye followed hers, and I then 
 saw upon the damp ground the recent print of a man's 
 footstep, not my own ; and close to the spot where I 
 had found Isora, lay a man's glove. A pang shot 
 through me, — I felt my eyes flash fire and my brow 
 darken as I turned to Isora, and said, " I see it, I see 
 all: I have a rival, who has but just left you, — you 
 love me not; your affections are for him! " Isora sobbed 
 violently, but made no reply. " You love him," said 
 1, but in a milder and more mournful tone, — " you 
 love him: it is enough, I will persecute you no more; 
 and yet — " I paused a moment, for the remembrance 
 of many a sign, which my heart had interpreted flatter- 
 ingly, flashed upoti me, and my voice faltered. " Well, 
 I- have no right to murmur; only, Isora — only tell me 
 with your, lips that you love another, and I will depart 
 in peace." 
 
 Very slowly Isora turned her eyes to me, and even 
 through her tears they dwelt upon me with a tender and 
 a soft reproach. 
 
 "You love another?" said I; and from her lips, 
 
 VOL. I. — 5 
 
66 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 which scarcely parted, came a single word which thrilled 
 to my heart like fire, — " No ! " 
 
 " No! " I repeated, " No? — say that again, and again ; 
 yet who then is this that has dared so to agitate and 
 overpower you ? Who is he whom you have met, and 
 whom, even now while I speak, you tremble to hear 
 me recur to ? Answer me one word, — is it this mys- 
 terious stranger whom your father honors with his 
 friendship ? — is it Barnard ! " 
 
 Alarm and fear again wholly engrossed the expression 
 of Isora's countenance. 
 
 " Barnard! " she said; " yes, yes, it is Barnard!" 
 
 " Who is he ? " I cried vehemently, — " who or what 
 is he, and of what nature is his influence upon you? 
 Confide in me ; " and I poured forth a long tide of 
 inquiry and solicitation. 
 
 By the time I had ended, Isora seemed to have 
 recovered herself. With her softness was mingled 
 something of spirit and of self-control, which was rare 
 alike in her country and her sex. 
 
 " Listen to me ! " said she ; and her voice, which 
 faltered a little at first, grew calm and firm as she 
 proceeded. " You profess to love me, — I am not 
 worthy your love; and if, Count Devereux, I do not 
 reject nor disclaim it, — for I am a woman, and a weak 
 and fond one, — I will not at least wrong you by encour- 
 aging hopes which I may not and I dare not fulfil. I 
 cannot " — here she spoke with a fearful distinctness, — 
 " I cannot, I can never, be yours ; and when you ask 
 me to be so, you know not what you ask nor what perils 
 you incur. Enough, — I am grateful to you. The poor 
 exiled girl is grateful for your esteem, and — and your 
 affection. She will never forget them, — never ! But 
 be this our last meeting, our very last! God bless 
 
DEVEEEUX. 67 
 
 you, Morton! " and as she read my heart, pierced and 
 agonized as it was, in my countenance, Isora bent over 
 me, for I knelt beside her, and I felt her tears upon my 
 cheek, — " God bless you, and farewell. " 
 
 " You insult, you wound me," said I, bitterly, " by 
 this cold and taunting kindness; tell me, tell me only, 
 who it is that you love better than me. " 
 
 Isora had turned to leave me, for I was too proud to 
 detain her; but when I said this, she came back, after 
 a moment's pause, and laid her hand upon my arm. 
 
 " If it make you happy to know my unhappiness," 
 she said, — and the tone of her voice made me look full 
 in her face, which was one deep blush, — " know that I 
 am not insensible — " 
 
 I heard no more ; my lips pressed themselves invol- 
 untarily to hers; a long, long kiss, burning, intense, — 
 concentrating emotion, heart, soul, all the rays of life's 
 light into a single focus, — and she tore herself from 
 me, and I was alone. 
 
68 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A Discovery and a Departnie. 
 
 I HASTENED home after my eventful interview with 
 Isora, and gave myself up to tumultuous and wild con- 
 jecture. Aubrey sought me the next morning. I 
 narrated to him all that had occurred. He said little ; 
 but that little enraged me, for it was contrary to the 
 dictates of my own wishes. The character of Morose , 
 in the " Silent Woman," is by no means an uncommon 
 one. Many men — certainly many lovers — would say 
 with equal truth, always provided they had equal 
 candor, " All discourses but my own aiHict me ; they 
 seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome." Certainly L 
 felt that amiable sentiment most sincerely with regard 
 to Aubrey. I left him abruptly : a resolution possessed 
 me, — "I will see," said I, " this Barnard; I will lie 
 in wait for him ; I will demand and obtain, though it 
 be by force, the secret which evidently subsists between 
 him and this exiled family." 
 
 Full of this idea, I drew my cloak round me, and 
 repaired on foot to the neighborhood of the Spaniard's 
 cottage. There was no place near it very commodious 
 for accommodation both of vigil and concealment. 
 However, I made a little hill, in a field opposite the 
 house, my warder's station, and lying at full length on 
 the ground, wrapped in my cloak, I trusted to escape 
 notice. The day passed, — no visitor appeared. The 
 next morning I went from my own rooms, through the 
 
DEVEREUX. 69 
 
 subterranean passage, into the Castle Cave, as the exca- 
 vation I have before described was generally termed. 
 On the shore I saw Gerald, by one of the small fishing- 
 boats usually kept there. I passed him with a sneer at 
 his amusements, which were always those of conflicts 
 against fish or fowl. He answered me in the same 
 strain, as he threw his nets into the boat, and pushed 
 out to sea. " How is it that you go alone 1 " said I ; 
 " is there so much glory in the capture of mackerel and 
 dogfish that you will allow no one to share it 1 " 
 
 "There are other sports besides those for men," 
 answered Gerald, coloring indignantly ; " my taste is 
 confined to amusements in which he is but a fool who 
 seeks companionship; and if you could read character 
 better, my wise brother, you would know that the bold 
 rover is ever less idle and more fortunate than the 
 speculative dreamer! " 
 
 As Gerald said this, which he did with a significant 
 emphasis, he rowed vigorously across the water, and the 
 little boat was soon half-way to the opposite islet. My 
 eyes followed it musingly as it glided over the waves, 
 and my thoughts painfully revolved the words which 
 Gerald had uttered. "What can he mean?" said I, 
 half aloud ; " yet what matters it ? Perhaps some low 
 amour, some village conquest, inspires him with that 
 becoming fulness of pride and vainglory, — joy be with 
 so bold a rover! " and I strode away, along the beach, 
 towards my place of watch. Once only I turned to look 
 at Gerald, — he had then just touched the islet, which 
 was celebrated as much for the fishing it afforded as the 
 smuggling it protected. 
 
 I arrived at last at the hillock, and resumed my 
 station. Time passed on, till, at the dusk of evening, 
 the Spaniard came out. He walked slowly towards the 
 
70 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 town; I followed him at a distance. Just before he 
 reached the town, he turned off by a path which led to 
 the beach. As the evening was unusually fresh and 
 chill, I felt convinced that some cause, not wholly 
 trivial, drew the Spaniard forth to brave it. My pride 
 a little revolted at the idea of following him; but I 
 persuaded myself that Isora's happiness, and perhaps 
 her father's safety, depended on my obtaining some 
 knowledge of the character and designs of this Barnard, 
 who appeared to possess so dangerous an influence over 
 both daughter and sire, — nor did I doubt but that the 
 old man was now gone forth to meel; him. The times 
 were those of mystery and of intrigue; the emissaries 
 of the House of Stuart were restlessly at work among 
 all classes, — many of them, obscure and mean indi- 
 viduals, made their way the more dangerously from 
 their apparent insignificance. My uncle, a moderate 
 Tory, was opposed, though quietly and without vehe- 
 mence, to the claims of the banished House. Like 
 Sedley, who became so stanch a revolutionist, he had 
 seen the court of Charles II. , and the character of that 
 king's brother, too closely to feel much respect for 
 either ; but he thought it indecorous to express opposi- 
 tion loudly against a party among whom were many 
 of his early friends; and the good old knight was too 
 much attached to private ties to be very much alive 
 to public feeling. However, at his well-filled board 
 conversation generally, though displeasingly to him- 
 self, turned upon politics, and I had there often lis- 
 tened of late to dark hints of the danger to which we 
 were exposed, and of the restless machinations of the 
 Jacobites. I did not, therefore, scruple to suspect this 
 Barnard of some plot against the existing state ; and I 
 did it the more from observing that the Spaniard often 
 
DEVEEEUX. 71 
 
 spoke bitterly of the English court, which had rejected 
 some claims he had imagined himself entitled to make 
 upon it, and that he was naturally of a temper vehe- 
 mently opposed to quiet and alive to enterprise. With 
 this impression, I deemed it fair to seize any oppor- 
 tunity of seeing, at least, even if I could not question, 
 the man whom the Spaniard himself confessed to have 
 state reasons for concealment ; and my anxiety to behold 
 one whose very name could agitate Isora, and whose 
 presence could occasion the state in which I had found 
 her, sharpened this desire into the keenness of a 
 passion. 
 
 While Alvarez descended to the beach, I kept the 
 upper path, which wound along the cliff. There was 
 a spot where the rocks were rude and broken into crags, 
 and afforded me a place where, unseen, I could behold 
 what passed below. The first thing I beheld was a 
 boat approaching rapidly towards the shore; one man 
 was seated in it; he reached the shore, and I recognized 
 Gerald. That was a dreadful moment. Alvarez now 
 slowly joined him; they remained together for nearly 
 an hour. I saw Gerald give the Spaniard a letter, 
 which appeared to make the chief subject of their 
 conversation. At length they parted, with the signs 
 rather of respect than familiarity. Don Diego returned 
 homeward, and Gerald re-entered the boat. I watched 
 its progress over the waves with feelings of a dark and 
 almost unutterable nature. " My enemy ! my rival ! 
 ruiner of my hopes ! my brother I my twin-brother I " 
 I muttered bitterly between my ground teeth. 
 
 The boat did not make to the open sea; it skulked 
 along the shore, till distance and shadow scarcely 
 allowed me to trace the outline of Gerald's figure. It 
 then touched the beach, and I could just descry the dim 
 
72 DEVKEEUX. 
 
 shape of another man enter; and G^rald, instead of 
 returning homewards, pushed out towards the islet. I 
 spent the greater part of the night in the open air. 
 Wearied and exhausted by the furious indulgence of my 
 passions, I gained my room at length. There, however, 
 as elsewhere, thought succeeded to thought, and scheme 
 to scheme. Should I speak to Gerald 1 Should I con- 
 fide in Alvarez ? Should I renew my suit to Isora ? If 
 the first, what could I hope to learn from mine enemy? 
 If the second, what could I gain from the father, while 
 the daughter remained averse to me? If the third, — 
 there my heart pointed, and the third scheme I resolved 
 to adopt. 
 
 But was I sure that Gerald was this Barnard 1 Might 
 there not be some hope that he was not ? No , I could 
 perceive none. Alvare* had never spoken to me of 
 acquaintance with any other Englishman than Barnard. 
 X had no reason to believe that he ever held converse 
 with any other. Would it not have been na;tural, too, 
 unless some powerful cause, such as love to Isora, 
 induced silence, — would it not have been natural that 
 Gerald should have mentioned his acquaintance with 
 the Spaniard! Unless some dark scheme, such as that 
 which Barnard a,ppeared to have in common with Don 
 Diego, commanded obscurity, would it have been likely 
 that Gerald should have met Alvarez alone, at night, 
 on an unfrequented spot? What that scheme was, I 
 .guessed not, I cared not. AH my interest in the iden- 
 tity of Barnard with Gerald Devereux was that derived 
 from the power he seemed to possess over Isora. Here, 
 too, at once was explained the pretended Barnard's 
 desire of concealment, and the vigilance with which it 
 had been effected. It was so certain that Gerald, if my 
 rival, would seek to avoid me; it was so easy for him. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 73 
 
 who could watch all my motions, to secure the power 
 of doing so. Then I remembered Gerald's character 
 through the country, as a gallant and a general lover j 
 and I closed my eyes, as if to shut out the vision, when 
 I recalled the beauty of his form, contrasted with the 
 comparative plainness of my own. 
 
 " ^here is no hope," I repeated; and an insensibility, 
 rather than sleep, crept over me. Dreadful and fierce 
 dreams peopled my slumbers ; and when I started from 
 them at a late hour the next day, I wag unable to rise 
 from my bed; my agitation and my wanderings had 
 terminated in a burning fever. In four days, however, 
 I recovered sufficiently to mount my horse. I rode to 
 the Spaniard's house; I found there only the woman 
 who had been Don Diego's solitary domestic. The 
 morning before, Alvarez and his daughter had departed, 
 none knew for certain whither; but it was supposed 
 their destination was London. The woman gave me 
 a note; it was from Isora; it contained only these 
 lines : — 
 
 Forget me ; we are now parted forever. As you value my 
 peace of mind, — of happiness I do not speak, — seek not to 
 discover our next retreat. I implore you to think no more of 
 what has been. You are young, very young. Life has a 
 thousand paths for you ; any one of them will lead you from 
 the remembrance of me. Farewell, again and again ! 
 
 IsoBA D'Alvakez. 
 
 With this note was another, in French, from Don 
 Diego; it was colder and more formal than I could 
 have expected ; it thanked me for my attentions towards 
 him ; it regretted that he could not take leave of me in 
 person ; and it enclosed the sum by the loan of which 
 our acquaintance had commenced. 
 
 " It is well ! " said I calmly to myself, — " it Is well ; 
 
74 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I will forget her; " and I rode instantly home. " But," 
 I resumed in my soliloquy, " I will yet strive to obtain 
 confirmation to what perhaps needs it not. I will yet 
 strive to see if Gerald can deny the depth of his injuries 
 towards me; there will be at least some comfort in 
 witnessing either his defiance or his confusion. " 
 
 Agreeably to this thought, I hastened to seek Gerald, 
 r found him in his apartment. I shut the door, and 
 seating myself, with a smile thus addressed him, — 
 
 " Dear Gerald, I have a favor to ask of you." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " How long have you known a certain Mr. Barnard ? " 
 
 Gerald changed color; his voice faltered as he repeated 
 the name, " Barnard! " 
 
 " Yes," said I, with affected composure, "Barnard! 
 a great friend of Don Diego D' Alvarez." 
 
 "I perceive," said Gerald, collecting himself, "that 
 you are in some measure acquainted with my secret: 
 how far it is known to you I cannot guess ; but I tell 
 you, very fairly, that from me you will not increase the' 
 sum of your knowledge. " 
 
 When one is in a good sound rage, it is astonishing 
 how calm one can be ! I was certainly somewhat amazed 
 by Gerald's hardihood and assurance; but I continued, 
 with a smile, — 
 
 " And Donna Isora, how long, if not very intrusive 
 on your confidence, have you known her 1 " 
 
 " I tell you," answered Gerald, doggedly, " that I will 
 answer no questions. " 
 
 "You remember the old story," returned I, "of the 
 two brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, whose very ashes 
 refused to mingle. Faith, Gerald, our love seems much 
 of the same sort. I know not if our ashes will exhibit 
 so laudable an antipathy^ but I think our hearts and 
 
DEVEREUX. 75 
 
 hands will do so while a spark of life animates them ; 
 yes, though our blood," I added, in a voice quivering 
 with furious emotion , " prevents our contest by the 
 sword, it prevents not the hatred and the curses of the 
 heart." 
 
 Gerald turned pale. " I do not understand you," he 
 faltered out. " I know you abhor me ; but why, why 
 this excess of malice ? " 
 
 I cast on him a look of bitter scorn, and turned from 
 the room. 
 
 It is not pleasing to place before the reader these dark 
 passages of fraternal hatred; but in the record of all 
 passions there is a moral ; and it is wise to see to how 
 vast a sum the units of childish animosity swell , when 
 they are once brought into a heap by some violent 
 event, and told over by the nice accuracy of revenge. 
 
 But I long to pass from these scenes, and my history 
 is about to glide along others of more glittering and 
 smiling aspect. Thank Heaven, I write a tale, not 
 only of love, but of a life; and that which I cannot 
 avoid I can at least condense. 
 
76 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 A very ahoit Chapter — containing a Valet. 
 
 Mt uncle for several weeks had flattered himself that I 
 had quite forgotten or foregone the desire of leaving 
 Devereux Court for London. Good, easy man! he was 
 not a little distressed when I renewed the subject with 
 redoubled firmness, and demanded an early period for 
 that event. He managed, however, still to protract the 
 evil day. At one time it was impossible to part with 
 me, because the house was so full; at another time it 
 was cruel to leave him when the house was so empty. 
 Meanwhile a new change came over me. As the first 
 shock of Isora's departure passed away, I began to 
 suspect the purity of her feelings towards me. Might 
 not Gerald, the beautiful, the stately, the glittering 
 Gerald, have been a successful wooer under that dis- 
 guised name of Barnard, and hence Isora's confusion 
 when that name was mentioned, and hence the power 
 which its possessor exercised over her? 
 
 This idea, once admitted, soon gained ground. It is 
 true that Isora had testified something of favorable feel- 
 ings towards me ; but this might spring from coquetry 
 or compassion. My love had been a boy's love, founded 
 upon beauty and colored by romance. I had not inves- 
 tigated the character of the object, and I had judged of 
 the mind solely by the face. I might easily have been 
 deceived; I persuaded myself that I was! Perhaps 
 Gerald had provided their present retreat for sire and 
 daughter; perhaps they at this moment laughed over 
 
DEVEREUX, 77 
 
 my rivalry and my folly. Methought Gerald's lip wore 
 a contemptuous curve when we met. " It shall have no 
 cause," I said, stung to the soul; " I will indeed forget 
 this woman, and yet, though in other ways, eclipse this 
 rival. Pleasure, ambition, the brilliancyof a couxt, the 
 resources of wealth, invite me to a thousand joys. I 
 will not be deaf to the call. Meanwhile I will not 
 betray to Gerald — to any one — the scar of the wound 
 I have received ; and I will mortify Gerald by showing- 
 him that, handsome as he is, he shall be forgotten in 
 my presence ! " 
 
 Agreeably, to this exquisite resolution , I paid inces- 
 sant court to the numerous dames by whom my uncle's 
 mansion was thronged; and I resolved to prepare among 
 them the reputation for gallantry and' for wit "which I 
 proposed to establish in town. 
 
 "You are greatly altered since your love," said 
 Aubrey one day to me, " but not by your love. Own 
 that I did rightin dissuading you from its indulgence ! " 
 
 "Tell me," said I, sinking my voice to a whisper, 
 " do you think Gerald was my rival 1 " and I recounted 
 the causes of my suspicion. 
 
 Aubrey's countenance testified astonishment as he 
 listened. " It is strange, very strange," said he, " and 
 the evidence of the boat is almost conclusive; still I 
 do not think it quite sufficient to leave no loop-hole of 
 doubt. But what matters it 1 you have conquered your 
 love now." 
 
 " Ay," I said, with a laugh, " I have conquered it, 
 and I am now about to find some other empress of the 
 heart. What think you of the Lady Hasselton ? — a 
 fair dame and a sprightly. I want nothing but her 
 love to be the most enviable of men, and a French 
 valet-de-ehambre to be the most irresistible." 
 
78 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "The former is easier to obtain than the latter, I 
 fear," returned Aubrey: "all places produce light 
 dames; but the war makes a scarcity of Trench valets." 
 
 " True," said I; "but I never thought of instituting 
 a comparison between their relative value. The Lady 
 Hasselton, no disparagement to her merits, is but one 
 woman; but a French valet who knows his metier, 
 arms one for conquest over a thousand ; " and I turned 
 to the saloon. 
 
 Fate, which had destined to me the valuable affec- 
 tions of the Lady Hasselton, granted me also, at a yet 
 earlier period, the greater boon of a French valet. 
 About two or three weeks after this sapient communi- 
 cation with Aubrey, the most charming person in the 
 world presented himself a candidate pour le supreme 
 bonheur de soigner Monsieur le Comte. Intelligence 
 beamed in his eye; a modest assurance reigned upon 
 his brow ; respect made his step vigilant as a zephyr's ; 
 and his ruifles were the envy of the world! 
 
 I took him at a glance; and I presented to the 
 admiring inmates of the house a greater coxcomb than 
 the Count Devereux in the ethereal person of Jean 
 Desmarais. 
 
DEVEREUX. 79 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The Hero acquits himself honorably as a Coxcomb. — A Fine Lady 
 of the Eighteenth Century, and a fashionable Dialogue, — the 
 Substance of fashiouable Dialogue being in all Centuries the 
 
 " I AM thinking, Morton," said my uncle, " that if you 
 are to go to town, you should go in a style suitable to 
 your rank. What say you to flying along the road in 
 my green and gold chariot? 'Sdeath, I '11 make you a 
 present of it. Nay , no thanks, — and you may have 
 four of my black Flanders mares to draw you. " 
 
 "Now, my dear Sir William," cried Lady Hasselton, 
 who, it may be remembered, was the daughter of one 
 of King Charles's beauties, and who alone shared the 
 breakfast-room with my uncle and myself, — " now, my 
 dear Sir William, I think it would be a better plan to 
 suffer the count to accompany us to town. We go next 
 week. He shall have a seat in our coach; help Lovell 
 to pay our post-horses ; protect us at inns ; scold at the 
 drawers in the petty oaths of the fashion, which are so 
 innocent that I will teach them to his countship myself; 
 and unless I am much more frightful than my honored 
 mother, whose beauties you so gallantly laud, I think 
 you will own. Sir William, that this is better for your 
 nephew than doing solitary penance in your chariot of 
 green and gold, with a handkerchief tied over his head 
 to keep away cold, and with no more fanciful occupa- 
 tion than composing sonnets to the four Flanders 
 mares. " 
 
80 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " 'Sdeath, madam, .you inherit your mother's wit as 
 well as beauty," cried my uncle, with an impassioned 
 air. 
 
 "And his countship," said I, "will accept your 
 invitation without asking his uncle's leave." 
 
 " Come, that is bold for a gentleman of — let me see, 
 thirteen — are you not ? " 
 
 "Really," answered I, " one learns to forget time so 
 terribly in the presence of Lady Hasselton, that 1 do 
 not remember even how long it has existed for me. " 
 
 " Bravo," cried the knight, with a moistening eye ; 
 " you see, madam, the boy has not lived with his old 
 uncle for nothing." 
 
 " I am lost in astonishment," said the lady, glancing 
 towards the glass ; " why, you will eclipse all our beaux 
 at your first appearance ; but *-^ but — Sir William — ■ 
 how green those glasses have become ! Bless me , there 
 is something so contagious in the effects of the country 
 that the very mirrors grow verdant. But — Count — 
 Count — where are you. Count 1 " (I was exactly oppo- 
 site to the fair speaker.) " Oh, there you are! Pray, 
 do you carry a little pocket-glass of the true quality 
 about you ? But of course you do ; lend it me. " 
 
 " I have not the glass you want, but I carry with me a 
 mirror that reflects your features much more faithfully. " 
 
 " How! I protest I do not understand you! " 
 
 " The mirror is here ! " said I, laying my hand to my 
 heart. 
 
 " 'Gad, I must kiss the boy! " cried my uncle, start- 
 ing up. 
 
 " I have sworn," said 1, fixing my eyes upon the lady, 
 — "I have sworn never to be kissed even by women. 
 You must pardon me, uncle." 
 
 "I declare," cried the Lady Hasselton, flirting her 
 
DEVEREUX. 81' 
 
 fan, which was somewhat smaller than the screen that- 
 one puts into a great hall in order to take off the dis- 
 comfort of too large a room, — "I declare, Count, there 
 is a vast deal of originality about you. But tell me, 
 Sir William, where did your nephew acquire at so 
 early an age (eleven, you say he is) such a fund of 
 agreeable assurance t " 
 
 " Nay, madam, let the boy answer for himself." 
 
 " Imprimis, then," said I, playing with the ribbon 
 of my cane, — "imprimis, early study of the best au- 
 thors, — Congreve and Farquhar, Etherege and Roches- 
 ter; secondly, the constant intercourse of company, 
 which gives one the spleen so overpoweringly that 
 despair inspires one with boldness — to get rid of 
 them; thirdly, the personal example of Sir William' 
 Devereux; and, fourthly, the inspiration of hope." 
 
 "Hope, sir! " said the Lady Hasselton, covering her- 
 face with her fan so as only to leave me a glimpse oiE' 
 the farthest patch upon her left cheek, — " hope, sir? " 
 
 " Yes, the hope of being pleasing to you. Suffer me 
 to add that the hope has now become certainty. " 
 
 " Upon my word , Count — " 
 
 " Nay , you cannot deny it, — if one can once succeeds 
 in impudence, one is irresistible." 
 
 " Sir William," cried Lady Hasselton, '' you may- 
 give the count your chariot of green and gold and' 
 your four Flanders mares, and send his mother's maid 
 with him. He shall not go with me." 
 
 "Cruel! and why?" said L 
 
 " You are too — ■ " The lady paused, and looked at me 
 over her fan ; she was really very handsome. " You 
 are too old, Count. You micst be more than nine." 
 
 "Pardon me," said I, "I am nine: a very mystical 
 number nine is, too, and represents the Muses, who, you 
 
 VOL. 1. — 6 
 
82 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 know, were always attendant upon Venus, — or you, 
 which is the same thing; so you can no more dispense 
 with my company than you can with that of the Graces." 
 
 " .Good ojiornin^ Sir William ! " cried the Lady 
 JHasseltan, rising. 
 
 I. offered to hand her to the door, — with great diffi- 
 culty, for her hoop was of the very newest enormity of 
 .circumference. I. effected this object. " Well, Count! " 
 said she, " I am ^ad to see you have brought so much 
 learning from school; make the best use of it, while it 
 lasts, for your memory will not furnish you with a single 
 simile out of the mythology by the end of next winter. " 
 
 " That would be a pity ! " said 1, "for I intend having 
 as many goddesses as the heathens had, and I should 
 like to worship them in a classical fashion. " 
 
 " Oh the young reprobate! " said the beauty, tapping 
 me with her fan. " And pray what otlier deities besides 
 Venus do I resemble 1 " 
 
 " All! " said I, -^ " at least all the celestial ones! " 
 
 Though half-way through the door, the beauty extri- 
 cated her hoop, and drew back. 
 
 " Bless me, the gods as well as the goddesses? " 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " You jest, — tell me how." 
 
 "Nothing can be easier: you resemble Mercury, 
 because of your thefts -^ " 
 
 "Thefts!" 
 
 " Ay, stolen hearts and " (added I, in a whisper) 
 "glances; Jupiter, partly because of your lightning, 
 which you lock up in the said glances, — principally 
 because all things are subservient to you; Neptune, 
 because you are as changeable as the seas; Vulcan, 
 because you live among the flames you excite; and 
 Mais, because — " 
 
DEVEEEUX. 83 
 
 "You are so destructive," cried my uncle. 
 
 "Exactly so; and because," added I, as I shut -the 
 door upon the beauty, — " because, thanks to your hoop, 
 you cover nine acres of ground. " 
 
 " Od's fish, Morton," said my uncle, "you surprise 
 me at times, — one while you are so reserved, at another 
 so assured; to-day so brisk, to-morrow so gloomy. Why. 
 now, Lady Hasselton (she is very comely, eh! faith, 
 but not comparable to her mother) told me, a week .ago, 
 that she gave you up in despair, — that you were dull, 
 past hoping for; and now, 'Gad, you had a life in you 
 that Sid himself could not have surpassed. How conies 
 it, sir, eh 1 " 
 
 " Why, uncle, you have explained the reason ; it was 
 exactly because she said I was dull that I was resolved 
 to convict her in an untruth." 
 
 " Well, now, there is some sense in that, boy; al,way,s 
 contradict ill report by personal merit. But what think 
 you of her ladyship? 'Gad, you know what old Bellair 
 said of Emilia : ' Make much of her, — she 's one 
 of the best of your acquaintance. I like her counte- 
 nance and behavior. Well, she has a modesty not 
 i' this age, a-dad she has.' Applicable enough, eh, 
 boy! " 
 
 " 'I know her value, sir, and esteem her accordingly,' " 
 answered I, out of the same play, which by dint of 
 long study I had got by heart. " But,, to confess the 
 truth," added I, "I think you might have left out the 
 passage about her modesty." 
 
 "There, now, you young chaps are so censorious; 
 why, 'sdeath, sir, you don't think the worse of her virtue 
 because of her wit ! " 
 
 "Humph!" 
 
 " Ah, boy, when you are my age, you '11 know that 
 
84 DEVEREUX. 
 
 your demure cats are not the best; and that reminds me 
 of a little story, — shall I tell it you, child ? " 
 
 " If it so please you, sir." 
 
 " Zauns, — where 's my snuff-box? — oh, here it is. 
 Well, sir, you shall have the whole thing from begin- 
 ning to end. Sedley and I were one day conversing 
 together about women. Sid was a very deep fellow in 
 that game: no passion, you know; no love on his own 
 side, — nothing of the sort all done by rule and com- 
 pass, — knew women as well as dice, and calculated the 
 exact moment when his snares would catch them , accord- 
 ing to the principles of geometry. D d clever fellow , 
 
 faith, but a confounded rascal ; but let it go no far- 
 ther, — ■ mum 's the word! — must not slander the dead, 
 and 't is only my suspicion, you know, after all. 
 Poor fellow, I don't think he was such a rascal; he 
 gave a beggar an angel once, — well, boy, have a pinch 1 
 Well, so I said to Sir Charles, ' I think you will lose 
 the widow, after all, — 'Gad I do.' ' Upon what prin- 
 ciple of science. Sir William? ' said he. ' Why, faith, 
 man, she is so modest, you see, and has such a pretty 
 way of blushing.' 'Hark ye, friend Devereux,' said 
 Sir Charles, smoothing his collar, and mincing his 
 words musically, as he was wont to do, — 'hark ye, 
 friend Devereux, I will give you the whole experience 
 of my life in one maxim , — I can answer for its being 
 new, and I think it is profound, — and that maxim is — ' 
 No, faith, Morton, no, I cannot tell it thee: it is vil- 
 lanous, and then it 's so desperately against all the 
 sex." 
 
 "My dear uncle, don't tantalize me so; pray tell it 
 me, — it shall be a secret. " 
 
 "No, boy, no, it will corrupt thee; besides, it will 
 do poor Sid's memory no good. But, 'sdeath, it was a 
 
DEVEEEUX. 85 
 
 most wonderfully shrewd saying, — i' faith, it was. But 
 zounds, Morton, I forgot to tell you that I have had a 
 letter from the abbe to-day." 
 
 " Ha! and when does he return? " 
 
 "To-morrow, God willing!" said the knight, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 " So soon, or rather after so long an absence! Well, 
 I am glad of it. I wish much to see him before I leave 
 
 you." 
 
 "Indeed!" quoth my uncle; '"you have an advan- 
 tage over me, then! But od's fish, Morton, how is it 
 that you grew so friendly with the priest before his 
 departure ? He used to speak very suspiciously of thee 
 formerly.; and when I last saw him, he lauded thee to 
 the skies." 
 
 " Why, the clergy of his faith have a habit of defend- 
 ing the strong and crushing the weak, I believe; 
 that 's all. He once thought I was dull enough to 
 damn my fortune, and then he had some strange doubts 
 for my soul; now he thinks me wise enough to become 
 prosperous, and it is astonishing what a respect he has 
 conceived for my principles." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha! you have a spice of your uncle's 
 humor in you; and, 'Gad, you have no small know- 
 ledge of the world, considering you have seen so little 
 of it." 
 
 A hit at the Popish clergy was, in my good uncle's 
 eyes, the exact acme of wit and wisdom. We are always 
 clever with those who imagine we think as they do. 
 To be shallow you must differ with people; to be 
 profound you must agree with them. " Why, sir," 
 answered the sage nephew, " you forget that I have seen 
 more of the world than many of twice my age. Your 
 house has been full of company ever since I have been 
 
86 DEVEREUX. 
 
 in it, arid you set me to making observations on what I 
 sailir before I was thirteen. And then, too, if one is 
 reading books about real life at the very time one is 
 mixing in it, it is astonishing how naturally one 
 rerii'arksv arid how well one remembers.'' 
 
 " Especially if one has a genius for it, — eh, boy ! And 
 then, too, you have read my play, turned Horace's 
 Sa;tires into a lampoon upon the boys at school, been 
 regularly to assizes during the vacation, attended the 
 cotin'ty-balls, and been a most premature male coquette 
 with the ladies. Od's fish, boy! it is quite curious to 
 see how the young sparks of the present day get on with 
 their love-making. " 
 
 "Espeeially if one has a genius for it, — eh, sir?" 
 said I. 
 
 " Beisides, too," said my uncle, ironically, "you have 
 had the abbe's instructions." 
 
 " Ay ; and if the priests would communicate to their 
 pittpils their experience in frailty as well as in virtue, 
 how wise they would make us ! " 
 
 "Od's fish! Mortori, you are quite oracular. How 
 got you that fancy of priests ? — by observation in life 
 already ? " 
 
 " !No, uncle; by observation in plays, which you tell 
 me are the mirrors of life. You remember what Lee 
 
 "Tis thought 
 That earth is more obliged to priests for bodies 
 Than heaven for souls.' " 
 
 And my uncle laughed, and called me a smart fellow. 
 
DEVEREUX. 87 
 
 CHAPTER Xll. 
 
 The Abba's return. — A Sword and a Soliloqnf , 
 
 The next evening, when I was sitting alone in my 
 room, the Abbe Montreuil suddenly entered. "Ah, is 
 it you? Welcome! " cried I. The priest. held out his 
 arms, and embraced me in the most paternal manner. 
 
 " It is your friend," said he, " returned at last to bless 
 and congratulate you. Behold my success in your ser- 
 vice ; " and the abbe produced a long leather case, 
 richly inlaid with gold. 
 
 "Paith, Abb^," said I, "am I to understand that 
 this is a present for your eldest pupil 1 " 
 
 " You are," said Montreuil, opening the case and 
 producing a sword. The light fell upon the hilt, and 
 I drew back, dazzled with its lustre; it was covered 
 with stones, apparently of the most costly value. 
 Attached to the hilt was a label of purple velvet, on 
 which, in letters of gold, was inscribed, " To the son 
 of Marshal Devereux, the soldier of France, and the 
 friend of Louis XIV." 
 
 Before I recovered my surprise at this sight, the abbe 
 said : " It was from the king's own hand that I received 
 this sword; and I have authority to inform you that if 
 ever you wield it in the service of France, it will be 
 accompanied by a post worthy of your name. " 
 
 " The service of France ! " I repeated ; " why, at 
 present, that is the service of an enemy." 
 
 " An enemy only to a part of England ! " said the 
 abbe, emphatically; "perhaps I have overtures to you 
 
88 DEVEREUX. 
 
 from other monarchs, and the friendship of the Court of 
 France may be synonymous with the friendship of the 
 true sovereign of England." 
 
 There was no mistaking the purport of this speech, 
 and even in the midst of my gratified vanity I drew 
 back alarmed. The abbe noted the changed expression 
 of my countenance, and artfully turned the subject to 
 comments on the sword, on which I still gazed with a 
 lover's ardor. Thence he veered to a description of 
 the grace and greatness of the royal donor ; he dwelt at 
 length upon the flattering terms in which Louis had 
 spoken of my father and had inquired concerning 
 myself; he enumerated all the hopes that the illus- 
 trious house into which my father had first married 
 expressed for a speedy introduction to his son ; he 
 lingered, with an eloquence more savoring of the court 
 than of the cloister, on the dazzling circle which sur- 
 rounded the French throne; and when my vanity, my 
 curiosity, my love of pleasure, my ambition, all that 
 are most susceptible in young minds, were fully aroused, 
 he suddenly ceased, and wished me a good-night. 
 
 " Stay," said I; and looking at him more attentively 
 than I had hitherto done, I perceived a change in his 
 external appearance which somewhat startled and sur- 
 prised me. Montreuil had always hitherto been remark- 
 ably plain in his dress; but he was now richly attired, 
 and by his side hung a rapier which had never adorned 
 it before. Something in his aspect seemed to suit the 
 alteration in his garb; and whether it was that long 
 absence had effaced enough of the familiarity of his 
 features to allow me to be more alive than formerly to 
 the real impression they were calculated to produce, or 
 whether a commune with kings and nobles had of late 
 dignified their old expression, as power was said to have 
 
DEVEREUX. 89 
 
 clothed the soldier-mien of Cromwell with a monarch's 
 bearing, — I do not affect to decide; hut I thought that 
 in his high brow and Roman features, the compression 
 of his lip, and his calm but haughty air, there was a 
 nobleness which I acknowledged for the first time. 
 " Stay, my Father," said I, surveying him, " and tell 
 me, if there be no irreverence in the question, whether 
 brocade and a sword are compatible with the laws of the 
 Order of Jesus ? " 
 
 "Policy, Morton," answered Montreuil, " often dis- 
 penses with custom ; and the declarations of the Insti- 
 tute provide, with their usual wisdom, for worldly 
 and temporary occasions. Even while the constitu- 
 tion ordains us to discard habits repugnant to our pro- 
 fessions of poverty, the following exception is made: 
 ' Si in occurrenti aliquS, occasione, vel necessitate, quis 
 vestibus melioribus, honestis tamen, indueretur. ' " ' 
 
 " There is now, then, some occasion for a more glit- 
 tering display than ordinary 1 " said I. 
 
 "There is, my pupil," answered Montreuil; "and 
 whenever you embrace the offer of my friendship made 
 to you more than two years ago; whenever, too, your 
 ambition points to a lofty and sublime career; when- 
 ever to make and unmake kings — and, in the noblest 
 sphere, to execute the will of God — indemnifies you 
 for a sacrifice of petty wishes and momentary passions, 
 I will confide to you schemes worthy of your ancestors 
 and yourself." 
 
 With this the priest departed. Left to myself, I 
 revolved his hints, and marvelled at the power he 
 seemed to possess. " Closeted with kings," said I, 
 soliloquizing, "bearing their presents through armed 
 
 ' " But should there chance any occasion or necessity, one may 
 wear better, though still decorous garments." 
 
90 DEVEREUX. 
 
 men and military espionage, speaking of empires and 
 their overthrow as of ordinary objects of ambition, — 
 and he himself a low-born and undignified priest, of 
 a poor though a wise order, ^ well, there is more in 
 this than I can fathom; but I will hesitate before I 
 embark in his dangerous and concealed intrigues, — 
 above all, I will look well ere I hazard my safe heri- 
 tage of these broad lands in the service of that House 
 which is reported to be ungrateful, and which is cer- 
 tainly exiled." 
 
 After this prudent and notable resolution, I took up 
 the sword, re-examined it, kissed the hilt once and the 
 blade twice, put it under my pillow, sent for my valet, 
 undressed, went to bed, fell asleep, and dreamed that I 
 was teaching the Mardchal de Villars the thrust en 
 seconde. 
 
 But Fate, that arch-gossip, who, like her prototypes 
 on earth, settles all our affairs for us without our 
 knowledge of the matter, had decreed that my friend- 
 ship with the Abbe Montreuil should be of very short 
 continuance, and that my adventures on earth should 
 flow through a different channel than, in all probability, 
 they would have done under his spiritual direction, 
 
DEVEKEUX. 91 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A mysterious Letter. — A Duel. — The Departure of one 
 of the Family. 
 
 The next morning I communicated to the abbe my 
 intention of proceeding to London. He received it 
 with favor. " I myself," said he, " shall soon meet 
 you there: my office in your family has expired, and 
 your mother, after so long an absence, vrill perhaps 
 readily dispense with my spiritual advice to her. But 
 time presses, — since you depart so soon, give me an 
 audience to-night in your apartment. Perhaps our con- 
 versation may be of moment." 
 
 I agreed ; the hour was fixed, and I left the abb^ 
 to join my uncle and his guests. While I was employ- 
 ing among them my time and genius with equal 
 dignity and profit, one of the servants informed me 
 that a man at the gate wished to see me, — and alone. 
 
 Somewhat surprised, I followed the servant out of 
 the room into the great hall, and desired him to bid 
 the stranger attend me there. In a few minutes a 
 small, dark man, dressed between gentility and mean- 
 ness, made his appearance. He greeted me with great 
 respect, and presented a letter, which, he said, he was 
 charged to deliver into my own hands, "with," he 
 added in a low tone, " a special desire that none should, 
 till you have carefully read it, be made acquainted with 
 its contents. " I was not a little startled by this request ; 
 and, withdrawing to one of the windows, broke the 
 seal. A letter, enclosed in the envelope, in the abbe's 
 
92 DETEREUX. 
 
 own handwriting, was the first thing that met my eyes. 
 At that instant the abbe himself rushed into the hall. 
 He cast one hasty look at the messenger, whose coun- 
 tenance evinced something of surprise and consternation 
 at beholding him ; and hastening up to me , grasped my 
 hand vehemently, and, while his eye dwelt upon the 
 letter I held, cried, " Do not read it, — not a word, not 
 a word; there is poison in it! " and so saying, he 
 snatched desperately at the letter. I detained it from 
 him with one hand, and pushing him aside with the 
 other, said, — 
 
 " Pardon me. Father, directly I have read it you 
 shall have that pleasure, — not till then ;" and as I 
 said this, my eye, falling upon the letter, discovered my 
 own name written in two places. My suspicions were 
 aroused. I raised my eyes to the spot where the mes- 
 senger had stood, with the view of addressing some 
 question to him respecting his employer, when, to my 
 surprise, I perceived he was already gone; I had no 
 time, however, to follow him. 
 
 "Boy," said the abbe, gasping for breath, and still 
 seizing me with his lean, bony hand, ■— " boy, give me 
 that letter instantly ! I charge you not to disobey me. " 
 
 " You forget yourself, sir,'' said I, endeavoring to 
 shake him off, — "you forget yourself: there is no 
 longer between us the distinction of pupil and teacher; 
 and if you have not yet learned the respect due to 
 my station, suffer me to tell you that it is time you 
 should. " 
 
 " Give me the letter, I beseech you," said Montreuil, 
 changing his voice from anger to supplication ; " I ask 
 your pardon for my violence. The letter does not concern 
 you, but me; there is a secret in those lines, which 
 you see are in my handwriting, that implicates my 
 
DEVEEEUX. 93 
 
 personal safety. Give it me, my dear, dear son, — your 
 own honor, if not your aflfeetion for me, demands that 
 you should." 
 
 I was staggered. His violence had confirmed my 
 suspicions, but his gentleness weakened them. " Be- 
 sides," thought I, "the handwriting is his; and even if 
 my life depended upon reading the letter of another, I 
 do not think my honor would suffer me to do so against 
 his consent." A thought struck me, — 
 
 " Will you swear," said I, "that this letter does not 
 concern me ? " 
 
 "Solemnly," answered the abbd, raising his eyes. 
 
 " Will you swear that I am not even mentioned in it 1 " 
 
 " Upon peril of my soul, I will." 
 
 " Liar, traitor, perjured blasphemer! " cried I, in an 
 inexpressible rage, " look hfere, and here! " and I pointed 
 out to the priest various lines in which my name legibly 
 and frequently occurred. A change came over Mon- 
 treuil's face: he released my arm, and staggered back 
 against the wainscot; but recovering his composure 
 instantaneously, he said, " I forgot, my son, I forgot, 
 — your name is mentioned, it is true, but with honor- 
 able eulogy, that is all." 
 
 " Bravo, honest Father! " cried I, losing my fury in 
 admiring surprise at his address, — " bravo! However, 
 if that be all, you can have no objection to allow me to 
 read the lines in which my name occurs ; your benevo- 
 lence cannot refuse me such a gratification as the sight 
 of your written panegyric! " 
 
 " Count Devereux," said the abbe, sternly, while his 
 dark face worked with suppressed passion , " this is 
 trifling with me, and I warn you not to push my 
 patience too far. 1 will have that letter, or — " He 
 ceased abruptly, and touched the hilt of his sword. 
 
94 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Dare you threaten me ? " I said ; and the natural 
 fierceness of my own disposition, deepened by vague 
 and strong suspicions of some treachery designed against 
 me, spoke in the tones of my voice. 
 
 " Dare I! " repeated Montreuil, sinking and sharpen- 
 ing his voice into a sort of inward screech. " Dare I! 
 , — ay, were your whole tribe arrayed against me. Give 
 me the letter, or you will find me now and forever your 
 most -deadly foe; deadly, — ay, deadly, deadly!" and 
 he shook his clinched hand at me, with an expression 
 of countenance so malignant and menacing that I drew 
 back involuntarily, and laid my hand on my sword. 
 
 The action seemed to give Montreuil a signal for 
 which he had hitherto waited. " Draw then ! " he said, 
 thrpugh his teeth, and unsheathed his rapier. 
 
 Though surprised at his determination, I was not 
 backward in meeting it. Thrusting the letter in my 
 bosom, I drew my sword in time to parry a rapid and 
 fierce thrust. I had expected easily to master Mon- 
 treuil, for I had some skill at my weapon. I was 
 deceived, — I found him far more adroit than myself 
 in the art of oifence ; and perhaps it would have fared 
 ill for the hero of this narrative had Montreuil deemed 
 it wise to direct against my life all the science he pos- 
 sessed. But the moment our swords crossed, the con- 
 stitutional coolness of the man, which rage or fear had 
 for a brief time banished, returned at once, and he 
 probably saw that it would be as dangerous to him to 
 take away the life of his pupil as to forfeit the paper 
 for which he fought. He therefore appeared to bend 
 all his efforts towards disarming me. Whether or not 
 he would have effected this it is hard to say ; for my 
 blood was up, and any neglect of my antagonist, in 
 attaining an object very dangerous when engaged with 
 
DEVEREUX. 95 
 
 a skilful and quick swordsman, might have sent him to 
 the place from which the prayers of his brethren have 
 (we are bound to believe) released so many thousands 
 of souls. 
 
 But meanwhile the servants, who at first thought 
 the clashing of .swords was the wanton sport of some 
 young gallants as yet new to the honor of wearing them, 
 grew alarmed by the continuance of the sound, and 
 flocked hurriedly to the place of contest. At their 
 intrusion we mutually drew back. Eecovering my 
 presence of mind (it was a possession I very easily lost 
 at that time), I saw the unseemliness of fighting with 
 my preceptor and a priest. I therefore burst, though 
 awkwardly enough, into a laugh, and, affecting to treat 
 the affair as a friendly trial of skill between the abbe 
 and myself, resheathed my sword and dismissed the 
 intruders, who, evidently disbelieving my version of 
 the story, retreated slowly, and exchanging looks. 
 Montreuil, who had scarcely seconded my attempt to 
 gloss over our rencontre, now approached me. 
 
