^Z^~££S 
 
 PERKINS LIBRARY 
 
 Duke University 
 
 
 Kare Books 
 

i \ 
 
 IF : 
 
 r 
 
 W| 
 
 
 / 
 
 »^H^: 4 », 
 
 48l 
 
 A ■p5^& J[| ' 
 
 i^^^N 
 
 '*^'^Hfe 
 
 : 
 
 1 M ^HU 
 
 Y&^BjH R H 
 
 ft. m 
 
 .. 
 
 pp 
 
 i; j i 
 
 
THE 
 
 WREATH OF FRIENDSHIP; 
 
 TOKEN OF REGARD. 
 
 EDITED BY CHARLES CECIL. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH FINE ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 EDWARD LACEY, 76, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD 
 
 AND 
 
 THOMAS WARDLE, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
LONDON ; 
 
 PRINTED BY MANNING AND SM1THS05, 
 
 IVY-LANE, PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Reconciliation. By Malcolm Campbell, Esq. I 
 
 On Genius. By the Rev. F. A. Cox, A. M. - 12 
 
 O Saw ye my Mary ?----- 28 
 
 Ellen j or the Lonely Grave 29 
 
 A Visit to Milton Abbey - 39 
 
 Popularity. By Malcolm Campbell, Esq. - 44 
 
 The Seasons ...--- 56 
 
 The Indian Orphan _-__-- 57 
 
 Eustace ; or the Wasted Life. By Miss Jewsbury 73 
 On the Wisdom of our Fathers. By Mark Spencer, 
 
 Gent. 96 
 
 Wolves 103 
 
 Janet Donaldson - 104 
 
 The Smuggler 109 
 
 The Deliverance ------ 141 
 
 The Young Aid-du-camp ----- 158 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lines, &c. 179 
 
 Some Events of the Life of a Patriot - 180 
 
 The Rival Cousins. By Malcolm Campbell, Esq. 196 
 
 Sonnet to Melancholy ----- 211 
 
 The Daughter. By Miss G. Vincent - - 212 
 
 Bolton Abbey 221 
 
 Mary 227 
 
 Amelia ------- 228 
 
 Susan's Dowry --___. 242 
 
 Ascent of Mont Blanc 258 
 
 The Dispensation 267 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 For marriage is a matter of more worth, 
 Than to be dealt in by attorneyship. 
 For what is wedlock forced but a hell, 
 An age of discord and perpetual strife? 
 Whereas the contrary bringeth forth bliss, 
 And is a pattern of celestial peace." 
 
 Why was opposition raised by parents on either side 
 to an alliance so suitable, in point of age, of property, 
 of rank, of education, — above all, of mutual con- 
 fidence and esteem, as that which Albert Manville 
 and his cousin Amelia were constrained secretly, yet 
 sacredly to form ? Why were young persons, so exem- 
 plary for filial reverence and obedience in all other 
 cases, and so anxious to exemplify them in this, con- 
 strained to put on the appearance of filial rebellion? 
 On both sides, the opposition was a political one. The 
 families, though nearly related in blood, were severed 
 by questions rising out of the revolution of 1688, and 
 revived, with nearly all their original force, on the 
 death of Queen Anne, the last sovereign of the Stuart 
 race, and the accession of George the First instead of 
 the young Pretender. 
 
J THE RECONCILIATION'. 
 
 Mr. Manville was a stanch Jacobite, as much op- 
 posed to the House of Hanover as to that of Orange ; 
 and though his son Albert had begun to waver in his 
 early attachment to the family politics, not even his 
 love for Amelia had yet induced him to avow any de- 
 cided change ; while his stern, yet fond father, had no 
 fear of his apostacy, if he could but keep him from 
 marrying his more liberal cousin. She was descended 
 from a family that first joined the standard of the Prince 
 of Orange in Devonshire, and had been taught by a 
 mother devoted to the principles of the revolution, to 
 identify the Stuarts with Popery, and to consider them 
 aliens to British institutions, interests, and happiness. 
 But to a young and ardent couple like Albert and 
 Amelia, these questions, with all their national import- 
 ance, had become completely subordinate to their affec- 
 tion for each other, and were lost in their anxiety to 
 unite again their contending families on loftier and 
 lovelier ground. They had often wondered in very 
 early life that their parents should hate each other for 
 the sake of kings whom they never saw, and as they 
 grew up, they ventured to remonstrate on such a state 
 of things. When they found an alliance with each other 
 essential to their mutual happiness, they wondered and 
 remonstrated still more, because political differences 
 were allowed to stand in the way of their happiness; 
 and that they, who had done no harm to either party, 
 should be punished by the sacrifice of all that seemed 
 likely to render life valuable. Objections, weak and 
 frivolous in their view, were suffered to operate to an 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 3 
 
 extent far beyond their importance. Moreover, they 
 were urged with so much spleen, and so little reason 
 and kindness, that, being already independent, and 
 expecting very soon to be much more so, the young 
 lovers resolved, on Albert's coming of age, to steal a 
 marriage rather than not marry at all. 
 
 They did not take this serious step without apprising 
 the parents of their purpose, and assuring them that no 
 opportunity would be omitted of testifying, in every 
 affair which did not thus involve their conscience and 
 their peace, the most faithful and affectionate regard to 
 their parents' will. Little opportunity, however, was 
 afforded of their putting this filial vow to the test. The 
 widowed mother could no more endure the sight of the 
 daughter, after she had married a Jacobite's son, than 
 Mr. Manville could allow himself to relax in her favour 
 when he remembered her revolutionary descent. It is 
 difficult, indeed, to state the extent of bitterness to 
 which they carried on their opposition to their united 
 and affectionate children. Nor, on any principle of 
 reason or consistency, can it be accounted for. It was 
 not the remains of ancient rivalship, nor the hatred of 
 contested rank, that so completely divided them; for 
 they had formerly been in friendship with one another; 
 while their alliance in blood shews them to have de- 
 scended from one common ancestor at no remote 
 period. 
 
 Added to the political rancour of these families, and 
 rising out of it, they cherished a religious disaffection 
 and hatred, not less powerful nor less virulent, but 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 much more difficult to explain. Every one knows that 
 but a small portion of the friends of the Stuarts adopted 
 the popery of James the Second. Thousands and tens 
 of thousands, who declined the oath to William and 
 Mary when James was exiled, continued warmly 
 attached to the Protestant religion. Of the episcopal 
 bench, Archbishop Sancroft and others renounced their 
 dignity rather than what they called their loyalty, and 
 retired into private life rather than vow allegiance to 
 the Prince of Orange; yet, instead of being Papists, 
 like James, they were sound Protestants, like his suc- 
 cessor. On the death of Queen Anne, and the acces- 
 sion of George the First, this remarkable distinction 
 made no conspicuous appearance, and was no longer 
 deemed of importance. A Stuart had preceded him, 
 and held undivided possession of the throne ; and that 
 Stuart, like her predecessor, was a Protestant and a 
 daughter of James. Hence any one might shew dis- 
 affection to George the First, without the suspicion of 
 Popery ; though to advance to active measures in 
 favour of the Pretender, could not but involve that 
 suspicion — a circumstance that contributed more than 
 all others to keep the kingdom secure, and the house of 
 Hanover on the throne. 
 
 Such was the father of Albert; disaffected in the 
 greatest degree to the new sovereign — accustomed to 
 speak of him in the bitterest strain of invective and 
 contempt — resolved on severing all connexion with 
 those who favoured his accession and authority ; yet 
 afraid to commit himself to any positive undertaking to 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 restore the race of James to the throne, lest he should 
 be deemed an enemy to the Reformed religion. The 
 Revolution he hated, as a political event at variance 
 with all his hereditary and loyal prejudices; but the 
 Reformation he continued to admire, as a change in 
 the religion of the country rendered necessary by the 
 spirit of the times, which would no longer allow the 
 Pope to have any authority in these realms. 
 
 Few subjects are more involved than this; and the 
 involvement continues to this day in the ultra Tory 
 notions of those who are the bitterest enemies of Po- 
 pery, and the heartless opposition carried on against 
 the Catholics of Ireland by those who, in all their 
 political peculiarities and prejudices, are still friendly 
 to the Stuarts' reign. What is the religion for which 
 this clamorous party are pleading? They call it the 
 religion of the church ; but it is, in fact, the mere 
 religion of the state — whatever religion the state incor- 
 porates — that they care for. If the state espoused the 
 religion of Mahomet or of Confucius, they would con- 
 tend for it with equal zeal. If the state were to be- 
 come, what they affect to dread, a Catholic state, they 
 would contrive to turn Catholics, that they might still 
 be of the state religion. It is only because that religion 
 happens to be on the whole scriptural, and to profess 
 the leading principles of Christianity, that they can, 
 with the least propriety, call it the religion of a church ; 
 while the circumstance of its being the religion of " the 
 Church of England by law established," is all that 
 enters into their anxiety to defend. It is the secular 
 
 n o 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 machinery of the church, and not its sacred and 
 spiritual principles, that appears in their view to be 
 worthy of defence. Hence it is that the most zealous 
 advocates of the Church are the bitterest enemies of the 
 Catholics. Professing, as they do, many of the leading 
 principles of the Catholic religion under the name of 
 Protestantism — descended, as they are, from Catholic 
 ancestors, whom they acknowledge to have been Chris- 
 tians in as high a degree as themselves — adopting a 
 liturgy translated from the Roman ritual and missal 
 almost without a deviation ; — advocating the very spirit 
 and essence of Popery in their notions of an apostolic 
 priesthood, still invested in a Protestant church with 
 the power of absolving from sin, and giving effect to a 
 multitude of human ceremonies by their consecration 
 and rank, — it might have been expected that, though 
 separated by an Act of Parliament from the see of 
 Rome, they would still look on their holy mother with 
 filial reverence and respect, and that in proportion to 
 her age and infirmities. But no! the Catholic hier- 
 archy has been spoiled of its possessions and splendour 
 by the predominant hand of Protestantism; and the 
 latter feels all the jealousy, and hatred, and dread, 
 consequent on such a deed, and would resist to blood 
 the least encroachment of the parent church, from 
 which it derived its property, its priesthood, its prayers, 
 yea, its very existence on the earth ! 
 
 To return from this digression. Some years passed 
 away, and the young couple received no visit nor any 
 communication from the parents on either side. Soon 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 7 
 
 after their marriage, they had come some seventy miles 
 southward from the district of both their native homes, 
 and had taken up their abode in a small, but beautiful 
 house in Leicestershire, a few miles from the county 
 town. Albert began gratifying a favourite propensity 
 in rearing a few cattle of a select and novel breed; 
 while Amelia spent the first part of her time in super- 
 intending the enlargement and decoration of the 
 cottage, and its limited but admirable grounds ; and in 
 a few months her attention was transferred to preparing 
 for the arrival of an expected addition to their little 
 establishment, It would have increased their happi- 
 ness to have received one acceptance of their occasional 
 invitations to their parents, or one answer to their 
 respectful and affectionate letters : but as they felt 
 assured by approving consciences that no guilt of theirs 
 had brought this neglect upon them, they were still 
 happy. They had gained the esteem of the best circles 
 around : the poor of their neighbourhood blessed and 
 reverenced them ; and between themselves, a hallowed 
 confidence and love was established which there are no 
 words to describe — it must be felt before it can be 
 understood. Two lovely children augmented their 
 bliss, while they varied and perfected their occupations, 
 so far as occupations could be perfect, which no 
 parent's tongue blest, and no parent's eye bore wit- 
 ness to. 
 
 In a few years, the northern half of the country 
 became a scene of confusion and alarm,, and the rapid 
 advance of the Pretender's forces impelled many 
 
8 THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 families to flee towards London, to the abandonment of 
 their houses and lands, and all possessions but what 
 were secured in parts on which the feet of the invader 
 were forbidden to tread. Among the individuals fore- 
 most in their flight, was Amelia's aged mother, whose 
 ancestors and connexions were known to be violently 
 hostile to the Pretender's cause, and whom, therefore, 
 his agents treated without either justice or mercy. She 
 arrived at Leicester, in company with a few friends, in 
 the dead of the night, and was on the point of proceed- 
 ing on the journey to London. Compelled to wait for 
 an exchange of horses, or till those she had were 
 recovered from the fatigue of the last stage, she was 
 recognized by a man servant who had lived in her 
 house, but who preferred sharing the fortunes of his 
 young mistress. 
 
 This young man had just dismissed his beloved 
 master on his rapid journey to London, whither he had 
 been summoned in the emergency of public affairs, to 
 take a post, for which he was well qualified, in the 
 army destined for the defence of the capital and its 
 immediate neighbourhood. The servant had been 
 commanded to return home as soon as possible, and 
 take special care that no stranger took refuge in the 
 house. The old lady, he thought, could not come 
 under this appellation in his master"s sense of it ; he, 
 therefore, at once invited and entreated her to accom- 
 pany him home in the chaise, rather than take, as she 
 was wishing to do, his horse to accelerate her progress 
 to London. 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 9 
 
 After some hesitation, the old lady consented ; and, 
 in Albert's absence, no visitor could have been more 
 welcome to Amelia than her mother. Her visit, in- 
 deed, was rather by constraint than willingness ; still it 
 was in part a voluntary act, indicating some disposition 
 at least to forego her former aversion to the marriage, 
 and to let public calamity and danger compose private 
 and domestic difference. Even if the visit had been 
 altogether compulsory, Amelia's amiable spirit would 
 have rejoiced in the opportunity it afforded, of making 
 another experiment on her revered mother's compas- 
 sion, and of forcing forgiveness from her, rather than 
 not be forgiven at all. 
 
 It is doubtful whether reconciliation would now have 
 taken place, had the old lady foreseen the early opening 
 that was made, by the retreat of the Pretender's forces, 
 and his complete overthrow, for her quiet and safe 
 return to her own mansion. However, Amelia let no 
 time elapse for her efforts ; and she had received her 
 mother's blessing, as her beloved Albert's wife, before 
 the welcome public news reached the house. Her 
 mother had even presented each of the children with a 
 handsome purse, and promised if ever she was able to 
 go back to her house, to take the eldest with her. 
 
 In a few hours after these matters were settled, the 
 news arrived that all danger to the county was over, 
 and the lady signified her intention of returning home 
 without delay. Perhaps her haste was somewhat in- 
 creased by the apprehension or disinclination of meet- 
 ing Albert before he had been prepared by intelligence 
 
10 THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 of what had taken place. If this were the case, she was 
 disappointed, for he returned before she could depart. 
 On her hearing that he was in the hall, she discovered 
 considerable agitation, and requested Amelia to seclude 
 her in a private room, until his disposition was known 
 to be such as to encourage her confidence. Amelia 
 had no time to reason with her, and therefore con- 
 sented; but with a smile, that one whom she knew to 
 be incapable of a vindictive feeling towards a stranger 
 or an enemy, should require a moment's preparation to 
 receive with complacency her own mother. 
 
 The apartment adjoined the library, and the inter- 
 vening door was of course fastened. As Albert, after 
 refreshing himself, passed into the library, he heard a 
 noise in the next room to which his ear had always 
 been a stranger. He instantly tried the door, and was 
 the more surprised because it resisted his efforts to 
 open it. Amelia, every moment on the watch, joined 
 him just as he was putting his hand to his sword in 
 suspicion that a stranger might be concealed even 
 without her knowledge. She mildly entreated a mo- 
 ment's delay, which his late military thoughts and 
 movements of the quickest time could scarcely brook. 
 However, he soon sat down in peace, received with 
 gratitude the welcome tidings, and rejoiced the more 
 that their mother's hope of escaping him had been 
 frustrated. 
 
 Notwithstanding this joy, however, Albert's mind 
 became agitated with fear for the probable fate of his 
 father. Whether he had, in his zeal for the Pre- 
 
THE RECONCILIATION, 11 
 
 tender's cause, joined his forces on their rapid march, 
 he knew not. If he had taken this imprudent step, it 
 must be fatal to his life, for a commission was already- 
 spoken of to examine without delay all the nobility and 
 gentry who were but suspected of favouring the rebel 
 claims. In this uncertainty, Albert prepared to go 
 with his mother-in-law to the north, and there ascertain 
 the present condition and probable fate of his aged 
 parent. 
 
 Before, however, they could set out, he received a 
 letter, announcing his father's arrival at the house of a 
 mutual friend, where he wished once more to see and 
 be reconciled to his son. He had rashly 7 received and 
 entertained the Pretender, and given him a handsome 
 sum in aid of his wild project : when, therefore, the 
 army retreated, and its subjection to the king's forces 
 became certain, in fear of his life, he left home to 
 obtain the advice and assistance of his son to leave the 
 country. There was no immediate danger, and there- 
 fore Albert conducted him to his own house as a tem- 
 porary refuge. There he introduced his beloved Amelia 
 to receive his blessing ; and there, too, the rival parents 
 met, and were at last reconciled. A commission fol- 
 lowed, and a price was set on his head; but almost 
 sudden death superseded the act of the executioner. 
 He died in the presence of those, with whom his last 
 words confessed that he should have lived, and then he 
 should have been happy. 
 
ON GENIUS. 
 
 BY THE REV. F. A. COX, A.M. 
 
 Let us suppose a case. — A traveller, in crossing a 
 valley, or an idler in wandering along the sea-shore, 
 strikes his foot against a stone. He allows it to occupy 
 his attention no longer than while corporeal suffering 
 reminds him of the accident ; — then quietly pursues his 
 journey. This may often have occurred to the indi- 
 vidual in question, without his being chargeable by the 
 generality of mankind with any particular defect of 
 mental power, or moral sentiment ; stones are every 
 where strewed in our path, and he sees nothing to delay 
 his progress, or excite his curiosity. 
 
 A similar accident occurs to another traveller, going 
 in the same direction. He, however, possesses an 
 inquisitive and philosophic turn. The circumstance, 
 simple as it is, sets in motion the intellectual machinery ; 
 and its movements will continue till he has elicited 
 some general truth, or obtained a clue to some future 
 discovery. He pauses, — looks around him, — reflects, 
 — inquires, — combines, — and soon finds himself lost 
 amidst the wonders of creation, with which he stands in 
 close, but hitherto unsuspected connexion. 
 
ON GENIUS. 1,3 
 
 The question naturally arises — What constitutes the 
 distinction between the first traveller, who regards the 
 stone only as the cause of a momentary pain, and 
 passes on with vexation or contempt, or who, examining 
 it, is incapable of pursuing its relations, — and the 
 second, who takes it as the text-book of knowledge, 
 and makes it the nucleus of a system ? Is it not the 
 absence or the possession of — genius ? In the former 
 we observe nothing but the operation of an instinctive 
 faculty ; in the latter, the highest exercises of rationality 
 and intellect. In the former, we have the concentrated 
 history of the million ; in the latter, the rare and 
 splendid exhibition of here and there an individual 
 mind. 
 
 Will it be alleged, that if all this could be accom- 
 plished by one person, in one continuous strain of 
 thought, it would be a proof of extensive knowledge, 
 but not of genius ? The reply is obvious : that although, 
 when the system is framed, it bespeaks large and varied 
 acquisitions, yet the inquiry respects the capacity of 
 framing it, by means of that process of thought and 
 ratiocination, which renders the accumulation of facts 
 subservient, and, as it were, tributary to the mental 
 power that compares, combines, and arranges them. 
 
 Every one forms at once some conception of genius, 
 as soon as the word is uttered ; but if that conception 
 were analyzed, it would be found perhaps in few cases 
 to be very definite. This arises from the very nature of 
 the subject, which, in whatever light it is contemplated, 
 seems to be encircled with a kind of cloudy grandeur 
 
14 ON GENIUS. 
 
 and undefinable magnificence, like the castles and giant 
 forms of romance. It has something of an intangible 
 and ethereal subsistence, inviting yet retiring from 
 approach, — visible, yet not palpable ; like the blushes of 
 the morning, or the rainbow of heaven, — having the 
 power of incantation, yet of earthly mould. We pro- 
 nounce a warm eulogium upon genius, but at the same 
 instant inquire what it is ; — lost at once in admiration 
 and in mystery ! We have already seen this great 
 enchantress's wand waved over the philosophic adven- 
 turer, as he vanquishes the difficulties of inquiry, and 
 ascends the steeps of science ; the spell, that holds 
 within fixed and narrow boundaries the common mind, 
 is broken, and the freed spirit ranges at liberty through 
 unfrequented regions, exploring, combining, and, in a 
 sense, creating as she soars. Nor is it merely in one, 
 but in every department of the intellectual world, that 
 she exercises her mighty control. She guides the 
 glowing pencil of the painter, the finishing touches of 
 the statuary, the frenzied pen of the poet. She breathes 
 her inspirations into the orator, deciphers the hierogly- 
 phics of the scholar, pours a flood of light upon the 
 intricate mazes of the statesman, and whets the glitter- 
 ing sword of the patriot. Her voice is heard from the 
 depth of ages past, and echoes from the cells of the 
 sepulchre upon the ear of ages to come. 
 
 Is genius an original quality, or element of mind, 
 or is it the result of mental habit and cultivation ? The 
 case supposed, in connexion with a few facts, may lead 
 to a probable conclusion. What is the nature of that 
 
ON GENIUS. 15 
 
 mental power which was evinced by the traveller who, 
 examining the stone that impeded his progress, assidu- 
 ously tracing its history and ascertaining its qualities, 
 detected and developed a science ? Why do we invest 
 him with the honours of genius ? The reason is mani- 
 festly this, — that he has the power of combination, 
 invention, and discovery. It is not that he possesses it 
 in an unusual degree ; for it is commonly not possessed 
 at all, and is therefore characteristic : for though, to a 
 certain extent, most minds can combine, and some in 
 an extraordinary manner, yet they cannot invent and 
 discover. It will of course be understood that we 
 intend, the faculty of discovering by means of the 
 processes of experiment and induction, not the acci- 
 dental detection of what occupied no previous thought, 
 or was the result of no previous preparation, implying 
 skill and capacity. Before the combining and inventive 
 faculty has been employed, it is in a very inferior sense 
 only that it can be called discovery : it is rather the 
 medium of discovery, and may happen to the clown 
 as well as the philosopher, while the latter only is 
 capable of making an accident the stepping-stone of 
 science. 
 
 The story of the Telescope will furnish an illustration. 
 A spectacle-maker's son, it is said, was amusing himself 
 in his father's shop, by holding two glasses between his 
 fingers and thumbs, till he perceived the weathercock of 
 the church spire opposite, much larger, and apparently 
 much nearer than usual, and in an inverted position. 
 This excited the astonishment of the father, who ad- 
 
16 ON GENIUS. 
 
 justed two glasses on a board, in such a manner that 
 he could at pleasure vary their distances, and thus 
 formed the rude imitation of a perspective glass. The 
 account of Borellus is, however, generally the most 
 credited. He relates, that Jansen, a spectacle-maker 
 of the same place, and a man of great ingenuity, was 
 experimenting upon the power and peculiarities of 
 lenses, when he made the discovery, and very soon 
 afterwards applied it to the construction of telescopes, 
 and the observation of celestial phenomena. Galileo 
 heard only at Venice, that an optical instrument had 
 been devised which seemed to bring distant objects 
 near, and, without any farther information, gradually 
 matured the instrument, by means of which he disco- 
 vered the inequalities of the moon's surface, the spots 
 of the sun, and its rotation, and the satellites of Jupiter. 
 The difference between the boy playing with the lenses, 
 and which might probably have occurred, so as to 
 communicate the first hint, and the spectacle-maker 
 Jansen and the astronomer Galileo, was, obviously, 
 that the former might be a playful and common-place 
 boy — the others were men of genius, who possessed the 
 skill to comprehend the bearings, and devise the ap- 
 plications of a matter of mere accident, or. at best, of 
 mere experiment. And the distinction between the 
 artist and the philosopher, and the thousands of other 
 persons to whom the same information might have 
 been given, consisted in the pursuit of the subject, in 
 which was developed the faculty of invention and com- 
 bination. 
 
ON GENIUS. 17 
 
 Blaise Pascal may be selected, from innumerable 
 others of the same class, as another instance in point. 
 It is sufficiently common for boys to amuse themselves, 
 by drawing lines and figures upon a slate, a floor, or a 
 wall. The father of Pascal was a mathematician, but 
 having no inclination to encourage his son in a similar 
 pursuit, refused to enter into any considerable expla- 
 nation of a question he proposed to him on the subject, 
 and interdicted his researches in that direction. The 
 inquisitive mind of Pascal, however, was not to be 
 restrained. In his hours of recreation, he was accus- 
 tomed to go alone, and draw figures in charcoal, upon 
 the floor of his apartment. At length his father acci- 
 dentally entered the room, and was astonished to find 
 his son surrounded with geometrical diagrams. Upon 
 a minuter investigation, it was found that he had 
 advanced through the regular series of demonstrations, 
 without the least assistance, to the discovery of the 
 thirty-second proposition of the first book of Euclid. 
 At the age of sixteen, he composed a treatise on the 
 Conic sections ; at eighteen or nineteen, he invented 
 his famous arithmetical machine, by which all nume- 
 rical calculations, however complex, may be made 
 without any arithmetical skill in the person who uses 
 it; and, at a subsequent period, he was consulted by 
 the most eminent men of the age, respecting difficulties 
 they were unable to solve. 
 
 To refer to the most illustrious of all discoverers, 
 Sir Isaac Newton. The falling of the apple may, or 
 may not, be apocryphal. An incident of this descrip- 
 
18 ON GENIUS. 
 
 tion, which millions had seen without producing any 
 particular train of reflection, could not he lost upon 
 one of such observation and capacity. It is at least 
 certain, that while sitting alone in his garden, reflecting 
 on the power by which all terrestrial bodies gravitate 
 toward the earth, it occurred to him, that as this power 
 is not sensibly diminished, at any distance from the 
 centre of the earth, there seemed reason to think it 
 might extend much farther than was generally sup- 
 posed : for instance, to the moon, whose motion would 
 be influenced by it, and the body itself retained in its 
 orbit by this force. By pursuing this simple idea, he 
 at length arrived at the law of universal gravitation, 
 and laid the basis of those discoveries, which the power 
 of genius alone could bring forth from the depths of 
 obscurity. In Newton were united extraordinary saga- 
 city, diligence, and perseverance. He was accustomed 
 to say, that if he had done the world any service, it 
 was due to nothing but industry, and patient thought : 
 the object of his pursuit was constantly in his eye, and 
 never relinquished till he had obtained it, — while over 
 all his endowments modesty threw an attractive charm. 
 Sometimes genius assumes a repulsive attitude and 
 manners, but here she at once awes by her majesty, 
 and wins by her smile : she appears a spirit of un- 
 earthly mould, glowing with heavenly fire, and moving 
 with celestial grace. 
 
 The two qualities of mind which have the nearest 
 resemblance to genius, and with which it is not unfre- 
 quently confounded, are taste and imagination : from 
 
ON GENIUS. 19 
 
 the rest it is plainly distinguishable. Memory has no 
 alliance with it, though some philosophers have viewed 
 them as almost identical ; but surely the capacity to 
 retain what is brought by others, is essentially different 
 from the ability to invent what is new oneself. Judg- 
 ment too is evidently dissimilar; for, although this 
 faculty implies the power both of combining and dis- 
 criminating, yet it has nothing of a creative character; 
 it may be wise, but cannot be brilliant — it may form a 
 sage, but never can produce a genius. Imagination, 
 though allied both to taste and genius, ought not to 
 be confounded with them : it assists the faculty of dis- 
 crimination, and supplies wings to the adventurousness 
 of genius. Where imagination operates alone, it pro- 
 duces absurdities, and does not necessarily, and in its 
 detached exertions, imply extraordinary power : it may 
 even be a weakness of intellect. Besides, though we 
 may have been led to the notion of the superiority of 
 this faculty of mind, and considered it as the principle 
 of genius, from some of its splendid emanations in the 
 poets; there is little room for its exercise, and, in fact, 
 little proof of its existence, in instances where the oppo- 
 site qualities of patient research, and slow ratiocination, 
 have penetrated the arcana of nature. 
 
 "An uncommon degree of imagination," says Dugald 
 Stewart, " constitutes poetical genius ;" and to this con- 
 clusion he is led, by conceiving of this power of imagi- 
 nation as an "accomplishment formed by experience 
 and situation ; and which, in its different gradations, 
 fills up all the interval between the first efforts of 
 
20 ON GENIUS. 
 
 untutored genius, and the sublime creations of Raphael, 
 or of Milton." But if the power of imagination be 
 a cultivated habit, should we not rather say that a 
 poetical genius stimulates imagination, and holds the 
 same, or an analogous relation to it, with those which 
 he justly denominates simple powers of the mind, 
 attention, conception, and abstraction I 
 
 Taste is by some regarded as more of a sister seraph, 
 and here we find a perplexity similar to that which oc- 
 curred when the question was proposed, What is genius ? 
 In general, however, taste may be considered as the 
 faculty of discriminating what is beautiful in nature, or 
 art, accompanied with a corresponding feeling of its 
 excellence ; a feeling which has in it, usually, some- 
 thing of passion and enthusiasm. Elegance in writing, 
 magnificence in architecture, skill in painting, sublimity 
 in nature, are objects of taste; and have to do not only 
 with sensations, but conceptions, and trains of thought. 
 Taste operates through the medium of the judgment, 
 and is, in reality, the determining poicer, when the ob- 
 ject presented is to be pronounced upon as fair or per- 
 fect. The standard is ideal; for, as Sir Joshua Reynolds 
 remarks of the Farnese Hercules, which is one kind of 
 beauty ; the Gladiator in the palace of Chighi, which is 
 another; and the Apollo of Belvidere, which is a third; 
 the perfection of these statues cannot consist in any 
 thing which is the immediate object of sense, either 
 external or internal, but in something, which, being 
 perceived by the eye, is referred by the understanding 
 to what we know of the characters of Hercules, Apollo, 
 
ON GENIUS. 21 
 
 and the Gladiator, and which we believe it was the in- 
 tention of the statuaries to express. 
 
 But whatever may be said of taste, it may at least be 
 distinguished from genius, in this respect — it has no 
 power of invention. A man of the most correct and 
 most cultivated taste, may neither be able to solve a 
 mathematical problem, impress with animation the 
 painter's canvass, elicit the melody of music, or produce 
 the descriptions of poetry; and yet he may be capable 
 of appreciating their respective merits. On the other 
 hand, a man of real genius both executes and appre- 
 ciates. Taste is perhaps usually a concomitant of that 
 transcendant talent, to which we apply the noblest epi- 
 thet ; but there are too many proofs of the contrary, to 
 allow us to believe that they are identical. The former 
 is more limited in its range than the latter, and more 
 restricted in its applications. There are even whole 
 classes of discovery of which it cannot judge, and, in 
 many instances, there i& obviously no subsisting con- 
 nexion. It is the province of genius to discover a 
 geometrical demonstration, and to unfold the laws and 
 systematize the phenomena of nature ; but it is not the 
 province of taste, neither does taste assist in the inquiry : 
 its province is simply to pronounce upon the merit of 
 the investigation. It is the prerogative of genius to an- 
 nihilate the prejudices of centuries, to circumnavigate 
 and traverse, and perfect the geography of the globe; 
 to plan the overthrow, or establishment of empires ; but 
 taste was never made for a reformer, an adventurer, or 
 a hero. Minds of the verv first order have been noto- 
 
22 ON GENIUS. 
 
 riously destitute of this quality, while it has adorned 
 those which could have no pretensions to be ranked 
 amongst the chieftains of intellect. 
 
 The question has sometimes been proposed, whether 
 eccentricity of conduct ought not to be deemed an essen- 
 tial concomitant of genius ? That some men of superior 
 ability have been eccentric; that is, in their general 
 habits, or in particular instances, have exhibited a re- 
 markable deviation of practice from the ordinary modes 
 of society, is indisputable ; but that such irregularities 
 constitute any feature of intellectual character, viewing 
 it in its essence, may be justly doubted. Were the sub- 
 ject attentively investigated, it would probably be found 
 that this quality has been attached to comparatively 
 few; that in those cases it has resulted from bodily 
 rather than mental temperament, or from some trace- 
 able defect of early education ; and that there are 
 numberless examples of the existence of this peculiarity 
 in persons of very inferior intellectual powers. 
 
 Absence of mind has been often mistaken for an indi- 
 cation of extraordinary talent : but though it may consist 
 with genius, and sometimes accompanies it, there is no 
 necessary connexion. In many cases it is literally, as 
 it is termed, an absence of mind, that is, a want of it; 
 in others it proceeds from the balance of the mental 
 faculties having been lost, so that some particular capa- 
 city is in disproportionate exercise : but so far from 
 real genius producing this effect, we apprehend it is 
 rather the vis, the controlling energy, the magic power, 
 which, like gravitation in nature, preserves the equipoise 
 of the other faculties. 
 
OX GENIUS. 23 
 
 The vulgar notion of the inseparable union between 
 genius and eccentricity is one of the most pernicious 
 that ever excited juvenile pride and ambition. Many a 
 real blockhead has set up for a profound genius ; and, 
 by carrying into maturer life the antics, the childish- 
 ness, and the waywardness of the nursery, for which he 
 ought to be posted in some modern Dunciad, has 
 secured by wealth or accident, a precocious fame, which 
 has only aggravated the vexation of proved incompe- 
 tence, and ultimate disrepute, [nstead of every little 
 eccentricity being adored and imitated as a mark of 
 greatness, a good system of education will treat it as a 
 mental excrescence and deformity. "When it is the 
 natural appendage of a great mind, it is sometimes 
 sufficiently amusing; but when it is assumed by in- 
 significance of intellect, to gain attention, the effect 
 resembles that of seeing a mountebank exalted upon 
 stilts. 
 
 Some men of real genius have, however, we fear, 
 piqued themselves upon their eccentricities, and, what 
 is worse still, upon their indolence. This circumstance 
 has therefore, induced another inquiry, namely, whether 
 this latter quality is characteristic of pre-eminent intel- 
 lect? The supposition that it is, must certainly be 
 ranked amongst popular errors. If by indolence, in- 
 deed, is meant mere indisposition to physical effort — 
 mere dislike of the drudgery of labour — the supposition 
 may then be correct; for mental vigour has a tendency, 
 especially in some constitutions, to produce corporeal 
 inactivity ; but men of exalted genius have usually, so 
 
24 
 
 ON GENIUS. 
 
 far as the mind is concerned, been men of indefatigable 
 industry : they are often at work when others imagine 
 the mind to be inactive, or when others are asleep ; and 
 it is an absurdity to suppose that a man can be great 
 without knowledge and practice, or that knowledge can 
 be absolutely intuitive. He who has the most mate- 
 rials, possesses the greatest means of invention ; and it 
 is by an habitual contemplation of the best models, that 
 we learn to excel: the incapacity of collecting and using 
 these materials,' constitutes dulness. It is admitted that 
 Homer had acquired all the learning of his times ; and 
 the sublime Pindar was, during several years, a student 
 under those whom he afterwards surpassed : all the 
 ancient philosophers, among whom Pythagoras, So- 
 crates, Plato, and Aristotle may be reckoned the 
 greatest, devoted years to travel and research. Of the 
 latter, in particular, whom his master (Plato) designated 
 the mind of the Academy, it is recorded, that he col- 
 lected and copied an incredible number of manuscripts, 
 and sometimes abridged them, for the purpose of stor- 
 ing his memory with their contents. The two great 
 orators of antiquity devoted themselves to study: — 
 Cicero was educated at a public school, — at the age of 
 twenty-eight he went to Athens to study the Greek 
 philosophy, and, in the very busiest period of a busy 
 life, constructed rooms and galleries for literary inter- 
 course at Tusculum, and sought to accumulate a library 
 for his old age. " Pray keep your books for me," — 
 thus he writes to Atticus, — " and do not despair of my 
 being able to make them mine ; which if 1 can com- 
 
ON GENIUS. 25 
 
 pass, I shall think myself richer than Crassus, and 
 despise the fine villas and gardens of them all." The 
 assiduity of Demosthenes, in qualifying himself for an 
 orator, is proverbial ; and, whatever may be thought of 
 Plutarch's story of putting pebbles in his mouth, it is 
 certain that he laboured with incessant care to obtain 
 perfection in his art. He is said to have copied Thu- 
 cydides eight times over with his own hand, and to 
 have committed a considerable portion of Ins writings 
 to memory. Sinwlar illustrations might be taken from 
 modern times, were it necessary, — from Bacon down- 
 wards; of whom Walpole has said, that "he was the 
 prophet of arts of which Newton was afterwards to re- 
 veal ; " and Addison, that " he had the sound, distinct, 
 comprehensive knowledge of Aristotle, with all the 
 beautiful light graces and embellishments of Cicero." 
 But this part of the subject is too obvious to require 
 further demonstration. 
 
 While neither eccentricity nor indolence are to be 
 reckoned among the concomitants of real genius, as 
 allied with knowledge, and fed and fostered by its in- 
 fluence; there is one quality which ought to be distinctly 
 marked as frequently, if not commonly, attached to 
 minds of the very finest texture, and of the purest order 
 — it is modesty, the modesty of true science. While 
 others dogmatize, they investigate ; and their prevalent 
 desire being less to display their attainments than to in- 
 crease them, the consciousness of limited success is 
 more than counterbalanced by the overwhelming con- 
 viction of a yet impenetrated region around them. The 
 
 D 
 
26 ON GENIUS. 
 
 direct effect of progress in genuine science is less to 
 produce an impression of the extent, than of the lunita- 
 tion of our knowledge. What we have acquired is but 
 an inconsiderable portion of what is yet attainable, — 
 a mere fraction of the mighty whole ; and the amplitude 
 of the vast field becomes more obvious, as our know- 
 ledge increases — the horizon widens and enlarges as we 
 ascend. The comparison, therefore, is always against 
 the true philosopher, in his own estimation ; his know- 
 ledge is actually more, but comparatively less; the 
 mountain becomes a mole-hill, and all his fancied accu- 
 mulations shrink into the apparent diminutiveness of 
 an atom : then, when he discovers that he knows no- 
 thing, he begins to be wise ; when he finds himself a 
 fool, he commences the genuine philosopher ! 
 
 What Bacon says of knowledge, may be affirmed of 
 genius — it is power ; but its value is to be appreciated 
 by the purpose to which it is devoted. The influence 
 of the individual possessed of this quality, may either be 
 highly detrimental, or inconceivably beneficial to so- 
 ciety; millions may deplore or rejoice in its existence. 
 Whatever, consequently, tends to give it a right direc- 
 tion, converts that into a blessing which might be 
 noxious, or, at best, neutral. Such is Religion, whose 
 influence renders it all it is capable of becoming. By 
 sanctifying its character, and directing its application, 
 it imparts the finishing touch of excellence ; and con- 
 stitutes it at once the ornament of life, the basis of im- 
 provement, and the best inheritance of yet unborn 
 generations. 
 
ON GENIUS. 27 
 
 Happily there have been individuals, and some have 
 been already named, whose crown of earthly fame has 
 not only been entwined with the laurels of literature, 
 and science, and genius, but has sparkled with the gems 
 of virtue, and the glorious adornment of piety. Addison, 
 Selden, Pascal, Euler, Bacon, Locke, Haller, 
 Boerhaave, Barrow, Newton ; — but on what a cata- 
 logue have we entered, and where should it terminate ! 
 
 "We conclude a subject only glanced at, with a single 
 reflection. 
 
 It is truly astonishing, that such a being as man 
 should be able to explore so extensively the works of an 
 Infinite Power. That a diminutive creature of a few 
 feet in height, whose measuring rod is but a few inches, 
 who is so bound down by an irresistible gravitation to 
 a small spot, on a little rounded particle of dust, float- 
 ing in air ; that such a being, and so situated, should 
 dive into the mysteries of time and space, — should dis- 
 cover the movements, and ascertain the laws which 
 govern them, of ten thousand worlds, — should adven- 
 ture to look into the decrees of Heaven, and touch the 
 mighty balances that poise the universe ; nay, that he 
 should take even a sublime flight, and penetrate the 
 recesses of truth, and the mysteries of revelation, till 
 he expatiates upon themes " which the angels desire to 
 look into," — is passing strange; and evinces at once the 
 superiority of mind to matter, and the goodness of God 
 in imparting a capacity so wonderful to a being so in- 
 significant ! 
 
 In conclusion, the writer has only to express his 
 
28 ON GENIUS. 
 
 regret, that the prescribed limits of this Essay have 
 prevented his entering more fully into the subject, 
 which he is well aware deserves an extensive investiga- 
 tion. These few thoughts, however, if they cannot 
 satisfy inquiry, may serve (and he will then be content) 
 to promote it. 
 
 O SAW YE MY MARY ! 
 
 saw ye my Mary, when, light as a fairy, 
 
 She glides through the dance as on gossamer wing? 
 S'.ie seems from earth springing, and yet to earth clinging, 
 
 Like summer when blushing her farewell to spring. 
 O saw ye my Mary, sae brisk and sae airy ? 
 
 She's winsome, she's blythe, and she's fair as she's free \ 
 And while she is roaming, frae sunrise till gloaming, 
 
 Her heart bounds wi' lightness, her eye beams wi' glee. 
 
 Would you picture our meeting, our mutual fond greeting, 
 
 When we whisper our vows 'neath the moon's silver beam? 
 The world's richest treasure, compared to such pleasure, 
 
 Is but an illusion, a phantom, a gleam. 
 Her fair form caressing, her balmy lips pressing, 
 
 I yield me a captive in love's silken chain ; 
 I've a kind heaven o'er me, and rapture before me, 
 
 For Mary has promised that she'll be my aia. 
 
29 
 
 ELLEN; 
 
 OR, THE LONELY GRAVE, 
 
 Thou didst nut sink by slow decay, 
 Like some who live the longest ; 
 
 Bat every tie was wrenched away, 
 Just when those lies were strongest, 
 
 Bernard Barton. 
 
 Whose is that nameless grave, unmarked even by a 
 rude stone or simple flower? And why is it lying so- 
 litary in the loneliest corner of the churchyard, beneath 
 the frown of those dark trees, that in the storm swing 
 their branches so heavily above it, and cast over it a 
 desolate gloom, even in the brightest hour of summer 
 sunshine? Why is it apart from those other hillocks, 
 that lie smilingly together, as though it alone were ex- 
 cluded from the peaceful communion of the dead ? 
 
 That grave does not cover one who withered on the 
 stalk of human life, and then quietly dropped from it 
 in the sere and yellow leaf; nor one that was plucked 
 by the spoiler in the bud of infant promise ; nor yet one 
 who shed the leaves of life in the full beauty of matu- 
 rity; — it is not the grave of an old person, who sustained 
 
30 ELLEN; 
 
 life as a burden, and at last welcomed death as a refuge; 
 or of the child "who, snatched from the cherishing arms 
 of its parents, was followed by them with deep but 
 sinless sorrow; nor is it a matron's grave, "whose 
 lovely and pleasant" life is embalmed in the memory 
 of many friends. No — it is the memorial of a " sleep- 
 less soul that perished in its pride;" of one who made 
 her grave with her own hand, and lay down in it with- 
 out the Christian hope of awaking in heaven; and but 
 for the terrible recollections of her last hours, which the 
 grey-haired villager sometimes whispers in the ears of 
 thoughtless youth, of one once so fitted to inspire affec- 
 tion and contribute to happiness, we might say in 
 sorrow and in truth, "her memorial has perished with 
 her." 
 
 There is an old man, feeble and nearly blind, often 
 wandering about the churchyard, but not as he was 
 wont in former and happier days. Then, he leaned 
 upon the arm of a fair and affectionate child, who 
 cheered him by her smile, and soothed him by her 
 tenderness. Like a hoary and tottering column wreathed 
 with luxuriant ivy, her youthful influence preserved 
 him from desolation, and partially concealed even his 
 decay. Throughout the summer evenings the church- 
 yard was their favourite resort, for the old man loved 
 to rest upon a grave, and survey the wide and lovely 
 valley lying at his feet, made glorious by the setting 
 sun; while his spirit would melt within him, as, turning 
 from that magnificent display of this world's beauty to 
 the surrounding memorials of its perishable nature, he 
 
0U THE LONELY GRAVE. 31 
 
 felt himself "a stranger and a pilgrim upon earth, as 
 all his fathers were." And then would his young com- 
 panion press near him with the deep affection of a 
 young and untroubled heart, lay his head on her bosom, 
 and bend over it till her long golden tresses mixed 
 with bis hoary locks, like sunbeams upon mountain 
 snows. Then would she whisper to him sweet assu- 
 rances of her filial love, or sing to him a stanza of some 
 old quiet melody ; till, with the eloquence of a faded 
 and now tearful eye, he blessed her as the comfort and 
 the glory of his age. 
 
 But he is now a neglected, desolate old man ; he has 
 no companion in his evening walks, — " none to watch 
 near him," — to smile upon him, or to speak kindly. 
 Day after day, or stormy or fair, or summer or winter, 
 he haunts that churchyard, and resting against the dark 
 trees which shade that lonely corner, sighs bitterly over 
 the neglected hillock at their feet: — and bitterly may 
 he sigh, for his Ellen sleeps in that nameless, solitary 
 grave. 
 
 Alas ! how few comprehend the workings of a woman's 
 soul! how few know the altitude of virtue which it can 
 attain, or the depths of sorrow and degradation into 
 which it can descend! The days of a woman's life 
 glide along in sameness and serenity, like the tiny 
 waves of a summer brook; her manners wear the same 
 unperturbed aspect; her habitual thoughts and feelings 
 seem to preserve a like "noiseless tenor;" and there- 
 fore few suppose that the anxieties of ambition, the 
 strivings of passion, or the fierce tumults of pride. 
 
32 ellen; 
 
 disappointment, and despair, can possibly exist beneath 
 so quiet a surface. We forget that women are essen- 
 tially capable of feeling every passion, good or bad, 
 even more powerfully than men. We associate them 
 too much in our thoughts with the petty details by 
 which they are surrounded, and deem them constitu- 
 tionally trifling, because from education, necessity, and 
 habit, they are continually placed in contact with trifles. 
 God forbid that the majority of females should manifest, 
 or even know the passionate depths of the soul! Com- 
 paratively few acquire a knowledge which involves the 
 surrender of their happiness, and too frequently also 
 the sacrifice of their worth; but those few afford us 
 warnings — salutary though terrible instruction to the 
 rest of their sex. Ellen was one. 
 
 Reflective, passionate, and proud, " emotions were 
 her events." Not merely the mistress, but the com- 
 panion of her own thoughts, the being of solitude and 
 reverie, the child of impulse, and the slave of sensibility 
 — while she existed in the real world, she could be said 
 to live only in the ideal one of her own creation. Am- 
 bitious, yet unable to appreciate the true distinction 
 which should be sought by women ;— -cherishing that 
 morbid refinement of feeling, which destroys usefulness 
 and peace by magnifying the evils of life, while di- 
 minishing their many alleviations; — dazzled by the 
 gaudy fictions of imagination, and deluded by the vain 
 flatteries of her own heart — she turned with disgust 
 from the simplicities of nature and the sobrieties of 
 truth, — from the regular routine of common duties, and 
 
OR, THL LONELY GRAVE. oo 
 
 the calm enjoyments of every-day life. Restless, weary, 
 and discontented, she longed for something that should 
 satisfy the grasp of her imagination — something that 
 should fill the aching void within her heart. Alas! 
 she forgot that this " infinite gulf can only be filled by 
 an infinite and unchanging object."' 
 
 Thus, by degrees, a complete change came over her 
 spirit; — a change which those who surrounded her 
 could not understand, and with which therefore they 
 could not sympathise. The rose faded from her cheek, 
 the smile played less frequently and less sweetly round 
 her lips, sadness too often shaded her young fair brow ; 
 and her manners, once so warm and courteous to all, 
 became cold, abrupt, and reserved. These changes 
 were not the work of a day; though the necessity of 
 concentrating their history in a few short sentences 
 makes that appear sudden and rapid, which was in 
 reality gradual and slow. 
 
 Perhaps had Ellen at this critical period of her life 
 been taken into the world by some judicious friend, and 
 gently introduced to things as they really are, her mind 
 might yet have recovered its energy and her spirits 
 their tone; but limited to the seclusion of a village, she 
 was debarred those little pleasurable excitements, 
 whether of scene or society, which were necessary to 
 prevent a mind like hers from preying on itself; and 
 she yielded with proportionable enthusiasm to the first 
 influence which broke the monotony of her life. That 
 influence was love; — love as it ever will be felt and 
 cherished by one of Ellen's disposition, in all the 
 
34 ELLEN ', 
 
 delirium and danger of intense passion. But alas! if 
 she proved in her own experience the full truth of the 
 observation, that "love is the whole history of a woman's 
 life," she equally proved the justice of its conclusion, 
 "that is is only an episode in the life of a man." A 
 complete novice in the study of character, and accus- 
 tomed to new every object alternately through the 
 glare of imagination or the gloom of morbid sensibility, 
 it required little exertion to make her the dupe of a 
 being, who added to seniority of years a consummate 
 knowledge, not merely of books, but of men and man- 
 ners, and the world; one, skilled to wear all aspects, 
 suit all characters, and speak every language — except- 
 ing that of simple reality and truth — one of that class 
 of men, who treat the young hearts they have won like 
 baubles, which they admire, grow weary of, and fling 
 aside. 
 
 But Ellen knew not this ; — and beguiled by the thou- 
 sand dreams of romantic love, the present and the future 
 shone to her ardent eye, alike glorious with happiness 
 and promise. " Her soul was paradised by passion : " 
 every duty was neglected ; every other affection super- 
 seded by this new and overwhelming interest. Even 
 her own kind father felt, and sometimes sighed over 
 the change ; for he remembered the days when his 
 comfort was the first and last of Ellen's anxieties, and 
 his love her great and sufficient joy. But how could he 
 chide his darling — the single ewe-lamb left of his little 
 flock — the beautiful being that, like a star, irradiated 
 the gloom of his evening pilgrimage ! — he could not do 
 
OR, THE LONELY GRAVE. 35 
 
 it; and he made those excuses for her inattentions, 
 which Ellen's better feellings would not have dared to 
 offer for herself. 
 
 At length, however, she discovered the fatal truth — 
 that the passion which had formed the glory, the happi- 
 ness, and indeed the whole business of her life, had 
 been but one of many pastimes to her lover- Circum- 
 stances separated them : and after lingering through all 
 the sickening changes of cherished— deferred — and an- 
 nihilated hope, — she knew, in all the fulness of its 
 misery, that she was forsaken and forgotten. It is well 
 known, that a strong mind can endure a greater portion 
 of mental suffering, without its producing bodily illness, 
 than a weak one can. Many other girls in Ellen's 
 situation would have had a violent fit of illness, been 
 given over by their doctors, have recovered to the sur- 
 prise of their friends ; and after looking pale and inter- 
 esting for a few weeks, would have married some one 
 else, and lived very comfortably for the remainder of 
 their days. Ellen was not such a character. 
 
 When she knew that the visions of fancy, and the 
 blossoms of hope were for ever scattered and destroyed, 
 the stranger would have supposed her insensible to the 
 blow. But " the iro?i had entered into her soul." 
 Throughout the whole of the night on which she re- 
 ceived the " confirmation strong," she sat in her chamber 
 motionless and solitary; she neither spoke, nor wept, 
 nor sighed ; and though every passion warred wildly in 
 her bosom, she sat and " made no sign : " and in the 
 morning she resumed her station in the family, and 
 
36 ELLEN ; 
 
 went through her usual occupations and domestic pur- 
 suits with more minuteness and attention than she had 
 manifested for a considerable time. Many knew the 
 trial which had befallen her, but none durst offer sym- 
 pathy; for the pride that sparkled in her eye, and the 
 deep calm scorn which curled her pale lip, alike defied 
 intrusion, and forbade inquiry. She conversed, but ap- 
 peared unconscious of the meaning of the words she 
 mechanically uttered ; she smiled, but the sweet ex- 
 pression of her smile had vanished; she laughed, but 
 the melody of her laugh was gone : her whole bearing 
 Avas high and mysterious. Now, her whole frame would 
 shudder as at the suggestions of her own thoughts ; 
 then again, she would resume the quiet stern determi- 
 nation of her former manner: — one moment, her lip 
 would quiver, and her eye fill with tears of mingled 
 grief and tenderness; but the next, her burning cheek, 
 compressed lip, and firm proud step, bespoke only deep 
 and unmitigated scorn. 
 
 But who can portray the mysterious workings of 
 pride, passion, doubt, horror, and despair, that crowd 
 upon one who meditates self-destruction ? Oh! there 
 is not the being in existence who may imagine to 
 himself, in the wildest and most horrible of his dreams, 
 all that must pass through the soul before it can 
 violently close its earthly career ! Could we summon 
 from his scorned and unholy grave one who has lain 
 down in it with his blood upon his own head, he only 
 might adequately paint the emotions of that little hour 
 between the action and its consequence ! he only de- 
 
OR, THE LONELY GRAVE. 'M 
 
 scribe his state of mind, when the flimsy arguments 
 which had cajoled his reason had vanished like evening 
 shadows — when the sophistries which had lulled his 
 conscience rose up like horrible deceits — when the 
 home, friends, duties, comforts, even the life itself, a 
 moment before so despicable, appeared of an over- 
 whelming importance ; — and when, more terrible than 
 all, he was left to grapple alone and altogether with the 
 anguish of his bod)- and the dying darkness of his soul 
 — with the near and unveiled view of eternity, and the. 
 dread of future and unmitigated vengeance ! 
 
 The sun was retiring behind the dark hills, like a 
 warrior in the pride of victory, and field, and stream, 
 and forest, lay glowing beneath them, in all the " me- 
 lancholy magnificence of the hour," when the old man 
 sought his beloved child, to take their accustomed walk 
 in the churchyard. In vain he sought her in her 
 flower-garden, in the arbour of her own planting, and 
 in his quiet study. At length he tapped playfully 
 at her chamber door, and receiving no answer, he 
 entered. There indeed was Ellen ! There she stood — 
 every limb shivering in that warm summer evening, 
 while the cold perspiration gathered on her brow, and 
 neck, and arms ! There she stood — her fair hair di- 
 shevelled, her eye wild and glazed, and her whole 
 countenance changed with mental and bodily torture : 
 she might less be said to breathe than gasp ; and the 
 very motion of her dress shewed how wildly her heart 
 throbbed beneath it. "Are you ill, my child?" said 
 her father, terrified by her appearance. " Speak to me, 
 
3S ELLEN ; OR, THE LONELY GRAVE. 
 
 my love," continued he, with increasing agitation, as 
 he perceived the agony depicted on her countenance. 
 Twice she strove to speak, but each effort was un- 
 availing ; no words escaped her parched and quivering 
 lips ; — at last, grasping his hand with convulsive energy 
 in her cold and clammy fingers, she pointed towards 
 the fatal phial, yet upon her table. The hideous tale 
 was told! — The old man gave one long miserable groan, 
 and the next moment fell senseless at his daughter's 
 feet. There she stood, now turning her intense gaze 
 upon her father, as he lay extended on the ground ; 
 and now, upon that setting sun, that bright sky, and 
 brighter earth beneath it, which she must never, never 
 view again ! 
 
 But oh ! the depth of that darkness within her mind 
 — that sickening desire of life, and that overwhelming 
 certainty of death — the stinging conviction of her sin 
 and folly — and the dread of impending judgment ! All 
 these, in a moment, passed over her soul like the 
 ocean-billows in a raging storm, sweeping away in 
 their fury every refuge of hope, every trace of con- 
 solation. 
 
 But it is time to draw the curtain over a scene " too 
 loathly horrible" for thought or description. Succour 
 was ineffectual — comfort unavailing ! She existed for 
 a few hours in agony and despair; and when the 
 morning sun arose to gladden and refresh the earth, all 
 that remained of the once fair and gentle Ellen, was a 
 livid and distorted corpse. 
 
;] ( j 
 
 A VISIT TO MILTON ABBEY. 
 
 AN EPISTOLARY FRAGMENT. 
 
 Our late pedestrian excursion to Milton Abbey has 
 been one of the most gratifying description. Our com- 
 pany was composed of a select party of the friends 
 of my youth; the time one of the most delightful morn- 
 ings of June ; the distance two miles only from the 
 place of my nativity. The first part of our journey 
 was through a pleasant coppice: the path was fringed 
 with strawberries and fragrant wild flowers. We then 
 passed the skirts of an extensive wood, and ascended a 
 hill crowned with a clump of lofty firs : it is known by 
 the name of Windmill Ashes. From this eminence 
 you have a commanding view of the country for twenty 
 miles round : when the sun shines, you may distinctly 
 discern the Needles of the Isle of Wight, catch a glimpse 
 of the ocean over the waving line of coast, and at times 
 distinguish miniature vessels gliding along on the verge 
 of the horizon, till they "vanish into thin air." I am 
 told tins is one of the landmarks first discovered by the 
 crews of vessels sailing in the Channel. I remember 
 
40 A VISIT TO MILTON ABBEY. 
 
 with what sensations of delight I used to catch a glance 
 of the ocean, and the magnificent ideas I formed of the 
 world of waters, before I had yet otherwise seen the 
 sea: with what wild enthusiasm I read the poetical 
 description of nature on this spot, and how I panted to 
 celebrate the scene in verse. The love of nature, the 
 love of my country, and admiration of the Creator, all 
 struggled in my breast, while I exclaimed aloud, — 
 "Island of bliss, amid the subject seas!" &c. — and 
 " suited the action to the words, " with an energy which, 
 on reflection, startled me, lest I should have been ob- 
 served, and exposed to the ridicule of some uninspired 
 passenger. 
 
