822 > 
 Sm0Gp 
 |S2>S 1 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U NIVLR.5 ITY 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 
! 
 
PROBATION, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER TALES. 
 
RECENTLY PUBLISHED, BY THE SAME AUTHOR,. 
 In one Volume foolscap 8 vo. Illustrated, price 8s. cloth. 
 
 OLYMPIA MORATA, 
 
 HER TIMES, LIFE, AND WRITINGS. 
 
 Arranged from Contemporary and other Authorities. 
 
 “ It is really an admirably written Book,—so admirably written, indeed, that we 
 would adduce it as a proof of the power and grasp of the female intellect, were any one 
 absurd enough to dispute a fact already so uncontrovertibly established.”—Scotsman. 
 
 “ This is a Christian’s book, and ought to be held in corresponding reverence. 
 The industry, the research, and the talent displayed in the compilation that forms 
 this biography, are deserving of high praise. The history of the highly gifted, 
 pious, and beautiful Olympia Morata, will be looked upon by all right thinking per¬ 
 sons, as a subject of triumph, and, if possible, of emulation. Nor is this work valuable 
 only on account of its piety and high religions tone ; it is highly interesting and 
 instructive as a veracious record of the manners and events of the very eventful 
 times of which it treats.-We recommend this Work to all classes, but more espe¬ 
 
 cially to the younger portions of society, as a good antidote against sceptical writ¬ 
 ings, and modern publications of a morality too lax. It is a great and glorious 
 thing to divert the enthusiasm of youth into the channel worthy of it, and of that God 
 who bestowed it for purposes, we must believe, of good towards man, and of honour 
 to His own Omnipotence. That this work will have done no little towards an end 
 so laudable, we firmly believe : it has, therefore, our best wishes, and it will have 
 our recommendation in all quarters where our humble influence may happen to 
 extend.”— Metropolitan. 
 
PROBATION, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER TALES; 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 SELWYN IN SEARCH OF A DAUGHTER,” 
 “OLYMPIA MO RAT A,” 
 
 “ T ALES O F T H E At O O R S ” E T C. 
 
 " To bear is to conquer our fate." 
 
 Campbp.u 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 L 0 N 1) O N : 
 
 SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHTLL. 
 
 BOOKSELLERS TO THEIR MAJESTIES. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY STEWART AND CO. 
 
 OLD BAILEY 
 
£5 3 
 !% "5 d 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 Vi 
 
 If it be asked why, amid a redundance of fic¬ 
 tions of the most splendid and spirit-stirring 
 description, the following simple pages were 
 written, criticism may be disarmed by the reply 
 of affection, that they were written, because 
 every effort of memory, however superfluous, 
 and every touch of the pencil, however feeble, 
 which recalled to the eye of fancy their delight¬ 
 ful subject, was a source of positive gratifica¬ 
 tion. Their publication has been dictated by a 
 kindred motive, viz.: the hope that one whose 
 element and vocation it was, during three quar¬ 
 ters of a century, to do good—might perchance 
 be made, even now when unhappily no more. 
 
\i PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 to contribute indirectly to the same benevolent 
 purpose. 
 
 If one flower, however dim and scentless, 
 shall have been added to the chaplet of depart¬ 
 ed worth, or one alleviation, however trifling, 
 purchased for the ills of surviving penury, the 
 author’s unpretending object will have been at¬ 
 tained. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 In the eyes of that numerous class of readers 
 to whom truth is more acceptable than fiction, 
 the little work now republished, may derive 
 interest from the circumstance that its leading 
 character, to the delineation of which the whole 
 was subservient, is, notwithstanding its almost 
 ideal perfection, a transcript from real life. 
 
 This interest may be further enhanced by 
 learning that the original design of the volume 
 (a superfluous perhaps, but it is hoped not pre¬ 
 sumptuous one,) was to attempt filling up the 
 sketch of a mighty master, now, alas ! no more, 
 by exhibiting, in the more familiar details of 
 domestic life, the “Mrs. Bethune Baliol,” of the 
 
viii PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 “ Chronicles of the Canongate;”—the friend from 
 infancy of Sir Walter Scott; one of the ear¬ 
 liest to discover and rejoice over his surpassing 
 genius; and the sibyl to whom he did not dis¬ 
 dain to owe the groundwork of some of his most 
 exquisite creations. 
 
 The picture, as here traced by a feeble, though 
 reverential hand, has been pronounced by the 
 few who survive to recognise it, a faithful like¬ 
 ness ; and if by holding it up for the admira¬ 
 tion of a younger generation, the standard of 
 female character among them may be elevated, 
 or respect for one of its fairest specimens be 
 enhanced, the object of the author’s filial tribute 
 to the memory of a more than parent, will have 
 been amply fulfilled. 
 
 Brighton, 
 January, 1835. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Hence ! Eartliborn thoughts of worldly gain, 
 
 My faith is plight! 
 
 Mere worldly love might wealth obtain, 
 
 Not true delight! 
 
 T. Sheridan. 
 
 It has of late become the fashion with Englishmen 
 —I am one by the courtesy which designates as 
 such, all horn within our extensive empire—to 
 admire and eulogize Scotland ; and many in truth 
 are the pilgrims from the south who have been 
 indebted to the “ land of the mountain and the 
 flood,'' for renovated health, and gratified curiosity, 
 and hospitality, warm and unsophisticated as the 
 hearts of those by whom it was extended. 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 But my obligations to its wild glens, and brown 
 heaths, and friendly hearts, are of a deeper and 
 more enduring nature. I owe to them a posses¬ 
 sion which, by the owner at least, is not likely to 
 be inadequately appreciated—viz., a new and 
 amended edition of myself!—the development of 
 faculties, which objects so novel and striking could 
 alone perhaps have rescued from the slumbers of 
 inanity,—and of a character which, imperfect as 
 it has remained, has been raised to the capacity 
 of enjoying and communicating intellectual plea¬ 
 sures and rational happiness. 
 
 Gratitude for such substantial benefits, the im¬ 
 portunity of their amiable sharer, a thousand de¬ 
 lightful reminiscences, have frequently urged me 
 to become my own historian ; and in an age when 
 having lived at all, seems nearly a sufficient title 
 to the honours of autobiography—one who might 
 be styled, like the hero of a late clever fiction, a 
 “ man of Two Lives’’'’ possessed, vanity whispered, 
 a sort of double claim on human sympathies. 
 
 Not that, like the gifted hero aforesaid, I ever 
 smarted or atoned in propria persona , in a second 
 lease of existence, for the errors of a first—but 
 that without any startling change either of fea- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 3 
 
 tures, person, or identity, without crossing any 
 bourne but that imaginary one which severs two 
 integral parts of the British empire, and chiefly 
 by the (I believe) perfectly natural agency of two 
 females, the younger of whom was only a Lanca¬ 
 shire, while the elder was certainly a white witch 
 —I have managed to lead two successive lives 
 upon earth, quite as distinct in character, purpose, 
 and incidents as those of the 44 Don Doblado' 1 
 above alluded to. 
 
 My former self had been so long lost in my 
 present improved edition, that it was not imme¬ 
 diately the reluctant shade could be compelled from 
 merited oblivion ; but by degrees, the 44 unreal 
 mockery'" of my early years rose upon my wonder¬ 
 ing memory, and as I traced my own transition 
 from an existence that had nothing of life but the 
 name—to one which, however blended with imperfec¬ 
 tion, has yet in its bearings and aspirations a con¬ 
 nexion, though remote, with a loftier sphere—I 
 have fancied, perhaps idly—that its recital might 
 stimulate some restless and therefore unquiet spirit, 
 wandering through the 44 dry places"" of this world— 
 44 seeking rest and finding none,*" to exchange 
 them for a purer, and more invigorating atmo- 
 
4 
 
 rftOBATION. 
 
 sphere; to begin to live, though late, as I did 
 ■—and find in mental cultivation, domestic affec¬ 
 tions, and lofty moral and religious principles— 
 the germ and rudiments of a new and better ex¬ 
 istence, no more resembling his previous vegeta¬ 
 tion, than the soaring wing and aerial enjoyments 
 of the butterfly claim kindred with the sordid pri¬ 
 son and bounded faculties of the reptile ! 
 
 But though I have thus been induced, on 
 grounds more than usually vain and visionary , to 
 inflict on that fraction of the public into whose 
 hands this may chance to fall—a history of my 
 life—I might have learned from the endless 
 file of reminiscents, (especially the accomplished 
 Madame de Genlis, whose infancy occupies nearly 
 two tomes of her elaborate dissertation in eight 
 volumes on the Jirst person singular )—to spare it 
 the additional bore of my own childhood. Had 
 that baby period teemed with none but the usual 
 nursery anecdotes of precocious wit and wisdom, 
 and been passed in my paternal mansion, or even 
 my native country—I should certainly never have 
 been tempted to record the mysteries of the pap- 
 boat, or the prodigies of the Primer. But he, 
 who within the first seven years of his life, has 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 D 
 
 visited, alas ! as the sport of fortune ! three of the 
 four quarters of the globe, and whose infant recol¬ 
 lections present consequently a strange medley of 
 incongruous images, never to be effaced by the 
 subsequent events of ordinary life—may be permit¬ 
 ted, perhaps, to devote as many pages as he has 
 above reckoned years, to the causes of his early 
 migrations, and their ineffaceable recollections. 
 
 I feel thankful that when I describe my grand¬ 
 father, I must do so from report; for it had been 
 alike painful to me to owe kindness to the cruel 
 hand which signed my father’s fatal exile—or to 
 traduce a benefactor, though a late and stern one. 
 But he lived not to make even tardy reparation; 
 and though gratitude to a kindlier being may soften 
 the picture, I feel that in painting the power of 
 wealth and accumulation to sear the heart, and 
 stifle the voice of nature—I am only rendering 
 reluctant justice to the memory of my unfortunate 
 parents. 
 
 Mr. Meredith was one of those votaries of gain, 
 whom the patient and laborious acquisition of 
 wealth exalts in this commercial country, from 
 absolute insignificance, to the acme of influence 
 and consideration. Not only was his own word or 
 
6 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 signature—to use a vulgar but expressive phrase— 
 as good as the Bank of England—but a nod of 
 intimacy, a familiar shake of the hand from him 
 on Change might have served the purpose of a 
 speculator, almost as well as an actual advance of 
 capital. Dozens of younger faces waited his ap¬ 
 pearance to dress themselves in auspicious smiles, 
 or portentous gloom ; auguries were formed from 
 the number and quickness of the taps on his snuff¬ 
 box—and the fate of empires prognosticated from 
 the position of his bob wig, whose deviation from 
 the horizontal seldom failed to indicate that, ac¬ 
 cording to Shakspeare — 66 the times were out of 
 joint P? 
 
 At that mature age when what visits generous 
 tempers in the shape of prudence, assumes in the 
 miser the garb of determined and cautious selfish¬ 
 ness, the loss of a frugal housekeeper, the diffi¬ 
 culty of replacing her, and dread of petty imposi¬ 
 tion, moved my grandfather to look about for a 
 wife. She must not be young, as that inferred 
 thoughtlessness ; nor handsome, as that implied 
 expense. She must not be portionless, to justify 
 his claim to prudence ; nor well enough endowed, 
 to entitle her to a voice in the household. It was 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 7 
 
 desirable to the pride of wealth that she should 
 he well-born ; but indispensable to the habit of des¬ 
 potism, that she should he dependent. 
 
 These were difficult qualities to combine in one 
 individual ; hut the good luck which had attended 
 Mr. Meredith through life, united them in the per¬ 
 son of a gentle interesting young woman, whose 
 father, an idle scion of a respectable family, had 
 been provided for by a place under government. 
 The income of this he habitually exceeded, and 
 had for long averted the consequences of his im¬ 
 providence by infringing on the small fortune 
 which his daughter inherited from her mother. 
 The knowledge of this base expedient had induced 
 him to frustrate various eligible proposals of mar¬ 
 riage for his poor girl, whom repeated disappoint¬ 
 ments, and the discomfort of her home, robbed 
 prematurely of youthful bloom and vivacity. 
 
 An unexpected inquiry into the state of his ac¬ 
 counts, involved Mr. Stanley in great embarrass¬ 
 ment, and threatened him with exposure. Some¬ 
 thing of the matter reached my grandfather, who, 
 carefully consulting the tables of human life, and 
 calculating the chances, proposed to Mr. Stanley, 
 (with whom he had been long acquainted) to ad- 
 
8 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 vance the sum necessary to avert his disgrace, on 
 condition of obtaining, with his daughter’s hand, 
 a right to her squandered portion, which was to be 
 gradually repaid, as well as his actual advances, 
 out of the ample salary of Mr. Stanley’s office. 
 
 The barter was concluded, and its broken-spirit¬ 
 ed victim handed over to her purchaser as coolly 
 as the unconscious parchment ratifying the bargain. 
 Jane had too little to lose by the change to resist 
 when it would have availed her nothing. She 
 guessed, if she did not wholly penetrate the com¬ 
 pact ; and when she saw her selfish father once 
 more hold up his head in boyish gaiety, tried to 
 forget that her new companion was his senior. 
 
 This poor consolation was not long afforded her. 
 In defiance of the best calculations, Mr. Stanley 
 died ; and my grandfather, who always looked on 
 the event as a fraudulent escape from his creditors, 
 set himself to save off his daughter’s scanty com¬ 
 forts the portion he had failed to realize. Jane 
 cared little for this. She had always known priva¬ 
 tion, and habit had inured her to submission ; and 
 beside the cradle of an infant boy, she soon ceased 
 to regret her father or to dislike her husband. 
 
 It was no wonder, however, if under such circum- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 9 
 
 stances, her whole soul centered in her child, or 
 that she loved him all the better for resembling in 
 no one point of feature or character his low-born 
 and low-minded father. With the personal advan¬ 
 tages of poor Mr. Stanley, he united unfortunately 
 too much of his aristocratic improvidence of dispo¬ 
 sition ; and all who saw the boy, high-spirited, bold 
 and independent as he grew up, under even a ty¬ 
 rannical parent, doubted that father's power to tame 
 the youthful spirit to his own plebeian level! 44 Mr. 
 Meredith may save himself the trouble !” was the 
 general remark ; 44 that boy will no more plod at a 
 desk than a racer will grind in a mill ! He is a 
 gentleman and a soldier every inch of him, and it 
 is a pity he should ever be any thing else !” 
 
 So thought his mother's family, who had no ob¬ 
 jection to claim kindred with the Meredith thou¬ 
 sands in the shape of a handsome young officer ; and 
 her uncle, the general, offered him a commission 
 before he w r as well out of the nursery. His father 
 rejected the offer as an insult to his understanding, 
 and the hope of her boy’s society reconciled his mo¬ 
 ther to a less perilous vocation. 
 
 It was no easy task, however, to bend the spirit 
 of Edmund to the drudgery of the ledger. The 
 
10 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 mammon to which his father bowed was in his young 
 eyes as dross ; and he would freely have bartered 
 his chance of it for a pair of colours. But his 
 mother's soft persuasions, and a heart naturally up¬ 
 right and dutiful, forbade him to deprive her of her 
 sole comfort by selfish opposition ; and as long as 
 there was only his own happiness at stake, he made 
 the hard sacrifice. 
 
 But in exulting over the scarcely expected com¬ 
 pliance of his son on one point, Mr. Meredith had 
 miscalculated his powers of resistance on another 
 and a tenderer one. Kdmund indemnified himself 
 for restraint and misery at home by more congenial 
 society abroad ; and fell in love, with all the energy 
 of a disposition whose thwarted and crushed feel¬ 
 ings were but the more ready to concentrate them¬ 
 selves on the first being of a superior order that 
 crossed his path. 
 
 I have hitherto spoken, I find, of my scarce re¬ 
 membered father, in the cold tone of an ordinary 
 narrator ; but my mother ! I cannot speak thus 
 of her! I cannot repeat,—as I have heard a thou¬ 
 sand times even from the unimpassioned lips of a 
 stepmother—that she was beauty and grace per¬ 
 sonified, and that her virtues made even disobedience 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 11 
 
 excusable, without substituting my own childish 
 recollections for vague generalities, and seeing her 
 even now, with her soft blue eyes, beaming love on 
 her child, and her fairy form bent in anxious soli¬ 
 citude over my tiny cot. Yes ! I shall never for¬ 
 get—the night before Ocean claimed her as his 
 silent prey—the more than usual earnestness of the 
 prayer I lisped after her—the never to be forgotten 
 fervour of the kiss she came back to give her 
 boy, or the heavenly smile with which she let fall 
 a curtain, never more to be lifted between us in 
 this evil world ! 
 
 It would be painful and unedifying to dwell 
 on domestic dissensions; on obstinacy, unsoftened 
 by filial concessions, and resistance exasperated by 
 parental harshness. Edmund thought he had pur¬ 
 chased, by assent to his father's wishes in regard 
 to his profession, a right to corresponding compli¬ 
 ance, while his parent saw in that step but the first 
 of a series of sacrifices. Had he been able to al¬ 
 lege one valid objection to the birth, manners, 
 principles, or connexions of his beloved, Edmund, 
 though unconvinced, might have listened; but ex¬ 
 cept that he did not choose his son to marry at all, 
 (which he was ashamed to urge) and that Emily's 
 
12 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 late father had once anticipated him in a commer¬ 
 cial speculation, which so far from enriching had 
 eventually injured him ; he had not even the sha¬ 
 dow of a plea for his opposition. It assumed, from 
 that very circumstance, a character of the most dog¬ 
 ged inveteracy; and he told his son, in a tone 
 which he knew to be nearly as decisive as a legal 
 instrument to the same effect, that he was disinhe¬ 
 rited if he married Miss Aspinall. 
 
 Had Edmund loved even less ardently and de¬ 
 votedly, his honour was engaged; and he read in 
 Emily's thin cheek and varying colour during the 
 struggle, that she might resign him at the call of 
 duty, but it would be at the cost of life. Having 
 in vain offered delay—even of years—every com¬ 
 promise that lingering filial piety could dictate, he 
 saw the health of his beloved sinking, his own youth 
 wasting, and his temper deteriorating under a de¬ 
 grading conflict,— u If I am disinherited, I will at 
 least be free, and escape from this country altoge¬ 
 ther !” was his exclamation ; as he went from a last 
 interview with his father, in which the former point 
 seemed irrevocably decided—to request from the 
 kindness of a relation of his bride's—a military ap¬ 
 pointment to India. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 13 
 
 It was readily granted, and his marriage with an 
 orphan kinswoman graced by the same friendly 
 sanction—ere his stunned, but not softened father, 
 could calculate on the rapidity of movements acce¬ 
 lerated by despair. To his now alienated son his 
 feelings had become matter of indifference ; but his 
 poor mother's !—throughout the long painful bu¬ 
 siness they had been his chief source of misery ! 
 She had long had no will but her husband's—she 
 could have no wish but her son’s ; her mingled 
 emotions, as she saw him a bridegroom, a soldier, 
 and an exile, may be better imagined than express¬ 
 ed ! Her last hope on earth went with him ; and 
 though she felt it was better that ocean should di¬ 
 vide them, she never recovered the blow. It would 
 be well if, on that Rubicon of resistance to parental 
 authority which, once crossed, is crossed for ever— 
 youth would remember how many a mother’s heart 
 has been withered by being left to cling desolately 
 round some gnarled and blasted tree, when the green 
 branches, which should have shadowed her old age, 
 had been self-severed and scattered to the winds ! 
 
 In the days when my father embarked in the 
 prime of manhood for the east, its service was a 
 certain passport to competence at least, if not 
 
14 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 wealth ; and the excitement of his new profession, 
 and the smiles of his adoring wife, banished thoughts 
 of all save his mother, and to her he could write in 
 all the sunny exultation of a cloudless climate. 
 
 But that climate's influence on a frame, delicate¬ 
 ly nurtured, and unused to exposure, he had never 
 calculated ; and at the end of four or five years' 
 service, the gay and gallant soldier drooped under 
 a burning sun, and harrassing field duties, so 
 alarmingly, that removal to a colder country be¬ 
 came indispensable. My poor mother !—it was 
 then doubtless that your round cheek grew once 
 more so thin and pale, and that there settled on your 
 brow that anxious expression which haunts me still 
 —whenever I conjure up the features it made so 
 touching ! Yes ! I have your own affecting letter 
 to confirm the conjecture—that with the deep anx¬ 
 iety common to all who love as Edmund was be¬ 
 loved-mingled sad self-reproach, and self-upbraid¬ 
 ing for the rash acceptance of a suit which had cost 
 him parents,fortune, country—nay, perhaps, health 
 and life ! 
 
 There was now for Emily but the forlorn hope— 
 and a forlorn one it was—of overcoming by his 
 son's declining health, and the smiles of an infant 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 15 
 
 grandson, (for I had been born early on their ar¬ 
 rival in India,) the causeless antipathy of Mr. 
 Meredith. This chance, faint as it was, had been 
 sadly weakened by the death of his wife, shortly 
 after her son's departure ; and the substitution in 
 her place of an elderly lady of fortune, whose affairs 
 my grandfather had long conducted, and whose im¬ 
 plicit confidence in him as their steward, led to this 
 connexion of mutual convenience. Of her charac¬ 
 ter my parents knew little ; nor was that little cal¬ 
 culated to awake any lively hopes of her active co¬ 
 operation in their favour. Edmund’s reluctance to 
 return gathered strength from the blank in his be¬ 
 reaved home—and it was with difficulty that his 
 alarmed wife prevailed on him to go to Calcutta, to 
 make the requisite arrangements for a voyage of 
 necessity to Europe. 
 
 At the house of the agent by whom these were 
 to be expedited, chance threw them into contact 
 with an American captain, who, on casually hear¬ 
 ing my mother’s somewhat uncommon maiden 
 name, coupled with the romantic circumstances of 
 her marriage, exclaimed, “ I wish the young couple 
 could claim kindred with old Doctor Aspinall, our 
 American oddity, who, with a fortune of at least 
 
1G 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 200,000 dollars, has not, as far as I know, a soul 
 to leave it to ! He has vowed vengeance against his 
 English connexions, if he has any,—and he lets 
 no Yankee enter his doors ; so, unless he makes his 
 black servants his heirs, I suppose it must go to 
 the states. It will really he a pity if this pretty 
 Mrs. Meredith does not turn out a cousin at 
 least !” 
 
 Part of this soliloquy my mother overheard ; the 
 rest of it was repeated to her by the friendly agent; 
 and with the sanguine spirit of youth, she clung to 
 the reed it afforded. North America would an¬ 
 swer the purpose of invigorating the frame of her 
 husband, as well as England ; there were no step¬ 
 mothers there ; and the kind captain offered them 
 a passage for half the cost of one in an English 
 ship. She racked her brain to trace a connexion 
 between herself and the Doctor, and was sure she 
 had heard an old friend in England talk to her of 
 the recluse, as no very distant relation; though 
 domiciliated in America even before its revolution, 
 after taking an active part in which, in favour of 
 England, he had (in disgust with her non-requital 
 of his services) abjured his own country, without 
 adopting in its stead the one in which habit, and 
 
PROBATION. 17 
 
 love of a wandering forest life, induced him still to 
 reside. 
 
 All this the captain confirmed ; and the prospect 
 seemed so flattering—provided access could once be 
 had to the cynic’s hermitage—it was no wonder if an 
 affectionate wife, who saw in it possible wealth— 
 and through her means—to the husband who had 
 sacrificed all for her sake—entered on it with en¬ 
 thusiasm. My father embarked with more sub¬ 
 dued feelings. His spirits had sunk with his health. 
 Hope had lost much of its spring—but the idea 
 supported Emily, and might benefit his boy—and 
 he acquiesced. 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The broken flow’r of England might not stay 
 Amid those alien shades. 
 
 Mits. He mans. 
 
 It is astonishing how distinct a remembrance I re¬ 
 tain of our arrival in America; but it is because 
 the transition to it from the land of my birth and 
 childhood was so complete and startling. In In¬ 
 dia, I had grown up beneath a burning sky, sur¬ 
 rounded by tropical images and productions ; tend¬ 
 ed by a strange-looking, but familiar black nurse, 
 and my childish wishes anticipated by a crowd of 
 indolent but obsequious coolies and palanquin boys. 
 Like them, I ran about almost unencumbered by 
 clothing, and waited impatiently for the cool hours 
 of evening, to play in the dark and shady verandah, 
 ere I sank to sleep beneath hardly any other cover- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 19 
 
 ing than the mosquito curtains of my little cot. 
 My mother I only knew as dressed in delicate mus¬ 
 lin wrappers, and my father I seldom saw hut in 
 the slight nankeen or cotton jacket, appropriated to 
 home and comfort. I had never heard any sound 
 ruder than the respectful Salam from domestics, or 
 the monotonous chaunt of the native bearers. I 
 thought all in the world, except papa and mamma 
 and a few more, were black, and wore turbans, and 
 that it was specially designed for my caprice and 
 convenience. 
 
 The first revolution in my ideas took place in the 
 ship, where I saw that every body was white ex¬ 
 cept one old negro cook, and evidently perceived, 
 with childish mortification, that my accommodation 
 formed a very small part of their business. There 
 was no diminution of tenderness, for my mother was 
 now my nurse, but I missed the long stories of the 
 old Ayah, and my mother looked so grave and sor¬ 
 rowful when I was naughty, that one of the favour¬ 
 ite pastimes of Indian children was wofully abridg¬ 
 ed. Then the noise and swearing of the sailors, 
 and the groans and creakings of the vessel, and the 
 rattling of the pump chains, and the dash of the 
 waves against my little crib, all were so different 
 
20 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 from the quiet lonely bungalow, with its chirping 
 grasshoppers, and the light murmur of its over¬ 
 hanging palms. The only thing I could claim 
 kindred with on board, was a goat; and I tried to 
 fancy it the same which had been reared from a 
 kid, and fed tame in my father’s compound. But 
 our goat was white, and sleek, and silky, and the 
 marine variety was dingy and coarse, and matted 
 with tar ; our’s was gentle and sportive—this the 
 sailors had taught to be mischievous and trouble¬ 
 some. 
 
 By degrees the weather grew colder; and one 
 morning when my careful mother had covered me 
 during my sleep with a blanket, I awoke fancying 
 I had the goat for a bedfellow. My father began 
 to pace the deck in a long warm great-coat, and 
 my mother to replace her delicate India shawl with 
 a furred pelisse ; but in spite of the efforts of both 
 to prepare me for cold and winter, I shall never 
 forget the surprise I felt, when on landing at New 
 York, I saw leafless trees, and hills all covered with 
 snow. 
 
 The dingy brick houses, and crowded streets 
 seemed to me inexpressibly ugly ; and when we 
 got to the hotel or tavern where we were to take up 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 21 
 
 our abode, I thought the people so rude, because 
 they never made the 44 salam 11 to us, and put us 
 into a dark nasty little room, that looked out upon 
 nothing but dead walls. When we went to dinner, 
 I was frightened at the number of strangers, who 
 all stared, and some of them laughed at me, and 
 there was no curry and rice at table, and I saw 
 mamma could not eat much, any more than myself. 
 We got a house of our own in a day or two ; but 
 it was smaller, and far worse than the hotel, and 
 the old woman who came to cook for us, and be 
 our only servant, was very cross to me, and rude to 
 my mother, and I remember once told her, when 
 mildly reproved for it, 44 not to suppose she was 
 talking to a beggarly nigger. 11 Oh how often I 
 wished the old Ayah, and the maty-boys, and the 
 masolgies, and the palanquin bearers, back again. 
 
 The first agreeable sensation I remember expe¬ 
 riencing in America, was when we embarked on the 
 noble Hudson, to proceed towards Albany, near 
 which Dr. Aspinall resided. The broad expanse of 
 the river, and the deep forests then still visible, at 
 little distance from its banks, brought back the 
 Ganges to my infant memory ; though the dirty 
 crowded packet boat, (for it was long before the days 
 
22 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 of steam palaces) and the harsh vociferations of the 
 Yankee sailors, were a sad contrast to my father’s 
 tranquil budgerow, and the measured song of its In¬ 
 dian boatmen. 
 
 Beyond this instance of mingled association and 
 contrast, I recollect very vaguely any other feature 
 of our sojourn in America, except a memorable in¬ 
 terview, with which I alone, (for my parents did 
 not accompany me) was indulged by the eccentric 
 relative we had crossed the globe in quest of. 
 
 I remember the care with which my poor mother 
 adjusted to advantage my first warm suit of real 
 boy’s clothes, all shining with silver buttons, 
 smoothed my rebellious curling locks, and with a 
 kiss of reluctant fondness, consigned me to the arms 
 of a tall old negro, sent to drive me in a light wag¬ 
 gon, some miles into the forest to his master’s her¬ 
 mitage. 
 
 Of the interview itself, I recollect little, except 
 the grizzled beard and uncouth habit of the old 
 man, and the strange collection of forest rarities 
 with which he was surrounded. His room was a 
 perfect museum, and I dreamt long after of the 
 shining snakes, stuffed racoons, and murderous- 
 looking Indian weapons, among which the old gen- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 23 
 
 tleman lived, (like a wizard) with his two black fa¬ 
 miliars, the negro servant already mentioned, and 
 his much more hideous wife. Though frightened 
 and bewildered, my impressions on the whole were 
 those of kindness; and as I returned to my parents 
 with a lapful of curiosities, and a letter to my mo¬ 
 ther with a heavy bag, out of which rolled heaps 
 of shining dollars, I was rather surprised that on 
 receiving it, she cried a long time, and would hard¬ 
 ly look at or admire my treasures. 
 
 As soon as the ground was once more green, 
 and I could make no more snowballs, we again 
 embarked ; and as we got farther on, I often heard 
 my mother say with a sigh, <£ dear England !”— 
 and my father began to tell me I was going home, 
 and that it was to see grandpapa. He seemed to 
 long much for land, and so did I; for I was very 
 tired of being shut up so long, and there was not 
 even a goat to play with in this nasty little ship. 
 My mother kissed and cried over me oftener than 
 she had ever done, and could scarce bear me out 
 of her sight. I have already adverted to the inde¬ 
 lible impression made by one look, one kiss of in¬ 
 expressible parting fondness—no doubt because it 
 was the last! Of the sudden catastrophe which 
 
24 
 
 PHOBATION. 
 
 made it so, I recollect nothing—it was the shock of 
 a moment. 
 
 We were sailing, (I have often heard the honest 
 tar who saved my life relate), in careless security 
 on a moonless but not starless night in March ; 
 too near the Equinox, he used to add, to have kept 
 so bad a look out. What wind there was, had so 
 long blown off shore, that the master thought he 
 could not hug the land too closely. All at once a 
 squall of indescribable fury and suddenness sprung 
 up from an opposite quarter, and before hands 
 enough could be called up to make all tight—the 
 unmanageable vessel, with her rudder disabled 
 and sails in ribbons, was driving hopelessly upon 
 the perpendicular rocks of U—-. 
 
 The helmsman's efforts to keep her off, were, to 
 the vengeful will of the whirlwind, like the im¬ 
 potent struggles of childhood. 44 She's gone l” 
 was the cry that burst at once from lips that had 
 never before uttered word of despondence. 44 Shell 
 never strike twice yonder !”—muttered the old 
 weather-beaten skipper— 44 stand to the boats, in 
 God’s name !” The uproar of the mingling ele¬ 
 ments—for a water-spout from above rattled fiercely 
 to meet the foaming waves on our devoted deck--' 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 25 
 
 woke my mother ; and her first impulse must have 
 been, to save one at least, (the most helpless ), of 
 the objects of her affection. The first person she 
 saw, as she emerged, pale as a ghost, from the 
 cabin stair, was honest Jack Norton, whom she 
 wildly implored to save her boy. He wanted to 
 catch her up also, light as she was, in his arms, 
 to put her in the boat which he saw them cutting 
 clear at the stern—but she said “ No, no—not 
 alone !”—and throwing her child into his arms, 
 turned calmly down the companion again into her 
 husband's cabin. 
 
 The boat, overfilled, had swamped, ere Jack— 
 indebted probably to his humane lingering, for 
 his life—could reach the side. The vessel was 
 rapidly parting ; and, with the coolness of one to 
 whom shipwreck was no untried peril, he caught 
 up a hen-coop, and lashing me firmly to it and 
 himself, launched it cautiously at the moment 
 when a sudden lurch laid the deck almost flush 
 with the water. The tide he knew was setting 
 inshore, and would land us, provided we could re¬ 
 sist for so long a period the buffetting of the waves, 
 and piercing cold of a bitter March night. My 
 mother had wrapped me, in her haste, in the furred 
 
26 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 pelisse—which lay across the foot of my bed—and 
 to this I was indebted, under providence, for my 
 preservation from perishing of cold. Near the 
 cooji had lain an old broom, kept for cleaning it 
 out; this Jack caught hold of, and dexterously 
 using it as a sort of oar, gave to our course a little 
 inclination towards a smoother and less rocky part 
 of the beach than the frightful headland in front, 
 which our frail vehicle could no more have touched 
 unshattered, than we could have scaled its dizzy 
 steeps, if it had ! 
 
 I was within a few weeks of six years old when 
 my warm-hearted preserver, (as I have been^told 
 a thousand times), brought me, naked and shivering, 
 and exhausted with fright and sorrow—to his own 
 
 snug cottage on the coast near R-. The news 
 
 of the loss of the vessel had reached its inmates, 
 and his rude helpmate -was sitting—after an expe¬ 
 dition of fruitless inquiry into the town—at her 
 neglected fireside, pondering on its probable de¬ 
 solation, when her husband's well known whistle 
 roused her from these desponding musings, to a 
 joy almost too much for even her robust frame and 
 spirit. In an instant, Jack was surrounded, and 
 almost pulled to pieces, by delighted children, 
 
 l 
 
PROBATION. 27 
 
 among whom I was nearly knocked down, and 
 wholly forgotten. 
 
 Bewildered and forlorn, I began to cry piteously 
 for my mother, and Kate pushed aside her own 
 noisy brood to take to her w T arm, though rough 
 bosom, the shivering orphan. 44 What fine boy 
 have you there, Jack ?” said she, 44 and who does he 
 belong to ?” 44 God in heaven, that gave him me, 
 
 only knows,” answered her husband ! 44 He was 
 thrown into my arms by his poor young mother, 
 just as the ship parted, and of all that sailed in 
 her, its my belief there’s none alive but he and I.” 
 
 44 God bless you for a kind-hearted fellow as 
 you are !” exclaimed Kate—wiping away with her 
 apron a big drop from her own eye that mingled 
 on my cheek, with mine— 44 and you too, my little 
 man !—you’re welcome to a bite and sup with the 
 children till we find out your friends, and in the 
 mean time I’m sure you want sadly to be put to 
 bed !” 44 I want my mother, sobbed I”—shrink¬ 
 
 ing from hands so different from the delicate ones 
 by which I had so long been tended— 44 Your 
 mother is in heaven, my pretty child,” said Kate 
 soothingly, 44 and if you’re a good boy and go 
 to sleep, you will see her by and by.” 44 It is 
 
28 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 my father who is in heaven, - ” answered I, reminded 
 by the expression of my infant prayer. 44 Lord love 
 ye, little innocent!” exclaimed Jack, 44 1 doubt what 
 you say is e’en but too true, let alone the Father of 
 us all, that you speak of. There was a thin tall 
 gentleman on board, who was often playing with 
 this child, and he’s gone too, sure enough ! Do you 
 know your papa’s name, little boy ?” 44 I am called 
 Edmund, after papa,” answered I,— 44 Edmund Me¬ 
 redith, and I’m going to see grandpapa in London.” 
 I could say no more, even had my infant knowledge 
 not been exhausted; for, worn out with grief and 
 fatigue, I soon cried myself to sleep. 
 
 The name of my grandfather being inferred from 
 that of my father and myself, Jack (after a day or 
 two of true sailor enjoyment at his own fireside, 
 and two or three more at the Cat and bagpipes,) 
 walked with me in his hand, to a gentleman who 
 had a share in his late vessel; partly to ascertain 
 what chance there was of any thing being recover¬ 
 ed from the wreck, and partly to get him to inquire 
 out my relations. The total loss of Jack’s little 
 personal property, ascertained by the first query, 
 as well as his own numerous family, rendered the 
 additional burden of my maintenance very incon- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 29 
 
 venient, especially in the eyes of Kate, who, though 
 never unkind to the little foundling, began to wish 
 him anywhere else. The result of the second in¬ 
 quiry proved that there was an old Mr. Meredith 
 of great wealth in the city, who had a son, it was 
 believed, in the East Indies ; but he lived so re¬ 
 tired, and was in such infirm health, that very lit¬ 
 tle was known about him. 
 
 At the suggestion of his informant, Jack went, 
 but not immediately, (for with the sailor’s deep 
 sense of religion, he combined their odd professional 
 antipathy to parsons,) to the clergyman of the pa¬ 
 rish ; and got him to write, on chance, to Mr. 
 Meredith of Fenchurch Street. No answer came; 
 and Kate, alarmed at the increase of appetite occa¬ 
 sioned by the keen air of England in the little gen¬ 
 tleman, packed me off with her husband one fine 
 day, to be delivered in person to my supposed 
 grandfather. 
 
 It were hard to say which was least qualified, he 
 or I, to find our way in London. We were both 
 often near lost; I by being rode over, while Jack 
 stared in at shop windows ; and he by strolling into 
 every public house where he spied a bluejacket, to 
 tell the wonderful story of himself and little master. 
 
30 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 We reached Fenchurch Street at last, and knocked 
 at the door of a large dingy-looking house, render¬ 
 ed doubly dismal by nearly all its windows being 
 shut up. After many vain attempts to get in, our 
 impatient efforts at length brought down a deaf old 
 woman, who (cautiously keeping the chained door 
 no farther open than sufficed to protrude her thin 
 sharp visage) bawled out that Mr. Meredith was 
 dead and buried, and shut it in our faces. What 
 was to be done now ? At a neighbouring shop, 
 Jack learned that the widow was gone to the sea¬ 
 side somewhere for the summer ; and as it was get¬ 
 ting dark, and we had both had enough of London, 
 there was nothing for it but to hail the first Kent¬ 
 ish stage, and get on the top of it to go home again. 
 
 <c The child must go to the parish !” was Kate’s 
 first exclamation on seeing me again. But some¬ 
 how, she could never find in her heart to send me 
 there ; and Jack got his wages from his owners, and 
 a subscription was made in the village to clothe me 
 —and as for the cc bite and sup,” as she called it, 
 “ I was welcome to that.” 
 
 But what would my poor mother have said to see 
 the darling of her heart growing up a wild neglect¬ 
 ed blackguard in the outskirts of a sea-port town ! 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 31 
 
 The oaths of the sailors, which had appeared to me 
 so dreadful when I first went to sea—I could now 
 hear unmoved, even from the lips of childhood 
 (though something within forbade me ever to echo 
 them) ; and the hymns, which it was her pride to 
 teach me to repeat, w r ere exchanged for snatches of 
 idle ballads which I learned at the alehouse win¬ 
 dows ! 
 
 These, I soon found, might be turned to account; 
 as well as a flexibility of spine and limbs peculiar, I 
 believe, to Indian children. There was, about a 
 mile from my present abode, on the direct road to 
 a celebrated bathing place, a very steep hill; the 
 passage of quality over which seldom failed to be 
 annoyed by groupes of youngsters like myself, 
 throwing nosegays, singing, or tumbling, (as their 
 bent might chance to be), to extort an ill-bestowed 
 halfpenny. In all branches of this idle vocation, I 
 soon became an adept; and I fear the hatfuls of 
 halfpence thus earned, tended more to reconcile 
 Kate to my protracted stay, than the humanity, in 
 which she was not deficient. 
 
 My tumbling was really so wonderful, that tra¬ 
 vellers, even while they disapproved, often stopped 
 to admire it; and I redoubled my efforts to excite 
 
32 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 fresh applause. I was one day stimulated by the 
 sight of a carriage and four containing only ladies 
 (as from gentlemen I seldom got any thing but re¬ 
 proofs)—to attempt some unusual feats. I threw 
 myself before the horses with reckless daring, (al¬ 
 ways trusting to my own agility to outstrip them,) 
 and regardless of cries to desist, from the alarmed 
 ladies—who had, by indiscreet previous liberality, 
 spurred on my present rashness—I made a somer¬ 
 set intended to carry me clear across the road, but 
 fell short, under the very feet of the leaders, whom 
 the postboy—an urchin little bigger than myself— 
 was unable to pull up. 
 
 Providence, which had once miraculously pre¬ 
 served, still watched over me. Stunned, but not 
 materially injured, I was drawn from my perilous 
 situation, and placed, nearly insensible, in the car¬ 
 riage beside the two ladies ; whose deep mourning 
 dresses were soon stained with the blood that trick¬ 
 led profusely from a wound inflicted, not by a 
 horse’s hoof (for that would probably have been 
 mortal), but a sharp stone on which I had lighted 
 just above the eye. 
 
 The smelling-bottles with which the carriage was 
 
 well stored, soon brought me to myself, and I 
 
 3 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 33 
 
 quite well remember a childish feeling of delight in 
 once more finding myself seated on the knee of a per¬ 
 son, who in dress and figure at least resembled my 
 mother. 44 Thank God, he revives, Eleanor l 11 
 exclaimed the other and elder lady, whose close 
 black bonnet almost hid her face. 44 What a 
 beautiful creature it is ! and so near lost in every 
 sense of the word ! God forgive me for the hand I 
 narrowly missed having in his death,—I must try 
 and make it up to him !” 
 
 44 Where do you live, little man ?” asked the 
 younger lady. 44 At the white house down yonder, 
 at Jack Norton’s.’” 44 Is your father at sea, that he 
 lets his hoy run into danger and mischief so ?” 
 44 My father's dead and my mother, and grandpapa 
 too—I’m nobody’s boy. - ” 44 An orphan too ! poor 
 thing l” exclaimed the old lady, 44 what a lucky 
 accident ! but we must hear more at Jack Norton’s.'” 
 
 The astonishment of Kate when a fine carriage 
 stopped at her door, containing two ladies, and her 
 bloody foster-child—may be easily imagined. To 
 their mild hints that even an orphan might have 
 been better trained and cared for—she indignantly 
 replied, 44 More shame to them that should ask after 
 him, and don’t! The boy’s well born, and come of 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 rich people ; and though they say okl Meredith is 
 gone to his master Old Nick, he could not take his 
 money, that ought to be this poor child's, with 
 him !” 
 
 “ Meredith ! ! !” exclaimed both ladies in a 
 breath.—I spare’the reader the edaircissement which 
 followed. The widow of my grandfather, a well 
 meaning and warm-hearted, though cold-mannered 
 woman, shed tears of unwonted feeling over his or- 
 P h an heir; and rejoiced that she had at length 
 found one, on whom the burdensome accumulations 
 of two penurious lives might legitimately centre. 
 
 It was not till I crossed the threshold of the white 
 house, that I felt how unconsciously I loved Kate 
 and the children. I turned back even from the fine 
 carriage and impatient nags, to give another kiss 
 to Mammy Norton ; and transfer to my favourite 
 playfellow Bill, the silver sixpence which had near¬ 
 ly cost me my life. More substantial testimonials 
 of gratitude were not forgotten by my new protec¬ 
 tress, including schooling for all the sturdy vaga¬ 
 bonds—and I was once more lifted into the car¬ 
 riage. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 For oh ! with sorrow I must own, 
 
 Through life’s fair garden as I’ve gone, 
 
 Each flaunting, feckless flow’r that’s blown 
 I’ve stoop’d to nip ; 
 
 Till a’ the nobler plants are grown 
 Outo’er my grip. 
 
 T. Sheridan. 
 
 That my grandmother, for so she insisted on being 
 called, should indulge long suppressed natural feel¬ 
 ings by spoiling me, nobody will be surprised to 
 hear. She was a good but weak-minded woman, 
 whose originally bounded intellect had been restrain¬ 
 ed within the narrowest possible limits, by the mo¬ 
 notony of a life, passed between her father’s dull 
 house in Bishopsgate Street, and the still duller 
 residence of her husband, till the declining health 
 and secession from business of the latter enabled 
 her to vary its tenor by annual visits to Cheltenham 
 
36 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 or Tunbridge. Mr. Meredith, who, struck with 
 palsy soon after his second marriage, survived nearly 
 all his faculties, retained to the last a spirit of ran¬ 
 corous hostility, which would have prevented his al¬ 
 tering his will, even had he been in a state legally 
 to do so ; and his son having been previously and 
 formally disinherited, it was by a deed mutually 
 executed in favour of the survivor of the marriage, 
 that his widow succeeded to all his wealth. She 
 had acquiesced in this arrangement, hoping it might 
 enable her to do justice to his son, whose rights she 
 had really no wish to invade, having already found 
 her owm ample fortune rather an incumbrance than 
 a source of satisfaction. She had neither heart nor 
 desire to spend ; and had she foreseen Mr. Mere¬ 
 dith would so soon be unable to manage for her, 
 she never would have married. Of the fate of his 
 son and daughter, she remained as yet uncertain ; 
 though a list of passengers lost in the 66 John and 
 Mary,’ 1 contained names answering to those of the 
 unfortunate couple, who were conjectured to have 
 perished. 
 
 For some months, during my grandmother’s 
 
 summer residence at R-, I was suffered to 
 
 run entirely wild ; provided it were within the safe 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 37 
 
 precincts of her handsome marine villa. If 1 no 
 longer tumbled on the road to extract halfpence, I 
 still climbed in the drawing-room to make visitors 
 stare ; and I have since—I am ashamed to own, 
 
 gone over from R- to Seagrove, merely to 
 
 see the bookcase on whose lofty summit I used 
 to sit perched in defiance, till, by dread of broken 
 bones, some darling object was extorted from grand¬ 
 mamma. 
 
 She never thought, good woman ! of reasoning 
 me out of this childish trick. She screamed, and 
 entreated, and threatened, till I had learned total 
 disregard of all such methods ; when set in opposi¬ 
 tion to praise, and smiles, and wonder at other and 
 more suitable times. I suppose I should have 
 gone on, writhing like an eel, and climbing like a 
 cat, till I injured my spine—had not a sensible 
 friend taken me one day to a neighbouring fair, 
 where I saw all my boasted exploits so hopelessly 
 out-done by a little wretch of a negro child, whom 
 every body evidently pitied and despised, that I 
 saw the exhibition in a new and degrading light, 
 and would never perform again. 
 
 We removed to town ; and, as a necessary con¬ 
 sequence, 1 was put to a day-school in the neigh- 
 
38 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 bourhood. I soon liked school, chiefly because I 
 was better amused there than at home; and only 
 regretted that evening must come, and must be 
 spent in a gloomy old-fashioned parlour, ill lighted 
 with one pair of candles; to get the benefit of 
 which, I must learn my lesson, or read my story¬ 
 book within hearing of four cross old people, scold¬ 
 ing each other at whist. I question which is most 
 to be pitied, a boy brought up among precise 
 elderly women, who have never had children—or 
 the old ladies themselves, to whom a lively child 
 seems possessed with an evil spirit ! At school I 
 could learn nothing but my task; and I wanted 
 to learn ten thousand things besides: but no one 
 there had time to tell me, and when I came home 
 nobody knew or cared any thing about them. 
 
 It was thus, that from my earliest sojourn un¬ 
 der the roof of Mrs. Meredith, I felt that sense of 
 mental thraldom and restriction which through 
 so many a year so painfully haunted me ; and 
 which rendered my late transition to a more liberal 
 circle, almost like translation to a superior sphere ! 
 I did not know what continual reaction pressed 
 upon, and paralysed the efforts of an expanding 
 mind ; I only knew that there should be something 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 39 
 
 more in life, than either the school-room round 
 the corner, or the parlour in Fenchurch Street 
 could afford ! 
 
 It was no fault of Mrs. Meredith’s if she was so 
 precisely what the French express by the felicitous 
 word— borne. She strove to do her duty even be¬ 
 yond the (for her) lavish expenditure of money 
 and kindness. She invaded the sanctity of her 
 tete-a-tete with a starched uninteresting female 
 companion for my sake, by the admission of a 
 tutor ; to whom, contrary to the usual custom of 
 boys, I looked forward as to a new toy. But such 
 a tutor as could by any possibility suit such an 
 establishment, was not likely to rise beyond its 
 calibre. Middle age, mild manners, a soft voice, 
 and knowledge of whist, were the chief character¬ 
 istics inquired into. Latin and Greek were stipu- 
 pulated for, as a matter of course, though—as I 
 was to be very independent—my education need 
 not be hurried on at any great sacrifice of health or 
 recreation. 
 
 I could not be so unhappy at the sea-side, as in 
 London, although Mr. Maude added as little to 
 my happiness as he took from it. He taught me 
 Latin faster I believe than he even intended ; and 
 
40 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 I learned it because it was better than learning 
 nothing. But when I asked him about ships, or 
 shells, or sea-birds, or any of the ten thousand ani¬ 
 mate or inanimate objects with which ocean teems, 
 he knew no more about them than the oyster 
 which vegetates in its depths. How I longed to 
 make once more acquaintance with sailors and 
 fishermen, and their ragged urchins, who ran about 
 and did as they pleased ; and I gave more than 
 one sigh to Mammy Norton’s cottage. 
 
 Years passed over in this dull routine ; render¬ 
 ed latterly less tolerable by our marine excursions 
 being exchanged for water-drinking places in the 
 interior. Mrs. Meredith was, like all rich idlers, 
 fanciful about her health; and feeling the sea 
 breezes, as she thought, too sharp for a meagre and 
 attenuated frame—made a regular experiment on 
 all the celebrated mineral springs in England. 
 These were sad summers to me—for when I had 
 heard all the bands, and visited all the Spas, and 
 made faces at all the waters—what amusement 
 
 could a bov of ten to fourteen find in scenes of 
 
 •* 
 
 heartless dissipation, the gaiety of which indeed— 
 such as it was—never reached him at all. Mrs. 
 Meredith’s whist parties might be more miscella- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 41 
 
 neous at Tunbridge than in London, but they were 
 not one jot more entertaining ; and if the penance 
 of an airing was to be endured, Oxford Street and 
 Hyde Park were worth a hundred of the High 
 Street of Cheltenham. There is a discipline observ¬ 
 ed by young practitioners in physic, called 4 4 walk¬ 
 ing the hospitals .’ 1 I wonder whether it is more 
 or less irksome than I found its somewhat analo¬ 
 gous routine of 44 walking the watering places i 11 
 With another year, matters grew both worse and 
 better. In the former view of the subject, I w r as 
 now T expected to attend Mrs. Meredith to the stiff 
 sepulchral parties, in which her annual sojourn at 
 Cheltenham had embarked her; to take an occasional 
 fourth at whist, and practise, (upon any but in¬ 
 viting damsels) the lessons of politeness and gal¬ 
 lantry, w T hich my age and height rendered indis¬ 
 pensable. But then per contra —some Indian ge¬ 
 neral, forty years of whose life had been passed on 
 horseback—suggested the propriety of my learning 
 to ride ; and a pony was procured accordingly. As, 
 however, I only rode with my tutor, whose un¬ 
 equestrian habits dictated the safest of all possible 
 paces, I never remember being thoroughly exhila¬ 
 rated by the exercise, except once; when I w r as 
 
42 
 
 rROBATION. 
 
 fairly run away with, and landed—to the horror 
 of my pedagogue and my own delight—in a ditch ! 
 
 With all this sense of monotony, which made 
 my existence like that of Sterne’s caged starling— 
 let me do justice to the memory of Mrs. Meredith ! 
 Her sole feeling, since Providence cast me at her 
 feet, had been to do an act of tardy reparation, com¬ 
 pletely and conscientiously. 
 
 She forgot her indolence to watch over me, her 
 habits of penury, to indulge, and her long years of 
 selfishness, to care for me. She gave me what she 
 believed to be the best of educations—a private one ; 
 for she was one of those who shudder in virtuous 
 horror at the promiscuous intercourse of large 
 schools. She forgot, or rather she never knew— 
 that to render domestic education efficient, there 
 must be infused into it somewhat of the emula¬ 
 tion and collisions of a public one—there must be 
 a master-spirit to supply deficiences—and know¬ 
 ledge of the world to eschew pedantry—in short, 
 every thing that was completely wanting in Mr. 
 Maude ! 
 
 For lack of any thing else to do, I read a good 
 deal occasionally ; and of course, for want of direc¬ 
 tion, chiefly poetry and novels. But their contrast 
 
 l 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 43 
 
 was so ludicrous with the singularly prosaic exist¬ 
 ence, of which alone I knew any thing—that I en¬ 
 tered on life with a bias exactly opposite to that 
 of most other young persons ; and far from expect¬ 
 ing in it features of romance and enthusiasm which 
 it fails to exhibit—all the traits of both, which may 
 be found on even its ordinary surface, came upon 
 me with a force of novelty and contrast which ren¬ 
 dered them doubly delightful. 
 
 Matters went on thus, till I was nineteen ; and 
 except that (Mr. Maude being inducted in a rec¬ 
 tory)—I rode alone, or with a groom who had an 
 eye to my mastership of the horse, and connived 
 accordingly—and that (Mrs. Meredith from increas¬ 
 ing infirmity now declining all society), I associ¬ 
 ated a little with persons of my own age—no ma¬ 
 terial change took place in the sober routine of my 
 existence. To say that I never looked forward to 
 emancipation, might be exceeding the truth ; but 
 to say that I wished for it at the expense of losing 
 my benefactress, would be doing me injustice. As 
 the time, indeed, approached, which must put me 
 in possession of all she had endowed me with—I 
 learned to value it more—and to honour the rec¬ 
 titude which made her look back on her conduct 
 
44 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 to me as her chief consolation. She was found 
 one day as if asleep in her chair ; and as she never 
 woke more, I was saluted as heir to ^200,000 ! 
 
 I had too long steadily eyed this bright rever¬ 
 sion to be dazzled or overset by it. I had too long 
 settled what I had to do with it, to feel at any loss 
 on the subject; but how to enjoy it was a lesson I 
 had entirely to learn !—and like all novices, I was 
 but too much at the mercy of my teachers. I took 
 for granted—as I had been forced to do many things 
 besides—that the received modes of being happy 
 were infallible; and as all my new, and some of 
 my old companions 44 babbled"” incessantly, not of 
 44 green fields,” but of green turf \ horses, hounds, 
 and races, I launched deeply into the mysteries of 
 the stud and kennel. 
 
 I had not forgotten the excitement of being run 
 away with by a pony—and justly concluding that 
 being run away with by a hunter or racer must 
 exceed it by the square of their respective veloci¬ 
 ties—I tried the experiment; I cannot say that it 
 succeeded. First emotions are always the most 
 acute and delightful—but at least I distanced for a 
 while the fiend Ennui , who, I now learned for 
 the first time, had been the incubus that clung to 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 45 
 
 me through life, like the “ Okl Man of the Moun¬ 
 tain.' 11 
 
 The contrast of bacchanalian orgies with habits 
 of conventual sobriety, was first odious—then pi¬ 
 quant —but it would not do long ! I had lost too 
 much of my life half asleep already to w aste many 
 waking moments over the bottle—and half a dozen 
 Champaigne headachs brought back the feelings of 
 Fenchurch Street too effectually to be again ha¬ 
 zarded. Gaming was taken up as a variety—but 
 cards reminded me of Fenchurch Street too—and 
 money could be transferred at Newmarket just as 
 quickly and more pleasantly, in the open air. I 
 always hated confinement, I suppose because I had 
 been so much pent up as a boy—and lighted rooms 
 always brought back the parties of Cheltenham in 
 disagreeable association of ideas. In short, after hav¬ 
 ing made, for a couple of years, a round,—scarce 
 less fatiguing than the campaign among hospitals 
 above alluded to—of all the boasted pleasures of 
 young men of fortune—I caught myself at last, 
 yawning and fidgetting in my splendid apartments 
 in St. James’s—just as I had done on the old, hard, 
 narrow, scanty hair-sofa in Fenchurch Street ! 
 
 If my heart was no lighter, however, my pockets 
 
4 6 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 were considerably so. All young heirs are pro¬ 
 verbially pigeons ; what must I have been, who 
 never heard of hawks, till I smarted in their ta¬ 
 lons ? All the hobbies of young men are expen¬ 
 sive, and during their successive reign keep their 
 heads under water—but /, to make up for lost 
 time, had half a score at once, and rode them so fast, 
 that it was no wonder I was ere long—to use an 
 appropriate cant phrase—fairly floored. 
 
 The tangible cash left by Mrs. Meredith, on which 
 no restrictions were laid, was exhausted; and the 
 bulk of the joint fortunes of herself and my grand¬ 
 father could not be claimed by an heir—(whose ex¬ 
 istence had not been contemplated when their set¬ 
 tlements were drawn out)—till he should attain 
 the legal age. This, as I wanted some months of 
 twenty-one, I took the usual methods to get over; 
 and they were not the less expensive that—till I 
 invoked their succour—I had never heard of any 
 Jews (old clothes-men excepted) more modern 
 than those of Scripture ! 
 
 The whole details of the single combat a Vou- 
 trance , waged by spendthrift heirs with Father 
 Time, being as familiar to all classes of readers as, 
 thanks to Sir Walter—they have now become with 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 47 
 
 those of* the joust and tournay of olden days, I 
 spare myself a blush, and the reader a yawn, by 
 leaving them henceforth to his imagination. All 
 I cannot allow him to take for granted is, that in 
 the midst of my revel of folly, I loved, or even en¬ 
 dured vice. The only redeeming quality in my 
 precise and negative education, was its purity — 
 which made even slight deviations uncomfortable, 
 and grosser ones impossible. 
 
 The word principle had never I believe been men¬ 
 tioned before me. It was too stern and masculine 
 for the minor code which governed the proprie¬ 
 ties of Fenchurch Street. But the constitutional 
 exemption from evil propensities which nature had 
 bestowed, was unconsciously strengthened by the 
 absence of evil examples ; and Mrs. Meredith— 
 perhaps justly—thought her labours, such as they 
 were, rewarded, when she heard me characterised, 
 by less partial observers, as “ a lad in whom there 
 was no harm.” There was even—I may perhaps 
 be allowed to say now , when I have long been 
 aware how very little it amounted to—some good 
 in me. I grew up liberal and charitable—because 
 from my childhood the indulgence of such feelings 
 was a rare and stolen luxury. I was good natured 
 
48 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 and accommodating, because my temper—-natural- 
 ly easy—had never been soured by actual unkind¬ 
 ness ; while it had been kept in salutary check by a 
 long course of insensible restraint. In short I had 
 some good qualities, which culture or misfortune 
 might develop-—and abundance of faults, which, 
 as no one had even pointed them out, I was not 
 particularly likely to discover. 
 
 As to my tastes, they must have hitherto lain— 
 like many other things—in abeyance ; for they 
 certainly did not find their spontaneous gratifica¬ 
 tion in any one of the objects to which I suffered 
 myself to be devoted. Horses, dogs, wine, cards, 
 and company were at first but so, so—after a couple 
 of years familiarity, I wished them all at the devil; 
 but then I had no other <£ Slave of the Lamp,” 
 ready to summon in their stead. 
 
 Falling in love I had tried—but not with suc¬ 
 cess sufficient to feel delightfully engrossed. I 
 was not fortunate in my chance superficial ac¬ 
 quaintance with the fair sex ; and of domestica¬ 
 tion in a fascinating family circle, I had not even 
 an idea. The young ladies I danced with at balls, 
 or flirted with on race-grounds, were so evidently 
 in love with themselves, or with my thousands—so 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 49 
 
 manifestly careless whether I broke my neck when • 
 I rode, so that I lost my heart or at least my 
 gloves, when I betted—that I came to care for 
 them pretty much as I did for my stud, my 
 companions, and the world—that is to say, not 
 at all. 
 
 It was particularly unlucky; because I now 
 heard, on the unquestionable authority of a brother 
 ennuye , that falling in love—as a stimulus—was 
 worth a hundred of racing. But as, to deserve 
 that character, it must, I presumed, have the ex¬ 
 citement both of reality and uncertainty, I could 
 not profit by the information. I never sohnehow 
 could meet with eyes worth looking into half a 
 dozen times, which did not tell me before that, all 
 they had to say; and if it was not exactly couched 
 in the anticipative Hibernicism of “ Ask Papa’’ 1 —it 
 was too much to the same purpose not to be worse 
 than a fox worried in cover. 
 
 With a desultory bachelor acquaintance, chiefly 
 confined to loungers of my own unprivileged 
 class, whom the successful diligence of others had 
 enriched, without ennobling, and shaken loose 
 from commerce, without grafting them on aristo- 
 cracy, I had few if any connexions in the world ; 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 and often felt cruelly the want of some fireside, by 
 whose domestic privacy I might vary the tiresome 
 routine of being a 44 young man about town.” I 
 suppose I thirsted for conversation—for of all 
 mental luxuries, that was the one in which I had 
 been most systematically starved. But the things 
 about which people talked did not interest me. I 
 was too thoughtless for politics—too volatile to 
 talk merely of the weather—and too good-natured 
 or too stupid to care much for scandal. Sometimes 
 —but rarely—a scrap of literary chit-chat, made 
 me prick up my ears, and feel as if readers were 
 creatures to be envied ; but soon either an awkward 
 feeling of being 44 thrown out,” or some dull jest 
 about blue stockings , (then a novel term of re¬ 
 proach), would smother the latent glow, and make 
 me relapse into inanity, to avoid mortification or 
 ridicule. 
 
 I did read occasionally, however, chiefly because 
 it amused me more than any thing else. I even 
 kept up my Latin—because I happened to have a 
 pocket Yirgil more portable than any other book— 
 and because Latin with me was associated with 
 boyish excitement, and therefore with pleasure. I 
 skimmed at odd times the poem or novel of the 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 51 
 
 day ; but be it remembered that it was in the former 
 the age of “ Della Crusca,”—and that in the lat¬ 
 ter department there were then no <c giants in the 
 land”—and it will not be matter of wonder if 1 
 rose from the perusal, thinking even books them¬ 
 selves — 66 vanity and vexation !” 
 
 Three years more rolled away in a course of idle¬ 
 ness and extravagance, which, while it had made 
 serious inroads on my fortune, had not given me in 
 exchange even the semblance of enjoyment. Not 
 the withered leaf which is caught up and whirled 
 by every blast in contrary directions, is, and I speak 
 from sad experience, a more contemptible and pi¬ 
 tiable object, than a young man such as I then was ; 
 the sport not of impulse, but of accident; without 
 purpose, plan, or goal in life ; a prey to sharpers, 
 the property of profligate companions, and neither 
 acquainted with, nor on good terms with himself. 
 
 UbHARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
52 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Barbs ! Barbs ! bow swift, alas ! ye flew. 
 
 Her neat postwaggon trotting in ! 
 
 Canning. 
 
 I was, in the autumn of 18—, on my way from 
 one set of races to another, in the not very enviable 
 mood of one who, having just smarted under the 
 consequences of his rashness, feels himself never¬ 
 theless destined (by his folly, not his stars) to plunge 
 into farther losses and entanglements ; when, at a 
 village inn in the north of England, my eye was 
 caught by the following advertisement: 
 
 Heirs Wanted. 
 
 u The nearest of kin, if any, to the deceased 
 Gideon Aspinall, M. D., who settled in America 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 53 
 
 somewhere about the year 17 —, may hear of some¬ 
 thing to their advantage, by applying to J. T., so¬ 
 licitor at D-. 
 
 44 N.B. Dr. Aspinall is believed to have belonged 
 originally to Hampshire, and is known to have sur¬ 
 vived two brothers, who both died without issue.” 
 
 I fairly started off my chair with delight, as I 
 laid down the newspaper ; not at the chance of in¬ 
 creased wealth, held out by the advertisement, but 
 the prospect of excitement afforded by the pursuit. 
 The identity of the singular name of the deceased 
 with that of my poor mother, his profession and re¬ 
 sidence, left scarce the shadow of a doubt that it was 
 the same eccentric relative, in quest of whose suc¬ 
 cession she had gone to the new world. Was it 
 now unexpectedly to open to her son ? Of our re¬ 
 lationship, I had, it is true, no direct proof save 
 that afforded by my knowledge of the voyage and 
 its object, and the tacit one furnished by my ad¬ 
 mission to the presence of the recluse; nor would 
 these inferences, however obvious, be of any use in 
 a court of justice. But, with the sanguine feelings 
 of one stimulated by the novelty of enterprise, I 
 imagined there would be little difficulty in recover¬ 
 ing, either in England or America, the lost link of 
 
54 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 affinity; and as a first step in the business, I as¬ 
 tonished my disappointed landlord, by ordering, at 
 that late hour in the evening, a postchaise for 
 D — —, a town about eight miles off, to which the 
 advertisement referred. 
 
 The attorney, a shrewd pettifogger, indebted to 
 some Transatlantic connexions for the honour and 
 possible emoluments of the inquiry, heard my ex¬ 
 tra-judicial statement with wonderful patience, and 
 growing sympathy for a client, who, to the chances 
 of a fortune in reversion, added the more tangible 
 recommendation of one in possession. 
 
 He told me the only rival claimant who had yet 
 appeared, was a Mrs. Clitheroe, the wife, as he un¬ 
 derstood of a half-pay officer, and related through 
 her parents (French Canadians), to the American 
 Croesus. i( I have never seen the old lady,” added 
 he, “ but as she writes, it seems, indifferent Eng¬ 
 lish, and the captain is laid up with the gout, the 
 correspondence has been carried on by a daughter, 
 a clever sharp damsel, I should say, who gives a 
 wonderful clear account of the family pedigree. 
 The relationship, however, is quite distant, a third 
 or fourth cousin or so, and yours, if we can only 
 establish it, will cut it out and out, of course. The 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 55 
 
 similarity of name to your mother's, is a strong 
 presumption in your favour, and will have its weight 
 in the eye of the law. Mrs. Clitheroe has never 
 seen or heard of the old Doctor since she was about 
 five years old, at which time he spent some weeks 
 at her father's in the beginning of the American 
 troubles, when his loyalty to England obliged him 
 to be in hiding. He came forward greatly in her 
 cause afterwards it seems, but meeting with little 
 thanks, got disgusted, and shut himself up in 
 the woods with a couple of black slaves for the last 
 thirty years of his life ; rambling about all the sum¬ 
 mer among the Indians, and letting nobody else 
 come near him. His land, in the mean time, not¬ 
 withstanding his doing nothing to improve it, was 
 getting valuable in spite of him, and he has left 
 behind at least L.40,000. 
 
 The result of my conference with the lawyer was, 
 that in addition to the information which might be 
 incidentally elicited by the advertisement—he w r ould 
 instantly write to his correspondent in America to 
 make inquiries there ; particularly of the black ser¬ 
 vants, to whom the Doctor had bequeathed his so¬ 
 litary mansion ; and who, still active and vigorous, 
 though in very advanced life, would probably recol- 
 
56 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 lect the remarkable incident of my infant visit, and 
 the nature of the ties on which it was permitted by 
 the recluse. 
 
 Having quickened his diligence in these investi¬ 
 gations by a retaining fee, I left the attorney almost 
 as much interested in their result as myself; and 
 far more disposed to regard with an evil eye the 
 more solidly founded claims of my rival Miss Clithe- 
 roe. <£ I dare say she’s an ugly old maid,” said 
 he—with professional antipathy to cleverness in 
 women — e( her letter was not that of a girl I assure 
 you ! So correct and well worded, and to the pur¬ 
 pose !” She mentions that, on receiving some docu¬ 
 ments they expect from Canada, she and her mo¬ 
 ther will come over here from Manchester, where the 
 father I believe is barrack-master, or some such 
 thing. I’ll let you know when I hear from them.’” 
 
 I went on to my destination ; my head fuller of 
 America than Doncaster, and engaged in a stake 
 to which even the St. Leger was as nothing. If I 
 had been to draw omens of my success in the one, 
 from the result of the other, they would have been 
 very discouraging. With thoughts pre-occupied, 
 and a mind elsewhere, I betted with more than 
 ordinary indiscretion, and lost more than even 
 now I love to remember. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 57 
 
 It weaned me, however, and as it happened, for 
 life, from racing. I sold my horses, and went up 
 to town to inquire more in earnest than I had 
 ever yet done, into the exact state of my affairs. 
 The sudden seizure and long mental and bodily 
 imbecility of my grandfather, had unexpectedly 
 thrown his whole multifarious concerns into the 
 hands of his head clerk—the only person by whom 
 they were at all understood; and in whom he had 
 always shown that limited degree of confidence 
 which he was disposed to place in any human be¬ 
 ing. Mrs. Meredith—rendered doubly helpless 
 by the incapacity of him whom she had married for 
 financial energy—had no resource but to trust im¬ 
 plicitly in his deputy, and ere long, prosperous 
 successor in business ; and the flattering accounts 
 he laid before her of her increasing funds, were 
 highly satisfactory. 
 
 With this gentleman—who by degrees availed 
 himself of rising prosperity to indulge in a style of 
 living very opposite to the penurious habits of his 
 late patron—I had always been on the best terms. 
 When, before coming of age, I had embarked, 
 from reluctance to inform him of my necessities, in 
 ruinous transactions with Jews—he gently chid 
 
58 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 me for having doubted his willingness to make the 
 necessary advances ; and ever since I had found in 
 him but too dangerous a facility in answering my 
 frequent demands. It was therefore no surprise to me 
 to learn from him—with many expressions of almost 
 parental regret—the considerable incroachments on 
 my capital; nor was it a source of great disap¬ 
 pointment when, with reiterated assurances of 
 readiness to supply me at all times—he evaded my 
 faint attempts to see exactly how I stood in his 
 books. The sum which remained there was so 
 large, as to seem—even to one who had spent near¬ 
 ly a third of it in five years—almost inexhausti¬ 
 ble ; and by resolving to limit my expenditure in 
 future to its income, I gained from myself and 
 my indulgent banker, the praise of rare, though 
 late prudence. 
 