 "Count," he said, with a collected and cool voice, 
 " suffer me to request you to exchange three words with 
 me, in a spot less liable than this to interruption." 
 
 "Follow me, then!" said I; and I led the way to 
 a part of the grounds which lay remote and sequestered 
 from intrusion. I then turned round, and perceived 
 that the abbe had left his sword behind. " How is 
 this?" I said, pointing to his unarmed side, — "have 
 you not come hither to renew our engagement 1 " 
 
 "No!" answered Montreuil, "I repent me of my 
 sudden haste, and I have resolved to deny myself all 
 further possibility of unseemly warfare. That letter, 
 young man, I still demand from you; I demand it from 
 your own sense of honor and of right : it was written by 
 
96 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 me, — it was net intended for your eye; it contains 
 secrets implicating the lives of others beside myself: 
 now read it if you will." 
 
 " You are right, sir, " said I, after a short pause ; 
 " there is the letter. Never shall it he said of Morton 
 Devereux that he hazarded his honor to secure his 
 safety; but the tie between us is broken now and 
 forever! " 
 
 So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, and 
 strode away. I re-entered the great hall. I saw by 
 one of the windows a sheet of paper; I picked it up, 
 and perceived that it was the envelope in which the 
 letter had been enclosed. It contained only these lines, 
 addressed to me in "French : — 
 
 " A friend of the late Marshal Devereux encloses to his son 
 a letter, the contents of which it is essential for his safety that 
 he should know. — C. D. B." 
 
 " Umph ! " said I, — " a very satisfactory intimation, 
 considering that the son of the late Marshal Devereux 
 is so very well assured that he shall not know one line 
 of the contents of the said letter. But let me see after 
 this messenger! " and I immediately hastened to insti- 
 tute inquiry respecting him. I found that he was 
 already gone ; on leaving the hall he had remounted his 
 horse, and taken his departure. One servant, however, 
 had seen him, as he passed the front court, address a 
 few words to my valet, Desraarais, who happened to be 
 loitering there. I summoned Desmarais, and questioned 
 him. 
 
 "The dirty fellow," said the Frenchman, pointing to 
 his spattered stockings with a lachrymose air, " splashed 
 me, by a prance of his horse, from head to foot; and 
 while I was sereaming for very anguish, he stopped and 
 
DEVEREUX. 97 
 
 said, ' Tell the Count Devereux that I was unable to 
 tarry, but that the letter requires no answer. ' " 
 
 I consoled Desmarais for his misfortune, and hastened 
 to my uncle with a determination to reveal to him all 
 that had occurred. Sir William was in his dressing- 
 room, and his gentleman was very busy in adorning his 
 wig. I entreated him to dimiss the coiffeur, and then, 
 without much preliminary detail, acquainted him with 
 all that had passed between the abbd and myself. 
 
 The knight seemed startled when I came to the story 
 of the sword. " 'Gad, Sir Count, what have you been 
 doing ? " said he ; " know you not that this may be a 
 very ticklish matter ? The King of France is a very 
 great man, to be sure, — a very great man, and a very 
 fine gentleman; but you will please to remember that 
 we are at war with his Majesty, and I cannot guess how 
 far the accepting such presents may be held treasonable. " 
 
 And Sir William shook his head with a mournful 
 significance. "Ah,"' cried he, at last (when I con- 
 cluded my whole story), with a complacent look, "I 
 have not lived at court and studied human nature for 
 nothing; and I will wager my best full-bottom to a 
 nightcap, that the crafty old fox is as much a Jacobite 
 as he is a rogue! The letter would have proved it, sir, 
 — it would have proved it ! " 
 
 " But what shall be done now 1 " said I ; " will you 
 suffer him to remain any longer in the house ? " 
 
 " Why," replied the knight, suddenly recollecting 
 his reverence to the fair sex, " he is your mother's 
 guest, not mine; we must refer the matter to her. But 
 zauns, sir, with all deference to her ladyship, we cannot 
 suffer our house to be a conspiracy hatch as well as a 
 Popish chapel ; and to attempt your life too, — the 
 devil! Od's fish, boy, I will go to the countess myself, 
 
 VOL. I. — 7 
 
98 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 if you will just let Nicholls finish my wig; never 
 attend the ladies en deshabille — always, with them , 
 take care of your person most when you most want to 
 display your mind;" and, my uncle ringing a little 
 silver bell on his dressing-table, the sound immediately 
 brought NichoUs to his tbilet. 
 
 Trusting the cause to the zeal of my uncle, whose 
 hatred to the ecclesiastic would, I knew, be an effica- 
 cious adjunct to his diplomatic address, and not unwill- 
 ing to avoid being myself the person to acquaint my 
 mother with the suspected delinquency of her favorite , 
 I hastened from the knight's apartment in search of 
 Aubrey. He was not in the house. His attendants 
 (for my uncle, with old-fashioned grandeur of respect, 
 suitable to his great wealth and aristocratic temper, 
 allotted to each of us a separate suite of servants as Well 
 as of apartments) believed he was in the park. Thither 
 I repaired, and found him, at length, seated by an old 
 tree, with a large book of a religious cast before him, 
 on which his eyes were intently bent. 
 
 "I rejoice to have found thee, my gentle brother," 
 said I, throwing myself on the green turf by his side ; 
 " in truth, you have chosen a fitting and fair place for 
 study." 
 
 " I have chosen," said Aubrey, " a place meet for the 
 peculiar study I am engrossed in; for where can we 
 better read of the power and benevolence of God than 
 among the living testimonies of both ? Beautiful, — 
 how very beautiful is this happy world; but I fear," 
 added Aubrey, and the glow of his countenance died 
 away, — "I fear that we enjoy it too much. " 
 
 " We hold different interpretations of our creed, then ," 
 said I, " for I esteem enjoyment the best proof of grati- 
 tude ; nor do I think we can pay a more acceptable duty 
 
DEVEREUX. 99 
 
 to the Father of all Goodness than by showing ourselves 
 sensible of the favors He bestows upon us. " 
 
 Aubrey shook his head gently, but replied not. 
 
 " Yes," resumed I, after a pause, — " yes, it is indeed 
 a glorious and fair world which we have for our inheri- 
 tance. Look, how the sunlight sleeps yonder upon 
 fields covered with golden corn, and seems, like the 
 divine benevolence of which you spoke, to smile upon 
 the luxuriance which its power created. This carpet 
 at our feet, covered with flowers that breathe, sweet as 
 good deeds, to Heaven ; the stream that breaks through 
 that distant copse, laughing in the light of noon, and 
 sending its voice through the hill and woodland, like 
 a messenger of glad tidings ; the green boughs over our 
 head, vocal with a thousand songs, all inspirations of 
 a joy too exquisite for silence; the very leaves, which 
 seem to dance and quiver with delight, — think you, 
 Aubrey, that these are so sullen as not to return thanks 
 for the happiness they imbibe with being 1 What are 
 those thanks but the incense of their joy ? The flowers 
 send it up to Heaven in fragrance, — the air and the 
 wave in music. Shall the heart of man be the only 
 part of His creation that shall dishonor His worship 
 with lamentation and gloom? When the inspired 
 writers call upon us to praise our Creator, do they not 
 say to us, ' Be joyful in your God ' ? " 
 
 " How can we be joyful with the Judgment Day ever 
 before us ? " said Aubrey, — " how can we be joyful " 
 (and here a dark shade crossed his countenance, and his 
 lip trembled with emotion) " while the deadly passions 
 of this world plead and rankle at the heart? Oh, none 
 but they who have known the full blessedness of a 
 commune with Heaven can dream of the whole anguish 
 and agony of the conscience, when it feels itself sullied 
 
100 DEVEREUX. 
 
 by the mire and crushed by the load of earth! " Aubrey - 
 paused; and. his words, his tone, his look, made upon 
 me a powerful impression. I was about to answer, 
 when, interrupting me, he said, " Let us talk not of 
 these matters; speak to me on more worldly topics." 
 " I sought you," said I, " that I might do so; " and I 
 proceeded to detail to Aubrey as much of my private 
 intercourse with the abbe as I deemed necessary, in 
 order to warn him from too close a confidence in the 
 wily ecclesiastic. Aubrey listened to me with earnest 
 attention; the affair of the letter, the gross falsehood 
 of the priest in denying the mention of my name in 
 his epistle, evidently dismayed him. "But," said he, 
 after a long silence, — " but it is not for us, Morton, — 
 weak, ignorant, inexperienced as we are, — »to judge 
 prematurely of our spiritual pastors. To them also is 
 given a far greater license of conduct than to us, and 
 ways enveloped in what to our eyes are mystery and 
 shade; nay, I know not whether it be much less 
 impious to question the paths of God's chosen than 
 to scrutinize those of the Deity himself." 
 
 "Aubrey, Aubrey, this is childish! " said I, some- 
 what moved to anger. " Mystery is always the trick 
 of imposture. God's chosen should be distinguished 
 from their flock only by superior virtue, and not by a 
 superior privilege in deceit. " 
 
 " But," said Aubrey, pointing to a passage in the 
 book before him, " see what a preacher of the Word 
 has said ! " and Aubrey recited one -of the most dan- 
 gerous maxims in priestcraft, as reverently as if he were 
 quoting from the Scripture itself : " ' The nakedness of 
 truth diould never be too openly exposed to the eyes of 
 the vulgar; it was wisely feigned, by the ancients, 
 that Truth did lie concealed in a well.' " 
 
DEVEREUX. 101 
 
 "Yes," said I, with enthusiasm; "but that well is 
 like the holy stream at Dodona, which has the gift 
 of enlightening those who seek it, and the power of 
 illumining every torch which touches the surface of its 
 water! " 
 
 Whatever answer Aubrey might have made was inter- 
 rupted by my uncle, who appeared approaching towards 
 us with unusual satisfaction depicted on his comely 
 countenance. 
 
 "Well, boys, well," said he, when he came within 
 hearing, " a holiday for you! Od's fish, — and a holier 
 day than my old house has known since its former pro- 
 prietor. Sir Hugo of valorous memory, demolished the 
 nunnery, of which some remains yet stand on yonder 
 eminence. Morton, my man of might, the thing is 
 done, — the court is purified, the wicked one is departed. 
 Look here, and be as happy as I am at our release;" 
 and he threw me a note in Montreuil's writing. 
 
 To Sib William Devbreux, Kt. 
 
 Mt honored Friend, — In consequence of a dispute 
 between your eldest nephew. Count Morton Devereux, and 
 myself, in which he desired me to remember, not only that 
 our former relationship of tutor and pupil was at an end, 
 but that friendship for his person was incompatible with the 
 respect due to his superior station, I can neither so far degrade 
 the dignity of letters, nor, above all, so meanly debase the 
 sanctity of my divine profession, as any longer to remain 
 beneath your hospitable roof, — a guest not only unwelcome 
 to, but insulted by your relation and apparent heir. Suifer 
 me to offer you my gratitude for the favors you have hitherto 
 bestowed on me, and to bid you farewell forever. 
 
 I have the honor to be. 
 
 With the most profound respect, etc., 
 
 Julian Montrbuil. 
 
102 DEVEREDX. 
 
 "Well, sir, what say youl " cried my uncle, stamp- 
 ing his cane firmly on the ground, when I had finished 
 reading the letter, and had transmitted it to Aubrey. 
 
 " That the good abbe has displayed his usual skill in 
 composition. And my mother? Is she imbued with 
 our opinion of his priestship 1 " 
 
 "Not exactly, I fear. However, Heaven bless her! 
 she is too soft to say ' nay. ' But those Jesuits are so 
 smooth-tongued to women. 'Gad, they threaten dam- 
 nation with such an irresistible air that they are as 
 much like William the Conqueror as Edward the 
 Confessor. Ha! Master Aubrey, have you become 
 amorous of the old Jacobite, that you sigh over his 
 crabbed writing as if it were a billet-doux ? " 
 
 " There seems a great deal of feeling in what he says, 
 sir," said Aubrey, returning the letter to my uncle. 
 
 "Feeling!" cried the knight; "ay, the reverend 
 gentry always have a marvellously tender feeling for 
 their own interests, — eh, Morton?" 
 
 " Eight, dear sir," said I, wishing to change a subject 
 which I knew might hurt Aubrey ; " but should we not 
 join yon party of dames and damsels? I see they are 
 about to make a water excursion. " 
 
 " 'Sdeath, sir, with all my heart," cried the good- 
 natured knight. " I love to see the dear creatures amuse 
 themselves; for, to tell you the truth, Morton," said 
 he, sinking his voice into a knowing whisper, " the 
 best thing to keep them from playing the devil is to 
 encourage them in playing the fool!" and, laughing 
 heartily at the jest he had purloined from one of his 
 favorite writers, Sir William led the way to the water- 
 party. 
 
DEVEREUX. 103 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Being a Chapter of Trifles. 
 
 The abb^ disappeared! It is astonishing how well 
 everybody bore his departure. My mother scarcely 
 spoke on the subject; but, along the irrefragable 
 smoothness of her temperament, all things glided with- 
 out resistance to their course, or trace where they had 
 been. Gerald, who, occupied solely in rural sports or 
 rustic loves, seldom mingled in the festivities of the 
 house, was equally silent on the subject. Aubrey 
 looked grieved for a day or two, but his countenance 
 soon settled into its customary and grave softness; and 
 in less than a week so little was the abbe spoken' of or 
 missed that you would scarcely have imagined Julian 
 Montreuil had ever passed the threshold of our gate. 
 The oblivion of one buried is nothing to the oblivion 
 of one disgraced. 
 
 Meanwhile I pressed for my departure; and at 
 length the day was finally fixed. Ever since that 
 conversation with Lady Hasselton which has been set 
 before the reader, that lady had lingered and lingered, 
 — though the house was growing empty, and London 
 in all seasons was, according to her, better than the 
 country in any, — until the Count Devereux, with that 
 amiable modesty which so especially characterized him 
 began to suspect that the Lady Hasselton lingered on 
 his account. This emboldened that bashful personage 
 to press in earnest for the fourth seat in the beauty's 
 carriage, which we have seen, in the conversation 
 
104 DEVEBEXJX. 
 
 before mentioned, had been previously offered to him 
 in jest. After a great affectation of horror at the pro- 
 posal, the Lady Hasselton yielded. She had always, 
 she said, been dotingly fond of children, and it was 
 certainly very shocking to send such a chit as the little 
 count to London by himself. 
 
 My uncle was charmed with the arrangement. The 
 beauty was a peculiar favorite of his, and in fact he 
 was sometimes pleased to hint that he had private 
 reasons for love towards her mother's daughter. Of 
 the truth of this insinuation I am, however, more than 
 somewhat suspicious, and believe it was only a little 
 ruse of the good knight, in order to excuse the vent of 
 those kindly affections with which (while the heartless 
 tone of the company his youth had frequented made 
 him ashamed to own it) his breast overflowed. There 
 was in Lady Hasselton's familiarity, her ease of manner, 
 a certain good-nature mingled with her affectation, and 
 a gayety of spirit which never flagged, — something 
 greatly calculated to win favor with a man of my 
 uncle's temper. 
 
 An old gentleman, who filled in her family the office 
 of the chevalier in a French one, — namely, who told 
 stories, not too long, and did not challenge you for 
 interrupting them; who had a good air and unexcep- 
 tionable pedigree, — a turn for wit, literature, note- 
 writing, and the management of lap-dogs; who could 
 attend madame to auctions, plays, court, and the puppet- 
 show; who had a right to the best company, but would 
 on a signal give up his seat to any one the pretty 
 caprioieuse whom he served might select from the worst, 
 
 — in short, a very useful, charming personage, " vastly " 
 liked by all, and " prodigiously " respected by none, 
 
 — this gentleman, I say, by name Mr. Lovell, had 
 
DEVEREUX. 105 
 
 attended her ladyship in her excursion to Devereux 
 Court. Besides him there came also a widow lady, a 
 distant relation, with one eye and a sharp tongue, — the 
 Lady Needleham, whom the beauty carried about with 
 her as a sort of gouvemante or duenna. These excel- 
 lent persons made my compagnons de voyage, and iilled 
 the remaining complements of the coach. To say truth, 
 and to say nothing of my tendresse for the Lady Has- 
 selton, I was very anxious to escape the ridicule of 
 crawling up to town, like a green beetle, in my uncle's 
 verdant chariot, with the four Planders mares trained 
 not to exceed two miles an hour. And my Lady 
 Hasselton's private railleries — for she was really well- 
 bred, and made no jest of my uncle's antiquities of 
 taste, in his presence at least — had considerably 
 heightened my intuitive dislike to that mode of trans- 
 porting myself to the metropolis. The day before my 
 departure, Gerald, for the first time, spoke of it. 
 
 Glancing towards the mirror, which gave in full 
 contrast the magnificent beauty of his person and the 
 smaller proportions and plainer features of my own, 
 he said, with a sneer, " Your appearance must create a 
 wonderful sensation in town." 
 
 "No doubt of it," said I, taking his words literally, 
 and arraying my laced cravat with the air of a petit- 
 maitre. _ 
 
 " What a wit the count has ! " whispered the Duchess 
 of Lackland, who had not yet given up all hope of the 
 elder brother. 
 
 " Wit," said the Lady Hasselton; "poor child, he is 
 a perfect simpleton ! " 
 
106 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 The Mother and Son. — Virtue should he the sovereign of the 
 Feelings, not their Destroyer. 
 
 I TOOK the first opportunity to escape from the good 
 company who were so divided in opinion as to my mental 
 accomplishments, and repaired to my mother; for whom, 
 despite of her evenness of disposition, verging towards 
 insensihility, I felt a powerful and ineffaceable affec- 
 tion. Indeed, if purity of life, rectitude of intentions, 
 and fervor of piety can win love, none ever deserved 
 it more than she. It was a pity that with such 
 admirable qualities she had not more diligently culti- 
 vated her affections. The seed was not wanting; but 
 it had been neglected. Originally intended for the 
 veil, she had been taught early in life that much 
 feeling was synonymous with much sin; and she had 
 so long and so carefully repressed in her heart every 
 attempt of the forbidden fruit to put forth a single 
 blossom, that the soil seemed at last to have become 
 incapable of bearing it. If in one corner of this barren 
 but sacred spot some green and tender verdure of affec- 
 tion did exist, it was, with a partial and petty reserve 
 for my twin-brother, kept exclusive, and consecrated 
 to Aubrey. His congenial habits of pious silence and 
 rigid devotion; his softness of temper; his utter freedom 
 from all boyish excesses, joined to his almost angelic 
 beauty, — a quality which in no female heart is ever 
 without its value, — were exactly calculated to attract 
 
DEVEEEUX. 107 
 
 her sympathy and work themselves into her love. 
 Gerald was also regular in his habits, attentive to 
 devotion, and had from an early period been high in 
 the favor of her spiritual director. Gerald, too, if he 
 had not the delicate and dreamlike beauty of Aubrey, 
 possessed attractions of more masculine and decided 
 order; and for Gerald, therefore, the countess gave the 
 little of love that she could spare from Aubrey. To me 
 she manifested the most utter indifference. My difficult 
 and fastidious temper; my sarcastic turn of mind; my 
 violent and headstrong passions; my daring, reckless, 
 and, when roused, almost ferocious nature, — all espe- 
 cially revolted the even and polished and quiescent 
 character of my maternal parent. The little extrava- 
 gances of my childhood seemed, to her pure and inex- 
 perienced mind, the crimes of a heart naturally distorted 
 and evil; my jesting vein, which, though it never even 
 in the wantonness of youth attacked the substances of 
 good, seldom respected its semblances and its forms, she 
 considered as the effusions of malignity; and even the 
 bursts of love, kindness, and benevolence which were 
 by no means unfrequent in my wild and motley char- 
 acter were so foreign to her stillness of temperament 
 that they only revolted her by their violence instead 
 of affecting her by their warmth. 
 
 Nor did she like me the better for the mutual under- 
 standing between my uncle and myself. On the con- 
 trary, shocked by the idle and gay turn of the knight's 
 conversation, the frivolities of his mind, and his hereti- 
 cal disregard for the forms of the religious sect which 
 she so zealously espoused, she was utterly insensible to 
 the points which redeemed and ennobled his sterling 
 and generous character, — utterly obtuse to his warmth 
 of heart, his overflowing kindness of disposition, his 
 
108 DEVEREUX. 
 
 charity, his high honor, his justice of principle, that 
 nothing save benevolence Could warp, and the shrewd, 
 penetrating sense which, though often clouded by foibles 
 and humorous eccentricity, still made the stratum of his 
 intellectual composition. Nevertheless, despite her 
 prepossessions against us both, there was in her temper 
 something so gentle, meek, and unupbraiding, that even 
 the sense of injustice lost its sting, and one could not 
 help loving the softness of her character, while one was 
 most chilled by its frigidity. Anger, liope, fear, the 
 faintest breath or sign of passion, never seemed to stir 
 the breezeless languor of her feelings ; and quiet was so 
 inseparable from her image that I have almost thought, 
 like that people described by Herodotus, her very sleep 
 could never be disturbed by dreams. 
 
 Yes, how fondly, how tenderly I loved her! What 
 tears — secret but deep, bitter but unreproaching — 
 have I retired to shed, when 1 caught her cold and 
 unaffectionate glance! How (unnoticed and uncared 
 for) have I watched and prayed and wept without her 
 door, when a transitory sickness or suffering detained 
 her within; and how, when stretched myself upon the 
 feverish bed to which my early weakness of frame often 
 condemned me, — how have I counted the moments to her 
 p.unctilious and brief visit, and started as I caught her 
 footstep, and felt my heart leap within me as she 
 approached; and then, as I heard her cold tone and 
 looked upon her unmoved face, how bitterly have I 
 turned away with all that repressed and crushed affec- 
 tion which was construed into sullenness or disrespect! 
 Oh, mighty and enduring force of early associations, that 
 almost seems in its unconquerable strength to partake 
 of an innate prepossession, that binds the son to the 
 mother, who concealed him in her womb, and purchased 
 
DEVEEEUX. 109 
 
 life for him with the travail of death ! — fountain of 
 filial love, which coldness cannot freeze, nor injustice 
 emhitter, nor pride divert into fresh channels, nor time 
 and the hot suns of our toiling manhood exhaust, — 
 even at this moment how livingly do you gush upon 
 my heart, and water with your divine waves the 
 memories that yet flourish amidst the sterility of 
 years ! 
 
 I approached the apartments appropriated to ray 
 mother; I knocked at her door. One of her women 
 admitted me. The countess was sitting on a high- 
 backed chair, curiously adorned with tapestry. Her 
 feet, which were remarkable for their beauty, were 
 upon a velvet cushion ; three handmaids stood round 
 her, and she herself was busily employed in a piece of 
 delicate embroidery , . — an art in which she eminently 
 excelled. 
 
 •' The Count, madam ! " said the woman who had 
 admitted me, placing a chair beside my mother, and 
 then retiring to join her sister maidens, 
 
 " Good day to you, my son," said the countess, lifting 
 her eyes for a moment, and then dropping them again 
 upon her work. 
 
 " I have come to seek you, dearest mother, as I know 
 not if, among the crowd of guests and amusements which 
 surround us, I shall enjoy another opportunity of having 
 a private conversation with you; will it please you to 
 dismiss your women 1 " 
 
 My mother again lifted up her eyes. " And why , 
 my son ? Surely there can be nothing between us 
 which requires their absence ; what is your reason 1 " 
 
 "1 leave you to-morrow, madam; is it strange that 
 a son should wish to see his mother alone before his 
 departure ? " 
 
110 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 " By no means, Morton; but your absence will not be 
 very long, will it ? " 
 
 "Forgive my importunity, dear mother, — but will 
 you dismiss your attendants ? " 
 
 "If you wish it, certainly; but I dislike feeling 
 alone, especially in these large rooms; nor do I think 
 our being unattended quite consistent with our rank. 
 However, I never contradict you, my son; " and the 
 countess directed her women to wait in the anteroom. 
 
 " Well, Morton, what is your wish? " 
 
 " Only to bid you farewell, and to ask if London 
 contains nothing which you will commission me to 
 obtain for you! " 
 
 The countess again raised her eyes from her work. 
 " I am greatly obliged to you, my dear son ; this is a 
 very delicate attention on your part. I am informed 
 that stomachers are worn a thought less pointed than 
 they were. I care not, you well know, for such vani- 
 ties; but respect for the memory of your illustrious 
 father renders me desirous to retain a seemly appearance 
 to the world, and my women shall give you written 
 instructions thereon to Madame Tourville; she lives 
 in St. James's Street, and is the only person to be 
 employed in these matters. She is a woman who has 
 known misfortune, and appreciates the sorrowful and 
 subdued tastes of those whom an exalted station has not 
 preserved from like afflictions. So you go to-morrow. 
 Will you get me the scissors? they are on the ivory 
 table, yonder. When do you return ? " 
 
 " Perhaps never ! " said I, abruptly. 
 
 " Never, Morton; how singular! why? " 
 
 " I may join the army and be killed." 
 
 " I hope not. Dear, how cold it is! will you shut 
 the window? Pray forgive my troubling you, but you 
 
DEVEEEUX. Ill 
 
 would send away the women. Join the army, you say ? 
 It is a very dangerous profession; your poor father 
 might be alive now but for having embraced it ; never- 
 theless, in a righteous cause, under the Lord of Hosts, 
 there is great glory to be obtained beneath its banners. 
 Alas, however, for its private evils! alas for the orphan 
 and the widow! You will be sure, my dear son, to give 
 the note to Madame Tourville herself ? Her assistants 
 have not her knowledge of my misfortunes, nor indeed 
 of my exact proportions; and at my age and in my 
 desolate state I would fain be decorous in these things ; 
 and that reminds me of dinner. Have you aught else 
 to say, Morton? " 
 
 "Yes," said I, suppressing my emotions, — "yes, 
 mother! Do bestow on me one warm wish, one kind 
 word, before we part. See, I kneel for your blessing; 
 will you not give it me ? " 
 
 " Bless you, my child, bless you ! Look you, now, 
 I have dropped my needle ! " 
 
 I rose hastily, bowed profoundly (my mother returned 
 the courtesy with the grace peculiar to herself), and 
 withdrew. I hurried into the great drawing-room; 
 found Lady Needleham alone; rushed out in despair; 
 encountered the Lady Hasselton, and coquetted with 
 her the rest of the evening. Vain hope ! to forget one's 
 real feelings by pretending those one never felt ! 
 
 Tlie next morning, then, after suitable adieux to all 
 (Gerald excepted) whom I left behind; after some tears 
 too from my uncle, which, had it not been for the 
 presence of the Lady Hasselton, I could have returned 
 with interest; and after a long caress to his dog Ponto, 
 which now, in parting with that dear old man, seemed 
 to me as dog never seemed before, — I hurried into the 
 
112 DEYEKEUX. 
 
 beauty's carriage, bade farewell forever to the Eubicon 
 of Life, and commenced my career of manhood and 
 citizenship by learning, under the tuition of the pret- 
 tiest coquette of her time, the dignified duties of a 
 court gallant and a tawn beau. 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 The Hero in London. — Heasure is often the shortest, as it is the 
 earliest road to Wisdom, and we may say of the World what 
 Zeal-of-the-Land-Busy says of the Pig-Booth, " We escape so 
 mnch of the other vanities by our early entering." 
 
 It had, when I first went to town, just become the 
 fashion for young men of fortune to keep house, and to 
 give their bachelor establishments the importance hith- 
 erto reserved for the household of a Benedict. 
 
 Let the reader figure to himself a suite of apartments 
 magnificently furnished, in the vicinity of the court. 
 An anteroom is crowded with divers persons, all mes- 
 sengers in the various negotiations of pleasure. There 
 a French valet, — that inestimable valet, Jean Desmarais, 
 — sitting over a small fire, was watching the operations 
 of a coffee-pot, and conversing in a mutilated attempt at 
 the language of our nation, though with the enviable 
 fluency of his own, with the various loiterers who were 
 beguiling the hours they were obliged to wait for an 
 audience of the master himself, by laughing at the 
 master's Gallic representative. There stood a tailor, 
 with his books of patterns just imported from Paris, -^ 
 that modern Prometheus, who makes mail what he is! 
 Next to him a t^ll, gaunt fellow, in a coat covered with 
 tarnished lace, a nightcap wig, and a large whip in his 
 
 VOL. I. — 8 
 
114 DEVERETJX. 
 
 hands, comes to vouch for the pedigree and excellence 
 of the three horses he intends to dispose of, out of pfire 
 love and amity for the buyer. By the window stood a 
 thin, starveling poet, who, like the grammarian of Cos, 
 might have put lead in his pockets to prevent being 
 blown away, had he not, with a more paternal precau- 
 tion, put so much in his works that he had left none 
 to spare. Excellent trick of the times, when ten 
 guineas can purchase every virtue under the sun, and 
 when an author thinks to vindicate the sins of his book 
 by proving the admirable qualities of the paragon to 
 whom it is dedicated.* There, with an air of super- 
 cilious contempt upon his smooth cheeks, a page, in 
 purple and silver, sat upon the table, swinging his legs 
 to and fro, and big with all the reflected importance of 
 a billet-doux. There stood the pert haberdasher, with 
 his box of silver-fringed gloves, and lace which Diana 
 might have worn. At that time there was indeed no 
 enemy to female chastity like the former article of man- 
 millinery, — the delicate whiteness of the glove, the 
 starry splendor of the fringe, were irresistible; and the 
 fair Adorna, in poor Lee's tragedy of Caesar Borgia, is 
 far from the only lady who has been killed by a pair of 
 gloves. 
 
 Next to the haberdasher, dingy and dull of aspect, 
 a book-hunter bent beneath the load of old works 
 gathered from stall and shed, and about to be resold 
 according to the price exacted from all literary gallants, 
 who affect to unite the fine gentleman with the profound 
 scholar. A little girl, whose brazen face and voluble 
 tongue betrayed the growth of her intellectual faculties, 
 leaned against the wainscot, and repeated in the ante- 
 
 1 Thank Heaven, for the honor of literature, nous avons changi 
 tout cela! — Ed. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 115 
 
 room the tart repartees which her mistress (the most 
 celehrated actress of the day) uttered on the stage; while 
 a stout, sturdy, bull-headed gentleman, in a gray surtout 
 and a black wig, mingled with the various voices of the 
 motley group the gentle phrases of Hockley in the Hole, 
 from which place of polite merriment he came charged 
 with a message of invitation. While such were the 
 inmates of the anteroom, what picture shall we draw 
 of the salon and its occupants ? 
 
 A table was covered with books, a couple of fencing- 
 foils, a woman's mask, and a , profusion of letters; a 
 scarlet cloak, richly laced, hung over, trailing on the 
 ground. Upon a slab of marble lay a hat, looped with 
 diamonds, a sword, and a lady's lute. Extended upon 
 a sofa, loosely robed in a dressing-gown of black velvet, 
 his shirt-collar unbuttoned, his stockings ungartered, 
 his own hair (undressed, and released for a brief inter- 
 val from the false locks universally worn) waving from 
 his forehead in short yet dishevelled curls, his whole 
 appearance stamped with the morning negligence which 
 usually follows midnight dissipation, lay a young man 
 of about nineteen years. His features were neither 
 handsome nor ill-favored, and his stature was small, 
 slight, and somewhat insignificant, but not perhaps ill 
 formed either for active enterprise or for muscular effort. 
 Such, reader, is the picture of the young prodigal who 
 occupied the apartments I have described, and such 
 (though somewhat flattered by partiality) is a portrait 
 of Morton Devereux, six months after his arrival in 
 town. 
 
 The door was suddenly thrown open with that unhesi- 
 tating rudeness by which our friends think it necessary 
 to signify the extent of their familiarity; and a young 
 man of about eight-and-twenty, richly dressed, and of 
 
116 DEVEREUX. 
 
 a countenance in which a dissipated nonchalance and 
 an aristocratic hauteur seemed to. struggle for mastery, 
 abruptly entered. 
 
 "What, ho! my noble royster," cried he, flinging 
 himself upon a chair, " still suffering from St. John's 
 Burgundy! Fie, fie upon your apprenticeship! Why, 
 before I had served half your time, I could take my 
 three bottles as easily as the sea took the good ship 
 'Revolution,' swallow them down with a gulp, and never 
 show the least sign of them the next morning! " 
 
 " I readily believe you, most magnanimous Tarleton. 
 Providence gives to each of its creatures different favors, 
 — to one wit, to the other a capacity for drinking. A 
 thousand pities that they are never united ! " 
 
 " So bitter. Count! Ah, what will ever cure you of 
 sarcasm f " 
 
 " A wise man by conversion, or fools by satiety." 
 
 "Well, I daresay that is witty enough; but I never 
 admire fine things of a morning. I like letting my 
 faculties live till night in a deshabille. Let us talk 
 easily and sillily of the affairs of the day. Imprimis, 
 will you stroll to the New Exchange 1 There is a black 
 eye there that measures out ribbons ; and my green ones 
 long to flirt with it. " 
 
 " With all my heart ; and in return you shall accom- 
 pany me to Master Powell's puppet-show." 
 
 "You speak as wisely as -Solomon himself in the 
 puppet-show. I own that I love that sight; 'tis a 
 pleasure to the littleness of human nature to see great 
 things abased by mimicry, — kings moved by bobbins, 
 and the pomps of the earth personated by Punch." 
 
 " But how do you like sharing the mirth of the 
 groundlings, the filthy plebeians, and letting them see 
 how petty are those distinctions which you value so 
 
DEVEREUX. 117 
 
 highly, by showing them how heartily you can laugh 
 at such distinctions yourself? Allow, my superb 
 Coriolanus, that one purchases pride by the loss of 
 consistency. " 
 
 "Ah, Devereux, you poison my enjoyment by the 
 mere word ' plebeian!' Oh, what a beastly thing is a 
 common person! — a shape of the trodden clay without 
 any alloy ; a compound of dirty clothes, bacon breaths, 
 villanous smells, beggarly cowardice, and cattish 
 ferocity. Pah, Devereux! rub civet on the very 
 thought!" 
 
 " Yet they will laugh to-day at the same things you 
 will ; and, consequently, there will be a most flattering 
 congeniality between you. Emotion, whether of ridi- 
 cule, anger, or sorrow, — whether raised at a puppet- 
 show, a funeral, or a battle, — is your grandest of 
 levellers. The man who would be always superior 
 should be always apathetic." 
 
 "Oracular, as usual, Count; but, hark! the clock 
 gives tongue. One, by the Lord! Will you not 
 dress 1 " 
 
 And I rose and dressed. We passed through the 
 anteroom; my attendant assistants in the art of wast- 
 ing money drew up in a row. 
 
 " Pardon me, gentlemen," said I (" Gentlemen, indeed ! " 
 cried Tarleton), " for keeping you so long. Mr. Snivel- 
 ship, your waistcoats are exquisite. Favor me by con- 
 versing with my valet on the width of the lace for my 
 liveries; he has my instructions. Mr. Jockleton, your 
 horses shall be tried to-morrow at one. Ay, Mr. 
 Rymer, I beg you a thousand pardons. I beseech you 
 to forgive the ignorance of my rascals in suffering a 
 gentleman of your merit to remain for a moment unat- 
 tended to. I have read your ode. It is splendid, — 
 
118 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 the ease of Horace with the fire of Pindar. Your 
 Pegasus never touches the earth, and yet in his wildest 
 excesses you curb him with equal grace and facility. I 
 object, sir, only to your dedication. It is too flattering." 
 
 " By no means, my Lord Count. It fits you to a 
 hair." 
 
 "Pardon me," interrupted I, " and allow me to trans- 
 fer the honor to Lord Halifax. He loves men of merit. 
 He loves also their dedications. I will mention it to 
 him to-morrow. Everything you say of me will suit 
 him exactly. You will oblige me with a copy of your 
 poem directly it is printed, and suffer me to pay your 
 bookseller for it now and through your friendly media- 
 tion. Adieu! " 
 
 " Oh , Count, this is too generous. " 
 
 " A letter for me , my pretty page. Ah ! tell her 
 ladyship I shall wait upon her commands at Powell's. 
 Time will move with a tortoise speed till I kiss her 
 hands. Mr. Fribbleden, your gloves would fit the 
 giants at Guildhall. My valet will furnish you with 
 my exact size. You will see to the legitimate breadth 
 of the fringe. My little beauty, you are from Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle. The play shall succeed. I have taken 
 seven boxes. Mr. St. John promises his influence. 
 Say, therefore, my Hebe, that the thing is certain, and 
 let me kiss thee. Thou hast dew on thy lip already. 
 Mr. Thumpem, you are a fine fellow, and deserve to be 
 encouraged. I will see that the next time your head 
 is broken it shall be broken fairly; but I will not 
 patronize the bear. Consider that peremptory. What, 
 Mr. Bookworm again ! I hope you have succeeded better 
 this time. The old songs had an autumn fit upon them , 
 and had lost the best part of their leaves, and Plato had 
 mortgaged one half his " Republic " to pay, I suppose, the 
 
DEVEREUX. 119 
 
 exorbitant sum you thought proper to set upon the other. 
 As for Diogenes Laertius and his philosophers — " 
 
 "Pish!" interrupted Tarleton; "are you going, by 
 your theoretical treatises on philosophy, to make me 
 learn the practical part of it, and prate upon learning 
 while I am supporting myself with patience 1 " 
 
 " Pardon me ! Mr. Bookworm, you will deposit 
 your load, and visit me to-morrow at an earlier hour. 
 And now, Tarleton, I am at your service." 
 
120 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Gay Scenes and Conversations — the New Exchange and the 
 Pnppet-show — the Actor, the Sexton, and the Beauty. 
 
 " Well, Tarleton," said I, looking round that mart of 
 millinery and lovemaking whicli, so celebrated in the 
 reign of Charles II. , still preserved the shadow of its 
 old renown in that of Anne, — " well, here we are upon 
 the classical ground so often commemorated in the 
 comedies which our chaste grandmothers thronged to 
 see. Here we can make appointments, while we pro- 
 fess to buy gloves, and should our mistress tarry too 
 long, beguile our impatience by a flirtation with her 
 milliner. Is there not a breathing air of gayety about 
 the place 1 — does it not still smack of the Ethereges 
 and Sedleys 1 " 
 
 " Eight," said Tarleton, leaning over a counter, and 
 amorously eying the pretty coquette to whom it 
 belonged; while, with the coxcombry then in fashion, 
 he sprinkled the long curls that touched his shoulders 
 with a fragrant shower from a bottle of jessamine water 
 upon the counter, — " right; saw you ever such an eye ? 
 Have you snufE of the true scent, my beauty? — foh! 
 this is for the nostril of a Welsh parson : choleric and 
 hot, my beauty; pulverized horse-radish, — why, it 
 would make a nose of the coldest constitution imagi- 
 nable sneeze like a washed schoolboy on a Saturday 
 night. Ah, this is better, my princess; there is some 
 courtesy in this snuff, — it flatters the brain like a poet's 
 dedication. Eight, Devereux, right, there is something 
 
DEVERETJX. 121 
 
 infectious in the atmosphere; one catches good-humor 
 as easily as if it were cold. Shall we stroll on ? — my 
 Clelia is on the other side of the Exchange. You were 
 speaking of the play-writers, — what a pity that our 
 Ethereges and Wycherleys should be so frank in their 
 gallantry that the prudish public already begins to look 
 shy on tj;iem! They have a world of wit! " 
 
 " Ay," said I; " and, as my good uncle would say, a 
 world of knowledge of human nature, — namely, of the 
 worst part of it. But they are worse than merely licen- 
 tious; they are positively villanous, pregnant with 
 the most redemptionless sooundrelisni, — cheating, lying, 
 thieving, and fraud ; their humor debauches the whole 
 moral system: they are like the Sardinian herb, — they 
 make you laugh, it is true; but they poison you in the 
 act. But who comes here ! " 
 
 "Oh, honest Goll! Ah, Gibber, how goes it with 
 you?" 
 
 The person thus addressed was a man of about the 
 middle age, very grotesquely attired, and with a 
 periwig preposterously long. His countenance (which, 
 in its features, was rather comely) was stamped with an 
 odd mixture of liveliness, impudence, and a coarse 
 yet not unjoyous spirit of reckless debauchery. He 
 approached us with a saunter, and saluted Tarleton 
 with an air servile enough, in spite of an affected 
 familiarity. 
 
 " What think you," resumed my companion, " we 
 were conversing upon ? " 
 
 "Why, indeed, Mr. Tarleton," answered Cibber, 
 bowing very low, " unless it were the exquisite fashion 
 of your waistcoat, or your success with my Lady 
 Duchess, I know not what to guess." 
 
 "Pooh, man!" said Tarleton, haughtily, "none of 
 
122 DEVEREUX. 
 
 your compliments;" and then added, in a milder tone, 
 " No, Colley, we were abusing the immoralities that 
 existed on the stage until thou, by the light of thy 
 virtuous example, didst undertake to reform it." 
 
 "Why," rejoined Gibber, with an air of mock 
 sanctity, " Heaven be praised, I have pulled out some 
 of the weeds from our theatrical parterre — " _ 
 
 " Hear you that, Count 1 Does he not look a pretty 
 fellow for a censor 1 " 
 
 "Surely," said Gibber, "ever since Dicky Steele has 
 set up for a saint, and assumed the methodistical twang, 
 some hopes of conversion may be left even for such 
 reprobates as myself. Where, may I ask, will Mr. 
 Tarleton drink to-night 1 " 
 
 " Not with thee, Goll. The Saturnalia don't happen 
 every day. Rid us now of thy company; but stop, I 
 will do thee a pleasure, — know you this gentleman 1 " 
 
 " I have not that extreme honor. " 
 
 "Know a count, then! Gount Deverenx, demean 
 yourself by sometimes acknowledging Golley Gibber, — 
 a rare fellow at a song, a bottle, and a message to an 
 actress; a lively rascal enough, but without the good- 
 ness to be loved, or the independence to be respected." 
 
 " Mr. Gibber," said I, rather hurt at Tarleton's speech, 
 though the object of it seemed to hear this description 
 with the most unruffled composure, — "Mr. Gibber, I 
 am happy and proud of an introduction to the author of 
 the ' Gareless Husband. ' Here is my address ; oblige 
 me with a visit at your leisure." 
 
 " How could you be so galling to the poor devil ? " 
 said I, when Gibber, with a profusion of bows and 
 compliments, had left us to ourselves. 
 
 " Ah, hang him, — a low fellow who pins all his 
 happiness to the skirts of the quality, is proud of 
 
DEVEEEUX. 123 
 
 being despised, and that which would excruciate the 
 vanity of others only flatters his. And now for my 
 Clelia ! " 
 
 After my companion had amused himself with a brief 
 flirtation with a young lady who affected a most edify- 
 ing demureness, we left the Exchange, and repaired to 
 the Puppet-show. 
 
 On entering the Piazza, in which, as I am writing 
 for the next century, it may he necessary to say that 
 Punch held his court, we saw a tall, thin fellow loiter- 
 ing under the columns, and exhibiting a countenance of 
 the most ludicrous discontent. There was an insolent 
 arrogance about Tarleton's good-nature which always 
 led him to consult the whim of the moment at the 
 expense of every other consideration, especially if the 
 whim referred to a member of the canaille whom my 
 aristocratic friend esteemed as a base part of the exclu- 
 sive and despotic property of gentlemen. 
 
 " Egad, Devereux," said he, " do you see that fellow ? 
 He has the audacity to affect spleen. Faith, I thought 
 melancholy was the distinguishing patent of nobility, 
 — we will smoke him. " And, advancing towards the 
 man of gloom, Tarleton touched him with the end of 
 his cane. The man started and turned round. " Pray, 
 sirrah," said Tarleton, coldly, — "pray, who the devil 
 are you, that you presume to look discontented ? " 
 
 " Why, sir," said the man, good-humoredly enough, 
 " I have some right to be angry." 
 
 "I doubt it, my friend," said Tarleton. "What is 
 your complaint? — a rise in the price of tripe, or a 
 drinking wife ? Those, I take it, are the sole misfor- 
 tunes incidental to your condition. " 
 
 "If that be the case," said I, observing a cloud on 
 our new friend's brow, '' shall we heal thy sufferings ? 
 
124 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 Tell us thy complaints, and we will prescribe thee ^ 
 silver specific; there is a sample of our skill." 
 
 "Thank you humbly, gentlemen," said the man, 
 pocketing the money and clearing his countenance; 
 " and seriously, mine is an uncommonly hard case. I 
 was, till within the last few weeks, the under-sexton 
 of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, and my duty was that of 
 ringing the bells for daily prayers ; but a man of Belial 
 came hitherwards, set up a puppet-show, and, timing 
 the hours of his exhibition with a wicked sagacity, 
 made the bell I rang for church serve as a summons 
 to Punch; so, gentlemen, that whenever your humble 
 servant began to pull for the Lord, his perverted con- 
 gregation began to flock to the devil, and instead of 
 being an instrument for saving souls, I was made- the 
 innocent means of destroying them. Oh, gentlemen , it 
 was a shocking thing to tug away at the rope till the 
 sweat ran down one, for four shillings a week, and to 
 see all the time that one was thinning one's own con- 
 gregation and emptying one's own pockets! " 
 
 " It was indeed a lamentable dilemma; and what did 
 you, Mr, Sexton? " 
 
 " Do, sir! why, I could not stifle my conscience, and 
 I left my place. Ever since then, sir, I have stationed 
 myself in the Piazza, to warn my poor, deluded fellow- 
 creatures of their error, and to assure them that when 
 the bell of St. Paul's rings, it rings for prayers, and not 
 for puppet-shows; and. Lord help us! there it goes at 
 this very moment; and look, look, gentlemen, how the 
 wigs and hoods are crowding to the motion ' instead of 
 the minister." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha! " cried Tarleton. "Mr. Powell is not 
 the first man who has wrested things holy to serve a 
 1 An antiquated word in use for puppet-ehows. 
 
DEVEKEUX. 125 
 
 carnal purpose, and made use of church-bells in order 
 to ring money to the -wide pouch of the church's 
 enemies. Harkye, my friend; follow my advice, and 
 turn preacher yourself; mount a cart opposite to the 
 motion, and I '11 wager a trifle that the crowd forsake 
 the theatrical mountebank in favor of the " religious 
 one, — for the more sacred the thing played upon, the 
 more certain is the game." 
 
 " Body of me, gentlemen," cried the ex-sexton, " I '11 
 follow your advice." 
 