 Having scaled a style or two, we came to the brow 
 of the hill whence you look down into a valley, through 
 which a road runs, and on each side of it is a row of 
 cottages, built by the lord of the manor, the Earl of 
 Dorchester, for the accommodation of the inhabitants of 
 the old town, which has been, in a great measure, 
 demolished, to make room for the new improvements. 
 The gardens are on the slope behind the houses, and 
 have a picturesque appearance. The new town is with- 
 out the park wall, which runs along on the opposite hill, 
 and encloses his lordship's extensive home domain. 
 The hills are clothed with pine, oaks, ashes, lime, beech, 
 and chestnuts in ail their rich variety of form and foliage. 
 Among the Gothic ruins of the old town there stood 
 here and there a house of monastic appearance, remind- 
 ing us of ages past, when the place was in its prosperity. 
 The old abbey church is a noble Gothic pile; it was at 
 
A VISIT TO MILTON ABBEY. 41 
 
 this time under repair, but we found our way to the 
 top of the tower, where the prospect well rewarded us 
 for our pains. The leads of the church were adorned 
 with initials, dates, and footmarks, and decked " with 
 uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture," of village 
 swains, who had reached that proud eminence, and 
 carved with their knives those records of their exploits. 
 I added my initials to the number; while this reflection 
 passed over my mind: — "Where are now the heads 
 that planned, and the hands that executed, these rude 
 designs? Many of them are laid in the silent dust, and 
 some scattered to the ends of the earth! But these 
 puny efforts, as some eminent writer observes, evince 
 ' a thirst for immortality in the humblest mind ! '" An 
 infant son of the Tyrconnel family, formerly lords of 
 the manor, fell from the battlements of this church, 
 and, being buoyed up by his clothes, was taken up 
 unhurt. The interior of the church presents a fine 
 specimen of Gothic architecture, with "long-drawn 
 aisles, " 
 
 " And storied windows richly dight, 
 Casting a dim religious light. ' ; 
 
 I remember with what veneration I have often looked 
 into an old black-letter Bible, and a Common-prayer 
 book, which the piety of our forefathers had caused to 
 be chained to an antiquated wainscot desk, for the 
 edification of the few who could read, perhaps, in the 
 infancy of the Reformation. One could not but com- 
 pare the gross darkness that covered the people of those 
 e 3 
 
42 
 
 A VISIT TO MILTON ABBLY, 
 
 days, and the paucity of religious instruction, with the 
 meridian light and abundant knowledge of the present 
 day. We need not travel far to consult the sacred 
 oracles chained up in ponderous tomes; we have Bibles 
 and Prayer Books so portable, that we can carry about 
 in our pockets a body of divinity which we may con- 
 sult " when we rise up, and when we lie down, — when 
 we sit in the house, and when we walk by the way." 
 Kings and princes patronise the scriptures, and aid 
 their distribution : the noble, the wise, and the learned, 
 condescend to become the "instructors of babes;" 
 while our ships waft the word of life from pole to pole. 
 Wo be to us if we abuse our privileges ! 
 
 Here is a beautiful monument of pure white marble, 
 erected to the memory of the lady of the present earl 
 of Dorchester, executed by Banks, or Bacon, I forget 
 which. The lady is represented lying on a sumptuous 
 couch, and her lord hangs weeping over her: the figures 
 are exquisite. There were some old paintings of the 
 Apostles very indistinctly to be seen, the chancel being 
 embarrassed with scaffolding, and many parts of the 
 church quite inaccessible but to the workmen employed 
 therein. 
 
 We next took a hasty view of the princely mansion 
 adjoining. The servants being allowed to shew the 
 house to strangers, though it was still in an unfinished 
 state ; we had access to only a part of the rooms, some 
 of which were still unfurnished, but all lofty, spacious, 
 and magnificent. In front is a lawn of vast extent, 
 and in the centre of it is a fine sheet of water. Ser- 
 
A VISIT TO MILTON ABBEY. 43 
 
 pen tine walks wind through the extensive groves and 
 pleasure grounds, and at every turn the eye is delight- 
 ed and surprised with statues, grottoes, fountains, and 
 artificial ruins. As we rambled through these enchant- 
 ing avenues, I could almost fancy myself transported 
 into a second garden of Eden, beyond all the cares and 
 sufferings of mortality. A moment's reflection, how- 
 ever, brought me back, and convinced me that the time 
 of this enjoyment would be at best limited to three or 
 four hours ; and that a throb of the gout, or a twinge 
 of the tooth-ache, would dissolve the charm, and enable 
 a man to form a just estimate of the value of these 
 pleasures. Nor would any wise man envy the noble 
 owner his possessions, for we understood he chiefly 
 resided in town, and only honoured this beautiful seat 
 with short occasional visits; so that it is truly said, that 
 a man's happiness consists not in the abundance of the 
 things that he hath, but in his capacity of enjoying 
 them : in fact, I do really question whether his lordship 
 ever enjoyed two or three hours of such unmixed satis- 
 faction and delight as we then did; though he could 
 look around him and say, " all these things are mine! " 
 When the shades of evening drew on, we took our leave 
 of this delightful spot, and returned home by the way 
 that we came, to a humble cottage and a plain repast; 
 after which we retired to rest, and reposed as sweetly 
 as though we had been the possessors of all that we had 
 seen during the day. 
 
II 
 
 POPULARITY; 
 
 OR, THE FALSE TITLE. 
 
 Let madmen follow error to the end, 
 
 I, of mistakes convinced, am proud to mend : 
 
 Strive to act better, being better taught, 
 
 Nor blush to own the change which conscience wrought. 
 
 For such a change as this let justice speak, 
 
 The heart was honest, though the head was weak." 
 
 Fuller, the church historian, remarks, with his usual 
 quaintness and wit, of an elder brother: — "he is one 
 who made haste to come into the world, to bring his 
 parents the first news of male posterity, and is well 
 rewarded for his tidings." Without entering into the 
 merits or demerits of the law of primogeniture, which 
 some consider the source of all our national burdens, 
 and others, the staff and support enabling the nation to 
 endure them, it may be observed, that on the individual 
 in whose favour it operates, or promises to operate, the 
 law may have a most injurious effect. In one of weak 
 judgment, combined with warm and boisterous passions, 
 nothing can be imagined more evil in its tendency, or 
 more lamentable, than is frequently witnessed in its 
 effects. "What is usually called good-nature, will some- 
 
THE FALSE TITLE. 45 
 
 times strangely come in aid of this result, and, by 
 winning the applause and securing the submission of 
 the multitude, contribute to produce a hatefulness of 
 character, which might have been obviated by the 
 individual knowing from the beginning that he had 
 to trust to a virtuous and honourable course alone for 
 success. 
 
 Events have sometimes occurred in this changing 
 world which have put the important fact just stated to 
 the test. An apparent heir to great wealth has been 
 intoxicated with his prospects and possessions, and with 
 the popularity that a little good-nature enabled him, by 
 such ample means, to secure. Identifying opulence 
 with greatness, and deeming popular suffrage all the 
 public approbation worth enjoying, he has rushed into 
 every evil excess, gorged himself with luxury and vice, 
 and if conscience at any moment stung him with re- 
 morse, the wound was healed by an appeal to the good 
 name which the multitude around awarded him. 
 
 But the scene has changed, and with it the character 
 and conduct of the man. His heirship proves to* be 
 only apparent; his title is weighed in the balance of 
 equity, and found wanting. To refer to the quotation 
 of Fuller again, — he came not only soon, but rather too 
 soon, into the world ; and he is brought down from his 
 proud elevation, to suffer inferiority and dependence — 
 perchance, deficiency of support ; — at all events, scorn 
 and contempt from those whose plaudits once were the 
 sweetest music in his ears. The best, remains to be 
 told. His moral course alters with his social condition; 
 
46 POPULARITY ; OR, 
 
 and that not so much through necessity, springing 
 from the lack of means to support his former vices, as 
 through a deep conviction, produced by adversity, of 
 their guilt, and a sincere desire to exchange them for 
 that sum of Christian virtue, which is at once the 
 highest honour and the richest wealth. One threaten- 
 ing obstacle alone remains to the formation of a really 
 good character, — he must suffer reproach ; but he soon 
 finds this an auxiliary in his new purposes ; nay, a 
 condition of their becoming accomplished. 
 
 Those who wish a tale to produce the greatest effect, 
 are careful, at the beginning, not to anticipate its main 
 incidents — a fault which has now been committed to 
 the full. No train of startling discovery, and no suc- 
 cession of unexpected events, now r remain to be found 
 in the narrative. Still , as a recollection of facts, which 
 occurred about the time of the accession of George the 
 Third to the throne, it may not be found uninteresting ; 
 especially to those readers who take pleasure in wit- 
 nessing the chastisement of vice by calamities it brings 
 upon itself, while a seasonable reformation of the 
 vicious and suffering character prevents his entire ruin 
 and destruction. 
 
 Hastings, the hero of our story, succeeded, on the 
 death of his father, to the family title and estates ; his 
 next, and only brother, being then in Hungary, the 
 chosen companion of a French Marquis, whither they 
 had gone on certain speculations which rendered it 
 improbable whether they would early, if at all, return. 
 One cause of the brother's absence, and without which it 
 
THE FALSE TITLE, 47 
 
 is likely his attachment to the Marquis would not have 
 taken him from home, was a strange prejudice against 
 him on the part of his mother. This was accompanied 
 by as strong a partiality for Hastings, and a determina- 
 tion to gratify him to the fullest extent of his passions 
 and her resources. This imprudent conduct of the 
 mother divided the hearts of the sons from each other, 
 and produced those evil consequences in the first and 
 favoured one, which seldom fail to follow a young man's 
 command, under a parent's sanction, of superior and 
 available wealth. Hastings grew up as vain and am- 
 bitious a coxcomb as ever disgraced an escutcheon, and 
 withal so ignorant of the elements of learning, and so 
 deficient in the knowledge of common life, that had 
 not his mother L^en equally so, she must have been 
 perfectly ashamed that he was known to be her son. 
 
 Still he was a young man of some feeling, which 
 might with opposite training have given rise to qualities 
 both amiable and useful. He discovered an early con- 
 descension of manners towards the servants of the 
 mansion and the poor tenantry on the estate. There 
 was also a sympathy in their sufferings, and a dispo- 
 sition to relieve them, which rendered him when a 
 child an object of general admiration. But these things 
 the mother repressed and discouraged as early as she 
 could, and in their room taught him, as far as he could 
 be taught, to look on the lower and working classes as 
 his slaves, entitled to no better treatment than cattle, 
 and to not half so much attention as his own numerous 
 horses and dogs. Under this baleful influence, Hastings 
 
48 popularity; or, 
 
 grew up into a mixed character of pride and meanness, 
 hectoring and familiarity, contempt for the lower 
 orders, and yet confidence in them. He was as much 
 compelled as he was disposed to make them his com- 
 panions, since such of his rank as were well taught 
 disdained his company; while he was too conscious of 
 deficiency in learning and manners to seek their 
 society. 
 
 On finding himself despised by his equals, and by 
 many of his inferiors in rank and property, he consoled 
 himself that he was popular; and he boasted of this so 
 much, that the lower orders, finding that they were of 
 consequence in his esteem and essential to his happi- 
 ness, magnified him as their greater idol, gathered 
 around him at all public meetings, formed a clan which 
 he could at any time command for whatever purpose he 
 pleased, and kept the neighbouring gentry and yeo- 
 manry in dread of speaking or acting against him, as 
 their aversion would have prompted, and their interests 
 often required. 
 
 His mother claims a few moments more attention. 
 Incidents occurred during a lingering illness, and as 
 her death approached,, which excited some hope that 
 sincere penitence followed a career of vice, for which 
 early and confirmed ignorance alone could plead the 
 least excuse. The most cruel and unreasonable of her 
 domestic vices has been mentioned, and is repeated in 
 some of its chief aggravations for the reader's warning. 
 It was not a partiality for the more worthy of her two 
 sons : then it would have been accounted for to her 
 
 
THE FALSE TITLE. 40 
 
 credit. It was not a preference of the one that loved 
 his mother best ; then it would have been imputed to a 
 grateful, though somewhat of a selfish cause. It was 
 not a distinction in favour of the more wise and pru- 
 dent of the two ; then she might have gained at least 
 the honour of an observant and intelligent discrimina- 
 tion. It was rather a species of favouritism, involving 
 as well as entailing almost every circumstance of moral 
 and mental disgrace ; while, seated amidst the unap- 
 proachable mysteries of a depraved heart, there was no 
 possibility of the most skilful friend administering to it 
 the least efficient correction. Children labouring under 
 natural infirmity, especially derived from her who bore 
 them, have received much more of her affection, as well 
 as attention, than the rest, and she has been justly 
 praised for the preference. Common humanity dictates 
 that the love and care of parents should be called forth 
 in larger measure, to compensate, as far as possible, 
 the deficiency of nature. But to cherish and avow the 
 partial passion, when no cause of this kind exists, and 
 amidst the inferiority or absence of moral claims, is one 
 of the most unpardonable of maternal sins. Love is 
 here expended where there is little or no love in return; 
 while children of docility and affection, who would 
 repay maternal fondness, are neglected and despised. 
 
 Of these truths and others, which the mother of 
 Hastings had held in derision, or of which she never 
 thought, during health, she became convinced by a 
 course of providential reading, on her bed of lingering 
 disease. The woman chiefly in attendance on her was, 
 
50 POPULARITY ; OR, 
 
 for her station, well instructed ; and what was better, 
 she had a disposition to instruct others, and that 
 without fear of offending those on whom she was de- 
 pendent. Her son, a neighbouring peasant, had been 
 seriously injured in his morals and condition by the 
 patronage of Hastings, and she avenged his cause, as 
 she often observed, by an effort to enlighten the dark 
 and dying soul of Hastings' mother. She was success- 
 ful. During a long absence of Hastings, she persuaded 
 his mother to consent that Manvers, her other son, 
 should be informed of her confined and dangerous 
 situation. Anxious to receive the last blessing of even 
 such a parent, he hastened to England, and arrived at 
 the mansion before Hastings returned, or knew that he 
 was sent for. 
 
 The mother was at this time become almost insen- 
 sible, and often inquired in a wild incoherent manner 
 after her child and Manvers — the different names she 
 always gave her sons. When the latter had refreshed 
 himself, and it was thought he might enter his mother's 
 room, he was introduced by the clergyman in attend- 
 ance with the greatest caution, and by an indistinct 
 mention of his name. 
 
 " Is it my child 1 " the wandering mother asked. 
 
 " No, dear mother," he answered : " it is only 
 Manvers." 
 
 Now the reason and conscience of the old lady were 
 roused. She sprang up in her bed with a strength that 
 had appeared to have left her for ever. Clasping Man- 
 vers in her withered arms, she said, as soon as tears and 
 
THE FALSE TITLE. 51 
 
 sobs would allow: — "It is one of my children — it is 
 my best child." The effort was too great for her 
 wasted frame and flickering life, and she sunk back, to 
 speak, and soon to breathe, no more. 
 
 During his absence, Manvers had given the fullest 
 instructions to his legal adviser, and the clergyman 
 of the parish who was his warm and faithful friend, 
 to claim possession of the estate and title in his name, 
 in the event of his mother's sudden death ; and he had 
 received from them intelligence of her illness, just 
 before the welcome intimation of the clergyman reached 
 him, that his mother desired his return. His first pro- 
 ceeding after the funeral, was to dispatch a message 
 to Hastings, that his title stood in considerable doubt, 
 and would be disputed at whatever cost and pains 
 without delay. This brought the latter back with all 
 possible speed, an effect, which the news'of his mother's 
 death and burial, just before failed to produce. On 
 his arrival, he strove to rouse the inferior tenantry to 
 action in his defence ; but preparation had been made, 
 effectually to obviate this expected resistance to a lawful 
 claim, and he preferred accepting a handsome com- 
 promise with Manvers, to entering a court of law or 
 equity, where exposures would be made equally dis- 
 graceful to him and to his mother. 
 
 The bitterest ingredient in Hastings' cup of adversity, 
 was the unlooked for absence of the applauding wel- 
 come, that always before awaited his return. He 
 thought he could have borne all things else with resigna- 
 tion, had his popularity but remained. For the title 
 
52 POPULARITY J OR, 
 
 he had always cared but little : it had sometimes been 
 an incumbrance on the levity of his character, and a 
 restraint on the vulgarity of his pleasures and pursuits. 
 The property he would gladly have retained ; but he 
 reflected that, with a greatly diminished income, his 
 expenses would diminish in as great a proportion, and 
 might lessen in a much greater. But, that he should 
 not be held in the least respect — that all the money 
 he had expended, to purchase the plaudits of the multi- 
 tude, should now be lost — that every tongue should 
 be silent in his praise, and not a cap or a hand, move 
 to salute him — that his numerous devotees should so 
 quickly be bending before the shrine of another ; and 
 that the solemn injunctions of the new idol, should 
 scarcely be sufficient to prevent their greeting his ears 
 with most unwelcome sounds, this he deemed un- 
 pardonable in them and found intolerable to his own 
 spirit. 
 
 It produced, however, one good effect — accelerating 
 his resolution to retire from the province, and fulfil a 
 promise of marriage with one whom he had long striven 
 in vain to seduce, and on whose fidelity, affection, and 
 virtue, he could implicitly rely. He left the district, 
 followed by one servant, so early in the morning, that 
 he hoped to reach a sufficient distance unnoticed ; but 
 scarcely had he passed the bounds of the estate before 
 his ears were assailed by the bitterest execrations of 
 an old gipsy from an adjoining crag. She had often 
 shared to gross intemperance, his most lavish bounty, 
 and her brood were for years supported on his estate : 
 

THE FALSE TITLE. 53 
 
 but the source was now dried up. She had nothing 
 to expect from the new system of Manvers, who re- 
 solved to discountenance all forms of vagrancy. The 
 steward had driven her from the park, and forbidden, 
 under heavy penalties, that she or any of her tribe 
 should appear within view of the house. And now, in 
 the language of perfect rage, despair, and vengeance, 
 she dismissed Hastings for ever, as she declaimed, 
 to his oivn place ! He heard the fullest expression of her 
 hatred, without betraying the least symptom of uneasi- 
 ness, and he passed on, mildly commanding his servant 
 not to notice it either in the form of mirth or resent- 
 ment. 
 
 This incident contributed its full share towards con- 
 firming the new and good resolutions of Hastings. It 
 came seasonably in aid of the treatment he had re- 
 ceived on the estate, to awaken him to the frail tenure 
 on which popularity is held. The danger with him on 
 this point soon was, that he might attach too little 
 importance to public opinion, and that, from having 
 been thrown from the lofty pedestal of an idol, he 
 might be careless of standing well in the view of the 
 new society into which he was going. Into this dan- 
 ger he certainly would have fallen, if, with his new 
 position in life, he had retained his old principles. 
 The loss of popular favour, would have been immedi- 
 ately followed by a hatred of the populace, had he not 
 been taught by recent events, the evil of the system 
 on which he had acted — had he not been trained by 
 g3 
 
54 popularity; or, 
 
 his new circumstances, to a gradual, but real and 
 decided approbation of a virtuous course. 
 
 On Hastings' journey towards the place he had 
 chosen for his future abode, he took an opportunity 
 of calling on the respectable and excellent woman, who 
 had attended the last days of his mother, to receive 
 from her what he had long wished to know, the state 
 of her mind in the apprehension of death. He had 
 no view of receiving from her any thing else ; and was 
 surprised when she put into his hand a box of valuables, 
 with which she had been entrusted. On opening it, 
 a short note lay at the top of its contents, which he 
 read without hesitation, in the woman's hearing. 
 
 " My Child, 
 
 " I have one dying request to make, 
 which, as you hope to meet me before God, you will 
 as soon as possible comply with. It is, that in what- 
 ever condition you are, you will make Maria your 
 wife. This box contains a few things, which she may 
 require before she can become so. 
 
 Your dying Mother, 
 
 M s." 
 
 The good woman became pale as he began to read, 
 and fainted as he went on. On her recovery in a few 
 minutes, she said with uplifted hands, " I am innocent 
 of all this ; she wrote every syllable herself without 
 my knowledge ; she sealed the note and locked the box 
 with her own hand; and as she gave it me, she said, 
 ' I can trust it with you ;' and so she could trust it with 
 
THE FALSE TITLE. 55 
 
 me, sir, for never has an attempt been made to see 
 what it contained." 
 
 Hastings checked her, by observing that he could not 
 understand her meaning. " If you had written the note, 
 or advised my mother to write it, there would have 
 been no difference. Before I came here, I had well 
 resolved to make Maria my wife ; my only fear is, that 
 she will think my condition too low ; but if that be 
 altered for the worse, I trust my character is changed 
 much more for the better." 
 
 " Sir," said the good woman, " I will remove this 
 fear from your mind, if you will remove another from 
 mine. I have been thought to have injured you. It 
 was I who entreated the clergyman to send for your 
 brother, because my sister could not die in peace with- 
 out seeing him ; and his return has thus reduced you." 
 
 " Your sister ! " exclaimed Hastings, " am I then 
 speaking to the good aunt, which my mother often 
 mentioned to me?" 
 
 " I am your mother's only sister," answered the 
 woman : " I have seen better days. I came into this 
 neighbourhood at considerable sacrifice, that I might 
 be ready to step in to her aid whenever she wanted me. 
 While I could do no good, and might have done harm, 
 I stood aloof; but the moment I was wanted, it was 
 my joy to be of service to a sister whom I always loved. 
 And my daughter! how will she rejoice, when I tell 
 her of your reformation, for never could a husband be 
 loved more, than she has always loved her cousin 
 Hastings!" 
 
56 THE SEASONS. 
 
 " Then, for heaven's sake, let me see her ! or rather 
 let me first make Maria my wife," said Hastings. 
 
 Maria entered at the moment, and his surprise and 
 joy may be imagined in beholding them both in one 
 person. 
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 
 It is pleasant, in Spring-time to look from the door, 
 Upon fields that are barren and dreary no more ; 
 On the tree's tender green, and the myriads of flowers. 
 That start into life beneath sunbeams and showers. 
 
 It is pleasant, of Summer to mark the rich glow ; 
 The blue sky that tinges the waters below ; 
 The breeze that springs up at the close of the day, 
 And wafts to the sense the sweet odour of hay. 
 
 It is pleasant, in Autumn to mark, o'er the plain, 
 Asleep 'mid the poppies, the heavy brown grain ; 
 The trees, with lithe branches that tend to the ground, 
 Weighed down by the bursting fruit, tinted and round. 
 
 'T is pleasant in Winter, when drear and when cold, 
 With no leaf on the trees, and no sheep in the fold, 
 To think on the comfuits which all seasons bring, 
 And expect with delight the return of the Spring. 
 
57 
 
 THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 
 
 Surely there are 
 Some stars whose influence is upon our lives 
 Evil and overpowering: it is those 
 That blight the young rose in its earliest spring ; 
 Sully the peail fresh from its native sea ; 
 Wing the shaft to the youthful warrior's breast 
 In his first field; and fade the crimson cheek 
 And blue eyes of the beautiful. L. E. L. 
 
 Yes, I remember well how she would sit of an evening 
 and watch the sky, while her eyes flashed with light, as 
 wild, as intense, as the brightest star on which she 
 gazed ; and when my kiss awakened her from her 
 dream, I remember too, the warm heavy tears that 
 were on the cheek she pressed to mine. " Thou art 
 not like thy mother, my fair child," she would exclaim; 
 " may thy life be unlike hers too ! " and the words 
 came forth so gently, and her voice was so sweet! 
 I better loved to sit by her knee, and listen to her 
 sad soft song, than to chase the fairest butterfly that 
 lay like a gem on the roses I delighted to water. But 
 my mother's voice grew feeble, and darkness settled on 
 
58 THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 
 
 her eyes ; her lip was pale and parched, and when 
 I hung on her neck, she told me she was sick and 
 faint, and wept : she would lie for hours on the mat, 
 and an old woman who came to see us sometimes, said 
 she was dying. Dying ! — I knew not what she meant, 
 hut I felt sad, very sad, and went and lay down by my 
 mother ; but the hand I took was burning, and the 
 pressure was so slight I scarcely felt it. 
 
 It was a beautiful summer sunset, — not those soft 
 gradual tints which melt on the evenings I have since 
 seen in England ; but the sunset of a southern clime, 
 all passion, all flame — the sky was crimson ; the Ganges 
 was crimson too ; its waves flashed through the green 
 foliage that overshadowed it, like the gush of red 
 meteors through the midnight clouds. My mother 
 called me to her; I knelt by the mat, while she told 
 me to look on the glorious sky, and said it was the last 
 she should ever see ; that like that sun she was passing 
 to darkness and silence, but not like that sun to return. 
 She said she looked for the arrival of a stranger ; and if 
 he came after her spirit had fled — " My child, you will 
 remember your mother's last words — tell him I have 
 loved him even unto death ; my latest prayer was his 
 name and thine." She leant back, and gasped fear- 
 fully, then lay quiet as if she slept, yet her eyes were 
 open and fixed upon me. I remember yet, how I 
 trembled before that cold and appalling look. It grew 
 dark ; I lay down close to her side and fell asleep. The 
 morning sun was looking cheerfully forth when I 
 awoke: — my mother lay so still, so motionless, that 
 
THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 59 
 
 I believed her to be yet sleeping, but her eyes wide 
 open and bent on me, tempted me to kiss her ; even 
 at this moment the chill of that touch is upon my lips. 
 For the first time I shrank from her ; I spoke, but she 
 answered not; I took her cold hand, but instantly 
 loosed it: it fell from mine — she had said she was 
 dying — could this be death ? I felt a wild, vague con- 
 viction that we were separated for ever ; but the very 
 despair of separation brought with it the hope of re- 
 union ; I might die too. 
 
 I was repeating, with incoherent rapidity, " My 
 mother, let me die with you!" one arm round the 
 neck of the corpse, the other fanning backwards and 
 forwards, to keep away the flies, and my cheek resting 
 upon hers, when the door of the hut opened, and a 
 stranger entered. I looked up with wonder, not un- 
 mixed with pleasure : the splendour of his scarlet and 
 gold dress, the white waving plumes of his helmet, 
 soon attracted a child's attention ; but child as I was, 
 one glance at his face fastened my gaze. The deep 
 crimson of exercise had given place to a hue of ghastly 
 whiteness ; every feature was convulsed ; his deep 
 broken sobs as he sat by the bed, his face covered with 
 his hands, yet startle my memory : at last I remembered 
 my mother's words, and hesitatingly approached him, 
 and repeated them. He started, and clasped me in 
 his arms. I felt his tears on my face ; he seemed kind, 
 yet fear was my principal sensation, as wringing my 
 hands and my mother's together, he said in words 
 scarcely audible : " Abra, my care of our child shall 
 
60 THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 
 
 atone for my desertion of thee ! " Others, his attend- 
 ants, now came in : to one of these he gave me in 
 charge; but when they strove to raise me from the 
 body, I struggled in their hold, and grasped a hand, 
 and implored my mother to keep me. I was, however, 
 carried away, weeping the first tears of sorrow I had 
 ever shed. 
 
 My course of life was completely changed : I was 
 placed in the family of a Mr. and Mrs. L — . They 
 had many children of their own, educated under their 
 own roof; to my father it therefore appeared a most 
 eligible situation : to me it was one of unceasing morti- 
 fication, of unvaried unhappiness. Mr. and Mrs. L. 
 considered me as an incumbrance, which their obliga- 
 tions to Mr. St. Leger did not allow them to throw off; 
 and their children as a rival, though from my being the 
 daughter of an Indian, as a being inferior to all. But 
 this very repelling of my best affections caused them to 
 flow the more strongly where their current was not 
 checked; the memory of my mother was to me the 
 heart's religion ; my love to my father was the sole 
 charm of existence. I grew up a neglected, solitary, 
 and melancholy girl, affectionate from nature, reserved 
 from necessity; when I was suddenly summoned to 
 attend the death-bed of my father. He breathed his 
 last in my arms. I never left the corpse — I watched 
 the warmth, the last colour of life depart, till the hand 
 became ice, the cheek marble. He was buried in his 
 uniform ; my hand threw the military cloak over his 
 face : even when they nailed down the coffin I remained, 
 
THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 61 
 
 though every blow struck on my heart as the farewell 
 to happiness, the last words of hope. They bore the 
 corpse away ; and as the physician forbade my attend- 
 ance at the funeral, I watched the procession as it 
 passed the window. The muffled drums, the dead 
 march, seemed sounds from the grave ; stately figures 
 paced with slow and solemn steps ; with their arms and 
 eyes bent down silently to the earth, I saw them move 
 onward ; I lost the sound of the heavy measured tread, 
 I only caught a distant tone of the now faint music. 
 I sprang forward in desperate eagerness ; the sun was 
 at noon; my head was uncovered, yet I felt not the 
 heat : I followed, and reached the grave as they were 
 lowering the body to its long, last home. The whole 
 scene swam before me, and I was carried back in- 
 sensible by some who recognised me. On my recovery 
 I was coldly informed that my father's property, left 
 wholly mine, insured me a small, but independent 
 fortune ; and that his will expressed a wish for my 
 immediate departure for England, assigned to the care 
 of a Mrs. Audley, a distant relation of his. Every 
 thing was prepared for my departure : an orphan, with 
 not one either to love or be loved by, I was perfectly 
 indifferent to my future destiny. The evening before I 
 embarked, I went to bid farewell to my father's grave ; 
 there was a storm gathering on the sky, and the hot 
 still air and my own full heart, oppressed me almost to 
 suffocation. There was no light, save from the fire- 
 flies which covered the mansion, or from the dim 
 reflection of the red flames which had been kindled 
 
62 THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 
 
 on the banks of the river. I reached the grave ; the 
 newly turned-up earth of its mound was close to 
 another, where the green grass grew in all its rank 
 luxuriance. I looked upon the plain white stone ; it 
 was, as my heart foretold, graven with my mother's 
 name, which had hitherto been concealed from me. I 
 sat down ; tears of the most soothing gratitude fell over 
 the graves ; I felt so thankful that they were united in 
 death. It was to me happiness, that earth had yet 
 something to which I could attach myself; only those 
 who have wept over the precious sod which contains 
 all they loved, all they worshipped, can tell how dear 
 are these lonely dwellings of the departed. I knelt, 
 prayed, wept, and kissed the clay of each parent's grave 
 by turns ; and only the red light of the morning warned 
 me to depart. I went home and slept, and the fearful 
 dream of my feverish slumber yet hangs upon me. I 
 was alone, in a dark and wild desert; the ground 
 beneath was parched, yet the sky was black, and red 
 streaks of light passed over it. I heard the hiss of 
 serpents, the howl of savage beasts ; my lips were dry 
 and hot ; my feet burned as they pressed the fiery 
 sand ; and my heart beat even to agony ; when suddenly 
 freshness and sweetness breathed around — there came 
 sounds of music and delightful voices ; bright and 
 beautiful forms gathered on the air ; I found myself in 
 a green and blessed place. Two came towards me — 
 my father, my mother! they embraced me, and I awoke 
 soothed, with their smile visible before me, their blessing 
 yet breathing in my ears. The next day I embarked, 
 
THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 63 
 
 and we set sail immediately ; yet I had time to contrast 
 my own forlorn neglectedness with the lot of others ; 
 and bitterly did I feel the kind farewells, the blessings 
 implored on my companions. I envied them even the 
 sorrow of parting. 
 
 At length the sun set in the waters, and till the final 
 close of the evening I lingered by the side of the vessel. 
 It was a calm sky : not a shadow was on the face of 
 heaven, not a breeze ruffled the sleeping waves, no 
 sound nor motion broke the deep repose ; but repose 
 was at this moment irksome to my soul. Was I the 
 only one disturbed and agitated ? A cloud, a breath of 
 wind, would have been luxury — they would have 
 seemed to enter into my feelings, to take away my 
 sense of utter loneliness. I left the deck, for there were 
 hurried steps around, and my idleness weighed upon 
 me like a reproach ; I felt useless, insignificant ; there 
 were glad voices talking close by my side — there were 
 tones of hope, exultation, sorrow, and affection — I could 
 sympathise with none of them. I hastily threw open 
 the window of the cabin, and saw the country I was 
 leaving for ever, like a line in the air, and all but lost 
 in the horizon. No one can say farewell with indiffer- 
 ence ; and there I leant, gazing on the receding land 
 anxiously, nay even fondly, till darkness closed around 
 and I could no longer even fancy I saw it. Lost in 
 that vague, but painful reverie, when the mind, too 
 agitated to dwell on any one subject, crowds past 
 sorrows and future fears upon the overburthened pre- 
 sent, time had passed unheeded, and the moon, now 
 
04 THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 
 
 risen, made the coast visible again. It must be agony 
 to the heart to say a long, and it may prove an eternal 
 farewell, to all connected with us by every link of early 
 association and affection of many years' standing ; to 
 the mother whose smile was the light of our childhood; 
 to the father whose heart goes with us ; to all who have 
 shared in our joys and our griefs : this, indeed, must be 
 an overflowing of the cup of affliction ; but even this 
 painful accumulation of feeling was preferable to mine 
 of single and complete isolation. It is soothing to 
 reflect, that we are dear to those we leave behind ; that 
 there are some who will treasure our memory in the 
 long hours of absence, and look forward to our meeting 
 again ; for never does the moment of reunion rise so 
 forcibly on the mind as at that of separation. Tbese 
 thoughts are like rain-drops in the season of drought. 
 But I looked on the land of my birth, and knew there 
 was not one to call a blessing on her far away; not 
 one to wish the wanderer's return ! the cold earth 
 lay heavily on the hearts that would have throbbed 
 at my departing ; the eyes that would have wept, were 
 sealed by death, in the home of darkness and forgetful- 
 ness, where joy and sorrow are alike. 
 
 The voyage appeared short, for I had nothing to an- 
 ticipate, and the glories of the ocean suited my feelings. 
 I have looked on the face of nature with love and with 
 wonder ; but never have I had that intense communion 
 with her beauties which I have had at sea. At last the 
 white cliffs of England came in sight : they were hailed 
 with a shout of delight ; it had no echo in my heart. 
 
THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 05 
 
 But it was when we arrived in port, that I more than 
 ever felt how very lonely I was. The whole ship was 
 bustle, confusion, and happiness ; numbers were every 
 moment crowding the deck — there was the affectionate 
 welcome, the cordial embrace, words of tenderness, still 
 tenderer tears ; all was agitation, anxiety, and delight. 
 There was one group in particular, a sailor whose little 
 boy was so grown that he did not at first recognise him 
 — the delight of the child, two inches taller with plea- 
 sure — the half affection, half pride, glowing in the fresh 
 island complexion of the mother — every kindly pulse of 
 the heart sympathised with them. I felt doubly an 
 orphan as they left the deck. At this moment a young 
 man addressed me, and announcing himself as the son 
 of Mrs. xludley, the lady with whom I was henceforth 
 to live, led me to the boat which waited at the side of 
 the vessel ; and a short journey brought us to Clifton, 
 and the cottage where Mrs. Audley resided. How 
 vividly the thoughts and feelings which crowded that 
 night about my pillow, rise upon my memory ! I think 
 it is not saying too much of that natural instinct which 
 attracts us to one person, and repels us from another, 
 when I call it infallible. There is truth and certainty 
 in our first impressions ; we are so much the creatures 
 of habit, so much governed in our opinions by the 
 opinions of others, we so rarely begin to think, till our 
 thoughts are already biassed, that our intuitive percep- 
 tion of good and evil, and consequently of friend and 
 foe, is utterly neglected. If, in forming our attach- 
 ments, instead of repeating what we have heard, we 
 g3 
 
66 THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 
 
 recalled our feelings when we first met, there would be 
 fewer complaints than are now of disappointed expecta- 
 tions. First impressions are natural monitors, and 
 nature is a true guide. My impressions were delight- 
 ful — I slept contented and confiding ; and my spirits 
 next day were worthy of the lovely morning that aroused 
 them. 
 
 Mrs. Audley's cottage, the landscape, and the sky, 
 were altogether English : the white walls, the green 
 blinds, the open sash-windows, the upper ones hung 
 round with the thick jessamine that had grown up to 
 the roof; the lower ones, into which the rose-trees 
 looked; the blinds half-way down, just shewing the 
 cluster of red roses and nothing more, though they com- 
 pletely admitted the air, loaded with the breath of the 
 mignionette ; while the eyes felt relieved by the green 
 and beautiful, but dim light which they threw over the 
 room. It was like enchantment to step from the cool 
 and shadowy parlour into the garden, with its thousand 
 colours ; the beds covered with annuals, those rainbows 
 of the spring, the Guelder rose, the laburnums, mines 
 of silver and gold; the fine green turf; but nothing 
 struck me so much as, beneath the shade of an old 
 beech tree, a bank entirely covered with violets. It 
 may seem fanciful, but to me the violet is the very em- 
 blem of woman's love ; it springs up in secret ; it hides 
 its perfume even when gathered ; how timidly its deep 
 blue leaves bend on their slight stem ! The resemblance 
 may be carried yet further — woman's love is but beauti- 
 ful in its purity ; let the hct breath of passion once sully 
 
THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 67 
 
 it, and its beauty is departed — thus as the summer ad- 
 vances, the violet loses its fragrance ; June comes, but 
 its odours are fled — the heart too has its June ; the 
 flower may remain, but its fragrance is gone for ever. 
 Flowers are the interpreters of love in India; painting 
 in the most vivid, but in the softest colours, speaking in 
 the sweetest sighs : while each blossom that fades is a 
 mournful remembrancer, either of blighted hopes or of 
 departed pleasures. I would give my lover violets; the 
 rose has too much display. J' admire les roses, maisje 
 mattendris sur les violettes. The rose is beauty — the 
 violet tenderness. And the country round was so pla- 
 cidly delightful. I had been used to the sweeping 
 shadow of gigantic trees, to oceans of verdure, to the 
 wide and magnificent Ganges; but the landscape here 
 came with a quiet feeling of contentment on the heart. 
 I remember so well the first time I ever walked on the 
 downs ! The day had been very showery, and the sky 
 was but just beginning to clear; the dark gloomy 
 volumes in which the tempest was rolling away,- were 
 but little removed from clouds of transparent whiteness, 
 and between, like intervals of still enjoyment amid the 
 hopes and fears of life, gleamed forth the deep calm blue 
 of the horizon. Faintly coloured like a dream of bliss, 
 a half-formed rainbow hung on the departing storm, as 
 fearful of yet giving a promise of peace. Every thing 
 around was in that state of tremulous repose, which 
 succeeds a short and violent rain. The long shadows 
 and double brilliancy of the light from the reflecting 
 rain-drops contrasted in the scenery, like sorrow and 
 
68 THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 
 
 joy succeeding tears. Never could the banks of the 
 Avon have been seen to greater advantage. On one 
 side of the river rose rocks totally bare, but of every 
 colour and every form ; on the other side banks equally 
 high were covered with trees in their thickest foliage ; 
 the one nature's stupendous fortress, the other her mag- 
 nificent pavilion of leaves. One or two uncovered 
 masses appeared, like the lingering foot-prints of desola- 
 tion ; but in general, where the statelier trees had not 
 taken root, the soil was luxuriantly covered with heath, 
 and the golden-blossomed furze. On the left, dew and 
 sunshine seemed wholly to have fallen in vain : riven 
 in every direction, the rocks had assumed a thousand 
 different shapes, in which the eye might trace, or fancy 
 it traced, every variety of ruin, spire, or turret — the 
 mouldering battlement, the falling tower. Here and 
 there a solitary bramble had taken root, almost as bare 
 and desolate as the spot where it grew. The contrast 
 between the banks, was like prosperity and adversity. 
 I do think, if ever anybody was happy I was, for the 
 next two years. It is strange, though true, that the 
 happiest part of our life, is the shortest in detail. We 
 dwell on the tempest that wrecked, the flood that over- 
 whelmed — but we pass over in silence the numerous 
 days we have spent in summer and sunshine. 
 
 Mrs. Audley was tome as a mother, and Edward and 
 I loved each other with all the deep luxury of love in 
 youth. It was luxury, for it was unconscious. Love 
 is not happiness : hope, pleasure, delicious and passion- 
 ate moments of rapture — all these belong to love, but 
 
THE INDIAN ORPHAN. »,D 
 
 not to happiness. Its season of enjoyment is when its 
 existence is unknown, when fear has not agitated, hope 
 has not expanded the flower it but opens to fade, and 
 jealousy and disappointment are alike unfeared, unfelt. 
 The heart is animated by a secret music. Like the 
 Arabian prince, who lived amid melody, perfume, 
 beauty, and flowers, till he rashly penetrated the for- 
 bidden chamber; so, when the first sensations of love 
 are analysed, and his mystery displayed, his least 
 troubled, his most alluring dream, is past for ever. 
 Edward was strikingly handsome ; the head finely 
 shaped as that of a Grecian statue, with its profusion of 
 thick curls ; the complexion beautiful as a girl's, but 
 which the darkly arched eyebrows, the manly open 
 countenance, redeemed from the charge of effeminacy, 
 his eyes (the expression of " filled with light " was not 
 a mere exaggeration when applied to them) ; and then 
 the perfect unconsciousness, or, I should rather say, the 
 utter neglect of his own beauty. He was destined for 
 a soldier and for India ; and perhaps there is no career 
 in life whose commencement affords such scope for en- 
 thusiasm. However false the fancies may be of cutting 
 your way to fame and fortune, of laurels, honours, &c 
 still there is natural chivalry enough in the heart, to 
 make the young soldier indulge largely in their romance. 
 At length the time of his departure came : Edward was 
 too proud to weep when he bade adieu to his mother 
 and me, his affianced bride ; but the black curls on his 
 fair forehead were wet with suppressed agitation, and 
 when he threw himself on horseback, at the garden 
 
70 THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 
 
 gate, he galloped the animal at his utmost speed ; but 
 when he came to a little shadowy lane, apparently shut 
 out from all, I saw from my window that his pace was 
 slackened, and his head bowed down upon the neck of 
 his steed. They say women are more constant than 
 men : it is the constancy of circumstance ; the enter- 
 prise, the exertion required of men, continually force 
 them out of themselves, and that which was at first 
 necessity soon becomes habit — whereas the constant 
 round of employments in which a woman is engaged, 
 require no fatigue of mind or body ; the needle is, gene- 
 rally speaking, both her occupation and amusement, 
 and this kind of work leaves the ideas full play ; hence 
 the imagination is left at liberty to dwell upon one sub- 
 ject, and hence habit, which is an advantage on the one 
 side, becomes to her an additional rivet. 
 
 For months after Edward's departure, I was utterly 
 miserable, listless, apathetic — nothing employed, no- 
 thing amused me : but I was at length roused from this 
 state of sentimental indolence by a letter from him : he 
 wrote in the highest spirits ; his success had been be- 
 yond his utmost expectations ; and soon, he said, he 
 might hope and look forward to our joining him in 
 India. I have a great dislike to letter-writing: the 
 phrase "she is an excellent correspondent," is to me 
 synonymous with "she is an excellent gossip." I have 
 seen epistles crossed and recrossed, in "rhich I knew 
 not which most to pity — the industry or idleness of the 
 writer. But every one has an exception to his own rule, 
 and so must I ; and from this censure, I except letters 
 
THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 71 
 
 from those near and dear to us, and far away. A letter 
 then, breathing of home and affection, is a treasure ; it 
 is like a memento from the dead, for absence is as 
 death, in all but that its resurrection is in this life. I 
 felt a new spirit in existence ; I lived for him, I hoped 
 to rejoin him. I delighted to hear my own voice in the 
 songs he was soon to hear ; I read with double pleasure, 
 that I might remember what he would like : but above 
 all else, painting became my favourite pursuit ; every 
 beautiful landscape, every delicate flower, every striking 
 countenance which I drew, would, I thought, be so 
 many proofs how I had remembered him in absence. 
 I almost regretted the fine cool airs of a summer even- 
 ing, the low sweet songs of the birds : I could make for 
 him no memorials of them. Another letter came ; and 
 soon after we prepared for our embarkation, and a 
 second time I crossed the ocean. The voyage which 
 had seemed so short before, I now thought never-end- 
 ing ; every day the bright shining sea, and the blue sky 
 seemed more monotonous ; a thousand times did I com- 
 pare our fate to that of the enchanted damsel, in one of 
 Madame de Genlis' tales, who has been condemned by 
 a most malignant fairy to walk straight forward over an 
 unvarying tract of smooth green turf, bounded only by 
 the clear azure of the heavens. But we reached India 
 at last. 
 
 What is there that has not been said of the pleasure 
 of meeting, yet who has ever said all that is felt — the 
 flow of words and spirits, the occasional breaks of deep 
 and passionate silence, the restlessness of utter happi- 
 
I I THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 
 
 ness, the interest of tlie most trivial detail — and when 
 on our pillow, the hurry of ideas, the delicious, though 
 agitated throbbing of the heart. To sleep is impossible, 
 but how delightful to lie awake ! But my first look at 
 Edward, the next morning, made my pillow sleepless 
 again, and sleepless from anxiety. The climate too 
 surely had been slow poison to him : his bright and 
 beautiful colour was gone ; the wan veins of his finely 
 turned and transparent temples, had lost the clearness 
 and the hue of health ; and often his voice sank to an 
 almost inaudible tone, as if speaking were too great an 
 exertion. Still he himself laughed at our fears, and 
 pressed the conclusion of our marriage. I wished it 
 too, for I felt it was something to be his, even in the 
 grave. It was the evening before the day fixed for 
 uniting us, when he proposed a visit to a spot I had 
 often sought alone — the grave of my parents. Once or 
 twice during the walk, I was startled by his excessive 
 paleness, but again his smile and cheerfulness reassured 
 me. We sat down together silently. I was too sad for 
 words : a little branch of scented flowers in my hand, 
 was quite washed by my tears. A cloud was flitting 
 over the moon, and for a short space it was entirely 
 dark ; suddenly the soft clear light came forth more 
 lovely than before. I bade Edward mark how beauti- 
 fully it seemed to sweep away the black cloud ; he 
 answered me not, but remained with his face bowed on 
 his hands. I put mine into them — they were cold : I 
 saw his countenance — it was convulsed in death. 
 
!'■', 
 
 EUSTACE; 
 
 OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 
 BY MISS JEWSBURY. 
 
 " And when he had what most he did admire, 
 And found of life's delights the last extremes, 
 He found all but a rose hedged with a briar, 
 A nought, a thought, a masquerade of dreams." 
 
 Drummond. 
 
 It was late in the evening of a November day, in 18 — , 
 that, after two days and nights of incessant travelling, I 
 
 reached London, and proceeded to a house in 
 
 Street. Every one knows the feeling with which he 
 knocks at the door of a sick friend, when he fears to 
 learn that his errand is lost, that he shall be greeted 
 with those death-bell words — " You are too late ! " In 
 the present instance, my impatient summons was an- 
 swered by a respectable middle-aged servant man, 
 whose mournful countenance so realised my apprehen- 
 sions, that I forbore to make any direct inquiry — 
 indeed, I had not the power. 
 
 The domestic was at no loss to understand my emo- 
 tion ; " Dr. F ," said he, " is with him." 
 
 H 
 
74 EUSTACE ; 
 
 " Is with him,'' said I, " thank God ! " and gathering 
 hope from this ambiguous phrase, I ran up stairs with 
 eager haste. 
 
 A door opened as I reached the landing, and the 
 physician came forward ; he was well known to me by 
 reputation, and his appearance at the present crisis, 
 made me feel towards him as a friend. I grasped his 
 offered hand, and approached the room door. 
 
 "Mr. Mandeville," said he, in a kind but firm tone, 
 " that room you must not enter at present, — it grieves 
 my very soul to say it, but you are too late ; all is just 
 over ! '' 
 
 I replied by wrenching myself from the grasp that 
 strove to detain me, and in another moment stood 
 
 beside the bed of death. Dr. F followed me, 
 
 apprehensive of consequences ; but the scene therein 
 disclosed, effectually calmed my impetuosity, and I 
 became still from the very power of my emotion. 
 
 I felt as if suddenly placed in a sepulchre ; the room 
 was hot and dark, so that I breathed and distinguished 
 with difficulty ; when my eye grew accustomed to the 
 gloom, the first object that I discovered was the ghastly 
 face of my friend, stretched in the attitude of sleep, but 
 it was the dull cold sleep of death. 
 
 Yes ! there, mute, and unconscious of my presence, 
 lay the one whom I had last seen brilliant and in 
 health ; imaginative, refined, passionate, the very 
 genius of change and contradiction; courted, uncon- 
 trollable, wayward, wilful ; a spell to others, a torment 
 to himself; yet, withal, my first, last, dearest friend — 
 
OR, THE WASTED LITE. 75 
 
 there he had died, unattended, but for the voluntary 
 offices of a poor servant — friendless, but for a stranger! 
 Again and again was my sight blinded by gushing 
 tears ; again and again did I dash them away, and rivet 
 my eyes afresh upon the splendid wreck before me. 
 By degrees I became able to examine more minutely, 
 the change which had passed upon his form and 
 features, and something like comfort arose from the 
 contemplation. Disease had wasted the one ; on the 
 other, care and emotion (those vultures of the soul) had 
 left dire traces of their triumph; but over all, there 
 brooded a calm, w T hich, in the brightest hours of life, I 
 had never witnessed. He lay in a half-reclining posi- 
 tion — the head bowed upon the bosom, — the lips some- 
 what apart, as if he had died whilst preparing to speak ; 
 and smiling, — for death, which had arrested the words, 
 had spared the smile that prefaced them. His white 
 and attenuated hands were gently clasped; his whole 
 figure was at rest ; and the wild play of a countenance, 
 once proud, even in its beauty and its tenderness, 
 looked not more pale than tranquil. I bent forward to 
 kiss the brow ; its chill clamminess startled and shocked 
 me, and I uttered a cry of grief and astonishment, as if 
 then, for the first time, I had become sensible of the 
 certainty of death. 
 
 Dr. F now interposed, and quietly urged me 
 
 to retire with him. " We have," said he, '* many 
 arrangements to make, much to talk over; and poor 
 Eustace charged me with many messages for you — to- 
 morrow you shall return here, but to-night — nay, you 
 
76 EUSTACE ; 
 
 must leave the apartment now ; you need food and rest 
 too." "Food — rest," repeated I, impetuously; how- 
 ever, I suffered him to lead me away into an adjoining 
 room. Ordering up some refreshment, of which he 
 entreated me, for my health's sake, to avail myself, he 
 left me for awhile, to give the directions now rendered 
 indispensable. In about half an hour he returned ; I 
 had not stirred from the spot in which he left me 
 standing. He shook his head in a manner at once 
 half-friendly, half-professional. " This," said he, " will 
 not do ; I must rule you as I used to rule Eustace ; he 
 was always obedient, both as a patient and as a son.'* 
 Here his voice trembled, and he became silent. I 
 threw myself on the sofa, and burst into tears. The 
 benevolent physician sat down beside me, and mingled 
 his tears with mine. When I grew composed, I en- 
 treated him to give me all the information he could, 
 respecting my departed friend, of whom I had wholly 
 lost sight during the last five years. Again and again 
 I reprobated the cruelty that had kept me in ignorance 
 of his danger. 
 
 "Do not blame the dead," replied my companion 
 gravely ; " Eustace never consented, till the day on 
 which my letter of summons is dated. I wrote the 
 instant he would permit me ; till then, I had not heard 
 of you ; for till then, Eustace never gave me his whole 
 confidence. He interested me from the first day of my 
 attendance, and I felt convinced that as he was no 
 common character, his had been no common life : but 
 vou know he had a proud spirit, and privation and 
 
OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 77 
 
 self-reproach are not in themselves softening influences. 
 Previous to our confidential intercourse, I perceived 
 that there was a warfare going on in his mind, a strife 
 between good and evil, a conviction of error, with a 
 hardy desire to brave it out ; a determination to " die 
 and make no sign," — but he could not do so. The 
 better influence gained the victory ; then he gave me 
 the history of his career, and bade me send for you. 
 From that hour he sank, but from that hour he became 
 tranquil." 
 
 " And how died he?" 
 
 " As it peculiarly became him that he should die — 
 humbly. Tranquillity in death is frequently open to sus- 
 picion ; at least, it is not in itself a sufficient evidence 
 of safety; but in the case of tumultuous, passionate 
 characters, it is, to my mind, the most satisfactory evi- 
 dence we can have that the heart is right with God." 
 
 " And had he forgotten me?" said I, "me, his chosen 
 friend !" 
 
 "Do not be tenacious," replied Dr. F ; "he 
 
 remembered you to the last moment ; he had few others 
 to remember, for the world left him long before he left 
 the world. Look," continued the speaker, holding up, 
 as he spoke, a packet, which I perceived to be addressed 
 to myself, " here is proof that he remembered you, and 
 proof also that he disobeyed me, for he employed himself 
 in writing these sheets when utterly unfit for the exer- 
 tion. To-morrow you will peruse them." 
 
 " To-morrow ! " I exclaimed, snatching the precious 
 memorials as I spoke; "this night — instantly.'' 
 h3 
 
78 eustace; 
 
 I broke the seal, and endeavoured to read, but my 
 eyes refused their aid; they would only weep. My 
 companion saw my inability. "Nay, then," said he, 
 "I will read them to you; Eustace had at last no 
 secrets from me, and he bade me comfort you when he 
 was gone ; come, you shall be to me what Eustace was. 
 I will fancy you his brother; give me the papers." 
 
 I gave them into his hand. "Now, then," said he, 
 " if you will not sleep before you hear their contents, at 
 least you shall eat before I read them ; you have need 
 of strength, even to listen." 
 
 I obeyed, to be freed from his friendly importunity ; 
 and he then commenced his melancholv task. 
 
 EUSTACE'S LETTER. 
 
