THE WORKS OP D'ISEAELI THE YOUNGER IN ONE VOLUME. 'fni'^/ tfowTAiriya VIVIAN GREY. THE YOUNG DUKE, CONTiRlNI FLESIING, THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY, THE RISE OF ISKANDER, HENRIETTA TEJIFLE, AND VENETIA. PHILADELPHIA: JESPER HARDING. 18 50. t5^ ih VIVIAN GREY " Why then the woriff s mine oyster, )Miich I wiih sworJ will optii." VIVIAN GREl'. BOOK THE FIRST. CHAPTER I. THE COIfSULTATIOir. I AM not aware that the infancy of Vivian Groy was distinguished by any pxtraordinary incident. The solicitude of the most affectionate of mo- thers, and the care of the most attentive of nurses, did their best to injure an excellent constitu- tion. But Vivian was an only child, and these exertions were therefore excusable. For the first five years of his life. Master Vivian, with his curly locks and his fancy dress, was the pride of his own, and the envy of all neighbouring establish- ments ; but in process of time the hoiTible spirit of boyism began to develope itself, and Vivian not only would brush his hair "straight," and rebel agai-nst his nurse, but actually insisted upon being — breeched ! At this crisis it was discovered that he had been spoiled, and it was determined that he should be sent to school. Mr. Grey observed, also, that the child was nearly ten years old, and did not know his alphabet, and Mrs. Grey re- marked, that he was getting very ugly. The fate of Vivian was decided. " I am told, my dear," observed Mrs. Grey, one day after dinner to her husband, " I am told, my dear, that Dr. Flummery's would do very well for Vivian. Nothing can exceed the attention which is paid to the pupils. There are sixteen young I^Ues, all the daughters of clergymen, merely to atSend to the morals and the hnen — terms very moderate — one hundred guineas per annum, for all under six years of age, ayd few extras, only for fencing, pure milk, and the guitar. Mrs. Met- calfe has both her boys there, and she says their progress is astonishing, Percy Metcalfe, she as- sures me, was quite as backward as Vivian. Ah ! indeed, much backwarder; and so was Dudley Metcalfe, who was taught at home on the new system, by a pictorial alphabet, and who persisted to the last, notwithstanding all the exertions of Miss Barrett, in spelling A-P-E — monkey, merely because over the word there was a monster munch- ing an apple." •' And quite right in the child, my dear — Picto- rial alphabet ! — pictorial fool's head !" '• But what do you say to Flummery's, Grey 1" " My dear, do what you like. I never trouble myself, you know, about these matters ;" and Mr. Grey refreshed himself, after this domestic attack, witl^ a glass of claret. Mr. Grey was a gentleman who had succeeded, when die heat of youth was over, to the enjoy- ment of a life interest in an estate of about 2000/, per annum. He was a man of distinguished lite- rary abilities, and he had hailed with no slight pleasure, his succession to a fortune, which, though limited in its duration, was still a very great thing for a young litterateur about town ; not only with no profession, but with a mind utterly unfitted for every species of business. Grey, to the astonish- ment of his former friends, the wits, made an ex- cellent domestic match ; and, leaving the whole management of his household to his lady, felt himself as independent in his magnificent library, as if he had never ceased to be that true freeman, A MAX OF CHAMBEnS. The young Vivian had not, by the cares which fathers are always heirs to, yet reminded his pa- rent that boys were any thing else but playthings. The intercourse between father and son was, of course, extremely limited ; for Vivian was, as yet, the mother's child; Mr. Grey's parental duties being confined to giving his son a glass of claret per diem, pulling his ears with all the awkward- ness of literary aflection, and trusting to God " that the urchin would never scribble." " I won't go to school, mamma," bawled Vi- vian. " But you must, my love," answered Mrs. Grey; " all good boys go to school ;" and in the pleni- tude of a mother's love, she tried to make her off- spring's hair curl. " I won't have my hair curl, mamma ; the boys will laugh at me," reBawled the beauty. "Now, who could have told the child thatl" monologized mamma, with all a mamma's admira- tion. " Charles Appleyard told me so — his hair curled, and the boys called him girl. Pajja, give me some more claret — I won't go to school." CHAPTER n. PROGKESS. Three or four years passed over, and the mind of Vivian Grey most astonishingly developed itself. He had long ceased to wear frills, had broached the subject of boots three or four times, made a sad inroad during the holidays in Mf . Grey's afore- said bottle of claret, and was reported as having once sworn at the footman. The young gentle- man began also to hint, during every vacation, that the fellows at Flummery's were somewhat too small for his companionship, and (first bud of puppy- ism !) the former advocate of straight hair, now expended a portion of his infant income in tho purchase of Macassar oil, and began to cultivaia A 2 5 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. his curls. Mrs. Grey could not entertain for a moment, the idea of her son's associating with children, the eldest of whom (to adopt his own account) was not above eight j^ears old ; so Flummery's, it was determined, he should leave. But where to go ] Mr. Grey wished Eton, but his lady was one of those women whom nothing in the world can persuade that a public school is any thing else but a place where boys are roasted alive ; and so with tears, and taunts, and suppli- cations, the point of private education was con- ceded. As for Vivian himself, he was for Eton, and Winchester, and Harrow, and Westminster, all at once; the only point that he made was, " not Rugby, it was so devilish blackguard." At length it -was resolved that the only hope. should remain at home a season, until some plan should be devised for the cultivation of his pro- mising understanding. During this year, Vivian became a somewhat more constant intruder into the library than heretofore ; and living so much among books, he was insensibly attached to those silent companions, that speak so eloquently. How far the character of the parent may in- fluence the character of the child, I leave the me- taphysician to decide. Sure I am, that the cha- racter of Vivian Grey underwent, at this period of his life, a sensible, a prodigious change. Doubt- less, constant communion with a mind highly refined, severely cultivated, and much experienced, cannot but produce a most beneficial impression, even upon a mind formed, and upon principles developed : how infinitely greater must the in- fluence of such communion be upon a youthful heart, ardent, innocent, and inexperienced ! As Vivian was not to figure in the microcosm of a public school, a place for which, from his temper, he was almost better fitted than any young genius Avhom the " playing fields" of Eton, or " the lulls" cf Winton, can remember; there was some difficulty in fixing upon his future academus. Mr. Grey's two axioms were, first, that no one so young as his son should settle in the metropolis, and that Vivian must consequently not have a private tu- tor ; and, secondly, that all private schools were quite worthless ; and, therefore, there was eveiy probability of Vivian not receiving any education whatever. At length an exception to axiom second started up in the establishment of the Eeverend Everard Dallas. This gentleman was a clerg^mian of the church of England, a profound Grecian, and a poor man. He had edited the Alcestis. and mar- ried his laundress — lost money by his edition, and his fellowship by his match. In a few days, the hall of Mr. Grey's London mansion was filled with all sorts of portmanteaus, trunks, and travel- ling cases, directed in a boy's sprawling hand to " Vivian Grey, Esquire, at the Reverend Everard Dallas, Burnsley Vicarage, Hants." " God bless you, my boy ! write to your mother soon, and remember your journal." CHAPTER m. PRIVATE EDUCATION, The rumour of the arrival of " a new fellow," circulated with rapidity through the inmates of Burnsley Vicarage, and about fifty young devils were preparing to quiz the new-comer, when the school-room door opened, and Mr. Dallas, accom- panied by Vivian, entered. " A dandy, by Jove !" whispered St. Leger Smith. " What a knowing set out," squeaked Johnson se.rundus. "Mammy-sick," growled Bar- low primus. This last exclamation was, however, a most scandalous libel, for certainly no being ever stood in a pedagogue's presence with more perfect sang froid, and with a bolder front, than did, aw thi.'? moment, Vivian Grey. One principle in Mr. Dallas' regime, was always to introduce a new-comer in school hours. He was thus carried immediately in medias res, and the curiosity of his comates being in a great de- gree satisfied, at a time when that curio.sity could not personally annoy him, the new-comer was, of course, much better prepared to make his way, when the absence of the ruler became a signal yijr S07ne oral conversation with " the arrival." However, in the present instance the young savages at Burnsley Vicarage had caught a tartar ; and in a very few days Vivian Grey was decidedly the most popular fellow in the school. He was " so dashing ! so devilish good-tempered ! so com- pletely up to every thing !" The magnates of the land were certainly rather jealous of his success, but their very sneers bore witness to his popularity. " Cursed puppy," said St. Ledger Smith. " Thinks himself knowing," squeaked Johnson secundus. " Thinks himself witty," growled Barlow primus. Notwithstanding this cabal, days rolled on at Burnsley Vicarage only to witness the increase of Vivian's popularity. Although more deficient than most of his own age in accurate classical know- ledge, he found himself in talents and various ac- quirements immeasurably their superior. And sin- gular is it, that at school, distinction in such points is ten thou.sand times more admired by the multi- tude, than the most profound knowledge of Greek metres, or the most accurate acquaintance with the value of Roman coins. Vivian Grey's English verses, and Vivian Grey's English themes, were the subject of universal commendation. Some young lads made copies of these productions, to enrich, at the Christmas holidays, their sisters' albums ; while the whole school were scribbling etnbr3'o prize-poems, epics of tv\'enty lines on '"the ruins of Prestum, ' and " the temple of Minerva ;" " Agrigentum," and "the cascade of Terni." — I suppose that Vivian's productions at this time, would have been rejected by the commonest two- penny publication about town — yet they turned the brain of the whole school ; while fellows who were writing Latin dissertations, and (ireek odes which might have made the fortune of the Classi- cal Journal, were looked on by the multitude as as great dunderheads as themselves : — and such is the advantage which, even in this artificial world, every thing that is genuine has over every thing that is false and forced. The dunderheads who wrote " good Latin," and " Attic Greek," did it by a process, by means of which the youngest fellow in the school was conscious he could, if he chose, attain at the same perfection. Vivian Grey's verses were unlike any tiling which had yet ap- peared in the literary annals of Burnsley Vicarage, and that which was quite novel was naturally thought quite excellent. There is no place in the world where greater homage is paid to talent than at an English school. VIVIAN GRE ^. At a public school, indeed, if a youth of great talents is blessed with an amiable and generous disposition, he ought not to envy the minister of England. If any captain of Eton, or prefect of Winchester, is reading these pages, I would most earnestly entreat him dispassionately to consider, in what situation of Ufe he can rationally expect that it will be in his power to exercise such influ- ence, to have such opportunities of obliging others, and be so confident of an affedionute and grate- ful return. Ay, there's the rub ! — Bitter, bitter thought ! that gratitude should cease the moment we become men. And sure I am, that Vivian Grey was loved as ardently, and as faithfully, as you might expect from innocent young hearts. His slight accom- jjlishments were the standard of all perfection ; his sayings were the soul of all good fellowship ; and his opinion the guide in any crisis which occurred in the monotonous existence of the Uttle commonwealth. And time flew gayly on. One winter evening, as Vivian, with some of his particular cronies, was standing round the school-room fire, they began, as all schoolboys do when it grows rather dark, and they grow rather sentimental — to talk of home. " Twelve weeks more," said Augustus Etherege, " twelve weeks more, and we are free ! The glo- rious day shall be celebrated." " A feast, a feast," exclaimed Poynings. " A feast is but the work of a night," said Vivian Grey : " something more stirring for me ! What say you to private theatricals 1" The proposition was, of course, received with enthusiasm, and it was not until they had unani- mously agreed to act, that they universally remem- bered that acting was not allowed. And then they consulted whether they should ask Dallas, and then they remembered that Dallas had been asked fifty times, and then they " supposed thej' must give it up ;" and then Vivian Grey made a proposition which the rest were secretly sighing for, but which they were afraid to make them- selves — he proposed that they should act without asliing Dallas — " Well, then, we'll do it without asking him," said Vivian ; — " nothing is allowed in this life, and every thing is done : — in town there's a thing called the French play, and that's not allowed, yet my aunt has got a private box there. Trust me for acting — but what shall we perform 1" This question was, as usual, the fruitful source of jarring opinions. One proposed Othello, chiefly because it would be so easy to black a face with a burnt cork. Another was for Hamlet solely be- cause he wanted to act the ghost, which he pro- posed doing in white shorts and a night-cap. A third was for JuHus Gssar, because the murder scene " would be such fun." " No ! no !" said Vivian, tired at these various and varying proposals, " this will never do. Out upon tragedies ; let's have a comedy !" " A comedy I a comedy ! — ! how delightful I" CHAPTER IV. PRIVATE THEATRICALS. After an immense number of propositions, &nd an equal number of repetitions, Dr. Hoadley's bustling drama was fixed upon, Vivian was to act Ranger, Augustus Etherege was to personate Clarinda, because he was a fair boy and always blushing ; and the rest of the characters found able representatives. Every half-holiday was de- voted to rehearsals, and nothing could exceed the amusement and thorough fun which all the preparations elicited. Every thing went we]l-»- Vivian wrote a most pathetic prologue, and a most witty epilogue. Etherege got on capitally in the mask scene, and Poynings was quite perfect in Jack Meggot. There was, of course, some diffi- culty in keeping all things in order, but then Vivian Grey was such an excellent manager ! and then, with infinite tact, the said manager conci- liated the classiqucft, for he allowed St. Ledger Smith to select a Greek motto — from the Andro- mache, if I remember right — for the front of the theatre ; and Johnson secundus and Barlow pri- 7nus were complimented by being allowed to act the chairmen. But, alas ! in the midst of all this sunshine, the seeds of discord and dissension were fast flourish- ing. Mr. Dallas himself was always so absorbed in some freshly imported German commentator, that it was a fixed principle with him, never to trouble himself with any thing that concerned his pupils, " out of school-hours." The consequence Vi'as, that certain powers were necessarily delegated to a certain set of beings called Ushers. In t!ie necessity of employing this horrible race of human beings, consists, in a great measure, the curse of what is called, private education. Those, who, in all the fulness of parental love, guard their oflspring from the imagined horrors of a public school, forget that, in having recourse to " an aca- demy for young gentlemen," they are nccessarilij placing their children under the influence of black- guards ; it is of no use to mince the phrase — such is the case. And is not the contagion of these fellows' low habits and loose principles much more to be feared and shunned, than a system, in which, certainly, greater temptations are oflfered to an imprudent lad ; but under whose influence boys usually become gentlemanly in their habits and generous in their sentiments 1 The usherian rule had, however, always been com- paratively light at Burnsley Vicarage, fir the good Dallas, never for a moment intrusting the duties of tuition to a third person, engaged these deputies merely as a sort of police, to regulate the bodies, rather than the minds of his youthful subjects. One of the first principles of the new theory introduced into the establishment of Burnsley Vicarage by Mr. Vivian Grey, was, that the ushers were to be considered by the boys as a species of upper servants ; were to be treated with civility, certainly, as all servants are by gentlemen ; but that no further attention was to be paid them, and that any fellow voluntarily conversing with an usher, was to be cut dead by the whole school. This pleasant arrangement was no secret to those whom it most immediately concerned, and, of course, rendered Vivian rather a favourite with them. The men, who were sufficiently vulgars, had not the tact to conciliate the boy by a little attention, and were both, notwithstanding, too much afraid of his influence in the school to attack him openly ; so thev waited with that patience which insulted beings can alone endure. One of the.se creatures must not be forgotten D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. his name was Mallet ; he was a perfect specimen of the genuine usher. The monster wore a black coat and waistcoat ; the residue of his costume was of that mysterious colour known by the name of pepper-and-salt. He was a pallid wretch with a pug nose, white teeth, and marked with the small-pox ; and long, greasy, black hair ; and small, black, beady eyes. I'his demon watched the progress of the theatrical company with eyes gloating with vengeance. No attempt had been made to keep the fact of the rehearsal a secret from the police ; no objection on their part, had as yet been made ; the twelve weeks diminished to six ; Eanger had secretly ordered a dress from town, and was to get a steel handled sword from Fentum's for Jack Meggot ; and every thing was proceeding with unexpected success, when one morning as Mr. Dallas was apparently about to take his departure, with a volume of Becker's Thucydides under his arm, the respected dominie stopped, and thus harangued : " I am informed that a great deal is going on in this family, with which it is intended that I shall be unacquainted. It is not my intention to name any body or any thing at present ; but I must say that of late the temper of this family has sadly changed. Whether there be any seditious stranger among you or not, I shall not at present even endeavour to discover, but I will warn my old friends of their new ones:" and so saying, the dominie withdrew. All eyes were immediately fixed on Vivian, and tlie faces of the dassiqucs were triumphant with smiles ; those of the manager's particular friends, the romantiqiies, we may call them, were clouded ; but who shall describe the countenance of Mallet 1 In a moment the school broke up with an agitated and tumultuous uproar, " No stranger !" shouted St. Ledger Sniith ; " No stranger," vociferated a prepared gang, Vivian's friends wei-e silent, for they hesitated to accept for their leader the insult- ing title. Those who were neither Vivian's friends, nor in the secret, weak creatures who side always with the strongest, immediately swelled the insult- ing chorus of Mr. St. Ledger Smith. That worthy, emboldened by his success and the smiles of Mallet, contained himself no longer : " Down with the manager!" he cried. His satellites chorussed. But now Vivian rushed forward — " Mr. Smith, I thank you for being so definite ; — take that !" and he struck Smith with such force that the Cleon staggered and fell ; but Smith instantly recovered, and a ring was as instantly formed. To a com- mon observer, the combatants were most unequally matched ; for Smith was a burley, big-limbed animal, alike superior to Grey in years and strength. But Vivian, though delicate in frame, and more youthful, was full his match in spirit, and thanks to his being a cockney ! ten times his match in science. He had not built a white great-coat, nor drunk blue ruin at Ben Burns' for nothing. O ! how beautiful he fought ! how admirably straight he hit ; and his stops quick as lightning ! and his fulloivings up confounding his adversary with their painful celerity ! Smith, alike puzzled and punished, yet proud in his strength, hit round, and wild, and false, and foamed like a furious elephant. For ten successive rounds the result was dubious ; but in the eleventh the strength of Smith began to foil, and the men were more fairly matched. " Go it, Ranger ! — go it, Ranger !" hal- owed the Greyites. " No stranger ! — no stranger !" eagerly bawled the more numerous party. " Smith's floored, by Jove !" exclaimed Poynings, who was Grey's second, " At it again ! at it again !" ex claimed all. And now, when Smith must certainly have given in, suddenly stepped forward Mr. Mal- let, accompanied by Dallas ! " How, Mr. Grey ! No answer, sir ; I understand that yoxi have always an answer ready. I do not quote Scripture lightly, Mr. Grey ; but ' Take heed that you offend not, even with your tongue.' Now, sir, to your room." When Vivian Grey again joined his com- panions, he found himself almost universally shunned. Etherege and Poynings were the only individuals who met him with their former frank- ness. " A horrible row. Grey," said the latter. " After you went, the doctor harangued the whole school, and swears you have seduced and ruined us all : — every thing was happiness until you came, &c. Mallet is of course at the bottom of the whole business ; but what can we do 1 Dallas says you have the tongue of a serpent, and that he will not trust liimself to hear your defence. Infamous shame ! I swear ! And now, every fel- low has got a story against you : some say you are a dandy — others want to know, whether the next piece performed at your theatre will be ' the Stranger ,-' — as for myself and Etherege, we shall leave in a few weeks, and it does not signify to us ; but what the devil you're to do next half, by Jove, I can't say. — If I were you, I would not return." " Not return, eh 1 but that will I, though; and we shall see who, in future, can complain of the sweetness of my voice ! Ungrateful fools !" CHAPTER V. A NEW FRIEND, The vacation was over, and Vivian returned to Burnslcy Vicarage. He bowed cavalierly to Mr, Dallas on his arrival, and immediately sauntered up into the school-room, where he found a tolera- ble quantity of wretches, looking as miserable as schoolboys, who have left their pleasant homes, generally do for some four-and-twenty hours. "How jye do, Greyl" "How d'ye do, Greyl" burst from a knot of unhappy fellows, who would have felt quite dehghted, had their newly arrived comate condescended to entertain them, as usual, with some capital good story fresh from town. But they were disappointed, " We can make room for you at the fire, Grey," said Theophilus King. " I thank you, I am not cold." " I suppose you know that Poynings and Ethe- rege don't come back. Grey ?" " Everybody knew that last half:" and so he walked on. " Grey, Grey !" halloed King, " don't go in the dining-room ; Mallet's there alone, and told us not to disturb him. By Jove, the fellow's going in : there'll be a greater row this half, between Grey and Mallet, than ever." Days — the hea^'y first days of the half, rolled i on, and all the citizens of the little commonwealth had returned, " What a dull half this will be !" said Eardly, " how one misses Grey's set ! — After ail they kept VIVIAN GREY. me schoo alive. Poyningswas a first-rate fellow; and Etherege so deused good-natured ! I wonder whom Grey will crony with this half I Have yoii seen him and Dallas speak together yet T He cnt j the doctor quite dead at Greek to-day." \ " Why, Eardly ! Eardly ! there's Grey walking round playing fields with Mallet!" hallooed a sawney who was killing the half holiday by looking out of the window. " The devil ! I say, Mathews, whose flute is that ? It's a devilish handsome one !" " It's Grey's ! I clean it for him," squeaked a little boy. '' He gives me sixpence a week !" " 0, you sneak !" said one. " Gut him over !" said another. " Roast him !" cried a third. " Whom are you going to take the flute to ?" asked a fourth. " To Mallet," squeaked the little fellow ; " Grey lends his flute to Mallet every day." " Grey lend his flute to ]\Tallet ! the deuse he does ! So Grey and Mallet are going to crony .?" A wild exclamation burst forth from the little party; and away each of them ran to spread in all directions the astounding intelligence. If the rule of the ushers had hitherto been light at Burnsley Vicarage, its character was materially changed during this half year. The vexatious and tyrannical influence of Mallet was now experienced in all directions ; meeting and interfering with the comfort of the boys, in every possible manner. His malice accompanied too by a tact, which could not have been expected from his vulgar mind, and wliich, at the sanse time, could not have been pro- duced by the experience of one in his situation. It was quite evident to the whole community that his conduct was dictated by another mind, and that that mind was once versed in all the secrets of a schoolboy's life, and acquainted with all the worlungs of a schoolboy's mind: a species of knowledge wliich no pedagogue in the world ever yet attained. There was no difficulty in discover- ing whose was the power behind the throne. Vi- vian Grey was the perpetual companion of Mallet in his walks, and even in the school ; he shunned also the converse of every one of the boys, and did not affect to conceal that his quarrel was uni- versal. Superior power, exercised by a superior mind, was for a long time too much even for the united exertions of the whole school. If any one complained. Mallet's written answer (and such Dallas always required) was immediately ready, explaining every thing in the most .satisfactory manner, and refuting every complaint with the most triumphant spirit. Dallas, of course, supported his deputy, and was soon equally detested. This tjTanny had continued through a great part of the long half year, and the spirit of the school was almost broken, when a fresh outrage occurred, of such a. nature, that the nearly enslaved multitude conspired. The plot was admirably formed. On the first bell ringing for school, the door was to be imme- diately barred, to prevent the entrance of Dallas. Instant vengeance was then to be taken on Mallet and his companion — the sneak ! the spy J the traitor .' — The bell rang : the door was barred ; four stoat fellows seized on Mallet,; four rushed to Vivian Grey ; but stop ! he sprang upon his ie.ak, and, placing his back against the wall, held a pistol at the foremost ! " Not an inch nearer, Saiilh, or — I fire. Let me not, however, balk your ven« geance on yonder hound : If I could suggest any refinements in torture, they would be at your ser- vice." Vivian Grey smiled, while the horrid cries of Mallet indicated that the boys were " roasting'^ him. He then walked to the door, and admitted the barred-out dominie. Silence was restored. There was an explanation, and no defence : and Vivian Grey was — expelled. CHAPTER VI. THE crASSICS. VrviATf GnET was now seventeen ; and, the system of private education having so decidedly failed, it was resolved that he should spend the years antecedent to his going to Oxford at home. Nothing could be a greater failure than the first weeks of his '^course of study." He was per- petually violating the sanctity of the drawing-room by the presence of scapulas and hederics, and out- raging the propriety of morning visiters, by burst- ing into his mother's boudoir with lexicons and green slippers. " Vivian, my dear," said his father to him, " this will never do ; you must adopt some system for your studies, and some locality for your reading. Have a room to yourself; set apart certain hours in the day for your books, and allow no considera- tion on earth to influence you to violate their sacredness ; and above all, my dear boy, keep your papers in order. I find a dissertation on ' the commerce of Carthage,' stuck in my large paper copy of 'Dibdin's Decameron,' and an ' Essay on the Metaphysics of Music' (pray, my dear fellow, beware of magazine scribbling) cracking the back of Montfauccn's Monarchic." Vivian apologized, promised, protested, and final- ly sat down "to read." He had laid the first foundations of accurate classical knowledge under the tuition of the learned Dallas ; and twelve hours a day, and self-banishment from society, overcame, in twelve months, the ill effects of his imperfect education. The result of this extra- ordinary exertion may easily be conceived. At the end of twelve months, Vivian, like many other young enthusiasts, had discovered that all the wit and wisdom of the world were concentrated in some fifty antique volumes, and he treated the unlucky moderns with the most sulilime spirit of hauteur imaginable. A chorus in the Medea, that painted the radiant sky of Attica, disgusted him with the foggy atmosphere of Great Britain ; and while Mrs. Grey was meditating a sejour at Brighton, her son was dreaming of the gulf of Salarais. The spectre in the Persaj was his only model for a ghost, and the furies in the Agamem- non were his perfection of tragical machinery. Most ingenious and educated youths have fallen into the same error ; but few, I trust, have ever carried such feelings to the excess that Vivian Grey did ; for while his mind was daily becoming more enervated under the beautiful but baneful influence of classic kevkkie, the youth lighted upon Plato Wonderful is it, that while the whole soul (;f Vivian Grey seemed concentrated and wrapped up in the glorious pages of the Athenian — while with 10 ©'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. keen and almost inspired curiosity, he searched, and followed up, and meditated upon, the definite mj'stery, tlie indefinite developement, — while his spirit alternately bowed in trembling and in ad- miration, as he seemed to be listening to the secrets of the universe revealed in the glorious melodies of an immortal voice ; — wonderful is it, I say, that the writer, the study of whose works appeared to the young scholar, in the revelling of his enthu- siasm, to be the sole object for which man was born and had his being, was the cause by which Vivian Grey was saved from being all his life a dreaming scholar. Determined to spare no exertions, and to neg- lect no means, by which he might enter into the very penetralia of his mighty master's meaning, Vivian determined to attack the latter Platonists. These were a race of men with whom he was perfectly unacquainted, and of whose existence he knew merely by the references to their productions, which were sprinkled in the commentaries of his " best editions." In the pride of boyish learning, Vivian had limited his library to classics, and the proud leaders of the latter schools did not conse- quently grace his diminutive bookcase. In this dilemma he flew to his father, and confessed by his request that his favourites were not all-suffi- cient. " Father ! I wish to make myself master of the latter Platonists. I want Plotinus, and Porphyiy, and lamblichus, and Syrianus, and Maximus Ty- rius, and Proclus, and Hierocles, and Sallustius, and Damascius." Mc Grey stared at his son, and burst into a fit of laughter. " My dear Vivian ! are you quite convinced that the authors you ask for are all pure Plato- nists 1 or have not some of them placed the great end rather in practical than theoretic virtue, and thereby violated the first principles of your master, wliich would be very shocking ! Are you sure, too, that these gentlemen have actually ' withdrawn the sacred veil which covers from profane eyes the luminous spectacles V Are you quite convinced that every one of these worthies lived at least five hundred years after the great master ; for I need not tell so profound a Platonist as yourself, that it was not till that period that even glimpses of the great master's meaning were discovered. Strange ! that TIME should alike favour the philosophy of theorj', and the philosophy of facts. Mr. Vivian Grey, benefiting, I presume, by the lapse of further centuries, is about to complete the great work which Proclus and Porphyry commenced." " My dear sir, you are pleased to be very amus- ing this morning." " My dear boy ! I smile, but not with joy. Sit down, and let us have a little conversation to- gether : father and son, and father and son on such terms as we are, should really communicate oftener together than we do. It has been, perhaps, my fault ; it shall not be so again." " My dear sir !" " Nay, nay, it shall be my fault now. Whose it shall be m future, Vivian, time will show. My dear Vivian, you have now spent upwards of a year under this roof, and your conduct has been as correct as tlie most rigid parent might require. I have not wished to interfere with the progress of your mind, and I regret it. I have been negli- gent, but not wilfully so. I do regret it ; because, whatever may be your powers, Vivian, I at least have the advantage of experience. I see you smile at a word which I so often use. Well, well, were I to talk to you forever, you would not understand what I mean by that single word. The time will come, when you will deem that single word — eivry thing. Ardent young men in their closets, Vivian, too often fancy that they are peculiar be- ings ; and I have no reason to believe that you ar« an exception to the general rule. In passing one whole year of your life, as you have done, you doubtless imagine that you have been spending your hours in a manner which no others have done before. Trust me, my boy, thousands have done the same ; and what is of still more import- ance, thousads are doing, and will do the same. Take the advice of one who has committed as many, ay, more follies than yourself; but who would bless the hour that he had been a fool, if his experience might be of benefit to his beloved son." " My father !" "Nay, nay, don't agitate yourself; we are con- sulting together. Let us see what is to be done. Endeavour to discover, when you are alone, what are the chief objects of your existence in this world. I want you to take no theological dogmas for granted, nor to satisfy your doubts by ceasing to think ; but, whether we are in this world in a state of probation for another, or whether we cease altogether when we cease to breathe, human feel- ings tell me that we have some duties to perform, — to our fellow creatures — to our friends — to our- selves. Pray, tell me, my dear boy, what possible good your perusal of the latter Platonists can pro- duce to either of these three interests ] 1 trust that mi/ child is not one of those who look with a glazed eye on the welfare of their fellow-men ; and who would dream away a useless life by idle puzzles of the brain ; creatures who consider their existence as an unprofitable mystery, and yet are afraid to die. You will find Plotinus in the fourth shelf of the next room, Vivian. Good morning to you." CHAPTER Vir. THE CLASSICS. The communications between father and son after this day were very constant ; and for some weeks Vivian employed his time rather in con- versing with his father than with books. It must not he concealed (and when the fact is stated, it must not be conceived that Vivian's mind was a weak one) that his fixed principles became daily loosened, and that his opinions were very soofi considerably modified. He speedily began to dis- cover that there were classics in other languages besides Greek and Latin, and patient inquiry and dispassionate examination soon convinced him of the futility of that mass of insanity and imposture — the Greek philosophy. Introduced to that Tiand of noble spirits, the great poets, and legislators, and philosophers of modern Europe, the mind of Vivian Grey recovered, in a study of their immor- tal writings, a gteat portion of its original freshness and primal vigour. Nor in his new worship did he blaspheme against the former objects of his adoration. He likened the ancient and new litera- VIVIAN GREY. 11 (v.rcs to the two dispensations of Holj^ Writ : — t'.ic one arose to complete the other. ^Eschylus was to him not less divine, because Shakspearc was immortal ; nor did he deny the inspiration of llemosthenes because lie recognised in Burke the divine ojjlutus. The ancient literature, lost in corruption, degraded, and forgotten, ceased to be- nefit society ; the new literature arose. It hurled fi om " the high places," the idols of corrupt un- derstandings and perverted taste ; but while " it purified the altars of the Lord," while it com- manded our rc'verence and our gratitude, the new literature itself vailed to the first gray fathers of the human mind. CHAPTER VIII. Ix England, personal distinction is the only passport to the society of the great. Whether this distinction arise from fortune, family, or talent, is immaterial ; but certain it is, to enter into high society, a man must either have blood, a million, or a genius. Neither the fortune nor the family of Mr. Grey entitled him to mix in any other society than that of what is in common parlance termed the middling classes ; but from his distinguished literary abilities he had always found himself an honoured guest among the powerful and the great. It was for this reason that he had always been anxious that his son should be at home as little as possible ; for he feared for a youth the fascination of London society. Although busied with his studies, and professing •' not to visit," Vivian could not avoid occasionally finding himself in company in which buys should never be seen ; and what was still worse, from a certain esprit (It socicte, an inde- finable tact with which nature had endowed him, this boy of nineteen began to think this society very delightful. Most persons of his age would have passed through the ordeal with perfect safety : they would have entered certain rooms, at certain tiours, with stilT cravats, and nugee coats, and black velvet waistcoats ; and after having annoyed all those who condescended to know of their existence, with their red hands, and their white kid gloves, they would have retired to a corner of the room, and conversationlzed with any stray four-year- oldcr not yet sent to bed. But Vivian Grey was an elegant, lively lad, with just enough of dandyism to preserve him from committing gaiickeries, and with a devil of a tongue. All men, I am sure, will agree with me when I say, that the only rival to be feared b}-- a man of spirit is — a clever boy. What makes them so popular with the women, it is not for me to explain ; however. Lady Julia Knighton, and Mrs. Frank Delmington, and half a score of dames of fashion, (and some of them very pretty,) were always patronising our hero, who really found an evening spent in their company not altogether dull ; for there is no fascination so irresistible to a boy, as the smile of a married woman. Vivian had really passed such a recluse life for the last ^wo years and a half, that he had quite forgotten lUat he was once considered a very fascinating fellow ; and so, determined to discover what right he ever had to such a reputation. Master Vivian entered into all those amourettes in very beautiful style. But Vivian Grey was a young and tender plant in a moral hot-house. His character was develop- ing itself too soon. Although his evenings were now generally passed in the manner we have alluded to, this boy was, during the rest of the day, a hard and indefatigable student ; and having now got through an immense series of historical reading, he had stumbled upon a branch of study certainly the most delightful in the world, — but, for a boy, as certainly the most pernicious — tue study op POLITICS. And now every thing was solved ! the inexpli- cable longings of his soul, which had so often per- plexed him, were at length explained. The want, the indefinable want, which he had so constantly experienced, was at last supplied ; the great object on whicli to bring tlie powers of his mind to bear and work was at last provided. He paced his chamber in an agitated spirit, and panted for the senate. It will be asked, what was the cvW of all this ? and the reader will, perhaps, murmur something about an honourable spirit and youthful ambition. Ah I I once thought so myself — but the evil is too apparent. The time drew nigh for Vivian to leave for Oxford — that is, for him to commence his pre- paration for entering on his career in life. And now this person, who was about to be a pupil — ■ this boy, this stripling, who was going to begin his education, had all the feelings of a matured mind — of an experienced man ; was already a cunning reader of human hearts ; and felt conscious, from experience, that his was a tongue which was born to guide humaru beings. The idea of Oxford to such an individual was an insult ! CHAPTER IX. THE NEW THEOHT. I MUST endeavour to trace, if possible, more accurately the workings of Vivian Grey's mind at this period of his existence. In the plenitude of his ambition, he stopped one day to inquire in what manner he could obtain his magnificent ends. "The rah — pooh! law and bad jokes till we are forty ; and then, with the most brilliant success, the prospect of gout and a coronet. Besides, to succeed as an advocate, I must be a great lawyer, and to be a great lawyer I must give up my chance of being a great man. The seiivices in war time are fit only for desperadoes, (and that truly am I,) but, in peace, are fit only for fools. The cuuRcir is more rational. Let me see; I should certainly like to act Wolsey ; but the thousand and one chances against me ! And truly I feel my destiny should not be on a chance. Were I the son of a millionaire, or a noble, I might have all. Curse on my lot ! that the want of a few rascal counters, and the possession of a little rascal blood, should mar my fortunes !" Such was the general tenor of Vivian's thoughts, until, musing himself almost into madness, he at last made, as he conceived, the grand discotert. " Riches are power, says the economist : — and is not intellect? asks the philcsopher. And vei. u D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. while the influence of the millionaire is instantly felt in all classes of society, how is it that ' noble mind' so often leaves us unknown and unhonoured 1 Why have there been statesmen who have never ruled, and heroes who have never conquered 1 Why have glorious philosophers died in a garret 1 and why have there been poets whose only ad- mirer has been nature in her echoes ! It must be that these beings have thought only of themselves, and, constant and elaborate students of their own glorious natures, have forgotten or disdained the study of all others. Yes ; we must mix with the herd ; we must enter into their feelings ; we must humour their weaknesses ; we must sympathize with the sorrows that we do not feel ; and share the merriment of fools. 0, yes ! to rule men, we must be men ; to prove that we are strong, we must be weak; to prove that we are giants, we must be dwarfs* even as the eastern genie was hid in the charmed bottle. Our wisdom must be concealed under folly, and our constancy under caprice. " I have been often struck by the ancient talcs of Jupiter's visits to the earth. In these fanciful adventures, the god bore no indication of the thunderer's glory ; but was a man of low estate, a herdsman, or other hind ; and often even an animal. A mighty spirit has in tradition, time's great moralist, perused ' the wisdom of the an- cients.' Even in the same spirit, I would explain .love's terrestrial visitings. For to govern man, even the god appeared to feel as a man ; and sometimes, as a beast, was apparently influenced by their vilest passions. Mankind, then, is my great game. " At this moment how many a powerful noble wants only wit to be a minister-, and what wants Vivian Grey to attain the same end ? That noble's influence. When two persons can so materially assist each other, why are they not brought together ? Shall I, because my birth balks my fancy — shall I pass my life a moping misan- thrope in an old chateau I Supposing I am in contact with this magnifico, am I prepared 1 Now let me probe my very soul. Does my cheek blanch 1 I have the mind for the conception ; and I can perform right skilfully upon the most splendid of musical instruments — the human voice — to make those conceptions beloved by others. There wants but one thing more — courage, pure, perfect courage ; — and does Vivian Grey know fear ]" He laughed an answer of bitterest derision. CHAPTER X. A LOUNGE. Is any one surprised that Vivian Grey, with a mind teeming with such feelings, should view the approach of the season for his departure to Oxford, with sentiments of thorough disgust ? After many hours of bitter meditation, he sought his father ; he made him acquainted with his feelings, but concealed from him his actual views, and dwelt on the misery of being thrown back in life, at a period when society seemed instinct with a spirit peculiarly active, and when so many openings were daily offered to the adventurous and the bold. " Vivian," said Mr. Grey, " beware of endea- vouring to be a great man in a hurry. One such attempt in ten thousand may succeed : these ara fearful odds. Admirer as you are of Lord Bacon, you may perhaps remember a certain parable of his, called ' Memnon, or a youth too forward. I hope you are not going to be one of those sons of Aurora, ' who, puffed up with the glittering show of vanity and ostentation, attempt actions above their strength.' "You talk to me about the peculiarly active spirit of society : if the spirit of society be so peculiarly active, Mr. Vivian Grey should beware lest it outstrip him. Is neglecting to mature your mind, my boy, exactly the way to win the race 1 This is an age of unsettled opinions and contested principles : — in the very measures of our adminis- tration, the speculative spirit of the present day is, to say the least, not impalpable. Nay, don't start, my dear fellow, and look the very prosopopeia of political economy ! I know exactly what you're going to say ; but if you please we'll leave Turgot and Galileo to Mr. Canning and the House of Commons, or your cousin Hargrave and his de- bating society. However, jesting apart, get your hat, and walk with me as far as Evan's ; where I have promised to look in, to see the Mazarin Bible, and we'll talk this affair over as we go along. " I am no bigot, you know, Vivian. I am not one of those who wish to oppose the application of refined philosophy to the common business of life. We are, I hope, an improving race ; there is room, I am sure, for great improvement, and the perfectibility of man is certainly a very pretty dream. (How well that Union Club House comea out now, since they have made the opening.) But, although we may have steam kitchens, human na- ture is, I imagine, much the same this moment that we are walking in Pali-Mall East, as it was some thousands of years ago, when as wise men were walking on the banks of the Ilyssus. When our moral powers increase in proportion to our physical ones, then huzza for the perfectibility of man ! and respectable, idle loungers, like you and I, Vivian, may then have a chance of walking in the streets of London without having their heels trodden upon ; a ceremony which I have this moment undergone. In the present day we aro all studying science, and none of us are studying ourselves. This is not exactly the Socratic pro- cess; and as for the yvcuSi o-imtov of the more ancient Athenian, that principle is quite out of fashion in the nineteenth century. (I believe that's the phrase.) Self is the only person whom we know nothing about. " But, my dear Vivian, as to the immediate point of our consideration : — In my libraiy, unin- fluenced and uncontrolled by passion or by party, I cannot but see that it is utterly impossible that all that we arc wishing and striving for can take place, without some — without much evil. In ten years' time, perhaps, or less, the fever will have subsided, and in ten years' time, or less, your intel- lect will be matured. Now, my good sir, instead of talking about the active spirit of the age, and the opportunities offered to the adventurous and the bold, ought you not rather to congratulate yourself, that a great change is being effected, at a period of your life when you need not, individu- ally, be subjected to the possibihty of being injured by its operation ; and when you are preparing VIVIAN GREY. 13 vour mind to take advantage of the system, when that system is matured and organized 1 " As to your request, it assuredly is one of the most modest, and the most rational, that I have lately been favoured with. Although I would much rather that any influence that I may exercise over your mind, should be the effect of my advice as vour friend, than of my authority as your father ; til! I really feel it my duty, parentally, to protest gainst this very crude proposition of yours. However, if you choose to lose a term or two, do. Don't blame me, you know, if afterwards you repent it." Here dashed b)"- the gorgeous equipage of Mrs. Ormolu, the wife of a man who was working all the gold and silver mines in Christendom. " Ah ! my dear Vivian," said Mr. Grey, " it is this w^hich has turned all your brains. In this age every one is striving to make an immense fortune, and what is more terrific, at the same time, a speedy one. This thirst for sudden wealth it is, which engen- ders the extravagant conceptions, and fosters that wild spirit of speculation which is now stalking abroad; and which like the dremon in Franken- stein, not only fearfully wanders over the whole wide face of nature, but grins in the imagined solitude of our secret chambers. O ! my son, it is for the young men of the present day that I tremble — seduced by a temporary success of a few children of fortune, I have observed that their minds il-coil from the prospects which are held forth by the ordinary, and, mark me — by the only modes of acquiring property — fair trade, and honourable professions. It is for you and your companions that I fear. God grant ! that there may not be a moral as well as political disorganization ! God grant ! that our youth, the hope of our state, may not be lost to us ! For, ! my son, the wisest has said — ' He that maketh haste to be rich, shall not be innocent.' Let us step into Clark's and take an ice." BOOK THE SECOND. CHAPTER I. THE MARaUESS OF CAKABAS. The Marquess of Carabas started in life as the cadet of a noble family. The earl, his father, like the woodman in the fairy tale, was blessed with tree sons — the first was an idiot, and was destined for the coronet ; the second was a man of business, and was educated for the commons ; the third was a roue, and was shipped to the colonies. The present marquess, then the Honourable Sidney Lorraine, prospered in his political career. He was semle and pompous, and indefatigable, and talkative — so whispered the world : — his friends hailed him as at once, a courtier and a sage, a man of business, and an orator. After revelling in his fair proportion of commissionerships, and under secretaryships, and the rest of the milk and honey of the political Canaan, the apex of the pyramid of his ambition was at length visible, for Sidney Lorraine became president of a board, and wriggled into the adylum of the cabinet At this moment his idiot brother died. To compensate for his loss of office, and to secure his vote, the Earl of Carabas was promoted in the peerage, and was presented with some magnificent office — meaning nothing, swelling with dignity, and void of duties. As years rolled on, \arious changes took place in the administration, of which his lordship was once a component part ; and the ministry, to their suq^rise, getting popular, found ' that the command of the Carabas interest was not of such vital importance to them as hereto- fore, and so his lordsiiip was voted a bore, and got j' shelved. Not that his lordship was bereaved of ^ his splendid office, or that any thing occurred, indeed, by which the uninitialed might have been led to su[)pose that the beams of his lordship's consequence were shorn ; but the marquess's secret applications at the treasury were no longer listened to ; and pert under secretaries settled their cravats, and whispered " that the Carabas interest was gone by." The most noble marquess was not insensible to his situation, for he was what the world calls ambitious ,■ but the vigour of his faculties had vanished beneath the united influence of years and indolence and ill-humour ; for his lordship, to avoid ennui, had quarrelled with his son, and then having lost his only friend, had quarrelled with himself. Such was the distinguished individual who graced, one day at the latter end of, the season of . 18' — , the classic board of Horace Grey, Esquire. The reader will, perhaps, be astonished, that such a man as his lordship, should be the guest of such a man as our hero's father; but the truth is, the Marquess of Carabas had just been disappointed in an attempt on the chair of the president of the Royal Society ; which, for want of something better to do, he was ambitious of filling, and this was a conciliatory visit to one of the most distin- guished members of that body, and one who had voted against him with particular enthusiasm. The marquess, still a politician, was now as he imagined, securing his host's vote for a future St. George's day. The cuisine of Mr. Grey was superbe ; for although an enthusiastic advocate for the culti- vation of the mind, he was an equally ardent supporter of the cultivation of the body. Indeed, the necessary dependence of the sanity of the one on the good keeping of the other, was one of his most favourite theories, and one which this day he was supporting with very pleasant and facetious reasonings. His lordship was delighted with his new friend, and still more delighted with his new friend's theory. The marquess himself was, in- deed, quite of the same opinion as Mr. Grey ; for he never made a speech without previously taking a sandwich, and would have sunk under the esti- mates a thousand times, had it not been for the juicy friendship of the fruit of Portugal. The guests were not numerous. A regius professor of Greek ; an officer just escaped from Soekatoo ; a man of science, and two M. P.s, with his lordship, the host, and Mr. Vivian Grey, constituted the party. O, no ! there were two others. There was a Mr. John Brown, a fashion- able poet, and who, ashamed of his own name, published his melodies under the more euphonious and romantic title of " Clarence Devonshire," and there was a Mr. Thomas Smith, a fashionable 14 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. novelist ; that is to say, a person who occasionally publishes three volumes, one half of which contain the adventures of a young gentleman in the country ; and the other volume and a half the adventures of the same young gentleman in tlie metropolis ; — a sort of writer, whose constant tattle about beer and billiards, and eating soup, and the horribility of "committing" puns, gives truly a most admirable and accurate idea of the conver- fiation of the refined society of the refined metro- polis of Great Britain. These two last gentlemen were "pets" of Mrs. Grey. The conver.sation may be conceived. Each per- son was of course prepared with a certain quota of information, without which no name in London is morally entitled to dine out ; and when the quota was expended, the amiable host took the burden upon his own shoulders, and endeavoured, as the phrase goes, " to draw out" his guests. O, London dinners ! empty artificial nothings ! and that beings can be found, and those too the flower of the land, who, day after day and day after day, can act the same parts in the same dull, dreary farce ! The officer had discoursed sufficiently about ' his intimate friend, the Soudan," and about the chain armour of the Sockatoo cuirassiers; and one of the M. P.s, who was in the guards, had been defeated in a ridiculous attempt to prove, that the reast-platcs of the household troops of Great Britain were superior to those of the household troops of Timtomtamtomtoo. Mrs. Grey, to whose opinion both parties deferred, gave it in favour of the Soudan. And the man of science had lec- tured about a machine which might destroy fifteen square feet of human beings in a second, and yet be carried in the waistcoat pocket. And the clas- slque, who, for a professor, was quite a man of the world, had the latest news of the new Herculaneum process, and was of opinion that, if they could but succeed in unrolling a certain suspicious-look- ing scroll, we might be so fortunate as to possess a minute treatise on &;c., &c. In short, all had said their say. There was a dead pause, and Mrs. Grey looked at her husband and rose. How singular it is, that when this move takes place every one appears to be relieved, and yet every one of any experience, must be aware that the dead lore work is only about to commence. Howbeit, all filled their glasses, and the peer at the top of the table, began to talk politics. I am sure that I cannot tell what the weighty subject was that was broached by the ex-minister ; for I did not dine with Grey that day ; and had I done so, I should have been equally ignorant; for I'm a dull man, and always sleep at dinner. However the subject was political, the claret flew round, and a stormy argument commenced. The mar- quess was decidedly wrong, and was sadly bad- gered by the civil M. P. and the professor. The host, who was of no party, supported his guest as long as possible, and then left him to his fate. The military M. I', fled to the drawing-room to philander with Mrs. Grey ; and the man of science and the African had already retired to the intellec- tual idiotism of a May fair " at home." The no- velist was silent, for he was studying a scene — and the poet was absent, for he was musing a Bonnet. The marquess refuted, liad recourse to contra- diction, and was too acute a man to be insensible to the forlornness of his situation ; when, at this moment, a voice proceeded from the end of thn table, from a young gentleman, who had hitherto preserved a profound silence, but whose silence, if the company were to have judged from the tones of his voice, and the matter of his com- munication, did not altogether proceed from a want of confidence in his own abilities. " In my opinion," said Mr. Vivian Grey, as he sat lounging in his father's vacated seat — " in my opinion, his lordship has been misunderstood ; and it is, as is generally the case, from a slight verbal misconcep- tion in the commencement of this argument, that the whole of this diflerence arises." The eyes of the marquess sparkled — and the mouth of the marquess was closed. He was de- lighted that his reputation might yet be saved ; but as he was not perfectly acquainted how that salvation was to be effected, he prudently left the battle to his youthful companion. Mr. Vivian Grey proceeded with the utmost saw* froid : he commented upon expressions, split and subtilized words, insinuated opinions, and finally quoted a whole passage of Bolingbroke to prove that the opinion of the most noble the Marquess of Carabas was one of the soundest, wisest, and most convincing of opmions that ever was promulgated by mortal man. The tables were turned, the guests looked astounded, the marquess settled his ruflles, and perpetually exclaimed, " Exactly what I meant !" and his opponents, full of wine and quite puzzled, gave up. It was a rule with Vivian Grey, never to ad- vance any opinion as his own. He had been too deep a student of human nature, not to be aware that the opinions of a boy of twenty, however sound, and however correct, stood- but a poor chance of being adopted by his elder, though feebler, fellow-creatures. In attaining any end, it was therefore his system always to advance his opinion as that of some eminent and considerable personage ; and when, under the sanction of this name, the opinion or advice was entertained and listened to, Vivian Grey had no fear that he could prove its correctness and its expediency. He possessed also the singular faculty of being able to improvise quotations, that is, he could unpre- meditatedly clothe his conceptions in language characteristic of the style of any particular au- thor ; and Vivian Grey was reputed in the world as having the most astonishing memory that' ever existed ; for there was scarcely a subject of dis- cussion in which he did not gain the victory, by the great names he enlisted on his side of the ar- gument. His father was aware of the existence of this dangerous faculty, and had often remon- strated with his son on the use of it. On the present occasion, when the buzz had somewhat subsided, Mr. Grey looked smiling to his son, and said : " Vivian, my dear, can you tell me in what work of Bolingbroke I can find the eloquent pas- sage you have just quoted V — " Ask Mr. Hargravc, sir," replied the son, with the most perfect cool- ness ; then turning to the member : " You know, Mr. Hargrave, you are reputed the most profound political student in the House, and more intimately acquainted than any other person with the worka of Bolingbroke." Mr. Hargrave knew no such thing ; — but he was a weak man, and seduced by the compliment, he was afraid to prove himself unworthy of it by confessing his ignorance of the passage. VI V IAN GRE V. finished, I'll first give orders that we may not be disturbed ! and then we'll proceed immediately. Come, now, your manner takes me, and we will converse in the spirit of the most perfect confi- dence." Here as the marquess settled at the same time liis chair and his countenance, and looked as anx- ious as if majesty itself was consulting him on the formation of a ministry, in burst the marchioness, notwithstanding all the remonstrances, entreaties, threats, and supplications of Mr. Sadler. Her ladyship had been what they style a !are for crowds of visiters to-day. There are the Amer- shams, and Lord Alhambra, and Earnest Clay, and twenty other young heroes, who, duly informed that the Miss Courtowns were honouring us with their presence, are pouring in from all cjuarters — Isn't it so, Juliana 1" gallantly asked the marquess of Miss Courtown : " but who do you think is coming besides 1" " Who, whoT' exclaimed all. " Nay, you all guess," said the peer. "The Duke of Waterloo 1" guessed Cynthia Courtown, the romp. " Prince Hungary 1" asked her sister Laura. "Is it a gentleman]" asked Mrs. Felix Lor- raine. " No, no, you're all wrong, and all very stupid. It's Mrs. Million." " 0, how delightful," said Cynthia. " O, how annoying !" said the marchioness. " Y'ou need not look so agitated, my love," said the marquess ; " I have written to Mrs. Million, to say that we shall be most happy to see her ; but, as the castle is very full, she must not come with fifty carriages and four, as she did last year." " And will Mrs. Million dine with us in the hall, marquess!" asked Cynthia Courtown. "Mrs. Million will do what she likes; I only know that I shall dine in the hall, whatever hap- pens, and whoever comes ; and so, I suppose, will Miss Cynthia Courtown." Vivian rode out alone immediately after break- fast, to cure his melancholy by a hard gallop. He left his horse to choose his own road ; and, at length, he found himself plunged in a cornfield. " Hallo, sir I beg pardon ; but your horse's feet will do no good to that standing corn ; for when there's plenty of roads to ride over — my maxim ib keep out of enclosures." Vivian turned round, and recognised a friend in the person of a substantial and neighbouring farmer. Daniel Groves, or as he was commonly called, Mr. Groves, was one of those singular personages, whose eccentricities procure them, from all the sur- rounding neighbourhood, the reputation of being " quite a character." Daniel was a stout built, athletic man, with a fine florid countenance, and a few gray hairs straggling over his forehead, and beautifully C(jntrasting with his carnationed com- plexion. His hazel eyes were veiy small, but thev twinkled with perpetual action. A turncd-up nose gave his countenance a somewhat conceited ex- pression ; and as he was in the habit of being co?2- sulted by the whole country, this expression b« C 26 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. came so habitual, that Mr. Groves always looked as if he himself quite agreed with the general opi- nion — that he was " one of the most long-headed fellows in these parts," an.! " quite a character." Daniel was not only opulent, hut flourishing ; but lie was not above attending to all the details of his farm, though frequently admitted to the tables of the principal neighbouring gentry. Eut by this time Mister Groves, with a particu- larly large pet pitchfork over one shoulder, and a handful of corn in the other hand, with which he occasionally nourished his ample frame in his toil- some march over the stubble, has reached the tres- pa-*ser. " What ! is it you, Mr. Grey 1 who thought of seeing you here 1" " O Mr. Groves, I wasn't aware I was trespass- ing on your corn." '• O ! no matter, no matter, friends are always welcome, that's my maxim. But if you could keep a itctle nearer to the hedge." " O ! I'll come out immediately. Which way are you going 1 I've been thinking of calling on you." " Well now, do, sir ; ride home with me and take a bit of something to cat. My mistress will be remarkable glad to see you. There's some nice cold pickled pork — we've an excellent cheese in cut ; and a fine barrel of ale in broach as you ever tasted.'* " Why, Groves ! really I can't turn back to-day ; for I want to look in at Conyers's, and ask him about that trout stream." " Well, sir, I'm sorry you're so pushed, but I do wish you'd come in some day quite promiscuous. You said you would, for I want your opinion of some port wine I'm going to take with a friend." " So I will with the greatest pleasure, but I'm not at all a good judge of port, it's too heavy for nic ; I'd sooner taste your ale." " Ah ! it's the fashion of you young squires to cry down port wine, but depend upon't it's the real stuff. We never should have beat the French, if it hadn't been for their poor sour wines. That's my maxim." " Shall you dine at the chateau to-day V " Why you see the marquess makes such a point of it, that I can't well be off. And the country should be kept together sometimes. — That's the ground I go upon." "01 do come — you must come — we can't do without you ; it's nothing without you. Groves." " Well, really, you're very good to say so, so I can't say but what I will ; but I hope there'll he something to eat and drink, which I know the name of, for the last time I 'tended there, there was nothing hut kickshaws ; my stomach's not used to such Frenchified messes, and I was altogether «o- /lou-ish by the time I got home. I said to my mistress, ' really,' says I, ' I don't know what's the matter with me, but my stomach's going remark- al)le wrong ;' so she advised me to take a good stiff glass of brandy and water, while she got a couple of ducks roasted for supper, for pease were just in ; sure enough that's all I wanted, for I slept well after it, and got up quite my own man again. There's nothing like a glass of brandy and water, cold, without sugar, when you're out of sorts. That's my maxim." " And a very good maxim too, Mr. Groves. I wish I could get you- one of these mornings to look at a horse for me." " I shall be very glad. The one you're on seem." rather weak in the fore legs : I should blister him, if he belonged to me. But as to getting you a horse, why, it's the wrong time of the year ; and I'm so remarkably pushed on that point, that I hardly know what to say, but still I always like to do a good turn for a friend, that's my maxim, so I can't say but what I'll see about it. There's Harry Mountcney now, he wants me to ride over to Woodbury, to look at a brown mare ; Stapylton Toad too, he says he's never satisfied without my opinion, though he generally takes his own in the ( long run. Ah ! those Londoners kn.'W nothing about horseflesh. Well, any day you'll call, I'm your man." " Well, thank you, thank you, I shall keep you to your promise." " Well sir ! good morning, pleasant ride to you. You'll keep to the roads, I'm sure, till harvest's in : though they mayn't be over good for a carriage, they're very fair for a bridle. That's the ground I stand upon." As Vivian was returning home, he intended to look in at a pretty cottage near the park, where lived one John Conyers, an honest husbandman, and a great friend of Vivian's. This man had, about a fortnight ago, been of essential service to our hero, when a vicious horse, which he was en- deavouring to cure of some ugly tricks, had nearly terminated his mortal career. " Why are you crying so, my boy ?" asked Vivian of a littleConyers, who was sobbing bitterly at the cottage door. He was answered only with desperate sobs. " Is your father at home V " 'tis your honour !" said a decent-looking woman, who came out of the cottage, " I thought they had come back again." J '• Come back again ! why, what's the matter, I darnel" " ! your honour, we're in sad distress ; there's been a seizure this morning, and I'm mortal fear'd the good man's beside himself!" " Good heavens ! why didn't you come to the castle 1 The marquess surely never gave orders for the infliction of this misery." " 0, your honour, we a'n't his lordship's tenants no longer; there's been a change for Purley Mead, and now we're Lord Mounteney's people. John Conyers has been behindhand ever since he had the fever, but Mr. Sedgwick always gave time, but Lord Mounteney's gemman says the system's bad, and so he'll put an end to it ; and so all's gone, your honour, all's gone, and I'm mortal fear'd the good man's beside himself." " And who's Lord Mounteney's man of busi- ness 1" " Mr. Stapylton Toad," sobbed the good dame. " Here, boy, leave off crying, and hold my horse. ; keep your hold tight, but give him rein, he'll be quiet enough then. 111 see honest John, dame (Jonyers." " I'm sure your honour's very kind, but I'm mortal fear'd the good man's beside himself, and he's apt to do very violent things when the tit's on him. He hasn't been so bad since young Barton behaved so wickedly to his sister." " Never mind ! I'll see hnn; there's nothing like a friend's face in the hour of sorrow." " I wouldn't advise your honour," said the good dame, with a fearful expression of countenance • " it's an awful hour when the fit's on him ; ae VIVIAN GREY. 27 tnows not friend or foe, and scarcely seems to know me, your honour." " Never mind, never mind, I'll see him." Vivian entered the cottage — but ! the scene of desolation, who shall describe 1 The room was entirely stripped, literally, of every thing ; there was nothing left, save the bare white-washed walls, and the red tiled flooring. The room was darkened ; and seated on an old block of wood, which had been pulled out of the orchard since the bailiff had left, was John Conyers. The fire was out, but his feet were still among the ashes. His head was buried in his hands, and bowed down nearly to his knees. The eldest girl, a fine sensible child of about thirteen, was sitting with two brothers on the floor, in a corner of the room, motionless, their faces grave and still as death, but tearless. Three young- children, of an age too tender to know grief, were acting unmeaning gambols near the door. " ! pray beware, your honour," earnestly whis- pered the poor dame, as she entered the cottage with the visiter. Vivian walked up with a silent step to the end of the room, where John Conyers was sitting. He remembered this litle room, when he thought it the very model of the abode of an English husbandman. The neat row of plates, and the well-scoured uten- sils, and the fine old Dutch clock, and the ancient and amusing ballad, purchased at some neighbour- ing fair, or of some itinerant bibliopole, and pinned against the wall — all, all were gone ! "John Conyers !" exclaimed Vivian. There was no answer, nor did the miserable man appear in the slightest degree to be sensible of Vi- vian's presence. " My good John Conyers !" The man raised his head from his restingplace, and turned to the spot whence the voice proceeded. There was such an unnatural fire in his eyes, that Vivian's spirit almost quailed. Any one but Vi- vian Grey would have fled the house. His alarm was not decreased when he perceived that the mas- ter of the cottage did not recognise him. The fear- ful stare was, however, short, and again the suffer- er's face was hid. The wife was advancing, but Vivian waved his hand to her to withdraw, and she accordingly fell into the background, but her fixed eye did not leave her husband for a second. "John Conyers, it is your friend, Mr, Vivian Gre)', who is here," said Vivian. " Grey !" moaned the husbandman, " Grey, who IS he!" " Your friend, John Conyers. Do you quite forget me?" said Vivian, advancing, and with a elieve. Sir Berdmore. ■ Mr. Vivian Grey has consequently better lungs than any of us, and he will, I make no doubt, do what I would, if I were o. his age, explain the whole business to us all ; and now, my lords and gentlemen, let us have a glass of Champagne." A great deal of " desultory conversation," as the reporters, style it, relative to the great topic of de- hate, now occurred ; and as the .subject was some- what dry, the Carabas Champagne suffered con- siderably. When the brains of the party were tolerably elevated, Vivian addressed them. The tenor of his oration may be imagined. He deve- loped the new political principles, demonstrated the mistake \mder the baneful influence of wliich they had so long suffered, promised them place, and power, and patronage, and personal consideration, if they would only act on the principles which he recommended in the most flowing language, and the most melodious voice, in which the glories of ambition were ever yet chaunted. There v\'as a buzz of admiration when the flattering music erased ; the marquess smiled triumphantly, as if to say, " Didn't I tell you he was a monstrous clever fellow?" and the whole business seemed settled. Lord Courtown gave in a bumper, " Mr. II vian Grey, sncceiis to his muiihn speech;" and Vivian dashed off a tumbler of Champagne to " the New Union,'' and certainly the whole party were in extreme good spirits. At last, Sir Berdmore, the coolest of them all, raised his voice : '■ He quite agreed with Mr. Grey in the principles which he had developed ; and, for his own part, he was free to confess that he had the most perfect confidence in that gentlem^an's very brilliant abili- ties, and augured from their exertion the most complete and triumphant success. At the same time, he felt it his duty to remark to their lord- ships, and also to that gentleman, that the House of Commons was a new scene to him ; and he put it whether thej' were quite convinced that they were sufficiently strong as regarded talent in that assembly. He could not take it upon himself to offer to become the leader of the party. Mr. Grey 7night be capable of undertaking that charge, but still, it must be remembered, that in that assembly he was as yet untried. He made no apology to Mr. Grey for speaking his mind so freely ; he was sure that his motives could not be misinterpreted. If their lordships, on the wliole, were of opinion that this charge should be intrusted to him, he. Sir Berdmore, having the greatest, confidence in Mr. Grey's abilities, would certainly support him to the utmost." "He can do any thing," shouted the marquess ; who was now quite tips}^. " He's a surprising clever man !" said Lord Courtown, " He's a surprising clover man !" echoed Lord fjcaconsfield. "Stop, my lords," burst forth Vivian, "your good opinion deserves my gratitude, but these im portant matters do indeed require a moment's con- sideration. I trust that Sir Bcrdmore Scrope does not imagine that I am the vain idiot to be offended at his most excellent remarks, even for a moment. Are we not met here for the common good — and to consult for the success of the common cause ! W^hatever my talents are, they are at your service — and in your service will I venture any thing ; hut, surely, my lords, you will not unnecessarily in- trust this great business to a raw hand ! I nee4l only aver that I am ready to fi)llow any leader, "Aho can play his great part in a becoming manner." " Noble !" hallooed the marquess ; who was now quite drunk. But who was the leader to be 7 Sir Berdmore frankly confessed that he had none to propose; and the viscount and the baron v^ere quite silent. " Gentlemen I" bawled the marquess, and his eye danced in his beaming face, "Gentlemen! there is a man who could do our bidding." The eyes of every guest were fixed on the haranguing hgst " Gentlemen, fdl your glasses — I give you our leader — Mr. Frederick Cleveland^" " Clevtiand !" was the universal shout. A glass of claret fell from JjOrd Courtown's hand ; Lord Beaconsfield stopped as he was about to fill liis glass, and stood gaping at the marquess, with the decanter in his hand ; and Sir Berdmore stared on the table, as men do when something unexpected and astounding has occuired at dinner, which seems past all their management. " Cleveland !" shouted the guests. " I should as soon have expected you to have given us Lucifer!" said Lord Courtown. " Or the present secretary !" said Lord Beacons- field. " Or yourself," said Sir Berdmore Scrope. " And does any one mean to insinuate that Frederick Cleveland is not capable of driving out every minister that has ever existed since the days of the deluge V demanded the marquess, with a fierce air. " VV^e do not deny Mr. Cleveland's powers, my lord ; we only humbly beg to suggest that it ap- pears to us, that, of all the persons in the world, the man with whom Mr. Cleveland would be least inclined to coalesce, would be the Marquess of Caralx^s." ' In spite of the Champagne, the marquess looked blank. " Gentlemen," said Vivian, " do not despair ; it's enough for me to know that there is a man who is capable of doing our work. Be he animate man, or incarnate fiend, provided he can be found within this realm, I pledge myself that within ten days he is drinking my noble friend's health at this very board." The marquess hallooed "Bravo!" — the rest laughed, and rose in confusion ; Lord Beaconsfield tell over a chair, and extricating himself with ad- mirable agility, got entangled with a dumb-waiter, which came tumbling down with a fearful crash of plates, bottles, knives, and decanters. 'J'he pledge was, however, accepted, and the marquess and Vivian were left alone. The worthy peer, though terrifically tipsy, seemed quite overcome by Vivian's oiler and engagement. " Vivian, my boy, you don't know what you've , done — you don't indeed — take care of yourself, VIVIAN GREY. my boy, — you're going to call on the devil, you are indeed — you're goins; to leave your card at the devil's. Didn't you hear what Lord Beaconsfjeld, a very worthy gentleman, but, between ourselves, a damned fool, that's enire nous though, entre nuus — I say didn't you hear Lord Beaconsfield, no, was it Lord Beaconsfiekn No, no, your memory, Vivian, 's very bad ; it was Lord Courtown : didn't }ou hear him say that Frederick Cleveland was Lucifer. — He is Lucifer;, he is, upon my honour — how shocking ! What times we live in ! To think of you, Vivian Grey ; you, a respectable young man, with a worthy and respectable father; to think of you leaving your card at — the devil's ! O! shocking! shocking! But never mind, ray dear fellow, never mind, don't lose heart — I'll tell you'what to do — talk to him, and, by Jove, if he doesn't make me an apology, I am not a cabinet minister. Good night, my dear fellow ; he's sure Id make an apology ; don't be frightened ; remember what I say, tulle to him ; — talk — tulkP So saying, the worthy marquess reeled and^ retired. " What have I done 1" thought Vivian ; ." I'm sxirc that Lucifer viay know, for I do not. This Cleveland is, I suppose, after all but a man. I saw the feeble fools were wavering ; and to save all made a leap in the dark. Well ! is my skull cracked 1 Nous verrons. How hot either this room or my blood is ! Come, for some fresh air ; (he opens the library window) how fresh and soft it Ls ! Just the night for the balcony. Ha! music! I cannot mistake that voice. Singular woman ! I'll just walk on, till I'm beneath her window." Vivian accordingly proceeded along the balcony, which extended down one whole side of the chateau. While he was looking at the moon he stumbled against some one. It was Colonel Del- mington. He apologized to the militaire for tread- ing on his toes, and wondered how the devil he got there ! BOOK THE THIRD. CHAPTER L A COLLEAGUl FnEnERicK Cleveland was educated at Eton and at Cambridge ; and after having proved, both at the school and the University, that he possessed talents of the first order, he had the courage, in order to perfect them, to immure himself for three years in a German University. It was impossible, therefore, for two minds to have been cultivated on more contrary systems, than those of Frederick Cleveland and Vivian Grey. The systems on v/hich they had been educated were not, however, more discordant than the respective tempers of the pupils. With that cf Vivian Grey the reader is now somewhat acquainted. It Jias been shown tliat he was one precociously*i6onvinced of the necessity of managing mankind by studying their tempers and humouring their weaknesses. Cleve- land turned from the book of nature with con- tempt; and although his was a mind of extraordinary acuteness, he was, at three-and-thirty, as ignorant of the workings of the human heart, as when, in ihe innocence of boyhood, he first reached Eton. The inaptitude of his nature to consult the feelings, or adopt the sentiments of others, was visible in his slightest actions. He was the only man who ever passed three years in Germany, and in a German University, who had never yielded to the magic in- fluence of a Meerschaum ; and the same inflex- ibility of character which prevented him from smoking in Germany, attracted in Italy the loud contempt of those accomplished creatures — the Anglo-Italians. The Dutchess of Derwentwater, who saluted with equal naivete a cardinal, or a captain of banditti, was once almost determined to exclude Mr. Cleveland from her conversazione, because he looked so much like an Englishman ; and at Florence he was still more unpopular ; for he abused Velluti, and pasquinaded his patroness. Although possessed of no fortune, from the re- spectability of his connexions and the reputation of his abilities, he entered parliament at an early age. His success was eminent. It was at this period that he formed a great friendship with the present Marquess of Carabas, many years his senior, and then under-sccretary of state. His exertions for the party to which Mr. Under-Secre- tary Lorraine belonged were unremitting ; and it was mainly through their influence that a great promotion took place in the official appointments of the parly. When the hour of reward came, Mr. Lorraine and his friends unfortunately forgot their youthful champion. He remonstrated, and they smiled : he reminded them of private friendship, and they answered him with political expediency. Mr. Cleveland went down to the House, and at- tacked his old comates in a spirit of unexampled bitterness. He examined in review the various . members of the party that had deserted him. They trembled on their seats, while they writhed beneath the keenness of his satire : but when the orator came to Mr. President Lorraine, he flourished the tomahawk on high, like a wild Indian chieftain ; and the attack was so awfully severe, so overpow- ering, so annihilating, that even this hackneyed and hardened official trembled, turned pale, and quitted the House. Cleveland's triumph was splendid, but it was only for a night. Disgusted with man- kind, he scouted the thousand oflers of political connexions which crowded upon him ; and having succeeded in making an arrangement with his cre- ditors, he accepted the Chiltern Hundreds. By the interest of his friends, he procured a judicial situation of sufficient emolument, but of local duty ; and to fulfil this duty he was obliged to reside in North Wales. The locality, indeed, suited him well, for he was sick of the world at nine-and-twenty; and, carrying his beautiful and newly-married wife from the world, which without him she could not love, Mr. Cleveland enjoyed all the luxuries of a cottage ornee in the most roman- tic part of the principality. Here were born unto him a son and daughter, beautiful children, upon whom the father lavished all the allcctiou which nature had intended for the world. Four years had Cleveland now passed in his soli- tude, — it must not be concealed, an unhappy man. A thousand times, during the first year of his retire- ment, he cursed the moment of excitation which had banished him from the world ; for he found himself without resources, and restless as a curbed courser. Like many men who are bound to be orators — like Curran, and like Fox, — Cleveland was not blessed or cursed, with the faculty of composition ; and 40 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. indeed, had his pen been that of a ready writer, pique would have prevented him from delighting or instructing a world, whose nature he endeavour- ed to persuade himself was base, and whose ap- plause ought consequently to be valueless. In the second year he endeavoured to while away his time liy interesting himself in those pursuits which Na- ture has kindly provided for country gentlemen. Farming kept him alive six months ; but, at length, his was the prize ox ; and, having gained a cup, he got wearied of kine too prime for eating ; wheat too fine for the composition of the stalfof life ; and ploughs so ingeniously contrived, that the very in- genuity prevented them from being useful. Cleve- land was now seen wandering over the moors and jnountains, with a gun over his shoulder, and a couple of pointers at his heels ; but ennui returned in spite of hi^ patent percussion ; and so, at length, tired of being a sportsman, he almost became, what he had fancied himself in an hour of passion, — a misanthrope. With the aid of soda-water and Mr. Sadler, Vi- vian had succeeded, the morning after the cabinet- dinner, in getting the marquess up at a tolerably early hour ; and, after having been closeted with iiis lordship for a considerable time, he left Chateau Desir. Vivian travelled night and day, until he stopped at Kenuich Lodge — such was the correct style of Mr. Cleveland's abode. What was he to do now 1 After some deliberation, he despatched a note to Mr. Cleveland, informing him, " that he (Mr. Grey) was the bearer, from England, to Mr. Cleveland, of a ' communication of importance.' Under the circumstances of the case, he observed that he had declined bringing any letters of intro- duction. He was quite aware, therefore, that he should have no right to complain if he had to travel back three hundred miles without having the honour of an interview ; but he trusted that this necessary breach of etiquette would be overlooked." The note produced the desired cflect ; and an appointment was made for Mr. Grey to call at Ken- rich Lodge on the following morning. Vivian, as he entered the room, took a rapid glance at the master of Kenrich Lodge. Mr. Cleve- land was a tall and elegantly formed man, with a face which might have been a model for manly beauty. He came forward to receive Vivian, with a Nevvfou[idI?nd dog on one si''", and a large black greyhound on the otner; and the two animals, after having elaborately examined the stranger, divided between them the luxuries of the rug. 'J'he recep- tion which Mr. Cleveland gave our hero was cold and constrained in the extreme, but it did not ap- pear to be purposely uncivil ; and Vivian flattered himself that his manner was not unusually stifl'. " I don't know whether I have the honour of addressing the son of the author of 1" said Mr. Cleveland with a frowning countenance, which was intended to be courteous. ' "I have the honour of being the son of Mr. Grey." " Your fother, sir, is a most amiable, and able man. I had the pleasure of his acquaintance when I was in London many years ago, at a time when Mr. Vivian Grey was not intrusted, I rather ima- gine, with missions ' of imporiancc.^ " — Although Mr. Cleveland smile'd when he said this, his smile was any thing but a gracious one. The subdued uatire of his keen eye burst out for an instant, and he looked as if he would have said, " Who is thia younker who is trespassing upon my retirement V Vivian had, unbidden, seated himself by the sid« of TvTr. Cleveland's library-table ; and, not knowing exactly how to proceed, was employing himself by making a calculation whether there were more black than white spots on the body of the old New- foundland, who was now apparently most happily slumbering. " Well, sir !" continued the Newfoundland' master, " the nature' of your communication ? I am fond of coming to the point." Now this was precisely the thing which Vivian had determined not to do ; and so he diplnmatised, in order to gain time. — " In stating, Mr. Cleveland, that the communication which I had to make was one of impvrtaiice, I beg it to be understood, that it was with reference merely to niy opinion of its nature that the phrase was used, and not as relative to the possible, or, allow me to say, the probable opinion of Mr. Cleveland." " Well, sir !" s^id that gentleman, with a some- what disappointed air. " As to the purport or nature of the communica- tion, it is," said Vivian, with one of his sweetest cadences, and looking up to Mr. Cleveland's face, with an eye expressive of all kindness, — "it is of a political nature." " Well, sir !" again exclaimed Cleveland ; look- ing very anxious, and moving restlessly on his library chair. " When we take into consideration, Mr. Cleve- land, the present aspect of the political world ; when we call to mind the present situation of the two great political parties, you will not be surprised, I feel confident, when I mention that certain per- sonages have thought that the season was at hand, when a move might be made in the political world with very considerable efi(?ct — " " Mr. Grey, what ami to understand?" inter- rupted Mr. Cleveland, who began to suspect that the envoy was no greenhorn. " I feel confident, Mr. Cleveland, that I am doing very imperfect justice to the mission with which I am intrusted ; but, sir, you must be aware that the delicate nature of such disclosures and " " Mr. Grey, I feel confident that you do not doubt my honour ; and, as for the rest, the world has, I believe, some foolish tales about me ; but, believe me, you shall be listened to with patience. I am certain that, v\ hatever may be the communi- cation, Mr. Vivian Grey is a gentleman who will do its merits justice." And now Vivian, having succeeded in excitmc Cleveland's curiosity, and securing hinjself the ceiv tainty of a hearing, and having also made a favoui^ able impression, dropped the diplomatist altogether, and was explicit enough for a Spartan. " Certain noblemen and gentlemen of eminence and influence, hitherto considered as props of the party, are about to take a novel and decided course next session. It is to obtain the aid and personal co-operaUon of Mr. Cleveland, that !• am now in Wales."^^ " Mr. Grey, I have promised to listen to yon with patience: — you are too young a man to knov» much perhaps of the history of so insignificant a personage as myself; otherwise, you would have been aware, that there is no subject in the world on which I am less inclined to converse than that of politics. If I were entitled to take such a liberty. VIVIAN GREY. 41 I would beseech you to think of them as little as I do ; — but enough of this : who is the mover of the party 1" " My Lord Courtown is a distinguished member of it." " Courtown — Courtown ; respectable certainly ; but surely the good viscount's skull is not exactly the head for the chief of a cabal 1" " There is my Lord Beaconsfield." " Powerful — hut a dolt." " Well," thoun;ht Vivian, " it must out at last ,- and so to it boldly. And, Mr. Cleveland, there is little fear that we may secure the powerful interest and tried talents of — the Marquess of Carabas." " The Marquess of Carabas !" almost shrieked Mr. Cleveland, as he started from his seat and paced the room with hurried steps ; and the greyhound and the Newfoundland jumped up from their rug, shook themselves, growled, and then imitated their master in promenading the apartment, but with more dignified and stately paces. " The Marquess of Carabas ! Nov^% Mr. Grey, speak to me with the frankness which one high-bred gentleman should use to another. — is the Marquess of Carabas privy to this application ?" " He himself proposed it." " Then, sir, is he baser than even I conceived. ! Mr. Grey, I am a man spare of my speech to those with whom I am ifnacquainted ; and the world calls me a soured, malicious man. And yet, when I think for a moment, that one so young as you are, with such talents, and; as I will believe, with so pure a spirit, should be the dupe, or tool, or even present friend, of such a creature as this perjured peer, I could really play the Vv^oman — and weep." " Mr. Cleveland," said Vivian — and the drop which glistened in his eye responded to the tear of passion which slowly quivered down his compa- nion's cheek, — " I am grateful for your kindness ; and although we shall most probably part, in a few hours, never to meet again, I will speak to you with the frankness which you have merited, and to which I feel you are entitled. I am not, the dupe of the Marquess of Carabas ; I am not, I trust, the dune, or tool, of any one whatever. Be- lieve me, sir, there is that at work in England, which, taken at ihe tide, may lead on to fortune. 1 see this, sir, — I, a young man, uncommitted in political principles, unconneclcd in public life, feel- ing some confidence, I confess, in my own abilities, but desirous of availing myself, at the same time, of the powers of others. Thus situated, I find my- self working for the same end as my Lord Carabas, and twenty other men of similar calibre, mental and moral ; and, sir, am I to play the hermit in the drama of life, because, perchance, my fellow-actors may be sometimes fools, and occasionally knaves 1 O ! Mr. Cleveland, if the Marquess of Carabas has done you the ill service which fame says he has, your sweetest revenge will be to m.ake him your tool : your most perfect triumph, to rise to power by his influence. " I confess that I am desirous^ finding in you the companion of my career. Your splendid talents have long commanded my admiration, and, as you have given me credit for something like good feeling, I will say that my wish to find in you a colleague is greatly increased, when I see that those sfilendid talents are even the least estimable points in Mr. Cleveland's character. But sir, per- 6 haps all this time I am in error, — perhaps Mr. Cleveland is, as the world reports him, no lono-ei the ambitious being that once commanded the ad miration of a listening senate, — perhaps, convinced of the vanity of human wishes, Mr. Cleveland would rather devote his attention to the furtherance of the interests of his immediate circle ; — and, having schooled his intellect in the universities of two nations, is probably content to pass the hours of his life in mediating in the quarrels of a country village." Vivian ceased. Cleveland heard him, with his head- resting on both his arms. He started at the last expression, and something like a blush suffused his check, but he did not reply. At last he jumped up, and rang the bell. " Come, come, Mr. Grey," said he, "enough of politics for this morning You shall not, at any rate, visit Wales for nothing Morris ! send down to the village for all the sacs and portmanteaus belonging to this gentleman. Even we cottagers have a bed for a friend, Mr. Grey ; — come, and I'll introduce you to my wife." CHAPTER n. A COLLEAGUE. A?fD Vivian was now an inmate of Kcnrich Lodge. It would have been dilHcult to have con- ceived a life of more pure happiness, than that which was apparently enjoyed by its gifted master. A beautiful wife, and lovely children, and romantic situation, and an income sufficient, not only for their own, but for the wants of all their necessitotis neighbours; — what more could man wish! An- swer me, thou inexplicable myriad of sensations, which the world calls human nature ! Three days passed over in tbe most delightful converse. It was so long since Cleveland had seen any one fresh from the former scenes of his life, that the company of any one would have been de- lightful ; T5ut here was a companion, who knew every one, every thing, full of wit, and anecdote, and literature, and fashion, and then so engaging in his manners, and with such a winning voice. The heart of Cleveland releated; his stern man- ner gave way ; all his former w:u-ia and generous feeling gained the ascendant : ti? 'vas in turn, amusing, communicative, and engagi>>„ finding that he could please another, he began to !;i uleased himself. The nature of the business on w!:'ch Vivian was his guest, rendered confidence neces- sary ; confidence begets kindness. In a kvf days, Vivian necessarily became more acquainted with Mr. Cleveland's disposition and situation, than if they had been acquainted for as many years ; in short, They talked with open heart ana tongue. Affectionate ami true, — A pair of friends. Vivian, for some time, dwelt upon every thin<' but the immediate subject of his mission ; but when, after the experience of a few days, their hearts were open to each other, and they had mutu- ally begun to discover that there was a most as- tonishing similiarity in their principles, their tastes, their feelings, then the magician poured forth his incantation, and raised the once-laid ghost of (Cleve- land's ambition. The recluse agreed to talie the £ % 42 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. lead cf the. Carabas party. He was to leave V/alcs immediatehr and resign his place ; in return fur which, the nephew of I^orcl Courtown was im- mediately to ^ive up, in his favour, an ofHce of con- siderable emolument, and having thus provided some certainty for his family, Frederick Cleveland prepared himself to combat for a more important ofi'iCC. CHAPTER III. THE AUniVAL. " Is Mr. Cleveland handsome 1" asked Mrs- fVlix Lorraine of Vivian, immediately on his re- turn, " and what colour arc his eyes ?" " Upon my honour I haven't the least recollec- tion of ever looking at them ; but I believe he is not blind." " How foolish yon arc ! now tell me, pray, point dt raotjuerie, is he amusing V "What docs Mrs. Felix Lorraine mean by amusing ?" asked Vivian with an arch smile. " ! ycu always tease me with your definitions ; SO away — I'll quarrel with you." " O ! by-thi had his own ideas on the subject; and, determined to unravel the affair, he had recourse to a person, with whom he seldom enterchanged a sentence — the marchioness. " I hope your ladyship is well to-day. I had a letter from Count Caumont this morning. lie tells me that he has got the prettiest poodle from Paris that you can possibly conceive ! waltzes like an angel, and act-s proverbs on its hind feet." Her ladyship's eyes glistened wilh admiration. " I've told Caumont to send it me dovi'n imme- diately, and I shall then have the pleasure of pre- senting it to your ladyship." ; Her ladyship's eyes sparkled with delight. " I think," continued Vivian, " I shall take a ride to-day. By-the-by, how's the marquess 1 he seems in low spirits lately." " ! Mr. Grey, I don't know v/hat you've done to him," said her ladyship, settling at least a dozen bracelets ; " but — but — " > " But ivhat my lady?" " He thinks — he thinks — " "Thinks what, my lady ?" " That you've entered into a conspiracy, Mr. Grey." '• Entered into a conspiracy !" " Yes, Mr. Grey, a conspiracy — a conspiracy against the Marquess of Carabas, with Mr, Cleve- land. He thinks that you have made him serve your purpose, and that now you're going to get rid of him." " Well, that's excellent, and what else does he think ]" " He thirdis you talk too loud," said the mar- chioness, still working at her bracelets. " Well, that's shockingly vulgar ! Allow me to recommend your ladyship to alter the order of those bracelets, and place the blue and silver against the maroon. You may depend upon it, that's the true Vienna order — and what else does the marquess say 1" " He thinks you are generally too authoritative. Not that I think 90, Mr. Grey ; I'm sure your con- duct to me has been more courteous — the blue and silver next to the maroon, did you say ? Yes — certainly it does look better. I've no doubt the marquess is quite wrong; and I dare say j'ou'il set things right immediately. You'll remember the pretty poodle, Mr. Grey, and you'll not tell the marquess I mentioned any thing." " O ! certainly not. I'll give orders for them to book an inside place for the poodle, and send him down by the coach immediately. I must be oil" now. Remember, the blue and silver next the maroon. Good morning to your ladyship." " Mrs. Felix Lorraine, I am your most obedient slave," said Vivian Grey, as he met that lady on the landing-place ; — " I can see no reason why I should not drive you this bright day to the Ellin's Well ; we have long had an engagement together." » The lady smiled a gracious assent ; the pony phaeton was immediately ordered. " How pleasant Lady Gourtown and I used to discourse about martingales ! I think I invented one, didn't I ? Pray, Mrs. Felix Lorraine, can you tell me what a martingale is 1 for upon my honour I've forgotten or never knew." " If you found a martingale for the mother, Vivian, it had been well if you bad found a curb for the daughter. Poor Cynthia ! I had intended once to advise the marchi6ness to interfere, but one forgets these things." " One does. — O ! Mrs. Felix," exclaimed Vi- vian, " I told your admirable story of the Leydeu professor to Mrs. Cleveland. It's universally agreed to be the best ghost story extant. I think you said you knew the professor 1" " O, well ! I have seen him often, and heard the stoi-y from his own lips. And as I mentioned before, far from being superstitious, he was an esprit fort. — Do you know, Mr. Grey, I have such an interesting packet from Germany to-day ; from my cousin, Baron Rodenstein ; but I must keep all the stories for the evening : come to my bou- doir, and I will read them to you — there is one tale which I am sure will make a convert even of you. It happened to Rodenstein himself, and within these three months," added the lady, in a serious tone. — " The Rodensteins are a singular family. My mother was a Rodenstein. — Do you think this beautiful !" said Mrs. Felix, showing Vivian a very small miniature which was attached to a chain round her neck. It was the portrait of a youth, habited in the costume of a German stu- dent. His rich brown hair was flowing over his shoulders, and his dark blue eyes beamed witli such a look of mysterious inspiration, that they might have befited a young prophet. " Very, very beautiful !" " 'Tis Max — Max Rodenstein," said the Iad\% with a faltering voice. " He was killed at Leipsic, at the head of a band of his friends and fellow- students. O ! Mr. Grey, this is a fair work of art. but if you had but seen the prototype, you would have gazed on this as on a dim and washed out drawing. There was one portrait, indeed, which did him more justice — but then, that portrait was not the production of mortal pencil." Vivian looked at his companion with a some- what astonished air, but Mrs. Felix Lorraine's countenance was as little indicative of jesting, as that of the young student whose miniature rested on her bosom. " Did you say not the production of a mortal hand. Mrs. Felix Lorraine 1" " I'm afraid I shall wear}' you with -my storios, but the one I am about to tell is so well evidenced, that I think even Mr. Vivian Grey will hear it vi'ithout a sneer." " A sneer ! O ! lady love, do I ever sneer 1" " Max Rodenstein was the glory of his house. A being so beautiful in body, and in soul, you can- not imagine, and I will not attempt to describe. This miniature has given you some faint idea of his image, and yet this is only the copy of a copy. The only wish of the Baroness Rodenstein, which never could be accomplished, was the possession of a portrait of her youngest son — for no considera- tion could induce Max to allow his likeness to be taken. His old nurse had always told him, that the moment that his portrait was taken, he would die. The condition upon which such a beautiful being was allowed to remain in the world, was, as she always said, that his beauty should not be iiui- 44 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS tated. About three months before the battle of Leipsic, when Max was absent at the university, which was nearly four hundred miles from Roden- stein castle, there arrived one morning a large case directed to the baroness. On opening it, it was found to contain a picture — the portrait of her son. The colouring was so, vivid, the general execution so miraculous, that for some moments they forgot to wonder at the incident in their admiration of the work of art. In one corner of the picture, in small characters, yet fresh, was an inscription, which on examining they found consisted of these words,- ' Pain fed last night. Now, lady, thou hast thy witih,' My aunt sunk into the baron's arms. " In silence and in trembling the 'wonderful por- trait was suspended over the fire-place of my aunt's most favourite apartment. The next day, they re- ceived letters from Max. He was quile well, but mentioned nothing of the mysterious painting. " Three months afterwards, as a lady was sitting alone in the baroness's room, and gazing on the portrait of him she loved right dearly, she suddenly started from her seat, and would have shrieked, had not an indefinable sensation prevented her. The eyes of the portrait moved. The lady stood lean- ing on a chair, pale, and trembling like an aspen, but gazing steadfastly on the animated portrait. It was no illusion of a heated fancy ; again the eyelids trembled, there was a melancholy smile, and then they closed. The clock of Rodenstein castle struck three. Between astonishment and fear, the lady was tearless. Three days afterwards came the news of the battle of Leipsic, and at the very mo- ment that the eyes of the portrait closed. Max Rodenstein had been pierced by a Polish lancer." " And who was this wonderful lady, the witness of this wonderful incident]" asked Vivian. " That lady was myself." There was something so singular in the tone of Mrs. Felix Lorraine's voice, and so peculiar in the expression of her countenance, as she uttered these words, that the. jest died on Vivian's tongue ; and for want of something better to do, he lashed the little ponies, who were already scampering at their full speed. The road to the Elfin's Well ran through the wildest parts of the park ; and after an hour and a half's drive, they reached the fairy spot. It was a beautiful and pellucid spring, that bubbled up in a small wild dell, which, nurtured by the flowing stream, was singularly fresh and green. Above the spring, the taste of the marquess, or the marquess's steward, had erected a Gothic arch of gray stone, round which grew a few fine birch trees. In short, nature had intended the spot for /7(c-/n'cs. There was fine water, and an interesting tradition ; and as the parties always bring, or always should bring, a trained punster, champagne, and cold pasties, what more ought nature to have provided 1 " Come, Mrs. Lorraine, I will tie Gijjsy to this ash, and then you and I will rest ourselves beneath Uiese birch trees, just where the fairies dance." " O, delightful !" "Now, truly, we should have some book of beautiful poetry to while away an hour. You will blame me fir not bringing one. Do not. I would sooner listen to your voice ; and, indeed, there is a subject on which I wish to ask your particular advice." "h there:" " I have been tninking that this is a somewhat rash step of the marquess — this throwing himself into the arras of his former bitterest enemy, Cleve- land." " You really think so 1" " Why, Mrs. Lorraine, does it appear to you to be the most prudent course of action which could have been conceived T" " Certainly not." " You agree with me, then, that there is, if not cause for regret at this engagement, at least for reflection on its probable consequences." " I quite agree with you." " I know vou do. I have had some conversation with the marquess upon this subject, this very morning." " Have you 1" eagerly exclaimed the lady, and she looked pale and breathed short. "Ay, and he tells me you have made some very sensible observations on the subject. 'Tis a pity they were not made before Mr. Cleveland left, the mischief might then have been prevented." " I certainly have made some observations." " And very kind of you ; what a blessing foi the marquess to have such a friend." " I spoke to him," said Mrs. Felix, with a more assured tone, " in much the same spirit as you have been addressing me. It docs, indeed, seem a most imprudent act, and I thought it my duty to tell him so." " Ay, no doubt ; but how came you, lady fair, to imagine that / was also a person to be dreaded by his lordship — /, Vivian Grey 1" " Did I say yuu ?" asked the lady, pale aa death — " Did you not, Mrs. Felix Lorraine 1 Have you not, regardless to my interests, in the most unwarrantable and unjustifiable manner — have you not, to gratify some private pique which you enter- tain against, Mr. Cleveland, have you not, \ ask you, poisoned the marquess's mind against one who never did aught to you, but what was kind and hunourabic .?" " I have been imprudent — I confess it — I have spoken somewhat locisely." " Now, madam, listen to me once more," and Vivian grasped her hand — '• What has ^.issed be- tween you a'id Mr. Cleveland, it is r.ot for me to inquire — I g'vc you mv won' ^i' honour, that he never even mentioned your name to me. I can scarcely ui"Jer>t.and how any man could have incurred the deadly hatred which you appear to entertain f >r him. I repeat, I can contemplate no situation m which you could be placed together, which V ould justify such behaviour. It could not be jufiified, even if he had sptn-ncd you while 'rnceling at his fret ." Mrs. Felix Lorraine shrieked and fainted. A spriidding from the fairy stream soon recovered her. " t^[)are me ! spare me !" she faintly cried : "do not expose me" " Mrs. Ijorraine, I have no wish. I have spoken thus explicitly, that we may not again misunder- stand each other — I have spoken thus explicitly, I say, that I may not be under the necessity of speak- ing again, for if I speak again, it must not be to Mrs. Felix Lorraine — there is my hand, and now let the Elfin's Well be blotted out of our memo- . ries." Vivian drove rapidly home and endeavoured to talk in liis usual tone, and with his usual spirit ; VIVIAN GREY. 45 but liis companion could not be excited. Once, ay, twice, she pressed his hand, and as he assisted her from the phaeton, she murmured something like a — blessing. She ran up stairs immediately. Vivian had to give some directions about the poneys ; Gypsy was ill, or Fanny had a cold, or something of the kind, and so he was detained for about a quarter of an hour before the house, speaking most learnedly to grooms, and consulting on cases with a skilled gravity worthy of professor Coleman. When he entered the parlour he found the luncheon prepared, and Mrs. Felix pressed him very earnestly to take some refreshment. He was indeed wearied, and agreed to take a glass of hock and seltzer. '' Let me mix it for you," said Mrs. Felix ; " do you like sugar 1" Tired with his drive, Vivian Grey was leaning on the mantle-piece, with his eyes vacantly gazing on the looking-glass which rested on the marble slab. It was by pure accident that, reflected in the mirror, he distinctly beheld Mrs. Felix Lorraine open a small silver box, and throw some powder into the tumbler which she was preparing for him. She was leaning down, with her back almost turned to the glass, but still Vivian saw it — dls- iinctly. A sickness came over him, and ere he could recover himself, his Hebe tapped him on the shoulder — " Here drink, drink while it is effervescent." " I cannot drink," said Vivian, " I am not thirsty — I am too hot — I am any thing " " How foolish you are ! it will be quite spoiled." " No, no. the dog shall have it. Here Fidele, you look thirsty enough — come here — " " Mr. Grey, I do not mix tumblers for dogs," said the lady, rather agitated : '• if you will not take it," and she held it once more before him, " here it goes forever." So saying she emptied the tumbler into a large globe of glass, in which some gold and silver fishes were swimming their endless rounds. CHAPTER V, THE COITVERSATIOK. This last specimen of Mrs. Felix Lorraine was somewhat too much, even for the steeled nerves of Vivian Grey, and he sought his chamber for relief. " Is it possible ? Can I believe my senses ? Or has some demon, as we read of it in old tales, mocked me in a magic mirror ? I can believe in any thing. — O ! my heart is very sick ! I once imagined that I was using this woman for my purpose. Is it possible that aught of good can come to one who is forced to make use of such evil instruments as these ? A horrible thought sometimes comes over my spirit. I fancy, that in this mysterious foreigner, that in this woman, I have met a kind of double of myself. The same wonderful knowledge of the human mind, the same sweetness of voice, the same miraculous management which has brought us both under the same roof: yet do I find her the most abandoned of all beings ; a creature guilty of that, which, even in this guilty age, I thought was obsolete. An J is it possible that I am like her 1 that I can resemble her 1 that even the indcfmite shadow of my most unhallowed thought can, for a moment, be as vile as her righteousness ? O, God ! the system of my existence seems to stop ; I cannot breathe." He flung himself upon his bed, and felt for a moment as if he had quaffed the poison- ing draught so lately offered. " It is not so — it cannot be so — it shall not be sol In seeking the marquess, I was unquestionably impelled by a mere feeling of self-interest ; but I have advised him to no course of action, in which his welfare is not equally consulted with my own. Indeed, if not principle, interest would make me act faithfully towards him, for my fortunes are bound up in his. But am I entitled — I, who can lose nothing — am I entitled to play with other men's fortunes ? Am I, all this time, deceiving myself with some wretched sophisti-y ? Am I then an intellectual Don Juan, reckless of human minds as he was of human bodies — a spiritual libertine 1 But why this wild declamation 1 Whatever I have done, it is too late to recede; even at this very moment delay is destruction, for now it is not a question as to the ultimate prosperity of our worldly pros- pects, but the immediate safety of our very bodies. Poison ! 0, God ! O, God I Away with all fear — all repentance — all thought of past — all reckoning of future. If I am the Juan that I fancied myself, then. Heaven be praised ! I have a confidant in all my trouble, the most faithful of counsellors ; the craftiest of valets ; a Leporello often tried, and never found wanting — my own good mind. And now, thou female liend ! the battle is to the strongest ; and I see right well, that the struggle between two such spirits will be a long and fearful one. Wo, I say, to the vanquished ! You must be crealt with by arts which even yourself cannot conceive. Your boasted knowledge of human nature shall not again stand you in stead ; for, mark me from hencefor- ward, Vivian Grey's conduct towards you shall have no precedent in human nature." As Vivian re-entered the drawing-room, he met a servant carrying in the globe of gold and silver fishes. " What, still in your pelisse, Mrs. Lorraine V said Vivian. " Nay, I hardly wonder at it, for sure- ly a prettier pelisse never yet fitted prettier form. You have certainly a most admirable taste in dress ; and this the more surprises me, for it is generally your plain personage that is the most recherche in frills, and fans, and flounces." The lady smiled. " ! by-the-by," continued her companion, "I've a letter from Cleveland this morning. I wonder how any misunderstanding could possibly have existed between you, for he speaks of you in such terms." " What does he say ?" was the quick question. "0, what does he say?" drawled out Vivian; and he yawned and was most provokingly uncom municative. " Come, come, Mr. Grey, do tell me." " O ! tell you — certainly. Come, let us walk together in the conservatory ;" so saying, he took the lady by the hand and they left the room. " And now for the letter, Mr. Grey !" "Ay, now for the letter!" and Vivian slowly drew an epistle from his pocket, and therefrom read some exceedingly sweet passages, which mado Mrs. Felix Lorraine's very heart's blood tingle Considering that Vivian Grey had never in his life 4C D 'I S R A E L r S NOVELS. received a single letter from Mr. Cleveland, this' was tolerably well : but he was always au admira- ble improvisatore ! " I am sure that when Cleveland comes to town every thing will be explained ; I am sure, at least, that it will not be my fault if you are not the best friends. I am heroic in saying all tViis, Mrs. Lor- raine ; there was a time when — (and here Vivian seemed so agitated that he could scarcely proceed) — there was a time when I could have called that man — liar .' who would have prophesied that Vi- \'ian Grey could have assisted another in riveting the affections of Mrs. Felix Lorraine ; — but enough of this. I am a weak, inexperienced boy, and mis- interpret, perhaps, that which is merely a compas- sionate kindness natural to all women, into a feeling of a higher nature. But, I must learn to contain myself; I really do feel quite ashamed of my be- haviour about the tumbler to-day : to act with such unwarrantable unkindness, merely because I had remembered that you once performed the same kind office for Colonel Delmington, was indeed too bad !" " Colonel Delmington is a vain, empty-headed fool. Do not thiidc of him, my dear Mr. Grey," said Mrs. Felix, with a countenance beaming with sniiles. " Well, I will not ; and I'll try to behave like a man ; like a man of the world, I should say : but indeed you must excuse the warm feelings of a youth : and truly, when I call to mind the first days of our acquaintance, and then remember that our moonlit walks are gone forever — and that our — " " Nay, do not believe so, my dear Vivian ; be- lieve me, as I ever shall be your friend, your — " " I will, I will, my dear, ray own Amelia !" CHAPTER VL THE X.O'Sa GALLERY. It was an autumnal night — the wind was capri- cious and changeable as a pretty beauty, or an Ita- lian greyhound, or a shot silk. Now the breeze Mew so fresh, that the white clouds dashed along the sky, as if they bore a band of witches too Jate for their Sabbath meeting — or some other mischief: and now, lulled and soft as the breath of a slumber- ing infant, you might almost have fancied it miil- summcr's eve; and the bright moon, with her starry court, reigned undisturbed in the light blue sky. Vivian Grey was leaning against an old i3eech tree in the most secluded part of the park and was gazing on the moon. " ! thou bright moon ! thou object of my first love ! thou shalt not escape an invocation, although, jjerchance at this very moment, some varlet son- neteer is jirating of ' thy boy Endymion,' and ' thy silver bow.' Here to thee, qixeen of the night I in whatever name thou most delightest ! or Bendis, as they hailed you in rugged Thrace ; or Bubastis, as they howled to you in mysterious Egypt; or Dian, as they sacrificed to you in gorgeous Rome ; or Artemis, as they sighed to you on the bright plains of ever glorious Greece ! Why is it. that stl! men gaze on thee 1 Why is it, that all men !ove thee ] Why is it, that all men worship thee ? " Shine on, shine on, sultana of the soul ! tlie passions are thy eunuch slaves ; Ambition gazes on thee, and his burning brow is cooled, and his fitful pulse is calm. Grief wanders in her moonlit walk, and sheds no tear ; and when your crescent smiles, the lustre of Joy's revelling eye is dusked. Quick Anger, in your hght, forgets revenge : nnd even dove-eyed Hope feeds on no future joys, when gazing on the miracle of thy beauty. " Shine on, shine on ! although a pure virgin, thou art the mighty mother of all abstraction ! The eye of the weary peasant, returning from his daily toil, and the rapt gaze of the inspired poet, are alike fixed on thee ; thou stillest the roar of marching armies ; and who can doubt thy influence o'er the waves, who has witnessed the wide Atlantic sleeji- ing under thy silver beams 1 '• Shine on, shine on ! they say thou art earth's satellite ! yet when I do gaze on thee, my thoughts are not of thy Suzerain. The}' teach us that thy power is a fable, and that thy divinity is a dream. 0, thou bright queen ! I will be no traitor to thy sweet authority ; and, verily, I will not believe that thy influence o'er our hearts, is, at this moment, less potent, than when we worshipped in thy glit- tering fane of Ephesus, or trembled at the dark horrors of thine Arician rite?. Then, hail to thee, queen of night ! Hail to thee, Diana, Triformis, Cynthia, Orthia, Taurica. ever mighty, ever lovely, ever holy I hail ! hail ! hail !" • If I were a metaphysician, I would tell you why Vivian Grey had been gazing two hours on the moon, for I could then present you with a most logical programme of the march of his ideas, since he whispered liis last honeyed speech in the ear of Mrs. Felix Lorraine, at dinner time, until this very moment, when he did not even remember that such 9 being as Mrs. Felix Lorraine breathed. Glory to the metaphysician's all perfect theory ! When they can tell me why, at a bright banquet, the thought of death has flashed across my mind, who fear not death ; when they can tell me why, at' the burial of my beloved friend, when my very heart-strings seemed bursting, my sorrow has been mocked by the involuntary remembrance of ludi- crous adventures and grotesque tales ; when they can tell me why, in a dark mountain pass, I have thought of an absent woman's eyes ; or why, when in the very act of squeezing the th rd lime into a beaker of Burgundy cup, my memory hath been of lean apothecaries and their vile drugs ? — why, then, I say again, glory to the metaphysician's ail [lerfect theory ! and fare-you-well, sweet world, and you, my merry masters, whom, perhaps, I ha.ve studied somewhat too cunningly : nufce leipsum shall be my mo!to. I'll dofi' my travelling cap, and on with the monk's cowl. There are , mysterious moments in some men's lives, when the taccs of human beings are very agony to them, and when the sound of the human voice is jarring as discordant music. 'J'hcse fits are not the consequence of violent or contending passions ; they grow not out of sorrow, nor joy nor hope, nor fear, nor hatred, nor despair. Foi in the hour of affliction, the tones of our fi'llow- creatures are ravishing as the most delicate lute ; and in the flush moment of joy, where is the smilcr who loves not a witness to his revelry, or a listener to his good fortune ] Fear makes us feel our hu- manity, and then we fly to men, and hope is the parent of kindness. The misanthrope aiid tbu VIVIAN GREY. 47 reckles.^ arc neither agitated nor agonized. It is in these moments that men find in nature that congcniahty of spirit which they seek for in vain in their ovv n sy)ecies. It is in these moments that we sit hy the side of a waterfall, and listen to its musii: the livelong day. It is in these moments that we gaze upon the moon. It is in these mo- ments that nature becomes our Egcria; and re- freshed and renovated by this beautiful communion, we return to the world, better enabled to fight our parts in the hot war of passions, to perform the great duties for which man appears to have been created, — to love, to hate, to slander, and to sla3^ It was past midnight, and Vivian was at a con- adcrable distance from the chateau. He proposed entering hy a side-door, which led into the billiard- room, and from thence crossing the long gallery, he could easily reach his apartments without dis- turbing any of the household. His way led through the little gate at which he had parted with Mrs. Felix Lorraine on the first day of their meeting. As he softly opened the door which led into the long gallery, he found he was not alone ; leaning against one of the casements was a female. Her profile was to Vivian as he entered, and the moon, which shone bright through the window, lit up a countenance which he might be excused for not immediately recognising as that of Mrs. Felix Lor- raine. She was gazing steadfastly, but her eye did not seem fixed upon any particular object. Her features appeared convulsed, but their contortions were not momentary, and, pale as death, a hideous grin seemed chiselled on her idiot countenance. Vivian scarcely knew whether to stay or to retire. Desirous not to disturb her, he determined not even tc breathe ; and, as is generally the case, his very exertions to be silent made him nervous ; and to save himself from being stifled, he coughed. Mrs. Lorraine immediately started, and stared wildlj' around her ; and when her eye caught Vi- vian's, there was a sound in her throat something like the death-rattle. *' Who are you ]" she eagerly asked. " A friend, and Vivian Grey." " Grey ! how came you here 1" and she rushed forward and wildly seized his hand — and then she muttered to herself, " 'tis flesh — 'tis flesh." " I have been playing, I fear, the mooncalf to- night ; and find that, though I am a late watcher, I am not a solitary one." Mrs. Lorraine stared earnestly at him, and then she endeavoured to assume her usual expression of countenance : but the effort was too much for her. She dropped Vivian's arm, and buried her face in her own hands. Vivian "was retiring, when she again looked up. " W^herc arc you going 1" slie asked, with a quick voice. "To sleep — as I would advise all: 'tis much past midnight." "Thou sayest not the truth. The brightness of your eye belies the sentence of your tongue. You are nut for sleep." " Pardnn me, my dear Mrs. Lorraine, I really have been gaping for the last hour," said Vivian, and he moved on. " Mr. Grey I you are speaking to one w!io takes her answer from the eye, which does not deceive, and from the speaking lineaments of the face, which are truth's witnesses. Keep your voice for those who can credit man's words. You luill go, 11/311, What ! are you afraid of a woman, because ' Hh past midnight^ and you're in an old gal- lery?" " Fear, Mrs. Lorraine, is not a word in my vo- cabulary." " The words in thy vocabulary are few, boy ! as are the years of thine age. He who sent you here this night sent you here not to slumber. Cotrie hither !" and she led Vivian to the window : " wha see you ?" " I see nature at rest, Mrs. Lorraine ; and 1 would fain follow the example of beasts, birds, and fishes." " Vet gaze upon this scene one second. See the distant hills, how beautifully thrir rich covering is tinted with the moonbeam ! These nearer fir trees — how radiantly their black skeleton forms are tipped with silver ! and the old and thickly foliaged oaks bathed in light ! and the purpled lake reflect- ing in its lustrous bosom another heaven ! Is it not a fair scene 1" " Beautiful ! O, most beautiful !" "Yet Vivian, where is the being for whom all this beauty existeth ] Where is yonr mighty crea- ture — man ? The peasant on his rough coucii enjoys perchance slavery's only scrvice-money- svveet sleep ; or, waking in the night, curses at the same time his lot and his lord. And that lord is restless on some downy couch ; his night thoughts, not of this sheeny lake and this bright moon, but of some miserable creation of man's artifice, some mighty nothing which nature knows not of, soma ofl'spring of her bastard child — society. Wbjr then is nature loveliest when man looks not on her ? For whom, then, Vivian Grey, is this scens so fair 1" " For poet^s, lady ; for philosophers ; for all thow superior spirits who require some relaxation froi» the world's toils ; spirits who only commingle witk humanity on the condition that they may some times commune with nature." " Superior spirits ! say you 1" and here they paced the gallery. " When Valerian, first Lord Carabas, raised this fair castle — when, profuse for his posterity, all the genius of Italian art and Italian artists was lavished on this English palace; when the stuffs, and statues, the marbles, and the mirrors, the tapestry, and the carvings, and the paintings c< Genoa, and Florence, and Venice, and Padua, and Vicenza, were obtained by him at miracidous cost, and with still more miraculous toil ; what thiidi yoa would have been his sensations, if, while his sod was revelling in the futurity of his descendants keeping their state in this splendid pile, so.me wizard had foretold to him, that ere three centuric« could elapse, the fortunes of his mighty family would be the sport of two individuals; one of them a foreigner, unconnectctl in blood, or connected only in hatred; and the other a young adventurer, alike unconnected with his race, in blood, or i.i love ! a being ruling all things by the power of his own genius, and reckless of all consequences, save his own prosperity. If the future had been revealed to my great ancestor, the Lord Valerraiv, think you, Vivian Grey, that wo should have bee« walking in this long gallery 1" " Really, Mrs. Lorraine, I have been so interest' ed in discovering what people think in the nintr- teenth century, that I have but little time to speculate on the jiossible opinions of an old gentle- man who flourished in the sixteenth." *' You may sneer, sir ; but I ask you, if there ar« 48 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. epirits so superior to that of the slumbering lord of this castle, as. those of Vivian Grey and Amelia Lorraine ; why may there not be spirits proportion- ately superior to our own 1" " If you are keeping me from my bed, Mrs. Ijor- raine, merely to lecture my conceit by proving that tliere are in this world wiser heads than that of Vivian Grey, on my honour, madam, you are iving yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble." " You will misunderstand me, then, thou wilful boy !" " Nay, lady, I will not affect to misunderstand your meaning ; but I recognise, you know full well, no intermediate essence between my own good soul, and that ineffable and omnipotent Spirit, in whose existence philosophers and priests alike agree." " Omnipotent and ineffable essence ! ! leave such words to scholars, and to schoolboys ! And fhink you, that such indefinite nothings, such un- meaning abstractions, can influence beings whose veins are full of blood, bubbling like thisl" And here she grasped Vivian with a feverish hand — " Omnipotent and ineffable essence ! Oil have lived in a land, where every mountain, and every stream, and every ruin, has its legend, and its pecu- liar spirit; a land, in whose dark forests, the mid- night hunter, with his spirit-shout, scares the slumbers of the trembling serf; a land from whose winding rivers, the fair-haired undine welcomes the belated traveller to her fond and fatal embrace ; and you talk to me of omnipotent and ineffable essences ! O ! miserable mocker ! It is not true, Vivian Grey ; you are but echoing the world's deceit, and even at this hour of the night, thou darest not speak as thou dost think. Thou worshippest no omnipotent and ineffable essence ; thou believest in no omni- potent and ineffable essence ; shrined in the secret chamber of your soul, there is an image, before which you bow down in adoration, and that image is — YOURSELF. And truly when I do gaze upon thy radiant eyes," and here the lady's tone became more terrestrial, — " and truly when I do look upon thy luxuriant curls," and here the lady's small white hand, played like lightning through Vivian's dark hair, — '• and truly when I do remember the beauty of thy all-perfect form, I cannot deem thy self-worship — a false idolatry ;" and here the lady's arms were locked round Vivian's neck, and her head rested on his bosom. '* ! Amelia ! it would be far better for you to rest here, than to think of that of wluch the know- hedge is vanity." " Vaiiity !" shrieked Mrs. Lorraine, and she vio- lently loosed her embrace, and extricated herself froiB the arm, which, rather in courtesy than in kindness, had been wound round her delicate waist ; " vanity ! O ! if you knew but what I know — O ! if you had but seen what I have seen" — and here Iier voice failed her, and she stood motionless in the moonshine, with averted head and outstretched arms. " Amelia ! this is very madness ; for Heaven's sake calm yourself!" "Calm myself! ! it is madness; very, very madness ! 