 " Do so, man, and never presume to look doleful 
 again ; leave dulness to your superiors. " * 
 
 And with thi.s advice, and an additional compensation 
 for his confidence, we left the innocent assistant of Mr, 
 Powell, and marched into the puppet-show, by the 
 sound of the very bells the perversion of which the 
 good sexton had so pathetically lamented. 
 
 The first person I saw at the show, and indeed the 
 express person I came to see, was the Lady Hasselton. 
 Tarleton and myself separated for the present, and I 
 repaired to the coquette. " Angels of grace ! " said I, 
 approaching; " and, by the by, before I proceed another 
 word, observe, Lady Hasselton, how appropriate the 
 exclamation is to you t Angels, of graoe ! why, you 
 have moved all your patches, — one, two, three, six, 
 eight, — as I am a gentleman, from the left side of your 
 cheek to the right! What i-s the reason of so sudden an 
 emigration ? " 
 
 " I have changed my politics,' Count, that is all, and 
 have resolved to lose no time in proclaiming the change. 
 But is it true that you are going to get married 1 " 
 
 1 See " Spectator " No. 14, for a letter from this nnfortnnate 
 nnder-sexton. 
 
 ^ Whig ladies patched on one side of the cheek, Tories on the 
 other. 
 
126 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Married ! Heaven forbid ! Which of my enemies 
 spread so cruel a report 1 " 
 
 " Oh, the report is universal ! " and the Lady Has- 
 selton flirted her fan with a most flattering violence. 
 
 "It is false, nevertheless; I cannot afford to buy a 
 wife at present, for, thanks to jointures and pin-money, 
 these things are all matter of commerce ; and (see how 
 closely civilized life resembles the savage!) the English, 
 like the Tartar gentleman, obtains his wife only by 
 purchase ! But who is the bride ! " 
 
 " The Duke of Newcastle's rich daughter. Lady 
 Henrietta Pelham." 
 
 " What, Harley 's object of ambition ! ^ Faith, madam, 
 the report is not so cruel as I thought for ! " 
 
 " Oh, you fop! but is it not true? " 
 
 "By my honor, I fear not; my rivals are too numer- 
 ous and too powerful. Look, now, yonder! how they 
 already flock around the illustrious heiress, — note those 
 smiles and simpers. Is it not pretty to see those very 
 fine gentlemen imitating bumpkins at a fair, and grin- 
 ning their best ybr a gold ring ! But you need not fear 
 me. Lady Hasselton; my love cannot wander, if it 
 would. In the quaint thought of Sidney,' love, having 
 once flown to my heart, burned its wings there, and 
 cannot fly away." 
 
 "La, you now! " said the beauty; "I do not com- 
 prehend you exactly: your master of the graces does 
 not teach you your compliments properly. " 
 
 " Yes, he does, but in your presence I forget them ; 
 and now," I added, lowering my voice into the lowest 
 
 1 Lord Bolingbroke tells us that it was the main end of Harley's 
 administration to marry his son to this lady. Thus is the fate of 
 nations a bundle made up of a thousand little private schemes. 
 
 2 In the " Arcadia," that museum of oddities and beauties. 
 
DEVEKEUX. 127 
 
 of whispers, — " now that you are assured of my fidelity, 
 will you not learn at last to discredit rumors and trust 
 to me ? " 
 
 " I love you too well ! " answered the Lady Hasselton 
 in the same tone, and that answer gives an admirable 
 idea of the affection of every coquette ! — love and con- 
 fidence with them are qualities that have a natural 
 antipathy, and can never be united! Our tete-a-tete 
 was at an end; the people around us became social, and 
 conversation general. 
 
 " Betterton acts to-morrow night," cried the Lady 
 Pratterly ; " we must go ! " 
 
 " We must go," cried the Lady Hasselton. 
 
 " We must go! " cried all. 
 
 And so passed the time till the puppet-show was 
 over, and my attendance dispensed with. 
 
 It is a charming thing to be the lover of a lady of 
 the mode! One so honored does with his hours as a 
 miser with his guineas, — namely , nothing but count 
 them! 
 
128 DEVERBUX 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 More Lions. 
 
 The next night, after the theatre, Tarleton and I 
 strolled into Wills's. Half-a-dozen wits were assem- 
 bled. Heavens! how they talked! Actors, actresses, 
 poets, statesmen, philosophers, critics, divines, were all 
 pulled to pieces with the most gratifying malice imagi- 
 nable. We sat ourselves down, and while Tarleton 
 amused himself with a dish of coffee and the " Flying 
 Post," I listened very attentively to the conversation. 
 Certainly, if we would take every opportunity of get- 
 ting a grain or two of knowledge, we should soon have 
 a chestful; a man earned an excellent subsistence by 
 asking every one who came out of a tobacconist's shop 
 for a pinch of snuff, and retailing the mixture as soon as 
 he had filled his box.* 
 
 While I was listening to a tall, lusty gentleman, who 
 was abusing Dogget, the actor, a well-dressed man 
 entered, and immediately attracted the general obser- 
 vation. He was of a very flat, ill-favored countenance, 
 but of a quick eye and a genteel air; there was, how- 
 ever, something constrained and artificial in his address, 
 and he appeared to be endeavoring to clothe a natural 
 good-humor with a certain primness which could never 
 be made to fit it. 
 
 " Ha, Steele ! " cried a gentleman in an orange-colored 
 coat, who seemed, by a fashionable swagger of impor- 
 tance, desirous of giving the tone to the company, — 
 1 Tatler. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 129 
 
 " ha, Steele ! whence come you, — from the chapel or the 
 tavern ? " and the speaker winked round the room, as if 
 he wished us to participate in the pleasure of a good 
 thing. 
 
 Mr. Steele drew up, seemingly a little affronted; hut 
 his good-nature conquering the affectation of personal 
 sanctity, which, at the time I refer to, that excellent 
 writer was pleased to assume, he contented himself with 
 nodding to the speaker, and saying, — 
 
 " All the world knows. Colonel Cleland, that you are 
 a wit, and therefore we take your fine sayings, as we 
 take change from an honest tradesman , — rest perfectly 
 satisfied with the coin we get, without paying any 
 attention to it." 
 
 " Zounds, Cleland, you got the worst of it there," 
 cried a gentleman in a flaxen wig. And Steele slid 
 into a seat near my own. 
 
 Tarleton, ■^^ho was sufficiently well educated to pre- 
 tend to the character of a man of letters, hereupon 
 thought it necessary to lay aside the "Flying Post," 
 and to introduce me to my literary neighbor. 
 
 " Pray," said Colonel Cleland, taking snuff and 
 swinging himself to and fro with an air of fashionable 
 grace, " has any one seen the new paper! " 
 
 " What! " cried the gentleman in the flaxen wig, 
 " what! the ' Tatler's ' successor, — the ' Spectator ' 1 " 
 
 " The same," quoth the colonel. 
 
 " To be sure , — who has not ? " returned he of the 
 flaxen ornament. " People say Congreve writes it." 
 
 "They are very much mistaken, then," cried a little 
 square man with spectacles; " to my certain knowledge 
 Swift is the author." 
 
 "Pooh!" said Cleland, imperiously, — "pooh! it is 
 neither one nor the other; I, gentlemen, am in the 
 voi- I. — 9 
 
130 DEVEREUX. 
 
 secret; but — you take me, eh! One must not speak 
 well of one's self, — mum is the word." 
 
 "Then," asked Steele, quietly, "we are to suppose 
 that you , Colonel , are the writer 1 " 
 
 " I never said so, Dicky ; but the women will have 
 it that I am ; " and the colonel smoothed down his 
 cravat. 
 
 "Pray, Mr. Addison, what say you!" cried the 
 gentleman in the flaxen wig, " are you for Congreve, 
 Swift, or Colonel Cleland 1 " This was addressed to a 
 gentleman of a grave but rather prepossessing mien, 
 who, with eyes fixed upon the ground, was very quietly, 
 and to all appearance very inattentively, solacing him- 
 self with a pipe. Without lifting his eyes, this personage, 
 then eminent, afterwards rendered immortal, replied,^ 
 
 " Colonel Cleland must produce other witnesses to 
 prove his claim to the authorship of the ' Spectator; ' the 
 women, we well know, are prejudiced in his favor." 
 
 " That 's true enough, old friend," cried the colonel, 
 looking askant at his orange-colored coat; "but, faith, 
 Addison, I wish, you would set up a paper of the same 
 sort, d' ye see; you 're a nice judge, of merit, and your 
 sketches of character would do justice to your friends. " 
 
 "If ever I do, Colonel, I, or my coadjutors, will 
 study at least to do justice to you. " * 
 
 "Prithee, Steele," cried the stranger in spectacles, 
 "prithee tell us thy thoughts on the subject: dost thou 
 know the author of this droll periodical 1 " 
 
 " I saw him this morning," said Steele, carelessly. 
 
 " Aha ! and what said you to him 1 " 
 
 " I asked him his name. " 
 
 1 This seema to corroborate the suspicion entertained of the 
 identity of Colonel Cleland with the Will Honeycomb of the 
 " Spectator.'' 
 
DEVEEEUX. 131 
 
 " And what did he answer ? " cried he of the flaxen 
 wig, while all of us crowded round the speaker, with 
 the curiosity every one felt in the authorship of a work 
 then exciting the most universal and eager interest. 
 
 "He answered me solemnly," said Steele, "in the 
 following words, — 
 
 ' Grseci carent ablative, Itali dative, Ego neminativo.' " ' 
 
 " Famous, capital ! " cried the gentleman in specta- 
 cles; and then, touching Colonel Cleland, added, 
 " What does it exactly mean ? " 
 
 " Ignoramus!" said Cleland, disdainfully, " every 
 schoolboy knows Virgil ! " 
 
 " Devereux," said Tarleton, yawning, " what a d-^ — d 
 delightful thing it is to hear so much wit, — pity that 
 the atmosphere is so fine that no lungs unaccustomed to 
 it can endure it long. Let us recover ourselves by a 
 walk." 
 
 " Willingly," said I; and we sauntered forth into the 
 streets. 
 
 " Wills's is not what it was," said Tarleton; " 't is a 
 pitiful ghost of its former self, and if they had not 
 introduced cards, one would die of the vapors there." 
 
 " I know nothing so insipid," said I, " as that mock 
 literary air which it is so much the fashion to assume. 
 'T is but a wearisome relief to conversation to have 
 interludes of songs about Strephon and Sylvia, recited 
 with a lisp by a gentleman with fringed gloves and a 
 languishing look." 
 
 " Fie on it! " cried Tarleton; " let us seek for a fresher 
 topic. Are you asked to Abigail Masham's to-night, or 
 will you come to Dame de la Eiviere Manley's ? " 
 
 1 "The Greeks want an ablative, the Italians a dative, I a 
 nominative." 
 
132 DKVEEEUX. 
 
 " Dame de la what ? — in the name of long words, who 
 is she 1 " 
 
 " Oh ! Learning made libidinous : one who reads 
 Catullus and profits by it." 
 
 "Bah, no; we will not leave the gentle Abigail for 
 her. I have promised to meet St. John, too, at the 
 Mashams'." 
 
 " As you like. We shall get some wine at Abigail's, 
 which we should never do at the house of her cousin of 
 Marlborough. " 
 
 And, comforting himself with this belief, Tarleton 
 peaceably accompanied me to that celebrated woman, 
 who did the Tories such notable service, at the expense 
 of being termed by the Whigs one great want divided 
 into two parts, — namely, a great want of every shilling 
 belonging to other people, and a great want of every 
 virtue that should have belonged to herself. As we 
 mounted the staircase, a door to the left (a private 
 apartment) was opened, and I saw the favorite dismiss, • 
 with the most flattering air of respect, my old preceptor, 
 the Abb^ Montreuil. He received her attentions as his 
 due, and, descending the stairs, came full upon me. 
 He drew back, changed neither hue nor muscle, bowed 
 civilly enough, and disappeared. I had not much oppor- 
 tunity to muse over this circumstance, for St. John and 
 Mr. Domville — excellent companions both — joined 
 us; and the party being small, we had the unwonted 
 felicity of talking as well as bowing to each other. It 
 was impossible to think of any one else when St. John 
 chose to exert himself; and so even the Abb^ Montreuil 
 glided out of my brain as St. John's wit glided into 
 it. We were all of the same way of thinking on poli- 
 tics, and therefore were witty without being quarrel- 
 some, — a rare thing. The trusty Abigail told us stories 
 
DEVEEEUX. 133 
 
 of the good queen, and we added hons-mots by way of 
 corollary. Wine, too, wine that even Tarleton approved, 
 lit up our intellects, and we spent altogether an evening 
 such as gentlemen and Tories very seldom have the sense 
 to enjoy. 
 
 Apollo! I wonder whether Tories of the next 
 century will be such clever, charming, well-informed 
 fellows as we were ! 
 
134 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 An Intellectual Adventure. 
 
 A LITTLE affected by the vinous potations which had 
 been so much an object of anticipation with my com- 
 panion, Tarleton and I were strolling homeward, when 
 we perceived a remarkably tall man engaged in a contest 
 with a couple of watchmen. Watchmen were in all 
 cases the especial and natural enemies of the gallants 
 in my young days ; and no sooner did we see the unequal 
 contest than, drawing our swords with that true English 
 valor which makes all the quarrels of other people its 
 own, we hastened to the relief of the weaker party. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the elder watchman, drawing back, 
 " this is no common brawl ; we have been shamefully 
 beaten by this here madman, and for no earthly cause." 
 
 " Who ever did beat a watchman for any earthly 
 cause, you rascal!" cried the accused party, swinging 
 his walking-cane over the complainant's head with a 
 menacing air. 
 
 " Very true," cried Tarleton, coolly. "Seigneurs of 
 the watch, you are both made and paid to be beaten; 
 ergo, you have no right to complain. Release this 
 worthy cavalier, and depart elsewhere to make night 
 hideous with your voices." 
 
 "Come, come," quoth the younger Dogberry, who 
 perceived a reinforcement approaching, " move on, good 
 people, and let us do our duty." 
 
 "Which," interrupted the elder watchman, " consists 
 in taking this hulking swaggerer to tho watchhouse. " 
 
DEVEREUX. 135 
 
 " Thou speakest wisely, man of peace," said Tarleton; 
 "defend thyself;" and without adding another word, 
 he ran the watchman through — not the body, but the 
 coat; avoiding, with great dexterity, the corporeal sub- 
 stance of the attacked party, and yet approaching it so 
 closely as to give the guardian of the streets very 
 reasonable ground for apprehension. IfiTo sooner did 
 the watchman find the hilt strike against his breast, 
 than he uttered a dismal cry, and fell upon the pave- 
 ment as if he had been shot. 
 
 "Now for thee, varlet! " cried Tarleton, brandishing 
 his rapier before the eyes of the other watchman; 
 " tremble at the sword of Gideon. " 
 
 " Lord, Lord ! " ejaculated the terrified comrade 
 of the fallen man, dropping on his knees; " for Heaven's 
 sake, sir, have a care." 
 
 " What argument canst thou allege, thou screech-owl 
 of the metropolis, that thou shouldst not share the same 
 fate as thy brother owl? " 
 
 " Oh, sir! " cried the craven night-bird (a bit of a 
 humorist in its way), " because I have a nest and seven 
 little owlets at home, and t' other owl is only a bachelor. " 
 
 " Thou art an impudent thing to jest at us," said 
 Tarleton ; " but thy wit has saved thee : rise ! " 
 
 At this moment two other watchmen came up. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the tall stranger whom we had 
 rescued, "we had better fly." 
 
 Tarleton cast at him a contemptuous look, and placed 
 himself in a posture of offence. 
 
 " Hark ye," said I, " let us effect an honorable peace. 
 Messieurs the watch, be it lawful for you to carry off 
 the slain, and for us to claim the prisoners." 
 
 But our new foes understood not a jest, and advanced 
 upon us with a ferocity which might really have termi- 
 
136 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 nated in a serious engagement, had not the tall stranger 
 thrust his bulky form in front of the approaching bat- 
 talion, and cried out with a loud voice : " Zounds, my 
 good fellows, what 's all this for 1 If you take us up, 
 you will get broken heads to-night, and a few shillings 
 perhaps to-morrow. If you leave us alone, you will 
 have whole heads, and a guinea between you. Now, 
 what say you ? " 
 
 Well spoke Phsedra against the dangers of eloquence 
 (KaXot Xiav Xoyot). The watchmen looked at each other. 
 " Why, really, sir," said one, " what you say alters the 
 case very much ; and if Dick here is not much hurt, I 
 don't know what we may say to the offer." 
 
 So saying, they raised the fallen watchman, who, after 
 three or four grunts, began slowly to recover himself. 
 
 " Are you dead, Dick 1 " said the owl with seven 
 owlets. 
 
 " I think I am," answered the other, groaning. 
 
 " Are you able to drink a pot of ale , Dick ? " cried 
 the tall stranger. 
 
 " I think I am," reiterated the dead man, very lacka- 
 daisically. And this answer satisfying his comrades, 
 the articles of the peace were subscribed to. 
 
 Now, then, the tall stranger began searching his 
 pockets with a most consequential air. 
 
 "'Gad, so!" said he at last; "not in my breeches 
 pocket! — well, it must be in my waistcoat. No. Well, 
 't is a strange thing, — demme it is! Gentlemen, I have 
 had the misfortune to leave my purse behind me ; add 
 to your other favors by lending me wherewithal to 
 satisfy these honest men." 
 
 And Tarleton lent him the guinea. The watchmen 
 now retired, and we were left alone with our portly 
 ally. 
 
DEVEREUX. 137 
 
 Placing his hand to his heart, he made us half-a- 
 dozen profound bows, returned us thanks for our assist- 
 ance in some very courtly phrases, and requested us to 
 allow him to make our acquaintance. We exchanged ' 
 cards, and departed on our several ways. 
 
 " I have met that gentleman before," said Tarleton; 
 " let us see what name he pretends to. ' Fielding — 
 Fielding! ' Ah, by the Lord, it is no less a person! it is 
 the great Fielding himself. " 
 
 " Is Mr. Fielding, then, as elevated in fame as in 
 stature 1 " 
 
 "What! is it possible that you have not yet heard 
 of Beau Fielding, who bared his bosom at the theatre 
 in order to attract the admiring compassion of the 
 female part of the audience ? " 
 
 " What! " I cried, " the Duchess of Cleveland's 
 Fielding?" 
 
 " The same ; the best-looking fellow of his day ! A 
 sketch of his history is in the ' Tatler,' under the name 
 of ' Orlando the Fair.' He is terribly fallen as to 
 fortune since the day when he drove about in a car like 
 a sea-shell, with a dozen tall fellows, in the Austrian 
 livery, black and yellow, running before and behind 
 him. You know he claims relationship to the house 
 of Hapsburg. As for the present he writes poems, 
 makes love, is still good-natured, humorous, and odd; 
 is rather unhappily addicted to wine and borrowing, 
 and rigidly keeps that oath of the Carthusians which 
 never suffers them to carry any money about them. " 
 
 " An acquaintance more likely to yield amusement 
 than profit." 
 
 "Exactly so. He will favor you with a visit, — 
 to-morrow, perhaps; and you will remember his 
 propensities. " 
 
138 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Ah ! who ever forgets a warning that relates to his 
 purse 1 " 
 
 "True!" said Tarleton, sighing. "Alas! my guinea, 
 thou and I have parted company forever! Vale, vale, 
 inquit lolas ! " 
 
DEVEBEUX. 139 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Tbe Beau in his Den, and a Philosopher discoveied. 
 
 Mb. Fielding having twice favored me with visits 
 which found me from home, I thought it right to pay 
 my respects to him ; accordingly , one morning I repaired 
 to his abode. It was situated in a street which had 
 been excessively the mode some thirty years back; and 
 the house still exhibited a stately and somewhat osten- 
 tatious exterior. I observed a considerable cluster of 
 infantine ragamuffins collected round the door; and no 
 sooner did the portal open to my summons than they 
 pressed forward in a manner infinitely more zealous than 
 respectful. A servant in the Austrian livery, with a 
 broad belt round his middle, oificiated as porter. " Look, 
 look ! " cried one of the youthful gazers^ — " look at the 
 Beau's keeper I " This imputation on his own respecta- 
 bility and that of his master, the domestic seemed by no 
 means to relish ; for, muttering some maledictory menace, 
 which I at first took to be German , but which I after- 
 wards found to be Irish, he banged the door in the faces 
 of the intrusive impertinents, and said, in an accent 
 which suited very ill with his continental attire, — 
 " And is it my master you 're wanting, sir 1 " 
 "It is." 
 
 " And you would be after seeing him immadiately 1 " 
 " Rightly conjectured, my sagacious friend. " 
 "Fait then, your honor, my master's in bed with a 
 terrible fit of the megrims. " 
 
140 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 " Then you will favor me by giving this card to your 
 master, and expressing my sorrow at his indisposition." 
 
 Upon this the orange-colored lackey, very quietly 
 reading the address on the card, and spelling letter by 
 letter in an audible mutter, rejoined, — 
 
 " C — — u (cou) n — t (unt) Count, D — e — v — Och, 
 by my shoul, and it 's Count Devereux after all, I 'm 
 thinking 1 " 
 
 " You think with equal profundity and truth. " 
 
 " You may well say that, your honor. Stip in a bit : 
 I '11 till my master, — it is himself that will see you in 
 a twinkling! " 
 
 " But you forget that your master is ill ? " said I. 
 
 " Sorrow a bit for the matter o' that, — my master is 
 never ill to a jontleman." 
 
 And with this assurance " the Beau's keeper " ushered 
 me up a splendid staircase into a large, dreary, faded 
 apartment, and left me to amuse myself with the 
 curiosities within, while he went to perform a cure 
 upon his master's "megrims." The chamber, suiting 
 with the house and the owner, looked like a place in 
 the other world set apart for the reception of the ghosts 
 of departed furniture. The hangings were wan and 
 colorless; the chairs and sofas were most spiritually 
 unsubstantial; the mirrors reflected all things in a 
 sepulchral sea-green, — even a huge picture of Mr. 
 Fielding himself, placed over the chimney-piece, 
 seemed like the apparition of a portrait, so dim, 
 watery, and indistinct had it been rendered by neglect 
 and damp. On a huge, tomb-like table, in the middle 
 of the room, lay two pencilled profiles of Mr. Fielding, 
 a pawnbroker's ticket, a pair of ruffles, a very little 
 muff, an immense broadsword, a Wycherley comb, a 
 jack -boot, and an old plumed hat; to these were 
 
DEVEEEUX. 141 
 
 added a cracked pomatum-pot containing ink, and a 
 scrap of paper ornamented with sundry paintings of 
 hearts and torches, on which were scrawled several 
 lines in a hand so large and round that I could not 
 avoid seeing the first verse, though I turned away my 
 eyes as quickly as possible, — that verse, to the best of 
 my memory, ran thus: "Say, lovely Lesbia, when thy 
 swain." Upon the ground lay a box of patches, a 
 periwig, and two or three well-thumbed books of 
 songs. Such was the reception-room of Beau Field- 
 ing, one indifferently well calculated to exhibit the 
 propensities of a man, half bully, half fribble ; a poet, 
 a fop, a fighter, a beauty, a walking museum of all odd 
 humors, and a living shadow of a past renown. " There 
 are changes in wit as in fashion," said Sir William 
 Temple ; and he proceeds to instance a nobleman, who 
 was the greatest wit of the court of Charles I. , and the 
 greatest dullard in that of Charles II.* But, Heavens, 
 how awful are the revolutions of coxcombry! what a 
 change from Beau Fielding the Beauty to Beau Field- 
 ing the Oddity! 
 
 After I had remained in this apartment about ten 
 minutes, the great man made his appearance. He was 
 attired in a dressing-gown of the most gorgeous material 
 and color, but so old that it was difficult to conceive 
 any period of past time which it might not have been 
 supposed to have witnessed; a little velvet cap, with 
 a tarnished gold tassel, surmounted his head, and his 
 nether limbs were sheathed in a pair of military boots. 
 In person, he still retained the trace of that extraordi- 
 nary symmetry he had once possessed, and his features 
 were yet handsome, though the complexion had grown 
 coarse and florid, and the expression had settled int«' 
 1 The Earl of Norwich. 
 
142 DEVEREUX. 
 
 a broad, hardy, farcical mixture of effrontery, humor, 
 and conceit. 
 
 But how different his costume from that of old! 
 Where was the long wig with its myriad curls, the 
 coat stiff with golden lace, the diamond buttons, — " the 
 pomp, pride, and circumstance of glorious war," — the 
 glorious war Beau Fielding had carried on throughout 
 the female world; finding in every saloon a Blenheim, 
 in every playhouse a Eamilies? Alas! to what abyss 
 of fate will not the love of notoriety bring men ! To 
 what but the lust of show do we owe the misanthropy 
 of Timon or the ruin of Beau Fielding ! 
 
 " By the Lord ! " cried Mr. Fielding, approaching 
 and shaking me familiarly by the hand, — " by the 
 Lord, I am delighted to see thee ! As I am a soldier, 
 I thought thou wert a spirit, invisible and incorporeal ; 
 and as long as I was in that belief I trembled for thy 
 salvation , for I knew at least that thou wert not a spirit of 
 heaven , — since thy door is the very reverse of the doors 
 above, which we are assured shall be opened unto our 
 knocking. But thou art early. Count; like the ghost, 
 in Hamlet, thou snuffest the morning air. Wilt thou 
 not keep out the rank atmosphere by a pint of wine and 
 a toast 1 " 
 
 "Many thanks to you, Mr. Fielding; but I have at 
 least one property of a ghost, and don't drink after 
 daybreak. " 
 
 "Nay, now, 'tis a bad rule! a villanous bad rule, 
 fit only for ghosts and graybeards. We youngsters. 
 Count, should have a more generous policy. Come, 
 now, where didst thou drink last night ? Has the bottle 
 bequeathed thee a qualm or a headache, which preaches 
 repentance and abstinence this morning ? " 
 
 "No; but I visit my mistress this niorning. Would 
 
DEVEEEUX. 143 
 
 you have me smell of strong potations, and seem a 
 worshipper of the ' Glass of Fashion,' rather than of 
 the ' Mould of Form ' ? Confess, Mr. Fielding, that the 
 women love not an early tippler, and that they expect 
 sober and sweet kisses from a pair of ' youngsters ' 
 like us." 
 
 "By the Lord," cried Mr. Fielding, stroking down 
 his comely stomaoh , " there is a great show of reason in 
 thy excuses, but only the show, not substance, my noble 
 Count. You know me, you know mi/ experience with 
 the women: I would not boast, as I 'm a soldier; but 
 'tis something! nine hundred and fifty locks of hair 
 have I got in my strong-box, under padlock and key; 
 fifty within the last week, — true, on my soul, — so that 
 I may pretend to know a little of the dear creatures: 
 well, I give thee my honor, Count, that they like a 
 royster; they love a fellow who can carry his six bottles 
 under a silken doublet; there 's vigor and manhood in 
 it, — and then, too, what a power of toasts can a six- 
 bottle man drink to his mistress! Oh, 'tis your only 
 chivalry now, your modern substitute for tilt and 
 tournament; true. Count, as I am a soldier! " 
 
 " I fear my Dulcinea differs from the herd, then ; for 
 she quarrelled with me for supping with St. John three 
 nights ago, and — " 
 
 " St. John," interrupted Fielding, cutting me off in the 
 beginning of a witticism, — " St. John, famous fellow, 
 is he not ! By the Lord, we will drink to his admin- 
 istration, — you in chocolate, I in Madeira. O'Carroll, 
 you dog, O'Carroll, rogue, rascal, ass, dolt! " 
 
 "The samej your honor," said the orange-colored 
 lackey, thrusting in his lean visage. 
 
 " Ay, the same indeed, thou anatomized son of 
 St. Patrick. Why dost thou not get fat ? Thou shamest 
 
144 DETEEEUX. 
 
 my good living, and thy belly is a rascally minister to 
 thee, devouring all things for itself, without fattening 
 a single member of the body corporate. Look at me, 
 you dog ; am I thin ? Go and get fat, or I will dis- 
 charge thee, — by the Lord I will ! The sun shines 
 through thee like an empty wine-glass." 
 
 " And is it upon your honor's lavings you would 
 have me get fat?" rejoined Mr. O'Carroll, with an air 
 of deferential inquiry. 
 
 " Now, as I live, thou art the impudentest varlet! " 
 cried Mr. Fielding, stamping his foot on the floor with 
 an angry frown. 
 
 "And is it for talking of your honor's lavings? an' 
 sure that 's nothing at all, at all," said the valet, twirl- 
 ing his thumbs with expostulating innocence. 
 
 "Begone, rascal!" said Mi. Fielding, — "begone! 
 Go to the Salop, and bring us a pint of Madeira, a 
 toast, and a dish of chocolate." 
 
 " Yes, your honor, in a twinkling," said the valet, 
 disappearing. 
 
 "A sorry fellow," said Mr. Fielding, "but honest 
 and faithful, and loves me as well as a saint loves gold; 
 't is his love makes him familiar. " 
 
 Here the door was again opened, and the sharp face 
 of Mr. O'Carroll again intruded. 
 
 " How now , sirrah ! " exclaimed his master. 
 
 Mr. O'Carroll, without answering by voice, gave a 
 grotesque sort of signal between a wink and a beckon. 
 Mr. Fielding rose, muttering an oath, and underwent 
 a whisper. "By the Lord," cried he, seemingly in a 
 furious passion, " and thou hast not got the bill cashed 
 yet, though I told thee twice to have it done last 
 evening! Have I not my debts of honor to discharge, 
 and did I not give the last guinea I had about me for 
 
DEVEEEUX. 145 
 
 a walking-cane yesterday 1 Go down to the city imme- 
 diately, sirrah, and bring me the change." 
 
 The valet again whispered. 
 
 " Ah," resumed Fielding, " ah, — so far, you say, 't is 
 true; 't is a great way, and perhaps the count can't wait 
 till you return. Prithee " (turning to me), " prithee now, 
 is it not vexatious, — no change about me, and my fool 
 has not cashed a trifling bill I have, for a thousand or 
 so, on Messrs. Child ! and the cursed Salop puts not its 
 trust even in princes, — 't is its way. 'Gad now, — you 
 have not a guinea about you 1 " 
 
 What could I say? My guinea joined Tarleton's in 
 a visit to that bourne whence no sucJi traveller e'er 
 returned. 
 
 Mr. O'Carroll now vanished in earnest; the wine and 
 the chocolate soon appeared. Mr. Fielding brightened 
 up, recited his poetry, blessed his good fortune, prom- 
 ised to call on me in a day or two; and assured me, with 
 a round oath, that the next time he had the honor of 
 seeing me, he would treat me with another pint of 
 Madeira, exactly of the same sort. 
 
 I remember well that it was the evening of the same 
 day in which I had paid this visit to the redoubted 
 Mr. Fielding, that, on returning from a drum at Lady 
 Hasselton's, I entered my anteroom with so silent a 
 step that I did not arouse even the keen senses of 
 Monsieur Desmarais. He was seated by the fire, with 
 his head supported by his hands, and intently poring 
 over a huge folio. I had often observed that he pos- 
 sessed a literary turn, and all the hours in which he was 
 unemployed by me he was wont to occupy with books. 
 I felt now, as I stood still and contemplated his absorbed 
 attention in the contents of the book before him, a strong 
 curiosity to know the nature of his studies ; and so little 
 
 VOL. I. — 10 
 
146 DEVEEEUX 
 
 did my taste second the routine of trifles in which I had 
 been lately engaged, that in looking upon the earnest 
 features of the man, on which the solitary light streamed 
 calm and full, and impressed with the deep quiet and 
 solitude of the chamber, together with the undisturbed 
 sanctity of comfort presiding over the small, bright 
 hearth, and contrasting what I saw with the brilliant 
 scene — brilliant with gaudy, wearing, wearisome fri- 
 volities — which I had just quitted, a sensation of envy, 
 at the enjoyments of my dependant, entered my breast, 
 accompanied with a sentiment resembling humiliation at 
 the nature of my own pursuits. I am generally thought 
 a proud man, but I am never proud to my inferiors; nor 
 can I imagine pride where there is not competition. I 
 approached Desmarais, and said, in French, — 
 
 " How is this? Why did you not, like your fellows, 
 take advantage of my absence to pursue your own amuse- 
 ments! They must be dull, indeed, if they do not hold 
 out to you more tempting inducements than that colossal 
 oflfspring of the press." 
 
 "Pardon me, sir," said Desmarais, very respectfully, 
 and closing the book, — " pardon me, I was not aware 
 of your return. Will Monsieur doff his cloak ? " 
 
 "No; shut the door, — wheel round that chair, and 
 favor me with a sight of your book." 
 
 "Monsieur will be angry, I fear," said the valet 
 (obeying the first two orders, but hesitating about the 
 third), " with my course of reading: I confess it is not 
 very compatible with my station. " 
 
 " Ah, some long romance, the ' Clelia,' I suppose, — 
 nay, bring it hither; that is to say, if it be movable by 
 the strength of a single man. " 
 
 Thus urged, Desmarais modestly brought me the book. 
 Judge of my surprise when I found it was a volume of 
 
DETEKEUX. 147 
 
 Leibnitz, — a philosopher then very much the rage, 
 hecause one might talk of him very safely without 
 having read him.^ Despite of my surprise, I could 
 not help smiling when my eye turned from the book 
 to the student. It is impossible to conceive an appear- 
 ance less like a philosopher's than that of Jean Des- 
 marais. His wig was of a nicety that would not have 
 brooked the irregularity of a single hair; his dress was 
 not preposterous, for I do not remember, among gentles 
 or valets, a more really exquisite taste than that of 
 Denmarais : but it evinced, in every particular, the arts 
 of the toilet. A perpetual smile sat upon his lips, — 
 sometimes it deepened into a sneer; but that was the 
 only change it ever experienced. An irresistible air of 
 self-conceit gave piquancy to his long, marked features, 
 small, glittering eye, and withered cheeks, on which a 
 delicate and soft bloom excited suspicion of artificial 
 embellishment. A very fit frame of body this for a 
 valet; but, I humbly opine, a very unseemly one for a 
 student of Leibnitz. 
 
 "And what," said I, after a short pause, "is your 
 opinion of this philosopher? I understand that he 
 has just written a work ^ above all praise and all 
 comprehension. " 
 
 "It is true. Monsieur, that it is above his own 
 understanding. He knows not what sly conclusions 
 may be drawn from his premises ; but I beg Monsieur's 
 pardon, I shall be tedious and intrusive." 
 
 "Not a whit; speak out, and at length. So you 
 conceive that Leibnitz makes ropes, which others will 
 make into ladders ? " 
 
 1 Which IB possibly the reason why there are so many disciples 
 of Kant at the present moment. — Ed. 
 
 2 The " Theodicoea." 
 
148 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "Exactly so," said Desmarais; "all his arguments 
 go to swell the sails of the great philosophical truth, 
 'Necessity!' We are the things and toys of Fate, 
 and its everlasting chain compels even the Power that 
 creates, as well as the things created." 
 
 " Ha! " said I, who, though little versed at that time 
 in these metaphysical subtleties, had heard St. John 
 often speak of the strange doctrine to which Desmarais 
 referred, " you are, then, a believer in the fatalism of 
 Spinosa 1 " 
 
 " No, Monsieur," said Desmarais, with a complacent 
 smile, " my system is my own, — it is composed of the 
 thoughts of others ; but my thoughts are the cords which 
 bind the various sticks into a faggot. " 
 
 " Well," said I, smiling at the man's conceited air, 
 " and what is your main dogma ? " 
 
 " Our utter impotence." 
 
 " Pleasing I Mean you that we have no free will ? " 
 
 "None." 
 
 " Why, then, you take away the very existence of 
 vice and virtue; and, according to you, we sin or act 
 well, not from our own accord, but because we are 
 compelled and preordained to it." 
 
 Desmarais' smile withered into the grim sneer with 
 ■which, as I have said, it was sometimes varied. 
 
 " Monsieur's penetration is extreme ; but shall I not 
 prepare his nightly draught 1 " 
 
 " No ; answer me at length, and tell me the diifer- 
 ence between good and ill, if we are compelled by 
 Necessity to either." 
 
 Desmarais hemmed, and began. Despite of his 
 caution, the coxcomb loved to hear himself talk, and 
 he talked therefore to the following purpose : — 
 
 " Liberty is a thing impossible ! Can you will a 
 
DEVEREUX. 149 
 
 single action, however simple, independent of your 
 organization, independent of the organization of 
 others, independent of the order of things past, inde- 
 pendent of the order of things to come 1 You cannot. 
 But if not independent, you are dependent; if depend- 
 ent, where is your liberty, where your freedom of 
 will ? Education disposes our characters, — can you 
 control your own education, begun at the hour of 
 birth? You cannot. Our character, joined to the 
 conduct of others, disposes of our happiness, our sorrow, 
 our crime, our virtue. Can you control your character? 
 We have already seen that you cannot. Can you con- 
 trol the conduct of others, — others, perhaps, whom you 
 have never seen , but who may ruin you at a word ; a 
 despot, for instance, or a warrior? You cannot. What 
 remains? that if we cannot choose our characters, nor 
 our fates, we cannot be accountable for either. If you 
 are a good man, you are a lucky man; but you are not 
 to be praised for what you could not help. If you are 
 a bad man, you are an unfortunate one ; but you are not 
 to be execrated for what you could not prevent. " ^ 
 
 "Then, most wise Desmarais, if you steal this dia- 
 mond loop from oy hat, you are only an unlucky man, 
 not a guilty one, and worthy of my sympathy, not 
 anger ? " 
 
 " Exactly so; but you must hang me for it. You 
 cannot control events, but you can modify man. Edu- 
 cation, law, adversity, prosperity, correction, praise, 
 modify him, — without his choice, and sometimes with- 
 out his perception. But once acknowledge Necessity, 
 and evil passions cease; you may punish, you may 
 
 1 Whatever pretensions Monsieur Desmarais may have had to 
 originality, this tissue of opinions is as old as philosophy itself. 
 — Ed. 
 
150 BEVEKEUX. 
 
 destroy Others, if for the safety and good of the com- 
 monwealth; but motives for doing so cease to be private: 
 you can have no personal hatred to men for commit- 
 ting actions which they were irresistibly compelled to 
 commit. " 
 
 I felt that, however I might listen to and dislike 
 these sentiments, it would not do for the master to 
 argue with the domestic, especially when there was a 
 chance that he might have the worst of it. And so I 
 was suddenly seized with a fit of sleepiness, which broke 
 off our conversation. Meanwhile I inly resolved, in 
 my own mind, to take the first opportunity of discharg- 
 ing a valet who saw no difi'erence between good and 
 evil but that of luck; and who, by the irresistible 
 compulsion of Necessity, might some day or other have 
 the involuntary misfortune to cut the throat of his 
 master ! 
 
 I did not, however, carry this unphilosophical reso- 
 lution into effect. Indeed, the rogue, doubting, per- 
 haps, the nature of the impression he had made on me, 
 redoubled so zealously his efforts to please me in the 
 science of his profession, that I could not determine 
 upon relinquishing such a treasure for a speculative 
 opinion, and I was too much accustomed to laugh at my 
 Sosia to believe there could be any reason to fear him. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 151 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 An Universal Genius — Pericles turned Barber. — Names of Bean- 
 ties in 171-. — The Toasts of the KitCat Club. 
 
 As I was riding with Tarleton towards Chelsea one 
 day , he asked me if I had ever seen the celebrated Mr. 
 Salter. "No," said I> "but I heard Steele talk of 
 him the other night at Wills's. He is an antiquarian 
 and a barber, is he not? " 
 
 "Yes, a shaving virtuoso; really a comical and 
 strange character, and has oddities enough to compen- 
 sate one for the debasement of talking with a man in 
 his rank." 
 
 "Let us go to him forthwith," said I, spurring my 
 horse into a canter. 
 
 " Quod petis Mc est," cried Tarleton, " there is his 
 house. " And my companion pointed to a coffee-house. 
 
 "What!" said I, "does he draw wine as well as 
 teeth?" 
 
 " To be sure : Don Saltero is an universal genius. 
 Let us dismount." 
 
 Consigning our horses to the care of our grooms , we 
 marched into the strangest-looking place I ever had the 
 good fortune to behold. A long, narrow coffee-room 
 was furnished with all manner of things that, belong- 
 ing neither to heaven, earth, nor the water under the 
 earth, the redoubted Saltero might well worship with- 
 out incurring the crime of idolatry. The first thing 
 that greeted my eyes was a bull's head, with a most 
 
152 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ferocious pair of vulture's wings on its neck. While I 
 was surveying this I felt something touch my hat. I 
 looked up and discovered an immense alligator swing- 
 ing from the ceiling, and fixing a monstrous pair of 
 glass eyes upon me. A thing which seemed to me like 
 an immense shoe, upon a nearer approach expanded 
 itself into an Indian canoe, and a most hideous spectre, 
 with mummy skin and glittering teeth, that made my 
 blood run cold, was labelled, "Beautiful Specimen of 
 a Calmuc Tartar." 
 
 While, lost in wonder, I stood in the middle of the 
 apartment, up walks a little man, as lean as a miser, and 
 says to me, rubbing his hands, — 
 
 " Wonderful, sir, is it not 1 " 
 
 "Wonderful, indeed, Don!" said Tarleton; "you 
 look like a Chinese Adam, surrounded by a Japanese 
 creation. " 
 
 "He, he, he, sir, you have so pleasant a vein," said 
 the little Don, in a sharp, shrill voice. " But it has 
 been all done, sir, by one man; all of it collected by 
 me, simple as I stand." 
 
 "Simple, indeed," quoth Tarleton; "and how gets 
 on the fiddle 1 " 
 
 " Bravely, sir, bravely ; shall I play you a tune 1 " 
 
 "No, no, my good Don; another time." 
 
 " Nay, sir, nay," cried the antiquarian ; " suffer me to 
 welcome your arrival properly. " 
 
 And forthwith disappearing, he returned in an instant 
 with a marvellously ill-favored old fiddle. Throwing 
 a penseroso air into his thin cheeks, our Don then began 
 a few preliminary thrummings, which set my teeth on 
 edge, and made Tarleton put both hands to his ears. 
 Three sober-looking citizens, who had just sat them- 
 selves down to pipes and the journal, started to their 
 
DEVEREUX. 153 
 
 feet like so many pieces of clockwork; but no sooner 
 had Don Saltevo, with, a, deffage air of graceful melan- 
 choly, actually launched into what he was pleased to 
 term a tune, than an universal irritation of nerves seized 
 the whole company. At the first overture the three 
 citizens swore and cursed; at the second division of the 
 tune they seized their hats; at the third, they van- 
 ished. As for me, I found all my limbs twitching as 
 if they were dancing to St. Vitus's music; the very 
 drawers disappeared; the alligator itself twirled round, 
 as if revivified by so harsh an experiment on the nervous 
 system ; and I verily believe the whole museum — bull , 
 wings, Indian canoe, and Calmuc Tartar — would have 
 been set into motion by this new Orpheus, had not 
 Tarleton, in a paroxysm of rage, seized him by the tail 
 of the coat, and whirled him round, fiddle and all, 
 with such velocity that the poor musician lost his 
 equilibrium, and, falling against a row of Chinese 
 monsters, brought the whole set to the ground, where 
 he lay covered by the wrecks that accompanied his 
 overthrow, screaming and struggling, and grasping his 
 fiddle, which every now and then, touched involuntarily 
 by his fingers, uttered a dismal squeak, as if sympa- 
 thizing in the disaster it had caused, until the drawer 
 ran in, and, raising the unhappy antiquarian, placed 
 him on a great chair. 
 
 " Lord! " groaned Don Saltero, " Lord, my mon- 
 sters, my monsters, — the pagoda, the mandarin, and the 
 idol, — where are they? broken, ruined, annihilated! " 
 
 " No, sir, — all safe, sir," said the drawer, — a smart, 
 small, smug, pert man; "put 'em down in the bill, 
 nevertheless, sir. Is it Alderman Atkins, sir, or Mr. 
 Higgins?" 
 
 "Pooh," said Tarleton, "bring me some lemonade; 
 
154 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 send the pagoda to the bricklayer, the mandarin to the 
 surgeon, and the idol to the Papist over the way! 
 There 's a guinea to pay for their carriage. How are 
 you, Don ? " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Tarleton, Mr. Tarleton! how could you be 
 BO cruel 1 " 
 
 " The nature of things demanded it, my good Don. 
 Did I not call you a Chinese Adam , and how could you 
 bear that name without undergoing the fall ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir, this is no jesting matter, — broke the rail- 
 ing of my pagoda,. bruised my arm, cracked my fiddle, 
 and cut me off in the middle of that beautiful air ! — no 
 jesting matter." 
 
 "Come, Mr. Salter," said I, "'tis very true, but 
 cheer up. ' The gods,' says Seneca, ' look with pleasure 
 on a great man falling with the statesmen, the temples, 
 and the divinities of his country ; ' all of which, man- 
 darin, pagoda, and idol, accompanied your fall. Let us 
 have a bottle of your best wine, and the honor of your 
 company to drink it." 
 
 "No, Count, no," said Tarleton, haughtily; "we can 
 drink not with the Don: but we '11 have the wine, and 
 he shall drink it. Meanwhile, Don, tell us what pos- 
 sible combination of circumstances made thee fiddler, 
 barber, anatomist, and virtuoso! " 
 
 Don Saltero loved fiddling better than anything in 
 the world; but next to fiddling, he loved talking. So, 
 being satisfied that he should be reimbursed for his 
 pagoda, and fortifying himself with a glass or two of 
 his own wine, he yielded to Tarleton's desire, and told 
 us his history. I believe it was very entertaining to 
 the good barber, but Tarleton and I saw nothing 
 extraordinary in it; and long before it was over, we 
 wished him an excellent good-day, and a new race of 
 Chinese monsters. 
 
DEVEREUX. 155 
 
 That evening we were engaged at the Kit-Cat Club; 
 for though I was opposed to the politics of its members, 
 they admitted me on account of my literary pretensions. 
 Halifax was there, and I commended the poet to his 
 protection. We were very gay, and Halifax favored us 
 with three new toasts by himself. Venus! what 
 beauties we made, and what characters we murdered! 
 Never was there so important a synod to the female 
 world as the gods of the Kit-Cat Club. Alas! I am 
 writing for the children of an after age, to whom the 
 very names of those who made the blood of their ances- 
 tors leap within their veins will be unknown. What 
 cheek will color at the name of Carlisle 1 What hand 
 will tremble as it touches the paper inscribed by that 
 of Brudenel? The graceful Godolphin, the sparkling 
 enchantment of Harper, the divine voice of Claverine, 
 the gentle and bashful Bridgewater, the damask cheek 
 and ruby lips of the Hebe Manchester, — what will 
 these be to the race for whom alone these pages are 
 penned? This history is a union of strange contrasts! 
 Like the tree of the Sun, described by Marco Polo, 
 which was green when approached on one side, but 
 white when perceived on the other, — to me it is clothed 
 in the verdure and spring of the existing time ; to the 
 reader it comes covered with the hoariness and wanness 
 of the past! 
 