 " Henry, I have known for some time that I must 
 die, but I was too proud to let you come and close my 
 eyes, for I could not bear that you should see my 
 humiliation ; that you should find your once brilliant 
 friend without fortune, without fame, without friends : 
 but I thank God for giving me a better mind, and now 
 I trust you will reach me whilst I belong to the world 
 of living men. Should you arrive too late, pardon your 
 friend in this thing, and believe, that with all his other 
 sins of an evil heart, and wasted life, he has carried it 
 to that Being who saves when all else reject. Oh, my 
 Henry, do you ever think of our bright boyhood ■ 
 of those days when the heart had a summer, long and 
 
OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 79 
 
 luxuriant as Nature's ? do you remember that old grey 
 rock behind your father's house, whence we used to 
 watch the sun rise ? and that dingle, so green, and 
 cool, and silent, yet withal so bright, where we used to 
 lie at the foot of the large beech-tree, looking up 
 through its branches at the glimmering blue sky, and 
 talking of that which resembled it — the future? That 
 dingle haunts me like a remembered dream; in the 
 feverish hours of dissipation, in the dark ones of dis- 
 appointment, even in these, my dying ones, I have 
 seemed again to behold its sunny greenness, and felt, 
 by turns, reproached and saddened. But this is vain ! 
 The leaves and the singing birds of that season are 
 long since dead, and the fancies and desires that were 
 their parallels, are dead too. Pain and pleasure are 
 alike transient, but good and evil long survive — they 
 are remembered by their consequences. You cannot 
 have forgotten, then, that strange, perverted, gifted 
 being, who exercised such a powerful influence over 
 both our minds, — such a fatal, such a lasting one on 
 mine. With his knowledge and his eloquence, his en- 
 thusiasm and his levity, his wild estimate of the powers 
 of man ; his daring doubts, and more daring assertions ; 
 his genius, which admired the loveliness of virtue, his 
 secret infidelity, which despised the obligation of duty — 
 you cannot have forgotten him, but to you he did little 
 harm. You listened to his tales of other times and 
 other lands, to his caustic sketches of life, and splendid 
 visions of unattainable felicity, as to the words of a 
 sorcerer ; but good sense and an unambitious tempera- 
 
80 EUSTACE ; 
 
 ment preserved you from lasting injury. You went to 
 other scenes and forgot him. It was far otherwise with 
 myself. His words sank into my soul, like sweet deadly 
 poison, working destruction. He kindled up my ambi- 
 tion, but he did not direct the flame ; he made me con- 
 scious and proud of my energies, but he never taught 
 me their use ; he disgusted me with acknowledged 
 principles and customary pursuits, and gave me instead 
 vain and vague ideas of distinction. My imagination 
 was full of dazzling sentiments, but my ideas were 
 undefined and impalpable ; my mind was a chaos of 
 light, and power, and splendour, without aim and without 
 order, without rule and without principle. One desire 
 took possession of me, the desire of power for its own 
 sake ; for the gratification of my own pride, as a proof 
 of my superiority. To go through this dusky world a 
 dazzling, courted, wonder-raising being, a " splendour 
 amidst shadows" — with no definite aim beyond that of 
 gaining the greatest possible influence over the greatest 
 possible number and variety of minds ; careless whether 
 it produced good or evil, bane or bliss, in its results — 
 this, as well as I can recal my past state of mind, was 
 my ruling passion. Every study, book, character — my 
 own heart, conversation, bore on this one point; every 
 thing, even the contemplation of nature, became an 
 art. I do not mean that all this was done avowedly 
 and on system; it was the natural result of an artificial 
 habit of thought. The first evil consequence was dis- 
 content. Time, talent, feeling, all were wasted in 
 dreaming myself into possession of the power I longed 
 
OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 81 
 
 for. I could no longer surrender myself to the enjoy- 
 ment of the beauties and pleasures by which I was 
 surrounded; the idea that a world existed, in which 
 I was formed to shine, but from which I was excluded, 
 embittered every hour of my life. I sprang, therefore, 
 like a bird from an opened cage, when the moment 
 arrived which allowed me to enter that world, and 
 enter it my own master. For a long time the 
 versatility of my ambition blinded me to its inherent 
 meanness, just as its novelty, for a time, precluded 
 weariness. To have been distinguished as a mere man 
 of fashion, or pleasure, or even literature, would have 
 disgusted me by its exclusiveness : eminence in any 
 profession, however honourable, would not have satis- 
 fled me, it would have required patient drudgery; 
 least of all, would eminence in goodness have suited 
 me, because then I must have sacrificed my corrupt 
 motives of action. No, my aim was to embody and 
 unite a portion of all the qualities required in all these 
 pursuits, and create a profession for myself — that of 
 pleasing and gaining power ; to be, in short, a modern 
 Alcibiades ; equally at home, whether leading a gay 
 revel, or imbibing Socratic wisdom. Oh, those days ! 
 those months ! those years ! I cannot recount the wild 
 excitements which filled them ; even you saw not the 
 one-half of their transitions, for knowing that you dis- 
 approved full many of such as you did know, I seldom 
 sought your society, but when wearied into steadiness : 
 and at last you went abroad, and I saw you no more. It 
 was not from any diminution of real regard that I ceased 
 
82 elstace ; 
 
 to answer your letters, but I became gradually enthral- 
 led by the habit of mind that had At first been optional. 
 I lost the power of steady remembrance, of patient con- 
 tinuance in any thing : constancy lasted just as long as 
 excitement; the past, the future, and the distant, were 
 alike nothing; the new, the near, and the present, were 
 all in all. But there was a feeling for you, a remem- 
 brance of our boyish attachment, that triumphed even 
 over caprice. Otherwise, man, or woman, or child, 
 alike repented intrusting me with any portion of their 
 regard ; for when I had gained the power I sought, 
 they generally ceased to excite an interest strong enough 
 to stimulate me to attention, in which case they tired 
 me, because they had claims on me which I could not 
 dispute, and had no will to acknowledge. At first I 
 felt relieved when one by one dropped off, leaving me 
 at liberty to please myself, and please others; but by 
 degrees I awoke to a sense of dreariness, and of mor- 
 tification, arising from the discovery that, at last, no one 
 suffered on my account, because none trusted me be- 
 yond the hour. By degrees, too, I felt my mind lose 
 its vigour and elasticity; every object and occurrence 
 appeared to me in such various aspects, according to 
 the mood of the day, that I really had no fixed opinions 
 of any kind, no attachment to any particular habit of 
 thought. To form a decision and abide by it, was all 
 but impossible ; my good and evil being alike the result 
 of impulse, and so interchanged, that my friends always 
 found something to blame in my best actions, and some- 
 thing to praise in my worst. Opinion was the breath of 
 
OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 83 
 
 my soul, consequently, I was ever vibrating between 
 elation and depression : whilst my efforts received 
 praise, I did well ; when praise was withheld, I could 
 do nothing. My mind had no root in itself, but derived 
 its nourishment from extraneous sources. When they 
 dried up it withered. The dread of sinking into a me- 
 diocre tortured me, and the more this dread possessed 
 me, the more did I discover, that the native element of 
 genius is simplicity of purpose, or rather the absence of 
 all purpose whatsoever. I was what I originally desired 
 to be, a person whom society courted, but I found that 
 I had lost the power of becoming any thing better. 
 This conviction induced a melancholy, misanthropic 
 turn of thought ; my head was waste, and my heart 
 empty ; I grew reckless and self-accusing. These feel- 
 ings were much deepened by a severe and long-pro- 
 tracted illness. The gloom and stillness of a sick room 
 contrasted forcibly with the gaiety and glare from which 
 they had snatched me ; and the neglect of most of my 
 companions, now that I was unable to give or receive 
 amusement, obliged me to many reflections that might 
 have been called wise, had they not resulted from mor- 
 tified vanity, rather than a convinced judgment. There 
 was one person, however, who visited me for the very 
 reasons that others forsook me — because I seemed less 
 disposed to be gay than grave. This was a clergy- 
 man, whom I had occasionally met at the house of 
 a mutual friend, and with whom I had once travelled 
 half a day; a slight acquaintanceship, but it sufficed 
 to give him a right to inquire after my health, and 
 
84 EUSTACE ; 
 
 manifest those little attentions which invalids are 
 particularly fond of receiving from strangers. But the 
 origin of his visits lay in the interest he had conceived 
 for me, in his belief that I was capable of becoming a 
 valuable character, and in his desire (for he had the 
 ambition of benevolence) to influence me for my own 
 good. Many circumstances contributed to make him 
 succeed in winning my confidence : he was my senior ; 
 he was my superior in rank ; he excelled in moral 
 energy ; but the secret of Ins power lay in his simplicity. 
 His, however, was not the simplicity occasioned by 
 ignorance of men and books ; nor yet the superficial 
 simplicity of phrase and deportment ; it was the genuine 
 and transparent integrity of a strong mind, that judged 
 of all things by the unerring standard of right and 
 wrong. He was wholly a character of truth, principle, 
 and duty; of "austere yet happy feelings;" alike 
 devoid of sentiment and subtlety. I never could un- 
 derstand his fancy for myself; yet any motive, un- 
 supported by the strongest regard, would not account 
 for the watchful, forbearing kindness which I constantly 
 received from him. He strove to clear my mental 
 vision of the dimness contracted by perpetual self- 
 gazing ; to make me perceive glory in self-control ; 
 happiness in living for others. He was gifted with 
 much natural eloquence : and when he characterised 
 and compared the objects for which I had lived and 
 those for which it was worth while to live ; when he 
 unmasked the splendid vanities which had hitherto 
 enthralled my imagination, pourtraying at the same 
 
OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 85 
 
 time the eternal and sufficient good which might yet be 
 attained — my heart burned within me to forego a life of 
 littleness, and evidence a nobler style of being. I was 
 perfectly sincere, but perfectly self-deceived. The old 
 spirit was at work in another form ; my imagination 
 was still lord of the ascendant, and what appeared to 
 be the triumph of a new principle, was only the triumph 
 of a new excitement. Hitherto I had contemplated 
 religion and its acquirements with dislike and scepti- 
 cism, partly the result of ignorance, and partly of early 
 prejudice. I was now aroused to regard it with intel- 
 lectual and absorbing interest. The grand outlines of 
 Christianity must ever, when fairly stated, command 
 the homage of the mind; my present instructor pos- 
 sessed singular powers of appeal to the heart and 
 conscience, and like one suddenly transported into a 
 new and lovely region, my mind was filled with wonder, 
 enthusiasm, and delight. My former habits and asso- 
 ciations really appeared contemptible, and the idea 
 that there existed a power by which I might eman- 
 cipate myself from their thraldom, and remould my 
 character into what should deserve and command 
 confidence, filled me with rapture. I commenced a 
 crusade against myself, and for a time all went well. 
 The stern, the simple, and the despised virtues, which 
 can only be based upon Christian principle ; — the occu- 
 pations which have solid utility as their object; the 
 character of Christ, which is unquestionably the most 
 wondrous and magnificent ever realized on earth — all 
 these, really arrested my attention, and as long as they 
 
I 
 
 86 EUSTACE ; 
 
 did so, produced a marked and beneficial effect upon 
 every habitude of thought, word, and deed. As may 
 readily be supposed, I was all devotedness to my new 
 friend ; and he, half in hope, and half in fear, suffered 
 me at last to form a new bond of union with himself 
 and his principles. Many blamed him, and at last 
 he blamed himself; but for awhile, as I said before, 
 all went well. I was happy ; I was occupied ; I was 
 contented in retirement; I loved a woman who thought 
 me trustworthy, and that woman was Constantia. Yes, 
 I loved her, for a time, in sincerity, and she was one 
 more than worthy of that love, even had it retained to 
 the end its warmth and integrity ; for she was tender, 
 serious, thoughtful, gentle ; reposing and full of repose ; 
 timid, exclusive — in all things womanly. I was struck 
 with the singleness of her notions, her delight in nature, 
 her complete freedom from worldliness. But I believe 
 her crowning charm was, that I found it difficult to 
 win her affection, and because, when at last awarded, it 
 was with a genuine intensity that I had never witnessed, 
 at least never excited before. Her love for me, when 
 fairly roused, engrossed, subdued, enchained her: I 
 became her idol, her life's unbroken thought; and not 
 merely every person, but every duty became painful 
 that interfered with devotedness to myself. Her brother 
 remonstrated on the ground of religious principle, but 
 she was emparadised in a dream that steeped her judg- 
 ment in oblivion, and she loved the more for finding 
 that she already loved too well. Alas ! alas ! that what 
 at first occasioned me purer joy than I had ever ex- 
 
OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 87 
 
 perienced in my whole life, should eventually have 
 wearied, nay, produced disgust ! That the wreath of 
 flowers should have changed into gyves and fetters! 
 That the very fact of being endowed with despotic 
 power, should have tempted me to abuse it; to rend 
 a soft and gentle heart that shewed no image but mine. 
 But thus it was. As novelty wore off, and excitement 
 diminished, my bosom sins, ambition and instability, 
 revived ; and in proportion as they did so, my new 
 course of life became less easy, less pleasing, less suited 
 to me. My religion had been wholly imaginative, and 
 the beautiful but baseless fabric began to fall to pieces. 
 My spirit began to be once more feverish and restless ; 
 my feelings to fret under the curb of self-restraint ; 
 something like a glory gathered over the w r orld I had 
 left, something like a mist over the one I now inha- 
 bited ; I remembered my brilliant days, and sighed. I 
 was constrained to admit, in my judgment, that good- 
 ness, and virtue, and rectitude, and utility, were good, 
 and virtuous, and right, and useful — but I felt them 
 insipid : there was no grounding passionate interest on 
 the people and things connected with them; for they 
 were no longer gilded by the sun of my imagination. 
 In an unfortunate hour too, the individual whom I may 
 well call my evil genius, again crossed my path; he 
 was the meteor-character he had ever been, and years 
 had only increased his power of caustic raillery on all 
 subjects opposed to his own news and feelings. From 
 a mingling of pride and shame, I disguised, or rather 
 attempted to disguise, the real state of my mind ; but 
 
88 EUSTACE ; 
 
 he saw through it, and his wit winnowed me, not of the 
 chaff, but of the wheat of my little remaining attach- 
 ment to truths and principles, and persons who were 
 governed by them, A vain mind, whatever may be 
 the talent connected with it, is always at the mercy of 
 ridicule cunningly handled ; and he was an adept. 
 But I must acquit him of wrong intentions, as far 
 as Constantia was concerned. He thought her unfit to 
 retain influence over a spirit like mine ; but he scattered 
 his levities regarding her, more from inability to be 
 serious on any subject, than from iniquity of purpose. 
 Then he did not believe in the deep and pure intensity 
 of her affection for me ; woman's constancy was, in his 
 opinion, the most fabulous of fables. He measured 
 her character too by the world's standard, or rather by 
 the standard of his own perverted taste; and, because 
 she varied from it, pronounced her uninteresting. She 
 certainly was not a woman formed to be courted in 
 society ; not one fitted to draw paladin and peer to her 
 feet — not, in a word, what a vain worldly heart would 
 in brilliant circles take a pride in owning. The gold 
 of her character lay beneath the surface, but her affec- 
 tion had brought it all to light for me, and I at least 
 ought to have been satisfied. Had my affection towards 
 her been of the right kind, the conversation of the indi- 
 vidual alluded to, would have made me forswear his 
 friendship for ever ; but in truth, it was like a spark 
 falling upon tinder — I was previously prepared for its 
 influence, and instead of resenting, received it. Our 
 intercourse was limited. There were many reasons 
 
OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 89 
 
 ■why England, as a residence, displeased him ; he was 
 now on the eve of leaving it again, and endeavoured to 
 persuade me to accompany him, and become, as he 
 phrased it, less militant in my notions. This I de- 
 clined, avowing circumstances as a reason, but in reality 
 I had neither courage nor generosity to act on the 
 principle of mort sans phrase; so he left, making 
 his farewell such a sweet and bitter compound of 
 flattery and ridicule, that my ears long tingled at the 
 remembrance. He departed, and I remained behind, 
 not with the settled purpose of playing the villain, 
 but in a temper of mind that naturally induced this 
 consequence. Some characters undergo few changes, 
 and those few are gradually effected, and between every 
 such change there is a twilight interval of deliberation 
 and prelude ; they have intermediate moods — neutral 
 tints. Neither one nor other appertained to my nature. 
 From change to change, from fancy to fancy, I passed 
 at once and altogether, and none but myself could 
 have traced the steps of progress. It was thus in 
 my subsequent conduct to Constantia. My love for 
 her had, like every thing else, been merely based on 
 imaginative feeling, and therefore it was essentially 
 unstable and selfish. I had no real fault to find with 
 her, but she ceased to excite me ; I grew weary of her 
 society, fretful at the idea of her claims upon me, 
 vexed even at the undecaying nature of her regard for 
 me. I do not mean to say that all these feelings were 
 evidenced in my manner ; at the worst of times there 
 was ever about me a milkiness of nature that shrunk 
 i 3 
 
90 EUSTACE ; 
 
 from giving wilful pain, and I really strove hard to 
 seem all I had once been without seeming. Mere 
 spectators, and even her brother, were deceived ; Con- 
 stantia alone discovered the true state of my heart; 
 for Constantia loved, and felt, what can only be felt, not 
 described, the thousand differences between attention 
 and tenderness. A strong and happy love can afford 
 to seem negligent in manner, because, by a single 
 word or look, or even tone of voice, it can, and does 
 yield a payment of delight far surpassing all that can 
 be done by active service. Constantia missed these 
 signs of time love ; not that she ever breathed a syllable 
 of reproach, or even entreaty, but she grew pale, and 
 sad, and silent. This, and the conviction that I was 
 the occasion, irritated me ; and when we were alone 
 together, which I avoided as much as possible, I grew 
 moody, constrained, captious. Her brother at length 
 perceived that all was not smooth, and claimed the 
 right of interference — but Constantia roused her gentle 
 nature to the effort, and precluded its necessity; she 
 set me free from my engagement, and I was blind, 
 weak, worthless enough to accept my freedom, and to 
 rejoice in it. Of course, we never met again. I 
 received one letter from her brother (once my friend) ; 
 it was as beseemed both characters, stern and sad. He 
 told me of the misery I had inflicted — of the hopes, as 
 regarded myself, I had raised and blighted — of the 
 esteem he had once felt for me — of the fear he now 
 felt. He gave me keen counsel as a man — he forgave 
 me as a Christian. He died shortlv afterwards of a 
 
OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 91 
 
 malignant fever, and Constantia is — I know not where : 
 but oh, my friend, if it be possible, discover her abode, 
 and bear to her my dying testimony to her worth and 
 her wrongs. Her forgiveness I do not ask, for it would 
 grieve her could she think I deemed her capable of 
 retaining any angry emotion towards one she once 
 loved. Tell her, that the hour which has degraded 
 many things in my estimation, has only established her; 
 tell her whatever may render my memory less painful. 
 Yes, Henry, we parted, and I returned to my old 
 world ; but I took not back my own old self : for the 
 knowledge of right clung to me, though the will to 
 obey its dictates had departed ; and this knowledge 
 stamped a darker character on every subsequent error 
 and suffering. I returned to the world, but the re- 
 membrance of what I had lost and left, haunted, 
 tortured, maddened me ; but it could not restrain, 
 could not lure me back. Hitherto, though my life, 
 with the exception of the period just described, had 
 been vain, wild, and useless, it had possessed some 
 redeeming traits — its frivolity had been blended with 
 feeling — its dissipation with literature and refinement; 
 but now my soul required deadlier opiates to lull it 
 into forgetfulness, and it quaffed them — reckless alike 
 of the present and the future, of degradation and of 
 remorse. I feel it a duty to reveal the extent of my 
 aberrations ; and after my separation from Constantia 
 and her brother, they were dark and many. My down- 
 ward course was no longer taken by the ' thousand 
 steps,' but by the 'single spring;' I became a 
 
92 
 
 EUSTACE ; 
 
 gambler, I became, but for an accusing conscience, an 
 abandoned man ; one whom the circles that had once 
 owned as their ornament, rejected, disowned, con- 
 demned. My companions were like none that I had 
 ever before associated with ; fallen as I was, I despised 
 and hated, even whilst I mingled with them. And 
 what was the bond of our union ? Sympathy in sin • 
 fellowship in evil : of regard, esteem, kind offices, the 
 friendships between the spirits of darkness included as 
 much. This career could not last. It could not last ! 
 In one little year, one short revolution of spring and 
 summer, autumn and winter, one year which gave 
 strength to the tree, and stature to the child, sufficed to 
 make me a ruined man ! one year, that scarcely ripens 
 the seed of a frail flower, sufficed to bring down my 
 strength to the feebleness of infancy ; ploughed deep 
 furrows on my brow; dissipated my fortune; and dug 
 my grave ! I stood, at last, a very prodigal ; homeless, 
 but for a hired lodging ; friendless, but for a servant 
 who forsook my evil days, to return and comfort my 
 sorrowful ones ; companionless, but for the spectres 
 roused by memory and remorse ! My narrative draws to 
 a close, and it is well, for my strength ebbs with every 
 page ; but it must hold out till I have told all — till I 
 have paid a tribute to one who came to me in my low 
 estate, who has been to me physician, pastor, brother, 
 friend. Oh, thank him, Henry, for having been to me 
 all that you would, had you been near me ; oh, do you 
 thank him, for I shall soon be able to thank him no more. 
 He tells mc I must die, and I feel that he tells me the 
 
OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 93 
 
 truth. In my best hours, and in my worst, death has 
 been perpetually on my mind ; it has covered me like a 
 dread presence ; weighed me down like an ocean ; 
 blinded me like a horrid vision ; imprisoned my faculties 
 as with bars and gates of iron. Often and often, when 
 in saloons alive with mirth and splendour, I have seemed 
 the gayest of the inmates, this thought, and fear of death, 
 have shot through my mind, and I have turned away, 
 sick and shuddering. What is it then to approach the 
 reality ? to feel it very near — nay, close at hand ? stealing 
 on, and on, and on, like the tide upon the shore, not to 
 be driven back till it has engulfed its prey ? What is it 
 to apprehend the time when you must be a naked, guilty, 
 trembling spirit, all memory, and all consciousness, never 
 again for a single moment to sleep, or know oblivion 
 from the crushing burden of the ' deeds done in the 
 body Y Henry, beware ! for a dying bed may be made 
 a place of torment, hell before its time : and the remem. 
 brance of past life, stripped of all its deceptions, shri- 
 velled into insignificance, appearing, in connexion with 
 eternity, but as a tiny shell tossed on the broad black 
 surface of an ocean ! then again, the intense importance 
 of that very insignificant fragment of time, and the 
 intense remembrance of all that occupied it — its schemes, 
 and dreams, and sins, and vanities, sweeping across the 
 mind in solemn order, like a procession of grim shadows, 
 with death waiting to embosom all. Oh ! well may I 
 smite upon my breast, and cry, with all but despair — 
 ' woe is me for the past ! woe, woe, for the past V I had 
 health, and I have ruined it, — friends, and I flung them 
 
94 eustace; 
 
 from me, — I had talents which I perverted,— influence, 
 which I abused, — time, which I have squandered ; yes, 
 I had health, and friends, and time, and influence, and 
 talents — where are they ? what am I now ? Every dream 
 is dissolved, — every refuge of lies is plucked from me, — 
 every human consolation totters beneath me, like a 
 bowing wall, — and all the kingdoms of the world, and 
 all the glory of them, could not bribe from my soul the 
 remembrance of a single sin. Ambition, pleasure, fame ? 
 friendship, all things that I have loved, lie round me 
 like wrecks, and my soul is helpless in the midst of 
 them, like the mariner on his wave-worn rock. And 
 now, my earliest friend, farewell; you will blot this 
 word with your tears, but it must stand, a record of our 
 ended friendship. Mourn my lost life, — but oh ! mourn 
 not for me ; rather rejoice, that even in these my last 
 hours, a spirit of contrition has been given me from on 
 high, and that I go where I can offend no more the 
 patience that has borne with me so long. It is not for 
 me to depart with boasting confidence, yet something 
 must I say, of the light that has risen upon my soul 
 in its darkness, of the hope, that, like a spark, flies 
 upwards, not, I trust, to expire. Ask you whence arises 
 this hope ? _it is here, grounded upon a single phrase, 
 on a few words, that may be uttered in a moment ; but 
 they are strong, sufficient, glorious — ' With Him is plen- 
 teous redemption.' These sustain me; to these I cling 
 with the energy of self despair ; these enable me to 
 drink my last draught of life, and finding death at the 
 bottom, to find it not bitter. One penitent sigh to my 
 
OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 95 
 
 wasted years ; one thought of human love and blessing 
 to you, brother of my boyhood, — and now, farewell — 
 farewell !" 
 
 Four days after reading the foregoing melancholy 
 document, Dr. F , and myself, committed the re- 
 mains of its writer to the grave. We laid him there 
 with sorrow, not unrelieved by consolation, and bade 
 adieu to his sepulchre, in hope. For myself, dwelling 
 only on the first and last days of his life, his memory 
 is shrined in my heart as something " pleasant, but 
 mournful:" dwelling on that portion of which his letter 
 is the record, I am not ashamed to own that I find the 
 remembrance salutary for myself. His dying anguish, 
 on the renew of a wasted life, often stimulates me to 
 caution and watchfulness ; his very hand-writing 
 
 Is like a bell, 
 Tolling me back from him unto myself. 
 
 For him too, for Eustace, knowing that hope was in his 
 end, with thanksgiving to the power who bestowed upon 
 him, we trust, a new heart, and another spirit, I would 
 rejoice that he is freed from the possibility of change ; 
 that no fear can evermore arise, lest he should swerve 
 from a holy course ; that his warfare is accomplished, 
 and his repentance " placed beneath the safeguard and 
 seal of death and immortality." 
 
96 
 
 ON THE WISDOM OF OUR FATHERS, 
 
 COMPARED WITH THEIR CHILDREN^ INANITY. 
 
 BY MARK SPENCER. GENT. 
 
 As my former observations concerning the decline of 
 ancient poesy were not wholly devoid of savour on the 
 palates of the readers of these times ; and as I feel 
 well assured that so much wholesome truth cannot be 
 digested by the public without manifold good arising 
 therefrom, I have been induced to follow up the subject 
 by some general remarks upon the gradual decadency 
 of mankind. 
 
 And to this I am the more strongly moved, seeing 
 that my candle now burneth dimly ; and if anything 
 I write can benefit the world, or be as a way-mark to 
 my beloved grandson, it behoveth me no longer to 
 defer a task which else I may never perform. The 
 oblivion of age threatens to overwhelm all my recollec- 
 tions of a generation now well-nigh perished from the 
 earth ; and I will turn from this volatile century, back 
 for a few moments into the past, whilst memory retains 
 force to bear me there. 
 
 Every fresh review of the men and times which have 
 been, convinces me that they are as Colossi compared 
 with the men and times that now are. Should any be 
 
ON THE WISDOM OF OUR FATHERS. 97 
 
 unwilling to assent to this proposition, I will point to 
 the monuments of mind they have left us, as to Great 
 Babylon that they have builded. " Let those that 
 would comprehend their greatness, surpass them in 
 their works." 
 
 Cast from you, my readers, that doubting prying 
 spirit, which is reckoned by many a sure index of a 
 vigorous intellect ; and which seeketh to profane all 
 holy reputations of the olden time by the rude hand of 
 the sceptic. Trust me, it is but a poor quibble of 
 vanity, which would persuade us that nothing really 
 great ever has been done, because we can do nothing 
 really great ourselves. Moreover do not tell me of the 
 diffusion of knowledge in these days. I do sorrowfully 
 confess, if that be reputed a concession, that knowledge 
 is now so generally diffused and scattered that the 
 fragments can never be reunited, and are wholly un- 
 discernible in the gross mass of imbecility. All this 
 spreading forth of all knowable things, is merely beat- 
 ing into leaf as flimsy as gossamer, the solid gold 
 bequeathed to those of modern times by the old necro- 
 mancers. But the spell is lost, wherewith they con- 
 jured ; the secret whereby they converted the basest 
 ores into treasure. The sages of to-day may toil at all 
 hours, and under all aspects of the planets, yet in their 
 crucibles the rich metal never shines forth from the 
 transfigured mass ; so they have taken themselves (as 
 I have said above) to beat out the wealth which they 
 inherit. What matters they gild with the leaf thus 
 produced, I will not here discuss. 
 
98 ON THE WISDOM 
 
 If in another view, it be narrowly looked to, this 
 same diffusion of which men so fondly boast ; it will, 
 I fear, be found the cause of many of the evils whereof 
 I now complain. Of old there was but one road to 
 fame — through deserts. The world of unlettered and 
 incompetent men had no voice nor judgment : the 
 wisest of the learned formed the lists and judged the 
 combat. The knight of those days, had to win the 
 spurs he sought to wear, ere he could rank in the bright 
 host whom the nation really " delighted to honour." 
 Now, in place of meeting that pure severe ordeal, the 
 aspirant may receive a hundred various ranks from a 
 hundred different classes of judges, of all assignable 
 degrees of competency. The idle are roused to no 
 strenuous exertion — but falling a little back, or it may 
 be, only ceasing to press onward, they may yet rest 
 under the shadow of some crown of honour, wherewith 
 they seem content. Dull must that author be beyond 
 all remedy, who findeth not his admirers somewhere or 
 other amidst a world of readers and critics. Narrow 
 beneath all computation must be that intelligence;, 
 which cannot refresh, with a scanty rill, some one out 
 of the many thousands now athirst for some species of 
 mental recreation or knowledge. 
 
 All arts, you tell me, are now made easy ; and little 
 to my mind, will be well done by a generation like the 
 present, fond of making things easy — that is, of taking 
 its ease in them. Here it were no labour for me to 
 seem very profound to some of my readers, by shewing 
 how really high things suffer by being made low ; and 
 
OF OUR FATHERS. 99 
 
 how things which in their essences are exquisitely ab- 
 stract or compound, cannot be made royally " plain to 
 the most ordinary capacity," without their real nature 
 being, for that purpose, somewhat changed. But, I 
 shall readily be conceived by those, who may yet retain 
 the desire and the power to dive beneath the surface of 
 my discourse : and wishing not to be too wearisome to 
 the idler sort, I omit here narrowly to inquire whether 
 the real knowledge of some things, be not retained by 
 very few ; and whether the place of an author, aban- 
 doned as unreadable, be not often rilled by one, who is 
 better received because he is more superficial. In one 
 of the works which now-a-days attempt to be facetious 
 it was argued, with some humour, that, from the con- 
 tinual breaking up of rocks and stones to form the road, 
 lately brought into use by one Macadam, there would 
 result the terrible calamity, that, in time, all the solid 
 masses in the globe would be reduced to small frag- 
 ments or powder. Something like this, if applied to 
 the mind, is to be feared in sober earnest, and without 
 figure of speech, from the operation of the ephemeral 
 popular authors, who are engaged in laying highways 
 for all future voyagers, " through dense, or rare." 
 
 Many will, by these remarks, be reminded of the old 
 fable of the vintner, who, having lost a cask of wine in 
 the lake near his house, speedily demanded his nectar 
 back from the waves ; and was delighted to find the 
 whole recovered with large usury. But he somewhat 
 transcended the moderns in the force of his perceptions. 
 Though he never divined the reason why the flavour of 
 
100 ON THE WISDOM 
 
 his wine was lost; yet his senses speedily informed him 
 of the change. 
 
 Considerations akin to these often make me sad, and 
 the more, when I see innovations which are wholly 
 monstrous, greeted with applause as advances in the 
 improvement of mankind. Were then your fathers 
 altogether blind and uninformed, ye sons of this even- 
 ing sunrise ? "We looked upon the works of our ances- 
 tors, with the reverence of a boy handling the how and 
 spear of the vigorous warrior. With long continuance 
 of athletic toils and exercises, we trained our limbs 
 from youth to manhood; and deemed ourselves 
 worthily descended from the chieftain, when we rolled 
 away the stone which buried his arms, and could wield 
 his sword in battle. Our sons have chosen no such ar- 
 duous probation : they tell us, that our weapons were 
 ill-fashioned, and make to themselves tiny playthings 
 to suit their feeble strength. 
 
 This decay operateth mentally and corporeally: such 
 care is now taken to live softly, smoothly, and health- 
 ily ; such appliances for ease and safety of travelling by 
 land and sea, are diligently sought from machinery, 
 that even were anything worth calling an enterprise 
 left to achieve, I doubt whether any one remains who 
 could achieve it. The same decline hath reached our 
 libraries : of late years, folios have been wholly discon- 
 tinued ; now, those who call themselves men of letters 
 begin to complain loudly that quartos are too ponder- 
 ous. Nay, it is a veritable fact, that within this very 
 month, I heard a literary coxcomb say, that " he never 
 
OF OUR FATHERS. 101 
 
 could wade through the bulk of two enormous thick oc- 
 tavo volumes !" The age following this, must doubtless, to 
 go on in well doing, revive the ancient monarch's whim 
 of condensing all lore and wisdom in some few short 
 sentences. But had they his despotic power to enjoin 
 the performance of this task, where shall they find the 
 sages, who can embody or expound these aphorisms? 
 
 I must speedily conclude, for my bodily feebleness 
 remindeth me by how frail a tenure is held the existence 
 of one who can boast, that for three-quarters of the last 
 century, his dress and figure have been perplexed by 
 no changes ; save the renewals which decay hath occa- 
 sionally made necessary in the former, and the ravages 
 of age in the latter. 
 
 I could have wished that my dear grandson would 
 promise me to present, unimpaired, to the next genera- 
 tion (time and chance excepted) the true pattern, out- 
 wardly, of what men have been. 
 
 But, as peradventure, when youth hath somewhat 
 passed over, vanity may yield her sway to reason, and 
 my memory may avail more with him than my present 
 precepts ; I shall bequeath him some suits of dress and 
 plain clothes, as well as my library of old books, for his 
 models in parts and figure. 
 
 The decline in intellect is grievous : but " who would 
 not weep," if it appear upon consideration that there is 
 no less decline in virtue and manliness of character in 
 men, and sensibility and dignity of soul in women. 
 Shall I seem altogether extravagant and absurd, if I 
 trace much of this decadence to the vehement testing 
 k 3 
 
102 ON THE WISDOM 
 
 of old opinions and feelings — the nervous dread of 
 antique prejudices; the eager search after new truths 
 of a doubtful colour ? This frantic agitation may break 
 up many errors, and discover some hidden things ; but 
 I grievously fear, that much that is high and heroical, 
 or refined and delicate in feeling and character, are 
 hereby irrecoverable lost and destroyed. 
 
 It is a fine thing doubtless, this " quid hide V " cui 
 bono ?" reasoning — a smart discerner of fallacies, a sure 
 touchstone, an unerring balance. But the diamond 
 abideth not this testing : and even he, who boasted, in 
 the verse of the old poet, that he would weigh the 
 Deity and his works, found many things above his hand. 
 
 " For in his scale they would not stay at all." 
 
 There are divers chivalrous customs and sentiments, 
 which, to rash youth, may seem romantic and absurd, 
 and not to be visible or nearly allied to any use in 
 reason. Yet many of these have been devised and 
 matured in the excellence of the most exalted wisdom ; 
 and supply a subtle, though abundantly efficacious, 
 check to the low and grovelling tendency of worldly 
 cares and pursuits. Thus had our fathers willed that 
 society should always bear in its forms the antidote to 
 its inroads on the integrity of nature — the seeds of its 
 own regeneration. But these institutions now are like 
 unto the inestimably precious manuscript in the hands 
 of the zealot, who deems it useless if it agree with his 
 code of faith, and pernicious if it differ ; they resemble 
 the sculptured images of grace and strength, beneath 
 
OF OUR FATHERS. 103 
 
 the hammer of the iconoclast. And it is agonizing to 
 reflect that when once destroyed by fanaticism or igno- 
 rance, like the poem or the statue, they may be 
 eternally lamented, but can never be restored ! 
 
 [Respect for the years of Mr. Spencer, has induced 
 the insertion of this essay — but the editor does not avow 
 unqualified accordance in the sentiment.'] 
 
 WOLVES. 
 
 By wintry famine rous'd, from all the tract 
 Of horrid mountains, which the shining Alps, 
 And wavy Appenine, and Pyrenees, 
 Branch out stupendous into distant lands ; 
 Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave ; 
 Burning for blood, bony, and gaunt and grim, 
 Assembling wolves in raging troops descend ; 
 And, pouring' o'er the country, bear along, 
 Keen as the north wind sweeps the glossy snow. 
 All is their prize. They fasten on the steed, 
 Press him to earth, and pierce his mighty heart. 
 Nor can the bull his awful front defend, 
 Or shake the murd'ring savages away. 
 Rapacious at the mother's throat they fly, 
 And tear the screaming infant from her breast. 
 The godlike face of man avails him nought; 
 But if, appris'd of the severe attack, 
 The country be shut up, lur'd by the scent, 
 On churchyards drear (inhuman to relate), 
 The disappointed prowlers fall, and dig 
 The shrouded body from the grave. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
104 
 
 JANET DONALDSON; 
 
 OR, THE WEE WOMAN O' LOCH LOMOND. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 " Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
 A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !" 
 
 Fifty years ago the people of North Britain practically 
 understood what a Solitude meant; in these days we 
 know it only by the term and descriptions ; — loneliness 
 of situation, remoteness from the dwellings of men. 
 There are no solitudes, no lonely dwellings such as 
 existed in former times, when retirement was such, that 
 it was little short of exclusion from society; when the 
 arrival of the old bagpiper, or the wandering pedlar, 
 with his little basket of wares, was considered an event 
 in the family; an event which never failed to assemble 
 the entire household, not only to gather all the news 
 that was going, but to hear the old minstrel play " On 
 Ettrick's banks in a summer's night, " or " Farewell to 
 Lochaber," and to purchase from the pedlar glasses, 
 ribbons, and the four Seasons painted in such intensely 
 bright colours, that, by the children, they were deemed 
 nothing less than exquisite! Neither a Claude nor a 
 Titian, with the chaster taste of after times, ever called 
 forth half the admiration. 
 
JANET DONALDSON. 105 
 
 The solitude in such situations was often so un- 
 broken, that in a calm day you might hear a horse's 
 hoof for miles off; and then as to guests, they were a 
 thing of such rare occurrence, that a dinner put not 
 only every person but every animal about the place in 
 requisition, from the anxious mistress downwards to 
 the very herd-boy and the old mare Maggie. Prepa- 
 ration itself constituted a gi*eat part of the enjoyment, 
 for in those days conversation was not very intellectual; 
 all the care was, that nothing might be wanting in kind- 
 ness and hospitality. The visit ended, every thing re- 
 turned to its wonted course ; the wardrobe received its 
 long-hoarded dresses ; the old carved press its snowy 
 napery ; and then, perhaps, many a month would pass 
 over ere another stranger would break in upon the 
 solitude. 
 
 What a change does this country exhibit since art 
 and science have given such facility to travelling! now 
 every mountain and every valley are visited; every 
 rural haunt, famed for beauty, is explored, not only by 
 the painter, the poet, and the curious traveller, but by 
 all classes of the community. 
 
 This intercourse, we must allow, civilizes mankind, 
 and introduces important blessings into society, but it 
 necessarily destroys much of that originality and sim- 
 plicity which are so delightful to be met with. Collision 
 may polish character, but it lessens individuality. Per- 
 haps it is a foolish prejudice in favour of old times, but 
 we should wish to see some of those strong characteristic 
 traits, which grow up in seclusion, preserved amongst 
 
106 
 
 JANET DONALDSON; 
 
 our peasantry; we should rejoice to perceive all ranks 
 Christianized in heart, but not all modelled and stereo- 
 typed either in manner or language. We would not 
 have all solitude destroyed by perpetual frequency, nor 
 all spontaneous feeling checked by imitation. — But 
 alas! we are afraid that ere another fifty years have 
 passed away, there will be no individuals like Wee 
 Janet — no solitudes like those of Ben Lomond and 
 Loch Lomond. 
 
 " Lone, mang trees and braes it reekit, 
 Hafflins seen, and hafflins hid," 
 
 There stood the cottage where Janet Donaldson, the 
 subject of this narrative, resided: she was a woman of 
 unusually short stature, and, by old and young, was 
 always called Little Janet Donaldson. But, if her 
 figure were diminutive, her humanity and benevolence 
 of heart were warm and expansive. In contemplating 
 her little history, one cannot help regretting that a being 
 of such tender and compassionate feelings should have- 
 had to struggle with poverty and hardship through the 
 whole of her pilgrimage; for she was literally a servant 
 of servants; one who was expected to run at everybody's 
 call, as if she herself were incapable of fatigue. The 
 very children imposed upon her patient good-humour, 
 and would climb upon her back and add to her burden 
 as she returned from the distant well, with her pitcher 
 of water in one hand, and a bundle of sticks in the 
 other. She wore a man's large slouched hat tied under 
 the chin in ail seasons, both within doors and without, 
 and in the winter, when she could no longer work in 
 
OR, THE WEE WOMAN o' LOCH LOMOND. 107 
 
 the fields or tend the cattle, she spun hard all day, and 
 thought her labours well repaid, if, in the evenings, 
 her earnings amounted to a few pence. Her diminutive 
 stature prevented her from ever being hired as a regular 
 servant, so that when she was employed, she received 
 only the wages of a girl. In those days the pay of the 
 peasantry was very small, so that in all her life poor 
 Janet rarely possessed more than a few shillings at one 
 time; consequently, a sum of money that we should 
 deem insignificant, would to her appear immense. 
 
 For a short period Janet left her little cottage at the 
 foot of the mountain, and went to live at Langholm 
 with her brother, who rented a small farm there ; in his 
 service she never received any wages, so, as a compen- 
 sation for her labours, he at length presented her with 
 a little Scotty calf, which she was to rear and sell for 
 herself. — How she tented it — how she watched its 
 growth as she drove it to the pasture, and how hard it 
 was to part with this her first possession, even for all 
 the money its dappled sides would bring, we may not 
 
 declare. But to A Fair wee Janet Donaldson set 
 
 off with her little Scotty: — her own simple narrative 
 shall relate the sequel. 
 
 " I selt my bonnie cow at A Fair for three pund 
 
 ten, and was just turning hame again, right glad o' heart, 
 wi' the money a' safe i' my pocket, when at the town fit 
 what should I see but a meikle crowd o' folk, an i' the 
 vera midst o' them a', a puir man wha stood wringing his 
 hands an greeting unco sair; sae I spiered what was 
 the matter, an they telt me he had just buried his wife, 
 
108 JANET DONALDSON; 
 
 an they were e'en taking him awa to gaol because he 
 couldna pay his mailens. — ' An how meikle is't V spiered 
 I; and they said it was three pund ten. — Then I was 
 sae wae, sae vera wae for the puir man, for the widower, 
 to see him greet sae, for he'd just lost his wife, that I 
 e'en gied him a' my money — my three pund ten ! that 
 I had selt my Scotty for. I said, ' Here puir man, here 
 ye shall hau it a'.' — But the warst o*t was, I was sae wae, 
 sae very wae, and sae dinted that I never minded on to 
 spier the puir man's name. Sae when I gat hame fra 
 the fair, an telt them a' what I had done, oh the weary 
 life my brother led me! he was e'en like to turn me 
 out o' the onset, an ca'd me monie a puir silly daft 
 body, an aye telt me I would never see a plack o' my 
 money again. — But it was just that day six weeks, for 
 weel I mind on, I heard somebody knock at the door, 
 an a man spier gin a vera icee woman didna live there 
 ca'd Janet Donaldson? 'It's me! it's me!' I said, an 
 ruining to the door, wha should it be but the vera puir 
 man's ain sel! an right justly did he pay me a' my 
 money again, my three pund ten ! an' treated us wi' a 
 crovrn bowl o' punch forbye." 
 
 This narrative was often repeated to the writer, when 
 
 a child, by a near relative who resided at B , and 
 
 who was intimately acquainted with the circumstance. 
 — By her benevolence, Janet's severe poverty was 
 softened and relieved, and such was her simplicity of 
 character and confidence in that benevolence, that she 
 was wont to say, " I'll never apply to the parish as long 
 as ve hae either milk or meal i' the house." A. H. 
 
100 
 
 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 I spent the whole of last summer, and a part of the 
 ensuing winter on the Hampshire coast, visiting suc- 
 cessively most of its sea-ports and bathing places, and 
 enjoying its beautiful diversity of sea and wood scenery, 
 often so intermingled that the forest trees dip down 
 their flexile branches into the salt waters of the Solon 
 sea; and green lawns and healthy glades slope down to 
 the edge of the silver sands, and not unfrequently to 
 the very brink of the water. In no part of Hampshire 
 is this characteristic beauty more strikingly exemplified 
 than at the back of the Isle of Wight, that miniature 
 abstract of all that is grand and lovely throughout 
 England. Early in August, I crossed over from Ports- 
 mouth to Ryde, purposing to fix my head quarters 
 there, and from thence to make excursions to all such 
 places as are accounted worthy the tourist's notice. 
 But a guide-book is at best an unsympathising com- 
 panion, cold and formal as the human machine that 
 leads you over some old abbey, or venerable cathedral, 
 pointing out indeed the principal monuments and 
 chapels, but passing by unnoticed a hundred less out- 
 wardly distinguished spots, where feeling would love to 
 linger, and sentiment find inexhaustible sources of inte- 
 rest and contemplation. 
 
110 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 For want of a better, however, 1 set out with my 
 silent guide, but soon strayed wide of its directions, 
 rambling away, and often tarrying hours and days in 
 places unhonoured by its notice, and perversely deviating 
 from the beaten road, that would have conducted a 
 more docile tourist, and one of less independent taste, 
 to such or such a nobleman's or gentleman's seat, or 
 summer-house, or pavilion, built on purpose to be 
 visited and admired. But I did not shape my course 
 thus designedly in a spirit of opposition to the mute 
 director, whose (not unserviceable) clue led me at last 
 amongst the romantic rocks and cottages of Shanklin, 
 Niton, and Undercliff. It led me to those enchanting 
 spots and to that lovely vicinity; but to entice me 
 thence, was more than its inviting promises could effect ; 
 and finally I took up my abode for an indefinite time 
 in a cottage of grey native stone, backed by the solid 
 rocks, and tapestried in front with such an interwoven 
 profusion of rose and myrtle, as half hid the little case- 
 ments, and aspired far over the thatched roof and pro- 
 jecting eaves. Days, weeks, months, slipped away im- 
 perceptibly in this delicious retreat, and in all the 
 luxury of lounging felicity. Mine was idleness it is 
 true, the sensation of perfect exemption from all existing 
 necessity of mental or corporeal exertion; — not suspen- 
 sion of ideas, but rather a season of unbounded liberty 
 for the wild vagrant thought to revel in, to ramble at 
 will beyond the narrow boundaries assigned by the 
 claims of business or society, to her natural excursive- 
 ness. Summer passed away — the harvest was gathered 
 
THE SMUGGLER. Ill 
 
 in — autumn verged upon winter, and I still tenanted 
 the rock cottage. Nowhere are we so little sensible of 
 the changes of season as in the sea's immediate vicinity ; 
 and the back of the Isle of Wight is peculiarly illustrative 
 of this remark. Completely screened from the north 
 by a continued wall of high rocky cliff, its shores are 
 exposed only to the southern and westerly winds, and 
 those are tempered by the peculiar softness always 
 perceptible in sea-breezes. On a mild autumn day, or 
 bright winter's morning, when the sun sparkles on the 
 white sands and scintillating waves, on the sails of the 
 little fishing boats that steal along the shore with their 
 wings spread open like large butterflies, or on the tall 
 grey cliffs, tinted with many coloured lichens, a lounger 
 on the beach will hardly perceive that the year is in its 
 "sere and yellow leaf," or already fallen into the decre- 
 pitude of winter. And when the unchained elements 
 proclaim aloud that the hoary tyrant hath commenced 
 his reign, when the winds are let loose from their caverns, 
 and the agitated sea rolls its waves in mountainous 
 ridges on the rocky coast, when the sea-fowl's scream 
 is heard mingling in harsh concord with the howling 
 blast; then, oh! then, — who can tear himself from the 
 contemplation of a scene more sublimely interesting 
 than all the calm loveliness of a summer prospect? 
 To me its attractions were irresistible ; and besides those 
 of inanimate nature, I found other sources of interest 
 in studying the character and habits of the almost am- 
 phibious dwellers on that coast. Generally speaking, 
 there is something peculiarly interesting in the charac- 
 
112 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 ter of sea-faring men, even of those whose voyages 
 have extended little beyond their own shores. The 
 fisherman's life indeed may be accounted one of the 
 most constant peril. For daily bread, he must brave 
 daily dangers. In that season when the tillers of the 
 ground rest from their labours — when the artisan and 
 mechanic are sheltered within their dwellings — when 
 the dormouse and the squirrel hide in their woolly nests, 
 and the little birds find shelter in hollow banks and 
 trees, or resort to milder regions, the poor fisherman 
 must encounter all the fury of the combined elements — 
 for his children's bread is scattered on the waters. 
 
 It is this perpetually enforced intercourse with dan- 
 ger that interests our feelings so powerfully in their 
 behalf, together with its concomitant effects on their 
 character — undaunted hardihood — insurmountable per- 
 severance — almost heroic daring ; and, generally speak- 
 ing, a simplicity of heart, and a tenderness of deport- 
 ment towards the females and little ones of their 
 families, finely contrasting their rugged exterior. But, 
 unfortunately, it is not only in their ostensible calling 
 of fisherman, that these men are forward in effronting 
 peril. The temptation of contraband trade too often 
 allures them from their honest and peaceable avocations, 
 to brave the laws of their country, and encounter the 
 most fearful risks in pursuit of precarious, though 
 sometimes considerable gains. Of late, this desperate 
 trade has extended almost to an organized system ; and 
 in spite of all the preventive measures adopted by 
 government, it is too obvious that the numbers of these 
 
THE SMUGGLER. i 13 
 
 <( free traders " are yearly increasing, and that their 
 hazardous commerce is more daringly, and vigorously 
 carried on. Along the Hampshire coast, and more 
 particularly in the Isle of Wight, almost every sea- 
 faring man is engaged in it, to a less or greater extent. 
 For the most part they are connected in secret associa- 
 tions, both for co-operation and defence; and there is a 
 sort of free-masonry among them, the signs and tokens 
 of which are soon apparent to an attentive observer. 
 "The custom-house sharks," as they term them, are 
 not their most formidable foes, for they wage a more 
 desperate warfare (as recent circumstances have too 
 fatally testified), with that part of our naval force em- 
 ployed by government on the preventive service. Some 
 of the vessels on the station are perpetually hovering 
 along on the coast; but in spite of their utmost vigilance 
 immense quantities of contraband goods are almost 
 nightly landed, and nowhere with more daring frequency 
 than in the Isle of Wight. 
 
 In my rambles along its shores, the inhabitants of 
 almost every cottage and fisherman's cabin, for many 
 miles round, became known to me. I have always a 
 peculiar pleasure in conversing with these people, in 
 listening with familiar interest (to which they are never 
 insensible) to the details of their feelings and opinions, 
 and of their family concerns. With some of my new 
 acquaintances I had ventured to expostulate on the 
 iniquitous, as well as hazardous nature of their secret 
 traffic; and many wives and mothers sanctioned with 
 approving looks and half-constrained expressions, my 
 l 3 
 
114 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 remonstrances to their husbands and sons. These 
 heard for the most part in sullen down-looking silence 
 (not, however, expressive of ill-will towards me), or 
 sometimes answered my arguments with the remark, 
 that "poor folks must live;" that "half of them during 
 the war had earned an honest livelihood in other ways; 
 but now they were turned adrift, and must do some- 
 thing to get bread for their little ones; and, after all, 
 while the rich and great folks Avere pleased to encourage 
 their trade, it was plain they could not think much harm 
 of those who earned it on." This last was a stinging 
 observation, one of those with which babes and suck- 
 lings so often confound the sophistry of worldly wisdom. 
 Amongst these humble families there was one at whose 
 cabin I stopped often est, and lingered longest, in my 
 evening rambles. The little dwelling was wedged in a 
 manner into a cleft of the grey rock, up which, on every 
 slanting ledge, the hand of industry had accumulated 
 garden mould, and fostered a beautiful vegetation: and 
 immediately before it, a patch of the loveliest greensward 
 sloped down to the edge of the sea-sand, enamelled with 
 aromatic wild thyme, and dotted, next the ocean, with 
 tufts of thrift, centaury, and eringo, and with the gold- 
 coloured blossoms of the horn-poppy. The peculiar 
 neatness of the little cabin had early attracted my 
 attention, which was further interested by the singular 
 appearance of its owner. He was a large tall man of 
 about sixty, distinguished in his person by an air of 
 uncommon dignity, and by a dress, the peculiarity of 
 which, together with his commanding carriage, and 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 115 
 
 countenance of bold daring, always suggested the buc- 
 caneer of romantic legends to my fancy. He wore 
 large loose trowsers of sbaggy dark blue cloth, a sort of 
 woollen vest, broadly striped with grey, for the most 
 part open at the throat and bosom, and buckled in at 
 the waist with a broad leathern belt, in which two pistols 
 were commonly stuck, and not unfrequently an old cut- 
 lass ; and over his shoulder was slung a second belt of 
 broad white knitting, to which a powder-flask, a leathern 
 pouch, and often a thick short duck-gun, were suspended. 
 A dark fur cap was the usual covering of his head, and 
 his thick black hair was not so much intermingled with 
 grey, as streaked with locks of perfect whiteness. Not- 
 withstanding this formidable equipment, the harmless 
 avocation of a fisherman was his ostensible employment, 
 though, to all appearance, not very zealously pursued, 
 for, in the day-time, he was oftener to be seen lying 
 along the shore in the broad sun, or strolling by the 
 water's edge, or cleaning the lock of his gun, under the 
 shadow of a projecting crag, than busied with the hook 
 and line in his little boat, or mending his nets by the 
 cabin door. At almost all hours of the night, a light 
 was seen burning at the cottage window, and the master 
 of the family, with his son, was invariably absent, if (as 
 was sometimes my custom) I looked in on them after 
 dark, on my return from some distant spot towards my 
 own habitation. 
 
 At such an hour I was sure to find the female inmates 
 (the wife and widowed daughter of the man I have been 
 describing), in a state of visible perturbation, for which 
 
116 THE SMUGGLER, 
 
 it was easy to assign a cause ; but I had remonstrated in 
 vain with the infatuated husband, and it was still more 
 fruitless to argue with the helpless women. Richard 
 Campbell was not a native of the Isle of Wight, nor one 
 trained from his youth up to "go down to the sea in 
 ships, and occupy his business in great waters." For 
 many generations, his family had owned and cultivated 
 a small farm in the north of England ; himself had been 
 bred up a tiller of the ground, contrary to his own 
 wishes, for they had pointed from his very cradle to a 
 seafaring life ; and all his hours of boyish pastime and 
 youthful leisure, were spent on the briny element, close 
 to which, at the head of a small bay or inlet, stood his 
 paternal farm. Just as he had attained his twentieth 
 year, his father died, leaving him (an only child) the 
 inheritor of all his little property, and at liberty to follow 
 the bent of his own inclination. The temptation was 
 strong: — tumultuous wishes, and powerful yearnings, 
 were busy in his heart; but he was "the only son of his 
 mother, and she was a widow." He staid to comfort her 
 old age, and to cultivate his little inheritance, partly in- 
 fluenced perhaps, in his decision, by his attachment to a 
 pretty blue-eyed girl, whose sweeter smiles rewarded his 
 filial piety, and whose hand was very shortly its richer 
 recompence. The widowed mother continued to dwell 
 under her son's roof, tended, lihe Naomi, by a daughter- 
 in-law as loving as Ruth, but happier than the Hebrew 
 matron in the possession of both her children. 
 
 Many children were born to the young couple, " as 
 likely boys and girls as ever the sun shone upon," said 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 117 
 
 the wife of Campbell, from whom, at different times, 
 I gleaned the simple annals I am relating. " But God 
 was very good to them. He increased their store with 
 the increasing family, and provided bread for the little 
 mouths that were sent to claim it. She never grudged 
 her labour, and a better nor kinder husband than she 
 was blessed with, never woman had. To be sure, he 
 had his fancies and particular ways, and when he could 
 steal a holiday, all his delight was to spend it on 
 the bay that was near their farm (the worse luck), 
 for many an anxious hour had she known even then, 
 when he was out in his little boat shooting wild-fowl 
 in the dark winter's nights. But no harm ever came to 
 him, only their eldest boy, their dear Maurice," (the 
 mother never named him without a glistening eye) "took 
 after his father's fancy for the sea, and set his heart 
 on being a sailor." And the father called to mind his 
 own youthful longings, and would not control those of 
 his child, especially as he had another son, a fine promis- 
 ing lad, who took willingly to the business of the farm, 
 and already lightened his father's labours. The mother 
 grieved sore at the parting of her first-born, (what feel- 
 ings are like those of a mother towards her first-born ?) 
 and the young Maurice was her most loving and dutiful 
 child, and she had reared him with such anxious tender- 
 ness as only mothers feel, through the perilous years of a 
 sickly infancy. But the father jested with her fears, and 
 entered with the ardour of a boyish heart into his son's 
 enterprising hopes ; and at last the youth won from her 
 an unwilling consent. And when she shook her head 
 
118 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 mournfully to his promises of bringing rare and beau- 
 tiful things from foreign parts, for her and his little 
 sister, coaxed a half smile into her tearful looks by 
 concluding -with — " and then I will stay quiet with you 
 and father, and never want to leave you again." — 
 " My Maurice left us," said the mother, " and from that 
 time everything went wrong. Before he had been gone 
 a month we buried my husband's mother; but God 
 called her away in a good old age, so we had no right 
 to take on heavily at her loss, though we felt it sorely." 
 In addition to his own land, Campbell rented some 
 acres of a neighbouring gentleman, whose disposition 
 was restlessly litigious, and Campbell being unhappily 
 fiery and impetuous, disputes arose between them, and 
 proceeded to such lengths, that both parties finally 
 referred their differences to legal arbitrement. After 
 many tedious and apparently frivolous delays, particu- 
 larly irritating to Campbell's impatient spirit, the cause 
 was given in favour of his opponent; and from that 
 hour he adopted the firm persuasion that impartial jus- 
 tice was banished from the land of his fathers. This 
 fatal prejudice turned all his thoughts to bitterness, — 
 haunted him like a phantom in his fields, by his cheerful 
 hearth, in his once-peaceful bed, in the very embraces 
 of his children, "who were born," (he would tell them, 
 in the midst of their innocent caresses) " slaves in the 
 land where their fathers had been free men." 
 
 In this state of mind he eagerly listened to the specu- 
 lative visions of a few agricultural adventurers, who had 
 embarked their small capital on an American project 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 119 
 
 and were on the point of quitting their native country, 
 to seek wealth, liberty, and independence, in the back 
 settlements of the United States. In an evil hour 
 Campbell was persuaded to embark his fortunes with 
 those of the self-expatriated emigrants. The tears and 
 entreaties of his wife and children were unavailing to 
 deter him from his rash purpose ; and the unhappy 
 mother was torn from the beloved home, where her heart 
 lingered with a thousand tender reminiscences, and most 
 tenaciously in the persuasion that if her lost child was 
 ever restored to his native country, to the once happy 
 abode of his parents his first steps would be directed. 
 The ship in which the Campbells were embarked, with 
 their five remaining children, and all their worldly 
 possessions, performed two- thirds of her course with 
 prosperous celerity ; but as she approached her destined 
 haven, the wind, which had hitherto favoured her, be- 
 came contrary, and she lost sea-way for many days. At 
 ]ast a storm, which had been gathering with awfully 
 gradual preparation, burst over her with tremendous 
 fury. Three days and nights she drove before it, but on 
 the fourth her masts and rigging went overboard, and, 
 before the wreck could be cut away, a plank in the ship's 
 side was stove in by the floating timbers. In the con- 
 fusion, which had assembled every soul on deck, the leak 
 was not discovered till the water in the hold had gained 
 to a depth of many feet : and, though the pump was set 
 to work immediately, and for a time kept going by the 
 almost superhuman exertions of crew and passengers, all 
 was unavailing ; and to betake themselves to the boats 
 
120 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 was the last hurried and desperate resource. Campbell 
 had succeeded in lowering his three youngest children 
 into one of them, already crowded with their fellow- 
 sharers in calamity, and was preparing to send down his 
 eldest son and daughter, and to descend himself with 
 their mother in his arms, when a woman, pressing before 
 him with despairing haste, leaped down into the crowded 
 boat, which upset in an instant, and the perishing cry of 
 twenty drowning creatures mingled with the agonizing 
 shriek of parents, husbands, and children, from the deck 
 of the sinking ship. The other boat was yet alongside, 
 and Campbell was at last seated in her with his two sur- 
 viving children, and their unconscious mother, who had 
 sunk into a state of blessed insensibility when the drown- 
 ing screams of her lost little ones, rung in her ears. Five- 
 and-twenty persons were wedged in this frail bark, with 
 a cask of water, and a small bag of biscuit. An old sail 
 had been flung down with these scanty stores, which they 
 contrived to hoist on the subsiding of the storm, towards 
 the evening of the first day's commitment, in that "forlorn 
 hope," to the wide world of waters. Their compass had 
 been lost in the large boat, and faint indeed were their 
 hopes of ever reaching land, from whence they had no 
 means of computing their distance. But the unsleeping 
 eye of Providence watched over them, and on the fourth 
 day of their melancholy progress, a sail making towards 
 them was descried on the verge of the horizon. It 
 neared, and the ship proved to be a homeward bound 
 West India trader, into which the perishing adventurers 
 were received with prompt humanity ; and on her reach- 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 121 
 
 ing her appointed haven (Portsmouth), Campbell, with 
 his companions in misfortune, and the remnant of his 
 once flourishing family, once more set foot on British 
 earth. He had saved about his person a small part of 
 his little property ; but the whole residue was insufficient 
 to equip them for a second attempt, had he even been 
 so obstinately bent on the prosecution of his trans- Atlantic 
 scheme as to persist in it against (what appeared to him) 
 the declared will of the Almighty. Once, in his younger 
 days, he had visited the Isle of Wight, and the remem- 
 brance of its stone cottages and beautiful bays was yet 
 fresh in his mind. He crossed over with his family, 
 and a few weeks put him in possession of a neat cabin 
 and small fishing-boat ; and for a time the little family 
 was subsisted in frugal comfort by the united industry of 
 the father and son. Soon after their settlement in the 
 island, their daughter (matured to lovely womanhood) 
 married a respectable and enterprising young man, the 
 owner of a pilot vessel. In the course of three years she 
 brought her husband as many children, and during that 
 time all went well with them ; but her William's occupa- 
 tion, a lucrative one in time of war, exposed him to fre- 
 quent and fearful dangers, and one tempestuous winter's 
 night, having ventured out to the assistance of a perish- 
 ing vessel, his own little vessel foundered in the attempt, 
 and the morning's tide floated her husband's corpse to 
 the feet of his distracted wife, as she stood on the 
 sea-beach watching every white sail that became visible 
 through the haze of the grey clouded dawn. 
 