'tis the madness of the fascinated bird ; 'tis the madness of the murderer who is voluntarily broken on the wheel ; 'tis the madness of the fawn, that gazes with admiration on the lurid glare of the anaconda's eye ; 'tis the madness of a woman who flies to the arms of her — Faie ," and here she sprang like a tigress round Vivian's neck, her long light hair bursting from its bands, and clustering down her shoulders. And here was Vivian Grc}', at past midnight, in this old gallery, with this wild woman clinging round his neck. The figures in the ancient tapes- try looked living in the moon, and immediately opposite him was one compartment of some ola mythological tale, in which were represented, grin- ning, in grim majesty, — The Fates. The wind now rose again, and the clouds which had vanished began to reassemble in the heavens. As the blue sky was gradually being covered, the gigantic figures of Clofho, Lachesis, and Atropos became as gradually dimmer and dimmer, and the grasp of Vivian's fearful burden looser and looser. At last the moon was entirely hid, the figures of the Fates vanished, and Mrs. Felix Lorraine sank hfeiess into his arms. Vivian groped his way with difficulty to the nearest window, the very one at which she was leaning when he first entered the gallery. He played with her wild curls ; he whispered to her in a voice sweeter than the sweetest serenade ; but she only raised her eyes from his breast, and stared wildly at him, and then clung round his neck with, if possible, a tighter grasp. For nearly half an hour did Vivian stand leaning against the window, with his mystic and motionless companion. At length the wind again fell ; there was a break in the sky, and a single star appeared in the midst of the clouds, surrounded with a little heaven of azure. " See there, see there !" the lady cried, and then she unlocked her arms. " What would you give, Vivian Grey, to read that star ?" " Am I more interested in that star, Amelia, than in any other of the bright hostl" asked Vi- vian, with a serious tone, for he thought it neces- sary to humour his companion. " Are you not ? is it not the star of thy des- tiny ?" " And are you learned in all the learning of the Chaldeans, too, lady ]" " O, no, no, no !" slowly murmured MrS. Lor- raine, and then she started ; but Vivian seized her arms, and prevented her from again clasping his neck. " I must keep these pretty hands close prisoners," he said, smiling, " unless you promise to behave with more moderation. Come, my Amelia ! you shall be my instructress ! Why am I so interested in this brilliant star?" and holding her hands in one of his, he wound his arm round her waist, and whispered her such words as he thought might calm her troubled spirit. The wildness of her eyes gradually gave way ; at length, she raised them to Vivian, with a look of meek tenderness, and her head sunk upon his breast. " It shines, it shines, it shines, Vivian ! glory to thee, and wo to me ! Nay, you need not hold my hands, I will not harm you. I cannot — 'tis no use. O, Vivian ! when we first met, how little did I know to whom I pledged myself!" " Amelia, forget these wild fancies, estrange yourself from the murky mysticism which has exercised so baneful an influence, not only over your mind, but over the very soul of the land from which you come. Recognise in me only your friend, and leave the other world to those who value it more, or more deserve it. Does not this VIVIAN GREY. 49 fair earth contain sufficient of interest and en- joyment 1" " O, Vivian ! you speak with a sweet voice, but with a sceptic's spirit. Thou knowest not what I know." "Tell me then, my Amelia; let me share your secrets, provided thej^ be your sorrows !" "O, Vivian! almost within this hour, and in this park, there has happened that — which — " and here her voice died, and she looked fear- fully round her. "Nay, fear not, fear not; no one can harm you here, and no one shall harm you. Rest, rest upon me, and tell me all thy grief." " I dare not — I cannot tell you." " Nay, my own love, thou shall." "I cannot speak, your eye scares me. Are you mocking me 7 I cannot speak if you look so at me." " I will not look on you ; I will play with your long hair, and gaze on yonder star. Now, speak on, my own love." " O, Vivian ! there is a custom in my native land — the world calls it an unhallowed one ; you, in your proud spirit, will call it a vain one. But you would not deem it vain, if you were the woman now resting on your bosom. At certain hours of particular nights, and with peculiar ce- remonies, which I need not here mention — we do believe, that in a lake or other standing water, fate reveals itself to the solitary votary. 0, Vi- vian ! I have been too long a searcher after this fearful science ; and this very night, agitated in spirit, I sought yon water. The wind was in the right direction, and every thing concurred in favouring a most propitious divination. I knelt down to gaze on the lake. I had always been accustomed to view my own figure performing some future action, or engaged in some future scene of my life. I gazed, but I saw nothing but a brilliant star. I looked up into the heavens, but the star was not there, and the clouds were driv- ing quick across the sky. More than usually agitated by this smgular occurrence, I gazed once more; and just at the moment when, with breathless and fearful expectation, I waited the revelation of my immediate destiny, there flitted a figure across the water. It was there only for the breathing of a second, and as it passed it mocked me.'' Here Mrs. Lorraine writhed in Vivian's arms ; her features were moulded in the same unnatural expression as when he first entered the gallery, and the hideous grin was again sculptured on her countenance. Her whole frame was in such a state of agitation, that she rose up and down in Vivian's arms : and it was only with the exertion of his whole strength that he could retain her. " Why, Amelia — this — this was nothing — your own figure." " No, not my own — it was yours /" Uttering a loud and piercing shriek, which echoed through the winding gallery, she fainted. Vivian gazed on her in a state of momentary stupefaction, for the extraordinary scene had be- gun to influence his own nerves. And now he heard the tread of distant feet, and a light shone through the key-hole of the nearest door. The fearful shriek had alarmed some of the house- hold. What was to be done! In desperation, Vi- vian caught the lady up in his arms, and dasliing out of an opposite door, bore her to her chamber. 7 CHAPTER VII. SOUTIC AMEIUCAN OIINITHOLOGT. What is this chapter to be about! Come, 1 m inclined to be courteous ! You shall choose the. subject of it. What shall it be — sentiment or scandal ? a love scene, or a lay-sermon — or a lecture on omelettes soufflees] I am sick of the world! Don't be frightened, sweet reader! and, Pearson, bring me a bottle of soda-water! I am sick of the world, and actually am now hesi- tating whether I shall turn misanthrope, or go to the ancient music. Not that you are to imagine that I am a dissatisfied, disappointed, moody monster, who lectures the stars, and fancies himself Rousseau secundus — not in the least. lam naturally a very amiable individual; but the truth is, I have been suffering the last three weeks under a tremendous attack of bile, and if I chance to touch a quill in this miser- able state, why, unfortunately, I have the habit of discharging a little of that ever-to-be-abhor- red juice. This, therefore, must be my excuse for occasionally appearing to be a little peevish. Far from disliking the world, I am always ready to do its merits the most poetical justice. ! thou beautiful world ! thou art a very pleasant thing — to those who know thee not. Pah ! I can't get on : and now, on looking in the glass again, I do find myself a leetle yellow under the eyes still, a twitch in the left temple, tongue like snow in a fog, a violent nausea, pulse at one hundred and ten, yet with an appetite of a Bo- nassus. Another fit of the bile, by all that's sacred — O ! thou vile world ! now for a libel ! When Vivian awoke in the morning, he found a note upon his pillow. " Did you hear the horrid shriek last night 7 It must have disturbed every one. I think it must have been one of the South American birds, which Captain Tropic gave the marchio- ness. Do not they sometimes favour the world with these nocturnal shriekingsl Isn't there a passage in Spix apropos to this 1 . A ." "Did you hear the shriek last night, Mr. Grey?" asked the marchioness, as Vivian en- tered the br^kfast-room. " yes ! Mr. Grey, did you hear the shriek 1'* asked Miss Graves. "Who didn't f " O ! what could it be V said the marchioness. " O ! what could it be ]" said Miss Graves. " ! what could it be — a cat in the gutter, or a sick cow, or a toad dying to be devoured, Miss Graves." Always snub toadeys and fed captains. 'Tis only your greenhorns who endeavour to make their way by fawning and cringing to every member of the establishment. It is a miserable mistake. No one likes his dependants to be treated with respect, for such treatment af- tbrds an unpleasant contrast to his own con- duct. Besides, it makes the toadey's blood unruly. There are three persons, mind you, to be attended to: — my lord, or my lady, as thii case may be, (usually the latter,) the pet daugh- ter, and the pet dog. I throw out these hints en passant, for my principal objects in writing this work are to amuse myself, and to instruct society. In some future book, probably the twentieth or twenty-fifth, when the plot begins to wear threadbare, and we can afford a digres- sion, I may give a chapter on domestic tactics. E 50 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " My dear marchioness," continued Vivian, " see there I've kept my promise — there's your bracelet. How's Julie to-day 1" " 0, Julie ! poor dear, I hope she's better." " O, yes, poor Julie ! I think she's better." " I don't know that, Miss Graves," said her ladyship somewhat tartly, not at all approving of a toadey thinking. " I'm afraid that scream last night must have disturbed her, O, dear Mr. Grey, I'm afraid she'll be ill again." Miss Graves looked mournful, and lifted up her eyes and hands to Heaven, but did not dare to speak this time. " I thought she looked a little heavy about the eyes this morning," said the marchioness, appa- rently very agitated ; " and I've heard from Egla- mour this post; he's not well too — I think every- body's ill now — he's caught a fever going to see the ruins of Ptestum : I wonder why people go to see ruins !" " I wonder indeed," said Miss Graves ; " I never could see anything in a ruin." " O, dear Grey !" continued the marchioness, " I really am afraid Julie's going to be very ill." " O ! let Miss Graves pull her tail and give her a little mustard seed ; she'll be better to-morrow." " Well, Graves, mind you do what Mr. Grey tells you." " O ! y-e-s, my lady !" " Mrs. Felix Lorraine," said the marchioness, as that lady entered the room, " you are late to-day ; I always reckon upon you as a supporter of an early breakfast at Desir." " O ! I've been half round the park." " Did you hear the scream, Mrs. Felix 1" " Do you know what it was, marchioness?" " No — do youl" " Ay ! ay ! see the reward of early rising, and a walk before breakfast. It was one of your new American birds, and it has half torn down our aviary." " One of the new Americans I 0, the naughty thing! and it has broke the new fancy wire work ?" Here a little odd-looking, snuffy old man, with a brown scratch wig, who had been ■^^ busily em- ployed the whole breakfast-time with a cold game pie, the bones of which Vivian observed him most scientifically pick and polish, laid down his knife and fork, and addressed the marchioness with an air of great interest. " Pray will your ladyship have the goodness to inform me what bird this is 1" 'I'he marchioness looked astonished at any one presuming to ask her a question ; and then she drawled, " Vivian, you know everything — tell this gentleman what a bird is." Now this gentleman was Mr. Mackaw, the most celebrated ornithologist extant, and who had writ- ten a treatise on Brazilian parroquets, in three volumes folio. He had arrived late at the chateau the preceding night, and, although he had the ho- nour of presenting his letter of introduction to the marquess, this morning was the first time he had been seen by any of the party present, who were of course profoundly ignorant of his character. " O ! we were talking of some South American bird given to the marchioness by the famous Cap- tain Tropic ; you know him, perhaps, Bolivar's brother-in-law, or aid-de-camp, or something of that kind : — and which screams so dreadfully at night, that the whole family is disturbed. The Chowchowtow, it's called — isn't it, Mrs. Lor- raine V " The Chowchowtow !" said Mr. Mackaw " I don't know it by that name." " O ! don't you 1 I dare say we shall find an account of it in Spix, however," said Vivian j rising, and taking a volume from the book-case a " ay ! here it is — I'll read it to you." I " The Chowchowtow is about five feet seven inches in length, from the point of the bill to the extremity of the claws. Its plumage is of a dingy, yellowish white : its form is elegant, and in its movements, and action, a certain pleasing and graceful dignity is observable ; but its head is by no means worthy of the rest of its frame, and the expression of its eye is indicative of the cunning and treachery of its character. The habits of this bird are peculiar : occasionally most easily domes- ticated, it is apparently sensible of the slightest kindness ; but its regard cannot be depended upon, and for the slightest inducement, or with the least irritation, it will fly at its feeder. At other times, it seeks the most perfect solitude, and can only be captured with the greatest skill and perseverance. It generally feeds three times a-day, but its appe- tite is not rapacious ; it sleeps little ; is usually on the wing at sunrise, and proves that it slumbers but little in the night by its nocturnal and thrilhng shrieks." " What an extraordinary bird ! Is that the bird you meant, Mrs. Felix Lorraine 1" Mr. Mackaw was extremely restless the whole time that Vivian was reading this interesting ex- tract. At last he burst forth with an immense deal of science, and a great want of construction — a want, which scientific men often experience, al- ways excepting those mealy-mouthed professeurs who lecture " at the Royal," and get patronised by the blues — the Lavoisiers of May fair ! "Chowchowtow, my lady I — five feet seven inches high ! Brazilian bird ! When I just re- mind your ladyship that the height of the tallest bird to be found in Brazil, — and in mentioning this fact, I mention nothing hypothetical, — the tall- est bird does not stand higher than four feet nine. Chowchowtow ! Dr. Spix is a name — accurate traveller — don't remember the passage — most sin- gular bird ! Chowchowtow ! don't know it b}' that name. Perhaps, your ladyship isn't aware, — I think 5'ou called that gentleman Mr. Grey, — per- haps, Mr. Grey is not aware, that I am Mr. Maclcaw — I arrived here late last night — whose work in three volumes folio, on Brazilian Parroquets, al- though I had the honour of seeing his lordship, is, I trust, a sufRciont evidence that I am not speaking at random on this subject ; and consequently from the lateness of the hour, could not have the honour of being introduced to your ladyship." " Mr. Mackaw !" thought Vivian, " the deuse you are ! O ! why didn't I say a Columbian cas- sowary, or a Peruvian penguin, or a Chilian condor, or a Guatemalan goose, or a Mexican mastard — any thing but Brazilian] O ! unfortunate Vivian Grey." The marchioness, who was quite overcome with this scientific appeal, raised her large, beautiful, sleepy eyes, from a delicious compound cf French roll and new milk, which she was working up in a Sevre saucer for Julie : and then, as usual, looked to Vivian for assistance. VIVIAN GREY. 51 " Grey, dear ! You know every thing, tell Mr. Mackaw about this bird." " Is there any point on which you differ from Spix in his account of the Chowchowtow, Mr. Mackaw ?" " My dear sir, I don't follow him at all. Dr. Spix is a most excellent man ; a most accurate traveller — quite a name — but to be sure, I've only read his work in our own tongue, and I fear from the passage you have just quoted — five feet seven inches high ! in Brazil ! It must be a most im- perfect version. I say that four feet nine is the greatest height I know. I don't speak without some foundation for my statement. The only bird I know about that height is the Paraguay casso- wary ; which, to be sure, is sometimes found in Brazil. But the description of your bird, Mr. Grey, does not answer that at all. I ought to know. I do not speak at random. The only living speci- men of that extraordinary bird, the Paraguay cas- sowary, in this country, is in my possession. It was sent me by Bonpland ; and was given to him by the Dictator of Paraguay himself. I call it, in compliment, Doctor Francta. I arrived here so late last night — only saw his lordship — or I would have had it on the lawn this morning." " O ! then, Mr. Mackaw," said Vivian, " that was the bird which screamed last night." " 0, yes ! 0, yes ! Mr. Mackaw," said Mrs. Felix Lorraine. " Marchioness ! marchioness !" continued Vi- vian, " it's found out. It's Mr. Mackaw's particular friend, his family physician, whom he always travels with, that awoke us all last night." "Is he a foreigner!" asked th% marchioness, looking up. " My dear Mr. Grey, impossible ! the doctor never screams." " ! Mr. Mackaw, Mr. Mackaw I" said Vivian. " ! Mr. Mackaw, Mr. Mackaw !" said Mrs. Felix Lorraine. " I tell you he never screams," reiterated the man of science, " I tell you he can't scream, he's muz- zledr " O ! then it must have been the Chowchow- tow." " Yes, I think it must have been the Chowchow- tow." " I should very much like to hear Spix's descrip- tion again," said Mr. Mackaw, " only I fear it's troubling you too much, Mr. Grey." " Read it yourself, my dear sir," said Vivian, putting the book into his hand, which was the third volume of Tremaine. Mr. Mackaw looked at the volume, and turned it over, and sideways, and upside downwards : the brain of a man vv'ho has written three folios on pan'oquets is soon puzzled. At first he thought the book was a novel ; but then, an essay on pre- destination, under the title of Memoirs of a Man of Refinement, rather puzzled him ; then he mistook it for an Oxford reprint of Pearson on the Creed ; and then he stumbled on rather a warm scene in an old chateau in the south of France. Before Mr. Mackaw could gain the power of speech, the door opened, and entered — who 1 Doc- tor Francia. Mr. Mackaw's travelling companion possessed the awkward accomplishment of opening doors, and now strutted in, in quest of his beloved master. Affection for Mr. Mackaw was not, however, the only cause which induced this entree. The household of Chateau Desir, unused to cassowaries, had neglected to supply Dr. Francia with his usual breakfast, which consisted of half a dozen pounds of rump steaks, a couple of bars of hard iron, some pig lead, and brown stout. The consequence was, the dictator was sadly famished. All the ladies screamed; and then Mrs. Felix Lorraine admired the doctor's violet neck, and the marchioness looked with an anxious eye on Julie, and Miss Graves, as in duty bound, with an anxious eye on the marchioness. There stood the doctor, quite still, with his large yellow eye fixed on Mr. Mackaw. At length he perceived the cold pastry, and his little black wings began to flutter on the surface of his immence body. " Che, che, che, che !" said the ornithologist, who didn't like the symptoms at all : " Che, che, che, che, — don't be frightened, ladies I you see he's jnuzzled — che, che, che, che, — now, my dear doctor, now, now, now, Franky, Franky, Franky, now go away, go away, that's a dear doctor — che, che, che, che !" But the large yellow eye grew more flaming and fiery, and the little black wings grew larger and larger; and now the left leg was dashed to and fro, with a fearful agitation. Mackaw looked agonized. Pop ! what a whirr ! Francia is on the table ! All shriek, the chairs tumble over the ottomans — the Sevre china is in a thousand pieces — the muzzle is torn off and thrown at Miss Graves ; Mackaw's wig is dashed in the clotted cream, and devoured on the spot ; and the contents of the boil- ing urn are poured over the beauteous and beloved Julie ! CHAPTER VIIL THE VIVIAX PAPERS, Mr. CoLBunx insists that this is the only title under which 1 can possibly publish the letters which Vivian Grey received on the day of , 18 — . I love to be particular in dates. THE HONOURABLE JIISS CTNTHIA COURTOWN TO VIVIAX GREY, ESa. Alburies, Oct. 18. " Dear Grey, — We have now been at Alburies for a fortnight. Nothing can be more delightful. Here is everybody in the world that I wish to see, except yourself. The Knightons, with as many outriders as usual : Lady Julia and myself are great allies, I like her amazingly. The Marquess of Grandgout arrived here last week, with a most de- licious party ; all the men who write John Bull. I was rather disappointed at the fir^t sight of Stanis- laus Hoax. I bad expected, I don't know why, something juvenile, and squibbish — when lo ! I was introduced to a corpulent individual, with his coat buttoned up to his chin, looking dull, gentle- manly, and apoplectic. However, on acquaintance he came out quite rich — sings delightful, and im- provises like a prophet — ten thousand times more entertaining than Pistrucci. We are sworn friends ; and I know all the secret history of John Bull. 53 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. There is not much, to be sute, that you didn't tell me yourself; but still there are some things. I must not trust them, however, to paper, and there- fore pray dash down to Alburies immediately ; I shall be most happy to introduce you to Lord Devil- drain. There was an interview. What think you of that 1 Stanislaus told me all, circumstantially, and after dinnei — I don't doubt that it's quite true. What would you give for the secret history of the ' rather yellow, rather yellow,' chanson ? I dare not tell it you. It came from a quarter that will quite astound you, and in a very elegant, small, female hand. You remember Lambton did stir very awkwardly in the Lisbon business. Stanis- laus wrote all the songs that appeared in the first numbers, except that ; but he never wrote a single line of prose for the first three months ; it all came from Vivida Vis. " I like the Marquess of Grandgout so much ! I hope he'll be elevated in the peerage : he looks as if he wanted it so : poor dear man ! " ! do you know I've discovered a liaison be- tween Bull and Blackwood 1 I'm to be in the next Noctes ; I forget the words of the chorus ex- actly, but Courtown is to rhyme wiXhport down, or something of that kind, and then they're to dash their glasses over their heads, give three cheers, and adjourn to whisky-toddy and the Chaldee chamber. How delightful ! " The Prima Donnas are at Cheltenham, looking most respectable. Do you ever see the Age ] It is not proper for me to take it in. Pray send me down your numbers, and tell me all about it ; that's a dear. Is it true that his lordship paragraphizes a little 1 " I have not heard from Ernest Clay, which I think very odd. If you write to him, mention this, and tell him to send me word how Dormer Stan- hope behaves at mess. I understand there has been a melee, not much — merely a rouette : do get it all out of him. " Colonel Delmington is at Cheltenham, with the most knowing beard you can possibly conceive ; Lady Julia rather patronises him. Lady Doubtful has been turned out of the rooms ; fifty challenges in consequence, and one duel ; missed fire, of course. " I have heard from Alhambra ; he has been wandering about in all directions. He has been to the Lakes, and is now at Edinburgh. He likes Southey. He gave the laureate a quantity of hints for his next volume of the Peninsular War, but does not speak very warmly of Wordsworth, gentleman- ly man, but only reads his own poetry. I made him promise to go and see De Quincy ; and, like a good boy, he did ; but he says he's a complete humbug. What can he mean 1 He stayed some days at Sir Walter's and met Tom Moore. Singu- lar, that our three great poets should be together this summer ! He speaks in raptures of the great baronet, and of the beauties of Abbotsford. He met Tom Moore again in Edinburgh, and was present at the interview between him and Hogg. Lalla Rookh did not much like being called ' Tarn Muir,' and rather kicked at the shepherd. " Edinburgh is more delightful than you can possibly conceive. I certainly intend to go next summer. Alhambra is very intimate with John Wilson, who seems indeed a first-rate fellow, full »)t' fun and genius ; and quite as brilliant a hand at a comic song, as at a tragic drama. Do you know it struck me the other day, that comic song and tragedies are 'the lights and shadows' of literature. Pretty idea, is it not 1 " Here has been a cousin of yours about us ; a young barrister going the circuit, by name Har- grave Grey. The name attracted my notice, and due inquiries having been made, and satisfactorily answered, I patronised the limb of law. For- tunate for him I I got him to all the fancy balls and pic-nics that were going on. He was in hea- ven for a fortnight, and at length, having over- stayed his time, he left us, also leaving his bag and only brief behind him. They say he's ruined for life. Write soon. " Yours, ever, " Ctnthia Courtows." EMfEST CLAT, ESQ.., TO TIVIAN GHEY, ESQ. " October—, 18—. " Dear Grey l-^-I am sick of key-bugles and country balls ! All the girls in town are in love Avith me — or my foraging cap. I am very much obliged to you for your letter to Kennet, which procured every thing I wanted. The family turned out bores, as you had prepared me. I never met such a clever family in my life; the father is summoning up courage to favour the world with a volume of sermons ; both the sons have had son- nets refused by the London magazines ; and Isa- bella Kennet most satisfactorily proved to me, after an argument of two hours, which, for courtesy's sake, I fought very manfully, that Sir Walter Scott was not the author of Waverley ; and then she vowed, as I have heard fifty other young literary ladies vow before, that she had ' seen the Antiquary in manuscripV' " There has been a slight row to diversify the monotony of our military life. Young Premium, the son of the celebrated loan-monger, has bought in ; and Dormer Stanhope, and one or two others equally fresh, immediately anticipated another Bat- tier business ; but with the greatest desire to make a fool of myself, I have a natural repugnance to mimicking the foolery of others; so with some little exertion, and very fortunately for young Premium, I got the tenth voted vulgar, on the score of curiosity, and we were civil to the man. As it turned out, it was all very well, for Premium is a quiet gentlemanly fellow enough, and exceed- ingly useful. He'll keep extra grooms for the whole mess, if they want it. He's very grateful to me for what does not deserve any gratitude, and for what gave me no trouble ; for I did not defend him from any feeling of kindness. And both the Mounteneys, and young Stapylton Toad, and Augustus, being in the regiment, why, I've very little trouble in commanding a majority, if it come to a division. " I dined the other day at old Premium's, who lives near this town in a magnificent old hall, ., which, however, is not near splendid enough for a i man who is the creditor of every nation from Cali- fornia to China ; and, consequently, the great Mr. Stucco is building a plaster castle for him in an- other part of the park. Glad am I enough, that I ! was prevailed upon to patronise the Premium; for- I think I never witnessed a more singular scenes than I did the day I dined there. " I was ushered through an actual street of ««r- vitors, whose liveries were really cloth of gold, , and whose elaborately powdered heads would noli have disgraced tlie most ancient mansion in »t.- VIVIAN GREY. James's Square, into a large and very crowded sa- loon. I was, of course, received with the most miraculous consideration ; and the car of Mrs. Premium seemed to dwell upon the jingling of my spurs, (for I am adjutant,) as upon the most ex- quisite music. It was b;L GiiovKS, " P. S. The half pipe of port wine I told you of is come in, and I think it promises to be as good sterling stuff as ever you need wish to taste — some hodij in it — none of your French vinegary slip-slop. Depend on't, port's the wine for Englishmen — there's some stamina in it: that's the ground I stand upon." harghave cnET, esq.., to vivian- gret, Esa- ''October — , 17 — . "Dp.aii Vivian, — You ought not to expect a otter fi-om me. I cannot conceive why you do not occasionally answer your correspondents' letters, if correspondents they may be called. It is really a most unreasonable habit of your:? ; any one but myself would quarrel with you. " A letter from Baker met me at this place, and I find that the whole of that most disagreeable and annoying business is arranged. From the prompti- tude, skill, and energy, which are apparent in the whole afi'air, I suspect I have to thank the very gentleman, whom I was just going to quarrel with You're a good fellow, Vivian, after all. For want of a brief, I sit dow-n to give you a sketch of my adventures on this my first circuit. " This circuit is a cold and mercantile adventure, and I'm disappointed in it. JXot fo either, for I looked for but little to enjoy. Take one day of n^y life as a specimen ; the rest are mostly alike. The sheriff's trumpets are playing, — one, some tune of which I know nothing, and the other no tune at all. I'm obliged to turn out at eight. It is the first day of the assize, so there is some chance of a brief, being a new place, I push my way into court through files of attorneys, as civil to the rogues as possible, assuring them there is plenty of room, though I am at the very moment gasping for breath, wedged in a lane of well lined waistcoats. I get into court, take my place in the quietest cor- ner, and there I sit, and pass other men's fees and briefs hke a twopenny postman only witliout pay. Well ! 'tis six o'clock — dinner time — at the bottom of the table — carve for all — speak to none — nobody speaks to me — must vi'ait till la.-t to sum up, and pay the bill. Reach home quite devoured by spleen, after having heard eveiy one abused, who happened to be absent. " You wished me many briefs, but only one of your wishes have come to pass, and that at this place ; but I flatter myself I got up the law of the case in a most masterly style ; and I am sure you will allow me to be capable of so doing, when I relate the particulars : — " Indictment states, that prisoner, on, &c., at, &c., from out of a certain larder, etole a pork pie. "2d count — a meat pie. " 3d count — a pie in general. " The great question was, whether the ofifence was complete or not, the felon not having carried it out of the larder, but only conveyed it into his own pocket : — that is, all he could not eat. " Plea : — he was hungiy. "Per Bolter Baron. — 'He must not satisfy his appetite at another person's expense, so let him be whipped, and discharged ; and let the treasurer of the county pay the expenses of this prosecution.' W^hich were accordingly allowed, to the amount of something under fifty pounds. " Don't turn up the whites of your eyes, Vivian ; and, in the fulness of your indignation, threaten us with all the horrors of parliamentary interference. The fact is, on this circuit, to judge of the number of ofl'ences tried, such a theft is as enormous as a burglary, with one or two throats cut, in London , for pork pies are the staple of the county : and they export them by canal to all parts of the world whereto the canals run, which the natives imagine to be to parts beyond seas at least. " I travelled to this pl'ace with Manners, whom I believe you know, and amused myself by getting from him an account of my fellows, anticipating, at the same time, what in fact happened : — to wit, that I should afterwards get his character from them. It is strange how freely they deal with each other — that is, the person spoken of being away. I would not have had you see cur Stan- hope for half a hundred pounds: your jealousy would have been so excited. To say the truth, we are a little rough ; — our mane wants pulling, and our hoofs trimming, but we jog along without pcrformmg either operation : and, by dint of rattling the whip against the s|jlash-board, using all ow/>! VIVIAN GREY. 55 persuasion of hand and voice, and jerking the bit in his mouth, we do contrive to get into the circuit- town, usually just about the time that the sheriff and his posse comitatus are starting to meet my lord the king's justice : — and that is the worst of it; for their horses are prancing and pawing coursers just out of the stable, — sleek skins and smart drivers. We begin to be knocked up just then, and our appearance is the least briUiant of any part of the day. Here I had to pass through a host of these powdered, scented fops; and the multitude who had assembled to gaze on the nobler exhibi- tion rather scoffed at our humble vehicle. As Manners had just then been set down to find the inn and lodging, I could not jump out and leave our equipage to its fate, so I settled my cravat, and seemed not to mind it — only I did. '■ Manners has just come in, and insists upon my going to the theatre with him. I shall keep this back another post, to tell you whether I re- ceive another letter from Baker, at d! "No letter from Baker, but I find it so dull sitting in court with nothing to do, that I shall trouble you with a few more lines from myself. The performance last night was rather amusing: Eoraeo and Juliet turned into a melo-drame, to suit the taste of the vicinity. The nasal tones of Juliet's voice in the love-scenes, must have been peculiarly moving to any Romeo, but to that for whom they were intended, they seemed so much in earnest, that he must have been quite enraptured. There were no half meetings. Juliet entered fully into the feeling of the poet ; and hung about his neck, and kissed his lips — all like life, to the great edifi- cation of the audience assembled ; which, as it was assize week, was a very brilliant one. In such a company, there nmst necessarily be economy used in the actors and actresses. Thus, as Mercutio is killed off in the first act, he afterwards performs the Friar, and the Friar himself figures as the chief dancer in the masquerade : but I was most charmed at discovering Juliet's nasal tones in her own dirge — a wonderful idea, never before intro- duced on any stage. I was led to make this dis- covery, not merely by the fact of her voice being undisguised, but from an unfortunate accident which occun'ed at the funeral. As the deceased heroine was a chief mourner, her beloved corpse had to be performed by a bundle of rags, or some- thing of the kind, laid upon a sort of school form, and earned by herself and five other ladies in white : — so, as the music was rather quick, and the mourners had to perform pus de zephyr all round the stage, and Juliet did not keep very good time, while the virgins on one side were standing on their left legs towards the audience, as nearly in a horizontal posture as possible, the daughter of Capulet, and her battalion, began performing on the wrong leg, and in the consequent scuffle the bier overturned ! The accident, however, was speedily rectified, and the procession moved on to the music of two fiddles and one bell. Juliet's tomb was a snug little parlour with blue panels, and Romeo drank gin instead of poison, which Shakspeare must have surely intended, or else it was quite out of nature to make Juliet exclaim. What, churl ! not left one drop !' " But I must leave off this nonsense, and attend to his lordship's charge, which is now about to commence. I have not been able to get you a single good murder, although I have kept a sharp | When it was all over, his lordship once more fixed look out as you desired me ; but there's a chanca of a first-rate one at n. " I am quite delighted with Mr, Justice St. Prose. He is at this moment in a most entertaining pas- sion, preparatory to a ' conscientious' summing up ; and in order that his ideas may not be disturbed, he has very liberally ordered the door-keeper to have the door oiled immediately, at his own ex- pense. Now for my lord the king's justice. " ' Gentlemen of the jury ! " ' The noise is insufferable — the heat is intole- rable — the door-keepers let the people keep shuf- fling in — the ducks in the comer are going quack, quack, quack — here's a little girl being tried for her life, and the judge can't hear a word that's said. Bring me my black cap, and I'll condemn her to death instantly.' " ' You can't, my lord,' shrieks the infant sin- ner ; ' it's only for petty larceny I' " This is agreeable, is it not ? but let us see what the next trial will produce : — this was an ac- tion of tresfiass, for breaking off the pump handle, knocking down the back-kitchen door, spitting on the parlour carpet, and tumbling the maid's head about. " ' Plea. — That the defendants, eight in number, entered in aid of the constable, under warrant of a magistrate, to search for stolen goods. "John Staff, examined by Mr. Shuffleton. " ' Well, Mr. Constable, what have you to say about this affair 1' " ' Why, sir, I charged them men to assist me in the king's name.' " ' What, eight of you 1 why, there was only an old woman, and a boy, and the servant girl in the house. You must have been terribly frightened at them, ehl' " ' Can't say for that, sir, only they was needful.' " ' Why, what could you want so many for V " ' Why, you see, sir, I couldn't read the war- rant myself, so I charged Abraham Lockit to read it for me ; and when he came, he said as it was Squire Jobson's writing, and so he could not, and then I had occasion to charge Simon Lockit, and he read it.' " ' Well, that's only two : what were the rest for?' " ' Why, yom- honour, they was to keep the wc men quiet.' " Mr. Justice St. Prose. — ' Take care what you're about, witness. I consider it my duty to advise you not to laugh ; it is, in my opinion, a contempt of court, and I therefore desire you to restrain your- self.' "Mr. Shufflelor). — 'But you haven't told me why you wanted these other six men.' " ' Why, the women, d'ye see, sir, was so very unruly in the kitchen ; and so I charged them to keep 'em quiet.' " ' Now, sir, what do you call keeping the wo- men quiet, pulling the maid's cap off, and — ]' " Mr. Justice St. Prose. (To a person oppo- site.) — ' You'll excuse me, sir, but I think that those two little gentlemen had better leave the court till this examination is over.' '• His lordship ' thought it his duty' to give a similar warning to two very pretty j'oung ladies in pink bonnets and green pelisses. They were, how- ever, so obstinate as to remain in court, until they had heard the whole circumstantial and improper evidence, of the destruction of the maid's cap. 56 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. kiis large ejes on the constable, and thus deUvered liimself: — " ' Now, Mr. Constable, to remove the sting of any remark which may have dropped from me during this trial, I will allow that, very probably, you had reason to laugh.' — Mr. Constable looked quitf: relieved. " By way of variety, I will give a specimen of his lordship's style of cross-examination. " Enter a witness with a flourishing pair of whiskers, approximating to a King Charles. " Mr. Justice St. Prose. — ' Pray, sir, tvho are youl' " Whiskered witness. — ' An architect, my lord.' " Mr. J. St. Prose. — ' An aixhitect ! sir ; are you not in the army V « W. W. (Agitated.)—' No, my lord.' " Mr. J. St. Prose. — ' Never were V " W. W. (Much browbeat.) — ' No, my lord.' " Mr. J. St. Prose. — ' Then, sir, what right have you to wear those whiskers 1 I consider that you can't be a respectable young man, and I sha'n't al- low you your expenses.' " I have just got an invite from the Kearneys. Congratulate me. " Dear Vivian, yours, faithfully, "Harghave Grey." LADT SCnOTE TO VITIAJf GKET, ESa. " Ormshy Park, Oct. — , 18 — . " Mt DEATi Vivian, — By desire of Sir Berd- more, (is not this pretty and proper 1) I have to request the fulfilment of a promise, upon the hope of which being performed, I have existed through this dull month. Pray, my dear Vivian, come to us immediately. Ormshy has at present little to offer for your entertainment. We have had that unendurable bore, Vivacity Dull, with us for a whole fortnight. A report of the death of the lord chancellor, or a rumour of the production of a new tragedy, has carried him up to town ; hut whether it be to ask for the seals, or to indite an ingenious prologue to a play which will be condemned the first night, I cannot inform you. I am quite sure he is capable of doing either. However, we shall have other deer in a few days. " I believe you have never met the Mounteneys — no, I'm sure you have not. They have never been at Hallesbrooke since you have been at Desir. They are coming to us immediately. I am sure you will like them very much. Lord Mounteney is one of those kind, easy-minded, ac- complished men, who, after all, arc nearly the pleasantest society one ever meets. Rather wild in his youth, but with his estate now unincum- bered, and himself perfectly domestic. His lady is an unaffected, agreeable woman. But it is Caro- line Mounteney whom I wish you particularly to meet. She is one of those delicious creatures, who, in spite of not being married, are actually con- versable. Spirited, without any allectation or brusquerie ; beautiful, and knowing enough to be quite conscious of it ; and perfectly accomplished, and yet never annoying you with tattle about Rochsa, and Ronzi de Begnis, and D'Egville. " We also expect the Delmonts, the most en- durable of the Anglo-Italians that I know. Mrs. Delmont is not always dropping her handkerchief like Lady Gusto, as if she expected a miserable cavalier servente to be constantly upon his knees, or giving those odious expressive looks, which quile destroy my nerves whenever I am under the same roof as that horrible Lady Soprano. There is a little too much talk, to be sure, about Roman churches, and newly-discovered Mosaics, and Ab- bete Mali, but still we cannot expect perfection. There are reports going about that Ernest Clay is either ruined, going to be married, or about to write a novel. " Perhaps all are true. Young Premium has nearly lost his character, by driving a square-built, striped green thing, drawn by one horse. Ernest Clay got him through this terrible affair. What can he the reasons of the Sieur Ernest's excessive amiability 1 " Both the young Mounteneys are with their regiment, but Aubrey Vere is coming to us, and I've half a promise from ; but I know you never speak to unmarried men, so why do I men- tion them 1 Let me, I beseech you, my dear Vivian, have a few days of you to myself, before you are introduced to Caroline Mounteney. I did Jiot think it was possible that I could exist so long without seeing you ; but you really must not try me too much, or I shall quarrel with you. I have received all your letters, which are very, very agreeable ; but I think rather imprudent. If you don't behave better, I shan't pet you — I shan't in- deed ; so do not put off coming a single moment Adieu! Henriette Scrope." HORACE GREY, ESQ,-, TO VIVIAN GRET, ESa. "Paris, Oct. 18—. " Mr DEAR ViTiAN, — I have received your Ics-t letter, and have read it with mixed feelings of as- tonishment and sorrow. " You are now, my dear son, a member of what is called, k ffrand monde — society formed on anti- social principles. Apjiarently, you have possessed yourself of the object of your wishes; but the scenes you live in are very movable ; the characters you associate with are all masked ; and it will always be doubtful, whether you can retain that longer, which has been obtained by some slippery artifice. Vivian, you are a juggler; and the deception of your slight-of-hand tricks depend upon instanta- neous motions. " When the selfish combine with the selfish, bethink you how many j)rojects are doomed to disappointment ! how many cross interests bafRe the parties, at the same time joined together with- out ever uniting ! What a mockery is their love ! but how deadly are their hatreds ! All this great society, with whom so young an adventurer has trafficked, abate nothing of their price in the slavery of their service, and the sacrifice of violated feel- ings. What sleepless nights has it cost you to win over the disobliged, to conciliate the discon- tented, to cajole the contumacious ! You ma^ smile at the hollow flatteries, answering to flatteries as hollow, which, like bubbles when they touch, dissolve into nothing: but tell me, Vivian, what has the sclf-tormenter felt at the laughing treache- ries, which force a man down into self-contem[)t 1 *• Is it not obvious, my dear Vivian, that true fame, and true happiness, must rest upon the im- perishable social affections 1 I do not mean that coterie celebrity, which paltry minds accept as fame, but that which exists independent of the opinions, or the intrigues of individuals ; nor do 1 VIVIAN GREY. 57 mean that glittering show of perpetual converse with the world, which some miserable wanderers call happiness ; but that which can only be drawn from the sacred and solitary fountain of j'our own feelings. " Active as you have now become in the great scenes of human affairs, I would not have you guided by any fanciful theories of morals or of human nature. Philosophers have amused them- selves by deciding on human actions by systems ; but as these systems are of the most opposite na- tures, it is evident that each philosopher, in reflect- ing his own feelings in the system he has so elaborately formed, has only painted his own cha- racter. " Do not, therefore, conclude with Hobbes and Mandcville, that man lives in a state of civil war- fare with man ; nor with Shaftesbury, adorn with a poetical philosophy our natural feelings. Man is neither the vile nor the excellent being which he sometimes imagines himself to be. He does not so nmch act by system as by sympathy. If this creature cannot always feel for others, he is doom- ed to feel for himself; and the vicious are, at least, blessed with the curse of remorse. " You are now inspecting one of the worst por- tions of society, in what is called the great world ; (St. Giles's is bad, but of another kind ;) and it may be useful, on the principle that the actual sight of brutal ebriety was supposed to have in- spired youth with the virtue of temperance, on the same principle that the Platonist, in the study of defonnity, conceived the beautiful. Let me warn you not to fall into the usual error of youth, in fancying that the circle you move in is precisel}' the world itself. Do not imagine that there are not other beings, whose benevolent principle is governed by finer sympathies, by more generous passions, and by those nobler emotions which really constitute all our public and private virtues. I give this hint, lest, in your present society, you might suppose these virtues were merely historical. *' Once more I must beseech you not to give loose to any elation of mind. The machinery by which you have attained this unnatural result, must be so complicated, that, in the very tenth hour, you will find yourself stopped in some part where you never counted on an impediment ; and the want of a slight screw, or a little oil, will pre- vent you from accomplishing your magnificent end. " We arc, and have been, very dull here. There is every probability of Madame de Genlis writing more volumes than ever. I called on the old lady, and was quite amused with the enthusiasm of her imbecility. Chateaubriand is getting what you call a bore ,■ and the whole city is mad about a new opera by Boieldieu. Your mother sends her love, and desires me to say, that the salmi of woodcocks, a la Lucul/us, which you write about, does not differ from the practice here in vogue ; but we have been much pleased with ducks, with olive sauce, about which she particularly wishes to consult you. How does your cousin Hargrave prosper on his circuit 1 The Delmingtons are here, which makes it very pleasant for your mo- ther, as well as for myself; for it allows me to hunt over the old book shops at my leisure. There are no new books worth sending you, or they would accompany this ; but I would recommend you to gel Meyer's new volume from Treuttel and Wurtz, and continue to make notes as yoU read it Give my compliments to the marquess, and be- lieve me " Your most affectionate father, " HoaACE Grey." CHAPTER IX. THE DEPAHTUHE, It was impossible for any human being to be- have with more kindness than the Marquess of Carabas did to Vivian Grey, after that young gen- tleman's short conversation with Mrs. FeUx Lor- raine, in the conservatory. The only feeling which seemed to actuate the peer, was an eager desire to compensate, by his present conduct, for any past misunderstanding, and he loaded his young friend with all possible favour. Still Vivian was about to quit Chateau Desir, and in spite of all that had passed, he was extremely loath to leave his noble friend under the guardianship of his fe- male one. About this time the Duke and Dutchess of Jug- gernaut, the very pink of aristocracy, the wealth- iest, the proudest, the most ancient, and most pompous couple in Christendom, honoured Cha- teau Desir with their presence for two days ; only two day^, making the marquess's mansion a con- venient resting-place in one of their princely castles. Vivian contrived to gain the heart of her grace, by his minute acquaintance with the Juggernaut pedigree ; and having taken the opportunity, in one of their conversations to describe Mrs. Felix Lorraine as the most perfect specimen of divine creation with which he was acquainted, at the same time the most amusing and the most amiable of women, that lady was honoured with an invita- tion to accompany her grace to Himalaya Cas- tle. As this was the greatest of all possible ho- nours, and as Desir was now very dull, Mrs. Felix Lorraine accepted the invitation, or ruther obeyed the command, for the marquess would not hear of a refusal, Vivian having dilated, in the most ener- getic terms, on the opening which now presented itself of gaining the Juggernaut. The coast being thus cleared, Vivian set otf the next day for Sir Berdmore Scrope's. BOOK THE FOURTH. CHAPTER L The important time drew nigh. Christmas was to be passed by the Carabas family, the Bca- consfields, the Scropes, and the Clevelands, at Lord Courtown's villa at Richmond : at which place, on account of its vicinity to the metropolis, the viscount had determined fi) make out the holi- days, notwithstanding the Thames entered his kitchen windows, and the Donna del Lago was acted in the theatre with real water — Cynthia Courtown performing Elena, paddling in a punt. " Let us order our horses, Cleveland, round to the Piccadilly gate, and walk through the guards. I must stretch my legs. That bore, Horace But- tonhole, captured me in Pall-Mall East, and haa 58 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. kept me in the same position for upwards of half au hour I shall make a note to blackball him at the Athenaeum. How's Mrs. Cleveland]" "Extremely well. She goes down to Buck- hurst Lodge with the marchioness. Isn't that liOrd Lowersdale?" " His very self. He's going to call on Vivida Vis, I've no doubt. Lowersdale is a man of very fonsiderable talent — much more than the world gives him credit for." " And he doubtless finds a very able counsellor in Monsieur Ic Secretaire 1" " Can you name a better one ?" '• You rather patronise Vivida, I think, Grey?" " Patronise him ! he's ni}' political pet !" " And yet Kcrrison tells me, you reviewed the Suffolk papers in the Edinburgh." " So I did — what of that ! I defended them in Blackwood." " This, then, is the usual method of you literary gentlemen. Thank God ! I never could write a line !" " York House rises proudl}' — if York House be its name." "This confounded Catholic question is likely to give us a great deal of trouble. Grey. It's perfect madness for us to advocate the cause of the 'six millions of hereditary bondsmen ;' and yet, with not only the Marchese, but even Courtown and Beaconsfield committed, it is, to say the least, a very delicate business." " Very delicate, certainly ; but there are some precedents, I shrewdly suspect, Cleveland, for the influence of a party being opposed to measures, which the heads of that party had pledged them- selves to adopt." *' Does old Gifford still live at Pamlico, Grey 1" « Still." " He's a splendid fellow after all." " Certainly, a mind of great powers — but bi- goted." " ! yes, I know exactly what you're going to say. It's the fashion, I'm aware, to abuse the old gentleman. He's the Earl of Eldon of literature ; — not the less loved because a little vilified. But, when I just remember what Gifford has done — when I call to mind the perfect and triumphant success of every thing he has undertaken — the Anti-Jacobin — the Baviad and MaDviad — the Quarterly — all palpable hits — on the very jugular — upon my honour, I hesitate before I speak of William Gifford in any otlier terms, or in any other spirit, than those of admiration and of grati- tude. " And to think, Grey, that the tory athninistra- tion, and the tory party of Great Britain, should never, by a single act, or in one si.igle instance, have indicated that they were in the least aware that the exertions of suck a man differed in the slightest degree from those of Hunt and Hone ! — O ! Grey, of all the delusions which flourish in this mad world, the delusion of that man is the most tVantic, who voluntarily, and of his own ac- cord, supports the interest of a party. I mention this to you, because it is the rock on which all young politicians strike. Fortunately, you enter life under different circumstances from those which usually attend most political debutants. You have your connexions formed, and your views ascertained. But if, by any chance, you find your- self independent and unconnected, never, for a moment, suppose that you can accomplish your objects by coming forward, unsolicited, to fight the battle of a party. They will cheer your success- ful exertions, and then smile at your youthful zeal — or, crossing themselves for the unexpected succour, be too cowardly to reward their unex- pected champion. No, Grey, make them fear you, — and they will kiss your feet. There is no act of treachery or meanness of which a political party is not capable ; — for in politics there is no honour. " As to Gifford, I am surprised at their conduct towards him, — although I know better than most men of what wood a minister is made, and how much reliance may be placed upon the gratitude of a party ; but Canning — from Canning I cer- tainly did expect different conduct." " O, Canning ! I love the man : but as you say, Cleveland, ministers have short memories, and Canning's — that was Antilles that just passed us; apropos to whom I quite rejoice that the marquess has determined to take such a decided course on the West Indian question." " 0, yes ! curse your East India sugar." " To be sure — slavery and sweetmeats for ever." " I was always for the West India interest, from a boy, Grey. I had an aunt who was a Creole, and who used to stuff me with guava jelly, and small, delicate limes, that looked, for all the world, like emeralds powdered with diamond dust." " Pooh ! my dear Cleveland ; they should not have looked like any such thing. What your Creole aunt gave you must have been candied. The delicate fruit should swim in an ocean of cla- rified sugar." " I believe you're right. Grey ; I sacrificed truth to a trope. Do you like the Barbadoes ginger?" " If it is mild, and of a pale golden colour. How delicious the Bordeaux flows after it I O ! the West India interest for ever !" " But aside with joking, Grey, I really think, that if any man of average ability dare rise in the House, and rescue many of the great questions of the day from what Dugald Stewart', or D'Israeli, would call the spirit of political religionism, with which they are studiously mixed up, he would not fail to make a great impression upon the House, and a still greater one upon the countiy." " I quite agree with you ; and certainly I should recommend commencing with the West India question. Singular state of affairs ! when even Canning can only insinuate his opinion, when the very existence of some of our most valuable colo- nies is at stake, and when even his insinuations are only indulged with an audience, on the condi- tion that he favours the House with an introduc- tory discourse of twenty minutes on ' the divine Author of our faith' — and an eloge of equal length on the esprit rlu Christlanisme, in a style wor- thy of Chateaubriand." " Miserable work, indeed ! I have got a pamph- let on the West India question sent me this morning. Do you know any raving lawyer, any mad master in chancery, or something of the kind, who meddles in these affairs?" " O ! Stephens I a puddle in a storm ! He's for a crusade for the regeneration of the Antilles — tha most forcible of fecbles — the most energetic of drivellers, — Velluti acting Pietro L'Eremita." VIVIAN GREY. 59^^ " Do you know, by any chance, whether Southey's Vindiciae is out yet] I wanted to look it over during the hoUdays." " Not out — though it has been advertised some time ; but what do you expect V " Nay ! it's an interesting controversy, as con- troversies go. Not exactly Milton and Salmasius — but fijjr enough." "Oil don't know. It has long degenerated into a mere personal bickering between the lau- reate and Butler. Southey is, of course, revelling in the idea of writing an English work with a Latin title ; and that, perhaps, is the only circum- stance 101 which the controversy is prolonged." " But Southey, after all, is a man of splendid talents." " Doubtless — the most philosophical of bigots, and the most poetical of prose writers." '* Aprofjos to the Catholic question — there goes Colonel Botherem, trying to look like Prince Met- temicli ; a decided failure." " What can keep him in town 1" " Writitig letters, I suppose. Heaven preserve me from receiving any of them !" " Is it true, then, that his letters are of the aw- ful length that is whispered 1" " True ! O ! they're sometliing beyond all con- ception ! Perfect epistolary boa constrictors. I speak with feeling, for I have myself suffered under their voluminous windings." '• Have you seen his quarto volume — ' The Cure for the CathoUc Question 1' " " Yes." " If you have it, lend it to me. What kind of tiling is it 1" '■ ! what should it be ! ingenious, and imbe- cile. — He advises the Catholics, in the old nursery language, to behave like good boys — to open their mouths and shut their eyes, and see what God will send them." " Well, that's the usual advice. Is there nothing more characteristic of the writer 1" " What think you of a proposition of making Jocky of Norfolk patriarch of England, and of an ascertained credo for our Catholic fellow-subjects — ingenious, isn't it !" " Have you seen Puff's new volume of Ariosto V " I have. Vv'hat could possibly have induced Mr. Parthenopex Puff to have undertaken such a duty ! Mr. Puff is a man destitute of poetical powers ; possessing no vigour of language, and gifted with no happiness of expression. His translation is hard, dry, and husky as the outside of a cocoa-nut. I am amused to see the excellent tact with which the public have determined not to read his volumes, in spite of the incessant exer- tions of a certain set to insure their popularity ; but the time has gone by, when the smug coterie could create a reputation." '■Do you think the time ever existed Cleveland!" " What could have seduced Puff into being so ambitious 1 I suppose his admirable knowledge of Italian ; as if a man were entitled to strike a die ibr the new sovereign, merely because he vv'as aware how much alloy might legally debase its carats of pure gold." '• I never can pardon Puff for that little book on cats. The idea was admirable ; but instead of one of the most delightful volumes that ever appeared, to take up a dull, tame compilation from Bingley's Animal Biography !" " Yes ! and the impertinence of dedicating such a work to the officers of his majesty's household troops I Considering the quarter from whence it proceeded, I certainly did not expect much, but still I thought that there was to be some little esprit. The poor guards ! how nervous they must have been at the announcement ! What could have been the point of that dedication!" " I remember a most interminable proser, that was blessed with a very sensible-sounding voice and who, on the strength of that, and his correct and constant emphasis, was considered by the world, for a great time, as a sage. At length it was discovered that he was quite the reverse. Mr. Puff's wit is very like this man's wisdom. You take up one of his little books, and you fancy, from its title-page, that it's going to be very witty ; as you proceed you begin to suspect that the man is only a wag, and then, surprised at not ' seeing the point,' you have a shrewd suspicion that he is a great hand at dry humour. It is not till you have closed the volume that you wonder who it is that has had the hardihood to intrude such imbe- cility upon an indulgent world." " Come, come ! Mr. Puff is a worthy gentle- man. Let him cease to dusk the radiancy of Ariosto's sunny stanzas, and I shall be the first man who will do justice to his merits. He cer- tainly tattles prettily about tenses, and termina- tions, and is not an inelegant grammarian." " Anotlier failure among the booksellers to-day !" '' Indeed ! literature, I think, is at a low ebb." " Certainly. There is nothing like a fall of stocks — to aflcct what is the fashion to style the litera- ture of the present day — a fungus production, which has flourished from the artificial state of ou. society — the mere creature of our imaginary wealth. Everybody being very rich, has afforded to be very literary — books being considered a lux- ury almost as elegant and necessary as ottomans, bonbons, and pier-glasses. Consols at 100 were the origin of all book societies. The stock-brokers' ladies took oft' the quarto travels, and the hotpress- ed poetry. They were the patronesses of 3'our patent ink, and your wire-wove paper. That is all passed. Twenty per cent, difference in the value of our public securities from this time last year — that little incident has done more for the restoration of the old English feeling than all the exertions of church and state united. O, there is nothing like a fall in consols to bring the blood of our good people of England into cool order. It's your grand state medicine — your veritable doctor Sangrado !" " A fall in stocks ! and halt ! to ' the spread of knowledge !' and ' the progress of liberal princi- ples' is like that of a man too late for post-horses. A fall in stocks ! and where are your London uni- versities and your mechanics' institutes, and your new docks 1 Where your philosophy, your phi- lanthropy, and your competition 1 National pre- judices revive as national prosperity decreases. If the consols were at sixty, we should be again bel- lowuig, God save the king ! eating roast beef, and damning the French." " And you imagine literature is equally affected. Grey !" " {/learly. We were literary, because we were rich. Amid the myriad of volume* which issued montlily from the press, what one was not written for the mere hour 1 It is well, very well to buy 60 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. mecbar.iral poetry, and historical novels, when our /)urses have a plethora ; but now, my dear fellow, depend upon it, the game is up. We have no scholars now — no literary recluses — no men who ever appear to think. ' Scribble, scribble,' as the Duke oi' Cumberland said to Gibbon, should be the motto of the mighty ' nineteenth cen- tury.' " " Southey, I think. Grey, is an exception." " By no means. Southey is a political writer — a writer for a particular purpose. All his works, from those in three volumes quarto to those in one duodecim.o, are alike political pamphlets. Sha- ron Turner, in his solitude, alone seems to have his eye upon Prince Posterity ; but, as might be expected, the public consequently has not its eye upon Sharon Turner. Twenty years hence thoy may discover that they had a prophet among them, and knew him not." " His histoiy is certainly a splendid work, but little known. Lingard's, which in ten years' time will not be known even by name, sells admirably, I believe." "I was very much amused, Cleveland, with Al- len's review of Lingard. in the Edinburgh. His opinion of the ' historian's style' — that it com- bined, at the same time the excellencies of Gibbon and Hume — was one of the most exquisite speci- mens of irony, that, I think, I ever met with : it was worthy of former days. I was just going to give up the Edinburgh, when I read that sentence, and I continued in consequence." " We certainly want a master-spirit to' set us right, Grey. Scott, our second Shakspeare, we, of course, cannot expect to step forward to direct the public mind. He is too much engaged in de- lighting it. Besides, he is not the man for it. He is not a llterateitr. We want Byron." " Ah ! there was the man ! And that such a man should be lost to us, at the very moment that he had begun to discover why it had pleased the Omnipotent to have endowed him with such powers !" " If one thing was more characteristic of Byron's mind than another, it was his strong, shrewd, common sense — his pure, unalloyed sagacity." " You knev>' the glorious being, I think, Cleve- land?" " Well ; I was slightly acquainted with him, when in England ; slightly, however, for I was then very young. But many years afterwards 1 met him in Italy. It was at Pisa, just before he left for Genoa. I was then verv much struck at the alteration in his appearance." " Indeed !" " Yes ; his face was ven,' much swollen, and he was getting fat. His hair was gray, and his coun- tenance had lost that spiritual expression wdiich it once so eminently possessed. His teeth were de- caying; and he f.aid, that if ever he came to Eng- land, it would be to consult Wayte about them. I certainly was veiy much struck at his alteration for the worse. Besides, he was dressed in the most extraordinary manner." " Slovenly 1" " O ! no, no, no, — in the most dandified stylo that you can conceive ; but not that of an English dandy, either. He had on a magnificent foreign foraging cap, which he wore in the room, but his gray curls were quite perceptible ; and a fi'ogged Kurtout ; and he had a large gold chain round his neck, and pushed it into his waistcoat pocket. I imagined, of course, that a glass was attached to it ; but I afterwards found that it bore nothing but a quantity of trinkets. He had also another gold chain tight round his neck, like a collar." " Hov7 extraordinary ! and did you converse much with him 1" " I was not long at Pisa, but we never parted, and there was only one subject of conversation — England, England, England. I never met a man in whom the mahidJe (In. pays was so strong. Byron was certainly at this time restless and dis- contented. He was tired of his dragoon captains, and pensioned poetasters, and he dared not come back to England with, what he considered, a tar- nished reputation. His only thought was of some desperate exertion to clear himself. It was for this he went to Greece. When I was v\'ith him, he was in correspondence with some friends in Eng- land, about the purchase of a large tract of land in Colombia. He affected a great admiration cf Bolivar." " Who, by-the-by, is a great man." "Assuredly." " Your acquaintance with Byron must have been one of the most gratifying incidents of your life, Cleveland V " Certainly ; I may say with Friar Martin, in Goetz of Berlichingen, '"The sight of him touched my heart. It is a pleasure to have seen a great man.' " " Hobhouse was a very faithful friend to him ?" " His conduct has been beautiful — and Byron had a thorough affection for him, in spite of a few squibs, and a few drunken speeches, which damned good-natured friends have always been careful to repeat." " The loss of B3'ron can never be retrieved. He xvas indeed a man — a real man ,• and when I say this, I award him, in my opinion, the most splen- did character which human nature need aspire to. At least, I, for my part, have no ambition to be considered either a divinity or an angel ; and, tralv, when I look round upon the creatures alike effemi- nate in mind and liody, of which the world is, in general, composed, I fear that even my ambition in too exalted. Byron's mind was like his own ocean — sublime in its yesty madness — beautiful in its glittering summer brightness — mighty in the lone magnificence of its waste of waters — gazed upon from the magic of its own nature, yet capable of representing, but as in a glass darkly, the nature of all others. I say, Cleveland, here comes the greatest idiot in town ; Craven Bucke. He came to me the other dav complaining bitterly of the imperfections of Johnson's Dictionary. He had looked out Dnncaster St. Leger in it, and couldn't find the vs'ord." "How d'ye do, Bucke 1 you're just the man I wanted to meet. Make a note of it while I re- member. There is an edition of Johnson just published, in which you'll find every single word you want. Now put it down at once. It's pub- lished under the title of John Bees' Slang Lexicon. Good-bye ! How's your brother ]" " Pray, Cleveland, what do you think of Mil- man's 'new dramatic )wem,' Anne Boleyn V " I think it's the dullest work on the Catholic question that has yet appeared." " Is it true that Lockhart is going to have t!ie Quarterly ?" VIVIAN GREY. 61 "It was told me as a positive fact to-day. I be- lieve it." " Murray can't do better. It's absolutely neces- sary that he should do something. Lockhart is a man of prodigious talents. Do you know him V " Not in the least. He certainly is a man of great powers, but I tliink rather too hot for the Quarterly." " ! no, no, no — a little of the Albemarle anti- attrition will soon cool the fiery wheels of his bounding chariot. Come ! I see our horses." " Hyde Park is greatly changed since I was a dandy, Vivian. Pray, do the Misses Otranto still live in that house 1" " Yes — blooming as ever." " It's the fashion to abuse Horace Walpole, but I really think him one of the most delightful wri- ters that ever existed. I wonder who is to be the Horace Walpole of the present. Some one per- haps we least suspect." " Vivida Vis, think you V " More than probable. I'll tell you who ought to be writing memoirs — Lord Dropmore." " Does my Lord Manfred keep his mansion there, next to the Misses Otranto 1" " I believe so, and lives there." " I knew him in Germany — a singular man, and not understood. Perhaps he does not understand himself." " I'll join you in an instant, Cleveland. I just want to speak one word to Master Osborne, who I see coming down here. Well, Osborne, I must come and knock you up one of these mornings. I've got a nice little commission for you from Lady Julia Knighton, wliich you must pay particular attention to." " Well, Mr. Grey, how does Lady Julia like the bay marel" " Very much, indeed ; but she wants to know ■what you've done about the chestnut." " ! put it off, sir, in the prettiest style, on young Mr. Feoffment, who has just married and taken a house in Gower-street. He wanted a bit of blood — hopes he likes it." "Hopes he does. Jack. There's a particular favour which you can do me, Osbonie, and which I'm sure you will. Ernest Clay — you know Ernest Clay — a most excellent fellow is Ernest, you know, and a great friend of yours, Osborne : — I wish you'd just step down to Connaught Place, and look at those bays he bought of Harry Mounteney. He's in a little trouble, and we must do what we can for him — ^you know he's an excellent fellow, and a great friend of yours. Thank you, thank you — I knew you would. Good morning: — remember Lady Julia. So you really fitted young Feoffment with the chestnut. Well, that was admirable ! — Good morning ; — good morning." " I don't know whether you care for these things at all, Cleveland, but Premium, a famous million- naire, has gone this morning, for I don't know how much ! Half the new world will be ruined ; and in this old one, a most excellent fellow, my friend Ernest Clay. He was engaged to Premium's daughter — his dernicre ressource ; and now, of course, it's all up with him." " I was at college with his brother, Augustus Clay. He's a nephew of Lord Mounteney's, is he not!" " The very same. Poor fellow ! I don't know what we must do for him. I think I shall advise him to change his name to C]ay-ville ,■ and if the world ask him the reason of the euphonious aug- mentation, why, he can swear that it was to distur- guish himself from his brothers. Too many roues for the same name win never do. And now spur? to our steeds, for we are going at least three miles out of our way, and I must collect my senses, and arrange my curls before dinner ; for I have to fiirl with, at least, three fair ones." CHAPTER IL DEVELOPMENT OF THE PLOT. These conversations play the very dense with one's story. I had intended to have commenced this book with something quite terrific — a murder, or a marriage : and I find that all my great ideas have ended in a lounge. After all, it is, perhaps, the most natm'al termination. In life, sm^ely, man is not always as monstrously busy as he appears to be in novels and romances. We are not always in action — not always making speeches, or malting money, or making war, or making love. Occa- sionally we talk, — about the weather, generally — sometimes about ourselves — oftener about our friends — as often about our enemies ; at least, those who have any ; which, in my opinion, is the vul- garest of all possessions ; I have no enemies. Am I not an amiable fellow? At this moment, I am perfectly happy — am I not a lucky fellow 1 And what is your situation, Mr. Felicity? you will ask. Have you jnst made a brilliant speech in the House '! or have you negotiated a great loan for a little nation? or have you touched, for the first time, some fair one's cheek ? In short, what splendid juggle have you been successful in ? Have you deluded your own country or another? Have you deceived another's heart, or, are you, yourself, a dupe? Not at all, my sweet questioner — I am strolling on a sunny lawn, and flanking butterflies with a tandem whip. I have not felt so well for these six months. What would I have given to have had my blood dancing as it is now, while I was scribbling the preceding part of this dear book. But there is no- thing like the country ! I think I was saying that these lounges in St. James's Park do not always very materially advance the progress of our narra- tive. Not that I would insinuate that the progress of our narrative has flagged at all ; not in the least, I am sure we can't be accused of being prosy. There has been no Balaam (I do not approve this neologism ; but I am too indolent, at present, to think of another word) in these books. I have withstood every temptation; and now, though I scarcely know in what way to make out this vo- lume, here I am, without the least intention of finally proving that our Vivian Grey is the son of the Marquess of Carabas, by a former and secret mar- riage — in Italy, of course, — Count Anselmo, Na- ples — and an old nurse, &c. &c.; or that Mrs. Felix Lorraine is Horace Grey, Esquire, in disguise • or of making that much neglected beauty, Julia Manvers, an-ive in the last scene with a chariot with four horses and patent axle-tree — just in time ! Alas ! dear Julia ! we meet again. In the mean time the memory of your bright blue eyes shall not escape me; and when we do meet, why you shall talk more and laugh less. But you were yjuiig D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. when last you listened to my nonsense, one of those innocent young ladies, who, on entering a drawing-room, take a rapid glance at their curls in a pier-glass, and then, flying to the eternal round- table, seek refuge in an admiring examination of the i)oauties of the Florence Gallery, or the bind- ing of Batty 's Views. This slight allusion to Julia is a digression. I was about to inform you that I have no intention of finishing this book by any thing extraordinary. The truth is, and this is quite confidential, in- vention is not to be " the featu ask for more, does in fact make that which is less appear greater, and that which is great, im- mense. " But if I mention the faults of Michel Angelo, I am bid to remember the early period of art in which he lived ; I am reminded of the mean ele- vations of those who preceded him — of the tone which he gave to the conceptions' of his successors. Yet many celebrated sculptors were his contempo- raries, and surely Leonardo da Vinci was not the scholar of his genius. But in painting especially, he was preceded by Fra Bartolomeo, a miraculous artist ; — who, while in his meek Madonnas he has only been equalled by Raffaelle, has produced in his St. Mark — his Job — and his Isaiah — creations which might have entitled him to the panegyrics which posterity has so liberally bestowed upon the sculptor of Moses, and the painter of the Sis- tine Chapel. " In architecture, I will not notice Brunelleschi ; but let me mention this astonishing fact : — San Michele was born only nine ov ten years after Michel Angelo, and as he died a few years before him, may be considered his exact contemporary. While the chapel of the Medicis was erected at Florence ; at Verona, in the chapel of the Pelle'- grini, San Michele was reproducing ancient beauty, in combinations unknown to the antique. While the barbaric absurdities of the Porta Pia disgiaced the capital of the papal state, San Michele pro- duced in the Porta Stupa a structure worthy of ancient Rome. And while Michel Angelo was raising palaces for his Florentine contemporaries, whose dark and rugged elevations are to be ex- cused, on account of the necessity of their being impregnable to the assaults of popular tumult, the streets of Verona, the constant seat of sedition, were filling, under the direction of San Michele, with numberless palaces, which, while they de- fended their owners alike among the dangers of civil broils and foreign invasion, at the same time presented elevations, for their varied beauty, and classic elegance, have only been equalled by Pal- ladio !" Nothing is more dchghtful than to hear the sound of our own voice. The baron's lecture was rather long, but certainly unlike most other lec- turers, he understood his subject. Before Vivian could venture an observation in defence of the great Florentine, the door opened, and Ernstorff handed a despatch to the baron, recommending it to his excellency's particular attention. " Business, I suppose," said the plenipotentiary: " it may wait till to-morrow." " From M. Clarionet, your excellency." "From M. Clarionet!" eagerly exclaimed the baron, and tore open the epistle. "Gentlemen ! gen- tlemen ! gentlemen ! congratulate me — congratu- late yourselves— congratulate Frankfort — such news — it is really too much for me," and the diplo- matist, overcome, leaned back in his chair. — '^ She is ours, Salvinski ! she is ours. Von Altenburgh ! she is ours, my dear De Boeffleurs ! Grey, you're the happiest fellow in Christendom ; the signora has signed and sealed — all is arranged — she sings to- night ! What a fine spirited body is this Frankfort municipality ! what elevation of soul ! what geim- ine enthusiasm ! — eh, De Bffiffleursi" "Most genuine !" exclaimed the chevalier, who c 2 78 D' ISRAELI'S NOVELS. hated German music with all his heart, and was ] the more remote and ancient streets. In crossing at now humming an air from the Dame Blanche. " But mind, my dear felIow.s — this is a secret, a cabinet secret — the municipality are to have the gratification of announcing the event to the city in a puhHc decree — it is but fair. I feci that I have only to hint, to secure your silence." At this moment, with a thousand protestations of secrecy, the party broke up, each hastening to have the credit of first spreading the joyful intelli- gence through their circles, and of depriving the Frankfort senate of their hard-earned gratification. The baron, who was in high spirits, ordered the carriage to drive Vivian round the ramparts, where he was to he introduced to some of the most fash- ionable beauties, previous to the evening triumph. Mr. Brinkel, disappointed at present of increasing, through the assistance of the Polish prince, any collection in the North, directed his subtle steps up another flight of the staircase of the Roman Emperor, wliere lodged an English gentleman, for whom Mr. Brinkel had a very exquisite niorceaii ,■ having received the night before from Florence a fresh consignment of Carlo Dolces. CHAPTER ITI. Vivian passed a week very agreeablj' at Frank- fort. In the baron and his friends he found the companions that he had need of; their conversation and pursuits diverted his mind without engaging his feeUngs, and allowed him to pause and think. There were moments, indeed, when he found in the baron a companion neither frivolous nor unin- structive. His excellency had travelled in most countries, and had profited by his travels. His taste for the fine arts was equalled by his knowledge of them ; and his acquaintance with many of the most eminent men of Europe enriched his conver- sation with a variety of anecdotes, to which his lively talents did ample justice. He seemed fond, at times, of showing Vivian that he was not a mere artificial man of the world, destitute of all feelings, and thinking only of himself: he recurred with satisfaction to moments of his life, when his pas- sions had been in full play ; and, while he acknow- ledged the errors of his youth with candour, he excused them with grace. In short, Vivian and he became what the world calls friends ; that is to say, they were men who had no objection to dine in each other's company, provided the dinner were good ; assist each other in any scrape, provided no particular personal responsibility were incurred by the assistant ; and live under the same roof, provi- ded each wer« master of his own time. Vivian and the baron, indeed, did more than this — they might have been described as vEi-y parliailcir friend.s — for his excellency had persuaded our hero to accompany him for the summer to the baths of Eni6, a celebrat&l German watering-place, situated in the dutchy of Aassau, in the vicinity of the Rhine. On the morrow they were to commence their journey. The fair of Frankfort, which had now lasted nearly a month, was at its close. A bright sunshiny afternoon was stealing into twilight, when Vivian, escaping from the principal street, and the attractions of the Braunfels, or chief shops under the E.xchange, directed his steps to some of little square, his attention was excited by a crowd, which had assembled round a conjuror ; who, from the top of a small cart, which he liad converted irv to a stage, was haranguing, in front of a green cur- tain, an audience with great fervency, and appa- rently with great eflect; at least Vivian judged so, from the loud applauses which constantly burst forth. The men pressed nearer, shouted, and clap- ped their hands; and the anxious mothers strug- gled to lift their brats higher in the air, that they might early form a due conception of the powers of magic ; and learn that the maternal threats which were sometimes extended to them at home, were not mere idle boasting. Altogether, the men with their cocked hats, stift'holiday coats, and long pipes ; the women with their glazed gowns of bright fancy patterns, close lace caps, or richly chased silver head-gear ; and the children with their gaping mouths and long heads of hair, ofler- ed very quaint studies for a Flemish painter. Vivian became also one of the audience, and not an uninterested one. The appearance of the conjuror was very pecu- liar. He was not much more than five feet high, but so slightly formed, that he reminded you rather of the boy than the dwarf. The upper part of his face was even delicately moulded ; his sparkling black eyes became his round forehead, which was not too much covered by his short, glossy, black hair ; his complexion was clear, but quite olive ; his nose was very small and straight, and contrast- ed singularly with his enormous mouth, the thin, bluish lips of which were seldom closed, and con- sequently did not conceal his large square teeth, which, though very white, were set apart, and were so solid that tliey looked almost like double teethi This enormous mouth, which was support- ed by large jawbones, attracted the attention of the spectator so keenly, that it was some time before you observed the prodigious size of the cars, which also adorned this extraordinary countenance. The cos- tume of this singular being was not less remark- able than his natural appearance. He wore a com- plete under-dress of pliant leather, which fitted close up to his throat, and down to his wrists and ankles, where it was clasped with large fastenings either of gold or some gilt material. This, with the addition of a species of hussar jacket of gre^n cloth, which was quite unadorned, with the ex- ception of its vivid red lining, was tlie sole cover- ing of the conjuror ; wIk), with a light cap and feather in his hand was now haranguing the spec- tators. . The object of his discourse was a pane- gj'ric of himself, and a satire on all other conjur- ors. He was the only conjuror — the real conjuror — a worthy descendant of the magicians of old. " Were I to tell that broad-faced Herr," con- tinued the conjuror, "who is now gaping opposite to me, that this rod is the rod of Aaron, mayhaji he would call me a liar ; yet were I to tell him that he was the son of his father, he would not think it wonderful I And yet, can he prove it ! My friends, if I am a liar, the. whole world is a lii'.r — and yet any one of you who'll go and proclaim that on the Braunfels, will get his skull cracked. Every truth is not to be spoken, and every lie is not to be punished. I've told you that it's better for you to spend your money in seeing my tricks, than it is in swigging schnaps in the chimney cor- ner; and yet, my friends, this may be a lie. I'v** VIVIAN GREY. «! 79 told Tou that the profits of this whole night shall be given to some poor and worthy person in this town ; and perhaps I shall give them to myself. What then ! I shall speak the truth ; and you will perhaps cravk my skull. Is this a reward for truth 1 O, genef..tion of vipers ! My friends, what is truth 1 who can find it in Frankfort 1 Suppose I call upon you, Mr. Baker, and sup with you this evening ; you will receive me as a neighbourly man should, tell me to make myself at home, and do as I like. Is it not so 1 I see you smile, as if my visit would make you bring out one of the bottles of your best Asmanchausen." Here the crowd laughed out ; for we are always glad when there is any talk of another's hospitali- ty being put to the test, although we stand no chance of sharing the entertainment ourselves. The baker looked foolish, as all men singled out in a crowd do. " Well, well," continued the conjuror ; " I've no doubt his wine would be as ready as your tobacco, Mr. Smith ; or a wafila from your basket, my ho- nest cakesellcr ;" and so saying, with a peculiarly long, thin wand, the conjuror jerked up the basket of an itinerant and shouting pastry-cook, and im- mediately began to thrust the contents into his mouth with a rapidity ludicrously miraculous. — The laugh now burst out again, but the honest baker now joined in it this time with an easy spirit. " Be not disconcerted, my little custard-monger ; if thou art honest, thou shalt prosper. Did I not say that the profits of this night were for the most poor, and the most honest 1 If thy stock in trade were in thy basket, my raspberry-pulf, verily you are not now the richest there ; and so, therefore, if your character be a fair one — that is to say, if vou only cheat five times a day, and give a tenth of your chcatery to the poor, you shall have the benefit. I ask you again, what is truth 1 If I sup with the baker, and he tells me to do what I like with all that is his, and I kiss his wife, he will kick me out ; yet to kiss his wife might he my pleasure, if her bieatb were sweet. I ask you again, what is truth 1 Truth, they say, lies in a well ; but perhaps this is a lie. How do we know that truth is not in one of these two boxes?" ask- ed the conjuror, placing his cap on his head, and holding one small snuff-box to a tall, savage-look- ing one-eyed Bohemian, who, with a comrade, had walked over from the Austrian garrison at.Mentz. " I see but one box," growled the soldier. " It is because thou hast only one eye, friend ; open the other, and thou shalt sec two," said the conjuror, in a slow, malicious tone, with his neck extended, and his hand with the hateful box out- stretched in it, "Now, by our black Lady of Altoting, I'll soon stop thy prate, chatterling !" bellowed the enraged Bohemian. "Murder! murder! murder! — the protection of the free city against the Emperor of Austria, the King of Bohemia, Hungary,- and Lombardy I" and the knave retreated to the very extremity of tlie stage, and affecting the most agitating fear, hid him- self behind the green curtain, from a side of which his head was alone visible, or rather an immense red tongue, which wagged in a'l shapes at the unlucky soldier, except when it retired to the interior of his mouth, to enable him to reiterate " murder .'" and invoke the privileges of tlic free city of Frankfort. When the soldier was a little cooled, the con- juror again came forward ; and, having moved his small magical table to a corner, and lit two tapers, one of which he placed at each side of the stage, he stripped off his hussar jacket, and began to imi- tate a monkey ; an animal which, by the faint light, in his singular costume, he very much re- sembled. How amusing were his pranks! He first plundered a rice plantation, and then he cracked cocoa-nuts ; then he washed his face, and arranged his toilet with his right paw ; and finally, he ran a race with his own tail, which humorous appendage to his body was very wittily performed for the occasion, by a fragment of an old tarred rope. . His gambols were so diverting, that they even extracted applause from his enemy, the one- eyed sergeant; and emboldened by the acclama- tions, irom monkeys the conjuror began to imitate men. He first drank lilce a Dutchman, and hav- ing reeled round with a thousand oaths, to the manifold amusement of the crowd, he suddenly began to smoke like a Prussian. Nothing could be more admirable than the look of complacent and pompous stolidity with which he accompanied each puff of his cigar. The applause was con- tinued ; and the one-eyed Bohemian sergeant, de- lighted at the ridicule which was heaped on his military rival, actually threw the mimic some groschcn. " Keep your pence, friend," said the conjuror ; " you'll soon owe me more ; we have not yet closed accounts. My friends, I have drunk like a Dutch- man ; I have smoked like a Prussian ; and now — I will eat like an Austrian I"— and here the im- mense mouth of the actor seemed distended even a hundi-ed degrees bigger, while with gloating eyes and extended arms, he again set to at the half- emptied wjafila basket of the unhappy pastry-cook. "Now, by cm- black Lady of Altoting, thou art an impudent varlet," growled the Austrian soldier. " You are losing your temper again," retorted the glutton, with his mouth full ; " how difficult you are to please! — Well, then, if the Austrians may not be touched, what say you to a Bohemi;4n — a tall one-eyed Bohemian sergeant, with an aj>- petite like a hog, and a liver like a lizard ?" " Now, by our black Lady of Altoting, this is too much !" and the frantic soldier sprang at the conjuror. " Hold him ! hold liim !" cried Vivian Grey ; for the mob, frightened at the soldier, gave way. " There is a gentle's voice under a dark cloak !'' cried the conjuror ; " but I want no assistance ;" and so saying, with a dexterous spring, the conjuror leapt over the heads of two or three staring children, and lighted on the nape of the sergeant's gigantic neck ; placing his forefingers behind each of the soldier's ears, he threatened to slit them immedi- ately, if he were not quiet. 'I'he sergeant's com- panion, of course, came to his rescue, but Vivian engaged him, and attempted to arrange matters. " My friends, my friends, surely, a gay word at a kermis is not to meet v/ith militaij punishment! What is the use of living in the free city of Frank- fort, or, indeed in any other city, if jokes are to be answered with oaths, and a light laugh met with a heavy blow ? Avoid bloodshed, if possible ; but stand by the conjuror. His business is gibes and jests, and this is the first time that I ever saw Mer)-y Andrew an'csted. Come, come, my gocxi fellov/s I" said he to the soldiers, " we had better Lo 80 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. off. men so important as you and I shoulJ not be I spectators of these mummeries." The Austrians, who understood Vivian's compliment Hterally, were not sorry to make a dignified retreat ; parti- cularly as the mob, encouraged by Vivian's inter- ference, began to show fight. Vivian also took his departure as soon as he could possibly steal off unnoticed ; but not before he had been thanked by the conjuror. "I knew there was gentle blood under that cloak ! If you like to see the Mystery of the Cru- cifixion, with the Resurrection, and real fireworks, it begins at eight o'clock, and you shall be admit- ted gratis. I knew there was gentle blood under that cloak, and some day or other when your high- ness is in distress, you shall not want the aid of EssrER George !" CHAPTER IV. It was late in the evening when a britchska stop- ped at the post-house of Coblentz. M. Maas, whom all English travellei-s must remember, for all must have experienced his genuine kindness, greeted its two inmates with his usual hospitality ; but regret- ted that, as his house was very full, his excellency must have the condescension to sup in the public- room. The passage-boat from Bingen had just arrived ; and a portly judge from the Danube, a tall, gaunt Prussian ofticcr, a sketching English artist, two university students, and three or four travelling cloth-merchants, chiefly returning from i Frankfort fair, were busily occupied at a long table in the centre of the room, at an ample banquet, in which sour-crout, cherry soup, and very savoury sausages were not wanting. So keen • were the appetites, and so intense the attention of these worthies, that the entrance of the new comers was scarcely noticed; and the baron and his friend seated themselves very quietly at a small table in the corner of the room, where they waited with due ])atience for the arrival of one of Mon- sieur Maas's exquisite little suppers; ?ilthough hunger, more than once, nearly induced them to join the table of the boat's crew ; but as the baron facetiously observed, a due terror of the Prussian officer, who, the moment they arrived, took care to help himself to every dish at table, and a proper respect for Ernstorff, prevented a consummation which they devoutly wished for. For half an hour nothing was heard but the sound of crashing jaws, and of rattling knives and forks. How singular is the sight of a do7>en hun- gry uidividuals intent upon their prey ! what a noisy silence ! A human voice was at length heal'd. It proceeded from the fat judge from the Danube. He was a man at once convivial, digni- fied, and economical : he had not spoken for two minutes before his character was evident to every person in the room, although he flattered himself that his secret purpose was concealed from all. Tired with the t'nin Moselle which M. Maas gra- tuitously allowed to the table, the convivial judge from the Danube wished to comfort himself with a glass of more generous Hquor ; aware of the price of a bottle of good Rudesheimer, the economical judge Iron, the Danube was desirous of forming a copartnership with one or two gentlemen in the bottle ; still more aware of liis exalted situation, the dignified judge from the Danube felt it did not become him to appear in the eyes of any one as an unsuccessful suppliant. "This Moselle is very thin," observed the judge, shaking his head. " Very fair table-wine, I think," said the artist, refilling his tumbler, and then proceeding with his sketch, which was a raugh likeness, in black chalk, of the worthy magistrate himself. " Very good wine, I think," swore the Pnissian, taking the bottle. With the officer there was cer tainly no chance. The cloth-merchants mixed even this thin ^'•l selle with water, and therefore they could hard';/ be looked upon as boon companions ; and the stu dents were alone left, A German student is no flincher at the bottle, although he generally drinks beer. These gentry, however, were -no great fa vourites with the magistrate, who was a loyal maw of regular habits, and no cncouragcr of brawls, duels, and other still more disgraceful outrages to all which abominations, besides drinking beer and chewing tobacco, the German student is most remarkably addicted : but in the present case, what was to be done ? He offered the nearest a pinch of snuff, as a mode of commencing his acquaint- ance and cultivating his complaisance. The Ger- man student dug his thumb into the box, and, with the additional aid of the forefinger, sweeping out half its contents, growled out something like thanks, and then drew up in his seat, as if he had too warmly encouraged the impertinent intrusion of a Philistine, to whom lie had never been intro- duced. The cloth-merchant, ceasing from sipping his meek liquor, and taking out of his pocket a letter, from which he tore off the back, carefully com- menced collecting with his forefinger the particles of dispersed snuff in a small pyramid, which, when formed, was dexterously slipped into the paper, then folded up and put into his pocket ; the pru- dent merchant contenting himself for the moment with the refreshment which was aflbrdcd to his senses by the truant particles which had remained in his nail. " Kelner !" — never call a German waiter gm'- ^on, or else you'll stand a chance of going supper- less to bed ; — " Kelner ! a bottle of Rud'eshtimer !" bellowed the convivial judge from the Danube, " and if any gentleman or gentlemen would like to join me'; they may ;" added the economical judge from the Danube, in a more subdued tone. No one answered, and the bottle was put down. The judge slowly poured out the bright yellow fluid into a tall bell glass, adorned with a beautiful and encircling wreath of vine leaves : he held the glass a moment before the lamp, for his eye to dwell with still greater advantage on the transparent radiancy of the contents ; and then deliberately poured them down his throat, and allowing them to dwell a moment on his palate, he uttered an em])hatic " hah .'" and sucking in his breath, leaned back in his chair. The student immediately poured out a glass from the same bottle, and drank it off. ■ The dignified judge from the Danube gave him a look ; — the economical judge from the Danube blessed himself that though his boon com- panion was a brute, still ho v.ould lessen the exj>cnse of the bottle, which nearly amounted to a day's pay ; and the convivial judge from the Danube again filled his glass — but this was merely VIVIAN GREY. 81 to secure his fair portion. He saw the student Wi.j a rapid drinker ; and, although he did not like to hurry his own enjoyment, he thought it most prudent to keep his glass well stored by his side. " I hope your highnesses have had a pleasant voyage," hallooed out a man, entering the room very rapidly as he spoke ; and deliberately walking up to the table, he pushed between two of the cloth merchants, who quietly made way ; and then placing a small square box before him, he imme- diately opened it, and sweeping aside all the dishes and glasses which surrounded him, he began to fill their places with cups, balls, rings, and other mysterious-looking matters which generally accom- pany a conjuror. " I hope your highnesses have had a pleasant voyage. I've been thinking of you all the day. (Here the cups were arranged.) Next to myself, I'm interested for my friends. (Here the rice was sprinkled.) I came from Fairyland this morning. (Here the trick was executed.) Will any gentle- man lend me a handkerchief 1 Now, sir, tie any knot you choose : — tighter — tighter — tight as you can — tight as you can : — now pull I — Why, sir, where's your knot 1" Here most of the company good-naturedly laughed at a trick which had amused them before a hundred times. But the dignified judge from the Danube had no taste for such trivial amusements ; and, besides, tire convi- vial judge from the Danube thought that all this noise spoiled the .pleasure of his wine, and pre- vented him from catching the flavour of his Rudesheimer. Moreover, the judge from the Danube was not in a very good humour. The German student appeared to have very little idea of the rules and regulations of a fair partnership ; for not only did he not regulate his draughts by the moderate example of his bottle companion, but actually filled tlie glass of his University friend, and even offered the precious green flask to his neighbour, the cloth-merchant. That humble in- dividual modestly refused the profTer. The very unexpected circumstance of having his health drunk by a stranger, seemed alone to have pro- duced a great impression upon him ; and adding a little more water to his already diluted potation, he bowed most reverently to the student, who, in return, did not notice him. All these little circum- stances prevented the judge from the Danube from being in his usual condescending and amiable humour, and therefore the judge from the Danube did not laugh at the performances of our friend Essper George : for I need hardly mention that the conjuror was no other than that quaint personage. His ill-humour did not escape the lord of the cups and ball ; who, as was his custom, immediately began to torment him. " Will your highness choose a card 1" asked the magician of the judge, with a most humble look. This was too much for the magistrate. " No, sir !" Essper George looked very penitent, as if he felt he had taken a great liberty by his application ; and so, to compensate for liis incorrect behaviour, he asked the magistrate whether he would have the goodness to lend him his watch. The judge was verj- irate, and determined to give the intruder a set down. " No, sir ; I am not one of those who can be amused by tricks that his grandfather knew." 11 " Grandfather !" shrieked Essper ; " what a wonderful grandfather yours must have been ! All my tricks are fresh from Fairyland this morning. Grandfather, indeed ! Pray, is this your grand- father!'' and here the conjuror, leaning over the table, with a rapid catch drew out from the fat paunch of the judge, a long grinning wooden figure, with great staring eyes, and the parrot nose of a Punchinello. The laugh which followed this humorous specimen of sleight-of-hand, was loud, long, and universal. The judge lost his temper ; and Essper George took the opportunity of the con- fusion to drink oft' the glass of Rudesheimer, which stood, as we have mentioned, ready-charged at the magistrate's elbow. The kelner now went round to collect the money of the various guests who had partaken of the boat- supper ; and, of course, charged the judge extra for his ordered bottle, bowing at the same time very low, as was proper to so good a customer. These little attentions at inns encourage expenditure. The judge tried at the same time the bottle, which he found empty, and applied to his two boon com- panions for their quota ; but the students affected a sort of brutal surprise at any one having the pre- sumption to imagine that they were going to pay then- proportion ; and flinging down their money for their own supper on the table, they retired ; the frantic magistrate, calling loudly for M. Maas, fol- lowed them out of the room. Essper George stood moraUzing at the table, and emptying every glass whesse contents were not utterly drained ; with the exception of the tumblers of the cloth-merchants, of whose liquor he did not approve. " Dear me ! poor man ! to get only one glass out of his own bottle ! I wish I hadn't taken his wine ; it was rather sour. Ay ! call — call away for M. Maas : threaten — threaten — threaten as you will. Your grandfather will not help you here. Blood out of a wall and money out of a student come the same day. — Ah ! is your liighness here!" said Essper, turning roimd to our two travellers with aflected surprise, although he had observed them the whole time. " Is your highness here ! I've been looking for you through Frankfort this whole morning. There ! — it will do for your glass. It is of chamois leather ; and I made it myself from a beast I caught last summer in the valley of the Rhone." So saying, he threw over Vivian's neck a neat chain, or cord, of very curiovisly-worked leather. "Who the devil's this, Grey 1" asked the baron, " A funny knave, whom I once saved from a threshing, or something of the kind, which I do him the justice to say he well deserved." " Who the devil's this 1" said Essper George. " Why that's exactly the same question I myself asked when I saw a tall, pompous, proud fellow, dressed hke a peacock on a May morning, standing at the door just now. He looked as if he'd pass himself off for an ambassador at least ; but I told him that if he got his wages paid, he was luckier than most servants. Was I right, your excel- lency 1" "Poor ErnstoriT!" said the baron, laughing. "Yes; lie certainly gets paid. Here, — you're a clever varlet ; fill your glass." " No, no, no, no wine — no wine. — Don't you hear the brawling, and nearly the bloodshed, which 83 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. are going on up-stairs about a sour bottle of Rudesheimer ? and here I see two gentles who have ordered the best wine merely to show that they are masters and not servants of the green peacock — and lo ! cannot get through a glass — Lord ! Lord ! what is man 1 If my fat friend and his grandfather would but come down stairs again, here is liquor enough to make wine and water of the Danube ; for he comes from thence by his accent. No, no, I'll have none of your wine ; keep it to throw on the sandy floor, that the dust may not hurt your delicate shoes, nor dirt the hand of the gentlemen in green and gold when he cleans them for you in the morning." Here the baron laughed again, and, as he bore his impertinence, Essper George immediately became polite. " Does your mighty highness go to Ems 1" " We hardly know, my friend." " ! go there, gentlemen. I've tried them all — Aix-la-Chapelle, Spa, Wisbaden, Carlsbad, Pier- mont, every one of them ; but what are these to Ems 1 there we all live in the same house, and eat from the same table. When there, I feel that you are all under my protection — I consider you all as my children. Besides, the country — how delightful ! the mountains — the valleys — the rivers — the woods — and then the company, so select ! no sharpers — no adventurers — no black-legs : at Ems you can be taken in by no one except your intimate ti-iend. ! go to Ems, go to Ems, by all means. I'd advise you, however, to send the gentleman in the cocked hat on before you to engage rooms ; for I can assure you that you'll have a hard chance ; the baths are very full." " And how do you get there, Essper 1" asked Vivian. " Those are subjects on which I never speak," answered the conjuror, with a solemn air. " But have you all your stock in trade with you, m)' good fellow 1 Where's the mystery V " Sold, sir, sold ! I never keep to any thing long. Variety is the mother of enjoyment. At Ems I shall not be a conjuror : but I never part with my box. It takes no more room than one of those medicine chests, which I dare say you've got with you in your carriage, to prop up your couple of shattered constitutions." " By Jove ! you're a merry, impudent fellow," said the baron ; " and if you like to get up behind my britchska, you may." " No, no, no ; a thousand thanks to your mighty highnesses, I carry my own box, and my own body, and I shall be at Ems to-morrow in time enough to receive your lordships." CHAPTER V. Ix a delightful valley of Nassau, formed by the picturesque windings of the Taunus mountains, and on the banks of the noisy river Lahn, stands an immense brick pile, of very irregular architect- ure, which nearly covers an acre of ground. This building was formerly a favourite palace of the ducal house of Nassau ; but for reasons which I cannot give, and which the reader will perhaps not re- quire, the present prince has thought proper to let out the former residence of his family, as a hotel for the accommodation of the company, who m the season frequent this, the most lovely spot in his lovely little dutchy. This extensive building contains two hundred and thirty rooms, and eighty baths ; and these apartments, which are under the management of an official agent, who lives in the " Princely Bathing House," for such is its present dignified title, are to be engaged at fixed prices, which are marked over the doors. All the rooms in the upper story of the Princely Bathing House open on, or are almost immediately connected with, a long corridor, which extends the whole length of the building. The ground floor, besides the space occupied by the baths, also affords a very spacious promenade, arched with stone, and sur- rounded with stalls, behind which are marshalled venders of all the possible articles which can ba required by the necessities of the frequenters of a watering-place. There you are greeted by the jeweller of the Palais Royal, and the marchnnte de mode of the Rue de la Paix ; the print-seller from Manheim, and the china-dealer from Dres- den ; and other little speculators in the various fancy articles which abound in Vienna, Berlin, Geneva, Basle, Strasburgh, and Lausanne ; such as pipes, costumes of Swiss peasantry, crosses of Mont Blanc crystal, and all varieties of national bijoulerie. All things may here be sold, save those which administer to the nourishment of the body, or the pleasure of the palate. Let not those of my readers, who have already planned a trip to the sweet vales of the Taunus, be frighlened by this last rather alarming sentence. At Ems, " eat- ables and drinkables" are excellent, and abound- ing ; but all those are solely supplied by the res- taurateur, who farms the monopoly from the duke. This gentleman, who is a pupil of Beau- villier's, and who has conceived an exquisite cuisine, by adding to the lighter graces of French cookery something of the more solid virtues of the German, presides in a saloon of immense size and magnificent decoration ; in which, during the sea- son, upwards of three hundred persons frequent the table d'hote. It is the etiquette at Ems, that, however distinguished, or however humble, the rank of the visiters, their fare, and their treatment must be alike. In one of the most aristocratic countries in the world, the sovereign prince, find his tradesman subject, may be found seated in the morning at the same board, and eating from tha same dish ; as in the evening they may be seen staking on the same colour at the gaming-table, and sharing in the same interest at the Redoute. I have said that the situation of Ems was de- lightful. The mountains which form the valley are not, as in Switzerland, so elevated that they confine the air, or seem to impede the facility of breathing. In their fantastic forms, the picturesque is not lost in the monotonous ; and in the rich covering of their various woods, the admiring eye finds, at the same time, beauty and repose. Oppo- site the ancient palace, on the banks of the Lahn, are the gardens. In these, in a neat pavilion, a band of excellent musicians seldom cease from enchanting the visiters by their execution of the most favourite specimens of German and Italian music. Numberless acacia arbours, and retired sylvan seats are here to be found, where the stu- dent, or the contemplative, may seek refuge from the Eoise of his more gay companions) and the tedium of eternal conversation. Here too a tele- VIVIAN GREY 83 ^•tete will seldom be disturbed ; and in some spe- cies of lete-d-tcks, we all know how very neces- !^•(lry and how very delightful are the perfumes of flowers, and the shade of secret trees, and the cooling sound of running waters. In these gar- dens, also, are the billiard-room, and another sa- loon, in which each night meet, not merely those who are interested in the mysteries of rouge et nuir, and the chances of roulette ; but, in general, the whole of the company, male and female, who are frequenting the baths. In quitting the gardens for a moment, we must not omit mentioning the interesting booth of our friend the restaurateur, where coilee, clear and hot, exquisite confitures, delicious liqueurs, and particularly genuine ma- rashino of Zara are never wanting. Nor should I forget the glittering pennons of the gay boats which glide along the Lahn, nor the handsome donkeys, who, with their white saddles and red bridles, seem not unworthy of the princesses whom they sometimes bear. The gardens, with an alley of lime-trees, which are farther on, near the banks of the river, afford easy promenades to Jie sick and debilitated ; but the more robust and active need not fear monotony in the valley of the Lahn. If they sigh for the champaign country, they can climb the wild passes of the encircling mountains, and from their tops enjoy the most magnificent views of the Rhineland. There they may gaze on that mighty river flowing through the prolific plain, which, at the same time, it nou- rishes and adorns, — bounded on each side by mountains of every form, clothed with wood or crowned with castles. Or, if they fear the fatigues of the ascent, they may wander farther up the valley, and in the- 'wild dells, romantic forests, and gray ruins of Stein and Nassau, conjure up the old times of feudal tyranny, when the forest was the only free land ; and he who outraged the laws, the only one who did not suffer from their autho- rity. Besides the Princely Bathing House, I must mention, that there was another old and extensive building near it, which, in very full seasons, also accommodated visiters on the same system as the palace. At present, this adjoining building was solely occupied by a Russian archduke, who had engaged it for the season. Such is a faint description of Ems, a place almost of unique character ; for it is a watering- place with every convenience, luxury, and accom- modation ; and yet without shops, streets, or houses. The baron and Vivian were fortunate in finding rooms, for the baths were very full ; the extraor- dinary beauty of the weather having occasioned a very early season. They found themselves at the baths early on the morning after their arrival at Coblentz, and at three o'clock in the same day, had taken their places at the dinner-table in the great saloon. At the long table upwards of two hun- dred and fifty guests were assembled, of different nations, and very different characters. There was the cunning, intriguing Greek, who served well his imperial master, the Russian. The order of the patron saint of Miscow, and the glittering stars of other nations which sparkled on his green uniform, told how well he had laboured for the interest of all other countries except his own ; but his clear, paie complexion, his delicately-trimmed mustachios, his lofty forehead, his arched eyebrow, and his Eastern eye, recalled to the traveller, in spite of his barbarian trappings, the fine counte- nances of the iEgean ; and became a form which apparently might have struggled in Thermopylae. Next to him was the Austrian diplomatist, the Sosia of all cabinets : in whose gay address, and rattling conversation, you could hardly recognise the sophistical defender of unauthorized invasion and the subtle inventor of holy alliances, and im perial leagues. Then came the rich usurer from Frankfort, or the prosperous merchant from Ham- burgh ; who, with his wife and daughters, were seeking some recreation from his flourishing count- ing-house, in the sylvan gayeties of a German bathing-place. Flirting with these, was an ad- venturous dancing-master from Paris, whose pro- fession at present was kept in the background, and whose well-curled black hair, diamond pin, and frogged coat, hinted at the magnificio incog. : and also enabled him, if he did not choose in time to follow his own profession, to pursue another one, which he had also studied, in the profitable mystery of the Redoute. There were many other individuals, whose commonplace appearance did not reveal a character which perhaps they did not possess. There were officers in all uniforms, — and there were some uniforms without officers. But all looked perfectly comme il faut, and on the whole very select; and if the great persons endeavoured for a moment to forget their dignity, still these slight improprieties were amply made up by the affected dignity of those little persons who had none to forget. " And how like you the baths of Ems ?" asked the baron of Vivian ; " we shall get better seats to-morrow, and perhaps be among those whom you shall know. I see many friends, and some agreeable ones. In the mean time, you must take to-day a good dinner, and I'll amuse you, and assist your digestion by putting you up to all the curious characters whom you are dining with." So saying, the baron seized the soup-ladle. At this moment a party entered the room, who were rather late in their appearance, but who at- tracted the attention of Vivian so keenly, that he almost forgot the gay crowd on whom he was lately gazing with such amusement. The group consisted of three persons ; a very handsome fa- shionable-looking young man, who supported on each arm a female. The lady on his right arm was apparently of about five-and-twenty years of age. She was of majestic stature ; her complexion of untingcd purity. Her features were like those conceptions of Grecian sculptors, which, in mo- ments of despondency, we sometimes believe to be ideal. Her full eyes were of the same deep blue as a mountain-lake, and gleamed from under their long lashes, as that purest of waters beneath its fringing sedge. Her light brown hair was braided from her high forehead, and hung in long full curls over her neck ; the mass gathered up into a Gre- cian knot, and confined by a bandeau of cameos. She wore a superb dress of tlie richest black vel- vet, whose folding drapery was confined round a waist which was in exact symmetry with the pro- portions of her full bust, and the polished round- ness of her bending neck. On the little finger of an ungloved hand, sparkled a diamond of unknown value, which was linked by a small Venetian chain to a gorgeous bracelet of the most precious stones The countenance of the lady was dignified, with- 84 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. out any expression of pride ; and reserved with- out any of the harshness of austerity. In gazing on her, the enraptured spectator for a moment be- lieved that Minerva had forgotten her severity, and had entered into a delightful rivalry with Venus. Her companion was much younger, much short- er, and of slender form. The long tresses of her chestnut hair shaded her oval face. Her small aquiline nose, bright hazel eyes, delicate mouth, and the deep colour of her lips, were as remarkable as the transparency of her complexion. The flush cf her cheek was singular — it was of a brilliant ])ink : you may find it in the lip of an Indian shell. The blue veins played beneath her arched forehead, like lightning beneath a rainbow. She was simply dressed in white, and a damask rose, half hid in her clustering hair, was her only ornament. This lovely creature glided by Vivian Grey almost unno- ticed, so fixed was his gaze on her companion. Yet, magnificent as was the style of Ladt Made- XEiNE Trevoh, there were few who preferred even her commanding graces to the softer beauties of Violet Fane. This party having passed Vivian, proceeded to the top of the room, where places had been kept for them. Vivian's eye watched them till they were lost among surrounding visitors; their peculiar loveliness could not deceive him. " Enghsh, no doubt," observed he to the baron ; " who can they be 1" " I haven't the least idea — that is, I don't ex- actly know — that is, I thinlc they are English," answered the baron, in such a confused manner that Vivian stared. Whether his excellency ob- served his friend's astonishment or not, I cannot say ; but, after musuig a moment, he recovered himself. " The luiexpected sight of a face we feel that we know, and yet cannot immediately recognise, is ex- tremely annoying — it is almost agitating. They are English ; the lady in black is Lady Madeleine Trevor ; I knew her in London." "And the gentleman]" asked Vivian, rather anxiously : "is the gentleman a Mr. Trevor?" " No, no, no ; Trevor, poor Trevor is dead, I think — is, I'm sure, dead. That, I am confident, is not he. He was of the family, and was in office when I was in England. It was in my diplomatic capacity that I first became ac- quainted with him. Lady Madeleine was, and as you see is, a charming woman, — a very charming woman is Lady Madeleine Trevor." " And the young lady with her?" " The young lady with her — I cannot exactly say — I do not exactly know. Her face is familiar to me, and yet I cannot remember her name. She must have been very young, as you may see, when I was in England, she cannot now be above eighteen. Miss Fane must, therefore, have been very young when I was in England. Miss Fane ! — how singular I should have mentioned her aame ! — that is her name — Violet Fane — a cousin, or some relation of Lady Madeleine's; — good family, very good family. — Shall I help you to s-3me soup?" Whcthex it was from not being among his friends, or some other cause, I know not, but the baron was certainly not in his usual spirits this day at dinner. Conversation, which with him was generally as easy as it was brilliant — like a foun- tain at the same time sparkling and fluent — was e-.idently constrained. For a few minutes he talked very fast, and was then uncommunicative, absent, and dull. He moreover drank a great deal of wine, which was not his custom ; but the grape did not inspire him. Vivian found amuse- ment in his next neighbour, a forward, bustling man, clever in his talk, very fine, but rather vulgar. He was the manager of a company of Austrian actors, and had come to Ems on the chance of forming an engagement for his troop, who gene- rally performed at Vienna. He had been success- ful in his adventure, the archduke having engaged the whole band at the New House, and in a few days the troop were to arrive ; at which time, the manager was to drop the character of a travelling gentleman, and cease to dine at the table d'hote of Ems. From this man Vivian learned that Lady Madeleine Trevor had been at the baths for some time before the season commenced ; that at present, hers was the party which, firom its long stay, and eminent rank, gave the tone to the amusements of the place; the influential circle, which those who have frequented watering-places have often observed, and which may be seen at Ems, Spa, or Piermont, equally as at Harrowgate, Tunbridge Wells, or Cheltenham. CHAPTER VL Whek dinner was finished, the party broke up, and most of them assembled in the gardens. The baron, whose countenance had assumed its wonted cheerfulness, and who excused his previous dulness by the usual story of a sudden headache, proposed to Vivian to join the promenade. The gardens were very full, and the beiron recognised many of his acquaintance. " My dear colonel, — who possibly expected to meet you here ? why ! did you dine in the saloon ? I only arrived this morning — this is my friend, Mr. Grey — Colonel von Trumpetson." "An Englishman, I believe?" said the colonel, bowing. He was a starch militaire, with a blue frock-coat buttoned up to his chin, a bald head with a few gray hairs, and long thin mustachios like a mandarin's. " An Englishman, I believe ; — pray, sir, can you inform me whether the waistcoats of the household troops, in England, have the double braid?" " Sir !" said Vivian. " I esteem myself particularly fortunate in meet- ing with an English gentleman, your excellency. It was only at dinner to-day that a controversy arose between Major von Musquetoon, and the Prince of Buttonstein, about the waistcoats of the English household troops. As I said to the prince, you may argue forever, for at present we cannot decide the fact. How little did I think, when I parted from the major, that, in a few minutes, I should be able to settle this important question be- yond a doubt ; — I esteem myself particularly fortu- nate in meeting with an Englishman." " I regret to say, colonel, that far from being able to decide this important question, I hardly know what household troops really are." " Sir, I wish you good morning," said the colonel, very dryly; and, staring very keenly at Vidian, he walked away. VIVIAN GREY. 85 " Well, that's beautiful, Grey, to get rid of that horrible old bore with such exquisite tact — Double braid ! an old dunderpate ! — he should be drummed out of the regiment ; but he's good enough to fight, I suppose," added the plenipotentiary, with a smile and shrug of the shoulders, which seemed to return thanks to Providence, for having been edu- cated in the civil service. At this moment Lady Madeleine Trevor, leaning on the arm of the same gentleman, passed, and the baron bowed. The bow was stiffly returned. " You know her ladyship, then ! — well !" " I did know her," said the baron, " but I see from her bow, that I am at i)resent in no very high favour. The truth is, she is a charming woman, but I never expected to see her in Germany, and there was some little commission of hers which I neglected — some Httle order for Eau de Cologne — or a message about a worked pocket handkerchief, or a fancy shawl, which I utterly forgot; — and then, I never wrote ! — and you know, Grey, thgit these little sins of omission are never forgiven by women." " My dear friend De Konigstein — one pinch ! one pinch !" chirped out a little old, odd-looking man, with a very poudre head, and dressed in a costume in which the glories of vieille cour seemed vO retire with reluctance. A diamond ring CTvinkled on the snuffy hand, which was encircled by a rich ruffle of dirty lace. The brown coat was not modern, and yet not quite such a one as was worn by its master, when he went to see the king dine in public, at Versailles, before the Revo- lution : — large silver buckles still adorned the well- polished shoes ; and silk stockings, whose hue was originally black, were picked out, with clock-work of gold. " My dear marquis — I'm most happy to see you ; will you try the bouldngero ?" " With pleasure ! — with pleasure ! — A-a-h ! what a box ! a Louis-quatorze, I think 1" " 0, no I by no means so old." " Pardon me, my dear fellow, my dear De Ko- nigstein ; I've studied the subject ! I think a Louis-quatorzeP " I tell you I bought it in Sicily." " A-a-h !" slowly exclaimed the little man : then shaking his head — " I think a Louis-qua- torze .?" " Well, have it so, if you like, marquis." " A-a-h! I thought so — I thought a Lnnis- quatorze. Will you try mine ] — will your friend try a pinch ? — does he take snuff? — what box has he got ] — is it an old one 1—is it a Louis- quatorze ?" " He doesn't take snuff at all." " A-a-h ! if he did, perhaps he'd have a box — perhaps it would be an old one — most likely a Louis-quatorze." " Very prob.ably," said the baron. " A-a-h ! I thought so," said the old man. " Vv'ell, good afternoon," said the baron, pass- ing on. " My dear De Konigstein — one pinch — one pinch — you've often said you have a particular regard for me." " My dear marquis !" " A-a-h ! I thought so — you've often said •Vou'd serve me, if possible." " My dear marquis, be brief," " A-a-h ! I will — there's a cursed crusty old Prussian ofScer here — one Colonel de Trumpet- son." " Well, my dear marquis, what can I do ''. you're surely not going to fight him !" " A-a-h ! no, no, no — I v/ish you to speak to him." " Well, well, what V " He takes snuff." " What's that to me 1" " He's got a box." " Well !" " It's a Louis-quatorze — couldn't you get it for me 1" " Good morning to you," said the baron, pulling on Vivian. " You've had the pleasure. Grey, of meeting this afternoon two men, who have each only one idea. Colonel von Trumpetson, and the Marquis de la Tabatiere, are equally tiresome. But are they more tiresome than any other man who always speaks on the same subject 1 We are more irritable, but not more wearied, with a man who is always thinking of the pattern of a button- hole, or the shape of a snuff-box, than with one who is always talking about pictures, or chemis- try, or politics. The true bore is that man who thinks the world is only interested in one subject, because he, himself, can only comprehend one." Here the Lady Madeleine passed again, and this time the baron's eyes were fixed on the ground. A buzz and a bustle at the other end of the gar- dens, to which the baron and Vivian were advanc- ing, announced the entry of the archduke. His imperial highness was a tall man, with a quick piercing eye, which was prevented from giving to his countenance the expression of intellect which it otherwise would hare done, by the dull and al- most brutal effect of his flat, Calmuck nose. He was dressed in a plain, green uniform, adorned by a single star ; but Iris tightened waist, his stiff stock, and the elaborate attention which had evidently been bestowed upon his mustachios, denoted tlie military fop. The archduke was accompanied by three or four stiff and stately-looking personages, in whom the severity of the martmct seemed sunk in the severity of the aid-de-camp. The baron bowed very low to the prince, as he drew near, and his highness, talking off his cocked- hat with an appearance of cordial condescension, made a full stop. The silent gentlemen in the rear, who had not anticipated this suspense in their promenade, almost foundered on the heels of their royal master ; and frightened at the immensity of the profanation, forgot their stiff pomp in a preci- pitate retreat of half a yard. " Baron," said his highness, " why have I not seen you at the New House 1" " I have but this moment arrived, may it please your imperial highness." "Your companion," continued the archduke, pointing very graciously to Vivian. " My Ultimate friend, my fellow-traveller, and an Englishman. May I have the honour of presenting Mr. Grey to your highness 1" "Any friends of the Baron von Konigstein I shall always feel great pleasure in having presented to me. Sir, I feel great pleasure in having you presented to me. Sir, you ought to be proud of the name of an Englishman — sir, the English are a noble nation — sir, I have the highest respect iot the English nation !" H 86 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. Vivian of course bowed very low, and of course made a very proper speech on the occasion, which, as all speeches of that kind should be, was very du- tiful and quite inaudible. " And what news from Berlin, baron 1 let us move on," and the baron, with Vivian on his arm, lumed with the archduke. The silent gentlemen, settling their mustachios, followed in the rear. For about half an hour, anecdote after anecdote, scene after scene, caricature after caricature, were poured out with prodigal expenditure for the amuse ment of Ms highness ; who did nothing during the exhibition but smile, stroke his whiskers, and at the end of the best stories fence with his forefinger at the baron's side — with a gentle laugh, and a mock shake of the head — and a " Eh ! Von Konig- stcin, you're too bad !" Here Lady Madeleine Tre vor passed again, and the archduke's hat nearly vacated side. " She certainly does feel herself much better, but my anxiety about her does not decrease. In her illness apparent convalescence is sometimes more fearful than actual suffering." The archduke continued by the side of her lady- ship for aliout twenty minutes, seizing every oppor- tunity of uttering, in the most courtly tone, the most inane compliments ; and then trusting that he might soon have her ladyship's opinion respect- ing the Austrian troop at the New House ; and that Von Konigstein and his English friend would not delay letting him see them there, his imperial highness, followed by his silent suite, left the gar- dens. " I am afraid, 3'our ladyship must have almost mistaken me for a taciturn lord chamberlain," said the baron, occupying immediately the archduke's touched the groimd. He received a most gracious bow. " Finish the story about Salvinski, baron, and then I'll introduce you for a reward to the most lovely creature in existence — a countrywoman of }ours, Mr. Grey — Lady Madeleine Trevor." "I have the honour of a slight acquaintance with her ladyship," said the baron ; " I had the pleasure of knowing her in England." " Indeed ! 