UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT urbana-ch; .'AIGM BOOKSTACKS Digitized by the Internet Arciiive in 2009 witii funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/willwatchfromaut01neal V3?'^ WILL WATCH. VOI-. I. VOL. I. WILL WATCH. VOL. I. PREPARING FOR PIT 3 LIGATION, BY THE SAME AUTHOR^ WORTLEY MONTAGU; OR, THE CONFESSED WANDERINGS OF A MERRY PHILOSOPHER. " 1 write a careless kind of civil, nonsensical, good humoured, Shandeaij Book, which will do your hearts good.— And your heads too, provided you understand it."— Sterne. "Why, in the name of the devout stocking of Saint Ursula! what have we here? — An it be not your English harricot, your Scotch hodge-podge, your Irish stew, your Dutch lobschschowsh, your Spaniard's olla podrida,— your true cosmopolite's omnium-gatherum, blended at once— a little of every thing !"— Vandebbbx:ggius> WILL WATCH. FROM THE AUTO-BIOGRAPHY OF A BRITISH OFFICER. THE AUTHOR OF CAVENDISH, ETC. ETC. Ahi ! null' altro che pianto al mondo dura ! " PETRARCH. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. L LONDON: JAMES COCHRANE AND CO., 11, WATERLOO PLACE, PALL MALL. 1834. G. WOODFALL, angel covrt, skinner street, lokdon. V, P R E F A C E. This Work was originally composed with a view to sustaining the anonymous. This design being now however abandoned, there is one point > connected with the ensuing tale which appears to ^ require some little explanation. In taking for the will be found in a volume written by the latter Till PREFACE. gentleman, and entitled " Transactions during the reign of Queen Anne ; " a work, the nature of which will amply repay for its perusal. WILLIAM JOHNSON NEALE. :J4, Pail Mall. 1834. WILL WATCH. CHAPTER I. " You say that people will call this a novel. — Let them ! — Am 1 responsible for all the eiTors of mankind ? — Were such to be the result of my labours, I should be at no loss for a plan. " The plan for a novel should evidently be a novel plan — what say you ? — The only infallible way to do anything well is to do it carelessly. — This you will affirm to be sufficiently novel, and I will affimi to be sufficiently true. — I can prove it, and with ease. — But no : — What is proof but fact confirming an assertion ? — and who that receives not an assertion wilhngly, will be thankful for having it forced upon him by the aid of facts ? VOL. I. B ^ WILL WATCH. Can anything be clearer ? Facts — facts ! — my dear fellow, one would think that you composed a court-martial. — But I beg pardon ; these gentry now-a-days are content with surmises. " Facts ! and do you sneer," I hear you say, " at facts ? — You, whose highest flight has never soared beyond — you whose most prospective dream will scarce embrace to-moiTOw, whose widest wish is bounded by to-day ! — The plodding jog- trot of whose philosophy pursues an easy route, amid enjoyments which sentiment itself could never heighten, nor ambition interrupt — and do you sneer at facts 1 — ^What then am I to expect ? " Facts — sentiment — ambition — expect- ation. — Come, come, sir, don't grow scunilous. — Facts, sir, are facts. As for sentiment — Fiddlestick ! — For ambition, I refer you to Mr. Pope ; and touching your expectations, consult your grand- mother — that is, her will. If she should have left me a legacy — why — ahem ! — Don't forget to mention it — that's all. " Expect ! " forsooth : have you not read the blessing pronounced on those who " expect little " WILL WATCH. o — than which, alas ! no blessing might be more widely earned — than which I fear no blessing is more negligently sought. — Expect nothing, there- fore, beyond a simple sort of narrative, woven at random during the leisure intervals of more ar- duous duties ; laying claim to no higher interest than such as belongs to brief sketches of my pro- fession, and the history of your humble servant, as far as it includes that of Will Watch, since this it is for which you ask me. Once, when crossing in the passage-boat from Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight, the curiosity of a fellow-passenger interrupted me in a deep reverie — sad and sorrowful enough. Heaven knows ! Foreseeing no peace until he should be satisfied, I cleared my voice, clasped my hands, settled myself into a posture indicative of resignation, and said, Sir, — my name is Charles Arran—or if this be not my name at all times, I at least choose that it shall be so now. — I am an officer in H. M. Navy, in which I have served for the last * * years. Though but a young man, I have no relative upon B 2 4 WILL WATCH. earth for me to care for, or to care for me. I was bom in Holyrood House, Edinburgh, in the year 17**; when I shall die I do not exactly know, but have my suspicions as to this event taking place very shortly. Should the distance permit it, my remains will then be consigned to decay in the final resting- j)lace of my progenitors, thus separated by the space of some two hundred yards from the bed in which the circle of my brief existence was commenced. As for my parentage, Sir, my father was Count H n, colonel of His Majesty's foot, while my mother, whom I had the misfortune to lose in infancy, was the daughter of I , of * *. There have been neither brothers nor sisters among us for the last three generations — having come down fi*om only son to only son ; so you may conclude there are no collateral heirs. I myself have no children, and with me expires — But I see, sir, you grow impatient — you would be informed of my more immediate concerns ? — Good ! — My present business, then, in the Isle of Wight is to dine with a gentleman, whose seat is, as you may know, not far from Ryde. — He has great WILL WATCH. weight in the admiralty — I am most anxious to obtain his intercession in behalf of one for whom I am deeply interested ; and as for myself per- sonally, I am, to sum up, an exceedingly ill-tem- pered fellow — much at your service — (with a low bow). I am sorry to say that I believe this to be all which I can at present communicate. Should there, however, be any other point on which you would hke to be informed, either concerning myself or any other person — whether they are known to me or whether they are not — depend upon it, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to enlighten you. Oh ! by the by — (putting my hand in my pocket as the boat reached the pier) — I find I have no purse about me — so you may pay the fare. The fellow was impertinent, you think .? Nothing of the sort. — Pulling forth some coin, with a generosity which might have shamed a duke — say M-rlb — gh for instance — the man smiled as he replied, " with all my heart, sir : a tradesman, I suppose, should think the society of your worship cheap at that." — Tradesman ! — of what trade .? said 6 WILL WATCH. Ij touched by a hieriveillance du cceur thatr— did it depend on me— rshould never go unrewarded. — " Furnishing ironmonger," replied my new arch acquaintance. — I rejoice to hear it; give me your hand, my friend ; if it be as soft as your heart, it is fit for the clasp of a prince. — Here, go on board the * *, she is just commissioned over the water yonder, — take this card — say I recommended you, and get what orders you can. Before we left Spithead, he had booked upwards of two hundred pounds, which, but for my petulance To take up, however, for your information, the history commenced for another — I will not repeat that which you already know. — My boyhood — but the boyhood of most men will exhibit a strong similarity where a like degree of attention is paid in the examination ; I need say little, therefore, of that portion of my life which preceded my more immediate entrance on the world. As a lad, I was noted for a love of adventure and my fondness for solitude, in which, like many who have slept their sleep, I delighted to dream of a futurity, that was, perhaps, never to be realized. — Dreams which WILL WATCH. 