 The forlorn widow and her orphan babes found a refuge 
 
122 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 in the humble cabin of her father, and he and his son 
 redoubled their laborious exertions for their support. 
 But these were heavy claims, and the little family but 
 just contrived to live, barely supplied with the coarsest 
 necessaries. When temptation assails the poor man, by 
 holding out to his grasp the means of lessening the hard- 
 ships and privations of those dear to him as his own soul, 
 is it to be wondered at that he so often fails, when others, 
 without the same excuses to plead, set him the example 
 of yielding? Campbell (having first been seduced into 
 casual and inconsiderable ventures) was at last enrolled 
 in the gang of smugglers who carried on their perilous 
 trade along the coast ; and from that time, though com- 
 paratively plenty revisited his cottage, the careless smile 
 of innocent security no longer beamed on the features 
 of its inmates. Margaret struggled long, with well 
 principled firmness, against the infatuations of her 
 husband and son ; but flushed with success, and embol- 
 dened by association with numbers, they resisted her 
 anxious remonstrances ; and at last, heartsick of fruitless 
 opposition, and shrinking from the angry frown of him 
 who had been for so many years the affectionate sharer 
 of her joys and sorrows, she first passively acquiesced in 
 their proceedings, and in the end was persuaded to con- 
 tribute her share towards furthering them, by secretly 
 disposing of the unlawfully-obtained articles. 
 
 During my abode in the Isle of Wight I had become 
 acquainted with two or three families resident within a 
 few miles of the spot where I had taken up my habita- 
 tion. With one of these (consisting of a widow lady of 
 

 THE SMUGGLER. 123 
 
 rank and her two grown-up daughters) I had been pre- 
 viously acquainted in London, and at other places. They 
 had been recommended by the medical adviser of the 
 youngest daughter, who was threatened by a pulmonary 
 affection, to try the effects of a winter at the back of the 
 island, and I was agreeably surprised to find them inha- 
 bitants of a beautiful villa, " a cottage of humility," 
 about three miles from my own cabin at the Undercliff. 
 They were agreeable and accomplished women ; and 
 a few hours spent in their company formed a pleasing 
 and not unfrequent variety in my solitary life ; and in 
 the dearth of society incident to their insulated retreat, 
 my fair friends condescended to tolerate, and even to 
 welcome the eccentric old bachelor with their most 
 gracious smiles. One November evening my ramble had 
 terminated at their abode, and I had just drawn my 
 chair into the cheerful circle round the tea-table, when a 
 powdered footman entered, and spoke a few words in a 
 mysterious half- whisper to the elder lady, who smiled 
 and replied, " Oh, tell her to come in ; there is no one 
 here of whom she need be apprehensive." The com- 
 munication of which assurance quickly ushered into the 
 room my new acquaintance Margaret Campbell. An 
 old rusty black bonnet was drawn lower than usual over 
 her face, and her dingy red cloak (under which she 
 carried some bulky parcel) was wrapped closely round 
 a figure that seemed endeavouring to shrink itself into 
 the least possible compass. At the sight of me she half 
 started, and dropt her eyes with a fearful curtsey. " Ah, 
 Margaret!" I exclaimed, too well divining the object 
 
124 
 
 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 of her darkling embassy. But the lady of the house 
 encouraged her to advance, laughingly saying, " Oh, 
 
 never mind Mr. , he will not inform against us, 
 
 though he shakes his head so awfully. Well, have you 
 brought the tea?" — "and the lace, and the silk scarfs?" 
 chimed in the younger ladies, with eager curiosity 
 sparkling in their eyes, as the)' almost dragged the 
 important budget, with their own fair hands, from 
 beneath the poor woman's cloak. " Have you brought 
 us our scarfs at last? what a time we have been 
 expecting them!" — " Yes, indeed," echoed lady Mary, 
 " and depending on your promise of procuring me 
 some, I have been quite distressed for tea — there is 
 really no dependence on your word, Mrs. Campbell ; 
 and yet I have been at some pains to impress you with 
 a just sense of your christian duties, amongst which 
 you have often heard me remark, (and I am sure the 
 tracts I have given you inculcate the same lesson), 
 that a strict attention to truth is one of the most 
 essential — Well! where's the tea?" — "Oh! my lad)'," 
 answered the poor woman, with a humbly deprecating 
 tone and look, " if you did but know what risks we run 
 to get these things, and how uncertain our trade is, you 
 would not wonder that we cannot always oblige our 
 customers as punctually as we would wish. I have 
 brought the silks and scarfs for the young ladies, but 
 
 the " " What! no tea yet? Really it is too bad, 
 
 Mrs. Campbell; I must try if other people are not 
 more to be depended on." — " Indeed, my lady, we 
 have tried hard to get it for your ladyship ; but there's 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 125 
 
 such a sharp look-out now, and the Ranger has been 
 laying off the island for this week past, our people 
 haven't been able to get nothing ashore, and yet I am 
 sure my husband and son have been upon the watch 
 along the beach, and in the boat these three nights, in 
 all this dreadful weather; and to-night, though it 
 blows a gale, they're out again;" and the poor woman 
 cast a tearful shuddering glance towards the window, 
 against which the wind beat dismally, accompanied 
 with thick driving sleet, that half obscured the glimpses 
 of a sickly moon. 
 
 The lady was pacified by these assurances that the 
 foreign luxury should be procured for her that night, 
 if human exertions, made at the peril of human life, 
 could succeed in landing it. The silks, &c. were ex- 
 amined and approved of by the young ladies, and finally 
 taken and paid for, after some haggling about " the 
 price of blood," as the purchase-money might too 
 justly have been denominated. Mrs. Campbell re- 
 ceived it with a deep sigh, and, humbly curtseying, 
 withdrew from the presence, not without (involuntarily, 
 as it were) stealing an abashed glance towards my 
 countenance as she passed me. She was no sooner out 
 of the room than her fair customers began to expatiate, 
 with rapturous volubility on the beauty and cheapness 
 of their purchases — an inconsistency of remark that 
 puzzled me exceedingly, as, not five minutes before, 
 while bargaining with the seller, they had averred her 
 goods to be of very inferior manufacture, and exor- 
 bitantly dear. " Ay, but," observed the prudent 
 m 3 
 
126 
 
 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 mother, "you were in such a hurry, or you might 
 have made better bargains ; but it's always the way— 
 and yet I winked and winked at you both. I should 
 have got those things half as cheap again." 
 
 Indulgently tender as I am inclined to be to the 
 little whims and foibles of the sex, I could not, on the 
 present occasion, refrain from hinting to my fair friends 
 a part of what was passing in my mind. At first they 
 laughed at my quizzical scruples, and replied to them 
 with the common-place remark, " that the few things 
 they occasionally purchased could make no difference ; 
 for that, the people would smuggle all the same, and 
 find encouragement from others, if not from them." 
 And when I pressed the question a little further, 
 suggesting to their consciences whether all who en- 
 couraged the trade were not, in a great measure, 
 answerable for the guilt incurred, and the lives lost 
 in the prosecution of it, they bade me not talk of such 
 horrid things, and huddled away their recent purchases 
 in a sort of disconcerted silence, that spoke any thing 
 rather than remorse of conscience and purposed refor- 
 mation. My " sermonizing," as it was termed, seemed 
 to have thrown a spell over the frank sociability that 
 usually enlivened our evening coteries. Conversation 
 languished — the piano was out of tune — and the young 
 ladies not in a singing mood. Their mamma broke 
 her netting-thread every three minutes; and from a 
 dissertation on the degenerate rottenness of modern 
 cotton, digressed insensibly into a train of serious 
 observations on the dangers impending over church 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 127 
 
 and state from machinations of evangelical reformers — 
 ever and anon, when the storm waxed louder and 
 louder, interspersing her remarks with pathetic com- 
 plaints of the perverseness with which the very elements 
 seemed to conspire with government against the safe 
 landing of the precious bales. 
 
 The storm did rage fearfully, and its increasing vio- 
 lence wai-ned me to retrace my homeward way before 
 the disappearance of a yet glimmering moon shoidd 
 leave me to pursue it in total darkness. Flapping my 
 hat over my eyes, and wrapping myself snugly round 
 in the thick folds of a huge boat-cloak, I issued forth 
 from the cheerful brightness of the cottage parlour into 
 the darkness visible of the wild scene without. Wildly 
 magnificent it was ! My path lay along the shore, 
 against which mountainous waves came rolling in long 
 ridges, with a sound like thunder. Sleet, falling at 
 intervals, mingled with the sea surf, and both were 
 driven into my face by the south-east blast, with a 
 violence which obliged me frequently to pause and 
 gasp for breath. Large masses of clouds were hurried 
 in sublime disorder across the dim struggling moon, 
 whose pale light gleamed at intervals with ghastly 
 indistinctness along the white sands, and on the frothy 
 summits of the advancing billows. As I pursued my 
 way, buffeting the conflicting elements, other sounds, 
 methought, appeared to me to mingle in their up- 
 roar. The deep and shrill intonation of human 
 voices seemed blended with the wailing and sobbing 
 of the storm ; the creaking and labouring of planks, the 
 
128 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 splash of oars, was distinguishable, I thought, in the 
 pause of the receding waves. I was not deceived. A 
 momentary gleam of moonlight glanced on the white 
 sails of a vessel at some distance from the land, and 
 one of her boats (a black speck on the billows) was 
 discernible, making her way towards the shore. At 
 that moment another boat, close in shore, shot by with 
 the velocity of lightning, and at the same instant a man 
 rushed quickly by me, whose tall remarkable figure I 
 recognized for Campbell's in that dim momentary glance. 
 He darted on with the rapidity of an arrow, and imme- 
 diately I heard a long shrill whistle re-echoed by another 
 and another from the cliffs, from the shore, and from 
 the sea. The moon had almost withdrawn her feeble 
 light, and I could no longer discern any object but the 
 white sands under my feet, and the sea-foam that 
 frothed over them. More than two miles of my home- 
 ward path was yet before me ; and in their progress I 
 should have to cross two gullies furrowed through the 
 sand by land-springs from the adjacent cliffs. Inter- 
 mingled and bedded in these were several rocky crags, 
 and portions of the foundered cliff, amongst which it 
 was easy to pick one's day-light way; but the impene- 
 trable gloom that now enveloped every object, made me 
 pause for a moment to consider how far it might be safe 
 to continue onward in my wave-washed path. A light 
 streaming from one of the windows of Campbell's cot- 
 tage, a few furlongs up the beach, decided the result of 
 my deliberation, and I turned towards the little dwelling, 
 purposing to apply there for a lanthorn and a guide, 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 129 
 
 should the younger Campbell chance to be at home. 
 I had no need to tap for admittance at the humble 
 door. Tt was open, and on the threshold stood the mo- 
 ther of the family. The light from within gleamed across 
 her face and figure, and I could perceive that she was 
 listening with intense breathlessness, and with eyes 
 rivetted, as if they could pierce the darkness, towards 
 the quarter from whence I was approaching. My steps 
 on the loose shingle at length reached the ear, and she 
 darted forward, exclaiming, " Oh, Amy ! thank God ! 
 here's your father." The young woman sprang to the 
 door with a light, and its beams revealed my then un- 
 welcome features, instead of those of the husband and 
 
 father. " Oh, sir ! I thought " was poor Margaret's 
 
 eloquently unfinished ejaculation, when she discovered 
 her mistake; "but you are kindly welcome," she 
 quickly added, for this is no night for any Christian 
 
 soul to be out in, though my husband and son Oh, 
 
 sir ! they are both, both tossing in one little boat on 
 that dreadful sea; and that is not all, the Ranger's 
 boats are on the look-out for the lugger they are gone to 
 meet, and God knows what may happen. I prayed and 
 beseeched them for this night only to stay peaceable at 
 home, such a night of weather as was working up, but 
 all in vain; we had promised my lady, and the cargo 
 was to be landed to-night. Oh, sir ! my lady, and the 
 
 like of she, little think " and the poor woman burst 
 
 into tears. This was no time for admonition and re- 
 proof, or for the consolatory remarks so often addressed 
 to the unhappy, of " I told you it would come to this," 
 
130 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 or " This would not have happened if you had listened 
 to me," or, "Well, you have brought it all upon your- 
 self.'' The consequences of their illicit traffic were now 
 brought more forcibly home to the minds of these poor 
 people, by the agonizing suspense they were enduring, 
 than they could have been by any arguments I might 
 have laboured to enforce. I did my best to calm their 
 terrors. To dispel them was impossible, while the tem- 
 pest raged louder and louder : and independent of that, 
 there were other too reasonable grounds of apprehen- 
 sion. I suggested the probability of Campbell not being 
 in the boat, as he had passed me on the beach so 
 recently ; but, at all events, he was abroad in a tremen- 
 dous night, and with a desperate gang, expecting and 
 armed against resistance. Forgetting my own purpose 
 of borrowing a lanthorn to continue my homeward path, 
 I entered the cabin with the distressed females, whose 
 looks thanked me for abiding with them in this their 
 hour of need. A cheerful fire brightened the interior 
 of the little dwelling, where neatness and order still 
 bore testimony that the habits of its inmates had at 
 least been those of peaceful industry. The fire-light 
 gleamed ruddy red on the clean brick floor ; a carved 
 oak table, and a few clumsy old chairs of the same 
 fashion, were bright with the polish of age and house- 
 wifery ; and one, distinguished by capacious arms, a 
 high stuffed back, and red cushion, was placed close 
 beside the ingle nook, the accustomed seat of the father 
 of the family. His pipe lay close at hand, on the high 
 mantel-shelf, where a pair of brass candlesticks, a few 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 131 
 
 china cups, some long-shanked drinking glasses, and 
 sundry tobacco stoppers, of fantastical figure, were 
 ranged in symmetrical order. The dresser was elabo- 
 rately set out with its rows of yellow ware ; its mugs of 
 various shape and quaint diversity of motto and device ; 
 its japanned tray, and mahogany tea-chest, proudly 
 conspicuous in the middle. The walls were hung round 
 with nets, baskets, and fishing apparatus, and to the 
 rafter various articles of the same description were ap- 
 pended ; but Campbell's duck gun, and his two clumsy 
 pistols, rested not on the hooks he was wont to call his 
 armoury. An unfinished net was suspended by the 
 chimney corner, at which the youthful widow had 
 apparently been employed. She resumed her seat and 
 shuttle, but the hand that held it rested idly on her lap, 
 while her eyes were rivetted in mournful solicitude on 
 the anxious countenance of her mother. There was 
 something peculiarly interesting in this young woman : 
 not beauty of feature, for, excepting a pair of fine dark 
 eyes, shaded by lashes of unusual length, there was 
 nothing uncommon in her countenance, and her natur- 
 ally dark and colourless complexion was tinged with 
 the shallow hue of sickness ; her lips were whiter than 
 her cheek, and her uncommonly tall figure slender and 
 fragile as the reed, bowed down with the langour of 
 weakness and sorrow. But when she lifted up those dark 
 eyes, their melancholy light was touchingly expressive, 
 and in unison with the general character of the slight 
 shadowy frame that seemed almost transparent to the 
 workings of the wounded spirit within. Amy's young 
 
132 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 heart had never recovered the shock of her William's 
 untimely death, and her timid, tender nature, was 
 weighed down under a perpetual load of conscious self- 
 reproach, that for her sake, and that of her infants, her 
 father and her brother had engaged in the perilous 
 unlawfulness of their present courses. As she sat 
 looking on her mother's face, I could perceive what 
 thoughts were passing in her mind. At last a large 
 tear, that had been some time collecting, swelled over 
 the quivering lid, and trickled slowly down her cheek, 
 and rising suddenly, and letting fall the netting and 
 shuttle, she came and edged herself on the corner of 
 her mother's chair, and clasping one arm round her 
 neck, and hiding her face on her shoulder, sobbed out, 
 "Mother!" — "My Amy! my dear child!" whispered 
 the fond parent, tenderly caressing her, " why should 
 you always reproach yourself so ? You, who have 
 been a good dutiful child, and a comfort to us ever 
 since you were born. Before your poor father fell 
 into evil company, and listened to their temptations, 
 did we not contrive to maintain ourselves, and you 
 and your dear fatherless babies, by honest industry? 
 and where should you have taken refuge, my precious 
 Amy, but under your parents' roof? " A look of 
 eloquent gratitude and a tender kiss, were Amy's reply 
 to these fond assurances. For a few moments this 
 touching intercourse of hearts beguiled them from 
 the intense anxiousness with which they had been 
 listening to every sound from without; but the re- 
 doubled violence of the storm fearfully roused them 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 133 
 
 from that momentary abstraction, and they started 
 and looked in each other's faces, and then in mine, as 
 if beseeching comfort, when, alas ! I had only sym- 
 pathy to bestow. The conflict of winds and waves was 
 indeed tremendous ; and I felt too forcibly convinced, 
 that if the poor Campbells were indeed exposed to it, 
 in their little fishing boat, nothing short of a miracle 
 could save them from a watery grave. There was a 
 chance, however, that the landing of the contraband 
 goods might have been effected by the crew of the 
 lugger without help from shore, and 7 in that case, the 
 prolonged absence of the father and son might arise 
 from their having proceeded with them to some inland 
 place of concealment. The probability of this sugges- 
 tion was eagerly caught at by the conscious pair, but 
 the ray of hope gleamed with transient brightness. 
 A gust of wind, more awful than any which had pre- 
 ceded it, rushed past with deafening uproar, and as it 
 died away, low sobs, and shrill moaning lamenta- 
 tions, seemed mingled with its deep bass. We were 
 all silent ; now straining our sight from the cabin 
 door into the murky gloom without,— now gather- 
 ing together round the late blazing hearth, where 
 the neglected embers emitted only a fitful glimmer. 
 The wind rushing through every chink and cranny, 
 waved to and fro the flame of the small candle, de- 
 clining in its socket, and at last the hour of twelve was 
 struck by the old clock that " ticked behind the door" 
 in its dark heavy case. At that moment a large 
 venerable looking: book, that lav with a few others on 
 
134 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 a hanging shelf, near the chimney, slipped from the 
 edge on which it rested, and fell with a dull heavy 
 sound at Margaret's feet. It was the Bible that had 
 belonged to her husband's mother, and as she picked 
 it up, and replaced it, she perceived that it had fallen 
 open at the leaf, where, twenty-two years back from that 
 very day, the venerable parent had recorded, with pious 
 gratitude, the birth of her son's first born. " Ah, my 
 dear son! my good Maurice!" ejaculated the heart- 
 struck mother ; " I was not used to forget the day God 
 gave thee to me. Thou wert the first to leave me, 
 and now" She was interrupted by the low inarticu- 
 late murmur of a human voice that sounded near us. 
 We all started, but Amy's ear was familiarized to the 
 tone ; it was that of one of her little ones talking and 
 moaning in its sleep. The small chamber where they 
 lay, opened from that we were in, and the young mother 
 crept softly towards the bed of her sleeping infants. 
 She was still bending over them, when the outer door 
 was suddenly dashed open, and Campbell — Campbell 
 himself, burst into the cottage. Oh ! with what a 
 shriek of ecstasy was he welcomed ! With what a 
 rapture of inarticulate words, clinging embraces, and 
 tearful smiles! But the joy was transient, and suc- 
 ceeded by a sudden chill of nameless apprehensions ; 
 for, disengaging himself almost roughly from the arms 
 of his wife and daughter, he staggered towards his own 
 old chair, and flinging himself back into it, covered his 
 face with his clasped hands. One only cause for this 
 fearful agitation suggested itself to his trembling wife. 
 
THE SMUGGLER. ] 35 
 
 " My son! my son!" she shrieked out, grasping her 
 husband's arms, " what have you done with him? He 
 is dead ! he is murdered ! Oh ! I knew it would come 
 to this." "Peace, woman!" shouted Campbell, in a 
 voice of thunder, uncovering his face as he started up 
 wildly from his chair, with a look of appalling fierce- 
 ness — " Peace, woman ! your son is safe :" then his 
 tone suddenly dropping to a low hoarse murmur, he 
 added, " This is not his blood;" and he flung on the 
 table his broad white belt, on which the tokens of a 
 deadly fray were frightfully apparent. "Campbell!" 
 I cried, " unhappy man ! what have you done ? to what 
 have you brought your wretched family? For their 
 sakes escape ; escape for your life, while the darkness 
 favours you." He trembled, and looked irresolute for 
 a moment, but immediately resuming the voice and 
 aspect of desperate sternness, replied, " It is too late ; 
 they are at my heels — they tracked me home:" and 
 while he yet spoke, the trampling of feet, and the shout 
 of loud voices was heard ; the door burst open, and 
 several rough looking men, in the garb of sailors, rushed 
 into the cottage. " Ah ! we have you, my man/' they 
 vociferated ; " we have you at last, though the young 
 villain has given us the slip." — "Villain!" shouted 
 Campbell ; " who dares call my son a villain ?" But 
 checking himself instantaneously, he added, in a sub- 
 dued quiet tone, " but I am in your power now ; you 
 may do what you will :" and once more he seated him- 
 self in sullen submissiveness. The women clung weep- 
 ing around him, his unhappy wife exclaiming, " Oh ! what 
 
136 THE SMUGGLER: 
 
 has he done ? If there has been mischief, it is not his 
 fault — he would not hurt a fly. For all his rough way, 
 he is as tender-hearted as a child. Richard ! Richard ! 
 speak to them ; tell them it is a mistake." He neither 
 spoke nor moved, nor lifted up his eyes from the 
 ground on which they were fixed. " No mistake at 
 all, mistress," said one of the men, " he has only shot 
 one of our people, that's all, and we must just fit him 
 with a couple of these new bracelets." And so saying, 
 he began to fasten a pair of handcuffs round Campbell's 
 wrists. He offered no resistance, and seemed, indeed, 
 almost unconscious of what was doing, when the eldest 
 of Amy's children, a pretty little girl of four years old, 
 who, having been awakened by the noise, had crept 
 softly from the bed, and made her way unperceived 
 towards her grandfather, burst into a fit of loud 
 sobbing, and climbing up upon his knees, and clasping 
 her little arms about his neck, and laying her soft 
 cheek to his dark rough one, lisped out, " Send away 
 naughty men, grandad — naughty men frighten Amy." 
 
 The springs of sensibility that seemed frozen up in 
 Campbell's bosom were touched electrically by the 
 loving tones and caresses of his little darling. He 
 hugged her to his bosom, which began to heave with 
 deep convulsive sobs, and for a moment the tears of 
 the old man and the child mingled in touching silence. 
 As he clasped her thus, the handcuff that was already 
 fastened to his left wrist, pressed painfully on her tender 
 arms, and as she shrunk from it, he seemed first to 
 perceive the ignominious fetter. His brow was wrung 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 137 
 
 with a sudden convulsion, but its distortion was mo- 
 mentary, and turning to his weeping daughter, he 
 said quietly, " Amy, my dear child! take the poor 
 baby ; I little thought, dear lamb, she would ever find 
 hurt or harm in her old grandfather's arms." It was 
 a touching scene ; even the rough sailors seemed 
 affected by it, and they were more gently executing 
 their task of fitting on the other manacle, when again 
 steps and voices approached ; again the door opened, 
 and a second band appeared at it, a group of sailors, 
 likewise, bearing amongst them a ghastly burthen, the 
 lifeless body of the unfortunate young man who had 
 been shot in the execution of his duty, by the rash 
 hand of the wretched culprit before us, whose aim was 
 not the less fatal for having been almost unconsciously 
 taken in the bustle of a general conflict. " We've 
 missed our boat, and we could not let him lie bleeding 
 on the beach," said one of the new comers, in reply to 
 an exclamation of surprise from those who before 
 occupied the cottage. Campbell's agitation was dread- 
 ful: he turned, shuddering, from the sight of his 
 victim. The women stood petrified with horror. I 
 alone, retaining some self-possession, advanced to 
 examine if human aid might yet avail to save the poor 
 youth, who was laid, apparently a corpse, on three 
 chairs, near the door. Comprehending my purpose, 
 the humane tenderness of poor Margaret's nature 
 surmounted her agonized feelings, and she came 
 trembling to assist in the painful examination. The 
 young man's face was turned from us towards the wall, 
 n3 
 
138 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 and almost covered by the luxuriant hair (a sailor's 
 pride) which, escaping from the confining ribbon, had 
 fallen in dark wet masses over his cheek and brow. 
 His right hand hung down from his side, and on taking 
 it into mine, I fouud that it was already as cold as 
 marble, and that no pulse was perceptible in the 
 artery. Margaret had, as expeditiously as her agita- 
 tion would permit, unclosed his sailor's jacket, and 
 checked shirt ; and though she started and shuddered 
 at the sight of blood thickly congealed over his bosom, 
 she persisted heroically in her trying task. His neck 
 handkerchief had been previously untied, and stuffed 
 down as a temporary pledget into the wounded breast. 
 In removing it, Margaret's finger became entangled 
 by a black string passed round the youth's neck, to 
 which a small locket was suspended. She was hastily 
 moving it aside, when the light held by one of the 
 sailors fell upon the medallion, (a perforated gold 
 pocket piece), and her eye glancing towards it at the 
 same moment, a half-choaked exclamation burst from 
 her lips, and looking up, I saw her standing motion- 
 less, breathless, her hands clasped together with con- 
 vulsive energy, and her eyes starting almost from their 
 sockets, in the stare of indescribable horror with which 
 they were rivetted on the suspended token. At last a 
 shriek (such a one as my ears never before heard, 
 the recollection of which still curdles the blood in my 
 veins) burst from her lips, and brought her daughter 
 and husband, even the unfortunate man himself, to 
 the spot where she stood absorbed in that fatal con- 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 139 
 
 lemplation. She looked up towards her husband, 
 (on whose brow, cold drops of agony were quickly 
 gathering, whose white lips quivered with the workings 
 of a tortured spirit) — she gazed up in his face with 
 such a look as I shall never forget. It was one of 
 horrid calmness, more fearful to behold than the 
 wildest expressions of passionate agony, and grasping 
 his fettered hand firmly in one of her's, and with the 
 other pointing to the perforated gold piece, as it lay on 
 the mangled bosom of the dead youth, she said in a 
 low steady voice, " Look there ! Who is that, Richard ?" 
 His eyes rivetted themselves with a ghastly stare on 
 the object to which they pointed, then wandered wildly 
 over the lifeless form before him ; but the tremulous 
 agitation of his frame ceased, the convulsive workings 
 of the muscles of his face changed into rigid fixedness, 
 and he stood like one petrified, in the very burst of 
 despair. Once more she repeated, in the same calm 
 deliberate tone, " Who is that, Richard ?" and suddenly 
 leaning forward, dashed aside from the face of the 
 corpse the dark locks that had hitherto concealed it, 
 " There, there!" she shrieked — " I knew it was my 
 son!" and bursting into a frenzied laugh, she called 
 out, " Amy ! Amy ! your brother is come home — 
 come home on his birth-day. Will nobody bid him 
 welcome? Richard, won't you speak to your son, to 
 our dear Maurice ? won't you bless him on his birth- 
 day?" And snatching her husband's hand, she endea- 
 voured to drag him towards the pale face of the dead. 
 He to whom this heart-rending appeal was addressed, 
 
140 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 replied only by one deep groan, which seemed to 
 burst up the very fountain of feeling and of life. 
 He staggered back a few paces — his eyes closed — 
 the convulsion of a moment passed over his features, 
 and he fell back as inanimate as the pale corpse that 
 was still clasped with frantic rapture to the heart of 
 the brain-struck mother. 
 
 The mind which will not be content with its condition 
 is its own torment. People are only miserable be- 
 cause they are not where they would be, — because they 
 do not what they would do, — because they have not 
 what they would have. Wish not to be where you 
 are not, — to do what you cannot do, — to have what 
 you have not ; — but rather, be willingly where it is 
 necessary that you should be, — do without opposition 
 what you are obliged to do, — be contented with what 
 you possess ; — and you are at least as happy as those 
 who command you, and surpass you in riches, in 
 power, and in prosperity. 
 
HI 
 
 THE DELIVERANCE. 
 
 It was a Sabbath afternoon early in the year, and a 
 crowded congregation were seen leaving a small kirk in 
 the mountains of Perthshire. The annual celebration 
 of the sacrament had taken place there that day, which 
 had attracted, as is usual in Scotland, great numbers of 
 persons even from parishes at many miles distance. 
 The services of the day were now over, and the people 
 separated into different groups as they took their re- 
 spective roads homewards ; all, even the youngest and 
 most thoughtless, walking on with a quietness and 
 seriousness of deportment befitting the holy day, and 
 the solemnity of the occasion which had called them 
 together. A numerous party set out together to the 
 eastward, conversing as they walked along, some on 
 the more worldly topics of country discourse, — the state 
 of the weather, the crops, and the markets ; others, on 
 the various services they had that day heard, and the 
 gifts and graces of their respective ministers. Their 
 numbers gradually diminished as one party after an- 
 other branched off up the glens, or over the hill-paths 
 leading to their distant farms and cottages, until at 
 
142 THE DELIVERANCE. 
 
 last only four persons remained. These were Donald 
 Mac Alpine and his wife, who lived at Burnieside, to 
 which place they were now fast approaching; and his 
 brother Angus, who, with his son Kenneth, had come 
 that morning from Linn-head, about five miles further. 
 A February evening was closing in dusk and cold, 
 with every appearance of a stormy, wet night, when the 
 lights in the casements of the farm at Burnieside ap- 
 peared flickering in the distance, cheering the hearts of 
 Donald and his wife with thoughts of the comfort of 
 their own warm hearth, and their children's hearty 
 welcome, after the fatigues and weariness of their day's 
 journey. Angus and Kenneth entered with them, to 
 rest and refresh themselves before they proceeded on- 
 wards; and, as they were much beloved by their young 
 relatives, they met a welcome, only second in cordiality 
 and delight to that given to the parents. The large 
 and happy party were soon seated comfortably round a 
 glowing peat fire ; and cheerfully partaking, after thanks 
 had reverently been paid to the Giver of all good, of an 
 excellent and substantial supper. When it was over, 
 Angus summoned his son to depart. — " Come, Kenneth, 
 my boy, it is getting late, and we have five long miles 
 to go yet." Donald, who had risen to look out into 
 the night, now endeavoured to persuade his brother 
 and his nephew to remain where they were till morn- 
 ing. "The wind is rising, and driving the hail and rain 
 before it, and it is pitch-dark. I cannot let you leave 
 this warm hearth on such a night." — "Nay, Donald, we 
 must go, indeed. What would Marion and poor little 
 
THE DELIVERANCE. 143 
 
 Lily say if we did not come home ? We know our road 
 well, so we need not be afraid of the darkness; and as 
 to the wind and rain, we are used to that, and the warm 
 fireside at Linn-head, and a good bed, will be all the 
 more welcome after it. So, good night, Donald ; good 
 night, Janet; goodnight, children." — " Well," replied 
 Donald, " a wilful man must have his way ; but mind 
 when you come by the Black Linn. It is a very fear- 
 ful path along there on a dark night." — " As to that, 
 Donald, I do not think either Kenneth or I would fear 
 to pass the Linn on the darkest night in the year ; we 
 know every rock and stone so well. We are almost at 
 home when we have got there." Angus then taking 
 up his thick walking staff, and Kenneth slinging over 
 his shoulder the little wallet in which he had carried 
 their simple dinner, they ventured out into the storm, 
 and the hospitable door of Burnieside was reluctantly 
 closed behind them. 
 
 For some time they trudged on without much diffi- 
 culty, though the wind and rain beat directly in then- 
 faces, and were gradually becoming more violent. In 
 the intervals between the gusts, the father and son 
 conversed together, and Kenneth was pouring forth 
 some of the feelings which the day's services had 
 excited in his pious and serious young heart. He was 
 now about fifteen years of age, the pride and delight of 
 his parents, and of his sister Lilias, who was a year or 
 two older than himself. Marion Mac Alpine, his mother, 
 had from his infancy cherished the hope, that this her 
 only son might become a pious and useful minister in 
 
144 THE DELIVERANCE. 
 
 the church ; she wished, like Hannah with the youthful 
 Samuel, " to give this child, for whom she had prayed, 
 unto the Lord all the days of his life ; and as he in- 
 creased in stature, his parents' hearts glowed within 
 them as they marked his studious, serious disposition, 
 and the heavenly-mindedness of his simple character. 
 The great object of their desires was to afford him the 
 advantages of a college education, and the toils by which 
 they strove to secure the means of doing so were made 
 sweet both to his father, mother, and sister, by the love 
 with which they regarded him. Lilias, indeed, looked 
 on Kenneth as on some superior being. She was a 
 sweet-tempered, active, industrious girl, and though her 
 mental powers were not fashioned in so fine a mould as 
 her brother's, she had a heart to love and admire him, 
 and would have made any sacrifice of her own ease and 
 comfort, to have added to his happiness or promoted 
 his welfare. His progress in learning, under the care 
 of the good minister of Linn-head, had been very rapid ; 
 and as both his age and his acquirements were now 
 such as nearly to fit him for college, it was intended 
 that he should be entered a student at the University 
 of Glasgow in the following year. 
 
 " Father," said the boy, " that was a fine discourse 
 of Mr. Muir's, 'the Lord is a very present help in 
 trouble.' " — " It was, Kenneth ; but one to be better 
 understood by the aged than the young Christian." — 
 " Just what I thought, father. The words went like 
 fire into my heart ; yet, to me, they were but words of 
 promise ; to you, and others, who have gone through 
 
THE DELIVERANCE. 145 
 
 suffering find tribulation, they were words recalling 
 blessed experience. So far in my life, thanks be to 
 God, and under Him, to you, and my mother, and dear 
 Lily, ' the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places ; 
 I have a goodly heritage;' but I know it must needs 
 
 be that afflictions come, and when they do " 
 
 " May you find the truth and power of the promises," 
 interrupted his father. " Amen!" said Kenneth, with 
 fervour. 
 
 In these sweet communings, they beguiled the weary 
 way. They had proceeded more than three miles of 
 the distance, and had entered a deep defile in the 
 mountains, at the bottom of which ran a rapid stream. 
 This river, at all times considerable, now swollen by 
 the melting of the snows, roared along its rocky 
 channel. It entered the defile about a mile and a half 
 higher up, over a tremendous precipice, forming one of 
 the wildest and most terrific cataracts in the High- 
 lands, which was known in the country by the name of 
 the Black Linn. The water was precipitated into a 
 deep, dark chasm, where it boiled and wheeled with 
 terrifying impetuosity, and then broke away with fury 
 through rents and channels in the rocks, which the force 
 of the stream had in the lapse of ages worn. This 
 scene of awful sublimity was surrounded by abrupt 
 walls of rock two hundred feet in height, grey and 
 bare, and overshadowing the depths below, so that 
 the rays of the bright sun could never penetrate further 
 than to paint a rainbow on the spray of the fall about 
 midway of its descent. A narrow and unprotected 
 
140 THE DELIVERANCE. 
 
 mountain road led up the defile past the cataract to 
 the village of Linn-head, which, on such a night', 
 would have been far from safe to less experienced 
 travellers than those who were now toiling along it. 
 They were wet, cold and weary; and the force of 
 the wind pouring down the glen, the cold and sharp 
 rain beating in their faces, and the pitchy darkness 
 of the night, began almost to bewilder them. They 
 ceased to speak, but struggled on in silence. At 
 length, by the increased roar of waters, they perceived 
 that they were approaching the Linn. " Courage ! my 
 boy, we shall soon reach home now," said Angus. A 
 fresh and more violent gust of wind bringing a heavy 
 hail shower, obliged them to turn from its fury. Again 
 they groped their way afterwards. " Father," said 
 Kenneth, in a voice whose tremulous tones were 
 almost drowned by the fury of the elements, " we have 
 missed the path — we are on the wrong side of the oak 
 tree — we are on the top of the crag over the Black 
 Boiler, I am sure — take care of yourself — I am trying 
 
 to find " A piercing cry of agony, heard above 
 
 the rushing of the winds and waters, froze the father's 
 heart within him. " Kenneth !" he cried, in a voice of 
 horror, " my child, my child! where are you?" There 
 was no answer. The unhappy father called again and 
 again. The torrent rushed on in its resistless might, 
 and the wind howled past him, till his brain was almost 
 maddened by the roar, and the solid rock beneath him 
 seemed to tremble, as if an earthquake were shaking 
 the e:lobe to its foundations. He fluns: himself on the 
 
THE DELIVERANCE. 1 17 
 
 ground, and dragging himself along, felt, with out- 
 stretched arms, for the edge of the precipice. His 
 hand at length reached it, where the broken earth, 
 and some tufts of grass hanging by their slight fibrous 
 roots, shewed the very spot where it had yielded under 
 Kenneth's tread. He looked over, and strained his 
 eyes in the vain endeavour to pierce the thick dark- 
 ness beneath. All was hid in deep gloom, except 
 where a gleam of pale light marked the broken, foamy 
 edges of the falling waters far, far below. A sickness, 
 like death, fell upon the heart of poor Angus, as the 
 conviction forced itself on him, that his child was in- 
 deed gone — lost to him for ever. He tried again to 
 call, but his voice refused to give utterance to a sound, 
 and having groped his way back to the oak tree, the 
 land-mark already mentioned, he leaned against it for 
 some moments as if to collect strength, and then, 
 making a desperate effort to move forward, he reached 
 the village. All the lights in the cottages were by this 
 time extinguished for the night, except those which 
 gleamed from his own windows, whose brightness 
 shewed that those within were still waking and watch- 
 ing for the return of their absent ones. Marion and 
 Lily had just heaped the fire with fresh wood and peat, 
 which threw a bright cheerful light round the cottage. 
 The singing kettle, hanging on the hook over the fire, 
 sent its light clouds of curling vapour up the wide 
 chimney. Before the fire was a small table, with the 
 great family Bible lying on it, in which Lilias had been 
 reading to her mother, till the increasing storm, and 
 
148 THE DELIVERANCE. 
 
 the growing lateness of the hour, began to awaken their 
 anxiety for Angus and Kenneth's return, and prevented 
 their giving to the word of God that undivided atten- 
 tion, without which they thought it but a mockery to 
 read. They sat listening to the wind and rain beating 
 against the cottage, sometimes expressing their anxie- 
 ties to each other, then striving to forget for a time the 
 sense of them, by busying themselves in all the little 
 arrangements they could devise, for the comfort of the 
 wet and weary wanderers. At length a hand touched 
 the outer latch. "Here they are!" exclaimed the 
 listening inmates. But almost a minute elapsed be- 
 fore that hand found courage again to try and open 
 the door. When it did open, and the pale and horror- 
 struck figure of Angus entered, a sense of awful cala- 
 mity in an instant struck both Marion and Lilias. He 
 closed the door, and leaned against it, as if he could 
 neither speak nor move. " Kenneth!" they both ex- 
 claimed. " The Linn — the Linn — lost!" — was all that 
 the unhappy father could utter. Then staggering to 
 his chair, he burst into a passionate flood of grief, so 
 unlike any thing his wife and daughter had before 
 witnessed in his steady, composed character, that, for 
 the moment, they lost all thought of every thing else 
 in the endeavour to soothe him. But the relief of 
 tears seemed to take the heavy load off his heart, and 
 before long he could with great calmness tell of the 
 awful bereavement they had sustained, and endeavour, 
 in his turn, to comfort the stricken hearts of his wife 
 and daughter. A family of sorrow, they sat by the 
 
THE DELIVERANCE. 149 
 
 dying embers of their hearth that long and bitter night ; 
 but an unskilled pen may not dare to describe their 
 feelings, nor the power of the consolations from on 
 high, which visited them in their affliction. 
 
 Towards morning poor Lilias, exhausted by sorrow, 
 had sunk into a deep sleep, with her head resting on 
 her mother's shoulder. Angus kept walking continu- 
 ally to the little window, to watch for the first streaks 
 of light in the east, intending, as soon as the day 
 dawned, to take some of his neighbours with him to 
 assist in finding all that was left to him of his beloved 
 child. At length the grey of morning broke over the 
 hills — he took his hat and went out, leaving Marion 
 supporting her daughter's head — her lips moved in in- 
 ward prayer as he left the house. The melancholy 
 news rapidly spread through the village ; for Kenneth 
 was as much loved by all who knew him as his father 
 was respected, and all the neighbours and friends were 
 soon collected to go with Angus to find the body ; 
 while some of the women went in to Marion to console 
 and support her during this trying time. 
 
 In the meantime, he for whose loss all were thus 
 sorrowing, was yet living. He had been saved from 
 destruction by the stems of three or four saplings of 
 mountain-ash and weeping-birch, which had taken 
 root in a fissure of the almost perpendicular crag, 
 and hung their light elegant foliage, nearly hori- 
 zontally, over the black whirlpool below. The slight 
 stems had bowed fearfully under the pressure of 
 Kenneth's falling weight, but springing up again by 
 o 3 
 
150 THE DELIVERANCE. 
 
 their elasticity, they now held him suspended, and 
 rocking with every blast, over the yawning chasm. 
 He lay unconscious for a long time, from the stunning 
 effects of the fall, and of a severe blow which his 
 head had received against the rock ; but his senses 
 gradually returned, and he awoke to an acute sense 
 of pain both bodily and mental. When he under- 
 stood his awful and precarious situation, an over- 
 powering terror came over his mind, and he wreathed 
 his arms round the branches of the trees, with the con- 
 vulsive instinct of self-preservation. His calls for 
 help were piercing and continual; but they reached 
 no human ear. At this trying moment, the words 
 which he had been dwelling on all the da}', " the Lord 
 is a very present help in trouble," recurred to his 
 thoughts like oil upon the stormy waves, leading 
 them into peaceful tranquillity. " Yea," he mentally 
 exclaimed, "even in the valley of the shadow of death, 
 I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me." His mind 
 then rapidly glanced at all the circumstances of his 
 situation. He was instantly aware that he could 
 neither make any exertions to release himself, nor 
 hope for any assistance till the morning dawned ; and 
 that nothing remained for him but to rest where he 
 was in quietness, and reliance upon his Almighty 
 Father, till day-light. Though the violence of the 
 storm gradually abated, his sufferings from wet and 
 cold, were extreme during that apparently endless 
 night. He endeavoured to beguile the time by re- 
 peating passages of Scripture, with which his memory 
 
THE DELIVERANCE, 151 
 
 was amply stored ; and when these failed to divert 
 his mind from the oppressive weight of pain and 
 dread, or when thoughts of his dear home, and all 
 whom he loved there, would force themselves upon 
 his recollection, he poured out his soul at the throne 
 of mercy, and was strengthened. But the vigour of 
 his mind began gradually to yield to the anguish of 
 his frame ; and before morning, the powers of life 
 seemed to be ebbing fast away, leaving him in a state 
 almost of insensibility. He closed his eyes, and con- 
 sciousness grew fainter and fainter. When he again 
 languidly raised their lids, they rested, as he lay with 
 his face upturned towards heaven, on lightly tinged 
 rose-coloured clouds, the forerunners of the rising sun, 
 sailing slowly and peacefully over the abyss. The 
 sight seemed to revive the dying spark within, and 
 sent a thrill of hope and joy through his stiffening 
 limbs. But as the increasing light shewed him the 
 height and the inaccessible steepness of the precipice 
 above him, and he felt his own incapacity to move, 
 his heart again sunk within him. " Yet, surely," 
 thought he, " they will come to seek me •" and, for 
 the first time, a movement of restless impatience began 
 to agitate him. 
 
 About this time the villagers, being collected to- 
 gether, were proceeding to the fall. Angus in vain 
 endeavoured to maintain his wonted steadiness of 
 demeanour. At one time he hurried on, as if im- 
 pelled forwards by an irresistible power; and then, 
 as if nature recoiled with dread from the sight of 
 
152 THE DELIVERANCE. 
 
 his beautiful child, changed to a pale and disfigured 
 corpse, he lingered in the rear. When they reached 
 the oak tree before mentioned, he remained motion- 
 less, while the rest advanced on to the crag, more 
 from the desire to see the very spot of Kenneth's fall, 
 than from any expectation of finding his remains, 
 which they doubted not the stream had, by that time, 
 carried farther down the country. Malcolm, a young 
 blacksmith of the village, of remarkably active and 
 enterprising character, was first. He advanced close 
 to the edge of the cliff, which his steady head enabled 
 him to look over without fear. The others remon- 
 strated with him on his rashness, but Malcolm had 
 caught a glimpse of something which made him 
 thoughtless of himself; and in order to be certain that 
 it was what his hopes suggested, before he mentioned 
 them to any one, he lay down on the ground, and 
 stretched his body half over the brink to gain a dis- 
 tinct view. " It is — it is," he exclaimed — " What ?" 
 cried many voices. — " Himself!" cried Malcolm, 
 springing up ; — " fetch ropes ; and he ran off instantly 
 to the village to execute his own orders, followed by 
 several of the boys and younger men. Angus gazed 
 at this sudden movement with a bewildered eye, till 
 some of the others, who had also looked down, came 
 to tell him that his son was indeed there, and, they 
 hoped, alive, though they could hardly distinguish 
 whether the slight trembling of the tree was caused 
 by the breeze, or by an endeavour to make a signal. 
 The father's eves were again blessed by the sight of 
 
THE DELIVERANCE. 153 
 
 his child ; but the agony and suspense of hope tried 
 him, if possible, more severely than the certainty of 
 calamity. He kneeled down, covering his face with 
 his hands, during the minutes, which to him seemed 
 hours, that elapsed before the return of Malcolm and 
 the ropes. It was some little time after they were 
 got back, before they had lashed together strong cords 
 sufficient to reach Kenneth's resting-place ; but, at 
 length, having secured one end of them strongly round 
 the oak tree, they gradually lowered the other over 
 the face of the crag, Kenneth saw it descending, like 
 the angel of his rescue, and watched its gradual pro- 
 gress, till it reached the level at which he lay; and, 
 after swinging to and fro, finally rested upon his body. 
 But when he tried to untwine his benumbed arms 
 from the branches round which they had so long 
 been clinging, he felt almost with despair that he 
 could not stir. Those above tried with shouts to 
 encourage him, and to persuade him to tie the rope 
 round his waist. He could not. Neither could he raise 
 his hoarse and feeble voice to make them hear. They 
 began to be quite at a loss what to do, and almost 
 to doubt whether life were not fled. In this emer- 
 gency, Mr. Cameron, the minister of Linn-head, was 
 seen coming up the road mounted on his rough little 
 Shetland pony. He had been assisting in the cele- 
 bration of the Sacrament the preceding day, and 
 having remained to spend the evening with his fellow- 
 ministers, whom that occasion had collected together, 
 was returning, at this early hour, to his home and 
 
154 TUT. DELIVERANCE. 
 
 his duties, principally to be in readiness for his be- 
 loved and favourite pupil Kenneth. He wondered 
 to see so many of his parishioners assembled, but 
 a few words explained the whole; and surprised and 
 agitated as he was by the suddenness of the shock, 
 he retained presence of mind sufficient to direct what 
 was best to be done. " Some one must be lowered 
 to his assistance," said he. Malcolm immediately 
 volunteered himself; and while the active young High- 
 lander drew up the rope, and fastened it round his 
 own waist, Mr. Cameron went to support Angus. 
 All the people present assisted in lowering the courage- 
 ous youth, who guided himself by a long stick, which 
 he held in his hand, and by which he kept himself 
 from striking against the rock. Having reached the 
 proper station, he planted one foot firmly on a slight 
 projection, and, steadying himself with his stick, this 
 active and powerful young man stooped down, loosened 
 Kenneth's hands, and grasping the poor exhausted 
 boy with his strong muscular arm, gave the signal 
 to be drawn up. As they slowly ascended, he held 
 his drooping charge firmly, yet tenderly, and, with 
 surprising skill and dexterity, guided their course, till 
 with great exertion, and some little difficulty, they 
 safely reached the top. 
 
 Mr. Cameron no sooner saw Kenneth safely laid 
 in his father's arms, and had ascertained that, though 
 fainting, life was not extinct, than, leaving all the 
 rest to follow slowly, he mounted his pony, and rode 
 briskly forward to break the joyful tidings to poor 
 
THE DELIVERANCE. 155 
 
 Marion. When he entered the cottage, which the 
 care of her kind neighbours had restored to its wonted 
 look of comfort, she rose to meet him with calmness 
 and composure, but with a face, on which one night 
 seemed to have done the work of years. "Oh! Mr. 
 Cameron, you are come, indeed, to the house of 
 mourning; have you heard all?" "Yes, my good 
 Marion, I have seen Angus." — " And have they 
 
 found " She could say no more ; her tears 
 
 choked heF. " Yes, they have, Marion," said the 
 good pastor, hardly knowing how to break it to her ; 
 "your son shall live again." — "I know," replied the 
 devout Christian mother, "I know that he shall rise 
 again in the resurrection at the last day, Oh ! Mr. 
 Cameron, our hearts' desire for him was, that he 
 should serve the Lord in his courts here below, and 
 if he calls him so soon to stand in the holy of holies, 
 what are we, that we should gainsay his will? and 
 yet, it is hard to say, Thy will be done!" Mr. Cameron 
 was so much affected, that it was some time before he 
 could say, " Marion, the Lord's arm is not shortened 
 that he cannot save ; and what is impossible with men, 
 is possible with God." Marion lifted up her eyes, with 
 an expression of wild doubt. Lilias sprung forward, 
 and seized his hand, and the neighbours drew round 
 inquiringly, " Yes ! my friends, he has been wonder- 
 fully delivered, and he is yet living; but Marion," he 
 added, observing that she turned deadly pale, "you 
 must command yourself. He has suffered severely, 
 and his life may depend on your composure, and ability 
 
156 THE DELIVERANCE. 
 
 to do all that may be required for him. Now, my 
 good friends, prepare a warm bed, and get all things 
 in readiness." While the other women were busying 
 themselves according to their minister's desire, the 
 mother and daughter, with their arms round each other, 
 were standing on the threshold, looking out for the first 
 sight of him who had been lost, but was found ; while 
 Mr. Cameron gently related to them the history of his 
 wonderful escape, mingling with his relation words of 
 religious comfort and exhortation, which fell like balm 
 upon their hearts. At last, the party came slowly up, 
 bearing Kenneth on a rude litter which they had hastily 
 put together ; and as he crossed the threshold of his 
 home once again, his mother and sister quietly kissed 
 his cold pallid cheek, and he opened his eyes on them 
 with a look of love. He was laid in his warm bed, and 
 they proceeded to restore warmth and animation by 
 cordials, and by rubbing his limbs with spirits. But 
 whether their applications were too stimulating, or it 
 was the natural effect of his long exposure to the cold, 
 added to the blow on his head, fever rapidly came on, 
 and, for several days, he lay in violent delirium. It 
 almost broke the hearts of those who were watching by 
 his bedside, to hear his screams of horror, and broken 
 snatches of prayer and supplication, which shewed that 
 he was continually living over again that fearful night. 
 The following Sabbath, all the little congregation of 
 Linn-head joined, as with one heart, in their minister's 
 fervent intercession, that the life, already so wonder- 
 fully delivered, might yet once more be spared. Their 
 
THE DELIVERANCE. 157 
 
 prayers were granted; youth and a good constitution, 
 aided by the unwearied and judicious care of his affec- 
 tionate nurses, triumphed over the disease. That once 
 subdued, his strength rapidly returned, and, on the 
 third Sunday after, Kenneth, supported by his father 
 and mother, and followed by his sister, again entered 
 the sanctuary, and took his accustomed place there ; 
 and when they all kneeled in prayer, their hearts 
 burned within them, as Mr. Cameron poured forth 
 their thanksgivings to the Almighty. He chose for 
 his text the opening verses of the hundred and third 
 Psalm — " Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not 
 all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities, who 
 healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from 
 destruction ; and crowneth thee with loving-kindness and 
 tender mercy." From these appropriate words he uttered 
 a most affectionate and persuasive exhortation, not only 
 addressed to him who had been the subject of such 
 striking mercies, but to all the youthful members of 
 his flock, who had been witnesses of them. The good 
 seed thus scattered, falling on ground differently pre- 
 pared to receive it, brought forth fruit variously. In 
 Kenneth's heart, it brought forth fruit a hundred-fold ; 
 and during the course of a long after life, he was, as 
 far as the weakness of human nature may be, " stead- 
 fast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the 
 Lord," and was blessed in the conviction that his 
 -'labours in the Lord were not in vain." 
 
15S 
 
 THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP 
 
 "Oh, Edward," murmured Julia Harcourt to her 
 brother, as she laid her head upon his shoulder, be- 
 lieving herself unobserved, " where will you be at this 
 hour to-morrow evening?" 
 
 He answered only by an affectionate pressure of the 
 hand which he held in his ; the tears started in his eyes, 
 but anxious to conceal his emotions, he turned to his 
 father, and was about to address him. 
 
 " My children," said the General tenderly, " there is 
 no need of concealment of feelings, which honour rather 
 than disgrace our nature. It is only the indulgence of 
 vain regret that is censurable, not regret itself. It is 
 one of the penalties of humanity to separate from those 
 we love, and most pitiable is that insensibility which 
 can remain unshaken upon such occasions. You Ed- 
 ward, will not make a worse soldier because your sister's 
 tears have brought a corresponding sympathy in your 
 eyes; nor will you, Julia, enjoy less the future honours 
 of your brother, because you now weep that he must' 
 leave you. And think not," added he, in a voice which 
 gradually lost its firmness as he continued to speak ; 
 " think not that the moment when a son is about to 
 quit his parental roof, and engage in the busy scenes of 
 
THE YOUNG A1D-DU-CAMP. 159 
 
 life, is a painless one to a father. In him, to natural 
 regret is joined a knowledge of the shoals and quick- 
 sands that lie in his path, and remembrance of these 
 gives to the anxiety of maturity the acuteness of sorrow 
 that properly belongs to youth." He paused, and then 
 with greater steadiness continued; — "The path before 
 you, however, is an honourable and an open one. Ac- 
 quit yourself in it, therefore, as becomes a man and a 
 christian. But I will not now repeat the advice I have 
 already so earnestly given you, and the more so as I am 
 not aware that I have omitted any material point of 
 conduct. On one subject alone I have been less diffuse 
 than you might probably have expected me to be, but 
 this arose solely from its being too painful a one to dwell 
 openly upon." He passed his hand over his brow, but 
 could not conceal the agitation of his features ; " Here 
 is a packet, however," added he, "which will supply the 
 omission ; read the narrative it contains attentively, and 
 oh! may you escape the anguish that its writer has 
 been so long doomed to feel! " 
 
 Edward received the paper with reverence, and the 
 General now rising, fervently blessed both his children, 
 and retired to rest. 
 
 This was the last evening that Edward Harcourt was 
 to spend in his father's house previous to his joining his 
 regiment, which was under sailing orders for Spain. 
 He was a high spirited, amiable youth, the secret pride 
 . of his father, and the avowed delight of his sister. He 
 had scarcely passed his seventeenth year ; but in talent, 
 manner and appearance, he was many years older, 
 
160 THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 
 
 Brought up from his childhood with a view to the pro- 
 fession of arms, he had been for some time impatient to 
 take an active share in the dangers and honours which 
 at that time so particularly distinguished the British 
 name, and he looked forward to the scenes of glory 
 which he had pictured to himself with an eagerness that 
 allayed, though it could not extinguish, the sorrow of 
 parting from those who were so dear to him. By way 
 of enlivening their spirits, they had been romping in the 
 garden ; Edward assuming a fantastic dress, had been 
 playing all manner of pranks with some female friends; 
 but all his natural gaiety and high spirits were unable 
 either to subdue the feelings of an affectionate son and 
 brother on parting, or prevent the visible sorrow which 
 shewed itself on the cheek of a beloved sister. The next 
 day saw him far on his journey towards the metropolis, 
 where, having remained only sufficient time to equip 
 himself, he proceeded to Plymouth, and was soon after- 
 wards launched on the bosom of the ocean, under a 
 favourable wind, and with companions whose spirits 
 were almost as buoyant as his own. 
 
 He had hitherto been too much engaged to open the 
 packet which the General had given him, or indeed 
 scarcely to give it a thought ; but he had now abund- 
 ance of leisure for the purpose, and withdrawing himself 
 from observation, he with no slight degree of interest, 
 not unmingled with curiosity, broke the seal. The latter 
 feeling had probably not obtruded itself, but for the 
 idea that it contained an elucidation of an occasional 
 melancholy, which both he and his sister had observed 
 

THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMT. 
 
 1G1 
 
 ill their father, and which had excited alike their sur- 
 prise and commiseration. Loved and respected by them 
 in the highest degree, they had carefully abstained from 
 appearing to notice it, and had sought only by every 
 delicate and tender attention, to win him from his 
 abstraction, and to soothe him to composure and cheer- 
 fulness. Frequently in the midst of social enjoyment, 
 a sudden pang would seem to cross his heart, and in an 
 instant to change the hilarity of his countenance into 
 an expression of the deepest anguish. Frequently, 
 even in moments of paternal tenderness and delight, 
 when his breast appeared to overflow with the purest 
 felicity, a look of indescribable agony would ensue, and 
 tears, which he endeavoured in vain to conceal, would 
 start from his eyes. 
 
