/ THE COMPLETE PROSE WORKS / MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, ESQ. COMPRISING THE CROCK OF GOLD, AN AUTHOR'S MIND, THE TWINS, HEART, PROBABrLITIES, ETC. REVISED EXPRESSLY FOR THIS EDITION BY W. C. ARMSTRONG. HARTFORD: PUBLISHED BY SILAS ANDRUS & SON 1851. ^ Xht PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. y// Mr. Tupper has achieved a popularity for his works, which has rarely been enjoyed by any one at so early a period of life .; he being now only between thirty-five and forty years of age. Where all are so intrinsically valuable, it is difficult to determine which particular work has contributed most to his rapid and enviable advancement ; yet, were an award indispensable, we should feel constrained to make it in favour of his ^Proverbial Philosophy.' It is one of those unique productions which com- mends itself to all classes of readers, and from the perusal of which all cannot but derive substantial means of improvement. Familiar truths are so cogently treated therein, as to leave an indellible impression upon the mind, which could not, perhaps, have been so thoroughly made in any other manner; and the "thoughts and arguments" may be perused and reperused with an advantage but few other writings are capable of yielding. The rapid and extensive sale of several editions, issued in other places — some of them of rather an indifferent character, as regards mechanical execution — and the increasing demand still manifested for them, has induced the present publishers to collect the entire works of Mr. Tupper, and to stereotype them in a style worthy of their excellence. Each work has been thoroughly revised, and the errors which disfigure some other editions have been carefully corrected — an advantage readily appreciable by those who discriminate in their selections for the library or the centre-table. CONTENTS. THE CROCK OF GOLD. CHAP. PAGE. CHAP. FAOK. 1. The Labourer ; and his Dawning 26. Preliminaries 92 Discontent .... 11 27. Robbery .... . 95 2. The Family; the Home; and 28. Murder 96 more Repinings 14 29. The Reward . . 97 3. The Contract .... 17 30. Second Thoughts . . 100 4. The Lost Theft . 21 31. Mammon ; and Contentmen t . 102 5. The Inquest .... 23 32. Next Morning . 104 6. The Baihff; and a Bitter Trial 27 33. The Alarm . 106 7. Wrongs and Ruin . 32 34. Doubts . 108 8. The Covetous Dream . 35 35. Fears .... . 109 9. The Poacher .... 38. 36. Prison Comforts . . Ill 10. Ben Burke's Strange Adventure 41 37. Good Counsel . . 113 11. Sleep 45 38. Experience . . 114 12. Love 48 39. Jonathan's Troth . 115 13. The Discovery 52 40. Suspicions . 118 14. Jonathan's Store . 56 41. Grace's Alternative . . 119 15. Another Discovery, and the Ear- 42. The Dismissal . 122 nest of Good Things 58 43. Simon alone . 124 16. How the Home was blessed 44. The Trial . . 127 thereby .... 62 45. Roger's Defence . 129 17. Care 65 46. The Witness . 130 18. Investment .... 68 47. Mr. Sharp's Advocacy . 133 19. Calumny 72 48. Sentence and Death . 140 20. The Bailiff's Visit 74 49. Righteous Mammon . 143 21. The Capture .... 77 50. The Crock a Blessing . . 144 22. The Aunt and her Nephew . 80 51. Popularity . 147 23. Schemes 83 52. Roger at the Swan . 149 24. The Devil's Counsel 87 53. Roger's Triumph . 151 25. The Ambuscade 89 54. Sir John's Parting Speech . 152 CONTENTS. THE TWINS. CHAP. FAOE. CHAP. PAOB, 1. Place; Time; Circumstance 157 16. How Charles Fared . 204 2. The Heroes 161 17. The General's Return . . 207 3. The Arrival . 166 18. Intercalary . 211 4. The General and his Ward, 168 19. Julian's Departure . . 213 5. Jealousy 172 20. Enlightenment . 215 6. The Confidante . 174 21. Charles at Madras . . 216 7. The Course of True Love 177 22. Revelations, 219 8. The Mystery 180 23. Convalescence . 222 9. How to clear it up . 182 24. Charles Delayed . 224 10. Aunt Green's Legacy . 184 25. Trials .... . 229 11. Preparations, and Departure 188 26. Julian 231 12. The Escape 192 27. Charles's Return, &.c. . 233 13. News of Charles . 196 28. Julian turns up, &c. . 237 14. The T6te-^-T6te 199 29. The old Scotch Nurse goes home 238 15. Satisfaction . 202 30. Final .... 241 HEART, CHAP. PAGE. 1. Wherein two Anxious Parents hold a Colloquy . . .245 2. How the Daughter has a Heart ; and, what is commoner, a Lover 249 3. Paternal Amiabilities . . 252 4. Excusatory .... 257 5. Wherein a well-meaning Mother acts very foolishly . . 260 6. Pleasant Brother John . 263 7. Providence sees fit to help Villany 268 8. The Rogue's Triumph . 273 9. False-Witness Kills a Mother, and would willingly Starve a Sister 278 CHAP. PAGE. 10. How to Help one's self . 283 11. Fraud cuts his fingers with his own Edged Tools . . 289 12. Heart's-Core ... 293 13. Hope's Birth to Innocence, and Hope's Death to Fraud . 296 14. Probable Reconciliation . 298 15. The Father finds his Heart for ever 302 16. A Word about Originality, and Mourning . . . 306 17. The House of Feasting . . 308 18. The End of the Heartless . 312 19. Wherein matters are concluded 320 CONTENTS. AN AUTHOR'S MIND. SUBJECTS, PAQE. The Author's Mind ; a ramble . 331 Nero, a tragedy . . . 353 Opium, a history . . . .361 Charlotte Clopton, a novel . . 364 The Marvellous, a hand-book . 371 Psychotherion, an argument . 376 The Confessional, a tale . .377 The Prior of Marrick, an auto- biography . . . . 379 The Seven Churches, a dissertation 384 Revision, an essay . . . 386 Homely Expositions, a compilation 386 Lay Sermons, a contribution . . 386 Scriptural Physics, a treatise . 387 Heathenism, an apology . . 387 Biblical Similes, an investigation 389 Home, an epic .... 390 Grecian Sayings, a series . . 398 SUBJECTS. PAGE. Heptalogia, a collection 400 Alfred, an oratorio . 403 Alfred's Life, a translation 406 National Memorials, a proposal . 408 Pohtics, a manual 411 Woman, a subject 414 False Steps, a pamphlet 415 King's Evidence, a satire, . 417 Poetics, a melange 422 Humoristics, a medley 423 Journals, a decade 426 Lay Hints, an appeal 427 Anti-Xurion, a crusade . 431 The Squire, a portraiture . 434 The Author's Tribunal, an oration 437 Zoilomastrix, a title . 443 Epilogue, a conclusion . 443 Appendix, an after-thought 445 PROBABILITIES. SUBJECTS. PAGE. SUBJECTS. PAGE. An Aid to Faith . . 459 Babel .... . 497 God and his Attributes 466 Job . 499 The Triunity . 472 Joshua . 504 The Godhead Visible- 476 The Incarnation 506 The Origin of Evil . . . 480 Mahometanism . 509 Cosmogony. 485 Romanism 511 Adam . , . 488 The Bible . . 517 The Fall .... 490 Heaven and Hell 521 The Flood . . . . . 493 An Offer . . 525 Noah .... 495 Conclusion 526 THE CEOCK OF GOLD A RURAL NOYEL, BY MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, ESQ., M. A., AUTHOR OF PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.' HARTFORD: SILAS ANDRUS AND SON, 1851. THE CROCK OF GOLD. CHAPTER I. THE LABOURER; AND HIS DAWNING DISCONTENT. Roger Acton woke at five. It was a raw March morning, still dark, and bitterly cold, while at gusty intervals the rain beat in against the crazy cottage-window. Nevertheless, from his poor pallet he must up and rouse himself, for it will be open weather by suni'ise, and his work lies two miles off; Master Jennings is not the man to show him favour if he be late, and Roger cannot alTord to lose an hour : so he shook off the luxury of sleep, and rose again to toil with weary effort. " Honest Roger," as the neighbours called him, was a fair specimen of a class which has been Britain's boast for ages, and may be still again, in measure, but at present that glory appears to be departing : a class much neglected, much enduring; thoroughly English — just, industrious, and patient; true to the altar, and loyal to the throne; though haply shaken somewhat now from both those noble faiths — warped in their principles, and blunted in their feelings, by lying doc- trines and harsh economies ; a class — I hate the cold cant term — a race of honourable men, full of cares, pains, privations — but of pleasures next to none ; whose life at its most prosperous estate is labour, and in death we count him happy who did not die a pauper. Through them, serfs of the soil, the earth yields indeed her increase, but it is for others ; from the fields of plenty they glean a scanty pittance, and fill the barns to bursting, while their children cry for bread. Not that Roger for his part often wanted work ; he was the best hand in the parish, and had earned of his employers long ago the name of Steady Acton ; but the fair wages for a fair day's labour were quite another thing, and the times went very hard for him and his. A man himself may starve, while his 12 THE CROCK OF GOLD. industry makes others fat : and a liberal landlord all the winter through may keep his labourers in work, while a crafty, overbearing bailiff mulcts them in their wages. For the outward man, Acton stood about five feet ten, a gaunt, spare, and sinewy figure, slightly bent ; his head sprinkled with gray ; his face marked with those rigid lines, which tell, if not of positive famine, at least of too much toil on far too little food ; in his eye, patience and good temper; in his carriage, a mixture of the sturdy bearing, necessary to the habitual exercise of great muscular strength, together with that gait of humility — almost humiliation — which is the seal of oppression upon poverty. He might be about forty, or from that to fifty, for hun- ger, toil, and weather had used him the roughest; while, for all beside, the patched and well-worn smock, the heavily-clouted high-laced boots, a dingy worsted neck-tie, and an old felt hat, complete the picture of externals. But, for the matter of character within, Roger is quite another man. If his rank in this world is the lowest, many potentates may envy him his state elsewhere. His heart is as soft, as his hand is horny; Ayith the wandering gipsy or the tramping beggar, thrust aside, perhaps deservedly, as impudent impostors from the rich man's gate, has he often -times shared his noon-day morsel : upright and sincere himself, he thinks as well of "others: he scarcely ever heard the Gospels read in church, specially about Eastertide, but the tears would trickle down his weather-beaten face : he loves children — his neighbour's little ones as well as his own: he will serve any one for goodness' sake without reward or thanks, and is kind to the poor dumb cattle : he takes quite a pride in his little rod or two of garden, and is early and late at it, both befoj'e and after the daily sum of labour : he picks up a bit of knowl- edge here and there, and somehow has contrived to amass a fund of information for which few would give him credit from his common looks; and he joins to that stock of facts a natural shrewdness to use his knowl- edge wisely. Though with little of what is called sentiment, or poetry, or fancy in his mind (for harsh was the teaching of his childhood, and meagre the occasions of self-culture ever since), the beauty of creation is by no means lost upon him, and he notices at times its wisdom too. With a fixed habit of manly piety ever on his lips and ever in his heart, he recognises Providence in all things, just, and wise, and good. More than so; simply as a little child who endures the school-hour for the prospect of his play-time, Roger Acton bears up with noble meekness THE LABOURER. I3 against present suffering, knowing that his work and trials and troubles are only for a little while, but his rest and his reward remain a long here- after. He never questioned this; he knew right well Who had earned it for him ; and he lived grateful and obedient, filling up the duties of his humble station. This was his faith, and his works followed it. He believed that God had placed him in his lot, to be a labourei', and till God's earth, and, when his work is done, to be sent on better service in some happier sphere : the where, or the how, did not puzzle him, any more than divers other enigmatical whys and wherefores of his present state; he only knew this, that it would all come right at last: and, barring sin (which he didn't comprehend), somehow all was right at present. What if poverty pinched him? he was a great heir still ; what if oppression bruised him ? it would soon be over. He trusted to his Pilot, like the landsman in a stoi'm ; to his Father, as an infant in the dark. For guilt, he had a Saviour, and he thought of him in penitence; for trouble, a Guardian, and he looked to him' in peace; and as for toil, back-breaking toil, there was another Master whom he served wffh spade, and mattock, -Imki thankful heart, while he only seemed to be working for the land- lord^r his bailiff. Such a man then had been Roger Acton from his youth up till now, or, if sadness must be told, nearly until now; for, to speak truth, his heart at times would fail him, and of late he had been4)itter in repiningg and complaint. For a day or two, in particular, Ke had murmured loudly. It was hard, very hard, that an honest, industrious man, as he was, should so scantily pick a living out of this rich earth : after all said, let the parson preach as he will, it 's a fine thing to have money, and that- his reverence knows right well, or he wouldn't look so closely for his dues. [N. B. Poor Mr. Evans was struggling as well as he could to bring up six children, on a hundred and twenty pounds per annum.] Roger, too, was getting on in years, with a blacker prospect for the future than when he first stood behind a plough-tail. Then there were many wants unsatisfied, which a bit of gold might buy ; and his wife teased him to be doing somethinff better. Thus was it come at O CD length to- pass, that, although he had endured so many years, he now got discontented at his penury ; — what human heart can blame him ? — and with murmurings came doubt ; with doubt of Providence, desire of lucre; so the sunshine of religion faded from his path; — what mortal mind can wonder? 2 14 THECROCKOFGOLD. CHAPTER II. THE FAMILY; THE HOME; AND MOEE EEPININGS. Now, if Malthus and Martineau be verily the pundits that men think them, Roger had twice in his life done a very foolish thing: he had sinned against society, statistics, and common sense, by a two-fold mar- riage. The wife of his youth (I am afraid he married early) had once been kitchen-maid at the Hall ; but the sudden change from living lux- uriously in a great house, to the griping poverty of a cotter's hovel, had changed, in three short years, the buxom country girl into an emaciated shadow of her former self, and the sorrowing husband buried her in her second child-bed. The powers of the parish clapped their hands; polit- ical economy was glad ; prudence chuckled ; and a coarse-featured farmer (he meant no ill), who occasionally had given Roger work, heartlessly bade him be thankful that his cares were the fewer and his incumbrance was removed; "Ay, and Heaven take the babies also to itself," the Herodian added. But Acton's heart was broken ! scarcely could he lift up his head ; and his work, though sturdy as before, was more mechanical, less high-motived : and many a year of dreary widow- hood he mourned a loss all the greater, though any thing but bitterer, for the infants so left motherless. To these, now grown into a strapping youth and a bright-eyed graceful girl, had he been the tenderest of nurses, and well supplied the place of her whom they had lost. Neigh- bours would have helped him gladly — sometimes did; and many was the hinted offer (disinterested enough, too, for in that match penury must have been the settlement, and starvation the dower), of giving them a mother's kindly care ; but Roger could not quite so soon forget the dead : so he would carry his darlings with him to his work, and feed them with his own hard hands ; the farmers winked at it, and never said a word against the tiny trespassers ; their wives and daughters loved the little dears, bringing them milk and possets ; and holy angels from on high may have oft-times hovered about this rude nurse, tending his soft innocents a-field, and have wept over the poor widower and his orphans, tears of happy sorrow and benevolent affection. Yea, many a good angel has shed blessings on their heads ! Within the last three years, and sixteen from the date of his first great grief, Roger had again got married. His daughter was growing THE HOME. 15 into early womanhood, and his son gave him trouble at times, and the cottage wanted a ruling hand over it when he was absent, and rheuma- tism now and then bade him look out for a nurse before old age, and Mary Alder was a notable middle-aged careful sort of soul, and so she became Mary Acton. All went on pretty well, until Mrs. Acton began to have certain little ones of her own ; and then the step-mother would break out (a contingency poor Roger hadn't thought of), separate interests crept in, and her own children fared before the others ; so it came to pass that, however truly there was a ruling hand at home, and however well the rheumatism got nursed (for Mary was a good wife in the main), the grown-up son and daughter felt themselves a little jostled out. Grace, gentle and submissive, found all her comforts shrunk within the space of her father and her Bible ; Thomas, self-willed and open-hearted, sought his pleasure any where but at home, and was like to be taking to wrong courses through domestic bickering : Grace had the dangerous portion, beauty, added to her lowly lot, and attracted more admiration than her father wished, or she could understand ; while the frank and bold spirit of Thomas Acton exposed him to the perilous friendship of Ben Burke the poacher, and divers other questionable characters. Of these elements, then, are our labourer and his family composed ; and before Roger Acton goes abroad at earliest streak of dawn, we will take a casual peep within his dwelling. It consists of four bare rubble walls, enclosing a grouted floor, worn unevenly, and here and there in holes, and puddly. There were but two rooms in the tenement, one on the ground, and one over-head ; which latter is with no small difficulty got at by scaling a ladder-like stair-case that fronts the cottage- door. This upper chamber, the common dormitory, for all but Thomas, who sleeps down stairs, has a thin partition at one end of it, to screen off the humble truckle-bed where Grace Acton forgets by night the troubles of the day ; and the remainder of the little apartment, sordid enough, and overhung with the rough thatch, black with cobweb, serves for the father and mother with their recent nursery. Each room has its shat- tery casement, to let in through linchened panes, the doubtful light of summer, and the much more indubitable wind, and rain, and frost of wintry nights. A few articles of crockery and some burnished tins decorate the shelves of the lower apartment ; which used to be much tidier before the children came, and trimmer still when Grace was sole manager : in a doorless cupboard are apparent sundry coarse edibles, as the half of a huge unshapely home-made loaf, some white country 16 THE CROCK OF GOLD. cheese, a mass of lumpy pudding, and so forth ; beside it, on the win- dow-sill, is better bread, a well-thumbed Bible, some tracts, and a few odd volumes picked up cheap at fairs ; an old musket (occasionally Ben's companion, sometimes Tom's) is hooked to the rafters near a double rope of onions ; divers gaudy little prints, tempting spoil of pedlars, in honour of George Barnwell, the Prodigal Son, the Sailor's Return, and the Death of Nelson, decorate the walls, and an illuminated Christmas carol is pasted over the mantel-piece : which, among other chattels and possessions, conspicuously bears its own burden of Albert and Victoria — two plaster heads, resplendently coloured, highly varnished, looking with arched eye-brows of astonishment on their uninviting palace, and royally contrasting with the sombre hue of poverty on all things else. The pictures had belonged to Mary, no small portion of her virgin wealth ; and as for the statuary, those two busts had cost loyal Roger far more in comparison than any corporation has given to P. R. A., for majesty and consortship in full. There is, moreover, in the room, by way of household furniture, a ricketty, triangular, and tri-legged table, a bench, two old chairs with rush-bottoms, and a yard or two of matting that the sexton gave when the chancel was new laid. I don't know that there is any thing else to mention, unless it be a gaunt lurcher belonging to Ben Burke, and with all a dog's resemblance to his master, who lies stretched before the hearth where the peaty embers never quite die out, but smoulder away to a heap of white ashes ; over these is hanging a black boiler, the cook of the family ; and beside them, on a substratum of diy heather, and wrapped about with an old blanket, nearly compan- ioned by his friend, the dog, snores Thomas Acton, still fast asleep, after his usual extemporaneous fashion. As to the up-stairs apartment, it contained little or nothing but its living inmates, their bedsteads and tattered coverlids, and had an air of even more penury and discomfort than the room below ; so that, what with squalling children, a scolding wife, and empty stomach, and that cold and wet March morning, it is little wonder maybe (though no small blame), that Roger Acton had not enough of religion or philosophy to rise and thank his Maker for the blessings of existence. He had just been dreaming of great good luck. Poor people often do so ; just as Ugolino dreamt of imperial feasts, and Bruce, in his delirious thirst on the Sahara, could not banish from his mind the cool fountains of Shiraz, and the luxurious waters of old Nile. Roger had unfortunately dreamt of having found a crock of gold — I dare say he will tell us his THE CONTRAST. 17 dream anon — and just as he was counting out his treasure, that blessed beautiful heap of shining money — cruel habit roused him up before the dawn, and his wealth faded from his fancy. So he awoke at five, any- thing but cheerfully. It was Grace's habit, good girl, to read to her father in the morning a few verses from the volume she best loved : she always woke betimes when she heard him getting up, and he could hear her easily from her little flock-bed behind the lath partition ; and many a time had her dear religious tongue, uttering the words of peace, soothed her father's mind, and strengthened him to meet the day's affliction ; many times it raised his thoughts from the heavy cares of life to the buoyant hopes of immortality. Hitherto, Roger had owed half his meek contentedness to those sweet lessons from a daughter's lips, and knew that he was reaping, as he heard, the harvest of his own paternal care, and heaven-blest instructions. However, upon this dark morning, he was full of other thoughts, mur- murings, and doubts, and poverty, and riches. So, when Grace, after her usual affectionate salutations, gently began to read, "The sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory — " Her father strangely stopped her on a sudden with — ■ "Enough, enough, my girl ! God wot, the sufferings are grievous, and the glory long a-coming." Then he heavily went down stairs, and left Grace crying. CHAPTER III. THE CONTRAST. Thus, full of carking care, while he pushed aside the proffered conso- lation, Roger Acton walked abroad. There was yet but a glimmer of faint light, aud the twittering of birds told more assuringly of morning than any cheerful symptom on the sky : however, it had pretty well ceased raining, that was one comfoi-t, and, as Roger, shouldering his spade, and with the day's provision in a handkerchief, trudged out upon his daily duty, those good old thoughts of thankfulness came upon his mind, and he forgot awhile the dream that had unstrung him. Turning B 2* 18 THE CROCK OF GOLD. for a moment to look upon his hovel, and bless its inmates with a prayer, he half resolved to run back, and hear a few more words, if only not to vex his darling child : but there was now no time to spare ; and then, as he gazed upon her desolate abode — so foul a casket for so fair a jewel — his bitter thoughts returned to him again, and he strode away, repining. Acton's cottage was one of those doubtful domiciles, whose only recommendation it is, that they are picturesque in summer. At present we behold a reeking rotting mass of black thatch in a cheerless swamp ; but, as the year wears on, those time-stained walls, though still both damp and mouldy, will be luxui'iantly overspread with creeping plants — honey- suckle, woodbine, jessamine, and the evei'blowing monthly rose. Many was the touring artist it had charmed, and Suffolk-street had seen it often : spectators looked upon the scene as on an old familiar friend, whose face they knew full well, but whose name they had forgotten for the minute. Many were the fair hands that had immortalized its beauties in their albums, and frequent the notes of admiration uttered by attending swains : particularly if there chanced to be taken into the view a feathery elm that now creaked overhead, and dripped on the thatch like the dropping, well at Knaresborough, and (in the near distance) a large pond, or rather lake, upon whose sedgy banks, gay — not now, but soon about to be — with flowering reeds and bright green willows, the pretty cottage stood. In truth, if man were but an hibernating animal, invisible as dormice in the winter, and only to be seen with summer swallows, Acton's cot- tage at Hurstley might have been a cantle cut from the Elysian-fields. But there are certain other seasons in the year, and human nature cannot long exist on the merely "picturesque in summer." Some fifty yards, or so, from the hither shore, we discern a roughly wooded ait, Pike Island to wit, a famous place for fish, and the grand rendezvous for woodcocks; which, among other useful and ornamental purposes, serves to screen out the labourer's hovel, at this the narrowest part of the lake, from a view of that fine old mansion on the opposite shore, the seat of Sir John Vincent, a baronet just of age, and the great landlord of the neighbourhood. Toward this mansion, scarcely yet revealed in the clear gray eye of morning, our humble hero, having made the long round of the lake, is now fast trudging; and it may merit a word or two of plain description, to fill up time and scene, till he gets nearer. A smooth grassy eminence, richly studded with park-like clumps of trees, slopes up from the water's very edge to — Hurstley Hall ; yonder THE CONTRAST. 19 goodly, if not grand, Elizabethan structure, full of mullioned windows,- carved oak panels, stone-cut coats of arms, pinnacles, and traceries, and lozenges, and drops; and all this glory crowned by a many-gabled, high- peaked roof. A grove of evergreens and Amei'ican shrubs hides the lower windows from vulgarian gaze — for, in the neighbourly feeling of our ancestors, a public way leads close along the front; while, behind the house, and inaccessible to eyes profane, are drawn terraced gardens, beautifully kept, and blooming with a perpetual succession of the choicest flowers. The woods and shrubberies around, attempted some half a century back to be spoilt by the meddlesome bad taste of Capability Brown, have been somewhat too resolutely robbed of the formal avenues, clipped hedges, and other topiarian adjuncts which comport so well with the starch prudery of things Elizabethan ; but they are still replete with grotto, fountain, labyrinth, and alcove — a very paradise for the more court- bred rank of sylphs, and the gentler elves of Queen Titania. However, we have less to do with the gardens than, probably, the elves have; and as Roger now, just at breaking day, is approaching the windows somewhat too curiously for a poor man's manners, it may not be amiss if we bear him company. He had pretty well recovered of his rit of discontent, for morning air and exercise can soon chase gloom away; so he cheerily tramped along, thinking as he went, how that, after all, it is a middling happy world, and how that the raindrops, now that it had cleared up, hung like diamonds on the laurels, when of a sudden, as he turned a corner near the house, there broke upon his ear, at that quiet hour, such a storm of boisterous sounds — voices so loud with oaths and altercation — such a calling, clattering, and quarrelling, as he had never heard the like before. So no wonder that he stepped aside to see it. The noise proceeded from a ground-floor window, or rather from three windows, lighted up, and hung with draperies of crimson and gold : one of the casements, flaring meretriciously in the modest eye of morn, stood wide open down to the floor, probably to cool a heated atmosphere ; and when Roger Acton, with a natural curiosity, went on tiptoe, looked in, and just put aside the curtain for a peep, to know what on earth could be the mattei", he saw a vision of waste and wealth, at which he stood like one amazed, for a poor man's mind could never have conceived its equal. Evidently, he had intruded on the latter end of a long and luxurious revel. Wax-lights, guttering down in gilded chandeliers, poured their 20 THECROCKOFGOLD. 'mellow radiance round in multiplied profusion — for mirrors made them infinite ; crimson and gold were the rich prevailing tints in that wide and warm banqueting-room ; gayly-coloured pictures, set in frames that Roger fancied massive gold, hung upon the walls at intervals ; a wagon-load of silver was piled upon the sideboard ; there blazed in the burnished grate such a fire as poverty might imagine on a frozen winter's night, but never can have thawed its blood beside ; fruits, and wines, and costly glass were scattered in prodigal disorder on the board — just now deserted of its noisy guests, who had crowded round a certain green table, where cards and heaps of sovereigns appeared to be mingled in a mass. Roger had never so much as conceived it possible that there could be wealth like this : it was a fairy-land of Mammon in his eyes : he stood gasping like a man enchanted ; and in the contemplation of these little hills of gold — in their covetous longing contemplation, he forgot the noisy quarrel he had turned aside to see, and thirsted for that rich store earnestly. In an instant, as he looked (after the* comparative lull that must obviously have succeeded to the clamours he had first heard), the roar and riot broke out worse than ever. There were the stormy levellers, .as the rabble rout of Comus and his crew, filling that luxurious room with the sounds of noisy execration and half-drunken strife. Young Sir John, a free and generous fellow, by far the best among them all, has collected about him those whom he thought friends, to celebrate his wished majority ; they had now kept it up, night after night, hard upon a week ; and, as well became such friends — the gambler, the duellist, the man of pleasure, and the fool of Fashion — they never yet had sep- arated for their day-light beds, without a climax to their orgie, some- thing like the present scene. Henry Mynton, high in oath, and dashing down his cards, has charged Sir Richard Hunt with cheating (it was sauter la coupe or couper la saut, or some such mystery of iniquity, I really cannot tell which): Sir Richard, a stout dark man, the patriarch of the party, glossily wigged upon his head, and imperially tufted on his chin, retorts with a pungent sarcasm, calmly and coolly uttered; that hot-headed fool Sillipliant, clearly quite intoxicated, backs his cousin Mynton's view of the case by the cogent argument of a dice-box at Sir Richard's head — and at once all is struggle, strife, and uproar. The other guests, young fellows of high fashion, now too much warmed with wine to remember their accus- tomed Mohican cold-bloodedness — ^those happy debtors to the prowess of a Stultz, and walking advertisers of Nugee — ^take eager part with the THE LOST THEFT. 21 opposed belligerents : more than one decanter is sent hissing through the air ; more than one bloody coxcomb witnesses to the weight of a candle- stick and its hurler's clever aim : uplifted chairs are made the weapons of the chivalric combatants; and along with divers other less distin- guished victims in the melee, poor Sir John Vincent, rushing into the midst, as a well-intentioned host, to quell the drunken brawl, gets knocked down among them all ; the tables are upset, the bright gold runs about the room in all directions — ha ! no one heeds it — no one owns it — one little piece rolled right up to the window-sill where Roger still looked on with all his eyes ; it is but to put his hand in — the window is open to the- floor — nay a finger is enough : greedily, one undecided moment, did he gaze upon the gold ; he saw the hideous contrast of his 1 own dim hovel and that radiant chamber — he remembered the pining faces of his babes, and gentle Grace with all her hardships — he thought upon his poverty and well deserts — he looked upon wastefulness of wealth and wantonness of living — these reflections struck him in a moment; no one saw him, no one cared about the gold; that little blessed morsel, that could do him so much good ; all was confusion, all was opportunity, and who can wonder that his fingers closed upon the sovereign, and that he picked it up? CHAPTER IV. THE LOST THEFT. Stealthily and quickly "honest Roger" crept away, for his con- science smote him on the instant : he felt he had done wrong ; at any rate, the sovereign was not his — and once the thought arose in him to run back, and put it where he found it: but it was now become too precious in his sight, that little bit of gold — and they, the rioters there, could not want it, might not even miss it ; and then its righteous uses — it should be well spent, even if ill-got : and thus, so many mitigations crowded in to excuse, if not to applaud the action, that within a little while his warped mind had come to call the theft a god-send. O Roger, Roger ! alas for this false thought of that wrong deed ! the poisonous gold has touched thy heart, and lefl; on it a spot of cancer : the asp has bitten thee already, simple soul. This little seed will grow into 22 THE CROCK OF GOLD. a huge black pine, that shall darken for a while thy heaven, and dig its evil roots around thy happiness. Put it away, Roger, put it away: covet not unhallowed gold. But Roger felt far otherwise ; and this sudden qualm of conscience once quelled (I will say there seemed much of palliation in the matter), a kind of inebriate feeling of delight filled his mind, and Steady Acton plodded on to the meadow yonder, half a mile a-head, in a species of delirious complacency. Here was luck indeed, filling up the promise of his dreams. His head was full of thoughts, pleasant holiday thoughts, of the many little useful things, the many small indulgences, that bit of gold should buy him. He would change it on the sly, and gradually bring the shillings home as extra pay for extra work; for, however much his wife might glory in the chance, and keep his secret, well he ' knew that Grace would have a world of things to say about it, and he feared to tell his daughter of the deed. However, she should have a ribbon, so she should, good girl, and the pedlar shouldn't pass the door unbidden ; Mary, too, might have a cotton kerchief, and the babes a doll and a rattle, and poor Thomas a shilling to spend as he liked ; and so, in happy revery, the kind father distributed his ill-got sovereign. For a while he held it in his hand, as loth to part from the tangible possession of his treasure ; but manual contact could not last all day, and, as he neared his scene of labour — he came late after all, by the by, and lost the quarter-day, but it mattered little now — he began to cogitate a place of safety ; and carefully put it in his fob. Poor fellow — he had never had enough to stow so well away before : his pockets had been thought quite trust-worthy enough for any treasures hitherto: never had he used that fob for watch, or note, or gold — and his predecessor in the cast-off" garment had probably been quite aware how little that false fob was worthy of the name of savings' bank ; it was in the situation of the Irishman's illimitable rope, with the end cut off". So while Roger was brewing up vast schemes of nascent wealth, and prosperous days at last, the filched sovereign, attracted by centripetal gravity, had found a passage downwards, and had straightway rolled into a crevice of mother, earth, long before its "brief lord" had commenced his day's labour. Yes, it had been lost a good hour ere he found it out, for he had fancied that he had felt it there, and often did he feel, but his fancy was a but- ton ; and when he made the dread discovery, what a sting of momentary anguish, what a sickening fear, what an eager search ! and, as the grim truth became more evident, that, indeed, beyond all remedy, his new-got, THE INQUEST. 23 ill-got, egg of coming wealth was all clean gone — oh ! this was worm- wood, this was bitter as gall, and the strong man well-nigh fainted. It was something sad to have done the ill — but misery to have done it all for nothing : the sin was not altogether pleasant to his taste, but it was aloe itself to lose the reward. And when, pale and sick, leaning on his spade, he came to his old strength again, what was the reaction ? Com- punction at incipient crime, and gratitude to find its punishment so mer- cifully speedy, so lenient, so discriminative ? I fear that if ever he had these thoughts at all, he chased them wilfully away : his disappointment, far from being softened into patience, was sharpened to a feeling of revenge at fate ; and all his hope now was — such another chance, gold, more gold, never mind how; more gold, he burnt for gold, he lusted after gold ! We must leave him for a time to his toil and his reflections, and touch another topic of our theme. CHAPTER IV. THE INQUEST. Just a week before the baronet came of age, and a fortnight from the present time, an awful and mysterious event had happened at the Hall : the old house-keeper, Mrs. Quarles, had been found dead in her bed, under circumstances, to say the very least, of a black and suspicious appearance. The county coroner had got a jury of the neighbours impanelled together; who, after sitting patiently on the inquest, and hearing, as well as seeing, the following evidence, could arrive at no verdict more specific than the obvious fact, that the poor old creature had been " found dead." The great question lay between apoplexy and murder ; and the evidence tended to a well-matched conflict of opinions. First, there lay the body, quietly in bed, tucked in tidily and undis- turbed, with no marks of struggling, none whatever — ^the clothes lay smooth, and the chamber orderly : yet the corpse's face was of a purple hue, the tongue swollen, the eyes starting from their sockets : it might, indeed, possibly have been an apoplectic seizure, which took her in her sleep, and killed her as she lay ; hut that the gripe of clutching fingers 24 THECROCKOFGOLD. had left their livid seals upon the throat, and countenanced the dread- ful thought of strangulation ! Secondly, a surgeon (one Mr. Eager, the Union doctor, a very young personage, wrong withal and radical) maintained that this actual stran- gulation might have been effected by the hands of the deceased herself, in the paroxysm of a rush of blood to the brain ; and he fortified his wise position by the instance of a late statesman, who, he averred, cut his throat with a pen-knife, to relieve himself of pressure on the tem- ples: while another surgeon — Stephen Cramp, he was farrier as well, and had been, until lately, time out of mind, the village iGsculapius, who looked with scorn on his pert rival, and opposed him tooth and nail on all occasions — insisted that it was not only physically impossible for poor Mrs. Quarles so to have strangled herself, but more particularly that, if she had done so, she certainly could not have laid herself out so decently afterwards ; therefore, that as some one else had kindly done the latter office for her, why not the former too ? Thirdly, Sarah Stack, the still-room maid, deposed, that Mrs. Quarles always locked her door before she went to bed, but that when she (deponent) went to call her as usual on the fatal morning, the door was just ajar ; and so she found her dead : while parallel with this, tending to implicate some domestic criminal, was to be placed the equally uncom- mon fact, that the other door of Mrs. Quarles's room, leading to the lawn, was open too : — be it known that Mrs. Quarles was a stout woman, who oould'nt abide to sleep up-stairs, for fear of fire ; moreover, that she was a nervous woman, who took extraordinary precautions for her safety, in case of thieves. Thus, unaccountably enough, the murderer, if there was any, was as likely to have come from the outside, as from the in. Fourthly, the murderer in this way is commonly a thief, and does the deed for mammon-sake ; but the new house-keeper, lately installed, made her deposition, that, by inventories duly kept and entered — for her hon- oured predecessor, rest her soul ! had been a pattern of regularity — all Mrs. Quarles's goods and personal chattels were found to be safe and right in her room — some silver spoons among them too-^ay, and a silver tea-pot ; while, as to other property in the house, with every room full of valuables, nothing whatever was missing from the lists, except, indeed, what was scarce worth mention (unless one must be very exact), sundry crocks and gallipots of honey, not forthcoming ; these, however, it appeared probable that Mrs. Quarles had herself consumed in a certain mixture she nightly was accustomed too, of rum, horehound, and other matters THE INQUEST. 25 sweetened up with honey, for her hoarseness. It seemed therefore clear she was not murdered for her property, nor by any one intending to have robbed the house. Against this it was contended, and really with some show of reason, that as Mrs. Quarles was thought to have a hoard, always set her face against banks, railway shares, speculations, and investments, and seemed to have left nothing behind her but her clothes and so forth, it was still possible that the murderer who took the life, might have also been the thief to take the money. Fifthly, Simon Jennings — butler in doors, bailiff out of doors, and general factotum every where to the Vincent interest — for he had man- aged to monopolize every place worth having, from the agent's book to the cellar-man's key — ^the said Simon deposed, that on the night in ques- tion, he heard the house-dog barking furiously, and went out to quiet him ; but found no thieves, nor knew any reason why the- dog should have barked so much. Now, the awkward matter in this deposition (if Mr. Jennings had not been entirely above suspicion — the idea was quite absurd — not to mention that he was nephew to the deceased, a great favourite with her, and a man altogether of the very strictest character), the awkward matters were these : the nearest way out to the dog, indeed the only way but casement windows on that side of the house, was through Mrs. Quarles's room : she had had the dog placed there for her special safety, as she slept on the ground floor ; and it was not to be thought that Mr. Jennings could do so incorrect a thing as to pass through her room after bed-time, locked or unlocked — indeed, when the question was delicately hinted to him, he was quite shocked at it — quite shocked. But if he did not go that way, which way did he go ? He deposed, indeed, and his testimony was no ways to be doubted, that he went through the front door, and so round ; which, under the circumstances, was at once a very brave and a very foolish thing to do; for it is, first, little wisdom to go round two sides of a square to quiet a dog, when one might have easily called to him from the men-servants' window ; and secondly, albeit Mr. Jennings was a strict man, an upright man, shrewd withal, and calculating, no one had ever thought him capable of that Roman virtue, courage. Still, he had reluctantly confessed to this one heroic act, and it was a bold one, so let him take the credit of it — mainly because — Sixthly, Jonathan Floyd, footman, after having heard the dog bark at intervalsj surely for more than a couple of hours, thought he might as ' 3 26 THECROCKOFGOLD. well turn out of his snug berth for a minute, just to see what ailed the dog, or how many thieves were really breaking in. Well, as he looked, he fancied he saw a boat moving on the lake, but as there was no moon, he might have been mistaken. By a Juryman. It might be a punt. By another. He did'nt know how many boats there were. on the lake- side : they had a boat-house at the Hall, by the water's edge, and there- fore he concluded something hi it ; really did'nt know ; might be a boat, might be a punt, might be both — or neither. By the Coroner. Could not swear which way it was moving ; and, really, if put upon his Bible oath, wouldn't be positive about a boat at all, it was so dark, and he was so sleepy. Not long afterwards, as the dog got still more violent, he turned his eyes from straining after shadows on the lake, to look at home, and then all at once noticed Mr. Jennings trying to quiet the noisy animal with the usual blandishments of " Good dog, good dog — quiet, Don, quiet — down, good dog — down, Don, down !" By a Juryman. He would swear to the words. But Don would not hear of being quiet. After that, knowing all must be right if Mr. Jennings was about, he (deponent) turned in again, went to sleep, and thought no more of it till he heard of Mrs. Quarles's death in the morning. If he may be so bold as to speak his mind, he thinks the house-keeper, being fat, died o' the 'plexy in a nateral way, and that the dog barking so, just as she was a-going off, is proof positive of it. He 'd often heard of dogs doing so ; they saw the sperit gliding away, and barked at it ; his (deponent's) own grandmother — At this juncture — for the court was getting fidgetty — the coroner cut short the opinions of Jonathan Floyd : and when Mr. Crown, summing up, presented in one focus all this evidence to the misty minds of the assembled jurymen, it puzzled them entirely ; they could not see their way, fairly addled, did not know at all what to -make of it. On the threshold, there was no proof it was a murder — the Union doctor was loud and staunch on this ; and next, there seemed to be no motive for the deed, and no one to suspect of it : so they left the matter open, found her simply " Dead," and troubled their heads no more about the business. Good Mr. Evans, the vicar, preached her funeral sermon, only as last Sunday, amplifying the idea that she " was cut off in the midst of her days :" and thereby encouraging many of the simpler folks, who knew that Mrs. Quarles had long passed seventy, in the luminous notion that THE BAILIFF. 27 house-keepers in great establishments are privileged, among other undoubted perquisites, to live to a hundred and forty, unless cut off by apoplexy or murder. Mr. Simon Jennings, as nephew and next of kin, followed the body to its last home in the capacity of chief mourner ; to do him justice, he was a real mourner, bewailed her loudly, and had never been the same man since. Moreover, although aforetime not much given to indiscrim- inate charity, he had now gained no small credit by distributing his aunt's wardrobe among the poorer families at Hurstley. It was really very kind of him, and the more so, as being altogether unexpected : he got great praise for his, did Mr. Jennings ; specially, too, because he had gained nothing whatever from his aunt's death, though her heir and probable legatee, and clearly was a disappointed man. CHAPTER VI. THE B.VnJFF; AND A BITTER TRIAL. Jennings — Mr. Simon Jennings — for he prided himself much both on the Mr. and the Simon, was an upright man, a very upright man indeed, literally so as well as metaphorically. He was not tall certainly, but what there was of him stood bolt upright. Many fancied that his neck was possessed of some natural infirmity, or rather firmity, of unbenda- bleness, some little-to-be-envied property of being a perpetual stiff-neck ; and they were the more countenanced in this theory, from the fact that, within a few days past, Mr. Jennings had contracted an ugly knack of carrying his erect head in the comfortless position of peeping over his left shoulder ; not always so, indeed, but often enough to be remarkable ; and then he would occasionally start it straight again, eyes right, with a nervous twitch, any thing but pleasant to the marvelling spectator. It was as if he was momentarily expecting to look upon some vague object that affrighted him, and sometimes really did see it. Mr. Jennings had consulted high medical authority (as Hurstley judged), to wit, the Union doctor of last scene, an enterprising practitioner, glib in theory, and bold in practice — and it had Ijeen mutually agreed between them that " stomach" was the cause of these unhandsome symptoms ; acridity 28 THECROCKOFGOLD. of the gastric juice, consequent indigestion and spasm, and generally a hypochondriacal habit of body. Mr. Jennings must take certain draughts thrice a day, be very careful of his diet, and keep his mind at ease. As to Simon himself, he was, poor man, much to be pitied in this ideal visita- tion ; for, though his looks confessed that he saw, or fancied he saw, a something, he declared himself wholly at a loss to explain what that something was : moreover, contrary to former habits of an ostentatious boldness, he seemed meekly to shrink from observation : and, as he piously acquiesced in the annoyance, would observe that his unpleasant jerking was "a little matter after all, and that, no doubt, the wSW of Providence." Independently of these new grimaces, Simon's appearance was little in his favour : not that his small dimensions signified — Csesar, and Buo- naparte, and Wellington, and Nelson, all were little men — not that his dress was other than respectable — black coat and waistcoat, white stiff cravat, gray trowsers somewhat shrunk in longitude, good serviceable shoe-leather (of the shape, if not also of the size, of river barges), and plenty of unbleached cotton stocking about the gnarled region of his ankles. All this was well enough ; nature was beholden to that charity of art which hides a multitude of failings ; but the face, where native man looks forth in all his unadornment, that it was which so seldom pre- possessed the many who had never heard of Jenning's strict character and stern integrity. The face was a sallow face, peaked towards the nose, with head and chin receding ; lit withal by small protrusive eyes, so constructed, that the whites all round were generally visible, giving them a strange and staring look ; elevated eye -brows ; not an inch of whisker, but all shaved sore right up to the large and prominent ear ; and lank black hair, not much of it, scantily thatching all smooth. Then his arms, oscillating as he walked (as if the pendulum by which that rigid man was made to go his regular routine), were much too long for symmetry : and altogether, to casual view, Mr. Jennings must acknowledge to a supercilious, yet sneaking air — which charity has ere now been kind enough to think a conscious rectitude towards man, and a soft-going humility with God. When the bailiff takes his round about the property, as we see him now, he is mounted — to say he rides would convey far too equestrian a notion — lie is mounted on a rough-coated, quiet, old, white shooting-pony ; the saddle strangely girded on witl^ many bands about the belly, the stirrups astonishingly short, and straps never called upon to diminish that THEBAILIFF. 29 long whity-brown interval between shoe and trowser : Mr. Jennings sits his steed with nose aloft, and a high perch in the general, somewhat loosely, and, had the pony been a Bucephalus rather than a Rozinante, not a little perilously. Simon is jogging hitherwards toward Roger Acton, as he digs the land-drain across this marshy meadow : let us see how it fares now with our poor hero. Occupation — yes, duteous occupation — has exerted its wholsesome influences, and, thank God ! Roger is himself again. He has been very sorry half the day, both for the wicked feelings of the morning, and that still more wicked theft — a bad business altogether, he cannot bear to think of it ; the gold was none of his, whosesoever it might be — he ought not to have touched it — vexed he did, but cannot help it now ; it is well he lost it too, for ill-got money never came to any good : though, to be sure, if he could only get it honestly, money would make a man of him. I am not sure of that, Roger, it may be so sometimes ; but, in my judgment, money has unmade more men than made them. "How now, Acton, is not this drain dug yet! You have been about it much too long, sir; I shall fine you for this." "Please you, Muster Jennings, I've stuck to it pretty tightly too, bar- ring that I make to-day three-quarters, being late : but it's heavy clay, you see, Mr. Simon — wet above and iron-hard below : it shall all be ready by to-morrow, Mr. Simon." Whether the "Mr. Simon" had its softening influence, or any other considerations lent their soothing aid, we shall see presently ; for the bailiff" added, in a tone unusually indulgent, "Well, Roger, see it is done, and well done; and now I have just another word to say to you : his honour is coming round this way, and if he asks you any questions, remember to be sure and tell him this — you have got a comfortable cottage, very comfortable, just repaired, you want for nothing, and ai'e earning twelve shillings a week." " God help me. Muster Jennings : why my wages are but eight, and my hovel scarcely better than a pig-pound." "Look you, Acton; tell Sir John what you have told me, and you are a ruined man. Make it twelve to his honour, as others shall do : who knows," he added, half-coaxing, half-soliloquizing, "perhaps his honour may really make it twelve, instead of eight." "Oh, Muster Jennings! and who gets the odd four?" "What, man! do you dare to ask me that? Remember, sir, at your peril, that you, and all the rest, have had twelve shillings a-week wages 3* 30 THECROCKOFGOLD. whenever you have worked on this estate — not a word ! — and that, if you dare speak or even think to the contrary, you never earn a penny here again. But here comes John Vincent, my master, as I, Simon Jennings, am yours : be careful what you say to him." Sir John Devereux Vincent, after a long minority, had at length shaken off his guardians, and become master of his own doings, and of Hurstley Hall. The property was in pretty decent order, and funds had accumulated vastly: all this notwithstanding a thousand peculations, and the suspicious incident that one of the guardians was a "highly respectable" solicitor. Sir John, like most new brooms, had with the best intentions resolved upon sweeping measures of great good ; especially also upon doing a gi'eat deal with his own eyes and ears ; but, like as aforesaid, he was permitted neither to hear nor see any truths at all. Just now, the usual night's work took him a little off the hooks, and we must make allowances; really, too, he was by far the soberest of all those choice spirits, and drank and played as little as he could ; and even, under existing disadvantages, he managed by four o'clock post meridiem to inspect a certain portion of the estate duly every day, under the pru- dential guidance of his bailiff Jennings. There, that good-looking, tall young fellow on the blood mare just cantering up to us is Sir John; the other two are a couple of the gallant youths now feasting at the Hall : ay, two of the fiercest foes in last night's broil. Those heated little matters are easily got over. "Hollo, Jennings! what the devil made you give that start? you couldn't look more horrified if ghosts were at your elbow : why, your face is the picture of death ; look another way, man, do, or my mare will bolt." "I beg your pardon. Sir John, but the spasm took me: it is my infirmity ; forgive it. This meadow, you perceive, Sir John, requires drainage, and afterwards I propose to dress it with free chalk to sweeten the grass. Next field, you will take notice, the guano — " " Well, well — Jennings — and that poor fellow there up to his knees in mud, is he pretty tolerably off" now ?" "Oh, your honour," said the bailiff", with a knowing look, "I only wish that half the little farmers hereabouts were as well to do as he is : a pretty cottage, Sir John, half an acre of garden, and twelve shillings a-week, is pretty middling for a single man." "Aha — is it? — well; but the poor devil looks wretched enough too — I will just ask him if he wants any thing now." » THE BAILIFF. 31 "Don't, Sir John, pray don't; pray permit me to advise your honour: these men are always wanting. ' Acton's cottage' is a proverb ; and Roger there can want for nothing honestly; nevertheless, as I know your honour's good heart, and wish to make all happy, if you will suffer me to see to it myself — " "Certainly, Jennings, do, do by all means, and thank you: here, just to make a beginning, as we're all so jolly at the Hall, and that poor fellow 's up to his neck in mud, give him this from me to drink my health with." Acton, who had dutifully held aloof, and kept on digging steadily, was still quite near enough to hear all this; at the magical word "give," he looked up hurriedly, and saw Sir John Vincent toss a piece of gold — yes, on his dying oath, a bright new sovereign — to Simon Jennings. O blessed vision, and gold was to be his at last! "Come along, Mynton; Hunt, now mind you try and lame that big beast of a raw-boned charger among these gutters, will you? I'm off, Jennings ; meet me, do you hear, at the Croft to-mor — " So the three friends galloped away; and John Vincent really felt more light-hearted and happy than at any time the week past, for having so properly got rid of a welcome bit of gold. " Roger Acton ! come up here, sir, out of that ditch : his honour has been liberal enough to give you a shilling to drink his health with." "A shilling, Muster Jennings?" said the poor astonished man; "why I'll make oath it was a pound ; I saw it myself. Come, Muster Jennings, don't break jokes upon a poor man's back." "Jokes, Acton? sticks, sir, if you say another word: take John Vin- cent's shilling." "Oh, sir!" cried Roger, quite unmanned at this most cruel disappoint- ment; "be merciful — be generous — give me my gold, my own bit of gold! I'll swear his honour gave it for me: blessings on his head! You know he did, Mr. Simon; don't play upon me!" " Play upon you ? — generous — your gold — what is it you mean, man ? We'll have no madmen about us, I can tell you; take the shilling, or else — " " ' Rob not the poor, because he is poor, for the Lord shall plead his cause,' " was the solemn answer. "'Roger Acton !" — the bailiff gave a scared start, as usual, and, recov- ering himself, looked both white and stern: "you have dared to quote the Bible against me: deeply shall you rue it. Begone, man! your work on this estate is at an end." 32 THECROCKOFGOLD. CHAPTER VII. WROmS AND Rum. A VERY miserable man was Roger Acton now, for this last trial was the worst of all. The vapours of his discontent had almost passed away — that bright pernicious dream was being rapidly forgotten — the morning's ill-got coin, "thank the Lord, it was lost as soon as found," and penitence had washed away that blot upon his soul ; but here, an honest pound, liberally bestowed by his hereditary landlord — his own bright bit of gold — the only bit but one he ever had (and how different in innocence from that one!) — a seeming sugar-drop of kindness, shed by the rich heavens on his cup of poverty — to have this meanly filched away by a grasping, grinding task-master — oh, was it not a bitter trial ? What affliction as to this world's wealth can a man meet worse than this? "Acton's first impulse was to run to the Hall, and ask to see Sir John : — " Out ; won't be back till seven, and then can see nobody ; the baronet will be dressing for dinner, and musn't be disturbed." Then he made a vain eifort to speak with Mr. Jennings, and plead with him : yes, even on his knees, if must be. Mr. Simon could not be so bad ; per- haps it was a long joke after all — the bailiff always had a queer way with him. Or, if indeed the man meant robbery, loudly to threaten him, that all might hear, to bring the house about his ears, and force justice, if he could not fawn it. But both these conflicting expedients were vetoed. Jonathan Floyd, who took in Acton's meek message of "hum- bly craved leave to speak with Master Jennings," came back with the inexplicable mandate, "Warn Roger Acton from the premises." So, he must needs bide till to-morrow morning, when, come what might, he resolved to see his honour, and set some truths before him. Acton was not the only man on the estate who knew that he had a landlord, generous, not to say prodigal — a warm-hearted, well-inten- tioned master, whose mere youth a career of sensuality had not yet hardened, nor a course of dissipation been prolonged enough to distort his feelings from the right. And Acton, moreover, was not the only man who wondered how, with such a landlord (ay, and the guardians before him were always well-spoken gentle-folks, kindly in their man- ners, and liberal in their looks), wages could be kept so low, and rents WRONGS AND RUIN. 33 so high, and indulgences so few, and penalties so many. There were fines for every thing, and no allowances of hcdgebote, or housebote, or any other time-honoured right; the very peat on the common must be paid for, and if a child picked a bit of fagot the father was mulcted in a shilling. Mr. Jennings did all this, and always pleaded his employ- ers' orders; nay, if any grumbled, as men would now and then, he would affect to think it strange that the gentlemen guardians, with the landlord at their head, could be so hard upon the poor : he would not be *so, credit him, if he had been born a gentleman; but the bailiff, men, must obey orders, like the rest of you ; these are hard times for Hurst- ley, he would say, and we must all rub over them as best we can. According to Simon, it was as much as his own place was worth to remit one single penny of a fine, or make the least indulgence for calamity; while, as to lowering a cotter's rent, or raising a ditcher's wages, he dared not do it for his life ; folks must not blame him, but look to the landlord. Now, all this, in the long absence of any definite resident master at the Hall, sounded reasonable, if true ; and Mr. Jennings punctually paid, however bad the terms; so the poor men bode their time, and looked for better days. And the days long-looked-for now were come ; but were they any better? The baronet, indeed, seemed bent upon inquiry, reform, redress ; but, as he never went without the right-hand man, his endeavours were always unsuccessful. At first it would appear that the bailiff had gone upon his old plan, shrugging up his shoulders to the men at the master's meanness, while he praised to the landlord the condition of his tenants ; but this could not long deceive, so he turned instanter on another tack ; he assumed the despot, issuing authoritative edicts, which no one dared to disobey ; he made the labourer hide his needs, and intercepted at its source the lord's benevolence ; he began to be found out, so the bolder spirits said, in filching with both hands from man and master ; and, to the mind of more than one shrewd observer, was playing the unjust steward to admiration. But stop : let us hear the other side ; it is possible we may have been mistaken. Bailiffs are never popular, particularly if they are too honest, and this one is a stern man with a repulsive manner. Who knows whether his advice to Acton may not have been wise and kind, and would not have conduced to a general rise of wages? Who can prove, nay, venture to insinuate, any such systematic roguery against a man hitherto so strict, so punctual, so sanctimonious? Even in the case of Sir John's C 84 THECROCKOFGOLD. golden gift, Jennings may be right after all ; it is quite possible that Roger was mistaken, and had gilt a piece of silver with his longings ; and the upright man might well take umbrage at so vile an imputation as that hot and silly speech ; it was foolish, very foolish, to have quoted text against him, and no wonder that the labourer got dismissed for it. Then again to return to wages — who knows? it might be, all things considered, the only way of managing a rise ; the bailiff must know his master's mind best, and Acton had been wise to have done as he bade him ; perhaps it really was well-meant, and might have got him twelve shillings a-week,' instead of eight as hitherto ; perhaps Simon was a shrewd man, and arranged it cleverly; perhaps Roger was an honest man, and couldn't but think others so. Any how, though, all was lost now, and he blamed his own rash tongue, poor fellow, for what he could not help fearing was the ruin of himself and all he loved. With a melancholy heart, he shouldered his spade, and slowly plodded homewards. How long should he have a home ? How was he to get bread, to get work, if the bailiff was his enemy? How could he face his wife, and tell her all the foolish past and dreadful future ? How could he bear to look on Grace, too beautiful Grace, and torture his heart by fancying her fate ? Thomas, too, his own brave boy, whom utter poverty might drive to desperation ? And the poor babes, his little playful pets, what on earth would become of them? There was the Union workhouse to be sure, but Acton shuddered at the thought ; to be separated from every thing he loved, to give up his little all, and be made both a prisoner and a slave, all for the sake of what? — daily water-gruel, and a pauper's branded livery. Or they might perchance go beyond the seas, if some Prince Edward's Company would help him and his to emigrate ; ay, thought he, and run new risks, encounter fresh dangers, lose every thing, get nothing, and all the trouble taken merely to starve three thousand miles from home. No, no ; at his time of. life, he could not be leaving for ever old friends, old habits, old fields, old home, old neigh- bourhood — where he had seen the saplings grow up trees, and the quick toppings change into a ten-foot hedge ; where the very cattle knew his step, and the clods broke kindly to his ploughshare ; and more than all, the dear old church, where his forefathers had worshipped from the Conquest, and the old mounds where they slept, and — and — and — that one precious grave of his dear lost Annie — could he leave it? Oh God, no! he had done no ill, he had committed no crime — why should he prefer the convict's doom, and seek to be transported for life ? THE COVETOUS DREAM. 35 A miserable walk home was that, and full of wretched thoughts. Poor Roger Acton, tossed by much trouble, vexed with sore oppression, I wish that you had prayed in your distress ; stop, he did pray, and that vehemently ; but it was not for help, or guidance, or patience, or conso- lation — he only prayed for gold. CHAPTER VIII. THE COVETOUS DREAM, Once at home, the sad truth soon was told. Roger's look alone spoke of some calamity, and he had but little heart or hope to keep the matter secret. True, he said not a word about the early morning's sin ; why should he ? he bad been punished for it, and he had repented ; let him be humbled before God, but not confess to man. However, all about the bailiff, and the landlord, and the thieved gift, and the sudden dis- missal, the sure ruin, the dismal wayside plans, and fears, and dark alternatives, without one hope in any — these did poor Acton fluently pour forth with broken-hearted eloquence ; to these Grace listened sorrowfully, with a face full of gentle trust in God's blessing on the morrow's interview ; these Mary, the wife, heard to an end, with — no storm of execration on ill-fortune, no ebullition of unjust rage against a fool of a husband, no vexing sneers, no selfish apprehensions. Far from it; there really was one unlooked-for blessing come already to console poor Roger ; and no little compensation for his trouble was the way his wife received the news. He, unlucky man, had expected something little short of a virago's talons, and a beldame's curse ; he had experienced on less occasions something of the sort before ; but now that real afflic- tion stood upon the hearth, Mary Acton's character rose with the emer- gency, and she greeted her ruined husband with a kindness towards him, a solemn indignation against those who grind the poor, and a sober courage to confront evil, which he little had imagined. " Bear up, Roger ; here, goodman, take the child, and don't look quite so downcast; come what may, I'll share your cares, and you shall halve my pleasures; we will fight it out together." Moreover, cross, and fidgetty, and scolding, as Mary had been ever heretofore, to her meek step-daughter Grace, all at once, as if just to 36 THECROCKOFGOLD. disappoint any preconcerted theory, now that actual calamity was come, she turned to be a kind good mother to her. Roger and his daughter could scarcely believe their ears. " Grace, dear, I know you're a sensible good girl, try and cheer your father." And then the step-dame added, " There now, just run up, fetch your prayer-book down, and read a little to us all to do us good." — The fair, affectionate girl, unused to the accents of kindness, could not forbear flinging her arms round Mary Acton's neck, and loving her, as Ruth loved Naomi. Then with a heavenly smile upon her face, and a happy heart within her to keep the smile alight, her gentle voice read these words — it will do us good to read them too : " Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord: Lord, hear my voice. let thine ears consider well the voice of my complaint. If thou. Lord, wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss, O Lord, who may abide it? Because there is mercy with thee ; therefore shalt thou be feared. 1 look for the Lord, my soul doth wait for him: in his word is my trust. My soul fleeth imto the Lord, before the morning watch, before the morning watch. Israel, trust in the Lord: for w^ith the Lord there is mercy: and with him is plen- teous redemption. And he shall redeem Israel from all his sins." "Isn't the last word 'troubles,' child? look again; I thmk it's 'troubles' either there, or leastways in the Bible-psalm." "No, father, sins, 'from all his sins;' and 'iniquities' in the Bible- version — look, father." " Well, girl, well ; I wish it had been ' troubles ;' ' from all his troubles ' is a better thought to my mind : God wot, I have plenty on 'em, and a little lot of gold would save us from them all." "Gold, father? no, my father— God." "I tell you, child," said Roger, ever vacillating in his strong tempta- tion between habitual religion and the new-caught lust of money, " if only on a sudden I could get gold by hook or by crook, all my cares and all your troubles would be over on the instant." " Oh, dear father, do not hope so ; and do not think of troubles more than sins ; there is no deliverance in Mammon ; riches profit not in the day of evil, and ill-got wealth tends to worse than poverty." "Well, any how, I only wish that dream of mine came true." "Dream, goodman — what dream?" said his wife. " Why, Poll, I dreamt I was a-working in my garden, hard by the THE COVETOUS DREAM. 37 celery trenches in the sedge ; and I was moaning at my lot, as well I may : and a sort of angel came to me, only he looked dark and sorrowful, and kindly said, 'What would you have, Roger?' I, nothing fearful in my dream, for all the strangeness of his winged presence, answered boldly, 'Money ;' he pointed with his finger, laughed aloud, and vanished away : and, as "for me, I thought a minute wonderingly, turned to look where he had pointed, and, O the blessing! found a crock of gold!" " Hush, father ! that dark angel was the devil ; he has dropt ill thoughts upon your heart : I would I could see you as you used to be, dear father, till within these two days." "Whoever he were, if he brought me gold, he would bring me blessing. There's meat and drink, and warmth and shelter, in the yellow gold — ay, and rest from labour, child, and a power of rare good gifts." "If God had made them good, and the gold were honest gains, still, father, even so, you forget righteousness, and happiness, and wisdom. Money gives us none of these, but it might take them all away : dear father, let your loving Grace ask you, have you been better, happier, wiser, even from the wishing it so much?" " Daughter, daughter, I tell you plainly, he that gives me gold, gives me all things : I wish I found the crock the de — the angel, I mean, brought me." " O father," murmured Grace, " do not breathe the wicked wish ; even if you found it without any evil angel's help, would the gold be right- fully your own?" "Tush, girl!" said her mother; "get the gold, feed the children, and then to think about the right." "Ay, Grace, first drive away the toils and troubles of this life," added Roger, " and then one may try with a free mind to discover the comforts of religion." Poor Grace only looked up mournfully, and answered nothing. 38 THECROCKOFGOLD. CHAPTER IX. THE POACHER. A SUDDEN knock at the door here startled the whole .party, and Mary Acton, bustling up, drew the bolt to let in — first, a lurcher, one Rover to wit, our gaunt ember-loving friend of Chapter II. ; secondly, Thomas Acton, full flush, who carried the old musket on his shoulder, and seemed to have something else under his smock ; and thirdly, Ben Burke, a per- sonage of no small consequence to us, and who therefore deserves some specific introduction. Big Ben, otherwise Black Burke, according to the friendship or the enmity of those who named him, was a huge, rough, loud, good-humoured, dare-devil sort of an individual, who lived upon what he considered com- mon rights. His dress was of the mongrel character, a well-imagined cross between a ploughman's and a sailor's ; the bottle-green frock of the former, pattern-stitched about the neck as ingeniously as if a tribe of Wisconsin squaws had tailored it — and mighty fishing boots, vast as any French postillion's, acting as a triton's tail to symbolize the latter: a red cotton handkerchief (dirty-red of course, as all things else were dirty, for cleanliness had little part in Ben), occupied just now the more native region of a halter ; and a rusty fur cap crowned the poacher ; I repeat it — crowned the poacher ; for in his own estimation, and that of many others too, Ben was, if not quite an emperor, at least an Agamem- non, a king of men, a natural human monarch ; in truth, he felt as much pride in the title Burke the Poacher (and with as great justice too, for aught I know), as Ali-Hamet-Ghee-the-Thug eastwards, or William-of- Normandy-the-Conqueror westwards, may be thought respectively to have cherished, on the score of their murderous and thievish surnames. There was no small 'good, after all, in poor Ben; and a mountain of allowance must be flung into the scales to counterbalance his deficien- cies. However coarse, and even profane, in his talk (I hope the gentle reader will excuse me alike for eliding a few elegant extracts from his common conversation, and also for reminding him characteristically, now and then, that Ben's language is not entirely Addisonian), however rough of tongue and dissonant in voice, Ben's heart will be found much about in the right place ; nay, I verily believe it has more of natural THE POACHER. 39 justice, human kindness, and right sympathies in it, than are to be found in many of those hard and hollow cones that beat beneath the twenty- guinea waistcoats of a Burghardt or a Buckmaster. Ay, give mfe the fluttering inhabitant of Ben Burke's cowskin vest ; it is worth a thousand of those stuffed and artificial denizens, whose usual nest is figured satin and cut velvet. Ben stole — true — he did not deny it ; but he stole naught but what he fancied was wrongfully withheld him : and, if he took from the rich, who scarcely knew he robbed them, he shared his savoury booty with the poor, and fed them by his daring. Like Robin Hood of old, he avenged himself on wanton wealth, and frequently redressed by it the wrongs of penury. Not that I intend to break a lance for either of them, nor to go any lengths in excusing ; slight extenuation is the limit for prudent advocacy in these cases. Robin Hood and Benjamin Burke were both of them thieves ; bold men — bad men, if any will insist upon the bad ; they sinned against law, and order, and Providence ; they dug rudely at the roots of social institutions; they spoke and acted in a dangerous fashion about rights of men and community of things. But set aside the statutes of Foresting and Venery, disfranchise pheasants, let it be a cogent thing that poverty and riches approach the golden mean somewhat less unequally, and we shall not find much of crimin- ality, either in Ben or Robin. For a general idea, then, of our poaching friend : — he is a gigantic, black-whiskered, humorous, ruddy mortal, full of strange oaths, which we really must not print, and bearded like the pard, and he tumbles in amongst our humble family party, with — " Bless your honest heart, Roger ! what makes you look so sodden ? I'm a lord, if your eyes a'n't as red as a hedge-hog's; and all the rest 0' you, too; why, you seem to be pretty well merry as mutes. Ha! I see what it is," added Ben, pouring forth a benediction on their frugal supper ; " it 's that precious belly-ache porridge that's a-giving you all the 'flensy. Tip it down the sink, dame, will you now ? and trust to me for better. Your Tom here, Roger, 's a lad 0' mettle, that he is ; ay, and tliat old iron o' yours as true as a compass ; and the pheasants would come to it, all the same as if they 'd been loadstoned. Here, dame, pluck the fowl, will you : drop 'em, Tom." — And Thomas Acton flung upon the table a couple of fine cock-pheasants. Roger, Mary, and Grace, who were well accustomed to Ben Burke's eloquent tirades, heard the end of this one with anxiety and silence ; for 40 THECROCKOFGOLD. Tom had never done the like before. Grace was first to expostulate, but was at once cut short by an oath from her brother, whose evident state of high excitement could not brook the semblance of reproof. Mary Acton's marketing glance was abstractedly fixed upon the actual corpus delicti; each fine plump bird, full-plumaged, young-spurred; yes, they were still warm, and would eat tender, so she mechanically began to pluck them ; while, as for poor downcast Roger, he remem- bered, with a conscience-sting that almost made him start, his stolen bit of money in the morning — so, how could he condemn ? He only looked pityingly on Thomas, and sighed from the bottom of his heart. "Why, what's the matter now?" roared Ben; "one 'ud think we was bailiffs come to raise the rent, 'stead of son Tom and friendly Ben ; hang it, mun, we aint here to cheat you out o' summut — no, not out o' peace o' mind neither; so, if you don't like luck, burn the fowls, or bury 'em, and let brave Tom risk limbo for nothing." "Oh, Ben!" murmured Grace, "why will you lead him astray? Oh, brother ! brother ! what have you done ?" she said, sorrowfully. " Miss Grace," — her beauty always awed the poacher, and his rugged Caliban spirit bowed in reverence before her Ariel soul — "I wish I was as good as you, but can 't be : don 't condemn us, Grace ; leastways, first hear me, and then say where 's the harm or sin on it. Twelve hundred head o' game — I heard John Gorse, the keeper, tell it at the Jerry — twelve hundred head were shot at t' other day 's battew : Sir John — no blame to him for it — killed a couple o' hundred to his own gun : and though they sent away a coachful, and gave to all who asked, and feasted themselves chuckfull, and fed the cats, and all, still a mound, like a haycock, o' them fine fat fowl, rotted in a mass, and were flung upon the dungpit. Now, Miss Grace, that ere salt pea-porridge a'n't nice, a'n't wholesome ; and, bless your pretty mouth, it ought to feed more sweetly. Look at Acton, isn't he half-starved. Is Tom, brave boy, full o' the fat o' the land ? Who made fowl, I should like to know, and us to eat 'em ? And where 's the harm or sin in bringing down a bird? No, Miss, them ere beaks, dammem (beg humble pardon, Miss, indeed I won't again) them ere justices, as they call themselves, makes hard laws to hedge about their ow^n pleasures; and if the poor man starves, he starves ; but if he stays his hunger with the free, wild birds of heaven, they prison him and punish him, and call him poacher." " Ben, those who make the laws, do so under God's permission ; and they who break man's law, break His law." BEN BURKE'S STRANGE ADVENTURE. 41 "Nonsense, child," — suddenly said Roger; hold your silly tongue. Do you mean to tell us, God's law and man's law are the same thing ! No, Grace, I can't stomach that; God makes right, and man makes might — riches go one way, and poor men's wrong's another. Money, money 's the great law-maker, and a full purse frees him that has it, while it turns the jailor's key on the wretch that has it not: one of those wretches is the hopeless Roger Acton. Well, well," he added, after a despondent sigh, "say no more about it all ; that's right, good-wife — why, they do look plump. And if I can 't stomach Grace's text-talk there, I'm sure I can the birds; for I know what keeps crying cupboard lustily." It was a faint effort to be gay, and it only showed his gloom the denser. Truly, he has quite enough to make him sad ; but this is an unhealthy sadness : the mists of mammon-worship, rising up, meet in the mid sether of his mind, these lowering clouds of discontent : and the seeming calamity, that should be but a trial to his faith, looks too likely to wreck it. So, then, the embers were raked up, the trivet stuck a-top, the savoury broil made ready ; and (all but Grace, who would not taste a morsel, but went up straight to bed) never had the Actons yet sate down before so rich a supper. CHAPTER X. BEN BURKE'S STRANGE ADVENTURE. " Take a pull, Roger, and pass the flask," was the cordial prescription of Ben Burke, intended to cure a dead silence, generated equally of eager appetites and self-accusing consciences ; so saying, he produced a quart wicker-bottle, which enshrined, according to his testimony, "sum- mut short, the right stuff, stinging strong, that had never seen the face of a wishy-washy 'ciseman." But Roger touched it sparingly, for the vaunted nectar positively burnt his swallow: till Ben, pulling at it heartily himself, by way of giving moral precept the full benefit of a good example, taught Roger not to be afraid of it, and so the flask was drained. Under such communicative influence, Acton's tale of sorrows and oppressions, we may readily believe, was soon made known; and as 4* 42 THECROCKOFGOLD. readily, that it moved Ben's indignant and gigantic sympathies to an extent of imprecation on the eyes, timbers, and psychological existence of Mr. Jennings, very little edifying. One thing, however, made amends for the license of his tongue ; the evident sincerity and warmth with which his coarse but kindly nature proffered instant aid, both offensive and defensive. "It's a black and burning shame. Honest Roger, and right shall have his own, somehow, while Big Ben has a heart in the old place, and a hand to help his friend." And the poacher having dealt his own broad breast a blow that would have knocked a tailor down, stretched out to Acton the huge hand that had inflicted it. "More than that, Roger — hark to this, man!" and, as he slapped his breeches pocket, there was the chink as of a mine of money shaken to its foundations : " hark to this, man ! and more than hark, have ! Here, good wife, hold your apron!" And he flung into her lap a handful of silver. Roger gave a sudden shout of wonder, joy, and avarice : and then as instantaneously turning very pale, he slowly muttered, " Hush, Ben ! is it bloody money ?" and almost shrieked as he added, " and my poor boy Tom, too, with you ! God-a-mercy, mun! how came ye by it?" " Honestly, neighbour, leastways, middling honest : don't damp a good fellow's heart, when he means to serve you." " Tell me only that my boy is innocent ! — and the money — yes, yes, I'll keep the money ;" for his wife seemed to be pushing it from her at the thought. "I innocent, father! I never know'd till this minute that Ben had any blunt at all — did I, Ben? — and I only brought him and Rover here to sup, because I thought it neighbourly and kind-like." Poor Tom had till now been very silent : some how the pheasants lay heavy on his stomach. "Is it true, Ben, is it true? the lad isn't a thief, the lad isn't a mur- derer? Oh, God! Burke, tell me the truth! "Blockhead!" was the courteous reply, "what, not believe your own son? Why, neighbour Acton, look at the boy : would that frank-faced, open-hearted fellow do worse, think you, than Black Burke ? And would I, bad as I be, turn the bloody villain to take a man's life ? No, neighbour ; Ben kills game, not keepers : he sets his wire for a hare, but wouldn't go to pick a dead man's pocket. All that's wrong in me, mun, the game-laws put there ; but I'm neither burglar, murderer, highwayrpan — no, nor a BEN BURKE'S STRANGE ADVENTURE. 43 mean, sneaking thief; however the quality may think so, and even wish to drive me to it. Neither, being as I be no rogue, could I bear to live a fool ; but I should be one, neighbour, and dub myself one too, if I didn't stoop to pick up money that a madman flings away." "Madman? pick up money? tell us how it was, Ben," interposed female curiosity. " Well, neighbours, listen : I was a-setting my night-lines round Pike Island yonder, more nor a fortnight back ; it was a dark night and a mizzling, or morning rather, 'twixt three and four ; by the same token, I'd caught a power of eels. All at once, while I was fixing a trimmer, a punt came quietly up : as for me, Roger, you know I always wades it through the muddy shallow : well, I listens, and a chap creeps ashore — a mad chap, with never a tile to his head, nor a sole to his feet — and when I sings out to ax him his business, the lunatic sprung at me like a tiger : I didn't wish to hurt a little weak wretch like him, specially being past all sense, poor nat'ral ! so I shook him ofl^ at once, and held him straight out in this here wice." [Ben's grasp could have cracked any cocoa-nut.] "He trembled like a wicked thing; and when I peered close into his face, blow me but I thought I'd hooked a white devil — no one ever see such a face : it was horrible too look at. ' What are you arter, mun ?' says I ; ' burying a dead babby ?' says I. ' Give us hold here — I 'm bless'd if I don't see though what you 've got buckled up there.' With that, the little white fool — it's saitin he was mad — all on a sudden flings at my head a precious hard bundle, gives a horrid howl, jumps into the punt, and off* again, afore I could wink twice. My head a'n't a soft un, I suppose ; but when a lunatic chap hurls at it with all his might a barrow-load of crockery at once, it's little wonder that my right eye flinched a minute, and that my right hand rubbed my right eye; and so he freed himself, and got clear off". Rum start this, thinks I : but any how he 's flung away a summut, and means to give it me : what can it be? thinks I. Well, neighbours, if I didn't know the chap was mad afore, I was sartain of it now ; what do you think of a grown man — little enough, truly, but out of long coats too — sneaking by night to Pike Island, to count out a little lot of silver, and to guzzle twelve gallipots o' honey? There it was, all hashed up in an old shawl, a slimy mesh like birdlime : no wonder my eye was a leetle blackish, when half-a-dozen earthern crocks were broken against it. I was angered enough, 1 tell you, to think any man could be such a fool as to bring honey there to eat or to hide — when at once I spied summut red 44 THECROCKOFGOLD. among the mess ; and what should it be but a pretty little China house, red-brick-like, with a split in the roof for droppings, and ticketed 'Savings-bank:' the chink o' that bank you hears now: and the bank itself is in the pond, now I 've cleaned the till out." " Wonderful sure ! But what did you do with the honey, Ben ? — some of the pots wasn't broke," urged notable Mrs. Acton. " Oh, burn the slimy stuff, I warn't going to put my mouth out o' taste o' bacca, for a whole jawful of tooth-aches : I '11 tell you, dame, what I did with them ere crocks, wholes, and parts. There's never a stone on Pike Island, it's too swampy, and I'd forgot to bring my pocketful, as usual. The heaviest fish, look you, always lie among the sedge, hereabouts and thereabouts, and needs stirring, as your Tom knows well ; so I chucked the gallipots fur from me, right and left, into the shallows, and thereby druv the pike upon my hooks. A good night's work I made of it too, say nothing of the Savings-bank ; forty pound o' pike and twelve of eel warn't bad pickings." " Dear, it was a pity though to fling away the honey ; but what became of the shawl, Ben?" Perhaps Mrs. Acton thought of looking for it. " Oh, as for that, I was minded to have sunk it, with its mess of sweet- meats and potsherds ; but a thought took me, dame, to be 'conomical for once : and I was half sorry too that I'd flung away the jars, for I began to fancy your little uns might ha' liked the stuff; so I dipped the clout like any washerwoman, rinshed, and squeezed, and washed the mess away, and have worn it round my waist ever since ; here, dame, I haven't been this way for a while afore to-night; but I meant to ask you if you'd like to have it; may be 'tan't the fashion though." " Good gracious, Ben ! why that 's Mrs. Quarles's shawl, I 'd swear to it among a hundred ; Sarah Stack, at the Hall, once took and wore it, when Mrs. Quarles was ill a-bed, and she and our Thomas walked to church together. Yes — green, edged with red, and — I thought so — a yellow circle in the middle ; here 's B. Q., for Bridget Quarles, in black cotton at the corner. Lackapity! if they'd heard of all this at the Inquest! I tell you what. Big Ben, it's kindly meant of you, and so thank you heartily, but that shawl would bring us into trouble ; so please take it yourself to the Hall, and tell 'em fairly how you came by it." " I don't know about that Poll Acton ; perhaps they might ask me for the Saving-bank, too — eh, Roger!" "No, no, wife ; no, it'll never do to lose the money ! let a bygone be a bygone, and don't disturb the old woman in her grave. As to the shawl, SLEEP. 