156 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A Dialogue of Sentiment succeeded by the Sketch of a Character, 
 in whose eyes Sentiment was to Wise Men what Religion is to 
 Fools, — namely, a subject of ridicule. 
 
 St. John was now in power, and in the full flush of 
 his many ambitious and restless schemes. I saw as 
 much of him as the high rank he held in the state, and 
 the consequent business with which he was oppressed, 
 would suffer me, — me, who was prevented by religion 
 from actively embracing any political party, and who 
 therefore, though inclined to Toryism, associated pretty 
 equally with all. St. John and myself formed a great 
 friendship for each other, — a friendship which no after 
 change or chance could efface, but which exists, strength- 
 ened and mellowed by time, at the very hour in which 
 I now write. 
 
 One evening he sent to tell me he should be alone, 
 if I would sup with him ; accordingly I repaired to his 
 house. He was walking up and down the room with 
 uneven and rapid steps, and his countenance was flushed 
 with an expression of joy and triumph, very rare to the 
 thoughtful and earnest calm which it usually wore. 
 " Congratulate me, Devereux," said he, seizing me 
 eagerly by the hand, — " congratulate me ! " 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 " Ay, true; you are not yet a politician, — you cannot 
 yet tell how dear, how inexpressibly dear to a politician 
 "is a momentary and petty victory; but if I were prime 
 minister of this country, what would you say ? " 
 
DEVEREUX. 157 
 
 " That you could bear the duty better than any man 
 living; but remember, Harley is in the way." 
 
 "Ah! there 's the rub! " said St. John, slowly; and 
 the expression of his face again changed from triumph 
 to thoughtfulness ; " but this is a subject not to your 
 taste: let us choose another." And flinging himself 
 into a chair, this singular man, who prided himself 
 on suiting his conversation to every one, began con- 
 versing with me upon the lighter topics of the day; 
 these we soon exhausted, and at last we settled upon 
 that of love and women. 
 
 "I own," said I, "that in this respect pleasure has 
 disappointed as well as wearied me. I have longed for 
 some better object of worship than the trifler of fashion, 
 or the yet more ignoble minion of the senses. I ask a 
 vent for enthusiasm, for devotion, for romance, for a 
 thousand subtle and secret streams of unuttered and 
 unutterable feeling. I often think that I bear within 
 me the desire and the sentiment of poetry, though I 
 enjoy not its faculty of expression ; and that that desire 
 and that sentiment, denied legitimate egress, centre 
 and shrink into one absorbing passion, which is the 
 want of love. Where am I to satisfy this want ? I 
 look round these great circles of gayety which we term 
 the world; I send forth my heart as a wanderer over 
 their regions and recesses, and it returns, sated and 
 palled and' languid, to myself again." 
 
 " You express a common want in every less worldly 
 or more morbid nature," said St. John, — " a want which 
 I myself have experienced; and if I had never felt it, 
 I should never, perhaps, have turned to ambition to 
 console or to engross me. But do not flatter yourself 
 that the want will ever be fulfilled. Nature places us 
 alone in this inhospitable world, and no heart is cast in 
 
158 DEVEREUX. 
 
 a similar mould to that which we bear within us. We 
 pine for sympathy ; we make to ourselves a creation of 
 ideal beauties, in which we expect to find it; but the 
 creation has no reality. It is the mind's phantasma 
 which the mind adores; and it is because the phan- 
 tasma can have no actual being that the mind despairs. 
 Throughout life, from the cradle to the grave, it is no 
 real or living thing which we demand ; it is the realiza- 
 tion of the idea we have formed within us, and which, 
 as we are not gods, we can never call into existence. 
 We are enamored of the statue ourselves have graven; 
 but, unlike the statue of the Cyprian, it kindles not 
 to our homage, nor melts to our embraces." 
 
 " I believe you," said I; " but it is hard to undeceive 
 ourselves. The heart is the most credulous of all 
 fanatics, and its ruling passion the most enduring of 
 all superstitions. Oh, what can tear from us, to the 
 last, the hope, the desire, the yearning for some bosom 
 which, while it mirrors our own, parts not with the 
 reflection. I have read that in the very hour and 
 instant of our birth one exactly similar to ourselves 
 in spirit and form is born also, and that a secret and 
 unintelligible sympathy preserves that likeness, even 
 through the vicissitudes of fortune and circumstance, 
 until, in the same point of time, the two beings are 
 resolved once more into the elements of earth. Confess 
 that there is something welcome, though unfounded, in 
 the fancy, and that there are few of the substances of 
 worldly honor which one would not renounce to pos- 
 sess, in the closest and fondest of all relations, this 
 shadow of ourselves! " 
 
 "Alas!" said St. John, "the possession, like all 
 earthly blessings, carries within it its own principle of . 
 corruption. The deadliest foe to love is not change, 
 
DEVEEEUX. 159 
 
 nor misfortune, nor jealousy, nor wrath, nor anything 
 that flows from passion or emanates from fortune. The 
 deadliest foe to it is custom. With custom die away 
 the delusions and the mysteries which encircle it; leaf 
 after leaf, in the green poetry, on which its beauty 
 depends, droops and withers, till nothing but the bare 
 and rude trunk is left. With all passion the soul 
 demands something unexpressed, some vague recess to 
 explore or to marvel upon, — some veil upon the mental 
 as well as the corporeal deity. Custom leaves nothing 
 to romance, and often but little to respect. The whole 
 character is bared before us like a plain, and the heart's 
 eye grows wearied with the sameness of the survey. 
 And to weariness succeeds distaste , and to distaste, one 
 of the myriad shapes of the Proteus Aversion ; so that 
 the passion we would make the rarest of treasures 
 fritters down to a very instance of the commonest 
 of proverbs, and out of familiarity cometh indeed 
 contempt! " 
 
 "And are we, then," said I, "forever to forego the 
 most delicious of our dreams 1 Are we to consider love 
 as an entire delusion , and to reconcile ourselves to an 
 eternal solitude of heart? What, then, shall fill the 
 crying and unappeasable void of our souls 1 What 
 shall become of those mighty sources of tenderness 
 which, refused all channel in the rocky soil of the 
 world, must have an outlet elsewhere, or stagnate into 
 torpor?" 
 
 " Our passions," said St. John, " are restless, and 
 will make each experiment in their power, though 
 vanity be the result of all. Disappointed in love, 
 they yearn towards ambition ; and the object of ambi- 
 tion, unlike that of love, never being wholly possessed, 
 ambition is the more durable passion of the two. But 
 
160 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 sooner or later even that, and all passions, are sated at 
 last; and when wearied of too wide a flight, we limit 
 our excursions, and, looking round us, discover the 
 narrow bounds of our proper end, we grow satisfied with 
 the loss of rapture, if we can partake of enjoyment; 
 and the experience which seemed at first so bitterly to 
 betray us becomes our most real benefactor, and ulti- 
 mately leads us to content. For it is the excess and 
 not the nature of our passions which is perishable. 
 Like the trees which grew by the tomb of Protesilaus, the 
 passions flourish till they reach a certain height; but no 
 sooner is that height attained than they wither away." 
 
 Before I could reply , our conversation . received an 
 abrupt and complete interruption for the night. The 
 door was thrown open, and a man pushing aside the 
 servant with a rude and yet a dignifled air, entered the 
 room unannounced, and with the most perfect disregard 
 to ceremony. 
 
 "How d'ye do, Mr. St. John," said he, — "how 
 d' ye do? Pretty sort of a day we 've had. Lucky to 
 find you at home; that is to say, if you will give me 
 some broiled oysters and champagne for supper." 
 
 "With all my heart. Doctor," said St. John, chang- 
 ing his manner at once from the pensive to an easy and 
 somewhat brusque familiarity, — "with all my heart; 
 but I am glad to hear you are a convert to champagne : 
 you spent a whole evening last week in endeavoring to 
 dissuade me from the sparkling sin. " 
 
 "Pish! I had suffered the day before from it; so, 
 like a true Old Bailey penitent, I preached up conver- 
 sion to others, not from a desire of their welfare, but 
 a plaguy sore feeling for my own misfortune. Where 
 did you dine to-day! At home! Oh, the devil! I 
 starved on three courses at the Duke of Ormond's." 
 
DEVEREUX. 161 
 
 " Aha! Honest Matt was there! " 
 
 " Yes, to my cost. He borrowed a shilling of me for 
 a chair. Hang this weather! it costs me seven shil- 
 lings a day for coach-fare, besides my paying the fares 
 of all my poor brother parsons, who come over from 
 Ireland to solicit my patronage for a bishopric, and end 
 by borrowing half a crown in the mean while. But Matt 
 Prior will pay me again, I suppose, out of the public 
 money 1 " 
 
 " To be sure, if Chloe does not ruin him first." 
 
 " Hang the slut! don't talk of her. How Prior rails 
 against his place! ^ He says the exercise spoils his wit, 
 and that the only rhymes he ever dreams of nowadays 
 are ' docket and cocket. ' " 
 
 "Ha, ha! we must do something better for Matt, — 
 make him a bishop or an ambassador. But, pardon 
 me. Count, I have not yet made known to you the most 
 courted, authoritative, impertinent, clever, independent, 
 haughty, delightful, troublesome parson of the age: do 
 homage to Dr. Swift. Doctor, be merciful to my par- 
 ticular friend, Count Devereux. " 
 
 Drawing himself up, with a manner which contrasted 
 his previous one strongly enough. Dr. Swift saluted me 
 with a dignity which might even be called polished, 
 and which certainly showed that, however he might 
 prefer, as his usual demeanor, an air of negligence 
 and semi-rudeness, he had profited sufficiently by his 
 acquaintance with the great to equal them in the 
 external graces, supposed to be peculiar to their order, 
 whenever it suited his inclination. In person. Swift 
 is much above the middle height, strongly built, and 
 with a remarkably fine outline of throat and chest : his 
 front face is certainly displeasing, though far from 
 
 ' In the Customs. 
 VOL. I. — U 
 
162 DEVEREUX. 
 
 uncomely; but the clear chiselling of the nose, the 
 curved upper-lip, the full, round Eoman chin, the 
 hanging brow, and the resolute decision stamped upon 
 the whole expression of the large forehead and the 
 clear blue eye, make his profile one of the most strik- 
 ing I ever saw. He honored me, to my great surprise, 
 with a fine speech and a compliment; and then, with 
 a look which menaced to St. John the retort that 
 ensued, he added: "And I shall always be glad to 
 think that I owe your acquaintance to Mr. Secretary 
 St. John, who, if he talked less about operas and 
 singers, thought less about Alcibiades and Pericles; 
 if he never complained of the load of business not being 
 suited to his temper at the very moment he had been 
 working, like Gumdragon, to get the said load upon 
 his shoulders ; and if he persuaded one of his sincerity 
 being as great as his genius, — would appear to all time 
 as adorned with the choicest gifts that Heaven has yet 
 thought fit to bestow on the children of men. Prithee 
 now, Mr. Sec, when shall we have the oysters? Will 
 you be merry to-night. Count? " 
 
 " Certainly ; if one may find absolution for the 
 champagne ? " 
 
 " I '11 absolve you, with a vengeance, on condition 
 that you '11 walk home with me, and protect the poor 
 parson from the Mohawks. Eaith, they ran young 
 Davenant's chair through with a sword t' other night. 
 I hear they have sworn to make daylight through my 
 Tory cassock, — all Whigs, you know. Count Devereux ; 
 nasty, dangerous animals, how I hate them! they cost 
 me five-and-sixpence a week in chairs to avoid them." 
 
 " Never mind. Doctor, I '11 send my servants home 
 with you," said St. John. 
 
 " Ay, a nice way of mending the matter. That 's 
 
DEVERE0X. 163 
 
 curing the itch by scratching the skin off. ' I could not 
 give your tall fellows less than a crown apiece; and I 
 could buy off the bloodiest Mohawk in the kingdom, if 
 he 's a Whig, for half that sum. But, thank Heaven, 
 the supper is ready. " 
 
 And to supper we went. The oysters and champagne 
 seemed to exhilarate, if it did not refine the Doctor's 
 wit. St. John was unusually brilliant. I myself 
 caught the infection of their humor, and contributed 
 my quota to the common stock of jest and repartee ; and 
 that evening, spent with the two most extraordinary 
 men of the age, had in it more of broad and familiar 
 mirth than any I have ever wasted in the company of 
 the youngest and noisiest disciples of the bowl and its 
 concomitants. Even amidst all the coarse ore of Swift's 
 conversation, the diamond perpetually broke out; his 
 vulgarity was never that of a vulgar mind. Pity that 
 while he condemned St. John's over -affectation of the 
 graces of life, he never perceived that his own affecta- 
 tion of coarseness and brutality was to the full as 
 unworthy of the simplicity of intellect,^ and that the 
 
 1 It has been said that Swift was only coarse in his later years, 
 and, with a curious ignorance both of fact and of character, that 
 Pope was the cause of the Dean's grossness of taste. There is no 
 doubt that he grew coarser with age ; but tliere is also no doubt 
 that, graceful and dignified as that great genius could be when he 
 pleased, he affected, at a period earlier than the one in which he is 
 now introduced, to be coarse both in speech and manner. I seize 
 upon this opportunity, mal apropos as it is, to observe that Swift's 
 preference of Harley to St. John is by no means so certain as 
 writers have been pleased generally to assert. Warton has already 
 noted a passage in one of Swift's letters to Bolingbroke, to which 
 I will beg to call the reader's attention : — 
 
 " It is you were my hero, but the other (Lord Oxford ) never was ; 
 yet if he were, it was your own fault, who taught me to love him, 
 and often vindicated him, in the beginning of your ministry, from 
 
164 DEVEREUX. 
 
 aversion to cant, which was the strongest characteristic 
 of his mind, led him into the very faults he despised, 
 only through a more displeasing and offensive road. 
 That same aversion to cant is, by the way, the greatest 
 and most prevalent enemy to the reputation of high 
 and strong minds; and in judging Swift's character 
 iu especial, we should always bear it in recollection. 
 This aversion — the very antipodes to hypocrisy — leads 
 men not only to disclaim the virtues they have, but to 
 pretend to the vices they have not. Foolish trick of 
 disguised vanity! the world, alas! readily believes 
 them. Like Justice Overdo, in the garb of poor 
 Arthur of Bradley, they may deem it a virtue to have 
 assumed the disguise; but they must not wonder if 
 the sham Arthur is taken for the real, beaten as a 
 vagabond, and set in the stocks as a rogue ! . 
 
 my accusations. But I granted he had the greatest inequalities of 
 any man alive ; and his whole scene was fifty times more a what- 
 d' ye-call-it than yours ; for I declare yours was unie, and I wish 
 you would so order it that the world may be as wise as I upon that 
 article." 
 
 I have to apologize for introducing this quotation, which I have 
 done because (and I entreat the reader to remember this) I observe 
 that Count Devereux always speaks of Lord Bolingbroke as he was 
 spoken of by the eminent men of that day, — not as he is now rated 
 by the judgment of posterity. — Ed. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 165 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Lightly won — lightly lost. — A Dialogue of equal Instruction and 
 Amusement. — A Visit to Sir Godfrey Kneller. 
 
 One morning Tarleton breakfasted with me. " I don't 
 see the little page," said he, "who was always in 
 attendance in your anteroom. What the deuce has 
 become of him 1 " 
 
 " You must ask his mistress. She has quarrelled with 
 me, and withdrawn both her favor and her messenger." 
 
 " What ! the Lady Hasselton quarrelled with you 1 
 Diable ! Wherefore ? " 
 
 " Because I am not enough of the ' pretty fellow ; ' 
 am tired of carrying hood and scarf, and sitting behind 
 her chair through five long acts of a dull play; because 
 I disappointed her in not searching for her at every 
 drum and quadrille party; because I admired not her 
 monkey ; and because I broke a teapot with a toad for 
 a cover." 
 
 " And is not that enough ? " cried Tarleton. " Heavens, 
 what a black bead-roll of offences! Mrs. Merton would 
 have discarded me for one of them. However, thy 
 account has removed my surprise. I heard her praise 
 thee the other day. Now, as long as she loved thee, 
 she always abused thee like a pickpocket." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha! and what said she in my favor? " 
 
 " Why, that you were certainly very handsome, though 
 you were small ; that you were certainly a great genius, 
 though every one would not discover it; and that you 
 certainly had quite the air of high birth, though you 
 
166 DEVEREUX. 
 
 were not nearly so well dressed as Beau Tippetly. But 
 entre nous, Devereux, I think she hates you, and would 
 play you a trick of spite • — revenge is too strong a word 
 — if she could find an opportunity." 
 
 "Likely enough, Tarleton; but a coquette's lover is 
 always on his guard : so she will not take me unawares. " 
 
 " So be it. But tell me, Devereux, who is to be your 
 next mistress, — Mrs. Denton or Lady Clancathcart ? 
 the world gives them both to you." 
 
 " The world is always as generous with what is 
 worthless as the bishop in the fable was with his 
 blessing. However, I promise thee, Tarleton, that I 
 will not interfere with thy claims either upon Mrs. 
 Denton or Lady Clancathcart." 
 
 " Nay," said Tarleton, " I will own that you are a 
 very Scipio; but it must be confessed, even by you, 
 satirist as you are, that Lady Clancathcart has a beau- 
 tiful set of features." 
 
 " A handsome face, but so vilely made. She would 
 make a splendid picture, if, like the goddess Laverna, 
 she could be painted as a head without a body. " 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha! you have a bitter tongue, Count; 
 but Mrs. Denton, what have you to say against her ! " 
 
 " Nothing ; she has no pretensions for me to contra- 
 dict. She has a green eye and a sharp voice, a mincing 
 gait and a broad foot. What friend of Mrs. Denton's 
 would not, therefore, counsel her to a prudent obscurity ! " 
 
 " She never had but one lover in the world," said 
 Tarleton, "who was old, blind, lame, and poor; she 
 accepted him, and became Mrs. Denton." 
 
 " Yes, " said I ; " she was like the magnet, and received 
 her name from the very first person ^ sensible of her 
 attraction. " 
 
 i Magnes. 
 
DEVEREUX. 167 
 
 " Well , you have a shrewd way of saying sweet 
 things," said Tarleton; "but I must own that you 
 rarely or never direct it towards women individually. 
 What makes you break through your ordinary custom 1 " 
 
 "Because I am angry with women collectively, and 
 must pour my spleen through whatever channel presents 
 itself." 
 
 " Astonishing ! " said Tarleton. " I despise women 
 myself, I always did ; but you were their most enthu- 
 siastic and chivalrous defender a month or two ago. 
 What makes thee change, my Sir Amadis ? " 
 
 " Disappointment! they weary, vex, disgust me; self- 
 ish, frivolous, mean, heartless, — out on them! 'tis a 
 disgrace to have their love ! " 
 
 " ciel ! What a sensation the news of thy misogyny 
 will cause! The young, gay, rich Count Devereux, 
 whose wit, vivacity, splendor of appearance in equi- 
 page and dress, in the course of one season have thrown 
 all the most established beaux and pretty fellows into 
 the shade; to whom dedications and odes and billets- 
 doux are so much waste paper ; who has carried off the 
 most general envy and dislike that any man ever was 
 blessed with, since St. John turned politician, — what! 
 thou all of a sudden to become a railer against the 
 divine sex that made thee what thou art! Fly, fly, 
 unhappy apostate, or expect the fate of Orpheus, at 
 least! " 
 
 " None of your railleries, Tarleton, or I shall speak 
 to you of plebeians and the canaille ! " 
 
 " Sacre ! my teeth are on edge already! Oh, the base, 
 base canaille, how I loathe them! Nay, Devereux, 
 joking apart, I love you twice as well for your humor. 
 I despise the sex heartily. Indeed, sub rosd be it 
 spoken, there are few things that breathe which I do 
 
168 DEVEREUX. 
 
 not despise. Human nature seems to me a most pitiful 
 bundle of rags and scraps, which the gods threw out of 
 heaven, as the dust and rubbish there." 
 
 " A pleasant view of thy species," said I. 
 
 " By my soul it is. Contempt is to me a luxury. I 
 would not lose the privilege of loathing for all the 
 objects which fools ever admired. What does old 
 Persius say on the subject? 
 
 ' Hoc ridere meum tarn nil, nulla tibi vendo Iliade.' " 1 
 
 "And yet, Tarleton," said I, "the littlest feeling of 
 all is a delight in contemplating the littleness of other 
 people. Nothing is more contemptible than habitual 
 contempt. " 
 
 "Prithee, now," answered the haughty aristocrat, 
 " let us not talk of these matters so subtly ; leave me 
 my enjoyment without refining upon it. What is your 
 first pursuit for the morning ? " 
 
 " Why , I have promised my uncle a picture of that 
 invaluable countenance which Lady Hasselton finds so 
 handsome; and I am going to give Kneller my last 
 sitting. " 
 
 " So, so, I will accompany you; I like the vain old 
 dog: 'tis a pleasure to hear him admire himself so 
 wittily. " 
 
 " Come, then! " said I, taking up my hat and sword; 
 and, entering Tarleton's carriage, we drove to the 
 painter's abode. 
 
 We found him employed in finishing a portrait of 
 Lady Godolphin. 
 
 "He, he!" cried he, when he beheld me approach. 
 "By Got, I am glad to see you, Count Tevereux; dis 
 
 1 " This privilege of mine, to laugh, — such a nothing as it seems, 
 — I would not barter to thee for an Iliad." 
 
DEVEREUX. 169 
 
 painting is tanined poor work by oneself, widout any 
 one to make des grands yeux, and cry, ' Oh, Sir Godfrey 
 Kneller, how fine dis is ! ' " 
 
 "Very true, indeed," said I, "no great man can be 
 expected to waste his talents without his proper reward 
 of praise. But, Heavens, Tarleton, did you ever see 
 anything so wonderful ? — that hand, that arm, — how 
 exquisite! If Apollo turned painter, and borrowed 
 colors from the rainbow, and models from the god- 
 desses, he would not be fit to hold the pallet to Sir 
 Godfrey Kneller." 
 
 " By Got, Count Tevereux, you are von grand judge 
 of painting,'' cried the artist, with sparkling eyes, " and 
 I vill paint you as von tamned handsome man! " 
 
 " Nay, my Apelles, you might as well preserve some 
 likeness. " 
 
 " Likeness, by Got! I vill make you like and hand- 
 some both. By my shoul you make me von Apelles, I 
 vill make you von Alexander! " 
 
 " People in general ," said Tarleton, gravely , " believe 
 that Alexander had a wry neck, and was a very plain 
 fellow; but no one can know about Alexander like Sir 
 Godfrey Kneller, who has studied military tactics so 
 accurately, and who, if he had taken up the sword 
 instead of the pencil, would have been at least an 
 Alexander himself." 
 
 " By Got, Meester Tarleton, you are as goot a judge 
 of de talents for de war as Count Tevereux of de genie 
 for de painting! Meester Tarleton, I vill paint your 
 picture, and I vill make your eyes von goot inch bigger 
 than dey are ! " 
 
 "Large or small," said I (for Tarleton, who had a 
 haughty custom of contracting his orbs till they were 
 scarce perceptible, was so much offended that I thought 
 
170 DEVEREUX. 
 
 it prudent to cut off his reply) , — " large or small, Sir 
 Godfrey, Mr. Tarleton's eyes are capable of admiring 
 your genius; why, your painting is like lightning, and 
 one flash of your brush would be sufficient to restore 
 even a blind man to sight." 
 
 "It is tamned true," said Sir Godfrey, earnestly; 
 "and it did restore von man to sight once, — by my 
 shoul it did ! But sit yourself town , Count Tevereux, 
 and look over your left shoulder, — ah, dat is it, — and 
 now, praise on, Count Tevereux: de thought of my 
 genius gives you — vat you call it — von animation, 
 von fire, look you, — by my shoul it does! " 
 
 And by dint of such moderate panegyric the worthy 
 Sir Godfrey completed my picture with equal satisfac- 
 tion to himself and the original. See what a beautifier 
 is flattery ! — a few sweet words will send the Count 
 Devereux down to posterity with at least three times 
 as much beauty as he could justly lay claim to.^ 
 
 1 This picture represents the count in an undress. The face is 
 decidedly, though by no means remarkably, handsome ; the nose 
 is aquiline ; the upper lip short and chiselled ; the eyes gray ; and 
 the forehead, which is by far the finest feature in the countenance, 
 is peculiarly high, broad, and massive. The mouth has but little 
 beauty; it is severe, caustic, and rather displeasing, from the 
 extreme compression of the lips. The great and prevalent expres- 
 sion of the face is energy. The eye, the brow, the turn of the 
 head, the erect, penetrating aspect, are all strikingly bold, ani- 
 mated, and even daring. And this expression makes a singular 
 contrast to that in another likeness of the count, which was taken 
 at a much later period of life. The latter portrait represents him 
 in a foreign uniform, decorated with orders. The peculiar sarcasm 
 of the mouth is hidden beneath a very long and thick mustachio, 
 of a much darker color than the hair (for in both portraits, as in 
 Jervas's picture of Lord Bolingbroke, the hair is left undisguised 
 by the odious fashion of the day). Across one cheek there is a 
 slight scar, as of a sabre-cut. The whole character of this portrait 
 
DEVEEEUX. 171 
 
 is widely different from that in the earlier one. Not a trace of the 
 fire, the animation, — which were so striking in the physiognomy of 
 the youth of twenty, — is discoverahle in the calm, sedate, stately, 
 yet somewhat stern expression, which seems immovably spread 
 over the paler hue, and the more prominent features of the man of 
 about four or five and thirty. Yet, upon the whole, the face in the 
 latter portrait is handsomer ; and from its air of dignity and reflec- 
 tion, even more impressive than that in the one I have first 
 described. — Ed. 
 
172 DETEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX, 
 
 A Development of Character, and a long Letter — a Chapter, on 
 the whole, more important than it seems. 
 
 The scenes through which, of late, I have conducted 
 my reader, are by no means episodical; they illustrate, 
 far more than mere narration, the career to which I was 
 so honorably devoted. Dissipation, women, wine, — 
 Tarleton for a friend, Lady Hasselton for a mistress. 
 Let me now throw aside the mask. 
 
 To people who have naturally very intense and very 
 acute feelings, nothing is so fretting, so wearing to the 
 heart, as the commonplace affections, which are the 
 properties and offspring of the world. We have seen 
 the birds which, with wings undipped, children fasten 
 to a stake. The birds seek to fly, and are pulled back 
 before their wings are well spread; till, at last, they 
 either perpetually strain at the end of their short tether, 
 exciting only ridicule by their anguish and their impo- 
 tent impatience; or, sullen and despondent, they remain 
 on the ground, without an attempt to fly, nor creep, 
 even to the full limit which their fetters would allow. 
 Thus is it with feelings of the keen, wild nature I speak 
 of: they are either striving forever to pass the little 
 circle of slavery to which they are condemned, and so 
 move laughter by an excess of action and a want of 
 adequate power; or they rest motionless and moody, 
 disdaining the petty indulgence they might enjoy, till 
 sullenness is construed into resignation, and despair 
 
DEVEREUX. 173 
 
 seems the apathy of content. Time, however, cures 
 what it does not kill ; and both bird and beast, if they 
 pine not to the death at first, grow tame and acquiescent 
 at last. 
 
 What to me was the companionship of Tarleton, or 
 the attachment of Lady Hasselton ? I had yielded to the 
 one, and I had half eagerly, half scornfully, sought the 
 other. These, and the avocations they brought with 
 them, consumed my time; and of Time murdered, there 
 is a ghost which we term ennui. The hauntings of this 
 spectre are the especial curse of the higher orders ; and 
 hence springs a certain consequence to the passions. 
 Persons in those ranks of society, so exposed to ennui, 
 are either rendered totally incapable of real love, or 
 they love far more intensely than those in a lower 
 station; for the affections in them are either utterly 
 frittered away on a thousand petty objects (poor shifts 
 to escape the persecuting spectre) , or else, early dis- 
 gusted with the worthlessness of these objects, the heart 
 turns within, and languishes for something not found in 
 the daily routine of life. When this is the case, and 
 when the pining of the heart is once satisfied, and the 
 object of love is found, there are two mighty reasons 
 why the love should be most passionately cherished. 
 The first is, the utter indolence in which aristocratic 
 life oozes away, and which allows full food for that 
 meditation which can nurse, by sure degrees, the weak- 
 est desire into the strongest passion; and the second 
 reason is, that the insipidity and hollowness of all 
 patrician pursuits and pleasures render the excitement 
 of love more delicious and more necessary to the 
 ignavi terrarum domini than it is to those orders 
 of society more ' usefully, more constantly, and more 
 engrossingly engaged. 
 
174 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Wearied and sated with the pursuit of what was 
 worthless, my heart, at last, exhausted itself in pining 
 for what was pure. I recurred, with a tenderness which 
 I struggled with at first, and which in yielding to I 
 blushed to acknowledge, to the memory of Isora. And 
 in the world, surrounded by all which might be sup- 
 posed to cause me to forget her, my heart clung to her 
 far more endearingly than it had done in the rural 
 solitudes in which she had first allured it. The truth 
 was this : at the time I first loved her, other passions — 
 passions almost equally powerful — shared her empire. 
 Ambition and pleasure — vast whirlpools of thought — 
 had just opened themselves a channel in my mind, and 
 thither the tides of my desires were hurried and lost. 
 'Sow those whirlpools had lost their power, and the 
 channels, being dammed up, flowed back upon my breast. 
 Pleasure had disgusted me, and the only ambition I had 
 yet courted and pursued had palled upon me still more. 
 I say, the only ambition, — for as yet that which is of 
 the loftier and more lasting kind had not afforded me 
 a temptation ; and the hope which had borne the name 
 and rank of ambition had been the hope rather to glitter 
 than to rise. 
 
 These passions, not yet experienced when I lost Isora, 
 had afforded me at that period a ready comfort and a 
 sure engrossment. And, in satisfying the hasty jeal- 
 ousies of my temper, in deeming Isora unworthy, and 
 Gerald my rival, I naturally aroused in my pride a 
 dexterous orator as well as a firm ally. Pride not only 
 strengthened my passions, it also persuaded them by its 
 voice; and it was not till the languid yet deep still- 
 ness of sated wishes and palled desires fell upon me , that 
 the low accent of a love still surviving at my heart 
 made itself heard in answer. 
 
DEVEKEUX. 175 
 
 I DOW began to take a different view of Isora's con- 
 duet. I now began to doubt, where I had formerly 
 believed; and the doubt, first allied to fear, gradually- 
 brightened into hope. Of Gerald's rivalry, at least of 
 his identity with Barnard, and, consequently, of his 
 power over Isora, there was, and there could be, no 
 feeling short of certainty. But of what nature was that 
 power 1 Had not Isora assured me that' it was not love ? 
 Why should I disbelieve her? Nay, did she not love 
 myself? Had not her cheek blushed and her hand 
 trembled when I addressed her 1 Were these signs the 
 counterfeits of love? Were they not rather of that 
 heart's dye which no skill can counterfeit? She had 
 declared that she could not, that she could never be 
 mine: she had declared so with a fearful earnestness 
 which seemed to annihilate hope ; but had she not also, 
 in the same meeting, confessed that I was dear to her ? 
 Had not her lip given me a sweeter and a more eloquent 
 assurance of that confession than words? — -and could 
 hope perish while love existed? She had left me, — 
 she had bid me farewell forever; but that was no proof 
 of a want of love or of her unworthiness. Gerald, or 
 Barnard, evidently possessed an influence over father 
 
 as well as child. Their departure from might 
 
 have been occasioned by him, and she might have 
 deplored while she could not resist it: or she might 
 not even have deplored; nay, she might have desired, 
 she might have advised it, for my sake as well as hers, 
 were she thoroughly convinced that the union of our 
 loves was impossible. 
 
 But, then, of what nature could be this mysterious 
 authority which Gerald possessed over her] That 
 which he possessed over the sire, political schemes 
 might account for; but these, surely, could not have 
 
176 DEVEREUX. 
 
 much weight for the daughter. This, indeed, must 
 still remain doubtful and unaccounted for. One pre- 
 sumption, that Gerald was either no favored lover or 
 that he was unacquainted with her retreat, might he 
 drawn from his continued residence at Devereux Court. 
 If he loved Isora and knew her present abode, would 
 he not have sought her? Could he, I thought, live 
 away from that 'bright face, if once allowed to behold 
 it? unless, indeed (terrible thought!), there hung over 
 it the dimness of guilty familiarity, and Indifference 
 had been the offspring of possession. But was that 
 delicate and virgin face, where changes with every 
 moment coursed each other, harmonious to the changes 
 of the mind, as shadows in the valley reflect the clouds 
 of heaven, — was that face, so ingenuous, so girlishly 
 revelant of all — even of the slightest, the most transi- 
 tory — emotion, the face of one hardened in deceit and 
 inured to shame? The countenance is, it is true, but 
 a faithless mirror; but what man that has studied 
 women will not own that there is, at least while the 
 down of first youth is not brushed away, in the eye and 
 cheek of a zoned and untainted Innocence that which 
 survives not even the fruition of a lawful love, and has 
 no (nay, not even a shadowed and imperfect) likeness 
 in the face of Guilt? Then, too, had any worldlier or 
 mercenary sentiment entered her breast respecting me, 
 would Isora have flown from the suit of the eldest scion 
 of the rich house of Devereux; and would she, poor 
 and destitute, the daughter of an alien and an exile, — 
 would she have spontaneously relinquished any hope of 
 obtaining that alliance which maidens of the loftiest 
 houses of England had not disdained to desire ? Thus 
 confused and incoherent, but thus yearning fondly 
 towards her image and its imagined purity, did my 
 
DEVEREUX, 177 
 
 thoughts daily and liourly array themselves; and, in 
 proportion as I suffered common ties to drop from me 
 one by one, those thoughts clung the more tenderly to 
 that which, though severed from the rich argosy of 
 former love, was still indissolubly attached to the anchor 
 of its hope. 
 
 It was during this period of revived affection that I 
 received the following letter from my uncle : — 
 
 1 thank thee for thy long letter, my dear boy; I read it 
 over three times with great delight. Od's fish, Morton, you 
 are a sad Pickle, I fear, and seem to know all the ways of 
 the town as well as your old uncle did some thirty years ago ! 
 'T is a very pretty acquaintance with human nature that your 
 letters display. You put me in mind of Uttle Sid, who was 
 just about your height, and who had just such a pretty, shrewd 
 way of expressing himself in simile and point. Ah, it is easy 
 to see that you have profited by your old uncle's conversa- 
 tion, and that Farquhar and Etherege were not studied for 
 nothing. 
 
 But I have sad news for thee, my child, or rather it is sad 
 for me to tell thee my tidings. It is sad for the old birds to 
 linger in their nest when the young ones take wing and leave 
 them; but it is merry for the young birds to get away from 
 the dull old tree and frisk it in the sunshine, — merry for them 
 to get mates, and have young themselves. Now, do not think, 
 Morton, that by speaking of mates and young, I am going to 
 tell thee thy brothers are already married; nay, there is time 
 enough for those things, and I am not friendly to early wed- 
 dings, nor, to speak truly, a marvellous great admirer of that 
 holy ceremony at any age ; for the which there may be private 
 reasons, too long to relate to thee now. Moreover, I fear my 
 young day was a wicked time, — a heinous wicked time, and 
 we were wont to laugh at the wedded state, until, body of 
 me, some of us found it no laughing matter. 
 
 But to return, Morton, — to return to thy brothers, — they 
 have both left me ; and the house seems to me not the 
 VOL. I. — 12 
 
178 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 good old house it did when ye were all about me; and, some- 
 how or other, I look now oftener at the churchyard than I 
 was wont to do. You are all gone now, — all shot up and 
 become men ; and when your old uncle sees you no more, and 
 recollects that all his own contemporaries are out of the world, 
 he cannot help saying, as William Temple, poor fellow, once 
 prettily enough said, " Methinks it seems an impertinence in 
 me to be still alive." You went first, Morton, and I missed 
 you more than I cared to say; but you were always a kind 
 boy to those you loved, and you wrote the old knight merry 
 letters, that made him laugh, and think he was grown young 
 again (faith, boy, that was a jolly story of the three Squires at 
 Button's), — and once a week comes your packet, well filled, 
 as if you did not think it a task to make me happy, which 
 your handwriting always does; nor a shame to my gray hairs 
 that I take pleasure in the same things that please thee ! So, 
 thou seest, my child, that I have got through thy absence 
 pretty well, save that I have had no one to read thy letters to; 
 for Gerald and thou are still jealous of each other, — a great 
 sin in thee, Morton, which I prithee to reform. And Aubrey, 
 poor lad, is a little too rigid, considering his years, and it 
 looks not well in the dear boy to shake his head at the follies 
 of his uncle. And as to thy mother, Morton, I read her one 
 of thy letters, and she said thou wert a graceless reprobate to 
 think so much of this wicked world, and to write so familiarly 
 to thine aged relative. Now, I am not a young man, Morton ; 
 but the word " aged " has a sharp sound with it when it comes 
 from a lady's mouth. 
 
 Well, after thou hadst been gone a month, Aubrey and 
 Gerald, as I wrote thee word long since, in the last letter I 
 wrote thee with my own hand, made a tour together for a 
 little while, and that was a hard stroke on me. But after a 
 week or two Gerald returned; and I went out in my chair to 
 see the dear boy shoot, — 'sdeath, Morton, he handles the gun 
 well. And then Aubrey returned alone; but he looked pined 
 and moping, and shut himself up, and as thou dost love him 
 so, I did not like to tell thee till now, when he is quite well, 
 that he alarmed me much for him. He is too much addicted 
 
DEVEEEUX. 179 
 
 to his devotions, poor child, and seems to forget that the hope 
 of the next world ought to make us happy in this. Well, 
 Morton, at last, two months ago, Aubrey left us again, and 
 Gerald last week set off on a' tour through the sister kingdom, 
 as it is called. Faith, boy, if Scotland and England are sister 
 kingdoms, 't is a thousand pities for Scotland that they are not 
 co-heiresses ! 
 
 I should have told thee of this news before, but I have had, 
 as thou kuowest, the gout so villanously in my hand that till 
 t' other day I have not held a pen, and old NichoUs, my 
 amanuensis, is but a poor scribe ; and I did not love to let the 
 dog write to thee on all our family affairs, — especially as I 
 have a secret to tell thee which makes me plaguy uneasy. 
 Thou must know, Morton, that after thy departure Gerald 
 asked me for thy rooms; and though I did not like that any 
 one else should have what belonged to thee, yet I have 
 always had a foolish antipathy to say, " No ! " So thy brother 
 had them, on condition to leave them exactly as they were, 
 and to yield them to thee whenever thou shouldst return to 
 claim them. Well, Morton, when Gerald went on his tour 
 with thy youngest brother, old NichoUs — you know 'tis a 
 garrulous fellow — told me one night that his son Hugh, — 
 you remember Hugh, a thin youth, and a tall, — lingering by 
 the beach one evening, saw a man, wrapped in a cloak, come 
 out of the castle cave, unmoor one of the boats, and push of£ 
 to the little island opposite. Hugh swears by more than yea 
 and nay, that the man was Father Montreuil. Now, Morton, 
 this made me very uneasy, and I saw why thy brother Gerald 
 wanted thy rooms, which communicate so snugly with the 
 sea. So I told NichoUs, slyly, to have the great iron gate at 
 the mouth of the passage carefully locked ; and when it was 
 locked, I had an iron plate put over the whole lock, that the 
 lean Jesuit might not creep even through the keyhole. Thy 
 brother returned, and I told him a tale of the smugglers, who 
 have really been too daring of late, and insisted on the door 
 being left as I had ordered; and I told him, moreover, though 
 not as if I had suspected his communication with the priest, 
 that I interdicted aU further converse with that Umb of the 
 
180 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 church. Thy brother heard me with an indifferently bad 
 grace ; but I was peremptory, and the thing was agreed on. 
 
 Well, child, the day before Gerald last left us, I went to take 
 leave of him in his own room, — to tell thee the truth, I had 
 forgotten his travelling expenses, — when I was on the stairs 
 of the tower, I heard — by the Lord, I did — Montreuil's 
 voice in the outer room, as plainly as ever I heard it at prayers. 
 Dd's fish, Morton, I was an angered, and I made so much haste 
 to the door that my foot slipped by the way; thy brother 
 heard me fall, and came out ; but I looked at him as I never 
 looked at thee, Morton, and entered the room. Lo, the priest 
 was not there ; I searched both chambers in vain; so I made 
 thy brother lift up the trap-door, and kindle a lamp, and I 
 searched the room below, and the passage. The priest was 
 invisible. Thou knowest, Morton, that there is only one 
 egress in the passage, and that was locked, as I said before ; so 
 where the devil — the devil «indeed — could thy tutor have 
 escaped ? He could not have passed me on the stairs without 
 my seeing him ; he could not have leaped the window without 
 breaking his neck; he could not have got out of the passage 
 without making himself a current of air — Od's fish, Morton, 
 this thing might puzzle a wiser man than thine uncle. Gerald 
 affected to be mighty indignant at my suspicions ; but, God 
 forgive him, I saw he was playing a part. A man does not 
 write plays, my child, without being keeu-sighted in these 
 little intrigues ; and, moreover, it is impossible I could have 
 mistaken thy tutor's voice, which, to do it justice, is musical 
 enough, and is the most singular voice I ever heard, — unless 
 little Sid's be excepted. 
 
 Apropos of little Sid. I remember that in the Mall, when 
 I was walking there alone, three weeks after my marriage, De 
 Grammont and Sid joined me. I was in a melancholic mood, 
 — ('sdeath, Morton, marriage tames a man as water tames 
 mice!), — "Aha, Sir William," cried Sedley, "thou hast a 
 cloud on thee, — prithee now brighten it away: see, thy wife 
 shines on thee from the other end of the Mall." " Ah, talk 
 not to a dying man of his physic ! " said Grammont [that 
 Grammont was a shocking rogue, Morton I] — "Prithee, Sir 
 
DEVEEEUX. 181 
 
 William, what is the chief characteristic of wedlock ? is it a 
 state of war or of peace ? " " Oh, peace, to be sure I " cried 
 Sedley, " and Sir William and his lady carry with them the 
 emblem." " How 1 " cried I ; for I do assure thee, Morton, 
 1 was of a different turn of mind. " How ? " said Sid, gravely; 
 •' why, the emblem of peace is the cornucopia, which your lady 
 and you equitably divide, — she carries the copia, and you 
 the cor — " Nay, Morton, nay, I cannot finish the jest; for, 
 after all, it was a sorry thing in littre Sid, whom I had 
 befriended like a brother, with heart and purse, to wound me 
 80 cuttingly; but 'tis the way with your jesters. 
 
 Od's fish, now, how I have got out of my story! Well, I did 
 not go back to my room, Morton, till I had looked to the out- 
 side of the iron door, and seen that the plate was as firm as 
 ever; so now you have the whole of the matter. Gerald went 
 the next day, and I fear me much lest he should already be 
 caught in some Jacobite trap. Write me thy advice on the 
 subject. Meanwhile I have taken the precaution to have the 
 trap-door removed, and the aperture strongly boarded over. 
 
 But 't is time for me to give over. I have been four days 
 on this letter, for the gout comes now to me oftener than it did, 
 and I do not know when I may again write to thee with my 
 own hand ; so I resolved I would e' en empty my whole bud- 
 get at once. Thy mother is well and blooming ; she is, at the 
 present, abstractedly employed in a prodigious piece of tapes- 
 try, which old Nicholls informs me is the wonder of all the 
 women. 
 
 Heaven bless thee, my child ! Take care of thyself, and 
 drink moderately. It is hurtful, at thy age, to drink above a 
 gallon or so at a sitting. Heaven bless thee again, and when 
 the weather gets warmer, thou must come with thy kind looks, 
 to make me feel at home again. At present the country wears 
 a cheerless face, and everything about us is harsli and frosty, 
 except the blunt, good-for-nothing heart of thine uncle, and 
 that, winter or summer, is always warm to thee. 
 
 William Devekeux. 
 
 P. S. — I thank thee heartily for the little spaniel of the 
 new breed thou gottest me from the Duchess of Marlborough. 
 
182 DEVEREUX. 
 
 It has the prettiest red and white, and the blackest eyes pos- 
 sible. But poor Ponto is as jealous as a wife three years 
 married, and I cannot bear the old hound to be vexed, so I 
 shall transfer the little creature, its rival, to thy mother. 
 
 This letter, tolerably characteristic of the blended 
 simplicity, penetration, and overflowing kindness of 
 the writer, occasioned me much anxious thought. 
 
 There was no doubt in my mind but that Gerald and 
 Montreuil were engaged in some intrigue for the exiled 
 family. The disguised name which the former assumed ; 
 the state reasons which D'Alvarez confessed that Bar- 
 nard, or rather Gerald, had for concealment, and which 
 proved, at least, that some state plot in which Gerald 
 was engaged was known to the Spaniard, joined to those 
 expressions of Montreuil, which did all but own a 
 design for the restoration of the deposed Line ; and the 
 power which I knew he possessed over Gerald, whose 
 mind, at once bold and facile, would love the adventure 
 of the intrigue , and yield to Montreuil's suggestions on 
 its nature, — these combined circumstances left me in 
 no doubt upon a subject deeply interesting to the honor 
 of our house, and the very life of one of its members. 
 Nothing, however, for me to do, calculated to prevent 
 or impede the designs of Montreuil and the danger of 
 Gerald, occurred to me. Eager alike in my hatred and 
 my love, I said inly, "What matters it whether one 
 whom the ties of blood never softened towards me, with 
 whom, from my childhood upwards, I have wrestled as 
 with an enemy, — what matters it whether he win fame 
 or death in the perilous game he has engaged in t " 
 And turning from this most generous and most broth- 
 erly view of the subject, I began only to think whether 
 the search or the society of Isora also influenced Gerald 
 
DEVEREUX. 183 
 
 in his absence from home. After a fruitless and incon- 
 clusive meditation on that head, my thoughts took 
 a less selfish turn, and dwelt with all the softness of 
 pity and the anxiety of love upon the morbid tem- 
 perament and ascetic devotions of Aubrey. What, for 
 one already so abstracted from the enjoyments of earth, 
 so darkened by superstitious misconceptions of the true 
 nature of God, and the true objects of his creatures, — 
 what could be anticipated but wasted powers and a 
 perverted life? Alas! when will men perceive the 
 difference between religion and priestcraft? When 
 will they perceive that reason, so far from extinguish- 
 ing religion by a more gaudy light, sheds on it all its 
 lustre? It is fabled that the first legislator of the 
 Peruvians received from the deity a golden rod, with 
 which in his wanderings he was to strike the earth, 
 until in some destined spot the earth entirely absorbed 
 it, and there — and there alone — was he to erect a 
 temple to the Divinity. What is this fable- but the 
 cloak of an inestimable moral ? Our reason is the rod 
 of gold; the vast world of truth gives the soil, which 
 it is perpetually to sound; and only where without 
 resistance the soil receives the rod which guided and 
 supported us, will our Altar be sacred and our worship 
 be accepted. 
 