7 even now the heart will not altogether relinquish, like the idler in Horace : — '^ Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis : at ille Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis aevum." Left soon after birth to the sole care of my father, he of course fills the most prominent part of my recollections of this period. Might I only fulfil each charge in life as ably and tenderly as his were performed towards me ! Whether I fancy him still busying himself in my education, sharing in my youthful gambols, or indulging me with one of the many traditions concerning the ve- nerable pile above our heads, the same kind yet dignified countenance smiles upon me, — the same martial and graceful form is beside me. Beneath his eye I reached my fifteenth year ; treated with the indulgence of an equal rather than the discipline of a son, and without ever having experienced the absence of a week. Some short time before I attained the age above mentioned, my father accepted an invitation to spend my birthday with a few friends assembled 8 WILL WATCH. at the house of a relative in the county of Lanark. Some ti'ansaction occurring to detain him a few days in Edinbm*gh, I was sent forward by myself on the tenth of December, ten days before the day in question. He was to follow at his earliest convenience. The date to which my narrative now relates, was in the year seventeen hundred and ninety-two. As my father shook my hand through the window of the caiTiage, and watched my departure from beneath the lowering arch of Holyrood, I felt, when the wave of his hand was last seen, a sensation as novel as it was painfld. Gazing at the dingy walls of the old building be- neath which I had passed so many pleasant years, they for the first time seemed to frown on one, the happiest part of whose existence they had wit- nessed. As we slowly moved along, the chill blast of winter swept round the open space the last sad fragments of the foHage from the adjoin- ing trees, while the banished few whom debt had obliged to take shelter within the respected pre- cincts of the palace, now drew their cloaks more WILL WATCH. 9 closely around them, and quickening their steps, hastened to finish the exercise which their health demanded. I knew not what might be the pressure of po- verty, but I saw that their cheeks were pinched by the cold evening breeze, that the sky looked murky, and the earth cheerless and repelling ; so drawing up the blinds, and settling down in the carriage, I took refuge in the arms of one who then had never deserted me — kind Sleep. The intervening days passed pleasantly; — the evening at length arrived on which my parent was to join our party. We were seated roimd the fire, an expecting group, when the dash of a horse's feet at full gallop interrupted our conversation, and, borne on the breeze, betokened the haste of the rider. In a few minutes a note was put into my hand, requesting my immediate attendance at the sick bedside of my father. Not a moment was lost in complying with a demand which was so warmly seconded by every feeling within me, and in a brief space I was posting on with all the speed which circumstances permitted. B 3 10 WILL WATCH. The clocks of Edinburgh were just tolling out four, as my jaded horses drew up within the court-yard of my home. Scarcely did I trust my voice to inquire how the invalid was, until the sad shake of old Donald's, the major domo's, liead, gave me to understand that some hope re- mained, even though it were of the slightest. " How is he, my good Donald, — shall I go in to him, or does he sleep ? " " He 's just fallen off into a bit nap at present, sir, but I fear me he 's in a sair case ony how. Come away, dear Master Charles, maybe he '11 wake mending. The Lord be thankit that you're come sae sunej" A few moments sufficed to leam from Donald an account of his master's illness. He had re- turned, some days since, to dinner with wet feet, and, rising from the table, retired immediately to bed. On the following morning he was found to be iu a high state of fever, speedily followed by delirium. This had no sooner passed off, than he desired me to be summoned. Heart-struck with the sudden event which WILL WATCH. 11 threatened to bereave nie of my only friend, I stole towards the apartment over whose threshold the angel of death was even then hovering. Well do I remember the chilling gloom of departing grandeur which hung over the old state bed-room. As a child, it had always been an object of re- verence mingled with fear, calling up the hundred tales of departed royalty, whose members had successively been bom to its honours, and resigned them to clay as fragile as themselves. Each figure in the faded tapestry, and each article of ancient furniture, the brightness of whose gorgeous adorn- ments Time had fretted away, — every object al- most on which the eye could rest, contributed its share to the legendary history which, from my earliest infancy, had been communicated to me. How much more impressively then did they now recur to my mind, when Grief herself was weighing down a heart, young in the bitter ad- versities of life, and affection was striving to be- lieve that their experience was to be delayed — ^yet a day ! I looked around me, and coming from a blaze 12 WILL WATCH. of light, my eyes vainly tried to pierce the dim obscurity which the shaded tapers flung over the spacious chamber ; — my heart sunk heavily within me. I paused to catch the low sound that be- spoke life near, and which, with the ticking of ' the time-piece on an adjoining table, filled up the pauses in the storm that howled without. " Charles," said a low voice, faint fi'om pain and previous exertion, and which had failed to gather strength from the broken slumber of the night. In an instant I was by my parent's side. He grasped my hand, but the cold and feeble pressure left a chill upon my heart. I stooped to press it to my lips. He whispered me, with all his remaining strength, to lie down by his side, " I did not think, Charles,'* he continued, " to have parted from you so soon, but if it must be," — a pause of emotion ensued — " it will be as well that I should tell you all I have to communicate. I have hitherto forborne to distress your child- hood with family details, but you will find a manuscript written for your eye, in the secret WILL WATCH. 13 drawer of the table beneath the plate glass op- posite." I interrupted him to express my hopes that his fears uimecessarily darkened the picture. Lifting his hand to his head with much effort, he said languidly, " I feel" — then turning his face more round towards mine, with much difficulty, but with the playful smile of a happier day, con- tinued as he- kissed my forehead, " Charles, my orphan boy, let me look upon your face : so young a " a whispering succeeded for one or two minutes, as if to himself I thought he was en- gaged in prayer, and this idea was confirmed by hearmg the words " God's blessing on him ! " and '^ birthday," when he was silent. A short space of time elapsed, — I forbore from delicacy to interrupt him. — Absorbed in my own grief, I scarcely noted how the time flew, till aroused by the gradual chilliness of the hand that clasped my own. I looked up the lips which had so lately pleaded to Heaven in my behalf. Death had rendered mute for ever ! The spirit of my father had flown to its God : there to second, 14 WILL WATCH. with a parent's love, his dying suppUcation for an only child. The poignancy of my anguish I leave to the imagination of those who, in the purity of their youth, have lost some beloved object to which their hearts were clingmg— clinging with all the untainted fervour that glows in the heart of child- hood : its affections as yet only to be won by kindness, and its councils still unswayed by that sordid interest, to which the world will shortly give so loud a voi'ce. It was not the first day of grief and bitterness which revealed to me the extent of my loss: still as I pondered over the event which I strove in vain to disbelieve, some new remem- brance of his virtues and affection, arose to re- double my tears. But much as the genius of man may suggest, and his art effect, the grave cannot be deluded of its prey. The day arrived when the remains of my last — first — sole friend were to be consigned to the tomb. The time which had elapsed since his death, old Donald WILL WATCH. 