45 if it's like to be a tell-tale, in my mind, this hearth's the safest place for it." So he flung it on the fire ; there was a shrivelling, smouldering, guilty sort of blaze, and the shawl was burnt. Roger Acton, you are falling quickly as a shooting star ; already is your conscience warped to connive, for lucre's sake, at some one's secret crimes. You had better, for the moral of the matter, have burnt your right hand, as Scsevola did, than that shawl. Beware! your sin will bring its punishment. CHAPTER XI. SLEEP. Grace, in her humble truckle-bed, lay praying for her father; not about his trouble, though that was much, but for the spots of sin she could discern upon his soul. Alas ! an altered man was Roger Acton ; almost since morning light, the leprosy had changed his very nature. The simple-minded Christian, toiling in contentment for his daily bread, cheerful for the passing day, and trustful for the coming morrow, this fair state was well-nigh faded away ; while a bitterness of feeling against (in one word) GOD — against unequal partialities in providence, against things as they exist, and this world's inexplicable government — was gnawing at his very heart-strings, and cankering their roots by unbelief. It is a speedy process — throw away faith with its trust for the past, love for the present, hope for the future — and you throw away all that makes sorrow bearable, or joy lovely ; the best of us, if God withheld his help, would apostatize like Peter, ere the cock crew thrice ; and, at times, that help has wisely been withheld, to check presumptuous thoughts, and teach how true it is that the crea- tui'e depends on the Creator. Just so we suffer a wilful little child, who is tottering about in leading-strings, to go alone for a minute, and have a gentle fall. And just so Roger here, deserted for a time of those angelic ministrations whose efficiency is proved by godliness and meek- ness, by patience and content, is harassed in his spirit as by harpies, by selfishness and pride, and fretful doublings ; by a grudging hate of 46 THECROCKOFGOLD. labour, and a fiery lust of gold. Temptation comes to teach a weak man that he was fitted for his station, and his station made for him ; that fulfilment of his ignorant desires will only make his case the worse, and that Providence alike is wise In what he gives and what denies. Meanwhile, gentle Grace, on her humble truckle-bed, is full of pray- ers and tears, uneasily listening to the indistinct and noisy talk, and hearing, now and then, some louder oath of Ben's that made her shud- der. Yes, she heard, too, the smashing sound, when the poacher flung the money down, and she feared it was a mug or a plate — no slight domestic loss ; and she heard her father's strange cry, when he gave that wondering shout of joyous avarice, and she did not know what to fear. Was he ill ? or crazed ! or worse — fallen into bad excesses ? How she prayed for him ! Poor Ben, too, honest-hearted Ben ; she thought of him in charity, and pleaded for his good before the Throne of Mercy. Who knows but Heaven heard that saintly virgin prayer ? There is love in Heaven yet for poor Ben Bnrke. And if she prayed for Ben, with what an agony of deep-felt interces- sion did she plead for Thomas Acton, that own only brother of hers, just a year the younger to endear him all the more, her playmate, care, and charge, her friend and boisterous protector. The many sorrowing hours she had spent for his sake, and the thousand generous actions he had done for hers ! Could she forget how the stripling fought for her that day, when rude Joseph Green would help her over the style ? Could she but remember how slily he had put aside, for more than half a year, a little heap of copper earnings — weeding-money, and errand-money, and harvest-money — and then bounteously spent it all at once in giving her a Bible on her birth-day ? And when, coming across the fields with him after leasing, years ago now, that fierce black bull of Squire Ryle's was rushing down upon us both, how bravely did the noble boy attack him with a stake, as he came up bellowing, and make the dreadful mon- ster turn away ! Ah ! I looked death in the face then, but for thee, my brother ! Remember him, my God, for good ! " Poor father ! poor father ! Well, I am resolved upon one thing : I '11 go, with Heaven's blessing, to the Hall myself, and see Sir John, to-mor- row ; he shall hear the truth, for " And so Grace fell asleep. SLEEP. 47 Roger, when he went to bed, came to similar conclusions. He would speak up boldly, that he would, without fear or favour. Ben's most seasonable bounty, however to be questioned on the point of right, made him feel entirely independent, both of bailiffs and squires, and he had now no anxieties, but rather hopes, about to-morrow. He was as good as they, with money in his pocket ; so he 'd down to the Hall, and face the baronet himself, and blow his bailiff out o' water : that should be his business by noon. Another odd idea, too, possessed him, and he could not sleep at night for thinking of it: it was a foolish fancy, but the dream might have put it in his head : what if one or other of those hon- ey-jars, so flung here and there among the rushes, were in fact another sort of "Savings-bank" — a crock of gold? It was a thrilling thought — his very dream, too ; and the lot of shillings, and the shawl — ay, and the inquest, and the rumours how that Mrs. Quarles had come to her end unfairly, and no hoards found — and — and the honey-pots missing. Ha ! at any rate he'd have a search to-morrow. No bugbear now should hinder him ; money 's money ; he 'd ask no questions how it got there. His own bit of garden lay the nearest to Pike Island, and who knows but Ben might have slung a crock this way? It wouldn't do to ask him, though — for Burke might look himself, and get the crock — was Roger's last and selfish thought, before he fell asleep. As to Mrs. Acton, she, poor woman, had her own thoughts, fearful ones, about that shawl, and Ben's mysterious adventure. No cloudy love of mammon had overspread her mind, to hide from it the hideous- ness of murder; in her eyes, blood was terrible, and not the less so that it covered gold. She remembered at the inquest — be sure she was there among the gossips — the facts, so little taken notice of till now, the keys in the cupboard, where the honey-pots were not, and how Jonathan Floyd had seen something on the lake, and the marks of a man's hand on the throat ; and, God forgive her for saying so, but Mr. Jennings was a little, white-faced man. How wrong was it of Roger to have burnt that shawl ! how dull of Ben not to have suspected something ! but then the good fellow suspects nobody, and, I dare say, now doesn't know my thoughts. But Roger does, more shame for him; or why burn the shawl ? Ah ! thought she, with all the gossip rampart in her breast, if I could only have taken it to the Hall myself, what a stir I should have caused ! Yes, she would have reaped a mighty field of glory by origin- ating such a whirlwind of inquiries and surmises. Even now, so attractive was the mare's nest, she would go to the Hall by morning, 48 THECROCKOFGOLD.* and tell Sir John himself all about the burnt shawl, and Pike Island, and the galli And so she fell fast asleep. With respect to Ben, Tom, and Rover, a well-matched triad, as any Isis, Horus, and Nepthys, they all flung themselves promiscuously on the hard floor beside the hearth, "basked at the fire their hairy strength," and soon were snoring away beautifully in concert, base, tenor, and treble, like a leash of glee-singers. No thoughts troubled them, either of mammon or murder : so long before the meditative trio up-stairs, they had set a good example, and fallen asleep. CHAPTER XII. LOVE. With the earliest peep of day arose sweet Grace, full of cheerful hope, and prayer, and happy resignation. She had a great deal to do that morning ; for, innocent girl, she had no notion that it was quite pos- sible to be too early at the Hall; her only fear was being too late. Then there were all the household cares to see to, and the dear babes to dress, and the place to tidy up, and breakfast to get ready, and, any how, she could not be abroad till half-past eight : so, to her dismay, it must be past nine before ever she can see Sir John. Let us follow her a little : for on this important day we shall have to take the adventures of our labourer's family one at a time. By twenty minutes to nine, Grace had contrived to bustle on her things, give the rest the slip, and be tripping to the Hall. It is nearly two miles off, as we already know ; and Grace is such a pretty creature that we can clearly do no better than employ our time thitherward by taking a peep at her. Sweet Grace Acton, we will not vex thy blushing maiden modesty by elaborate details of form, and face, and feature. Perfect womanhood at fair eighteen : let that fill all the picture up with soft and swelling charms ; no wadding, or padding, or jigot, or jupe — but all those grace- ful undulations are herself: no pearl-powder, no carmine, no borrowed locks, no musk, or ambergris — but all those feeble helps of meretricious art excelled and superseded by their just originals in nature. It will LOVE. 49 not do to talk, as a romancer may, of velvet cheeks and silken tresses ; or invoke, to the aid of our inadequate description, roses, and swans, and peaches, and lilies. Take the simple village beauty as she is. Did you ever look on prettier lips or sweeter eyes — more glossy natural curls upon a whiter neck ? And how that little red-riding-hood cloak, and the simple cottage hat tied down upon her cheeks, and the homely russet gown, all too short for modern fashions, and the white, well-turned ankle, and the tidy little leather shoe, and the bunch of snow drops in her tucker, and the neat mittens contrasting darkly with her fair, bare arms — pretty Grace, how well all these become thee ! There, trip along, with health upon thy cheek, and hope within thy heart ; who can resist so eloquent a pleader? Haste on, haste on : save thy father in his trouble, as thou hast blest him in his sin — this rustic lane is to thee the path of duty — Heaven speed thee on it ! More slowly now, and with more anxious thoughts, more heart- weak- ness, moi'e misgiving — Grace approacheth the stately mansion : and when she timidly touched the "Servants'" bell, for she felt too lowly for the " Visiters'," — and when she heard how terribly loud it was, how long it rung, and what might be the issue of her — wasn't it ill-considered? — errand — the poor girl almost fainted at the sound. As she leaned unconsciously for strength against the door, it opened on a sudden, and Jonathan Floyd, in mute amazement, caught her in his arms. "Why, Grace Acton! what's the matter with you?" Jonathan knew Grace well ; they had been at dame's-school together, and in after years attended the same Sunday class at church. There had been some talk among the gossips about Jonathan and Grace, and ere now folks had been kind enough to say they would make a pretty couple. And folks were right, too, as well as kind : for a fine young fellow was Jonathan Floyd, as any duchess's footman; tall, well built, and twenty-five; Antinous in a livery. Well to do, withal, though his wages don't come straight to him ; for, independently of his place — and the baronet likes him for his good looks and proper manners — he is Farmer Floyd's only son, on the hill yonder, as thriving a small tenant as any round abouts ; and he is proud of his master, of his blue and silver uniform, of old Hurstley, and of all things in general, except himself. " But what on earth 's the matter, Grace ?" he was obliged to repeat, for the dear girl's agitation was extreme. "Jonathan, can I see the baronet?" D 5 50 THE CROCK OF GOLD, " What, at nine in the morning, Grace Acton ! Call again at two, and you may find him getting up. He hasn't been three hours a-bed yet, and there 's nobody about but Sarah Stack and me. I wish those Lun- nun sparks would but leave the place : they do his honour no good, I 'm thinking." "Not till two!" was the slow and mournful ejaculation. What a damper to her buoyant hopes : and Providence had seen fit to give her ill-success. Is it so? Prosperity may come in other shapes. "Why, Grace," suddenly said Floyd, in a very nervous way, "what makes you call upon my master in this tidy trim?" "To save my father," answered Innocence. " How ? why ? Oh don't, Grace, don't ! I '11 save him — I will indeed — what is it ? Oh, don't, don't !" For the poor affectionate fellow conjured on the spot the black vision of a father saved by a daughter's degradation. "Don't, Jonathan? — it's my duty, and God will bless me in it. That cruel Mr. Jennings has resolved upon our ruin, and I wished to tell Sir John the truth of it." At this hearing, Jonathan brightened up, and glibly said, " Ah, indeed, Jennings is a trouble to us all : a sad life I 've led of it this year past ; and I 've paid him pretty handsomely too, to let me keep ^the place : while, as for John Page and the grooms, and Mr. Coachman and tlie helpers, they don't touch much o' their wages on quarter-day, I know." "Oh, but we — we are ruined! ruined! Father is forbidden now to labour for our bread." And then with many tears she told her tale. "Stop, Miss Grace," suddenly said Jonathan, for her beauty and elo- quence transformed the cottager into a lady in his eyes, and no wonder ; "pray, stop a minute. Miss — please to take a seat; I sha'n't be gone an instant." And the good-hearted fellow, whose eyes had long been very red, broke away at a gallop ; but he was back again almost as soon as gone, panting like a post-horse. " Oh, Grace ! don't be angry ! do forgive me what I am going to do." "Do, Jonathan?" and the beauty involuntarily started — "I hope it's nothing wrong," she added, solemnly. " Whether right or wrong, Grace, take it kindly ; you have often bade me read my Bible, and I do so many times both for the sake of it and you ; ay, and meet with many pretty sayings in it : forgive me if I act on one — 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'" With that, he LOVE. 51 thrust into her hand a brass-topped, red-leather purse, stuffed with money. Generous fellow ! all the little savings, that had heretofore escaped the prying eye and filching grasp of Simon Jennings. There was some little gold in it, more silver, and a lot of bulky copper. "Dear Jonathan!" exclaimed Grace, quite thrown off her guard of maidenly reserve, " this is too kind, too good, too much ; indeed, indeed it is: I cannot take the purse." And her bright eyes overflowed again. "Well, girl," said Jonathan, gulping down an apple in his throat, "I — I won't have the money, that's all. Oh, Grace, Grace!" he burst out earnestly, " let me be the blessed means of helping you in trouble — I would die to do it, Grace; indeed I would!" The dear girl fell upon his neck, and they wept together like two lov- ing little sisters. "Jonathan" — her duteous spirit was the first to speak — "forgive this weakness of a foolish woman's heart: I will not put away the help which God provides us at your friendly hands : only this, kind brother — let me call you brother — keep the purse ; if my father pines for want of work, and the babes at home lack food, pardon my boldness if I take the help you offer. Meanwhile, God in heaven bless you, Jonathan, as He will!" And she turned to go away. " Won't you take a keepsake, Grace — one little token ? I wish I had any thing here but money to give you for my sake." "It would even be ungenerous in me to refuse you, brother; one little piece will do." Jonathan fumbled up something in a crumpled piece of paper, and said sobbingly — "Let it be this new half-crown, Grace: I won't say, keep it always ; only when you want to use that and more, I humbly ask you'll please come to me." Now a more delicate, a more unselfish act, was never done by man : along with the half-crown he had packed up two sovereigns ! and thereby not only escaped thanks, concealed his own beneficence, and robbed his purse of half its little store ; but actually he was, by doing so, depriving himself for a month, or maybe more, of a visit from Grace Acton. Had it been only half-a-crown, and want had pinched the family (neither Grace nor Jonathan could guess of Ben Burke's bounty, and for all they knew Roger had not enough for the morrow's meals) — had poverty come in like an armed man, and stood upon their threshold a grim sentinel — doubtless she must have run to him within a day or two. How sweet 52 THECROCKOFGOLD. would it have been to have kept her coming day by day, and to a com- moner affection how excusable ! but still how selfish, how unlike the lib- eral and honourable feeling that filled the manly heart of Jonathan Floyd ! It was a noble act, and worthy of a long parenthesis. If Grace Acton had looked back as she hurried down the avenue, she would have seen poor Jonathan still watching her with all his eyes till she was out of sight. Perhaps, though, she might have guessed it — there is a sympathy in these things, the true animal magnetism — and I dare say that was the very reason why she did not once turn her head. CHAPTER XIII. THE DISCOVERY. Roger Acton had not slept well ; had not slept at all till nearly break of day, except in the feverish fashion of half dream half revery. There were thick-coming fancies all night long about what Ben had said and done: and more than once Roger had thought of the expediency of getting up, to seek without delay the realization of that one idea which now possessed him — a crock of gold. When he put together one thing and another, he considered it almost certain that Ben had flung away among the lot no mere honey-pot, but perhaps indeed a money-pot: Burke hadn't half the cunning of a child ; more fool he, and maybe so much the better for me, thought money-bitten, selfish Roger. Thus, in the night's hot imaginations, he resolved to find the spoil ; to will, was then to do : to do, was then to conquer. However, Nature's sweet restorer came at last, and, when he woke, the idea had sobered down — last night's fancies were preposterous. So, it was with a heavy heart he got up later than his wont — no work before him, nothing to do till the afternoon, when he might see Sir John, except it be to dig a bit in his little marshy garden. When Grace ran to the Hall, Roger was going forth to dig. Now, I know quite well that the reader is as fully aware as I am, what is about to happen ; but it is impossible to help the matter. If the heading of this chapter tells the truth, a " discovery " of some sort is inevitable. Let us preliminarize a thought or two, if thereby we can hang some shadowy veil of excuse over a too naked mystery. First and foremost, THE DISCOVERY. 53 truth is strange, stranger, et-cetera; and this et-cetera, pregnant as one of Lyttleton's, intends to add the superlative strangest, to the comparative stranger of that seldom-quoted sentiment. To every one of us, in the course of our lives, something quite as extraordinary has befallen more than once. What shall we say of omens, warnings, forebodings? What of the most curious runs of luck; the most whimsical freaks of fortune; the unaccountable things that happen round us daily, and no one marvels at them, till he reads of them in print? Even as Macpherson, ingenious, if not ingenuous, gathered Ossian from the lips of Highland hussifs, and made the world with modern Attila to back it, wonder at the stores that are hived on old wives' tongues ; even so might any other literary black- smith hammer from the ore of common gossip a regular Vulcan's net of superstitious " facts." Never yet was uttered ghost story, that did not breed four others ; every one at table is eager to record his, or his aunt's, experience in that line ; and the mass of queer coincidences, inexplicable incidents, indubitable seeings, hearings, doings, and sufferings, which you and I have heard of in this popular vein of talk, would amply excuse the wildest fictionist for the most extravagant adventure — the more improbable, the nearer truth. Talk of the devil, said our ancestors — let "&;c." save us from the consequence. Think of any thing vehe- mently, and it is an even chance it happens : be confident, you conquer ; be obstinate in willing, and events shall bend humbly to their lord : nay, dream a dream, and if you recollect it in the morning, and it bother you next day, and you cannot get it out of your head for a week, and the matter positively haunt you, ten to one but it finds itself or makes itself fulfilled, some odd day or other. Just so, doubtless, will it prove to be with Roger's dream : I really cannot help the matter. Again, it is more than likely that the reader is clever, very clever, and that any attempts at concealment would be merely futile. From the first page he has discovered who is the villain, and who the victim : the title alone tells him of the golden hinge on which the story turns : he can look through stone walls, if need be, or mesmerically see, with- out making use of eyes : no peep-holes for him, as for Pyramus and Thisbe : no initiation requisite for any hidden mysteries ; all arcana are revealed to him, every sanctum is a highway. No art of mortal pen can defeat this mischief of acuteness : character is character ; oaks grow of acorns, and the plan of a life may be detected in a microscopic speech. The career of Mr. Jennings is as much predestined by us to iniquity, from the first intimation that he never makes excuse, as honest 5* 54 THE CROCK OF GOLD. Roger is to trouble and temptation from the weary effort wherewithal he woke. And, even now, pretty Grace and young Sir John, the reader thinks that he can guess at nature's consequence ; while, with respect to Roger's going fiorth to dig this morning, he sees it straight before him, need not ask for the result. Well, if the shrewd reader has the eye of Lieuenhoeck, and can discern, cradled in the small triangular beech- mast, a noble forest-tree, with silvery trunk, branching arms, and dark- green foliage, he deserves to be complimented indeed, for his own keen skill ; but, at the same time, Nature will not hurry herself for him, but will quietly educe results which he foreknew — or thought he did — a century ago. And is there not the highest Art in this unveiled sim- plicity : to lead the reader onwards by a straight road, with the setting sun a-blaze at the end of it, knowing his path, knowing its object, yet still borne on with spirits unexhausted and unflagging foot ? Trust me, there is better praise in this, than in dazzling the distracted glance with a perpetual succession of luminous fire-flies, and dragging your fair novel- reader, harried and excited, through the mazes of a thousand incidents. Thirdly, and lastly, in this prefatorial say, there is to be considered that inevitable defeator of all printed secrets — impatience. Nothing is easier, nothing commoner (most wise people do it, whose fate is, that they must keep up with the race of current publication, and therefore must keep down the still-increasing crowd of authorial creations), nothing is more venial, more laudable, than to read the last chapter first; and so, finding out all mysteries at once, to save one's self a vast deal of unnecessary trouble. And, for mere tale-telling, this may be cufficient. What need to burden memoiy with imaginary statements, or to weary out one's sympathies on trite fictitious woes ? — come to the catastrophe at once : the uncle hanged ; the heir righted ; the heroine, an orange- flowered bride ; and the white-headed grandmother, after all her wrongs, winding up the story with a prudent moral. Now, this may all be very well with histories that merely carry a sting in the tail, whose moral is the warning of the rattlesnake, and whose hot-exciting interest is posted with the scorpion's venom. They are the Dragon of Wantley, with one caudal point — a barbed termination : we, like Moore of Moore Hall, all point, covered with spikes : every where we boast ourselves an ethical hedge-hog, all-over-armed with keen morals — a Rumour painted full of tongues, echoing all around with revealing of secrets. The feelings of our humble hero, altered Roger Acton, are worthy to be studied by the great, to be sifted by the rich ; and Grace's simple tongue may teach the THEDISCOVERY. 55 sage, for its wisdom cometh from above ; and Jonathan, for all his shoulder, knot and smart cockade, is worthy to give lessons to his master: that master, also, is far better than you think him ; and poor Burke too, for true humanity's sake : so we get a mint of morals, set aside the story. It is not raw material, but the workmanship, that gives its value to the flowered damask ; our grand-dames' sumptuous taffeties and stand-alone brocades are but spun silk — worms' interiors ; the fairest statue is intrin- sically but a mass of clumsy stone, until, indeed, the sculptor has rough- hewn it, and shaped it, and chiselled it, and finished all the touches with sand-paper. This story of ' The Crock of Gold ' purports to be a Dutch picture, as becometh boors, their huts, their short and simple annals ; so that, after its moralities, the mass of minute detail is the only thing that gives it any value. Now, whilst all of you have been yawning through these egotistic phrases, Roger has been digging in his garden ; there he is, pecking away at what once was the celery -bed, but now are fallow trenches ; celery, as we all know, is a water-loving plant, doing best in marshy-land, so no wonder the trenches open on the sedge, and the muddy shallow oppo- site Pike Island puddles up to them. There needs be no suspense, no mystery at all ; Roger's dream had clearly sent him thither, for he should not have levelled those trenches yet awhile, it was a little too soon — bad husbandry ; and, barring the appearance of a devil, Roger's dream came true. Yes, under the roots of a clump of bullrush, he lifted out with his spade — a pot of Narbonne honey ! When first he spied the pot, his heart was in his mouth — it must be gold, and with tottering knees he raised the precious burden. But, woful disappointment! the word "Honey," with plenty of French and Fortnum on another pasted label, stared him in the face ; it was sweet and slimy too about the neck; there was no sort of jingle when he shook the crock; what though it be heavy? — honey's heavy; and it was tied over quite in a common way with pig's bladder, and his clumsy trembling fingers could not undo that knot ; and thus, with a miserable sense of cheated poverty, he threw it down beside the path, and would, perhaps, have flung it right away in sheer disgust, but for the reflection that the little ones might like it. Once, indeed, the glorious doubt of maybe gold came back upon his mind, and he lifted up the spade to smash the baffling pot, and so make sure of what it might contain ; — make sure, eh ? why, you would only lose the honey, whispered domestic econ- omy. So he left the jar to be opened by his wife when he should go in 56 THECROCKOFGOLD. CHAPTER XIV. JONATHAN'S STORE. And M'here has Mrs. Acton been all this morning ? Off to the Hall, very soon after Grace had got away ; and she rung at the side entrance, hard by the kitchen, most fortunately caught Sarah Stack about, and had a good long gossip with her ; telling her, open-mouthed, all abaut Ben Burke having found a shawl of Mrs. Quarles's on the island ; and how, it being very I'otten, yes, and smelling foul, Ben had been fool enough to burn it; what a pity! how could the shawl have got there? if it only could ha' spoken what it knew ! And the bereaved gossips mourned together over secrets undivulged, and their evidence destroyed. As to the crockery, for a miraculous once in life, Mrs. Acton held her tongue about a thing she knew, and said not a syllable concerning it. Roger would be mad to lose the money. Just at parting with her friend, Mary Acton was going out by the wrong door, through the hall, but luckily did no more than turn the handle; or she never could have escaped bouncing in upon the lovers' interview, and thereby occasioning a chaos of confusion. For, be it whispered, the step-dame was not a little jealous of her ready-made daughter's beauty, persisted in calling her a child, and treated her any thing but kindly and sisterly, as her full-formed woman's loveliness might properly have looked for. Only imagine, if the Hecate had but seen Jonathan's lit-up looks, or Grace's down-cast blushes ; for it really slipped my observation to record that there were blushes, and probably some cause for them when the keep- sake was given and accepted; only conceive if the step-mother had heard Jonathan's afterward soliloquy, when he was watching pretty Grace as she tripped away — and how much he seemed to think of her eyes and eye-lashes ! I am reasonably fearful, had she heard and seen all this — Poll Acton's nails might have possibly drawn blood from the cheeks of Jonathan Floyd. As it was, the little god of love kindly warded from his votaries the coming of so crabbed an antagonist. Grace has now reached home again, blessing her overruling stars to have escaped notice so entirely both in going and returning; for the mother was hard at washing near the well, having got in half an hour before, and father has not yet left off digging in his garden. So she JONATHAN'S STORE. 57 crept up stairs quietly, put away her Sunday best, and is just dropping on her knees beside her truckle-bed, to speak of all her sorrows to her Heavenly friend, and to thank him for the kindness He had raised her in an earthly one. She then, with no small trepidation, took out of her tucker, just below those withered snow-drops, the crumpled bit of paper that held Jonathan's parting gift. It was surprising how her tucker heaved ; she could hardly get at the parcel. She wanted to look at that half-crown ; not that she feared it was a bad one, or was curious about coins, or felt any pleasure in possessing such a sum : but there was such a don't-know-what connected with that new half-crown, which made her long to look at it ; so she opened the paper — and found its golden fellows ! O noble heart! O kind, generous, unselfish — yes, beloved Jonathan! But what is she to do with the sovereigns? Keep them? No, she can- not keep them, however precious in her sight as proofs of deep affection ; but she will call as soon as possible, and give them back, and insist upon his taking them, and keeping them too — for her, if no otherwise. And the dear innocent girl was little aware herself how glad she felt of the excuse to call so soon again at Hurstley. Meantime, for safety, she put the money in her Bible. What hallowed gold was that? Gained by honest industry, saved by youthful prudence, given liberally and unasked, to those who needed, and could not pay again ; with a delicate consideration, an heroic essay at concealment, a voluntary sacrifice of self, of present pleasure, passion, and affection. And there it lies, the little store, hidden up in Grace's Bible. She has prayed over it, thanked over it, interceded over it, for herself, for it, for others. How different, indeed, from ordinary gold, from common sin-bought mammon ; how different from that unblest store, which Roger Acton covets ; how purified from meannesses, and separate from harms ! This is of that money, the scarcest coins of all the world, endued with all good properties in heaven and in earth, whereof it had been written, "The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of hosts." Such alone are truly riches — well-earned, well-saved, well-sanctified, well-spent. The wealthiest of European capitalists — the Croesus of modern civilization — may be but a pauper in that better currency, whereof a sample has been shown in the store of Jonathan Floyd. 58 THECROCKOFGOLD. CHAPTER XV. ANOTHER DISCOVERY, AND THE EARNEST OF GOOD THINGS. " Dame, here 's one o' Ben's gallipots he flung away : it 's naught but honey, dame — marked so — no crock of gold ; don't expect it ; no such thing ; luck like that isn't for such as me : though, being as it is, the babes may like it, with their dry bread : open it, good-wife : I hope the water mayn't ha' spoilt it." The notable Mary Acton produced certain scissors, hanging from her pocket by a tape, and cut a knot, which to Roger had been Gordian's. " Why, it's bran, Acton, not honey; look here, will you." She tilted it up, and, along with a cloud of saw-dust, dropped out a heavy hail-storm of — little bits of leather ! "Hallo? what's that?" said Roger, eagerly: "it's gold, gold, I'll be sworn!" It was so. Every separate bit of money, whatever kind of coins they were, had been tidily sewn up in a shred of leather ; remnants of old gloves of all colours ; and the Narbonne jar contained six hundred and eighty-seven of them. These, of course, were hastily picked up from the path whereon they had first fallen, were counted out at home, and the glittering con- tents of most of those little leather bags ripped up were immediately discovered. Oh dear! oh dear! such a sight! Guineas and half-guin- eas, sovereigns and half-sovereigns, quite a little hill of bright, clean, prettily-figured gold. "Hip, hip, hooray!" shouted Roger, in an ecstacy ; "Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" and in the madness of his joy, he executed an extravagant pas seul ; up went his hat, round went his heels, and he capered awkwardly like a lunatic giraffe. " Here 's an end to all our troubles, Poll : we 're as good as gentle-folks now ; catch me a-calling at the Hall, to bother about Jennings and Sir John : a fig for bailiffs, and baronets, parsons, and prisons, and all," and again he roared Hooray ! "I tell you what though, old 'ooman, we must just try the taste of our glorious golden luck, before we do any thing else. Bide a bit, wench, and hide the hoard till I return. I 'm off to the Bacchus's Arms, and I '11 bring you some stingo in a minute, old gal." So off he ran hot- foot, to get an earnest of the blessing of his crock of gold. ANOTHER DISCOVERY. 59 The minute that was promised to produce the stingo, proved to be rather of a lengthened character; it might, indeed, have been a minute, or the fraction of one, in the planet Herschel, whose year is as long as eighty- five of our Terra's, but according to Greenwich calculation, it was nearer like two hours. The little Tom and Jerry shop, that rejoiced in the classical heraldry of Bacchus's Arms, had been startled from all conventionalities by the unwonted event of the demand, " change for a sovereign ?" and when it was made known to the assembled conclave that Roger Acton was the for- tunate possessor, that even assumed an appearance positively miraculous. "Why, honest Roger, how in the world could you ha' come by that?" was the troublesome inquiry of Dick the Tanner. " Well, Acton, you 're sharper than I took you for, if you can squeeze gold out of bailiff Jennings," added Solomon Snip ; and Roger knew no better way of silencing their tongues, than by profusely drenching them in liquor. So he stood treat all round, and was forced to hobanob with each ; and when that was gone, he called for more to keep their curiosity employed. Now, all this caused delay ; and if Mary had been waiting for the "stingo," she would doubtless have had reasonable cause for anger and impatience : however, she, for her part, was so pleasantly occupied, like Prince Arthur's Queen, in counting out the money, that, to say the truth, both lord and liquor were entirely forgotten. But another cause that lengthened out the minute, was the embarrassing business of where to find the change. Bacchus's didn't chalk up trust, where hard money was flung upon the counter ; but all the accumulated wealth of Bacchus's high-priest, Tom Swipey, and of the seven worship- pers now drinking in his honour, could not suffice to make up enough of change : therefore, after two gallons left behind him in libations as afore- said, and two more bottled up for a drink-offering at home, Roger was contented to be owed seven and fourpence ; a debt never likely to be liqui- dated. Much speculation this afforded to the gossips ; and when the treat- er's back was turned, they touched their foreheads, for the man was clearly crazed, and they winked to each other with a gesture of significance. Grace, while musing on her new half-crown — it was strange how long she looked at it — had heai'd with real amazement that uproarious huzza- ing! and, just as her father had levanted for the beer, glided down from her closet, and received the wondrous tidings from her step-mother. She heard in silence, if not in sadness : intuitive good sense proclaimed to her that this sudden gush of wealth was a temptation, even if she felt 60 THE CROCK OF GOLD. no secret fears on the score of-^shall we call it superstition ?-^that dream, this crock, that dark angel — and this so changed spirit of her once religious father: what could she think? she meekly looked to Heaven to avert all ill. Mary Acton also was less elated and more alarmed than she cared to confess : not that she, any more than Grace, knew or thought about lords of manors, or physical troubles on the score of finding the crock : but Mrs. Quarles's shawl, and sundry fearful fancies tinged with blood, these worried her exceedingly, and made her look upon the gold with an uneasy feeling, as if it were an unclean thing, a sort of Achan's wedge. At last, here comes Roger back, somewhat unsteadily I fear, with a stone two-gallon jar of what he was pleased to avouch to be "the down- right stingo." "Hooray, Poll !" (he had not ceased shouting all the way from Bacchus's,) "Hooray — here 1 be again, a gentle-folk, a lord, a king, Poll : why daughter Grace, what 's come to you ? I won't have no dull looks about to-day, girl. Isn't this enough to make a poor man merry? No more troubles, no more toil, no more 'humble sarvent,' no more a ragged, plodding ploughman : but a lord, daughter Grace — a great, rich, luxurious lord — isn't this enough to make a man sing out hooray? — Thank the crock of gold for this — Oh, blessed crock!" " Hush, father, hush ! that gold will be no blessing to you ; Heaven send it do not bring a curse. It will be a sore temptation, even if the rights of it are not in some one else : we know not whom it may belong to, but at any rate it cannot well be ours." "Not ours, child? whose in life is it then?" Mary Acton, made quite meek by a superstitious dread of having money of the murdered, stepped in to Grace's help, whom her father's fierce manner had appalled, with " Roger, it belonged to Mrs. Quarles, I 'm morally sure on it — and must now be Simon Jennings's, her heir." "What?" he almost frantically shrieked, "shall that white hell-hound rob me yet again? No, dame — I'll hang first! the crock I found, the crock I '11 keep : the money 's mine, whoever did the murder." Then, changing his mad tone into one of reckless inebriate gayety — for he was more than half-seas over even then from the pot-house toastings and excitement — he added, " But come, wenches, down with your mugs, and help me to get through the jar : I never felt so dry in all my life. Here's blessings on the crock, on him as sent it, him as has it, and on all the joy and comfort it 's to bring us ! ' Come, drink, drink — we must all drink that — but where 's Tom?" ANOTHER DISCOVERY. 61 If Roger had been quite himself, he never would have asked so super- fluous a question : for Tom was always in one and the same company, albeit never in one and the same place : he and his Pan-like Mentor were continually together, studying wood-craft, water-craft, and all manner of other craft connected with the antique trade of picking and stealing. ' Where's Tom?" Grace, glad to have to answer any reasonable question, mildly answered, " Gone away with Ben, father." Alas ! that little word, Ben, gave occasion to reveal a depth in Roger's fall, which few could have expected to behold so soon. To think that the liberal friend, who only last night had frankly shared his all with him, whose honest glowing heart would freely shed its blood for him, that he in recollection should be greeted with a loathing ! Ben would come, and claim some portion of his treasure — he would cry halves — or, who knows? might want all — all: and take it by strong arm, or by threat to 'peach against him : — curse that Burke ! he hated him. Oh, Steady Acton! what has made thee drink and swear? Oh, Hon- est Roger! what has planted guile, and suspicion, and malice in thy heart? Are these the mere first-fruits of coveting and having? Is this the earliest blessing of that luck which many long for — the finding of a crock of gold? We would not enlarge upon the scene ; a painful one at all times, when man forgets his high prerogative, and drowns his reason in the tankard : but, in a Roger Acton's case, lately so wise, temperate, and patient, peculiarly distressing. Its chief features were these. Grace tasted nothing, but mournfully looked on : once only she attempted to expostu- late, but was met — not with fierce oaths, nor coarse chidings, nor even with idiotic drivelling — oh no ! worse than that she felt : he replied to her with the maudlin drunken promise, " If she 'd only be a good girl, and let him bide, he 'd give her a big Church-bible, bound in solid gold — that 'ud make the book o' some real value, Grace." Poor brpken-hearted daugh- ter — she rushed to her closet in a torrent of tears. As for Mary Acton, she was miraculously meek and dumb; all the scold was quelled within her; the word "blood" was the Petruchio that tamed that shrew; she could see a plenty of those crimson spots, which might " The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green, one red," dancing in the sun-beams, dotted on the cottage walls, sprinkled as 62 THE CROCK OF GOLD. unholy water, over that foul crock. Would not the money be a curse to them any how, say nothing of the danger ? If things went on as they began, Mary might indeed have cause for fear : actually, she could not a-bear to look upon the crock ; she quite dreaded it, as if it had contained a "bottled devil." So there she sat ever so long — silent, thoughtful, and any thing but comfortable. What became of Roger until next day at noon, neither he nor I can tell: true, his carcase lay upon the floor, and the two-gallon jar was empty. But, for the real man, who could answer to the name of Roger Acton, the sensitive and conscious soul — ^that was some where galloping away for fifteen hours in the Paradise of fools: the Paradise? no — ^the Maelstrom ; tossed about giddily and painfully in one whirl of tumultu- ous drunkenness. CHAPTER XVI. HOW THE HOME WAS BLEST THEREBY. It will surprise no one to be told that, however truly such an excess may have been the first, it was by no means the last exploit of our altered labourer in the same vein of heroism. Bacchus's was quite close, and he needs must call for his change ; he had to call often ; drank all quits ; changed another sovereign, and was owed again ; but, trust him, he wasn't going to be cheated out of that: take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves. But still it was ditto repeated ; changing, being owed, grudging, grumbling: at last he found out the famous new plan of owing himself; and as Bacchus's did not see fit to reject such wealthy customers, Roger soon chalked up a yard-long score, and grew so niggardly that they could not get a penny from him. It is astonishing how immediately wealth brings in, as its companion, meanness: they walk together, and stand together, and kneel together, as the hectoring, prodigal Faulconbridge, the Bastard Plantagenet in King John, does with his white-livered, puny brother, Robert. Wherefore, no sooner was Roger blest with gold, than he resolved not to be such a fool as to lose liberally, or to give away one farthing. To give, I say, for extravagant indulgence is another thing ; and it was a fine, proud pleasure HOW THE HOME WAS BLEST. 63 to feast a lot of fellows at his sole expense. If meanness is brother to wealth, it is at any rate first cousin to extravagance. When the dowager collects "her dear five hundred friends" to parade before the fresh young heirs her wax-light lovely daughters — when all is glory, gallopade, and Gunter — when Rubini warbles smallest, and Lablanche is heard as thunder on the stairs — speak, tradesmen, ye who best can tell, the closeness that has catered for that feast; tell it out, ye famished milliners, ground down to sixpence on a ball-dress bill ; whis- per it, ye footmen, with your wages ever due ; let Gath, let Askelon re-echo with the truth, that extortion is the parent of extravagance ! Now, that episode should have been in a foot note ; but no one takes the trouble to read notes; and with justice too; for if a man has any thing to say, let him put it in his text, as orderly as may be. And, if order be sometimes out of the question, as seems but clearly suitable at present to our hero's manner of life, it is wise to go boldly on, with- out so prim an usher ; to introduce our thoughts as they reveal them- selves, ignorant of "their own degrees," not "standing on the order of their coming," but, as a pit crowd on a benefit-night, bustling over one another, helter-skelter, "in most admired disorder." This will well com- port with Roger's daily life: for, notwithstanding the frequent inter- ference of an Amazon wife — regardless of poor, dear Grace's gentle voic^ and melancholy eyes — in spite of a conscience pricking in his breast, with the spines of a horse-chestnut, that evil crock appeared from the beginning to have been found for but one sole purpose — videlicet, that of keeping alight in Roger's brain the fire of mad intoxication. Yes, there were sundry other purposes, too, which may as well be told directly. The utter dislocation of all home comforts occupied the foremost rank. True — in comparison with the homes of affluence and halls of luxury — those comforts may have formerly seemed few and far between ; yet still the angel of domestic peace not seldom found a rest within the cottage. Not seldom 1 always : if sweet-eyed Grace be such an angel, that ever- abiding guest, full of love, duty, piety, and cheerfulness. But now, after long-enduring anguish, vexed in her righteous soul by the shocking sights and sounds of the drunkard and his parasites (for all the idle vagabonds about soon flocked around rich Acton, and were freely welcome to his reckless prodigality), Grace had been forced to steal away, and seek refuge with a neighbour. Here was one blessing the less. Another wretched change was in the wife. Granted, Mary Acton had not ever been the pink of politeness, the violet of meekness, nor the rose 04 THECROCKOFGOLD. of entire amiability: but if she were a scold, that scolding was well meant ; and her irate energies were incessantly directed towards clean- liness, economy, quiet, and other notaUKa of a busy house-wife. She did her best to keep the hovel tidy, to make the bravest show with their scanty chattels, to administer discreetly the stores of their frugal larder, and to recompense the good-man returning from his hard day's work, with much of rude joy and bustling kindness. But now, after the first stupor of amazement into which the crock and its consequences threw her, Poll Acton grew to be a fury : she raged and stormed, and well she might, at filth and discomfort in her home, at nauseous dregs and noisome fumes, at the orgie still kept up, day by day, and night by night, through the length of that first foul week, which succeeded the fortunate discovery. And not in vain she raged and stormed — and fought too ; for she did fight — ay, and conquered : and miserable Roger, now in full possession of those joys which he had longed for at the casement of Hurstley Hall, was glad to betake himself to the bench at Bacchus's, whither he with- drew his ragged regiment. Thus, that crock had spoilt all there was to spoil in the temper and conduct of the wife. Look also at the pretty prattling babes, twin boys of two years old, whom Roger used to hasten home to see ; who had to say their simple prayers ; to be kissed, and comforted, and put to bed ; to be made happier by a wild flower picked up on his path, than if the gift had been a coral with gold bells: where were they now? neglected, dirty, fretting in a comer, their red eyes full of wonder at father's altered ways, and their quick minds watching, with astonished looks, the progress of domestic discord. How the crock of gold has nipped those early blossoms as a killing frost! Again, there used to be, till this sad week of wealth and riotous hilar- ity, that constantly recurring blessing of the morn and evening prayer which Roger read aloud, and Grace's psalm or chapter ; and afterwards the frugal meal — too scanty, perhaps, and coarse — but still refreshing, thank the Lord, and seasoned well with health and appetite; and the heart-felt sense of satisfaction that all around was earned by honest labour; and there was content, and hope of better times, and God's good blessing over every thing. Now, all these pleasures had departed ; gold, unhallowed gold, gotten hastily in the beginning, broadcast on the rank strong soil of a heart that coveted it earnestly, had sprung up as a crop of poisonous tares, and choked the patch of wheat; gold, unhallowed gold, light come, light CARE. 65 gone, had scared or killed the flock of unfledged loves that used to nes- tle in the cotter's thatch, as surely as if the cash were stones, flung wan- tonly by truants at a dove-cot ; and forth from the crock, that egg of wo, had been hatched a red-eyed vulture, to tyrannize in this sad home, where but lately the pelican had dwelt, had spread her fostering wing, and poured out the wealth of her affections. CHAPTER XVII. CARE. But other happy consequences soon became apparent. If Acton in his tipsy state was mad, in his intervals of soberness he was thoroughly miserable. And this, not merely on the score of sickness, exhaustion, prostrated spirits, blue-devils, or other the long, catalogue of a drunkard's joys ; not merely from a raging wife, and a wretched home ; not merely from the stings, however sharp, however barbed, of a conscience ill at ease, that would rise up fiercely like a hissing snake, and strike the black apostate to the earth : these all, doubtless, had their pleasant influences, adding to the lucky finder's bliss: but there was another root of misery most unlocked for, and to the poor who dream of gold, entirely paradoxical. The possession of that crock was the heaviest of cares. Where on earth was he to hide it ? how to keep it safely, secretly ? What if he were robbed of it in some sly way ! O, thought of utter wo ! it made the fortunate possessor quiver like an aspen. Or what, if some one or more of those blustering boon companions were to come by night with a bludgeon and a knife, and — and cut his throat, and find the treasure? or, worse still, were to torture him, set him on the fire like a saucepan (he had heard of Turpin having done so with a rich old woman), and make him tell them " where " in his extremity of pains, and give up all, and then — and then murder him at last, outright, and afterwards burn the hovel over his head, babes and all, that none might live to tell the tale ? These fears set him on the rack, and furnished one inciting cause to that uninterrupted orgie ; he «nust be either mad or miserable, this lucky finder. Also, even in his tipsy state, he could not cast off" care : he might in E 6* 66 THECROCKOFGOLD. his cups reveal the dangerous secret of having found a crock of gold. A secret still it was : Grace, his wife, and himself, were the only souls who knew it. Dear Grace feared to say a word about the business : not in apprehension of the law, for she never thought of that too probable intrusion on the finder: but simply because her unsophisticated piety believed that God, for some wise end, had allowed the Evil One to tempt her father ; she, indeed, did not know the epigram, The devil now is wiser than of yore : He tempts by making rich — not making poor : but she did not conceive that notion in her mind ; she contrasted the wealthy patriarch Job, tried by poverty and pain, but just and patient in adversity — with the poor labourer Acton, tried by luxury and wealth, and proved to be apostate in prosperity : so she held her tongue, and hitherto had been silent on a matter of so much local wonder as her father's sudden wealth, in the midst of urgent curiosity and extraordi- nary rumours. Mary was kept quiet as we know, by superstition of a lower grade, the dread of having money of the murdered, a thought she never breathed to any but her husband ; and to poor uninitiated Grace (who had not heard a word of Ben's adventure), her answer about Mrs. Quarles and Mr. Jennings in the dawn of the crock's first blessing, had been entirely unintelligible : Mary, then, said never a word, but looked on dreadingly to see the end. As for Roger himself, he was too much in apprehension of a landlord's claims, and of a task-master's extortions, to breath a syllable about the business. So he hid his crock as best he could — we shall soon hear how and where — took out sovereign after sovereign day by day, and made his flush of instant wealth a mystery, a miracle, a legacy, good luck, any thing, every thing but the truth : and he would turn fiercely round to the frequent questioner with a " What 's that to you ? — Nobody's business but mine:" and then would coaxingly add the implied bribe to secresy, in his accustomed invitation — "And now, what'll you take?" — a magical phrase, which could suffice to quell murmurs for the time, and postponed curiosity to appetite. Thus the fact was still unknown, and weighed on Roger's mind as a guilty concealment, an oppressive secret. What if any found it out? For immediate safety — the evening after his memorable first fifteen hours of joy — he buried the crock deeply in a hole in his garden, filling CARE. 57 all up hard with stones and brick-bats ; and when he had smoothed it straight and workmanlike, remembered that he surely hadn't kept out enough to last him ; so up it had to come again — five more taken out, and the crock was restored to its unquiet grave. Scarcely had he done this, than it became dark, and he began to fancy some one might have seen him hide it; those low mean tramps (never before had he refused the wretched wayfarers his sympathy) were always sneaking about, and would come and dig it up in the night : so he went out in the dark and the rain, got at it with infinite trouble and a broken pickaxe, and exultingly brought the crock in-doors ; where he buried it a third time, more securely, underneath the grouted floor, close beside the< fire in the chimney-corner: it was now nearly midnight, and he went to bed. Hardly had he tumbled in, after pulling on a nightcap of the flagon, than the dread idea overtook him that his treasure might be melted ! Was there ever such a fool as he? Well, well, to think he could fling his purse on the fire ! What a horrid thought ! Metallurgy was a science quite unknown to Roger; he only considered gold as heavy as lead, and therefore probably as fusible : so down he bustled, made another hole, a deeper one too this time, in the floor under the dresser, where, exhausted with his toil and care, he deposited the crock by four in the morning — and so retired once more. All in vain — nobody ever knew when Black Burke might be returning from his sporting expeditions — and that beast of a lurcher would be sure to be creeping in this morning, and would scratch it up, and his brute of a master would get it all ! This fancy was the worst possible : and Roger rose again, quite sick at heart, pale, worn, and trembling with a miser's haggard joys. Where should he hide that crock — the epithet "cursed" crock escaped him this time in his vexed impatience. In the house and in the garden, it was equally unsafe. Ha! a bright thought indeed: the hollow in the elm-tree, creaking overhead, just above the second arm: so the poor, shivering wretch, almost unclad, swarmed up that slimy elm, and dropped his treasure in the hollow. Confusion ! how deep it was : he never thought of that ; here was indeed something too much of safety : and then those boys of neighbour Goode's were birds'-nesting continually, specially round the lake this spring. What an idiot he was not to have remembered this ! And up he climbed again, thrust in his arm to the shoulder, and managed to repossess himself a fifth time of that blessed crock. 68 THECROCKOFGOLD. Would that the elm had been hollow to its root, and beneath the root a chasm bottomless, and that Plutus in that Narbonne jar had served as a supper to Pluto in the shades ! Better had it been for thee, my Roger. But he had not hid it yet; so, that night — or rather that cold morning about six, the drenched, half-frozen Fortunatus carried it to bed with him : and a precious warming-pan it made : for nothing would satisfy the finder of its presence but perpetual bodily contact : — accordingly, he placed it in his bosom, and it chilled him to the back-bone. Yes ; that was undoubtedly the safest way ; to carry the spoil about with him ; so, next noon — how could he get up till noon after such a woful night? — next noon he emptied the jar, and tying up its contents in a handkerchief, proceeded to wear it as a girdle ; for an hour he clattered about the premises, making as much jingle as a wagoner's team of bells; laden heavily with gold, like the ifScffvaro genius in Herodotus : but he soon found out this would not do at all ; for, independently of all con- cealment at an end, so long as his secret store was rattling as he walked, louder than military spurs or sabre-tackle, he soberly reflected that he might — possibly, possibly, though not probably — get a glass too much again, by some mere accident or other; and then to be robbed of his golden girdle, this cincture of all joy ! O, terrible thought ! as well [this is my fancy, not Rogers's] deprive Venus of her zone, and see how the beggared Queen of Beauty could exist without her treasury, the Cestus. CHAPTER XVIII. INVESTMENT. Next day, the wealthy Roger had higher aspirations. Why should not he get interest for his money, like lords and gentlefolk ? His gold had been lying idle too long; more fool he: it ought to breed money somehow, he knew that ; for, like most poor men whose sole experience of investment is connected with the Lombard's golden balls, he took exalted views of usury. Was he to be "hiding up his talent in a napkin — ?" Ah ! — he remembered and applied the holy parable, but it smote across his heart like a flash of frost, a chilling recollection of good things past INVESTMENT. G9 and gone. What had he been doing with his talents — for he once possessed the ten? had he not squandered piety, purity, and patience? where were now his gratitude to God, his benevolence to man? the father's duteous care, the husband's industry and kindness, the labourer's faith, the Christian's hope — who had spent all these? — Till money's love came in, and money-store to feed it, the poor man had been rich : but now, rotten to the core, by lust of gold, the rich is poor indeed. However, such considerations did not long afflict him — for we know that lookers-on see more than players — and if Roger had encouraged half our wise and sober thoughts, he might have been a better man : but Roger quelled the thoughts, and silenced them ; and thoughts are tender intonations, shy little buzzing sounds, soon scared by coarser noise : Roger had no mind to cherish those small fowls; so they flew back again to Heaven's gate, homeless and uncomforted as weeping peri's. Tlie bank — the county bank — Shark, Breakem, and Company — ^this was the specious Eldorado, the genuine gold-increaser, the hive where he would store his wealth (as honey left for the bees in winter), and was to have it soon retui'ned fourfold. It was indeed a thought to make the rich man glad, that all his shining heap was just like a sample of seed- corn, and the pocket-full should next year fill a sack. How grudgingly he now began to mourn over past extravagance, five pieces gone within the week ! how close and careful he resolved to be in future ! how he would scrape and economize to get and save but one more of those sweet little seeds, that yield more gold — more gold ! And if Roger had been privileged in youth to have fed upon the wisdom of the Eton Latin gram- mar, he could have now quoted with some experimental unction the " Crescit Amor " line, which every body well knows how to finish. Truly, it was growing with his growth, and rioting in strength above his weakness. Swollen with this expanding love, he packed up his money in what were, though he knew it not, rouleaux, but to his plebeian eyes looked more like golden sausages: and he would take it to the bank, and they should bow to him, and Sir him, and give him forthwith more than he had brought ; and if those summary gains were middling great — say twice as much, to be moderate — he thought he might afford himself a chaise coming back, and return to Hurstley Common like a nabob. Thus, full of wealthy fancies, after one glass more, off set Roger to the county town, with his treasure in a bundle. Half-way to it, as hospitality has ordained to be the case wherever 70 THE CROCK OF GOLD. there be half- ways, occurred a public-house : and really, notwithstanding all our monied neophyte's economical resolutions, his throat was so "uncommon dry," that he needs must stop there to refresh the muscles of his larynx : so, putting down his bundle on the settle, he called for a foaming tankard, and thanking the crock, as his evil wont now was, sat down to drink and think. Here was prosperity indeed, a flood of aston- ishing good fortune : that he, but a little week agone, a dirty ditcher — so was he pleased to designate his former self — a ragged wretch, little better than a tramp, should be now progressing like a monarch, with a mighty bag of gold to enrich his county town. To enrich, and be there- by the richer; for Roger's notions of finance were so simple, as to run the risk of being called sublimely indistinct : he took it as an axiom that "money bred money," but in what way to draw forth its generative properties, whether or not by some new-fangled manure, he was entirely ignoi'ant; and it clearly was his wisdom to leave all that mystery of money-making solely to the banker. All he cared about was this: to come back richer than he came — and, lo! how rich he was already. Lolling at high noon, on a Wednesday too, in the extremest mode of rustic beauism, with a bag of gold by his side, and a pot of porter in his hand — here was an accumulation of magnificence — all the prepositions pressed into his service. His wildest hopes exceeded, and almost nothing left to wish. Blown up with the pride and importance of the moment, and some little oblivious from the potent porter — he had paid and sallied forth, and marched a mile upon his way, full of golden fancies, a rich luxurious lord as he was — when all on a sudden the hallucination crossed his dull pellucid mind, that he had left the store behind him ! O, pungent terror ! — O, most exquisite torture ! was it clean gone, stolen, lost, lost, lost for ever? Rushing back in an agony of fear, that made the ruddy hostess think him crazed, with his hair on end, and a face as if it had been white-washed, he flew to the tap-room, and — almost fainted for ecstasy of joy when he found it, where he had laid it, on the settle ! Better had you lost it, Roger ; better had your ecstasy been sorrow : there is more trouble yet for you, from that bad crock of gold. But if your lesson is not learnt, and you still think otherwise, go on a little while exultingly as now I see you, and hug the treasure to your heart — the treasure that will bring you yet more misery. And now the town is gained, the bank approached. What ! that big barred, guarded place, looking like a mighty mouse-trap? he didn't half like to venture in. At last he pushed the door ajar, and took a peep ; INVESTMENT. 7I there were muskets over the mantel-piece, ostentatiously ticketed as "Loaded! Beware!" there were leather buckets ranged around the walls: he did not in any degree like it: was he to expose his treasure in this idiot fashion to all the avowed danger of fire and thieves? How. ever, since he had come so far, he would get some interest for his money, that he would — so he'd just make bold to step to the counter and ask a very obsequious bald-headed gentleman, who sired him quite affably, "How much. Master, will you be pleased to give me for my gold?" The gentleman looked queerish, as if he did not comprehend the question, and answered, " Oh ! certainly, sir — certainly — we do not object to give you our notes for it," at the same time producing an extremely dirty bundle of worn-out bits of paper. Roger stroked his chin. "But, Master, my meaning is, not how many o' them brown bits o' paper you '11 sell me for my gold here," and he exhibited a greater store than Mr. Breakem had seen at once upon his counter for a year, "but how much more gold you '11 send me back with than what I 've brought ? by way of interest, you know, or some such law : for I don't know much about the Funds, Master." "Indeed, sir," replied the civil banker, who wished by any means to catch the clodpole's spoil — "you are very obliging; we shall be glad to allow you two-and-a-half per centum per annum for the deposit you are good enough to leave in our keeping." " Leave in your keeping, Master ! no, I didn't say that ! by your leave, I'll keep it myself!" "In that case, sir, I really do not see how I can do business with you." True enough ; and Roger would never have been such a monetary blockhead, had he not been now so generally tipsy ; the fumes of beer had mingled with his plan, and all his usual shrewdness had been blunted into folly by greediness of lucre on the one side, and potent liquors on the other. The moment that the banker's parting speech had reached his ear, the absurdity of Roger's scheme was evident even to himself, and with a bare " Good day. Master," he hurriedly took his bundle from the counter, and scuttled out as quick as he could. His feelings, walking homeward, were any thing but pleasant; the bubble of his ardent hope was burst : he never could have more than the paltry little sum he carried in that bundle : what a miser he would be of it : how mean it now seemed in his eyes — a mere sample-bag of seed, instead of the wide-waving harvest! Ah, well; he would save 72 THECROCKOFGOLD. and scrape — ay, and go back to toil again — do any thing rather than spend. Got home, the difficulty now recurred, where was he to hide it? The store was a greater care than ever, now those rascally bankers knew of it. He racked his brain to find a hiding-place, and, at length, really hit upQn a good one. He concealed the crock, now replenished with its contents, in the thatch just over his bed's head : it was a rescued darling : so he tore a deep hole, and nested it quite snugly. Perhaps it did not matter much, but the rain leaked in by that hole all night, and fortunate Roger woke in the morning drenched with wet, and racked by rheumatism. CHAPTER XIX. CAIUMNT. Moke blessings issue from the crock ; Pandora's box is set wide open, and all the sweet inhabitants come forth. If apprehensions for its safety made the finder full of care, the increased whisperings of the neighbour- hood gave him even deeper reason for anxiety. In vain he told lie upon lie about a legacy of some old uncle in the clouds ; in vain he stuck to the foolish and transparent falsehood, with a dogged pertinacity that appealed, not to reason, but to blows; in vain he made affirmation weaker by his oath, and oaths quite unconvincing by his cudgel : no one believed him : and the mystery was rendered more inexplicable from his evidently nervous state and uneasy terror of discovery. He had resolved at the outset, cunningly as he fancied, to change no more than one piece of gold in the same place; though Bacchus's undoubtedly proved the rule by furnishing an exception : and the conse- quence came to be, that there was not a single shop in the whole county town, nor a farm-house in all the neighbourhood round, where Roger Acton had not called to change a sovereign. True, the silver had sel- dom been forthcoming ; still, he had asked for it ; and where in life could he have got the gold ? Many was the rude questioner, whose curiosity had been quenched in drink ; many the insuffijrable pryer, whom club-law had been called upon to silence. Meanwhile, Roger steadily kept on, CALUMNY. 73 accumulating silver where he could : for his covetous mind delighted in the mere semblance of an increase to his store, and took some untutored numismatic interest in those pretty variations of his idol — money. But if Roger's heap increased, so did the whispers and suspicions of the country round; they daily grew louder, and more clamorous; and soon the charitable nature of chagrined wonder assumed a shape more heart-rending to the wretched finder of that golden hoard, than any other care, or fear, or sin, that had hitherto torn him. It only was a miracle that the neighbours had not thought of it before ; seldom is the world so unsuspicious; but then honest Roger's forty years of character were something — they could scarcely think the man so base ; and, above all, gentle Grace was such a favourite with all, was such a pattern of purity, and kindliness, and female conduct, that the tongue would have blistered to its roots, that had uttered scorn of her till now. As things were, though, could any thing be clearer? Was charity herself to blame in putting one and one together ? Sir John was rich, was young, gay, and handsome ; but Grace was poor — but indisputably beautiful, and prob- ably had once been innocent : some had seen her going to the Hall at strange times and seasons — for in truth, she often did go there ; Jonathan and Sarah Stack, of course, were her dearest friends on earth : and so it came to pass, that, through the blessing of the crock, honest Roger was believed to live on the golden wages of his daughter's shame! Oh, coarse and heartless imputation ! Oh, bitter price to pay for secresy and wonderful good fortune! In vain the wretched father stormed, and swore, and knocked down more than one foul-spoken fellow that had breathed against dear Grace. None but credited the lie, and many envious wretches actually gloried in the scandal ; I grieve to say that women — divers venerable virgins — rejoiced that this pert hussey was at last found out; she was too pretty to be good, too pious to be pure; now at length they were revenged upon her beauty ; now they had their tri- umph over one that was righteous over-much. For other people, they would urge the reasonable question, how else came Roger by the cash? and getting no answer, or worse than none — a prevaricating, mystifying mere put-off — they had hardly an alternative in common exercise of judgment: therefore, "Shame on her," said the neighbours, "and the bitterest shajne on him :" and the gaffers and grand-dames shook their heads virtuously. Yet worse : there was another suggestion, by no means contradictory, though simultaneous: what had become of Tom? ay — that bold vouno- 7 74 THECROCKOFGOLD. fellow — Thomas Acton, Ben Burke's friend : why was he away so long, hiding out of the country? they wondered. The suspected Damon and Pythias had gone a county off to certain fens, and were, during this important week, engaged in a long process of ensnaring ducks. Old Gaffer White had muttered something to Gossip Heartley, which Dick the Tanner overheard, wherein Tom Acton and a gun, and Burke, and burglary, and throats cut, and bags of gold, were conspicuous ingre- dients : so that Roger Acton's own dear Tom, that eagle-eyed and hand- some better image of himself, stood accused, before his quailing father's face, of robbery and murder. Both — both darlings, dead Annie's little orphaned pets, thus stricken by one stone to infamy ! Grace, scouted as a hussey, an outcast, a bad girl, a wanton — blessed angel ! Thomas — generous boy — keenly looked for, inJiis near return, to be seized by rude hands, manacled, and dragged away, and tried on suspicion as a felon — for what? that crock of gold. Yet Roger heard it all, knew it all, writhed at it all, as if scorpions were lashing him ; but still he held on grimly, keeping that bad secret. Should he blab it out, and so be poor again, and lose the crock ? That our labourer's changed estate influenced his bodily health, under this accumulated misery and desperate excitement, began to be made manifest to all. The sturdy husbandman was transformed into a tremu- lous drunkard; the contented cottager, into a querulous hypochondriac; the calm, religious, patient Christian, into a tumultuous blasphemer. Could all this be, and even Roger's iron frame stand up against the bat- tle! No, the strength of Samson has been shorn. The crock has poured a blessing on its finder's very skin, as when the devil covered Job with boils. CHAPTER XX. THE BAILIFP'S VISIT. One day at noon, ere the first week well was over since the fortunate discovery of gold, as Roger lay upon his bed, recovering from an over- night's excess, tossed with fever, vexation, and anxiety, he was at once THE BAILIFF'S VISIT. 75 surprised and frightened by a visit from no less a personage than Mr. Simon Jennings. And this was the occasion of his presence : Directly the gathering storm of rumours had collected to that focus of all calumny, the destruction of female character and murder charged upon the innocent, Grace Acton had resolved upon her course ; secresy could be kept no longer; her duty now appeared to be, to publish the story of her father's lucky find. Grace, we may observe, had never been bound to silence, but only imposed it on herself from motives of tenderness to one, whom she believed to be taken in the toils of a temptation. She, simple soul, knew nothing of manorial rights, nor wotted she that any could despoil her father of his money ; but even if such thoughts had ever crossed her mind, she loathed the gold that had brought so much trouble on them all, and cared not how soon it was got rid of. Her father's health, hon- our, happiness, were obviously at stake ; perhaps, also, her brother's very life: and, as for herself, the martyr of calumny looked piously to heaven, offered up her outraged heart, and resolved to stem this torrent of misfortune. Accordingly, with a noble indignation worthy of her, she had gone straightway to the Hall, to see the baronet, to tell the truth, fling aside a charge which she could scarcely comprehend, and openly vindicate her offended honour. She failed — many imagine happily for her own peace, if Sir John had not been better than his friends — in gain- ing access to the Lord of Hurstley ; but she did see Mr. Jennings, who serenely interposed, and listened to all she came to say — " her father had been unfortunate enough to find a crock of money on the lake side near his garden." When Jennings heard the tale, he started as if stung by a wasp : and urging Grace to tell it no one else (though the poor girl "must," she said, " for honour's sake "), he took up his hat, and ran off breathlessly to Acton's cottage. Roger was at home, in bed, and sick ; there was no escape ; and Simon chuckled at the lucky chance. So he crept in, carefully shut the door, put his finger on his lips to hush Roger's note of admiration at so little wished a vision ; and then, with one of his accustomed scared and fearful looks behind him, muttered under his breath, " Man, that gold is mine : I have paid its price to the uttermost ; give me the honey-pot." Roger's first answer was a vulgar oath ; but his tipsy courage faded soon away before old habits of subserviency, and he faltered out, 76 THECROCKOFGOLD. "I — I— ^Muster Jennings! I've got no pot of gold!" " Man, you lie ! you have got the money ! give it me at once — and — " he added in a low, hoarse voice, " we will not say a word about the murder." "Murder!" echoed the astonished man. " xA.y, murder, Acton : — off! off, I say !" he muttered parenthetically, then wrestled for a minute violently, as with something in the air; and recovering as from a spasm, calmly added, " Ay, murder for the money." "I — I!" gasped Roger; "I did no murder, Muster Jennings!" A new liglit seemed to break upon the bailiff, and he answered with a tone of fixed determination, " Acton, you are the murderer of Bridget Quarles." Roger's jaw dropped, dismay was painted on his features, and cer- tainly he did look guilty enough. But Simon proceeded in a ten- derer tone ; "Notwithstanding, give me the gold, Acton, and none shall know a word about the murder. We will keep all quiet, Roger Acton, all nice and quiet, you know;" and he added, coaxingly, "come, Roger, give me up this crock of gold." "Never!" with a fierce anathema, answered our hero, now himself again: the horrid accusation had entranced him for a while, but this coaxing strain roused up all the man in him : "Never!" and another oath confirmed it. "Acton, give it up, I say!" was shouted in rejoinder, and Jennings glared over him with his round and staring eyes as he lay faint upon his bed — " Give up the crock, or else — " "Else what? you whitened villain." The bailiff flung himself at Roger's neck, and almost shrieked, " I '11 serve you as I — " There was a tremendous struggle ; attacked at unawares, for the moment he was nearly mastered ; but Acton's tall and wiry frame soon overpowered the excited Jennings, and long before you have read what I have written-:— he has leaped out of bed — seized — doubled up — and flung the battered bailiff headlong down the narrow stair-case to the bot- tom. This done, Roger, looking like Don Quixote de la Mancha in his penitential shirt, mounted into bed again, and quietly lay down ; wonder- ing, half-sober, at the strange and sudden squall. THE CAPTURE. 77 CHAPTER XXL THE CAPTURE. He had not long to wonder. Jennings got up instantly, despite of bruises, posted to the Hall, took a search-warrant from Sir John's study, (they were always ready signed, and Jennings filled one up,) and returned with a brace of constables to search the cottage. Then Roger, as he lay musing, fancied he heard men's voices below, and his wife, who had just come in, talking to them ; what could they want ? tramps, perhaps: or Ben? he shuddered at the possibility; with Tom too; and he felt ashamed to meet his son. So he turned his face to the wall, and lay musing on — he hadn't been drinking too much over-night — Oh, no ! it was sickness, and rheumatics, and care about the crock ; Tom should be told that he was very ill, poor father! Just as he had planned this, and resolved to keep his secret from that poaching ruffian Burke, some one came creeping up the stairs, slided in at the door, and said to him in a deep whisper from the further end of the room, " Acton, give me the gold, and the men shall go away ; it is not yet too late ; tell me where to find the crock of gold." An oath was the reply ; and, at a sign from Jennings, up came the other two. "We have searched every where, Mr. Simon Jennings, both cot and garden; ground disturbed in two or three places, but nothing under it; in-doors too, the floor is broken by the hearth and by the dresser, but no signs of any thing there : now, Master Acton, tell us where it is, man, and save us all the trouble." Roger's newly-learnt vocabulary of oaths was drawn upon again. " Did you look in the ash-pit ?" asked Jennings. "No, sir." "Well, while you two search this chamber, I will examine it myself." Mr. Jennings apparently entertained a wholesome fear of Acton's powers of wrestling. Up came Simon in a hurry back again, with a lot of little empty leather bags he had raked out, and — the fragment of a shawl ! the edges burnt, it was a corner bit, and marked B. Q. "What do you call this, sir?" asked the exulting bailiff. 7* 78 THE CROCK OF GOLD. "Curse that Burke!" — ^thought Roger; but he said nothing. And the two men up stairs had searched, and pried, and hunted every where in vain ; the knotty mattress had been ripped up, the chimney scrutinized, the floor examined, the bed-clothes overhauled, and as for the thatch, if it hadn't been for Roger Acton's constant glance upwards at his treasure in the roof, I am sure they never would have found it. But they did at last : there it was, the crock of gold, full proof of rob- bery and murder! "Aha!" said Simon, in a complacent triumph, "Mrs. Quarles's iden- tical honey-pot, full of her clean bright gold, and many pieces still encased in those tidy leather bags;" and his round eyes glistened again; but all at once, with a hurried look over his left shoulder, he exclaimed, involuntarily, in a very different tone, " Ha ! away, I say ! — " Then he snatched the crock up eagerly, and nursed it like a child. "Come along with us, Master Acton, you're wanted somewhere else; up, man, look alive, will you?" And Roger dressed himself mechanically. It was no manner of use, not in the least worth while resisting, innocent though he was ; his treasure had been found, and taken from him; he had nothing more to live for; his gold was gone — his god ; where was the wisdom of fighting for any thing else ; let them take him to prison if they would, to the jail, to the gallows, to any-whither, now his gold was gone. So he put on his clothes without a murmur, and went with them as quiet as a lamb. Never was there a clearer case ; the housekeeper's hoard had been found in his possession, with a fragment of her shawl ; and Sir John Vincent was very well aware of the mystery attending the old woman's death ; besides, he was in a great hurry to be off*; for Pointer, and Silli- phant, and Lord George Pypp, were to have a hurdle race with him that day, for a heavy bet ; so he really had not time to go deep into the matter ; and the result of five minutes' talk before the magisterial chairs (Squire Ryle having been summoned to assist) was, that, on the accusation of Simon Jennings, Roger Acton was fully committed to the county jail, to be tried at next assizes, for Bridget Quai'les's murder. Thank God ! poor Roger, it has come to this. What other way than this was there to save thee from thy sin — ^to raise thee from thy fall ? Where else, but in a prison, could you get the silent, solitary hours leading you again to wholesome thought and deep repentance ? Where else could you escape the companionship of all those loose and low associates, sottish brawlers, ignorant and sensual unbelievers, vagabond THE CAPTURE. 79 radicals, and other lewd fellows of the baser sort, that had drank them- selves drunk at your expense, and sworn to you as captain ! The place, the time, the means for penitence are here. The crisis of thy destiny is come. Honest Roger, Steady Acton, did I not see thy guardian angel — after all his many tears, aggrieved and broken spirit ! — did I not see him lift his swollen eyes in gratitude to Heaven, and benevolence to thee, and smile a smile of hopeful joy when that damned crock was found? Gladly could he thank his Lord, to behold the temptation at an end. Did I not see the devil slink away from thee abashed, issuing like an adder from thy heart, and then, with a sudden Protean change, driven from thy hovel as a thunder-cloud dispersing, when Simon Jennings seized the jar, hugged it as his household-god — and took it home with him — and counted out the gold — and locked the bloody treasure in his iron-chest? Fitly did the murderer lock up curses with his spoil. And when God smote thine idol, dashing Dagon to the ground, and thy heart was sore with disappointment, and tender as a peeled fig — when hope was dead for earth, and conscience dared not look beyond it — ah ! Roger, did I judge amiss when I saw, or thought I saw, those eyes full of humble shame, those lips quivering with remorseful sorrow? We will leave thee in the cold stone cell — with thy well-named angel Grace to comfort thee, and pray with thee, and help thee back to God again, and so repay the debt that a daughter owes her father. Happy prison! where the air is sweetened by the frankincense of piety, and the pavement gemmed with the flowers of hope, and the ceil- ing arched with Heaven's bow of mercy, and the walls hung around with the dewy drapery of penitence ! Happy prison ! where the talents that were lost are being found again, gathered in humility from this stone floor ; where poor-making riches are banished from the postern, and rich-making poverty streameth in as light from the grated window; where care vexeth not now the labourer emptied of his gold, and calumny's black tooth no longer gnaws the heart-strings of the innocent. Hark ! it is the turnkey, coming round to leave the pittance for the day: he is bringing in something in an earthern jar. Speak, Roger Acton, which will you choose, man — a prisoner's mess of pottage — or a crock of gold? 80 THE CROCK OF GOLD. CHAPTER XXII. THE AimT AND HER NEPHEW. ♦ While we leave Roger Acton in the jail, waiting for the very near assizes, and wearing every hour away in penitence and prayer, it will be needful to our story that we take a retrospective glance at certain events, of no slight importance. I must now speak of things, of which there is no human witness; recording words, and deeds, whereof Heaven alone is cognizant, Heaven alone — and Hell ! For there are secret matters, which the murdered cannot tell us, and the murderer dare not — let him confess as fully as he will. Therefore, with some omnipresent sense, some invisible ubiquity, I must note down scenes as they occurred, whether mortal eye has witnessed them or not; I must lay bare secret thoughts, unlatch the hidden chambers of the heart, and duly set out, as they successively arose, the idea which tongue had not embodied, the feeling which no action had expressed. Hitherto, we have pretty well preserved inviolate the three grand unities — time, place, circumstance ; and even now we do not sin against the first and chiefest, however we may seem so to sin ; for, had it suited my purpose to have begun with the beginning, and to have placed the pres- ent revelations foremost, the strictest stickler for the unities would have only had to praise my orthodox adhei'ence to them. As it is, I have chosen, for interest sake, to shuffle my cards a little ; and two knaves happen to have turned up together just at this time and place, The time is just three weeks ago — a week before the baronet came of age, and a fortnight antecedent to the finding of the crock ; which, as we know, after blessing Roger for a se'nnight, has at last left him in jail. The place is the cozy house-keepers room at Hurstley : and the brace of thorough knaves, to enact then and there as dramatis personm, includes Mistress Bridget Quarles, a fat, sturdy, bluffy, old woman, of a jolly laugh withal, and a noisy tongue — and our esteemed acquaintance Mister Simon Jennings. The aunt, house-keeper, had invited the nephew, butler, to take a dish of tea with her, and rum-punch had now succeeded the souchong. " Well, Aunt Quarles, is it your meaning to undertake a new master?" THE AUNT AND HER NEPHEW. 81 "Don't know, nephy — can't say yet what he '11 be like : if he '11 leave us as we are, won't say wont." " Ay, as we are, indeed ; comfortable quarters, and some little to put by, too : a pretty penny you will have laid up all this while, I '11 be bound : I wager you now it is a good five hundred, aunt — come, done for a shilling." "Get along, foolish boy; a'n't you o' the tribe o' wisdom too — ha, ha, ha!" "I will not say," smirked Simon, "that my nest has not a feather." " It 's easy work for us, Nep ; we hunt in couples : you the men, and I the maids — ha, ha !" " Tush, Aunt Bridget ! that speech is not quite gallant, I fear." And the worshipfCil extortioners giggled jovially. " But it's true enough for all that, Simon : how d'ye manage it, eh, boy ? much like me, I s'pose ; wages every quarter from the maids, dues from tradesmen Christmas-tide and Easter, regular as Parson Evans's ; pretty little bits tacked on weekly to the bills, beside presents from every body ; and so, boy, my poor forty pounds a-year soon mounts up to a hundred." " Ay, ay. Aunt Bridget — but I get the start of you, though you prob- ably were born a week before-hand : talk of parsons, look at me, a reg- ular grand pluralist monopolist, as any bishop can be ; butler in doors, bailiff out of doors, land-steward, house-steward, cellar-man, and pay- master. I am not all this for naught, Aunt Quarles : if so much goes through my fingers, it is but fair that something stick." "True, Simon — O certainly; but if you come to boasting, my boy, 1 don't carry this big bunch o' keys for nothing neither. Lord love you ! why merely for cribbings in the linen-line for one month, John Draper swapped me that there shawl : none o' my clothes ever cost me a penny, and I a'n't quite as bare as a new-born baby neither. Look at them trunks, bless you!" "Ay, ay, aunt, I'll be bound the printer of your prayer-book has left out a 'not,' before the 'steal,' eh? — ha! ha!" "Fie, naughty Simon, fie! them's not stealings, them's parquisites. Where 's the good o' living in a great house else ? But come. Si, haven't you struck out the 'not,' for yourself, though the printer did his duty, eh, Nep?" " Not a bit, aunt — not a bit : all sheer honesty and industry. Look at my pretty little truck-shop down the village. Wo betide the labourer F 82 THECROCKOFGOLD. that leaves off dealing there ! not one that works at Hurstley, but eats my bread and bacon; besides the 'tea, coffee, tobacco, and snuff.'" , "Pretty fairish articles, eh? I never dealt with you. Si: no, Nep, no — you never saw the colour o' my money." Jennings gave a start, as if a thought had pricked him; but gayly recovering himself, said, " Oh, as to pretty fairish, I know there is one thing about the bacon good enough ; ay, and the bread too — the very best of prices ; ha ! ha ! is not that good ? And for the other genuine articles, I don't know that much of the tea comes from China — and the coffee is sold ground, because it is burnt maize — and there's a plenty of wholesome cabbage leaf cut up in the tobacco — while as for snuff, 1 give them a dry, pep- pery, choky, sneezy dust, and I dare say that it does its duty." It was astonishing how innocently the worthy couple laughed together. "My only trouble. Aunt Quarles, is where to keep my gains — what to do with them. I am quite driven to the strong-box system, interest is so bad ; and as to speculations, they are nervous things, and sicken one. I invest in the Great Western one day — a tunnel falls in, so I sell my shares the next, and send the proceeds to Australia; then, looking at the map, I see the island isn't clean chalked out all round, and begin- ning to fear that the sea will get in where it a'n't made water-tight by the Admiralty, I call the money home again. You see I don't know what to do with gold when I get it. Where do you keep yours now, aunt, I wonder?" "O, Nep, never mind me ; you rattle on so I can't get in never a word. I '11 only tell you where I don't keep it. Not at Breakem's bank, for they're brewers, and hosiers, and chandlers, and horse-dealers — ay, and swindlers too, the whole ' company ' on 'em ; not in mortgages, for I hate the very smell of a lawyer, with all his pounce and parchment ; not in Gover'me't 'nuities, for I 'm an old 'ooman, boy ; and not in the Three per Cents, nor any other per cents, for I 've sense enough to know that my highest interest lies in counting out, as my first principle is dropping in." And the fat female laughed herself purple at the venerable joke. Simon was a courtier, and laughed too, as immoderately as possible. " Ah ! I dare say now you have got a Chubb's patent somewhere full of gold ?" he asked somewhat anxiously ; " take your punch, aunt, wont you? I do not see you drink." "Sinjon, mark me; fools who want to be robbed put their money into an iron chest, that thieves may know exactly where to find it; they SCHEMES. 