 My winter in town partook in some degree of 
 this tardy infusion of wisdom. It was the least 
 dissipated I had ever passed, and under the au¬ 
 spices of my banker—who had removed to the west 
 end of the town, and saw a great deal of company 
 —I mixed more in what might be styled good, if 
 not the best society London can afford. It was to 
 feel more perhaps than ever the want of a profession 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 59 
 
 or pursuit. The former, I felt it was too late to 
 embark in ; and the only employment nature seem¬ 
 ed to have chalked out for me, was too much at 
 variance with my habits to be thought of. 
 
 This was the superintendence and improvement 
 of a small estate in Gloucestershire; which, taken in 
 payment of a bad debt by Mr. Meredith shortly 
 before his illness, he had not lived to dispose of. 
 
 His successor would have converted it into money im- 
 
 \ 
 
 mediately, but for a fancy of the widow^s, to whom 
 of course it now belonged, and who, though detest¬ 
 ing the country herself, had an English prejudice 
 in favour of landed property, and always pleased 
 herself with thinking I should one day or other 
 settle down into a squire. 
 
 So the old hall was kept from falling, and the 
 acres from the hammer, in compliance with her 
 express stipulation; and in the first dutiful emo¬ 
 tions which succeeded her demise, I went to take a 
 view of them. But the mansion, with its grass- 
 grown court and ivy-mantled walls, and long-privi¬ 
 leged household band of rooks and owls, seemed 
 fitter for an old hermit than a young heir ; and the 
 land, which was cultivated in the worst style of 
 that agriculturally barbarous country, seemed as if 
 
60 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 Tul] himself could not redeem it from weeds and 
 rushes. So, looking upon the thing itself altoge¬ 
 ther as an incumbrance, and with sovereign con¬ 
 tempt on its scanty rent-roll of some two or three 
 hundreds, a-year, I never thought more of it, till 
 asked by a neighbouring proprietor, whom I met 
 doing penance in town, why I did not come down 
 and settle in Gloucestershire, and turn farmer ? I 
 should as soon have thought of turning Mahome¬ 
 tan ; but the honest man painted so enthusiastically 
 the delights of an improver, the pleasures of a 
 sportsman, and the blended duties and honours of a 
 justice of the peace, that I could not help listening, 
 and fancying it possible twenty years hence to 
 think and talk as he did. 
 
 Early in the summer, as soon as it was possible 
 for a vessel to arrive from the St. Lawrence, I had 
 
 notice from lawyer T-of an expected visit from 
 
 the ladies of the Clitheroe family, which was how¬ 
 ever delayed from time to time by the severe ill¬ 
 ness of the captain, and the impossibility of leaving 
 
 him. I had loitered about D-and its vicinity 
 
 till I was tired, and was about to depart in despair, 
 —since, after all, (as I did not choose actually to 
 
 confront my rivals) the result of their interview 
 
 5 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 6 \ 
 
 might as well be communicated by letter; when 
 one evening, on my return from a pleasure excur¬ 
 sion in the neighbourhood, the lawyer sent me 
 word they had been with him for a hurried hour or 
 two, and that, anxious about the invalid, they in¬ 
 tended returning to Manchester that night in the 
 only direct conveyance for that place, which would 
 pass through from London about twelve o'clock. 
 
 c< If you want to see something of them—and 
 faith they're both fine women, the young one es¬ 
 pecially—what say you to taking the remaining 
 place, (there are three of themselves, including a 
 maid) and going as far as Manchester with them ? 
 There’s much to be learned in a coach sometimes, 
 and the mamma seems chatty enough; besides, 
 you can take a sly look of the daughter, and see if a 
 matrimonial compromise would suit, in case of the 
 worst, without their suspecting a word of the mat¬ 
 ter. Not that they have much chance of ultimate 
 success however, for though they are third cousins 
 sure enough, old black Csesar is ready to swear he 
 heard the old gentleman say your mother was his 
 nearest of kin when he sent him for you to Albany. 
 Hearsay evidence to be sure is not very decisive, 
 but once in possession of that fact, we’ll find means 
 
62 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 to establish it. Perhaps you may worm something 
 out of the old girl to-night."” 
 
 44 God forbid P thought I, and this base insinu¬ 
 ation was very near making me give up all idea 
 of a journey, the romance of w r hich had been a 
 strong temptation. But I remembered that people, 
 however communicative, seldom speak of law-af¬ 
 fairs in a coach, and resolving to keep a thousand 
 miles from the subject, I hurried off to bespeak 
 the place. This of course could only be condition¬ 
 ally promised,, if not already held by a previous oc¬ 
 cupant from London ; and I awaited the arrival of 
 the 44 Telegraph,” as if my life depended on the 
 contents of the way-bill. 
 
 44 Three insides empty—-one full P was the re¬ 
 port when it stopped. On the former, the three 
 females had of course a double claim of precedence 
 and courtesy, and my only hope therefore lay in 
 persuading the other inside to resign in my favour. 
 44 What great events from trifling causes spring I” 
 The servant of this excellent old gentleman had 
 forgot to put up his fleecy hosiery cap, and rheu¬ 
 matism shrunk from a night journey without it; 
 so, on hearing that a traveller wished much to push 
 on to Manchester, he was heartily glad to exchange 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 63 
 
 his seat in the Telegraph for my warm beil at the 
 George. 
 
 The manoeuvre was so quickly effected in the 
 dark, and by the unofficial ministry of 66 Boots” of 
 the George, that it escaped registry; and I pro¬ 
 ceeded to Manchester under the name as w r ell as au¬ 
 spices of Mr. John Maberly. 66 So much the bet¬ 
 ter,” thought I, 66 should my fair fellow-travellers 
 have enough of Eve in them ever to inquire who 
 was their companion !” 
 
 There w T as for some time no danger of their be¬ 
 ing too communicative, as though I was piqued 
 out of sleep by the novelty of my situation, the 
 rest of the party had earned, by previous fatigue, 
 a well-won right to repose. 
 
 The morning burst forth at length in all its 
 summer beauty ; and awaking from a short dose 
 into which I had at length fallen—the first object 
 my eyes encountered were those of my opposite 
 neighbour Mrs. Clitheroe—who, with her finger on 
 her lip, and a glance at her still sleeping daughter 
 —gave me, in a friendly though suppressed voice, 
 and wfith a decided foreign accent, and frank foreign 
 manner—a cheerful morning salutation. 
 
 u La pauvre enfant !” said she, fondly looking at 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 64 
 
 the sleeper beside her, and folding her thick veil 
 more closely to exclude the light, 66 she has much 
 need of sleep, she has been such a watcher of late. 
 And yet I grudge her losing this magnifique sun¬ 
 rise ! a sight so seldom seen in a great smoky 
 town; and which in my happy young days I used 
 to see every morning at dear Montreal !” 
 
 I had never seen it above twice in my life any¬ 
 where ; though I did not the less feel its delicious 
 influence. Who indeed, however estranged by 
 luxury or blunted by daily toil, can gaze unmoved 
 on that dewy and virgin veil in which nature robes 
 herself on a midsummer morning, as if—born 
 yesterday—she had never known either winter or 
 sorrow ? When one bound of the joyous sun 
 laughs into utter oblivion the shadows both of 
 night and misfortune—when each unstained glossy 
 June leaf is a cup meet for the dews of heaven, 
 and every liquid tone of the soaring lark seems 
 etherial as the element it loves ! But however I 
 might feel all this at the time I am writing of— 
 I could certainly not thus have expressed it in 
 words—nor will any one wonder if, in my peculiar 
 circumstances, I should rather have preferred a 
 stolen glance under my fair rival’s impenetrable 
 
FR0BATI0N. 
 
 65 
 
 veil, to all the sunrises ever imagined by Claude 
 himself. 
 
 If, however, I was denied seeing, I was at least 
 indulged by hearing of her. It was not in the 
 frank loving nature of Mrs. Clitheroe to be silent, 
 even to a stranger, on so favourite a theme; and 
 she expatiated, in the innocence of her heart, on 
 the duty, affection, and abilities of her chere Pau¬ 
 line —as a more manoeuvring mother might fa e 
 done if aware of my name and pretensions, and de¬ 
 sirous of achieving what my friend the attorney 
 had professionally called—a (i matrimonial com¬ 
 promise !” 
 
 Perhaps I ought here to describe this charming 
 woman, with whom I then more than half fell in 
 love ; and whose counterpart through a long life 
 I have never chanced to meet with. Probably ori¬ 
 ginality and naivete were of all qualities the most 
 likely to make a deep impression on one who had 
 never before encountered them ; and Mrs. Clithe¬ 
 roe was the very personification of both. Her 
 physiognomy was the exact index of her charac¬ 
 ter. Never was volubility so superfluous as this 
 dear woman’s; for long before even her fluent, 
 though mongrel eloquence, could embody her ideas, 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 they were legible in her bright speaking hazel 
 eyes; and mantling round a mouth whose every 
 motion revealed a fresh expression, and which in 
 one mood—seemed made for uttering bon mots , 
 worthy of Scarron himself—and then in another, 
 (and not less becoming one) for setting them off 
 by bits of simplicity, which breathed as freshly of 
 fifteen and the woods of Canada, as if time and her- 
 self had alike forgotten to move. A petit nez retrousse 
 completed the contour of a face whose predominant 
 expression was an almost infantine guilelessness— 
 but over which occasional shades of sentiment, and 
 even of melancholy, passed like clouds over a 
 sunny landscape, only to leave it brighter than 
 ever. Her tall figure was still as slight and girl¬ 
 ish as it had been twenty years before, and a not 
 ungraceful negligence of costume was in keeping 
 with all the rest of the artless picture. 
 
 I really got so interested in this matronly spe¬ 
 cimen of unadulterated nature, that I might have 
 fairly forgotten she had a daughter, had not her 
 conversation kept me in mind. Her husband, she 
 told me, was an ancien militaire of excellent family, 
 and aimable comme il y en a peu —but by making a 
 runaway match in Canada some five and twenty 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 6 7 
 
 years before, when she was only fifteen—they had 
 
 disobliged both their families. Hers, she said, 
 
 • 
 
 had long since relented, and given her all they had 
 —their blessing ; but Monsieur's English friends 
 had left him to the consequences of his impru¬ 
 dence—embarrassed circumstances through life— 
 and now in its decline, to the scanty emoluments 
 of a Barrack-mastership, for whose duties he was 
 nearly disabled, and which obliged him—(invalid 
 as he was)—to reside in an expensive and detesta¬ 
 ble manufacturing town. 
 
 44 Under all this," continued she, 44 you must 
 not wonder that a prospect of any change for the 
 better is welcome." Women will talk of what 
 runs in their head ; and out came the whole story 
 of the American Doctor and his succession ! I 
 would have given the world to stop her, so like 
 an eaves-dropper did I feel—but I could only 
 have done so by revealing myself, and looking the 
 fool I felt—so I let her go on—particularly, as 
 through the less scrupulous attorney, I was in pos¬ 
 session of all the legal part of her information. 
 
 44 Eh hien , Monsieur'' —said she— 44 cVabord si 
 ca ne vous ennuie pas —this American millionaire 
 turns out to have been my mother's second cousin. 
 
68 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 She was de race Anglaise , a bonne petite femme , 
 whom my father married when on a visit at New 
 York, purely out of chivalry to rescue her from 
 the troubles, and from the ennui of marrying some 
 cousin of her own—(this very doctor himself, for 
 ought I know.) However, some years after, when 
 in danger of being shot by the Yankees, for some 
 bold stroke in favour of England, this ancien amant 
 crossed the river in an Indian canoe, and threw 
 himself on my father’s hospitality. Je men sou- 
 viens comme liier ! —though I was only about five 
 years old ;—and many a fright my mother got by 
 the old oddity snatching me up in his arms, and 
 carrying me with him into the woods to catch but¬ 
 terflies and seek simples. His fancy for me was 
 very great—I suppose on account of his old love 
 for Maman : and, strange to say ! I was very fond 
 of him too. He used to call me his little wife, 
 and say he would come back, when the war was 
 over, and take me to England. But it seems the 
 patrie he was always talking of turned out but a 
 stepmother to him, and he turned Sauvage , and 
 spent the rest of his days in the woods. If he 
 had made a will at all, I think he would have re¬ 
 membered his little Fanchon —but none can be 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 69 
 
 found, and we must try to come in as nearest of 
 kin. I daresay we should have had no difficulty 
 but for a Monsieur Meredith—a young vaurien , 
 who w T ill spend on race horses what would make 
 the happiness of an honest veteran’and his whole 
 menage. Dieu salt little would put le papa and 
 I at our ease—but Pauline! to see her as dis- 
 tinguee by the gifts of fortune, as she is by those 
 of nature, would put me out of my wits with joy !” 
 
 During this artless narrative—we were fast ap¬ 
 proaching the town of Manchester, the residence of 
 my fair companions, and I began to despair of catch¬ 
 ing, before we should separate, a single glance of 
 her for whose sake I had made the journey ; while 
 my curiosity was enhanced tenfold by the naive 
 eulogiums of her mother. 
 
 We had just wound slowly to the top of the 
 last hill, and were preparing to descend, when the 
 coachman—there being neither guard nor outside 
 passengers—got off himself to put on the drag, 
 and the horses set off at full speed without a dri¬ 
 ver. Had it been anywhere but at the entrance 
 of a crowded town, I should have trusted to their 
 daily habits, to carry them—(barring obstacles)— 
 safely to the inn door; but here the case was 
 
;o 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 alarming indeed ! One of the sharpest turns and 
 narrowest lanes in Great Britain lay right before 
 us, and acquainted as we both were with the lo¬ 
 calities, Mrs. Clitheroe and I not only foresaw our 
 inevitable overturn, but could calculate on its very 
 site and inclination. There was little time for 
 awful anticipation, the spot was but a few yards 
 off. We almost touched it, when Mrs. Clitheroe, 
 foreseeing that the coach must fall over on the side 
 where her daughter sat—touched her, to give her 
 some slight preparation. The sleeper started up, 
 and naturally put forward her head to see what was 
 the matter. The glass on her side was still up, 
 having resisted my efforts to let it down. The 
 head of the scarce conscious girl was in immedi¬ 
 ate and dangerous contact with it, when her 
 mother's cry of 44 Ma Jille ! Les vitres /” called 
 my attention to a state of things which left no al¬ 
 ternative to any man of humanity. I had no¬ 
 thing for it but to stretch out my arm to force 
 the window—in so doing I got entangled in its 
 wooden frame-work, the coach upset before I could 
 extricate myself, and the consequence was—a 
 broken arm ! 
 
 When I came to myself,—which was not the 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 71 
 
 sooner for having, in addition to my fracture, re¬ 
 ceived a severe contusion on the head, and on my 
 body the whole dead weight of a female Falstaff 
 of a French nurse, who, having accompanied the 
 
 family from Canada, had been brought to D- 
 
 to give corroborating testimony to its history—a 
 hackney coach had been drawn up alongside of 
 our shattered vehicle, and its driver was inquiring 
 where the gentleman, (Mr. Maberly as I was by 
 courtsey called,) chose to be driven to. The grateful 
 mother, who conceived herself the cause of my acci¬ 
 dent, would hear of no alternative but my being car¬ 
 ried to her house. “ Chez nous , chez nous ! cela 
 va sans dire F cried she, talking French as she al¬ 
 ways did when her feelings were excited. 66 Run 
 Marie and send for the doctor, and tell le papa we 
 are all safe !” 
 
 I was too much stunned and confused to make 
 much opposition; or if I did, it was borne down by 
 the clamours of genuine hospitality. Perhaps I was 
 not sorry to be saved, by an opportune return of faint¬ 
 ness, all further controversy; and when it left me, 
 I was under the hands of the surgeon, and had no 
 leisure for sentiment. My fracture—a very serious 
 compound one—was reduced ; and when all was 
 
72 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 over, I was laid quiet in a shabby but not uncom¬ 
 fortable room, with the old mountain of a French 
 bonne , who had partly caused my disaster, to at¬ 
 tend on and watch over me. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 73 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 II est un autre amour, fils craintif de l’estime 
 Souniis dans les chagrins, constant dans ses desirs 
 Que la vertu soutient, que la candeur animc 
 Qui resiste aux rigueurs, qui croit dans les plaisirs. 
 Voila le Dieu, que mon cceur veut pour maitre ! 
 
 Voltaire. 
 
 There was something, barring the plebeian and 
 every-day character of the accident itself, so roman¬ 
 tic and novel-like, in being thus unexpectedly de¬ 
 posited under the roof of my unknown rival, that I 
 had nothing for it but either to follow immemorial 
 precedent, and fall in love, or fortify myself by ri¬ 
 dicule against a denouement so common-place and 
 thread-bare. My fortitude was not put to any 
 very immediate test; for Pauline did not, after 
 the manner of damsels of romance, who combined 
 leech-craft with their heroic qualities, personally 
 
74 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 conduct, or even superintend my cure ; but her 
 gentle influence (for I instinctively knew it to be 
 hers) was evident in the exquisite neatness of all 
 my sick-room arrangements, and the delicate cor¬ 
 respondence between my allotted portions of nourish¬ 
 ment, and the somewhat wayward taste of a conva¬ 
 lescent. 
 
 The very books which, as I became able to sit 
 up a little, cheered my solitude, were, as I was 
 sure, of her selection. They were addressed rather 
 to the tastes I ought to have had, than to those I 
 then possessed; for, with a happy choice of light 
 and entertaining reading, was blended a sprinkling 
 of higher matter. Milton and Cowper, known to 
 me before chiefly by name, were there to lure me 
 on to studies more sublime and sacred still; and 
 it is difficult for any one, who has never associated 
 as I then did, ideas of gloom and austerity and 
 homeliness with religion, to imagine how much my 
 unpractised eyes and mind were conciliated by the 
 elegant exterior, the evidently used, yet perfectly 
 unsullied aspect of volumes, which female perusal 
 could alone have kept thus uncontaminated, during 
 years of daily converse ! 
 
 I read more during this three weeks confinement 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 75 
 
 than in the three previous years of life, and thought 
 at least ten times as much ; but in spite of my 
 grave or gayer resolutions, it was chiefly of Miss 
 Clitheroe. I had only seen her—if seeing it could 
 be called—through the tantalizing medium of an 
 impenetrable veil, so that beyond a lively remem¬ 
 brance of a slight and graceful person, imagination 
 had ample scope in creating the rest, and curiosity 
 full exercise in divining it. 
 
 No schoolboy, on the eve of the holidays, ever 
 slept less or fidgetted more than I did, the night 
 before 1 was to be permitted to join the family in 
 a parlour on the same floor with my bed-room. I 
 had received occasional visits both from Captain 
 and Mrs. Clitheroe, during the progress of my 
 convalescence. Those of the former were ren¬ 
 dered less frequent by infirmity ; the latter I felt 
 confident were often curtailed by the considerate 
 kindness of her daughter, for there escaped more 
 than once, as she would start up in the midst of 
 one of her imaginative flights—a playful 66 Qiien 
 (lira Pauline £” which betrayed a more thoughtful 
 monitrcss without. 
 
 I rose at least two hours sooner than I had done 
 since my accident, or than any usual habits when 
 
76 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 in health, and awaited in a state of great excite¬ 
 ment the summons to change a scene, which had 
 begun to pall grievously on my senses. I had 
 contracted a very painful degree of acquaintance 
 with the shepherds and shepherdesses, who, in blue 
 instead of verdant meadows, disported on my old- 
 fashioned bed-curtains. I had, during the two or 
 three nights when I threatened fever, taken umbrage 
 at their unnatural hue and distorted attitudes; and I 
 never afterwards was thoroughly reconciled to them. 
 If I drew aside the curtains to get rid of them, my 
 eye w T ould dwell with unpleasant minuteness, on 
 the grotesque pattern of a dingy flock-paper, to 
 whose once bright crimson the smoke of half a 
 century had lent the purplish cast so common in 
 superannuated pulpits. The chest of drawers at the 
 foot of the bed had been curiously perforated by in¬ 
 dustrious insects, till its whole surface had become 
 reticulated, and a feverish patient could not altoge¬ 
 ther get out of his head, as he gazed on their la¬ 
 bours, the horrible idea of Lewis’s ballad. 
 
 “ The worms they crept out, and the worms they crept in.” 
 
 There was a table which disturbed my equanimity 
 by being warped at least two inches from the hori- 
 
TROUATION. 77 
 
 zontal; anti I sometimes woke in a fright, fancying 
 books, rushlight anti all, going down the inclined 
 plane with the velocity of a Badaud de Paris in a 
 Montague Russe! 
 
 Since these had ceased to affect my happiness, 
 it had been much impaired by the hopeless nature 
 of the look-out from my window, which, while 
 every thing like a prospect was effectually barred 
 from view by a hideous range of spinning-mills, ad¬ 
 mitted just such a glimpse of about a yard in 
 breadth, of a pleasing country beyond, as to make 
 me long to act the part of Guy Fawkes, and blow 
 the whole fabric, with its industrious denizens in 
 the air. Then I heard the ceaseless swing of the 
 huge engine which, like time and tide, seemed to 
 know neither pause nor intermission ; and, when 
 it pleased Eolus to be spiteful, a volume of dense 
 smoke penetrated the chinks of my antediluvian 
 window-frames, and made Egyptian darkness with¬ 
 in and without. Small evils these, some will say, 
 in derision of my effeminacy, but not those who 
 from an early age have chosen their own domicile 
 with all the exquisite tact of selfishness, and who, 
 in long ignorance of inconveniences, have invested 
 them with all the magnitude of misfortunes. 
 
78 
 
 rROBATION. 
 
 All these minor miseries, however, served only 
 to enhance my impatience for release, and my relish 
 for emancipation. About an hour after breakfast, 
 I heard on the stairs, the well-known step and joy¬ 
 ous prattle of Mrs. Clitheroe ; and when, with her 
 usual foreign frankness, she tendered her arm to con¬ 
 duct me to the sitting room, I never was more excited 
 by handing a celebrated beauty to the top of a dance 
 at a race ball. 66 Le void /” cried she with good- 
 natured triumph. 66 Le pauvre gargon! vite clone 
 Pauline un fauteuil /” There was but one arm¬ 
 chair in the room, that of the old captain, and he 
 was hastily preparing to evacuate it in my favour, 
 when his daughter flew to lend her support; and I 
 had thus an opportunity of contemplating her for a 
 moment, unembarrassed by the usual forms of a 
 first meeting. 
 
 She was not at all like the creature of my fancy. 
 I had, I know not why, invested her with fair hair, 
 blue eyes, a pale and pensive countenance, and a 
 languid softness of manner. I saw before me, 
 gracefully bending to assist her infirm parent, a 
 tall dignified-looking young woman, with a profu¬ 
 sion of the finest dark brown hair, large soft eyes, 
 to which the hue of the soundest and glossiest ha- 
 
PROBATION. 79 
 
 zel nut in the world must have furnished the coun¬ 
 terpart, and a skin which a mercer alone would 
 have dreamed of comparing to either velvet or sat- 
 tin, hut for which an admirer of nature would seek 
 a similitude in the delicate transparent texture of 
 certain flowers ; the camellia japonica, for example, 
 when first expanding under the fostering canopy of 
 its own broad, shining, glossy leaves ! Her mouth 
 was not remarkable for beauty, but a dimple hard 
 by compensated for its slight irregularity ; and the 
 dignity of the whole contour of the face was charm¬ 
 ingly relieved by the archness of expression which 
 always more or less resides in not exactly a petit 
 nez retrousse , (like her mother’s or Cleopatra’s of 
 old) hut a slight inclination upwards of the point 
 of a long handsome nose. 
 
 I resisted of course all attempts to dispossess the 
 captain of his privileged chair, and it was in re¬ 
 placing him in it with gentle violence that my eye 
 first encountered Miss Clitheroe’s. She coloured 
 slightly, and as soon as her father was seated, held 
 out her hand to me with engaging frankness, and 
 congratulated me on my recovery. I said, with 
 rather more of sincerity than usually attends such 
 protestations, that I considered myself indebted to 
 
80 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 an accident which had procured me such agreeable 
 acquaintance, and such rare kindness ; and in spite 
 of the good captain's benevolent shake of the head, 
 and Mrs. Clitheroe’s good-humoured 66 Fi-donc ! 
 JIatteur F I saw nothing particularly incredulous 
 in the air of Pauline. 
 
 During those days of listless, yet not unpleasing 
 languor with which smart fever, from whatever 
 cause, is usually succeeded, I felt too completely, 
 for the first time, the luxury of a domestic circle, 
 to meditate tearing myself from it, or even disturb¬ 
 ing the placid tenor of my present enjoyment by an 
 avowal of my name. I had been made too well 
 aware by the hint that escaped Mrs. Clitheroe on the 
 road, of the idle, if not profligate light in which I 
 had been represented to her; and I would sooner 
 have consented to risk again all the bones in my 
 body, than a premature disclosure of my identity 
 with the despised, if not hated, “ Mauvais sujeF 
 of a rival, thus spoken of by the mother of Pauline. 
 How the discovery indeed was ever to he made, 
 sometimes puzzled me. In cold blood and in per¬ 
 son, it certainly could not ; nor at all, until self-love 
 should detect a certain degree at least of interest in 
 the bosom of Pauline. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 81 
 
 This her manners, however, would render it more 
 than ordinarily difficult to ascertain ; for, while 
 much of her mother's openness, tempered by more 
 feminine reserve, characterised ^them, she inherited 
 from her father a gentle dignity and evenness of 
 temper, which, always delightful, was not easily 
 subject to those fluctuations by which the internal 
 current of the feelings may be traced. She passed 
 so naturally and gracefully from her first flush of 
 gratitude, and emotion in expressing it, to a more 
 subdued tone of sisterly frankness and good-will, 
 that I could hardly quarrel with a state of things 
 so pleasing. But I had read the sparkle and the 
 flutter of anticipated conquest in some bright eyes ; 
 and here victory seemed as unconscious as un¬ 
 sought. 
 
 The admirable order of the little household— 
 limited as were its means, and heterogeneous its 
 materials—excited my warmest admiration; and not 
 the less, that its main-spring and presiding fairy 
 was evidently Pauline. The Captain,t a perfect 
 gentleman of the old school, urbane, upright, and 
 conciliatory—was peculiarly unfitted by habit as 
 well as infirmity for the irksome accuracy of detail 
 indispensable in a department, for the mere mecha- 
 
82 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 nical details of which he easily found a deputy. 
 Pauline’s clear hand and clearer head supplied all 
 deficiences; and the barrack accounts of Manchester 
 would have defied the scrutiny of the hair-splitting 
 Joseph Hume himself. Mrs. Clitheroe seemed de¬ 
 nied by nature the faculty of managing, or even 
 understanding money. It had been scarce in Ca¬ 
 nada, and scarcer in Europe, without in the least 
 increasing her respect for it; but Pauline—(and 
 it must have been by instinct)—was a very adept 
 in elegant but judicious economy, and was keeper 
 of the family purse; as I verily believe she was of 
 its conscience—with such reverence of affection did 
 her guileless parents look up to their gifted child. 
 
 All this was done quite unobtrusively—in the 
 midst of girlish playfulness, and womanly gentle¬ 
 ness, and a whole host of pretty feminine pursuits, 
 which supplied in this charming girl the absence 
 of accomplishments, vulgarly so called. Not that 
 she lacked her share even of these—however irre¬ 
 gularly and unscientifically acquired. She spoke 
 French, as a matter of course, better than a whole 
 host of boarding-school misses—warbled sweetly to 
 the old guitar, which had formed her mother’s 
 chief wealth on leaving Canada—embroidered un- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 83 
 
 der the tuition of Marie (who had learned herself 
 in a convent in Montreal) like a very nun—and 
 read aloud—as angels might be supposed to do, if 
 the i( poetry of heaven^ the stars—were legible ! 
 This formed the chief employment of our evenings, 
 during my convalescence—as I had stipulated for 
 the continuance of every family custom ; and truly, 
 with the pale, subdued, but noble figure of the vete¬ 
 ran in one corner, the ever-varying expression of 
 Mrs. Clitheroe in another—and Pauline, her own 
 fine countenance reflecting every emotion of the 
 narrative—a painter, admitted to our readings, 
 would have found them no ignoble study. 
 
 As soon, however, as the progress of my recovery 
 permitted—I felt urged by a complication of mo¬ 
 tives, to remove from my present quarters into 
 lodgings of my own. That of simply relieving a 
 family not in affluence from a burdensome guest, 
 might have sufficed to dictate the measure ; had 
 not the peculiar delicacy of our relative position 
 rendered it more imperative. But, strange to say ! 
 I found a third and still more urgent motive in my 
 growing predilection for Pauline. By removing 
 from her father’s roof, while yet unable to travel, a 
 pretext was at once afforded for a temporary resid- 
 
84 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 ence in the town, without betraying my latent at¬ 
 tachment ; while, had I remained (as frequently 
 entreated to do) his guest till fit to pursue my jour¬ 
 ney—that period must, I felt but too acutely, be 
 quite inadequate to establish such an interest as I 
 wished to create, in his fair daughter's bosom. 
 
 I know not how to convey to another that inde¬ 
 scribable shade of self-esteem, and self-possession, 
 which, amid all the retiring gentleness and unaf¬ 
 fected modesty of Pauline,—seemed to whisper 
 that she would not e( unwooed be won,’’ 1 —no ! nor 
 undeserved either ! I am certainly not the first by 
 thousands, who has found in probable difficulty an 
 irresistible stimulus; but my sanguine character, 
 and the dangerous facility with which all its way¬ 
 ward requisitions had hitherto been gratified, doub¬ 
 led the zest with which I anticipated a conquest, 
 which I already felt, if achieved—would be due to 
 my personal qualities, not my adventitious posses¬ 
 sions—to time and perseverance, not vanity or am¬ 
 bition. 
 
 Had I not been at this time on peculiarly good 
 terms with myself—I could not have failed to 
 perceive that my progress in Pauline's good opinion 
 was ere long of a retrograde character. As long as 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 85 
 
 I was in her eyes a young man, who, travelling on 
 business, had met with an accident honourable to his 
 humanity, whose consequences rendered him un¬ 
 able to prosecute either his journey or his avo¬ 
 cations—she regarded me with a mixture of pity 
 and interest abundantly gratifying, and exerted to 
 amuse me all her uncommon conversational powers, 
 with almost sisterly cordiality. But when day af¬ 
 ter day rolled by, when the young mans arm was 
 evidently as serviceable as ever, while (his heart be¬ 
 ing as yet wholly out of the question) his head 
 gave no tokens of a wish to be more actively or use¬ 
 fully employed—compassion of one kind gave place 
 to compassion of another. I soon found it out— 
 for Pauline was the very personification of since¬ 
 rity. 
 
 One eventful day at length, when her mother 
 being engaged in her father’s sick-room—I had in¬ 
 flicted upon her during a whole long morning the 
 penance of my tediousness (as is too much the case 
 with idle young men, who revenge themselves for 
 not being able to kill their own time by murdering 
 that of their neighbours)—she said, smiling to cover 
 a yawn —“ how sadly tired you must be, Mr. Ma- 
 berly, of this long sejour in a place like this ! at a 
 
86 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 distance from your own home and pursuits, and 
 every thing that can interest and occupy you !” 
 
 There were times of my life, not many weeks be¬ 
 fore, when such a speech would have appeared to 
 me but the usual well-contrived opening for an 
 avowal of the motives which alone could render 
 such exile tolerable. But I could no more ima¬ 
 gine Pauline Clitheroe angling for a compliment or 
 a declaration, than I could have found courage to 
 make her one if 1 had. Determined to steer clear 
 of this rock, I ran upon another; and said with 
 affected nonchalance— 66 All places are pretty much 
 alike to one who has neither home nor pursuits of 
 any kind.” 
 
 “ Neither home nor pursuits !” echoed Pauline 
 in undisguised amazement, hut its tone softened by 
 involuntary sympathy—“ how very unhappy you 
 must be !” 
 
 “ Not particularly so, I assure you,” said I, half 
 ashamed of my rash admission, half nettled at its 
 compassionate reception—“ I do not exactly see 
 why a young man of fortune should be unhappy, 
 because he lives where he chooses, and does w r hat 
 he likes.” 
 
 “ And do you like to live anywhere, and do 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 87 
 
 nothing ?” asked Pauline, still in unfeigned asto¬ 
 nishment. 44 Not exactly,” answered I, a good 
 deal staggered by her plain sense view of the sub¬ 
 ject— 44 but the only house I have is a ruin, in a 
 vile neighbourhood; and what can a man do, who 
 was brought up to no profession, but amuse him¬ 
 self and do as others do ?” 
 
 44 You are amused then ?” said she, with one of 
 her arch, yet subdued smiles, 44 I should have 
 doubted it on any other authority.” 44 Only at 
 times, 11 said I, surprised into sincerity by her un¬ 
 common manner ; 44 there's a terrible deal of dull 
 work in human life. London is very well in spring, 
 till it gets like an empty oven when the bread’s 
 drawn. Brighton not amiss in summer, if brick¬ 
 layers could build trees as w r ell as houses; the 
 country pleasant enough in autumn, (though I 
 don’t care much for shooting, and have given up 
 fox-hunting,) but then the leaves come drop drop¬ 
 ping off, and the rains come drop dropping on, and 
 it’s altogether enough to make a man hang himself. 
 Winter’s the devil to get over anywhere ; London’s 
 impossible ; Bath’s a bore. I’ve often a great mind 
 to try Edinburgh. 
 
 44 ’Tis a delightful place !” sighed Pauline, so 
 
88 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 softly, that I began to fear her heart was there. 
 44 Were you ever in Edinburgh ?” asked I, in 
 breathless haste. 44 I spent some time there,” was 
 her quiet laconic answer, 44 about five years ago.’' 1 
 
 44 You were very gay, I suppose,” said I, eagerly, 
 44 but no !” added I, laughing at my supposed ab¬ 
 surdity, 44 you could not have been come out five 
 years ago !” 44 Not exactly,” said she, laughing 
 
 also. 44 I was too young to be a companion for 
 girls of seventeen, so I consoled myself with one of 
 seventy. I assure you we were a very well-assort¬ 
 ed couple.’’’ 
 
 44 Seventy !” echoed I, now amazed in my turn, 
 44 was the old lady your grandmother, or grand¬ 
 aunt ?” 44 Neither, neither,” answered Pauline, 
 
 smiling— 44 only my dearest friend on earth, (next to 
 my parents of course,) and the liveliest companion 
 I ever met with, young or old. If you go to Edin¬ 
 burgh, I must introduce you to her ; she is very 
 fond of young people.” 
 
 44 ’Tis not mutual,” whispered I to myself. 44 I 
 never saw a tolerable old person in my life.” 44 1 
 am sure you will like Edinburgh,” continued Pau¬ 
 line, (unconscious of my mental heresy,) 44 there are 
 so many resources for a well-informed young man, 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 89 
 
 such pleasant society, such interesting lectures. I 
 remember a young American-” 
 
 “ And that reminds me of an old American,” 
 exclaimed I, rather abruptly, “ in whom we are both 
 rather more deeply interested. I am ashamed, Miss 
 Clitheroe, to be indebted to a casual word for re¬ 
 minding me of a duty, long since demanded alike 
 by candour and delicacy. But you can value sin¬ 
 cerity, as well as practise it, and will give me cre¬ 
 dit for owning, that fear of forfeiting kindness in 
 every point of view so precious to me, made me 
 thus long defer appearing before you in my true 
 colours. Yet there is something romantic in our 
 rencontre , which may perhaps atone for an invol¬ 
 untary imposition. Do you know of any competi¬ 
 tor for the succession of the late Dr. Aspinall ?” 
 
 “ In our recent journey to D-we were inform¬ 
 
 ed of one, a very formidable one—a Mr. Meredith” 
 .... “ alias —Maberly /” exclaimed I, as gaily 
 as my real confusion would permit, 66 does his 
 pardon run under both names ?” 
 
 Pauline looked, as she well might, the picture of 
 surprise at so theatrical a denouement to so com¬ 
 mon-place a conversation. But there was no anger 
 with it—and feeling, like a Romish penitent, as if 
 
90 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 one confession must necessarily involve another— 
 I hastily availed myself of her silent astonishment 
 to add—“ Miss Clitheroe, do not, I beseech you, 
 accuse, or even suspect me for a moment, of unwor¬ 
 thy motives for concealing my name ! It was on 
 my tongue’s end the very day chance first made me 
 an inmate under your roof. But that residence 
 awakened feelings which made me anxious you 
 should see me without prejudice; rather as an 
 obliged guest, than an unlucky, and I am sure in¬ 
 voluntary opponent. May I hope that my silence 
 has so far succeeded in disarming hostile feelings, 
 that others have had leisure to arise ? May I flat¬ 
 ter mvself that Pauline Clitheroe can ever view in 
 her 4 formidable competitor’ the humblest and most 
 devoted of her slaves ? If ever I rejoiced in the 
 probable issue of my claims, it is now, when it re¬ 
 moves all suspicion of interested motives in my pre¬ 
 sent suit. All I already possess, I lay at your 
 feet—and if the old miser’s hoards are ever added 
 to it—the offering will only be the worthier.” 
 
 I paused—really astonished and affected by my 
 own eloquence, in this unpremeditated declaration ; 
 had I foreseen it, I should have been common¬ 
 place and absurd. 
 
 1 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 91 
 
 Pauline’s surprise had not abated; it had only 
 changed its object with my abrupt digression. It 
 subsided ere I concluded into somewhat of her usual 
 serene composure. But her voice faltered, and a 
 blush had come and gone more than once, ere she 
 replied — (i Mr. Maberly—(for by that name I 
 must ever gratefully remember my preserver) I feel 
 thankful to you for affording me the opportunity of 
 declining, under another and less agreeable title, 
 your flattering proposal. Worlds—were they yours 
 to bestow—would not, in his present state of infir¬ 
 mity, tempt me to quit my father—nor could they 
 (excuse my frankness) blind me to the disparity 
 in our habits and pursuits, which render us mu¬ 
 tually unsuitable to each other. You will ever 
 have my best wishes for blessings more inestimable 
 far than wealth. If that shall be your portion, 
 may it be taught to purchase happiness P 
 
 Before I could muster entreaties she was gone 
 —the small size of the room rendering retreat the 
 matter of an instant. 
 
92 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Hail ! sobei’ state which all the world contemn. 
 
 The dread of women, and the jest of men ! 
 
 Be mine the task to vindicate thy fame 
 And wrest from obloquy thy injur’d name. 
 
 Mrs. H. Erskine. 
 
 This disappointment, the severest if not the first 
 I had ever in life experienced—cost me a three 
 days fit of real illness, the offspring of mingled 
 sorrow and resentment, on a frame not yet equal 
 to such violent emotions. My non-appearance in 
 
 -- Street brought the good Mrs. Clitheroe 
 
 to inquire for me. She found me looking ill of 
 course, for I had slept little and ate less ; and 
 prescribed her own favourite specific, a walk into 
 the country. Whether this was dictated by good 
 natured anxiety for my health, or a wish to hear 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 93 
 
 my confession, matters little—it was soon poured 
 into her maternal ear. 
 
 “ Ah friponT exclaimed she, shaking her head, 
 though her smile of playful reproach soon gave 
 place to seriousness — 66 little did we think that a 
 wolf in sheep’s clothing lurked under our roof! 
 and to meditate running away with our lamb too ! 
 “ Mats c’est une vraie aventure de Roman /” See¬ 
 ing me look very blank at this cavalier notice of 
 my proposal—she pressed the arm on which hers 
 rested, and said with affectionate earnestness— 
 Voyez ! mon cher Maher ly—(a vilain Meredith ne 
 te sied pas) —Pauline has been used to consider 
 you—erroneously I doubt not—as an idler, a dis- 
 sipateur, one in short not calculated to make one 
 of her steady character happy. CPest dommage ! 
 vraiment! and her father and I have done all we 
 can to change her opinion ; not if you will believe 
 me, that we value your present superiority of for¬ 
 tune over our child ; but, because with me, if the 
 heart is right, (as I think yours is), a trifle more 
 or less ballast in the head goes for little. I never 
 thought of asking whether le papa was a Solomon, 
 any more than a Croesus—I only saw he was 
 young and handsome, fought bravely and danced 
 
94 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 d ravir. But Pauline is wiser, and has learned 
 to think not only for herself but others; and we 
 have too often seen her in the right, to dispute it 
 now. But time, 711011 ami ! time and perseverance 
 may do wonders for one so young and aimable as 
 you—and one who has gratitude to plead for him, 
 and not a soul likely to interfere. Pauline has 
 lived too retired, and been too poor hitherto to 
 have many soupirans —and those who may come on 
 the strength of the legacy are little likely to find 
 favour in her eyes. But a propos of favour— 
 there is one more powerful than father or mother 
 —nay even than the whispers of her own heart—to 
 plead your cause with Pauline, provided you can 
 gain her good will; and that is the old lady in 
 Edinburgh with whom she spent two years when 
 we were at Gibraltar, and to whom she owes much 
 of her premature sagesse. Get Mrs. Sydney Hume 
 on your side, mon ami , and you are almost sure of 
 success. Pauline half worships the ground the 
 good lady treads on, and no wonder—for she is 
 one of the first of women. Her darling brother 
 was Clitheroe’s early friend—and when our girl 
 was likely to be left among strangers, she took her 
 to her home and heart, and made her what she is. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 95 
 
 I’ll give you a letter to her if you should go to 
 Edinburgh, and, as I said before, gain her heart, 
 and Pauline is a vous /"” 
 
 My late ill success in gaining a young heart was 
 not very encouraging to designs upon an older and 
 more obdurate one—nor did I cordially subscribe 
 to a panegyric on a damsel of seventy. But a 
 chance, however remote, of Pauline, was worth a 
 journey to the Pole ; and as the suggestion of 
 Edinburgh and study had originated with herself, 
 I felt in executing it the double satisfaction of pay¬ 
 ing her a compliment, and improving my own lost 
 time. To pass a winter amid the intellectual so¬ 
 ciety and pursuits to which she so fondly adverted, 
 could not but be beneficial; and as Saul resorted 
 in his need to the witch of Endor, I made up my 
 mind to invoke the powerful ministry of the an¬ 
 cient Scottish Sibyl. 
 
 I bade an almost filial adieu to Mrs. Clitheroe, 
 in whom I left behind, I was glad to perceive, no 
 lukewarm advocate, and availing myself of her 
 daughter’s concerted absence to extend my farewell 
 to the good Captain, (whose mild eye spoke vo¬ 
 lumes of regret at the parting) I set out on my 
 wanderings like Adam from paradise, but, alas ! 
 
 « 
 
96 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 more like the hero of Young's witty Epigram— 
 leaving my Eve behind ! 
 
 There was something in the aspect of the metro¬ 
 polis of the north, which conquered even the feel¬ 
 ing of 66 hope deferred,if not annihilated, in my 
 bosom. It was so unlike London, and Manches¬ 
 ter, and Cheltenham, and every place with which 
 I was familiar—its boasted prototype Bath not ex¬ 
 cepted, that it did my very heart good. 
 
 I looked for a day or two admiringly on its rows 
 of stately stone houses, whose very uniformity was 
 at first imposing, but have since gazed for weeks 
 and months unsated on the picturesque confusion 
 of its more antique portions—its poetical-looking 
 fortress, the very beau ideal of a castle of romance, 
 and its venerable palace standing like a grisly 
 spectre of royalty deceased, its turrets still gory 
 with the blood of Rizzio, and ringing with the 
 shrieks of his insulted mistress. It is impossible 
 to express how extraordinary it seemed to me to 
 be in actual contact with objects such as these ; to 
 see rising from the heart of a populous city a strong 
 hold of the olden time, with grey bulwarks scarce 
 distinguishable from the rocks amid which they 
 were perched—-the cradle and prison of monarchs, 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 »7 
 
 the object of sieges and stratagems, long ere dege¬ 
 nerate man had pressed the elements into aid of his 
 natural means of defence ! 
 
 And then the site of all this combination of 
 styl es and centuries ! the frame-work of this pic¬ 
 ture of past and present magnificence ! To those 
 who have seen the hills, the rocks, and the estuary 
 which make Edinburgh like no other place in the 
 world—the bare mention of its name is like read¬ 
 ing 66 Price on the Picturesque,” and to those who 
 have not, all his eloquence would fail in conveying 
 an adequate idea. To me, be it always remember¬ 
 ed, who had lived in sight of nothing more ancient 
 than Temple Bar, or more romantic than Hyde 
 Park, or more Alpine than the distant Malvern 
 hills ; the northern metropolis and her scenery had 
 all the advantages of contrast, if not of comparison. 
 I rambled and gazed in undiminished admiration 
 for that limited period during which mere ramb¬ 
 ling and gazing on any thing can satisfy a social 
 being ; and then yawned and sighed in all the dis¬ 
 comfort and ennui of a solitary one. 
 
 And solitary indeed must the hapless mortal feel, 
 whose lot it is to perambulate, when its very law¬ 
 yer population has deserted them, the at no time 
 
 H 
 
 
98 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 redundantly peopled streets of Edinburgh ; when 
 some dingy Doctor’s carriage, creeping along as if 
 half ashamed of its insignificance, shows, like a 
 crawling emmet on the stately avenue of George 
 street; while dusty windows, closed shutters, and 
 painters’ scaffoldings, form the chief features on both 
 sides of its interminable vista. 
 
 It was with the usual feelings of mingled shy¬ 
 ness, involuntary awe, and yet affected contempt, 
 with which superficially educated young men re¬ 
 gard elderly single ladies, that I at length worked 
 myself up to deliver my letter of introduction to 
 Mrs. Sydney Hume. Had she not been the chosen 
 friend and influential adviser of one whom through 
 her means alone I thought it might yet be possible 
 to soften, I should certainly never have sought the 
 acquaintance at all, and my doing so was in itself 
 no small proof of devoted attachment. 
 
 My ideas of elderly maidens, it must be remem¬ 
 bered, were almost entirely formed on the specimens 
 to whom my frequentation of watering-places had 
 introduced me, with whose juvenile airs or super¬ 
 annuated follies I was naturally disgusted. Of the 
 thousand amiable single women who soothe and 
 dignify the abodes of retirement, or grace the privi- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 99 
 
 leged walks of truly good society, I had not even 
 an idea. I knew nothing, sad to relate ! either of 
 home or society. I had lodgings, and I went to 
 large parties ; I spent the mornings at billiard- 
 rooms, coffee-houses, and clubs ; the evenings at 
 theatres, balls, or bachelor dinners. Where was I 
 to have found the beau ideal of an old maid ? As 
 I walked along X-street, I figured to my¬ 
 
 self the piece of antiquated formality I was about 
 to encounter,—tall, starched and forbidding, like 
 Tabitha Bramble herself, or like a picture of a cer¬ 
 tain aunt Tabitha, or something else of the kind, 
 which I remembered staring me in the face in Fen- 
 church Street, when, as frequently happened, I was 
 put in the corner for being naughty, and the eyes 
 of which always seemed directed with a reproving 
 glance on the little culprit. Besides amiable and 
 delightful as I thought Pauline, I could not help 
 attributing what appeared to me the slight tinge of 
 prudery and pedantry in her character, to the les¬ 
 sons of this ancient damsel, so that a little resent¬ 
 ment was added to the shyness, fear, and ridicule 
 before enumerated. 
 
 Good heavens ! when I look back to the feelings 
 with which I touched the knocker of a door, whose 
 
100 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 threshold I have never since trod without reveren¬ 
 tial and almost filial affection, I cannot help doubt¬ 
 ing my own identity, and fancying I was then a 
 changeling, under an influence darker and more de¬ 
 grading than that of the fairies. 
 
 I was let in by a respectable aged domestic, who, 
 throwing open the door of a snug cheerful parlour 
 profusely adorned with family pictures, and placing 
 a chair for me with cordial old-fashioned civility, 
 hastened to apprise his mistress of my visit. I had 
 leisure, ere she arrived, to cast a glance around the 
 apartment, unlike, in its mingled comfort and ele¬ 
 gance, any with which I was familiar. On the 
 hearth reposed, to my surprise, neither dog nor cat; 
 no parrot or other bird claimed the noisy privilege 
 of a pet to disturb the quiet fireside. Books, of 
 that unpretending aspect which bespoke them there 
 for use, not show, loaded the tables. The place of 
 honour, though not of ostentation, was assigned to 
 a Bible and Common Prayer, of that venerable an¬ 
 tiquity which never fails to command involuntary 
 respect. Next to them, the best bound and best 
 thumbed volume was a Shakspeare, the small print 
 of whose close double columns spoke well for the eye¬ 
 sight of its aged mistress. English divines, sub- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 101 
 
 stantial and orthodox, reposed in contact with play¬ 
 ful French memoir-writers, and poets read for en¬ 
 joyment, not quotation. A copy of Dry den’s Fa¬ 
 bles, (which opened of itself at the 44 Flower and 
 Leaf,”) bore especially this privileged character. 
 
 Politics and history lay side by side, as if accus¬ 
 tomed to reflect light on each other. 44 La Fon¬ 
 taine’s Fables” had their naivete and simplicity 
 finely relieved by the gravity and sententiousness of 
 a huge 44 Telemaque,” adorned with sprawling cuts 
 of the true French school; while, last not least, the 
 airy volumes of the delightful 44 Sevigne” might 
 have found a counterpart in the unfinished letters 
 lying on a little writing table; evidently the pro¬ 
 lific parent of a voluminous correspondence, and 
 whose file of papers would have done honour to a 
 secretary of state. It was distinguished, however, 
 from vulgar escritoires by the presence of such a 
 delicately enamelled gold snuff-box, as could only 
 administer its enlivening incense to female brain— 
 while a bag for knitting completed the keeping of 
 this picture, whose Gerard Dow like minuteness, it 
 is needless to add, w T as not the fruit of one hasty 
 moment of idle impatience, hut of long and fami¬ 
 liar subsequent acquaintance. The conclusions I 
 
102 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 then drew from the survey are only worthy of re¬ 
 call for the purpose of self-abasement. I gathered 
 from a supercilious glance at the tout ensemble , that 
 Mrs. Sydney was a bigot and a pedant—wrote long 
 prosy letters—and took snuff ! 
 
 The door was at length slowly and deliberately 
 opened, and admitted—instead of the tall slender 
 pinched-looking personage, such as Hogarth has 
 pictured going to church in a winter morning, with 
 a starved foot-boy behind her—a lady of a benign 
 and motherly aspect, whom want of height could 
 not rob of dignity, though it was tempered with a 
 benevolence and cordiality quite calculated to put a 
 stranger at once at his ease. But as a stranger 
 she evidently did not intend to regard me. She 
 walked up with an air of the most winning frank¬ 
 ness, and with the loveliest smile that ever graced 
 the lip of age, held out her hand to me. 
 
 I was so struck by her serene and benevolent 
 aspect, and the maternal kindness of her reception, 
 that I could almost have revived the fashion of her 
 day, and kissed the hand I held, I believe, a mo¬ 
 ment longer than courtesy demanded. I looked I 
 am sure with more than civil earnestness in her 
 face, and with more than ordinary admiration on 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 103 
 
 the beautiful curls of the finest ivory (not silver) 
 white, which were ranged in an order younger locks 
 might have studied with advantage—round her 
 open commanding brow; under a cap whose min¬ 
 gled taste and simplicity rendered it the meetest 
 covering ever ancient lady’s head was crowned 
 withal. 
 
 The upper part of the face beneath it—the lofty 
 brow, and a nose which must in youth haye been 
 somewhat too strong for feminine beauty-—spoke 
 an intellect of no common order—and certainly in¬ 
 spired, when vice or folly came athwart her path, a 
 good deal of uncomfortable aw r e. But the large 
 mild blue eye—the most intelligent I ever remem¬ 
 ber seeing of so peculiarly light a shade—and a 
 mouth around which smiles of good humour and 
 genuine enjoyment usually mantled—softened the 
 manlier conformation of the other features ; and, 
 joined to the pale though not sickly hue of the 
 once delicately fair skin—gave altogether an aspect 
 at once feminine and interesting to Mrs. Sidney 
 Hume. 
 
 44 Mr. Meredith,” said my new friend with an 
 air of half-reproachful pleasantry, on glancing over 
 her letter, and observing its date ; 44 had I been 
 
104 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 thirty years younger, I presume I should have had 
 some thirty days sooner the pleasure of making 
 your acquaintance ! But better late than never. 
 A friend of Captain Clitheroe' , s must be welcome to 
 me at any time—and that you are such in the most 
 literal sense which gratitude can give the expres¬ 
 sion—Mrs. Clitheroe has long ere this apprised me. 
 And now, how do you manage to kill time in this 
 most rural metropolis ? where many a stranger gets 
 his joke at the grass that grows in its summer 
 streets ? No great wonder, you’ll say, in the eyes of 
 one like myself, who recollects them green meadows, 
 where a lady could not walk unattended from their 
 solitary character ! You are prepared, I hope, to say 
 you admire Edinburgh —cela va sans clire —but ho¬ 
 nestly, you must be very tired of it at this deserted 
 season ?” 
 
 I was quite unprepared for this playful familiar¬ 
 ity—but betrayed by it out of all my shyness and 
 distrust, I owned that for the first few weeks, the 
 town and environs had afforded unmingled gratifi¬ 
 cation ; but that I was now quite at a loss how to 
 
 V . * 
 
 get over the interval still to elapse ere my univer¬ 
 sity studies should commence. 
 
 “ I could preach, Mr. Meredith,” said the good 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 105 
 
 lady, with an arch smile, 66 and hint that these are 
 choice quiet times for private preparatory studies. 
 But I never could study in fine weather myself 
 either at sixteen or sixty ; and if you have no ob¬ 
 jection to a leaf from the book called Nature, I 
 can enlist you among her pupils in a quarter where 
 her lectures will neither be dry nor unedifying. I 
 am about to take my usual flight to the country to 
 visit friends whose house and all they have is mine 
 —not in the hollow Persian, but honest English 
 sense of the expression. My friends are necessari¬ 
 ly theirs—and though I should perhaps be prema¬ 
 ture in giving that title to Mr. Meredith, yet he 
 
 is, as the friend of my friends, on the high road to 
 
 it. —Indeed you will think I have already forgotten 
 the shortness of our acquaintance, if I add—what 
 say you to an elopement with a charming creature 
 of threescore and ten ?” 
 
 Had any one told me half an hour before, that 
 I would have actually jumped at such a proposal, 
 I should have been tempted to knock him down ; 
 and yet, next to an expedition of the same kind 
 with Pauline herself, nothing could have been more 
 acceptable to me than this frank old-fashioned pro¬ 
 ceeding—one too which it was impossible to ascribe 
 
rnoBATiOxV. 
 
 106 
 
 to any other motive than a friendly desire to study, 
 on the partial representations of good Mrs. Clithe- 
 roe, the character of her daughter’s rejected suitor, 
 and to give it, should the investigation prove fa¬ 
 vourable, the benefit of her potent mediation. 
 
 I was replying, however, with some natural 
 scruples about intruding, when Mrs. Sydney good- 
 humouredly stopped me. u I’ll answer for your 
 welcome,” said she, 66 but you shall not answer for 
 your satisfaction till you have made the experiment. 
 A quiet country house is, I fancy, a new scene to 
 you, Mr. Meredith ; a Scottish one at all events 
 must be so. You will see a good relic of primi¬ 
 tive manners in the part of the world I am bound 
 for.—But do not let me mistake complaisance for 
 inclination; you have perhaps some other object 
 m view. 
 
 I assured her with great truth, that I was en¬ 
 tirely at her service, and could with equal veracity 
 have added, that the piquant novelty of thus see¬ 
 ing the gay Ned Meredith installed body squire 
 to a maiden lady of seventy, was more exciting to 
 my jaded feelings than any of the stale devices of 
 the turf or pump-room. 
 
 “ It is as well,” exclaimed Mrs. Sydney in good- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 107 
 
 humoured triumph, “ that my recruit was fairly in- 
 listcd before my trusty ally John Newborough came 
 to dispute my victory with his array of bottles 
 yonder ! My old Malmsey might otherwise have 
 run off with all the credit from my eloquence ; but 
 now you may drink to our bon voyage without sus¬ 
 picion. So saying, she filled a glass of curious 
 antique form, whose tall slender stalk, supporting a 
 marvellously small vehicle for liquor, bore (like 
 other cc tall bullies’'’ on record) a probably falla¬ 
 cious testimony to the sobriety of our ancestors. I 
 am certainly no admirer of sweet wines, but I 
 should as soon have dreamed of declining the 
 elixir vita, as the cordial offered by the friendly 
 hand of Mrs. Sydney. I yet lingered with the 
 empty glass in mine, when my singular and good- 
 humoured hostess said, (pointing to the writing- 
 table,) Mr. Meredith, the post is the most inex¬ 
 orable of Time’s deputies ; and while a young wo¬ 
 man might perhaps only look grave, and fidget, an 
 old one may take upon her to say, u good morn¬ 
 ing” to you ; but on one condition, that you re¬ 
 turn to dinner if disengaged, or come the first day 
 you are at liberty. There is much lee-way to make 
 up in our acquaintance ; and knights-errant, before 
 
108 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 setting out on an enterprise, always keep vigils 
 and do penance; I’ll promise not to starve you, 
 and if you are cnnuye , it will be no more than 
 Amadis and Tristrim were before you, not to men¬ 
 tion Don Quixote in the inn-yard of Montesinos.” 
 
 I availed myself of her invitation for the mor¬ 
 row, at the primitive hour of four, and departed in 
 love, yes ! over head and ears in love with Mrs. 
 Sydney Hume ! 
 
 The circumstances of the dinner which followed 
 will never, I believe, he erased from my memory— 
 it was (like every thing else in Scotland) so unlike 
 my previous anticipations. From experience of fa¬ 
 mily dinners, and few and far between they were, 
 in Fenchurch Street, I expected to find a maiden 
 symposium (an impromptu one especially) chiefly 
 compounded of maiden cronies, not one of whom 
 it was in the range of possibilities, could equal or 
 even resemble that rara avis Mrs. Sydney Hume. 
 
 But when I arrived—punctual perhaps from its 
 very decided invasion of my usual habits—at the 
 antediluvian hour specified—in the old lady’s 
 drawing-room—I found it already enlivened by 
 three other guests, all of the male sex, and none 
 of them in the least degree resembling the tame 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 109 
 
 pet proteges of a wealthy old spinster's mena¬ 
 gerie. 
 
 They were as remarkable for contrast as for any¬ 
 thing else. The most striking, from figure and 
 stature, was a tall fair man of gigantic proportions, 
 and decided northern feature and complexion, 
 who with a stentorian voice and manner, more 
 distinguished for frankness than urbanity, shook 
 me (without waiting for the formality of an intro¬ 
 duction) heartily by the hand, and 66 hoped I 
 found the air of the northern metropolis agree with 
 my southern constitution.'” 
 
 66 Don't believe him, my dear Mr. Meredith,” 
 said Mrs. Sydney playfully, “ i'll introduce him 
 at once, that you may see what a wolf in sheep's 
 clothing is practising on your innocence ! This is 
 
 the renowned Dr. G-—, who will desire no 
 
 better than either to kill or cure you—as the 
 chance may be—if you are complaisant enough to 
 give him an opportunity. And this—said she, 
 turning with respectful gravity towards a little 
 placid-looking gentleman-like man in black, whose 
 whole demeanour harmonized with his sacred pro¬ 
 fession—is my reverend pastor, and (as a stanch 
 Anglican) no doubt your’s also, while you remain 
 
110 
 
 PROBATION, 
 
 in this our land of Cakes and Presbytery. And 
 here,” added the old lady—turning in all the ease 
 of privileged familiarity, and with a look of almost 
 maternal pride and fondness to the third member 
 of the groupe— u is a certain son of mine and 
 of the Muses, who—while one of my friends 
 there takes care of my soul, and the other of my 
 body—caters for my imagination (which I assure 
 you is as insatiable now as at fifteen) and for that 
 of half the world besides—with a perpetual suc¬ 
 cession of mental banquets, for which this sublu¬ 
 nary one of mine is, I must acknowledge, a very 
 gross and unpoetical return. You are in luck, I 
 can tell you, Mr. Meredith, to have to add to your 
 recollections of Edinburgh, a rencontre such as 
 this. I am, from long practice, a pretty success¬ 
 ful angler for stray fish out of water in that slough 
 of despond yclept Edinburgh in July—but it is 
 not always that I succeed so gloriously—as I sit 
 not upon , but under my rock there, (pointing play¬ 
 fully to the grey battlements of the Castle frown¬ 
 ing in at the window) in bobbing for whale.” 
 
 The person thus eulogized con amore , (and 
 justly enough, heaven knows, and earth has since 
 acknowledged,) looked, as a truly great man 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 Ill 
 
 usually does when praised—even by a friend— 
 rather uncomfortable. He was too much used 
 to it, however, even at that early period, to feel 
 long disconcerted ; and with a smile escaping 
 from beneath his shaggy eyebrows and high 
 overarching forehead, like the line of dazzling 
 sunshine so often seen at sea just skirting the base 
 of a beetling cliff*,—told me I must make great 
 allowance for the hyperbole common in hyper¬ 
 borean regions ; as well as for the poetical imagi¬ 
 nation of Mrs. Sydney, who—he supposed I had 
 yet to learn—had more genuine romance in her 
 composition than all the troubadours and minstrels 
 in Christendom. 
 
 “ And he more fibs in his brain, my dear 
 young friend,” replied she, shaking her head in 
 mimic anger, 66 than all the Fabliaux writers and 
 romancers on record, from the beautiful Sultana 
 Scheherezade, who told stories nightly for her life, 
 to the thousands who tell lies daily for their dinner ! 
 
 “ And here comes ours to stop further contro¬ 
 versy. I'll leave you, Mr. Meredith, to the mercy 
 of the rival faculties of Divinity and Medicine. 
 The Law I understand has got hold of you al¬ 
 ready, so, to save you from further peril, I'll give 
 
112 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 a retainer to my friend the advocate here (though 
 a recreant one) to take my side in my approaching 
 
 process of 4 reduction and division -1 of the Q- 
 
 hall kain hens. You’ll tell him, Walter, in pity 
 to his ignorance, as we walk into the next room, 
 the meaning of that un-English, but I hope not 
 4 unsavory -1 simile of mine. You, Jamie !—turn¬ 
 ing to the gaunt, but benignantly smiling physi¬ 
 cian—shall practise dissection on the S-shire 
 
 pig—my young English friend (if his nerves will 
 let him,) shall flesh his maiden sword in the hag¬ 
 gis—and you, my dear Doctor, will say grace for 
 us all. And now I am sure youfll say I have dis¬ 
 tributed my courtesies with the judgment if not 
 the grace of the fair Perdita—whom, except in 
 the article of killing my poor sheep instead of 
 tending them—methinks I hugely resemble. You 
 know the Tweeddale mutton of old, gentlemen— 
 I hope it will keep up its character.''’ 
 
 The dinner passed off as delightfully as might 
 be anticipated from this its sportive prelude. Mrs. 
 Sydney knew better than to draw out her pet Lion 
 in the clumsy way which is sure to make a legiti¬ 
 mate Lion draw in every thing about him, except 
 perchance his claws. She accomplished her object 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 113 
 
 simply by turning the conversation to those subjects 
 which were sure to interest him as well as to profit 
 a young stranger like me, viz. the beauties and an¬ 
 tiquities of Edinburgh—and on these his eloquence 
 flowed copiously and unweariedly—now racy and 
 high-flavoured as the old Scottish claret which 
 formed the staple of our libations—at times emu¬ 
 lating in delicacy and richness the bouquet of the 
 solitary flask of imperial tokay (an imperial gift to 
 a diplomatic relative) which formed the crowning 
 nectar of the repast. 
 
 I think there must have been something in the 
 very excess of my unsophisticated delight, on hear¬ 
 ing for the first time, what Johnson himself would 
 have allowed to be (( first-rate talk,”—which acted 
 as a passport to the sympathies of the master-spirit 
 of the group. He pointed out, with condescend¬ 
 ing minuteness, the objects best worthy of an Eng¬ 
 lishman's observation ; promised me introductions 
 to some barristers idler than himself (if such might 
 be found) when the season should reclaim them 
 from their migrations ; and shook my hand at part¬ 
 ing with a kindness, in ivhich I read the extent of 
 his filial devotion to Mrs. Sydney Hume. 
 
 The same paramount and reverential feeling 
 
 i 
 
114 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 secured me a gruff but hearty tender of good offices 
 more substantial than civility—(connected with my 
 future studies)—from the giant son of Esculapius 
 —while the mild and retiring—but it was easy to 
 discover, accomplished divine—invited me with 
 pastoral earnestness to his pew at church, and with 
 evident sincerity to his board after service. et We 
 are a little flock here,” said he, “ in a strange 
 though friendly land ; and have much need to make 
 a stray brother from the south welcome, when cu¬ 
 riosity, or a better motive, as I understand yours 
 to be, brings him among us.” 
 
 When the distinguished trio were gone—Mrs. 
 Sydney congratulated me on the acquisition of 
 three such valuable acquaintance. “ These are all 
 men, my dear Mr. Meredith, comrne il y en apeu 
 (as our neighbours across the water phrase it.) 
 One of them, I think we may say —comme il y en 
 a point ! and as I was one of the first to make the 
 discovery, I venture to predict I shall live to see it 
 acknowledged all over the world. Yonder rough 
 diamond of a leech too, is not a Hercules in body 
 only ; his mind is of true Johnsonian caliber; and 
 with somewhat of the London Leviathan’s snorting 
 and blowing, in annihilation of pretenders, and scorn 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 115 
 
 of fools—I have heard him 4 sigh you as soft as 
 any nightingale , 1 when some interesting young 
 creature had baffled all that mortal skill could 
 devise to keep her from an early grave! 
 
 44 As for my spiritual guide, he is the very beau 
 ideal of a pastor for a flock (which his happens to 
 be) of ladies and gentlemen ; and that, let me tell 
 you, is not such plain sailing as a quiet curacy of a 
 country parish. The fence that will keep honest 
 oxen quietly at their pasture, only tempts high¬ 
 bred racers and hunters to try their metal. But 
 that meek, mild-tempered man who has just gone 
 out, keeps his fashionable troops in tight order, I 
 can assure you ; though his method is somewhat 
 new. Vulgar orators, to be impressive, raise their 
 
 voices ; Dr. - drops his to an intonation so 
 
 deep and solemn, that you may hear a pin drop in 
 his chapel, and the hearts of all his aristocratic 
 stray sheep beating audibly for very fear, under 
 his mild rebuke. They know he is a Christian, a 
 scholar, and a gentleman ; and when these three 
 ingredients are thoroughly combined, they make a 
 powerful preacher —not in the conventicle, but 
 common-sense meaning of the term. 
 
 44 And now, my young friend, good night. I 
 
116 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 start for the north the day after to-morrow; and 
 there’s room enow in the chaise—I built large on 
 purpose for such windfalls—to hold you and my¬ 
 self, and my mistress of the robes. It will not be 
 so well packed as Mr. Gilpin’s after all 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 117 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Know'st tliou the land of the mountain and flood, 
 
 Where the pine of the forest for ages has stood ? 
 
 Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm, 
 And her young ones are rock’d on the high Cairngorm ? 
 
 Mrs. Elliot. 
 
 Punctual as a lover, at the hour appointed I was 
 in X— Street, from whose utmost and solitary 
 length I could discern the travelling vehicle of my 
 delightful new friend, looming through the town 
 haze of a July morning, like a stranded vessel on 
 some desert shore. 
 
 The array of trunks and bandboxes which the 
 pavement before the door displayed, was certainly 
 somewhat appalling to one little versed in the mys¬ 
 teries of the female toilet. But I was as yet 
 ignorant of the practised dexterity of Alice Pinnock, 
 
118 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 a demure staid middle-aged Abigail, and that of 
 Archy M‘Gillivray, a Highland porter, whose pe¬ 
 culiar merits as a squire of Dames had recommend¬ 
 ed him to Mrs. Sydney’s powerful patronage. 
 Under these potent enchanters, pile after pile dis¬ 
 appeared into the cavernous recesses of the roomy 
 vehicle ; and, finally, not more than half a dozen 
 packages of moderate bulk remained, to divide with 
 the three inside passengers its ample interior. 
 
 When I found myself fairly perched up between 
 mistress and maid, on a voyage of knight-errantry, 
 I knew not very well whither, I could not help 
 smiling at the novelty of my situation, which, how¬ 
 ever, I should have been very sorry at that moment 
 to exchange for any other. “ Come now, confess,” 
 said Mrs. Sydney, who always conversed with peo¬ 
 ple’s looks quite as fluently as with their words, 
 “You never were thus entrapped between two an¬ 
 cient maidens before ! you put me in mind exactly 
 of a poor wild elephant, fresh from his native haunts, 
 and placed hors de combat between two treacherous 
 tame decoys ! There is this difference, however, that 
 you are going to the forest and not from it, and that 
 emancipation, not bondage, is the object of your 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 119 
 
 capture. I am thankful to see you take it so quiet¬ 
 ly, else, heaven help Alice’s brittle gear of band- 
 boxes and medicine bottles !” 
 