15 told me, was a week, but for me, affliction had so bewildered every sense, tbat the sun shining into the apartment, and the sky betokening a change of weather, were the all that seemed to give the lie to its being the very morning of his decease. Soon was the sad drama to close ! Indulging me with a last glance at the features I had vene- rated from my cradle, I beheld the fmal offices performed which excluded him from all that sa- voured of humanity — except its ashes. When I beheld his form lifted from the couch of death, and found myself alone, a feeling of incredulity stole over me. I could not persuade myself of what I had seen, nay, more sceptical than the disbeliever of old, I could not believe even that which I had too deeply felt. His had been a history both sad and strange, and something told me mine was doomed to be its parallel. Beneath that very canopy he had been bom. — After a life spent in various climes, marked by adventure, and shaded by misfortune. Destiny had required the surrender of that life she had first given to him, on the same spot. 16 WILL WATCH. Bom on the same couch, what guarantee had I, that the same unrelenting fortune was not to dog my steps. His virtues, his abihties, his acquirements, his vast and various funds of knowledge, to the accu- mulations of which he had continued adding almost to his closing hour, his accomplishments, alas, where were they now? Could so rich a store be decreed only to a lavish expenditure upon the heartless tomb. Why was he not al- lowed to bequeath even a portion of them — a sumptuous legacy — to the desolate orphan he had left behind ? Might no kinder fate be permitted to them than that of descending, with their regretted possessor to the gloomy halls of death — where the rest of his race were slumbering before him ? Alas, thought I, could the valour and the might, the wisdom and the experience of those of the line who had gone before me, be restored for the benefit of an unworthy descendant, what might not be mine ? " It's vera true, dear Master Charles," sobbed a WILL WATCH. 17 voice in sorrowful reply at my elbow. " It's e'en owi*e true — an ye had a' thae ye'd be richer yet than the feckless ncer-do-weel — gude guide him — wha's got the dukedom. The grave winna be cheated, Master Charles, fleech it as ye will. Ye canna take their valour, and their might, and their wisdom, and their experience, but ye hae mair than maist, ye hae their blude, Master Charles, and ye hae their example, and gin ye but hand your head up and put a stout heart to a stey brae and no greet sae sairly, ye'll may be yet — yet — " Good old Donald's grief would let him say no more. The faithful follower of his master's wanderings — he wept hke a child. He had, un- known to me, been lingering near and checked the sad thoughts which I had unconsciously ut- tered aloud. His own emotions now compelled him to silence for a few seconds, when, somewhat recovered, he said, " Will ye no gang and see the last of your dear father, sir, in the chapel yonder .? They finished prayers, sir, when I came in ! Ye suldna hae come away yoursel', and you chief 18 WILL WATCH. mourner too ! I'll no be surprised if they're wait- ing : come, Master Charles," — and the kind old creature exerted himself to see that I did what was expected. Short indeed, in all instances, is the passage from the halls of the living to the mansions of the dead, but in this instance we had but to cross the court yard to enter the royal chapel, and there relinquish to decay the only relative — save a dis- tant cousin — that I then possessed on earth. With streaming eyes I beheld the object of my grief slowly disappear into the chasm that yawned below it. I marked the gilded mockery glistening through my tears from amid the gloom of the vault as it reflected back the torch-light, used to place it in its final niche. It moved slowly from my sight and passed away for ever! Count H n was numbered with the dead. The pomp — the pageantry — the hum — the flutter of life were in motion around me, but the wilds of Arabia would have been a social relief! Days had elapsed and I found myself meditat- ing in the room so lately tenanted. A listlessness WILL WATCH. 19 of soul had come over me which rendered all things indifferent. Reflecting on the last mo- ments of my father, the mention of some manu- script written for my perusal was recalled to me. It was a last mournful treat, and I drew it from the secret drawer which he had mentioned as the place of its concealment. With an eager eye I read as follows : " MY DEAR CHARLES, " Warned by a precarious state of health, and the probability of your forlorn desolation, should I not be spared to rear you to maturity, I am anxious to foreaim you against the evil day, and insure to you such indispensable information of your history as your present tender age forbids my communicating to you in person. It is a melan- choly foresight, and one which I may trust in God will prove unnecessary ; still, should we be doomed to separate before I can prove in you the young and delightful friend which I have ever fondly anticipated for my declining years, I cannot but reflect that no maternal arms can shield you from 20 WILL WATCH. the blasts of adversity: no faithful and devoted tongue afford you the advice which youth so in- variably needs, — ^but that, on the contrary, even the few and distant connexions then remaining to you, will be those whose deepest interests are T^Tapped up in your non-existence ! ■ " To supply to you, therefore, an informant whose truth you can never doubt, to afford to you a monitor whose disinterested advice you can never suspect, and one on whose consistency of counsel passing events can make no impression, I bequeath to you these sheets with my most sacred charge that you preserve and consult them through Ufe as your most sacred friends. My reasons, my dear boy, for such a charge, will be made evident in your perusal of them. " Of the various subjects to which these papers relate, I have purposely kept you in ignorance, and when I tell you that your age is at this present date of my wiiting, but ten years, you will thank me for the kindness. — Long, long may you be spared so mournful a knowledge ! My first care is to inform you of your ancestors. Your name, WILL WATCH. 