83 might as well ticket it ' cash,' and advertise to Newgate — come and steal. I know a little better than to be such a fool." "Yes, certainly — I dare say now you keep it in your work-box, or sew it up in your stays, or hide it in the mattress, or in an old tea-pot, maybe." And Jennings eyed her narrowly. "Nephew, what rhymes to money?" "Money? — Well I can't say I am a poet — stony, perhaps. At least," added the benevolent individual, " when I have raised a wretch's rent to gain a little more by him, stony is not a bad shield to lift against pray- ers, and tears, and orphans, and widows, and starvation, and all such nonsense." "Not bad, neither, Nep: but there's a better rhyme than that." "You cannot mean honey, aunt? when I guessed stony, I thought you might have some snug little casli cellar under the flags. But honey ? are you such a thorough Mrs. Rundle as to pickle and preserve your very guineas, the same as you do strawberries or apricots in syrup?" " Oh, you clever little fool ! how prettily you do talk on : your tongue 's as tidy as your cash-book : when you 've any money to put by, come to Aunt Bridget for a crock to hide it in : mayn't one use a honey-pot, as Teddy Rourke would say, barring the honey ?" " Ha ! and so you hide the hoard up there, aunt, eh ? along with the preserves in a honey-pot, do you?" " We '11 see — we '11 see, some o' these long days ; not that the mon- ey 's to be yours, Nep — you're rich enough, and don't want it; there's your poor sister Scott with her fourteen children, and Aunt Bridget must give her a lift in life : she was a good niece to me, Simon, and never left my side before she married : maybe she '11 have cause to bless the dead." Jennings hardly spoke a word more ; but drained his glass in silence, got up a sudden stomach-ache, and wished his aunt good-night. CHAPTER XXIII. SCHEJilES. We must follow Simon Jennings to his room. He felt keenly disap- pointed. Money was the idol of his heart, as it is of many million others. He had robbed, lied, extorted, tyrannized ; he had earned scorn, ill-report, 84 THECROCKOFGOLD. and hatred ; nay, he had even diligently gone to work, and lost his own self-love and self-respect in the service of his darling idol. He was at once, for lucre's sake, the mean, cringing fawner, and the pitiless, iron despot ; to the rich he could play supple parasite, while the poor man only knew him as an unrelenting persecutor ; with the good, and they were chiefly of the fairer, softer sex, he walked in meekness, the spirit- ual hypocrite ; the while, it was his boast to over-reach the worst in low duplicity and crooked dealing. All this he was for gold. When the eye of the world M^as on him, and intuition warned him of the times, he was ever the serene, the correct, with a smooth tongue and an oily smile ; but in the privacy of some poor hovel, where his debtor sued for indul- gence, or some victim of his passions (he had more depravities than one) threw her wretched self upon his pity, then could Simon Jennings lash sternness into rage, and heat his brazen heart with the embers of invet- erate malice. It was as if the serpent, that voluble, insinuating reptile, which had power to fascinate poor Eve, turned to rend' her when she had fallen, erect, with flashing eyes, and bristling crest, with venomed fangs, and hissing. Behold, snake-worshippers of Mexico, the prototype of your grim idol, in Mammon's model slave and specimen disciple ! Such a man was Simon Jennings, a soul given up to gold — exclusively to gold ; for although, as we have hinted, and as hereafter may appear, he could sell himself at times to other sins, still these were but as stars in his evil firmament, while covetousness ruled it like the sun ; or, if the beauteous stars and blessed sun be an image too hallowed for his wick- edness, we may find a fitter in some stagnant pool, where the pestilential vapour over all is Mammonism, and the dull, fat weeds that rot beneath, are pride, craftiness, and lechery. In fact, to speak of passions in a heart such as his, were a palpable misnomer; all was reduced to calcu- lation ; his rage was fostered to intimidate, and where the wretch seemed kinder, his kindnesses were aimed at power, as an object, rather than at pleasure — the power to obtain more gold. For it is a dreadful truth (which I would not dare to utter if such crimes had never been), that a reprobate of the bailiff Jennings's stamp may, by debts, or fines, or kind usurious loans, entrap a beggared crea- ture in his toils ; and then lyingly propose remission at the secret sacri- fice of honour, in some one, over whom that dastard beggar has control ; and having this point gained, the seducer is quite capable of using, for still more extortion, the power which a threatening of exposure gives, when the criminally weak has stooped to sin, on promises of silence and SCHEMES. 85 delivery from ruin. I wish there may be no poor yeoman in this broad land, of honourable name withal, he and his progenitors for ages, who can tell the tale of his own base fears, a creditor's exactions, and some dependant victim's degradation : some orphaned niece, some friendless ward, immolated in her earliest youth at the shrine of black-hearted Mammon ; I wish there may be no sleek middle-man guilty of the crimes here charged upon Simon Jennings. This worthy, then, had been introduced at Hurstley by his aunt, Mrs. Quarles, on the occurrence of a death vacancy in the lad-of-all-work department, during the long ungoverned space of young Sir John's minority. As the precious " lad " grew older, and divers in-door poten- tates died off, the house-keeper had power to push her nephew on to page- ship, footmanship, and divers other similar crafts, even to the final post of butler; while his own endeavours, backed by his'aunt's interest, managed to secure for him the rule out of doors no less than in, and the closest pos- sible access to guardians and landlords, to the tenants — and their rent. Now, the amiable Mrs. Quarles had contrived the elevation of her nephew, and connived at his monopolies, mainly to fit in cleverly with her own worldly weal ; for it would never have done to have risked the loss of innumerable perquisites, and other peculations, by the possible advent of an honest butler. But, while the worshipful Simon, to do him only justice, fully answered Mrs. Bridget's purpose, and even added much to her emoluments ; still he was no mere derivative scion, but an independ- ent plant, and entertained views of his own. He had his own designs, and laid himself out to entrap his aunt's affections ; or rather, for I can- not say he greatly valued these, to secure her good graces, and worm himself within the gilded clauses of her will ; she was an old woman, rolling in gold, no doubt had a will ; and as for himself, he was younger by five-and-thirty years, so he could afford to wait a little, before trying on her shoes. The petty schemes of thievery and cheating, which he in his Quotem capacities had practised, were to his eyes but as driblets of wealth in comparison with the mighty stream of his old aunt's savings. Not that he had done amiss, trust him ! but then he knew the amount of his own hoard to a farthing, while of hers he was entirely ignorant ; so, on the principle of ' omne ignolum fro mirijico' he pondered on its vast- ness with indefinite amazement, although probably it might not reach the quarter of his own. For it should in common charity be stated, that, with all her hiding and hiving propensities, Mrs. Quarles, however usually a screw, was by fits and starts an extravagant woman, and 8 86 THECROCKOFGOLD. besides spending on herself, had occasionally helped her own kith and kin ; poor niece Scott, in particular, had unconsciously come in for many pleasant pilfe rings, and had to thank her good aunt for innu- merable filched groceries, and hosieries, and other largesses, which (the latter in especial) really had contributed, with sundry other more self- indulgent expenses, to make no small havoc of the store. Still, this store was Simon's one main chance, the chief prize in his hope's lottery ; and it was with a pang, indeed, that he found all his endeavours to compass its possession had been vain. Was that endless cribbage nothing, and the weary Bible-lessons on a Sunday, and the con- stant fetchings and carryings, and the forced smiles, sham congratulations, and other hypocritical affections-^ — fearing for his dear aunt's dropsy, and inquiring so much about her bunions — was all this dull servitude to meet with no reward ? With none ? worse than none ! Fool that he was ! had he schemed, and plotted, and flattered, and cozened — ay, and given away many pretty little presents, lost decoys, that had cost hard money, all for nothing — less than nothing — to be laughed at and postponed to his Meth- odist sister Scott 1 The impudence of deliberately telling him he " didn't want it, and was rich enough!" as if "enough" could ever be good grammar after such a monosyllable as "rich;" and "want it" indeed! of course he wanted it; if not, why had he slaved so many years? want it, indeed ! if to hope by day, and to dream by night — if to leave no means untried of delicately showing how he longed for it — if to grow sick with care, and thin with coveting — if this were to want the gold, good sooth, he wanted it. Don't tell him of starving brats, his own very bowels pined for it ; don't thrust in his face the necessities of others — the necessity is his ; he must have it — he will have it — talk of necessity ! Wait a bit : is there no way of managing some better end to all this ? no mode of giving the right turn to that wheel of* fortune, round which his cares and calculations have been hovering so long ? Is there no con- ceivable method of possessing that vast hoard ? Bless me ! how huge it must be ! and Simon turned whiter at the thought : only add up Mother Quarles's income for fifty-five years : she is seventy-five at least, and came here a girl of twenty. Simon's hair stood on end, and his heart went like a mill-clapper, as he mentally fig. ured out the sum. Is there no possibility of contriving matters so that I may be the architect of my own good luck, and no thanks at all to the old witch there? Dear — what a glorious fancy — let me think a little. Cannot I get at the huge hoard some how ? THE DEVIL'S COUNSEL. 87 CHAPTER XXIV. THE DEVIL'S COUNSEL. "Steal it," said the Devil. Simon was all of a twitter ; for though he fancied his own heart said it, still his ear-drum rattled, as if somebody had spoken. Simon — that ear-drum was to put you off your guard : the deaf can hear the devil: he needs no tympanum to commune with the spirit: listen again, Simon ; your own thoughts echo every word. "Steal it: hide in her room; you know she has a shower-bath there, which nobody has used for years, standing in a corner; two or three cloaks in it, nothing else : it locks inside, how lucky ! ensconce yourself there, watch the old woman to sleep — what a fat heavy sleeper she is ! — quietly take her keys, and steal the store : remember, it is a honey-pot. Nothing's easier — or safer. Who'd suspect you?" "Splendid ! and as good as done," triumphantly exclaimed the nephew, snapping his fingers, and prancing with glee ; — " a glorious fancy ! bless my lucky star!" If there be a planet Lucifer, that was Simon's lucky star. And so, Mrs Quarles the biter is going to be bit, eh ? It generally is so in this world's government. You, who brought in your estimable nephew to aid and abet in your own dishonest ways, are, it seems, going to be robbed of all your knavish gains by him. This is taking the wise in their own craftiness, I reckon : and richly you deserve to lose all your ill-got hoard. At the same time, Mrs. Quarles — I will be just — there are worse people in the world than you are : in comparison with your nephew, I consider you a grosser kind of angel ; and I really hope no harm may befall your old bones beyond the loss of your money. How- ever, if you are to lose this, it is my wish that poor Mrs. Scott, or some other honest body, may get it, and not Simon ; or rather, I should not object that he may get it first, and get hung for getting it, too, before the sister has the hoard. Our friend, Simon Jennings, could not sleep that night ; his reveries and scheming lasted from the rum-punch's final drop, at ten P. M., to circiter two A. M., and then, or thenabouts, the devil hinted "steal it;" and so, not till nearly four, he began to shut his eyes, and dream again, 88 THECROCKOFGOLD. as his usual fashion was, of adding up receipts in five figures, and of counting out old Bridget's hoarded gold. Next day, notwithstanding nocturnal semi-sleeplessness, he awoke as brisk as a bee, got up in as exhilarated a state as any gas-balloon, and was thought to be either surprisingly in spirits, or spirits surprisingly in him; none knew which, "where each seemed either." That whole day long, he did the awkwardest things, and acted in the most absent manner possible ; Jonathan thought Mr. Simon was beside himself; Sarah Stack, foolish thing ! said he was in love, and was observed to look in the glass several times herself; other people did not know what to think — it was quite a mystery. To recount only a few of his unprecedented exploits on that day of anticipative bliss : First, he asked the porter how his gout was, and gave him a thimble- full of whiskey from his private store. Secondly, he paid Widow Soper one whole week's washing in full, without the smallest deduction or per centage. Thirdly, he ordered of Richard Buckle, commonly called Dick the Tanner, a lot of cart harness, without haggling for price, or even asking it. And, fourthly, he presented old George White, who was coming round with a subscription paper for a dead pig — actually, he presented old Gaffer White with the sum of two-pence out of his own pocket ! never was such careless prodigality. But the little world of Hurstley did not know what we know. They possessed no clue to the secret happiness wherewithal Simon Jennings hugged himself; they had no inkling of the crock of gold; they thought not he was going to be suddenly so rich ; they saw no cause, as we do, why he should feel to be like a great heir on the eve of his majority ; they wotted not that Sir John Devereux Vincent, Baronet, had scarcely more agreeable or triumphant feelings when his clock struck twenty- one, than Simon Jennings, butler, as the hour of his hope drew nigh. If a destiny like this man's can ever have a crisis, the hour of his hope is that ; but downward still, into a lower gulf, has been continually his bad career; there is (unless a miracle intervene) no stopping in the slope on which he glides, albeit there may be precipices. He that rushes in his sledge down the artificial ice-hills of St. Petersburgh, skims along not more swiftly than Jennings, from the altitude of infant innocence, had sheered into the depths of full-grown depravity; but even he can fall, and reach, with startling suddenness, a lower deep. As if that Russian mountain, hewn asunder midway, were fitted flush THE AMBUSCADE. 89 to a Norwegian clifT, beetling precipitately over the whirlpool ; then tilt the sledge with its furred inmate over the slope, let it skim with quicker impetus the smoking ice, let it touch that beetling edge, and, leaping from the tangent, let it dart through the air, let it strike the eddying waters, be sucked hurriedly down that hoarse black throat, wind among the roots of the everlasting hills, and split upon the loadstone of the centre. Even such a fate, "down, down to hell," will come to Simon Jennings; wrapped in the furs of complacency, seated in the sledge of covetousness, a-down the slippery launch of well-worn evil habit — over the precipice of crime — into the billows of impenitent remorse — to be swallowed by the vortex of Gehenna! CHAPTER XXV. THE AMBFSCADE. Night came, and with it all black thoughts. Not that they were black at once, any more than darkness leaps upon the back of noon, without the intervening cloak of twilight. Oh dear, no! Simon's thoughts accommodated themselves fitly to the time of day. They had been, for him, at early morning, pretty middling white, that is whity-brown ; thence they passed, with the passing hour kindly, through the shades of burnt sienna, raw umber, and bistre; until, just as we may notice in the case of marking-ink ; that which, five minutes ago, was as water only delicately dirtied, has become a fixed and indelible black. Simon was resolved upon the spoil, come what might; although his waking sensations of buoyancy, his noon-day cogitations of a calmer kind, and his even-tide determined scheming, had now given way to a nervous and unpleasant trepidation. So he poured spirits down to keep his spirits up. Very early after dark, he had watched his opportunity while Mrs. Quarles was scolding in the kitchen, had slipped shoeless and unperceived, from his pantry into the housekeeper's room, and locked himself securely in the shower bath. Hapless wight! it was very little after six yet, and there he must stand till twelve or so : his foresight had not calculated this, and the devil had already begun to cheat him. But he would go through with it now ; no flinching, though 8* 90 THECROCKOFGOLD. his rabbit back is breaking with fatigue, and his knocked knees totter with exhaustion, and his haggard eyes swim dizzily, and his bad heart is failing him for fear. Yes, fear, and with good reason too for fear ; " nothing easier, nothing safer," said his black adviser ; how easily for bodily pains, how safely for chances of detection, was he getting at the promised crock of gold ! Mr. Jennings ! Mr. Simon ! where in the world was Mr. Jennings ?" nobody knew ; he must have gone out somewhere. Strange, too — and left his hat and great-coat. Here 's a general for an ambuscade ; Oh, Simon, Simon ! you have had the whole day to think of it — how is it that both you and your dark friend overlooked in your calculations the certainty of search, and the chance of a discovery? The veriest school-boy, when he hid himself, would hide his hat. I am half afraid that you are in that demented state, which befits the wretch ordained to perish. But where is Mr. Jennings? that was the continued cry for four ago- nizing hours of dread and difficulty. Sarah, the still-room maid, was sitting at her work, unluckily in Mrs. Quarles's room ; she had come in shortly after Simon's secret entry ; there she sat, and he dared not stir. And they looked every where — except in the right place ; to do the devil justice, it was a capital hiding-corner that; rooms, closets, passages, cel- lars, out-houses, gardens, lofts, tenements, and all the "general words," in a voluminous conveyance, were searched and searched in vain ; more than one groom expected (hoped is a truer word) to find Mr. Jennings hanging by a halter from the stable-lamp ; more than one exhilarated labourer, hastily summoned for the search, was sounding the waters with a rake and rope, in no slight excitement at the thought of fishing up a deceased bailiff. It was a terrible time for the ensconced one : sometimes he thought of coming out, and treating the affair as a bit of pleasantry : but then the devil had taken off" his shoes — as a Glascow captain deals with his cargo of refractory Irishers; how could he explain that? his abominable old aunt was shrewd, and he knew how clearly she would guess at the truth ; if he desired to make sure of losing every chance, he could come out now, and reveal himself; but if he nourished still the hope of count- ing out that crock of gold, he '11 bide where he is, and trust to — to — to fate. The wretch had " Providence " on his blistered tongue. If, under the circumstances, any thing could be added to Simon's grat- ification, such pleasing addition was afforded in overhearing, as Lord THE AMBUSCADE. 91 Brougham did, the effect which his rumoured death produced on the minds of those who best had known him. It so happened, Sarah was sick, and did not join the universal hunt; accordingly, being the only audience, divers ambassadors came to tell her constantly the same most welcome news, that Jennings had not yet been found. " Lawk, Sally," said a helper, " what a blessing it '11 be, if that mean old thief's dead ; I'll go to town, if 'tis so, get a dozen Guy's-day rock- ets, tie 'em round with crape, and spin 'em over the larches : that '11 be funeral fun won't it? and it'll sarve to tell the neighbours of our luck in getting rid on him." "I doan't like your thought, Tom," said another staider youth : "it's ill-mirth playing leap-frog over tomb-stones, and poor bravery insulting the dead. Besides, I 'm thinking the bad man that 's taken from us an't a going up'ards, so it 's no use lending him a light. I wish we may all lie in a cooler grave than he does, and not have to go quite so deep down'ard." "Gee up for Lady-day!" exclaimed the emancipated coachman; " why. Sail, I shall touch my whole lump of wages free for the fust time : and I only wish the gals had our luck." " Here, Sarah," interposed a kind and ruddy stable youth, " as we 're all making free with Mr. Simon's own special ale, I 've thought to bring you a nogging on't : come, you 're not so sick as you can't drink with all the rest on us — The bailiff, and may none on us never see his face no more !" These, and similar testimonials to the estimation in which Simon's character was held, must have gratified not a little the hearer of his own laudations : now and then, he winced so that Sarah might have heard him move : but her ear was alive to nothing but the news-bringers, and her eyes appeared to be fixed upon the linen she was darning. That Jennings vowed vengeance, and wreaked it afterwards too, on the youths that so had shown their love, was his solitary pleasure in the shower-bath. But his critics were too numerous for him to punish all : they numbered every soul in the house, besides the summoned aiders — only excepting three : Sarah, who really had a head-ache, and made but little answers to the numerous glad envoys ; Jonathan Floyd, whose charity did not altogether hate the man, and who really felt alarmed at his absence ; and chiefest, Mrs. Quarles, who evinced more affection for her nephew than any thought him worthy of exciting — she wrung her hands, wept, offered rewards, bustled about every where, and kept call- ing blubberingly for " Simon — poor dear Simon." 92 THECROCKOFGOLD. At length, that fearful hue and cry began to subside — the hubbub came to be quieter : neighbour-folks went home, ana inmates went to bed. Sarah Stack put aside her work, and left the room. What a relief to that hidden caitiff! his feet, standing on the cold, damp iron so many hours, bare of brogues, were mere ice — only that they ached intolerably : he had not dared to move, to breathe, and was all over in one cramp : he did not bring the brandy-bottle with him, as he once had planned ; for calculation whispered — " Don't, your head will be the clearer; you must not muddle your brains ;" and so his caution over-reached itself, as usual ; his head was in a fog, and his brains in a whirlwind, for lack of other stimulants than fear and pain. O Simon, how your prudence cheats you ! five mortal hours of anguish and anxiety in one unalterable posture, without a single drop of creature-comfort ; and all this preconcezted too ! CHAPTER XXVI. PRELIMINAEIES. At last, just as the nephew was positively fainting from exhaustion, in came his kind old aunt to bed. She talked a good deal to herself, did Mrs. Quarles, and Simon heard her say, " Poor fellow — poor, dear Simon, he was taken bad last night, and has seemed queerish in the head all day : pray God nothing 's amiss with the boy!" The boy's heart (he was forty) smote him as he heard : yes, even he was vexed that Aunt Bridget could be so foolishly fond of him. But he would go on now, and not have all his toil for nothing. "I'm in for it," said he, "and there's an end." Ay, Simon, you are, indeed, in for it ; the devil has locked you in — but as to the end, we shall see, we shall see. "I shouldn't wonder now," the good old soul went on to say, "if Simon 's wentured (5ut without his hat to cool a head-ache : his grand- father — peace be with him ! died, poor man, in a Lunacy 'Sylum : alack, Si, I wish you mayn't be going the same road. No, no, I hope not — he 's always so prudent-like, and wise, and good ; so kind, too, to a poor old fool like me :" and the poor old fool began to cry again. PRELIMINARIES. 93 "Silly boy — but he'll take cold at any rate: Sarah!" (here Mrs. Quarles rung her bell, and the still-maid answered it.) "Sarah Stack, sit up awhile for Mr. Jennings, and when he comes in, send him here to me. Poor boy," she went on soliloquizing, " he shall have a drop or two to comfort his stomach, and keep the chill out." The poor boy, lying perdu, shuddered at the word chill, and really wished his aunt would hold her tongue. But she didn't. "Maybe now," the affectionate old creature proceeded, "maybe Simon was vexed at what I let drop last night about the money. I know he loves his sister Scott, as I do : but it'll seem hard, too, to leave him noth- ing. I must make my will some day, I 'spose ; but don't half like the job: it's always so nigh death. Yes — yes, dear Si shall have a snug little corner." The real Simon Pure, in his own snug little corner, writhed again. Mrs. Quarles started at the noise, looked up the chimney, under the bed, tried the doors and windovvs, and actually went so near the mark as to turn the handle of the shower-bath ; " Drat it," said she, " Sarah must ha' took away the key : well, there can't be nothing there but cloaks, that 's one comfort." Last of all, a thought struck her — it must have been a mouse at the preserves. And Mrs. Quarles forthwith opened the important cupboard, where Jennings now well knew the idol of his heart was shrined. Then another thought struck Mrs. Quarles, though probably no unusual one, and she seemed to have mounted on a chair, and to be bringing down some elevated piece of crockery. Simon could see nothing with his eyes, but his ears made up for them : if ever Dr. Elliotson produced clairvoyance in the sisters Okey, the same sharpened apprehensions ministered to the inner man of Simon Jenninss through the instrumental magnet of his inordinately covetous desires. Therefore, though his retina bore no picture of the scene, the feelers of his mind went forth, informing him of every thing that happened. Down came a Narbonne honey-pot — Simon saw that first, and it was as the lamp of Aladdin in his eyes: then the bladder was whipped off, and the crock set open on the table. Jennings, mad as Darius's horse at the sight of the object he so longed for, once thought of rushing from his hiding-place, taking the hoard by a coup de main, and running off straight- way to America : but — deary me — that '11 never do ; I mustn't leave my own strong-box behind me, say nothing of hat and shoes : and if I stop for any thing, she 'd raise the house. 94 THECROCKOFGOLD. While this was passing through the immaculate mind of Simon Jen- nings, Bridget had been cutting up an old glove, and had made one of its fingers into a very tidy little leather sacklet ; into this she deposited a bright half sovereign, spoil of the day, being the douceur of a needy brush-maker, who wished to keep custom, and, of course, charged all these vails on the current bill for mops and stable-sponges. "Ha!" muttered she, "it's your last bill here, Mr. Scrubb, I can tell you ; so, you were going to put me off with a crown-piece, were you ? and actually that bit of gold might as well have been a drop of blood wrung from you : yes — yes, Mr. Scrubb, I could see that plainly ; and so you 've done for yourself." Then, having sewed up the clever little bag, she dropped it into the crock : there was no jingle, all dumby : prudent that, in his aunt — for the dear morsels of gold were worth such tender keeping, and leather would hinder them from wear and tear, set aside the clink being silenced. So, the nephew secretly thanked Bridget for the wrinkle, and thought how pleasant it would be to stuff old gloves with his own yellow store. Ah, yes, he would do that — to-morrow morning. Meanwhile, the pig-skin is put on again, and the honey-pot stored away : and Simon instinctively stood a tip-toe to peep ideally into that wealthy corner cupboard. His mind's eye seemed to see more honey- pots ! Mammon help us ! can they all be full of gold ? why, any one of them would hold a thousand pounds. And Simon scratched the palms of his hands, and licked his lips at the thought of so much honey. But see, Mrs. Quarles has, in her peculiar fashion, undressed herself: that is to say, she has taken off her outer gown, her cap and wig — and then has added to the volume of her under garments, divers night habil- iments, flannelled and frilled : while wrappers, manifold as a turbaned Turk's, protect ear-ache, tooth-ache, head-ache, and face-ache, from the elves of the night. And now, that the bedstead creaks beneath her weight, (as well it may, for Bridget is a burden like Behemoth,) Simon's heart goes thump so loud, that it was a wonder the poor woman never heard it. That heart in its hard pulsations sounded to me like the carpenter hammering on her coffin-lid : I marvel that she did not take it for a death-watch tapping to warn her of her end. But no : Simon held his hand against his heart to keep it quiet: he was so very fearful the pitapating would betray him. Never mind, Simon ; don't be afraid ; she is fast asleep already ; and her snore is to thee as it were the challenge of a trumpeter calling to the conflict. ROBBERY. 95 CHAPTER XXVII. ROBBERY. Hush — hush — hush ! Steahhily on tiptoe, with finger on his lips, that fore-doomed man crept out. " The key is in the cupboard still — ha ! how lucky : saves time that, and trouble, and — and — risk ! Oh, no — there can be no risk now," and the wretch added, "thank God!" The devil loves such piety as this. So Simon quietly turned the key, and set the cupboard open : it was to him a Bluebeard's chamber, a cave of the Forty Thieves, a garden of the Genius in Aladdin, a mysterious secret treasure-house of wealth uncounted and unseen. What a galaxy of pickle-pots ! tier behind tier of undoubted currant- jelly, ranged like the houses in Algiers! vasty jars of gooseberry! delicate little cupping-glasses full of syruped fruits! Yet all these candied joys, which probably enhance a Mrs. Rundle's heaven, were as nothing in the eyes of Simon — sweet trash, for all he cared they might be vulgar treacle. His ken saw nothing but the honey-pots — embarrass- ing array — a round dozen of them ! All alike, all posted in a brown line, like stout Dutch sentinels with their hands in their breeches pockets, and set aloft on that same high-reached shelf. Must he really take them all ? impracticable : a positive sack full. What's to be done? — which is he to leave behind? that old witch contrived this identity and multitude for safety's sake. But what if he left the wrong one, and got clear off with the valuable booty of two dozen pounds of honey ? Confusion ! that '11 never do : he must take them all, or none ; all, all 's the word ; and forthwith, as tenderly as possible, the puzzled thief took down eleven pots of honey to his one of gold — all pig-bladdered, all Fortnumed — all slimy at the string ; " Confound that cunning old aunt of mine," said Simon, aloud ; and took no notice that the snores surceased. Then did he spread upon the table a certain shawl, and set the crocks in order on it : and it was quite impossible to leave behind that pretty ostentatious "Savings' Bank," which the shrewd hoaider kept as a feint to lure thieves from her hidden gold, by an open exhibition of her silver : unluckily, though, the shillings, not being leathered up nor branned, 96 THE CROCK OF GOLD. rattled like a Mandarin toy, as the trembling hand of Jennings deposited the bank beside the crockeries — and, at the well-known sound, I observed (though Simon did not, as he was in a trance of addled triumph) or fan- cied I observed Mrs. Quarles's head move: but as she said nothing, perhaps I was mistaken. Thus stood Simon at the table, surveying his extraordinary spoils. And while he looked, the Mercy of God, which never yet hath seen the soul too guilty for salvation, spake to him kindly, and whispered in his ear, "Poor, deluded man — there is yet a moment for escape — flee from this temptation — put all back again — hasten to thy room, to thy prayers, repent, repent : even thou shalt be forgiven, and none but God, who will forgive thee, shall know of this bad crime. Turn now from all thy sins; the gate of bliss is open, if thou wilt but lift the latch." It was one moment of irresolute delay ; on that hinge hung Eternity. The gate swung upon its pivot, that should shut out hell, or heaven ! Simon knit his brow — bit his nails — and answered quite out loud, "What! and after all to lose the crock of gold?" CHAPTER XXVIII. MURDER. He had waked her! In an instant the angel form of Mercy melted away — and there stood the devil with his arms folded. " Murder ! — fire ! — rape ! — thieves ! — what, Nephew Jennings, is that you, with all my honey pots? Help! help! help!" "Phew-w-w!" whistled the devil: "I tell you what. Master Simon, you must quiet the old woman, she bellows like a bull, the house '11 be about your ears in a twinkling — she'll hang you for this!" Yes — he must quiet her — the game was up ; he threatened, he implored, but she would shriek on ; she slept alone on the ground-floor, and knew she must roar loudly to be heard above the drawing-rooms; she would not be quieted — she would shriek — and she did. What must he do? she '11 raise the house ! — Stop her mouth, stop her mouth, I say, can't you? — No, she's a powerful, stout, heavy woman, and he cannot hold her : ha ! she has bitten his finger to the bone, like a very tigress ! look at the blood ! THEREWARD. 97 "Why can't you touch her throat; no teeth there, bless you! that's the way the wind comes: bravo! grasp it — tighter! tighter! tighter!" She struggled, and writhed, and wrestled, and fought — but all was stran- gling silence ; they rolled about the floor together, tumbled on the bed, scuffled round the room, but all in horrid silence ; neither uttered a sound, neither had a shoe on — but all was earnest, wicked, death-dealing silence. Ha ! the desperate victim has the best of it ; gripe harder, Jennings ; she has twisted her fingers in your neckcloth, and you yourself are choking : fool ! squeeze the swallow, can't you ? try to make your fingers meet in the middle — lower down, lower down, grasp the gullet, not the ears, man — that 's right ; I told you so : tighter, tighter, tighter ! again ; ha, ha, ha, bravo ! bravo ! — tighter, tighter, tighter ! At length the hideous fight was coming to an end — though a hungry constrictor, battling with the huge rhinoceros, and crushing his mailed ribs beneath its folds, could not have been so fierce or fearful ; fewer now, and fainter are her struggles; that face is livid blue — the eyes have started out, and goggle horribly; the tongue protrudes, swollen and black. Aha ! there is another convulsive effort — how strona: she is still ! can you hold her, Simon ? — can he ? — All the fiend possessed him now with savage exultation : can he ? — only look ! gripe, gripe still, you are conquering, strong man! she is getting weaker, weaker; here is your reward, gold ! gold ! a mighty store uncounted ; one more grasp, and it is all your own — relent now, she hangs you. Come, make short work of it, break her neck — gripe harder — back with her, back with here against the bedstead : keep her down, down I say — she must not rise again. Crack ! went a little something in her neck — did you hear it? There 's the death-rattle, the last smothery complicated gasp — what, didn't you hear that? And the devil congratulated Simon on his victory. CHAPTER XXIX. THE EEWAED. Till the wretch had done the deed, he scarcely knew that it was doing. It was a horrid, mad excitement, where the soul had spread its wings upon the whirlwind, and heeded not whither it was hurried. A G 9 98 THECROCKOFGOLD. terrible necessity had seemed to spur him onwards all the while, and one thing so succeeded to another, that he scarce could stop at any but the first. From the moment he had hidden in the shower-bath (but for God's interposing mercy), his doom appeared to have been sealed — robbery, murder, false witness, and — damnation ! Crime is the rushing rapid, which, but for some kind miracle, inevita- bly carries on through circling eddies, and a foamy swinging tide, to the cataract of death and wo : haste, poor fisherman of Erie, paddle hard back, stem the torrent, cling to the shore, hold on tight by this friendly bough; know you not whither the headlong current drives? hear you not the roar of many waters, the maddening rush as of an ocean disen- thralled? feel you not the earth trembling at the thunder — see you not the heaven clouded o'er with spray ? Helpless wretch — thy frail canoe has leapt that dizzy water-cliff, Niagara ! But if, in doing that fell deed, madness raged upon the minutes, now that it was done — all still, all calm, all quiet, Terror held the hour-glass of Time. There lay the corpse, motionless, though coiled and cramped in the attitude of struggling agony; and the murderer gazed upon his victim with a horror most intense. Fly! fly! — he dared not stop to think : fly ! fly ! any whither — as you are — wait for nothing ; fly ! thou caitiff, for thy life ! So he caught up the blood-bought spoils, and was fumbling with shaky fingers at the handle of the garden-door, when the unseen tempter whispered in his ear, " I say, Simon, did not your aunt die of apoplexy ?" O, kind and wise suggestion ! O, lightsome, tranquillizing thought ! Thanks! thanks! thanks! — And if the arch fiend had revealed himself in person at the moment, Simon would have worshipped at his feet. "But," and as he communed with his own black heart, there needed now no devil for his prompter — " if this matter is to be believed, I must contrive a little that it may look likelier. Let me see : — yes, we must lay all tidy, and the old witch shall have died in her sleep ; apoplexy ! capital indeed; no tell-tales either well, I must set to work." Can mortal mind conceive that sickening office ? — To face the strangled corpse, yet warm ; to lift the fearful burden in his arms, and order out the heavily-yielding limbs in the ease of an innocent sleep ? To arrange the bed, smooth down the tumbled coverlid, set every thing straight about the room, and erase all tokens of that dread encounter? It needed nerves of iron, a heart all stone, a cool, clear head, a strong arm, a mindful, self- protecting spirit ; but all these requisites came to Simon's aid upon the THE REWARD. 99 instant ; frozen up with fear, his heart-strings worked that puppet-man rigidly as wires ; guilt supplied a reckless energy, a wild physical power, which actuates no human frame but one saturate with crime, or madness ; and in the midst of those terrific details, the murderer's judg- ment was so calm and so collected, that nothing was forgotten, nothing unconsidered — unless, indeed, it were that he out-generalled himself by making all too tidy to be natural. Hence, suspicion at the inquest ; for the " apoplexy" thought was really such a good one, that, but for so exact a laying out, the fat old corpse might have easily been buried without one surmise of the way she met her end. Again and again, in the his- tory of crimes, it is seen that a "Judas hangs himself;" and albeit, as we know, the murderer has hitherto escaped detection, still his own dark hour shall arrive in its due place. The dreadful office done, he asked himself again, or maybe took counsel of the devil (for that evil master always cheats his servants), " What shall I do with my reward, this crock — these crocks of gold '' It might be easy to hide one of them, but not all ; and as to leaving any behind, that I won't do. About opening them to see which is which — " "I tell you what," said the tempter, as the clock struck three, "what- ever you do, make haste ; by morning's dawn the house and garden will be searched, no doubt, and the crocks found in your possession. Listen to me — I 'm your friend, bless you ! remember the apoplexy. Pike Island yonder is an unfrequented place ; take the punt, hide all there now, and go at your best leisure to examine afterwards ; but whatever you do, make haste, my man." Then Jennings crept out by the lawn-door, thereby rousing the house- dog; but he skirted the laurels in their shadow, and it was dark and mizzling, so he reached the punt both quickly and easily. The quiet, and the gloom, and the dropping rain, strangely affected him now, as he plied his punt-pole; once he could have wept in his remorse, and another time he almost shrieked in fear. How lonesome it seemed ! how dreadful ! and that death-dyed face behind him — ha ! woman, away I say ! But he neared the island, and, all shoeless as he was, crept up its muddy bank. " Hallo ! nybor, who be you a-poaching on my manor, eh ? that bean't good manners, any how." Ben Burke has told us all the rest. But, when Burke had got his spoils — when the biter had been bitten — the robber robbed — ^the murderer stripped of his murdered victim's 100 THE CROCK OF GOLD. money — when the bereaved miscreant, sullenly returning in the dark, damp night, tracked again the way he came upon that lonely lake — no one yet has told us, none can rightly tell, the feelings which oppressed that God-forsaken man. He seemed to feel himself even a sponge which, the evil one had bloated with his breath, had soaked it then in blood, had squeezed it dry again, and flung away ! He was Satan's broken tool — a weed pulled up by the roots, and tossed upon the fire ; alone — alone in all the universe, without countenance or sympathy from God, or man, or devil ; he yearned to find, were it but a fiend to back him, but in vain ; they held aloof, he could see them vaguely through the gloom — he could hear them mocking him aloud among the patter of the rain-drops — ha ! ha ! ha — the pilfered fool ! Bitterly did he rue his crime — fearfully he thought upon its near dis- covery — madly did he beat his miserable breast, to find that he had been baulked of his reward, yet spent his soul to earn it. Oh — when the house-dog bayed at him returning, how he wished he was that dog ! he went to him, speaking kindly to him, for he envied that dog — "Good dog — good dog!" But more than envy kept him lingering there : the wretched man did it for delay — yes, though morn was breaking on the hills — one more — one more moment of most precious time. CHAPTER XXX. SECOND THOUGHTS. For — again he must go through that room ! No other entrance is open — not a window, not a door : all close as a prison : and only by the way he went, by the same must he return. He trembled all over, as a palsied man, when he touched the lock : with stiffening hair, and staring eyes, he peeped in at that well-remem- bered chamber : he entered — and crept close up to the corpse, stealthily and dreadingly — horror ! what if she be alive still 1 She was. Not quite dead — not quite dead yet ! a gurgling in the bruised throat — a shadowy gleam of light and life in those protruded eyes — an irregular SECOND THOUGHTS. 101 convulsive heaving at the chest : she might recover ! what a fearful hope ; and, if she did, would hang him — ha! he went nearer; she was mutter- ing something in a moanful way — it was, " Simon did it — Simon did it — Simon did it — Si — Si — Simon did — " he should be found out! Yet once again, for the last time, the long-suffering Mercy of the Lord stood like Balaam's angel in the way, pleading with that miserable man at the bed-side of her whom he had strangled. And even then, that Guardian Spirit came not with chiding on his tongue, but He uttered words of hope, while his eyes were streaming with sorrow and with pity. "Most wretched of the sinful sons of men, even now there may be mercy for thee, even now plenteous forgiveness. True, thou must die, and pay the earthly penalty of crimes like thine : but do my righteous bidding, and thy soul shall live. Go to that poor, suffocating creature — cherish the spark of life — bind up the wounds which thou hast rent, pouring in oil and wine: rouse the house — seek assistance — save her life — confess thy sin — repent — and though thou diest for this before the tribunal of thy fellows, God will yet be gracious — he will raise again her whom thou hadst slain — and will cleanse thy blood-stained soul." Thus in Simon's ear spake that better conscience. But the reprobate had cast off Faith ; he could not pledge the Present for the Future ; he shuddered at the sword of Justice, and would not touch the ivory sceptre of Forgiveness. No : he meditated horrid iter- ation — and again the fiend possessed him ! What I not only lose the crock of gold, but all his own bright store ? and give up every thing of this world's good for some imaginary other, and meekly confess, and meanly repent — and — and all this to resuscitate that hated old aunt of his, who would hang him, and divorce him from his gold ? No ! he must do the deed again — see, she is moving — she will recover! her chest heaves visibly — she breathes — she speaks — she knows me — ha ! down — down, I say ! Then, with deliberate and damning resolution — to screen off temporal danger, and count his golden hoards a little longer — that awful criminal touched the throat again : and he turned his head away not to see that horrid face, clutched the swollen gullet with his icy hands, and strangled her once more! "This time all is safe," said Simon. And having set all smooth as before, he stole up to his own chamber. 9* 102 THECROCKOFGOLD. CHAPTER XXXI. MAMMON, AND CONTENTMENT. . Ay, safe enough : and the murderer went to bed. To bed ? No. He tumbled about the clothes, to make it seem that he had lain there : but he dared neither lie down, nor shut his eyes. Then, the darkness terrified him : the out-door darkness he could have borne, and Mrs. Quarles's chamber always had a night-lamp burning : but the darkness of his own room, of his own thoughts, pressed him all around, as with a thick, murky, suffocating vapour. So, he stood close by the window, watching the day-break. As for sleep, never more did wholesome sleep revisit that atrocious mind : laudanum, an ever-increasing dose of merciless laudanum, that was the only power which ever seemed to soothe him. For a horrid vision always accompanied him now : go where he might, do what he would, from that black morning to eternity, he went a haunted man — a scared, sleepless, horror-stricken wretch. That livid face with goggling eyes, stuck to him like a shadow ; he always felt its presence, and some- times, also, could perceive it as if bodily peeping over his shoulder, next bis cheek ; it dogged him by day, and was his incubus by night ; and often he would start and wrestle, for the desperate grasp of the dying appeared to be clutching at his throat : so, in his ghostly fears, and bloody conscience, he had girded round his neck a piece of thin sheet-iron in his cravat, which he wore continually as armour against those clammy dingers : no wonder that he held his head so stiff. O Gold — accursed Mammon ! is this the state of those who love thee deepest? is this their joy, who desire thee with all their heart and soul — who serve thee with all their might — who toil for thee — plot for thee — live for thee — dare for thee — die for thee ? Hast thou no better bliss to give thy martyrs — no choicer comfort for thy most consistent worship- pers, no fairer fate for those, whose waking thoughts, and dreaming hopes, and intricate schemes, and desperate deeds, were only aimed at gold, more gold ? God of this world, if such be thy rewards, let me ever escape them ! idol of the knave, false deity of the fool, if this be thy blessing on thy votai*ies — come, curse me. Mammon, curse thou me ! For, "The love of money is the root of all evil." It groweth up a MAMMON AND CONTENTMENT. 103 little plant of coveting ; presently the leaves get rank, the branches spread, and feed on petty thefts ; then in their early season come the blossoms, black designs, plots, involved and undeveloped yet, of foul conspiracies, extortions on the weak, rich robbings of the wealthy, the threatened slan- der, the rewarded lie, malice, perjury, sacrilege ; then speedily cometh on the climax, the consummate flower, dark-red murder : and the fruit bear- ing in itself the seeds that never die, is righteous, wrathful condemnation. Dyed with all manner of iniquity, tinged with many colours like the Mohawk in his woods, goeth forth in a morning the covetous soul. His cheek is white with envy, his brow black with jealous rage, his livid lips are full of lust, his thievish hands spotted over with the crimson drops of murder. "The poison of asps is under his lips; and his feet are swift to shed blood : destruction and misery are in his ways ; and there is no fear of God before his eyes." 0, ye thousands — the covetous of this world's good — behold at what a fire ye do warm yourselves! dread it: even now, ye have imagined many deaths, whereby your gains may be the greater; ye have caught, in wishful fancy, many a parting sigh ; ye have closed, in a heartless revery, many a glazing eye — yea, of those your very nearest, whom your hopes have done to death : und are ye guiltless ? God and con- science be your judges ! Even now ye have compassed many frauds, connived at many mean- nesses, trodden down the good, and set the bad on high — all for gold — hard gold ; and are ye the honest — the upright ? Speak out manfully your excuse, if you can find one, ye respectables of merchandise, ye traders, bartering all for cash, ye Scribes, ye Pharisees, hypocrites, all honourable men. Even now, your dreams are full of money-bags ; your cares are how to add superfluity to wealth ; ye fawn upon the rich, ye scorn the poor, ye pine and toil both night and day for gold, more gold ; and are ye happy ? Answer me, ye covetous ones. Yet are there righteous gains, God's blessing upon labour : yet is there rightful hope to get those righteous gains. Who can condemn the poor man's care, though Faith should make his load the lighter ? And who will extenuate the rich man's coveting, whose appetite grows with what it feeds on ? " Having food and raiment, be therewith content ;" that is the golden mean ; to that is limited the philosophy of worldliness : the man must live, by labour and its earnings ; but having wherewithal for him and his temperately, let him tie the mill-stone of anxiety to the wing of Faith, and speed that burden to his God. 104 THECROCKOFGOLD. If Wealth come, beware of him, the smooth false friend : there is treachery in his proffered hand, his tongue is eloquent to tempt, lust of many harms is lurking in his eye, he hath a hollow heart ; use him cautiously. If Penury assail, fight against him stoutly, the gaunt grim foe : the curse of Cain is on his brow, toiling vainly ; he creepeth with the worm by day, to raven with the wolf by night : diseases battle by his side, and crime followeth his footsteps. Therefore fight against him boldly, and be of a good courage, for there are many with thee ; not alone the doled alms, the casual aids dropped from compassion, or wrung out by impor- tunity ; these be only temporary helps, and indulgence in them pampers the improvident; but look thou to a better host of strong allies, of reso- lute defenders ; turn again to meet thy duties, needy one : no man ever starved, who even faintly tried to do them. Look to thy God, O sinner ! use reason wisely ; cherish honour ; shrink not from toil, though some- while unrewarded ; preserve frank bearing with thy fellows ; and in spite of all thy sins — forgiven ; all thy follies — flung away ; all the trickeries of this world — scorned ; all competitions — disregarded ; all suspicions — trodden under foot; thou neediest and raggedest of labourers' labourers — Enough shall be thy portion, ere a week hath passed away. Well did Agur-the-Wise counsel Ithiel and Ucal his disciples, when he uttered in their ears before his God, this prayerful admonition, " Two things have I required of Thee ; deny me them not before I die : remove far from me vanity and lies ; give me neither poverty nor riches : feed me with food convenient for me. Lest I be full, and deny Thee, saying, Who is the Lord ? or lest I be poor, and steal, and dishonour the name of the Lord my God." CHAPTER XXXII. NEXT HORNING. Day dawned apace; and a glorious cavalcade of flaming -clouds heralded the Sun their captain. From far away, round half the wide horizon, their glittering spears advanced. Heaven's highway rang with the trampling of their horse-hoofs, and the dust went up from its jewelled NEXT MORNING. 105 pavement as spray from the bottom of a cataract. Anon, he came, the chieftain of that on-spurring host ! his banner blazed upon the sky ; his golden crest was seen beneath, nodding with its ruddy plumes ; over the south-eastern hills he arose in radiant armour. Fair Nature, waking at her bridegroom's voice, arrived so early from a distant clime, smiled upon him sleepily, gladdening him in beauty with her sweet half-opened eyelids, and kissing him in faithfulness with dew-besprinkled lips. And he looked forth upon the world from his high chariot, holding back the coursers that must mount the steep of noon : and he heard the morning hymn of thankfulness to Heaven from the mountains, and the valleys, and the islands of the sea ; the prayer of man and woman, the praise of lisping tongues, the hum of insect joy upon the air, the sheep- bell tinkling in the distance, the wild bird's carol, and the lowing kine, the mute minstrelsy of rising dews, and that stilly scarce-heard universal mel- ody of wakeful plants and trees, hastening to turn their spring-buds to the light — this was the anthem he, the Lord of Day, now listened to — this was the song his influences had raised to bless the God who made him. And he saw, from his bright throne of wide derivative glory, Hope flying forth upon her morning missions, visiting the lonesome, comforting the sorrowful, speaking cheerfully to Care, and singing in the ear of Labour: and he watched that ever- welcome friend, flitting with the gleams of light to every home, to every heart ; none but gladly let her in ; her tapping finger opened the very prison doors ; the heavy head of Sloth rejoiced to hear her call ; and every common Folly, every com- mon Sin — ay, every common Crime — warmed his unconscious soul before her winning beauty. Yet, yet was there one, who cursed that angel's coming ; and the holy Eye of day wept pityingly to see an awful child of man who dared not look on Hope. The murderer stood beside his casement, watching that tranquil scene : with bloodshot eyes and haggard stare, he gazed upon the waking world; for one strange minute he forgot, entranced by inno- cence and beauty ; but when the stunning tide of memory, that had ebbed that one strange minute, rolled back its mighty flood upon his mind, the murderer swooned away. And he came to himself again all too soon ; for when he arose, building up his weak, weak limbs, as if he were a column of sand, the cruel giant, Guilt, lifted up his club, and felled the wretch once more. How long he lay fainting, he knew not then ; if any one had vowed .IT 106 THE CROCK OF GOLD. it was a century, Simon, as he gradually woke, could not have gainsaid the man ; but he only lay four seconds in that white oblivious trance — for Fear, Fear knocked at his heart : — Up, man, up ! — you need have all your wits about you now ; — see, it is broad day — ^the house will be roused before you know where you are, and then will be shouted out that awful name — Simon Jennings! Simon Jennings! CHAPTER XXXIII. THE ALAEM. He arose, held up on either hand that day as if fighting against Ama- lek ; — despair buttressed him on one side, and secresy shored him on the other : behind that wall of stone his heart had strength to beat. He arose ; and listened at the key-hole anxiously : all silent, quiet, quiet still ; the whole house asleep : nothing found out yet. And he bit his nails to the quick, that they bled again : but he never felt the pain. Hush ! — yes, somebody 's about : it is Jonathan's step ; and hark, he is humming merrily, "Hail, smiling morn, that opes the gates of day?" Wo, wo — what a dismal gulph between Jonathan and me! And he beat his breast miserably. But, Jonathan cannot find it out — he never goes to Mrs. Quarles's room. Oh ! this suspense is horrible : haste, haste, some kind soul, to make the dread discovery ! And he tore his hair away by handfulls. " Hark ! — somebody else — unlatching shutters ; it will be Sarah — ha ! she is tapping at the housekeeper's room — ^yes, yes, and she will make it known, O terrible joy ! — A scream ! it is Sarah's voice — she has seen her dead, dead, dead ; — but is she indeed dead ?" The miscreant quivered with new fears ; she might still mutter "Simon did it!" And now the house is thoroughly astir ; running about in all directions ; and shouting for help ; and many knocking loudly at the murderer's own door — "Mr. Jennings! Mr. Jennings! — quick — get up — come down — quick, quick — your aunt's found dead in her bed!" What a relief to the trembling wretch ! — she was dead. He could Jiave blessed the voice that told him his dread secret was so safe. But THE ALAR PI. 107 his parched tongue may never "bless again : curses, curses are all its blessings now. And Jennings came out calmly from his chamber, a white, stern, sanctimonious man, lulling the storm with his wise presence : — " God's will be done," said he; "what can poor weak mortals answer Him?" And he played cleverly the pious elder, the dignified official, the affec- tionate nephew : " Ah, well, my humble friends, behold what life is : the best of us must come to this ; my poor, dear aunt, the late house- keeper, rest her soul — I feared it might be this way some night or other : she was a stout woman, was our dear, deceased Bridget — and, though a good kind soul, lived much on meat and beer: ah well, ah well!" And he concealed his sentimental hypocrisy in a cotton pocket-handkerchief. " Alas, and well-a-day ! that it should have come to this. Apoplexy — you see, apoplexy caught her as she slept : we may as well get her buried at once : it is unfortunately too clear a case for any necessity to open the body ; and our young master is coming down on Tuesday, and I could not allow my aunt's corpse to be so disrespectful as to stop till it became offensive. I will go to the vicar myself immediately." "Begging pardon, Mr. Jennings," urged Jonathan Floyd, "there's a strange mark here about the throat, poor old 'ooman." "Ay," added Sarah, "and now I come to think of it, Mrs. Quarles's room-door was ajar ; and bless me, the lawn-door 's not locked neither ! Who could have murdered her?" "Murdered? there's no murder here, silly wench," said Jennings, with a nervous sneer. "I don't know that, Mr. Simon," gruffly interposed the coachman; " it 's a case for a coroner, I '11 be bail ; so here I goes to bring him : let all bide as it is, fellow-sarvents ; murder will out, they say." And off he set directly — not without a shrewd remark from Mr. Jen- nings, about letting him escape that way ; which seemed all very sage and likely, till the honest man came back within the hour, and a posse comitatus at his heels. We all know the issue of that inquest. Now, if any one requests to be informed how Jennings came to be looked for as usual in his room, after that unavailing search last night, I reply, this newer, stronger excitement for the minute made the house oblivious of that mystery ; and if people further will persist to know, how that mystery of his absence was afterwards explained (though I for my part would gladly have said nothing of the bailiff's own excuse), let 108 THE CROCK OF GOLD. it be enough to hint, that Jennings winked with a knowing and gallant expression of face ; alluded to his private key, and a secret return at two in the morning from some disreputable society in the neighbourhood ; made the men laugh, and the women blush ; and, altogether, as he might well have other hats and coats, the delicate affair was not unlikely. CHAPTER XXXIV. DOUBTS. And so, this crock of gold — gained through extortion, by the frauds of every day, the meannesses of every hour — this concrete oppression to the hireling in his wages — this mass of petty pilfe rings from poverty — this continuous obstruction to the charities of wealth — this cockatrice's egg — this offspring of iniquity — had already been baptized in blood before poor Acton found it, and slain its earthly victim ere it wrecked his faith ; already had it been perfected by crime, and destroyed the murderer's soul, before it had endangered the life of slandered innocence. Is there yet more blessing in the crock? more fearful interest still, to carry on its story to an end ? Must another sacrifice bleed before the shrine of Mammon, and another head lie crushed beneath the heel of that monster — his disciple ? Come on with me, and see the end ; push further still, there is a labyrinth ahead to attract and to excite ; from mind to mind crackles the electric spark : and when the heart thrillingly conceives, its children-thoughts are as arrows from the hand of the giant, flying through that mental world — the hearts of other men. Fervent still from its hot internal source, this fountain gushes up; no sluggish Lethe-stream is here, dull, forgetful, and forgotten ; but liker to the burning waves of Phlegethon, mingling at times (though its fire is still unquenched), with the pastoral rills of Tempo, and the River from the Mount of God. Lower the sail — let it flap idly on the wind — helm a-port — and so to smoother waters : return to common life and humbler thoughts. It may yet go hard with Roger Acton. Jennings is a man of char- acter, especially the farther from his home ; the county round take him for a model of propriety, a sample of the strictest conduct. We know DOUBTS. — FEARS. lOg the bad man better ; but who dare breathe against the bailiff in his power — against the caitiff in his sleek hypocrisy — that, while he makes a show of both humilities, he fears not God nor man? What shall hinder, that the perjured wretch offer up to the manes of the murdered the life-blood of the false-accused? May he not live yet many years, heaping up gold and crime? And may not sweet Grace Acton — her now repentant father — the kindly Jonathan — his generous master, and if there be any other of the Hurstley folk we love, may they not all meet destruction at his hands, as a handful of corn before the reaper's sickle? I say not that they shall, but that they might. Acton's criminal state of mind, and his hunger after gold — gold any how — have earned some righteous retri- bution, unless Providence in mercy interpose; and young Sir John, in nowise unblameable himself, with wealth to tempt the spoiler, lives in the spoiler's very den; and as to Jonathan and Grace, this world has many martyrs. If Heaven in its wisdom use the wicked as a sword, Heaven is but just ; but if in its vengeance that sword of the wicked is turned against himself, Heaven showeth mercy all unmerited. To a criminal like Jennings, let loose upon the world, without the clog of con- science to retard him, and with the spur of covetousness ever urging on, any thing in crime is possible — is probable : none can sound those depths : and when we raise our eyes on high to the Mighty Moral Governor, and note the clouds of mystery that thunder round his Throne — He may per- mit, or he may control ; who shall reach those heights ? CHAPTER XXXV. FEAES. Moreover, innocent of blood, as we know Roger Acton to be, appear, ances are strongly against him : and in such a deed as secret, midnight murder, which none but God can witness, multiplied appearances justify the world in condemning one who seems so guilty. The first impression against Roger is a bad one, for all the neighbours know how strangely his character had been changing for the worse of late : he is not like the same man ; sullen and insubordinate, he was turned away from work for his bold and free demeanor ; as to church, though 10 110 THE CROCK OF GOLD. he had worn that little path these forty years, all at once he seems to have entirely forgotten the way hither. He lives, nobody knows how — on bright, clean gold, nobody knows whence : his daughter says, indeed, that her father found a crock of gold in his garden — but she needs not have held her tongue so long, and borne so many insults, if that were all the truth ; and, mark this ! even though she says it, and declares it on her Bible-oath, Acton himself most strenu- ously denied all such findings — but went about with impudent tales of legacy, luck, nobody knows what ; the man prevaricated continually, and got angry when asked about it — cudgelling folks, and swearing like — like any one but old-time "honest Roger." Only look, too, where he lives : in a lone cottage opposite Pike Island, on the other side of which is Hurstley Hall, the scene of robbery and murder: was not a boat seen that night upon the lake? and was not the lawn-door open? How strangely stupid in the coroner and jury not to have imagined this before ! how dull it was of every body round not to have suspected murder rather more strongly, with those finger-marks about the throat, and not to have opened their eyes a little wider, when the murderer's cottage was vv^ithin five hundred yards of that open lawn-door ! Then again — when Mr. Jennings, in his strict and searching way, accused the culprit, he never saw a man so confused in all his life ! and on repeating the charge before those two constables, they all witnessed his guilty consternation : experienced men, too, they were, and never saw a felon if Acton wasn't one ; the dogged manner in which he went with them so quietly was quite sufiicient; innocent men don't go to jail in that sort of way, as if they well deserved it. But, strongest of all, if any shadow of a doubt remained, the most fearful proof of Roger's guilt lay in the scrap of shawl — the little leather bags — and the very identical crock of gold ! There it was, nestled in the thatch within a yard of his head, as he lay in bed at noon-day guarding it. One proof, weaker than the weakest of all these banded together, has ere now sufficed to hang the guilty ; and many, many fears have I that this multitude of seeming facts, conspiring in a focus against Roger Acton, will be quite enough to overwhelm the innocent. "Nothing lies like a fact," said Dr. Johnson : and statistics prove it, at least as well as cir- cumstantial evidence. The matter was as clear as day-light, and long before the trial came about, our poor labourer had been hanged outright in the just judgment of Hurstley-cum-Piggosworth. PRISON COMFORTS. HI CHAPTER XXXVL PRISON COMPORTS. Many blessings, more than he had skill to count, had visited poor Acton in his cell. His gentle daughter Grace, sweet minister of good thoughts — she, like a loving angel, had been God's instrument of penitence and peace to him. He had come to himself again, in solitude, by nights, as a man awakened from a feverish dream ; and the hallowing ministrations of her company by day had blest reflective solitude with sympathy and counsel. Good-wife Mary, too, had been his comforting and cheering friend. Immediately the crock of gold had been taken from its ambush in the thatch, it seemed as if the chill which had frozen up her heart had been melted by a sudden thaw. Roger Acton was no longer the selfish prod- igal, but the guiltless, persecuted penitent ; her care was now to soothe his griefs, not to scold him for excesses ; and indignation at the false and bloody charge made him appear a martyr in her eyes. As to his accuser, Jennings, Mary had indeed her own vague fancies and suspicions, but there being no evidence, nor even likelihood to support them, she did not dare to breathe a word ; she might herself accuse him falsely. Ben, who alone could have thrown a light upon the matter, had always been comparatively a stranger at Hurstley ; he was no native of the place, and had no ties there beyond wire and whip-cord : he would appear in that locality now and then in his eccentric orbit, like a comet, and, soon departing thence, would take away Tom as his tail ; but even when there, he was mainly a night-prowler, seldom seen by day, and so little versed in village lore, so rarely mingling with its natives, that neitlier Jennings nor Burke knew one another by sight. His fame indeed was known, but not his person. At present, he and Tom were still fowling in some distant fens, nobody could tell where ; so that Roger's only witness, who might have accounted for the crock and its finding, was as good as dead to him; to make Ben's absence more unusually prolonged, and his reap- pearance quite incalculable, he had talked of going with his cargo of wild ducks "either to London or to Liverpool, he didn't rightly know which." Nevertheless, Mary comforted her husband, and more especially her- self, by the hope of his return as a saving witness ; though it was always 112 THE CROCK OF GOLD. doubtful how far Burke's numerous peccadilloes against property would either find him at large, or authorize the poacher in walking straight before the judges. Still Ben's possible interposition was one source of hope and cheerful expectation. Then the good wife would leave her babes at home, safely in a neighbour's charge, and stay and sit many long hours with poor Roger, taking turns with Grace in talking to him tenderly, making little of home-troubles past, encouraging him to wear a stout heart, and filling him with gratitude for all her kindly care. Thus did she bless, and thus was made a blessing, through the loss and absence of that crock of gold. For Roger himself, he had repented ; bitterly and deeply, as became his headlong fall : no sweet luxuries of grief, no soothing sorrow, no chastened meditative melancholy — such mild penitence as this, he thought, could be but a soberer sort of joy for virgins, saints, and mar- tyrs : no — he, bad man, was unworthy of those melting pleasures, and in sturdy self-revenge he flung them from him, choosing rather to feel overwhelmed with shame, contrition, and reproaches. A humbled man with a broken heart within him — such was our labourer, penitent in prison ; and when he contrasted his peaceful, pure, and Christian course those forty years of poverty, with his blasphemous and infidel career for the one bad week of wealth, he had no patience with himself — only felt his fall the greater; and his judgment of his own guilt, with a natural exaggeration, went the length of saying — I am scarcely less guilty before God and man, than if, indeed, my hands were red with murder, and my casual finding had been robbery. He would make no strong appeals to the bar of justice, as an innocent condemned ; not he — not he : innocent, indeed ? his wicked, wicked courses — (an old man, too — gray-headed, with no young blood in him to excuse, no inexperience to extenuate), these deserved — did he say hanging? it was a harsher syl- lable — hell : and the contrite sinner gladly would have welcomed all the terrors of the gibbet, in hope to take full vengeance on himself for his wicked thirst for gold and all its bitter consequences. GOOD COUNSEL. 113 CHAPTER XXXVII. GOOD COUNSEL. But Grace advised him better. "Be humbled as you may before God, my father, but stand up boldly before man : for in his sight, and by his law, you are little short of blameless. I would not, dearest father, speak to you of sins, except for consolation under them ; for it ill becomes a child to see the failings of a parent. But when I know at once how innocent you are in one sense, and how not quite guiltless in another, I wish my woi'ds may comfort you, if you will hear them, father. Covetousness, not robbery — excess, not murder — these were your only sins ; and concealment was not wise, neither was a false report befitting. Money, the idol of millions, was your temptation : its earnest love, your fault ; its possession, your misfortune. Forgive me, father, if I speak too freely. Good Mr. Evans, who has been so kind to us for years, (never kinder than since you were in prison,) can speak better than I may, of sins forgiven, and a Friend to raise the fallen : it is not for poor Grace to school her dear and honoured father. If you feel yourself guilty of much evil in the sight of Him before whom the angels bow in meekness — I need not tell you that your sorrow is most wise, and well-becoming. But this must not harm your cause with men : though tired of life, though hopeless in one's self, though bad, and weak, and like to fall again, we are still God's servants upon earth, bound to guard the life he gives us. Neither must you lightly allow the guilt of unright- eous condemnation to fall upon the judge who tries you; nor let your innocent blood cry to God for vengeance on your native land. Manfully confront the false accuser, tell openly the truth, plead your own cause firmly, warmly, wisely: — so, God defend the right!" And as Grace Acton said these words, in all the fervour of a daughter's love, with a flushed cheek, parted lips, and her right hand raised to Him whom she invoked, she looked like an inspired prophetess, or the fair maid of Orleans leading on to battle. In an instant afterwards, she humbly added, "Forgive me any thing I may have said, that seems to chide my father." "Bless you, bless you, dearest one!" was Roger's sobbing prayer, H 10* ]14 THECROCKOFGOLD. who had listened to her wisdom breathlessly. "Ah, daughter," then exclaimed the humbled, happy man, " I '11 try to do all you ask me, Grace ; but it is a hard thing to feel myself so wicked, and to have to speak up boldJy like a Christian man." CHAPTER XXXVIII. EXPERIENCE. Then, with disjointed sentences, suited to the turmoil of his thoughts, half in a soliloquy, half as talking to his daughter, Roger Acton gave his hostile testimony to the worth of wealth. "Oh, fool, fool that I have been, to set so high a price on gold! To have hungered and thirsted for it — to have coveted earnestly so bad a gift — to have longed for Mammon's friendship, which is enmity with God ! What has not money cost me ? Happiness : — ay, wasn't it to have given me happiness? and the little that I had (it was much, Grace, not little, very much — too much — God be praised for it!) all, all the happiness I had, gold took away. Look at our dear old home — shattered and scat- tered, as now I wish that crock had been. Health, too ; were it not for gold, and all gold gave, I had been sturdy still, and capable ; but my nights maddened with anxieties, my days worried with care, my head feverish with drink, my heart rent by conscience — ah, my girl, my girl, when I thought much of poverty and its hardships, of toil, and hunger, and rheumatics, I little imagined that wealth had heavier cares and pains: I envied them their wanton life of pleasure at the Hall, and little knew how hard it was : well are they called hard-livers who drink, and game, and have nothing to do, except to do wickedness continually. Religion — can it bide with money, child? I never knew my wicked heart, till fortune made me rich ; not until then did I guess how base, lying, false, and bad was "honest Roger;" how sensual, coarse, and brutal, was that hypocrite "steady Acton." Money is a devil, child, or pretty near akin. Then I complained of toil, too, didn't I? — Ah, what are all the aches I ever felt — labouring with spade and spud in cold and rain, hungry belike, and faint withal — what are they all at their worst (and the worst was very seldom after all), to the gnawing cares, tlie JONATHAN'S TROTH. II5 hideous fears, the sins-:— the sins, my girl, that tore your poor old father? Wasn't it to be an end of troubles, too, this precious crock of gold ? Wo 's me, I never knew real trouble till I had it! Look at me, and judge; what has made me live like a beast, sin like a heathen, and lie down here like a felon? what has made me curse Ben Burke — kind, hearty, friendly Ben? — and given my poor good boy an ill-report as having stolen and slain ? all this crock of gold. But O, my Grace, to think that the crock's curses touched thee, too ! didn't it madden me to hear them ? Dear, pure, patient child, my darling, injured daughter, here upon my knees I pray, forgive that wrong!" And he fell at her feet beseechingly. " My father," said the noble girl, lifting up his head, and passionately kissing it; "when they whispered so against me, and Jonathan heard the wicked things men said, I would have borne it all, all in silence, and let them all believe me bad, father, if I could have guessed that by uttering the truth, I should have seen thee here, in a dungeon, treated as a — murderer ! How was I to tell that men could be so base, as to charge such crimes upon the innocent, when his only fault, or his misfortune, was to find a crock of gold ? Oh ! forgive me, too, this wrong, my father !" And they wept in each other's arms. CHAPTER XXXIX. JOMTHM'S TROTH. Grace had been all but an inmate of the prison, ever since her father had been placed there on suspicion. Early and late, and often in the day, was the duteous daughter at his cell, for the governor and the turn- keys favoured her. Who could resist such beauty and affection, entreating to stay with a father about to stand on trial for his life, and making every effort to be allowed only to pray with him ? Thus did Grace spend all the week before those dread assizes. As to her daily maintenance, ever since that bitter morning when the crock was found, her spiritual fears had obliged her to abstain from touching so much as one penny of that unblest store ; and, seeing that honest pride would not let her be supported by grudged and common charity, she had thankfully suffei'ed the wages of her now betrothed 116 THE CROCK OF GOLD. Jonathan to serve as means whereon she lived, and (what cost more than all her humble wants) whereby she could administer many little comforts to her father in his prison. When she was not in the cell, Grace was generally at the Hall, to the scandal of more than one Hurst- leyan gossip ; but perhaps they did not know how usually kind Sarah Stack was of the company, to welcome her with Jonathan, and play pro- priety. Sarah was a true friend, one for adversity, and though young herself, and not ill-looking, did not envy Grace her handsome lover ; on the contrary, she did all to make them happy, and had gone the friendly length of insisting to find Grace and her family in tea and sugar, while all this lasted. I like that much in Sarah Stack. However, the remainder of the virtuous world were not so considerate, nor so charitable. Many neighbours shunned the poor girl, as if con- taminated by the crimes which Roger had undoubtedly committed : the more elderly unmarried sisterhood, as we have chronicled already, were overjoyed at the precious opportunity : — Here was the pert vixen, whom all the young fellows so shamelessly followed, turned out, after all, a murderer's daughter; — ^they wished her joy of her eyes, and lips, and curls, and pretty speeches : no good ever came of such naughty ways, that the men liked so." Nay, even the tipsy crew at Bacchus's affected to treat her name with scorn: — "The girl had made much noise about being called a trull, as if many a better than she wasn't one ; and, after all, what was the prudish wench J a soi't of she-butcher; they had no patience with her proud looks." As to farmer Floyd, he made a great stir about his boy being about to marry a felon's daughter; and the affectionate mother, with many elaborate protestations, had "vowed to Master Jonathan, that she would rather lay him out with her own hands, and a penny on each eye, than see a Floyd disgrace himself in that 'ere manner." And uncles, aunts, and cousins, most disinterestedly exhorted that the obstinate youth be disinherited — "Ay, Mr. Floyd, I wish your son was a high-minded man like his father ; but there 's a difference, Mr. Floyd ; I wish he had your true blue yeoman's honour, and the spirit that becomes his father's son : if the lad was mine, I 'd cut him off with a shilling, to buy a halter for his drab of a wife. Dang it, Mrs. Floyd, it '11 never do to see so queer a Mrs. Jonathan Junior, a standing in your tidy shoes beside this kitchen dresser." These estimable counsels were, I grieve to say, of too flattering a JONATHAN'S TROTH. 117 nature to displease, and of too lucrative a quality not to be continually repeated ; until, really, Jonathan was threatened with beggary and the paternal malediction, if he would persist in his disreputable attachment. Nevertheless, Jonathan clung to the right like a hero. " Granting poor Acton is the wretch you think — but I do not believe one word of it — does his crime make his daughter wicked too ? No ; she is an angel, a pure and blessed creature, far too good for such a one as I. And happy is the man that has gained her love ; he should not give her up were she thrice a felon's daughter. My father and mother," Jonathan went on to say, "never found a fault in her till now. Who was more welcome on the hill than pretty Grace? who would oftenest come to nurse some sickly lamb, but gentle Grace ? who was wont, from her childhood up, to run home with me so constantly, when school was over, and pleased my kinsfolk so entirely with her nice manners and kind ways ? Hadn't he fought for her more than once, and though he came home with bruises on his face, his mother praised him for it?" Then, with a natural divergence from the strict subject-matter of objec- tion, vicarious felony, Jonathan went on to argue about other temporal disadvantages. "Hadn't he heard his father say, that, if she had but money, she was fit to be a countess? and was money, then, the only thing, whereof the having, or the not having, could make her good or bad? — money, the only wealth for soul, and mind, and body? Are affections nothing, are truth and honour nothing, religion nothing, good sense nothing, health nothing, beauty nothing — unless money gild them all? Nonsense!" said Jonathan, indignantly, warmed by his amatory eloquence ; " come weal, come wo, Grace and I go down to the grave together ; for better, if she can be better — for worse, if she could sin — Grace Acton is my wealth, my treasure, and possession ; and let man do his worst, God himself will bless us!" So, all this knit their loves : she knew, and he felt, that he was going in the road of nobleness and honour ; and the fiery ordeal which he had to struggle through, raised that hearty earthly lover more nearly to a level with his heavenly-minded mistress. Through misfortune and mistrust, and evil rumours all around, in spite of opposition from false friends, and the scorn of slanderous foes, he stood by her more constantly, perchance more faithfully, than if the course of true-love had been smoother: he was her escort morning and evening to and from the prison; his strong arm was the dread of babbling fools that spoke a word of disrespect against the Actons ; and his brave tongue was now making itself heard, in open vindication of the innocent. 118 THE CROCK OF GOLD. CHAPTER XL. SUSPICIONS. Yes — Jonathan Floyd was beginning to speak out boldly certain strange suspicions he had entertained of Jennings. It was a courageous, a rash, a dangerous thing to do : he did not know but what it might have jeoparded his life, say nothing of his livelihood : but Floyd did it. Ever since that inquest, contrived to be so quickly and so quietly got over, he had noticed Simon's hurried starts, his horrid looks, his altered mien in all he did and said, his new nervous ways at nightfall — John Page to sleep in Mr. Jennings's chamber, and a rush-light perpetually — his shudder whenever he had occasion to call at the housekeeper's room, and his evident shrinking from the frequent phrase "Mrs. Quarles's murder." Then again, Jonathan would often lie awake at nights, thinking over divers matters connected with his own evidence before the coroner, which he began to see might be of great importance. Jennings said, he had gone out to still the dog by the front door — didn't he ? — " How then, Mr. Jennings, did you contrive to push back the top bolt? The Hall chairs had not come then, and you are a little fellow, and you know that nobody in the house could reach, without a lift, that bolt but me. Besides, before Sir John came down, the hinges of that door creaked, like a litter o' kit- tens screaming, and the lock went so hard for want of use and oil, that I '11 be sworn your gouty chalkstone fingers could never have turned it : now, I lay half awake for two hours, and heard no creak, nq key turned ; but I tell you what I did hear though, and I wish now I had said it at that scanty, hurried inquest ; I heard what I now believe were distant screams (but I was so sleepy), and a kind of muffled scuffling ever so long : but I fancied it might be a horse in the stable kicking among the straw in a hunter's loose box. I can guess what it was now — cannot you, Mr. Simon? — I say, butler, you must have gone out to quiet Don — who by the way can't abear the sight of you — through Mrs. Quarles's room : and, for all your threats, I 'm not afeard to tell you what I think. First answer me this, Mr. Simon Jennings : — where were you all that night, when we were looking for you ? — Oh ! you choose to forget, do you ? I can help your memory, Mr. Butler; what do you think of the shower, bath in Mother Quarles's room?" GRACE'S ALTERNATIVE. II9 As Jonathan, one day at dinner in the servants' hall, took occasion to direct these queries to the presiding Simon, the man gave such a horrid start, and exclaimed, "Away, I say!" so strangely, that Jonathan could doubt no longer — nor, in fact, any other of the household : Jennings gave them all round a vindictive scowl, left the table, hastened to his own room, and was seen no more that day. Speculation now seemed at an end, it had ripened into probability ; — but what evidence was there to support so grave a charge against this rigid man? Suspicions are not half enough to go upon — especially since Roger Acton seemed to have had the money. Therefore, though the folks at Hurstley, Sir John, his guests, and all the house, could not but think that Mr. Jennings acted very oddly — still, he had always been a strange creature, an unpopular bailiff; nobody understood him. So, Floyd, to his own no small danger, stood alone in accusing the man openly. CHAPTER XLI. GRACE'S ALTERNATIVE. Very shortly after that remarkable speech in the servants' hall, Jona- than found another reason for believing that Mr. Simon Jennings Avas equal to any imaginable amount of human wickedness. That reason will shortly now appear ; but we must first of all dig at its roots some- what deeper than Jonathan's mental husbandry could manage. If any trait of character were wanting to complete the desperate infamy of Jennings — (really I sometimes hope that his grandfather's madness had a kind of reawakening in this accursed man) — it was fur- nished by a new and shrewd scheme for feeding to the full his lust of gold. The bailiff had more than once, as we have hinted, found means to increase his evil hoard, by having secretly gained power over female innocence and honest reputation : similarly he now devised a deep-laid plot, nothing short of diabolical. His plot was this : and I choose to hurry over such foul treason. Let a touch or two hint its outlines : those who will, may paint up the picture for themselves. Simon looked at Sir John — young, gay, wealthy; he coveted his purse, and fancied that the surest bait to catch that fish was fair Grace Acton : if he could 120 THE CROCK OF GOLD. entrap her for his master (to whom he gave full credit for delighting in the plan), he counted surely on magnificent rewards. How then to entrap her? Thus: — he, representing himself as prosecutor of Roger, the accused, held for him, he averred, the keys of life and death : he would set this idea (whether true or not little mattered, if it served his purpose) before an affectionate daughter, who should have it in her power to save her parent, if, and only if, she would yield herself to Jennings : and he well knew that, granting she gave herself secretly to him first, on such a bribe as her father's liberation, he would have no difficulty whatever in selling her second-hand beauty on his own terms to his master. It was a foul scheme, and shall not be enlarged upon : but (as will appear) thus slightly to allude to it was needful to our tale, as well as to the development of character in Mammon's pattern-slave, and to the fullness of his due retribution in this world. I may add, that if any thing could make the plan more heinous — if any shade than blackest can be blacker — this extra turpitude is seen in the true consideration, that the promise to Grace of her father's safety would be entirely futile — as Jennings knew full well ; the crown was prosecutor, not he : and cir- cumstantial evidence alone would be sufficient to condemn. Again, it really is nothing but bare justice to remark, with reference to Sir John, that the deep-dyed villain reckoned quite without his host; for however truly the baronet had oft-times been much less a self-denying Scipio than a wanton Alcibiades, still the fine young fellow would have flung Simon piecemeal to his hounds, if ever he had breathed so atrocious a tempta- tion : the maid was pledged, and Vincent knew it. Now, it so happened that one evening at dusk, when Grace as usual was obliged to leave the prison, there was no Jonathan in waiting to accompany her all the dreary long way home : this was strange, as his good-hearted master, privately informed of his noble attachment, never refused the man permission, but winked, for the time, at his frequent evening absence. Nevertheless, on this occasion, as would happen now and then, Floyd could not escape from the dining-room ; probably because — Mr. Jennings had secretly gone forth to escort the girl him- self. Accordingly, instead of loved Jonathan, sidled up to her the loath- some Simon. Let me not soil these pages by I'ecording, in however guarded phrase, the grossness of this wretch's propositions ; it was a long way to Hurst- ley, and the reptile never ceased tormenting her every step of it, till the village was in sight : twice she ran, and he ran too, keeping up with GRACE'S ALTERNATIVE. 