0, most fortunate mortal ! I see she has stopped, talking ie some stranger. Let us turn and join her." The archduke and the two friends accordingly turned, and of course the silent gentlemen in the rear followed with due precision. " Lady Madeleine !" said his highness, " I flat- tered myself for a moment that I might have had the honour of presenting to you a gentleman for whom I have great esteem ; but lie has proved to me this moment that he is more fortunate than myself, since he had the honour before me of an acquaintance with Lady Madeleine Trevor." " I have not forgotten Baron von Konigstein," said her ladyship, with a serious air ; " may I ask your highness how you prospered m your negoti- ation with the Austi-ian troop V " Perfectly successful ! — perfectly successful ! — Inspired by your ladyship's approbation, my stew- ard has really done wonders. He almost deserves a diplomatic appointment for the talent which he lias shown , but what should I do without Cra- cowsky 1 Lady Madeleine, can you conceive what I should do without Cracowsky ?" " Not the least," said her ladyship, very good- naturedly. " Cracowsky is every thing to me — every thing. It is impossible to say what Cracowsky is to me. I owe every thing to Cracowsky. To Cracowsky I owe being here." The archduke bowed very low, for his eulogium on his steward also conveyed a compliment to her ladyship. The archduke- wns cer- tainly right in believing that he owed hio sunnncr excursion to Ems to his steward. That wily Pole, regularly every year put his imperial master's sum- mer excursion up at auction, and according to Ihe biddings of the proprietors of the chief baths, did he take care that his master regulated his visit. The resiaura/eur of Ems, in collusion with the official agent of the Duke of Nassau, were fortimate this season iii having the arcnduke knocked down to them. " May I flatter myself that Miss Fane feels her- self better 1" asked the archduke. Baron von Konigstein mast be veiy changed, if silence be imputed to him as a fault," said Lady Madeleine, with rather a severe smile. " Baron von Konigstein is verj' much changed since last he had the pleasure of conversing with Lady Madeleine Trevor ; more changed than her ladyship will perhaps believe ; more changed than he can sometimes himself believe ; I hope, I flatter myself, I feel sure, that he will not be less accepta- ble to Lady Madeleine Trevor, because he is no longer rash, passionate, and unthinking ; because he has learned to live more for others and less for himself." " Baron von Konigstein does indeed appear changed ; since, by his own account, he has be- come in a very few years, a being, in whose existence philosophers scarcely beheve — a perfeci man." " My self-conceit has been so often reproved by your ladyship, that I will not apologize for a quali- ty which I almost flattered myself I no longer pos- sessed ; but you will excuse, I am sure, one who in zealous haste to prove himself amended, has, I fear, almost shown that he has deceived himself." Some strange thoughts occurred to Vivian, whose eyes had never quitted her ladyship's face while this conversation was taking place. " Is this a woman to resent the neglect of an order for Eau de Cologne 1 my dear Von Konigstein, you're a very pleasant fellow, but this is not the way men apologize for a nonpurchase of a pocket hand- kerchief !" " Plas your ladyship been long at Ems 1" " Nearly a month ; we are travelling in conse- quence of the ill-health of a relation. It was our intent'cr. to have gone to Pisa, but our physician, ir c^jnsequence of the extreme heat of the sum- lUer, is afraid of the fatigue of travelling, and has recommended Ems. The air between these moun- tains is very soft and pure, and I have no reason to regret at present that we have not advanced farther on our journey." " The lady who was with your party at dinner is, I fear, your invalid. She certauily does not look like one. I think," said the baron, with an eflort, " I think that her face is not unlinown to me. It is difficult, even after so many years, to mistake Miss " " Fane — ," said Lady Madeleine, very firmly for it seemed that the baron required a little assist- ance at the end of his sentence. " Ems," returned his excellency, with great 1 rapidity of utterance, — " Ems is, indeed, a chaiminj? VIVIAN GREY. 87 place — at least to me, I have, within these few years, quite recurred to the feehngs of my boy- hood ; nothing to me is more disgusting!)'' weari- some than the gay bustle of a city. My present diplomatic appointment at Frankfort ensures a con- stant Hfe among the most charming scenes of na- ture. Naples, which was ofi'ered to me, I refused. Eight years ago, I should have thought an appointment at Naples a paradise on earth." " Your excellency must indeed be changed," remarked her ladyship. " How beautiful is the vicinity of the Rhine ! I have passed within these three days, for almost the twentieth time in my life, through the Rhein- gau ; and yet how fresh, and lovely, and novel, seemed all its various beauties. My young travel- ling companion is very enthusiastic about this gsm of Germany. He is one of your ladyship's coun- trymen. Might I take the liberty of introducing to you — Mr. Grey 1" Her ladyship, as if it could now no longer be postponed, introduced to the two gentlemen, her brother, Mr. St. George. This gentleman, who, during the whole previous conversation, had kept his head in a horizontal position, looking neither to the right, nor to the left, and apparently uncon- scious that any one was conversing with his sister, because, according to the English custom, he was not " introduced" — now suddenly turned round, and welcomed his acquaintance wdth great cor- diality. " Mr. Grey," asked her ladyship, " are you of Dorsetshire V " My mother is a Dorsetshire woman ; her fa- mily name is Vivian, which name I also bear — Sir Hargrave Vivian, of Chester Grange." " Have j'ou a father living, may I ask ?" " At present in England." " Then I think we are longer acquainted than we have been introduced. I met your father at Sir Hargrave Vivian's jnly last Christmas. Of such a father you must indeed be proud. He spoke of you in those terms that make me congratulate myself that I have met the son. You have been long from England, I think ?" " Neai-ly a year and a half; and I only regret my absence from it, because it deprives me of the presence of my parents." The baron had resigned his place by Lady Ma- deleine, and was already in close conversation with Mr. St. George, from whose arm Lady Madeleine's was disengaged. No one acted the part of Asmo- deus with greater spirit than' his excellency ; and the secret history of every person whose secret history could be amusing, delighted Mr. St. George. " There," said the baron, " goes the son of an unknown father ; his mother followed the camp, and her offspring was early initiated in the myste- ries of military petty larceny. As he grew up, he became the most skilful plunderer that ever rifled the dying of both sides. Before he was twenty, he fo!l«wed the army as a petty chapman, and amassed an excellent fortune by re-acquiring, after a battle, the very goods and trinkets which he had sold at an immense price before it. Such a wretch could do nothing but prosper, and in due time the sutler's brat became a commissary-general. He made millions in a period of general starvation, and cleared at least a hundred thousand dollars, by embezzling the shoe-leather during a retreat. He ^ now a baron, covered with orders, and his daugh- ters are married to some of our first nobles. There goes a Polish count, who is one of the greatest gamblers in Christendom. In the same season he lost to a Russian general, at one game of chess, his chief castle, and sixteen thousand acres of wood- land ; and recovered himself on another game, on which he won of a Turkish pasha one hundred and eighty thousand leopard skins. The Turk, who was a man of strict honour, paid the count by embezzling the tribute in kinc of the province he governed ; and, as on quarter-day he could not, of course, make up his accounts with the Divan, he joined the Greeks." While the baron was entertaining Mr. St. George, the conversation between Lady Madeleine and Vivian proceeded. " Your fother expressed great disappointment to me, at the impossibility of his paying j^ou a visit, in consequence of your mother's illness. Do you not long to see him 1" " More, much more than I can express. Did your ladyship think my father in good spirits 1" " Generally so ; as cheerful as all fathers can be without their only son," said her ladyship, smiling very kindly. " Did he complain then of my absence ?" " He regretted it." " I linger in Germany with the hope of seeing him ; otherwise I should have now been much farther south. You will be glad to hear that my mother has quite recovered ; at least my last letters inform me so. Did you find Sir Hargrave as amusing as everl" " When is the old gentleman otherwise than the most delightful of old men 1 Sir Hargrave is one of my greatest favourites. I should like to per- suade you to return and see them all. Can't you fancy Chester Grange very beautiful now, Albert ?" said her ladyship, turning to her brother, " what is the number of our apartments 1 Mr. Grey, the sun has now disappeared, and I fear the night air among these mountains. We have hardly yet summer nights, though we certainlj' have summer days. We shall be happy to see you at our rooms." So saying, bowing very cordially to Vi- vian, and less stiffly to the baron than she had done. Lady Madeleine left the gardens. " There goes the most delightful woman in the world," said the baron ; " how fortunate that you know her I for really, as you might have observed, I have no great claims on her indulgent notice. I was certainly very wild in England ; but then, young men, you know. Grey ! — and I didn't leave a card, or call, before I went; and the English are very stiff and precise about those things ; and the Trevors had been very kind to me. I think we'd better take a little colfee, now ; and then, if you like, we'll just stroll into the REnouTE." In a brilhantly illuminated saloon, adorned with Corinthian columns, and casts from some of the most famous antique statues, assembled between nine and ten o'clock in the evening, many of the visiters at Ems. On each side of the room was placed a long, narrow table, one of which was covered with green baize, and unattended ; while the variously-coloured leather surface of the other was very closely surrounded by an interested crowd. Behind this table stood two individuals of very different appearance. The first was a short, thick man, whose only business was dealing certain portions of playmg-cards with quick sue- D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. cession, one after the other; and as the Me of the table was decii'?.;} by this process, did his compa- nion, an extremely tall, thin man, throw various pieces of money upon certain stakes, which were deposited by the bystanders on different parts of the table ; or, Vi'hich was much oftener the case, with a silver r^ke with a long- ebony handle, svv'ocp into a larg-e enclosure near him, the scattered sums. This enclosure was called the bank, and the mys- terious ceremony in which these persons were as- sisting, was the celebrated game of rouge-et-noir. A deep silence was strictly preserved by those who immediately surrounded the table; no voice was heard, save that of the little, short, stout dealer ; when, without an expression of the least interest, he seemed mechanically to announce the fate of the diflerent colours. No other sound was heard, except the jingle of the dollars and Napoleons, and the ominous rake of the tall, thin banker. The countenances of those who were hazarding their money, were grave and gloomy : their eyes were fixed, their brows contracted, and their lips project- ed ; and yet there was an evident effort visible, to show that they were both easy and unconcerned. Each player held in his hand a small piece of paste- board, on which, with a steel pricker, he marked the run of the cards, in order, from his observa- tions, to regulate his own play : — the rouge-et- noir player imagines that chance is not capricious. Those who were not interested in the game, pro- menaded in two lines within the tables ; or, seated in recesses between the pillars, formed small par- ties for conversation. As Vi\aan and the baron entered. Lady Made- leine Trevor, leaning on the arm of an elderly man, left the room ; but as she was in earnest con- versation she did not obser\'e them. " I suppose we must throw away a dollar or two. Grey ?" said the baron, as he walked up to the table. "My dear De Konigstein — one pinch — one pinch !" " Ah ! marquis, what fortune to-night V " Bad — bad ! I have lost my Napoleon : I never risk farther. There's that cursed crusty old De Trumpetson, persisting, as usual, in his run of bad luck ; because he never will give in. Trust me, my dear De Konigstein, it'll end in his ruin ; and then, if there's a sale of his eflects, I shall, perhaps, get his snuff-box — a-a-h !" " Come, Grey ; shall I throw down a couple of Napoleons on joint account. Ldon't care much for play myself; but I suppose, at Ems, we must make up our minds to lose a few Louis. Here ! now for the red — joint account, mind !" " Done." " There's the archduke ! Let us go and make our bow ; we needn't stick at the table as if our whole soul were staked with our crown pieces : — we'll make our bow, and then return in time to know our fate." So saying, the gentlemen walk- ed up to tlie top of the room. " Why, Grey ! — Surely no — it cannot be — and yet it is. De Boeffleurs, how d'ye do i" said the baron, with a face beaming with joy, and a hearty shake of the hand. " My dear, dear fellow, how the devil did you manage to get off so soon ? I thought you were not to be here for a fortnight : we only aiTived ourselves to-day." " Yes — but I've made an arrangement which I did not anticipate ; and so I posted after you im- mediately. Whom do you think I have brought with me 1" ".Who?" " Salvinski." " Ah ! And the count V " Follows immediately. I expect him to-morrow or next day. Salvinski is talking to the archduke ; and see, he beckons to me. I suppose I am going to be presented." The chevalier moved forward, followed by the baron and Vivian. " Any friend of Prince Salvinski I shall always have great pleasure in having presented to me. Chevalier, I feel great pleasure in having you pre- sented to me. Chevalier, you ought to be proud of the name of Frenchman. Chevalier, the French are a grand nation. Chevalier, I have the highest respect for the French nation." " The most subtle diplomatist," thought Vivian, as he recalled to mind his own introduction, " would be puzzled to decide to which interest his imperial highness leans." The archduke now entered into conversation with the prince, and most of the circle who sur- rounded him. As his highness was addressing Vivian, the baron let slip our hero's arm, and seizing hold of the Chevalier de Boeflleurs, began walking up and down the room with him, and was soon engaged in very animated conversation. In a few minutes, the archduke, bowing to his circle, made a move, and regained the side of a Saxon lady, from whose interesting company he had been disturbed by the arrival of Prince Sal- vinski — an individual of whose long stories and dull romances the archduke had, from experience, a particular dread : but Iris highness was always very courteous to the Poles. "Grey, I've despatched De Boeffleurs to the house, to instruct his servant and Ernstorff to do the im- possible, in order that our rooms may be altogether. You'll be delighted with De Boeffleurs when you know him, and 1 expect you to be great friends. ! by-the-by, his unexpected arrival has quite made us forget our venture at rouge-et-noir. Of course we're too late now for any thing ; even if we had been fortunate, our doubled stake, remaining on the table, is, of course, lost : we may as well, how- ever, walk up." So saying, the baron reached the table. " That is your excellency's stake ! — that is your excellency's stake !" exclaimed many voices as he came up. " What's the matter, my friends 1 what's tlie matter"!" asked the baron very calmly. " There's been a run on the red ! there's been a run on the red ! and your excellency's stake has doubled each time. It has been 4 — 8 — 16 — 32 — 64 — 128 — 2.56 — and now it's 512!" quickly rat- tled a little thin man in spectacles, pointing at the same time to his unparalleled hne of punctures. This was one of those ollicious, noisy httle men, who are always ready to give you unasked information on every possible subject ; and vv'ho are never so happy as when they are watching over the interest of some stranger, who never thanks diem for their un- necessary solicitude. Vivian, in spite of his philosophy, felt the excite- ment and wonder of the moment. He looked very earnestly at the baron, whose countenance, how ever, was perfectly immoved. VIVIAN GREY. 89 " Grej'," said he, very coolly, " It seems we're in luck." " The stake's then not all your own ?" very ea- gerly asked the little man in spectacles. " No part of it is yom's, sir," answered the baron very dryly. " I'm going to deal," said the short, thick man behind. "Is the board cleared"!" " Your excellency then allows the stake to re- main ■?" inquired the tall thin banker, with affected nonchalance. " O ! certainly," said the baron, with real non- chalance. " Three — eight — fourteen — twenty-four — thirty- four. Rouge 34 — ." All crowded nearer ; the table was surrounded five or six deep, for the wonderful rmi of luck had got wind, and nearly the whole room were round the table. Indeed, the archduke and Saxon lady, and of course the silent suite, were left atone at the upper part of the room. The tall banker did not conceal his agitation. Even the short, stout dealer ceased to be a machine. All looked anxious ex- cept the baron. Vivian looked at the table ; his excellency watched, with a keen eye, the little dealer. No one even breathed as the cards de- scended — "Ten — twenty" — (Here the countenance of the banker brightened) — twenty-two — twenty- five — twenty-eight — thirty-one — Noir 31. — The bank's broke : no more play to-night. The roulette table opens immediately." In spite of the great interest which had been ex- cited, nearly the whole crowd, without waiting to congratulate the baron, rushed to the opposite side of the room in order to secure places at the roulette table. " Put these five hundred and twelve Napoleons into a bag," said the baron ; " Grey, this is your share, and I congratulate you. With regard to the other hallf, Mr. Hermann, what bills have you gotr' " Two on Gogel's house of Frankfort, — accepted of course, — for two hundred and fifty each, ai)d these twelve Napoleons will make it right," said the tall banker, as he opened a large black pocket book, from which he took out two. small bits of paper. The baron examined them, and after having seen them endorsed, put them calmly into his pocltet, not forgetting the twelve Napoleons; and then taking Vivian's arm, and regretting extremely that he should have the trouble of carrying such a weight, he wished Mr. Hermann a very good night and suc- cess at his roulette, and wallced with his companion quietly home. Thus passed a day at Ems I CHAPTER VII. Os the following morning, Vivian met with his fi-iend Essper George, behind a small stall in the bazaar. " Well, your highness, what do you wish 1 Here are eau-de-cologne, violet soap, and watch ribands ; a smelling-bottle of Ems crystal ; a snuff-box of fig- tree wood. Naine your price, name your price : the least trifle that can be given by a man who breaks a bank, must be more than my whole stock in trade's worth." " I have not paid you yet, Essper, for my glass chain. There is your share of my winnings : the 12 fame of which, it seems, has reached even you !" added Vivian, with no pleased air. " I thank your highness for the nap ; but I hope I have not offended by alluding to a certain event which shall be passed over in silence,'' continued Essper George, with a look of mock solemnity. "I really think your highness has but a faint appetite for good fortune. They deserve her most who value her least." " Have you any patrons at Ems, Essper, that have induced you to fix on this place in particular for your speculations. Here, I should think, you have many active rivals," said Vivian, looking round the various stalls. ^' I have a patron here, may it please your high- ness, a patron who has never deceived, and w lo will never desert me, — I want no other; — and that's myself Now here comes a party : could your highness just toll ine the name of that tall lady now ?" " If I tell you it is Lady Madeleine Trevor, what will it profit youl" Before Vivian could well finish his sentence, Essper had drawn out a long horn from beneath his small counter, and sounded a blast which echoed through the arched passages. The attention of every one was excited, and no part of the following speech was lost. "The celebrated Essper George, fresh from Fairjiand, dealer in pomatum and all sorts of per- fumery, watches, crosses, Ems cr3-stal, coloured prints, Dutch toys, Dresden china, Venetian chains, Neapolitan coral, French crackers, chamois brace- lets, tame poodles, and Cherokee corkscrews, mender of mandolins and all other musical instruments, &c. &c. &c. &c. to her royal highness. Lady Ma- deleine Trevor, and all her royal family, has just arrived at Ems, where he only intends to stay two or three^bys, and a few more weeks besides. — Now your lac^liip, what do you wishl" "Mr. Grey," said her ladyship, smiling, "you can perhaps explain the reason of this odd greeting. Who is this singular being 1" " The celebrated Essper George, just" again commenced the conjuror ; but Vivian prevented the repetition. " He's an old knave. Lady Madeleine, that I've met with before at other places. I believe I may add an honest one. What say you, Essper]" " More honest than moonlight, my lady, for that deceives every one ; and less honest than self-praise, my lady, for that deceives no one." " My friend,'you have a ready wit." " My wit is like a bustling servant, my lady ; always ready when not wanted ; and never present at a pinch." "Come, I must have a pair of your chamois bracelets. How sell you them?" " I sell nothing, my lady ; all here is gratis to beauty, virtue, and nobility ; and these are ni}' only customers." " Thanks v/ill not supply a stock-in-trade, though, Essper," said Vivian. " Very true ! your highness ; but my customers are apt to leave some slight testimonies behind them of the obligations which they are under to me ; and these, at the same time, are the prop of my estate, and the proof of their discretion. But who comes herel" said Essper, drawing out his horn. The sight of this terrible instrument reminded Lady Madeleine how greatly the effect of music is height- u 2 90 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. ened by distance, and she made a speedy retreat. Her ladyship, witli her companion, the elderly gen- tleman with whom slie left the Eedoute the preced- ing- night, and Vivian, stopped one moment to Watch the party to whom Esspcr George alluded. It was a family procession of a striking character. Three daughters abreast, flanked by two elder sons farmed the first file. The fathei", a portly, prosperous-looking man, followed with his lady on his arm. Then came two nursery maids, with three children, between the tender ages of five and six. The second division of the grand army, consisting of three younger sons, immediately followed. This was commanded by a tutor. A governess and two young daughters then advanced ; and then came the extreme rear — the sutlers of the camp — in the per- sons of two footmen in rich laced liveries, who each bore a basket on his arm filled with various fancy articles which had been all purchased during the promenade of this nation through only part of the bazaar. " Who can they hcV said her ladyship. " English," said the elderly gentleman ; who had been already uitroduced by Lady Madeleine to Vivian as her uncle, Mr. Sherborne. The trumpet of Essper George produced a due effect upon the great party. The commander-in- chief stopped at his little stall, and, as if tliis were the signal for general attack and plunder, the files were all immediately broken up. Each individual dashed at his prey, and the only ones who strug- gled to maintain a semblance of discipline, were the nursery maids, the tutor, and the governess, who experienced the greatest difliculty in suppres- fiing the early taste which the detachment of light infantry indicated for booty. But Essper George was in his element : he joked, lie assisted, he exhi- bited, he explained : tapped the cheeks of the child- ren, and complimented the elder ones ; ai^ finally, having parted at a prodiaious profit with fparly his whole stock, paid himself out of a large and heavy purse, which the portly father, in his utter inability to comprehend the complicated accounts and the debased cuiTency, with great frankness deposited in the hands of the master of the stall, desiring him to settle his own claims. " The tradesman is more singular even than his customers," said Mr. Sherborne ; '' I think you said you knew something of him, Mr. Grey V " I knew him, sir, before, as a conjuror at Frank- fort fair." " By a conjuror, do you mean, Mr. Grey, one of those persons who profess an ability tb summon, by tjlie adjuration in a sacred name, a departed spirit ; or merely one, who, by his dexterity in the practice of sleight-of-hand, produces certain optical delusions on the sight and senses of his fellow-men 1" " I met Essper George certainly only in your latter capacity, Mr. Sherborne." " Then, sir, I cannot agree with you in your definition of his character. I should rather style him a. juggler, than a conjuror. Would you call tliat man a conjuror who plays a trick with a cup and balls, a sprinkling of rice, or a bad shilling 1" "You are, perhaps, sir, critically speaking, right ; but the world in general are not such purists as Mr. Sherborne. I should not hesitate to describe Essper George as a conjuror. It is a use of the word which common parlance has sanctioned. We must always remember that custom is stronger than etymology," " Sir, are you aware that you're giving loose to very dangerous sentiments T I may be too precise, I majf be too particular ; but sir, I read Addison— and, sir, I think Pope a poet." " Then, sir, I am happy to say that our tastes agree," said Vivian, bowing. " I'm very happy to heai" it — I'm very glad of it — sir, I congi-atulate you — give me your hand — you're the first bearable young man that I've met with for these last twenty years. Sir, they some- times talk of our laws and constitution being in danger, which is seldom true — how is it that no one calls out that our language is in danger 1 A noble poet, whom I honour for his defence of Pope, and who, in my opinion, has gained more glory b}' that letter of his, than by all the rhapsodies of false bril- liancy, bad taste, and exaggerated feeling, which ever claimed the attention of the world under the title of Eastern Talcs, has called this the Age of Broxze — why didn't he call it the Aer, op Slanr 1" " But, my dear uncle," said Lady Madeleine, " now that you and Mr. Grey understand each other, you surely will not maintain that his use of the word cotjuror was erroneous. Custom surely has some influence upon language. You would think me very aflbcted, I'm sure, if I were to talk of putting on a neck-kercliief." " My dcai', Mr. Grey was right, and I was wrong: I carried the point a little too far ; but I feel it my duty to take every opportunity of informing the youth of the present day that I hold them in abso- lute contempt. Their affectation, their heartless- nese, their artificial feelings, their want of all real, genuine, gentlemanly, English sentiments, — and, above all, their slant— have disgusted me — I'm very glad to find that Mr. Grey is not guilty of these follies. I'm very glad to find that he believes that a man older than himself is not quite a fool — I wish I could say as much for Albert, Mr. Grey was certainly right: — next to being correct, a man should study to be candid — I haven't met with a candid man these fifty years — no one now will own, by any chance, they're ever wrong. Now, for my- self, it's very odd, I never form a hasty opinion, and yet I'm not always right : but I always own it — I make it the principle of my life to be candid," " I hope I may be allowed to ask after Miss Fane, although I have not the honour of her ac- quaintance." " She continues much better ; my uncle and myself are now about to join her in the Lime-walk, where, by this time, she and Albert must have ar- rived ; if you are not otherwise engaged, and will join our morning stroll, it will give us much plea- sure." Nothing' in the world could give Vivian •greater pleasure ; he felt himself irresistibly impelled to the side of Lady Madeleine ; and only regretted his acquaintance with the baron, because he felt con- scious that there was some secret cause, which pre- vented that intimacy from existing between his exceliency and the Trevor party, which his amusing talents and his influential rank would otherwise have easily produced. When they reached the Lime-walk, Miss Fane and her cousin were not there, although the time of appointment was con- siderably past. •' I hope nothing has happened," said Lady Madeleme ; " I trust she is not taken unwell." "Quite improbable!" said Mr. Sherborne; VIVIAN GREY 91 "there must be some other reason: if she were anwell, the servant would have beew here." • " Let us return," said Lady Madeleine. " By no means, ray dear," said Mr. Sherborne, who had the greatest aftcction for his nieces ; " Mr. Grey will. I have no doubt, have the goodness to remain with )'our ladyship, and I will fetch Violet ; you may depend upon it, she is ready to come ;" so saying, Mr. Sherborne stalked ofT at a very quick pace. " My dear uncle is rather a character, Mr. Grey ; but he is as remarkable for his excellence of heart, as for any little peculiarities in his habits. I am glad that you have made a favourable impression upon him ; because, as I hope you will be much in his company, you stand now no cliance of being in- cluded in the list of young men whom he deUghts to torment, at the head of which, I regret to say, is my brother. By-the-by, I do not know whether I may be allowed to congratulate you upon your Drilliant success at the Redoute last night. It is fortunate that aO have not to regret your arrival at Ems as much as poor Mr. Hermann." " The run of f :)rtune was certainly most extra- ordinary. I'm only sorry that the goddess should have showered her favours on one who neither deserves nor desires them ; for I've no wish to be rich ; and as I never lost by her caprices, it is hardly fair that I should gain by them." " You do not play then, much V " I never played in my life, till last night. Gamb- ling has never been one of my follies : although my catalogue of errors is fuller, perhaps, than most men's." " I think Baron von Konigstein was your part- ner in the exploit." " He was ; and apparently a.s little pleased at tlie issue as myself." " Indeed ! — Havej-ou known the baron longl" " You will be surprised to hear that we are only friends of a week. I have been living, ever since I was in Germany, a most retired life. A circum- stance of a most painful nature drove me from England — a circumstance of which, I can hardly flatter myself, and can hardly wisli, that your lady- ship should be ignorant." " I am not unacquainted, Mr. Grey," said Jjady Madeleine, much moved, " with an unhappy event, which we need not again mention. Believe me, that I learned the sad histoiy from one, who, while he spoke the rigid truth, spoke of the living suflerer in terms of the fondest afi'ection." " A father !" said Vivian, with an agitation which he did not affect to suppress, " a father can hardly be expected to be impartial." " Such a father as yours must always be so. He is one of those men who must be silent, or speak truth. I only wish that he was with us now, to assist me in bringing about what he must greatly desire — your return to England." " It cannot be — it cannot be — I look back to the last year which I spent in that country with feel- ings of such disgust, I look forward to a return to that country with feelings of such repugnance — that — but I feel I'm trespassing beyond all bounds, in dwelling on these subjects to your ladyship. 'I'hey are those on which I have never yet con- versed with human being; but the unexpected meet- ing with a friend — with a friend of my father, I mean, has surprised me into a display of feelings which I diought were dead within me; and for which, I am sure, the custom of society requires an apology." " ! do not say so, Mr. Grey — do not say so ! When I promised your father, tliat in case we met, I should even seek your society, I entered into an engagement, which, though I am surprised I am now called upon to fulfil, I did not form in a care- less spirit. Let us understand each other : I am inclined to be your friend, if you will permit it ; and the object which I wish to obtain by our friend- ship, I have not concealed : at least, I am frank. I have suffered too much myself, not to understand how dangerous, and how deceitful is the excess of grief. You have allowed yourself to be overcome l)y that which Providence intended as a lesson of instruction — not as a sentence of despair. In your solitude you have increased the shadow of those fantasies of a heated brain, which converse with the pure sunshine of the world would have enabled you to dispel." " The pure sunshine of the world. Lady Made- leine ! — would that it had never lighted me ! My youth flourished in the unwholesome sultriness of a blighted atmosphere, which I mistook for the resplendent brilliancy of a summer day. How deceived I was, you may judge, not certainly from finding me here ; but I am here, because I have ceased to suffer, only in having ceased to hope." " You have ceased to hope, Mr. Grey, because hope and consolation are not the visible companions of solitude, which are of a darker nature. Hope and consolation spring from those social affections, which your father, among others, has taught me to believe imperishable. With such a parent, are you justified in acting the part of a misanthrope '' Ought you not rather to hope, to believe that there are others, whose principle of being is as benevo- lent, if not as beneficial as his own 1" " Lady Madeleine, I do believe it ; if I had doubted it, my doubts must end this day ; hist you mistake in believing that I am a misanthrope. It is not sorrow now that makes me sad ; but thought that has made me grave. I have done with grief; but my release from suffering has been gained at a high price. The ransom which freed me from the slavery of sorrow was — Happiness." " I am no metaphysician, Mr. Grey, but I fear you have embraced a dark philosophy. Converse with the world, now that your passions are subdued, and your mind matured, will do more for you than all the arguments of philosophers. I hope yet to find you a believer in the existence of that good which we all worship, and all pursue. Happiness comes when we least expect it, and to those who strive least to obtain it — as you were fortunate yes- terday at the Redoute, when you played without any idea of winning. The truth seems, that after all, we are the authors of our own sorrow. In an eager pursuit to be happy, and to be rich, men do many unwise, and some unprincipled actions ; it ends in their becoming miserable, and continuing poor. The common course of events will bring to each mortal his fair share of fortune. The whole secret of life seems to be to restrain our passions, and let the common course of events have its run. But I will not enter into an argument which I have not the vanity to suppose that I possess the ability to maintain ; and yet which I feel that I ought not to have the weakness to lose. But here comes my uncle, and Violet too ! Well, my dear sir, you'vo brought the truant, I see !" 92 D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Brought her, indeed, clear little thing ! I knew It was not her fault ; I said she was not unwell ; I wonder what St. George will do next ! Mr. Giey, this is my niece Violet, Miss Fane : and Violet, my dear, this is Mr. Grey, and I wish all persons of his age were like him. . As for the Honourable Mr. St. George, he gets more unbearable every day. I suppose soon he'll 'cut' his own family." " Well, I regret, uncle, that I think in this busi- ness you are entirely wrong," said Miss Fane. " Now, Violet ! now how can you be so wilful ! to contradict rre so, when you have not a shadow of a defence for your cousin's unprincipled con- duct !" " Mv dear uncle, is it so unprincipled to break an appointment 1 I think it is one of the most agree- able and pleasant habits in the world. No young man is expected to keep an appointment." " Now Violet ! how can you go on so ] You know if there's one thing in the world that I de- test more than another, it is breaking an appoint- ment — a vice, which, as far as-I can observe, has originated in your young men of the present day. And who the devil are these young men, that the whole system of civilized society is to be disorgan- ized for their convenience 1 Young met), indeed:! I hate the phrase. I wish I could hear of more young gentlemen, and fewer young men. There isn't a young man in the world for whom I haven't the most sovereign contempt ; I don't mean you, Mr. Grey. I've the highest respect for you. I mean that mass of half-educated, inexperienced, insolent, conceited puppies, who think every man's a fool who's older than themselves ; whose manners are a mixture of the vices of all nations, and whose talk is the language of none ; at the head of whom is my nephev,' — your brother, Lady Madeleine Tre- vor — your cousin, Violet Fane — I mean Mr. Al- bert St. George." Mr. Sherborne had now worked himself into a, temble passion ; and the two ladies increased his irritability, by their incessant laughter. " Well, 1 confess I do not see that Albert de- serves this tirade," continued Miss Fane; "only think, my dear uncle, how many unexpected de- mands a man has upon his time. For all we know, unforeseen business may have peremptorily requir- ed Albert's attention. How do you know that he hasn't been looking at a horse for a friend ; or completing the purchase of a monkey ; or making some discoveries in the highest branches of experi- mental philosophy 1 perhaps he haf^ succeeded in lighting his cigar with a burning glass." " Miss Fane !" • " Mr. Sherborne I" " If I were here alone, if Lady Madeleine were only here, I could excuse this ; but how you are to answer to your conscience giving a stranger, Mr. Grey, a young gentleman for whom I have the highest respect, the impression that you, my niece, can tolerate for a moment, the existence of such monstrous absurdities i=. w me the most unaccount- able thing that " " My dear uncle ! how do you know that Mr. Grey has not got a monkey himself? You really ehould remember who is present, when you are delivering these philippics on the manners of the present century, and bo cautious, le.st, at the same lime, you arc not only violent but personal." " Now, Violet, my dear !" " My dear sir !" said Lady Madeleine, " Violet is exerting herself too much ; you know you are an enchanted lady at present, and may neither laugh, speak, nor sing." " Well then, dear uncle, let us talk no more of poor Albert's want of memory. Had he come, I should very likely have been unwell, and then he would have stayed at home the whole morning for no earthly good. As it is,' here I am ; with the prospect of a very pleasant walk, not only feeling quite well, but decidedly better every day, — so now let us make an apology to Mr. Grey, for having kept him so long standinj." " Violet, you're an angel ! though I'm your un- cle, who says so ; — and perhaps, after all* as it wasn't a positive appointment, St. George is not so much to blame. And I v,'ill say this for him, that with all his faults, he is on the whole very respectful to me, and I sometimes try him hard I'm not in the habit of making hasty observations, but if ever I find myself doing so, I'm -always ready to own it. There's no excuse, however, for hia not fitching you, my dear ! — what business had he to be going about with that Baron von Konigstein — that foreign " " Friend of Mr. CJrey's, my dear uncle," said Lady Madeleine. " Humph !" As Mr. Sherborne mentioned the baron's name, the smiling face of Lady Madeleine Trevor be- came clouded, but the emotion was visible only for a moment, as the soft shadow steals over the sun- ny wood. ]\Iiss Fane led on her uncle, as if she were desirous to put an end to the conversation. " You would scarcely imagine, Mr. Grey, from my cousin's appearance, and high spirits, that we are travelling for her health ; nor do her physi- cians, indeed, give us any cause for serious uiieasi- ncss — yet I confess, that at times, I cannot help feeling very great anxiety. Her flushed cheek, and the alarming languor which constantly suwecds any exertion or excitement, make me fear that hei complaint is more deeplyseated than they are will- ing to acknowledge." " Let us hope that the extraordinary heat of the weather may account, in a great degree, for this distressing languor." " \Vc arc willing to adopt any reasoning that gives us hope, but I cannot help remembering that her mother died of consumption." " Oh ! Lady Madeleine," said Miss Fane, look- ing back, " do not you think I'm strong enough to walk as far as the New Spring? My uncle says, he is sure that I should be much better if I took more exercise, and I really want to see it. Can't we go to-morrow 1 I dare say, as Albert played truant to-day, he will condescend to escort us." "Condescend, indeed! when I was a young man -" " You a young man ! I don't believe you ever were a young man," said Miss Fane, putting her small hand before a large open mouth, which was about to deliver the usual discourse on the degene- racy of the " present day." The walk .was most agreeable; and,, with the exception of one argument upon the principles of the j)icturesque, which Mr. Slierborne insisted upon Vivian's entering into, and in which, of course, that gentleman soon had the pleasure of proving himself candid, by confessing himself con- futed, it passed over without any disturbance from that most worthy and etymological individual. VIVIAN GREY. 93 This was the first day for nearly a year and a half, that Vivian Grey had joined with beings whose talents and virtues he respected, in calm and ra- tional conversation ; this was nearly the first day in his life that Vivian Grey had conversed witli any individuals, with no sinister view of self-ad- vancement, and self-interest. He found his con- "versation, like his character, changed; — treating of tilings, rather than men ; of nature, rather than society. To-day there was no false brilliancy to entrap the unwaiy ; no splendid paradoxes to astound the weak ; no poignant scandal to amuse the vile. He conversed calmly, without eager- ness, and without passion ; and delivering with abiUty his conscientious opinion upon subjects which he had studied, and which he understood, he found that while he interested others, he had also been interested himself. ^ CHAPTER Vlir. When the walking party returned home, they found a crowd of idle domestics assembled oppo- site the house, round a group of equipages, con- sisting of two enormous crimson carriages, a britchska, and a large caravan, on all which vehi- cles the same coat of arms was most ostentatiously blazoned. " Some great arrival !" said Miss Fane. " It must be the singular party that we watched this morning in the bazaar," said Lady Madeleine. " O ! Violet ! I've such a curious character to in- troduce you to, a particular friend of Mr. Grey's, who wishes very much to have the honour of your acquaintance, Mh. Esspeh Geohge." " What an odd name ! Is he an English- man 1" " His appearance is still more singular than his title. You shall see him to-morrow." " These carriages, then, belong to him 1" " Not exactly," said Vivian. In an hour's time, the party again met at dinner in the saloon. By the joint exertions of Ernstortf and Mr. St. George's servants, the baron, Vivian, and the Chevalier de BoefHeurs, were now seated next to the party of Lady Madeleine Trevor. " My horses fortunately arrived from Frankfort this morning," said the baron. " Mr. St. George and myself have been taking a ride very far up the valley. Has your ladyship yet been to the Castle of Nassau 1" " I am ashamed to say we have not. The ex- pedition has been one of those plans, often arrang- ed, and never executed." " O ! you should go by all means ; it was one of my favourite spots : I took Mr. St. George there this morning. The ruin is one of the finest in Germany, which, as your ladyship is well aware, is the land of ruins. An expedition to Nassau Castle would be a capital foundation for a pic-nic. Conceive, Miss Fane, a beautiful valley which was discovered by a knight, in the middle ages, follow- ing the track of a stag — how exquisitely romantic ! The very incident vouches for his sweet seclusion. Cannot you imagine the wooded mountains, the old gray ruin, the sound of the unseen river 1 What more should we want, except agreeable company, fine music, and the best provisions, to fancy ourselves La Paradise 1" " You certainly give a most glowing descrip- tion," said Miss Fane. " Why, Mr. Grey, this lovely valley would be a model for the solitude we were planning this morning. I almost wish that your excellency's plan were practicable." " I take the whole arrangement upon myself; there is not a difficulty. The ladies shall go oa donkeys, or we might make a water excursion of it part of the way, and the donkeys can meet us at the pass near Stein, and then the gentlemen may walk ; and if you fear the water at night, which is, perhaps, dangerous, why then the car- riages may come round : and if your own be too heavy for mountain roads, my britchska is always at your command. You see there is not a diffi- culty." "Not a difficulty," said Mr. St. George: "Ma- deleine, we only wait for your consent." " Which will not be withheld a minute, Albert* but I think we had better put off the execution of our plan till June is a little more advanced. I must have a fine summer night for Violet." "Well, then, I hold the whole party present, engaged to follow my standard whenever I have permission from the high authority to unfold it," said the baron, bowing to Lady Madeleine : " and lest, on cool reflection, I shall not possess influence enough to procure the appointment, I shall, like a skilful orator, take advantage of your feelings, which gratitude for this excellent plan must have already enlisted in my favour, and propose my- self as master of the ceremonies." The baron's eye caught Lady Madeleine's as he uttered this, and something lilie a smile, rather of pity than derision, lighted up her face. Here Vivian turned round to give some direc- tions to an attendant, and, to his horror, found Essper George standing behind his chair, " Is there any thing your highness wants 1" Essper was always particularly neat in his ap- pearance, but to-day the display of clean linen was quite ostentatious ; and to make the exposure still more terrific, he had, for the purpose of varying his costume, turned his huzzar-jacket inside-out, and now appeared in a red coat, lined with green. " Who ordered you here, sir V " My duty." " In what capacity do you attend V " As your highness' servant." " I insist upon your leaving the room directly." Here Essper looked very suppliant, and began to pant like a hunted hare. " Ah ! my friend, Essper George," said Lady Madeleine, " are you there 1 What's the matter, is any one ill-treating you 1" " This then is Essper George !" said Violet Fane, " what kind of creature can he possibly be 1 Why, Mr. Grey, what's the matter?" " I'm merely discharging a servant, at a mo- ment's warning. Miss Fane ; and if you wish to engage his constant attendance upon yourself, I have no objection to give him a character for the occasion." " What do you want, Essper 1" said Miss Fane. " I merely wanted to see whether your walk this morning had done your highness' appetite any good," answered Essper, looking very disconsolate , " and so I thought I might make myself useful at the same time ; and though I don't bring in the soup in a cocked hat, and carve the verdsoa with 94 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. a coufeau-de-cJiasse,'' continued he, bowing very low to Ernstorff, who, standing stifT behind his master's chair, seemed utterly unaware that any person in the room could experience a necessity ; "still I can change a plate, or hand the wine, without cracking the first, or drinking the second." " And very good qualities too !" said Miss Faric. " Come, Essper, you shall put your accomplish- ments into practice immediately, so change my plate." This Essper did with the greatest dexterity and quiet, displaying at the same time a small white hand, on the back of which was marked a comet and three daggers. As he had the discretion not to open his mouth, and performed all his duties with great skill, his intrusion in a few minutes was not only pardoned but forgotten. " There has been a great addition to the visiters to-day, I sec," said Lady Madeleine : " pray, who are the new-comers V " English," said the chevalier, who, seated at a considerable distance from her ladyship, iiad not spoken a word during the whole dinner. " I'll tell you all about them," said the baron. " This family is one of those, whose existence astounds the Continent much more than any of your mighty dukes and earls, whose for- tunes, though colossal, can be conceived ; and whose rank is understood. Mr. Fitzloom is a very different personage ; for, thirty years ago he ^vas a journeyman cotton-spinner : some miracu- lous invention in machinery entitled him to a patent, which has made him one of the most im- portant landed proprietors in Great Britain. He has lately been returned a member for a great manufac- turing city ; and he intends to get over the two first years of his parliamentary career, by successively monopolizing the accommodation of all the princi- pal cities of France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy ; and by raising the prices of provisions and post-horses through a track of five thousand miles. My information is authentic, for I had a casual acquaintance with him in England. There was some talk of a contract for supplying our army from England, and I saw Fitzloom often on the subject; I have spoken to him to-day. This is by no means the first of the species that we have had in Germany. I can assure you, that the plain traveller feels seriously the inconvenience of fol- lowing such a caravan. Their money flows with such unwise prodigality, that real liberality ceases to be valued ; and many of your nobility have com- plained to me, that, in their travels, they are now often expostulated with, on account of their parsi- mony, and taunted with the mistaken extravagance of a stocking-maker, or a porter-brewer." " What pleasure can such people find in travel- ling !" wondered the honourable and aristocratic Mr. b't. George. " As much pleasure, and more profit, than half the young men of the present day. In my time, travelling was undertaken on a very diflerent sys- tem lo what it is nov.'. Tlie English youth then travflled to frequent what Lord Bacon says are ' especially to be seen and observed — the courts of princes.' You all travel now, it appears, to look at mountains, and catch cold in spouting trash on lakes by moonlight. You all think you know every thing, none of you know any thing." " But, my dear sir !" said the baron, " although I willingly grant you, that one of the great advan- tages of travel is the opportunity which it afTords us of becoming acquainted with human nature in all its varieties, as developed by dift(3rent climates, different customs, different governments, and con- sequently of becoming enabled to form an opinion as to the general capabilities of men ; and which knowledge is, of course, chiefly gained where hu- man beings most congregate — great cities, and as you say, the courts of princes : still, sir, we must also not the less forget, that one of the great bene- fits of travel is, that it enlarges a man's experience not only of his fellow-creatures in particular, but of nature in general. And this not merely by enabling him to see a quantity and a variety of landscape, but by permitting him to watch nature at various times and seasons. Many men pass through life without seeing a sunrise : a traveller cannot. If human experience be gained by seeing men in their undress, not only when they are con- scious of the presence of others ; natural expe- rience is only to be acquired by studying nature at all periods, not merely when man is busy and beasts asleep." " But what's the use of this deep experience of nature ] Men are born to converse with men, not with stocks and stones. He who has studied Le Sage, will be more happy and more successful in this world, than the man who muses over Rous- seau." " There I agree with you, Mr. Sherborne, I have no wish to make man an anchorite. But as to the utility, the benefit of a thorough experience of nature, it ap])ears to me to be evident. It increases our stock of ideas — " " So does every thing." " But it does more than this, sir. It calls into being new emotions, it gives rise to new and beautiful associations ; it creates that salutary state of mental excitement which renders our ideas more lucid, our conceptions more vivid, and our conclusions more sound. Can we too much esteem a study which, at the same time, renders our imagination more active, and our judgment more correct 1" " Well, sir, there may bo sometliing in what you say, but not much." " But, my dear sir," said Lady Madeleine, " if his excellency will allow me to support an argu- ment, which in his hands can recjuire no assist- ance, do not you think that a full communion with nature is calculated to elevate our souls, and purify our passions, to " " So is reading your Bible, my dqar. A man's soul should always be elevated ; and his passions would then require little purification. If they are not, he might look at mountains forever, but I should not trust him a jot more." " But, sir," continued the baron, with unusual warmth ; " I am clear that there are cases in whicVi the influence of nature has worked what you pro- fess to treat as an impossibility, or a miracle. I am myself acquainted with an instance of a very peculiar character, A few years ago, a gentleman of high rank found himself exposed to the un happy suspicion of being connected with some disgraceful and dishonourable transactions, which took place in the highest circles of England. Unable to find any specific charge which he could meet, he added one to the numerous catalogue of those unfortunate beings who have sunk in so- 1 ciety, the victims of a surmise. He quitted Engr VIVIAN GREY, 95 TwncI ; anJ disgusted with the world, became the {/lofligate which he had been falsely believed te be. At the house of Cardinal * * * ♦ *, at Naples, celebrated even in that city for its midnight orgies, aiid not only for its bacchanal revels, this gentle- man became a constant guest. He entered with a mad eagerness into every species of dissipation, although none gave him pleasure ; and his fortune, his health, and the powers of his mind, were all fast vanishing. One night, one horrible night of frantic dissipation, a mock election of master of the sports was proposed, and the hero of my tale had the splendid gratification of being chosen by una- nimous consent to his new office. About two o'clock of the same night, he left the palace of the cardinal, with an intention of returning. His way on his return led by the Chiaja, which you, Mr. Sherborne, who have been in Naples, perhaps re- member. It was one of those nights which we witness only in the South. The blue and brilliant sea was sleeping beneath a cloudless sky ; and the moon not only shed her light over the orange and lemon trees, which, springing from their green banks of myrtle, hung over the water, but added fresh lustre to the white dome^, and glittering towers of the city ; and flooded Vesuvius and the distant coast with light, as far even as Capua. The individual of whom I am speaking, had passed this spot on many nights when the moon was not less bright, the waves not less silent, and the orange trees not less sweet ; but to-night — to-night some- thing irresistible impelled him to stop. What a contrast to the artificial light, and heat, and splen- dour of the palace to which he v/as returning. He mused in silence. Would it not be wiser to forget the world's injustice, in gazing on a moonlit ocean, than in discovering in the illuminated halls of Naples, the baseness of the crowd which forms the world's power] To enjoy the refreshing luxury of a fanning breeze which now arose, he turned and gazed on the other side of the bay. Upon his right stretched out the promontory of Pausilippo ; there were the shores of Baia;. But it was not only the loveliness of the land which now overcame his spirit : he thought of those whose fame had made us forget even the beauty of these shores, in associations of a higher character, and a more exalted nature. He remembered the time when it was his only wish to be numbered among them. How had his early hopes been fulfilled ! What just account had he rendered to' himself and to his country — that country that had expected so much — that self that had aspired even to more ! " Day broke over the city, and found him still pacing down the Chiaja. He did not retm-n to tne cardinal's palace ; and in two days he had left Naples. I can myself, from personal experience, aver that this individual is now a useful and honourable member of society. The world speaks of him in more flattering tenns." The baron spoke with great energy and anima- tion. Violet Fane, who had been very silent, and w'no certainly had not encouraged, by any apparent interest, the previous conversation of the baron, listened to this anecdote with the most eager at- tention : but the effect it produced upon Lady Madeleine Trevor was most remarkable. At one moment Vivian thought that her ladyship would have fainted. " Well !" said Mr. Sherborne, who first broke silence, " I suppose you think I'm wrong : I should like to hear your opinion, Mr. Grey, of this busi- ness. "What do you think of the question 1" " Yes, pray give us your opinion, Mr. Grey," said Lady Madeleine with eagerness ; as if she thought that conversation would give her relief. The expression of her countenance did not escape Vivian. " I must side against you, Mr. Sherborne," said he ; " his excellency, has, I think, made out his point. It appears to me, however, that there is one great argument in favour of the study of na- ture, and, indeed, of travelling, which I think I have never seen used. It matures a man's mind, because it teaches him to distrust his judgment. He who finds that his preconceptions of natural appearances are erroneous, will in time suspect that his opinions of human nature may be equally in- correct : in short, that his moral conceptions may be as erroneous as his material ones." " Well, I suppose I must give up. It's verv odd, I never form a hasty opinion, and yet I'm sometimes wrong. Never above owning it, though — never above owning it — not like the young men of the present day, who are so con- foundedly addicted to every species of error, that, for my own part, whenever they seem to suspect that they're wrong, I am always sure that they're right." Here the party broke up. The promenade followed — the archduke — his compliments — and courtiers — then came the Redoute. ]\Ir. Hermann bowed low as the gentlemen walked up to the table. The baron whispered Vivian that it was " expected" that they should play, and give the tables a chance of winning back their money. Vivian staked with the carelessness of one who wishes to lose. As is generally the ca^-e under such circumstances, he again left the Redoute a most considerable winner. He parted with the baron at his excellency's door, and proceeded to the next, which was his own. Here he stumbled over something at the door-way, which appeared like a large bundle. He bent down with his light to examine it, and found Essper George, lying on his back, with his eyes half-open. It was some moments before Vivian perceived he was asleep ; stepping gently over him, he entered his apart- ment. CHAPTER IX. AVhes' Vivian rose in the morning, a gentle tip at his door announced the presence of an early visitor, who being desired to enter, appeared in tlie person of Essper George. "Does your highness want any thing 1" asked Essper, with a very submissive air. Vivian stared at him for a moment, and then ordered him to come in. " I had forgotten, Essper, until this moment, that on retupning to my room last night, I found you sleeping at my door. This also reminds me of your conduct in the saloon yesterday ; and as I wish to prevent the repetition of such improprie- ties, I shall take this opportunity of informing you once for all, that if you do not in future conduct yourself with more discretion, I must apply to the Maitro d'Hotel. Now, sir, what do you want V Essper was silent, and stood with his hands 96 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. crossed on his breast, and his eyes fixed on the ground. " If you do not want any tiling, quit the room immediately." Here the singular being began to weep and sob most bitterly. " Poor fellow !" thought Vivian, " I fear with all thy wit, and pleasantly, and powers, thou art, after all, but one of those capricios, wliich nature some- times indulges in ; merely to show how superior is her accustomed order to eccentricities, even ac- companied with the rarest and most extraordinary powers." " What is your wish, Essper V continued Vivian, in a kinder tone. " If there be any ser- vice, any real service, that I can do you, you will not find me backward. Are you in trouble 1 you surely are not in want?" " No, no, no !" sobbed Essper ; " I wish to be — to be your higlmess's servant," here he hid his face in his hands. " My sei"vant ! why, surely, if, as I have reason to suppose, you can maintain yourself witli ease by your exertions, it is not very wise conduct, voluntarily to seek out a dependence on any man. I'm afraid that you've been keeping company too much with the set of lazy, indolent, and insolent lacqueys, that are always loitering about these bathiiig places. ErnstorfT's green livery and sword, have they not turned your brain, Essper 1 — how is it 1 tell me." " No, no, no ! but I want to be your highncss's servant, only your highncss's servant, I am tired of living alone." " But, Essper, remember, that to gain a situation as a servant, you must be a person of regular habits and certain reputation. I have myself a veiy good opinion of you, but I have myself seen very little of you, though more than any one here ; and I am a person of a peculiar turn of mind. Perhaps there is not another individual in this house, who would even allude to the possibiUty of engaging a servant without a character." " Does the ship ask the wind for a character, when he bears her over the sea without hire, and without reward 1 and shall your highness require a character from me, when I request to serve you Vi'ithout wages, and without pay 1" " Such an engagement, Essper, it would be impos- sable for me to enter into, even if I ha,d need of your services, which at present I have not. But I tell you, frankly, that I see no chance of your suiting me. I should require an attendant of steady habits and experience ; not one whose very appearance would attract attention when I wished to be unob- served, and acquire a notoriety for the master which he detests. There is little likelihood of my re- quiring any one's services, and with every desire to assist you, I warmly advise you to give up all idea of entering into a state of life, for which you are not the least suited. If, on consideration, you still retain your wish of becoming a servant, and remain at the Baths with the expectation of finding a mas- tei, I recommend you to assume, at least for the moment, a semblance of regularity of habits. I have spoken to a great many ladies here, about your chamois bracelets, for which I think you will find a great demand. Believe nie, your stall will be a better friend than your master. Now leave me." Essper remained one moment with his eyes still fixed on the ground ; then walking very rapidly up to Vivian, he dropped on his knee, kissed his hand, and disappeared. Mr. St. George breakfasted with the baron, and the gentlemen called on Lady Madeleine early in the morning to propose a drive to Stein Castle ; but her ladyship excused herself, and Vivian following her example, the baron and Mr. St. George " patron- ised" the Fitzlooms, because there was nothing else to do. Vivian again joined the ladies in their morning walk ; but Violet Fane was not in her usual high spirits — she complained more than once of her cousin's absence, and this, connected with some other circumstances, gave Vivian the first impression that her feelings towards Mr. St. George were not merely those of a relation; As to the Chevaherde BcefHeurs, Vivian soon found that it was utterly impossible to be on intimate terms with a being without an idea. The chevalier was cer- tainly not a very fit representative of the gay, gal- lant, mercurial Frenchman : he rose very late, and employed the whole of the morning in reading the French newspapers, and playing billiards alter- nately with Prince Salvinski, and Count von Alten- burgh. These gentlemen, as well as the baron, Vivian, and Mr. St. George, were to dine this day at the New House. They found assembled, at the appointed hour, a party of about tliirty individuals. The dinner was sumptuous, the wines superb. At the end of the banquet, the company adjourned to another room, where play was proposed, and ' immediately com- menced. His imperial highness did not join in the game ; but, seated in a corner of the apartment, was surrounded by five or six aid- de-camps, whose only business was to bring their master constant accounts of the fortunes of the table, and the fate of the bets. His highness did not stake. Vivian soon found that the game was played on a very dififerent scale at the New House to what it was at the Rcdoute. He spoke most de- cidedly to the baron of his detestation of gambling, and expressed his unwillingness to play ; but his excellency, although he agreed with him in his sentiments, advised him to conform for the evening to the universal custom. ' As he could afford to lose, he consented, and staked boldly. This night very considerable sums were lost and won ; but none returned home greater winners than Mr. St. George and Vivian Grey. CHAPTER X. The first few days of an acquaintance with a new scene of life, and with new characters, gene- rally appear to pass very slowly ; not certainly from the weariness which tliey induce, but rather from the keen attention which every little circum- stance commands. When the novelty has worn off, when we have discovered that the new charac- ters differ little from all others we have met before, and that the scene they inhabit is only another variety of the great order we have so often ob- served, we relapse into our ancient habits of inat- tention ; we think more of ourselves, and less of those we meet ; and musing our moments away VIVIAN GREY. 97 in rcvcry, or in a vain attempt to cheat the coming day of the monotony of the present one, we begui to find that the various-vested Iiours have bouiidcd, and arc bounding away in a course at once imper- ceptible, uninteresting, and unprofitable. Then it is, that terrified at our nearer approach to the great river, whose dark windings it seems the busi- ness of all to forget, we start from our stupor to mourn over the rapidity of that collective sum of past time, every individual hour of vi-hich we have in turn execrated for its sluggisliness. Vivian had now been three weeks at Ems, and the presence of Lady Madeleine Trevor and her cousin alone induced him to remain. Whatever was the mystery existing between her ladyship and the baron, and that there was some mystery Vivian could not for a moment doubt, his excellency's efforts to attach himself to her party had been successful. The great intimacy subsisting between the baron and her ladyship's brother materially assisted in bringing about this result. For the first fortnight, the baron was Lady Madeleine's constant attendant in the evening promenade, and often in the morning walk ; and though there were few persons whose companionship could be preferred to that of Baron von Konigstein, still Vivian sometimes regretted that his friend and Mr. St. George had not continued their morning rides. The presence of his excellency seemed always to have an unfavourable influence upon the spirits of Violet Fane, and the absurd and evident jealousy of Mr. St. George, prevented Vivian from finding, in her agreeable conversation, some consolation ff>r the loss of the sole enjoyment of Lady Madeleine's exhilarating presence. Mr. St. George had never met Vivian's advances with cordiality, and he now treated him with studied coldness. The visits of the gentlemen to the New House had been frequent. The saloon of the archduke was open every evening, and in spite of his great distaste for the fatal amusement which was there invariably pursued, Vivian found it utterly im- possible to decline frequently attending, without subjecting his motives to painfuf misconception. His fortune, his extraordinary fortune did not de- sert Mm, and rendered his attendance still more a duty. The baron was not so successful as on his first evening's venture at the Kedoute ; but Mr. St. George's star remained favourable. Of Essper George, Vivian had seen little. In passing through the bazaar one morning, which he seldom did, he found to his surprise that the former conjuror had doftcd his quaint costume, and was now attired in the usual garb of men of his condition of life. As Essper was busily employed at the moment, A'ivian did not stop to speak to him ; but he re- ceived a most respectful bow. Once or twice, also, he had met Essper in the baron's apartments; and he seemed to have become a very great favourite with the servants of his excellency and the Che- valier de Ba?tfleurs, particularly with his former butt, Ernstorlf, to whom he now behaved with the greatest deference. I said, that for the first fortnight, the baron's at- tendance on Lady Madeleine was constant. It was after this time that his excellency began to slacken in his attentions. He first disappeared from the morning walks, and yet he did not ride ; he then ceased from joining the party at Lady Madeleine's apartments in the evening, and neveir omitted 13 increasing the circle at the New House for a single night. The whole of the fourth week the baron dined with his imperial highness. Although the invitation had been extended to all the gentlemen from the first, it had been agreed that it was m.t :o be accepted, in order that the ladies should not find their party in the mbn less numerous or less agreeable. The baron was the first to break through a rule which he had himself proposed ; and, Mr. St. George and the Chevaher de Boeffleurs soon followed his example. " Mr. Grey," said liady Madeleine one evening, as she was about to leave the gardens, " we shall be happy to see you to-night, if you are not en- gaged. — Mr. Sherborne only will be with us." " I thank your ladyship, but I feai- that I am engaged," said Vivian; for the receipt of some letters from England made him little inchued to enter into society. " O, no ! you can't be engaged," said Violet Fane ; " pray come ! pray come ! I know you only want to go to that terrible New House ; I wonder what St. George can find to amuse him there so keenly ^ I fear no good : men never con gregate together for any beneficial purpose. I am sure, with all his gastronomical affectations, he would not, if all were right, prefer the most exquis dinner in the world to our society. As it is, we scarcely see him a moment. I think, Mr. Grey, that you are the only one who has not deserted the salon. For once, give up the New House — I'm sure you are not in your usual spirits ; you will be more amused, more innocently amused at least, even if you go to sleep like Mr. Sherborne, than you will with playing at that disgusting rouge-et-noir, with a crowd of suspicious-looking men in mustachios." Vivian smiled at Miss Fane's warmth, and was too flattered by the interest which she seemed to take in his welfare, to persist in his refusal, although she did dilate most provokingly on the absence of her cousin. Vivian soon joined them. " Lady Madeleine is assisting me in a most important work, Mr. Grey. I am making draw- ings of the whole valley of the Ehine ; I know that you are very accurately acquainted with the scenery; you can, perhaps, assist me with your advice about this view of Old Hatto's Castle ; I am sure I'm not quite right." Vivian was so completely master of every spot in the Rhine-land, that he had no difKculty in sug- gesting the necessary alterations. The drawings, unlike m.ost young ladies' sketches, were vivid re- presentations of the sceneiy which they professed to depict ; and Vivian forgot his melancholy as he attracted the attention of the fair artist to points of interest, imknown or unnoticed by the Guide- books and the Diaries. " You must look forward to Italy with great in- terest. Miss Fane 1" " The gi-eatest ! I shall not, however, forget the Rhine, even among the Apennines." " Our intended fellow-travellers. Lord Mounte- ncy and his family, are already at Milan," said Lady Madeleine to Vivian ; " we were to have joined their party. — Lady Mounteney is a Tre- vor." " I have had the pleasure of meeting Lord Mounteney in England, at Sir BerdmoreScrope's- do you know him ! " " Very slightly. The Mounteneys pass tlifl 98 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. winter at Rome, where I hope we shall join them. Do you know the family intimately 1" " Mr. Ernest Clay, a nephew of his lordship's, I have seen a great deal of; I suppose, according to the adopted phraseology, I ought to describe him as my friend, altliough I am utterly ignorant where he is at present ; and, although, unless he is himself extremely altered, there scarcely can be two persons who now more differ in their pursuits and tempers than ourselves." " Ernest Clay ! is he a friend of yours 1 — He's somewhere on the Continent now; I forget where; with some diplomatic appointment, I think. In- deed, I'm sure of the fact, although I'm perfectly ignorant of the place, for it was through Mr. Trevor's interest that he obtained it. I see you smile at the idea of Ernest Clay drawing up a protocol !" " Lady Madeleine, you have never read me Caroline Mounteney's letter, as you promised," said Miss Fane ; " I suppose full of raptures — ' tlie Alps, and Apennines, the Pyrensean, and the river Po.' " " By no means : the whole letter of four sides, double crossed, is filled with an account of the ballet at La Scala •- which, according to Caroline, is a thousand times more interesting than Mont Blanc, or the Simplon." " One of the immortal works of Vigano, I sup- pose," said Vivian ; " he has raised the ballet of action to an equality with tragedy. I have heard my father mention the splendid effect of his Vestale andhis Othello." " And yet," said Violet Fane, " I do not like Othello to be profaned. It is not for operas and ballets. W^e require the thrilling words." " It is very true; yet Pasta's acting in the opera, and in an opera acting is only a secondary point, was a grand performance ; and I have myself sel- dom witnessed a more masterly cflect produced by any actor in the world, than I did a fortnight ago, at the opera at Darmstadt, by Wild in Othello." " I think the history of Desdemona is the most affecting of all talcs," said Miss Fane. " The violent death of a woman, young, lovely, and innocent, is assuredly the most terrible of tra- gedies," observed Vivian ; " and yet, I know not why, I agree with you that Desderaona's is the moft affecting of fates — more affecting than those of Cordelia, or Juliet, or Ophelia." " It is," said Lady Madeleine, "because we al- ways contrast her misery with her previous hap- piness. The young daughter of Lear is the child of misfortune : Juliet has the anticipation, not the possession of happiness ; and the characters in Hamlet seem so completely the sport of a myste- rious but inexorable destiny, that human interest ceases for those whose conduct docs not appear to be influenced by human passions. The exquisite poetry — the miraculous philosophy of Hamlet, will alv»-ays make us read it with delight, study it with advantage ; but for Ophelia we do not mourn. We are interested in the fortunes of a fictitious character, because in witnessing a representation of a scene of hiunan life, we form our opinion of the proper course to be pursued by the imaginary agents; and our attention is excited, in order to ascertain whether their conduct and our opinions agi'ee. But where the decree of fate is visibly being fulfilled, or the interference of a supernatural power is re- vealed, we know that human faculties can no longer be of avail ; that prudence can no longer protect — courage no longer defend. We witness the tragedy with fear, but not with .sympathy." " I have often asked myself," said Miss Fane, " which is the most terrible destiny for a young woman to endure : — to meet death after a life of trouble, anxiety, and suffering; or suddenly to be cut off in the enjoyment of all things that make life delightful ; with a heart too pure to be tainted by their possession, and a mind too much cultivated to over-appreciate their value 1" " For my part," said Vivian, " in the last in- stance, I think that death can scarcely be considered an evil. The pure spirit would only have to sleep until the Great Da}'^ ; and then — as Dryden has magnificently said, 'wake an angel still.' How infinitely is such a destim' to be preferred to that long apprenticeship of sorrow and suffering, at the end of which men are generally as unwilling to die as at the commencement !" '■ And yet," said Miss Fane, "there is something fearful in the idea of sudden death." " Very fearful !" muttered Vivian : " very fear- ful in some cases ;" for he thought of one whom he had sent to his great account before his time. " Violet, my dear !" said Lady Madeleine, in a very agitated voice ; " have you finished your drawing of the Bingenloch V But Miss Fane would not leave the subject. " Very fearful in all cases, Mr. Grey. How few of us are prepared to leave this world without warning ! And if from youth, or sex, or natural disposition, or from the fortunate union of the in- fluence of all these three, a few may chance to be better fitted for the great change than their compa- nions, still, I always think that in those cases in which we view our fellow-creatures suddenly de- parting from this world, apparently without a bodily or mental pang, there must be a moment of suffer- ing which none of us can understand ; sufi'ering occasioned by a consciousness of immediately meeting death in the verj' flush of life and earthly thoughts — a moment of suffering, which, from its intense and novel character, may appear an eternity of anguish. I shall, perhaps, not succeed in con- veying my peculiar feelings on this subject to you. I have always looked upon such an end as the most terrible of dispensations." " I enter into your feelings," answered Vivian ; " although the lisht in which you view this su'ojcct is new to me. Terrible, however, as we may uni- versally consider the event of a sudden death, I still do not believe that a long and painful illness ever exempts man from the suffering which you mention ; but that he always quits life with the same unwillingness to die." " I cannot agree with you, Mr. Grey, in this opinion, which you seem to entertain of the inefB- cacy of ' a long apprenticeship of sorrow and suf- fering.' From my own experience, I should say that it robbed death of all its terrors. Death is most dreadful at a distance — illness weakens the mind in a wise proportion with the body ; and therefore, at a certain period the feelings are too enervated by debility, or too blunted by personal suffering, to experience that which in health ap- pears the greatest trial in our dissolution — the parting with our friends. In the enjoyment of every pleasure which health and affluence can aflbrd, I confess that it appears most dreadful to encounter the agonies of disease ; and parting VIVIAN GREY. v99 with all we love here, to sink into the grave and he forgotten by those of whose every thought, when living, we seemed to be the centre. But when we are worn out with pain, the selfishness of our nature makes us look upon those around us widi little more interest than as ministers of our wants. We forget all but the present suffer- ing, and only look forward to the future as a re- lease from it. If ever you have experienced a long and dangerous illness, Mr. Grey, I am confident that on reflection, you will agree with me." "My dear Violet," said Lady Madeleine; "I thought that Mr. Grey came here to-niglit to forget his melancholy. These surely are subjects which do not make men gay." " I assure you. Lady Madeleine," said Vivian, "that I take great — the greatest interest in this subject. I have endured a most dangerous illness, Miss Fane, but it was not one of the kind you al- lude to. It was a violent fever, and I was not sen- sible of my disease till its danger was past. I have no very clear conception of my state of mind when I recovered ; but I think, if I remember right, that I dreaded life as much as I feared death." "That was a peculiar case," said Miss Fane; " a case in whicli death, from the state of mind, could have had no terrors. Of course my argu- ment refers to the generalit}' of long and danger- ous illnesses, when the patient is only too sensible of the daily increasing debility. For myself, I distinctly remember being reduced to such fearful weakness, that the physicians and nurses round my bed believed me. dying, if not dead ; and from my~ complete inanition, entirely past a knowledge of what was going on around me. They were deceived, however, in this. I heard them say that I was dying ; more than once they thought that all was over; but it produced no emotion in my mind, — neither fear, nor sorrow, nor hope. I felt my breath fluttering fainter and fainter. I could not move even my finger; nnd I thought, indeed, that all would soon be over ; but it brought no pang for the sufferers v/ho surrounded my bed, no anxiety or desire for myself. At last I sunk into a deep sleep ; and after a length of time I awoke with quickened feelings. My natural affections return- ed, and then I had a strong longing for life. Here [ am now, enjoying excellent health, in spite of my dear physician's grave looks," said Miss Fane, putting her arm round Lady Madeleine's neck ; " and not only health, but every blessing which youth can give me. Nevertheless, dreading death, as I do now, with the feehngs of health and a happy life, I sometimes almost regret that I ever awoke from that perfect calm of every earthly passion." As Vivian was thinking that Violet Fane was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. Lady Madeleine Trevor bent down, and kissed her forehead. Her ladyship's large blue eyes were full of tears. A woman's eye never seems more bright than when it glances through a tear — as the light of a star seems more brilliant when sparkling on a wave. " Violet, mj' dear," said her ladyship, " let us alk no more of death." "Who ivas talking of death 1" said Mr. Sher- borne, waking from a refreshing nap ; " I'm sure I wasn't. Let me see — I forget what my last obser- vation was ; I think I was raying, Lady Madeleine, that a little music would refresh us all. Violet, my dear, will you play me one of my favourites ?" " What shall it be, dear sir ? I really think I may sing to-night. What think you, Lady Made- leine ? I have been silent a fortnight." So say- ing. Miss Fane sat down to the piano. Mr. Sherborne's favourite ensued. It was a lively air, calculated to drive away all melancholy feelings, and cherishing those bright sunny views of human life which the excellent old man had in- variably professed. But Rosina's muse did not smile to-night upon her who invoked its gay spirit ; and ere Lady Madeleine could interfere, Violet Fane had found more congenial emotions in one of Weber's prophetic symphonies. ! Music I miraculous art, that makes the poet's skill a jest; revealing to the soul inexpressi- ble feelings, by the aid of inexplicable sounds ! A blast of thy trumpet, and millions rush forward to die ; a peal of thy organ, and uncounted nations sink down to pray. Mighty is thy three-fold power ! First, thou canst call up all elemental sounds, and scenes, and subjects, with the definiteness of reality. Strike the lyre! Lo ! the voice of the winds — the flash of the lightning — the swell of the wave — the solitude of the valley ! Then thou canst speak to the secrets of a man's heart as if by inspiration. Strike the lyre ! Lo ! — our early Jovc — our treasured hate — our wither- ed joy — our flattering hope ! And, lastly, by thy mj'sterious melodies, thou canst recall man from all thought of this world and of himself — bringing back to his soul's me- mory, dark but delightful recollections of the glo« rious heritage which he has lost, but which he may win again. Strike the lyre ! Lo ! paradise, with its palaces of inconceivable splendour, and its gates of unimaginable glory ! When Vivian left the apartment of Lady Made- leine, he felt no inclination to sleep ; and instead of retiring to rest, he bent his steps towards the gardens. It was a rich summer night ; the air, re- covered from the sun's scorching rays, was coo! — not chilling. The moon was still behind the mountains; but the dark L'ue heavens were stud- ded with innumeral'le stars, whose tremulous light quivered on the face of the river. All human sounds had ceased to agitate ; and the note of the nightingale, and the rush of the waters, banished monotony without disturbing reflection. But not for reflection had Vivian Grey deserted his cham- ber: his heart was full — but of indefinable sensa- tions; and forgetting the world in the intenseness of his emotions, he felt too nnich to think. How long he had been pacing by the side of the river he knew not, when he was awakened from his revery by the sound of voices. He looked up, and saw lights moving at a distance. The party at the New House had just broke up. He stopped beneath a branching elm-tree for a moment, that the sound of his steps might not attract their at- tention; and at this very instant the garden gate opened, and closed with great violence. The figure of a man approached. As he passed Vivian, the moon rose up from above the brow of tho mountain, and lit up the coimtenance of the baron. Despair was stamped on liis distracted features. 100 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. CHAPTER XL Whex Vi\dan awoke in the morning, he found that the intensoncss of his emotions had subsided ; and that his sensations were not quite so indefinite as on the preceding night : — he found himself in ]ovc — with whom, however, was perhaps still doubtful. The image of Violet Fane had made his dreams delicious ; but it must be confessed, that t!ie eidolon sometimes smiled with the features of Lady Madeleine Trevor : — but that he looked on the world with new feelings, and a changed spirit, • — with hope, and almost with joy, — was certain. The sweet summer morning had succeeded to the soft summer night. The sun illumined as yet only the tops of the western movmtains ; and the morn- ing breeze, unheated by his beams, told that it was June by the odours which it wafted around. At such a moment the sense of existence alone is happiness ; but to Vivian it seemed that the sun was about to light up a happier world, and that the sweet wind blew from Paradise. Young love ! young love, "thy birth was of the womb of morning dew, and thy conception of the ■"ovous prime !" — so Spenser sings ; and there are few, perhaps, who, on this subject, have not scrib- bled some stray stanzas in their time, if not as sweet, it may be more sincere. They will under- stand feelings which none can describe. How mira- culous is that power, which, in an instant, can give hope to the desperate, and joy to the forlorn ; which, without an argument, can vanquish all phi- losophy ; and without a gibe silence all wit ; which turns the lighthearted serious, while it makes the sorrowful smile ; which is braver than courage and j'ct more cautious than fear; which can make the fool outwit wLdom, and wisdom envy the fool ! It was in one of those sweet bowers, with which, as we have before mentioned, the gardens of Ems wisely abound, that Vivian Grey had spent more than three hours, unconscious of the passing of a moment. A rustling among the trees first attracted liis attention ; and on looking quickly up the wind- ing walk, he thought he saw Essper George vanish in the shrubbery. Was he watched 1 — But he soon forgot his slight anger in another fit of abstrac- tion, from which he v^'a^ awakened, as he imagined by the same sound. " This time, I'll catch you," thought Vivian. He jumped suddenly up, and nearly knocked down Lady Madeleine Trevor, who had entered the arbour. " I hope I've not disturbed you, Mr. Grey," said hor ladyship, who saw that he was confused ; " I am in want of an escort, and I have come to reclaim a truant knight. You forget that I had your pledge yesterday, to accompany me to the New 8pring." Vivian made a violent struggle to recover him- self, and began to talk a quantity of nonsense to her ladyship, by way of apology for his negligence, and tlianks for her kindness ; Lady Madeleine listened, with her usual gentle smile, to a long and muttered discourse, in which the words " Essper George, Miss Fane, and fine morning," were alone intelligible. " Shall we have the pleasure of Miss Fane and Mr. Sherborne's company in our walk to-day 1" asked Vivian. " No ! they are not going with us," said Lady Madeleine. " You will join our party at the arch- duke's to-night, I hope, Mr. Grey," continued her ladyship. " Yes — I don't know : — that is, are you going, Lady Madeleine 1" " Why, my dear sir, isn't this the fete night V " Ah ! ah ! I understand — I remember — it wil/ give me the greatest pleasure to join the party al your ladyship's rooms." Lady Madeleine looked very earnestly at hel companion, and then talked about the weather, and the beauty of summer, and the singing of birds, and a thousand other little topics, by wliich she soon restored him to his usual state of mind. In a quarter of an hour Vivian had quite recovered his senses, and only regretted the part which he neces- sarily took in the conversation, because it prevented him from listening to the soft tones of her lady- ship's voice, who, he thought, to-day looked a thou- sand times more beautiful than ever. He began also to think, that he should like to walk to the New Spring alone with her every morning of his life. Vivian had been so occupied by his own feelings, that he and his companion had completed nearly half their walk, before it struck him that something was dwelling on the mmd of Lady Madeleine. In the midst of the gayest conversation, her features more than once appeared to be in little accordance with the subject of discussion ; and her voice often broke off abruptly at the commencement of a sen- tence — some sentence which it seemed she had not courage to finish. " Mr. Grey," said her ladyship, suddenly ; " I cannot conceal any longer, that I am thinking of a very different subject to the archduke's, ball. As you form part of my thoughts at this moment, I shall not hesitate to disburthen my mind to you : although, perhaps, I run the risk of being consi- dered at the same time both impertinent and offi- cious. Understand me, however, distinctly, that whatever I may say, you are not, for a moment, to believe that I am ostentatiously presuming to give you advice. There are many points, however, to which the hint or intimation of a friend may attract our attention with advantage ; and although our conversation to-day may not be productive of any to you, believe me that I should very much grieve, if my gentle suggestion were construed into an imwarrantable interference." " Any thing that Lady Madeleine Trevor can do, surely cannot be construed by any one as un- warrantable — any thing that Lady Madeleine Trevor can be kind enough to address to me, must always be received with the most respectful, the most grateful attention." " I wish not to keep you m suspense, Mr. Grey. It is of the mode of life which I sec my brother, which I see you pursuing here, that I wish to speak," said her ladyship, with an agitated voice. " May I — may I really speak with freedom 1" " Any thing — every thing, with the most perfect unreserve and confidence," answered Vivian. " You are aware, Mr. Grey, that Ems is not the first place at which I have met Baron von Konig- stcin." " I am not ignorant that his excellency has been in England." " It cannot have escaped you, Mr. Grey, that I acknowledge his acquaintance with reluctance." " I should judge, with tlie grealest reluctance, Lady Madeleine." " And yet it was with still more reluctance, Mr. Grey, that I prevailed upon myself to believe you VIVIAN GREY lOI w ;re his friend. I experienced the greatest de- hght, when you told me how short and accidental had been your acquaintance. I have experienced the greatest pain in witnessing to what that ac- quaintance has led ; and it is with extreme sorrow, I'or my own weakness, in not having had courage to speak to you before, and with a hope of yet be- nefiting you, that I' have been induced to speak to you now." " Lady ]\Iadelcine, I trust there is no cause either for your sorrow or your fear ; but much, much cause for my gratitude. Do not fear to be explicit." "Now that I have prevailed upon myself to speak, Mr. Grej% and have experienced from you the reception tliat I gave you credit for ; do not fear that there will be any want of openness on my part. I have observed the constant attendance of yourself, and my brother, at the Xew Houso, with the greatest anxiety. I have seen too much of the world, not to be perfectly aware of the danger — the terrific danger, which young men and young men of honour must always experience at such places. Alas ! I have seen too much of Baron von Konigstein, not to know that at such places especial- ly, his acquaintance is fatal. The evident depression of your spirits yesterday, determined me on a step which I have for the last few days been consider- ing. Your abstraction this morning frightened me. I can learn nothing from my brother. I fear that I am even now too late ; but I trust that whatever may be your situation, you will remember, ^.-Tr. Grey, that you have friends ; that you will decide on nothing rash." "Lady Madeleine," said Vivian, "I have too much respect for your feelings to stop even one mo- ment to express the gratitude — the pride — the honourable pride, which your generous conduct al- lows me to feel. This moment repays me for a year of agony. I afiect not to misunderstand one syllable of your meaning. My opinion, my detes- tation of the gaming-table has always, and must always be the same. I do assure you this, and all tilings, upon my honour. Far from being involved, my cheek burns while I confess, that I am master of a considerable sum — a most considerable sum, acquired by this unhallowed practice. But for this I am scarcely to be blamed. You are yourself aware of the singular fortune which awaited my first evening at Ems ; that fortime was continued at the New House, the very first day I dined with his highness, and when, unexpected!}', I was forced to play ; that fatal fortune has rendered my attend- ance at the New House absolutely necessary. I found that it was impossible to keep away, without subjecting myself to the most painful observations. I need scarcely say now, that my depression of yesterday was occasioned by the receipt of letters from England ; and as to my abstraction this morn- ing, believe me, Lady Madeleine, it was not a state of mind which grew out of any disgust to the woi'ld, or its inhabitants. I am ashamed of having H]>okcn so much about myself, and so little about those for whom you are more interested. As far as I can judge, you have no cause, at present, for nny serious uneasiness with regard to Mr. St. George. You may, perhaps, have obser^'ed that we are not very intimate, and therefore I cannot Epeak with any precision as to the state of his for- iTmes ; but I have reason to believe that thej' are by no means unfavourable. And now for the baron. Lady Madeleine." " Yes, yes !" " I hardly know what I am to infer from your observations respecting him. I certainly should infer something extremely bad, were not I con- scious, that, after the experience of five weeks, J, for one, ha^e nothing to complain of him, Tb.e baron, certainly, is fond of play — plays high, in- deed. He has not had equal fortune at the New House as at the Redoute ; at least I imagine so, fur he has given me no cause to believe, in any Vi'ay, that he is a loser; and I need not tell Lady Made- leine Trevor, that at the table of an archdu'.vc, losses are instantly paid." " Now that I know the tvutli — tlie joyful truth, Mr. Grey," said her ladyship, with great earnest- ness and animation ; '• I feel quite ashamed of my boldness ; must I say my suspicions 1 But if you could only understand the relief, the ease, the hap- piness, that I feel at this moment, I am sure you would not wonder that I prevaded upon myself to speak to you. It may still be in my power, how- ever, to prevent evil." " Yes^yes, certainly ! After what has passed, I would, without any fear of my motives being misinterpreted, submit to your liulyship, that the wisest course now, would be to speak to me franltly respecting Von Konigstein ; and if you are aware of any thing which has passed in the circles in England, of a nature wliich may render it more prudent for " " ! stop, stop !" said Lady Madeleine, in the greatest agitation. Vivian v/as silent, and many minutes elapsed before his companion again spoke. When she did, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her tones were lov/ ; but her voice was calm, and steady. It was evident that she had mastered her emotion. " I am going to accept, ATr. Grey, the confidence which you have proiiered me. I feel, I am con- vinced, that it is due to you now, that I should sav all ; but I do not aft'ect to conceal that I speak, even now, with reluctance — an effort, and it will soon be over. It is for the best." Lady Madeleine paused one moment, and then resumed with a firm voice : — " U^pvcards of six years, Mr. Grey, have now passed since Baron von Konigstein was appointed minister to London, from the court of . Although apparently young for such an important mission, he had already eminently distinguished himself as a diplomatist ; and with all the advan- tages of brilliant talents, various accomplishments, rank, reputation, person, and a fascinating address, I need not tell you, that he immediately became of consideration, even in the highest circles. Mr. Trevor — I was then just married — was at this period high in office, and was constantly in per- sonal communication v.ith the baron. They be- came intimate, and his excellency our constant guest. The baron had the reputation of being a man of pleasure. Few men ever existed, fur whose indiscretions there could be greater excuse ; nor had any thing ever transpired wliich could in- duce us to believe, that Baron von Konigstein could be guilty of any thing, but an indiscretion. At this period a relation, and former ward of Mi. Trevor's, a 3'oung man of considerable fortune, and one whom we all most fondly loved, resided in our family. Trevor and myself considered him as our brother. With this individual. Baron von Koi.igstein formed a strong friendship ; they were I 2 102 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. seldom apart. Onr relation was not exempted from the failings of all young men. He led a very dissipated, an alarmingly dissipated life ; but he was very young ; and as, unhke most relations, we never allowed any conduct on his part for an instant to haniwli him from our society ; we trusted that the contrast which his own family aflbrdcd to his usual companions, would in time render his ti^stes more refined, and his habits less irregular. We had now known Baron Konigstcin for upwards of a year and a half, most intimately. Nothing had transpired during this period to induce Mr. Trevor to alter the opinion which he had entertained of him from the first ; he believed him to be a man of the purest honour, and, in spite of a few impru- dences, of the coiTectest principles. Whatever might have been my own opinion of his excellency at this period, I had no reason to doulit the natural goodness of his disposition ; and though I could not hope that he was one who would assist us in our plans for the refomiation of Augustus, I still rejoiced to observe, that in the baron he would at least find a companion very diflerent from the un- pirincipled and selfish beings hy whom he was too ('ftcn sun-ounded. Something occurred at this lime, Mr. Grey, which it is neccssai-y for me only to allude to ; but which placed Baron von Konig- stein, according to his own declaration, under the most lasting oliligations to myself. In the warmth of his heart he asked if there was any real, and important service which he could do me. I took advantage of the moment to speak to him about our young friend ; I detailed to him all our anxie- ties ; he anticipated all my wishes, and promised to watch over him ; to be his guardian ; his friend — his real friend. Mr. Grey," continued her ladyship, '■ I struggle to restrain my feelings ; but the recol- lections of this period of my life are so painful, tliat ibr a moment I must stop to recover myself." For a few minutes they walked on in silence ; Vivian did not speak, his heart was too fall ; and when her ladyship resumed her tale, he, uncon- sciously, pressed her arm. " Mr. Gre}', I study to be brief. About three months after the baron had given me the pledge which 1 mentioned, Mr. Trevor was called up at an early hour one morning with the alarming in- telligpnce, that his late ward was supposed to be at the pouit of death at a neighbouring hotel. He in- .'•tanlly accompanied the messenger, and on the way the fatal truth was broken to him — our young friend had committed suicide ! He had been playing all night with one whom I cannot now name." Here Lady Madeleine's voice died away, but with a struggle she again spoke firmly. " I mean, Mr. Grey — with the baron — some f ircisincrs also, and an Englishman — all intimate friends of Ven Konigstcin, and scarcely known to < "aptain , I mean tlie deceased. Our friend had been the only sufferer; he had lost his whole fortune, and more than his fortune : and V. ith a heart full of despair and remorse, had, with his own hand terminated his u-nhappy life. The whole circumstances were so suspi- cious, that public attention was keenly attracted, and Mr. Trevor spared no exertion to bring the offenders to punishment. The baron had the hardihood to call upon us the next day ; admit- tance was, of course, refused. He wrote the most .violent letters, protesting by all that was sacred that ue was imioccnt ; that he was asleep during most of the night, and accusing the others who were present of a conspiracy. The unhappy business now attracted universal attention. Its consequence on me was an alarming illness of a most unfortu- nate kind ; I was therefore prevented from inter- fering, or, indeed, knowing any thing that took place ; but Trevor informed me that the harcn was involved m a correspondence in the public prints ; tliat the accused parties recriminated, and that finally he was convinced that Von Konigstcin, if there were any difference, was, if possible, the most guilty. However this might be, ho soon obtained his recall from his own government. He wrote to myself and to Trevor before he left England ; but 1 was too ill to hear of his letters, until Mr. Trevor in- formed me that he had returned them unopeneil. And now, Mr. Grey, I am determined to give utter- ance to that which as yet has always died up)on my lips — the victim — the unhappy victim, was the brother of Miss Fane !" " 0, God !" " And, Mr. Bt. George," continued Vivian, " Mr St. George knowing all this, which surely lie must have done ; how came he to tolerate for an instant the advances of such a manT' " My brother," said Lady Madeleine, " is a very good, and a very excellent young man, with a kind heart and warm feelings ; but my brother has not much knowledge of the world, and he is too honourable himself ever to believe that what he calls a gentleman can be dishonest. My brother was not in England when the unhappy event took place, and of course the various circumstances have not made the same impression upon him as upon us. He has heard of the affair only from me ; and young men, Mr. Grey, young men too often imagine that women are apt to exaggerate in mat- ters of this nature, which, of course, few of u? can understand. Von Konigstcin had not the good feeling, or perhaps had not the power, con nected as he was with the archduke, to aflbct igno ranee of our former acquaintance, or to avoid a second one. I was obliged formally to introduce him to my brother. I was quite perplexed how to act. I thought of writing to Von Konigstcin the next morning, a letter — a calm letter ; impressing upon him, without the expression of any hostile feeling, the utter impossibility of the acquaintance being renewed : but this proceeding involved a thousand difficulties. How was a man of his dis- tinction — a man, who not only from his rank, but from his disposition, is always a remarkalile, and a remarked character, wherever he may be, — how could he account to the archduke, and to his nu- merous friends, for his not associating with a pai'ty with whom he was pei-petually in contact. Ex- planations — painful explanations, and worse, much worse than these must have been the consequence. I could hardly expect him to leave Ems ,• it was, perhaps, out of his power : and for Miss Fane to leave Ems at this moment, was most strenuously prohibited by our physician. While I was doubt ful and deliberating, the conduct of Von Konig- stcin himself prevented me from taking any step whatever. Feeling all the awkwardness of his situation, he seized with eagerness the oj-portunity of becoming intimate with a member of tlie family whom he had not before known. His amusing conversation and insinuating address immediately enlisted the feelings of my brother in his favour. Vou know yourself that the very morning aft<^' VIVIAN GREY. 103 their introduction they were riding to2:cther. As they became more intimate, the baron boldly spoke to St. Georofe, in confidence, of his acquaintance with us in England, and of the unhappv circum- stances which led to its termination. St. George was deceived liy this seeming courage and candour. He has become the baron's friend, and has adopted his version of the unhappy story : and as the baron has had too much delicacy to allude to the affiiir in defence of himself to me, he calculated that the representations of St. George, who, he was con- scious, would not preserve the confidence which Von Konigstein has always intended him to be- tray, would assist in producing in my mind an im- pression in his favour. The Neapolitan story which he told the other day at dinner, was of him- self; relating it, as he might with truth, of a gen- tleman of rank, who was obliged to leave England, he bhnded all present except Miss Fane and my- self. I confess to you, Mr. Grey, that though I have not for a moment doubted the guilt of the baron, still I was weak enough to consider that his desire to become reconciled to me was at least an evidence of a repentant heart ; and the Neapo- litan story deceived me. Women are so easily to be deceived. We always hail with such credu- lous pleasure the prospect of the amendment of a fellow-creature. Actuated by these feelings, and acting as I thought wisest under existing circum- stances, I ceased to discourage the attentions of the bsu-on to myself and my friends. Your ac- quaintance, which we all desired to cultivate, was another reason for enduring his presence. His subsequent conduct has vrndeceived me : I am con- vinced now, not only of his former guilt, but also that he is not changed, and that with his accustomed talent, he has been acting a part which for some reason or other he has no longer any object in maintaining. Both Mr. Sherborne and myself nave remonstrated with my brother ; but the only consequence of our interference has been, that he tias quan'elled wilh his imclc, and treated both my own and Miss Fane's interposition with indifler- ence or irritability." " And Miss Fane," said Vivian, " she must know all V " She knows nothing in detail ; she was so young at the time, that we had no difficulty in keeping the particular circumstances of her bro- ther's death, and the sensation .which it excited, a secret from her. As she grew up, I have thought it proper that the mode of his death should no longer be concealed fi'om her ; and she has learned from some incautious observations of St. George's, enough to make her look upon the baron with hor- ror. It is for Violet," continued Lady Madeleine, " that I have the severest apprehensions. For the last fortnight her anxiety for her cousin has pro- duced an excitation of mind, which I look upon with more dread than any thing that can happen to her. She has entreated both Mr. Sherborne and myself, to speak to St. George, and also to you, Mr. Grey ; and since our unsuccessful interference with my brother, we have been obliged to have re- course to deceit to calm her mind, and banish her apprehensions. Mr. Sherborne has persuaded her, that, at the New House play is seldom pursued ; and when pursued, that the limit is very moderate. The last few days she has become more easy and serene. She accompanies us to-night ; the wea- ther is so beautiful that the night air is scarcely to be feared : and a gay scene well I am convinced, have a favourable influence upon her spirits. Your depression last night did not however escape her notice. Once more let me say how I rejoice at hearing what you have told me. I have such con- fidence in your honour, Mr. Grey, that I unhesita- tingly believe all that 3fOu have said. I have such confidence in your sense and courage, Mr. Grey, that I have now no apprehensions for the future. For God's sake, watch St. George. I have no fear for yourself" Here they had reached home : Vivian parted with her ladyship at the door of her apartments, and pressed her hand as he refused to come in. He hastened to the solitude of his own chamber. His whole frame was in a tumult ; he paced up and down his room with wild steps ; he pressed his hand to his eyes to banish the disturbing light; and tried to call up the image of her who was lately speaking — of her, for whom alone he now felt that he must live. But what chance had he of ever gaining this glorious creature ? what right 1 what claims T His brow alternately burnt with maddening despair, and exciting hope. How he cursed himself for his foul sacrifice of his talents ! those talents, the proper exercise, the wise adminis- tration of which might have placed happiness in his power, — the enjoyment of a state of feeling, whose existence he had once ridiculed, because his imperfect moral sense was incapable of compre- hending it, — once, and once only, it darted across his mind, that feelings of mere friendship could not have dictated this confidence, and occasioned this anxiety on her part; but the soft thought dwelt on his soul only for an instant — as the sha- dow of a nightingale flits over the moonlit moss. CHAPTER Xir. The company at the archduke's fete was most select ; that is to say, it consisted of every single person who was then at the Baths : those who had been presented to his highness having the privilege of introducing any number of their friends ; and those who had no friend to introduce them, pur- chasing tickets at an enormous price from Cra- cowsky — the wily Polish intendant. The enter- tainment was most imperial ; no expense and no exertion were spared to make the hired lodging- house look like an hereditary palace ; and for a week previous to the great evening, the whole of the neighbouring town of Wisbadcn, the little capital of the dutchy, had been put under contribu- tion. What a harvest for Cracowsky ! — What a commission from the resfauraieur for supplying the refreshments I — What a per centage on hired mirrors and dingy hangings ! The archduke, covered with orders, received every one with the greatest condescension, and made to each of his guests a most flattering speech. His suit, in new uniforms, simultaneously IjoweJ directly the flattering speech was finished. " Madame von Furstenburg, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be surreunded by my friends. Madame von Furs- tenburg, I trust that your amiable and delightful family are quite well. [The party passed on.] Cravatischeff !" coutinued his highness, incliningf 104 D'lSRAELPS NOVELS. his head round to one of his aid-de-camps, " Crava- tischefl"! a very fine woman is Madame von Furstenburg. There are few women whom I more admire than Madame von Furstenburg." " Prince Salvinski, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be sur- rounded by my friends. Poland honours no one more than Prince Salvinski. Cravatischeif ! a remarkable bore is Prince Salvinski. There are few men of whom I have a greater terror than Prince Salvinski." " Baron von Konigftein, I feel the -greatest plea- sure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends. Baron von Konigstein, I have not yet forgotten the story of the fair Ve- netian. Cravatischetf ! an uncommonly pleasant fellow is Baron von Konigstein. There are few men whose company I more enjoy than Baron von Konigstein's." " Count von Altenburgh, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends. You will not forget to give mo your opinion of my Austrian troop. Cravatischeif ! a very good billiard player is Count von Altenburgli. There are few men whose play Fd sooner bet upon than Count von Alten- burgh's." " Lady Ttiadeleine Trevor, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasui-e is to be surrounded by iny friends. Miss Fane, your servant — Mr. Sherborne — Mr. St. George — Mr. Grey. Cravatischeti'! a most splendid woman is Lady Madeleine Trevor. There is no woman whom I more admire than Lady Madeleine Tre- vor; and Cravatischeff! Miss Fane, too! a re- markably fine girl is Miss Fane." The great saloon of the New House afforded excellent accommodation for the dancers. It opened on the gardens, which, though not very large, were tastefully laid out ; and were this even- ing brilliantly illuminated with coloured lamps. In the smaller saloon, the Austrian troop amused those who were not fascinated by waltz or qua- drille, with acting proverbes : the regular dramatic performance was thought too heavy a busmess for the evening. There was suflicient amusement for all ; and those who did not dance, and to whom proverbes were no novelty, walked and talked, stared at others, and were themselves stared at ; and this perhaps was the greatest amu.scment of all. Baron von Konigstein did certainly to-night look neither like an unsuccessful gamester, nor a designing villain. Among many who were really amusing, he was the most so; and, apparently without the least consciousness of it, attracted the admiration of all. To the Trevor party he had attached himself immediately, and was constantly at her ladyship's side, introducing to her, in the course of the evening, his own and Mr. St. George's particular friends — Mr. and Mrs. Fitzloom. Among many smiling faces, Vivian Grey's was clouded; the presence of the baron annoyed him. When they first met, he was conscious that he was stiff and cool — extraordinarily cool. One moment's reflection convinced him of the folly of his con- duct, and he made a smuggle to be very civil — ex- traordinarily civil. In five minutes' time he had involuntarily insulted the baron, who stared at his friend, and evidently did not comprehend him. " Grey," said his excellency, very quietly, " you're not m a good hiunour to night. What's the matter 1 This is not at all a temper to come to a fete in. Wliat ! won't Miss Fane dance with you ]" asked the baron, with an arch smile. " I wonder what can induce your excellency to talk such nonsense !" " Your excellency ! — by Jove ! that's good. Excellency ! vvhy, what the deusc is the matter with the man ? It is Miss Fane, then — ehl" " Baron von Konigstein, I wish you to under- stand — " " My dear fellow, I never could understand any thing. I think you have insulted me in a most disgraceful manner, and I positively must call you out, unless you promise to dine at my rooms with me to-morrow, to meet De BcefHeurs." " I cannot." " Why not"! you've no engagement with Lady Madeleine I know, for St. George has agreed to come." " Yes V " Do Boefi!leurs leaves Ems next week. It is sooner than he expected, and I wish to have a quiet evening together before he goes. I should be very vexed if you were not there. We've scarcely been enough together lately. What with the New Hou.se in the evening, and riding parties in the morning, and those Fitzloom girls, with whom St. George is playing a most foolish game — he'll be taken in now, if he's not on his guard — we really never meet, at least not in a quiet friendly way; and so novv, will you come !" " Si. George is positively coming 1" " O yes! positively ; don't be afraid of his gain- ing ground on the little Violet in your absence." " Well, then, my dear \'on Konigstein, I will come." " Well, that's yourself again. It made me quite unhappy to see you look so sour and me- lancholy ; one would have thought that I was some troublesome bore, Prince Salvinski at least, by the way you spoke to me. Well, mind you come — it's a promise : — good. I must go and say just one word to the lovely little Saxon, and, hy- the-by, Grey, one word before I'm ofl'. List to a friend, you're on the wrong scent about Miss Fane ; St. George, I tliink, has no chance there, and now no wish to succeed. The game's your own, if you like; trust my word, she's an angel. The good powers prosper you !" so saying the baron ran off. Mr. St. George had danced with Miss Fane the only quadrille in which Lady Madeleine allowed her to join. He was now waltzing with Aurelia Fitzloom, and was at the head of a band of ad- venturous votaries of Tei-psichore ; who, wearied with the commonplace convenience of a saloon, had ventured to invoke the muse on the lawn. " A most interesting sight. Lady Madeleine Trevor !" said Mr. Fitzloom, as he offered his arm to her ladyship, and advised her instant presence as patrons of the " Fcfe du village," for such Ba- ron von Konigstein had most hapjiily termed it. " A delightful man that Baron von Konigstein, and says such delightful things ! Fele du village ! how very good !" " That is Miss Fitzloom, then, whom my brother is waltzing with !" asked Lady Madeleine, in her usual kind tone. " Not exactly, my Lady Madeleine," said Mi Fitzloom, "not exactly ilL'.ss Fitzloom, rather Miss Aurelia Fitzloom, my third daughter; our ihird eldest, as Mrs. Fitzloom sonretimes says ; for re \^IVIAN GREY. 105 ally it is necessary to distinguish, with such a family as ours, you know, my Lady Madeleine!" " But don't you think, Mr. Fitzloom, that your third daughter is a sufficiently delinite description !" asked her ladyship. " Why, you know, my liady Madeleine, there migJit be a mistake. There's the third youngest! and if one say the third merely, why, as Mrs. Fitzloom sometimes says, the question is, which is which .?" " That view of the case, I confess, did not strike me before." " Mr. Grey," said Miss Fane, for she was now leaning upon his arm ; " have you any objection to walk up and down the terrace 1 the evening is deliciously soft, but even with the protection of a cachemere I scarcely dare venture to stand still. Lady Madeleine seems very much engaged at pre- sent. What amusing people these Fitzlooms are !" " Mrs. Fitzloom ; I've not heard her voice yet." " No ; Mrs. Fitzloom docs not talk. St. George says she makes it a rule never to speak in the pre- sence of a stranger. She deals plenteously, how- ever, at home, in domestic apothegms. If you could but hear him imitating them all ! When- ever she does speak, she finishes all her sentences by confessing that she is conscious of her own deficiencies ; but that she has taken care to give her daughters the very best education. They are what St. George calls fine dashing girls, and I'm very glad he's made friends with them ; for, after all, he must find it rather dull here. By-the-by, Mr. Grey, I'm afraid that you can't find this even- ing very amusing ; the absence of a favourite pur- suit always makes a sensible void ; and these walls must remind you of more piquant pleasures than waltzing with fine London ladies, or promenading up a dull terrace with an invalid." " Miss Fane, I fear that you are a bitter satirist; but I assure you that you are quite misinformed as to the mode in which I generally pass my even- ings." " I hope, I am, Mr. Grey !" said Miss Fane, in rather a serious tone ; " I wish I could also be mistaken in my suspicions of the mode in which St. George spends his time. He's sadly changed. For the first month that we were here, he seemed to prefer nothing in the world to our society, and now — I was nearly saying that we had not seen him for one single evening these three weeks. I cannot understand what you find at this house of such absorbing interest. Although I know you think I am much mistaken in my suspicions, still I feel very anxious, very anxious indeed. I spoke to St. George to-day, but he scarcely answered me; or said that which it was a pleasure for me to forget." " Mr. St. George should feel highly gratified in having excited such an interest in the — mind of Miss Fane." " He cannot — he should not feel more gratified than all who are my friends ; for all who are such, I must ever experience the liveliest interest." " How happy must those he who feel that they have a right to count Miss Fane among their friends !" " I have the pleasure then, I assure you, of mak- ing many happy, and among them, Mr. Grey." Vivian was surprised that he did not utter some usual complimentary answer ; but he knew not 14 why the words stuck in his throat ; and, instead of speaking, he was thinking of what had been spoken. In a second he had mentally repeated Miss Fane's answer a thousand times — it rang in his ears — it thrilled his blood. In another moment he was ashamed of being such a fool. " How brilliant are these gardens !" said Vi- vian, looking at the sky. " Very brilliant !" said Violet Fane, looking on the ground. Conversation seemed nearly extinct, and yet neither oflered to turn back. " Good heavens ! you are ill. Miss Fane," sud- denly exclaimed Vivian, when, on accidentally turning to his companion, he found she was in tears. " Shall we go back, or will you wait here ? — Can I fetch any thing 1 — I fear you are very ill!" " No. no ! not veiy ill, but very foolish ; let us walk on, Mr. Grey, walk on — walk on." Here Vivian thought that she was going into hysterics; but heaving a deep sigh, she seemed suddenly to recover. " I am ashamed, Mr. Grey, of myself — this trouble, this foolishness — what can you think] but I am so agitated, so nervous — I hope you'll forget — I hope — ." " Perhaps the air has suddenly affected you — had we not better go in 1 — Pray, pray, compose yourself. I trust that nothing I have said — that nothing has happened — that no one has dared to sav, or do, any thing to ofiend you — to annoy you 1 Speak, pray, speak, Miss Fane — dear Miss Fane, the — the — " the words died on Vivian's lips, yet a power he could not withstand urged him to speak — " the — the — the baron 1" " !" almost shrieked Miss Fane — " No, no, stop one second — let me compose myself — an eflbrt, and I must be well — nothing, nothing has happened, and no one has done or said any thing; but it is of somethitvg that should be said — of something that should be done, that I was think- ing, and it overcame me." " Miss Fane," said Vivian, " if there be any service which I can do — any advice which I can give — any possible way that lean exert myself for you, 0, speak ! — 0, speak — speak with the most perfect confidence — with firnmess — with courage ; do not fear that your motives will be misconceived — that your purpose will be misinterpreted — that your confidence will be misunderstood. You are addressing one who would lay down his own life lor you — who is willing to perform all your com- mands, and forget them when performed. I be- seech you to trust me — believe me that you shall not repent." She answered not, but holding down her head, covered her face with her small white hand; her lovely face which was crimsoned with her fiashing blood. They were now at the end of the terrace — to return was impossible. If they remained stationary, they must be perceived and joined. What was to be done ? moment of agony ! — He led her down a solitary walk still further from the house. As they jjroceeded in silence, the bursts of the music, and the loud laughter of the joyous guests became fainter and fainter, till at last the sounds died away into echo — and echo into silence. A thousand thoughts dashed through Vivian's mind in rapid succession ; but a painful one to him, to any man, — always rpmained the last. Hia companion would not speak ; yet to allow her to 106 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. return home withotit freeing her mind of the bur- then, the fearful burthen, which evidently over- whelmed it, was impossible. At length he broke a silence which seemed to have lasted an age. " Miss Fane, do not believe for an instant that I am taking advantage of an agitated moment, to extract from you a confidence which you may repent. I feel assured that I am right in supposing that you have contemplated in a calmer moment the possibility of my being of service to you; that, in short, there is something in which you require my assistance, my co-operation — an assistance. Miss Fane, a co-operation, which, if it produce any benefit to you, will make me at length feel that I have not lived in vain. I cannot, I cannot allow any feelings of false delicacy to prevent me from assisting you in giving utterance to thoughts, which you have owned it is absolutely necessary should be expressed. Remember, remember that you have allowed me to believe that we are friends : do not, do not prove by your silence, that we are friends only in name." " I am overwhelmed — I cannot speak — my face burns with shame ; I have miscalculated my strength of mind — perhaps my physical strength ; what, what must j'ou think of me"!" She spoke in a low and smothered voice. " Think of you. Miss Fane ! every thing which the most devoted respect dare think of an object which it reverences. O ! understand me ; do not l)elieve that I am one who would presume an in- stant on my situation — because I have accidentally vi'itnessed a young and lovely woman betrayed into a display of feeling which the artificial forms of cold .society cannot contemplate, and dare to ridi- cule. You are speaking to one who also has felt ; who, though a man, has wept ; who can compre- hend sorrow ; who can understand the most secret sensations of an agitated spirit. Dare to trust me. Be convinced that hereafter, neither by word, nor look, hint, nor sign on my part, shall you feel, save liy your own wish, that you have appeared to Vi- vian Grey in any other light than as the accom- plished Miss Fane, the idol of an admiring circle." " You are too, too good — generous, generous man, I dare trust any thing to yon that I dare trust to human being ; but — " here her voice died away. " Miss Fane, it is a painful, a most painful thing for me to attempt to guess your thoughts, to anti- cipate your confidence ; but, if — if — it he of Mr. St. George that you are thinking, have no fear respecting him — have no fear about his present situation — tiaist to me that there shall be no anxiety for his future one. I will be his unknown guardian, his unseen friend ; the promoter of your wishes, the protector of your " " No, no, Mr. Grey," said Miss Fane, with firm- ness, and looking quickly up, as if her mind were relieved by discovering that all this time Vivian had never imagined she was thinking of him. " No, no, Mr. Grey, you are mistaken ; it is not of Mr. St. George, of Mr. St. George only, that I am thinking. I — I — I am much better now ; I shall be able in an instant to speak — be able, I trust, to forget how foolish — how very foolish I have been. " Let us walk on," continued Miss Fane ; " let us walk on ; we can easily account for our absence if it be remarked ; and it is better, much better, >.hat it should be all over : I feel quite well, quite, quite well ; and shall be able to speak quite firmly now." " Do not hurry ; compose yourself, I beseech you ; there is no fear of our absejice being remark- ed, Lady Madeleine is so surrounded." " After what has passed, Mr. Grey, it seems ridiculous in me to apologize, as I had intended, foi speaking to you on a graver subject than what has generally formed a point of conversation betweea us. I feared that you might misunderstand the motives which have dictated my conduct: I have attemjjted not to appear agitated, and I have been overcome. I trust that you will not be offended if I recur to the subject of the New Hovise. Do not believe that I ever would have allowed my fears, my girlish fears, so to have overcome my discretion, — so to have overcome, indeed, all propriety of con- duct on my part, — as to have induced me to have sought an interview with you, to moralize to you about your mode of life. No, no, it is not of this that I wish to speak, or rather that I will speak. I will hope, I will pray, that St. George and yourself have never found in that which you have followed as an amusement, the source, the origin, the cause of a single unhappy, or even anxious moment ; Mr. Grey, I will believe all this." " Dearest Miss Fane, believe it, believe it with confidence. Of St. George, I can with sincerity aver, that it is my iirm opinion, that far from being involved, his fortune is not in the slightest degree injured. Believe me, I will not attempt to quiet you now, as I would have done at any other time, by telling you that you magnify your fears, and allow your feelings to exaggerate the danger which exists. There has been danger — there is danger ; — play, very high, tremendously high play, has been, and is pursued at this New House, but Mr. St. George has never been a loser ; and, believe me, if the exertions of man can avail, never shall — never shall, at least, xinfairly. Of the other indi- vidual. Miss Fane, whom you have honoured by the interest which you have kindly professed in his welfare, allow me to say one word : no one can de- test, more thoroughly detest, any practice which exists in this world — Miss Fane cannot detest im- purity with a more perfect antipathy — than he does the gaming-table. You laiovv tlie miserable, but miraculous fortune, which made my first night here notorious. My luck has stuck by me like a curse, and from the customs of society, from which it is impossible to emancipate ourselves; a man in my situation cannot cease to play without incurring a slur upon his reputation. You will smile at the reputation which depends almost upon the commis- sion of a vile folly ; we have not time to argue these subtile points at present. It is sufficient for me to say, that I cannot resist this custom without being prepared to chastise the insolence of those who will consequently insult me. In that case, my reputation, already tarnished by the non-commis- sion of a foll)'^, will, according to the customs of society, be utterly ruined, unless it be re-burnished by the commission of a crime. I have no pistol now. Miss Fane, for ray fellow-creatures, — my right hand is still red with the blood of my friend. To play, therefore, with me has been a duty : J still win — the duty continues — but, believe me. that I shall never lose ; and I look forward, with eagerness to the moment when this tliialdom shall cease." " O ! you've made me so happy ! I feel so per- suaded that you have not deceived me — the tor)ssible to shorten it ; and, as Violet declared that she was not the least fatigued, the lesser evil was therefore chosen. The carriages rolled oti"; at about half-way from Ems, the two empty ones were to v^-ait for the walking party. Lady Madeleine smiled with fond atVection, as she waved her hand to Violet the mo- ment before she was out of sight. •'And now," said St. George; "good people all, instead of returning by the same road, it strikes me, that there must be a way through this little wood — you see there is an excellent path. Before the sun has set, we shall have got through it, and it will bring us out, I have no doubt, by the old cottage which you observed, Grey, when we came along ; I saw a gate and path there — just where we first got sight of Nassau castle — there can be no doubt about it. You see it's a regular right-angle, and besides varying the walk, we shall at least gain a quarter of an hour, which, after all, as we have 10 walk near three miles, is an object. It's quite clear — quite clear : If I've a head for any thing, it's for finding my way." ■• " I think you've a head for every thing," said Aureha Fitzloom, in a soft sentimental whisper ; " I'm sure we owe all our happiness to-day to you." " If I have a head for every thing, I have a heart only for one person !" As every one wished to be convinced, no one flffered any argument in opposition to St. George's view of the case; and some were already in the wood. " St. George. St. George," said Violet Fane, " I don't like walking in the wood so late ; pray come back." " 0, nonsense, Violet ! — come, come. If you don't like to come you can walk by the road — you'll meet us round by the gate — it's only five minutes walk." Ere he had finished speaking, the rest were in the wood, and some had advanced. Vivian strongly recommended Violet not to join them ; he was sure that Lady Madeleine would not approve it — he was sure that it was very danger- ous ; and, by-the-by, while he was talking, which way had they gone ] he didn't see them. He hal- looed — all answered — and fifty thousand echoes besides. " W^e certainly had better go by the road — we shall lose our way if wc try to follow them ; nothing is so puzzling as walking in woods — we had much better keep to the road." So by the road tliey went. The sun had ah eady sunk behind the mountains, whose undulating forms were thrown into dark shadow against the crimson sky. The thin cres- cent of the new moon floated over the eastern hills, whose deep woods glowed with the rosy glo- ries of twilight. Over the peak of a purple moun- tain, glittered the solitary star of evening. As the sun dropped, universal silence seemed to pervade the whole face of nature. The voice of the birds was stilled ; the breeze, which had refreshed them during the day, died away, as if its office were now completed; and none of the dark sounds and sights of hideous night yet dared to triumph over the death of day. Unseen were the circling wings of the fell bat ; unheard the screech of the waking owl ; silent the drowsy hum of the shade-born beetle! What heart has not acknowledged the influence of this hour — the sweet and soothing hour of twilight ; — the hour of love, the hour of adoration, the hour of rest ! — when we think o. those we love, only to regret that we have no loved more dearly ; when we remember our ene- mies only to forgive them ! And Vivian and his beautiful companion owned the magic of this hour, as all must do — ^by silence. No word was spoken, yet is silence sometimes a language. They gazed, and gazed again, and their full spirits held due communion with the star-lit sky, and the mountains, and the woods, and the soft shadows of the increasing moon. ! who can describe what the o'crcharged spirit feels at this sacred hour, when we almost lose the consciousness of existence, and our souls seem to struggle to ]iierce futurity ! In the forest of the mysterious Odenwald, in the solitudes of the Bcrgstrasse, had Vivian at this hour often found consolation for a bruised spirit- — often in adoring nature had forgot- ten man. But now, when he had never felt na- ture's influence more powerful ; when he had never forgotten man, and man's world more thoroughly • when he was experiencing emotions, which, though undefinablc, he felt to be new ; he started when he remembered that all tliis was in the presence of a human being ! Was it Hesperus he gazed upon, or something else that glanced brighter than an even- ing star 1 Even as he thought that liis gaze was fixed on the countenance of nature, he found that hife eyes rested on the face of nature's loveliest daughter ! "Violet! dearest Violet!" As in some delicious dream, the sleeper is awaliened from his bliss by the sound of his own rapturous voice; so was Vivisn roused by these words from his revery, and called back to the world wliich he had forgotten. Bat ere a moment had passed, he was poiuing forth in a rapid voice, and incoherent manner, such words as men speak only once; He spoke of his early follies — his misfor- tunes — his misery — of his matured views — his set- tled principles — his plans — his prospects — his hopes — his happiness — his bliss: and when he had ceased, he listened in his turn, to some small still words, which made him the happiest of human beings. He bent down — he kissed the soft silken cheek which now he could call his own. Her hand was in his ; her head sank upon his breast. Sud- denly she clung to him with a strong grasp. "Violet! my own, my dearest; you are overcome. I have been rash, I have been imprudent. Speak, speak, my beloved ! say you are not ill!" She spoke not, but clung to him with a fearful strength — her head still upon his breast — her full eyes closed. In the greatest alarm he raised her off the groiuid, and bore her to the river-side. Water might revive her. But when he tried to lay her a moment on the bank, she clung to him, gasp- ing, as a sinking person clings to a stout swimmer. He leaned over her ; he did not attempt to disen- gage his arms ; and, by degrees, by very slow de- grees, her grasp loosened. At last her arms gave way and fell by her side, and her eyes partly opened. " Thank God ! thank God ! Violet, my own, my beloved, say you are better I" 120 D'lSRAELI'S NOYELS. She answered not — evidently she did not know liim — evidently she did not see him. A film was on her sight and her eye was glassy. He rushed to the water-side, and v:i a moment he had sprink- led her temples, now covered with a cold dew. Her pulse beat not — her circulation seemed sus- pended. He rubhed the palms of her hands — he covered her delicate feet with his coat ; and then rushing up the bank into the road, he shouted with frantic cries on all sides. No one came, no one was near. Again, with a cry of fearful anguish, he shouted as if a hyrena were feeding on his vitals. 