 To arrive at our destination, we were to cross, 
 some miles higher up the river, the noble estuary 
 on which Edinburgh is situated, and after a drive 
 of surpassing beauty, we found ourselves seated on 
 the deck of the ferry-boat, at liberty to enjoy the 
 delicious weather and beautiful scenery, on both sides 
 of the here narrow' Frith, at full leisure ; as the 
 period of which I am writing preceded the use of 
 steam to accelerate navigation, and a dead calm 
 (more agreeable to the maiden fears of Mrs. Syd¬ 
 ney than to my youthful impatience,) protracted our 
 passage to twice its average length. 
 
 The delay was amply compensated by the lively 
 converse of my companion, and her intelligent man¬ 
 ner of pointing out to my attention the respective 
 beauties of the rival seats of the houses of Roseberry 
 and Moray on either bank of the river. “ This is 
 what may be called Scotland in her gala dress ," 1 
 said she, with a patriotic smile. “ Like other rus¬ 
 tic belles, she is not the w'orse for a little ornament; 
 but I flatter myself you will see much to admire, 
 even in her wild-wood garb, w r here you are going. 1 ’ 
 
120 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 This sort of conversation, agreeably sprinkled 
 with characteristic anecdotes connected with the 
 mansions in sight, sustained occasional interrup¬ 
 tions, of which the kindly feelings of Mrs. Sydney 
 made her more than tolerant, from the incursions 
 of a lovely child of about seven years old, across the 
 imaginary line which divided the patrician and 
 plebeian passengers, into our privileged vicinity. 
 
 These irruptions, at first occasioned by mere 
 childish activity and impatience of restraint, were 
 by degrees imboldened by the benign smiles of my 
 companion, and still more by the contents of a beau¬ 
 tiful bonbonniere , with which she tempted the stray 
 urchin nearer and nearer to her side. I never saw 
 a lovelier picture of age and childhood than was 
 presented by the good old lady and the beautiful 
 boy, when the time-bleached locks of the one came 
 almost in contact, as she fondly stooped over him, 
 with the rich fair curls of the other, whose little 
 tartan bonnet had been thrown off in the eager de¬ 
 light with which the sight of the precious box in¬ 
 spired him. 
 
 It was not merely its sugary treasures, however 
 acceptable, by which his infant attention was, on 
 closer contact, rivetted; it was a portrait which the 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 121 
 
 lid displayed of a young Highlander of noble fa¬ 
 mily, in the full costume of his country. The 
 child's first exclamation on recognising the kilt was, 
 44 My daddie !" but on a second glance at the youth¬ 
 ful figure, his countenance fell, and he said sorrow¬ 
 fully, 44 Na, it's only Hugh Macalpine." 
 
 44 It is generally taken for a greater man," said 
 the owner, smiling at the mistake ; 44 nine people 
 in ten insist on its being Prince Charlie, but I 
 daresay it is quite as like Hugh Macalpine. Pray, 
 who is he, my little man ?’’ 
 
 44 Our fifer," said the child, in astonishment at 
 the question, 44 my mother’s cousin from Rannoch, 
 that brought home daddie’s Bible and his sporran. 
 He’s very good to wee Johnny ; I wish he was here 
 to carry me when I’m tired, and help granny to 
 lead my mammy." 
 
 44 Where do you come from, Johnny ?" asked I, 
 much interested in his prattle, 44 Oh, a great great 
 way off; Dover, they call it, a nasty place ; it made 
 mammy cry all day long." 44 She is a widow, I 
 suppose," said I, more as an involuntary remark, 
 than as addressing the child, or supposing he knew 
 the import of the term. 44 Aye,’’ said he quickly, 
 44 that's mammy's name now. Granny always says, 
 
122 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 6 widow and fatherless 1 in her prayers, and 1 know 
 they’re about mammy and me. 1 ’ 44 Do you remem¬ 
 ber your father, Johnny ?” asked Mrs. Sydney, 
 gently. 44 I remember his bonnet,” said the child, 
 innocently, 44 and its big black feathers, for they 
 used to frighten me, but I know better now. I re¬ 
 member himself too, I’m sure, for my mammy told 
 me never to forget him or his last blessing on his 
 boy. She cried when he went away, but it was no¬ 
 thing to the way she cried when he never came 
 back. I remember that, for it happened since I 
 was a big boy. 
 
 44 There came ships one day, and every body 
 went down to the pier to see them ; and little boats 
 came, and men with kilts on them, and black fea¬ 
 thers plenty. I was not frightened at them, but 
 very glad, and would hardly hold mammy’s apron 
 as she bid me, I wanted so to go to them. 
 
 44 Mammy shook terribly when the boats came 
 near, and the people hurraed, but she stood behind 
 some wood, where nobody saw or spoke to her, till 
 all the bonnets and kilts went by. The band came 
 out last, and she no sooner saw Hugh Macalpine, 
 than she snatched me up off the ground, and ran 
 up to him and said— 4 Laddie ! where’s my Do- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 123 
 
 nald r Hugh grew very white—whiter than that 
 picture, and said, 4 Helen ! did no one write you ? 
 he is with God l 1 
 
 44 Mammy let me go, and Hugh Macalpine held 
 her up with one hand, and me with the other, till 
 women came and carried her home. She never 
 cried that day nor the next, nor spoke, but sat 
 quite still, and I was very frightened, till Hugh 
 came to see us, and brought daddie’s Bible that w T as 
 in his knapsack, and his sporran that had fine yel¬ 
 low shillings in it, which he said were for mammy. 
 I wanted to play with them, for they were very 
 pretty, but mammy snatched them from me, and 
 cried, 4 Laddie ! will you play w r ith the price of 
 your father's blood ?’ But Hugh was sorry, and 
 said, 4 No, Helen ! your Donald’s blood bought 
 nothing but honour’—so she let me have them 
 again, and read in daddie’s Bible till she gave up 
 crying.” 
 
 I saw Mrs. Sydney’s lip quiver, and her mild 
 eye fill, as the child finished his artless tale. Part¬ 
 ly to conceal her emotion, she rose hastily, and 
 taking him by the hand, stepped over the plebeian 
 quarter of the vessel where sat his mother and 
 grandmother, the former reclining in dcath-likc 
 
124 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 exhaustion against a cushion formed of her old pa¬ 
 rent’s tartan plaid—the latter supporting and gaz¬ 
 ing on her apparently dying child, with all a mo¬ 
 ther’s grief, and a Christian's resignation. 
 
 She rose to receive the boy from the hand of the 
 stranger lady; and such was the commanding ef¬ 
 fect of her stately presence in this unwonted quar¬ 
 ter, that half the rude Highland reapers, of whom 
 the crew chiefly consisted, did the same. Mrs. 
 Sydney kindly beckoned them all to sit down, and 
 doing so herself, by the side of the poor slumbering 
 patient, began to question her mother as to her 
 disease. (i She has nae complaint, my leddy,” 
 answered the sorrowful, yet firm-minded old wo¬ 
 man, 66 nane that man can find out or cure. Its 
 just a broken heart that is takin’ her awa’ to her 
 husband, and though she’s the last o’ seven, I wad 
 be sweer to grudge her to her Maker and her Do¬ 
 nald ! They were the bonniest couple ever my een 
 looked on, when they came thegither-—ye see 
 what’s she’s now since it pleased the Lord to part 
 them.” 
 
 66 Where have you come from ?” asked Mrs. 
 Sydney, much interested—“ I thought the child 
 said from the south of England.” i( Even sae ! 
 
PROBATION 
 
 125 
 
 my teddy/’ answered Highland Tibbie (as this ma¬ 
 ternal heroine was called by the many whom her 
 tale had moved to pity and admiration.) 44 I was 
 sitting—dowie eneugh, gude kens, at my lanely 
 fireside in Rannoch, when a shadow came suddenly 
 across the light from the hallan, and I kent there 
 was ill news to be dreed by me or mine. It was 
 the worthy minister come (and weel I kent it afore 
 he fand breath to say the word) to tell me puir 
 Donald was a corpse in a foreign land, and Helen 
 a lone widow in ane that w r as little better to a puir 
 Highland lassie. He spak mony beautiful words 
 to me, though I canna rightly say that I heard 
 ony o’ them at the time, but I’ve minded them a’ 
 since as though they had been atw y een the brods o’ 
 the Bible. He promised to write to the Cornel 
 o’ the regiment to get Helen sent cannily dow n wi’ 
 her boy; but he owned, frae what Hugh Macal- 
 pine had written to his granny—he doubted she 
 was na fit to undertake the journey. 
 
 44 4 I’ll gang to her !’ said I, starting up wi’ a 
 
 sudden flaught o’ boldness; 4 what for sud na I 
 
 gang to bring my bairn hame, if it be God’s will, 
 
 or to w y ait on her death-bed, if she’s to lay her 
 
 banes wi’ the southron !’ The minister thought 
 
 1 
 
126 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 it a rash plan, but it’s ill fechtin’ wi 1 a mither wi 1 
 but ae bairn left in this world, and that ane boun' 
 for anither ! It was borne in on my mind that 
 gang I must, if I wad see my bairn in life—and 
 when the honest man saw it he said nae mair. He 
 offered me siller to pay my expenses ; and when he 
 saw me sweer to tak' it, he said gently, 4 Tibbie ! 
 ye maunna be so pridefu 1 ! Would ye let your 
 bairn want a meal in life, or 1 (and here the long 
 suppressed tears burst forth) 4 a coffin when a’s 
 dune, because your Highland blood winna let ye 
 stoop to an alms ? But its no an alms, if that 
 will content ye—It’s a loan frae ae travailing sor¬ 
 rowing Christian to anither ; and if ye dinna pay 
 me, the Lord will.'’ ” 
 
 44 And did you go alone to Dover, Tibbie ?” 
 said Mrs. Sydney, looking with surprise on the 
 simple figure of the primitive old woman. 44 1 
 did e’en sae, my leddy,” was the answer: 44 the 
 minister gae me a pass to let a’ gude Christians 
 ken my errand, in case o' my being in ony strait, 
 and I just stappit doucely on my road, whiles 
 walkin' whiles ridin', just as it fell in my way ; 
 but I should say that I wan in a Perth sloop sae 
 far to Newcastle. Oh ! but I thought little o' 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 127 
 
 England, when I first landed among yon black 
 coal heughs, and reekin’ steam engines ; but I kent 
 better afore a’ was dune, and had cause to think 
 muckle baitb o’ it and its folk, although it has 
 nae hills and lochs and honnie rinnin waters like 
 Perthshire. Ae way or anither, I scarce ken how, 
 I made out Dover, and the first sight 0 ’ Helen— 
 though a sair sight it was—made up for a’ ! She 
 was sair changed, and seeing me brought Donald 
 and her marriage a’ back before her; but she 
 spunkit up after a while, and said she wad 
 try to won hame to Rannoch. I saw she wasna 
 fit for’t, but I was as little fit to hinder her, and I 
 thought in my simplicity, wha kens but the Hie- 
 land air, and the goats’ whey, and the sight 0 ’ her 
 ain heathery braes, may set my puir bairn upon her 
 feet again ? 
 
 4 4 But if she was to try it, it could na be by 
 land as I had done. The Cornel, honest man, 
 wad hae paid a coach ticket for her to Edinburgh 
 wi’ right gude will, but ridin’ was a fatigue she 
 couldna endure. So he took anither plan, and 
 got us to the sea-side, and put on board a veshel 
 for Leith ; and though our voyage has been long 
 and tedious, and Helen aye the langer the weaker, 
 
128 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 still we re wearing hame at last; and lie wliar she 
 may now, it’ll no be in a fremit kirk-yard ! I care 
 na whither it be at Rannoch, (unless it be for the 
 gude minister’s sake that gae her her name, and 
 wad lay her head doucely in the mools,) for she 
 has nane there to lie near. My Allan himsel’ was 
 lost in a speat o’ Tummel, and never heard o’mair, 
 and my six buirdly sons are a’ lying in foreign 
 lands far eneuch frae the braes o’ Rannoch. So 
 I’ll gang wi’ my ae bairn, till she can gang nae 
 farther—and wharever she lays her down to die, 
 sae will her mither—for her grave ’ll be a’ that’s 
 left me in this warld o’ sin and sorrow !” 
 
 6( Would you like to try Glen Falconar ?” said 
 Mrs. Sydney compassionately, and the bonny braes 
 
 of-, so like your own at Rannoch ? There 
 
 will be a bien house over your head for your joint 
 lives, and a skilful doctor to attend poor Helen, 
 and a minister as kind and as feeling as your own 
 to converse with her, and schooling for the laddie, 
 and friends to look after him when ye are both 
 gone. If this, and hills, and woods, and waters 
 as like your own well known ones as ever one 
 heather-bell grew to another—can make up to you 
 for the home of your youth, Tibbie—I can promise 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 129 
 
 them all; and you shall have a cart to go at your 
 own pace and time all the way to your new dwell¬ 
 ing. You’ll find me there before you, and every 
 thing in order. 1 ' 
 
 “ Are ye no garrin me trew, my leddy ?" said 
 the bewildered Tibbie, u as the misleart callants 
 whiles did up bye in England ? But ye wadna do 
 sae to an auld helpless aefauld body, that believes 
 a 1 folk to be gude because she has found sae mony ! 
 Will I no gae whar the like o 1 you says there's sae 
 muckle gude waitin' me and mine ? The Lord re¬ 
 quite ye for it mair than I can do ! But 1 canna 
 say I'll think it like Rannoch, na na ! I can never 
 see days there like them that made Rannoch like 
 the garden o' Eden to me ! but ony place will do to 
 die in, and I'll hae Helen's grave to mak it bonny 
 to me ere long." 
 
 It was not till John Newborough and Alice— 
 whom long practice had made expert in the ways 
 of benevolence—had arranged every thing for the 
 comfort of the poor invalid, and her easy trans¬ 
 port to Glen Falconar, that Mrs. Sydney would 
 think of her own departure. While her carriage 
 was disembarking, we spoke to the interesting 
 patient, who, to gentleness above her situation, 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 added evidently a pious and grateful heart. It 
 was pleasant to learn, (in the mother's momentary 
 absence,) that the plan proposed was a real relief 
 to her daughter's wounded spirit. 44 I would hae 
 gone wi’ her to Rannoch,” said the exhausted 
 mourner, 44 if it pleased God to enable me, because 
 I thought it my duty ; but sure I am, the first 
 sight o' the place would hae been my last. There's 
 no a baulk in the field, or a stane in the burn, 
 but Donald and me hae played on thegither. 
 There’s his stool ayont the hallan, and his seat in 
 the kirk, and his shielin on the hill—there’s every 
 thing yonder but his grave ; and as ye canna give 
 me that— a’ the warld's alike to Helen !" 
 
 I had been no uninterested listener to a con¬ 
 versation, which, however, it may be believed, I 
 could not thus have detailed, had I not since heard 
 it often repeated by the animated lips of Mrs. Syd¬ 
 ney herself. At the time, much of its poetry and 
 pathos was no doubt locked up from me in its na¬ 
 tive Doric ; but I felt, as has since been the case 
 with the thousand English readers of Sir Walter’s 
 Scottish dialogues—that it was the language of 
 nature and feeling, though some individual expres¬ 
 sions might baffle an unpractised southern ear. 
 
' PROBATION. 
 
 131 
 
 Nor had I lived altogether for nothing some weeks 
 in Lancashire, though its dialect bears to that of 
 Scotland—and of the Highlanders especially— 
 about the same resemblance, as a Travestie of 
 Virgil does to the majesty and sweetness of the 
 Georgies. 
 
 The incident gave rise to many pleasing anec¬ 
 dotes, which confirmed this opinion, and extended 
 it (however reluctantly) to the features of charac¬ 
 ter, as well as language, in the peasantry of the two 
 countries. 44 You would think me a sad preju¬ 
 diced mortal, Mr. Meredith, and more clannish than 
 even Tibbie herself—were I to tell you a thousandth 
 part of the good 1 know of my own poor but praise¬ 
 worthy countrymen. Their attachment to their 
 heath-clad hills—their heroic devotion to an unfor¬ 
 tunate family, and subsequent loyalty to a more 
 prosperous one—are qualities history takes note of; 
 but it is their honest sense of independence—their 
 virtuous struggles with poverty—and their filial 
 duty to the grey hairs of their parents—which 
 make me love them in my heart’s core. Call them 
 if you will selfish, cautious, old-mannered, (cold- 
 hearted I defy you to call them) ; yet if selfishness 
 lead, as it often does, to the power to serve, and 
 
132 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 caution to hospitality, and cold manners cover 
 hearts glowing with patriotism to their country, and 
 good-will to all her sons—why should we quarrel 
 with qualities so intrinsically useful, and the pa¬ 
 rents of others so praiseworthy ? 
 
 “ If you will show me a Scot who, on the plains 
 of India, or the wilds of America, or—harder test 
 by far—in the crowded marts of traffic and civiliza¬ 
 tion, will shut his door and his heart to a brother 
 of the north,—I’ll consent to excommunicate him 
 from the clan he belies and dishonours. But he shall 
 no more make me forswear my opinion of Scots¬ 
 men, than one sordid churl of an Englishman shall 
 make me rob John Bull of his character for good¬ 
 nature and liberality. But John’s liberality is not 
 like that of Saunders. He never troubles his head 
 who you may be, but gives you, without effort and 
 without thinking twice of it, what it cost him no 
 great pains to acquire. Saunders listens to hear 
 if you have a Scots tongue in your head, and if he 
 can detect in you the slightest inflection of his na¬ 
 tive accent, unlocks in your favour the heart and 
 the 44 kist v> which are certainly not at every one’s 
 service. 
 
 This of course is speaking very generally—as a 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 133 
 
 strong national feature. I don’t mean to prefer 
 particular to universal benevolence—I only mean 
 to say it makes Scotsmen very delightful to each 
 other. I have had large experience of its utility, 
 as it often falls in my way to help young men out 
 in the world. We have prosperous Scots, heaven 
 bless the mark ! in every quarter of the globe. 
 You have only to recommend to one of these a 
 sturdy callant with a carrotty head and a Mac be¬ 
 fore his name, and, presto ! he is a made man !— 
 taken to the very bosom as well as house of his 
 exiled foster-father ! 
 
 “ Then you heard and understood probably 
 something of Tibbie’s repugnance to accept paro¬ 
 chial aid; I am sure her expressive gesture at the 
 word “ alms” might have conveyed its meaning. 
 I wish I could say this was as universal as in my 
 youth, when utter irremediable poverty, to the 
 tenth degree of every one connected with her, 
 could alone have subjected a grey-haired mother to 
 such an indignity. But still I know hundreds 
 and hundreds of hard-working Scottish labourers, 
 who, with families of ten and twelve ragged ur¬ 
 chins, (too poor to wear shoes, but not too poor to 
 go to school), find still a corner of their hearth, and 
 
134 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 the warmest corner too—for an aged parent; to 
 save whom from such a den of degradation as an 
 English workhouse, they would toil till they sunk 
 in the attempt. And many and many are the 
 precious sums of hard-earned, blood-bought gold, 
 which it has been my delighted office to gladden 
 the dim eyes of parents with—from sons they 
 might never hope again to see ; but whom their 
 grey hairs haunted in the midnight watch and 
 distant battle-field. 
 
 44 And their constancy in attachments, my dear 
 young friend ! this I know you will appreciate, 
 under the most unfavourable and trying circum¬ 
 stances. Would a young Scots ploughman, with¬ 
 out a farthing in the world, to whom the bright 
 prospect of matrimony is but a distant glimmering 
 beacon to a well-nigh hopeless mariner—walk 
 cheerfully after his hard day’s toil, perhaps some half- 
 dozen miles, to his betrothed one’s dwelling, merely 
 (and in nine cases out of ten all worse conclusions 
 would be a libel) to talk over their future menage, 
 and indulge in the sober luxury of anticipation— 
 were he not by nature the most faithful, as he is 
 the most patient of mortals P And would that con¬ 
 stant creature—-when transformed by years of use- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 135 
 
 ful toil and quiet happiness into an aged white- 
 haired grandsire—look as complacently on his 
 time-worn helpmate, and on his flourishing off¬ 
 spring—or pray with such natural eloquence for 
 them all, over the Bible that is seldom off his knee 
 —had their courtship been the idle frolic of a wake 
 or fair, or the tenor of their lives been wasted in 
 the alehouse, and ended in the poors-house ? 
 
 66 All this is dreadfully narrow-minded, and na¬ 
 tional,” said my old friend, taking breath, and 
 smiling at her own enthusiasm; “ but you are going 
 where you may judge for yourself. I’ll give you a 
 fact or two in the mean time. There are no ale¬ 
 houses, scottice dram-shops, (I mean places for get¬ 
 ting systematically drunk) in Glen Falconar, that 
 I know of, but one, though no Highlander refuses 
 or dislikes a glass of whisky ; and the poor’s fund 
 (for we have no rates) may amount to perhaps a 
 dozen or fifteen pounds a-year, most of which, 
 you 11 observe, is given in the shape of halfpence 
 (by means of a ladle with which you’ll be amused), 
 by the same horny labouring hands, which, when 
 stiff and disabled by age or sickness, are to benefit 
 by their past contributions. This is an excellent 
 part of the business. The Sunday’s “ bawbee ” puts 
 
136 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 every man, woman, and child that can muster one, 
 in mind of the present distress of others, and their 
 own possible future necessities; and, after what is 
 said in Scripture of the widow’s mite, why should 
 we doubt that this charity of the poor to the poor 
 brings a blessing with it, and makes the simple 
 treasury into which it is cast, like the widow’s cruse, 
 still adequate to its blessed end ? This is not all 
 so now, Mr. Meredith, in our richer and more 
 southern parishes. No wonder if I cling to people 
 and things like those we are going among, who re¬ 
 mind me of days, happier certainly, if not so bril¬ 
 liant, when all Scotland was poor, and unadorned, 
 and unsophisticated, like Glen Falconar.” 
 
 We were now gradually approaching that privi¬ 
 leged spot. For the last few miles our road had 
 been insensibly ascending ; and we had exchanged 
 the soft smiling beauties of a valley, (which, but 
 for the superb frame of mountains in which it was 
 enchased, would have resembled England) for a 
 wide glen or “ strath,” as Mrs. Sydney called it, of 
 a different and more piquant character. The fields, 
 it was true, had no longer the breath, nor the crops 
 the luxuriance of those in the champaign country 
 behind us ; but the want was richly compensated by 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 137 
 
 the prouder and prouder elevation of the mountain 
 background, and the lovely fringe of natural wood, 
 which marked with its verdant tracery the yet un¬ 
 seen course of the river that foamed through the 
 fast narrowing glen. 
 
 It was on crossing a bridge of antique construc¬ 
 tion, lofty as the frequent winter-floods required, 
 that I first enjoyed the full view of that new and 
 striking object, a Scottish mountain-stream,—and 
 felt half disposed to think Scottish blood must flow 
 responsive in my veins, from the thrill of emotion 
 I experienced as I gazed. I would not willingly 
 depreciate the rivers of my native country, but me- 
 tliinks they pay the price of her superior fertility, 
 in the tameness and sluggishness of their course ; 
 and their silvery hue, when at its best and purest, 
 wants the bewitching sparkle—the brilliant tint, 
 borrowed as it were from the well-known topaz of 
 the parent mountains, which makes a Highland 
 stream, as it chafes over its rocky bed, the loveliest, 
 (if indeed it may be so characterised), of inanimate 
 objects. 
 
 The one in question might claim the palm of 
 beauty from even its native rivals. Huge beds of 
 rock, partially smoothed by the winter torrents into 
 
138 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 level terraces, partly hollowed by the same powerful 
 agency into gigantic cauldrons, were now, by the 
 diminished expanse of the summer stream, exhibit¬ 
 ed in fantastic variety, while abundance of water 
 remained to foam in a thousand rainbow hues over 
 fairy waterfalls, and sleep in green and glassy 
 brightness in unfathomable pools below. From 
 every fissure and interstice in the rocky framework 
 of the landscape, festoons of briar-roses mingled 
 with the long tassels of the weeping birches that 
 bent to kiss the stream. One solitary angler, seat¬ 
 ed on a projecting rock, alone enlivened, without 
 disturbing, the matchless picture. 
 
 I sat beside Mrs. Sydney (who enjoyed my si¬ 
 lence more than a thousand common-place excla¬ 
 mations,) speechless with delight. 44 I understand 
 you,’’’ whispered she, 44 and I see you understand 
 Nature —that is enough-!” 
 
 We journeyed on in this tacit interchange of 
 sentiment, till the natural birch-groves became 
 gradually intermingled with, and expanded into 
 extensive plantations, of some fifty or sixty years’ 
 growth ; and the mountain-road—its natural in¬ 
 equalities scarcely alleviated—gave place to a more 
 polished and more carefully-lined avenue, though 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 139 
 
 still far from exhibiting the trimness of a modern 
 approach. The wild rose and heath-bell still form¬ 
 ed its sole border—hazel and birch the only under¬ 
 growth, while the deep red stems of the lofty indi¬ 
 genous pines rose in rugged majesty above us. 
 
 “ We are still some miles from Glen Falconar, , ‘ > 
 said Mrs. Sydney, 66 though on the estate, and 
 entering, as you perceive, within the demesne. It 
 is too large and too old a place, to be what is call¬ 
 ed highly kept. Neither Scots bounds nor Scots 
 fortunes permit such dainty doings ; but we atone 
 by inside comfort for absence of outside decoration. 
 
 66 Would you insult nature with shaven lawns 
 and trim parterres here ?” said I, “ or rather could 
 you ?” as I gazed on each side of the carriage, up¬ 
 ward on the right, through a deep forest glade in 
 which a red deer was bounding past me, to the 
 
 gigantic peak of Ben--; and downward on 
 
 the left, through a thickly tangled copse on the 
 river, over which I half started to find we were 
 actually suspended in mid air; while, rising above 
 the verdant screen that seemed to close up the 
 head of this glen in front, mass upon mass of 
 heath-clad mountains towered in the clear blue 
 sky. 
 
140 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 In the course of another half hour, a rustic 
 gate admitted us into a lawn, or rather park, (for 
 it would have been so styled in England,) of noble 
 dimensions; and the house of Glen Falconar, 
 large, patriarchal-looking and unadorned, with 
 additions of every century I believe since the re¬ 
 turn of the owner of the original rude tower from 
 the battle of Flodden, came full in view. 
 
 44 There’s a place, the sight of which does my 
 very heart good !” exclaimed Mrs. Sydney, 44 and 
 one, the inside and outside of which, I am proud 
 to shew to a Southron ! You have finer houses 
 far—and far be it from me to undervalue your 
 noble mansions, and the noble hearts that own 
 them ; but there is a hereditary singleness of heart 
 and warmth of kindly feeling, which I have lived 
 to trace through three generations of this ancient 
 family—that comes more home, as I said before, 
 to my Scottish prejudices. I have loved and 
 honoured many in your fair land of the Oak and 
 Rose ; but my dearest ties, and my fondest predi¬ 
 lections, have flourished of course under the sha¬ 
 dow of my native Pine and Thistle. 
 
 44 A propos of 4 Pines’—there stands the good 
 old laird—for whom the stately Alpine monarch 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 141 
 
 forms no unappropriate simile—on his threshold 
 to receive and welcome us ; and, (not un-a propos 
 of Thistles) there stands beside him his sister An¬ 
 nie, my chum and crony from my youth up, 
 who, with a little of the pungency of the national 
 symbol, and spirit of the national motto about her 
 —and one, certes , not to be meddled with incau¬ 
 tiously by fools or small wits—has as much of the 
 genuine milk of human kindness in her, after all, 
 as that doughty Nimrod her brother ; who, with 
 happy inconsistency, slays hares and salmon by 
 the dozen, while he would step out of his way at 
 any time to avoid hurting a fly !” 
 
 In another moment description gave place to 
 demonstration. Mrs. Sydney was hugged in the 
 cordial embrace of the fine old man; and, (but 
 for the opportune hint of the thistle,) I should 
 infallibly, in my new-born enthusiasm for old 
 maids—have rushed into the arms of aunt An¬ 
 nie ! 
 
142 
 
 FROBATION. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The captive bird from irksome durance freed, 
 
 The heart quick throbbing as in mirthful mood, 
 
 Cutting the liquid air with joyous speed, 
 
 Regains the covert of its native wood. 
 
 Rev. J. Marriott. 
 
 The family at Glen Falconar consisted of the old 
 gentleman, and his maiden sister already men¬ 
 tioned, and a charming little grandchild, the on¬ 
 ly daughter of his only son, a highly distinguish¬ 
 ed officer, then serving in the Peninsula. The 
 mother of this little fairy creature, in whose smiles 
 her grandfather literally lived, while beneath them 
 aunt Annie’s most caustic mood gave way, like 
 frost-work before the sun, had died soon after 
 giving her birth, in a foreign and hostile land ; 
 and—so reckless is the courage that results from 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 143 
 
 despair—never was Major Falconars white charger 
 more conspicuous in the field, or his name more 
 prominent in the gazette, than in the battle to 
 which he was summoned from the death-bed of 
 his wife, and the tearful baptism of his child. 
 He had snatched an interval of comparative in¬ 
 action to bring her home to the Glen, and ever 
 since, she had been the joy and stay of its old in¬ 
 mates, and the solace of her father’s one brief sub¬ 
 sequent visit to his paternal mansion. 
 
 I was soon (probably from sharing her sports) 
 a special favourite with Flora; and this, joined to 
 my previous favour with another lady of some 
 ten times her age, was a sure passport to the 
 hearts of both the laird and Miss Annie. 
 
 The former was the stately ruin of one of those 
 majestic figures of the olden time, whom we cer¬ 
 tainly do not see growing up among their degene¬ 
 rate descendants to replace them. The men of 
 our day—such I mean as deserve the name—are 
 unexceptionable, as regards the purposes of youth 
 and manhood ; but, even conceding the vast ad¬ 
 vantages of the statelier costume, and obsoletely dig¬ 
 nified manners of their grandfathers—-have they 
 
144 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 thewes and sinews, and exterior proportions to 
 stand before us half a century hence as command¬ 
 ing in decay ? Old ladies, I devoutly hope, and 
 see no reason to douht, there will be among us, 
 and delightful ones too, as long as society exists ; 
 hut for the old gentlemen of the good—I may say 
 the grand old school—I fear we may, even in our 
 own times, live to look in vain. 
 
 Mr. Falconar, like almost every Scotchman of 
 family of his standing, had served abroad, and 
 studied tactics at an early age at a German mili¬ 
 tary school. His erect figure bore testimony to an 
 accuracy of drill worthy of the great Frederick; 
 while long habits of moral relaxation had worn off 
 all the stiffness of the ancien militaire , and left 
 only a touch of the polish behind. His long single- 
 breasted coat, with a scarlet collar, though of no 
 particular age or country, had about it a lingering 
 regimental look, that savoured of his early profes¬ 
 sion ; and, with a sort of foraging-cap of foreign 
 aspect, by which his grey locks were picturesquely, 
 though partially covered, formed, with the sportsman¬ 
 like negligence of his nether costume of large fish¬ 
 ing boots for wading after salmon, or tough leather 
 
 1 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 145 
 
 leggings for scrambling among the heather in quest 
 of grouse—a contrast not often to be met with in 
 our day. 
 
 Next perhaps to the memory of his lost wife, 
 and little Flora, and her absent father—the person 
 he loved best in the world was Mrs. Sydney Hume. 
 She was, and had always been to him, to all in¬ 
 tents and purposes, a sister ; and as such she suit¬ 
 ed him better than Annie, of whom (a sure proof 
 how little formidable really transcendent talents 
 are) he was a good deal more afraid. Not but 
 that Annie, as his playmate from childhood, and 
 the faithful superintendent of his household, stood 
 high in his esteem, and even affection 3 but the 
 laird was slow and deliberate—Annie quick and ir¬ 
 ritable—the laird disliked a joke at his own ex¬ 
 pense or any one’s else; and Annie, who must 
 have her’s, coute quil coute , had often no one but 
 her brother to keep her wits in practice on. Then 
 she always beat him at backgammon, at least nine 
 times in ten—while, when Mrs. Sydney joined 
 the party, it resolved itself into the delightful ob¬ 
 solete aristocratic game of ombre —and the good 
 man fancied himself once more a gay gallant Lo- 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 thario, playing semprendre with the maids of’ ho¬ 
 nour at the Electoral Court of B~-. 
 
 In deference to me, (but I half suspected at the 
 mischievous suggestion of aunt Annie, and to 
 curtail my evening rambles) this was exchanged 
 for whist, and I soon ceased to regret my forced 
 apprenticeship in Fenchurch Street, when it en¬ 
 abled me to make a fourth in such an original 
 rubber. It would have been the death of Hoyle, 
 for though all loved the game (myself in long not 
 excepted) and piqued themselves on playing it 
 con amove , there was often more of chit chat than 
 of cogitation in the frequent pauses ; and jokes and 
 lively sallies perpetually usurped the place of the 
 odd-trick. It was a perfect pleasure to see thus 
 congregated around one table three happy old 
 people, all in character, abilities and pursuits ex¬ 
 actly the antipodes of each other ; yet held together 
 by a strong indissoluble bond of early companion¬ 
 ship and mutual benevolence, and contributing by 
 their very difference to the common stock of an en¬ 
 joyment, as keen and unalloyed as if they had all 
 been fifteen. I often felt the oldest of the party, 
 
 I 
 
 for I had recent errors to blush for, and a recent 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 147 
 
 disappointment to sigli over; while with the happy 
 trio around me, time and distance had softened the 
 harsher features of the past, and all alike looked 
 forward with tranquil, but steadfast anticipation, to 
 one bright cloudless future, when the pilgrimage 
 they were thus mutually sweetening should be 
 over. 
 
 The difference I have alluded to above was most 
 remarkable between the two old ladies, both admi¬ 
 rable specimens of the genus ; though Mrs. Sydney 
 as far outshone her early companion as she did 
 every one else. 
 
 To a mind of vast original powers, and bound¬ 
 less observation, she had added all that cultivation 
 and literature can do for one so highly endowed by 
 nature. She always put me in mind of her own 
 beautiful snuff-box, whose delicate foliage in enamel 
 set off without overlaying the intrinsic value of the 
 massive gold. 
 
 Miss Falconar again (for, with maiden tenacity, 
 she rejected the equivocal title of Mrs.) had been 
 born in an age when education was to women, as it 
 had been to Mrs Sydney, a kind of particular pro¬ 
 vidence ; when their reading and writing came, if 
 they came at all, like Dogberry’s, “ by nature, 1 
 
148 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 and the sister art of spelling seldom at all; and 
 when voluminous pieces of tapestry and fantastic 
 worked bed-curtains, 44 making night hideous,” 
 supplied the place of all the pursuits of modern 
 females. Now these, Miss Annie, having had from 
 infancy but one play-fellow, and that a brother, did 
 most obstinately eschew. She would not work, 
 and to sit idle she was ashamed ; so in self-defence 
 she fished, and she rode, and she hunted, along 
 with her sole companion, all the early years of her 
 life. She could not, it is true, accompany him to 
 the German academy, therefore she missed acquir¬ 
 ing the sword exercise, and never actually learned 
 to 44 ride the great horse.” But she scampered on 
 a pony after the family beagles with the zest of a 
 thorough-bred sportswoman, and could make as good 
 a cast in the river as Black Nicol the poacher 
 himself; in short, would have well-nigh forsworn 
 the petticoat altogether, but for the frequent visits 
 of Mrs. Sydney Hume, then a girl rather older 
 than herself. 
 
 44 We did good to each other,” I have heard 
 Mrs. Sydney often say ; 44 I should have been a 
 bookworm but for Annie, and, she but for me, would 
 have grown up little better than a 4 lubberly boy. 1 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 149 
 
 I owed my equestrian skill—which, thanks to my 
 natural cowardice, was never grand chose —to her 
 tuition ; and I look back at this day with asto¬ 
 nishment when I think, that by some peine forte 
 et dure, which I cannot now conjure from oblivion, 
 I compelled her to read the whole twelve volumes 
 of the Grand Cyrus ! I suspect it cured her of 
 reading for life, and no wonder. Yet she has 
 done just as well without books, as hundreds who 
 pore themselves blind. There is about my dear 
 Annie a fund of mother wit and shrewd observa¬ 
 tion, worth all the second-hand wisdom of mere re¬ 
 tailers of other men’s thoughts ; and, what is better 
 still, there is a stanch uprightness of mind and 
 conduct that no sophistry could w 7 arp from the 
 straight-forward course. When Annie wants some 
 hit of information, or—as has happened on one or 
 two occasions which shall be nameless—the hand 
 of a more practised scribe than herself—she ap¬ 
 plies to her walking dictionary, as she calls me. 
 If again I am thrown out on some subject of sport¬ 
 ing or cuisine ; if I want a day’s shooting for some 
 of my English laddies, or a genuine recipe for a 
 haggis to make them stare, I despatch a mission 
 forthwith to aunt Annie. In short, \ye are a 
 
150 
 
 PROBATION 
 
 proof—ancl you may lay up my oracular dictum , 
 Mr. Meredith, as a word to the wise—that simi¬ 
 larity of disposition and acquirements is as little 
 necessary to friendship, as it proverbially is to 
 love. Let two people but have the same right 
 principles for time, and the same blessed hope for 
 eternity, and they will go through the world no 
 worse for agreeing on little besides. 
 
 One of the first incidents of my stay at Glen 
 Falconar, was a visitation to the new habitation 
 of Highland Tibbie and her interesting daughter. 
 It was, though but half a mile from the house, 
 beyond the limited walking powers of Mrs. Syd¬ 
 ney ; so I was despatched, accompanied by Niel 
 M 4 Vicar, the old amphibious fisherman, (or 44 water 
 kelpie,'” as Miss Annie had christened him) by 
 way of guide and interpreter, to inquire how the 
 new inmates were satisfied with their dwelling. 
 
 The cottage, a very snug one, though its dingy 
 heath-clad exterior by no means indicated the 
 comfort and cleanliness that prevailed within, lay 
 about half way up a green hill-side, exposed to the 
 south, with a little patch of garden in front, an 
 old ash or two overhanging the thatch, and a 
 mountain-brook—a 44 bonnie burine,"” as Tibbie 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 151 
 
 delightedly called it—making wild music all day 
 over its pebbly bed hard by. Through an open¬ 
 ing in the forest that skirted the base of the hill, 
 the noble river might be seen holding its rapid 
 and majestic course through the glen beneath, 
 sparkling and foaming among its native birches, 
 whose light silver tassels the summer wind was 
 dipping in the sunny stream. The turrets of the 
 old mansion, with its curling wreath of patriarchal 
 smoke, peeped out pleasantly from the tall trees 
 of its ancestral rookery, and gave at once a cheer¬ 
 ful social character to a scene which the wild tower¬ 
 ing features on every other hand might otherwise 
 have invested with solitary grandeur. Behind 
 the green sheep-dotted hill on which the cottage 
 lay, scarce distinguishable from its useful neigh¬ 
 bour the peat-stack (anglice turf-rick) beside it, 
 rose heath-clad mountains of truly Alpine subli¬ 
 mity, while in front, all save the vista which 
 revealed so picturesquely a glimpse of the rich cul¬ 
 tivated valley and abode of its worthy owner, was 
 one waving sea of foliage ; amid which the whispers 
 of mountain-wind, blending with the rush of the 
 distant river, and tiny murmurs of the brawling 
 brook hard by, were to the heart and ear of the 
 
152 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 Highland mother and daughter, as the music of 
 the spheres. 
 
 I found the old woman seated at her wheel on 
 the sunny spot at her door, with the panorama I 
 have attempted to describe spread out before her. 
 
 4 4 Does this remind you of Rannoch, Tibbie ?” 
 asked I, as I stood half lost in Lowland admira¬ 
 tion of the scene. 
 
 44 It does, and it disna !” answered the old 
 
 woman with a sigh. 44 The hill’s no that unlike, 
 
 * 
 
 and whiles, when the wind’s lown, and the sun on 
 the water that I canna see it rinnin, I could maist 
 think it was the bonny loch glancin afore me. 
 But Benailan can never come up to Schehallion ; 
 and I miss the bonny white spot o’ snaw that lies 
 aye on the north side o’t like a swan, and winna 
 let spring wind or summer sun wile’t awa’ frae 
 its nest ! But I’m blythe for Helen’s sake, that 
 she’ll never see it; for when we were sailing ae 
 beautifu’ afternoon past yon rock in the sea they 
 ca’ the Bass, and hearkening to the wild scraigh- 
 ing o’ the sea mews and kittiwakes that gaed to 
 my heart, I kenna wherefore, like the pipes on a 
 hill side, she looked up, and saw just owre her 
 head, a white bird sitting on her nest on a black 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 153 
 
 skelf o’ the rocks; and she gae a skreigh maist as 
 wild as the fowls o’ the air abune her, and said, 
 4 Mother ! is yon no like the snaw-wreath on the 
 
 dark side o’ Schehallion ?’-1 minded, and she 
 
 minded nae doubt, gaun up for a ploy wi’ Donald 
 to fetch down a snaw ba’ to pleasure a daft English 
 officer that came to the Rannoch to the muir- 
 fowl. That ploy cost her Donald ; for the Captain 
 fell in fancy wi** the lad, and wadna leave the glen 
 without him, and that weary handfu’ o’ midsum¬ 
 mer snaw, made him a sodger, and my bairn a 
 widow ! It was God’s will nae doubt,”’’’ said the 
 old woman, checking herself, 44 and we manna re¬ 
 pine ; but I'm glad there’s nae summer snaw on 
 Benallan.” 
 
 44 Where is your daughter ?” asked I, 44 can I 
 see her ?” 44 She’s dandering down the burn, I’m 
 
 thinkin’, this saft sunny blink, to see her bit laddie 
 try the fishing. She kens she’s no to be lang spared 
 to him, and that makes her unco fond to be aye wi’ 
 him.” 
 
 44 Fishing ! is he, the cretur ?” exclaimed Neil 
 M 4 Vicar with professional glee— 44 I’se warrand I’ll 
 make a fisher o’ him yet, if he bides a while in the 
 glen—for (sotto voce to the old woman as I walked 
 
154 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 forward to look out for the widow)— 44 I’ve ta’en in 
 hand to mak’ ane o' the Englisher yonder !” 
 
 I found poor Helen about a stone’s throw from 
 the cottage, repairing, with all a mother’s fondness, 
 some mishap which had befallen the primitive fishing 
 tackle of her boy, who, as if it did his little High¬ 
 land heart good to get rid of the sassenach append¬ 
 ages of shoes and stockings, was wading up to his 
 kilt in the clear pool, his lovely face flushed with 
 hope and exertion, and his little tartan bonnet 
 (once more thrown aside) floating unheeded down 
 the stream. 
 
 44 What’s this o’t ?” cried the old poacher, ad¬ 
 dressing Helen kindly, but with all an artist’s im¬ 
 portance, 44 I’m thinkin’ ye’re but a puir hand at 
 that gear, mistress !” 44 I’ve seen the day,” answered 
 the widow mildly, 44 that it didna come sae strange 
 to me ; but it’s lang, lang . . . Neil snatched 
 the line out of her hand to hide a twitch of emo¬ 
 tion elsewhere ; and, with the instinct that teaches 
 all kind hearts to salve the wounds they have un¬ 
 consciously given, began to please and caress the 
 child. 
 
 44 Come here, Johnny,” said he, 44 and see me 
 dress your line—and it shanna want the best Hie 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 155 
 
 in an auld fisher's pouch to bring luck to your curly 
 pow !" So saying, he unfolded to the astonished 
 and transported urchin's eyes the many-coloured 
 contents of a dingy old fishing-hook, which neither 
 would at that moment have exchanged for the pock¬ 
 et-book of a Cmesus. Our first meeting at the 
 ferry-boat recurred to my mind, as I saw the 44 curly 
 pow," as Neil called the flaxen ringlets of the child, 
 once more mingling in careless exuberance with the 
 dark, wiry, but partially grizzled, elf-locks of the 
 44 water kelpy." 
 
 I availed myself of the conference to converse 
 apart with the widow ; and was glad to observe in 
 her mild countenance a freedom at least from 
 care and suffering, which corroborated the account 
 she gave me of her temporary amendment. 44 Ill 
 put owre the summer, if it please God, I think, at 
 ony rate," said she, 44 and that will give my mother 
 time to breathe after her sair journey. Whiles I 
 maist fear I may even do mair, for there's some¬ 
 thing in the smell o' the heather, and the sough o' 
 the wind, and the plash of the burn there, that 
 gies me mair strength than a' the cordials the doc¬ 
 tor orders, or the gude lady down-by sends. And 
 O, sir, gin ye had seen the thing they ca’ milk at 
 
156 
 
 PROBATION". 
 
 Dover, ye wouldna wonder the bairn and me should 
 baith thrive sae weel on the curds and the goat’s 
 whey. I canna bring mysel to wish to live yet— 
 and that's sinfu’—baith for my Blither's sake and 
 the laddie's—but I am content to bide the Lord's 
 time, as our ain minister at Rannoch bade the ho¬ 
 nest man here tell me, wi' his blessing on the bairn 
 he christened. It was mindfu' o' him, sir, and like 
 himsel'—but I believe the lady down-by wrote to 
 him about me. O, sir, will ye thank her better 
 than I can do, for her Christian kindness to me 
 and mine ; and tell her gin ye please, that I canna 
 bid wee Johnny gang to the schule in thir bonny 
 simmer days. I ken its no right, for he's sair 
 ahint in his learning—but the creture'sbeen brought 
 up amang towns and sorrow, and the braes and the 
 burn, and the birch-woods are just a heaven upon 
 earth to the bit birdie out o' a cage ! when winter 
 coines, he'll learn doucely aneuch, and live to read 
 the Bible to my mother when I'm gane." 
 
 (( You need not apologize, I am sure, to Mrs. 
 Hume for letting him run wild in this weather," 
 said i, recollecting what she had said to myself on 
 the subject of study in summer. 
 
 By this time the line was dressed, and skilfully 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 157 
 
 thrown by Neil, though triumphantly drawn by 
 his transported pupil, exhibited no longer an inani¬ 
 mate bunch of weeds, or ignoble though welcome 
 minnow, but a trout, a bona fide trout, whose half- 
 pound caliber made it appear in the eyes of the no¬ 
 vice a perfect leviathan. 44 Did na I tell you, I 
 would bring you luck, Johnny ?” exclaimed the 
 good-natured veteran, as pleased as the child him¬ 
 self. 44 If ye're a gude bairn, and mind your mo¬ 
 ther, ye shall come down the water some bonny day, 
 and see the gentleman and me kill a salmon ; but 
 (with the arch smile of one who knew Rome was 
 not built in one day), if ye want to see him do’t, 
 yell no need to be in a hurry. 1 ’ 
 
 On repassing the cottage, I found the old wo¬ 
 man standing on the threshold, shading her eyes 
 with her hand from the afternoon sun, and looking 
 out for the group whose triumphant shout had 
 reached her. 44 There will be a man for ye, belyve,” 
 exclaimed the fisherman, pointing to Johnny and 
 his prize, which, in infant exultation, he was car¬ 
 rying to Granny. 44 There’s spunk in the laddie, 
 I assure you, Tibbie.” 
 
 44 He’s the liker them that gaed afore him,” 
 sighed the bereaved mother of six sons, as she 
 
158 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 stroked his curly head. “ On the water and on 
 the hill, and on the battle-field, they but aye to be 
 foremost; and whar are they a’ now ? But they're 
 in the hand o’ God, nae doubt, and sae maun it be 
 wi’ Johnny, when his time comes. 1 ’ 
 
 I passed a month of the most unmingled yet va¬ 
 ried enjoyment at Glen Falconar. To those ex¬ 
 quisitely rural pleasures, of which I had never before 
 even formed an idea—of fishing, as much for scenery 
 as salmon, and shooting, when game was often for¬ 
 gotten amid the sublimity of the mountain pano¬ 
 rama before me, and rambling on shaggy ponies 
 through wild Highland glens, with a delight no 
 hunter or racer had ever been able to awaken, and 
 a family circle of a character so original and piquant 
 as to render it almost incapable of improvement— 
 were added all the charms of cultivated and per¬ 
 petually varying society. It was now the height 
 of the grouse-shooting season ; and Glen Falconar, 
 in the direct road to many of the most renowned 
 sporting quarters in Scotland, and itself affording 
 no contemptible range for a more privileged band 
 of domiciliated sportsmen, was the temporary rest- 
 ing-place of numbers of agreeable individuals from 
 the south ; attracted either by the laird’s patriar- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 159 
 
 chal hospitality, or the carte blanche immemorially 
 possessed upon it by Mrs. Sydney Hume. 
 
 It was delightful to one who already viewed that 
 charming woman, not only with filial regard, but 
 somewhat of the secret pride ascribed to lovers, to 
 see how reverentially some of these young scions 
 of nobility from a distant land approached the shrine 
 of her whom their fathers had 44 delighted to hon¬ 
 our.’ 1 Her manner with these young people was 
 so frank, so maternal, so bewitching, that I despair 
 of conveying any thing like the effect it produced 
 on their feelings, except by giving vent, as I so 
 frequently do in these pages, to my own. When 
 they were gone, Mrs. Sydney would sometimes, in 
 our frequent tete-d-tetes, give me the history of these 
 heir-loom friendships, as she called them ; not from 
 vanity, for of that she knew not the meaning, but 
 to gratify my ardent curiosity, and indulge in pleas¬ 
 ing retrospects. 
 
 We had been all particularly delighted with the 
 
 young English Lord G—-, who, as a godson of 
 
 the good lady’s, had of course a special claim on 
 
 her good-will and favour. 44 Mr. Meredith,” said 
 
 she to me, as we sat together in the window, whence 
 
 she had just given him her parting benediction, 44 of 
 
 3 
 
160 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 all my sons and daughters, and, for a single gen¬ 
 tlewoman, I am pretty rich in such blessings, there 
 are few I feel such an exclusive right in as that dear 
 boy who has just left us. But for me, I am not 
 sure he would ever have been in existence, and what 
 his poor father's fate might have been, I yet shud¬ 
 der at times to reflect on. I'll tell you about it, 
 the more readily, as you also, I think, had an es¬ 
 cape, though a less fearful one, from the perils of 
 the gaming-table.'’' 
 
 cc I was staying, some thirty years ago, at a 
 friend's house in England, when this lad’s father, 
 
 (then himself Lord G-) came to it late one 
 
 afternoon, quite unexpectedly, and evidently dis¬ 
 concerted to find a stranger with the family, whose 
 long intimacy with the youth soon enabled them 
 to discover that there was something dreadfully 
 wrong about their usually cheerful and light-heart¬ 
 ed visiter. He pleaded fatigue and illness (and 
 in truth he looked the picture of both) to retire 
 early to his room; and we talked disconsolately 
 over his altered appearance and evident distress all 
 the rest of the evening. 
 
 My friend, whose room was under the one he 
 occupied, heard him pacing in deep disturbance 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 161 
 
 the live-long night; while groans, not easily wrung 
 from a light and youthful bosom, bore testimony 
 to the volcano within. Seriously alarmed, and 
 herself a person of timid and nervous character, 
 she sent me a message at dawn to come and speak 
 to her, and did not conceal from me her apprehen¬ 
 sions (too sadly justified by rumours which had 
 reached her) of some impending catastrophe. 
 
 “It was a delicate matter no doubt to interfere in, 
 or even hint a suspicion of; but if ever I did any 
 good in this world, it was by giving delicacy to the 
 winds, where virtue, or reputation, or human life 
 were at stake. I was old enough, though my time- 
 bleached locks were then only sprinkled with grey, 
 to take on me the office of mentor, especially as I 
 had an excuse for it in early, though suspended, 
 acquaintance with the young man’s beautiful mo¬ 
 ther. The thought of her and her anguish decid¬ 
 ed the matter at once ; and equipping myself for a 
 walk—no great hardship at six o’clock of a fine 
 June morning—I waylaid my man in the verandah 
 before the house. 
 
 “ The start of conscious guilt which he gave on 
 seeing me, joined to his absolutely ghastly appear¬ 
 ance, confirmed my worst fears ; and I believe it 
 
162 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 was with a heart little calmer than his own, that I 
 found voice to say— 4 A glorious morning, my 
 lord—shall we enjoy our walk together ?’ 4 If you 
 
 please, Madam,’ faltered he, cruelly disconcerted; 
 but politeness to ladies was then a matter of reli¬ 
 gion, and there was no getting off. 
 
 44 After some ineffectual attempts at common 
 conversation, which was manifestly impossible, I 
 
 said, abruptly— 4 Lord G-, will you allow me 
 
 to account for the intrusion of an apparent stranger 
 in your privacy, by former intimacy with your 
 amiable mother, who, when we met in early life in 
 the miscalled gay world, appeared to me as glori¬ 
 ously unfit for it as myself; and who, I conclude, 
 has retained, even amid its giddy vortex, feelings 
 to be wounded, and a heart to be broken. It is the 
 knowledge of this which prompts my present abrupt¬ 
 ness. Will you allow me, on the grounds I have 
 stated, to put myself in her place, and by receiving 
 the confession which hovers on your reluctant lips, 
 to avert from her a shock her delicate frame and 
 spirits are less qualified than mine to sustain ? I 
 will break the ice for you, my Lord. I have heard 
 something of losses at play ; and vague suspicions 
 have crossed the breast of your friends within, that 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 1()3 
 
 their magnitude has led you almost to contemplate 
 an act, before which, follies and crimes though they 
 be, they shrink into utter insignificance. They 
 are, and far be it from me to deny it, melancholy 
 and degrading, (nay, start not) profligate things ; 
 for the loss which makes the heir of thousands 
 writhe in unendurable agony, might have been 
 transferred to some head, which it would have 
 crushed for ever in the dust, or blown in 
 atoms ere now to the winds of insulted heaven. 
 Your father, I know—and your knowledge of it 
 causes your present despair—views your late pur¬ 
 suits in the same uncompromising light that I do ; 
 but if you will make me the herald of a promise 
 that they are abjured for ever, I will undertake so 
 to represent them, that they shall never (except in 
 the shape of a salutary self-upbraiding) visit you for 
 the past. Will y<;u give me this promise, my dear 
 young friend ?’ said I, as I stepped to gaze on his 
 averted face, 4 and one more sacred still, to make 
 your peace at a higher tribunal for what, I fear, 
 you meditated of outrage there V 
 
 44 4 I did, I did f burst from the overburdened 
 heart of the young creature (he was but nineteen 
 at the time) ; 4 I would have shot myself last 
 
164 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 night, if I had not shrunk from alarming dear Mrs. 
 
 L-, and I was on my way to the lake in the 
 
 grounds when you met and saved me from suicide P 
 — 4 God be praised P exclaimed I, much reliev¬ 
 ed by a flood of tears, 4 God be praised P But 
 you shall not stir out of my sight till I have your 
 father's forgiving, nay rejoicing answer.^ 
 
 44 It may be imagined how an epistle, penned un¬ 
 der such strong excitement, must have come home 
 to the breast of a father, even an austere one. Lord 
 
 G-, thoroughly appalled and moved, wrote in 
 
 overflowing gratitude to providence for escape, and 
 to me for interference, and to his son, as the father 
 of the prodigal has taught us all to act, would we 
 follow the bright example. From that hour I 
 might have commanded the whole ministerial in¬ 
 fluence—no small one—of Lord G-; but you 
 
 may imagine its good offices, though not unbe¬ 
 stowed, were ever unsolicited. 
 
 44 But it was when the old lord died, and his son 
 succeeded and married, and asked me to stand god¬ 
 mother to his boy who is just gone, that I reaped 
 the richest reward of my bit of moral courage (for 
 it was no more.) As Lord G-put the inno¬ 
 
 cent child in my arms, he said, in the hearing of 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 1 65 
 
 many to whom it was a pretty enigma, 4 He al¬ 
 ready owes you a father, Mrs. Hume. Oh ! let 
 him find a mother also in his own and his father’s 
 friend.’ 
 
 44 Don’t you see now what a right I have to be 
 proud of my grandson , (as I may call him), and 
 to kiss him on both sides of the face, as I did just 
 now with right motherly good will ? This is only 
 one of a thousand of my romances of real life, Mr. 
 Meredith—I could fill volumes with my adven¬ 
 tures of the sort.” 
 
 44 I wish to goodness you would, and make me 
 their editor,” said I, 44 if they are half as edifying 
 as this of Lord G-.” 
 
166 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The hope, the fears, the~jealous care, 
 
 Th’ exalted portion of the pain 
 And pow’r of love I cannot share 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 An opportunity was soon afforded at once to gratify 
 my penchant for romances of real life, and enable 
 my Mentor to “ point ’’ 1 her favourite moral of the 
 dangers of a residence abroad. 
 
 One of the few prejudices, harmless at least, if 
 not praiseworthy, “ for ev’n her failings lean'll to 
 virtue’s side , 11 with which a modern liberal might 
 have reproached Mrs. Sydney, was a deep-rooted 
 aversion, amounting almost to horror, for continen¬ 
 tal manners and morality. 
 
 Never having herself travelled, the halo with 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 167 
 
 which scenery and associations, and climate and 
 
 language, too often invest customs and practices 
 
 from whose unveiled deformity British integrity 
 
 would shrink, had never interposed to blind or dis- 
 % 
 
 tort her mental vision ; while the correspondence 
 of a lifetime with her diplomatic relatives abroad, 
 had fully withdrawn the mask from the heartless 
 profligacy and systematic dereliction of ties and du¬ 
 ties amid which they walked unsullied, like beings of 
 a superior sphere. Boundless intimacy with French 
 literature had strengthened instead of weakening 
 the impression ; and the best echo, perhaps, of her 
 opinions on foreign politics and foreign sentiment, 
 might be found in that poetry of the antijacobin, 
 which she quoted and applied with wit and humour 
 akin to its gifted author’s. 
 
 I was beguiling an inveterately wet day (for 
 
 there were wet days even at Glen Falconar) by 
 
 turning over a splendid collection of architectural 
 
 views in Rome, with which a cousin of the laird’s, 
 
 a celebrated antiquary, whose life was devoted to 
 
 the pursuit, had enriched the family library. As I 
 
 gazed on one monument after another, of ancient 
 
 splendour or modern munificence, I could not help 
 
 expressing my regrets at the bar interposed by the 
 
 3 
 
168 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 then all-powerful Napoleon to the innocent grati¬ 
 fication of idlers like myself. 
 
 44 Nay, Mr. Meredith,” said Mrs. Hume, to 
 whom my remarks were addressed, 44 if any thing 
 could neutralize my execration of the heartless ty¬ 
 rant, who, your se desennuyer in the intervals of 
 the 4 muck/ he is 4 running’ at thrones and prin¬ 
 cipalities and every institution human and divine, 
 keeps many a dear countryman and sailor boy of 
 my own chafing his gallant heart out, and gamb¬ 
 ling away in pure recklessness his hard-earned pit¬ 
 tance, in that Giant Despair’s cave, called Verdun— 
 it would be the wholesome check he imposes on vo¬ 
 lunteer idlers like yourself, by the Taboo he has 
 placed on the gods of their heathen idolatry. 
 
 44 Pictures, and statues, and ruins, and recollec¬ 
 tions, are fine things. When I was your age, I 
 would have given one of my two eyes to enjoy 
 them with the other ; and even yet, at my quiet 
 fireside, my pulse quickens, and my cheek glows, 
 when some harmless enthusiast like our cousin Jem 
 Falconar describes them con amove for my amuse¬ 
 ment and instruction. But, trust me, to dwell 
 among them uncontaminated, a man must either 
 be cased up like honest Jem in an impervious coat- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 169 
 
 ing of* true antiquarian rust, or fortified with an ar¬ 
 mour of principle, which few idlers, yourself, ex¬ 
 cuse me, not excepted, can boast. 
 
 “ Perhaps, as an antidote to that splendid port¬ 
 folio of Piranesis, the c stones’ of which I fear are 
 more pregnant with seductions than with 6 sermons,’ 
 (though there is not one of them but might furnish 
 an ample text,) I ought to bid you read a melan¬ 
 choly instance of the danger of a sojourn in dege¬ 
 nerate Rome, which I got a dear friend, now 
 no more, who played a Christian part in the do¬ 
 mestic tragedy, to put down for me at the time. 
 It will be a new page, though a dark one, in that 
 education of yours, which, like an Eastern sage, (I 
 am a great reader of Eastern stories) I seem des¬ 
 tined to conduct in the way of moral apologues. 
 
 66 You have lately witnessed how much happiness 
 springs from duties adhered to ;—may you never 
 learn, save on paper, what utter misery arises from 
 duties deserted. My friend’s story (if I can lay 
 my hands on it) will be worth an hundred homilies. 
 When you have read it, you will wonder less at 
 my toleration for Bonaparte and his exclusive sys¬ 
 tem. 
 
 “ Of the writer, I shall only say (as, if I remem- 
 
170 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 ber right, he hints at himself,) that he had suffered 
 more, and in a more Christian spirit than any per¬ 
 son I ever knew. At the time he thus benevolent¬ 
 ly sought to reclaim a stray sheep from his mas¬ 
 ter’s fold, he had lost or survived every thing in 
 this world, except that love for mankind which 
 made him the earlier ripe for another. 
 
 a I’ll send you the papers if I can find them—but 
 don’t talk to me of them afterwards. They har¬ 
 rowed my feelings when I was better able to bear 
 it—and I now don’t court painful emotions ; life 
 has enow of them.” 
 
 THE CAVALIERE SERVENTE. 
 
 That man is by nature a spendthrift, is a pro¬ 
 position which, as applied to the species generally, 
 few will be disposed to deny. But if it be asked, 
 of which among the gifts of Providence he is most 
 recklessly prodigal—while an economist might an¬ 
 swer his money, a philosopher his talents, and a 
 moralist his time—my long observation of human 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 171 
 
 life would dispose me to reply—his happiness. 
 Not only that inestimable heritage of endless bliss, 
 which he daily barters with worse than savage imbe¬ 
 cility for the shining baubles that have mocked 
 him a thousand times—but that equitable portion of 
 earthly felicity which the Author of his being, with 
 no sparing hand, casts into the mingled lot of every 
 child of mortality. 
 
 How few, how very few, among not the giddy 
 young, or unprofitably aged of our species—but 
 even the rational, the reflecting, and the worldly- 
 wise—can lay their hand on their heart, and say 
 that they have extracted from human life all the 
 happiness it was legitimately capable of affording. 
 It is alchymy, confined, alas ! to a privileged and 
 most limited number of adepts ; and there is un¬ 
 fortunately an opposite process in daily and hourly 
 operation, by which thousands, like the ferocious 
 Indian, range the garden of the universe to convert 
 its sweets into poison, while, with worse than In¬ 
 dian stupidity, it is against themselves the deadly 
 compound is directed. 
 
 This, I doubt not, will appear to many the gloomy 
 view of a disappointed and melancholy man. But 
 having myself learned from a higher teacher to 
 
172 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 find that hidden vein of calm enjoyment, which 
 the very ravages of a devastating torrent served to 
 lay bare in my own humble path—I grieve the 
 more for those who walk, reckless and unenriched, 
 over a surface strewed with gems, which only re¬ 
 quire the polishing hand of affection and care to 
 make their mild light illumine the darkest portions 
 of our chequered pilgrimage. 
 
 I was one evening at the Conversazione of the 
 -palace at Rome ; a house to which I had per¬ 
 haps the more eagerly coveted admission, as its gates 
 rarely opened for my countrymen, and the manners, 
 style, and tone were decidedly and unadulteratedly 
 Italian. Not a gleam of revolutionary light had 
 penetrated its marble walls; not a deviation from 
 the routine of national and systematic gallantry ; 
 not a woman unattended by her cavaliere, nor one 
 of these chained galley slaves who looked as if made 
 for better things, or as if he would know more what 
 to do with his liberty than a Portuguese votary of 
 absolutism. 
 
 Such at least was my first impression ; but a 
 closer inspection of this degraded race convinced 
 me, that the Sala contained one individual into 
 whose soul the iron had entered, and whose nobler 
 
FRO RATION. 
 
 173 
 
 feelings had been crushed and corroded rather 
 than eradicated, by years of expatriation and ser¬ 
 vility. Dark as he naturally was in complexion, 
 foreign as he had become in dress, in manners, 
 and in idiom, there was something about the 
 avowed, yet not entirely unblushing Servente of 
 the Contessa B-, which betrayed the inex¬ 
 
 tinguishable spark of British pride and energy. 
 Amid the motley group of cassocked priests and 
 purple Monsignori, of degenerate patricians and 
 tinsel soldiers brought together in full costume on 
 this evening of a high Roman festa , my country¬ 
 man looked, fallen as he was 44 from the high 
 estate” of his compeers, like Milton's 44 Arch¬ 
 angel ruin'd,”—or as a blackened and fire-wasted 
 pillar from the then recently ravaged fane of San 
 Paolo fuori le Mura would have shewed amid the 
 trash of a modern stone-cutter’s work-shop. 
 
 44 Englishman !” thought I, (almost tempted to 
 apostrophize him aloud,) 44 what dost thou here ? 
 Has thine own land no pure smile for thee, that 
 thou canst leave its sweetness thus to 4 batten on 
 a moor ?' to court the thorns without the roses of 
 wedded love—the cares without the dignity of mar¬ 
 riage ? to endure jealousy without passion, inanity 
 
174 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 no longer thinly veiled by youth and beauty, or 
 undisguised from thine oft averted eye by blissful 
 ignorance of better things ? What thou art now, 
 I read upon thy conscious brow; a sad, reluctant, 
 yet inextricable slave, like the repentant yet de¬ 
 sponding renegade—hopeless of a return to the 
 faith he only half abjured, yet loathing himself 
 for that his fears but half embraced. So is it with 
 thee, tall proud son of Britain ! yoked like thine 
 ancestors of old to Rome’s triumphal car—yet 
 writhing unsubdued even amid the dust, in which, 
 (unlike thy sires) it is thy choice , not fate to 
 grovel ! 6 Awake ! arise ; or be for ever fairn. ir) 
 
 Relieved by this burst of mental improvisation, 
 the tenor of which would, if uttered aloud in such 
 society, have possibly secured for me, at the first 
 safe opportunity, the honotirs of the stiletto, I 
 tried to conquer my disinclination to enter into con¬ 
 versation with its object ; but experienced in so 
 doing (and it was apparently mutual) the sort of 
 strange repulsion which is remarked to prevail 
 among animals of kindred race, between whom 
 education and habits have raised an artificial bar¬ 
 rier. I felt the mingled contempt and dislike of 
 the wild dog or horse of savage countries towards 
 
PROBATION. 175 
 
 one of his species degraded in his eyes by domesti¬ 
 city, while, in my trammeled compatriot, shyness 
 and estrangement seemed oddly blended with em¬ 
 barrassment and fear. Well is it said that 44 con¬ 
 science makes cowards of us all,” for Mr. Mon- 
 
 tresor (late of his Majesty’s-dragoons,) could 
 
 no more look a countryman straight in the face 
 than Guy Fawkes, when caught under St. Stephen’s 
 with his lantern in his hand. 
 
 Most of the party sat down to play, the real, 
 however conversation might be the ostensible ob¬ 
 ject of the meeting; while a few Abates and soi- 
 disant Dilletanti gathered into a corner to talk that 
 species of professional vertil , against which, as 
 tending to disenchant the fine arts, and infuse the 
 poison of pedantry and cant into the exquisite cup 
 of Roman enjoyment, I have ever resolutely shut 
 my ears. My compatriot declined play, and shyed 
 the Ciceroni , two redeeming traits ; we were thus 
 left together, and intercourse became inevitable. 
 It soon ceased to be unacceptable on either side. 
 Montresor, like one suddenly roused from the long 
 oblivion of disease, had many questions to ask 
 respecting England ; and it was evident from his 
 ignorance of recent domestic occurrences, that he 
 
176 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 had mingled little with his (at that time rare) 
 travelling countrymen. Indeed, the magic circle 
 within whose precincts he had voluntarily inthralled 
 himself, forbade their collision ; and he reminded 
 me of a knight of romance rendered not only for¬ 
 getful of, but invisible to, his brethren in arms by 
 the spells of an Armida. 
 
 As the thought crossed my brain, I glanced at 
 his enchantress. She was still handsome, and, in 
 any other situation, probably fascinating; but 
 play now absorbed her whole soul, (if soul she had ;) 
 and though too well trained to its vicissitudes and 
 the usages of society to have testified much emo¬ 
 tion in losing, the fiend-like sparkle of her eye as 
 a winner disgusted me still more. There is no 
 accounting for flights of fancy, and she reminded 
 me, while raking in with unfeminine eagerness 
 her heaps of gold, of a beautiful demon in an old 
 picture of the Last Judgment gathering condemned 
 souls by a similar process. 
 
 <c It is a pity the Italians are so devoted to play,"” 
 said my countryman, as if reading my thoughts, 
 u for they have many social qualities, which, but 
 for this passion, would render their intercourse de¬ 
 lightful. I know them well,” added he, (a sigh 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 177 
 
 seemed to say too well;) “ they dare not think, the 
 climate forbids conviviality, and it is in play they 
 find the oblivion their present fallen condition de¬ 
 mands.'” 
 
 “ And do you—thus knowing them,” thought 
 I; 66 thus aware that they are hut the shadow of a 
 shade, the faded outline of a once glowing picture, 
 the mutilated torso of a once Herculean statue— 
 do you prefer a permanent residence among them 
 to the duties, the blessings, and the ties of home ?” 
 There must exist, methinks, for this deliberate ex¬ 
 patriation, some more than common motive ; and 
 though delicacy and propriety forbade all efforts to 
 extract it on so short an acquaintance,—I deter¬ 
 mined to find it out, and, if unconnected with dis¬ 
 honour, endeavour to achieve the rescue and restora¬ 
 tion to his country of this interesting young Briton. 
 