121 her, and pouring into her ear a father's cruel fate and his own detestable alternative. She never once spoke to him, but kept on praying in her own pure mind for a just acquittal; not for one moment would she entertain the wicked thought of "doing evil that good might come;" and so, with flushed cheek, tingling ears, the mien of an insulted empress, and the dauntless resolution of a heroine, she hastened on to Hurstley. Look here! by great good fortune comes Jonathan Floyd to meet her. "Save me, Jonathan, save me!" and she fainted in his arms. Now, truth to say, though Sir John knew it, Simon did not, that Grace was Jonathan's beloved and betrothed ; and the cause lay simply in this, that Jonathan had frankly told his master of it, when he found the dread- ful turn things had taken with poor Roger ; but as to Simon, no mortal in the neighbourhood ever communicated with him, further than as urged by fell necessity. Of course, the lovers' meetings were as private as all such matters generally are ; and Sarah's aid managed them admi- rably. Therefore it now came to pass that Simon and Jonathan looked on each other in mutual astonishment, and needs must wait until Grace Acton could explain the " save me." Not but that Jennings seemed much as if he wished to run away ; but he did not know how to manage it. "Dear Jonathan," she whispered feebly, "save me from Simon Jen- nings." In an instant, Jonathan's grasp was tightly involved in the bailiff's stiff white neckcloth. And Grace, with much maidenly reserve, told her lover all she dared to utter of that base bartering for her father's life. "Come straight along with me, you villain, straight to the master!" And the sturdy Jonathan, administering all the remainder of the way (a quarter of a mile of avenue made part of it) innumerable kickings and cuffings, hauled the half-mummied bailiff into the servants' hall. " Now then, straight before the master ! John Page, be so good as to knock at the dining-room door, and ask master very respectfully if his honour will be good enough to suffer me to speak to him." 11 122 THECROCKOFGOLD. CHAPTER XLII. THE DISMISSAI. It was after dinner. Sir John and his friends had somehow been less jovial than usual ; they were absolutely dull enough to be talking poli- tics. So, when the boy of many buttons tapped at the door, and meekly brought in Jonathan's message, recounting also how he had" got Mr. Jen- nings in tow for some inexplicable crime, the strangeness of the affair was a very welcome incident : both host and guests hailed it an adventure. " By all means, let Jonathan come in." The trio were just outside; and when the blue and silver footman, hauling in by his unrelinquished throat that scared bailiff", and followed by the blushing village beauty, stood within the room, Sir John and his half-dozen friends greeted the tableau with united acclamations. "I say, Pypp, that's a devilish fine creature," metaphorically remarked the Honorable Lionel Poynter. "Yaas." Lord George was a long, sallow, slim young man, with a goatish beard, like the Due d'Aumale's ; he affected extreme fashion and infinite sangfroid. "Well, Jonathan, what is it?" asked the baronet. " Why, in one word, my honoured master, this scoundrel here has been wickedly insulting my own poor dear Grace, by promising to save her father from the gallows if — if — " "If what, man? speak out," said Mr. Poynter. "You don't mean to say, Jennings, that you are brute enough to be seducing that poor man Roger's daughter, just as he's going to be tried for his life ?" asked Sir John. Simon uttered nothing in reply ; but Grace burst into tears. "A fair idea that, 'pon my honour," drawled the chivalrous Pypp, proceeding to direct his delicate attentions towards the weeping damsel. "Simon Jennings," said Sir John, after pausing in vain for his reply, " I have long wished to get rid of you, sir. Silence ! I know you, and have been finding out your rascally proceedings these ten days past. I have learnt much, more than you may fancy: and now this crowning villany [what if he had known of the ulterior designs ?] gives me fair occasion to say once and for ever, begone !" THE DISMISSAL. 123 Jennings drew himself up with an air of insufferable impudence, and quietly answered, " John Vincent, I am proud to leave your service. I trust I can afford to live without your help." There was a general outcry at this speech, and Jonathan collared him again ; but the baronet calmly set all straight by saying, "Perhaps, sir, you may not be aware that your systematic thievings and extortions have amply justified me in detaining your iron chest and other valuables, until I find out how you may have come by them." This was the coup de grace to Jennings, who looked scared and terri- fied : — what! all gone — all, his own beloved hoard, and that deai*- bought crock of gold? Then Sir John added, after one minute of dignified and indignant silence, "Begone! — Jonathan put him out; and if you will kick him out of the hall-door on your private account, I'll forgive you for it." With that, the liveried Antinous raised the little monster by the small of the back, drew him struggling from the presence, and lifting him up like a football, inflicted one enormous kick that sent him spinning down the whole flight of fifteen marble stairs. This exploit accomplished to the satisfaction of all parties, Jonathan naturally enough returned to look for Grace ; and his master, with a couple of friends who had run to the door to witness the catastrophe, returned immediately before him. " Lord George Pypp, you will oblige me by leaving the young woman alone;" was Sir John's first angry reproof when he perceived the rustic beauty radiant with indignation at some mean offence. "The worthy baronet wa-ants her for himself," drawled Pypp. "Say that again, my lord, and you shall follow Jennings." Whilst the noble youth was slowly elaborating a proper answer, Jona- than's voice was heard once more : he had long looked very white, kept both hands clenched, and seemed as if, saving his master's presence, he could, and would have vanquished the whole room of them. '■Master, have I your honour's permission to speak?" "No, Jonathan, I'll speak for you; if, that is to say. Lord George will " "Paardon me. Sir John Devereux Vincent, your feyllow — and his master, are not fit company for Lord George Pypp ;" — and he leisurely proceeded to withdraw. "Stop a minute, Pypp, I've just one remark to make," hurriedly exclaimed Mr. Lionel Poynter, "if Sir John will suffer me; Vincent, 124 THECROCKOFGOLD. my good friend, we are wrong — Pypp's wrong, and so am I. First then, let me beg pardon of a very pretty girl, for making her look prettier by blushes ; next, as the maid really is engaged to you, my fine fellow, it is not beneath a gentleman to say, I hope that you '11 forgive me for too warmly admiring your taste ; as for George's imputation, Vincent — " "I beyg to observe," enunciated the noble scion, "I'm awf, Poynter." He gradually drew himself away, and the baronet never saw him more. "For shame, Pypp!" shouted after him the warm-hearted Siliphant; " I tell you what it is, Vincent, you must let me give a toast : — ' Grace and her lover!' here, my man, your master allows you to take a glass of wine with us; help your beauty too." The toast was drank with high applause : and before Jonathan humbly led away his pleased and blushing Grace, he took an opportunity of saying, " If I may be bold enough to speak, kind gentlemen, I wish to thank you : I oughtn't to be long, for I am nothing but your servant ; let it be enough to say my heart is full. And I 'm in hopes it wouldn't be very wrong in me, kind gentlemen, to propose ; — ' My noble master — honour and happiness to him !" "Bravo ! Jonathan, bravo-o-o-o !" there was a clatter of glasses ; — and the humble pair of lovers retreated under cover of the toast. CHAPTER XLIII. SmON AIONE. Jennings gathered himself up, from that Jew-of-Malta tumble down the steps, less damaged by the fall than could have been imagined pos- sible ; the fact being that his cat-like nature had stood him in .good stead — he had lighted on his feet; and nothing but a mighty dorsal bruise bore witness to the prowess of a Jonathan. But, if his body was comparatively sound, the inner man was bruised all over: he crept back, and retreated to his room, in as broken and despondent a frame of mind, as any could have wished to bless him wherewithal. However, he still had one thing left to live for : his hoard — that precious hoard within his iron box, and then — the crock of gold. SIMON ALONE. 125 He took Sir John's threat about detaining, and so forth, as merely future, and calculated on rendering it nugatory, by decamping forthwith, chat- tels and all ; but he little expected to find that the idea had already been acted upon ! On that identical afternoon, when Simon had gone forth to insult Grace Acton with his villanous proposals. Sir John, on returning from a ride, had commanded his own seal to be placed on all Mr. Jennings's effects, and the boxes to be forthwith removed to a place of safety : induced thereto by innumerable proofs from every quarter that the bailitf had been cheating him on a most liberal scale, and plundering his tenants systematically. Therefore, when Jennings hastened to his chamber to console himself for all things by looking at his gold, and counting out a bag or two — it was gone, gone, irrevocably gone ! safely stored away for rigid scrutiny in the grated muniment-room of Hurstley. Oh, what a howl the caitiff gave, when he saw that his treasure had been taken ! he was a wild bull in a net ; a crocodile caught upon the hooks ; a hyena at bay. What could he do ? which way should he tui'n ? how help him- self, or get his gold again? Unluckily — Oh, confusion, confusion! — his account-books were along with all his hoard, those tell-tale legers, wherein he had duly noted down, for his own private and triumphant glance, the curious difference between his lawful and unlawful gains ; there, was every overcharge recorded, every matter of extortion sys- tematically ranged, that he might take all the tenants in their turn; there, were filed the receipts of many honest men, whom the guardians and Sir John had long believed to be greatly in arrear; there, was recorded at length the catalogue of dues from tradesmen ; there, the list of bribes for the custom of the Hall. It would amply authorize Sir John in appropriating the whole store ; and Jennings thought of this with terror. Every thing was now obviously lost, lost ! Oh, sickening little word, all lost ! all he had ever lived for — all which had made him live the life he did — all which made him fear to die. "Fear to die — ha! who said that? I will not fear to die; yes, there is one escape left, I will hazard the blind leap ; this misery shall have an end — this sleep- less, haunted, cheated, hated wretch shall live no longer — ha! ha! ha! ha! I'll do it! I'll do it!" Then did that wretched man sti'ive in vain to kill himself, for his hour was not yet come. His first idea was laudanum — that only mean of any thing like rest to him for many weeks ; and pouring out all he had, a little phial, nearly half a wine-glass full, he quickly drank it off: no 11* 126 THE CROCK OF GOLD. use — no use ; the agitation of his mind was too intense, and the habit of a continually increasing dose had made him proof against the poison ; it would not even lull him, but seemed to stretch and rack his nerves, exciting him to deeds of bloody daring. Should he rush out, like a Malay running a muck, with a carving-knife in each hand, and kill right and left : — vengeance ! vengeance ! on Jonathan Floyd, and John Vincent ? No, no ; for some of them at last would overcome him, think him mad, and, O terror! — his doom for life, without the means of death, would be solitary confinement. "Stay! with this knife in my hand — means of death — yes, it shall be so." And he hurriedly drew the knife across his throat ; no use, nothing done ; his cowardly skin shrank away from cutting — he dared not cut again ; a little bloody scratch was all. But the heart, the heart — that should be easier! And the miscreant, not quite a Cato, gave a feeble stab, that made' a little puncture. Not yet, Simon Jennings ; no, not yet ; you shall not cheat the gallows. " Ha ! hanging, hanging! why had I not thought of that before?" He mounted on a chair with a gimlet in his hand, and screwed it tightly into the wainscotting as high as he could reach ; then he took a cord from the sacking of his bed, secured it to the gimlet, made a noose, put his head in, kicked the chair away — and swung by his wounded neck ; in vain, all in vain ; as he struggled in the agonies of self-protecting nature, the handle of the gimlet came away, and he fell heavily to the ground. "Bless us!" said Sarah to one of the house-maids, as they were arranging their curl-papers to go to bed: "what can that noise be in Mr. Jennings's room? his tall chest of drawers has fallen, I shouldn't wonder: it was always unsafe to my mind. Listen, Jenny, will you?" Jenny crept out, and, as laudable females sometimes do, listened at Simon's key-hole. "Lack-a-daisy, Sail, such a groaning and moaning; p'raps he 's a- dying: put on your cap again, and tell Jonathan to go and see." Sarah did as she was bid, and Jonathan did as he was bid ; and there was Mr. Jennings on the floor, blue in the face, with a halter round his neck. The house was sooH informed of the interesting event, and the bailiff was nursed as tenderly as if he had been a sucking babe ; fomentations, applications, hot potations : but he soon came to again, without any hope or wish to repeat the dread attempt : he was kept in bed, closely watched, and Stephen Cramp, together with his rival, Eager, remained continually in alternate attendance : until a day or two recovered him as strong as ever. I told you, Simon Jennings, that your time was not yet come. THE TRIAL. 127 CHAPTER XLIV. THE TRIAL. The trial now came on, and Roger Acton stood arraigned of robbery and murder. I must hasten over lengthy legal technicalities, which would only serve to swell this volume, without adding one iota to its interest or usefulness. Nothing could be easier, nothing more worth while, as a matter of mere book-making, than to tear a few pages out of some musty record of Criminal Court Practice or other Newgate Calen- dar-piece of authorship, and wade wearily through the length and breadth of indictments, speeches, examinations, and all the other learned clatter of six hours in the judgment-halls of law. If the reader wishes for all this, let him pore over those unhealthy -looking books, whose exterior is dove-coloured as the kirtle of innocence, but their inwards black as the conscience of guilt ; whitened sepulchres, all spotless without ; but within them are enshrined the quibbling knavery, the distorted ingenuity, the mystifying learnedness, the warped and warping views of truth, the lying, slandering, bad-excusing, good-condemning principles and practices of those who cater for their custom at the guiltiest felon's cell, and would glory in defending Lucifer himself. In the case of sheer innocence, indeed, as Roger's was — or in one of much doubt and secresy, where the client denies all guilt, and the counsel sees reason to believe him — let the advocate manfully battle out his cause : but where crime has poured out his confessions in a counsellor's ear — is not this man bought by gold to be a partaker and abettor in his sins, when he strives with all his might to clear the guilty, and not sel- dom throws the hideous charge on innocence ? If the advocate has no wish to entrap his own conscience, nor to damage the tissue of his honour, let him reject the client criminal who confesses, and only plead for those from whom he has had no assurance of their guilt ; or, better far, whose innocence he heartily believes in. Such an advocate was Mr. Grantly, a barrister of talents and experi- ence, who, from motives of the purest benevolence, did all that in him lay for Roger Acton. In one thing, however, and that of no small import, the kindly cautious man of law had contrived to do more harm than good : for, after having secretly made every effort, but in vain, to 128 THE CROCK OF GOLD. find Ben Burke as a witness — and after having heard that the aforesaid Ben was a notorious poacher, and only intimate at Hurstley with Acton and his family — he strongly recommended Roger to say nothing about the man or his adventure, as the acknowledgment of such an intimacy would only damage his cause : all that need appear was, that he found the crock in his gardefi, never mind how he " thought " it got there : poachers are not much in the habit of flinging away pots of gold, and no jury would believe but that the ill-reputed personage in question was an accomplice in the murder, and had shared the spoil with his friend Roger Acton. All this was very shrewd, and well meant; but was not so wise, for all that, as simple truth would have been : nevertheless, Roger acquiesced in it, for a better reason than Mr. Grantly's — namely, this : his feelings toward poor Ben had undergone an amiable revulsion, and, well aware how the whole neigbourhood were prejudiced against him for his freebooting propensities, he feared to get his good rough friend into trouble if he mentioned his nocturnal fishing at Pike island ; especially when he considered that little red Savings' Bank, which, though innocent as to the getting, was questionable as to the rights of spending, and that, really, if he involved the professed poacher in this mysterious affair, he might put his liberty or life into very serious jeopardy. On this account, then, which Grace could not entirely find fault with (though she liked nothing that savoured of concealment), Roger Acton agreed to abide by Mr. Grantly's advice; and thus he never alluded to his connexion with the poacher. Enlightened as we are, and intimate with all the hidden secrets of the story, we may be astonished to hear that, notwithstanding all Mr. Grantly's ingenuity, and all the siftings of cross-questioners, the case was clear as light against poor Acton. No alibi, he lived upon the spot. No witnesses to character; for Roger's late excesses had wiped away all former good report : kind Mr. Evans himself, with tears in his eyes, acknowledged sadly that Acton had once been a regular church-goer, a frequent communicant: but had fallen off" of late, poor fellow! And then, in spite of protestations to the contrary, behold ! the corpus delicti — that unlucky crock of gold, actually in the man's possession, and the fragment of shawl — was not that sufficient ? Jonathan Floyd in open court had been base enough to accuse Mr. Jennings of the murder. Mr. Jennings indeed ! a strict man of high character, lately dismissed, after twenty years' service, in the most arbi- trary manner by young Sir John, who had taken a great liking to the I ROGER'S DEFENCE. 129 Actons. People could guess why, when they looked on Grace: and Grace, too, was sufficient reason to account for Jonathan's wicked sus- picions; of course, it was the lover's interest to throw the charge on other people. As to Mr. Jennings himself, just recovered from a fit of illness, it was astonishing how liberally and indulgently he prayed the court to show the prisoner mercy : his white and placid face looked quite benevolently at him — and this respectable person was a murderer, eh, Mr. Jonathan? So, when the judge summed up, and clearly could neither find nor make a loop-hole for the prisoner, the matter seemed accomplished ; all knew what the verdict must be — poor Roger Acton had not the shadow of a chance. CHAPTER XLV. ROGER'S DEFENCE. Then, while the jury were consulting — they would not leave the box, it seemed so clear — Roger broke the death-like silence ; and he said : " Judge, I crave your worship's leave to speak : and hearken to me, countrymen. Many evil things have I done in my time, both against God and my neighbour : I am ashamed, as well I may be, when I think on 'em : I have sworn, and drunk, and lied ; I have murmured loudly — coveted wickedly — ay, and once I stole. It was a little theft, I lost it on the spot, and never stole again : pray God, I never may. Nevertheless, countrymen, and sinful though I be in the sight of Him who made us, according to man's judgment and man's innocency, I had lived among you all blameless, until I found that crock of gold. I did find it, coun- trymen, as God is my witness, and, therefore, though a sinner, I appeal to Him : He knoweth that I found it in the sedge that skirts my garden, at the end of my own celery trench. I did wickedly and foolishly to hide my find, worse to deny it, and worst of all to spend it in the low lewd way I did. But of robbery I am guiltless as you are. And as to this black charge of murder, till Simon Jennings spoke the word, I never knew it had been done. Folk of Hurstley, friends and neighbours, you all know Roger Acton — the old-time honest Roger of these forty years, I 130 THE CROCK OF GOLD. before the devil made him mad by giving him much gold — did he ever maliciously do harm to man or woman, to child or poor dumb brute ? — No, countrymen, I am no murderer. That the seemings are against me, I vi'ot well ; they may excuse your judgment in condemning me to death — and I and the good gentleman there who took my part (Heaven bless you, sir!) cannot go against the facts: but they speak falsely, and I truly; Roger Acton is an innocent man: may God defend the right!" "Amen!" earnestly whispered a tremulous female voice, "and God will save you, father." The court was still as death, except for sobbing ; the jury were doubting and confounded; in vain Mr. Jennings, looking at the fore- man, shook his head and stroked his chin in an incredulous and knowing manner; clearly they must retire, not at all agreed ; and the judge him- self, that masqued man in flowing wig and ermine, but still warmed by human sympathies, struck a tear from his wrinkled cheek; and all seemed to be involuntarily waiting (for the jury, though unable to decide, had not yet left their box), to see whether any sudden miracle would happen to save a man whom evidence made so guilty, and yet he bore upon his open brow the genuine signature of Innocence. " Silence, there, silence ! you can't get in ; there 's no room for'ards !" But a couple of javelin-men at the door were knocked down right and left, and through the dense and suffocating crowd, a black-whiskered fellow, elbowing his way against their faces, spite of all obstruction, struggled to the front behind the bar. Then, breathless with gigantic exertion (it was like a mammoth treading down the cedars), he roared out, "Judge, swear me, I'm a witness; huzza! it's not too late." And the irreverent gentleman tossed a fur cap right up to the skylight. CHAPTER XLVI. THE WITNESS. Mr. Grantly brightened up at once, Grace looked happily to Heaven, and Roger Acton shouted out, "Thank God! thank God!— there's Ben Burke!" Yes, he had heard miles away of his friend's danger about an old THE WITNESS. 131 s!itrt \ uJtJ i, honey-poi full of gold, and he had made all speed, with Tom ia his train, to come and bear witness to the innocence of Roger. The sensation in court, as may be well conceived, was thi'illing ; but a vociferous crier, and the deep anxiety to hear this sturdy witness, soon reduced all again to silence. Then did they swear Benjamin Burke, who, to the scandal of his cause, would insist upon stating his profession to be "poacher;" and at first, poor simple fellow, seemed to have a notion that a sworn wit- ness meant one who swore continually ; but he was soon convinced otherwise, and his whole demeanour gradually became as polite and deferent as his coarse nature would allow. And Ben told his adventure on Pike island, as we have heard him tell it, pretty much in the same words, for the judge and Mr. Grantly let him take his own courses; and then he added (with a characteristic expletive, which we may as well omit, seeing it occasioned a cry of " order " in the court), " There, if that there white-livered little villain warn't the chap that brought the crocks, my name an't Ben Burke." "Good Heavens! Mr. Jennings, what's the matter?" said a briefless one, starting up : this was Mr. Sharp, a personage on former occasions distinguished highly as a thieves' advocate, but now, unfortunately, out of work. "Loosen his cravat, some one there ; the gentleman is in fits." "Oh, Aunt — Aunt Quarles, don't throttle me; I'll tell all — all; let go, let go!" and the wretched man slowly recovered, as Ben Burke said, "Ay, my lord, ask him yourself, the little wretch can tell you all about it." "I submit, my lurd," interposed the briefless one, "that this respect- able gentleman is taken ill, and that his presence may now be dispensed with, as a witness in the cause." "No, sir, no;" deliberately answered Jennings; "I must stay: the time I find is come ; I have not slept for weeks ; I am exhausted utterly ; I have lost my gold ; I am haunted by her ghost ; I can go no where but that face follows me — I can do nothing but her fingers clutch my throat. It is time to end this misery. In hope to lay her spirit, I would have offered up a victim : but — but she will not have him. Mine was the hand that — " "Pardon me," upstarted Mr. Sharp, "this poor gentleman is a mono- maniac ; pray, my lurd, let him be removed while the trial is proceeding." "You horse-hair hypocrite, you!" roared Ben, "would you hang the innocent, and save the guilty?" 132 THE CROCK OF GOLD. Would he ? would Mr. Philip Sharp ? Ay, that he would ; and glad of such a famous opportunity. What ! would not Newgate rejoice, and Horsemonger be glad? Would not his bag be filled with briefs from the community of burglars, and his purse be rich in gold subscribed by the brotherhood of thieves ? Great at once would be his name among the purlieus of iniquity : and every rogue in London would retain but Philip Sharp. Would he? ask him again. But Jennings quietly proceeded like a speaking statue. " I am not mad, most noble — " [the Bible-read villain was from habit quoting Paul] — "my lord, I mean. My hand did the deed: I throttled her " (here he gave a scared look over his shoulder) : " yes — I did it once and again: I took the crock of gold. You may hang me now, Aunt Quarles." "My lurd, my lurd, this is a most irregular proceeding," urged Mr. Sharp ; " on the part of the prisoner — I, I crave pardon — on behalf of this most respectable and deluded gentleman, Mr. Simon Jennings, I contend that no one may criminate himself in this way, without the shadow of evidence to support such suicidal testimony. Really, my lurd—" "Oh, sir, but my father may go free?" earnestly asked Grace. But Ben Burke's voice — I had almost written woice — overwhelmed them all : "Let me speak, judge, an't it please your honour, and take you notice, Master Horsehair. You wan't ewidence, do you, beyond the man's con- fession : here, I '11 give it you. Look at this here wice :" and he stretched forth his well-known huge and horny hand : "When 1 caught that dridful little reptil by the arm, he wriggled like a sniggled eel, so I was forced you see, to grasp him something tighter, and could feel his little arm-bones crack like any chicken's : now then, if his left elbow an't black and blue, though it's a month a-gone and more, I '11 eat it. Strip him and see." No need to struggle with the man, or tear his coat off. Jennings appeared only too glad to find that there was other evidence than his own foul tongue, and that he might be hung at last without sacking- rope or gimlet ; so, he quietly bared his arm, and the elbow looked all manner of colours — a mass of old bruises. MR. SHARP'S ADVOCACY. 133 CHAPTER XLVII. MR. SHARP'S ADVOCACY. The whole court trembled with excitement : it was deep, still silence ; and the judge said, " Prisoner at the bar, there is now no evidence against you : gentle- men of the jury, of course you will acquit him." The foreman: "All agreed, my lord, not guilty." "Roger Acton," said the judge, "to God alone you owe this marvel- lous, almost miraculous, interposition : you have had many wrongs inno- cently to endure, and I trust that the right feelings of society will requite you for them in this world, as, if you serve Him, God will in the next. You are honourably acquitted, and may leave this bar." In vain the crier shouted, in vain the javelin-men helped the crier, the court was in a tumult of joy ; Grace sprang to her father's neck, and Sir John Vincent, who had been in attendance sitting near the judge all the trial through, came down to him, and shook his hand warmly. Roger's eyes ran over, and he could only utter, " Thank God ! thank God ! He does better for me than I deserved." But the court was hushed at last : the jury resworn ; certain legal forms and technicalities speedily attended to, as counts of indictment, and so forth : and the judge then quietly said, " Simon Jennings, stand at that bar." H^e stood there like an image. " My lurd, I claim to be prisoner's counsel." " Mr. Sharp — the prisoner shall have proper assistance by all means ; but I do not see how it will help your case, if you cannot get your client to plead not guilty." While Mr. Philip Sharp converses earnestly with the criminal in confidential whispers, I will entertain the sagacious reader with a few admirable lines I have just cut out of a newspaper : they are headed "suppression of truth and exclusion of evidence. " Lawyers abhor any short cut to the truth. The pursuit is the thing for their pleasure and profit, and all their rules are framed for making the most of it. 12 134 THECROCKOFGOLD. "Crime is to them precisely what the fox is to the sportsman: and the object is not to pounce on it, and capture it at once, but to have a good run for it, and to exhibit skill and address in the chase. Whether the culprit or the fox escape or not, is a matter of indifference, the run being the main thing. "The punishment of crime is as foreign to the object of lawyers, as the extirpation of the fox is to that of sportsmen. The sportsman, because he hunts the fox, sees in the summary destruction of the fox by the hand of a clown, an offence foul, strange, and unnatural, little short of mur- der. The lawyer treats crime in the same way : his business is the chase of it; but, that it may exist for the chase, he lays down rules protecting it against surprises and capture by any methods but those of the forensic field. " One good turn deserves another, and as the lawyer oAves his business to crime, he naturally makes it his business to favour and spare it as much as possible. To seize and destroy it wherever it can be got at, seems to him as barbarous as shooting a bird sitting, or a hare in her form, does to the sportsman. The phrase, to give law, for the allowance of a start, or any chance of escape, expresses the methods of lawyers in the pursuit of crime, and has doubtless been derived from their practice. "Confession is the thing most hateful to law, for this stops its sport at the outset. It is the surrender of the fox to the hounds. 'We don't want your stinking body,' says the lawyer; 'we want the run after the scent. Away with you, be off; retract your admission, take the benefit of telling a lie, give us employment, and let us take our chance of hunting out, in our roundabout ways, the truth, which we will not take when it lies before us.'" As I perceive that Mr. Sharp has not yet made much impression upon the desponding prisoner, suffer me to recommend to your notice another sensible leader : the abuse which it would combat calls loudly for amend- ment. There is plenty of time to spare, for some preliminaries of trial have yet to be arranged, and the judge has just stepped out to get a sandwich, and every body stands at ease ; moreover, gentle reader, the paragraphs following are well worthy of your attention. Let us name them, "MORBID SYMPATHIES. " We have often thought that the tenderness shown by our law to pre- sumed criminals is as injurious as it is inconsistent and excessive. A MR. SHARP'S ADVOCACY. 135 miserable beggar, a petty rioter, the wretch who steals a loaf to satisfy the gnawings of his hunger, is roughly seized, closely examined, and severely punished ; meanwhile, the plain common sense of our mobs, if not of our magistracy, has pitied the offender, and perhaps acquitted him. But let some apparent murderer be caught, almost in the flagrant deed of his atrocity ; let him, to the best of all human belief, have killed, disembowelled, and dismembered; let him have united the coolness of consummate craft to the boldest daring of iniquity, and straightway (though the generous crowd may hoot and hunt the wretch with yelling execration) he finds in law and lawyers, refuge, defenders, and apologists. Tenderly and considerately is he cautioned on no account to criminate himself: he is exhorted, even by judges, to withdraw the honest and truthful plea of 'guilty,' now the only amends which such a one can make to the outraged laws of God and man : he is defended, even to the desperate length of malignant accusation of the innocent, by learned men, whose aim it is to pervert justice and screen the guilty ! he is lodged and tended with more circumstances of outward comfort and consideration than he probably has ever experienced in all his life before; and if, notwithstanding the ingenuity of his advocates, and the merciful glosses of his judge, a simple-minded British jury capitally convict him, and he is handed over to the executioner, he still finds pious gentlemen ready to weep over him in his cell, and titled dames to send him white camellias, to wear upon his heart when he is hanging.* "Now what is the necessary consequence of this, but a mighty, a fearfully influential premium on crime ? And what is its radical cause, but the absurd indulgence wherewith our law greets the favoured, because the atrocious criminal ? Upon what principle of propriety, or of natural justice, should a seeming murderer not be — we will not say sternly, but even kindly — catechised, and for his very soul's sake counselled to confess his guilt? Why should the morale of evidence be so thoroughly lost sight of, and a malefactor, who is ready to acknowledge crime, or unable, when questioned, to conceal it, on no account be listened to, lest he may do his precious life irreparable harm? It is not agonized repentance, or incidental disclosure, that makes the culprit his own executioner, but his crime that has preceded ; it is not the weak, avow, ing tongue, but the bold and bloody hand. * It has been stated as a fact, that a certain Lady L S , in her last inter- view with a young man, condemned to death for the brutal murder of his sweetheart, presented him with a white camellia, as a token of eternal peace, which the gallant gentleman actually wore at the gallows in his button-hole. 136 THE CROCK OF GOLD. " We are unwilling to allude specifically to the name of any recent malefactor in connexion with these plain remarks ; for, in the absence alike of hindered voluntary confession and of incomplete legal evidence, we would not prejudge, that is, prejudice a case. But we do desire to exclaim against any further exhibition of that morbid tenderness where- with all persons are sure to be treated, if only they are accused of enormities more than usually disgusting; and we specially protest against that foolish, however ancient, rule in our criminal law, which discourages and rejects the slenderest approach to a confession, while it has sacrificed many an innocent victim to the uncertainty of evidence, supported by nothing more safe than outward circumstantials." At length, and after much gesticulation and protestation, Mr. Sharp has succeeded ; he had apparently innoculated the miserable man with hopes; for the miscreant now said firmly, "I plead not guilty." The briefless one looked happy — nay, triumphant : Jennings was a wealthy man, all knew ; and, any how, he should bag a bouncing fee. How far such money was likely to do him any good, he never stopped to ask. " Money is money," said Philip Sharp and the Emperor Vespasian. We need not trouble ourselves to print Mr. Sharp's veiy flashy, flip- . pant speech. Suffice it to say, that, not content with asserting vehemently on his conscience as a Christian, on his honour as a man, that Simon Jennings was an innocent, maligned, persecuted individual ; labouring, perhaps, under mono-mania, but pure and gentle as the babe new-born — not satisfied with traducing honest Ben Burke as a most suspicious wit- ness, probably a murderer — ay, the murderer himself, a mere riotous ruffian [Ben here chucked his cap at him, and thereby countenanced the charge], a mere scoundrel, not to say scamp, whom no one should believe upon his oath ; he again, with all the semblance of sincerity, accused, however vainly, Roger Acton : and lastly, to the disgust and astonishment of the whole court, added, with all acted appearances of fervent zeal for justice, "And I charge his pious daughter, too, that far too pretty piece of goods, Grace Acton, with being accessory to this atrocious crime after the fact!" There was a storm of shames and hisses ; but the judge allayed it, quietly saying, " Mr. Sharp, be so good as to confine your attention to your client ; he appears to be quite worthy of you." Then Mr. Sharp, like the firm just man immortalized by Flaccus, MR. SHARP'S ADVOCACY. 137 stood stout against the visage of the judge, sneered at the wrath of citi- zens commanding things unjust, turned to Ben Burke minaciously, calling him "jDwa: inquieti turhidus Adrm'''' [as Burke had heard this quotation, he thought it was about the " ducks " he had been decoying], and alto- gether seemed not about to be put down, though the huge globe crack about his ears. After this, he calmly worded on, seeming to regard the judge's stinging observation with the same sort of indifference as the lion would a dew-drop on his mane ; and having poured out all manner of voluminous bombast, he gradually ran down, and came to a conclu- sion ; then, jumping up refreshed, like the bounding of a tennis-ball, he proceeded to call witnesses; and, judging from what happened at the inquest, as well as because he wished to overwhelm a suspected and sus- pecting witness, he pounced, somewhat infelicitously, on Jonathan Floyd. " So, my fine young fellow, you are a footman, eh, at Hurstley ?" "Yes, sir, an' it please you — or rather, an' it please my master." " You remember what happened on the night of the late Mrs. Quarles's decease ?" " Oh, many things happened ; Mr. Jennings was lost, he wasn't to be found, he was hid somewhere, nobody saw him till next morning." " Stop, sirrah ! not quite so quick, if you please ; you are on your oath, be careful what you say. I have it in evidence, sirrah, before the coroner;" and he looked triumphantly about him at this clencher to all Jonathan's testimony ; " that you saw him yourself that night speaking to the dog ; what do you mean by swearing that nobody saw him till next morning?" "Well, mister, I mean this ; whether or no poor old Mrs. Quarles saw her affectionate nephew that night before the clock struck twelve, there 's none alive to tell ; but no one else did — for Sarah and I sat up for him till past midnight. He was hidden away somewhere, snug enough ; and as I verily believe, in the poor old 'ooman's own — " " Silence, silence ! sir, I say ; we want none of your impertinent guesses here, if you please : to the point, sirrah, to the point; you swore before the coroner, that you had seen Mr. Jennings, in his courage and his kindness, quieting the dog that very night, and now — " "Oh," interrupted Jonathan in his turn, " for the matter of that, when I saw him with the dog, it was hard upon five in the morning. And here, gentlemen," added Floyd, with a promiscuous and comprehensive bow all round, " if I may speak my mind about the business — " "Go down, sir!" said Mr. Sharp, who began to be afraid of truths. 12* 138 THE CROCK OF GOLD. " Pardon me, this may be of importance," remarked Roger Acton's friend ; " say what you have to say, young man." "Well, then, gentlemen and my lord, I mean to say thus much Jennings there, the prisoner (and I 'm glad to see him standing at the bar), swore at the inquest that he went to quiet Don, going round through the front door ; now, none could get through that door without my hear- ing of him ; and certainly a little puny Simon like him could never do so without I came to help him ; for the lock was stiff with rust, and the bolt out of his reach." "Stop, young man; my respected client, Mr. Jennings, got upon a chair." "Indeed, sir? then he must ha' created the chair for that special pur- pose : there wasn't one in the hall then ; no, nor for two days after, when they came down bran-new from Dowbiggins in London, with the rest o' the added furnitur' just before my honoured master." This was conclusive, certainly ; and Floyd proceeded. "Now, gentlemen and- my lord, if Jennings did not go that way, nor the kitchen-way neither — for he always was too proud for scullery-door and kitchen — and if he did not give himself the trouble to unfasten the dining-room or study windows, or to unscrew the iron bars of his own pantry, none of which is likely, gentlemen — there was but one other way out, and that way was through Bridget Quarles's own room. Now — " "Ah — that room, that bed, that corpse, that crock! — It is no use, no use," the wretched miscreant added slowly, after his first hurried excla- mations ; "I did the deed, I did it! guilty, guilty." And, notwithstanding all Mr. Sharp's benevolent interferences, and appeals to judge and jury on the score of mono-mania, and shruggings-up of shoulders at his client's folly, and virtuous indignation at the evident leaning of the court — the murderer detailed what he had done. He spoke quietly and firmly, in his usually stern and tyrannical style, as if severe upon himself, for being what? — a man of blood, a thief, a perjured false accuser? No, no; lower in the scale of Mammon's judgment, worse in the estimate of him whose god is gold ; he was now a pauper, a mere moneyless forked animal ; a beggared, emptied, worthless, penniless creature : therefore was he stern against his ill-starred soul, and took vengeance on himself for being poor. It was a consistent feeling, and common with the mercantile of this world; to whom the accidents of fortune are every thing, and the qualities of mind nothing ; whose affections ebb and flow towards friends, MR. SHARP'S ADVOCACY. 139 relations — yea, their own flesh and blood, with the varying tide of wealth : whom a luckless speculation in cotton makes an enemy, and gambling gains in corn restore a friend ; men who fall down mentally before the golden calf, and offer up their souls to Nebuchadnezzar's idol : men who never saw harm nor shame in the craftiest usurer or meanest pimp, pro- vided he has thousands in the three per cents. ; and whose indulgent notions of iniquity reach their climax in the phrase — the man is poor. So then, with unhallowed self-revenge, Simon rigidly detailed his crimes : he led the whole court step by step, as I have led the reader, through the length and breadth of that terrible night : of the facts he concealed nothing, and the crowded hall of judgment shuddered as one man, when he came to his awful disclosure, hitherto unsuspected, unimagined, of that second strangulation : as to feelings, he might as well have been a galvanized mummy, an automaton lay-figure enunci- ating all with bellows and clapper, for any sense he seemed to have of shame, or fear, or pity ; he admitted his lie about the door, complimented Burke on the accuracy of his evidence, and declared Roger Acton not merely innocent, but ignorant of the murder. This done, without any start or trepidation in his manner as formerly, he turned his head over his left shoulder, and said, in a deep whisper, heard all over the court, " And now. Aunt Quarles, I am coming ; look out, woman, I will have my revenge for all your hauntings : again shall we wrestle, again shall we battle, again shall I throttle you, again, again !" O, most fearful thought ! who knoweth but it may be true ? that spirits of wickedness and enmity may execute each other's punishment, as those of righteousness and love minister each other's happiness ! that — damned among the damned — the spirit of a Nero may still delight in torturing, and that those who in this world were mutual workers of iniquity, may find themselves in the next, sworn retributors of wrath ? No idle threat was that of the demoniac Simon, and possibly with no vain fears did the ghost of the murdered speed away. When the sensation of horror, which for a minute delayed the court- business, and has given us occasion to think that fearful thought, when this had gradually subsided, the foreman of the jury, turning to the judge, said, " My lord, we will not trouble your lordship to sum up ; we are all agreed — Guilty. ' ' One word about Mr. Sharp :' he was entirely chagrined ; his fortunes were at stake ; he questioned whether any one in Newgate would think 140 THECROCKOFGOLD. of him again. To make matters worse, when he whispered for a fee to Mr. Jennings (for he did whisper, however contrary to professional etiquette), that worthy gentleman replied by a significant sneer, to the effect that he had not a penny to give him, and would not if he had: whereupon Mr. Sharp began to coincide with the rest of the world in regarding so impoverished a murderer as an atrocious criminal ; then, turning from his client with contempt, he went to the length of congratu- lating Roger on his escape, and actually offered his hand to Ben Burke. The poacher's reply was characteristic : " As you means it kindly. Master Horsehair, I won't take it for an insult: howsomdever, either your hand or mine, I won't say which, is too dirty for shaking. Let me do you a good turn, Master : there 's a blue-bottle on your wig ; I think as it's Beelzebub a-whispering in your ear: allow me to drive him away." And the poacher dealt him such a cuff that the barrister reeled again ; and instantly afterwards took advantage of the cloud of hair-powder to leave the court unseen. CHAPTER XLVIII. SENTENCE AND DEATH. Silence, silence ! shouted the indignant crier, and the episodical cause of Burke, v. Sharp, was speedily hushed. The eyes of all now concentred on the miserable criminal ; for the time, every thing else seemed forgotten. Roger, Grace, and Ben, grouped together in the midst of many friends, who had crowded round them to congratulate, leaned forward like the rest of that dense hall, as simply thralled spectators. Mr. Grantly lifted up a pair of very moistened eyes behind his spectacles, and looked earnestly on, with his wig, from agitation, wriggled tails in front. The judge (it was good old Baron Parker) put on the black cap to pronounce sentence. There was a pause. But we have forgotten Simon Jennings — what was he about? did that " cynosure of neighbouring eyes " appear alarmed at his position, anxious at his fate, or even attentive to what was going on ? No : he not only appeared, but was, the most unconcerned individual in the whole court : he even tried to elude utter vacancy of thought by amusing himself SENTENCE AND DEATH. 141 with external things about him: and, on Wordsworth's principle of inducing sleep by counting " A flock of sheep, that leisurely pass by. One after one," he was trying to reckon, for pleasant peace of mind's sake, how many folks were looking at him. Only see — he is turning his white stareful face in every direction, and his lips are going a thousand and forty-one, a thousand and forty-two, a thousand and forty -three ; he will not hurry it over, by leaving out the "thousand:" alas! this holiday of idiotic occupation is all the respite now his soul can know. And the judge broke that awful silence, saying, " Prisoner at the bar, you are convicted on your own confession, as well as upon other evidence, of crimes too horrible to speak of The deliberate repetition of that fearful murder, classes you among the worst of wretches whom it has been my duty to condemn : and when to this is added your perjured accusation of an innocent man, whom nothing but a miracle has rescued, your guilt becomes appalling — too hideous for human contemplation. Miserable man, prepare for death, and after that the judgment; yet, even for you, if you repent, there may be pardon; it is my privilege to tell even you, that life and hope are never to be sep- arated, so long as God is merciful, or man may be contrite. The Sacri- fice of Him who died for us all, for you, poor fellow-creature [here the good judge wept for a minute like a child] — for you, no less than for me, is available even to the chief of sinners. It is my duty and my comfort to direct your blood-stained, but immortal soul, eagerly to fly to that only refuge from eternal misery. As to this world, your career of wickedness is at an end : covetousness has conceived and generated murder ; and murder has even over-stept its common bounds, to repeat the terrible crime, and then to throw its guilt upon the innocent. Enter- tain no hope whatever of a respite ; mercy in your case would be sin. "The sentence of the court is, that you, Simon Jennings, be taken from that bar to the county jail, and thence on this day fortnight to be conveyed to the place of execution within the prison, and there by the hands of the common hangman be hanged by the neck " At the word "neck," in the slow and solemn enunciation of the judge, issued a terrific scream from the mouth of Simon Jennings : was he mad after all — mad indeed ? or was he being strangled by some unseen execu- tioner? Look at him, convulsively doing battle with an invisible foe ! his 142 THE CROCK OF GOLD. eyes start ; his face gets bluer and bluer ; his hands, fixed like griffin's talons, clutch at vacancy — he wrestles — struggles — falls. All was now confusion : even the grave judge, who had necessarily stopped at that frightful interruption, leaned eagerly over his desk, while barristers and Serjeants learned in the law crowded round the prisoner : "He is dying! air, there — air! a glass of water, some one !" About a thimbleful of water, after fifty spill ings, arrived safely in a tumbler ; but as for air, no one in that court had breathed any thing but nitrogen for four hours. He was dying : and three several doctors, hoisted over the heads of an admiring multitude, rushed to his relief with thirsty lancets : apoplexy — oh, of course, apoplexy : and they nodded to each other confidentially. Yes, he was dying : they might not move him now : he must die in his sins, at that dread season, upon that dread spot. Perjury, robbery, and murder — all had fastened on his soul, and were feeding there like harpies at a Strophadian feast, or vultures ravening on the liver of Pro- metheus. Guilt, vengeance, death had got hold of him, and rent him, as wild horses tearing him asunder different ways ; he lay there gurgling, strangling, gasping, panting: none could help him, none could give him ease ; he was going on the dark, dull path in the bottom of that awful val- ley, where Death's cold shadow overclouds it like a canopy ; he was sinking in that deep black water, that must some day drown us all — pray Heaven, with hope to cheer us then, and comfort in the fierce extremity! His eye filmed, his lower jaw relaxed, his head dropped back — he was dying — dying — dying — On a sudden, he rallied ! his blood had rushed back again from head to heart, and all the doctors were deceived — again he battled, and fought, and wrestled, and flung them from him ; again he howled, and his eyes glared lightning — mad? Yes, mad — stark mad! quick — quick — we cannot hold him : save yourselves there ! But he only broke away from them to stand up free — then he gave one scream, leaped high into the air, and fell down dead in the dock, with a crimson stream of blood issuing from his mouth. RIGHTEOUS MAMMON. 143 CHAPTER XLIX. RIGHTEOUS MAMMON. Thus the crock of gold had gained another victim. Is the curse of its accumulation still unsatisfied? Must more misery be born of that unhallowed store? Shall the poor man's wrongs, and his little ones' cry for bread, and the widows' vain appeal for indulgence in necessity, and the debtor's useless hope for time — more time — and the master's misused bounty, and the murmuring dependants' ever-extorted dues — must the frauds, falsehoods, meannesses, and hardnesses of half a century long, concentrate in that small crock — must these plead still for bloody judg- ments from on high against all who touch that gold ? No ! the miasma is dispelled : the curse is gone : the crimes are expi- ated. The devil in that jar is dispossessed, and with Simon's last gasp has returned unto his own place. The murderer is dead, and has thereby laid the ghost of his mate in sin, the murdered victim ; while that victim has long ago paid by blood for her many years of mean domestic pilfering. And now I see a better angel hovering round the crock : it is purified, sanctified, accepted. It is become a talent from the Lord, instead of a temptation from the devil ; and the same coin, which once has been but dull, unrighteous mammon, through justice, thankfulness, and piety, shineth as the shekel of the temple. Gratefully, as from God, the right- ful owner now may take the gift. For, gold is a creature of God, representing many excellencies : the sweat of honest Industry distils to gold ; the hot-spring of Genius con- geals to gold ; the blessing upon Faithfulness is often showered in gold ; and Charities not seldom are guerdoned back with gold. Let no man affect to despise what Providence hath set so high in power. None do so but the man who has it not, and who knows that he covets it in vain. Sour grapes — sour grapes — for he may not touch the vintage. This is not the verdict of the wise ; the temptation he may fear, the cares he may confess, the misuse he may condemn : yet will he acknowledge that, received at God's hand, and spent in his service, there is scarce a crea- ture in this nether world of higher name than Money. Beauty fadeth ; Health dieth ; Talents — yea, and Graces — go to bloom in other spheres — but when Benevolence would bless, and bless for ao-es, 141 THE CROCK OF GOLD. his blessing is vain, but for money — when Wisdom would teach, and teach for ages, the teacher must be fed, and the school built, and the scholar helped upon his way by money — righteous money. There is a righteous money as there is unrighteous mammon ; but both have their ministrations here limited to earth and time ; the one, a fruit of heaven — the other, a fun- gus from below : yet the fruit will bring no blessing, if the Grower be for- gotten ; neither shall the fungus yield a poison, if warmed awhile beneath the better sun. Like all other gifts, given to us sweet, but spoilt in the using, gold may turn to good or ill : Health may kick, like fat Jeshurun in his wantonness ; Power may change from beneficence to tyranny ; Learn- ing may grow critical in motes until it overlooks the sunbeam ; Love may be degraded to an instinct ; Zaccheus may turn Pharisee ; Religion may cant into the hypocrite, or dogmatize to theologic hate. Even so it is with money : its power of doing good has no other equivalent in this world than its power of doing evil : it is like fire — used for hospitable warmth, or wide-wasting ravages ; like air — the gentle zephyr, or the destroying hurricane. Nevertheless, all is for this world — this world only ; a mat- ter extraneous to the spirit, always foreign, often-times adversary : let a man beware of lading himself with that thick clay. I see a cygnet on the broad Pactolus, stemming the waters with its downy breast ; and anon, it would rise upon the wing, and soar to other skies ; so, taking down that snow-white sail, it seeks for a moment to rest its foot on shore, and thence take flight: alas, poor bird! thou art sink- ing in those golden sands, the heavy morsels clog thy flapping wing — ^in vain — in vain thou triest to rise — Pactolus chains thee down. Even such is wealth unto the wisest ; wealth at its purest source, expo- nent of labour and of mind. But, to the frequent fool, heaped with foulest dross — for the cygnet of Pactolus and those golden sands, read — the hip- popotamus wallowing in the Niger, and smothered in a bay of mud. CHAPTER L. THE CROCK A BLESSING. There was no will found : it is likely Mrs. Quarles had never made one ; she feared death too much, and all that put her in mind of it. So the next of kin, the only one to have the crock of gold, was Susan Scott, THE CROCK A BLESSING. > I45 a good, honest; hard-working woman, whom Jennings, by many arts, had kept away from Hurstley : her husband, a poor thatcher, sadly out of work except in ricking time, and crippled in both legs by having fallen from a hay-stack : and as to the family, it was already as long a flight of steps as would reach to an ordinary first floor, with a prospect (so the gossips said) of more in the distance. Susan was a Wesleyan Method, ist — many may think, more the pity : but she neither disliked church, nor called it steeple-house : only, forasmuch as Hagglesfield was blessed with a sporting parson, the chief reminders of whose presence in the parish were strifes perpetual about dues and tithes, it is little blame or wonder, if the starving sheep went anywhither else for pasturage and water. So, then, Susan was a good mother, a kind neighbour, a religious, humble-minded Christian : is it not a comfort now to know that the gold was poured into her lap, and that she hallowed her good luck by pray- ers and praises? I judge it worth while stepping over to Hagglesfield for a couple of minutes, to find out how she used that gold, and made the crock a bless- ing. Susan first thought of her debts : so, to every village shop around, I fear they were not a few, which had kindly given her credit, some for weeks, some for months, and more than one for a year, the happy house- wife went to pay in full ; and not this only, but with many thanks, to press a little present upon each, for well-timed help in her adversity. The next thought was near akin' to it: to take out of pawn divers val- ued articles, two or three of which had been her mother's ; for Reuben's lameness, poor man, kept him much out of work, and the childer came so quick, and ate so fast, and wore out such a sight of shoes, that, but for an occasional appeal to Mrs. Quarles — it was her one fair feature this — they must long ago have been upon the parish : now, however, all the ancestral articles were redeemed, and honour no doubt with them. Thirdly, Susan went to her minister in best bib and tucker, and hum- bly begged leave to give a guinea to the school ; and she hoped his rev- erence wouldn't be above accepting a turkey and chine, as a small token of her gratitude to him for many consolations : it pleased me much to hear that the good man had insisted upon Susan and her husband coming to eat it with him the next day at noon. Fourthly, Susan prudently set to work, and rigged out the whole fam- ily in tidy clothes, with a touch of mourning upon each for poor Aunt Bridget, and unhappy brother Simon ; while the fifthly, sixthly, and to conclude, were concerned in a world of notable and useful schemes, with K 13 146 THE CROCK OF GOLD. a strong resolution to save as much as possible for schooling and getting out the children. It was wonderful to see how much good was in that gold, how large a fund of blessing was hidden in that crock : Reuben Scott gained health,' the family were fed, clad, taught; Susan grew in happiness at least as truly as in girth ; and Hagglesfield beheld the goodness of that store, whose curse had startled all Hurstley-cum-Piggesworth. But also at Hurstley now are found its consequential blessings. We must take another peep at Roger and sweet Grace ; they, and Ben too, and Jonathan, and Jonathan's master, may all have cause to thank an overruling Providence, for blessing on the score of Bridget's crock. Only before I come to that, I wish to be dull a little hereabouts, and moralize : the reader may skip it, if he will — but I do not recommend him so to do. For, evermore in the government of God, good groweth out of evil : and, whether man note the fact or not, Providence, with secret care, doth vindicate itself. There is justice done continually, even on this stage of trial, though many pine and murmur: substantial retribution, even in this poor dislocated world of wrong, not seldom overtakes the sinner, not seldom encourages the saint. Encourages? yea, and punishes: bless- ing him with kind severity ; teaching him to know himself a mere bad root, if he be not grafted on his God ; proving that the laws which govern life are just, and wise, and kind; showing him that a man's own heart's desire, if fulfilled, would probably tend to nothing short of sin, sorrow, and calamity ; that many seeming goods are withheld, because they are evils in disguise; and many seeming ills allowed, because they are masqueraded blessings; and demonstrating, as in this strange tale, that the unrighteous Mammon is a cruel master, a foul tempter, a pestilent destroyer of all peace, and a teeming source of both world's misery. Listen to the sayings of the Wisest King of men : " As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more : but the right- eous is an everlasting foundation." "The righteous is delivered out of trouble, and the wicked cometh in his stead." " He that trusteth in his riches shall fall : but the righteous shall flour- ish as a branch." " Better is a little with righteousness, than great revenues without right.' "The wicked shall be a ransom for the righteous, and the transgressor for the upright." "A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children's children: and the wealth of the sinner is laid up for the just." POPULARITY. 147 CHAPTER LI. POPULAEITY. The storm is lulled : the billows of temptation have ebbed away from shore, and the clouds of adversity have flown to other skies. " The winter is past ; the rain is over and gone ; the flowers appear upon the earth ; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land : the fig-tree putteth forth his green figs, and the blossoms of the vine smell sweetly. Arise, and come away." Yesterday's trial, and its unlooked-for issue, have raised Roger Acton to the rank of hero. The town's excitement is intense : and the little inn, where he and Grace had spent the night in gratitude and prayerful praise, is besieged by carriages full of lords and gentlemen, eager to see and speak with Roger. Humbly and reverently, yet preserving an air of quiet self-possession, the labourer received their courteous kindnesses; and acquitted himself of what may well be called the honours of that levee, with a dignity native to the true-born Briton, from the time of Caractacus at Rome to our own. But if Roger was a demi-god, Grace was at the least a goddess; she charmed all hearts with her modest beauty. Back with the shades of night, and the prison-funeral of Jennings, fled envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness ; the elderly sisterhood of Hurstley, not to be out of a fashion set by titled dames, hastened to acknowledge her perfections ; Calumny was shamed, and hid his face ; the uncles, aunts, and cousins of the hill-top yonder, were glad to hold their tongues, and bite their nails in peace : Farmer Floyd and his Mrs. positively came with peace- oflferings — some sausage-meat, elder-wine, jam, and other dainties, which were to them the choicest sweets of life : and as for Jonathan, he never felt so proud of Grace in all his life before ; the handsome fellow stood at least a couple of inches taller. Honest Ben Burke, too, that most important witness — whose coming was as Blucher's at Waterloo, and secured the well-earned conquest of the day — though it must be confessed that his appearance was something of the satyr, still had he been Phoebus Apollo in person, he would scarcely have excited sincerer admiration. More than one fair creature 148 THE CROCK OF GOLD. sketched his unkempt head, and loudly wished that its owner was a ban- dit ; more than one bright eye discovered beauty in his open countenance — though a little soap and water might have made it more distinguishable. Well — well — honest Ben — they looked, and wisely looked, at the frank and friendly mind hidden under that rough carcase, and little wonder that they loved it. Now, to all this stream of hearty English sympathy, the kind and proper feeling of young Sir John resolved to give a right direction. His fashionable friends were gone, except Silliphant and Poynter, both good fellows in the main, and all the better for the absence (among others) of that padded old debauchee. Sir Richard Hunt, knight of the order of St. Sapphira — ^that frivolous inanity. Lord George Pypp — and that professed gentleman of gallantry, Mr. Harry Mynton. The follies and the vices had decamped — had scummed off, so to speak — leaving the more rectified spirits behind them, to recover at leisure, as best they might, from all that ferment of dissipation. So, then, there was now neither ridicule, nor interest, to stand in the way of a young and wealthy heir's well-timed schemes of generosity. Well-timed they were, and Sir John knew it, though calculation sel- dom had a footing in his warm and heedless heart ; but he could not shut his eyes to the fact, that the state of feeling among his hereditary labour- ers was any thing but pleasant. In truth, owing to the desperate mal- practices of Quarles and Jennings, perhaps no property in the kingdom had got so ill a name as Hurstley : discontent reigned paramount ; incen- diary fires had more than once occurred ; threatening notices, very ill- spelt, and signed by one soi-disant Captain Blood, had been dropped, in dead of winter, at the door-sills of the principal farmers ; and all the other fruits of long-continued penury, extortion, and mis-government, were hanging ripe upon the bough — a foul and fatal harvest. Therefore, did the kind young landlord, who had come to live among his own peasantry, resolve, not more nobly than wisely, to seize an opportunity so good as this, for restoring, by a stroke of generous policy, peace and content on his domain. No doubt, the baronet rejoiced, as well he might, at the honourable acquittal of innocence, and the myste- ries of murder now cleared up ; he made small secret of his satisfaction at the doom of Jennings ; and, as for Bridget Quarles, by all he could learn of her from tenants' wives, and other female dependants, he had no mind to wish her back again, or to think her fate ill-timed : neverthe. less, he was even more glad of an occasion to vindicate his own good ROGER AT THE SWAN, 149 feelings ; and prove to the world that bailiff Simon Jennings was a very- opposite character to landlord Sir John Devereux Vincent. To carry out his plan, he determined to redress all wrongs within one day, and to commence by bringing "honest Roger" in triumph home again to Hurstley ; following the suggestion of Baron Parker, to make some social compensation for his wrongs. With this view, Sir John took counsel of the county-town authorities, and it was agreed unanimously, excepting only one dissenting vote — a rich and radical Quaker, one Isaac Sneak, grocer, and of the body corporate, who refused to lose one day's service of his shopmen, and thereby (I rejoice to add) succeeded in get ting rid of fifteen good annual customers — it was agreed, then, and arranged that the morrow should be a public holiday. All Sir John's own tenantry, as well as Squire Ryle's, and some of other neighbouring magnates, were to have a day's wages without work, on the easy condi- tions of attending the procession in their smartest trim, and of banqueting at Hurstley afterwards. So, then, the town-band was ordered to be in attendance next morning by eleven at the Swan, a lot of old election col- ours were shaken from their dust and cobwebs, the bell-ringers engaged, vasty preparations of ale and beef made at Hurstley Hall — an ox to be roasted whole upon the terrace, and a plum-pudding already in the caul- dron of two good yards in circumference — and all that every body hoped for that night, was a fine May-day to-morrow. CHAPTER LII. ROGEE AT THE SWAN. Meanwhile, eventide came on : the crowd of kindly gentle-folks had gone their several ways ; and Roger Acton found himself (through Sir John's largess) at free quarters in the parlour of the Swan, with Grace by his side, and many of his mates in toil and station round him. "Grace," said her father on a sudden, "Grace — my dear child — come hither." She stood in all her loveliness before him. Then he took her hand, looked up at her affectionately, and leaned back in the old oak chair. " Hear me, mates and neighbours ; to my own girl, Grace, under God, I owe my poor soul's welfare. I have nothing, would I had, to give her 13* 150 THE CROCK OFGOLD. in return :" and the old man (he looked ten years older for his six weeks, luck, and care, and trouble) — the old man could not get on at all with what he had to say — something stuck in his throat — but he recovered, and added cheerily, with an abrupt and rustic archness, "I don't know, mates, whether after all I can't give the good girl something : I can give her — away ! Come hither, Jonathan Floyd ; you are a noble fellow, that stood by us in adversity, and are almost worthy of my angel Grace." And he joined their hands. "Give us thy blessing too, dear father!" They kneeled at his feet on the sanded floor, in the midst of their kins- folk and acquaintance, and he, stretching forth his hands like a patriarch, looked piously up to heaven, and blessed them there. " Grace," he added, *' and Jonathan my son, I need not part with you — I could not. I have heard great tidings. To-morrow you shall know how kind and good Sir John is : God bless him ! and send poor Eng- land's children of the soil many masters like him. " And now, mates, one last word from Roger Acton ; a short word, and a simple, that you may not forget it. My sin was love of money : my punishment, its possession. Mates, remember Him who sent you to be labourers, and love the lot He gives you. Be thankful if His blessing on your industiy keeps you in regular work and fair wages: ask no more from God of this world's good. Believe things kindly of the gentle-folks, for many sins are heaped upon their heads, whereof their hearts are innocent. Never listen to the counsels of a servant, who takes away his master's character : for of such are the poor man's worst oppressors. Be satisfied with all your lowliness on earth, and keep your just ambitions for another world. Flee strong liquors and ill company. Nurse no heated hopes, no will-o'-the-wisp bright wishes : rather let your warmest hopes be temperately these — health, work, wages : and as for wishing, mates, wish any thing you will — sooner than to find a crock of gold." ROGER'S TRIUMPH. 151 CHAPTER LIII. ROGER'S TRIUMPH. The steeples rang out merrily, full chime ; High street was gay with streamers; the town-band busily assembling; a host of happy urchins from emancipated schools, were shouting in all manner of keys all man- ner of gleeful noises : every body seemed a-stir. A proud man that day was Roger Acton ; not of his deserts — they were worse than none, he knew it; not of the procession — no silly child was he, to be caught with toy and tinsel ; God wot, he was meek enough in self — and as for other pride, he knew from old electioneerings, what a humbling thing is triumph. But when he saw fi-om the windows of the Swan, those crowds of new-made friends trooping up in holiday suits with flags, and wands, and corporation badges — when the band for a commencement struck up the heart-stirring hymn ' God save the Queen,' — when the horsemen, and carriages, and gigs, and carts assembled — when the baronet's own barouche and four, dashing up to the door, had come from Hurstley Hall for Jdm — when Sir John, the happiest of the happy, alighting with his two friends, had displaced them for Roger and Grace, while the kind gentlemen took horse, and headed the procession — when Ben Burke (as clean as soap could get him, and bedecked in new attire) was ordered to sit beside Jonathan in the rumble-tumble — when the cheering, and the merry-going bells, and the quick-march 'British Grenadiers,' rapidly succeeding the national anthem — when all these tokens of a generous sympathy smote upon his ears, his eyes, his heart, Roger Acton wept aloud — he wept for very pride and joy : proud and glad was he that day of his country, of his countrymen, of his generous landlord, of his gentle Grace, of his vindicated innocence, and of God, " who had done so great things for him." So, the happy cavalcade moved on, horse and foot, and carts and carriages, through the noisy town, along the thronged high road, down the quiet lanes that lead to Hurstley ; welcomed at every cottage-door with boisterous huzzas, and adding to its ranks at every corner. And so they reached the village, where the band struck up, " See the conquering hero comes, Sound the trumpets, beat the drums !" 152 THE CROCK OF GOLD. Is not this returning like a nabob, Roger? Hath not God blest thee through the crock of gold at last, in spite of sin? There, at the entrance by the mile-stone, stood Mary and the babes, with a knot of friends around her, bright with happiness ; on the top of it was perched son Tom, waving the blue and silver flag of Hurstley, and acting as fugleman to a crowd of uproarious cheerers ; and beside it, on the bank, sat Sarah Stack, overcome with joy, and sobbing like a gladsome Niobe. And the village bells went merrily ; every cottage was gay with spring garlands, and each familiar face lit up with looks of kindness; Hark! hark! — "Welcome, honest Roger, welcome home again!" they shout: and the patereroes on the lawn thunder a salute; "welcome, honest neighbour;" — and up went, at bright noon, Tom Stableboy's dozen of rockets wrapped around with streamers of glazed calico — "welcome, welcome!" Good Mr. Evans stood at the door of fine old Hurstley, in wig, and band, and cassock, to receive back his wandering sheep that had been lost : and the school-children, ranged upon the steps, thrillingly sang out the beautiful chant, "I will arise, and go to my Father, and will say unto Him, 'Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son!'" Every head was uncovered, and every cheek ran down with tears. CHAPTER LIV. SIR JOHN'S .PAETING SPEECH. Then Sir John, standing up in the barouche at his own hall-door, addressed the assembled multitude : "Friends, we are gathered here to-day, in the cause of common justice and brothei'ly kindness. There are many of you whom I see around me, my tenants, neighbours, or dependants, who have met with wrongs and extortions heretofore, but you all shall be righted in your turn ; trust me, men, the old hard times are gone, your landlord lives among you, and his first care shall be to redress your many grievances, paying back the gains of your oppressor." SIR JOHN'S PARTING SPEECH. 153 "God bless you, sir, God bless you!" was the echo from many a gladdened heart. "But before I hear your several claims in turn, which shall be done to-morrow, our chief duty this day is to recompense an honest man for all that he has innocently suffered. It is five-and-thirty years, as I find by my books, on this very first of May, since Roger Acton first began to work at Hurstley ; till within this now past evil month, he has always been the honest steady fellow that you knew him from his youth : what say you, men, to having as a bailiflf one of yourselves ; a kind and humble man, a good man, the best hand in the parish in all the works of your vocation — a steady mind, an honest heart — what say ye all to Roger Acton?" There was a whirlwind of tumultuous applause. " Moreover, men, though you all, each according to his measure and my means, shall meet with liberal justice for your lesser ills, yet we must all remember that Bailiff" Acton here had nearly died a felon's death, through that bad man Jennings and the unlucky crock of gold ; in addition, extortion has gone greater lengths with him, than with any other on the property ; I find that for the last twenty years, Roger Acton has regularly paid to that monster of oppression who is now dead, a double rent — four guineas instead of forty shillings. I desire, as a good master, to make amends for the crimes of my wicked servant; there- fore in this bag. Bailiff" Acton, is returned to you all the rent you ever paid;" [Roger could not speak for tears;] — "and your cottage repaired and fitted, with an acre round it, is yours and your children's, rent-free for ever." "Huzzah, huzzah!" roared Ben from the dickey, in a gush of disin- terested joy ; and then, like an experienced toast-master, he marshalled in due hip, hip, hip order, the shouts of acclamation that rent the air. In an interval of silence. Sir John added, " As for you, good-hearted fellow, if you will only mend your speech, I '11 make you one of my keepers ; you shall, call yourself licensed poacher, if you choose." "Blessings on your honour! you've made an honest man o' me." "And now, Jonathan Floyd, I have one word to say to you, sir. I hear you are to marry our Roger's pretty Grace." Jonathan appeared like a sheep in liverj'-. "You must quit my service." Jonathan was quite alarmed. "Do you suppose, Master Jonathan, that I can house at Hurstley, before a 154 THE CROCK OF GOLD. Lady Vincent comes amongst us to keep the gossips quiet, such a charming little wife as that, and all her ruddy children?" It was (trace's turn to feel confused, so she "looked like a rose in June," and blushed all over, as Charles Lamb's Astrsea did, down to the ankle. "Yes, Jonathan, you and I must part, but we part good friends: you have been a noble lover : may you make the girl a good and happy husband ! Jennings has been robbing me and those about me for years : it is impossible to separate specially my rights from his extortions : but all, as I have said, shall be satisfied : meanwhile, his hoards are mine. I appropriate one half of them for other claimants; the remaining half I give to Grace Floyd as dower. Don't be a fool, Jonathan, and blubber; look to your Grace there, she 's fainting — you can set up landlord for yourself, do you hear ? — for I make yours honestly, as much as Roger found in his now lucky Crock of Gold." Poor Roger, quite unmanned, could only wave his hat, and — the cur- tain falls amid thunders of applause. END OF THE CROCK OF GOLD. THE T ¥ I I S; A D03IESTIC NOVEL SY MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, A.M., F.R.S AUTHOR OF PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY, HARTFORD : PUBLISHED BY SILAS ANDRUS & SON 1851. THE TWINS. CHAPTER I. PLACE: TDTE: CIRCUMSTANCE. BuELEiGH-SiNGLETON is a pleasant little watering-place on the southern coast of England, entirely suitable for those who have small incomes and good consciences. The latter, to residents especially, are at least as indispensable as the former: seeing that, however just the reputation of their growing little town for superior cheapness in matters of meat and drink, its character in things regarding men and manners is quite as undeniable for preeminent dullness. Not but that it has its varieties of scene, and more or less of circum- stances too : there are, on one flank, the breezy Heights, with flag-staff and panorama ; on the other, broad and level water-meadows, skirted by the dark-flowing Mullet, running to the sea between its tortuous banks : for neighbourhood, Pacton Park is one great attraction — the pretty mar- ket-town of Eyemouth another — the everlasting, never-tiring sea a third ; and, at high-summer, when the Devonshire lanes are not knee-deep in mire, the nevertheless immeasurably filthy, though picturesque, mud- built village of Oxton. Then again (and really as I enumerate these multitudinous advantages, I begin to relent for having called it dull), you may pick up curious agate pebbles on the beach, as well as corallines and scarce sea-weeds, good for gumming on front-parlour windows ; you may fish for whitings in the bay, and occasionally catch them ; you may- wade in huge caout- chouc boots among the muddy shallows of the Mullet, and shoot at cor- morants and curlews; you may walk to satiety between high-banked and rather dirty cross-roads ; and, if you will scramble up the hedge-row, may get now and then peeps of undulated country landscape. Moreover, you have free liberty to drop in any where to "tiffin" — Burleigh being very Indianized, and a guest always welcome ; indeed, 14 158 THE TWINS. so Indianized is it, so populous in jaundiced cheek and ailing livers, that you may openly assert, without fear of being misunderstood (if you wish to vary your common phrase of loyalty), that Victoria sits upon the " mus- nud " of Great Britain ; you may order curry in the smallest pot-house, and still be sure to get the rice well-cooked ; you may call your house- maid "ayah," without risk of warning for impertinence; you may vent your wrath against indolent waiters in eloquence of "jaa, soostee ;" and, finally, you may go to the library, and besides the advantage of the day- before-yesterday's Times, you may behold in bilious presence an affable, but authoritative, old gentleman, who introduces himself, " Sir, you see in me the hero of Puttymuddyfudgepoor." You may even now see such an one, I say, and hear him too, if you will but go to Burleigh ; seeing he has by this time over-lived the year or so whereof our tale discourses. He has, by dint of service, attained to the dignity of General H. E. I. C. S., and — which he was still longer coming to — the wisdom of being a communicative creature ; though pos- sibly, by a natural reaction, at present he carries anti-secresy a little too far, and verges on the gossiping extreme. But, at the time to which we must look back to commence this right-instructive story, General Tracy was still drinking "Hodgson's Pale" in India, was so taciturn as to be considered almost dumb, and had not yet lifted up his yellow visage upon Albion's white cliffs, nor taken up head-quarters in his final rest of Burleigh-Singleton. Nevertheless, with reference to quartering at Burleigh, a certain long- neglected wife of his, Mrs. Tracy, had ; and that for the period of at least the twenty -one years preceding : how and wherefore I proceed to tell. A common case and common fate was that of Mrs. Tracy. She had married, both early and hastily, a gallant lieutenant, John George Julian Tracy, to wit, the military germ of our future general ; their courtship and acquaintance previous to matrimony extended over the not inconsid- erable space of three whole weeks — commencing with a country ball ; and after marriage, honey-moon inclusive, they lived the life of cooing doves for three whole months. And now came the furlough's end : Mr. Tracy, in his then habitual reserve (a quiet man was he), had concealed ^its existence altogether: and, for aught Jane knew, the hearty invalid was to remain at home for ever : but months soon slip away ; and so it came to pass, that on a certain next Wednesday he must be on his way back to the Presidency of Madras, and — if she will not follow him — he must leave her. PLACE: TIME: CIRCUMSTANCE. 159 However, there was a certain old relative, one Mrs. Green, a childless widow — rich, capricious, and infirm — whom Jane Tracy did not wish to lose sight of: her money was well worth both watching and waiting for ; and the captain, whom a lucky chance had now lifted out of the lieuten- ancy. Was easily persuaded to forego the pleasure of his wife's company till the somewhat indefinite period of her old aunt's death. How far sundry discoveries made in the unknown regions of each other's temper reconciled him to this retrograding bachelorship, and her to her widowhood-bewitched, I will not undertake to say : but I will haz- ard the remark, anti-poor.law though it seemeth,lthat the separation of man and wife, however convenient, lucrative, or even mutually pleasant, is a dereliction of duty, which always deserves, and generally meets, its proper and discriminative punishment. / Had the young wife faithfully performed her Maker's bidding, and left all other ties unstrung to cleave unto her lord; had she considered a husband's true affections before all other wealth, and resolved to share his dangers, to solace his cares, to be his blessing through life, and his partner even unto death, rather than selfishly to seek her own comfort, and consult her own interest — the tale of crime and sadness, which it is my lot to tell, would never have had truth for its foundation. Ill-matched for happiness though they were, however well-matched as to mutual merit, the common man of pleasure and the frivolous woman of fashion, still the wisest way to fuse their minds to union, the likeliest receipt for moral good and social comfort, would have been this course of foreign scenes, of new faces, sprinkled with a seasoning of adventure, hardship, danger, in a distant land. Gradually would they have learned to bear and forbear; the petty quarrel would have been forgotten in the frequent kindness; the rougher edges of temper and opinion would insensibly have smoothed away ; new circumstances would have brouo-ht out better feelings under happier skies ; old acquaintances, false friends forgotten, would have neutralized old feuds : and, by lono-.livin"- ton-ether though it were perhaps amid various worries and many cares, they might still have come to a good old age with more than average happi- ness, and more than the common run of love. Patience in dutiful enduring brings a sure reward : and marriage, however irksome a con- straint to the foolish and the gay, is still so wise an ordinance, that the ''most ill-assorted couple imaginable will unconsciously grow happy, if ..they only remain true to one arwther, and will learn the wisdom always ' to hope and often to forgive. 160 THE TWINS. The Tracys, however, overlooked all this, and mutual friends ■'..liose invariable foes to all that is generous and unworldly) smiled upt^?^. tli^^ prudence of their temporary separation. The captain was to corno home again on furlough in five years at furthest, even if the aur t held out so long ; and this availed to keep his wife in the rear-guard ; tliere- fore, Mrs. Tracy wiped her eyes, bade adieu to her retreating 'Ord in Plymouth Sound, and determined to abide, with other expectant daiue's and Asiatic invalided heroes, at Burleish-Sinsleton, until she mieht (to to him, or he return to her: for pleasant little Burleigh, besides is con- tiguity to arriving Indiamen, was advantageous as being the dv ■'•I'inc- place of aforesaid Mrs. Green ; — that wealthy, widowed aunt, devoutly wished in heaven : and the considerate old soul had offered her designing niece a home with her till Tracy could come back. During the first year of absence, ship-letters and India-letters arrived duteously in consecutive succession : but somehow or other, the regular post, in no long time afterwards, became unfaithful to its trust ; and if Mrs. Jane heard quarterly, which at any rate she did through the agent, when he remitted her allowance, she consoled herself as to the captain's well-being : in due course of things, even this became irregular; he was far up the country, hunting, fighting, surveying, and what not ; and no wonder that letters, if written at all, which I rather doubt, got lost. Then there came a long period of positive and protracted silence — months of it — years of it ; barring that her checks for cash were honoured still at Hancock's, though thev could tell her nothing of her lord ; so that Mrs. Tracy was at length seriously recommended by her friends to become a widow ; she tried on the cap, and looked into many mirrors ; but, after long inspection, decided upon still remaining a Avife, because the weeds were so clearly unbecoming. Habit, meanwhile, and that still-existing old aunt, who seemed resolved to live to a hundred, kept her as before at Burleigh : and, seeing that a few months after the captain's departure she had presented the world, not to say her truant lord, with twins, she had always found something to do in the way of, what she considered, education, and other juvenile amusement : that is to say, when the gay- eties of a circle of fifteen miles in radius left her any time to spare in such a process. The twins — a brace of boys — were born and bred at Burleigh, and had attained severally to twenty years of age, just before their father came home again as brevet-major-general. But both they, and that arrival, deserve special detail, each in its own chapter. THE HEROES. 