 A natural feeling of respect and delicacy made him 
 pause, before he could examine the paper which he 
 held in his hand. This he found to be a long letter 
 from the General, who, after enforcing many excellent 
 rules for his future conduct, thus proceeded : — 
 
 " And now, Edward, let me address you on a subject 
 to which I attach the deepest importance. I mean 
 that of duelling. By every consideration, moral and 
 divine — by every tie of affection to me, of allegiance to 
 your king, and of duty to your God, — I charge you 
 never to be either a principal or an accessory, in a 
 crime which reason and religion alike condemn as 
 utterly indefensible, although false honour and heart- 
 less sophistry have endeavoured to establish its pro- 
 priety and necessity. Continue to preserve that con- 
 
1G2 THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMr. 
 
 trol over your passions which lias hitherto distinguished 
 you ; give no offence, and be not ready to receive one ; 
 enter into no dispute, and whilst with a manly firmness 
 you maintain your own independence of thought and 
 action, avoid all interference with that of others, never 
 forgetting that when you became a soldier, you ceased 
 not to be a Christian ; but increased, rather than di- 
 minished your obligations, by having dedicated that life 
 to your king, which you received from your God, for 
 the proper disposal of which you are now accountable 
 to both. 
 
 " But if argument fail, let the recital I am about to 
 make, effectually deter you from the commission of so 
 heinous an offence. Yes, I will raise the veil that has 
 long covered the anguish of my heart, although I am 
 well aware that the effort will be most distressing to 
 me, and that the exposure of past errors to a son's eyes 
 must prove a bitter task to a father. 
 
 " I was early destined like yourself to the army, and 
 entered upon life with prospects as fair as your own. 
 My connexions were powerful, my fortune was good, 
 and my friends consequently were numerous. Nature 
 had done much for me, adventitious circumstances 
 more. My society was everywhere sought, I was a 
 general favourite, and though reason pointed out the 
 motive of the attention I received, self-love and vanity 
 resolved the unmeaning homage into a debt due to 
 my peculiar merit. I became addicted to pleasure, 
 grew haughty and impatient of control, and while I 
 pursued gratifications which my better principles con- 
 
THE YOUNG AID-DL-CAM r. 163 
 
 demned. I allowed neither the inward monitor of my 
 own breast, nor the remonstrances of my real friends, 
 to have any influence over my actions. Real friends, 
 perhaps, I had few ; but I possessed one, — alas ! how 
 my heart throbs at the recollection! — whose worth alone 
 was sufficient to outweigh the loss of hundreds. Mel- 
 ville was my cousin by my mother's side — he, too, was 
 an only son ; but as his parents were by no means in 
 affluent circumstances, he became at the death of his 
 father entirely dependent upon mine. We had been 
 brought up together, and he had hitherto shared in all 
 the advantages which had been so liberally bestowed 
 upon me. I fear he was much more attached to my 
 person than I was alive to his merits. We were indeed 
 very dissimilar. He was gentle, patient, endowed 
 with extraordinary powers of self-control, moderate in 
 all his desires, just, honourable, generous, and brave ; 
 while equally correct in practice as in principle, his 
 rectitude amidst all temptation remained unshaken. 
 My teal's fall fast at this feeble testimony to his worth; 
 alas ! that the loss of blessings should best teach us 
 their value. 
 
 " Melville had frequently, in forcible but gentle terms, 
 remonstrated with me on my conduct. I at first listened 
 to him without displeasure, and even with secret admi- 
 ration of the manner he adopted towards me, but in 
 proportion as my behaviour grew irregular, and the 
 upbraidings of my conscience more severe, his admoni- 
 tions became less endurable. The sneers, also, of my 
 profligate associates at his influence provoked me, and 
 
164 THE YOUNG AID-DU-C AMP. 
 
 I gradually absented myself from his society, till at 
 length I totally withdrew myself from him. Melville 
 was much hurt by this procedure, and for a time 
 endeavoured by every means to win back my confidence, 
 but finding that he rather defeated than promoted his 
 views by seeking me, he forbore to intrude. Often did 
 my heart reproach me for the unmanliness and in- 
 gratitude of my conduct, and as often did I long for a 
 renewal of that cordiality which was once my happiness, 
 and had always been my safety; but pride and the 
 ridicule of my companions withheld me from making 
 any advance towards a better understanding, and in the 
 end I scarcely even deigned to speak to him. 
 
 "Among other evil propensities, I had contracted a 
 love of gaming, to supply which even the liberal 
 allowance of my father was inadequate. I became 
 involved in debt, and was guilty of many petty acts of 
 meanness, which at a former period of my life I should 
 have abhorred. Alas ! little did I think at the time 
 that it was Melville, the honourable, self-denying Mel- 
 ville, who, out of the savings of his own comparatively 
 scanty purse, preserved me frequently from exposure 
 from my trades-people. I thought neither of him nor 
 of them, — I was selfish, wilfully heedless and extrava- 
 gant, merely because I would not allow myself to reflect. 
 
 " One evening I had played to a considerable amount, 
 and had been particularly unfortunate. In my agitation, 
 I drank largely, and thus the irritation of intoxication 
 was added to the irritation of excited feeling. We were 
 seated in our tent, for it was summer. Melville passed 
 
THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 165 
 
 us on his way to the guard-room. He cast, or I fancied 
 that he cast, a look of peculiar meaning towards me. 
 I was provoked at having been seen at all by him, and 
 I turned myself from him with as little apparent inten- 
 tion as possible. He however turned back, and doing 
 so approached the tent more nearly. This I thought 
 was done for the express purpose of observation, and I 
 felt exceedingly vexed, though I forbore to say a word. 
 ■ What is the curious fool looking at V exclaimed one 
 of my companions, ' does he think that he is to mount 
 guard here?' 'No, no,' rejoined another, 'he is already 
 on the watch. Harcourt, this will be a pretty tale to 
 report to your father.' I was almost mad at the sugges- 
 tion, when unfortunately for both, he again passed, 
 though yet apparently in haste. I sprang out, and in 
 a voice of rage accused him of the meanness of watching 
 me. He bore my abuse with calmness and in silence, 
 nay even an expression of pity was visible on his features* 
 but this only inflamed me still more. I taxed him 
 with an intention of betraying me to my father. Then, 
 and then only, his eyes flashed with indignation. ' It 
 is false,' said he warmly; 'cruelly, abominable false.' 
 He spoke only with the emphasis of outraged and 
 insulted feeling, but my companions construed his words 
 into that which was not to be endured by a gentleman, 
 and insisted that an apology was due to my injured 
 honour. ' I can make no apology,' exclaimed Melville, 
 ' when I have committed no offence. My cousin must 
 do as he pleases — he knows his own injustice too well 
 to persist in it.' Alas! I did not know it, but I was 
 
166 THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 
 
 too much disordered, too much goaded on by others to 
 
 own it, and But I must hasten to the dreadful 
 
 catastrophe. My companions insisted on a meeting, 
 and that immediately; it took place — I had the first 
 fire — it was fatal — Melville fell ! 
 
 11 The mists of passion and intoxication faded at once 
 from my eyes. I ran to him and raised him in my 
 arms. The cold dew of death was already gathering 
 on his brow, but he was sensible to my affection and 
 despair. ' I have been greatly to blame,' he uttered 
 with great difficulty ; ' bear witness that I acquit him 
 entirely of any evil intent towards me. Dear Harcourt,' 
 he more faintly murmured, ' compose yourself, I entirely 
 forgive you — be kind to my poor mother.' He feebly 
 threw his arm around my neck, I bent to receive his 
 last kiss, and sunk fainting to the ground. 
 
 11 The affair was represented in a manner that exone- 
 rated me from punishment, and it was soon forgotten 
 among my companions. I became, however, an altered 
 man; and so far poor Melville had not died in vain. 
 I rose rapidly in my profession ; the most brilliant 
 success attended me throughout my military career ; 
 rank, honour, and reputation, were liberally bestowed 
 on me ; nor was I less fortunate in private and do- 
 mestic life. Happy in my friends, my wife, and my 
 children ; easy in my circumstances, and esteemed by 
 society in general, my lot has been blessed beyond 
 that of most others ; but my felicity has never been 
 without severe alloy, The image of my bleeding and 
 dying friend has pursued me every where, and mingled 
 
THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 
 
 16? 
 
 a drop of exquisite bitterness in my cup. Amidst the 
 applauses of assembled multitudes, or the congratula- 
 tions of friends ; in the endearments of connubial love, 
 or the fond delights of a parent, the remembrance of 
 Melville has constantly risen to my imagination, and 
 wrung my heart with agony. So might he have been 
 honoured ; so bright might have been his career ; so 
 tenderly might he have been loved by an amiable wife ; 
 and children, dutiful and affectionate as mine, might 
 have clasped his knees and called him father — but for 
 me. The still small voice of conscience has unremit- 
 tingly denounced me to myself as a murderer, and 
 all the tears of penitence that I have shed, are still 
 inadequate to wash away the remembrance of my 
 crime. Even the satisfaction and comfort which I 
 have derived from the exercise of our holy faith, have 
 been embittered from the same sad source, for better 
 knowledge of myself has taught me to regret the more 
 severely the advantages of which I had deprived him. 
 In the midst of youth, and as he would have owned, 
 unprepared to meet his God, my hand shut the gates 
 of repentance upon him, and sent him with all his 
 frailties on his head, to that dread tribunal, from which 
 there is neither appeal nor escape. 
 
 " But I will not press the melancholy subject further. 
 I am sick at heart, and can only say, go, my beloved 
 boy, avoid your father's example and be happy." 
 
 Edward read with deep attention and considerable 
 emotion, his father's narrative. " You shall be obeyed, 
 dearest and best of parents," said he, as he carefully 
 
168 THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 
 
 returned it to its envelope, and consigned it to a place 
 of safety. " Let it cost me what it may, I will never, 
 never incur such a load of misery on my future years 
 as you have described. 
 
 He landed safely at Lisbon, and proceeded with all 
 speed to join the division to which his regiment was 
 attached. Active operations had not yet commenced, 
 though vigorous preparations were making for the en- 
 suing campaign. The natural ardour of his disposi- 
 tion made him regret a delay, which deprived him of 
 the opportunity that he so much desired of signalizing 
 himself. Time, however, was not suffered to hang 
 heavily on his hands ; the duties of his profession, and 
 gaieties which his brother officers promoted among 
 themselves, fully occupied every moment. 
 
 He was delighted with all he met with, and if a 
 thought of home saddened him, it was only for an 
 instant, and brighter hopes of proving himself more 
 worthy of the affection of his beloved relatives, dissi- 
 pated every other feeling. His good humour, high 
 spirit, and honourable bearing, produced a general 
 prepossession in his favour, and he found his society 
 universally sought. The regiment was quartered in 
 a town large indeed in size, but thinly inhabited. Re- 
 turning one evening to his lodgings, in company with 
 a young man of his own rank and age, who with 
 himself had been dining with their commanding officer,, 
 he was suddenly startled by the loud shriek of a female. 
 He paused a moment, uncertain from whence it pro- 
 ceeded ; but upon its being repeated, he immediately 
 
THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 169 
 
 directed his steps to the spot, and beheld, by the bright 
 beams of the moon, a female struggling [to free herself 
 from the rude embraces of a man whose dress pro- 
 claimed him a British officer. Edward advanced with- 
 out hesitation, and in a firm voice desired him to desist. 
 He was answered, however, only by a command to 
 cease from interference ; a command which was at 
 once disobeyed, upon his assistance being implored 
 by the female, whom he now discovered to be a 
 Spaniard. He forcibly separated her from her perse- 
 cutor, who, exasperated more probably by the intrusion 
 of a stranger than by any other consideration, furiously 
 drew his sword, and bade him stand on his guard. 
 The party to which he belonged had by this time 
 joined them. Edward put back the weapon which was 
 held against him, and telling him to reserve its use for 
 a more proper occasion, walked on. His antagonist, 
 however, followed, and in insulting terms, continued to 
 challenge him to draw. In vain Edward pursued his 
 way, till, exasperated by his apparent disregard of his 
 threats, the stranger struck him on the shoulder. He 
 instantly turned, and for a moment lost all self-com- 
 mand, but speedily recovering his usual possession, he 
 contented himself with wrenching the sword out of his 
 hand, and snapping it in two, he threw the pieces 
 away. " Your name!" exclaimed the other, breathless 
 with rage. Edward gave it, and having now reached 
 the door of his lodging, he entered, followed by his 
 friend. 
 
 " This is a most unfortunate business," said Johnson, 
 
170 THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 
 
 as he threw himself into a seat — " you will hear more 
 of this, depend upon it. I know all the party. The 
 fellow who was so liberal of his abuse of you is Dan- 
 vers of the fourteenth — a youth who has been ruined 
 by indulgence and by the profuse allowance made him 
 by his doating but mistaken parents. He is naturally 
 good-tempered and amiable, but he has associated him- 
 self with companions utterly unworthy of him, who 
 lead him into every excess. You probably did not 
 observe his situation this evening, but it was evident 
 enough to me, that he was in no respect master of 
 himself. You will undoubtedly have a message from 
 him to-morrow morning, for among his chief friends is 
 Canning, of whose taste for duelling you must be alrea- 
 dy apprised. Well, much as I dislike the business, 
 remember I shall be in readiness to attend your sum- 
 mons — and so good night." Saying this, he cordially 
 shook hands with him, and retired. 
 
 Left to himself, he reviewed the occurrence of the 
 evening and its probable consequence. He foresaw 
 the difficulty and delicacy of his situation; and it would 
 be ascribing too much to him to say, that he was in- 
 different to it, or even not considerably moved. He 
 carefully recalled his father's admonitions; and after 
 mature reflection, he determined upon the conduct he 
 meant to pursue. "I will not fight," he exclaimed, 
 " though every hope and prospect of my life be de- 
 stroyed for ever." Tears, which he could not suppress, 
 started from his eyes, and burying his face in his hands, 
 as he leaned on his rude table, he sat absorbed in 
 
THE YOUNG A1D-DU-CAMP. 171 
 
 sorrowful reflection. This weakness, however, did not 
 last long. He had been brought up in the best and 
 purest principles of honour and religion; and he was 
 practically, as well as theoretically, a Christian. He 
 knew his duty, and he felt his insufficiency; he was 
 well aware in whom his strength lay, and he was not 
 ashamed to apply to that source from whence alone it 
 could be obtained. He knelt down with reverence and 
 humility, and earnestly implored the aid of his Creator; 
 and thus engaged, found rest from the perturbed feelings 
 which agitated his breast. He then threw himself upon 
 his bed; but though calm, he was unable to sleep, and 
 with the morning sun he arose. 
 
 The event was precisely as had been anticipated. 
 At an early hour he was waited upon by Canning, 
 with a desire that he would either apologise to Danvers, 
 or appoint a meeting. 
 
 " [ shall do neither," firmly, but temperately, replied 
 Edward. " I have acted only as every honourable 
 man would have done in my situation towards a de- 
 fenceless female; and I shall not hazard my life in a 
 cause in which I have neither resentment to appease, 
 nor merited chastisement to dread." 
 
 " Then you consent to be branded with the gentle- 
 manly epithet of coward, " retorted Canning, in a tone 
 and with an accompanying sneer that tinged the cheek 
 of Edward with a crimson hue. " You may brand me 
 with what epithet you please," returned he, rather 
 haughtily ; " you have my answer, and I shall not 
 depart from it." 
 
172 THE YOUNG A1D-DU-CAMT. 
 
 Canning now departed, but in a few minutes re-en- 
 tered the apartment, accompanied by Danvers himself, 
 and several other officers. " Mr. Harcourt," said one 
 of these, advancing towards Edward, " I am under the 
 necessity of requiring you publicly to apologise to my 
 friend, Mr. Danvers, for your conduct towards him 
 last evening ; or to grant him the satisfaction that is 
 due to a gentleman. " 
 
 "My answer," replied Edward, with dignity, "has 
 been already given. I have no other to return. I 
 will not apologise to Mr. Danvers, because I conceive 
 no apology is due to him, nor will I put that life in 
 competition with his, which is not my own to trifle 
 with, nor needlessly to endanger." 
 
 " Then," returned the speaker, " you are aware of 
 the imputation which must be drawn from such a re- 
 fusal, and must be prepared to relinquish the association 
 of gentlemen." 
 
 " I am prepared for every consequence," said Ed- 
 ward : " that I am in reality no eoward, I trust I shall 
 soon have an opportunity of proving to your satisfac- 
 tion ; in the meantime you are at liberty to honour me 
 with your notice or not, as you may feel disposed; 
 but of this be assured, I fear no contempt like that of 
 my own, and dread no disgrace but that which arises 
 from guilt. As for you, Mr. Danvers," continued he, 
 directing his speech to that gentleman, who in profound 
 silence and with deep attention had listened to all that 
 passed, " I have no enmity whatever towards you, and 
 I should grieve most sincerely, in case of my being the 
 

THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 173 
 
 survivor, that you ended your career in so ignoble a 
 strife. I have only to hope that I may have an early 
 opportunity of meeting you in a field where we may 
 best display our courage, and make duty and valour 
 consistent." So saying, he bowed, and left the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 Although satisfied in his own mind of the pro- 
 priety of the line of conduct he had pursued, and thus 
 happy in the approval of his own concience, Edward 
 soon found his situation a most painful one. It was 
 impossible not to perceive the shyness that marked 
 the manner of his brother officers towards him, and 
 he felt it was as useless as unnecessary to make any 
 observations upon it. Far different to the flattering 
 attention he had lately received, he was now allowed 
 to be alone; and he had the additional mortification 
 of seeing that when he essayed to join himself to his 
 former companions, his society was either shunned 
 or coldly endured. Wounded but not shaken, he 
 avoided with becoming spirit intruding himself upon 
 any one, and confined himself to study, or to the more 
 active duties of his profession. He felt however sad 
 and lonely, and most earnestly did he look forward 
 to the renewal of active operations, in the hope of 
 redeeming his injured character. 
 
 The General of his division was a particular friend 
 of his father, in consequence of which he had been 
 attached to his personal staff immediately upon his 
 arrival. General Maitland regarded him very favour- 
 ably, and prognosticated in sanguine terms the future 
 q3 
 
174 THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 
 
 glory and success of his eleve, as he frequently called 
 him. The striking difference which had lately ap- 
 peared in the spirits of Edward, together with the 
 evident coolness that he had observed was maintained 
 towards him, induced him to inquire into the cause. 
 Edward unhesitatingly related the whole circumstance. 
 He heard him with attention and apparent concern. 
 Supposing, however, from the gravity of his coun- 
 tenance, that he was dissatisfied with the explanation 
 he had given, he continued, his voice partaking of 
 his emotion as he spoke, " I trust General, it is need- 
 less to say my refusal proceeded from no want of that 
 feeling without which a man ceases to be such. You 
 cannot think me so unworthy of the blood that flows 
 in my veins. No, Heaven is my witness, how eagerly, 
 how impatiently I long for an opportunity of distin- 
 guishing myself. I have courage to face the foes of 
 my country — I have courage to meet scorn and neglect 
 where I was honoured and sought — but I have not 
 courage to disobey my father, and to offend my God!" 
 
 " Edward," said the General, with glistening eyes, 
 and extending his hand to him, which was eagerly 
 grasped by his young friend, " I applaud your conduct, 
 and value you the more highly for the determination 
 you have shewn. Would to Heaven all would act 
 as you have done ! This, however, is a consummation 
 more devoutedly to be wished than expected, and 
 therefore, I feel the more sincerely for the painful 
 situation in which you are placed, and must endeavour 
 by some means to relieve it." " Oh, General!" ex- 
 
THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 175 
 
 claimed Edward, passionately, " if you indeed feel for 
 me, grant me the ardent desire of my heart — do not, 
 I entreat you, notice what has passed ; but on the first 
 occasion that presents itself, place me in the midst of 
 danger, in the most hazardous post that you can possi- 
 bly assign me." The General replied only by a smile ; 
 but Edward left him with a relieved heart, and in full 
 hope that his request would be granted. His feelings 
 may, therefore, be better imagined than described, 
 when he heard that orders had been received to pre- 
 pare for an immediate attack on the powerful city 
 of Badajos. He hastened to the General's tent, and 
 there received confirmation of the intelligence. In 
 silent impatience he listened to what was passing, 
 dreading lest the General should forget his request, 
 and perceiving no opportunity of reminding him of it. 
 When, however, the disposition of the troops had been 
 finally made, and the necessary orders issued, the 
 General turned to him, and said to him in a low voice, 
 " I will not forget you." Edward could reply only 
 by a bow, and then hastened to attend to his imme- 
 diate duties. 
 
 The attack was now commenced. The darkness of 
 the night, the strength of the walls, and the resolute 
 valour of the enemy, rendered it a terrific one. Death 
 and bloodshed reigned in every part, and each party 
 seemed to rival the other in ardour, determination, and 
 courage. All was orderly confusion — all was fearfully 
 inspiring. One side of the city, in particular, seemed 
 impregnable : to this the General and his staff now 
 
176 THL YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 
 
 approached A party had several times attempted to 
 scale the wall, but in vain ; they were constantly 
 repulsed with great slaughter, and at this moment 
 their leader having fallen, the men were retreating in 
 confusion — Edward's eyes flashed with impatience — 
 he caught the General's hand. — " Yes," exclaimed he, 
 " the time is come. Go; and the blessing of Heaven 
 be with you!" Edward pressed the hand he grasped 
 to his lips — " If I fall," said he, "tell my father I fell 
 with honour, and in obedience to his commands." He 
 sprang from his horse, and rallying the retreating 
 party, led them again to the rampart. 
 
 A more than mortal daring seemed now to animate 
 him — more than his life was on his sword — his cha- 
 racter and honour; and the flame that burnt in his 
 own bosom, communicated itself to his followers. In 
 defiance of the unceasing fire that was opened upon 
 them, in despite of the points of the bayonets, by which 
 the enemy endeavoured to throw them down, he still 
 resolutely persisted in his attempts, and finally suc- 
 ceeded in reaching the summit. He paused for a 
 moment to recover breath, and then cheering his men, 
 who pressed close upon him, he sprang to the ground. 
 Here a desperate struggle ensued. Conspicuous by 
 his bravery, Edward was marked by one of the enemy, 
 who with a giant grasp seized him and endeavoured 
 to throw him over the wall; but extricating himself 
 with almost incredible activity, he rushed again before 
 his gallant party, and covered with the blood of himself 
 and others, succeeded in cutting his way to the inner 
 
THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 177 
 
 wall. A breach was now effected : a shout from the 
 English proclaimed the advantage. Edward sprang 
 through the aperture. The firing of the French was 
 at its height, and again a furious rencontre took place. 
 A strong party however was now within the walls, and 
 the clamours of men, of trumpets, and of bugles, shook 
 the air. 
 
 "Forward!" exclaimed Edward, energetically, now 
 sanguine of success, and no longer fearing for his men ; 
 but at this instant the enemy suddenly faced round ; 
 a hundred swords were levelled at once at him, and 
 he fell, covered with wounds. An officer, unknown to 
 him, who had for some time attached himself to his 
 side, threw himself before the body, and with despe- 
 rate valour succeeded in withdrawing it from the 
 throng ; then consigning it to some soldiers, with 
 orders to bear it to a place of safety, he hastened 
 back to complete what Edward had so nobly begun. 
 In a short time the British were masters of the city, 
 and it only remained to secure their victory by the 
 necessary regulations, to attend to the wants of the 
 wounded, and to dispose of the slain. 
 
 Edward, however, though wounded, was still alive ; 
 immediate surgical assistance was procured for him 
 by his friend, and by their joint care he was conveyed 
 to one of the best houses in the city. It was late 
 in the day before General Maitland was able to leave 
 his professional duties ; he then repaired to the apart- 
 ment in which he had been placed, where his surprise 
 was equalled only by his pleasure at finding Danvers 
 
ITS THE YOLNG AID-DU-CAMI'. 
 
 by his side, assiduously and even tenderly attending 
 to all his necessities. It was Danvers, indeed, who 
 struck alike by compunctions for his own conduct 
 and admiration of that of Edward, had long secretly 
 wished to be reconciled to him. It was Danvers who 
 had fought by his side, and who, in all probability, 
 had preserved him from death. 
 
 The party which Edward had so gallantly headed, 
 belonged to the fourteenth, and hence Danvers became 
 a spectator of the whole scene. He readily compre- 
 hended his intent in thus hazarding his person, and 
 inwardly exclaiming — " I shall be equally his mur- 
 derer if he falls in battle, as if I had killed him with 
 my own hand!" he had flown to his assistance, and 
 had defended him with a bravery scarcely inferior 
 to that exhibited by Edward himself. 
 
 The General heard with unfeigned pleasure that the 
 wounds of Edward, though dangerous, were not 
 mortal ; he was perfectly sensible, but being forbidden 
 to speak, he could only acknowledge his congratula- 
 tions by an expressive smile, and a look, which being 
 directed to Danvers, fully explained his meaning. 
 
 A good constitution, aided by the happiness which 
 glowed in his breast, soon restored him to comparative 
 health. Danvers never left him but when compelled 
 by duty, and a friendship of more than common 
 warmth sprang up in both their bosoms. General 
 Maitland surveyed their attachment with the utmost 
 satisfaction and approval, and on the first day that 
 Edward was able to appear abroad, which he did 
 
THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 179 
 
 leaning on the arm of Danvers, who carefully watched 
 every step he took, he pointed to them, and thus 
 addressed a group of officers who stood round him : — 
 
 " Behold the reward of true courage and rectitude of 
 principle — contemplate it and profit by it! But a 
 soldier's words are few, and deeds like theirs speak 
 more than volumes. I am no orator, and I know no 
 phrase that will express my meaning so well as this 
 sententious one, " Go thou and do likewise." 
 
 LINES 
 ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD'S. 
 
 Hail to thy face and odours, glorious Sea ! 
 'Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not, 
 Great, beauteous Being ! in whose breath and smile 
 My heart beats calmer, and my very mind 
 Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer 
 Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world ! 
 Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din 
 To me is peace — thy restlessness repose. 
 
ISO 
 
 SOME EVENTS OF THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 A PATRIOT. 
 
 All the fair dames who looked from the balconies of 
 the Place Royale, upon the assemblage which filled 
 the streets of Brussels on the 5th of April, 1565, 
 turned to gaze after one figure clothed in the garb of 
 a countryman, removed one step above the lowest 
 class. The spell that rivetted so many bright eyes 
 was to be found (after the advantages of a fine 
 youthful figure and handsome countenance), in the 
 intelligence and animation of his features, and their 
 deep concentrated expression of devotion to the cause 
 for which this remarkable procession had been as- 
 sembled. By his dress and mien he was plainly 
 marked for one of the many in that company — the 
 poor heirs of noble houses long decayed in fortune. 
 Such a figure in this assembly could not be viewed, 
 even by the most unreflecting, without mingled ad- 
 miration and fear. For at a glance might you see 
 that he well knew for what he went to claim redress ; 
 and that Adrian Haranguer was of those to whom 
 redress can never long be denied. Of the grievances 
 

 
 LIFE OF A PATRIOT. 181 
 
 which the Flemish Protestants endured under the 
 haughty Philip and his cruel minions, there are but 
 too many melancholy proofs. It is true that the 
 regent Duchess of Parma was not herself, by her sex 
 or disposition, inclined to tyrannous cruelties, but she 
 was too often made an almost passive instrument in 
 other hands; and partly from fear, partly from com- 
 pulsion, she became an unwilling agent in many 
 deeds of oppression, from which her soul revolted. 
 Well knowing in her own heart what strong grounds 
 the unhappy Protestants had for their remonstrances, 
 she was panic-struck at this assemblage, and received 
 the deputation with much outward kindness and many 
 fair words. But her knowledge of Philip and her 
 fear of him, prevented her from giving any direct 
 pledges, or from redressing any grievances. Aware 
 that she was merely temporising with them, till she had 
 gathered more military strength around her, the peti- 
 tioners were rather irritated than deceived by her for- 
 bearance and general protestations. 
 
 These feelings were stronger in Adrian Haranguer 
 than in most of the assembled delegates. For he 
 had just married a young wife, and though too lofty 
 and fearless in character to use this as a scripture 
 reason why he " could not come," yet he had an 
 additional motive to have rejoiced in any fair settle- 
 ment of the dissensions of his unhappy country. It 
 was, therefore, with much bitterness of indignation 
 against the Spanish counsels that he repaired to the 
 Hotel de Culembourg, where the Counts Culembourg 
 
 R 
 
1S2 SOME EVENTS OF THE 
 
 and De Brederode entertained the confederates on 
 the day following the procession. He entered just 
 as Orange, Egmont, and Horn, who professed to have 
 come fortuitously, were received with loud joy. 
 
 De Brederode had arisen, clothed in a beggar's 
 cloak and wallet, to explain to the infuriated assem- 
 bly that this garb was assumed to hurl back in bitter 
 defiance the contemptuous taunt of one of the coun- 
 cillors of the Duchess, who had called the petitioners 
 in scorn, un tas Gueux, — a heap of beggars ! The 
 word was unanimously accepted with revengeful pride ; 
 and to this name the pledge went round in the cup> 
 and an oath was taken, to stand by each other to the 
 last. 
 
 In the height of this enthusiastic ecstasy, and while 
 Adrian's whole soul was thrown into the general 
 feeling, a hand was laid upon his shoulder as if to 
 bespeak instant attention. There was something in 
 that touch that roused him at once, though he knew 
 not at the moment why; and, hastily turning round 
 his head, he saw a figure on the seat next to him, 
 clothed in a beggar's gray cloak, with the emblematic 
 wallet, which he durst have sworn the room had not 
 contained a moment before. 
 
 This was his youngest brother Erasmus, whom he 
 had believed at that instant in the dungeons of the 
 Inquisition at Madrid. He was on the point of 
 shouting out aloud with joy and wonder, when his 
 brother made an emphatic sign of silence, and spoke 
 to him these words in a very low whisper, " I came 
 
LIFE OF A PATRIOT. 
 
 to give thee warning : heed me, it is for life and death. 
 Three princes have now entered : the oath and the enp 
 are given to them. Follow thou him who drinketh out 
 the glass. The rest shall lead thee to the scaffold. 
 Mark well! Egmont hath taken the cup in hand." 
 
 Haranguer, involuntarily turning his head at these 
 words, gazed towards the upper end of the board, where 
 De Brederode was receiving his distinguished guests. 
 There stood Count Egmont, holding out the cup, and 
 listening with fixed attention to the words which De 
 Brederode spake. As Adrian looked on that noble 
 warlike man — the leader amidst a thousand — the hero 
 of his age ; as he marked the fire of his eye when, 
 raising the wine to his lips, he repeated the oath after 
 De Brederode — he could not but rejoice in the assur- 
 ance that Egmont would be the last man in that com- 
 pany to leave unhonoured such a health. The Count 
 was Haranguer's old leader and dear friend, and he 
 could not bear that upon this noble captain should fall 
 the amen he had just heard. But his love had prevented 
 him from discerning, with his wonted quick and clear 
 perceptions, how the quivering indecision of Egmont's 
 lips warred in his noble features with the triumphant 
 radiance of his eye, leaving the palm of his undisputed 
 daring and ascendency of character resting upon mili- 
 tary valour, rather than sagacious boldness in the con- 
 duct of life. His first motions in seizing the cup, and 
 repeating the oath, were full of energy and confidence. 
 Hardly, however, had the wine reached his lip, when 
 his open brow was shaded by some sudden foreboding ; 
 
184 SOME EVENTS OF THE 
 
 and he stood for a minute irresolute, with the cup 
 removed from his mouth. Adrian was racked with 
 consternation and dread; and, starting suddenly from 
 his seat, he shouted aloud, "Drink it out, nohle Egmont, 
 for the love of Christ! your life is in the pledge!" 
 But, amidst the deafening roars of triumphant joy when 
 the Count (who was the idol of the people) took the 
 oath and touched the cup — not a word that he uttered 
 could be heard, and his voice merely swelled the general 
 acclamation. There Egmont stood, as though lost 
 in thought, unmindful of the transport around him ; at 
 last De Brederode, fearful lest his indecision should 
 produce a reaction, turned to address the Prince of 
 Orange, to whom Egmont handed the cup, gazing on 
 him with mingled affection and expectation. Deeply 
 as all Adrian Haranguer's thoughts had been to this 
 moment engaged in his country's cause, he would now 
 have gazed no more ; for his sorrow for Egmont made 
 him careless of what might follow, had not a doubt of 
 the truth of the foreboding cheered him with a momen- 
 tary hope. With the peculiar propensity common to 
 all who try to force a conviction upon their own feel- 
 ings, he resolved to rest his belief of the omen upon 
 this test, — neither of the other two would drain the cup. 
 The conduct of Orange was now of the highest in- 
 terest, and Haranguer watched him as eagerly as any 
 of those around him, though from widely different mo- 
 tives. The brow of the Prince was contracted, as if in 
 deep thought ; and nothing but intense attention to De 
 Brederode's speech was traced there. This was sue- 
 
LITE OF A PATRIOT. 1 8 «"> 
 
 ceeded by a moment of silence, which seemed an age 
 of cold indifference to the excited feelings of the as- 
 sembled multitude. 
 
 But the uneasiness of doubting soon passed away ; 
 with a full, manly, earnest voice, which reached ever} r 
 heart, Orange repeated the oath — then looking up- 
 warks, and crying fervently, " We call on Thee for 
 help ! " he raised the cup to his lips, and drank out the 
 last drop, saying, " So help me God, as thus I drain, to 
 the dregs, whatever sufferings the cause of my dear un- 
 happy country may lay upon me ! " No loud tumult of 
 acclamation followed : there was a murmur of admira- 
 tion, but the energy of his devotion had gone too near 
 to every heart to come forth anew in shouting from the 
 mouth. Many a lip might you trace repeating, in a 
 fervent whisper, the vow to bear wrong and suffering, 
 even to the death. 
 
 Haranguer turned sick and dizzy; the fatal prophecy 
 seemed stamped with fire into his brain, and he mut- 
 tered it over unconsciously to himself. Yet another 
 thought of comfort darted into his mind, which, natu- 
 rally cheerful, yielded but slowly to melancholy im- 
 pressions. It was all some deception — a personification 
 of his brother: he had been cheated by some fancied 
 resemblance. So he would look all around him, and 
 soon discover the cause of his grievous delusion. The 
 chair next to him on the left, in which the figure had 
 sat, was now filled by his well-known neighbour, John 
 Dc Soreas, whom he well remembered to have seen 
 sitting there at the beginning of the feast : and as he 
 i; 3 
 
186 SOME EVENTS OF THE 
 
 gazed from him to the familiar faces of his friends and 
 neighbours around him, he could no longer resist the 
 conviction weighing down his heart, that the vision had 
 been no cheat of the imagination. To this mournful 
 certainty the seal was set by the words of Van Gessel, 
 next to him on the right, which he caught upon awaken- 
 ing from a melancholy reverie, and which chilled him 
 like ice to the heart's core, " Culembourg might have 
 waited until Count Horn had drank the wine out ! " 
 Haranguer rose abruptly, and left the table, unmanned 
 by fears which he could not repel. 
 
 He walked mechanically to his own lodgings in 
 Brussels, and entered the room where his young bride 
 sate reading, at her work-table. He stood before her 
 some minutes ere he regained the full use of his senses; 
 her kisses awoke him from his stupor. She was sur- 
 prised by his returning so long before the expected 
 conclusion of the solemn feast, and yet more at his un- 
 wonted melancholy. Hanging on his neck, she strove 
 by a thousand atfectionate wiles to bring back his usual 
 cheerfulness. "Nay, Maria," he cried, pressing her 
 fondly in his arms, " even thy love cannot make me 
 happy in this sorrow. But it will make my sorrow 
 such as I would never change for all the realms of 
 Spain without thee ! " 
 
 Adrian had no secrets from Maria : for to the per- 
 fection of womanly gentleness was added in her a firm- 
 ness, produced by her excellent understanding and the 
 simple truth of her feelings. Upon this firmness he 
 relied as upon Heaven. Though he shielded her as he 
 
LIFE OF A PATRIOT. 187 
 
 would a delicate plant, or favourite bird, from all that 
 could alarm or annoy her — for she was truly a woman 
 in all her feelings and habits — yet there was nothing 
 that he thought, knew, or felt — none of his joys or 
 griefs, projects or wishes, hopes or fears, that he did not 
 immediately tell her. In all of mind or heart, there 
 was nothing but the most perfect trust — the closest 
 union between them ; and this was never disappointed, 
 nor disturbed for a moment. 
 
 When Adrian told her all the occurrences which had 
 filled him with grief and consternation, at the first 
 hearing, her distress was greater than his. She shared 
 all his love for Count Egmont, and her mind quickly 
 glanced over the fearful chances of her husband being 
 involved in that nobleman's ruin. Haranguer, she well 
 knew, would be with his noble friend in life or death : 
 and though this bitter thought rent her very heart 
 asunder, she felt that she could not try to persuade him 
 to desert his leader. They both were embarked in the 
 perilous struggle for their country; and from that cause 
 her Adrian never could turn back. 
 
 Still, even in her sore fear, she had comfort ; and the 
 greatest was in her power of comforting. " Grieve 
 not," she said, " for noble Egmont. His death shall be 
 better and more glorious than the life of meaner men — 
 his memory shall be dearer than the friendship of 
 princes. He shall be honoured — mourned for, and 
 loved — even as thou art loved, my Adrian ! For the 
 rest, he is in the hand of the King of mercies. We 
 cannot keep him alive, but wc can pray for him! " She 
 
188 
 
 SOME EVENTS OF THE 
 
 hastily turned aside to wipe away a tear — for all that 
 she said of Egmont, her soul told her was of her own 
 husband. ****** 
 
 It was far in the night ; Adrian had received tidings 
 from Madrid, of the death of his brother in the cells of 
 the Inquisition. He was sitting alone, for Maria had 
 been ill, and was gone to rest. Weighed down with 
 deep sorrow, he was interrupted in the painful duty of 
 replying to these letters, by a low tap at the chamber 
 door, which warned him that some one wished to enter. 
 Haranguer mechanically said, " Come in ! "without turn- 
 ing his thoughts from the mournful task before him ; and 
 the visitor was forgotten before the words had passed 
 his lips. But a well-loved voice called his name, and 
 in a moment his eyes were raised from the letter, and 
 perused Count Egmont's features with more uneasiness 
 and apprehension than their gallant, open expression 
 had ever before caused him. There he fomid a serious 
 despondency, to which hitherto he had been a stranger. 
 "Adrian," said the Count, "so far Ave have gone to- 
 gether as friends — as brothers ! — but here we part com- 
 pany : I am entering a dangerous sea ; it is full of 
 shoals and hidden perils. I fear nought for myself, 
 thou knowest it is not my wont ; but why shouldst thou 
 be wrecked with me ? I will await Alva's commission. 
 For all that is past, I cannot but trust our gracious 
 monarch. Perhaps I may stand between his anger and 
 some of my unhappy countrymen. And thou know- 
 est" — here he could not keep his voice firm, nor his eye 
 quite dry — " thou knowest, I have too large a house to 
 
LIFE OF A PATRIOT. 189 
 
 stir — or leave. My clear wife hath given me eleven 
 precious reasons for staying to take care of them. 
 "Whilst thine," here he tried to hide his emotion in a 
 laugh, " thy Maria hath yet given thee only one child, 
 and that is lightly moved. But ye are but newly wed- 
 ded, and by the grace of God, in good season." — "For 
 Heaven's sake, my dear friend," cried Haranguer, " let 
 us be serious in this weighty matter. What saith 
 Orange, doth he stay ?" " He hath talked with me all 
 yesternight," said Egmont, " and almost persuaded me 
 to fly ; but William is suspicious. Nevertheless, his 
 last words dwell with me like a foreboding — ' Trust, 
 then,' said he, 'if so it must be, my noble friend, in the 
 Spaniard's promises ; but a presentiment (God send it 
 may be no true one !) telleth me that thou shalt be the 
 bridge whereby they shall enter Brussels, and which 
 they will destroy when they have crossed ! " — yet for 
 my fixed purpose to stay, I can shew thee many rea- 
 sons." Count Egmont was firm in his design of re- 
 maining. Noble and unsuspicious himself, he could not 
 comprehend the refined deceptions to which the crafty 
 Philip descended ; and had, in that monarch's inter- 
 course with him by letter, been completely outwitted 
 and entrapped. Haranguer, unable to persuade him, 
 resolved to share his fate and remain ; but it was with 
 a sad though steadfast spirit, for the warning came full 
 upon his mind, and he looked upon both their lives as 
 doomed. " I will stay with you," replied he to Egmont, 
 "though I do not much rely on the faith of the 
 Spaniards : the more we are who remain, the better can 
 
190 SOME EVENTS OF THE 
 
 we protect one another." Nor could the Count per- 
 suade him to leave Brussels. * * * 
 
 In his prison, and deprived, by the cruelties of the 
 Spanish tyrant, of the sight of her who had soothed all 
 his former sorrows, Adrian Haranguer was tortured by 
 many bitter thoughts. The Spanish lion was loosed : 
 the streets of Brussels flowed with the blood of her 
 citizens — the last blow had been struck at the highest 
 and most princely heads. After the mockery of a 
 trial and condemnation, the Counts Egmont and Horn 
 were to be beheaded on the morrow, in the Place 
 Royale of Brussels. Adrian himself was doomed to 
 suffer on the following day. With keen grief did he 
 remember the warning he had braved — but even when 
 the life, thus to be lost to his wife and his country, 
 seemed the most cruelly shortened in the flower of 
 youth and hope, his heart told him, were all to do 
 again, he could not in his soul think of deserting Eg- 
 mont ; and when his thoughts turned to her, who was 
 his sole comfort in trouble, " Even my Maria," he said, 
 " deeply as my death will cut down her life's happiness, 
 would not bid me do other than I have done : for her 
 loved sake, I will die as a free and guiltless man ; as 
 her husband should die ! Surely these Spanish brutes 
 will let me speak to her once again, before." 
 
 On the morning of that fatal day, when Brussels was 
 to see the bravest of the land's nobles die, for his 
 devotion to her cause, some guards suddenly entered 
 Haranguer's chamber, and said he must be conveyed, 
 to a window in the Place Royale, during the executions; 
 
LIFE OF A PATRIOT. 191 
 
 for Alva had commanded that all the prisoners should 
 be compelled to witness his infamous cruelty. Adrian 
 was at first inclined to resist this tyranny; but he re- 
 membered having promised Egmont, if possible, to look 
 on him when he died ; and he merely answered, u that 
 he hoped he should be placed somewhere near his 
 friend. " " Ay, " said a gaoler, " close to the scaffold. " 
 They had to walk through two narrow streets, and 
 turn an abrupt corner, ere they entered the Place Royale. 
 As Haranguer passed through these streets, surrounded 
 by the Spanish soldiers, with whom the town was 
 filled, he remarked that all the houses were shut up, 
 and the windows barred; and that not a soul seemed 
 left there. Yet a well-known, low, man's voice followed 
 the soldiers, singing — as it seemed in his very ear, the 
 following favourite Flemish tune; he could not see the 
 singer, and fearing the guards would perceive him, he 
 dared not even look round. But the words wakened 
 up all his senses. 
 
 They have cut down our king-oak ; no more shall his glory 
 
 Broad shadows o'er us fling ; 
 But his blood shall arise ; — from that slaughter-place gory, 
 
 A thousand trees shall spring ! 
 
 Let the woodman beware ! Some tall son of our forest 
 
 Shall crush him with his fall — 
 For God helps the weak, when their need is the sorest, 
 
 And he shall hear our call ! 
 
 Ye are marked — ye are doomed : the bright axes are ready ! 
 
 But yet ye shall not die, 
 Stand far from the woodman ! —his hand is unsteady ; 
 
 Adrian ! —he strikes awry ! 
 
192 SOME EVENTS OF THE 
 
 The mention of his name strung all Adrian's nerves 
 with joyful energy; and those who have long suffered, 
 will well imagine how many castles of bright hopes 
 were built on these few words — castles, alas ! founded 
 on no rock. 
 
 On entering the great square, the desertion of the 
 streets was explained. All Brussels was assembled 
 there : for the cruel policy of Alva, whilst he provided 
 for the disposition of such a military force as made 
 resistance hopeless, had purposely given every encou- 
 ragement to the attendance of the town's-people; hoping 
 that a strong effect would be produced by the solemn 
 and open execution of noblemen so powerful and be- 
 loved as Egmont and Horn. But sorely was he de- 
 ceived. Each one came there to see how brave men 
 could die for their country; and went home praying 
 that his end might be like theirs ! 
 
 Count Egmont's bearing on the scaffold was worthy 
 of the man and of his whole life. Just before his eyes 
 were bound, by the headsman, he begged for a moment's 
 delay; and turning round slowly, he looked carefully 
 over the sea of faces below, and those in the balconies, 
 as though searching for some one. At length he turned 
 to the window where Adrian stood, quite near his right 
 hand. He had found what he sought ; and bade Ha- 
 ranguer farewell; trying by a mild and lofty expression 
 of love and resignation in his own features, to banish 
 the misery and indignation which he saw in the coun- 
 tenance of his friend. Adrian knew and answered to 
 that influence; he mastered his soul's agony, to return 
 
LIFE OF A PATRIOT. 193 
 
 such affection and firmness from his eyes, as might 
 help to bear up the noble victim in his hour of suffering. 
 And thus these two brave men looked their last upon 
 each other. 
 
 Adrian had hoped for pardon or rescue to the last ; 
 and it was only when the shout of horror, which even 
 the presence of the ferocious Alva could not restrain, 
 burst from the people at the murder of one whom they 
 adored — then only did despair, deep, hopeless, almost 
 unendurable, crush him to the earth. Yet, even in this 
 state, all but dead as he was to what passed around 
 him, his eye at once caught the figure of Maria, wrapped 
 in a Spanish cloak, and shaded by a broad drooping 
 hat and wide feather, hastily winding through the 
 crowd, supported and helped along, through the dense 
 mass, by several richly clothed Spanish figures. With 
 intense interest he watched her turn the corner by 
 which he had entered the square. This gave rise to a 
 thousand thoughts of vague fear and wonder which, for 
 a moment, wholly absorbed him. What could bring 
 his wife into such a scene — so clothed, so attended ? 
 
 Now approached the time for returning to his gloomy 
 prison, there to spend in no enviable feelings, the brief 
 and worthless space remaining to him of life. Though 
 the crowd was so immense, and the feeling so universal, 
 yet Alva had taken such excellent measures, that the 
 square was cleared without tumult. As soon as the last 
 stragglers were gone, the guards marched off with their 
 prisoners. In the narrow, deserted streets through 
 which Haranguer's conductors had entered the square, 
 
104 SOME EVENTS OF THE 
 
 the same gloomy, silent solitude, awaited their return. 
 Not a single being seemed to have entered any of the 
 houses, and the mouldy doors, with dust piled over the 
 thresholds, looked as if they had been closed for ages. 
 
 Yet these doors could open ; for, in passing between 
 two large-fronted houses, whose wide, folding portals 
 were precisely opposite to each other — at the exact 
 moment when they were betwixt them, the leaves on 
 one side flew quickly asunder, as though by magic, and 
 about twenty men, some clothed like the guards, — others 
 in the rich dress of Spanish generals, rushed furiously 
 across the way, quarrelling, with drawn swords, and 
 loud Spanish oaths and cries. The doors, from which 
 they issued, closed as quickly as they had opened, and 
 Adrian was swept across with them ; the two soldiers 
 who guarded him on each hand, falling at once into the 
 current. The doors on the opposite side opened an 
 instant to admit them — and at once closed again. So 
 rapidly and well was the whole done, that no resistance 
 was made; and none, save those around the prisoner, 
 knew where or how he went. Adrian found himself on 
 the other side of the doors, in darkness, and pressed in 
 his wife's arms, with an energy of love and joy that 
 may well be imagined. She checked his cry of delight, 
 whispering that all was not yet safe. Silently and 
 rapidly they ascended the staircase, cautiously fasten- 
 ing behind them all the doors, which had been carefully 
 prepared to open quickly and without a noise, and to 
 close with strong, but aged-looking bars and locks. 
 For, as he was afterwards told, all the day and night 
 
LIFE OF A PATRIOT. 105 
 
 ^preceding the execution had been spent by his wife, in 
 urging and directing his oldest and best tried friends 
 to prepare this plan of escape, which had been devised 
 the moment they knew of the prisoner's attending this 
 sad ceremony. They now passed through the upper 
 rooms of several houses, which had been purposely 
 opened into each other, with means of instantly securing 
 and concealing the apertures. At length they rested 
 in the obscure chamber of a distant street, where they 
 were safely concealed, until they found means to quit 
 Brussels, and fly to Prince Orange in Germany. As 
 soon as the first transports of their meeting in this 
 wretched but welcome roof of refuge were over, Maria 
 looked on her husband, and wept bitterly. " It will 
 soon be over," said she, "yet I cannot help grieving 
 for a while, dear Adrian ; for I have merely saved thee, 
 a brief space, for thy country and not for thy wife. I 
 feel sorrowfully that in these times of our distress and 
 oppression, a noble life like thine must, sooner or later, 
 be offered up for thy father-land." 
 
 It is a comfort to know that this foreboding proved 
 gloomier than the truth. Though Adrian Haranguer 
 was in every field where daring could do aught, or the 
 confederate banners came to battle, he escaped with a 
 few wounds, to rejoice in his land's freedom. And his 
 fond and noble wife enjoyed at last, in his unbounded 
 gratitude and love, such happiness as women like her 
 alone can feel, — as they alone can deserve ! 
 
196 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS. 
 
 " Rivalem patienter babe." — Ovid. 
 With patience bear a rival in thy love. 
 
 " Young man, I have lately seen you here so often, and 
 so long at a time, that I think you must have some 
 favourite object in view in these parts." 
 
 " I have a favourite object in these parts, that is 
 certain; but unfortunately not in view." 
 
 " You mean, perhaps, not in sight, which I did not 
 mean. "When I said in view, I meant, as common lan- 
 guage generally means, in prospect, at least in hope." 
 
 " Still you are wrong, my good woman. My favourite 
 object is neither in sight, nor in prospect, and scarcely 
 in hope : yet my fond attachment to it brings me here 
 every day, and makes me linger it appears long enough 
 to be suspected." 
 
 " If by suspected you mean that I think your purpose 
 a bad one, you reflect on me and yourself, at the same 
 time, in a most unjust manner. I have made free to 
 question you ; but of what is wrong, your appearance 
 and speech forbid my entertaining the slightest sus- 
 picion." 
 
the rival cousins. 19T 
 
 This dialogue took place between a handsome young 
 gentleman of a neighbouring family and moderate 
 fortune, and a rather ancient and loquacious, but 
 respectable woman, who had come from a cottage about 
 a furlong off, to have a minute's conversation with him, 
 and obtain if possible his reasons for being so often seen 
 on this spot. The spot itself might, indeed, from its 
 surpassing loveliness, account for the frequent visits of 
 one fond of rural beauty of the very richest class : but 
 it so happened that neither its shady grove, nor its pure 
 waters, nor its inimitable view at every opening of the 
 trees, and in the deep and clear reflection of the lake, 
 had hitherto appeared to interest the stranger, or could 
 explain why one so young, and handsome, and elastic, 
 and apparently rich, should spend several hours of almost 
 every day there, in looking at nothing, and apparently 
 thinking of every thing. 
 
 The conversation was renewed, after a short pause, 
 on the woman observing a fishing rod lying near the 
 brink of the lake, where the gentleman had been sitting, 
 and whence, on seeing her, he had rather hurriedly 
 risen. It was resumed, as might be expected, by the 
 more loquacious of the two sexes and ages. 
 
 "May I ask, Sir, what that long and slender thing is 
 that lies there, and which I presume belongs to you?" 
 
 " I can tell you what it was a quarter of an hour ago : 
 what it is now you can no doubt tell yourself. Accord- 
 ing to Dr. Johnson's definition, it was a long stick, with 
 a worm at one end and a fool at the other." 
 
 "And now it is a long stick without the fool; and 
 s3 
 
198 THE RIVAL COUSINS. 
 
 for the use it can be in such water as this, it may as 
 well be without the worm." 
 
 " I thought as much, for not a nibble have I had 
 since I resorted thither, unless one occurred while my 
 eyes wandered, as they often have done, towards yonder 
 cottage." 
 
 " I suspected as much, young gentleman, for no one 
 but a lover would have attempted to fish in an artificial 
 crystal lake like this. Why look into it, and you can 
 see to the bottom : do you think that a fish would swim 
 in such transparency, while a fool, pardon me ; while a 
 lover, forgive me again ; while a gentleman was sitting 
 on the brink!" 
 
 " I could almost pardon you for the sake of your 
 wit, graced as it is with such politeness; but I will 
 quite pardon you only on one condition — that you tell 
 me something, for you evidently know much, about the 
 beautiful young female at yonder cottage, who lost her 
 canary the other day." 
 
 "Do you mean the young lady, or the young woman 
 of the cottage? they are both beautiful, and as near 
 alike as cousins generally are. I can tell you more 
 about one than the other, though I ought to know 
 something of both, for I nursed them ; and when the 
 time came for them to be educated, their mother thought 
 that I had wit and wisdom enough, so I undertook that 
 task also. A very easy one it was, for they were teach- 
 able enough almost to teach themselves. The elder, 
 whom we call the lady, has fashioned herself into this 
 character by five years visit to a rich aunt in Dublin, 
 
THE RIVAL COUSINS. 199 
 
 whence she has returned only a few days, some say to 
 be married." 
 
 " Then by every echo of this sweet grove, I hope it 
 is the young woman I am inquiring after, because she 
 may not be going to marry, and I may hope " 
 
 " May hope she never will, until she makes choice of 
 you, and then I suppose she may marry as soon as she 
 pleases. — Was not this to be the conclusion of your 
 sentence, if you had retained courage enough to finish 
 it ? It is her, most certainly, you are inquiring after, 
 because I recollect you spoke of the loss of her canary : 
 but I must be faithful — the report says that she is quite 
 as likely to be married as her cousin, and, to the same 
 grand suitor too, the son of the baronet, whose mansion 
 you may see on the brow of yonder hill, if you will 
 climb up one of these trees to look at it." 
 
 The young gentleman was now reduced to the most 
 anxious and pitiable perplexity. Not that he was any 
 longer in doubt which of the cousins he had seen ; but 
 the bare possibility of her being engaged to marry 
 another, or even of another being in pursuit of her, filled 
 him with distress ; while the mere rumour that the 
 baronet's son might prefer her more fashionable cousin 
 preserved him from despair. How to promote the 
 latter result, and to prevent the former, was the task he 
 had now to perform, and in which the nurse was the 
 only being he knew likely to assist him. 
 
 Nothing could exceed his joy when he received from 
 her an accidental intimation of her own wish and hope, 
 that the soi dhant lady-cousin might be transformed by 
 
200 THE RIVAL COUSINS. 
 
 the baronet's choice into a lady indeed. This was a 
 discovery he could scarcely have hoped so soon to make, 
 such was the mist and confusion of his companion's 
 loquaciousness. At first this common vice of aged and 
 favourite nurses threatened to delay if not to defeat his 
 purpose ; hut now it had unwittingly befriended him in 
 one casual sentence, he thought he might turn it to a 
 still better account, by enticing it to flow on of its own 
 accord — by making a channel for its freest and fullest 
 aboundings. Of his disappointment, the reader may 
 judge from the following speech. 
 
 " Look first, sir, all around, and let me tell you as 
 you look, that there is not a spot which does not 
 remind me of Anne. There, now your eyes have gone 
 the circle, and they are come back to the path between 
 you and the lake. In that path she once found a sweet 
 lamb, that had either strayed from the fold, or could 
 not keep up with the flock through fatigue and faint- 
 ness, and as she came up to it she thought it dying, 
 when she took it home and nursed it as she would a 
 child. It revived, and grew, and became strong, 
 and then she found out the owner and restored it to 
 him. On the bank yonder she used to gather cowslips 
 for me to make tea with for a poor weak girl, since 
 dead, who could scarcely take any thing else : and over 
 the bank, on that beautiful spot of the greenest grass, 
 she would often pluck the daisies and butter-cups, 
 because she knew that I was fond of the one, and her 
 mamma of the other. You see that woody mound, a 
 little to the left : there when a child, a mere child, 
 
THE RIVAL COUSINS. 201 
 
 I assure you, she would carry half her own breakfast 
 and half mine, which you know make up a whole one, 
 to a gipsy child, that the mother used cruelly to leave 
 under the tent for hours together, while she prowled 
 about the country. I see you are now looking towards 
 the little forest that opens at the end of the grove ; 
 there the dear creature and her cousin used to play, 
 and it would have gladdened your heart, as it did mine, 
 to behold them." 
 
 Moreton's patience was now exhausted, and he begged 
 the nurse to advance in the history of her lovely charge 
 from child-hood to some greater age. The poet has 
 said, — 
 
 " To tales of those we love, all sense is ear ; 
 
 Patience exhaustless ; and enamoured youth 
 
 Holds garrulous age too brief, and bends to hear 
 
 A grandame's praise, a nurse's tale uncouth." 
 
 And such might have been Moreton's state of mind, 
 had there been prospect or hope of a history thus com- 
 menced closing before the sun went down. Nothing that 
 had reference to Anne could be uninteresting to him ; 
 but such a mode of detailing the earliest and smallest 
 portions of her life was every thing but interesting, when 
 he was racking with anxiety to know what were her 
 present purposes and prospects. He, therefore, politely 
 checked his loquacious friend, and requested as a favour 
 that she would reserve the account of her childhood, 
 and gratify his feelings by something determinate in 
 reference to her, now. A silent frown, such as the 
 most talkative and amiable nurses can sometimes put 
 
202 THE RIVAL COUSINS. 
 
 on, convinced him that compliance -with his request 
 would be impossible, and that she must proceed from 
 the beginning to the end of her favourite tale, or not 
 tell it at all. 
 