21 my dear boy, will already have told you that you are descended from the family of H n ; a name which must ever remain one of the brightest orna- ments of Scottish history, until valour, genius, and unflinching faith are disregarded by the country so long celebrated for these virtues. I shall not here trouble either you or myself by going back to the origin of your ancestors, — that you already know: beginning with a more modern date, it will suffice to say that the first duke of your family was James, son of James, marquis of H n, by Lady AnneC — gh — m, daughter of the Earl of Gl-nc — rn. He was long distinguished by the favour of his sovereign, Charles the First, who promoted him to the dukedom, but on the immo- lation of that royal martyr by a misguided people, his devoted zeal doomed him to be the next noble victim to the insolent tyranny of the regicides. Duke James was succeeded in his title and career by his brother, Duke Wilham, who after having proved the chief support of his royal master, Charles the Second, fell, mortally wounded, at the battle of Worcester. The honours of the family then de- OO WILL WATCH. volved on his niece Lady Anne, eldest daughter of his late brother Duke James, and more peaceful times having happily succeeded. Duchess Anne manied William, Earl of S — Ik — k, son of the Marquess of D — gl — s, on whom, at her gi'ace's request, the title was conferred during life. " Eleven children were the issue of this mar- riage, the eldest of whom, James, Ear of A-r-n, was my grandfather. Inheriting such powerful claims on his sovereign's gratitude, we are not suqmsed at finding him in the full enjoyment of the second Charles's favour. On the decease of this monarch he attached himself to James, his successor, who honoured him with the appoint- ment of envoy extraordinary to the court of France, gave him the command of the royal regi- ment of horse, made him one of the knights of the thistle, upon reviving this noble order, and ap- pointed him master of his wardrobe. " Such being the distinctions and caresses be- stowed upon this earl, during King James's short and stormy reign, he was justly considered as a staunch supporter of that prince's measures, and WILL WATCH. 23 even unfairly accused of having embraced Popery at the King's persuasion. " This circumstance created, and afterwards fed an unhappy feud between Lord A-r-n and his father, the Duke of H n. False to the faith of the family whose title he only bore by courtesy, this nobleman had espoused political interests diametrically opposite to those of his son, who had early entered into the measure of inviting over the Prince of Orange. So powerfully did the duke exert himself to fix this potentate on the throne, that he was chosen President of the Convention of the Scottish estates, who voted the prince King, and was by them invested with the dictatorial power of seizing and imprisoning all suspected persons. " Lord A-r-n, on the contrary, was by grati- tude and loyalty so strongly attached to the person of James the Second, that, without abet- ting his religious principles, he steadfastly ad- hered to him in the midst of all his troubles ; he sedulously, though in vain, endeavoured to re- strain the defection of his party; he marched 24 WILL WATCH. with him to SaHsbury ; he attended him in his flights, and remained constantly with him, until he finally embarked. " When he waited at length on the Prince of Orange, the excuse which he pleaded for being the last who paid his respects, was, 'that the duty which he owed to his absent master, would not peiTnit him sooner to have this honour.' " At the ensuing meeting of the Scottish Lords and gentlemen, held in London, although the pre- sident was his father, whose devotion to the Prince of Orange was avowed, yet Lord A-r-n in a bold and animated speech, opposed the motion for ad- dressing the Prince to take upon himself the go- vernment of Scotland ; and moved, ' that his Highness be solicited to invite his Majesty to re- turn and call a free parliament, for securing our religion and liberties, according to the known laws of the realm.' " He, however, failed in this amendment, by which he only drew upon himself the resentment of William, who soon after deprived him of the command of the regiment, and, with the concur- WILL WATCH. 25 rence of the Duke of H- n, had him commit- ted to the Tower. " He now underwent a long and painful ini- prisonment, during which his friends were de- ban'ed of all access to him ; he was even pre- vented from coiTespouding with any one, and for many months denied the benefit of the habeas corpus act, whose operation lay suspended. He was at length liberated, upon giving security for his conduct and appearance ; but thereafter looked upon with a suspicious eye. His steps, his words, nay his very looks, were narrowly watch- ed ; an attempt was even made upon his life, by four armed ruffians, who in the night attacked him in Pall Mall, but, with the help of his trusty attendants, he repelled their assault and put them to flight*. " A coincidence in sentiments and disposition had long linked Lord A-r-n in close intimacy ♦ Lord A-r-n had strong reasons to suspect Lord M-rlb— gh to have plotted this assassination, from his well known in- veteracy. VOL. I. C 26 WILL WATCH. with the Duke of Gr-ft-n, to whose good offices he stood principally indebted for his late enlarge- ment. He had before been struck with the un- folding charms of his friend's youngest sister, Lady Barbara ; he was now captivated by their maturer power. His visits at Cl-v-1-nd House thence became more frequent and lasted much longer. This circumstance had not escaped the vigilant observation of the spies, by whom he was surrounded, and who were ordered to redouble their assiduity and stiive to discover the true source of the earl's partiality to that mansion. It was in consequence soon after given out, that Lord A-r-n, who had lost his Countess, the daughter of the Earl of Su-d— 1-nd, had been privately married to Lady Barbara F-tzr-y, whom the slightest breath of slander could in no wise impugn, but who was said to have been brought up a papist. " This report, which no pains were taken to con- tradict, awakened the resentment of the Duke of H — n, whose dislike of the Romish rehgion had ever been unconquerable. It no less incensed WILL WATCH. 27 the Queen, on whom the executive government had devolved, during the King'*s journey to Holland, and it was a second time resolved to send Lord A-r-n to the Tower, upon the plea of his being concerned in Lord Preston's conspiracy. Meanwhile Cl-v-1-nd House was searched, and his papers, in the possession of Lady Barbara, were seized as treasonous. " In the agonies into which this lady had been thrown by the proceedings against her lord, she had been deHvered of a son*, whom his grand- mother, the Duchess of Cl-v-1-nd, with the con- sent of his uncle, the Duke, had named Charles. " Neither the birth of this son, nor the pangs of his distracted mother, had any influence to soothe the Duke of H n and reconcile him to this alliance. He even refused to listen to any overtures for averting the earl's threatened trial, and consenting to his liberation, save upon the express condition, that Lady Barbara should retire to a convent upon the continent, and separate for ever from his son. * The 30th of March, 1691. C2 28 WILL WATCH. " After the most excruciating conflict, this ex- emplary and devoted wife made the required sacrifice. Mustering what strength her nearly exhausted state left her, she tore herself from her infant son, whom the duchess, her mother, un- dertook to rear up, and withdrew to the Abbey of Pontoise, near St. Germain, where lingering illness by degrees undermined her delicate frame, and very soon terminated her sufferings in death. " Lord A-r-n, frantic with grief and vexation, disdainfully resisted all applications for entering into a fi-esh security for his future conduct, and even positively refused to pass his word not to hold any communication with the Court of St. Germain's. He was however tied down to the teims subscribed the year before by himself, the Duke of Gr-ft-n and Lord F-v-rsh-m, by which he was bound to appear whenever re- quired, and restricted to reside in Scotland under the penalty himself of .