161 CHAPTER II. THE HEROES. Mrs. Tracy's sons were as unlike each other as it is well possible for two human beings to be, both in person and character. Julian, whose forward and bold spirit gained him from the very cradle every preroga- tive of eldership (and he did struggle first into life, too, so he was the first-born), had grown to be a swarthy, strong, big-boned man, of the Roman-nosed, or, more physiognomically, the Jewish cast of countenance ; with melo-dramatic elf-locks, large whiskers, and ungovernable passions; loud, fierce, impetuous; cunning, too, for all his overbearing clamour; and an embodied personification of those choice essentials to criminal happiness — a hard heart and a good digestion. Charles, on the contrary (or, as logicians would say, on the contradictory), was fair-haired, blue- eyed, of Grecian features ; slim, though well enough for inches, and had hitherto (as the commonalty have it) "enjoyed" weak health: he was gentle and affectionate in heart, pure and religious in mind, studious and unobtrusive in habits. It was a wonder to see the strange diversity between those own twin-brothers, born within the same hour, and, it is superfluous to add, of the same parents ; brought up in all outward things alike, and who had shared equally in all that might be called advantage or disadvantage, of circumstance or education. Certain is it that minds are different at birth, and require as different a treatment as Iceland moss from cactuses, or bull-dogs from bull-finches: certain is it, too, that Julian, early submitted and resolutely broken in, would have made as great a man, as Charles, naturally meek, did make a good one ; but for the matter of educating her boys, poor Mrs. Tracy had no more notion of the feat, than of squaring the circle, or deter- mining the longitude. She kept them both at home, till the peevish aunt could suffer Julian's noise no longer: the house was a Pandemonium, and the giant grown too big for that castle of Otranto ; so he must go at any rate ; and (as no difference in the treatment of different characters ever occurred to any body) of course Charles must go along with him. Away they went to an expensive school, which Julian's insubordination on the instant could not brook — and, accordingly, he ran away ; without doubt, Charles must be taken away too. Another school was tried, Julian L 14* 162 T H E T W I N S . got expelled this time ; and Charles, in spite of prizes, must, on system, be removed with him : so forth, with like wisdom, all through the years of adolescence and instruction, those ill-matched brothers were driven as a pair. Then again, for fashion's sake, and Aunt Green's whims, the circumspective mother, notwithstanding all her inconsistencies, gave each of them prettily bour^d hand-books of devotion ; which the one used upon his knees, and the other lit cigars withal ; both extremes having exceeded her intention : and she proved similarly overreached when she persisted in treating both exactly alike, as to liberal allowances, and lib- erty of will ; the result being, that one of her sons " foolishly " spent his money in a multitude of charitable hobbies ; and that the other was con- stantly supplied with means for (the mother was sorry to say it, vulgar) dissipation. By consequence, Charles did more good, and Julian more evil, than I have time to stop and tell off. If any thing in this life must be personal, peculiar, and specific, it is education : we take upon ourselves to speak thus dogmatically, not of mere school-teaching only, musa, musce, and so forth ; nor yet of lectures, on relative qualities of carbon and nitrogen in vegetables ; no, nor even of schemes of theology, or codes of morals ; but we do speak of the daily and hourly reining-in, or letting-out, of discouragement in one appetite, and encouragement in another ; of habitual formation of char- acters in their diversity ; and of shaping their bear's-cub, or that child- angel, the natural liuman mind, to its destined ends ; that it may turn out, for good, according to its several natures, to be either the strong, armed, bold-eyed, rough-hewer of God's grand designs, or tlie delicate, fingered polisher of His rarest sculptures. Julian, well-trained, might have grown to be a Luther ; and many a gentle soul like Charles, has turned out a coxcomb and a sensualist. The boys were born, as I have said, in the regulation order of things, a few months after Captain Tracy sailed away for India some full score of years, and more, from this present hour, when we have seen him seated as a general in the library at Burleigh ; and, until the last year, they had never seen their father — scarcely ever heard of him. The incidents of their lives had been few and common-place : it would be easy, but wearisome, to specify the orchards and the bee- hives which Julian had robbed as a school-boy ; the rebellions he had headed ; the monkey tricks he had played upon old fish-women ; and the cruel havoc he made of cats, rats, and other poor tormented crea- tures, who had ministered to his wanton and brutalizing joys. In like THE HEROES. 1C3 manner, wearily, but easily, might I relate how Charles grew up the nurse's darling, though little of his flaunting mother's ; the curly-pated young book- worm; the sympathizing, innoffensive, gentle heart, whose effort still it was to countervail his brother's evil : how often, at the risk of blows, had he interposed to save some drowning puppy : how often paid the bribe for Julian's impunity, when mulcted for some damage done in the way of broken windows, upset apple-stalls, and the like: how often had he screened his bad twin-brother from the flagellatpry consequences of sheer idleness, by doing for him all his school-tasks : how often striven to guide his insensate conscience to truth, and good, and wisdom : how often, and how vainly ! And when the youths grew up, and their good and evil grew up with them, it were possible to tell you a heart-rending tale of Julian's treach- ery to more than ona poor village beauty ; and many a pleasing trait of Charles's pure benevolence, and wise zeal to remedy his brother's mis- chiefs. The one went about doing ill, and the other doing good : Julian, on account of obligations, more truly than in spite of them, hated Charles ; and yet one great aim of all Charles's amiabilities tended continually to Julian's good, and he strove to please him, too, while he wished to bless him. The one had grown to manhood, full of unrepented sins, and ripe for darker crime : the other had attained a like age of what is somewhat satirically called discretion, having amassed, with Solon of old, "knowl- edge day by day," having lived a life of piety and purity, and blest with a cheerful disposition, that teemed with happy thoughts. They had, of course, in the progress of human life, been both laid upon the bed of sickness, where, with similar contrast, the one lay mut- tering discontent, and the other smiling patiently : they had both been in dangers by land and by sea, where Julian, though not a little lacking to himself at the moment of peril, was still loudly minacious till it came too near; while Charles, with all his caution, was more actually courage- ous, and in spite of all his gentleness, stood against the worst undaunted : they had both, with opposite motives and dissimilar modes of life, passed through various vicissitudes of feeling, scene, society ; and the influence of circumstance on their diflferent characters, heightened or diminished, bettered or depraved, by the good or evil principle in each, had produced their different and probable results. Thus, strangely dissimilar, the twin-brothers together stand before us : Julian the strong impersonation of the animal man, as Charles of the intellectual ; Julian, matter ; Charles, spirit ; Julian, the creature of this 164 THE TWINS. world, tending to a lowor and a worse : Charles, though in the world, not of the world, and reaching to a higher and a better. Mrs. Tracy, the mother of this various progeny, had been somewhat of a beauty in her day, albeit much too large and masculine for the taste of ordinary mortals ; and though now very considerably past forty, the vain vast female was still ambitious of compliment, and greedy of admi- ration. That Julian should be such a woman's favourite will surprise none : she had, she could have, no sympathies with mild and thoughtful Charles; but rather dreaded to set her flaunting folly in the light of his wise glance, and sought to hide her humbled vanity from his pure and keen perceptions. His very presence was a tacit rebuke to her social dissipation, and she could not endure the mild radiance of his virtues. He never fawned and flattered her, as Julian would ; but had even suffered filial presumption (it could not be affection — O dear, no!) to go so far as gently to expostulate at what he fancied wrong ; he never gave her reason to contrast, with happy self-complacence, her own soul's state with Charles's, however she could with Julian's : and then, too, she would indulgently allow her foolish mind — a woman's, though a parent's — to admire that tall, black, bandit-looking son, above the slight build, the delicate features, and almost feminine elegance of his brother: she found Julian alw ys ready to countenance and pamper her gayest wishes, and was glad to make him her escort every where — at balls, and ffetes, and races, and archery parties : while as to Charles, he would be the stay-at-home, the milk-sop, the learned pundit, the pious prayer. monger, any thing but the ladies' man. Yes : it is little wonder that Mrs. Tracy's heart clave to Julian, the masculine image of herself; while it barely tolerated Charles, who was a rarefied and idealized like- ness of the absent and forgotten Tracy. But the mother — and there are many silly mothers, almost as many as silly men and silly maids — in her admiration of the outward form of manliness, overlooked the true strength, and chivalry, and nobleness of mind which shone supreme in Charles. How would Julian have acted in such a case as this? — a sheep had wandered down the cliff''s face to a narrow ledge of rock, whence it could not come back again, for there was no room to turn : Julian would have pelted it, and set his bull-dog at it, and rejoiced to have seen the poor animal's frantic leaps from shingly shelf to shelf, till it would be dashed to pieces. But how did Charles act? With the utmost courage, and caution, and presence of mind, he crept down, and, at the risk of his life, dragged the bleating, THE HEROES. Ig5 unreluctant creature up again ; it really seemed as if the ungrateful poor dumb brute recognised its humane friend, and suffered him to rescue it without a struggle or a motion that might have endangered both. Again : a burly costermonger was belabouring his donkey, and the wretched beast fell beneath his cudgel : strange to say, Julian and Charles were walking together that time ; and the same sight affected each so differently, that the one sided with the cruel man, and the other with his suffering victim : Charles, in momentary indignation, rushed up to the fellow, wrested the cudgel from his hand, and flung it over the cliff; while Julian was so base, so cowardly, as to reward such generous interference, by holding his weaker brother's arms, and inviting the wrathful costermonger to expend the remainder of his phrensy on unlucky Charles. Yes, and when at home Mrs. Tracy heard all this, she was silly enough, wicked enough, to receive her truly noble son with ridicule, and her other one, the child of her disgrace, with approval. " It will teach you. Master Charles, not to meddle with common people and their donkeys ; and you may thank your brother Julian for giving you a lesson how a gentleman should behave." Poor Charles ! but poorer Julian, and poorest Mrs. Tracy ! It would be easy, if need were, to enumerate multiplied examples tending towards the same end — a large, masculine-featured mother's foolish preference of the loud, bold, worldly animal, before the meek, kind, noble, spiritual. And the results of all these many matters were, that now, at twenty years of age, Charles found himself, as it were, alone in a strange land, with many common friends indeed abroad, but at home no nearer, dearer ties to string his heart's dank lyre withal ; neither mother nor brother, nor any other kind familiar face, to look upon his gentleness in love, or to sympathize with his affections, unapprehended, unappreciated: so — while Mrs. Tracy was the showy, gay, and vapid thing she ever had- been, and Julian the same impetuous mother's son which his very nurse could say she knew him — Charles grew up a shy and silent youth, necessarily reserved, for lack of some one to under- stand him ; necessarily chilled, for want of somebody to love him. IQQ THE TWINS. CHAPTER III. THE AERIVAI. The young men were thus situated as regards both the world and one another, and Mrs. Tracy had almost entirely forgotten the fact, that she possessed a piece of goods so supererogatory as her husband (a property too which her children had never quite realized), when all on a sudden, one ordinary morning, the postman's knock brought to her breakfast- table at Burleigh-Singleton the following epistle : "British Channel, Thursday, March 11th, 1842. " The Sir WiUiam Elphinston, E. I. M. ''' "Dear Jane: You will be surprised to find that you are to see me so soon, I dare say, especially as it is now some years since you will have heard from me. The reason is, I have been long in an out-of-the-way part of India, where there is little communication with Europe, and so you will excuse my not writing. We hope to find ourselves to-night in Plymouth roads, where I shall get into a pilot-boat, and so shall see you to-morrow. You may, therefore, now expect your affectionate husband, "J. G. J. Tracy, General H. E. I. C. S. "P. S. 1. — Remember me to our boy, or boys — which is it? "P. S. 2. — I bring with me the daughter of a friend in India, who is come over for a year or two's polish at a first-rate school. Of course you will be glad to receive her as our guest. "J. G. J. T." This loving letter was the most startling event that had ever attempted to unnerve Mrs. Tracy; and she accordingly managed, for effect and propriety's sake, to grow very faint upon the spot, whether for joy, or sorrow, or fear of lost liberty, or hope of a restored lord, doth not appear; she had so long been satisfied with receiving quarterly pay from the India agents, that she forgot it was an evidence of her husband's exist- ence ; and, lo ! here he was returning a general, doubtlessly a magnifi- cent moustachioed individual, and she was to be Mrs. General ! so that when she came completely to herself, after that feint of a faint, she was thinking of nothing but court-plumes, oriental pearls, and her gallant Tracy's uniform. THE ARRIVAL. 167 The postscripts also had their influence : Charles, naturally aifectionate, and willing to love a hitherto unseen father, felt hurt, as well he might, at the "boy, or boys;" while Julian, who ridiculed his brother's senti- mentality, was already fancying that the " daughter of a friend " might be a pleasant addition to the dullness of Burleigh-Singleton. Preparations vast were made at once for the general's reception ; from attic to kitchen was sounded the tocsin of his coming. Julian was all bustle and excitement, to his mother's joy and pride; while Charles mei'ited her wrath by too much of his habitual and paternal quietude, particularly when he withdrew his forces altogether from the loud domestic fray, by retreating up-stairs to cogitate and muse, perhaps to make a calming prayer or two about all these matters of importance. As for Mrs. Tracy herself, she was even now, within the first hour of that news, busily engaged in collecting cosmetics, trinkets, blonde lace, and other female finery, resolved to trick herself out like Jezebel, and win her lord once more ; whilst the pernicious old aunt, who still lived on, notwithstanding all those twenty years of patience, as vivacious as before, grumbled and scolded so much at this upsetting of her house, that there was really some risk of her altering the will at last, and cut- ting out Jane Tracy after all. And the morrow morning came, as if it were no more than an ordinary Friday, and with it came expectancy ; and noon succeeded, and with it spirits alternately elated and depressed ; and evening drew in, with heart- sickness and chagrin at hopes or prophecies deferred; and night, and next morning, and still the general came not. So, much weeping at that vexing disappointment, after so many pains to please, Mrs. Tracy put aside her numerous aids and appliances, and lay slatternly a-bed, to nurse a head-ache until noon; and all had well nigh forgotten the probable arrival, when, to every body's dismay, a dusty chaise and four suddenly rattled up the terrace, and stopped at our identical number seven. Then was there scuffling up, and getting down, and making prepara- tion in hot haste ; and a stout gentleman with a gamboge face descended from the chaise, exploding wrath like a bomb-shell, that so important an approach had made such slight appearance of expectancy : it was disrespectful to his rank, and he took care to prove he was somebody, by blowing up the very innocent post-boys. This accomplished, he gal- lantly handed out after him a pretty-looking miss in her teens. Poor Mrs. Tracy, en papillotes, looked out at the casement like any one but Jezebel attired for bewitching, and could have cried for vexation ; in 168 THE TWINS. fact, she did, and passed it off for feeling. Aunt Green, whom the gen- eral at first lovingly saluted as his wife (for the poor man had entirely forgotten the uxorial appearance), was all in a pucker for deafness, blind- ness, and evident misapprehension of all things in general, though clearly pleased, and flattered at her gallant nephew's salutation. Julian, with what grace of manner he could muster, was already playing the agi'ee- able to that pretty ward, after having, to the general's great surprise, introduced himself to him as his son ; while Charles, who had rushed into the room, warm-heartedly to fling himself into his father's arms, was repelled on the spot for his affection : General Tracy, with a military air, excused himself from the embrace, extending a finger to the unknown gentleman, with somewhat of offended dignity. At last, down came the wife : our general at once perceived himself mistaken in the matter of Mrs. Green ; and, coldly bowing to the bediz- ened dame, acknowledged her pi'etensions with a courteous — "Mrs. General Tracy, allow me to introduce to you Miss Emily Warren, the daughter of a very particular friend of mine : — Miss War- ren, Mrs. Tracy." For other welcomings, mutual astonishment at each other's fat, some little sorrowful talk of the twenty years ago, and some dull paternal jest about this dozen feet of sons, made up the chilly meeting : and the slender thread of sentimentals, which might possibly siirvive it, was soon snapt by paying post-boys, orders after luggage, and devouring tiffin. The only persons who felt any thing at all, were Mrs. Tracy, vexed at her dishabille, and mortified at so cool a reception of, what she hoped, her still unsullied beauties ; and Charles, poor fellow, who ran up to his studious retreat, and soothed his grief, as best he might, with philo- sophic fancies: it was so cold, so heartless, so unkind a greeting. Romantic youth ! how should the father have known him for a son ? CHAPTER IV. THE GENERAL AND HIS WARD. It is surprising what a change twenty years of a tropical sun can make in the human constitution. The captain went forth a good-looking, good-tempered man, destitute neither of kind feelings nor masculine THE GENERAL AND HIS WARD. iqq beauty : the general returned bloated, bilious, irascible, entirely selfish, and decidedly ill-favoured. Such affections as he ever had seemed to have been left behind in India — ^that new world, around which now all his associations and remembrances revolved; and the reserve (clearly reproduced in Charles), the habit of silence whereof we took due notice in the spring-tide of his life, had now grown, perhaps from some oppres- sive secret, into a settled, moody, continuous taciturnity, which made his curious wife more vexed at him than ever; for, notwithstanding all the news he must have had to tell her, the company of John George Julian Tracy proved to his long-expectant Jane any thing but cheering or inst'i'uctive. His past life, and present feelings, to say nothing of his future prospects, might all be but a blank, for any thing the general seemed to care : brandy and tobacco, an easy chair, and an ordnance map of India, with Emily beside him to talk about old times, these were all for which he lived : and even the female curiosity of a wife, duly, authorized to ask questions, could extract from him astonishingly little of his Indian experiences. As to his wealth, indeed, Mrs. Tracy boldly made direct inquiry ; for Julian set her on to beg for a commission, and Charles also was anxious for a year or two at college; but the general divulged not much : albeit he vouchsafed to both his sons a liberally increased allowance. It was only when his wife, piqued at such reserve, pettishly remarked, "At any rate, sir, I may be permitted to hope, that Miss Warren's friends are kind enough to pay her expenses;" That the veteran, in high dudgeon at any imputation on his Indian acquaintances, sternly answered, "You need not be apprehensive, madam; Emily Wai'ren is amply provided for." Words which sank deep into the prudent mother's mind. But we must not too long let dock-leaves hide a violet ; it is high time, and barely courteous now, to introduce that beautiful exotic, Emily War- ren. Her own history, as she will tell it to Charles hereafter, was so obscure, that she knew little of it certainly herself, and could barely gather probabilities from scattered fragments. At present, we have only to survey results in a superficial manner : in their due season, we will dig up all the roots. No heroine can probably engage our interest or sympathy who pos- sesses the infirmity of ugliness : it is not in human nature to admire her, and human nature is a thing very much to be consulted. Moreover, no one ever yet saw an amiable personage, who was not so far pleasing, 15 » - 170 THE TWINS. or, in other parlance, so far pretty. I cannot help the common course of things; and however hackneyed be the thought, however common- place the phrase, it is true, nevertheless, that beauty, singular beauty, would be the first idea of any rational creature, who caught but a glimpse of Emily Warren; and I should account it little wonder if, upon a calmer gaze, that beauty were found to have its deepest, clearest fountain in those large dark eyes of her's. Aware as I may be, that "large dark eyes" are no novelty in tales like this ; and famous for rare originality as my pen (not to say genius) would become, if an attempt were herein made to interest the world in a pink-eyed heroine, still I prefer plodding on in the well-worn path of pleasant beauty ; and so long as Nature's bounty continues to supply so well the world we live in with large dark eyes, and other feminine perfections, our Emily, at any rate, remains in fashion ; and if she has , jnany pretty peers, let us at least not peevishly complain of them. A gi'aceful shape is, luckily, almost the common prerogative of female youth fulness ; a dimpled smile, a cheerful, winning manner, regular features, and a mass of luxuriant brown hair — these all heroines have — and so has our's. But no heroine ever had yet Emily Warren's eyes; not identically only, which few can well deny; but similarly also, which the many must be good enough to grant : and very few heroes, indeed, ever saw their equal ; though, if any hereabouts object, I will not be so cruel or unreasonable as to hope they will admit it. At first, full of soft light, gentle and alluring, they brighten up to blaze upon you lustrously, and fascinate the gazer's dazzled glance : there are depths in them that tell of the unfathomable soul, heights in them that speak of the spirit's aspirations. It is gentleness and purity, no less than sensibility and passion, that look forth in such strange power from those windows of the mind : it is not the mere beautiful machine, fair form, and pleasing colours, but the heaven-born light of tenderness and truth, streaming through the lens, that takes the fond heart captive. Charles, for one, could not help looking long and keenly into Emily Warren's eyes; they magnetized him, so that he might not turn away from them: entranced him, that he would not break their charm, had he been able : and then the long tufted eyelashes droop so softly over those blazing suns — that I do not in the least wonder at Charles's impolite, perhaps, but still natural involuntary stare, and his mute abstracted admiration : the poor youth is caught at once, a most willing captive — the moth has THE GENERAL AND HIS WARD. 171 burnt its wings, and flutters still happily around that pleasant warming radiance. How his heart yearned for something to love, some being worthy of his own most pure affections : and lo ! these beauteous eyes, true witnesses of this sweet mind, have filled him for ever and a day with love at first sight. But gentle Charles was not the only conquest : the fiery Julian, too, acknowledged her supremacy, bowed his stubborn neck, and yoked him- self at once, another and more rugged captive, to the chariot of her charms. It was Caliban, as well as Ferdinand, courting fair Miranda. In his lower grade, he loved — fiercely, coarsely : and the same passion, which filled his brother's heart with happiest aspirations, and pure unsel- fish tenderness towards the beauteous stranger, burnt him up as an inward and consuming fire : Charles sunned himself in heaven's genial beams, while Julian was hot with the lava-current of his own bad heart's volcano. It will save much trouble, and do away with no little useless mystery, to declare, at the outset, which of these opposite twin-brothers our dark- eyed Emily preferred. She was only seventeen in years; but an Indian sky had ripened her to full maturity, both of form and feelings : and having never had any one whom she cared to think upon, and let her heart delight in, till Charles looked first upon her beauty wonderingly, it is no marvel if she unconsciously reciprocated his young heart's thought — before ever he had breathed it to himself. Julian's admira- tion she entirely overlooked ; she never thought him more than civil — barely that, perhaps — however he might flatter himself: but her heart and eyes were full of his fair contrast, the light seen brighter against darkness; Charles all the dearer for a Julian. Intensely did she love him, as only tropic blood can love ; intently did she gaze on him, when any while he could not see her face, as only those dark eyes could gaze : and her mind, all too ignorant but greedy of instruction, no less than her heart, rich in sympathies and covetous of love, went forth, and fed deliciously on the intellectual brow, and delicate flushing cheek of her noble-minded Charles. Not all in a day, nor a week, nor a month, did their loves thus ripen together. Emily was a simple child of nature, who had every thing to learn ; she scarcely knew her Maker's name, till Charles instructed her in God's great love : the stars were to her only shining studs of gold, and the world one mighty plain, and men and women soulless creatures of a day, and the wisdom of creation unconsidered, and the book of natural knowledge close sealed up, till 172 ' THE TWINS. Charles set out before his eager student tlie mysteries of earth and heaven. Oh, those blessed hours of sweet teaching ! when he led her quick delighted steps up the many avenues of science to the central throne of God ! Oh, those happy moments, never to return, when her eyes in gentle thankfulness for some new truth laid open to them, flashed upon her youthful Mentor, love and intelligence, and pleased admiring wonder! Sweet spring-tide of their loves, who scarcely knew they loved, yet thought of nothing but each other; who walked hand in hand, as brother and sister, in the flowery ways of mutual blessing, mutual dependence: alas, alas! how brief a space can love, that guest from heaven, dwell on earth unsullied! CHAPTER V. JE.1I0USY. For Julian soon perceived that Charles was no despicable rival. At first, self-flattery, and the habitual contempt wherewith he regarded his brother, blinded him to Emily's attachment : moreover, in the scenes of gayety and the common social circle, she never gave him cause to com- plain of undue preferences ; readily she leant upon his arm, cheerfully accompanied him in morning-visits, noon-day walks, and evening parties ; and if pale Charles (in addition to the more regular masters, dancing and music, and other pieces of accomplishment) thought proper to bore her with his books for sundry hours every day, Julian found no fault with that; — the girl was getting more a woman of the world, and all for him : she would like her play-time all the better for such schoolings, and him to be the truant at her side. But when, from ordinary civilities, the coarse loud lover proceeded to particular attentions; when he affected to press her delicate hand, and ventured to look what he called love into her eyes, and to breathe silly nothings in her ear — he could deceive himself no longer, notwithstand- ing all his vanity ; as legibly as looks could write it, he read disgust upon her face, and from that day forth she shunned him with undisguised abhorrence. Poor innocent maid ! she little knew the man's black mind, who thus dared to reach up to the height of her affections ; but she saw JEALOUSY. 173 enough of character in his swart scowling face, and loud assuming man- ners, to make her dread his very presence, as a thunder-cloud across her summer sky. Then did the baffled Julian begin to look around him, and took notice of her deepening love of Charles ; nay, even purposely, she seemed now to make a difference between them, as if to check presumption and encourage merit. And he watched their stolen glances, how tremblingly •they met each other's gaze ; and he would often-times roughly break in upon their studies, to look on their confused disquietude with the pallid frowns of envy : he would insult poor Charles before her, in hope to humble him in her esteem ; but mild and Christian patience made her see him as a martyr : he would even cast rude slights on her whom he professed to love, with the view of raising his brother's chastened wrath, but was forced to quail and sneak away beneath her quick indignant glance, ei'e her more philosophical lover had time to expostulate with the cowardly savage. Meanwhile, what were the parents about ? The general had given out, indeed, that he had brought Emily over for schooling ; but he seemed so fond of her (in fact, she was the only thing to prove he wore a heart), that he never could resolve upon sending her away from, what she now might well call, home. Often, in some strange dialect of Hindostan, did they converse together, of old times and distant shores; none but Emily might read him to sleep — none but Emily wake him in the morning with a kiss — none but Emily dare approach him in his gouty torments — none but Emily had any thing like intimate acquaintance with that moody iron-hearted man. As to his sons, or the two young men he might presume to be his sons, he neither knew them, nor cared to know. Bare civilities, as between man and man, constituted all which their intercourse amounted to : what were those young fellows, stout or slim, to him? mere accidents of a soldier's gallantries and of an ill-assorted marriage. He neither had, nor wished to have, any sympathies with them : Julian might be as bad as he pleased, and Charles as good, for any thing the general seemed to heed : they could not dive with him into the past, and the sports of Hin- dostan : they reminded him, simply, of his wife, for pleasures of Memory ; of the grave, for pleasures of Hope : he was older when he looked at them : and they seemed to him only living witnesses of his folly as lieutenant, in the choice of Mrs. Tracy. I will not take upon myself to say, that he had any occasion to congratulate himself on the latter reminiscence. 15* 174 THE TWINS. So he quickly acquiesced in Julian's wish for a commission, and entirely approved of Charles's college schemes. After next September, the funds should be forthcoming : not but that he was rich enough, and to spare, any month in the year : but he would be vastly richer then, from prize-money, or some such luck. It was more prudent to delay until September. With reference to Emily — no, no — I could see at once that General Tracy never had any serious intention to part with Emily ; but she had all manner of masters at home, and soon made extraordinary progress. As for the matter of his sons falling in love with her, attractive in all beauty though she were, he never once had given it a thought : for, first, he was too much a man of the world to believe in such ideal trash as love: and next, he totally forgot that his "boy, or boys," had human feelings. So, when his wife one day gave him a gentle and triumphant hint of the state of affairs, it came upon him overwhelmingly, like an avalanche : his yellow face turned flake-white, he trembled as he stood, and really seemed to take so natural a probability to heart as the most serious of evils. " My son Julian in love with Emily ! and if not he, at any rate Charles ! What the devil, madam, can you mean by this dreadful piece of intelli- gence 1 — It 's impossible, ma'am ; nonsense ! it can't be true ; it shan't, ma'am." And the general, having issued his military mandates, wrapped him- self in secresy once more ; satisfied that both of those troublesome sons were to leave home after the next quarter, and the prize-money at Hancock's. CHAPTER VI, THE CONFIDANTE. But Mrs. Tracy had the best reason for believing her intelligence was true, and she could see very little cause for regarding it as dreadful. True, onefion would have been enough for this wealthy Indian heiress — but still it was no harm to have two strings to her bow. Julian was her favourite, and should have the girl if she could manage it ; but if Emily THE CONFIDANTE. ' 175 Warren would not hear of such a husband, why Cliarles Tracy may far better get her money than any body else. That she possessed great wealth was evident: such jewellery, such Trinchinopoli chains, such a blaze of diamonds en suite, such a multi- tude of armlets, and circlets, and ear-rings, and other oriental finery, had never shone on Devonshire before : at the Eyemouth ball, men wor- shipped her, radiant in beauty, and gorgeously apparelled. Moreover, money overflowed her purse, her work-box, and her jewel-case : Charles's village school, and many other well-considered charities, rejoiced in the streams of her munificence. The general had given her a banker's book of signed blank checks, and she filled up sums at pleasure : such unbounded confidence had he in her own prudence and her far-off father's liberality. The few hints her husband deigned to give, encour- aged Mrs. Tracy to conclude, that she would be a catch for either of her sons; and, as for the girl herself, she had clearly been brought up to order about a multitude of servants, to command the use of splendid equipages, and to spend money with unsparing hand. Accordingly, one day when Julian was alone with his mother, their conversation ran as follows: "Well, Julian dear, and what do you think of Emily Warren?" "Think, mother? why — that she's deuced pretty, and dresses like an empress : but where did the general pick her up, eh ? — who is she ?" " Why, as to who she is — I know no more than you ; she is Emil v Warren : but as to the great question of what she is, I know that she is rolling in riches, and would make one of my boys a very good wife." " Oh, as to wife, mother, one isn't going to be fool enough to marry for love now-a-days : things are easier managed hereabouts, than that : but money makes it quite another thing. So, this pretty minx is rich, is she ?" "A great heiress, I assure you, Julian." "Bravo, bravo-o! but how to make the girl look sweet upon me, mother ? There 's that white-livered fellow, Charles — " "Never mind him, boy; do you suppose he would have the heart to make love to such a splendid creature as Miss Warren: fy, Julian, for a faint heart : Charles is well enough as a Sabbath-school teacher, but I hope he will not bear away the palm of a ladye-love from my fine high- spirited Julian." Poor Mrs. Tracy was as flighty and romantic at forty. five as she had been at fifteen. The fine high-spirited Julian answered not a word, but looked excess- ively cross ; for he knew full well that Charles's chance was to his in the ratio of a million to nothing. 176 THE TWINS. "What, boy," went on the prudent mother, "still silent! I am afraid Emily's good looks have been thrown away upon you, and that your heart has not found out how to love her." "Love her, mother? Curses! would you drive me mad? I think and dream of nothing but that girl : morning, noon, and night, her eyes persecute me : go where I will, and do what I will, her image haunts me : d n it, mother' don't I love the girl ?" [Oh love, love ! thou much-slandered monosyllable, how desperately do bad men malign thee !] "Hush, Julian; pray be more guarded in your language; I am glad to see though that your heart is in the right place : suppose now that I aid your suit a little? I dare say I could do a great deal for you, my son ; and nothing could be more delightful to your mother than to try and make her Julian happy." True, Mrs. Tracy ; you were always theatrically given, and played the coquette in youth ; so in age the character of go-between befits you still : dearly do you love to dabble in, what you are pleased to call, " line affaire du coRurJ" "Mother," after a pause, replied her hopeful progeny, "if the girl had been only pretty, I shouldn't have asked any body's help ; for marriage was never to my liking, and folks may have their will of prouder beauties than this Emily, without going to church for it; but money makes it quite another matter : and I may as well have the benefit of your assistance in this matter o' money, eh mother? matrimony, you know : an heiress and a beauty may be worth the wedding-ring ; besides, when my commission comes, I can follow the good example that my parents set me, you know ; and, after a three months' honey- mooning, can turn bachelor again for twenty years or so, as our gover- nor-general did, and so leave wifey at home, till she becomes a Mrs. General like you." Now, strange to say, this heartless bit of villany was any thing but unpleasing to the foolish, flattered heart of Mrs. Tracy ; he was a chip of the old block, no better than his father: so she thanked "dear Julian" for his confidence, with admiration and emotion ; and looking upwards, after the fashion of a Covent Garden martyr, blessed him. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE, ETC. 177 CHAPTER VII. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE, ETC. " Emily, my dear, take Julian's arm : here, Charles, come and change with me ; I should like a walk with you to Oxton, to see how your little scholars get on." So spake the intriguing mother. "Why, that is just what I was going to do with Charles," said Emily, " and if Julian will excuse me " " Oh, never mind me, Miss Warren, pray ; come along with me, will you, mother?" So they paired off in more well-matched couples (for Julian luckily took huff), and went their different ways : with those went hatred, envy, worldly scheming, and that lowest sort of love that ill deserves the name ; with these remain all things pure, affectionate, benevolent. "Charles, dear," (they were just like brother and sister, innocent and loving), " how kind it is of you to take me with you ; if you only knew how I dreaded Julian!" "Why, Emmy? can he have offended you in any way?" " Oh, Charles, he is so rude, and says such silly things, and — I am quite afraid to be alone with him." "What — what — what does he say to you, Emily?" hurriedly urged her half-avowed lover. "Oh, don't ask me, Charles — pray drop the subject;" and, as she blushed, tears stood in her eyes. Charles bit his lip and clenched his fist involuntarily ; but an instant word of prayer drove away the,spirit of hatred, and set up love triumph- ant in its place. "My Emily — oh, what have I said? may I — may I call you my Emily? dearest, dearest girl!" escaped his lips, and he trembled at his own presumption. It was a presumptuous speech indeed ; but it burst from the well of his affections, and he could not help it. Her answer was not in words, and yet his heart-strings thrilled beneath the melody ; for her eyes shed on him a blaze of love that made him almost faint before them. In an instant, they understood, without a word, the happy truth, that each one loved the other. "Precious, precious Emily!" They were now far away from Bur- leigh, in the fields ; and he seized her hand, and covered it with kisses. M 178 THE TWINS. What more fhey said I was not by to hear, and if I had been would not have divulged it. There are holy secrets of affection, which those who can remember their first love — and first love is the only love worth mentioning — may think of for themselves. Well, far better than my feeble pencilling can picture, will they fill up this slight sketch. That walk to Oxton, that visit to the village school, was full of generous affec- tions unrepressed, the out-pourings of two deep-welled hearts, flowing forth in sympathetic ecstasy. The trees, and fields, and cottages were bathed in heavenly light, and the lovers, happy in each other's trust, called upon the all-seeing God to bless the best affections of His children. And what a change these mutual confessions made in both their minds! Doubt was gone; they were beloved; oh, richest treasure of joy! Fear was gone; they dared declare their love; oh, purest river of all sublunary pleasures ! No longer pale, anxious, thoughtful, worn by the corroding care of "Does she — does she love?" — Charles was, from that moment, a buoyant, cheerful, exhilarated being — a new char- acter; he put on manliness, and fortitude, and somewhat of involuntary pride ; whilst Emily felt, that enriched by the affections of him whom she regarded as her wisest, kindest earthly friend, by the acquisition of his love, who had led her heart to higher good than this world at its best can give her, she was elevated and ennobled from the simple Indian child, into the loved and honoured Christian woman. They went on that important walk to Oxton feeble, divided, unsatisfied in heart: they returned as two united spirits, one in faith, one in hope, one in love ; both heavenly and earthly. But the happy hour is past too soon ; and, home again, they mixed once more with those conflicting elements of hatred and contention. "Emily," asked the general, in a very unusual stretch of curiosity, "where have you been to with Charles Tracy? You look flushed, my dear; what's the matter?" Of course "nothing" was the matter: and the general was answered wisely, for love was nothing in his average estimate of men and women. "Charles, what can have come to you? I never saw you look so happy in my life," was the mother's troublesome inquiry; "why, our staid youth positively looks cheerful." Charles's walk had refreshed him, taken away his head-ache, put him in spirits, and all manner of glib reasons for rejoicing. "You were right, Julian," whispered Mrs. Tracy, "and we'll soon put the stopper on all this sort of thing." THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE, ETC. 179 So, then, the moment our guiltless pair of lovers had severally stolen away to their own rooms, there to feast on well-remembered looks, and words, and hopes — there to lay before that heavenly Friend, whom both had learned to trust, all their present joys, as aforetime all their cares — Mrs. Tracy looked significantly at Julian, and thus addressed her ever stern-eyed lord : " So, general, the old song 's coming true to us, I find, as to other folks, who once were young together : "'And when with envy Tinie, transported, seeks to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, and I'll go wooing in my boys.'" So said or sung the flighty Mrs. Tracy. It was as simple and innocent a quotation as could possibly be made ; I suppose most couples, who ever heard the stanza, and have grown-up children, have thought upon its dear domestic beauty : but it strangely affected the irascible old general. He fumed and frowned, and looked the picture of horror; then, with a fierce oath at his wife and sons, he firmly said — " Woman, hold your fool's tongue : begone, and send Emily to me this minute : stop, Mr. Julian — no — run up for your brother Charles, and come you all to me in the study. Instantly, sir! do as I bid you, without a word." Julian would gladly have fought it out with his imperative father; but, nevertheless, it was a comfort to have to fetch pale Charles for a jobation; so he went at once. And the three young people, two of them trembling with affections overstrained, and the third indurated in effrontery, stood before that stern old man. "Emily, child," — and he added something in Hindostanee, "have I been kind to you — and do you owe me any love ?" "Dear, dear sir, how can you ask me that?" said the warm-affectioned girl, falling on her knees in tears. " Get up, sweet child, and hear me : you see those boys ; as you love me, and yourself, and happiness, and honour — dare not to think of either, one moment, as your husband." Emily fainted ; Charles staggered to assist her, though he well-nigh swooned himself; and Julian folded his arms with a resolute air, as waiting to hear what next. But the general disappointed him : he had said his say : and, as vola- tile salts, a lady's maid, and all that sort of reinvigoration, seemed essen- tial to Emily's recovery, he rang the bell forthwith: so the pleasant family party broke up without another word. 180 THE TWINS. CHAPTER VIII. THE MYSTERY. Our lovers would not have been praiseworthy, perhaps not human, had they not met in secret once and again. True, their regularly con- certed studies were forbidden, and they never now might openly walk out unaccompanied: but love (who has not found this out?) is both daring and ingenious; and notwithstanding all that Emily purposed about doing as the general so strangely bade her, they had many happy meetings, rich with many happy words: all the happier no doubt for their stolen sweetness. There was one great and engrossing subject which often had employed their curiosity ; who and what was Emily Warren ? for the poor girl did not know herself. All she could guess, she told Charles, as he zealously cross-questioned her from time to time : and the result of his inquiries would appear to be as follows : Emily's earliest recollections were of great barbaric pomp ; huge elephants richly caparisoned, mighty fans of peacock's tails, lines of matchlock men, tribes of jewelled servants, a gilded palace, with its gardens and fountains: plenty of rare gems to play with, and a splendid queenly woman, whom she called by the Hindoo name for mother. The general, too, was there among her first associations, as the gallant Captain Tracy, with his company of native troops. Then an era happened in her life ; a tearful leave-taking with that proud princess, who scarcely would part with her for sorrow ; but the captain swore it should be so : and an old Scotch-woman, her nurse, she could remember, who told her as a child, but whether religiously or not she could not tell, "Darling, come to me when you wish to know who made you ;" and then Mrs. Mackie went and spoke to the princess, and soothed her, that she let the child depart peacefully. Most of her gor- geous jewellery dated from that earliest time of inexplicable oriental splendour. After those infantine seven years, the captain took her with him to his station up the country, where she lived she knew not how long, in a strong hill-fort, one Puttymuddyfudgepoor, where there was a great deal of fighting, and besieging, and storming, and cannonading; but it ceased T H E M y S T E R Y 181 al last, and the captain, who then soon successively became both major and colonel, always kept her in his own quarters, making her his little pet ; and, after the fighting was all over, his brother-officers would take her out hunting in their howdahs, and she had plenty of palanquin, bearers, sepoys, and servants at command ; and, what was more, good nurse Mackie was her constant friend and attendant. Time wore on, and many little incidents of Indian life occurred, which varied every day indeed, but still left nothing consequential behind them : there were tiger-hunts, and incursions of Scindian tribes, and Pindarree chieftains taken captive, and wounded soldiers brought into the hospital ; and often had she and good nurse Mackie tended at the sick bed-side. And the colonel had the jungle fever, and would not let her go from his sight; so she caught the fever too, and through Heaven's mercy was recovered. And the colonel was fonder of her now than ever, calling her his darling little child, and was proud to display her early budding beauty to his military friends — pleasant sort of gen- tlemen, who gave her pretty presents. Then she grew up into womanhood, and saw more than one fine uni- form at her feet, but she did not comprehend those kindnesses : and the general (he was general now) got into great passions with them, and stormed, and swore, and drove them all away. Nurse Mackie grew to be old, and sometimes asked her, "Can you keep a secret, child? — no, no, I dare not trust you yet: wait a wee, wait a wee, my bonnie, bonnie bairn." And now speedily came the end. The general resolved on returning to his own old shores : chiefly, as it seemed, to avoid the troublesome per- tinacity of sundry suitors, who sought of him the hand of Emily War- ren ; for, by this name she was beginning to be called : in her earliest recollection she was Amina; then at the hill-fort, Emily — Emily — noth- ing for years but Emily : and as she grew to womanhood, the general bade her sign her name to notes, and leave her card at houses, as Emily Warren : why, or by what right, she never thought of asking. But nurse Mackie had hinted she might have had "a better name and a truer;" and therefoi'e, she herself had asked the general what this hint might mean ; and he was so angry that he discharged nurse Mackie at Madras, directly he arrived there to take ship for England. Then, just before embarking, poor nurse Mackie came to her secretly, and said, " Child, I will trust you with a word ; -you are not what he thinks you." And she cried a great deal, and longed to come to Eng- 16 182 THE TWINS. land; but the general would not hear of it; so he pensioned her off, and left her at Madras, giving somebody strict orders not to let her follow him. Nevertheless, just as they were getting into the boat to cross the surf, the affectionate old soul ran out upon the strand, and called to her " Amy Stuart! Amy Stuart!" to the general's great amazement as cleai'ly as her own ; and she held up a packet in her hand as they were pushing off, and shouted after her, " Child — child ! if you would have your rights, remember Jeanie Mackie!" After that, succeeded the monotony of a long sea voyage. The gen- eral at first seemed vexed about Mrs. Mackie, and often wished that he had asked her what she meant ; however, his brow soon cleared, for he reflected that a discarded servant always tells falsehoods, if only to make her master mischief. "The voyage over, Charles, with all its cards, quadrilles, doubling the cape, crossing the line, and the wearisome routine of sky and sea, the quarter-deck and cabin, we found ourselves at length in Plymouth Sound ; left the Indiaman to go up the channel ; and I suppose the post- chaise may be consigned to your imagination." CHAPTER IX. HOW TO CLEAR IT UP. In all this there was mystery enough for a dozen lovers to have crazed their brains about. Emily might be a queen of the East, defrauded of hereditary glories, and at any rate deserved such rank, if Charles was to be judge ; but what was more important, if the general had any rea- son at all for his arbitrary mandate prohibiting their love, it was very possible that reason was a false one. Meantime, Charles had little now to live for, except his dear forbidden Emily, any more than she for him. And to peace of mind in both, the elucidation of that mystery which hung about her birth, grew more need- ful day by day. At last, one summer evening, when they had managed a quiet walk upon the sands under the Beacon cliff, Charles said abruptly, after some moments of abstraction, "Dearest, I am resolved." HOW TO CLEAR IT UP. 183 "Resolved, Charles! what about?" and she felt quite alarmed ;" for her lover looked so stern, that she could not tell what was going to happen next. " I '11 clear it up, that I will ; I only wish I had the money." "Why, Charles, what in the world are you dreaming about? you frighten me, dearest; are you ill? don't look so serious, pray." "Yes, Emily, I will ; at once too. I 'm off to Madras by next packet; or, that is to say, would, if I could get my passage free." " My noble Charles, if that were the only objection, I would get you all the means ; for the kind — kind general suffers me to have whatever sums I choose to ask for. Only, Charles, indeed I cannot spare you; do not — do not go away and leave me; there's Julian, too — don't leave me — and you might never come back, and — and — " all the remainder was lost in sobbing. "No, my Emmy, we must not use the general's gold in doing what he might not wish ; it would be ungenerous. I will try to get somebody to lend me what I want — say Mrs. Sainsbury, or the Tamworths. And as for leaving you, my love, have no fears for me or for yourself; sit- uated as we are, I take it as a duty to go, and make you happier, setting you in rights, whatever these may be ; and for the rest, I leave you in His holy keeping who can preserve you alike in body, as in soul, from all things that would hurt you, and whose mercy will protect me in all perils, and bring me back to you in safety. This is my trust, Emmy." " Dear Charles, you are always wiser and better than I am : let it be so then, my best of friends. Seek out good nurse Mackie, I can give you many clues, hear what she has to say ; and may the God of your own poor fatherless Emily speed your holy mission ! Yet there is one thing, Charles ; ought you not to ask your parents for their leave to go ? You are better skilled to judge than I can be, though." " Emmy, whom have I to ask ? my father ? he cares not whither I go nor what becomes of me ; I hardly know him, and for twenty years of my short life of twenty-one, scarcely believed in his existence; or should I ask my mother ? alas — love ! I wish I could persuade myself that she would wish me back again if I were gone ; moreover, how can I respect her judgment, or be guided by her counsel, whose constant aim has been to thwart my feeble efforts after truth and wisdom, and to pamper all ill growths in my unhappy brother Julian? No, Emily; I am a man now, and take my own advice. If a parent forbade me, indeed, and reasonably, it would be fit to acquiesce ; but knowing, as I 184 THE TWINS. have sad cause to know, that none but you, my love, will be sorry for my absence, as for your sake alone that absence is designed, I need take counsel only of us who are here present — your own sweet eyes, myself, and God who seeth us." "True — most true, dear Charles; I knew that you judged rightly." " Moreover, Emmy, secresy is needful for the due fulfilment of my purpose." (Charles little thought how congenial to his nature was that same secresy.) "None but you must know where I am, or whither I am gone. For if there really is any mystery which the general would conceal from us, be assured he both could and would frustrate all my efforts if he knew of my design. The same ship that carried me out would convey an emissary from him, and nurse Mackie never could be found by me. I must go then secretly, and, for our peace sake, soon ; how dear to me that embassy will be, entirely undertaken in my darling Emmy's cause!" "But — but, Charles, what if Julian, in your absence — " " Hark, my own betrothed ! while I am near you — and I say it not of threat, but as in the sight of One who has privileged me to be your pro- tector — you are safe from any serious vexation ; and the moment I am gone, fly to my father, tell him openly your fears, and he will scatter Julian's insolence to the winds of heaven." "Thank you — thank you, wise dear Charles; you have lifted a load from my poor, weak, woman's heart, that had weighed it down too heav- ily. I will trust in God more, and dread Julian less. Oh ! how I will pray for you when far away." CHAPTER X. AUNT GREEN'S LEGACY. At last — at last, Mrs. Green fell ill, and, hard upon the over-ripe age of eighty-seven, seemed likely to drop into the grave — to the unspeaka- ble delight of her expectant relatives. Sooth to say, niece Jane, the soured and long-waiting legatee, had now for years been treating the poor old woman very scurvily : she had lived too long, and had grown to be a burden ; notwithstanding that her ample income still kept on the AUNT GREEN'S LEGACY. 185 house, and enabled the general to nurse his own East India Bonds right comfortably. But still the old aunt would not die, and as they sought not her, nor her's (quite contrary to St. Paul's disinterestedness), she was looked upon in the light of an incumbrance, on her own property and in her own house. Mrs. Tracy longed to throw off the yoke of depend. ance, and made small secret of the hatred of the fetter: for the old woman grew so deaf and blind, that there could be no risk at all, either in speaking one's mind, or in thoroughly neglecting her. However, now that the harvest of hope appeared so near, the legatee renewed her old attentions : Death was a guest so very welcome to the house, that it is no wonder that his arrival was hourly expected with buoyant cheerfulness, and a something in the mask of kindliness : but I suspect that lamb-skin concealed a very wolf. So, Mrs. Tracy ten- derly inquired of the doctor, and the doctor shook his head ; and other doctors came to help, and shook their heads together. The patient still grew worse — O, brightening prospect ! — though, now and then, a cordial draught seemed to revive her so alarmingly, that Mrs. Tracy affection, ately urging that the stimulants would be too exciting for the poor dear sufferer's nerves, induced Dr. Graves to discontinue them. Then those fearful scintillations in her lamp of life grew fortunately duller, and the nurse was by her bed-side night and day ; and the old aunt became more and more peevish, and was more and more spoken of by the Tracy fam. ily — in her possible hearing, as "that dear old soul" — out of it, "that vile old witch." Charles, to be sure, was an exception in all this, as he ever was : for he took on him the Christian office of reading many prayers to the poor decaying creature, and (only that his father would not hear of such a thing) desired to have the vicar to assist him. Emily also, full of sym- pathy, and disinterested care, would watch the fretful patient, hour after hour, in those long, dull nights of pain ; and the poor, old, perishing sin. ner loved her coming, for she spoke to her the words of hope and resig. nation. Whether that sweet missionary, scarcely yet a convert from her own dark creed — (Alas ! the Amina had offered unto Juggernaut, and Emily of the strong hill-fort had scarcely heard of any truer God ; and the fair girl was a woman-grown before, in her first earthly love, she also came to know the mercies Heaven has in store for us) — whether unto any lasting use she prayed and reasoned with that hard, dried heart, none but the Omniscient can tell. Let us hope : let us hope ; for the fret- ful voice was stilled, and the cloudy forehead brightened, and the hag- 16* 186 THE TWINS. gard eyes looked cheerfully to meet the inevitable stroke of death. Thus in wisdom and in charity, in patience and in faith, that gentle pair of lovers comforted the dying soul. However, days rolled away, and Aunt Green lingered on still, tena- ciously clinging unto life : until one morning early, she felt so much better, that she insisted on being propped up by pillows, and seeing all the household round her bed to speak to them. So up came every one, in no sn-mll hope of legacies, and what the lawyers call '•'■ donationes mor- tis causa. ^^ The general was at her bed's-head, with, I am ashamed to say, per. haps unconsciously, a countenance more ridiculous than lugubrious; though he tried to subdue the buoyancy of hope and to put on looks of decent mourning ; on the other side, the long-expectant legatee. Niece Jane, prudently concealed her questionable grief behind a scented pocket-handkerchief. Julian held somewhat aloof, for the scene was too depressing for his taste : so he affected to read a prayer-book, wrong way up, with his tongue in his cheek : Charles, deeply solemnized at the near approach of death, knelt at the poor invalid's bedside; and Emily stood by, leaning over her, suffused in tears. At the further cor- ners of the bed, might be seen an old servant or two ; and Mrs. Green's butler and coachman, each a forty years' fixture, presented their gray heads at the bottom of the room, and really looked exceedingly concerned. Mrs. Green addressed them first, in her feeble broken manner: "Grant — and John — good and faithful — thank you — thank you both; and you too, kind Mrs. Lloyd, and Sally, and nurse — what's-your-name : give them the packets, nurse — all marked — first drawer, desk : there — there — God bless you — good — faithful." The old servants, full of sorrow at her approaching loss, were com- forted too : for a kind word, and a hundred pound note a-piece, made amends for much bereavement : the sick-nurse found her gift was just a tithe of their's, and recognised the difference both just and kind. " Niece Jane — you 've waited — long — for — this day : my will — rewards you." " O dear — dear aunt, pray don't talk so ; you '11 recover yet, pray — pray don't:" she pretended to drown the rest in sorrow, but winked at her husband over the handkerchief. "Julian!" (the precious youth attempted to look miserable, and came as called,) "you will find — I have remembered — you, Julian." So he winked, too, at his mother, and tried to blubber a "thank you." AUNT GREEN'S LEGACY. 187 "Charles — where 's Charles? give me your hand, Charles dear — let me feel your face : here, Charles — a little pocket-book — good lad — good lad. There' s Emily, too — dear child, she came — too late — I forgot her — I forgot her ! general give her half — half — if you love — love — Emi — " All at once her jaw dropped ; her eyes, which had till now been pre- ternaturally bright, filmed over ; her head fell back upon the pillow ; and the rich old aunt was dead. Julian gave a shout that might have scared the parting spirit ! Really, the general was shocked, and Mrs. Tracy too ; and the ser- vants murmured "shame — shame!" poor Charles hid his face; Emily looked up indignantly ; but Julian asked, with an oath, " Where 's the good of being hypocrites ?" and then added, " now, mother, let us find the will." Then the nurse went to close the dim glazed eyes ; and the other sor- rowing domestics slunk away; and Charles led Emily out of the cham- ber of death, saddened and shocked at such indecent haste. Meanwhile, the hopeful trio rummaged every drawer — tumbled out the mingled contents of boxes, desk, and escritoire — still, no will — no will : and at last the nurse, who more than once had muttered, " Shame on you all," beneath her breath, said, "If you want the will, it's under her pillow : but don't disturb her yet, poor thing !" Julian's rude hand had already thrust aside the lifeless, yielding head, and clutched the will : the father and mother — though humbled and won- der-stricken at his daring;— gathered round him; and he read aloud, boldly and steadily to the end, though with scowling brow, and many curses interjectional : " In the name of God, Amen. I, Constance Green, make this my last will and testament. Forasmuch as my niece, Jane Tracy, has watched and waited for my death these two-and-twenty years, I leave her all the shoes, slippers, and goloshes, whereof I may happen to die possessed : item, I leave Julian, her son, my ' Whole Duty of Man,' convinced that he is deficient in it all : item, I confirm all the gifts which I intend to make upon my death-bed : item, forasmuch as General Tracy, my niece's hus- band, on his return from abroad, greeted me with much affection, I bequeath "and give to him five thousand pounds' worth of Exchequer bills, now in my banker's hands ; and appoint him my sole executor. As to. my landed property, it will all go, in course of law, to my heir, 188 THE TWINS. Samuel Hayley, and may he and his long enjoy it. And as to the remainder of my personal effects, including nine thousand pounds bank stock, my Dutch fives, and other matters, whereof I may die possessed (seeing that my relatives are rich enough w^ithout my help), I give and bequeath th^ same, subject as hereinbefore stated, to the trustees, for the time being, of the Westminster Lying-in Hospital, in trust, for the pur- poses of that charitable institution. In witness whereof, I have here- unto set my hand and seal this 13th day of May, 1840. "Constance Green." "Duly signed, sealed, and delivered! d — nation!" was Julian's brief epilogue — "General, let's burn it." "You can if you please, Mr. Julian," interposed the nurse, who had secretly enjoyed all this, " and if you like to take the consequences ; but, as each of the three witnesses has the will sealed up in copy, and the poor deceased there took pains to sign them all, perhaps — " This settled the affair : and the discomfited expectants made a pre- cipitate retreat. As the general, however, got vastly more than he expected, for his individual merits ; and seeing that he loved Emily as much as he hated both Julian and his wife, he really felt well-pleased upon the whole, and took on him the duties of executor with cheerful- ness. So they buried Aunt Green as soon as might be. CHAPTER XI. PREPARATIONS AND DEPARTURE. Charles's pocket-book was full of clean bank notes, fifteen hundred pounds' worth : it contained also a diamond ring, and a lock of silvery hair ; the latter a proof of affectionate sentiment in the kind old soul, that touched him at the heart. " And now, my Emmy, the way is clear to us ; Providence has sent me this, that I may right you, dearest : and it will be wise in us to say nothing of our plans. Avoid inquiries — for I did not say conceal or falsify facts : but, while none but you, love, heed of my departure, and while 1 go for our sakes alone, we need not invite disappointment by open- PREPARATIONS AND DEPARTURE. igQ mouthed publicity. To those who love me, Emmy, I am frank and free; but with those who love us not, there is a wisdom and a justice in concealment. They do not deserve confidence, who will not extend to us their sympathy. , None but yourself must know whither I am bound ; and, after some little search for curiosity's sake, when a week is past and gone, no soul will care for me of those at home. With you, I will manage to communicate by post, directing my letters to Mrs. Sainsbury, at Oxton : I will prepare her for it. She knows my love for you, and how they try to thwart us ; but even she, however trustworthy, need not be told my destination yet awhile, until ' India ' appears upon the post- mark. How glad will you be, dearest one, how happy in our secret — to read my heart's own thoughts, when I am far away — far away, clear- ing up mine Emmy's cares, and telling her how blessed I feel in min- istering to her happiness!" Such was the substance of their talk, while counting out the pocket-book. Charles's remaining preparations were simple enough, now his purse was flush of money : he resolved upon taking from his home no luggage whatever : preferring to order down, from an outfitting house in London, ' a regular kit of cadet's necessaries, to wait for him at the Europe Hotel, Plymouth, on a certain day in the ensuing week. So that, burdened only with his Emmy's miniature, and his pocket-book of bank notes, he might depart quietly some evening, get to Plymouth in a preconcerted way, by chaise or coach, before the morrow morning ; thence, a boat to meet the ship off-shore, and then — hey, for the Indies ! It was as well-devised d scheme as could possibly be planned ; though its secresy, especially with a mother in the case, may be a moot point as to the abstract moral thereof: nevertheless, concretely, the only heart his so mysterious absence would have pained, was made aware of all : i'then, again, secresy had been the atmosphere of his daily life, the breath of his education ; and he too sorely knew his mother would rejoice at the departure, and Julian, too — all the more certainly, as both brothers were now rivals professed for the hand of Emily Warren : as to the general, he might, or he might not, smoke an extra cheroot in the excitement of his wonder; and if he cared about it anyways more tragically than tobacco might betray, Emily knew how to comfort him. With respect to other arrangements, Emmy furnished Charles with letters to certain useful people at Madras, and in particular to the "some- body " who looked after Mrs. Mackie : so, the mystery was easy of access, and he doubted not of overcoming, on the spot, every unseen dif- 190 THE TWINS. ficulty. The plan of leaving all luggage behind, a capital idea, would enable him to go forth freely and unshackled, with an ordinary air, in hat and great-coat, as for an evening's walk ; and was quite in keeping with the natural reserve of his whole character — a bad habit of secresy, which he probably inherited from his father, the lieutenant of old times. And yet, for all the wisdom, and mystery, and shrewd settling of the plan, its accomplishment was as nearly as possible most fatally defeated. The important evening arrived ; for the Indiaman — it was our old friend Sir William Elphinston — would be off Plymouth, next morning : the goods had been, for a day or two, safely deposited at the Europe, as per invoice, all paid : the lovers, in this last, this happiest, yet by far the saddest of their stolen interviews, had exchanged vows and kisses, and upon the beach, beneath those friendly cliffs, had commended one another to their Father in heaven. They had returned to the unsocial circle of home; all was fixed; the clock struck nine: and Charles, accidentally squeezing Emily's hand, rose to leave the tea-table. " Whei'e are you going, Mr. Charles ?" "I am going out, Julian." *' Thank you, sir ! I knew that, but whither ? General, I say, here 's Charles going to serenade somebody by moonlight." The brandy-sodden parent, scarcely conscious, said something about his infernal majesty; and, "What then? — let him go, can't you?" " Well, Julian dear, perhaps your brother will not mind your going with him ; particularly as Emily stays at home with me." This Mrs. Tracy spoke archly, intended as a hint to induce Julian to remain : but he had other thoughts — and simply said, in an ill-tempered tone of voice, "Done, Charles." It was a dilemma for our escaping hero; but glancing a last look at Emily, he departed, and walked on some way as quietly as might be with Julian by his side: thinking, perhaps, he would soon be tired ; and suffering him to fancy, if he would, that Charles was bound either on some amorous pilgrimage, or some charitable mission. But they left Burleigh behind them — and got upon the common — and passed it by, far out of sight and out of hearing — and were skirting the high banks of the darkly-flowing Mullet — and still there was Julian sullenly beside him. In vain Charles had tried, by many gentle words, to draw him into common conversation : Julian would not speak, or only gave utter- ance to some hinted phrase of insult : his brow was even darker than usual, and night was coming on apace, and he still tramped steadily PREPARATIONS AND DEPARTURE. I91 along beside his brother, digging his sturdy stick into the clay, for very spite's sake. At length, as they yet walked along the river's side in that unfrequented place, Julian said, on a sudden, in a low strange tone, as if keeping down some rising rage within him, " Mr. Charles, you love Emily Warren." "Well, Julian, and who can help loving her?" It was innocently said ; but still a maddening answer, for he loved her too. "And, sirrah," the brother hoarsely added, "she — she does not — does not — hate you, sir, as I do." "My good Julian, pray do not be so violent; I cannot help it if the dear girl loves me." "But I can, though!" roared Julian, with an oath, and lifted up his stick — it was nearer like a club — to strike his brother. "Julian, Julian, what are you about? Good Heavens! you would not — you dare not — give over — unhand me, brother; what have I done, that you should strike me? Oh! leave me — leave me — pray." "Leave you ? I will leave you !" the villain almost shouted, and smote him to the ground with his lead-loaded stick. It was a blow that must have killed him, but for the interposing hat, now battered down upon his bleeding head. Charles, at length thoroughly aroused, though his foe must be a brother, struggled with unusual strength in self-preserving instinct, wrested the club from Julian's hand, and stood on the defensive. Julian was staggered: and, after a moment's irresolution, drawing a pistol from his pocket, said, in a terribly calm voice, "Now, sir! I have looked for such a meeting many days — alone, by night, with you ! I would not willingly draw trigger, for the noise might bring down other folks upon us, out of Oxton yonder : but, drop that stick, or I fire." Charles was noble enough, without another word, to fling the club into the river : it was not fear of harm, but fear of sin, that made him trust himself defenceless to a brother, a twin-brother, in the dark: he could not be so base, a murderer, a fratricide ! Oh ! most unhallowed thought! Save him from this crime, good God ! Then, instantaneously reflecting, and believing he decided for the best, when he saw the ruffian glaring on him with exulting looks, as upon an unarmed rival at his mercy, with no man near to stay the deed, and none but God to see it, Charles resolved to seek safety from so terrible a death in flight. Oxton was within one mile ; and, clearly, this was not like flying from 192 THE TWINS. danger as a coward, but fleeing from attempted crime, as a brother and a Christian. Julian snatched at him to catch him as he passed : and, failing in this, rushed after him. It was a race for life ! and they went like the wind, for two hundred yards, along that muddy high-banked walk. Suddenly, Charles slipped upon the clay, that he fell ; and Julian, with a savage howl, leapt upon him heavily. Poor youth, he knew that death was nigh, and only uttered, "God forgive you, brother! oh, spare me — or, if not me, spare yourself — Julian, Julian !" But the monster was determined. Exerting the whole force of his herculean frame, he seized his scarce-resisting victim as he lay, and, lifting him up like a child, flung his own twin-brother head foremost into that darkly-flowing current ! There was one piercing cry — a splash — a struggle ; and again nothing broke upon the silent night, but the murmur of that swingeing tide, as the Mullet hurried eddying to the sea. Julian listened a minute or two, flung some stones at random into the river, and then hastily ran back to Burleigh, feeling like a Cain. CHAPTER XII. THE ESCtfE. But the overruling hand of Him whose aid that victim had invoked, was now stretched forth to save ! and the strong-flowing tide, that ran too rapidly for Charles to sink in it, was commissioned from on High to carry him into an angle of that tortuous stream, where he clung by instinct to the bushes. Silence was his wisdom, while the murderer was near : and so long as Julian's footsteps echoed on the banks, Cliarles stirred not, spoke not, but only silently thanked God for his wonderful deliverance. However, the footsteps quickly died away, though heard far off clattering amid the still and listening night; and Charles, thank- fully, no less than cautiously, drew himself out of the stream, very little harmed beyond a drenching: for the waters had recovered him at once from the efiects of that desperate blow. It was with a sense of exultation, freedom, independence, that he now THE ESCAPE. I93 hastened scatheless on his way ; dripping garments mattered nothing, nor mud, nor the loss of his demolished hat : tlie pocket-book was safe, and Emmy's portrait, (how he kissed it, then!) and luckily a travelling cap was in his great-coat pocket : so with a most buoyant feeling of animal delight, as well as of religious gratitude, he sped merrily once more upon his secret expedition. Thank Heaven ! Emmy could not know the peril he had past : and wretched Julian would now have dreadful reason of his own for this mysterious absence : and it was a pleasant thing to trudge along so freely in the starlight, on the private embassy of love. Happy Charles ! I know not if ever more exhilarated feelings blessed the youth ; they made him trip along the silent road, in a gush of joyfulness, at the rate of some six miles an hour; I know not if ever such delicious thoughts of Emily's attachment, and those gorgeous mysteries in India, of adventure, enterprise, escape, had heretofore caused his heart to bound so lightsomely within him, like some elastic spring. I know not if ever strong reliance upon Providential care, more earnest prayers, praises, intercessions (for poor Julian, too,) were offered on the altar of his soul. Happy Charles ! So he went on and on — long past Oxton, and Eyemouth, and Surbiton, and over the ferry, and through the sleeping turnpikes, and past the bridge, and along the broad high-road, until gray of morning's dawn revealed the suburbs of Plynaouth. Of course he missed the mail by which he intended to have gone — for Julian's dread act delayed him. Long before his journey's end, his clothes were thoroughly dried, and violent exercise had shaken off all possible rheumatic consequence of that fearful plunge beneath the waters : five-and-twenty miles in four hours and three-quarters, is a tolerable recipe for those who have tum- bled into rivers. We must recollect that he had gone as quick as he could, for fear of being late, now the coach had passed. At a little coun- try inn, he brushed, and washed, and made toilet as well as he was able, took a glass of good Cognac, both hot and strong ; and felt more of a man than ever. Then, having loitered awhile, and well-remembered Emily in his prayers, at about eight in the morning he presented himself among his luggage at the Europe in gentlemanly trim, and soon got all on board the pilot boat, to meet the Indiaman just outside the breakwater. We may safely leave him there, happy, hopeful Charles ! Sanguine for the future, exulting in the present, and thankful for the past : already has N 17 194 THE TWINS. he poured out all his joys before that Friend who loves her too, and invoked His blessing on a scheme so well designed, so providentially accomplished. I had almost forgotten Julian: wretched, hardened man, and how fared he ? The moment he had flung his brother into that dark stream, and the waters closed above him greedily that he was gone — gone for ever, he first threw in stones to make a noise like life upon the stream, but that eheatery was only for an instant : he was alone — a murderer, alone ! the horrors of silence, solitude, and guilt, seized upon him like three furies: so his quick retreating walk became a running; and the run- ning soon was wild and swift for fear ; and ever as he ran, that piercing scream came upon the wind behind, and hooted him : his head swam, his eyes saw terrible sights, his ears heard terrible sounds — and he scoured into quiet, sleeping Burleigh like a madman. However, by some strange good luck, not even did the slumbering watchman see him : so he got in-doors as usual with the latch-key (it was not the first time he had been out at night), crept up quietly, and hid himself in his own chamber. And how did he spend those hours of guilty solitude? in terrors? in remorse? in misery? Not he : Julian was too wise to sit and think, and in the dark too ; but he lit both reading lamps to keep away the gloom, and smoked and drank till morning's dawn to stupify his conscience. Then, to make it seem all right, he went down to breakfast as usual, though any thing but sober, and met unflinchingly his mother's natural question — "Good morning, Julian — where 's Charles?" " How should I know, mother ; isn't he up yet ?" " No, my dear ; and what is more, I doubt if he came home last night." "Hollo, Master Charles! pretty doings these, Mr. Sabbath-teacher! so he slept out, eh, mother?" "I don't know — but where did you leave him, Julian?" "Who! I? did I go out with him? Oh! yes, now I recollect: let's see, we strolled together midway to Oxton, and, as he was going some- what further, there I left him?" How true the words, and yet how terribly false their meaning! " Dear me, that 's very odd — isn't it, general ?" " Not at all, ma'am — not at all ; leave the lad alone, he '11 be back by dinner-time : I didn't think the boy had so much spirit." Emily, to whom the general's hint was Greek, looked up cheerfully and in her own glad mind chuckled at her Charles's bold adventure. THE ESCAPE. I95 But the day passed, off, and they sent out men to seek for him : and another — and all Burleigh was a-stir : and another — and the coast-guards from Lyme to Plymouth Sound searched every hole and corner: and another — when his mother wept five minutes : and another — when the wonder was forgotten. However, they did not put on mourning for the truant : he might turn up yet : perhaps he was at Oxford. Emily had not much to do in comforting the general for his dear son's loss ; it clearly was a gain to him, and he felt far freer than when wis- dom's eye was on him. Charles had been too keen for father, mother, and brother ; too good, too amiable : he saw their ill, condemned it by his life, and showed their dark too black against his brightness. The unnatural deficiency of mother's love had not been overrated : Julian had all her heart ; and she felt only obliged to the decamping Charles for leaving Emily so free and clear to his delightful brother. She never thought him dead : death was a repulsive notion at all times to her : no doubt he would turn up again some day. And Julian joked with her about that musty proverb "a bad penny." As to our dear heroine, she never felt so happy in all her life before as now, even when her Charles had been beside her; for within a day of his departure he had written her a note full of affection, hope, and gladness; assuring her of his health, and wealth, and safe arrival on board the Indiaman. The noble-hearted youth never said one single word about his brother's crime : but he did warn his Emmy to keep close beside the general. This note she got through Mrs. Sainsbury ; that invalid lady at Oxton, who never troubled herself to ask or hear one word beyond her own little world — a certain physic-corner cupboard. And thou — poor miserable man — thou fratricide in mind — and to thy best belief in act, how drags on now the burden of thy life? For a day or two, spirits and segars muddled his brain, and so kept thoughts away : but within a while they came on him too piercingly, and Julian writhed beneath those scorpion stings of hot and keen remorse : and when the coast-guards dragged the Mullet, how that caitiff trembled ! and when nothing could be found, how he wondered fearingly ! The only thing the wretched man could do, was to loiter, day after day, and all day long, upon the same high path which skirts the tortuous stream. Fasci- nated there by hideous recollections, he could not leave the spot foi hours : and his soft-headed, romantic mother, noticing these deep abstrac- tions, blessed him — for her Julian was now in love with Emily. 196 THE TWINS. CHAPTER XIII. NEWS OF CHARLES. Ay — in love with Emily ! Fiercely now did Julian pour his thoughts that way; if only hoping to forget murder in another strong excite- ment. Julian listened to his mother's counsels ; and that silly, cheated woman playfully would lean upon his arm, like a huge, coy confidante, and fill his greedy ears (that heard her gladly for very holiday's sake from fearful apprehensions), with lover's hopes, lover's themes, his Emi- ly's perfection. Delighted mother — how proud and pleased was she! quite in her own element, fanning dear Julian's most sentimental flame, and scheming for him interviews with Emily. It required all her skill — for the girl clung closely to her guardian : he, unconscious Argus, never tired of her company; and she, remem- bering dear Charles's hint, and dreading to be left alone with Julian, would persist to sit day after day at her books, music, or needle-work in the study, charming General Tracy by her pretty Hindoo songs. With him she walked out, and with him she came in ; she would read to him for hours, whether he snored or listened ; and, really, both mother and son were several long weeks before their scheming could come to any thing. A tHe-d-tite between Julian and Emily appeared as impossible to. manage, as collision between Jupiter and Vesta. However, after some six weeks of this sort of mining and counter- mining (for Emily divined their wishes), all on a sudden one morning the general received a letter that demanded his immediate presence for a day or two in town ; something about prize-money at Puttymuddy- fudgepoor. Emily was too high-spirited, too delicate in mind, to tell her guardian of fears which never might be realized; and so, with some forebodings, but a cheerful trust, too, in a Providence above her, she saw the general off without a word, though not without a tear; he too, that stern, close man, was moved : it was strange to see them love each other so. The moment he was gone, she discreetly kept her chamber for the day, on plea of sickness ; she had cried very heartily to see him leave her — he had never yet left her once since she could recollect — and thus she really had a head-ache, and a bad one. NEWS OF CHARLES. I97 Next morning, she would gladly have found any just excuse for absence from the breakfast-table — fever, small-pox, cholera, any thing : for Julian's attentions were more dreaded than them all. But she was quite recovered now, and a ship-letter, that morning arrived from Charles, all well, and merrily bounding over the salt sea, had put her in such high spirits, that, with something of just pride and matronly forti- tude, she determined to confront Mrs. Tracy and her son. Verily, her frank and cheerly trustfulness quite staggered the conspiring pair : for Emily had been strengthened by prayerful trust towards God, and felt happy in her well-requited love. She was the first to speak. " Good-morrow, Mrs. Tracy ; how do you do, Julian? I am afraid to say, you don't look quite so well as usual." Indeed, he did not; for ghastly fears racked him, and unsatisfied desires: he was pale, wasted, miserable. So he awkwardly answered her address with a common "how d'ye do?" "Julian has lost his spirits lately very much, my dear: I dare say you can guess the cause?" As if either of them could ! " The cause, Mrs. Tracy ? I am sure I cannot ; at least," she added, somewhat mischievously, " unless he is anxious about Charles." "What about Charles?" hurriedly asked Julian, in a wild and nerv- ous way. " Why, we all know he is missing, don't we, Julian ? and has been for these six weeks: I am sure it does you credit to seem so altered since he went." "Went? whither?" earnestly asked the mother, who really had begun to find out that she loved her now lost child : "whither, dearest Emily? oh, do you know? do you know? tell me^ — tell me." To Emily's great surprise, Mrs. Tracy shed real tears of evident affection and sorrow ; though a silly and weak one, she was a mother still, and Charles a son, although too good for her. Accordingly Emily, in the fullness of her sympathy, and with some natural exultation of spirits, now that Charles had got a fair start (he was at the Cape by this time), gayly answered — " Dear Mrs. Tracy, I rejoice to be able to assure you, that you need not entertain a fear or doubt of Charles's welfare ; though I am a woman,. I can keep a secret, you see ;" (the dear girl was babbling it all the while, quite unconscious of her contradiction;) "Charles is gone to India, to find out who I am, and I heard from him this morning — all well at St. Helena!" 