 His deep regret at this discovery was most dilight- 
 fully relieved by the distant appearance of Anne herself, 
 among the farthest trees of the grove, making one 
 more effort to find her lost canary. * 
 
 " I will run and tell her," said Moreton, rising to 
 execute his purpose, "that her bird is safe in my pos- 
 session ; and perhaps I may be so happy as to gain 
 her consent to my taking it to her home to-morrow." 
 
 "All this can be better done by my agency," 
 answered the nurse, while she attempted to hold him 
 back. " I can save your running towards her, and her 
 running away from you ; and also your running home 
 for the bird, and running back with it to the cottage.'' 
 
 Releasing himself from her hold, and promising to 
 dispense with the haste, which would appear by the 
 running of her tongue to be the only evil he had to 
 avoid, he walked a little faster than she could follow 
 him, towards the spot where Anne had checked her 
 own progress — having caught a glimpse of the nurse 
 and Moreton in the distance. As well might the 
 nurse's voice have hoped to repeat the miracle of 
 Joshua, when he commanded the sun to stand still and 
 it obeyed him, as to arrest the advance of Moreton 
 towards the only object on which he wished to gaze. 
 Removing his hat, as he came within sight and hearing 
 of Anne, he said, " Your friend tells me you have 
 
THE RIVAL COUSINS. 203 
 
 sustained a loss, which I am extremely glad to have 
 it my power to repair." 
 
 The first effects of this address from Moreton, whom 
 Anne had seen more than once before, and the agita- 
 tion into which it threw her sensitive frame, can be 
 understood only by a brief but comprehensive paragraph 
 of previous information. The nurse had been sent 
 out this afternoon because the baronet's son was ex- 
 pected. He had, a week ago, made proposals to the 
 mother to render Anne his wife as early as all parties 
 might deem expedient; and he was coming to the 
 cottage this afternoon to receive his answer, both from 
 the daughter and mother. Within the week the lady 
 cousin, whom the mother had brought up from infancy 
 as a second daughter, came unexpectedly from Dublin ; 
 ostensibly to see her rural relations, as she called them; 
 but really because she had heard of the proposal, and 
 hoped by a timely appearance to supplant the unsus- 
 pecting Anne in the young baronet's affections. Her 
 personal beauty was more striking than Anne's : her 
 form was one more stately, her face was more hand- 
 some, and of course every part of her costume was 
 arranged to give dignity and effect to the whole. In fact, 
 she was at an age and of an appearance which few 
 gentlemen even of rank could have withstood, and Anne 
 was effectually supplanted at the very first interview. 
 
 She saw, without an emotion of envy or anger, the 
 triumph of her rival ; and she consented, with a smile 
 of approbation, to the transfer, if ever she possessed it, 
 of the young baronet's heart. In fact, she had just 
 
204 THE RIVAL COUSIXS. 
 
 left them with her mother to do as they pleased, in 
 attempting to gain her consent, or follow their own 
 inclinations without it — thankful that she was released 
 from unwelcome thraldom without an effort, and 
 delighted to breathe the pure air of heaven, with more 
 freedom of spirit than she had enjoyed since the 
 baronet's perplexing proposal had been made. It was 
 in this state of mind that she received the first address 
 of Moreton, which has just been mentioned ; and, 
 with a pardonable absence of mind, forgetting her 
 canary, her interpretation of that address was in con- 
 formity with the peculiar position in which the rivalry 
 of her cousin had just placed her. In answer, there- 
 fore, to what Moreton said, " You have sustained a loss, 
 which I am extremely glad to have it in my power to 
 repair;" she innocently said, "Are you quite sure 
 you could repair the loss of a baronet's son ?" 
 
 Nothing could have been more in accordance with 
 his wishes than this answer. It told him that, at 
 least, the baronet's son was no longer her accepted 
 lover: it intimated that either she had rejected him, 
 or that he had forsaken her. Until he recollected what 
 the nurse said of the lady-cousin's return, he considered 
 the latter impossible, and therefore rejoiced at once in 
 the conclusion that the former was the case — that she 
 had put a negative on his proposal. Then as to him- 
 self, she asked it mirthfully ; but how gratifying that 
 she asked it at all, whether he could repair the loss? 
 He could scarcely murmur that getting rid of his rival 
 was deemed a loss, provided he might be admitted to 
 
THE RIVAL COUSINS. 205 
 
 the candidacy of supplying it. Thus encouraged, he 
 said, with all the blended grace and warmth he cortld 
 command, " The loss of mansion and wealth, Miss 
 Pomfret, I could but ill supply, and the loss of title and 
 rank I could not supply at all ; but if it be loss of 
 affection about which I am asked, I must very much 
 mistake my own heart if I could not supply it to a 
 perpetual overflow." 
 
 The eyes of Anne, which had brightened at the first 
 sentences, and somewhat dimmed their brightness 
 when More ton spoke of affection and of mistaking his 
 heart, resumed all their lustre when he added, " At all 
 events, let me have a candid trial, and let the trial 
 commence to-morrow at yonder cottage ; where I 
 intend about noon to leave a stray canary that I have 
 caught, as a present to its former owner — who seems 
 distinguished for allowing her friends to leave her." 
 The expressive look of the maiden gave consent to the 
 visit, which her tongue would not or could not utter. 
 At this moment the nurse reached the spot, chided 
 Moreton for his forwardness, and taking the arm of 
 Anne, forced rather than led her home. 
 
 To describe the mingled feelings of Moreton after 
 this interview, is impossible. His contemptuous hatred 
 and scornful pity of the young baronet, were in pro- 
 portion to his own high sense of honour, and the perfect 
 fidelity of all his principles and actions. On the other 
 hand, who could hold in unforgiveness his joy at the 
 inconstancy that his soul despised ? who does not com- 
 mend him for attempting to bear away the precious 
 
 T 
 
206 THE RIVAL COUSINS. 
 
 jewel, while he disdained the wretch that would have 
 trampled it in the dust ? who must not congratulate his 
 hasty seizure of the opportunity, created by conduct in 
 another that he held in perfect abhorrence ? 
 
 When he turned a thought towards the lad)--cousin, 
 whose sudden appearance at the cottage had excited 
 at once some of his worst and his best feelings, he 
 claims the like sympathy. Beholding in her the ser- 
 pent's glittering form, and worse than the serpent's 
 heart, he could not but rejoice that such things had 
 been mysteriously permitted to occur, since they opened 
 to his own view the brightest and sweetest prospect his 
 soul could contemplate. 
 
 Thus, also, when he looked on Anne, and saw her 
 insulted by a thoughtless and faithless man of fashion 
 and folly, unappreciated and unprized, when a glittering 
 rival stepped in to enchant his frail and feeble senses, 
 his bosom burned with virtuous indignation ; while he 
 could not help exulting in the very wrongs she suffered, 
 because they left her free to become his own adored 
 and chosen bride. 
 
 Under the influence of this excited state of mind, and 
 before he set out with the canary to the cottage, 
 Moreton sat down, and penned as polite a request to 
 the young baronet as his feelings would allow, to know 
 if he might act on the report of his having transferred 
 his attention from Miss Pomfret to her cousin ? This 
 he intended partly as a proper act of courtesy towards 
 one, whom his own addresses to that lady might other- 
 wise appear to oppose ; and partly as a reproof for the 
 
. 
 
THE RIVAL COUSINS. 207 
 
 sudden manner in which the change in the object of 
 his avowed idolatry had been affected. The note 
 reached the young baronet just after he had announced 
 the change to his father, who was fast decaying with 
 age, yet in possession of every faculty, and the strongest 
 feeling on every question involving the honour of his 
 house. In fact, a serious dispute had just closed with 
 the abrupt dismissal of the son from his presence ; 
 leaving, perhaps, the latter a prey to some few relent- 
 ings for what he had sense enough to know was highly 
 dishonourable. 
 
 Thus excited, he seized a pen, and returned by 
 Moreton's servant, a demand that he would meet him 
 in an hour, under the park wall of his father's mansion. 
 Moreton was uncertain, though not unsuspicious, of the 
 object of the meeting, and therefore went armed, as 
 was the custom of the north some fourscore years ago. 
 Scarcely had the parties met, when the young baronet 
 drew his sword, and commanded Moreton to do the 
 same; and scarcely had the latter obeyed the com- 
 mand, before he found it dashed from his hand by an 
 old Scotch gardener of the mansion, who had watched 
 his master from his room, and suspected some necessity 
 for his own immediate interference. An explanation 
 followed in the presence of the old man, and Moreton 
 left his adversary avowedly satisfied. 
 
 Nothing transpired to shew that either of the cousins 
 were acquainted with this hostile meeting, nor could 
 any good have arisen from either being informed of it. 
 The basest effort of the young baronet to injure More- 
 
208 THE RIVAL COUSINS. 
 
 ton in reputation or in person, would have effected no 
 change in the proud resolve of the lady cousin, at all 
 hazards to become his wife : nor could any feeling but 
 the deepest distress, that she had been the innocent 
 cause of involving one of her suitors in guilt and the 
 other in danger, have resulted from Anne's acquaintance 
 with the affair. 
 
 On the old baronet — to whose worthless son we have 
 given the title a little before his father's death bequeathed 
 it to him — the effect was fatal. Immediately on the 
 dispute, he retired to his chamber, and when the old 
 gardener, who always had access to him, informed him 
 of the affray, he sunk on his couch, from which he rose 
 no more. The melancholy event excited less surprise 
 than regret among those who knew the family. Exces- 
 sive indulgence on the part of a fond father, who had 
 scarcely another vice about him, had early vitiated the 
 principles of the son, and his vices had removed an 
 excellent mother to a premature grave. The death of 
 the baronetess tore the veil from the baronet's eyes, 
 and he then, too late, commenced another course. His 
 entreaties, his tears, his promises — he could not threaten 
 — his arguments and appeals, would have impressed 
 almost any heart. He thought he had succeeded, 
 when his son, on condition of being allowed to marry 
 Miss Pomfret, promised in every respect a complete 
 reformation. The condition was far more agreeable to 
 the father than it could be to the son, and was granted 
 with tears of joy, that his lamented wife was likely to 
 be succeeded in the maternity of his ancient house by 
 
THE RIVAL COUSINS. 20i> 
 
 one so perfectly worthy of the distinction. Amidst the 
 rapid decay of age, and advance of death, the father 
 was now happier than he had ever been, and continued 
 so, till the sudden transfer of the son's attention to 
 another, convinced him that he could not be trusted. 
 The flippant intimation of this change by the son him- 
 self — whose wanton fancy thought no evil, if he did 
 but marry into the family his father loved — shocked the 
 good old man past recovery. And when he heard that 
 his son's faithlessness to Anne, was followed by an 
 effort to deprive her faithful admirer of life, he could 
 not endure the stroke — he sunk into a state of insensi- 
 bility, from which he awoke only for a few moments — 
 enough, however, to have his departing spirit soothed 
 with a divine assurance quoted by the pious gardener — 
 " Although my house be not so, yet hath God made 
 with me an everlasting covenant, ordered in all things 
 and sure : this is all my salvation and all my desire." 
 
 The old baronet's death delayed the marriage of his 
 son several months ; but his proud betrothed, now 
 become haughtier than ever, took care that the delay 
 should not be longer than regard to propriety required. 
 Scarcely had it taken place, than the baronet had 
 reason to regret his preference. Before, nothing could 
 surpass her attention to his interests and comfort — 
 
 " She rose to breathe with him the morning air ; 
 
 She echoed every strain her lover sang ; 
 If the cool grove he trod, he found her there ; 
 
 She in the evening dance to meet him sprang ; 
 
 And in the moonlight walk their mutual carols raDgr." 
 
210 THE RIVAL COUSINS. 
 
 But having gained her object, the lady changed her 
 course, and adapted her behaviour to the natural impe- 
 riousness, and it may be said bitterness of her disposi- 
 tion. She waged incessant strife with her husband, 
 and all her husband's [favourite servants and former 
 friends. By him she soon became much more deeply hated 
 than he had ever admired her; so that he seldom sought 
 her company, and for months together, left her the undi- 
 vided empire of the mansion and its extensive grounds. 
 His sudden death, at forty, in a boisterous sport, was 
 an event in which she had not sufficient respect for his 
 person or his memory, to restrain her from actually re- 
 joicing. But her reign as a widow was still shorter than 
 as a wife. A fever of the whole system at length 
 settled in her brain, and she was rendered by her de- 
 lirious confessions, an object of alternate derision and 
 pity from the menials who attended her last hours, and 
 who were with difficulty bribed to undertake the sad 
 office. 
 
 Turning to the other and happy pair, a scene of com- 
 plete contrast is beheld. Moreton's marriage with 
 Anne took place some months before her lady-cousin 
 became mistress of Hermitage Castle; so that, the 
 latter had large opportunities of knowing, by observa- 
 tion and report, that neither rank nor title, neither 
 fashion nor wealth, were essential to domestic felicity. 
 Yet was their felicity garnished with these appendages 
 in a very few years, and by the events that brought 
 their proud relations to the dust. When death had 
 deprived the castle of its haughty possessors, it was 
 
THE RIVAL COUSINS. 211 
 
 purchased by Moreton, whom unexpected incidents had 
 rendered rich ; and soon after he and his lovely wife, 
 and five sweet children, had taken possession of the 
 estate, the minister of the day, whom Moreton had 
 essentially served in the county, rewarded him with the 
 baronetcy, which it was not deemed expedient to allow 
 to become utterly extinct. Many honoured and happy 
 years did this excellent pair live, as Sir James and Lady 
 Moreton Hermitage, of Hermitage Castle, in Northum- 
 berland. 
 
 SONNET TO MELANCHOLY. 
 (from an old album.) 
 
 Maid of the pensive look, and brow austere, 
 Who oft, in groves impervious to the day, 
 Wrapt in impassioned musings, sometimes near 
 The time-reft tower, or convent, loved to stray, 
 The giddy tribe who bow to Folly's power, 
 Deride, but dread the glances of thine eye, 
 With hurried step pass Contemplation's bower, 
 Eager thy frown, calm monitress, to fly ! 
 Thou, in thy solitary shades retired, 
 Whate'er men deem of thee, art least alone ; 
 With thoughts beyond their reach, thy heart inspired, 
 Tastes the sweet sacred calm, to them unknown. 
 I leave the halls where mirth and wassail be, 
 To wander, gentle Eremite, with thee. 
 
212 
 
 THE DAUGHTER. 
 
 BY MISS G. VINCENT. 
 
 On my route to Newcastle, I was once detained at a 
 small retired village by one of those numberless acci- 
 dents that sometimes impede the course of the traveller. 
 It was a beautiful spot, however, and I almost rejoiced 
 at the necessity of spending a few hours within its 
 precincts. The day had been sultry in an extreme, and 
 there was a feeling of oppressiveness in the air which 
 amounted almost to suffocation. With what pleasure, 
 then, did I hail a large cluster of aged trees stretching 
 their gigantic arms around and above the humble village 
 church, which, in its mantle of ivy, every here and 
 there peeped through its majestic bower. I hastened 
 to a scene which promised to delight me alike with its 
 coolness and serenity. After reclining for awhile on a 
 rustic bench, I began to busy myself with observing the 
 mixture of pride and humility which was visible among 
 the resting-places of the departed. Here a superb 
 monument, and there a grave undistinguished, save by 
 the clusters of violets and woodbine which clothed the 
 
THE DAUGHTER. 213 
 
 spot with a short-lived beauty, characteristic, perhaps, 
 of the fate of her who slept beneath — for on a rude 
 little wooden tablet the name of " Ellen" was engraven. 
 The one, thought I, holds the mouldering remains of a 
 son of wealth — for the epitaph told of his charities and 
 his worth — but rank weeds are growing there! The 
 other is, perhaps, sacred to the memory of love, for 
 flowers — sweet, though humble, flowers — are blooming 
 on it. A lover's or a sister's care (so continued my 
 thoughts to flow) is, after all, far preferable to the power 
 of riches ! By the one a glittering cenotaph is erected, 
 while his heirs neglect his memory ; by the other, poor 
 Ellen's modest, unpretending worth is not only symboled 
 but preserved. Without the enclosure of trees, the little 
 churchyard had from time to time been slightly ex- 
 tended beyond its pristine limits. In a remote corner, 
 separated from all others, there was a grave which 
 particularly excited my curiosity. It had neither a 
 monument to attract the admiration of strangers, nor a 
 stone to save from oblivion the name or the virtues 
 of the deceased — no flower raised its beautiful head or 
 shed its precious perfume there. It was all bleak and 
 lonely. The north wind howled over it, and blighted 
 even the common herb that would else have grown on 
 its surface. It seemed all desolation and forgetfulness. 
 I was overwhelmed with melancholy. What ! thought 
 I, is there one so poor or so vile that there is no 
 mourner over his grave — none to drop the last fond 
 tear of affection upon the earth which gives back " dust 
 to dust!" Happy Ellen ! such was not thy lot! 
 
214 THE DAUGHTER. 
 
 I was sad and weary, and returned to my inn. I 
 inquired the history of that grave, and mine host (all 
 the fraternity are loquacious) soon gratified my curiosity 
 with the following recital ; a little altered, perhaps, in 
 manner and expression, for I am writing from memory, 
 though I am sure that there is no deviation from fact. 
 
 " On the verge of yonder hill (thus did he begin) 
 you may perceive a mansion of rather magnificent ex- 
 terior. It is the residence of Mr. Alton, the poor man's 
 friend — for so is he called. He holds little or no com- 
 munion with the wealthy, but he is beloved by the 
 needy and unfortunate ; nay, even the rich, though they 
 consider him eccentric, value his worth. It is neces- 
 sary that I enter somewhat more largely into his history 
 before I can explain to you the story of that Lonely 
 Grave. 
 
 " Mr. Alton entered life with a heart teeming with 
 kindness towards his fellow-creatures. Possessed of an 
 ample fortune, his sole ambition was to relieve those 
 whose virtues were obscured by the darkness of misfor- 
 tune. Like many others of a warm and noble tempera- 
 ment, he looked at life through the medium of a 
 distempered sensibility : he thought too highly of the 
 human heart, and fondly imagined that generosity 
 would nourish virtue, and that from the beams of his 
 munificence the excellence of others would spring. 
 The intention was in every respect good, but he failed 
 in its application. His character was weak, 
 
 ' But e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' 
 Naturally unsuspicious, he threw his doors open to alL 
 
THE DAUGHTER. 
 
 215 
 
 Numbers flocked to his table, numbers partook of bis 
 bounty ; until having expended his property upon the 
 unworthy, in the vain hope of saving some and reclaim- 
 ing others, he found himself at once bereft of fortune 
 and his friends — those summer-friends, who, like the 
 insects engendered by the sun, sport and revel in the 
 hour of brightness, but when clouds or sorrows come, 
 vanish, and for ever. In this extremity he was relieved 
 through the affection of a female, to whom in his happier 
 days he had payed his addresses, and through whose 
 interest he now procured a situation under government. 
 Misfortune is the nurse of wisdom. He was now care- 
 ful who he admitted to his friendship, and lived frugally, 
 in order to raise a capital, which, joined to the wreck 
 of his former fortune, he, in his sanguine moments, 
 hoped might enable him at some future period to aspire 
 to the hand of the lady who still possessed the best 
 affections of his heart. About this time one of his 
 friends induced him to embark his small capital in a 
 speculation, which promised a speedy and princely 
 wealth. At first every thing prospered to his utmost 
 wishes. Elate with joy, he threw himself at his mis- 
 tress's feet. She had scarcely accepted his hand — 
 preparations for the ceremony were just made, when in- 
 telligence reached him that his golden dreams had 
 failed, and ' hope deferred ' added gall to the bitterness 
 of his ruin. 
 
 " Plunged again into poverty — his spirits broken — 
 and his heart depressed, still the eye of a benign Provi- 
 dence watched over him, and he Wc.s again relieved 
 
216 THE DAUGHTER. 
 
 from his distress by the affectionate care of his former 
 friend. He resumed his struggle against misfortune 
 with that persevering fortitude which seldom fails of 
 ultimate success. Suffice it that, after a few years of 
 prosperity, he was united to her who had poured balm 
 into his wounded bosom, she who had been the excite- 
 ment to, and had bestowed the power of, successful 
 effort on him in his evil hour. 
 
 " Shortly after his marriage, a distant relation of her 
 father's dying, he became again possessed of consider- 
 able property. He thenboughfan estate in Derbyshire, 
 where, with his amiable bride, he hoped to pass the re- 
 mainder of his days in the calm serenity of unembittered 
 happiness. 
 
 " One only daughter was the pledge of their affection, 
 and fondly did her parents love that child! Matilda 
 was beautiful as a summer flower, and sportive as the 
 zephyrs that fanned the gardens of the Hesperides. 
 Her mother trained her in all those virtues which 
 render the female sex lovely; but, alas! she lost that 
 parent at an age when a mother's care is most required. 
 Matilda was in her fourteenth year, when Mrs. Alton 
 died. 
 
 " A long time elapsed ere the survivors recovered 
 from the shock of their bereavement. It was one in- 
 deed, that Mr. Alton could not fail to deplore ; for she, 
 the loving and beloved — the bosom friend — the faith- 
 ful, the confiding wife, was taken from his love. 
 
 " Their home now appeared desolate and cheerless. 
 Their medical attendant recommended change of scene, 
 
THE DAUGHTER; 217 
 
 and a residence in London was determined on. And 
 the tender parent, anxious to remove the melancholy 
 that preyed upon the spirits of his child, after two years 
 of unfeigned mourning, threw his doors open to the 
 gay and the vivacious. 
 
 " With a disposition like his, ardent in the pursuit of 
 good to others, and tremblingly apprehensive of the con- 
 sequences of his daughter's recent sufferings and declin- 
 ing health, it is hardly to be wondered that he invited 
 indiscriminately to his house all who appeared capable 
 of lending enchantment to pleasure. Among these, 
 Edgar Morton shone conspicuous. Well born, well edu- 
 cated, possessed of a handsome person, and an accom- 
 plished manner, he stole into the heart of Matilda. 
 Alas, for her ! He was one whose extravagances 
 had hurried him into the commission of acts that 
 were sure, sooner or later, to disgrace and degrade him. 
 He was, in truth, a fashionable swindler; one of those 
 who live for years upon successful fraud under feigned 
 names; and, when the hour of retribution comes, the 
 conduct of the delinquent is merely wondered at and — 
 forgotten. 
 
 " Young and thoughtless, possessing a heart capable 
 of warmly feeling the attention paid to her, Matilda fell 
 an easy victim to his wiles. The accomplished villain, 
 anxious that no inquiry should be made respecting his 
 character or connexions, under the pretence of some 
 family dispute, endeavoured to persuade her to consent 
 to a clandestine marriage. In this scheme he failed. 
 Fondly attached to her father, Matilda positively refused 
 
21S THE DAUGHTER. 
 
 to accept his hand without the knowledge of that pa- 
 rent ; and he, trusting to the affection of the daughter, 
 had not taken sufficient pains to secure the good 
 opinion of the father, who had for some time observed 
 him narrowly. His conduct had excited his surprise r 
 if it had not absolutely given him an unfavourable idea 
 of his character. He, therefore, firmly refused his con- 
 sent to a union which he conceived would only be pro- 
 ductive of misery to his child ; and then the unhappy 
 girl, suffering her feelings to get the better of her rea- 
 son, listened to the entreaties of her worthless lover, left 
 her father's home, and became his bride. 
 
 " Keen is the pang which pierces the heart of a fond 
 parent when he finds that he is deceived by a beloved 
 child. The old man neither spoke, nor moved, nor 
 wept, when he heard that his daughter had forsaken 
 him in his old age, and had left his gray hairs to sink 
 unmourned into the grave ; neither did he curse her, 
 for he remembered that she was his child. But every 
 feeling of happiness was blighted in his breast for ever. 
 For many years his sole delight had centred in her. 
 She was the prop which he trusted to support his 
 declining years, and she had deserted him in that 
 dreary time when his hand waxed feeble, and his eyes 
 grew dim, through age and infirmity. Wretched and 
 broken-hearted, he quitted the metropolis, and retired 
 to yonder residence, where, long unknown, he passed 
 his days in fruitless anguish, and his nights in praying 
 for one who had rendered happiness an alien from hi& 
 bosom, 
 
THE DAUGHTER. 219 
 
 " But Matilda was not long suffered to enjoy her 
 delusion. In the calm hour of reflection, the image of 
 her aged and deserted father constantly haunted her 
 imagination, and soon withered the roses on her cheek, 
 and dimmed the living brilliancy of her dark eye. She 
 had also another and a bitter cause to lament the im- 
 prudent step she had taken ; for her husband, who had 
 married her solely for her fortune, finding that no 
 reconciliation was likely to be effected with Mr. Alton, 
 threw off the mask that he had worn, and stood con- 
 fessed in his true and guilty character. No repinings 
 escaped the lips of his unhappy wife. She knew that 
 she had been criminal, and acknowledged the justice of 
 the punishment. Her cup of misery was, however, 
 soon filled to the brim, for within six months after her 
 marriage, Morton was tried at the bar of justice, and 
 condemned to be transported for life. When the sen- 
 tence was pronounced, his wretched wife, who had 
 been in court during the whole trial, fell into a death- 
 like swoon, from which she only awoke to a state of 
 suffering rendered more acute from her consciousness 
 of utter destitution. Where now were those halcyon 
 hours which her imagination then pictured would pass 
 for ever in joy and felicity ! Peace she had never 
 known since she had quitted that father's dwelling, and 
 happiness she could never know again. 
 
 " Finding that she was fast approaching that 'bourne 
 from whence no traveller returns,' she was anxious to 
 obtain the parental forgiveness before she should have 
 to answer for her crime at the foot of the last and 
 highest tribunal. 
 
220 THE DAUGHTER. 
 
 " On foot, and in all the helplessness of want, was 
 poor Matilda obliged to pursue her tedious journey ; 
 and alas ! the fatigue that she had undergone, both in 
 mind and body, brought on a raging fever. Her course 
 terminated at that very village inn where her stoiy of 
 suffering and care was told to the curious sojourner. 
 She had no hope, perhaps no wish, for recovery ; yet 
 did she beg, and earnestly, that Mr. Alton might be 
 sent for to visit a wretched and dying creature. Ever 
 willing to assist the distressed, the good man immedi- 
 ately came, and aiTived just in time to forgive and 
 bless his child, before he closdher eyes in death. 
 
 " He buried her in that Lone Grave, and raised no 
 stone to her memory, that with her name her faults 
 might be forgotten by the giddy world. But every 
 night his trickling tears water the sod, and every morn- 
 ing the aged mourner's prayers ascend to the throne of 
 mercy from that desolate spot." 
 
221 
 
 BOLTON ABBEY. 
 
 If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 
 Go visit it by the pale moonlight : 
 For the gay beams of lightsome flay 
 Gild but to flout the ruins gray. 
 
 Lay of th". Last Minstrel. 
 
 The sun had just risen, when Emma, De la Roche, 
 and myself, mounted our horses, and set forward on 
 our expedition to the abbey. It was one of those sultry 
 days common towards the end of summer, and which 
 contribute to render the cooling breezes of autumn, so 
 soon to refresh the air, doubly welcome. Every thing 
 seemed to foretell that the day would be intensely hot ; 
 as we rode along through a rich and highly cultivated 
 country, we could observe the cattle collecting them- 
 selves to the sides of the pools or river, endeavouring 
 to catch the slight breezes which played upon the face 
 of the waters ; while some, venturing into the stream, 
 sought to cool their burning limbs in its waves ; but 
 even here they could find no repose : the warmth of 
 the day had brought out all the insect tribes, which, 
 buzzing around, stung them almost to madness. In 
 vain they fled; the watchful foe pursued; nor could 
 u 3 
 
222 BOLTON ABBEY. 
 
 any stratagem elude his insatiable thirst for blood ; 
 until, worn out with the race, the poor animals re- 
 turned, wearied and dispirited, to the place from 
 which they had commenced their career. Every now 
 and then, we could discern small companies of reapers 
 busy with the early harvest; even their work seemed 
 to go listlessly on. In general, the wheat remained 
 uncut : while its rich golden waves, spreading in every 
 direction over the face of the country, gave a pleasing 
 variety to the landscape. " It is wonderful," I observed 
 to De la Roche, "that you, who have been accustomed 
 to all the magnificence and luxuriance of a southern 
 climate, can still contemplate with pleasure the compa- 
 ratively homely scene before us : I should always fear 
 one of the effects of travelling would be, to render me 
 dissatisfied with my own barren country." " Far 
 otherwise," he replied: "the lofty mountain and the 
 foaming cataract strike us at first with pleasure, with 
 admiration, and with awe ; the mind soars, as it were, 
 above itself: but the higher its flight, the sooner it 
 becomes fatigued, and we gladly turn from scenes of 
 lofty grandeur, to the more smiling beauties of the 
 plain. Besides all this, there is a magic in the name 
 of home and country, which he only who has quitted 
 them for a time can fully know. In a foreign land, we 
 wander amidst the charms of nature, lonely, uncon- 
 nected beings: separated from our kindred and our 
 friends, we have none to sympathize in our feelings ; 
 we are, as it were, alone in the world. But here we 
 are identified in a manner with the scene around us ; 
 
BOLTON ABBEY. 223 
 
 every peasant that we meet is a countryman and a kind 
 of brother." 
 
 In conversation such as this we reached the abbey. 
 It is now enclosed with a high park-wall, on opening a 
 door in which, the ruins in all their grandeur burst upon 
 our view. Although the remaining vestiges but faintly 
 shew what it was in the days of its former magnificence, 
 in point of situation it can hardly be equalled. Close 
 to the venerable pile, the Wharfe rolls peacefully along, 
 overhung by rocks of a thousand various tints, from the 
 deep rich purple to the more sober saffron ; the tops of 
 these cliffs are crowned with overhanging brushwood ; 
 from several of their apertures fall cascades, sending 
 their white foam high into the air, and swelling the 
 stream below with their tributary waters. Crossing 
 the river, by means of large stones placed at equal 
 distances from each other, we sauntered along the foot 
 of the rocks, which served as a protection from the 
 powerful rays of the sun, until the river, narrowing at 
 every step, rushes with impetuous fury (forming a kind 
 of whirlpool) between two rocks, known by the name 
 of "The Stride." It was the fatal spot where "the 
 Boy of Egremond," the last of his race, was dashed to 
 pieces, as he attempted to leap the pass. The place is 
 still shunned by the peasantry : oft in the silence of the 
 night, as the wind moans heavily by it, they fancy they 
 distinguish the screams of the childless mother mingling 
 with the blast ; fulfilling, as it were, her reply to the 
 herdsman, which has been handed down by tradition, 
 and is still used as a proverb by the men of Wharfedale. 
 
224 BOLTON ABBEY. 
 
 The heat at last obliged us to return to the ruin, in 
 the hope that it might afford us a temporary retreat, 
 until sufficiently refreshed to pursue our ramble. We 
 soon reached the spot, where it stood screened by large 
 venerable trees, and entered what had formerly been 
 the nave of the church by one of the numerous breaches 
 which time, or the still more destroying hand of man, 
 had made in the wall. There was a kind of silent awe 
 in the scene, which suited well with the tone of my 
 feelings. Can anything remind us more forcibly of the 
 brevity of human existence, than the sight of a vast 
 edifice, raised with a care and a skill which seemed to 
 promise that it should remain coeval with time itself, 
 now mouldering in the dust; weeds and grass usurping 
 the site of the fair pavement! Where once the win- 
 dow, stained with armorial bearings, " shed a dim 
 religious light," is seen the creeping ivy; and instead 
 of " the loud pealing organ," and swelling voices, 
 hymning the praises of the Deity, are heard at times 
 the screaming of the bittern, and the low complaining 
 of the owl. And where are they, the proud founders of 
 the building? where are the lordly abbots, with their 
 long train of attendant monks ? — all, all are vanished ! 
 not one trace remains, to point out the spot which 
 contains their ashes ! The dust of the chivalrous baron 
 and the mitred churchman is mingled in one indiscri- 
 minate mass, or scattered by the winds to the four 
 corners of heaven. A few more revolving years, and 
 they who now move so lightly and so gaily over the 
 green turf, will, like those who sleep below, be swal- 
 
BOLTON ABBEY. 225 
 
 swallowed up in the vast ocean of eternity, and be for- 
 gotten as though they had never been ! 
 
 Thus musing, or at times sauntering listlessly 
 among the ruins, I heeded not the passing time, nor 
 perceived that my companions had wandered far from 
 me. In the morning no cloud had obscured the 
 serene azure of the sky, but for some time one black 
 spot had been visible in the distance ; it had for the 
 last half hour been rapidly increasing in size, and every 
 now and then I could distinguish the low mutterings 
 of the distant thunder, accompanied by a few faint 
 flashes of lightning. Aware that the storm would not 
 now pass away, I was on the point of leaving the build- 
 ing, when a peal of thunder shook it to its very founda- 
 tion ; at that moment my companions joined me. We 
 wished to have reached the inn ; but the storm was 
 now raging with a violence which drowned the sound 
 of our voices : the peals of thunder, bursting with 
 sudden crashes over our heads, were reverberated 
 by a thousand echoes amongst the rocks and dilapi- 
 dated buildings ; and, long ere one sound died away, 
 it was renewed b\ T claps, each of which seemed longer 
 and louder than the last; while the forked and vivid 
 lightning flashed from every window and crevice, ren- 
 dering the horrors of the scene without distinctly 
 visible. We had entered that part of the abbey where 
 divine service is still performed, and ranged ourselves 
 in silence round the altar. Thus we remained for 
 more than an hour, when the fury of the storm began 
 to abate, but the thunder had been succeeded by flood* 
 
226 BOLTON ABBEY. 
 
 of rain ; and being at some distance from the inn, we 
 were detained prisoners some time longer. We reached 
 it at last; but the shower had been followed by a kind 
 of drizzling rain, which threatened to be of longer 
 duration, and we were reluctantly obliged to give up all 
 thoughts of returning home that night. Seated round 
 a cheerful fire, talking over the pleasures and dangers 
 of the day, our little party soon recovered its gaiety, 
 nor separated until a late hour. 
 
 The window of the apartment which I occupied 
 looked towards the abbey ; and as I gazed from it, 
 I could not but feel surprised at the change which 
 a few hours had made in the scene. Nothing could 
 be more profound than the calm which had succeeded 
 the storm. The moon was risen, shedding her silver 
 light on all around, and the outline of the abbey was 
 beautifully defined by her soft rays. I could not sleep, 
 nor resist the wish, at this still and beautiful hour, 
 when all around me were asleep, to revisit the scene of 
 past pleasures. I proceeded about two hundred yards 
 from the house, and then a feeling of the most perfect 
 loneliness made me pause ; I could proceed no further. 
 Earth below seemed so peaceful, and the heavens above 
 presented such an image of calm majesty ; I alone 
 seemed the only living being in the vast expanse. 
 Evening, certainly, is the time for holy devotion ; but 
 Night, even when most beautiful, brings with her feel- 
 ings of solemnity and awe. She speaks so forcibly of 
 the end of all things — of our last long sleep ! I had, 
 however, seen Bolton by the pale moonlight. Beautiful 
 
BOLTON ABBEY. 227 
 
 Bolton ! four long years have passed away since the 
 events I have been relating; and how have the little 
 party, which on that day visited those ruins, been 
 dispersed ! how much of earth and ocean now separates 
 hearts still as fondly united ! But the only one of the 
 three who still remains, shall never see thy moulder- 
 ing walls without a thought to the memory of her lost 
 friends, and a tear to the recollection of their love ! 
 
 Flora. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 The light that shines in Mary's eyes, 
 Is kindled at some magic shrine ; 
 
 Its fount is summer evening skies, 
 And earthly still, is still divine. 
 
 The breath that sweetens Mary's lips, 
 Is stolen from the conscious rose ; 
 
 Which strives their crimson to eclipse, 
 When blushing in her cheek it glows, 
 
 Grace, like faint harmonies entwined, 
 Floats round my Mary's every motion : 
 
 And softer than the dying wind, 
 
 Her sweet voice claims the soul's devotion. 
 
 But loveliest, crown of all, her heart 
 With love's affections gushing free, 
 
 Like heavenly light informs each part, 
 And, dearest Mary, throbs for me ! 
 
22S 
 
 AMELIA. 
 
 It was a fine day in the month of October, 181-, when 
 Alfred Montgomery, then on a visit to his uncle, an 
 eminent merchant residing in the city of York, set out 
 to stroll as far as Bishop thorpe, the seat of the venerable 
 and respected archbishop of the province. His route 
 lay through fields which had been lately covered with 
 standing corn, and had now assumed the hue of 
 autumn. On his left waved the majestic elms that 
 decorate the magnificent walk which runs by the river 
 Ouse for nearly two miles, and is the finest terrace-walk 
 in the kingdom ; their leaves shone in the rays of the 
 autumnal sun like burnished gold ; behind him rose the 
 towers of that majestic temple, York Minster, perhaps 
 the most elaborate Gothic structure in England ; whilst 
 in front, the palace of Bishopthorpe, rearing its head 
 above the plantations in which it appeared to be enve- 
 loped, closed the scene. Alfred had a heart not insen- 
 sible to the beauties of nature, and he paused to gaze 
 on the surrounding objects with feelings of admiration 
 and delight. He had just taken out his pencil to make 
 a sketch of the venerable cathedral as it appeared in 
 the distance, rising like a giant above the pigmy edifices 
 by which it is surrounded, when a wild shriek burst 
 
AMELIA. 229 
 
 upon his ear. It came from the high road which 
 skirted the fields ; and in an instant he leaped the 
 hedge, and looked round to discover what it was that 
 had alarmed him. A little way down the road, he 
 saw two ruffians employed in rifling a female, who was 
 extended on the ground ; and, though armed only with 
 a stick, he rushed to her rescue. The villains fled at 
 his approach; for the guilty are generally cowards. 
 Alfred then turned his attention to the fainting form of 
 the female whom they had quitted. She was seemingly 
 not more than eighteen ; and though terror had 
 blanched her cheek, yet it was evident that she pos- 
 sessed considerable personal attractions. Alfred raised 
 her in his arms, and fortunately the terrified girl soon 
 gave signs of returning animation ; for my hero would 
 have been at a loss how to proceed, if her insensibility 
 had continued. Opening her eyes, she cast them on 
 the ingenuous countenance of her young deliverer : — 
 "Am I safe?" she murmured, in soft accents. "You 
 have now nothing to fear ; yet, as soon as you are able, 
 we had better leave this spot, lest the villains, who have 
 escaped, should return." "Oh, let us go now!" she 
 exclaimed, raising herself from his arms ; " I am quite 
 recovered; I can walk home now." " You will allow 
 me to attend you ; I cannot think of trusting you 
 alone," said Alfred; a proposition which was readily 
 assented to by his fair companion ; and they proceeded 
 towards the cottage of her aunt, which she informed 
 him was situated at only a short distance. 
 
 Arrived at the cottage of Mrs. Mildmay, Alfred was 
 
2.30 AMELIA, 
 
 overwhelmed with the thanks of that lady for the 
 service which he had rendered her niece; and he re- 
 ceived them with a manly ingenuousness which strongly 
 recommended him to the notice of both. His con- 
 nexions were not unknown to Mrs. Mildmay, and 
 during his stay in York he frequently repeated his 
 visits ; and when he departed for the metropolis, he 
 carried with him the assurance that the heart of the 
 lovely Amelia Mildmay was wholly his. 
 
 Alfred had some difficulty in tearing himself from 
 the spot in which all his hopes and wishes centred ; but 
 the commands of his father were imperative. Sir 
 James Montgomery was the head of an ancient house, 
 and he looked to his son as one who was destined to 
 perpetuate its honours. Alfred well knew that his 
 father would never consent to his union with the 
 orphan and portionless daughter of a country surgeon — 
 for such Amelia Mildmay was — however amiable or 
 however accomplished; and he obeyed his summons 
 with a foreboding dread of much evil that was to come, 
 but with a firm determination to withstand all efforts to 
 induce him to break the vows he had pledged to 
 Amelia. But Alfred knew not his own heart; he de- 
 pended too much on the strength and stability of his 
 affections, and they deceived him. 
 
 Sir James had heard from his brother-in-law, Mr, 
 Lawrence, with whom Alfred had been staying at 
 York, that his son had formed an attachment to a 
 young lady who had nothing to recommend her but 
 beauty, amiable disposition, and extensive accomplish- 
 
AMELIA. 2."31 
 
 meats; which latter were bestowed upon her by a 
 doting father, who when in prosperity, with a lucrative 
 profession, and the fair prospect of leaving the image 
 of his regretted wife an ample if not an affluent provi- 
 sion, spared no expense in procuring her the most 
 eminent masters ; and Amelia did honour to their care. 
 Adversity, however, soon blighted all the hopes of Mr. 
 Mildmay, and he died a martyr to despair, leaving his 
 child to the protection of the wife of his deceased 
 brother, who had for six years supplied the place of her 
 parents, with an affection which Amelia dutifully re- 
 paid. Thus, though Miss Mildmay would have graced 
 a ducal coronet, yet the want of high birth — that of 
 fortune would have been no object — prevented Sir 
 James Montgomery, who looked upon the penchant of 
 the young people as a mere childish passion, from re- 
 ceiving her as his daughter. 
 
 Arrived at his father's splendid mansion in Gros- 
 venor-square, Alfred found a large party assembled to 
 enjoy the festive gaieties of a " winter in London." At 
 first he entered into the scenes of splendid dissipation 
 in which he was immersed with reluctance, and his 
 heart reverted to the banks of the Ouse and the lovely 
 Amelia; but soon — such is the influence of bright 
 eyes and fine forms — he joined in them with a degree 
 of pleasure which was unaccountable to himself, but 
 which a judge of poor human nature would have found 
 no difficulty in tracing to the right cause. The 
 fact was, Alfred, though gifted with many excellent 
 qualities, inherited no small share of his father's family 
 
"232 AMELIA. 
 
 pride. The seeds of vanity also were thickly strewn in 
 his composition, and strangely marred his otherwise 
 amiable disposition. The heir of Sir James Montgo- 
 mery's title and fortune, he was of course an object of 
 desire to all the disengaged young ladies, whose mam- 
 mas or other relatives were on terms of intimacy with 
 the family ; and many were the snares laid to entrap 
 his affections. Some of these were so palpable, that 
 they failed through their own grossness; but others 
 were more delicately managed : and whilst the vanity 
 of the young man was flattered on the one hand, his 
 interest was excited on the other. For the honour of 
 that sex, which Heaven, in pity to man, sent 
 
 " to cheer 
 
 The fitful struggles of our passage here," 
 
 I must add, that those females, who were so anxiously 
 striving to win the youthful heir, were few in number ; 
 and that even of those, not one, I verily believe, would 
 have endeavoured to captivate his affections, if they 
 had known that a lovely fair one, to whom he had 
 plighted his vows, was pining in secret for him. 
 
 In a few months, Alfred almost ceased to remember 
 that such a being as Amelia Mildmay existed. His 
 days were devoted to the society of a number of dashing 
 young fellows, who contrived to kill time at the clubs 
 and other places of fashionable resort ; his nights to 
 the opera, the theatres, or Almack's; to splendid routs, 
 fascinating balls, or scientific conversazioni. At every 
 turn he was assailed by the blandishments of flattery ; 
 on all sides he was the object of the most assiduous 
 
AMELIA 233 
 
 attentions from the rich, and the young, and the beau- 
 tiful. Is it wonderful, then, that his heart became 
 entangled? Is it wonderful that the quiet, unobtrusive 
 qualities of Amelia, were forgotten amidst the glare, 
 and pretensions, and fascinations of a London fashion- 
 able life? I offer no apology for his infidelity; I state 
 facts, and lament that truth compels me to record the 
 defection of Alfred Montgomery from his vows. 
 
 But how passed this time with Amelia? At first, 
 with hope for her companion, she looked forward to 
 future happiness as certain, and dwelt with delight 
 upon the prospect of wedded bliss. But conscience 
 interfered to damp these pleasing anticipations. She 
 had concealed from her aunt, at Alfred's request, the 
 fact of a mutual engagement having taken place be- 
 tween them, and her heart bitterly smote her with 
 having practised duplicity in regard to this revered 
 relative. She soon, however, set her conscience at 
 rest, by telling Mrs. Mildmay the whole little history 
 of her guileless bosom ; and a gentle chiding was the 
 only reprimand which that kind and affectionate 
 woman could bring herself to bestow on the lovely 
 girl, who looked up to her for forgiveness and protec- 
 tion. Her self-approbation thus restored, Amelia 
 anticipated with eager anxiety the receipt of a letter 
 from town. It came, and was worded in language as 
 ardent as her own feelings — as pure as her own ima- 
 ginings. Under the sanction of her aunt, she replied 
 to this first love-epistle she had ever received; and 
 such an effect had the few artless lines she penned 
 x 3 
 
234 AMELIA. 
 
 upon Montgomery, that he absented himself from a 
 gay party, made on purpose for him, in order to answer 
 it. The next letter he received, he thought less inte- 
 resting; but replied immediately. After the third, he 
 suffered a longer period to elapse ; a still longer after 
 the fourth ; and to her fifth epistle it was such an 
 interval before any answer was received, that Amelia's 
 heart was filled with foreboding fears : and when it 
 arrived, it was so cold, so distant, so reserved ; it 
 breathed so much of the language of prudence, and so 
 little of that of love, that all those fears were confirmed. 
 Still, not even to her aunt would she whisper a sus- 
 picion of Alfred's truth, though the conviction that he 
 no longer loved — at least not as she did, with a pure, 
 devoted, undivided attachment — preyed upon her 
 spirits, robbed her cheeks of their bloom and her eyes 
 of their lustre ; and the once gay and animated Amelia 
 was now only the shadow of her former self. 
 
 "Whilst this amiable girl was thus lamenting the 
 faithlessness of her absent lover, that lover was en- 
 tangled in the snares which ambition and inclination 
 entwined to captivate him. The Honourable Louisa 
 Montague was the daughter of the gallant admiral of 
 that name, and the two families of Montgomery and 
 Montague v\ere upon the most intimate terms with 
 each other. Louisa loved; and she was besides am- 
 bitious of gaining one for whom so many females were 
 contending. She assiduously paid court to Alfred, but 
 in so delicate a manner that she never betrayed her 
 doing so. She appealed to him on every disputed 
 
AMELIA. 2,3.5 
 
 point ; she chose her books by his direction ; sang 
 those songs and played those pieces of music which he 
 approved : occasionally a beautiful bouquet, arranged 
 by her hand, was presented to the youth ; a purse was 
 netted for him, and a thousand other bewitching little 
 agremens displayed, which women know so well how to 
 call into action, and which are so seductive in their 
 effects upon those whom they are intended to charm. 
 Alfred by degrees found Miss Montgomery's society 
 almost necessary to his existence ; he was her escort in 
 the park, her attendant at the opera, her partner at the 
 ball; and one morning, having called upon her to 
 inquire after her health, as she had not been at Mont- 
 gomery-house at all the preceding day — honour and 
 Amelia being both forgotten — he made her an offer of 
 his hand and fortune, and was accepted. 
 
 No sooner, however, had that magic word, which 
 crowns the hopes of a trus lover, passed the lips of the 
 fair Louisa, than the thoughts of Amelia recurred to 
 Alfred's breast. " He started like a guilty thing;" his 
 colour changed, and he sunk into a chair that hap- 
 pened to be close beside him. To the anxious inquiries 
 of Louisa he returned the most incoherent answers, 
 and at length rushed from her presence, in a state of 
 mind which would have demanded pity, had it not been 
 brought on by his own forgetfulness of what was due to 
 the confiding girl who had bestowed her heart on him. 
 He flew to solitude, but reflection maddened him ; and 
 he then resorted to society — but nothing could quiet 
 the agitation of his mind. Had he confessed to Louisa 
 
236 AMELIA. 
 
 the exact state of his heart, all might have still been 
 well; for she was a noble-minded girl, though her 
 amiable qualities were partially obscured by her am- 
 bition. But his pride would not allow him to acknow- 
 ledge that he had acted with duplicity, that he had 
 professed to love her, when his heart was devoted to 
 another ; and he finally resolved to abide by the event 
 of the morning, and to forget, if possible, Bishopthorpe 
 and Amelia Mildmay. 
 
 Both the families received the intelligence of Alfred's 
 offer to Louisa Montague with joy ; and immediate 
 preparations were made for the marriage. Alfred 
 wrote one hurried note to Amelia, to intimate that she 
 must prepare her mind to hear of a change ; and then 
 he gave himself up to the fascinations of his betrothed. 
 Eager to get rid of the agonizing thoughts which would 
 intrude, and hoping he should feel more easy when it 
 had become his duty to love and honour Louisa as his 
 wife, he was anxious for the day which should unite 
 them. Before that day arrived, he had totally forgotten 
 Amelia ; and when he led Louisa to the altar, not one 
 thought of her disturbed his bosom. Such is man! and 
 such, too frequently, is man's love! It rages with 
 violence for a time ; but absence cools the flame, and 
 too often totally extinguishes it, even when the object 
 possesses every qualification which can reflect honour 
 on his choice. 
 
 The newspapers informed Amelia of the marriage of 
 Alfred, and the next day she disappeared from the 
 cottage of her aunt, whose most anxious inquiries could 
 
AMELIA. 237 
 
 obtain no tidings of hev. It would be vain to describe 
 her anguish ; — she loved Amelia as her child ; and 
 when two days had elapsed, and no intelligence was 
 received of the fugitive, she was laid on the bed of sick- 
 ness, caused by anxiety for the fate, and exertion to 
 discover the retreat of her beloved niece. 
 
 Alfred and his wife departed, as soon as the marriage 
 ceremony was performed, for a seat belonging to Sir 
 James Montgomery, situated in the most beautiful part 
 of Devonshire. There, blest in each other's society, the 
 days flew swiftly away, and time seemed to have added 
 new pinions to his wings ; so short seemed the hours 
 as they passed. But this was happiness too exquisite to 
 be of long duration. On the tenth day of their resi- 
 dence at Chilton-house, Louisa was walking on the 
 lawn in front of the building, equipped for riding, and 
 waiting for Alfred, who was to accompany her to take 
 a view of some picturesque objects in the neighbour- 
 hood. Suddenly her attention was excited by a female, 
 who, with agitated step and a wild and distracted mien, 
 approached and surveyed her with a piercing eye, in 
 which the fire of insanity was clearly to be distin- 
 guished. She spoke not, but gazed anxiously and 
 stedfastly on Louisa, who shrunk from the close inspec- 
 tion, and yet seemed rooted to the spot, as if deprived 
 of the power to move. Suddenly the figure approached 
 nearer, and passing her hand across the fair brow of 
 Mrs. Montgomery, she put aside the ringlets which 
 overshadowed it, and exclaimed, after the pause of 
 perhaps a minute, li Are you his wife? — but no!" the 
 
238 AMELIA. 
 
 fair maniac (for such she was) continued, " he is mine ; 
 his faith was plighted to me — you can have nothing to 
 do with my Alfred!" 
 
 What an agonizing moment was this for Louisa ! 
 She saw before her one who had been deceived by the 
 man to whom she had plighted her vows, and whose 
 reason had fallen a sacrifice to her base and unnatural 
 desertion. What a thought for a doting wife, — for a 
 proud one, too, who would never have accepted a divided 
 heart, or been contented with a share only of her 
 husband's affection ! — But perhaps there might be some 
 mistake ; she would try. 
 
 " What Alfred do you mean, my poor woman?" she 
 asked, in a tone of sympathy. 
 
 " Why, my own Alfred — Alfred Montgomery — him 
 for whom I twined this wreath : — but the flowers are 
 faded now — so, methinks, is his love, for it is a long 
 while since I have heard from him!" She took a 
 wreath of flowers from her bosom as she spoke, and, 
 pressing it to her lips, presented it to Mrs. Montgo- 
 mery. "See," she cried, "these are the flowers he 
 used to love ! 1 plucked them from my own bower — 
 that bower which Alfred decorated. — But I cannot 
 give it to you: no, I must keep it for Alfred. — Alfred!" 
 she exclaimed in a loud and piercing voice, " where 
 art thou, Alfred ?" — then adding in a lower and plaintive 
 tone : " They told me he was married, but I would not 
 believe it. I wandered through wind and through rain, 
 through brake and through briar, till I reached his 
 home : there thev told me too that he was married. 
 
AMELIA, 239 
 
 Still I would not believe it: I followed him here, for 
 is he not mine ? what right, then, have you here ? 
 
 Amelia — for it was indeed that lost, unhappy girl — 
 now seized Louisa wildly by the hand ; she uttered a 
 piercing shriek ; and the well-known voice reached the 
 ear of her husband ; he was instantly by her side, eager 
 to see what had occurred to alarm her! But what 
 a sight met his eyes ! He beheld his newly-married 
 wife supported by her maid, who had also heard her 
 shriek, pale and inanimate, the picture of death ; whilst 
 at her feet lay the lovely being whom he had made 
 wretched. How she came there he was at a loss to 
 conjecture ; and, not knowing what had passed between 
 her and his wife, he was equally at a loss how to act. 
 Before he could recall his scattered ideas, and resolve 
 on what was to be done, Amelia raised herself from the 
 ground, and catching his eye she sprang up, and cling- 
 ing to him she exclaimed, " He is here ! he is mine ! — 
 Oh, Alfred ! they told me you were married ; that you 
 had ceased to love me : but I would not believe that 
 you could slight the heart which beats only for you ! — 
 Feel!" and she took his hand, and placed it on her 
 bosom, " how it flutters, poor thing!— it will soon be 
 still. Alfred, I am dying!" — and her voice suddenly 
 assumed a rational and composed tone — " I know not 
 what I have said, what I have done ; I have wandered 
 
 I know not where or how: but — but ." She 
 
 struggled to articulate something more, but nature was 
 exhausted ; she heaved one sigh — dropped her head on 
 his bosom — and expired. 
 
240 AMELIA. 
 
 Whilst this scene was passing, the servant had con* 
 veyed Louisa into the house, whither Alfred followed 
 with his lifeless burden, almost as unconscious as the 
 form he bore. He laid the corpse on a sofa in the 
 parlour— he threw himself by the side of it, and called 
 upon his Amelia once more to live for love and him. 
 Then the recollection of his wife flashed across his 
 mind ; he rose, and throwing himself into a chair, co- 
 vered his face with his handkerchief, and sobbed con- 
 vulsively. This paroxysm over, he became rather 
 calmer, and sought Louisa, who had retired to her 
 chamber. To her he gave a full explanation of his 
 acquaintance with Amelia, and pleaded so effectually 
 for forgiveness, that it was soon granted. But a sting 
 was planted in his heart, which time could never 
 remove. In the midst of all that fortune could be- 
 stow, and blessed with happiness seemingly beyond 
 the lot of humanity, the remembrance of Amelia al- 
 ways intruded in the hours of retirement; it was the 
 cankerworm which robbed his nights of repose, his 
 days of happiness ; and he lived a memorable instance 
 of splendid misery. His wife's lot was more happy, 
 for to her he was an attentive and affectionate husband; 
 and at his death, which took place about a year after his 
 marriage, her grief was sincere and heartfelt. She had 
 numerous offers of marriage, but rejected them all, 
 faithful to the memory of him who, as her first, she was 
 determined should be her only love. 
 
 It remains, however, to be explained how Amelia 
 reached Devonshire. She knew Alfred's residence in 
 
AMELIA. 211 
 
 town from the address of his letters ; and from the 
 servants at Montgomery-house it was ascertained hat 
 a female, who answered her description, had been 
 inquiring for him a few days after the bridal party 
 left town. On being told that he was gone to Chilton 
 with his bride, she made no reply, but rushed out of the 
 hall. It appeared that a stage-coach had set her down 
 at an inn near the seat of Montgomery ; but whether she 
 had travelled in that manner all the way from London, 
 or whether part of the journey had been performed on 
 foot, was never known — most probably, from the state 
 of her dress, the latter was the case. At the expense 
 of Alfred, her corpse was removed to Bishopthorpe, 
 and interred in the church-yard of that village. Her 
 aunt did not long survive her, and they lie in one 
 grave. 
 
 This is a melancholy tale, but the incidents are facts 
 which came within my knowledge. I have seen the 
 grave of this hapless girl, and dropped the tear of pity 
 for her fate. 
 
 York. W. C. S. 
 
242 
 
 SUSAN'S DOWRY. 
 
 At one end of the cluster of cottages, and cottage- 
 like houses, which formed the little street of Hilton 
 Cross, — a pretty but secluded village, in the north 
 of Hampshire, — stood the shop of Judith Kent, widow, 
 "Licensed," as the legend imported, "to vend tea, 
 coffee, tobacco, and snuff." Tea, coffee, tobacco, 
 and snuff, formed, however, but a small part of 
 the multifarious merchandise of Mrs. Kent ; whose 
 shop, the only repository of the hamlet, might have 
 seemed an epitome of the wants and luxuries of 
 humble life. In her window, — candles, bacon, sugar, 
 mustard, and soap, flourished amidst calicoes, oranges, 
 dolls, ribands, and gingerbread. Crockery-ware was 
 piled on one side of her door-way ; Dutch cheese and 
 Irish butter encumbered the other; brooms and brushes 
 rested against the wall ; and ropes of onions and 
 bunches of red herrings hung from the ceiling. She 
 sold bread, butcher's meat, and garden-stuff, on com- 
 mission ; and engrossed, at a word, the whole trade of 
 Hilton Cross. 
 