 Such I indeed found him, in the course of a long 
 evening’s conversation, during which I learned 
 more of Italian character, and acquired more know¬ 
 ledge of the less hacknied sources of classical enjoy¬ 
 ment in Rome, than in a couple of months’ previ¬ 
 ous stay from the obsequious inanity of a professed 
 Cicerone. 
 
 My evident relish for the latter subject com- 
 
178 PROBATION. 
 
 bined with a revival of his own dormant nationali¬ 
 ty, to produce on the part of my countryman an 
 offer of his services, as a guide and fellow-lounger, 
 during those early morning hours which spring 
 was beginning to render delightful, though by the 
 indolence and vacuity of his Italian taskmistress, 
 they were still dedicated to repose. I had an en¬ 
 gagement for next day, which precluded our meet¬ 
 ing ; but we arranged to do so in future ; and I 
 wrung the hand of this stray sheep from my native 
 flock, thus domesticated in a herd of bigots and 
 gamblers and demireps, as I should have done had 
 I met him in an Esquimaux encampment or Hot¬ 
 tentot kraal on the other side of the globe. 
 
 The excursion I made on the morrow, was one 
 of mingled pleasure and instruction. It was to vi¬ 
 sit, in company with its venerable head, the farm 
 attached to one of the British Catholic seminaries 
 at Rome—and amid much invaluable information 
 on modern and ancient Italian agriculture, and 
 topics not generally accessible to travellers—I ga¬ 
 thered some light on the history, of my Anglo- 
 Italian friend. 
 
 Mr. Montresor had come, almost immediately 
 on the peace, to Rome; when, after devo'ting near- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 179 
 
 ly a year to the usual pursuits of his countrymen, 
 he had, in consequence of his protracted residence, 
 and some Catholic connexions in England, been 
 admitted into the bosom of Italian society, and 
 formed the unfortunate attachment which led ul¬ 
 timately to his present thraldom. All this I could 
 have guessed; but the reason assigned by my in¬ 
 formant was wholly unexpected. He told me the 
 expatriation of Montresor, and his retirement 
 from the English service, was generally ascribed 
 (though with no positive certainty) to a boyish and 
 uncongenial marriage in his own country. 
 
 I absolutely started on hearing the word, and 
 reflecting on the double breach of vow t s it implied ; 
 yet pity for my misguided countryman got the 
 better of strong disapprobation, and the thought 
 that the happiness of a deserted wife might be at 
 stake, strengthened my chivalric feelings. I took 
 leave of the good Abbes , with my head full of any 
 thing but maize and melons ; and woke at dawn 
 next morning with the zeal, if not the wisdom of a 
 reformer. 
 
 I had tact enough, however, to eschew all topics 
 save privileged ones, at this early stage of our ac¬ 
 quaintance ; resolved to let those of a more delicate 
 
180 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 nature come spontaneously from the evidently full 
 heart of my new friend. Of the classics and fine 
 arts he spoke not learnedly, but feelingly ; yet it 
 was the feeling of one who had found even these to 
 be vanity—who, under the 44 beau del (V Italie 
 felt the curse of Cain, and was unhappy. How, 
 indeed, should he have been otherwise ? Could he, 
 thus circumstanced, have been gay, or even cheer¬ 
 ful, I should never have wasted a thought on him ; 
 but he was one whom man evidently delighted 
 not, no, nor woman neither—however habit might 
 have riveted her degrading chains. 
 
 The only opening afforded by this morning’s in¬ 
 terview, was a remark echoed by a sigh, that he 
 did not find the air of Italy agree very well with 
 him of late. 44 Why should you not try that of 
 England ?” asked I, with perhaps imprudent 
 warmth. He shook his head mournfully, bade 
 me adieu, and took, with resolved though listless 
 steps, the well-known road to the Casa B-. 
 
 I have neither time nor spirits to dwell on the 
 minutiae of our advance towards intimacy. Suf¬ 
 fice it, that, at the end of a month of almost daily 
 intercourse, the confidence as well as regard of 
 Montresor, (for thus, though an assumed name, I 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 181 
 
 shall continue to call him,) were mine, and he told 
 me the following painful history : 
 
 44 I was quartered , 11 said he, 44 about ten years ago, 
 with a small detachment, at the Irish village of 
 
 F-. It afforded little society, and that of the 
 
 curate of the place, a widower with a daughter, be¬ 
 came my chief resource. He was a good, easy, 
 unsuspecting man, and Kathleen, a wild, high- 
 spirited, untutored child of seventeen, just the crea¬ 
 ture to inspire, not a passion, but a boyish fancy, 
 and to return it in kind. We were eternally to¬ 
 gether, and scandal began to be busy, though er¬ 
 roneously, with the parson’s daughter. I as little 
 dreamt of seducing, as I did of marrying her ; but 
 with a little management on her father’s side, or 
 coquetry on hers, I should easily have been brought 
 to the latter alternative, for I really liked though I 
 scarce loved her. Both, however, were wanting, 
 and our evil genius sent home on leave a bully 
 brother, precisely one of those hectoring specimens 
 of an Irishman, who form such prominent excep¬ 
 tions to the national character. 
 
 44 This hero gave me, without circumlocution or 
 inquiry, the alternative of fighting or matrimony, 
 which, had poor Kathleen been an angel, would at 
 
182 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 once have made me perform the former. My dis¬ 
 position was, however, originally easy and flexible, 
 and softened by success, (for I wounded the Hi¬ 
 bernian) and still more by the opportune illness of 
 the old father, and the threefold sorrows of his 
 daughter, I voluntarily took the step which, on 
 compulsion, I had staked my life to avoid, and 
 married one for whom I felt at best only a garrison 
 attachment. It was, I blush to say it to you, not 
 proof against absence, the reproaches of my friends, 
 and the sneers of my comrades. After the few 
 weeks which preceded our first separation, I never 
 saw my wife more. I fancied that by the sacrifice 
 I had made to her reputation and feelings, I had 
 purchased the right to consult my own ; and after 
 exacting from my father as his share in the com¬ 
 promise, a handsome settlement on my deserted 
 bride, I left her to reside as before, with her own 
 doating parent, and set out, in a somewhat reckless 
 mood, for the Continent. 
 
 “ The first letter I received from my wife, (not 
 the first it would appear, of many she had written) 
 reached me near two years afterwards, in the height 
 
 of my passion for Teresa B-. It surprised me 
 
 by its tone of mild remonstrance and intellectual 
 
PROBATION'. 
 
 183 
 
 cultivation ; but the eloquence of an angel would 
 then have fallen powerless on my ear, and my sen¬ 
 timents remained unaltered. What chance indeed 
 had the absent Irish girl, and her hoyden manners, 
 and careless garb, and Connaught brogue, in com¬ 
 parison with the stately carriage, and studied cos¬ 
 tume, and syren voice of her whom you have seen 
 so dazzling even in decay. My very vow seemed 
 by distance to have lost its sanctity, while a fatal 
 delusion transferred it where it could only outrage 
 Heaven. For some time after, I heard of Kath¬ 
 leen through my banker, (by whom, since my fa¬ 
 ther’s death, her allowance was paid,) that she liv¬ 
 ed with hers in credit, and I hoped in comfort. 
 About six years ago, he informed me that the 
 old man was dead, and his daughter gone to reside 
 with a distant relation. 
 
 44 This event first revived my sense of duty, if not 
 of affection. Kathleen had now no natural protec¬ 
 tor but myself, and conscience whispered, that if 
 aught evil befel her, I could not falter forth even 
 the paltry evasion of Cain — 4 Am I my brother’s 
 keeper ?’ I had vowed to love—that might be be¬ 
 yond my power, but to cherish, foster, and defend her 
 was my bounden duty; yet I lingered on, I should 
 
184 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 have lingered yet, had heaven not sent you to my 
 rescue. 
 
 44 One step I took to silence the clamours of the 
 inward monitor, and I trust from less selfish feel¬ 
 ings also. I once, and once only before you won 
 my secret from me—confided it to a young Irishman 
 called Nugent, returning from hence to his coun¬ 
 try, and besought him to inquire into my wife’s re¬ 
 sidence and situation, and communicate the result 
 to me. This, with the thoughtlessness of youth, 
 he forgot to do. How indeed should a stranger 
 feel interest when a husband could testify so little ? 
 It is now five years and upwards since he left 
 Italy, and as even the banker’s clue is lost, from 
 the annuity being nearly as long unclaimed, who 
 knows if I may not ere this be robbed by death of 
 the tardy reparation I feel too late disposed to 
 make ?” 
 
 44 Do not give way to such idle forebodings, 
 Montresor,” said I, intercepting him, 44 nor call by 
 the cold name of reparation the long arrear of felici¬ 
 ty, which 1 trust is in store for you, and one more 
 deserving. The death of her father probably left 
 your wife independent, and mistaken pride has 
 made her spurn your provision.” 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 1 85 
 
 44 I trust it is so, 11 answered lie, 44 and yet 1 have 
 misgivings in my mind which make me wretched, 
 and urge me to get rid of this intolerable suspense. 
 Oh ! if I am indeed once more blest with a sight 
 of my injured wife, how will I strive by lavish, and, 
 God know s, undissembled tenderness, to indemnify 
 
 V 
 
 her and myself for years of desertion on her part, 
 and guilt on mine.” 
 
 Such feelings continued to prevail, gathering 
 from delay and obstacles the strength and intensity 
 of passion, till v r e were enabled (after a civil seces¬ 
 sion from the Casa B-, which scandalized all 
 
 the correct ideas of the Roman matrons) to quit 
 Italy on our v 7 ay to Britain. The long repressed 
 energy of Montresors character, stimulated by re¬ 
 morse and hope, the tw 7 o most gigantic levers of 
 human nature, lent wings to our journey; but it 
 defeated itself in the end by inducing, on our ap¬ 
 proach to a cooler climate, one of those intermit¬ 
 tent fevers, w r hich vicissitudes of temperature, com¬ 
 bined with rapid travelling, so frequently occasion. 
 
 W e scarce halted anywhere, for sight-seeing was 
 out of the question w T ith us both. But at Turin, 
 where our carriage had to undergo a necessary re¬ 
 pair, Montresor, whose fancy (except at moments 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 186 
 
 of peculiar excitement) was often filled with fune¬ 
 real images, proposed going to see the church of 
 the Superga, situated on a neighbouring hill, and 
 containing the bodies of the kings of Sardinia ; the 
 last monarch lying in state in its subterranean 
 cloisters, until the obsequies of his successor entitle 
 him to sepulture. 
 
 The day was sultry, and the walk fatiguing, the 
 chill of the vault consequently more striking both 
 to mind and frame. Montresor, who had been 
 complaining, shivered as he stood gazing on the 
 grisly pageant, and said, 44 I am not well; let us 
 go down again.” From that day he had regular 
 returns of fever, during the paroxysms of which we 
 were forced to halt, but resumed our journey at the 
 intervals. 
 
 Switzerland had for us no attractions—can even 
 its beauties minister either to a mind or frame dis¬ 
 eased ? So we proposed striking across from Cham- 
 bery through France, and embarking at Bourdeaux 
 direct for Ireland. As Montresor’s health became 
 worse, his anxiety to reach his goal became exces¬ 
 sive—his fluctuations from hope to despair, pain¬ 
 ful in the extreme. 
 
 In one of the latter moods, he proposed, when 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 187 
 
 we should arrive at the neighbouring village of 
 
 F-, a short digression to the convent of 
 
 La Grande Chartreuse ; a place, he said, whose 
 austerities had always filled him with mingled ad¬ 
 miration and horror, and which he felt a strange 
 desire to see. I gratified him, for it involved but 
 a short delay, and coincided with my own feelings 
 of curiosity. The scenery is wild beyond descrip¬ 
 tion, and harmonizes but too well with rules that 
 extinguish every sentiment of humanity, and an¬ 
 nihilate every tie of nature. Father and son have 
 dwelt unloving and unknown within its ghastly 
 precincts, aud this sepulchre of the living has 
 spread its marble shroud alike over genius, rank, 
 misfortune, and crime. 
 
 I shuddered to pass even a single night there, 
 but Montresor experienced a strange sort of plea¬ 
 sure in questioning the Padre for estiere, and elicit¬ 
 ing from him the gloomiest and most terrific fea¬ 
 tures of the institution. 
 
 We got away at last, but I shall not soon for¬ 
 get the look which Montresor cast on the receding 
 turrets, or his exclamation, “ What a temple to 
 conscience is here. 11 
 
 W e were late in returning to the village where 
 
 1 
 
188 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 we had left our carriage the previous day, and 
 Montresor wtis too much fatigued to risk travelling 
 
 a stage further to the town of H---, the usual 
 
 sleeping place of visitors to the Chartreuse. The 
 landlord of the village inn hesitated about accom¬ 
 modating us, and when I remarked on the ap¬ 
 parent size of his house, informed me its best apart¬ 
 ments were already occupied by an English family, 
 the master of which was an invalid, and paid li¬ 
 berally on condition of perfect quiet and privacy. 
 44 Monsieur,” be said, 44 had fallen and broken 
 his arm in a sporting excursion in the neighbour¬ 
 ing mountains, and was only slowly recovering 
 under the assiduous cares of his lovely wife, who 
 scarce ever quitted him by night or day.” With¬ 
 out the permission of this charmante femme at 
 least, mine host would not consent to our remain¬ 
 ing even in the sorry apartments he could offer. 
 This difficulty I soon settled by a civil message to 
 the lady. One sick Englishman had strong claims 
 on the sympathy of another, and we were made 
 welcome to stay, though evidently not during plea¬ 
 sure, but indisposition. 
 
 The latter plea seemed likely to be of indefinite 
 duration : for Montresor"s fever, heightened by 
 
PROBATION 
 
 189 
 
 impatience, assumed a more irregular form, and 
 quite precluded travelling even during occasional 
 remissions. When these occurred, however, I got 
 him into the landlord’s garden, when to the good 
 effects of the fresh air, and balmy season, were 
 added the cheering smiles and delightful prattle of 
 a lovely English cherub of a child, whose rosy 
 cheek and unsophisticated nature struck Mon- 
 tresor the more from his long residence among the 
 handsome but prematurely womanly children of 
 Italy. The little creature soon got over her shy¬ 
 ness, and returned our caresses with innocent fa¬ 
 miliarity ; but even amid friends, and birds, and 
 flowers, she pined for her parents, and watched 
 eagerly for the moment of readmission to her fa¬ 
 ther’s sick room. 
 
 44 Oh ! if mamma would only come out a lit¬ 
 tle,” she often would say, 44 but then papa would 
 miss her—for if she only shuts the curtain and 
 sits quiet a little, he starts up and asks if she is 
 there—and she says, Yes ! dear Edmund, always 
 here ! and he says, God bless you, and falls asleep. 
 And then when he is better she reads to him verses, 
 beautiful verses and fine stories ; and she makes 
 nice broth for papa, and boils his egg herself, for 
 
190 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 (with a significant gesture) the French are so 
 dirty, and papa cannot bear any thing not nice. 
 Mamma eats nothing herself, and I don’t think 
 she ever sleeps, for whenever I turn on my crib 
 and say 4 Mamma,’ she is awake and answers.” 
 
 This artless prattle never failed to draw a deep 
 sigh from Montresor, contrasting, as he must have 
 done, my awkward bachelor attentions with the 
 smoothed pillow and studied comfort of his brother 
 sufferer. 44 I shall die among strangers,” he would 
 say in a desponding moment: 44 Do not think Cur- 
 zon that I undervalue your brotherly kindness, but 
 I might have closed my eyes on a faithful female 
 bosom, and gladdened them in death with the sight 
 of a cherub like this !” I generally forbore to com¬ 
 bat these feelings, trusting they were only the fruits 
 of debility, and would in due time enhance and 
 render more permanent the bliss of reconciliation. 
 
 One of the chief evils of our protracted stay, was 
 the constraint it evidently imposed upon our fellow- 
 lodgers. The lady, whose health was sinking un¬ 
 der confinement, the French servant hinted would 
 not quit her chamber while we remained ; and we 
 felt keenly the annoyance we involuntary occasion¬ 
 ed. Montresor, however, got so much better as 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 191 
 
 to induce a hope of his resuming our journey, when 
 he was suddenly thrown back by an extraordinary 
 incident, which appeared to me too much akin to 
 his late gloomy and superstitious feelings. 
 
 Beyond a lane which skirted the back part of 
 the house, into which my friend’s windows looked, 
 lay the cemetery of the village ; a prospect in itself 
 neither gloomy nor unpleasing, for it w'as decorated, 
 according to the custom of that primitive country, 
 with plots of flowers, and gilded crosses, and other 
 fanciful and almost cheerful memorials of the affec¬ 
 tion of the living. 
 
 On going into Montresor’s room one morning, 
 and gaily asking him, if he felt able to travel—he 
 shocked me by his ghastly appearance, and replied, 
 « I shall never travel—I must lie ere long in that 
 church-yard. My wife’s ghost stood on yonder 
 grave last night, and-summoned me. Call it not 
 fancy or delusion ; by all the hopes of man, I saw r 
 her, as I now see you.” 
 
 Strange as was the matter of this assertion, its 
 manner had the calmness and sobriety of truth, and 
 I felt unable to combat it with the ordinary wea¬ 
 pons of ridicule or argument. I set it down to 
 fever, and should have thought no more of it, had 
 
192 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 not little Lucy, whom I met in the garden while my 
 friend kept his room—thus accosted me. 44 Mamma 
 frightened Lucy last night sadly. When I was 
 asleep, she went out in the moonlight to take a 
 walk, and when I woke she was not there, so I 
 cried—and when I looked again, I saw a black 
 figure going backward and forward at the foot of 
 my bed ! I should have screamed, but I remember¬ 
 ed papa and mamma would have been angry— 
 so I hid my face in the bedclothes till mamma 
 came—and then she kissed me, and showed me it 
 was only her shadow in the moonlight that moved 
 in the room, as she walked before the window . 11 
 
 Here was Montresors apparition explained at 
 once, and the supposed resemblance to his wife easily 
 accounted for by similarity of dress and figure. I 
 hesitated a moment whether to undeceive him, but 
 it was the natural and obvious course, and I pur¬ 
 sued it, little aware of the consequences. 
 
 I shall not soon forget my astonishment, when, 
 instead of tranquillizing poor Montresor, my ex¬ 
 planation made him start up in bed with frightful 
 energy. 44 If you speak truth,” cried he, 44 I am 
 undone ! for as God shall judge me—Kathleen 
 O'Brien stood either in or out of the body, before 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 193 
 
 me this night.’’’ A thrill of horror ran through my 
 frame—a presentiment of evil curdled my veiy 
 blood. I mechanically flew out of the room to ex¬ 
 change suspense for certainty ; and in so doing, 
 ran against the child, who stood waiting without— 
 her innocent face in such ineffable contrast with the 
 agony of remorse within. 6i Pierre told me my 
 English cousin (for so in sport she called Montre- 
 sor) was worse to-day—so I have brought the book 
 of pretty verses mamma reads to make papa better.” 
 I took the book unconsciously—opened its title 
 page, and saw c< Edmund Nugent Ballinamara,” 
 written on the first leaf. 
 
 The name was a knell to my fast waning hopes. 
 It was that of Montresor’s Roman acquaintance 
 whom he had commissioned to seek out Kathleen 
 —and who, in the mysterious ways of Providence, 
 had been made by her unfaithful husband the in¬ 
 strument of his own eternal misery and remorse. 
 But for Montresor’s introduction, Nugent would 
 never have seen Kathleen, but for his desertion, he 
 could never have injured her—but for the too true 
 account he was enabled to give of his open attach¬ 
 ment and devotion to another—never would the 
 long-tried, long faithful, and long-resisting Kath- 
 
194 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 leen have at length fallen a victim to the sophistry 
 which lulled without deceiving, her naturally strong 
 and upright mind. 
 
 All this flashed like lightning through mine, as 
 I gazed on the fatal name, and thought of the cor¬ 
 roboration afforded by its very relinquishment for 
 another—by the privacy so studiously courted—by 
 the incident of the church-yard. 
 
 What to do under such circumstances became a 
 dreadful responsibility. The lives of two already 
 enfeebled human beings seemed at stake, the 
 shock to either must be terrible—the remorse of 
 both, overwhelming. And Kathleen, too, that 
 creature more sinned against than sinning, whose 
 conduct under illusory ties had shown so plainly 
 what it would have been in holier bands, what was 
 to be her fate ? I prayed in mental agony for di¬ 
 rection how to act in a case, whose only issue could 
 be misery to all concerned. 
 
 I was saved the trouble of deliberation by a scene 
 that baffles description. Kathleen, missing the 
 child at an unusual hour, and trusting to my be¬ 
 ing occupied with my sick friend, had ventured out 
 on the stairs to seek for her. I had but time for 
 one look on the most meekly beautiful of human 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 195 
 
 countenances, ere it was distorted with horror and 
 agony. The door of Montresor’s room opened, and 
 hastily clothed as for a journey, he issued forth, 
 exclaiming, <c My wife ! dead or living I will see 
 her !” The first object that crossed his path was 
 the child—he dashed it aside with frightful vehe¬ 
 mence—then falling at its mother’s feet, he said, 
 in a subdued voice, “ Forgive me, Kathleen ! your 
 deserter, your betrayer kneels before you in the dust. 
 God is my witness, and this good man, that I was 
 on my way to seek and cherish you—that is past. 
 We meet no more on earth. That dream, too, 
 Kathleen, of unsanctified love in which I helped 
 to lull you, it is my lot to scare. I could not even 
 by my death lend sanctity to vows founded on guilt, 
 and I feel doomed to live long years of penitence. 
 Say you forgive me, Kathleen—say you will no 
 longer live in guilt whose damning stain is mine ! 
 I have known but to lose you on ear,th—let peni¬ 
 tence unite us in heaven.” 
 
 He buried his face a moment in her dress, her 
 head sunk powerless upon his in a death-like faint, 
 when another ghastly spectre mingled in the 
 group, another rightful sufferer for his sins and 
 those of others. Montresor just looked up from 
 
196 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 Kathleen’s knee, a shudder crossed his frame— 
 again he hid his face—with a convulsive effort, 
 muttered, 44 I forgive you,” and rushed again into 
 his chamber. 
 
 There needed no words to make the unhappy 
 Nugent comprehend the whole. He saw his guilty 
 cup of happiness dashed in a moment by eternal 
 justice from his lips—he saw the victim of his fond 
 but unhallowed passion stretched insensible before 
 him—her injured yet erring husband vanishing 
 like an accusing spirit—her innocent unconscious 
 child doomed from the cradle to disgrace and 
 wretchedness. 
 
 Why dwell on such a complication of misfor¬ 
 tunes ; why harrow the feelings of others or mine 
 own by irremediable calamity ? Why, were it not 
 to prove that from one bitter root,—Montresor’s 
 wanton desertion of his plighted vows—sprang all 
 this blighting upas tree of misery. This sum of 
 ravaged health and blasted hope, and ruined peace, 
 and wounded fame—aye more—this utter waste of 
 all that mine of gentle and sublime affection, which, 
 garnered for him by heaven in a wife’s faithful bo¬ 
 som, but scattered to the winds by his own reckless 
 improvidence, had 44 left him poor indeed.” 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 197 
 
 How could such a tale end but in death ? The 
 grave alone could close over wounds so immedica¬ 
 ble. Kathleen died first. Her frame, preyed on 
 from almost childhood, by desertion, anxiety, and 
 remorse, soon gave way. She never left the inn 
 of B--, till laid by my French servant and my¬ 
 
 self in <c the church-yard she had prophetically 
 haunted.” 
 
 Nugent, who, at her earnest entreaty, left the 
 place immediately, drooped more slowly at the 
 neighbouring baths of Aix, his pillow smoothed 
 by ruder hands than once had soothed his wayward 
 malady. I closed his eyes for Kathleen’s sake— 
 for she had looked the wish she dared not utter— 
 and her child is mine, for she had not a friend 
 alive, and Nugent’s are a proud and sordid race. 
 
 Montresor fulfilled his own prediction respecting 
 6( years of penitence,”—-for already half reconciled 
 to Catholicism by his Italian sojourn, he grasped 
 in his despair her expiatory tenets. The first and 
 last billet I received from him after these sad events, 
 was dated from La Grande Chartreuse. 
 
198 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Know’st thou the land where the cold Celtic wave 
 Encircles the hills which her blue waters lave; 
 
 Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea, 
 
 And their spirits are light, for their actions are free ? 
 
 Mrs. Elliott. 
 
 I had advanced so rapidly under the theoretic in¬ 
 structions of the good old laird, and the practical 
 lessons of Niel M 4 Vicar, as to long to engage in 
 single combat with any salmon of ordinary calibre ; 
 and I eagerly awaited, like other heroes of chivalry, 
 an opportunity of thus signalizing myself, and si¬ 
 lencing by ocular demonstration of my prowess the 
 lingering smile of incredulity which played over 
 the shrewd features of aunt Annie. 44 He’s a 
 gude lad,” I had overheard her saying one day to 
 her brother — 44 and really makes a wonderfu’ hand 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 199 
 
 o’ the muirfowl for a town-bred Englisher—but as 
 to bis catching a salmon at the end o’ a month’s 
 prenticeship, I would just as soon think o’ his 
 catching a whale. He’s mair likely to catch a 
 lassie, brother, and that’s may be what ye would 
 na like to see him try.” 
 
 This last inuendo had been to me at the time as 
 unintelligible as other Sibylline oracles, inasmuch 
 as the laird had neither daughter nor female in¬ 
 mate to exercise my talents ; while my own pre¬ 
 occupation of mind and heart made me secretly 
 smile at the old lady’s prognostics. But next 
 morning was destined to explain the enigma, and 
 put to a pretty strong test my unalterable devotion 
 to the absent and unpropitious Pauline. 
 
 Just about noon, when the sultry heat would 
 have conquered a less enthusiastic fisher, and the 
 dazzling clearness of the river disheartened a more 
 experienced one, I was still beating the water with 
 laudable perseverance, when my attention was sud¬ 
 denly called off from the tantalizing nibble of some 
 trout, too silly to stay in the shade, but too wise to 
 be caught in the sun, by the cheerful voices and 
 advancing footsteps of a bevy of ladies. 
 
 The river was but a few hundred yards from the 
 
200 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 house, and the party was headed by Mrs. Sydney, 
 who, the elegant economy of her head-dress shaded, 
 without being discomposed by a large old-fashioned 
 calash, had been tempted thus far by the singular 
 brilliancy of the day, and the sportive entreaties of 
 a youthful favourite, who, as she hung upon the 
 other arm of the stately old laird, reminded me of 
 a delicate sweet-scented clematis encircling the old 
 grey dial hard by. The figure of aunt Annie en¬ 
 gaged in earnest conference with another elderly 
 female, brought up the rear; but my eye could 
 only rest on the advanced guard, and on its lovely 
 contrast of venerable and time-honoured age, with 
 such a personification of youth as only poetry I 
 imagined could exhibit. 
 
 I have seen before and since many exquisite 
 combinations of form and feature—many specimens 
 not of faultless, certainly, yet of resistless female 
 beauty ; but there was something so gay, so ethe- 
 rial, so artless, so much of the ideal purity and 
 reckless simplicity of youth in the creature who 
 now stood before me, that I really (at a more ro¬ 
 mantic hour, and less respectably chaperoned) might 
 have been excused for mistaking her for some bright 
 spirit of the woods, or sportive nymph of the wa- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 201 
 
 ters—the very delicious “ Undine"’’’ of the German 
 poet's fancy. 
 
 I sprung hastily up the bank to meet the party, 
 and having in so doing succeeded, like an inexpe¬ 
 rienced novice, in entangling my tackle among the 
 willows—it was amid all the embarrassment at¬ 
 tendant on such awkwardness that I endured their 
 ironical greeting. <fi Sister Annie,"” cried the laird, 
 a little disconcerted at the plight of his promising 
 pupil, “ this is all your doing, to come and spoil 
 Mr. Meredith's sport, for fear the honour of Scot¬ 
 land should suffer, and an Englishman catch a 
 salmon.” 
 
 “ I am sure,” answered Miss Annie, with her 
 usual sly gravity, 66 I needed na have doubted that, 
 when, as far as I can at present see, a salmon 
 seems to have caught an Englishman.” 6( And 
 you have caught a Tartar, laird,” said Mrs. Syd- 
 ney, good-humouredly, so we’ll sound a truce, 
 under cover of this white flag here, playfully wav¬ 
 ing the light muslin drapery which encircled her 
 young friend, and taking her by the hand. 
 
 66 Mr. Meredith,” said she, addressing me, 6e I 
 hope you can so far suspend your hostilities with 
 the inhabitants of the Black water as to make the 
 
202 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 acquaintance of their liege lady, from whose do¬ 
 mains they are lineally descended, and with whom 
 you must settle your future rights to wage war with 
 her finny subjects"’’’. 
 
 “ You may give him carte blanche , Alice,” cried 
 the inexorable aunt Annie, “ you may eat your 
 grandmother in the shape of an old grey salmon 
 when he catches her, I assure you.” 
 
 u Nay, nay, Annie,” said Mrs. Sydney, who 
 seemed to think the joke had gone far enough, 
 “ as you are strong, be merciful to a young brother 
 of the craft. Mr. Meredith,” continued she, 66 let 
 me introduce you to Miss Moray of Castle Moray.” 
 
 66 Alias my Elsie,” said the good laird, putting 
 his stalwart arms round the slender waist of his 
 niece, who, after a bow of inexpressible natural 
 grace to me, returned the old man’s caresses with 
 almost infantine playfulness. 
 
 My first emotions of admiration were now min¬ 
 gled with surprise. I had heard, rather inciden¬ 
 tally, since my arrival in the north, of a great 
 heiress, whose territory (for so it might be called) 
 stretched for miles into the far Grampians, while it 
 comprised a great extent of fertile lowland, encir¬ 
 cling and almost eclipsing the comparatively bound- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 203 
 
 ed estate of her uncle, Mr. Falconar. This heir¬ 
 ess, if I thought of her at all, I had invested with 
 the usual qualities of such unfortunate beings, 
 pride, hauteur, or its hardly less offensive substi¬ 
 tute, condescension. I neither knew nor cared if 
 she were young, and felt sure she could not be 
 pretty. My surprise may then be imagined when, 
 instead of the proud Amazonian chieftain ess, or 
 bold minion of fashion I had anticipated, there 
 stood before me the most unsophisticated of Nature’s 
 children, apparently just emerged from the nursery, 
 and equally unconscious either of her fortune or of 
 her charms. 
 
 44 Come, come,” said the laird, 44 this is too bad ; 
 four saucy spinsters and one old sportsman like my¬ 
 self, are terrible odds against one young fisher !” 
 44 Not young enough, however,” exclaimed I, (dis¬ 
 entangling with more haste than dexterity my un¬ 
 fortunate line,) 44 to stay beating the water by him¬ 
 self, when he can have the excuse of such company 
 for deserting a thankless office. As an angler, I 
 am bound to do the honours of the river, and after 
 keeping you so long in the sun, methinks I cannot 
 do better than lead the way to one of the shadiest 
 
204 
 
 TROBATION. 
 
 spots on its margin. What say you, Mrs. Sydney, 
 to the c hunter’s pool 
 
 “ With such a good walking-stick,” said she 
 good-humouredly, taking my arm, e( I don’t des¬ 
 pair of reaching it.” 66 And I’ll run back to the 
 house and order luncheon,” cried the sweet girl, 
 evidently with the ease of one perfectly at home, 
 and bounding off like a startled fawn; while aunt 
 Annie, 66 on hospitable thoughts intent,” more lei¬ 
 surely followed her. The laird with natural cour¬ 
 tesy, offered his arm to his niece’s governess, (an 
 old friend and favourite,) and Mrs. Sydney and I 
 fell insensibly a little behind. 
 
 u A good specimen of a fine unaffected Scottish 
 lassie, is she not, Mr. Meredith ?” said the old lady 
 stopping to breathe, and looking back affectionately 
 after Alice. 66 I told you when we first embarked 
 together, that you would see more yet of Scots 
 beauties, but I little thought the picture would be 
 crowned with the native charms of our Highland 
 Fairy. She has been passing the summer with her 
 maternal governess, at a bathing village near Edin¬ 
 burgh, to be within reach of masters ; but it seems 
 they are driven away by an epidemic, and her own 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 205 
 
 house not being in order for her reception, she is 
 come to gladden her old uncle with an unex¬ 
 pected visit. He is her chief guardian, and many 
 people blame him for educating her in retirement 
 and simplicity. But it was his poor sister's last 
 request that her child might be brought up among 
 the people she had herself loved, and been adored 
 by; so she is as unsophisticated as the roe in her 
 native forest. But we have not neglected her either. 
 Women who know little, are apt to be pedantic ; I 
 suppose it is because Alice knows a great deal, that 
 she is so delightfully natural. But then, to be sure, 
 she is not aware of knowing any thing. She has 
 never been flattered or spoilt, or taught to think 
 herself the better for a few acres more or less, 
 though she sometimes feels the responsibility they 
 involve, and then our light-hearted Elsie can be 
 
 grave—as grave as”. 
 
 66 Your English favourite,” I answered, ventur¬ 
 ing for the first time directly to allude to Pauline. 
 My doing so seemed somehow to relieve my com¬ 
 panion ; and for the first time also, she followed 
 up the slight opening, by saying with her usual 
 animation, “ I heard to-day from Manchester: Cap¬ 
 tain Clitheroe has been very ill, and his daughter of 
 
206 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 course, painfully occupied ; but there is a sunshine 
 brighter still than that of youth and gaiety, and it 
 beams on Pauline even in a parent's cheerless sick¬ 
 room. How I sometimes wish she could escape 
 from the confinement, to enjoy, as she would do con 
 amore , such a spot as this !” 
 
 As she said this, we found ourselves at the hun¬ 
 ter's pool, a deep emerald bason, where the lovely 
 river, like a toil-spent and o'er-wearied infant, 
 slept as placidly as though it had not for miles 
 above been chafing and waging with the eternal 
 rocks not altogether unsuccessful warfare. Some 
 giant alders had availed themselves of the sheltered 
 nook to flourish in patriarchal vigour; the festoons 
 of the Highland briar-rose, now flowerless, were 
 eclipsed by a natural canopy of luxuriant brambles 
 (glowing with their bright red unripe berries) which 
 fell from the rocks above ; while the pebbly fountain 
 which they sheltered from the noontide heats, was 
 the privileged resort of myriads of finny loungers, 
 whose occasional gambols athwart their watery sans 
 souci were as visibly displayed as ever were those of 
 their captive brethren, the gold fish, disporting in 
 a crystal bason. 
 
 “ This is a spot not to be seen every day, Mr. 
 
PROBATION. 207 
 
 Meredith/' said Mrs. Sydney, as I arranged for her 
 a seat on a moss-covered ledge of rock. 44 You are 
 indebted to me for introducing you to it, but I hope 
 it will be one day the least of your obligations." 
 
 We were now joined by the rest of the group, 
 with the usual ample materiel of a Highland lun¬ 
 cheon ; and such a meal, with such a party, in such 
 weather, and in such a spot, he would be a bold 
 man that should attempt to describe. 
 
 I am now come to a point in my idle narrative, 
 when I scarce know how to adhere to that resolu¬ 
 tion of telling 44 the truth, and the whole truth," 
 which can alone render the history of a human 
 mind either interesting or profitable, without incur¬ 
 ring one of two very unfavourable suspicions, with¬ 
 out being either set down as a puppy, led by self- 
 complacency to attribute to a fair young female bo¬ 
 som sentiments which never had existence, or as 
 what the French call 44 an fat ," (thank Heaven 
 there is no English word for the un-English idea) 
 capable of converting them into matter of boasting 
 if they had. But I appeal to all who know best, 
 and most highly esteem, aye venerate, as I do, the 
 female character in all its phases, from the delicate 
 slender crescent which, hardly as yet above the ho- 
 
208 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 rizon, only gives promise of the coming brightness 
 a few more revolutions of the soft planet will dis¬ 
 close—to its unclouded, and surely not unlovely 
 wane, when, after a long reign of radiance and use¬ 
 fulness, it is seen gently fading into the dawn of 
 an immortal day, whether there is not a period, a 
 short but exquisite stage in the transition from in¬ 
 fancy to womanhood, when susceptibility is not only 
 its chief, but perhaps most resistless characteristic ? 
 A little earlier, its unconscious bias towards all that 
 is youthful and congenial, and light-hearted like 
 itself, is lavished upon the bounding lamb, and 
 sportive kitten, and carolling bird ; and to what 
 enthusiasm these can be loved, no brother or parent 
 need be told. But these cease to amuse and inte¬ 
 rest, companionship more equal and intellectual 
 must be substituted, and when denied by circum¬ 
 stances its natural field, in the love of a sister or 
 youthful female associate, methinks it were hyper¬ 
 critical and fastidious in the extreme, to see in the 
 undesigning predilection for a young kindred spirit 
 of the other sex, aught less, feminine or less grace¬ 
 ful than the fair guileless creature herself imagines 
 it to be. 
 
 Such at least, heaven is my witness ! were the 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 209 
 
 sentiments of unabated respect, yea increased admi¬ 
 ration for a delicacy I may have seen equalled, but 
 never exceeded, with which I gradually yielded 
 to a floating suspicion that I was becoming not al¬ 
 together indifferent to the beautiful Alice Moray. 
 1 have already, I trust, said enough to prove, 
 that the supposition, if well founded, was compati¬ 
 ble with all the retiring graces of a character 
 which needed only maturity to be, alas ! as supe¬ 
 rior to thus placing its preference, as it was now 
 unskilled altogether to conceal it. 
 
 From her earliest years, Alice had lived en¬ 
 tirely with people, delightful certainly, but im¬ 
 measurably removed from her by age; and till we 
 met, she had never known the luxury of a com¬ 
 panion to whom it cost no effort and no sacrifice to 
 to be as light-hearted, and far idler and more 
 childish than herself. My society filled a hither¬ 
 to tenantless void in her life, if not in her heart, 
 and we all know what it is to be Jirst in creating 
 pleasurable feelings of any kind. Alice and I 
 soon extended our rides and rambles far beyond 
 the powers of her old hereditary groom and staid 
 elderly governess. She had workmen engaged in 
 extensive alterations at the Castle, and this was a 
 
 p 
 
210 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 delightful excuse for an almost daily excursion up 
 the glen ; and once there, the ponies were to be fed 
 and rested, while the unwearied, nay only invigorated 
 riders, were quite fresh for a walk to some lonely 
 shieling, where—(Glen Falconar being too much 
 on the Lowland frontier to afford such rarities)— 
 an old Ossian-reciting crone, or grey shepherd, yet 
 guiltless of u Sassenach,” might be found, to grati¬ 
 fy my Gaelic enthusiasm and English curiosity. 
 
 I know not whether it was the delicious and 
 wholly novel character of these enchanting rambles 
 —that clear trasparent Highland September sky, 
 on which every mountain-peak tells with such 
 fantastic acuteness of outline—or that beautiful 
 autumn tint of a Highland wood, where every 
 bright hue, from the yet lively green of the glossy 
 oak-copse, to the deep orange and crimson of the 
 deciduous trees besides, may be seen gaily blend¬ 
 ing on the deep sombre background of the unal¬ 
 terable national pines, like a rainbow on a thunder 
 cloud—or the wildly picturesque effect of the 
 Highland garb on the mountain-side it so well 
 becomes—or the result of them all put together, 
 which delighted my very soul; but it was next to 
 impossible to enjoy them as I did, and not gain 
 
211 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 daily favour, on that very score, in the eyes of 
 one, to whom her hills, and her woods, and her 
 native tartan were dear as the air she breathed. 
 
 Then the pre-occupation of my own heart and 
 mind with another, the very ascendency there of 
 a yet brighter—though unpropitious luminary— 
 gave to my attentions (for such they certainly were) 
 an almost brotherly freedom; while other and 
 warmer feelings, by exciting distrust, and calling 
 up that beautiful instinct of self-defence, which 
 the bare suspicion of meditated attack always 
 awakens in the mind of woman, would, if they 
 did not altogether change the nature of her sen¬ 
 timents, have at least made her fully alive to their 
 character. 
 
 But the opposite result of the unhesitating con¬ 
 fidence with which the sweet girl regarded one so 
 evidently undesigning, was to blind her complete¬ 
 ly to the shade of partiality—yes ! so far methinks, 
 without ministering food for scoffing to prudes or 
 puppies, I may extend my admission—which be¬ 
 gan to steal over her towards the only young man 
 of tolerable exterior, warm feelings, and congenial 
 pursuits whom a retired education had yet thrown 
 in her way. Yet so delicate, so all but impercepti- 
 
212 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 ble were the indications of this too flattering pre¬ 
 ference, that it might perhaps—as be it remem¬ 
 bered, I had no special interest in detecting it— 
 have remained unsuspected by its unworthy object, 
 but for the stronger reflected light in which it was 
 soon given to my view, by the indignant sarcasms 
 of aunt Annie. 
 
 She began, with less of tact and knowledge of 
 the world than I should have expected—did these 
 qualities not often desert the wisest when their 
 feelings were at stake—to rally Alice unmerci¬ 
 fully upon her love of riding and walking, and 
 me on my singular proficiency in Highland cus¬ 
 toms and exercises. She went so far one day, in 
 the exuberance of her alarm, as to hint that the 
 improvements at the Castle were going on, under 
 my, no doubt, privileged superintendence. 
 
 From Alice's flush—for a blush it was* not—of 
 surprise and resentment at this inuendo, I first 
 gathered its exact import; and the dignified 
 hauteur of the look which succeeded, the only one 
 since our acquaintance which savoured of the 
 haughty chieftainess I had once imagined her, 
 taught me for the first time what might have been 
 the extent of my hopes, (shall I more candidly 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 213 
 
 say my success ?) had 1 been disposed to 66 achieve 
 the greatness"' 1 thus almost “ thrust upon me 11 by 
 the injudiciousness of friends. 
 
 I could have half enjoyed prolonging Miss 
 Annie’s uneasiness; but the lately perceptible 
 abatement of cordiality in the laird, and ill-con¬ 
 cealed increase of gravity in Mrs. Sydney, the 
 sacred ties of hospitality which it w r as agony even 
 in thought to infringe, above all, the paramount 
 duty of opposing to an incipient and unrequited 
 predilection the antidote which absence would 
 safely and surely administer, made me resolve—it 
 may be believed not without pain—to tear myself 
 at once from Glen Falconar. 
 
 I am sworn, as I above hinted, to tell the 
 “ whole truth, 11 and I should not be strictly doing 
 so, were I to hold up this act of gratitude and 
 propriety, as a heroic sacrifice, in one, whose wishes 
 (for hopes, alas ! it would have been presump¬ 
 tuous to call them,) were yet fondly lingering 
 around the shrine of another. But, says the French 
 poet: 
 
 “ Rien n’est beau que le vrai, le vrai seul est aimable !” 
 and I should not be following the maxim, were I 
 
214 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 to pretend, that a rejected and nearly hopeless lover 
 of five and twenty, a young man with fortune 
 quite ample enough to entitle him legitimately to 
 aspire to all those newly valued natural beauties, 
 and territorial possessions, which fortune alone 
 could not suffice to buy—was altogether insensible 
 to the possibility—aye, indubitable facility, of 
 marrying by her own spontaneous choice, and 
 though perhaps with the reluctant consent, yet 
 the avowed previous good opinion of her nearest 
 relations—the young and beautiful heiress of the 
 most desirable property in Scotland ! 
 
 I am half ashamed thus to enumerate advan¬ 
 tages, which, were I a hero of romance, ought I 
 know to have been in my eyes as the dust in the 
 balance. But while I own that they were some¬ 
 thing more to one who, alas ! had not the power 
 to conjure the delightful, though dowerless Pau¬ 
 line, into the opposite scale, they did not for a mo¬ 
 ment induce me to postpone my departure from 
 Glen Falconar. 
 
 No sooner was my virtuous resolve fully form¬ 
 ed, than fearful, like other novices in mental disci¬ 
 pline, lest it should evaporate, I hastened to com¬ 
 municate it to Mrs. Sydney. The rest of the 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 215 
 
 party had walked out to enjoy the splendours of 
 a brilliant autumnal afternoon ; but I found my 
 old friend, whose limbs not unfrequently refused to 
 keep pace w r ith her mind's activity, devouring at 
 the library window, with all the avidity of fifteen, 
 the gorgeous picture afforded by the lingering 
 western ray on the beautiful chain of hills before 
 it. “ Is not this a glorious prospect ?” she ex¬ 
 claimed as I entered, a slight tinge of the same 
 roseate glow which illumined the purple hills re¬ 
 flected on her venerable cheek, and adding to the 
 animation of her speaking eye. 66 Is it not enough 
 
 to make poets and painters of us all ? I have oft- 
 
 • 
 
 en regretted that accomplishments, as they are 
 called, were not in fashion in my day ; for I am 
 sure I have within me the seeds of a Gainsborough 
 or a Nasmyth. How I should love to paint the 
 effect of the lengthening shadows on that proud 
 fantastic range, on whose ever varying surface they 
 disclose, like hidden treasure, deep glens and fairy 
 waterfalls, that slumber unsuspected in the glare 
 of noon ! Byron calls the stars the 6 poetry of 
 heaven.' I am sure earth's poetry is to be found 
 in rocks and mountains such as these. I could 
 weave you a noble epic, with many a little episode 
 
216 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 of surpassing beauty, out of the tropes and figures 
 furnished by Glen Falconar.” 
 
 44 I appreciate your politeness,” added she, with 
 a good humoured smile, 44 in forbearing to laugh 
 at my antiquated enthusiasm. When you came, 
 you would have done so—maugre your metropoli¬ 
 tan breeding ; but I really think our Highland 
 air has worked its usual spells. I have caught you 
 gazing on the clouds, as if, with Fin Mac Coul, 
 you saw in them the ghosts of your ancestors ; and 
 really just now I heard a sigh that the hills of Mor- 
 ven might not have disdained to echo.” 
 
 44 It is a sigh of farewell, Mrs. Hume, to those 
 very objects you allege, and justly, are becoming 
 so dear to me. I am going away to-morrow, and 
 came to tell you so. 11 
 
 Surprise was very legible on my old friend’s elo¬ 
 quent countenance, but it seemed oddly blended 
 with satisfaction. 44 Indeed ?” was the mingled 
 ejaculation of both ; 44 and am I sufficiently ac¬ 
 quainted with Mr. Meredith to inquire the reason 
 of this sudden determination ?” 
 
 Quite enough so to command not only informa¬ 
 tion, but truth. I might, and probably shall to 
 others, resort to the stale device of letters, business, 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 217 
 
 what you will; but from you, Mrs. Hume, I first 
 learned the value of truth and principle, and I 
 will tell you that I go because I am neither a cox¬ 
 comb, nor a fortune-hunter—and because’’’- 
 
 here I found I had embarked on ground too deli¬ 
 cate to be easily got over. 
 
 “ Because,' 1 said Mrs. Hume, compassionating 
 my perplexity, 66 others may have already seen in 
 you something better than either. I understand 
 you, Edmund,” (it was the first time she had called 
 me so,) <£ I admire and approve you. Go, my dear 
 young friend, as your honourable feelings suggest, 
 from a scene of possible danger and temptation. 
 While I wish, and from my heart, that my richly 
 gifted child here may find as manly a protector in 
 her own privileged sphere, I must remember that 
 the humbler daughter of my predilection will want 
 but a few such traits of character to make her re¬ 
 scind a hasty, and I trust not irrevocable judg¬ 
 ment. The story of your disinterested fealty to 
 the absent, will not lose, believe me, in my telling ; 
 and I but imitate the sincerity you have manifested, 
 when I say, that you consult your own happiness 
 by it. You are too young in mind to marry a 
 
 child—too old in years to become a Highlander— 
 
 1 
 
218 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 too high-spirited to like to be looked down upon, 
 and too disinterested to find happiness in wealth. 
 The husband of Alice Moray must be her superior 
 in years and talent, her equal in rank and country, 
 else they will both be mismatched and miserable.” 
 
 “ But,” added the good lady, as if some invisi¬ 
 ble mental link of association brought the subject 
 to her mind, 66 you must defer your chivalric reso¬ 
 lution, meo periculo , for a week or so. That short 
 interval of frank but guarded intercourse may, 
 properly improved, rather dispel than foster a dawn¬ 
 ing illusion ; while I should grieve were you to miss 
 the opportunity of adding to your list of friends— 
 friends comme il y en a peu —Roderick Falconar, 
 who comes to us in a day or two, rich in scars and 
 glory, richer still in the warmest heart and most 
 upright mind I ever watched from infancy to man¬ 
 hood.” 
 
 66 I should certainly like to meet him of all 
 things !” exclaimed I, for I remembered that he 
 was one of the accomplished persons whom Pauline 
 had enumerated amid her pleasing recollections of 
 Scotland. In addition to a little uncharitableness 
 on this score, I envied him his fame as a successful 
 soldier, and his lot as heir of Glen Falconar ; and 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 210 
 
 no one need be told that curiosity is never keener 
 than when thus amiably founded. 44 A Highland 
 officer l 11 muttered I to myself, 44 a sort of Hector 
 MacIntyre, I suppose, with a smack of pedantry 
 superadded by his college education. - ’”’ 44 And 
 yet” (whispered candour,) 44 how can you form 
 such absurd expectations of the son of Mr. Fal- 
 conar, and father of little Flora. If he is like that 
 child, he must be the handsomest Celt that ever 
 wore philibeg.” 
 
 44 Would you like to see him now ?” said Mrs. 
 Sydney, as if answering my secret cogitations. I 
 half started, while she unlocked a drawer of her 
 scrutoire, and produced one of those exquisite mi¬ 
 niatures which mitigate the pains of absence to many 
 a faithful bosom. 44 There,” said she, wiping the 
 glass with maternal tenderness, 44 there is Rode¬ 
 rick ! as he was drawn a gay and gallant bride¬ 
 groom for her who slumbers in a foreign grave. I 
 wish you to see him as youth and nature made him, 
 ere years and sorrow retouched the likeness, only to 
 render it, to all who know him, doubly interest- 
 mg. 
 
 I absolutely shrunk before the brilliant personi¬ 
 fication of triumphant heroism which the picture 
 
220 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 exhibited. The fearless character of the high and 
 polished forehead, the latent sparkle of the deeply 
 fringed dark-blue eye, the smile of happy love that 
 played across the youthful lips, the clustering curls 
 of raven hair disposed with soldier carelessness 
 around the manly brow, called forth an involuntary 
 burst of admiration. 
 
 Mrs. Sydney sighed, and as she took the picture 
 from me, wiped its glass again, and not from dust 
 alone. cc Such was Roderick Falconar,” said she, 
 <£ 4 our beautiful and brave,’ at two and twenty. At 
 thirty he is something better. Still beautiful, 
 as toils and griefs allow a man to be, who has 
 drank deep of both, and brave, not in the boyish 
 thirst for excitment, but with the chastened value 
 of a man for fame and country. His heart, and 
 that bright smile were buried long in his young 
 wife’s grave ; his little girl has lived to bid them 
 both revive. You will see few things more affect¬ 
 ing than their meeting ; she is to him, lost mo¬ 
 ther, wife, and sisters ; and he, just all the world 
 to Flora.” 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 221 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 And thou wert destined for thy part 
 The firmest mind, the noblest heart. 
 
 Artless, save in the warrior’s art, 
 
 And in that art the first! 
 
 Mr. Croker. 
 
 It was not long ere this interesting meeting took 
 place, and I became its involuntary witness, pre¬ 
 cisely from the natural delicacy which forbade my 
 intrusion upon aught so sacred. Anxiety to be 
 in nobody’s way on such an occasion, induced me, 
 on the day when Major Falconar was expected, to 
 set out early on a partridge-shooting ramble ; and 
 as the nature of the country necessarily limited my 
 range in quest of such game within narrow bounds, 
 the sole companion of my sport was an old saga¬ 
 cious pointer, long debarred by increasing infirmity 
 from the greater exertions of (( the hill,” but de- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 222 
 
 lighted to do to one, whom he began to consider 
 no stranger, the honours of the home fields of Glen 
 Falconar. 
 
 Oscar and I had done wondrous execution, con¬ 
 sidering that the one was a raw recruit, and the 
 other an invalided Chelsea pensioner ; and the Sep¬ 
 tember sun was beginning early and rapidly to sink 
 behind the western hills, (the only drawback, by 
 the by, of an Alpine country,) when my time¬ 
 worn comrade began to c< point’’ 1 visibly homeward. 
 I was forcing my way, all thoughts of sport for the 
 day being over, through the thick copsewood which 
 fringed the avenue, to saunter home by its beautiful 
 course, when just as I emerged from the thicket, I 
 heard the roll of wheels, and caught a glimpse of 
 an empty curricle, whose slight smoking horses a 
 groom with a cockade in his hat was leading up 
 the steep ascent, overhanging the river about a 
 mile from the house. The vehicle was of course 
 Major Falconar’s, and it immediately occurred to 
 me that he had got out to walk, to enjoy, undis¬ 
 turbed by the presence of others, the crowd of 
 “ sweet and bitter fancies 11 connected with a return, 
 after scenes of bloodshed and conquest, to his home 
 and his motherless child. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 223 
 
 I would have given a good deal to escape undis¬ 
 covered into the wood, but Oscar, who had left me, 
 (I knew not at the time how instinctively,) a good 
 while before, now betrayed by his shrieks of cla¬ 
 morous joy the near approach of the master he lov¬ 
 ed so fondly. I stood a moment irresolute, but as 
 I was evidently descried by the heir of the mansion, 
 whose hospitality I had so long partaken, I thought 
 there would be unkindness and affectation in avoid¬ 
 ing his salutation. 
 
 It was frank and soldier-like, as I had been led 
 to expect; but there was in his manner, as in his 
 manly beauty, a grace and peculiarity for which 
 not even a partial friend, or flattering portrait could 
 altogether prepare me. u Fascinating, bewitching,” 
 all the terms usually reserved to express feminine 
 loveliness, would suggest themselves when gazing 
 for the first time on Roderick Falconar ; yet one felt 
 ashamed of applying these light and often desecrat¬ 
 ed terms to aught so pensive, so intellectual and 
 majestic. One glance at this young hero, for such 
 he might really, not figuratively, be called—at the 
 noble compound which, at the early age of thirty, 
 nature, glory, and misfortune had combined to 
 place before me, did more to make me feel what, 
 
224 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 alas ! I was not,—the disadvantages of a neglected 
 childhood, and restricted youth, and dissipated 
 manhood, than any thing else, aye, than even the 
 open contempt of Pauline, or the delicately veiled 
 compassion of Mrs. Sydney Hume. 
 
 While all this was flashing rapidly through my 
 mind, Major Falconar was adverting, with the ease 
 of a man of the world, and the kindness of a High¬ 
 lander on his own soil, to my visit beneath his fa¬ 
 ther's roof, of which, (and I suspected, from the 
 smile that played over his lip, a good deal besides,) 
 he had been informed by his chief correspondent in 
 the family, Mrs. Sydney Hume. The faithful dog, 
 which still leaped and fawned around him, uncon¬ 
 scious of fatigue, served to cover what might be 
 passing in his master's mind, and he said, fondly 
 stroking his favourite's grizzled forehead, 6e Oscar 
 and I are old fellow-campaigners. He was with 
 me during my first winter in Spain, and I assure 
 you he was a most efficient member of the Com¬ 
 missariat. Few of those gentlemen deserve to re¬ 
 tire on a pension half as well as this old cunning 
 one, who (perhaps in virtue of his unquestionable 
 Spanish descent,) had a nose not only for Spanish 
 partridges, but many Spanish things besides, that 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 225 
 
 was quite wonderful. I laugh yet to think^how 
 many buried Bayonne hams, and Estremaduran 
 sausages, and skins of goodly Bucellas, that grey 
 muzzle of his contrived to resuscitate. 11 
 
 c< I fear, 11 added he, beginning to move forward, 
 66 that your sport for the day is at an end, if Oscar, 
 as I suspect, is your only coadjutor ; I doubt all the 
 partridges in Christendom would not lure him from 
 an old friend’s side to-day.” I assured him with 
 great truth, that I was returning home when I met 
 him, and had thus no pretext for declining his po¬ 
 lite proposal that we should do so together, though 
 I would again have given worlds for escape, when 
 I heard screams of infantine delight, almost imi¬ 
 tating the clamorous greetings of Oscar, and saw, 
 running down the approach, where she had met her 
 father’s carriage, the transported little Flora. 
 
 66 Papa ! papa l 11 was all she could say, and that 
 only at long intervals, between the thousand raptu¬ 
 rous kisses which, in the exuberance of her delight, 
 she bestowed upon her father’s face, and hands, and 
 clothes, and finally on their mutual friend Oscar, 
 who stood looking on, not very sure whether he 
 should be pleased or no, to be thus superseded by 
 a younger favourite. 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 • PROBATION. 
 
 I kept as much aloof as I could, yet I felt that 
 my involuntary presence must be a restraint on 
 feelings, which, suppressed as they were by soldier 
 modesty and firmness, shook the erect frame of the 
 young father, like a tall pine in the blast. He 
 recovered himself, however, for there was far more 
 of joy than of sorrow in the meeting, and I do not 
 remember being more elated by any token of female 
 approbation, (except perhaps the proposal to elope 
 with Mrs Sydney Hume,) than when Flora, some 
 ten minutes after I had walked at her side unob¬ 
 served, turned round and said, 44 Fve a hand for you 
 too, Mr. Neddy. Papa, Edmund Meredith and 
 I are great friends.' 11 
 
 44 I hope he and I will be so too, Flora, 11 said 
 her father courteously, 44 and not the less speedily 
 on my part, for your artless confession. I am 
 afraid, Mr. Meredith, there is coquetry in a High¬ 
 land nursery, as well as a town ball-room, though 
 it is not quite so skilfully veiled. And now, tell 
 me, one or both of you, how is my dear father P 11 
 
 44 Oh, grandpapa is better than well. Ever since 
 he heard you were coming, he has rode out every 
 day himself with the dogs, and had all the guns in 
 the hall taken down and cleaned, and a fire in the 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 227 
 
 library, and the blue room all new furnished, and, 1 ' 
 here the child stopped suddenly, and looked down, 
 and grew first red and then pale. 44 And what ? 
 my little darling,” said her father, stopping and 
 bending over her. 44 Mamma’s picture cleaned and 
 new-framed,” said Flora reluctantly, with all the 
 instinct which teaches even an infant mind what 
 chord it has unconsciously made vibrate. 44 That 
 was very kind of grandpapa,” answered her father, 
 in an altered voice, and after a moment’s effort, to 
 cover which he resumed his inquiries. 
 
 44 And aunt Annie, I hope she is in her usual 
 good health and spirits.” 44 Oh ! aunt Annie has 
 been all in a bustle too. Hen Tibbie says, 4 she 
 was never so ill to please in chickens and turkey 
 poults as since the young laird was looked for, 
 though I am sure,’ says she, 4 if eating gowd would 
 mak them better for his bonnie mou, they sudna 
 want it frae Tibbie.’ ” 
 
 To escape from these complimentary effusions of 
 clannish affection, the Major now turned to me— 
 44 It is to you I believe I should apply for the most 
 satisfactory information about our dear Mrs. Syd¬ 
 ney ; at least if one lover may expect truth from 
 another on the object of their mutual flame.—Is 
 
228 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 she not indeed a delightful person ?” About the 
 most delightful in the world, Major,” said I, “ and 
 if you knew what erroneous impressions I had 
 formed of women of her age, you would rate the 
 confession higher. I am divided between her and 
 Flora,” said I playfully, “ and might sing, 4 how 
 happy could I be with eitherbut, seriously, our 
 inestimable friend is, like all the rest of the family, 
 absolutely revived by your approach. If she goes 
 on as she is doing at present, she will soon have 
 the activity, as well as vivacity of fifteen.” 
 
 “ But, Mr. Neddy,” cried Flora, stopping short, 
 and looking archly in my face, “ why don’t you 
 say something about dear Alice Moray ? I’m sure 
 you speak enough to her—you have not played 
 half so much with me since she came.” I felt my¬ 
 self blush at the little fairy’s inuendo, and when I 
 looked up and detected passing rapidly from Major 
 Falconar’s face, just such an expression as might 
 flash across a proud Highland kinsman's brow at 
 the thought of a mesalliance between his cousin 
 and a southron, I hastened to remove it by say¬ 
 ing, with as much calmness of manner as I could 
 assume, u So you are jealous, Flora, are you ? 
 of Miss Moray. You may settle it all between 
 
FK0BATI0N. 
 
 229 
 
 you when 1 am gone, for you know I am going on 
 Friday. Indeed,” added I, turning as if apology 
 were necessary, to the Major, 44 but for the plea¬ 
 sure of making your acquaintance, 1 should have 
 left the Glen before now.” 
 
 44 I am very sorry to hear it,” answered Rode¬ 
 rick, with all the imperceptible shade of added 
 frankness which the relief from suspicion inspired ; 
 44 I hope you will be induced to think twice of it, 
 and to do, what from long absence I shall much 
 require, the honours of its moors and waters to 
 their truant heir-apparent. I am told you fish al¬ 
 ready to the astonishment of Neil M 4 Vicar and 
 mortification of aunt Annie.” This proof of 
 how r minute were the details conveyed by Mrs. 
 Sydney, made me blush, I believe, once more ; and 
 I was not sorry when we came in sight of the house, 
 to have the attention of all its inmates engrossed 
 by another and newer object. 
 
 Major Falconar had a battery of a novel na¬ 
 ture to make up to, for in the portico before the 
 house (added in a fit of gallantry by the laird that 
 his favourite Mrs. Sydney might step dry-shod 
 upon his threshold) stood a formidable array of an¬ 
 cient domestics ; from the stiff old butler, (a sort 
 
230 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 of double, and spurious edition of his master) who 
 stood in unblushing pomposity in the foreground, 
 supported by the no less privileged John New- 
 borough, and true, though demure, daughter of 
 Eve, Alice Pinnock—to the shrinking and giggling 
 maids and footboys peeping over their shoulders ; 
 with hen Tibbie, and other sovereigns of remote colo¬ 
 nial dependencies, filling up the third-rank of the 
 phalanx. I cjuestion whether a hollow square of 
 Bonaparte’s best old guard would have made the 
 bold dragoon pull up so decidedly, as the sight of 
 this formidable battalion of household troops. But 
 there was nothing for it in either case but to ad¬ 
 vance ; and Roderick did it with the best grace in 
 the world. 
 
 u Steenie, how goes it with you ? is the old vin¬ 
 tage 4 in good order yet ?” was his characteristic 
 salutation to the butler. u John Newborough, 
 you wear like your mistress ; and you, Mrs. Alice, 
 I hear, keep her as well as we could all wish. Pm 
 glad to see you all again, my good lasses. I’ve 
 seen no sight as bonny since I left you; and as for 
 you, Tibbie, (singling out the astonished and over¬ 
 whelmed poultry-woman, who looked as a young 
 lady in the tremor of her presentation might be sup- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 231 
 
 posed to do, were she individually addressed by his 
 majesty,) I’ve a crow to pluck with you for some¬ 
 thing Flora has been telling me. However, to 
 make all right between us, there’s a breed of true 
 Spanish hens on their way to the glen, and Mrs. 
 Sydney need never want a new-laid egg for her 
 supper again. 11 —The crowd made way respectfully, 
 with many whispered blessings on the young laird 
 and his little Flora, who kept fast hold of his hand, 
 as if afraid to let him out of her sight. 
 
 At the door of the library, a delightful room on 
 the second floor, a favourite with Roderick, and 
 always inhabited when he was at home, stood his 
 old stately father, who having dressed for dinner a 
 full hour sooner than usual in pure impatience for 
 his son's arrival, had all the air of being in gala 
 on purpose to receive him. Both tried to speak, 
 but felt there was no occasion. Roderick hid his 
 face a moment longer than necessary on his father’s 
 stalwart shoulder, and the laird blew his nose soon 
 after, perhaps accidentally. e( Grandpapa,” exclaim¬ 
 ed Flora, springing up in his arms without quitting 
 her grasp of Roderick, “ I’ve won my ten kisses ! I 
 saw papa first !” (< And we thought ye had kept 
 
 him all to yourself, you cutty, 11 said aunt Annie, 
 
232 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 playfully pushing away her darling, 4 4 time about’s 
 fair play, as I hear you say at Birkie with your 
 friend Mr. Meredith—so here goes and with 
 burlesque solemnity and real emotion, perhaps not 
 the least real in the party—the old lady gave her 
 nephew a hearty kiss. 
 
 44 Last not least, I hope is your motto my preux 
 chevalier ,” said Mrs. Sydney, advancing in the 
 same mock-heroic strain ; but it would not do, Ro¬ 
 derick’s soft subdued smile went ever too near her 
 heart for pleasantry, and murmuring almost inau- 
 dibly— 44 God bless you, my son I” she embraced 
 him in her turn. 
 
 I was standing very quietly by, feeling myself 
 as much de trop as a poor bridesman at a wedding, 
 or a friend on a wedding excursion, or any such 
 superfluous personage, when a diversion was made in 
 my favour by another, who had evidently waited 
 to give dearer claims precedence, before she joined 
 in the tide of congratulation. It w r as Alice Moray, 
 who now appeared at the door, and playfully exclaim¬ 
 ing, 44 Is it come to a cousin’s turn yet ?” advanc¬ 
 ed with her usual graceful frankness into the room. 
 
 Roderick, who had left her a mere child—not 
 many years older in reality, and still fewer in his 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 233 
 
 eyes, than his Flora now numbered,—was mani¬ 
 festly quite unprepared for the metamorphosis a 
 few short years had effected. His first impulse, 
 as the little head he had so often patted was put 
 in at the door, had obviously been to kiss the gold¬ 
 en, as he had just done the silver-haired friends of 
 his youth ; but when the whole tall, though sylph¬ 
 like figure, rose in feminine completeness before 
 him, there seemed a moment’s irresolution how far 
 the liberty could be hazarded. To Alice, however, 
 he had been hitherto at all times—and especially 
 perhaps at this moment—a brother, and a brother 
 only ; and there was a conflicting frankness and 
 unaffected sisterly sparkle in her eye, which left 
 him no hesitation. u My dear cousin,” said he, 
 66 what an additional pleasure it is to meet you here;” 
 and as he clasped her in a brotherly embrace, me- 
 thought, but it might be fancy, that the artless 
 blush and unaffected embarrassment the sweet girl 
 could not entirely conceal, had not Roderick Fal- 
 conar’s cousinly courtesy at that moment for their 
 cause. 
 
 The blush, from whatever source, was not lost 
 upon Mrs. Sydney, and there was a latent triumph 
 in her eye as she marked the evident surprise and 
 
23i 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 admiration with which Roderick first looked upon 
 his lovely cousin. It flashed upon me all in a 
 moment, (so quick-sighted had I become by liv¬ 
 ing among quick-witted people,) that to her and 
 all the mutual connexions of this beautiful and 
 meetly assorted couple, their ultimate union had 
 long been an object of steady and affectionate, 
 though not overweening solicitude. 
 
 I lingered at Glen Falconar as long as regard 
 to consistency, and the real necessity of preparing 
 for my winter studies would permit. I staid long 
 enough to see—and to see not only without mor¬ 
 tification, but with pleasure—that as far as regard¬ 
 ed Miss Moray’s heart, my going away was now 
 a superfluous sacrifice. Rut I did not the less 
 carry away with me the approbation of Mrs. Syd¬ 
 ney, the restored good-will of aunt Annie, the 
 cordial good wishes of the laird, and the friendship 
 —worth a 44 wilderness of heiresses,”—of Roderick 
 Falconar. 
 
 What my friend Mrs. Sydney had sportively 
 advanced relatively to the latent tastes and capabi¬ 
 lities slumbering in my composition, had not prov¬ 
 ed altogether visionary. As a resource, during the 
 period immediately succeeding my departure from 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 235 
 
 Glen Falconar, and previous to the opening of 
 college, I took a drawing-master; and owed to the 
 circumstance, if not any degree of even amateur pro¬ 
 ficiency, a discriminating relish for the beauties 
 both of nature and art, which, educated as I had 
 been in utter estrangement from both, was like the 
 acquisition of a new sense. I accompanied the 
 master (a modest and intelligent young man) in 
 his sketching rambles in the environs of his pic¬ 
 turesquely situated native city, and soon learned 
 that the boasted first coup d’ ceil of Edinburgh is 
 but the concentrated effect of a thousand happily 
 grouped, though infinitely varied beauties. 
 
 As more serious studies superseded lighter pur¬ 
 suits, these excursions necessarily ceased ; but I had 
 acquired from them a source of harmless future 
 amusement, and the habit of lounging in a certain 
 printseller’s shop, where the popular productions of 
 the day were always sure to be met with. 
 
 One Saturday late in Autumn, when the weather 
 was uninviting for exercise, while yet circumstances 
 had obliged me to go abroad, I took refuge from a 
 shower in the shop before mentioned; and my eye 
 immediately rested on a recent addition to its at¬ 
 tractions in the shape of some freely designed yet 
 
236 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 exquisitely finished views in body colour, in a style 
 too difficult to be often successful, and which I have 
 seldom seen attempted, except by artists of Venice 
 and Naples. 
 