17* 198 THE TWINS. Julian Tracy gave such a start, that he knocked off a cheffonier of tare china and glass standing at his elbow ; and the smash of manda- rins and porcelain gods would have been enough, at any other time, to have driven his mother crazy. "Charles alive?" shouted he. "Yes, Julian — why not? You saw him off, you know: cannot you remember?" Now to that guilty wretch's mind the fearful notion instantaneously occurred, that Emily Warren was in some strange, wild way bantering him; she knew his dreadful secret — "he had seen him off." He trem- bled like an aspen as she looked on him. "Oh yes, he remembered, cei'tainly ; but — but where was her letter?" " Never mind that, Julian ; you surely would not read another per- son's letters. Monsieur le Chevalier Bayard ?" Emily was as gay at heart that morning as a sky-lark, and her inno- cent pleasantry proved her strongest shield. Julian dared not ask to see the letter — scarcely dared to hope she had one, and yet did not know what to think. As to any love scene now, it was quite out of the ques- tion, notwithstanding all his mother's hints and management ; a new exciting thought entirely filled him : was he a Cain, a fratricide, or not ? was Charles alive after all? And, for once in his life, Julian had some repentant feelings; for thrilling hope was nigh to cheer his gloom. It really seemed as if Emily, sweet innocent, could read his inmost thoughts. "At any rate," observed she, playfully, "Bayard may take the postman's privilege, and see the outside." With that, she produced the ship-letter that had put her in such spirits, legibly dated some twenty-two days ago. Yes, Charles's hand, sure enough ! Julian could swear to it among a thousand. And he fainted dead away. What an astonishing event! how Mrs. Tracy praised her noble-spir- ited boy ! How the bells rang ! and hot water, and cold water, and salts, and rubbings, and eau de Cologne, and all manner of delicate attentions, long sustained, at length contributed to Julian's restoration. Moreover, even Emily was agreeably surprised ; she had never seen him in so amiable a light before ; this was all feeling, all affection for his brother — her dear — dear Charles. And when Mrs. Tracy heard what Emily said of Julian's feeling heart, she became positively triumphant ; not half so much at Charles's safety, and all that, as at Julian's burst of feeling. She was quite right, after all ; he was worthy to be her favour. THE TETE-A-TETE. 199 ite, and she felt both flattered and obliged to him for fainting dead away. «Yes — yes, my dear Miss Warren, depend upon it Julian has fine feel- ings, and a good heart." And Emily began to condemn both Charles and herself for lack of charity, and to think so too. CHAPTER XIV. THE TETE-A-TETE. No sooner had "dear Julian" recovered, which he really had not quite accomplished until the day had begun to wear away (so great a shock had that intelligence of Charles been to his guilty mind), than the gratified and prudent mother fancied this a famous opportunity to leave the young couple to themselves. It was after dinner, when they had retired to the drawing-room; and I will say that Emi?ly had never seemed so favourably disposed towards that rough, but generous, heart before. So then, on some significant pretence, well satisfied her favourite was himself again, as bold, and black, and boisterous as ever, the mas- culine mother kissed her hand to them, as a fat fairy might be supposed to do, and operatically tripped away, coyly bidding Emily "take care of Julian till she should come back again." The momentary gleam of good which glanced across that bad man's heart has faded away hours ago ; his repentant thoughts had been occa- sioned more from the sudden relief he experienced at running now no risks for having murdered, than for any better feeling towards his brother, or any humbler notions of himself. Nay, a strong reaction occurred in his ideas the moment he had seen his brother's writing; and when he fainted, he fainted from the struggle in his mind of mani- fold exciting causes, such as these : — hatred, jealousy, what he called love, though a lower name befitted it, and vexation that his brother was — not dead. Oh mother, mother! if your poor weak head had but been wise enough to read that heart, would you still have loved it as you do? Alas — it is a deep lesson in human nature this — she would ! for Mrs. General Tracy was one of those obstinate, yet superficial characters, whom no reason can convince that they are wrong, no power can oblige to confess themselves mistaken. She rejoiced to hear him called "her 200 THE TWINS. very image;" and predominant vanity in the large coquette extended to herself at second-hand ; self was her idol substance, and its delightful shadow was this mother's son. The moment Mrs. Tracy left the room, Julian perceived his opportu- nity : Charles, detested rival, far away at sea; the guardian gone to London ; Emily in an unusual flow of affability and kindness, and he — alone with her. Rashly did he bask his soul in her delicious beauty, deliberately drinking deep of that intoxicating draught. Giving the rein to passion, he suffered that tumultuous steed to hurry him whither it would, in mad unbridled course. He sat so long silently gazing at her with the lack-lustre eyes of low and dull desire, that Emily, quite thrown off her guard by that amiable fainting for his brother, addressed him in her innocent kind-heartedness, "Are you not recovered yet, dear Julian?" The effect was instantaneous : scarcely crediting his ears that heard her call him "dear," his eyes, that saw her winning smile upon him, he started from his chair, and trembling with agitation, flung himself at her feet, to Emily's unqualified astonishment. "Why, Julian, what's the matter? — unhand me, sir! let go!" (for he had got hold of her wrist.) The passionate youth seized her hand — that one with Charles's ring upon it — and would have kissed it wildly with polluting lips, had she not shrieked suddenly "Help! help!" Instantly his other hand was roughly dashed upon her mouth — so roughly that it almost knocked her backwards — and the blood flowed from her wounded lip; but by a preternatural effort, the indignant Indian queen hurled the ruffian from her, flew to the bell, and kept on ringing violently. In less than half a minute all the household was around her, headed by the startled Mrs. Tracy, who had all the while been listening in the other drawing-room: butler, footmen, house-maids, ladies'-maids, cook, scullions, and all rushed in, thinking the house was on fire. No need to explain by a word. Emily, radiant in imperial charms, stood, like inspired Cassandra, flashing indignation from her eyes at the cowering caitiff on the floor. The mother, turning all manner of col- ours, dropped on her knees to " poor Julian's " assistance, affecting to believe him taken ill. But Emily Warren, whose insulted pride vouch- safed not a word to that guilty couple, soon undeceived all parties, by addressing the butler in a voice tremulous and broken — THE TETE-A-TETE. 201 "Ml*. Saunders — be so good — as to go — to Sir Abraham Tamworth's — in the square — and request of him — a night's — protection — for a poor — defenceless, insulted woman!" She could hardly utter the last words for choking tears : but immedi- ately battling down her feelings, added, with the calmness of a heroine — "You are a father, Mr. Saunders — set all this before Sir Abraham strongly, but delicately. "Footmen! so long as that wretch is in the room, protect me, as you are men." And the stately beauty placed herself between the two liveried lacqueys, as Zenobia in the middle of her guards. "Marguerite!" — the pretty little Frangaise tripped up to her — "wipe this blood from my face." Beautiful, insulted creature ! I thought that I looked upon some wounded Boadicea, with her daughters extractinjj the arrow from her cheek. " And now, kind Charlotte, fetch my cloak ; and follow me to Pros- pect House, with what I may require for the night. Till the general's return, I stay not here one minute." Then, without a syllable, or a look of leave-taking, the wise and noble girl — doubtless unconsciously remembering her early Hindoo braveries, the lines of matchlock men, the bowing slaves, the processions, and her jewelled state of old — marched away in magnificent beauty, accom- panied in silence by the whole astonished household. Mrs. Tracy and her son were left alone : the silly, silly mother thought him "hardly used." Julian, whose natural effrontery had entirely deserted him, looked like what he was — a guilty coward : and the mother, who had pampered up her " fine high-spirited son " to his full- grown criminality by a foolish education, really — when she had time to think of any thing but him — was excessively frightened. The general would be back to-morrow, and then — and then ! — she dreaded to picture that explosion of his wrath. 202 THE TWINS. CHAPTER XV. SATISFACTION, Sir Abraham Tamworth, G. C. B. — a fine old Admiral of the White, who somewhat looked down upon the rank of General, H. E. I. C. S. — was astonished, as well he might be, at Mr. Saunders, and his message : and, of course, most gladly acquiesced in acting as poor Emily's pro- tector. Accordingly, however jealous Lady Tamworth and her daughters might heretofore have felt of that bright beauty at the balls, they were now all genuine sympathy, indignation, and affection. Emily, I need hardly say, went straight up stairs to have her cry out. "Whom are you writing to, George, in such a hurry?" asked the admiral, of a fine moustachioed son, George St. Vincent Tamworth, of the Royal Horse Guards, who had just got six months' ISave of absence for the sake of marriage with his cousin. The gallant soldier tossed a billet to his father, who mounted his spec- tacles, and quietly read it at the lamp. "Captain Tamworth desires Mr. Julian Tracy's company to-morrow morning, at seven o'clock, in the third meadow on the Oxton road. The captain brings a friend with him ; also pistols and a surgeon ; and he desires Mr. Tracy to do the like : Prospect House, Thursday evening." "So, George, you consider him a gentleman, do you? I am afraid it's a poor compliment to our fair young friend." And he quietly crumpled up the challenge in his iron hand. " Really, sir ! — you surprise me ; — pardon me, but I will send that note: mustn't I chastise the fellow for this insufferable outrage?" "No doubt, George, no doubt of it at all: when a lady is insulted, and a man (not to say a queen's officer) stands by without taking notice of it, he deserves whipping at the cart's-tail, and Coventry for life. I 've no patience, boy, with such mean meekness, as putting up with bullying insolence when a woman 's in the case. Let a man show moral courage, if he can and will, in his own affront ; I honour him who turns on his heel from common personal insult, and only wish my own old blood was cool enough to do so : but the mother, wife, and sister, ay, George, and the poor defenceless one, be she lady, peasant, or menial, who comes to us for safety in a woman's dress, we must take up their quarrel, or we are not men ! — " SATISFACTION. 203 "Don't interrupt him, George," uxoriously suggested Lady Tarn worth, "your father hasn't done talking yet." For George was getting terribly impatient ; he knew, from sad experience, how much the admiral was given to prosing. However, the oration soon proceeded to our captain's entire satisfaction, after his progenitor had paused awhile for breath's sake in his eloquence. " — Take up their quarrel, or we are not men. Nevertheless, boy, I cannot see the need of pistols. The only conceivable case for violent redress, is woman's wrong : and he who wrongs a woman, cannot be a gentleman ; therefore, ought not to be met on equal terms. For other causes of duello, as hot-headed speeches, rudenesses, or slights, forgive, forbear to fan the flame, and never be above apologizing : but in an out- rage such as this, let a fine-built fellow, such as you are, George (and the women should show wisdom in their choice of champions), let a man, and a queen's officer as you are, treat this brute, Julian Tracy, as a martinet huntsman would a hound thrown out. As for me, boy, I 'm going to call on Mrs. Tracy at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning — and, without presuming to advise a six foot two of a son, I think — 1 think, if I were you, I would be dutiful enough to say — 'Father, I will accom- pany you — and take a horsewhip with me.' " "Agreed, agreed, sir!" replied the well-pleased son, and her ladyship too vouchsafed her approbation. Emily had gone to bed long ago, or rather to her chamber ; where the three Misses Tamworth had been all kindness, curiosity, and conso- lation. So, Sir Abraham and his lady, now the speech was finished, followed their example of retirement: and the captain newly blood- knotted his hunting-whip, con amore, not to say con spirito, overnight. Nobody will wonder to hear, that when the gallant representatives of army and navy called next morning at number seven, Mrs. Tracy and her son were "not at home:" and of course it would be far too Julian- like a proceeding, for true gentleman to think of forcing their company on the probably ensconced in-dwellers. Accordingly, they marched away, v/ithout having deigned to leave a card ; the captain taking on himself the duty of perambulating sentinel, while his father proceeded to the library as usual. Judge of the glad surprise, when, within ten minutes, our vindictive George perceived the admiral coming back again, full-sail, with the mother and son in tow, creeping amicably enough up the terrace. Sir Abraham had given her his arm, and precious Mr. Julian was a little in the rear : for the old folks were talking confidentially. 204 THE TWINS. George St. Vincent, placing his whip in the well-known position of "Cane, a mystery," advanced to meet them; and, just after passing his father, with whom he exchanged a very comfortable glance, discovered that the heroic Julian, who had caught a glimpse of the ill-concealed weapon, was slinking quickly round a corner to avoid him. It was certainly undignified to run, but the gallant captain did run, neverthe- less ; and soon caught the coward by the collar. Then, at arm's length, was the hunting-whip applied, full-swing ; up the terrace, and down the parade, and through High-street, and Smith- street, and Oxton-road, and aristocratical Pacton-square, and the well- thronged plebeian market-place; lash, lash, lash, in furious and fast succession on the writhing roaring culprit; to the universal excoriation of Mr. Julian Tracy, and the amazement of an admiring and soon-col- lected crowd — the rank, beauty, and fashion — of Burleigh Singleton. Julian was strong indeed, and a coal-heaver in build, but conscience had unnerved him ; and the coarse noisy bully always is a coward : therefore, it was a pleasant thing to see how easy came the captam's work to him — he had nothing to do but to lash, lash, lash, double-thonged, like a slave-driver : and, except that he made the caitiff move along, to be a spectacle to man and woman, up and down the town, he might as well, for any difficulty in the deed, have been employed in scarifying a gate-post. At last, thoroughly exhausted with having inflicted as much punish- ment as any three drummers at a soldier's whipping-match, and spying out his "tiger" in the throng, our gallant Avenging Childe tossed the heavy whip to the trim cockaded little man, that he might carry home that instrument of vengeance, deliberately wiped his wet mustachios, and giving Julian one last kick, let the fellow part in peace. CHAPTER XVI. HOW CHAELES FAEED. Having thus found protectors for poor Emily, and disposed of her assailant to the entire satisfaction of all mankind, let us turn seawards, and take a look at Charles. HOW CHARLES FARED. 205 Now, '^10 earthly power," — as a certain ex-chancellor protested — shall induce me to do so mean a thing as to open Charles's letters, and spread them forth before the public gaze. Doubtless, they were all things tender, warm, and eloquent ; doubtless, they were tinted rosy hue, with love's own blushes, and made glorious with the golden light of unaffected piety. I only read them myself in a reflected way, by look- ing into Emily's eyes ; and I saw, from their ever-changing radiance, how feelingly he told of his affections ; how fervently he poured out all his heart upon the page ; how evidently tears and kisses had made many words illegible ; how wise, sanguine, happy, and religious, was her own devoted Charles. Of the trivial incidents of voyaging, his letters said not much : though cheerful and agreeable in his floating prison, with the various exported marrying-maidens and transported civil officers, who constitute the average bulk of Indian cargoes outward bound, Charles mixed but little in their society, seldom danced, seldom smoked, seldom took a hand at whist, or engaged in the conflicts of backgammon. Sharks, storms, water-spouts; the meeting divers vessels, and exchanging post-bags; tar-barrelled Neptune of the line. Cape Town with its mountain and the Table-cloth, long-rolling seas ; and similar common-places, Charles did not think proper to enlarge upon : no more do I. Life is far too short for all such petty details: and, more pointedly, a wire-drawn book is the just abhorrence of a generous public. The letters came frequently : for Charles did little else all day but write to Emmy, so as always to be ready with a budget for the next piece of luck — a home-bound ship. He had many things to teach her yet, sweet student ; and it was a beautiful sight to see how her mind expanded as an opening flower before the sun of tenderness and wisdom. Each letter, both in writing and in reading, was the child of many prayers : and even the loveliness of Emily grew more soft, more elevated, "as it had been the face of an angel," when feeding in solitary joy on those effusions of her lover's heart. Of course, he could not hear from her, until the overland mail might haply bring him letters at Madras : so that, as our Irish friends would say, with all her will to tell him of her love, "the reciprocity must needs be all on one side." But Emily did write too ; earnestly, happily : and poured her very heart out in those eloquent burning words. I dare say Charles will get the letter now within a day or two : for the roaring surf of Madras is on the horizon, almost within sight. IS 206 THE TWINS. Nevertheless, before he gets there, and can read those letters — precious, precious manuscripts — it will be my painful duty, as a chronicler of (what might well be) truth, to put the reader in possession of one little hint, which seemed likeliest to wreck the happiness of these two children of affection. I am Emily's invisible friend : and as the dear girl ran to me one morning, with tears in her eyes, to ask me what I thought of a certain mysterious paragraph, I need not scruple to lay it straight before the reader. At the end of a voluminous love-letter, which I really did not think of prying into, occurred the following postscript, evidently written at the last moment of haste. "Oh! my precious Emmy, I have just heard the most fearful rumour of ill that could possibly befall us : the captain of our ship — you will remember Captain Forbes, he knew you and the general well, he said — has just assured me that — that — ! I dare not, cannot write the awful words. Oh ! my own Emmy — Heaven grant you be my own ! — pray, pray, as I will night and day, that rumour be not true : for if it be, my love, both God and man forbid us ever to meet again ! How I wish I could explain it all, or that I had never heard so much, or never written it here, and told it you, though thus obscurely : for I can't destroy this letter now, the ships are just parting company, and there is no time to write another. Yet will I hope, love, against hope. Who knows? through God's good mercy, it may all be cleared up still. If not — if not — strive to forget for ever, your unhappy " Charles. "Perhaps — O, glorious thought! — Nurse Mackie may know better than the captain, after all ; and yet, he seems so positive : if he is right, there is nothing for us both but Wo! Wo! Wo!" Now, to say plain truth, when Emily showed me this, I looked very blank upon it. That Charles had heard some meddlesome report, which (if true) was to be an insuperable barrier to their future union, struck me at a glimpse. But I had not the heart to hint it to her ; and only encouraged hope — hope, in God's help, through the means of Mrs. Mackie and her papers. As for the poor girl herself, she asked me, in much humility, and with many sobs, if I did not fear that her Hindoo mystery was this : — she was the vilest of the vile, a Pariah, an outcast, whose very presence is contamination ! THE GENERAL'S RETURN. 207 Beautiful, loving, heavenly-hearted creature ! so humble in the midst of her majestic loveliness ! how touching was the thought, that she thus readily acquiesced in any the deepest humiliation holy Providence had seen fit to send her ; and though the sentence would have crushed her happiness* for ever, till the day of death, that she could still look up and say, "Be it to thine handmaid even as thou wilt." As I had no better method of explaining the matter, and as her infantine reminiscences and prejudices about caste were strong, I even let her think so, if she would : it was a far better alternative than my own sad thoughts about the business: and, however painful was the process, it was something consolatory to observe, that this voluntary humiliation mellowed and chastened her own character, subduing tropical fires, and tempering the virgin gold by meekness. Oh! Charles, Charles, my poor fellow, "who have cast your all upon a die, and must abide the issue of the throw," I most fervently hope that gossiping Captain Forbes spoke falsely : it is a comfort to reflect that the world is often very liberal in attributing the honours of paternity to some who really do not deserve them. And if a rich old bachelor looks kindly on a foundling, is it not pure malice on that sole account of charity to hail him father? Besides — there's Nurse Mackie. — Speed to Madras, poor youth, and keep your courage up. CHAPTER XVII. THE GENERAL'S RETURN. In a most unwonted flow of animal spirits, and an entire affability which restored him at once to the rank of a communicative creature, General Tracy came back on Friday night. He had met with marvel- lous prosperity ; for Hancock's had been paying off" the prize-money ; and his own lion's share, as general, in the easy process of dethroning half a dozen diamond-hilted rajahs and nabobs, amounted to something like four lacs of rupees, nearly half a crore ! Such a flush of wealth, and he was rich already without it, exhilarated the bilious old gentle- man so strangely, that positive peonies were blooming in his cheeks; and, as if this was not miracle enough, he had brought his wife as a 208 THE TWINS. present Maurice's '^ Antiquities of India,'' gloriously bound, and had even been so superfluous as to purchase a new pair of double-barrelled pistols for Julian : the lad was a fine young fellow after all, and ought to be encouraged in snuffing out a candle ; as for Emily's petit cadeau, it was a fifty guinea set of cameos, the choicest in their way that Howell and James's had to show him. Moreover, he had sent a Bow-street officer to Oxford, to make inquiries after Charles : actually, good fortune had made him at once humanized and happy. So the chaise rattled up, and the general bounded out, and flew into the arms of his wondering wife, as Paris might have flown to Helen, or Leander to his heroine — the only feminine Hero, whom grammar recognises. It was past eleven at night : therefore he did not think to ask for Julian ; no doubt the boy was gone to bed. Indeed, he had; and was tossing his wealed body, full of pains, and aches, and bruises, as softly as he could upon the feather-bed : he had need of poultices all over, and a quart of Friar's Balsam would have done him little good : after his well-merited thrashing, the flogged hound had slunk to his kennel, and locked himself sullenly in, without even speaking to his mother. Tobacco-fumes exuded from the key-hole, and I doubt not other creature-comforts lent the muddled man their aid. However, after the first rush of news to Mrs. Tracy, her lord, who had every moment been expecting the door to fly open, and Emily to fall into his arms — for strangely did they love each other — suddenly asked, "But, Where's Emmy all this time! she knows I'm here? — not got to bed, is she ? — knew I was coming ? — " "Oh! general, I'll tell you all about it to-morrow morning." "About what, madam? Great God ! has any harm befallen the child? Speak — speak, woman!" "Dear — dear — Oh! what shall I say?" sobbed the silly mother. "Emily — Emily, poor dear Julian — " "What the devil, ma'am, of Julian?" The general turned white as a sheet, and rang the bell, in singular calmness ; probably for a dram of brandy. Saunders answered it so instantly, that I rather suspect he was waiting just outside. The moment Mrs. Tracy saw the gray-headed butler, anticipating all that he might say, she brushed past him, and hurriedly ran up-stairs. "What's all this, Mr. Saunders? where 's Miss Warren?" And the poor old guardian seemed ready to faint at his reply : but he heard it out patiently. THE GENERAL'S RETURN. 209 "I am very sorry to say, general, that Miss Emily has been forced to take refuge at Sir Abraham Tamworth's: but she's well, sir, and safe, sir; quite well and safe," the good man hastened to say, "only I 'm afraid that Mr. Julian had been taking liberties with — " I dare not write the general's imprecation : then, as he clenched the arms of his easy-chair, as with the grasp of the dying, he asked, in a quick wild way — "But what was it? — what happened?" " Nothing to fear, sir — nothing at all, general ; — I am thankful to say, that all I saw, and all we all saw, was Miss Emily pulling at the bell- rope with blood upon her face, and Mr. Julian on the floor : but I took the young lady to Sir Abraham's immediately, general, at her own desire." The father arose sternly ; his first feeling was to kill Julian ; but the second, a far better one, predominated — he must go and see Emily at once. So, faintly leaning on the butler's arm, the poor old man (whom a moiety of ten minutes, with its crowding fears, had made to look some ten years older,) proceeded to the square, and knocked up Sir Abraham at midnight, and the admiral came down, half asleep, in dressing-gown and slippers, vexed at having been knocked up from his warm berth so uncomfortably : it put him sorely in remembrance of his hardships as a middy. " Kind neighbour, thank you, thank you ; where 's Emmy ? take me to my Emmy;" and the iron-hearted veteran wept like a driveller. Sir Abraham looked at him queerly : and then, in a cheerful, friendly way, replied — "Dear general, do not be so moved: the girl's quite safe with us; you '11 see her to-morrow morning. All 's right ; she was only frightened, and George has given the fellow a proper good licking : and the girl 's a-bed, you know ; and, eh? what?" — For the poor old man, like one bereaved, said, supplicatingly — "In mercy take me to her — precious child!" " My dear sir — pray consider — it 's impossible ; fine girl, you know ; — Lady Tamworth, too — can't be, can't be, you know, general." And the mystified Sir Abraham looked to Saunders for an explanation — " Was his master drunk ?" " I must speak to her, neighbour ; I must, must, and will — dear, dear child ; come up with me, sir, come ; do not trifle with a breaking heart, neighbour!" O 18* 210 THE TWINS. There was a heart still in that hard-baked old East Indian. It was impossible to resist such an appeal : so the two elders crept up stairs, and knocked softly at her chamber-door. Clearly, the girl was asleep : she had sobbed herself to sleep ; the general had been looked for all day long, and she was worn with watching; he could hardly come at midnight; so the dear affectionate child had sobbed herself to sleep. "Allow me, Sir Abraham." And General Tracy whispered some- thing at the key-hole in a strange tongue. Not Aladdin's "open Sesame" could have been more magical. In a moment, roused up suddenly from sleep, and forgetting every thing but those tender recollections of gentle care in infancy, and kindness all through life, the child of nature startled out of bed, drew the bolt, and in beauteous disarray, fell into that old man's arms ! It was enough ; he had seen her eye to eye — she lived : and the white- haired veteran suffered himself to be led away directly from the land- ing, like a child, by his sympathizing neighbour. " My heart is lighter now. Sir Abraham : but I am a poor weak old man, and owe you an explanation for this outburst; some day — some day, not now. O, if you could guess how I have nursed that pretty babe when alone in distant lands ; how I have doated on her little win- ning ways, and been gladdened by the music of her prattle ; how I have exulted to behold her loveliness gradually expanding, as she was ever at my side, in peril as in peace, in camp as in quarters, in sickness as in health, still — still, the blessed angel of a bad man's life — a wicked, hard old man, kind neighbour — if you knew more — more, than for her sake I dare tell you — and if you could conceive the love my Emmy bears for me, you would not think it strange — think it strange — " He could not say a syllable more; and the admiral, with Mr. Saunders, too, who joined them in the study, looked very little able to console that poor old man. For they all had hearts, and trickling eyes to tell them. Then having arranged a shake-down for his master in Sir Abraham's study — for the guardian would not leave his dear one ever again — Saun- ders went home, purposing to attend with razors in the morning. INTERCALARY. 211 CHAPTER XVIII. INTERCALARY. The Tamworths did not altogether live at Burleigh Singleton — it was far too petty a place for them ; dullness all the year round (however pleasant for a month or so, as a holiday from toilsome pleasures) would never have done for Lady Tamworth and her daughters : but they reg- ularly took Prospect House for six weeks in the summer season, when tired of Portland Place, and Huntover, their fine estate in Cheshire : and so, from constant annual immigration, came as much to be regarded Burleighites, as swifts and swallows to be ranked as British birds. I only hint at this piece of information, for fear any should think it unlikely, that grandees of Sir Abraham's condition could exist for ever in a place where the day-before-yesterday's ' Time s^ is first intelligence. Moreover, as another interjectional touch, it is only due to my life- likenesses to record, that Mrs. Green's, although a terrace-house, and ranked as humble number seven, was, nevertheless, a tolerably spacious mansion, well suited for the dignity of a butler to repose in : for Mrs. Green had added an entire dwelling on the inland side, as, like most maritime inhabitants, she was thoroughly sick of the sea, and never cared to look at it, though living there still, from mere disinclination to stir : so, then, it was quite a double house, both spacious and convenient. As for the inglorious incident of Julian's latch-key, I should not wonder if many wide street-doors to many marble halls are conscious of simi- lar convenient fastenings, if gentlemen of Julian's nocturnal tastes hap- pen to be therein dwelling. Another little matter is worth one word. The house had been Mrs. Green's, a freehold, and was, therefore, now her heir's ; but the general, as an executor, remained there still, until his business was finished ; in fact, he took his year's liberty. He had returned from India rolling in gold ; for some great princess or other — I think they called her a Begum or a Glumdrum, or other such like Gulliverian appellative — had been singularly fond of him, and had loaded him in early life with favours — not only kisses, and so forth, but jewellery and gold pagodas. And lately, as we know, Puttymuddy- fudgepoor, with its radiating rajahs and nabobs, had proved a mine of wealth : for a crore is ten lacs, and a lac of rupees is any thing but a 212 THE TWINS. lack of money — although rupees be money, and the " middle is distrib- uted ;" in spite of logic, then, a lack means about twelve thousand pounds : and four of them, according to Cocker, some fifty thousand. It would appear then, that with the produce of the Begum's diamonds, converted into money long ago, and some of them as big as linnet's eggs — and not to take account of Mrs. Green's trifling pinch of the five Exchequer bills, all handed over at once to Emily — the General's pres- ent fortune was exactly one hundred and twenty-three thousand pounds. Of course, he wasn't going to bury himself at Burleigh Singleton much longer ; and yet, for all that stout intention of houses and lands, and carriages and horses, in almost any other county or countiy, it is as true as any thing in this book, that he was a resident still, a lease- holder of Aunt Green's house, long after the d^nouetnent of this story ; in many things an altered man, but still identical in one ; the unchange- able resolve (though never to be executed) of leaving Burleigh at far- thest by next Michaelmas. Most folks who talk much, do little ; and taciturn as the general now is, and has been ever throughout life, it will surprise nobody who has learned from hard experience how silly and harmful a thing is secresy (exceptionables excepted), to find that he grew to be a garrulous old man, gossipping for ever of past, present, future, and, not least, about his deeds at Puttymuddyfudgepoor. General Tracy is by this time awake again ; if ever indeed he slept on that uncomfortable shakedown; and, after Mr. Saunders and the razor-strop, has greeted brightly-beaming Emily with more than usual tenderness. Her account of the transaction made his very blood boil ; especially as her pretty pouting lips were lacerated cruelly inside : that rude blow on the mouth had almost driven the teeth through them. How confidingly she told her artless tale ; how gently did her fond pro- tector kiss that poor pale cheek ; and how sternly did he vow full venge- ance on the caitiff"! Not even Emily's intercession could avail to turn his wrath aside. He could hardly help flying off" at once to do some- thing dreadful ; but common courtesy to all the Tamworth family obliged him to defer for an hour all the terrible things he meant to do. So he began to bolt his breakfast fiercely as a cannibal, and saluted Lady Tamworth and her daughters with such savage looks, that the captain considerately suggested : "Here, general," (handing him a most formidable carving-knife,) "charge that boar's head, grinning defiance at us on the side-board; it will do you good to hew his brawny neck. My mother, I am sure, for JULIAN'S DEPARTURE. 213 one, will thank you to do the honours there instead of me. Isn't it a comfort now, to know that I broke the handle of my hunting-whip across the fellow's back, and wore all the whip-cord into skeins. Come, I say, general, don't eat us all round; and pray have mercy on that poor, flogged, miserable sinner." This banter did him good, especially as he saw Emily smiling ; so he relaxed his knit brow, condescended to look less like Giant Blundei'bore, soon became marvellous chatty, and ate up two French rolls, an egg, some anchovies, a round of toast, and a mighty slice of brawn ; these, washed down with a couple of cups of tea, soothed him into something like complacency. CHAPTER XIX. JULIAN'S DEPAETURR Long before the general got home, still in exalted dudgeon (indeed soon after the general had left home over night), the bird had flown ; for the better part of valour suggested to our evil hero, that it would be dis- ereet to render himself a scarce commodity for a season ; and as soon as ever his mother had run up to his room-door to tell him of his dan- ger, when her lord was cross-questioning the butler, he resolved upon instant flight. Accordingly, though sore and stiff, he hurried up, dressed again, watched his father out, and tumbling over Mrs. Tracy, who was sobbing on the stairs, ran for one moment to the general's room ; there he seized a well-remembered cash-box, and instinctively possessed him- self of those new, neat, douSle-barrelled pistols : a bully never goes unarmed. These brief arrangements made, off he set, before his father could have time to return from Pacton Square. Therefore, when the general called, we need not marvel that he found him not ; no one but the foolish mother (so neglected of her son, yet still excusing him) stood by to meet his wrath. He would not waste it on her ; so long as Julian was gone, his errand seemed accomplished ; for all he came to do was to expel him from the house. So, as far as regarded Mrs. Tracy, her husband, wotting well how much she was to blame, merely commanded her to change her sleeping-room, and occupy Mr. Julian's in future. 214 THE TWINS. The silly woman was even glad to do it; and comforted herself from time to time with prying into her own boy's exemplary manuscripts, memoranda of moralities, and so forth ; with weeping, like Lady Con- stance, over his empty " unpufFed " clothes ; with reading ever and anon his choice collection of standard works, among which ' Don Juan ' and Mr. Thomas Paine were by far the most presentable ; and with tasting, till it grew to be a habit, his private store of spirituous liquors. Thus did she mourn many days for long-lost Julian. I am quite aware what became of him. The wretched youth, mad for Emily's love, and tortured by the tyranny of passion, had nothing else to live for or to die for. He accordingly took refuge in the hovel of a smuggler, an old friend of his, not many miles away, disguised himself in fisherman's costume, and bode his opportunity. Beauteous girl ! how often have I watched thee with straining eyes and aching heart, as thou wentest on thy summer's walk so oftentimes to Oxton, there to exercise thy bountiful benevolence in comforting the sick, gladdening the wretched, and lingering, with love's own look, in Charles's village school ; how often have I prayed, that guardian angels might be about thy path as about thy bed ! For the prowling tiger was on thy track, poor innocent one, and many, many times nothing but one of God's seeming accidents hath saved thee. Who was that strange man so often in the way ? At one time a wounded Spanish legionist, with head bound up ; at another, an old beggar upon crutches ; at another, a floury miller with a donkey and a sack ; at another, a black looking man, in slouching sailor's hat and fishing-boots ? Fair, pure creature ! thou hast often dropped a shilling in that beg- gar's hand, and pitied that poor maimed soldier ; once, too, a huge gipsy woman would have had thee step aside, and hear thy fortunes. Heaven guarded thee then, sweet Emily ; for both girl and lover though thou art, thou would'st not listen to the serpent's voice, however fair might be the promises. And Heaven guarded thee ever, bidding some one pass along the path just as the ruffian might have gagged thy smiling mouth, and hurried thee away amongst his fellows; and more than once, especially, those school children, bursting out of Charles's school at dusk, have unconsciously escorted thee in safety from the perils of that tiger on thy track. ENLIGHTENMENT. 215 CHAPTER XX. ENLIGHTENMENT. The general could not now be kept in ignorance of Charles's expedi- tion ; in fact, he had found his heart, and began resolutely to use it. So, the very day on which he had lost Julian, he intended very eagerly to seek out Charles; for the Oxford search had failed, and no wonder. Now, though Emily had told, as we well know, to both mother and son her secret, the father was not likely to be any the wiser ; for he now never spoke to his wife, and could not well speak to his son. However, one day, an hour after an overland letter, a very exhilarating one, dated Madras, whereof we shall hear anon, fair Emily, in the fullness of her heart, could not help saying, " Dearest sir, you are often thinking of poor lost Charles, I know ; and you are very anxious about him too, though nobody but myself, who am al- ways with you, can perceive it : what if you heard he was safe and well ?" " Have you heard any tidings of my poor boy, Emmy ?" She looked up archly, and said, " Why not ?" her beautiful eyes adding, as plainly as eyes could speak, " I love him, and you know it ; of course I have heard frequently from dear, dear Charles." But the guardian met her looks with a keen and chilling answer : " Why not ! why not ! Does he dare to write to you, and you to love him? Oh, that I had told them both a year ago ! But where is he now, child? Don't cry, I will not speak so angrily again, my Emmy." "I hardly dare to tell you, dearest sir: you have always been as a father to me, and I never knew any other ; but there are things I cannot explain to myself, and I was very wretched; and so, kind guardian, Charles — Charles was so good — " "What has he done? — where has he gone?" hastily asked his father. "Oh, don't, don't be angry with us; in a word, he is gone to Madras, to find out Nurse Mackie, and to tell me who I am." The poor old man, who had treasured up so long some mystery, probably a very diaphanous one, for Emily's own dear sake in the world's esteem, and from the long bad habit of reserve, fell back into his chair as if he had been shot; but he did not faint, nor gasp, nor utter a sound ; he only looked at her so long and sorrowfully, that she ran to him, and covered his pale face with her own brown curls, kissing him, and wiping from his cheek her starting tears. 216 THE TWINS. "Emmy, dear — I can tell you — and I — no, no, not now, not now; if he comes back — then — then ; poor children ! Oh, the sin of secresy !" '•' But, dearest sir, do not be so sad ; Charles has happy news, he says." "Happy, child? Good Heaven! would it could be so!" "Indeed, indeed, a week ago he was as miserable as any could be, and so was I ; for he heard something terrible about me — I don't know what — but I feared I was a — Pariah ! However, now he is all joy, and coming home again as soon as possible." The general shook his head mournfully, as physicians do when hope is gone ; but still he looked perplexed and thoughtful. " You will show me the letters, dear, I dare say : but I do not com- mand you, Emmy ; do as you like." "Certainly, my own kindest guardian — all, all, and instantly." And flying up to her room, she returned with as much closely-written mauuscript as would have taken any but a lover's eye a full week to decipher. The general, not much given to literary matters, looked quite scared at such a prospect. " Wait, Emmy ; not all, not all ; show me the last." T dare say Emily will forgive me if I get it set up legibly in print. May I, dear? CHAPTER XXI. CHAELES AT MADRAS. Luckily enough for all mankind in general, and our lovers in particu- lar, Charles's last letter was very unlike some that had preceded it ; for instead of the usual " Oh, my love " 's, " sweet, sweet eyes," " darling " 's, and all manner of such chicken-hearted nonsense, it was positively sensible, rational, not to say utilitarian : though I must acknowledge that here and there it degenerates into the affectionate, or Stromboli-vein of letter-writing, at opening especially ; and really now and then I shall take leave to indicate omitted inflammations by a *. "Dearest, dearest Emmy, ******** [and so forth, a very galaxy of stars to the bottom of this page ; enough to put the compositor out of his terrestrial senses.] CHARLES AT MADRAS. 217 "You see I have recovered my spirits, dearest, and am not now afraid to tell you how I love you. Oh, that detestable Captain Forbes ! let him not cross my path, gossiping blockhead ! on pain of carrying about ' til deth,' in the middle of his face, a nose two inches longer. I heartily wish I had never listened for an instant to such vile insinuations ; and when I look at this^red right hand of mine, that dared to pen the trash in that black postscript, I look at it as Cranmer did, and (but that it is yours, Emmy, not mine), could wish it burnt. But no fears now, my girl, huzza, huzza ! I believe every one about me thinks me daft ; and so I am for very joy fulness; notwithstanding, let me be didactic, or you will say so too. I really will endeavour to rein in, and go along in the regular hackney trot, that you may partly comprehend me. Well, then, here goes ; try your paces, Dobbin. "On the morning of Sunday, April 11th, 1842, the good ship Elphin- ston — (that 's the way to begin, I suppose, as per ledger, log-book, and midshipman's epistles to mamma) — in fact, dear, we cast anchor just outside a furious wall of surf, which makes Madras a very formidable place for landing ; and every one who dares to do so certain of a water- ing. There lay the city, most invitingly to storm-tost tars, with its white palaces, green groves, and yellow belt of sand, blue hills in the distance, and all else coleur de rose. But — but, Emmy, there was no getting at this paradise, except by struggling through a couple of miles of raging foam, that would have made mince-meat of the Spanish Armada, and have smashed Sir William Elphinston to pieces. How, then, did we manage to survive it? for, thank God always, here I am to tell the tale. Listen, Emmy dear, and I will try not to be tedious. " We were bundled out of the rolling ship into some huge flat-bottomed boats, like coal-barges, and even so, were grated and ground several times by the churning waves on the ragged reefs beneath us : and, just as I was enjoying the see-saw, and trying to comfort two poor drenched women-kind who were terribly afraid of sharks, a huge, cream-coloured breaker came bustling alongside of us, and roaring out 'Charles Tracy,' gobbled me up bodily. Well, dearest, it wasn't the first time I had floundered in the waters [noble Charles ! noble Charles ! he had long forgiven Julian] ; so I was battling on as well as I could, with a stout heart and a steady arm, when — don't be afraid — a Catajnaran caught me ! If you haven't fainted (bless those pretty eyes of your's, my Emmy!) read on; and you will find that this alarming sort of animal is neither an albatross nor an alligator, but simply — a life-boat with a 19 218 THE TWINS. Triton in the stern. Yes, God's messenger of life to me and happiness to you, my girl, came in the shape of a kindly, chattering, blue-skinned, human creature, who dragged me out of the surf, landed me safely, and, I need not say, got paid with more than hearty thanks. So, I scuffled to the custom-house to look after my traps and fellow-passengers, like a dripping merman. , " * Who is that miserable old woman, bothering every body ?' asked I of a very civil searcher, profuse in his salaams. " ' Oh, Sahib, you will know for yourself, presently : she 's always hanging about here, to get news of somebody in England, I believe — and to try to find a charitable captain who will take her all the way for nothing : rather too much of a good thing, you know. Sahib.' [We really cannot undertake to scribble broken English : so we will translate any thing that may mysteriously have been chatted by havil- dars, and coolies, and all manner of strange names.] " ' Poor old soul — she looks very wretched : what 's her name V asked I, carelessly. " ' Oh, I never troubled to inquire, Sahib : I believe she was an old ser- vant left behind as lumber, and she pesters every one, day by day, about some 'bonnie bonnie bairn." " In a moment, Emmy, I had seized on dear nurse Mackie ! "V.ery old, very deaf, very infirm — she fancied I was driving her away, as many others might have done ; and, with a truly piteous face, pleaded — "'Gude sir, have mercy on a puir auld soul — and let her ask for her sweet young mistress, only once, sir — only once more.' "'Emily Warren?' said I. Her wrinkled face brightened over as with glory — and she answered — '"Bless the mouth that spake it, and these ears that hear her name! yes — yes — yes — they call her so ; where is she ? how is she ? have you seen her? is she yet alive?' "Leading away the affectionate old soul from the crowd that was collecting round us, I left orders about luggage as a traveller should, and then told her all I knew : and I know you pretty well, I think, my Emmy. "Her joy was like a mad woman's: the dear old Hecate pranced, and danced, and sung, and shouted like nothing but a mother when she finds her long-lost child : not that she 's your mother, Emmy dear. No — no — matters are better than that: all she vouchsafes, though, to tell me is. REVELATIONS. 219 that you are a lady born and bred, and — for I cannot find the words to inform your pure mind clearer — that 'you are not what he thinks you.'" [Here followeth another twinkling universe of stars ; ******** and thereafter our cavalier condescendeth again to matters of fact.] "Nurse Mackie of course comes back with me next packet; this let- ter goes by the overland mail more quickly than we can ; gladly would I go too, but the old woman, whose life is essential to your rights, would die of fatigue by the way ; as it is, I am obliged to coddle her, and feed her, and ptisan her, like a sick baby, bless her dear old heart that loves my darling Emmy ! She has a pack of papers with her, which she will not open, till the general is by her side: if she unfortunately dies before we can return, I am to have them, and all will be right. But the old soul is so afraid of being left behind (as you thro^- away the orange- peel after you have squeezed it), that she will not tell me a word about them yet; so, I only gather what I can from her cautious garrulity, hints about a Begum and a captain, and the Stuarts, and a Putty-what- d'ye-call-it. And it is all in document, as well as viva-voce (this means 'gossip,' dear). So now you may be expecting us, as soon as ever we can get to you. Tell the general all this, and give him my best love, next after your's Emmy ; for he is my father still, and my very heart yearns after him : O, that he were kinder with me as I see he is with you, dear, and more open with us all ! Also, kiss, if she will let you, my mother for me, and I hope you will have hinted to her long ago, that I am only playing truant. How is poor — poor Julian ? he will under- stand me, if you tell him I forgive him, and will never say one word about our little tiff. And now dearest Emmy — " [The remainder of this letter must, believe me, be as starry as before.] CHAPTER XXII. REVELATIONS. General Tracy gave a long-drawn sigh : and tears — tears of true affection — stood in those most fish-like eyes, as he mournfully said, "Bless him, bless dear Charles, almost as much as you, my own sweet 220 THE TWINS. Emmy. Heaven send it be true — for Heaven can work miracles. But without a miracle, Emily, in sober sadness I declare it, you must forget — your brother Charles, my daughter/" Emily fell flat upon her face, so cold, so white, that he believed her dead. Oh ! that he had never — never said that word : or better still, poor father, that you had never kept the dreadful secret from them. The adultery, indeed, was sin ; but years of ill-concealings have multiplied its punishment. Wretched father — wretched children ! that must bear an erring father's curse. Oh ! that Jeanie Mackie may have reasons, proofs ; and be not an impostor after all, dressing up a tale that over-sanguine Charles may bring her back again to Scotland. Well — well ! I am full of sadness and perplexities : but we shall hear it out anon. Heaven help them ! Emily was taken very ill, and had a long fit of sickness. Day and night — night and day, did her poor wasting anxious father watch by her bed-side, gentle as the gentlest nurse — tender as the tenderest of moth- ers. And, indeed, the Lord of Life and Wisdom was gracious to them both ; raising up the poor weak child again ; and teaching that old man, through this daughter of his shame and sin in youth, that religion is a cure for all things. Ay, "the blessed angel of a bad man's life," indeed — indeed was she ; and he humbly knelt, as little children kneel, that hard and dried old man ; and his eyes caught the ray of Heaven's mercy, looking up in joy to read forgiveness ; and his heart was bathed in penitence — the rock flowed out amain ; and his mind was quickened into faith — he lived, he breathed "a new-born babe," that poor and bad old man, given to the prayers of his own daughter! All this while, Mrs. Tracy, thrown upon her own I'esources, has been continually tasting dear Julian's store, and finding out excuses for his trivial peccadilloes. And when, from the recesses of his desk, she had routed out (in company with sundry more, rather contrasting with a mother's pure advice) a few of her own letters, which had not yet been destroyed, she would doat by the hour on these proofs of his affection. And then, her spirits were so low; and his choice smuggled Hollands so requisite to screw them up to par again ; and no sooner had they ral- lied, than they would once more begin to droop ; so she cried a good deal, and kept her bed ; and very often did not remember exactly, M'hether she was lying down there, or figuring on the Esplanade with Julian, and — all that sort of thing : accordingly, it is not to be wondered at if, in REVELATIONS. 221 Aunt Green's double-house, the general and Emily saw very little of her, and during all this illness, had almost forgotten her existence. Nevertheless, she was alive still, and as vast as ever — though a course of strong waters had shattered her nerves considerably ; even more so, than her real mother's grief at Julian's protracted absence. Never had he been heard of since he left, hard heart; though he might have guessed a mother's sorrow, and was not far away, and often lingered near the house in strange disguises. It would have been easy for him, in some clever way or other, latch-key and all, to have gained access to her, and comforted her, and given her some real proof, that all the love she had shed on him had not been utterly thrown away ; but he didn't — he didn't; and I know not of a darker trait in Julian's whole career ; he was insensible to love — a mother's love. **\ For love is the weapon which Omnipotence reserved to conquer rebel man, when all the rest had failed. Reason he parries ; Fear he answers \ blow to blow ; future interest he meets with present pleasure ; but Love, ^7" that sun against whose melting beams the Winter cannot stand, that soft- subduing slumber which wrestles down the giant, there is not one human i creatui'e in a million — not a thousand men in all earth's huge quintillion, / whose clay-heart is hardened against love. Yet was Julian one of those select ones; an awful instance of that possible, that actual, though happily that scarcest of all characters, a man, " Black, with no virtue, and a thousand crimes." The amiable villain — one whose generosity redeems his guilt, whose kindliness outweighs his folly, or whose beauty charms the eye to over- look his baseness — this too common hero is an object, an example fraught with perilous interest. Charles Duval, the polite; Paul Clifford, the handsome ; Richard Turpin, brave and true ; Jack Sheppard, no ignoble mind and loving still his mother ; these, and such as these, with Schil- ler's 'Robbers' and the like, are dangerous to gaze on, as Germany, if not England too, remembers well. But, not more true to life, though i- far less common to be met with, is Julian's incorrigible mind : one, in whose life are no white days ; one, on whose heart are no bright spots ; when Heaven's pity spoke to him, he ridiculed ; as, when His threaten- ings thundered, he defied. Of this world only, and tending to a worse, appetite was all he lived for : and the core of appetite is iron selfishness. The filched cash-box proved to be too well-filled for him to trouble himself with thinking of his mother yet awhile: and his smuggling 19* 222 , THE TWINS. acquaintances, a rough-featured, blasphemous crew, set him as their chief, so long as he swore loudest, drank deepest, and had money at com- mand. He hid the money, that they should not secretly steal from him that to which he owed his bad supremacy ; and his double-barrels, shotted to the muzzle, were far too formidable for any hope of getting at it by open brute force. Nevertheless, they were " fine high-spirited " fellows those, bold, dark men, of Julian's own kidney ; who toasted in their cups each other's crimes, and the ghost or two that ought to have been haunting them. CHAPTER XXIII. CONVALESCENCE. Very slowly did Emily recover, for the blow had been more than she could bear : nothing but religion gave her any chance at all : and the phials, blisterings, bleedings, would have been in vain, in vain — she must have died long ago — had it not been for the remembrance of God's love, resignation to His will, and trust in the wisdom of his Providence. But these specific remedies gradually brought her round, while the kind- eyed doctors praised their own prescriptions : and after many rallyings and relapses, delirious ramblings, and intervals of hallowed Christian peace, the eye of Love's meek martyr brightened up once more, and health flushed again upon her cheek. She recovered, God be praised ! for her death would have been poor Charles's too ; and the same grave that yawned for her and him would have closed upon their father also. Even as it was, when she arose from off" the weary bed of sickness, it was to be a nurse herself, and watch beside that patient, weak old man. He could not bear her out of his sight all the fever through ; but eagerly would listen to her hymns and prayers, joining in them faintly like a dying saint. With the sad- dening secret, which had so long pressed upon his mind, he seemed to have thrown off his old nature, as a cast skin : and now he was all frankness for reserve, all piety for profaneness, all peacefulness for blusterings and wrath. He remembered then poor Julian and his mother : taking blame to himself, justly, deeply, for neglected duties, chilling lack of sympathy, CONVALESCENCE. 223 and that dull domestic sin, that still continued evil of unnatural omissions — stern reserve. And he would gladly have seen Julian by his bedside, to have freely forgiven the lad, and welcomed him home again, and begun once more, in openness and charity, all things fair and new : but Julian was not to be found, though rewards were offered, and placards posted up, and emissaries from the Detective Police-force sought him far and wide. Alas ! the bold bad man had heard with scorn of his father's penitence, and knew that be would gladly have received him ; — but what cared he for kindnesses or pardons ? He only lived to waylay Emily. As for Mrs. Tracy, she was seldom in a state to appear ; but one day she managed to refrain a little, and came to see her husband, almost sober. I was, authorially speaking, behind the door, and saw and heard as follows: The old man, worn and emaciate, was weakly sitting up in bed, and Emma by his side, with the Bible in her lap : she casually shut it as the mother entered. " Well, Miss Warren, there 's a time for all things ; but this is neither morning, noon, nor night : nor Sunday either, nor holiday, that I know of; it 's eleven o'clock on Tuesday, Miss — and I think you might as well leave the general at peace, without troubling him for ever with your prayer-books and your Bibles." "Jane, my dear, I requested it of Emily; come and sit by me, and take my hand, wife." " Thank you, sir, you are very obliging : not while that young woman is in the room. — You ought to be ashamed of yourself. General Tracy. Poor Emmy ran away to weep. It seems that, in her delirium, she had spoken many things, and the servants blabbed them out to Mrs. Tracy. "Ah, my poor wife, indeed I am: both ashamed and sorry — heartily sorry. But God forgives me, Jenny, and I hope that you will too." "Upon, my word, general, you carry it off with a high hand : and, not content, sir, with insulting me in my own home by bringing here your other women's children, you have expelled poor dear, dear Julian." "Jane, if you will remember, he ran away himself; and you know that now I gladly would receive him : we are all prodigal sons together, and if God can bear with us, Jane, we ought to look kindly on each other." "Ha! that's always the way with old sinners like you — canting hypo- crites! Be a man, General Tracy, if you can, and talk sense. I never 224 THE TWINS. did any harm or sin in all my life yet, and don't intend to : and my poor boy Julian 's well enough, if they 'd only let him alone ; but nobody understands his heart but me. Good boy, I 'm sure there 's virtue enough left in him, if he loves his mother." — If he loves his mother. "Jane, dear, I sent for you to kiss you; for I could not die in peace, nor live in peace (whichever God may please), without your pardon, Jane, for a thousand unkindnesses — but, especially for the sin that gave me Emily. Forgive me this, my wife." "Never, sir !" rejoined that miserable mind ; and fancied that she was acting virtuously. She thrust aside the kindly proffered hand ; scowled at him with darkened brow ; drew up her commanding height ; and, calling Mrs. Siddons to remembrance, brushed away in the indignant attitude of a tragedy queen. Emmy ran again to her father, and the vain bad mother to her bottle ; we must leave them to their various avocations. CHAPTER XXIV. CHAELES DELATED. Few things could well be more unlikely than that Emily should hear of Charles again before she saw him : for, having left Madras as speedily as might be, now that his mission was so easily, yet so naturally, accom- plished — having posted, as we know, his overland letter — and having got on board the fast-sailing ship Samarang, Captain Trueman, Charles, in the probable course of things, if he wrote at all, must have been his own postman. But the Fates — (our Christianity can afford to wink now and then at Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos ; for, at any rate, they are as reasonable creatures as Chance, Luck, and Accident,) — the Fates willed it otherwise : and, accordingly, it is in my power to lay before the reader another genuine lucubration of Charles Tracy. A change had come over the spirit of their dream, those youthful lovers : and agonizing doubt must rack their hearts, threatening to rend them both asunder. It is evident to me that Charles's letter (which Emily showed to me with a melancholy face) was on principle less warm, less dottable with stars, and more conversant with things of this CHARLES DELATE D. 225 world ; high, firm, honourable principle ; intending very gently, very gradually, to wean her from him, if he could ; for his faith in Jeanie Mackie had been shaken, and — but let us hear him tell us of it all himself. " I. E. M . Saraarang. St. Helena. " You will wonder, my dear Emily, to hear again before you see me : but I am glad of this providential opportunity, as it may serve to prepare us both. Naturally enough you will ask, why Charles cannot accom- pany this letter? I will tell you, dear, in one word — Mrs. Mackie is now lying very ill on shore ; and, as far as our poor ship is concerned, you shall hear about it all anon. Several of the passengers, who were in a hurry to get home, have left us, and gone in the packet-boat that takes you this letter: gladly, as you know, would I have accompanied them, for I long to see you, poor dear girl ; but it was impossible to leave the old woman, upon whom alone, under God, our hopes of earthly hap- piness depend: if, alas! we still can dream about such hopes. "Oh, Emily — I heartily wish that, having finished my embassage by that instantaneous finding of the old Scotch nurse, I had never been so superfluous as to have left those letters of introduction, wherewith you kindly supplied me, in an innocent wish to help our cause. But I felt solitary too, waiting at Madras for the next ship to England ; and in my folly, forgetful of the single aim with which I had come, Jeanie Mackie, to wit, I thought I might as well use my present opportunities, and see what I could of the place and its inhabitants. "With that view, I left my letters at Government House, at Mr. Clark- son's, Colonel Bunting's, Mrs. Castleton's, and elsewhere, according to direction ; and immediately found answer in a crowd of invitations. I need not vex you nor myself, Emmy, writing as I do with a heavy, heavy heart, by describing gayeties in which I felt no pleasure, even when amongst them, for my Emmy was not there : splendour, prodi- gality, and red-hot rooms, only made endurable by perpetually fanning punkahs : pompous counsellors, authorities, and other jnen in ofl!ice, and a glut of military uniforms : vulgar wealth, transparent match-making, and predominating dullness: along with some few of the charities and kindnesses of life (Mrs. Bunting, in particular, is an amiable, motherly, good-hearted woman), all these you will readily fancy for yourself. " My trouble is deeper than any thing so slight as the common satia- tions of ennui : for I have heard in these circles in which your — my — the general, I mean, chiefly mixed, so much of that ill-rumour that it P 2^ THE TWINS. cannot all be false : they knew it all, and were certain of it all, too well, Emily, dear. And I have been pestering Nurse Mackie night and day ; but the old woman is so afraid of being left behind any where, or thrown overboard, or dropped upon some desert rock, that she is quite cross, and won't say a single word in answer, even when I tell her all these terrible tales. Her resolution is, not to reveal one syllable more, until she sets foot on England ; and several people at Madras annoyed me exceedingly by saying, that this kind of thing is an old trick with people who wish to be sent home again. She has hidden away her papers somewhere ; not that I was going to steal them : but it shows how little trust she puts in any thing, or any one, except the keeping of her own secret. How- ever, she does adhere obstinately, and hopefully for us, to her original hint, 'you are not what he thinks you ;' although she will not condescend to any single proof, or explanation, against the mighty mass of evidence, which probabilities, and common rumour, and the general's own belief, have heaped together. When I call you Emmy, too — the old soul, in her broad Scotch way, always corrects me, and invokes a blessing upon 'A-amy :' so there is a mystery somewhere: at least, I fervently hope there is : and, if the old woman has been playing us false, let us resign ourselves to God, my girl ; for our fate will be that matters are as people say they are — and then my old black postscript ends too truly with a wo, wo, wo — ! "But I must shake off all this lethargy of gloom, dearest, dearest girl — how can I dare to call you so? Let me, therefore, rush for com- fort into other thoughts; and tell you at once of the fearful dangers we have now mercifully escaped ; for the Samarang lies like a log in this friendly port, dismasted, and next to a wreck. " I proceed to show you about it ; perhaps I shall be tedious — but I do it as a little rest, my own soul's love, from anxious, earnest, heart- distracting prayers continually, continually, that the sorrow which I spoke of be not true. Sometimes, a light breaks in, and I rejoice in the most sanguine hope ; at others, gloom — " But a truce to all this, I say. Here shall follow didactically the cause why the good ship Samarang is not by this time in the Docks. " We were lying somewhere about the tropical belt, Capricorn you know, (0, those tender lessons in geography, my Emmy!) quite becalmed ; the sea like glass, and the sky like brass, and the air in a most stagnant heat : our good ship motionless, dead in a dead blue sea it was • Idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.' CHARLES DELAYED. 337 "The sails were hanging loosely in the shrouds: every one set, from sky-scraper to stud-sail, in hopes to catch a breath of wind. My fellow- passengers and the crew, almost melted, were lying about, as weak as parboiled eels: it was high-noon, all things silent and subdued by that intolerable blaze ; for the vertical sun, over our multiplied awnings and umbrellas, burnt us up, fierce as a furnace. " I was leaning over the gangway, looking wistfully at the cool, clear, deep sea, wherefrom the sailors were trying to persuade a shark to come on board us, when, all at once, in the south-east quarter, I noticed a little round black cloud, thrown up from the horizon like a cricket-ball. As any thing is attractive in such sameness as perpetual sea and sky, my discovery was soon made known, and among the first to our captain. "Calling for his Dolland, and bidding his second lieutenant run quick to the cabin and look at the barometer, he viewed the little cloud in evident anxiety, and shook his head with a solemn air : more than one light-hearted woman thinking he was quizzing them. " Up came Lieutenant Joyce, looking as if he had seen a ghost in the cabin. "'The mercury, sir, is falling just as rapidly as it would rise if you plunged it into boiling water: an inch a minute or so!" " Our captain saw the danger instantly, and, brave as Trueman is, I never saw a man look paler. "To drive all the passengers below, and pen them in with closed hatches and storm-shutters, (so hot, Emmy, that the black-hole of Cal- cutta must have been an ice-house to it : how the foolish people abused our wise skipper, and more than one pompous old Indian threatened him with an action for false imprisonment!) this huddling away was the first efibrt ; and simultaneously with it, the crew were all over the rigging, furling sails, hurriedly, hurriedly. "Meanwhile (for I was last on deck), that little cloud seemed whirling within itself, and many others gathered round it, all dancing about on the horizon, as if sheaves of mischief tossed about by devils: I don't wish to be poetical, Emmy, for my heart is very, very sad ; but if ever the powers of the air sow the wind and reap the whirlwind, they were gathering in their harvest at that door. Underneath the skipping clouds, which came on quickly, leaping over each other, as when the wain is loaded by a score of hands, I noticed a sea approaching, such as Pha- raoh must have seen, when the wall of waters fell upon him ; and pre- monitory winds came whistling by, and two or three sails were flapping in them still, and I was hurried down stairs after all the rest of us. 228 THE TWINS. " Then, on a sudden, it appeared not winds, nor waves, nor thunder, but as if the squadroned cavalry of heaven had charged across the seas, and crushed our battered ship beneath their horse-hoofs! We were flung down flat on our beam ends ; and the two or three unfurled sails, bursting with the noise of a carinon, were scattered miles away to lee- ward as if they had been paper. As for the poor fellows in the rigging, the spirit of the storm had already made them his : twenty of our men were swept away by that tornado. " Then there was hewing and cleaving on deck, the clatter of many axes and hatchets : for we were in imminent danger of being capsized, keel uppermost, and our only chance was to cut away the masts. "The muscles of courage were tried then, my Emmy, and the strength which religion gives a man. I felt sensibly held up by the Everlasting Arms : I could listen to the still small Voice in the midst of a crash which might have been the end of all things : though in darkness, God had given me light; though in uttermost peril, my peace was never calmer in our little village school. "And the billows were knocking at the poor ship's side like sledge hammers; and the lightnings fell around us scorchingly, with forked bolts, as arrows from the hand of a giant ; the thunders overhead, close overhead, crashing from a concave cloud that hung about us heavily — a dense, black, suffocating curtain — roared and raved as nothing earthly can, but thunder in the tropics; the rain was as a cataract, literally rushing in a mass : the winds appeared not winds, nor whirlwinds, but legions of emancipated demons shrieking horribly, and flapping their wide wings; a flock of night-birds flying from the dawn; and all else was darkness, confusion, rolling and rocking about, the screams of women, the shouts of men, curses and prayers, agony, despair, and — peace, deep peace. " On a sudden, to our great astonishment, all was silent again, oppres- sively silent; and, but for the swell upon the seas, all still. The tornado had rushed by : that troop of Tartar horse, having sacked the village, are departed, now in full retreat : the blackness and the fury are beheld on our lee, hastening across the broad Atlantic to Cuba or Jamaica : and behold, a tranquil temperate sky, a kindly rolling sea, a favouring breeze, and — not a sail, but some slight jury-rig, to catch it. " Many days we drifted like a log upon the wave ; provisions running short, and water — water under tropical suns — scantily dealt out in tea. cups. Then, poor old Mackie's health gave way ; and I dreaded for her TRIALS. 229 death : one living witness is worth a cart-load of cold documents. So I nursed and watched her constantly : till the foolish folks on board began to say I was her son : ah ! me, for your sake I wish it had been so. "And at length, just as some among the sailors were hinting at a mutiny for spirits, and our last case of Gamble's meat was opened for the sick, our look-out on the jury-mast gave the welcome note of 'Land!' and soon, to us on deck, the heights of St. Helena rose above the sea. Towed in by friendly aid, here we are, then, precious Emily, refitting : and, as it must be a week yet before we can be ready, I have taken my old woman to a lodging upon land, and rejoice (what have I to do with joy?) to see her speedily recovering." The remainder of Charles's long letter is so stupid, so gloomy, so loving, and so little to the purpose, that I take an editor's privilege, and omit it altogether. Of course he was coming home again, as soon as the Samarang and Jeanie Mackie would permit. CHAPTER XXV. TRIALS. The general recovered ; as slowly, indeed, as Emily had, but it is gratifying to add, as surely. And now that loving couple might be seen, weakly creeping out together, when the day was finest : totterino- white December leaning on a sickly fragile May. There were no con- cealments now between them, no reservings, and heart-stricken Emily heard from her repentant father's lips the story of her birth : she was, he said, his own daughter by a native princess, the Begum Dowlia Burruckjutli. A bitter — bitter truth was that : the destruction of all her hopes, pleas- ures, and affections. It had now become to her a sin to love that dearest one of all things lovely on this earth : duty, paramount and stern, com- manded her, without a shadow of reprieve, to execute on herself imme- diately the terrible sentence of banishing her own betrothed : nay, more, she must forget him, erase his precious image from her heart, and never, never see that brother more. And Charles must feel the same, and do 20 230 THE TWINS. the like ; oh ! sorrow, passing words ! and their two commingled souls must be violently wrenched apart ; for such love in them were crime. Dear children of affection — it is a dreadful lesson this for both of you ; but most wise, most needful — or the hand that guideth all things, never would have sent it. Know ye not for comfort, that ye are of those to whom all things work together for good? Know ye not for counsel, that the excess of love is an idolatry that must be blighted ? It is well, chil- dren, it is well, that ye should thus carry your wounded hearts for balm to the altar of God ; it is well that ye should bow in meekness to His will, in readiness to His wisdom. Ye are learning the lesson speedily, as docile children should ; and be assured of high reward from the Teacher who hath set it you. Poor Charles ! white and wan, thy cheek is grown transparent with anxiety, and thy blue eye dim with hope deferred : poor Emmy, sick and weak, thou weariest Heaven with thy prayers, and waterest thy couch with thy tears. Yet, a little while ; this discipline is good : storm and wind, frost and rushing rains, are as needful to the forest-tree as sun and gentle shower ; the root is strengthening, and its fibres spreading out : and loving still each other with the best of human love, ye justly now have found out how to anchor all your strongest hopes, and deepest thoughts, on Him who made you for himself. Who knoweth? wisely acquiescing in His will, humbly trusting to His mercy, and bringing the holocaust of your inflamed affections as an offering of duty to your God — who knoweth? Cannot He interpose? will He not befriend you? For His arm is power, and His heart is love. Days rolled on in dull monotony, and grew to weeks more slowly than before ; earthly hopes had been levelled with the dust ; life had forgotten to be joyous : there was, indeed, the calm, the peace, the resignation, the heavenly ante-past, and the soul-entrancing prayer; but human life to Emily was flat, wearisome, and void ; she felt like a nun, immolated as to this world : even as Charles, too, had resolved to be an anchorite, a stern, hard, mortified man, who once had feelings and affections. The reaction in both those fond young hearts had even overstept the golden mean : and Mercy interposed to make all right, and to bless them in each other once again. Only look at this billet-doux from Charles, just come in, and dated Plymouth : "Huzzah — for Emily and England: huzzah for the land of freedom! no secrets now — dear, dear old .Teanie Mackie has given me proofs posi- JULIAN. , 231 tive: all I have to wish is that she could move: but she is very ill; so, as we touched here on the voyage up channel, I landed her and myself, thinking to kiss, within a day, my darling Emmy. But I cannot get her out of bed this morning, and dare not leave her : though an hour's delay seems almost insupportable. If I possibly can manage it, I will bring the dear old faithful creature, wrapped in blankets, by chaise to-morrow. Tell my father all this : and say to him — he will understand, perhaps, though you may not, my blessed girl — say to him, that 'he is mistaken, and all are mistaken — you are not what they think you.' A thousand kisses. Expect, then, on bright to-morrow to see your happy, happy "Charles." «P.S. Hip! hip! hip!— huzzah!" Dearest Emily had taken up the note with fears and trembling : she "V^ laid it down, as they that reap in joy ; and I never in my life saw any thing so beautiful as her eyes at that glad minute ; the smile through the tear, the light through the gloom, the verdure of high summer springing through the Alpine snows, the mild and lustrous moon emerging from a baffled thunder-cloud. And, although the general mournfully shook his head, distrustfully and despondingly ; though he only uttered, "Poor children — dear chil- dren — would to Heaven that it could be so ;" — and he, for one, was evi- dently innoculated, as before, with all the old thoughts of gloom, sadness, and anxiety ; — still Emily hoped — for Charles hoped — and Jeanie Mackie was so certain. CHAPTER XXVI. JULIAN. Next day, a fine summer afternoon, when our feeble convalescents had gone out together, they found the fresh air so invigorating, and themselves so much stronger, that they prolonged their walk half-way to Oxton. The pasture-meadows, rich and rank, were alive with flocks and hei'ds ; the blue sea lazily beat time, as, ticking out the seconds, it melodiously broke upon the sleeping shore ; the darkly-flowing Mullet swept sounding to the sea between its tortuous banks ; and upon that 232 THE TWINS. old high foot-path skirting the stream, now shady with hazels, and now flowery with meadow-sweet, crept our chastened pair. Just as they were nearing a short angle in the river, the spot where Charles had been preserved, they noticed for the first time a rough-look- ing fisherman, who, unseen, had tracked their steps some hundred yards ; he had a tarpaulin over his shoulder, very unnecessarily, as it would seem, on so fine and warm a day ; and a slouching sou'-wester, worn askew, flapped across the strange man's face. He came on quickly, though cautiously, looking right and left; and Emily trembled on her guardian's feeble arm. Yes — she is right ; the fisherman approaches — she detects him through it all : and now he scorns disguise; flinging off" his cap and the tarpaulin, stands before tl^em — Julian ! "So, sir — you tremble now, do you, gallant general: give me the girl." And he levelled at his father one of those double-barrelled pistols, full-cock. "Julian, my son, I forgive you, Julian; take my hand, boy." " What — coward ? now you can cringe, and fawn, eh ? back with ypu ! — ^the girl, I say." For poor Emily, wild with fear, was clinging to that weak old man. Julian levelled again ; indeed, indeed it was only as a threat ; but his hand shook with passion — the weapon was full-cock, hair-triggered — shotted heavily as always — hark, hark ! — And his father fell upon the turf, covered with blood ! When a wicked man tampers with unintended crime, even accident falls out against him. Many a one has richly merited death for many other sins, than that isolated, haply accidental one which he has hanged for. Julian, horror-stricken, pale and trembling, flew instinctively to help his father: but Emily has circled him already with her arms; and listen, Julian — your dying father speaks to you. " Boy, I forgive — I forgive : but — Emily, no, no, cannot, cannot be — Julian — she — she is your sister /" and the old man swooned away, from loss of blood and the excitement of that awful scene. Not a word in reply said that poor sinner, maddened with his life-long crimes, the fratricide in will, the parricide in deed, and all for — a sister. But growing whiter as he stood, a marble man with bristling hair, he slowly drew the other pistol from his pocket, put the muzzle to his mouth, and, firing as he fell, leapt into the darkly-flowing Mullet! CHARLES'S RETURN, ETC. 233 The current, all too violent to sink in, and uncommissioned now to save, hurried its black burden to the sea ; and a crimson streak of gore marked the track of the suicide. The old man was not dead ; but a brace of bullets taking effect upon his feeble frame — one through the shoulder, and another which had grazed his head — had been quite enough to make him seem so. Forget- ful of all but that dear sufferer, and totally ignorant of Julian's fate — for she neither saw nor heard any thing, nor feared even for her own imminent peril, while her father lay dying on the grass — Emily had torn off her scarf, and bound up, as well as she could, the ghastly scored head and broken shoulder. She succeeded in staunching the blood — for no great vessel had been severed — and so simple an applica- tion as grass dipped in water, proved to be a good specific. Then, to her exceeding joy, those eyes opened again, and that dear tongue faintly whispered — "Bless you." Oh, that blessing ! for it fell upon her heart : and fervently sher knelt down there, and thanked the Great Preserver. And now, for friendly help ; there is no one near : and it is growing dusk; and she dared not leave him there alone one minute — for Julian — dreaded Julian, may return, and kill him. What shall she do? How to get him home? Alas, alas! he may die where he is lying. Hark, Emmy, hark ! The shouts of happy children bursting out of school! See, dearest — see: here they come homewards merrily from Oxton. 'Thus, rewarded through the instrumentality of her own benevolence, help was speedily obtained ; and Mrs. Sainsbury's invalid-chair, hurried to the spot by an escort of indignant rustics, soon conveyed the recover- ing patient to the comforts of his o"wn home, and the appliances of med- ical assistance. CHAPTER XXVII. CHARLES'S RETURN; AND MRS. MACHE'S EXPLANATION. And now the happy day was come at length ; that day formerly so hoped-for, latterly so feared, but last of all, hailed with the joy that trem- bles at its own intensity. The very morning after the sad occurrence it 20* 234 THE TWINS. has just been my lot to chronicle — while the general was having his wounds dressed, slight ones, happily, but still he was not safe, as inflam- mation might ensue — while Mrs. Tracy was indulging in her third tum- bier, mixed to whet her appetite for shrimps — and while Emily was deciphering, for the forty thousandth time, Charles's sanguine billet-doux — lo ! a dusty chaise and smoking posters, and a sun-burnt young fellow springing out, and just upon the -stairs — they were locked in each other's arms ! Oh, the rapture of that instant! it can but happen once within a life. Ye that have loved, remember such a meeting ; and ye that never loved, conceive it if you can ; for my pen hath little skill to paint so bright a pleasure. It is to be all heart, all pulse, all sympathy, all spirit — but the warm soft kiss, that rarified bloom of the Material. How the sick old nurse got out, cased in many blankets ; how she was bundled up stairs, and deposited safely on a sofa, no poet is alive to sing : to those who would record the payment of postillions, let me leave so sweet a theme. The first fond greeting over, and those tumults of affection sobered down, Charles rejoiced to find how lovingly the general met him ; the kind and good old man fell upon his neck, as the father in the parable. Many things were then to be made known : and many questions answered, as best might be, about a mother and a brother ; but well aware of all thinss ourselves, let us be satisfied that Charles heard in due time all they had to tell him; though neither Emily nor the general could explain what had become of Julian after that terrible encounter. In their belief, he had fled for very life, thinking he had killed his father. Poor wretched man, thought Charles — on that same spot, too, where he would have murdered me ! And for his mother — why came she not down eagerly and happily, as mothers ever do, to greet her long-lost son? Do not ask, Charles; do not press the question. Think her ill, dying, dead — any thing but — drunken. He ran to her room-door ; but it was locked — luckily. Now, Charles — now speedily to business ; happy business that, if I may trust the lover's flushing cheek, and Emily's radiant eyes; but a mournful one too, and a fearful, if I turn my glance to that poor old man, wounded in body and stricken in mind — who waits to hear, in more despondency than hope, what he knows to be the bitter truth — the truth that must be told, to the misery of those dear children. Faint and weak though she appeared, Jeanie Mackie's waning life CHARLES'S RETURN, ETC. 235 spirited up for the occasion; her dim eye kindled; her feeble frame was straight and strong ; energy nerved her as she spoke ; this hour is the errand of her being. Long she spoke, and loudly, in her broad Scotch way ; and the gen- eral objected many things, but was answered to them all ; and there was close cross-questioning, slow-caution, keen examination of docu- ments and letters: catechisms, solecisms, Scottisms; reminiscences rubbed up, mistakes corrected ; and the grand result of all, Emily a Stuart, and the general not her father! I am only enabled to give a brief account of that important colloquy. It appears, that when Captain Tracy's company was quartered to the west of the Gwalior, sent thither to guard the Begum Dowlia against sundry of her disaffected subjects, a certain Lieutenant James Stuart was one among those welcome brave allies. That our gallant Tracy was the beautiful Begum's favourite soon became notorious to all ; and not less so, that the Begum herself was precisely in the same interesting situation as Mrs. James Stuart. The two ladies. Pagan and Christian, were, technically speaking, running a race together. Well, just as times drew nigh, poor Lieutenant Stuart was unfortunately killed in an insurrection headed by some fanatics, who disapproved of foreign friends, and perhaps of their princess's situation. His death proved fatal also to that kind and faithful wife of his — a dark Italian lady of high family, whose love for James had led her to follow him even into Central Hin- doostan : she died in giving birth to a babe ; and Jeanie Mackie, the lieutenant's own foster-mother, who waited on his wife through all their travels, assisted the poor orphan into this bleak world, and loved it as her own. Two days after all this, the Begum herself had need of Mrs. Mackie : for it was prudent to conceal some things, if she could, from certain Brahmins, who were to her what John Knox had erstwhile been to Mary : and Jeanie Mackie, burdened with her little Amy Stuart, aided in the birth of a female Tracy-Begum. So, the nurse tended both babes ; and more than once had marvelled at their general resemblance ; Amy's mother looked out again from those dark eyes ; there was not a shade between the children. Now, Mrs. Mackie perceived, in a very little while, how fond both Christian and Pagan appeared of their own child ; and how little notice was taken by any body of the poor Scotch gentleman's orphan. Accord, ingly, with a view to give her favourite all worldly advantages, she adroitly 236 THE TWINS. changed the children ; and, while she was still kind and motherly to the little Tracy-Begum, she had the satisfaction to see her pet supposititiously brought up in all the splendours of an Eastern court. Years wore away, for Captain Tracy was quite happy, the Begum being a fine showy woman, and the pretty child his playmate and pas- time : so he never cared to stir from his rich quarters, till the company's orders forced him : and then Puttymuddyfudgepoor hailed him accumu- latively both major and colonel. When he found that he must go, he insisted on carrying off the child ; and the Begum was as resolute against it. Then Mrs. Mackie, eager to expedite little Stuart in her escape, went to the princess, told her how that, in anticipation of this day, she had changed the children, and got great rewards for thus restoring to the mother her own offspring. The remainder of that old Scotch nurse's very prosy tale may be left to be imagined : for all that was essential has been stated : and the doc- uments in proof of all were these — First : The marriage certificates of James Stuart and Ami di Romagna, duly attested, both in the Protestant and Romanist forms. Secondly : Divers letters to Lieutenant Stewart from his friends at Glenmuir ; others to Mrs. Stuart, from her father, the old Marquis di Romagna, at Naples : several trinkets, locks of hair, the wedding-ring, &c. Thirdly : A grant written in the Hindoostanee character, from the Begum Dowlia, promising the pension of thirty rupees a month to Jeanie Mackie, for having so cleverly preserved to her the child : together with a regular judicial acknowledgement, both from several of Tracy's own sepoys, and from the Begum herself, that the girl, whom Captain Tracy was so fond of, was, to the best of their belief, Amy Stuart. Fourthly : A miniature of Mrs. James Stuart, exactly portraying the features of her daughter — this bright, beautiful, dark-eyed face — our own beloved Emily Warren. And to all that accumulated evidence, Jeanie Mackie bore her living testimony ; clearly, unhesitatingly, and well assured, in the face of God and man. Doubt was at an end ; fear was at an end ; hope was come, and joy. Happy were the lovers, happy Jeanie Mackie, but happiest of all appeared the general himself. For now she might be his daughter indeed, sweet Emmy Tracy still, dear Charles's loving wife. And he blessed them as they knelt, and gave them to each other ; well-rewarded children of affection, who had prayed in their distress ! JULIAN TURNS UP, ETC. 237 CHAPTER XXVIII. JULIAN TURNS UP: AND THERE'S AN END OF MRS. TRACY. There is a muddy sort of sand-bank, acting as a delta to the Mullet, just where it spreads from deep to shallow, and falls into the sea. Strange wild fowl abound there, coming from the upper clouds in flocks ; and at high water, very little else but rushes can be seen, to testify its sub-marine existence. A knot of fishermen, idling on the beach, have noticed an uncommon flight of Royston crows gathered at the island, with the object, as it would appear, of battening on a dead porpoise, or some such body, just discernible among the rushes. Stop — that black heap may be kegs of whiskey ; — where 's the glass ? Every one looked : it warn't barrels — and it warn't a porpoise : what was it, then ? they had universally nothing on earth to do, so they pushed off* in company to see. I watched the party off, and they poked among the rushes, and heaved out what seemed to me a seal : so I ran down to the beach to look at the strange creature they had captured. Something wrapped in a sail ; no doubt for exhibition at per head. But they brought out that black burden solemnly, laying it on the beach at Burleigh : a crowd quickly collected round them, that I could not see the creature : and some ran for a magistrate, and some for a parson. Then men in office came — made a way through the crowd, and I got near : so near, that my foolish curiosity lifted up the sail, and I beheld — what had been Julian. O, sickening sight : for all which the pistol had spared of that swart and hairy face, had been preyed upon by birds and fishes ! There was a hurried inquest : the poor general and Emily deposed to what they knew, and the rustics, who escorted him from Oxton. The verdict could be only one — self-murder. So, by night, on that same swampy island, when the tide was low, they buried him, deeply staked into the soil, lest the waves should disin- ter him, without a parting prayer. Such is the end of the wicked. In a day or two, I noticed that a rude wooden cross had been set over the spot : and it gratified me much to hear that a rough-looking crew of smugglers had boldly come and fixed it there, to hallow, if they could, a comrade's grave. 