184 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 Being a shoit Chapter, containing a most important Event. 
 
 SiE William's letter was still fresh in my mind, 
 when, for want of some less noble quarter wherein to 
 bestow my tediousness, I repaired to St. John. As I 
 crossed the hall to his apartment, two men, just dis- 
 missed from his presence, passed me rapidly : one was 
 unknown to me, but there was no mistaking the other, 
 — it was Montreuil. I was greatly startled; the priest 
 not appearing to notice me, and conversing in a whis- 
 pered yet seemingly vehement tone with his companion, 
 hurried on, and vanished through the street-door. I 
 entered St. John's room ; he was alone, and received me 
 with his usual gayety. 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. Secretary," said I; "but if not a 
 question of state, do inform me what you know respect- 
 ing the taller one of those two gentlemen who have just 
 quitted you. " 
 
 "It is a question of state, my dear Devereuxj so my 
 answer must be brief, — very little. " 
 
 " You know who he is ? " 
 
 " Yes, a Jesuit, and a marvellously shrewd one, — tho 
 Abb6 Montreuil. " 
 
 " He was my tutor. " 
 
 " Ah! so I have heard." 
 
 "And your acquaintance with him is positively and 
 bond fide of a state nature ? " 
 
 "Positively and bond fide." 
 
DEVEEEUX. 185 
 
 "I could tell you something of him; he is certainly 
 in the service of the Court at St. Germains, and a ter- 
 rible plotter on this side the Channel. " 
 
 " Possibly ; but I wish to receive no information 
 respecting him." 
 
 One great virtue of business did St. John possess, and 
 I have never known any statesman who possessed it so 
 eminently : it was the discreet distinction between 
 friends of the statesman and friends of the man. Much 
 and intimately as I knew St. John , I could never glean 
 from him a single secret of a state nature, until, indeed, 
 at a later period, I leagued myself to a portion of his 
 public schemes. Accordingly I found him, at the 
 present moment, perfectly impregnable to my inquiries; 
 and it was not till I knew Montreuil's companion was 
 that celebrated intriguant, the Abb^ Gaultier, that I 
 ascertained the exact nature of the priest's business 
 with St. John, and the exact motive of the civilities 
 he had received from Abigail Masham.^ Being at last 
 forced, despairingly, to give over the attempt on his 
 discretion, I suffered St. John to turn the conversation 
 upon other topics ; and as these were not much to the 
 existent humor of my mind, I soon rose to depart. 
 
 "Stay, Count," said St. John; "shall you ride 
 to-day 1 " 
 
 " If you will bear me company. " 
 
 " Volontiers. To say the truth, I was about to ask 
 you to canter your bay horse with me first to Spring 
 
 • Namely, that Count Devereux ascertained the priest's commu. 
 nications and overtures from the chevalier. The precise extent of 
 Bolingbroke's secret negotiations with the exiled prince is still one 
 of the darkest portions of the history of that time. That negotia- 
 tions were carried on, both by Harley and by St. John, very largely 
 and very closely, I need not say that there is no doubt. — Ed. 
 
186 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 Gardens, 1 where I have a promise to make to the 
 director; and secondly, on a mission of charity to a 
 poor foreigner of rank and birth, who, in his profound 
 ignorance of this country, thought it right to enter into 
 a plot with some wise heads, and to reveal it to some 
 foolish tongues, who brought it to us with as much 
 clatter as if it were a second gunpowder project. I 
 easily brought him off that scrape, and I am now going 
 to give him a caution for the future. Poor gentleman! 
 I hear that he is grievously distressed in pecuniary 
 matters, and I always had a kindness for exiles. Who 
 knows but that a state of exile may be our own fate 1 
 and this alien is sprung from a race as haughty as that 
 of St. John or of Devereux. The res angusta domi 
 must gall him sorely! " 
 
 " True," said I, slowly. " What may be the name 
 of the foreigner ? " 
 
 ' Why, — complain not hereafter that I do not trust 
 you in state matters, — I will divulge : D'Alvarez, — 
 Don Diego, — ■ an hidalgo of the best blood of Andalu- 
 sia; and not unworthy of it, I fancy, in the virtues of 
 fightings though he may be in those of counsel. But — 
 Heaven:, ! Devereux, you seem ill ! " 
 
 " No, no! Have you ever seen this man 1 " 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 At this word a thrill of joy shot across me, for I 
 knew St. John's fame for gallantry, and I was suspicioua 
 of the motives of his visit. 
 
 "St. John, I know this Spaniard, — I know him 
 well and intimately. Gould you not commission me 
 to do your errand and deliver your caution? Eelief 
 from me he might accept ; from you, as a stranger, pride 
 might forbid itj and you would really confer on me a 
 1 Vauxhall. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 187 
 
 personal and an essential kindness, if you would give 
 me so fair an opportunity to confer kindness upon 
 him." 
 
 " Very well ; I am delighted to oblige you in any 
 ■way. Take his direction; you see his abode is in a very 
 pitiful suburb. Tell him from me that he is quite safe 
 at present; but tell him also to avoid henceforward 
 all imprudence, all connection with priests, plotters, 
 et tons ces gens-la, as he values his personal safety, or 
 at least his continuance in this most hospitable country. 
 It is not from every wood that we make a Mercury , nor 
 from every brain that we can carve a Mercury's genius 
 of intrigue." 
 
 " Nobody ought to be better skilled in the materials 
 requisite for such productions than Mr. Secretary St. 
 John! " said I; " and now, adieu." 
 
 "Adieu, if you will not ride with me. We meet at 
 Sir "William Wyndham's to-morrow." 
 
 Masking my agitation till I was alone, I rejoiced 
 when I found myself in the open streets. I summoned 
 a hackney-coach, and drove as rapidly as the vehicle 
 would permit, to the petty and obscure suburb to which 
 St. John had directed me. The coach stopped at the 
 door of a very humble but not absolutely wretched 
 abode. I knocked at the door. A woman opened it, 
 and, in answer to my inquiries, told me that the poor 
 foreign gentleman was very ill, very ill indeed, — had 
 suffered a paralytic stroke, — not expected to live. His 
 daughter was with him now ; would see no one, — even 
 Mr. Barnard had been denied admission. 
 
 At that name my feelings, shocked and stunned at 
 first by the unexpected intelligence of the poor Span- 
 iard's danger, felt a sudden and fierce revulsion. I 
 combated it. This is no time, I thought, for any 
 
188 DEVEREUX. 
 
 jealous, for any selfish emotion. If I can serve her, if 
 I can relieve her father, let me he contented. " She 
 ■will see me," I said aloud; and I slipped some money 
 in the woman's hand. " I am an old friend of the 
 family, and I shall not he an unwelcome intruder on 
 the sick-room of the sufferer." 
 
 "Intruder, sir! — hless you, the poor gentleman is 
 qu^te speechless and insensible." 
 
 At hearing this, I could refrain no longer. Isora's 
 disconsolate, solitary, destitute condition broke irre- 
 sistibly upon me, and all scruple of more delicate and 
 formal nature vanished at once. I ascended the stairs, 
 followed by the old woman. She stopped me by the 
 threshold of a room on the second floor, and whispered, 
 " There ! " I paused an instant, — collected breath and 
 courage, and entered. The room was partially dark- 
 ened. The curtains were drawn closely around the 
 bed. By a table, on which stood two or three phials 
 of medicine, I beheld Isora, listening with an eager, 
 a most eager and intent face, to a man whose garb 
 betrayed his healing profession, and who, laying a 
 finger on the outstretched palm of his other hand, 
 appeared giving his precise instructions, and uttering 
 that oracular breath which — mere human words to him 
 ..— was a message of fate itself, a fiat on which hung all 
 that makes life life to his trembling and devout lis- 
 tener. Monarchs of earth, ye have not so supreme a 
 power over woe and happiness as one village leech! 
 As he turned to leave her, she drew from a most slender 
 purse a few petty coins, and I saw that she muttered 
 some words indicative of the shame of poverty, as she 
 tremblingly tendered them to the outstretched palm. 
 Twice did that palm close and open on the paltry sum ; 
 and the third time the native instinct of the heart over- 
 
DEVIREUX. 189 
 
 came the later impulse of the profession. The limb of 
 Galen drew back, and shaking with a gentle oscillation 
 his capitalian honors, he laid the money softly on the 
 table, and buttoning up the pouch of his nether gar- 
 ment, as if to resist temptation, he pressed the poor 
 hand still extended towards him, and bowing over it 
 with a kind respect, for which I did long to approach 
 and kiss his most withered and undainty cheek, he 
 turned quickly round, and almost fell against me in 
 the abstracted hurry of his exit. 
 
 "Hush!" said I, softly. "What hope of your 
 patient? " 
 
 The leech glanced at me meaningly, and I whispered 
 to him to wait for me below. Isora had not yet seen 
 me. It is a notable distinction in the feelings, that all 
 but the solitary one of grief sharpen into exquisite edge 
 the keenness of the senses, but grief blunts them to a 
 most dull obtuseness. I hesitated now to come forward ; 
 and so I stood, hat in hand, by the door, and not know- 
 ing that the tears streamed down my cheeks as I fixed 
 my gaze upon Isora. She, too, stood still, just where 
 the leech had left her, with her eyes fixed upon the 
 ground, and her head drooping. The right hand which 
 the man had pressed had sunk slowly and heavily by 
 her side, with the small, snowy fingers half closed over 
 the palm. There is no describing the despondency 
 which the listless position of that hand spoke ; and the 
 left hand lay with a like indolence of sorrow on the 
 table, with one finger outstretched and pointing towards 
 the phials, just as it had, some moments before, sec- 
 onded the injunctions of the prim physician. Well, 
 for my part, if I were a painter I would come now and 
 then to a sick -chamber for a. study! 
 
190 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 At last Isora, ■with a very quiet gesture of self- 
 recovery, moved towards the bed, and the next mo- 
 ment I was by her side. If my life depended on it, 
 I could not write one, no, not one syllable more of this 
 scene. 
 
DEVEKEUX. 191 
 
 CHAPTEE XI, 
 
 Containing more than any other Chapter in the Second Book 
 of this History. 
 
 My first proposal was to remove the patient, with all 
 due care and gentleness, to a better lodging, and a 
 district more convenient for the visits of the most 
 eminent physicians. When I expressed this wish to 
 Isora, she looked at me long and wistfully, and then 
 burst into tears. " You will not deceive us," said she, 
 " and I accept your kindness at once ; from him I 
 rejected the same offer." 
 
 " Him ? Of whom speak you ? — this Barnard, or 
 rather — But I know him ! " A startling expression 
 passed over Isora's speaking face. 
 
 "Know him! " she cried, interrupting me; "you do 
 not, — you cannot! " 
 
 " Take courage, dearest Isora, — if I may so dare to 
 call you , — take courage ; it is fearful to have a rival in 
 that quarter, but I am prepared for it. This Barnard, 
 tell me again , do you love him ! " 
 
 "Love? — God, no!" 
 
 " What, then ? Po you still fear him ^ — fear him, 
 too, protected by the unsleeping eye and the vigilant 
 hand of a love like mine ? " 
 
 " Yes! " she said falteringly, " I fear for you ! " 
 
 "Me!" I cried, laughing scornfully, — "me! Nay, 
 dearest, there breathes not that man whom you need 
 fear on my account. But, answer me, is not — " 
 
192 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, for mercy's sake! " cried Isora, 
 eagerly, " do not question me, — I may not tell you who 
 or what this man is; I am bound, by a most solemn 
 oath , never to divulge that secret. " 
 
 " I care not," said I, calmly; "I want no confirma- 
 tion of my knowledge, — this masked rival is my own 
 brother! " 
 
 I fixed my eyes full on Isora while I said this, and 
 she quailed beneath my gaze; her cheek, her lips, were 
 uttterly without color, and an expression of sickening 
 and keen anguish was graven upon her face. She made 
 no answer. 
 
 " Yes! " resumed I, bitterly, " it is my brother: be it 
 so, ■ — I am prepared; but if you can, Isora, say one word 
 to deny it." 
 
 Isora's tongue seemed literally to cleave to her mouth; 
 at last, with a violent effort, she muttered: "I have 
 told you, Morton, that I am bound by oath not to 
 divulge this secret; nor may I breathe a single syllable 
 calculated to do so, — if I deny one name, you may 
 question me no more; and therefore to deny one is a 
 breach of my oath. But beware! " she added, vehe- 
 mently, " oh, beware how your suspicions — mere vague, 
 baseless suspicions — criminate a brother; and, above 
 all, whomsoever you believe to be the real being under 
 this di.sguised name, as you value your life and 
 therefore mine, breathe not to him a syllable of your 
 belief." 
 
 I was so struck with the energy with which this was 
 said that after a short pause I rejoined in an altered 
 tone, — 
 
 " I cannot believe that I have aught against life to 
 fear from a brother's hand ; but I will promise you to 
 guard against latent danger. But is your oath so per- 
 
DEVEREUX. 193 
 
 emptory that you cannot deny even one name 1 — if not, 
 and you can deny this, I swear to you that I will never 
 question you upon another. " 
 
 Again a fierce convulsion wrung the lip and distorted 
 the perfect features of Isora. She remained silent for 
 some moments, and then murmured : " My oath forhids 
 me even that single answer, — tempt me no more : now 
 and forever I am mute upon this subject. " 
 
 Perhaps some slight and momentary anger or doubt 
 or suspicion betrayed itself upon my countenance; for 
 Isora, after looking upon me long and mournfully, said 
 in a quiet but melancholy tone: " I see your thoughts, 
 and I do not reproach you for them : it is natural that 
 you should think ill of one whom this mystery sur- 
 rounds, — one, too, placed under such circumstances of 
 humiliation and distrust. I have lived long in your 
 country, — I have seen, for the last few months, much 
 of its inhabitants ; I have studied, too, the works which 
 profess to unfold its national and peculiar character; I 
 know that you have a distrust of the people of other 
 climates; I know that you are cautious and full of 
 suspicious vigilance, even in your commerce with each 
 other; I know, too " (and Isora's heart swelled visibly 
 as she spoke) , " that poverty itself, in the eyes of your 
 commercial countrymen, is a crime, and that they rarely 
 feel confidence or place faith in those who are unhappy ; 
 — why , Count Devereux, why should I require more of 
 you than of the rest of your nation 1 Why should you 
 think better of the penniless and friendless girl, the 
 degraded exile, the victim of doubt, which is so often 
 the disguise of guilt, than any other — any one even 
 among my own people — would think of one so merci- 
 lessly deprived of all the decent and appropriate barriers 
 by which a maiden should be surrounded? No, no; 
 
 VOL. I. — 13 
 
194 DEfEEEUX. 
 
 leave me as you found me, — leave my poor father 
 where you see him: any place will do for us to die in." 
 " Isora! " I said, clasping her in my arms, " you do 
 not know me yet. Had I found you in prosperity and 
 in the world's honor; had I wooed you in your father's 
 halls, and girt around with the friends and kinsmen of 
 your race, — I might have pressed for more than you 
 will now tell me, I might have indulged suspicion 
 where I perceived mystery, and I might not have loved 
 as I love you now! Now, Isora, in misfortune, in 
 destitution, I place without reserve my whole heart 
 
 — its trust, its zeal, its devotion — in your keeping; 
 come evil or good, storm or sunshine, I am yours wholly 
 and forever. Reject me if you will, I will return to 
 you again; and never, never, save from my own eyes 
 or your own lips, will I receive a single evidence 
 detracting from your purity or — Isora, mine own, 
 own Isora, may I not add also — from your love 1 " 
 
 " Too, too generous ! " murmured Isora, struggling 
 passionately with her tears ; " may Heaven forsake me 
 if ever I am ungrateful to thee ! and believe — believe, 
 that if love, more fond, more true, more devoted than 
 woman ever 'felt before, can repay you, you shall be 
 repaid! " 
 
 Why, at that moment, did my heart leap so joyously 
 within me ? — why did I say inly, " The treasure I have 
 so long yearned for is found at last : we have met, and 
 through the waste of years we will walk together and 
 never part again " 1 Why, at that moment of bliss, did 
 I not rather feel a foretaste of the coming woe ? Oh, 
 blind and capricious Fate, that gives us a presentiment 
 at one while, and withholds it at another! Knowledge, 
 and Prudence , and calculating Foresight, what are ye? 
 
 — warnings unto others, not ourselves. Eeason is a 
 
DEVEREUX. 195 
 
 lamp which sheddeth afar a glorious and general light, 
 but leaveth all that is around it in darkness and in 
 gloom! We foresee and foretell the destiny of others, 
 — we march credulous and benighted to our own; and 
 like Laocoon, from the very altars by which we stand 
 as the soothsayer and the priest, creep forth, unsus- 
 pected and undreamed of, the serpents which are fated 
 to destroy us ! 
 
 That very day, then, Alvarez was removed to a 
 lodging more worthy of his birth, and more calculated 
 to afford hope of his recovery. He bore the removal 
 without any evident sign of fatigue; but his dreadful 
 malady had taken away both speech and sense, and he 
 was already more than half the property of the grave. 
 I sent, however, for the best medical advice which 
 London could afford. They met, prescribed, and left 
 the patient just as they found him. I know not, in the 
 progress of science, what physicians may be to posterity ; 
 but in my time they are false witnesses subpoenaed 
 against Death, whose testimony always tells less in 
 favor of the plaintiff than the defendant. 
 
 Before we left the poor Spaniard's former lodging, 
 and when I was on the point of giving some instruc- 
 tions to the landlady respecting the place to which the 
 few articles of property belonging to Don Diego and 
 Isora were to be moved, Isora made me a sign to be 
 silent, which I obeyed. " Pardon me," said she, after- 
 wards; "but I confess that I am anxious our next 
 residence should not be known, — should not be subject 
 to the intrusion of — of this — " 
 
 " Barnard, as you call him. I understand you ; be it 
 so! " and accordingly I enjoined the goods to be sent 
 to my own house, whence they were removed to Don 
 Diego's new abode; and I took especial care to leave with 
 
196 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the good lady no clew to discover Alvarez and his 
 daughter, otherwise than through me. The pleasure 
 afforded me of directing Gerald's attention to myself, 
 I could not resist. "Tell Mr. Barnard, when he calls," 
 said I, "that only through Count Morton Devereux 
 will he hear of Don Diego d' Alvarez, and the lady his 
 daughter. " 
 
 "I will, your honor," said the landlady; and then, 
 looking at me more attentively, she added, " Bless me! 
 now when you speak, there is a very strong likeness 
 between yourself and Mr. Barnard." 
 
 I recoiled as if an adder had stung me, and hurried 
 into the coach to support the patient, who was already 
 placed there. 
 
 Now, then, my daily post was by the bed of disease 
 and suffering ; in the chamber of death was my vow of 
 love ratified, and in sadness and in sorrow was it 
 returned. But it is in such scenes that the deepest, the 
 most endearing, and the most holy species of the passion 
 is engendered. As I heard Isora's low voice tremble 
 with the suspense of one who watches over the hourly 
 severing of the affection of Nature and of early years; 
 as I saw her light step flit by the pillow which she 
 emoothedj and her cheek alternately flush and fade, in 
 watching the wants which she relieved; as I marked 
 her mute, her unwearying tenderness, breaking into a 
 thousand nameless but mighty cares, and pervading, like 
 an angel's vigilance, every — yea, the minutest — course 
 into which it flowed, — ■ did I not behold her in that 
 sphere in which woman is most lovely, and in which 
 love itself consecrates its admiration, and purifies its 
 most ardent desires? That was not a time for our 
 hearts to speak audibly to each other; but we felt that 
 they grew closer and closer, and we asked not for the 
 
DEVEEEUX. 197 
 
 poor eloquence of words. But over this scene let me 
 not linger. 
 
 One morning, as I was proceeding on foot to Isora's, 
 I perceived, on the opposite side of the way, Montreuil 
 and Gerald: they were conversing eagerly; they both 
 saw me. Montreuil made a slight, quiet, and dignified 
 inclination of the head ; Gerald colored and hesitated. 
 I thought he was about to leave his companion and 
 address me; but, with a haughty and severe air, I 
 passed on; and Gerald, as if stung by my demeanor, 
 bit his lip vehemently, and followed my example. A 
 few minutes afterwards I felt an inclination to regret 
 that I had not afforded him an opportunity of address- 
 ing me. " I might," thought I, " have then taunted 
 him with his persecution of Isora, and defied him to 
 execute those threats against me in which it is evi- 
 dent, from her apprehensions for my safety, that he 
 indulged. " 
 
 I had not, however, much leisure for these thoughts. 
 When I arrived at the lodgings of Alvarez, I found that 
 a great change had taken place in his condition ; he had 
 recovered speech, though imperfectly, and testified a 
 return to sense. I flew upstairs with a light step, to 
 congratulate Isora. She met me at the door. " Hush ! " 
 she whispered ; " my father sleeps ! " But she did not 
 speak with the animation I had anticipated. 
 
 " What is the matter, dearest ? " said I, following her 
 into another apartment; "you seem sad, and your eyes 
 are red with tears, which are not, methinks, entirely 
 the tears of joy at this happy change in your father? " 
 
 " I am marked out for suffering," returned Isora, more 
 keenly than she was wont to speak. I pressed her to 
 explain her meaning ; she hesitated at first, but at length 
 confessed that her father had always been anxious for 
 
198 DEVEREUX. 
 
 her marriage with the soi-disant Barnard, and that his 
 first words on his recovery had been to press her to 
 consent to his wishes. 
 
 " My poor father," said she, weepingly, "speaks and 
 thinks only for my fancied good ; but his senses as yet 
 are only recovered in part, and he cannot even under- 
 stand me when I speak of you. ' I shall die,' he said, 
 — ' I shall die, and you will be left on the wide world ! ' 
 I in vain endeavored to explain to him that I should 
 have a protector. He fell asleep, muttering those 
 words, and with tears in his eyes." 
 
 " Does he know as much of this Barnard as you do 1 " 
 said I. 
 
 " Heavens, no ! or he would never have pressed me to 
 marry one so wicked." 
 
 " Does he know even who he is ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said Isora , after a pause ; " but he has not 
 known it long. " 
 
 Here the physician joined us, and taking me aside, 
 informed me that, as he had foreboded, sleep had been 
 the harbinger of death, and that Don Diego was no 
 more. I broke the news as gently as I could to Isora ; 
 but her grief was far more violent than I could have 
 anticipated; and nothing seemed to cut her so deeply 
 to the heart as the thought that his last wish had been 
 one with which she had not complied and could never 
 comply. 
 
 I pass over the first days of mourning. I come to the 
 one after Don Diego's funeral. I had been with Isora 
 in the morning. I left her for a few hours, and returned 
 at the first dusk of evening with some books and music, 
 which I vainly hoped she might recur to for a moment- 
 ary abstraction from her grief. I dismissed my carriage , 
 with the intention of walking home, and, addressing the 
 
DEVEEE0X. 199 
 
 ■vvoman-servant who admitted me, inquired, as was my 
 wont, after Isora. " She has been very ill," replied the 
 woman, " ever since the strange gentleman left her." 
 
 " The strange gentleman 1 " 
 
 Yes, he had forced his way upstairs, despite of the 
 denial the servant had been ordered to give to all 
 strangers. He had entered Isora's room; and the 
 woman, in answer to my urgent inquiries, added that 
 she had heard his voice raised to a loud and harsh key 
 in the apartment ; he had stayed there about a quarter 
 of an hour, and had then hurried out, seemingly in great 
 disorder and agitation. 
 
 " What description of man was he ? " I asked. 
 
 The woman answered that he was mantled from head 
 to foot in his cloak, which was richly laced, and his 
 hat was looped with diamonds, but slouched over that 
 part of his face which the collar of his cloak did not 
 hide, so that she could not further describe him than 
 as one of a haughty and abrupt bearing, and evidently 
 belonging to the higher ranks. 
 
 Convinced that Gerald had been the intruder, I 
 hastened up the stairs to Isora. She received me with 
 a sickly and faint smile, and endeavored to conceal the 
 traces of her tears. 
 
 " So," said I, "this insolent persecutor of yours has 
 discovered your abode, and again insulted or intimi' 
 dated you. He shall do so no more! I will seek him 
 to-morrow; and no affinity of blood shall prevent — " 
 
 " Morton, dear Morton! " cried Isora, in great alarm j 
 and yet with a certain determination^ stamped upon her 
 features, * hear me ! It is true this man has been' here ; 
 it is true that, fearful and terrible- as h& is, he has 
 agitated and alarmed me: but it was only for youi, 
 Morton, — by the Holy Virgin, it was only for youI 
 
200 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ' The moment,' said he, and his voice ran shiveringly 
 through my heart, like a dagger, — ' the moment Morton 
 Devereux discovers who is his rival, that moment his 
 death-warrant is irrevocably sealed! ' " 
 
 " Arrogant boaster ! " I cried ; and my blood burned 
 with the intense rage which a much slighter cause 
 would have kindled, from the natural fierceness of my 
 temper. " Does he think my life is at his bidding, to 
 allow or to withhold? Unhand me, Isora, unhand me! 
 I tell you I will seek him this moment, and dare him 
 to do his worst! " 
 
 " Do so,'' said Isora, calmly, and releasing her hold, — 
 " do so ; but hear me first : the moment you breathe 
 to him your suspicions, you place an eternal barrier 
 betwixt yourself and me! Pledge me your faith that 
 you will never, while I live at least, reveal to him — 
 to any one whom you suspect — your reproach, your 
 defiance, your knowledge, nay, not even your slightest 
 suspicion of his identity with my persecutor. Promise 
 me this, Morton Devereux, or I, in my turn, before that 
 crucifix, whose sanctity we both acknowledge and adore, 
 — thai crucifix which has descended to my race for three 
 unbroken centuries, — which for my departed father, 
 in the solemn vow and in the death agony, has still 
 been a witness, a consolation, and a pledge between 
 the soul and its Creator, — > by that crucifix which my 
 dying mother clasped to her bosom, when she com- 
 mitted me, an infant, to the care of that Heaven which 
 hears and records forever our lightest word, — I swear 
 that I will never be yours! " 
 
 "Isora!" said I, awed and startled, yet struggling 
 against the impression her energy made upon me, " you 
 know not to what you pledge yourself, nor what you 
 require of me. If I do not seek out this man, — if I 
 
DEVEREDX. 201 
 
 do not expose to him my knowledge of his pursuit and 
 unhallowed persecution of you; if I do not effectually 
 prohibit and prevent their continuance, ■ — • think well , 
 what security have I for your future peace of mind, 
 nay, even for the safety of your honor or your life? 
 A man thus bold, daring, and un baffled in his pursuit, 
 thus vigilant and skilful in his selection of time and 
 occasion, so that, despite my constant and anxious en- 
 deavor to meet him in your presence, I have never been 
 able to do so, ■ — from a man, I say, thus pertinacious 
 in resolution, thus crafty in disguise, what may you not 
 dread when you leave him utterly fearless by the license 
 of impunity? Think too, again, Isora, that the mystery 
 dishonors as much a? the danger menaces. Is it meet 
 that my betrothed and my future bride should be sub- 
 jected to these secret and terrible visitations, — visita- 
 tions of a man professing himself her lover, and evincing 
 the vehemence of his passion by that of his pursuit? 
 Tsora, Isora, you have weighed not these things; you 
 know not what you demand of me. " 
 
 "I do," answered Isora; "I do know all that I 
 demand of you. I demand of you only to preserve 
 your life." 
 
 "How!" said I, impatiently; "cannot my hand 
 preserve my life ? and is it for you, the daughter of a 
 line of warriors, to ask your lover and your husband to 
 shrink from a single foe ? " 
 
 "No, Morton," answered Isora. "Were you going 
 to battle, I would gird on your sword myself; were, 
 too, this man other than he is, and you were about to 
 meet him in open contest, I would not wrong you, nor 
 degrade your betrothed, by a fear. But I know my 
 persecutor well, — fierce, unrelenting, dreadful in his 
 dark and ungovernable passions as he is, he has not the 
 
202 DKVEEEUX. 
 
 courage to confront you. I fear not the open foe, but 
 the lurking and sure assassin. His very earnestness to 
 avoid you, the precautions he has taken, are alone 
 sufficient to convince you that he dreads personally to 
 oppose your claim or to vindicate himself." 
 
 " Then what have I to fear ? " 
 
 "Everything! Do you not know that from men at 
 once fierce, crafty, and shrinking from bold violence, 
 the stuff for assassins is always made ? And if I wanted 
 surer proof of his designs than inference, his oath — it 
 rings in my ears now — is sufficient : ' The moment 
 Morton Devereux discovers who is his rival, that 
 moment his death-warrant is irrevocably sealed. ' Mor- 
 ton, I demand your promise, or, though my heart break, 
 I will record my own vow. " 
 
 " Stay, stay ! " I said, in anger and in sorrow ; " were 
 I to promise this, and for my own safety hazard yours, 
 what could you deem me 1 " 
 
 "Fear not for me, Morton," answered Isora; "you 
 have no cause. I tell you that this man, villain as he 
 is, ever leaves me humbled and abased. Do not think 
 that in all times and all scenes I am the foolish and 
 weak creature you behold me now. Remember that 
 you said rightly I was the daughter of a line of war- 
 riors ; and I have that within me which will not shame 
 my descent." 
 
 " But, dearest, your resolution may avail you for a 
 time ; but it cannot forever baffle the hardened nature 
 of a man. I know my own sex, and I know my own 
 ferocity , were it once aroused. " 
 
 "But, Morton, you do not know m," said Isora, 
 proudly; and her face, as she spoke, was set and even 
 stern. "lam only the coward when I think of you. 
 A word, a look of mine, can abash this man; or, if it 
 
DEVEREUX. 203 
 
 could not, I am never without a weapon to defend 
 myself or — or — " Isora's voice, before firm and 
 collected, now faltered, and a deep blush flowed over 
 the marble paleness of her face. 
 
 " Or what? " said I, anxiously. 
 
 "Or thee, Morton," murmured Isora, tenderly, and 
 withdrawing her eyes from mine. 
 
 The tone, the look that accompanied these words, 
 melted me at once. I rose, I clasped Isora to my heart. 
 
 "You are a strange compound, my own fairy queen; 
 but these lips, this cheek, those eyes, are not fit 
 features for a heroine." 
 
 " Morton, if I had less determination in my heart, I 
 could not love you so well." 
 
 " But tell me," I whispered with a smile, " where is 
 this weapon on which you rely so strongly 1 " 
 
 "Here!" answered Isora, blushingly; and, extricat- 
 ing herself from me, she showed me a small, two-edged 
 dagger, which she wore carefully concealed within the 
 folds of her dress. I looked over the bright, keen 
 blade with surprise and yet with pleasure at the latent 
 resolution of a character seemingly so soft. I say, with 
 pleasure, for it suited well with my own fierce and wild 
 temper. I returned the weapon to her with a smile and 
 a jest. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Isora, shrinking from my kiss, " I should 
 not have been so bold if I only feared danger for 
 myself. " 
 
 But if for a moment we forgot, in the gushings of 
 our affection, the object of our converse and dispute, we 
 soon returned to it again. Isora was the first to recur 
 to it. She reminded me of the projnise she required; 
 and she spoke with a seriousness and a solemnity which 
 I found myself scarcely able to resist. 
 
204 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " But, " I said, " if he ever molest you hereafter ; if 
 again I find that bright cheek blanched, and those dear 
 eyes dimmed with tears, and I know that in my own 
 house some one has dared thus to insult its queen, am 
 I to be still torpid and inactive, lest a dastard and 
 craven hand should avenge my assertion of your honor 
 and mine 1 " 
 
 " No, Morton ; after our marriage, whenever that be, 
 you will have nothing to apprehend from him on the, 
 same ground as before: my fear for you, too, will not be 
 what it is now; your honor will be bound in mine, and 
 nothing shall induce me to hazard it, — -no, not even 
 your safety. I have every reason to believe that after 
 that event he will subject me no longer to his insults, 
 — how, indeed, can he, under your perpetual protection ; 
 or for what cause should he attempt it, if he could? 
 I shall be then yours, — only and ever yours ; what 
 hope could, therefore, then nerve his hardihood, or 
 instigate his intrusions? Trust to me at that time, 
 and suffer me to — nay, I repeat, promise me that I 
 may — trust in you now ! " 
 
 What could I do ? I still combated her wish and her 
 request; but her steadiness and rigidity of purpose made 
 me, though reluctantly, yield to them at last. So sin- 
 cere and so stern, indeed, appeared her resolution, that 
 I feared, by refusal, that she would take the rash oath 
 that would separate us forever. Added to this, I felt 
 in her that confidence which I am apt to believe is far 
 more akin to the latter stages of real love than jealousy 
 and mistrust; and I could not believe that either now, 
 or still less after our nuptials, she would risk aught of 
 honor, or the seemings of honor, from a visionary and 
 superstitious fear. In spite, therefore, of my keen and 
 deep interest in the thorough discovery of this myste- 
 
DEVEREUX. 205 
 
 rious persecutor, and, still more, in the prevention of 
 all future designs from his audacity, I constrained 
 myself to promise her that I would on no account 
 seek out the person I suspected, or wilfully betray to 
 him, hy word or deed, my belief of his identity with 
 Barnard. 
 
 Though greatly dissatisfied with my self -compulsion , 
 I strove to reconcile myself to its idea. Indeed, there 
 was much in the peculiar circumstances of Isora, — 
 much in the freshness of her present , affliction, much 
 in the unfriended and utter destitution of her situation, 
 — that, while on the one hand it called forth her 
 pride, and made stubborn that temper which was natu- 
 rally so gentle and so soft, on the other hand made me 
 yield even to wishes that- I thought unreasonable, and 
 consider rather the delicacy and deference due to her 
 condition than insist upon the sacrifices which in more 
 fortunate circumstances I might havef imagined due to 
 myself. Still more indisposed to resist her wish and 
 expose myself to its penalty was 1, when I considered 
 her desire was the mere excess and caution of her love, 
 and when I felt that she spoke sincerely when she 
 declared that it was only for me that she was the coward. 
 Nevertheless, and despite all these considerations, it was 
 with a secret discontent that I took my leave of her, and 
 departed homeward. 
 
 I had just reached the end of the street where the 
 house was situated, when I saw there, very imperfectly, 
 for the night was extremely dark, the figure of a man 
 entirely enveloped in a long cloak, such as was com- 
 monly worn by gallants in affairs of secrecy or intrigue ; 
 and, in the pale light of a single lamp near which he 
 stood, something like the brilliance of gems glittered 
 on the large Spanish hat which overhung his brow. I 
 
206 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 immediately recalled the description the woman had 
 given me of Barnard's dress, and the thought flashed 
 across me that it was he whom I heheld. " At all 
 events," thought I, "I may confirm my douhts, if I 
 may not communicate them, and I may watch over her 
 safety if I may not avenge her injuries." I therefore 
 took advantage of my knowledge of the neighborhood, 
 passed the stranger with a quick step, and then, running 
 rapidly, returned by a circuitous route to the moutli of 
 a narrow and dark street which was exactly opposite to 
 Isora's house. Here I concealed myself by a projecting 
 porch, and I had not waited long before I saw the dim 
 form of the stranger walk slowly by the house. He 
 passed it three or four times, and each time I thought 
 — though the darkness might well deceive me — that 
 he looked up to the windows. He made, however, no 
 attempt at adn^issipn, and appeared as if he had no other 
 object than that of watching by the house. Wearied 
 and impatient at last, I came from my concealment. 
 " I may confirm my suspicions," I repeated, recurring to 
 my oath ; and I walked straight towards the stranger. 
 
 " Sir! " I said very calmly, " I am the last person in 
 the world to interfere with the amusements of any other 
 gentleman ; but I humbly opine that no man can parade 
 by this house, upon so very cold a night, without giving 
 just ground for suspicion to the friends of its inhabitants. 
 I happen to be among that happy number; and I there- 
 fore, with all due humility and respect, venture to 
 request you to seek some other spot for your nocturnal 
 perambulations. " 
 
 I made this speech purposely prolix, in order to have 
 time fully to reconnoitre the person of the one I 
 addressed. The dusk of the night and the loose garb 
 of the stranger certainly forbade any decided success to 
 
DEVEREUX. 207 
 
 this scrutiny; but methouglit the figure seemed, despite 
 of my prepossessions, to want the stately height and 
 grand proportions of Gerald Devereux. I must own, 
 however, that the necessary inexactitude of my survey 
 rendered this idea without just foundation, and did 
 not by any means diminish my firm impression that it 
 was Gerald whom I beheld. While I spoke, he retreated 
 with a quick step, but made no answer ; I pressed upon 
 him, — he backed with a still quicker step ; and when 
 I had ended, he fairly turned round, and made at full 
 speed along the dark street in which I had fixed my 
 previous post of watch. I fled after him, with a step 
 as fleet as his own: his cloak encumbered his flight; 
 I gained upon him sensibly ; he turned a sharp corner, 
 threw me out, and entered into a broad thoroughfare. 
 As I sped after him, Bacchanalian voices burst upon my 
 ear ; and presently a large band of those young men who, 
 under the name of Mohawks, were wont to scour the 
 town nightly, and, sword in hand, to exercise their 
 love of riot under the disguise of party zeal, became 
 visible in the middle of the street. Through them 
 my fugitive dashed headlong, and, profiting by their 
 surprise, escaped unmolested. I attempted to follow 
 with equal speed, but was less successful. "Hallo! " 
 cried the foremost of the group, placing himself in my 
 way. 
 
 " No such haste ! Art Whig or Tory 1 Under which 
 king, — Bezonian, speak or die ? " 
 
 "Have a care, sir!" said I fiercely, drawing my 
 sword. 
 
 "Treason, treason!" cried the speaker, confronting 
 me with equal readiness. " Have a care, indeed, — 
 have at thee ! " 
 
 "Ha!" cried another, "'tis a Tory; 'tis the Sec- 
 
208 DEVEREUX. 
 
 retary's popish friend, Devereux, — pike him, pike 
 him!" 
 
 I had already run my opponent through the sword 
 arm, and was in hopes that this act would intimidate 
 the rest, and allow my escape; but at the sound of my 
 name and political bias, coupled with the drawn blood 
 of their confederate, the patriots rushed upon me with 
 that amiable fury generally characteristic of all true 
 lovers of their country. Two swords passed through 
 my body simultaneously, and I fell bleeding and insen- 
 sible to the ground. When I recovered I was in my 
 own apartments, whither two of the gentler Mohawks 
 had conveyed me; the surgeons were by my bedside; I 
 groaned audibly when I saw them. If there is a thing 
 in the world I hate, it is in any shape the disciples of 
 Hermes ; they always remind me of that Indian people 
 (the Padsei, I think) mentioned by Herodotus, who 
 sustained themselves by devouring the sick. " All is 
 well," said one, when my groan was heard. " He will 
 not die," said another. " At least not till we have had 
 more fees," said a third, more candid than the rest. 
 And thereupon they seized me and began torturing my 
 wounds anew, till I fainted away with the pain. How- 
 ever, the next day I was declared out of immediate 
 danger ; and the first proof I gave of my convalescence 
 was to make Desmarais discharge four surgeons out of 
 five; the remaining one I thought my youth and con- 
 stitution might enable me to endure. 
 
 That very evening, as I was turning restlessly in my 
 bed, and muttering with parched lips the name of 
 "Isora," I saw by my side a figure covered from head 
 to foot in a long veil ; and a voice, low, soft, but thrill- 
 ing through my heatt ^ike a new existence, iiiurmured, 
 "She is here!" 
 
DEVEREUX. 209 
 
 I forgot my wounds, I forgot my pain and my debility ; 
 T sprung upwards, — the stranger drew aside the veil 
 from her countenance, and I beheld Isora! 
 
 "Yes!" said she, in her own liquid and honeyed 
 accents, which fell like balm upon my wound and my 
 spirit, — " yes, she whom you have hitherto tended is 
 come, in her turn, to render some slight, but woman's 
 services to ybu. She has come to nurse and to soothe 
 and to pray for you, and to be, till you yourself discard 
 her, your handmaid and your slave!" 
 
 I would have answered, but raising her finger to her 
 lips, she arose and vanished; but from that hour my 
 wound healed, my fever slaked, and whenever I beheld 
 her flitting round my bed or watching over me, or felt 
 her cool fingers wiping the dew from my brow, or took 
 from her hand my medicine or my food, in those moments 
 the blood seemed to make a new struggle through my 
 veins, and I felt palpably within me a fresh and deli- 
 cious life — a life full of youth and passion and hope — 
 replace the vaguer and duller being which I had hitherto 
 borne. 
 
 There are some extraordinary incongruities in that 
 very mysterious thing sympathy. One would imagine 
 that in a description of things most generally inter- 
 esting to all men, the most general interest would be 
 found; nevertheless, I believe few persons would hang 
 breathless over the progressive history of a sick-bed. 
 Yet those gradual stages from danger to recovery, how 
 delightfully interesting they are to all who have crawled 
 from one to the other! and who at some time or other 
 in his journey through that land of diseases — civilized 
 life — has not taken that gentle excursion ? "I would 
 be ill any day for the pleasure of getting well," said 
 Fontenelle to me one morning with his usual naivete ; 
 
 VOL. I. — 14 
 
210 DEVEREUX. 
 
 but who would not be ill for the mere pleasure of being 
 ill, if he could be tended by her whom he most loves? 
 
 I shall not therefore dwell upon that most delicious 
 period of my life, — my sick-bed, and my recovery from 
 it. I pass on to a certain evening in which I heard 
 from Isora's lips the whole of her history, save what 
 related to her knowledge of the real name of one whose 
 persecution constituted the little of romance which had 
 yet mingled with her innocent and pure life. That 
 evening, — how well I remember it! we were alone, — 
 still weak and reduced, I lay upon the sofa beside the 
 window, which was partially open, and the still air of 
 an evening in the first infancy of spring came fresh 
 and fraught as it were with a prediction of the glow- 
 ing woods and the reviving verdure, to my cheek. The 
 stars, one by one, kindled, as if born of Heaven and 
 Twilight, into their nightly being; and through the 
 vapor and thick ether of the dense city streamed their 
 most silent light, holy and pure, and resembling that 
 which the Divine Mercy sheds upon the gross nature of 
 mankind. But, shadowy and calm, their rays fell full 
 upon the face of Isora, as she lay on the ground beside 
 my couch, and with one hand surrendered to my clasp, 
 looked upward till, as she felt my gaze, she turned her 
 cheek blushingly away. There was quiet around and 
 above us; but beneath the window we heard at times 
 the sounds of the common earth, and then insensibly 
 our hands knit into a closer clasp, and we felt them 
 thrill more palpably to our hearts; for those sounds 
 reminded us both of our existence and of our separa- 
 tion from the great herd of our race! 
 
 What is love but a division from the world, and a 
 blending of two souls, two immortalities divested of 
 clay and ashes, into one? it is a severing of a thousand 
 
DEVEEEUX. 211 
 
 ties from whatever is haish and selfish , in order to knit 
 them into a single and sacred bond! Who loves, hath 
 attained the anchorite's secret; and the hermitage has 
 become dearer than the v^^orld. respite from the toil 
 and the curse of our social and banded state, a little 
 interval art thou, suspended betv^een two eternities, — 
 the past and the future , — a star that hovers between 
 the morning and the night, sending through the vast 
 abyss one solitary ray from heaven, but too far and 
 faint to illumine, while it hallows the earth! 
 
 There was nothing in Isora's tale which the reader 
 has not already learned or conjectured. She had left 
 her Andalusian home in her early childhood ; bat she 
 remembered it well, and lingeringly dwelt over it, in 
 description. It was evident that little in our colder 
 and less genial isle had attracted her sympathy or 
 wound itself into her affection. Nevertheless, I con- 
 ceive that her naturally dreamy and abstracted character 
 had received from her residence and her trials here much 
 of the vigor and the heroism which it now possessed. 
 Brought up alone, music and books — few, though not 
 ill-chosen, for Shakspedre was one, and the one which 
 had made upon her the most permanent impression, and 
 perhaps had colored her temperament with its latent 
 but rich hues of poetry — constituted her amusement 
 and her studies. 
 
 But who knows not that a woman's heart finds its 
 fullest occupation within itself? There lies its real 
 study, and within that narrow orbit the mirror of 
 enchanted thought reflects the whole range of earth. 
 Loneliness and meditation nursed the mood which 
 afterwards, with Isora, became love itself. Bat I do 
 not wish now so much to describe her character as to 
 abridge her brief history. The first English stranger, 
 
212 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 of the male sex, ■whom her father admitted to her 
 acquaintance, was Barnard. This man was, as I had 
 surmised, connected with him in certain political 
 intrigues, the exact nature of which she did not know. 
 I continue to call him by a name which Isora acknowl- 
 edged was fictitious. He had not, at first, by actual 
 declaration, betrayed to her his affections, though, 
 accompanied by a sort of fierceness which early revolted 
 her, they soon became visible. On the evening in 
 which I had found her stretched insensible in the 
 garden, and had myself made my first confession of 
 love, I learned that he had divulged to her his passion 
 and real name; that her rejection had thrown him into 
 a fierce despair; that he had accompanied his disclosure 
 with the most terrible threats against me, for whom he 
 supposed himself rejected, and against the safety of her 
 father, whom, he said, a word of his could betray ; that 
 her knowledge of his power to injure us — us — yes, 
 Isora then loved me, and then trembled for my safety ! 
 — had terrified and overcome her; and that in the very 
 moment in which my horse's hoofs were heard, and as 
 the alternative of her non-compliance, the rude suitor 
 swore deadly and sore vengeance against Alvarez and 
 myself, she yielded to the oath he prescribed to her, — 
 an oath that she would never reveal the secret he had 
 betrayed to her, or suffer me to know who was my real 
 rival. 
 