 These were scenes in Spain, and as the names 
 were familiar to me as connected with the exploits 
 of our troops, and consequently of Major Falconar, 
 it occurred to me they might be acceptable on that 
 account to Mrs. Sydney, a small boudoir in whose 
 mansion was already nearly clothed with similar 
 memorials of places or persons dear to her. I ask¬ 
 ed the price, which was, as I expected, considerable; 
 hut I paid it cheerfully, only inquiring (as the set 
 was apparently imperfect from detached purchases,) 
 of the printseller, if he thought he could procure 
 me one or two more by the same hand, to complete 
 it. This he readily undertook, and I went away, 
 well satisfied with my bargain. 
 
 Two or three weeks after, I returned to ask for 
 my drawings, which were presented to me; but 
 there was so manifest an inferiority in the execu¬ 
 tion—though not the conception of them, that I 
 could not forbear remarking it, in a tone of consi¬ 
 derable disappointment. A slight noise in another 
 part of the shop (which I had thought empty) 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 ■237 
 
 called my attention to a feeble and emaciated, 
 though gentlemanlike person, who, as it were al¬ 
 most involuntary replying to my strictures— 44 al¬ 
 lowance must be made for rapidly increasing ill¬ 
 ness,^—left the shop before I could recover -from 
 my surprise and confusion ; though not before I 
 had caught such a glimpse of his face and figure 
 as might enable me to recognise them. 
 
 44 Good heaven !” exclaimed I, much concerned, 
 44 I fear I have unintentionally wounded the feelings 
 of an unfortunate individual, and one too who has 
 seen far better days. I hope you will put it in 
 my power to redeem the error by any possible 
 means. More than mere politeness seems called 
 for by the circumstances of the case.’ 1 
 
 44 That I neither can nor will deny, sir, 11 replied 
 the dealer in vertii , 44 but I believe death would be 
 preferred by the gentleman who has just left us, 
 to any relief procured by a breach of confidence on 
 my part, which the most sacred promises render 
 impossible. 11 
 
 44 How unlucky, 11 said I, 44 that from what pre¬ 
 viously passed, he is aware of the price stipulated 
 between us for the drawings ; else we might easily 
 have doubled it without exciting suspicion, there 
 
238 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 being no positive standard by which to estimate 
 works of fancy,. But could you not be the instru¬ 
 ment of conveying, in some delicate manner, the 
 pecuniary assistance so much required by the poor 
 invalid ?” 
 
 44 That is out of the question, sir—except (after 
 a little consideration) you incline to risk the pay¬ 
 ment in advance of a few more drawings, which 
 the poor artist will never live to complete, but 
 which may answer your benevolent designs.”— 
 44 Oh ! by all means,"” said I, anxious to get rid 
 so cheaply of the irksome sense of harshness which 
 my hasty comments had left on my mind. 44 His 
 residence is I presume known to you,"” added I, 
 as I laid down the money on the counter. 44 It 
 is not, sir,” answered he ; 44 but I have no doubt of 
 his soon calling to replace the drawings thus ad¬ 
 vantageously disposed of; besides, his lively inte¬ 
 rest in the success of our arms, makes my news¬ 
 paper a great attraction.” 
 
 44 An invalid officer !” sighed I, more and 
 
 more vexed at my rash critiques. 44 I have little 
 
 doubt of it, sir,” replied the printseller, 44 but not 
 
 recently in the service. He speaks of his illness 
 
 as of long standing, and this I suppose occasions 
 
 3 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 239 
 
 his distress.”—“ Is he married ?” asked I; do you 
 ever see any family ?” “ Once only, a respectable 
 
 female, too old for his wife, I should say probably 
 an elder sister, or maiden aunt, called to inquire 
 about the fate of some drawings. They were then un¬ 
 sold ; but her interest in the result was so obvious, 
 that I suppressed the fact, and took my chance of 
 their selling, as they soon did, sir, to you. The old 
 lady—for such, notwithstanding her simple dress, 
 she seemed—was as reserved as the gentleman, and 
 I never saw her again.'” 
 
 With this slight information I was obliged to 
 content myself, and walked disconsolately out of 
 the shop. The unknown, I learned some days 
 afterwards, continued to come there, when increas¬ 
 ing infirmity permitted, but always at an hour 
 when he knew it was sure to be unfrequented. Be¬ 
 sides, had I even succeeded in intruding myself 
 on his acquaintance, I felt the little probability of 
 inducing him to accept any thing beyond the 
 ample apology I had already conveyed through 
 the master of the shop ; so I gave one sigh to the 
 romance of the affair, and another to its sad reali¬ 
 ty, and for a while forgot it amid new pursuits 
 and acquaintances. 
 
240 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 Mrs. Sydney received my little present with her 
 usual warm-hearted frankness. 44 1 like your draw¬ 
 ings, Mr. Meredith,” said she; 44 and I like your 
 attention better still. You shall hang them your¬ 
 self among neighbours not to be ashamed of, I 
 assure you. These wild Sierras and their pic¬ 
 turesque Muleteers and Guerillas, will be in excel¬ 
 lent keeping with yonder Bulgarian hovels, and 
 their turbaned Turks, among whom my poor bro¬ 
 ther was only preserved by our constitutional good- 
 humour from realising the fate of 
 
 4 Jean Rost-bif, Ecuyer, 
 
 Qui se pendit pour se desennuyer.’ 
 
 And look ! there is the well-known bridge of Glen 
 Falconar, and, (lowering her voice,) the family 
 chapel of another dear abode of my youth, rich in 
 departed worth. Why, you are selecting the 
 lights a merville , for an ignoramus ! Confess, 
 you have been studying under a limner since we 
 parted 
 
 44 Did I not mention the circumstance before ?” 
 said I, in all the confusion of mauvaise honte , 
 
 4; You said one might be a heaven-born artist 
 without knowing it, so I resolved to make the 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 241 
 
 trial; and its result has been that I know which 
 side of a picture the light falls on.” 66 It is more 
 than many do,” said my old friend playfully, ct and 
 therefore tant gagne; but I daresay you have 
 gained something besides.” “ I once hoped I 
 might have gained a friend, or at least the oppor¬ 
 tunity of doing some good, but I failed, perhaps 
 by my own rash levity and I told her the adven¬ 
 ture of the unknown artist. 
 
 66 Well,” said she, after a pause, evidently of 
 regret; “ you have perhaps made another acqui¬ 
 sition, in more tenderness for the possible feelings 
 of by-standers. You will never criticise unmerci¬ 
 fully again, for fear the ghost of the unknown 
 should be looking over your shoulder.” 
 
 I got in the course of the next few weeks my 
 bespoken drawings, but bearing still more legibly 
 than the former the impress of disease and decay. 
 “ The poor gentleman has exerted himself to finish 
 them, as they were paid for,” said the printseller ; 
 “ but informs me that no more need be expected, 
 as he is much too ill.” So saying, he handed me 
 a brief note, in an easy though trembling cha¬ 
 racter, from which nothing could be gathered but 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 that the hand of death was on the writer. Leav¬ 
 ing a trifle in the hands of the worthy dealer, in 
 case accident should put it in his power to convey 
 it, I gave up the matter in despair. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 243 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Jack’s alive ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 My winter in Edinburgh passed away most plea¬ 
 santly between the liberal studies which I there 
 saw daily pursued by men maturer in years than 
 myself, and the boundless hospitality for which the 
 metropolis of the north has ever been distinguish¬ 
 ed. Its society, I am told, has since become more 
 extensive and miscellaneous,—but at the time I 
 write of, one good introduction—a less potent one 
 by far than the universal passport of Mrs. Sydney 
 Hume's countenance, sufficed to unlock to a young 
 stranger, at all comme il faut, alike the mansions 
 and hearts of its kindly citizens. 
 
244 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 Such is the round of incessant hospitality which 
 winter brings in its train, that I might, if disposed 
 to profit by it, have 66 sat at good men's feasts" 
 every day of the week. But I was a bonaJide , 
 though desultory student, and I limited my enjoy¬ 
 ments chiefly to such as promised to combine 
 utility with amusement. 
 
 The distinguished trio I had been introduced to 
 at Mrs. Sydney’s, proved themselves men of deeds, 
 not words only. At the poet’s privileged board I 
 met a piquant class of men nearly unknown, I be¬ 
 lieve, in the south, who contrive to unite in ami¬ 
 cable compact the seemingly discordant pursuits of 
 law and literature. At the physician’s I learnt how 
 agreeably and profitably science can unbend, and 
 philosophy insinuate herself under the guise of 
 table-talk, while beneath my amiable temporary 
 pastor’s roof were domiciliated a few young English¬ 
 men, like myself, of independent fortune, but dif¬ 
 fering from me, alas ! in having laid elsewhere the 
 foundation of an excellent education, on which 
 they were now merely rearing a superstructure of 
 more varied and liberal pursuits. In these I found 
 both practical advisers by what method lost time 
 might best be compensated, and most benefit be de- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 245 
 
 rived from my tardy matriculation, and compa¬ 
 nions towards whom I was naturally attracted by 
 similarity of country and situation. When I com¬ 
 pared, or rather contrasted, these manly, spirited, 
 but rational and intelligent youths, with the coad¬ 
 jutors of my earlier follies, I could scarce believe 
 that they were denizens of the same England, en¬ 
 dowed with the same faculties, and born to the 
 same responsibilities. 
 
 The gaiety of Edinburgh, properly so called, was 
 then, as I believe it still is, chiefly confined to a 
 short fitful fever of a few weeks, the madness and 
 intensity of which I could not help fancifully as¬ 
 cribing to its being probably (like many other le¬ 
 gacies of France to Scotland) a relic of the Catho¬ 
 lic carnival. In its vortex, I had sagely half re¬ 
 solved not to entangle myself, when, fortunately 
 perhaps for my consistency, I had an excuse for 
 so doing, as a Squire of Dames, in a quarter where 
 my poor services were equally r matter of duty and 
 inclination. 
 
 To partake for the first time in her life in the 
 brief revel—to see and be seen by her countrymen, 
 as befitted one so endowed by nature and fortune, 
 Alice Moray, (a year earlier then had originally 
 

 
 246 PROBATION. 
 
 been intended) came to town ; and though chape¬ 
 roned in public by a widow lady of rank, her near re¬ 
 lation, resided under the roof of Mrs. Sydney Hume. 
 
 For reasons honourable to all parties, the heiress 
 of Moray Castle made her debut unattended by 
 any member of the Glen Falconar family. The 
 old laird and Miss Annie rarely, if ever, quitted 
 the country ; and Roderick, whom business con¬ 
 nected with his retirement on half-pay had detain¬ 
 ed vexatiously in London, was too happy to in¬ 
 demnify himself by the society of his father and 
 child, as well as too proud and delicate to fetter, by 
 any public devotion of his own, his fair cousin’s 
 entree on a scene where she had only to appear to 
 be admired and appreciated. 
 
 (e Alice, I suspect,” said Mrs. Sydney, when 
 announcing to me her expected arrival, “ has not 
 lived some months in the house with Roderick Fal¬ 
 conar to have eyes or ears for any one else; but he 
 and his are determined she shall have the 6 fair 
 field’ of the three kingdoms, and, and 6 no favour,’ 
 ere a single word of even implied devotion crosses 
 the lips of one who, could he suppose himself in¬ 
 debted for her partiality to youth or inexperience, 
 and not her deliberate choice, with c all the world 
 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 247 
 
 before her where to choose,’ would whistle down the 
 wind without a sigh the romantic demesne of Castle 
 Moray, nay even the charms (of which, poor fel¬ 
 low, he is becoming but too sensible) of its lovely 
 owner."” 
 
 Alice, who never having suspected anything 
 warmer than friendship in her feelings towards me, 
 had no awkward transition to make, met me with 
 the same cordial and bewitching frankness as ever ; 
 and I was richly repaid for my sacrifice of a mo¬ 
 mentary dream of ambition, when Mrs. Sydney 
 (to supply the lack of any such useful member in 
 Lady Mary G-’s family) bespoke, and with un¬ 
 
 hesitating confidence, my devoirs as the escort and 
 cavaliere in public of Miss Moray. 
 
 (i Your previous acquaintance at Glen Falconar,” 
 said she, 66 and intimacy with myself, will make 
 the thing quite obvious and natural, and my Elsie 
 will want a disinterested old friend to shield her a 
 little from the press of inconvenient and perhaps 
 undesirable admirers, and see her safe to her chair, 
 and into the hands of that doughty celt, Archy 
 M‘Gillivray, under whose auspices she may defy all 
 the ravishers of romance, with Sir Hargrave Pol- 
 lexfen at their head. Only think of your enacting 
 
248 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 the part of Grandison, Edmund, and on my re¬ 
 sponsibility !” added my old friend, playfully. 
 “ Do you think our Miss Byron will resist that ? 
 all cold and provoking as she is, like her too per¬ 
 fect namesake ?” I shook my head, and yet there 
 lurked always some encouragement under Mrs. 
 Sydney’s raillery—and when did a lover ever want 
 excuse for hope P 
 
 That the heiress of Castle Moray, rich in charms 
 as in thousands, was admired and courted, and by 
 countrymen to whom she might have listened with¬ 
 out derogation, it is almost needless to say. But 
 she did not listen, for her “ heart,^ (like the hero¬ 
 ine’s of the old Scottish ballad she sung so sweetly) 
 was 4 4 in the Highlands and I saw her depart for 
 London, to be presented at court, and become the 
 cynosure of all eyes, in a more dazzling circle, 
 without one throb of anxiety for the silent and dig¬ 
 nified pretensions of her absent cousin. But I have 
 been unconsciously anticipating, and must return 
 to an adventure more nearly concerning myself. 
 
 It is of a nature so uncommon and melo-drama- 
 tic, that unless the reader good-naturedly proceeds 
 on a principle long since adopted by myself, viz. 
 that of setting down for facts all circumstances in a 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 249 
 
 narrative too improbable for fiction, 1 don't see how 
 I can expect to be believed. 1 am not, however, 
 the less worthy of credit, and could appeal to living 
 witnesses, aye, I am happy to say, to the still sur¬ 
 viving hero, (for such he certainly must be consi¬ 
 dered) of the most marvellous of all my rencontres. 
 To one of these I have been indebted, under Pro¬ 
 vidence, for education, to another for wealth, but 
 to none perhaps did I ever owe so much of heart¬ 
 felt satisfaction and purely pleasurable emotion, as 
 the one I am about to narrate. 
 
 The last summer I passed at the seaside with 
 Mrs. Meredith, had been rescued from utter insi¬ 
 pidity by the delightful though brief companion¬ 
 ship of a fine sailor boy of my own age, who was 
 passing under the roof of affectionate parents in the 
 adjoining villa to ours, a hard-earned holiday of 
 intense enjoyment; differing as widely from the joy¬ 
 less monotony of mine, as the ardent excitement of 
 his spirit-stirring profession did from the regulated 
 tenor of any school exercises with Mr. Maude. 
 Had Charles Saxby remained another month at 
 home, its close might have seen me a disinherited 
 midshipman ; for it needed only the force of daily 
 contrast, and daily association with a being so fear- 
 
250 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 less and so happy, to stimulate to escape, one to 
 whom a floating prison seemed comparative liberty. 
 
 But Charles, who knew better than myself of 
 what stuff sailors ought to be made, and how unfit 
 one taken from the lap of indulgence, if not luxury, 
 is to “rock with the seaboy on the giddy mast,” would 
 never give me even the usual quantum of schoolboy 
 encouragement. 44 You’re too old and soft to go to 
 sea now, Ned,” he would say, with a good-natured 
 laugh at my landsman’s enthusiasm, 44 and too fond 
 of Latin by half, to make a sailor. Besides, it is 
 not for a grandmamma’s pet like you, with a plum 
 or two just ready to drop into your mouth, to be 
 roughing it in all weathers, and taking your chance 
 of shot and shipwreck. Leave all that to a poor 
 devil of a sixth son like me, with neither room nor 
 prog for him at home, nor chance of a sixpence but 
 what he may persuade a Frenchman to hand over 
 by the soft eloquence of a broadside. Stay snugly 
 ashore, Ned, and don’t be doing any thing foolish ; 
 and when I am a yellow admiral with a wooden leg, 
 and not much cash in the locker, I’ll come and stay 
 a month with you, and make a sailor of your sixth 
 son, if you’ll let me.” 
 
 It is seldom that predictions thus made in sport, 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 251 
 
 are realized in earnest; and rarer still when the re¬ 
 alization far exceeds in brightness the anticipations 
 of fancy. When I next saw Charles Saxby, he 
 was not a yellow admiral, not a superannuated ve¬ 
 teran, richer in laurels than in limbs; but that 
 perhaps most enviable of human beings, a recently 
 appointed Post Captain; as happy as promotion 
 and the possession of a tight little frigate can make 
 a joyous sailor of six and twenty. If anything 
 could add to this brimming cup of happiness, it was 
 the stumbling one day, while stationed with a small 
 squadron in Leith Roads, upon his ancient, partly- 
 despised, partly envied playfellow, Ned Meredith. 
 Our meeting was a truly cordial one. If both were 
 altered, it was I hope not for the worse. What I 
 had lost in effeminacy, Charles had gained in po¬ 
 lish ; and when he made me the true professional 
 compliment, that I looked as much of a man as if 
 I had spent all my life at sea, I might have an¬ 
 swered with equal sincerity, that he could not have 
 been more of a gentleman had his been passed in a 
 court. 
 
 We met of course very often. My Saturdays, 
 the only days of absolute idleness I indulged in, 
 were spent chiefly in Charles's society ; and if any- 
 
252 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 thing detained him beyond our usual hour of ren¬ 
 dezvous for a country ramble, I used frequently to 
 stroll down the broad avenue leading from the north¬ 
 ern metropolis to its port, in quest of my tardy com¬ 
 rade. 
 
 In so doing, I necessarily often passed under the 
 lofty wall of a botanical garden which skirted the 
 road, of whose sheltering and sunny influence, va¬ 
 rious privileged beggars availed themselves to take 
 up their daily, and I believe inalienable stations. 
 Most of these were too manifestly practised specu¬ 
 lators on human sympathy, to be very successful in 
 awaking it, too clamorous for real distress, and too 
 importunate to excite any feeling more amiable 
 than annoyance; but the still, composed, almost 
 dignified picture of a lame sailor, who, contenting 
 himself with the silent eloquence of his mutilated 
 limb, rarely appealed in words to the passengers 1 
 charity, acted powerfully on a heart which must 
 have been made of iron, not to warm at sight of 
 aught that could bring Jack Norton once more be¬ 
 fore my mind’s eye. 
 
 That honest preserver of my childhood, I had 
 reason to think had long since fallen a sacrifice to 
 the chances of his perilous profession ; for when, 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 253 
 
 on first succeeding to my grandmother’s fortune, I 
 had sought and visited Kate, (to whom in lieu of 
 an annual donation, a legacy had been bequeathed 
 by Mrs. Meredith,) I found the warm-hearted crea¬ 
 ture giving way to deep despondence, under that 
 probability rather than certitude of widowhood, 
 which is frequently all that a sailor’s wife can ga¬ 
 ther of a hopeless bereavement. It was the sus¬ 
 pense and anxiety which, robust as she was in 
 mind as well as body, I believe killed her. Friends, 
 kindness—and she had both—money, and I sup¬ 
 plied her every wish; even her children, who though 
 dispersed, still survived and were dutiful, could not 
 make up to an affectionate heart for the five long 
 years during which no tidings had been heard of 
 Jack. 
 
 His probable impressment, (for he was an old 
 man-of-war’s man,) and detention in a French 
 prison, was the usual topic of encouragement made 
 use of by all around her ; but there was scarce one 
 of those receptacles of misery Kate’s restless ener¬ 
 gies had not managed somehow or other to get 
 explored; and the result of all the 44 hope defer¬ 
 red,” to which every fresh inquiry gave a death¬ 
 blow, was at length a broken spirit, and a broken 
 
254 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 heart. She was buried about two years before I 
 came to Scotland—and, tell it not in Gath ! I 
 never breathed over the splendid monument erect¬ 
 ed by duty to her to whom I owed thousands—a 
 sigh half so sad and tender, as rose unbidden from 
 the heart’s depths, as I gazed on the green turf that 
 lay on the once warm bosom of Mammy Norton. 
 
 Jack himself, I had only seen once since he saved 
 my life ; and our brief sojourn together under his 
 roof, (for he went to sea again long ere I quitted 
 its shelter,) rendered my recollections of him very 
 vague and imperfect. I only dimly remembered a 
 frame of iron, and a complexion bronzed by the 
 winds of all climates, from the pole to the equa¬ 
 tor. But there was a smile of almost childish naiv- 
 te always lurking around the honest tar’s lips, 
 and a latent sparkle of easily awakened kindness in 
 his eye, which I could not forget, and would have 
 given worlds to recognise. 
 
 For the sake of these and similar associations, I 
 had repeatedly thrown into the hat of the silent old 
 sailor mendicant my willing mite ; and one day 
 when want of small coin obliged me to depart from 
 my custom, I felt as it were in duty bound to atone 
 for the apparent churlishness—to myself, if not to 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 255 
 
 the uncomplaining supplicant, by promising to 
 repair the omission on my return. 
 
 I provided myself with the needful at a stall 
 while lingering on the quay, awaiting the tardy 
 progress of Saxby’s stout pinnace against an adverse 
 tide and a sharp Scottish equinoxial gale ; but it 
 was not till we had proceeded some way towards 
 town, that finding myself mechanically accompany¬ 
 ing Charles along the opposite side of the way from 
 my pet beggar’s station, I begged him to cross with 
 me that I might redeem my promise. 
 
 Saxby was a good-natured fellow, but a sailor is 
 always in a hurry; and he would rather have 
 thrown his purse at once to the beggar, than have 
 lost in his service a fraction of either his way or 
 his precious time. With expressions bordering 
 more nearly than usual on nautical licence, he re¬ 
 luctantly allowed himself to be dragged across the 
 wide causeway, and the sight of the garb and ap¬ 
 parent profession of my protege, instead of soften¬ 
 ing or interesting him, as I had supposed most na¬ 
 tural, seemed doubly to annoy and exasperate him. 
 “ Hang the fellow !” exclaimed he, “ it is too bad 
 to make a blue jacket and a cork leg a cloak for 
 humbugging a parcel of landsmen, as those sot- 
 
256 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 disant sailors eternally do ! He’s no more a sea¬ 
 man than you are, Ned, depend upon it.” 
 
 44 I wish you would ascertain it by talking a lit¬ 
 tle to him,” said I, half ashamed of my credulity ; 
 44 you would detect an impostor at once.” 
 
 44 No, hang it,” cried Saxby, with rising pro¬ 
 fessional choler, 44 ’tis not worth my pains. I sup¬ 
 pose I’ve cross-questioned some scores in my time, 
 and I never found a true tar among them but one; 
 and that was a little shabby fellow, who, but for his 
 indubitable gaily lingo, and being up to trap on 
 every point I tried to puzzle him with, might have 
 passed for a cockney tailor. That old hull yonder, 
 for as weather-beaten as it looks, is but a fresh wa¬ 
 ter craft, I warrant, like all the rest of them.” 
 
 44 Just ask him one or two sea questions, Charles, 
 to please me, and convince me at the same time, if 
 the matter is as you suppose.” 
 
 As my comrade reluctantly advanced to comply, 
 a slight but striking circumstance corroborated my 
 opinion of the veteran’s orthodoxy, and staggered 
 Charles’s. At the sight of an officer in full uniform, 
 there was not only a mechanical readiness of salute 
 in the trembling hand which sought his uncovered 
 time-bleached head, but a sparkle in the dim eye, 
 
 1 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 25 7 
 
 and flush on the hollow cheek, which spoke one 
 sailor’s heart warming to another. 
 
 44 How fares it with you, mess-mate ?” cried my 
 young friend, in a tone involuntarily more frank 
 than he intended— 44 badly enough it would ap¬ 
 pear, from your taking to the begging line in your 
 old age ?” 
 
 44 Better to beg than steal, Captain—or starve,” 
 added the old man, in a more subdued tone, glanc¬ 
 ing as if in a melancholy yet complacent contrast 
 on the proud martial figure of his youthful succes¬ 
 sor on the billows. 
 
 44 No disabled seaman need do either, I trust, 
 in this happy country,” returned the again scepti¬ 
 cal inquirer ; 44 that leg entitles you to Greenwich 
 of course.” 
 
 44 I wish it did, Sir,” replied the old man calm¬ 
 ly, 44 as much for the honour of the thing as the 
 money, though that would be welcome too, God 
 knows. But though I served the king more years, 
 first and last, than many, who are snug with a good 
 out-pension, it was not in a king's ship I lost my pre¬ 
 cious limb ; and I never heard of owners that cared 
 for an old foretop-man, when a flaw in his timbers 
 
 had laid him up in dock. I’ve gone through as 
 
 s 
 
258 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 many hardships in my time as my neighbours. 
 I’ve been frost-bit in Greenland, and broiled on the 
 coast of Africa, and near made shark’s meat in the 
 West Indies ; but hang me, if I would’nt almost 
 rather have gone to them at once, than lain rotting 
 five years in that devil’s anchorage, the French 
 prison of D-.” 
 
 “ Were you in prison in France ?” asked I 
 eagerly—thoughts of poor Jack, and Kate’s cruel 
 anxieties rushing on my mind. ce Yes, Sir,” an¬ 
 swered the old sailor, every muscle of his face 
 quivering with strong emotion, 66 and may the 
 Lord preserve you from ever seeing the inside of 
 such an infernal hole. And the unchristened 
 wretches of Frenchmen ! the chance of war, and all 
 that’s fair enough ; but who, except Buonaparte, 
 ever thought of keeping the crews of a parcel of 
 harmless merchantmen half a score years from their 
 wives and families, till the one were gone to their 
 long home, and the other come to worse ends may 
 be—and all because he had neither bowels nor 
 conscience ? It was trying to escape, with some 
 others, over the high ramparts of their confounded 
 
 fort of D-, that I broke my thigh-bone, and lay 
 
 long for dead ; and there I might have lain, like 
 
FROBATION. 
 
 259 
 
 live lumber as I was, but for the Christian kind¬ 
 ness and fellow-feeling for an old foretop-man of 
 half a score of boys of middys—God bless them— 
 the eldest of the gang but a trifle above sixteen, 
 who, though hard enough put to it to save them¬ 
 selves, scorned to sheer off and leave an old mess¬ 
 mate disabled on a lee shore. These fine fellows, 
 gentlemen every inch of them, (the one on whose 
 back I rode oftenest was son to a lord) lugged poor 
 lame Jack along, skulking in the woods all day, 
 and scrimmaging about for rations in the dark at 
 the risk of their lives, a matter of nine weeks, till 
 we made the coast at last, and had enough ado to 
 persuade a parleyvouing lubber of a Frenchman to 
 run us aboard of an English cruiser, for there was 
 not a stiver among us to open his heart with be¬ 
 forehand. 
 
 £< When we came under the bows of the frigate, I 
 was the first, lame leg and all, to crawl up the side ; 
 for the younkers were ashamed to be seen in their 
 rags and dirt, and I was sure no one but myself 
 could tell the story enough to their honour. Odd, 
 Captain, I only wish I had that old hat there as 
 full of halfpence, as the French skipper's was of 
 
260 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 bright yellow pictures of his Majesty before I had 
 half done speaking; and hang me if I knew whe¬ 
 ther the dear boys looked queerer in their own worn 
 tatters, or the gay coats and waistcoats made for 
 the captain and lieutenants, that hung about them 
 like so many bags. <c And had you no share of 
 all that was going ?” “ Aye, captain, that had I; 
 
 I got rigged from head to heel, and got all I want¬ 
 ed, which was a trifle to carry me home. But 
 home was no home to me. 11 
 
 “ Had you no family left to take care of you ?” 
 asked I. “ I should have two boys, please God, 
 somewhere on the face of the earth, or the sea ra¬ 
 ther, for they’re both sailors—and a girl following 
 a soldier husband in Canada, Halifax, or some 
 such out of the way place; but the French prison 
 killed my poor wife as outright as if she had been 
 in it instead of me. The unchristian wretches 
 never took the trouble to forward a poor devil’s 
 letter like me, (though when rich officers wrote 
 home for cash, no post could be surer) and the wo¬ 
 man that I never saw down-hearted but once, and 
 that was when I was shipwrecked this time twenty 
 years, died, they tell me, of a broken heart.” 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 261 
 
 “ Shipwrecked ! were you ?” echoed Captain 
 Saxby, half* relapsing into scepticism at this favour¬ 
 ite cant word of impostors—“ in a king’s ship ?” 
 
 “ No, please your honour,” answered the old 
 man, with a sly smile on his weather-beaten face, 
 66 I never had the luck to be lost outright in one 
 of them, though they’ve an ugly trick of going to 
 pieces when they strike, just like any other craft. 
 It was a merchant brig from America that made 
 the desperate bad job of it I mean, and a sad 
 bungling business it was. The master had too many 
 grey hairs in his head not to have known mares’ 
 tails in the sky when he saw them, and if he hadn’t 
 gone to Davy Jones, it must have gone hard with 
 him elsewhere. But he took every soul on board 
 with him, that was the worst of it; all but myself, 
 and that was no thanks to him.” 
 
 “ All on board ?” echoed I, breathless with in¬ 
 definable emotion, a did all perish, said you ?” 
 66 All but a slip of a boy that his poor mother 
 threw me to look after. I daresay it was for the 
 innocent’s sake he had a lull, and got safe ashore.” 
 
 “ And what became of him ?” asked Charles, 
 who saw me choking with an inquiry which worlds 
 would not have enabled me to utter. i( He grew 
 
262 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 a fine handsome gentlemen, I’ve heard poor Kate 
 say many a time and oft, and let her want for no¬ 
 thing when I was at sea. I’d have given a month’s 
 pay to see the creature that rocked a long March 
 night on a hencoop beside me, and ate out of the 
 same porringer with the little ones, till his grand 
 friends came and fetched him away; but I was so 
 seldom ashore, I could never fall in with him, and 
 I shouldn’t know him if he stood before me.” 
 
 44 Is this at all like him, Jack, think you ?” 
 asked Charles, grasping me firmly by the arm, (no 
 unwelcome support), and turning my averted face 
 towards the sailor. 44 Jack !” exclaimed the old 
 man, quite bewildered, 44 that’s my name sure 
 enough, but how came you to know it ?” 
 
 44 And you’re Jack Norton, too, are you not ?” 
 cried I, finding breath at last, 44 kind, honest Jack 
 Norton, that I owe my life to, and whose latter 
 days it shall be the business of mine to make com¬ 
 fortable.” 
 
 “Aye, aye, you have it all pat between ye,” 
 murmured the veteran disjointedly— 44 but which of 
 you young gentlemen is the child that sat on Kate’s 
 knee, and lay in her bosom ? It’s not you, Cap¬ 
 tain, I know now, for they wouldn’t let my boy go 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 2G3 
 
 to sea, I remember ; but they’ve made a man of 
 him any how, and God in heaven bless him, and 
 make me thankful I’ve lived to see this day.” 
 
 A thoroughfare, though at this early hour little 
 frequented, was no place for scenes, and we soon 
 adjourned our’s (for want of a tavern within reach) 
 to an adjoining stone-cutter’s yard; where,surround¬ 
 ed by costly monuments to gratitude not half so 
 sincere and solidly founded as mine, I was able to 
 pour out unrestrained, my long defrauded feelings 
 towards the preserver of my existence. 
 
 If any thing could have added to the singularity 
 of this recognition, it was its occurring under the 
 auspices of the unpropitious and incredulous Saxby; 
 the more so, as his sudden substitution on the sta¬ 
 tion for an old Captain of Jack’s (in quest of 
 whose patronage and good offices the poor homeless 
 wanderer had come to Scotland,) proved in the first 
 instance a complete damper to the old man’s slend¬ 
 er worldly prospects. That Jack begged no more 
 from that day, it were superfluous to mention, as 
 well as that Charles Saxby henceforward, always 
 gave beggars in blue jackets the benefit at least of 
 a court of inquiry. 
 
 I got Mrs. Sydney, whose natural love of sailors 
 
264 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 was quickened by a weak side, (the wisest will have 
 one,) in favour of all the mendicant order—to procure 
 for Jack's evening of life a comfort far beyond sil¬ 
 ver or gold ; in the discharge from service of the 
 husband of his only daughter, (a second Kate in 
 kindness as well as name,) and a chair for the ve¬ 
 teran’s latter days at the fireside of a son-in-law, 
 who made shoes none the worse, and told stories all 
 the better, for having during seven years of an event¬ 
 ful life made campaigns in all quarters of the globe. 
 
 This incident, it may be believed, contributed 
 to endear Scotland still farther to one, whose affec¬ 
 tions as well as tastes and feelings had there been 
 so delightfully called into exercise. To me, there 
 had always been as much of the romantic in Scot¬ 
 tish life, as in Scottish scenery. Not only had I 
 been transformed, by spells of unimagined potency, 
 from an ennuye into an enthusiast; but events par¬ 
 taking little less of the nature of magic, were des¬ 
 tined to succeed each other with a rapidity which 
 makes the portion of my life passed in Edinburgh, 
 when looked back on, stand out from the level rea¬ 
 lities of former and subsequent existence, like the 
 Fata Morgana structures of some gorgeous, but 
 rapidly shifting dream. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 265 
 
 CHAPTER XIII.’ 
 
 4 
 
 And still to love, though prest with ill 
 ’Mid wintry age, to feel no chill 
 With me, is to be lovely still. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 I was returning one peculiarly dark and foggy af¬ 
 ternoon from a late class at the college, and mak¬ 
 ing my way slowly along the Bond Street of Edin¬ 
 burgh, the South Bridge, (whose gay shops and 
 their rich frequenters, thus oddly perched above 
 their squalid fellow-mortals in the Cowgate, afford 
 no bad illustration of the difference in their relative 
 moral position,) when the peculiar sound with 
 which a stay in London had rendered me too fa¬ 
 miliar, of fire engines, and a rush of people towards 
 
266 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 the High Street, made me quicken my pace, and 
 take the same direction. 
 
 It was some time ere I could obtain any precise 
 information on the site of a conflagration, all were 
 taking, like myself, upon trust. At length, as I 
 turned the corner of Hunter’s Square, I ran full 
 upon an old woman, the only individual among hun¬ 
 dreds, who was going quietly in an opposite direc¬ 
 tion, and sufficiently calm, amid universal excite¬ 
 ment, to give me an answer, which nothing short 
 of a residence of some months in Scotland could 
 have rendered intelligible to an Englishman. “ The 
 fire’s in the second land (meaning thereby a tene¬ 
 ment of some fourteen stories, more or less,) in Con- 
 oily’s Close.” 
 
 To those who have never seen Edinburgh, or 
 a town similarly constructed, a close would convey 
 the idea of a neat paved court, possibly graced 
 with a few venerable trees, and snug-looking an¬ 
 tiquated houses, reposing under the shadow of 
 some time-honoured cathedral, and inhabited by 
 grave prebendaries and their quiet households. 
 But in Edinburgh—that is the town of history and 
 romance, the town of the James’s and Maries—a 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 2G7 
 
 close means a narrow lane, whose inhabitants may 
 almost shake hands across it from the windows of 
 some dozen stories; some of whose buildings, 
 maugre their baronial antiquity, still frown in 
 a massy strength that may defy centuries, and 
 others again, less solidly constructed, are evidently 
 nodding to their fall; yet, while their crazy wooden 
 projections have long since menaced passengers 
 with destruction, peopled like an ant-hill to their 
 airy summits, with busy though necessitous hu¬ 
 man beinq-s. 
 
 It was in a close thus constructed that the fire 
 was now raging, and those who may happen to 
 have witnessed the far more extensive conflagra¬ 
 tions which I am told have since ravaged that 
 noble High Street, in which these alleys termi¬ 
 nate, can perhaps alone appreciate the singularly 
 magnificent aspect of the flames, which, curling 
 upwards amid these Patagonian buildings, like 
 the codings of some giant snake, shed their livid 
 glare of 66 red gold’” on the coroneted crest of 
 the old Cathedral, and made the distant battle¬ 
 ments of the Castle loom portentously through 
 wreaths of smoke. I believe the first feelings of 
 every one present were awe and admiration, though 
 
268 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 these quickly gave place to active exertion, in 
 which all ranks heartily joined. 
 
 It was not an hour when many of the upper 
 classes were in that quarter of the town, but a good 
 many students like myself were drawn by curiosity 
 as well as humanity to the awful scene. The 
 fire seemed to have originated in the second house 
 in the alley from the main street, and as the 
 efforts of the fire engines could only be directed to 
 it over the roofs of those lower down, more per¬ 
 sonal exertion in getting water conveyed by other 
 means became necessary. While some active en¬ 
 terprising fellows were scrambling, regardless of pe¬ 
 ril, on roofs and chimnies with the scanty supplies 
 thus obtained, I turned my efforts toward the 
 possible rescue of the inmates of the devoted dwell¬ 
 ing, all hopes of the individual preservation of 
 which were soon abandoned. 
 
 The stone staircases, universal in Scotland, af¬ 
 ford ingress and egress to the last moment that hu¬ 
 man respiration is possible within the walls, and 
 up these I rushed in all the excitement of youth, 
 and enthusiasm of humanity. Creatures of all 
 ages, in all the varieties of destitution and help¬ 
 lessness, flew past me with the temporary fleetness 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 269 
 
 of despair. Their dishevelled aspect, their wild 
 features rendered livid by the flames, will not soon 
 pass from my memory ; nor will it ever lose, amid 
 the general horrors of that flight, the pale meek 
 face, and calm though trembling demeanour of 
 a little barefooted girl of twelve or thirteen, who, 
 with a devotion she never deemed heroic, was 
 lingering to assist an aged grandmother, while 
 both were often nearly overwhelmed by the torrent 
 of fugitives this modern Babel continued to dis¬ 
 gorge. I saw them safe down the few remaining 
 steps of their course, and then flew to redeem lost 
 time. The little girl called after me (in the 
 same spirit that dictated her previous conduct), 
 “ Oh sir ! the gentleman in the third flat !” 
 
 A gentleman ! and in such a place ! could I 
 have heard aright ? or did the word mean more 
 than one who exercised no calling P Even such 
 would surely not live voluntarily here. The door 
 leading from the common stair to this third floor 
 apartment was standing open ; had it been closed, 
 this was no time for forms. I rushed forward 
 through a dismal antique kitchen, destitute of every 
 appearance of comfort, into an inner room containing 
 a bed, beside which stood, her hands meekly fold- 
 
270 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 ed, her limbs apparently fast stiffening with affright, 
 an elderly woman of the middling class. 44 Good 
 God !” exclaimed I, 44 why do you linger here ? 
 there is not a moment to be lost, fly, I intreat 
 you .’’ 1 She was past speaking, but a look directed 
 to the bed, showed me that it held what she would 
 not abandon without force. The flames burst 
 vividly forth upon the opposite wall, else I should 
 scarce have distinguished the emaciated being 
 lying in happy insensibility on the wretched pallet. 
 I snatched him up, (half recoiling with horror and 
 pity at the infant lightness of my burden) en¬ 
 veloped in a blanket, which the trembling hands 
 of his nurse had already instinctively wrapped 
 round her charge ; forced her out of the now blaz¬ 
 ing and crackling room before me, and happily, 
 though with considerable difficulty, reached the 
 bottom of the stairs. 
 
 A shout from the crowd beneath hailed our ap¬ 
 pearance. 44 Thank God, they’re all out now,” cried 
 unfortunate beings, who, amid ruin and desolation, 
 could yet sympathize in the escape of their fellow- 
 wretches. 44 Have you any friends,” said I to the poor 
 trembling woman, (the moving of whose lips in silent 
 prayer alone assured me of her existence,) 44 to 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 271 
 
 whose house I can have this sick person carried ?” 
 a lot of Highland porters (among whom I gladly 
 recognised Archy M 4 Gillivray,) having prepared for 
 similar cases rude litters on their hand-barrows. 
 44 Friends I 11 at last ejaculated the creature before 
 me, whose frightful emaciation I now perceived 
 was only exceeded by her patient’s ; but it was in a 
 tone so despairingly negative, that I really feared a 
 repetition of the question might annihilate her. 
 
 44 The poor man cannot lie in the street, 1 ’ cried I, 
 and I was forced to exert myself to find him a domi¬ 
 cile. 44 Run, Archy, across the way there, to that 
 German optician, who sold me the mathematical in¬ 
 struments, you know—and see if he can give a bed 
 on my account to this unhappy person . 11 44 Aye, 
 he lets lodgings—to the living that is,” muttered 
 Archy to himself, as he hobbled across the street, 
 44 but whether he’ll tak wi’ a corp, is anither mat¬ 
 ter . 11 
 
 The German, who, I had reason to know, was too 
 poor to be particular, made no demur ; and to his 
 clean, though humble dwelling, au quatrieme , I 
 carried my still insensible burden. A small flask 
 of schnaps which the house contained, afforded the 
 readiest means of resuscitation ; and no sooner were 
 
272 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 a few drops of the unwonted stimulus applied to 
 the poor sick man’s lips, than he opened his eyes, 
 looked wildly around, and asked where he was ? 
 
 The voice, faint as it was, struck me as not en¬ 
 tirely unknown, and the decided English accent, so 
 rarely heard of late, perhaps strengthened the im¬ 
 pression. 44 Oh yes, I remember,” said he 
 feebly, and with great effort, as the confiscations of 
 the flames played on the opposite wall, 44 the 
 house is on fire. Eleanor, save yourself, I entreat, 
 I command you.” 44 We are both saved, God be 
 praised for it; and this gentleman,” said another 
 gentle English voice ; and the poor little woman, 
 at length fairly overcome by a sense of security, 
 hid her face in the curtains, and sobbed aloud. 
 44 Let—let me thank the gentleman,” said the in¬ 
 valid, trying to raise himself on his elbow, and 
 searching for me with an eye glowing with feverish 
 brightness. I drew near that he might see me ; 
 the flames threw a strong gleam upon his features ; 
 I recognised in them those of the unknown artist, 
 and thanked God my error was at length atoned. 
 
 Fortunately the recognition was not then mutual. 
 I tore myself from his muttered blessings and the 
 grateful tears of his nurse, and commending them 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 273 
 
 both (with carte blanche as to expense) to the ho¬ 
 nest German and his tidy wife, had leisure to find 
 out that I was very tired, my hair and clothes a 
 good deal singed, my head and back aching like a 
 gally-slave’s. The fire was by this time exhaling 
 its impotent fury on shapeless ruins, and smould¬ 
 ering beneath dense clouds of Stygian smoke with 
 the malice of a defeated demon. All the excite- 
 ment of peril was over, and I went home to bed. 
 
 Before I was up next morning, Archy was at my 
 bed-side with a note from Mrs. Sydney. 6i Come 
 to me without fail, immediately ,’ 1 was its tone of 
 peremptory kindness; 66 heroes are scarce in these 
 degenerate days, and I want to see one ; especially 
 one warranted by Archy, who is a very Highland 
 oracle in matters of bodily prowess. There is a lady 
 in the case too, by that trusty Mercury’s report; 
 perhaps she does not interest me the less for being 
 (in his experienced judgment,) an 4 auld lass 1 
 like myself. 1 ’ 
 
 I obeyed this friendly summons with a good deal 
 of the natural reluctance which even ordinary men 
 feel, at the least approach to lionship ; but the 
 hopes of interesting Mrs. Sydney in my protegees, 
 got the better of selfish mauvaise honte , and I even 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 stood pretty well the fire of John Newborough’s 
 privileged stare and exclamation of 44 Guide’s, sir, 
 ye look as if ye had been at the wars !” 
 
 44 Come away ! knight of the fiery Cross and 
 burning pestle,” cried my hostess in her usual 
 sportive manner; but seeing me really annoyed, she 
 added more gravely, 44 Don’t think I suppose you 
 could have helped helping these poor creatures. I 
 know it was all mere poodle instinct and not reflec¬ 
 tion—but still somehow, I am glad it was a dog of 
 mine own breeding, and no one's else.'” 
 
 44 And the poor people will have cause to be glad 
 too, dear Mrs. Sydney,” said I, 44 if they owe to 
 the circumstance any share in your kindness and 
 protection. It can hardly, I should think, be bet¬ 
 ter bestowed.” 
 
 44 As far as kitchen, cellar, and purse are concern¬ 
 ed,” answered she quietly, 44 I have done my best 
 for them already. Archy is off with his seven-league 
 boots on, under a hamper of the old Malmsey, and 
 the spoils of Betty's larder, while Alice Pinnock, 
 the keeper of my privy purse, like 4 panting Time, 
 toils after him in vain,' to inquire into the state 
 of the 4 ways and means.' I bade her settle it all, 
 however, with the German hostess, for fear of giv- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 275 
 
 ing offence; and I long to hear the result of a ne¬ 
 gotiation, carried on in High Dutch and low Edin¬ 
 burgh. Alice will come home, shaking the dust 
 from her feet in pious presbyterian indignation; for 
 with her, all foreigners are Frenchmen, and to go 
 into the house of such, will cost her a week’s fumi¬ 
 gation / 1 44 Indeed ?” replied I, surprised that 
 bigotiy and prejudice could walk unreproved in the 
 clear mild light of Mrs. Sydney’s philanthropy, 
 44 I thought she would have learned from you to 
 love all mankind.” 
 
 There cannot be a stronger proof of my constant 
 forgetfulnesss, that all the world cannot know (like 
 myself and the extensive circle by whom I beheld 
 her appreciated) this admirable woman, than my 
 not having ere this adverted to her benevolence. 
 This is not, heaven be praised, either a rare or dif¬ 
 ficult virtue, in female bosoms especially, where 
 the sight of unrelieved distress seldom fails to 
 awaken feelings of genuine pity and sympathy. But 
 Mrs. Sydney’s Christian charity took a range so 
 infinitely wider and loftier than that of most fe¬ 
 male philanthropists, that one might say, without 
 much exaggeration, it only lacked the boundless 
 faculties and means of superior natures to emulate 
 
276 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 their activity. In early life I had understood, be¬ 
 fore fortune smiled upon, or age sanctioned any 
 excursions beyond the mild domestic pale by which 
 the charities of women are usually bounded, Mrs. 
 Sydney's found vent in the most disinterested sacri¬ 
 fices to the health, the happiness, or even conveni¬ 
 ence of her numerous relations, to whom, in cases of 
 sickness, or sorrow, or perplexity, she proved ever, 
 not a dernier , but an immediate resource. 
 
 As she advanced in life, her experience (which, 
 be it observed, transcended in value the same com¬ 
 modity when thrust upon weaker minds, as much 
 as the judicious acquisitions of a skilful purchaser 
 exceed the blind bargains of a fool) was as a rich 
 treasury, on which all novices in life might draw 
 unquestioned. It was not ostentatiously waved in 
 triumph over heads too young and simple to be yet 
 similarly defended, though confident enough to 
 revolt from the display ; but gently spread, like the 
 mantle of a benignant fairy, and so thickly strewed 
 with the flowers of kindness and courtesy, that 
 youth was lured unconsciously within its sheltering 
 folds. 
 
 Benevolence was the daily business of her life, 
 peace-making might be said to be its luxury. If 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 277 
 
 there were parents to be reconciled, or children to 
 be soothed into duty ; if a young couple had em¬ 
 barked in a matrimonial adventure with too slender 
 a provision of money or temper, or—more unpro¬ 
 mising still—of love, properly so called, Mrs. 
 Sydney was in her element. Grey heirs listened 
 to her from sympathy, youth from mingled awe 
 and affection. When an infant menage was threat¬ 
 ened with the simple evil of poverty, her purse was 
 like that of Fortunatus, so much could its judicious 
 aid accomplish. If irritation was to be allayed, 
 she first put both parties in good humour with her 
 and with themselves, and the transition to mutual 
 complacency was seldom distant. If even that idle 
 truant Fancy, after borrowing the smiles and wings 
 of Love, threatened to use the latter to forsake the 
 hearts he had deluded, she could succeed, by spells 
 peculiarly her own, in transforming the penitent 
 recreant into something better than even the urchin 
 whose form he had usurped—and ties that seemed 
 too fragile even for Time, she could twine till they 
 grew potent for Eternity. 
 
 Rich as she was in all besides, her influence be¬ 
 came in later life an inexhaustible mine of happi¬ 
 ness to others, and thus of course to herself. There 
 
278 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 was an 44 open sesame " 0 in her unpremeditated elo¬ 
 quence which often astonished herself, by the facili¬ 
 ty with which it gave her access to the rigidly guard¬ 
 ed sanctuary of office. Descended from a father dis¬ 
 tinguished in public life, and inheriting, with the 
 chief features of his lofty character, a whole host of 
 hereditary friendships, she had never neglected a 
 legitimate opportunity of pursuing or improving 
 the legacy ; and she was one who protested, on the 
 sure ground of daily experience, against sweeping 
 assertions of the selfishness, ingratitude or dis¬ 
 courtesy of statesmen. 44 No one knows,"” she 
 used to say, 44 who has not tried, like me, unoffi¬ 
 cial paths to official favours, how it gladdens the 
 very soul of a veteran diplomatist to throw now 
 and then to the cerberus within, the sop of a disin¬ 
 terested appointment. To grant, unbribed, save by 
 the piquant character of the solicitation, to a now 
 grey-haired partner at an obsolete race-ball, or 
 light-hearted companion of those brighter days— 
 loved all the better for being the very antipodes of 
 his present frigid zone of courtly etiquette—some 
 precious boon, which it is part of his pleasure to 
 be able to deny, (perhaps with exquisite ministerial 
 hauteur and insolence) to those, who, at the bay- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 279 
 
 onet’s point of expediency or interest, have been 
 striving to wrest it from him. There are no bits 
 of pathos more genuine, because extorted by the 
 pressure of unwonted feeling, than those which 
 meet my eye, not within the rose-coloured boards 
 of a romance, but beneath what might be supposed 
 the deadly extinguisher of a broad seal of office. 
 They are like the solitary sigh which has been 
 known to be wrung from the unflinching Indian 
 at the stake, by the thought of his distant wig¬ 
 wam and childless mother.” 
 
 Such were the sentiments, and such the experi¬ 
 ence of Mrs. Sydney, in conferring temporal bene¬ 
 fits far beyond the usual range of an individual, 
 however ^gifted. But there was a task in which 
 she yet more specially excelled, and which the pe¬ 
 rilous nature of the times she lived in peculiarly 
 called into exercise. Religion was to her as the 
 air she breathed—the Bible as the food by which 
 existence was supported. Principles, immutable 
 as the rock on which they rested, guarded alike her 
 actions and her opinions; and when she saw all 
 these shaken, as it v r ere, by a moral and political 
 earthquake, and shoals of helpless young creatures 
 cast forth on the stream of life, like frail barks 
 
280 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 broken loose from their moorings—she shuddered, 
 as one to whom the danger was known, and acted 
 as one familiar with the remedy. 
 
 Here, all the varied energies of her comprehen¬ 
 sive mind proved of invaluable efficacy. When 
 the peril to principle was only incipient, mild ad¬ 
 monitions and affectionate but forcible warnings, 
 saved their hundreds from contamination. When 
 the wound was deeper, and required probing, she 
 could apply the knife of wholesome severity and 
 caustic of ridicule, to extirpate the deadly canker. 
 And if unhappily the poison had done its full and 
 fatal work, and baffled all, (save the Great Physi¬ 
 cian), to avert the moral gangrene, she had for the 
 unblushing mischievous propagators of the infec¬ 
 tion, an uncompromising force of reprehension, a 
 withering intensity of scorn and reprobation, which 
 gained her, (I presume from those whose vitiated 
 systems shrunk from the healthful atmosphere 
 around her) the character of a bigot and a satirist. 
 Her bigotry—I feel ashamed of coupling even 
 ironically the word with such a being—was that of 
 an evangelist; her satire akin to the wholesome 
 irony of an indignant apostle. Things, not men, 
 heresies, not heretics, were its branded and writh- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 281 
 
 ing victims; and when she lived to see the 
 Egyptian darkness of atheism and anarchy flee be¬ 
 fore the Ithuriel spear of truth and religion, she 
 gladly laid aside, like the female heroine of some 
 beleaguered city, the panoply which had borne her 
 through the conflict, and rejoiced that her grey 
 hairs might go down henceforward to the grave in 
 peace. 
 
 Such was Mrs. Sydney, as described to me by 
 those who had traced her bright path almost from 
 the cradle to the tomb. Who could see it at length 
 
 O 
 
 thus terminate, without wishing that her memory 
 —like the luminous track left in summer seas by 
 the wake of some deep-freighted and precious ves¬ 
 sel—might continue to gladden, though, alas ! 
 but for a moment, the world which she so largely 
 befriended ? 
 
 1 hope I need not say I improved the opportu¬ 
 nity afforded me, of atoning to the poor officer- 
 artist, for unguarded criticism by substantial kind¬ 
 ness— to the best of my power. I found in Mr. 
 Dennison, (who having long quitted the army, 
 had dropped his military designation,) the inte¬ 
 resting wreck of a gentleman and a scholar ; and 
 during his short gleam of amended health, or rather 
 
282 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 protracted dissolution—the effect I believe of gene¬ 
 rous nourishment and a few added comforts—I was 
 able to soothe his mind by benefits more essential 
 than mere unavailing sympathy. It was now that 
 I felt the full value of the introductions at Mrs. 
 Sydney’s table, when they enabled me to command 
 the disinterested aid of Dr. G-, whose assi¬ 
 
 duous, though nearly hopeless professional visits, 
 satisfied that yearning for human skill which not 
 even trust in providence can entirely banish from 
 a sick man’s bosom ; while the truly pastoral ones 
 of the mild Dr. S- compensated for the in¬ 
 
 efficiency of all human means, by consolations of 
 a higher nature. 
 
 The point on which I individually was enabled 
 to soothe and satisfy the dying man’s mind, was 
 the future fate and maintenance of his faithful 
 housekeeper ; who, he told me with tears in his 
 eyes, had deprived herself for his sake of the slen¬ 
 der provision which should have supported her de¬ 
 clining years, in the same spirit of reckless devo¬ 
 tion which had made her latterly diminish her 
 own scanty allowance of nourishment, till the power 
 of receiving it was well nigh gone. I assured the 
 grateful invalid that such disinterested virtue was 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 283 
 
 of itself quite sufficient to secure for the meek lit¬ 
 tle unobtrusive heroine patronage and protection 
 much more efficient than mine ; but that while I 
 lived, she should never again know the semblance 
 of privation. When this last care which yet 
 chained him to earth was finally set at rest, the 
 weary spirit of the toil-worn soldier seemed at once 
 released, and with a warm responsive blessing on 
 his lips, he passed gently away. 
 
 It was with strange musings on what may well 
 be called the romance of real life, that I prepared 
 to lay in the grave, as chief, and indeed only mourn¬ 
 er, the head of a fellow-mortal, of whose very exist¬ 
 ence I was some weeks before ignorant, and with 
 whom the veriest accident had brought me so sin¬ 
 gularly acquainted. 
 
 Before giving the necessary order for this last 
 melancholy ceremony, it was indispensable for me 
 to intrude, though reluctantly, on the deep unut¬ 
 terable grief of the faithful house-keeper. I re¬ 
 quested, with the respectful feelings which would 
 have attended a similar interview with a bereaved 
 empress—a moment’s conversation ; and with the 
 simplicity which governed all her actions, it was 
 unhesitatingly and composedly granted. 
 
284 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 The event had been too long foreseen, and par¬ 
 took too much of the nature of a release, to be view¬ 
 ed with clamorous repining. Mrs. Nevil's was 
 the quiet sorrow of one whose earthly 44 occupation 
 is gone,’ 1 ’’ and who stands alone and loosened from 
 any human tie, in an evil world. 44 My dear ma¬ 
 dam,” said I, 44 it is very unwillingly that I force 
 upon you at this time the presence of a stranger, 
 but I am desirous that every fitting respect should 
 be paid to our departed friend ; and ignorance of his 
 precise name and age obliges me to trouble you 
 with a painful inquiry.” 
 
 44 It is a painful inquiry, Sir, ,? said she, with an 
 air of calm dignity, which in a thousand instances 
 belied her servile character, 44 but not one for which 
 I was unprepared. I have been pondering the an¬ 
 swer to it ever since my poor master died, and try¬ 
 ing to reconcile his known wishes with what I feel 
 to be my duty elsewhere. But it will not do ; 
 pride is surely not made for the grave, and still less 
 falsehood and deception. I cannot allow a lie to 
 be engraved on my dear master's coffin, though I 
 connived at it when he was in life, to be vexed by 
 the truth coming out. His name is not Dennison, 
 but Delamere, the last of his family, and a great 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 2*15 
 
 Westmoreland one it was in its day, though I have 
 lived to see the end of it. What would my poor 
 mistress have said, had she ever thought her gal¬ 
 lant son would owe his burial to the hand of a 
 stranger, though a kind one. But, God he praised ! 
 she was taken away from the evil to come. There 
 is none now but myself to know or care about it, so 
 please to put on his coffin, 44 Augustus Delamere, 
 aged forty-seven.” Her composure, which had 
 hitherto been kept up by a strong effort, fairly gave 
 way as she recited this brief epitaph ; she burst into 
 tears, and dropping her usual respectful courtesy, 
 left the room. 
 
 44 More romance l’" 1 exclaimed I, as I departed 
 from the humble last shelter of one so loftily de¬ 
 scended ; and during the mournful ceremony (which 
 the recent discovery induced me to keep more strictly 
 private than ever,) I was haunted both by the strange 
 fate of its object, and an indefinable familiarity with 
 his name. It was romantic and high sounding 
 enough to have taken hold of the fancy, of a young 
 person especially, and it was as connected with my 
 youth, that, like Desdcmona’s nurse’s song, it would 
 not 44 go out of my mind.” Neither would it, how¬ 
 ever, come into it, at least in any definite or tangi- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 286 
 
 ble shape ; so, ashamed of being haunted by a name, 
 I tried to forget and think nc more of it. 
 
 My first care, after the funeral, was to introduce 
 the good little housekeeper to Mrs. Sydney Hume, 
 already prepossessed in her favour by my enthusi¬ 
 astic report. 66 Really, my dear Meredith,” said 
 she, when we next met, just after the interview, 
 tc your penchant for old women seems wonderfully 
 favoured by fortune. This delightful little pocket 
 heroine of your’s is, I assure you, a formidable ri¬ 
 val ; and as she has already succeeded in captivat¬ 
 ing one young man 6 of high degree,’ I shall lose 
 no time in putting her beyond the reach of another.” 
 
 “ What do you mean, my dear Mrs. Sydney ?” 
 said I, a little alarmed, “ you don’t mean that there 
 was any attachment between her and the deceased ?” 
 (i I do, but en tout Men et honneur , remember, and 
 some thirty years ago,—and all on one side more¬ 
 over ; suspicious as the good little soul’s late devo¬ 
 tion might seem, to those who cannot for the lives 
 of them believe in virtue for virtue’s sake. I’ll 
 tell you her story, if you can sit down half an hour, 
 before its own naive simplicity evaporates in the tur¬ 
 moil of my usual morning levee. 
 
 c< The good woman then, a sister spinster of my 
 
 3 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 287 
 
 own, (though by the courtesy, not of age merely 
 like myself, but of office also, yclept Mrs.,) is the 
 orphan daughter of an honest Westmoreland school¬ 
 master, which accounts for her knowledge of the 
 humanities and so forth, and early adoption into 
 the family of the proud and stately Mrs. Delamere, 
 mother of your late patient, as humble companion 
 and reader. But I must let her speak, and you 
 must fancy her looking so still and modest, and 
 resigned all the time ; only a little streak of faint 
 red crossing her thin cheek at one point of her nar¬ 
 rative, and a little convulsive twitch of her snow- 
 white apron at another. 
 
 “ Madam,’ 1 said she, (after long resisting my 
 urgent entreaties to be seated,) in answer to my in¬ 
 quiries respecting her past life and future prospects 
 of subsistence, 66 1 may tell a benevolent lady like 
 yourself, and one who brings my dear late mistress 
 in many things to my remembrance, some parts 
 of my poor history which I could not so well ex¬ 
 plain to a young stranger gentleman. I was taken, 
 I believe you know, into the noble family I owe so 
 much to, as a companion to Mrs. Delamere. She 
 was come of very high connexions herself, and 
 though her husband lived to spend the poor remains 
 
288 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 of his estate on dogs and horses, (leaving her join¬ 
 ture secured on it however when all was sold,) she 
 never ceased to expect all would come right, and 
 as it should do, by some great marriage for her son, 
 who went into the army quite a boy, and was then 
 very gay and handsome. 
 
 44 Poor lady, it was a terrible shock she got when 
 he came home some eight and twenty years ago, a 
 perfect wreck from the West Indies, and lingered near 
 a twelvemonth between death and life, before even a 
 mother’s heart could fairly hope he would recover. 
 All this time she tended him day and night as long 
 as her strength lasted, and when it failed, so did I. 
 Poor gentleman, he required it all, and it never 
 entered my simple head that anything ill could 
 come of what was but my duty. I was nine years 
 older than the young squire, then but a lad of 
 twenty, but unluckily Ma’am” (and here, both 
 cheek and apron bore testimony to the narrator’s mo¬ 
 desty,) 44 unluckily people chose to say I was pretty, 
 though Heaven knows there was little in that, and 
 what with my long careful attendance, my reading 
 to him and amusing him when he had no one else 
 to come near him, the poor gentleman—he was but 
 a boy—chose to take it into his head to marry me. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 289 
 
 I beg pardon Ma'am, for mentioning anything so 
 preposterous ; he must have been light-headed at 
 the time, and so I should always have thought and 
 said nothing about it, if he had not himself, (and 
 I am sure he might have known better) foolishly 
 mentioned it to his mother. 
 
 “ I thought the old lady would have gone as crazy 
 as himself, and it was no wonder, madam, for her 
 great hopes of his marrying well were all coming 
 about again with his health, and she would rather 
 have seen him in his coffin than married to a ser¬ 
 vant, and I was no more, though a favourite and 
 better educated one. She flew upon me for con¬ 
 cealing the matter, (to do her justice, she never 
 dreamt of my having a hand in it.) and upon her 
 son for disgracing his family. He took it all very 
 quietly, for he was still weak, and used to dread her 
 anger ; but he did not for all give up the idle no¬ 
 tion, and as soon as he began to be able to crawl 
 abroad again, he took a step, Lord love him ! so 
 like a boy as he was, and rode to a parish three 
 miles off, and had our banns asked, fancying, I 
 never could tell why, that if this were done three 
 times, and nobody to question it, neither his mo¬ 
 ther nor I could object. 
 
 u 
 
290 
 
 probation. 
 
 44 It came to my ears first, which was a great 
 mercy ; and pretending my aunt at Kendal was 
 very ill, I asked leave of my mistress to go and at¬ 
 tend her, leaving a letter behind, to tell her the 
 reason why. I besought her not to be hard upon 
 the poor young gentleman, who she might see was 
 not altogether himself after his long illness, and 
 rather to get him quietly back to his regiment, 
 where he would soon forget it, than thwart him 
 into a fever, or something worse. It was very bold 
 in me to advise so great and sensible a lady, but 
 then I knew my young master fully better than 
 she did, and the hasty temper he had from herself. 
 Poor dear gentleman ! he lived to get entirely over 
 it, and was in all his sad last illness as gentle as a 
 lamb. 
 
 44 To make a long story short, ma’am, I believe 
 Mrs. Delamere took my advice; and soon after, the 
 lieutenant got an exchange to a healthier quarter 
 of the world, and went away for a number of years. 
 I returned to the hall, and my good mistress, not¬ 
 withstanding her pride, never made me feel what 
 had happened she well knew, contrary to my wish 
 and ways of thinking; only when she died, which 
 was a few years after, she left me, as she had 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 291 
 
 always promised, a small annuity, on the express 
 condition that I should never hold any correspond¬ 
 ence, direct or indirect, with her son, and if I did, 
 I was to forfeit it immediately. 
 
 u This showed her fear of him, though, as I hope 
 and trust, not of me ; but there w r as little danger 
 of our meeting, and I went home to my own place, 
 and lived comfortably on my annuity. It was all 
 the poor lady had to leave, after her great expecta¬ 
 tions ; and I sometimes felt as if, little as it was, 
 her son should have had it rather than me, though 
 he was by this time a captain, and I always ex¬ 
 pected to hear of his marrying greatly, as I am sure 
 he might. But, alas ! his health again gave way, 
 and the next I heard of him was, that he had come 
 home, and a hopeless invalid for life, with not a 
 soul that I knew of, to nurse or take care of him. 
 This vexed me; but you may suppose, Ma'am, 
 I was not going to throw myself in his way, (though 
 by this time past forty, and he come to an age to 
 forget his follies,) as long as I believed he had 
 wherewithal to get advice and attendance without 
 me. So I lived on some years longer, very anxi¬ 
 ous and uneasy at times about my poor young mas- 
 
292 
 
 PROBATION, 
 
 ter ; now hearing that he had sold his commission 
 and gone abroad, and then for a long time without 
 any tidings at all. 
 
 44 I shall never forget the day, about eighteen 
 months ago, that I was buying some thread in a 
 little shop at Kendal, when a pedlar came in, (who 
 belonged to the country, and used to call in his 
 rounds at the hall,) and seeing me, said, 4 ah, 
 Mrs. Nevil, is this you ? It will be sad news to 
 you, that poor Captain Delamere, that used to be 
 the joy and pride of your grand lady, is dying by 
 inches in a garret at Edinburgh, with no friend 
 near him, nor money either, as I can learn.'* 
 4 Good God ! Will , 1 said I, 4 how came you to 
 know this P 1 4 By the merest chance. I was 
 cheapening Shetland hose in a great quaker hosier's 
 somewhere in their Old Town there, when a rough 
 landlady-looking woman came in to buy a bit of 
 flannel. 4 Who is it for, friend Peggy P 1 said the 
 canny hosier. 4 Oh , 1 says she, 4 it is for one 
 that wants it sair, and thatdl be reason enough 
 for an honest man like you. Whether it ’ll ever 
 be paid, I canna pretend to say ; for it's weeks 
 since I saw the colour of my poor lodger's money. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 293 
 
 But I'll pay for it myself, Saunders, before lie should 
 dree cauld; for lie's a gentleman, I'm sure, though 
 a distressed one.' 
 
 44 4 She turned round quite abashed, for at that mo¬ 
 ment a thin atomy of a person came in on the same 
 errand, (which she kindly thought to get done 
 before him) ; and / thought to have dropped down 
 in the shop, when I saw the thread-bare miserable 
 object was the heir that should have been, of De- 
 lamere Hall. I went out after the old woman, and 
 got it all out of her. He's on his last legs, poor 
 gentleman, and at his last shilling too, she verily 
 believes ; and what's to become of him, she says, 
 God only can tell.’ 
 
 44 I felt so faint, ma’am," continued your little 
 model of a serving damsel, 44 when I heard this ter¬ 
 rible story, that I could scarce totter out of the 
 shop; and my first thought was how to get to 
 nurse my poor mistress's son, without being a bur¬ 
 den on him, which it was plain he was quite un¬ 
 able to bear. I might, perhaps, but for Will’s 
 knowing of the matter, have joined him in Edin¬ 
 burgh—where he went by a feigned name—and none 
 the wiser ; but now that a pedlar who dealt in news 
 as much as wares, was in the secret, it was in vain 
 
294 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 to think it should not spread abroad; and besides 
 the annuity which would have gone at once, I did 
 not choose to risk my character by any underhand 
 proceedings. 
 
 44 So the very next morning, ma’am, I put on my 
 cloak, and walked over to the town nearest the Hall, 
 where my annuity was somehow or other paid by 
 the corporation. 4 Gentlemen,’ said I, (for the 
 Mayor I knew, though only a carcass butcher, was 
 very fond of a little civility,) 4 you are aw r are that I 
 hold the little pension left me by my late mistress, 
 on condition of never seeing or speaking to her on¬ 
 ly son. The reasons for this are long past and 
 gone, but the thing can’t be altered; and if I do 
 see and speak to him, aye, and wait on him too, as 
 I have set my heart on doing—I know I may for¬ 
 feit every thing. This, I’m sure, I should not 
 mind ; but the heir of Delamere, I grieve to say, 
 has enough to do to maintain himself, and empty- 
 handed I cannot go to him, not even to smooth 
 his dying pillow. Now, if instead of thwarting, 
 and fretting, and keeping me away from my duty 
 till my poor master is gone, and then perhaps pay¬ 
 ing me a pittance I shall never bear to look on, 
 for a score of years to come, (for I am but three and 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 295 
 
 * 
 
 fifty,) you would only do as I wish, and give me 
 ever so small a sum in hand, and let me do as I 
 please with it and myself—I would bless you to 
 the latest hour of my life, and you would be rid of 
 the old troublesome woman, and her grief and her 
 annuity for ever. A very little, alas ! will see out 
 my poor mistress's son in credit and reputation— 
 and oh ! let me have the satisfaction of thinking 
 her money, (that never should have been mine,) 
 bought peace and comforts for his dying hours.’ 
 
 66 To do the corporation justice, Ma’am, they made 
 very little work about it, though they bade me con¬ 
 sider twice before I gave up my maintenance for 
 life, for a trifle that would soon be spent and gone. 
 They just looked in a hook to see what the chance 
 of my living to plague them might be, and then 
 gave me, instead of my fifteen pounds a-year, an 
 hundred pounds in my pocket, which, (as I never 
 had the quarter of it before,) I thought never could 
 have an end. I thanked them with tears in my 
 eyes, and having just gone home to tie up my bun¬ 
 dle, got into the first coach for Scotland, and was 
 set down next afternoon in Edinburgh. 
 