2Vo sound : — no answer. The nearest cottage he remembered was above a mile off'. He dared not leave her. Again he rushed down to the water- side. Her eyes were still open, still fixed. Her mouth also was no longer closed. Her hand was stiff — her heart had ceased to beat. He tried with the warmth of his own body to revive her. He shouted — he wept. — he prayed. All, all in vain. Again he was in the road — again shouting hke an insane being. There was a soimd. Hark I — It was but the screech of an owl ! Once more at the river-side — once more bending over her with starting eyes — once more the atten- tive ear listening for the soundless breath. No sound ! not even a sigh ! ! what would he have given for her shriek of anguish ! — No change had oc- curred in her position, but the lower part of her face had fallen ; and there was a general appearance which struck him with awe. Her body was quite cold : — her limbs stiffened. He gazed, and gazed, and gazed. He bent over her with stupor, rather than grief, stamped on his features. It was very slowly th9t the dark thought came over his mind — very slowly that the horrible truth seized upon his soul. He gave a loud shriek, and fell on the lifeless body of Violet Faxe ! BOOK THE SIXTH. CH.A.PTER XVI. The green Rnd bowery summer had passed away. It was midnight, when two horsemen pulled up their steeds beneath a wide oak ; which, with other lofty trees, skirted the side of a winding road in an extensive forest in the south of Germany. " By heavens !" said one, who apparently was the master — " we must even lay our cloaks, I tliink, under this oak; for the road wmds again, and assuredly cannot lead now to our village." " A star-lit sk}^ in autumn, can scarcely be the fittest curtain for one so weak as your highness. I should recommend travelhng on, if we keep on our horses' backs till dawn." "But if we are travelling in a directly contrary vvay to our voiturier — honest as we may suppose him to be, if he find in the morning no paymaster for his job, he may with justice make free with our baggage. And I shall be unusually mistaken if the road we are now pursuing docs not lead back to the city.'' " City, town, or village, your highness must sleep under no forest tree. Let us ride on. It will be hard if we do not find some huntsman's or ranger's cottage ; and for aught we know a neat enug village — or some comfortable old manor- 1 house, which has been in the family for two cen- turies ; and where, with God's blessing, they may chance to have wine as old as the bricks. I know not how your highness may feel, but a ten hours' ride when I was only prepared for half the time, and that too in an autumn night, makes me some- what desirous of renewing my acquaintance with the kitchen-fire." " I could join you in a glass of hock and a slice of venison, I confess, my good fellow ; but in a nocturnal ride lam no longer your match. How- ever, if you think it best, we'll prick on our steeds for another hour. If it be only for them, I'm sure we must soon stop." " Ay ! ilo, sir ; and put your cloak well round you — all is for the best. Your highness, I guess, is no Sabbath-born child?" " That am I not — but how would that make our plight worse than it is 1 Should we be further off supper 1" " Nearer — nearer perhaps than you imagine ; for we should then have a chance of sharing the spoils of the Spirit Hunter." " Ah ! Essper, is it so ?" " Truly, yes, sir ; and were either of us a Sab- bath-born child, by holy cross ! I would not give much for our chance of a down bed this night." Here a great horned owl flew across the road. " Were I in the North," said Essper, " I would sing an Ave Mary against the Stut Ozel." " What call you that ?" asked Vivian. " 'Tis th^great bird, sir ; the great horned owl, that always flies before the Wild Hunter. And truly, sir, I have passed through many forests in my time, but never yet saw I one where I should sooner expect to hear a midnight bugle. If you'll allow me, sir, I'll ride by your side. Thank God, at least, it's not the Wal[>urgis night !" " I wish to heaven it were !" said Vivian, " and that we were at the Brocken. It must be highly amusing !" " Hush ! hush ! hush ! it's lucky we're not in the Hartz — but we know not where we are, nor what at this moment may be behind us." And here Essper began pouring forth a liturgy of his own — half CathoHc, and half Calvinistic, quite in character with the creed of the country which they were travelling. " My horse has stumbled," continued Essper " and yours, sir, is he not shying 1 There's a confounded cloud over the moon — but I've no sight in the dark if that mass before you be not a devil's-st07ie. The Lord have mercy upon our sinful souls !" " Peace ! peace ! Essper," said Vivian, who was surprised to find him really alarmed ; " peace I peace ! I see nothing but a block of granite, no uncommon sight in a German forest." " It is a devil-stone, I tell you, sir — there has been some church here, which he has knocked down in the night. Ijook ! look ! is it the moss-people that I see ! As sure as I am a hungry sinner, the Wild One is out a hunting to-night." " More luck for us if we meet him. His dogs, as you say, may gain us a supjicr. I think our wisest course will be to join the cry." " Hush ! hush ! hush ! your highness would not talk so if you knew what j'our share of the spoils might be. Ay ! if your highness did, your check would he paler, and your very teeth would chatter. I knew one man who was travelling in VIVIAN GREY. 121 a forest, just as we are now, it was about this time, and he beheved in the Wild Huntsman about as much as your highness does — that is, he hked to talk of the spirit, merely to have the opportu- nity of denying that he believed in him ; which showed, as I used to say, that his mind was often thinking of it. He was a merry knave, and as firm a hand for a boar-spear as ever I met with, and I've met with many. We used to call him, before the accident. Left-handed Hans, but they call him now, your highness, the Child-hunter. ! it's a very awful tale, your highness, and I'd sooner tell it in blazing hail than in free forest. Your highness didn't hear any sound to the left, did you V " Nothing but the wind, Essper ; on with your tale, my man." " It's a very awful tale, sir, but I'll make short work of it. You see, your highness, it was a night just like this ; the moon was generally hid, but the stars prevented it from ever being pitch dark. And so, sir, he was travelling alone ; he'd been up to the castle of the baron, his master — you see, sir, he was head-ranger to his lordship — and he always returned home through the forest. What he was thinking of, I cannot say, but most likely of no good ; when all on a sudden he heard the baying of hounds in the distance. Now, your highness, directly he heard it — I've heard him tell the story a thousand times — directly he heard it, it struck him that it must be the Spirit Huntsman ; and though there were many ways to account for the hounds, stijl he never for a moment doubted that they were the hell-dogs. The sounds came nearer and nearer. Now, your highness, I tell you this, because if ever, — which the Holy Virgin forbid ! — if ever you meet the Wild Huntsman, you'll know how to act : — conduct yourself al- ways with propriety, make no noise, but behave like a gentleman, and dun't put the dogs off the scent ; stand aside and let him pass. Don't talk, he has no time to lose, for if he hunt after daybreak, a night's sport is forfeited for every star left in the morning sky. So, sir, you see nothing puts hirp in a greater passion than to lose his time in answering impertinent questions. Well, your highness, Left-handed Hans stood by the road-side. The baying of the dogs was so distinct, that he felt that in a moment the Wild One would be up; his horse shivered like a sallow in a storm. He heard the tramp of the spirit-steed : they came in sight. As the tall figure of the Huntsman passed — I cannot tell your highness what it was — it might have been, I-ord forgive me in thinking what it miglit have been ! but a voice from behind Hans, a voice so like his own, that for a moment he fancied that he had himself spoken, although he was conscious that his lips had been firmly closed the whole time, a voice from the road side, — ^just behind poor Hans, mind, — said, ' Good sport, Sir Huntsman, 'tis an odd light to track a stag !' The poor man, sir, was all of an ague ; but how much greater, your highness, was his horror, when the tall Huntsman stofiped ! He thought that he was going to be eaten up on the spot, at least : not at all, your highness — ' My friend !' said the Wild One, in the kindest voice imaginable ; ' my friend, would you like to give your horse a breathing with usl' Poor Hans, your highness, was so alarmed, that it never entered into his head for a single mo- ment to refuse the invitation, and instantly he was 16 gallopping by the side of the Wild Huntsman. Away they flew I away ! away ! over bog, and over mere ; over ditch, and over hedge ; away ! away ! away ! — and the ranger's horse never failed, but kept by the side of the wild spirit without the least distress ; and yet, your highness, it's very singular that Hans was about to sell this very beast only a day before, for a matter of five crowns : — you SC'', your highness, he only kept it just to pick his way at night from the castle to his own cottage. Well ! your highness, it's very odd, but Hans soon lost all fear, for the sport was so fine, and he had such a keen relish for the work, that far from being alarm- ed, he thought himself one of the luckiest knaves alive. But the oddest thing all this time was, that Hans never caught sight for one moment q^ either buck or boar; although he saw by the dogs' noses, that there was something keen in the wind ; and although he felt that if the hunted beast were like any that he had himself ever followed before, it must have been run down with such dogs, quicker than a priest could say a paternoster. At last, sir, for he had grown quite bold, says Hans to the Wild Huntsman, 'The beasts run quick o' nights, sir, I think; it's been a long time, I ween, e'er I scampered so far, and saw so little !' Do you know, your highness, that the old gentleman was not the least affronted, but said, in the pleasantest voice imaginable, ' A true huntsman should be patient, Hans, you'll see the game quick enough ; look forward, man ! what see you V and sure enough, your highness, he did look forward. It was near the skirts of the forest, there was a green glade before them, and very few trees, and there- fore he could see far ahead. The moon was shin- ing very bright, and sure enough, what did he see ? Running as fleet over the turf as a rabbit, was a child. The little figure was quite black in the moonlight, and Hans could not catch its face ; — in a moment the hell-dogs were on it. Hans quivered like a windy reed, your highness, and the Wild One laughed till the very woods echoed. 'How like you hunting mossmen V asked the spirit. Novir when Hans, your highness, found it was only a raossmaii, be took heart again, and said hr a shaking voice, that 'It is rare good sport in good conipany ;' and then the spirit jumped oft' his horse, and said, 'Now, Hans, j'ou must watch me well, for I'm little used to bag game.' He said this with a proudish air, 3'our highness, as much as to hint, that hadu't he expected Hans, he wouldn't have rode out this evening without his groom. So the Wild One jumped on his horse again, ami put the bag before him. It was nearly morning, your highness, when Hans found himself at the door of his own cottage ; and bowing very respect- fully to the Spirit Hunter, he thanked him for the sport, and begged his share of the night's spoil. This was all in a joke, your highness, but Hans had heard that, ' talk to the devil, and fear the last word ;' and so he was determined, now that they were about to part, not to appear to tremble, but to carry it olf with a jest. ' Truly, Hans,' said the Huntsman, ' thou art a bold lad, and to encourage thee to s[)eak to wild huntsmen again, I have a mind to give thee for thy panis, the whole spoil Take the bag, knave, a mossman is good eating had I time I would give thee a receipt for sauce ;' and so saying, the spirit rode oft', laughing very heartily. Well, your highness, Hans was sc anxious to examine the contents of the bag, and 123 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. see what kind of thing a mossman really was,— for he had only caught a glimpse of him in the thase,— that instead of going to bed immediately and saying his prayers, as he should have done, he lighted a lamp and untied the string ; and what think you he took out of the bag, your highness ] As sure as I'm a born sinner — his own child !" '• Tis a wonderful tale," said Vivian ; "and did the unfortunate man tell you this himself ?"' " Often and often, sir. — I knew Left-handed Hans well. He was ranger, as I said, to a great lord; and was quite a favourite, you see. For f^ome reason or other he got out of favour. Some said that the baron had found him out a poaching ; and that he used to ride his master's horses anight. Whether this be true or not, who can say 1 But, howsoever, Hans went to ruin ; and instead of being a flourishing, active lad, he was turned out, and went a begging all through Saxony; and he always told this story as the real history of his misfortunes. Some say, he's not as strong in his head as he used to be. However, why should we say it's not a true tale !— What's that!" almost shrieked Essper. Vivian listened, and heard distinctly the distant hayina; of hounds. ^ "Tis he! 'tis he !" said Essper; "now dont f,peak. sir, don't speak ; and if the devil make me join him, as may be the case, for I'm but a cock- brained thing, particularly at midnight ; don't be running after me from any foolish feeling, but take care of yourself, and don't be chattering. To think you should come to this, my precious young mas- ter !" " Cease your blubbering, for heaven's sake ! Do you think that I'm to be frightened by the idiot tales of a parcel of old women, and the lies of a gang of detected poachers'! Come, sir, ride on. We'are, most probably, near some huntsman's cot- tage. That distant baying is the sweetest music I've heard a great while." ^ " Don't be rash, sir — don't be rash — don t he rash. If you were to give me fifty crowns now, I couldn't remember a single line of a single prayer. Ave Maria ! — it always is so when I most want it. Paternoster ! — and whenever I've need to remem- ber a song, sure enough I'm always thinking of a prayer. — Unser Vater, der du hist im himmel-- sanctificado se el tu nombra ; il tuo regno venga." Here Essper George was proceeding with a scrap of modern Greek, when the horsemen suddenly came upon one of those broad, green vistas which we often see in forests, and which are generally cut, either for the convenience of hunting, or caiting wood. It opened on the left side of the road; and at the bottom of it, though apparently at a great distance, a light was visible. "So much for your Wild Huntsman, my friend Essper ! I shall be much disappointed if here are not quarters for the night. And see ! the moon comes out — a good omen !" After about ten minutes' sharp trot over the noiseless turf, the travellers found theinselves be- lore a large and many-windowed mansion. The building formed the farthest side of a quadrangle, which you entered through an ancient and massy gate; on each side of which was a small building —of course the lodges. Essper soon found that the gate was closely fastened; and though he knocked often and loudly, it was with no effect, 'i'liat the inhabitants of the mansion had not yet etircd was certain, for lights were movuig in the great house ; and one of the lodges was not only very brilliantly illuminated, but full, as Vivian was soon convinced, of clamorous, if not jovial guests.^^ "Now, by the soul of my unknown father!" said the enrasred Essper, " 111 make these saucy porters learn their duty. What ho ! there— what ho ! within ! within !" But the only answer he received, was the loud reiteration of a rude and roar- ing chorus ; which, as it was now more distinctly and audibly enunciated, evidently for the purpose of enraging tlie travellers— they detected to be some- thing to the following elll'ct: — " Thpn a prayer to St. Peter, a praypr to St. Paul, A prayer to Si. Jerome— a prayer t.sjt«r could neither be oilent nor subdued. Greatly annoyed at not being permitted to play his bugle, he amused himself for some time by making the most hideous grimaces ; but as there were none either to admire or to be alarmed by the contortions of his countenance, tliis diver- sion soon palled. He then endeavoured to find some entertainment in riding his horse in every mode except the right one ; but again, who was to be astounded by his standing on one foot on the saddle, or by his imitations of the ludicrous shifts of a female equestrian, perfectly ignorant of the manege. At length lie rode with his back to his horse's liead, and imitated the peculiar sound of every animal that he met. A young fawn, and va-rious kinds of birds already followed him ; and even a squirrel had perched on his horse's neik. And now they came to a small farm-house which was situated in the forest. The yard here offered great amusement .td Essper. He neighed, and half a dozen horses' heads immediately appeared over the hedge ; another neigh, and they were fol- lowing him in the road. The dog rushed out to seize the dangerous stranger, and recover his charge : but Essper gave an amicable bark, and in a second the dog wa-s jumping by his side, and en- gaged in the most earnest and friendlj- conversa- tion. A loud and continued grunt soon brought out the pigs ; and meeting three or four cows re- turning home, a few lowing sounds soon seduced them from keeping their appointment with the dairymaid. A stupid jackass, who stared with astonishment at the procession, was saluted witli a lusty bray, which immediately induced him to swell the ranks : and !\s Essjx'r passed the poultry- yard, he so deceitfully informed the inhabitants that they were about to be led, that twenty broods of ducks and chickens were immediately after him. The careful hens were terribly alarmed at the danger which their ollspring incurred from the heels and hoofs of the quadrupeds ; but while they were in doubt and despair, a whole flock of stately geese issued in solemn pomp from another gate of the farm-j'ard, and commenced a cackling conver- sation with the delighted Essper. So contagious is the force of example, and so great was the con- fidence which the hens place in these pompous geese, who were not the first fools whose solemn air has deceived a iew old females ; that as soon as the}' perceived them in the train of the horsemen, they also trotted up to pay their resjjects at his levee. And here Vivian Grey stopped his horse, and burst into a fit of laughter. But it was not a moment for mirth ; for rushing down the road with awful strides appeared two sturdy and enraged husbandmen, one armed wiih a pike, and the other with a jiiteh-fork, and uccom- panied by a frantic female, who never for a moment ceased hallooinir. " ]^f urder. rape, and fire!" every thing but " theft." " .Now, Essper. here's a jirelty scraj)e !" " Slop, you laseals I" hallooed Adolph the herdsman. ".•Slop, you irang of thieves!" hallooed Wil helm the ploughman. " f?>top, you bioiKly murderers !" shrieked Phil lippa, the indignant mistress of tJie dairy and the jioullry-yard. " Stop, you villains !" hallooed all three. The villains certainly made no attempt to eseo])e, and ill half a second the enraged lious<>hold of the I'oiest fanner would have seized on Essper Geo'ge; VIVIAN GREY. 131 but just at this crisis he uttered loud sounds in the respective lunguage of every bird and heast about hin»,; and suddenly they all turned round, and counter-marched. Away rushed the terrified Adolph the herdsman, while one of his own cows was on his back. Still quicker scampered off the scared Wilhelm the ploughman, while one of his own steeds kicked him in his rear. Quicker than all these, shouting, screaming, shrieking, dashed back the unhappy mistress of the hen-roost, with all her subjects crowding about her ; some on her elbow, some on her head, her lace cap destroyed, her whole dress disorganized. Another loud cry from Essper George, and the retreating birds cackled with redoubled vigour. Still louder were the neighs of the horses, the bray of the jackass, and the barking of the dog, the squeaking of the swine, and the lowing of the cows ! Essper en- joyed the scene at his ease, leaning his back in a careless manner against his horse's neck. The movements of the crowd were so quick that they were soon out of sight. " A trophy !" called out Essper, as he jumped off his horse, and picked up the pike of Adolph the herdsman. " A boar-spear, or I am no huntsman," said Vivian — " give it me a moment !" He threw it up into the air, and caught it with ease, poised it on his linger with the practised skill of one well used to handle the weapon, and with the same delight iiiiprinted on his countenance as gi'cets the sight of an old friend. " This forest, Essper, and this spear, make me remember days when I was vain enough to think that I had been sufficiently visited with sorrow. Ah ! little did I then know of human misei-y, although I imagined I had suffered so much ! — But not my will be done !" muttered A'^ivian to himself. As he spoke, the sounds of a man in distress were heard from the right side of the road. " Who calls, who calls 1" cried Essper ; a shout was the only answer. There was no path, but the underwood was low, and Vivian took his horse, an old forester, across it with ease. Essper's jibbed. Vivian found himself in a small green glade of about thirty feet square. It was thickly surrounded with lofty trees, save at the point where he had en- tered ; and at the farthest corner of it, near some gray rocks, a huntsman was engaged in a desperate contest with a wild boar. The huntsman was on his right knee, and held his spear with both hands at the furious beast. It was an animal of extraordinary size and power. Its eyes glittered like fire. On the tui-f to its right a small gray mastiff, of powerful make, lay on its back, bleeding profusely, with its body ripped open. Another dog, a fawn-coloured bitch, had seized on the left ear of the beast ; but the under-tusk of the boar, which was nearly a loot long, had penetrated the courageous dog, and the poor creature writhed in agony, even while it attempted to wreak its revenge upon its enemy. The huntsman was nearly exhausted. Had it not been for the courage of the fawn-coloured dog, which, clinging to the boar, prevented it making a full dash at the man, he must have been instantly gored. Vivian was ©ff his horse in a minute, which, frightened at the sight of the wild boar, dashed again over the hedge, " Keep firm, keep finn, sir !" said he, " do not move. I'll amuse him behind, and make him turn."' A graze of Vivian's spear on its back, though it did not materially injure the beast, for there the boar is nearly invulnerable, annoyed it ; and dash- ing off the fawn-coloured dog, with great force, it turned on its new assailant. Now there are only two places in which the wild boar can be assailed with any effect ; and these are just between the eyes, and between the shoulders. Great caution, however, is necessary in aiming these blows, for the boar is very adroit in transfixing the weapon on his snout, or his tusks ; and if once you juiss, particularly if you are not assisted by your dogs, which Vivian was not, 'tis all over with you ; for the enraged animal rushes in like lightning, and gored you must be. But Vivian was quite fresh, and quite cool. The animal suddenly stood still, and eyed its new enemy. Vivian was quiet, for he had no objection to give the becst an opportunity of retreating to its den. But retreat was not its object — it sud- denly darted at the huntsman, who, however, was not off his guard, though unable from a slight woxmd in his knee to rise. Vivian again annoyed the boar at the rear, and the animal soon returned to him. He made a feint, as if he were about to strike his spike between its eyes. The boar not feeling a wound, which had not been inflicted, and very irritated, rushed at him, and he buried his spear a foot deep between its shoulders. The beast made one i'earful struggle, and then fell down quite dead. The fawn-coloured bitch, though terribly wounded, gave a loud bark ; and even the other dog, which Vivian thought had been long dead, testified its triumphant joy by an almost inarticulate groan. As soon as he was convinced that the boar was really dead, Vivian hastened to the liuntsman, and expressed his hope that he was not seriously hurt. " A trifle, a trifle, which our surgeon, who is used to these affairs, will quickly cure — Sir ! we owe you our life !" said the huntsman, with great dignity, as Vivian assisted him in rising from the ground. He was a tall man, of imposing appear- ance ; but his dress, which was the usual hunting costume of a German nobleman, did not indicate his quality. " Sir, we owe you our life !" repeated the stran- ger ; " five minutes more, and our son must have reigned in Little Lilliput." " I have the honour then of addressing your serene highness. Far from being indebted to mc, I feel that I ought to apologize for having so un- ceremoniously joined in your sport." " Nonsense, man, nonsense ! We have killed in our time too many of these gentlemen, to be ashamed of owning that, had it not been for you, one of them would at last have revenged the spe- cies. But many as are the boars that we have killed or eaten, we never saw a more furious or more powerful animal than the present. Why, sir, you must be one of the best hands at the spear in all Christendom !" " Indifferently good, your highness : your Iiigh- ness forgets that the animal was already exhausted by your assault." "Why, there's something in that; but it was neatly done, man — it was neatly done. — You're fond of the sport, we think 1" " I have had some practice, but illness has 132 D ' I S R A E L I ' S NOVELS, 60 weakened me that I have given up the fo- rest." '• Indeed! pity, pity, pity! and on a second rxiiniination, v\e obscn-e that you are no hunter. Tliis cont is not for the free forest ; but how came you by the pike?" '■ I tini travelUng to the next post town, to which I have sent on my luggage. I am getting fast to the south ; and as for this pike, my seri-ant got it tliis nioniing from some peasant in a brawl, and was showing it to me when I heard your highness rail. I really think now that Providence must have sent it. I certainly could not have done you much service with my riding wliiji — Hilloa ! Ess- pcr, Es.«per, where are you]" '• Here, noble sir ! here, here — why what have you got there'! The horses have jibbed, and will not stir — I can stay no longer — they may go to the devil !" So saying, Vivian's valet dashed over the underwood, and leaped at the foot of the prince. " In God's name, is this thy servant V asked his highness. '• In good faith am I," said Essper ; " his valet, his cook, and his secretary, all in one ; and also h.is jagd junker, or gentilhomme de la chasse — as a puppy with a bugle horn told me this morning." " A very merry knave !" sard the prince ; " and talking of a puppy with a bugle horn, reminds us how unaccountably we have been deserted to-day by a suite that never yet were wanting. We arc indeed astonished. Our bugle, we fear, has turned traitor." So sa_\inii, the prince executed a blast with great skill, which Vivian immediately recog- nised as the one which Essper George had so admirably imitated. '• And now, my good friend," said the prince, '■ we cannot hear of your passing through our land, without visiting our good castle. We would that we could better testify the obligation which wc feel under to yon, in any other way than by the offer of a hosjiitality which all gentlemen, by right, can command. But your presence would, indeed, give us sincere pleasure. You must not refuse us. Your looks, as well as your prowess, prove your Mood ; and we are quite sure no cloth -merchant's order will suffer by your not hurrk-ing to your pro- posed point of destination, \^'e are not wrong, we think, — though your accent is good, — in supposing that we are conversing with an English gentleman. But here they come." As he spoke, three or four horsemen, at the head of wliom was the young huntsman whom the travellers had met in the morning, sprang into the chide. " Why, Amelni !" said the prince, "when before was the jagd junker's ear so bad that he could not di»>cover his master's bugle, even tliough tlie wind were against him'!" " In truth, your highness, we h.ive heard bugles enough this morning. Who is violating the forest laws, wc know not ; but that another bugle is sounding, and played, — St. Hubert forgive me for H.iying so, — with as great skill as your highness', is certain. Mvself, Von Neuwicd, and Lint7., have been cnllnpiii)^ over the whole forest, 'i'he rest, I di)ubt not, will be up directly." The jagd junker blew hi« own bugle. In the course of five minutes .ibout twenty otho< l.orfcmeii, all dressed in the same uni- fonr., hud arrived ; all complaining of their wild chases after the prince in every other part of the forest. "It must be the Wild Huntsman himylfl" swore an old hand. ITiis solution of the mystery satisfied all. " Well, well !" said the prince ; " whoever it may be, had it not been for the timely presence of this gentleman, you must have changed your green jackets for mourning coats, and our bugle would have sounded no more in the forests of our fathers. Here, Arnclm ! — cut up the beast, — and remember that the left shoulder is the quarter of honour, and belongs to this stranger; — not less honoured because imknown." All present took off their caps and bowed to Vivian ; who took this opportunity of informing the prince who he was, " And now," continued his highness, " Mr. Grey will accompany us to our castle ; — nay, sir, wc can take no refusal. We will send on to the town for your luggage. Arnelm, do you look to this! — And, honest friend !" said the prince, turning to Essper George, — " we commend you to the special care of our friend Von Keuwied, — and so, gentle- men, with stout hearts and spurs to your steeds — to the castle !" CHAPTER XVin. The cavalcade proceeded for some time at u verj- brisk but irregidar pace, until they arrived at a less wild and wooded part of the forest. The Prince of Little Lilliput reined in his steed as he entered a verj- broad avenue of purple beeches, at the end of which, though at a considerable distance, ^'ivian perceived the towers and turrets of a Gothic edifice glittering in the sunshine. " Welcome to Turriparva !" said his highness. " I assure your highness," said Vivian, " that I view with no unpleasant feeling, the prospect of a reception in any civilized mansion ; for to say tlie truth, for the last cight-and-forty hours, Fortune has not favoured me cither in my researches after a bed, or that which some tliink still more impor- tant than nightly repose." "Is it so !" said the prince; " why, we should have thought by your home-thrust this morning, that you were as fresh as the early lark. In good faith, it was a pretty stroke ! And whence come you then, good sir?" " Know you a most insane and drunken idiot, who .styles himself tlie Grand-duke of Schosj* Johannisberger ?" " No, no !" said the prince, staring in Vivian's face ven,- earnestly, and then bursting into a louil fit of lauijhter ; " IVo, no, it cannot be ! hah ! hah ! hah ! but it is, though ; and you have aetuallv fallen among that mad crew. Hah! hah! hah! a most excellent adventure ! Arnelm ! why, man, where ait thou ? ride up, ride up ! Behold in the l>erson of this gentleman a new victim to the over- whclniiuK hospitality of our uncle of tlie Wines. And did they confer a title on you on the spot? Say, art thou elector, or palsgrave, or biuron ; or, failint; in thy devoirs, as once did our good cousin Antelm, confess that thou wert ordained with be- coming reverence, the Arehpriniate of l"uddl<»- driiik. Eh! Anielni, is not that ll:c ttjle thou beurest at tl>c Palace of the Wines?" VIVIAN GREY. 133 " So it would seem, your highness. I think the title was conferred on me the same night that your highness mistook the grand duke's proboscis for Oberon's horn, and committed treason not yet par- doned." " Hah ! hah ! hah ! good ! good ! good ! thou hast as there. Truly a good memory is often as ready a friend as a sharp wit. Wit is not thy strong point, friend Arnelm ; and yet it is strange, that in the sharp encounter of ready tongues and idle logomachies, thou hast sometimes the advan- tage. But, nevertheless, rest assured, good cousin Arnelm, that wit is not thy strong point." " It is well for me that all are not of the same opinion as your serene highness ;" said the young jagd junker, somewhat nettled ; for he prided him- self peculiarly on his repartees. The prince was exceedingly diverted with Vi- vian's account of his last night's adventure ; and our hero learned from his highness, that his late host was no less a personage than the cousin of the Prince of Little Lilliput, an old German baron, who passed his time with some neighbours of con- genial temperament, in hunting the wild boar in the morning, and speculating on the flavours of the fine Rhenish wines during the rest of the day. " He and his companions," continued the prince, " will enable you to form a tolerably accurate idea of the character of the German nobility half a cen- tury ago. The debauch of last night was the usual carouse which crowned the exploits of each day when we were a boy. The revolution has rendered all these customs obsolete. Would that it had not sent some other things equally out of fashion !" At this moment the prince sounded his bugle, and the gates of the castle, which were not more than twenty yards distant, were immediately thrown open. The whole cavalcade set spurs to their steeds, and dashed at full gallop over the hollow- sounding drawbridge, into the court-yard of the castle. A crowd of sarving-men in green liveries, instantly appeared ; and Arnelm and Von Neuwied, jumping from their saddles, respectively held the stirrup and the bridle of the prince as he dismounted. " Where is Master Rodolph V asked his high- ness, with a loud voice. " So please your serene highness, I am here !" answered a very thin treble ; and bustling through the surrounding crowd, came forward the owner of the voice. Master Rodolph was not above five feet high, but he was nearly as broad as he was long. Though more than middle-aged, an almost infantile smile played upon his broad fair face ; to which his small turn-up nose, large green, goggle eyes, and unmeaning mouth, gave no expression. His long hair hung over his shoulders, the flaxen locks in some places maturing into gray. In compliance with the taste apa's life !" said the young prince, seizing Vivian's hand — "()! bir, what can I do for you 1 Mr. Sievers !" said the boy, with great eagerness, to a gentleman who entered the room — " Mr. Sievers ! hero is a young lord who has saved papa's life !" Mr. Sievers wiw u very tall, thin man, perhajis about forty, with a clear sallow complexion, a high forehead, on which a few wrinkles were visible, very bright keen eyo«, narrow arched brows, and a quantity of gray curling hair, which was comlied back ollhis forehead, and fell dnwn over liin shoul- ders. He was iuHUuitly introilm-t-d to \'ivi m as the princc'ii niotit particular friend ; luul then he listened, apparently with great interest, to his high- ness's narrative of the morning's adventure; his danger, and his rescue. Young Maximilian never took his large, dark-blue eyes otl" his father while he was speaking ; and when he had finished, the boy rushed to Vivian, and threw his anns round his neck. A'ivian was delighted with the affection of the chiltl, who whispered to hun, in a low voice — " I know vvhat you are !" " What, my young friend J" " Ah I I know." " But tell me !" "You thought I shouldn't find out: — you're a — patriot I" " I hope I am," said Vivian ; " but travelling in a foreign counti-y is hardly a proof of it. Perhaps you do not know that I am an Englishman."' " An Englishman !" said the child, with an air of great disappointment — " I thoucht you were a patriot ! I am one. Do you know, I'll tell you a secret. You must promise not to tell, tliough. — Promi.se — upon your word ! Will, then," said the urchin, whispering with great energy in "\'ivian's ear, through his hollow fist: — "I halo the Grand- duke of Keisenberg, and I mCnn to stab liim to the heart;" so saying, the little prince, grated his teeth with an expression of the most litter detestation. " What the devil is the matter with the child !" thought Vivian ; but at this momcnl his conversa- tion with him was interrupted. '• Am I to believe this young gentleman, my dear Sievers," asked the prince, "when he tells me that his conduct has met your approbation ?" " Your son, prince," answered Mr. Sievers, "can onlj- s])cak truth. His excellence is proved by my praising him to his face." The young Maximilian, when ]\Tr. Sievers had ceased speaking, stood blushing, with his eyes fixed on the ground ; and llie delighted jiareiit catching his child up in his lums, embraced him with uu- alfected fondness. " And now, all this time Master Rodolph is waiting for his patient. By St. Hubert, you can none of you think me \CTy ill ! Your pardon, Mr. Grey, for leaving you. S\y friend Sievers will, I am sure, be delighted to make youffeel at ease at Turriparva. Max, come with me !'' Vivian found in Mr. Sievers a very interesting comjjanion ; notliing of the pedant, and much of the ], lliat in case of contumacy, VIVIAN GREY. 137 the resolutions of a diet would have been enforced by the armies of an emperor. As it is, few of them iiave }'et given up the outward and visible signs of regal sway. The throne is still preserved, and the tiara still revered. They seldom frequent the courts of their so\^reigns, and scarcely condescend to notice the attentions of their fellow-nobility. Most of them expend their increased revenue in maintaining the splendour of their little courts at their ancient capitals ; or in swelling the ranks of their retainers at their solitary forest-castles. The Prince of Little Lilliput was the first medi- atised sovereign that Vivian had ever met. At another time, and under other circumstances, he might have smiled at the idle parade and useless pomp which he had this day witnessed ; or mora- lized on that weakness of human nature which seemed to consider the inconvenient appendages of a throne, as the great end for which power was to be coveted ; but at the present moment he only saw a kind, and, as he believed, estimable indivi- dual disquieted and distressed. It was painful to witness the agitation of the prince; and Vivian felt it necessary to make some observations, which from his manner expressed much, though in fact they meant nothing. " Sir," said his highness ; "your sympathy con- soles me. Do not imagine that I can misunder- stand it — it does you honour. You add, by this, to the many favours you have already conferred on me, by saving my life and accepting my hospitality. I trust, I smcerely hope, that your departure hence will be postponed to the last possible moment. Your conversation and your company have made me pass a more cheerful day than I am accustomed to. All here love me ; but with the exception of Sie- vers, I have no companion; and although I esteem his principles and his talents, there is no congeni- ality in our tastes, or in our tempers. As for the rest, a more devoted band cannot be conceived ; but they think only of one thing — the lost dignity of their ruler ; and although this concentration of their thoughts on one subject may gratify my pride, it does not elevate my spirits. But this is a subject on which in future we will not converse. One of the curses of my unhappy lot is, that a thousand circumstances daily occur which prevent me forget- ting it." The prince rose from the t.ahle, and pressing with his right hand on part of the wall, the door of a small closet sprung open. The interior was lined with crimson velvet. He took out of it a crimson velvet cushion of the same regal material, on which reposed, in solitary magnificence, a golden coronet, of antique workmanship. "The crown of my fathers !" said his highness, as he placed the treasure, with great reverence, on the table ; " won by fifty battles and lost without a blow ! Yet, in my youth I was deemed no dastard : and I have shed more blood for my country in one day, than he who claims to be my suzerain, in the whole of his long career of undeserved prosperity. Ay ! this, this is the curse — the ancestor of my present sovereign was that warrior's serf!" Tlie prince pointed to the grim chieftain, whose stout helmet Vivian now perceived was encircled by a crown, exactly similar to the one which was lying b-;fore him. " Had I been the subject — had I been obliged to acknowledge the svi-ay of a Ccesar, I might have endured it with resignation : — had I been forced to yield to the legions of an emperor, 18 a noble resistance miglit have consoled me for the clanking of my chains; but to sink without a struggle, the victim of political intrigue — to become the bondsman of one who was my father's slave , for such was Reisenberg — even in my own remem- brance our unsuccessful rival. This, this was toci bad; it rankles in my heart; and unless revenged, I shall sink under it. To have lost my dominions would have been nothing. But revenge I will have ! It is yet in my power to gain for an enslaved peo- ple the liberty I have myself lost. Yes ! the en- lightened spirit of the age shall yet shake the quaver- ing councils of the Reisenberg cabal. I will, in truth I have already seconded the just, the unan- swerable demands of an oppressed and insulted people ; and ere six mouths are over, I trust to sc€ the convocation of a free and representative coun- cil, in the capital of the petty monarch to whom I have been betrayed. The chief of Reisenberg has, in his eagerness to gain his grand-ducal crown, somewhat overstepped the mark. " Besides myself, there are no less than three other powerful princes, whose dominions have been devoted to the formation of his servile dutchy. We are all animated by the same spirit, — all intent upon the same end. We have all used, and are using, our influence as powerful nobles, to gain for our fellow-subjects their withheld rights, — rights which belong to them as men, not merely as Ger- mans. Within this week I have forwarded to the Residence a memorial subscribed by myself, my relatives, the other princes, and a powerful body of discontented nobles ; requesting the immediate grant of a constitution similar to those of Wirtemberg and Bavaria. My companions in misfortune are inspirited by my joining them. Had I beeii wise, I should have joined them sooner; but until thi.s moment, I have been the dupe of the artful con- duct of an unprincipled minister. My eyes, how- ever, are now open. The grand-duke and his crafty counsellor, whose name shall not profane my lips, already tremble. Part of the people, em- boldened by our representations, have already re- fused to answer an unconstitutional taxation. I have no doubt that he must yield. Whatever may be the inclination of the courts of Vienna or St. Petersburg, rest assured that the liberty of Ger- many will meet with no opponent except political intrigue ; and that Mctternich is too well acquaint- ed with the spirit which is now only slumbering in the bosom of the German nation, to run the slightest risk of exciting it by the presence of foreign legions. No, no ! that mode of treatment may re^iiivu incident uf tho uitjht, which is ucvcrthcleaB i forgotten ; or to collect some inexplicable plot which has been revealed in sleep, and has fltd from the memorj' as tlic eyelids have opened. M'liere is the sweet sleep of an artist 1 — of tlie lawyer T Where, indeed, of any human being to whom the morrow brings its necessary duties 1 Sleep is the enemy of care, and care is the constant companion of regular labour, mental or bodily. But your traveller, your adventurous traveller — careless of the future, recklcs.s of the past — with a mind interested by the world, from tire inmiense and various character which that world presents to him, and not by his own stake in any petty or par- ticular contingency ; wearied Ir)' delightful fatigue, daily occasioned by varying means, and from varj'- ing causes ; with the consciousness that no pru- dence can regulate the fortunes of the morrow, and with no curiosity to discover what lliose fortunes may be, from a conviction that it is utterly impossi- ble to ascertain them ; perfectly easy whether he lie in a mountain-hut or a royal palace ; and reck- less alike of the terrors and chances of storm and bandits ; seeing that he has as fair a chance of meet- ing both with security and enjoyment — this is the fellow, who tlirowiiig his body upon a down couch or his mule's packsaddle. with equal eagerness and equal s;uig-froid sinks into a repose, in wliich he is never reminded by the remembrance of an ajv pointment or an engagement" for the next day, a duel, a marriage, or a diiuier, the three perils of man, that he has the misfortune of being mortal ; and wakes, not to combat care, but only to feel that he is fresher and more vigorous than he w;is the night before ; and that come Svhat come may, he is, at any rate, sure this day of seeing diflerent faces, and of improvising his unpremeditated part upon a diflerent scene. I have now both philosophically accounted, and politely' apologized, for the loud and unfasliioHable snore which sounded in the blue chamber about five minutes after Vivian Grey had entered that most comfortable ajiartment. In about twelve hours time, he was scoldiug Esspcr George for having presumed to wake hiai so early, quite unconscious that he had enjoyed any thing more than a twenty minutes' doze. " I should not have come in, sir, only they arc oil out They were oil" by six o'clock this morn- ing, sir ; most p;u-t at least. The prince has gone ; I don't know whether he went with them, but .Mas- ter Kodolph has given me — I breakfasted witli Mas- ter Kodoijth. — Holy ^■irgin ! your highness, what quarters we have got into ; the finest venison pas- ties, corned beef, hare soup, cherry sauce — " " To the point, to tho pouit, my good Esspcr ; what of the [irince 1" " His highness h;is left the castle, and desired Master Kodoljih — if your gnice bad only s«'en .Mas- ter Hodoljih tiiisy last night : hah ! hall ! hidi ! ho rolled about like a turbot in a tornado." "What of the prince, Esspir; what of the prince !" " His highness, your grace, has left the costle ; and Master Rodolph, who, by-the-by — " '• No more of .Master Kodolph, mt ; what of t^e prince?" " Vour highness won't hear me. The prince desired Master Kodolph — if your highness had oidy seen him last night — I beg pardon, I bei; pardon — the prince, Gotl bles-s him for his breaklk-^t ; the fi- nest venison pasties, corned beef, hare soup, cherry VIVIAN GREY, 139 sauce — I bf-g pardon, 1 beg pardon — the prince de- ' sired this letter to be given to your highness." Vivian read the note, which supposed that, of course, he would not wish to join the chase this morning, and regretted that the writer was obhged to ride out for a few hours to visit a neighbouring nobleman, but requested the pleasure of his guest's company at a private dinner in the cabinet, on liis return. Alter breakfast Vivian called on Mr. Sievers. — He found that gentleman busied in his library. '' These are companions, Mr. Grey," said he, pointing to his well-stored shelves, " that I ever find interesting. I hope, from the mysterious account of my retreat which I gave you yesterday, that you did not expect to be introduced to the sanctum of an old conjurer ; but the truth is, the cell of a ma- gician could not excite more wonder at Turriparva than does the library of a scholar." " I assure you, sir," said Vivian, " that nothing in the world could give me greater pleasure than to pass a morning with you in this retreat. Though born and bred in a library, my life, lor the last two years, has been of so veiy adventurous a nature, that I have seldom had the opportunity of recurring to those studies which once alone occupied my thoughts ; and your collection, too, is quite after my heart — poUtics and philosophy." Vivian was sincere in his declaration, and he had not for a long time passed a couple of hours with more delight tlian he did this morning with Mr. Sievers ; who, at the same time that he was a per- fect master of principles, was also 'a due reverencer of facts: a philosophical antiquary, in the widest and worthiest acceptation of the title ; one who ex- tracted from the deep knowledge of the past benefi- cial instruction for the present. " Come," st.'id Mr. Sievers, " enough of the su- perstitions of the middle ages ; aitevaM. superstitio7i is a word th;it it hardly becomes a philosoplier to use : nothing is more fatal in disquisition than terms which cannot be defined, and to which diflcrent meanings are attached, according to the different sentiments of different persons. A friend of mine once promised to give us a volume on ' The modes of Belief of the Middle Ages.' I always thought it a ve.y delicate and happy title, a most philosophi- cally-chosen phrase. I augured well of the volume ; but it has never appeared. Some men are great geniuses at a title-page I And to give a good title to a book does, indeed, require genius. I remem- ber when I was a student at Leipsic, there was an ingenious bookseller in that city vi'ho was a great hand at title-making. He published every jear magnificent lists of works ' in the press.' At first these catalogues produced an immense sensation throughout Germany, since there was scarcely a subject that could possibly interest mankind,which ivas not to be discussed in a forthcoming volume. — The list always regularly began with an epic poem : ilas regularly contained some learned history, in ten volumes, quarto — a grand tragedy — a first-rate histo- rical novel — works on criticism, natural philosophy, general literature, politics, and on every other sub- ject that you can possibly conceive, down to a new ahnanac for the coming year. Not one of these works ever- appeared. Such treatment, after our f.npetites had been so keenly excited, was rcafly ^ rse than the Barmecide's conduct to the barber's I .ther. It was like asking a party of men to dine "^'ilh you at some restaurateur's in the Palais Royal, and then presenting to each of them for dinner — a copy of the carte." "You never hunt, I suppose, Mr. Sievers?" " Never, never. His highness is, I imagine, out this morning; the beautiful weather continues; surely we never had sudi a season. As for my- self, 1 almost have given up my in-door pursuits. The sun is not the light of study. Let us take our caps, and have a stroll." The gentlemen accordingly left the library, and proceeding through a different gate to that by which V^ivian had entered the castle, they came upon a part of the forest in which the timber and brush- wood had been in a great measure cleared away ; large clumps of trees being left standing on an artificial lawn, and newly-made roads whiding about in pleasing irregularity until they were all finally lost in the encircling woods. '■ I think you told me," said Mr. Sievers, " that you had been long in Germany. What course do you think of taking from here 1" " Straight to Vienna." " Ah ! a delightful place. If, as I suppose to be the case, you are fond of dissipation and luxury, Vienna is to be preferred to any city with which I am acquainted. And intellectual companions are not wanting there, as some have said. There are one or two houses in which the literary soirees will yield to none in Europe ; and I prefer them to any, because there is less pretension, and more ease. The Archduke John is really a man of con- siderable talents, and of more considerable acquire- ments. A most admirable geologist! Are you fond of geology 1" " I am not the least acquainted with the science." " Naturally so — at your age if, in fact, we study at all, we are fond of fancying ourselves moral philosophers, and our study is mankind. Trust me, my dear sir, it is a branch of research soon exhausted ; and in a few years you will be very glad, for want of something else to do, to meditate upon stones. See now," said Mr. Sievers, picking up a stone, " to what associations does this little piece of quartz give rise ! I am already an antedi- luvian, and instead of a stag bounding by that wood, I witness the moving mass of a mammoth. I live in other worlds, which, at the same time, I have the advantage of comparing with the present. Geology is indeed a magnificent study ! What excites more the imagination? What exercises more the mind? Can you conceive any thing sublimer than the gigantic shadows, and the grim wreck of an antediluvian world 1 Can you devise any plan which will more brace our powers, and develope our mental energies, than the formation of a perfect chain of inductive reasoning to account for these phenomena ! What is the boasted com- munion which the vain poet holds with nature, compared with the conversation which the geolo- gist perpetually carries on with the elemental world 1 Gazing on the strata of the earth, he reads the fate of his species. In the undulations of the mountains is revealed to him the history of the past ; and in the strength of rivers, and the powers of the air, he discovers the fortunes of the future. To him, mdeed, that future, as well as the past and the present, are alike matter for medita- tion : for the geologist is the most satisfactory of antiquaries, the most interesting of philosopherf,, and the most inspired of prophets ; demonstrating that wliich has past by discovery, ihat which is 140 D'lSRAKLI'S NOVELS. occurring by observation, and that which is to come bv induction. When you 50 to Vienna I will give vou a letter to Frederic Schlegcl ; we were fellow- students, and are friends, though for various reasons we do not at present meet ; nevertheless, a letter from me will command proper resj>ect. I should advise you. however, before you go on to Vienna, to visit Heisenl>erg." '• Indeed ! from the prince's account I .should have thought that there was little to interest ms ihere." '• His hiehness is not an impartial judge. You arc probably acquainted with the disagreeable manner in which he is connected with that court Far from his opinion being correct, or his advice in this particular to be followed. I should say there are few places in Germany more worthy of a visit than the little court near us; and above all things in the world, my advice is that you should not pass it over." " I am inclined to follow your advice. You arc right in supposing that I am not ignorant that his highness has the misfortune of being the mediatised prince; but what is the exact story about him ? I have heard -some odd rumours, some vague expres- sions, some — " " O ! don't you know it all ! It's a curious story, but I'm afraid you'll find it rather long. Nevertheless, if you really visit Rcisenberg, it may be of use to you to know sometliing of the singu- lar characters yon will meet there ; and our present conversation, if it do not otherwise interest you, will at least, on this score, give you all requisite information. In the first place, yov: say you know that Little Lilliput is a mcdiati.sed prince ; and, of course, are }ircciscly aware what that title means. About fifty years ago, the rival of the illustrious family, in whose chief castle we are both of us now residing, was the Margrave of Rviscnberg. another petty prince, with territories not so extensive as those of our friend, and with a population more limited : perhaps fifty thousand souls, half of whom were drunken cousins. The old Margrave of Rei- senberz. who then reicncd, was a [jerfcct s|>ecimen of the old-fashioned, narrow-minded, brutal, bigoted, German prince ; he did nothing but hunt, and drink, and think of the ten thous-.ind quartcrings of his immaculate shield, all duly acquired from some Vanda.1 ancestor as barbarous as himself. His little margraviate was misgoverned enough for ft great empire. Half of his nation, who were his Teal people, were always starving, and were unable to find crown pieces to maintain the extr.ivagant expenditure of the other moiety, the five-and-tvvinty thousand cousins; who, out of gratitude to their fellow-subjects for their generous support, or as a punishment for their unreasonable unwillingness to starve, in order that the cousins might drink, harass them with even.- sjH'cies of brulul excess. Complaints were of course immcdiulcly made to the t:i ■ ^ louil cries for juslire ri'soundcd at tl • ' s. 'l"liis prince was a iiii'st iin- (>arti,., . ... ■• '■ '•••'''■•"-•'' fspfcially upoti his ' ' . nnd he allowwl nc : _i his deci- rionx. His inlaiiibie |iinn lijr nrrunging all ditfer- encea had the merit of In-ing brief; and if brevity lie the imul of wit, it cfrt.iinly was must unreason- able in his subjects to consider his judiiments no joke. He always countid the quaii('riiii;H in llie sbieUls o' the respective partic» and decided ac- cordingly. In^agine the speedy redress gaitic^ by a muddy -veined peasant against one of the cousins, who, of course, had as many quarterings as the margrave himself. The defendant was always re- gularly acquitted. At length, a man's house hav ing l>cen burned down out of mere joke in the night, the owner had the temeritv in the morning to accuse one of the fivc-and-twenty thousand ; and produced, at the same time, a shield with ten thousand and one quarterings, exactly one more than the reigning shield itself contained. The margrave was astounded, the nation in raptures, and the five-and-twenty thousand cousins in de- spair. The complainant's shield was examined and counted, and not a flaw discovered. What a di- lemma ! The chief magistrate consulted with the numerous branches of his family, and next morn- ing the comjilainant's head was struck c.fl' for treason, for daring to have one more quartering than his monarch ! '• In this way they passed their time about fifty years since in Reisenberg: occasionally, for the sake of variety, declaring war against the inhabi- tants of Little LilHput ; who, to say the truth, in their habits and pursuits did not materially difici from their neighbours. The margrave had one son, the present grand-duke. A due reverence of the great family shield, and a full acquaintance with the 'invariable principles' of justice were early instilled into him; and the royal stripling made such rapid progress under the tuition of his amiable parent, that he soon became highly popular with his five-and-twenty thousand cousins. At length his popularity became troublesome to his father ; and so the old margrave sent for his son one morning, and informed him that he had dreamed the preceding night that the sir of Rei- senberg was peculiarly unwhole.some for young {lersons. and therefore he begged him to get out of his dominions as soon as possible. The young prince had no I'bjection to see something of the world, and so with dutiful affection he immediately complied with the royal order, without putting his cousins' loyalty to the test He flew to a relative whom he had never before visited. This noble- man was one of thuse individuals who anticipate their age. which, by-the-by, Mr. Grey, none but noblemen should do; for he who anticipates his century, is generally persecutetl when living, and is always pilfered when dead. Howbeit, this relation was a jihilosopher ; all about him thought him mad; he. in ictum, thought all alxiut him fouls. He s«'nt the jrir.ce to a university, and gave him for a tutor, a youiitr man alxiut ten years older than his pupil. 'I'hi-i iK-n-on's name was Beckcndortl'. Vou will hear more of him. " About three years after the sudden departure of the young prince, the old margrave his fathir, and the then reigning Prince of Little Lilliput, shot each other through the head in a drunken brawl, after a dinner given in honour of a prrcla- matii'iii of peace betw«vn the two countries. The live-anti-twenly thousand cousins were not nu'.ch grievid. as they anticipaii^l a fit successor in their former favourite. Splendid preparations were made fur the reception of the inheritor of ten thousand quarterings, and all KcisenlK'rg waa [xiurcd'out to \\itnf>« the triumphant entrance of their future mcnarch. At liLst, two horsemen, in plain dr«-»«es, and on very indifferent steeds, rrnie up to the pdlacr- gates, dismounted, and without VIVIAN GREY. 141 making any inquiry, ordered the attendance of some of the chief nobility in the presence-chamber. One of them, a young man, without any prepara- tory explanation, introduced the Eeisenberg chief- tains to his companion as his prime minister ; and commanded them immediately to deUver up their porte-feuilles and golden keys to Mr. BeckendorlF. The nobles were in dismay, and so astounded that they made no resistance ; though the next morning they started in their beds, when they remembered that they had delivered their insignia of office to a man without a vo7i before his name. They were soon, however, roused from their sorrow and their stupor, by receiving a peremptory order to quit the palace ; and as they retired from the walls which they had long considered as their own, they had the mortification of meeting crowds of the common people, their slaves and their victims, hunying with joyful countenances and triumphant looks to the palace of their prince ; in consequence of an energetic proclamation for the redress of grievances, and an earnest promise to decide cases in future without examining the quarterings of the parties. In a week's time, the five-and-twenty thousand cou- sins were all adrift. At length they conspired, but the conspiracy was tardy — they found their former servants armed, and they joined in a most unequal struggle ; for their opponents were alike animated with hopes of the future, and with levenge for the past. The cousins got well beat, and this was not the worst; for Beckendorff took advantage of this unsuccessful treason, which he had himself foment- ed, and forfeited all their estates ; destroying in one hour the foul system which had palsied, for so many years, the energies of his master's subjects. In time, many of the chief nobility were restored to their honours and estates ; but the power with which they were again invested was greatly modi- fied, and the privileges of the commons greatly increased. At this moment the French revolution broke out — the French crossed the Rhine, and carried all before them ; and the Prince of Little Lilliput, among other tiue Germans, made a bold but fruitless resistance. The Margrave of Eeisen- berg, on the contrary, received the enemy with open arms — he raised a larger body of troops than his due contingent, and exerted himself in every manner to second the views of the great nation. In return for his services he was presented with the conquered principality of Little Lilliput, and some other adjoining lands ; and the margraviate of Reisenberg, with an increased temtory and population, and governed with consummate wis- dom, began to be considered the most flourishing of the petty states in the quarter of the empire to which it belonged. On the contraiy, our prmcely and patriotic friend, mortified by the degenerate condition of his country and the prosperity of hjs rival house, quitted Little LiUiput, and became one of those emigrant princes who abounded during the first years of the revolution in all the northern courts of Europe. Napoleon soon appeared upon the stage ; and vanquished Austria, with the French dictating at the gates of her capital, was no longer in a condition to support the dignity of the em- pire. The policy of the Margrave of Reisenberg was as little patriotic, and quite as consistent, as before. BeckendorlV became the constant and favoured counsellor of the French emperor. It was chiefly by his exertions that the celebrated confederation of the Rhine was carried into effect. The institution of this body excited among manv Germans, at the time, loud expressions of indigna- tion ; but I believe few impartial and judicious men now look upon that league as any other than one, in the formation of which the most consum- mate statesmanship was exhibited. In fact, it prevented the subjugation of Germany to France, and by flattering the pride of Napoleon, it saved the decomposition of our empire. But how this might be, it is not at present necessaiy for us to inquire. Certain, however, it was, that the pupil of Beckendorff was amply repaid for the advice and exertions of his master, and his minister ; and when Napoleon fell, the brows of the former mar- grave were encircled with a grand-ducal crown ; and his dutchy, while it contained upwards of a million and a half of inhabitants, numbered in its limits some of the most celebrated cities in Germany, and many of Germany's most flourishing provinces. But Napoleon fell. The Prince of Little Lilliput and his companions in patriotism and misfortune returned from their exile, panting with hope and vengeance. A congress was held to settle the affairs of agitated Germany. Where was the Grand-duke of Reisenberg] His hard-earneu crown tottered on his head. V»' here was his crafty minister, the supporter of revolutionary France, the friend of its imperial enslaver, the constant enemy of the house of Austria? At the very congress which, according to the expectations of the exiled princes, was to restore them to their own dominions, and to reward their patriotic loy- alty with the territories of their revolutionary brethren ; yes ! at this very congress was Becken- dorff; not as a supplicant, not as a victim ; but sitting at the right hand of Melternich, and watch- ing, with paternal affection, the first interesting and infantine movements of that most prosperous of political bantlings — the Holy Alliance. You may well imagine that the military grand-duke had a much 1 etter chance in political negotiation than the emigrant prince. In addition to this, the Grand-duke of Reisenberg had married, during the war, a princess of a powerful house ; and the allied sovereigns were eager to gain the future aid and constant co-operation of a mind like Becken- dorlT's. The Prince of Little Lilliput, the patriot, was rewarded for his conduct by being restored to his forfeited possessions ; and the next day he be- came the subject of his former enemy, the Grand- duke of Reisenberg, the traitor. What think you of Monsieur Beckendorfl'1 He must be a curious gentleman, I imagine !" " One of the most interesting characters I have long heard off. But his pupil appears to be a man of mind." " You shall hear, you shall hear. I should how ever first mention, that while Beckendorff has not scrupled to resort to any measures, or adopt any opinions in order to further the interests of his monarch and his countiy, he has in everj' manner shown that personal aggrandizement has never been his object. He lives in the most perfect retire- ment, scarcely with an attendant, and his moderate official stipend amply supports his more moderate expenditure. The subjects of the grand-duke may well be grateful that they have a minister without relations, and without favourites. The grand-duke' is, unquestionably, a man of talents; but at the same time, perhaps, one of the most weak-minded men that ever breathed. He was fortunate ill 142 D'lSRAELTS NOVELS. mcrtin^ with BeckonilorfT early in life ; and as the influence of the nnnister has not for a moment ceaseonopoly of ihoKc olllces, which for their due performance re- <|uirf only n Hhowy exterior or a schooled aihlress, is uriinled to the nobleit, all those state chargoR wliiih reijuire the cxt-rcine of iiitelliTt, aic now chiifly lilUd by ibc bourgeoisn At the same time, however, that both our secretaries of sfafe^ many of our privy councillors, war councillors, forest councillors, and finance councillors, are to be reckoned among the second class, still not one of these exalted individuals, who from their situa- tions are necessarily in constant personal commu- nication with the sovereign, ever sec that sovereign except in his cabinet and his council-chamber. Beckendorff himself, the premier, is the son of a peasant ; and of course not noble. IS'obility, which lias been proffered him, not onlj- by his own mo- narch, but by most of the sovereigns of Europe, he has invariaJily refused ; and consequently never appears at court. The truth is, that from dispo- sition, he is little inclined to mix with men ; and he has taken advantage of his want of on escut- cheon, completely to exempt himself from all those duties of etiquette which his exalted situation would otherwise have imposed upon him. None can complain of the haughtiness of the mibles, when, ostensibly, the minister himself is not ex- empted from their exclusive regulations. If you go to Reisenberg, you will not therefore sec Bcck- endorlf, who lives, as I have mentioned, in perfect salitude, about thirty miles from the capital ; com- municating oidy with his royal master, the foreion ministers, and one or two ofllcial characters of his own country. I w.ns myself an inmate of the court for upwards of two years. During that time I never saw the minister ; and, with the ex- ception of some members of the royal family, and the characters I have mentioned, I never knew one person who had even caught a glinjpse of the in- dividual, who nvay indeed be said to be regulating their destinies. "It is at the court, then," continued Mr. Sievers, " when he is no longer imdcr the control of Beck- endorff, and in those minor points which are not subjected to the management or influenced by the mind of the minister, that the tnie chanicter of the grand-duke is to be detected. Indeed, it may really be said, that the weakness of his mind has been the origin of his fortune. In his early youth, his pliant temper adapted itself without a struggle to the barbarous customs and the brutal conduct of his father's court: that same pliancy of tempo- prevented him opposing with bigoted obstinacy the exertions of his relation to ixlucafe and civiliy.e him ; that same pliancy of temper allowed him to become the ready and the enthusiiustic disciple of Beckendorff. Had the pupil, when he ascended the throne, left his master behind him, it is vert' prob;Jile that his natural feelings would have led him to oppose the French ; and at this moment, instead oi being the first of the second-rate pow» is of Ciermany, the Grand-duke of Reisenberg juigbt himself have been a meiliatised prince. As it w as. the same pliancv of temper which I have noticed, enabled him to receive IS'apolenn when an emu'- ror, with outstretched arms; and at this moment does not prevent him from receiving, with equal raptun% the imperial archihitchcss, who will soon be on her road from Vioinia to espouse his son — for. to crown his wonderfid career. BcckcndortVhas successfully negotiated a marriage betwii n a daugh- ter of the house of Austria and the Crown I'rincc* • net cditary prince \!>, I brliove. In nil casp». the correct ulylc iif ilio erilenl son of n ticrninn grniuliliike. 1 liavs iii'ii ii'ir.l n titio wliUh woiilil not tx- umlersUiod l>y ih»« r.iitlihli rintured Keisen- berg hailed, from her glowing pen, two neat octa- \o8, bearing the title of' AIkmoihs of the Corirr OF CmnLEMAnsF.,' which give an interesting utid accurate picture of the age, and delight the modern j)ul)lic with vivid descriptions of the cookery, cos- tume, and conversation of the eighth century. Vou hiiiile, my friend, at Madame Carolina's production. Do not you agree with me, that it requires no mean talent lo convey a picture of the bustle of a levee during the middle iigcs ? Conceive !Sir Oliver lx>king in ut his club ! and fancy the small (alk of lloland during a morning visit 1 Vet even the ' iii.e of this work in to be eclipsed by madame's forthcoming quarto of 'Hahou^ al Raschib attd HIS TiMF.s.' 'I'his, it is whispered, is to be a ckef d'wuvre, enriched by a chronoloirical arrangement, by a celebrated oriental scholar, of all the anecdotes in the Arabian Nights relating to the caliph. It is, of course, the sun of madame's patronage that has hatched into noxious lite the swarm of sciolists who now infest the court, and who arc sapping the husband's political power, while they are establish- ing the wife's literary reputation. So much for Madame Carolina! I need hardly add, that during your short stay at court, you will he do- liglited with her. If ever you know her a-i well as I do, you will find her vain, superficial, heartless : her sentiment — a system ; her enthusiasm — exag- geration ; and her genius — merely a clever adop- tion of the profundity of others." " And BeckendorlT and the lady are not friend- ly 1" asked Vivian, who was delighted with his communicative companion. " BeckendorlV's is a mind that such a woman cannot, of course, comprehend. He treats her with contempt, and, if possible, views her with hatred ; for he considers that she has degraded the character of his pupil ; while she, on the contrary, wonders by what magic spell he exercises such influence over the conduct of her husband. At first, Beckendorrt" treated her and her circle of illu- minati with contemptuous silence ; but, in pohtics, nothing is contemptible. The minister, knowing that the people were prosperous and happy, cared little for projected constitutions, and less for meta- physical abstractions ; but some circumstances have lately occurred, which, I imagine, have con- vinced him that for once he had miscalculated. After the arrangement of the German states, when the princes were first mediatised, an attempt was made, by means of a threatening league, to obtain for these pohtical victims a verv* ample share of the power and patronage of the new state of Reisen- bcrg. This plan failed, from the lukewarmness and indecision of our good friend of Little Lilliput ; who, between ourselves, was prevented from join- ing the alliance by t!ie intrigues of BeckendortT. Beckendorlf secretly took measures that the prince should be promised, that in case of his keeping backward, he should obtaiu more than would fall to his lot by leading the van. The Prince of Little Lilliput and his peculiar friends accordingly were quiet, and the attempt of the other chieftains failed. It was then tiiat his highness found he had been duped. Beckendorlf would not acknowledge the authority, and, of course, did not redeem the pledge of his agent. The elToct that this afl'air pro- duced upon the prince's mind you can conceive. Since then he has never frequented Keisenlierg, but constmtly resided either at his former capitid, now a provincial town of the graiiil-- mit to your highness the propriety of considering tlie propositions contained in the enclosed paper; which, if 3 our highness keep unconnected with this communication, the purport of Uiis letter will I* confined to your highness. " pnorosiTio^s. " 1st. Tliaf an interview shall take place l>etwecn your highness and myself; the object of which shall be the consider.ition of measures by vvhi<-h, when adoi)ted. the various interests now in agita- tion shall respectively be regarded. " 2d. That this interview shall be secret ; your highness being incognito. " If your highness l>c disposed to acceile to the first proposition, I beg to submit to you, that from the nature of my residence, its situation and oilier causes, there will be no fear that any suspicion of the lact of Mr. tw» Vhilipson acceding to tlw two pro])0':ilions will gain notoriety. This letlir will lie di-livered into your own hands. If Mr. von IMiilipson determine on accedint; to tliceo propositions, he is most probably aware of the gene- ral locality in which my residence is situated ; and pro|«'r measures will be t:iken that, if Mr. von i'hilipMm honour me with a visit, he shall not Im under tlie nocci^ity of attracting attention, by ii>- I quiring tlic way to my house. It is wi.slicd tht# VIVIAN GREY. 147 the fact of the second proposition being acceded to, should only be known to Mr. von Philipson and myself: but if to be perfectly unattended be con- sidered as an insuperable objection, I consent to his being accompanied by a single friend. I shall be alone. " Beckendoeff." " Well !" said the prince, as Vivian finished the letter. « " The best person," said Vivian, " to decide upon your highness consentmg to this interview is yourself." " That is not the point on which I wish to have the benefit of 3'^our opinion ; for I have already con- sented. I rode over this morning to my cousin, the Duke of Micromegas, and despatched from his resi- dence a trusty messenger to Beckendortl". I have agreed to meet him — and to-morrow ; but on the express terms that I shall not be unattended. Now, then," continued the prince, with great energy, " now, then, will you be my companion"!" "II" said Vi\ian,in the greatest surprise. " Yes ; you, my good friend I — you, you. I should consider myself as safe if I were sleeping in a burning house, as I should be were I with Becken- dorff alone. Although this is not the first time diat we have communicated, I have never yet seen him ; and I am fully aware, that if the approaching interview were known to my friends, they would consider it high time that my son reigned in my stead. But I am resolved to be firm — to be inflex- ible. j\Iy course is plain. I am not to be again duped by him ; which," continued the prince, very much confused, " I will not conceal that I have been once." " But I !" said Vivian ; " I — what good can I possibly do ? It appears to me, that if Becken- dorff is to be dreaded as you describe, the pressnce or the attendance of no friend can possibly save you from his crafty plans. But surely, if any one attend you, why not be accompanied I53' a person whom } ou have known long, and who knows \"ou ■well — on whom you can confidently rely, and who may be aware, from a thousand signs and circum- stances wdiich will never attract my attention, at what particular and pressing moments you may require prompt and energetic assistance. Such is the companion you want; and surely such a one you may find in Arnelm — Von Neuwied — " "Arnelm! Von Neuwiedl" said the prince; " the best hands at sounding a bugle, or spearing a boar, in all Rcisenberg I Excellent men, forsooth, to gu-ard their master fi-om the diplomatic deceits of the wily Beckendorff! Moreover, were tliey to have even the slightest suspicion of my intended movement, they would commit rank ti'eason out of pure loyally, and lock mc up in my own cabi- net ! No, no ! they will never do : I want a com- panion of experience and knowledge of the world ; with whom I may converse with some prospect of finding my wavcimg firmness strengthened, or my misled judgment rightly guided, or my puzeled brain cleared, — modes of assistance to which the worthy jagd junker is but little accustomed, how- ever q jwrtunity, which now ollered it.sclf. of becoming acquainted with an individual, respecting whom his curiosity was verj' nmch excited. It was a late hour ere the prince and his friend retired ; having arrang^ every thing for the morrow's journey, and convcBrd on the probable subjects of the approach- ing interview at great length. CHAPTER XXL Os the following morning, before sunrise, the prince's valet roused Vivian from his slumbers. According to the appointment of the preceding evening, Vivian repaired in due time to a certain spot in the park. 'J'he prince reached it at the h-ame moment. A mounted groom, leading two English horses, of very showy a])pcarance, and each having a travelling case stra))i>ed on the back of it.s saddle, awaited thoin. His highness nuiunt- e to admire in the rider, few things in this ndmirable world can bo conci-ived more beautiful lluui a horne, when the bloody Hpurhas thrust some aiiL'cr in hiii resentful side. How splendid to view him with liis dilated nostril, his flaming eye, l.Jt arched neck, and his waving tail, rustling like a banner in a battle ! — to see him champing Lis slavered bridle, and sprinkling the snowy fo&m upon the earth, which his hasty hoof seems almost as if it scorned to touch ! When Vivian and his companion had proceeded about five miles, the prince pulled uj). and giving a s(fcled letter to the groom, he desired him to leave them. The prince and Vivian amused themselves for a considerable time by endeavouring to form a correct conception of the person, mamiers, and habits of the wonderful man to whom they were on the point of paying so interesting a visit. " I bitterly regret," said Vivian, " that I have forgotten my Montesquieu ; and what would I give now to know by rote only one quotation from Machiavel ! I expect to be received with folded arms, and a brow lowering with the overwhelming weight of a brain meditating for the control of millions. His letter has prepared us for the mys- terious, but not very amusing style of his conver- sation. He will be perpetually on his guard not to commit hunself ; and although public business, and the receipt of papers, by calling him away, will occasionally give us an opportunity of being alone ; still I regret most bitterly, that I did not put iti my case some interesting volume, which would have allowed me to feel less tedious those hours during which you will neces-sarily be em- ployed with him in private consultation." After a ride of five hours, the horsemen arrived at a small village. '* Thus Air I think I have well piloted you," said the prince: "but I confess my knowledge here ceases ; and though I shall disobey the diplomatic instructions of the great man, I nmst even ask some old woman the way to Mr. BeckendorlV's." While they were hesitating as to whom they should address, an equestrian, who already passed them on the road, thouijh at some distiuice, came up, and inquired, in a voice which A'ivian immedi- ately recognised as that of the messenger who had brought BeckendorlV's letter to Turriparva, whether he had the honour of addressing Mr. von Philip- son. Neither of the gentlemen answered, for Vivian of course expected the prince to reply ; and his highness was, as yet, so unused toliis ijicognito, that ho had actually forgotten his own name. But it was evident tluit the demandant had questioned rather from .system thiui by way of security ; and he waited very patiently until the prince had collected his senses, and assumed sullicient gravity of coun- tenance to inform tlie horstumm that lie was the person in question. " What, sir, is your plea- sure 1" " I lun instructed to ride on before you, sir, tliat you may not mistake your way :"' and without waiting for an answer, the laconic messenger turned lus steed's head, luul trotted oil". The travellers soon lilt the hieh road, and turned up a wilt! lurl" patii, not only inaccessible to car- riages, but even requiring great attention from horse- men. After nmch windini;, and some lloundering, they arrived at a light and very fanciful iron gate, which app;u"ently ojn-ned into u hlirnblK-ry. " 1 will take your horsi'.s here, gentlemen," said the guide ; and getting olf his horse, ho opened the gate. " Follow this patli, and you can meet with no diflieully.'' 'J'he prince and Vivian ac- cordingly dismoiuitcd ; and Uto guide inuuc- VIVIAN GREY 119 (Jiately, with the end of his v/hip, gave a loud thrill whistle. The path ran, for a very short way, through the shrubbery, whirh evidently was a belt encircling the groimls. From this the prince and Vivian emerged upon an ample lawn, which formed on the farthest side a terrace, by gradually sloping down to the margin of a river. It was enclosed on the other sides by an iron railing of the sanio pat- tern as the gate, and a great number of white pheasants were quietly feeding in its centre. Fol- lowing the path which skirted the lawn, they arrived at a second gate, which opened into a garden, in which no signs of the taste at present existing in Germany for the English system of -- pictuiesque pleasure-grounds were at all visible. The walk was bounded on both sides by tall bor- ders, or rather hedges of box, cut into the shape of battlements; the sameness of these turrets being occasionally varied by the immovable form of some trusty warder, carved out of yew or laurel. Raised terraces and arched walks, aloes and orange- trees, mounted on sculptured pedestals, columns of cypress, and pyramids of bay, whose dark foliage strikingly contrasted with the luarble statues, and the white vases shining in the sun, rose in all direc- tions in methodical confusion. The sound of a fountain was not wanting ; and large beds of the most beautiful flowers abounded ; hut in no instance did Vivian observe that two kinds of plants v/ere ever mixed together. Proceeding through a very lofty berccau, occasional openings, whose curving walks allowed effective glimpses of a bust or a statue, the companions at length came in sight of the house. It was a long, uneven, low buildin neck which agreed well with his beardless chin, and would not have misbecome a woman. In England we should have called his breeches buck- skin. They were of a pale yellow leather, and suited his large and spur-armed cavalry boot, which fitted closely to the legs they covered, reaching over the knees of the wearer. A riband round his neck, tucked into his waistcoat pocket, was attached to a small French watch. He swung in his right hand the bow of a violin ; and in the other, the little finger of which was nearly hid by a large antique ring, he held a white handkerchief strongly perfumed with violets. Notwithstanding the many feminine characteristics which I have ""noticed, either from the expression of the eyes, or the forma- tion of the mouth, the countenance of this individual generally conveyed an impression of the greatest firmness and energy. This description will not be considered ridiculously minute by those who have never had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the person of so celebrated a gentleman as Mr. Beckf.nborff. He advanced to the prince with an air which seemed to proclaim, that as his person could not be mistaken, the ceremony of introduction was perfectly unnecessary. Bowing in the most cere- monious and courtly manner to his highness, Mr. Beckendorii" in a weak, but not unpleasing voice, said that he was honoured " by the presence of Mr. von Philipson." The prince answered his salu- tation in a manner equally ceremonious, and equally courtly ; for having no mean opinion of his own diplomatic abilities, his highness deter- mined that neither by an excess of coldness, nor cordiality on his part, should the minister gather evidently of ancient architecture. Numerous stacks the slightest indication of the temper in which he of tall and fantastically-shaped chinmeys rose over had attended the interview. You see that even three thick and heavy gables, which reached down j the bow of a diplomatist is a very serious busi- iiirther than the middle of the elevation, formin tJiree compartments, one of them including a large and modem bow-window, over which clustered in profusion the sweet and glowing blossoms of the clematis and the pomegranate. Indeed the whole front of the house was so completely covered with a rich scarlet creeper, that it was almost impossible to ascertain of what materials it was built. As Vivian was admiring a large white peacock, which, attracted by their approach, had taken the opportu- nity of unfurling its wheeling traui, a man came forward from the bow-window. I shall be particular in my description of his ap- pearance. In height he was about iive feet eight mches, and of a spare, but well-proportioned figure. He had very little hair, which was highly powdered, and dressed in a manner to render more remarkable the extraordinary elevation of his coni- cal and polished forehead. His long piercing black eyes were almost closed, from the fulness of tlieir upper hds. His cheeks were sallow, his nose acquiline, his mouth compressed. His ears, which were quite unco^'ered by hair, were so wonderfully small, that it would be wrong to pass them over unnoticed; as indeed were his hands and feet, which in form were quite feminine. He was dressed in a coal and waistcoat of black velvet, the latter part of his costume reaching to his thighs ; and in a button hole of his coat was a large bunch of tube-rose. A small part of his flannel waistcoat appeared through an opening in his exquisitely plaited shirt, tlie broad collar of which, though tied d with a wide black riband, did not conceal a " Mr. Beckendorff," said his highness, " my let- ters doubtless informed you that I should avail my- self of your permission to be accompanied. Let me have the honour of presenting to you my frieiid Mr. Grey, an English gentleman." As the prince .spoke, Beckendorff stood with his arms crossed behind him, and his chin resting upon his chest ; but his eyes at the same time so raised as to look his higliness full in the face. Vivian was so struck by his posture, and the expression of his countenance, that he nearly omitted to bow when he was presented. As his name was men- tioned, the minister gave him a sharp sidelong glance, and moving his head very gently, he invited ills guests to enter the house. The gentlemen accordingly complied with liis request. Passing through the bow-window, they found themselves in a well-sized room, the si.les of which were covered with shelves of richly bound books. There was nothing in the room which gave the slightest indication that the master of the library was any other than a private gentleman. Not a book, not a chair was out of its place. A purple inkstand of Sevre china, and a very highly-tooled morocco port-folio of the same colour, reposed on a ro.se-wood table, and that was all. No paper;., no despatches, no red tape, and no red boxes. Over an ancient chimney, lined with blue china tiles, on which were represented the most gro- tesque figures — cows playing the harp — monkeys acting monarchs — and tall figures all legs, flying with rapidiiy from pursuers who were all hea*l— ■ ir2 IjO D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. over this chimney were suspendcil some curious {>iecc8 of antique armour, ninonq; whiclu an Italian «lac2;<'r, with a chiLsed and jewelled hilt, was the most remarkalile and the most jirecious. ♦' Tliis," said Mr. BeckeiuiorlV. '• is my library." « "What a splendid poniard!" said the ))rince, who had no tas^te for books; and he immediately walked up to the chimney-piece. Beckendorll" followed him. and takiiiR down the admired wea- pon from its rcHlins^-jilace, proceeded to lecture on its virtues, its antiquity, and its beauty. Vivian seized this o})portunity of takino; a rapid phmee at the contents of his library. He anticipated inter- leaved copies of Machiavel. Vattel, and Mon- tesquieu ; and the liKhtcst works that he expected to meet with were the lyinij memoirs of some inlrifTuing cardinal, or the deluding apology of an exiled minister. To his surprise lie found that without an exception, the collection merelv con- sisted of poetry and romance ; and while his eye rapidly passed over, not only the great names of Germany, but also of Italy and of France, it was with pride that he remarked upon the shelves an English Shakspeare; and perhajs with still greater delight, a complete edition of the enchanted volumes of our illustrious Scott. Surprised at this most unexpected circumstance, Vivian looked with a curious eye on the uidettored backs of a row of mighty folios on a comer shelf; •'Thes=e," he tliought, " at least must be royal ordin:inccs, and collected state-papers." The sense of ])ro[irietv struggled for a moment with the ])assion of curi- oisity ; but nothing is more diHicult for the man who loves books, than to refrain from examining a volume which he fancies may be vniknown to him. From the jewelled dagger. Beckendorll' had now got to an enamelled breast-plate. Two to one he should not be ol)served ; and so, with a desperate pull. Vivian extracted a volume — it was an herl)al ! lie tried another — it was a collection of dried insects I He inmiediately replaced it, and staring at his host, wondered whether he really could be the Mr. Beckendorff of whom he had heairl so much. "And now," said Mr. Beckendorff, "I will show you my drawing-room." iie ofK'ucd the door at the further end of the library-, and introduceil them to a room of a very di)lerent character. The sun. which was shining vei7 brightly, lent additinnal brilliancy to the rain- bow-'.iiited birds of paradise, the crimson mackaws. and the green parrocpirts that glistened on the Bplendid India [»apcr, which covered not onlv the walls, but also the ceiling of the room. Over the Jire-piacc, a black frame. ])rojcctint; from the wall and mournfully coritnjsting with the general brilliant appearunce of the apartment, incloseil a |)icture of a U-autiful female ; and bending over its frame, and indeed partly shadowing the counte- nance, was the withered bratich of a tree. A h!iq>sicln>rd, and Bcveral ca»<'« of nnisical iiiKtru- inentM were placed in ililTeri-nt parts of the room ; and suspended by vitv broad black riiiands, from a w.dl "11 caeli side of the picture, wi-re a gnil.ir and a tambourine. On a Bofi of un\isnnl si/.e lay a (.'remona ; oiul as .Mr, BeckenilorlV passed the in- ^lru^lent, he threw liy ili» "ide the bow, which he had hitherto carried in his hand. •' V\'« may nit wi-ll now take nomelhinir," oaid Mr. BeckenilorlV, when his gucala had sutlicicntly admired the room ; " my pictures are in my dining- room — let us go there." So saying, and armed this time, not only with his bow, but also with his violin, he retraced his steps through the library, and crossing a small pas- sage, which divided the house into two compart- ments, he opened the door into his dining-room. The moment that they entered the room, their ears were saluted, and indeed their si'nses ravished, by what ajipeared to be a concert of a thou.^and birds; vet none of the winged choristers were to be seen, and not even a single cage was visible. The room, which was verj- simply furnished, appeared at first rather gloomy ; for though lighted by three win- dows, the silk blinds were all drawn. " And now," said Mr. Beckendorff, raising the first blind, " you shall see my pictures. At what do you estimate this Breughel V The window, which was of stained green glass, gave to the landscape an effect similar to that ge- nerally produced by the artist mentioned. 'J'ho prince, who was already verj' puzzled by finding one who, at the same time, was both his host and his enemy, so perfectly different a character to w hat he had conceived, and who, being by temper sujier- slitious, considered that this preliminarj' false opinion of his was rather a had omen, — did not express any ver\' great allow lint of the second window gave to the fanciful garden all that was requisite to make it look Italian. "Have you ever been in Italy, sir?" asked Beckendorff". " I have not." " You have, Mr. von Philipson ?" " Never south of Germany." answered the prince, wlio was exceedingly hungry, and eyed, with a rapacious glance, the capital luncheon which he saw prepared for him. " Well then, when either of you go, you will of course not miss the Laggo Maggiore. Ga7e on Isola Bella at srmset, and you will not view as fair a scene as this ! .And now, Mr. von Philipson," said Mr. Beckendorff, "do me the favour of giving me your o|)inion of this Honthorst."' His highness would rather have given his opinion of the fine dish of stewed game which still smoked upon the table, but which he was mournfully con- vinced would not smoke long ; or of the large cucnnd)ers, of which he was parlicidarly foiid, and whii-h, amcmg many other vegetables, his amorous eye had already detected. " But,'* lhoU'4:lit he, " this is the last !" and so he ver\' warmly admired the elfecl produced by the tiaming panes, to which iiei'kendorff swore that no piece ever jiaiiited by (I'erard Honthorst, for brilliancy of colouring and bolilnefw of outline, coulil be ci>inpiired : " besides," ciinlinued Beckendorll", "mine are all animated pictures. Seeihal cypress, waving from the gentle brei'ze which is now stirring — and look! look VIVIAN GREY. 151 at this crimson peacock ! — look ! Mr. von Philip- son." "I am looking, Mr. von 1 beg pardon, Mr. Bcckendorff," said the prince, with great dig- nity — making this slight mistake in the name, either from being unused to converse with such low people as had not the nominal mark of nobihty, or to vent his spleen at being so unnecessarily kept from the refreshment which he so much required. " Mr. von PhiUpson," said Beckendorif, sud- denly turning round ; " all my fruits and all my vegetables, are from my own garden. Let us sit down and help ourselves." The only substantial food at table was a gi'eat dish of stewed game, which I believe I have men- tioned before. The prince seized the breast and wings of a young pheasant, Vivian attacked a fine tender hare, and BeckendorfT himself cut off the wing of a partridge. The vegetables and the fruits were numerous and superb; and there really ap- peared to be a fair prospect of the Prince of Little Lilliput making as good a luncheon as if the whole had been conducted under the auspices of Master Rodolph himself, — had it not been for the con- founded melody of the unseen vocalists, which, probably excited by the sound of the knives and plates, too evidently increased every momerit. But this inconvenience was soon removed by Mr. Bcck- endorff rising, and giving three loud knocks on the door opposite to the one by which they had enter- ed. Immediate silence ensued. " Clara will be here in an instant, to change your plate, Mr. von Philipson," said Bcckendorff, — " and here she is." Vivian eagerly looked up, not with the slightest idea that the entrance of Clara would prove that the mysterious picture in the drawing-room was a portrait ; but it must be confessed with a Ihtle curiosity to view the first specimen of the sex who lived under the roof of Mr. Eeckendorff. Clara was a hale old W'Oman, with rather an acid expres- sion of countenance ; very prim in her appearance, and evidently very precise in her manners. She placed a bottle, and two wine-glasses with long thin stems, on the table ; and having removed the game, and changed the plates, she disappeared. " Pray what wine is this, Mr. BeckendoriTl" eagerly asked the prince, with a coimtenance glowing with delight — and his highness was vulgar enough to smack his lips, which, for a prince, is really shocking. " I really don't know. I never drink wine." " Not know ! Grey, take a glass. What's your opinion? — I never tasted such wine in my life. Why, I do declare it is real Tokay I" " Probably it may be," said Mr. Beckendorff; '• I think it was a present from the emperor. I have never tasted it." " My dear sir, take a glass !" said the prince ; his natural kind and jovial temper having made him completely forget whom he was addressing, the business he had come upon, and indeed every thing else except the astounding circumstance that there was an individual in the room who refused to take his share of a bottle of real Tokay : — " My dear sir, take a glass." " I never drink wine ; I'm glad you like it, I have no doubt Clara has more." " No, no, no ! we must be moderate, w^e must be moderate," said the prince, who, though a great admirer of a good luncheon, had also a due respect for a good dinner, — and consequently had no idea at this awkward hour in the day of preventing himself from properly appreciating the future ban- quet. Moreover, his highness, taking into consi- deration the very piquant sauce with which the game had been dressed, and the marks of refine- ment and good taste which seemed to pervade every part of the establishment of Mr. Becken- dorif, did not imagine that he was much presum- ing, when he conjectured that there was a fair chance of his dinner being something very supe- rior. The prince, therefore, opposed a further supply of Tokay, and contented himself for the present with assisting his Gruyere with one of the very fine looking cucumbers — his favourite cucum- bers; which, though yet imtasted, had not, in spite of the wine, been banished from his memory. " You seem very fond of cucumbers, Mr. von Philipson," said Beckendorff. " So fond of tliem that I prefer them to any vegetable, and to most fruits. What is more cool- ing — more refreshing ! What — " *' I never eat them myself; but I'll tell you, if you like, what I think the best way of treating a cucumber." His highness was the most ready, and the most graceful of jnipils ; and Vivian could scarcely sup- press his laughter, when the prime minister, with a grave countenance, and in his peculiarly subdued voice, and somewhat precise mode of speaking, commenced instructing his political opponent upon the important topic of dressing a vegetable. " You must be careful," said Mr. Beckendorff, " to pick out the straightest, thinnest-skinned, most seedless cucumber that you can find. Six hours before you want to eat it, put the stalk in cold water on a marble slab — not the whole cucumber — that's nonsense. Then pare it very carefully, so as to take off all the green outside and no more. Slice it as thin as possible, spread it over your dish, and sprinkle it with a good deal of white pep- per, red pepper, salt, and mustard-seed. Mix some oil and common vinegar with a little Chili, and drown it in them. Open a large window very wide — and throw it all out !" It was quite evident that Mr. von Philipson was extremely disappointed, and perhaps a iittle of- fended at the vmexpected termination of Mr. Beck- endorff's lecture, to which he had listened with the most interested attention. As for Vivian Grey, he did not atlect to contain himself any longer, but gave way to a long and loud laugh — a laugh not so much excited by the manner in which Becken- dorff had detailed the desired information, although it was extremely humorous, as by the striking contrast which the speaker and the speech aflbrded to the conceptions which he and his companion had formed of their host during their ride. His rather boisterous risibility, apparently, did not offend Mr. Beckendorff, on whose upper lip, for an instant, Vivian thought he detected a smile or a sneer. It was, however, only for an instant; for the minister immediately rose from table, and left the room by the same door on which his three loud knocks had previously produced so tranquillizmg an effect. The sudden arrival and appearance of some new and unexpected guests through the very mysterious portal by which Mr. Beckendorif had vanished, not only were the source of fresh entertainment to our hero, but also explained the character of the apartr 152 D 'I S R A E L r S NOVELS. mrnt, ^\hirh, from its unceasincf melody, had so much excited his curiosity. These new guests were a erowd of pipinc; bullfinches, Virginia night- ingales, trained canaries, Java sparrows, and Indiiin lories; wliiih having liocu Treed from their cages of golden wire bv their foiul ma-iter, had fled, as was their cus^tom, from his superb a\iary to pay their respects and coni)>nmPuts at his daily levee. The table was immediately covered, and the prince immediately annoyed. Noticing diil he detest so much as the whole feathered race ; and now, as far as he could observe, he might as well have visited a bird-catcher as Mr. Beckendorfl'. The while pheasants, and the white i>cacock, could have been borne ; but as for the present intrusion, a man had better live in Noah's ark than in tiie lilini;nlar friends. At len^jtli, to the prince's pfrent relief, Mr. Beck- endorfl'B f'-;itlierere8«int with their voicea — un injunction which, to \ iviuii's great surprise, was obeyed to the letter; and when the door was closed, few persons in the world could have been persuaded tliat the next room was an aviary. " I am proud of my peaches, Mr. von Philipson," said Beckendorfl', recommending the fruit to his guest's attention ; then, rising from the table, he threw himself on the sofa, and began humming a tune in a very low voice. Presently he look up his Cremona, and u-^ing the violin as a guitar, accom- panied himself in a very beautiful air, but not in a more audible tone. While Mr. Beckendorfl" was singing, he seemed quite unconscious that any person was in the room ; and the prince, who de- tested music, certainly gave him no hint, either by his aj>probation or his attention, that he was listened to. Vivian, however, like most unhappy men, did love music with all his .spirit's strength ; and actuated by this feeling, and the interest which he began to talie in the character of Mr. Beckendorfl", he could not, when that gentleman had finished his air, refrain from very sincerely saying " encore !" Beckendorfl' stirted and looked around, as if he were for the first moment aware that any being had heard him. "Encore!" said he, with a kind sneer; "who ever could sing or play the same tlvyig twice ! Are you fond of music, sirl" " \cvy nnich so, indeed : I fancied I recognised that air. You are an admirer, I imagine, of Mozart 1" " 1 never heard of him : I know nothing of those gentry. But if you really like music, I'll play you something worth listening to." Mr. BeckendorflT began a beautiful air very adagio, gradually increasing the time in a kind of variation, till at last his execution became so won- derfully rapid, that ^'ivi;ln, surprised at the mere mechanical action, rose fron; his chair in order belter to examine the player's manaiiement and motion of his bow. Exquisite as were the tones, enchantuig as were the originality of his variations, and the perfect harmony of his composition, it was nevertheless extremely dilficult to resist laughing at the ludicrous contortions of his face and figure. Now, his body bending to the strain, he was atoi:e moment with his violin raised in the air, and the next instant with the lower nut almost resting upon his foot. At length, by well-proportioned degrees, the air died away into the original soft cadence ; and the player becoming completely entnuiced in his own pcrl'ormaiice, finished by sinking back on the sofa, with his bcw and violin raised over his head. \'ivian would not disturb him by his ap- plause. An instant aftir, Mr. Becktndorfl', throw- rng down tb(> instrument, rushed through an opened window into the garden. As soon as BeckeudorfTwas out of sight. Vivian looked at the prince; and his highness, elevntinff his evebrows, screwing up I: is moutli, and shrugg- ing his shoidders, altogether i)reBenled a very comi- cal jiicture of n puz'/.li-d man. " Well, my ilear friend," said he, " this is rather different to what we exj)ected." " \'ery difl'erent indeed ; but much more amus- ing." " Humph !" said the prinro, very slowly, " I do not think it exactly requiri*** a ghost to tell uk thai Mr. BeckendortV Is not in the habit of going to court. I don't know how he is accustomed to conduct himself when he is honoured by a visit from the grund-dulvc ; but I aiu quite sure, tliut VIVIAN GREY. 15J - man. who was not the son of a man who had twenty thousand a year landed property. Con- vinced that his declaration was sincere. I respected his prejudices, and did not dispute his definition. I should have behaved the same, had I been in Africa, and had a Hottentot dandy declared, tliat no person was to be visited who dand to devour the smoking entrails of a sheep in less than a cou- ple of mouthfuls. As a fire was blading in the dining-room, which Mrs. Clara infonned them Mr. BeckendorfT never omitted havincr every night in tlie year, the prince and his friend imagined that they were to remain there, and they consequently did not attempt to disturb the slumbers of Mr. BeckendorfT. Resting his feet on the hobs, his highness, for the fiftieth time, declared that he wished he had never left Turriparva ; and just when Vivian w.as on the point of giving up, in despair, the hope of consoling him, Mrs. Clara entered, and ]>rocceded to lay the clotli. "Your master is awake, theni" asked the prince, very quickly. " Mr. BcckendorfThasbeen long awake, sir ! and dinner will be ready immediately." His highness's countenance brightene<1, and in a short time the supper ajipearing. the prince .again fascinated by Mrs. Clar.»'s cookery and Mr. Becken- dorlT's wine, forgot his chagrir., and ri'gained his temper. In about a couple of hours Mr. BeckendorfT en- tered. " I hope that Clara has given you wine yoti like, Mr. von Philipson ?" " liXcellrnt, my dear sir ? the same bin, I'll an- swer for that." Mr. BeckendorfT had his violin in his hand ; but his dress was niuch changed. His great Knits Ink- ing ])ulle(i elT, exhibiting the while silk stm-kings which he invariably wore ; and his coat had given place to the easier covering of a very long and b.indsoine brocade dressing-gown. He drew a chair round the fire, between the prince nndVivi- II n. It was a late hour, and the room was only lighted by the glimmering coal.>>. for the f1nine« had biiig died awiiy. Mr. BcckeiidoriT sat for some time without s)>eaking, ga/iiig very earnestly on the decaying embers, Iiiileed, before many mi- nutes had elapsed, complete silence prevailed, for both the endeavours of the prince, and of Vivian, to promote conversation had been uiiMieeessfiil. .\t length the master uf the hout>e turned rouiul to VIVIAN GREY. 155 the prince, and pointing to a partirular mass of coal, said, " I think, Mr. von Philipson, that is the completest elephant I ever saw. We will ring the hidli for some coals, and then have a game of whiit." Tiie prin'^e was so surprised by Mr. Becken- dorfl's remark, that he was not sufficiently struck by the strangeness of his proposition; and it was only when he heard Vivian professing his igno- rance of the game, that it occurred to hiin that to play at whist was hardly the object for which he had travelled from Turriparva. •' " An Englishman not know whist !" said Mr. BeckendorfT: "Ridiculous! — you do know it. You're thinking of the stupid game they play here, of Boston whist. Let us play ! Mr, von Fhilipson, I know, has no objection." " But, my good sir," said tlie prince, " although previous to conversation I rnay have no objection to join in a little amusement, still it appears to me that it has escaped your memory that whist is a game which requires the co-operation of four per- sons." " Not at ail ! I take dummy. I'm not sure if it is not the finest way of playing the game." The table was arranged, the lights brought, the cards produced, and the Prince of Little Liliiput, greatly to his surprise, found himself playing whist with Mr. Beckendorir. Nothing could be more dull. The minister would neither bet nor stake ; and the immense interest which he took in every card that was played, most ludicrously contrasted with the rather sullen looks of the prince, and the very sleepy ones of Vivian. Whenever Mr. Beck- endorif played for dummy, he always looked wilh the most searching eye into the next adversary's face, as if he would read his cards in his features. The first rubber lasted an hour and a half — three long games, which Mr. Beckendorff, to his triumph, hardly won. In the first game of the second rub- ber Vivian blundered ; in the second he revoked ; and in the third, having^ieglected to play, and be- ing loudly called upon, and rated both by his part- ner and Mr. Beckendorff, he was found to be asleep. Beckendorff threw down his hand with a loud dash, which roused Vivian from his slumber. He apo- logized for his drowsiness ; but said that he was so extremely sleepy that he must retire. The prince, who longed to he wilh Beckendorff alone, winked ipprobation of his intention. '•Well!" said Beckendorff, "you spoiled the rubber. I shall ring for Clara. Why you are all 80 fond of going to bed, I cannot understand. I have not been to bed these thirty years." Vivian made his escape ; and Beckendorff, pity- ing his degeneracy, proposed to the prince, in a tone which seemed to anticipate that the oiler would meet with instantaneous acceptation — double dum- my ; — this, however, was too much. " No more cards, sir, I thank you," said the prince ; ''if, however, you have a mind for an hour's conversation, I am quite at your service." '■ I am obliged to you — I never talk — good night, Mr. von Philipson." ' Mr. Beckendorff left the room. His highness fould contain himself no longer. He rang the bell. " Pray, Mrs. Clai-a," said he, " where are ray horses V '■ Mr. Beckendorff will have no quadrupeds with- in a mile of the house, except Owlface." " How do you mean 1 — let me see the man servant." " 'i'he household consists only of myself, sir." " Why ! where is my luggage, then 1" " 1'hat has been brouglit up, sir ; it is in your room." " I toll you, I must have my horses." " It is quite impossible to-night, sir. I think, sir, you had better retire ; Mr. Beckendorff may not be home again these six hours." " What ! is your master gone outl" " Yes, sir, he is just gone out to take his ride." " Why ! where is his horse kept, then !" " It's Owlface, sir." " Owlface, indeed ! what, is your master in the habit of riding out at night V " Mr. Beckendorff rides out, sir, just when it happens to suit him." " it is very odd I cannot ride out when it hap- pens to suit me! However, I'll be off to-morrow; and so, if you please, show me my bed-room at once." " Your room is the library, sir." " The library ! why, there's no bed in the li- brary." " We have no beds, sir ; but the sofa is made up." " No beds ! well ! it's only for one night. You are all mad, and I am as mad as you for coming here." CHAPTER XXIL The morning sun peeping through the window of the little summer-house, roused its inmate at aji early hour ; and finding no signs of Mr. Becken- dorff and his guest having yet arisen from their slumbers, Vivian took the opportunity of strolling about the gardens and the grounds. Directing his way along the margin of the river, he soon left the lawn, and entered some beautiful meadows, whose dewy verdure glistened in the brightening beams of the early sun. Crossing these, and passing through a gate, he found himself in a rural road, whose lotty hedge-rows, rich with all the varieties of wild fruit and flower, and animated with the cheering presence of the busy birds chirping from every bough and spray, altogether presented a scene which greatly reminded him of the soft beauties of his own countrj'. With some men, to remember is to be sad ; and unfortunatelj' for Vivian Grey, there were few objects which with him did not give rise to associations of a most painful nature. Of what he was thinking as he sat on a bank with his eyes fixed on the ground, it is needless to in- quire. He was roused from his re very by the sound of a trotting horse. He looked up, but the wind- ing road prevented him at first from seeing the steed, which evidently was approaching. The souiiil came nearer and nearer ; and at length, turn- ing a corner, Mr. Beckendorff came in sight He vs'as mounted on a ver}^ strong built, rough, and particularly ugly pony, with an obstinate mane, which, defying the exertions of groom or ostler, fell in equal divisions on both sides of his bottle neck * and a large white face, which, combmed with its blind, or blinking vision, had earned for it the euphonious and complimentary title of Owlfac«{ 156 P ' I S R A E L r S NOVELS. Both master and steed must have travelled hard nnd far, for both were covered with dut;t aiui mud from top to toe — from mane to hoof. Mr. Beekeiidorff seemed .suqirised al meeting Vivian, and pulled uj> his pony as he reaehcd him. " .An early riser, I see, sir. \\'here is Mr. von Phil i} .son ?" " 1 have not yet seen him, and imagined that both he and yourself had not yet risen." " Hum ! how many is it to noon ?" asked Mr. Beekendorfi', who always spoke astronomieaily. "More than four, I imagine." " Pray, do you prefer tlie country about here to Turr;n;irva !" " Hoth, I think, arc very beautiful." " You live at Turriparva ]" asked Mr. Bccken- dorfl". " When I am there," answered Vivian, smiling, ■who was too jiractised a head to be pumped even by Mr. BeckendorH". " Pray. ha,s it lroceedini;s, by wliich interchange it was iintici|>ated that the mutual in- tcicstii might be respeeti\ely considered and finailv VIVIAN GREY. 157 arranged. Prior, Mr. Beckendorff, to either of us going into any detail upon those points of probable discussion, which will, in all likelihood, form the fundamental features of this interview, I wish to recall your attention to the paper which I had the honour of presenting to his royal highness, and which is alluded to in your communication of the — inst. The principal heails of that document I have brought with me alnidged in this paper." Here the prince handed to Mr. Beckendoiif a MS. pamphlet, consisting of about sixty foolscap sheets closely written. The minister bowed very graciously as he took it from his highness's hand ; and then, without even looking at it, he laid it on the table, " You, sir, I perceive," continued the prince, " are acquainted with its contents ; and it will, therefore, be unnecessary for me at present to expa- tiate upon their individual expediency, or to a-rgue for their particular adoption. And, sir, when we observe the progress of the human mind, when we take into consideration the quick march of intellect, and the wide expansion of enlightened views and liberal principles — when we take a bird's-eye view of the histoiy of man from the earliest ages to the present moment, I feel that it would be folly in me to conceive for an instant, that the measures developed and recommended in that paper, will not finally receive the approbation of his royal high- ness. As to the exact origin of slavery, Mr. Beck- endorff, I confess that I am not, at this moment, prepared distinctly to speak. That the divine author of our religion was its decided enemy, I am informed, is clear. That the slavery of ancient times was the origin of the feudal service of a more modern period, is a point on which men of learning have not precisely made up their minds. With regard to the exact state of the ancient Ger- man people, Tacitus affords us a great deal of most interesting information. Whether or not, certain passages which I have brought with me marked in the Germania, are incontestable evidences that our ancestors enjoyed or understood the practice of a wise and well regulated liberty, is a point on which I shall be happj' to receive the opinion of so distin- guished a statesman as Mr. Beckeudorff, In step- ping forward, as I have felt it my duty to do, as the advocate of popular rights and national privi- leges, I am desirous to prove that I have not become the votary of innovation and the professor of revo- lutionary doctrines. The passages of the Roman author in question, and an ancient charter of the Emperor Chai'lemagne, are, I consider, decisive and sufficient precedents for the measures which I have thought proper to sanction by my approval, and to sup])ort by my influence. A minister, Mr. Beckendorff, must take care that in the great race of politics, the minds of his countrymen do not leave his own behind them. We must never forget the powers and capabilities of man. On this very spot, perhaps, some centuries ago, savages clothed in skins were committing cannibalism in a forest. W e must not forget, I repeat, that it is the business of those to whom Providence has allotted the responsible possession of power and influence — that it is their diity^, our duty, Mr. Beckendorff — to be- come guardians of our weaker fellow-creatures — tliat all power is a trust — that we are accountable fir its exercise — that from the people, and for the people, all springs, and all must exist ; and that, unless we conduct ourselves witli the requisite wisdom, prudence, and propriety, the whole system of society will be disorganized ; and this country, in particular, fall a victim to that system of coiTup- tion and misgovemment, which has already occa- sioned the destruction of the great kingdoms men- tioned in the Bible ; and many other states be&ides — Greece, Rome, Carthage, &c." Thus ended the peroration of an harangue con- sisting of an incoherent arrangeiuent of imper- fectly-remembered facts, and misunderstood prin- ciples; all gleaned by his highness from the enlightening articles of the Reisenberg journals. Like Brutus, the Prince of Little Lilliput paused for a reply. " Mr. von Philipson," said his companion, when his highness had finished, " you speak like a man of sense." Having given this answer, Mr. Beck- endorff rose from his seat, and walked straight out of the room. The prince, at first, took the answer for a com- phment; but Mr. Beckendorff not returning, he began to have a veiy i'aint idea that he was neg- lected. In this uncertainty, he rang the bell for his old friend Clara. " Mrs, Clara! where is your master 1" " Just gone out, sir," " How do you mean 1" " He has gone out with his gun, sir." " You are quite sure he has gone outi" " Quite sure, sir. I took him his coat and boots myself." " I am to understand, then, that your master has gone outi" " Yes, sir, Mr. Beckendorff has gone out. He will be home for his noon meal." " That is enough !— Grey !" hallooed the indig- nant prince, darting into the garden ; " Grey ! Grey ! where are you. Grey ]" " Well, my dear prince," said Vivian ; " what can possibly be the matter?" " The matter ! insanity can be the only excuse ; insanity can alone account for his preposterous conduct. We have seen enough of him. The repetition of absurdity is only wearisome. Pray assist me in getting our horses immediately." " Certainly, if you please ; but remember you brought me here as your friend and counsellor. As I have accepted the trust, I cannot help being sensible of the responsibility. Before, therefore, you finally resolve upon departure, pray let me bo fully acquainted with the circumstance which has impelled you to this sudden resolution." " Willingly, my good friend, could I only com- mand my temper ; and yet to fall into a passion with a madman is almost a mark of madness: but his manner and his conduct are so provoking and so puzzling, that I cannot altogether repress my irritability. And that ridiculous incognito ! why I sometimes begin to think that I really am Mr. von Philipson ! An incognito, forsooth ! for what? to deceive whom? His household appa- rently only consists of two persons, one of whom has visited me in my own castle ; and the other is a cross old hag, who would not be able to compre- hend my rank if she were aware of it. But to the point ! When you left the room, I vras deter- mined to be trifled with no longer, and I asked him in a firm voice, and very marked manner, whether I might command his immediate attention to very important business. He professed to be at my service. I opened the affair by taking a cursory, 168 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS yet definite review of flie principles in which my political conduct had orit^iniitcd, and on wliich it was fonndi'd. I flattered myself that I had pro- duced an impression. Sometimes, my dear Grey, we are in n belter cue for these expositions than at { our inunediately getting olV. We shall have, however, souic troulile about our horses, for ne will not allow a quadru|>ed near the house, ex- cept some monster of an animal that he rides iiim- wlf ; and, by fSt. Ifidiert ! I cannot find out where our slei'iU are. \V'hat shall wedo !" Uul \'iviaii did not answer, ''(irey," con(inuersc hail U en evidently hard ridden. 