£^10,000, and his two securities of 6^^5,000 each. These preliminaries adjusted, it was notified to him upon his coming WILL WATCH. 29 out of the Tower, that twenty-four hours only were allowed him to remain in London. " Having employed this short interval princi- pally about his infant child, whom the fostering care of the Duchess of Cl-v-1-nd w^as rearing up at Chiswick, he set off for Scotland and fixed his residence at Thinniel, where he dragged on a painfld existence until the death of his father, whose titles, however, he could not assume for three years, when, with much difficulty, a patent was at length obtained to confirm the surrender made in his favour by the Duchess Anne, in whom the honours of the house vested as heiress general. " Having formed a new and wealthy alliance w^ith the Hon. Miss Elizabeth G-r-rd, daughter of Lord G-r-rd, of Bromley, he found it expedient to send his son over to France, and to entrust his person and education to the Earl of M-dd-t-n, at that time secretary of state to James the Second. " This nobleman received his young charge with every demonstration of joy, placed him in his family, under the same masters who had 30 WILL WATCH. brought up his own sons, and in process of time reposed in him a large share of his confidence. The Court of St. Germain's were, moreover, not a little gratified by the possession of this youth, whom they considered as a certain pledge of the duke's attachment to their cause, and whom the late great sufferings and splendid vh*tues of his mother entitled to additional regard. " Great was the weight and influence, which now, towards the close of Queen Anne's reign, the Duke of H n enjoyed, both at home and abroad. He had been created Duke of Br-nd-n, and after the Union, appointed master general of the Ordnance. In addition to the order of the Thistle, confeiTed upon him by James the 2nd, his royal mistress had honoured him with that of the Garter ; and he was daily expected in France as ambassador extraordinaiy and plenipotentiary from Her Majesty to that Court, to conclude the treaty of the peace of Utrecht ; but before he could set out upon the embassy, he was cnielly deprived of his life in Hyde Park, on the 15th of November, 1712. WILL WATGH. 31 " The shock felt by the son, at the news of this horrid catastrophe, which robbed him of so dear a father, may be more easily conceived than de- scribed. Instead of experiencing the heartfelt joy of being pressed in the embraces of a fond and indulgent parent, whom he had the most powerful motives to love and to venerate ; instead of beholding him caressed by crowned heads, and coiu-ted by multitudes, in the plenitude of power and in the enjoyment of iuU health and vigour, he learnt suddenly, and unprepared for the woeful event, that this great and amiable no- bleman had been treacherously murdered in a duel with Lord M-h-n. " In a situation requiring all the fortitude of stoicism, and the expeiience of advanced years, was this poor orphan left to encounter the frowns of adversity, without support and in a foreign land, at the age of one and twenty. " Thus destined, as it were by Fate, to suffer, we see that your grandfather, my venerated parent, became from his birth, the innocent object of a rancorous persecution. Doomed never to behold 32 WILL WATCH. his exemplary mother, who, to rescue her lord, had, in the bloom of youth, heroically sacrificed herself, he had been at about five years of age removed from Ch— w — k to H n, where, for a time, he experienced many parental endearments, and was much caressed by the Duchess Anne. " Upon his father taking the title of Duke of H n, he received the appellation of Lord A-r-n, and although his mother's marriage had never been formally announced, yet he was uni- versally known to be the son and heir of the duke. The latter, after long grieving for his beloved Barbara, was at length, as we have seen, induced to espouse another lady. " This union yielded not at first, the complete felicity which it had promised. The duke was too soon made sensible that his domestic peace could no otherwise be insured, than by the absence of his son. He therefore consigned the care of his educa- tion to his particular fiiend Lord M-dd — t-n. No cloud for some years shaded my father's high prospects. In two successive births, the duchess only presented her lord with daughters. She was WILL WATCH. 33 at length delivered of a son, who was called Mar- quess of Cl-d-sd-le, a title, for the first time, boiTie by any of the family. " Problematical as his succession to an undis- puted title now appeared, still as the eldest son possessing a title far more ancient than that of his half brother's, and holding the duke's affection un- diminished, my father's hopes remained in full vigour; they had even of late acquired additional strength, when, as you have read, they were at once clouded, through the atrocious assassination of his parent in 1712. " With grief and rage conflicting in his breast, my father flew to Antwerp, in pursuit of the Duke of M-rlb-r — gh, originally the principal author of his parent's separation, and latterly, the dark contriver and instigator of this foul murder ; in consequence of which he had been compelled to absent himself from his countiy. Upon this great offender appearing in the midst of a large circle, composed of the most conspicuous persons in the city, he resolutely made up to him, upbraided him with this enormous deed, and in a thundering c 3 34 WILL WATCH. tone of voice, demanded at his hands immediate satisfaction. Appalled at the charge, the conscious criminal, in sullen silence, forsook the circle, nor thereafter, for six weeks, quitted his own apart- ments, until the Earl of A-r-n, despairing of a chance to fight him, had embarked for England, to take possession of his titles and estates. ••' On his arrival he found, to his consternation, that while he was seeking to avenge the death of his parent, his absence had, to his prejudice, been too successfully improved by his step-mother the Dowager Duchess. By this interested and un- relenting enemy, every existing trace of his mother's marriage had been either carefully effaced or removed, and he himself was too bitterly taught to feel, that in this lady he was to prove his most powerful and determined foe ; nay, the more effectually to work his ruin, he discovered that she was even combining with the friends of the Duke of M-rlb-r — gh, to whom she owed the murder of her husband. One crowning mis- fortune remained to annihilate all his hopes, — the substance of his maternal grand-mother, the WILL WATCH. 