 Notwithstanding this monopoly, the world went ill 
 with poor Judith. She was a mild, pleasant-looking, 
 middle-aged woman, with a heart too soft for her call- 
 ing. She could not say " No" to the poor creatures who 
 
susan's dowry. 243 
 
 came to her on a Saturday night, to seek bread for their 
 children, however deep they might already be in her 
 debt, or however certain it was that their husbands 
 were, at that moment spending, at the Checquers, or 
 the Four Horse-shoes, the money that should have 
 supported their wives and families ; for, in this village, 
 as in others, there were two flourishing ale-houses, 
 although but one ill-accustomed shop, — " but one half- 
 penny-worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack ! " 
 She could not say, "No" as a prudent woman might 
 have said ; and, accordingly, half the poor people in the 
 parish might be found on her books, whilst she her- 
 self was gradually getting in arrears with her baker, 
 her grocer, and her landlord. 
 
 Her family consisted of two children, — Mary, a 
 pretty, fair-haired, smiling lass, of twelve or thirteen, 
 and Robert, a fine youth, nearly ten years older, who 
 worked in the gardens of a neighbouring gentleman. 
 Robert, conscious that his mother's was no gainful 
 trade, often pressed her to give up business, sell off her 
 stock, relinquish her house, and depend on his labour 
 for her support ; but of this she would not hear. Many 
 motives mingled in her determination : a generous 
 reluctance to burden her dutiful son with her mainte- 
 nance, — a natural fear of losing caste among her neigh- 
 bours, — a strong love of the house which, for five and 
 twenty years, had been her home, — a vague hope that 
 times would mend, and all come right again (wiser 
 persons than Mrs. Kent have lulled reason to sleep 
 with such an opiate !) — and, above all, a want of 
 
244 susan's dowry. 
 
 courage to look her difficulties fairly in the face. Be- 
 sides, she liked her occupation, — its petty consequence, 
 its bustle, and its gossipry; and she had a sense of 
 gain in the small peddling bargains, — the pennyworths 
 of needles, and balls of cotton, and rows of pins, and 
 yards of tape, which she was accustomed to vend for 
 ready money, — that overbalanced, for the moment, her 
 losses and her debts ; so that, in spite of her son's pre- 
 sages and warnings, the shop continued in full activity. 
 In addition to his forebodings respecting his mother, 
 Robert had another misfortune ; — the poor youth was 
 in love. About a quarter of a mile down the shady 
 lane, which ran by one side of Mrs. Kent's dwelling, 
 was the pretty farm-house, orchard, and homestead 
 of Farmer Bell, whose eldest daughter, Susan, — the 
 beauty of the parish, — was the object of a passion, 
 almost amounting to idolatry. And, in good sooth, 
 Susan Bell was well fitted to inspire such a passion. 
 Besides a light, graceful figure, moulded with the 
 exactest symmetry, she had a smiling, innocent coun- 
 tenance, a complexion coloured like the brilliant blos- 
 soms of the balsam, and hair of a shining, golden 
 brown, like the fruit of the horse-chestnut. Her speech 
 was at once modest and playful, her temper sweet, and 
 her heart tender. She loved Robert dearly, although 
 he often gave her cause to wish that she loved him 
 not j for Robert was subject to the intermitting fever, 
 called jealousy, — causelessly, — as he himself would 
 declare, when a remission of the disease gave room for 
 his natural sense to act, — causelessly and penitently, 
 
susan's dowry. 245 
 
 but still pertinaciously jealous. I have said that he was 
 a fine young man, tall, dark and slender ; I should add, 
 that he was a good son, a kind brother, a pattern of so- 
 briety and industry, and possessed of talents and acquire- 
 ments far beyond his station. But there was about him 
 an ardour, a vigour, a fiery restlessness, commonly held 
 proper to the natives of the south of Europe, but which 
 may, sometimes, be found amongst our own peasantry. 
 All his pursuits, whether of sport or labour, took the 
 form of passion. At ten years old, he had gone far 
 beyond all his fellow pupils at the Foundation School, 
 to which, through the kindness of the 'squire of the 
 parish, his mother had been enabled to send him ; and 
 had even posed the master himself; — at eighteen, he 
 was the best cricketer, the best flute-player, the best 
 bell-ringer, and the best gardener in the county ;— and, 
 some odd volumes of Shakspeare having come into his 
 possession, there was some danger, at twenty, of his 
 turning out a dramatic poet, had not the kind discou- 
 ragement of his master, to whom some of his early 
 scenes were shown by his patron and admirer, the head 
 gardener, acted as a salutary check. Indeed, so 
 strong, at one time, was the poetical furor, that such 
 a catasrophe as an entire play might, probably, have 
 ensued, notwithstanding Mr. Lescombe's judicious 
 warnings, had not love, the master-passion, fallen, 
 about this time, in poor Robert's way, and engrossed 
 all the ardour of his ardent temperament. The beauty 
 and playfulness of his mistress, whilst they enchanted 
 his fancy, kept the jealous irritability of his nature in 
 y 3 
 
246 susan's dowry. 
 
 perpetual alarm. He suspected a lover in every man 
 who approached her ; and the firm refusal of her father 
 to sanction their union, till her impatient wooer were a 
 little more forward in the world, completed his dis- 
 quiet. 
 
 Affairs were in this posture, when a new personage 
 arrived at Hilton Cross. 
 
 In addition to her other ways and means, Mrs. Kent 
 tried to lessen her rent, by letting lodgings ; and the 
 neat, quiet, elderly gentlewoman, the widow of a long 
 deceased rector, who had occupied her rooms ever since 
 Robert was born, being at last gathered to her fathers, 
 an advertisement of '•' pleasant apartments to let, in 
 the airy village of Hilton Cross," appeared in the 
 county paper. This announcement was as true as if it 
 had not formed an advertisement in a country paper. 
 Very airy was the pretty village of Hilton Cross, — with 
 its breezy uplands, and its open common, dotted, as it 
 were, with cottages and clumps of trees ; and very plea- 
 sant were Mrs. Kent's apartments, for those who had 
 sufficient taste to appreciate their rustic simplicity, and 
 sufficient humility to overlook their smallness. The 
 little chamber, glittering with whiteness ; its snowy 
 dimity bed, and u fresh sheets smelling of lavender;" 
 the sitting room, a thought larger, carpeted with India 
 matting ; its shining cane chairs and its bright casement, 
 wreathed on the one side by a luxuriant jessamine, on 
 the other by the tall-cluster musk-rose (that rose of 
 which Titania talks), sending its bunches of odorous 
 blossoms into the very window; the little flower-court 
 
susan's dowry. 247 
 
 underneath, full of hollyoaks, cloves, and dahlias ; and 
 the large sloping meadows beyond, leading up to 
 Farmer Bell's tall, irregular house, half covered with a 
 flaunting vine; his barns, and ricks, and orchard;— all 
 this formed an apartment too tempting to remain long 
 untenanted, in the bright month of August. Accord- 
 ingly, it was almost immediately engaged, by a gentle- 
 man in black, who walked over, one fair morning, paid 
 ten pounds as a deposit, sent for his trunk from the 
 next town, and took possession on the instant. 
 
 Her new inmate, who, without positively declining 
 to give his name, had yet contrived to evade all the 
 questions which Mrs. Kent's "simple cunning" could 
 devise, proved a perpetual source of astonishment, both 
 to herself and her neighbours. He was a well-made, 
 little man, near upon forty ; with considerable terseness 
 of feature ; a forehead of great power, w r hose effect was 
 increased by a slight baldness on the top of the head, 
 and an eye like a falcon. Such an eye ! It seemed to 
 go through you, — to strike all that it looked upon, like 
 a coup-de-sole il. Luckily, the stranger was so merciful 
 as, generally, to wear spectacles ; under cover of which, 
 those terrible eyes might see, and be seen, without 
 danger. His habits were as peculiar as his appearance. 
 He was moderate, and rather fanciful, in his diet; 
 drank nothing but water, or strong coffee, made, as 
 Mrs. Kent observed, very wastefully : and had, as she 
 also remarked, a great number of heathenish-looking 
 books scattered about his apartment : Lord Berner's 
 Froissart, for instance — Sir Thomas Brown's Urn 
 
248 SUSAN'S DOWRY. 
 
 Burial — Isaac Walton's Complete Angler — the Basker- 
 ville Ariosto — Gcethe's Faust — a Spanish Don Quixote 
 — and an interleaved Philoctetes, full of outline draw- 
 ings. The greater part of his time was spent out of 
 doors. He would even ramble away for three or four 
 days together, with no other companion than a boy, 
 hired in the village, to carry what Mrs. Kent denomi- 
 nated his odds and ends; which odds and ends con- 
 sisted, for the most part, of an angling rod, and a 
 sketching apparatus, — our incognito being, as my 
 readers have, by this time, probably discovered, no 
 other than an artist, on his summer progress. 
 
 Robert speedily understood the stranger, and was 
 delighted with the opportunity of approaching so gifted 
 a person; although he contemplated, with a degree of 
 generous envy, which a king's regalia would have 
 failed to excite in his bosom, those chef-d'ceuvres of all 
 nations, which were to him as " sealed books," and the 
 pencils, whose power appeared nothing less than 
 creative. He redoubled his industry in the garden, 
 that he might, conscientiously, devote hours, and half- 
 hours, to pointing out the deep pools and shallow eddies 
 of their romantic stream, where he knew, from expe- 
 rience (for Robert, amongst his other accomplishments, 
 was no mean " brother of the angle ") that fish were 
 likely to be found : and, better still, he loved to lead to 
 the haunts of his childhood, the wild bosky dells, and 
 the sunny ends of lanes, where a sudden turn in the 
 track, an overhanging tree, an old gate, a cottage 
 rhimney, and a group of cattle or children, had some- 
 
SUSAN'S DOWRY. 249 
 
 times formed a picture, on which his fancy had fed for 
 hours. It was Robert's chief pleasure to entice his 
 lodger to scenes such as these 5 and to see his own 
 visions growing into reality, under the glowing pencil 
 of the artist ; and he, in his turn, would admire, and 
 marvel at, the natural feeling of the beautiful, which 
 could lead an uninstructed country youth, instinctively, 
 to the very elements of the picturesque. A general 
 agreement of taste had brought about a degree of asso- 
 ciation, unusual between persons so different in rank : 
 — a particular instance of this accordance dissolved the 
 intimacy. 
 
 Robert had been, for above a fortnight, more than 
 commonly busy in Mr. Lescombe's gardens and hot- 
 houses, — so busy that he even slept at the Hall; the 
 stranger, on the other hand, had been, during the 
 same period, shut up, painting, in the little parlour. 
 At last, they met; and the artist invited his young 
 friend to look at the picture which had engaged him 
 during his absence. On walking into the room, he 
 saw, on the easel, a picture in oils, almost finished. 
 The style was of that delightful kind which combines 
 figure with landscape: the subject was Hay-carrying; 
 and the scene, that very sloping meadow — crowned by 
 Farmer Bell's tall, angular house, its vine-wreathed 
 porch and chimneys, the great walnut-tree before the 
 door, the orchard, and the homestead — which formed 
 the actual prospect from the windows before them. In 
 the fore-ground was a wagon, piled with hay, sur- 
 rounded by the Farmer and his fine family — some 
 
250 susan's dowry, 
 
 pitching, some loading, some raking after — all intent on 
 their pleasant business. The only disengaged persons 
 in the field were young Mary Kent and Harry Bell, an 
 urchin of four years old, who rode on her knee on the 
 top of the wagon, crowned and wreathed with garlands 
 of vine-leaves and hind-weed and poppies and corn- 
 flowers. In the front, looking up at Mary Kent and 
 her little brother, and playfully tossing to them the 
 lock of hay which she had gathered on her rake, stood 
 Susan Bell — her head thrown back, her bonnet half off, 
 her light and lovely figure shewn, in all its grace, by 
 the pretty attitude and the short cool dress ; while her 
 sweet face, glowing with youth and beauty, had a 
 smile playing over it like a sunbeam. The boy was 
 nodding and laughing to her, and seemed longing — as 
 well he might — to escape from his flowery bondage, and 
 jump into her arms. Never had poet framed a lovelier 
 image of rural beauty ! Never had painter more feli- 
 citously realized his conception ! 
 
 " Well, Robert ! " exclaimed our artist, a little impa- 
 tient of the continued silence, and missing the expected 
 praise—" Well? " But still Robert spoke not. " Don 't 
 you think it a good subject?" continued the man of 
 the easel. " I was sitting at the window, reading 
 Froissart, whilst the}'- were carrying the after-crop, and 
 by good luck, happened to look up, just as they had 
 arranged themselves into this very group, and as the 
 evening sun came slanting, exactly as it does now, 
 across the meadow; — so I dashed in the sketch in- 
 stantly, got Mary to sit to me — and a very pretty 
 
SUSAN'S DOWRY. 251 
 
 riymph-like figure she makes — dressed the hoy with 
 flowers, just as he was decked out for the harvest- 
 home, — the rogue is, really, a fit model for a Cupid ; 
 the} r are a glorious family ! — and persuaded Susan — " 
 at that name, Robert, unable to control himself 
 longer, rushed out of the room, leaving the astonished 
 painter in the full belief that his senses had forsaken 
 him. 
 
 The unhappy lover, agonized by jealousy, pursued 
 his way to the Farm. He had, hitherto, contrived, 
 although without confessing his motive, even to him- 
 self, to keep his friend and his mistress asunder. He 
 had no fears of her virtue or of his honour; but to 
 Robert's romantic simplicity, it seemed that no one 
 could gaze on Susan without feeling ardent love, and 
 that such a man as the artist could never love in vain. 
 Besides, in the conversations which they had held 
 together, he had dwelt on beauty and simplicity, as the 
 most attractive points of the female character : — Robert 
 had felt, as he spoke, that Susan was the very being 
 whom he described, and had congratulated himself that 
 they were still unacquainted. But now they had met ; 
 he had seen, he had studied, had transferred to can- 
 vass that matchless beauty ; had conquered the timidity 
 which, to Robert, had always seemed unconquerable ; 
 had won her to admit his gaze ; had tamed that shyest, 
 coyest dove ; had become familiar with that sweetest 
 face, and that dearest frame ; — Oh ! the very thought 
 was agony ! 
 
 In this mood, he arrived at the Farm; and there, 
 
252 susan's dowry. 
 
 •working at her needle, under the vine-wreathed porch, 
 with the evening sun shining full upon her, and her 
 little hrother playing at her feet, sate his own Susan, 
 She heard his rapid step, and advanced to meet him, 
 with a smile and a blush of delight— just the smile and 
 blush of the picture. At such a moment, they in- 
 creased his misery : he repulsed her offered hand, and 
 poured forth a torrent of questions on the subject 
 which possessed his mind. Her innocent answers were 
 fuel to his frenzy; — "The picture! had he seen the 
 picture? and was it not pretty? — much too pretty, she 
 thought, but every body called it like! and Mary and 
 Harry — was not he pleased with them ? What a won- 
 derful thing it was, to make a bit of canvass so like 
 living creatures ! and what a wonderful man the 
 strange gentleman was! She had been afraid of him, 
 at first — sadly afraid of those two bright eyes — and so 
 had Harry ; — poor Harry had cried ! but he was so 
 merry and so kind that neither of them minded sitting 
 to him, now ! And she was so glad that Robert had 
 seen the picture! she had so wanted him to see it; it 
 was too pretty, to be sure — but then, Robert would not 
 
 mind that. She had told the gentleman " " Go to 
 
 the gentleman, now," interrupted Robert, " and tell 
 him that I relinquish you! It will be welcome news! 
 Go to him, Susan! your heart is with him. Go to 
 him, I say ! " — and throwing from him, with a bitter 
 laugh, the frightened and weeping girl, who had laid 
 her trembling hand on his arm, to detain him, he 
 darted from the door, and returned to his old quarters 
 at the Hall, 
 
SUSANS DOWRY. 253 
 
 Another fortnight passed, and Robert still kept 
 aloof from his family and his home. His mother and 
 sister, indeed, occasionally saw him ; and sad accounts 
 had poor little Mary to give to her friend, Susan, of 
 Robert's ill looks and worse spirits. And Susan lis- 
 tened, and said she did not care; and burst into a 
 passion of tears, and said she was very happy ; and 
 vowed never to speak to him again, and desired Mary 
 never to mention her to him, or him to her; and then 
 asked her a hundred questions respecting his looks, 
 and his words, and his illness ; and charged her with a 
 thousand tender messages, which, in the next breath, 
 she withdrew. And Mary, too young to understand 
 the inconsistencies of love, pitied and comforted, and 
 thought it " passing strange." 
 
 In the mean time, misfortunes, of a different nature, 
 were gathering round Mrs. Kent. The mealman and 
 baker, whose bread she vended — her kindest friend and 
 largest creditor — died, leaving his affairs in the hands 
 of an attorney of the next town — the pest and terror of 
 the neighbourhood ; and, on the same day, she re- 
 ceived two letters from this formidable lawyer, — one on 
 account of his dead client, the baker, the other in 
 behalf of his living client, the grocer — who ranked next 
 amongst her creditors — both threatening that, if their 
 respective claims were not liquidated on or before a 
 certain day, proceedings would be commenced against 
 her forthwith. 
 
 It is in such a situation that woman most feels her 
 helplessness — especially that forlorn creature whom the 
 z 
 
254 SUSAN 'S DOWRY. 
 
 common people, adopting the pathetic language of 
 Scripture, designate by the expressive phrase, " a lone 
 woman ! " Poor Judith sate down to cry, in powerless 
 sorrow and vain self-pity. She opened, indeed, her 
 hopeless day-book — but she knew too well that her 
 debtors could not pay. She had no one to consult : — for 
 her lodger, in whose general cleverness she had great 
 confidence, had been absent, on one of his excursions; 
 almost as long as her son — and time pressed upon her — 
 for the letters, sent with the usual indirectness of 
 country conveyance, — originally given to the carrier, 
 confided by the carrier to the butterman, carried on by 
 the butterman to the next village, left for three days at 
 a public-house, and finally delivered at Hilton Cross by 
 a return post-boy — had been nearly a week on the 
 road. Saturday was the day fixed for payment, and 
 this was Friday night ! and Michaelmas and rent-day 
 were approaching ! and unable even to look at this 
 accumulation of misery, poor Judith laid her head on 
 her fruitless accompt-book, and sobbed aloud! 
 
 It was with a strangely-mingled feeling of comfort 
 in such a son, and sorrow so to grieve him, that she 
 heard Robert's voice at her side, asking, tenderly, what 
 ailed her ? She put the letters into his hands ; and he, 
 long prepared for the blow, soothed and cheered her. 
 " All must be given up," he said; "and he would 
 go with her, the next day, to make over the whole 
 property. Let us pay, as far as our means go, 
 mother," pursued he, " and do not fear but, some day 
 or other, we shall be enabled to discharge all our debts, 
 
Susan's dowry. 255 
 
 God will speed an honest purpose. In the meantime, 
 Mr. Lescombe will give us a cottage, — I know he 
 will, — and I shall work for you and Mary. It will be 
 something to live for, — something worth living for. 
 Be comforted, dear mother ! " He stooped, as he said 
 this, and kissed her ; and, when he arose, he saw- 
 Susan standing opposite to him, and, behind her, the 
 stranger. They had entered separately, during the 
 conversation betw r een the mother and son, and Susan 
 was still unconscious of the stranger's presence. She 
 stood, in great agitation, pressing Mary's hand, (from 
 whom she had heard the story), and, immediately, 
 began questioning Mrs. Kent, as to the extent of the 
 calamity. " She had twenty pounds of her own, that 
 her grandmother had left her ; — But a hundred ! — Did 
 they want a whole hundred ? And would they send 
 Mrs. Kent to prison? and sell her goods? and turn 
 Mary out of doors? and Robert — Oh, how ill Robert 
 looked ! — It would kill Robert i Oh," continued Susan, 
 wringing her hands, " I would sell myself for a bonds- 
 woman, — I would be like a negro-slave, for one hun- 
 dred pounds!" — "Would you?" said the stranger, 
 advancing suddenly from the door, and producing two 
 bank-bills ; " would you ? well ! we will strike a 
 bargain. I will give you two hundred pounds, for 
 
 this little hand,— only this little hand ! " " What do 
 
 you mean, sir?" exclaimed Mrs. Kent, "what can 
 you mean?" — "Nothing but what is fair and hon- 
 ourable,'' returned her lodger; "let Susan promise 
 to meet me at church, to-morrow, and here are two 
 
256 
 
 SUSAN S DOWRY. 
 
 hundred pounds to dispose of, at her pleasure, to 
 night." — " Susan ! my dear Susan ! " — " Let her alone, 
 mother! "' interrupted Robert; she must choose for 
 herself! " — and, for a few moments, there was a dead 
 silence. 
 
 Robert stood, leaning against the wall, pale as mar- 
 ble, — his eyes cast down, and his lips compressed, in 
 a state of forced composure. Mrs. Kent, — her head 
 turning, now towards the bank-notes, and now towards 
 her son, — was in a state of restless and uncontrollable 
 instability ; Mary clung, crying, about her mother ; 
 and Susan, — her colour varying, and her lips quiver- 
 ing, — sate, unconsciously twisting and untwisting the 
 bank-notes, in her hand. 
 
 " Well, Susan ! " said the artist, — who had remained 
 in tranquil expectation, surveying the group with his 
 falcon eye, — "Well, Susan! have you determined?" — 
 The colour rose to her temples, and she answered, 
 firmly, " Yes, sir ! — Be pleased to take back the notes. 
 I love nobody but Robert ; and Robert loves me dearly, 
 dearly ! — I know he does ! Oh, Mrs. Kent ! you would 
 not have me vex Robert,. — your own dear son, — and he 
 so ill, — would you? Let them take these things. 
 They never can be so cruel as to put you in prison — 
 you, who were always so kind ! and he will work for 
 you, and I will work for you ! Never mind being 
 poor! better any thing than be false-hearted to my 
 Robert ! " — " God for ever bless you, my Susan ! " — 
 " Go J bless you, my dear child!" — burst, at once, 
 from Robert and his mother, as they, alternately, folded 
 her in their arms. 
 
SUSAN'S DOWRY. 257 
 
 "Pray, take the notes, sir!" repeated Susan, after a 
 short interval. " No ! that I will not do," replied the 
 stranger, smiling. "The notes shall be your's, — are 
 your's, — and, what is more, on my own conditions ! 
 Meet me at church, to-morrow morning, and I shall 
 have the pleasure of bestowing this pretty hand, as I 
 always intended, on my good friend, Robert here. J 
 have a wife of my own at home, my dear ! whom I 
 would not exchange, even for you; and I am quite 
 rich enough to afford myself the luxury of making you 
 happy. Besides, you have a claim to the money. 
 These very bank-notes were gained by that sweet face ! 
 Your friend, Mr. Lescombe, Robert ! has purchased 
 the Play-carrying ! We have had a good deal of talk 
 about you ; and I am quite certain that he will provide 
 for you all. No," continued he, interrupting something 
 that Robert was going to say, — " No thanks ! no 
 apologies ! I won't hear a word. Meet me at church, 
 to-morrow ! But, remember, young man ! no more 
 jealousy!" — and, followed by a glance from Susan, of 
 which Robert might have been jealous, the artist left 
 the shop. 
 
258 
 
 ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 
 
 (From Auldjo's Narrative.) 
 CAVES IN THE GLACIER. 
 
 Again the Glacier presented its beautiful and varied 
 scenes, every moment the eye meeting with some new 
 combination of icy grandeur. The crevices, numerous 
 and deep, broken and full of hollows or caves, surpassed 
 any thing I could have conceived. Some of these 
 grottos were accessible ; others, of which the entrance 
 was blocked up by pillars, studded with ornaments of 
 ice or snow, could only be examined externally. We 
 entered one so beauteous in construction and embellish- 
 ments, that fancy might picture it to be the abode of 
 the " Spirit of the Mountain." It was large ; its roof 
 supported by thick icicles of blue or white, varying 
 into a thousand different shades ; on the floor were 
 vast clumps of ice, resembling crystal flowers, formed 
 by the freezing of the drops of water which are perpetu- 
 ally falling in the centre ; a pool of water, whose 
 exquisite clearness almost excited thirst, stood in its 
 blue basin: at the further end fell a cascade, into a 
 sort of spiral well formed by it, and in its passage 
 through it, produced a sound much like that of water 
 boiling in some confined vessel. There are many 
 

ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 259 
 
 caves; but this description may, in some measure, 
 apply to all. They are formed by the water falling, 
 and excavating a passage for itself; the ice melts away 
 on all sides, and it soon becomes such as I have 
 described it, 
 
 SCALING A WALL OF ICE. 
 
 Arriving near the base of those rocks called the 
 " Grand Mulets," we found that a chasm of eighty feet 
 in width separated them from us. We proceeded up an 
 acclivity forming a narrow neck of ice ; but at its ter- 
 mination a wall opposed us: on either hand yawned a 
 wide and deep crevice, and it appeared that there was 
 no advancing without climbing this perpendicular mass, 
 of twenty feet in height. The neck we were standing 
 upon overhung a gulf formed by the chasm and cre- 
 vices, the very sight of which was appalling — the wall 
 met this neck with an angle, formed by these two cre- 
 vices, which continued on each side of it, the angle 
 coming to a most acute and delicate point. No time 
 was to be lost ; we were standing in a very perilous 
 situation, and Coutet commenced cutting steps on the 
 angle with his hatchet; and after great labour, and 
 considerable danger in the execution of his purpose, 
 got to the top, and was immediately followed by an- 
 other guide. The knapsacks were then drawn up, and 
 the rest of the party after them. In ascending this 
 wall, being partly drawn up, and the rest of the party 
 clambering, I stopped for an instant, and looked down 
 into the abyss beneath me ; the blood curdled in my 
 veins, for never did I behold any thing so terrific. 
 
260 ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 
 
 Safely on the top, on looking around, we discovered 
 that these large crevices extended on each side to a 
 very great distance, the plane of the wall sloping from 
 the upper to the lower crevice, with an inclination 
 which rendered walking on it very perilous. Some 
 proposed to return to the commencement of the neck 
 of ice which we had passed, and making a circuit from 
 it to get to the base of the " Grand Mulets," on the 
 other side of the great crevice, and climb up the rock ; 
 others were for proceeding; and their advice was fol- 
 lowed. "Walking with the greatest caution in steps cut 
 with the hatchet, we moved on very slowly : the ice 
 was slippery, and a false step might have endangered 
 the life of more than one individual. The wall now 
 widened, but the slope became more inclined. Taking 
 my steps with the greatest care, I could not prevent 
 myself from slipping : as the space became wider, I 
 became less cautious ; and while looking over the edge 
 into the upper crevice, my feet slid from under me ; I 
 came down on my face, and glided rapidly towards the 
 lower one ; I cried out, but the guides who held the 
 ropes attached to me, did not stop me, though they 
 stood firm. I had got to the extent of the rope, my 
 feet hanging over the lower crevice, one hand grasping 
 firmly the pole, and the other my hat. The guides 
 called to me to be cool, and not afraid ; — a pretty time 
 to be cool, hanging over an abyss, and in momentary 
 expectation of falling into it ! They made no attempt 
 to pull me up for some moments; and then desiring 
 me to raise myself, they drew in the rope until I was 
 close to them in safety. 
 
ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 261 
 
 The reason for this proceeding is obvious : — had 
 they attempted, on the bad and uncertain footing in 
 which they stood, to check me at the first gliding, they 
 might have lost their own balance, and our destruction 
 would have followed; but by fixing themselves firmly 
 in the cut step, and securing themselves with their 
 batons, they were enabled to support me with certainty 
 when the rope had gone its length. This also gave me 
 time to recover, that I might assist them in placing 
 myself out of danger; for it is not to be supposed, that 
 in such a situation I did not lose, in a great degree, my 
 presence of mind. These were good reasons, no doubt ; 
 but placed as I was, in such imminent peril, I could 
 not have allowed them to be so. 
 
 * • * * 
 
 SUNSET AND NIGHT ON THE GRAND MULETS. 
 
 (9900 FEET HIGH.) 
 
 The sun, now about to set, tinged with a purple of the 
 softest hue the whole scene below us, which gradually 
 deepening into a beautiful crimson, shaded every thing 
 with its colour : the Jura seeming on fire, and the lake 
 of Geneva reflecting the glow ; every moment, as the 
 sun retired from the world beneath us, the hue shed by 
 his departing rays became deeper, and then wore into 
 a dull gray. The lake and the lower mountains were 
 soon clothed in the sombre shade, but we still enjoyed 
 the presence of the God of Day. Now the violet tint 
 was on us, but the summit of the mountain was still 
 
262 ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 
 
 burnished with a line of bright gold; it died away, 
 leaving a bright lovely red, which, having lingered 
 long, dwindled at last into the shade in which all the 
 world around was enveloped, and left the sky clear and 
 deeply azure. 
 
 It was getting cold (the thermometer had descended 
 to 45° Farenheit), and as we were to be early risers, I 
 was not reluctant in preparing for my stony couch. I 
 had the first place, Devouassoud next to me, and the 
 rest of the guides, in a row alongside each other, lay as 
 close as they could. I soon fell asleep, though the 
 thunder of the falling avalanches might well have kept 
 me awake. In the middle of the night I awoke, but 
 experienced none of the unpleasant nausea and sickness 
 which have attacked others when sleeping on this rock ; 
 nor did the guides appear to suffer from any such feel- 
 ings. A solitude and stillness prevailed, which affected 
 me more than any of the occurrences of the day, though 
 they were crowded on my mind. 
 
 None of the beauties, none of the dangers, have 
 made a more lasting impression on me than the awful 
 silence of that night, broken as it was only by the loud 
 crash of falling ice, echoing and re-echoing with thrill- 
 ing sound in the death-like stillness. 
 
 The sky had become more darkly blue, and the 
 moon shone in the softest brightness, the stars shedding 
 a dazzling and brilliant lustre. The avalanches con- 
 tinued falling, but neither they nor the reflection on the 
 past day, nor the anxieties for the coming one, could 
 keep me from sleep, into which I again sunk ; but 
 
ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 263 
 
 before I did so, I sat up and looked at my companions, 
 all sound at rest, thinking not of the dangers they had 
 passed, nor of those which they must meet with before 
 the expedition they were engaged in could be finished. 
 They slept placidly, yet I longed to get out of the tent, 
 to behold the wonderful scenery under the influence of 
 the moonlight ; but I could not have done so without 
 awakening every one of my dormant guides, and I 
 was unwilling to sacrifice their repose to this gratifi- 
 cation. I laid me down, and it was not long before I 
 participated in the sound sleep which they enjoyed, 
 and, with the return of morn, was prepared to continue 
 my journey. 
 
 SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC. 
 (15,660 FEET high). 
 
 The wind blew with considerable force, and I was too 
 much worn out to remain there long, or to examine the 
 scene around me. The sun shone brilliantly on every 
 peak of snow that I could see ; hardly any mist hung 
 over the valleys — none was on the mountains. The 
 object of my ambition and my toil was gained, yet the 
 reward of my dangers and fatigues could hardly pro- 
 duce enjoyment enough to gratify me for a few mo- 
 ments. The mind was as exhausted as the body ; and 
 I turned with indifference from the view which I had 
 endured so much to behold ; and throwing myself on 
 the snow, behind a small mound which formed the 
 
'264 ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 
 
 highest point and sheltered me from the wind, in a 
 few seconds I was soundly buried in sleep, surrounded 
 by the guides, who were all seeking repose, which 
 neither the burning rays of the sun, nor the piercing 
 cold of the snow, could prevent or disturb. In this 
 state I remained a quarter of an hour, when I was 
 roused to survey the mighty picture beneath. I found 
 myself much relieved, but still had a slight shivering. 
 The pain in the legs had ceased, as well as the head- 
 ache, but the thirst remained ; the pulse was very 
 quick, and the difficulty of breathing great, but not so 
 oppressive as it had been. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Having placed the thermometer on my baton, in a 
 position in which it might be as much in shade as pos- 
 sible, I went to the highest point, to observe my friends 
 on the Breven and in Chamonis once more, but was 
 summoned immediately to a repast, and willingly I 
 obeyed the call, for I felt as if I had a good appetite : 
 some bread and roasted chicken were produced, but I 
 could not swallow the slightest morsel; even the taste 
 of food created nausea and disgust. One or two guides 
 ate a very little ; the rest could not attempt to do so. 
 
 I had provided a bottle of champagne, being de- 
 sirous to see how this wine would be affected by the 
 rarity of the air. I also wished to drink to the prospe- 
 rity of the inhabitants of the world below me, for I 
 could believe that there were no human beings so ele- 
 vated as we were at the moment. The wire being 
 removed, and the string cut, the cork flew out to a 
 
ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 265 
 
 great distance; but the noise could hardly be heard. 
 The wine rolled out in the most luxuriant foam, froth- 
 ing to the very last drop, and we all drank of it with 
 zest; but not three minutes had elapsed when repent- 
 ance and pain followed, for the rapid escape of the 
 fixed air which it still contained, produced a choking 
 and stifling sensation, which was very unpleasant and 
 painful while it lasted, and which frightened some of 
 the guides. A very small quantity was sufficient to 
 satisfy our thirst, for nine of us were perfectly satisfied 
 with the contents of one bottle, and happily its unplea- 
 sant effects were but of short duration. 
 
 The most peculiar sensation, which all have felt 
 who have gained this great height, arises from the 
 awful stillness which reigns, almost unbroken even by 
 the voice of those speaking to one another; for its 
 feeble sound can hardly be heard. It weighs deeply 
 upon the mind, with a power the effect of which it 
 is impossible to describe. I also experienced the sen- 
 sation of lightness of body, of which Capt. Sherwill 
 has given a description in the following words : — " It 
 appeared as if I could have passed the blade of a knife 
 under the sole of my shoes, or between them and the 
 ice on which I stood." 
 
 The shape of the summit has been well likened to 
 the dos d'ane (ass's back), the broadest and highest 
 part being toward the north, or Chamonis, and nar- 
 rowest inclining a little to the east. An idea of the 
 summit, as we found it, may be formed by cutting a 
 pear, longitudinally, into halves, and placing one of 
 2 A 
 
266 ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 
 
 them on its flat side ; but, consisting as it does of snow 
 drifted about by the wind, and subject to increase and 
 diminution by the accumulation of the winter's storms 
 and the influence of the winter's sun, it may probably 
 present some novelty of form to every traveller -who 
 visits it. We found it to be about one hundred and 
 seventy feet in length, and its greatest breadth about 
 fifty. The hard snow of which it is composed, bearing 
 a resemblance to a conglomerate of crystal beads, ap- 
 peared to be of the depth of from two hundred to three 
 hundred feet upon its rocky foundation, which probably 
 consists of a cluster of pinnacles similar to the Derniers 
 Rochers, some points being visible, protruding through 
 their snowy mantle nearer to their summit, although 
 from their situation they were inaccessible. We found 
 no living thing upon it ; but Mr. Fellows mentioned to 
 me that he had seen a butterfly, borne by the wind, 
 pass rapidly over his head while on the summit. 
 
267 
 
 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 AN IRISH STORY. 
 
 BY MRS. C. S. HALL. 
 
 " I see thim, not ten minutes ago, cross over to the 
 corner of the round meadow, forenint the hill. I'm 
 thinking they're gone down to the Bleach Ground." 
 
 " Them! — who, Molly?" — continued a young man, 
 whose inquiry had elicited the above information from 
 the old village gossip, Matty Flinn. 
 
 " Why, Miss Mary Sullivan, and her Dublin cousin, 
 Jesse Armstrong, and somebody else, to be sure; there's 
 no getting sight or light of Miss Mary, since that one 
 came to the country ; not but what she's a nice slip of 
 a girl, too, only not to be compared to our own born 
 child— as I may call her." The young man smiled, 
 and without further observation passed on to the " round 
 meadow." 
 
 " There's one 'ill be there afore ye, my boy," said 
 the woman, as she leaned her withered arm across the 
 half-hatch door and replaced her pipe in her mouth — 
 " and one that 'ill make you look sharp if ye're after 
 the same sport. Och hone! — Och hone!" she added, 
 after a long pause, " it's sorrowful thinking what's 
 afore the young." 
 
268 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 I must now briefly explain who were the parties that 
 excited even the sympathy of Matty Flinn. 
 
 Two brothers of the name of Sullivan, some years 
 previous to the time at which my story commerces, 
 had quitted the North of Ireland to reside in the South. 
 They were skilful, honest, and industrious ; and the 
 work of their hands naturally prospered. After fhe 
 lapse of a few years they were universally looked upon 
 as among the most substantial yeomen of the county, 
 and were respected alike by rich and poor. Cornelius, 
 the younger of the two, had established a bleach green, 
 on the banks of the stream that turned the elder bro- 
 ther's mill. The bleacher's dwelling stood — always 
 neatly white-washed, and surrounded by wild roses — 
 at the bottom of a little dell, through which the clear 
 water murmured and sparkled on its course ; while the 
 cottage of the miller was built by the mill-side. Corney 
 had been blessed with only one child ; and without the 
 aid of poetic imagination in any way, Mary might truly 
 be pronounced a most interesting if not a beautiful girl; 
 but her father saw no reason why she should be more 
 accomplished than her mother, who was, to use his 
 own phrase, " as clean-skinned — as right-handed — as 
 honest, and as pretty a woman, as you'd see in the 
 country side." Had it not been for the miller's son, 
 her cousin Alick, I really think she never would have 
 learned even to read ; but Alick proved himself the 
 very model of a tutor. The boy would sit, hour after 
 hour, pointing with a crow-quill to the half-legible 
 words and letters of "the read-a-made-asy," — coaxing, 
 
IHL DISPENSATION. 269 
 
 explaining, entreating — but never reproving his gentle 
 little pupil. It was, however, astonishing, how rapidly 
 Mary improved when she could once fairly get through 
 a book ; she soon became teacher in her turn — would 
 read aloud the Seven Champions, and the adventures of 
 the robber Freney, with so much effect, when only 
 thirteen, that Alick who was three years older, abso- 
 lutely began to deliberate whether he, in his own 
 proper person, would become eighth champion, or 
 Freney the second. 
 
 Alick had only one brother — an elder but not a wiser 
 youth; for poor Walter — or, as he was usually called, 
 Watty — was considered so devoid of intellect, as to be 
 unable to render assistance to his father in any way ; 
 he was impatient of control, idle, and restless; but 
 shrewd withal, and often keen of speech — sometimes as 
 just as severe in his remarks ; scrupulously honest, and 
 full of truth ; he loved wandering, and submitted to the 
 restraint of a moderate quantity of clothes with evident 
 reluctance ; had a deep, melodious voice, and, in early 
 boyhood, a deadly hatred to his brother— changed, how- 
 ever, by a simple circumstance into as strong an affec- 
 tion. The two youths were passing through a distant 
 village where Alick had been sent to transact some 
 business for his father; strange boys gathered round 
 and mocked at Walter, who, with a wreath of scarlet 
 poppies in his black and flowing curls, presented to their 
 unholy feelings a fit subject for mirthful scorn ; the 
 colour deepened on the cheek of the insulted lad, but 5 
 before he could retaliate, Alick turned on the tormen- 
 2 a ;? 
 
_'/0 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 tors, and wielded a shillala with so much spirit, that they 
 fled in all directions ; one, however— a cowardly, ill- 
 conditioned fellow — suddenly turned, and directing a 
 stone at the hero, felled him to the earth ; in another 
 moment Walter was bending over his brother, uttering 
 the most piercing shrieks, and wringing his hands in 
 bitter agony ; the effects of the blow were merely stun- 
 ning, but the afflicted youth never forgot Alick's inter- 
 ference on his behalf; he became troublesomely officious 
 and affectionate, and would weep like an infant if re- 
 proved by him, or prevented from following wherever 
 he went. 
 
 Such are a few early passages in the history of these 
 nearly-related families ; they seemed more closely knit 
 into one by time and circumstance. A few years 
 passed — Mary was about eighteen — when another cou- 
 sin, an aunt's daughter, came from Dublin to visit her 
 — no trifling event, when we consider that Miss Jessie 
 had gone day pupil to a boarding-school in Stephen's 
 Green — and informed her cousin, in a letter which 
 though " iligantly written " was very difficult to read, 
 that she woidd bring her all the bran new fashions, and 
 a sky-blue muslin dress ! She arrived at the appointed 
 time, and certainly dazzled the whole village by her 
 finery ; a leghorn bonnet, spick and span new, with 
 green bunches of ribbon under the brim, while from 
 out of the middle of each peeped forth a red, red flower, 
 like a rose blossoming in a full-grown cabbage ; then 
 her hair !— such curls ! — French curls, in full friz, bound 
 up behind in the cockatoo-fashion, and oiled to the 
 
TIIK DISPENSATION. 271 
 
 destruction of cleanliness and white caps ; sandalled 
 shoes — tortoise-shell combs — figured band, and a black 
 silk cloak. Jessie was a pretty, good-tempered girl, 
 but partook of the Dublin mania for finery ; and Mrs. 
 Sullivan declared, that for the first week the lassie was 
 in her house, she could settle to nothing, from the 
 shoals of people that came from far and near to get one 
 look at the fashions, as exhibited on the person of Jessie 
 Armstrong. 
 
 The young man who had inquired of the village 
 gossip, Matty Flinn, whither these two damsels had 
 wandered for their evening recreation, it may be 
 necessary to state, was neither " cousin Alick," nor 
 "poor cousin Walter," — but the nephew and heir 
 apparent of little Father Neddy Cormack, parish 
 priest of Killane, and licentiate of the college of 
 Salamanca. Stephen Cormack proceeded at a good 
 pace, in search of the young girls, or, sooth to say, in 
 search of one, whom for many reasons he hoped some 
 day or other to salute as Mrs. Stephen : he was a tall, 
 slight youth, whose features had more the dark and 
 downcast character of the Milesian Irish, than the 
 round and joyous expression of the more recent settlers; 
 upon this occasion he did not seem in a particularly 
 happy mood, for he swung his stick from side to side, 
 and most industriously decapitated every plant and 
 little shrub within his reach. As he passed under the 
 branches of a lofty oak, and raised his arm for the 
 purpose of destroying some scores of juvenile acorns 
 that clustered above his head, his weapon of destruction 
 
272 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 was wrested from his hands, and, at the same moment, 
 a wild and singular figure dropt from the branches. 
 The man of the oak might have served as the model of 
 a Hercules; he had on neither shoes nor stockings, 
 and his pantaloons hardly descended below his knees ; 
 a short, tight jacket was girded round his waist by a 
 broad belt of un tanned leather; his shirt collar was 
 thrown open, displaying a brown but superbly-moulded 
 throat, on which a fine head was well and firmly set; 
 he wore no hat, but his hair was bound with a scarlet 
 kerchief, that, tied at the side in a large knot, added to 
 his picturesque appearance. Though there was much 
 of wildness, there was no indication of poverty about 
 this wayward being ; and as he laughed and bowed in 
 mimic humility to the priest's nephew, a good deal of 
 keen satiric humour played around his well-formed 
 mouth, and danced in his large brown eyes, which in 
 general were painfully lustreless to look upon. " And 
 had ye no better amusement this fine summer evening, 
 Saint Stephen," — he said at last, after many extraordi- 
 nary contortions, and having deliberately broken the 
 thick stick with his fingers, as if it were a hazel twig — 
 "had ye no better amusement than mooTcing about like 
 an ill-contrived spirit, smashing and killing the sweet 
 flowers, that the moonbeams kiss and the merry bees 
 breakfast on! And then ye must attack the holy tree 
 that the birds — the blue wood-queest, and my spotted 
 lady-thrush — nestle in, and" (he adued in a lower tone) 
 "the good people thimselves dance under, all the long 
 summer nights! Go home, young man; keep the holy 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 273 
 
 father's books, and attind to your duties ; an Irishman 
 should scorn to strike any thing that couldn't strike agin. 
 Come, turn back, my tight chap, for I was just going 
 to visit madam wood-queest's young family, when ye 
 stopt me." 
 
 " Is there a nest in the tree, in earnest, Watty? " 
 inquired Stephen, looking up amid the branches; "I 
 can't see it!" 
 
 " Ye gawking gomersal !" said Watty, " d'ye think the 
 ould parents, that to my knowledge have brought up 
 honestly nine nest-fulls of as pretty birds as ever stretched 
 wing, would make a show of their childre' to plase you? 
 The longer the wild animals live in the world the 
 wiser they get — and that's more nor can be said of you 
 or I, Saint Stephen." 
 
 Stephen did not much relish the compliment : but he 
 put his hand into his pocket, and extracting sixpence 
 held it up before Watty, who he supposed had all the 
 love of money that frequently characterises those who, 
 although endowed with quickness and susceptibility, 
 are devoid of the stronger powers of reason. 'Til 
 give ye the sixpence, if you'll bring me the young 
 birds," said the tempter; " and it 'ill be doing good, too, 
 for the queests are the ruin of the corn-fields. I won't 
 hurt them," he continued, seeing Walter's look of 
 distaste: "I'll give them to your cousin, Miss Mary, 
 as a present." 
 
 " I'm jist thinking," replied Walter, after a brief 
 pause, as he folded his arms, and gazed, not angrily, 
 but scornfully, upon the countenance of Stephen — 
 
274 THE DISPENSATION'. 
 
 "that ye're the very moral of Ould Nick, except that 
 ye haven't his courage — he's a powerful deal of courage, 
 that same cratur, as all must ivho go ag'inst God — ye're 
 afeard of hurting y'er purty limbs and fine duds to go 
 after the innocent birdeens thimselves, so ye keep one of 
 the devil's pocket tokens, to tempt others to the mischief! 
 Is it the corn they ate ? His reverence '11 expect his sacks 
 as full, if the crows and queests ate up all the grain from 
 this to Deny. And ye think a nest o' featherless birds, 
 followed by the wails and the cries of their broken-hearted 
 mother, a fit present to make a tender woman ; and ye 
 think, may-be, she'd love ye the better for having the 
 heart to tear the childre' from the parents? Ba! ba! 
 Saint Stephen! — the devil's saint ye are, sure enough!" 
 "Without further query or waiting an answer, he sprang 
 into the tree; and as he mounted amid its highest 
 branches, his full, round voice trolled out the old song : — 
 
 " Lady, I will give you the bells of Londonderry, 
 'When you are sad, to ring, to make you merry, 
 If you'll be my true lover." 
 
 " Sir, I'll not accept of the bells of Londonderry, 
 When I'm sad, to ring, to make me merry, 
 Nor will I be your true lover." 
 
 "The wild-nettle chap!" muttered Stephen, as he 
 proceeded along the tangled path-way; "the fellow's 
 always stiDging — he's more knave than fool; fine times 
 he has of it, sprying about the trees like a squrril ; the 
 hares and birds know him so well, they'll hardly take 
 the trouble to get out of his way!" 
 
THE DISPENSATION, 275 
 
 It was some time before Stephen perceived in the 
 distance the object of his search; and when he did, he 
 saw that she was accompanied, not only by Jessie, bat 
 by her cousin Alick; the two girls were seated on the 
 shafts of a car, that had been placed across a gap in 
 lieu of a gate; and Alick was stretched on the grass, 
 of which he occasionally pulled handfuls, and flung 
 at the young maidens, in rustic sport — a compli- 
 ment they were not slow to return; though Jessie, 
 it must be confessed, did it tenfold. Mary threw 
 the wild butter-cups at her former tutor, with what 
 might almost be termed graceful awkwardness; and 
 when Alick's sparkling glance met hers, the deep, 
 quick blush told unconsciously of more than cousin's 
 love. 
 
 " Mary ! Alick ! " exclaimed Jessie, " as I live, 
 yon comes Mister Stephen — Saint Stephen, as poor 
 Watty calls him — don't blush, now, Mary ! Come, 
 Alick, you and I will run away, and leave the lovers to 
 themselves, which is only manners, you know — as we 
 say in Dublin." 
 
 "Whatever you may say or do in Dublin, I don't 
 know," replied Mary, rising ; " but I take it very unkind 
 in ye to trate me after that fashion ; the young man is 
 nothing to me beyant a neighbour's son — so behave, 
 Jessie, if you please." 
 
 "Behave, Jessie, if you please!" — persisted the 
 lively girl, mimicking Mary's serious manner — " a'n't I 
 going to behave like an angel ? Come, cousin Alick ! " 
 and she seized the hand of Alick, who certainly did not 
 
276 THE DISPENSATION, 
 
 seem disposed to move. " Jessie ! Alick ! " — exclaimed 
 Mary, evidently much moved, " Do not make me 
 appear foolish ! — you know, Jessie., right well, that I 
 have neither love nor liking for him." 
 
 " A likely story ! " cried the provoking girl, l< a very 
 likely story! — you can't blind a Dubliner after that 
 fashion — how holy we are indeed ! — as if I didn't know 
 what hung on that ribbon round your neck, besides the 
 scapular and silver crucifix." 
 
 " Tell me ! " said Alick eagerly, for the first time in 
 his life sacrificing Mary's feelings to his own curiosity ; 
 "Tell me, Jessie." 
 
 Mary, unable to articulate, covered her face with her 
 hands — while the giddy girl replied, " A gold smelling 
 bottle, with a shamrogue-shaped stopper, and some 
 letters — three, I think — carved on it, one of which, 
 I'd give my oath, is an S." Before the sentence was 
 finished, poor Mary had fainted; and Alick, with flushed 
 cheek and burning brow, was supporting her, while 
 Jessie, frightened out of her little wits, ran to get some 
 water from the stream. 
 
 During her momentary absence, Alick (men are 
 sometimes, the very best of them, most impertinently 
 and abominably curious) had drawn the ribbon, by 
 the little bow, from beneath the modest kerchief which 
 was carefully folded over her bosom, and kissed the 
 three relics with pilgrim-like devotion, as they hung 
 outside her dress ; when the mischief-making Jessie 
 returned. Alick, placing Mary's head on her shoulder, 
 observed, in an under tone of deep agitation, " You 'd 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 277 
 
 better hide that blessed — I mean that unfortunate ribbon 
 — before Stephen comes up." Mary did so, and then, 
 looking at Alick, exclaimed, " Lord save us ! — ye 're as 
 red in the face as a Dublin lobster ! " 
 
 Previous to Mary's perfect recovery, even while Jessie 
 was overwhelming her with apologies, assurances, and 
 sorrows, Stephen joined the group, and seemed much 
 astonished at the restraint visible on the countenance of 
 each. Jessie undertook the task of explaining the 
 events of the evening, which, like most chattering persons, 
 she did, much to her own satisfaction, and the dissatis- 
 faction of the rest of the party. Stephen thought 
 she threw no light on the subject, and Mary and Alick 
 fancied she threw too much ; the fact was, Jessie herself 
 was bewildered ; and surmises, as opposite as the anti- 
 podes, crowded her pate in such quick succession, as 
 positively to fetter her tongue. On their walk home- 
 ward, when they came within sight of the Bleach House, 
 Jessie, at a turn of the lane, relinquished Mary's arm ; 
 Stephen, lover-like, availed himself of the opportunity, 
 and placed it within his. 
 
 " The path's too narrow for three, Stenie," observed 
 Alick, somewhat sharply. 
 
 " Walk behind or before, thin, if you like," retorted 
 the other quietly. 
 
 "I'll do neither one nor the other," replied Alick; 
 ** but keep y'er own place, and make way for y'er 
 betters." 
 
 " I will when I see them," was the cutting reply. 
 
 Mary pressed her cousin's arm to enjoin silence, but 
 in vain. 2 b 
 
278 
 
 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 "If the girls weren't here, I'd soon shew ye the 
 differ, for all ye carry y'er head so high — offering free- 
 doms where they're not acceptable, Mister Stephen 
 Cormack ! " 
 
 " Stephen ! Alick ! — for the sake of the holy saints ! " 
 exclaimed both girls at once — as the young men re- 
 garded each other with menacing looks. 
 
 " Whir — a-boo — boo ! " — shouted Walter, separating 
 the thick and thorny furze hedge that bounded the 
 path-way, and springing between the contending 
 parties — "What's the breeze now? — and what are ye 
 frightening my white lily for?" And circling his 
 cousin's waist with his arm, he waved a huge branch of 
 oak over his head. 
 
 " Saint Stephen, if you offer to lay hands on Prince 
 Alick, I'll make as nate a little cock-throw of ye, as 
 iver Saint Patrick pitched at." 
 
 " For mercy's sake ! " said Mary — rousing all her 
 strength for the effort, and disengaging herself from her 
 wild cousin's support — "do not quarrel for nothing. I 
 have known you both all my life, and I never asked 
 favour from either ; but promise me, Alick — Stephen — 
 promise to forget this foolish — " 
 
 " To be sure they'll promise ! " exclaimed Walter. 
 
 " Prince Alick will do it for — I know what — and Saint 
 
 Stephen will do it for " He seized Stephen by the 
 
 back of the neck, and again waved his bough, laughing 
 
 and singing : — 
 
 " Oh, brave King Brian ! he knew the way 
 To keep the peace, and to make the hay ; 
 For those who were bad, he knocked off their head, 
 And those who were worse, he killed them dead." 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 279 
 
 "Oh, I'll promise," said Stephen, doggedly, "any 
 thing to oblige Miss Mary Sullivan ; not that I fear or 
 care about a bit of a spree, more than any other boy 
 living ; it 's fine exercise, and keeps a body in practice ; 
 only to oblige her — " He held out his hand, which 
 Alick frankly took ; and peace restored, they proceeded 
 to the Bleach Green — Walter jumping and singing 
 with evident glee, but continuing, at the same time, 
 a cat-like inspection of the party. 
 
 " Come in, and take supper, Stephen ; I see the 
 potatoes are up, and my aunt promised us some beans 
 and bacon, as a treat, to-night," said the kind-hearted 
 miller's son; but Stephen declined, while Walter went 
 to him, and with a solemn look, pretended to brush 
 something off his shoulder. " The black boy sticks like 
 a buz on ye, astore — wash him off with holy water when 
 ye goes home," observed the half-witted creature, and 
 then sprang over the rude palings that separated the 
 green from the neat court-yard. 
 
 Stephen Cormack went on his way, but not rejoicing; 
 and when he entered his uncle's dwelling, he sat down 
 on the three-legged stool, opposite the priest, in evident 
 ill humour. 
 
 Father Neddy Cormack fitted as neatly into his arm- 
 chair as a nut does in its shell ; he was a little tun of a 
 man, upon which the head stood without any visible 
 connexion with the body ; his faced was seamed and 
 browned in open defiance of beauty and art ; his nose 
 was puggish and purple ; his brows heavy and move- 
 able, and it was only when they were wrinkled up in 
 
280 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 two or three folds that the peering, and really bright 
 twinkling, of two little grey eyes, informed you that if 
 the creature possessed power in proportion to its cunning 
 it would indeed be fierce and dangerous. The thing 
 would have made an admirable attorney, but a bad 
 cousellor, and certainly was a very unfit director of the 
 spiritual or temporal affairs of the parish, which he en- 
 deavoured to rule — not guide. 
 
 It has been my lot to know, esteem, and love, true 
 and loyal members of the Catholic Church. I have 
 looked upon many priests and friars with veneration 
 and respect — I have delighted in observing their kind- 
 ness, their gentleness, and their honest discharge of 
 what they considered duty — I have known them to 
 make great sacrifices, and endure much patiently; and 
 I say it to their credit, that I never met but one among 
 them in any way resembling the person whom I 
 have endeavoured to describe. Without being gifted 
 with the gentlemanly bearing of a Jesuit, he had a 
 good deal of the tact and artifice belonging to that 
 subtle sect — which he used, to blind his humble 
 associates — with a hot and fiery temperament, that 
 subdued when the other failed. He had not interfered 
 much with the Sullivans ; they were liberal, and per- 
 formed " their duties " regularly ; had stations twice 
 in the year at their respective houses, and paid to priest, 
 as well as minister, "tythes of all they possessed;" 
 but they were more enlightened than their neighbours, 
 and so Father Neddy wisely thought that " it was 
 better to let well-enough alone." He had anxiously 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 281 
 
 urged the wooing of his nephew with Mary. She 
 was considered " the best fortune " for many miles 
 round; and the match was decidedly desirable — for 
 Stephen was one of those contented Irish spirits who, 
 disdaining either mental or bodily exertion, as incom- 
 patible with " genteel birth or breeding," trust first to 
 their relations, and afterwards to chance, for bed, 
 board, and all other necessaries. 
 
 The priest's best parlour was furnished precisely as 
 occasion required: when there was "grand company," 
 the long settle was brought from the kitchen, and its 
 dirt and deficiencies concealed by a flowered bed-quilt, 
 thrown over and pinned round it by the old house- 
 keeper, who had the Irish talent of making one thing, 
 like Shakspeare's player, "play many parts'"' — then 
 Father Ned's dressing-table (as it was called) stood in 
 lame helplessness between the dimly-shewing windows 
 — and placed on it (the cracked portions turned to the 
 wall) were two or three old-fashinned china jars, filled 
 with a few flowers, that conscious of being out of 
 character, or affected by the smoky atmosphere, drooped 
 and died " within an hour." On the evening to which 
 I particularly allude, no such luxuries were present ; 
 a green bottle, a large, thick glass tumbler with a tin 
 foot, and an empty jug, were on the solitary round 
 oak table that graced the centre ; to the right of this 
 was the priest's high-cushioned easy chair, and the 
 little footstool upon which his feet rested ; he reclined 
 perfectly at his ease — his hands just meeting over his 
 rotund person, his mouth open, his eyes shut — a very 
 2 k 3 
 
282 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 Cruikshank of devotion. As his nephew entered, a 
 grunting sound intimated that he was aware of the 
 circumstance ; but he neither altered his position nor 
 elevated his brows, so that whether he unclosed his 
 eyes or not was doubtful. Stephen first pulled forth 
 some of the dead leaves that garnished the rusty grate ; 
 then contemplated the extraordinary vessel, that, hang- 
 ing over the chimney-piece, displayed a crucifix at the 
 top, and a well, or cup, at the bottom, calculated to 
 hold about a pint of holy water; and finally pushed 
 the dog over the cat, which the lady resented in a very 
 cat-like fashion, and the rencontre between the animals 
 perfectly aroused the sleepy priest. 
 