1 did not think nnich of k at the time, because I supposed he mii-ht have l)cen out for three or four hours, and hard workcxl, but I ne- verlhehss was struck by his appearance; and when you meri'ioned that he went out riding at a late h>ur last night, it inunediatdy occurred to rae, that had he come home at one or two o'clock, it was not very probable that he would have gono out again at four or Cwc. I have no doubt that my conjecture is correct — Bpckendorlf Ims Iteen at Keisenberg." " You have placed this bu'^^iness in a new and important light," said the prince, his expiring hopes reviving; "what, tlicn, do you udvLse n»«> to do ?" VIVIAN GREY. 159 " To be quiet. If your own view of the case be right, you can act as well to-morrow or the next day as this moment ; on the contrary, if mine be the correct one, a moment may enable Beckendorff himself to bring affliirs to a crisis. In either case, I should rccommentl you to be silent, and in no manner to allude any more to tlie object of your visit. If you speak, you only give opportunities to Beckendorfi' of ascertaining your opinions and your incHnations ; and your silence, after such frequent attempts on your side to promote discussion upon business, will soon be discovered by him to be systematic. This will not decrease his opinion of your sagacity and firmness. The first principle of negotiation is to make your adversary respect you." After long consultation, the prince determined to follow Vivian's advice ; and so firmly did he ad- here to his purpose, that when he met Mr. Becken- dorff at the noon meal, he asked him, with a very unembarrassed voice and manner, " what sport he had had in the morning?" The noon meal again consisted of a single dish, as exquisitely dressed, however, as the preceding one. It was a splendid haunch of venison. " This is my dinner, gentlemen," said Becken- dorfi' ; " let it be your luncheon : I have ordered your dinner at sunset." After having eaten a slice of the haunch, Mr. EeckendorfF rose from table, and said, " We v/ill have our wine in the drawing-room, Mr. von Philipson, and then you will not be disturbed with my birds." He left the room. To the drawing-room, therefore, his two guests soon adjourned. Tliey found him busily employed with his pencil. The prince thought it must be a chart or a fortification at least, and was rather sur- prised when Mr. Beckendorff asked him the mag- nitude of Mirac in Bootes : and the prince con- fessing his utter ignorance of the subject, the minister threw aside his unfinished planisphere, and drew his chair to them at the table. It was with great pleasure that his highness perceived a bottle of his favourite Tokay ; and with no little astonishment he observed, that to-day, there were three wine-glasses placed before them. They were of peculiar beauty, and almost worthy, for their elegant shapes and great antiquity, of being in- cluded in the collection of the Duke of Schoss Johannisberger. " Your praise of ray cellar, sir," said Mr. Beck- endorff, very graciously, " has made me turn wine- drinker." So saying, tbe minister took up one of the rare glasses and held it to the light. His keen, glancing eye, detected an almost invisible cloud on the side of the delicate glass, and jerking it across him, he flung it into the farthest corner of the room — it was shivered into a thousand pieces. He took up the second glass, examined it very narrowly, and then sent it, v/ith equal force, after its compa- nion. The third one shared the same fate. He rose and rang the bell. " Clara !" said Mr. Beckendorff, in his usual tone of voice, " some clean glasses, and sweep away that litter in the corner." " We is mad, then I" thought the Prince of liitlle Lilliput, and he shot a glance at his compa- nion, wliich Vivian could not misunderstand. After exhausting their bottle, in which they were a-ssisted to the extent of one glass by their host, who drank Mr. von Philipson's health with cordiality, they assented to Mr. Beckendorff 's pro- position of visiting his fruitcry. To the prince's great relief, dinner-time soon arrived ; and having employed a couple of hours on that meal very satisfactorily, he and Vivian ad- journed to the drawing-room, having previously pledged their honour to each other, that nothing should again induce them to play dummy whist. Their resolutions and their promises were needless. Mr. Beckendorff, who was sitting opposite the fire when they came into the room, neither by word nor motion acknowledged that he was aware of their entrance. Vivian found refuge in a book ; and the prince, after having examined and re-ex- amined the brilliant birds that figured on the drawing-room paper, fell asleep upon the sofa, Mr. Beckendorff took down the guitar, and ac- companied himself in a low voice for some time ; then he suddenly ceased, and stretching out his legs, and supporting his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, he leaned back in his chair, and remained perfectly motionless, with his eyes fixed upon the picture. Vivian, in turn, gazed upon this singular being, and the fair pictured form which he seemed to idolize. Was he, too, unhappy ■* Had he, too, been bereft in the hour of his proud and perfect joy 1 Had he, too, lost a virgin bride'] — His agony overcame him, the book fell from his hand, and he groaned aloud! Mr. Beck- endorfi" started, and the prince awoke. Vivian, confounded, and unable to overpower his emotions, uttered some hasty words, explanatoiy, apologeti- cal, and contradictory, and retired. In his walk to the summer-house, a man passed him. In spite of a great cloak, Vivian recognised him as their mes- senger and guide; and his ample mantle did not conceal his riding-boots, and the spurs which glis tened in the moonlight. It was an hour past midnight when the door of the summer-house softly opened, and Mr. Becken- dorff entered. He started when he found Vivian still undressed, and pacing up and down the little chamber. The young man made an effort, when he witnessed an intruder, to compose a counte- nance whose agitation could not be concealed. " What, are you up again 1" said Mr. Becken- dorff. " Are you ill?" " Would I were as well in mind as in body ! I have not yet been to rest. We cannot command our feelings at all moments, sir ; and at this, espe- cially, I felt that I had a right to consider myself alone." " I most exceedingly regret that I have disturbed you," said Mr. Beckendorfi", in a very kind voice, and in a maiuier which responded to the sympathy of his tone. '• I thought that j'ou had been long asleep. There is a star which I cannot exactly make out. I fancy it must be a comet, and so I ran to the observatory ; but let me not disturb you," and Mr. Beckendorff was retiring. " You do not disturb me, sir. I cannot sleep • — pray ascend." "O, no! never mind the star. But if you really have no inclination to sleep, let us sit down and have a little conversation ; or perhaps we had bettei take a stroll. It is a very warm night." As he spoke, Mr. Beckendorff gently put his arm withm Vivian's, and led him down the steps. "Are you an astronomer, sir?" asked Becken dorfd 160 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. "I can trll iho Great Bear from the Little Dog; but I confess lliut I look upon tlic bUre rullicr iii a pot'lJcal tiian a scientific sjiirit." " Hum ! I confess I do not." " There arc nioiiieiit*." continued Vivian, "when I cannot refrain from beiieviiij^that these my^l' rious luminaries have more inlluence over our fortunes than modern times are disposed to believe. I feel that I am getting less sceptical, perhaps I should say more credulous, every day ; but sorrow makes us sujjerstitious." " 1 discard all such fantasies," said Mr. Eecken- dorll"; '"they only tend to enervate our mental ener- gies, and paralyze all human exertion. It is the belief in these, and a thousand other deceits I could mention, which teach man that he is not the master of his own mind, but the ordained victim, or the chance sport of circumstances; that makes millions {v.Lss through life unimpressive as shadows ; and has gained for tliis existence the stigma of a vajiity which it does not deserve." " I wish that I could think as you do," said Vivian ; " but the experience of my life forbids me. \\'ithin only these last two years, my career has, in 80 many instances, indiciiled that I am not the master of my own conduct; that, no longer able to resist the conviction which is hourly impre.sscd on me. I recognise in every contingency tlie preordi- nation of my fate." '• A delusion of the brain !" said BeckcndorlT, very quickly. " Kate, destiny, chance, particular and special provi^Ience — idle words ! Dismiss them all, sir I A man's fate is his own temper ; and accord- ing to that will he his opinion as to the particular manner in which the course of events is regulated. A consistent man beUevcs in destiny — a capricious man in chance." '■ But, sir, what is a man's temper 1 It may be changed every hour. I started in life with very dif- ferent feelings to those which I profess at this mo- ment. 'VA'ilh great deference to you, I imaj^ine that you mistake the elVect for the causx ; for surely tem- }>er is not the origin, but the result of those circum- btanccs of which we arc all the creatures."' " Sir, I deny it. Man is not the creature of cir- cumstances. Circumstances are the creatures of men. We arc free agents, and man is more power- ful than matter. I recognise no intervening influ- ence between that of the established course of nature and my own mind. Truth may be distorted — may be stifled — be suppressed. The invention of cunning deceits may, and in some instances does, prevent man from «'xercising his own powers, 'i'hey have made him responsible to a realm of shadows, and a suitor in a court of shades. He is ever dread- ing authority which <-currcnce of penalties which there are none to enforce. Hut the mind that dares to extricate itself from these vulijar prijndices. Unit proves its loyalty to its Creator by devoting all its adoration to his glury — such a K|iirit as this becomes a mnster-mind, and ttjat mnster-mind will invariably find that cir- cumstances are its slaves." "Mr. UeckendorlV, yours is a very Mt\ jihiloso- phv. of which I, myself, was once a votary. How hiiccessful in my service, you may judge by finding me B wnndi-rer." "Sir! \niir present age is the age of error: your whiile ^virin is foudiled on n fallacy: yon iH'licve lliat a ni.m's temper can ciiange, I deny it. If you have ever seriously entertained the ^isws which I profess; if, as you lead me to suppose, you have dared to act upon them, and failed , sooner or later, whatever may be your present conv-iction and your present feelings, you will recur to your original wi^hes and your original pursuits. With a mind experienced and matured, you may in all probability he successful ; and then, I su])pose, stretching your legs in your easy chair, you will at the same moment be convinced of your own genius, and recognisa your oivn destiny." " With regard to myself, Mr. BeckcndorlT, I am convinced of the crroneousness of your views, li is my opinion, that no one who has dared to think, can look i:]ion this world in any other than a mournful sj)irit Young as I am, nearly two years have elapsed since, disgusted with the world of politics. I retired to a foreign solitude. At length, with passions subdued, and, as I flatter myself, with a mind matured, convinced of the vanity of all human aflliirs, I felt emboldened once more partially to mingle with my species. Bitter as my lot had been, as a philosojiher, I had di.-eovered the origin of my misery in my own unbridled passions; and, tranquil and subdued. I now trusted to pa.ss through life as certain of no fresh sorrows, as I was of no fre.sh joys. And yet, sir, I am at this moment sinking under the infliction of unparalleled misery — inisery which I feel I have a right to believe was undeserved. But why expatiate to a stranger on sorrow which must be secret ? I deliver myself up to my remorseless fate." " \\'hai is grief?" said Mr. Beckendorff; — " if it be excited by the fear of some contingency, instead of grieving, a man should exert his energies, and prevent its occurrence. If, on the contrary, it be caused by an event, that which has been occa- sioned by any thing human, by the co-operation of human circumstances, can be. and invariably is, removed by the samo means. Grief is the agony of an instant ; the iiululgcnce of grief the blunder of a life. Mix in the world, and in a month's time vou will speak to me very dilVerenlly. A young man, vou meet with disjippointment, — in spite of all vour exalted notions of your own powers, you immediately sink under it. If your belief of your I>owers were sincere, you should have proved it by the manner in which you struggled against adver- sity, not merely by the mode in wliich you lal»onred for advancement. The latter is but a very inferior merit. If in fact yon wish to succee' career, and by which he Ind arrived at his almost unparalleled pitch of greatness, was exactly the same with which he himself, A'ivian Grey, had started in life ; which he had found so fatal in its consequences : which he believed to be so vain in its principles. How was this ! What radical error had he committed] It required little con- sideration. Thirty, and more than thirty years had passed over the head of Beckendorfi', ere the world felt his power, or indeed was conscious of his ex- istence. A deep student, not only of man in detail, but of man in groups — not only of individuals, but of nations — BeckendorfT had hived up his ample knowledge of all subjects which could interest his fellow-creatures ; and when that opportunity, which in this world occurs to all men, occurred to Be/:k- endorfl", he was prepared. With acquirements equal to his genius, BcckendorlT depended only upon himself, and succeeded. Vivian Grey, with a mind inferior to no man's, dashed on the stage, in years a boy, though in feelings a man. Brilliant as might have been his genius, his acquirements necessarily were insufficient. He could not depend only upon himself; a consequent necessity arose to have recourse to the assistance of others ; to inspire them with feelings which they could not share and humour and manage the petty weakness which he himself could not experience. His colleagues were, at the same time, to work for the gratification of their own private interests, the most palpable of all abstract things ; and to carrj' into execution a great purpose, which their feeble minds, interested only by the first point, cared not to comprehend. The unnatural combination failed ; and its origina- tor fell. To believe that he could recur again to the hopes, the feelings, the pursuits of his boyhood, he lelt to be the vainest of delusions. It was the expectation of a man like Beckendorff — whose career, though dillicult, though hazardous, had been uniformly successful — of a man who mistook cares for grief, and anxiety for sorrow. The travellers entered the citv' at sunset. Pro ceeding through an ancient and unseemly town, full of long, narrow, and ill-paved streets, and black uneven built houses, they ascended the hill, on the top of which was situated tlie new and Residence town of Reisenbcrg. The proud palace, the white squares, the architectural streets, the new churches, the elegant opera house, the splendid hotels, and the gay public gardens full of bust.s, vases, and sta- tues, and surrounded by an iron railing cast out of the cannon taken from both sides during the war. by the Reisenbcrg troops, and now f >rmed into pikes and fasces, glittering with gilded heads — all these shining in the setting sun, produced an ell'ect which, at any time, and in any place, would have liecn beautiful and striking: but on the present oc- casion were slill moi-e so, from the remarkable con- trast they alli)rded to the ancient, cloomy, and filthy town through which Vivian had jvist jtasscd ; anil where, Iroin the lowness of its situation, the sun had already set. There w.aa as much difVerenco between the old and new town of Rcisenlierg, as between the old barbarous margrave ajid the new I and noble grand-duke. \ man is never sooner domesticated than in a first-rate hotel, particularly on the Continent; ' where, in fact, life is never dy which we came ; you remember how excellent the road was, as indcoJ are all the roads in Reisenbcrg ; that must be confessed by all. I fear that the mo»t partial admirers of the old regime eannot say as much for the convenience of tra- velling in the time of our fathers. — Good roads are most excellent things, and one of the first marks of civilization and prosperity. The Emperor Napo- leon, who, it must be confessed, was alter all no common mind, was celebrated for his road.s. You have doubtless adinired the Route Napoleon on the Khine, and if you travel into Italy, I am informed that you will be equally, and even more struck by the passage over the Simplon, and the other Italian roads. Kcisenberg has certiiinly kept pace with the spirit of tlie tune; nobody can deny that; and I confess to you, that the more I consider the sub- ject, it appears to me that the happiness, prosperity, and content of the state, are the best evidences of the wisdom and beneficent rule of a government. Many things are very excellent in theory, which are quite the reverse in practice, and even ridiculous. And while we should do our utmost to promote tlie cause and uphold the interests of rational liber- ty, still, at the same time, we should ever be on our guard against the cnide ideas and revolutionary systems of tho.'-e who are quite inexperienced in that sort of particular knowledge which is necessary for all statesmen. Nothing is so easy as to make things look fine on paper, — we should never forget that : there is a great difference between high sounding generalities, ai»I laborious details. Is it reasonable to expect that men who have passed their lives dreaming in colleges and old musty studies, should be at all calculated to take the head of af- fairs, or know what measures those at the head of affairs ought to adopt ? — I think not, A certain personage, who, by-the-by, is one of the most clear- headed, and most perfect men of business that I ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with ; a real practical man, in short ; he tells me that Pro- fessor Skyrocket, whom you will most likely see at Reisenbcrg, wrote an article in the Military Quar- terly llcview wliicli is published there, on the ]no- bable expenses of a war between Austria and Prus- sia, and forgot the commissariat altogctlicr. Did you ever know any thing so riiliculous ? What business have such fellows to meddle with affairs of state ? They should certainly be put down : that I think none can deny. A liberal spirit in government is certaiidy n most excellent thing : but we must always remember that liberty may dege- nerate into licentiousness. Liberty is certainly an excellent thing. — that all admit; but, as a certain person very well observed, so is physic, and yet it is not to be given at all times, but only when the frame is in a state to reijuire it. I'eople may be as un[)reparcd fur a wi.-w? and dismarshal- ship?" said Mr. Sievers, with a very peculiar look. " You hardly expected, when you were at Tur- riparva, to witness such a rapid termination of the patriotism of our good friend. -I think you said you have seen him since your arrival : the inter- view must have been piquant!" " Not at all. I immediately congratulated him on the judicious arrangements which had been con- cluded ; and, to relieve his awkwardness, took some credit to myself for having partially assisted in bringing about the result. The subject was not again mentioned, and I dare say never will be." " It is a curious business," said Sievers. " The prince is a man who, rather than have given me up to the grand-duke — me, with whom he was not in the slightest degree connected, and who, of my own accord, sought his hospitality — sooner, I repeat, than have delivered n\e up, he would have had his castle razed to the ground, and fifty swords through his heart ; and yet, without the slightest compunc- tion, has this same man deserted, with the greatest coolness, the party of which, ten days ago, he was the zealous leader. How can you accyjunt for this, except it be, as I have long suspected, that in poli- tics there positively is no feeling of honour ? Every one is conscious that not only himself, but his colleagues and his rivals, are working for their own private purpose ; and that however a party may apparently be assisting in bringing about a result of common benefit, that nevertheless, and in fact, each is conscious that he is the tool of another. With such an understanding, treason is an expect- ed aflfair ; and the only point to consider is, who shall be so unfortunate as to be the deserted, in- stead of the deserter. It is only fair to his high- ness to state, that Beckendorff' gave him incontest- able evidence that he had had a private interview with every one of the mediatised princes. They were the dupes of the wily minister. In these ne- gotiations he became acquainted with their plans and characters, and could estimate the probability of their success. The golden bribe, wdiich was in turn dandled before the eyes of all, had been always reserved for the most powerful — our frfend. His secession, and the consequent desertion of his relatives, destroy the party forever ; while, at the same time, that party have not even the consola- tion of a good conscience to uphold them in their adversity ; but feel that in case of their clamour, or of any attempt to stir up the people by their hollow patriotism, it is in the power of the minister to expose and crush them forever." " AH this," said Vivian, "makes me the more rejoice that our friend has got out of their clutches he will make an excellent grand-marshal ; anc you must not forget, my dear sir, that he did nof forget you. To tell you the truth, although I did not flatter myself that I should benefit during my stay at Reisenberg by his influence, I am not the least surprised at the termination of our visit to Mr. Beckendorff'. I have seen too many of these affairs, not to have been quite aware the whole time, that it would require very little trouble, and very few sacrifices on the part of Mr. BeckeudorflT, to quash the whole cabal. By-thc-by, our visit to him was highly amusing-; he is a most singular man." "He has had, nevertheless," said Sievers, "a very difficult part to play. Had it not been for you, the prince would have perhaps imagined that he was only being trifled with again, and terminated the interview abruptly and in disgust Having brought the grand-duke to terms, and having arrang- ed the interview, Beckendorff of course imagined that all was finished. The very day that you arrived at his house, he had received despatches from his royal highness recalling his promise, and revoking Beckendorff's authority to use his unli- mited discretion in this business. The difficulty then was to avoid discussion with the prince, with whom he was not prepared to negotiate ; and at the same time, without letting his highness out of his sight, to induce the grand-duke to resume hi old view of the case. The first night that you were there, Beckendorff' rode up to Reisenberg — saw the grand-duke ; was refused, through the in- trigues of Madame Carolina, the requested autho- rity — and resigned his power. When he was a mile on his return, he was summoned back to the palace ; and his royal highness asked, as a favour from his tutor, four-and-twenty hours' considera- tion. This Beckendorff granted, on the condition that, in case the grand-duke assented to the terms proposed, his royal highness should him.self be the bearer of the proposition ; and that there should be no more written promises to recall, and no more written authorities to revoke. The terms were hard, but Beckendorff was inflexible. On the second night of your visit, a messenger arrived with a de- spatch, advising Beckendorff of the intended arri- val of his royal highness on the next morning. The ludicrous intrusion of your amusing servant prevented you from being present at the great interview, in which I understand Beckendorff', for the moment, laid aside all his caprices. Our friend acted with great firmness and energy. He would not be satisfied even with the personal pledge and written promise of the grand-duke, but demanded that he should receive the seals of office within a week ; so that, had the court not been sincere, his situation with his former party would not have been injured. It is astonishing how very acute even a dull man is, when his own interests are at stake ! Had his highness been the agent of another per- son, he would most probably have committed a thousand blunders, — have made the most disad- vantageous terms, or perhaps have been thoroughly duped. Self-interest is the finest eye-water." 168 D'lSR^iiLi'S NOVELS. " And what says Madame Carolina to all this ?" " O ! according to custom, she has changed aheady, and thinks the whole business most ad- mirably arranged. His highness is her grand favourite, and my little pupil Max, her pet. I think, however, on the whole, the boy is fondest &f the grand-duke ; whom, if you remember, he was always informing you in confidence, that he intended to assassinate. And as for your obedient servant," said 8ievers, bowing, " here am I once more the Aristarchus of her coterie. Her friends, by-the-by, view the accession of the prince with no pleased eyes ; and, anticipating that his juncture with the minister is only a prelude to their final dispersion, they are compensating for the approach- ing tennination of their career, by unusual violence and fresh fervour — stinging like mosquitos before a storm, conscious of their impending destruction from tire clearance of the atmosphere. As for myself, I have nothing more to do with them. Liberty and philosophy are very fine words ; but until I find men are prepared to cultivate them both in a wiser spirit, I shall remain quiet. I liave no idea of being banished and imprisoned, because a parcel of knaves are making a vile use of the truths which I disseminate. In my opinion, phi- losophers have said enough ; now let men act. But all this time I have forgotten to ask you how you like Reisenberg." " I can hardly say : with the exception of yes- terday, when I rode Max routid the ramparts, I have not been once out of the hotel. But to-day I feel so well, that if you are disposed for a lounge, I should like it above all things." " I am quite at your service ; but I must not forget that I am the bearer of a message to you from his excellency the grand-marshal. He wishes you to join the court-dinner to-day, and be pre- sented — " '• IJeally, my dear sir, an invalid — " Well ! if you do not like it, you must make your excuses to him ; but it really is the plcasantest way of commencing your acquaintance at court, and only allowed to distinguees ; among which, as you are the friend of the new grand-marshal, you are of course considered. No one is potted so much as a political apostate, except, perhaps, a re- ligious one ; so at present we are all in high fea- ther. You had better dine at the palate to-day. Every thing quite easy ; and, by an agreeable relaxation of state, neither swords, bags, nor trains, are necessary. Have you seen the palace 1 I sup- pose not ; we will look at it, and then call on the prince." The gentlemen accordingly left the hotel ; and proceeding down the principal street of the New Town, they came into a very large square, or Place d'Armes. A couple of regiments of infantry were exercising in it. " A specimen of our standing army," said Sievers. " In the war time this little state brought thirty thousand highly disciplined and well appointed troops into the field. This efficient contingent was, at the same time, the origin of our national prosperity, and our national debt. For we have a national debt, sir ! I assure you we are very j)roud of it, and consider it the most decided sign of benig a great people. Our force in times of peace is, of course, very nuicli reduced. We have, however, still eight thousand men, who are per- fectly unnecessary. The most curious thing is, that, to keep up the patronage of the court, and please the nobility, though we have cut down our army two-thirds, we have never reduced the num- ber of our generals : and so, at this moment, among our eight thousand men, we count about forty general oflicers, being one to every two hun- dred privates. We have, however, which perhaps you would not suspect, one military genius among our multitude of heroes. The Count von Sohn- speer is worthy of being one of Napoleon's mar- shals. Who he is, no one exactly knows : some say an illegitimate son of Beckendorfi'. Certain it is, that he owes his nobility to his sword ; and as certain it is that he is to be counted among the very few who share the minister's confidence. Von Sohnspeer has certainly performed a thou- sand brilliant exploits ; yet, in my opinion, the not least splendid day of his life, was that of the battle of Leipsic. He was on the side of the French, and fought against the allies with desperate fury. When he saw that all was over, and the allies tri- umphant, calling out ' Germany forever !' he dashed against his former friends, and captured from the flying Gauls a hundred pieces of cannon. He hastened to the tent of the emperors Vvith his blood-red sword in his hand, and at the same time congratulated them on the trixnnph of their cause, and presented them with his hard-earned trophies. The manoeuvre was perfectly successful ; and the troops of Reisenberg, comphmented as true Ger- mans, were pitied for their former unhappy fate in being forced to fight against their fatherland, and were immediately enrolled in the allied army : as such, they received a due share of all the plunder. He is a grand genius, young \Iaster von Sohn- speer." " O, decidedly ! Quite wortiiy of being a com- panion of the fighting bastards of ihe middle ages. This is a fine square !" " Very grand indeed ! Precedciits for some of the architectural combinations could hardly be found at Athens or Rome ; nevertheless tlie gene- ral effect is magnificent. Do you admire this plan of making every elevation of an order consonant with the purpose of tVie building 1 See! for in stance, on the opposite side of the square is the palace. The Corinthian order, vi'hich is evident in all its details, suits well the character of the struc- ture. It accords with royal pomp and elegance — with fetes and banquets, and interior magnificence. On the other hand, what a happy contrast is afl'orded to this gorgeous structure, by the severe simplicity of this Tuscan Palace of Justice. The School of Arts, in the farthest corner of the square, is properly entered through an Ionic portico. Let us go into the palace. Here, not only does our monarch reside, but, an arrangement which I much admire, here are deposited, in a gallery worthy of the treasures it contains, our very superb collection of pictures. They are the private property of his royal highness ; but, as is usually the case under despotic princes, the people, equally his property, are flattered by the collection being styled the ' Public Gallery.' We have hardly time for the pictures to-day ; let us enter this hall, the contents of which, if not as valuable, are to me more in- teresting — the Hall of Sculi'tuhe. " Germany, as you must be aware, boasts no chef-d'ieuvres of ancient sculpture. In this re- sj)ect, it is not in a much more dei)lorable situation than, I believe, England is itself ; but our grand- VIVIAN GREY. 169 duke, with exceilent taste, instead of filling a room with uninteresting busts of ancient emperors, or any second-rate specimens of antique art, which are sometimes to be purchased, has formed a col- lection of casts from all the celebrated works of antiquity. These casts are of great value, and greater rarity. " There," said Mr. Sievers, pointing to the Venus de Medicis, " there is a goddess, whose di- ^'inity is acknowledged in all creeds. It is com- monly said, that no cast of this statue conveys to you the slightest idea of the miraculous original. This I deny : the truth is, that the plaster figures which everywhere abound under the title of the Venus de Medicis, are copies five hundred times repeated, and of course all resemblance is lost. It would be lost in a great measure, were the original a dancing Faun or a fighting Gladiator. 1"he in- calculable increase of difficulty in transferring the delicate traits of female beauty, need not be expa- tiated on. Of this statue the whole of the right arm, a portion of the left, and some other less im- portant parts, are restorations. But who cares for this? VVho, in gazing on the Venus, dwells on anything but the body? Here is the magic I Here is to be discovered the reason of the universal fame of this work of art ! We do not consider the Venus de Medicis as the personification of a sculptor's dream. Her beauty is not ideal." Mr. Sievers did not stop here in his criticism on the Venus de Medicis, but fully demonstrated, which has never yet been done, the secret cause of the fame of this statue. His language, though highly philosophical, might, however, be misin- terpreted in this precise age ; and as this work is chiefly written for the entertainment of families, I have been induced to cut out the most instructive passage in the book. " And this, of course, is a very fine castl" asked Vivian. " Admirable ! It was presented by the Grand- duke of Tuscany to his royal highness, and is, of course, from the original. See, now ! the Belvi- dcre Apollo ; an inferior production, I think, to the Venus — [lerhaps a copy. Yet, in that dilated nos- tril, that indignant lip, and that revengeful brow, wc recognise Uie indomitable Pythius •, or, rather, perhaps, the persecutor of the miserable Niobe. The director of the gallery has made, with great discrimination, the unhappy rival of Latona the object to which the god of the silver bow points his avenging arm. The Niobe is a splendid jiroduc- tion. Some complain of her apparent indilierence to the fate of her ofl'spring. But is not this in character ? To me, the figure appears faultless. Even as I now gaze on her, the mother and the marble are still struggling ; and, rooted to the groinid by her overwhelming afiiiction, she seems weeping herself into a statue. I have often thought that some hidden meaning lurked under the dark legend of Niobe. Probably she and her family were the first victims of priestcraft. Come, my dear fellow, as protestants, let us, though late, pay our tribute of respect to the first herelic." Here Mr. Sievers bowed with great solemnity before the statue. " I will now show you," resumed Mr. Sievers " four works of art, which, if not altogether as ex- quisite as those we have examined, nevertheless, for various reasons, deserve our attention. And let us stop before this dying man. This statue is gene- lally known by the title of the Dyhig Gladiator. 22 According to Winkclman, he is a dying herald : either Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by Qldi pus ; or Cepreas, herald of Euritheus, killed by the Athenians •, or Anthemocritus, herald of the Athe- nians, killed by the Megarcnses ; or, in short, any other herald who ever happened to be killed. Ac- cording to another antiquary, he is a Spartan shield-bearer ; and according to a third, a barba- rian. What an imagination it requires to be a great antiquary !" said Mr. Sievers, shrugging his shoulders. " I think this statue is also supposed to be a copy," said Vivian. " It is ; and the right arm is altogether by Michel Angelo, the ablest restorer that ever existed. He was deeply imbued with the spirit of antiquity, though himself incapable of finishing a single work. Had he devoted himself to restoration, it had been better for posterity, " This," continued Mr. Sievers, pointing to a kneeling figure, " is a most celebrated work ; and one of which you have doubtless heard. It gene- rally is known by the name of the Knife-grinder ; though able judges have not yet decided whether it be a representation of that humble artizan, or of the flayer of Marsyas, or the barber of Julius Csesar. I never can suificiently admire these classical anti- quaries ! They are determined to be right : see, for instance, that heroic figure ! The original is in the Louvre, and described in the catalogue of the French savans as a statue of ' Jason, othenvise Cincinnatus.' What a yiity that it did not occur to Plutarch to write a parallel between two characters in which there is, in every respect, such a striking similarity I"' " What are these horses'!" said Vivian. " They surely are not the Elgm !" " O, no !" said Mr. Sievers; " as an Englishman, you should know better. These are casts of the Elgin marbles presented to his royal highness by the King of England. The exquisite tact, and wise liberality with which your accomplished mo- narch has dissen>inated sets of these casts among the principal galleries of Europe, has made the Continent at length believe that it is no longer high treason in your country to admire a picture or a statue. The horses which you have remarked are, I assure you, veiy celebrated beasts ; although, for my part, I confess that their beauty is not to me very evident. Either the ancients had no concep- tion how to mould a horse, or their breeds were poor. These are casts from the famous brazen steeds of Venice, in front of the church of St. Mark's. They were given by the Emperor of Aus- tria. That the originals are antique, there is no doubt: I will not trouble you with my opinion as to their nation. Ivcarn, however, from lar deeper scholars than myself, that they are either Roman or Grecian — either Roman of the reign of Nero, or Grecian of the isle of Chios, or of the work of Lysippus. All these opinions are developed and supported by ponderous dissertations in quarto ; and scarcely a year escapes without these brazen beasts giving rise to some controversy or other. O ! these antiquaries ! Count Cicognara, the President of 'he Venetian Academy, has lately summed up the merits of the long agitated question, and given it as his opinion, that to come to a final and satisfac- tory result, we must search and compare all the horses, of all the cabinets of all Europe. What subhme advice about nothing .' ! I am tireJ < 170 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. these fellows. In my opinion, tliis little Cupid of Dennecker i& worth all St. Marli's together. It is worthy of being placed by the Venus. When you were at Frankfort, you saw his Ariadne T" " I'es ! at Betliniann's, and a delightful work it is. Ease and grace are produced by an original but most involved attitude, and that is the triumph of art." Th.e hour of court-dinner at Reisenberg was two o'clock ; about which time, in England, a St. James's man tirst remembers the fatal. necessity of shaving; though, by-the-by, this allusion is not a happy one, for in this country shaving is a ceremony at present fiomewhat obsolete. Were the celebrated Packwood now living, he would have as much chance of making a fortune by the sale of his instruments in this rctined city, as at a settlement of blue baboons. At two o'clock, however, our hero, accompanying the grand-marshal and Mr. Sievers, reached the })alace. In the saloon were assembled various guests, chiefly attached to the court. Immediately after the' arrival of our party, the grand-duke and Madan.e Carolina, followed by their chamberlains and ladies in waiting, entered. The little Prince Maximilian strutted in between his royal highness and his f;dr consort, having hold of a hand of each. The urchin was very much changed in appearance since Vivian first saw him ; he was dressed in the complete unifonn of a captain of Royal Guards ; having been presented with a commission on the day of his amval at court. A brilliant star glittered on his scarlet coat, and paled the splendour of his golden epaulets. The duties, however, of t!ie princely captain were at present confined to the pleasing exertion of carrying the bon-bon box of Madame Carolina, the contents of which were chiefly reserved for his own gratification. In the grand-duke, Vivian was not surprised to recognise the horseman whom he had met in the private road on the morning of his departure from Mr. Becken- dortf's; his conversation with Sievers had prepared him for this. Madame Carolina was in appearance Parisian of the highest order. I am not in a humour for a laboured description, at whicli, very probably, few will grieve. The phrase I have used will enable the judicious reader to conceive all that is necessary. " Parisian of the highest order," — that is to say, an exquisite figure and an indescribable tournure, an invisible foot, a countenance full of esprit and intelligence, without a single regular feature, and large and very bright black eyes. Ma- dame's hair was of the same colour, and arranged in the most eflfective manner. Her cachemere would have graced the Feast of Roses, and so en- grossed your attention, that it was long before you observed the rest of her costume, in which, however, traces of a creative genius were immediately visible : in short, Madame Carolina was not fashionable, but fashion herself. In a subsequent chapter, at a ball which I have in preparation, I will make up for tliis brief notice of her costume, by publishing her court- dress. For the sake of my fair readers, however, I will not j)ass over the ornament in her hair. The como which supported her elaborate curls was invi- sible, except at each end, whence it threw out a large Pysche's wing of the finest golden web, the eyes of which were formed of precious garnets en- circled with turquoises. Let Mr. Hamlet iumie- diatcly introduce tliis ornament, and make his for- tune by the " Carolina Comb." The ro}al party made a progress round the circle, to which the late lamented Mr. Nichols could have done more justice than mysplf. M^dsme Carolina first presented her delicate and faintly rouged cheek to the hump-backed crown prince, who did not raise his eyes from the ground as he performed the ac- customed courtesy. One or two royal relatives, who were on a visit at the palace, were honoured by the same compliment. The grand-duke bowed in the most gracious and giacefid manner to every in- dividual ; and his lady accompanied the bow by a speech, which was at the same time personal and piquant. The first great duty of a monarch is to know how to bow skilfully ! nothing is more diffi- cult, and nothing more important. A royal bow may often quell a rebellion, and sometimes crush a conspiracy. It should, at the same time, be both general and individual ; equally addressed to the company assembled, end to every single person in the assembly. Our own king bows to perfection. His bow is eloquent, and will always render an oration on his part perfectly unnecessary ; which is a great point, for harangues are not regal. Nothing is more undignified than to make a speech. It is from the first an acknowledgment that you are under the necessity of explaining, or conciliatmg, or con- vincing, or confuting ; in short, that you are not omnipotent, but opposed. Every charlatan is an orator, and almost every orator a charlatan. But I never knew a quack or an adventurer who could bow well. It requires a dignity which can only re- sult from a consciousness of high breediug, or a high moral character. The last cause, of course, will never inspire the charlatan ; and for the first, I never met a scoundrel, however exalted his situa- tion, who in his manners was a perfect high-bred gentleman. He is either ridiculously stiff, pompous and arrogant, or his base countenance is ever gilt by an insidious, curming, conciliatory smile, which either is intended to take you in, or, if habitual, seems to imply, " What a confounded clever fellow I am ; how I understand human nature ; how skil- fully I adapt myself to the humours of mankind ; how I sneak with a smile into their bosoms !" Miserable knaves ! these fellows are invariably overbearing and tyrannical to their inferiors. They pass their mornings in cringing to a minister, and then go home and bully their butler. The bow of the Grand-duke of Reisenberg was a first-rate bow, and always produced a greaf sen- sation with the people, particularly if it were fol- lowed up by a proclamation for a public fete or fire-works ; th'en his royal highness's popularity was at its height. But Madame Carolina, after having by a few magic sentences persuaded the whole room that she took a peculiar interest in the happiness of every individual present, has reached Vivian, who stood next to his friend tlie gTand~ marshal. He was presented by that great officer, and received most graciously. For a moment the room thought that his royal highness was about to speak ; but he only smiled. Madame Carolina, however, said a great deal ; and stood not less than five minutes, comphmenting the English nation, and particularly the specmien of that celebrated peojile who now had the honoiu' of being presented to her. No one spoke more in a given time than Madame ('arolina; and as, while the eloquent words fell from her deep red lii)s, her bright eyes were mvariably fixed on those of the ptu-son sha addressed, what she did say, as invariably, was very efi'ective. Vivian had only time to give a nod VIVIAN GREY. 171 of recognition to his friend Max, for tlie company, arm-in-arm, now formed into a proces.sion to the (linin;^ saloon. Vivian was parted from tlie grand- marshal, who, as the highest officer of state present, followed immediately after the grand-duke. Our hero's companion was Mr. Sievers. Although it was not a state dinner, tiie party, from being swelled by the suites of the royal visiters, was nu- merous; and as the court occupied the centre of the table, Vivian was too distant to listen to the conversation of madame, who, however, he well perceived, from the animation of her countenance and the eloquent energy of her action, was delighted and delighting. The grand-duke spoke little ; but listened, like a lover of three days, to the accents of his accomplishea consort. The arrangement of a German dinnei promotes conversation. The numerous dishes are at once placed upon the table ; and when the curious eye has well examined their contents, the whole dinner, untouched, disappears. Although this circumstance is rather alarming to a novice, his terror soon gives place to self-congratu- lation, when he finds the banquet re-appear, each dish completely carved and cut up. A bottle of wine being placed, to each guest, your only business is, at the same time, to refresh both your body and your mind, by gratifying your palate and conversing with your neighbour. W^ould that this plan were adopted in our own country ! And now, having placed them at dinner, I will, for once in my life, allow the meal to pass over without reporting the conversation ; for I have a party in the evening which must not be slurred over ; and if my characters may not sometimes be dumb, I fear the plot, which all this time is gra- dually developing, will stand a chance of being neglected. Therefore imagine the dinner over. " Not being Sunday," said Mr. Sievers, " there is no opera to-night. We are to meet again, I be- lieve, at the palace, in a few hours, at Madame Carolina's soiree. In the mean time, you had better accompany his excellency to the public gar- dens ; that is the fashionable drive. I shall go home and smoke a pipe." Let us pass over the drive v/ithout a description — why should it be described 1 The circle of the Pubhc Gardens of Reisenberg exhibited exactly, al- though upon a smaller scale, the same fashions and the same frivolities, the same characters and the same affectations, as the Hyde Park of London, or the Champs Elysecs of Paris, the Prater of Vienna, the Corso of Rome or Milan, or the Cascine of Florence. There was the female leader of ton, hated by her own sex, and adored by the other, and ruling both — ruling both by the same principle of action, and by the influence of the same quality which creates the arbitress of fashion in all countries — by courage to break through the conventional customs of an artificial class, and by talents to ridicule all those who dare follow her innovating example — attracting universal notice by her own singularity, and at the same tune conciliating the support of those from whom she dares to differ, by employing her influence in preventing others from violating their laws. The arbitress of fashion is one who is allowed to be singular, in order that she may suppress singularity ; she is exempted from all laws; but, by receiving the dictatorship, she ensures the despotism. Then there was that mys- terious being, whose influence is perhaps even more surprising than the dominion of the female despot of manners, for she wields a power which can be analyzed and comprehended, — I mean the male authority in coats, cravats, and chargers ; who, without fortune and without rank, and some- times merely through the bold obtrusion of a fan- tastic taste, becomes the glass of fishion, in which even royal dukes and the most aristocratic nobles hasten to adjust themselves; and the mould by which the ingenious youth of a whole nation is enthusiastically formed. There is a Brummell in every country. Vivian, who, after a round or two with the grand-marshal, had mounted Max, was presented by the young Count von Bcrnstorff, the son of the grand-chamberlain, to whose care he had been specially commended by the prince, to the lovely Countess von S . The examination of this high authority was rigid, and her report satisfac- tory. When Vivian quitted the side of her britchska, half a dozen dandies immediately rode up to learn the result; and, on being informed, they simulta- neously cantered on to young Von Bernstorff, and requested to have the honour of being introduced to his highly interesting friend. All these exqui- sites wore white hats lined with crimson, in conse- quence of the head of the all-influential Emilius von Aslingen having, on the preceding day, been kept sacred fi-om the profaning air by that most tasteful covering. The young lords were loud in their commendations of this latest evidence of Von Aslingen's happy genius, and rallied, with a most unmerciful spirit, the unfortunate Von Bemstoiif for not having yet mounted the all-perfect chapeau. Like all Von Aslingen's introductions, it was as remarkable for good taste as for striking singularity: they had no doubt it would have a great run; ex-. actly the style of thing for a hot autumn ; and it suited so admirably with the claret-coloured riding- coat, which madame considered Von Aslingen's chcf-d'oBuvre. Inimitable Von Ashngen ! As they were in these raptures, to Vivian's great de- light, and to their great dismay, the object of their admiration appeared. Our hero was of course anxious to see so interesting a character ; but he could scarcely believe that he, in fact, beheld the ingenious introducer of white and crimson hats, and the still happier inventor of those chef-d'cBUvres, claret-coloured riding-coats, when his attention was directed to a horseman who wore a peculiarly high, heavy black hat, and a frogged and furred frock, buttoned up, although it was a most sultry day, to his very nose. How singular is the slavery of fashion ! Notwithstanding their mortification, the unexpected costume of Von Aslingen appeared only to increase the young lords' admiration of his character and accomplishments, and instead of feel- ing that he was an insolent pretender, whose fame originated in his insulting their tastes, and existed only by their sufferance, all cantered away witU ' the determination of wearing on the next day, even if it were to cost them each a calenture, furs enough to keep a man warm during a winter party at St. Petersburg, — not that winter parties ever take place there; on the contrary, before the winter sets in, the court moves on to Moscow ; which, from its situation and its climate, will always, in fact, continue the real capital of Russia. The royal carriage, drawn by six horses and backed by three men-servants, who would not have disgraced the fairy equipage of Cinderella has now left the gardens. 172 D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. CHAPTER III. Madame Carolina lielil her soiree in her own private apartments; the grand-duke himself appear- ing in t!ie capacity of a visiter. The company was very numerous and very brilliant. Kis royal iiigh- ness, surrounded by a select circle, dignified one corner of the saloon : Madame Carolina at the other end of the room, in the midst of poets, philo- sophers, and politicians, in turn decided upon the most interesting and important topics of poetry, ])hilosophv, and politics. Boston, and zwicken, and whisit, interested some ; and puzzles, and other ingenious games, others. A few were above con- versing, or gambling, or guessing; s\;perior intelli- gences, who would be neither interested nor amused; — among these, Emilius von Aslingen was the mostyjrominent; he leaned against a door, in full uniform, with his vacant eyes fixed on no object. The others were only awkward copies of an easy original ; and among these, stiff or stretch- ing, lounging on a chuisr-loiii^uf, or posted against the wall, Vivian's quick eye recognised more than one of the unhappy votaries of white hats lined with crimson. When Vivian made his bow to the grand-duke, he was surprised by his royal highness coming forward a few steps from the surrounding circle, and extending to him his hand. His royal high- ness continued conversing with him for upwards of a quarter of an hour ; expressed the great plea- sure he felt at seeing at his court a gentleman of whose abilities he had the highest opinion ; and after a variety of agreeable compliments — compli- ments are doubly; agreeable from crowned heads — the grai'.d-duke retired to a game of Boston with liis royal visiters. Vivian's reception made a great sensation through the room. Various rumours were immediately afl(iat. " Who can he beV " Don't you know 1 — ! most curious story ! killed a hoar as big as a bona.ssus, which was ravaging half Reisenbcrg, and saved the lives of his excellency the grand-marshal and his whole suhc." " What is that about the grand-marshal, and a boar as big a.s a bonassus? Quite wrong — natural son of BeckcndoriT — know it for a fact — don't yon see he is being introduced to Von Sohiispccrl — brothers, you know — managed the whole business about the leagued princes — not a son of Becken- dorff, only a particular friend — the son of the lat!> General , I forget his name exactly — killed at Lcipsic, you know — that famous general, what was his 'lume ? — that very famous general — don't you know '! Never mind — vv( 11 ! he is his son' — father particular friend of Beckendorlf — college friend — brought up tlie orphan — very handsome of him ! — ihey say he does handsome things some- . times." " Ah ! well — I've heard so t.;o — and so this young niiiii is to be tlie new under-secretary ! very much a;iprove.d by the Countess of S ." " No, it can't be ! — your story is quite wrong. He is an Englishman." "An Englibhman ! no !'' " Yes, he is. I had it from niadamc — liigh rank jncog. — going to Vienna — secret mission." "yomcthing to do with Greece? of course in- «lependence recognised .'" " O ' certuinly — jiay a tribute to the Porte, and griverticd by a hospodar. Admirable arrangement ! have to support their own government and a foreign one besides !" It was with great pleasure that Vivian at length observed Mr. Sievers enter the room, and extricat- ing himself from the enlightened and enthusiastic crowd, who were disserting round the tribunal of madame, he hastened to his amusing iViend. " Ah ! my dear sir, how glad I am to see you I I have, since we met last, been introduced to your fashionable ruler, and some of her most lashionable slaves. I have been honoured by a long conversa- tion with his royal highness, and have listened to some of the most eloquent of the Carolii:a coterie. \A hat a Babel ! there all are, at the same time, talkers and listeners. To what a pitch of perfec- tion may the ' science' of conversation be carried ! My mind teems with original ideas to which I can annex no definite meaning. What a variety of contradictory theories, which are all apparently sound I I begin to suspect that there is a great difference between reasoning and reason !" '• Your suspicion is well founded, my dear sir," said Mr. Sievers ; " and I know no circumstance which would sooner prove it, than listening for a few minutes to this little man in a snull'-coloured coat, near me. But I will save you from so ter- rible a demonstration. He has been endeavouring to catch my eye these last ten minutes, and I have as studiously avoided seeing him. Let us move," " Willingly : who may this fear-inspiring mon- ster heV " A philosopher," said Mr, Sievers, " as most of us call ourselves here : that is to say, his profession is to observe the course of nature ; and if by chance he can discover any slight deviation of the good dame from the path which our ignorance has marked out as her only track, he claps his hands, cries ihfDiict ! and is dubbed ' illustrious' on the spot. Such is the world's reward for a great dis- covery, which generally in a twelve-month's time is found out to be a blunder of the philosopher, and not an eccentricity of nature. I am not un- derrating those great men who, bj' deep study, or rather by some mysterious inspiration, have pro- duced comiiinations, and cfiiscted results, which have materially assisted the progress of civilization and the security of our happiness. No, no! to them be due adoration. Vv'ould that the reverence of posterity could be some consolation to these great spirits, for negl(;ct and persecution when they lived ! I have invariably observed of great natural philosophers, that if they lived in former ages they were persecuted as magicians, and in periods which profess to be more enlightened, they have always been ridiculed as quacks. The succeeding century the real quack arisi-s. He ado[its and developes the suppressed, and despised, and forgotten disco- very of his unfortunate };redecessor ; and fame trumpets this resurrection-man of science with as loud a blast of ra])ture, as if, instead of being merely the accidental animator of the corpse, he were the cunning artist himself, who had devised and executed the miraculous machinery which the other had only wound u[>." "Let us sit down on tins sofa. I tnink we have escapo'd from your brown-coated liiend." •' Ay ! I forgot we were speaking of him. He is, as the phrase goes, a philosopher. To think that a student of butterflies and beetles, a nice ob- server of the amorous passions of an ant, or the caprices of a cockchafer, should bear a tillo once VIVIAN GREY. 1ml consecrated to those lights of nature who taught us to be wise, and free, and eloquent. Philosophy ! I am sick of the word." " And this is an entomologist, I suppose V " Not exactly. He is about to publish a quarto on the Villa Pliniana on the Lake of Como. Sir Philosopher, forsooth ! has been watching for these eight months the intermittent fountain there ; but though his attention was quite unlike his subject, no ' discovery' has taken place. Pity that a freak of nature should waste eight months of a philo- sopher's life ! Though annoyed by his failure, my learned gentleman is consoled by what he styles, ' an approximation to a theory ;' and solves the phenomenon by a whisper of the evening winds." " But in this country," said Vivian, " surely you have no reason to complain of the want (^ moral philosophers, or the respect paid to them. The country of Kant — of — " " Yes, yes ! we have plenty of metaphysicians, if you mean them. Watch that lively-looking gentleman, who is stuffing kalte schale so vora- ciously in the corner. The leader ©f the idealists — a pupil of the celebrated Ficlite ! To gain an idea of his character, know that he out-herods his master ; and Fichte is to Kant, what Kant is to the unenlightened vulgar. You can now form a slight conception of the spiritual nature of our friend who is stuffing kalte schale. The first principle of his school is to reject all expressions which incline in the slightest degree to substan- tiality. Existence is, in his opinion, a word too absolute. Beins^, principle, essence, are terms scarcely sufficiently ethereal, even to indicate the subtile shadows of his opinions. Some say that he dreads the contact of all real things, and that he makes it the study of his life to avoid them. Mat- ter is his great enemy. When you converse with him, you lose all consciousness of this world. My dear sir," continued Mr. Sievers, " observe how exquisitely nature revenges herself upon these capri- cious and fantastic children. Believe me, nature is the most brilliant of wits ; and that no repartees that were ever inspired by hate, or v^'ine, or beauty ever equalled the calm effects of her indomitable power upon those who are rejecting her authority You understand me ? Methinks that the best an- swer to the idealism of Mr. Fichte is to see his pupil devouring kalte schale !" "And this is really one of your great lights'!" " Verily ! his works are the most famous, and the most unreadable, in all Germany. Sui-clyyou have heard of his 'Treatise on Man V A treatise on a subject in which every one is interested, written in a style which no one can understand. " I could point you out," continued Mr. Sievcrs, " another species of idealist more ridiculous even than this. Schelling has revived pantheism in Ger- many. According to him, on our death our identity is lost forever, but our internal qualities become |)art of the great whole. I could show you also, to prove my impartiality, materialists more ridi- culous than both these. But I will not wcarj' you. You asked me, however, if, in Germany, we had not philosophers. I have pointed them out to you. My dear sir, as I told you before, philo- sophy is a term which it is the fashion for every one to assume. We have a fellow at Reiscnberg who always writes 'On the Philosophy' of some- thing. He has just published a volume ' On the Philosophy of Pipe-heads !' We have even come to this ! But considering the term philo.tnphy as I do myself, and as I have reason to believe you do, I am not rash when I say, that in Germany she has no real votaries. AH here are imitating to excess the only ])art of the ancient philosophy, which is as despicable as it is useless. The ever inexplicable enigma of the universe is what the modern Germans profess to solve ; the ring which they ever strive to carry off in their intellectual tilts. In no nation sooner than in Germany, can you gain more detailed information about every other world except the present. Here, we take nothing for granted; an excellent preventive of superficialness ; but as our premises can never be settled, it unfortunately happens that our river of knowledge, though very profound, is extremely narrow. While we are all anticipating immortality, we forget that we arc mortal. Believe me, that the foundations of true philosophy are admissions. We must take something for granted. In morals, as well as in algebra, we must form our calcula- lations by the assistance of unknown numbers. Whatever doubts may exist as to the causes of our being, or the origin of our passions, no doubt can exist respecting their results. It is those re- sults that we must regulate, and it is them that we should study. For the course of the river, which is visible to all, may be cleared or changed ; but the unknown and secret fountain — what profits it to ponder on its origin, or even to discover its site, or to plumb its unfathomable and mysterious wa- ters 1 V/hen I find a man, instead of meditating on the nature of our essence and the principle of our spirit, — on which points no two persons ever agreed — developing and directing the energies of that essence and that spirit, energies which all feel and all acknowledge ; when I find a man, instead of musing over the absolute principle of the universe, forming a code of moral principles by which this single planet may be regulated and harmonised ; when I find him, instead of pouring forth obscure oracles on the reunion of an inexplicable soul with an unintelligible nature, demonstrating the indis- soluble connexion of private happiness and public weal, and detailing the modes by which the inte- rests of the indispensable classes of necessary society may at the same time be considered and confirmed, I recognise in this man the true philo- sopher; I distinguish him from the dreamers who arrogate that title ; and if he be my countryman, I congratulate Germany on her illustrious son." '• You think, then," said Vivian, " that posterity will rank the German metaphysicians v\ith the latter Platonists 1" " I hardly know — they are a body of men not less acute, but I doubt whether they will be as celebrated. In this age of print, notoriety is more attainable than in the age of manuscript ; but last- ing fame certainly is not. That tall thin man in black, that just bowed to me, is the editor of one of our great Reisenbcrg reviews. The journal he edits is one of the most successful periodical pub- lications ever set afloat. Among its contributors may assuredly be classed many men of eminent talents ; yet to their abilities the surprising success and influence of this work is scarcely to be ascribed : it is the result rather of the consistent sjjirit which has always inspired its masterly critiques. One principle has ever regulated its management : it is a simple rule, but an effective one — every author is reviewed by his personal enemy. You may iiiva ■ y2 174 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. gine the point of the critique ; but you would hardly credit, if I were to mform you, the circula- tion of the review. You will tell me that you are Kot surprised, and talk of the natural appetite of our species for malice and slander. Be not too quick. The rival of this review, both in influence and in sale, is conducted on as simple a princiijle, but not a similar one. In this journal every author is reviewed by his personal friend — of course, perfect panegyric. Each number is flattering as a lover's tale, — every article an eloge. What say you to thirf] These arc the influential literary and political journals of Reisenbcrg. There was yet another ; it was edited by an eloquent scholar ; all its contributors were, at the same time, brilliant and profound. It numbered among its writers some of the most celebrated names in Germany ; its critiques and articles were as impartial as they were able — as sincere as they were sound ; it never paid the expense of the first number. As philanthropists and admirers of our species, my dear sir, these are gratifying results ; they satisfac- torily demonstrate, that mankind have no innate desire for scandal, calumny, and backbiting; it only proves that they have an innate desire to be gulled and deceived. " The editor of the first review," continued Mr. Sievers, " is a very celebrated character here. He calls himself a philosophical historian. Professing the greatest admiration of Montesquieu, this lumi- nous gentleman has, in his ' History of Society in all Nations and all Ages,' produced one of the most ludicrous caricatures of the ' Esprit des Loix,' that can be possibly imagined. The first principle of these philosophical historians is tn^encra/'ze. Ac- cording to them, man, in every nation and in every clime, is the same animal. His conduct is influ- enced by general laws, and no important change ever takes place in his condition through the agen- cy of accidental circumstances, or individual exer- tion. All, necessarily, arises by a uniform and natural process, which can neither be eilectually resisted, not prematurely accelerated. From these premises our philosophical historian has deduced a most ingenious and agreeable delineation of the progress of society from barbarism to refinement. With this writer, recorded truth has no charms, and facts have no value. They are the consequence of his theory ; and it is therefore easier for him, at once, to imagine his details, than to give himself the troLible of collecting them from dusty chronicles, or original manuscripts. With these gencralizers, man is a machine. Accident and individual cha- racter, the two most powerful springs of revolution, are not allowed to influence their theoretic calcula- tions ; and setting out, as they all do, with an avow ed opinion of what man ouglu to be, tli' y have no difliculty in providing what, in certain situations, he has bcen„ and what, in singular situations, he ever niust be." •' We have no want of these gcntiy in my country," said Vivian ; " although of late years this mode of writing history has become rather un- fashionable. The English are naturally great lovers of detail. They like a Gerard Dow better than a Poussin ; and in literature, in spite of their philoso- phical historians, their old chronicles are not yet obsolete. Of late, indeed, even the common people have (exhibited a taste for this species of antique fitcrature." '• The genius and delightful works of tlie Che- valier Scott, (the Germans always use titles, and speaking even of their most illustrious men, never omit their due style, — as ' the Baron von GiJthe,' the ' Baron von Leibnitz,') of the Chevalier Scott,' continued Mr. Sievers, " has in a great measure re- vivcd this taste. You are of course aware that he has influenced the literatures of the Continent scarcely less than that of his own country: he is the favourite author of the French, and in Germany we are fast losing our hobgoblin taste. When I first came to Reisenberg, now eight years ago, the popular writer of fiction wa# a man, the most pro- bable of whose numerous romances was one in which the hero sold his shadow to a demon, over the dice-box; then married an unknown woman in a church-yard ; afterwards wedded a river nymph ; and having committed bigamy, finally stabbed him- self, to^nable his first wife to marry his own father. He and his works are quite obsolete ; and the star of his genius, with those of many others, has paled before the superior brilliancy of that literary comet, Mr. von Chronicle, our great historical novelist. Von Chronicle is one of those writers who never would have existed had it not been for the Cheva- lier Scott : he is a wonderful copyist of that part of your countrymen's works which is easy to copy, but without a spark of his genius. According to Von Chronicle, we have all, for a long time, been under a mistake, and your great author among us. We have ever considered that the first point to be studied in novel writing, is character : miserable error! It is cos/imte. Variety of incident, novelty, and nice discrimination 6f character ; interest of story, and all those points which we have hitherto looked upon as necessary qualities of a fine novel , vanish before the superior attractions of variety of dresses, exquisite descriptions of the cloak of a signor, or the trunk-hose of a serving-man. "Amuse yourself while you arc at Reisenbcrg, by turning over some volumes which every one is reading ; Von Chronicle's last great historical novel. The subject is a magnificent orre — Rienzi — yet it is strange that the hero only appears in the first and the last scenes. You look astonished. Ah ! I see you are not a great historical novelist. You foi-get the effect which is pi-oduced by the contrast of the costiune of Master Nicholas, the notar}' in the quarter of the Jews, and that of Rienzi, the tri- bune, in his robe of purple, at his coronation hi the Capitol. Conceive the circct, the contrast. With that coronation, Von Chronicle's novel terminates ; for, as he well observes, after that, what is there in the career of Rienzi which would afford matter for the novelist? ]Vothing! All that afterwards occurs is a mere contest of passions, and a development of character; but where is a procession, a triumph, or a marriage ? " One of Von Chronicle's great characters in this novel is a cardinaL It was only last night that I was fortunate enough to have the beauties of the work pointed out to me by the author himself. Ke errtrcated, and gained my permission, to read to me whathe himself considered ' the greatscene;' I settled myself in my chair, took out my handkerchief, and prepared my mind for the worst. While I was an- ticipating the terrors of a heroine, he intr'oduced me to his cardinal. Thirty pages were devoted to tire description of the prelate's costume. Although clothed in pui"ple, still, by a skilful adjustment of the drapery, Von Chronicle managed to bring in six other petticoats, I thought this beginning VIVIAN GREY. 175 would neve' finish, but to my surprise, when he hid got t'j the seventh petticoat, he shut his book, and le.ming over the table, asked me what I thought of his ' great scene 1' ' My friend,' said I, ' you are not only the greatest historical novelist that ever lived, but that ever vnll live.' " " I shall certainly get Rienzi," said Vivian ; " it seems to me to be an original work." " Von Chronicle tells me that he looks upon it as his master-piece, and that it may be considered as the highest point of perfection to which liis sys- tem of novel-writing can be earned. Not a single name is given in the work, down even to the rabble, for which he has not contemporary authority ; but what he is particularly proud of, are his oaths. Nothing, he tells me, has cost him more trouble than the management of the sweaiing; and the Romans, you know, are a most profane nation. The great ditHculty to be avoided, was using the ejacu- lations of two diflerent ages. The ' 'sblood' of the sixteenth century must not be confounded with the 'zounds' of the seventeenth. Enough of Von Chronicle ! The most amusing thing," continued Mr. Sievers, " is to contrast this mode of writing works of fiction, with the prevalent and fashionable method of writing works of history. Contrast the ' Rienzi' of Von Chronicle, with the ' Haroun Al Raschid' of Madame Carolina. Here we vvrite novels like history, and history like novels : all our facts are fancy, and all our imagination reality." So saying, Mr. Sievers rose, and wishing Vivian good night, quitted the room. He was one of those prudent geniuses who always leg,ve off with a point. Mr. Sievers had not left Vivian more than a minute, when the little Prince Maximilian came up and bowed to him in a very condescending manner. Our hero, who had not yet had an opportunity of speaking with him, thanked him cordially for his handsome present, and asked him how he liked the court. '■ O, delightful ! I pass all my time with the grand-duke and madamc;" and here the young apostate settled his military stock, and arranged the girdle of his sword. " Madame Carohna," con- tinued he, " has commanded me to inform you that she desires the pleasure of your attendance." The summons was immediately obeyed, and Vivian had the honour of a very long conversation with the interesting consort of the grand-duke. He was, for a considerable time, complimented by her enthusiastic panegyric of England ; her original ideas of the character and genius of Lord Byron ; her veneration for Sir Humphrey Davy, and her ad- miration of Sir Walter Scott. Not remiss was Vivian in paying, in his happicstmanner, due com- pliments to the fair and royal authoress of the Court of Charlemagne. While she spoke his native tongue, he admired her accurate English ; and while she professed to have derived her imperfect knowledge of his perfect language from a study of its best authors, she avowed her belief of the impos- sibility of ever speaking it correctly, without the assistance of a native. Conversation became more interesting. Madame Carolina lamented Vivian's indisposition, and fearing that he had not been jtroperly attended, she insisted upon his seeing the court physician. It was in vain he protested that he was quite well. She, convinced by his looks, insisted upon sending Dr. von Spittergen to him the next morning. When Vivian left the palace, he was not un- mindful of an engagement to return there the next day, to give a first lesson in English pronunciation to Madame Carolina, CHAPTER IV. Ox the morning after the court dinner, as Vivian was amusing himself over Von Chronicle's last new novel, Essper George announced Dr. von Spittergen. Our hero was rather annoyed at the kind interest which Madame Carolina evidently took in his convalescence. He was by no means in the humour to endure the affectations and per fumes of that most finical of prigs, a court phy- sician ; but so important a personage could scarcely he refused admission, and accordingly Dr. von Spittergen entered the room. He was a very tall, and immensely sfout man, with a small head, short neck, and high shoulders. His little quick gray eye saved his countenance from the expression of sullen dullness, which otherwise would have been given to it by his very thick lips. His dress was singular, and was even more striking from the great contrast which it atforded to the costume which Vivian had anticipated. There was no sword, no wig, no lace rullles, no diamond ring. The tail of his dark mixture coat nearly reached the ground ; its waist encircled his groin, and the lappets of his waistcoat fell over his thighs. He wore very square-toed shoes, and large- silver buckles, and partridge-coloured woollen stockings were drawn over the knees of his black pantaloons. Holding in one hand his large straw hat, and in the other a gold-headed cane as big as Goliath's spear, without any preliminaiy, he thus addressed, in a loud voice, his new patient : — " Well, sir ! what is the matter with you 1" " Pray be seated, doctor. The honour of this visit — very sensible — " " Never sit down." As Vivian, rather confounded by the unex- pected appearance and manners of his visiter, did not immediately answer. Dr. von Spittergen again spoke. " Well, sir I have you got any thing to say to me?" " Really, doctor, you are so very kind ! unne- cessarily so. — I am not quite well — that is, not exactly quite well ; perhaps a little cold — nothing more." " Li/Ik cold, indeed ! Why, what would you have, yoiuig man ; — the plague 1" " Dr. von Spittergen," thought Vivian, " is evi- dently one of those mild practitioners, who are of opinion, that Learning is never so«lovely as when Brutality is her handmaid ; and that Skill is never so respected, as when she not only cures but dis- gusts you." " Ah !" continued the doctor ; " I suppose you got this cold by forgetting to wear your gloves one day. Gloves are the origin of every disease. Nobody can expect to be well, who ever covers the palm of his hand." " Well, doctor, I confess I do not ascribe my present indisposition to encouraging the glove ma nufaetory of Reisenherg." ' ' Pish ! what should you know about it, su- ^ ' 176 D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " ! nothing. Do not be alarmed that I am ' about to destroy a favourite theory." " Pish ! young men liave ahvay.s something to say ; never to the purpose. Show your teeth, sir ! I don't want to see your tongue : show your teeth — all pidled out at five years old 1 — suppose you luiow nothing about it : well ! if they were not, there is no chance for you ; — you will be an inviilid all your life." " Well, doctor !" said Vivian, with imperturba- ble good humour; "however crazy may be my bodv, I still trust, with your good assistance, to reach a very advanced period." " You do, do you 1 I don't think you will ; there's nothing of you ; no stamina : — see what can be done, though." Here the good doctor rang the bell. " Kelner ! go and ask your master for his list of medicines." " Sir !" said the astonished waiter at the Grand Hotel of the Four Nations — " Sir !" '• What, are you deaf! — GS, and bring the list directly." " I don't know what you mean, sir." " How long have you lived here V " Three days, sir." " Pish ! — go, and tell your master what I said." The waiter accordingly departed; and the master of tlie house, bowing and smiling, soon appeared in his own person, " I beg your pardon, doctor," said he ; " but it was a new hand who answered your bell ;" and so saying, the good gentleman delivered to Dr. von Spittergen the carte des vins. " Stop here a moment, my friend !" said Von Spittergen, " while I prescribe for this young man." He began reading — " Vins de Bourgogne — pish ! Clos de Vougeot — Mousseux — Chambcrtin — St. George — Richebourg — pish ! vins do Bordeaux — Lafitte — Margaux — Hautbrion — Leonville — Me- doc — Sauterne — Barsac — Preignac — Grave — pish! pish! pish! pish! — Cotes du Rhone — paille — rouge — grille — St. Peray — pish! pish! pish! — Champagne — p — i — s — h ! Vins du Rhine — drank too much of them already — Porto-Porto — Ah ! that will do — Give him a pint at two — Let him dine at that hour, en particulier — and not at the table d'hote — Give him a pint, I say, with his dinner, and repeat the dose before he goes to bed. Voung man, I have done for you all that human skill can — I have given you a very powerful medi- cine, but all medicine is trash — Are you a horse- man 1 — you are ! very well ! I will send my daughter to you — good morning !" Vivian duly kept his appointment with Madame Carolina. The chamberlain ushered him into a library, where Madame Carolina was seated at a large table covered with books and manuscripts. Her costume, and her countenance were equally engaging. Fascination was ahke in her smile and her sash — her bow and her buckle. What a delightful pupil to perfect in English pronuncia- tion ! Madame pointed, with a pride pleasing to Vivian's feelings as an Englishman, to her shelves, graced with the most eminent of English writers. Madame Carolina was not like one of those ad- mirers of English literature which you often meet on the Continent: people who think that Bcattie's Minstrel is our most modern and fashionable poem ; that the Night Thoughts arc the masterpiece of our literature ; and that Richardson is our only novelist. O, no ! — Madame Carolina would no! have disgraced May Fair. She knew Chikle Harold by rote, and had even peeped into Don Juan. Her admiration of the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, was great and similar. To a Continental liberal, indeed, even the toryism of the Quarterly is philosophy ; and not an under-secre- tary ever yet massacred a radical innovator, with out giving loose to some sentijnents and sentences, which are considered rank treason in the meridian of Vienna. After some conversation, in which madame evinced great eagerness to gain details about the persons and manners of our most eminent literary characters, she naturally began to speak of the literary productions of other countries; and in short, ere an hour was passed, Vivian Grey, instead of giving a lesson in English pronunciation to the consort of the Grand-duke of Reisenberg, found himself listening, in an easy chair, and wdth folded arms, to a long treatise by that lady de V Esprit de Conversation. It was a most brilliant dissertation. Her kindness in reading it to him was most parti- cular ; nevertheless, for unexpected blessings we are not always sufficiently grateful. Another hour was consumed by the treatise. How she refined ! what unexpected distinctions ! what exquisite discrimination of national charac- ter! what skilful culogium of her own ! Nothing could be more splendid than her elaborate character of a repartee ; it would have sufficed for an epic poem. At length Madame Carolina ceased de VEsprit de Conversation, and Vivian was most successful in concealing his weariness, and testify- ing his admiration. " The evil is over," thought he ; "I may as well gain credit for my good taste." The lesson in English pronunciation, however, was not yet terminated. Madame was channed with our hero's uncommon discrimination and ex- traordinary talents. He was the most skilful, and the most agreeable critic with whom she had ever been acquainted. How invaluable must the opinion of such a person be to her, on her great woik ! No one had yet seen a line of it ; but there are moments wlien we are irresistibly impelled to seek a confidant — that confidant was before her. The morocco case was unlocked, and the manuscript of Haroun Al Raschid revealed to the enraptured eye of Vivian Grey. " I flatter myself," said Madame Carolina, " that this work will create a great sensation ; not only in Germany. It abounds, I think, with the most in- teresting story, the most engaging incidents, and the most animated and effective descriptions. I have not, of course, been able to obtain any new matter respecthig his sublimity, the caliph. Be- tween ourselves, I do not think this is very im- portant. As far as I have observed, we have matter enough in this world on every possible sub- ject already. It is rnanner in which the literature of all nations is deficient. It appears to me, that the great point for persons of genius now to dipect their attention to, is the expansion of matter. This I conceive to be the great secret ; and this must be effected by the art of picturesque writing. For instance, my dear Mr. Grey, I will open the Arabian Night's Entertainments, merely for an exemplification, at the one hundred and eighty- fifth rnght — good ! Let us attend to the following passage : — " In the reign of the v")alijih Haroun Al Raschid, VIVIAN GREY 17 •here was at Bagdad a druggist, called Alboussan Ebn Thaher, a very rich, handsome man. He had more v.dt and politeness than people of his profes- sion ordinarily have. His integrity, sincerity, and jovial humour, made him beloved and sought after by all sorts of people. The caliph, who knew his merit, had an entire confidence in him. He had so great an esteem for him, that he entrusted him with the care to provide his favourite ladies with all the things they stood in need of. He chose for them their clothes, furniture, and jewels, with ad- mirable taste. His good qualities, and the favour of the caliph, made the sons of emirs, and other officers of the first rank, be always about him. His house was the rendezvous of all the nobility of the court." "What capabilities lurk in this dry passage!" exclaimed Madame Carolina ; " I touch it with ray pen, and transform it into a chapter. It shall be one of those that I will read to you. The descrip- tion of Alboussan alone demands ten pages. There i^ no doubt that his countenance was oriental. The tale saj's that he was handsome : I paint him with his eastern eye, his thin arched brow, his fragrant beard, his graceful mustachio. The tale says he was rich : I have authorities for the costume of men of his dignity in contemporary writers. In my history, he appears in an upper garment of green velvet, and loose trousers of pink satin ; a jewelled dagger lies in his golden girdle ; his slippers are of the richest embroiderj- ; and he never omits the iiatli of roses daily. On this system, which in my opinion elicits truth, for by it you are enabled to form a conception of the manners of the age, on this system I proceed throughout the paragraph. Conceive my account of his house being the ' ren- dezvous of all the nobility of the court.' What a brilliant scene ! what a variety of dress and cha- racter ! what splendour ! what luxury ! what mag- nificence ! Imagine the detail of the banquet ; which, by-the-by, gives me an opportunity of in- serting, after the manner of your own Gibbon, ' a dissertation on sherbet.' What think you of the picturesque writing 1" " Admirable !" said Vivian ; " Von Chronicle himself—" " How can you mention the name of that odious man !" almost shrieked Madame Carolina, for- getting the dignity of her semi-regal character, in tiie jealous feelings of the author. " How can you mention him ! A scribbler without a spark, not only of genius, but even of common inven- tion. A miserable fellow, who seems to do nothing but clothe and amplify, in his own fantastic style, the details of a parcel of old chronicles !" Madame's indignation reminded Vivian of a very true, but rather vulgar proverb of his own country ; and he extricated himself from his very awkward situation, with a dexterity worthy of his former years. " Von Chronicle himself," said Vivian, " Von Chronicle himself, as I was going to observe, will be the most mortified of all on the appearance of your work. He cannot l5e so Winded by self-con- ceit, as to fail to observe that your history is a thousand times more interesting than his fiction. Ah ! Madame Carolina, if you can thus spread enchantment over the hitherto weary page of history, what must be vour work of imagina- •ion !'"' 23 CHAPTER V. Although brought up wita due detestation of the Mcthuan treaty, Vivian I y no means disap- proved of Dr. von Spittergen's remedy. The wine was good and very old ; for, not being a very popular liquor with any other European nation, except ourselves, the Porto-Porto had been suffered to ripen under the cobv.'ebs of half a century, in the ample cellar of the grand hotel of the Four Nations, at Reisenberg. As Vivian was hesitating whether he should repeat the dose, or join the court-dinner, Essper George came into the room. "Please your highness, here is a lady _ who wants you !" " A lady ! — who can she be T" " She did not give her name, but wishes to speak to you." " Ask her to come up." " I have, your highness ; but she is on horse- back, and refused." " What kind of person is she 1" " 0," drawled out Essper, " she is not as tall as a horscguard, and yet might be mistaken for a church-steeple when there was a cloud over the moon ; she is not as stout as Master Rodolph, and y^et she would hardly blow away when the wind was down." The fiir horsewoman must not, however, be kept waiting, even if she were as mysterious as an unlaid ghost, or a clerk in a public office ; and consequently, Vivian speedily made his bow to his interesting visitant. Miss Melinda von Spittergen, for the amazon was no other than the dread doctor's fair daughter, was full six feet high, thin, and large-boned; her red curly hair was cut very short behind ; yet, in spite of this, and her high-boned cheeks, her fine florid complexion, blue eyes, small mouth, and regular white teeth, altogether made up a counte- nance which was prepossessing. She was mounted on a very beautiful white horse, which never ceased pawing the ground the wtiole time that it stood before the hotel ; and she was dressed in a riding- habit of blue and silver, with buttons as large as Spanish dollars. As the construction of riding- habits is a subject generally interesting to English women, let me say, that Miss von Spittergen's was of a very full make, with a verj' long waist, and a very high collar. A pink cravat almost as effec- tively contrasted with the colour of her dress, as her white hat and feathers. She sat on her spi- rited steed with the nonchalance of a perfect horse- woman ; and there was evidently no doubt, that, had it been necessary, she could have used with becoming spirit her long-lashed riding-whip; the handle of which, I should not omit to mention, was formed of a fawn's foot, graced by a silver shoe. " Good morning, sir !" said Miss von Spittergen, as Vivian advanced. "My father hopes to have the pleasure of your company at dinnei to-day. A ride is the verj- best thing he can presciibe for you ; and if you will order your horse, we will be off immediately." " Dr. von Spittergen is ver^' kind !" said Vi- vian, quite confused — quite wonder-struck. "O! not at all; my father is always most happv to sec his friends." " i)r. von Spittergen is very lund," again stam 178 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. mered out our hero , " but I fear an unfortunate cng-agcmcnt — an — " " I must take no refusal," said Miss von Spitter- gen, smiling : " a physician's commands are pe- remptory. You can have no engagement which may not be broken ; for you should not have made one without his permission. He expects you at dinner, and to stay the night. Your bed is pre- pared." " Really, Dr. von Spittergen is very kind — but — quite asliamed — so much trouble — so — " " ! not i'-t all. If it were trouble, of course, we should not insist on that which would be alike disagi-eeable to our friends and to ourselves. Come, Order your horse !" " Really I cannot withstand," said Vivian, a little more collected, " what is at the same time an invitation and a command. It gives me equal pleasure both to accept and to obey." " I am very happy that I have not failed in my embassy," said Miss von Spittergen. " We will then be off: time presses. Marcus Aurelius flung a shoe on the road, and lost me half an hour, and I wish you to see a little of the country before dinner." " I will detain you not five minutes ; but will you not dismount and walk up stairs till my horse is ready V " No : if I dismount, I must stand at his head," said Miss von Spittergen, pointing to her horse ; " I canncFc trust Marcus Aurehus to any strange groom." " Well, then, you will excuse me for a moment. I am half engaged at the court-dinner ; and I must scribble a line to his excellency the grand-marshal. You will excuse me]" " Most assuredly ! but give them directions about your horse at once." In ten minutes' time, Vivian and Miss Melinda von Spittergen had left the hotel of the Four Na- tions. They cantered through the public gardens, and quitted the city through a new gate, which may truly be described as commemorative of the triumph of the Reiscnberg troops during the late war. This arch was commenced by Napoleon, after the arrangement of the Confederation of the Rhine. It was not finished, when the event of tlie battle of Leipsic virtually dissolved thatbody. By skilfully placing the most personal bas-reliefs in the very highest and obscurest parts of the elevation, and by adroitly converting the countenances in those already placed into the more successful heads of the allied sovereigns, the triumphal arch of the Emperor Napoleon finally commemorated his defeat ; and, at this moment, it bears the dignified title of the Gate of tiie Allies. Through this portal, gayly cantered Miss Melinda von Spittergen and Mr. Vivian Grey. " This road," said the lady, " leads to our house ; but half an hour would carry us there, and from so short a ride you cannot expect any very great bene- fit ; therefore we will make a round, and as there is no cross-road nigh, follow me," So saying. Miss von Spittergen cleared a hedge, with an air which, had it been witnessed by certain gentlemen whom I could mention, would have caused her inunedi- ately to be elected an honourable member of the Melton, Vivian Grey followed. Miss von Spit- tergen, touching Marcus Aurelius with a silver spur, dashed over a field cf stubble. Max was not to be beat, even by Marcus Anrelius ! and hi» master consequently kept by the lady's side. An- other leap, and another field, and then a gate — all at a full gallop. An extensive plain succeeded, over which Miss Melinda and Vivian scudded fo. an hour whhout speaking, like Faust and Mephis topheles on the enchanted steeds. The plain is passed, and a downhill gallop over most rugged and broken ground, proved at the same time the sure-footedness of the horses, the courage of Miss von Spittergen, and the gallantry of Vivian Grey. At the bottom of the hill they found themselves in marsh ground, and the next turn revealed to them a river: the stream was broad and strong, and looked deep. " Come on !" said Miss, von Spittergen, turning round. " Are wo obliged to cross this river 1" asked Vivian. " Is there no bridge — no ferry 1" " Bridge or ferry !" said Miss von Spittergen, laughing ; " what do you want with a bridge or ferry ] Follow me, if you please. We'll soon cure this ' little cold' of yours !" So saying. Miss von Spittergen pulled up Marcus Aurelius, turned her knees over his neck, and then tucking her habit several times round them, so that no part of it hung lower than her horse's mane, she cracked her whip with great spirit, skilfully lai~hed the Ro- man emperor on the ham, and almost before Vivian had observed what she was doing, Marcus Aurelius and Miss Melinda von Spittergen were buffeting the boisterous waves. To be outdone by a wo- man ! — impossible ! — and so Vivian Grey, elevating his legs as much as he possibly could, and throw- ing his stirrups over his saddle, dashed into the stream. It was a tight business ; and certainly, had not the summer been extremely dry, the'river would not have been fordable. As it was, after much putTmg, and panting, and stiTiggling, the lady and gentleman found themselves on the opposite bank. They had now to ascend a while, for the stream which they had just forded watered a valley. The road being very steep, and the horses being rather pressed by their passage. Miss von Spitter- gen, to Vivian's great relief, did not immediately start off at full gallop ; and consequently her com- panion, who actually had not yet had an opportu- nity of conversing with her, seized the present one to compliment her on her horsemanship. " A most dehghtful rmi !" continued Vivian :— " I trust it will not fatigue you." "Why should it?" said Miss voji Spittergen, smiling her surprise at his apprehensions. " What then ! — I suppose you think, because I chance to wear a riding-habit instead of a fiock-coat, that I am to sink luider the etfects of half an hour's can- ter. I know that is your regular Enghsh creed." "No, indeed!" said Vivian — 'but such exer- tions as clearing hedges, and fording rivers !" " Clearing hedges I fording rivers I you have gone over nothing tliis morning which need have prevented you sleeping on your horse's back. I see you are not prepared for German cross-roads; a little amble in the park,- in tlie morning, and a dance with a fainting fiiir one for t\vo or three hours in the evening, furnish, I suppose, your ideas of fatigue. Now if I were to pass such a day, 1 should die at the end of it." " Really, you are shockingly severe ;" said Vi- vian, in a deprecating tone. " One would tliink that VIVIAN GREY. 179 I was Emilius von Aslingen himself, by your de- scription ofrny life. I had hoped that my prowess this morning- would have saved nie from such a reputation ; but as I now learn that these feats count for nothing, I confess that I begin to tremble." " I was not dreaming of casting the least impu- tation on you," rejoined Miss von Spittergen ; " I was merely undeceiving you as regarded myself. If you think that any accidental exhilaration of spirits has produced this exertion, and that I am consequently to be a stupid, sleepy companion for the rest of the day, your alarm will cease, when I inform you that I have not this morning taken one- fourth of my usual exercise ; and that even if I were ever so tired, I should be immediately re- freshed by half an hour's diving in our great bath. But if you were to tighten me up like one of your native belles, and set me gliding through a quad- rille in a hot room, I should expire on the spot. Now, as you look either surprised or incredulous, remember I have proved to you that I can ride ; now see that I am prepared to swim." And taking off her hat. Miss von Spittergen exhibited to her companion her close cut hair, in a state as natu- rally dishevelled as his own. " Indeed your proof is unnecessary!' said Vi- vian ; " I admire, but do not doubt. Believe me that I did not remonstrate with you from any selfish anticipation for the evening ; but from an habitual apprehension for the natural fragility of the sex." " The natural fragility of the sex I" exclaimed Miss von Spittergen, laughing. " Good heavens, Mr. Grey, what a very pretty apprehension ! I have a vast mind, as a reward for your consideration, that you should listen to a lecture from my father to-night, on the natural powers of the sex. He will . tell you, what I am sure is very true — that your creed is a gallant apology for idleness; and vain as that which it attempts to excuse. Depend upon it, that if woman choose to put forth her energies, slic will equal you lords of the universe, much as you may think of yourselves !" " I am the last man in the world to dispute wo- man's superiority on any point," rejoined Vivian, "except as to that physical power which is no proof of excellence ; it being an attribute we can neither acquire nor command, and one in which even the brutes surpass us. For all those qualities of mind which distinguish — " " Mercy ! Mr. Grey," exclaimed Miss von Spit- tergen, " you are running headlong into metapliy- sics, which always distract me. I am not a meta- physician, but a naturalist ; and I argue from the experience of facts, that tlie natural power of wo- man is equal to the natural power of man, bodily 'and mental ; and that the difference supposed to exist, docs not arise from want of capability, but from want of exercise — just as we ridiculously imagine that the right haiid is stronger and more useful than the left, and that the feet are given to us only to walk with. I can fire a musket, and hit my mark as surely with the one hand as with the other; and I know a man who writes beautifully, and can adjust the nicest piece of mechanism with his feet, because, being born without arms, he has used the substitute which nature has given him. But our argument and our ride must now end to- gether ; for see ! we are at home, and my father is just arriving before us." Miss von Spittergen pointed through a rising plantation to an old-fashioned house, many rooms in which would have been consigned to utter ob- scurity, had it not been for the light which stream- ed through a small heart cut in the upper part of their heavy oak window-shutters. The house stood on a green, which was surrounded by a wall not more than two feet high ; and to the left, barns, stables, stacks, and piles of wood presented the ap- pearance of a well-ordered farm. Miss von Spit tcrgen and Vivian crossed a dike from the plaiita tion, and immediately passing through a largt white W'Ooden gate, with two hideous griffins grin- ning on the top of it, Marcus Aurelitis dashed up to the stable door, followed by Max. They were instantly saluted by an immense Newfoundland, whose joyous bark was answered by a responsive neigh from his companion of the stable; and in an instant, Triton was scrambling up Marcus Aure- lius, for the pleasure of biting Miss von Spittergen's silver buttons, and licking her face with his great red tongue. "Down — down, Triton !" Triton obeyed very unwillingly, but turning round, felt himself greatly consoled for his rebutf, by seeing that he had to welcome a visiter. He flew up at Max's neck. The princely pet, unused to such rude embraces, showed certain signs of ex- clusiveness, which made Vivian exercise his whip across master Triton's back ; who, in his turn, was equally irate at this unusual and ungrateful recep- tion of his caresses. The dog slujik from under Viviati's lash, and springing up behind Max, made him give a sudden and violent kick, which sent Vivian, unprepared as ho was, head foremost into some low, thick bushes of box, which had been [lianted to screen a pig-sty. It was fortunate for him that he did not make an unexpected appear- ance in the abode of Miss von Spittergen's favourite Columbina — a Chinese lady-pig, with a young family of delicate daughters, all so exquisitely high- bred, that they were almost without heads, bones, or feet. Columbina's maternal fears migiit have inflicted on Vivian some wounds, which he escapeeigelburg. " Play !" again screamed Little Lintz. " Play !" said Master Rodolph, v^ho was now pretty well awake. '• Play ! — play whatl" " Why, a diamond if you have got one," said Essper George. " Can't you see ] Are you blind? Hasn't Mr. Speigelburg led a diamond 1" "A diamond !" said Master Rodolph. " Yes, a diamond to be sure ; why what's the matter with you ! I thought you played the last trick very 'queerly." " I can't see," said Master Rodolph, in a very doleful voice. " Come, come I" said Essper ; " let us have no joking. It is much too important a point in the game to waiTant a jest. Play a diamond if you have one, and if not, trump!" " You have no right to tell your partner to trump," said Mr. Speigelburg, with mock indigna- tion ; for he had entered into the conspiracy witc a2 186 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. rcndiness, as he now saw a chance, by its concoc- tion, of saving himself from losing the rubber. '• He has a right to tell his partner any thing," said Master Rodolph, equally indignant af this interference ; " but I tell you I can't see." " Can't sec !" said Essper George ; " what do you mean?" " I mean exactly what I say," said Master Ro- dolph, somewhat testy. " I can't see ; I am not joking the least. I can't see a single pip of a single card. Have I been asleep?" "Asleep!" said Essper George, in a tone of extreme surprise. " It's an odd thing for a man to lie asleep, and play every card as regularly as you have done, and as well too. I never remember you playing so well as you have done to-night: — that finesse with the spade last trick, was quite admir- able. Had you only played half as well, the night you and I sat against long Halbcrt and 8ax the pikeman, the night, you remember, in the yellow' room at Turriparva, I should not have lost a silver dollar. But what has having been asleep to do with it"!" continued Essper. "Had you slept for a century, your eyes are open wide enough now. AVhy you stare like a pig four-and-lwenty hours before salting. Speigelburg, did you ever see a man stare so in all your life! Little Lintz, did yon !'' " Never !" said S[ieigelburg with enthusiasm ; the rubber was now certainly saved. "Never!" screamed Little Lintz. " I have been asleep," said Master Kodolph, in a very loud, and rather angry voice ; " I have been asleep — I am asleep — you are all asleep — we are all talking in our sleep — a'n't vi'c V "Talking in cur sleep!" said Essper George, affecting to be stifled with laughter; " Well I this is what I call carrying a joke rather too far. Come, Master Rodolph, play like a man." " Yes, yes !" said Mr. Speigelburg ; " play, play." " Yes, yes !" said Little Lintz ; " play, play." "How'can I play?" said Master Rodolph, his anger now turning into alarm. " Why, with your hands to be sure !" said Essper George. " Good Master Rodolph," said Mr. Speigelburg, in rather a grave tone, as if he were slightly of- fended ; " be kind enough to remember that cards were your own j,roposition. I have no wish to continue playing if it be disagreeable to you; nor have I any objection, if it be your pleasure, although I have a veiy good hand, to throw up my cards altogether. What say you, Mr. Lintz?" "No objection at all," said the little man; biting his lips in the dark with renewed vigour. "Thank you, Mr. Speigelburg," said Essper George, " but I, and my partner, have a great ob- jection to your throwing up your card.s. If you are satisfied with your hand, so much the better: I am satisfied with mine. I am sure, however, your partner cannot be with his; for I sec nothing but twos and threes in it. fiow, do me the favour, Mr. Lintz, to hold your cards nearer to you. There is nothing I detest so much as seeing my adversary's hand. I say this, I assure you, not out of any affected admiration of fair play ; but the truth is, it really jmzzles inc. I derive no benefit from this iinproiier knowledge. Now, do hold your cards up: you really are a most careless player. Nearer, nearer, nearer still !" These matter-of-fact observations and requests of Essper George, effectually settled Master Ro- dolph's brain ; never very acute, and now muddled with wine. . " Do you mean to say," asked he in a most tremulous-and quivering voice, " Do you mean to say that you are all seeing at this very moment?" " To be sure !" was the universal shout. "Every one of us !" continued Essjjcr ; "why, what maggot have you got into your brain ! I ac- tually begin to believe that you are not joking after all. Cannot you really see ? and yet you stare so! did you ever sec a man stare so, Mr. Speigelburg 1 and now that I look again, the colour of your eyes is changed !" "Is it, indeed?" asked Master Rodolph, with gasping breath. " O ! decidedly ; but let us be quite sure. Little Lintz, put that candle nearer to Master Rodolph. Now I can see well ; the light just falls on the pupil. Your eyes, sir, are changing as fast as the skin of a chameleon ; you know they are green : your eyes, if you remember, are green, Master Rodolph." " Yes, yes !" agreed the intendant, almost una- ble to articulate. " They u-ere green, rather," continued Essper George ; " and now they are crimson ; and now they are a whitish brown ; and now they are as black as a first day's mourning!" " Alack — and alack-a-day ! it has come at last," exclaimed Master Rodolph in a voice of great ter- ror. " We have blindness in our family, if I re- member right ; if indeed I can remember any thing at this awful moment, and my mind has not left me as well as my eyesight ; we have blindness in our family. There was my xtncle, Black Huns- drich the trooper, the father of that graceless varlet who lives with his lordship of Schoss Johannisbcr- ger, whom never shall I sec again. What would I now give for one glimpse at his nose ! There is blindness in our liimily !" continued Master Ro- dolph, weeping very bitterly ; "blindness in our family ! Black Hunsdrich the trooper, the father of that graceless varlet, my good uncle Black Huns- drich, what would he now say to see his dearly beloved nephew, the offspring of his excellent sis- ter, my good mother, to whom he was much af- fected, — what would he say now, were he to see his dearly beloved nephew in this sad and pitiable condition ? Weep for me, my friends ! — weep and grieve ! How often has my dear uncle Hunsdrich the trooper, how often has he dandled me on his knee ! There is blindness in our fondly," con- tinvied the poor intendant. " Black Hunsdrich the trooper, my uncle, my dearly beloved uncle, kind Hunsdrich, who was much aftected to me. How much I repent at this sad hour, the many wicked tricks I have played unto my dear uncle ! Take example by me, dear friends ! I would give my place's worth that I had not set fire to my dear uncle's pig-tail ; and it sits heavy on my heart at this dark moment, the thought that in privacy and behind his back, I was wickedly accustomed to call him Skagface. A kind man was Black Huns- drich the trooper ! His eyes were put out by a |)ike, fighting against his own party by mistake in the dar-k — there was always blindness in our family !'' Here Master Rodolph was so overcome by his misfortune, that he ceased to speak, and began to moan very pileously ; Essper George was not less affected, and sobbed bitterly ; Mr. Speigelburg VIVIAN GREY. 187 groaned ; Little Lintz whimpered. Essper at length broke silence. " I have been many trades, and learned many things iu my life," said he, with a veiy subdued voice ; " and I am not altogether ignorant of the economy of our visual nerves. I will essay, good Master Hodolph, my dear friend, my much-beloved friend. I will essiy and examine, whether some remnants of a skill once n. t altogether inglorious, may not produce benefit unto thy good person. Dry thine eyes, my dear Mr. Speigelburg ; and thou. Utile Mr. Lintz, compose thyself. We can- not control fate ; we are not the masters of our destiny. Terrible is this visitation ; but it becomes us to conduct ourselves like men|jto struggle against misfortune ; and verily to do our best to counteract evil. Good Mr. Speigelburg, do thou hold up and support the head of our much-valued friend ; and thou kind and little Mr. Lintz, arrange the light, so that it fall full upon his face. (Here Essper, overpowered by grief, paused for a moment.) Vl'ell placed, Mr. Lintz ! exceedingly well placed ! and yet a little more to the right. Now I will ex- amine these dear eyes. So saying, Essper, grop- ing his way round Mr. Speigelburg's chair, reach- ed Master Rodolph. " There is -hope," continued he, after a pause of a few minutes : " hope for our much-beloved friend. It is not a cataract, and me- thinks that the sight is not lost. The attack," continued Essper, in a tone of confident pomposity, '' the attack is either bilious or nervous. From the colour of our friend's eyes, I at first imagined that it was a sadden rush of bile; but on examining them more minutely, I am inclined to think other- wise. Give me thy pulse. Master Rodolph ! Hum ! nervous, I thiidc. Show me thy tongue, good Mas- ter Rodolph. — Hum! very nervous! Docs that af- fect your breath !" asked Essper, as he gave the little lusty intendant a stout thrust in the paunch. "Does that ati'ect thy breath, beloved friend 1" " In truth," answered Master Rodolph, hut with great diihculty, for he gasped for breath from the effects of the punch ; " in truth it very much affects me." " Hum ! decidedly nervous !" said Essper George ; " and a little on the lungs — the nerves of the lungs slightly touched : indeed your whole nervous sys- tem is disarranged. Fear not, my good friend, I perfectly understand your case. We will soon cure you. The first thing to be done, is to apply a lotion of a simple, but very peculiar nature, — the secret was taught me by a Portuguese — and then I must bind your eyes up." Essper now dipped his handkerchief in water, and then bandaged Master Rodolph's eyes with it very tightly. When he had decidedly ascertained that the intendant's sight was completely suppress- ed, he sought his way to the door with becoming caution, and soon re-entered the room with a lamp. The extinguished candles were immediately re-lit. Master Kodolph continued the whole time moan- ing without ceasing. " Alack-a-day — and alack, that it should come to this ! O ! Burgundy is a vile wine ! Often have I said to myself that I would never dry another bottle of Burgundy. Why have I deserted, like an uiigrateful traitor, my own coun- try' liquors ! Alack-a-day, and alack ! the whole house will now go to ruin ! Tall Halbert will always be back in his accounts ; and as for that rascally Vienna bottle-merchant, he will ever be cheating me in the exchanges. Much faith have I in thee, good Essper — truly much faith. Thy skill is great, and also thy kindness, good Mr. Speigel- burg ; — and thou too, my little friend ; never more shall I see thy pleasing views of this fiiir town !" " Now, Mr. Speigelburg," said Essper, " and thou also, kind Mr. Lintz, assist me in moving away the table, and in placing our dearly beloved and much-aftlicted friend in the centre of the room ; so that we may all of us have a fair opportunity of witnessing the progress or alteration of his disor- der, the shifting of tlie symptoms, and indeed the general appearance of the case." They accordingly placed Master Rodolph, who was seated in his large easy chair, in the verj* cen- tre of the room. "How feel you now, dear friend 1" asked Ess- per George. " In truth, vcr\' low in spirits, but confiding much in thy skill, good Essper. Hast thou hope, I pray thee, tell mc, or recommendest thou that I should send for some learned professor of this citj' ? Mcthinks iu the multitude of counsellors there is wisdom !" " Yes ! and in the multitude of fees there is ruin. I tell thee, much-loved Master Rodolph, that I un- dertake tb.y cure — fear not — and thy purse shall sutler as little as thy body. But I must find in thee a ready, satisfied, tractable, and confiding patient. The propriety of my directions must not be ques- tioned, and my instructions must be strictly obey- ed." " In truth, thou hast only to command, good Essper, but might I not part with this bandage ? Methinks thy lotion, simple as thou dost profess it to be, has already produced very marvellous effects ; and I already feel m-y sight, as it were, struggling through the folds of this linen cincture." " Take ofl" that bandage," said Essper, " and you are stone blind for life !" " Alack-a-day !" exclaimed Master Rodolph ; " how awful ! In truth, there is blindness in our family. Black Hunsdrich, the trooper — " " Silence !"said the ph3'sician ; " I must seal your mouth for the present." " Alack-a-day !" said Master Rodolph ; " in truth, without conversation, life appears to me like a prince without a steward !" " Hush ! hush !" again exclaimed Essper ; "your attack, good Rodolph, is decidedly nervous, and your cure must be eflected by causing an instanta- neous reaction of your whole system." Here Ess- per whispered to Mr. Speigelburg, who immediate- ly quitted the ' room. " You are perhaps not aware," continued Essper, " of the intimate con- nexion which exists in the human frame, between the pupils of the eyes and the calves of the legsl" " Alack-a-day !" exclahned the simple inten- dant. " Silence ! silence ! you must listen, not answer: now," continued he, '• the attack in your eyes, good Rodolph, has been occasioned by a sort of cramp in your legs; and, before any of my remedies can produce an ctfoct upon you, a prior effect must no produced by yourself upon the dormant nen'es of the calves of your logs. This must be produced also by manual friction before a large fire." This fire was now being lighted by Mr. Lintz, under Esspcr's directions. " Alack-a-day !" again hurst forth Master Ro- dolph. " Silence ! silence I" 188 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " I tell you, good Essper, I cannot be silent ; I must speak, if I be blind for il my whole life. I rub the calves of my legs ! I tell you it would be an easier task for nie to iuli the grand-duke's or Madame Carolina's. I rub the calves of my legs! Why, iny dear Essper, I cannot even reach them. It was only last Wednesday, that walking through the Great Square, I saw his excellency approach- ing me, when my shoe-string was most unluckily untied. There was no idle boy near to help me, and from the greatness of the exertion, I sank down upon a step. Much fear I that my good prince credited that I had smelt the wine cup before din- ner. In truth, I think I must again betake myself to buckles. I rub my calves, indeed ! Impossible, my dear Essper !" " Choose, then, between a little temporary inconvenience and eternal blindness. I pledge myself to cure you, but it must be by my own remedies. Implicit obedience on your part is the condition of your cure : decide at once !'' " If then it must be so," said Master Rodolph, in a very doleful voice ; " if then it must be so, I must even obey thee. Pray for me, my good friends, I am mu( li afflicted. Awful is iliis visita- tion — and great this fatigue !'' ' In truth the fatigue was great. Imagine an un- ■wieldly being like Master Rodolph, stooping down before a blazing fire, and rubbing his calves with unceasing rapidity ; Essper George .standing over liim, and preventinsr him, by constant threats and ever ready admonitions, from flagging in the slight- est degree fnim his indispensable exertions. Poor Master Rodolph ! how he puircd, and panted, sighed, and sobbed, and groaned I what rivers of perspiration, coursed down his-ample countenance! But in the midst of his agony, this faithful steward, never, for one moment, ceased deploring the anti- cipated peculations of tall Halbert, and the certain cheatcry of the Vienna merchant. While he was in this condition, and thus active, Mr. Sjieigclburg returned ; and it was with difti- culty that the little man could suppress his laughter, when he witnessed his simple host performing this singular ceremony, and making these unusual and almost impossible exertions. Nor was he as.sisted in his painful struggle to stifle his indecent mirth, by his eyes lighting on Little Lintz, who was blow- ing the fire with un|)a)alU led vigour, and raising his eyes to heaven with increasuig wonder at Ess- per George, who stood opposite Master Rodolph, lolling out his great red tongue at him, wanking his eyes, twisiing his no.se, and distorting his counte- nance into the most original grimaces. Mr. Spei- gelburg brought some cigars, and a large jar of hot water. 'I'lie cigars were immediately li^^hted, and one placed in each side of Ma.ster Rodolph's mouth ; tobacco, accordhig to Essper, being a fine stimu- lant. Little Liutz was set to trim them, and every five minutes be shook oil' the gray ashes. Master Rodolph was never allowed for a moment to cea.sc exciting t liC dornr:n)t nerves of the calves of his legs. The clock struck eleven. " All ih(^ symptoms, I am happy to say," ob- served Ess[)er, " are good, I have no hesitation in declaring that it i.s my firm conviction, that our much-valued friend will be reinstated in the pos- session of one of the greatest blessings of fife. Before midnight, I calculate, if he be wise enough to obey all my directions, that he will find liLs sight 'estorcd.'' " I shall die first," said Master Rodolph, in t very faint voice; "I feel sinking every moment; adieu, my dear friends ! Little did I think this jovial aiternoon, that it would end in this. Adieu I" '• We cannot think of quitting you, dearest Mas- ter Rodolph I" said Essper. " Do not despair ; exert yourself, I beseech 3'ou : and never cease from exciting the dormant nerves of your calves, until it strike twelve o'clock. The reaction will thcii have taken place ; but mind you rub low good Rodolph : reach well down; you cannot rul too low. I stake my reputation upon your curt. Think of this, and do not despair, fc^have thai cigar, and mend the fire, Little Lintz; and now good Ml. Speigelburg, it is time for the last remedy , and then, my good friends, the most profound silence. Not a word from either of you; you must not even answer a sinc;le question." Mr. Speigelburg wanted no fresh instructions, and a stream of warm water was poured down the nape of poor Ma.ster Rodolph's neck, with the continuity of a cataract, so that the good steward at last fairly thought that he was born to be drowned. When the great jar was emptied, the confederates sat down to boston ; the patient, the whole 'time, continuing his exertions, though almost exhausted, and having no idea that he was not unceasingly watched by his gifted physician and faithful nurses. At length Essper rose, and again felt Master Rodolph's ]iulse. "The important moment is at hand, my dear friend," said he ; " and I rejoice to say that the symptoms could not be better. Yout pulse has recovered, your nerves are rebraeed. There I" he cried, jerking oil' tlse bandage. Master Rodolph gave a loud shout, and in spite of his previous exertions, and without speaking a syllable, jumped upon his legs, and began dancing and hallooing with the most ungoverned enthu- siasm. He would have stood upon his head, had not Essper George prevented him : but the inter- ference of his physician called him a little to him- self and he embraced his preserver without mercy. Truly that afiectionate hug of Master Rodolph, revenged all his jirevious suirciing! Tjie good intendaiit was fairly beside himself. He gave Mr, Speigelliurg such a joyous slap on his back, that the court suit suffered more in that one moment, than it had for years; and as for Little Lintz, he insisted upon putting him in the empty jar. Tb.e dwarf ran round the room for his life ; and would decidedly have been potted, had it not been lor the stout interferenre of Mr. Speigelburg. The little man ended by dancing in a circle, hand-in-hand: no one kicked his heels about with greater spirit than Master Rodol; h, and supper was immediately ordered to celebrate his miraeuluus recovery. CHAPTER VIIL VivtA>- quitted the Von Spittergens with regret, and with the promise of a speedy return. Ke would gladly indeed have lengthened his stay at the present moment, but a fete which was to be given this evening by his excellency the grand- marshal, rendered his return necessary. After dining with the doctor and his interesting daughter, Vivian mounted Max, anil took ctire not V^IVIAN GREY. 189 to return to the city hy a cross-road. He met Eniilius von Aslingen in his ride through the gar- dens. As that distinn;uishcd personage at present patronised the Enghsh nation, and astounded the Reisenherg natives by driving an English mail, riding English horses, and nding English grooms, he condescended to be exceedingly polite to our hero, whom he had publicly declared at the soireo of the prectding night, to be " a veiy bearable being." Such a character from such a man, raised Vivian even more in the estimation of the Reisenherg world, than his flattering reception by the grand- duke, and his cordial greeting by Madame Caro- lina. " Shall you be at his excellency the grand-mar- shal's to-night?" asked Vivian. " Who is he 7" inquired Mr. Emilius von As- lingen ; " ah ! that is the new man — the man who was mediatised, is not itl" " The Prince of Little Lilliput, I mean." " Yes I" drawled oat Mr. von Aslingen ; " a bar- barian who lived in a castle in a wood. I shall go if I have courage enough ; but they say his servants wear skins, and he has got a tail. Good morning to you ! I believe he is your friend." The ball-room was splendidly illuminated. Vi- vian never recollected witnessing a more brilhant scene. The whole of the royal family was present, and did honour to their new othcer of state. His royal highness was all smiles, and his consort all diamonds. Stars and uniforms, ribands and orders abounded. All the diplomatic characters wore the difl'erent state dresses of their respective courts. Emilius von Aslingen having given out in the morning, that he should appear as a captain in the Royal Guards, all the young lords and fops of fa- shion were consequently ultra militaires. They were not a little annoyed when, late in the even- ing, their model lounged in, wearing a rich scarlet uniform of a knight of Malta; of which newly- revived order, Von Aslingen, who had served half a campaign against the Turks, was a member. The royal family had arrived only a few minutes: dancing had not yet commenced. Vivian was at the top of the room, honoured by the notice of Madame Carolina, who complained of his yester- day's absence from the palace. Suddenly the univeisal hum and buzz, which are always sound- ing in a crowded room, were stilled ; and all pre- sent, arrested in their conversation and pursuits, stood with their heads turned towards the great door. Thither also Vivian looked, and wonder- struck, beheld — Mr. Beckendorfl'. His singular appearance, for, with the exception of his cavalry boots, he presented the same figure as when he lirst canje forward to receive the Prince of Little ]/illiput and Vivian on the lawn, immediately attracted universal attention : but in this crowded room, there were a few who, either from actual experience, or accurate information, were not ignorant that this personage was the prime minis- ter. The report spread like wildfne. Even the etiquette of a German ball-room, honoured as it was by the presence of the court, was no restraint to the curiosity and wonder of all present. Yes ! even Emilius von Aslingen raised his glass to his eye, and then, — shrugging his shoulders, — his eyes to heaven ! But great as was Vivian's astonish- ment, it was not only occasioned by this unex- pected appearance of his former host. Mr. Beck- endorff was not alone ; a female was leaning on his left arm. A quick glance in a moment con- vinced Vivian, that she was not the origmal of the mysterious picttirc. The companion of Beckendorff was very young. Her full voluptuous growth gave you, for a moment, the impression that she was somewhat low in stature ; but it was only for a moment, for the lady was by no means short. Her beauty it is impossible to describe. It was of a kind that baffles all phrases, nor have I a single simile at command, to make it more clear, or more confused. Her luxurious form, her blonde com- plexion, her silken hair, would have all become the languishing sultana ; but then her eyes, — they banished all idea of the seraglio, and were the most decidedly European, though the most brilliant, that ever glanced : eagles might have proved their young at them. To a countenance which other- wise would have been calm, and perhaps pensive, they gave an expression of extreme vivacity and unusual animation, and perhaps of restlessness and arrogance — it might have been courage. The lady was dressed in the costume of a chanoinesse of a am rent des dames nobles ; an institution to which Protestant and Catholic ladies are alike admitted. The orange-coloured cordon of her canonry, was slung gracefully over her plain black silk dress, and a diamond cross hung below her waist. Mr. Beckendorff and his fair companion were instantly welcomed by the grand-marshal ; and Arnclm, and half a dozen chamberlains, all in new uniforms and extremely agitated, did their utmost, by their exertions, in clearing the way, to prevent the prime minister of Reisenherg from paying his respects to his sovereign. At length, however, Mr. Beckendorff reached the top of the room, and presented the young lady to his royal highness, and also to Madame Carolina. Vivian had re- tired on their approach, and now found himself among a set of young officers — idolaters of Von Aslingen, and of white hats lined with crimson. " Who can she be"!" was the universal question. Though all by the query acknowledged their igno- rance, yet it is singular that, at the sanie time, every one was prepared with a response to it. Such are the sources of accurate information ! "And that is Beckendorff, is itl" exclaimed the young Count of Eberstein : " and his daughter of course ! Well ! there is nothing like being a ple- beian and a prime minister I I suppose Becken- dorff will bring an anonymous friend to court next." " She cannot be his daughter," said BernstorfT. " To be a chanoinesse of that order, remember she must be noble." " Then she must be his niece," answered the young Count of Eberstein. " I think I do re- member some confused story about a sister of Beckendorff, who ran away with some Wirtem- berg baron. What was that story, Gernsbachl" " No, it was not his sister," said the Baron of Gernsbach ; " it was his aunt, I think." " Beckendorff's aunt, what an idea ! as if he ever had an aunt ! Men of his calibre make themselves out of mud. They have no relations. Well, never mind : there was some story, I am sure, about some woman or other. Depeiai upon it, that this girl is the child of that woniaii ; whe- ther she be aunt, niece, or daughter. I shall go and tell every one that I know the whole busines:' ; this girl is the daughter of some woman or other. — So 190 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. saying', away walked tli e young; Count of Ebcrstcin, to liisseminatc in all directions the important con- clusion to which his logical head had allowed him to arrive. " Von Wcinbren," said the Baron of Gernshach, " how can you account for this mysterious appear- ance of the premier?" " O ! when men are on the decline, they do desperate things. I suppose it is to please Ihe renegado." t' Hush ! there's the Eno;lishman behind you." "On dit, another child of Beckendorlf." " O no ! — secret mission." "Ah! indeed." " Here comes Von Aslingen ! Well, great Emilius ! how solve you this mystery I" *' What mystery ! Is there one ]" " I allude to this wonderful appearance of Beck- endorff." *' Beckendorff! what a name ! who is he V "Nonsense! the premier." " Well !" " You have seen him of course ; he is here. Have you just come in ?" " BcckeiidorfF here !"' said Von Aslingen, in a tone of affected horror; " I did not know tliat the fellow was to he visited. It is all over with Rei- Benbcrg. I shall go to Vienna to-morrow." But hark ! the sprightly music calls to the dance : and first the stately Polonaise, an easy gradation between walking and dancing. To the surprise of the whole room, and the indignation of many of the high nobles, the Crown-prince of Reisenberg led off the Polonaise with the unknown fair one. Such an attention to Beckendorlf was a distressing proof of present power and favour. The Polonaise is a dignified promenade, with which German balls invariably commence. Tlie cavaliei's, with an air of studied grace, offer their right hands to their fair partners ; and the whole parly, in a long file, accurately follow the leading couple through all their scientific evolutions, as they wind through every part of the room. Waltzes in sets speedily followed the Polonaise; and tlic unknown, who was now an object of universal attention, danced with Count von Sohnspeer — another of Beckeu- dorlf's numerous progeny, if the reader remember. How scurvily are poor single gentlemen, who live slone, treated by the candid tongues of their fellow- creatures! The commander-ill-chief ©f the Rei- fccnberg troops was certainly a partner of a very different complexion to the young lady's previous one. The crown-prince had undertaken his duty with reluctance, and had performed it without grace : not a single word had he exchanged with his partner during the promenade ; and his genuine listle.ssncss was even more offensive than affected apathy. Von Sohns])ecr, on the contrary, danced ill the true Vienna style, and whirled like a dervish. All our good English prejudices against the soft, the swimming, the senliinoutal, melting, undula- ting, dangerous waltz, would quickly disappear, if we only executed the dreaded manoeuvres in the true Austrian style. As for myself, far from trembling for any of my dauj^hters, although I par- ticularly pride myself upon my character as a father, far from trembling for any of my daughters while joining in the whirling waltz, I should as soon expect thitn to get S(!ntimental in a swing. Vivian did not choose to presume upon his late acquaintance with Mr. Beckendorllj as it had not been sought by that gentlcman,.and he consequently did not pay his respects to the minister. j\Ir. Beckendorff continued at the top of the room, standing between the state chairs of his royal highness and Madame Carolina, and occasionally addressing an observation to his sovereign and answering one of the lady's. Had Mr. Becken- dorff been in the habit of attending balls nightly, he could not have exhibited more perfect noncha- lance. There he stood, with his arms crossed behind him, his chin resting on his breast, and his raised eyes glancing ! '• My dear prince," said Vivian to the grand- marshal, " you are just the person I wanted to speak to. How came you to invite Beckendorff — and how came he to accept the invitation?" " My dear friend," said his highness, shrugging his shoulders, " wonders will never cease. I never invited him ; I should just as soon have thought of inviting old Schoss Johannisbcrgcr." " Were not you aware, then, of his intention 1" " Not the least ! you should rather say attention .- for I assure you, I consider it a most particular one. It is quite astonishing, my dear friend, how I mis- took that man's character. He really is one of the mo-^t gentlemanly, polit:;, and excellent persons I know : no more mad than } ou are ! And as for his power being on the decline, we know the non- sense of that !" " Better than most persons, I suspect. Sievers, of course is not here ?" " No ! you have heard about him, I suppose." " Heard I — heard what ?" " Not heard ! well — he told me yesterday, and paid he was going to call upon you directly, to let you know." " Know what?" " He is a very sensible man, Sicvers ; and I am very glad at last that he is likely to succeed in the world. All men have their httle imprudences, and he was a little too hot once. What of that'' — He has come to his senses-r-so have I ; and I hope you will never lose yours." " But pray, my dear prince, tell me what has happened to 8ievers." " He is going to Vienna immediately, and will be very useful there, I have no doubt. He has got a very good place, and I am sure he will do hi» duty. They cannot have an abler man." " Vienna ! well — that is the last city in the world in which I should expect to find Mr. Sievers. What place can he have? — and what services can he perform there ?" " Many ! he is to be the editor of the Austrian Observer, and censor of the Austrian press. I thought he would do well at last. All men have their imprudent day. I had. I cannot sto{) now — I must go and speak to the Countess von As Vivian was doubting whether he should mo.