 This was all that I could gather from her guarded 
 confidence! He heard the oath, and vanished, and she 
 felt no more till she was in my arms; then it was that 
 she saw in the love and vengeance of my rival a barrier 
 against our union; and then it was that her generous 
 fear for me conquered her attachment, and she renounced 
 me. Their departure from the cottage, so shortly after- 
 
DEVEREUX. 213 
 
 wards, was at her father's choice, and at the instigation 
 of Barnard, for the furtherance of their political pro- 
 jects; and it was from Barnard that the money came 
 which repaid my loan to Alvarez. The same person, 
 no doubt, poisoned her father against me, for henceforth 
 Alvarez never spoke of me with that partiality he had 
 previously felt. They repaired to London ; her father 
 was often absent, and often engaged with men whom 
 she had never seen before! He was absorbed and 
 uncommunicative, and she was still ignorant of the 
 nature of his schemings and designs. 
 
 At length, after an absence of several weeks, Barnard 
 reappeared, and his visits became constant; he renewed 
 his suit to her father as well as herself. Then com- 
 menced that domestic persecution, so common in this 
 very tyrannical world, which makes us sicken to bear, 
 and which, had Isora been wholly a Spanish girl, she 
 in all probability would never have resisted: so much 
 of custom is there in the very air of a climate. But she 
 did resist it, partly because she loved me, — and loved 
 me more and more for our separation, — and partly 
 because she dreaded and abhorred the ferocious and 
 malignant passions of my rival, far beyond any other 
 misery with which fortune could threaten her. " Your 
 father, then, shall hang or starve! " said Barnard, one 
 day, in uncontrollable frenzy, and left her. He did not 
 appear again at the house. The Spaniard's resources, 
 fed, probably, alone by Barnard, failed. From house 
 to house they removed, till they were reduced to that 
 humble one in which I had found them. There Bar- 
 nard again sought them ; there, backed by the powerful 
 advocate of want, he again pressed his suit, and at that 
 exact moment her father was struck with the numbing 
 curse of his disease. "There and then," said Isora, 
 
214 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 candidly, "I might have yielded at last, for my poor 
 father's sake, if you had not saved me." 
 
 Once only (I have before recorded the time) did 
 Barnard visit lier in the new abode I had provided for 
 her, and the day after our conversation on that event 
 Isora watched and watched for me, and I did not come. 
 From the woman of the house she at last learned the 
 cause. " I forgot," she said timidly and in conclu- 
 sion, — "I forgot womanhood and modesty and reserve; 
 I forgot the customs of your country, the decencies of 
 my own; I forgot everything in this world but you, — 
 you suffering and in danger; my very sense of existence 
 seemed to pass from me, and to be supplied by a breath- 
 less, confused, and overwhelming sense of impatient 
 agony, which ceased not till I was in your chamber and 
 by your side! And — and now, Morton, do not despise 
 me for not having considered more and loved you less. " 
 
 "Despise you!" I murmured; and I threw my arms 
 around her, and drew her to my breast. I felt her heart 
 beat against my own: those hearts spoke, though our 
 lips were silent, and in their language seemed to say, 
 " We are united now, and we will not part." 
 
 The starlight, shining with a mellow and deep still- 
 ness, was the only light by which we beheld each other, 
 — it shone, the witness and the sanction of that internal 
 voice which we owned, but heard not. Our lips drew 
 closer and closer together, till they met! and in that 
 kiss was the type and promise of the after ritual which 
 knit two spirits into one. Silence fell around us like 
 a curtain; and the eternal Night, with her fresh dews 
 and unclouded stars, looked alone upon the compact of 
 our hearts, — an emblem of the eternity, the freshness, 
 and the unearthly though awful brightness of the love 
 which it hallowed and beheld! 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Wherein the History makes great Progress, and is marked by one 
 important Event in Human Life. 
 
 Spinosa is said to have loved, above all other amuse- 
 ments, to put flies into a spider's web; and the struggles 
 of the imprisoned insects were wont to bear, in the eyes 
 of this grave philosopher, so facetious and hilarious an 
 appearance that he would stand and laugh thereat until 
 the tears " coursed one another down his innocent nose. " 
 Now it so happeneth that Spinosa, despite the general 
 (and, in my most meek opinion, the just) condemnation 
 of his theoretical tenets,^ was, in character and in nature, 
 according to the voices of all who knew him, an exceed- 
 ingly kind, humane, and benevolent biped; and it doth, 
 therefore, seem a little strange unto us grave, sober 
 members of the unphilosophical Mauy, that the strug- 
 gles and terrors of these little winged creatures should 
 strike the good subtleist in a point of view so irre- 
 sistibly ludicrous and delightful. But, for my part, I 
 
 1 One ought, howeyer, to be very cautious before one condemns 
 a philosopher. The master's opinions are generally pure, — it is the 
 conclusions and corollaries of his disciples that " draw the honey 
 forth that drives men mad." Schlegel seems to have studied 
 Spinosa de fonte, and vindicates him very earnestly from the 
 charges brought against him, — atheism, etc. — Ed. 
 
216 DEVEREUX. 
 
 believe that that most imaginative and wild speculator 
 beheld in the entangled flies nothing more than a living 
 simile — an animated illustration — of his own beloved 
 vision of necessity; and that he is no more to be con- 
 sidered cruel for the complacency with which he gazed 
 upon those agonized types of his system than is Lucan 
 for dwelling, with a poet's pleasure, upon the many 
 ingenious ways with which that grand inquisitor of 
 verse has contrived to vary the simple operation of 
 dying. To the bard, the butchered soldier was only 
 an epic ornament; to the philosopher, the murdered 
 fly was only a metaphysical illustration. For, without 
 being a Fatalist, or a disciple of Baruch de Spinosa, I 
 must confess that I cannot conceive a greater resem- 
 blance to our human and earthly state than the penal 
 predicament of the devoted flies. Suddenly do we find 
 ourselves plunged into that vast web, — the world; and 
 even as the insect, when he first undergoeth a similar 
 accident of necessity, standeth amazed and still, and 
 only, by little and little, awakeneth to a full sense of his 
 situation; so also at the first abashed and confounded, 
 we remain on the mesh we are urged upon, ignorant as 
 yet of the toils around us, and the sly, dark, immiti- 
 gable foe, that lieth in yonder nook, already feasting 
 her imagination upon our destruction. Presently we 
 revive : we stir, we flutter, — and Fate, that foe , — the 
 old archspider, that hath no moderation in her maw, — 
 now fixeth one of her many eyes upon us, and giveth us 
 a partial glimpse of her laidly and grim aspect. We 
 pause in mute terror; we gaze upon the ugly spectre, so 
 imperfectly beheld, — the net ceases to tremble, and the 
 wily enemy draws gently back into her nook. Now we 
 begin to breathe again; we sound the strange footing 
 on which we tread; we move tenderly along it, and 
 
DEVEREUX. 217 
 
 again the grisly monster advances on us; again we 
 pause, — the foe retires not, but remains still, and 
 surveyeth us ; we see every step is accompanied with 
 danger, — we look round and above in despair ; sud- 
 denly we feel within us a new impulse and a new power, 
 
 — we feel a vague sympathy with that unknown region 
 which spreads beyond this great net, — that limitless 
 beyond hath a mystic affinity with a part of our own 
 frame ; we unconsciously extend our wings (for the soul 
 to us is as the wings to the fly!) ; we attempt to rise, — 
 to soar above this perilous snare, from which we are 
 unable to crawl. The old spider watcheth us in self- 
 hugging quiet, and, looking up to our native air, we 
 think, now shall we escape thee. Out on it! We rise 
 not a hair's breadth, — we have the wings, it is true, 
 but the feet are fettered. We strive desperately again, 
 
 — the whole web vibrates with the effort; it will break 
 beneath our strength. Not a jot of it! — we cease, we 
 are more entangled than ever! wings, feet, frame, — the 
 foul slime i.=, over all! — where shall we turn? every 
 line of the web leads to the one den , — we know not, 
 we care not; we grow blind, confused, lost. The eyes 
 of our hideous foe gloat upon us, — she whetteth her 
 insatiate maw; she leapeth towards us; she fixeth her 
 fangs upon us, — and so cndeth my parallel! 
 
 But what has this to do with my tale ? Ay, reader, 
 that is thy question ; and I will answer it by one of 
 mine. When thou hearest a man moralize and preach 
 of Fate, art thou not sure that he is going to tell thee 
 of some one of his peculiar misfortunes ? Sorrow loves 
 a parable as much as mirth loves a jest. And thus 
 already and from afar I prepare thee, at the commence- 
 ment of this the third of these portions into which the 
 history of my various and wild life will be divided, for 
 
218 DEVEREUX. 
 
 that event witli which I purpose that the said portion 
 shall be concluded. 
 
 It is now three months after my entire recovery from 
 my wounds, and I am married to Isora! — married, — 
 yes, but priva^e/y married, and the ceremony is as yet 
 closely concealed. I will explain. 
 
 The moment Isora's anxiety for me led her across the 
 threshold of my house it became necessary for her honor 
 that our wedding should take place immediately on my 
 recovery: so far I was decided on the measure, — now 
 for the method. During my illness I received a long 
 and most affectionate letter from Aubrey, who was then 
 at Devereux Court, — so affectionate was the heart- 
 breathing spirit of that letter, so steeped in all our 
 old household remembrances and boyish feelings, that, 
 coupled as it was with a certain gloom when he spoke 
 of himself and of worldly sins and trials, it brought 
 tears to my eyes whenever I recurred to it ; and many 
 and many a time afterwards, when I thought his affec- 
 tions seemed estranged from me, I did recur to it to 
 convince myself that I was mistaken. Shortly after- 
 wards I received also a brief epistle from my uncle ; it 
 was as kind as usual, and it mentioned Aubrey's return 
 to Devereux Court. "That unhappy boy," said Sir 
 William, " is more than ever devoted to his religious 
 duties; nor do I believe that any priest-ridden poor 
 devil in the dark ages ever made such use of the 
 scourge and the penance." 
 
 Now, I have before stated that my uncle would, I 
 knew, be averse to my intended marriage; and on hear- 
 ing that Aubrey was then with him, I resolved, in 
 replying to his letter, to entreat the former to sound 
 Sir William on the subject I had most at heart, and 
 ascertain the exact nature and extent of the opposition 
 
DEVEKEUX. 219 
 
 I should have to encounter in the step I was resolved to 
 take. By the same post I wrote to the good old knight 
 in as artful a strain as I was able, dwelling at some 
 length upon my passion, upon the high birth as well 
 as the numerous good qualities of the object, but men- 
 tioning not her name; and I added everything that I 
 thought likely to enlist my uncle's kind and warm 
 feelings on my behalf. These letters produced the 
 following ones : — 
 
 FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREDX. 
 
 'Sdeath! nephew Morton, — but I won't scold thee, though 
 thou deserves! it. Let me see, thou art now scarce twenty, 
 and thou talkest of marriage, which is the exclusive business 
 of middle age, as familiarly as " girls of thirteen do of puppy 
 dogs." Marry! — go hang thyself rather. Marriage, my dear 
 boy, ia at the best a treacherous proceeding ; and a friend — 
 a true friend — will never counsel another to adopt it rashly. 
 Look you, — I have had experience in these matters ; and I 
 think, the moment a woman is wedded, some terrible revolu- 
 tion happens in her system: all her former good qualities 
 vanish, hey presto, like eggs out of a conjurer's box, — 't is true, 
 they appear on t' other side of the box, the side turned to other 
 people, but for the poor husband they are gone forever. Od'a 
 fish, Morton, go to ! I tell thee again that I have had experi- 
 ence in these matters, which thou never hast had, clever as 
 thou thinkest thyself. If now it were a good marriage thou 
 wert about to make, — if thou wert going to wed power and 
 money and places at court, — why, something might be said for 
 thee. As it is, there is no excuse, — none. And I am aston- 
 ished how a boy of thy sense could think of such nonsense. 
 Birth, Morton, what the devil does that signify, so long as it 
 is birth in another country ? A foreign damsel, and a Spanish 
 girl, too, above all others ! 'Sdeath, man, as if there was not 
 quicksilver enough in the English women for you, you must 
 make a mercurial exportation from Spain , must you ! Whj', 
 
220 DEVEKEOX. 
 
 Morton, Morton, the ladies in that country are proverbial. I 
 tremble at the very thought of it. But, as for my consent, I 
 never will give it, — never ; and though I threaten thee not 
 with disinheritance and such like, yet I do ask something in 
 return for the great affection I have always borne thee; and I 
 make no doubt that thou wilt readily oblige me in such a trifle 
 as giving up a mere Spanish donna. So think of her no more. 
 If thou wantest to make love, there are ladies in plenty whom 
 thou needest not to marry. And for my part, I thought that 
 thou wert all in all with the Lady Hasselton, -^ Heaven bless 
 her pretty face! Now don't think I want to scold thee; and 
 don't think thine old uncle harsh, — God knows he is not; 
 but, my dear, dear boy, this is quite out of the question, and 
 thou must let me hear no more about it. The gout cripples 
 me so, that I must leave off. 
 
 Ever thine own old uncle, 
 
 William Dbvereux. 
 
 P. S. Upon consideration, I think, my dear boy, that thou 
 must want money, and thou art ever too sparing. Messrs. 
 Child, or my goldsmiths in Aldersgate, have my orders to pay 
 to thy hand's-writing whatever thou mayst desire ; and I do 
 hope that thou wilt now want nothing to make thee merry 
 withal. Why dost thou not write a comedy 1 Is it not the 
 mode still 1 
 
 LETTER FROM AUBREY DEVEEEUX. 
 
 I have sounded my uncle, dearest Morton, according to your 
 wishes ; and I grieve to say that I have found him inexorable. 
 He was very much hurt by your letter to him, and declared he 
 should write to you forthwith upon the subject. I represented 
 to him all that you have said upon the virtues of your 
 intended bride ; and I also insisted upon your clear judgment 
 and strong sense upon most points being a sufficient surety 
 for your prudence upon this. But you know the libertine 
 opinions, and the depreciating judgment of women, enter- 
 tained by my poor uncle ; and he would, I believe, have been 
 less displeased with the heinous crime of an illicit connection 
 
DEVEEEUX. 221 
 
 than the amiable weakness of an imprudent marriage, — I 
 might say of any marriage, — until it was time to provide heirs 
 to the estate. 
 
 Here Aubrey, in the most affectionate and earnest 
 manner, broke off, to point out to me the extreme 
 danger to my interests that it would be to disoblige 
 my uncle; who, despite his general kindness, would, 
 upon a disagreement on so tender a matter as his sore 
 point and his most cherished hobby, consider my dis- 
 obedience as a personal affront. He also recalled to me 
 all that my uncle had felt and done for me; and insisted, 
 at all events, upon the absolute duty of my delaying, 
 even though I should not break off, the intended 
 measure. Upon these points he enlarged much and 
 eloquently ; and this part of his letter certainly left no 
 cheering or comfortable impression upon my mind. 
 
 Now my good uncle knew as much of love as 
 L, Mummius did of the fine arts,^ and it was impos- 
 sible to persuade him that if one wanted to indulge the 
 tender passion, one woman would not do exactly as well 
 as another, provided she were equally pretty. I knew 
 therefore that he was incapable, on the one hand, of 
 understanding my love for Isora, or, on the other, 
 of acknowledging her claims upon me. I had not, of 
 course, mentioned to him the generous imprudence 
 which, on the news of my wound, had brought Isora 
 to my house; for if I had done so, my uncle, with the 
 eye of a courtier of Charles II. , would only have seen 
 the advantage to be derived from the impropriety, not 
 
 1 A Roman consul, who, removing the most celebrated remains 
 of Grecian antiquity to Rome, assured the persons charged with 
 conveying them that if they injured any, they should make others 
 to replace them. 
 
222 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 the gratitude due to the devotion; neither had I men- 
 tioned this circumstance to Aubrey, — it seemed to me 
 too delicate for any written communication ; and there- 
 fore, in his advice to delay my marriage, -he was 
 unaware of the necessity which rendered the advice 
 unavailing. Now then was I in this dilemma, either 
 to marry, and that instanter, and so, seemingly, with 
 the most hasty and the most insolent indecorum, incense, 
 wound, and in his interpretation of the act, contemn 
 one whom I loved as I loved my uncle, — or to delay 
 the marriage, to separate from Isora, and to leave my 
 future wife to the malignant consequences that would 
 necessarily be drawn from a sojourn of weeks in my 
 house. This fact there was no chance of concealing; 
 servants have more tongues than Argus had eyes, and 
 my youthful extravagance had filled my whole house 
 with those pests of society. The latter measure was 
 impossible, the former was most painful. Was there 
 no third way 1 — there was that of a private marriage. 
 This obviated not every evil, but it removed many : it 
 satisfied my impatient love, it placed Isora under a 
 sure protection, it secured and established her honor 
 the moment the ceremony should be declared, and it 
 avoided the seeming ingratitude and indelicacy of dis- 
 obeying my uncle, without an effort of patience to 
 appease him. I should have time and occasion then, 
 I thought, for soothing and persuading him, and ulti- 
 mately winning that consent which I firmly trusted I 
 should sooner or later extract from his kindness of 
 heart. 
 
 That some objections existed to this mediatory plan, 
 was true enough; those objections related to Isora rather 
 than to myself, and she was the first, on my hinting at 
 the proposal, to overcome its difiiculties. The leading 
 
DEVEREUX. 223 
 
 feature in Isora's character was generosity; and, in 
 truth, I know not a quality more dangerous, either to 
 man or woman. Herself was invariably the last human 
 being whom she seemed to consider; and no sooner did 
 she ascertain what measure was the most prudent for 
 me to adopt, than it immediately became that upon 
 which she insisted. Would it have been possible for 
 me, man of pleasure and of the world as I was thought 
 to be, — no, my good uncle, though it went to my heart 
 to wound thee so secretly, it would not have been pos- 
 sible for me, even if I had not coined my whole nature 
 into love ; even if Isora had not been to me what one 
 smile of Isora's really was, — it would not have been 
 possible to have sacrificed so noble and so divine a 
 heart, and made myself in that sacrifice a wretch for- 
 ever. No, my good uncle, I could not have made that 
 surrender to thy reason, much less to thy prejudices. 
 But if I have not done great injustice to the knight's 
 character, I doubt whether even the youngest reader 
 will not forgive him for a want of sympathy with one 
 feeling, when they consider how susceptible that charm- 
 ing old man was to all others. 
 
 And herewith I could discourse most excellent wisdom 
 upon that most mysterious passion of love. I could 
 show, by tracing its causes and its inseparable connec- 
 tion with the imagination, that it is only in certain 
 states of society as well as in certain periods of life 
 that love — real, pure, high love — can be born. Yea, 
 I could prove, to the nicety of a very problem that in 
 the court of Charles II. it would have been as impos- 
 sible for such a feeling to find root as it would be for 
 myrtle-trees to effloresce from a Duvillier periwig. And 
 we are not to expect a man, however tender and affec- 
 tionate he may be, to sympathize with that sentiment 
 
224 DEVEREUX. 
 
 in another, which, from the accidents of birth and 
 position, nothing short of a miracle could ever have 
 produced in himself. 
 
 We were married, then, in private by a Catholic 
 priest. St. John, and one old lady who had been my 
 father's godmother — for I wished for a female assistant 
 in the ceremony, and this old lady could tell no secrets, 
 for, being excessively deaf, nobody ever talked to her, 
 and indeed she scarcely ever went abroad — were the 
 sole witnesses. I took a small house in the immediate 
 neighborhood of London ; it was surrounded on all sides 
 with a high wall which defied alike curiosity and attack. 
 This was, indeed, the sole reason which had induced 
 me to prefer it to many more gaudy or more graceful 
 dwellings; but within I had furnished it with every 
 luxury that wealth, the most lavish and unsparing, could 
 procure. Thither, under an assumed name, I brought 
 my bride, and there was the greater part of my time 
 spent. The people I had placed in the house believed 
 I was a rich merchant, and this accounted for my 
 frequent absences (absences which prudence rendered 
 necessary), for the wealth which I lavished, and for 
 the precautions of bolt, bar, and wall which they 
 imagined the result of commercial caution. 
 
 Oh, the intoxication of that sweet Elysium, that 
 Tadmor in life's desert, -^ the possession of the one 
 whom we have first loved! It is as if poetry and 
 music and light, and the fresh breath of flowers, were 
 all blent into one being, and from that being rose our 
 existence! It is content made rapture, — nothing to 
 wish for, yet everything to feel! Was that air the 
 air which I had breathed hitherto, that earth the 
 earth which I had hitherto beheld? No, my heart 
 dwelt in a new world, and all these motley and restless 
 
DEVEEEUX. 225 
 
 senses were melted into one sense, — deep, silent, fath- 
 omless delight! 
 
 Well, too much of this species of love is not fit for 
 a worldly tale, and I will turn, for the reader's relief, 
 to worldly aifections. From my first reunion with 
 Isora, I had avoided all the former objects and acquaint- 
 ances in which my time had been so charmingly em- 
 ployed. Tarleton was the first to sufier by my new 
 pursuit. " What has altered you 1 " said he ; " you 
 drink not, neither do you play. The women say you 
 are grown duller than a Norfolk parson, and neither 
 the Puppet-Show nor the Water-Theatre, the Spring 
 Gardens nor the Ring, Wills's nor the Kit-Cat, the 
 Mulberry Garden nor the New Exchange, witness any 
 longer your homage and devotion. What has come over 
 you ? — speak ! '' 
 
 "Apathy!" 
 
 " Ah ! I understand, — you are tired of these things. 
 Pish, man ! go down into the country ; the green fields 
 will revive thee, and send thee back to London a new 
 man! One would indeed find the town intolerably dull, 
 if the country were not, happily, a thousand times 
 duller, — go to the country. Count, or I shall drop your 
 friendship. " 
 
 " Drop it! " said I, yawning; and Tarleton took pet, 
 and did as I desired him. Now had I got rid of my 
 friend as easily as I had found him, — a matter that 
 would not have been so readily accomplished had not Mr. 
 Tarleton owed me certain moneys, concerning which, 
 from the moment he had "dropped my friendship," 
 good-breeding effectually prevented his saying a single 
 syllable to me ever after. There is no knowing the 
 blessings of money until one has learned to manage it 
 properly. 
 
 VOL. I. — 15 
 
226 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 So much, then, for the friend j now for the mistress. 
 Lady Hasselton had, as Tarleton hinted before, resolved 
 to play me a trick of spite ; the reasons of our rupture 
 really were, as I had stated to Tarleton, the mighty 
 effects of little things. She lived in a sea of trifles, 
 and she was desperately angry if her lover was not 
 always sailing a pleasure-boat in the same ocean. Now, 
 this was expecting too much from me ; and after twist- 
 ing our silken strings of attachment into all manner of 
 fantastic forms, we fell fairly out one evening and broke 
 the little ligatures in two. No sooner had I quarrelled 
 with Tarleton, than Lady Hasselton received him in 
 my place ; and a week afterwards I was favored with an 
 anonymous letter, informing me of the violent passion 
 which a certain daTne de la cour had conceived for me, 
 and requesting me to meet her at an appointed place. 
 I looked twice over the letter, and discovered in one 
 corner of it two ff's peculiar to the calligraphy of Lady 
 Hasselton, though the rest of the letter (bad spelling 
 excepted) was pretty decently disguised. Mr. Fielding 
 was with me at the time. " What disturbs you 1 " said 
 he, adjusting his knee-buckles. 
 
 " Eead it! " said I, handing him the letter. 
 
 " Body of me, you are a lucky dog ! " cried the beau. 
 " You will hasten thither on the wings of love. " 
 
 "Not a whit of it," said I; " I suspect that it comes 
 from a rich old widow whom I hate mortally." 
 
 " A rich old widow ! " repeated Mr. Fielding, to 
 whose eyes there was something very piquant in a 
 jointure, and who thought, consequently, that there 
 were few virginal flowers equal to a widow's weeds. 
 "A rich old widow, — you are right. Count, you are 
 right. Don't go, don't think of it. I cannot abide 
 
DEVEKEUX. 227 
 
 those depraved creatures. Widow, indeed, — quite an 
 affront to your gallantry ! " 
 
 "Very true," said I. "Suppose you supply my 
 place 1 " 
 
 " I 'd sooner be shot first," said Mr. Fielding, taking 
 his departure, and begging me for the letter to wrap 
 some sugar-plums in. 
 
 Need I add that Mr. Fielding repaired to the place 
 of assignation, where he received, in the shape of a 
 hearty drubbing, the kind favors intended for me? 
 The story was now left for me to tell, not for the 
 Lady Hasselton, — and that makes all the difference 
 in the manner a story is told: me narrante, it is de te 
 fabula narratur, — te narrante, and it is de me fabula, 
 etc. Poor Lady Hasselton! to be laughed at, and have 
 Tarleton for a lover! 
 
 I have gone back somewhat in the progress of my 
 history, in order to make the above honorable mention 
 of my friend and my mistress, thinking it due to their 
 own merits, and thinking it may also be instructive to 
 young gentlemen who have not yet seen the world, to 
 testify the exact nature and the probable duration of 
 all the loves and friendships they are likely to find in 
 that Great Monmouth Street of glittering and of dam- 
 aged afifections ! I now resume the order of narration. 
 
 I wrote to Aubrey, thanking him for his intercession, 
 but concealing, till we met, the measure I had adopted. 
 I wrote also to my uncle, assuring him that I would 
 take an early opportunity of hastening to Devereux 
 Court, and conversing with him on the subject of his 
 letter. And after an interval of some weeks, I received 
 the two following answers from my correspondents; the 
 latter arrived several days after the former : — 
 
228 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 PROM AUBREY DEVEREUX. 
 
 I am glad to understand from your letter, unexplanatory as 
 it is, that you have followed my advice. I will shortly write 
 to you more at large ; at present I am on the eve of my depart- 
 ure for the North of England, and have merely time to assure 
 you of my affection. 
 
 Aubrey Devereux. 
 
 P. S. Gerald is in London ; have you seen him ? Oh, 
 this world ! this world 1 how it clings to us, despite our educa- 
 tion, — our wishes, our conscience, our knowledge of the Dread 
 Hereafter ! 
 
 LETTER FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX. 
 
 My dear Nephew, — Thank thee for thy letter, and the new 
 plays thou sentest me down, and that droll new paper, the " Spec- 
 tator ; " it is a pretty shallow thing enough, though it is not so 
 racy as Rochester or little Sid would have made it; hut I thank 
 thee for it, because it shows thou wast not angry with thine old 
 uncle for opposing thee on thy love whimsies (in which most 
 young men are dreadfully obstinate), since thou didst provide 
 so kindly for his amusement. Well, but, Morton, I hope thou 
 hast got that crotchet clear out of thy mind, and prithee now 
 don't talk of it when thou comest down to see me. I hate 
 conversations on marriage more than a boy does flogging, — 
 od's fish, I do. So you must humor me on that point ! 
 
 Aubrey has left me again, and I am quite alone, — not that 
 I was much better off when he was here, for he was wont, of 
 late, to shun my poor room like a " lazar-house ; " and when I 
 spoke to his mother about it, she muttered something about 
 " example" and " corrupting." 'Sdeath, Morton, is your poor 
 old uncle, who loves all living things, down to poor Ponto, 
 the dog, the sort of man whose example corrupts youth ? As 
 for thy mother, she grows more solitary every day; and I 
 don't know how it is, but I am not so fond of strange faces as 
 I used to be, 'T is a new thing for me to be avoided and alone. 
 
DEVEREUX. 229 
 
 Why, I remember even little Sid, who had aa much venom aa 
 most men, once said it was impossible to — Fie now, see if I 
 was not going to preach a sermon from a text in favor of my- 
 self ! But come, Morton, come, I long for your face again; it 
 is not so soft as Aubrey's nor so regular as Gerald's, but it is 
 twice as kind as either. Come, before it is too late : I feel 
 myself going; and, to tell thee a secret, the doctors teU me 
 I may not last many months longer. Come and laugh once 
 more at the old knight's stories. Come, and show him that 
 there is still some one not too good to love him. Come, and 
 I will tell thee a famous thing of old Rowley, which I am 
 too ill and too sad to tell thee now. 
 
 Wm. Deverbdx. 
 
 Need I say that, upon receiving this letter, I resolved, 
 without any delay , to set out for Devereux Court 1 I 
 summoned Desmarais to me ; he answered not my call : 
 he was from home, — an unfrequent occurrence with the 
 necessitarian valet. I awaited his return, which was 
 not for some hours, in order to give him sundry orders 
 for my departure. The exquisite Desmarais hemmed 
 thrice. " Will Monsieur be so very kind as to excuse 
 my accompanying him?" said he, with his usual air 
 and tone of obsequious respect. 
 
 " And why ? " The valet explained. A relation of 
 his was in England only for a few days; the philosopher 
 was most anxious to enjoy his society, — a pleasure 
 which Fate might not again allow him. 
 
 Though I had grown accustomed to the man's ser- 
 vices, and did not like to lose him even for a time, yet 
 I could not refuse his request; and I therefore ordered 
 another of my servants to supply his place. This 
 change, however, determined me to adopt a plan which 
 I had before meditated, — namely, the conveying of my 
 own person to Devereux Court on horseback, and send- 
 
230 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 ing my servant with my luggage in my post-chaise. 
 The equestrian mode of travelling is, indeed, to this 
 day, the one most pleasing to me ; and the reader will 
 find me pursuing it many years afterwards, and to the 
 same spot. 
 
 I might as well observe here that I had never intrusted 
 Desmarais, no, nor one of my own servants, with the 
 secret of my marriage with, or my visits to, Isora. I 
 am a very fastidious person on those matters , and of all 
 confidants, even in the most trifling affairs, I do most 
 eschew those by whom we have the miserable honor to 
 be served. 
 
 In order, then, to avoid having my horse brought me 
 to Isora's house by any of these menial spies, I took the 
 steed which I had selected for my journey, and rode to 
 Isora's with the intention of spending the evening there, 
 and thence commencing my excursion with the morning 
 light. 
 
DEVEREUX. 231 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 Love. — Parting. —A Death-bed. —After all, Human Nature is a 
 beautiful Fabric ; and even its Imperfections are not odious to 
 him who has studied the Science of its Architecture, and formed 
 a reverent Estimate of its Creator. 
 
 It is a noticeable thing how much fear increases love. 
 I mean — for the aphorism requires explanation — how 
 much we love, in proportion to our fear of losing (or 
 even to our fear of injury done to) the beloved object. 
 'T is an instance of the reactioai of the feelings, — the 
 love produces the fear, and the fear reproduces the love. 
 This is one reason, among many, why women love so 
 much more tenderly and anxiously than we do ; and it 
 is also one reason, among many, why frequent absences 
 are, in all stages of love, the most keen exciters of the 
 passion. I never breathed, away from Isora, without 
 trembling for her safety. I trembled lest this Barnard, 
 if so I should still continue to call her persecutor, should 
 again discover and again molest her. Whenever (and 
 that was almost daily) I rode to the quiet and remote 
 dwelling I had procured her, my heart beat so vehe- 
 mently, and my agitation was so intense, that on arriv- 
 ing at the gate I have frequently been unable, for several 
 minutes, to demand admittance. There was, therefore, 
 in the mysterious danger which ever seemed to hang 
 over Isora, a perpetual irritation to a love otherwise but 
 little inclined to slumber; and this constant excitement 
 took away from the torpor into which domestic afifeetioa 
 
232 DEVEREUX. 
 
 too often languishes, and increased my passion even 
 while it diminished my happiness. 
 
 On my arrival now at Isora's, I found her already 
 stationed at the window, watching for my coming. 
 How her dark eyes lit into lustre when they saw me! 
 How the rich hlood mantled up under the soft cheek, 
 which feeling had refined of late into a paler hue than 
 it was wont, when I first gazed upon it, to wear ! Then 
 how sprang forth her light step to meet me! How 
 trembled her low voice to welcome me! How spoke, 
 from every gesture of her graceful form, the anxious, 
 joyful, all-animating gladness of her heart! It is a 
 melancholy pleasure to the dry, harsh after-thoughts 
 of later life, to think one has been thus loved; and one 
 marvels, when one considers what one is now, how it 
 could have ever been! That love of ours was never 
 made for after years! It could never have flowed into 
 the common and cold channel of ordinary affairs! It 
 could never have been mingled with the petty cares and 
 the low objects with which the loves of all who live 
 long together in this sordid and most earthly earth, are 
 sooner or later blended ! We could not have spared to 
 others an atom of the great wealth of our affection. We 
 were misers of every coin in that boundless treasury. 
 It would have pierced me to the soul to have seen Isora 
 smile upon another. I know not even, had we had 
 children, if I should not have been jealous of my child! 
 Was this selfish love? Yes, it was intensely, wholly 
 selfish; but it was a love made so only by its excess; 
 nothing selfish on a smaller scale polluted it. There 
 was not on earth that which the one would not have 
 forfeited at the lightest desire of the other. So utterly 
 were happiness and Isora entwined together, that I 
 could form no idea of the one with which the other 
 
DEVEEEUX. 233 
 
 was not connected. Was this love made for the many 
 and miry roads through which man must travel 1 Was 
 it made for age, or worse than age, — for those cool, 
 ambitious, scheming years that we call mature, in which 
 all the luxuriance and verdure of things are pared into 
 tamed shapes and mimic life, but a life that is estranged 
 from nature, in which art is the only beauty, and regu- 
 larity the only grace? No, in my heart of hearts, I 
 feel that our love was not meant for the stages of Jife 
 through which I have already passed; it would have 
 made us miserable to see it fritter itself away, and to 
 remember what it once was. Better as it is ! better to 
 mourn over the green bough than to look upon the 
 sapless stem. You who now glance over these pages, 
 are you a mother? If so, answer me one question, — 
 would you not rather that the child whom you have 
 cherished with your soul's care; whom you have nur- 
 tured at your bosom ; whose young joys your eyes have 
 sparkled to behold ; whose lightest grief you have wept 
 to witness, as you would have wept not for your own ; 
 over whose pure and unvexed sleep you have watched 
 and prayed, and, as it lay before you thus still and 
 unconscious of your vigil, have shaped out, oh, such 
 bright hopes for its future lot, — would you not rather 
 that, while thus young and innocent, not a care tasted 
 nor a crime incurred, it went down at once into the dark 
 grave? Would you not rather suffer this grief, bitter 
 though it be, than watch the predestined victim grow 
 and ripen, and wind itself more and more around your 
 heart, and when it is of full and mature age, and you 
 yourself are stricken by years, and can form no new ties 
 to replace the old that are severed, — when woes have 
 already bowed the darling of your hope, whom woe 
 never was to touch, — when sins have already darkened 
 
234 DETEEEUX. 
 
 the bright, seraph, unclouded heart which sin never was 
 to dim , — behold it sink day by day altered, diseased, 
 decayed, into the tomb which its childhood had in vain 
 escaped? Answer me: would not the earlier fate be 
 far gentler than the last ? And if you have known 
 and wept over that early tomb; if you have seen the 
 infant flower fade away from the green soil of your 
 affections; if you have missed the bounding step and 
 the laughing eye and the winning mirth which made 
 this sterile world a perpetual holiday, — Mother of the 
 Lost, if you have known., and you still pine for these, 
 answer me yet again ! — Is it not a comfort, even while 
 you mourn , to think of all that that breast, now so silent, 
 has escaped? The cream, the sparkle, the elixir of life, 
 it had already quaffed: is it not sweet to think it 
 shunned the wormwood and the dregs? Answer me, 
 even though the answer be in tears! Mourner, your 
 child was to you what my early and only love was to 
 me; and could you pierce down, down through a thou- 
 sand fathom of ebbing thought, to the far depths of my 
 heart, you would there behold a sorrow and a consola- 
 tion that have something in unison with your own. 
 
 When the light of the next morning broke into out 
 room, Isora was still sleeping. Have you ever observed 
 that the young, seen asleep and by the morning light, 
 seem much younger even than they are ? Partly because 
 the air and light sleep of dawn bring a fresher bloom 
 to the cheek, and partly because the careless negligence 
 and the graceful postures exclusively appropriated to 
 youth, are forbidden by custom and formality through 
 the day, and, developing themselves unconsciously in 
 sleep, they strike the eye like the ease and freedom of 
 childhood itself. There, as I looked upon Isora's tran- 
 quil and most youthful beauty, over which circled 
 
DEVEREUX. 235 
 
 and breathed an ineffable innocence, — even as the finer 
 and subtler air, which was imagined by those dreamy 
 bards who kindled the soft creations of naiad and of 
 nymph, to float around a goddess, — I could not believe 
 that aught evil awaited one for whom infancy itself 
 seemed to linger, — linger as if no elder shape and less 
 delicate hue were meet to be the garment of so much guile- 
 lessness and tenderness of heart. I felt, indeed, while 
 I bent over her, and her regular and quiet breath came 
 upon my cheek , that feeling which is exactly the reverse 
 to a presentiment of ill. I felt as if, secure in her own 
 purity, she had nothing to dread, so that even the pang 
 of parting was lost in the confidence which stole over 
 me as I then gazed. 
 
 I rose gently, went to the next room, and dressed 
 myself. I heard my horse neighing beneath, as the 
 servant walked him lazily to and fro. I re-entered the 
 bedchamber, in order to take leave of Isora. She was 
 already up. " What! " said I, " it is but three minutes 
 since I left you asleep, and I stole away as gently as 
 time does when with you. " 
 
 "Ah! " said Isora, smiling and blushing too, "but 
 for my part, 1 think there is an instinct to know, even 
 if all the senses were shut up, whether the one we love 
 is with us or not. The moment you left me , I felt it 
 at once, even in sleep, and I woke. But you will not 
 — no, you will not leave me yet! " 
 
 I think I see Isora now, as she stood by the window 
 which she had opened, with a woman's minute anxiety, 
 to survey even the aspect of the clouds, and beseech 
 caution against the treachery of the skies. I think I 
 see her now, as she stood the moment after I had torn 
 myself from her embrace, and had looked back, as I 
 reached the door, for one parting glance, — her eyes all 
 
236 DEVEREUX. 
 
 tenderness; her lips parted and quivering with the 
 attempt to smile; the long, glossy ringlets (through 
 whose raven hue the purpureum lumen broke like an 
 imprisoned sunbeam) straying in dishevelled beauty 
 over her transparent neck; the throat bent in mute 
 despondency; the head drooping; the arms half extended, 
 and dropping gradually as my steps departed; the sunken, 
 absorbed expression of face, form, and gesture, so steeped 
 in the very bitterness of dejection, — all are before me 
 now, sorrowful, and lovely in sorrow, as they were 
 beheld years ago, by the gray, cold, comfortless light of 
 morning ! 
 
 " God bless you, my own, own love! " I said; and as 
 my look lingered, I added, with a full but an assured 
 heart, "and He will!" I tarried no more. I flung 
 myself on my horse, and rode on as if I were speeding 
 to, and not from, my bride. 
 
 The noon was far advanced, as, the day after I left 
 Isora, I found myself entering the park in which 
 Devereux Court is situated. I did not enter by one 
 of the lodges, but through a private gate. My horse 
 was thoroughly jaded, for the distance I had come was 
 great, and I had ridden rapidly ; and as I came into the 
 park, I dismounted, and, throwing the rein over my 
 arm , proceeded slowly on foot. I was . passing through 
 a thick, long plantation, which belted the park, and in 
 which several walks and rides had been cut, when a 
 man crossed the same road which I took, at a little 
 distancs before me. He was looking on the ground, 
 and appeared wrapped in such earnest meditation that 
 he neither saw nor heard me. But I had seen enough 
 of him, in that brief space of time, to feel convinced 
 that it was Montreuil whom I beheld. What brought 
 him hither, — him whom I believed in London, 
 
DEVEEEUX. 237 
 
 immersed with Gerald in political schemes, and for 
 whom these woods were not only interdicted ground, 
 but to whom they must have also been but a tame 
 field of interest, after his audiences with ministers 
 and nobles ? I did not, however, pause to consider on 
 his apparition. I rather quickened my pace towards 
 the house, in the expectation of there ascertaining the 
 cause of his visit. 
 
 The great gates of the outer court were open as usual. 
 I rode unheedingly through them, and was soon at the 
 door of the hall. The porter, who unfolded to my 
 summons the ponderous door, uttered, when he saw me, 
 an exclamation that seemed to my ear to have in it more 
 of sorrow than welcome. 
 
 " How is your master 1" I asked. 
 
 The man shook his head, but did not hasten to answer; 
 and, impressed with a vague alarm, I hurried on with- 
 out repeating the question. On the staircase I met old 
 NichoUs, my uncle's valet. I stopped and questioned 
 him. My uncle had been seized on the preceding day 
 with gout in the stomach. Medical aid had been pro- 
 cured, but it was feared ineffectually; and the physi- 
 cians had declared, about an hour before I arrived, that 
 he could not, in human probability, outlive the night. 
 Stifling the rising at my heart, I waited to hear no 
 more. I flew up the stairs. I was at the door of my 
 uncle's chamber. I stopped there and listened: all 
 was still. I opened the door gently. I stole in, and, 
 creeping to the bedside, knelt down and covered my 
 face with my hands, for I required a pause for self- 
 possession before I had courage to look up. When I 
 raised my eyes, I saw my mother on the opposite side. 
 She sat on a chair, with a draught of medicine in one 
 hand, and a watch in the other. She caught my eye, 
 
238 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 but did not speak. She gave me a sign of recognition, 
 and looked down again upon the watch. My uncle's 
 back was turned to me, and he lay so still that for 
 some moments I thought he was asleep. At last, how- 
 ever, he moved restlessly. 
 
 " It is past noon ! " said he to my mother, " is it not 1 " 
 
 " It is three minutes and six seconds after four, " 
 replied my mother, looking closer at the watch. 
 
 My uncle sighed. " They have sent an express for 
 the dear boy, madam? " said he. 
 
 "Exactly at half -past nine last evening," answered 
 my mother, glancing at me. 
 
 "He could scarcely be here by this time," said my 
 uncle ; and he moved again in the bed. " Pish, — how 
 the pillow frets one!" 
 
 " Is it too high ? " said my mother. 
 
 "No," said my uncle, faintly, "no, no, — the dis- 
 comfort is not in the pillow, after all: 'tis a fine day, 
 is it not 1 " 
 
 " Very ! " said my mother; " I wish you could go out." 
 
 My uncle did not answer : there was a pause. " Od's 
 fish, madam, are those carriage-wheels ? " 
 
 "No, Sir William; but — " 
 
 "There are sounds in my ear, — my senses grow 
 dim," said my uncle, unheeding her. " Would that I 
 might live another day! — I should not like to die 
 without seeing him. 'Sdeath, madam, I do hear some- 
 thing behind! Sobs, as I live! Who sobs for the old 
 knight ? " and my uncle turned round and saw me. 
 
 "My dear, dear uncle! " I said, and could say no 
 more. 
 
 " Ah! Morton," cried the kind old man, putting his 
 hand affectionately upon mine. " Beshrew me, but I 
 think I have conquered the grim enemy now that you 
 
DEVEEEUX. 239 
 
 are come. But what's this, my boy? — tears, tears! 
 Why, little Sid — no, nor Eochester either, would ever 
 have believed this, if I had sworn it! Cheer up, 
 cheer up ! " 
 
 But, seeing that I wept and sobbed the more, my 
 uncle, after a pause, continued in the somewhat figura- 
 tive strain which the reader has observed he sometimes 
 adopted, and which perhaps his dramatic studies had 
 taught him. 
 
 "Nay, Morton, what do you grieve for? That age 
 should throw off its fardel of aches and pains, and no 
 longer groan along its weary road, meeting cold looks 
 and unwilling welcomes, as both host and comrade grow 
 weary of the same face, and the spendthrift heart has no 
 longer quip or smile wherewith to pay the reckoning? 
 No, no; let the poor pedler shuffle off his dull pack, 
 and fall asleep. But I am glad you are come. I would 
 sooner have one of your kind looks at your uncle 'fe stale 
 saws or jests than all the long faces about me, saving 
 only the presence of your mother; " and with his char- 
 acteristic gallantry, my uncle turned courteously to her. 
 
 " Dear Sir William! " said she, " it is time you should 
 take your draught ; and then would it not be better that 
 you should see the chaplain ? He waits without. " 
 
 " Od's fish," said my uncle, turning again to me, 
 " 't is the way with them all, — when the body is past 
 hope, comes the physician; and when the soul is past 
 mending, comes the priest. No, madam, no; 'tis too 
 late for either. Thank ye, Morton, thank ye " (as I 
 started up, took the draught from my mother's hand, 
 and besought him to drink it) , " 't is of no use ; but if 
 it pleases thee, I must;" and he drank the medicine. 
 
 My mother rose, and walked towards the door. It 
 was ajar; and as my eye followed her figure, I per- 
 
240 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ceived, through the opening, the black garb of the 
 chaplain. 
 
 "Not yet," said she, quietly; "wait;" and then, 
 gliding away, she seated herself by the window in 
 silence, and told her beads. 
 
 My uncle continued : " They have been at me, 
 Morton, as if I had been a pagan; and I believe, in 
 their hearts they are not a little scandalized that I 
 don't try to win the next world by trembling like an 
 ague. Faith, now, I never could believe that Heaven 
 was so partial to cowards; nor can I think, Morton, 
 that Salvation is like a soldier's muster-roll, and that 
 we may play the devil between hours, so that at the 
 last moment we whip in, and answer to our names. 
 Od's fish, Morton, I could tell thee a tale of that; but 
 't is a long one, and we have not time now. Well, 
 well, for my part, I deem reverently and gratefully of 
 God, and do not believe He will be very wrath with 
 our past enjoyment of life, if we have taken care that 
 others should enjoy it too; nor do I think, with thy 
 good mother, and Aubrey, dear child! that an idle word 
 has the same weight in the Almighty's scales as a wicked 
 deed." 
 