 "By the foot of Pharaoh!" he exclaimed "(and 
 that's the first oath I 've swore to day,) I '11 make an 
 example of ye if ye do n't let the bastes alone ; there's 
 no pace in the house whin ye're in it ; the poor ould 
 cat — the cratur! — can't escape ye (pusheen! pusheen! 
 agra! — never heed him). Is that the work ye've been 
 after all day ? Holy Mother ! I '11 engage it's far from 
 ye to go down to that beggarly blaguard, Lunty Murphy 
 — and put him in mind o' the barley male he never 
 sint ; and it's long till ye'd gather a few goose or turkey 
 eggs in your dandy pockets, though ye're ready enough 
 to ate 'em, when they come into the house ; and more 
 than tin times, and tin to the back o' that, I've tould 
 ye to spake to Jeremiah Calagan, about the bill he 
 sint in for my new jock, after his 'greeing to set the 
 last two christ'nings forenint it ; and though I dare say 
 ve'vc been philandrin' at the Bleach Green, it's lonp 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 28o 
 
 till ye'd put in a word about the tow-linen, that's 
 waiting to be whitened these three weeks — and — " 
 
 "It's little I expect from the Bleach Green," inter- 
 rupted the hopeful Stephen ; " and if ye knew all, 
 uncle, instead of blowing me up, ye'd be advising me 
 how to act with that boy, Alick Sullivan, who I see 
 plainly — fool as I was, not to see it afore — has under- 
 mined me with Mary." 
 
 " Bathershin !" replied the priest, "that's one of 
 your notions, because ye haven't courage to ask the 
 girl to marry ye; sure, I know how they love eacli 
 other — jist like brother and sister. I'd like to see first 
 cousins marry in my parish — the heretics ! — barring I 
 got 'em a Dispensation — a likely matter, I'm thinking!" 
 
 " For all that, it's as true as light's in heaven ; he 
 threatened to knock me down for walkin' with her 
 this evening ; and that mad brother of his, made open 
 game of your reverence." 
 
 I wish you, my gentle reader, had seen the Reverend 
 Neddy Cormack at that moment ; he rose from his 
 seat, swelled and strutted about the room in propor- 
 tion?te rage ; and at length broke forth into the follow- 
 ing miscellaneous ejaculations : 
 
 " 1 11 excommunicate 'em all ! To dare to spake of 
 me after that sort! I suppose the next thing 'ill be 
 that they '11 think for themselves, as if their conscience 
 was their own ! Am I not parish priest of this entire 
 parish of Killane !— answer me that — and see if I do n't 
 have my own way ! Saint Peter and Saint Ambrose — 
 and Saint Obadiah— and all the Saints ! — make game 
 
284 
 
 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 of me ! Oh, the heathen assembly of Babylonians ! 
 Let them do it without a Dispensation ! I '11 sind every 
 mother's son o' them to the Holy Island barefooted — 
 I '11 make 'em say three avy's for every bit they put in 
 their mouths! And as for that dancing, mopping 
 knave, I '11 lay the length and breadth of my Dublin 
 riding-whip over his unchristian shoulders ! I '11 go 
 down to the Bleach Green this minute, and make them 
 pay well for absolution ! " 
 
 "It was only the one that had no sense that did so, 
 uncle dear," interrupted Stephen, fearing that he had 
 gone too far, and that the priest would really go out ; 
 for he had taken his great coat off the peg, and fastened 
 it under his throat by the solitary button which ge- 
 nerally secured it. " As to the rest, they always trate 
 ye as becomes God-fearing people; and, any way, it 
 might be better to work with them on the sly, may-be." 
 " Demean myself to work on the sly with my own 
 people ! I scorn y'er advice, Stephen Cormack ! I'll 
 shew 'em what's what — trate the nephew of their parish 
 priest that way ! — refuse him, indeed ! " 
 
 "I wasn't to say refused, Sir," stammered out 
 Stephen, " because I had n't asked — that's not asked 
 entirely." 
 
 " And how dare you be after putting me into a pas- 
 sion for nothin', you poor, pitiful sleeveen! If you 
 do'nt know how to make love to a young woman, 
 could n't ye jist ask me to shew ye, and not wait till 
 the wind changes I D'ye think I 've been hearing 
 confessions from all manner of faymales for the last 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 285 
 
 forty years, without knowing how to manage 'em — and 
 to presume to come to me with your misrepresentations ! 
 Stephen ! Stephen ! — ye 're a great sinner ! — how often 
 have I tould you that telling a lie to me was quite a 
 different thing from telling it to any one else ; will ye 
 never learn discrimination ? Oh, Stephen ! — you must 
 say double prayers this night, for desaving the church !" 
 
 The nephew explained — the coat was replaced — 
 whisky punch resorted to as peace-maker between the 
 hopeful pair — and measures, which will be explained 
 hereafter, were planned and resolved upon. 
 
 It is refreshing, after such a scene, to revert to that 
 which on the same evening took place at the Bleach 
 Green. When the frugal supper, seasoned with a due 
 portion of good humour, though of a less boisterous 
 nature than usual, had been discussed, Mary silently 
 and quietly arose to withdraw : but as she passed her 
 father, he looked upon her with even more than ordi- 
 nary tenderness, and said, " Mary, darling, what ails 
 ye ? Y'er cheek is pale as y'er own white roses ! 
 What ails my lily-bud ? " 
 
 " Nothing ! " she would have replied, and a feeble 
 smile struggled on her lips ; but her eyes, " more bright 
 than clear," and the increasing paleness of her cheek, 
 stayed the assertion. 
 
 " There 's something the matter with her, sure 
 enough," observed the mother, anxiously rising from 
 her seat. 
 
 " Alick rose also; and, in a trembling voice, said, 
 " Aunt — uncle — I '11 tell ye all about it. Mary, love, 
 
286 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 sit down till I — Jessie, do n't stir — we 're all one 
 family/' 
 
 Mary moved her hand to implore silence ; and, after 
 the pause of a few moments, gathered strength to 
 articulate, " Spare me, cousin! — I cannot, cannot bear 
 this, though I deserve it all, and may -be more." She 
 disengaged her hand from her father, and left the room. 
 
 " Don't follow her yet, Jessie," said Alick ; " leave 
 her to herself, aunt, honey, for a few minutes — her 
 heart is full, and so is mine." And then he pressed 
 his hands to his forehead, and leaned his elbows on 
 the table. 
 
 How beautiful, how sacred, are the feelings of affec- 
 tion in pure and guileless bosoms ! The proud may 
 sneer at it— the fashionable may call it fable — the 
 selfish and dissipated may affect to despise it ! But the 
 holy passion is surely of heaven, and is only made evil 
 by the corruption of those whom it was sent to bless 
 and to preserve. 
 
 Mary latched the door of her little chamber, and, 
 hardly conscious of what she ought to pray for, threw 
 herself on her knees : — 
 
 " But this she knows, in joys and woes, 
 That saints will aid if men will call — 
 For the blue sky bends over all." 
 
 For the first time in her life she experienced a feeling 
 of self-degradation. 
 
 '• What can he think of me!" she murmured. " He 
 never talked to me. but brother-like ; and when he 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 287 
 
 gave me this token, he looked to be sure, but it was 
 only a look after all. And then to hear that I kept it 
 sacred, with the holy scapular and crucifix ! I'll not 
 keep it so any longer," she continued, hastily unknot- 
 ting with trembling fingers the slender ribbon. 
 
 She drew the little trinket nearly off the string; half 
 a dozen threads more, and it would have fallen to the 
 ground ; tears, round and eloquent, as they poured on 
 the cherished gift, told more than a thousand words 
 could have expressed. After a long pause, she guided 
 it slowly back to its former place, — silently replacing it 
 in her bosom. 
 
 "He has done nothing to offend me," she thought — 
 " and why should I revenge my own fault on the poor 
 little keepsake? Sure, it can do me no harm!" Wo- 
 men's hearts are sadly prone to deceive, not others, but 
 themselves. 
 
 Alick's love-tale was not long telling. His aunt, 
 with woman's shrewdness, had suspected there was 
 more than brotherly and sisterly affection between 
 the youthful pair; and his uncle had often thought 
 that it would be a good plan to direct all the family 
 property, which for persons in their situation of life 
 was considerable, into the right channel. The catholic 
 prejudice against first cousins marrying was the only 
 objection that presented itself to all parties. 
 
 " Goold 'ill get a Dispensation, uncle," said Alick — 
 " Goold, the bright goold 'ill do it — priest or bishop 
 can't stand that, by no manner o' means." 
 
 "May-be so, may-be so," replied Sullivan; "but 
 
288 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 there's y'er own father and mother — to say nothing- 
 of Man* — they must all be consulted." 
 
 " Sure they love her, like their own hearts' blood, "^ 
 said the youth ; " and as to Mary — ask her — I know 
 now that she loves me; though I never could dare 
 even to guess at it till this day." 
 
 " Ye're mighty sure always, of what is by no means 
 certain, you men," observed Jessie. " Mary gave you 
 no encouragement to day, to my certain knowledge; 
 for I wasn't away from her five minutes since sun-rise." 
 
 " You stuck pretty close, indeed, I'll grant that for 
 you, Jessie, which I can't say I thought particular 
 genteel ; but I won't quarrel with ye for it ; for only 
 for you, I'd never have found out the token she wore 
 round her neck." 
 
 " Ho, ho ! — and it was you gave her that, and she 
 never to tell me ; and me told her all about my bache- 
 lors, three and four at a time ! O, I had no thought 
 she was so close!" 
 
 " True love is never talkative," observed the mother, 
 " but I don't approve of love tokens, at all at all." 
 
 " Whisht, Nelly, astore," retorted the father. " Ye 
 forget the red love-knots, and the blue, and the gin- 
 ger-bread-husband, and the Dublin cap, I brought you 
 mvself, when we were in the same way: so, go to poor 
 Mary, agra ; and don't seem to know any thing of the 
 token ; and my brother and I '11 go up to Father Cor- 
 mack to-morrow, and try the only means to bring him 
 to rason. And go home to bed, boys," (Watty had 
 seated himself in the chimney comer after supper. 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 2S9 
 
 apparently heedless of the conversation), " and pray 
 to the Holy Fathers and the Saints to give ye their 
 blessing, and look over ye." 
 
 " Let me just go to the door, and bid Mary good 
 night, through the chink," entreated the lover; it will 
 be such a relief to ray heart, just to hear her say, ' God 
 bless you, Alick !' " 
 
 Alick, upon this point, would have his way; and 
 the gentle response he longed for came upon his ear 
 like fairy music. 
 
 As they retreated from the beloved cottage, "Walter 
 looked earnestly in his brother's face — " So, ye want 
 me to have no cousin Mary ! — and marriage puts cold- 
 ness between born brothers — and Watty has no comfort 
 but" — The poor fellow burst into tears. 
 
 " You don't understand it, machree. When Mary, 
 by the blessing o' God, will be my wife, she will be 
 your sister, and you shall live with us if you like, and 
 Mary will love you even better than she does now." 
 
 " And give me red neckerchers, and let me tend her 
 flowers, and plait my Sunday frills, and all — and be my 
 sister, and you my brother still? " 
 
 " And love ye ten times more than ever, W r atty ! " 
 
 " Huzza! — then I'm for the wedding in earnest, and 
 let me see who'll oppose it!" And both brothers 
 entered the mill-house just as the full moon had risen 
 high, giving light and glory to the attendant clouds. 
 
 The next morning the elder Sullivans — their drab 
 great coats garnished with huge brass buttons; their 
 Sunday gear from top to toe brushed and polished up ; 
 2 c 
 
290 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 and their yellow Dublin wigs carefully placed over 
 their own reddish hair — each mounted on a sleek, fat 
 nag ; the miller bearing before him, as a peace-otfering, 
 a sack divided in the middle, and filled, one end with 
 cutlings, the other with white flower ; while he of the 
 Bleach Green, bore as a gift for the altar a twenty-two- 
 yard piece of " fine shirting." Thus caparisoned, thus 
 laden, the two brothers set*out to propitiate the Rev. 
 Edward Cormack. 
 
 While they proceeded on their way, their wives met 
 by mutual consent; and it was no common sight to 
 witness the kindly eagerness they evinced in vying 
 with each other, as to who should bestow most on the 
 young couple. 
 
 For Alick and Mary — I confess they treated Jessie 
 unhandsomely — they left her to her own meditations, 
 and 
 
 " Within a vale, a little vale, 
 
 Strewed with its own sweet flowers pale, 
 And made by steep surrounding hill 
 More lonely, yet more lovely still," 
 
 they were seen, seated under a fragrant lime-tree, dis- 
 coursing, I suppose, as lovers generally do ; which is, 
 I believe, saying very little, and looking — but no 
 matter — Mary's satisfied and happy countenance told 
 that the bitterness of self-reproach was past ; for Alick, 
 she now knew, had always loved her, with a love pass- 
 ing the love of kindred. 
 
 " Thank ye, thank ye kindly, good neighbours and 
 parishioners," said Father Xeddv, when the Sullivan s 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 291 
 
 and their burthens were fairly entered into his abode : 
 (i God '11 reward ye for thinking of the poor lone priest. 
 Molly, take care o' the meal, and prime care o' the 
 linen. I've hardly a tack of a shirt to my back, and 
 the skin's wore off my bones with the sackcloth and 
 ashes for the sins o' the people ; but it's dacent to wear 
 fine linen on a Sunday." 
 
 The brothers, encouraged by their reception, ex- 
 plained the nature of their mission, and were much 
 as ounded at the reply of the wily priest. 
 
 " There's no people in the parish I'd sooner oblege ; 
 but it's clane out o' rason— against the Mosaic, Chris- 
 tian, and what's more, Holy Roman law. In the eyes 
 o' heaven, and her handmaid, the church, they are all 
 as one, as born brother and sister. Did ye never hear 
 what the blessed Council o' Trint said? But how should 
 ye, poor ignorant men ! — don't look angry, boys, dear; I 
 mean ignorant of spiritual not temporal matters — how 
 should ye know any thing about it I It will be next to 
 a clane impossibility to get the sowls o' one of the 
 family out of purgatory, if so be ye let such a marriage 
 take place ; seeing that ye've been all aiders and 
 abettors in such a contempt of the glorious command- 
 ments."' 
 
 " But, y'er reverence, — sure, y'erself married Andrew 
 Bonner's niece and son." 
 
 "True for ye; ye've a good memory, Corney — a 
 grate blessing as it's applied — true for ye. May-be ye 
 don't understand our infallibility — infallibility of the 
 spirit it manes, which wars against the flesh, and the 
 
292 THE DISPENSATION'. 
 
 flesh against it; and sometimes, ye see, when the spirit 
 sleeps, the flesh (which, you understand, has, even in 
 holy men, a spice of the ould boy in it, seeing it is of 
 the earth, earthy — oh, what it is to know the Scriptures, 
 as one may say, by God's act o' parliament, which we 
 do!) goes wandering, and sometimes wrong. And 
 even I, y'er parish priest, had to do pinnance for that 
 wedding ; and ye may believe it, that to this moment, 
 notwithstanding the lashins o' silver — to say nothing of 
 the powers o' gould — spent for his sake, Andrew Bon- 
 ner's sow! is much too warm at this moment; only that's 
 between you and me, and the wall. See how Provi- 
 dence turns things! Ye thought that wedding made 
 for ye; and it quite the other way. Tin! — I wouldn't 
 grant you a dispensation for twinty guineas, nor twinty, 
 nor twinty, nor twinty, and that's four score — see that 
 now ! So, go home — repent o' y'er sins. Send Mary 
 to me, till I rason with her — she's a God-fearing girl, 
 and 'ill listen to rason wonderfully for a woman — and 
 keep y'er house in order, and teach y'er children the 
 grate first law — obadiance. And I'll make it my own 
 business to look out a wife for Alick. Not a word more 
 — it's no use. Sure ye wouldn't go aginst the priest! — 
 begone, both of ye, and take my blessing along with ye; 
 and now I'll go finish my matins." And Father Neddy 
 Cormack sank down on the hassock in front of the 
 great chair, and, to quote a favourite expression of his 
 own, " peppered away at the prayers." 
 
 The brothers did not utter a word as they rode home- 
 wards, but exchanged looks of mournful import as they 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 293 
 
 saw Alick running forward to meet them — hope and 
 joy animating his every movement — the wandering, 
 affectionate Walter following his footsteps, and as eager 
 almost as his brother to hear the news. It needed not 
 telling — and both father and uncle were affected to 
 tears, at the deep and earnest anguish which overspread, 
 as a pall, the countenance of poor Alick. 
 
 " And was it for this she loved me — and was it for 
 this I thought of her day and night — and would the 
 Almighty suffer an unholy love to enter into such a girl 
 as Mary, who looks more like an angel than an earthly 
 woman ? Oh, Mary, Mary, I can never see you more ! 
 Father — uncle — don't gainsay me! I'll go to sea — I 
 can't remain at home!" 
 
 With such-like exclamations, and much bitterness of 
 heart, they arrived at the mill. Mary's father, in a 
 little time, went home; and it seemed as if the sad 
 intelligence he brought had transformed his daughter 
 into a marble statue ; the colour forsook her cheek, her 
 limbs stiffened, and they laid her on her humble couch, 
 as one from whom the spirit had well nigh departed. 
 
 To persons unacquainted with the power once pos- 
 sessed by the priesthood, over the minds and actions 
 of the Irish peasantry, such submission to the will of 
 one man, and such a man as Father Cormack, may 
 appear extraordinary; but those who remember the 
 influence they had, and exercised, not a great many 
 years ago, will be fully aware of its overwhelming 
 extent. Most sincerely do I believe that it was in 
 general exerted, not for evil, but for good; and it is, 
 2 c 3 
 
294 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 perhaps, matter of astonishment that "they bore their 
 faculties so meekly." 
 
 The day after the priest's decision, Alick and Mary 
 avoided each other, as if by mutual consent; and as 
 the evening approached, the poor girl wandered to the 
 little vale that had been so lately the scene of her inno- 
 cent hopes, and seated herself under the very lime-tree 
 where she had sat with her lover. 
 
 She was roused from her reverie by no other than 
 Stephen Cormack, who, in a tone that sounded to her 
 ear like an insult, said, " he was very sorry to find her 
 so lonesome, but glad to get spaking to her on some- 
 thing that concerned them both." 
 
 Mary rose up with what might be truly called 
 dignity, and replied, " she knew of nothing that could 
 concern them both." 
 
 " Oh, truth and honesty, Miss Mary ! I haven't 
 been coming after ye these two years, and you not know 
 my honourable intintions. Sure, it's Mrs. Stephen 
 Cormack I want ye to be; and bring ye mistress over 
 my uncle's house, who can lay down goold for goold 
 with y'er father. Ye needn't look so scornful either; 
 there's as good grass in the meadow as ever was mowed." 
 
 "Stephen Cormack/' said Mary, "if I looked as 
 you say, I did'nt mean it. In whatever way a man 
 proposes marriage to a woman, he does her honour; 
 and I am grateful as I can be for what you have men- 
 tioned — but plain speaking is best. Were you King of 
 England, or Emperor of all France, and I a poor lone 
 outcast from home and family, I would lay my head 
 under that tree, and die, sooner than be your wife.'' 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 295 
 
 " And more fool you, for that same !" he retorted, 
 bitterly. " It's not every one would have ye now, after 
 you and y'er born first cousin been spoken of over the 
 parish for company-keeping. " 
 
 " I seek no man's love," replied Mary, calmly ; " but 
 a woman calls you coward, Stephen Cormack, for 
 daring to say to her, when no friend's by, what, if even 
 her humble house-dog were resting at her feet, you 
 wouldn't dare spake." 
 
 As she uttered the words she turned away towards 
 the path that led to her home ; but the young man 
 seized her hand, and sought to detain her. 
 
 " What would ye with me, Stephen ? — you know my 
 mind ; and ye know that Mary Sullivan is not given 
 to change." 
 
 "Jist listen, Mary; — you and Alick never can be 
 one in this world; and where 'ill you find a boy that 
 loves ye better than myself? " 
 
 " You have y'er answer, Sir ; and if you have my 
 contempt, instead of my pity, ye may thank y'erself." 
 
 " Then, by the Holy Father, ye shall bitterly repent 
 this treatment; and as I'm a living man, Mary, I'll see 
 the day yet, when yell kneel for me to marry ye, and 
 lie at my marcy, like that clod o' turf!" 
 
 The fellow kicked the green sward in illustration 
 of his words ; but at the same moment was extended 
 at Mary's feet, by a blow from the stout shillala of our 
 faithful ally, Walter, who appeared, as it were, from 
 the bosom of the earth, to avenge the insult offered to 
 his cousin. The anger of the half-witted man, once 
 
296 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 excited, was not easily quelled. He repeated the blow, 
 even while Mary was clinging to his arm, and would 
 have persisted in his vengeance, had she not roused 
 her energies, and commanded him to forbear. She 
 hastened home, almost dragging Watty with her, and 
 sent her father to convey the priest's nephew to his 
 dwelling; but when he arrived at the glen, Stephen was 
 nowhere to be found. 
 
 Mary retired early to her chamber that night ; but 
 sleep deserts the unhappy and unfortunate. It was 
 not so with Jessie : the light-hearted girl slept as if 
 she had never known and never could know either 
 care or sorrow. 
 
 The family, at length, were all at rest. Mary arose 
 from her bed, and opened the little casement, thinking 
 the fresh breezes of night would cool her fevered brain. 
 She thought a shadow passed across the yard, and even 
 rested on the humble shrubs that Alick, in happier 
 times had planted. She listened — the house dog did 
 not bark, nor could she hear a single footstep ; but the 
 shadow returned — approached. She shut-to the win- 
 dow hastily, and the noise it made evidently apprised 
 the intruder that some one watched his ramblings. 
 The bushes were separated, and to her relief and 
 astonishment, she recognized Walter's well-known face, 
 peering upwards. Again she opened it, and inquired 
 if any thing had happened at the mill. 
 
 " Whisht, agra, whisht — why a'n't you at rest? — I 
 wouldn't have been here, only I thought I cold wish 
 you a silent good night, under y'er windy. And I 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 297 
 
 wint my rounds, and found my little birds sleeping and 
 happy. An' it's rejoiced I am to see ye j and now the 
 moon's coming out clear, you can see me too. I don't 
 look like a fool now — do I, Mary? — fit to visit a 
 King— a 'n't I ? " 
 
 Watty was, indeed, metamorphosed. Over his usual 
 gear he had buttoned his father's grey coat ; and his 
 brother's hat surmounted the scarlet kerchief he always 
 wore round his head ; he had also drawn on his father's 
 top boots, and brandished his uncle's heavy whip in his 
 hand. 
 
 " I've saddled Alick's pony," he continued, in a 
 half whisper ; " It's a merry bit of flesh, and follows 
 me like a dog. And, Mary, a lannen ! I'm going on a 
 long journey — and jist clasp y'er two hands in the 
 moonbames, and bless me, bless me! — and pray that 
 God '11 increase my wit jist for twenty-four hours ; and 
 thin he may take it back again, for I've sense enough 
 to see that it is the innocent things that's happiest 
 in this world. Do, Mary, bless me ! — ye ought, if ye 
 knew but all ; for it's for his sake and yours that I'm 
 going." 
 
 The affectionate creature knelt as devoutly as if he 
 solicited the prayers of the Virgin Mother, while his 
 cousin, astonished at what was so inexplicable, implored 
 him to explain his meaning. 
 
 "Bid God direct me, Mary! I haven't words to 
 make ye understand what I'm after; but I know my 
 own know, and there's the charm of a secret! — and 
 the pony's calling me :— give me the blessing, or I must 
 
298 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 go without it — and keep up y'er heart — and may-be the 
 little sense that I have, stirr'd for good, will turn out 
 better than a great mountain o' sense, not stirr'd at all." 
 
 Mary gave the blessing so earnestly implored. The 
 instant it was delivered, Walter was out of sight ; and 
 in a few moments she heard the well known trot of 
 Alick's pony, tripping along the high road that skirted 
 the Bleach Green. 
 
 The succeeding day passed very gloomily in both 
 houses. No one could conjecture Walter's purpose, 
 or whither he was gone. He seldom rode, though he 
 rambled occasionally, far from home, and visited family 
 connexions even in the North, where he was always a 
 welcome guest ; for the strange mixture of keenness 
 and simplicity that formed the distinguishing feature 
 of his wandering mind, rendered him, when in a talka- 
 tive mood, very entertaining; and above all, the skill 
 and taste he evinced in singing national ballads ensured 
 him a kindly welcome in every cottage. 
 
 The evening was dull and rainy ; and the night set 
 in with the cold shivering feel, so unnatural in summer 
 time. 
 
 Sullivan occupied the "ingle nook" — his legs stretched 
 out — his arms folded, except when he raised his hand 
 to re-light or fill his pipe — that constant companion 
 of Irish rest or reflection. His wife busied herself 
 about household matters — Jessie was retrimming her 
 leghorn bonnet — and Mary sat spinning, opposite her 
 father ; her foot moved as swiftly as usual, and her 
 fingers twisted the delicate thread, as if her mind had 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 299 
 
 regained its tranquillity ; but it was evident, from the 
 varying expression of her countenance, that — 
 
 " Many, and sad, and deep, 
 
 Were the thoughts folded in her silent breast." 
 
 " Come, Jessie," said the father, "sing us a song; 
 not too merry, nor too sorrowful, and, may-be, my 
 little lark here will join you in it." 
 
 Mary replied with a sweet smile ; but, nevertheless, 
 her voice was not heard in the simple lay. 
 
 " Come, girls," said the father, " come — it's time to 
 go to bed, darlints ! — God send us a fine sun-rise !" 
 
 " And a happier one than we've had lately, ' added 
 Mrs. Sullivan. " There is something come over the 
 house that's turned every thing. "J 
 
 "May the Holy Saints protect us!" said Mary: 
 " Somehow, I feel loath to go to bed — there's a weight 
 on my heart and mournful sounding in my ears — I 
 wish daylight was come !" 
 
 " See there, now, what you put in the child's head, 
 Nelly, with your croaking ! Whatever present trouble 
 we have, Mary, my blessing, I feel that for your sake 
 it will all pass. The Lord sent ye just like a delicate 
 plant of sweet scent among us — a thing to mind and 
 love : and now, agra, when the winter and storm have 
 gone over, and the little plant has grown, and budded, 
 and blossomed, it wouldn't be natural (and he that 
 made Nature 'ud never turn against it) to cut it down." 
 
 " It may wither, father,'' murmured Mary, looking 
 mournfully in her parent's face. 
 
300 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 " It shall not wither, while I've a heart to press it to, 
 or an arm to shelter it," he exclaimed, folding her to 
 his bosom ; and if tears did mingle in that pure and 
 holy embrace, Corney Sullivan was neither less brave 
 nor less manly for it. 
 
 The inmates of the Bleach House had long retired 
 to rest, when Mrs. Sullivan started from her sleep, 
 and shaking her husband violently, asked him if he 
 had not heard a scream. Before he could reply, 
 " Father! — Father!" was shrieked, with all the wild- 
 dess of despair — and, merciful Providence ! — in Man's 
 voice. He rushed to his room door, and endeavoured 
 to force it open, but he strained every nerve in vain. 
 Like many doors in Irish cabins, it opened from the 
 outside; and it was evident that heavy pressure had 
 been resorted to, to prevent its being pushed forward. 
 Again the mournful wail, "Father! — Father!" — burst 
 upon his ear. He stormed in impotent rage — he con- 
 jured those without, by every holy and sacred tie, to 
 let him go forth. He then bethought him of the 
 little window that opened on the thatch. — Alas ! his 
 head could hardly pass through the aperture. With 
 frenzied eagerness he endeavoured to tear out the 
 casement, even as a maniac attempts to rive his fetters. 
 At length he succeeded, and the mud wall crumbled 
 beneath his hands. He listened — the affecting words 
 were not repeated : within, the sound of footsteps had 
 ceased, but suddenly without all was bustle ; and as 
 he renewed his exertions, the tramp of horsemen came 
 heavily upon his ear. Again he flew to the door; it 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 301 
 
 was unfastened : extended on the earthen floor of the 
 kitchen, he beheld Jessie in a state of perfect insensi- 
 bility; he rushed to the fore-court — even the sound 
 of the horses' hoofs had died in the distance ; he sped 
 to his brother's house — they were not long in coming 
 to his assistance, and accompanied him speedily to 
 the plundered nest. His wife's state of mind may be 
 better conceived than described ; and the only account 
 Jessie could give of the outrage was, that she was 
 roused from her sleep by masked and armed men 
 entering their chamber, and that despite her efforts, 
 they rolled a horseman's cloak round her cousin, and 
 dragged her forth. 
 
 To rouse the neighbours — saddle, spur, and away 
 after the lawless plunderers, was the universal resolve. 
 It may readily be believed that A lick was foremost in 
 exertion ; but the ruffians had anticipated pursuit. 
 The saddles in the sheds, dignified by the name of 
 stables, at both houses were cut to pieces ; and a brown 
 farm-horse, with the exception of Alick's pony, the 
 only good roadster in their possession, was cruelly 
 maimed. 
 
 " Oh if Watty had been here, this could not have 
 happened !" they exclaimed ; " he has the ear of a hare, 
 the foot of a hound, and the eye of an eagle;" but it 
 was vain. And the grey morning had almost dawned, 
 before a party, consisting of seven tolerably well- 
 mounted and well-armed men, sallied forth in pursuit 
 of the lost treasure. Various were the conjectures as 
 to the probable authors of the abduction, and the 
 2 D 
 
302 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 course the miscreants had pursued. The Sullivans 
 were silent on the former topic, but seemed to opine 
 that Mary had been carried towards the very lawless 
 neighbourhood of Keenahan's wood. 
 
 The crime of conveying the daughters of respectable 
 farmers from their own homes, and forcing them to 
 marry, frequently, persons whom they had never seen, 
 was at one time not at all uncommon in Ireland ; even 
 in my own quiet district, I remember, about sixteen 
 years ago, a circumstance of the kind that made a 
 powerful impression on my youthful mind, although 
 there was much less of villany about it than charac- 
 terized " the lifting " of Mary Sullivan. Unfortunately 
 the friends of the perpetrators on such occasions, seem 
 to argue themselves into the belief that when such 
 affairs terminate in marriage no evil has been com- 
 mitted. 
 
 The parties agreed to separate — four to pursue the 
 by-roads leading to a wild district of morass and hill, 
 called Keenahan's wood; and three, the more direct 
 and better known way, to the same place, in another 
 direction. The neighbourhood of Keenahan's wood 
 had been famed as the residence of a sort of Catholic 
 Gretna-green Irish priest — a jovial out-cast friar, who 
 laughed and poached, and married. Although none 
 of the regular clergy associated with him, he concluded 
 all sorts of run-away and forced matches ; it was, 
 therefore, natural to suppose that Mary had been 
 borne in that direction. Alick, his father, and two 
 friends, took the former road ; and Cornev Sullivan, 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 303 
 
 and two others, the latter. As they passed Cormack's 
 house, Alick looked fixedly at it ; and his father almost 
 involuntarily exchanged glances with him, when they 
 perceived a head, which could not be mistaken, with- 
 drawn from one of the windows, and an open shutter 
 closed. 
 
 11 Father Neddy's early at his devotions," observed 
 Alick, in a low and bitter tone. 
 
 " I wonder what he thinks of seeing so many of us 
 astir in the dim o' the morning," replied the other. 
 
 " May-be he knows by inspiration," continued the 
 youth, with increasing bitterness; but if it is as I 
 think, I '11 drive, and tear, and throw open — ay, the 
 very altar; and I '11 have justice and revenge before I 
 lay side on a bed, or taste drink stronger nor water." 
 
 Whisht ! for mercy's sake, whisht ! " exclaimed the 
 father : " wait awhile, and don't be so rash." 
 
 They stopped at every hamlet — they questioned even- 
 individual, but for many miles received no intelligence. 
 At last, a beggar-woman who had slept under shelter 
 of a ditch during the night, and was, to use her own 
 phrase, " getting the children to rights, and making 
 them comfortable," said, that about two hours before, 
 three men had gone that way — she had looked up, upon 
 hearing them pass — "they were riding aisy," and one 
 of them carried a slight woman before him on the 
 horse, " which struck her, strange," as she lay more 
 like a dead than a living thing. They took of! the 
 high road across the bog, in the direction of Keena- 
 han's wood ; " and she soon lost sight of 'em, as day- 
 light wasn't clane in." 
 
304 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 Our friends followed the track she told of, and heard 
 again from some turf-clampers that the same party had 
 passed them about an hour before. The information, 
 however, did not appear to increase the chance of their 
 search being crowned with success. In the direction 
 pointed out by the turf-cutters all trace of road was 
 lost ; the ground was uneven, and they were obliged to 
 lead their horses. Scrubby, and often gigantic fur2e, 
 thickened on the borders of the wood, so as to present 
 almost a positive barrier to their progress ; while every 
 now and then, a deep pit-fall, or a treacherous shaking 
 bog, impeded their course: and it required all their 
 strength and dexterity to extricate themselves from the 
 clayey thickness of the soil. 
 
 Keenahan's wood shewed darkly in the distance, as 
 it crept up the Slivoath mountain, whose craggy top 
 frowned amid the thin and fleecy clouds. 
 
 " There can be no harm," observed the elder Sulli- 
 van, "in going to Friar Leary's : sorra' a job of the 
 kind done that he hasn't a hand in; and something 
 tells me we shall soon find our lost lamb." 
 
 It was agreed that one of the party should take 
 charge of the horses, while the others proceeded slowly 
 and cautiously on foot, under cover of the wood. They 
 could not expect any information from the beings who 
 inhabited the dreary and dangerous district they now 
 entered, as they were generally believed to subsist by 
 plunder ; for in times of national tumult, suspicious per- 
 sons always found shelter in the fastnesses of Slivoath, 
 and many bloody acts of violence had been perpetrated 
 under the dense trees. 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 305 
 
 The few half-naked urchins whom they met, either 
 pretended total ignorance of the friar's dwelling, or, as 
 they afterwards discovered, invariably set them wrong. 
 Thus, fatigued in body and mind, they struggled through 
 the tangled brush-wood; and although the sun was high 
 in the heavens, its rays could hardly penetrate the deep 
 thickness of the matted trees. 
 
 A broad and brawling stream, occasionally bubbling 
 and frothing over the impediments that huge stones and 
 ledges presented to its impetuosity, divided the path (if 
 the course they had pursued might be so called), and 
 formed an opening, where the air, relieved from its 
 wearisome confinement, rushed in a swift, pure current 
 over the waters. The banks, on the opposite side, were 
 steep and dangerous. Huge masses of the mountain 
 rock, round whose base the stream meandered, rose 
 abruptly from the surface : some were fringed by the 
 thorny drapery of the wild briar and ragged nettle ; 
 others were bleak and barren, and the sunbeams glit- 
 tered on flints, and portions of red granite, that, like 
 many of the worldly, basked in the sun of prosperity, 
 and yielded nothing in return. 
 
 The party followed the course of the mimic river, 
 and the mountain grew higher and higher as they pro- 
 ceeded. The depth of the water, too, had evidently 
 increased; probably owing to the late rains; for it 
 washed over a rustic bridge, well known in the district 
 by the name of "the friar's pass," and which, they 
 rightly conjectured, led to the abode of "the Irish Friar 
 Tuck." 
 
306 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 Above this simple structure, that consisted of two 
 huge trees tied together, a portion of the mountain 
 jutted, and formed a semi-arch of wild and singular 
 beauty. Its summit was thickly imbedded in bright 
 and shining moss, and its glittering greenery was a de- 
 lightful relief to the eye that had so long dwelt on 
 noisome weeds and rugged rocks. 
 
 "While the little party were gazing on the fairy spot, 
 a loud shout thundered on their ears : for a moment 
 they were petrified ; and then involuntarily rushed to 
 cross the bridge. Their progress, however, was arrested 
 by the scene that presented itself, in what, as they 
 gazed upon it, appeared mid-air : Walter Sullivan — his 
 black hair streaming like a pennon on the breeze — in 
 eager pursuit of Stephen Cormack, who seemed anxious 
 to gain the path that descended to the stream ; but with 
 another shout, or rather howl, Watty sprang on him, 
 as the eagle would on the hawk, and both engaged in 
 a fierce and desperate struggle. Neither were armed, 
 but the fearful effort for existence gave strength to 
 Stephen's exertions. With the ferocity of tigers they 
 clutched each other's throats, and as they neared the 
 edge the half-maniac redoubled his exertions to throw 
 his weaker antagonist over it. Alick and his father 
 flew up the cliff; nothing but the supernatural energy 
 with which Walter was imbued could have saved Cor- 
 mack's life. He had succeeded in loosening the hold 
 upon his throat, and then, taking him round the waist 
 as if he had been an infant, upheld him for a moment, 
 over the abyss, and hurled him forward ; had he been 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 307 
 
 pushed over, his doom must have been instant death ; 
 the pointed rocks would have mangled him into a 
 thousand pieces; but the crime that would have at- 
 tached to the hitherto " harmless innocent," was provi- 
 dentially prevented, and Stephen fell into the stream. 
 
 The combat I have taken so long to relate occupied 
 but a few seconds — before the worthless youth's associ- 
 ates in crime were able to effect his rescue. 
 
 Where the wild man had wandered shall be presently 
 related ; he was on his return, and by way of shortening 
 his road determined on crossing Slivoath and the wood; 
 he came unexpectedly upon the gang, who had been 
 obliged to dismount, and were forcing his sweet cousin 
 Mary up the narrow and winding path, leading to the 
 hut or cell where the friar resided ; armed with but his 
 riding-whip, he instantly fell upon them, and, as " con- 
 science doth make cowards of us all" — they at first 
 imagined they were overtaken by the party, which, 
 notwithstanding their precautions, they had little doubt 
 would muster with the morning dawn. The eagerness 
 evinced by Walter to punish the principal aggressor 
 has been already shewn, but it was fortunate for him 
 that his friends arrived at the critical moment ; he could 
 have had little chance of escape, as the other ruffians 
 had recovered from their surprise, and doubtless would 
 have had slight scruples of conscience about despatch- 
 ing him. 
 
 Mary was soon surrounded by her friends, for her 
 father and the men who had taken the other road 
 joined them shortly after the rencontre had taken place. 
 
308 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 Alick's pony was invaluable ; the creature seemed to 
 know its way by intuition, and had now the honour 
 of carrying Mary. Alick guided the bridle, while her 
 father supported her with his arm. Stephen's object 
 had evidently been to force a marriage ; and had the 
 rescue been delayed a few minutes longer, his plan 
 might have been successful. 
 
 "It's no time to talk of it now," observed Alick; 
 "but I'll have my revenge yet. I'll go to the Bishop 
 — and if that won't do, to the Pope; and I'll have that 
 man " 
 
 "Alick, avourneen!" interrupted Walter, "if it's no 
 time to talk, can't you hould y'er tongue? — look, I've 
 no manner of compassion for any of ye; this very 
 minute, the only people to be pitied is jist me and the 
 pony — who's as good as gould, and goes as smilingly 
 along as if he hadn't travelled near seventy miles, since 
 ere last night; — then I pity myself, because I'm a fool 
 — and so, I suppose, can never have a sweet-heart, but 
 must live alone, like that great poplar tree, that even 
 the birds fly by without resting upon. It's very quare, 
 I never found even a sparrow's nest in a poplar !" 
 
 "Do tell us where you've been, Watty!" inquired 
 Alick, anxious to change the conversation. 
 
 " All in good time — not till we get home; and mind, 
 uncle, at the Bleach House ye must give us all supper: 
 and Mary, if ye're not able to sit up, I'll support ye — 
 but to rest not one of ye shall go, till ye've heard my 
 travels." 
 
 " Some folly, I'll go bail," observed his father. 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 309 
 
 Walter looked at him — nodded, but only replied, 
 "time 'ill tell." 
 
 The day was fully spent, and the gentle twilight had 
 been succeeded by the deepening darkness of night; 
 gradually the pale stars came out in their meek beauty, 
 illuminating the blue arch of heaven with their spark- 
 ling fires. The party were too fatigued to keep up any 
 conversation, always excepting Walter, whose spirits 
 were overflowing, and who sung snatches of old ballads 
 with untiring perseverance. When they came within 
 sight of the village, through which they must pass 
 before they arrived at the Sullivans' home, the party 
 halted and gave three loud cheers ; in a moment every 
 living soul, even to the toddling wee thing hanging to 
 its mother's apron, rushed as with one feeling to meet 
 and congratulate them; the joyous shout spread even 
 to the silent dwelling where the mother of Mary, sick 
 and despairing, was rocking herself over the ashes of 
 the turf fire. Jessie had joined the villagers, and, in 
 her boisterous happiness, kissed and embraced every 
 one she encountered. 
 
 But who can relate the meeting of the mother and 
 daughter! — how the aged woman laid the pale girl on 
 her bosom ; pushed back from her delicate features the 
 clustering and disarranged tresses; again and again 
 pressed her lips on her fair brow, and repeated over 
 and over, the sweet words, " My child, my own born 
 child, is safe ! — my child, my own born child, is safe !" 
 Nor was her aunt less fervent in her demonstrations of 
 affection. 
 
310 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 In the excessive joy of this happy restoration, few 
 thought of the sorrow that still weighed on the hearts 
 of Alick and Mary. Nor was it until Watty had three 
 times shaken his aunt by the shoulders, and demanded 
 supper for himself and his companions, that the poor 
 woman would resign her child. 
 
 " Ye 're keening over her as if she were dead — so ye 
 are — and I want my supper ; for after that I 've got a 
 message for his Reverence, Father Neddy, that I swore 
 to give afore I 'd lay side on a bed this happy night." 
 
 Rashers of bacon, fresh eggs, new milk, strong ale, 
 and plenty of hot whisky-punch, formed the regale. 
 
 "Jessie," said Mrs. Sullivan, "if ye were handy 
 now, ye wouldn't be long twisting the necks of five or 
 six chickens, and they 'd do iligantly in the red ashes." 
 
 " No, no ! " vociferated Walter, " I '11 not stay in the 
 house if a living thing is made dead this night. I 've 
 got the means of making ye all kings and queens; one 
 round, loud huzza — now a glass a-piece — and now for 
 a fool's toast — ' May ould Nick make the bed of all 
 who contrive mischief! ' Alick, come here, agra — 
 read that, astore ! I never saw the good of teaching 
 people to dirty clane paper, until I got that scrap from 
 his high Reverence, Doctor O'Brien — bishop of this 
 and other districts." 
 
 All stared in stupid astonishment, as Alick took the 
 proffered document ; he unfolded it ; but kept the con- 
 tents most religiously to himself; it was soon evident 
 he could not read it aloud ; his cheek flushed — his eye 
 kindled — his hand trembled : vet still he held it fast, a3 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 311 
 
 if fearful that if aught touched it, save himself, the 
 illusion would be destroyed. 
 
 "Give it me, Alick," said Walter, taking it from 
 him, "give it me. Now, father, read it. I know 
 what it is — but I 'd like to hear it set out regularly. 
 Why, you look as much bothered as Alick — now for 
 it!" 
 
 The father did indeed read — what gave universal 
 happiness to the entire party — a dispensation, under 
 the Bishop's own hand ; fully authorizing the marriage 
 of Alick and Mary Sullivan. The ecstasies, and hap- 
 piness, and above all, the gratitude felt and spoken, 
 can be much better imagined than described. 
 
 Astonishment was loudly and universally expressed, 
 as to the how and the where of Walter's plans. Watty, 
 however, was never long in one mood, and he seemed 
 disposed to hold his tongue, just at the moment they 
 wished him to be particularly communicative. 
 
 " Let Mary ask him — let Mary ask him to tell, and 
 he will! " said Jessie. 
 
 " May-be I might then ; if she 'd ask me purty, and 
 call me brother." This was obviously a difficult task 
 for the blushing bride-elect; but on Watty's placing 
 his ear very near her lips, she, I suppose, complied, for 
 he seemed satisfied ; and seating himself on the table, 
 in the midst of his animated and delighted auditory, 
 recited his adventures. 
 
 " Ye mind Doctor O'Brien's sister's son, who is to 
 be a priest, and was staying for a while at the squire's — 
 well, he was very kind to me, as you may remember ; 
 
"12 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 and took a power o' pains to insense me into many 
 things, and was desperate civil to me all thro', and 
 often wanted me to go up to his uncle's place ; indeed, 
 I think he 'd ha' made a priest o' me, if he had his 
 will ; — ye may laugh — but sure it 's faith is the great 
 thing in a priest ; and, father, if ye had given me the 
 laming, I 'd ha' been a jewil of a priest; but no matter 
 — somehow, it came across me, that Father Neddy took 
 too much entirely upon himself, about the dispensation" 
 (Here a general "Oh, oh, Watty !"— " asy, Watty!" 
 murmured amid the hearers). " If ye don 't let me 
 tell my story my own way, ye may do without it," said 
 the orator ; " I 'm not afraid to repate it — like many 
 others in the world, he took too much upon himself — 
 save us ! — don 't worms ate priests' flesh, as well as 
 ours? There now, Mary, honey, if it vexes you, I 
 won't brathe a morsel more about it! Well, I be- 
 thought me I'd jist make myself dacent, and go un- 
 knowingly, and lay the whole case before his holiness 
 the Bishop ; seeing I was sure o' the"good word of my 
 ould play-fellow, his sister's son : so I set off, as you 
 know — but you don 't know that when I got to his 
 house — my darlints ! — it 's off he was — a big piece the 
 other side o' Keenahan's wood, and my honorable friend 
 with him, going a ' visiting ' for a bit. Well, I took 
 after him — Rory and me — and of coorse I first axed to 
 see the young gentleman; and sure he's the ould 
 thing, only a dale more stout and hearty ; and — I 'm 
 sorry for him — very much given to shooting queests, 
 which I tould him was very unchristian." (Here 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 313 
 
 another " Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! " burst forth ; but Walter 
 continued.) "Well, he has a kind heart! — he remem- 
 bered all of ye ; and said my family was at the top of 
 the country for dacency. So he brought me straight to 
 his uncle, and wouldn 't put me up what to say — only 
 bid me tell my story my own way ; and then I thought 
 o' the blessing you gave me, Mary, and spoke up, 
 nothin' daunted. He's a fine man, the Bishop, as 
 you 'd see in a month o' Sundays; tall, like a mountain 
 ash, with hair as white as the foam o' the waves, and a 
 voice so soft — yet so grand ! ' Did you say,' says he, 
 in fine English, * that the girl and boy have grown up 
 under one roof and taken heart-love to each other from 
 their early years ? ' I remember his very words. 
 
 " ' Jist, y'er grate reverence,' I made answer, ' like 
 two birds in a pigeon's nest; and a cool look, nor a 
 hard thought, has never come betwixt one of the 
 family.' 
 
 " ' I wonder why Father Cormack should so go 
 against it,' says he again. 
 
 " ' If y'er honour's glory 'ill permit, I '11 tell ye,' says 
 I. ' He has a bit of a newy that's taken a wonderful 
 fancy to Mary's face and Mary's farm — his reverence 
 knows him.' (I knew the young master had an ould 
 grudge agin him, for a dirty turn he did). So with 
 that he spakes up, and says his say, out o' the face, 
 and fitted his jacket nately, like an honourable, honest 
 man. 
 
 "Well, they began talking in an unknown tongue, 
 after the fashion of a batch of crows — caw — click — 
 2 E 
 
314 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 caw — caw — and at last the Bishop says, ' You know 
 that a Dispensation is a grate expinse, and those who 
 expect the like favours from the church must help to 
 support it.' 
 
 " ' To be sure,' says I, 'but as I mane all this as a 
 surprise — and thinking of the state the craturs are both 
 in, dying with such a complaint, and all, I trust y'er 
 reverence's Holiness will be light upon me.' " 
 
 " Sure, I 'd have given hundreds for it," exclaimed 
 AlicL 
 
 "It's you 'ud be the fool then," observed Walter: 
 
 " It 'ud be no better for that — I pulled out my bag — 
 (I had five guineas in all) — " 
 
 " Where did ye get the money?" inquired his father. 
 
 "Don't ye remember," replied the young man, 
 " that whenever my head is steady enough to do a turn 
 o' work, ye pay me for it? — and I saved it all up — for 
 my heart tould me that some o' ye might want it, one 
 of these days ; wild Watty has no right to it — for sure 
 he 's been a pain or a reproach to ye all his life — little 
 better than a born natural." The tone of deep feeling, 
 with which the poor fellow uttered these words, con- 
 trasted painfully with his former cheerful voice ; it was 
 like the tolling of a funeral knell, even while the sound 
 of joy-bells lingered on the air ; but after a brief pause 
 he resumed : 
 
 " ' Five guinea?,' said the Bishop, ' is the lowest 
 penny.' 
 
 " ' Och, murder ! — y'er honour's reverence 'ud never 
 think of that, sure ; ' said I — ' three guineas and a half 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 315 
 
 — (I 'd scorn, poor as I am, to offer ye trash o' paper) 
 I '11 give that any how.' Well, he considered a bit, 
 and the two began the ci — caw — cawing, in the foreign 
 language, which I own I didn 't think manners — except 
 for quality — to be sure they 've ways of their own — 
 well, he offers me the thing for four guineas ; and done, 
 says I, and tould it down to him on the sod, honest, as 
 the saying is, as a judge. Well (now listen, boys, for 
 the flower of the story !) he takes up the gould, and he 
 looked at me somehow— so kind that my heart went 
 bob — bobbing — and my eyes felt quare. 'Take it 
 back,' said he — and with that he handed it across to 
 me — ' and keep it to buy a wedding shute, and an old 
 man prays that at the day o' judgment all may make as 
 clane breasts as you have now : keep the money, and 
 there's the Dispensation.' 
 
 "Now, boys and girls," added Watty, grinning — 
 " isn't it the hoight o' condescension in me to be dis- 
 
 rp 
 
 coorsingyou here — after talking face to face to a bishop* 
 Look at me, I've seen one of the world's wonders — a 
 priest return money ! — but I expect to see another — a 
 wife that won't scowld. Ye all know the rest," he 
 added, when the merry laugh had subsided, excited by 
 his last remark ; " how I was returning by way of a 
 short cut through the wood, and — but where 's the good 
 o' going back, as ye say that spillogue of a villain got 
 off? — well, may-be so best — only I don't like to think of 
 it." 
 
 After many demonstrations of Irish joy, which I beg 
 it clearly to be understood is much more boisterous than 
 
316 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 sober English custom would warrant, and various con- 
 gratulations, the party separated. 
 
 "Now I'm off to the priest," exclaimed Watty. 
 
 " You're not, take my word for it," replied his father; 
 " what 'ud you go to the priest at this hour for ?" 
 
 " Jist to do the Bishop's bidding — sorra' a thing else 
 — didn't he tell me to tell Father Neddy, with his com- 
 pliments, that he'd be with him the morrow ? — and — by 
 the powers/ 1 clane forgot it! — he said he'd have the 
 pleasure of marrying Mary and Alick, his holy self, the 
 next day." 
 
 As he concluded this sentence, there commenced in 
 the cottage a confusion of tongues, and noises not easily 
 described. Mary, who had been exchanging a few 
 parting words with her lover on the narrow step leading 
 to her little chamber, leaned against the rail for support ; 
 the only face that beamed unalloyed pleasure, and the 
 perfection of happiness, was Alick's — he pressed Mary's 
 hand closely to his heart; and then, with a delicacy of 
 feeling that would add a new grace to any rank, how- 
 ever exalted it might be, beckoned Jessie to assist her 
 to her room ; and, giving utterance to the joy and hope 
 which filled his bosom, gently and affectionately bade 
 her good night. 
 
 " It's quite an impossibility ! Watty, ye'll never 
 come to good for not telling us afore — sure that was the 
 first thing ye should ha' thought of! " said the father of 
 Mary. 
 
 " A Bishop, body and bones, coming to marry a child 
 o' mine ! " exclaimed the mother ; " and not a thing in 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 317 
 
 the house ! — the hens in the laying time — thin as frosty 
 snipeens ; and the chickens not as big as larks ! Sorra' 
 a grain o' tea have we, nor a drop o' wine — it can't be, 
 that's sartin ! " 
 
 There was too much anxious conversation going for- 
 ward in the kitchen, for Jessie to remain long in Mary's 
 room ; from which she soon flounced forth, exclaiming, 
 " It's out o' the question; and a dirty turn o' ye, Watty, 
 not to tell it at once, and ye more nor two hours in the 
 house; and not a stitch o' book muslin to be had nearer 
 nor Ballybay, nor so much as a yard o' satin ribbon. 
 Oh, joy be with you, sweet Dublin ! — one has only to 
 cross a street, and the most beautifulest o' things for 
 funerals or weddings are to y'er hand. If y'er pockets 
 are full o' money, sure it's there ye can empty them, 
 and that without any trouble to signify ; while hers, one 
 may live for ages, and see nothin' worth dressing for — 
 nothing but the likes o' ye, Watty, and folk too busy in 
 love to think of any but thimselves, and a pack of old 
 fogies that I wouldn't be seen spaking to in darlint 
 Dublin." 
 
 " Ye're wrong, Miss Jessie," replied Walter, "in one 
 thing; sorra' o' the likes o' me, here or elsewhere, ye'll 
 ever see. As to Dublin, or any other place, you girls 
 'ill contrive to spend y'er money, if ye have it; but look 
 I'll go off in the morning to Ballybay, and bring ye as 
 much finery as ye want — and tay, and sugar, and wine, 
 and every thing — for a wedding we must have; and 
 now I'm off to the priest's." 
 
 The miller accompanied his son ; and neither family 
 
318 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 went to bed that night, so busy were they with prepa- 
 rations for the coming feast — for in that light an Irish 
 wedding is always considered. After the seniors had 
 maturely deliberated on the affair, it was an agree-upon- 
 matter that it was perfectly impossible to put off a priest, 
 much less a bishop ; and I confess myself unable to 
 describe the extreme preparations that consequently 
 occupied the next morning, day, and night. Such 
 doings had never been heard of in the country. Liter- 
 ally, the fatted calf was killed; and Walter executed 
 his commissions to the satisfaction of everybody, except 
 Jessie, for he brought her white calico instead of muslin 
 — declaring that it was worse than mad to pay so much 
 more money for what was no better than a cobweb. 
 
 Sweet Mary Sullivan ! — she appreciated too highly 
 the affection of Alick, the wild, devoted kindness of 
 poor Walter, and the condescension of the Bishop, to 
 urge obstacles which she did not feel ought to exist. 
 The desire of her heart was fulfilled — the affection that 
 had grown with her growth was to flow on undisturbed 
 in its unpolluted course ; and she silently thanked God, 
 and prayed that she might continue worthy of Alick's 
 love. 
 
 To a delicately-minded woman, the wedding-day is 
 one of mingled mournfulness and hope. To be another's 
 — to resign to another's care her will, her happiness — 
 to think that every feeling must be moulded to please 
 one, who accepts her submission as a duty, not a favour 
 — is a sacrifice indeed ; but, the hope, that, in return 
 for the homely comforts, the cheerful acquiescence, the 
 
THE DISPENSATION. 319 
 
 soothing voice, the ready smile, the delightful tranquil- 
 lity that woman's love sheds over the humblest home, — 
 the hope that these tendernesses will be repaid by the 
 wise guidance, the steady counsel, the noble friendship 
 into which the tumultuous feelings of the lover subside, 
 when he is called husband, cheers and supports the most 
 sensitive mind under a change so decided and entire. 
 
 Doctor O'Brien was received with slavish obsequious- 
 ness by Father Neddy Cormack, and the house was put 
 in especial order for the purpose. He, however, de- 
 clined accepting the priest's invitation to remain. He 
 was going on to the squire's, he said, to spend the 
 night ; but hoped to have the pleasure of meeting his 
 reverence to-morrow at the Bleach House. Father 
 Cormack must see, he added, the necessity of his ap- 
 pearing there ; as he had heard on his way that a very 
 dreadful outrage had been committed on the Sullivan 
 family, into which some inquiry must necessarily be 
 made. 
 
 I am sorry for it— but the next day Father Neddy 
 was at the " pint o' death wid the agee, and a smoder- 
 jng about his heart, and a pain in his head, and not 
 able to touch a drop o' liquor" — according to Katty 
 O'Flinn, who smelt the wedding preparations afar off; 
 as did some dozens of variegated beggars, who after- 
 wards, seated on the greensward, enjoyed the remnants 
 of the treat — a peculiar privilege, which that class of 
 persons have enjoyed time out of mind ; to them a wed- 
 ding or a funeral are alike signals for feasting ; and I 
 
320 THE DISPENSATION. 
 
 have often been amused at the mixture of rags and hap- 
 piness such gipsy-like groups present. 
 
 Need I add that our bride looked lovely — that the 
 bridegroom was grateful for his long-sought treasure — 
 that the bishop was gracious, and departed with the 
 heartfelt prayers of his people ? No ! — but I must add 
 that the air of that part of the country disagreed so 
 much with Father Neddy Cormack, he soon found it 
 necessary to " quit," for another province ; and that the 
 bishop's nephew was appointed to his parish — a circum- 
 stance at which Walter rejoiced exceedingly ; the more 
 so, as the young priest good naturedly promised to 
 forego his once-favourite amusement of " shooting 
 wood-queests." 
 
 London: 
 
 Printed by Manning and Smithson, 
 
 Ivy-Lane, Paternoster-Row. 
 
 
^^>