-t grieve or laugh, at this singular termination of Mr. Sievers' career, his arm was suddenly seized, and on turning romul, he found it was by Mr. Beckcn- dorfl". " There is another very strong argument, sir," said the minister, without any of the usual phrases of recognition ; " there is another very strong ar- gument against your doctrine of destiny." And then Mr. Beckendorff, taking Vivian by the arm, began walking up and down part of the saloon with him; and, in a tew minutes, quite forgetting VIVIAN GREY. 191 the scene of the discussion, he was involved in the deepest metaphysics. This incident created ano- ther great sensation, and whispers of " secret mis- sion — secretary of slate — decidedly a son," &c. &c. &c. were in an instant afloat in all parts of the room. The approach of his royal highness extricated Vivian from an argument, which was as profound as it was interminable ; and as Mr. Beckendorft" retired with the grand-duke into a recess in the ball-room, Vivian was requested by Van Neuwied to attend his excellency the grand-marshal. " My di'ar friend," said the prince, " I saw you talking with a certain person ; now, is he not what you call a proper man, — gentlemanly, polite, and exceedingly attentive 1 I did not say any thing to you when I passed you before ; but to tell you the truth now, I was a little annoyed that he had not spoken to you. I knew you were as proud as Lu- cifer, and would not salute him yourself; and between ourselves, I had no great wish you should ; for, not to conceal it, he did not even mention your name. But the reason of this, is now quite evi- dent, and you must confess he is remarkably atten- tive. You know, if you remember, we thought that incognito was a little affected — rather annoy- ing, if you recollect. I remember in the green lane, you gave him a gentle cut about it : you have not forgot you told me, perhaps ! It was very kind of you, very spirited, and I dare say, did good. Well ! — what I was going to say about that, is this, — I dare say now, after all," continued his ex- cellency, with a very knowing look, " a certain person had very good reasons for that : not that he ever told them to me, nor that I have the slightest idea of them ; but when a person is really so ex- ceedingly polite and attentive, I always think he would never do any thing disagreeable without a cause, — and it was exceedingly disagreeable, if you remember, my dear friend. I never knew to whom he was speaking. Von Philipson indeed ! hah ! hah ! hah ! when one does remember certain tilings in one's life — hah ! hah ! hah ! eh. Grey ? — you remember that cucumber] and Owlface, eh ! hah ! hah ! hah ! and Madame Clara, eh 1 Well ! we did not think, the day we were floun- dering down that turf road, that it would end in this. Grand-marshal ! rather a more brilliant scene than the Giants' Hall atTurriparva, I think, eh I — hah ! hall ! hah ! But all men have their impru- dent days ; the best way is to forget them. There was poor Sievcrs; who ever did more imprudent tnings than he ? and now it is very likely he will do very well in the world, eh ! Well ! there is no end to talking so. What I want of you, my dear fellow, is this. There is that girl who came with Beckcndorff: who the dense she is, I don't know : — let us hope the best ! We must pay her every attention. I dare say she is his daughter. You have not forgotten the portrait, I dare say. Well ! we all were gay once, you know. Grey. All men have their imprudent day ; — why should not Beck- endorfi'! — speaks rather in his favour, I think. Well, this girl, you know; — his royal highness very kindly made the crown-prince walk the Polo- naise with her — very kind of him, and very proper, What attention can be too great for the daughter or friend of such a man ! — a man who, m two words, may be said to have made Reisenberg. For what was Reisenberg before Beckendorff' Ah ! what .' Perhaps we were happier then, alter all : and then there was no royal highness to bow to ; no person to be condescending, except ourselves. But never mind ! we'll forget. After all, this lite has its charms. What a brilliant scene ! but I ramble so — this girl — every attention should be paid her, of course. The crown-prince was so kind as to walk the Polonaise with her ; — and Voa Sohnspeer — he is a brute, to be sure ; but then he is a field-marshal. I did not know, till to-day, that in public processions the grand-marshal takes pre- cedence of the field-marshal ! That is, I walk be- fore Von Sohnspeer : and what is more just T — precisely as it s^hould be. Ah ! I never shall come to the point — this girl — every attention should be paid her ; and I think, considering what has taken place between Beckendorff and yourself, and the very polite, and marked, and flattering, and ()articu- larly attentive manner in which he recognised you, — I think, that after all this, and considering every thing, the etiquette is for you, my dear Grey, parti- cularly as you are a foreigner, and my personal friend — indeed ray most particular friend, for in fact I owe every thing to you — my life, and more than my life, — I think, I repeat, considering all this, that the least you can do, is to ask her to dance with you ; and I, as the host, will hitroduce you. I am sorry, my dear friend," continued his excel- lency, with a look of great regret, " to introduce you to ; but we will not speak about it. We have no right to complain of Mr. Beckendorff. No person could possibly behave to us in a maimer more polite, and gentlemanly, and attentive." After an introductory speech, in his excellency's happiest manner, and in which a eulogium of Vivian, and a compliment to the fair unknown, got almost as completely entangled as the origin of slavery and the history of the feudal system, in his more celebrated harangue, Vivian found him- self waltzing with the anonymous beauty. The grand-marshal, during the process of introduction, had given the young lad}- every opportunity of de- claring her name ; but every opportunity was thrown away. " She must be incog.," whispered his excellency : " Miss von Philipson, I suppose !" Vivian was extremely desirous of discovering the nature of the relationship or connection \ie- twecn Beckendorff and his partner. The rapid waltz allowed no pause for conversation ; but, after the dance, Vivian seated himself at her side, with the determination of not very quickly desert- ing it. The lady did not even allow him the satisfaction of commencing the conversation ; for no sooner was she sealed, than she begged to know who the person was with whom she had previously waltzed. The history of Count von Sohnspeer exceedingly amused her; and no sooner had Vivian finished his anecdote, than the lady said, " Ah I I see you are an amusing person. IVow tell me the history of everybody in the room." " Really," said Vivian, " I fear I shall forfeit my reputation of being amusing very speedily ; for ! am almost as great a stranger at this court as you appear to be yourself! Count von Sohnspeer is too celebrated a personage at Reisenberg, to have allowed even me to be long ignorant of his hislorv • and, as for the rest, as far as I can juuge. they are most of them as obscure as myself, and not nearly as interesting as you are !" " Are you an Enghshman 1" asked the lady " I am." \ 192 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. '• I supposed so, both from your travelling and your appearance : I think the English counte- nance is very peculiar-." " Indeed ! we do not flatter ourselves so at home." " Yes ! it is peculiar," said the lady, in a tone which seemed to imply that contradiction was unu.sual ; " and I think that you are all handsome ! 1 admire the English, which in this part of the world is singular ; in the south, you know, we are generally francise." " I am well aware of that," said Vivian. " There, for instance," pointing to a very pompous-looking personage, who at that moment strutted by ; " there, for instance, is the most francise person in all Reisenbcrg! that is our grand-chamberlain. He considers himself a most felicitous copy of Louis the Fourteenth ! He allows nothing in his opi- nions and phrases but what is orthodox. As it generally happens in such cases, his orthodoxy is rather obsolete !" " Who is that Knight of Malta 1" asked the lady. '•The most powerful individual in the room," answered Vivian. " Who can he be 1" asked the lady with eager- ness. " Behold him, and tremble !" rejoined Vivian : '• for with him it rests to decide, whether you are civilized or a savage ; whether you are to be ab- horred or admired ; idolized or despised. Nay, do not be alarmed ! there are a few heretics even in Reisenberg, who, like myself, value from convic- tion, and not from fashion ; and who will be ever ready, in case of a Von Aslingen anathema, to evince our admiration where it is due." The lady pleaded fatigue, as an excuse for not again dancing; and Vivian, of course, did not quit her side. Her lively remarks, piquant observations, and very singular questions, highly amused him ; and he was equally flattered by the evident gralili- cation which his conversation afforded her. It was chiefly of the principal members of the court that she spoke : she was delighted with Vivian's glowing character of Madame Carolina, whom she had this evening seen for the first time. Who this unknown could be, was a question which often occun-ed to him ; and the singularity of a man like Beckei.dorfl* suddenly breaking through his habits, and outraging the whole system of his existence, to please a daughter, or niece, or female cousin, did not fail to strike him. " I have the honour of being acquainted with Mr. BeckendorfF," said Vivian. This was the first time that the minister's name had been mentioned. '• I perceived you talking with him," was the answer. " You are staying, I suppose, at Mr. Becken- dorff'sr' " Not at present." " You have, of course, been at his retreat — de- lightful place I" " Very elegant !" " Are you an ornithologist 1" asked Vivian, smiling. '■ Not at all scientific ; but I, of course, can now tell a lory from a Java sparrow — and a bulfinch from a canary. The first day I was there, I never shall forget the sur})risc I experienced, when, after the noon meal being finished, the aviary door was opened. After that I always let the creatures out myself; and one day I opened . all the cages at once. If you could but have witnessed the scene f I am sure ycni would have been quite delighted with it. As for poor Mr. Beckendorff, I thought even he would have gone out of his mind ; and when I brought in the white peacock, he actually left the room in despair. Pray how do you like Madame Clara, and Owlface, too ? Which do you think the most beautiful 1 I am no great fa- vourite with the old lady. Indeed, it was very kind of Mr. Beckendorff" to bear with every thing as he did : I am sure he is not much used to lady visiters." " I trust that your visit to him will not be very short?" " My stay at Reisenberg will not be very long," said the young lady, with rather a grave counte- nance. " Have you been here any time V "About a fortnight: it was a mere chance my coming at all. I was going on straight to Vienna." " To Vienna ! indeed I Well, I am glad you did not miss Reisenberg : you must not quit it now. You know that this is not the Vienna season!" " I am aware of it ; but I am such a restless person, that I never regulate my movements by those of other people." " But surely you find Reisenberg very agree- able V " A'^ery much so ; but I am a confirmed wan- derer." " Why are you 1" asked the lady, with great naivete.* Vivian looked grave ; and the lady, as if she were sensible of having unintentionally occasioned him a painful recollection, again expressed a wish that he should not immediately quit the court, and trusted that circumstances would not prevent him acceding to her desire. " It does not even depend upon circumstances," said Vivian ; " the whim of the moment is my only principle of action, and therefore I may be off to- night, or be here a month hence." " ! pray stay then," said his companion eagerly; " I expect you to stay now. If you could only have an idea what a relief conversing with you is, after having been dragged by t:ie crown- prince, and whirled by that Von Soimspeer! Heigho ! I could almost sigh at the very remem- brance of that doleful Polonaise." The lady ended with a faint laugh, a sentence which apparently had been commenced in no fight vein. She did not cease speaking, but con- tinued to request Vivian to remain at Reisenberg at least as long as herself. Her frequent requests were perfectly unnecessary, for the promise had been pledged at the first hint of her wish ; but this was not the only time during the evening, that Vivian had remarked, that his interesting compa- nion occasionally talked without apparently being sensible that she was conversing. The young Count of Eberstcin, who, to use his own phrase, was " sadly involved," and conse- quently ver}' desirous of being appointed a forest councillor, thought that he should secure his ap- pointment by condescending to notice the person whom he delicately styled, " the minister's female rclalive." To his great mortification and surprise, the honour was declined ; and " the female rela- tive," being unwilling to dance again, but perhapa feeling it necessary to break ofl' her conversation VIVIAN GREY. 193 with her late partner, it having ah-eady lasted a most unusual time, highly gratified his excellency tlie. grand-marshal by declaring that she would dance with Prince Maximilian. " This, to say the least, was very attentive of Miss von Philipson." Little Max, who had just tact enough to discover, that to be the partner of the fair incognita was the place of honour of the evening, now considered him- self bj' much the most important personage in the room. In fact, he was only second to Emilius von Aslingen. The evident contest which was ever taking place between his natural feelings as a boy, and his acquired habits as a courtier, made him a very amusing companion. He talked of the gardens and the opera, in a style not unworthy of the young Count of Ebcrstcin. He thought that Madame Carolina was as charming as usual to-night ; but, on the contrary, that the Countess von S was looking rather ill — and this put him in mind of her ladyship's nev? equipage ; and then, a propos equi- X)ages, to what did his companion think of the new .ashion of the Hungarian harness ! His lively and kind companion encoui'aged the boy's tattle ; and emboldened by her good-nature, he soon forgot his artificial speeches, and was quickly rattling on about Turriparva, and his horses, and his dogs, and his park, ana his guns, and his grooms. Soon after the waltz, the lady, taking the arm of the young prince, walked up to Mr. Beckendorff. He received her wdth very great attention, and led her to Madame Carolina, who rose, seated Mr. Becken- dorff's " female relative" by her side, and evidently said something extremely agreeable. Mr. Beckendorif had been speaking to Von Sohnspcer, who was now again dancing ; and the minister was standing by himself, in his usual at- titude, and quite abstracted. Young Maximilian, who seemed to be very much struck hj the minis- ter's appearance, continued, after losing his partner, to eye Mr. Beckendorff with a very scratinizing glance. By degrees he drew n'carer and nearer to the object of his examination, sometimes staring at him with intenseness, and occasionally casting his eyes to the ground as if he thought he was observed. At length he had come up quite close to the pre- mier, and waiting for an instant until he had caught his eye, he made a most courteous bow, and said in a very agitated voice, as if he already repented his rash venture, " I think, sir, that you liave drop- ped the pin out of this part of your dress." Here the young prince pointed with a shaking finger to the part of the breast in Mr. Beckendorff 's costume where the small piece of flannel waistcoat invariably made its appearance. "You think so, sir, do you]" said the Prime Minister of Reisenberg. " Pray, at what o'clock do you go to bedl" If you have ever seen a barking dog, reached by the dexterous lash of some worried equestrian, sud- denly slink away ; his t^inoying yell instantaneously silenced, and his complacent grin of ludicrous im- portance changed into a doleful look of unexpected ■discomfiture, you may form some idea of the shuf- fling rapidity with which the young Prince Maxi- milian disappeared from the presence of Mr. Beck- endorif; and the countenance of actual alarm with which he soon sought refuge in another part of the room. In the fright of the moment, the natural feelings of the child all returned ; and like all frightened children, he sought a iriend — he ran to Vivian. " I know something !" said the boy " What ]" " I'll tell you a secret : you must not say a word though — upon your honour 1" " 0, certainly !" " Put your ear down lower: anybody looking!" " No, no !" " Sure nobody can hear!" " Certainly not !" " Then I'll tell you what : lean down a little lower — sure nobody is listening? — I — I — I don't like that Mr. Beckendorff' I". CHAPTER IX. ViTTAN- had promised Madame Carolina a se- cond English lesson on the day after the grand- marshal's fete. The great progress which the lady had made, and the great talent which the gentle- man had evinced during the first, had rendered madamc the most enthusiastic of pupils, and Vivian, in her estimation, the ablest of instructers. Madame Carolina's passion was patronage. To discover concealed merit, to encourage neglected genius, to reveal the mysteries of the world to a novice in mankind ; or in short, to make herself very agree- able to any one whom she fancied to be very inter- esting ; was the great business, and the great de- light of her existence. No sooner had her eyes lighted on Vivian Grey, than she determined to patronise. His country, his appearance, the ro- mantic manner in which he had become connected with the court, all pleased her lively imagination. She was intuitively acquainted with his whole his- tory, and in an instant he was the hero of a ro- mance, of which the presence of the principal character compensated, we may suppose, for the somewhat indefinite details. His taste, and literary acquirements, completed the spell by which Madame Carolina was willingly enchanted. A low Dutch professor, whoso luminous genius rendered unne- cessary the ceremony of shaving ; and a dumb dwarf, in whose interesting appearance was for- gotten its perfect idiotism ; a prosy improvisatore, and a South American savage were all superseded on the appearance of Vivian Grey, As Madame Carolina was, in fact, a ver}^ de- lightful woman, our hero had no objection to humour her harmless foibles; and not contented with making notes in an interleaved copy of her Charlemagne, he even promised to read Haroun .\1 Raschid in manuscript. The consequence of his courtesy, and the reward of his taste, was un- bounded favour. Apartments in the palace w-ere oflered him and declined ; and when Madame Ca- rolina had become acquainted v/ith sufficient of his real history, to know that, on his part, neither wish nor necessity existed to return immediately to his own country, .«he tempted him to remain at Reisen- berg" by an otfer of a place at court ; and doubtless, had he been willing, Vivian might in time have become a lord chamberlain, or even a field-mar- shal. On entering the room, the morning in question, he found Mad»me Carolina writing. At the end of the apartment, a lady ceased, on his appearance, humming an air to which she was dancing, and at the same time imitating citstancts. Madame re- R 194 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. cerved Vivian vrith erpressions of the greatest de- I istcnce ; since few ■will deny, though there are some li^ht, saving also, in a verv peculiar and confiden- | materialists who will deny every thing, that the lial manner, that she was just sealing up a package j human voice is both impalpable and audible only for him, the preface of Haroun ; and then she in- in one place at the same time. Hence, I ask, is it troduced him to " the baroness !" Vivian turned ! illogical to infer its indivisibility ! The soul and the and bowed : the lady who was lately dancing came | voice, then, are similar in two great attriimtes ; forward- It was his unknown partner of the pre- ■ there is a secret harmony in their spiritual con- ceding night. " The baroness" extended her hand | stmction. In the earliest ages of mankind a beau- to Vivian, and unaffectedly eipressed her great : tifnl tradition was afloat, that the soid and the voice pleasure at seeing him asrain. Vivian trusted that : were one and the same. We may perhaps recog- she was not fatigued bv the fete, and asked after nise in this fancifiil belief, the effect of the fascina- Mr. Beckendorff Madame Carolina was busily i ting and imaginative philosophy of the East; that engaged at the moment in dtily securing the pre- ' mysterious portion of the globe," continued Madame cious pre&ce. The baroness said that Mr. Becken- j Carolina with renewed energy, " from which we, dorff had returned home, but that Madame Carolina ' should franklv confess that we derive everv thing : had kindly insisted upon her staying at the palace. >She was not the least wearied- Last night had been one of the most agreeable she had 'ever spent, at least she supposed she ought to say so : for if she had experienced a tedious or a mournful feeling for a moment, it was hardly for what was then passing, so much for — for the South is but the pupil of the East, through the mediation of Egypt. Of this opinion," said madame with increased fervour, " I have no doubt : of this opinion," continued the lady with additional enthusiasm, " I have hbldly avowed myseffa votary in a dissertation appended to the second volume cf Haroun : for this opinion I would die at the stake ! " Pray, Mr. Grey," said Madame Carolina, in- i 0, lovely East I Way was I not oriental I Land terrupting them, " have you heard about our new I where the voice of the nightingale is never mute ! baJlet ?" I Land of the cedar and the citron, the turtle and the " Xo." ( myrtle— of ever-blooming Sowers, and ever-shining " I do not think von have ever been to our opera. ; skies I Elustrious East ! Cradle of philosophy ! O, To-tnorrow is opera night, and you must not be ; my dearest baroness, why do not you feel as I do ! again awav. We pride ourselves here very much I From the East we obtain evfery thing I" upon our opera.' " We estimate it even in England," said Vivian, ^ as pose^ing perhaps the most perfect orchestra now organized." •• The orchestra is very perfect His royal high- ne^ is such an excellent musician, and he has Indeed !'' said the baroness, with great simpli- city ; " I thought we only got Cachemere shawk." This pu2zling answer was only noticed by Vivian ; for the truth is, Madame Carolina was one of those individuals who never attended to any per- son's answer. Alwavs thinking of herself, she spared no trouble nor expense in forming it : he i only asked questions that herself might supply the has always superintended it himself. But I con- ' responses. And now having made, as she flattered fess, I admire our ballet department stiil more. I | herseli a very splendid display to her favourite expect you to be delighted with it. You will per- ha{)s be gratified to know, that the subject of otn- critic, she began to consider what had given rise to her oration. Lord Byron and the baUet again new splendid ballet, which is to be produced to- occtured to her ; and as the baroness, at least, was morrow, is from a sreat work of your illustrious poet 1 not unwilling to listen, and as she herself had no — mv Lord Bvron." } manuscript of her own which she particularly " From which of his works ?" I wished to be perused, she proposed that Vivian '* The Corsair. Ah I what a sublime work ! — I should read to them part of the Corsair, and in the what passion I — what energy I — what knowledge | original tongue. Madame Carolina opened the of feminine feeling I^what contrast of character! — volume at the first prison scene between Gulnare what sentiments ! — what situations I — O ! I wish | and Conrad. It was her favourite. A'ivian read this was opera night — Gulnare ! O I my favourite ; with care and feeling. ?.Iadame was in raptures, character — beautuiil I beautifiil I beautiful ! How do you think tfaey will dress her V " Are you an admirer of our Bjron !" asked Vivian of the baroness. " I think he is a very handsome man. I once saw him at the carnival at Venice." " But his works — his grand works ! ma chere petite," said Madame Carohna. in her sweetest tone ; " you have read his werks ?" " Not a line," answered the baroness, with great naivete ; "^ I never saw them." " O ! pauvre eri&nt !" said Madame Carolina; "I will employ you then while you are here.' " I never read," said the baroness ; " I cannot bear it. I like p>oetrT and romances, but I like Bomebody to read to me," ^ ypTj just !" said Madame Carolina ; '• we can judge with greater accuracy of the .merit of a com- jiosition, when it reaches our mind merely through the medium of the huriian voice. I'he so-il is an essence, — invisible and indivisible. In this respect the voice of man resembles the principle of his ei- and the baroness, although she did not understand a single syllable, seemed almost equally delighted. -\t length Vivian came to this passage — " My love stem Seyd's i O — no — no — not my love ! Yei much ihis hea.-;, Uiat s".rives ao inore, once sxcve To flieel his faisiuns— but U would not be. I felL— I ieel — ^love dwells wiih— wi:.h the free — I am a slave, a favour d slave ai besu, T" sha.'e his splfniour, and seem very blest! Ofi mi-s; nay eclI -he ruestion undergo. Of— 'Dosi ihou love V and bum lo anfirer 'No ! ' ! hard ii is iha: l-inGn<^ss lo Fiisiain, And sirugjle wAio feel averse in %-ain ; But harder siill ihe bean's recoil u> bear And hide frwn one — perhaps anwlher there ; — Ke lakes the hand I give uol nor wilhhoIJ— I-.S pulse nor. check'd — nor quicfcen-d — calmly cola And when rpsign'd, it drops'a lifel'^e weight From one I never loved enough lo haie. No warmlh these lif« return Ly his imprest, A nd chiird remembrance shudders o-'er the rest. Yes — had I ever proved thai passion's zeal, The change lo haired were a; least ic' feel : But stili— "he goes unmoum'd — ir-'urns unsoajhl — And rft when'present— a^?"' ' '" " • ^ 'bought. Or wh^'n rf flec-.ion coints. -si— • 1 fear thai h^ncef ->nh "t* : -.usl , T am his slave — lut,!nd«;.. .,:_-. ^were wtxse than bonua(;6 1» bccvo^c lici bride." VIVIAx^ GREY 195 "O! how superb!" said maJame, in a voice of enthusiasm ; •' how true ! what passion I what en- ergy ! what sentiment ! what knowledge of feminine feeling ! Read it again, I pray ; it is my favourite passage." " What is this passage about V asked the ba- roness with great anxiety ; " tell me !" " I have a French translation, ma mignonne," said madamc ; " you shall have it afterwards." " No ! I detest reading," said the young lady, with a very imperious air ; " translate it to me at once." " You are rather a self-willed, petted, little beau- ty !" thought Vivian ; " but your eyes are so bril- liant that nothing must be refused you !" and so he did translate it. On its conclusion, madame was again in rap- tures. The baroness was not less affected, but she said nothing. She appearaJ extremely agitated ; slie changed cofour — raised her beautiful eyes with an expression of great sorrow — looked at Vi- vian very earnestly, and then walked to the other room. In a few moments she returned to her seat. " I wish you would tell me the story," she said, with great earnestness. " I have a French translation, ma belle !'' said Madame Carolina ; " at present I wish to trouble Mr. Grey with a few questions." Madame Carolina led Vivian into a recess, " I am sorry we are troubled with this sweet lit- tle savage ; but I think she has talent, though evi- dently quite uneducated. We must do what we can for her. Her total ignorance of all breeding is amusing, but then I think she has a natural ele- gance. We shall soon polish her. His royal highness is so anxious that every attention should be paid to her. Beckendorff, you know, is a man of the greatest genius, [Madame Carolina had lowered her tone about the minister since the Prince of Little Liiliput's apostasy.] The country is great- ly indebted to him. This, between ourselves, is his daughter. At least I have no doubt of it. Beckendorff was once married — to a lady of great rank — died early — beautiful woman — very inter- resting ! His royal highness had a great regard for hei". The premier, in his bereavement, turned humorist, and has brought up this lovely girl in the oddest possible manner — nobody knows where. Now, that he finds it necessary to bring her for- ward, he, of course, is quite at a loss. His royal highness has applied to me. There was a little coldness before, between the minister and myself. It is now quite removed. I must do what I can for her. I think she must marry Von Sohnspeer, who is no more Beckendorff 's son than you are — or young Eberstein — or young Bernstorff — or young Gemsbach. We must do something for her. I offered her last night to Emilus von Aslin- gen ; but he said, that unfortunately he was just importing a savage or two of his own from the Brazils, and consequently was not in want or her." A chamberlain now entered, to announce the speedy arrival of his royal highness. The bar-oness, without ceremony, expressed her great regret that he was coming, as now she should not hear the wished-for ston,'. Madame Carolina reproved her, and the reproof was endured rather than submitted to. His royal highness entered, and was accompanied by the crown prince. He greeted the young lady with great kindness ; and even the crown prince, inspired by his fiither's unusual warmth, made a shuffling kind of bow and a stuttering kind of speech. Vivian was about to retire on the entrance of the grand-duke; but Madame Carolina pre- vented liim, and his royal highness turning round, very graciously seconded her desire, and added that Mr. Grey was the very gentleman with whom he was desirous of meeting. " I am anxious," said he to Vi\'ian, in rather a low tone, " to make Keisenberg agreeable to Mr. Beckendorli''s fair friend. As you are one of the few who are honoured by his intimacy, and are familiar with some of our state secrets," added the grand-duke with a smile ; " I am sure it will give you pleasure to assist me in the execution of my wishes." His royal highness proposed that the ladies should ride ; and he himself, with the crown prince and Mr. Grey, would attend them. Madame Ca- rolina expressed her willingness : but the baroness, like all forward girls, unused to the world, sudden- ly grew at the same time both timid and disobliging. She looked sullen and discontented, and coolly said that she did not feel in the humour to ride for, at least, these two hours. To Vivian's sui^prise, even the grand-duke humoured her fancy, and declared that he should then be happy to attend them after the court-dinner. Until that time Vi- vian was amused by madame ; and the grand-duke exclusively devoted himself to the baroness. His royal highness was in his happiest mood ; and his winning manners and elegant conversation, soon chased away the cloud which for a moment had settled on the young lady's fair brow. CHAPTER X. Thk Grand-duke of Reisenberg was an enthusi- astic lover of music, and his people were conse- quently music mad. The whole city were fiddling day and night, or blowing trumpets, oboes, aiid bassoons. Sunday, however, was the most harmo- nious day in the week. The opera amused the court and the wealthiest bourgeoise ; and few pri- vate houses could not boast their family concert, or small party of performers. In the guingettes, or tea-gardens, of which there were many in the sub- urbs of the city, bearing the euphonious, romantic, and fashionable titles of Tivoli, Arcadia, and Vauxhall, a strong and amateur orchestra was never wanting. Strolling through the citj' on a Sunday afternoon many a pleasing picture of in- nocent domestic enjoyment might be observed. In the arbour of a garden a veiy stout man, with a fair, broad, good-natured, solid German face, may be seen perspiring under the scientific exertion of the French horn; himself wisely dis- embarrassed of the needless incumbrance of his pea-green coat and showy waistcoat, which lay neatly folded by his side ; while his large and sleepy blue eyes actually gleam with enthusiasm. His daughter, a soft and delicate girl, touches the light guitar ; catching the notes of the music from the opened opera, which is placed before the father on a massy music stand. Her voice joins in me Indy with her mother ; who, like all German mo- thers, seems only her daughter's self, subdued by an additional twenty years. Tl»e bow of one violin, 196 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. is handled with the air of a master, by an elder brother; while a younger one, a university stu- dent, grows sentimental over the flute. The same instrument is also played by a tall and tender-look- ing young man in black, who stands behind the parents next to the daughter, and occasionally looks off his music-book to gaze on his young mis- tress' eves. He is a clerk in a public office ; and on the next Michaelmas day, if he succeed, as he hopes, in gaining a small addition to his salary, he will be still more entitled to join in the Sunday family concert. Such is one of the numerous groups, the sight of which must assuredly give pleasure to every man who delights in seeing his fellow creatures refreshed after their weekly la- bours by such calm and rational enjoyment. I would gladly linger among such scenes, which to me have afforded, at many an hour, the most pleas- ing emotions; and moreover, the humours of a guingette are not unworthy of our attention: but I must introduce the reader to a more important party, and be consoled for leaving a scene where I fain would loiter, by flattering myself that my at- tention is required to more interesting topics. The court chapel and the court dmner are over. We are in the opera-house of Keisenberg ; and, of course, rise as the royal party enters. The house, which is of a moderate size — perhaps of the same dimensions as our small theatres — was fitted up with great splendour; I hardly know whether I should say, with great taste; for, although not merely the scenery, but indeed every part of the house, was painted by eminent artists, the style of the ornaments was rather patriotic than tasteful. The house had been built immediately after the war, at a period when Eeiscnberg, flushed with ihe success of its thirty thousand men, imagined itself to be a great miUtary nation. Trophies, standards, cannon, eagles, consequently appeared in every corner of the opera-house ; and quite su- perseded lyres, and timbrels, and tragic daggers, and comic masks. The royal box was constructed in the form of a tent, and held nearly fifty persons. It was exactly in the centre of the house, its floor over the back of the pit, and its roof reaching to the top of the second circle : its crimson hangings v.ere restrained by ropes of gold, and the whole was surmounted by a large and radiant crown. The house was, of course, merely lighted by a chandelier from the centre. The opera for the evening was Rossini's Otello. As soon as the grand-duke entered, the overture commenced ; his royal highness coming forward to the front of the box, and himself directmg the mu- sicians ; keeping time earnestly with his right l;:ind, in which was a very long black opera-glass. This he occasionally used, but merely to look at the orchestra; not, assuredly, to detect a negligent or inefiicient performer; for in the schooled or- chestra of Reisenberg, it would have been impos- sihle even for the eagle-eye of his royal highness, assisted as it was by his long black opera-glass, or ior his fine ear, matured as it was by the most complete study, to discover there either inattention or feebleness. The house was perfectly silent; for when the monarch directs the orchestra, the world goes to the opera to listen. Perfect silence •It Reisenberg, then, was etiquette and the fashion ; and being etiquette and the fashion, was thought r.o hardship ; for at our own opera-house, or at the Academic at Pari*, or the Pergola, or La Scala, or San Carlo, we do not buzz, and chatter, and rattle, and look as if to listen to the performance were rank heresy, either because music is disagreeable, or to buzz, chatter, and rattle, the reverse ; but, in truth, merely because there, to listen to the per- former is not etiquette and the fashion; and to buzz, chatter, and rattle, is. Emilius von Aslingen was accustomed to say, that at Reisenberg he went to the chapel in the morning to talk, and to the opera in the evening to pray. Between the acts of the opera, however, the ballet was performed ; and then everybody might talk, and laugh, and remark, as much as they chose. The opera, I have said, was Otello. The grand- duke prided himself as much upon the accuracy of his scenery, and dresses, and decorations, as upon the exquisite skill of his performers. In truth, an opera at Reisenberg was a spectacle which could not fail to be interesting to a man of taste. When the curtain drew J5p, the first scene presented a view of old Brabantio's house. It was accurately copied from one of the sumptuous structures of Scamozzi, or Sansovino, or Palladio, which adorn the Grand Canal of Venice. In the distance rose the domes of St. Mark, and the lofty Campanile. Vivian could not fail to be delighted at this beautiful work of art, for such indeed it should be styled. He was more surprised, how- ever, but not less pleased, on the entrance of Othello himself. In England we are accustomed to deck this adventurous Moor in the costume of his native country — but is this correct"! The Grand-duke of Reisenberg thought not. Othello was an adventurer ; at an early age he entered, as many foreigners did, into the service of Venice. In that service he rose to the highest dignities — became general of their armies and of their fleets ; and, finally, the viceroy of their favourite kingdom. Is it natural to suppose, that such a man should have retained, during his successful career, the manner and dress of his original country 1 Ought we not rather to admit, that had he done so, his career would, in fact, not have been successful 1 In all probability he imitated to affectation the manners of the country which he had adopted. It is not probable that in such, or in any age, the turbaned Moor would have been treated with great deference by the common Christian soldier of Venice — or, indeed, that the scandal of a heathen leading the armies of one of the most powerful of European states, would have been tolerated for an instant by indignant Christendom. If Shylock even, the Jew merchant, confined to his quarter, and herding with his own sect, were bearded on the Rialto — in what spirit would the Venetians have witnessed their doge and nobles, whom they ranked above kings, holding equal converse, and loading with the most splendid honours of the republic, a follower of Mahound ] Such were the sentiments of the Grand-duke of Reisenberg on this subject, a subject interesting to Englishmen ; and, I confess, I think that they are worthy of at- tention. In accordance with his opinions, the actor who performed Othello, appeared in the full dress of a Venetian magniiico of the middle ages; a fit companion for Cornaro, or Grimani, or Barberigo, or Foscari. The first act of the opera was finished. Tlae baroness expressed to Vivian her great delight at its being over; as she was extremely desirous of learning the storj- of the ballet, which she had not VIVIAN GREY. 197 yet liecn able to acquire. His translation of yes- terday had greatly interested her. Vivian shortly gave her the outline of the story of Conrad. She listened with great attention, but made no remark. The ballet at Rcisenberg was not merely a ve- hicle for the display of dancing. It professed by gesture and action, aided by music, to influence the minds of the spectators not less than the regu- lar drama. Of this exhibition dancing was a ca- sual ornament, as it is of life. It took place there- fore only on fitting occasions, and grew out, in a natural manner, from some event in the history represented. For instance, suppose the story of Othello the subject of the ballet. The dancing, in all probability, would be introduced at a grand en- tertainment, given in celebration of the Moor's arrival at Cyprus. All this would he in character. Ocr feelings would not be outraged by a husband chassezing forward to murder his wife ; or by see- ing the pillow pressed over the innocent Desde- mona by the impulse of a pirouette. In most cases, therefore, the chief performers in this spe- cies of spectacle are not even dancers. This, how- ever, may not always be the case. If Diana be the heroine, poetical probability will not be oftended by the goddess joining in the chaste dance with her huntress nymphs ; and were the Baiadcre of Guthe made the subject of a ballet, the Indian dancing girl would naturally be the heroine both of the drama and poem. I know, myself, no per- formance more affecting than the serious panto- mime of a master. In some of the most interesting situations, it is in fact more natural than the oral drama — logically, it is more perfect. For the so- liloquy is actually thought before us; and the naagic of the representation not destroyed by the sound of the human voice, at a moment when we all know man never speaks. The curtain again rises. Sounds of revelry and triumph are heard from the Pirate Isle. They celebrate recent success. Various groups, accu- rately attired in the costume of the Greek islands, are seated on the rocky fore-ground. On the left rises Medora's tower, on a craggy steep ; and on the right gleams the blue yEgean. A procession of women enters. It heralds the presence of Con- rad and Medora : they honour the festivity of their rude subjects. The pirates and the women join in tlie national dance ; and afterwards, eight war- riors, completely armed, move in a warlike mea- sure, keeping time to the music with their bucklers and clattering sabres. Suddenly the dance ceases — a sail is in sight. The nearest pirates rush to the strand, and assist the disembarcation of their welcome comrades. The commander of the vessel comes forward with an agitated step and gloomy countenance. He kneels to Conrad, and delivers him a scroll, which the chieftain reads with sup- pressed agitation. In a moment the faithful Juan is at his side — the contents of the scroll revealed — the dance broken up — and preparations made to sail in an hour's time to the city of the pasha. The stage is cleared, and Conrad and Medora are alone. The mj'sterious leader is wrapped in the deepest abstraction. He stands with folded arms, and eyes fixed on the yellow sand. A gentle pressure on his arm calls him back to recollection : he starts, and turns to the intruder with a gloomy brow. He sees Medora — and his frown sinks into a sad smile. " And must we part again ] this hour ] this very hour 1 It cannot be !" She clings to him with agony, and kneels to him whh adoration. No hope ! ho hope .' a quick return promised with an air of foreboding fate. His stern arm encircles her waist. He chases the heavy tear from her fair cheek, and while he bids her be glad in his absence with her handmaids, peals the sad thunder of the signal-gun. She throws herself upon him. 'J'he frantic quickness of her motion strikingly contrasts with the former stupor of her appearance. She will not part. Her face is buried in his breast — her long fair hair floats over his shoulders. He is almost unnerved; but at this moment the ship sails on : the crew and their afflicted wives enter : the page brings to Lord Conrad his cloak, his carbine, and his bugle. He tears himself from her embrace, and without daring to look behind him, bounds over the rocks, and is in the ship. The vessel moves — the wives of the pirates continue on the beach, waving their scarfs to their desolate husbands. In the fore-ground, Medora, motionless, stands rooted to the strand — and might have inspired Phidias with a personifi- cation of despair. In a hall of unparalleled splendour, stern Seyd reclines on innumerable pillows, placed on a carpet of golden cloth. His bearded chiefs are ranged around. The rooms are brilliantly illuminated with large coloured lamps; and an opening at the fur- ther end of the apartments exhibits a portion of the shining city, and the gUttering galleys. Gulnare, covered with a silver veil, which reaches even to her feet, is ushered into the presence of the pasha. Even the haughty Seyd rises to honour his beauti- ful favourite. He draws the precious veil from her lilushing features, and places her on his right hand. The dancing-girls now appear ; and then are intro- duced the principal artists. Now takes place the scientific part of the ballet ; and here might Bias, or Noblet, or Ronzi Vestris, or her graceful hus- band, or the classical Albert, or the bounding Paul, vault without stint, and attitudinize without re- straint ; and not the least impair the effect of the tragic tale. The dervise, of course, appears ; the galleys, of course, are fired ; and Seyd, of course, retreats. A change in the scenery gives us the blazing harem — the rescue of its inmates — the de- liverance of Gulnare — the capture of Conrad. It is the prison-scene. On a mat, covered with irons, lies the forlorn Conrad. The flitting flame of a solitary and ill-fed lamp, hardly reveals the heavy bars of the huge grate that forms the en- trance to its cell. For some niiHutes nothing stirs. The mind of the spectator is allowed to become fully aware of the hopeless misery of the hero. His career is ended — secure is his dungeon — trusty his guards — overpowering his chains. To-morrow he wakes to be impaled. A gentle noise, so gentle that the spectator almost deems it unintentional, is now heard. A white figure appears behind the dusky gate : — is it a guard, or a torturer '.' The gate softly opens, and a female comes forward. Gulnare was represented by a young girl, with the body of a Peri, and the soul of a poetess. The harem queen advances with an agitated step : — she holds in her left hand a lamp, and in the girdle of her light dress is a dagger. She reaches, with a soundless step, the captive. He is asleep. — Ay ! he sleeps, while thousands are weeping his ravage or his ruin ; and she, in restlessness, is wandering here ! A thousand thoughts are seen coursmg over her flushed brow, — she looks to the audience, an-l R 2 198 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. her (lark eye asks why this corsair is so dear to her 1 She turns again, and raises the lamp with her long white arm, that the light may fall on the captive's countenance. She gazes, without moving, on the sleeper — touciies the dagger with a slow and tremulous hand, and starts from the contact with terror. She again touches it ; — it is drawn from her vest — it falls to the ground. He wakes — he stares with wonder : — he sees a female not less fair than Medora. Confused, she tells him her station : she tells him that her j)ity is as certain as his doom. He avows his readiness to die ; — he appears un- daunted — he thinks of Medora — he buries his face in his hands. She grows pale, as he avows he loves — another. She cannot conceal her own pas- sion. He, wondering, confesses that he supposed her love was his enemy's — was Seyd's. Gulnare shudtlers with horror at the name : she draws Jierself up to her full stature — she smiles in bitter- ness : — '• My love stern Seyd's ! ah ! no, no, not my love !" The acting was perfect. The enthusiastic house liurst out into unusual shouts of admiration. Madame Carolina applauded with her little finger on her fan. The grand-duke himself gave the signal of applause. Vivian never felt before that words were useless. His hand was violently pressed. He turned round : — it was the baroness. She was leaning back in her chair ; and though she did her utmost to conceal her agitated counte- nance, a tear coursed down her cheek, big as the miserable Medora's ! CHAPTER XI. On the evening of the opera, arrived at court part of the suite of the young archdutchess, the be- trothed of the Crowii-jjrince of Reisenberg. These consisted of an old gi'ay-headed general, who had taught her imperial highness the manual exercise ; and her tutor and confessor, an ancient and tooth- less bishop. I'heir youthful mistress was to follow them in a few days ; and this arrival of such a dis- tingiushed portion of her suite, was the signal for the commencement of a long series of sumptuous festivities. After interchanging a number of com- pliments, and a few snufi-boxes, the new guests were invited by his royal highness to attend a re- view, which was to take place the next morning, of live thousand troops and fifty generals. The Reisenberg army was the best appointed in Europe. Never were men seen with breasts more plumply padded, mustachios better trained, or gaiters more spotless. The grand-duke himself was a military genius, and had invented a new cut for the collars of the cavalry. His royal highness was particularly desirous of astonishing the old cray-headed governor of his future daughter by the skilful evolutions and imposing appearance of his h'gions. The affair was to be of the most refined nature ; and the whole was to be concluded by a mock battle, in which the spectators were to be treated by a display of the most exquisite evolu- tions, and complicated movements, which human beings ever yet invented to destroy others, or to es- cape destruction. Field-marshal Count von Sohn- spoer, the comniaudcr-in-chief of all the forces of his Royal Highness the Grand-duke of Reisenberg, condescended, at the particular request of his sove- reign, to conduct the whole aflair himself. At first it was rather difficult to distinguish be- tween the army and the siaft" ; for Darius, in ths straits of Issus, was not more sumptuously and numerously attended, than Count von Sohnspeer. Wherever he moved, he was followed by a train of waving plumes and radiant epaulets, and foaming chargers, and shining steel. In fact he looked like a large military comet. Had the fate of Reisenberg depended on the result of the day, the field-mar shal, and his generals, and aid-de-camps, and orderlies, could not have looked more agitated or more in earnest. Von Sohnspeer had not less than four horses in the field, on every one of which he seemed to appear in the space of five minutes. Now he was dashing along the line of the lancers on a black charger, and now round the column of the cuirassiers on a white one. He exhorted the tirailleurs on a chestnut, and added fresh courage to the ardour of the artillery on a bay. It was a splendid day. The bands of the respec- tive regiments played the most triunjphant tunes, as each marched on the field. The gradual arrival of the troops was very picturesque. Distant mu«(ic was heard, and a corps of infantry soon made its appearance. A light bugle sounded, and a body of tirailleurs issue-d from the shade of a neighbour- ing wood. The kettle-drums and clarions heralded the presence of a troop of cavalry ; and an ad- vanced guard of light horse, told that the artillery were about to follow. The arms and standards of the troops shone in the sun ; military music sounded in all parts of the field ; unceasing was the bellow of the martial drum and the blast of the blood- stirring trumpet. Clouds of dust, ever and anon excited in the distance, denoted the arrival of a regiment of cavalry. Even now one approachca — it is the red lancers. How gracefully their co- lonel, the young Count of Eberstein, bounds on his barb! Has Theseus turned Centaur 1 His spur and bridle seem rather the emblems of sove- reignty than the mstruroents of government; he neither chastises nor directs. The rider moves without motion, and the horse juJges without guidance. It would seem that the man had bor- rowed the beast's body, and the beast the man's mind. His regiment has formed upon the field, their stout lances erected like a young and leafless grove : but although now in line, it is with difficul- ty that they can subject the spirit of their warlike steeds. The trumpet has caught the ear of the horses ; they stand with open nostrils, already breathing war, ere they can see an enemy ; and now dashing up one leg, and now the other, they seem to complain of Nature that she has made them of any thing earthly. The troops have all arrived; there is an unusual bustle in the field. '\'^on Sohnspeer is again changing his horse, giving directions while he is mounting to .at least a dozen aid-de-camps. Or- derlies are scampering over every part of the field. Another flag, quite new, and of immense size is unfurled by the field-marshal's pavilion. A signal gun ! the music in the whole field is hushed ; a short silence of agitating suspense — another gun — and another ! All the bands of all the regiments burst forth at the same moment into the national air : the court dash into the field ! i Madame CaroUna, the baroness, the Countess VIVIAN GREY. 199 Von S , and some other ladies wore habits of the uniform of the Royal Guards. Both madame and the baroness were perfect horsewomen ; and the excited spirits of Mr. Beckendorff's female relative, both during her ride, and her dashing run over tlie field, amidst the firing of cannon, and the crash of drums and trumpets, very strikingly con- trasted with her agitation and depression of the preceding night. " Your excellency loves the tented field, I think !" said Vivian ; who was at her side. " I love war ! it is a diversion fit for kings !" was the answer. " How fine the breast-plates and helmets of those cuirassiers glisten in the sun !" continued the lady. ",Do you see Von Sohn- specrl I wonder if the crown prince be with himl" " I think he is." " Indeed ! ah ! can he interest himself in any thing ? He seemed Apathy itself at the opera last night. I never saw him smile, or move, and have scarcely heard his voice : but if he love war, if he be a soldier, if he be thinking of other things than a pantomime and a ball, 'tis well ! — very well for his countrj- ! Perhaps he is a hero i" At this moment the crown prince, who was of ^''on Sohnspeer's stiiff, slowly rode up to the royal party. " Rodolph !" said the grand-duke ; " do you head your regiment to-day 1" " No," was the muttered answer. The grand-duke moved his horse to his son, and spoke to him in a low tone ; evidently very ear- nestly. Apparently he was expostulating with him : but the effect of the royal exhortation was only to render the prince's brow more gloomy, and the expression of his withered features more sullen and more sad. The baroness watched the father and son as they were conversing, with the most intense attention. When the crown prince, in violation of his father's wishes, fell into the party, and allowed his regiment to be headed by the lieutenant-colonel, the young lady raised her lus- trous eyes to heaven, with that same beautiful expression of sorrow or resignation, which had so much interested Vivian on the morning that he had translated to her the moving passage in the Corsair. But the field is nearly cleared, and the mimic war has commenced. On the right appears a large body of cavalry, consisting of cuirassiers and dra- goons. A van-guard of light cavalry and lancers, under the command of the Count of Eberstein, is ordered out, from this body, to harass the enemy : a strong body of infantry, supposed to be advancing. Several squadrons of light horse immediately spring forward; they form themselves into line, they wheel into column, and endeavour, by well direct- ed manoeuvres, to outflank the strong wing of the advancing enemj-. After succeeding in executing all that was committed to them, and after having skirmished in the van of their own army, so as to give time for all necessary dispositions of the line of battle, the van-guard suddenly retreats between the brigades of the cavalry of the line ; the pre- paid battery of cannon is unmasked ; and a tre- mendous concentric fire opened on the line of the advancing foe. Taking advantage of the confusion created by this unexpected salute of his artillerj', A''on Sohnspeer, who commands the cavalry, gives the word " Charge !" I The whole body of cavalry immediately charge in masses — the extended line of the enemy is as immediately broken. But the infantry, who are commanded by one of the royal relatives and visi- ters, the Prince of Pike and Powdren, dexterously form into squares, and commence a masterly re- treat in square battalions. At length, they take up a more favouraljle position than the former one. They are again galled by the artillery, who have proportionately advanced, and again charged by the cavalry in their huge masses. And now the squares of infantry partially give away. They admit the cavalry, but the exulting horse find, to their dismay, that the enemy are not routed, but that there are yet inner squares formed at salient angles. The cavalrj^ for a moment retire, but it is only to give opportunity to their artillery to rake the obstinate foes. The execution of the battery is fearful. Headed by their commander, the whole body of cuirassiers and dragoons again charge with renewed energy and concentrated force. The infantry are thrown into the greatest confusion, and commence a rout, increased and rendered irre- mediable by the lancers and hussars, the former van-guard ; who now, seizing on the favourable moment, again rush forward, increasing the eflect of the charge of the whole army, overtaking the fugitives with their lancers, and securing the pri- soners. The victorious Von Sohnspeer, followed by his staff, now galloped up to receive the congratula- tions of his sovereign. "Where are your prisoners, field-marshal?" asked his royal highness, with a flattering smile. " What is the ransom of our unfortunate guest V asked Madame Carolina. " I hope we shall have another affair," said the baroness, winh a flushed foce and glowing eyes. But the commander-in-chief must not tarry to bandy compliments. He is again wanted in the field. The whole troops have formed in line. Some most scientific evolutions are now executed. W'^ith them I will not weary the reader, nor dilate on the comparative advantages of forming en cre- mailliere and en echiquier; nor upon the duties of tirailleurs, nor upon concentric fires and eccentric nwvements, nor upon deploying, nor upon enfilad- ing, nor upon oblique points, nor upon echellons. The day finished by the whole of the troops again forming a line, and passing in order before the commander-in-chief, to give him an opportunity of observing their discipline and inspecting their equipments. The review being finished, Count von Sohns- peer and his stafl' joined the royal party ; and after walking their horses round the field, tlioy proceeded to his pavilion, where refreshments were prepared for them. The field-marshal, flattered by the inte- rest which the young baroness had taken in the business of the day, and the acquaintance she cvi- dejitly possessed of the more obv'ous details of military tactics, was inclined to be jiarticularlj' courteous to her, but the object of his admiration did not encourage attentions, by which half the ladies of the court would have thought themselves as highly honoured as by those of the grand-duke himself; — so powerful a person was the field-mar- shal, and so little inclined by temper to cultivate the graces of the fair sex ! " In the tent keep by my side," said the baroness to Vivian. " Although I am fond of heroes, Von 200' D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. Sohnspeer is not '.o my taste. I know not why I flatter you so by my notice, for I suppose like all Englishmen, you are not a soldier? I thought so. — Never mind ! you ride well enough for a lield-marshal. I really think I could give you a commission without much stickling of my con- science. No, no ! I should like 'j'ou nearer me. I have a good mind to make you my master of the horse, that is to say, when I am entitled to have one." As Vivian acknowledged the young baroness' compliment by becoming emotion, and vowed that any office near her person would be the consum- mation of all his wishes, his eye caught the lady's: she blushed deeply, looked down upon her horse's neck, and then turned away her head. Von Sohnspeer's pavilion excellently became the successful leader of the army of Rcisenberg. Trophies taken from all sides decked its interior. The black eagle of Austria formed part of its roof, and the brazen eagle of Gaul supported part of the side. The gray-headed general looked rather grim when he saw a flag belonging to a troop, which perhaps he had himself once conmianded. He vented his indignation to the toothless bishop, who crossed his breast with his lingers, covered with diamonds, and preached temperance and modera- tion in inarticulate sounds. During the collation, the conversation was principally military. Madame Carolina, who was entirely ignorant of the subject of discourse, en- chanted all the officers present by appearing to be the most interested person in the tent. Nothing could exceed the elegance of her eulogium of " petit guen-e." The old gray general talked much about " the good old times," by which he meant the thirty years of plunder, bloodshed, and destruc- tion, which were occasioned by the French revolu- tion. He gloated on the recollections of horror, which he feared would never occur again. The Archduke Charles and Prince Schwartzenburg were the gods of his idolatry ; and Nadasti's hus- sars and W^urmser's dragoons, the inferior divinities of his bloody heaven. One evolution of the morn- ing, a discovery made by Von Sohnspecr himself, in the dcjiloying of cavalry, created a great sensa- tion ; and it was settled that it would have been of great use to Dessaix and Clairfayt in the Netherlands affair of some eight-and-twenty years ago; and was not equalled even by Seidlitz's ca- valry in the affair with the Russians at ZornsdorlF. in short, every " affair" of any character during the late war, was fought over again in the tent of Field-marshal von Sohnspeer. At length from the Archduke Charles, and Prince Schwartzenburg, the old gray-headed general got to Polybius and Mon- sieur Folard; and the grand-duke now thinking that the '' affair" was taking too serious a turn, broke up the party. Madame Carolina and most if the ladies used their carriages on their return. They were nearly fifteen miles from the city ; but the baroness, in spite of the most earnest solicita- tions, would remount her charger. Her singularity attracted the attention of Emilius von Aslingen, who immediately joined her party. As a captain in the Royal Guards, he had performed his part in the day's horrors ; and the baroness immediately complimented him upon his exertions and his vic- tory. " It was an excellent affair !" said the lady : " I shou.d like a mock battle every day during peace." " A mock battle !" said Emilius von Aslingen, with a stare of gi-eat astonishment ; " has there been a battle to-day 1 My memory, I fear, is failing me ; but now that your excellency has re- called it to my mind, I have a very faint recollection of a slight squabl)!e." They cantered home — the baroness in unusual spirits — Vivian thinking very much of his fair companion. Her character puzzled him. That she was not the lovely simpleton that Madame Carolina believed her to be, he had little doubt. Some people have great knowledge of society, and very little of mankind. Madame Carolina was one of these. Sftie vievied her species through only one medium. That the baroness was a woman of acute feeling, Vivian could not doubt. Her con- duet at the opera, which had escaped every one's attention, made this evident. That she had seen more of the world than her previous conversation had given him to believe, was equally clear by her conduct and conversation this morning. He de- termined to become more acquainted with her character. Her evident partiality to his company would not render the execution of his purpose difficult. At any rate, if he discovered nothing, it was something to do : it would at least amuse him. In the evening he joined a large party at the palace. He looked immediately for the baroness. She was surrounded by all the dandies, in conse- quence of the flattering conduct of Emilius von Aslingen in the morning. Their attentions she treated with contempt, and ridiculed their compli- ments without mercy. Without obtruding himself on her notice, Vivian joined her circle, and wit- nessed her demolition of the young Count of Eberstein with great amusement. Emilius von A«lingen was not there ; for having now made the interesting savage the fashion, she was no longer worthy his attention, and consequently deserted. The young lady soon observed Vivian ; and say- ing, without the least embarrassment, that she was delighted to see him, she begged him to share her chaise-lounge. Her envious levee witnessed the preference with dismay ; and as the object of their attention did not now notice their remarks, even by her expressed contempt, one by one fell away. Vivian and the baroness were left alone, and con- versed together the whole evening. The lady displayed, on every subject, the most engaging ignorance ; and requested information on obvious topics with the most artless naivete. Vivian was convinced that her ignorance was not afl'ected, and equally sure that it could not arise from imbecility of intellect; for while she surprised him by her crude questions, and- her want of acquaintance with all those topics which generally form the sta])le of conversation ; she equally amused him with her poignant wit, and the imperious and energetic manner in which she instantly expected satisfactory information on every possible subject. CHAPTER XII. On the day after the review, a fancy-dress ball was to be given at court. It was to be an enter- tainment of a very particular nature. The lively genius of Madame Carolina wearied of the com- monplace ellcct generally produced by this speciea VIVIAN GREY. 201 of amusement — in which usually a stray Turk, and a wandering Pole, looked sedate and singular among crowds of Spanish girls', Swiss peasants, and gentlemen in uniform — had invented some- thing novel. Her idea was ingenious. To use her own sublime phrase, she determined that the party should represent " an age !" Great difficulty was experienced in fixing upon the century which was to be honoured. At first a poetical idea was started of having something primeval — perhaps antedilu- vian, — but Noah, or even Father Abraham, were thought characters hardly sufficiently romantic for a fancy-dress ball ; and consequently the earliest postdiluvian ages were soon under consideration. Nimrod, or Sardanapalus, were distinguished per- sonages, and might be well represented by the Mas- ter of the stag-hounds, or the Master of the Revels ; but then the want of an interesting lady-character was a great objection. Semiraniis, though not without style in her own way, was not sufficiently Parisian for Madame Carolina. New ages were proposed, and new objections started ; and so the " Committee of Selection," which consisted of Madame herself, the Countess von S , and a few other dames of fashion, gradually slided through the four great empires. Athens was not aristo- cratic enough, and then the women were nothing. In spite of her admiration of the character of As- pasia, Madame Carolina somewhat doubted the possibility of persuading the ladies of the court of Keisenberg to appear in the characters of sTa/^-*/. Rome presented great capabilities, and greater diffi- culties. Finding themselves, after many days' sit- ting and study, still very far from coming to a deci- sion, madame called in the aid of the grand-duke, who proposed " something national." The propo- sition was plausible ; but according to Madame Carolina, Germany, until her own time, had been only a land of barbarism and barbarians ; and therefore, in such a country, in a national point of view, what could there be interesting ! The mid- dle ages, as they are usually styled, in spite of the Emperor Charlemagne — " that oasis in the desert of barbarism" — to use her own eloquent and origi- nal image — were her particular aversion. " The age of chivalry is past !" was as constant an excla- mation of Madame Carolina, as it was of Mr. Burke. " The age of chivalry is past — and very fortunate that it is. What resources could they have had in the age of chivalry ? — an age without either moral or experimental philosophy ; an age in which they were equally ignorant of the doc- trine of association of ideas, and of the doctrine of electricity ; and when they were as devoid of a knowledge of the incalculable powers of the human mind as of the incalculable powers of steam !" Had Madame Carolina been the consort of an Ita- lian grand-duke, selection would not be difficult; and, to inquire no farther, the court of the Medicis alone would afford them every thing they wanted. But Germany never had any character, and never produced nor had been the resort of illustrious men and interesting persons. What was to be done ] The age of Frederick the Great was the only thing ; and then that was so recent, and would ofieud the Austrians ; it could not be thought of. At last, when the " Committee of Selection," was almost in despair, some one proposed a period, which not only would be German — not only would compliment the House of Austria, — but, what was of still greater importance, would allow of every 26 contemporary character of interest of every nation — the age of Charles the Fifth ! The suggestion was received with enthusiastic shouts, and adopted on the spot. " The Committee of Selection" was immediately dissolved, and its members as imme- diately formed themselves into a " Committee of Arrangement." Lists of all the persons of any fame, distinction, or notoriety, who had lived cither in the empire of Germany, the kingdoms of Spain, Por- tugal, France, or England, the Italian States, the Netherlands, the Americas, and in short, in every country in the known world, were immediately formed. Von Chronicle, rewarded for his last his- torical novel by a riband and the title of baron, was appointed secretary to the " Committee of ■Costume." All guests who received a card of in- vitation, were desired, on or before a certain day, to send in the title of their adopted character, and a sketch of their intended dress, that their plans might receive the sanction of the ladies of the " Committee of Arrangement," and their dresses, the approbation of the Secretaiy of Costume. By this method, the chance and inconvenience of two persons selecting and appearing in the same cha- racter, were destroyed and prevented. After ex- citing the usual jealousies, intrigues, dissatisfaction, and ill-blood, by the influence and imperturbable temper of Madame Carolina, every thing was ar- ranged — Emilius von .\slingen being the only per- son who set both the Committees of Arrangement and Costume at defiance ; and treated the repeated applications of their respected secretary with the most contemptuous silence. The indignant Baron von Chronicle entreated the strong interference of the "Committee of Arrangement;" but Emilius von Aslingen was too powerful an individual to be treated by others as he treated them. Had the fancy-dress ball of the sovereign been attended by all his subjects, with the exception of this captain in his Guards, the whole afl'air would have been a failure ; would have been dark, in spite of the glare of ten thousand lamps, and the glories of all the jewels of his state ; would have been dull, although each guest were wittier than Pasquin himself; and very vulgar, although attended by lords of as many quarterings as the ancient shield of his own ante- diluvian house ! O Fashion ! — I have no time for invocations. All, therefore, that the ladies of the " Committee of Arrangement" could do, was to enclose to the rebellious Von Aslingen a list of the . expected characters, and a resolution passed in consequence of his contumacy ; that no person, or persons, was, or were, to appear as either or any of those characters, unless he, or they, could produce a ticket, or tickets, granted by a member of the " Committee of Arrangement," and countersigned by the secretary of " the Committee of Costume." At the same time that these vigorous measures were resolved on, no persons spoke on Emilius von Aslingen's rebellious conduct in terms of greater admiration than the ladies of the committee them- selves. If possible, he, in consequence, became even a more influential and popular personage than before ; and his conduct procured him almost the adoration of persons, who, had they dared to imi- tate him, would have been instantly crushed ; and would have been banished society principally by the exertions of the very individual whom they had the presumption to mimic. Fashion ! — I forgot. In the gardens of the palace was a spacious am- phitheatre, cut out in green seats for the --pectatora 202 D'lSRAELPS NOVELS. of the plays which, during the summer months, were sometimes performed there by the Court. There was a stage in the same taste, with rows of trees for side-scenes, and a great number of arbours and summer-rooms, surrounded by lofty hedges of laurel, for the actors to retire and dress in. Con- nected with this " rural theati-e," for such was its title, were a number of labyrinths and groves, and arched walks in the same style. Above twelve large fountains were in the immediate vicinity of tins theatre. At the end of one walk a seahorse spouted its element through its nostrils ; and in another, Neptune turned an Ocean out of a vase. ISeated on a rock, Arcadia's half-goat god, the deity of silly sheep and silly poets, sent forth' trickling streams through his rustic pipes ; and in the centre of a green grove, an enamoured Salmacis, bathing in a pellucid basm, seemed watching for her Her- maphrodite. It was in this rural theatre, and its fanciful con- tines, that Madame Carolina and her counsellors '■csolved, that their magic should, for a night, not only stop the course of time, but recall past cen- turies. It was certainly rather late in the year for choosing such a spot for the scene of their enchant- ment ; but the season, as I have often had oc(;asion to remark in the course of these volumes, was sin- gularly tine; and indeed at the moment of which I am spealdng, the nights were as warm, and as clear irom mist and dew, as they are during an Italian midsummer. But it is eight o'clock — we are already rather late. Is that a figure by Holbein, just started out of the canvass, that I am about to meet ] Stand aside ! It is a page of the Emperor Charles the Fifth ! The Court is on its way to the theatre. The theatre and the gardens are brilliantly illumi- nated. The effect of the thousands of coloured lamps, in all parts of the foliage, is very beautiful. The moon is up, and a million stars ! If it be not quite as light as day, it is just light enough for plea- sure. You could not perhaps endorse a bill of ex- change, or engross a lawyei-'s parchment, by this light ; but then it is just the light to read a love- letter by, and do a thousand other things besides — I have a long story to tell, and so — guess them ! All hail to the emperor! I would give his cos- tume, were it not rather too much in the style of the Von Chronicles. Keader ! you have seen a portrait of Charles by Holbein : very well — what need is there of a description 1 No lack was there in this gay scene of massy chains and curious col- lars, nor cloth of gold, nor cloth of silver '. No lack was there of trembling plumes, and costly hose ! No lack was there of crhnson velvet, and russet velvet, and tawny velvet, and purple velvet, and plunket velvet, and of scarlet cloth, and green taffeta, and cloth of silk embroidered ! No lack was there of garments of estate, and of quaint chcmews, nor of short crimson cloaks, covered with pearls and pre- cious stones. No lack was there of jjarty-coloured splendour, of purple velvet embroidered with white, and white satin dresses embroidered with black. No lack was there of splendid koyfes of damask, or Kerchiefs of line Cyprus; nor of points of Venice silver of ducat fmeness, nor of garlands of friars' knots, nor of coluured satins, nor of lileeding hearts embroidered on the bravery of dolorous lovers, nor of quaint sentences of wailing gallantry. But for the details, are they not to be found in those much- ncglectcd and much-plundered persons, the old chroniclers ? and will they not sufficiently appear in the most inventive portion of the next great historical novel 1 The grand-duke looked the emperor. Our friend the grand-marshal was Francis the First ; and Arnelm, and Von Neuwied, iigurcd as the Marshal Montmorency, and the Marshal Lautrcc. The old toothless bishop did justice to Clement the Seventh; and his companion, the ancient general, looked grim as Pompeo Colonna. A prince of the House of Nassau, one of the royal visiters, represented his adventurous ancestor the Prince of Orange. Von Sohnspeer was that haughty and accomplished rebel, the Constable of Bourbon. The young Baron Gemsbach was worthy of the Seraglio, as he stalked along as Solyman the Magnificent, with all the family jewels, belonging to his old dowager mother, shining in his superb turban. Our friend the Count of Eberstein personified chivalry, in the person of Bayard. The younger Cernstorff, the Ultimate friend of Gernsbach, attended his sumptu- ous sovereign as that Turkish Paul Jones, Barba- rossa. An Italian prince was Andrew Doria. The grand-chamberlain, our francise acquaintance, and who affected a love of literature, was the Protestant Elector of Saxonj'. His train consisted of the principal litterateurs of Reisenberg : the Editor of the " Attack-all-Review," who originally had been a Catholic, but who "had been skilfully converted some years ago, when he thought Cathohcism was on the decline, was Martin Luther, — an individual whom, both in his apostasy and brutality, he much and only resembled ; on the contrary, the Editor of the " Praise-all-Review," appeared as the mild and meek Melancthon. Mr. Sievcrs, not yet at Vienna, was Erasmus. Ariosto, Guicciardini, Ronsard, Rabelais, IVlachiavel, Pietro Aretino, Garcilasso de la Vega, Sannazaro, and Paracelsus, afforded names to many nameless crirics. Two generals, brothers, appeared as Cortez and Pizarro, The noble di- rector of the gallery was Albert Dv\rer; and his deputy, Hans Holbein, The court painter, a wrctcj'.cd mimic of the modern French school, did justice to the character of Correggio ; and an indif- ferent sculptor looked sublime as Michel Angelo. Von Chronicle had persuaded the Prince of Pike and Powdren, one of his warmest admirers, to appear- as Henry the Eighth of England. His highness was one of those true north German patriots who think their own country a very garden of Eden, and verily believe that original sin is to be finally put an end to, in a large sandy plain between Berlin and Hanover. The Prince of Pike and Powdcrn passed his whole life in patriotically sigh- ing for the concentration of all Germany into one great nation, and in secretly trusting that if ever the consummation took place, the North would be rewarded for their condescending union, by a mo- nopoly of all the privileges of the empire. Such a character was of course extremely desirous of figur- ing to-night in a style peculiarly national. The persuasions of Von Chronicle, however, prevailed, and induced his Highness of Pike and Powdren to dismiss his idea of appearing as the ancient Arminius ; although it was with great regret that the prince gave up his plan of personating his favourite hero, with hair down to his middle and skins up to his chin. Nothing would content Von Chronicle, but that his kind patron should repre- sent a crowned head : any thing else was beneath him. 'l"hc patriotism of the prince disappeared VIVIAN GREY. 203 bofon' \ho flattery of the novelist, like the bloom of a vlun» betore the breath of a boy, when he polishes the yo Jvilered fruit ere he devours it. No sooner had his highness agreed to he changed into blull Harry, than the secret purpose of his adviser was immediately detected. No court confessor, seduced by the vision of a red hat, ever betrayed the secrets of his sovereijrn with greater fervour, than did Von Chronicle labour for the cardinal's costume, which was the consequence of the Prince of Pike and Powdren undertaking the English monarch. To- night, proud as was the part of lh« prince as regal Harry, his strut was a shamble compared with the imperious stalk of Von Chronicle as the arrogant and ambitious Wolsey. The cardinal in Ricnzi was nothing to him ; for to-night Wolsey had as many pages, as the other had petticoats ! But, most ungallant of scribblers ! Place aux dames ! Surely Madame Carolina, as the beautiful and accomplished Margaret of Navan-e, might well command, even without a mandate, j'our homage and your admiration ! 'I'he lovely queen seemed the very goddess of smiles and repartee : young Max, as her page, carried at her side a painted volume of her own poetry. The arm of the favourite sister of Francis, who it will be remem- bered once fascinated even the emperor, was linked in that of CfEsar's natural daughter — her beautiful namesake, the bright-eyed Margaret of Austria. Conversing with these royal dames, and indeed apparently in attendance upon them, was a young gallant of very courtly bearing, and attired in a very fantastic dress. It is Clement Marot, the *' Poet of Princes, and the Prince of Poets," as he was styled by his own admiring age : he oflcrs to the critical inspection of the nimble-witted Navarre a few lines in celebration of her beauty and the night's festivity ; one of those short Marotique poems once so celebrated — perhaps a page culled from those gay and airy psalms, which, with characteristic gallantry he dedicated to the " Dames of France !" Observe well the fashionable bard ! Marot was a true poet, and in his day not merely read by queens and honoured by courtiers : observe hiin, I say, well ; for the character is supported by one who is a great favouiite with myself, and I trust also with you, sweet reader, — our Vivian Grey. It was with great difficulty that Madame Carolina had found a character for her favourite, for the lists were all filled before his arrival at Ileisenberg. She at first wished him to appear as some celebrated Englishman of the time, but no character of sufKcicnt importance could be dis- covered. All our countrymen in contact or con- nexion with the Emperor Charles were churchmen and civilians ; and Sir Nicholas Carew and the other fops of the reign of Henry the Eighth, who, after their visit to Paris, were even more ridiculously francise than the grand-chamberlain of Rcisenberg himself, were not, after mature deliberation, con- sii]ei»3d entitled to the honour of being ranked in Madame Carolina's age of Charles the Fifth. But who is this, surrounded by her ladies, and her chamberlains, and her secretaries ! Four pages in dresses of cloth of gold, and each the son of a prince of the French blood support her train; a crown encircles locks, gray, as much from thought as from time ; but which re(iuires no show of roy- ahy to prove that they belong to a mother of princes : — that ample forehead, aquiline nose, and the keen glance of her piercing eye, denote the queen, as much as the regality of her gait, and her numerous and splendid train. The young Queen of Navarre hastens to profler her duty to the mother of Francis, the celebrated Louise of Savoy ; and exquisitely did the young and lovely Countess of S personate the most celebrated of female diplomatists. I have forgotten one character: the repeate( commands of his father, and the constant entreatie of Madame Carolina, had at length prevailed upoi the crown prince to shuffle himself into a fancy dress. No sooner had he gratified them by his hard-wrung consent, than 13aron von Chronicle called upon him with drawings of the costume of the Prince of Asturias, afterwards Philip the Second of Spain. If I for a moment forgot so important a personage as the future grand-duke, it must have been because he supported his character so ably, that no one for an instant believed that it was an assumed one : — standing near the side scenes of the amphitheatre, with his gloomy brow, sad eye, protruding under lip, and arms hanging straight by liis sides — he looked a bigot without hope, and a tyrant without purpose. The first hour is over, and the guests are all as- sembled. As yet, they content themselves with promenading round the amj^hitheatre ; for before they can think of dance or stroll, each of them nnist be duly acquainted with the other's dress. Certainly it was a most splendid scene. The Queen of Navarre has now been presented to the emperor ; and leaning on his arm, they head the promenade. The emperor had given the hand of Margaret of Austria to his legitimate son ; but the crown prince, though he continued in silence by the side of the young baroness, soon resigned a hand which did not struggle to retain his. Clement Marot was about to fall back into a less conspicu- ous part of the procession ; but the grand-duke wit- nessing the regret of his loved cT)nsort, condescend- ingly said, " We cannot afibrd to lose our poet ;"' and so Vivian found himself walking behind Ma- dame Carolina, and on the left side of the young baroness. Louise of Savoy followed with her son^ the King of France ; most of the ladies of the court, and a crowd of otTicers, among them Montmorency and De Lautrec, after their majesties. The King of England moves by ; his state unnoticed in the superior magnificence of Wolsey. Pompeo Colonna apologizes to Pope Clement for having besieged his Holiness in the Castle of St. Angelo. The Electoi of Saxony and the Prince of Orange follow. Soly man the Magnificent is attended by his admiral and Bayard's pure spirit almost quivers at the whispered treason of the Constable of Bourbon. Luther and Melancthon, Erasmus and Rabelais, Cortez and Pizarro, Correggio and Michel Angelo, and a long train of dames and dons of all nations, succeed; — so long that the amphitheatre cannot hold them : — and the procession, that all may walk over the stage, makes a short progress through an adjoining summer-room. Just as the emperor and the fliir queen are in the middle of the stage, a wounilcd warrior, with a face pale as an eclipsed moon ; a helmet, on which is painted the sign of his sacred order; a black mantle thrown over his left shoulder, but not conceal- ing his armour ; a sword in his right hand, and an outstretched crucifix in his left; — rushes on the scene. The procession suddenly halts — all recog- nise Emilius von Aslingen ! and Madame Carolina 204 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. blushes through her rouge, when she perceives that so celebrated, " so uiteresting a character" as Igna- tius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, has not been included in the all-comprehensive hsts of her com- mittee. CHAPTER XIII. Henkt of England led the Polonnaise with Louise of Savoy ; Margaret of Austria would not join it : waltzing quickly followed. The emperor eeldom left the side of the Queen of NavaiTe, and often conversed with her majesty's poet. The Prince of Asturias hovered for a moment round his fathei-'s daughter, as if he were summoning resolu- tion to ask her to waltz. Once indeed, lie opened his mouth. Could it have been to speak 1 but the j'oung Margaret gave no encouragement to his unusual exertion ; and Philip of Asturias looking, if possible, more sad and sombre than beofre, skulked away. The crown prince left the gardens, and now a smile lit up every face except that of the young baroness. The gracious grand-duke, unwilling to see a gloomy countenance anywhere to-night, turned to Vivian, who was speaking to Madame Carolina, and said, " Gentle poet, would that thou hadst some chanson or courtly compliment, to chase the cloud which hovers on tlie brow of our much-loved daughter of Austria ! Your popularity, sir," continued the grand-duke, dropping his mock- heroic vein, and speaking in a much lower tone : " your popularity, sir, among the ladies of the court, cannot be increased by any panegyric of ours ; nor are we insensible, believe us, to the assiduity and skill with which you have complied with our wishes, in making pur court agreeable to the rela- tive of a man, to whom we owe so much as Mr. Beckendorff. We are informed, Mr. Grey," con- tinued his royal highness, " that you have no in- tention of very speedily returning to your country ; we wish that we could count you among our pecu- liar attendants. If yoti have an objection to live in our palace, without performing your quota of duty to the state, we shall have no difhculty in finding you an office, and clothing you in our official costume. Think of this !" So saying, with a gracious smile, his royal highness, leading Madame Carolina, commenced a walk round the gardens. The young" baroness did not follow them. Soly- man the Magnificent, and Bayard the irreproach- able, and Barbarossa the pirate, and Bourbon the rebel, immediately surrounded her. Few persons were higher ton than the Turkish emperor and his admiral — few persons talked more agrce^ible non- sense than the knight, sans peur et sans reproche — no person was more important than the warlike constable; but their attention, their amusement, anfl their homage, were to-night thrown away on the object of their observance. The baroness listen- ed to them without interest, and answered them with brevity. She did not even condescend, as she had done before, to enter into a war of words to mortify their vanity or exercise their wit. She treated them neither with contempt nor courtesy. If no smile welcomed their remarks, at least her silence was not scornful, and the most shallow- aeaded prater that fluttered around her, felt tliat he was received with dignity and not wj*h disdain. Awed by her conduct, not one of them dared to be flippant, and every one of them soon became dull. 'i'he ornaments of the court of Reisenbcrg, the arbiters of ton and the lords of taste, stared with astonishment at each other, when they found, to their mutual surprise, that at one moment, in such a select party, universal silence pervaded. In this state of affairs, every one felt that his dignity re- quired his speedy disappearance from the lady's presence. The Orientals taking advantage of Bourbon's returning once more to the charge, with an often unanswered remark, coolly walked away : the chevalier made an adroit and honourable re- treat, by joining a passing party ; and the constabie was the only one, who, being left in sohtude and silence, v^'as fmally obliged to make a formal bow, and retire discomfitted, from the side of the only woman with whom he had ever condescended to fall in love. Leaning against the trunk of a tree at some little distance, Vivian Grey watched the formation and dissolution of the young baroness' levee, with the liveliest interest. His eyes met the lady's, as she raised them from the ground, on Von Sohnspeer quitting her. She immediately beckon- ed to Vivian, but without her usual smile. He was directly at her side, but she did not speak. At last he said, " I think this is a most brilliant scene !" " You think so — cfo you V answered the lady, in a tone and manner which almost made Vivian believe for a moment, that his friend Mr. Becken- dorff was at his side. " Decidedly his daughter !" thought he. " You do not seem in your usual spirits to- night?" said Vivian. " I hardly know what my usual spirits are," said the lady ; in a manner which would have made Vivian imagine that his presence was as disagree- able to her as that of Count von Sohnspeer, had not the lady herself invited his company. " I suppose the scene is very brilliant," continued the baroness, after a few moment's silence. " At least all here seem to think so, — except two per- sons." " And who are they 1" asked Vivian " Myself, and — the crown prince. I am almost sorry that I did not dance with him. There seems a wonderful similarity in our dispositions." " You are pleased to be severe to-night !" " And who shall complain when the first per- son I satirize is myself]" " It is most considerate in you," said Vivian, " to undertake such an oihce ; for it is one which you, yourself, are alone capable of fulfilling. The only person that can ever satirize your excellency is yourself; and I think even then, that in spite of your candour, your self-examination must please us with a self-panegyric." " Nay, a truce to your compliments ; at least, let me hear better things from you. I cannot any longer endure the glare of these lamps and dresses ; your arm ! Let us walk for a few minutes in the more retired and cooler parts of the gardens." The baroness and Vivian left the amphitheatre, by a different path to that by wh-ch the grand- duke and Madame Carolina had quitted it. I'hey found the walks quite solitary ; for tli-^ roj'al party, which was very small, contained the only persons who had yet left the stage. Vivian and his companion strolled about for some time, conversing on subjects of ca-^ual interest. VIVIAN GREY. 205 The baroness, though no longer absent, either in hci manner or her conversation, was not in her accustomed spirits ; and Vivian, while he flattered himself that he was more entertaining than usual, felt to his mortification, that the lady was not en- tertained. '• I am afraid you find it very dull here," said he : " shall we return 1" " 0, no ; do not let us return ! We have so ehort a time to be together, that we must not allow even one hour to be dull." As Vivian was about to reply, he heard the joy- ous voice of young Maximilian ; it sounded very near ; the royal party were approaching. The baroness expressed her earnest desire to avoid it ; and as to advance or retreat, in these labyrinthine walks, was almost equally hazardous, they retired into one of those green recesses which I have be- fore mentioned ; indeed, it was the very evergreen grove, in the centre of which the Nymph of the Fountain watched for her loved Carian youth. A shov^-er of moonlight fell on the marble statue, and showed the nymph in an attitude of consummate skill : her modesty struggling with her desire, and herself crouching in her hitherto pure waters, while her anxious ear listens for the bounding step of the regardless huntsman. " The air is cooler here," said the baroness, " or the sound of the falfing water is peculiarly refresh- ing to my senses. They have passed ; I rejoice that we did not return ; I do not think that I could have remained among those lamps another moment. How singular, actually to view with aversion a scene which appears to enchant all !" " A scene which I should have thought would have been particularly charming to you," said Vi- vian : " you are dispirited to-night V "Am 11" said the baroness. "I ought not to be ; not to be more dispirited than I ever am. To- night I expected pleasure ; nothing has happened which I did not expect, and every thing which I did. And yet I am sad ! Do you think that hap- piness can ever be sad 1 I think it must be so. But whether I am sorrowful, or happy, I can hard- ly tell ; for it is only within these few days that I have kno^vn either grief or joy." " It must be counted an eventful period in your existence, which reckons in its brief hours a first acquaintance with sucR passions]" said Vivian, with a searching eye and an inquiring voice. '• Yes ; an eventful ])eriod — certainly an eventful period," answered the baroness ; with a thoughtful air and in measured words. " I cannot bear to see a cloud upon that brow 1" said Vivian. " Have you forgotten how much was t) be done to-night 1 How eagerly you looked for- ward to its arrival 1 How bitterly we were to regret the termination of the mimic empire 1" " I have forgotten nothing : would that I had ! I will not look grave. I will be gay ; and yet when I remember how soon other mockery, besides this splendid pageant, must be terminated, why should I look gay 1 — why may I not weep 1" '• Nay, if we are to moralize on worldly felicity, I fear, that instead of inspiriting you, which is my wish, I shall prove but a too congenial companion ; but such a theme is not for you." " And why should it be for one, who though he lecture me with such gravity and gracefulness, can scarcely be entitled to play the part of Mentor by tlie weight of years 1" said the baroness with a smile ; " for one, who, I trust — who, T should think, as little deserved, and was as little inured to sorrow as myself!" " To find that you have cause to griei'e," said Vivian ; " and to learn from you, at the same time your opinion of my own lot, prove what I have too often had the sad opportunity of observing ; that the face of man is scarcely more genuine and less deceitful, than these masquerade dresses which we now wear." " But you are not unhappy ]" asked the baroness with a quick voice. " Not now," said Vivian. His companion seated herself on the marble balustrade which surrounded the fountain : she did not immediately speak again, and A'^ivian was silent, for he was watching her motionless countenance as her large brilliant eyes gazed with earnestness on the falling water sparkling in the moonlight. Surely it was not the mysterious portrait at Beckendorft's that he beheld ! How came he not to remark this likeness before ! She turned — she seized his hand — she pressed it with warmth. " friend ! too lately found ; why have we met to parti" " To part, dearest !" said he, in a low and rapid voice ; " to part ! and why should we part ? — why — " " ! ask not, ask not; your qjiiestion is agony." She tried to withdraw her hand, he pressed it with renewed energy, it remained in his, — she turned away her head, and both were silent. " ! lady," said Vivian, as he knelt at her side ; " why are we not happy V His arm is round her waist — gently he bends his head — their speaking eyes meet, and their trembling lips cling into a kiss ! A seal of love, and purity, and faith ! — and the chaste moon need not have blushed as she lit up the countenances of the lovers. " O I lady, why are we not happy V " We are, we are : is not this happiness — is not this joy — is not this bliss ? Bliss," she continued, in a low, broken voice, " to which I have no right, no title. O ! quit, quit my hand ! Happiness is not for me !" She extricated herself from his arm, and sprang upon her feet. Alarm, rather than aflection, was visible on her agitated features. It seemed to cost her a great eflfort to collect her scat- tered senses ; the effort was made with pain, but with success. ♦ " Forgive me, forgive me," she said^n a hurried and indistinct tone ; " forgive me ! I would speak, but cannot, — not now at least ; we have been long away, too long ; our absence will be remarked to- night ; to-night we must give up to the gratification of others, but I will speak. For yours, for my own sake, let us — let us go ! You know that we are to be very gay to-night, and gay we will be. Who shall prevent us ] At least the present hour is oui own ; and when the future ones must be so sad, why, why trifle with thisi" CHAPTER XIV. The reader is not to suppose that Vivian Grey thought of the young baroness, merely in the rapid scenes which I have sketched. There were S 206 D ' I S R A E L I ' S NOVELS. few moments in the tiay in which her image dirl not occupy his thoughts, and which indeed, he did not spend in her presence. From the first, her rharacter had interested him. His accidental, but extraordinary acquaintance with Beckendorfl" made him \ie\v any individual connected with that sin- gular man, with a far more curious feeling than could influence the young nobles of the court, who were ignorant of the minister's peisonaj character. There was an evident mystery about the character and situation of the baroness, which well accorded with the eccentric and romantic career of the prime minister of Reiscnberg. Of the precise nature of her connexion with Becken- dorli", Vivian was wholly ignorant. The world spoke of her as his daughter, and the affirmation of Madame Carolina conlirmed the world's report. Her name was still unknown to him ; and al- though, during the few moments that they had enjoyed an opportunity of conversing together alone, Vivian had made every exertion, of which good breeding, impelled by curiosity, is capable, and had devised many little artifices, with which a schooled address is well acquainted, to obtain it, his exertions had hitherto been perfectly unsuccessful. If there were a mystery, the young lady was com- petent to preserve ii ; and with all her naivete, her interesting ignorance of the world, and her evi- dently uncontrolled spirit, no hasty word ever fell from her cautious lips, which threw any light on the objects of his inquiry. Though impetuous, she was never indiscreet, and often displayed a caution which was little in accordance with her youth and temper. The last night had witnessed the only moment in which her passions seemed for a time to have striiggled with, and to have over- come, her judgment ; but it was only for a moment. That display of overpowering feeling had cost Vivian a sleepless night ; and he is at this instant pacing up and down the chamber of his hotel, thinking of that which he had imagined could exercise his thought no more. She was beautiful — she loved him ; — she was unhappy ! To be loved by any woman is flatter- ing to the feelings of every man, no matter how deeply he may have quaffed the bitter goblet of worldly knowledge. The praise of a fool is incense to the wisest of us; and though wc believe our- selves broken-hearted, it still delights us to find that we are loved. The memory of Violet Fane was still as fresh, as sweet, to the mind of Vivian Grey, as when he pressed her blushing cheek, for the first and only tittle. To love again — really to love as lie had done — he once thought was impossible; he thought so still. The character of the baroness, as I have said, had interested him from the first. Her ignorance of mankind, and her perfect ac- quaintance with the most polished forms of society ; her extreme beauty, her mysterious rank, her proud S|)iril and impetuous feelings; her occasional pen- siveness, her extreme waywardness, — had astonish- ed, perplexed, and enchanted him. But he had never felt in love. It never, for a moment, had entered into his mind, that his lonely bosom could again be a fit resting-place, for one so lovely, so young. Scared at the misery which bad always followed in his track, he would have shuddered ere he again asked a human being to share his sad and blighted fortunes. The partiality of the baroness for his society, without flattering his vanity, or giving rise k thoughts more serious than how he could most completely enchant for her the passing hour, had certainlv made the time passed in her presence, the least gloomy which he had lately experienced. At the same moment that he left the saloon of the fialace, he had supposed that his image quitted her remembrance ; and if she had again welcomed him with cheerfulness and cordiality, he had felt that his receplion was owing to not being, perhaps, quite as frivolous as the Count of Eberstein, and being rather more amusing than the Baron of Gernsbach. It was therefore vnth the greatest astonishment that, last night, he had found that he was loved — loved too, by this beautiful and haughty girl, who had treated the advances of the most distinguished nobles with ill-concealed scom; and who had so presumed upon her dubious relationship to the bourgeois minister, that nothing but her own sur- passing loveliness, and her parent's all-engrossing influence, could have excused or authorized her conduct. Vivian had yielded to the magic of the moment, and had returned the love, apparently no sooner proffered than withdrawn. Had he left the gardens of the palace the baroness' plighted lover, he might perhajis have deploredhis rash engagement ; and the sacred image of his first and hallowed love might have risen up in judgment against his violated afiection — but how had he and the interesting stranger parted 1 He was rejected, even while his affection was returned ; and while her flattering voice told him that he alone could make her happy, she had mournfully declared that happiness could not be hers. How was this 1 Could she be another's? Her agitation at the opera, often the object of his thought, quickly occuned to him. It must he so. Ah ! another's ! and who this rivall — this proved possessor of a heart which could not heat for him ! Madame Carolina's dc^ claiation that the baroness must be maiTied off, was at this moment remembered : her marked observation, that Von Sohnspeer was no son of BeckendortV's, not forgotten. The field-marshal too was the valued friend of the minister ; and it did not fail to occur to Vivian that it was not Von Sohnspeer's fault, that his attendance on the ba- roness was not as constant as his own. Indeed, the unusual gallantry of the commander-in-chief had been the subject of many a joke among the young lords of the court; and the reception of his addresses by their unmerciful object, net unobserved or unspared. But as for poor Von Sohnspeer, what could be expected, as Emilius von Ashngen observed, " from a man whose sotiest compliment was as long, loud, and obscure, as jn birth-day's salute !" No sooner was the affair clear to Vivian — no sooner was he convinced that a powerful obstacle existed to the love or union of himself and the baroness, than he began to ask, what right ihe interests of third persons had to interfere 'netween the muteal afiection of any individuals. }ie> thought of her in the moonlit garden, struggung with her pure and natural passion. He thought of her exceeding beauty — her exceeding love. He beheld this rare and lovely creature in the embrace of Von Sohnspeer. He turned from the picture in disgust and indignation, f^he was his — nature had decreed it. She should be the bride of no other man. Sooner than yield her up, he v^ould beard Beckendorff himself in his own retreat, and run VIVIAN GREY. 207 every hazard, and meet every danger, which the ardeit imagination of a lover could conceive. W?^ he madly to reject the happiness which pro- vide- no e, or destiny, or chance had at length oflered hi'n 1 If the romance of boyhood could never he realized, at least with this engaging being for M? companion, he might pass through his remain- ing years in calmness and in peace. His trials ■were perhaps over. Alas ! this is the last delusion of unhappy men ! Vivian called at the palace, but the fatigues of the preceding night prevented either of the ladies from being visible. In the evening, he joined a very small and select circle. The party, indeed, only consisted of the grand-dvdve, madame, their visiters, and the usual attendants, himself, and Von Sohnspecr. The quiet of the little circle did not more strikingly contrast with the noise, and glare, and splendour of the last night, than did Vivian's subdued reception by the baroness, with her agitated demeanour in the garden. She was cordial but calm. He found it quite impossible to gain even one moment's private conversation with her. Ma- dame Carolina monopoUzed his attention, as much to favour the views of the field-marshal, as to dis- cuss the comparative merits of Pope, as a moralist and a poet; and Vivian had the mortification of observing his odious rival, whom he now thoroughly detested, discharge, without ceasing, his royal sa- lutes in the impatient ear of Beckendorfl''s lovely daughter. Towards tlie conclusion of the evening, a chamberlain entered the room, and whispered his mission to the baroness. She immediately rose and quitted the apartment. As the party was breaking up, she again entered. Her countenance was very agitated. Madame Carolina was being overwhelmed with the compliments of the grand- marshal, and Vivian seized the opportunity of reaching the baroness. After a few very hurried sentences she dropped her glove. Vivian gave it bei. So many persons were round them, that it waj impossible to converse except on the most co.imon topics. The glove was again dropped. '' I see," said the baroness, with a very meaning look, " that you are but a recreant knight, or else you would not part with a lady's glove so easily." Vivian gave a rapid glance round the room. No one w.as observing him, and the glove was im- mediately in his pocket. He hurried home, rushed up the staircase of the hotel, ordered lights, locked the door, and with a sensation of indescribable anxiety, tore the precious glove out of his pocket ; seized, opened, and read the enclosed and following note. It was written in pencil, in a very hurried hand, and some of the words were repeated. " I leave the court to-night. He is here him- self. No art can postpone my departure. Much, much, I wish to say to you; to say — to say — to you. He is to have an interview with the grand- duke to-morrow morning. Dare you come to his place in his absence ] You know the private road. He goes by the high-road, and calls in his Vv-ay on a forest counsellor : I forget his name, but it is the white house by the barrier — you know it. Watch him to-morrow morning ; about nine or ten I should think — here, here ; — and then for heaven's sake let me see you. Dare every thing ! Fail not — fail not ! Mind, by the private road — by the private road : — beware the other ! Yeu know the ground. God bless you ! " SlIilLLA." CHAPTER XV. Vivian read the note over a thousand times He could not retire to rest. He called Essper George, and gave him all necessary directions for the morning. About three o'clock Vivian lay down on a sofa, and slept for a few short hours. He started often in his short and feverish slumber. His dreams were unceasing and inexplicable. At first Von Sohnspeer was their natural hero ; but soon the scene shifted. Vivian was at Ems — walking under the well-remembered lime trees, and with the baroness. Suddenly, although it was mid-day, the sun became very large, blood-red, and fell out of the heavens — his companion screamed — a man rushed forward with a drawn sword. It was the idiot Crown Prince of Reisenberg. Vivian tried to oppose him, but without success. The infuriate ruffian sheathed his weapon in the heart of the baroness. Vivian shrieked, and fell upon her bodj^ — and to his horror, found himself em- bracing the cold corpse of Violet Fane ! Vivian and Essper mounted their horses about seven o'clock. At eight, they had reached a small inn near the forest counsellor's house, where Vivian was to remain until Essper had watched the entrance of the minister. It was a very few minutes past nine when Essper returned, with the joyful intelligence that Owlface and his master had been seen to enter the court-yard. Vivian immediately mounted Max, and telling Essper to keep a sharp watch, he set spurs to his horse. " Now, Max, my good steed, each minute is golden — serve thy master well !" He patted the horse's neck — the animal's erected ears proved hov/ well it understood it's master's wishes ; and taking advantage of the loose bridle, which was confidently allowed it, the horse sprang, rather than galloped to the minister's residence. Nearly an hour, however, was lost in gaining the private road, for Vivian, after the caution in the baroness's letter, did not dare the high-road. He is galloping up the winding rural lane, where he met Beckendoiif on the second morning of his visit. He has reached the little gate, and following the example of the grand-duke, ties Max at the entrance. He dashes over the meadows, not following the path, but crossing straight through the long and dewy grass — he leaps ov*>r the light iron railing — he is rushing up the walk — he takes a rapid glance, in passing, at the httie summer-house — the blue passion-flower is still blooming — the house is in sight — a white hand- kerchief is waving from the drawing-room windo vv ! He sees it — fresh wings are added to his course — he dashes through a bed of flowers, frightens the white peacock, darts through the library-window, is in the drawing-room ! The baroness was there : pale and agitated, she stood beneath the mysterious picture, with one arm leaning on the old carved mantelpiece. Over- come by her emotions, she did not move forward to meet him as he entered ; but V^ivian observed neither her constraint nor her agitation. " Sibylla ! dearest Sibylla ! say you arc mine !'' 208 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. He caught her in his arms. She struggled not to disengage herself, but as he dropped upon one knee, she suffered liim gently to draw her down upon the other. Her head sank upon her arm, ■which rested upon his shoulder. Ovei-powered, she sobbed convulsively. He endeavoured to calm her, but her agitation increased ; and many, many minutes elapsed, ere she seemed to be even sensible of his presence. At length she became more calm, and apparently making a struggle to compose herself, she raised her head. "Are you better, dearest?" asked Vivian, with a voice of the greatest anxiety, " Much ! much ! quite, quite well ! Let us walk for a moment about the room !" As Vivian was just raising her from his knee, he was suddenly seized by the throat with a strong grasp. He turned round — it was Mr. Beckendorff, with a face deadly white, his full eyes darting from their sockets like a hungry snake's, and the famous Italian dagger in his right hand. " Villain !" said he, in the low voice of fatal passion. " Villain ! is this your destiny ?" Vivian's fa-st thoughts were for the baroness; and turning his head from Beckendorff, he looked with the eye of anxious love to his companion. But, instead of fainting — instead of being over- whelmed by this terrible interruption, she seemed, on the contrary, to have suddenly regained her natural spirit and self-possession. The blood had returned to her hitherto pale cheek, and the fire to an eye before dull with weeping. She extricated herself immediately from Vivian's encircling arm ; and by so doingi enabled him to spring upon his legs, and to have struggled, if it had been neces- sary, more equally with the powerful grasp of his assailant. " Stand off, sir !" said the baroness, with an air of inexpressible dignity, and a voice which even at this crisis seemed to anticipate that it would be obeyed. " Stand off, sir ! stand off, I command vou !" Beckendorff, for one moment, was motionless : he then gave her a look of the most piercing earnestness, threw Vivian, rather than released him, from his hold, and flung the dagger, with a bitter smile, into the corner of the room. " Well, madam!" said he, in a choking voice, "you are obeyed !" " Mr. Grey," continued the baroness, " 1 regret that this outrage should have been experienced by you, because you have dared to serve me. My presence should have preserved you from this con- tumely; but what are we to expect from those who pride themselves upon being the sons of slaves ! Vou shall hear further from me." So saying, the ladv bowing to Vivian, and sweeping by the minister, with a glance of indescribable disdain, quitted the apartment. As she was on the point of leaving the room, Vivian was standing against the wall, with a ;;nie face and folded arms — Bcck- endcrfi'vriln !;ib Dack to the window, his eyes fixed on the ground — and Vivian to his astonishment perceived, what escaped the minister's notice, that while the lady bade him adieu with one hand, she made rapid signs with the other to some unknown person in the garden. Mr. Beckendorff and Vivian were left alone, and the latter was the first to break silence. • Mr. Beckendorff,'' said he, in a calm voice. have found me in your house this morning, I should have known how to excuse, and to forget, any irritable expressions which a moment of un- governable passion might have inspired. I should have passed them over unnoticed. But your un- justifiable behaviour has exceeded that line of demarcation, which sympathy with human feelings allows even men of honour to recognise. You have disgraced both me and yourself by giving me a blow. It is, as that lady well styled it, an out- rage — an outrage which the blood of any other man but yourself could only obliterate from my memory; but while I am inclined to be indulgent to your exalted station and your peculiar character, I at the same time expect, and now wait for an apo- logy." " An apology !" said Beckendorff, now begin- ning to stamp up and down the room ; " an apo- logy ! Shall it be made to you, sir, or the arch- dutchessl" " The archdutchess !" said Vivian ; "good God ! what can you mean 1 Did I hear you right ]" " I said, the archdutchess," answered Becken- dorff with firmness ; " a princess of the house of Austria, and the pledged wife of his royal high- ness the Crown Prince of Reisenberg. Perhaps you may now think that other persons have to apologize !" " Mr. Beckendorff," said Vivian, " I am over- whelmed ; I declare, upon my honour — " " Stop, sir ! you have said too much already — " "But, Mr. Beckendorff, surely you will allow me to explain — " " Sir ! there is no need of explanation. I know every thing — more than you do yourself. You can have nothing to explain to me ; and I presume you are now fully aware of the impossibility of again speaking to her. It is at present within an hour of noon. Before sunset you must be twenty miles from the court — so far you will be attended. Do not answer me — you know my power. A re- monstrance only, and I write to Vienna; your progress shall be stopped throughout the south of Europe. -For her sake, this business will be hushed up. An important and secret mission will be the accredited reason of your leaving Reisenberg. This will be confirmed by your official attendant, who will be an envoy's courier. Farewell !" As Mr. Beckendorff quitted the room, his confi- dential servant, the messenger to Turriparva, entered; and with the most respectful bow, in- formed Vivian that the horses were ready. In about three hours time, Vivian Grey, followed by the government messenger, stopped at his hotel. The landlord and waiters bowed with increaseil obsequiousness on seeing him so attended ; and in a few minutes Reisenberg was ringing with the news, that his appointment to the undcr-secrctai7- ship of state was now " a settled thmg." BOOK THE EIGHTH. CHAPTER L The landlord of the Grand Hotel of the Four Nations at Reisenberg was somewhat consoled for the sudden departure of his distinguished customer, •• considering the circumstances under vvluch you [ by scUing the plenipotentiary a travelling carriage, VIVIAN GREY. 209 lately taken for a doubtful bill from a gambling Russian general, at one hundred per cent, profit. In this convenient vehicle, in the course of a couple of hours after his arrival in the city, was Mr. A^ivian Grey borne through the Gate of the Allies. Essper George, who had reached the hotel about half an hour after his master, followed behind the carriage on his hack, leading Max. The courier cleared the road before, and expedited the arrival of the Special Envoy of the Grand-duke of ' Reisenberg at the point of his destination, by ordering the horses, clearing the barriers, and paying the pos- tillions in advance. Vivian had never travelled before with such style and speed. Our hero covered himself up with his cloak, and drew his travelling cap over his eyes, though it was one of the hottest days of this singularly hot autumn ; but the very light of heaven was hateful to him. Perfectly overwhelmed with his last crushing misfortune, he was unable even to mor- alize : — to reflect, or to regret, or even to remem- ber. Entranced in a revery, the only figure that occurred to his mind was the young archdutchess, and the only sounds that dwelt on his ear, were the words of BeckendorfF: but neither to the person of the first, nor to the voice of the second, did he an- nex any definite idea. After nearly three hours travelling, which to Vi- vian seemed both an age and a minute, he was roused from liis stupor by the door of his caleche being opened. He shook himself as a man does who has wakened from a benumbing and heavy sleep, although his eyes were the whole time wide open. The disturbing intruder was his courier ; who, bowing, with his hat in his hand, informed his excellency that he was now twenty miles from Reisenberg, and that the last postillions had done their duty so excedingly well, that he trusted liis excellency would instruct his servant to give them double the tariflf. Here he regretted that he was under the necessity of quitting his excellency, and he begged to present his excellency with his pass- port. " It is made out for Vienna," continued the messenger. " A private pass, sir, of the prime minister, and will entitle you to the greatest con- sideration." The messenger receiving a low bow for his answer and reward, took his leave. The carriage was soon again advancing rapidly to the next post-house ; when, after they had pro- ceeded about half a mile, Essper George calling loudly from behind, the drivers suddenly stopped. Just as Vivian, to whose tortured mind the rapid movement of the carriage was some relief — for it produced an excitement which prevented thought — was about to inquire the cause of this stoppage, Essper George rode up to the caleche. " Kind sir I" said he, with a very peculiar look, " I have a packet for you." •' A packet ! from whom 1 speak ! give it me !" " Hush ! hush ! hush ! softly, softly, good master. Here I am about to commit rank treason for your sake ; and a hasty word is the only reward of my rashness." " Nay, nay, good Essper, try me not now !" " I will not, I will not, kind sir ; but the truth is, I could not give you the packet while that double- faced knave was with us, or even while he was in sight. 'In good truth,' as Master Rodolph was wont to say — ah I when shall I see his sleekness again !" " But of this packet I" 27 " ' Fair and softly, fair and softly,' good sir ! as Plunsdrich the porter said, when I would have drunk the mulled wine, while he was on the cold staircase — " " Essper ! do you mean to enrage me ?" " ' By St. Hubert !' as that worthy gentleman, the grand-marshal, was in the habit of swearing, I—" " This is too much — what are the idle sayings of these people to me 1" " Nay, nay, kind sir, they do but show that each of us has his own way of telling a story ; and that he who would hear a talc, must let the teller's breath, come out of his own nostrils." "Well, Essper, speak on ! Stranger things have happened to me than to be reproved by my own servant." " Nay, my kind master, say not a bitter word to me, because you have slipped out of a scrape with your head on your shoulders. The packet is from Mr. Beckendorff's daughter." "Ah ! why did not you give it to me before 1" " Why do I give it you now 1 Because I'm a fool — that's why. What I you wanted it when that double-faced scoundrel was watching every eyelash of yours, as it moved from the breath of a ^ 1 — a fellow who can see as well at the back of his head, as from his face. I should like to poke out his front eyes, to put him on an equality with the rest of mankind. He it was who let the old gentleman know of your visit this morning, and I shrewdly suspect that he has been nearer your limbs of late than you have imagined. Every dog has his day, and the oldest pig must look for his knife ! The devil was once cheated on Sunday, and I have been too sharp for puss in boots and his mousetrap ! Prowling about the forest counsel- lor's house, I saw your new servant, sir, gallop in, and his old master soon gallop out ; I was off as quick as they but was obliged to leave my horse within two miles of the house, and then trust to my legs. I crept through the shrubs like a land tor- toise ; but, of course, too late to warn you. How- ever, I was in for the death, and making signs to the young lady, who directly saw that I was a friend, — bless her ! she is as quick as a partridge, — I left you to settle it with papa, and after all, did that which I suppose your highness intended to do yourself — made my way into the young lady's — bed-chamber." " Hold your tongue, you rascal ! and give me the packet." " There it is, sir, and now we t^'ill go on ; but we must stay an hour at the next post, if your honoui pleases not to sleep there ; for both Max and my own hack have had a sharp day's work." Vivian tore open the packet. It contained a long letter, written on the night of her return to Beckendorff's ; she had stayed up the whole night writing. It was to have been fonvarded to Vivian, in case of their not being able to meet. In the en- closure were a few hurried lines, %vritten since the catastrophe. They were these : — " May this safely reach you ! Can yon ever forgive me ? The enclosed, you will see, was intended for you, in case of our not meeting. It anticipated sorrow : yet what were its anticipations to our reality !" The archdutchess' letter was evidently written under the influence of the most agitated feelings. I omit it ; because, as the mystery of her characteT is now explained, a great portion of her communi s2 210 D'lSRAELI'S xNOVELS. cation would be irrelevant to our tale. She spoke (if her exahed station as a woman — that station which so many women envy — in a spirit of the most agonizinc; bitterness. A royal princess is only the most flattered of state victims. She is a po- litical sacrilice, by which enraged governments are appeased, wavering allies conciliated, and ancient amities confirmed. Debarred by her rank and her education from looking forward to that exchange of equal affection, which is the great end and charm of female existence ; no individual finds more fatally, and feels more keenly, that pomp is not felicity, and splendour not content. Deprived of all those sources of happiness which seem inherent in woman, the wife of the sovereign sometimes seeks in politics and in pleasure, a means of excitement which may purchase oblivion. But the political queen is a rare character ; she must possess an intellect of unusual power, and her lot must be considered as an exception in the fortunes of female royalty. Even the political queen generalty closes an agitated career with a l)roken heart. And for the imhappy votary of pleasure, who owns her cold duty to a royal hus- band, we must not forget, that even in the niost dissipated courts, the conduct of the queen is ex- pected to be decorous ; and that the instances arg not rare, where the wife of the monarch has died' on the scaffold, or in the dungeon, or in exile, be- cause she dared to be indiscreet, where all were debauched. But for the great majority of royal wives, they exist witliout a passion ; they have nothing to hepe — nothing to fear — nothing to envy — nothing to want — nothing to confide — no- thing to hate — and nothing to love. Even their duties, though multitudinous, are mechanical ; and v/hile they require much attention, occasion no anxiety. Amusement is their moment of greatest emotion, and for thern amusement is rare; for amusement is the result of equal companionship. Thus situated, Ihc^y are doomed to become frivo- lous in their pursuits, and formal in their manners ; and the court chaplain, or the court confessor, is the only person who can prove they have a soul, by convincing them that it will be saved. The young archdutchess had assented to the ])roposition of marriage with the Crown Prince of Keiscnberg without opposition; as she was con- vinced that requesting her assent, was only a cour- teous form of requiring her compliance. There was nothing outrageous to her feelings in marrying a man whom she had never seen ; because her edu- cation, from her tcnderest years, had daily prepared )ier for such an event. Moreover, she was aware that, if she succeeded in escajjing from the offers of the Crown Prince of Reisenberg, she would soon be under the necessity of assenting to those of some other suitor ; and if proximity to her own country, accordance with its sentiments and manners, and previous connexion with her own house, were taken into consideration, a union with the family 'jf Reisenberg was even desirable. It was to be preferred, at least, to one which brought with it a foreign husband, and a foreign clime; a strange language and strange customs. The archdutchess — a girl of ardent feelings and lively mind — had not, however, agreed to become that all-command- ing slave — a queen — without a stipulation. 8hc rixjuired that she might be allowed, previous to her marriage, to visit her future court, incognita. This singular and unparalleled proposition Was not easily acceded to ; but the opposition with which it was re- ceived, only tended to make the young princess more determined to be gratified in her caprice. Her im- perial highness did not pretend that any end was to be obtained by this unusual procedure, and indeed she had no definite purpose in requesting it to bo permitted. It was originally the mere whim of the moment, and had it not been strongly opposed, it would not have been strenuously insi.sted upon. As it was, the young archdutchess persisted, threat- ened, and grew obstinate ; and the gray-headed negotiators of the marriage, desirous of its speedy completion, and not having a more tractable tool ready to supply her place, at length yielded to her bold importunity. Great difficulty, however, was experienced in carrying her wishes into execution. By what means, and in what character .she was to appear at court, so as not to excite suspicion or occasion discovery, were often discussed, without being resolved upon. At length it became neces- sary to consult Mr. BeckendortT. The upper hp of the Prime Minister of Reisenberg, curled, as the imperial minister detailed the caprice and contuma- cy of the princess ; and treating with the gieatest contempt this girli.sh whim, Mr. Beckendorft' ridi- culed those by whom it had been humoured, with no suppressed derision. The consequence of his conduct was an interview with the future grand- dutchess, and the consequence of his interview, an unexpected undertaking on his part to arrange the visit according to her highness's desires. The archdutchess had not yet seen the crown- prince ; but six miniatures, and a whole-length portrait had prepared her for not meeting an Adonis, or a Baron Trenck ; and that was all-— for never had the Correggio of the age of Charles the Fifth, better substantiated his claims to the office of court paintei% than Iw these accurate semblances of his royal highness; in which his hump was subdued into a Grecian bend, and his lack-lustre eyes seemed beaming with tenderness and admira- tion. His betrothed bride stipulated with Mr. Beckendorff, that the fact of her visit should be known only to himself and the grand-duke ; and before she appeared at court, she had received the personal [iledge, both of himself and his royal highness, that the affair should be kept a complete secret from the crown prince. Most probably, on her tirst introduction to her future husband, all the romantic plans of the young archdutchess, to excite an involuntary interest in his heart, vanished — but how this may be, it is needless for us to inquire : for that .same night in- troduced another character into her romance, for whom she was perfectly unprepared, and whose appearance totally disorganized its plot. Her inconsiderate, her unjustifiable conduct, in tampering with that individual's happiness and affection, was what the young haughty arch- dutchess deplored in the most energetic, the most leeling, and the most humble spirit ; and antici- pating, that after this painful disclosure, they would never meet again, she declared, that for his sake alone she regretted what had passed — and praying that he might be hap])ier than herself, she supplicated to be forgiven, and forgotten. Vivian read the archdutchess's letter over, and over again ; and then put it in his breast. At first he though L that he had lived to shed another tear ; but he was mistaken. In a few minutes he found himself quite roused from his late overwhelming VIVIAN GREY. 211 stupor — quite light-hearted — almost gay. Remorse, or regret for the past — care, or caution for the future, seemed at the same moment to have fled from his mind. He looked up to heaven, with a wild smile — half of despair, and half of defiance. It seemed to imply, that Fate had now done her worst ; and that he had at last the satisfaction of knowing himself to he the most unfortunate and uidiappy heing that ever existed. When a man, at the same time, believes in and sneers at his destiny, we may be sure that he considers his con- dition past redemption. CHAPTER n. Thkt stopped for an hour at the next post, ac- cording to Essper's suggestion. Indeed, he pro- posed resting there for the night, for both men and beasts much required repose ; but Vivian panted to reach Vienna, to which city two days travelling would now carry him. His passions were so roused, and his powers of reflection so annihilated, that while he had determined to act desperately, he was unable to resolve upon any thing desperate. Whether, on his arrival at the Austrian capital, he should plunge into dissipation, or into the Danube, was equally uncertain. He had some thought of joining the Greeks or Turks — no matter which — probably the latter — or perhaps of serving in the Americas. The idea of returning to England never once entered his mind : he expected to find letters from his father at Vienna, and he almost regretted it ; for, in his excessive misery, it was painful to be conscious that a being still breathed, who was his friend. It was a fine moonlight night, but the road was very mountainous ; and in spite of all the en- couragement of Vivian, and all the consequent exertions of the postilion, they were upwards of two hours and a half going these eight miles. To get on any farther to-night was quite impossible. Essper's horse was fairly knocked up, and even Max visibly distressed. The post-house was for- tunately an inn. It was not at a village ; and, as far as the travellers could learn, not near one ; and its appearance did not promise very pleasing accom- modation. Esspcr, who had scarcely tasted food for nearly eighteen hours, was not highly delighted with the prospect before them. His anxiety, how- ever, was not merely selfish ; he was as desirous that his young master shoidd be refreshed by a good night's rest, as himself; and anticipating that he should have to exercise his skill in making a couch for Vivian in the carriage, he proceeded to cross-examine the post-master on the possibility of his accommodating them. The host was a most pious-looking personage, in a black velvet cap, with a singularly meek and charitable expression of countenance. His long black hair was very exquisitely braided ; and he wore round his neck a collar of pewter medals, all which had been re- cently sprinkled with holy water, and blessed under the petticoat of the saintly Virgin ; for the post- master had only just returned from a pilgrimage to the celebrated shrine of the Black Lady of Altoting. " Good friend ;" said Essper, looking him cun- ningly in the face ; " I fear that we must order horses on : you can hardly accommodate two !" " Good friend !' answered the innkeeper, and he crossed himself very reverently at the same time : " it is not for man to fear, but to hope." " If your beds were as good as your adages," said Essper George, laughing, " in good truth, as a friend of mine would say, I would sleep here to- night." " Prithee, friend," continued the innkeeper, kiss- ing a medal of his collar very devoutly, " what accommodation dost thou lackl" " Why," said Essper, " in the way of accomms- dation, little — for two excellent beds will content us ; but in the way of refreshment — by St. Hubert ! as another friend of mine would swear — he would be a bold man who would engage to be as hungry before his dinner, as I shall be after my supper." " Friend !" said the innkeeper, " Our Lady for- bid that thou shouldst leave our walls to-night; for the accommodation, we have more than sufficient; and as for the refreshment — by holy mass ! we had a priest tarry here last night, and he left his rosary behind; I will comflirt my soul by telling my beads over the kitchen fire ; and for every pater- noster my wife shall give thee a rasher of kid, and for every ave a tumbler of Augsburg ; which, our Lady forget me, if I did not myself purchase, but yesterday se'ennight, from the pious fathers of the convent of St. Florian !" " I take thee at thy word, honest sir," said Essper. " By the creed ! I liked thy appearance from the first: nor wilt thou find me unwilling, when my voice has taken its supper, to join thee in some pious hymn or holy canticle. And now for the beds !" " There is the green room — t!ie be.'