35 Duchess of CI — l-nd, had been dissipated by a profligate husband, — and thus baflied and per- secuted, he had no resource left, but in Prince Charles, with whom he had been brought up, and to whom he went for protection. " In 1715 he repaired, a second time, to Eng- land, with a secret commission to the prince's friends, particularly entrusted to him by the Duke of Ormond and Lord Bolingbroke. To avoid de- tection, he would not take charge of any written documents ; but being blessed, like you, with an excellent memory, he learnt by heart the different dispatches intended to be committed to his care, and faithfully delivered their contents to Lord LansdowTie, to whom he was sent. " Fortunate for him did it prove that he had taken this wise precaution ; for scarcely had he reached London, when it appeared that Boling- broke, hackneyed in treachery, had, through the regent of France, betrayed the secrets of the prince his master, and unravelled the whole mys- tery of the very mission. My father was, in consequence, arrested, his baggage searched, and 36 WILL WATCH. himself examined by Mr. Walpole, who, after some detention, liberated him, with the strict injunction immediately to leave England, and if he valued his own head, never more to set his foot in the dominions. " After a succession of unimportant events, in the year 1737, my father married Antoinetta Couilenay, of Archambaud, my mother; a lady of high descent, and disposition assimilated to his own, but more rich in birth, in mental and per- sonal endowments, than in other possessions. With her he w^as urged by some friends to pay a visit to the possessor of his title, the Duke of H n, whom he had before met at Rome, and who, in the genuine effusions of brotherly love, had expressed wishes to see him in Scot- land, and intimated a readiness to make him amends for his sufferings. Whether this visit was ill-timed, or the Duke had since imbibed impressions of distrust; cold civihties were the only fruits reaped from this step. Of a spirit ill adapted to brook neglect, he would not long have protracted his stay, had not my mother's situation WILL WATCH. 37 rendered it ineligible to expose her in a passage across the sea. He therefore remained at Holy- rood, where she gave birth to me, a circumstance which tended to increase my uncle — his brother's imeasiness. So soon as her health and mine per- mitted it, he embai'ked with us for the continent, and retired to Archambaud, a small seat on the river Dou, between Neufchatel and St. Hippolite, where the constant and uniform attentions of Lord Marischall, and some other British exiles, proved to his death the only alleviations made to his hard fate. " Thus far, my dear boy, 1 have thought fit to prepare you for encountering the storms of life. Some years must naturally elapse before 5^our un- derstanding be sufficiently ripened to peruse these sheets. Whenever you do, take care you be not inflated with vanity at the contemplation of your descent. To you, so far from affording cause for exultation, it on the contrary points out the ab- solute necessity of arming yourself well with manly resignation. Let the consciousness of what you are, operate only as a powerful incite- 38 WILL WATCH. nient to excel others in intrinsic worth ; and be you well assured that no human gi-eatness is secure, unless it be seated in the soul, and beyond the reach of sublunary contingencies. Through your veins nins a noble stream, clear and unde- filed ; nay, I deem it the purer from its struggles with adversity. Above all things, I charge you carefully to preserve it fi'ee from the least con- tamination. On your countenance are palpably delineated the characteristic features of your ancestors. These must and will announce you, if, with them, in every point your conduct accord. Nature has endowed you with frne parts, which I am improving ^vith unremitting assiduity ; it particularly behoves you to apply them to the acquisition of an honourable independence, a situation which, alas ! I have been able, but in- adequately I fear, to secure to you. " For this much, however, I may well be thankful ; my will, which is deposited with these papers, secures to you, however slenderly, the maintenance of your rank as a gentleman, un- scared by that frightful apparition — whose materi- WILL WATCH. 39 ality too many are, alas, doomed to feel — Want. I could have wished you more, but will not re- gret that my wishes may not, in my day, be real- ized. For it has ever been, and I trust ever will be, my aim to teach you, that it is not by the gifts of Fortune that happiness can be secured to man. No — the nearest approach to this feeling is reserved for a heart warmed by the sacred fires of humanity, — a soul sufficiently great to endure, without shrinking, the ordeal to which its Creator has ordained it, and feel content in the blessings which reward its trials. This, my poor Boy, is the whole philosophy of life, and much, I fear, will you need its support. " Do not look for happiness : Heaven never intended to bestow it upon earth ; if you attain contentment, you will be rich indeed. I trust you have been reared with every honourable prin- ciple, based upon religion. From these never deviate, as you value the love of a departed friend. — Early learn to withstand the fancied force of ridicule, it is generally the weapon of Vice, wield- ed in a weak cause to overcome Folly. In such 40 WILL WATCH. cases, despise the attack and scorn the assailant. Be slow to form friendships, and your attach- ments will be sincere. Let the principles of your acquaintance be your first care. These deduced from their actions, or, failing their actions, from those sentiments which you have actually ascer- tained to be their true opinions ; these, I say, will ever give you an uneriing insight into their character. Whenever, therefore, you meet a man whose principles you know to be \\Tong, shun him— he is a walking moral pestilence. But this, I doubt not, you will be unable to believe, until you have too bitterly experienced its truth. Yet, even at the prospect of this, we should not grieve ; youth exists to-day as yesterday; too lavish of the heart's bright coin — confidence, it will not ac- cept the experience which it has not bought. Therefore, under every misfortune, however severe, you may thus be consoled ; — you have forearmed yourself against the disasters of a future day, which, but for this, might have proved worse even than the present. '' These hw hints I fling out for your future WILL WATCH. 41 guidance in the world, not to daunt that eager spirit which I have hitherto marked with such dehght, but rather that I may enable you to di- rect its energies with greater vigour, and, by point- ing out the obstacles impeding the path of all, facilitate their evasion by yourself, — alas, if Hea- ven would but spare me in consideration of my many soitows, to see the day — but 1 feel — I feel this cannot be! I shall soon be taken fi'om you. — You, my dear Charles, will rush upon the arena of the world, eager to taste its pleasures, to bask in its precarious sunshine, and to pluck its worth- less honours. — Merciful Father ! to think that my orphan will be left without 07ie friend! God be his guide in such a perilous strife. How awful, at such a moment, to reflect that the sins of the father are to be visited on the children ! My dear boy, with all my faults I loved you, — the grave will divide us ere you read this, but some kind affections of your heart will remain to cheer my dreams, even in that dark abode ! Poor child, I kissed you, sleeping in your little couch, before I sat down to this sad midnight task,— but these 42 WILL WATCH. thoughts are agonizing. — When the period I now contemplate arrives, your only surviving relative — if he outlives me, and his is a younger life — will be your cousin Douglas, now holding the title to which you are the rightful heir. Whether it will ever come to you, must be left in other hands, though I much fear that Duke James' papers were too surely destroyed or concealed, to leave any very strong hopes of verifying Lady Barbara's marriage. " This much, however, is in your favour. The Duke regards you with considerable affection. He has no children, save a natural daughter, and is most unlikely, from his gay habits of living, ever to many ; even if his life should be spared be- yond the noon of manhood, which I doubt. In many conversations on a subject so near to my heart as your welfare, he has expressed himself most kindly towards you, and has even gone so far as to propose a union between you and his child, in which case, his means are of course pledged to secure to you the legal enjoyment of your title and estates. On this point you are yet far too young for me to say much. No worldly in- WILL WATCH. 