 “ Will the pedlar had forgotten the street where 
 the captain lived, and I could think of no way of 
 
296 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 finding him out, but by asking at the quaker ho¬ 
 sier’s, who I found, every one knew, but who lived 
 a great way from where the coach stopped. I went 
 there, however, and I daresay the lads thought me 
 crazy when I asked for a thin sickly gentleman, 
 who lodged with a landlady called Peggy ; for I did 
 not know by what name he went, and durst not men¬ 
 tion that of Delamere. Just as the hoys were be¬ 
 ginning to he uncivil, luckily the good master came 
 into the shop, and said, 4 Friend, I think I can help 
 thee in thy inquiries. The sick man, I hope thou 
 art come to take care of, lives just round the corner 
 here, close to the great hospital, or infirmary as we 
 call it. I’ll send a boy to show thee the way.’ I 
 thanked him heartily, and soon got to the door of 
 the shabby lodging which I afterwards lived to think 
 a princely abode. 
 
 44 I sent away the lad, for it was really some time 
 before I could summon courage to ring the bell. 
 A good rough sort of woman, whom I guessed to be 
 the landlady, opened to me, and when I asked for 
 her sick lodger, eyed me at first rather suspiciously. 
 But when she saw that I was neither young nor 
 handsome, but a sad, sorrowful, heart-broken old 
 woman, she asked me in kindly enough, and pointed 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 297 
 
 to the room up stairs, where she said 1 would find 
 him. 4 Is he indeed so ill as I have heard ?’ said 
 I, shaking violently. 4 Aye, that is he truly, ho¬ 
 nest woman," said she, in her blunt way, 4 if you"re 
 sib to him, (as I jalouse from your greetin’,) ye"ve 
 a sony sight to see up that stair." 
 
 44 This was Job"s comfort, Ma’am, for one so cast 
 down already, but I prayed for strength and sup¬ 
 port, and managed to get up to the door. I tapped 
 gently, and a voice as weak as an infant’s called 
 out, 4 Come in.’ I did so, and was half thankful 
 to find my poor master did not at first know me. 
 I’m sure I should never have known him. had I 
 not once before seen what disease can bring the 
 youngest and handsomest to—let alone a middle- 
 aged, worn-out soldier. As for me, the nine years 
 difference which he made so light of when we were 
 both young, now made me look like his mother ; 
 and so, God knows, I felt, when I found voice at 
 last to say, 4 Captain Delamere, will you not speak 
 to poor Eleanor, whom your mother in heaven has 
 sent to tend and wait upon you once more, as she 
 did thirty years ago, at the Hall ?’ 
 
 44 There was very little light in the room, but at 
 the voice, he started up and said, 4 Good God ! 
 
298 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 and are you Eleanor ?’ 4 I am sir,’ said I, e your 
 faithful and dutiful nurse and servant, as it is 
 good my part to be, as long as providence shall 
 give me strength, or you occasion for my duty.’ 
 4 God bless you, God bless you for it P repeated 
 the poor gentleman, quite overcome ; for it was 
 long since he had seen, or heard the voice of a friend. 
 4 But oh ! Eleanor P said he, looking more ear¬ 
 nestly on me, 4 how much has happened since we 
 parted ! Time has done its work slowly but surely 
 on you, and disease has made me the spectacle you 
 see.’ 4 God’s will be done, Sir,’ said I, 4 with 
 us both. All I pray is, that our present meeting 
 may be blessed to us, and that your sainted mother 
 may approve of my coming to supply her place, 
 as well as my poor means permit, to the son of 
 her love.’ 
 
 44 I would not let him talk much, Ma’am, for 
 indeed he was very unfit for it; but after he had 
 made the landlady get me a cup of tea, and show 
 me a very decent little room up stairs to put my 
 things in, he would have me back to ask how I 
 came to think of travelling so far, and to say how 
 kindly he took it. I begged him to keep his mind 
 easy ; that I was come, I hoped, to be of use and 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 299 
 
 comfort to him, and hinted that he need want no¬ 
 thing his state required, as I had a little of his 
 dear mother’s legacy, (of course I said not a word 
 of the annuity,) still left, which was but his own. 
 
 “ He was just beginning to exclaim, 6 Oh, Ele¬ 
 anor ! how thankful I am that I did not by my 
 rash folly,’ .... when I said gravely, once for 
 all, ‘ Follies, Sir, are best forgotten. We have 
 all much to answer for in that way, and many es¬ 
 capes to be thankful for, but talking of them will 
 do no good.’ So I wished him a good night, pro¬ 
 mising him a better made bed, and tidier room to¬ 
 morrow, and slipped up, very tired, but with a 
 grateful heart, to my little cabin. 
 
 “ The first weeks and months of my attendance, 
 were a real pleasure. The poor captain got a vast 
 deal better, he could sit up first for hours together, 
 and then go out almost every day as summer came 
 on, to read the papers at the shop where Mr. Mere¬ 
 dith met him. This was owing, I daresay, chiefly 
 to cordials and advice, both of which he had long- 
 been without; as the old doctor of his regiment 
 (whose settling in Edinburgh first made him think 
 of coming there to be under his friendly care) died 
 of an hospital fever, and the captain was never able 
 
300 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 to*pay any one else to succeed him. Now his case 
 was one that needed constant attendance, and being 
 so near the infirmary, I got young doctors to call 
 in on their way for less than the usual fees. 
 
 44 It did my heart good, you may think, to see 
 the dear gentleman improve so, yet, would you be¬ 
 lieve it, ma'am, I sometimes half dreaded his re¬ 
 covery, and even grudged his appetite when my 
 money (part of which had gone to pay old scores,) 
 began to melt away sadly ; and where any more 
 was to come from, God alone could tell. Through 
 the landlady, I got in some plain work, which 
 helped a little, and the Captain, (whom I never 
 durst tell exactly how the case stood, but who sus¬ 
 pected it from many little things,) took to doing 
 the drawings Mr. Meredith bought so providenti¬ 
 ally. 
 
 44 This kept us afloat for a while—but, oh ! 
 madam, it was a sad time, when neither dared 
 speak of what preyed on both our minds—his, that 
 I should suffer on his account—and mine, that 
 toil as I would, I could not keep him in the com¬ 
 forts his case required. The effect of all this was 
 soon visible. He drooped again, ma'am, and this 
 time, (God forgive me for repining) it was not so 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 301 
 
 much illness as want and anxiety that brought 
 him low. The lodgings we had, though so indif¬ 
 ferent, were now beyond our means, and I knew 
 not where to get cheaper, till one day, as I went to 
 the print-shop to ask if some drawings were sold ; 
 I heard one of a knot of porters say, it was a shame 
 to let such crazy buildings as those in Conolly’s 
 close remain standing; while another answered— 
 ‘ but what would become of the swarms of poor 
 creatures who lived there for nothing ?’ 
 
 “ H eaven knows, lodgings for nothing were just 
 what we wanted ; so I inquired farther, and found, 
 that though some little rent was expected for the 
 waste and ghastly though once fine rooms, up this 
 alley, it was the least for which human beings 
 could have shelter over their heads in a great city. 
 It was close to the shop too, and the newspaper 
 and nice fire in the reading-room were, I might 
 say, my poor master’s last comfort. 
 
 “ It would only hurt you, madam, as well as 
 kill me, to go over all we suffered for the last 
 dreadful fortnight, before the fire—which did so 
 much harm to others—proved a blessing from 
 heaven to us. I had begged in the streets, ma’am, 
 the very night before—but I suppose I was too 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 faint-hearted, for I got nothing; and the very last 
 article of clothes not on my back, was pawned for 
 the drop of gruel which moistened my poor m aster’s 
 lips that blessed morning. But it is indeed when 
 all else fails, that providence takes us up ; and 
 my dear master, (whose Bible for the last many 
 weeks was never from under his pillow) lived to 
 see its gracious promises fulfilled here, and is no 
 doubt richly repaid for his troubles, in a world of 
 rest and happiness. When God’s time and mine 
 comes, I hope we shall meet in heaven.” 
 
 44 And till that time comes, Mrs. Nevil,” said 
 I, 44 it shall be my business to make you reap the 
 reward of your merit upon earth. What say you 
 to being matron of the very hospital in whose 
 neighbourhood you so long lived ?” 44 Me! madam!” 
 exclaimed the modest little woman, quite incre¬ 
 dulous, 44 I thought it was a lady’s office.” 44 And 
 I am sure you have a lady’s mind, if indeed many 
 are lucky enough to resemble you.” .... 
 
 44 But,” said I, interrupting Mrs. Sydney, 44 my 
 surprise, I must confess, equals Mrs. Nevil’s, at 
 her good fortune.” 44 Aye, I intended to surprise 
 you, Master Meredith,” replied my old friend, 
 calmly; 44 I am fond of surprises. But you forget 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 303 
 
 my flirtation with the omnipotent Jamie G-, 
 
 even had the little matron elect not herself made 
 a conquest of him by her skill and tenderness as a 
 sick-nurse. Every man has his weak side—and 
 that is a physician’s. Be this as it may, it's all set¬ 
 tled, and I wish you joy of your inamorata's pro- 
 mot ion." 
 
PROBATION- 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Alas! my mother! when this changeless brow 
 Shall be more like, and not more cold than thou, 
 How shall I long ev’n for that glance of care 
 Which erst I griev’d should ever visit there— 
 
 How wish to raise again thy anxious look 
 The very chiding that I could not brook, 
 
 The very tears I could not bear to flow! 
 
 Lady Byron to her mother's picture. 
 
 I went in the course of the morrow, both to con¬ 
 gratulate the good woman, and discharge, previous 
 to her removal next day, my debt to the honest 
 German for the lodgings. I fulfilled the latter 
 duty first, and had the double pleasure of seeing a 
 worthy industrious man’s eyes sparkle with joy at 
 the sight of the very moderate sum he would re¬ 
 ceive, and of hearing him launch out in praises of 
 his little lodger. <£ Ein treffliches Frau mein 
 Herr !” exclaimed the good man of spectacles and 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 305 
 
 liaromcters, 44 ein very goot womans, I sail assure 
 you—and ein prachtig —vat you call 4 norsei ” 
 
 When I tapped at the door up stairs, Mrs. 
 Nevil was so deeply engaged as not immediately 
 to answer. I repeated my knock, and then, know¬ 
 ing her to be in the little parlour, followed it up 
 by opening the door. I found her surrounded by 
 papers, which she w T as evidently assorting w r ith the 
 care, and laying aside for destruction wdth the re¬ 
 luctance of one who regarded them as relics. 
 
 44 I am an intruder, I see, Mrs. Nevil, 1 ’ said 
 I, drawing back, 44 I only came to wish you heart¬ 
 ily joy of the honourable office your merit has pro¬ 
 cured you.” 44 O dear, no, sir,' 1 cried she, rising 
 with her usual respectful courtesy, and pushing 
 away the table of papers ; 44 I have plenty of time 
 to finish my task of duty to the dead, and have 
 more need now to shew gratitude to the living. I 
 am not gifted w T ith words, sir, but to you and Mrs. 
 Hume I trust my good conduct in my new 7 station, 
 will be my best thanks. 11 44 Oh ! sir,' 1 continued 
 she, glancing at the papers, and her meek eyes 
 filling with tears, 44 if my poor master that was 
 here so lately, or she whose precious relics I have 
 at length been forcing mvself to burn, as she de- 
 
 o O J ' 
 
806 
 
 probation. 
 
 sired, could look up and see how I am provided 
 for, they would thank you better than I can do.”” 
 
 44 Say no more, I beseech you, Mrs. Nevil,”” 
 cried I ; and to get rid of the subject, I adverted 
 to the papers. 44 It must be a painful task you 
 are at present engaged in, but I daresay a proper 
 one.”” 44 Yes, sir, so I consider it, for though the 
 letters it has brought so many things back to my 
 mind to look over now concern not a human crea¬ 
 ture alive, I should think it disrespectful to let 
 them be bandied about after my death (which 
 cannot be distant) among strangers. The poor 
 captain had a superstitious veneration, like me, for 
 his mother's letters, and never would burn one of 
 them ; but go they must now, and I am taking 
 perhaps the last day I can call my own to do it. 
 I read as I go on, sir—I can't for the life of me 
 help it, and it is like having my dear lady back 
 again, to hear her thus converse on things long 
 gone by and forgotten. 
 
 44 By the by," added she, 44 there is a paper 
 here, sir, which I had laid aside on purpose till I 
 should see you—that seems to concern others, for it 
 has marked on it, in my lady’s hand, 4 not to be 
 burned, nor opened, but before witnesses.’ I am 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 307 
 
 glad you are come in, sir, if* you have a moment’s 
 leisure to see me break the seal, though at the end 
 of more than twenty years, it is not likely to signi¬ 
 fy much to any one.” 
 
 “ You shall break it yourself, sir,” said she, 
 handing it to me, c< and then all will be as it 
 should, no doubt.” I broke the seal with the very 
 languid interest which a man may be supposed to 
 attach to some antediluvian family affair of a per¬ 
 son he never saw. The blank outer cover enclos¬ 
 ed a letter, closely written in a delicate female 
 hand, with a foreign post mark upon it, and on 
 unfolding this—there dropped out a strange shabby- 
 looking bit of scrawled paper, which seemed as if it 
 had been smoked some centuries in Herculaneum. 
 I took it up listlessly—cast on it a vacant glance, 
 saw the date of Albany, in 179—, the signature 
 (and a strange one it was) of a free black, called 
 Caesar—and in the body of the document, the very 
 uncommon—yet heaven knows, to me familiar 
 name, of Doctor Gideon Aspinall! 
 
 The paper fell out of my hand for very surprise. 
 I caught up the dropped letter that lay beside it, 
 and kissed—till I believe, the good little woman 
 thought me mad—the never-beforc beheld hand- 
 
308 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 writing of my darling mother. All flashed on me 
 in a moment. The name of Delamere, which had 
 haunted me so long, was that of the friend and cor¬ 
 respondent of whom my mother perpetually spoke, 
 to whom she had been indebted for the first know¬ 
 ledge of the Doctor’s relationship. I had just voice 
 to say to Mrs. Nevil, 66 this letter is from my mo¬ 
 ther, my long lost darling mother.” In an instant, 
 with the intuitive delicacy that marked every ac¬ 
 tion of her life, she had glided into the next room, 
 and I sat down to devour my treasure, forgetting 
 the enclosure as completely as if no such man as 
 the American doctor had existed. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith to Mrs. Delamere. 
 
 New York, March 179- 
 
 How do I picture to myself, my dear maternal 
 friend, your surprise on seeing dated from the now 
 frozen shores of the west, the letter of one whom 
 you imagined panting under the burning suns of 
 the East. The change, alas, has been matter not 
 of choice, but of necessity. The health of my Ed¬ 
 mund rendered some removal indispensable ; would 
 to God it had, as originally intended—brought me 
 back to the arms of you, my first, I fear I may say, 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 309 
 
 my only friend. But in quest of wealth—or at 
 least competence, for one dearer far than herself to 
 your poor Emily—she has come to a land of stran¬ 
 gers, the sport and victim of the same idle baseless 
 hopes that lured her first from your side. 
 
 I have not forgotten, my kind foster-mother, the 
 ominous sigh with which you witnessed, rather than 
 sanctioned, a marriage unratified by parental bene¬ 
 dictions. Had you told me, as your prophetic 
 looks often seemed to say, that, with Edmund's 
 unabated love, and the smiles of a boy of his to 
 cheer me, I could ever know unhappiness, I should 
 not have believed you. It was long ere I could be¬ 
 lieve my own heart. But in the midst of many 
 blessings, and all that mutual love can afford, I 
 have lived to shed many a tear since I left you— 
 lived to doubt, if not to repent, (for another at 
 least) the step which made him an outcast. 
 
 As long as Edmund was w r ell and busy, with his 
 proud martial air, and light elastic step, unchecked 
 by care or disease—I was happy—happier than 
 mortals can long expect to remain ; and w hen little 
 Edmund was born, the very image of his doating 
 father, and lay like a little white rosebud on the 
 
310 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 lap of his swarthy nurse, I was too happy, my joy 
 was at the full. 
 
 But when Edmund began to droop under a cli¬ 
 mate and fatigues, which, but for me, he never 
 need have braved—when he suppressed his com¬ 
 plaints, and made light of his sufferings to avoid 
 the semblance of reproach—my heart began to 
 whisper, as it has never since ceased to do, “ Rash 
 girl! why did you banish him from country and 
 kindred, and let him (though God knows I long 
 resisted), resign for you ease, health and afflu¬ 
 ence ?” 
 
 When his mother died, her heart broken no 
 doubt all the sooner that its darling was taken 
 from her, mine smote me cruelly, for I saw that 
 Edmund's did ; and that the tears he shed, were 
 not of grief only, but remorse. And when he dried 
 them hastily before me, and spoke of other things, 
 it was sad to think he could not grieve for his mo¬ 
 ther, without seeming to reflect on his wife. His 
 father, hard as he was, would often, I saw, come 
 across him: not that he said so, but when ships 
 arrived from England, he was always so anxious, 
 and when other faces were dressed in smiles from 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 311 
 
 home, his grew so visibly sad. He wrote, I know, 
 often and often, to his father—and so did I—but 
 no answer came ; and then we heard of his second 
 marriage, and both our faint hopes died within us, 
 though neither would acknowledge it to the other. 
 
 Edmund's health too grew worse, and he would 
 gaze on his boy and me with looks that cut me to 
 the heart. So painful had thoughts of home be¬ 
 come to him, that I scarce knew how to get him 
 to embark, while it might yet retrieve his health ; 
 and you will not wonder if I grasped, like a drown¬ 
 ing person, at a twig which promised to unite pos¬ 
 sible competence, with renovated health, in another 
 quarter of the globe. 
 
 It was you, I think, who first told me of the 
 strange old kinsman of my father’s in America, 
 who was in his day so great a loyalist, and fought 
 as a volunteer ; and then, thinking himself ill- 
 requited, took to the woods in disgust. It was 
 tidings of his existence and wealth, accidentally 
 heard at Calcutta, which brought me across the 
 globe ; thinking perhaps his desolate heart might 
 cling to a creature of his name and kindred, an4 
 open at the sight of distress, which a little of his 
 superfluous store would do much to lighten. 
 
312 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 What might have been the case, had he looked 
 on my care-worn cheek, or seen the ravages of cli¬ 
 mate on Edmund's manly form, I know not; for 
 we were denied access to his presence, not harshly 
 but decidedly ; our relationship freely admitted as 
 the nearest in blood and law, while the already ir¬ 
 revocable destination of his riches was assigned by 
 the singular old man as sufficient motive for de¬ 
 clining to form new ties, or raise fallacious expecta¬ 
 tions. 
 
 Moved, however, by my meek acquiescence in 
 his unsocial determination, he sent unexpectedly 
 for my boy, and after caressing the little fellow in a 
 way his old black servant said he had never but 
 once seen him do to any child before, he brought 
 out of his strange hoards a sum of several hundred 
 dollars, which indolence and reluctance to mingle 
 with mankind had prevented him from adding to 
 his vested funds; and bidding me use it to convey 
 my sick husband back to his country and father, 
 tossed it, along with an odd medley of Indian toys 
 and rarities, into my boy's lap, and sent him back, 
 half frightened, half delighted, to Albany. 
 
 This supply, small as it seemed to one claiming 
 kindred with untold thousands, has proved a bless- 
 
 4 
 
■PROBATION. 
 
 o I *> 
 
 nig- indeed. It lias procured the best advice, and 
 many a cordial for Edmund, and now that the long 
 cheerless winter is at an end, it enables us to secure 
 a comfortable passage to his native country, lor 
 which he now owns that his heart yearns. His fa¬ 
 ther is infirm and paralytic, his stepmother report¬ 
 ed to be already cumbered with 'wealth she cannot 
 use. God only knows, whether the path of duty 
 and interest may not turn out the same, but at all 
 events, the former must be the right one. I am 
 happier since our passage was taken, than I have 
 been for years, for Edmund now speaks of Eng¬ 
 land ; and if it is even with a sigh, it is so much 
 better than sighing, and saying nothing. 
 
 It is impossible the old man can continue im¬ 
 placable. If he resists my husband’s altered coun¬ 
 tenance—the smile of my boy, which softened the 
 rugged bosom of the recluse of the woods, cannot 
 plead in vain with a grandfather. If he will but 
 take the two Edmunds to his home and heart, God 
 knows, I would almost submit to be an exile dur¬ 
 ing the few years he can live to banish me. I would 
 come and hide my tears and errors in your affec¬ 
 tionate bosom, and shelter me there like the dove, 
 till this “ tyranny be overpast/’ 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 311 
 
 Adieu, my beloved friend. I am warned to pre¬ 
 pare for our departure, and there are here, alas ! no 
 kind civil Sarahs to do every thing for me better 
 than I could do it myself. I shall go softly all my 
 days and be thankful, for many things I never 
 prized before ; a steady respectful English nurse I 
 shall be in danger of worshipping. Pity me on 
 board with no female but a coarse negro sort of she 
 cabin-boy, not a whit more refined or serviceable. 
 
 But it is to England we go, and that is enough. 
 Once more adieu. E. M. 
 
 P.S.—I enclose, for precaution’s sake, an attested 
 copy of the old black servant’s affidavit, that I am 
 his master’s nearest relation, which, in case it might 
 benefit my boy, I bethought me of making him 
 take, when he came back to Albany with the child. 
 He can write,—a rare accomplishment; and hav¬ 
 ing been manumitted, is a competent witness. 
 Something in the chapter of accidents may come of 
 it. Edmund laughed at me, but mothers, I need 
 not tell you , are provident.” 
 
 Provident ! aye truly, my mother,” sighed I, 
 as my eye rested on the scrap of coarse American 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 paper, dingy with age, and blotted with poor Cae¬ 
 sar's cabalistic scrawls ; yet the probable talismanic 
 key to all his master's hidden treasure. It was re¬ 
 gularly drawn up, and attested by a magistrate of 
 Albany before witnesses, so that its validity in 
 America being unquestionable, I might consider 
 myself at length undoubted heir to the doctor's pro¬ 
 perty. 
 
 Will it be believed that amid some natural 
 swellings of the heart, and throbbings of the pulse 
 such as flesh is heir to on similar occasions, I felt 
 acutely the disappointment of Pauline's equally 
 high-raised hopes ? No sooner was the point de¬ 
 cided, than I all at once doubted whether she 
 would allow r me to repair the injustice, or at least 
 partiality of fortune, by making her mistress of the 
 whole ; nay I soon instinctively felt my chance of 
 a boon to which riches were dross, rather impaired 
 than augmented by the acquisition. Had I been 
 sure to have thus put Pauline in undisputed pos¬ 
 session, I think I could have set fire to the paper 
 with no great effort of generosity ; for I was a 
 lover, and it is difficult to be happy at the expense 
 of one truly beloved. But as the annihilation of 
 my claims was by no means tantamount to the es- 
 
316 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 tablishment of her s—I grew rational, and saw that 
 by enforcing mine I could at least put the whole 
 in her power by a tender of my hand ; and in the 
 event—which the raven within would anticipate— 
 of being rejected, find means to compel her to ac¬ 
 cept a part, by threatening to give it up altogether, 
 and let the American lawyers, or American hospi¬ 
 tals take it among them. 
 
 My first impulse was to put the packet in my 
 bosom, and fly to Mrs. Sydney. I nearly knock¬ 
 ed down John Newborough in my impatience to 
 get at his mistress ; -who, looking up with flushed 
 cheek and brightened eye from the perusal of a 
 thin quarto, which I afterwards found to be the 
 then newly published Lady of the Lake—seemed 
 quite in a mood for hearing something extraordi¬ 
 nary. 4 4 Pray my dear Malcolm Graeme ,’ 1 said 
 she, 44 for by the courtsey of romance so I must at 
 present address you—are you red-hot from a foray, 
 or panting from the chase, or flushed from the 
 revel, or only, after the manner of lovers, a little 
 mad nor’-north-west this morning—that you look 
 so perilously unlike a douce English student of 
 philosophy at the sober hour of noon ?” 
 
 44 A little excited, Mrs. Sydney, I must confess , 11 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 answered I, blushing, 44 but neither with battle nor 
 wine, no nor love either at this precise moment; 
 unless it be love to triumph over all one loves best. 
 I am undoubted heir to old Gideon Aspinall, 
 that’s all I know—whether I am glad or sorry, it 
 would puzzle CEdipus to unravel !” 44 I'll do it 
 
 for him,” answered my old friend, kindly shaking 
 me by the hand, 44 you are glad to have it in your 
 power to act handsomely by Pauline, half afraid 
 she wont let you—ashamed to rob her—dying to 
 enrich her—feeling already the cmbarras des 
 richesses in the shape of a fit of well-founded diffi¬ 
 dence ; in short, a modester as well as richer man 
 than you were two hours ago. There’s your riddle 
 for you, and an odd one it is.” 
 
 44 Do you really read people’s thoughts ?” said 
 I, surprised to hear mine thus anatomized ; 44 would 
 to heaven you could read and interpret another’s. 
 Fool that I was ever to think a few thousands more 
 or less could make me worthier of Pauline!” 
 44 Not a whit worthier,” my dear Meredith , 44 except 
 as a man, who honestly rejoices his inamorata has 
 not a sous must always appear so in the eyes of a 
 woman of sense. I know few things more likely to 
 make Pauline listen to your generous proposal, 
 
318 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 than to learn from another, that you despair of its 
 success, so I’ll tell her immediately all about it ; 
 that is,” added the good lady deliberately unlock¬ 
 ing her red morroco portfolio, 44 when you've told 
 me , for at present I live, (as my pedantic old 
 housekeeper once said of a woodcock,) by induc¬ 
 tion . 1 ' 1 
 
 The tale was soon told. It lay all in the com¬ 
 pass of the odd bit of saffron-coloured paper ; to ex¬ 
 amine which, my old friend took off (as her man¬ 
 ner was) the short-sighted glasses with which she 
 had been reading my averted countenance. 44 A 
 very pretty combination of old rags and pot hooks, 
 truly,” exclaimed she, as she finished the survey. 
 44 I doubt if poor Raleigh found any thing so indubi¬ 
 tably golden in El Dorado. It remains to be seen 
 if you can reverse the alchymy, and by converting 
 your gold to paper again, make it purchase happi¬ 
 ness. Pauline’s an odd girl with odd notions— 
 but faint heart never won fair lady. Give me and 
 my missive the start of a post, that my old sense 
 may neutralize her young nonsense; and if you 
 don’t win and wear her, it shall be no fault of 
 mine. Go away now, that’s a good boy, and walk 
 off your excitement on the Calton hill. You need 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 319 
 
 not take the lover's leap, however, till all else fails 
 you." 
 
 I found a better sedative than that recommended 
 by the good lady, in a visit of apology and expla¬ 
 nation to poor little Mrs. Nevil, whose meek sub¬ 
 dued aspect, and calm though heartfelt congratula¬ 
 tions, did more to sober and chasten the tumultu¬ 
 ous agitation of my feelings than all the philo¬ 
 sophy in the world. But there was more of 
 a soothing and composing nature connected with 
 this interview; for though like myself, she had, it 
 seems, only a vague idea that the name of Mere¬ 
 dith was somehow or other endeared to her late 
 mistress—to that of Emily Aspinall she was no 
 stranger, and retained a lively remembrance of the 
 exquisite beauty of the little flaxen-haired foster 
 child, whose early removal from Mrs. Delameres 
 care had led to her own adoption as a substitute. 
 In after life she had never seen my poor mother, 
 as in the visits to London, by which the intimacy 
 was continued, and in one of which my mother's 
 marriage had taken place, she never accompanied 
 her late lady. c< I used to be very jealous, I re¬ 
 member," said she, “ when I first came to the 
 Hall, of the love my mistress and every one bore 
 
.320 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 to pretty Miss Kmily ; little did I think to live to 
 be under such obligations to her son. 1 ’ 
 
 When I returned, after three of the longest days 
 I ever remember dragging through, to Mrs. Syd¬ 
 ney’s door-—from the bell of which I with difficulty 
 kept my hand till a decent interval had elapsed 
 since it was rung by the postman (whose steps I 
 had been dogging for the previous hour)—it was 
 with an indefinable presentiment of evil. Old 
 John Newborough’s once raven locks, scarce yet 
 powdered for the day, seemed ominously grizzled ; 
 and his thin narrow visage drawn out to portentous 
 length. 44 The leddy’s thrang wi’ her letters,” 
 said he, rather gruffly, as he let me in— 44 I wish 
 the Captain and Miss Liny may be weel. 1 saw 
 her hand shake as she broke the seal o’ the ane frae 
 Manchester.” 44 Are you taking notice of mine, 
 you old Cerberus?” thought I, as I felt every fibre 
 in my body quivering with strong emotion. I 
 could scarcely stand, and had not John compas¬ 
 sionately opened the parlour door, I doubt if my 
 hand could have achieved it. 
 
 Mrs. Sydney was so engrossed with her letter, 
 that she did not at first look up ; but I knew by 
 the twinkle of her eye, and the quiver of her lip as 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 321 
 
 she read, and by a contraction rarely to be seen on 
 her open brow, that she both deplored and disap¬ 
 proved the decision it contained. “ All's over, I 
 see,” said I, not very decorously interrupting her, 
 
 “ tell me the worst at once, my dear Mrs. Sydney.” 
 
 “ It is as we both feared,' 1 answered she, sighing 
 with almost youthful sympathy for youthful disap¬ 
 pointment. “ Pauline, who, it provokes me to ga¬ 
 ther, was getting quite reconciled to my version of you 
 before this unlucky discovery—won’t own it now , 
 lest wealth, not worth, should seem to have worked 
 the spell. I wish the old gentleman, or, God for¬ 
 give me ! the old papers at least, had been chucked 
 into the fire.” 
 
 “ I can put them there yet,” exclaimed I, eager¬ 
 ly recurring to my before mentioned notion of burn¬ 
 ing the certificate, and replacing things on their 
 former footing. “No, no, my dear Meredith,” 
 said my aged friend, more soberly, though a flush 
 of almost juvenile brilliancy attested her participa¬ 
 tion in my emotion : 44 Pauline, though this false 
 delicacy of her’s does savour of romance, is not ro¬ 
 mantic enough to be won by a novel-like renuncia¬ 
 tion of rightful claims. A better way than resign- 
 ing your fortune is, to show that you can use it 
 
322 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 worthily. Let her see that its employment is such 
 as she must long to share in, and perhaps we may 
 succeed in bribing her after all. Every body has 
 a weak side ; and Pauline's is, I think, the power 
 of doing good.” 
 
 66 Oh ! why should she voluntarily deprive her¬ 
 self of it ?” exclaimed I, in bitterness of spirit— 
 66 she that could teach me so well how to set about 
 it ? I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Sydney, you may dis¬ 
 suade me from giving up to the chances of law 
 what you could never prevent my resigning (were 
 it in my power) to Pauline; but if I touch, ex¬ 
 cept for purposes of charity dictated by yourself, 
 the gold which has cost me my chance of her 
 hand, I'll give up all the faint hopes that will 
 cling to me, that she may yet be mine in spite of 
 it.” 
 
 u I hope she may, my dear Edmund ; and in 
 the mean time, it is an ill wind that blows nobody 
 good. If by one year's sacrifice, and I trust it 
 will be no more, of an income you have no use for, 
 you can lay up treasure in heaven, and win Pau¬ 
 line upon earth, it will be well bestowed, and I’ll 
 be both your almoner and your trumpeter on the 
 
 occasion. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 323 
 
 “ But, in the mean time, before disposing of her 
 eggs, we have yet to make the golden goose our 
 own. I’ll put you in a way at once. An old di¬ 
 plomatic chum and crony of my brother’s is our 
 envoy to the land of Jonathan. His influence will 
 bar trickery and chicane, and give you immediate 
 possession of what the law entitles you to. Give 
 me your certificate. I don’t feel sure of your not 
 committing some folly till it is in my pocket. I’ll 
 enclose it in a hit of choice maiden eloquence to an¬ 
 other friend at the foreign office ; and before you can 
 say Jack Robinson, you shall touch the Yankee 
 dollars, and convert them into English loaves and 
 blankets—aye, and blessings to boot. The prayers 
 of some scores of happy families will not mar your 
 wooing, Edmund, believe me.” 
 
 I am ashamed to say that my studies now came 
 to a premature conclusion. My stimulus to indus¬ 
 try was gone. I looked upon Edinburgh, its an¬ 
 cient towers and far-famed university, as a disap¬ 
 pointed alchymist might be supposed to regard the 
 laboratory and apparatus which had failed to 
 realize his golden dreams. If the man who reads 
 for a degree, and is plucked, (as the Oxford col¬ 
 lege cant goes), seldom does good afterwards, how 
 
324 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 must he be discouraged who studies for a wife, and 
 finds he has reaped nothing, but 66 words, words ! 
 Horatio !” I hope, however, I had unconsciously 
 imbibed ideas also; not as yet matured into any 
 shape, yet destined insensibly to colour my future 
 existence, and rob it of the inanity I now for ever 
 abjured. 
 
 But Scotland, like a disenchanted talisman, had 
 grown distasteful to me, and the mild pitying eye, 
 and playful rallying smile of Mrs. Sydney, were 
 alike difficult to bear. London in May was not to 
 be thought of by one who had learned at Glen Fal- 
 conar the meaning of the word summer. Manches¬ 
 ter was forbidden, and alas! uninviting ground. 
 Watering places I had loathed w r ith a lighter heart 
 and emptier brain ; so in pure quest at once of no¬ 
 velty and solitude, I betook myself to Gloucester¬ 
 shire. 
 
 It was with a heart softened by every kindred feel¬ 
 ing of gratitude, love and admiration, that I bade 
 adieu to Mrs. Sydney Hume. <£ You are quite 
 right to go, Edmund,” said she, forcing a smile; 
 “ you are spoilt at present for a philosopher, and 
 quite fit for a hermit. Your seclusion is quite in 
 keeping with the rest of your romantic history, and 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 325 
 
 shall be made the most of to your heroine. But 
 mind, it must be turned to account, like your lega¬ 
 cy, and while it makes hundreds of others happy, 
 do try what rational happiness you can extract from 
 the country for yourself. Glen Falconar has made 
 you a little aware of what green fields can do even 
 for a cockney, (for such you were, to all intents and 
 purposes, maugre your Indian birth and American 
 travels, when I first knew you, Master Edmund). 1 ' 
 
 <e Ah ! but,'” said I, mournfully, shaking my 
 head , 66 at Glen Falconar I had scenery, and society, 
 and kindness, and none of these can I expect at my 
 old ruin of a house in Gloucestershire.'” 66 I ll tell 
 you what you will have in the mean time, that will 
 do quite as well, indeed better, in your present case. 
 Novelty, the interest of a place of your own, above 
 all, plenty to do. Pull down and build,—plant 
 and grub up, as if Hemsworth, and Hemsworth 
 only, were to be your heritage for life. If you don’t 
 make it pretty in the eyes of others, you will infal¬ 
 libly do so in your own. Its beauty will be all of 
 your own creating, and that is the only sort, I as¬ 
 sure you, that time cannot impair. If you speak 
 me fair, I may perhaps come, when you are all 
 in order, your flowers in blow, and your songsters 
 
326 
 
 PROBATION.' 
 
 in voice, to give you an account of my next year’s 
 Yankee stewardship; and who knows but I may 
 bring with me a female charge d 1 affaires , to take it 
 and the owner at once off my hands.” 
 
 44 Oh, my dear Mrs. Sydney,” exclaimed I, 
 
 4 4 you would make a man go with a smile on his 
 face to Siberia. God bless you,” (and I kissed her 
 hand this time, as I had longed to do the first day 
 I saw her), 44 you have put new life in me. For 
 God’s sake, write when you have any thing good to 
 tell me.” 
 
 44 I shall always have to tell you, that I think 
 you an excellent lad,” said the dear old lady, press¬ 
 ing my hand in maternal kindness ; 44 what more 
 I feel towards you, I’ll keep to myself, for fear 
 Pauline, all saucy as she is, might not approve. 
 And now, get away with you ; scenes at seventy- 
 five are ridiculous things.” 
 
 On my way south, I stopped at D-, (though 
 
 the very sight of the inn door, where commenced 
 my nocturnal acquaintance with Pauline, was hor¬ 
 ribly painful), to acquaint Lawyer T-with the 
 
 discovery of my rights, and the mortifying circum¬ 
 stance of their legal enforcement being withdrawn 
 from his professional talons. To make up, how- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 327 
 
 ever, for this natural disappointment, I gave him 
 a preposterous fee, on the express understanding 
 that he was never directly, or indirectly, to ask or 
 accept a shilling from the adverse party. I saw him 
 puzzled how to 6i affect a virtue” so unprofessional 
 as disinterestedness ; so to make matters sure, I 
 dictated, before leaving D-, a letter of attorney¬ 
 
 like condolence to the Clitheroe family, in which I 
 made him affirm, (heaven pardon the lie,) “ that it 
 was repugnant alike to his feelings and practice, to 
 take fees for unsuccessful preliminary proceedings.” 
 
328 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Adieu fortune ! honneurs adieu ! vous et les votres, 
 
 Je viens ici vous oublier! 
 
 Adieu toi meme Amour ! bien plus que les autres 
 Difficile a congedier 
 
 Inscription on an Hermitage. 
 
 I arrived towards evening of the rainiest day of a 
 weeping summer, at Hemsworth. In the way¬ 
 wardness of a cynic, and inattention to trifles of a 
 hero of romance, I had disdained to write before¬ 
 hand to the old man and woman who lived in the 
 house, to make such preparations as their means 
 afforded ; consequently my debut in what (on the 
 strength of its having belonged to my grandfather,) 
 a novel-writer would call my ancestral mansion, 
 was as ludicrous as discomfort would allow me to 
 think it. 
 
 In the first place—tell it not to the modish vo- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 329 
 
 taries of midnight!—at little more than eight 
 o’clock on a mid-summer evening, these worthies— 
 like their neighbours of the rookery, and their tribu¬ 
 taries of the barn-door, had gone to roost ; and 
 those whose fate it has been to knock, amid the piti¬ 
 less pelting of a west of England shower, till one of 
 two deaf people shall awake, as if by miracle, can 
 alone appreciate my impatience to stand at length 
 on my own hearth. 
 
 And a miserable cold hearth it was ! for fuel be¬ 
 ing scarce, and Richard and Deborah strict econo¬ 
 mists, not even a symptom of the fire which at the 
 antediluvian hour of four, had made their kettle 
 simmer, and warmed the cat to sympathetic pur¬ 
 ring, now appeared in the scanty rust-eaten grate. 
 
 And Dick and Deborah themselves ! Not Scar- 
 ron, nor Rabelais, nor Cervantes, nor Sir Walter, 
 could have done justice to the “admired disorder” 
 and wizard attire of these seneschals of my long- 
 deserted hall. While Dick, a little shrivelled 
 atomy of a man, peered at me with grey half-opened 
 eyes from beneath a huge woollen nightcap, of whose 
 effect on his thin physiognomy and lank figure, an 
 apt illustration was afforded by an ample extin¬ 
 guisher reposing on, and partially annihilating a 
 
330 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 farthing rushlight, which on some former and more 
 dissipated occasion had done the sun’s usual office 
 of lighting him to bed—Deborah, his tall unfemi¬ 
 nine 44 ynissiz 11 as he called her, (which I afterwards 
 found, being interpreted, meant master ,) stared on 
 the unexpected vision of her liege lord, with just 
 the expression of pure supernatural wonder which 
 would have dilated her round saucer eyes if saluted 
 by an actual apparition. Her nightcap had some¬ 
 how or other disappeared, and her long grizzled 
 tresses escaped from their moorings on a vast 
 cushion which sat on her gigantic head like 44 Pe- 
 lion upon Ossa piled.” The nether garments, 
 which in her haste, she had snatched up and don¬ 
 ned, were so disproportionably short as irresistibly 
 to suggest the idea, (corroborated by subsequent 
 experience,) that they would have much better suit¬ 
 ed her diminutive and obedient spouse. 
 
 However, out of all this chaos, order at length 
 came ; and amid a chorus of 44 dear rue's,” and 
 44 lack-a-daisys,” from Dick, and a more effective 
 din of bellows, and kettles, and crockery, from his 
 stirring helpmate, a fire at length smiled upon my 
 hearth, and the table, (which from long custom 
 had learnt to stand with the a plomb and precision 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 331 
 
 of a Parisian dancer, upon three legs,) smoked with 
 the exquisite refreshments of marvellously dry 
 bread, butter, anno domini doubtful, and tea from 
 the nearest hayrick. However, I was cold, wet, and 
 hungry, and I sipped and swallowed, or rather made 
 faces and bolted, with laudable perseverance. 
 
 The next thing to be considered, and no trifle 
 either, was a bed ; but this, unless I had dispos¬ 
 sessed, which Heaven forefend ! my trusty Cerberus 
 and his wife, was unattainable under my dilapidat¬ 
 ed roof. So the rain having complaisantly sub¬ 
 sided from a torrent to a drizzle, I walked, (having 
 in the elation of arriving at my own door rashly 
 dismissed the chaise,) some three miles off, to the 
 sign of the Hen and chickens. 
 
 Here, at a very comfortable rural public house, 
 I established my temporary quarters, though I am 
 sure, but for the parting prognostics of good Mrs. 
 Sydney, I should never have looked twice at my 
 Gloucestershire paradise. She was right however; 
 and even next morning, under a bright sun with¬ 
 out, and six hours hard scrubbing from the stout 
 arms of Deborah within, the aspect of things seem¬ 
 ed marvellously improved. 
 
 Hemsworth—I love to record what it was, for the 
 
332 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 encouragement of improvers—was a long straggling 
 house of the age of Elizabeth, I believe, but of the 
 taste of no age, being a thing evidently of 44 shreds 
 and patches,” stitched together by necessitous own¬ 
 ers, to accommodate overgrown families. There 
 was not one good room (architecturally speaking) 
 in it. On the ground floor it had a long narrow 
 
 o o 
 
 gallery, more resembling a cloister than a room, 
 redeemed however by looking out in all its length 
 upon what must, at some remote period, have been 
 a garden. The rest of the rez de chaussee, an am¬ 
 ple vaulted kitchen excepted, consisted of those 
 nondescript pigeon holes, in which our ancestors, 
 for unexplained reasons, delighted. 
 
 Up stairs, and what a stair ! the access to my 
 hayloft at Newmarket was a Scala Regia to it— 
 were some dozens of similar crypts or cupboards, 
 curiously subdivided like cells in a honeycomb, and 
 bearing to human beings about the same proportion 
 as these do to their industrious population. One 
 spacious chamber, one alone, made amends for all 
 the monotonous shabbiness of the rest. It was an 
 oddly-shaped room in a turret, whose form it would 
 have puzzled Vitruvius to define, but which from 
 that very irregularity, and the anomaly in modern 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 architecture of three cross windows, derived the 
 charm of novelty and singularity at least. It 
 
 had more. It was as I wandered from one to 
 
 % 
 
 the other of these three windows, that I first learn¬ 
 ed that Hems worth had beauties independent of 
 any which the art of man might create. The 
 lights were favourable for the prospect, and whether 
 my eye fell from one lattice of this old-fashioned 
 lady’s bower, (for such it had evidently been,) on 
 the long undulating line of the Malvern hills, the 
 Alps of a flat country—or from another, on the vene¬ 
 rable spires and stately forest avenues of Tewks¬ 
 bury,—or whether from the third, it rested yet more 
 complacently on a home-scene of wood and ver¬ 
 dure, that needed but the hand of neatness to draw 
 forth its latent charms, I felt “Mrs. Sydney is right, 
 —there is excitement in a place of one’s own.” 
 
 All the world knows what, under the influence of 
 excitement, a man—a young one especially—will 
 do. I had two ostensible motives for plunging 
 headlong into improvement—to please Mrs. Sydney, 
 and get rid of my late disappointment: there 
 lurked in the secret recesses of my soul a third, 
 which I shrewdly suspect was the main-spring of 
 my whole activity. Pauline loved the country. 
 
334 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 had once pitied me for not loving it too, and had 
 hinted that there was a man of property's legiti¬ 
 mate home. What if she should one day share it 
 with me P To make it indeed fit for this, no la¬ 
 bour, no expense could be too much. Oh ! how 
 often now (when my resolution not to exceed my 
 income came in the way of the magic of wealth to 
 level difficulties and create changes,) did I bitter¬ 
 ly regret the thousands which had vanished on the 
 turf, and at the gaming table, and 44 left not a 
 wreck behind !” 
 
 I spent nine happy, yes absolutely happy 
 months at Hemsworth, up to the eyes in the bliss 
 of brick and mortar, in delightful association with 
 farmers, gardeners, and ditchers. To my asto¬ 
 nishment I found the former shrewd, intelligent, 
 and entertaining—not merely wiser than myself 
 on country affairs, but I began to suspect on many 
 a point besides; while the latter were as superior 
 to the Cockney machines or stable vagabonds 
 who had hitherto formed my specimens of low life, 
 as trees are to sign-posts, or the country to Hyde 
 Park. 
 
 I did not all this time, like Molieres’s misan¬ 
 thrope, pick a quarrel with the neighbours, who, in 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 3.‘35 
 
 the simplicity and curiosity of their hearts, came to 
 see the young improver. I received them all, as I 
 thought, with the greatest urbanity, but somehow 
 or other, as they did not repeat their visits, I con¬ 
 clude they must have seen that I was very, very 
 busy. 
 
 The letters of Mrs. Sydney were the chief so¬ 
 lace of my solitude, and my sole link to the world 
 I had so strangely left behind me. She told me 
 that Pauline, (whom she had meditated disin¬ 
 heriting for her second rejection of my suit,) had 
 been saved from this utmost penalty to an affec¬ 
 tionate heart, by a series of family distress, which 
 had rendered sympathy more seasonable than se¬ 
 verity. 
 
 Her father's health had become so seriously im¬ 
 paired, as to oblige him to resign his situation at 
 Manchester, at the sacrifice of course, of the chief 
 source of emolument which had hitherto kept 
 above penury those dearest to him. This preyed 
 daily and hourly on the affectionate spirit of the 
 mild old veteran, and as a relief to his thoughts 
 as well as change of air and scene, the whole fami¬ 
 ly had paid Mrs. Sydney a visit in Edinburgh. 
 
 “ I found Pauline indeed all you represented 
 
336 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 her/’’ continued the writer; “ just the finished 
 picture, of which, five years before, I had hailed 
 a lovely but of course imperfect outline. I would 
 not say this to you Edmund, did I think this 
 4 bright particular star,’ as hopelessly beyond your 
 reach as we once both feared. But my viva voce 
 representations of your altered, or rather developed 
 character—a thousand minute circumstances which 
 writing could never convey, joined to some which 
 it only, perhaps, could, (for in the magnanimity 
 of my rivalship I shall let her read some of your 
 later epistles from Hemsworth,) must contribute 
 greatly to soften and indeed altogether change the 
 nature of her sentiments towards you. Entre 
 nous, I believe it will be the effect, no uncommon 
 one, of jealousy ; and that my evident tendre will 
 do much in awaking hers.” 
 
 Some time elapsed ere I again heard from Mrs. 
 Sydney, and when I did so, there was in the tone 
 of her letter a shade of gravity and a total absence 
 of her usual good-humoured badinage; which, 
 coupled as it was with utter silence on the subject 
 nearest our hearts, and that indescribable tone of 
 compassionate sympathy, involuntarily assumed 
 by one who is ere long to be the herald of disap- 
 
PROBATION. 337 
 
 pointment, chilled my very blood, and gave rise to 
 a thousand vague presentiments of misfortune. 
 
 They were but too well founded. The tender 
 and yet precarious plants of esteem and good-will, 
 which, under the fostering care of Mrs. Sydney, 
 were bcgining to take root slowly but surely in the 
 heart of Pauline, were about to be exposed to the 
 malign influence of a rivalry of the most formida¬ 
 ble description. 
 
 From the flrst moment indeed of Miss Clitheroe’s 
 arrival under the hospitable roof of Mrs. Sydney 
 II ume, there had not been wanting admirers of the 
 modest dignity, and unaffected loveliness of her 
 English protegee; and the social ease with which 
 the advancing season enabled lingerers in town to 
 mingle at her truly attic soirees , was but too fa¬ 
 vourable to the development of talents and graces 
 which would have shrunk abashed from the broad 
 glare of fashionable life. It was with all a mo¬ 
 ther's exultation that Mrs. Sydney at first wrote to 
 me that I had good cause for jealousy, since the 
 poets, philosophers, and sages of the modern Athens, 
 now only frequented the shrine of their ancient hos¬ 
 tess, to transfer their homage with shameless incon¬ 
 stancy to her youthful guest. “And yet,” would she 
 
 / 
 
338 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 playfully add, 44 1 know not by what spells (youth 
 and beauty excejpted,) the gipsy seduces away 
 my liege subjects, unless it be by what she certainly 
 possesses, 4 un grand talent pour le silence ’—not in 
 the ironical sense in which it was used by the witty 
 Frenchman of our tongue-tied countryman—but in 
 its higher and more complimentary meaning of a 
 first-rate listener. Some people only listen with 
 their ears, and that but asininely, after all. Pau¬ 
 line’s eyes tell me as plainly across the room, (when 
 / too am assisting my ears after mine own fashion, 
 with spectacles on nose,) what subject the wise or 
 witty swain beside her is expatiating on, as if I 
 heard the bit of antiquarian lore, or scrap of Scot¬ 
 tish anecdote, or burning relic of jacobite loyalty, 
 which the lips of our most privileged litterateurs 
 are pouring into her 4 ravished ears.’ And this 
 is the charm which lays them bound in willing dur¬ 
 ance at the feet of my little self-educated heroine; 
 whose delightful freshness of character, and eager 
 thirst for knowledge, are to the strained optics of 
 these consumers of midnight oil, like the repose of 
 green fields and cool waters.” 
 
 All this I could hear, and with no feelings save- 
 of enhanced admiration for Pauline, and occasional 
 
TROUATION. 
 
 339 
 
 envy of her distinguished entertainers. But I 
 knew not then why my heart died within me, when 
 in a hurried postscript to one of her delightful 
 epistles, Mrs. Sydney playfully remarked, that I 
 had surely been spreading her fame among my 
 countrymen ; as a second young Englishman had 
 introduced himself to her, and oddly enough, also 
 through some connexion with the Clitheroes, 
 though, added my lively correspondent, 44 not like 
 your’s, of a romantic nature. A vulgar affair of 
 pounds, shillings, and pence, is the basis of this 
 young man’s northern pilgrimage ; but vulgar as 
 it is, not less to his honour perhaps, than wooing 
 damsels, and propitiating old ladies.” 
 
 44 Heaven forbid he should do either !” ejaculat¬ 
 ed 1, more annoyed than I could well account for, 
 by the arrival of a youthful interloper on the, to 
 me, alas! little more than neutral ground of Pau¬ 
 line’s good graces. From this period he was never 
 out of my mind’s eye ; he haunted my walks by day, 
 and my dreams by night. I could have quarrelled 
 with Mrs. Sydney for not describing him, and per¬ 
 haps banishing by an unvarnished enumeration of 
 common-place attributes, the 44 unreal mockery” of 
 a terribly good-looking puppy with which I was 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 340 
 
 ominously visited. His errand too, that cost me a 
 world of idle speculation. Not all the hoards of 
 the American doctor, while yet unrealized, had ever 
 taxed my powers of computation, like the “ pounds, 
 shillings, and pence 11 of my for once laconic cor¬ 
 respondent. I knew too well of what consequence 
 were those vulgar appendages to the comfort, nay, 
 existence of a slenderly pensioned veteran ; and yet, 
 it was not here, after all, that my jealous fancies 
 found their bitterest nutriment. Riches, something 
 more tangible than Fancy whispered, would never 
 have weight with Pauline. Of this I was a living 
 and still smarting witness, and welcome now was 
 the conviction thus dearly earned. 
 
 Mrs. Sydney wrote no more for a length of time, 
 but she was not now my sole correspondent; and 
 from one less tender of my feelings, because 
 less deep in my confidence, I extorted ere long, that 
 in the few public haunts yet open to Edinburgh 
 loungers, Pauline was attended, as by her shadow, 
 by the young English traveller. 
 
 This young man, whose name was Walsingham, 
 I found out (from more channels than I should 
 have dreamt of exploring to gain the philosopher’s 
 stone) had traced Captain Clitheroe from Handles- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 341 
 
 ter, with the honourable design of refunding a tri¬ 
 fling sum of money which the open-hearted and 
 open-handed veteran had many years before, when 
 paymaster of a marching regiment, advanced to his 
 father ; among whose papers, an acknowledgment, 
 though of an irregular and merely private nature, 
 had, it seems, been found on his death on foreign 
 service. 
 
 The debt, among many others of a similar de¬ 
 scription, had been long since forgotten by the ge¬ 
 nerous lender, though it was not the less welcome in 
 his present difficulties, nor the restitution the less 
 likely to serve as a passport to the good-will of one 
 peculiarly alive to sentiments of honour. But there 
 were other ties which insensibly attached the veteran 
 to this new friend. The acquaintance with his fa¬ 
 ther, though slight, had taken place during the 
 brighter days of their mutual youth ; and his 
 memory was identified with vicissitudes of glory and 
 privation, which a soldier can never look back upon 
 unmoved. 
 
 Young Walsingham resembled his father, and 
 had, like him, started in the military profession ; 
 though a love for scientific pursuits, and the suc¬ 
 cession to a moderate fortune from an uncle, had 
 
342 
 
 PROBATION, 
 
 induced him to relinquish it. Since quitting the 
 army, his time had been chiefly improved in travel; 
 and as at that period the southern part of Europe 
 lay under an interdict, he had indemnified himself 
 by a prolonged sejour in the comparatively barbar¬ 
 ous north. 
 
 Of Petersburgh, (whence he had recently re¬ 
 turned) Walsingham spoke, I was told, with elo¬ 
 quent admiration ; and his rambles through re¬ 
 gions then little frequented, imparted to his narra¬ 
 tions an interest, the effects of which were but too 
 visible in the increasing partiality of Captain Cli- 
 theroe, and the pleased attention of his accomplished 
 daughter. “ In short,” wrote my college comrade, 
 reckless of the pain he was unconsciously inflicting, 
 <c all your acquaintance have set down as infallible, 
 that papa, being won already by a coup de main , 
 Miss Clitheroe's hitherto insensible heart will yield 
 to the united influence of a very handsome person, 
 fascinating manners, and entertaining talk ; and, 
 above all, an immediate home, and dutiful son- 
 in-law, for her good old uncle Toby of a father.” 
 
 6i Pooh,” I exclaimed, relieved by the latter 
 and seemingly most formidable clause of the enu¬ 
 meration, 44 these, heaven knows, might have been 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 343 
 
 his long ere now, and failed to tempt her ; and if 
 they sufficed not to make her mine, why should an¬ 
 other thus lure her from me ? But then that 
 other's character and acquirements —there lay the 
 alarming disparity. What chance had the neglect¬ 
 ed idler Meredith, just beginning late in life the 
 task of mental discipline, with the staid, the book¬ 
 ish, the accomplished Walsingham ? of whom no 
 one could say a word amiss ; the 4 charming young 
 man 1 of the undiscriminating gay world, the enfant 
 gate of the blue stocking coteries of Edinburgh ? 
 
 “ % heaven ! I’ll know what Mrs. Sydney 
 thinks of him, before I'm a day older,* 1 exclaimed I; 
 44 from her ominous silence 1 augur that though she 
 may fear, she at least does not approve him. And 
 yet he is all that she ought naturally to think 
 highly of; and she is too upright to let partiality 
 for me blind or distort her acute intellectual vision. 
 She’ll tell me the truth , be it what it may, how¬ 
 ever, and that is better a thousand times than sus¬ 
 pense and inuendoes. 11 
 
 In the midst of these agitations came the letter 
 (to which I have before alluded) from my dear old 
 friend, the sadly negative character of which con¬ 
 firmed my worst fears, and goaded me on to instant 
 
3U 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 investigation. Under its influence I penned a 
 string of queries, as much extorted by the rack of 
 mental agony as ever were responses by inquisitorial 
 torture, and awaited the result in a mood not much 
 to be envied by a candidate for the honours of an 
 auto dafe. 
 
 44 Your catechism, my dear Edmund, 11 wrote my 
 kind Mentor, in a hand less steady than usual, 
 and a tone which strove vainly for its wonted dash 
 of pleasantry, 44 is one not easily answered ; and, like 
 a puzzled truant, fain would I merge all the 4 pre¬ 
 vious questions’ I can so ill reply to in my decided 
 response to the last and most important one, of 
 whether you shall instantly fly to Edinburgh, to 
 grapple in person with the danger, (alas ! not al¬ 
 together a chimerical one) with which your long- 
 nursed hopes are menaced ? Stay where you are, 
 Edmund. I say so on conviction, that if you are 
 to triumph, as I hope and trust you will, over a 
 very specious, and by no means despicable rival, it 
 will be by the unbiassed influence of Pauline's ex¬ 
 cellent judgment, aided, you may believe, by what¬ 
 ever of lynx-eyed discrimination I may have owed 
 to threescore year's familiarity with an evil world. 
 
 44 The dear captain, a boy to me in age, is still 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 345 
 
 more so in character; and an old comrade's son, 
 with a tongue of unrivalled glibness, and a lace of 
 unequalled smoothness, and a cameleon-like faci¬ 
 lity of reflecting every ray that crosses, like an au¬ 
 tumnal gleam, an old veteran’s brow—are more than 
 he well knows how to resist, in favour of an absent 
 civilian, the acquaintance of a few short weeks, and 
 whom these did not entirely enable him to separate 
 from a certain spendthrift heir-at-law, whom the 
 fates sent, very mal a propos between him (or ra¬ 
 ther his darling daughter), and a rich succession. 
 So much for my brother's late ancient; as worthy 
 a gentleman of the old school notwithstanding, as 
 ever mistook plausibility for perfection. 
 
 “ Mrs. Clitheroe remains, like myself, stanch 
 to her pauvre garden ; that is, in her sober mo¬ 
 ments, (if she ever has such,) and when her ima¬ 
 gination is not worked upon by the Hyperborean 
 marvels of her entertaining son-in-law elect, or her 
 soft heart won by his disinterested devotion to her 
 now r portionless, and as he pretends, all the more 
 desirable, daughter. 
 
 66 It is edifying to see howg when she touches on 
 the disappointment of their golden dreams, Joseph 
 Surface (as I have somewhat uncharitably christen- 
 
34G 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 ed him,) puts on, nay actually succeeds in invest¬ 
 ing with every characteristic of absolute reality, a 
 satisfaction which it seems impossible for a sensi¬ 
 ble man to feel, and needless for an honest one to 
 feign. I have watched closely the smile, or rather 
 chuckle, which the subject usually calls forth on 
 his really good-looking face ; and can only say that 
 the man (yourself excepted, and you had a selfish 
 reason,) who can 4 smile and smile,’ as he does 
 on such an occasion, must either be the most ro¬ 
 mantically disinterested of mortals, or, according 
 to glorious Wilks set of it, 4 a villain.’ But there 
 is no room for villany in the present case ; unless, 
 indeed, it be in my gratuitous suppositions at the 
 expense of a well-behaved and altogether unexcep¬ 
 tionable young man, as much surpassing in all 
 these respects the scape grace of my predilection— 
 but comparisons are odious, and what signify an 
 old woman’s ? What says, and what thinks Pau¬ 
 line ? 
 
 44 It is the lot of the dear girl, as it is of all wo¬ 
 men, who, in despite of Pope, 4 have characters at 
 all,’ to puzzle my old head a good deal, with her 
 always amiable, though sometimes unaccountable 
 fancies. She has had, ever since her rejection of 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 .‘My 
 
 your suit, 4 compunctious visitings' on the score 
 of the anxieties its acceptance would have removed 
 from her father's breast. She sees him so thorough¬ 
 ly taken with this new favourite, sunning himself 
 so complacently in the reflected emotions of his 
 younger and happier days, (while every look and 
 wish of the veteran are anticipated by the disinter¬ 
 ested attentions of a very handsome and highly 
 gifted person, one, too, whose moderate fortune and 
 views harmonize admirably with her own subdued 
 desires and sober inclinations,) that we must not 
 wonder, nay, my dear Edmund, we must not blame 
 a daughter accustomed from earliest childhood to 
 sacrifice personal considerations to a parent’s com¬ 
 fort, if she listens (and she does no more) to devo¬ 
 tion enforced by every charm of polished eloquence, 
 and well-feigned diffidence, and masterly adapta¬ 
 tion to every— weak , shall I say ? (No ! my Pau¬ 
 line has no weak points,) but to the easily predo¬ 
 minant features of a character, of which openness 
 forms the prevailing charm. 
 
 44 Whether she will ever do more than listen, 
 heaven, my dear Meredith, only knows. One thing 
 you know, and from experience, bitter at the time, 
 
 but invaluable now—that if won, it will not be easily 
 
 3 
 
318 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 or lightly. Pauline will know, and know thorough¬ 
 ly, him to whom she resigns her freedom; and I 
 live in hopes that if—as I secretly believe, without 
 well knowing why—there is a snake in the grass of 
 this smooth-spoken, pattern young man’s very per¬ 
 severing addresses, Providence, which has hitherto 
 so marvellously watched over you, will detect it, 
 and rescue you both. 
 
 66 I see on reading over my letter, that my own 
 opinion of your rival may be pretty well antici¬ 
 pated ; and that I am saved the shame of avowing 
 an antipathy too much akin to the 4 1 do not 
 like thee, Dr. Fell,’ to be very creditable to a 
 judgment of threescore. Except that he stands 
 in the way of one I do like, {why it would equally 
 puzzle me to explain,) I could not give one reason 
 for disliking Walsingha n which would pass mus¬ 
 ter in a court of equity. Barring such heresies as 
 admiration of the French, till he found that we 
 were all on principle and opinion determined anti- 
 gallicans, and abuse of snuff, which he at once ab¬ 
 jured at sight of my beautiful enamelled tabatiere — 
 I really cannot charge him with any peccadillo of 
 even microscopic minuteness. His sins are all of 
 omission ; and for these, nature must be accounta- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 349 
 
 ble. She neglected to preside at his birth, and 
 truly he returns the compliment by forgetting her 
 very existence. I don’t think he knows a tree 
 from a broomstick ; or sun-rise from sun-set, but 
 by the Almanack. 4 Man made the town,’ as 
 Cowper says, and this is enough for him ; and he 
 first woke my spleen by pronouncing Edinburgh 
 sadly inferior to Petersburgh, because the houses, 
 God wot ! were not on the same princely scale. 
 Of the comparative beauty of the sites he thought 
 as little as I of Hecuba. The marshes of the 
 Neva, stuck full of piles, could carry palaces as 
 well as our sweet smiling valley of the Forth ; and 
 as for Arthur’s Seat, I question if he knew it 
 from a Montague liusse of the Boulevards! 
 
 44 But my knight-errantry about nature must 
 not, and shall not make me unjust. Walsing- 
 ham is an agreeable, and seems an amiable per¬ 
 son. His sentiments are all highly creditable to 
 him, his morals unimpeachable, his manners a 
 thorough gentleman’s ; and for these very things, 
 God forgive me ! I find it hard to forgive him. 
 But my opinion is—I am apt to forget—a second¬ 
 ary consideration. All I can say of Pauline 
 (would it were more consolatory,) is, that she ap- 
 
 i 
 
350 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 proves, nay perhaps admires Walsingham—if she 
 does more, time and his not very distant declara¬ 
 tion will decide. Entre nous , for a parting ray of 
 the hope I am too sanguine to relinquish—I have 
 seen her blush deeper at one paragraph where her 
 name occurred in a letter from Hemsworth, than 
 at all his high-flown and rather hyperbolical com¬ 
 pliments. Keep a good heart, Edmund ! that rosy 
 flag seems to say you have yet a friend in the 
 citadel. For the care of the outworks you may 
 trust your stanch and ancient ally. 
 
 Sydney Hume." 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 351 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 To deck the shapely knoll 
 
 That softly swell’d and gaily dress’d appears 
 
 A flow’ry island, from the dark green lawn 
 
 Emerging—must be deem’d a labour due 
 
 To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. 
 
 CoWPER. 
 
 It was .but a short time that I had to endure the 
 agonies of a suspense almost beyond my new-born 
 philosophy. Another and a joyous epistle from 
 Mrs. Hume thus began :— 
 
 “From my heart do I congratulate you, my 
 dear Meredith, on your reinstatement in the Eng- 
 man’s boasted privilege of a clear field !’ Your 
 rival is hors cle combat ; thanks to an interposi¬ 
 tion, which Pauline justly deems providential, and 
 which has put an end at once to all conflict 
 
352 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 between her inclinations, (which she now confesses 
 never were with him,) and the sense of duty, which 
 might nevertheless have possibly made her his. 
 
 6< A few days ago, a lady of my acquaintance— 
 blue enough, entre nous , to have matched Mrs. 
 Montague—whose house is the rendezvous of all 
 the men of deep science whom chance brings to 
 Edinburgh—(/ only harbour poets, and prodigals, 
 and such like unprofitable gentry,)—invited me, 
 and Pauline of course, to a staring match at two 
 newly arrived French savans: whom the long ces¬ 
 sation of intercourse during the war had rendered 
 no contemptible lions in our modern Athens—not 
 a whit less addicted to the hunt after ‘ some new 
 thing,’ than her Grecian namesake of old. Wal- 
 singham was included in the party ; and from his 
 fluent French was soon pounced on by our hostess 
 as interpreter to, and special attendant on the men 
 of quadrants and chronometers. 
 
 u Pauline, as she told me with tears of grati¬ 
 tude in her eyes—was quietly turning over the 
 prints of Denon’s splendid work on Egypt—a pre¬ 
 sent from the French Institute to some of its Edin¬ 
 burgh members, when her quick ear for French 
 enabled her involuntarily to pick up, (in the course 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 353 
 
 of a geological discussion with the strangers,) such 
 startling admissions of incredulity in Revelation 
 on the part of the hitherto cautious Walsingham— 
 such thoroughly Frenchified professions of citizen¬ 
 ship of the world, and superiority to nursery pre¬ 
 judices, as sufficed to raise in a moment the mask 
 under which this admirable actor had supported, 
 with well nigh fatal success, the good boy charac¬ 
 ter at a primitive English fireside. 
 
 44 I had been engaged elsewhere, and my attention 
 was first called to something particular by looking 
 over Pauline, and seeing her fixed in deep and ap¬ 
 parently unconscious contemplation of the great 
 Pyramid of Ghiza, standing on its head like a 
 harlequin, with its huge base sprawling unsup¬ 
 ported in the air. 4 Do turn that print round, 
 Pauline,' 1 said I, tapping her upon the shoulder ; 
 
 4 it looks so unmercifully unnatural. 1 
 
 44 4 Ce nest pas la premiere tete apparemment , 
 cjue Mademoiselle aura bouleversee P said one of 
 the Frenchmen, with the trite gallantry of his 
 nation; glancing from the startled Pauline to the 
 evidently enamoured Walsingham. Not the un¬ 
 conscious marble of centuries could more coldly 
 
 2 A 
 
354 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 receive either the stranger’s idle compliment, or 
 the lover’s smiling commentary on it. 
 
 “ 4 Take me away, dear Mrs. Sydney,’ whisper¬ 
 ed she, as soon as she could find words; 4 I have 
 made a blessed discovery, and would fain breathe 
 freely upon it. 1 She threw herself on my neck in 
 the carriage, and told me what she had heard— 
 with horror, no doubt, and gratitude for possible 
 escape—but believe me, Edmund, with no marks 
 of regret which it could have pained even you to 
 witness. If I had ever suspected her heart to 
 be engaged in the cause, that first burst of relief 
 would have undeceived me. Had she married 
 him, duty, and duty alone, would have been her 
 prompter. 
 
 66 Next morning—before her altered sentiments 
 had any opportunity to display themselves—Wal- 
 singham, (urged on probably by the open admi¬ 
 ration of the Gallic arbiters of taste,) solicited and 
 obtained his decisive audience of Pauline. He 
 tendered her his hand with an air of confidence 
 which would have banished all regret,—could she 
 under the circumstances have felt any,—in its un¬ 
 equivocal rejection. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 355 
 
 “ For this he was utterly unprepared ; and Pau¬ 
 line, (who confessed to me that she had always 
 somehow distrusted the genuineness of his attach¬ 
 ment,) was equally unprepared for the vehemence 
 of despair with which her negative was received. 
 Indeed it was not till more than once peremptorily 
 reiterated, that it would be received at all; and 
 then, another glimpse of the cloven foot came 
 forth, in the outrageous burst of angry disappoint¬ 
 ment rather than sorrow, with which the overthrow 
 of his well-founded hopes, as he called them, was 
 deprecated. Something like threats, and not of 
 continued persecution alone, mingled in the storm 
 of unhallowed passion which shook the smooth¬ 
 spoken Walsingham’s soul beyond all power of dis¬ 
 simulation. 
 
 44 He succeeded at least in so frightening Pau¬ 
 line, that her only thought was how to effect her 
 escape. This she did at last, a good deal shaken 
 in nerves, but thoroughly grateful; and fully dis¬ 
 posed to view in delightful contrast with this 
 smothered volcano, a lover who, whatever his faults 
 may be, w r ears them at least, like his heart, on his 
 sleeve. 
 