 * Blessed, blessed are they," I cried, through my 
 tears, " on whose souls there is as little stain as there is 
 on yours ! " 
 
 " Faith, Morton, that 's kindly said; and thou know- 
 est not how strangely it sounds, after their exhortations 
 to repentance. I know I have had my faults, and 
 walked on to our common goal in a very irregular line ; 
 but I never wronged the living nor slandered the dead, 
 nor ever shut my heart to the poor, — 't were a burning 
 sin if I had; and I have loved all men and all things, 
 and I never bore ill-wj-11 to a creature. Poor Ponto, 
 
DEVEEEUX. 241 
 
 Morton, thou wilt take care of poor Ponto, when I 'm 
 dead. Nay, nay, don't grieve so. Go, my child, go, 
 — compose thyself while I see the priest, for 'twill 
 please thy poor mother; and though she thinks harshly 
 of me now, I should not like her to do so to-morrow ! 
 Go, my dear hoy , go. " 
 
 I went from the room, and waited hy the door till 
 the office of the priest was over. My mother then came 
 out, and said Sir William had composed himself to 
 sleep. While she was yet speaking, Gerald surprised 
 me by his appearance. I learned that he had been in 
 the house for the last three days ; and when I heard this, 
 I involuntarily accounted for the appearance of Mon- 
 trenil. I saluted him distantly, and he returned my 
 greeting with the like pride. He seemed, however, 
 though in a less degree, to share in my emotions; and 
 my heart softened to him for it. Neverthless we stood 
 apart, and met not as brothers should have met by the 
 death-bed of a mutual benefactor. 
 
 " Will you wait without ? " said my mother. 
 
 "No," answered I, " I will watch over him." So I 
 stole in, with a light step, and seated myself by my 
 uncle's bedside. He was asleep, and his sleep was as 
 hushed and quiet as an infant's. I looked upon his 
 face, and saw a change had come over it, and was 
 increasing sensibly ; but there was neither harshness 
 nor darkness in the change, awful as it was. The soul, 
 so long nurtured on benevolence, could not, in parting, 
 leave a rude stamp on the kindly clay which had 
 seconded its impulses so well. 
 
 The evening had just set in, when my uncle woke; 
 he turned very gently, and smiled when he saw me. 
 
 "It is late," said he; and I observed with a wrung 
 heart that his voice was fainter. 
 
 VOL. I. — 16 
 
242 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " No, sir; not very," said I. 
 
 "Late enough, my child; the warm sun has gone 
 down; and 't is a good time to close one's eyes, when 
 all without looks gray and chill ; methinks it is easier 
 to wish thee farewell, Morton, when I see thy face 
 indistinctly. I am glad I ohall not die in the daytime. 
 Give me thy hand, my child, and tell me that thou art 
 not angry with thine old uncle for thwarting thee in 
 that love husiness. I have heard tales of the girl, too, 
 which make me glad, for thy sake, that it is all off, 
 though I might not tell thee of them before. 'T is very 
 dark, Morton. I have had a pleasant sleep. Od's fish, 
 I do not think a bad man would have slept so well. 
 The fire burns dim, Morton, — it is very cold. Cover 
 me up, — double the counterpane over the legs, Morton. 
 I remember once walking in the Mall, — little Sid said 
 * Devereux' — it is colder and colder, Morton, — raise 
 the blankets more over the back. ' Devereux,' said 
 little Sid — faith, Morton, 'tis ice now: where art 
 thou? is the fire out, that I can't see thee? Remem- 
 ber thine old uncle, Morton, and — and — don't forget 
 poor — Ponto. Bless thee, my child, — bless you all ! " 
 
 And my uncle died. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 243 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 A great Change of Prospects. 
 
 I SHUT myself up in the apartments prepared for me 
 (they were not those I had formerly occupied), and 
 refused all participation in my solitude, till, after an 
 interval of some days, my mother came to summon me 
 to the opening of the will. She was more moved than 
 I had expected. " It is a pity," said she, as we 
 descended the stairs, "that Aubrey is not here, and 
 that we should be so unacquainted with the exact place 
 where he is likely to be that I fear the letter I sent him 
 may be long delayed, or, indeed, altogether miscarried." 
 
 '-' Is not the abbe here ? " said I, listlessly. 
 
 " No ! " answered my mother ; " to be sure not. '' 
 
 "He has been here," said I, greatly surprised. "I 
 certainly saw him on the day of my arrival. " 
 
 " Impossible ! " said my mother, in evident aston- 
 ishment; and seeing that at all events she was unac- 
 quainted with the circumstance, I said no more. 
 
 The will was to be read in the little room where my 
 uncle had been accustomed to sit. I felt it as a sacri- 
 lege to his memory to choose that spot for such an office, 
 but I said nothing. Gerald and my mother, the lawyer 
 (a neighboring attorney, named Oswald) and myself, 
 were the only persons present; Mr. Oswald hemmed 
 thrice, and broke the seal. After a preliminary, strongly 
 characteristic of the testator, he came to the disposition 
 of the estates. I had never once, since my poor uncle's 
 
214 DETEEEUX. 
 
 death, thought upon the chances of his will, — indeed, 
 knowing myself so entirely his favorite, I could not, if 
 I had thought upon them, have entertained a doubt as 
 to their result. What then was my astonishment when, 
 couched in terms of the strongest affection, the whole 
 bulk of the property was bequeathed to Gerald? To 
 Aubrey, the sum of forty, to myself that of twenty 
 thousand pounds (a capital considerably less than the 
 yearly income of my uncle's princely estates), was 
 allotted. Then followed a list of minor bequests : to 
 my mother an annuity of three thousand a year, with 
 the privilege of apartments in the house during her 
 life; to each of the servants legacies sufficient for 
 independence; to a few friends, and distant connec- 
 tions of the family, tokens of the testator's remem- 
 brance; even the horses to his carriage, and the dogs 
 that fed from his menials' table, were not forgotten, 
 but were to be set apart from work, and maintained in 
 indolence during their remaining span of life. The 
 will was concluded, — I could not believe my senses: 
 not a word was said as a reason for giving Gerald the 
 priority. 
 
 I rose calmly enough. " Suffer me, sir," said I to 
 the lawyer, " to satisfy my own eyes. " Mr. Oswald 
 bowed, and placed the will in my hands. I glanced 
 at Gerald as I took it: his countenance betrayed, or 
 feigned, an astonishment equal to my own. With a 
 jealous, searching, scrutinizing eye, I examined the 
 words of the bequest; I examined especially (for I 
 suspected that the names must have been exchanged) 
 the place in which my name and Gerald's occurred. 
 In vain: all was smooth and fair to ihe eye, not a 
 vestige of possible erasure or alteration was visible. I 
 looked next at the wording of the will ; it was evidently 
 
DEVEEEUX. 245 
 
 my uncle's: no one could have feigned or imitated the 
 peculiar turn of his expressions; and, above all, many 
 parts of the will (the afifectionate and personal parts) 
 were in his own handwriting. 
 
 " The date," said I, " is, I perceive, of very recent 
 period; the will is signed by two witnesses beside 
 yourself. Who and where are they 1 " 
 
 "Robert Lister, the first signature, my clerk, he is 
 since dead, sir." 
 
 "Dead!" said I; "and the other witness, George 
 Davis 1 " 
 
 " Is one of Sir William's tenants, and is below, sir, 
 in waiting." 
 
 " Let him come up;'' and a middle-sized, stout man, 
 with a blunt, bold, open countenance, was admitted. 
 
 " Did you witness this will 1 " said I. 
 
 " I did, your honor! " 
 
 "And this is your handwriting?" pointing to the 
 scarcely legible scrawl. 
 
 " Yees, your honor," said the man, scratching his 
 head. "I think it be; they are my ees and G and 
 D, sure enough." 
 
 " And do you know the purport of the will you 
 signed?" 
 
 "Anan?" 
 
 " I mean, do you know to whom Sir William — stop, 
 Mr. Oswald : suffer the man to answer me — to whom 
 Sir William left his property ? " 
 
 " Koa, to be sure, sir ; the will was a woundy long 
 one , and Maister Oswald there told me it was no use to 
 read it over to me, but merely to sign, as a witness to 
 Sir William's handwriting." 
 
 "Enough, — you may retire;" and George Davis 
 vanished. 
 
246 DEVEKEUX, 
 
 " Mr. Oswald," said I, approaching the attorney, " I 
 may wrong you, and, if so, I am sorry for it, but I sus- 
 pect there has been foul practice in this deed. I have 
 reason to be convinced that Sir William Devereux 
 could never have made this devise. I give you warn- 
 ing, sir, that I shall bring the business immediately 
 before a court of law, and that, if guilty — ay, tremble, 
 sir — of what I suspect, you will answer for this deed 
 at the foot of the gallows. " 
 
 I turned to Gerald, who rose while I was yet speak- 
 ing. Before I could address him, he exclaimed, with 
 evident and extreme agitation, — 
 
 "You cannot, Morton, — you cannot; you dare not 
 insinuate that I, your brother, have been base enough 
 to forge, or to instigate the forgery of, this will? " 
 
 Gerald's agitation made me still less doubtful of his 
 guilt. 
 
 " The case, sir," I answered coldly, " stands thus: my 
 uncle could not have made this will ; it is a devise that 
 must seem incredible to all who knew aught of our 
 domestic circumstances. Fraud has been practised, — 
 how, I know not; by whom, I do know." 
 
 "Morton, Morton, this is insufferable, — I cannot 
 bear such charges, even from a brother." 
 
 "Charges! — your conscience speaks, sir, — not I: 
 no one benefits by this fraud but you ; pardon me if I 
 draw an inference from a fact. " 
 
 So saying, I turned on my heel, and abruptly left the 
 apartment. I ascended the stairs, which led to my own; 
 there I found my servant preparing the paraphernalia 
 in which that very evening I was to attend my uncle's 
 funeral. I gave him, with a calm and collected voice, 
 the necessary instructions for following me to town 
 immediately after that event, and then I passed on to 
 
DEVEREUX. 247 
 
 the room where the deceased lay in state. The room 
 was hung with black; the gorgeous pall, wrought with 
 the proud heraldry of our line, lay over the coflfin, and 
 by the lights which made, in that old chamber, a more 
 brilliant yet more ghastly day, sat the hired watchers 
 of the dead. 
 
 I bade them leave me, and kneeling down beside the 
 coffin, I poured out the last expressions of my grief. I 
 rose, and was retiring once more to my room, when I 
 encountered Gerald. 
 
 " Morton,'' said he, " I own to you, I myself am 
 astounded by my uncle's will. I do not come to make 
 you offers, — you would not accept them ; I do not come 
 to vindicate myself, — it is beneath me ; and we have 
 never been as brothers, and we know not their language ; 
 but I do come to demand you to retract the dark and 
 causeless suspicions you have vented against me, and 
 also to assure you that, if you have doubts of the 
 authenticity of the will, so far from throwing obsta- 
 cles in your way I myself will join in the inquiries 
 you institute, and the expenses of the law." 
 
 I felt some difficulty in curbing my indignation 
 while Gerald thus spoke. I saw before me the perse- 
 cutor of Isora, the fraudulent robber of my rights, and 
 I heard this enemy speak to me of aiding in the inqui- 
 ries which were to convict himself of the basest if not 
 the blackest of human crimes ; there was something too 
 in the reserved and yet insolent tone of his voice which, 
 reminding me as it did of our long aversion to each 
 other, made my very blood creep with abhorrence. I 
 turned away, that I might not break my oath to Isora, 
 for I felt strongly tempted to do so; and said, in as 
 calm an accent as I could command, "The case will, I 
 trust, require no king's evidence, and, at least, I will 
 
248 DEVEREUX. 
 
 not be beholden to the man whom my reason condemns 
 for any assistance in bringing upon himself the ultimate 
 condemnation of the law." 
 
 Gerald looked at me sternly. " Were you not my 
 brother," said he, in a low tone, "I would, for a charge 
 so dishonoring my fair name, strike you dead at my 
 feet." 
 
 " It is a wonderful exertion of fraternal love," I 
 rejoined, with a scornful laugh, but an eye flashing 
 with passions a thousand times more fierce than scorn, 
 " that prevents your adding that last favor to those 
 you have already bestowed on me." 
 
 Gerald, with a muttered curse, placed his hand upon 
 his sword; my own rapier was instantly half drawn, 
 when , to save us from the great guilt of mortal contest 
 against each other, steps were heard, and a number of 
 the domestics, charged with melancholy duties at the 
 approaching rite, were seen slowly sweeping in black 
 robes along the opposite gallery. Perhaps that inter- 
 ruption restored both of us to our senses, for we said, 
 almost in the same breath and nearly in the same 
 phrase, " This way of terminating strife is not for us ; " 
 and, as Gerald spoke, he turned slowly away, descended 
 the staircase, and disappeared. 
 
 The funeral took place at night: a numerous proces- 
 sion of the tenants and peasantry attended. My poor 
 uncle! there was not a dry eye for thee but those of 
 thine own kindred. Tall, stately, erect in the power 
 and majesty of his unrivalled form, stood Gerald, 
 already assuming the dignity and lordship which, to 
 speak frankly, so well became him; my mother's face 
 was turned from me, but her attitude proclaimed her 
 utterly absorbed in prayer. As for myself, my heart 
 seemed hardened : I could not betray to the gaze of a 
 
DEVEEEUX. 249 
 
 hundred strangers the emotions which I would have 
 hidden from those whom I loved the most; wrapped in 
 my cloak, with arms folded on my breast, and eyes bent 
 to the ground, I leaned against one of the pillars of the 
 chapel, apart, and apparently unmoved. 
 
 But when they were about to lower the body into the 
 vault, a momentary weakness came over me. I made an 
 involuntary step forward, a single but deep groan of 
 anguish broke from me, and then, covering my face with 
 my mantle, I resumed my former attitude, and all was 
 still. The rite was over; in many and broken groups 
 the spectators passed from the chapel , — some to specu- 
 late on the future lord, some to mourn over the late, and 
 all to return the next morning to their wonted business, 
 and let the glad sun teach them to forget the past, until 
 for themselves the sun should be no more, and the 
 forgetfulness eternal. 
 
 The hour was so late that I relinquished my inten- 
 tion of leaving the house thatnight; I ordered my horse 
 to be in readiness at daybreak, and, before I retired to 
 rest, I went to my mother's apartments: she received 
 me with more feeling than she had ever testiiied before. 
 
 "Believe me, Morton," said she, and she kissed my 
 forehead, — " believe me, I can fully enter into the 
 feelings which you must naturally experience on an 
 event so contrary to your expectations. I cannot con- 
 ceal from you how much I am surpri.-^ed. Certainly Sir 
 William never gave any of us cause to suppose that he 
 liked either of your brothers — Gerald less than Aubrey 
 — so much as yourself; nor, poor man, was he in other 
 things at all addicted to conceal his opinions. " 
 
 " It is true, my mother,'' said I, — " it is true. Have 
 you not, therefore, some suspicions of the authenticity 
 of the will ? " 
 
250 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Suspicions ! " cried my mother. " No ! — impos- 
 sible ! — suspicions of whom ? You could not think 
 Gerald so base, and who else had an interest in 
 deception? Besides, the signature is undoubtedly 
 Sir William's handwriting, and the will was regu- 
 larly witnessed ; suspicions, Morton, — no, impossible! 
 Reflect, too, how eccentric and humorsome your uncle 
 always was : suspicions ! — no, impossible ! " 
 
 " Such things have been, my mother, nor are they 
 uncommon : men will hazard their souls — ay, and what 
 to some is more precious still, their lives too — for the 
 vile clay we call money. But enough of this now : the 
 Law — that great arbiter, that eater of the oyster and 
 divider of its shells — the Law will decide between us, 
 and if against me, as I suppose and fear the decision 
 will be, — why, I must be a suitor to fortune, instead of 
 her commander. Give me your blessing, my dearest 
 mother. I cannot stay longer in this house ; to-morrow 
 I leave you." 
 
 And -my mother did bless me, and I fell upon her 
 neck and clung to it. " Ah ! " thought I, " this bless, 
 ing is almost worth my uncle's fortune." 
 
 I returned to my room; there I saw on the table 
 the case of the sword sent me by the Prench king. I 
 had left it with my uncle, on my departure to town, 
 and it had been found among his effects and reclaimed 
 by me. I took out the sword, and drew it from the 
 scabbard. 
 
 " Come," said I; and I kindled with a melancholy 
 yet a deep enthusiasm, as I looked along the blade, — 
 " come, my bright friend, with thee through this laby- 
 rinth which we call the world will I carve my way! 
 Fairest and speediest of earth's levellers, thou makest 
 the path from the low valley to the steep hill, and 
 
DEVEREUX. 251 
 
 shapest the soldier's axe into the monarch's sceptre! 
 The laurel and the fasces, and the curule car, and the 
 emperor's purple, — what are these but thy playthings, 
 alternately thy scorn and thy reward 1 Founder of all 
 empires, propagator of all creeds, thou leddest the Gaul 
 and the Goth, and the gods of Rome and Greece crum- 
 bled upon their altars! Beneath thee, the fires of the 
 Gheber waved pale, and on thy point the badge of the 
 camel-driver blazed like a sun over the startled East! 
 Eternal arbiter and unconquerable despot, while the 
 passions of mankind exist! Most solemn of hypocrites, 
 circling blood with glory as with a halo, and consecrat- 
 ing homicide and massacre with a hollow name, which 
 the parched throat of thy votary, in the battle and the 
 agony, shouteth out with its last breath! Star of all 
 human destinies ! I kneel before thee , and invoke from 
 thy bright astrology an omen and a smile." 
 
252 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 An Episode. — The Son of the Greatest Man who (one only ex- 
 cepted) ever rose to a Throne, but by no means of the Greatest 
 Man (save one) who eiier existed. 
 
 Before sunrise the next morning, I had commenced 
 my return to London. I had previously intrusted to 
 the locum tenens of the sage Desmarais the royal gift 
 and (singular conjunction!) poor Ponto, my uncle's 
 dog. Here let me pause, as I shall have no other 
 opportunity to mention him, to record the fate of the 
 canine bequest. He accompanied me some years after- 
 wards to France, and he died there in extreme age. I 
 shed tears, as I saw the last relic of my poor uncle 
 expire; and I was not consoled even though he was 
 buried in the garden of the gallant Villars, and immor- 
 talized by an epitaph from the pen of the courtly 
 Chaulieu. 
 
 Leaving my horse to select his own pace, I surren- 
 dered myself to reflection upon the strange alteration 
 that had taken place in my fortunes. There did not, 
 in my own mind, rest a doubt but that some villany 
 had been practised witli respect to the will. My 
 uncle's constant and unvarying favor towards me; the 
 unequivocal expressions he himself from time to time 
 had dropped indicative of his future intentions on my 
 behalf; the easy and natural manner in which he had 
 seemed to consider, as a thing of course, my heritage 
 and succession to his estates, — all, coupled with his 
 own frank and kindly character, so little disposed to 
 
DEVEREUX. 253 
 
 raise hopes which he meant to disappoint, might alone 
 have been sufficient to arouse my suspicions at a devise 
 so contrary to all past experience of the testator. But 
 when to these were linked the hold temper and the 
 daring intellect of my brother, joined to his personal 
 hatred to myself; his close intimacy with Montreuil, 
 whom I believed capable of the darkest designs; the 
 sudden and evidently concealed appearance of the latter 
 on the day my uncle died; the agitation and paleness 
 of the attorney ; the enormous advantages accruing to 
 Gerald, and to no one else, from the terms of the 
 devise, — when these were all united into one focus of 
 evidence, they appeared to me to leave no doubt of the 
 forgery of the testament, and the crime of Gerald. Nor 
 was there anything in my brother's bearing and manner 
 calculated to abate my suspicions. His agitation was 
 real; his surprise might have been feigned; his offer of 
 assistance in investigation was an unmeaning bravado; 
 his conduct to myself testified his continued ill-will 
 towards me, — an ill will which might possibly have 
 instigated him in the fraud, scarcely less than the 
 whispers of interest and cupidity. 
 
 But while this was the natural and indelible impres- 
 sion on my mind, I could not disguise from myself the 
 extreme difficulty I should experience in resisting my 
 brother's claim. So far as my utter want of all legal 
 knowledge would allow me to decide, I could perceive 
 nothing in the will itself which would admit of a 
 lawyer's successful cavil: my reasons for suspicion, so 
 conclusive to myself , would seem nugatory to a judge. 
 My uncle was known as a humorist; and prove that a 
 man differs from others in one thing, and the world 
 will believe that he differs from them in a thousand. 
 His favor to me would be, in the popular eye, only an 
 
254 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 eccentricity, and the unlooked-for disposition of his 
 will only a caprice. Possession, too, gave Gerald a 
 proverbial vantage-ground, which my whole life might 
 be wasted in contesting; while his command of an 
 immense wealth might more than probably exhaust 
 my spirit by delay and my fortune by expenses. 
 Precious prerogative of law to reverse the attribute of 
 the Almighty, — to fill the rich with good things, but 
 to send the poor empty away ! In corruptissimd repub- 
 lica plurimcB leges. Legislation perplexed is synony- 
 mous with crime unpunished, — a reflection, by the 
 way, I should never have made if I had never had a 
 lawsuit: sufferers are ever reformers. 
 
 Revolving, then, these anxious and unpleasing 
 thoughts, interrupted at times by regrets of a purer 
 and less selfish nature for the friend I had lost, and 
 wandering at others to the brighter anticipations of 
 rejoining Isora, and drinking from her eyes my comfort 
 for the past and my hope for the future, I continued 
 and concluded my day's travel. 
 
 The next day, on resuming my journey, and on 
 feeling the time approach that would bring me to 
 Isora, something like joy became the most prevalent 
 feeling on my mind. So true it is that misfortunes little 
 affect us so long as we have some ulterior object, which, 
 by arousing hope, steals us from affliction. Alas! the 
 pang of a moment becomes intolerable when we know 
 of nothing beyond the moment which it soothes us to 
 anticipate! Happiness lives in the light of the future: 
 attack the present, she defies you! darken the future, 
 and you destroy her! 
 
 It was a beautiful morning: through the vapors, 
 which rolled slowly away beneath his beams, the sun 
 broke gloriously forth; and over wood and hill, and the 
 
DKVEEEUX. 255 
 
 low plains, which, covered with golden corn, stretched 
 immediately before me, his smile lay in stillness, but 
 in joy. And ever from out the brake and the scattered 
 copse, which at frequent intervals beset the road, the 
 merry birds sent a fitful and glad music to mingle with 
 the sweets and freshness of the air. 
 
 I had accomplished the greater part of my journey, 
 and had entered into a more wooded and garden-like 
 description of country, when I perceived an old man, 
 in a kind of low chaise, vainly endeavoring to hold in 
 a little but spirited horse, which had taken alarm at 
 some object on the road, and was running away with its 
 driver. The age of the gentleman and the lightness of 
 the chaise gave me some alarm for the safety of the 
 driver; so, tying my own horse to a gate, lest the sound 
 of his hoofs might only increase the speed and fear of 
 the fugitive, I ran with a swift and noiseless step along 
 the other side of the hedge, and coming out into the 
 road just before the pony's head, I succeeded in arrest- 
 ing him at rather a critical spot and moment. The old 
 gentleman very soon recovered his alarm; and, returning 
 me many thanks for my interference, requested me to 
 accompany him to his house , which he said was two or 
 three miles distant. 
 
 Though I had no desire to be delayed in my journey 
 for the mere sake of seeing an old gentleman's house, I 
 thought my new acquaintance's safety required me, at 
 least, to offer to act as his charioteer till we reached his 
 house. To my secret vexation at that time, though I 
 afterwards thought the petty inconvenience was amply 
 repaid by a conference with a very singular and once 
 noted character, the offer was accepted. Surrendering 
 my own steed to the care of a ragged boy, who promised 
 to lead it with equal judgment and zeal, I entered the 
 
256 • DEVEKEUX. 
 
 little car, and, keeping a firm hand and constant eye on 
 the reins, brought the offending quadruped into a very 
 equable and sedate pace. 
 
 "Poor Pob," said the old gentleman, apostrophizing 
 his horse, — " poor Pob, like thy betters, thou knowest 
 the weak hand from the strong ; and when thou art not 
 held in by power, thou wilt chafe against love ; so that 
 thou renewest in my mind the remembrance of its 
 favorite maxim, namely, ' The only preventative to 
 rebellion is restraint! ' " 
 
 " Your observation, sir," said I, rather struck by this 
 address, " makes very little in favor of the more gen- 
 erous feelings by which we ought to be actuated. It 
 is a base mind which always requires the bit and 
 bridle." 
 
 " It is, sir," answered the old gentleman; " I allow 
 it; but though I have some love for human nature, I 
 have no respect for it; and while I pity its infirmities, 
 I cannot but confess them." 
 
 "Methinks, sir," replied I, "that you have uttered 
 in that short speech more sound philosophy than I have 
 heard for months. There is wisdom in not thinking 
 too loftily of human clay, and benevolence in not 
 judging it too harshly, and something, too, of magna- 
 nimity in this moderation ; for we seldom contemn 
 mankind till they have hurt us, and when they have 
 hurt us we seldom do anything but detest them for the 
 injury." 
 
 " You speak shrewdly, sir, for one so young," returned 
 the old man, looking hard at me; '' and I will be sworn 
 you have suffered some cares: for we never begin to 
 think till we are a little afraid to hope." 
 
 I sighed as I answered, " There are some men, I 
 fancy, to whom constitution supplies the office of care; 
 
DEVEEEUX. 257 
 
 who, naturally melancholy, hecome easily addicted to 
 reflection, and reflection is a soil which soon repays us 
 for whatever trouble we bestow upon its culture." 
 
 " True, sir! " said my companion, — and there was a 
 pause. The old gentleman resumed : " We are not far 
 from my home now (or rather my temporary residence, 
 for my proper and general home is at Cheshunt, in 
 Hertfordshire) ; and as the day is scarcely half spent, 
 I trust you will not object to partake of a hermit's fare. 
 Nay, nay, no excuse; I assure you that I am not a 
 gossip in general, or a liberal dispenser of invitations; 
 and I think, if you refuse me now, you will hereafter 
 regret it." 
 
 My curiosity was rather excited by this threat; and, 
 reflecting that my horse required a short rest, I subdued 
 my impatience to return to town, and accepted the 
 invitation. We came presently to a house of moderate 
 size and rather antique fashion. This, the old man 
 informed me, was his present abode. A servant, almost 
 as old as his master, came to the door, and, giving his 
 arm to my host, led him, for he was rather lame and 
 otherwise infirm, across a small hall into a long, low 
 apartment. I followed. 
 
 A miniature of Oliver Cromwell, placed over the 
 chimney-piece, forcibly arrested my attention. 
 
 " It is the only portrait of the Protector I ever saw," 
 said I, " which impresses on me the certainty of a like- 
 ness: that resolute, gloomy brow; that stubborn lip; 
 that heavy yet not stolid expression, — all seem to war- 
 rant resemblance to that singular and fortunate man, 
 to whom folly appears to have been as great an instru- 
 ment of success as wisdom, and who rose to the supreme 
 power, perhaps, no less from a pitiable fanaticism than 
 an admirable genius. So true is it that great men often 
 
 VOL. I. — 17 
 
258 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 soar to their height by qualities the least obvious to 
 the spectator, and (to stoop to a low comparison) resem- 
 ble that animal ^ in which a common ligament supplies 
 the place and possesses the property of wings." 
 
 The old man smiled very slightly, as I made this 
 remark. " If this be true," said he, with an impressive 
 tone , "though we may wonder less at the talents of the 
 Protector, we must be more indulgent to his character, 
 nor condemn him for insincerity when at heart he 
 himself was deceived." 
 
 "It is in that light," said I, "that I have always 
 viewed his conduct. And though myself, by prejudice, 
 a cavalier and a Tory, I own that Cromwell (hypo- 
 crite as he is esteemed) appears to me as much to have 
 exceeded his royal antagonist and victim, in the virtue 
 of sincerity, as he did in the grandeur of his genius 
 and the profound consistency of his ambition." 
 
 " Sir," said my host, with a waymth that astonished 
 me, "you seem to have known that man, so justly do 
 you judge him. Yes," said he, after a pause, — "yes, 
 perhaps no one ever so varnished to his own breast his 
 designs ; no one so covetous of glory was ever so duped 
 by conscience; no one ever rose to such a height 
 through so few acts that seemed to himself worthy of 
 remorse. " 
 
 At this part of our conversation the servant, enter- 
 ing, announced dinner. We adjourned to another room, 
 and partook of a homely yet not uninviting repast. 
 When men are pleased with each other, conversation 
 soon gets beyond the ordinary surfaces to talk; and an 
 exchange of deeper opinions is speedily effected by what 
 old Barnes " quaintly enough terms, " The Gentleman 
 Usher of all Knowledge, — Sermocination ! " 
 
 1 The flying squirrel. 2 jjj the " Gerania." 
 
DEVEEEUX. 259 
 
 It was a pretty thoiigb small room where we dined, 
 and I observed that in this apartment, as in the other 
 into which I had been first ushered, there were several 
 books scattered about, in that confusion and number 
 which show that they have become to their owner both 
 the choicest luxury and the least dispensable necessary. 
 So, during dinner-time, we talked principally upon 
 books, and I observed that those which my host seemed 
 to know the best were of the elegant and poetical order 
 of philosophers, who, more fascinating than deep, preach 
 up the blessings of a solitude which is useless, and a 
 content which, deprived of passion, excitement, and 
 energy, would, if it could ever exist, only be a dignified 
 name for vegetation. 
 
 "So," said he, when, the dinner being removed, we 
 were left alone with that substitute for all society, 
 wine ! — "so you are going to town : in four hours more 
 you will be in that great focus of noise, falsehood, 
 hollow joy, and real sorrow. Do you know that I 
 have become so wedded to the country that I cannot 
 but consider all those who leave it for the turbulent 
 city, in the same light, half wondering, half compas- 
 sionating, as that in which the ancients regarded the 
 hardy adventurers who left the safe latid and their 
 happy homes, voluntarily to expose themselves in a 
 frail vessel to the dangers of an uncertain sea. Here, 
 when I look out on the green fields and the blue sky, 
 the quiet herbs, basking in the sunshine or scattered 
 over the unpolluted plains, I cannot but exclaim with 
 Pliny, ' This is the true Movcrctov! ' this is the source 
 whence flow inspiration to the mind and tranquillity to 
 the heart ! And in my love of Nature — more confiding 
 and constant than ever is the love we bear to woman — 
 I cry with the tender and sweet Tibullus, — ■ 
 
260 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 ' Ego composito securus acervo 
 Despioiam dites, deapiciamque fameni.' " * 
 
 " These," said I, " are the sentiments we all (perhaps 
 the most restless of us the most passionately) at times 
 experience. But there is in our hearts some secret 
 but irresistible principle, that impels us, as a rolling 
 circle, onward, onward, in the great orbit of our destiny ; 
 nor do we find a respite until the wheels on which we 
 move are broken, — at the tomb. " 
 
 " Yet," said my host, " the internal principle you 
 speak of can be arrested before the grave; at least 
 stilled and impeded. You will smile incredulously, 
 perhaps (for I see you do not know who I am) , when 
 I tell you that I might once have been a monarch, and 
 that obscurity seemed to me more enviable than empire; 
 I resigned the occasion: the tide of fortune rolled 
 onward, and left me safe but solitary and forsaken 
 upon the dry land. If you wonder at my choice, you 
 will wonder still more when I tell you that I have 
 never repented it." 
 
 Greatly surprised and even startled, I heard my host 
 make this strange avowal. " Forgive me," said I, " but 
 you have powerfully excited my interest; dare I inquire 
 from whose experience I am now deriving a lesson ! " 
 
 "Not yet,'' said my host, smiling, — "not till our 
 conversation is over, and you have bid the old anchorite 
 adieu, in all probability, forever: you will then know 
 that you have conversed with a man perhaps more 
 universally neglected and contemned than any of his 
 contemporaries. Yes," he continued, — " yes, I resigned 
 power, and I got no praise for my moderation, but con- 
 
 1 " Satisfied with my little hoard, I can despise wealth, and fear 
 not hunger." 
 
DEVEREUX. 261 
 
 tempt for my folly ; no human being would believe that 
 I could have relinquished that treasure through a dis- 
 regard for its possession which others would only have 
 relinquished through an incapacity to retain it; and 
 that which, had they seen it recorded in an ancient 
 history, men would have regarded as the height of 
 philosophy, they despised when acted under their eyes, 
 as the extremest abasement of imbecility. Yet I com- 
 pare my lot with that of the great man whom T was 
 expected to equal in ambition, and to whose grandeur I 
 might have succeeded; and am convinced that in this 
 retreat I am more to be envied than he in the pleni- 
 tude of his power and the height of his renown ; yet, 
 is not happiness the aim of wisdom 1 If my choice is 
 happier than his, is it not wiser ? " 
 
 "Alas!" thought I, "the wisest men seldom have 
 the loftiest genius, and perhaps happiness is granted 
 rather to mediocrity of mind than to mediocrity of 
 circumstance ; " but I did not give so uncourteous a 
 reply to my host an audible utterance; on the contrary, 
 "I do not doubt," said I, as I rose to depart, "the 
 wisdom of a choice which has brought you self-gratula- 
 tion. And it has been said by a man both great and 
 good, a man to whose mind was open the lore of the 
 closet and the experience of courts, — that in wisdom 
 or in folly ' the only difference between one man and 
 another is whether a man governs his passions or his 
 passions him. ' According to this rule, which, indeed, 
 is a classic and a golden aphorism, Alexander, on the 
 throne of Persia, might have been an idiot to Diogenes 
 in his tub. And now, sir, in wishing you farewell, let 
 me again crave your indulgence to my curiosity. " 
 
 "Not yet, not yet," answered my host; and he led 
 me once more into the other room. While they were 
 
262 DEVEREUX. 
 
 preparing my horse, we renewed our conversation. To 
 the best of my recollection, we talked about Plato ; but 
 I had now become so impatient to rejoin Isora that I 
 did not accord to my worthy host the patient attention 
 I had hitherto given him. When I took leave of him, 
 he blessed me , and placed a piece of paper in my hand. 
 " Do not open this," said he, " till you are at least two 
 miles hence; your curiosity will then be satisfied. If 
 ever you travel this road again, or if ever you pass by 
 Cheshunt, pause and see if the old philosopher is dead. 
 Adieu!" 
 
 And so we parted. 
 
 You may be sure that I had not passed the apoointed 
 distance of two miles very far, when I opened the paper 
 and read the following words : — 
 
 Perhaps, young stranger, at some future period of a life 
 which I venture to foretell will be adventurous and eventful 
 it may aiford you a matter for reflection or a resting-spot for 
 a moral, to remember that yon have seen, in old age and 
 obscurity, the son of Him who shook an Empire, avenged a 
 people, and obtained a throne, only to be the victim of his 
 own passions and the dupe of his own reason. I repeat now 
 the question I before put to you, — Was the fate of the great 
 Protector fairer than that of the despised and forgotten 
 
 Richard Cromwell P 
 
 " So, " thought I, " it is indeed with the son of the 
 greatest ruler of England, or perhaps in modern times, 
 Europe has ever produced, that I have held this con- 
 versation upon content! Yes, perhaps your fate is 
 more to be envied than that of your illustrious father, 
 but who would envy it more 1 Strange, that while we 
 pretend that happiness is the object of all desire, hap- 
 piness is the last thing which we covet. Love and 
 wealth and pleasure and honor, — these are the roads 
 
DEVJEEEUX. 263 
 
 which we take, so long that, accustomed to the mere 
 travel, we forget that it was first undertaken, not for 
 the course, but the goal; and, in the common infatua- 
 tion which pervades all our race, we make the toil the 
 meed, and in following the means forsake the end." 
 
 I never saw my host again; very shortly afterwards 
 he died : ^ and Pate, which had marked with so strong 
 a separation the lives of the father and the son, united 
 in that death — as its greatest, so its only universal 
 blessing — the philosopher and the recluse with the 
 warrior and the chief! 
 
 1 Richard Cromwell died in 1712. — Ed. 
 
264 DEYEEEUX. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In which the Hero shows Decision on more points than one. — More 
 of Isora's character is developed. 
 
 To use the fine image in the " Arcadia," it was " when 
 the sun, like a nohle heart, began to show his greatest 
 countenance in his lowest estate," that 1 arrived at 
 Isora's door. I had written to her once, to announce 
 my uncle's death and the day of my return; but I had 
 not mentioned in my letter my reverse of fortunes: I 
 reserved that communication till it could be softened by 
 our meeting. I saw by the countenance of the servant 
 who admitted me that all was well; so I asked no 
 question : I flew up the stairs, — I broke into Isora's 
 chamber, and in an instant she was in my arms. Ah, 
 Love, Love! wherefore art thou so transitory a pilgrim 
 on the earth , — an evening cloud which hovers on our 
 horizon, drinking the hues of the sun, that grows 
 ominously brighter as it verges to the shadow and the 
 night, and which, the moment that sun is set, wanders 
 on in darkness, or descends in tears 1 
 
 "And now, my bird of Paradise," said I, as we sat 
 alone in the apartment I had fitted up as the banqueting- 
 room, and on which, though small in its proportions, I 
 had lavished all the love of luxury and of show which 
 made one of my most prevailing weaknesses, — " and 
 now, how has time passed with you since we parted ? " 
 
 " Need you ask, Morton ? Ah, have you ever noted 
 a poor dog deserted by its master, or rather not deserted, 
 
DEVEREUX. 265 
 
 for that you know is not my case yet,'' added Isora, 
 playfully, "but left at home while the master went 
 abroad ? Have you noted how restless the poor animal 
 is, — how it refuses all company and all comfort ; how 
 it goes a hundred times a day into the room which its 
 master is wont mostly to inhabit; how it creeps on the 
 sofa or the chair which the same absent idler was accus- 
 tomed to press; how it selects some article of his very 
 clothing; and curls jealously around it, and hides and 
 watches over it as I have hid and watched over this 
 glove, Morton] Have you ever noted that humble 
 creature whose whole happiness is the smile of one 
 being, when the smile was away ? — then, Morton, you 
 can tell how my time has passed during your absence." 
 
 I answered Isora by endearments and by compliments. 
 She turned away from the latter. 
 
 " Never call me those iine names, I implore you," she 
 whispered ; " call me only by those pretty pet words by 
 which I know you will never call any one else. Bee 
 and bird are my names, and mine only; but beauty and 
 angel are names you have given, or may give, to a hun- 
 dred others! Promise me, then, to address me only in 
 our own language." 
 
 "I promise, and lo! the seal to the promise. But 
 tell me, Isora, do you not love these rare scents that 
 make an Araby of this unmellowed clime 1 Do you not 
 love the profusion of light which reflects so dazzling 
 a lustre on that soft cheek, — and those eyes, which the 
 ancient romancer ' must have dreamed of when he wrote 
 so prettily of ' eyes that seemed a temple where love 
 and beauty were married ' 1 Does not yon fruit take 
 
 1 Sir Philip Sidney, who, if we may judge from the number of 
 quotations from his works scattered in this book, seems to have 
 been an especial favorite with Count Devereux. — Ed. 
 
266 DEVBREUX. 
 
 a more tempting hue, bedded as it is in those golden 
 leaves? Does not sleep seem to hover with a downier 
 wing over those sofas on which the limbs of a princess 
 have been laid ? In a word, is there not in luxury and 
 in pomp a spell which no gentler or wiser mind would 
 disdain ? " 
 
 " It may be so ! " said Isora, sighing ; " but the 
 splendor which surrounds us chills and almost terrifies 
 me. I think that every proof of your wealth and rank 
 puts me farther from you; then, too, I have some 
 remembrance of the green sod, and the silver rill, and 
 the trees upon which the young winds sing and play , — 
 and I own that it is with the country, and not the 
 town, that all my ideas of luxury are wed." 
 
 " But the numerous attendants ; the long row of 
 liveried hirelings, through which you may pass, as 
 through a lane; the caparisoned steeds; the stately 
 equipage; the jewelled tiara; the costly robe which 
 matrons imitate and envy ; the music, which lulls you 
 to sleep; the lighted show; the gorgeous stage, — all 
 these, the attributes or gifts of wealth, all these that 
 you have the right to hope you will one day or other 
 command, you will own are what you could very 
 reluctantly forego ! " 
 
 "Do you think so, Morton? Ah, I wish you were 
 of my humble temper; the more we limit and concentre 
 happiness, the more certain, I think, we are of secur- 
 ing it, — they who widen the circle encroach upon the 
 boundaries of danger ; and they who freight their wealth 
 upon an hundred vessels are more liable, Morton, are 
 they not, to the peril of the winds and the waves than 
 they who venture it only upon one ? " 
 
 "Admirably reasoned, my little sophist; but if the 
 one ship sink ? " 
 
DEVEEEUX. 267 
 
 " Why , I would embark myself in it as well as my 
 wealth, and should sink with it." 
 
 "Well, well, Isora, your philosophy will perhaps 
 soon be put to the test. I will talk to you to-morrow 
 of business." 
 
 " And why not to-night 1 " 
 
 " To-night, when I have just returned! No, to-night 
 I will only talk to you of love ! " 
 
 As may be supposed, Isora was readily reconciled to 
 my change of circumstances ; and indeed that sum which 
 seemed poverty to me appeared positive wealth to her. 
 But perhaps few men are by nature and inclination 
 more luxurious and costly than myself; always accus- 
 tomed to a profuse expenditure at my uncle's, I fell 
 insensibly and con amove, on my debut in London, 
 into all the extravagances of the age. Sir William, 
 pleased rather than discontented with my habits, 
 especially as they were- attended with some eclat, 
 pressed upon me proofs of his generosity which, since 
 I knew his wealth and considered myself his heir, I 
 did not scruple to accept; and at the time of my return 
 to London after his death, I had not only spent to the 
 full the princely allowance I had received from him, 
 but was above half my whole fortune in debt. How- 
 ever, I had horses and equipages, jewels and plate, and 
 I did not long wrestle with my pride before I obtained 
 the victory, and sent all my valuables to the hammer. 
 They sold pretty well, all things considered, for I had 
 a certain reputation in the world for taste and munifi- 
 cence; and when I had received the produce and paid 
 my debts, I found that the whole balance in my favor, 
 including, of course, my uncle's legacy, was fifteen 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 It was no bad younger brother's portion, perhaps; 
 
268 DEVEREUX. 
 
 but I was in no humor to be made a younger brother 
 without a struggle. So I went to the lawyers; they 
 looked at the will, considered the case, and took their 
 fees. Then the honestest of them, with the coolest 
 air in the world, told me to content myself with my 
 legacy, for the cause was hopeless: the will was suffi- 
 cient to exclude a wilderness of elder sons. I need not 
 add that I left this lawyer with a very contemptible 
 opinion of his understanding. I went to another; he 
 told me the same thing, only in a different manner, and 
 I thought him as great a fool as his fellow practitioner. 
 At last I chanced upon a little brislc gentleman, with 
 a quick eye and a sharp voice, who wore a wig that 
 carried conviction in every curl; had an independent, 
 upright mien, and such a logical, emphatic way of 
 expressing himself that I was quite charmed with 
 him. This gentleman scarce heard me out before he 
 assured me that T had a famous case of it ; that he liked 
 making quick work and proceeding with vigor; that 
 he hated rogues, and delay, which was the sign of a 
 rogue but not the necessary sign of law ; that I was the 
 most fortunate man imaginable in coming to him, and, 
 in short, that I had nothing to do but commence pro- 
 ceedings, and leave all the rest to him. I was very 
 soon talked into this proposal , and very soon embarked 
 in the luxurious ocean of litigation. 
 
 Having settled this business so satisfactorily, I went 
 to receive the condolence and sympathy of St. John. 
 Notwithstanding the arduous occupations both of pleas- 
 ure and of power in which he was constantly engaged, 
 he had found time to call upon me very often, and 
 to express by letter great disappointment that I had 
 neither received nor returned his visits. Touched by 
 the phenomenon of so much kindness in a statesman, I 
 
DEVEEEUX. 269 
 
 paid him in return the only compliment in my power; 
 namely, I asked his advice, — with a view of taking it. 
 
 " Politics, politics, my dear Count," said he, in answer 
 to that request, ■^-" nothing like it; I will get you a 
 seat in the House by next week, — you are just of age, 
 I think, — Heavens! a man like you, who has learning 
 enough for a German professor, assurance that would 
 almost abash a Milesian, a very pretty choice of words, 
 and a pointed way of consummating a jest, — why, with 
 you by my side, my dear Count, I will soon — " 
 
 " St. John," said I, interrupting him, " you forget I 
 am a Catholic! " 
 
 "Ah, I did forget that," replied St. John, slowly. 
 "Heaven help me. Count, but I'm sorry your ances- 
 tors were not converted; it was a pity they should 
 bequeath you their religion without the estate to sup- 
 port it, for Papacy has become a terrible tax to its 
 followers. " 
 
 " I wonder," said I, '' whether the earth will ever 
 be governed by Christians, not cavillers; by followers 
 of our Saviour, not by co-operators of the devil; by 
 men who obey the former, and.' love one another,' not 
 by men who walk about with the latter (that roaring 
 lion), 'seeking whom they may devour.' Intolerance 
 makes us acquainted with strange nonsense, and folly 
 is never so ludicrous as when associated with something 
 sacred; it is then like Punch and his wife in Powell's 
 puppet-show, dancing in the Ark. For example, to 
 tell those who differ from us that they are in a delu- 
 sion, and yet to persecute them for that delusion, is to 
 equal the wisdom of our forefathers, who, we are told, 
 in the Bcemonologie of the Scottish Solomon, ' burnt a 
 whole monasterie of nunnes for being misled, not by 
 men, but dreames I ' " 
 
270 DEVEREUX. 
 
 And being somewhat moved, I ran on for a long time 
 in a very eloquent strain, upon the disadvantages of 
 intolerance; which, I would have it, was a policy as 
 familiar to Protestantism now as it had been to Popery 
 in the dark ages ; quite forgetting that it is not the vice 
 of a peculiar sect, but of a ruling party. 
 
 St. John, who thought, or affected to think, very 
 differently from me on these subjects, shook his head 
 gently, but with his usual good breeding deemed it 
 rather too sore a subject for discussion. 
 
 " I will tell you a discovery I have made," said I. 
 