43 terests shall ever induce me, hovering on the brink of the gi'ave, to influence your taking a step so irrevocably decisive of your future happi- ness or misery, as marriage. Yet, if on your at- taining proper yeai's, such a choice is still open to you, and the lady's attractions are such as will wan-ant your expecting your future Avelfare in such a union — I, for my part, shall not have the slightest objection; — her birth, the only disputable point, not being, in my view, a suf- ficient obstacle to counterbalance the numerous advantages of such an alliance. I am far, how- ever, from thinking that such a marriage will ever take place, even though suggested by her father. For I fear I have too well judged his character, when I say that with all his noble and redeeming points, but a very slight reliance can be placed on the unstable determinations of so wavering a mind. I have, therefore, been contented with making him pledge himself to me in a most so- lemn promise, that while he lives he will never lose sight of you, but continue to exert his in- terest for your benefit to the utmost. Remember, 44 WILL WATCH. therefore, when we are suddenly severed, that it is on hira alone you have any claim^though I much fear, that even in this, you will find him more apt to fail than to fulfil. " If your age, therefore, be very young at this sad crisis — which, however painful, it is my duty to contemplate — do not be the first to bring up the topic of this mania ge, but wait, and see what may be your cousin's plans respecting you. If these would still make you his son-in-law, your own feelings will decide your conduct. If on the contrary, however — and alas, even this is possi- ble ! — he should forget his promises to me and not seem to interest himself warmly in your favour, cease to hope anything from him, for what he does for you will be done on the instant. In this case then, lose no time in hanging on, but take immediate steps for entering into a profession. His majesty's service presents to you the only choice. — For diplomacy, should the Duke not exert himself in your favom', you wiU not have sufficient interest, besides you may be left too young. My own profession, that of the aimy, I WILL WA.TCH. 45 am compelled to confess, throws its debutants among scenes and men, but too apt to demoralize the noblest feelings of the heart. Take, then, the navy; I have had years of familiar intercourse with both services, and give it, in this case, a decided preference, — not for the rewards which it offers, or the comforts which it bestows ; in both these points it is miserably inferior ; but I recommend it, my dear Charles, to your choice, from the efiects it produces on the character. A military life, it is true, confers a polish on its votai'ies, which we rarely see a naval oflicer pos- sess, while the unlimited command to which the latter has been accustomed, too often gives to his manner a domineering tone. — The advantages of the former are not unfrequently dearly balanced by a hollow-hearted insincerity and dearth of estima- ble feeling, but the hardships of a seaman's bear- ing masks a sterling heart — I would rather that you should risk the blemish of the sailor's errors, -than the contamination of the soldier's vices. It is with this one that I would rather mix, but it is the other that I would rather be. 46 WILL WATCH. " Contemplating this alternative, you will find with these papers a con*espondence with my old friend Admiral Fluke. By this you will perceive that the time for entering the navy is in general at twelve years old ; anxious, however, to continue your education as long as life is spared to me, I have been enabled, through the Admiral's kind- ness, to get your name borne on the books of one of the harbour ships at Portsmouth, since the date of your attaining that age. — ^This time, should you be obliged to enter the navy, will always count to you, while nothing will be easier than to abandon the idea at pleasure. " Admiral Fluke served as a junior officer under your maternal uncle, who bade fair to gain a distinguished rank in the naval service, but just as he was about to gi*asp his well-earned flag, — Fate decreed his fall, — full of honours, it is true, but under circumstances not a little mysterious, and melancholy indeed. — You will find iVdmiral Fluke, if he be living, whimsical in his habits, but possessing a heart which God has stored with all that is generous in sentiment, and noble WILL WATCH. 47 in deed. He will, I am sure, most cheerfully do all that is necessary to serve you in the navy, and assist your advancement to the last. — I bequeath to him the most precious gift I have to leave — your filial love. — Remember it is all that you can proffer to him, in return for the kindnesses which I feel he will be delighted to heap upon you. — Above all things, reverence his advice ; no man can afford you better. " With these papers you will find the patent, gi'anted to your grandfather, by which I hold my title. — As, however, it is of French origin and tenure, I think you will find it operate against you when in the English navy, and for this reason, added to the comparatively straitened circumstances in which 1 am obliged to leave you, — take my advice, and forbear assuming it, until you have at least gained some rank in your profession. — ^Towards your doing this, you will find that I have gradually paved the way, not only by the retired life I have latterly led, but by forgetting whenever it was prac- ticable that so useless an appendage belonged to my name. Should you enter the navy, let it be with 48 WILL WATCH. a firm determination to rise in it. — This is a sure path to success in any line of life. To this end never forget the lesson I have unceasingly im- pressed upon you - that your first moral duty is to act the part of a gentleman — a man of honour. To insure your rise, and win the esteem of your brother ofiicers, it is then only necessary that you invariably obey your orders with alacrity ; that you show your zeal for the service, in your attachment to its duties, and your affection to your superiors ; of whom, should your opinion at any time be unfavourable, never divulge it, until it is imperative on you so to do. " Never break your leave, or ever utter that which you would be unwilling to commit to pa- per. Strenuously avoid a character for being quarrelsome. Always oblige your brother ofiicers and shipmates when in yoiu- power. Submit cheerfiilly at first to the ordeals which all junior officers must undergo ; but a fair noviciate being past, never suffer any individual to play the bully, nor even peiTnit the slightest imputation to be cast upon your courage or your honour. Do but WILL WATCH. 