^t bedroom in my house," said the innkeeper. " Holy Mary for- get me ! if in that same bed have not stretched their legs, more valorous generals, more holy pre- lates, and more distinguished counsellors of our lord the emperor, than in any bed in all Austria." " That then for my master, — and for myself! — " " H — u — m !" said the host, looking very ear- nestly in Essper's face; "I should have thought that thou wert one more anxious after dish and flaggon, than curtain and eider down !" " By my mother ! I love good cheer," said Essper earnestly ; " and want it more at this moment than any knave that ever yet starved : but if thou hast not a bed to let me stretch my legs on after four-and-twenty hours' hard riding, by holy Vir- gin ! I will have horses on to Vienna." " Our Black Lady forbid !" said the innkeeper, with a quick voice, and with rather a dismayed look — " said I that thou shouldst not have a bed T St. Florian desert me ! if I and my wife would not sooner sleep in the chimney-corner, than that thou shouldst rniss one wink of thy slumbers !" " In one word, have you a bed 1" " Have I a bedl Where slept, I should like to know, the Vice-principal of the convent of Molk, on the day before the last holy Ascension 1 The waters were out in the morning ; and when will my wife forget what his reverence was pdcased to say, when he took his leave ! — ' Good woman !' said he, ' my duty calls me ; Init the weather is cold ; and, between ourselves, I am used to great feasts ; and I should have no objection, if I were privileged to stay, and to eat again of thy red cab- bage and crearA !' — what say you to thatl Do you thir^ we have got beds now ? You shaii sleep tonight, sir, like an Aulic couns*>llo'-." 212 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. This adroit introJuction of the red cabbage and crcarn settled every thing — Vv'hen men are wearied diid famished, they have no inclination to be incre- dulous — and in a few moments Vivian was inform- ed by his servant, that the promised accommoda- tion was satisfactory ; and having locked up the carriage, and wheeled it into a small out-house, he and Essper were ushered by their host into a room, which, as is usual in small German inns in the south, served at the same time both for kitchen and saloon. The fire was lit in a platform of brick, raised in tlie centre of the floor : — the sky was visible through the chimney, which, although of a great breadth below, gradually narrowed to the top. A family of wandering Bohemians, consisting of the father and mother, and three children, were sealed on the platform when Vivian entered : the man was playing on a coarse wooden harp, without which the Bohemians seldom travel. The music ceased as the new guests came into the room, and the Bohemian courteously ofiered his place at the fire to our hero ; who, however, declined disturbing the family group. A small table and a couple of chairs were placed in a corner of the room by the inidieeper's wife — a bustling, active dame — who apparently found no difficulty in laying the cloth, •lusting the furniture, and cooking the supper, at the same time. At this table, Vivian and his ser- vant seated themselves ; and, in spite of his mis- fortunes, Vivian was soon engaged in devouring the often-supplied and savoury rashers of the good woman; nor, indeed, did her cookery discredit the panegyric of the Reverend Vice-principal of the convent of Molk. Alike wearied in mind and in body, Vivian soon asked for his bed ; which, though not exactly fit for an Aulic counsellor, as the good host perpetually avowed it to be, nevertheless afforded very decent accommodation. The Bohemian family retired to the hay-loft; and Essper George would have followed his mas- ter's example had not the kind mistress of the house tempted him to stay behind, by the produc- tion of a new platter of rashers ; indeed, he never remembered meeting with such hospitable people as the poht-master and liis wife. They had evidently taken a great firncy to him ; and, though extremely wearied, the lively little Essper endeavoured, be- tween his quick mouthfuls and long draughts, to reward and encourage their kindness by many a good story and sharp joke. With all these, both mine host and his wife were exceedingly amused ; seldom containing their laughter, and frequently protesting, by the sanctity of various saints, that this was the pleasantest night, and Essper the pleasantcst fellow, that they had ever met with. " Eat, cat, my friend !" said his host ; " by tlie mass! thou hast travelled far; and fill thy glass, and pledge with me our Black Lady of Altoting. By lioly cross ! I have hung up this week in her chapel a garland of silk roses ; and have ordered to ■)e burned before her shruie, three pounds of per- fumed wax tapers! Fill again, fill again ! and thou too, good mistress ; a hard day's work hast thou had — a glass of wine will do thee no harm : join me with our new friend ! Pledge we together the Holy Fathers of St. Flarain, my worldly patrons, and my spiritual pastors : let us pray that his rever- ence the sub-prior may not have his Christmas attack of gout in the stomach ; and a better health to poor Father Felix ! Fill again, fill again ! this Augsburg is somewhat acid ; we will have a bottle of Hungary. Mistress, fetch us the bell-glasses, and here to the Reverend Vice-principal of jMolk ! our good friend : when will my wife forget what he said to her on the morning of the last holy As- cension 1 Fill again, fill again !" Inspired by the convivial spirit of the pious and jolly post-master, Essper George soon forgot his threatened visit to his Lied-room, and ate and drank, laughed and joked, as if he were again with his friend, Master Rodolph ; but wearied nature at length avenged herself for this unnatural exertion ; and leaning back in his chair, he was, in tlie course of an hour, overcome by one of those dead and heavy slumbers, the efiect of the united influence of fatigue and intemperance — in short, it was Ulce the midnight sleep of a fox-hunter. No sooner had our pious votary of the Black Lady of Altoting observed the efiect of his Hun- gary wine, than making a well understood sign to his wife, he took up the chair of Essper in his brawny arms ; and preceded by Mrs. Post-mistress with a lantern, he left the room with his guest. Essper's liostess led and lighted the way to an out- house, which occasionally served as a remise, a stable, and a lumber-room. It had no window ; and the lantern aflbrdcd the only light which exhi- bited its present contents. In one corner was a donkey tied up, belonging to the Bohemian ; and in another a dog, belonging to the post-master. Hearing the whispered voice of his master, this otherwise brawling animal was quite silent. Under a hayrack was a large child's cradle : it was of a very remarkable size, having been made for twins ; who to the great grief of the post-master and his lady, departed this life at an early, but promising age. Near it was a very low wooden sheep-tank, half filled with water, and which had been placed there for the refreshment of the dog and his feather- ed friends — a couple of turkeys, and a considerable number of fowls, who also at present were quietly roosting in the rack. The pious innkeeper very gently lowered to the ground the chair on which Essper was soundly sleeping ; and then, having crossed himself, he took up our friend with great tenderness and soUcitude, and dexterously fitted him in the huge cradle. This little change must have been managed with great skill — like all other skill, probably acquired by practice — for overwhelming as was Essper's stupor, it nevertheless required considerable time, nicety, and trouble, to arrange him comfortably on the mouldy mattrass of the deceased twins — so very fine was the fit ! However, the kind-hearted host had the satisfaction of retiring from the stable, with the consciousness, that the guest, whose company had so delighted him, was enjoying an extremely sound slumber; and fearing the watchful dog might disturb him, he thought it only prudent to take Master Rouseall along with him. About an hour past midnight, Essper George awoke. He was lying on his back, and excessively unwell ; and, on trying to move, he found, to his great astonishment, that he was rocking. Every circumstance of his late adventure was perfectly obliterated from his memory; and the strange move- ment, united with his peculiar indisposition, lef\ him no doubt that the dream, which was in fact the eflcct of his intemperance, combined with the rock- ing of the cradle on the slightest motion, was a melancholy reaUty ; and that what he considered VIVIAN GREY, 213 she greatest evil of life was now his lot — in short that he was on board a ship ! As i^ often the case when we are tipsy or nervous, Esspor had been woke by the fright of falling from some immense height ; and finding that his legs had no sensation, for tliey were quite benumbed, he concluded that he had fallen down the hatchway, that his legs were broken, and himself jammed in between some logs of wood in the hold ; and so he began to cry lustily to those above, to come down to his rescue. How long he would have continued hailing the neglectful crew, it is impossible to ascertain ; but, in the midst of his noisy alarm, he was seized with another attack of sickness, which soon quieted him. " O, Essper George !" thought he, " Essper George ! how came you to set foot on salt limber again ] Had you not had enough of it in the Mediterranean and the Turkish seas, that you must be getting aboard this lubberly Dutch galliot ! for I am sure she's Dutch, by being so low in the water. How did I get herel — Who am 11 — Am I Essper George, or am I not? — Where was I last]-^How came I to fall! — .' my poor legs! — How the vessel rocks ! — Sick again ! — Well they may talk of a sca-Iife, but for my part, I never even saw the use of the sea — 0, Lord ! how she rolls — what a heave ! I never saw the use of the sea. — Many a sad heart has it caused, and many a sick stomach has it occasioned ! The boldest sailor climbs on board with a heavy soul, and leaps on land with a light spirit. — ! thou indifferent ape of earth '] thy houses are of wood, and thy horses of canvass ; thy roads have no landmarks, and thy highways no inns ; thy hills are green without grass, and wet without showers ! — and as for food, what art thou, O, bully ocean ! but the stable of horse-fishes, the stall of cow-fishes, the sty of hog-fishes, and the kennel of dog-fishes ! — ! commend me to a fresh water dish for meager days ! — Seaweed, stewed with chalk, may be savoury stuff for a mer- man ; but, for my part, give me red cabbage and cream : and as lor drink, ii man may live in the midst of thee his whole life, and die for thirst at the end of it ! Besides, thou blasphemous salt lake, where is thy religion 1 Where are thy churches, thou heretic ! Thou wouldst be burnt by the In- quisition, were it not that thy briny water is fit for nothing but to extinguish an Auto-dc-Fe. Ah me! would that my legs were on my body again, and that body on terrafirma ! I am left to perish be- low, while the rascally surgeon above, is joining with the purser to defraud the Guinea pigs at dice. I'll expose him !'" So saying, Essper made a des- perate effort to crawl up the hold. His exertions, of course, set the cradle rocking with renewed vi- olence; and at last, dashing with great force against the sheep-tank, that pastoral piece of furni- ture was overset, and part of its contents poured upon the inmate of the cradle. " Sprung a- leak in the hold, by St. Nicholas !" bawled out Essper George. " Caulkers, a-hoy ! a-hoy ! Can't you hear, you scoundrels ! you stone-hearted rulfans ! — a-hoy ! a-hoy ! — I can't cr\', for the life of me ! They said I should be used to the rocking after the first month ; and here, by the soul of a seaman ! I can't even speak ! ! the liars, the wicked liars ! If the captain expect any thing from me, he is mistaken. I know what I sliall do when he comes. ♦ Captain !' I shall say, ' when you behave like a gentleman, you may expect to be treated as such.' " At this moment three or four fowls, roused by the fall of the tank, and the consequent shouts of Essper, began fluttering about the rack, and at last perched upon the cradle. " I'he live stock got loose ! " screamed Essper, in a voice of terror, in spite of a new attack of sickness ; " the live stock got loose! sprung a-lcak! below here! below! below ! and the breeze is getting stiffer every in- stant ! Where's the captain 1 I Vs'ill see him ; I'm not one of the crew : I belong to the court ! What court] what am I talking about 1 One would think that I was drunk. Court indeed ! what can I mean 1 I must have cracked my skull when I fell like a lubber down that confounded hatch- way ! Court indeed ! Egad ! I feel as if I had been asleep, and been dreaming I was at court. Well, it's enough to make one laugh, after all ! What's that noise ! why, here's a jackass in the hold ! this is not right — some job of that villanous purser! Well, he's found out at last! Rasher of kid indeed ! What business has he to put me off with rashers of kid, and give me sour wine! This is the first voyage that I ever heard of, where a whole crew were fed for months on rashers of kid, and sour wine. 0, the villain ! is this what he calls doing his duty 1 is this why, here are all the turkeys screaming ; all the live-stock loose — below here ! below ! Above deck a-hoy! ye lub- bers a-hoy ! live-stock loose ' sprung a-leak ! purser's job ! purser has got a jackass — purser's jackass — purser is a j — a — c — k — ^jack— jack — jack— jack— jackass ! " Here our sailor, overcome by his exertions and the motion of his vessel, again fell asleep. Presently he was awakened, not by the braying of the jackass, nor the screaming of the turkeys, nor the cackling of the chickens ! but by the sound of heavy footsteps over his head. These noises were at once an additional proof that he was in the hold, and an additional stimulus to his calls to those on deck. In fact, these sounds were oc- casioned by the Bohemians, who always rose be- fore break of day ; and consequently, in a few minutes, the door of the stable opened, and the Bohemian, with a lantern in his hand, entered. "Who are youl" hallooed out Essper George, greatly refreshed by his last slumber ; " what do ycu wantl" continued he; for the man astounded at hearing a human voice, at first could not reply. " I want my jackass," he at length said. "You do," said Essper, "do youl Now a'n't you a pretty fellow 1 You a purser ! A fellow who gives us rashers of kid a whole voyage ; nothing but kid, kid, kid, every day ! and here are detected keeping a jackass among the poultry ! a jackass, of all animals ! eating all the food of our live-stock, and we having kid every day — kid, kid, kid ! Pray- why didn't you come to me before 1 Why didn't you send the surgeon? Now, a'n't you a scoun- drel! Though both my legs are off, I'll have a fling at you !" — and so saying, Essper, aided by the light 'of the lantern, and with infinite exertion, scrambled out of the cradle, and taking up the shee'p- tank, sent it straight at the astonished Bohemian's head. The aim was good, and the man fell ; more, however, from fright thaia injury. Seizing his lantern, which had fallen out of his hand, Essper escaped through the stable-door, and rushed into the house. He found himself in the kitchen. The entrance reused the landlord and his wife, wno had been sleeping by the fire ; since, usH &14 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. having a single bed besides their own, they had given that up to Vivian; The countenance of the innkeeper etVectually dispelled the clouds which had been fast clearing ofi' from Essper's intellect. Giv- ing one wide stare, and then rubbing liis eyes, the whole truth lighted upon him ; and so, being in the humour for flinging, he sent the Bohemian's lantern at his landlord's head. The post-master seized the poker, and the post-mistress a fagot; and as the Bohemian, who had now recovered himself, had entered in the rear, Essper George certainly stood a fair chance of receiving a thorough drubbing : which doubtless he would have got, had not his master, roused by the suspicions noises and angry sounds which had reached his room, entered the kitchen with his pistols. The group is a good one; and I therefore will not disturb it till the next chapter. CHAPTER III. As it was now morning, Vivian did not again retire to rest, but took advantage of the disturbance in the inn, to continue his route at an earlier hour than he had previously intended. As he was in- formed that he would meet with no accommodation for the next fifty or sixty miles, his projected course lying through an extremely mountainous and wild tract in the vicinity of the Lake of Gmunden, he was fain to postpone his departure, until he and his attendant had procured their breakfasts ; and more- over, willingly acceded to a suggestion of the post- master, of taking with him a small basket, contain- ing some slight refreshment for their " noon meal." Accordingly the remnants of their breakfast, a cold fowl — a relation of the live-stock which had so terribly disturbed Essper during the night — some fruit, and a bottle of thin white wine, were packed by the dapper post-mistress in a neat little basket. The horses were now put to, and nothing remained to be done, but to discharge the innkeeper's bill. The conduct of mine host and his good wife, had been so exceedingly obliging — for Vivian had not even listened to Essper's complaint, treating the whole aflair as a drunken brawl — that Vivian had nearly made up his mind to wave the ceremony of having a regular bill presented to him ; and feeling that the greatest charge which the post-master could make for his accommodation, could not reward him for his considerate conduct, he was on the point of making him a very handsome present, vhen the account was sent in. To Vivian's aston- ishment, he found that the charge exceeded, by about five times as much, the amount of his in- tended, and, as he had considered it, rather extrava- gant gratuity. The first item was for apartments — a saloon, and two best bed-chambers ! Then came Vivian's light supper, figuring as a dinner pour un maitre ; and as for Essper George's feed, it was inserted under two different heads, " servant's dinner," and " servant's supper:" the retirement of A'ivian from the smoky kitchen, having been the event which distinguished the moment when the first meal had terminated, and the second com- menced. More ceremonious accuracy could not have been displayed in settling the boundaries of two empires or deciding the commencement of the Sabbath. And as for wine, the thin Augsburg, though charged by the dozen, did not co^Hip much as tue Hungary, charged by the bottle. I^)peared by the bill also, that there had been no slight break age of hell-glasses, nor was the sheep-tank, minus a leg by the overthrow of the Bohemian, forgotten ; but looked imposing under the title of '•injured bed-room furniture." Vivian scarcely got as far as their break- fasts, but even their excessive price passed from his mind, when his eye lighted on the enormous item which entitled them to the basket of provisions. It would have supported the poor Bohemians for a year. Our hero's indignation was excessive, particu- larly as he now felt it his duty to listen to Essper's bitter complaints. Vivian contented himself, how- ever, with returning the account of Essper to the post-master, who took care not to be in his cus- tomer's presence ; informing mine host that there was some little mistake in his demand, and request- ing him to make out a new charge. But the character of the pious, loquacious, complaisant, and convivial innkeeper, seemed suddenly to have undergone a very strange revolution. He had be- come sullen, and silent; listened to Vivian's mes- sage with imperturbable composure, and then re- fused to reduce his charge one single kreutzer. Vivian, whose calm philosophy had received rather a rude shock since his last interview with Mr. Beckendorff, and who was not therefore in the most amiable of humours, did not now conceal his indignation ; nor, as far as words could make an impression, spare the late object of his intended generosity. That pious person bore his abuse like a true Christian ; crossing himself at every oppro- brious epithet that was heaped upon him, with great reverence, and kissing a holy medal of his blessed necklace whenever his guests threatened vengeance and anticipated redress. But no word escaped the whole time fronr the mouth of the spiritual protege of the Holy Fathers of St. Florian : pale and pig- headed, he bore all with that stubborn silence, which proved him no novice in such scenes ; and not even our Black Lady of Altoting was called upon to interfere in his favour, or to forgive, or forget, his innocent imposition. But liis mild, and active, and obliging wife amply compensated, by her reception of our hero's complaints, for the rather uncourteous conduct of her husband. With arms a-kimbo, and flashing eyes, the vixen poured forth a volley of abvjse both of Vivian and his servai;t, which seemed to astonish even her experienced husband. To leave the house without satisfying the full demand was impossible; for the demaaidant, being post-master, could of course prevent the pro- gress of his victim. In this state of aflairs, irritated and defied, Vivian threatened to apply to the judge of the district. His threat bore with it no terrors: and imagiuing that the post-master reckoned that his guest was merely blustering, Vivian determined to carry the business through ; and asked of a few idle persons who were standing around, which of them would show him the way to the judge of the district. " I will myself attend your highness," said the innkeeper, with a bow of insolent politeness. Vivian, however, did not choose to rely upon the post-master's faith ; and so, attended by a young peysant, and followed at a few yards' distance liy their host, he and Essper proceeded to find the judge of the district. 'I'he judge lived at a small village two miles up the country ; but even this did not daunt our hero, who, in spite of the meek and constant smile of his host, bade his guide lead on. VIVIAN GREY. 215 Half an hour bA>ught them to the hamlet. They ))rocee(led down the only street which it contained, until they came to a rather large, but most dilapi- dated hovise, which their guide informed them was the residence of the judge. The great front gates being evidently unused, they rang the rusty bell at a small white door at the side of the mansion ; and in a short time it was opened by a hard-working Austrian wench, wb.o stared very much at the demand, as if she were but little accustomed to the admission of suitors. She bade them (^jllow her down the court. Passing a heavy casement win- dow, thickly overshadowed by a vine, she opened a door into a small and gloomy room, and the party were ushered into the solemn presence of the dis- trict judge. His worship was seated at a table, on which a few very ancient and dusty papers at- tempted to produce a show of business. He was earnestly engaged with his chocolate, and wore a crimson velvet cap, with a broad fur border, and a very imposing tassel. I need not describe his ap- pearance very minutely — his worship being an individual whom we have had the honour of meet- ing with before ; he being no less a personage than that dignified, economical, convivial, and most ill- treated judge from the Danube, whose unlucky adventure about the bottle of Rudesheimer was detailed in an early chapter of these volumes; and who it will be recollected was, at that time, if more g'ood-humouredly, scarcely more courteously, treated by one of the present complainants, Essper George, than by his brutal boon companions — the Univensity students. " Pray, gentlemen, be seated : take a chair, sir !" said his worship as he raised himself on his elbows, staring in V ivian's face. — " H — u — u — m !" growled the fat judge, as he perceived the innkeeper stand- ing on the threshold. — "Come in there, and shut the door. Well, gentlemen what is your pleasure 1" Vivian very temperately and briefly detailed the occasion of his visit. The judge listened in pro- found silence : his pouting lips and contracted brow making it difficult to ascertain whether he were thoughtful or sulky. The innkeeper did not at- tempt to interrupt the complainant during his state- ment, at least not by speech ; but kept up a per- petual commentary on the various charges, by re- peatedly crossing himself, sighing, and lifting up his hands and eyes, as much as to say, " What liars men are !" and then humbly throwing out his arms, and bending his head, he seemed to forgive their mendacity, and at the same time, trust that Heaven would imitate his example. While this scene was acting, Essper George got wound up to such a pitch of frenzy, between the injustice which he considered his master was doing to their case, the hypocritical gesticulations of the defendant, and the restraint laid upon his perpetual interference by Vivian, and the looks of the judge; that he could only be compared to a wild cat in a cage, hissing, spitting, threatening with his pawing hands, and setting up his back, as if he were about to spring upon his adversary and throttle him. " Now !" said the judge sternly to the post-mas- ter, '• what have you to say 1 How can you answer to yourself for treating a foreign gentleman in this manner 7" " St. Florian be my help !" said mine host with downcast eyes, " I am confoundeetre to-morrow, and a dance on tlu' green to-night." The old gentleman paused for want of breath, and having stood a moment to recover himself, he introduced his new guest to the inmates of the tent: first, his maiden sister, a softened fac-simile of liimself ; behind her stood his beautiful and blush- ing daughter, the youthful bride, wearing on her head a coronal of white roses, and supported by three bride's-maids, the only relief to whose snowy dresses were large bouquets on their left side. The bridegroom was at first shaded by the curtain ; but, as he came forward, Vivian started when he recog- nised his ■ Heidelberg friend, ^ugcne von Konig- stein ! Their mutual delight and astonishment were so great, that for an histant neither of them could speak ; but when the old man learned from his son-in-law, that the stranger was his niost valued and intimate friend, and one to whom he was un- der the greatest personal obligations, he absolutely declared that he would have the wedding — to wit- ness which appeared to him the height of human felicity — solemnized over again. The bride blush- ed, the bride's-maids tittered ; the joy was univer- sal. " My dear sister!" .said the old lord, bawling very loud in her ear; "very likely your deafness prevented you understanding that this gentleman is Eugene's particular friend. Poor dear !" con tinned he, lowering his tone ; " it is a great misfor tune to be so very deaf!" " I dare say you will soon perceive, sir," said the old lady to Vivian, while his lordship was speaking, " that my dear brother is debarred, in a great de- gree, from enjoying your society, by his unfortu- nate deafness : he scarcely ever hears even what I say to him ; though he has been accustomed to my voice so many years. Poor creature, it is a great denial to him !" It was quite curious to observe how perfectly unconscious were this excellent pair of their own infirmity, though quite alive to each other's. V^ivian inquired alter the baron. He learned from Eugene that he had quitted Europe about a month ago, having sailed as minister to one of the new American states. " My uncle, " continued the young man, " was neither well, nor in spirits be- fore his departure : ,1 cannot understand why he plagues himself so about politics ; however, I trust he will like his new appointment; you found him, I am sure, a most delightful companion V " Come ! you two young gentlemen," said the father-in-law, " put off your chat till the evening. The business of the day stops ; for I see the pro- cession coming forward to receive the regatta prize. Now, my dear! where is the scarf ? — You know what to say 1 Remember, I particularly wish to do honour to tlie victor ! The sight of all these happy faces makes me feel quite young again. I declare I tliink I shall live a hundred years !" The procession advanced. First came a band of young children strewing flowers ; then followed four stout boys carrying a large purple and white banner. The victor, proudly preceding the other candidates, strutted forward, with his hat on one side, a light scull decorated with purple and white ribands in his right hand, and his left arm round his wife's waist. The wife, a beautiful young wo- man, to whom were clinging two fat flaxcn-headeJ children, was the most interesting figure in the pro- cession. Her tight dark boddice set off her round full figure, and her short red petticoat displayed her springy foot and ankle. Her neatly braided and plaited hair was pai'tly concealed by a silk cap, covered with gold-spangled gauze, flattened rather at the top, and finished at the back of the head with a large bow. This costly head-gear, tlie highest fashion of her class, was presented to the wearer by the bride, and was destined to be kejit for festivals. After the victor tmd his wife, came six girls and six boys, at tlie side of whom walked a very bustling VIVIAN GREY. 219 personage in black, who seempd extremely interest- ed about the decorum o.f the procession. A lonij; train of villagers succeeded. " Well !" said liie old lord to Vivian, " this must be a very gratifyingc sij^ht to you ! how fortunate that your carriage broke down just at my castle ! I think my dear girl is acquitting herself admirably. Ah! Eugene is a happy fellow; and I have no doubt that she wdl be happy too. The young sailoi" receives his honours very properly : they are as nice a family as I know. Observe, they arc moving off' now to make way for the pretty girls and boys ! That person in black is our abbe — as i)cnevolent, svorthy a creature as ever lived ! and veiy clever too : you'll see in a minute. Now tliey are going to give us a little bridal chorus, after the old fashion ; and it is all the abbe's doing. I understand that there is an elegant allusion to my new bridge in it, which I think will please you. Who ever thought that bridge would be opened for my girl's wedding ] Well ! I am glad that it was not finished before. But we must be sdent! You will notice that part about the bridge ; it is in the fifth verse, I am told; beginning with something about Hymen, and ending with something about roses." By this time the procession had formed a semi- circle before the tent ; the abbe standing in the middle, with a paper in his hand, and dividing the two bands of choristers. He gave a signal with his cane, and the girls commenced : — Chorus of Maidens. Hours fly I it is Morn : she has left the bed of Love : she follows him with a strained eye, when his figure is no longer seen : she leans her head upon her arm. She is faithful to him, as the lake to the mountain I Chorus of Yoiilhs. Hours fly ! it is Noon : fierce is the restless sun ! While he labours, he thinks of her ! while he controls others, he will obey her ! A strong man subdued by love, is like a vineyard silvered by the »uoon ! Chorus of Youths and Maidens. Hours fly ! it is Eve : the soft star lights him to /lis home ! she meets him as his shadow falls on the threshold ! she smiles, and their child, stretch- ing forth its tender hands from its mother's bosom, struggles to lisp " Father !" Chorus of Maidens. Years glide ! it is Youth : they sit within a secret bower. Purity is in her raptured eyes — Faith in his warm embrace. He must fly ! He kisses his farewell : the fresh tears are on her cheek ! He has gathered a lily witli the dew upon its leaves ! Chorus of Youths. Years glide! it is Manhood. He is in the fierce camp; he is in the deceitful court. He must min- gle sometimes with others, that he may be always with her ! In the false world, she is to him like a green olive among rocks ! , Chorus of Youths and Maidens. Yciirs glide ! it is Old Age. They sit beneath a branching elm. As the moon rises on the sun- set green, their children dance before them ! Her hand is in his ; they look upon their children, and then upon each other ! " The fellow has some fancy," said the old lord, "but given, I think, to conceits. I did not exactly catch the {lassage about the bridge, but I have no doubt it was all right." Vivian was now invited to the pavilion, where refreshments were prepared. Here our hero was introduced to many other guests, relations of the family, who were on a visit at the castle, and who had been on the lake at the moment of his arrival. " This gentleman," said the old lord, pointing to Vivian, " is my son's most particular friend, and I am quite sure that you are all delighted to see him. He arrived here quite accidentally — his carriage having fortunately broken down in passing one of the streams. All those rivulets should have bridges built over tljem ! A single arch would do : — one bold single arch ; of the same masonry as my new bridge, with a very large key-stone, and the buttresses of the arch rounded, so that the water should play against them — no angles to be eaten, and torn, and crumbled away. A fine bridge, with the arches well' proportioned, and the key-stones bold, and the buttresses well rounded, is one of the grandest and most inspiriting sights I know. I could look at my new bridge forever. I often ask myself, ' Now how can such a piece of masonry ever be destroyed]' It seems quite im- possible ; does noi it 1 We all know — experience teaches us all — that every thing has an end ; and yet, whenever I look at that bridge, I often think that it can only end when all things end. I will tak^ you over it myself, Mr. Grey : it is not fair, because you came a day too late, that you should miss the finest sight of all. If you had only been here yesterday, I am sure you would have said it was the happiest day in your life !" The old gentleman proceeded to give Vivian a long description of the ceremony. He was terribly disappointed, and equally annoyed, when he found that our hero could not be present at the festivities of the morrow. At first my lord was singularly deaf; he could not conceive the bare idea of the possibility of any person wishing to leave him at the present moment; but when his guest assured, and finally, by frequent repetition, made him un- derstand, that nothing but the most peremptory business could command, under such circumstances, his presence at Vienna ; the old gentleman, a great stickler for duty, and a great respecter of public, business, which he had persuaded himself could alone prevail upon Vivian to make such a sacrifice, kuidly commiserated his situation ; and consoled him by saying, that he thought he was the most unlucky fellow with whom he ever had the plea- sure of beingacquaintcd. " To come just one day after the bridge ! and then to go off just the morn- ing before the fete champetrc ! It is very hard for you ! I quite pity you ; don't you, my dear sis- ter 1" bawled he to the old lady. "But what is the use of speaking to her, poor dear ! it is a great misfortune to be so very deaf! It seems to me that she gets worse every day," " I am glad, sir," said the old lady to Vivian, seeing that she was spoken to ; '• I am glad that we shall have the pleasure of your company at the fete to-morrow. My dear brother !" bawled she to the old gentlemen, " you feel, I am sure, very happy that Eugene's friend has arrived so for- 220 D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. tunately to participate in the pleasures of the fete. But what is the use of speaking- to him ! poor creature ! it is a great denial to him to be so very deaf! I fear it gains on him hourly !" In the evening they all waltzed upon the green. The large yellow moon had risen ; and a more agreeable sight, than to witness two or three hun- dred persons so gayly occupied, and . in such a scene, is not easy to imagine. How beautiful was the stern old castle, softened by the moonlight, the illumined lake, the richly silvei-ed foliage of the woods, and the white brilliant cataract ! Vivian waltzed with the bride, little qualified as he now was to engage in the light dance ! But to refuse the distinguished honour was impossible ; and so, in spite of his misery, he was soon spin- ning on the green. The mockeiy, however, could not be long kept up ; and pleading over- whelming fatigue, from late travelling, and gently hinting to Eugene, that from domestic circum- stances the present interesting occasion could alone have justified him in the slightest degree joining in any thing which bore the appearance of light- ness and revelry, he left the green. His carriage was now being repaired by the cas- tle smith ; and by the advice and with the assist- ance of the old lord, he had engaged the brother of the family steward, who was a voiturier, about to set of!" for Vienna the next morning, to take charge of his equipage and luggage, as far as Burkesdorff, which was about ten miles from Vienna. At that place Vivian and Essper were also to arrive on the afternoon oi' their second day's journey. They would there meet the car- riage, and get into Vienna before dusk. As the castle was quite full of visiters, its hos- pitable master apologized to Vivian for lodging him for the night, at the cottage of one of his favourite tenants. Nothing could give greater pleasure to Vivian than this circumstance, nor more annoy- ance to the worthy old gentleman. The cottage belonged to the victor in the regatta, who himself conducted the visiter to his dwelling, Vivian did not press Essper's leaving the revellers, so great an acquisition did he seem to their sports ! Teaching them a thousand new games, and play- ing all manner of antics ; but perhaps none of his powers surprised them more, than the extraordi- nary facility and freedom with which he had ac- quired, and used all their names. The cottager's pretty wife had gone home an hour before her hus- band, to put her two fair-haired children to bed, and prepare her guest's accommodation for the night. Nothing could be more romantic and lovely than the situation of the cottage. It stood just on the gentle slope of the mountain's base, not a hun- dred yards from the lower waterfall. It was in the middle of a patch of highly cultivated ground, which bore creditable evidence to the industry of its proprietor. Fruit trees, Turkey corn, vines, and liax, flourished in the greatest luxuriance. The dwelling itself was covered with myrtle and arlni- tus, amd the tall lemon jilant perfumed the window of the sitting-room. The casement of Vivian's chamber opened full on the foaming cataract. The distant murmur of the mighty waterfall, the gentle sighing of the trees, the .soothing influence of the moonlight, and the faint sounds occasionally caught of dying revelry — the joyous exclamation of some •successful candidate in the day's games, the song of some returning lover, tlic plash of an oar in the ' lake — all combined to produce that pensive mood, in which we find ourselves involuntarily reviewing the history of our life. As Vivian was musing over the last harassing months of his burthensome existence, he could not help feeling that there was only one person in the world on whom his memory could dwell with solace and satisfaction ; and this person was Lady Madeleine Trevor ! It was true that with her he had passed some most agonizing hours; but he could not forget the angelic resignation with which her own afHiction had been borne ; and the soothing converse by which his had been alleviated. This train df thought was pursued till his aching mind was sunk into inde- finiteness. He sat, for some little time, almost unconscious of existence, till the crying of a child, waked by its father's return, brought him back to the present scene. His thoughts naturally ran to his friend Eugene. Surely this youthful bride- groom mis;ht reckon upon happiness ! Again Lady Madeleine recurred to him.' Suddenly he observed a wonderful appearance in the sky. The moon was paled in the high heavens, and surrounded by luminous rings — almost as vividly tinted as th© rainbow — spreading, and growing fainter, till they covered nearly half the firmament. It was a gl> rious, and almost unprecedented halo ! CHAPTER V. The sun rose red, the air was tWck and hot. Anticipating that the day would be very oppressive, Vivian and Essper were on their horses' hacks at an early hour. Already, however, many of the rustia revelers were aliout, and preparations were commeii- cing for the fete champetre, which this day was t<» close the wedding festivities. Many and sad were th> looks which Essper George cast behind him, at the old castle on the lake. "No good luck can come of it!" said he to his horse; for Vivian did not encourage conversation. " ! master of mine, when wilt thou know the meaning of good quar- ters ! To leave such a place, and at such a time ! Why, Turriparva was nothing to it ! The day before marriage, and the hour before death, is when a man thinks least of his purse, and most of his neighbour. — And where are we going ! I slept the other night in a cradle : and, for aught I know, I may sleep this one in a coflin ! I, who am now as little fit for rough riding, and rough eating, and rough sleeping, as a pet monkey with a scalded tail ! O ! man, man, what art thou, that the eye of a girl can make thee so pass all discretion, that thou wilt sacrifice fjr the whim of a moment good cheer enough to make thee last an age !" Vivian had intended to stop and breakfast after riding about ten miles ; but he had not j)roceeded half that way, when, from the extreme sultriness of the morning, he found it impossible to advanc» without refreshment. Max, also, to his rider's sur- prise, was much distressed ; and on turning rourxl to his servant, Vivian found E.ssper's hack [>anting, and jjufling, and" breaking out, as if, instead of com- mencing their day's work, they were near reaching their point of destination. " Why, how now, Essper 1 One would think that we had been riding all night What ails the beast?" I VIVIAN GREY. 221 " In truth, sir, that which ails its rider ; the poor 1*11 nib brute has more sense than some — not ex- actly brutes, — who have the gift of speech. Who ever heard of a liorse leaving good quarters without much regretting the indiscretion ; and seeing such a promising road as this before him, without much desiring to retrace his steps ! Is there marvel, your highness'!" " The closeness of the air is so oppressive, that I do not wonder at even Max being distressed. Per- haps when the sun is higher, and has cleared away the vapours, it may be more endurable ; as it is, I think we had better stop at once and breakfast here. This wood is as inviting as, I trust, are the contents of your basket I" "St. J'lorian devour them I" said Essper, in a very pious voice, " if I agree not with your high- ness ; and as for the basket, although we have left the land of milk and honey, by the blessing of our Black Lady ! I have that within it, which would put courage in the heart of a caught mouse. Although we may not breakfast on bride-cake and heccalkos, yet is a neat's tongue better than a fox's tail ; and I have ever held a bottle of Rehnish to be superior to rain-water, even though the element be filtered through a gutter. Nor, by all saints ! have I forgot- ten a bottle of kcrchen wasser, from the Black Forest ; nor a keg of Dantzic brandy, a glass of which, when travelling at night, I am ever accus- tomed to take after my prayers ; for 1 have always observed, that though devotion doth sufficiently warm up the soul, the body all the time is rather the colder for stooping under a tree to tell its beads." The travellers, accordingly, led their horses a few yards into the wood, and soon met, as they had expected, with a small green glade. — It was sur- rounded, except at the slight opening by which they had entered it, with fine Spanish chestnut trees ; which now loaded with their large brown fruit, rich and ripe, clustered in the starry fohage, atlbrded a retreat as beautiful to the eye, as its siiade was grateful to their senses. Vivian dis- mounted, and stretching out his legs, leaned back against the trunk of a tree ; and Essper, having fastened Max and his own horse to some branches, proceeded to display his stores. Vivian was silent, thoughtful, and scarcely tasted anything; Essper George, on the contrary, was in unusual and even troublesome spirits : and had not his appetite ne- cessarily produced a few pauses in his almost perpetual rattle, the patience of his master would have been fairly worn out. At length Essper had devoured the whole supply ; and as Vivian not only did not encourage his remarks, but even in a peremptory manner had desired his silence, he was fain to amuse himself by trying to catch in his mouth a large brilliant fly, which every instant was dancing before him. Two individuals more singu- larly contrasting in their appearance than the master and the servant, could scarcely be conceived ; and Vivian, lying with his back against a tree, with his legs stretched out, his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the ground : and Essper, though seated, in perpetual motion, and shifting his posture with feverish restlessness — now looking over his shoul- der for the fly, then making an unsuccessful bite at it, and then wearied with his frequent failures, amusing himself with acting punch with his thumbs — altogether presented two figures, which might have been considered as not inapt personifications of tlic rival systems of idealism and materialism. At length Essper became silent for the saa.e variety ; and imagining from his master's example, that there must be some sweets in meditation hi- therto undiscovered by him ; he imitated Vivian's posture ! So perverse is human nature, that the moment Vivian was aware that Essper was perfectly silent, he began to feel an incUnation to converse with him. " Why, Essper !" said he, looking up and smiling, " this is the first lime during our acquaintance, that I have ever seen thought upon your brow. What can now be puzzling your wild brain V " I was thinking, sir," said Essper, with a very solemn look, " that if there were a deceased field- mouse here, I would moralize on death." " What ! turned philosopher !" " Ay ! sir — it appears to me," said he, taking up a husk which lay on the turf, " that there is not a nutshell in Christendom, which may not become matter for very grave meditation I' " Can you expound that?" " Verily, sir, the whole philosophy of life, seems to me to consist in discovering the kernel. When you see a courtier out of favour,. or a merchant out of credit — when you see a soldier without pillage, a sailor without prize-money, and a lawyer without papers — a bachelor with nephews, and an old maid with nieces — be assured the nut is not worth the cracking, and send it to the winds, as I do this husk at present." " Why, Essper !" said Vivian, laughing, "con- sidering that you have taken your degree so lately, you wear the doctor's cap with authority ! Instead of being in your novitiate, one would think that you had been a philosopher long enough to have outlived your system." '■ Bless your highness ! for philosophy, I sucked it in with my mother's milk. Nature then gave me the hint, which I have ever since acted on ; and I hold, that the sum of all learning, consists in milk- ing another man's cow. So much for the recent acquisition of my philosophy ! I gained it, you see, your highness, with the Ih-st wink of my eye; and though I lost a great portion of it by sea-sick- ness in the Mediterranean, nevertheless, smce I served your highness, I have assumed my old habits ; and do opine that this vain globe is but a large foot ball, to be kicked and cufied about by moody philosophers !" " You must have seen a great deal in your life, Master Essper," said Vivian, who was amused by his servant's quaint humour. " Like all great travellers," said Essper, " I have seen more than I remember, and remember more than I have seen." " Have you any objection to go to the East again 1" asked Vivian. " It would require but httle persuasion to lead me there." " I would rather go to a place where the religion is easier : I wish your highness would take me to England !" " Nay, not there with me — if with others." " With you — or with none." " I cannot conceive, Essper, what can induce you to tie up your fortunes with those of such a. sad-looking personage as myself." " In truth, your highness, there is no accounting for tastes. My grandmother loved a brindled cat I" "Your grandmother, Essper! Nothing would amuse me more .than to be introduced to ycui family." t2 222 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. " My family, sir, are nothinp; more, nor less, than what all of us must be counted — worms of five feet long — mortal ani^cls — the world's epitome — heaps of atoms, which nature has kneaded with blood into solid flosh — little worlds of living clay — sparks of heaven — inches of earth — Nature's quintessence — moving dust — the little all — smooth-faced cheru- bim, in whose souls the king of stars has drawn the image of himself !" " And how many years has breathed the worm of five feet long, that I am now speaking to ?" "Good, your highness, I was no head at calcu- lating from a boy ; but I do remember that I am two days older than one of the planets." " How is that V " There was one born in the sky, sir, the day I was christened with a Turkish crescent." " Come, Essper," said Vivian, who was rather interested by the conversation ; Essper having, until this morning, skilfully avoided any discourse upon the subject of his birth or family, adroitly turning the conversation whenever it chanced to approach those suljects, and silencing inquiries, if commenced, by some ludicrous and evidently ficti- tious answer. " Come, Essper," said Vivian, " I feel by no means in the humour to quit ttiis shady retreat. You and I have known each other long, and gone through much together. It is but fair that I should become better acquainted with one ■who, to me, is not only a faithful servant, but what is more! valuable, a faithful friend — I might now almost add, my only one. What say you to whiling away a passing hour, by giving liic some sketch of your curious and adventurous life. If there be any thing that 3"ou wish to conceal, pass it over; but no invention; nothing but the truth, if you please — the whole truth, if you like." " Why, your highness, as for this odd knot of soul and body, which none but the hand of Hea- ven could have twined, it was first seen, I believe, near the very spot where we are now sitting ; for my mother, when I saw her first, and last, lived ui Bohemia. She was an Egyptian, and came her- self from the Levant. I lived a week, sir, in the seraglio, when I was at Constantinople, and I saw there the brightest women of all countries; Geor- gians, and Circassians, and Poles ; in truth, sir, na- ture's master-pieces ; and yet, by the Gods of all nations ! there was not one of them half as lovely as the lady who gave me this tongue !'' Here Ess- per exhibited at full length, the enormous feature, which had so much enraged the one-eyed sergeant at Frankfort. " When I first remember myself," he contiinied, " I was playing with some other gipsy-boys, in the midst of a forest. Here was our settlement ! It was large and powerful. My mother, probably from her beauty, possessed great influence, particu- larly among the men -, and yet, I found not among them all a father. On the contrary, every one of my companions had a man whom he reverenced as his parent, and who taught him to steal ; but I was called by the whole tribe, ' the mother-son,' and was honest, from my first year, out of mere wil- fulness; at least, if I stole any thing, it was always from our own people. Many were the quarrels I occasioned ; since, presuming on my mother's love and power, I never called mischief a scrape; but acting just as my fancy took me, I left those who suffered by my conduct to ajjologizc for my ill-behaviour. Ueinsj thus an idle, unjirofitable, impudent, and injurious member of this pure com- jnunity, they determined one day to cast me out from their bosom ; and in spile of my mother's exertions and entreaties, the ungrateful vipers suc- ceeded in their purpose. As a compliment to my parent, they allowed me to tender my resignation, instead of receiving my expulsion. My dear mother gave me a donkey, a wallet, and a ducat, a great deal of advice about my future conduct, and, w hat was more interesting to me, much in- formation about my birth. " ' Sweet child of my womb I' said my mother, pressing me to her bosom, ' be proud of thy white hands and straight nose ! Thou gottest them not from me, and thou shall take them from whence they came. Thy father is a Hungarian prince; and though I would not have parted with thee, had I thought that thou wouldst ever have prospered in our life — even if he had made thee his child of the law, and lord of his castle — still, as thou canst not tarry with us, haste thou to him ! Give him this ring and this lock of hair ; tell him, none have seen Ihem but the father, the mother, and the child ! He will look on them, and re- member the days that are past ; and thou shall be unto him as a hope for his lusty years, and a prop for his old age !' " My mother gave me all necessary directions, which I well remembered ; and much more ad- vice, which I directly forgot. " Although tempted, now that I was a free man, to follow my own fancy, I slill was too curious to SCO what kind of a person was my unknown father, to deviate cither i'rom my route or my ma- ternal instructions ; and in a fortnight's time I had reached my future [)rincipality. "The sun sunk behind the proud castle of my princely father, as, trotting slowly along upon my humble beast, with my wallet slung at my side, 1 approached it through his park. A guard, con- sisting of twenty or thirty men in magnificent uniforms, were lounging at the portal. I — but, your highness, what is the meaning of this dark- ness ] I always made a vow to myself, that I never would tell my history — Ah ! murder ! mur- der 1 what ails me 1" A large eagle fell dead at their feet. " Protect me, master !" screamed Essper, seizing Vivian by the shoulder : " what is coming 1 I cannot stand — the cailh seems to tremble I Is it the wind that roars and rages 'I or is it ten lliou- sand cannon blowing this globe to atoms 1" " It is — it must be the wind I" said Vivian, very agitated. " Wc arc not safe under these trees — look to the horses!" " I will, I will," taid Essper, " if I can stand. Out — out of the forest ! Ah ! look at Max !" Vivian turned, and beheld his spirited horse raised on his hind legs, and dashing his foro feet against the trunk of the tree to which they had tied him. The terrilied and furious creature was struggling to disengage himself, and would proba- bly have sustained or infiicti'd some terrible injury, had not the wind suddenly hushed. Covered wilh foam, he stood panlin'g, while Vivian patted and encouraged him. Essper's less spirited beast had, from the first, crouched u|)on the earth, covered with sweat, his limbs quivering, and his tongue hanging out. " Master !" said Essper, " what shall we do ■• Is there any chance of getting back to the castle? VIVIAN GREY. 293 I am sure our very li res are in clanger. See that tremendous cloud ! It looks like eternal night ! Whitlicr shall we go 1 What shall we do 1" " Miike for the castle — the castle !" said Vivian, mounting. They h;id just got into the road, when another terrific gust of wind nearly took them off their horses, and bhnded them with the clouds of sand which it drove out of the crevices of the moun- tains. They looked round on every side, and hope gave way before the scene of desolation. Immense branches were shivered from the largest trees ; small ones were entirely stripped of their leaves ; the long grass was bowed to the earth ; the waters were whirled in eddies out of the little rivulets ; birds deserting their nest to seek shelter in the cre- vices of the rocks, unable to stem the driving air, flapped their wings, and fell U[)on the earth ; the frightened anim.als of the plain — almost suflocated by the impetuosity of the wind — sought safety, and found destruction ; some of the largest trees were torn up by tlie roots ; the sluices of the mountains were filled, and innumerable torrents rushed down the before empty gulleys. The heavens now open, and lightning and thunder contend with the hor- rors of the wind ! In a moment all was again hushed. Dead silence succeeded the bellow of the thunder — the roar of the wind — the rush of the waters — the moaning of the beasts — the screaming of the birds ! Nothing was heard save the plash of the agitated lake, as it beat up against the black rocks which girt it in. " Master !'' again said Essper, " is this the day of doom 1" " Keep by my side, Essper ; keep close ; make the best of this pause ; let us but reach the vil- lage !" Scarcely had Vivian spoken, when greater dark- ness enveloped the trembling earth. Again the heavens were rent with lightning, which nothing could have quenc'.^cd but the descending deluge. Cataracts poured down from the lowering firma- ment. In an instant the horses dashed around — beast and rider blinded and stilled by the gushing rain, tmd gasping for breath. Shelter was no- where. The quivering beasts reared, and snorted, and sunk upon their knees. The horsemen were dismounted. With wonderful presence of mind, Vivian succeeded in hoodwinking Max, who was still furious. The other horse appeared nearly ex- hausted. Essper, beside himself with terror, could only hang over its neck. Another awful calm. " (Courage, courage, Essper !'' said Vivian. " We are still safe : look up, my man ! the storm cannot last long thus — and, see I I am sure the clouds are breaking." The heavy mass of vapour which had seemed to threaten the earth with instant destruction, sud- denly parted. The red and lurid sun was visible, but his light and heat were quenched in the still impending waters. " Mount! mount, Essper !" said Vivian ; " this i^ our only chance ; five minutes good speed will Uilic us to the village." Encouraged by his master's example, Essper once more got upon his horse ; and the panting animals, relieved by the cessation of the hurricane, carried them at a fair pace towards the village, considering that their road was now impeded by the overflowing of the lake. " Master ! master !" said Essper, " cannot wc get out of these waters 1" He had scarcely spoken, before a terrific burst — a noise, they knew not what — a Tush, they could not understand — a vibration, which shook them on their horses — made them start back and again dis- mount. Every terror sunk before the appalling roar of the cataract. It seemed that the might v mountain, unable to support its weight of waters, shook to the foundation. A lake had burst on its summit, and the cataract became a falling ocean. The source of the great deep appeared to be dis- charging itself over the range of mountains ; the great gray peak tottered on its foundations ! It shook ! It fell ! and buried in its ruins, the castle, the village, and the bridge ! Vivian, with starting eyes, beheld the wholif washed away : instinct gave him energy to throw himsflf on the back of his horse — a breath — and he had leaped up f.he nearest hill ! Essper George, in a state of distraction, was madly laughing as he climbed to the top of a high tree. His horse was carried off in the drowning waters, which had now reached the road. " The desolation is complete !'' thought Vivian, At this moment the wind again rose — the rain again descended — the heavens again opened — the lightnmg again flashed ! An amethystine flarne hung upon rocks and waters, and through the raging elements a yellow fork darted its fatal point at Essper's resting place. The tree fell ! Vivian's horse, with a maddened snort, dashed down tiie hill : his master, senseless, clung to his neck ; the frantic animal was past all government — he stood upright in the air — flung his rider — and fell dead ! Here leave wc Vivian ! It was my wish to have detailed, in the present portion of this work, the singular adventures which befell him in one of the most delightful of modern cities — light- hearted Vienna ! But his history has expanded under my pen, and I fear that I have, even nov/, too much presumed upon an attention which, ])ro- bably, I am not entitled to commaml. I am, ar. yet, but standing without the gate of the Garden of Romance. True it is, that as I gaze through the ivory bars of its golden portal, I vi'ould fain believe that, following my roving fancy, I might arrive at some green retreats hitherto unexplored, and loiter among some leafy bowers where none have lingered before me. But these exj)ectations may be as vain as those dreams of onr youth, over which we have all mourned. The disappointment of manhood succeeds to the delusion of youth : let us hope that the heritage mf old age is uot despair ! Sweet reader ! I trust that neither you nor my self have any cause to repent our brief connexion I sec wc part good friends — and 80 I press yoa gently by the hand ! THE YOUNG DUKE. 29 225 THE yOUNG DUKE. ADVERTISEMENT. Theue is a partial distress, or universal, — and the aflairs of India must really be settled; but we must also be amused. I send over my quota ; for, though absent, I am a patriot ; besides, I am de- sirous of contributing to the diffusion of useful knowledge. I have only one observation to make, and that is quite unnecessary, because no one will attend to it ; therefore I suppress it. The great mass of my readers (if 1 have a mass, as I hope) will attribute the shades that flit about these volumes to any substances they please. That smaller portion of society who are most competent to decide upon the subject, will instantly observe, that however I may have availed myself of a trait or an incident, and often inadvertently, the whole is ideal. To draw caricatures of our contemporaries is not a very difficult task : it requires only a small portion of talent, and a g^reat want of courtesy. In the absence of the author, wlio is abroad, the publishers think it necessary to add, that the present novel was written before the accession of his present majesty. 'I'he reader, as he peruses this volume, will see the necessity of this explanation. BOOK THE FIRST. CHAPTER I. Georre Augustus FnnnEnicK, Duku of St. James, completed his twenty-first year, an event wluch created as great a sensation among the aris- tocracy of England as the P^orman conquest, or the institution of Almack's. A minority of tvifenty j"ears had converted a family, always among the wealthiest of Great Britain, into one of the richest in Europe. The Duke of St. James possessed es- tates in the north and in the west of England, be- sides a whole province in Ireland. In London, there was a very handsome square and four streets all made of bricks, Vv'hich brouglit him in yearly more cash than all the palaces of Vicenza are worth in fee-simple, with those of the grand canal of Venice to boot. As if this were not enough, he was an hereditary patron of internal navigation ; and although perhaps in his two palaces, three castles, four halls, and lodges ad libitum, there Vine more fires burnt than in any other establish- ment in the empire, this was of no consequence, because the coals were his own. His rent-roll ex- hibited a sum total, very neatly written, of two hundred thousand pounds ; but this was inde- pendent of half a million in the funds, which I had nearly forgotten, and which remained from the accumulations occasioned by the unhappy death of his father. The late Duke of St. James had one sister, who was married to the Earl of Fitz-pompey. To the great surprise of the world — to the perfect asto- nishment of the brother-in-law — his lordship was not appointed guardian to the infant minor. The Earl of Fitz-pompey had always been on the best possible terms witli his grace ; the countess had, only the year before his death, accepted from his fraternal hand a diamond necklace with the most perfect satisfaction : the Lord Viscount St. Mau- rice, future chief of the house of Fitz-pompey, had the honour not only of being his nephew, but his godson. Who could account, then, for an action so perfectly unaccountable ! It was quite evident that his grace had no intention of dying. The guardian, however, that he did appoint, was a Mr. Dacre, a Catholic gentleman of very ancient family and very large fortune, who had been the companion of his travels, and was hi? neighbour in his family county. Mr. Dacre had not been honoured with the acquaintance of Lord Fitz-pompey previous to the decease of his noble friend ; and after that event, such an acquaintance would probably not have been productive of very agreeable reminiscences. For from the moment of the opening of the fatal will, the name of Dacre was wormwood to the house of St. Maurice. Lord Fitz-pompey, who, though the brother-in- law of a whig magnate, was a tor}', voted against the Catholics with renewed fervour. Shortly after the death of his friend, Mr. Dacre married a noble lady of the house of Howard, who, after having presented him with a daughter, fell ill, and became that extremely common character, a confirmed invalid. In the present day, and espe- cially among women, one would almost suppose that health was a state of unnatural existence. The illness of his wife, and the non-possession of parliamentarj' duties, caused Mr. Dacre's visits to his town-mansion extremely to resemble those of an angel, and the mansion in time was let. The young duke, with the exception of an oc- casional visit to his uncle, Lord Fitz-pompey, passed the early years of his life at Castle Dacre, At seven years of age he was sent to a preparatory school at Richmond, which was entirely devoted to the early culture of the nobility ; and where the principal, the Eeverend Dr. Coronet, was so ex trcmely exclusive in his system, that it was re- ported that he had once refused the son of an Irish peer. Miss Coronet fed her imagination with the hope of meeting her father's noble pupils in after- 227 228 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. life, and in the mean time read fashionable no- vels. The moment that the young duke was settled at Richmond, all the intrigues of the Fitz-pompcy family were directed to that quarter; and as Mr. Dacre was hy nature the most unsuspicious of hu- man beings, and was even extremely desirous that his ward should cultivate the friendship of his only relatives, the St. Maurice family had the gratifi- cation, as they thought, of completely deceiving him. Lady Fitz-pompcy called twice a week at the Crest House, with a copious supply of pine- apples or honbans, and the Rev. Dr. Coronet bowed in adoration. Lady Isabella St. Maurice gave a china cup to Mrs. Coronet, and Lady Au- gusta a paper-cutter to Miss. The family was se- cured. All discipline was immediately set at de- fiance, and the young duke passed the greater part of the half year with his atlcctionate relations. His grace, charmed with the bonlmns of his aimt, and the kisses of his cousins, which were even sweeter than the sugar-plumbs; delighted with the pony of St. Maurice, w hich, of course, immediately became his own ; and inebriated by the attentions of his uncle, who, at eight years of age, treated him, as his lordship styled it, " like a man ;" contrasted this life of early excitement with what now appeared the gloom and the restraint of Castle Dacre, and he soon entered into the conspiracy, which had long been hatching, with genuine enthusiasm. He wrote to his guardian and obtained an easy per- mission to spend his vacation with his uncle. Thus, through the united indulgence of Dr. Coronet and Mr. Dacre, the Duke of t^t. James became a mem- ber of the family of St. Maurice. No sooner had Lord Fitz-pompey secured the affections .of the ward, than he entirely changed his system towards the guardian. He wrote to Mr. Dacre, and, in a manner equally kind and dig- nified, courted his acquaintance. He dilated upon the extraordinary, though exti-emcly natural, affec- tion which Lady Fitz-pompey entertained for the only offspring of her beloved brother, — upon the happiness whicli the young duke enjoyed with his cousins, — upon the great and evident advantages which his grace would derive from companions of his own age, of the. singular friendship which he had already formed with St. Maurice ; and then, after paying Mr. Dacre many compliments upon the admirable manner in which he had already ful- filled the duties of "h.is import;int office, and urging the lively satisfaction that a visit from their brother's friend would confer both upon Lady Fitz-pompey and himself, he requested permission for his nephew to renew the visit in which he had been " so happy !" The duke seconded the earl's diplomatic scrawl in the most graceful round-text. The mas- terly intrigues of Lord Fitz-|iompey, assisted by Mrs. Dacrc's illness, which daily increased, and which rendered the most perfect quiet indispensa- ble, were successful, and the young duke arrived at his twelfth year without revisiting Dacre. Every year, however, when Mr. Dacre made a short visit to London, his ward spent a few days in his com- pa?iy, at the house of an old-fashioned Catholic nobleman, a visit which only afforded a dull con- trast to the gay society and constant animation of his uncle's establishment. it would seem that fate had determined to coun- teract the intentions of tlie late Duke of St. James, and to achieve those of the Earl of Fitz-pompey. At the moment that the noble minor was about to leave Dr. Coronet for Eaton, Mrs. Dacrc's state was declared hopeless, except from the assistance of an Italian sky, and Mr. Dacre, whose attachment to his lady was of the most romantic description, determined to leave England immediately. It was with deep regret that he parted from his ward, whom life tenderly loved ; but all considera- tions merged in the paramount one; and he was consoled by the reflection that he was, at least, left to the care of liis nearest connexions. Mr. Dacre was not unaware of the dangers to which his youthful pledge might be exposed, by the indis- criminate indulgence of his uncle ; but he trusted to the impartial and inviolable system of a public school to do much; and he anticipated returning to England before his ward was old enough to form those habits which are generally so injurious to yoimg nobles. In this hope, Mr. Dacre was dis- appointed. Mrs. Dacre lingered, and revived, and lingered for nearly eight years, now filling the mind of her husband and her daughter with unreasonable hope, now delivering them to that renewed anguish, that heart-rending grief, which the attendant upon a declining relative can alone experience; adilition- ally agonizing, because it cannot be indulged. Mrs. Dacre died, and the widower and his daughter re- turned to England. In the mean time, the Duke of St. James had not been idle. CHAPTER n. The departure, and, at length, the total absence of Mr. Dacre from England, yielded to Lord Fitz- pompey all the opportunity he had long desired. Hitherto he had contented him.'self with quietly sapping the influence of the guardian ; now, that influence was openly assailed. All occasions were seized of depreciating the character of Mr. Dacre, and open lamentations wre poured forth on the strange and unhappy indi.scrction of the father, who had confided the guardianship of his son, not to his natural and devoted friends, but to a harsh and repulsive stranger. Long before the young duke had completed his sixteenth year, all memory of the early kindness of his guardian, if it had ever been imprinted on his mind, was carefully oblite- rated from it. It was constantly impressed upon him that nothing but the exertions of his aunt and uncle had saved him from a life of stern privation and irrational restraint ; and the man who had been the chosen and cherished confidant of the fa- ther was looked upon by the son as a grim tyrant from whose clutches he had escaped, and in which he determined never again to find himself. " Old Dacre," as Lord Fitz-pompey described him. was a phantom enough at any time to frighten his youth- ful ward. The great object of the uncle was to tease and mortify the guardian into resigning his trust, and infinite were the contrivances to bring about tills desirable result ; but Mr. Dacre was ol>- stinate, and. although absent, contrived by corres- ponding with his confidential agent, to carry on and conqdete the system for the management of the Hauleville pro])eity, which he had so benefi- cially established, and so long pursued. In quitting England, alinough he had appohited a fixed allowance for his noble ward, Mr. Dacre THE YOUNG DUKE. 229 had thoup^ht proper to delegate a discretionary authority to Lord Fitz-])ompey to furnish him with what iniftht be called extraordinary necessaries. His lordship availed himself with such dexterity of this power, that his nephew appeared to be in- debted for every indulgence to his uncle, who invariably accompanied every act of this description with an insinuation that he might thank Mrs. ])a- cre's illness for the boon. '• Well, George," he w^ould say to the young Etonian, "you /hall have the boat, though I hardly know how I shall pass the account at head-quarters : and make yourself easy about Flash's bill, Ihough I really cannot approve of such proceedings. Thank your stars you have not got to present that account to old Dacre. Well, I am one of those who arc always indulgent to young blnod. Mr. Dacre and I diffi'r. He is your guardian-, though. Everything is in his power ; but you shall never want while your uncle can help you ; and so run ofl" to Caro- line ; for I see you want to be with her." The Lady Isabella and the Lady Augusta, who had so charmed Mrs. and Miss Coronet, were no longer in existence. Each had knocked down her carl. Brought up by a mother exquisitely adroit in female education, the Ladies St. Mauiice had run but a brief though brilliant career. Beautiful, and possessing every accomplishment which ren- ders beauty valuable, under the unrivalled chaperon- age of the countess, they had played their popular parts without a single blunder. Always in the best set, never flirting with the wrong man, and never speaking with the wrong W'oman, all agreed that the Ladies St. Maurice had fairly won their coronets. Their sister, Caroline, was much younger; and although she did not promise to develope as unblemished a character as themselves, she was, in default of another sister, to be the Dutchess of St. James. Lady Caroline St. Maurice was nearly of the same age as her cousin, the young duke. They had been playfellows since his emancipation from the dungeons of Castle Dacre, and every means had been adopted by her judicious parents to foster and to confirm the kind feelings which had been first engendered by being partners in the same toys, and sharing the same sports. At eight years old, the little duke was taught to call Caroline his " wife ;" and as his grace grew in years, and could better appreciate the qualities of his sweet and gentle cousin, he was not disposed to retract the title. When George rejoined the courtly Coronet, Caroline invariably mingled her tears with those of her sorrowing .spouse ; and when the time at length arrived for his departure for Eton, Caroline knitted him a purse, and presented him with a watch-riband. At the last moment she besought her brother, who was two years older, to guard over him, and soothed the moment of final agony iiy a promise to correspond. Had the innocent and soft-hearted girl been acquainted with, or been able to comprehend the purposes of her crafty parents, she could not have adopted means more calculated to accomphsh them. The young duke Kissed her a thousand times, and loved her better than all the world. In spite of his private house and his private tutor-, his grace did not make all the progress in his classical studies which means so calculated to pro- mote abstraction and to assist acquirement would seem to promise. The fact is, that as his mind began to unfold itself, he found a pci-petual, and a more pleasing source of study in the contempla- tion oi^ himself His early initiation in the school of Fitz-pompey had not been tlirown away. He had heard much of nobility, and beauty, and riches, and fashion, and power; he had seen many indi- viduals highly, though differently considered for the relative quantities which they possessed of these qua- lities ; it appeared to the Duke of St. James that, among the human race, he possessed the largest quantity of tliem all, — he cut his private tutor, who had been appomted by Mr. Dacre, remonstrated to Lord Fitz-pompey, aiid with such success, that he thought proper shortly after to resign his situation. Dr. Coronet begged to recommend his son, the Rev. Augustus Granville Coronet. The Duke of St, James now got on rapidly, and also found suflicient time for his boat, his tandem, and his toilet. The Duke of St. James appeared at Christ Church. His conceit kept him alive for a few terms. It is delightful to receive the homage of two thou- sand young men of the best families in the country, to breakfast with twenty of them, and to cut tlie rest. In spite, however, of the glories of the golden tuft, and a delightful and peculiar private establish- ment, which he and his followers maintamed in the chaste suburbs, of Alma Mater, the Duke of St. James felt emjuyc'd. Consequently, one clear night, they set fire to a pyramid of caps and gowns in Pcckwater. It was a silly thing for any one ; it was a sad indiscretion for a duke — but it was done. Some were expelled ; his grace had timely notice, and having before cut tlie Oxonians, now cut Ox- ford. Like all young men who get mto scrapes, the Duke of St. James determined to travel. The Da- cres returned to England before he did. He dex- terously avoided coming into contact with them in Italy. Mr. Dacre had written to liim several times during the first years of his absence ; and although the didvc's answers were short, seldom, and not very satisfactory, Mr. Dacre persisted in occasionally addressing him. When, however, the duke had ar- rived at an age when he was at least morally respon- sible for his own conduct, and entirely neglected answermg bis guardian's letters, Mr. Dacre became altogether silent. The travellmg career of the young duke may be easily conceived by those who have wasted their time, and are compensatcaronets of the name of Grafton, he determined to solicit her hand. But for hiin to obtain it he was well aware was difficult. Confident in his person, his consummate know- ledgf of the female character, and his unrivalled pouvrs of dissimulation. Sir Lucius arranged his dispositions. The daughter feared, the father hated him. There was, indeed, much to be done ; but the remembrance of a thousand triumphs sup- ported the adventurer. Lady Aphrodite was at length persuaded that she alone could confirm the reformation, which she alone had originated. She yielded to a passion which her love of virtue had alone kept in subjection. Sir Lucius and Lady Aphrodite knelt at the feet of the old earl. . The tears of his daughter, ay, and of his future son-in- law — for Sir Lucius luicw when to weep — were too much for his kind and generous heart. He gave them his blessing, which faltered on his tongue. A year had not elapsed ere Lady Aphrodite woke to all the wildness of a deluded woman. The idol on whom she had lavished all the incense of her innocent affections became every day less like a true divinity. At length, even the ingenuity of passion could no longer disguise the hideous- and bitter truth. She was no longer loved. She thought of her father. Ah ! what was the mad- ness of her memory. The agony of her mind disappointed her hus- band's hope of an heir, and the promise was never renewed. In vain she remonstrated to the being to whom she was devoted : in vain .she sought, by meek endurance, again to melt his heart. It was cold — it was callous. Most women would have endeavoured to recover their lost induence by dif- ferent tactics ; some, perhaps, would have forgotten their mortification in their revenge. But Lady Aphrodite had been tlie victim of passion, and now was its slave. Slur could not dissemble. Not so her spouse. Sir Lucius knew too well the value of a good character to part very ea.sily with that which ho had so unexpectedly regained. Whatever were his excesses, they were prudent ones. He felt that boyhood could alone cxcus*i the folly of glorying in vice ; and he knew tliat, to THE YOUNG DUKE. 235 tesppct virtue, it was not absolutely necessary to be virtuous. No one was, apparently, more choice in his companions than Sir Lucius Grafton ; no hus- band was seen oftener with his wife ; no one paid more respect to age, or knew better when to wear a grave countenance. The world praised the magi- cal influence of Lady Aphrodite ; and Lady Aphrodite, in private, wept over her misery. In public, she made an efiort to conceal all she felt ; and, as it is a great inducement to every woman to conceal that she is neglected by the man whom she adores, her effort was successful. • Yet her counte- nance might indicate that she was little interested in the scene in which she mixed. She was too proud to weep, but too sad to smile. Elegant and lone, she stood among her crushed and lovely hopes, like a column amid the ruins of a beautiful temple. The world declared that Lady Aphrodite was desperately virtuous — and the world was right. A thousand fire-flies had sparkled round this myrtle, and its fresh and verdant hue was still unsullied and unscorched. Not a very accurate image, but pretty ; and those who have watched a glancing shower of these glittering insects, will confess that, poetically, the bush might burn. The truth is, that Lady Aphrodite still trembled when she re- called the early anguish of her broken sleep of love, and had not courage enough to hope that she might dream again. Like the old Hebrews, she had been so chastened for her wild idolatry, that ehe dared not again raise an image to animate the wilderness of her existence. Man she, at the same time, feared and despised. Compared with her husband, all who surrounded her were, she felt, in appearance inferior, and were, she believed, in mind the same. I know not how it is, but love at first sight is a subject of constant ridicule ; but somehow, I sus- pect that it has more to do with the affairs of this world than we are willing to own. Eyes meet which have never met before ; and glances thrill with expression which is strange. We contrast these pleasant sights and new emotions, with hack- neyed objects and worn sensations. Another glance, and another thrill — and we spring into each other's arms. What can be more natural 1 Ah ! that we should awake so often to truth so bitter ! Ah, that charm by charm should evapo- rate from the talisman which had enchanted our existence ! And so it was with this sweet woman, whose feelings glow under my pen. She had repaired to a splendid assembly, to play her splendid part with the consciousness of misery — without the expecta- tion of hope. She awaited, without interest, the routine which had been so often uninteresting ; she viewed without emotion the characters which had never moved. A stranger suddenly appeared upon the stage, fresh as the morning dew, and glittering like the morning star. All eyes await — all tongues applaud him. His step is grace — his countenance is hope — his voice is music! And was such a being born only to deceive and be de- ceived ? Was he to run the same false, palling, ruinous career, which had fdled so many hearts with bitterness, and dimmed the radiance of so many eyes 1 Never ! The nobility of his soul spoke from his glancing eye, and treated the foul suspicion with scorn. Ah, would that she had such a brother to warn, to guide, to — love I So felt the Lady Aphrodite ; So felt — we will not say, so reasoned. When once a woman allows an idea to touch her heart, it is miraculous with what rapidity the idea is fathered by her brain. All her experience, all her anguish, all her despair, vanished like a long frost in an instant, and in a night. She felt a delicious conviction that a knight had at length come to her rescue, a hero worthy of an adventure so admirable. The image of the young duke filled her whole mind; she had no ear for others' voices ; she mused on his idea with the rapture of a votary on the mysteries of a new faith. Yet, strange, when he at length approached her — when he addressed her — when she had replied to that mouth which had fascinated even before it had* spoken, she was cold, reserved, constrained. Some talk of the burning cheek and the flashing eye of passion ; but if I were not a quiet man, and cared not for these things, I should say, give me the woman who, when I approach her, treats me almost with scoi-n, and trembles while she affects to disregard me. Lady Aphrodite has returned home : she hur- ries to her apartment — she falls into a sweet revery — her head leans upon her hand. Her soubrette, a pretty and chatteririg Swiss, whose republican virtue had been corrupted by Paris, as Rome by Corinth, endeavours to divert her lady's ennui : she excruciates her beautiful mistress with tattle about the admiration of Lord B , and the sighs of Sif Harrj'. Her ladyship reprimands her for lier levit}', and the soubrette, grown sullen, re- venges herself for her mistress's reproof, by con- verting the sleepy process of brushing into the most lively torture. The Duke of St. James called upon Lady Aphrodite Grafton the next^ay, and at an hour when he trusted to find her alone. He was not disappointed. More than once the silver-tongued pendule sounded during that somewhat protracted, but most agreeable visit. He was, indeed, greatly interested by her ; but he was an habitual gallant, and always began by feigning more than he felt. She, on the contrary, who wa.s really in love, feigned much less. Yet she was no longer con- strained, though calm. Fluent, and even gay, she talked as well as listened, and her repartees more than once put her companion on his mettle. She displayed a delicate and even luxurious taste, not only in her conversation, but — the duke observed it with delight — in her costume. She had a pas- sion for music and for flowers: she sang a ro- mance, and gave him a rose. He retired, per- fectly fascinated. O god — or gods of love ! — for there are two Cupids — which of you it was that inspired the Duke of St. James I pretend not to decide. Per- haps, last night, it was thou, son of Erebus and Nox ! To-d;iy, perhaps, it was the lady's mind. All I know is, that when I am led to the universal altar, I beg that both of you will shoot your- darts ! CHAPTER TK. I FiTfD this writing not so difficult as I had imagined. I see the only way is to rattle on, just as you talk. The moment that you anticipate your pen in forming a sentence, you get as stiff as 23 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. a gentleman in stays. I use my pen as my horse — I guide it, and it carries me on. Sir Lucius Grafton called on the Duke of St. James. They did not immediately swear an eter- nal friendship, like the immortal heroines of the Rovers, but they greeted each other with con- siderable warmth, talked of old times, and old companions, and compared their former sensations with their present. No one could be a more agreeable companion than Sir Lucius, and this day he left a very favourable impression with his young friend. From this day, too, the duke's visits at the baronet's were frequent ; and as the Graftons were intimate with the Fitz-pompeys, scarcely a day elapsed without his having^ the j)lpasure of passing a portion of it in the company of Lady Aphrodite. His attentions to her were marked, and sometimes mentioned. Lord Fitz- jiompey was rather in a flutter. George did not ride so often with Caroline, and never alone with her. This was disagreeable ; but the earl was a man of the world, and a sanguine man withal. These things will happen. It is of no use to .]uarrel with the wind ; and, for his part, lie was not sorry that he had the honour of the Grafton acquaintance: it secured Caroline her cousin's company ; and as for the liaison, if there were one, why it must end, and probably the difficulty of ter- minating it might even hasten the catastrophe which he had so much at heart. ".So, Laura, dearest, let the Graftons be asked to most of our dinners." In one of those rides to which Caroline was not admitted, for it was with Lady Aphrodite alone, the Duke of St. James took his way to the Re- gent's Park, a wild sequestered spot, whither he invariably repaired when he did not wish to be )ioticed ; for the inhabitants of this pretty suburb are a distinct race, and although their eyes are not unobscrving, from their inability to speak the lan- guage of London they are unable to communicate their observations. The spring sun was setting, and flung a crimson flush over the blue waters and white houses. The scene was rather imposing, and reminded our hero of days of travel. A sudden thought rushed into his head. Would it not be delightful to build a beautiful retreat in this sweet and retired land, and be enabled in an instant to fly from the formal magnificence of a London mansion 1 Lady Aphro- dite was charmed with the idea ; for the ena- moured are always delighted with what is fanciful. Tha duke determined immediately to convert the ilea into an object. To lose no time, was his grand motto. As he thought that Sir Carte had enough upon his hands, he determined to apply to an artist whose achievements had been greatly vaunted to him by a very distinguished and very noble judge. M. Bijou de Millecolonnes, chevalier of the liegion of Honour, and member of the Academy of St. Luke's, except in his title, was the very anti- podes of Sir Carte Blanche. Sir Carte was all solidity, solemnity, and correctnes.s. Bijou de Millecolonnes, all lightness, gayety, and originality. fSir Carte was ever armed with the Parthenon, Pailadio, and St. Peter's. Bijou de Millecolonnes laughed at the ancients, called Pailadio and Mi- chel barbarians of the middle ages, and had him- self invented an order. Bijou was not as plausible as Sir Carte ; but he was infinitely more enter- taining. Far from being servile, he allowed no one to talk but himself, and made his fortune by his elegant insolence. How singular it is, that those who love servility are always the victims of impertinence I Gayly did Bijou de Millecolonnes drive his pea- green cabriolet to the spot in que.stion. He formed his plan in an instant. " The occasional retreat of a noble should be something picturesque and poetical. The mind should be led to voluptuous- ness by exquisite associations, as well as by the creations of art. It is thus their luxury is rendered more intense by the reminiscences that add past experience to present enjoyment ! For instance, if you sail down a river, imitate the progress of Cleopatra. And here — here, where the opportu- nity is so ample, what think you of reviving the Alhambra?" Splendid conception ! The duke already fan- cied himself a caliph. " Lose no time, chevalier ! Dig, plant, build !" Nine acres were obtained from the woods and forests ; mounds were thrown up, shrubs thrown iu ; the paths emulated the serpent ; the nine acres seemed interminable. All was surrounded by a paling eight feet high, that no one might pierce the mystery of the preparations. A rumour was- soon current, that the Zoological Society intended to keep a Bengal tiger au natu- rel, and that they were contriving a residence which would amply compensate him for his native jungle. The Regent's Park was in despair ; the landlords lowered their rents, and the tenants petitioned the king. In a short time, some hooded domes, and Saracenic spires rose to sight, and the truth was then made known, that the young Duke of St. James was building a villa. The Regent's Park was in rapture; the landlords raised their rents, and the tenants withdrew their petition. CHAPTER X Mr. Dache again wrote to the Duke of St. James. He regretted that he had been absent from home when his grace had done him the honour of calling at Castle Dacre. Had he been aware of that intended gratification, he could with ease, and would with pleasure, have postponed his visit to Norfolk. He also regretted that it would not be in his power to visit London this season ; and as he thought that no further time should be lost in re- signing the trust with which he had been so ho- noured, he begged leave to forward his accounts to the duke, and with them some notes, which he be- lieved would convey some not unimportant infor- mation to his grace for the future management of his property. Tlie young duke took a rapid glance at the sum total of his rental, crammed all his papers into a cabinet, with a determination to ex- amine them the first opportunity, and then rolled off to a morning concert, of which he was tlie patron. The intended opportunity for the examination of the important papers was never caught, nor was it surprising that it escaped capture. It is difhcult to conceive a career of more various, more constant, or more distracting excitement than tliat in which the Duke of St. James was now engaged. His THE YOUNG DUKE. 2-^ life was an ocean of enjoyment, and each hour, hke each wave, threw up its pearl. How dull was the ball in which he did not bound ! How dim the banquet in which he did not glitter ! His presence in the gardens compensated for the want of flow- erij, — his vision in the Park, for the want of sun. In public breakfasts he was more indispensable than pine-apples ; in private concerts, more noticed than an absent singer. How fair was the dame on whom he smiled ! How brown was the tradesman on whom he frowned ! 1'hink only of prime ministers and princes, to say nothing of princesses — nay ! think only of managers of operas and French actors, to say no- thing of French actresses. — think only of jewellers, milliners, artists, horse-dealers, all the shoals who hurried for his sanction, — think only of the two or three thousand civilized beings for whom all this population breathed, and who each of them had claims upon our hero's notice ! Think of the statesmen, who had so much to ask and so much to give, — the dandies to feed with, and to be fed, — the dangerous dowagers, and the desperate mothers, — the widows wild as early partridges, — the budding vii-gins, mild as a summer cloud and soft as an opera hat ! Think of the drony bores with their dull hum, — think of the chivalric guards- men, with their horses to soil, and their bills to discoimt, — think of Willis, think of Crockford, think of White's, think of Brookes' — and you may form a very faint idea how the young duke had to talk, and eat, and flirt, and cut, and pet, and patronise ! You think it impossible for one man to do all this. My friend ! there is yet much behind. You may add to the catalogue. Melton and Newmarket ; and if to hunt without any appetite, and to bet without an object, will not sicken you, why build a yacht ! The Duke of St. James gave his first grand en- tertainment for the season. It was like the assem- bly of the immortals at the first levee of Jove. All hurried to pay their devoirs to the young king of fashion ; and each, who succeeded in becoming a member of the court, felt as prouil as a peer with a new title, or a baronet with an old one. An air of regal splendour, an almost imperial assumption, was observed in the arrangements of the fete. A troop of servants in new and the richest liveries filled the hall ; grooms lined the staircase ; Spiri- dion, the Greek page, lounged on an ottoman in an antechamber, and, with the assistance of six young gentlemen in crimson and silver uniforms, announced the coming of the cherished guests. Cart-loads of pine-apples were sent up from the Yorkshire castle, and wagons of orange trees from the Twickenham villa. A brilliant cuterie, of which his grace was a member, had amused themselves a few nights be- fore, by representing in costume the court of Charles the First. They agreed this night to re- appear in their splendid dresses ;and the duke, who was Vilhers, supported his character, even to the gay shedding of a shower of diamonds. In his cap was observed an hereditary sapphire, which blazed like a volcano, and which was rumoured to be worth his rent-roll. There was a short concert, at which the most celebrated signora made her debut; there was a single vaudeville, which a white satin jilaybill, pre- eented to each guest as they entered the temporary theatre, indicated to have been written for the occa- sion ; there was a ball in which was introduced a new dance. Langueurs were skilfully avoided, and the excitement was so rapid that every one had an ap- petite for supper. A long gallery lined with bronzes and bijouterie, with cabinets and sculpture, with china and with paintings, — all purchased for the future ornament of Hauteville House, and here stowed away in ur- pretending, but most artificial, confusion, — ofiered accommodation to all the guests. To a table covered with gold, and placed in a magnificent tent upon the stage, his grace loyally led two princes of the blood and a diild of France, and gave a gallant signal for the commencement of operations, by himself ofVering thtm, on his bended knee, a goblet of tokay. Madame de Protocol!, Lady Aph- rodite Grafton, the Dutchess of Shropshire, and Lady Fitz-pompey, shared the honours of the pavilion, and some might be excused for envv- ing a party so brilliant, and a situation so distin- guished. Yet Lady Ajihrodite was an unwilling member of it ; and nothing but the personal solici- tations of Sir Lucius would have induced her to consent to the wish of their host. A pink and printed cnrte succeeded to the white and satin playbill. Vitellius might have been pleased with the banquet. Ah I how shall I des- cribe those soups, which surely must have been the magical elixir] How shall I paint those ortolans dressed by the inimitable artiste, it la St. James, for the occasion, and which looked so beautiful in death, that they must surely have preferred such an euthanasia, even to flying in the perfumed air of an Ausonian heaven I Sweet bird ! though thou hast lost thy plumage, thou shalt fly to my mistress ! Is it not better to he nibbled by her, than mumbled by a cardinal ? I too v^'ill feed on thy delicate beauty. Sweet bird ! thy companion lias fled to my mistress ; and now thou shall thrill the nerves of her master! 0, doll', then, thy waistcoat of vine-leaves, pretty rover, and show me that bosom more delicious even than wo- man's ! What gushes of rapture! What a fla- vour ! How peculiar ! Even how sacred ! Hea- ven at once sends both manna and quails. An- other little wanderer ! Pray follow my example ! Allow me. All paradise opens ! Let me die eat- ing ortolans to the sound of soft music ! The flavour is really too intensely exquisite. Give me a tea-spoonful of maraschino ! Even the supper was l)rief though brillian*, and again the cotillon and the quadrille, the waltz and galloppe I At no moment of his life had the young duke felt existence so intense. Wherever he turn- ed his eye he found a responding glance of beauty and admiration ; wherever he turned his ear the whispered tones were soft and sweet as summer winds. Each look was an oifcring, each word was adoration ! His soul dilated, the glory of the scene touched all his passions. He almost determined not again to mingle in society ; bvit, like a monarch, merely to receive the world which worshipped him. The idea was sublime : was it even to him im- practicable 1 In the midst of his splendour, he fell into a reveiy, and mused on his magnificence. He could no longer resist the conviction that he was a superior essence even to all around him. The world seemed cieated solely for his enjoyment. iS'or man nor woman could withstand him. From this hour he delivered himself up to a sublime self 238 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. ishness. With all his passions and all his pro- fusion, a callousness crept over his heart. Hia sympathy for those he believed his inferiors and his vassals vs'as slight. Where we do not respect, we soon cease to love — when we cease to love, virtue weeps and flies. His soul wandered in dreams of omnipotence. This picture perhaps excites your dislike — it may be, your hatred — perchance, your contempt. Pause ! Pity him ! Pity his fatal youth ! CHAPTER XI. The Lady Aphrodite at first refused to sit in the duke's pavilion. Was she then in the habit of re- fusing ? Let us not forget our Venus of the waters. Shall I whisper to you where St. James first dared to hope 1 No, you shall guess. Je vims le donne en trots. The gardens 1 — The opera 1 — The tea-room 1 — No ! no ! no ! You are conceiving a locality much more romantic. Already you have created the bow- er of a Parisina, where the waterfall is even more musical than the birds, more lulling than the evening winds ; where all is pale except the stars 1 all hush- ed except their beating pulses ! Will this do 1 No ! What think you then of a Bazaak? ! thou wonderful nineteenth century, — thou that believest in no miracles, and dost sq many, has thou brought this, too, about, the ladies' hearts should be won — and gentlemen's also — not in courts, or tourney, or halls of revel, but over a counter and behind, a stall ! We are, indeed,la na- tion of shopkeepers ! /, The King of Otaheite, — Mr. Peel and thfe State- paper office must be thanked for this narrative, — though a despot, was a reformer. He discovered that the eating of bread-fruit was a barbarous cus- tom, which would infallibly prevent his people from being a great nation. He determined to introduce French rolls. A party rebelled ; the despot was energetic ; some were executed ; the rest ejected, ^'he vagabonds arrived in England. As they had been banished in opposition to French rolls, | they were declared to be a British interest. They professed their admiration of civil and religious liberty, and also of a subscription. When they had drunk a great deal of punch, and spent all their money, they discovered that they had nothing to eat, and would infallibly have been starved had not an Hibernian marchioness, who had never been in Ireland, been exceedingly shocked that men should die of hunger, — and so, being one of the bustlers, she got up a fancy sale, and a Sand- ■svjcH IsLU Bazaar. All the world was there, and of course our hero. Never was the arrival of a comet watched by as- tronomers who had calculated its advent with more anxiety than was the appearance of the young duke. Never did man pass through such dangers. It was the fiery ordeal. St. Anthony himself was not assailed with more temptations. Now he was saved from the lustre of a blonde face by the supe- rior richness of a blonde lace. He would infallibly have been ravished by that ringlet, had he not been nearly reduced by that ring, which sparkled on a hand like the white cat's. He was only preserved from his unprecedented dangers by their number. No, no ! He had a belter talisman : — ^liis conceit. " Ah, Lady Balmont !" said his grace to a smil ing artist, who offered him one of her own draw ings of a Swiss cottage, "for me to be a tenant, it must be love and a cottage!" "What! am I to buy this ring, Mrs. Abercroft! Point de jour. O! dreadful phrase! Allow me to present it to you, for you are the only one whom such words cannot make tremble." "This chain. Lady Jemina, for my glass! I will teach me where to direct it." "Ah! Mrs. Fitzroy !" — and he covered his face with affected fear. — " Can you forgive me? Your beautiful note has been half an hour unanswered. The box is yours for Tuesday." He tried to pass the next stall with a smiling bow, but he could not escape. It was Lady de Courcy, a dowager, but not old. Once beautiful, her channs had not yet disappeared. She had a pair of glittering eyes, a skilfully carmined cheek, and locks yet raven. Her eloquence made her now as conspicuous as once did her beauty. The young duke was her constant object, and her occasional victim. He hated above all things a talking wo- man, he dreaded, above all others, Lady de Courcy. He could not shirk. She summoned him by name so loud, that crowds of barbarians stared, and a man called to a woman, and said, ''My dear! make haste, here's a duke!" Lady de Courcy was prime confidant of the Irish marchioness. She affected enthusiasm about the poor sufferers. She had learned Otaheitan — she lectured about the bread-fruit — and she played upon a barbarous thrum-thrum, the only musical instru- ment in those savage wastes, ironically called the Society Islands, because there is no society. She was dreadful. The duke in despair took out his purse, poured forth from the pink and silver deli- cacy, worked by the slender fingers of Lady Aph- rodite, a shower of sovereigns, and fairly scampered oft'. — At length he reached the lady of his heart. "I fear, said the young duke with a smile, and in a soft sweet voice, "that you will never speak to me again, fori am a ruined man." A beam of gentle affection reprimanded him even for badinage upon such a subject. " I really came here to buy up all your stock ; but that gorgon. Lady de Courcy, captured me, and my ransom has sent me here free, but a beggar. I do not know a more ill-fated fellow than myself Now, if }'0U had only condescended to make me prisoner, I might have saved my money; for I should have kissed my chain." "My chains, I fear, are neither verj' alluring, nor veiy strong." She spoke with a thoughtful air, and he answered her only with his eye. "I must bear off something from your stall," he resumed, in a more rapid and gayer tone ; " and as I cannot purchase, you must present. Now for a gift!" " Choose !" "Yourself." "Your grace is really spoiling my sale. See! poor Lord Bagshot. What a valuable purchaser !"' "Ah! Bag, my boy!" said the duke to a slang young nobleman whom he abhorred, but of whom he sometimes made a butt, — '• am I in your way ] Here! take this, and this, and this, and give me your purse. I'll pay her ladyship." And so the duke again showered some sovereigns, and return- ed the shrunken silk to its dcfi-auded owner, who stared, and would have remonstrated, but his gract turned his back upon him. THE YOUNG DUKE. 239 "There, now," he continued, to Lady Aphrodite, " there is two hundred per cent, profit for 3-ou. You are not half a marchande. I will stand here, and be your shopman. — Well, Annesley," said he, as that dignitary passed, " what will you buy of my mistress! I advise you to get a place. 'Pon my soul, 'tis pleasant! Try Lady de Courcy. You know you arc a favourite." "I assure your grace," said Mr. Annesley, speak- ing very slowly, "that that story about Lady de Courcy is quite untrue, and very rude. I never turn my back on any woman, only my heel. We are on the best possible terms. — She is never to speak to me, and I am always to bow to her. — But I really must purchase. Where did you get tliat glass-chain, St. James] Lady Afy, can you ac- commodate me"?'' " Here is one prettier ! But are you near-sight- ed too, Mr. Annesley 1" " Very. I look upon a long-sighted man as a brute who, not being able to see with his mind, is obliged to see with his body. — The price of this?" " A sovereign," said the duke — " cheap ; but we consider you as a friend." " A sovereign ! You consider me a young duke rather. Two shillings, and that a severe price — a charitable price. Here is half-a-crown — give me six- pence. I was not a minor. Farewell ! I go to the little Pomfret. She is a sweet flower, and I intend to wear her in my button-hole. Good-bye, Lady Afy !" The gay morning had worn away, and St. James never left his fliscinating position. Many a sweet, and many a soft thing he uttered. Sometimes he was baffled, but never beaten, and always returned to the charge with spirit. He was confident, be- cause he was reckless : the lady had less trust in herself, because she was anxious. Yet she com- bated well, and repressed the passion which she could hardly conceal. Many of her colleagues had already departed. She requested the duke to look after her carriage. A bold plan suddenly occurred to him, and he exe- cuted it with rare courage and rarer felicity. "Lady Aphrodite's carriage!" "Here, your grace!" "O! go home. Your lady will return with Madame de Protocoli." He rejoined her. " I am sorry that, by some blunder, j'our carriage has gone. What could you have told them !" "Impossible! How provoking ! How stupid!" " Perhaps you told them that you would return with the Fitz-pompeys, but they are gone; or Mrs. Aberleigh, and she is not here ; — or, perhaps, — but they have gone too. Every one has gone." "What shall I do! How distressing! I had better send. Pray, send; or I will ask Lady de Courcy." " ! no, no ! I really did not like to see you with her. As a favour — as a favour to me, I pray you not" " What can I dol I must send. Let me beg your grace to send." "Certainly, certainly ; but, ten to one, there will be some mistake. There always is some mistake when you send these strangers. And, besides, I forgot, all this time, my carriage is here. Let me take you home." "No, no!" " Dearest liady Aphrodite, do not distress your- self. I can wait here till the carriage returns, or I can walk ; to be sure, I can walk. Pray, pray taka the carriage ! As a favour — as a favour to me !" "But I cannot bear you to walk. I know you dislike walking." " Well, then, I will wait." " Well, if it must be so— but I am ashamed to inconvenience you. How provoking of these men! Pray, then, tell the coachman to drive fast, that you may not have to wait. I declare, there is scarcely a human being in the room; and those odd people are staring so !" He pressed her arm, as he led her to his carriage. She is in ; and yet, before the door shuts, he lin- gers. "I shall certainly walk," said he. "I do not think the easterly wind will make me very ill. Good-bye ! O, what a ccup de vent/" " Let me get out, then ; and pray, pray take the carriage. I woulil much sooner do any thing than go in it. I would much rather walk. lam sure you will be ill !" " Not if I be with you /" He pressed her hand with impassioned warmth — he spoke to her in a voice soft with adoration. Their eloquent eyes met — and he leaped in. "Drive home!" said the young duke. ! moment of triumph ! CHAPTER XIL Therk was a brilliant levee, — all stars and gar- ters ; and a splendid drawing-room, — all plumes and seduisantes. Many a bright eye and its ovener fought its way down St. James's street, shot a wist- ful glance at the enchanted bow-window where the duke and his usual companions, Sir Lucius, Charles Annesley, and Lord Squib, lounged and laughed, stretched themselves and sneered : many a bright eye, that for a moment pierced the futmity, that painted her going in state as Dutchess of St. James, His majesty summoned a dinner party, a rare but magnificent event, — and the chief of the house of Hauteville appeared among the chosen vassals. This visit did the young duke good; and a few more might have permanently cured the conceit which the present one momentarily calmed. His grace saw the plate, and was filled with envy ; his grace listened to his majesty, and was filled with admiration, O ! father of thy people ! if thou wouldst but look a little oftener on thy younger sons, their morals and their manners might be alike improved. O ! George, the magnificent and the great! — for hast thou not rivalled the splendour of Lorenzo, and the grandeur of Louis? — smile on the praises of one who is loyal, although not a poet- laureate, and who is sincere, though he sips no sack. Hisnnajesty, in the course of the evening, with his usual good-nature, signaled out for his notice the youngest, and not the least distinguished of his guests. He complimented the young duke on the accession to the ornaments of liis court, and said, with a smile, that he had heard of conquests in foreign ones. The duke accounted for his slight successes by reminding his majesty that he had the honour of being his godson, — and this he said in a slight and easy way, not smart or quick, or as a repartee to the royal observation — for "it is not 240 D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. decorous tobamly compliments with your sovereign." His majesty asked some questions about an empe- ror, or an archdutchess, and his grace answered lo the purpose, but short and not too pointed. He listened rather than spoke, and smiled more assents than he uttered. The king was pleased with his young subject, and marked his approbation by con- versing with that unrivalled afllibility which is gall o a round-head, and inspiration to a cavalier. There was a ban niof, which blazed with all the soft brilliancy of sheet lightning. What a contrast to the forky flashes of a regular wit! Then there was an anecdote of Sheridan — the royal Sheridan- iaiia are not thrice-told tales — recounted with that curious felicity which has long stamped the illus- trious narrator as the most consummate raconteur (1) in Europe. Then — but the duke knew when to withdraw; and he withdrew with renewed loy- alty. When I call to mind the unlimited indulgence which solicits, from the earliest age, the passions of a king, I pardon their crimes and revefence their virtues. But if I view a .sovereign, who, with all those advantages which can seduce others and himself, commits in a brilliant youth at the worst but a brilliant folly ; if I view the same individual on the throne, exercising all those powers which adorn the intrusted chieftain of a free people with the calm wisdom which belongs only to that man who dares to ponder on a past error — of such a monarch I am proud, and such a monarch I call a true philosopher. O ! people of England, be contented ! You know not what might have been your lot. I might have been your king: and, although you have already conceived me as the very prosopopoeia of amiability, the dreaded, the stern, the mortifying truth must no longer be concealed, — I should have been a tyrant ! But what a tyrant! I would have smothered j'ou in roses, shot you with bon-bons, and drowned 3'ou with eau de Cologne. I would have banged up your parliaments, knocked up ycfur steam-en- gines, shut up all societies for the ditl'usion of any thing. I would have republished the Book of Sports, restored holidays, revived the drama. Every parish should have had its orchestra, every village its dancing-master. I would have built fountains, and have burned fireworks. But I am not a king. Bitter recollection ! Yet something may turn up, — Greece, for instance. In the mean time I will take a canter. CHAPTER XIII. The Duke of St. James had been extremely de- sirous of inducing the fair Aphrodite to accept ome gage d'amnur, but had failed in all his plans, which annoyed him. One day, looking in at his jeweller's, to see some models of a shield and vases, which were ex- ecuting for him in gold, — ever since he had dined with his majesty that unhappy sideboard of plate nad haunted him at all hours — he met Lady Aph- rodite and the Fitz-pompeys. Lady Aphrodite was speaking to the jeweller about her diamonds, whioh were to be reset, or something, for her ap- proaching fete. The duke took the ladies up-stairs to look at the models, and while they were intent upon them and other curiosities, his absence for a moment was unperceived. He ran down stairs, and caught Mr. Garnet. " Mr. Garnet ! I think I saw Lady Aphrodite give you her diamonds 1" " Yes, your grace." " Are they valuable 1" in a careless tone. " Hum ! very pretty stones, — ver}^ pretty stones, indeed. Few baronets' ladies have a prettier set, worth perhaps 1000/. — say 1200/. — Lady Aphro- dite Grafton is not the Dutchess of St. James, you know," said Mr. Garnet, as if he anticipated fur- nishing that future lady with a very different set of brilliants. "Mr. Garnet, you can do me the greatest fa- vour." " Your grace has only to command me at all times." " Well, then, in a word, for time presses. Can you contrive without particularly altering, that is, without altering the general appearance of these diamonds, ^an you contrive to change the stones, and substitute the most valuable that you have — consistent, as I must impress upon you, with maintaining their general appearance, as at pre- sent?" " The most valuable stones," musingly repeated Mr. Garnet, — " general appearance, as at present. We cannot deceive her ladyship." " If that be absolutely impossible, then we must give that point up; but generally, generally can you preserve their present character?" " The most valuable stones !" repeated Mr. Gar- net ; " your grace is aware that we may run up some thousands even in this set?" " I give you no limit." " But the time," rejoined Mr. Garnet. "They must be ready for her ladyship's party We shall be hard pressed. I am afraid of the time." " Cannot the men work all night? Pay them any thing." " It shall be done, your grace. Your grace may command me in any thing." " This is a secret between us, Garnet. Your partners — " " Shall know nothing. And as for myself, I am as close as an emerald in a seal-ring." CHAPTER XIV. HrssEix Pasha, "the favourite," not only of the Marquis of Mash, but of Tattersall's, unac- countably sickened, and died. His noble master, full of chagrin, took to his bed, and followed his steed's example. The death of the marquis caused a vacancy in the stewardship of the approaching Doncaster. Sir Lucius Grafton was the other steward, and he proposed to the Duke of St. James, as he was a Yorkshireman, to become his colleague. His grace, who wished to pay a compliment to his county, closed with the' proposition. Sir Lucius was a first-rate jockey ; his colleague was quite ig- norant of the noble science in all its details, but that was of slight importance. The baronet was to be the working partner, and do the business, — the duke, the show member of the concern, and do the magnificence : as one banker, you may observe, lives always in Portland Place, reads the Court THE YOUNG DUKE 241 Journal all the morning, and lias an opera-box-, while his partner lodges in Lombard-street, thumbs a price-current, and only has a box at Clapham. The young duke, however, was ambitious of making a good book ; and, with all th.e calm im- petuosity which characterizes a youthful Haute- ville, determined to have a crack stud at once. So at Ascot, where he spent a few pleasant hours, dmed at the cottage, was caught in a shower, in return caught a cold, a slight influenza for a week, and all the world full of inquiries and anxiety, — at Ascot, I say, he bought up all the winning horses at an average of three thousand guineas for each pair of ears. Sir Lucius stared, remonstrated, and, as his remonstrances were in vain, assisted him. As people on the point 'of death often make a desperate rally, so this, the most brilliant of sea- sons, was even more lively as it nearer approached its end. The drjeuncr and the villa fete, the water-party and the rambling ride, followed each other with the bright rapidity of the final scenes in a pantomime. Each daniu seemed only inspired with the ambition of giving the last ball ; and so numerous were the parties, that the town really sometimes seemed illumuiated. To brealvfast at Twickenham, and to dine in Belgrave Square ; to hear, or rather to honour, half an act of an opera ; to campaign through half a dozen private balls, and to finish with a romp at the rooms, as after our wLne we take a glass of liqueur — all this surely re- quired the courage of an Alexander and the strength of a Hercules, and which, indeed, cannot be achieved without the miraculous powers of a Joshua. So thought the young duke, as with an excited mind and a whirling head, he threw himself actu- ally at half past six o'clock on a couch which brought him no sleep. Yet he recovered, and with the aid of the hath, the soda, and the coflee, and all the thousand re- medies which a skilful valet has ever at hand, at three o'clock on the same day he rose and dressed, and in an hour was again at the illustrious bow- window, sneering with Charles Annesley, or laugh- ing downright with Lord Squib. The Dulve of St. James gave a water party, and the astounded Thames swelled with pride, as his broad breast bore on the ducal barges. St. Mau- rice, who was in the Guards, secured his band ; and Lord Squib, who, though it was July, brought a fuiTed great-coat, secured himself. Lady Afy looked like Amphitrite, and Lady Caroline looked — in love. They wandered in gardens like Calyp- so's; they rambled over a villa, which reminded them of Baiee ; they partook of a banquet which should have been described by Ariosto. All were delighted : they delivered themselves to the charms of an unrestrained gayety. Even Charles Annes- ley laughed and romped. This is, I think, the only mode in which public eating is essentially agreeable. A banqueting-hall is often the scene of exquisite pleasure ; but that is not so much excited by the gratificntion of the delicate palate, as by the magnificent effect of light and shade — by the beautiful women, the radiant jewels, the graceful costume, her rainbow glass, the glowing wines, the glorious plate. For the rest, all is too hot, too crowded, and too noisy to catch a flavour — to analyze a combination — to dwi;ll upon a gust. To eat — really to eat, one must cat alone, with a soft light, with simple furniture, an easy 31 dress, and a single dish — at a time. 0, hours that I have thus spent ! O, hours of virtue ! — for what is more virtuous than to be conscious of the bless- ings of a bountiful Nature ! A good eater must be a good man ; for a good eater must have a good digestion, and a good digestion depends upon a good conscience. After having committed many follies, and tasted many dishes, but never with the intention of doing a bad action, of eating a bad jo/c,', I give to the world this result of all philosophy, and present them with a great truth. But to our tale. If I be dull, — skip : time will fly, and beautj' will fade, and wit grow dull, and even the season, although it seems for the nonce like the existence of Olympus, will, nevertheless, steal away. It is the liour when trade grows dull, and tradesmen grow duller : — it is the hour that Howell loveth not, and Stultz cannot abide ; though the first may be consoled by the ghost of his departed mil- hons of niouchoirs — and the second, by the vision of coming millions of shooting-jackets. O, why that sigh, my gloomy Mr. Gunter! O, v^•hy that Irown, my gentle Mrs. Grange ! One by one the great houses shut: — shoal by shoal the little people sail away. Yet beauty Imgcrs still. Still the magnet of a straggling ball attracts the remauiing brilliants ; still, a lagging dmncr, lOce a sumpter-mule on a march, is a mark for plunder. The park, too, is not yet empty, and perhaps is even more fasciiiatuig — hlie a beauty in a consumption, who each day gets riimncr and more fair. The young duke remamcd to the last — for we linger about our first seasons, as we do about our first mis- tress, rather weaiied, yet full of delightful reminis- cences. BOOK THE SECOND. CHAPTER L Ladt Apiirodite and the Duke of St. James were for the lh\st time parted ; and with an absolute belief on the lady's side, and an avowed conviction on the gentleman's, that it was impossible to live asunder, they broke from each other's arms, her la- dyship shedding some temporary tears, and his gi'ace avowing eternal fidelity. It was the crafty Lord Fitz-pompey who brought about this catastrophe. Having secured his nephew as a visiter to Maltlirope, by allowing him to believe that the Graftons would form part of the summer coterie, his lordship took especial care that poor Lady Aphrodite should not be invited. " Once part them, once get him to Maltlirope alone," mused the expe- rienced peer, " and he will be emancipated. I am doing him, too, the greatest khidness. What would I have given, when a yomig man, to have had such an uncle !" The Morning Post announced, with a sigh, the departure of the Duke of St. James to the splendid festivities of Malthrope : and also apprised the world that Sir Lucas and Lady Aphrodite were entertaui- ing a numerous and distinguished party at their scat, Cleve Park, Cambridgeshire. There v.tis a constant bustle kept up at Malthrope, and the young duke was hourly permitted to observe, that, independent of all private feeling, it was impcs sible for the most distinguished nobleman to ally 242 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. himself with a more considered family. There was a continual swell of guests, dashing down, and d;ish- ing away like the ocean — brilliant as its fo;im, numerous as its waves. But there was one perma- nent inliabitaut of this princely mansion far more interesting to our hero than the evanescent crowds who rose lilce bubbles, glittered, broke, and disap- peared. Once more wandering in that park of Malthrope, where had passed the most innocent days of his boy- hood, his dionghts naturally recurred to tiie sweet companion who had made even those homs of hap- piness more felicitous. Here they had rambled, — here they had first tried their ponies, — there they had nearly fallen, — there he had quite saved her, — hei-e were tlie two veiy elms where St. Maurice made for them a swing, — here was the very keeper's cot- tage of which she had made for him a drawing, and which he still retained. Dear girl ! And had she disappointed the romance of his boyhood, — had the experience, the want of wliich had allowed him then to l>e pleased so early, had it taught him to be ashamed of those days of affection 7 W;is she not now the most gentle, the most gi-aceful, the most beau- tiful, the most kind 1 Was she not the most vvifelike woman whose eyes had ever beamed with tenderness ? Why, why not at once close a career which, though short, yet already could yield reminiscences v,'hich might satisfy the most ci-aving admirer of excitement ? But there was Lady Aphrodite; yet that must end. Alas ! on his part, it had commenced in levit\' ; he feared, on hers, it must terminate in an.guish. Yet, though he loved Caroline, — though he could not recall to his memory the woman who was more worthy of being his wife, he could not also conceal from lumself that the feelmgs which impelled him were hardly so romantic as he though) shovdd have inspired a youth of one-and-twenty, when he mused on the woman he loved best. But he knew life, and he felt convinced that a mistress and a wife must always be two diSTerent characters. A com- bination of passion v/ith present respect and perma- nent affection he supposed to be the delusion of romance writers. He thought he must marry Ca- roline, partly because he had never met a woman whom he had loved so much, and partly because he felt he should be miserable if her destiny in life were not, in some way or other, connected witli liis own. " Ah ! if she had but been my sister !" After a little more cogitation, the young dnke felt very much inclined to make his cousin a dutchess ; but time did not press. After Doncastcr, he must spend a few weelcs at Clcvc, and then he determined to come to an explanation with Lady Aphrodite. In the mean time. Lord Fitz-pompey secretly congi'atu- lated himself on his skilful policy, as he perceived his nephew daily more engrossed with his daughter. Lady Caroline, like all unaffected and accomplished women, was seen to great effect in the countrj'. Tliere, where they feed their birds, tend their (low- ers, and tune tlieir hai-p, and perform those more sacred but not less pleasing duties which become the daughter of a great proprietor, they favourably contrast with those more modish damsels, who, the moment they are freed from the park, and from Willis, begin fighting for silver arrows, and patron- ising county balls. September came, and brought some relief to those who were suffering in the inferno of provincial tnnui ; but this is only the purgatory to the para- dise of Battus. Yet September has its days of slaughter; and the young duke gained some laurels, with the aid of friend Egg, friend Purdy, and Man- ton. And the premier galloped down sixty miles in one morning. He sacked his cover, made a light bet with St. James on the favourite, lunched stand- ing, and was off before night; for he had only three days' holiday, and had to visit Lord Protest, Lord Content, and Ijord Proxy. So, having knocked off four of liis crack peers, he galloped back to London to flog up his secretaries. And the young duke was off too. He had promised to spend a week vi'ith Charles Annesley and Lord S(|uib, who had talcen some Norfolk baron's seat for the summer, and while he was at Spa were thinning his preserves. It ivas a week ! What fuitastic dissipation ! One day, the brains of three hundred hart^s made a jiaie for Charles Annesley. O, Heliogabalus ! you gained eternal fame for what is now " done in a corner !" CHAPTER II. The carnival of the north at length arrivetl. All civilized eyes were on the most distinguished party of the most distinguished steward, who, with his horse, Sanspareil, seemed to share universal favour. The French prmces, and the Duke of Burlington ; the Protocolis, and the Fitz-pompeys, and the Bloomerlies ; the Duke and Dutchess of Shropshire, and the three Ladies Wrekin, who might have passed for graces ; Ijord and Lady Vatican on a ^dsit from Rome, his lordship taking hints for a heat in the Corso, and her ladysliip a classical beauty, witli a face like a cameo; St. Maurice, and Aimesley, and Sqriib, — composed the party. The premier was expected, and there was murmur of an archduke. Seven houses had been prepared, — a party-wall knocked down to make a dining-room, — the plate sent down from London, and venison and wine from Hauteville. The assemblage exceeded in quantity and qualify all preceding years, and the Hauteville arms, the Hauteville liveries, and the Hauteville outriders, beat all hollow in blazonry, and brilliancy, and num- ber. The north countrymen were proud of their young duke and liis six carriages and six, and longed for the castle to be finished. Nothing could exceed the propriety of the arrangements, for Sir Lucas was an unrivalled hand, and though a Newmarket man, gained universal approbation even in York- shire. Lady Aphrodite was all smiles and new liveries, and the Duke of St. James reined in his charger right often at her splendid equipage. The day's sport was over, and the evenmg's sport begun, — to a quiet man, vA\o has no bet more heavy than a dozen pair of gloves, perhaps not the least amusing. Now came the numerous dinner-parties, none to be compared to that of the Dulce of St. James, Lady Aphrodite was alone wanting, but she had to head the incnage of Sir Lucius. Every one has an appetite after a race ; the Duke »f Shrop- shire attacked the venison, like Samson the Philis- tines ; and the French princes, for once in their life, drank real Champagne. Yet all faces were not so serene as those of the par(y of Hauteville. Many a one felt that strange mixture of fear and exultation which precedes a battle. To-morrow v/as the dreaded St. Leger. THE YOUNG DUKE. 243 None indeed had bac':ed his horse with more fer- vour tlian the j-oung duke; but, proud in his steed's blood and favour, his own sanguine temper, and his inexhaustible resources, he cared no more for the result than a candidate for a coiuity who has a borough in reserve. 