238 THE TWINS. However, these poor fellows had been cheated hours before : Charles's brotherly care had secured the poor remains, and the vicar winked a blind permission : so Charles buried them by night in the church-yard comer, under the yew, reading many prayers above them. Two fierce-looking strange men went to that burial with reverent looks, as it were chief mourners ; and when all the rites were done, I heard them gruffly say to Charles, "God bless you, sir, for this!" When the mother heard those tidings of her son, she was sobered on the instant, and ran about the house with all a mother's grief, shrieking like a mad woman. But all her shrieks and tears could not bring back poor Julian ; deep, deep in the silent grave, she cannot wake him — can- not kiss him now. Ah well ! ah well ! Then did she return to his dear room, desperate for him — and Hol- lands; once, twice, thrice, she poured out a full tumbler of the burning fluid, and drank it off like water; and it maddened her brain : her mind was in a phrensy of delirium, while her body shook as with a palsy. Let us draw the curtain ; for she died that night. They buried her in Aunt Green's grave : what a meeting theirs will be at the day of resurrection ! CHAPTER XXIX. THE OLD SCOTCH NTJESE GOES HOME. Six months at least — this is clearly not a story of the unities — six months' interval must now elapse before the wedding-day. Charles and Emmy — for he called her Emmy still, though Jeanie Mackie would persist in mouthing it to " Aamy," — wished to have it delayed a year, in respect for the memory of those who, with all their crime and folly, were not the less a mother and a brother : but the general would not hear of such a thing; he was growing very old, he said; although actually he seemed to have taken out a new lease of life, so young again and buoyant was the new-found heart within him; and thus growing old, he was full of fatherly fear that he should not live to see his children's happiness. It was only reasonable and proper that our pair of cooing doves should acquiesce in his desire. THE OLD SCOTCH NURSE GOES HOME. 239 Meanwhile, I am truly sorry to say it, Jeanie Mackie died ; for ii would have been a good novel-like incident to have suffered the faithful old creature to have witnessed her favourite's wedding, and then to have been forthwith killed out of the way, by — perishing in the vestry. How. ever, things were ordered otherwise, and Jeanie Mackie did not live to see the wedding : if you wish to know how and where she died, let me tell you at once. Scotland — Argyleshire — Glenmuir ; this was the focus of her hopes and thoughts — that poor old Indian exile ! She had left it, as a buxom bright-haired lassie : but oaks had now grown old that she had planted acorns; and grandmothers had died palsied, whom she remembered born ; still, around the mountains and the lakes, those changeless fea- tures of her girlhood's rugged home, the old woman's memory wandered ; they were pictured in her mind's eye hard, and clear, and definite as if she looked upon them now. And her soul's deep hope was to see them once again. There was yet another object which made her yearn' for Scotland. Lieutenant Stuart had been the younger of two brothers, the eldest born of whom became, upon his father's, the old laird's, death, Glenmuir and Glenmurdock. Now, though twice married, this elder brother, the new laird, never had a child ; and the clear consequence was, that Amy Stuart was likely to become sole heiress of her ancestor's possessions. The lieutenant's marriage with an Italian and a Romanist had been, doubt- less, any thing but pleasant to his friends ; the strict old Presbyterians, and the proud unsullied family of Stuart, could not palate it at all. Nevertheless, he did marry the girl, according to the rites of both churches, and there was an end of it ; so, innumerable proverbs corning to their aid about "curing and enduring" and "must he's," and the place where "marriages are made," &c., the several aunts and cousins were persuaded at length to wink at the iniquity, and to correspond both with Mrs. James and her backsliding lieutenant. Of the offspring of that marriage, and her orphaned state, and of Mrs. Mackie's care, and the indefinite detention in central Hindostan, they had heard often-times ; for, as there is no corner of the world where a Scot may not be met with, so, with laudable nationality, they all hang together; and Glen- muir was written to frequently, all about the child, through Jeanie Mackie, "her mark," and a scholarly sergeant, Duncan Blair. Amy's rights — or Emmy let us call her still, as Charles did — were now, therefore, the next object of Mrs. Mackie's zeal ; and all parties 240 THE TWINS. interested willingly listened to the plan of spending one or two of those weary weeks in rubbing up relationships in Scotland ; the general also was not a little anxious about heritage and acres. Accordingly, off they set in the new travelling-carriage, with due notice of approach, heartily welcomed, to Dunstowr Castle, the fine old feudal stronghold of Robert Stuart, Laird of Glenmuir and Glenmurdock. The journey, the arrival, and the hearty hospitality ; and how the gray old chieftain kissed his pretty niece ; and how welcome her betrothed Charles and her kind life-long guardian, and her faithful nurse were made ; and how the beacons blazed upon the hill-tops, and the mustering clan gathered round about old Dunstowr ; and how the laird presented to them all their beautiful future mistress, and how Jeanie Mackie and her documents travelled up to Edinburgh, where writers to the signet pestered her heart-sick with over-caution; and how the case was all cleared up, and the distant disappointed cousin, who had irrationally hoped to be the heir, was gladdened, if not satisfied, with a pension and a cantle of Glenmuir; and how all was joy fulness and feasting, when Amy Stuart was acknowledged in her rights — the bagpipes and the wassail, salmon, and deer, and black-cock, with a river of mountain dew : let others tell who know Dunstowr ; for as I never was there, of course I cannot faithfully describe it. Should such an historian as I condescend to sheer inventions? With respect to Jeanie Mackie, I could learn no more than this : she was sprightly and lively, and strong as ever, though in her ninetieth year, till her foster-child was righted, and the lawyers had allowed her her claim. But then there seemed nothing else to live for; so her life gradually faded from her eye, as an expiring candle ; and she would doze by the hour, sitting on a settle in the sun, basking her old heart in the smile of those old mountains. None knew when she died, to a min- ute ; for she died sitting in the sun, in the smile of those old mountains. They buried her, with much of rustic pomp, in the hill-church of Glenmuir, where all her fathers slept around her; and Emily and Charles, hand-in-hand, walked behind her coffin mournfully. FINAL. 241 CHAPTER XXX. FINAI. Gladly would the laird have had the marriage at Dunstower, and have given away the beauteous bride himself: but there must still be two months more of decent mourning, and the general had long learned to sigh for the maligned delights of Burleigh Singleton. So, Glenmuir could only get a promise of reappearance some fine summer or other : and, after another day's deer-stalking, which made the general repudiate telescopes from that day forth (the poor man's eyes had actually grown lobster-like with straining after antlers) — the travelling-carriage, and four lean kine from Inverary, whisked away the trio towards the South. And now, in due time, were the Tamworths full of joy — congratu- lating, sympathizing, merrymaking; and the three young ladies behaved admirably in the capacity of pink and silver bridesmaids; while George proved equally kind in attending (as he called it) Charles's "execution," wherein he was "turned off;" and the admiral, G. C. B. was so hand- in-glove with the general, H. E. I. C. S., that I have reason to believe they must have sworn eternal friendship, after the manner of the modern Germans. How beautiful our Emmy looked — I hate the broad Scotch Aamy— how bright her flashing eyes, and how fragrantly the orange-blossoms clustered in her rich brown hair; let him speak lengthily, whose pro- vince it may be to spin three volumes out of one : for me, I always wish to recollect that readers possess, on the average, at least as much imagin- ation as writers. And why should you not exercise it now? Is not Emmy in her bridal-dress a theme well worth a revery ? For a similar reason, I must clearly disappoint feminine expectation, by forbearing to descant upon Charles's slight but manly form, and his Grecian beauty, &c., all the better for the tropics, and the trials and the troubles he had passed. When Captain Forbes, just sitting down to his soup in the Jamaica Coffee-house, read in the Morning Post, the marriage of Charles Tracy with Amy Stuart, he delivered himself mentally as follows : "There now! Poets talk of 'love,' and I stick to 'human nature.' When that fine young fellow sailed with me, hardly a year ago, in the Sir William Elphinston, he was over head and heels in love with old Q 21 242 THE TWINS. Jack Tracy's pretty girl, Emily Warren : but I knew it wouldn't last long : I don't believe in constancy for longer than a week. It does one's heart good to see how right one is ; here's what I call proof. My senti- mental spark kisses Emily Warren, and marries Amy Stuart." The captain, happier than befoi'e, called complacently for Cayenne pepper, and relished his mock-turtle with a higher gusto. It is worth recording, that the same change of name mystified slander- ous friends in the Presidency of Madras. And now, kind-eyed reader, this story of ' The Twins'' must leave off abruptly at the wedding. As in its companion-tale, ' The Crock of Gold,'' one grand thesis for our thoughts was that holy wise command, "Thou shalt not covet," and as its other comrade ''HearV is founded on "Thou shalt not bear false witness," so in this, the seed-corn of the crop, were five pure words, "Thou shalt not commit adultery." Other morals doubtless grew up round us, for all virtue hangs together in a bunch : the harms of secresy, false witness, inordinate affections, and red mur- der : but in chief, as we have said. Moreover, I wish distinctly to make known, for dear "domestic" sake, that so far from our lovers' happiness having been consummated (that is, finished) in the honey-moon — it was only then begun. How long they are to live thus happily together. Heaven, who wills all things good, alone can tell ; I wish them three score years. Little ones, I hear, arrive annu- ally — to the unqualified joy, not merely of papa and mamma, but also of our communicative old general, his friend the G. C. B., and (all but most of any) the Laird of Glenmuir and Glenmurdock, whose heart has been entirely rejoiced by Charles Tracy having added to his name, and to his children's names, that of Stuart. Mr. and Mrs. Tracy Stuart are often at Glenmuir ; but ofi;ener at Bur- leigh, where the general, I fancy, still resides. He protests that he never will keep a secret again : long may he live to say so ! END OF THE TWINS. HEART A SOCIAL NOYEl. BY MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, A.M., F.R.S ) ■'*■• -^'-^ •> AUTHOR OF PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY. HARTFORD : PUBLISHED BY SILAS ANDRUS & SON. 1851. HEART. CHAPTER I. WHEREm TWO MXIOUS PARENTS HOLD A COLLOQUY. "Is he rich, ma'am? is he rich? ey? what — what? is he rich?" Sir Thomas was a rapid little man, and quite an epicure in the use of that luscious monosyllable. "Is he rich, Lady Dillaway? ey? what?" " Really, Thomas, you never give me time to answer," replied the quintescence of quietude, her ladyship; "and then it is perpetually the same question, and — " " Well, ma'am, can there be a more important question asked ? I repeat it, is he rich? ey? what? " You know. Sir Thomas, we never are agreed about the meaning of that word ; but I should say, very." As Lady Dillaway always spoke quite softly in a whisper, she had failed to enlighten the knight ; but he seemed, notwithstanding, to have caught her intention instinctively ; for he added, in his impetuous, impe- rious way, "No nonsense now, about talents and virtues, and all such trash; but quick, ma'am, quick — is the man rich ?" " In talents, as you mention the word, certainly, very rich ; a more clever or accomplished — " " Cut it short, ma'am — cut it short, I say — I '11 have no adventurers, who live by their wits, making up to my daughter — pedantic puppies, good for ushers, nothing else. What do they mean by knowing so much ? ey? what?" "And then. Sir Thomas, if you will only let me speak, a man of purer morals, finer feelings, higher Christian — " "Bah! well enough for curates: go on, ma'am — go on, and make haste to the point of all points — is he rich?" 21* 246 HEART. "You know I never will make haste, Thomas, for I never can have patience, and you shall hear; I am little in the habit of judging people entirely by their purses, not even a son-in-law, provided there is a suf- ficiency on the one side or the other for — " "Quick, mum — quick — rich — rich? will the woman drive me mad?" and Sir Thomas Dillaway, Knight, rattled loose cash in both pockets more vindictively than ever. But the spouse, nothing hurried, still crept on in her sotto voce adantino style, " Mr. Clements owes nothing, has something, and above and beside all his good heart, good mind, good fame, good looks, good family, possesses a contented — " "Pish! contented, bah!" our hasty knight's nose actually curled upwards in utter scorn as he added, "Now, that's enough — quite enough. I '11 bet a plum the man 's poor. Contented indeed ! did you ever know a rich man yet who was contented — ey ? mum — ey ? or a poor one that wasn't — ey? what? I've no patience with those contented fellows: it's my belief they steal away the happiness of monied men. If this Mr. Clements was rich — rich, one wouldn't mind so much about talents, vir- tues, and contentment — work-house blessings; but the man's poor, I know it — poo-o-or!" Sir Thomas had a method quite his own of pronouncing those con- tradictory monosyllables, rich and poor : the former he gave out with an unctuous, fish-saucy gusto, and the word seemed to linger on his palate as a delicious morsel in the progress of delightful deglutition ; but when he uttered the word poor, it was with that "mewling and puking" miserable face, appropriated from time immemorial to the gulping of a black draught. "No, Lady Dillaway, right about 's the next word I shall say to that smooth-looking pauper, Mr. Henry Clements — to think of his impudence, making up to my daughter, indeed! a poo-o-o-r man, too." " I did not tell you he was poor. Sir Thomas : you have run away with that idea on your own account : the young man has enough for the present, owes nothing for the past, and reasonable expectations for the — " Future, I suppose, ey ? what ? I hate futures, all the lot of 'em : cash down, ready money, bird in the hand, that's my ticket, mum: expectations, indeed! Well, go on — go on; I'm as patient as a — as a mule, you see ; go on, will you ; I may as well hear it all out. Lady Dillaway." " Well, Sir Thomas, since you think so little of the future, I will not COLLOQUY OF TWO PARENTS. 247 insist on expectations; though I really can only excuse your methods of judging by the fancy that you are far too prudent' in fearing for the future : however, if you will not admit this, let me take you on your own ground, the present; perhaps Mr. Clements may not possess quite as much as I could wish him, but then surely, dear Thomas, our daugh- ter must have more than — " I object to seeing oaths in print; unless it must be once in a way, as a needful point of character : probably the reader's sagacity will supply many omissions of mine in the eloquence of Sir Thomas Dillaway and others. But his calm spouse, nothing daunted, quietly whispered on — "You know, Thomas, you have boasted to me that your capital is doub- ling every year; penny-postage has made the stationery business most prosperous; and if you were wealthy when the old king knighted you as lord mayor, surely you can spare something handsome now for an only daughter, who — " "Ma'am!" almost barked the affectionate father, "if Maria marries money, she shall have money, and plenty of it, good girl ; but if she will persist in wedding a beggar, she may starve, mum, starve, and all her poverty-stricken brats too, for any pickings they shall get out of my pocket. Ey? what? you pretend to read your Bible, mum — don't you know we're commanded to 'give to him that hath, and to take away from him that — ' " "For shame, Sir Thomas Dillaway!" interrupted the wife, as well she *-ight, for all her quietude : she was a good sort of woman, and her better nature aroused its wrath at this vicious application of a truth so just when applied to morals and graces, so bitterly iniquitous in the case of this world's wealth. I wish that our ex-lord mayor's distorted text may not be one of real and common usage. So, silencing her lord, whose character it was to be overbearing to the meek, but cringing to any thing like rebuke or opposition, she forthwith pushed her advantages, adding — "Your income is now four thousand a-year, as you have told me, Thomas, every hour of every day, since your last lucky hit in the gov- ernment contract for blue-elephants and whitey-browns. We have only John and Maria; and John gets enough out of his own stock-brokering business to keep his curricle and belong to clubs — and — alas ! my fears are many for my poor dear boy — I often wish, Thomas, that our John was not so well supplied with money : whereas, poor Maria — " "Tush, ma'am, you're a fool, and have no respect at all for monied men. Jack 's a rich man, mum — knows a trick or two, sticks at noth- 248 HEART. ing on 'Change, shrewd fellow, and therefore, of course I don't stint him : ha ! he 's a regular Witney comforter, that boy — makes money — ay, for all his seeming extravagance, the clever little rogue knows how to keep it, too. If you only knew, ma'am, if you only knew — but we don't blab to fools." I dare say " fools " will hear the wise man's secret some day. " Well, Thomas, I am sure I have no wish to pry into business trans- actions ; all my present hope is to help the cause of our poor dear Maria." "Don't call the girl 'poor,' Lady Dillaway; it's no recommendation, I can tell you, though it may be true enough. Girls are a bad spec, unless they marry money. If our girl does this, well ; she will indeed be to me a dear Maria, though not a poo-o-o-r one ; if she doesn't, let her bide, and be an old maid ; for as to marrying this fellow Clement's, I '11 cut him adrift to-morrow." "If you do, Sir Thomas, you will break our dear child's heart." "Heart, ma'am! what business has my daughter with a heart?" [what, indeed?] "I hate hearts; they were sent, I believe, purposely to make those who are plagued with 'em poo-o-o-r. Heart, indeed! When did heart ever gain money ? ey ? what ? It '11 give, O yes, plenty — aplenty, to charities, and churches, and orphans, and beggars, and any thing else, by way of getting rid of gold; but as to gaining — bah! heart indeed — pauperizing bit of muscle ! save me from wearing under my waistcoat what you 're pleased to call a heart. No, mum, no ; if the girl has got a heart to break, I 've done with her. Heart indeed ! she either marries money and my blessing, or marries beggary and my curse.' But I should like to know who wants her to marry at all? Let her die an old maid." Probably this dialogue need go no farther : in the coming chapter we will try to be didactic. Meantime, to apostrophize ten words upon that last heartless sentence : "Let her die an old maid." An old maid! how many unrecorded sorrows, how much of cruel disappointment and heart-cankering delay, how often-times unwritten tragedies are hidden in that thoughtless little phrase ! O, the mass of blighted hopes, of slighted affections, of cold neglect, and foolish contumely, wrapped up in those three syllables! Kind heart, kind heart, never use them ; neither lightly as in scorn, nor sadly as in pity: spare that ungenerous reproach. What! canst thou think that from a feminine breast the lover, the wife, the mother, can be utterly sponged away without long years of bitterness? Can Nature's THE DAUGHTER HAS A HEART. 249 wounds be cicatrized, or her soft feelings seared, without a thousand secret pangs? Hath it been no trial to see youthful bloom departing, and middle age creep on, without some intimate one to share the solitude of life? Ay, and the coming prospect too — hath it greater consolations than the retrospect? How faintly common friends can fill that hollow of the heart ! how feebly can their kindness, at the warmest, imitate the sympathies and love of married life! And in the days of sickness, or the hour of death — to be lonely, childless, husbandless, to be lightly cared for, little missed — who can wonder that all those bruised and broken yearnings should ferment within the solitary mind, and some- times sour up the milk of human kindness? Be more considerate, more just, more loving to that injured heart of woman; it hath loved deeply in its day ; but imperative duty or untoward circumstances nipped those early blossoms, and often generosity towards others, or the constancy of youthful blighted love, has made it thus alone. There was an age in this world's history, and may be yet again (if Heart is ever to be mon- arch of this social sphere), when those who lived and died as Jephthah's daughter, were reckoned worthily with saints and martyrs. Heed thou, thus, of many such, for they have offered up their hundred warm yearn- ings, a hecatomb of human love, to God, the betrothed of their affections; and they move up and down among this inconsiderate world, doing good, Sisters of Charity, full of pure benevolence, and beneficent beyond the widow's mite. Heed kinder then, and blush for very shame, O man and woman ! looking on this noble band of ill-requited virgins ; remem- ber all their trials, and imitate their deeds ; for among the legion of that unreguarded sisterhood whom you coldly call old maids, are often seen the world's chief almoners of warm unselfish sympathy, generous in mind, if not in means, and blooming with the immortal youth of charity and kindliness. CHAPTER II. HOW THE DAUGHTER HAS A HEART; AND, WHAT IS COlfflONER, A LOVER.' Yes, Maria Dillaway, though Sir Thomas's own daughter, t and yiyvo/ sympathizes, if it has not an identity, with the Hebrew's unutterable Name. He then, whose title, amongst all others likewise denoting excellence supreme and glory underivative, is essen- tially "I am ;" He who, relatively to us as to all creation else, has a new name wisely chosen in "the Word," — the great expression of the idea of God ; this mighty Intelligence is found in any such beginning self- existent. That teaching is a mere fact, known posteriorly from the proof of all things created, as well as by many wonderful signs, and the clear voice of revelation. We do not attempt to prove it; that were easy and obvious : but our more difficult endeavour at present is to show how antecedently propable it was that God should be : and that so being, He should be invested with the reasonable attributes, wherewithal we know His glorious Nature to be clothed. Take then our beginning where we will, there must have existed in that "originally" either Something, or Nothing. It is a clear matter to prove, a posteriori, that Something did exist ; because somethino- exists now : every matter and every derived spirit must have had a Father ; ex nihilo nihil Jit, is not more a truth, than that creation must have had a Creator. However, leaving this plain path (which I only point at by the way for obvious mental uses), let us now try to get at 468 PROBABILITIES. the great antecedent probability that in the beginning Something should have been, rather than Nothing. The term, Nothing, is a fallacious one : it does not denote an exist- ence, as Something does, but the end of an existence. It is in fact a negation, which must presuppose a matter once in being and possible to be denied ; it is an abstraction, which cannot happen unless there be somewhat to be taken away ; the idea of vacuity must be posterior to that of fullness ; the idea of no tree is incompetent to be conceived without the previous idea of a tree ; the idea of nonentity suggests, ex vi termini, a pre-existent entity ; the idea of Nothing, of necessity, pre- supposes Something. And a Something once having been, it would still and for ever continue to be, unless sufficient cause be found for its removal ; that cause itself, you will observe, being a Something. The chances are forcibly in favour of continuance, that is of perpetuity ; and the likelihoods proclaim loudly that there should be an Existence. It was thus, then, antecedently more probable, than in any imaginable beginning from which reason can start, Something should be found existent, rather than Nothing. This is the first probability. Next ; of what nature and extent is this Something, this Being, likely to be 1 — There will be either one such being, or many : if many, the many either sprang from the one, or the mass are all self-existent ; in the former case, there would be a creation and a God : in the latter, there would be many Gods. Is the latter antecedently more proba- ble ? — let us see. First, it is evident that if many are probable, few are more probable, and one most probable of all. The more possible gods you take away, the more do impediments diminish ; until, that is to say, you arrive at that One Being, whom we have already proved probable. Moreover, many must be absolutely united as one ; in which case the many is a gratuitous difficulty, because they may as well be regarded for all purposes of worship or argument as one God : or the many must have been in essence more or less disunited ; in which case, as a state of any thing short of pure concord carries in itself the seeds of disso- lution, needs must that one or other of the many (long before any pos- sible beginnings, as we count beginnings, looking down the past vista of eternity), would have taken opportunity by such disturbing causes to become absolute monarch : whether by peaceful persuasion, or hostile compulsion, or other mode of absorbing disunions, would be indifferent; if they were not all improbable, as unworthy of the God. Perpetuity of discord is a thing impossible ; every thing short of unity tends to A GOD: AND HIS ATTRIBUTES. 459 decomposition. Any how then, given the element of eternity to work in, a one great Supreme Being was, in the created beginning, an d priori probability. That all other assumptions than that of His true and eternal Oneness are as false in themselves as they are derogatory to the rational views of deity, we all now see and believe ; but the direct proofs of this are more strictly matters of revelation than- of reason : albeit reason too can discern their probabilities. Wise heathens, such as Socrates and Cicero, who had not our light, arrived nevertheless at some of this perception ; and thus, through conscience and intelligence, became a law unto themselves : because that, to them, as now to any one of us who may not yet have seen the light, the anterior likelihood existed for only one God, rather than more ; a likelihood which prepares the mind to take as a fundamental truth, "The Lord our God is one Jehovah." Next; Self-existence combined with unity must include the probable attribute, or character, Ubiquity ; as I now proceed to show. On the same principle as that by which we have seen Something to be likelier than Nothing, we conclude that the same Something is more probable to be every where, than the same Nothing (if the phrase wei-e not absurd), to be any where : we may, so to speak, divide infinity into spaces, and prove the position in each instance : moreover, as that Something is essentially — not a unit as of many, but — unity involving all, it follows as most probable that this Whole Being should be ubiquitous ; in other parlance, that the one God should be every where at once : also, there being no limit to what we call Space, nor any imaginable hostile power to place a constraint upon the One Great Being, this Whole Being must be ubiquitous to a degree strictly infinite : "he is in every place, beholding the evil and the good." Such a consideration (and it is a perfectly true one) renders neces- sary the next point, to wit, that God is a Spirit. No possible substance can be every where at once : essence may, but not substance. Cor- poreity in any shape must be local ; local is finite ; and we have just proved the anterior probability of a One great Existence being (not- withstanding unity of essence) infinite. Illocal and infinite are convert- ible terms : spirit is illocal ; and, as God is infinite — that is, illocal — it is clear that "God is a Spirit." We have thus (not attempting to build up faith by such slight tools, but only using them to cut away prejudice) arrived at the high proba- bility of a God invested with His natural qualities or attributes : Self- existence, Unity, the faculty of being every where at once and that 40 470 PROBABILITIES. every where Infinitude ; and essentially of a Spiritual nature, not material. His moral, or accidental attributes (so to speak), were, ante cedently to their expression, equally easy of being proved probable. First, with respect to Power : given no disturbing cause — (we shall soon consider the question of permitted evil, and its origin ; but this, however disturbing to creatures, will be found not only none to God, but, as it were, only a ray of His glory suffered to be broken for pris- matic beauty's sake, a flash of the direction of His energies suffered to be diverted for the superior triumph of good in that day when it shall be shown that " God hath made all things for himself, yea, even the wicked for the time of visitation") — with the datum then of no disturb- ing cause obstructing or opposing, an infinite being must be able to do all things within the sphere of such infinity : in other phrase, He must be all-powerful. Just so, an impetus in vacuity suffers no check, but ever sails along among the fleet of worlds ; and the innate Impulse of the Deity must expand and energize throughout that infinitude, Himself. For a like reason of ubiquity, God must know all things : it is impossi- ble to escape from the strong likelihood that any intelligent being must be conversant of what is going on under his very eye. Again ; in the case both of Power and Knowledge, alike with the coming attributes of Goodness and Wisdom — (wisdom considered as morally distinct from mere knowledge or awaredness ; it being quite possible to conceive a cold eye seeing all things heedlessly, and a clear mind knowing all things heartlessly) — in the case, I say, of all these accidental attributes, there recurs for argument, one analogous to that by which we showed the anterior probability of a self-existence. Things positive must pre- cede things negative. Sight must have been, before blindness is pos- sible ; and before we can arrive at a just idea of no sight. Power must be precursor to an abstraction from power, or weakness. The minor-existence of ignorance is an impossibility, unless you preallow the major-existence of wisdom ; for it amounts to a debasing or a dimi- nution of wisdom. Sin is well defined to be, the transgression of law ; for without law, there can be no sin. So, also, without wisdom, there can be no ignorance ; without power, there can be no weakness ; Avith- out goodness, there can be no evil. Furthermore. An affirmative — such as wisdom, power, goodness — can exist absolutely ; it is in the nature of a Something : but a negative — such as ignorance, weakness, evil — can only exist relatively ; and it would, indeed, be a Nothinjj, were it not for the previous and now A GOD: AND HIS ATTRIBUTES. 47I simultaneous existence of its wiser, stronger, and better origin. Ab- stract evil is as demonstrably an impossibility as abstract ignorance, or abstract weakness. If evil could have self-existed, it would in the moment of its eternal birth have demolished itself. Virtue's intrinsic concord tends to perpetual being : vice's innate discord struggles always with a force towards dissolution. Goodness, wisdom, power have exist- ences, and have had existences from all eternity, though gulphed within the Godhead ; and that, whether evidenced in act or not : but their cor- ruptions have had no such original existence, but are only the same entities perverted. Love would be love still, though there were no existent object for its exercise : Beauty would be beauty still, though there were no created thing to illustrate its fairness : Power would be power still, though there be no foe to combat, no difficulty to be overcome. Hatred, ill-favour, weakness, are only perversions or diminutions of these. Power exists independently of muscles or swords or screws or levers ; love, independently of kind thoughts, words, and actions ; beauty, independently of colours, shapes, and adaptations. Just so is Wisdom philosophically spoken of by a truly royal and noble author : "I, wisdom, dwell with prudence, and find out the knowledge of clever inventions. Counsel is mine, and sound wisdom ; I am under- standing ; I have strength. The Lord possessed me in the beginning of his way, before his works of old. I was set up from everlasting, from the beginning, or ever the earth was. When there were no depths, I was brought forth ; before the mountains were fixed, or the hills were made. When He prepared the heavens, I was there ; when he set a compass upon the face of the depth ; when he established the clouds above ; when he strengthened the foundations of the deep : Then was I by him, as one brought up with him : and I was daily his delight, rejoicing always before him ; rejoicing in the habitable parts of his earth ; and my delights were with the sons of men." King Solomon well knew of Whom he wrote thus nobly. Eternal wisdom, power, and goodness, all prospectively thus yearning upon man, and incorporate in One, whose name, among his many names, is Wisdom. Wisdom, as a quality, existed with God ; and, constituting full pervasion of his essence, was God. But to return, and bind to a conclusion our ravelled thoughts. As, originally, the self-existent being, unbounded, all-knowing, might take up, so to speak, if He willed, these eternal affirmative excellences of wisdom, power, and goodness ; and as these, to every rational appre- 472 PROBABILITIES. liension, are highly worthy of his choice, whereas their derivative and inferior corruptions would have been most derogatory to any reasonable estimate of His character ; how much more likely was it that He should prefer the higher rather than the lower, should take the affirmative before the negative, should "choose the good, and refuse the evil," — than endure to be endowed with such garbled, demoralizing, finite attri- butes as those wherewith the heathen painted the Pantheon. What high antecedent probability was there, that if a God should be (and this we have proved highly probable too) — He should be One, ubiquitous, self- existent, spiritual: that He should be all-mighty, all-wise, and all-good? THE TRIUNITT. Another deep and inscrutable topic is now to engage our thoughts — the mystery of a probable Triunity. While we touch on such high themes, the Christian's presumption ever is, that he himself approaches them with reverence and prayer; and that, in the case of an unbeliever, any such mind will be courteous enough to his friendly opponent, and wise enough respecting his own interest and safety lest these things be true, to enter upon all such subjects with the seriousness befitting their importance, and with the restraining thought that in fact they may be sacred. Let us then consider, antecedently to all experience, with what sort of deity pure reason would have been satisfied. It has already arrived at Unity, and the foregoing attributes. But what kind of Unity is prob- able ? Unity of Person, or unity of Essence ? A sterile solitariness, easily understandable, and presumably incommunicative ? or an abso- lute oneness, which yet relatively involves several mysterious phases of its own expansive love ? Will you think it a foregone conclusion, if I assert the superior likelihoods of the latter, and not of the former ? Let us come then to a few of many reasons. First: it was by no means probable to be supposed anteriorly, that the God should be clearly com- prehensible : yet he must be one : and oneness is the idea most easily apprehended of all possible ideas. The meanest of intellectual crea- tures could comprehend his Maker, and in so far top his heights, if God, being truly one in one view, were yet only one in every view: if, tha' is to say, there existed no mystery incidental to his nature : nay, if that THE TRIUNITY. 473 mystery did not amount to the difficulty of a seeming contradiction. I judge it likely, and with confidence, that Reason would prerequire for his God, a Being, at once infinitely easy to be apprehended by the lowest of His spiritual children, and infinitely difficult to be comprehended by the highest of His seraphim. Now, there can be guessed only two ways of compassing such a prerequirement : one, a moral way ; such as inventing a deity who could be at once just and unjust, everywhere and no where, good and evil, powerful and weak ; this is the heathen phase of Numen's character, and is obviously most objectionable in every point of view : the other would be a physical way ; such as requiring a God who should be at once material and immaterial, abstraction and concretion ; or, for a still more confounding paradox to Reason (considered as antagonist to Faith, in lieu of being strictly its ally), an arithmetical contradiction, an algebraic mystery, such as would be included in the idea of Composite Unity ; one involving many, and many collapsed into one. Some such enigma was probable in Reason's guess at the nature of his God. It is the Christian way ; and one entirely unobjectionable : because it is the only insuperable diffi- culty as to His Nature which does not debase the notion of Divinity. But there are also other considerations. For, secondly. The self-existent One is endowed, as we found prob- able, with abundant loving-kindness, goodness overflowing and perpetual. Is it reasonable to conceive that such a character could for a moment be satisfied with absolute solitariness? that infinite benevolence should, in any possible beginning, be discovered existent in a sort of selfish only-oneness? Such a supposition is, to the eye of even unenlightened Reason, so clearly a reductio ad ahsurdum, that men in all countries and ages have been driven to invent a plurality of Gods, for very society sake : and I know not but that they are anteriorly wiser and more rational than the man who believes in a Benevolent Existence eternally one, and no otherwise than one. Let me not be mistaken to imply that there was any likelihood of many coexistent gods: that was a reasona- ble improbability, as we have already seen, perhaps a spiritual impossi- bility : but the anterior likelihood of which I speak goes to show, that in One God there should be more than one coexistence : each, by arith- metical mystery, but not absurdity, pervading all, coequals, each being God, and yet not three Gods, but one God. That there should be a rational difficulty here — or, rather, an irrational one — I have shown to be Reason's prerequirement: and if such a one as I, or any other crea- 40* 474 PROBABILITIES. ture, could now and here (ay, or any when or any where, in the heiglits of highest heaven, and the far-stretching distance of eternity) solve such intrinsic difficulty, it would demonstrably be one not worthy of its source, the wise design of God : it would prove that riddle read, which uncreate omniscience propounded for the baffling of the creature mind. No. It is far more reasonable, as well as far more reverent, to acquiesce in Mystery, -as another attribute inseparable from the nature of the God- head ; than to quibble about numerical puzzles, and indulge unwisely in objections which it is the happy state of nobler intelligences than man on earth is, to look into with desire, and to exercise withal their keen and lofty minds. But we have not yet done. Some further thoughts remain to be thrown out in the third place, as to the preconceivable fitness or propri- ety of that Holy Union, which we call the trinity of Persons who con- stitute the Self-existent One. If God, being one in one sense, is yet likely to appear, humanly speaking, more than one in another sense ; we have to inquire anteriorly of the probable nature of such other intimate Being or Beings : as also, whether such addition to essential oneness is likely itself to be more than one or only one. As to the former of these questions: if, according to the presumption of reason (and according also to what we have since learned from revelation ; but there may be good policy in not dotting this book with chapter and verse) — if the Deity thus loved to multiply Himself; then He, to whom there can exist no beginning, must have so loved, so determined, and so done from all eternity. Now, any conceivable creation, however originated, must have had a beginning, place it as far back as you will. In any succession of numbers, however infinitely they may stretch, the commencement at least is a fixed point, one. But, this multiplication of Deity, this complex simplicity, this intricate easiness, this obvious para- dox, this sub-division and con-addition of a One, must have taken place, so soon as ever eternal benevolence found itself alone ; that is, in eternity, and not in any imaginable time. So then, the Being or Beings would probably not have been creative, but of the essence of Deity. Take also for an additional argument, that it is an idea which detracts from every just estimate of the infinite and all-wise God to suppose He should take creatures into his eternal counsels, or consort, so to speak, familiarly with other than the united sub-divisions, persons, and coequals of Him- self. It was reasonable to prejudge that the everlasting companions of Benevolent God, should also be God. And thus, it appears antecedently THE TRIUNITY. 475 probable that (what from the poverty of language we must call) the multiplication of the one God should not have been created beings; that is, should have been divine ; a term, which includes, as of right, the attribution to each such Holy Person, of all the wondrous character, istics of the Godhead. Again : as to the latter question ; was it probable that such so-called sub-divisions should be two, or three, or how many ? I do not think it will be wise to insist upon any such arithmetical curiosity as a perfect number; nor on such a toy as an equilateral triangle and its properties; nor on the peculiar aptitude for sub-division in every thing, to be dis- cerned in a beginning, a middle, and an end ; nor in the consideration that every fact had a cause, is a constancy, and produces a consequence : neither, to draw any inferences from the social maxim that for counsel, companionship, and conversation, the number three has some special fitness. Some other similar fancies, not altogether valueless, might be alluded to. It seems preferable, however, on so grand a theme, to attempt a deeper dive, and a higher flight. We would then, reverently as always, albeit equally as always with the free-born boldness of God's intellectual children, attempt to prejudge how many, and with what dis- tinctive marks, the holy beings into whom (a»s ims etnUv) God, for very Benevolence sake, pours out Essential Unity, were likely to be. Let us consider what principles, as in the case of a forthcoming creation, would probably be found in action, to influence such creation's Author. First of all, there would be Will, a will energized by love, disposing to create : a phase of Deity aptly and comprehensively typified to all minds by the name of a universal Father : this would be the primary impersonation of God. And is it not so? Secondly: there would be (with especial reference to that idea of cre- ation which doubtless at most remote beginnings occupied the Good One's contemplation), there would be next, I repeat, in remarkable adaptation to all such benevolent views, the great idea of principle, Obedience ; conforming to a Father's righteous laws, acquiescing in his just will, and returning love for love : such a phase could not be better shadowed out to creatures than by an Eternal Son ; the dutiful yet supreme, the subordinate yet coequal, the amiable yet exalted Avatar of our God. This was probable to have been the second impersonation of Deity. And is it not so ? Thirdly : Springing from the conjoint ideas of the Father and the 476 PROBABILITIES. Son, and with similar prospection to such instantly creative universe, there would occur the grand idea of Generation; the mighty coequal, pure, and quickening Impulse : aptly announced to men and angels as the Holy Spirit. This was to have been the third impersonation of Divinity. And is it not so ? Of all these — under illumination of the fore-known fact, I speak, in their aspect of anterior probability. With respect to more possible Persons, I at least cannot invent one. There is, to my reflection, neither need nor fitness for a fourth, or any further Principle. If another can, let him look well that he be not irrationally demolishing an attribute and setting it up as a principle. Obedience is not an attribute ; nor Generation ; nor Will : whilst the attribute of Love, pervading all, sets these only possible three Principles going together as One in a myste- rious harmony. I would not be misunderstood ; persons are not princi- ples ; but principles may be illustrated and incorporative in persons. Essential Love, working distinctively throughout the Three, unites them instinctively as One : even as the attribute Wisdom designs, and the attribute Power arranges all the scheme of Godhead. And now I ask Reason, whether, presupposing keenness, he might not have arrived by calculation of probabilities at the likelihood of these gi'eat doctrines : that the nature of God would be an apparent contra- diction : that such contradiction should not be moral, but physical ; or rather verging towards the metaphysical, as immaterial and more pro- found : that God, being One, should yet, in his great Love, marvellously have been companioned from eternity by Himself: and that such Holy and United Confraternity should be so wisely contrived as to serve for the bright unapproachable exemplar of love, obedience, and generation to all the future universe, such Triunity Itself existing uncreated. THE GODHEAD VISIBLE. We have hitherto mused on the Divinity, as on Spirit invested with attributes : and this idea of His nature was enough for all requirements antecedently to a creation. At whatever beginning we may suppose such creation to have commenced, whether countless ages before our present /crfo-ps, or only a sufficient time to have prepared the crust of earth ; and to whatever extent we may imagine creation to have spread, whether in those remote periods originally to our system alone and at after THE GODHEAD VISIBLE. 477 eras to its accompanying stars and galaxies and firmaments; or at one and the same moment to have poured material existence over space to which our heavens are as nothing: whatever, and whenever, and wherever creation took place, it would appear to be probable that some one person of the Deity should, in a sort, become more or less concretely manifested ; that is, in a greater or a minor degree to such created minds and senses visible. Moreover, for purposes at least of a concentrated worship of such creatures, that He should occasionally, or perhaps habitually, appear local. I mean, that the King of all spiritual poten- tates and the subordinate Excellencies of brighter worlds than ours, the Sovereign of those whom we call angels, should will to be better known to and more aptly conceived by such His admiring creatures, in some usual glorious form, and some-» wonted sacred place. Not that any should see God, as purely God ; but, as God relatively to them, in the capacity of King, Creator, and the Object of all reasonable worship. It seems anteriorly probable that one at least of the Persons in the Godhead should for this purpose assume a visibility; and should hold His court of adoration in some central world, such as now we call indefinitely Heaven. That such probability did exist in the human forecast, as con- cerns a heaven and the form of God, let the testimony of all nations now be admitted to corroborate. Every shape from a cloud to a croco- dile, and every place from J^ther to Tartarus, have been peopled by man's not quite irrational device with their so-called gods. But we must not lapse into the after-argument: previous likelihood is our harder theme. Neither, in this section, will we attempt the probabilities of the place of heaven : that will be found at a more distant page. We have here to speak of the antecedent credibility that there should be some visible phase of God; and of the shape wherein he would be most likely, as soon as a creation was, to appear to such his creatures. With respect, then, to the former. Creatures, being finite, can only compre- hend the infinite in his attribute of unity : the other attributes being apprehended (or comprehended partially) in finite phases. But, unity being a purely intellectual thought, one high and dry beyond the moral feelings, involves none of the requisites of a spiritual, that is an affec- tionate, worship ; such worship as it was likely that a beneficent Being would, for his creatures' own elevation in happiness, command and inspire towards Himself. In order, therefore, to such worship and such inspiration acting through reason, it would appear fitting that the Deity should manifest Himself especially with reference to that heavenly Ex- 478 PROBABILITIES. emplar, the Three Divine Persons of the One Supreme Essence already shown to have been probable. And it seems likeliest and discreetest to my thinking, that, with this view, the secondary phase, loving Obedi- ence, under the dictate of the primary phase, a loving Will, and ener- gized by the tertiary or conjoining phase a loving Quickening Entity, should assume the visbile type of Godhead, and thus concentrate unto Himself the worship of all worlds. I can conceive no scheme more simply profound, more admirably suited to its complex purposes, than that He, in whom dwelt the fullness of the Godhead, bodily, should take the form of God, in order that unto Him every knee should bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things in regions under the earth. Was not all this reasonably to have been looked for ? and tested afterwards by Scripture, in its frequent allusions to some visible phase of Deity, when the Lord God walked with Adam, and Enoch, and Abraham, and Peter, and James, and John — I ask, is it not the case? The latter point remaining to be thus briefly touched upon, respects the probable shape to be assumed and worn, familiarly enough to be recognised as His, by Deity thus vouchsafing Himself visible. And here we must look down the forward stream of Time, and search among the creatures whom thereafter God should make, to arrive at some good reason for, some antecedent probability of, the form which he should thus frequently inhabit. Fire, for example, a pure and spirit-like nature, would not have been a guess unworthy of reason: but this, besides its humbler economic uses, would endanger an idolatry of the natural emblem. So also would light be no irrational thought. And it is true that God might, and probably would, invest Himself in one or both of these pure essences, so seemingly congenial to a nature higher than ours : but then there would be some nucleus to the brilliancy and the burning ; these would be as a veil to the Divinity ; we should have need, before He were truly visible, that the veil were laid aside : we should have to shred away to the nucleus, which (and not the fire or light) would be the form of God. Similar objections, in themselves or in their idolatrizing tendencies, would lie against any such shape as a cloud, or a rainbow, or an angel (whatever such a being may resemble), or in fact any other conceivable creature, whether good as the angelic case or indifferent as that of the cloud, which the Deity, though assuming often, would nevertheless in every instance assume in conjunction with such his ordinary creature, ^nd could not entirely monopolize. I mean; if God had the shape of a cloud, or of a rainbow, common clouds ana THE GODHEAD VISIBLE. 479 rainbows would come to be thought gods too. Reason would anticipate this objection to such created and too-favoured shapes: more; in every case, but one, he would be quite at a loss to look for some type, clearly apt and probable. That one case he might discern to be this. Known unto God are all things from the beginning to the end : and, in His fore- knowledge, Reason might have been enlightened to prophesy (as we shall hereafter see) that for certain wise and good ends one great family out of the myriads who rejoice in being called God's children, would in a most marked manner fall away from Him through disobedience ; and should thereby earn, if not the annihilation of their being, at least its endless separation from the Blessed. Manifestly, the wisdom and benevolence of God would be eager and swift to devise a plan for the redemption of so lost a race. Why He should permit their fall at all will be reverentially descanted on in its proper section ; meanwhile, how is it probable that God, first, by any theory consistently with truth and justice, could, and next by power and contrivance actually would, lift up again this sinful fiimily from the pit of condemnation ? Reason is to search the question well : and after much thought, you will arrive at the truth that there was but one way probable. Rebellion against the Great and Self-existent Author of all things, must needfully involve infinite punishment; if only because He is infinite, and his laws of an eternal sanction. The problem then was, how to inflict the unbounded punishment thus claimed by justice for a transgressional condition, and yet at love's demand to set the prisoner free: how to be just, and simul- taneously justifier of the guilty. That was a question magnificently solved by God alone : magnificently about to be solved, as according to our argument seemed probable, by God Triune, in wondrous self- involving council. The solution would be rationally this. Himself, in his character of filial obedience, should pay the utter penalty to Himself in his character of paternal authority, whilst Himself in the character of quickening spirit, should restore the ransomed family from death to life, from the power of evil unto good. Was not this a most probable, a most reasonably probable scheme? was it not altogether wise and philosophical, as well as entirely generous and kind to wretched men? And (returning to our present topic), was it not antecedently to have been expected that God the Son (so to put it) should, in the shape He was thereafter to assume upon earth, appear upon the eternal throne of heaven ? In a shape, however glorified and etherealized, with glistening countenance and raiment bright as the light, nevertheless resembling 480 PROBABILITIES. that more humble form, the Son of Man, who was afterwards thus by a circle of probabilities to be made in the form of God ; in a shape, not liable, from its very sinfulness, to the deification either of other worlds or of this [hero-worship is another and a lower thing altogether ; we speak here of true idolatries :] — was it unlikely, I say, that in such a shape Deity should have deigned to become visible, and have blazed Manifested God, the central Sun of Heaven? — This probability, prior to our forth-flowing thoughts on the Incarnation, though in some measure anticipating them, will receive further light from the views soon to be set forth. I know not but that something is additionally due to the suggestion following ; namely : that, raise our swift imagination to what height we may, and stretch our searching reason to the utter- most, we cannot, despite of all inventive energies and powers of mind, conceive any shape more beautiful, more noble, more worthy for a rational intelligence to dwell in, more in one Homeric word Bcoctits, than the glorified and etherealized human form divine. Let this serve as Reason's short reply to any charge of anthropomorphism in the doc- trines of his creed : it was probable that God should be revealed to His creation ; and as to the form of any such revealed essence in any such infinite beginnings of His work, the most likely of all would appear to be that one, wherein He, in the ages then to come, was well resolved to earn the most glorious of all ti'iumphs, the merciful reconciliation of everlasting justice with everlasting love, the wise and wondrous scheme of God forgiving sinners. THE ORIGIN OF EVIL. It will now be opportune to attempt elucidation of one of the darkest and deepest riddles ever propounded to the finite understanding ; the d priori likelihood of evil : not, mind, its eternal existence, which is a false doctrine ; but its probable procession from the earliest created beings, which is a true one. At first sight, nothing could appear more improbable : nothing more inconsistent with the recognised attributes of God, than that error, pain, and sorrow should be mingled in His works. These, the spontaneous offspring of His love, one might (not all wisely) argue, must always be good and happy — because perfect as Himself. Because perfect?— THE ORIGIN OF EVIL. 481 Therein lies the fallacy, which reason will at once lay bare. Perfection IS attributable to no possible creature : perfection argues infinity, and infinity is one of the prerogatives of God. However good, " very good," a creation may be found, still it must, from essential finitude, fall short of that Best, which is in effect the only state purely unexceptionable. For instance, no creature can be imagined of a wisdom undiminished from the single true standard, God's wisdom : in other phrase, every creature must be more or less departed from wisdom, that is, verging towards folly. Again ; no creature can be presumed of a purity so spotless as to rank in an equality with that of the Almighty : in other words, neither man, nor angel, nor any other creature, can exist who is not more or less — I will not say impure, positively, but — unpure nega- tively. Thus, the birth-mark of creation must have been an inclination towards folly, and from purity. The mere idea of creatures would involve, as its great need-be, the qualifying clause that these emanations from perfection be imperfect ; and that these children of purity be liable to grow unpure. They must either be thus natured, or exist of the essence of God, that is, be other persons and phases of the Deity : such a case was possible certainly ; but, as we have already shown, not probable. And it were possible, that, in consequence of some redemp- tion such as we have spoken of, creatures might by ingraftation into God become so entirely part of Him — bone of bone, and flesh of flesh, and spirit of spirit — that an exhortation to such blest beings should reasonably run, "Be ye perfect." But this infinite munificence of the Godhead in redemption was not to be found among His bounties as Creator. It might indeed arise afterwards, as setting up again the fallen creature in some safe niche of Deity : and we now know it has arisen : "we are complete in Him." But this, though relevant, is a digression. Returning, and to produce some further argument against all creature perfectness; let us consider how rational it seems to presuppose that the mighty Maker in his bound- less love should have willed to form a long chain of classes of existence more and more subordinated each to the other, each good of its kind and happy in its way, but yet all needfully more or less removed from the high standard of uncreate Perfection. These descending links, these graduations downwards, must involve a nearer or remoter approach to evil. Now, we must bear in mind that Evil is not a principle, but a perversion : it amounts merely to a denial, a limitation, a corruption of good, not to the dignity of its abstract antagonism. Familiarly, but Ff 41 482 PROBABILITIES. fallaciously, we talk of the evil principle, the contradictory to good : we might as well talk of the nosologic principle, the contradictory to health ; or the darkness principle, the contradictory to light. They are contra- ries, but not contradictories : they have no positive, but only a relative existence. Good and evil are verily foes, but originally there was one cemented friendship : slender beginnings consequent on a creation, began to cause the breach : the civil war arose out of a state of primi- tive peace : images betray us into errors, or I might add with a protest against the risk of being misinterpreted, that like brothers turned to a deadly hate, they nevertheless sprang not originally out of two hostile and opposite hemispheres, but from one paternal hearth. Not, however, in any sense that God is the author of evil ; but that God's workman- ship, the finite creature, needfully perverted good. The origin of evil — that is, its birth — is a term true and clear : ori- ginal evil — that is, giving it no birth but an antedate to all created things, suffering it to run parallel with God and good from all eternity — this is a term false and misty. The probability that good would be warped, and grow deteriorate; that wisdom would be dwindled down into less and less wisdom, or foolishness ; and power degenerated more and more towards imbecility ; must arise, directly a creature should spring out oi the Creator; and that, let astronomy or geology name any date they will : Adam is a definite date ; perhaps also the first day's — or period's — work : but the Beginning of Creation is undated. It would then, under this impression of the necessary defalcation of the creature from the Strict straight line, be rational to look for deviations: it would be rational to presuppose that God — ^just, and good, and pure, and wise — should righteously be able to " charge his angels with folly," should verily declare that "the heavens are not pure in his sight." Further; it would be a possible chance (which considerations soon succeeding would render even probable) that for a wise humiliation of the reasoning creature, and a just exaltation of the only Source of life and light and all things, one or more of such first created beings, or angels, should be suffered to fall, possibly from the vastest height, and at first by the slenderest beginnings, lower and lower into folly, impu- rity, and all other derelictions from the excellence of God. The lines, once unparalleled, would, without a check, go further apart for all eter- nity ; albeit, the primal deviation arose in time. The aerolite, dropping slowly at first, increases in swiftness as it multiplies the fathoms of descent: and if the abyss be really bottomless, how impossible a check or a return. X HE ORIGIN OF EVIL. Some such terrible example would amount to a reasonable likelihood, if only for a lesson and a warning : to all intelligent hierarchs, be not high-minded, but fear ; to all responsible beings, keep righteousness and reverence, and tempt not God ; to all the Virtues, Dominations, Obedi- ences, and due Subordinations of unknown glorious worlds, a loud and living exhortation to exercise, and not to let grow dim their spiritual energies, in efforts after goodness, wisdom, and purity. A creature state, to be happy, must be a progressive state : the capability of pro- gression argues lack, or a tendency from good : and progression itself needs a spur, lest indolence relapse towards evil. Additionally : we must remember that a creature's excellence before God is the reasonable service which he freely renders: freedom, dan- gerous prerogative, involves choice: and choice necessitates the possi- bility of error. The command to a rational intelligence would be, do this, and live ; do it not, and die : if thou doest, it is well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast mounted by thine own heaven-blest exertions to a higher approach towards infinite perfection ; enter thou into the joy, not merely of a creature, but of thy Lord. But, if thou'doest not, it is wo to thee, unworthy hireling ; thou hast broken the tie that bound thee to thy Maker — obedience, the root of happiness ; thou livest on indeed, because the Former of all things cancelleth not nor endeth his beginning; but henceforth thine existence is, as a river which earthquakes have divorced from its bed, and instead of flowing on for ever through the fair pastures of peace and among the mountain roots of everlasting righte- ousness, thy downward course is shattery, headlong, turbulent, and destructive ; black-throated whirlpools here, miasmatic marshes there, a cataract, a shoal, a rapid; until the remorseless stream, lashing among rocks which its own riot rendered sterile, pours its unresting waters into the thirsty sands of the Sahara. It was indeed probable (as since we know it to be true) that the generous Giver of all things would in the vast majority of cases minister such secret help to His weaker spiritual children, that, far from failing of continuous obedience, they should find it so unceasingly easier and happier that their very natures would soon come to be imbued with that pervading habit: and that thus, the. longer any creature stood upright, the stronger should he rest in righteousness; until, at no very distant period, it should become morally impossible for him to fall. Such would soon be the condition of myriads, perhaps almost the whole, of heaven's innumerable host : and with respect to any darker Unit in 484 PROBABILITIES. that multitude, for the good of all permitted to make early shipwreck of himself, simply by leaving his intelligence to plume its wings into pre- sumptuous flight, and by allowing his pristine goodness or wisdom to grow rusty from non-usage until that sacred panoply were eaten into holes; with respect to any such unhappy one, and all others (if others be) who should listen to his glozing, and make a common cause in his rebellion, where, I ask, is any injustice, or even unkindness done to him by Deity? Where is any moral improbability that such a traitor should be; or any just inconsistency chargeable on the attributes of God in consequence of such his being? Whom can he in reason accuse but himself for what he is? And what misery can such a one complain of, which is not the work of his own hands? And lest the Great Offender should urge against his God, why didst thou make me thus? — Is not the answer obvious, 1 made thee, but not thus. And on the rejoinder, Why didst thou not keep me as thou madest me? Is not the reply just, I made thee reasonable, I led thee to the starting place, I taught thee and set thee going well in the beginning ; thou art intelligent and free, and hast capacities of Mine own giving : wherefore didst thou throw aside My grace, and fly in the face of thy Creator? On the whole ; consider that I speak only of probabilities. There is a depth in this abyss of thought, which no human plummet is long enough to sound ; there is a maze in this labyrinth to be tracked by no moi'tal clue. It involves the truth. How unsearchable are his judgments : Thou hidest thy ways in the sea, and thy paths in the deep waters, and thy footsteps are not known. The weak point of man's argument lies in the suggested recollection, that doubtless the Deity could, if He would, have upheld all the universe from falling by his gracious power; and that the attribute of love concludes that so He would. However, these three brief considerations further will go some way to'' solve the difficulty, and to sti-engthen the weak point; first, there are other attri- butes besides love to run concurrently with it, as truth, justice, and unchangeableness : — Secondly, that grace is not grace, if manifested indiscriminately to all : and thirdly, that to our understanding at least there was no possible method of illustrating the amiabilities of Goodness, and the contrivances of Wisdom, but by the infused permission of some physical and moral evils: Mercy, benevolence, design, would in a universe of best have nothing to do ; that universe itself would grow stagnant, as incapable of progress ; and the principal record of God's excellences, the book of redemption, would have been unwritten. Is COSMOGONY. 485 not then the existence of evil justified in reason's calculation'? and was not such existence an antecedent probability? Of these matters, thus curtly : it is time, in a short recapitulation, to reflect, that, from foregoing causes, mysteries were probable around the throne of heaven : and, as I have attempted to show, the mystery of imperfection, a concrete not an abstract, was likely to have sprung out of any creature universe. Reason perceives that a Gordion knot was likely to have become entangled; in the intricate complexities of abounding good to be mingled needfully with its own deficiencies, cor- ruptions, and perversions : and this having been shown by Reason as anteriorly probable, its difficult involvements are now since cut by the sword of conquering Faith. COSMOGONY. These deep themes having been descanted on, however from their nature unsatisfactorily and with whatever human weakness, let us now endeavour mentally to transport ourselves to a period immediately ante- cedent to our own world's birth. We should then have been made aware that a great event was about to take place ; whereat, from its foreseen consequences, the hierarchies of heaven would be prompt to shout for joy, and the holy ones of God to sing for gratitude. It was no com- mon case of a creation ; no merely onemore orb, of third-rate unimpor- tance, amongst the million others of higher and more glorious praise : but it was a globe and a race about to be unique in character and fate, and in the far-spread results of their existence. On it and of its family was to be contrived the scene, wherein, to the admiration of the uni- verse, God himself in Person was going visibly to make head against corruption in creation, and for ever thus to quench that possibility again : wherein He was marvellously to invent and demonstrate how Mercy and Truth should meet together, how Righteousness and Peace should kiss each other. There, was going to be set forth the wonderfully com- plicated battle-plan, by which, force countervailing force, and design converging all things upon one fixed point. Good, concrete in the crea- ture, should overwhelm not without strife and wounds Evil concrete in the creature, and all things, "even the wicked," should be seen harmo- niously blending in the glory of the attributes of God. The mythologic 41* 486 PROBABILITIES. Pan, TO irav the great Universal All, was deeply interested in the strug- gle: for the seed of the woman was to bruise the serpent's head; not merely as respected the small orb about to be, but concerning heaven itself, the unbounded " haysh hamaim," wherefrom dread Lucifer was thus to be ejected. On the earth, a mere planet of humble lustre, which the prouder suns around might well despise, was to be exhibited this noble and analogous result ; the triumph of a lower intelligence, such as man, over a higher intelligence, such as angel : because, the former race, however frail, however weak, were to find their nature taken into God, and should have for their grand exemplar, leader and brother, the Very Lord of all arrayed in human guise ; while the latter, the angelic fallen mass, in spite of all their pristine wisdom and excellency, were to set up as their captain him, who may well and philosophically be termed their Adversary. This dark being, probably the mightiest of all mere creatures as the embodiment of corrupted good and perversion of an archangelic wisdom, was about to be suffered to fall victim to his own overtopping ambitions, and to drag with him a third part of the heavenly host — some tributary monarchs of the stars : thus he, and those his colleagues, should become a spectacle and a warning to all creatures else ; to stand for spirits' reading in letters of fire a deeply burnt-in record how vast a gulf there is between the Maker and the made ; how impassable a barrier between the derived intelligence and its infinite Creator. Such an unholy leader in rebellion against good — let us call him A or B, or why not for very euphony's sake Lucifer and Satanas? — such a corrupted excellence of heaven was to meet his final and inevitable disgrace to all eternity on the forthcoming battle-field of earth. Would it not be probable then that our world, soon to be fashioned and stocked with its teeming rea- sonable millions, should concentrate to itself the gaze of the universe, and, from the deeds to be done in it, should arrogate towards man a deep and fixed attention: that "the morning stars should sing together, and all the sons of God should shout for joy." Let us too, according to the power given to us, partake of such attention antecedently in some detail : albeit, as always, very little can be tracked of the length and breadth of our theme. What would probably be the nature of such world and of such crea- tures, in a physical point of view ? and what, in a moral point of view ? It is not necessary to divide these questions : for the one so bears upon the other, or rather the latter so directs and pervades the former, that we may brieHy treat of both as one. COSMOGONY. 487 The first probability would be, that, as the creature Man so to be abased and so to be exalted must be a responsible and reasonable being, every thing — with miraculous exceptions just enough to prove the rule — every thing around him should also be responsible and reasonable. In other words, that, with such exceptions as before alluded to, the whole texture of this world should bear to an inquisitive intellect the stamp of cause and effect : whilst for the mass, such cause and effect should be so little intrusive, that their easier religion might recognise God in all things immediately, rather than mediately. For instance : take the cases of stone, and of coal ; the one so needful for man's architecture, the other for his culinary warmth. Now, however simple piety might well thank the Maker for having so stored earth with these for necessary uses; they ought, to a more learned, though not less pious ken, to seem not to have been created by an effort of the Great Father qua stone, or qua coal. Such a view might satisfy the ordinary mind : but thinkers would see no occasion for a miracle ; when Christ raises Lazarus from the dead, it would have been a philosophical fault to have found the grave-clothes and swathing bandages ready loosened also. Unassisted man can do that : and unhelped common causes can generate stone and coal. The deposits of undated floods, the periodical currents of lava, the still and stagnant lake, and the furious up-bursting earthquake ; all these would be called into play, and not the unrequired, I had almost said unreasonable, energies, which we call miracle. An agglutination of shells, once peopled with life ; a crystallized lump of segregate min- erals, once in a molten state; a mass of carbonated foliage and trunks of tropical trees, buried by long changes under the soil, whereover they had once waved greenly luxuriant ; these, and no other, should have been man's stone and coal. This instance affects the reasonableness of such material creation. Take another, bearing upon its analogous responsibilities. As there was to be warred in this world the contest between good and evil, it would be expectable that the crust of man's earth, anteriorly to man's existence on it, should be marked with some traces that the evil, though newly born so far as might regard man's own disobedience, nevertheless had existed antecedently. In other words : it was probable that there should exist geological evidences of suffering and death: that the gigantic ichthyosaurus should be found fixed in rock with his cruel jaws closed upon his prey: that the fearful iguanodon should leave the tracks of having desolated a whole reo-ion of its reptile tribes: that volcanoes should have ravaged fair continents 488 PROBABILITIES. prolific of animal and vegetable life : that, in fine, though man's death came by man's sin, yet that death and sin were none of man's creating : he was only to draw down upon his head a preexistent wo, an ante- toppling rock. Observe then, that these geological phenomena are only illustrations of my meaning: and whether such parables be true or false, the argument i-emains the same : we never build upon the sand of simile, but only use it here and there for strewing on the floor. Still, I will acknowledge that the introduction of such fossil instances appears to me wisely thrown in as affects their antecedent probability, because ignorant comments upon scriptural cosmogony have raised the absurdest objections against the truth of scriptural science. There is not a tittle of known geological fact, which is not absolutely reconcilable with Genesis and Job. But this is a word by the way : although aimed not without design against one of the poor and paltry weak-holds of the infidel. ADAM. Remembering, then, that these are probabilities, and that the whole treatise purports to be nothing but a sketch, and not a finished picture, we have suggestively thus thrown out that the material world, man's home as man, was likely to have been prepared, as we posteriorly know it to be. Now, what of man's own person, circumstances, and individu- ality? Was it likely that the world should be stocked at once with many several races, or with one prolific seed ? with a specimen of every variety of the genus man, or with the one generic type capable of forming those varieties? — Answer. One is by far the likelier in itself, because one thing must needs be more probable than many things: additionally ; Wisdom and Power are always economical, and where one will suit the purpose, superfluities are rejected. That this one seed, coverino- with its product a various globe under all imaginable differences of circumstance and climate, should, in the lapse of ages, generate many species of the genus Man, was antecedently probable. For example, morality, peace and obedience would exercise transforming powers: their opposites the like in an opposite way. We can well fancy a mild and gentle race, as the Hindoo, to spring from the former educationals : and a family with flashing eyes and strongly-visaged natures, as the Malay, from a state of hatred, war, and license. We can well conceive ADAM. 489 that a tropical sun should carbonize some of that tender fabric the skin, adding also swift blood and fierce passions : while an arctic climate would induce a sluggish, stunted race. And, when to these consider- ations we add that of promiscuous unions, we arrive at the just like- lihood that the whole family of man, though springing from one root, should, in the course of generations, be what now we see it. Further. How should this prolific original, the first man, be created ? and for a name let us call him Adam ; a justly-chosen name enough, as alluding to his medium colour, ruddiness. Should he have been east upon the ground an infant, utterly helpless, requiring miraculous aid and guidance at every turn ? Should he be originated in boyhood, that hot and tumultuous time, when the creature is most rash, and least qualified for self-government ? or should he be first discerned as an adult, in his prime, equal alike to obedience and rule, to moral control and moral energy ? Add also here ; is it probable there would be any needless interval placed to procreations? or rather, should not such original seed be able immediately to fulfil the blank world call upon him, and as the greatly- teeming human father be found fitted from his birth to pi'opagate his kind? The questions answer themselves. Again. Should this first man have been discovered originally sur- rounded with all the appliances of an after-civilization, clad, and housed, and rendered artificial ? nor rather, in a noble and naturally royal aspect appear on the stage of life as king of the natural creation, sole warder of a garden of fruits, with all his food thus readily concocted, and an eastern climate tempered to his nakedness ? Now, as to the solitariness of this one seed. From what we have already mused respecting God's benevolence, it would seem probable that the Maker might not see it good that man should be alone. The seed, originally one, proved (as was likely) to resemble its great parent, God, and to be partitionable, or reducible into persons; though with reasonable differences as between creature and Creator. Woman — Eve, the living or life-giving — was likely to have sprung out of the composite seed, Man, in order to companionship and fit society. More- over, it were expectable that in the pattern creature, composite man. there should be involved some apt, mysterious typification of the same creature, after a fore-known fall restored, as in its perfect state of reunion with its Maker. A posteriori, the figurative notion is, that the Redeemed family, or mystical spouse, is incorporated in her husband, the Redeemer: 490 PROBABILITIES. not so much in the idea of marriage, as (taking election into view) of a cocreation ; as it were rib of rib, and life woven into life, not copulated or conjoined, but immingled in the being. This is a mystery most worthy of deep searching ; a mystery deserving philosophic care, not less than the more unilluminate enjoyment of humble and believing Christians. I speak concerning Christ and his church. THE FALL. There is a special fitness in the fact, long since known and now to be perceived probable, that if mankind should fail in disobedience, it should rather be through the woman tlian through the man. Because, the man, qua man, and the deputed head of all inferior creatures, was nearer to his Creator, than the woman; wlio, qua woman, proceeded out of man. She was, so to speak, one step further from God, ab origine, than man was; therefore, more liable to err and fall away. To my own mind, I confess, it appears that nothing is more anteriorly probable than the plain, scriptural story of Adam and Eve : so simple that the child deliglits in it ; so deep that the philosopher lingers there with an equal, but more reasonable joy. For, let us now come to the probabilities of a temptation ; and a fall ; and what temptation ; and how ordered. The heavenly intelligences beheld the model-man and model-woman, rational beings, and in all points "very good." The Adversary panted for the fray, demanding some test of the obedience of tliis new, favourite race. And the Lord God was willing that the great controversy, which he fore-knew, and for wise purposes allowed, should immediately commence. Where was the use of a delay? If you will reply, To give time to strengthen Adam's moral powers : I rejoin, he was made with more than enough of strength infused against any temptation not entering by the portal of his will : and against the open door of Avill neither time nor habits can avail. Moreover, the trial was to be exceedingly simple ; no difficult abstinence, for man might freely eat of every thing but one ; no natural passion tempted ; no exertion of intelli- gence requisite. Adam lived in a garden; and his Maker, for proof of reasonable obedience, provides the most easy and obvious test of it — do not eat that apple. Was it, in reality, an improbable test; an unsuita- THE FALL. 491 ble one? Was it not, rather, the likeliest in itself, and the fittest as addressed to the new-born, rational animal, which imagination could invent, or an amiable fore-knowledge of all things could desire? Had it been to climb some arduous height without looking back, or on no account to gaze upon the sun, how much less apt and easy of obedience ! Thus much for the test. Now, as to the temptation and its ordering. A creature, to be tempted fairly, must be tempted by another equal or lower creature ; and through the senses. If mere spirit strives with spirit, plus matter, the strife is unequal : the latter is clogged ; he has to fight in the net of Retiarius. But if both are netted, if both are spirit plus matter, (that is, material creatures,) there is no unfairness. Therefore, it would seem reasonable that the Adversary in person should descend from his mere spirituality into some tangible and humbled form. This could not well be man's, nor the semblance of man's : for the first pair would well know that they were all mankind : and, if the Lord God himself was accustomed to be seen of them as in a glorified humanity, it would be manifestly a moral incongruity to invest the devil in a similar form. It must, then, be the shape of some other creature ; as a lion, or a lamb, or — why not a serpent ? Is there any improbability here ? and not rather as apt an avatar of the sinuous and wily rebel, the dangerous, fascinating foe, as poetry at least, nay, as any sterner contrivance could invent? The plain fact is, that Reason — given keenness — might have guessed this also antecedently a likelihood. A few words more on other details probable to the temptation. Won- derful as it may seem to us with our present experience, in the case of the first woman it would scarcely excite her astonishment to be accosted in human phrase by one of the lower creatures ; and in no other way could the tempter reach her mind. Much as Milton puts it, Eve sees a beautiful snake, eating, not improbably, of the forbidden apple. Attracted by a natural curiosity, she would draw near, and in a soft sweet voice the serpent, i. e. Lucifer in his guise, would whisper tempt- ation. It was likely to have been keenly managed. Is it possible, O fair and favoured mistress of this beautiful garden, that your Maker has debarred you from its very choicest fruit? Only see its potencies for good : I, a poor reptile, am instantly thereby endued with knowledge and the privilege of speech. Am I dead for the eating ? — ye shall not surely die ; but shall become as gods yourselves ; and this your Maker knoweth. 