49 follow these rules, my dear Chailes, and you can- not fail to advance with credit to the service and with pleasui'e to yourself: remembering above all things what I have said about the ridicule of your companions. On no account, I repeat, allow your- self to be laughed out of that which is right. It Is the most cowardly act of which you can be guilty, as well as the most foolish ; since whatever thorns may beset the path of rectitude, those which suiTound error are multiplied ten thousand times. " Bear in mind that I can have no motive in tendering this advice, but anxiety for your welfare. These views are founded upon my past knowledge of human nature; and I here bequeath to, you the solemn testimony of one who reviews former fol- lies with the most keen remorse, that had I at my onset in hfe, possessed such a guide as these sheets ought to prove to you, I should not on my death-bed have been compelled to leave so slender a provision for a beloved and orphan son. " The day on which I date this is the cente- narj' of my excellent father's birth ; after whom VOL. I. D 50 WILL WATCH, you and I are called. This name was given him by the Duchess of Cl-v-1 — nd, in remembrance of his ancestor Charles the Second. A hundred years have already revolved over our misfortunes. May they find a period in you, and may the Al- mighty Disposer of events, to whose special pro- tection I most devoutly commend you, crown your days with fehcity ! " With these ardent vows, I shall to the last moment be, " My dear Charles, " Your tender and affectionate parent, « CHARLES H N. " Holyrood, March thirty, 1791." "What were my feelings on finishing the penisal of this touching manuscript ? I leave the answer to the heart of him who shall read these mourn- ful pages when I too may be gathered to the dust. Amid a variety of sensations my mind was over- whelmed, — so tender — so noble — so beloved ! Was this the parent I had lost? So resigned under the most bitter strokes of misfortune — so cai'eful WILL WATCH. 51 of his high integrity, amid the manifold and strong temptations of struggUng humanity — so watchful of the interests which Nature had committed to his charge. Was this beautiful ex- ample for ever shaded from my eyes? So de- voted and single in his sentiments — so chivalrous and humane in his feelings, with a mind so varied and extensive in its knowledge — so accompHshed and pleasing in his person, as I had known him to be, was this the gifted being whom society could no longer count among its members ? I know not what the faults might have been which he so earnestly deplored, but to his virtues I had been the constant \\dtness, of his attractions I had felt the full charm. And were all these losses to fall redoubled upon me ? Did these precious, yet inestimable sheets comprise every thing that the tomb had spared ? Were they to prove to me the sole relict of him who hitherto had been all? Were these to compose my sole chart along the bounded but sorrowful and perilous waste of life ? Was there to be no relative with whom to share Doy joys and allay my woes, nearer than this sad d2 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS iJBRARy 52 WILL WATCH. testimony of a departed parent's love ? Was my soul to know no dearer friend than this ? Alas ! I was indeed an orphan ! One answer sufficed for all these harrowing questions — " Even so?" These papers might, I thought, to a certain de- gree soothe my sorrows, excite my emulation, re- strain my exultation, if such were ever in store for me, — they might also prove a useM guide through hfe, — but could they watch over my sick- ness or support the sadness of a dying bed ? No — no — no, — I was left — I was alone. The w^orld was before me and busy life teeming around me, but I I was alone! WILL WATCH. 53 CHAPTER II. But I have to enter on my life ; I will not pause too long on this sad threshold — ^left as I was, so friendless, so young a creature, and one at whom Fate seemed determined to shoot her an*ows for amusement, I cannot say that my misfortunes did not in some degree create their antidote. It is true they crushed, at a blow, the exuberant joy of youth which my boyhood had hitherto displayed, but at the same time they forced me to think much and deeply of every step I took ; they contributed sooner than anything else could have done, to suppress the natural carelessness and folly of my age, and supply in their place a prudence that enabled me to avail myself with a singular ra- pidity, not only of whatever capacities I was en- dowed with by nature, but also of the artificial 54 WILL WATCH. advantages with which my father''s unremitting assiduity had provided me in my education. It was, however, some time before I could at all bring my mind to the task of considering what was before me — that I had to enter on the world and carve my own fortunes as best I might. It was indeed the labom* of a giant, imposed upon a pigmy. At length, however, I summoned courage to write to my father's friend, Admiral Fluke, and after acquainting him with the lamented occasion of my intruding myself upon his notice, I men- tioned the advice which my parent had left me, the anxious desire I had of following to the ut- most the slightest wishes of so dear a friend, and concluded by saying, that if he could secure my continuance in the navy, as my father had pointed out, he would very much oblige me. In as short a time as the distance permitted, I was delighted with the receipt of the following letter. " Fluke's Folly, near Portsmouth, " January, 1793. " MY DEAR YOUNKER, " Your dispatch of the twentieth date, was re- WILL WATCH. 55 ceived here the day before yesterday, and glad as I am to do a good turn to an old friend, I had not thought that my poor services would ever have been called for by so sorrowful an occasion. To an old fellow like me, so often hulled, and now laid up in ordinary for so long past, every bell for an old messmate, is a warning to be ready to slip my own moorings, to say nothing of what I feel at losing so dear a friend as your father. " But for you, my boy, you 're going to be one of us ; the first thing for you, therefore, is to do your duty ; and that as I take it, my Lad, is to cheer up, and as you say, do your father's will in all matters touching which you may have any clear orders; which I know he was too old a soldier and good an ofiicer not to leave behind for ye. — As for you 're being shipped, my Boy, Phil Fluke has too many friends to find any difficulty in so slight a matter as that, were it not, as it is, managed all ready to your hand, so get all your traps in stowage ; heave overboard all your lumber, make your poor father's orderly — old Donald — put ye into snug sailing trim, and then get ye here under all canvass as fast as you can, where you shall find 56 WILL WATCH. a good mess, a spare hammock, and a right warm berth, in the heart of yours, ever faithfully to com- mand, " PHILIP FLUKE, " Admiral of the White, &c., &c., &c. " For the hands of Count H- Holyrood Palace, Edinburgh." "P.S. You won't feel hurt, my dear boy, at my saying that you are doing me a kindness by using my name at your banker's, and so on, for any sum ye would like. Your father's purse was mine before my own, so ye see you have as much right to the thing as if mine was your's. Any little knick-knack of the Count's you can spare I should like to have — I didn't think this was in store for my sad old heart, but 'tis God's will, Boy ! — My eyes have long been past doing duty in the writing way, and my secretary. Corporal Royal, is so deaf that I must say no more at present than God's benison to ye. Lad ! and make your number here as soon as ye can — you have lost a good father, and I have long wanted a The above warm-hearted epistle was the first WILL WATCH. 57 true comfort that I had received from human being since my father's death, excepting always poor old Donald's attentions, which were unceasing. He, however, had ever been about me the same kind bustling old being, whose loss I had never known, and whose true value was therefore unable to estimate. In \vi'iting to Admiral Fluke, I had not, it is true, from my ignorance of the world, expected an evasion of the request I had made to him, but still my forlorn situation had a degree of seeming nature about it, which rendered the kind conclusion of his postscript most affecting. I at once conceived him to be, what in truth he was — a veteran, whom a thousand fights had spared, to be the delight of his friends, and the ornament of his profession. At the same time, thought I, there must be something very funny about him. " Fluke's Folly " ! Can this be the name of his villa ? Very