 " And what is it 1 " 
 
 "Listen: that man is wisest who is happiest, — 
 granted. What does happiness consist in? Power, 
 wealth, popularity, and above all, content! Well, then, 
 no man ever obtains so much power, so much popu- 
 larity, and, above all, such thorough self-content as 
 a fool; a fool, therefore (this is no paradox), is the 
 wisest of men. Fools govern the world in purple, 
 — the wise laugh at them ; but they laugh in rags. 
 Pools thrive at court; fools thrive in state chambers; 
 fools thrive in boudoirs; fools thrive in rich men's 
 legacies. Who is so beloved as a fool? Every man 
 seeks him, laughs at him, and hugs him. Who is so 
 secure in his own opinion, so high in complacency, 
 as a fool, sua virtute involvit. Hark ye, St. John, 
 let us turn fools, — they are the only potentates, the 
 only philosophers of earth. Oh, motley, ' motley 's 
 your only wear ' ! " 
 
 "Ha, ha! " laughed St. John; and, rising, he 
 insisted upon carrying me with him to the rehearsal 
 of a new play, in order, as he said, to dispel my 
 spleen, and prepare me for ripe decision upon the plans 
 to be adopted for bettering my fortune. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 271 
 
 But, in good truth, nothing calculated to advance so 
 comfortable and praiseworthy an end seemed to present 
 itself. My religion was an effectual bar to any hope 
 of rising in the state. Europe now began to wear an 
 aspect that promised universal peace, and the sword 
 which I had so poetically apostrophized was not likely 
 to be drawn upon any more glorious engagement than 
 a brawl with the Mohawks, any incautious noses apper- 
 taining to which fraternity I was fully resolved to slit 
 whenever they came conveniently in my way. To add 
 to the unpromising state of my worldly circumstances, 
 my uncle's death had removed the only legitimate bar- 
 rier to the acknowledgment of my marriage with Isora, 
 and it became due to her to proclaim and publish that 
 event. Now, if there be any time in the world when 
 a man's friends look upon him most coldly, when they 
 speak of his capacities of rising the most despondingly, 
 when they are most inclined, in short, to set him down 
 as a silly sort of fellow, whom it is no use inconvenienc- 
 ing one's self to assist, it is at that moment when he 
 has made what the said friends are pleased to term an 
 imprudent marriage! It was, therefore, no remarkable 
 instance of good luck that the express time for announc- 
 ing that I had contracted that species of marriage was 
 the express time for my wanting the assistance of those 
 kind-hearted friends. Then, too, by the pleasing sym- 
 pathies in worldly opinion, the neglect of one's friends 
 is always so damnably neighbored by the exultation of 
 one's foes! Never was there a man who, without being 
 very handsome, very rude, or very much in public life, 
 had made unto himself more enemies than it had been 
 my lot to make. How the rascals would all sneer and 
 coin dull jests when they saw me so down in the world ! 
 The very old maids, who, so long as they thought me 
 
272 DEVBEE0X. 
 
 single, would have declared that the will was a fraud, 
 would, directly they heard I was married, ask if Gerald 
 was handsome, and assert, with a wise look, that my 
 uncle knew well what he was about. Then the joy of 
 the Lady Hasselton, and the curled lip of the haughty 
 Tarleton! It is a very odd circumstance, but it is very 
 true that the people we most despise have the most 
 • influence over our actions : a man never ruins himself 
 by giving dinners to his father, or turning his house 
 into a palace in order to feast his bosom friend: on 
 the contrary, 't is the poor devil of a friend who fares 
 the worgt, and starves on the family joint, while mine 
 host beggars himself to banquet " that disagreeable Mr. 
 A., who is such an insufferable ass," and mine hostess 
 sends her husband to the 'Fleet by vying with " that 
 odious Mrs. B., who was always her aversion! " 
 
 Just in the same manner, no thought disturbed me, 
 in the step I was about to take, half so sorely as the 
 recollection of Lady Hasselton the coquette, and Mr. 
 Tarleton the gambler. However, I have said, some- 
 where or other, that nothing selfish on a small scale 
 polluted my love for Isora; nor did there. I had 
 resolved to render her speedy and full justice; and if 
 I sometimes recurred to the disadvantages to myself, I 
 always had pleasure in thinking that they were sacri- 
 fices to her. But to my great surprise, when I first 
 announced to Isora my intention of revealing our mar- 
 riage, I perceived in her countenance, always such a 
 traitor to her emotions, a very different expression from 
 that which I had anticipated. A deadly paleness spread 
 over her whole face, and a shudder seemed to creep 
 through her frame. She attempted, however, to smile 
 away the alarm she had created in me ; nor was I able 
 to penetrate the eaus^ oi a,n emotion so unlocked for. 
 
DEVEEEUX. 273 
 
 But I continued to speak of the public announcement 
 of our union as of a thing decided ; and at length she 
 listened to me while I arranged the method of making 
 it, and sympathized in the future projects I chalked 
 out for us to adopt. Still, however, when I proposed 
 a definite time for the re-celebration of our nuptials, she 
 ever drew back, and hinted the wish for a longer delay. 
 
 " Not so soon, dear Morton," she would say tearfully, 
 — " not so soon ; we are happy now, and perhaps when 
 you are with me always, you will not love me so well! " 
 
 I reasoned against this notion and this reluctance, 
 but in vain ; and day passed on day , and even week on 
 week, and our marriage was still undeclared. I now 
 lived, however, almost wholly with Isora, for busy 
 tongues could no longer carry my secret to my uncle ; 
 and, indeed, since I had lost the fortune which I was 
 expected to inherit, it is astonishing how little people 
 troubled their heads about my movements or myself. 
 I lived then almost wholly with Isora, — and did 
 familiarity abate my love? Strange to say, it did 
 not abate even the romance of it. The reader may pos- 
 sibly remember a conversation with St. John recorded 
 in the Second Book of this history. " The deadliest 
 foe to love," said he (he who had known all love, — 
 that of the senses and that also of the soul !) " is not 
 change, nor misfortune, nor jealousy, nor wrath, nor 
 anything that flows from passion or emanates from 
 fortune. The deadliest foe to love is custom! " 
 
 Was St. John right ? — I believe that in most 
 instances he was; and perhaps the custom was not 
 continued in my case long enough for me to refute the 
 maxim. But as yet the very gloss upon the god's 
 wings was fresh as on the first day when I had acknowl- 
 edged his power. Still was Isora to me the light and 
 
 VOL. I. — 18 
 
274 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the music of existence ! — still did my heart thrill and 
 leap within me when her silver and fond voice made 
 the air a blessing. Still would I hang over her, when 
 her beautiful features lay hushed in sleep, and watch 
 the varying hues of her cheek, and fancy, while she 
 slept, that iu each low, sweet breath that ray lips drew 
 from hers, was a whisper of tenderness and endearment! 
 Still when I was absent from her, my soul seemed to 
 mourn a separation from its better and dearer part, and 
 the joyous senses of existence saddened and shrunk into 
 a single want! Still was her presence to my heart as a 
 breathing atmosphere of poesy which circled and tinted 
 all human things; still was my being filled with that 
 delicious and vague melancholy which the very excess 
 of rapture alone produces, — the knowledge we dare not 
 breathe to ourselves that the treasure in which our heart 
 is stored is not above the casualties of fate. The sigh 
 that mingles with the kiss ; the tear that glistens in the 
 impassioned and yearning gaze; the deep tide in our 
 spirit, over which the moon and the stars have power; 
 the chain of harmony within the thought, which has 
 a mysterious link with all that is fair and pure and 
 bright in Nature, knitting as it were loveliness with 
 love! — all this, all that I cannot express; all that to 
 the young for whom the real world has had few spells 
 and the world of visions has been a home, who love at 
 last and for the first time , — all that to them are known 
 were still mine. 
 
 In truth, Isora was one well calculated to sustain and 
 to rivet romance. The cast of her beauty was so dream- 
 like and yet so varying, — her temper was so little 
 mingled with the common characteristics of woman ; it 
 had so little of caprice, so little of vanity, so utter an 
 absence of all jealous and all angry feeling; it was so 
 
DEVEEEUX. 275 
 
 made up of tenderness and devotion, and yet so imagi- 
 native and fairy-like in its fondness, that it was difficult 
 to bear only the sentiments of earth for one who had so 
 little of earth's clay. She was more like the women 
 whom one imagines are the creations of poetry, and yet 
 of whom no poetry, save that of Shakespeare's, reminds 
 us; and to this day, when I go into the world, I never 
 see aught of our own kind which recalls her, or even 
 one of her features, to my memory. But when I am 
 alone with Nature, methinks a sweet sound or a new- 
 born flower has something of a familiar power over those 
 stored and deep impressions which do make her image, 
 and it brings her more vividly before my eyes than any 
 shape or face of her own sex, however beautiful it 
 may be. 
 
 There was also another trait in her character which, 
 though arising in her weakness, not her virtues, yet 
 perpetuated the more dream-like and imaginary quali- 
 ties of our passion: this was a melancholy superstition, 
 developing itself in forebodings and omens which inter- 
 ested, because they were steeped at once in the poetry 
 and in the deep sincerity of her nature. She was 
 impressed with a strong and uncontrollable feeling that 
 her fate was predestined to a dark course and an early 
 end; and she drew from all things around her something 
 to feed the pensive character of her thoughts. The 
 stillness of noon; the holy and eloquent repose of 
 twilight, — its rosy sky and its soft air, its shadows 
 and its dews, — had equally for her heart a whisper and 
 a spell. The wan stars, where from the eldest time 
 man has shaped out a chart of the undiscoverable future ; 
 the mysterious moon, to which the great ocean minis- 
 ters from its untrodden shrines; the winds, which 
 traverse the vast air, pilgrims from an eternal home to 
 
276 DEVEREUX. 
 
 an unpenetrated bourn; the illimitable heavens, on 
 which none ever gazed without a vague craving for 
 something that the earth cannot give, and a vague 
 sense of a former existence in which that something 
 was enjoyed; the holy night, — that solemn and circling ■ 
 sleep which seems in its repose to image our death 
 and in its living worlds to shadow forth the immortal 
 realms which only through that death we can survey, — 
 all had, for the deep heart of Isora, a language of omen 
 and of doom. Often would we wander alone, and for 
 hours together, by the quiet and wild woods and streams 
 that surrounded her retreat, and which we both loved 
 so well; and often, when the night closed over us with 
 my arm around her, and our lips so near that our 
 atmosphere was our mutual breath, would she utter, 
 in that voice which " made the soul plant itself in the 
 ears," the predictions which had nursed themselves at 
 her heart. 
 
 I remember one evening in especial. The rich twi- 
 light had gathered over us, and we sat by a slender and 
 soft rivulet, overshadowed by some stunted yet aged 
 trees. We had both, before she spoke, been silent for 
 several minutes; and only when, at rare intervals, the 
 birds sent from the copse that backed us a solitary and 
 vesper note of music, was the stillness around us broken. 
 Before us, on the opposite bank of the stream, lay a 
 valley, in which shadow and wood concealed all trace 
 of man's dwellings, save at one far spot, where from 
 a single hut rose a curling and thin vapor, — like a, 
 spirit released from earth, and losing gradually its 
 earthier particles, as it blends itself with the loftier 
 atmosphere of heaven. 
 
 It was then that Tsora, clinging closer to me, whis- 
 pered her forebodings of death. " You will remember," 
 
DEVEEEUX. 277 
 
 said she, smiling faintly, — " you will remember me, in 
 the lofty and bright career which yet awaits you; and 
 I scarcely know whether I would not sooner have that 
 memory, — free as it will be from all recollection of my 
 failings and faults, and all that I have cost you, than 
 incur the chance of your future coldness or decrease of 
 love." 
 
 And when Isora turned, and saw that the tears stood 
 in my eyes, she kissed them away and said, after a 
 pause, — 
 
 " It matters not, my own guardian angel, what 
 becomes of me; and now that I am near you, it is 
 wicked to let my folly cost you a single pang. But 
 why should you grieve at my forebodings? There is 
 nothing painful or harsh in them to me, and I inter- 
 pret them thus : ' If my life passes away before the 
 common date, perhaps it will be a sacrifice to yours.' 
 And it will, Morton, — it will. The love I bear to 
 you I can but feebly express now; all of us wish to 
 prove our feelings, and I would give one proof of mine 
 for you. It seems to me that I was made only for one 
 purpose, — to love you; and I would fain hope that 
 my death may be some sort of sacrifice to you, some 
 token of the ruling passion and the whole object of my 
 life." 
 
 As Isora said this, the light of the moon, which had 
 just risen, shone full upon her cheek, flushed as it was 
 with a deeper tint than it usually wore; and in her 
 eye, her features, her forehead, the lofty nature of her 
 love seemed to have stamped the divine expression of 
 itself. 
 
 Have I lingered too long on these passages of life? 
 They draw near to a close, and a more adventurous and 
 stirring period of manhood will succeed. Ah, little 
 
278 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 could they who in after years heheld in me but the 
 careless yet stern soldier, the wily and callous diplo- 
 matist, the companion alternately so light and so 
 moodily reserved , — little could they tell how soft 
 and weak and doting my heart was once! 
 
DEVEEEUX. 279 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 An unexpected Meeting. — Conjecture and Anticipation. 
 
 The day for the public solemnization of our marriage 
 was at length appointed. In fact, the plan for the 
 future that appeared to me most promising was to proffer 
 my services to some foreign court, and that of Russia 
 held out to me the greatest temptation. I was therefore 
 anxious, as soon as possible, to conclude the rite of a 
 second or public nuptials, and I purposed leaving the 
 country within a week afterwards. My little lawyer 
 assured me that my suit would go on quite as well in 
 my absence, and whenever my presence was necessary, 
 he would be sure to inform me of it. I did not doubt 
 him in the least ; it is a charming thing to have con- 
 fidence in one's man of business. 
 
 Of Montreuil 1 now saw nothing; but I 'accidentally 
 heard that he was on a visit to Gerald, and that the 
 latter had already made the old walls ring with pre- 
 mature hospitality. As for Aubrey, I was in perfect 
 ignorance of his movements; and the unsatisfactory 
 shortness of his last letter, and the wild expressions 
 so breathing of fanaticism in the postscript, had given 
 me much anxiety and alarm on his account. I longed 
 above all to see him, — to talk with him over old times 
 and our future plans, and to learn whether no new bias 
 could be given to a temperament which seemed to lean 
 so strongly towards a self-punishing superstition. It 
 
280 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 was about a week before the day fixed for ray public 
 nuptials that I received at last from him the following 
 letter : — 
 
 My dearest Brother, — I have been long absent from 
 home, — absent on afTairs on which we will talk hereafter. 
 I have not forgotten you, though I have been silent, and the 
 news of my poor uncle's death has shocked me greatly. On 
 my arrival here, I learned your disappointment and your re- 
 course to law. I am not so much surprised, though I am as 
 much grieved as yourself, for I will tell you now what seemed 
 to me unimportant before. On receiving your letter, request- 
 ing consent to your designed marriage, my uncle seemed 
 greatly displeased as well as vexed, and afterwards he heard 
 much that displeased him more. From what quarter came 
 his news I know not, and he only spoke of it in innuendos 
 and angry insinuations. As far as I was able, I endeavored 
 to learn his meaning, but could not, and to my praises of you 
 I thought latterly he seemed to lend but a cold ear ; he told 
 me at last, when I was about to leave him, that you had acted 
 ungratefully to him, and that he should alter his will. I 
 scarcely thought of this speech at the time, or rather I con- 
 sidered it as the threat of a momentary anger. Possibly, 
 however, it was the prelude to that disposition of property 
 which has so wounded you. I observe, too, that the will bears 
 date about that period. I mention this fact to you, — you 
 can draw from it what inference you will; but I do solemnly 
 believe that Gerald is innocent of any fraud towards you. 
 
 I am all anxiety to hear whether your love continues. 
 I beseech you to write to me instantly and inform me on that 
 head as on all others. We shall meet soon. 
 
 Your ever affectionate Brother, 
 
 Aubrey Devereux. 
 
 There was something in this letter that vexed and 
 displeased me. I thought it breathed a tone of unkind- 
 ness and indifference which my present circumstances 
 rendered peculiarly inexcusable. So far, therefore, 
 
DEVEREUX. 281 
 
 from answering it immediately, I resolved not to reply 
 to it till after the solemnization of my marriage. The 
 anecdote of my uncle startled me a little when I coupled 
 it with the words my uncle had used towards myself on 
 his deathbed, — namely, in hinting that he had heard 
 some things unfavorable to Isora, unnecessary then to 
 repeat; but still if my uncle had altered his intentions 
 towards me, would he not have mentioned the change 
 and its reasons? Would he have written to me with 
 such kindness, or received me with such affection? I 
 could not believe that he would; and my opinions of 
 the fraud and the perpetrator were not a whit changed 
 by Aubrey's epistle. It was clear, however, that he 
 had joined the party against me; and as my love for 
 him was exceedingly great, I was much wounded by the 
 idea. 
 
 " All leave me," said I, " upon this reverse, — all but 
 Isora! " and 1 thought with renewed satisfaction on the 
 step which was about to insure to her a secure home and 
 an honorable station. My fears lest Isora should again 
 be molested by her persecutor were now pretty well at 
 rest. Having no doubt in my own mind as to that 
 persecutor's identity, I imagined that in his new acqui- 
 sition of wealth and pomp, a boyish and unreturned love 
 would easily be relinquished; and that, perhaps, he 
 would scarcely regret my obtaining the prize himself 
 had sought for, when in my altered fortunes it would be 
 followed by such worldly depreciation. In short, I 
 looked upon him as possessing a characteristic common 
 to most bad men, who are never so influenced by love as 
 they are by hatred; and imagined, therefore, that if he 
 had lost the object of the love, he could console himself 
 by exulting over any decline of prosperity in the object 
 of the hate. 
 
282 DEVEUETJX. 
 
 As the appointed day drew near, Isora's despondency 
 seemed to vanish, and she listened, with her usual 
 eagerness in whatever interested me, to my continental 
 schemes of enterprise. I resolved , that our second 
 wedding, though public, should be modest and unos- 
 tentatious, suitable rather to our fortunes than our 
 birth. St. John and a few old friends of the family 
 constituted all the party I invited, and I requested 
 them to keep my marriage secret until the very day 
 for celebrating it arrived. I did this from a desire of 
 avoiding compliments intended as sarcasms, and visits 
 rather of curiosity than friendship. On flew the days, 
 and it was now the one preceding my wedding. I was 
 dressing to go out upon a matter of business connected 
 with the ceremony, and I then, as I received my hat 
 from Desmarais, for the first time thought it requisite 
 to acquaint that accomplished gentleman with the rite 
 of the morrow. Too wlU bred was Monsieur Desmarais 
 to testify any other sentiment than pleasure at the news ; 
 and he received my orders and directions for the next 
 day with more than the graceful urbanity which made 
 one always feel quite honored by his attentions. 
 
 " And how goes on the pliilosophy 1 " said I, — " faith, 
 since I am about to be married, I shall be likely to 
 require its consolations." 
 
 "Indeed, Monsieur," answered Desmarais, with that 
 expression of self-conceit which was so curiously inter- 
 woven with the obsequiousness of his address, — " indeed, 
 Monsieur, 1 have been so occupied of late in preparing 
 a little powder very essential to dress, that I have not 
 had time for any graver though not perhaps more impor- 
 tant avocations." 
 
 " Powder, — and what is it? " 
 
 " Will Monsieur condescend to notice its effect 1 " 
 
DEVEREUX. 283 
 
 answered Desmarais, producing a pair of gloves which 
 were tinted of the most delicate flesh-color. The color- 
 ing was so nice, that, when the gloves were on, it would 
 have been scarcely possible at any distance to distin- 
 guish them from the naked flesh. 
 
 " 'T is a rare invention," said I. 
 
 " Monsieur is very good, but I flatter myself it is so," 
 rejoined Desmarais ; and he forthwith ran on far more 
 earnestly on the merits of his powder than I had ever 
 heard him descant on the beauties of Fatalism. I cut 
 him short in the midst of his harangue. Too much 
 eloquence in any line is displeasing in one's dependant. 
 
 I had just concluded my business abroad, and was 
 returning homeward with downcast eyes and in a very 
 abstracted mood, when I was suddenly startled by a loud 
 voice that exclaimed in a tone of surprise: " What! — 
 Count Devereux, ■ — how fortunate!" 
 
 I looked up, and saw a little, dark man, shabbily 
 dressed. His face did not seem u-ifamiliar to me, but 
 I could not at first remember where I had seen it. My 
 look, I suppose, testified my want of memory, for he 
 said, with a low bow, — 
 
 " You have forgotten me. Count, and I don't wonder 
 at it. So please you, I am the person who once brought 
 you a letter from France to Devereux Court. " 
 
 At this I recognized the bearer of that epistle which 
 had embroiled me with the Abbe Montreuil. I was too 
 glad of the meeting to show any coolness in my recep- 
 tion of the gentleman, and, to speak candidly, I never 
 saw a gentleman less troubled v/ith mauvaise honte. 
 
 " Sir! " said he, lowering his voice to a whisper, " it 
 is most fortunate that I should thus have met you ; I 
 only came to town this morning, and for the sole pur. 
 pose of seeking you out. I am charged with a packet, 
 
284 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ■which I believe will be of the greatest importance to 
 your interests. But," he added, looking round, "the 
 streets are no proper place for my communication ; par- 
 bleu ! there are those about who hear whispers through 
 stone walls, — suffer me to call upon you to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow! it is a day of great business with me, 
 but I can possibly spare you a few moments, if that will 
 suffice; or, on the day after, your own pleasure may be 
 the sole limit of our interview." 
 
 " Parbleu, Monsieur, you are very obliging, — very; 
 but I will tell you in one word who I am, and what is 
 my business. My name is Marie Oswald. I was born 
 in France, and I am the half-brother of that Oswald 
 who drew up your uncle's will." 
 
 " Good Heavens! " I exclaimed, " is it possible that 
 you know anything of that affair ? " 
 
 "Hush, — yes, all! my poor brother is just dead; 
 and, in a word, I am charged with a packet given me 
 by him on his death-bed. Now, will you see me if I 
 bring it to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Certainly. Can I not see you to-night 1 " 
 
 " To-night ? — No, not well ; parbleu 1 I want a little 
 consideration as to the reward due to me for my eminent 
 services to your lordship. No; let it be to-morrow." 
 
 " Well ! at what hour ! I fear it must be in the 
 evening." 
 
 "Seven, s'il vous plait, Monsieur." 
 
 "Enough! be it so." 
 
 And Mr. Marie Oswald, who seemed during the 
 whole of this short conference to have been under 
 some great apprehension of being seen or overheard, 
 bowed, and vanished in an instant, leaving my mind 
 in a most motley state of incoherent, unsatisfactory, 
 yet sanguine conjecture. 
 
DEVEREDX. 285 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 The events of a Single Night. — Moments make the Hues in which 
 Years are colored. 
 
 Men of the old age! what wonder that in the fondness 
 of a dim faith, and in the vague guesses which from 
 the frail ark of reason we send to hover over a dark and 
 unfathomalle abyss, — what wonder that ye should have 
 wasted hope and life in striving to penetrate the future ! 
 What wonder that ye should have given a language to 
 the stars , and to the night a spell , and gleaned from the 
 uncomprehended earth an answer to the enigmas of Fate ! 
 We are like the sleepers who, walking under the influ- 
 ence of a dream, wander by the verge of a precipice, 
 while in their own deluded vision they perchance 
 believe themselves surrounded by bowers of roses, and 
 accompanied by those they love. Or, rather like the 
 blind man, who can retrace every step of the path he 
 has once trodden, but who can guess not a single inch 
 of that which he has not yet travelled, our reason can 
 reguide us over the roads of past experience with a 
 sure and unerring wisdom, even while it recoils, baffled 
 and bewildered, before the blackness of the very moment 
 whose boundaries we are about to enter. 
 
 The few friends I had invited to my wedding were 
 still with me, when one of my servants, not Desmarais, 
 informed me that Mr. Oswald waited for me. I went 
 out to him. 
 
286 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Parhleu ! " said he, rubbing his hands, " I perceive 
 it is a joyous time with you, and I don't wonder you 
 can only spare me a few moments. " 
 
 The estates of Devereux were not to be risked for a 
 trifle; but I thought Mr. Marie Oswald exceedingly 
 impertinent. "Sir," said I, very gravely, "pray be 
 seated; and now to business. In the first place, may 
 T ask to whom I am beholden for sending you with that 
 letter you gave me at Devereux Court? and, secondly, 
 what that letter contained, — for I never read it? " 
 
 "Sir," answered the man, "the history of the letter 
 is perfectly distinct from that of the will, and the 
 former (to discuss the least important first) is briefly 
 this: you have heard, sir, of the quarrels between 
 Jesuit and Jansenist ? " 
 
 "I have." 
 
 " Well — But first, Count, let me speak of myself. 
 There were three young men of the same age, born in 
 the same village in France, of obscure birth each, and 
 each desirous of getting on in the world. Two were 
 deuced clever fellows; the third nothing particular. 
 One of the two at present shall be nameless; the third, 
 who ' was nothing particular ' (in his own opinion, at 
 least, though his friends may think 'differently), was 
 Marie Oswald. We soon separated: I went to Paris, 
 was employed in diiferent occupations, and at last became 
 secretary and (why should I disavow it?) valet to a 
 lady of quality and a violent politician. She was a 
 furious Jansenist; of course I adopted her opinions. 
 About this time there was much talk among the Jesuits 
 of the great genius and deep learning of a young 'member 
 of the order, — Julian Montreuil. Though not resid- 
 ing in the country, he had sent one or two books to 
 France, which had been published, and had created a 
 
DEVEREUX. 287 
 
 great sensation. Well, sir, my mistress was the greatest 
 intriguante of her party: she was very rich, and toler- 
 ably liberal ; and, among other packets of which a 
 messenger from England was carefully robbed, between 
 Calais and Abbeville (you understand me, sir, carefully 
 robbed: parhleu ! I wish I were robbed in the same 
 manner every day in my life !) , was one from the said 
 Julian Montreuil to a political friend of his. Among 
 other letters in this packet — all of importance — was 
 one descriptive of the English family with whom he 
 resided. It hit them all, I am told, off to a hair; and 
 it described, in particular, one, the supposed inheritor 
 of the estates, a certain Morton, Count Devereux. 
 Since you say you did not read the letter, I spare your 
 blushes, sir, and I don't dwell upon what he said of 
 your talent, energy, ambition, etc. I will only tell you 
 that he dilated far more upon your prospects than your 
 powers; and that he expressly stated what was his 
 object in staying in your family and cultivating your 
 friendship, — he expressly stated that £30,000 a year 
 would be particularly serviceable to a certain political 
 cause which he had strongly at heart." 
 
 " I understand you," said I; " the Chevalier's? " 
 
 "Exactly. 'This sponge,' said Montreuil, — I re- 
 member the very phrase, — ' this sponge will be well 
 filled; and I am handling it softly now, in order to 
 squeeze its juices hereafter according to the uses of the 
 party we have so strongly at heart. ' " 
 
 " It was not a metaphor very flattering to my under- 
 standing," said I. 
 
 " True, sir. Well, as soon as my mistress learned 
 this, she remembered that your father, the marshal, had 
 been one of her plus chers amis, — in a word, if scandal 
 says true, he had been the cher ami. However, she 
 
288 DEVEREUX. 
 
 was instantly resolved to open your eyes and ruin the 
 maudit Jesuite : she enclosed the letter in an envelope, 
 and sent me to England with it. I came : I gave it 
 you; and I discovered, in that moment when the 
 abbe entered, that this Julian Montreuil was an old 
 acquaintance of my own, — was one of the two young men 
 who I told you v,-ere such deuced clever fellows. Like 
 many other adventurers, he had changed his name on 
 entering the world, and I had never till now suspected 
 that Julian Montreuil was Bertrand Collinot. Well, 
 when I saw what I had done, I was exceedingly sorry, 
 for I had liked my companion well enough not to wish 
 to hurt him; besides, I was a little afraid of him. I 
 took horse, and went about some other business I had 
 to execute, nor did I visit that part of the country again 
 till a week ago (now I come to the other business), 
 when I was summoned to the death-bed of my half- 
 brother, the attorney, peace be with him! He suEfered 
 much from hypochondria in his dying moments, — I 
 believe it is the way with people of his profession, 
 — and he gave me a sealed packet, with a last injunc- 
 tion to place it in your hands, and your hands only. 
 Scarce was he dead — (do not think I am unfeeling, 
 sir; I had seen very little of him, and he was only my 
 half-brother, my father having married, for a second 
 wife, a foreign lady, who kept an inn, by whom he 
 was blessed with myself) — scarce, I say , was he dead, 
 when I hurried up to town : Providence threw you in 
 my way, and you shall have the document upon two^ 
 conditions. " 
 
 " Which are, first to reward you; secondly, to — " 
 " To promise you will not open the packet for seven 
 days." 
 
 " The devil ! and why ! " 
 
DEVEEE0X. 289 
 
 " I will tell you candidly. One of the papers in the 
 packet I believe to be my brother's -written confession, — 
 nay, I know it is; and it will criminate one I have a 
 love for, and who, I am resolved, shall have a chance 
 of escape." 
 
 " Who is that one ? — Montreuil ? " 
 
 " No, I do not refer to him ; but I cannot tell you 
 more. I require the promise, Count, — it is indis- 
 pensable. If you don't give it lae, j)arbleu, you shall 
 not have the packet. " 
 
 There was something so cool, so confident, and so 
 impudent about this man, that I did not well know 
 whether to give way to laughter or to indignation. 
 Neither, however, would have been politic in my 
 situation; and as I said before, the estates of Devereux 
 were not to be risked for a trifle. 
 
 " Pray," said I, however, with a shrewdness which 
 I think did me credit, — "pray, Mr. Marie Oswald, do 
 you expect the reward before the packet is opened t " 
 
 "By no means," answered the gentleman, who in 
 his own opinion was nothing particular, — " by no 
 means; nor until you and your lawyers are satisfied 
 that the papers enclosed in the packet are sufficient 
 fully to restore you to the heritage of Devereux Court 
 and its demesnes." 
 
 There was something fair in this; and as the only 
 penalty to me, incurred by the stipulated condition, 
 seemed to be the granting escape to the criminals, I 
 did not think it incumbent upon me to lose my cause 
 from the desire of a prosecution. Besides, at that 
 time I felt too happy to be revengeful; and so, after 
 a moment's consideration, I conceded to the proposal, 
 and gave my honor as a gentleman — Mr. Oswald 
 obligingly dispensed with an oath — that I would not 
 
 VOL. I. — 19 
 
290 DEVEREUX. 
 
 open the packet till the end of the seventh day. Mr. 
 Oswald then drew forth a piece of paper, on which 
 sundry characters were inscribed, the purport of which 
 was that, if through the papers given me by Marie 
 Oswald, my lawyers were convinced that I could become 
 master of my uncle's property, now enjoyed by Gerald 
 Devereux, I should bestow on the said Marie £6,000, — 
 half on obtaining this legal opinion, half on obtaining 
 possession of the property. I could not resist a smile, 
 when I observed that the word of a gentleman was 
 enough surety for the safety of the man he had a love 
 for, but that Mr. Oswald required a written bond for 
 the safety of his reward. One is ready enough to trust 
 one's friends to the conscience of another; but as long 
 as a law can be had instead, one is rarely so credulous 
 in respect to one's money. 
 
 " The reward shall be doubled if I succeed," said I, 
 signing the paper; and Oswald then produced a packet, 
 on which was writ, in a trembling hand, " For Count 
 Morton Devereux, — private, and with haste." As soon 
 as he had given me this precious charge, and reminded 
 me again of my promise, Oswald withdrew. I placed 
 the packet in my bosom, and returned to my guests. 
 
 Never had my spirit been so light as it was that 
 evening. Indeed, the good people I had assembled 
 thought matrimony never made a man so little serious 
 before. They did not, however, stay long; and the 
 moment they were gone, I hastened to my own sleeping- 
 apartment, to secure the treasure I had acquired. A 
 small escritoire stood in this room, and in it I was 
 accustomed to keep whatever I considered most pre- 
 cious. With many a wistful look, and murmur at my 
 promise, I consigned the packet to one of the drawers 
 of this escritoire. As I was locking the drawer, the 
 
DEVEREUX. 291 
 
 sweet voice of Desmarais accosted me. Would Mon- 
 sieur, he asked, suffer him to visit a friend that evening, 
 in order to celebrate so joyful an event in Monsieur's 
 destiny ? It was not often that he was addicted to 
 vulgar merriment, but on such an occasion he owned 
 that he was tempted to transgress his customary habits, 
 and he felt that Monsieur, with his usual good taste, 
 would feel offended if his servant, within Monsieur's 
 own house, suffered joy to pass the limits of discretion, 
 and enter the confines of noise and inebriety, espe- 
 cially as Monsieur had so positively interdicted all 
 outward sign of extra hilarity. He implored mille 
 pardons for the presumption of his request. 
 
 " It is made with your usual discretion ; there are 
 five guineas for you : go and get drunk with your friend, 
 and be merry instead of wise. But, tell me, is it not 
 beneath a philosopher to be moved by anything, espe- 
 cially anything that occurs to another, much less to get 
 drunk upon it ! " 
 
 " Pardon me, Monsieur," answered Desmarais, bowing 
 to the ground ; " one ought to get drunk sometimes, 
 because the next morning one is sure to be thought- 
 ful; and, moreover, the practical philosopher ought 
 to indulge every emotion, in order to judge how that 
 emotion would affect another; at least, this is my 
 opinion." 
 
 "Well, go." 
 
 " My most grateful thanks be with Monsieur; Mon- 
 sieur's nightly toilet is entirely prepared." 
 
 And away went Desmarais, with the light yet slow 
 step with which he was accustomed to combine elegance 
 with dignity. 
 
 I now passed into the room I had prepared for Isora's 
 boudoir. I found her leaning by the window, and I 
 
292 DEVERBUX. 
 
 perceived that she had been in tears. As 1 paused to 
 contemplate her figure, so touchingly yet so uncon- 
 sciously mournful in its beautiful and still posture, a 
 more joyous sensation than was wont to mingle with 
 my tenderness for her swelled at my heart. "Yes," 
 thought I, " you are no longer the solitary exile, or the 
 persecuted daughter of a noble but ruined race ; you are 
 not even the bride of a man who must seek in foreign 
 climes, through danger and through hardship, to repair 
 a broken fortune and establish an adventurer's name! 
 At last the clouds have rolled from the bright star of 
 your fate, — wealth, and pomp, and all that awaits the 
 haughtiest of England's matrons shall be yours." And 
 at these thoughts Fortune seemed to me a gift a thou- 
 sand times more precious than — much as my luxuries 
 prized it — it had ever seemed to me before. 
 
 I drew near and laid my hand upon Isora's shoulder, 
 and kissed her cheek. She did not turn round, but 
 strove, by bending over my hand and pressing it to her 
 lips, to conceal that she had been weeping. I thought 
 it kinder to favor the artifice than to complain of it. 
 I remained silent for some moments, and I then gave 
 vent to the sanguine expectations for the future which 
 my new treasure entitled me to form. I had already 
 narrated to her the adventure of the day before ; I now 
 repeated the purport of my last interview with Oswald ; 
 and, growing more and more elated as I proceeded, I 
 dwelt at last upon the description of my inheritance, as 
 glowingly as if I had already recovered it. I painted 
 to her imagination its rich woods and its glassy lake, 
 and the fitful and wandering brook that through brake 
 and shade went bounding on its wild way ; I told her 
 of my early roamings, and dilated with a boy's rapture 
 upoii my favorite haunts. I brought visibly before her 
 
DEVEREUX. 293 
 
 glistening and eager eyes the thick copse where, hour 
 after hour, in vague verse and still vaguer dreams, I 
 had so often whiled away the day; the old tree which 
 I had climbed to watch the birds in their glad mirth, 
 or to listen unseen to the melancholy sound of the forest 
 deer; the antique gallery and the vast hall, which by 
 the dim twilights I had paced with a religious awe, 
 and looked upon the pictured forms of my bold fathers, 
 and mused high and ardently upon my destiny to be ; 
 the old gray tower which I had consecrated to myself, 
 and the unwitnessed path which led to the yellow beach, 
 and the wide gladness of the solitary sea; the little 
 arbor which my earliest ambition had reared, that looked 
 out upon the joyous flowers and the merry fountain, 
 and through the ivy and the jessamine wooed the 
 voice of the bird and the murmur of the summer hee; 
 and when T had exhausted my description, I turned to 
 Isora, and said in a lower tone, " And I shall visit these 
 once more, and with you." 
 
 Isora sighed faintly, and it was not till I had pressed 
 her to speak that she said, — • 
 
 " I wish I could deceive myself, Morton, but I can- 
 not; I cannot root from my heart an impression that I 
 shall never again quit this dull city, with its gloomy 
 walls and its heavy air. A voice within me seems to 
 say, ' Behold from this very window the boundaries of 
 your living wanderings ! ' " 
 
 Isora's words froze all my previous exaltation. " It 
 is in vain," said I, after chiding her for her .despon- 
 dency, — " it is in vain to tell me that you have 'jEor this 
 gloomy notion no other reason than that of a yague 
 presentiment. It is time now that I should press you 
 to a greater confidence upon all points consistent with 
 your oath to our mutual enemy than you have hitherto 
 
294 DEVEREUX. 
 
 given me. Speak, dearest; have you not some yet 
 unrevealed causes for alarm 1 " 
 
 It was but for a moment that Isora hesitated before 
 she answered with that quick tone which indicates that 
 we force words against the will. ' 
 
 "Yes, Morton, I will tell you now, though I would 
 not before the event of this day. On the last day that 
 I saw that fearful man, he said, ' I warn you, Isora 
 D' Alvarez, that my love is far fiercer than hatred; I 
 warn you that your bridals with Morton Devereux shall 
 be stained with blood. Become his wife, and you 
 perish! Yea, though I suffer hell's tortures forever 
 and forever from that hour, my own hand shall strike 
 you to the heart! ' Morton, these words have thrilled 
 through me again and again, as if again they were 
 breathed in my very ear; and I have often started at 
 night and thought the very knife glittered at my breast. 
 So long as our wedding was concealed, and concealed so 
 closely, I was enabled to quiet my fears till they scarcely 
 seemed to exist. But when our nuptials were lo be 
 made public, when I knew that they were to reach the 
 ears of that fierce and unaccountable being, I thought I 
 heard my doom pronounced. This, mine own love, 
 must excuse your Isora, if she seemed ungrateful for 
 your generous eagerness to announce our union. And 
 perhaps she would not have acceded to it so easily as 
 she has done, were it not that, in the first place, she 
 felt it was beneath your wife to suffer any terror so 
 purely selfish to make her shrink from the proud hap- 
 piness of being yours in the light of day; and if she 
 had not felt " (here Isora hid her blushing face in my 
 bosom) " that she was fated to give birth to another, and 
 that the announcement of our wedded love had become 
 necessary to your honor as to mine ! " 
 
DEVEREUX. 295 
 
 Though T was in reality awed even to terror by 
 learning from Isora's lips so just a cause for her fore- 
 bodings, — though I shuddered with a horror surpass- 
 ing even my wrath, when I heard a threat so breathing 
 of deadly and determined passions, — yet I concealed 
 my emotions, and only thought of cheering and com- 
 forting Isora. I represented to her how guarded and 
 vigilant should ever henceforth be the protection of her 
 husband; that nothing should again separate him from 
 her side; that the extreme malice and fierce persecution 
 of this man were sufficient even to absolve her con- 
 science from the oath of concealment she had taken ; 
 that I would procure from the sacred head of our church 
 her own absolution from that vow; that the moment 
 concealment was over, I could take steps to prevent the 
 execution of my rival's threats; that, however near to 
 me he might be in blood, no consequences arising from 
 a dispute between us could be so dreadful as the least 
 evil to Isora; and moreover, to appease her fears, that 
 I would solemnly promise he should never sustain per- 
 sonal assault or harm from my hand: in short, I said 
 all that my anxiety could dictate, and at last I suc- 
 ceeded in quieting her fears, and she smiled as brightly 
 as the first time I had seen her in the little cottage of 
 her father. She seemed, however, averse to an absolu- 
 tion from her oath, for she was especially scrupulous as 
 to the sanctity of those religious obligations; but I 
 secretly resolved that her safety absolutely required it, 
 and that at all events 1 would procure absolution from 
 my own promise to her. 
 
 At last Isora, turning from that topic, so darkly 
 interesting, pointed to the heavens, which, with their 
 thou.sand eyes of light, looked down upon us. " Tell 
 me, love," said she playfully, as her arm embraced me 
 
296 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 yet more closely, " if among yonder stars we could 
 choose a home, which should we select? " 
 
 I pointed to one which lay to the left of the moon, 
 and which, though not larger, seemed to burn with an 
 intenser lustre than the rest. Since that night it has 
 ever been to me a fountain of deep and passionate 
 thought, a well wherein fears and hopes are buried, a 
 mirror in which in stormy times I have fancied to read 
 my destiny and to find some mysterious omen of my 
 intended deeds, a haven which I believe others have 
 reached before me, and a home immortal and unchang- 
 ing, where, when my wearied and fettered soul is 
 escaped, as a bird, it shall flee away, and have its rest 
 at last. 
 
 " What think you of my choice 1 " said I. Isora 
 looked upward, but did not answer; and as I gazed 
 upon her (while the pale light of heaven streamed 
 quietly upon her face), with her dark eyes, where the 
 tear yet lingered, though rather to soften than to dim, 
 with her noble yet tender features, over which hung 
 a melancholy calm, with her lips apart, and her rich 
 looks wreathing over her marble brow, and contrasted 
 by a single white rose (that rose I have now ; 1 would 
 not lose one withered leaf of it for a kingdom!), — her 
 beauty never seemed to me of so rare an order, nor did 
 my soul ever yearn towards her with so deep a love. 
 
 It was past midnight. All was hushed in our bridal 
 chamber. The single lamp, which hung above, burned 
 still and clear; and through the half-closed curtains of 
 the window the moonlight looked in upon our couch, 
 quiet and pure and holy, as if it were charged with 
 blessings. 
 
 "Hush!" said Isora, gently; "do you not hear a 
 noise below 1 " 
 
DEVEKEUX. 297 
 
 "Not a breath," said I; "I hear not a breath, save 
 yours." 
 
 "It was my fancy, then! " said Isora, '' and it has 
 ceased now; " and she clung closer to my breast and fell 
 asleep. I looked on her peaceful and childish coun- 
 tenance with that concentrated and full delight with 
 which we clasp all that the universe holds dear to us, 
 and feel as if the universe held naught beside, — and 
 thus sleep also crept upon me. 
 
 I awoke suddenly ; I felt Isora trembling palpably by 
 my side. Before I could speak to her, I saw, standing 
 at a little distance from the bed, a man wrapped in a 
 long dark cloak, and masked; but his eyes shone 
 through the mask, and they glared full upon me. He 
 stood with his arms folded, and perfectly motionless; 
 but at the other end of the room, before the escritoire 
 in which I had locked the important packet, stood 
 another man, also masked, and wrapped in a disguis- 
 ing cloak of similar hue and fashion. This man, as 
 if alarmed, turned suddenly ; and I perceived then that 
 the escritoire was already opened, and that the packet 
 was in his hand. I tore myself from Isora's clasp; I 
 stretched my hand to the table by my bedside, upon 
 which I had left my sword, — it was gone ! No matter ! 
 I was young, strong, fierce, and the stake at hazard was 
 great. I sprung from the bed, I precipitated myself 
 upon the man who held the packet. With one hand 
 1 grasped at the important document, with the other I 
 strove to tear the mask from the robber's face. He 
 endeavored rather to shake me ofif than to attack me; 
 and it was not till I had nearly succeeded in unmasking 
 him that he drew forth a short poniard, and stabbed me 
 in the side. The blow, which seemed purposely aimed 
 to avoid a mortal part, staggered me, but only for an 
 
298 DEVEREUX. 
 
 instant. I renewed my gripe at the packet, — I tore 
 it from the robber's hand, and collecting my strength, 
 now fast ebbing away, for one effort, I bore my assailant 
 to the ground, and fell struggling with him. 
 
 But ray blood flowed fast from my wound, and my 
 antagonist, if less sinewy than myself, had greatly tho 
 advantage in weight and size. Now for one moment I 
 was uppermost, but in the next his knee was upon my 
 chest, and his blade gleamed on high in the pale light 
 of the lamp and moon. I thought I beheld my death, 
 — would to God that I had ! With a piercing cry 
 Isora sprang from the bed, flung herself before the 
 lifted blade of the robber, and arrested his arm. This 
 man had, in the whole contest, acted with a singular 
 forbearance, — he did so now; he paused for a moment 
 and dropped his hand. Hitherto the other man had 
 not stirred from his mute position ; he now moved one 
 step towards us, brandishing a poniard like his com- 
 rade's. Isora raised her hand supplicatingly towards 
 him, and cried out, " Spare him, spare Mm ! Oh, 
 mercy, mercy!" With one stride the murderer was 
 by my side; he muttered some words which passion 
 seemed to render inarticulate; and, half pushing aside 
 his comrade, his raised weapon flashed before my eyes, 
 now dim and reeling: I made a vain effort to rise, — • 
 the blade descended. Isora, unable to arrest it, threw 
 herself before it; her blood, her heart's blood, gushed 
 over me, — I saw and felt no more. 
 
 When I recovered my senses, my servants were round » 
 me; a deep red, wet stain upon the sofa on which I was 
 laid brought the whole scene I had witnessed again 
 before me, terrible and distinct. I sprang to my feet 
 and asked for Isora ; a low murmur caught my ear. I 
 turned, and beheld a dark form stretched on the bed. 
 
DEVEREUX. 299 
 
 and surrounded, like myself, by gazers and menials. I 
 tottered towards that bed, — my bridal bed ; with a 
 fierce gesture motioned the crowd away: I heard my 
 name breathed audibly, — the next moment I was by 
 Isora's side. All pain, all weakness, all consciousness 
 of my wound, of my very self, were gone, — life seemed 
 curdled into a single agonizing and fearful thought. I 
 fixed my eyes upon hers; and though there the film 
 was gathering dark and rapidly, I saw yet visible and 
 unconquered the deep love of that faithful and warm 
 heart which had lavished its life for mine. 
 
 I threw my arms around her; I pressed my lips 
 wildly to hers. "Speak — speak!" 1 cried, and my 
 blood gushed over her with the effort; "in mercy, 
 speak ! " 
 
 Even in death and agony, the gentle being who had 
 been as wax unto my lightest wish, struggled to obey 
 me. "Do not grieve for me," she said, in a tremulous 
 and broken voice ; " it is dearer to die for you than to 
 live!" 
 
 Those were her last words. I felt her breath abruptly 
 cease. The heart, pressed to mine, was still ! I started 
 up in dismay, — the light shone full upon her face. 
 God ! that I should live to write that Isora was — 
 no more! 
 
 END OF VOL. I,