 44 P. S. Since I wrote the above, there has been 
 
356 
 
 PROBATION, 
 
 a letter from Walsingham; so full of eloquence 
 and penitence and propriety—so nearly akin, in 
 short, to the song of the Syrens—that had Pau¬ 
 line not heard his avowal of principles and wit¬ 
 nessed his explosion of temper, she might have 
 been beguiled by its witchery. 
 
 a There are mysterious hints in it too of some 
 great personal advantage which, by an obstinate 
 rejection of his suit, she may chance to forfeit, or 
 at least indefinitely postpone. On this score you 
 may keep yourself easy, for if the doctor’s thou¬ 
 sands and your own which you gallantly laid at 
 her feet, failed to tempt her—I think she is proof 
 against bribery and corruption. 
 
 “ But, to be serious, should you renew your suit 
 some little time hence, when her spirits are less 
 harassed by removal, and her father’s precarious 
 condition, I can scarcely doubt its favourable recep¬ 
 tion. Her father, independent of his predilection 
 in your favour, naturally pines to see her consigned 
 to the protection of a husband, while her mother, 
 who has regarded you from the day you so oddly 
 met, with somewhat of my girlish\o\e at first sight— 
 sighs when le pauvre garfon is mentioned, in a way 
 that would soften a harder heart than Pauline’s. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 O -’Pi 
 
 O'Jj 
 
 They talk of settling somewhere in the south of 
 England, to recruit, by mild climate, the Captain’s 
 shattered frame. Suppose, when they are fairly 
 fixed, you should run across the island from your 
 western paradise, and sue in person ? I am vain 
 enough of my pupil and protege, to think such 
 ocular demonstration may do much for you ; for if 
 Pauline is an amended edition of what she was 
 when I first knew her, so I am sure is my hermit 
 of Hems worth.” 
 
 That I was elated, beyond the sobrieties of her¬ 
 mit existence, by these favourable prognostics, no 
 one will doubt who knows the effect of flattery on 
 man, or hope on a desponding lover. I should 
 certainly have crossed the country immediately, in 
 all probability before those I sought had arrived, and 
 certainly prematurely for my own purpose, had I not 
 been restrained from yielding to the call of love, by 
 the still small voice of friendship and gratitude. 
 
 One of the chief pleasures 1 looked forward to at 
 Hcmsworth, was the visit of Mrs. Sydney, and 
 one of her chief enjoyments I knew was an old- 
 fashioned, shady, irregular garden. Now, though 
 there might have been gardens at Ilcmsworth for 
 aught I knew since the flood, and from relics vet 
 
 O 7 y 
 
358 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 discernible, stately ones too, yet the space former¬ 
 ly appropriated to the purpose was, on my arrival, 
 a mere shapeless wilderness, capable enough no 
 doubt of being cleared into a methodical modern 
 affair of asparagus beds and trim borders, but far 
 more difficult to reinstate in a picturesque condi¬ 
 tion of 44 most admired disorder,” of mingled grove 
 and bowling-green—of tangled alleys, and fairy 
 bowers, and velvet turf, and over-arching shades— 
 just, in short, what a garden must have been in 
 gardening’s golden age, what I had read of in 
 Milton, and admired at Glen Falconar. 
 
 On the latter delightful garden, the favourite 
 haunt of Mrs. Sydney, I modelled my operations, 
 and here, for the only time since I grew prudent, 
 I made money gild the w ings of time, and labour 
 anticipate the work of years. 
 
 The old defaced bowling-green, w hose scattered 
 bits of emerald turf alone revealed its former des¬ 
 tination, I again clothed with a short velvet carpet 
 from a neighbouring common; and so little had 
 improvements of a merely tasteful description been 
 heard of at Hemsworth, perhaps for centuries, that 
 I do not believe a greater sensation w r as excited by 
 the locomotion of 44 Birnam Wood,” (the site of 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 359 
 
 which I had seen when in Scotland,) than by the 
 progress of part of the sheep-nibbled surface of 
 Needham Down to the new garden at Hems- 
 worth. 
 
 The draining of a swamp, which now usurped 
 the rest of the space, cost me more trouble ; but, 
 like a skilful improver, I availed myself of its very 
 impracticability, to embellish my garden with a 
 glassy pond, for whose appropriate fringe of weeping 
 willows and other aquatics, the soil retained but too 
 much <e eternal fitness. 11 
 
 The chief feature, a rare one, of beauty in the 
 garden at Glen Falconar, consisted in the intrusion, 
 perhaps centuries back, within its precincts of cer¬ 
 tain gigantic forest trees, which repaid in majesty 
 and shade, what they unquestionably appropriated 
 in space and nourishment, and from amid whose 
 deepening shadows the graceful flower-knots rose, 
 like constellations on a midnight sky. I never re¬ 
 member seeing, except at Glen Falconar, this beau¬ 
 tiful combination of the forest's dignity with the 
 parterre's smile. It was there purely accidental, 
 the stately trees, chiefly denizens of more southern 
 forests, such as Spanish chesnuts, limes, and wal¬ 
 nuts—having been, it was surmised, originally in- 
 
360 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 troduced as tender nurslings within the privileged 
 precincts, whose shelter they now repaid a thousand 
 fold. 
 
 There were not, and never had been, forest trees 
 in the garden, properly so called, at Hemsworth. 
 But the happy circumstance of an extension of front 
 which had nearly doubled the length of the house, 
 had given rise to the anomaly of an avenue, or ra¬ 
 ther the stately relics of one, originally leading to 
 the centre of the mansion, but now exiled as it were, 
 by the hand of innovation to one end of the build¬ 
 ing, and consequently, quite capable of being ap¬ 
 propriated and included within the bounds of my 
 enlarged garden, extending along the whole front 
 of the house. From the noble remaining oaks and 
 elms, which, for the benefit apparently of the rooks, 
 had escaped former devastation, I selected, by a few 
 reluctant sacrifices, some dozen or so of broad-arm¬ 
 ed patriarchal trees, equal at least in picturesque 
 effect to their rivals at Glen Falconar; and no one 
 (who has not tried the experiment,) would believe 
 how unformal, and unlike their pristine stiffness, 
 when dressing up in line—the veterans looked, when 
 thus reduced to a desultory gossipping group by 
 the hand of judicious improvement. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 361 
 
 For the flower-beds which were to complete the 
 picture, I must needs wait till spring should smile 
 on my labours ; and having now put all in trim 
 for an agreeable surprise to my dear old friend on 
 her arrival, Fancy would people my Eden with an¬ 
 other and younger Eve; and I resolved (though 
 with more misgivings <4 than were dreamt of in my 
 philosophy, 1 ' 1 when I first put the question at Man¬ 
 chester,) to renew, on the strength of Mrs. Sydney's 
 encouragement, my proposals to Pauline. 
 
 I had made up my mind to set out next day, 
 and after reiterating with a minuteness, I leave 
 others to account for, my instructions to the car¬ 
 penters (who by the mere demolition of partitions, 
 and annihilation of closets and cupboards, had con¬ 
 trived to give me a very good house,) about the 
 finishing and decorations of the lady's Lower before 
 mentioned, the Oriel chamber, as it was called, with 
 the three delightful windows—I gave myself up to 
 a delirious reverie, on awaking from which, I me¬ 
 chanically took up the yet unopened London news¬ 
 paper. 
 
 My eye, as it wandered listlessly over the fate of 
 empires, then hanging on the breath of daily ru¬ 
 mour, was caught, I scarce know how, by the words 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 “ Extensive failure. 11 I read on, I know not why, 
 and became aware, ere I had finished the paragraph, 
 of the utter ruin, and hopeless insolvency of my 
 
 late guardian and present banker, Mr. G-! 
 
 This was a shock the more severe, because, thanks 
 to my inexperience, entirely unforeseen by myself; 
 though warier individuals had withdrawn their con- 
 fidence ever since that ominous launch into west- 
 end splendours and associations, which had exalted 
 my guardian in my unthinking esteem and favour. 
 
 “ Farewell, a long farewell’ 1 to wraith, to im¬ 
 provements, and, in my first bitterness of feeling, I 
 exclaimed—to Pauline ! For circumstances (which 
 I have omitted to mention, because at the time I 
 was in no mood to attach importance to them,) 
 connected with American legislation, and the chi¬ 
 cane which is of all countries, rendered the ulti¬ 
 mate recovery of the Doctor's funds a matter of 
 doubtful, or at best, distant speculation. The cer¬ 
 tificate of propinquity given to my mother by 
 Caesar, was, it seems, neutralized by a judicial de¬ 
 claration of the old negro that he had been since 
 present at the signature of a paper by his master 
 and a stranger gentleman, who came to seek hospi¬ 
 tality from him in the w T oods ; and as this might, 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 and not improbably, be a will, the law demurred 
 as to putting the nearest of kin, (even supposing 
 me to be such,) into premature possession. The 
 failure in memory of the superannuated domestics, 
 and consequent indistinctness of their testimony, 
 threw fresh doubts on the subject; and if Mrs. Syd¬ 
 ney did not visit me till she had administered my 
 funds in that Utopian quarter, it was little likely 
 she should come at all. 
 
 Here, then, w r as the heir to untold thousands re¬ 
 duced, and probably for life, to the paltry domain 
 and scanty revenues of Hemsworth, that pittance 
 of some L.300 per annum, which I had hardly 
 deemed w r orthy of a moment's care or notice ; and 
 had long looked on rather as an incumbrance than 
 an advantage. This no doubt was susceptible of 
 yet farther improvement, and would suffice for my 
 wants as habit had lately circumscribed them. 
 But Pauline, w T ere she even, as love would whis¬ 
 per, capable of condescending to share this vegeta¬ 
 tive existence, (for those wdiom gold cannot buy, 
 its absence can seldom appal) how could / make 
 the proposal, or even endure the thought ? How 
 could I ask her to share, after her rejection in more 
 prosperous times, a lot but one step removed above 
 
364 PROBATION. 
 
 the penury which she had unrepiningly borne un¬ 
 der the strong influence of filial affection ? She 
 who, when released from the obscurity to which 
 duty condemned her, had but to shew herself to be 
 admired, appreciated, and exalted into some lofty 
 and congenial sphere ? 
 
 I felt it w r as all over, and tried to resign myself. 
 But I think the effort with which I weaned my 
 mind from its long-cherished visions, and mounted, 
 to unravel the mazes of fraud and dishonesty, the 
 horse which had been well-nigh saddled to bear me 
 in quest of happiness and Pauline, was the most 
 painful of my life. 
 
 If my success in this far more ignoble pursuit 
 might be taken as any criterion of what would have 
 attended me in the other, nothing could have been 
 more discouraging. So far from any reversion ap¬ 
 pearing likely to accrue from the settlement of my 
 banker’s affairs, he was minus to an amount which 
 left the most shrewd of his sage suspectors far be¬ 
 hind the mark. By a system then new, but since 
 become familiar to the public, of unlimited and 
 unsuspected forgeries, he had for years back lived 
 en 'prince with the sword of Damocles (but in the 
 less aristocratic shape of an halter) suspended over 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 365 
 
 his head. He was off, ere the alarm was given, to 
 the resort of such adepts—America ; and such was 
 my instinctive dread of his dexterity and fertility 
 in expedient, that I no sooner heard it than I half 
 fancied, in spite of the proverbial tenacity of the 
 law, the doctor’s hoards, by some hocus pocus or 
 other, transferred to his possession. 
 
 I returned, dispirited, far beyond what mere loss 
 of wealth 1 hope could now have made me, to my 
 future and sole home at Hemsworth. How was 
 that really pretty, and hourly embellishing spot 
 altered in my eyes since it had become likely to be 
 for ever the lone hermitage I had so cheerfully in¬ 
 habited tete-a-tete with Hope. 
 
 However, there is in a healthy young mind, 
 unbroken by a course of misfortune, a powerful 
 spring of vigour and elasticity. 66 I must not dis¬ 
 appoint Mrs. Sydney, 11 said T, as I sat down to write 
 her as manly and collected an account as I could 
 of the annihilation of my fortune and hopes. I 
 told her, and I think truly, that in the whole busi¬ 
 ness it was Pauline, and Pauline chiefly, I regretted. 
 That as to myself, I had never felt more independ¬ 
 ent then since the last nine months had taught me 
 how little a young man in health required to make 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 him, not only comfortable, but positively happy. 
 That the improvements I had begun for amusement, 
 I must now continue for subsistence ; and that I 
 reckoned myself lucky in my Fortunatus*s purse hav¬ 
 ing lasted long enough to put me in possession of a 
 house, not unworthy of her promised visit (which, 
 as it would now be one of charity, I felt surer of 
 than ever) and of a garden in which she, fastidious 
 as I knew her to be on the subject, might conde¬ 
 scend to ramble. 
 
 (£ Do come,'" I added, 66 my dear Mrs. Sydney, 
 and heal the wounds of your pupil with your inva¬ 
 luable practical wisdom. I cannot promise that 
 you will find a philosopher. Alas ! it requires 
 more than even disappointed ambition or blighted 
 love to make one ; but I hope you will find a man, 
 and a Christian, concluding that 4 whatever is, is 
 best," and even able honestly to rejoice that he 
 has been saved from involving one dearer in a life 
 of penury and privation." 1 
 
 I now’ became a farmer in good earnest, reserv¬ 
 ing the minor details of the ornamental depart¬ 
 ment for occasional and hard-earned luxuries. My 
 neighbours, w r ho had been shy and suspicious of the 
 rich dandy improver, turning eyery thing topsy 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 turvy to gratify what they supposed a temporary 
 whim, crowded to assist and encourage the ship¬ 
 wrecked novice, stranded among them by reverse 
 of fortune. My acres were ploughed, as if by ma¬ 
 gic, by a levee en masse of the three next parishes ; 
 valuable aid, and hints more valuable still, poured 
 on me from all quarters. I don’t think there was 
 a calf in the parish that was not pressed on my ac¬ 
 ceptance, nor a henroost in the hundred that was 
 not taxed to assist in stocking the young gentle¬ 
 man’s. 
 
 This (as I ought perhaps to abstain from men¬ 
 tioning, save that it would otherwise savour of ro¬ 
 mance,) arose, no doubt, from my having, in my 
 wealthier days, conciliated the good folks, by doing- 
 all the good my limited experience in the ways of 
 benevolence would permit, and always making up 
 in civility and courtesy for what might be deficient 
 in other respects. This, from a supposed million- 
 ciire , a dandy, and a Londoner, had, it seems, gone 
 a prodigious way with the rustics, and they were 
 not slow in returning it when the hour of need ar¬ 
 rived. 
 
 All this was gratifying. It was an honest gra¬ 
 tification, and I felt it the more. Mrs. Sydney 
 
 4 
 
30*8 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 wrote me a letter, the balm of whose precious 
 Christian eloquence would have ministered to a 
 mind far more diseased than mine, and healed 
 wounds far more envenomed than those of fortune. 
 Yet still, there were moments when the sense of 
 all I had lost by my guardian’s iniquity and my 
 own imprudence, sat deeply and heavily on my 
 mind ; when, for days together, I would listlessly 
 suspend my agricultural experiments, and the li¬ 
 beral studies with which, during a severe winter, I 
 had filled up their intervals, to muse despondingly 
 upon the “ vanity and vexation” of companionless 
 pursuits, and exertions uncheered by a goal. 
 
PROBATION 
 
 CHAPTER XVIT 
 
 Thus through all dimes, to earth’s remotest goal, 
 
 From burning Indus to the frozen pole, 
 
 In chaises or on floats, 
 
 In dillics and in boats, 
 
 Nowon a camel’s native stod, 
 
 Now on an ass, now on a mule, 
 
 Nabobs and Rajahs I have seen, 
 
 Mahomet’s tomb, Killarney’s lake, the fane of Ammon, 
 And all thy kings and queens, great Mrs. Salmon ! 
 Probationary Ode, said to be by 
 
 Sir N. Wiiaxall. 
 
 As spring, with all its delightful accompaniments, 
 developed in a totally new light the astonishin 
 metamorphosis of my dwelling, when all I he 
 only hitherto seen in “ my mind’s eye,” burst in 
 life and beauty on my bodily sense, my spirits (a 
 common effect I believe with all who are sick 
 
 P-i CTQ 
 
370 
 
 PROBATION 
 
 at heart,) sunk, instead of rising in unison with 
 nature’s reveillee. I could have chid the flowers 
 for blooming when there were none to admire, and 
 the birds for stunning with melody the 44 dull cold 
 ear'*'’ of sorrow. 
 
 I was pacing, in just such a desolate mood, on 
 one of the loveliest of April afternoons, the velvet 
 turf under the old oaks in my garden, thinking 
 how like the pure white lillies which rose grace¬ 
 fully beneath their spreading shade, were to some¬ 
 body who was seldom out of my mind, when I was 
 startled from my reverie by the most unwonted 
 sound of wheels on the gravel at the other side of 
 the house. I shrunk with all the shyness of a re¬ 
 cluse from the idea of some intrusion of business, 
 or well-meant civility, and lingered in the garden 
 in the hope of being denied by my sole servants, 
 the new smart serviceable Dick, and able Amazo¬ 
 nian Deborah, when the glass door entering from 
 the ground floor was hastily thrown open, and I 
 beheld—no words can express with what transports 
 of delighted surprise—the stately figure of Mrs. 
 Sydney Hume, in its characteristic equipment of 
 hood and cardinal, her delicate high-heeled shoes 
 treading at length thus unexpectedly the carpet 
 
PROBATION 1 . 
 
 371 
 
 expressly destined for their accommodation, and 
 her face beaming with the well-remembered smile 
 of benevolence which could 66 create a soul under the 
 very ribs''’ of melancholy itself. 
 
 I flew to meet her, and this time it was not her 
 hand alone I kissed in the exuberance of my de¬ 
 light. She returned the salute on both sides of 
 the face, in a style that left all the accolades of 
 chivalry hopelessly behind, and exclaimed, with her 
 usual playful badinage ,— 44 Hail ! holy Hermit 
 of Hemsworth ! as with 4 alliteration's artful aid,' 
 I am enabled to call thee, and" (with a sudden 
 change to the mo t maternal seriousness of expres¬ 
 sion,) 44 I trust for the last time —unless," again 
 archly smiling, 44 you have forsworn the world, and 
 taken an eternal vow of celibacy. But while still 
 a hermit and a bachelor, mine you are to all in¬ 
 tents and purposes ; and you shall do the honours 
 of your hermitage, and invite me to a share of your 
 bread and cresses, of which (glancing at the pond,) 
 I see you have a pretty provision, before I unfold, 
 
 with diplomatic gravity, the particulars of my mis- 
 * 
 
 sion. 
 
 44 You have a design upon my wits surely, my 
 dear Mrs. Sydney," cried I, 44 that you thus deal 
 
37 2 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 in riddles. One thing only I know, that while I 
 have a house over my head, you are welcome to it, 
 as the flowers in May. Do step in, and take some 
 refreshment, and let me recover from this unex¬ 
 pected apparition if I can, and persuade myself you 
 are really here, and here on no delusive errand, 
 else I do not know you so well as I think I do.” 
 
 44 A legitimate conclusion, my dear son, though 
 not very logically expressed ; but well dispense 
 with grammar on the occasion. And now restore 
 your maiden visitor to the expecting, and no doubt 
 wondering optics of her duenna, Alice Pinnock, 
 whom this attack upon a young gentleman’s pre¬ 
 mises has not a little disconcerted, notwithstanding 
 our joint elopement eighteen months ago.” 
 
 I led my old friend, with the respect I would 
 have paid a queen, and the affection I could have 
 felt for a mother—towards the house. She turned 
 ere she entered it, and said, most feelingly— 44 A 
 paradise truly, Edmund; and all the more so, as 
 I predicted, for being your own achieving. My 
 blessing be on the threshold I am about to enter ! 
 I trust it will be mine to leave more than a verbal 
 one behind me.” 
 
 It was after a collation, the best Deborah’s some- 
 
PROBATION. 373 
 
 what amended larder could furnish, and in the full 
 enjoyment of a glorious sunset from the prettiest 
 of the three windows of the now tastefully fitted up 
 Oriel chamber, that Mrs. Sydney told me the fol¬ 
 lowing marvellous, yet not the less veracious his¬ 
 tory of the last six weeks. 
 
 44 You must know, holy father, and most court¬ 
 eous host,*' began the lively narratress, 44 that I 
 felt, in the expressive language of our old chroni¬ 
 cles, 4 ill at ease,’ ever since the receipt of a certain 
 letter of yours, which, w hile it demolished in my 
 eyes your worldly prospects, not a little exalted 
 your moral and intellectual character in my es¬ 
 teem. When any of my children, or pets, or 
 lovers, and they (I don't of course include the 
 last) are pretty numerous—meet with misfortunes, 
 I have an ill trick of losing my night's rest; and 
 after trying the old experiment of the beautiful 
 Scheherezade, and resorting to the Arabian nights, 
 not for life, but for a nap, in vain, I took the mag¬ 
 nanimous resolution of playing the part of the 
 fairy Benigna, and going south to see if I could 
 do any thing in the business. 
 
 44 I had a glorious excuse for this piece of Quix¬ 
 otism. The finances of good Captain Clitheroe, 
 
374 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 who was still, I heard, detained at Manchester by 
 some vexatious windings up of accounts, would 
 not admit of his going south so comfortably and 
 leisurely as his shattered health made desirable. 
 Now, I had a good roomy post-chaise rotting in the 
 coach-house ever since our memorable expedition 
 to Glen Falconar, and what could I possibly do 
 better than get my dear chum and quondam lover 
 Jamie G-to prescribe a jaunt for me, and of¬ 
 
 fer the Captain and his family a commodious equi¬ 
 page instead of the jolting machines, miscalled 
 chaises, on the road. My antediluvian vehicle was, 
 I knew, made to hold four; and Pauline could sit 
 at my feet and smile in my face as she had done 
 six years before, when I brought her to Scotland ; 
 or if the weather proved fine, she might heal Alice's 
 wounded dignity by sharing her seat on the box, 
 and explain to her the difference between 4 parks 1 
 in England and 4 parks 1 in Scotland. 
 
 44 The matter was easily settled; I picked up 
 my live freight in good case, and we jogged mer¬ 
 rily together to our journey’s end. I don’t know 
 that I should say merrily, for Pauline was very 
 thoughtful, as she had been ever since I told her 
 of your loss, and read her your letter ; but I was 
 
1’ROBATION. 
 
 375 
 
 determined to say nothing, and leave the thoughts 
 I saw working in her mind to their own spontane¬ 
 ous course. I laid a like padlock on the overflow¬ 
 ing lips of her father and mother ; and besought 
 them not even to look in their daughter's face (like 
 the parents in my cousin's pathetic ballad of Auld 
 Robin Gray) until I gave them leave. If esteem, 
 and sympathy , and disinterestedness were to gain 
 the victory over maiden pride and punctilio, I was 
 determined they should do it unaided by any one; 
 and so, thank God, they have done. 
 
 “ When we got to Dover, which, from some of 
 those early and inexplicable associations with scenes 
 of excitement and gladness that haunt a veteran's 
 evening hours, the Captain preferred to more ro¬ 
 mantic retreats—we took a fantastic, but of course 
 admirably sheltered cottage, scooped out of the very 
 cliff by the hand of an enterprising sailor ; and 
 were not long settled in it ere the mild sea-breezes, 
 and total exemption from all harassing cares, set 
 the good old soldier quite upon his legs again. 
 
 “ With every stride he made towards amendment, 
 Pauline visibly brightened; but there was that 
 within which still pained while it gladdened me 
 to behold. 1 would not have missed that beautiful 
 
376 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 struggle between desire to confer happiness and 
 atone error, and genuine maiden reluctance now 
 when 4 unwooed to be won,’ for an empire; no not 
 even to be some weeks sooner the witness and har¬ 
 binger of felicity. I was, however, meditating the 
 interposition I saw Pauline began to despair of, 
 when I was saved the trouble by a most opportune 
 and decisive event. 
 
 44 We had been attracted one mild balmy morn¬ 
 ing to the usual resort of Dover idlers, the pier, by 
 the arrival of that long suspended source of interest, 
 a Calais packet, when from amid its motley crew 
 there stepped out a figure only wanting a few inches 
 added to his huge umbrella straw hat, and a rusty 
 gun over his shoulder, to be the very beau ideal of 
 my dear friend Robinson Crusoe, (whose identical 
 gigantic fowling-piece, by the way, I can't resist 
 telling you, has been over mine.) Not more 
 tanned in physiognomy, or more grotesque in ha¬ 
 biliments, or more unlike the rest of the species, 
 could that worthy brother hermit of your’s, fresh 
 from Juan Fernandez, have been, than this origi¬ 
 nal, straight in all probability from Paris; for it was 
 just after peace was signed, and the taboo removed 
 from that mart of the graces. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 377 
 
 <c The good man was staring round him about as 
 
 much at a loss as Robinson might have been in his 
 
 # 
 
 place, and I, (whose age permits many violations 
 of etiquette, exempli gratiae , this visit,) stood sus¬ 
 pended like Mahomet’s mountain between maiden 
 punctilio and compassion for his perplexity. When 
 I saw him marched off with a whole cargo of non- 
 descript appendages, in triumph to the custom¬ 
 house, I envied its myrmidons their investigation ; 
 for, as Jacques says of penitent princes, 4 there’s 
 much of matter’ in your peripatetic philosophers ; 
 and moccasin, snow-shoe, or sandal, here was a foot 
 evidently at home in them all ! 
 
 66 I was sitting, as you know is my wont, when 
 my 6 recreant limbs’ refuse to second my spirit of ad¬ 
 venture—at the open window of our rock-hewn do¬ 
 micile, enjoying the lovely evening which my more 
 active friends were making the most of abroad, 
 when I saw pacing, 6 pour se desennuyer ,’ in front 
 of our singular abode, the very original who had 
 so much excited my curiosity in the morning. His 
 seemed to be 110 less awakened by the odd construc¬ 
 tion and unique site of our nest in the cliff, and he 
 looked round for some one to give him its history. 
 
 A drummer off duty was beating the devil’s tattoo 
 
 3 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 3JH 
 
 in dignified idleness on the parapet of our Lillipu¬ 
 tian demesne ; and in answer to the unceremonious 
 inquiry of, 4 Pray, my lad, who the devil scooped 
 out that whimsical rabbit-burrow ?’ I heard him 
 
 reply, 4 It belongs to Sir S-S-, I’ve been 
 
 told, Sir ; but one Captain Clitheroe lives there just 
 now.’’ 
 
 44 4 Clitheroe, did you say ?’ repeated the 
 stranger, 4 Clitheroe ! well, that's odd enough; I've 
 a great mind to knock at the door and see if the 
 man here happens to know anything about his 
 namesake. It’s a long way to go on a cold scent, 
 and staying to be ruined in a Dover hotel till I 
 could write, worse still.’ 
 
 44 While he was thus hesitating and communing 
 after the fashion of solitary wanderers, with himself, 
 the Captain's servant lad, (a cidevant fifer) attract¬ 
 ed probably by professional sympathy towards the 
 drubber of parchment, strolled out to reconnoitre. 
 The stranger availed himself of the circumstance 
 to ask if any of the family were at home ; the lad 
 answered by showing him in, and it was with some¬ 
 thing of the mingled fright and gratification I re¬ 
 member experiencing as a child, when a lion's cub 
 was laid in my lap at a menagerie, that 1 found 
 
PROBATION. 379 
 
 myself tete-a-tete with the ourang outang I had 
 ogled so decidedly at a distance. 
 
 44 4 Ma’am, 1 said he, concluding, as I soon found, 
 that he was talking to Mrs. Clitheroe, 4 I must 
 crave your pardon, if hearing your name, which is 
 no very common one, has brought me into your 
 premises on what may turn out one of my wild- 
 goose chases. But if you can give me the bit of 
 family information I am in quest of, perhaps it 
 may be in my power to make it worth your while, 
 or at least that of some of your kindred.’ 
 
 44 4 Sir,’ said I,not exactly aware how confidential 
 the communication might be, 4 you are under a 
 mistake as to the person you are addressing. It is 
 not Mrs. Clitheroe, (who is out walking) but a vi¬ 
 sitor of her’s, who has the pleasure of receiving you.’ 
 4 Aye, aye ?’ cried the singular mortal, as original 
 in manner as costume, 4 then perhaps we had bet¬ 
 ter keep family matters for family people. But if 
 you’ll give me leave to wait till your friend comes 
 in, it may be the means of saving me a tedious 
 troublesome journey ; and though a traveller to 
 the back-bone, if ever there was one, when it hits 
 my fancy, I’d rather go in a kibitka from Siberia 
 to Kamtschatka, (about the worst trip I ever made, 
 
380 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 except perhaps my winter excursion across the Cor¬ 
 dillera,) than take a jog-trot business journey of 
 two or three hundred miles on the king’s highway 
 in England. Indeed, if in the ten years I’ve been 
 away, all its inns are grown dens of sharks like the 
 one I’ve got into at Dover, one may as well fall 
 into the hands of Bedouins or banditti at once, 
 and be fleeced like a gentleman. I’ve lived in In¬ 
 dian wigwams and Esquimaux huts, Ma’am, till I 
 am no more fit to encounter the perils of civiliza¬ 
 tion than a child.’ 
 
 444 Siberia, the Cordilleras, wigwams, and Esqui¬ 
 maux !’ echoed I, anticipating a rich treat; and 
 strange indeed was the torrent of adventure, the 
 flood-gates of which my exclamation, and its tone 
 of undisguised interest, sufficed to set open. 
 
 44 Mr. Peregrine Palmer—for such was the desig- 
 nation of my new friend—had, he told me, been all 
 his life a traveller ; and, satiated even before the 
 late war with all the civilized countries of Europe, 
 had gladly made exclusion from them an excuse 
 for a trip to North America, nearly every part of 
 which, from the Mississippi to the St. Lawrence, 
 he believed he had explored. He spoke with rap¬ 
 ture of the unsophisticated manners and habits of 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 381 
 
 the Indians ; so much so, that I began to wonder 
 he had not staid among his beloved brethren in 
 the 6 bush, 1 as he characteristically called the fo¬ 
 rest. 
 
 “ However, his curiosity being gratified, and 
 his stock of curiosities complete, he at length took 
 leave of the settlements to return to England. 
 But, lured by some report, irresistible to one of his 
 erratic habits, he had instead embarked alone and 
 unaided, (save by a band of migrating Indians,) in 
 just such a painful expedition as that since so 
 gloriously achieved by Captain Franklin, of tra¬ 
 versing the northern deserts, and reaching some 
 port whence he might proceed to Europe. 
 
 “ This port, there being then no such place on 
 the map as Melville Island, nor indeed any idea, 
 save in the brain of speculators, of communication 
 from the north-east with this country, he of course 
 sought towards the west; and after remaining 
 some months malgre Ini, to heal his skinned feet, 
 and take his chance of a possible vessel, among 
 the good people of Nootka Sound, he had the 
 rare chance of being taken off’ by a Russian dis¬ 
 covery ship, about a year after leaving the United 
 States. 
 
382 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 66 But he was not much the nearer home, or 
 Europe. For the Russian was just come out on 
 a three years voyage ; and on this, nolens volens y 
 Mr. Peregrine must accompany her. He was how¬ 
 ever, nothing loth to do so, except on one account, 
 which he told me pressed at times on his con¬ 
 science ; viz. his being the depository of a paper, 
 whose detention might have caused serious incon¬ 
 venience in England. However there was no re¬ 
 medy, and to the South pole from the North one 
 flew Mr. Peregrine, with the velocity (and about 
 the same choice in the matter) of a shuttlecock. 
 
 “ At length, the expedition got back safely to 
 Russia, and Mr. Peregrine felt, as he told me, 4 just 
 at home." 1 Buonaparte was, however, about the 
 same time, just at Moscow; and the singu¬ 
 larity and excitement of the crisis was quite to our 
 traveller’s taste. When all was well over, he set 
 out, not to return by sea from Cronstadt or Riga, 
 (he had really, maugre his despatches, no heart 
 for another sea voyage,) but along the devastated 
 yet interesting track of the French armies, through 
 the heart of Poland and Germany. A digression 
 into Switzerland was inevitable—a comparison of 
 Schaffhausen with Niagara irresistible—the en- 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 383 
 
 trance of the Allies into Paris ecstatic ! so it was 
 only now, at the end of his fifth year from New 
 York, that he found himself where he expected to 
 land, in the ordinary course of the packet from 
 that place ! 
 
 444 It has all been very delightful to do and to 
 look back upon,'’ said the travel-stained wanderer. 
 
 4 Except India and China, and the interior of 
 Africa, I have little left to do. But before I take 
 another trip, I must get rid of the paper which, 
 like Sindbad’s old man of the sea, has hung around 
 my neck these five years; though I did send a 
 duplicate home with a staid young fellow called 
 Walsingham, who shewed me the lions at Peters- 
 burgh, and swore to deliver it safely. You could 
 not tell me, ma’am, 1 said he, turning quickly to 
 me, 4 till your friend with the odd name comes 
 in, whether one Dr. Aspinall of New York is 
 dead or alive ? If he's dead, there has been the 
 devil to pay I doubt, among his heirs. 1 
 
 44 I fairly jumped off’ my seat with excess of 
 astonishment at this out-IIeroding of all the freaks 
 of Dame fortune. I believe the man of travel 
 thought me mad, and I’m sure I fancied myself 
 dreaming. 4 Sir, 1 said I, when I could speak, 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 384 
 
 4 the person you mention is dead and buried, and 
 the gentleman and lady out walking, Captain 
 and Mrs. Clitheroe, among his nearest relations.’’ 
 
 44 4 You don’t say so! 1 exclaimed the traveller, 
 jumping up in his turn, and clapping his hands 
 with delight. 4 And have they touched the le¬ 
 gacy P 1 4 No sir, nor any one else as yet, perhaps 
 fortunately. The heir-at-law would have taken 
 possession, but the doctor’s black servants hinted 
 something of a will/ 4 ’Tis in my pocket !’ ex¬ 
 claimed my charming Robinson, 4 no, not in my 
 pocket, (for it was getting too thin to be there any 
 longer,) but in my trunk. I’ll fetch it immedi¬ 
 ately. I’ve forgotten exactly what it contains, 
 though I witnessed it duly enough; but I’m sure 
 the name of Clitheroe’s in it, and for a round sum. 
 It struck me as an odd one at the time, and I 
 saw it since when the lad Walsingham was copy¬ 
 ing the will to bring home. I met the old doc¬ 
 tor botanizing in the woods up from Albany. He 
 dried simples for me, I shot and stuffed snakes 
 for him— 4 birds of a feather,’ you know, &c. In 
 short we got great friends, and he took me home 
 to his log-house, and intrusted me with his will to 
 bring home; as I said, God forgive me ! I was 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 38J> 
 
 going straight to England ; just as the puppy I met 
 at Petersburgh, and that promised to carry the 
 copy without halting to Manchester, has made 
 gun wadding of it by this time, I warrant.’ (‘ Very 
 near made something worse of it ! n thought I.) 
 ‘ But all’s well that ends well! the funds are safe, 
 and so is the will.’ 
 
 66 Before I could stop him, he was off like a 
 racoon to his lodgings ; and before I could ex¬ 
 change words, or almost glances, with the party 
 who had in the mean time arrived from their walk 
 —back with the eventful paper. 
 
 e( I called up John Newborough, that there 
 might be another uninterested person besides myself 
 to witness the regularity of the proceeding; and 
 the will was opened by the only fingers in the 
 room, those of steady old John I mean, com¬ 
 petent to the office. 
 
 “ It set forth that the testator, Gideon Aspinall, 
 M.D., being of sound body and sound mind, and 
 possessed (thanks to Providence and his own indus¬ 
 try) of the sum of 200,000 dollars fairly earned— 
 owing moreover no allegiance or favour to either 
 England or America, or love and gratitude to any 
 human being now living, three only excepted, vi?. 
 
 2 c 
 
386 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 his two black attendants, and one Frani^oise Clithe- 
 roe (nee Labouchere) of Montreal in Upper Ca¬ 
 nada—did hereby bequeath to the two former faith¬ 
 ful creatures, bis house and furniture in the State 
 of New York, with whatever sum in cash should 
 be found in his possession, over and above his de¬ 
 cent burial—and to the latter, (a child when he knew 
 her, but now he understood married to a British 
 officer) in requital of her father's kindness—in me¬ 
 mory of his love for her mother—and in recollec¬ 
 tion of her own infant endearments—all the residue 
 of his ample property ; to descend (should she not 
 survive him,) to her daughter, named to the best of 
 his belief, Pauline. 
 
 (e At this name I looked round for her who bore 
 it; she had disappeared, glided out of the room 
 gently and unperceived, to thank God for the ray 
 of good fortune thus unexpectedly gilding her pa¬ 
 rent's evening sky. Of herself at that moment, I 
 am persuaded she never thought; nay Edmund, 
 scarcely of you. 
 
 “ But it was not long ere she did so, and she 
 owned it with her usual modest grace. 4 You will 
 write this wonderful affair to Mr. Meredith,’ said 
 she coaxingly to me, when the good traveller had 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 387 
 
 left us, (not for long you may believe,) 4 and, 1 added 
 she, waiting in vain for me to help her out, 4 you 
 will perhaps talk of going to see him at Hems worth 
 —and if you thought it would be any satisfaction, 
 as matters now stand, that is, if there is no impro¬ 
 priety. 
 
 44 4 You will be of the party, eh, Pauline ? Is 
 that the English of your disjointed murmurs P 1 
 
 44 4 It is, 1 said the sweet girl, gathering courage 
 from my raillery. 4 He asked me twice when I 
 had nothing but myself to recommend me, why 
 should I not, with forty thousand additional charms, 
 return the compliment P 1 
 
 44 4 Well said, and like your honest unaffected self, 
 my dear girl. I shall not write at all to Hems- 
 worth, hut just go myself as the herald of good tid¬ 
 ings ; and as your reception would, you are aware, 
 be rather doubtful, and as it will be more decorous 
 for you to visit me there, than a young bachelor 
 gentleman, why, I shall stay till you choose to 
 come and rescue me from his fascinations, or till 
 he comes to fetch you himself’ 11 ... . 
 
 44 1*11 go to morrow morning, 11 exclaimed I, un¬ 
 ceremoniously interrupting Mrs. Sydney, and jump¬ 
 ing up as if I was going that minute. 
 
388 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 “ I know you will,” said she quietly, 66 I always 
 intended it; though it is hardly gallant in you thus 
 either to leave me in the lurch, or turn me out of 
 the house. But as I am old and lazy, as well as 
 punctilious, I’ll prefer the less disgraceful alterna¬ 
 tive, and keep out your castle till you can bring a 
 younger mistress to eject me. On one condition 
 only however, else I’ll cut you both off without a 
 shilling—that you do not defraud me of the wed¬ 
 ding, and that it shall be here . Besides, it will be 
 all en regie. Pauline, you know, asks you to mar¬ 
 ry her this time, and the wedding is always at the 
 house of the party solicited.” 
 
 u But,” said I, a sudden thought damping all 
 the bright visions that flitted around me, u ought 
 I, as matters now stand, to take advantage of Miss 
 Clitheroe’s generous impulse ? one perhaps dictated 
 by the mere sense of gratitude ?” 
 
 “ Lord bless you, my dear Edmund, for being 
 so delightfully silly, and so like the Alexanders 
 and Amadises of my youthful reading. Without 
 romance and nonsense the world would not be 
 worth living in. But it is time your’s should end. 
 Romances of real life should never extend beyond 
 three volumes, with a proposal in each of them, 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 389 
 
 and I think Pauline's leap year proceeding towards 
 you, completes the number. Go and pack up your 
 trunk, and send Alice to me with the tea equipage ; 
 
 I want a composing cup mightily after carrying 
 the denouement of a novel an hundred and fifty 
 miles in my old head. 5 ' 
 
 It would be an affront to the reader’s imagina¬ 
 tion to be minute in my details of the meeting at 
 Dover. That Mrs. Clitheroe took me round the 
 neck, and the Captain once more offered me his 
 arm chair, are matters of obvious certainty ; but if 
 any one expects me to describe how Pauline receiv¬ 
 ed me, he must go unsatisfied to his grave. If I 
 said she blushed, I might be wrong, for when I 
 looked again she was pale; she tried to smile, and 
 very graciously, but what business a tear had on 
 her cheek all the time, Oedipus alone could tell. 
 All I can say distinctly is, that she looked ex¬ 
 tremely foolish, and I am sure I did the same ; 
 and it was not till after the reading of a billet I 
 brought from Mrs. Sydney, that my dear noble girl 
 became herself again. 
 
 It satisfied her so completely of my unaltered 
 sentiments, and deep-rooted sense of her generosity, 
 not forgetting (trust Mrs. Sydney for that,) a word 
 
390 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 or two in praise of her prenx chevalier , as she call¬ 
 ed me, that the graceful dignified Pauline once 
 more stood before me, with only sufficient traces of 
 embarrassment to add interest to the picture. 
 
 “ You have asked Mr. Meredith to marry you, 
 it is true, my dear child,” said the note (which I 
 afterwards saw,) 66 and that is a bold step fora young 
 lady; but as you did not oblige yourself to tell 
 him when , your dignity will be saved by his tra¬ 
 velling an hundred and fifty miles to ask that 
 leading question. The only point in the affair, 
 which, (like the Lord Chancellor,) I reserve to my¬ 
 self—is the place where , and that I have decided 
 without appeal, is to be Hemsworth. The longer 
 you keep your Strephon in suspense, the longer 
 you will keep me in solitude, a thing, entre nous , I 
 don’t love ; so I shall judge of your duty, affection, 
 gratitude, and so forth, for one Mrs. Sydney Hume, 
 in exact proportion as you arrive sooner or later, 
 bag and baggage, at my hermitage.” 
 
 It was fortunate that I saw (by the discreet in¬ 
 discretion of Mrs. Clitheroe) this magical billet. It 
 enabled me to veil a lover’s impatience so graceful¬ 
 ly under a landlord’s duty, that a week at farthest 
 was named for the setting out of the party—thanks 
 to the lucky suggestion of somebody, I believe of 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 391 
 
 Mr. Peregrine, who was to drop m upon us at the 
 elose of a tour in Wales—that the marriage might 
 stand over sine die till we were all assembled. 
 
 1 had brought with me, at her considerate sug¬ 
 gestion, Mrs. Sydney’s comfortable carriage; and 
 when looking back from its old-fashioned box to 
 consult the countenance of Pauline on some point 
 of effect or scenery, I could not help drawing a 
 delightful contrast with the vain efforts I had 
 made to catch a glimpse of it through the ominous 
 double veil on the morning of our first rencontre in 
 the coach. 
 
 We arrived in sight of Hems worth. The day 
 w r as beautiful, and all looked well, at least in the 
 eye of its master. It may be believed that I bent 
 a glance of double solicitude on the countenance of 
 Pauline. Its flush of gratified surprise could not 
 be mistaken, nor the tear that dimmed her eye be 
 wiped aw T ay in time to pass unobserved. I was re¬ 
 paid for everything ! rejections, suspense, solitude, 
 bankruptcy, all was sw r ept away in that blissful mo¬ 
 ment. Mrs. Sydney stood on the threshold to re¬ 
 ceive us— 44 Here is the blessing I promised you, 
 Edmund,” said she, transferring Pauline from her 
 own arms to mine; 44 I have done my best to win 
 her for you, though I believe you saved me much 
 
392 
 
 PROBATION. 
 
 trouble in that way yourself, after all. Long may 
 you wear what you have so fairly andjso honour¬ 
 ably earned.” 
 
 If any body needs to be told that we were all, 
 young and old and middle-aged of us, thoroughly 
 happy for the month which preceded my marriage, 
 he must be a fool. If he expects to be informed how , 
 he must be disappointed, unless he can determine 
 the relative shares of fine weather, agreeable com¬ 
 pany, sincere friendship and successful love in con¬ 
 stituting that rare thing called happiness. 
 
 The day of days at length came. Mrs. Sydney 
 walked a minuet at the wedding with the no longer 
 gouty Captain, in the style of their mutual jeunesse, 
 while Mrs. Clitheroe’s Canadian recollections were 
 agreeably revived by the performance of an Indian 
 war-dance by the traveller, who was bride’s man 
 of course. The smooth turf of the bowling-green 
 made a capital ball-room, and the full moon a spe¬ 
 cial Argand lamp. My neighbours of all classes 
 met on that neutral ground of nature with perfect 
 equality and social good-fellowship ; and when any 
 fete is projected in the vale of Gloucester, it is still 
 said, (and I have been fifteen years a married man) 
 4< ah ! it will never be like the wedding at Hems- 
 worth!” 
 
THE 
 
 VOITURIER’S DAUGHTER. 
 

 
 
 
 % 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 > 
 
 
THE 
 
 VOITURIER’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 FOUNDED ON FACT. 
 
 FROM THE PAPERS OF A RETIRED TRAVELLER. 
 
 If it be possible, as I devoutly believe, to be at 
 the same time a partial and devoted Briton, and a 
 tolerant, nay, philanthropic citizen of the world ; to 
 love and venerate with the devotion of a fire-wor¬ 
 shipper the hearth of one's fathers, and yet to per¬ 
 ambulate with delighted admiration the sunnier 
 lands of others ; to hid adieu for a limited time to 
 all that is deservedly dearest, merely, that on com¬ 
 parison with much that is rich and rare, it may 
 become dearer still; if these be compatible, nay 
 even consistent feelings, I think I may lay claim 
 to their possession. 
 
390 THE TOITURIER’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 Fate and inclination have made me a frequent 
 traveller ; and though I never in my widest fit of 
 philanthropy dreamed of balancing the keen es 
 excitement of spirit experienced on touching a fo¬ 
 reign strand, with the swelling heart and moisten¬ 
 ed eye that ever hailed the as yet almost invisible 
 cliffs of Britain, I have often beguiled the pain¬ 
 ful familiarity of my voyages to the continent, by 
 an attempt to compute the sum of relative joy and 
 misery which the living freight around me might 
 
 afford. 
 
 44 Travel,” taken as implying a voluntary re¬ 
 move in quest of new enjoyment, is a delightful 
 word ; but, alas ! it has, in our puzzling and ano¬ 
 malous language, a word of corresponding sound 
 and slightly differing orthography, whose some¬ 
 what obsolete application is synonymous with grief, 
 and which may even yet be too often associated 
 with removal to a foreign country. 
 
 Is it not 44 travail" of body, aye, and of soul too, 
 to the sober English landholder, to uproot at once 
 his prejudices, deep-anchored in his native soil, and 
 for the quiet life he prizes above all blessings, ex¬ 
 change the bustle, noise and discomfort of half the 
 inns in Europe ? Is it not even travail to his tri- 
 
THE VOITURIER'S DAUGHTER. 3^7 
 
 umphant help-mate and exulting daughters, to swal¬ 
 low (at one meal perhaps) all the allotted i( peck of 
 dirt," which, by the Persian as well as English 
 proverb, every individual here below is destined to 
 consume—to extort, by help of dictionaries, Eng¬ 
 lish refinements from uncouth male chambermaids, 
 and have at length the produce of half a year’s in¬ 
 come, and a whole year’s study of Parisian fashions, 
 ruthlessly re-exported at the fiat of a cross-grained 
 donanier ? 
 
 Why have I seen a man of sallow and atrabili¬ 
 ous aspect pacing the deck of a Calais packet, when 
 all in nature besides wore a smiling aspect, as if in¬ 
 voking the vengeance of heaven on himself and all 
 mankind—but because, in bitter travail of soul, 
 he deplored the frenzy which had sent him from 
 some midnight hell, with the curse of Cain upon 
 him, a perpetual and remorseful exile ? 
 
 Is it not in bitterness, to which that of death it¬ 
 self were light, that yon beautiful but erring daugh¬ 
 ter of England, exchanges the land her fall has 
 rendered hateful, for one which all its toleration of 
 - her frailties can never equally endear ? That like 
 Eve from Eden, she wanders forth with her part¬ 
 ner in guilt, seeking only oblivion for the past, and 
 
398 THE VOITURIER’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 obscurity for the future ? Looking fondly back like 
 the fugitive wife of Lot, on the confines of that na¬ 
 tive land to which, like her, she is doomed to be a 
 perpetual and melancholy beacon ? 
 
 And,—for alas ! in this world of 44 travail sor¬ 
 row is not always necessarily the companion of guilt 
 —is it not with a bleeding and lacerated, though de¬ 
 voted heart, that many a doating parent, and many 
 a tender sister, and many an adoring wife, accom¬ 
 panies, uncheered even by hope, all her earthly 
 treasure, enshrined in one fast-dissolving tabernacle, 
 on that cruel pilgrimage in quest of a stranger’s 
 grave, which robs death of its sweetest alleviations, 
 and the survivor of his most hallowed privilege ? 
 
 How often have I seen, with a sigh of heartfelt 
 sympathy, the eye of such a devoted companion 
 turn 4 4 dim with natural tears” from the shores it 
 might hereafter hope to revisit, to encounter the sad 
 yet resigned glance of him from whom they were 
 receding for ever ? How often have I sadly pic- 
 tured to myself the solitary return of that widowed 
 mourner, when every foot of land traversed, and 
 every buoyant wave surmounted, would add to the 
 distance from the spot where she had left all save 
 country and home,—a country now blighted by 
 
399 
 
 THE VOITURIEr’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 bereavement,—a home, painful in its very exube¬ 
 rance of desolate beauty. 
 
 It has been my lot to visit more than once the 
 southern shores of France, and never I think 
 without encountering the interesting hut painful 
 spectacle of these pilgrims, not of hope but duty ; 
 seeking to prolong beneath her genial suns a frail 
 existence, which might have been earlier perhaps, 
 but far more gently and tranquilly extinguished, 
 behind the softly closing clouds of its own less ra¬ 
 diant clime. 
 
 It w T as in April 18—, that, in a desperate fit 
 of spleen at the east winds of my native country, 
 I embarked—with no very precise drift or object— 
 in a vessel quitting Southampton for Bordeaux. 
 I found its indifferent cabin already occupied by 
 a couple such as I have attempted to describe, an 
 interesting, patient, mild-looking young man, evi¬ 
 dently far gone in consumption, and one of those 
 ministering spirits in human form, who seem thus 
 enshrined for the gracious purpose of giving to 
 suffering its greatest possible alleviations, and cheer¬ 
 ing, with smiles not of this world, the pillow they 
 only know how to smooth. 
 
 Here was no field for the display of English re- 
 
400 
 
 THE VOITURIEr's DAUGHTER. 
 
 serve, had I even been disposed to wrap myself in 
 its unsocial mantle. In the course of the tedious, 
 variable voyage, Irwin became to me as a brother, 
 and if it was otherwise with Caroline, it was that 
 on my part veneration repressed familiarity. 
 
 The plan of this attached couple had been to 
 seek at once the Isles of Hieres, whose refreshing 
 breezes would, they had been told, counterbalance 
 the heats of so southern a latitude. But I had 
 wooed in vain these boasted breezes during a sum¬ 
 mer of parching drought and intensity, so I dis¬ 
 suaded them from purchasing at the sacrifice of 
 society and other advantages, a precarious good ; 
 and, led by my own filial partiality for that land 
 of the sublime and beautiful, induced them to ac¬ 
 company me to Switzerland. 
 
 Italy was I knew their destination in winter— 
 but something whispered that Irwin would need 
 no earthly refuge from its storms ; and the inter¬ 
 vening months of slow and painful decline could, 
 I knew, be nowhere passed with so little absence 
 of English comfort and tranquillity, as near Lau¬ 
 sanne. There is in Switzerland a perpetual feast 
 for the closing eye, which loves to wander upward 
 to its God ; nor is that eye offended, or its pass- 
 
THE VOITURIERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 4D1 
 
 iug serenity disturbed, as in more southern lands, 
 by scenes of abject misery or ferocious guilt. No ! 
 if on earth peace and simplicity are to be found— 
 it is in Switzerland. The character of her sons 
 is grave and tranquil as the majestic mountains on 
 whose stable flanks they have their wondrous dwell¬ 
 ing. The hum of the great world reaches them 
 softened by distance, and though not exempt from 
 human passions and petty cares, these soon flit 
 aside, eclipsed as it were by the superior magni¬ 
 tude of the surrounding objects of nature. The 
 man who, in a valley of the Alps, with heaven 
 alone visible beyond earth’s giant bulwarks, a 
 foaming torrent at his feet, and a few simple shep¬ 
 herd huts perched in mid air between the flood 
 and sky, could find room for mean or sordid 
 thoughts, were prey, methinks, too ignoble for the 
 mountain eagle hovering over his head. 
 
 It was soon evident that poor Irwin was not 
 
 destined to behold that fair southern land for 
 
 which his sick heart pined, or to realize those 
 
 bright dreams of Italy which had lured him from 
 
 his home to die among strangers. The fatigue 
 
 of the journey from Bordeaux proved a draught 
 
 upon his slender stock of strength, to which it was 
 
 2 D 
 
402 
 
 THE VOITURIEIt’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 quite inadequate ; and to slumber out his wan¬ 
 ing existence on the lovely banks of the Leman, 
 became alike welcome and expedient. I knew 
 every inch of the 44 sweet vicinage 1 ’ with native 
 familiarity, and soon settled him and his amiable 
 wife, to their entire satisfaction, at the Campagne 
 
 V*-, slightly elevated above the lake, and 
 
 commanding a prospect on which closing eyes 
 might rest in blissful anticipation of a yet lovelier 
 paradise. 
 
 The formation of their little household became 
 next matter of friendly solicitude, and in this also 
 they relied on my knowledge of the Swiss charac¬ 
 ter in general, as well as of individuals at Lau¬ 
 sanne. Irwin was already fortunate in the un¬ 
 bounded attachment and invaluable services of an 
 elderly English servant; but the gay Parisian 
 damsel whom a hope of visiting Naples had in¬ 
 duced to engage in London with his wife, had 
 long since shrunk from the ennui of a sick-bed 
 in a Swiss Campagne, and was sent back to a 
 more congenial element. I undertook to procure 
 a substitute, whose simple integrity and unsophis¬ 
 ticated nature should amply compensate for lack 
 of skill and experience. 44 I want some one to 
 
THE VOITURIERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 403 
 
 feel for me, and assist in nursing poor Charles,” 
 said Mrs. Irwin ; 44 dress and all its accompani¬ 
 ments are worse than vanity to me at present. 
 Honesty and good temper are all I require.” 
 
 “ I know where they ought to be found,” said 
 I, 44 at least, if such qualities are hereditary 
 and I betook myself to the abode of an humble 
 Vaudois friend, whose indifference to gain, (a rare 
 quality among his countrymen,) and invincible 
 good humour, had really endeared him to me in 
 the course of many a summer ramble among the 
 mountains. 
 
 It is difficult for an untravelled Englishman, 
 accustomed only during his rapid migration 
 through our native land, to the brief intercourse 
 and mercenary spirit of her postilions, to imagine 
 the degree of mutual good-will and familiar com¬ 
 panionship, which often springs up, during a pro¬ 
 longed pilgrimage of w eeks or months, between the 
 continental wanderer and his vctturino. 
 
 In the first place, there is in the breast of the 
 latter, whether belonging to France, Switzerland, or 
 Italy, a far less humiliating sense of the inequality 
 of rank between himself and his temporary master; 
 nor ought this feeling, when unalloyed (as it sel- 
 
404 THE VOITURIERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 dom is) with any mixture of presumption or inso¬ 
 lence, to have in it any thing unpleasing to a free¬ 
 born Briton. Then the said traveller is not only, 
 for the time of their contract, strictly under the 
 protection and safe-guard of the conducteur, who 
 feels that, for his safety, he is responsible to God 
 and man, but the object of his hourly and often 
 affectionate solicitude ; a feeling strengthened in 
 many cases by the absolute dependence of the 
 dumb novice, for all that concerns his comfort and 
 interest, on him, to whom he has been delivered, 
 (if not exactly bound hand and foot,) yet with a 
 tongue more effectually fettered still. 
 
 This, to be sure, is not precisely the case most 
 favourable to a mutual attachment between master 
 and man. It is when the former has sufficient 
 knowledge of a common idiom, to relish, in all its 
 vigorous originality, the racy way-faring talk of 
 his faithful driver, nay even to return him tale for 
 tale, and jest for jest; when disinterestedness on the 
 one side, and liberality on the other, have done 
 honour, in the eyes of both, to their common nature ; 
 when perils surmounted and hardships shared to¬ 
 gether, have dignified the bond, and robbed it of its 
 servile character ; above all, when it has been nobly 
 
THE VOITURIERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 405 
 
 cemented, and for life, by the blood which has been 
 shed, or at least periled in mutual defence—then, 
 and then only it is, that the voiturier may legiti¬ 
 mately forget the master or the friend, and the so¬ 
 litary traveller feel towards the comrade of his wan¬ 
 derings, as I blush not to say I felt towards ho¬ 
 nest Pierre Le Blanc. 
 
 This worthy old man had, in the course of a last 
 year s autumnal ramble, expressed in behalf of his 
 daughter Fanchette the wish so usual among the 
 more aspiring Suissesses , that she could find a ser¬ 
 vice with one of the belles dames Anglaises , whose 
 wealth and goodness are alike popular at Lausanne. 
 England is the “ El Dorado ” to which Swiss ad¬ 
 venturers, male and female, look with aspirations I 
 fear too often delusive—nor do even pecuniary ad¬ 
 vantages when realized, always cure the Alpine 
 malady of the heart, from which not Eden itself 
 could here below exempt a Swiss bosom. Fanchette, 
 however, had, last year, at eighteen, testified all 
 the readiness of a novice to embark on an untried, 
 and of course, delightful world ; and whether it 
 were to cross the Alps behind her father's well- 
 known mules, in quest of brighter suns in Italy, or 
 
406 
 
 THE VOITURIEr’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 to traverse the formidable sea, in a scarcely to be 
 imagined ship, in pursuit of wealth in foggy Eng¬ 
 land, was nearly alike to one who bore perennial 
 sunshine in her own light heart and open counte¬ 
 nance. But one year, nay eight short months had, 
 I found, done much to sober the 44 truant inclina¬ 
 tion” of the little maiden. As well might I have 
 hoped to uproot Mont Blanc and transport it to 
 gladden the gaze of cocknies in Cheapside, as by 
 the lure either of wealth or novelty, to unmoor the 
 faithful heart of Fanchette from love's steadfast an¬ 
 chorage. 
 
 44 Que voulez vous , Monsieur was le Blanc's 
 reply, after the overflowings of his sincere gratitude 
 had subsided, 44 la petite a perdu Venvie de courir 
 le monde. Diantre ! si elle en savait autant que 
 moi , qui ai plus fait de lieues quelle na de che- 
 veux d la lete.” I found, from the tenor of this res¬ 
 ponse, that my good friend (whose only knowledge 
 of the English was as an exemplification of the per¬ 
 petual motion, and whose own everlasting vocation 
 of rolling them up the Alps reminded me of that 
 of Sisyphus) supposed my object was still to engage 
 his daughter to quit her country, and I quickly un- 
 
'1 HE VOITU RIEKS DAUGHTER. 407 
 
 deceived him by saying, it was in a family stationary 
 for the summer at Lausanne that her services were 
 required. 
 
 44 Ah ! cest autre chose $a !” was his ready an¬ 
 swer ; 44 vous voyez , Monsieur continued he, in a 
 confidential tone, 44 Jacques le Vasseur, a lad of 
 my own pays d’Aubonne” (designating by the pom¬ 
 pous epithet, a village within a few miles of Lau¬ 
 sanne famous for rural opulence,) 44 came to me last 
 winter, when the snow being on the ground, and 
 the mules in the stable, I went to wish my rich 
 country cousins a good new year, and said, 
 4 Pierre le Blanc, I love your daughter Fanchette. 
 I saw her when I went to assist poor old aunt Bar¬ 
 bara in her vintage at Lutri. She too would lend 
 a helping hand in the widow’s vigne, although not 
 a drop’s blood to her; and w hen many girls, not 
 half so pretty, romped and flirted, and listened to 
 the sots propos and contes hleus of idle lads, Fan¬ 
 chette filled her basket, and minded her work, and 
 when any one spoke to her, answered civilly and 
 kept her eyes on the ground. / spoke to her at 
 length, but it was not any fa daises , such as 1 saw 
 she did not like; 1 asked her first if she could 
 
408 
 
 THE VOITURIER's DAUGHTER. 
 
 fancy the country, and the life of a vigneron , and 
 then—if she could fancy the vigneron himself? 
 She looked down more than ever, and kept cutting 
 the branches next the ground ; but I saw a blush 
 and then a smile, and something I could hear about 
 mon pere. 
 
 44 4 Now, this put me in mind that I had a fa¬ 
 ther to consult too; but when I spoke to him, he 
 said, 4 Bah ! tu es trop jeune, et puis une Jille elevec 
 en mV/e, que sait-clle enfait de menage V so I was 
 forced to hold my tongue, and get my mother quietly 
 to see if he was in earnest in disliking the match. 
 She did all she could for me ; told him Fanchette 
 was come of good people, gens d’ Aubonne, like 
 ourselves ; and then, knowing his weak side, added, 
 that she was an only child, and you must be rich, 
 having travelled so much with Milords Anglais. 
 
 44 4 Hum, 1 said my father, 4 that is just what I 
 doubt; a rolling stone gathers no moss. Voituriers 
 are like their cattle, they work hard and live hard; 
 you may as well expect to see a mule die fat, as a 
 roulier die rich and so on he went, till my mo¬ 
 ther saw money was at the bottom, and got fairly 
 out of him, that if you could give Fanchette five 
 
THE VOITURJERS DAUGHTER. 409 
 
 hundred pros ecus down, to set us a-going, and as 
 much at your death, the match would be quite to 
 his mind. 1 
 
 “ Now, Monsieur,'" continued Pierre le Blanc in 
 his own person, “the last part of this proposal would 
 have puzzled me very little ; for if all men were as 
 honest as Pierre le Blanc, and would pay what they 
 owe him, I may hope to leave Fanchette, what with 
 house, voitures and mules, three times the dot the 
 old miser wants. But five hundred down , I told 
 the boy I could not muster, at least until the sum¬ 
 mer's harvest of my friends the Milords , should be 
 over, and turn out a good one. As yet I have had 
 no luck. When I could have carried a fat Eng¬ 
 lish millionaire all the way to Naples, and made 
 my own bargain, a grosse Jievre laid me up, and 
 adieu les belles guinees ! Diantre , if it had only 
 happened the week before, when I was fool enough 
 to drive on a skinflint of a German prince with a 
 huge berline that knocked up every mule I had, 
 for a pittance that I was actually ashamed to take 
 from his serene highness’s hands. In short, I am 
 still minus a good hundred crowns, and old Bap¬ 
 tiste sticks to his tether, and 6 point (Targent, point 
 de noce,' is his motto. Till winter, as I tell Fan- 
 
410 THE VOITURIER’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 chette, when I see her eyes red, she need not think 
 of Jacques le Vasseur.” 
 
 44 Well, then,” interrupted I, 44 suppose she 
 passes the interval in serving my aimable dame 
 Anglaise here at Onehi, earning, I daresay, (if she 
 resembles her father in worth and honesty,) the 
 best part of the cent ecus , or at least a handsome 
 trousseau for her wedding. My friends are rich, 
 and when the poor gentleman’s eyes are closed in 
 peace, his widow will think no recompense too 
 much for those who have helped to smooth his pil¬ 
 low.” 
 
 The father was delighted, Fanchette summoned, 
 and the bargain concluded; nor, when I saw the vel¬ 
 vet cheek and bright eye that peeped from beneath 
 the becoming black gauze cap of the country, did 1 
 wonder at Jacques le Vasseur’s taste in a wife. 
 Oh ! that some of the pert bedizened actresses, who 
 in London and Paris imitate Nature so abomina¬ 
 bly, could for one evening borrow the rustic dignity 
 and village grace of Fanchette le Blanc. Their 
 individual fortunes would be made, and we should 
 not again see milliner airs and Abigail impudence 
 habited in the outraged costume of the Alps. 
 
 Mrs. Irwin was from the first quite delighted 
 
THE VOITURIER’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 411 
 
 with Fanchette, and the poor invalid soon learned 
 to think her gentle and unobtrusive services only 
 second to those of the grave, taciturn, but devoted 
 Willis. This personage, albeit unused to the ap¬ 
 proving mood, was ere long compelled to admit, 
 that the girl was well enough for a Frenchwoman , 
 no geographical or statistical distinctions being suf¬ 
 ficient to counterbalance in his mind the conviction 
 of obstinate Gallicism , arising from what he called 
 her d—d lingo ! However, like every thing else 
 foreign, the very virtues and merits of Fanchette, 
 had, in Willis’s eyes, a spurious, tinsel air; and 
 he would not have been sorry to find his constitu¬ 
 tional antipathy justified even by her proving a 
 counterfeit. 
 
 Summer passed at Campagne Y-, amid those 
 
 harassing alternations of suffering and relief, which 
 mark the most deceitful of diseases. Sometimes 
 the invalid felt invigorated by the balmy airs of 
 Onchi, (the Montpelier of the Canton de Yand,) 
 unrolled the map of Italy, traced his intended 
 route, and, with an eye that sparkled but too in¬ 
 tensely, talked of the Pantheon and the Coliseum. 
 Then would one blast of the ungenial hisc , or fever’s 
 still more fell simoom, wither in a moment all these 
 
412 
 
 THE VOITURIEK’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 buds of hope, and whisper that his farthest journey 
 would be to the sweet cemetery of Lausanne. 
 
 The inexplicable interest which arises from be¬ 
 ing serviceable to countrymen in distress, combin¬ 
 ed with the amiable qualities of the invalid and 
 his devoted wife to fix me in the neighbourhood 
 of Lausanne for the summer ; though I availed 
 myself of the intervals above alluded to, for mak¬ 
 ing, under the auspices of my friend Le Blanc, 
 various short excursions into the picturesque Ober- 
 land, and the less known, but little less romantic 
 district of the Simmenthal, and the darkly beauti¬ 
 ful valley through which rushes the foaming Kander. 
 It was here, that for the first time, remote from all 
 the peopled haunts of his countrymen, in perhaps 
 the only uninhabited valley in Switzerland, (the 
 Oeschithal ) the spirit of the lively Vandois died 
 within him ; and he exclaimed, in the mongrel dia¬ 
 lect, which savoured of the various lands he fre¬ 
 quented, 44 Ma J'oiy Monsieur , o’est beaucoup 
 triste r 
 
 On my return from this latest and most interest¬ 
 ing of my Alpine rambles, I found poor Irwin 
 sinking under the united influence of the advanc¬ 
 ing season, and the exhausted energies of a con- 
 
THE VOITURIERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 413 
 
 stitution so long and severely tried. The period 
 of acute pain and actual malady was past, and his 
 departure was calm and placid as faith and hope 
 could make it. He talked to me long and confi¬ 
 dentially of his surviving relations, and of the 
 causeless animosity with which they had harassed 
 his fair and unoffending bride; whom he com¬ 
 mended with dying earnestness to my fraternal 
 care and protection. It was superfluous to pro¬ 
 mise as a boon, what mere instinct and humanity 
 must have dictated. Irwin read in my eyes that 
 Caroline would never while I lived want a friend ; 
 if he read there aught beside, it was more than I 
 then felt, or ever suspected ; but be their expres¬ 
 sion what it might, it soothed and satisfied his ex¬ 
 piring gaze, which rested alternately on me and 
 one still dearer. 
 
 It is needless to say that on me devolved the sad 
 task of consigning to a foreign grave the mortal 
 remains of my countryman ; but the labour of love 
 was shared by many sympathising sons of the soil 
 which covered them—and richly rewarded by the 
 speechless gratitude of a widowed heart. Mrs. 
 Irwin would have clung with all its devotion, to 
 the spot which contained her beloved ; but her own 
 
414 
 
 THE VOITURIER's DAUGHTER. 
 
 health had been affected by grief and confinement, 
 her lungs were not naturally strong, and, backed 
 
 by good Dr. S-, (the skilful attendant on her 
 
 late husband,) I succeeded in prevailing on her-— 
 unequal as she felt to crossing the Alps under such 
 painfully altered circumstances—to pass the winter 
 months in the temperate climate of Lyons. My 
 remaining to escort her thither, we both tacitly felt 
 to be inexpedient—it was therefore with peculiar 
 satisfaction that, in addition to the trusty cham¬ 
 pionship of the heart-broken Willis, I secured for 
 her the prolonged services of her favourite Fan- 
 chette. The hundred crowns had long since been 
 her's, by the express bequest of poor Irwin ; and 
 Jacques le Vasseur, notwithstanding the gloom 
 thrown over the village by a deficient vintage, was 
 quite ready to take home his young housekeeper. 
 But Fanchette felt that Jacques could live through 
 the winter on the hope which animated her own 
 innocent bosom ; while her poor mistress stood in 
 need of all the consolation her kind attentions could 
 impart. She won my heart and Mrs. Irwin's by 
 volunteering to go to Lyons—and if she lost any 
 ground by it in Jacques le Masseur's, I can only 
 say he was not worthy to possess her. But it 
 
415 
 
 THE VOITURIER’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 could not be so; for it was he who I saw placed 
 Fanchette on the box of the carriage beside the 
 austere and vinegar-aspected Willis, smiling 
 through a tear, and kissing his hand as long as she 
 slowly wound along the matchless terrace of Mont 
 Benon, and finally disappeared down the poplar- 
 lined descent of Cour. 
 