492 PROBABILITIES. The marvellous fruit, invested thus with mystery, and tinctured with the secret charm of a thing unreasonably, nay, harmfully, forbidden, would then be allowed silently to plead its own merits. It was good for food : a young creature's first thought. It was pleasant to the eyes : addressing a higher sense than mere bodily appetite, than mental predi- lection for form and colour which marks fine breeding among men. It was also to be desired to make one wise ; here was the climax, the great moral inducement which an innocent being might well be taken with ; irrespectively of the one qualification that this wisdom was to be plucked in spite of God. Doubtless, it were probable, that had man not fallen, the knowledge of good would never have been long withheld : but he chose to reap the crop too soon, and reaped it mixed with tares, good, and evil. I need not enlarge, in sermon form, upon the theme. It was probable that the weaker creature, Woman, once entrapped, she would have charms enough to snare her husband likewise : and the results thus perceived to have been likely, we have long since known for fact. That a depraved knowledge should immediately occasion some sort of clothing to be instituted by the great moral Governor, was likely : and there would be nothing near at hand, in fact nothing else suitable, but the skins of beasts. There is also a high probability that some sort of slaying should take place instantly on the fall, by way of reference to the coming sacrifice for sin ; and for a type of some imputed righteous- ness. God covered Man's evil nakedness with the skins of innocent slain animals : even so. Blessed is he whose unrighteousness is forgiven, and whose sin is covered. With respect to restoration from any such fall. There seems a remarkable prior probability for it, if we take into account the empty places in heaven, the vacant starry thrones which sin had caused to be untenanted. Just as, in after years, Israel entered into the cities and the gardens of the Canaanite and other seven nations, so it was anteri- orly likely, would the ransomed race of Men come to be inheritors of the mansions among heavenly places, which had been left unoccupied by the fallen host of Lucifer. There was a gap to be filled : and probably there would be some better race to fill it. THE FLOOD. 493 THE FLOOD. Themes like those past and others still to come, are so immense, that each might fairly ask a volume for its separate elucidation. A few seeds, pregnant with thought, are all that we have here space, or time, or power to drop beside the world's highway. The grand outlines ot our race command our first attention: we cannot stop to think and speak of every less detail. Therefore, now would I carry my com- panion across the patriarchal times at once to the era of the Deluge. Let us speculate, as hitherto, antecedently, throwing our minds as it were into some angelic prior state. If, as we have seen probable, evil (a concretion always, not an abstraction) made some perceptible ravages even in the unbounded sphere of a heavenly creation, how much more rapid and overwhelming would its avalanche (once ill-commenced) be seen, when the site of its infliction was a poor band of men and women prisoned on a speck of earth. How likely was it that, in the lapse of no long time, the whole world should have been "corrupt before God, and filled with wicked, ness." How probable, that taking into account the great duration of pristine human life, the wicked family of man should speedily have festered up into an intolerable guiltiness. And was this dread result of the primal curse and disobedience to b'> regarded as the Adversary's triumph ? Had this Accuser — the Saxon word is Devil — had this Slan- derer of God's attribute then really beaten Good ? or was not rather all this swarming sin an awful vindication to tlie universe of the great tieed-be that God unceasingly must hold his creature up lest he fall, and that out of Him is neither strength nor wisdom ? Was Deity, either /in Adam's case or this, baffled — nor rather justified? Was it an exper- 'iment which had really failed; nor rather one which, by its very seem- ing failure, proved the point in question, the misery of creatures when separate from God? Yea, the evil one was being beaten down beneath his very trophies in sad Tarpeian triumph : through conquest and his children's sins heightening his own misery. Let us now advert to a few of the anterior probabilities affecting this evil earth's catastrophe. It is not competent to us to trench upon such ulterior views as are contained in the idea of types relatively to anti- types. Neither will we take the fanciful or poetical aspect of com- iiig calamity, that earth, befouled with guilt, was likely to be washed 42 494 PROBABILITIES. ing calamity, that earth, befouled with guilt, was likely to be washed clean by water. It is better to ask, as more relevant, in what other way more benevolent than drowning could, short of miracle, the race be made extinct ? They were all to die in their sins, and swell in another sphere the miserable hosts of Satan. There was no hope for them, for there was no repentance. It was infinitely probable that God's long- suffering had worn out every reasonable effort for their restoration. They were then to die ; but how ? — in the least painful manner possible. Intestine wars, fevers, famines, a general burning-up of earth and all its millions, were any of these preferable sorts of death to that caused by the gradual rise of water, with hope of life accorded still even to the last gurgle? Assuredly, if "the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel," the judgments of the Good one are tempered well with mercy. Moreover, in the midst of this universal slaughter there was one good seed to be preserved : and, as Heaven never works a miracle where common cause will suit the present purpose, it would have been incon- sistent to have extirpated the wicked by any such means as must demon- strate the good to have be»n saved only by super-human agency. The considerations of humanity, and of the divine less-intervention, add that of the natural and easy agency of a long-commissioned comet. No " Deus e machina " was needed for this effort : one of His ministers of flaming fire was charged to call forth the services of water. This was an easy and majestic interference. Ever since man fell — yea, ages before it — the omniscient eye of God had foreseen all things that should happen: and his ubiquity had, possibly from The Beginning, sped a comet on its errant way, which at a calculated period was to serve to wash the globe clean of its corruptions : was to strike the orbit of eai'th just in the moment of its passage, and disturbing by attraction the fountains of the great deep, was temporarily to raise their level. Was not this a just, a sublime, and a likely plan 1 Was it not a mer- ciful, a perfect, and a worthy way? Who should else have buried the carcases on those fierce battle-fields, or the mouldering heaps of pesti. lence and famine? — But, when at Jehovah's summons, heaving to the comet's mass, the pure and mighty sea rises indignant from its bed, by drowning to cleanse the foul and mighty land — how easy an engulfing of the corpses ; how awful that universal burial ; how apt their monu- mental epitaph written in water, " The wicked are like the troubled sea that cannot rest;" how dread the everlasting requiem chanted for the whelmed race by the waves roaring above them : yea, roaring above NOAH. 495 them still ! for in that chaotic hour it seems probable to reason that the land changed place with ocean ; thus giving the new family of man a fresh young world to live upon. NOAH. When the world, about to grow so wicked, was likely thus to have been cleansed, and so renewed, the great experiment of man's possible righteousness was probable to be repeated in another form. We may fancy some high angelic mind to have gone through some such line of thought as this, respecting the battle and combatants. Were those champions, Lucifer and Adam, really fit to be matched together? Was the tourney just; were the weapons equal; was it, after all, a fair fight? — on one side, the fallen spirit, mighty still, though fallen, subtlest, most unscrupulous, most malicious, exerting every energy to rear a rebel kingdom against God ; on the other, a new-born, inexperienced, innocent, and trustful creature, a poor man vexed with appetites, and as naked for absolute knowledge in his mind as for garments on his body. Was it, in this view of the case, an equal contest ? were the weapons of that warfare matched and measured fairly? Some such objection, we may suppose, might seem to have been admissible, as having a show at least of reason : and, after the world was to have been cleansed of all its creatures in the manner I have mentioned, a new champion is armed for the conflict, totally different in every respect; and to reason's view vastly superior. This time, the Adam of renewed earth is to be the best and wisest, nay, the only good and wise one of the whole lost family : a man, with the experience of full six hundred years upon his hoary brow, with the unspeakable advantage of having walked with God all those long-drawn centuries, a patriarch of twenty generations, recognised as the one great and faithful witness, the only worshipper and friend of his Creator. Could a finer sample be conceived ? was not Noah the only spark of spiritual "consolation" in the midst of earth's dark death? and was not he the best imaginable champion to stand against the wiles of the devil? Verily, reason might have guessed, that if Deity saw fit to renew the fight at all, the representative of man should liave been Noah. Before we touch upon the immediate fall of this new Adam also, at a time ^^ hen God and reason had deserted him, it will be more orderly to 496 PROBABILITIES. allude to the circumstances of his preservation in the flood. How, in such a hurlyburly of the elements, should the chosen seed survive ? No house, nor hill-top, no ordinary ship v^'ould serve the purpose : still less the unreasonable plan of any cavern hermetically sealed, or any aerial chariot miraculously lifted up above the lower firmament. To use plain and simple words, I can fancy no wiser method than a some- thing between a house and a diving-bell ; a vessel, entirely storm-tight and water-tight, which nevertheless for necessary air should have an open window at the top : say, one a cubit square. This, properly hooded against deluging rain, and supplied with such helps to ventila- tion as leathern pipes, air tunnels and similar appliances, would not be an impracticable method. However, instead of being under water as a diving-bell, the vessel would be better made to float upon the rising flood, and thus continually keeping its level, would be ready to strike land as the waters assuaged. Now, as to the size of this ark, this floating caravan, it must needs be very large ; and also take a great time in building. For, suffering cause and effect to go on without a new creation, it was reasonable to suppose that the man, so lauhching as for another world on the ocean of existence, would take with him (especially if God's benevolence so ordered it) all the known appliances of civilized life; as well as a pair or two of every creature he could collect, to stock withal the renewed earth according to their various excellences in their kinds. The lengthy, arduous, and expensive preparation of this mighty ark — a vessel which must include forests of timber and consume generations in building ; besides the world-be-known collection of all manner of strange animals for the stranger fancy of a fanatical old man ; not to mention also the hoary Preacher's own century of exortations : with how great moral force all this living warning would be calculated to act upon the world of wickedness and doom ! Here was the great ante-diluvian potentate, Noah, a patriarch of ages, wealthy beyond our calculations — (for how else without a needless succession of miracles could he have built and stocked the ark ?) — a man of enormous substance, good report, and exalted station, here was he for a hundred and twenty years engaged among crowds of unbelieving workmen, in constructing a most extrav- agant ship, which, forsooth, filled with samples of all this world's stores, was to sail with our only good family in search of a better. Moreover, Noah here declares that our dear old mother-earth is to be destroyed for her iniquities by rain and sea : and he exhorts us by a solid evi- BABEL. 497 dence of his own faith at least, if by nothing else, to repent, and turn to him, whom Abel, Seth, and Enoch, as well as this good Noah, represent as our Maker. Would not such sneers and taunts be probable : would they not amply vindicate the coming judgment? Was not the "long- suffering of God" likely to have thus been tried "while the ark was preparing?" and when the catastrophe should come, had not that evil generation been duly warned against it? On the whole, it would have been Reason's guess that Noah should be saved as he was; that the ark should have been as we read of it in Genesis; and that the very immen- sity of its construction should have served for a preaching to mankind. As to any idea that the ark is an unreasonable (some have even said ridiculous) incident to the deluge, it seems to me to have furnished a clear case of antecedent probability. Lastly : Noah's fall was very likely to have happened : not merely in the theological view of the matter, as an illustration of the truth that no human being can stand fast in righteousness: but from the just con- sideration that he imported with him the seeds of an impure state of society, the remembered luxuries of that old world. For instance, among the plants of earth which Noah would have preserved for future insertion in the soil, he could not have well forgotten the gener- ous, treacherous Vine. That to a righteous man, little used to all unhal- lowed sources of exhilaration, this should have been a stepping-stone to a defalcation from God, was likely. It was probable in itself, and shows the honesty as well as the verisimilitude of Scripture to read, that " Noah began to be a husbandman, and planted a vineyard ; and he drank of the wine, and was drunken." There was nothing here but what, taking all things into consideration, Reason might have previously guessed. Why then withhold the easier matter of an afterward belief? BABEL. This book ought to be read, as mentally it is written, with at the end of every sentence one of those et ceteras, which the genius of a Coke interpreted so keenly of the genius of a Littleton : for, far more remains on each subject to be said, than in any one has been attempted. Let us pass on to the story of Babel : I can conceive nothing more d priori probable than the account we read in Scripture. Briefly consider the matter. A multitude of men, possibly the then whole human G G 42* 498 PROBABILITIES. family, once more a fallen race, emigrate towards the East, and come to a vast plain in the region of Shinar, afterwards Chaldsea. Fertile, well-watered, apt for every mundane purpose, it yet wanted one great requisite. The degenerate race "put not their trust in God:" they did not believe but that the world might some day be again destroyed by water : and they required a point of refuge in the possible event of a second deluge from the broken bounds of ocean and the windows of the skies. They had come from the West ; more strictly the North-west, a land of mountains, as they deemed them, ready-made refuges: and their scheme, a probable one enough, was to construct some such moun- tain artificially, so that its top might reach the clouds, as did the summit of Ararat. This would serve the twofold purpose of outwitting any further attempt to drown them, and of making for themselves a proud name upon the earth. So, the Lord God, in his etherealized human form (having taken counsel with His own divine compeers), coming in the guise wherein He was wont to walk with Adam and with Enoch and his other saints of men, "came down and saw the tower:" truly. He needed not have come, for ubiquity was his, and omniscience ; but in the days when God and man were (so to speak) less chronologically divided than as now, and while yet the trial-family was young, it does not seem unlikely that He should. God then, in his aspect of the Head of all mankind, took notice of that dangerous and unholy combination : and He made within His Triune Mind the wise resolve to break their bond of union. Omniscience had herein a view to ulterior consequences benevolent to man, and He knew that it would be a wise thing for the future world, as well as a discriminative check upon the race then living, to confuse the universal language into many discordant dialects. Was this in any sense an improbable or improper method of making "the devices of the wicked to be of none eifect, and of laughing to scorn the counsels of the mighty?" Was it not to have been expected that a fallen race should be disallowed the combinative force necessary to a common language, but that such force should be dissipated and diverted for moral usages into many tongues ? — There they were, all the chiefs of men congregated to accomplish a vast, ungodly scheme: and interposing Heaven to crush such insane presumption — and withal thereafter designing to bless by arranging through such means the future interchange of commerce and the enterprise of nationalities — He, in his Trinity, was not unlikely to have said, " Let us go down, and confound their language." What better mode could have been JOB. 499 devised to scatter mankind, and so to people the extremities of earth? In order that the various dialects should crystallize apart, each in its discriminative lump, the nucleus of a nation ; that thereafter the world might be able no longer to unite as one man against its Lord, but by conflicting interests, the product of conflicting languages, might give to good a better chance of not being altogether overwhelmed ; that, though many "a multitude might go to do evil," it should not thence- forward be the whole consenting family of man ; but that, here by one and there by one, the remembrance of God should be kept extant, and evil no longer acquire an accumulated force, by having all the world one nation. JOB. Every scriptural incident and every scriptural worthy deserves its own particular discussion : and might easily obtain it. For example ; the anterior probability that human life in patriarchal times should have been very much prolonged, was obvious; from consideration of — 1, the benevolence of God ; 2, the inexperience of man ; and 3, the claim so young a world would hold upon each of its inhabitants : whilst Holy Writ itself has prepared an answer to the probable objection, that the years were lunar years, or months; by recording that Arphaxad and Salah and Eber and Peleg and Reu and Serug and Nahor, descendants of Shem, each had children at the average age of two-and-thirty, and yet the lives of all varied in duration from a hundred and fifty years to five hundred. And many similar credibilities might be alluded to: what shall I say of Abraham's sacrifice, of Moses and the burning bush, of Jonah also, and Elisha, and of the prophets? for the time would fail me to tell how probable and simple in each instance is its deep and marvellous history. There is food for philosophic thought in every page of ancient Jewish Scripture scarcely less than in those of primitive Christianity : here, after our fashion, we have only touched upon a sample. The opening scene to the book of Job has vexed the faith of many very needlessly : to my mind, nothing was more likely to have literally and really happened. It is one of those few places where we get an insight into what is going on elsewhere : it is a lifting off" the curtain of eternity for once, revealing the magnificent simplicities constantly pre- 500 PROBABILITIES. sented in the halls of heaven. And I am moved to speak about it here, because I think a plain statement of its sublime probabilities will be acceptable to many : especially if they have been harassed by the doubts of learned men respecting the authorship of that rare history. It signifies nothing who recorded the circumstances and conversations, so long as they were true, and really happened : given power, opportu- nity, and honesty, a life of Dr. Johnson would be just as fair in fact, if written by Smollett, as by Boswell, or himself. Whether then Job, the wealthy prince of Uz, or Abraham, or Moses, or Elisha, or Eliphaz, or whoever else, have placed the words on record, there they stand, true ; and the whole book in all its points was anteriorly likely to have been decreed a component part of revelation. Without it, there would have been wanting some evidence of a godly worship among men through the long and dreary interval of several hundred years : there would never have been given for man's help the example of a fortitude, and patience, and trust in God most brilliant ; of a faith in the resurrection and redeemer, signal and definite beyond all other texts in Jewish Scripture : as well as of a human knowledge of God in his works beyond all modern instance. However, the excellences of that narra- tive are scarcely our theme : we return to the starting-post of its proba- bility, especially with reference to its supernatural commencement. What we have shown credible, many pages back, respecting good and evil and the denizens of heaven, finds a remarkable after-proof in the two first chapters of Job ; and for some such reason, by reference, these two chapters were themselves anteriorly to have been expected. Let us see what happened : " There was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them. And the Lord said unto Satan, whence comest thou ? Then Satan answered the Lord, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it. And the Lord said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God and escheweth evil ? Then Satan answered the Lord, and said, Doth Job fear God for naught ? Hast thou not made a hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side ? Thou hast blessed the work of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land. But put forth thine hand now, and touch all he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face. And the Lord said unto Satan, Behold, all that he hath is in thy power; only upon himself put JOB. 501 not forth thine hand. So Satan went forth from the presence of the Lord."— [Job 1. 6-13.] It is a most stately drama : any paraphrase would spoil its dignity, its quiet truth, its unpretending, yet gigantic lineaments. Note : in allusion to our views of evil, that Satan also comes among the sons of God : note, the generous dependence placed by a generous Master on his servant well-upheld by that Master's own free grace : note, Satan's constant imputation against .piety when blessed of God with worldly wealth, Doth he serve for naught? I can discern no cause wherefore all this scene should not have truly happened ; not as in vision of some holy man, but as in fact. Let us read on, before further comment: "Again, there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them to present himself before the Lord. And the Lord said unto Satan, Whence com- est thou? And Satan answered the Lord, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it. And the Lord said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that fear- eth God and escheweth evil? and still he holdeth fast his integrity, although thou movedst me against him, to destroy him without cause. And Satan answered the Lord, and said, Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life. But put forth thine hand now, and touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse thee to thy face. And the Lord said unto Satan, Behold, he is in thine hand; but save his life. So Satan went forth from the presence of the Lord, and smote Job with sore boils, from the sole of his foot unto his crown." Some such scene, displaying the devil's malice, slandering sneers, and permitted power, recommends itself to my mind as antecedently to have been looked for: in order that we might know from what quarter many of life's evils come ; with what aims and ends they are directed ; what limits are opposed to our foe; and Who is on our side. We needed some such insight into the heavenly places ; some such hint of what is continually going on before the Lord's tribunal ; we wanted this plain and simple setting forth of good and evil in personal encounter^ of innocence awhile given up to malice for its chastening and its tri- umph. Lo, all this so probable scene is here laid open to us, and many, against reason, disbelieve it ! Note, in allusion to our after-theme, the locus of heaven, that there is some such usual place of periodical gathering. Note, the open 502 PROBABILITIES. unchiding loveliness dwelling in the Good One's words, as contrasted with the subtle, slanderous hatred of the Evil. And then the vulgar proverb, Skin for skin : this pious Job is so intensely selfish, that let him lose what he may, he heeds it not ; he cares for nothing out of his own skin. And there are many more such notabilities. Why did I produce these passages at length ? For their Doric simplicity ; for their plain and masculine features ; for their obvious truthfulness ; for their manifest probability as to fact, and expectability previously to it. Why on earth should they be doubted in their literal sense? and were they not more likely to have happened than to have been invented ? We have no such geniuses now as this writer must have been, who by the pure force of imagination could have created that tableau. Milton had Job to go to. Simplicity is proof presumptive in favour of the plain inspiration of such passages: for the plastic mind which could conceive so just a sketch, would never have rested satis- fied, without having painted and adorned it picturesquely. Such rare flights of fancy are always made the most of. One or two thoughts respecting Job's trial. That he should at last give way, was only probable: he was, in short, another Adam, and had another fall ; albeit he wrestled nobly. Worthy was he to be named among God's chosen three, "Noah, Daniel, and Job:" and worthy that the Lord should bless his latter end. This word brings me to the point I wish to touch on ; the great compensation which God gave to Job. Children can never be regarded as other than individualities: and notwithstanding Eastern feelings about increase in quantity, its quality is, after all, the question for the heart. I mean that many children to be. born, is but an inadequate return for many children dying. If a father loses a well-beloved son, it is small recompense of that aching void that he gets another. For this I'eason of the affections, and because I sup- pose that thinkers have sympathized with me in the difficult}*, I wish to say a word about Job's children, lost and found. It will clear away what is to some minds a moral and affectionate objectioh. Now, this is the state of the case. The patriarch is introduced to us as possessing so many camels, and oxen, and so forth ; and ten children. All these are represented to him by witnesses, to all appearance credible, as dead; and he mourns for his great loss accordingly. Would not a merchant feel to all intents and purposes a ruined man, if he received a clear intelligence from different parts of the world at once that all his ships and Marehouses JOB. 503 had been destroyed by hurricanes and fire ? Faith given, patience fol- lows: and the trial is morally the same, whether the news be true or false. Remarkably enough, after the calamitous time is past, when the good man of Uz is discerned as rewarded by heaven for his patience by the double of every thing once lost — his children remain the same in number, ten. It seems to me quite possible that neither camels, &c., nor children, really had been killed. Satan might have meant it so, and schemed it; and the singly-coming messengers believed it all, as also did the well-enduring Job. But the scriptural word does not go to say that these things happened ; but that certain emissaries said they happened. I think the devil missed his mark: that the messengers were scared by some abortive diabolic efforts ; and that, (with a natural increase of camels, &c., meanwhile,) the patriarch's paternal heart was more than compensated at the last, by the restoration of his own dear children. They were dead, and are alive again ; they were lost, and are found. Like Abraham returning from Mount Calvary with Isaac, it was the Resurrection in a figure. If to this view objection is made, that, because the boils of Job were real, therefore, similarly real must be all his other evils ; I reply, that in the one temptation, the suffering was to be mental ; in the other, bodily. In the latter case, positive, personal pain, was the gist of the matter: in the former, the heart might be pierced, and the mind be overwhelmed, without the necessity of any such incurable aflliction as children's deaths amount to. God's mercy may well have allowed the evil one to overreach himself; and when the restoration came, how double was the joy of Job over those ten dear children. Again, if any one will urge that, in the common view of the case, Job at the last really has twice as many children as before, for that he has ten old ones in heaven, and ten new ones on earth : I must, in answer, think that explanation as unsatisfactory to us, as the verity of it would have been to Job. Affection, human affection, is not so numer- ically nor vicariously consoled : and it is, perhaps, worth while here to have thrown out (what I suppose to be) a new view of the case, if only to rescue such wealth as children from the infidel's sneer of being con- founded with such wealth as camels. Moreover, such a paternal reward was anteriorly more probable. 504 PROBABILITIES. JOSHUA. How many of our superficial thinkers have been staggered at the great miracle recorded of Joshua; and how few, even of the deeper sort, comparatively, may have discerned its aptness, its science, and its anterior likelihood : " Sun ! stand thou still upon Gibeon ; and thou, moon, in the valley of Ajalon." Now, consider, for we hope to vindi- cate even this stupendous event from the charge of improbability. Baal and Ashtaroth, chief idols of the Canaanites, were names for sun and moon. It would manifestly be the object of God and His ambassador to cast utter scoi'n on such idolatry. And what could be more apt than that Joshua, commissioned to extirpate the corrupted race, should miraculously be enabled, as it were, to bind their own gods to aid in the destruction of such votaries ? Again : what should Joshua want with the moon for daylight, to help him to rout the foes of God more fiercely ? Why not, according to the astronomical ignorance of those days, let her sail away, unconsorted by the sun, far beyond the valley of Ajalon? There was a reason, here, of secret, unobtruded science : if the sun stopped, the moon must stop too ; that is to say, both apparently : the fact being that the earth must, for the while, rest on its axis. This, I say, is a latent, scientific hint ; and so, likewise, is the accompanying mention as a fact, that the Lord immediately " rained great stones out of heaven" upon the flying host. For would it not be the case that, if the diurnal rotation of earth were suddenly to stop, the impetus of motion would avail to raise high into the air by centrifugal force, and fling down again by gravity, such unanchored things as fragments of rock ? Once more : our objector will here perhaps inquire. Why not then command the earth to stop — and not the sun and moon ? if thus probably Joshua or his Inspirer knew better 1 Answer. Only let a reasonable man consider what would have been the moral lesson both to Israelite and to Canaanite, if the great successor of Moses had called out, incom- prehensibly to all, "Earth, stand thou still on thine axis;" — and lo ! as if in utter defiance of such presumption, and to vindicate openly the neathen gods against the Jewish, the very sun and moon in heaven stopped, and glared on the offender. I question whether such a noon- day miracle might not have perverted to idolatry the whole believing host : and almost reasonably too. The strictly philosophical terms JOSHUA. 505 would have entirely nullified, the whole moral influence. God in his word never suffers science to hinder the progress of truth : a worldly philosophy does this almost in every instance, darkening knowledge with a cloud of words : but the science of the Bible is usually concealed in some neighbouring hint quite handy to the record of the phenomena expressed in ordinary language. In fact, for all common purposes, no astronomer finds fault with such phrases as the moon rising, or the sun setting : he speaks according to the appearance, though he knows perfectly well that the earth is the cause of it, and not the sun or moon. Carry this out in Joshua's case. On the whole, the miracle was very plain, very comprehensible, and very probable. It had good cause : for Canaan felt more confidence in the protection of his great and glorious Baal, than stiff-necked Judah in his barely-seen divinity : and surely it was wise to vindicate the true but invisible God by the humiliation of the false and far-seen idol. This would constitute to all nations the quickly-rumoured proof that Jehovah of the Israelites was God in heaven above as well as on the earth beneath. And, considering the peculiar idolatries of Canaan, it seems to me that no miracle could have been better placed and better timed — in other words, anteriorly more probable — than the command of obedi- ence to the sun and to the moon. I suppose that few persons who read this book will be unaware, that the circumstance is alluded to as well in that honest heathen, old Herodotus, as in the learned Jew Josephus. The volumes are not near me for reference to quotations : but such is fact : it will be found in Herodotus, about the middle of Euterpe, con- nected with an allusion to the analogous case of Hezekiah. No miracles, on the whole (to take one after-view of the matter), could have been better tested : for two armies (not to mention all sur- rounding countries) must have seen it plainly and clearly : if then it had never occurred, what a very needless exposure of the falsity of the Jewish Scriptures ! These were open, published writings, accessible to all : Cyrus and Darius and Alexander read them, and Ethiopian eunuchs ; Parthians, Medes, and Elamites, with all other nations of the earth, had free access to those records. Only imagine if some recent history of England, Adolphus's, or Stebbing's, contained an account of a certain day in George the Fourth's reign having had twenty-four hour's daylight instead of the usual admixture ; could the intolerable falsehood last a minute ? Such a placard would be torn away from the records of the land the moment a rash hand had fixed it there. But, if 43 506 PROBABILITIES. ■• the matter were fact, how could any historian neglect it? — In one sense, the very improbability of such a marvel being recorded, argues the probability of it having actually occurred. Much more might here be added : but our errand is 'ajcomplished, if any stumbling-block had been thus easily removed from some erring thinker's path. Surely, we have given him some reason for faith's due acceptance of Joshua's miracle. THE .INCARNATION. In touching some of the probabilities of our blessed Lord's career, it would be difficult to introduce and illustrate the subject better, than by the following anecdote. Whence it is derived, has escaped my memory ; but I have a floating notion that it is told of Socrates in Xenophon or Plato. At any rate, by way of giving fixity thereto and picturesque- ness, let us here report the story as of the Athenian Solomon : Sui'rounded by his pupils, the great heathen Reasoner was being questioned and answering questions : in particular respecting the proba- bility that the universal God would be revealed to his creatures. "What a glorious King would he appear!" said one, possibly the brilliant Alci- biades: "What a form of surpassing beauty!" said another, not unlikely the softer Crito. "Not so, my children," answered Socrates. " Kings and the beautiful are few, and the God, if he came on earth as an exemplar, would in shape and station be like the greater number." "Indeed, Master? then how should he fail of being made a King of men, for his goodness, and his majesty, and wisdom?" "Alas! my children," was pure Reason's just rejoinder," oi vMoves KaKoi, most men are so wicked that they would hate his purity, despise his wisdom, and as for his majesty, they could not truly see it. They might indeed admire for a time, but thereafter (if the God allowed it), they would even hunt and persecute and kill him." "Kill him!" exclaimed the eager group of listeners ; " kill Him ? how should they, how could they, how dare they kill God ?" " I did not say, kill God," would have been wise Socrates's reply, " for God existeth ever : but men in enmity and envy might even be allowed to kill that human form wherein God walked for an ensample. That they could, were God's humility : that they should, were their own malice : that they dared, were their own grievous sin and peril of destruction. Yea," went on the keen-eyed THE INCARNATION. 507 sage, "men would slay him by some disgraceful death, some lingering, open, and cruel death, even such as the death of slaves!" — Now slaves, when convicted of capital crime, were always crucified. Whatever be thought of the genuineness of the anecdote, its uses are the same to us. Reason might have arrived at the salient points of Christ's career, and at His crucifixion ! I will add another topic : How should the God on earth arrive there ? We have shown that His form would probably be sucli as man's ; but was he to descend bodily from the atmosphere at the age of full-grown perfection, or to rise up out of the ground with earthquakes and fire, or to appear on a sudden in the midst of the market-place, or to come with legions of his heavenly host to visit his Temple ? There was a wiser way than these, more reasonable, probable, and useful. Man required an exemplar for every stage of his existence up to the perfection of his frame. The infant, and the child, and the youth, would all desire the human-God to understand their eras; they would all, if generous and such as he would love, long to feel that He has sympathy with them in every early trial, as in every later grief. Moreover, the God coming down with supernatural glories or terrors would be a needless expense of ostentatious power. He, whose advent is intended for the encour- agement of men to exercise their reason and their conscience ; whose exhortation is "he that hath ears to hear, Let him hear ;" that pure Being, who is the chief preacher of Humility, and the great teacher of man's responsible condition — surely, he would hardly come in any way astoundingly miraculous, addressing his advent not to faith, but to sight, and challenging the impossibility of unbelief by a galaxy of spiritual wonders. Yet, if He is to come at all — and a word or two of this here- after — it must be either in some such strange way ; or in the usual human way ; or in a just admixture of both. As the first is needlessly over- whelming to the responsible state of man, so the second is needlessly derogatory to the pure essence of God ; and the third idea would seem to be most probable. Let us guess it out. Why should not this highest Object of faith and this lowest Subject of obedience be born, seemingly by human means, but really by divine? Why should there not be found some unspotted holy virgin, betrothed to a just man and soon to be his wife, who, by the creative power of Divinity, should miraculously conceive the shape divine, which God himself resolved to dwell in? Why should she not come of a lineage and family which for centuries before had held such expectation? Why should not the just man, her PROBABILITIES. affiancecj, who had never known her yet, being warned of God in a dream of this strange, immaculate conception, "fear not to take unto him Mary his wife," lest the unbelieving world should breathe slander on her purity, albeit he should really know her not until after the Holy Birth. There is nothing unreasonable here ; every step is previously credible : and invention's self would be puzzled to devise a better scheme. The Virgin-born would thus be a link between God and man, the great Mediator: his natures would fulfil every condition required of their double and their intimate conjunction. He would have arrived at humanity without its gross beginnings, and have veiled his Godhead for a while in a pure though mortal tenement. He would have partici- pated in all the tenderness of woman's nature, and thus have reached the keenest sensibilities of men. Themes such as these are inexhaustible : and I am perpetually con- scious of so much left unsaid, that at every section I seem to have said next to nothing. Nevertheless, let it go; the good seed yet shall germi- nate. " Cast thy bread upon the waters, and thou shalt find it after many days." It may to some minds be a desideratum, to allude to the anterior probability that God should come in the flesh. Much of this has been anticipated under the head of Visible Deity and elsewhere ; as this ti'eatise is so short, one may reasonably expect every reader to take it in regular course. For additional considerations : the Benevolent Maker would hardly leave his creatures to perish, without one word of warning or one gleam of knowledge. The question of the Bible is considered further on : but exclusively of written rules and dogmas, it was likely that Our Father should commission chosen servants of his own, orally to teach and admonish ; because it would be in accordance with man's reasonable nature, that he should best and easiest learn from the teaching his brethren. So then, after all lesser ambassadors had failed, it was to be expected that He should send the highest one of all, saying, " They will reverence my Son." We know that this really did occur by innumerable proofs, and wonderful signs posterior : and now, after the event, we discern it to have been anteriorly probable. It was also probable in another light. This world is a world of incarnations ; nothing has a real and potential existence, which is not embodied in some form. A theory is nothing ; if no personal philoso- pher, no sect, or school of learners, takes it up. An opinion is mere air ; without the multitude to give it all the force of a mighty wind. MAHOMETANISM. An idea is mere spiritual light; if unclad in deeds, or in words written or spoken. So, also, of' the Godhead : He would be like all these. He would pervade words spoken, as by prophets or preachers : He would include words written, as in the Bible : He would influence crowds with spirit-stirring sentiments : He would embody the theory of all things in one simple, philosophic form. As this material world is constituted, God could not reveal himself at all, excepting by the aid of matter. I mean ; even granting that He spiritually inspired a prophet, still the man was necessary : he becomes an inspired man ; not mere inspira- tion. So, also, of a book ; which is the written labour of inspired men. There is no doing without the Humanity of God, so far as this world is concerned, any more than His Deity can be dispensed with, regarding the worlds beyond worlds, and the ages of ages, and the dread for ever and ever. MAHOMETANISM. It seems expedient that, in one or two instances, I should attempt the illustration of this rule of probability in matters beyond the Bible. As very fair ones, take Mahometanism and Romanism. And first of the former. At the commencement of the seventh century, or a little previously to that era, we know that a fierce religion sprang up, promulgated by a false prophet. I wish briefly to show that this was antecedently to have been expected. In a moral point of view, the Christian world, torn by all manner of schisms, and polluted by all sorts of heresies, had earned for the human race, whether accepting the gospel or refusing it, some signal and exten-, sive punishment at the hands of Him, who is the Great Retributor as well as the Munificent Rewarder. In a physical point of view, the civilized kingdoms of the earth had become stagnant, arguing that cor- rupt and poisonous calm which is the herald of a coming tempest. The heat of a true religion had cooled down into lukewarm disputations about nothings, scholastical and casuistic figments ; whilst at the same time the prevalence of peaceful doctrines had amalgamated all classes into a luxurious indolence. Passionate Man is not to be so satisfied ; and the time was fully come for the rise of some fierce spirit, who 43* 510 PROBABILITIES. should change the tinsel theology of the crucifix for the iron religion of the sword : who should blow in the ears of the slumbering West the shrill war-blast of Eastern fervencies; who should exchange the dull rewards of canonization due to penance, or an after-life voluntary humiliation under pseudo-saints and angels, for the human and compre- hensible joys of animal appetite and military glory : who should enlist under his banner all the frantic zeal, all the pent-up licentiousness, all the heart-burning hatreds of mankind, stifled either by a positive bar- barism, or the incense-laden cloud of a scarcely-masked idolatry. Thus, and then, was likely to arise a bold and self-confiding hero, leaning on his own sword : a man of dark sentences, who, by judiciously pilfering from this quarter and from that shreds of truth to jewel his black vestments of error, and by openly proclaiming that Oneness of the object of all worship which besotted Christendom had then, from undue reverence to saints and martyrs, virgins and archangels, well nigh forgotten ; a man who, by pandering to human passions and setting wide as virtue's avenue the flower-tricked gates of vice ; should thus, like Lucifer before him, in a comet-like career of victory, sweep the startled firmament of earth, and drag to his erratic orbit the stars of heaven from their courses. Mahomet ; his humble beginnings ; his iron perseverance under early probable checks; his blind, yet not all unsublime, dependence on fatal- ity; his ruthless, yet not all undeserved, infliction of fire and sword upon the cowering coward race that filled the western world ; — these, and all whatever else besides attended his train of triumphs, and all whatever besides has lasted among Moors, and Arabs, and Turks, and Asiatics, even to this our day — constitute to a thinking mind (and it seems not without cause) another antecedent probability. Let the scoffer about Mahomet's success, and the admirer of his hotchpot Koran ; let him to whom it is a stumbling-block that error (if indeed, quoth he, it be more erroneous than what Christendom counts truth) should have had such free course and been glorified, while so-called Truth, pede claudo, has limped on even as now cautiously and ingloriously through the well-suspicious world; let him who thinks he sees in Mahomet's success an answer to the foolish argument of some, who test the truth of Christianity by its Gentile triumphs; let him ponder these things. Reason, the God of his idolatry, might, with an archangel's ken, have prophesied some Mahomet's career : and, so far from such being in the nature of any objection to Faith, the idea thus thrown out, well-mused ROMANISM. 511 upon, will be seen to lend Faith an aid in the way of pievious like- lihood. "There is one God, and Mahomet is his prophet!" How admirably calculated such a war-cry would be for the circumstances of the sev- enth century. The simple sublimity of Oneness, as opposed to school- theology and catholic demons : the glitter of barbaric pomp, instead of tame observances : the flashing scimetar of ambition to supersede the cross : a turban aigretted with jewels for the twisted wreath of thorns. As human nature is, and especially in that time was, nothing was more expectable (even if prophetic records had not taught it), than the rise and progress of that great False Prophet, whose waving crescent even now blights the third part of earth. ROMANISM. We all know how easy it is to prophesy after the event : but it would be uncandid and untrue to confound this remark with another, cousin- germane to it ; to wit : how easy it is to discern of any event, after it has happened, whether or not it were antecedently likely. When the race is over, and the best horse has won (or by clever jockey-management, the worst), how obviously could any gentleman on the turf, now in pos- session of particulars, have seen the event to have been so probable, that he would have staked all upon its issue. Carry out this familiar idea ; which, as human nature goes, is none the weaker as to illustration, because it is built upon the rule '■'■parvis componere magna" Let us sketch a line or two of that great fore- shadowing cartoon, the probabilities of Romanism. That our blessed Master, even in His state as man, beheld its evil characteristics looming on the future, seems likely not alone from both His human keenness and His divine omniscience, but from here and tliere a hint dropped in his biography. Why should He, on several occasions, have seemed, I will say with some apparent sharpness, to have rebuked His virgin mother. — " Woman, what have I to do with thee?" — "Who are my mother and my brethren?" — "Yea — More blessed than the womb which bare me, and the paps that I have sucked, is the humblest of my true disciples." Let no one misunderstand me : full well 1 know the just explanations which palliate such passages; 512 PROBABILITIES. and the love stronger than death which beat in that Filial heart. But, take the phrases as they stand ; and do they not in reason constitute some warning and some prophecy that men should idolize the mother ? Nothing, in fact, was more likely than that a just human reverence to the most favoured among women should have increased into her admiring worship : until the humble and holy Mary, with the sword of human anguish at her heart, should become exaggerated and idealized into Mother of God — instfead of Jesus's human matrix. Queen of heaven, instead of a ransomed soul herself, the joy of angels — in lieu of their lowly fellow-worshipper, and the Rapture of the blessed — thus dethroning the Almighty. Take a second instance : why should Peter, the most loving, most generous, most devoted of them all, have been singled out from among the twelve — with a " Get thee behind me, Satan ?" — it really had a harsh appearance ; if it were not that, prophetically speaking, and not person- ally, he was set in the same category with Judas, the "one who was a devil." I know the glosses, and the contexts, and the whole amount of it. Folios have been written, and may be written again, to disprove the text ; but the more words, the less sense : it stands, a record graven in the Rock ; that same Petra, whereon, as firm and faithful found, our Lord Jesus built his early Church : it stands, a mark indelibly burnt into that hand, to whom were intrusted, not more specially than to any other of the saintly sent, the keys of the kingdom of heaven : it stands, along with the same Peter's deep and terrible apostacy, a living witness against some future Church, who should set up this same Peter as the Jupiter of their Pantheon : who should positively be idolizing now an image christened Peter, which did duty two thousand years ago as a statue of Libyan Jove ! But even this glaring compromise was a mat- ter probable, with the data of human ambitions, and a rotten Christianity. Examples such as these might well be multiplied : bear with a word or two more, remembering always that the half is not said which might be said in proof; nor in answering the heap of frivolous objections. Why, unless relics and pseudo-sacred clothes were to be prophetically humbled into their own mere dust and nothing-worthiness, why should the rude Roman soldiery have been suffered to cast lots for that vestment, which, if ever spiritual holiness could have been infused into mere mat- ter, must indeed have remained a relic worthy of undoubted worship ? It was warm with the Animal heat of the Man inhabited by God : it was half worn out in the service of His humble travels, and had even, ROMANISM. 5l3 on many occasions, been the road by which virtue had gone out: not of it, but of Him. What ! was this wonderful robe to work no mira- cles? was it not to be regarded as a sort of outpost of the being who was Human-God? Had it no essential sacredness, no noli-me-tangere quality of shining away the gambler's covetous glance, of withering his rude and venturous hand, or of poisoning, like some Nessus' shirt, the lewd ruffian who might soon thereafter wear it? Not in the least. This woven web, to which a corrupted state of feeling on religion would have raised cathedrals as its palaces, with singing men and singing women, and singing eunuchs too, to celebrate its virtues ; this coarse cloth of some poor weaver's, working down by the sea of Galilee or in some lane of Zion, was still to remain, and be a mere unglorified, eco- nomical, useful garment. Far from testifying to its own internal might- iness, it probably was soon sold by the fortunate Roman die-thrower to a second-hand shop of the Jewish metropolis ; and so descended from beggar to beggar till it was clean -vvonTout. We never hear that, how- ever easy of access so inestimable relic might then have been consid- ered, any one of the numerous disciples, in the fervour of their earliest zeal, threw away one thought for its redemption. Is it not strange that no St. Helena was at hand to conserve such a desirable invention? Why is there no St. Vestment to keep in countenance a St. Sepulchre and a St. Cross? The poor cloth, in primitive times, really was despised. We know well enough what happened afterwards about handkerchiefs imbued with miraculous properties from holy Paul's body for the nonce: but this is an inferior question, and the matter was temporary; the superior case is proved, and besides the rule omne majus continet in se minus there are differences quite intelligible between the cases, where- about our time would be less profitably employed than in passing on and leaving them unquestioned. Suffice it to say, that "God worked those special miracles," and not the unconscious "handkerchiefs or aprons." "Te Deum laudamus!" is Protestantism's cry ; "Sudaria laudemus! " would swell the Papal choirs. Let such considerations as these then are in sample serve to show how evidently one might prove from anterior circumstances, (and the canon of Scripture is an anterior circumstance,) the probability of the rise and progress of the Roman heresies. And if any one should ask, how was such a system more likely to arise under a Gentile rather than a Jewish theocracy? why was a St. Paul, or a St. Peter, or a St. Dun- Stan, or a St. Gengulphus, more previously expectable than a St. Abra- Hh 514 PROBABILITIES. ham, a St. David, a St. Elisha, or a St. Gehazi? I answer, from the idea of idolatry, so adapted to the Gentile mind, and so abhorrent from the Jewish. Martyred Abel, however well respected, has never reached the honours of a niche beside the altar. Jephtha's daughter, for all her mourned virginity, was never paraded, (that I wot of,) for any other than a much-to-be-lamented damsel. Who ever asked, in those old times, the mediation of St. Enoch? Where were the offerings, in jewels or in gold, to propitiate that undoubted man of God and denizen of heaven, St. Moses? what prows, in wax, of vessels saved from shipwreck, hung about the dripping fane of Jonah? and where was, in the olden time, that wretched and insensate being, calling himself rational and godly, who had ventured to solicit the good services of Isaiah as his intercessor, or to plead the merits of St. Ezekiel as the make-weight for his sins? It was just this, and reasonably to have been expected ; for when the Jew brought in his religion, he demolished every false god, broke their images, slew their priests, and burnt their groves with fire. But, when a worldly Christianity came to be in vogue, when emperors adorned their banners with the cross, and the poor fishermen of Galilee, (in their portly representatives,) came to be encrusted with gems, and rustling with seric silk ; then was made that fatal compromise ; then it was likely to have been made, which has lasted even until now : a compro- mise which, newly baptizing the damned idols of the heathen, keeps yet St. Bacchus and St. Venus, St. Mars and St. Apollo, perched in sobered robes upon the so-called Christian altar ; which yet pays divine honours to an ancyle or a rusty nail ; to the black stones at Delphi, or the gold-shrined bones at Aix ; which yet sanctifies the chickens of the cap- itol, or the cock that startled Peter ; which yet lets a wealthy sinner, by his gold, bribe the winking Pythoness, or buy dispensing clauses from "the Lord our God, the Pope." There is yet a swarm of other notions pressing on the mind, which tend to prove that Popery might have been anticipated. Take this view. The religion of Christ is holy, self-denying ; not of this world's praise, and ending with the terrible sanction of eternity for good or evil : it sets up God alone supreme, and cuts down creature-merit to a point perpet- ually diminishing ; for the longer he does well, the more he owes to the grace which enabled him to do it. Now, man's nature is, as we know, diametrically opposite to all this : and unable to escape from the conviction of Christian truth in some sense, he would bend his shrewd invention to the attempt of warping ROMANISM. 515 that stern truth to shapes more consistent with his idiosyncrasies. A religious plan might be expected, which, in lieu of a difficult, holy spir- ituality, should exact easy, mere observances ; to say a thousand Paters with the tongue, instead of one "Our Father," from the heart; to exact genuflections by the score, but not a single prostration of the spirit ; to write the cross in water on the forehead often-times, but never once to bear its mystic weight upon the shoulder. In spite of self-denial, clev- erly kept in sight by means of eggs, and pulse, and hair-cloth, to pam- per the deluded flesh with many a carnal holiday ; in contravention of a kingdom not of this world, boldly to usurp the temporal dominion of it all : instead of the overwhelming incomprehensibility of an eternal doom, to comfort the worst with false assurance of a purgatory longer or shorter ; that after all, vice may be burnt out ; and who knows but that gold, buying up the prayers and superfluous righteousness of others, may not make the fiery ordeal an easy one ? In lieu of a God brought near to his creatures, infinite purity in contact with the grossest sin, as the good Physician loveth ; how sage it seemed to stock the immeasura- ble distance with intermediate numia, cycle on epicycle, arc on arc, priest and bishop and pope, and martyr, and virgin, and saint, and angel, all in their stations, at due interval soliciting God to be (as if His blessed Majesty were not so of Himself!) the sinner's friend. How comfortable this to man's sweet estimation of his own petty penances ; how glorifying to those "filthy rags," his so-called righteousness: how apt to build up the hierarchist power; how seemingly analogous with man's experience here, where clerks lay the case before .commission- ers, and commissioners before the government, and the government before the sovereign. All this was entirely expectable : and I can conceive that a deep Reasoner among the first apostles, even without such supernal light as "the Spirit speaking expressly," might have so calculated on the proba- bilities to come, as to have written, long ago, words akin to these : "In the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seduc- tive doctrines, and fanciful notions about intermediate deities, (^6ainovioiv,) perverting truth by hypocritical departures from it, searing conscience against its own cravings after spiritual holiness, forbidding marriage, (to invent another virtue,) and commanding abstinence from God's good gifts, as a means of building up a creature-merit by voluntary humilia- tion." At the likelihood that such "profane and old wives' fables" should thereafter have arisen, might Paul without a miracle have possi- h^v arrived. 516 PROBABILITIES. Yet again : take another view. The Religion of Christ, though intended to be universal in some better era of this groaning earth, was, until that era cometh, meant and contrived for any thing rather than a Catholicity. True, the Church is so far Catholic that it numbers of its blessed company men of every clime and every age, from righteous Abel down to the last dear babe christened yester-morning ; true, the commission is " to all nations, teaching them :" but, what mean the simultaneous and easily reconciled expressions — come out from among them, little flock, gathered out of the Gentiles, a peculiar people, a church militant, and not triumphant, here on earth ? Thus shortly of a word much misinterpreted : let us now see what the Romanist does, what, (on human principles,) he would be probable to do, with this dis- criminating religion. He, chiefly for temporal gains, would make it as expansive as possible : there should be room at that table for every guest, whether wedding-garmented or not ; there would be sauces in that poisonous feast, fitted to every palate. For the cold, ascetical mind, a cell and a scourge, and a record kept of starving fancies as calling them ecstatic visions vouchsafed by some old Stylite to bless his favoured worshipper ; for the painted demirep of fashionable life, there would be a pretty pocket-idol, and the snug confessional well tenanted by a not unsympathizing father; for the pure girl, blighted in her heart's first love, the papist would afford that seemingly merciful refuge, that calm and musical and gentle place, the irrevocable nunnery ; a place, for all its calmness, and its music, and its gentle reputations, soon to be abhorred of that poor child as a living tomb, the extinguisher of all life's aims, all its duties, uses and delights : for the bandit, a tythe of the traveller's gold would avail to pay away the murder, and earn for him a heap of merits kept within the cash-box : the educated, high-born and finely- moulded mind might be well amused with architecture, painting, carving, sweet odours, and the most wondi'ous music that has ever cheated man, even while he offers up his easy adorations, and departs, equally compla- cent at the choral remedies as at the priestly absolution ; while, for those good few, the truly pious and enlightened children of Rome, who mourn the corruptions of their church, and explain away, with trem- bling tongue, her obvious errors and idolatries, for these the wily scheme, so probable, devised an undoubted mass of truth to be left among tne rubbish. True doctrines, justly held by true martyrs and true saints, holy men of God who have died in that communion ; ordinances and an existence which creep up, (heedless of corruption though,) step by ROMANISM. 517 step, through past antiquity, to the very feet of the Founder ; keen cas- ,uists, competent to prove any point of conscience or objection, and that indisputably, for they climax all by the high authority of Popes and councils that cannot be deceived : pious treatises and manuals, verily of flaming heat, for they mingle the yearnings of a constrained celibacy with the fervencies of worship and the cravings after God. Yes, there is meat here for every human mouth ; only that, alas for men ! the meat is that which perisheth, and not endureth unto everlasting life. Rome, thou wert sagely schemed ; and if Lucifer devised thee not for the various appetencies of poor, deceivable. Catholic Man, verily it were pity, for thou art worthy of his handiwork. All things to all men, in any sense but the right, signifies nothing to anybody : in the sense of falsehoods, take the former for thy motto ; in that of single truth, in its intensity, the latter. Let not then the accident — the probable accident — of the Italian super- stition place any hindrance in the way of one whose mind is all at sea because of its existence. What, O man with a soul, is all the world else to thee? Christianity, whatever be its broad way of pretences, is but in reality a narrow path : be' satishea with the day of small things , stagger not at the inconsistencies, conflicting words, and hateful strife^ of those who say they are Christians, but "are not, but are of the syna gogue of Satan." Judge truth, neither by her foes nor by her friends but by herself. There was one who said (and I never heard that any writer, from Julian to Hobbes, ever disputed his human truth or wisdom) " Needs must that offences come ; but wo be to that man by whom the offence cometh. If they come, be not shaken in faith : lo, I have told you before. And if others fall away, or do ought else than my biddin.or, what is that to thee? follow tliou ME." THE BIBLE. Whilst I attempt to show, as now I desire to do, that the Bible should be just the book it is, from considerations of anterior probability, 1 must expand the subject a little ; dividing it, first, into the likelihood of a revelation at all ; and secondly, into that of its expectable form and character. The first likelihood has its birth in the just Benevolence of our hea- venly Father, who without dispute never leaves his rational creatures 44 518 PROBABILITIES. unaided by some sort of guiding light, some manifestation of himself so needful to their happiness, some sure word of consolation in sorrow, or of brighter hope in persecution. That it must have been thus an d priori probability, has been all along proved by the innumerable pre- tences of the kind so constant up and down the world : no nation ever existed in any age or country, whose seers and wise men of whatever name have not been believed to hold commerce with the Godhead. We may judge from this, how probable it must ever have been held. The Sages of old Greece were sure of it from reason : and not less sure from accepted superstition those who reverenced the Brahmin, or the priest of Heliopolis, or the medicine-man among the Rocky Mountains, or the Llama of old Mexico. I know that our ignorance of some among the most brutalized species of mankind, as the Bushmen in Caffraria, and the tribes of New South Wales, has failed to find among their rites any thing akin to religion : but what may we not yet have to learn of good even about such poor outcasts ? how shall we prove this negative ? For aught we know, their superstitions at the heart may be as deep and as deceitful as in others; and, even on the contrary side, the exception proves the rule : the rule that every people concluded a revelation so likely, that they have one and all contrived it for themselves. Thus shortly of the first: and now, secondly, how should God reveal himself to men? In such times as those when the world was yet young, and the Church concentrated in a family or an individual, it would probably be by an immediate oral teaching ; the Lord would speak with Adam ; He would walk with Enoch ; He would, in some pure ethereal garb, talk with Abraham, as friend to friend. And thereafter, as men grew, and worshippers were multiplied. He would give some favoured servant a commission to be His ambassador : He would say to an Ezekiel, " Go unto the house of Israel, and speak my words to them :" He would bid a Jeremiah " Take thee a roll of a book, and write therein all the words that I have spoken to thee :" He would give Daniel a deep vision, not to be interpreted for ages, "Shut up the words, and seal the book even to the time of the end :" He would make Moses grave His precepts in the rock, and Job record his trials with a pen of iron. For a family, the Beatic Vision was enough : for a congregated nation, as once at Sinai, oral proclamations : for one generation or two around the world, the zeal and eloquence of some great "multitude of preachers:" but, indubitably, if God willed to bless the universal race, and drop the honey of his words distilling down the hour-glass of Time from generation to THE BIBLE. 519 generation even to the latter days, there was no plan more probable, none more feasible, than the pen of a ready writer. Further : and which concerns our argument : what were likely to be the characteristic marks of such a revelation? Exclusively of a per- vading holiness, and wisdom, and sublimity, which could not be dis- pensed with, and in some sort should be worthy of the God ; there would be, it was probable, frequent evidences of man's infirmity, corrupting all he toucheth. The Almighty works no miracles for little cause : one miracle alone need be current throughout Scripture : to wit, that which preserves it clean and safe from every perilous error. But, in the succession of a thousand scribes each copying from the other, needs must that the tired hand and misty eye would occasionally misplace a letter : this was no nodus worthy of a God's descent to dissipate by miracle. Again : the original prophets themselves were men of various char- acters and times and tribes. God addresses men through their reason ; he bound not down a seer " with bit and bridle, like the horse that has no understanding" — but spoke as to a rational being — "What seesl thou?" "Hear my words;" — "Give ear unto my speech.'' Was it not then likely that the previous mode of thought and providential education in each holy man of God should mingle irresistibly with his inspired teaching ? Should not the herdsman of Tehoa plead in pastoral phrase, and the royal son of Amoz denounce with strong authority ? Should not David whilst a shepherd praise God among his flocks, and when a king, cry "Give the King thy judgments?" The Bible is full of this human individuality ; and nothing could be thought as humanly more probable : but we must, with this diversity, connect the other probability also, that which should show the work to be divine ; which would prove (as is literally the case) that, in spite of all such natural variety, all such unbiassed freedom both of thought and speech, there pervades the whole mass a oneness, a marveUous consistency, which would be likely to have been designed by God, though little to have been dreamt by man. Once mord on this full topic. Difficulties in Scripture were expect- able for many reasons ; I can only touch a few. Man is rational as he is responsible: God speaks to his mind and moral powers: and the mind rejoices, and moralities grow strong in conquest of the difficult and search for the mysterious. The muscles of the spiritual athlete pant for such exertion ; and without it, they would dwindle into trepid imbecility. Curious man, courageous man, enterprising, shrewd, and vigourous 520 PROBABILITIES. man, yet has a constant enemy to dread in his own indolence : now, a lion in the path will wake up Sloth himself: and the very difficulties of religion engender perseverance. Additionally : I think there is somewhat in the consideration, that, if all revealed truth had been utterly simple and easy, it would have needed no human interpreter ; no enlightened class of men, who, accord- ing to the spirit of their times, and the occasions of their teaching, might " in season and out of season preach the word, reprove, rebuke, exhort, with all long-suffering and doctrine." I think there existed an anterior probability that Scripture should be as it is, often-times difficult, obscure, and requiring the aid of many wise to its elucidation ; because, without such characteristic, those many wise and good would nevei have been called for. Suppose all truth revealed as clearly and indis putably to the meanest intellect as a sum in addition is, where were the need or use of that noble Christian company who are every where man'^ almoners for charity, and God's ambassadors for peace? A word or two more, and I have done. The Bible would, as it seem*^ to me probable, be a sort of double book ; for the righteous, and for the wicked : to one class, a decoy, baited to allure all sorts of generous dis positions : to the other, a trap, set to catch all kinds of evil inclinations In these two senses, it would address the whole family man : and every one should find in it something to his liking. Purity should there per ceive green pastures and still waters, and a tender Shepherd for its inno cent steps : and carnal appetite should here and there discover some darker spot, which the honesty of heaven had filled with memories of its chiefest servants' sins ; some record of adultery or murder wherewith to feast his maw for condemnation. While the good man should find in it meat divine for every earthly need, the sneerer should proclaim it the very easiest manual for his jests and lewd profanities. The unlettered should not lack humble, nay vulgar, images and words, to keep himself in countenance : neither should the learned look in vain for reasonings ; the poet for sublimities ; the curious mind for mystery ; nor the sorrow, ing heart for prayer. I do discern, in that great book, a wondrous adaptability to minds of every calibre : and it is just what might ante- cedently have been expected of a volume writ by many men at many different eras, yet all superintended by one master mind ; of a volume meant for every age, and nation, and country, and tongue, and people; of a volume which, as a two-edged sword, wounds the good man's heart with deep conviction, and cuts down "the hoary head of him who goeth on still in his wickedness." HEAVEN AND HELL. 501 Oif the whole, respecting faults, or incongruities, or objectionable parts in Scripture, however to have been expected, we must recollect that the moTe they are viewed, the more the blemishes fade, and are altered into beauties. A little child had picked up an old stone, defaced with time-stains: the child said the stone was dirty, covered with blotches and all colours : but his father brings a microscope, and shows to his astonished glance that what the child thought dirt, is a forest of beautiful lichens, fruited mosses, and strange lilliputian plants with shapely animalcules hiding in the leaves, and rejoicing in their tiny shadow. Every blemish, justly seen, had turned to be a beauty : and Nature's works are vindicated good, even as the Word of Grace is wise. HEAVEN AND HELL. Probably enough, the light which I expect to throw upon this import, ant subject will, upon a cursory criticism, be judged fanciful, erroneous, and absurd; in parts, quite open to riducule, and in all liable to the objection of being wise, or foolish, beyond what is written. Neverthe- less, and as it seems to me of no small consequence to reach something more definite on the subject than the Anywhere or Nowhere of common apprehensions, I judge it not amiss to put out a few thoughts, fancies, if you will, but not unreasonable fancies, on the localities and other characteristics of what we call heaven and hell : in fact, I wish to show their probable realities with somewhat approaching to distinctness. It is manifest that these places must be somewhere ; for, more especially of the blest estate, whither did Enoch, and Elijah, and our risen Lord ascend to? what became of these glorified humanities when "the chariot of fire carried up Elijah by a whirlwind into heaven;" and when "He was taken up, and a cloud received him?"' Those happy mortals did not waste away to intangible spiritualities, as they rose above the world ; their bodies were not melted as they broke the bonds of gravitation, and pierced earth's swathing atmosphere : they went up somev^^hither ; the question is where they went to. It is a question of great interest to us ; however, among those matters which are rather curious than conse- quential ; for in our own case, as we know, we that are redeemed are to be caught up, together with other blessed creatures, " in the clouds, to 44* 522 PROBABILITIES. meet our coming Saviour in the air, and thereafter to be ever wifti the Lord." I wish to show this to be expected as in our case, and expect- able previously to it. We have, in the book of Job, a peep at some place of congregation : some one, as it is likely, of the mighty globes in space, set apart as God's especial temple. Why not? they all are worlds; and the likeli- hood being in favour of overbalancing good, rather than of preponderating evil from considerations that affect God's attributes and the happiness of his creatures, it is probable that the great majority of these worlds are unfallen mansions of the blessed. Perhaps each will be a kingdom for one of earth's redeemed, and if so, there will at last be found fulfilled that prevailing superstition of our race, that each man has his star: without insisting upon this, we may reflect that there is no one universal opinion which has not its foundation in truth. Tradition may well have dropped the thought from Adam downwards, that the stars may some day be our thrones. We know their several vastness, and can guess their glory : verily a mighty meed for miserable services on earth, to find a just ambition gladdened with the rule of spheres, to which Terra is a point ; while that same ambition is sanctified and legalized by ruling as vicegerent of Jehovah. Is this unlikely, or unworthy of our high vocation, our immortality, and nearness unto, nay communion with God ? The idea is only sug- gested : let a man muse at midnight, and look up at the heavens hanging over all ; let him see, with Rosse and Herschell, that, multiply power as you will, unexhausted still and inexhaustible appear the myriads of worlds unknown. Yea, there is space enow for infinite reward ; yea, let every grain of sand on every shore be gathered, and more innumer- able yet appear that galaxy of spheres. Let us think that night looks down upon us here, with the million eyes of heaven. And for some focus of them all, some spot where God himself enthroned receives the homage of all crowns, and the worship of all creature service, what is there unreasonable in suggesting for a place some such an one as is instanced below? I have just cut the following paragraph out of a newspaper: Is this the ridiculous tripping up the sublime? I think otherwise: it is honest to use plain terms. I speak as unto wise men — ^judge ye what I say. With respect to the fact of information, it may or it may not be true ; but even if untrue, the idea is substantially the same, and I cannot help supposing that with angels and archangels and the whole company HEAVEN AND HELL. 523 of heaven, such bodily saints as Enoch is, (and similar to him all risen, holy men will be,) meet for happy sabbaths in some glorious orb akin or superior to the following : " A CENTRAL Sun. — Dr. Madier, the Professor of Astronomy at Dorpat, has published the results of the researches pursued by him uninterrupt- edly during the last sixty years, upon the movements of the so-called fixed stars. These more particularly relate to the star Alcyone, (dis- covered by him,) the brightest of the seven bright stars of the group of the Pleiades. This star he states to be the central sun of all the systems of stars known to us. He gives its distance from the bounda- ries of our system at thirty-four million times the distance of the sun from our earth, a distance which it takes five hundred and thirty-seven years for light to traverse. Our sun takes one hundred and eighty -two million years to accomplish its course round this central body, whose mass is one hundred and seventeen million times larger than the sun." One hundred and seventeen million times larger than the Sun! itself, for all its vastness, not more than half one million times bigger than this earth. To some such globe we may let our fancies float, and anchor there our yearnings after heaven. It is a glorious thought, such as imagination loves; and a probable thought, that commends itself to rea- son. Behold the great eye of all our guessed creation, the focus of its brightness, and the fountain of its peace. A topic far less pleasant, but alike of interest to us poor men, is the probable home of evil ; and here I may be laughed at — laugh, but listen, and if, listening, some reason meets thine ear, laugh at least no longer. We know that, for spirit's misery as for spirit's happiness, there is no need of place: "no matter where, for I am still the same," said one most miserable being. More — in the case of mere spirits, there is no need for any apparatus of torments, or fires, or other fearful things. But, when spirit is married to matter, the case is altered ; needs must a place to prison the matter, and a corporal punishment to vex it. Nothing is unlikely here; excepting — will a man urge? — the dread duration of such hell. This is a parenthesis ; but it shall not be avoided, for the import of that question is deep, and should be answered clearly. A man, a body and soul inmixt, body risen incorruptible, and soul rested from its deeds, must exist for ever. I touch not here the proofs — assume it. Now, if he lives for ever, and deliberately chooses evil, his will consenting as well as his infirmity, and conscience seared by persisted di-oobi'dience, what course can such a wilful, rational, responsible being 524 PROBABILITIES. pursue than one perpetually erratic? How should it not be that he gets worse and worse in morals, and more and more miserable in fact? and when to this we add, that such wretched creatures are to herd together, continually flying further away from the only source of Happiness and Good ; and to this, that they have earned by sin, remorses and regrets, and positive inflictions ; how probable seems a hell, the sinner's doom eternal. The apt mathematical analogy of lines thrown out of parallel, helps this for illustration : for ever and for ever they are stretching more remote, and infinity itself cannot reunite their travel. This, then, as a passing word ; a sad one. Honest thinker, do not scorn it, for thine own soul's sake. "Now is the time of grace, now is the day of salvation." To return. A place of punishment exists ; to what quarter shall we look for its anterior probability ? I think there is a likelihood very near us. There may be one, possibly, beneath us, in the bowels of this fiery-bursting earth ; whither went Korah and his company? This idea is not without its arguments, just analogies, and scriptural hints. But my judgment inclines towards another. This trial-world, we know, is to be purified and restored, and made a new earth : it was even to be expected that Redemption should do this, and I like not to imagine it the crust and case of hell, but rather, as thus: At the birth of this same world, there was struck off" from its burning mass at a tangent, a mournful satellite, to be the home of its immortal evil; the convict shore for exiled sin and misery ; a satellite of strange differ ences, as guessed by Virgil in his musings upon Tartarus, where haH tlie orb is, from natural necessities, blistered up by constant heats, the other half frozen by perennial cold. A land of caverns, and volcanoes, miles deep, miles high; with no water, no perceptible air: imagine such a dreadful world, with neither air nor water! incapable of feeding life like ours, but competent to be a place where undying wretchedness may struggle for ever. A melancholy orb, the queen of night, chief nucleus of all the dark idolatries of earth; the Moon, Isis, Hecate, Ashtaroth, Diana of the Ephesians ! This expression of a thought by no means improbable, gives an easy chance to shallow punsters; but ridicule is no weapon against reason Why should not the case be so? Why should not Earth's own satellite, void, as yet, be on the resurrection of all flesh, the raft whereon to float away Earth's evil ? Read of it astronomically ; think of it as connected with idols; regard it as the ruler of earth's night; consider that the place of a Gehenna must be somewhere ; and what is there in my fancy AN OFFER. 525 quite improbable ? I do not dogmatize as that the fact is so, but only suggest a definite place at least as likely as any other hitherto sug- gested. Think how that awful, melancholy eye looks down on deeds of darknesss! how many midnight crimes, murders, thefts, adulteries, and witchcrafts, that would have shrunk into nonentity from open, honest day, have paled the conscious Moon! Add to all this, it is the only world, besides our own, whereof astronomers can tell us, It is fallen. AN OFFER. Nothing were easier than to have made this book a long one ; but that was not the writer's object : as well because of the musty Greek proverb about long books ; which in every time and country are sure never to be read through by one in a thousand ; as because it is always wiser to suggest than to exhaust a topic ; which may be as " a fruit- tree yielding fruit after its kind whose seed is in itself." The writer then intended only to touch upon a few salient points, and not to discuss every question, however they might crowd upon his mind : time and space alike with mental capabilities forbade an effort so gigantic : added to which, such a course seemed to be unnecessary, as the rule of prob- ability, thus illustrated, might be applied by others in every similar instance. Still, as the errand of this book is usefulness, and its author's hope is, under Heaven, to do good, one personal hint shall here be tlirown upon the highway. Without arrogating to myself the wisdom or the knowledge to solve one in twenty of the doubts possible to be pro- pounded ; without also designing even to attempt such solutions, unless well assured of the genuine anxiety of the doubter ; and preliminarizing the consideration, that a fitting diffidence in the advocate's own powers is no reason why he should not make wide efforts in his holy cause ; that, such reasonable essays to do good have no sort of brotherhood with a fanatical Spiritual Quixotism; and that, to my own apprehensions, the doubts of a I'ationalizing mind are in the nature of honourable foes, to be treated with delicacy, reverence, and kindness, rather than with a cold distance and an ill-concealed contempt ; preliminarizing, lastly, the thoug'nt — "Who is sufficient for these things?" — I nevertheless thus offer, according to the grace and power given to me, my best but humble efforts so far to dissipate the doubts of some respecting any scriptural 526 PROBABILITIES. fact, as may lie within the province of showing or attempting to show its previous credibility. This is not a challenge to the curious casuist or the sneering infidel ; but an invitation to the honest mind harassed by unanswered queries: no gauntlet thrown down, but a brother's hand stretched out. Such questions, if put to the writer, through his pub- lisher by letter, may find their reply in a future edition : supposing, that is to say, that they deserve an answer, whether as regards their own merits or the temper of the mind who doubts ; and supposing also that the writer has the power and means to answer them discreetly. It is only a fair rule of philanthropy (^.nd that without arrogating any unusual "strength") to "bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please our- selves:" and nothing would to me give greater happiness than to be able, as I am willing, to remove any difficulties lying in the track of Faith before a generous mind. I hang out no glistening holly-bush a-flame with its ostentatious berries as promising good wine ; but rather over my portal is the humbler and hospitable mistletoe, assuring every wearied pilgrim in the way, that though scanty be the fare, he shall find a hearty welcome. CONCLUSION. 1 HAVE thus endeavoured (with solicited help of Heaven) to place before the world anew a few old truths : truths inestimably precious. Remember, they cannot have lost by any such advocacy as is contained in the idea of their being shown antecedently probable ; for this idea affects not at all the fact of their existence ; the thing is ; whether prob- able or not; there is, in esse, an ornithorhyncus; its posse is drowned in esse : there exists no doubt of it : evidence, whether of senses physical, or of considerations moral, puts the circumstance beyond the sphere of disputation. But such truths as we have spoken of do, nevertheless, "■ain something as to — not their merits, these are all their own substan- tially ; nor their positive proofs, these are adjectives properly attendant on them, but as to — their acceptability among the incredulous of men ; they gain, I sa}', even by such poor pleading as mine, from being shown anteriorly probable. Take an illustration in the case of that strange and anomalous creature mentioned just above. Its habitat is in a land where plums grow with the stones outside, where aboriginal dogs have CONCLUSION. 527 never been heard to bark, where birds are found covered with hair, and where mammals jump about like frogs! If these are shown to be literal facts, the mind is thereby well prepared for any animal mon- strosity : and it staggers not in unbelief (on evidence of honest travellers) even when informed of a creature with a duck's bill and a beaver's body : it really amounted in Australia to an antecedent probability. Carry this out to matters not a quarter so incredible, ye thinkers, ye free-thinkers ; neither be abashed at being named as thinking freely : were not those Bereans more noble in that they searched to see? For my humble part, I do commend you for it : treacherous is the hand that roots up the inalienable right of private judgment; the foundation-stone of Protestantism, the great prerogative of reason, the key-note of con- science, the sole vindex of a man's responsibility : evil and false is the so-called reverential wisdom which lays down in place of the truth that each man's conscience is a law unto himself, the tyranny of other men's authority. Cheap and easy and perilled is the faith, which clings to the skirt of others ; which leans upon the broken staff of priestcraft, until those poisoned splinters pierce the hand. Prove all things ; holding fast that which is good : good to thine own reasonable conscience, if unwarped by casuistries, and unblinded by licentiousness. Prove all things, if you can, "from the egg to the apple:" he is a poor builder of his creed, who takes one brick on credit. Be able, as you can be, (if only you are willing so far to be wisely incon- sistent, as to bend the stubborn knee betimes, and though with feeble glance to look to heaven, and though with stammering tongue to pray for aid,) be able, as it is thy right, O man of God — ^to give a Reason for the faith that is in thee. THE END. WG -1 ihl^ .;] Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: May 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724) 779-2111