 / too followed the carnage with longing eyes, 
 till that decisive moment—then turning rapidly, 
 and, scarce casting one lingering look on mountain, 
 lake, and vineyard, glowing in autumn’s gorgeous 
 hues—jumped into the light vehicle of the Milan 
 courier, and whirled away with stunning rapidity 
 across the Alps. The lateness of the season, and 
 a restlessness not natural to my character, alike 
 determined me, though with reluctance, to adopt 
 this mode of travelling, in preference to the calm 
 jog-trot and well-known steadiness of my friend Le 
 Blanc ; whose mortification I however alleviated by 
 promising that, if all went well, he should come 
 and fetch me out of Italy in spring—when season 
 and inclination would both, I anticipated, render 
 leisurely travelling delightful. u Adieu , Monsieur 
 sighed the honest Vaudois, 66 firai volontiers vous 
 ehereher au bout du monde . Vous avez fait le bon- 
 
416 
 
 THE VOITURIER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 heur de Fanchette — -J'aut que vous soyez de la noce. 
 Adieu jusqu’au printems 
 
 My winter in Italy passed, as it must ever do, 
 in that land which realizes all the romance of a 
 previous existence, whose dust is the ashes of dead 
 heroes, whose stones are sermons, and her lan¬ 
 guage poetry. Were all the monuments of an¬ 
 cient and modern art in Italy annihilated—the 
 classical contour of her ferocious but never boorish 
 peasantry, would stamp antiquity upon her very 
 surface. Were the wand of an enchanter to re¬ 
 people the Forum with the contemporaries of 
 Cassar and Cicero, they might gaze bewildered on 
 the stately spectre of the Coliseum, on fallen fanes, 
 and travestied Basilicas; but amid filth, and squa¬ 
 lor, and poverty, they would assuredly stretch out 
 the hand of brotherhood to the cloaked and dagger¬ 
 ed groups of the Piazza Navona, and recognise in 
 some rude Trasteverine matron, the features, if not 
 the costume of Cornelia. The very hovels of Italy 
 look as if built to be painted, not inhabited ; her 
 palaces, as if the work of an extinct race of giants, 
 a a world too wide for the shrunk souls ' 1 ’ that te¬ 
 nant them. There is something even in the Ma¬ 
 caroni and chesnuts which sustain her vast and ve- 
 
417 
 
 THE VOITURIEr’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 getating papulation, more picturesque and fanci¬ 
 ful than the grosser viands of the unideal North. 
 Her Lazzaroni look like reckless children of the 
 sun, to whom his beams are food and raiment, and 
 the sky they live beneath ! where is its parallel, 
 save in the sea, whose mirror gives it back in liquid 
 glory ? 
 
 I am no tour writer.—Heaven bless the mark ! 
 there are enow of them—from much calumniated 
 Eustace, one spark of whose genuine orthodox en¬ 
 thusiasm would amply compensate for the grains 
 of chaff which envious dolts have sifted from amidst 
 his classic pearls—to him, the nameless scribbler of 
 yesterday, who repeats with parrot accuracy, and 
 owl-like gravity, what honest Misson and sagaci¬ 
 ous Evelyn told us, in better English, centuries 
 ago. If ever I found a premium at either of the 
 budding universities, it will be for an original sen¬ 
 tence upon Italy—and yet why should I ? for if 
 all have written alike, because the bases of human 
 feeling, when genuine, are unchangeable—it were 
 a paltry ambition, like his who planned the leaning 
 Tower of Pisa—to seek novelty in distortion. 
 That “ multitude,” whom to follow in practice is 
 often dangerous—is in sentiment a generally in- 
 
418 the voiturier’s daughter. 
 
 fallible guide. Be it mine to echo, from the inmost 
 recesses of a reverential bosom, its time-hallowed 
 oracles on Italy. 
 
 Spring found me a returning pilgrim from the 
 desolate fanes of Pcestum, and the subterranean 
 shrines of Pompeii, but still a lingerer amid the 
 groves of Tusculum and Tivoli. Yet even here, 
 there mingled unconsciously dreams of a less lofty 
 and more selfish character. My footsteps might 
 be tracing the course of the Anio or the Tiber— 
 yet would my heart wander to the confluence of 
 the Rhone and Saone. Lyons was the goal 
 to which my aspirations silently and secretly 
 pointed; and, day by day, I was only deterred 
 from the simple and obvious duty of writing to 
 Mrs. Irwin, by thinking of it till it had become 
 formidable; when my difficulties were removed, 
 though I confess very disagreeably, by the follow¬ 
 ing letter, the painful contents of which for a time 
 absorbed all more selfish emotions. 
 
 Lyons. 
 
 66 You will learn, with the same pain which it 
 costs me to make the communication, that your 
 protegee Fanchette Le Blanc has turned out sad¬ 
 ly different from what we both imagined her. My 
 
419 
 
 THE VOITURIERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 slowly returning peace of mind has been cruelly 
 invaded by an act of base ingratitude and sordid 
 treachery on her part, of which, to judge from ap¬ 
 pearances, we should have deemed her wholly in¬ 
 capable ; hut which irrefragable proofs have fixed 
 upon her, beyond all possibility of doubt. 
 
 66 I know not if you remember that only and fatal 
 day, when your considerate kindness won upon 
 me to leave Irwin for an hour or two, to enjoy for 
 the first and last time, a sail upon the lovely lake 
 under our windows. I had been engaged during 
 the morning in looking over and arranging some 
 valuable jewels—strange occupation, you will say, 
 when he whose tenderness bestowed them w as ex¬ 
 piring by my side. Yet from that very sad cir¬ 
 cumstance arose the necessity for the trying task— 
 for when the hand of the bestower should be cold, 
 I felt determined that they should earn for me no 
 longer the dislike and jealousy of his relations, 
 who, never alas ! disposed to regard me w ith affec¬ 
 tion, would have made the detention or alienation 
 of their boasted heir-looms matter of angry or dis¬ 
 dainful comment. 
 
 “ A summons from you to join the party in the 
 boat surprised me in the midst of my unfinished 
 
420 
 
 THE VOITURIEr’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 task ; and, hastily snatching up the cases, I hud¬ 
 dled them, unexamined, into my cabinet, to which, 
 alas ! Fanchette alone, besides myself, had access. 
 
 44 On my return from our ill-fated excursion, I 
 found poor Charles very ill; and the violent attack 
 that ensued, the one his feeble frame sunk under, 
 left me from that sad moment no leisure to think 
 of glittering baubles. Exhausted as I was in mind 
 and body, on quitting Lausanne, the whole task of 
 removal devolved upon the active Fanchette, by 
 whose, as I then thought faithful hands, I faintly 
 recollect having seen the jewel cases transferred 
 from the cabinet to my travelling trunk. I 
 thought no more about them or their contents, till 
 about a month ago my banker at Lyons asked me 
 if I had any commands for England, as a trusty 
 clerk of his was about to proceed thither on a com¬ 
 mercial mission. 
 
 4 4 1 eagerly embraced the opportunity of transmit¬ 
 ting the hated jewels to Charles’s cold-hearted sis¬ 
 ters. A previous examination and inventory be¬ 
 came necessary. I unclasped, for the last time, 
 the long unopened cases, and found, with unutter¬ 
 able dismay, that they were empty ! My exclama¬ 
 tions of wonder brought Fanchette, who joined in 
 
THE TOITURIEr’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 421 
 
 the chorus with an air of simple astonishment and 
 unconscious naivete, most incomprehensible in one 
 so young, and surely as yet a novice in crime. 
 
 “ Believe me, it was hours, nay days, ere a suspi¬ 
 cion of your gentle interesting Vaudoise crossed my 
 brain ; nor would it perhaps even then, had not old 
 Willis, who, from the first, distrusted her as a fo¬ 
 reigner, at once pointed her out as the only possi¬ 
 ble agent in the robbery. Who else had access at 
 all times to the cabinet where the jewels lay ? or 
 who, granting it possible I had (as I sometimes 
 half fancied might be the case) left them on the 
 table when summoned to the water party, could 
 have removed them thence ? Indeed this last con¬ 
 jecture acquired with Willis the force of demon¬ 
 stration, for, being at the time of poor Charles’s 
 sudden seizure, himself infirm with gout, he well 
 remembered Fanchette’s lighter step having carried 
 her long before him to answer her master’s bell, 
 and his finding her in excessive (yet surely easily 
 accounted for) agitation in the room, beside the 
 very table on which, from Willis’s knowledge of 
 my somewhat careless habits, he thinks I left the 
 jewels, where I, in a fit of absence, locked up the 
 empty cases. 
 
422 THE VOITURIERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 64 But why speculate thus idly and unprofitably 
 on the how, or when ? Alas ! it matters little, for 
 the fact is undeniable. I long refused to listen to 
 a prejudiced accuser, nay, even to hint my suspi¬ 
 cions to a creature so unlike a base purloiner. Yet 
 there were corroborating circumstances, the force 
 of which I could not altogether resist. I recollect¬ 
 ed, just before the time the jewels disappeared, 
 hearing that Pierre le Blanc, by the villany of a 
 horse-dealer, had sustained a grievous loss, exceed¬ 
 ing probably the amount of the promised sum to 
 be paid down with his daughter; but which, though 
 I had then sadder thoughts to occupy me, I pri¬ 
 vately determined to make up. I remembered 
 hearing, as in a dream, that the loss had staggered 
 old le Yasseur as to the projected match, and Fan- 
 chette I recollected had been low and dejected 
 upon it; but, alas ! I was then myself more in a 
 condition to receive than bestow sympathy, and my 
 future good intentions reconciled me to the tempo¬ 
 rary cloud on Fanchette’s brow. This, however, 
 without communication from me, suddenly cleared 
 away, and she became, on our arrival at Lyons, 
 light-hearted as before. 
 
 “ All this, put together and commented on by 
 
THE VOITURIER’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 423 
 
 my gruff but faithful majordomo, compelled me to 
 investigate ; and, goaded on by a taunting letter 
 of condolence from one to whom it was gall to know 
 me rightful mistress of all poor Charles had left 
 behind him—I spoke at first gently and hesitat¬ 
 ingly to Fanchette, and asked her calmly when 
 and where she last saw the jewels ? She answered 
 me, not certainly with the confidence of perfect in¬ 
 nocence, that she had never seen them at all; then, 
 on my pressing her, admitted, with tears and 
 blushes, having peeped in mere idle curiosity into 
 the cases one day, while arranging my wardrobe, 
 soon after entering on my service at Lausanne. 
 She said, with a simplicity which, coupled with 
 her guilt, seems inexplicable, that having read in 
 a fairy tale of a princess, out of whose mouth issu¬ 
 ed pearls and diamonds, she just wished to see 
 what sort of things they were ; but now she bitter¬ 
 ly repented having done so, as she could no longer 
 say with truth she had not even seen them. 
 
 “ Wishing to sound as gently as I could the 
 extent of her information, I asked her how much 
 she supposed what I had lost might be worth P 
 She staggered all my ideas of her criminality by 
 answering, c Dame , que sais-je ? peutetre cent 
 
424 
 
 THE VOITURIEr's DAUGHTER. 
 
 francs de Suisse.' 1 4 Nay, Fanchette,’ thought I, 
 
 4 for this paltry sum you would surely never burden 
 your soul with guiltbut Willis swore it was all 
 cunning, and that she knew as well as I did they 
 were more nearly worth a thousand crowns, the 
 very sum required for her marriage-portion by the 
 avaricious le Vasseur, most of which we now as¬ 
 certained had been lost by her own father's credu¬ 
 lous confidence in the honesty of a crafty specu¬ 
 lator. 
 
 44 The temptation, it must be confessed,was great; 
 the baubles which, in my sable garb, she rightly 
 thought I should never again require, would set 
 her up in her new menage ; and then perhaps, when 
 all was fairly over, I might forget and forgive. 
 4 It was just so,—was it not Fanchette ?’ said I, 
 (at length venturing indirectly to accuse her.) 
 Never shall I forget her look on the occasion. 
 Words she had none—not even a tear—but a gaze 
 of simple straight-forward wonderment mingled 
 with horror, which—proved as it has since been to 
 be acting—leaves all the theatres of London and 
 Paris hopelessly behind. Confess she would not, 
 coax or threaten as we might; to deny, she appar¬ 
 ently disdained. She grew red and pale alternate- 
 
THE VOITURIER’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 425 
 
 ly, as one might do, either under the influence of 
 remorse or indignation, refused food, and never 
 closed an eye ; but it was not till, alarmed and 
 softened out of all my just suspicions, by her 
 speechless agony—I fairly disavowed them all— 
 that she threw herself unbidden on my neck, and 
 relieved her labouring bosom by a flood of tears. 
 They flowed so softly, so placidly, with such seem¬ 
 ing purity, that they actually deceived me, and in 
 spite of Willis's prognostics, I once more pronoun¬ 
 ced her innocent. Guilty or not, I should, had I 
 alone been concerned, have gladly let the matter 
 drop—but recollecting how apocryphal would seem 
 to those I meant to have shamed into better 
 thoughts of me, the disappearance of their intend¬ 
 ed spoil, I consented to let the police take the 
 matter up, and institute a general search among 
 my servants. 
 
 6< This at Lyons proved unavailing, and ac¬ 
 quiescing in Willis's opinion, that the theft had 
 been committed at Lausanne, I allowed him to 
 write thither, and subject to the same ordeal the 
 residences of the Swiss part of my household. This 
 included the house of Fanchctte’s father, Pierre Le 
 Blanc, and alas ! Mr. Selwyn, for poor human 
 
426 THE VOJLTURIEIi's DAUGHTER. 
 
 nature ! under that honest man's roof, (unknown 
 doubtless to him,) were found the sad proofs of his 
 daughter's depravity ! My jewels—just as I had left 
 them on the table—the pearls half unstrung—the 
 diamonds wrapped loosely together (caught up no 
 doubt with all the trembling haste of guilt,) were 
 found, carefully secreted in Fanchette's bed-room. 
 I need say no more. To write this to you, renews 
 the pain I felt on first hearing it. 
 
 44 I thought of your kindness to him who is 
 gone; and of her's too—for she was a gentle and 
 kind, though erring creature—and forbore to punish 
 her otherwise than by instant dismissal. She said 
 very little, and wept none ; but looked, while mov¬ 
 ing through the house collecting her small property, 
 more like a ghost than a living being. The ser¬ 
 vants (Willis excepted) doubted even in the face 
 of proof, and shook hands kindly with the fascinat¬ 
 ing culprit; and when she came with her usual 
 gentle tap to my rigidly bolted door, and said in 
 her mild and tremulous voice, 6 Dieu vous benisse , 
 madame /’ 1 am not ashamed to tell you, that I 
 wept like a child. She heard me I believe, for 
 then she wept too ; and when I watched her leaving 
 the house with her little bundle, to go I knew not 
 
THE VOITURIEk's DAUGHTER. 42J 
 
 whither, my heart smote me for allowing even this 
 lost sheep to wander unheeded in the wilderness. 
 I doubt much if she w ould go to Lausanne ; Pierre 
 Le Blanc's can be no home for guilt to nestle in. 
 Poor broken-hearted old man ! I long to comfort 
 him, but know not how—for money will never heal 
 his wounded spirit. Mine is sinking under this 
 sad, this dreary detail; I must conclude. 
 
 “ May I so far depend on your kindness, as to 
 look to you for offices of compassion to the father, 
 wffiose peace of mind w r e have between us innocently 
 ruined, and the child, whose once bright prospects 
 our fatal patronage has so cruelly marred. Adieu. 
 
 C. I.” 
 
 I leave to those more skilful than myself in the 
 dissection of motives, to settle the respective shares of 
 vexation, humanity, and something not at all akin 
 to either, in my immediate determination to return 
 to Lausanne. “ WhatI hear critics and cognos¬ 
 centi exclaim, c< abandon Italy, arts and antiqui¬ 
 ties, to clear up a case of petty larceny, and vindi¬ 
 cate the honour of an old Vetturino and a young 
 chambermaid ?*' Even so, gentlemen ; and if you 
 will kindly give me credit for these sole motives, I 
 
428 THE VOITURIEItS DAUGHTER. 
 
 will as gladly submit to their unmingled ignominy. 
 If I know myself, however, they would have suffi¬ 
 ced to send me back to Switzerland a few weeks, or 
 even months earlier than I intended ; for I had ever 
 a dash of knight-errantry in my disposition, and 
 there hung over the present occurrence a mystery 
 to lend zest to chivalry. Be this as it may, I bid 
 to Rome, I fondly hoped, no very lasting adieu— 
 and once more seated beside the rapidly whirling 
 courier—found myself early on the second day at 
 Florence. 
 
 I strolled almost immediately on arriving to the 
 well-known resort of couriers and vetturini in the 
 
 Strada B-, anxious to ascertain in person what 
 
 drivers or vehicles were about to start for Switzer¬ 
 land ; concluding that my breach of promise to old 
 Pierre would be more than compensated, by my 
 services in sifting and elucidating the mysterious af¬ 
 fair of the stolen jewels. I was eagerly inquiring for 
 a light carriage and horses for Lausanne, when from 
 amid the crowd assembled in the stable yard, there 
 issued a voice, which, changed and broken as it 
 was, I thought I recognised, saying, e< Cest moi 
 qui suis pour Lausanne , avec Caleche et deux che- 
 vaux; toutce qui me reste au mo?ide, mats n importer 
 
THE VOITURIER’S DAUGHTER. 429 
 
 added in a still more subdued key, my old and 
 once gay comrade, honest le Blanc. 
 
 “ Est-cc bien toi Pierre V I exclaimed, starting 
 forward, and half embracing, to the astonishment 
 of the gaping stable-boys, my quondam conducteur. 
 But, alas ! no ghost returned from Stygian shore 
 ever more sadly mocked the grasp of friendship. 
 Pierre, hale, robust and florid, when I left him 
 five months before, was now, under the mining in¬ 
 fluence of misfortune and disgrace, but the shadow 
 of his former self. His hair, then slightly grizzled, 
 was now thin and grey ; his cheek had the languor 
 of recent disease ; and his ample capote hung loose 
 about him, like a borrowed garment. He looked 
 at me, strove to answer, choked, and was silent. 
 
 I drew him aside out of the crowd, and then, 
 when he could quietly wipe the tear that trickled 
 down his weather-beaten cheek, he found utterance. 
 66 Little did I think, Monsieur , to weep when I 
 should come to fetch you out of Italy, this blessed 
 spring ; and little did you dream, no doubt, that 
 when you kindly helped her , (he had vainly strug¬ 
 gled for her name,) to an honourable livelihood, it 
 was to make an outcast of her for the rest of her 
 
 long young life. I shall soon die, and hear no 
 
 4 
 
430 
 
 THE VOITURIER’s DAUGHTER. . 
 
 more of it, but she, if indeed she yet lives, what 
 will become of her ? Perhaps you do not know ... 
 added he, half bewildered by distress. 
 
 44 Oh, yes, I am too well aware, Pierre,’’ 1 an¬ 
 swered I, 44 of what so grievously afflicts us both. 
 But is it possible you do not know where your mis¬ 
 guided daughter is ? or how this sad mysterious 
 business was brought about or discovered ? I for 
 one, cannot believe Fanchette did the deed. Some 
 enemy of her’s and yours has sought to sully her 
 good name, or make her his unconscious instrument. 
 Would I could bring to light, and brand the vil¬ 
 lain ! But Providence will sooner or later clear the 
 innocent. 11 
 
 44 Yes, God is just, 1 ’ exclaimed the wretched fa¬ 
 ther, 44 and merciful. If my child has erred, He 
 only can forgive ; if she is guiltless, He alone can 
 vindicate her. His blessing go with her, wherever 
 she may be hiding her unhappy head. 11 
 
 44 Have you no tidings of her, Pierre P 11 said I; 
 44 Where were you when this sad affair took place ?” 
 
 44 En voyage, a mon ordinaire,' 1 '’ said he, with a 
 deep sigh, 44 far off, du cote de Constance, taking a 
 German Baroness home to her castle in Suabia. 
 Judge what a state old Marthe, (who nursed Fan- 
 
THE VOITURIEr’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 431 
 
 chette, and kept my house ever since God took 
 Lise,) was in, when, late one night, four sbirri- 
 looking fellows came to the door, with warrants from 
 the syndic, and insisted upon searching the house. 
 It was a sad disgrace to see such cattle even on 
 Pierre le Blanc's threshold ; but when they said it 
 was on Fanchette’s account, and that my child had 
 robbed her mistress of her jewels, Marthe thought 
 either she or they must be gone mad, and refused 
 them the key of poor Fanchette’s room. Find it 
 indeed she could not, in her fright, for her old 
 maux de nerfs attacked her, and she was carried 
 senseless out of the house. So they broke open the 
 door, it seems, and found—four men, (one of them 
 at least an homme de bien , and a pere de famille,) 
 swear they found there all the stolen jewels! God only 
 knows who put them there,—not mon enfant , if 
 ever old father had a right to know his daughter’s 
 heart. But who can answer even for his own ? 
 Dieu salt! my loss, her marriage which it threaten¬ 
 ed to break off—temptation, opportunity. Oh God ! 
 that I but knew she was alive, with leisure for re¬ 
 pentance given her.” 
 
 44 1 have no fears for her life,” I replied, 44 but 
 much uneasiness about her notwithstanding. She 
 
432 
 
 THE VOITURIER’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 seems to have left Lyons days or weeks ago; did 
 she not seek her first refuge with her father ?” 
 
 44 I have not been home yet,” answered he de- 
 spondingly ; 44 I am just out of my old fever, which 
 laid me up on hearing the news, this fortnight at 
 Bologna—but a young camarade here, straight from 
 the Faucon at Lausanne, tells me he thinks he 
 saw poor Fanchette gliding along before the inn 
 windows in the dusk, more like a ghost than a liv¬ 
 ing being. He watched her round the corner, and 
 called softly, 4 Mademoiselle Fanchette f but she 
 never turned, nor answered, and disappeared be¬ 
 neath the archway ; so whether it was indeed her 
 ghost or not, Victor remains uncertain. Marthe, 
 he says, still keeps her bed, in the neighbour’s 
 house she was carried to—and my door, God help 
 me ! is sealed up, like a mauvais sujefs , with the 
 broad seal of the Canton, till I return, or till your 
 grande dame Anglaise ,” (this was said with the first 
 tinge of pardonable bitterness,) 44 in her thirst for 
 my poor child's blood, has it opened before witnesses 
 as an evidence of her guilt on the trial.” 
 
 44 Fanchette will never be tried by human tribu¬ 
 nal, Pierre,” said I. 44 Mrs. Irwin pities and for¬ 
 gives her, nay, wept over her departure as a shep- 
 
THE VOITURIER’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 433 
 
 herd pities his stray lamb, and only reproaches her¬ 
 self that she did not do more to shield her from 
 farther sin or suffering. But courage ! mon ami” 
 added I in a more cheerful voice, “ if Fanchctteis 
 above ground, it will go hard if two vieux routiers 
 like yourself and me cannot ferret her out. We 
 start to-morrow, by daylight, rCest-ce jias ? cela va 
 sa7is dire." 1 
 
 u Ce soir , Monsieur , si vous voulez ,” exclaimed 
 the grateful father ; but the old man had need of 
 sustenance and rest. I bade his townsman Victor 
 
 W 
 
 ply him with a sober flask of wine that renovates 
 the Switzer's heart; and devolving on that worthy 
 lad the active preparations for our departure, found 
 leisure to look at the Venus de Medicis. 
 
 By sunrise next morning, we were slowly sur¬ 
 mounting the giant bulwark of the Apennines ; 
 and I was taking from the aerial terrace called le 
 
 Maschere my last fond gaze at lovely, fast receding 
 Florence. 44 Shall I ever see thee again ? and 
 with whom were questions I would ask myself 
 and could not answer ; so I strove to divert these 
 unprofitable musings by extracting from old le 
 Blanc further intelligence about his own or his 
 daughter’s affairs. 
 
 2 F 
 
434 the voiturier's daughter. 
 
 44 And what says Jacques le Vasseur all this 
 time, Pierre, do you know ?” said I ; 44 is he proof 
 against appearances, and stanch as true knight 
 should be, in belief of Fanchette’s innocence?” 
 
 64 Victor could not tell me ; for since the sad 
 event, Jacques has been missing from Aubonne. 
 Some say he is gone off to France to enlist as a 
 soldier, but no one knows. Old Baptiste takes it 
 very coolly ; so as Jacques left him his strong box, 
 he cares little about the rest of his family— et puis” 
 (with a sigh) 44 they are all sons, he has no 
 daughter !” 
 
 44 And le Blanc,” said I, avoiding the one too 
 painful subject, 44 how go on your own affairs ? 
 Has that rascal Maitre Gros (for I conclude it 
 was he who took you in, you were always too fond 
 of the fellow) refunded any part of your hard-won 
 savings ?” 
 
 44 Mai foi, non” answered Pierre, 44 il a la griffe 
 trop forte , Maitre Gros ! But I was told within 
 this week, by a cocker from Toulouse, that he is 
 caught at Marseilles, and sent to the gallies for 
 cheating a French colonel, if that is any satisfac¬ 
 tion to me.” 
 
 44 Has he not left property at Lausanne ?” 44 Ouidd t 
 
THE VOITURIER’s DAUGHTER. 435 
 
 a capital house— belle ecurie, grenter^ tout ce qiiil 
 faul pour e/ievaitx , all set up and furnished with 
 my poor ecus ; but la justice has got hold of every 
 thing, and as I cannot afford to pay her my share, 
 for aught I can see, she will keep it all to herself. 
 If I had any one to see me righted—” 
 
 u I'll see you righted, Pierre, and Fanchette too, 
 if there is law or justice in the Pays de Vaud— 
 hut adieu for the present—yonder comes breakfast, 
 and the chimnies of Covigliaio.” 
 
 We proceeded on our journey with all the rapi¬ 
 dity our mutual interest in its termination could 
 induce; hut having entered Italy by the Simplon, 
 I was providentially inspired to prefer for my exit 
 the route of Mont Cenis, one little longer, though 
 leading somewhat less directly to Lausanne. Whe¬ 
 ther this preference arose from its being more—to 
 borrow Pierre’s favourite expression— 6( du cote de 
 Lyon? I leave to the motive-hunters above alluded 
 to, to decide. So it was, and after surmounting the 
 difficulties of this glorious mountain passage, and 
 leaving behind us the singularly dull and uninte¬ 
 resting capital of Savoy—we stopped for the night 
 at the little auuerge of Rumilly. 
 
 (i Vous voyagez tout sent, Monsieur ,” said the 
 
436 the voiturier’s daughter. 
 
 hostess to me, in a hesitating tone, as I lounged 
 about while supper was preparing, at the door of 
 the inn, 44 allez vous par hazard du cote de Lau¬ 
 sanne On my answering in the affirmative, she 
 looked steadfastly in my face, as if to ascertain whe¬ 
 ther it was one honest enough to be trusted with a 
 pretty girl ; and then said, 44 nons avons ici line 
 pauvre Jille malade , qui id aura jamais la force de 
 faire a pied cemaudit chemin jus qua Lausanne , ou 
 elle meurt d’envie d^ar river. Monsieur aurait-il le 
 bon coeur de lui faire un petit coin de place dans 
 sa voiture ? Elle est maigre a faire peur, et ne 
 mange rien —fa ’ne contera pas clier — d’ailleurs je 
 crois quelle a de quoipayer , elle ou sonfrere , qui 
 se desole de la voir ainsi .” 
 
 A girl from Lausanne ! my heart leaped to my 
 lips. Could it be Fanchette P but no, there was a 
 brother in the case, and what could she be doing on 
 the road to Mont Cenis ? However, sure I was that 
 Pierre’s kind heart would second me in any good 
 office to a towns-woman in distress ; and I went to 
 the stable to prepare him for the rencontre. 
 u Pierre,” said I, 44 there is some one from Lau¬ 
 sanne in the house la has —who knows but we may 
 hear tidings of Fanchette ?” He threw down his 
 
THE VOITURIER’s DAUGHTER. 437 
 
 curry-comb, and would have rushed past me to the 
 inn, hut I stopped him. 44 Doucement , Pierre ,” 
 said I, 44 c’est une jeune femme , et puis, elle est 
 malade .” 
 
 Sick or well, young or old, Pierre would have 
 been at her bed-side in a minute, and the poor old 
 man himself perhaps stretched beside her with the 
 sudden surprise—had he not, in making for the 
 door, fairly tumbled over Jacques le Vasseur, who 
 was mounting guard over it, seated on the stair¬ 
 case, the picture of despair. I caught the old 
 man from behind, and saved him from falling, 
 while Jacques grasped both his hands, and uncon¬ 
 sciously ejaculated his name. A scream from 
 within told as he was overheard—a heavy noise as 
 of something falling succeeded. Pierre knocked 
 me backward, and the young man forward, and in 
 an instant had his fainting daughter locked in his 
 anus. She had dressed herself, we found, on hear¬ 
 ing there was a carriage arrived below, in hopes of 
 being able to write or send a message to her father ; 
 but overcome by the exertion, had been forced to 
 lie down again. The hostess soon succeeded in 
 restoring her, and removing her to another apart¬ 
 ment, where, quietly seated, with one hand in her 
 
438 the voiturier’s daughter. 
 
 father’s, and another in faithful Jacques le Vas- 
 seur’s, she was able to tell us what had befallen her 
 since her misfortune. 
 
 Thus I had at once designated it, from the 
 moment I looked in her innocent face, and saw 
 her meeting with her father. It was that of no 
 penitent, depending on paternal tenderness for par¬ 
 don and commiseration—but the frank, confiding, 
 joyous transport of one, who felt that she was still 
 worthy to throw herself into an honest man’s arms. 
 c£ Fanchette , ma pauvre Fancheite /” repeated the 
 old man, as he gazed on the wan and wasted cheek 
 I had thought so rich and rosy, when it first 
 peeped from beneath the little Vaudoise cap— u tu 
 as bieu soujfert , mon enfant! conte nous ce qui fest 
 arrived 
 
 Fanchette’s first impulse on leaving Lyons, had 
 been to proceed direct to Lausanne, to weep on the 
 sympathizing bosom of her father, and implore his 
 aid in investigating the sad circumstances of her 
 apparent guilt. On entering, under cloud of night, 
 her native place, she had crept like a condemned 
 criminal, along the well known streets ; but on 
 arriving, breathless and exhausted, at her father’s 
 door, what had been her horror to find her home 
 
439 
 
 THE VOITURIEr's DAUGHTER. 
 
 deserted, and the house branded with ignominy ! 
 Her old nurse, who alone could have thrown light 
 on the business, and who would, at least, have 
 blessed and wept over her, was still, she learned 
 from a neighbour's child, too ill in mind and body 
 to be capable of answering questions; so, fearful 
 of encountering the gaze of less partial observers, 
 and trembling with vague and undefined terrors of 
 arrest and imprisonment, the poor girl crept out of 
 the town, taking instinctively the road to Aubonne. 
 
 The moon soon rose brightly, and favoured her 
 progress towards her lover's dwelling, which she 
 reached ere dawn; and aware that morning light 
 would see the active Jacques at his usual employ¬ 
 ment of dressing the vines, she hid herself in the 
 vineyard till he came. At sight of her, he threw 
 down bill and pruning-hook, and well nigh fainted; 
 but it was with no emotions save grief and sur¬ 
 prise—for he had heard with scornful incredulity 
 the vague tale of her detected guilt. One look in 
 her pale face satisfied him he was right, and a se¬ 
 cond determined him to follow and protect her 
 wherever she might direct her course. To offer 
 her an asylum under his hard father's roof, was 
 beyond his power ; but he had an aunt on whose 
 
440 
 
 THE VOITURIER’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 doating affection he could rely, at Chambery, and 
 thither he proposed conducting Fanchette, secretly 
 trusting to receive, under the sanction of this par¬ 
 tial relative, a title to assume more publicly the 
 character of the champion of injured innocence. 
 To make Fanchette his wife, was now his unalter¬ 
 able resolution; and as his father's consent was un¬ 
 der existing circumstances hopeless, his being con¬ 
 sulted seemed better dispensed with altogether. 
 But Fanchette, though she accepted in pure des¬ 
 pair, the offer of his aunt’s temporary protection, 
 turned a deaf ear to all Jacques’ insinuations of his 
 hopes from her influence. “ Si jamais je suis tu 
 femme a sera devant JDieu , et mon pere , et le tien; 
 et ce ne sera que lorsque je pourrai alter tete levee d 
 VEglise , a tracers toutes les rues de Lausanne. 
 Ce bon terns viendra , si Dieu le permet; sinon, je 
 t 1 aimerai toujour s, Jacques , mats je ne serai dtoi que 
 dans la tornbeS 
 
 This sad last alternative seemed of the two the most 
 likely to be realized ; for poor Fanchette, worn out 
 with fatigue and conflicting emotions, fell ill, as 
 already related, at the post-house of Rumilly— 
 about half-way between Geneva and Chambery, 
 and conceiving herself dying, felt a most natural 
 
THE VOITURIER's DAUGHTER. 
 
 441 
 
 longing to close her young existence under the roof 
 where she had drawn her first breath. 44 Your 
 aunt is a good woman, and a kind one, Jacques,"' 
 she would disconsolately exclaim ; 44 but she could 
 never sing me to sleep like poor old Marthe, or 
 smile on me through her tears like my dear fa¬ 
 ther ! Pray for me, Jacques, that I may have 
 strength vouchsafed me to reach home, and die in 
 thine arms !” 
 
 It was only, alas ! with prayers and wishes that 
 Jacques could soothe her distress ; for the pittance 
 she had providentially accepted from her wages, 
 and Jacques’ own slender pocket-money, were soon 
 alike exhausted. To interest the feelings of the 
 hostess in procuring her a gratuitous conveyance to 
 Lausanne, was his last resource, and the result of 
 it has already been related. 
 
 Fanchette’s was in truth a sad narrative, broken 
 
 with many tears from more than one eye ; while, 
 
 at the recital of the base suspicions to which his 
 
 beloved had been subjected, Jacques le Vasseur’s 
 
 actually flashed fire. The father groaned, and 
 
 twisted convulsively the buttons of his capote , as 
 
 he heard from her own lips the tale of his child’s 
 
 degradation, and expulsion from the roof whose 
 
 G 
 
442 the voiturier's daughter. 
 
 protection he had thought so desirable. / too could 
 not help shrinking abashed from the painful result 
 of my proffered patronage. I felt that Caroline 
 Irwin had been urged on by harsher natures than 
 her own, and by (it must be owned,) irresistible 
 appearances, to do injustice to the gentle being be¬ 
 fore me; but how these appearances could have ori¬ 
 ginated, became the chief point of intense interest. 
 
 44 Have you no clue to this mystery, Fanchette P ' 1 
 said I; 44 do you suspect no one of secreting the 
 jewels in your chamber to screen themselves, or im¬ 
 plicate you ?” 
 
 44 God only knows, Monsieur Selwyn,*’ said 
 Fanchette, (as if now for the first time fully con¬ 
 scious of my presence,) 44 how they got there. My 
 room has been locked up ever since I first went to 
 live with Madame Irwin, and the key in my pock¬ 
 et—till, now I remember, the day before we all left 
 Lausanne, old Martlie asked me for it, to put by 
 out of the way the box Monsieur left at our house.” 
 
 44 The box !” exclaimed I, starting up off my 
 chair, as one on whom light suddenly dawned,— 
 44 the box ! fool! dolt ! that I have been not to 
 think of it sooner—Fanchette, do you know what 
 that box contained ?” 
 
THE VOITURIER's DAUGHTER. 443 
 
 “ Oh! que non , Monsieur” was her simple an¬ 
 swer; it was none of mine you know, and why should 
 I think of looking into it ? I only remember it was 
 very heavy.” 
 
 6i Fanchette,” said I, c< that box, heavy as it is, 
 lias lightened my heart of the weigh test burden 
 that ever oppressed it. Your’s too may beat freely 
 once more I suspect, in your simple bosom. I have 
 been myself the chief culprit in this sad business, 
 but I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of cutting, 
 in presence of all parties, the Gordian knot I un¬ 
 consciously helped to tie, and which I trust may 
 yet be the parent of others more auspicious. Tcnez 
 vous Irunquille , Fanchelle ,” added I, 4< as your fa¬ 
 ther used to say to me when his mules took a fit of 
 kicking. Get into the caleche with Pierre and Jac¬ 
 ques—go leisurely home to Lausanne, so as to give 
 me time to travel en posle to Lyons. Keep out of 
 sight, and away from your own house till 1 give you 
 notice, and then we’ll all meet, you shall know 
 where, and wherefore. All's well that ends well, 
 Fanchette—and that I trust will be our case.” 
 
 Pierre and Jacques looked a moment at me with 
 scrutinizing glances, as if somewhat doubtful of my 
 sanity—but the gentle good Fanchette, stretching 
 
444 
 
 THE VOITURIEr’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 out her hand in amity—said, with a faint smile, 
 “ Neme faits pas languir , Monsieur ! je voudrais 
 mourir justifieey 
 
 “ Ou vivre mariee , ce qui rant mieux — vdest-ce 
 pas , Fanchette ?’’’ said I cheerfully, shaking hands 
 with the group, and repeating my instructions for 
 them to proceed slowly, as Fanchette’s weak con¬ 
 dition required, to Lausanne. I indemnified the 
 good hostess for her kindness to the maiden, re¬ 
 plenished the leathern purse of Pierre with store 
 of gros ecus for the journey, and then threw* my¬ 
 self, late as it was, into a cabriolet for Lyons. 
 
 I got there early in the following day, and 
 alighting at a hotel, scrawled a hasty note to Mrs. 
 Irwin, asking permission to wait on her immedi¬ 
 ately. Had I been bound on any less romantic and 
 chivalrous errand, I should have looked forward 
 with anxiety to this interview—one fraught with 
 inevitable pain to both, and to myself, with yet 
 unavowed hopes and fears. But my head and 
 heart were full of Fanchette, and her dim eye and 
 faded bloom eclipsed from me even the interesting 
 figure of another lovely mourner. 
 
 I was admitted of course, and following the 
 messenger wfith breathless haste, ushered myself 
 
THE VOITURIEr’s DAUGHTER. 445 
 
 into my fair friend’s boudoir , in a state of emotion, 
 which I have since fancied must have seemed to 
 her in the highest degree alarming and absurd. 
 <c Mrs. Irwin,” said I—nay, under the influence of 
 strong excitement, I believe I actually called her 
 Caroline— e< We have both something to answer for 
 and atone. We took a simple Swiss maiden from 
 her father’s fostering care, where she dwelt in peace 
 and innocence, to return her thither blighted by 
 the breath of calumny. Circumstances in which I 
 have borne a singular share, favoured the delusion, 
 but the means of reparation and vindication are in 
 our power; need I ask if you are disposed cheer¬ 
 fully to adopt them ? I could easily I believe jus¬ 
 tify, with a word, poor Fanchette to your private 
 ear and heart; but I think we owe to her and to 
 ourselves, to make her j ustification as public as the 
 accusation it refutes. Will you go at my request, 
 and on my responsibility, on this benevolent mis¬ 
 sion to Lausanne ?” 
 
 “If you hold out any hopes of clearing poor 
 Fanchette’s character by the journey,” answered 
 Mrs. Irwin, “ I would willingly perform twice the 
 distance. My mind has misgiven me, and my 
 heart reproached me ever since I let her go un- 
 
446 
 
 THE VOITURIER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 friended from my door, and balanced the destiny 
 of even an erring human being, against a set of pal¬ 
 try glittering baubles. I hope she has not suffered 
 materially from my harshness ?” 
 
 44 Much and bitterly, Mrs. Irwin,” said I; 44 she 
 has paid with reputation and nearly with life, for 
 forgetfulness of your’s and mine. Let us join in the 
 amende honorable , which is yet I trust in time to 
 restore both. I’ll tell you all her sad history in 
 the carriage ; when shall I order it to the door ?” 
 
 44 Instantly,” said the amiable woman; and I/could 
 not help drawing, from her readiness to accompany 
 me for the happiness of others, some augury in fa¬ 
 vour of her one day listening to me in behalf of my 
 owm. However, it was but a transient secondary 
 thought. Nothing is such an antidote to selfish- 
 ness, as a brace or two of fellow-creatures actually 
 dependent on one's exertions. 
 
 44 You need not express any remaining fears, my 
 dear Mrs. Irwin, ” said I, as I finished in the car¬ 
 riage the story of Fancliette's disasters, 44 on the 
 score of the poor maiden's acquittal. If any one is 
 convicted of the theft of the jewels, it will undoubt¬ 
 edly be he who now sits beside you. You would not 
 feel quite so much at your ease, if you were aware 
 
THE VOITURIER’s DAUGHTER. 447 
 
 it was in my custody, your trinkets must have been 
 found.” 
 
 “ You speak in enigmas, Mr. Sclwyii,” answer¬ 
 ed she, looking up in my face with the same du¬ 
 bious expression I had observed on the countenances 
 of Pierre and Jacques at Rumilly; but, like Fan- 
 chettc, she took it for granted I was in my senses. 
 There is an instinct in woman which makes her 
 sec with a glance if there is method in the madness 
 she witnesses or inspires. 
 
 On reaching Lausanne, we stopped as I had ar¬ 
 ranged, at the Lion I/Or , in the court of which I 
 observed Jacques on the look-out. He told me 
 Pierre and his daughter were living perdue , at a 
 farm near Aubonne, and only awaited my orders 
 to be forthcoming. I left Mrs. Irwin to rest after 
 our rapid journey, and recover from the emotions 
 natural on revisiting Lausanne, and, detaining 
 Jacques, waited on the Juge de Paix , with whom 
 I was slightly acquainted, requesting to know at 
 what hour on the morrow Pierre lc Blanc’s house 
 might he judicially opened, for the satisfaction of 
 M rs. Irwin, who had come from Lyons for the pur¬ 
 pose—in presence of competent witnesses. 
 
 It did my heart good to see the worthy Juge’s 
 
448 
 
 THE VOITURIER^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 blank look at the proposal. He eyed me with evi¬ 
 dent ill-will and repugnance, and, had I wanted 
 any testimony to the high character and estimation 
 of honest Pierre, I should have found it in the re¬ 
 luctance of a public functionary to favour any pro¬ 
 ceedings against him. The Juge started difficul¬ 
 ties and threw obstacles—hinted that in the case of 
 a young and inexperienced girl of reputable parent¬ 
 age, the recovery of the property might perhaps be 
 deemed sufficient reparation—spoke of the delicacy 
 of the Swiss in matters affecting character, of the 
 great respectability of Pierre, and the once unble¬ 
 mished fame of Fanchette ; in short, belied his vo¬ 
 cation so delightfully, that if I had not stopped 
 him with affected impatience, I must infallibly 
 have hugged him for his goodness of heart. 
 
 Seeing me apparently inflexible, he appointed 
 twelve next day, for the inspection of the apart¬ 
 ment, and for comparing with its undisturbed con¬ 
 tents, the proces verbal , formerly drawn up by his 
 myrmidons—whom I verily believe he employed in 
 the interval, in secret endeavours to warn and keep 
 out of the way my imagined victims. At least 
 Jacques, when I desired him, on leaving the 
 Hotel de Vi lie, to bring Pierre and Fanchette to 
 
THE VOITURIERS DAUGHTER. 449 
 
 town with him, without fail on the morrow—smiled 
 significantly, and said he had already received ad¬ 
 vice of a contrary description. But he added, 
 <£ Monsieur can mean us only good, while it is not 
 for nothing that police officers or cats show r patte de 
 velours .” 
 
 To cut a long tale short—twelve o'clock next 
 day saw assembled at Pierre Le Blanc's door, as 
 dramatis persona —the juge de paix and his as¬ 
 sessors, the four policemen by whom the first search 
 had been made, the owner of the stolen property, 
 the father and lover of the accused, myself, the 
 contriver of this scenical denouement—and for 
 spectators, half the town of Lausanne. Among the 
 rest, as one summoned from the grave by superna¬ 
 tural energy—old Marthe, who for the first time 
 comprehending of vdiat her dear nursling w T as pre¬ 
 posterously accused, had nearly paid for the shock 
 it inflicted, w ith her life. 
 
 The seals w 7 ere removed with judicial formality 
 from the house-door, and those of some outer apart¬ 
 ments. As the crowd pressed round that of the 
 supposed culprit, exclamations of regret and com¬ 
 passion circulated among them, mingled with re¬ 
 marks of a different character, called forth by the 
 
 2 G 
 
450 the voiturier’s daughter. 
 
 unmoved composure, mistaken for insensibility, of 
 Pierre, and Jacques le Vasseur. 44 Old le Blanc 
 takes it mighty coolly,” said one ; 44 and yet he 
 looks ill and old,” whispered another. 44 Jacques 
 le Vasseur might have staid away,” cried a third. 
 44 Shame on him,” exclaimed a fourth. 44 And 
 look, see how eagerly that hard-hearted Englishman 
 watches the opening of the door ! What good can 
 the exile or imprisonment of poor little Fanchon 
 do him ?” 44 And who would think that lady so 
 
 blood-thirsty ?” said a good-natured butcher. 44 To 
 look at her she seems as mild as a new-born babe,” 
 ejaculated a benevolent matron. 44 And all for 
 paltry gew-gaws !” cried a sanctified old maid. In 
 short, the commentary might have afforded much 
 amusement to one less absorbed than myself in the 
 coup de theatre which was to silence it, or at least 
 turn it into a new and unexpected channel. 
 
 The door flew open—and in rushed as many as 
 the room, a pretty spacious one, would admit. The 
 plain and scanty furniture was not of a nature to 
 excite attention, had it not been coupled with a tale 
 of early crime and misfortune. On that lowly 
 pallet, innocence had long and blissfully reposed; 
 was it ever again to be similarly tenanted ? The 
 
THE VOITURlElTs DAUGHTER. 
 
 451 
 
 chief magnet of curiosity, however, to privileged as 
 well as unlicensed observers, was a deal box, occu¬ 
 pying the centre of the apartment; whose miscel¬ 
 laneous contents, strewed about in disorder, bore 
 evidence to the small tenderness with which they 
 had been examined by the satellites of justice. 
 They consisted chiefly of a few simple Alpine cu¬ 
 riosities, such as fossils and spars, likely enough to 
 have been picked up in his wanderings, and brought 
 to his daughter by a Swiss voiturier. But on re¬ 
 moving the bulkier of these, and unfolding an oil¬ 
 skin cloak in which it had been once more careless¬ 
 ly wrapped, there was discovered a beautifully in¬ 
 laid rosewood writing-desk ! 
 
 Mrs. Irwin gave a start, a half-shriek, a look at 
 
 0 
 
 me, and almost fainted. I flew to support her, 
 and by a strong effort, she gazed again on the desk. 
 It was her late husband’s—presented by her to me, 
 as a memorial of our friendship, and left by me at 
 the trusty le Blanc’s (concealed, however, from no¬ 
 tice within the deal-box before mentioned,) to 
 await my return from Italy—the very limited ac¬ 
 commodation of the courier’s cabriolet , and its 
 own intrinsic and acquired value, combining to for¬ 
 bid my making it the companion of a rapid and 
 
452 
 
 THE VOITURIEr’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 perilous journey. Pierre and his daughter being 
 both absent the day I left Lausanne, I had con¬ 
 signed it to old Marthe—who naturally enough, 
 sought for it a safe asylum in the unoccupied cham¬ 
 ber of her nursling. 
 
 This desk, though I had never, after it became 
 mine, either leisure or nerve to examine it—had, I 
 knew, been enriched by the mechanical genius of 
 its late owner, with many devices for concealment, 
 more ingenious than useful. These, after forcing 
 unceremoniously the delicate lock, the lynx eyes of 
 the policemen had succeeded in exploring; and in 
 one of them, said the now for the first time pro¬ 
 duced proces verbal , had been found Mrs. Irwin’s 
 missing jewels. And by whom deposited ? There 
 could be but one solution. By the deceased owner 
 of the desk, on seeing them abandoned on the ta¬ 
 ble at the mercy of the servants, by his too heedless 
 wife, to whom his immediately ensuing illness and 
 death prevented his ever making the communication. 
 
 Never had melo-dramatist more unmingled suc¬ 
 cess than myself. Mrs. Irwin wept, the juge de 
 paix smiled, Pierre raised his eyes to heaven, 
 Jacques le Vasseur clasped his hands in ecstasy, 
 and all the spectators, like men recovering from in- 
 
THE VOITURIEr’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 453 
 
 tolerable excitement, breathed simultaneously and 
 
 I briefly explained such of the circumstances as 
 
 instinct had not already developed. “ Gentlemen, 11 
 
 said I, “ that box and all its contents are mine. I 
 
 alone am answerable for aught found within a desk, 
 
 the key of which has never quitted my watch-chain, 
 
 since delivered to me by the relict of a lamented 
 
 • 
 
 friend. She knows by what revered hand the jew¬ 
 els must have been there deposited; we by what rude 
 and sacrilegious ones they were forcibly removed. 
 It only remains that the poor young woman, so in¬ 
 nocently a sufferer for others 1 negligence, should 
 publicly receive their recantation and apology. Who 
 knows where Fanchette le Blanc is to be found ?” 
 
 “ La void , la void'd cried a voice, tremulous 
 with age and emotion, and way was instinctively 
 made through the crowd for old Marthe, support¬ 
 ing, feeble as she herself was, her yet more totter¬ 
 ing foster-child. “ La void , bonne comme elle est 
 belle , et c'est assez dired Le Vasseur and her fa¬ 
 ther relieved the old woman of her lovely burthen, 
 and led her forward amid the acclamations of her 
 townsmen, while the good juge kindly addressed 
 her in terms of the most flattering encouragement. 
 
 3 
 
454 
 
 THE VOITURIER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 “ Tu es une brave jille , Fanchettej said he, u et 
 til merites quon fasse quelque chose pour toi. 
 Dites toujours , que souhaites tu de ta part de ta 
 patrie , qui fa meconnue f' 66 La justice tout 
 simplement , Monsieur said I, acting as spokes¬ 
 man to the blushing girl. 66 Fanchette bids me say 
 that her father, as principal, if not sole creditor, has 
 an undoubted right to the property in houses, sta¬ 
 bles, &c. left by Maitre Gros of swindling notoriety ; 
 and all the boon she craves is, that he may be put 
 in possession with as little of delay as the forms of 
 law permit. As for expenses, I am Fanchette’s 
 debtor for those. Mrs. Irwin acknowledges to have 
 for the said Fanchette’s use on the day of her mar¬ 
 riage, five hundred crowns of fairly earned salary. 
 I hold myself bound, in name of house-rent for my 
 unlucky box, to fill said box to overflowing, with 
 paraphernalia more appropriate than it now con¬ 
 tains, and it remains with Jacques le Yasseur to 
 say, whether he will come to inhabit as my tenant, 
 the house Pierre le Blanc vacates by removing to 
 Maitre Gros 1 more spacious premises, or whether he 
 will carry his bride to be the pride of Aubonne, as 
 she has been hitherto of Lausanne.” 
 
 Jacques looked at Fanchette—her eyes were fixed 
 
THE VOITURIEr's DAUGHTER. 
 
 455 
 
 upon her weeping white-headed parent; he followed 
 their silent direction, and said in a soft but audible 
 whisper, “ Nous restons a Lausanne , nest-ce pas , 
 Fanchette V' 
 
 Mrs. Irwin, after the marriage, returned to Ly¬ 
 ons. Duties too sacred to be neglected carried 
 me to England, and detained me there for nearly 
 two years. But we have since been together at 
 Lausanne, and those who met by chance , can now 
 he severed by death alone. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 V J . t 
 
 
 
 . 'i 
 
 
 
 
 . . 
 
 
 . ' ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE DESERTER 
 
 OF 
 
 CASTEL GANDOLFO. 
 

 . 
 
 
 
 : 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
THE DESERTER 
 
 OF 
 
 CASTEL GANDOLFO. 
 
 I question whether the boldest traveller between 
 Rome and Naples does not shrink either w T ith un¬ 
 disguised alarm, or at least a vague feeling of in¬ 
 definable danger, from the mixture of squalor and 
 ferocity exhibited by the groupes which haunt, like 
 spectre banditti, the narrow' streets and nameless 
 abysses of the towns of Itri and Fondi. 
 
 I have travelled far, and seen savage life in all 
 its unadorned nakedness; and though no Vaillant 
 or Rousseau, to extol, at the expense of civilization, 
 
4(50 THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 
 
 the brutal recklessness of the tawny African or 
 copper Indian—commend me to either, in a dark 
 lane, in preference to the demi-brigand of Italy; 
 who, pursuing his wild vocation under the cloak of 
 a legitimate calling, were it only that of a beggar 
 or cattle-herd, looks out upon you from under his 
 slouched hat and shaggy sheepskin, as if it could 
 only be by a rare exertion on his part of forbear¬ 
 ance, that you are spared a journey to the moun¬ 
 tains, or perhaps to the next world. 
 
 But it is not to idlers and Englishmen alone, 
 that their glance is withering, and their cupidity 
 fatal. The mountain of Terraeina has echoed the 
 dying groans of unransomed poverty and butchered 
 innocence ; and peasants and Italians like them¬ 
 selves have fallen victims to wanton barbarity and 
 baffled avarice. 
 
 An adventure occurred during the sojourn of 
 the French in the country, in which romance and 
 reality, poetical and political justice, were so strik¬ 
 ingly blended, that perhaps it may interest others 
 as much as it did myself and the village of Castel 
 Gandolfo. 
 
 That an inhabitant of so enchanting a spot 
 should ever have enlisted as a soldier, seemed to 
 
THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 461 
 
 me like abjuring paradise for Pandemonium ; that 
 having done so, he should desert to return—the 
 simplest thing in nature. The village itself, perch¬ 
 ed, like most in the Campagna, on the summit of 
 an abrupt rocky knoll of considerable elevation, 
 looks down on the boundless plains beneath, 
 over a verdant ocean of perennial foliage. Ilexes, 
 venerable enough to have been contemporary with 
 Domitian, spread their 44 boundless contiguity of 
 shade 11 over the summer retreat of the popes, on 
 the ruins of the villa of the Roman tyrant; while 
 long green alleys stretch their interminable vistas 
 down towards the little glassy lake of Nemi, deep 
 cradled in classic groves, and meetly styled by the 
 ancients, from its mingled purity and seclusion, 
 the mirror of Diana. The one day I passed at 
 Castel Gandolfo haunts me, spite of the lapse of 
 years, with its blissful memories ; and had I been 
 born there, no bribe, methinks, could ever have 
 lured me away. 
 
 But those whom worlds would not bribe from 
 homes less paradisiacal than Castel Gandolfo, may 
 be spirited thence by infidelity or injustice. My 
 hero, for such, notwithstanding the bad moral, I 
 fear, I must confess the deserter Gaetano Mori to 
 
462 THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 
 
 be—was the blithest lad in the whole paese , until 
 a devil of a jealous rival, who wanted him away, 
 and a clear field for the favour of Lucia Anelli, 
 made him believe, not only that the parents of his 
 sweetheart repented of their tacit consent to the 
 union—a likely case enough, as the bridegroom’s 
 whole wealth consisted in his ten fingers, a wood¬ 
 man’s axe, half a dozen goats, and an old-fashion¬ 
 ed Spanish rifle—but that Lucia herself began to 
 think the possessions above enumerated but scanty 
 provision for Hymen, and to smile in Gaetano’s 
 absence, on a thriving young farmer, of the neigh¬ 
 bouring village of Rocca di Papa. 
 
 There is on earth no being so credulous, where 
 love and jealously are concerned, as an Italian ; and 
 if, from natural softness of heart, (for principle I 
 fear must not be spoken of on the subject) he for¬ 
 bear to revenge his supposed wrongs on others, he 
 is sure to do it on himself. An Englishman 
 would have walked straight up, with a face like a 
 mastiff’s, and asked his mistress point blank if her 
 intention was to cut him ; a Frenchman would 
 have cut her, on the mere suspicion; a Spaniard 
 would have spited her by throwing away his life at 
 the next bull-fight; but Gaetano chose a surer 
 
THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 463 
 
 way to do both, by enlisting in the French army, 
 then newly installed in possession of the eternal 
 city. 
 
 Now Gaetano was by no means fond by nature 
 either of Frenchmen or fighting. He loved his 
 native village—how dearly, he never guessed till 
 he turned his back upon it; and Lucia, how 
 madly, he never suspected till too late ; and no 
 sooner had his mountain spirit endured the ig¬ 
 nominy of half a-dozen i( sacres ,” from a vieille 
 moustache of a drill-serjeant, and his love and hopes 
 the astounding shock of being ordered (a thing 
 66 never dreamt of in his philosophy, 1 ’) to follow an 
 Italian corps across the Alps, than he resolved 
 magnanimously to desert the first opportunity. 
 
 This resolution w r as marvellously strengthened by 
 a billet which Lucia, not choosing to trust the 
 village scribe with her secrets, contrived to get 
 written, by whom think you ? but by the youthful 
 farmer of Rocca di Papa, the rival, but thoroughly 
 generous and disinterested one, of her long betroth¬ 
 ed Gaetano. She told him in plain terms, that 
 were any thing to befal her lover, or were he ever 
 to cross the, to her, insurmountable barrier of the 
 Appennines, (the Alps she had never thought of,) 
 
464 THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 
 
 she would either die, or go into a nunnery, which 
 was in his eyes pretty much the same thing. So 
 Giovanni relented, and like a true knight of old, 
 did his lady’s bidding, come of his own love what 
 might. 
 
 The letter advised (and the advice was, in the 
 true spirit of heroism, dictated by Giovanni him¬ 
 self,) strict and patient concealment in some of the 
 villages nearest the Neapolitan frontier, till pur¬ 
 suit should subside, and the corps he had deserted 
 be fairly on its march to France, then—wrote 
 Lucia’s really friendly amanuensis—he might freely 
 return to Castel Gandolfo, and claim his bride as 
 the reward of his obedience. 
 
 The billet reached our recruit after a hot fatigu¬ 
 ing drill, dispirited by his own awkwardness, mad¬ 
 dened with camp jests on it, in short, just in a 
 mood to obey all except the sensible part of its in¬ 
 junctions. He waited impatiently for twilight, as, 
 in his soldier's garb, escape by day was impossible ; 
 and no sooner had the Ave Maria sounded, and the 
 watch been relieved on the ramparts of St. Angelo, 
 than he glided unperceived from his file amid the 
 retiring guard, and threading precipitately each 
 narrow vicolo between the Ponte Sisto, and the 
 
THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 4()5 
 
 Lateral!, gained the gate of St. John, and left the 
 Eternal city behind him. 
 
 The Campagna, as all who have actually seen it 
 know, is not, when viewed in detail, the unvarying 
 plain it is generally represented. On the contrary, 
 its surface is broken and diversified with endless 
 knolls and mounds ; some natural, but more the 
 shapeless relics of those endless suburban structures, 
 dignified, no one knows why, with the venerable 
 name o £ Roma Antica. Behind and between these, 
 a greater body than a single deserter, might find 
 abundant lurking places ; and Gaetano, not pro¬ 
 bably missed from his quarters till morning, clear¬ 
 ed the flat country unmolested and unpursued. 
 But pursuit was equally certain and formidable ; 
 for I Francesi , whatever their other faults were, 
 had certainly not that of a letting grass grow at 
 their heels,” as deserters and brigands had already 
 begun to experience. So our fugitive struck as 
 soon as possible off the modern road to Naples, 
 and clambered up among the rock-perched villages, 
 marking the ancient Etruscan way. 
 
 In these he found all the sympathy which com¬ 
 mon hatred of foreign discipline could awaken; 
 
 and three long days of security having elapsed, 
 
 2 H 
 
466 THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 
 
 Gaetano, like the hare which, because snug in its 
 form, it sees nothing, imagines nobody can see it, 
 concluded himself forgotten, and marched boldly 
 forth on his way southward. To venture upon 
 Castel Gandolfo at present, had, to do him justice, 
 found no part of his original plan ; but the cross 
 road he was pursuing would bring him so tempt¬ 
 ingly within reach of it, that risk it he must, for a 
 glimpse of Lucia Anelli. His townsmen he was 
 sure would not betray him, and it was the last 
 place where French spies would think of looking 
 for him ; so onward he strode, gaily, whistling a 
 Saltarella, and half mad enough to dream of danc¬ 
 ing; one at nig;ht with Lucia. 
 
 The distant clatter of hoofs, an unusual sound 
 on the rugged and sequestered road he was travel¬ 
 ling, roused him to a sense of danger, acute in pro¬ 
 portion to his former security; and instinctively ap¬ 
 prehending pursuers in the unknown horsemen, he 
 hailed with transport the sight of a market-cart half- 
 filled with straw, and driven by his ancient ac¬ 
 quaintance and rival, farmer Giovanni M-. 
 
 There was no time for parley, the case spoke for 
 itself; nor did Gaetano, though ignorant of Gio¬ 
 vanni’s disinterested conduct as Lucia’s amanuensis, 
 
THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 4(>7 
 
 tor a moment suspect him of betraying even a rival, 
 to French gendarmes. In the twinkling of an eye, 
 he was deep embedded in the long maize straw, and 
 Giovanni stretched above him, as if half asleep, 
 with real Italian quickness, and well dissembled 
 apathy. 
 
 No clown of Italian comedy, ever received with 
 more genuine stolidity of aspect the inquiries of 
 Messieurs les Gendarmes after their refractory con¬ 
 script, than Giovanni; and what answer he chose 
 to give, he enveloped so mysteriously in the gergo 
 or patois of the mountains, that better linguists 
 than those of the great nation might have been at 
 fault. There was nothing (so the Gendarmes 
 opined) to be made of this sleepy-headed, unidead, 
 tongue-tied, peasant; so wheeling their horses with 
 an air of derision, they regained the high road, 
 leaving the two rivals jogging prosperously towards 
 the domicile of Giovanni, a few miles off, at Rocca 
 di Papa. 
 
 But this abode of peace and industry poor Giovan¬ 
 ni was never destined to reach. Ere Gaetano, (whom 
 his kind rival took care by his weight to keep in or¬ 
 der while danger of surprise from the soldiery re¬ 
 mained) could lift up his head to pour out his 
 
468 THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 
 
 thanks to one whom he began to think quite as 
 worthy of Lucia as himself, it was forcibly pushed 
 down again, as a fresh cause of alarm presented it¬ 
 self in the appearance of a considerable party of 
 brigands, whom the vicinity of the gendarmes had 
 kept skulking half the day, till their departure left 
 the held open to a deed of meditated villany. 
 
 It is not often that Italians and equals have to 
 dread the predatory outrages of native robbers. But 
 Giovanni, alas ! was rich, and as such, an enemy 
 to brigands ; and he was known that very day to 
 have sold produce at a fair, to an amount which 
 made his plunder an object too tempting to be re¬ 
 sisted by those, whose foreign sources of rapine the 
 French had pretty well dried up. Poor Giovanni, 
 on the appearance of the party, had no fears but for 
 his comrade's detection, and prevented him so ef¬ 
 fectually from peeping out to see what was the mat¬ 
 ter, that the dagger of the leader (as he leant in 
 familiar converse against the side of the waggon,) 
 was buried in his own unsuspecting heart, ere one 
 movement could be made by Gaetano for his res¬ 
 cue. A deep groan from his generous protector, 
 and the muttered imprecations of the banditti, sav¬ 
 ed him the risk of fruitless exposure to ascertain 
 
THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 469 
 
 the catastrophe; nor could he now, single-handed, 
 against a dozen armed men, earn, even at any risk, 
 the present pleasure of avenging him. He lay 
 stiller therefore than ever, half afraid to breathe, 
 lest by scaring the robbers, he should miss the op¬ 
 portunity of consigning to justice, either now or 
 hereafter, the murderers of the kind-hearted Gio¬ 
 vanni. 
 
 The body, after being rudely pulled out of the 
 cart and rifled, was as rudely cast in again; and to 
 Gaetano’s secret joy, the plan agreed on by the rob¬ 
 bers, was to drive the waggon forward towards its 
 destination, consigning it to the first peasant they 
 should meet, with a cock-and-bull story of their 
 having found its owner, already murdered on the 
 road. 
 
 Before starting, they buried, in case of accidents, 
 the booty in a spot which Gaetano durst not raise 
 himself sufficiently to ascertain. But luckily the 
 captain, fond of dress, as brigands usually are, took 
 a fancy to a gay Paris handkerchief which had or¬ 
 namented the poor farmer’s vest for the fair ; and 
 snatching it rudely and yet blood-stained from his 
 neck, thrust it into his own bosom till a fitter op¬ 
 portunity for display. This manoeuvre, Gaetano 
 
470 THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 
 
 distinctly saw, and a providential peep it was, for 
 the purposes of justice. 
 
 The band now separated, but before their disper¬ 
 sion, drew lots who was to officiate as driver of the 
 abandoned waggon. The lot fell on the assassin, 
 (a vine-dresser of La Riccia) who, looking as if he 
 did not half like the job, sullenly exchanged his 
 gay captain's habit (carefully retaining the hand¬ 
 kerchief, however) for one of the coarse peasant 
 frocks which so often and conveniently transform a 
 nest of banditti into a set of peaceful ordinary-look¬ 
 ing peasantry. 
 
 The waggon at length set forward, and had not 
 proceeded far, when, to the almost equal horror of 
 the robber and Gaetano, their ears were saluted 
 with a wanton incautious shot from one of the dis¬ 
 persing band, meant probably as a signal to his 
 concealed wife, or expecting brood of robber imps, 
 but which the recent vicinity of the gendarmes ren¬ 
 dered little short of madness. 
 
 Their mutual forebodings, all uncommunicated 
 as they were, the event soon realized. The gend¬ 
 armes had lingered in the neighbourhood, with the 
 view of foraging for refreshments, at a cottage, with¬ 
 in hearing of the report. Powder, as French sol- 
 
THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 471 
 
 diers nationally reasoned, was not burnt for no¬ 
 thing ; so up they leaped in their saddles, and 
 throwing the old crone who had fed them (as sa¬ 
 vages propitiate demons through fear) more bajocchi 
 than she had ever seen in her life, galloped back 
 in the direction of the shot. 
 
 44 Sacre /” exclaimed the one who came up first, 
 in a tone of more subdued horror than had often 
 issued from his lips, 44 what have we here ? The 
 rustic was stupid enough, heaven knows, and ob¬ 
 stinate besides ; but that’s no reason why he should 
 be murdered in broad day, and with a French po¬ 
 lice in the country too. How came this about; 
 'tother clodpole, hey ? and tell us what hand you 
 had in it.” 
 
 44 Io !!!” ejaculated the really trembling robber, 
 throwing up his eyes as if he had never handled 
 stiletto in his life, 44 Madre di Dio !” (kissing an 
 image of the Virgin, which had got entangled 
 among the very folds of the bloody handkerchief) 
 44 / murder any one ! a countryman especially, 
 and a buon anima come quella .” 
 
 44 I don’t think his goodness would have much 
 share in hindering you,” muttered the gendarme, 
 44 nor your’s either. There’s mischief in your eye, 
 
472 the deserter of castel gandolfo. 
 
 in spite of your saints and images: give a better 
 account of yourself and this business, else, Ventre- 
 bleu , you must to the corps cle garde” 
 
 The wily assassin, now more on his guard, was 
 j ust beginning a tissue of elaborate falsehoods, when 
 Gaetano, unable even at the risk of his life to fore¬ 
 go avenging his preserver by denouncing his mur¬ 
 derer, started bolt upright among the straw, to the 
 equal astonishment of all parties ; and totally re¬ 
 gardless of his own jeopardy, detailed in animated 
 language, his obligations to the deceased, and his 
 instantaneous and cowardly murder by the assassin 
 now before them. The stamp of truth was too le¬ 
 gible on all he said to be doubted. Men do not 
 peril their lives on gratuitous falsehoods, and no 
 deserter was as yet known to have escaped, under 
 the inflexible French regime. 
 
 The murderer would have yet denied and equivo¬ 
 cated, but the handkerchief, the bloody trophy on 
 which reposed the profaned image of his heaven¬ 
 ly patroness—spoke volumes against him. So, 
 his hands safely tied behind him with that very 
 handkerchief, and bound down with the gladly 
 lent sashes of the two gendarmes, it was ere long 
 his turn to take in the cart the place of the tern- 
 
THE DESERTER OF CASTEL GANDOLFO. 4J3 
 
 porarily released Gaetano ; who, mounted behind 
 one of the friendly troopers, felt, in the conscious¬ 
 ness of honest feelings and disinterested conduct, a 
 lightness of spirit which his associates did their best 
 to sustain. 
 
 66 Courage l mon ami /” said one, “ si tu es fu¬ 
 sible , ce li'est pas grand chose !" “ Bah,'” cried the 
 other, 6i oufusillera plutot ce coquin de brigand , 
 ce sera tout de meme .” 
 
 But shot somehow Gaetano felt he should not 
 be, for Lucia he was sure would die, and nobody 
 could have a hand in any thing so dreadful. Luck¬ 
 ily for him, the commanding officer at La Riccia 
 was young and romantic; the gendarmes magni¬ 
 fied the few bold words of their prisoner into a bona 
 fide capture of the noted leader of banditti. Lucia 
 was sent for opportunely, to plead with the loveliest 
 black eyes that ever swam glittering in tears,—the 
 corps had fortunately marched without its recruit 
 on distant service—so, thanks to a kind Providence 
 —Gaetano was not shot, but married and instead 
 of a sad and sorry soldier, was allowed to become a 
 glad and grateful bridegroom. 
 
 FINIS.