'Tis night, and the banquet is over, and all ai-e hastening to the ball. In spite of the brilliant crowd, the entrance of the Hauteville party made a sensation. It was the crowning ornament of the scene, — the stamp of the sovereign, — the lamp of the Pharos, the flag of the tower. The party dispersed, and the duke, after joinmg a quadrille with Lady Caroline, wandered away to make himself generally popular. As he was moving along, he turned his head ; — he started. " Gracious heavens !" exclaimed his grace. The cause of this sudden and ungovernable exclamation can be no other than a woman. You are right. The lady who had excited it was ad- vancing in a quadrille, some ten yards from her admirer. She was very young, that is to say, she had, perhaps, added a year or two to sweet seven- teen, an addition which, while it does not deprive the sex of the early grace of girlhood, adorns them with that undefmable dignity which is necessary to constitute a perfect woman. She was not tall, but as she moved forward displayed a figure so exquisitely symmetrical, that for a moment the duke forgot to look at her face, and then her head was turned away ; yet he was consoled a moment for his disappointment by watching the movements of a neck so white, and round, and long, and deli- cate, that it would have become Psyche, and might have inspired Praxiteles. Her face is again turned towards him. It stops too soon, yet his eye feeds upon the outhne of a cheek not too full, yet pro- mising of beaut)', like hope of paradise. She turns her head, she throws around a glance, and two streams of liquid light pour from her hazel eyes on his. It was a rapid, graceful movement, unstudied as the motion of a fawn, and was in a moment withdrawn, yet it v.as long enough to stamp upon his memory a memorable countenance. Her face was quite oval, her nose delicately aqui- line, and her high pure forehead like a Parian dome. The clear blood coursed under her transparent cheek, and increased the brilliaucy of her dazzling eyes. His eye never left her. There was an expression of decision about her small mouth — an air of almost mockery in her thin curling lip, which, though in themselves wildly fiiscinating, strangely contrasted with all the beaming light and beneficent lustre of the upper part of her countenance. There was something, too, in the graceful but rather decided air with which she moved — something even in the way in which she shook her handkerchief, or nodded to a distant friend, which seemed to betoken her self-conscious- ness of her beauty or her rank : perhaps it might be her wit ; for the duke observed, that while she scarcely smiled, and conversed with lips hardly parted, her companion, with whom she was evi- dently very intimate, was almost convulsed with laughter, although, as he never spoke, it was clearly not at his own jokes. Was she married 1 Could it be 1 Impossible ! Yet there was a richness — a regality in her cos- tume, which was not usual for unniarried women. A diamond arrow had pierced her clustering and auburn locks ; she wore, indeed, no necklace — (with such a neck it would have been sacrilege) — no ear-rings, for her ears were, literally, too small for such a burthen ; yet her girdle was en- tirely of brilliants ; and a diamond cross, worthy of Belinda and her immortal bard, hung upon her breast. The duke seized hold of the first person he knew : — it was Lord Bagshot. " Tell me," he said, in the stern, low voice of a despot, " tell me who that creature is ]" " Which creature?" asked Lord Bagshot. " Booby ! brute ! Bag, — that creature of light and love !" " Where ?" "There!" " What, my mother V " Your mother ! cub ! cart-horse ! answer me, or I Vf\\\ run you through." " Who do you mean ]" "There, there, dancing with that rawboned youth with red hair." " What, Lord St. Jerome ! lord ! he is a Catho- lic. I never speak to them. My governor would be so savage." " But the girl, the girl !" " O I the girl ! lord I she is a Catholic too." " But who is she 1" " Lord ! don't you know 1" " Speak, hound — speak !" "Lord! that is the beauty of the county; but then she is a Catholic. How shocking ! Blow us all up, as soon as look at us." " If you do not tell me who she is directly, you shall never get into White's. I will blackball you regularly." " Lord ! man, don't be in a passion. I will tell. But then I know you know all the time. You are joking. Everybody knows the beauty of the county — evcA'body knows May Dacre." " May Dacre !" said the Duke of St. James, as if he were shot. " Why, what is the matter now V asked Lord Bagshot. " What, the daughter of Dacre of Castle Dacre!" pursued his grace. " The very same ; the beauty of the county. Everybody knows May Dacre. I knew you knew her all the time. You did not take me in- Why, what is the matter 1" " Nothing ; get away !" " Civil ! But you will remember your promise about White's 1" " Ay! ay ! I shall remember you, when you are proposed." " Here — here is a business !" soliloquized the young duke. " May Dacre ! What a fool I have been ! Shall I shoot myself through the head, or embrace her on the spot 1 Lord St. Jerome too ! He seems I'ightily pleased. And my family have been voting for two centuries to eiriancipate this fellow ! Curse his grinning face ! I am decidedly anti-Catholic. But then she is a Catholic! I will turn papist. Ah ! there is Lucy. I want a counsellor." He turned to his fcllovv-steward — " ! Lucy, such a woman ! such an incident !" "What! the inimitable Miss Dacre, I suppose — Everybody speaking of her— wherever I go, — one subject of conversation. Burlington wanting to waltz with her, Charles Annesjey being intro- S44 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS dviceJ, and Lady Bloomerly decidedly of opinion tiiat she is the finest creature in the county. Well ! have you danced with her !" " Danced, my dear fellow ! Do not speak to me !" " What is the matter 1" " The most diabolical matter that you ever heard of." " Well, well !" " I have not even been introduced." " Well ! come on at once. " I cannot." "Are you mad 1" " Worse than mad. Where is her father 1" " Who cares?" " I do. Li a word, my dear Lucy, her father is that guardian, whom I have perhaps mentioned to you, and to whom I have behaved so delicately." " Why ! I thought your guardian was an old curmudgeon." " What does that signify, with such a daughter!" " ! here is some mistake. This is the only child of Dacre, of Castle Dacre, a most delightful fellow. One of the first fellows in the county — I was introduced to him to-day on the course. — I thought you knew them. — You were admiring his outriders to-day — the green and silver." " Why, Bag told me they were old Lord Sun- derland's." " Bag ! how can you believe a word of that booby] He always has an answer. To-day, when Afy drove in, I asked Bag who she was, and he said it was his aunt. Lady de Courcy. I begged to be introduced, and took over the blushing Bag and presented him." " But the father — the father, Lucy ! — how shall I get out of this scrape V " ! put on a bold face. Here ! give him this ring, and swear you procured it for him at Genoa, and then say, that now you are here you will try his pheasants." " My dear fellow, you always joke. I am m agony. Seriously, what shall I do 1" " Why, seriously, be introduced to liira, and do what you can." "Which is he?" " At the extreme end, next to the very pretty v.'oman, who, hy-the-by, I recommend to your no- tice, Mrs. Dallington Verc. She is very amusing. I know her well. She is some sort of relation to }-our Dacres. I will present you to both at once." '. " Why, I will think of it." • " Well, then ! I must away. The two stewards kr.ocking their heads together is rather out of character. Do you know it is raining hard? I am cursedly nervous about to-morrow." " Pooh ! pooh! If I could get through to-night, I sliould not care for to-morrow." CHAPTER ni. As Sir Lucius hurried off, his colleague advanc- ed towards the upper end of the room, and taking up a position, made his observations, through the shootrng figures of the dancers, on the dreaded Mr. Dacre. The late guardian of the Duke of St. James was in the perfection of manhood ; perhaps five-and- forty by age ; but his youttiliad lingered long. He was tall, thin, and elegant, with a mild and bene- volent expression of countenance, not unmixed, however, with a little reserve, the ghost of youthly pride. Listening with the most polished and courtly bearing to the pretty Mrs. Dallington Vere, assenting occasionally to her piquant obsei-vations by a slight bow, or expressing his dissent by a still slighter smile, seldom himself speaking, yet alwa^'s with that unembarrassed manner which makes a saying listened to, Mr. Dacre was altogether, in appearance, one of the most distinguished person- ages in this distinguished assembly. The young duke fell into an attitude worthy of Hamlet — " This, then, is old Dacre ! O, deceitful Fitz-pom- pey ! O, silly St. James ! Could I ever forget that tall, mild man, who now is perfectly fresh in my memory ? Ah ! that memory of mine — it has been greatly developed to-night. Would that I had cultivated that faculty with a little more zeal ! But what am I to do ? The case is urgent. What must the Dacres think of me ? What must May Dacre think ? On the course the whole day, and I the steward, and not conscious of the family in the Riding ! Fool ! fool ! Why — why did I ac- cept an office for which I was totally unfitted ? Why — why must I flirt away the whole morning with that silly Sophy Wrekin? An agreeable predicament, truly, this ! What would I give now, once more to be at the bow-window ! Confound my Yorkshire estates ! How they must dislike — how they must despise me ! And now truly I am to be introduced to him ! The Duke of St. James — Mr. Dacre ! Mr. Dacre — the Duke of St. James ! What an insult to all parties ! How supremely ludicrous! What a mode of offering my grati- tude to the man to whom I am imder the most solemn and inconceivable obligations ! A choice way, truly, to salute the bosom-friend of my sire, the guardian of my interests, the creator of my property, the fosterer of my orphan infancy ! It is useless to conceal it ; lam placed in the most disagreeable, the most inextricable situation. "Inextricable! Am I, then, the Duke of St. James, — am I that being who, two hours ago, thought that the world was forfned alone for my enjoyment, and I quiver and shrink here like a common hind ? — Out — out on such craven cowardice ! I am no Hauteville ! I am bastard ! Never ! I will not be crushed ! I will struggle with this emergency, I will conquer it. Now aid me, ye heroes of my house ! On the sands of Palestine, on the plains of France, ye were not in a more diflicult situation than is your descend- ant in a ball-room in his own county. My mind elevates itself to the occasion, — my courage ex- pands with the enterprise, — I will right myself with these Dacres with honour, and without humiliation." The dancing ceased — the dancers disappeared. There was a blank between the Duke of St. James, on one side of the broad room, and Mr. Dacre, and those with whom he vi-as conversing, on the other. Many eyes were on his grace, and he seized the opportunity to execute his purpose. He advanced across the chamber with the air of a young monarch greeting a victorious general. It seemed that, for a moment, his majesty wished to destroy all difference of rank between himself and the man that he honoured. So studied, and so inexpressively graceful were his movements, that THE YOUNG DUKE. 245 the gaze of all around involuntarily fixed upon him. Mrs. Dallington Verc unconsciously re- frained from speaking? as he approached ; and one or two, without actually knowing his purpose, made way. They seemed positively awed by his dignity, and shuffled behind Mr. Dacre, as if he v/ere the only person who was the duke's match. ' " Mr. Dacre," said his grace, in the softest, but in vciy audiMe tones; and he extended, at the same time, his hand — "Mr. Dacre, our first meeting should have been neither here nor thus ; but you, who have excused so much, will pardon also this !" Mr. Dacre, though a calm personage, was sur- prised by this sudden address. He could not doubt who was the speaker. He had left his ward a mere child. He saw before him the exact and breathing image of the heart-fiiend of his ancient days. He forgot all but the memory of a cherished friendship. He was greatly affected ; he pressed the offered hand ; he advanced ; he moved aside. The young duke followed up his advantage, and, ■with an air of the greatest afi'ection, placed Mr. Dacre's arm in his own, and then bore oti" his prize in triumph. Right skilfully did our hero avail himself of his advantage. He spoke, and he spoke with emotion. There is something inexpressively captivating in the contrition of a youthful and a generous mind. Mr. Dacre and his late ward soon understood each other — for it was one of those meetings which sen- timent makes sweet. " And now," said his grace, " I have one more favour to ask, and that is the greatest — I wish to be recalled to the recollection of my oldest friend." Mr. Dacre led the duke to his daughter; and the Earl of St. Jerome, who was still laughing at her side, rose. " The Duke of St. James, May, wishes to renew his acquaintance with you." She bowed in silence. Lord St. Jerome, who was the great oracle of the Yorkshire school, and who had betted desperately against the favourite, took Mr. Dacre aside to consult him about the rain, and the Duke of St. James dropped into his chair. That tongue, however, which had never failed him, for once was wanting. There was a momentary silence, which the lady would not break ; and at last her companion broke it, and not felicitously. " I think there is nothing more delightful than meeting with old friends." " Yes ! that is the usual sentiment ; but I half suspect that it is a comrnonplace, invented to cover our embarrassment under such circumstances ; for, after all, ' an old friend' so situated is a person whom v.'e have not seen for many years, and most probably not cared to see." " You are indeed severe." " O ! no. I think there is nothing more painful than parting with old friends ; but when we have parted with them, I am half afraid they are lost." " Absence, then, with you is fatal !" "Really, I never did part with any one I greatly loved ; but I suppose it is with me as with most persons." " Yet you have resided abroad, and for many years 1" " Yes ; but I was too young then to have many friends; and, in fact, 1 accompanied perhaps all that I possessed." " How I regret that it was not in my power to accept youi- kind invitation to Dacre in the spring !" " O ! My father would have been ver}^ glad to see you ; but we really are dull kind of people, not at all in your way,-r-4nd I really do not think that you lost much amusement." " What better amusement — what more interest- ing occupation could I have had than to visit the place where I passed my earliest and happiest hours? 'Tis nearly fifteen vears since I was at Dacre." " Except when you visited us at Easter. We regretted our loss." " Ah ! yes ! except that," exclaimed the duke, remembering his jager's call ; " but that goes for nothing. I of course saw very little." " Yet, I assure you, you made a great impression. So eminent a personage of course observes less than he is himself observed. We had a most graphical description of you on our return, and a very ac- curate one too, — for I recognised your grace to-night merely from the report of your visit." The duke shot a shrewd glance at his com- panion's face, but it betrayed no indication of badinage, and so, rather puzzled, he thought it best to put up with the parallel between himself and his servant. But Miss Dacre did not quit this agree- able subject with all that promptitude which he fondly anticipated. "Poor Lord St. Jerome," said she, "who is really the most unatfccted person I know, has been complaining most bitterly of his deficiency in the air noble. He is mistaken for a groom perpetu- ally ; — and once, he says, had a douceur presented to him in his character of an ostler. Your grace must be proud of your advantage over his lordship. You would have been greatly gratified by the uni- versal panegyric of our household. They, of course, you knpw, are proud of their young duke, a real Yorkshire duke, and they love to dwell upon your truly imposing appearance. As for myself, who am true Yorkshire also, I take the most hon- est pride in hearing them describe your elegant at- titude, leanihg back in your britchska, with your feet on the opposite cushions, your hat cocked aside with that air of undefinable grace character- istic of the grand seigneur, and, which is the last remnant of the feudal system, your reiterated orders to drive over an old woman. You did not even condescend to speak EngUsh, which made them quite — enthusiastic." " ! MLss Dacre, — spare me, spare mii !" " Spare j'ou ! I have heard of your grace's modesty ; but this excessive sensibility, under well- earned praise, does indeed surprise me !" "But. Miss Dacre, you cannot, indeed, really believe that this vulgar ruffian, this grim scarecrow this Guy Faux, was — was — myself." "Not yourself! Really I am a simple person age. I believe in my eyes, and trust to my ears. I am at loss for your grace's meaning." " I mean, then," said his grace, who had gained time to rally, "that this monster was some impos- tor, who must have stolen my carriage, picked my pocket, and robbed my card, which, next to his reputation, is a man's most delicate possession." " Then you never called upon us ?" " I blush to confess it — never ; but I will call, in fixture, every day." x2 246 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Your grace's ingenuousness really rivals your modesty." " Now, after these confessions and compliments, I suggest a waltz." "No one is waltzing now." " When the quadrille, then, is finished]" " Then I am engagetl." "After your engagement 1" " O, impossible ! 'J'hat is indeed making a busi- ness of pleasure. I have just refused a similar request of your fellow-steward. We damsels shall soon be obliged to carry a book to enrol our en- gagements as well as our bets, if this system of reversionary dancing be any longer encouraged." " But you must dance with me !" said the duke, imploringly. " O ! you will stumble upon me in the course of the evening, and I shall probably be more fortu- nate. L suppose you feci nervous about to-mor- row V " 0, no ! not at all." " Ah ! I forgot. Your grace's horse is the fa- vourite. Favourites always win." " Have I a horse ]" " Why, Lord St. Jerome says he doubts whether it be one.'' " Lord St. Jerome seems a vastly amusing per- sonage ; and, as he is so often taken for an ostler, I have no doubt, is an exceedingly good judge of horseflesh." Miss Dacre smiled. It was that wild, but rather wicked gleam which soiaietimes accompanies the indulgence of a little innocent malice. It seemed to insinuate, " I know you are piqued, and I enjoy it." But here her hand was claimed for the waltz. The young duke remained musing, "There she swims away! By heavens! iniri- valled ! And there is Lady Afy and Burlington, — grand, too. Yet there is something in this Ik- t!e Dacre wnich touches my fancy more. What is it ? I think it is her impudence. That confound- ed scrape of Carlstein ! I will cashier him to- morrow. Confound his airs ! I think I got out of it pretty well. To-night, on the whole, has l>een a night of triumph ; but if I do not waltz with the little Dacre, I will only vote myself an ovation. But see, here comes Sir Lucius. Well ! how fares my brother consul 1" " I do not like this rain. I have been hedging with Hounslow, having previously set Bag at his worthy sire with a little information. We shall have a perfect swamp, and then it will be strength against speed — the old story. Damn tlie St. Leger ! I am sick of it." " Pooh ! pooh ! think of the little Dacre !'' " Think of her, my dear fellow ! I think of her too much. I should absolutely have diddled Hounslow, if it had not been for lier confounded pretty face flitting about my stupid brain. I saw you speaking to Guardy, You managed that business well." " Why, as I do all things, I flatter myself, Lucy. Do you know Lord St. Jerome?" •' Verbally. We have exchanged monosylla- Dles, — but he is of the other set." " He is cursedly familiar with the little Dacre. As the friend of her father, I think I shall inter- fere. Is there any thing in it, think you V* " O ! no, — she is engaged to another." " Engaged !" said the duke, absolutely turning pile. j " Do you remember a Dacre at Eton T " A Dacre at Eton !" mused the duke. At an- other time it would not have been in his povi'er to have recalled the stranger to his memory, but this evening the train of association had been laid, and after struggling a moment with his mind, he had the man. " To be sure I do : Arundel Dacre — an odd sort of a fellow ; but he was my senior." " Well, that is the man — a nephew of Guardy, and cousin, of course, to La Belissima. He inhe- rits, you know, all the propert}'. She will not have a sous; but old Dacre, as you call him, has ma- naged pretty well, and Monsieur Arundel is to com- pensate for the entail by presenting him with a grandson." " The dense !" " The dense, indeed ! Often have I broken his head. Would that I had to a little more purpose ?" " Let us do it now !" " He is not here, otherwise — One dislikes a spoony to be successful." " Where are our friends 1" " Annesley with the dutchcss, and Squib with the duke at ccartc." " Success attend them both !" " Amen !" CHAPTER IV. To feel that the possessions of an illustrious an- cestry are about to slide from out your line for- ever ; that the numei'ous tenantry, who look up to you with the confiding eye that the most lilicral parvenu cannot attract, will not count you among their lorils ; that the proud park, filled with the an- cient and toppling trees that your fathers planted, will yield neither its glory nor its treasures to your seed ; and that the old galleiy, whose walls are hung with pictures more cherished than the collec- tions of kings, will not breathe with your long pos- terity — all these are feelings very sad and very trying, and arc among those daily pangs which moralists have forgotten in their catalogue of mis- eries, but which do not the less wear out those heartstrings, at which they are so constantly tug- ging. 'i'his was the situation of Mr. Dacre. The whole of his immense property was entailed, and descended to his nephew, who was a Protestant ; and yet, when he looked upon the blooming face of his enchanting daughter, he blessed the Providence which, after all his visitations, had doomed him to be the sire of a thing so lovely. An exile from her country at an early age, the education of May Dacre had been coiiipleted in a foreign land; yet the mingling bloods of Dacre and of Howard would not in a moment have permitted her to forget " The inviolale island of the brave and free !" even if the unceasing and ever-watchful exertions •flier fither had been wanting to make her worthy of so illustrious an ancestry. But this, happily, was not the case ; and to aid the developement of the infant mind of his young child, to pour forth to her, as she grew in years and in reason, all the fruits of his own richly ml- tivated intellect, was the solitary consolation of ono, THE YOUNG DUKE. 247 over whose conscious head was impending the most awful of visitations. May Dacre was gifted with a mind which, even if her tutor had not been her father, would have rendered tuition a deUght. Her Uvcly imagination, which early unfolded itself; her dangerous yet interesting vivacity; the keen delight, the swift enthusiasm with which she drank in knowledge, and then panted for more ; her shrewd aeuteness, and her innate passion for the excellent and the beautiful, fdlcd her father with lapture which he repressed, and made him feel con- scious how much there was to check, to guide, and to form, as well as to cherish, to admire, and to applaud. As she grew up, the bright parts of her cliaracter shone with increased lustre ; but, in spite of the exertions of her instructer, some less admirable qualities had not yet disappeared. She was still too often the dupe of her imagination, and though perfectly inexperienced, her confidence in her theoretical knowledge of human nature was un- bounded. Slie had an idea that she could pene- trate the characters of individuals at a first meet- ing ; and the consequence of thus fatal axjom was, tliat slie was always the slave of first impressions, and constantly the victim of prejudice. She was ever thinking individuals better or worse than they really were ; and she believed it to be out of the power of any one to deceive her. Constant attend- ance during many years on a dying and beloved mother, and her deeply religious feelings, had first broken, and then controlled, a spirit which nature had intended to be arrogant and haughty. Her father she adored ; and slie seemed to devote to him all that consideration which, with more com- mon characters, is generally distributed among tlieir acquaintance. I hint at her faults. How shall I describe her virtues ] Her unbounded generosity — her dig- nified simplicity — her graceful frankness — her true nobility of thought and feeling — her firmness — her courage and her truth — her kindness to her in- feriors — her constant charity — her devotion to her parents — her sympathy with sorrow — her detesta- tion of oppression — her pure unsullied thoughts — her delicate taste — her deep religion. All these combined would have formed a delightful character, even if unaccompanied with such brilliant talents and such brilliant beauty. Accustomed from an early age to the converse of courts, and the forms of the most polished circles, her manner became her blood, her beauty, and her miud. Yet she rather acted in unison with the spirit of society, than obeyed its minutest decree. She violated etiquette with a wilful grace, which made the out- rage a precedent, and she mingled with princes without feeling her inferiority. Nature, and art, and fortune were the graces who had combined to form this girl. She was a jewel set in gold and worn by a king. Hej- creed had made her, in ancient Christendom, feel less an alien ; but when she returned to that native country which she had never forgotten, she found that creed her degradation. Her indignant spirit clung with renewed ardour to the crushed altars of her faith ; and not before those proud shrines where cardinals ofliiciate, and a thousand acolytes fling their censers, had she bowed with half the abandonment of spirit with which she in- voked the Virgin in her oratory at Dacre. The recent death of her mother rendered Mr. Dacre and herself little inclined to enter into society ; and as they were both desirous of residing on that estate from which they had been so long and so unwillingly absent, they had not yet visited Lon- don. The greater part of their time had been passed chiefly in communication with those great Catho lie families with whom the Dacrcs were allied, and to which they belonged. The modern race of the Howards, and the Clilfords, the Talbuts, tlie Arundels, and the Jerninghams, were not unworthy of their proud progenitors. Miss Dacre observed with respect, and assuredly with sympathy, the mild dignity, the noble patience, the proud humi- lity, the calm hope, the uncompromising courage, with which her father and his friends sustained their oppression and lived as proscribed in the realm which they had created. Yet her lively fancy and gay spirit found less to admire in the feelings which infiuenccd those families in their intercourse with the world, wtiich induced them to foster but slight intimacies out of the pale of the proscribed, and wliich tinged their dum.estic life with that formal and gloomy colouring which ever accompanies a monotonous existence. Her dis- position ^old her, that all this aft'ected non-interfe- rence with the business of society might be politic, but assuredly was not pleasant ; her quick sense whispered to her it was unwise, and that it retard- ed, not advanced, the great result in v/hich her sanguine temper dared often to indulge. Under any circumstances, it did not appear to her to be wisdom to second the eflbrts of their oppressors for their degradation or their misery, and to seek no consolation in the amiable feelings of their fellow-creatures, for the stern rigour of their un- social government. But, independent of all general principles, ]\Iiss Dacre could not but beheve that it was the duty of the Catholic gentry to mix more with that world which so misconceived their spirit. Proud in her conscious knowledge of their exalted virtues, she felt that they had only to be known to be recognised as the worthy leaders of that nation which they had so often saved, and never betrayed. She did not conceal her opinions from the circle in which they had grown up. All the young memlwrs were her disciples, and were decidedly of opinion, that if the House of Lords would hut listen to May Dacre, emancipation would be a settled thing. Her logic would have destroyed Lord Liverpool's arguments — her wit extinguished Lord Eldou's jokes. But the elder members only shed a sclemn smile, and blessed May Dacre's shining eyes and sanguine spirit. Her greatest supporter was Mrs. Dallington Vere. This lady was a distant relation of Mr. Dacre. At seventeen, she,, herself a Catholic, had married Mr. Dallington Vere, of Dallington House, a Catholic gentleman of considerable fortune, whose age resembled his wealth. No sooner had this in- cident taken place, than did Mrs. DaUington Vere dash up to London, and soon evinced a most laud- able determination to console herself for her hus- band's political disabilities. Mrs. Dallington Vere went to court ; and Mrs, Dallington Vere gave suppers after the opera, and concerts which, in number and in brilUancy, were only equalled by her lialls. The dandies patronised her, and select- ed her for their muse. The Duke of Shropshire betted on her always at ecarte; and, to crown the whole aflair, she made Mr. Dallington Vere lay claim to a dormant peerage. The women were 248 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. all piqnc — the m?n all patronage. A Protestant' minister was alarmed : and Lord Squib supposed that Mrs. Dallinsfton must be the scarlet lady of whom they had heard so often. vScasoa after season she kept up tlie ball ; and although, of course, she no longer made an equal sensation, she was not less brilliant, nor her posi- tion less eminent. She had got into the best set, and was more quiet, like a patriot in place. Never was there a gay.er lady than Mrs. Dalliiigton Vere, but never a more prudent one. Her virtue was only equalled by her discretion ; but as the odds were ered. Mr. Dash and his Dandy were at the head of the poll ; and as the owner rode his own horse, being a jockey and a fit rival for the Duke of St. .lames, his backers were SLUiguine. Sanspareil was, however, the second favourite. The duke, howeverj was confident as a universal conqueror, and came on in his usual state — rode round the course, — inspirited liady Aphrodite, who was all anxiety,--betted with Miss Dacre, and bowed to Mrs. Dallington. There were more than ninety horses, and yet the start was fair. But the result 1 Pardon me ! The fatal remembrance overpowers my pen. An efibrt and some eau de Portingale, and I shall recover. The first favourite was never heard of, the second favourite was never seen after the distance post, all the ten-to-oners were in the rear, and a dark horse, which had never been thought of, and which the careless St. James had never even observed in the list, rushed past the grand stand in sweeping tri- umph. The spectators were almost too surprised to cheer; but when the name of the winner was detected, there was a deafening shout, particularly from the Yorkshiremen. The victor was the Earl of St. Jerome's b.f. May Dacre by Howard. Conceive the confusion ! Saimparie/ was at last discovered, and immediately shipped off for New- market, as young gentlemen who get into scrapes are sent to travel. The Dukes of Burlington and Shropshire exchanged a few hundreds. The dutchess and Charles Annesley, a few gloves. The con- summate Lord Bloomcrly, though a backer of the favourite, in compliment to his host, contrived to receive from all parties, and particularly from St. Maurice. The sweet little Wrekins were absolutely ruined. Sir Lucius looked blue, but he had hedged ; and liOrd Squib looked yellow, but some doubted. Lord Hounslow was done, and Lord Bagshot was diddled. The Duke of St. James was perhaps the heaviest sufferer on the field, and certainly bore his losses the best. Had he seen the five-and-twcnty thou- sand he was minus counted before him, he probably would have been staggered ; but as it was, another crumb of his half million was gone. The loss existed only in idea. It was really too trifling to think of, and he galloped up to May Dacre, and was among the warmest of her congratulators. '• I would oiler your grace my sympathy for your congratulations," said Miss Dacre, in a rather THE YOUNG DUKE. 249 amiable* tone, "but" — and here she resumed her usual air of mockery, — " you are too great a man to be affected by so light a casualty. And now that I recollect myself, did you run a horse 1" ^ " Why — no ; the fault was, I beheve, that he would not run ; but Scm.ipareil is as great a hero as ever. He has only been conquered by the ele- ments." The dinner at the Duke of St. James's was tliis day more splendid even than the preceding. He was determined to show that the disappointment had produced no effect upon the temper of so im- perial a personage as himself, and he invited several of the leadJng gentry to join his coterie. The Dacres v^'ere among the solicited ; but they were, during the races, the guests of Mrs. Dallington Vere, \\ hose scat was only a mile off, and therefore were unobtainable. Blazed the plate, sparkled the wine, and the aromatic venison sent forth its odorous incense to the skies. The favourite cook had done wonders, though a Sanspareil pdfe, on which lie had been meditating for a week, was obliged to be suppressed, and was sent up as a tourte a la Bourbon, in com- pliment to his royal highness. It was a delightful party : — all the stiffness of metropolitan society dis- appeared. All talked, and laujjhtil, and ale, and drank ; and the Protocolis and iLe French princes, who were most active meinLiers of a banquet, ceased sometimes, from \vp_tii of breath, to moralize on the English characte.. The little Wrekins, with their well-acted laiicntations over their losses, were capital; and Sophy nearly smiled and chat- tered her liead this djxy into the reversion of the coronet of Fitz-pomp»;y. May she succeed ! For a wilder little partrijiije never yet flew. Caroline St. Maurice alone wus sad, and would not be com- forted ; although in. James, observing her gloom, and guessing at iih cause, had in private assured her that, far frou» losing, on the whole he was perhaps even a wmner. None, howevei-, talked more agreeable nonsense, and made a more elegant uproar, than the Duke of St. James. "These young men," whispered Lord Squih to Annesley, " do not know the value of money. We must teach it them — I know too well — I find it very dear." If the old physicians are correct in considering from twenty-tlve to thirty-five as the period of lusty youth. Lord .'Squib was still a lusty youth, though a very corpulent one indeed. The carnival of his life, however, was nearly over, and probably the termination of the race-week might hail him a man. He was th() best fellow in the world; short and sleek, half bald, and looked fifty; with a waist, however, which had not yet vanished, and where art successfully controlled rebellious nature, like the Austrians ttie Lombards. If he were not exactly a wit, he was still, however, full of unaffected fun, and threw out the results of a rotie life with con- siderable ease and point. He had inherited a very fair and peer-like property, which he had contrived to cimbarrass in so complicated and extraordinary a manner, that he had been a ruined man for years, and yet lived well on an income allowed him by his creditors to manage his estate for their benefit. The joke was, he really managed it very well. It Was his hobby, and he prided himself, especially, upon his character as a man of business. 'I'he banquet is certainly the best preparative for 32 the ball if its blessings be not abused, and then yoU get heavy. Your true votar}!- of Terpsichore, aiid of him I only speali, requires, particularly in a land of easterly winds, which cut into his cab-head at every turn of every street, some previous process to make his blood set him an example in dancing. It is strong Burgundy, and his sparkling sister Cham- pagne, that make a race-hall always so amusing a divertisement. One enters the room with a gay elation, which defies rule without violating etiquette, and ill these county meetings, there is a variety of character, and classes, and manners, which isliighly interesting, and allords an agreeable contrast to those more brilliant and refined assemblies, the members of which, being educated by exactly the same system, and with exactly the same ideas, think, look, move, talk, dress, and even eat, alike — the only remarkable personage being a woman somewhat more beautiful than the beauties who surround her, and a man rather niore original in his affectations than the puppies that surround him. The proof of the general dulness of polite circles is the great sensation that is always produced by a new tace. The season always commences briskly, because there are so many. Ball, and dinner, and concert collect them plenty of votaries ; but as we move on, the didncss will develope itr.elf ; and then come the morning breakfast, and the water-party, and the fctt cliarnpetrc, all desperate attempts to produce variety with old materials, and to occasion a second effect by a cause which is already ex- hausted. These philosophical remarks precede another in- troduction to the public liall-room at Doncaster. Mrs. Dallington Vere and Miss Dacre are walking, arm in arm, at the upper end of the room. "You are disappointed, love, about Arundell" said Mrs. Dallington/ " Bitterly ; I never counted on an}' event more certainly than on his return this summer." " And why tarrieth the wanderer — unwillingly, of course 1" " Lord Darrell, who was to have gone over as charge (Vaffaires, has announced to liis father the impossibility of his becoming a diplomatist, so our poor aituche suifers, and is obliged to bear the purle-fcuille ad in/erinij' " Does your cousin like Vienna!" " Not at all. He is a regular John Bull : and if I am to judge from his correspondence, he will make an excellent ambassador, in one sense, for I think his fidelity and his patriotism may be de- pended on. We seldom serve those whom we do not love ; and if I am to believe Arundel, there is neither a person nor a place on the whole Conti- nent that affords him the least satisfaction." " How singular, tlien, that he should have fixed on such a metier ; but I suppose, like other young men, his friends fixed for him V " Not at all. No step could be less pleasing to my father than his leaving England ; but Arundel is quite unmanageable, even by papa. He is the oddest, but the dearest, person hi the world I" " He is very clever, is he not 1" " I think so. I have no doubt he will distin- guish himself, whatever career he runs ; but he is so extremely singular in his manner, that I do not think his general reputation harmonizes witli my private opinion." " And will his visit to England be a long one''" " I hope that it will be a permanent one. I, ou 250 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. know, am his confidant, and intrusted with all his plans. If I succeed in arranginiT something ac- cording to his wishes, I hope that lie will not again quit us." " I pray you may, sweet ! and wish, love ! for your sake, that he would enter the room this mo- ment." " This is the most successful meeting, I should think, that ever was known at Doncaster," said Miss Dacre. " We are, at least, indebted to the Duke of St. James for a veiy agreeable party, to say nothing of all the gloves wo have won." " Kow do you like the Duke of Burlington"!" " Very much. There is a calm courtliness about him wliieli I think very imposing. He is the only man I ever saw who, without being very young, was not an unfit companion for youth. And there is no alfectation of juvenility about him. He involuntarily reminds you of youth, as an empty orchestra docs of music." " I shall tell him this. He is already your de- voted ; and I have no doubt that, inspired at the same time by your universal charms, and our uni- versal hints, I shall soon hail you Dutchess of Burlington. Don Arundel will repent his diplo- macy." " I thought I was to be anotlicr dutchcss this morning." '•You deserve to be a triple one. But dream not of the unhappy patron of Sdiispareil. There is something in his eyes which tells me he is not a man-ying man." There was a momentary pause, and Miss Dacre spoke. " I like his brother steward very much. Bertha. Sir Lucius is very witty, and very candid. It is an agreeable thing to see a man, who has been so very gay, and who has had so many temptations to be gay, turn into a regular domestic character, without losing any of those qualities w-hich made him an ornament to society. When men of the world terminate their career as prudently as Sir Lucius, I observe that they- are always amusing companions, becarise they are perfectly unaffected." " No one is n)3re unaffected than I>ucius Graf- ton. I am quite Happy to find you like him : for he is an old frjund of mine, and I know that he has a good heart." " I like him, especially, because he likes you." " Dearest !" " He »niroduced me to Lady Afy. I perceive that she is very attached to her husband." " Lady Afy is a charming woman. I know no woman so truly elegant as Lady Aty. The young duke, you know, they say, greatly admires Lady Afy." " O ! does he 1 Well, now, I should have thought her rather a sentimental and serious donna — one very unlikely — " " Hush ! here come two cavaliers." The Dukes of BurUngton and St. James ad- vanced. "We were attracted by observing two nymphs wandering in this desert," said his grace of Bur- lington. This was the Burgundy. " And we wish to know whether there be any dragon to destroy, any ogre to devour, any magi- cian to massacre, or how, when, and where we can testify our devotion to the ladies of our love," added his grace of St. James. This was the Champagne. "The age of chivalry is past," said May Dacre. " Bores have succeeded to dragons, and I have shivered too many lances in vain ever to hope for 'their extirpation ; and as for enchantments — " " They depend only upon yourself," gallantly interrupted the Duke of Burgundy, — Psha ! — Bur- lington. " Our spells are dissolved, our wands are sunk five fathom deep : we had retired to this solitude, and we were moralizing," said Mrs. Dallington Vere. " Then you were doing an extremely useless, and not very magnanimous thing," said the Duke of St. James; " f jr to moralize in a desert is no great exertion of philosophy. You should moralize in a drawing-room ; and so let me propose our return to that world which must long have missed us. Let us do something to astound these elegant bar- barians. Look at that j'oung gentleman : how stiff he is I A Yorkshire Apollo ! Look at that old lady, how elaborately she simpers ! The Ve- nus of the Riding ! They absolutely attempt to flirt. Let us give them a gallop !" He was advancing to salute this provincial cou- ple ; hut his more matured companion repressed him. " Ah ! I forgot," said the young duke. " I am Yorkshire. If I were a western gent, like your- self, I might compromise my character. Your grace monopolizes the fun." " I think your grace may safely attack them," said Miss Dacre. " I do not think you will be re- cognised. People entertain in this barbarous coun- tr3% such vulgar, old-fashioned notions of a Duke of St. James, that I have not the least doubt your grace might have a good deal of fun without being found out." " There is no necessity," said his grace, " to fly from Miss Dacre for amusement. By-the-by, you made a very good repartee. You must permit me to introduce you to my friend Lord Squib. I am sure you would agree so." " I have been introduced to Lord Squib." "And you found him most amusing? Did he say any thing which vindicates my appointment of him as my court-jester!" " I found him very modest. He endeavoured to excuse his errors by being your companion : and to prove his virtues by being mine." " Treacherous Squib ! I positively must call him out. Duke, hear him a cartel." " The quarrel is ours, and must be decided here," said Mrs. Dallington Vere. '• I second Miss Dacre." " We are in the way of some good people here, I thitdi," said the Duke of Burhngton, who, though the most dignified, was the most considerate of men ; " at least, here are a stray couple or two, staring as if they wished us to understand we pre- vented a set." " Let them stare," said the Duke of St. James \ " we were made to be looked at. 'Tis our voca- tion, Hal. and they are gifted with vision purposely to behold us." " Your grace," said Miss Dacre, " reminds me of my old friend Prince Rubarini, who told me one day that when he got up late he always gave orders to have the sun put back a couple of hours." " And you. Miss Dacre, remind me of my old friend the Dutchess of Nemours, who told me ono THE YOUNG DUKE. 251 day that in the course of her experience she had only met one man who was her rival in rejiartee." " And that man V asked Mrs. Vcre. " Was your slave, Mrs. Dalliiigton," said the young duke, bowing profoundly, with liis hand on his lieart. " I remember she said the same thing to me," said the Duke of Burlington, " about ten years be- fore." " Tliat was her grandmother, Burlcy," said the Duke of St. James. '• Her grandmother !" said Mrs. Dallington, ex- citing tlie contest. " Decidedly," said the young duke. " I remem- ber my friend always spoke of the Duke of Bur- Un^ton as grandpapa." " You will prolit. I have no doubt, then, by the company of so venerable a friend," said Miss Da ere. " Why," said the young duke, " I am not a be- liever in the perfectibihty of the species ; and you know that when we come to a certain point — " " We must despair of improvement," said the Duke of Burlington. " Your gi-ace came forward like a true Icnight to my rescue," said Miss Dacre, bowing tQ,the Dtdie of Burlington. '• Beauty can inspire miracles," said the Duke of St. James. '• This young gentleman has been spoiled by travel, Miss Dacre," said the Duke of Burlington. " ^ ou have much to answer for, for he tells every one that you were his guardian." The eyes of Miss Dacre and the Duke of St. James met. His grace bowed with that elegant impudence wliich is, after all, the best explanation for eveiy possible misunderstanding. "I always heard that the Duke of St. James rvas born of age," said Miss Dacre. " The report was very rife on the Continent when I travelled," said Mrs. Dallington Vere. " That was only a poetical allegory, which veiled the precocious results of my fair tutor's exertions." "How very discreet he is!" said the Duke of Burlington. " You may tell immediately that he is two-and-forty." " We are neither of us, though, off the pave yet, Burlington, — so what say yofi to inducing these inspiring muses to join the waltz which is just now commencing 1" The young duke offered his hand to Miss Dacre, and, followed by their companions, they were in a few minutes lost in the waves of the waltzers. CHAPTER VI. Tht; yayeties of the race week closed with a ball at DaIiiiin;ton House. As the pretty mistress of this; proud mansion was acquainted with all the Uicnibeirf of the ducal party, our hero and his noble band were among those who honoured it with their piesencfj. Wenally have had so many balls both in this and otbo.r as immortal works, published since the rcforma'ion of literature, — which I date from the momen*. that the gray goose-quill was first guided by a hi nd shaded by a blonde ruffle, or ^'^I'kling with a jewelled ring, — that, in a literary point of view, I think I must give up dancing ; nor would I have introduced you to Dallington flouse if I had no more serious business on hand than a flir- tation with a lady or a lobster Salad. Ah ! why is not a little brief comnumion with the last as innocent as with the first ! 03'sters and eggs, they say, are amatory food. Ceres and Bac- chus have the reputation of being the favourite companions of Venus. 7"'he morality of the present age must be ascribed, then, to its temperance, or its indigestion. O ! Abernethy, mildest of man- kiu'd ! ! Brodie, blander than Favonian breezes! — why, wh}', then, cure us ? why send us forth with renovated livers, to lose our souls through salads and the sex ! Small feet are flitting in the mazy dance, and music winds with inspiring harmony through halls whose lofty mirrors nudtiply beauty, and add fresh lustre to the blazing lamps. May Dacre there is wandering like a peri in paradise, and I^ady Aphrodite is glancing with her dazzling brow, yet an Asmodeus might detect an occasional gloom over her radiant face. It is but for an instant, yet it thrills. She looks like some favoured sultana, who muses for a moment amid her splendour on her early love. And she, the sparkling mistress of this scene — say, where is she? Not among the dancers, though a more graceful form you would scarcely look upon ; not even among her guests, though a more accomplished hostess it would be hard to find. Gaycty pours forth its flood, and all are thinking ol themselves, or of some one sweeter even than self- consciousness, or else perhaps one absent might be missed. Leaning on the arm of Sir Lucius Grafton, and shrouded in her cachemcre, Mrs. Dallington Vere paces the terrace in earnest conversation. " If I fail in this," said Sir Lucius, " I shall be desperate. Fortune seems to have sent him for the very purpose. Think only of the state of affairs for a moment. After a thousand plots on my part — after having for the last two years never ceased my exertions to make her commit herself, when neither a love of pleasure, nor a love of revenge, nor the thoughtlessness to which women in her situation generally have recourse, produced the slightest effect : — this stripling starts upon the stage, and in a moment the iceberg melts. ! I never shall forget the rapture of the moment when the faithful Lachen announced the miracle !" "But why not let the adventure take the usual course 1 You have your evidence, or you can get it. Finish the business. These exposees, to be sure, are disagreeable enough ; but to be the talk of the town for a week is no great suffering. Go to Ba- den, drink the waters, and it will be forgotten. Surely this is an inconvenience not to be weighed for a moment against the great result." " Believe me, my dearest friend, Lucy Grafton cares very little about the babble of the million, provided it do not obstruct him in his objects. Would to heaven I could proceed in the summary and effectual mode you point out ! but that I much doubt. There is about Afy, in spite of all her softness and humility, a strange spirit, a cursed courage, or obstinacy, which sometimes has blazed out, when I have over-galled her, in a way half awful. I confess I dread her standing at ba}'. I am in her power, and a divorce she could success- fully oppose if I appeared to be the person who 252 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. hastened the catastropne, and she was piqued to show that she would not fiill an easy victim. No, no I I have a surer though a more difficult game. She is intoxicated with this boy. I w-ili drive her into his arms." " A probable result, forsooth ! I do not think your genius, baronet, has particularly brightened since we last met. I thought your letters were get- ting dull. You seem to forget, that there is a third person to be consulted in this adventure. And why-, in the name of Doctors' Commons, the duke is to clo-:e his career by marrying a woman of whom, with your leave, he is already, if experience be not a dream, half wearied, is really past my comiirehension, although as Yorkshire Lucy, I should not, you know, be the least apprehensive of mortals." "I depend on my unbounded influence over St. James." " What ! do you mean to recommend the step, then V "Hear me! At present I am his confidential counsellor on all subjects — " " But one." " Patience, fair dame — and I have hitherto im- perceptibly, luit cfiiciently, exerted my influence to prevent his getting entangled with any other nets." " Faithfid friend !" " Paint de moiiiierie ! Listen. I depend further upon his perfect inexperience of women, — for, in spite of his numerous gallantries, he has never yet had a grand passion, and is quite ignorant, even at this moment, how involved his feelings are with his mistress. He has not yet learned the bitter lesson, that unless we despise a woman when we cease to love her, we are still a slave without the console- ment of intoxication. I depend further upon his strong feelings, for strong I perceive thcy^ are, with all his affectation ; and on his weakness of character, which will allow him to be the dupe of his first great emotion. It is to prevent lliat explosion from taking place under any other roof but my own, that I now require your advice and assistance, — that advice and assistance which already have done so much for I'le. I like not this sudden and un- contemplated visit to Castle Dacre. I fear these Dacres — I fear the revulsion of his feelings. Above all I fear that girl." " But her cousin— is he not 'a talisman 1 Slie loves him." " Pooh ! a cousin ! Is not the name an answer ? She loves him, as she loves her pony, because he was her companion when she was a child, and kissed her when they gathered strawberries together. The pallid moonlight passion of a cousin, and an absent one too, has but a sorry chance against the blazing beams that shoots from the eyes of a new lover. ^Vould to heaven I had not to go down to my boobies, at Cleve ! I should like nothing better than to amuse myself an autunm at Daliington with the little Dacre, and put an end to such an nn- naturaland irreligious connexion. She is a splendid creature ! Bring her to town next season." " But to the point. You wish me, I imagine, to act the same part with the lady, as you have done with the gentleman. I am to step in, I suppose, as the confidential counsellor on all subjects of liWeet May. I am to preserve her from a youth xvhose passions are so impetuous, and whose prin- ciples are so unformed !" " Admirable Bertha ! you read my thoughts." "But suppose I endanger, instead of advance, your plans. Suppose, for instance, I captivate his grace. As extraordinary things have happened, as you know. High place must be respected, and the coronet of a dutchess must not be despised." "All considerations must yield to you, as do all men," said Sir Lucius, with ready gallantry, but not free from anxiety. " No, no, Lucy, there is no danger of that. 1 am not going to plaj- traitress to my system, even for the Duke of St. James ; therefore any thing that occurs between us shall be merely an incident pours passer le temps seitkinent, and to preserve our young friend from the little Dacre. I liave no doubt he will behave very well, and that I shall send him safe to Cleve Park in a fortnight with a very good character. I would recomiiiend you, however, not to encourage any unreasonable delay." " Certainly not ; but I must, of course, be guided by circumstances." Sir Lucius observed truly. There were other considerations besides getting rid of his spouse which cemented his friendship with the young duke. It will be curious, if lending a few tliousands to the husband save our hero from the wife. There is no such thing as unmixed evil. A man who loses his money gains, at least, expe- rience, and sometimes something belter. But what the Duke of St. James gjiincd is not yet to be told. Time flies, and dcvelopes all things. I am, at present, writing the first volume of this veracious history — but fate alone can decide whether you shall read the second. I may dine this day with Sir Epicure Mammon, and die — as my host will, over the third course. I may be flung off my horse at Grosvenor gate, from the sudden entrance of Mrs. Argent and hcrnew liveries. I mean that lady who, when her husband became an M. P., began franking her invitations by the twopenny, or par- ticular post. But our friends are still on the terrace. " And you like Lachen !" asked Mrs. Daliing- ton." " Very much." " I formed her with great care, but you must keep her in good-humour." "Tliat is not difficult. Elk est tresjolie; and pretty women, like yourself, are always good- natured." " But has she really worked herself into the con- fidence of the virtuous Aphrodite 1" " Entirely. And the humour is, that Lachen has persuaded lier that Lachen herself is on the best possible terms with my confidential valet, and can make herself at all times mistress of lier mas- ter's secrets. So it is always in my power, ap'pa- rently without taking the slightest interest in Afy's conduct, to regulate it as I will. At present she believes that my affairs are in a very distracted state, and that I intend to reside solely on the Con- tinent, and to bear her off from her Cupidon. This thought haunts her rest, and hangs heavy on her waking mind. I think it will do the business." " We have been too long absent. Let us re- turn." " I accompany you, my charming friend. \A'hat should I do without such an ally 1 I only wish that I could assist you in a manner equally friendly. Is there no obdurate hero who wants a confidential THE YOUNG DUKE. 253 atlviser to dilate upon j-our charms, or to counsel him to throw himself at your feet; or are that beautiful lace and lovely form, as they must always be, invincible 1" " I assure you, quite disembarrassed of any inten- tions whatever. But I suppose when I return to A.lhcns, I must get Platonic again." " Let me be the philosopher !" "Ko, no, Lucy; we know each other too well. [ have been free ever since that fatal aflair of young Darrell, and travel has restored my spirits a little. They say his brother is just as handsome. He was expected at Vienna, but I could not meet him, al- though, I suppose, as I made him a viscount, I am rather popular than not with him." " Pooh ! pooh ! think not of this. No one blames you. You are still a universal favourite. But I would recommend you nevertheless to take me as your cavalier." " You are too generous, baronet, or too bold. No, man ! I am tired of flirtation, and really think, for variety sake, I must fall in love. After all, there is nothing like the delicious dream, though it be but a dream. — Spite of my discretion, I sometimes tremble lest I should end by making myself a fool — wiili some grand passion. — You look serious. Fear not for the young duke. He is a dazzling gentleman, but not a hero exactly to my taste." CHAPTER YIL The moment that was to dissolve the spell which had combined and enchanted so many thousands of human beings amved. Nobles and nobodies, beauties and blacklegs, dispersed in all directions. The Duke of Burlington carried off the French princes, and the Protocolis, the Bloomerlies, and the Yaticans, to his paradise of Marringworth^ The Fitz-pompeys cantered off with the Shropshires —omen of felicity to the enamoured St. Maurice — and the enamouring Sophy. Annesley and Squib returned to their pci/ci: Sir Lucius and Lady Aphrodite, neither of them v.ith tempers like sum- mer skies, betook their way to Cambridgeshire, like Adam and Eve from the glorious garden.. The Duke of St. James dashed off for Dacre. He had already sent before him his groom and horses, and one carriage containing Luigi, Spiridion, and two pages, and now he followed, accompanied only by his jager and a single servant. As his carriage rolled on he revelled in delicious fancies. The young duke built castles not only at Hautcville, but in less substantial regions. Reverj', in the flush of our warm youth, generally indulges in the future. We are always anticipatin^the next adventure, and clothe the coming heroine with a rosy tint. ^Vhen we advance a little on our limit- ed journey, and an act or two of the comedy, the gayest in all probability, arc over, the wizard Memo- ry dethrones the witch Lnagination, and 'tis the past on which the mind feeds in its musings. 'Tis then we ponder on each great result, which has stolen on us without the labour of reflection ; 'tis then we analyze emotions, which, at the time, we could not comprehend, and probe the action which passion inspired, and which prejudice has hitherto defended. Alas! who can strike these occasional balances ui life's great leger without a sigh 1 Alas ! how little do they promise in fav )ur of the great account! What whisperings of flnal bankruptcy ! what a damnable consciousness of present insolven- cy ! My friends ! what a blunder is youth ! Ah ! why does Truth light her torch, but to illume the ruined temple of our existence ! Ah ! why do we know we are men, only to be conscious of our ex- hausted energies ! And yet there is a pleasure in a deal of judg ment, which your judicious man alone can under stand. It is agreeable to see some younkers falling into the same traps which have broken our own shins; and, shipwrecked on the island of our hopes, one likes to mark a vessel go down full in sight. 'Tis demonstration that we are not branded as Cains among the favoured race of man. Then giving advice — that is delicious, and perhaps re- pays one all. It is a privilege your gray-haired signers solely can enjoy ; but young men now-a-days may make some claim to it. And, after all, expe- rience is a thing that all men praise. Bards sing its glories, and proud Philosoj.-hy has long elected it her favourite child. 'Tis the tc x-uxcv, in s})ite of all its ugliness, and the elixir vitfc, though we generally gain it with a shattered pulse. N^o more ! no more ! it is a bitter cheat, the con- solation of blunderers, the last refuge of expiring hopes, the forlorn battalion that is to capture the citadel of happiness — yet, yet impregnable! 0! what is wisdom, and what is virtue, without youth ! Talk not to me of knowlctlge of inankind ; — give, give me back the sunshine of the breast which they o'erclouded! Talk not to nie of proud morality — oh ! — give me innocence ! " Sir, sir, what is all this about? Let us get on with the story. A reason for this delay. Is it gentlemanly! Is it courteous? Is it what might have been expected from you? So great a favour- ite, though so new a writer ! Speak, — clear your- self!" ! madam, if you be a madam, as I hope, why, why excruciate with these queries? Postilions must be paid and horses changed, and now 'tis done, and so we'll on our journey. Our hero's thoughts were of a very different complexion to tliose that lately broke out but una- wares. The fact is, that a slight amial)le egotism is my weakness, which all excuse as well as ad- mire, upon this plea,- that I am strictly an anony- mous writer ; and, consequently, being utterly un- known, am therefore permitted occasionally to il- lustrate my profound oracles respecting human na- ture, by the specimen of it which I have most pro- foundly studied. If I wrote for fame, and had a lithographic portrait of myself appended to this fiist volume, this self-introduction would then be in as " bad taste" as it is now in good, and as utterly reprehensible as it is now worthy of all panegyric; but as I only write for fun, and am even less desi- rous of being known by the public than they can be of knowing me, why, let it pass. " But why then publish, sir ?" Beautiful being ! That you should be amused Is it nothing to feel, amid this solitude, that bright eyes are glancing o'er my thoughts ? Besides, 1 lilie to make a little noise — in a quiet way, as peace able gentlemen slide into a row at night. An urchin sometimes will disturb the abstraction of his assembled fellow-students with a shrill a*i(I sudden whistle. All start, all stare, and the peda- gogue fumes. Y'et no one looks more astonished, 254 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. more indij^nanl at the disturbance than the rioter hiuiscit'; and there he sits alike undetected and de- sirous to be concealed, insjiiied at the same time by a love of fun and a contempt of fame. He is a true jiliilosopher, and might teach us more than we care to learn. He who teaches that enjoyment is the great object of existence, and that this can be obtained without the permission of your worships, is a heretic against the creed of cant. Now, if, instead of amusing you and myself, I were, which probably some day I may, to cut all your throats, or mend all your morals, what a wonderful fellow you would instantly dub me ! What odes, wliat medals, what shifting diadems, what changing pce[)tres, what cheers from widows whose l)lood had washed my chariot wheels, what grants from parliaments — themselves ready to receive! I say nothing of the public dinner and the private praise. Tliese are small deer. Yet a life in the National Library is not to be despised; and it is something to have one's portrait in demand among the Sand- wich Isles. To conquer and to cant — these are the modes to ruin mankind. Must they he so forever? Is it a dream that flits across my mind, fed by the silence of this sacred place ; or is it revelation .' Yes, yes, methinks a softer voice, a sweeter breath, moves on the wings of coming time, and whispers consola- tion. Amid the ruins of eternal Rome, I scribble pages lighter than the wind, and feed with fancies, vo- lumes which will be forgotten ere I can hear that tliey are even published. Yet am I not one insen- sible to the magic of my memorable al)ode, and I could pour my passion o'er the land ; but I repress my thoughts, and beat tlieir tide back to their hollow caves ! The ocean of my mind is calm, but dim, and ominous of storms that may arise. A cloud hangs heavy o'er the horizon's verge, and veils the future. Even now, a star apj)ears, steals into light, and now again 'tis gone ! I hear the proud swell of the growing waters, — I hear the whispering of the wakening winds; l)ut Keason lays her trident on the cresting waves, and all again is hushed. For I am one, though young, yet old enough to know Ambition is a demon ; and I liy from what I fear. And Fame has eagle wings, and yet she mounts not as high as man's desires. When all is gained, how little then is won ! And yet to gain that little, how much is lost ! Let us once aspire, and madness follows. Could we but drag the pur- ple from the hero's heart ; could we but tear the laurel from the poet's throbbing brain, and read tlieir doubts, their dangers, their despair, we might learn a greater lesson than we shall ever acquire by musing over their exploits or their inspiration. Thhik of unrecognised C.-esar, with his wasting youth, weeping over the Macedonian's young ca- reer ! Could Pharsalia compensate for those wither- ing pangs? View the obscure Napoleon starving in the streets of Paris! What was 8t. Helena to the bitterness of such existence ? The visions of past glory might illumine even that dark imprison- ment ; but to be conscious that his supernatural en- ergies might die away without creating their mira- cles — can tlic wheel or the rack rival the torture of such a suspicion? I/O ! Byron, bejiding over his KRattcred lyre, with inspiration in his very rage. And the pert taunt could sting even this child of light ! To doubt of the truth of the creed in which you have been nurtured, is not so terrific as to doubt respecting the intellectual vigour on whoso strength you have staked your happiness. Yet these were mighty ones ; perhaps the records of the world will not yield us threescore to be their mate.s. Then tremble, ye whose cheek glows too warmly at their names ! Who would be more than mar. should fear lest he be less. Yet there is hope — there should be happiness — for them, for all ! Kind nature, ever mild, extends her fond arms to her truant children, and breathes her words of solace. As we weep on her indul- gent and maternal breast, the exhausted passions, one by one, expire, like gladiators in yon huge pile, that has made barbarity sublime. Yes I there is hope and joy — and it is here ! Where the breeze wanders through a perfumed sky, and where the beautiful sun illumines beauty. On the poet's farm, and on the conqueror's ,arch, thy beam is lingering! It lingers on the shattered porticoes that once shrouded, from thy o'erpower- ing glory, the lords of earth ; it lingers upon the ruined temples that, even in their desolation, are vet sacred ! 'Tis gone, as if in sorrow ! Yet the woody lake still blushes with thy warm kiss ; and still thy rosy light tinges the pine that breaks the farthest heaven ! A heaven all light, all beauty, and all love! What marvel men should worship in these climes? And lo ! a small and single cloud is sailing in the innnaculate ether, burnished with twilight, like an Olympian chariot from above, with the fair vision of some graceful god ! It is the hour that poets love; but I crush thoughts that rise from out my mind, like nymphs from out their caves when sets the sun. Yet 'tis a blessing here to breathe and nmse. And cold his clay, indeed, who does not yield to thy Ausonian beauty ! Clinic where the heart softens and the mind expands ! Region of mellowed bliss ! O ! most enchanting land ! When I began this meritorious tale, I had deter- mined to conline myself in the strictest manner to its interesting narration ; but blood will show it- self, and nature will have her way ; and if I had kept her in, we never could have got on. So, here is an explosion ; hut if you think that, on the whole, it is rather too sublime and solemn, let mc inform yon, sir, that -this chapter is no common chapter, but embalms by far the most important in- cident, not only in this .work, but in the life of man. And so, wc are at the park gates. They whirled along through a park which would have contained half a hundred of tho.;e Patagonian paddocks of modern times which have usur[)ed the name. At length the young duke was roused from his rcvery by Carlstein, proud of his previous- knowledge, leaning over and announ- cing— " Chateau de Dacre, your grace !'' The duke looked up. The snn, which had al- ready set, had tinged with a dying crimson the eastern sky, against which rose a princely edifice Castle Dacre was the erection of Vanbrugh, un imaginative artist, whose critics I wish no bitlerci fate than not to live in his splendid creations. A spacious centre, richly ornamented, though broken perhaps into rather too much detail, was joined to wings of a corresponding magnificence by fanciful colonnades. A terrace, extending the whole front. was covered wiUi orange-trees, and many a statue THE YOUNG DUKE. 255 and manj' an obelisk, and many a temple, and many a fountain, were tinted with the warm twi- light. The duke did not view the forgotten scene of youth without emotion. It was a palace worthy of the heroine on whom he had been musing. The carriage gained the lofty portal. Luigi and the pages were ready to receive his grace, who v^'as immediately ushered to the rooms prepared for his reception. The duke was later than he had in- tended, and no time was to be unnecessarily lost in his preparation for his appearance. His grace's toilet was already prepared : the magical dressing-box had been unpacked, and the shrine for his devotions was covered with richly cut bottles of all sizes, arranged in all the elegant combinations which the picturesque fancy of his valet could devise, adroitly intermixed with the golden instruments, the china vases, and the ivory and rosewood brushes, which were worthy even of Delcroix's exquisite inventions. The Duke of St. James was master of the art of dress, and consequently consummated that paramount operation with the decisive rapidity of one wliose principles are settled. He was cogni- sant of all efi'ects, could calculate in a second all consequences, and obtained his result with that promptitude and precision which stamp the great artist. (2) For a moment he w as plunged in pro- found abstraction, and at the same time stretched his legs alter his ride. He then gave his orders, with the decision of Wellington on the arrival of the Prussians, and the battle began. Spiridion stood with a corbillon of towels, ready to supply the watchful Luigi, whose duty it was ever to have one in his extended hand. When the ablutions were performed, Luigi came forward with a richly qtiiltcd siUvcn robe, and his grace, folding himself with the dignity of Cassar, fell, not at the base of Pompeyls statue, but on an ottoman. Luigi supported his back, while Spiridion, with a fineness of tact of which a Greek is alone suscep- tible, arranged the bas de soie, and fitted the feet into velvet shoes, fastened by buckles of mother- of-pearl. The feet woidd have become a woman ; but the Duke of St. James followed up his advan- tage : and by having the tube of his wliite trousers somewhat amplified at their termination, the deli- cate extrem.ities became in,* their character not merely feminine, but would have filled with envy Uie mistress of a mandarin. S[)iridion, then, with an arrosoir of agate — ex- quisite invention of Parisian taste — waters, with the essence of a bank of violets, that important garment which in former days was styled the under tunic. This on, Luigi advances, fits it per- fectly to the neck, inserts the jewelled studs, and presents, at the same time, the cravat. But do not misconceive me. It was not that indescribable compound of starch and cambric to which courtesy has too long yielded an honoured name. ! no ; the Duke of St. .fames's neck was covered with the finest muslin, delicately strengthened by a pro- cess with which Luigi was alone acquainted, and fringed with a fall of l)londc, more beautiful, if not as sublime as the fall of JN'iagara. His grace had a taste for magnificence in cos- tume ; but he was handsome, young, and a duke. Pardon him. Yet to-day he was, on the whole, simple, and with the exception of the pink topaz buttons, which shed their rosy hue over his white bilk waistcoat, he wore no jewels. Confiden' in a complexion whose pellucid lustre had not yielded to a season of dissipation, liis grace did not dread the want of relief which a white lace, a white cra- vat, and a white waistcoat, would seem to imply : nevertheless, the interior of the waistcoat was im- perceptibly lined with rose-coloured silk, and a rich and flickering light was thus thrown over the soft beauties of the blonde. The elTect, as the cause was concealed, was in a manner supernatural. Luigi advanced with a coat, of a colour — re- member it was summer — stolen from the neck of Juno's peacock. While he fits it to the back, Spiridion arranges the ruffles, replaces on his fa- voured finger tlie signet-ring, and presents his lord with a handkerchief, which assuredly must have been dropped on that immortal bank o'er which the south did breathe so sweetly ! A hair-chain set in diamonds, worn in memory of the absent Aphrodite, and to pique the present Dacre, is an- nexed to a glass, which reposes in the waistcoat pocket. This was the only weight that the Puke of St. James ever carried. It was a bore, but it was indispensable. It is done. He stops one moment before the long pier-glass, and shoots a glance which would have read the mind of Talleyrand. It will do. He assumes the look, the air that befits the occasion — cordial, but dignified ; sublime^ but sweet. Ha descends like a deitv from Olympus to a banquet of illustrious mortals. CHAPTER VIIL Mil. Dacrf, received him with marked aflfeclion: his daughter, with a cordiality which he had liever yet experienced from her. Though more simply dressed than when she first met his ardent gaze, her costume again charmed his practised eye. " It must be her shape," thought the young duke — " it is magical !" The rooms were full of various guests, and some of these were presented to his grace, who was, of course, an object of universal notice, but particularly by those persons who pretended not to be aware of his entrance. The party assembled at Castle Dacre consisted of some thirty or forty per- sons, all of great consideration, but of a different character to any with whom the Duke of St. James had been acquainted during his short experience of English society. They were not what are called faafn'onalik people. I have no princes and no ambassadors, no duke who, is a gourmand, no earl who is a jockey, no manoeuvring mothers, no flirting daughters, no gambling sons, for jour en- tertainment. There is no superfine geiuleman brought down specially from town to gauge the refinement of the manners of the party, and to pre- vent them, by his constant supervision and occa- sional sneer, from losing any of the beneficial results of their last campaign. We shall sadly want, too, a lady patroness, to issue a decree or quote her code of consolidated eti(iuette. I am not sure that Almack's will ever be mentioned ; I am quite sure that Maradan has never yet been heard of. The Jockey Club may be quoted, but Crock- ford will be a dead letter. As for the rest, Boodle's is all I can promise — miserable consolation fur tlie bow-window. As for bulibons and artists, to amuse a vacant hour or sketch a vacant faCe, I must 25G D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. frankly tell 3'ou at once that there is not one. Are you frightened 1 Will you go on 1 Will you trust yourselves with these savages 1 Try. They are rude, but they are hospitable. The party, I have said, were all persorjs of great consideration : some wei'e noble, most were rich, all had ancestors. There were the Earl and Comitess of Faulconcoiirt. He looked as if he were fit to reconquer Palestine, and she, as if she were wortliy to reward him for his valour. Mis- placed in this superior age, he was sans penr, and she sans rcproche. There was Lord Mildmay, an English peer, and a French colonel. Methinks such an incident might have been a better reason for a late measure, than an Irishman being returned a member of our imperial parliament. But that is past and settled. I say nothing ; but if I had been there at the time, which, God be praised ! I was not, I know who would have read a moral lesson or two, varied the dulness of a worn debtite, and shown considerable talent in his way. There was our friend Lord St. Jerome, of course ; his step- mother, -yet young, and some sisters, pretty as nuns. There were some cousins from the farthest north, Northumbria's bleakest bound, who came down upon Yorkshire like the Goths upon Italy, and were revelling in what they considered a southern clime. ' There was an M. P. in whom the Catholics had hopes. He had made a great speech, — not only a great speech, but a great impression. His matter certainly was not new, but well arranged, and his images not singularly original, but appositely in- troduced — in short, a hore, who, speaking on a subject in which a new hand is indulged, and con- nected with the families whose cause he was plead- ing, was for once courteously listened to by the very men who determined to avenge themselves for their complaisance by a cough on the first opportu- nity. But the orator was prudent; he reserved himself, and the session closed with his fame yet full blown. Then there were country neighbours in great store, with wives that were treasures, and daughters fresh as flowers. Among them I would particular- ize two gentlemen that caught my eye. They were great proprietors, and Catholics, and baronets, and consoled themselves by their active mainte- nance of the game-laws, for their inability to regu- late their neighbours by any other. One was Sir Chetvvode Chetwode of Chetwode ; the other was Sir Tichborne Tichbome of Tichborne. I never saw two men less calculated to be the slaves of a foreign and despotic power, which we all know Catholics are. Tall, and robust, and rosy, with hearts even stouter than their massy frames, they were just the characters to assemble in Runny- mede, and probably, even at the present day, might have imitated their ancestors, even in their signa- tures. In disposition, they were much the same, though they were friends. In person, there were some differences, but they were slight. Sir Chet- wode's hair was straight and white ; Sir Tich- borne's brown and curly. Sir Chetwode's eyes were blue ; Sir Tichborne's gray. Sir Chetwode's nose was perhaps a snub ; Sir Tichborne's was certainly a bottle. Sir Chetwode was somewhat garrulous, and was often like a man at a play, in the wrong box ; Sir Tichborne was somewhat taciturn ; but when he spoke, it was always to the purpose, and made an impression, even if it were not new. Both were kind hearts ; but Sir Chetwode was jovial, Sir Tichborne rather stern. Sir Chetwode often broke into a joke, Sir Tichborne sometimea backed into a sneer. A few of these characters were made known by Mr. Dacre to his young friend, but not many, and in an easy way, — those that stood nearest. Introduction is a formality, and a bore, and is nevei resorted to by your well-bred host, save in a casual way. When proper people meet at proper houses, they give each other credit for propriety, and slide into an acquaintance by degrees. The first d;iy, they catch a name ; the next, they ask you whe- ther you are the son of General . " No, he was my uncle." — " Ah I I knew him well. A worthy soul !"' And then the thing is settled. You ride together, shoot, or fence, or hunt. A game of bil- liards will do no great harm ; and when you part, you part with a hope that you may meet again. Lord Mildmay was glad to meet with the son of an old friend. He knew the late duke well, and loved him better. It is pleasant to hear our fathers praised. We too may inherit their virtues with their lands, or cash, or bonds ; and, scapegraces as we are, it is agreeable to find a precedent for the blood turning out well. And, after all, there is no feeling more thoroughly delightful, than to be con- scious that the kind being from whose loins we spring, and to whom we cling with an innate and overpowering love, is viewed by others with regard, with reverence, or with admiration. There is no pride like the pride of ancestry, for it is a blending of all emotions. How immeasurably superior to the herd is the man whose father only is famous ! Lnagine, then, the feelings of one who can trace his line through a thousand years of heroes and of princes ! In fathers, nature gives us kinder friends than proud society can ever yield ; and yet we fly too often from the face that beams with fondness on its own creation. But time, and sharp experience, sooner or later, return us to our hearths, though somewhat roughly. A bill that must be paid, a shattered horse, a sulky tailor, a rebellious gold- smith, are not the greatest evils, yet they make one dull, and bring the young master- quickly to his sen.ses. 'Tis then that nature speaks with her still voice, so soft and small ! 'Tis then we fly to him who, in our adversity, is the only one on whom we sure- ly count. He draws his purse-strings, or he draws a check, and gives us, with his good assistance, good advice. Kind soul ! beneficent, beloved friend ! O ! let me die the traitor's death, let me be hurled from yon Tarpeian mount, if such it be, if ever I do love thee not ; if I wear not thy image in my inmost core, — adore thee living, and revere thee dead I What though, at this most fatal moment, I am drawing a most unhap])y, a most unexpected, and a most unreasonable bill, and at the shortest date ! I grant it all — yet pity ! pardon ! pay ! Well will it be for him who loses such as thee, to find some female friend to smooth the years that yet remain. Woman alone can urge a claim to soften the bitterness of filial recollections. I have half a mind to anticipate the remedy ; but the ceremony is really awful. I like the ancient fancy of a wedding. You may mark it on a gem, where Cupid leads his Psyche to the altar — all birds and plumes, all fruit, and flowers, and flame ! THE YOUNG DUKE. 257 la modern days, the most graceful Psyche loolcs awkward at that hour, and Cupid stands before her all confessed with cheeks even whiter than his whitest jeans. I say nothing of the parson and the clerk, the anxious mother, and the smirking sire. Even there I could stand. But spare ! ! spare me, the giggling bride's-maids and the grin- ning grooms. 'Tis dinner! hour I have loved, as loves the bard the twilight ; but no more those visions rise, that once were wont to spring in my quick fancy. The dream is past, the spell is broke, and even the lore on which I pondered in my first youth is strange as figures in Egyptian tombs. No more — no more, O ! never more to me that hour shall bring its raptured bliss ! No more — no more, O ! nevermore for me, shall Flavour sit upon her thousand thrones, and, like a siren with a sun- ny smile, win to renewed excesses — each more sweet! My feasting days are over: me, no more, the channs of fish, or flesh, still less of fowl, can make the fool of that they made before. (3) The fricandeau is like a dream of early love ; the frica- see, with which I have so often flirted, is like the tattle of the last quadrille ; and no longer are my dreams haunted with the dark passion of the rich ragout. Ye soups ! o'er whose creation I liave watched, like mothers o'er their sleeping child ! Ye sauces ! to which I have even lent a name, where are ye now 1 Tickling, perchance, the palate of some easy friend, who quite forgets the boon com- panion whose presence once lent lustre even to his rul)y vsane, and added perfume to his perfumed hock! Shade of my grandsire ! — rightly I invoke thy spirit in the land in which thy restless youth did also wander. Was it for this that I sat at thy Gamaliel-feet, and tasted knowledge with my ear- liest years 1 Was it for this thy aged eye did gleam with the bright thought, that thy fine taste should survive in thy young posterity 1 Was it for this thy favourite Beaujolais prepared the beccafico, and procured the truffle ] O ! for an hour of thy Conde soups! O! for the hermitage that Tilney loved ! O I for the port that flowed alone for dukes ! (4) Was it for this, thy curious table poured its de- icate mysteries to my infant mind — that I, your hope, your joy — I, who praised (or damned) your cook, ere my fourth birth-day, should now, with my fifth lustre yet imperfect, with a frame half- dying, and a brain half-dry — with ail my high hopes thrown by in a comer, like a Ritiotto cloak, with faded grace, maintain a miserable existence, which is not life, by the atrocious torture of a diet 1 A simple sandwich, a severe olive, a cutlet purer tlian a virgin's cheek, with less of sauce piquante than that of rouge; an ortolan or two — ah! once 'twas six ; a glass or two, or three, of ruby wine, such as Chianti yields, and Kedi sings, strong, yet mellow — dignified, yet mild — these fo-m a meal that sends me lightly on an evening ride. And thus glides on a life, which is not life, if life be passion, as I truly think. To feel each day you hold your bridle with a grasp less firm : each day, to guide even this frivolous pen, with which I beguile a vanishing existence, with a more feeble aim — all this, too, daily teaches a poor gentleman how very quickly tlie milestones of his life are hurrying on. What theni We die. What then, again 1 We go where there is all of hope and naught of 33 fear, to those who, on right subjects, rightly think. My life has been but brief, and in that brevity there has been enough of bitterness ; yet have I not lived in vain, since I have learned to die. To die ! — it is a doom that hangs o'er all, — to die ! — it is a fate that all must meet. Then, let us meet it boldly, and with a calm and holy courage. What we are we know less than we might ; what we shall be is written on a page which none can read. All here is doubt — all beyond is darkness. Between a troubled sea and covered sky, the mariners grow pale ; and yet there is an invisible Pilot hurrying on our barks to shores of lucid light, and havens all repose ! " But what the deuse is death, when dinner is waiting all this time 1" Good heavens ! how can you run on so, ma- dam! Our duke but little recked of his decease or his digestion. He pecked as prettily as any bird. Seated on the right hand of his dehghtful hostess, nohody could be better pleased ; supervised by his jager, who stood behind his chair, no one could be better attended. He smiled, with the calm, amiable complacency of a man who feels the world is quite right. But this chapter must not be too long. . CHAPTER IX. "How is your grace's horse, Sansparei! P''^ asked Sir Chctwode Chetwode of Chctwode of the Duke of St. James, shooting at the same time a sly glance at his opposite neighbour. Sir Tichborne Tichborne of Tichborne. " Quite well, sir," said the duke, in his quietest tone, but with an air which, he flattered himself, might repress further inquiry. " Has he got over his fatigue ?" pursued the dogged baronet, with a short, gritty laugh, that sounded hke a loose drag-chnin dangling against the stones. "We all thought the Yorkonue air would not agree with him." " Yet, Sir Chetwode, that could hardly be your opinion of Sannpareil," said Miss Dacre, " for I think, if I remember right, I had the pleasure of making you encourage our glove manufactory V Sir Chetwode looked a little confused. Tire Duke of St. James, inspirited by his fair al!" rallied, and hoped Sir Chetwode did not back hi., steed to a fatal extent. " If," continued he, '' I had had the slightest idea that any friend of Miss Dacre was indulging in such an indiscretion, I certainly would have interfered, and have let him know that the horse was not to win." " Is that a factl" asked Sir Tichborne Tichborne of Tichborne, with a sturdy voice. "Can a Yorkshireman doubt iti" rejoined the duke. " Was it possible for any one but a mere Newmarket dandy to have entertained for a moment the supposition that any one but May Dacre should be the queen of the St.Lcgcr ?" " I have heard something of this before," said Sir Tichborne, " but I did not belifeve it. A young friend of mine consulted me upon the subject ' Would you advise me,' said he, ' to settle '!' — ' Why,' said I, ' if you can prove any bubble, my opinion is — don't; but if you cannot prove any thing, my opinion is — do.' " " Very just ! — Very true !" were murmuied by x2 258 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. many in the neighbourhood of the oracle ; by no one with more personal sincerity than LaJy Tich- Dorne herself. '• I will write to my young friend," continued the baronet. " Certainly not," said May Dacrc. " His grace's candour must not be abused. I have no idea of being robbed of my well-earned honours. — 8ir Tichborne, private conversation must be respected, and the sanctity of domestic life must not be pro- faned. If the tactics of Doncaster are no longer to be fair war, why, half the families in the Riding will be ruined !" "Still — " caid Sir Tichborne. But Mr. Dacre, like a deity in a Trojan battle, interposed, and asked his opinion of a gamekeeper. " 1 hope you are a great sportsman," said Miss Dacre to the duke, " for this is the very palace of Kimrod." "I have hunted; it was not very disagreeable. I sometimes shoot ; it is not very stupid." " Then, in fact, I perceive that you are a heretic. Liord Faulconcourt, his grace is moralizing on the barbarity of the chas'^." " Then he has never had the pleasure of hunt- ing in company with Miss Dacre." " Do you indeed follow the hounds?" asked the duke. " Sometimes do worse — ride over them ; but liOrd Faulconcourt is fast emancipating me from the tranunels of my frippery foreign education, and I have no doubt that in another season I shall fling off quite in style." "You remember Mr. Anncsley 1" asked the duke. " It is difficult to forget him. He always seemed, to me, to think that the world was made on pur- pose for him to have the pleasure of ' cutting' it." " Yet he was your admirer !" " Yes, and once paid me a compliment. He told me it was the onl}' one that he httd ever uttered." " ! Charley, Charley ! this is excellent. We shall have a tale when we meet. What was the compliment 1" " It would be affectation in me to pretend that I had forgotten it. Nevertheless you must excuse me." " Pray, pray let me have it." " Perhaps you will not like it." " Now, I must hear it." " Well, then, he said, that talking to me was the only thing that consoled him for having to dine with you, and to dance with Lady Shropshire." " Charles is jealous," drawled the duke. " Of her grace !" asked Miss Dacre, with much anxiety. " No ; but Charles is aged, and once, wlien he dined with me, was taken for my uncle." The ladies retired, and the gentlemen sat bar- barously long. Sir Chctwode Chetwodc of Chct- wode and Sir Tichborne Tichborne of Tichborne were two men who drank wine independent of fashion, and exacted, to the last glass, tlie identical quantity which their fathers had drunk half a cen- tury before, and to which they hairits. All is dreary, blank, and cold. The sun of ho[)e sets without a ray, and the dim night of dark despair shadows only phantoms. The spirits that guard round us in our pride have gone. Fancy, weeping, flics. Imagination droops her glittering pinions and sinks into the earth. Cou- rage has no heart, and love seems a traitor. A busy demon whispers in our ear that all is vain and worthless, and we among the vainest of a worthless crew ! And so our young friend here now depreciated as much as he had before exaggerated his powers. THE YOUICG duke. 267 riicre seemed not on the earth's face a more for- lorn, a more feeble, a less estimable wretch than himself, — but just now a hero. O ! what a fool, what a miserable, contemptible fool was he ! With what a light tongue and lighter heart had he spo- ken of this woman who despised, who spurned him ! His face blushed, ay, burned at ihe remem- brance of his reveries and his foul monologues ! The veiy recollection made him shudder with dis- gust. He looked up to see if any demon were jeering him among the ruins. His heart was so crushed, that Hope could not find even one desolate chamber to smile in. His courage was so cowed, that far from indulging in the distant romance to which under these circum- stances we sometimes fly, he only wondered at the absolute insanity which for a moment had per- mitted him to aspire to her possession. " Sympa- thy of dispositions ! Similarity of tastes, forsooth ! VV hy, we are ditferent existences! Nature could never have made us for the same world, or with the same clay ! O ! consummate being, why — why did we meet ! Why — why are my eyes at length un- sealed I Why — why do I at length feel conscious of my utter worthlessness 1 O, God ! I am mise- rable"!" He arose, and hastened to the house. He gave orders to Luigi and his people to follow him to Rosemount wUh all practicable speed ; and having left a note for his host with the usual excuse, he mounted his horse, and In half an hour's time, with a countenance like a stormy sea, was galloping through the park-gates of Dacre. BOOK THE THIRD. CHAPTER I. Whetiieu or not the progress of invention be accelerated by consulting the comforts of the body as well as of the mind ; whether Bacchus and Ceres are titling company for the graces and the muses ; whether, in short, the grape and the grill are as es- sential to the concoction of a sublime poem, or a taking tale, as the ardour of enthusiasm and the pi(iuancy of wit, is a great question, which has not yet been decided. Blackstonc, we all know, wrote with the bottle ; but then, law is proverbially a dry study. Di'yden, instead of Champagne, took calomel. Sir VValter writes before breakfast : By- ron always wrote at night, backed by eveiy meal in the day. W^hen Charles Diodati excused some indifferent verses to Milton, on the plea that it was Christmas, and he was feasting, the indignant bard sent for answer an ode, which might have inspired him at the same time with better verse and more correct sentiments. Here follows a version of a stanza or two : — " Ami why should revelry and witie Be shuiin'd as I'ops to song divine 1 Bacchus loves the power of verse, Bacchus oft the Nine rehearse ; Nor Phoebus' self disdains to wear His berries in his golden hair. And ivy green wilii laurel twine; And oft are seen the sisters nine Joining, in mystic dance along Aonia's hills, with Bacchus' throng. In frozen Scythia's barren plains, What dulness seized on Ovid's strains! Their sweetness fled to climes alone To Ceres and Lyaeus known. " What but wine with roses crown'd Did the Teian lyre resound 1 Bacchus, with pleasing frenzy fired, The high Pindaric song inspired : Each page is redolent of wine When crashing loud the car supine On Elis' plains disjointed lies, And soil'd with dust the courser flies. Kapt with God's all-pleasing fire, The Romati poet strikes the lyre, And in measure sweet addresses Chloe fair, with golden tresses ; Or his lovod GlyV.ere sings, Touching light the immortal strings." Now I do not know what your opinion is, but I call this very pretty poetry. In my mind, it is a version not unworthy of Gray. Whose is it then ? Last night, being, as single gentlemen occasion- ally are, a little moody, I unpadded a case, the contents of which bear the too dignified title of a library. And here let me advise my friends to follow my example, and give up reading. All my books are print-books. There is no longer any possibility of concealing the mortifying truth, that no book has yet been written which does not weary, and as this cannot be the fault of the writers, it is clear that there is some radical blun- der in this mode of conveying our ideas. Now, gazing on a print, a result is conveyed at once, without the slightest labour of mind, and iimnortal revery never degenerates into mortal thought. The Iliad and the Odyssey of Flaxman excite in mv mind ideas infinitely more vivid, than the Iliad and Odyssey by Homer. A Salvator, a Caspar Pous- sin, and a Piranesi are each a stanza of Childe Harold. And I would sooner turn over the pages of Callot, than even the pages of Shakspeare and Voltaire. No man should read after nineteen. From thirteen to nineteen, hold your tongue, and read every thing you can lay your hands on. In this period, you may gain some acquaintance with every desirable species of written knowledge. From nineteen to twenty-two, action, action, ac- tion. Do every thing, dare every thing, imagine every thing. Fight, write, love, spout, travel, talk, feast, dress, drink. I limit you to three years, be- cause I think that in that period a lively lad may share every passion, and because if he do, at the end of that period lie will infallibly he done up. Then to your sohtude, and meditate on youth. In these words is the essence of all human wisdom. By five-and-twenty, my pupil may know all that man can attain, both of himself and his fellow- creatures. If our young gentleman live, he may chance to turn out something amusing to himself and to the world. If he die, he dies with the con- solation that he has fathomed the mx'sterj^ of man- kind. But to our tale ; or rather to our episode. — My volumes, which are clothed in a style and substance which would raise a flash of enthusiasm even from the perfect and practised eye of Dibdin, were guarded from the wear and tear of travel by that most useful and universally-known matter yclept waste-paper. It was printed — I have a horror of waste-paper under such circumstances. It may be, (one does not know how,) that some confounded indiscretion (one cannot tell what) which we have quite for- 268 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. gotten, (some people remember every thing,) and though. I am sure, for my part, I have no recollec- tion, and hope to God nobody else has, yet still we have all been young, and every thing, at some time or other, will turn up. O ! the luck of the rogue who falls to the pastry-cook, and not to the trunk-maker ! I have a horror of this waste and wn-begone — this outlawed, wandering, Cain-like material, which all men despise, and which none can do without ; which, like the Greek, (he Armenian, the Hebrew, and the gijisy, all think they may burn, and tear, and scorn, and banish. I have a perfect horror of it! Even my portmanteaus are lined with pink satin note paper. However, on the present occasion, I could not withstand the lure of looking at a page or so, and then I recovered. It turned out to be a translation of the Latin and Italian poems of Milton ; a trans- lation so extremely p) '.T^ing, that I continued my researches, and even nearly made up a complete copy. Also, like a second Mai, I recovered a great part of a translation of Claudian, by the same hand, and which I even prefer to the Milton. Sel- dom have I met with a version which more com- pletely conveyed the spirit, as well as the sense, of an original, and which did fuller justice to a most ardent and picturesque poet. For instance, how fine is this squadron in complete armour, in Rufi- nus ! " One wi'Uld havp thought, that polishM statues, dug From beds of solid ore", had tiercely brcalh'il, And started inio action." These translations purport to be the production of a gentleman bearing the nameof " J. G. S/rti/t," a name, I regret to say, I never before heard, nor, in all probability, did any one else. A somewhat plaintive preface seems to anticipate that the pre- facer was working to pack up my books. Yet these versions are works which probably have demanded many an hour of nightly meditation — perhaps have yielded to their creator some moments of poetic rapture. Such are the " calamities of authors !" Very gratified should I be, if this notice, in my transitory page, .should attract the public attention to the far more important labours of this ingenious man, who has displayed great taste, and great ta- lent, in a department of literature at the present day too much neglected, and from which neglect, in my opinion, the public mind has suffered. And, mdced, unless we moderns quickly mend, — the sooner we recur to the clear and creative spirits of antiquity, the better chance has the memory of the beautiful still to linger in a world which should have been its temple, and not its tomb I It is difficult to fix on a more mournful etudy than the contemplation of the literary efforts of mankind during the last fifteen dark centuries, and particularly since the fatal invention of printing. What fits and starts ! — what desperate plunging ! —what final bolting ! If a man have chanced, for a small quarter of a century, to exhibit any thing like a sequence of intellect, what raising of eyes ! — what clapping of hands ! — what wonder- ment ! — what self-congratulation ! — what chatter about illustrious ages! — what tattle about celebrated times ! The age of Augustus ! The age of Leo! Hie age of Louis ! The age of Anne ! Give me the age of human nature. If our political and moral systems had been any thing better than bloody blunders, and unsocial compacts, we should have had no cyclus of intellect to puzzle a dcgetiO rate posterity, and the natural light of the human mind would never have been clouded b}' the Cim- merian darkness of barbaric conquerors and feudal tyrants. Catholic inquisitors and Protestant puri- tans. Then, perhaps Portugal might have boasted of more than one poet, and Germany might even have owned a classic. Then, romance might have erected a delightful Moorish palace in the plains ot Grenada, and Italy might not then have gazed upon her paintings with a tear, and on her poesy with a blush. France, too, who has a literature, might then have been honoured, instead of being insulted ; and England, that miraculous England, of whom I dare not whisper a disparagement, ahhough a Calmuc man-of-war at anchor in sight reminds me with disgust that even in the Mediter- ranean I might find safety from her vengeance; even England, I say, might then have boasted of an historian rather earlier than the last half cen- tury. Yet there are some great names. There is Shakspcare, of whom ig, and to try to see her feet ; but tlicy'were too small. At last Lord Squib announced that he had discovered them by a new glass, and described them as a couple of diamond-claws most exqui- sitely finished. She rolled round her head with a faint smile, as if she distrusted her powers, and feared the assem-" bly would be disappointed, and then she shot forth a note, which thrilled through every heart, and nearly cracked the chandelier. Even Lady Fitz- pompey said " Brava!" As she proceeded, the audience grew quite fran- tic. It was agreed on all hands, that miracles had recommenced. Each air was only sung to call forth fresh exclamations of " Miracolo !"' and en- cores were as unmerciful as a usurper. Amid all this rapture the young duke was not silent. His box was on the stage ; and ever and anon the siren shot a glance, which seemed to tell him that he was marked out amid this brilliant multitude. Each round of applause, each roar of ravished senses, only added a more fearful action to the wild purposes which began to flit about his grace's mind. His imagination was touched. His old passion to be distinguished returned in full force. This creature was strange, mysterious, celebrated. Her beauty, her accomplishments were as singular and as rare as her destiny and her fame. His revery absolutely raged : it was only disturbed by her repeated notice and his returned acknowledgments. He arose in a state of mad excitation, once more the slave or the victim of his intoxicated vanity. He hurried behind the scenes. THE YOUNG DUKE. 273 He congratulated her on her success, her genius, and her beauty ; and, to be brief, within a week of her arrival in our metropolis, the Bird of Paradise was fairly caged in the Alhambra. CHAPTER V. Hitherto the Duke of St. James had been a very celebrated personage ; but his fame had been confined to the two thousand Brahmins who con- stitute the world. His patronage of the signora extended his celebrity in a manner which he had not anticipated ; and he became also the hero of the ten, or twelve, or fifteen millions of Parias, for whose existence philosophers have hitherto failed to adduce a satisfactory cause. The Duke of St. James was now, in the most comprehensive sense of the phrase, a public cha- racter. Some choice spirits took the hmt from the ''public feelings, and determined to dine on the pub- lic curiosity. A Sunday journal was immediately established. Of this epic our duke was the hero. His manners, his sayings, his adventures, regularly regaled, on each holyday, the Protestant population of this Protestant empire, who, in France or Italy, or even Germany, faint at the sight of a peasantry testifying their gratitude for a day of rest, by a dance or a tune. " Sketches of the Alhambra.'' — " Soupirs in the Regent's Park." — " The court of the Caliph." — " The Bird-cage," &c. &c. &c., were duly announced, and duly devoured. This journal, being solely devoted to the illustration of the life of a single and a private individual, was appropriately entitled " The Universe." Its con- tributors were emmently successful. Their pure inventions and impure details were accepted as the most delicate truth ; and their ferocious familiarity with persons with whom they were totally unac- quainted, demonstrated, at the same time, their ac- quaintance both with the forms and the personages of polite society. At the first announcement of this hebdomedal, his grace was a little annoyed, and " Nodes Haufe- villie7ises" made him fear treason; but when he had read a number, he entirely acquitted any per- son of a breach of confidence. On the whole he was amused. A variety of ladies, in time, were introduced, with many of whom the duke had scarcely interchanged a bow ; but the respectable editor was not up to Lady Afy. If his grace, however, were soon reconciled to this, not very agreeable, notoriety, and consoled himself under the activity of his libellers, by the conviction that their prolusions did not even amount to a caricature, he was less easily satisfied with another performance which speedily advanced its claims to public notice. There is an unavoidable reaction in all human affairs. The Duke of St. James had been so suc- cessfully attacked, that it became worth while successfully to defend him, and another Sunday paper appeared, the object of which was to main- tain the silver side of the shield. Here every thing was couleiir de rose. One week, the duke saved a poor man from the Serpentine ; another, a poor woman from starvation : now an orphan was grateful; and now Miss Zouch, impelled by her necessity, and his reputation, addressed him a 35 column and a half, quite heart-rending. Parents with nine children ; nine children without parents ; clergymen most improperly unbeneficed ; officers most wickedly reduced ; widows of younger sons of quality sacrificed to the colonies ; sisters of literary men sacrificed to national works, which required his patronage to appear ; daughters who had known better days, but somehow or other had not been as well acquainted with their parents ; all advanced with multiplied petitions, and that hack- neyed, heartless air of misery which denotes the mumper. His grace was infinitely annoyed, and scarcely compensated for the inconvenience by the prettiest little creature in the world, who one day forced "herself into his presence to solicit the honour of dedicating to him her poems. He had enough upon his hands, so he wrote her a check, and with a courtesy which must have made this Sappho quite desperate, put her out of the room. I forgot to say, that the name of the new journal was the "New World." The new world is not quite as big as tiie universe, but then it is as large as all the other quarters of the globe together. The worst of this business was, the Universe pro- tested that the Duke of St. James, like a second Canning, had called this New World into ex- istence, which was too bad, because, in truth, he deprecated its discoverj' scarcely less than the Venetians. Having thus managed, in the course of a few weeks, to achieve the reputation of an unrivalled roue, our hero one night betook himself to Al- mack's, a place where his visits, this season, were both shorter and less frequent. Many an anxious mother gazed upon him as he passed, with an eye which longed to pierce futu- rity ; many an agitated maiden looked exquisitely unembarrassed, wliile her fiuttering memory feasted on the sweet thought that, at any rate, another had not captured this unrivalled prize. Perhaps she might be the Anson to fall upon this galleon. It was worth a long cruize, aud even the chance of a shipv^reck. He danced with Lady Aphrodite, because, since the aflair of the signora, he was most punctilious in his attentions to her, particularly in public. That affair, of course, she passed over in silence, though it was bitter. She, however, had had suf- ficient experience of a man to feci that remon- strance is a last resource, and usually an ineffectual one. It was something that her rival — not that her ladyship dignii'ied the bird by that title — it was something, that she was not her equal, that she was not one with whom she could be put in pain- ful and constant collision. She tried to consider ' a freak, to believe only half she heard, and to in- dulge the fancy, that it was a toy which would soon tire. As for Sir Lucius, he saw nothing in this adventure, or indeed in the Alhambra system at all, which militated against liis ulterior views. No one more constantly officiated at the ducal orgies than himself, both because he was devoted to self-gratification, and because he liked ever to have his protege in sight. He studiously prevented any other individual from becoming the Pctronius of the cixcle. His deep experience also taught him, that with a person of the young duke's temper, the mode of life which he was now leading was exactly the one which not only would ensure, but even hurry, the catastrophe his faitiiful friend so eagerlv 274 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. desired. His plcEisures, as Sir Lucius knew, would soon pall ; for he easily perceived that the duke was not heartless enough for a roue. When thorough satiety is felt, young men are in the cue for desfierate deeds. Looking upon happiness as a dream, or a prize which, in life's lottery, they have missed — worn, hipped, dissatisfied, and desperate, they often hurry on a result which they disap- prove, merely to close a miserable career, or to brave the society with which they cannot sympa- thize. The duke, however, was not yet sated. As, after a feast, when we have despatched a quantity of wine, there sometimes, as it were, arises a second appetite, unnatural, to be sure, l)ut very keen ; so, in a career of dissipation, when our passion for pleasure appears to be exhausted, the fatal fancy of man, like a wearied hare, will take a new turn, throw off the hell-hounds of eanui, and course again with renewed vigour. And to-night the Duke of St. .Tames was, as he had been for some weeks, all life, and fire, and excitement; and his eye was even now wandering round the room, in quest of some consummate spirit, whom he might summon to his Saracenic paradise. A consummate spirit his eye lighted on. There stood May Dacre. He gasped for breath. He turned pale. It was only for a moment, and his emotion was unperceived. There she stood, beauti- ftil as when she first glanced before him ; — there .she stood, with all her imperial graces; and all sur- rounding splendour seemed to fade away before her dazzling presence, like mournful spirits of a lower world before a radiant creature of the sky. She was speaking with her sunlight smile to a young man, whose appearance attracted his notice. He was dressed entirely in black, short, but slen- derly made; sallow, but clear, with long black curls, and a Murillo face, and looked altogether like a young Jesuit, or a Venetian official by Giorgione or Titian. His countenance was reserved, and his manner not very easy ; yet, on the whole, his face indicated intellect, and his figure blood. The fea- tures haunted the duke's memory. He had met this jierson before. There are some countenances which, when once seen, can never be forgotten, and the young man owned one of these. The duke recalled him to his memory with a pang. Our hero, — let him still be ours ; for he is rather desolate, and he requires the backing of his friends, — our hero behaved pretty well. He seized the first favourable opportunity to catch Miss Dacre's eye, and was grateful for her bow. Emboldened, he accosted her, and asked after Mr. Dacie, She was very courteous, but amazingly unembarrassed. Her calmness, however, piqued him sufficiently to allow him to rally. He was tolerably easy, and talked of calling. Their conversation lasted only lor a few minutes, and was fortunately terminati'd without his withdrawal, which would have beei; itwkward. The young man whom we have noticed c-ame up to claim her hand. * "Arundel Dacre, or my eyes deceive me," said tlie young duke. " I always consider an old Eto- nian a friend, and therefore I address you without ceremony." The young man accepted, but not with great readiness, the offered hand. He blushed, and spoke, but in a hesitating and husky voice. Then he cleared his tliroat, and spoke again, but not much \ more to the purpose. Then he looked to his part ner, whose eyes were on the ground, and rose ai he endeavoured to catch them. For a moment, he was silent again ; then he bowed slightly to Miss Dacre, and solemnly to the duke, and then he car- ried off his cousin. "Poor Dacre!" said the duke; "he always had the worst manner in the world. Not in the least changed." His grace wandered into the tea-room. A knot of dandies were in deep converse. He heard his own name, and that of the Duke of Burlington ; then came " Doncaster Beauty" — " Don't you know ?" — " ! yes," — " All quite mad," &c. &c. &c. As he passed, he was invited in different way« to join this coterie of his admirers, but he declined the honour, and passed them with that icy hauteur which he could assume, and which, judiciously used, contributed not a little to his popularity. He could not conquer his depression ; and although it was scarcely past midnight, he deter- mined to disappear. Fortunately, his carriage was waiting. He was at a loss what to do with him- self. He d leaded even to be alone. The signora was at a private concert, and she was the last person whom, at this moment, he cared to see. His low spirits rapidly increased. He got terribly ner\'ous,and felt perfectly miserable. At last he drove to White's. The House had just broke up, and the pohtical members had just entered, and in clusters, some standing, and some yawning, some stretching their arms, and some stretciiing their legs, presented symptoms of an escape from boredom. Among others, round the fire, was a young man dressed in a rough great-coat all cords and sables, with his hat bent aside, a shawl tied round his neck with great boldness, and a huge oaken staff clenched in his left hand. With the other he held the Courier, and reviewed with a critical eye the report of the speech which he had made that afternoon. This wajt Lord Darrell. I have always considered the talents of younger brothers as an unanswerable argument in favour of a Providence. Lord Darrell was the younger son of the Earl of Darleyford, and had been educated for a diplomatist. A rejwrt some years ago had been very current, that his elder brother, then Lord Darrell, was, against the consent of his family, about to be favoured with the hand of Mrs. Dal- lington Vere. Certain it is, he was a very devotx?ecause the houdins might claim attention ; and while you were crowning your important labours with a quail, you v;ere not reminded that the jxiie da Troyes, unlike the less reasonable human race, would feel offended if it were not cut. Then the wines were few. Some sherry, with a pedigree like an Arabian, heightened the flavour of the dish, not interfered with it; as a toadey keeps up the conversation which he does not distract. A goblet of Gratfenburg, with a bouquet like woman's. breath, made you, as you remembered some liquid which it had been your fate to fill! upon, suppose that German wines, like German barons, rciiuired some discrimination, and that hock, like other titles, was not always the sign of the high nobility of its owner, A glass of claret was the third grace. But if I had been there, I should have devoted myself to one of tiie spark- ling sisters ; for I think that one wine, like one woman, is sufficient to interest our feelings for four-and- twenty hours. Fickleness I abhor. ■ " I observed your riding to-day with the gentle Leonora, St. James," said Mr. Annesley. " No ! her sister." " Indeed ! Those girls are uncommonly alike. 2A8. S83 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. The fact is, now, that neither face nor figure de- pends upon nature." " No," said Lord Squib ; " all that the artists of the present day waut is a model. Let a family provide one handsome sister, and the hideousness of the others will not prevent them, under good management, from being mistaken, by the best judges, for the beauty, six times in the same hour.'' " You are trying, I suppose, to account for your unfortunate error at Cleverley's, on Monday, Squib," said Lord Darrell, laughing. " Pooh ! Pooh ! all nonsense." " What was itl" said Mr. Annesley. " Not a word true," said Lord Squib, stifling curiosity. " I believe it, " said the duke, without having heard a syllable. " Come, Darrell, out with it !" " It really is nothing very particular, — only it is whispered that Squib said something to Lady Cle- verly, which made her ring the bell, and that he excused himself to his lordship by protesting, that from their similarity of dress and manner, and strong family likeness, he had mistaken the countess for her sister." Oinnes. " Well done. Squib ! And were you introduced to the right person!" " Why," said his lordship, " fortunately, I con- trived to fall out about the settlements, and so I escaped." " So the chaste Diana is to be the new pa- troness," said Lord Darrell, " So I understand," rejoined Mr. Annesley. " This is the age of unexpected appointments." "Ort (lit, tliat when it was notified to the party most interested, there was a rider to the bill, ex- cluding my lord's relations." "Ha, ha, ha," faintly laughed Mr. Annesley, — " What have they been doing so very particular!" " Nothing," said Lord Squib. " 'That is just their fault. They have every recommendation : but when any' member of that family is in a room, everybody feels so exceedingly sleepy, that they all sink to the ground. That is the I'eason that there are so many ottomans at Heavyside House." " Is it true," asked the duke, " that his grace really has a flapper 1" "Most unquestionably," said Lord Squib. " The other day I was announced, and his attend- ant was absent. He had left his instrument on a sofa. I immediately took it up, and touched my lord upon his hump. I never knew him more en- tertaining. He really was quite lively." " But Diana is a favourite goddess of mine," said Annesley, — " taste that hock." " Superb I where did you get it V " A present from poor Raflenburg." " Ah ! where is he now 1" " At Paris, I believe." " Paris ! and where is she V " I liked Raflenburg," said Lord Squib ; " he always reminded me of a country inn-keeper who supplies you with ))ipes and tobacco gratis, pro- vided that you will dine with him." " He had unrivalled meerschaums," said Mr. Annesley, "ard he was most liberal. These are two. — You know, I never use them, — but they are handsome furniture.'' " Those (.'hampagnys arc fine girls," said the Duke of St. James. " Very pretty creatures ! Do you know, St. •lames," said Annesley, "I think the youngest one something like May Dacre ?" " Indeed ! I cannot say the resemblance struck me." " I sec old mother Champagny dresses her as much like the Doncaster belle as she possilily can." " Yes, a«d spoils her," said Lord Squib ; " but old mother Champagny, with all her fuss, was ever a bad cook, and overdid every thing." " Young Champagny, they say," observed Lord Darrell, " is in a sort of a scrape." "Ah! what!" " ! some confusion at head quarters. — A great tallow-chandler's son got into the regiment, and committed some heresy at mess." " Champagny is in want of the loan of a thou- sand pounds, I suppose," said Mr. Annesley. " I do not know the brother," said the duke. "You are very fortunate, theii. He is one of those unendurables fit only for a regiment. To give you an idea of him — suppose you met him here, (which you never will,) he would write to you the next day, ' my dear St. James.' " " My tailor presented me his best compliments, the other morning," said the duke. " The world is growing too familiar," said Mr Annesley. "There must be some great remedy," said Lord Darrell. " Yes !" said Lord Squib, with still greater in- dignation. " Tradesmen, no\v-a-days, console them- selves for not gelling their bills paid by asking their customers to dinner." " It is very shocking," said Mr. Annesley, with a forlorn air: ."do you know I never enter society now without taking as many preliminary precautions as if the plague raged in all our chambers. In vain have I hitherto prided myself on my existence being unknown to the million. I never now stand still in the street, lest my portrait be caught for a lithograph ; I never venture to a strange dinner, lest I should stumble upon a fashionable novelist : and even with all this vigilance, and all this denial, I have an intimate friend whom I cannot cut, and who, they say, writes for the Court Journal." "But why Qinnot vou cut hiaal'' asked Lord Darrell. " He is my brother ; and, you know, I pride myself upon my domestic feelings." " Yes!" said Lord Squib, — "to judge from what the world says, one would think, Annesley, you were a Brummel !" " Squib, not even in jest, couple my name with one whom I will not call a savage, merely because he is unfortunate." " What did you think of little Eugenie, Annes- ley, last night !" asked the duke. " Very well — very well, indeed — something like Brocard's worst." " I was a little disappointed in her debut, and much interested in her success. She was rather a favourite of mine at Paris, so I took her home to the Alhambra yesterday, with a whole bevy, and Claudius Piggott and Co. I had half a mind to pull you in, but I know you do not much admire Pig;^0tt." " On the contrary, I have been in Piggott's com- pany, without being very much oll'ended." " I think Piggott improves," said Lord Darrell. " It was those waistcoats which excited such 4 prejudice against him when he first came over " THE YOUNG DUKE. 283 " What ! a prejudice against Peacock Piggott !" said Lord Squib — " pretty Peacock Piggott ! Tell it not in Gath : whisper it not in Askelon — and above all, insinuate it not to Lady de Courcy." •' There is not much danger of my insinuating any thing to her," said Mr. Annesley. " Your compact, I liope, is religiously observed," said the duke. " Yes — very well. There was a slight infraction once, but I sent Henry Fitzroy as an ambassador, and war was not declared." " Do you mean," asked Lord Squib, " when your cabriolet broke down before her door, and she sent out to request that you would make yourself quite at home V " I mean that fatal day," replied Mr. Annesley. " I afterwards discovered she had bribed my tiger." " Do you know Eugenie's sister, St. James?" asked Lord Darrell. " Yes : she is very clever, indeed — very popular at Paris. But I like Eugenie because she is so good-natured. That girl always laughs so ! One good grin from her always cures my spleen !" " You should buy her, then," said his host, " for she m'ust be invaluable. For my part, I consider existence a bore." " So it is," said Lord Squib. " Do you remem- ber that girl at Madrid, Annesley V " What, Isidora ! She is coming over." " But I thought it vi-as high-treason to plunder the grandees' dovecotes 1" " Why, all our regular official negotiations have failed. She is not permitted to treat with a foreign manager ! but the new ambassador has a secretary, and that secretary has a pcncka7it, and so — Isidora IS to be smuggled over." " In a red box, I suppose," said Lord Squib. " I rather admire our Adelc," said the Duke of St. James. " O ! certainly ; she is a favourite of mine." " But I like that wild little Ducie," said Lord Squib. " She puts me in mind of a wild-cat." " And Marunia of a Bengal tiger," said his grace. " She is a fine woman, though," said Lord Dan-cll. " I think your cousin, St. James," said Lord Squib, " will get into a scrape with Marunia. I remember Chatwynd telling me, — and he was not apt to complain on that score, — that he never should have broken up, if it had not been for her." " But he was a most extravagant scoundrel," .said Mr. Annesley : " he called me in at his bouleversenient for advice, as I have the reputation of a good economist. I do not know how it is, though I see these things perpetually happen ; but why men, and men of small fortunes, should commit such follies, really exceeds my comprehen- sion. Ten thousand pounds for trinkets, and half as much for old furniture ! Why this is worse than Squib's bill of seventeen hundred pounds for snuif!" " It was not seventeen hundred pounds, Amies- ley : that included cigars." " Chetwynd kept it up for a good many years, though, I think," said Lord Darrell. " I remember going to see his rooms when I first came over. You recollect his mother-of-pearl fountain of Co- K^gne water 1" " Mille Colonnes fitted up liis place, I think ?" asked the young duke, — " but it was before my time." " ! yes, litflc Bijou," said Annesley. " He has done you justice, St. James. I think the Al- hambra much the prettiest thing in town." " I was attacked the othei day most vigorously, by Mrs. Dallington to obtain a sight," said Lord Squib. " I referred her to Lucy Grafton. — Do you know, St. James, I have half a strange idea, that there is a renewal in that quarter!" " So they say," said the duke ; " if so, I con- fess I am surprised." But they remembered Lord Darrell, and the conversation turned. " These are pretty horses of Lincoln Graves'," said Mr. Annesley. " Neat cattle, as Bagshot says," observed Lord Squib. " Is it true that Bag is going to marry one of the Wrekins !" asked the duke. " Which ]" asked Lord Squib ; " not Sophy, surely 1 I thought she was to be your cousin. I dare say," he added, " a false report. I suppose to use a Bagshotism, his governor wants it ; but I should think Lord Cub would not yet be taken in. By-the-by, he says you have promised to propose him at White's, St. James." " Oppose him, I said," rejoined the duke. " Bag really never underistands English. However, I think it as probable that he will lounge in the bow-win- dow, as on the treasuiy bench. That was his ' governor's' last shrewd plan." " Darrell," said Lord Squib, ' is there any chance of my being a commissioner for any thing 1 It struck me last night that I had never been in office." " I do not think, Squib, that you ever will be in office, if even you be appointed." " On the contrary, my good fellow, my punctu- ality would surprise you. I should like very much to be a lay-lord, because I cannot afford to keep a yacht, and theirs, they say, arc not sufliciently used, for the admirals think it spoony, and the land-lubbers are alwaj's sick." " I think myself of sporting a yacht this sum- mer," said the Duke of St. James. " Be my, captain Squib." " Agreed ! Really, if you be serious, I will com- mence my duties to-morrow." " I am serious. I think it will be rather amus- ing. I give you full authority to do exactly what you like, provided, in two month's time, I have the best vessel in the club ; copper-bottom, crack crew, and ten knots an hour." " You are all witnesses," said Lord Squib, " and so I begin to press. Annesley, your dinner is so good, that you will be purser : and Darrell, you are a man of business, — you shall be purser's clerk. For the rest, I think St. Maurice may claim a place, and — " " Peacock Piggott, by all means," said the duke. " A gay sailor is quite the thing." " And Henrj' Fitzroy," said Annesley, " because I am under obligation to him, and promised to have him in my eye." ♦' And Bagshot for a butt," said the duke. " And Backbite for a buffoon," said Mr. Annes- ley, " And for the rest," said the young duke, " th rest of the crew I vote shall be women. The Cham- pagnys will just do." "And the Uttle Trevors," said Lord DarrelL 284 D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " And Long Harrington," said Lord Squib. " She is my beauty." " And the young Ducie," said Annesley. "And Mrs. Dahington of course, and Carohne St. Mau- lice, and Charlotte Bloomerly, really, she was dressed most prettily last nitcht ; and, above all, the queen-bee of the hive — May Dacre, eh ! St. James! and I have another proposition," said An- nesley, with increased and unusual animation. " Ma}' Dacre won the St. Lcger and ruled the course ; and May Dacre shall win the cup, and rule the waves. Our yacht shall be christened by the Lady-l)inl of Yorkshire." " What a delightful thing it would he," said the Duke of St. James, " if throughout life, we might always choose our crew; cull the beauties, and banish the bores." " But that is impossible," said Lord Darrell. "Every ornaiuent of society is counterbalanced i)y some accompanying blur. I have invariably ob- served that the ugliness of a chaperon is exactly in proportion to the charms of her charge ; and that if a man be distinguished for his wit, his appear- ance, his style, or any other good qiiality, he is sure to be saddled with some family or connexion, who require all his popularity to gain them a passport into the crowd." " One might collect a very unexceptionable cote- rie from our present crowd," said Mr. Annesley. " It would be curious to assemble all the pet lambs of the flock." " Is it impossible 1" asked the duke. " Burlington is the only man who dare try," said Lord Darrell. " I doubt whether any individual would have suf- ficient pluck," said Lord Squib. "Yes," said the duke, "it must, I think, boa ioint-stock company to share the glory and the odium. Let us do it !" There was a start, and a silence, broken by An- nesley in a low voice. " By heavens, it would be sublime — if practica- ble ; but the ditliculty does indeed seem insur- mountable." " Why, we would not do it," said the young duke, " if it were not difficult. The first thing is to get a frame for our picture, to hit upon some happy pretence for assembling in an impromptu style, the young and gay. Our purpose must not be too obvious. It must be something to whicJi all expect to be asked, and where the presence of all is impossible ; so that in fixing upon a particular member of a family, we may seem influenced by the wish, that no circle should be neglected. Then, too, it should be something like a water-party or a fele-dumipetre, where colds abound, and fits are always caught, so that a consideration for the old and the infirm may authorize us not to invite them ; then, too — " Omnts. " Bravo ! bravo ! St. James. It .shall be ! it shall be !" "It must be a fHe-cliampetre" said Annesley, decidedly, " and as far from town as possible." " Twickenham is at your service," said the duke. " Just the place, and just the distance. The only objection is, that by being yours, it will saddle the enterprise too much upon you. Wc must all bear our share in the upr'^ar, for, trust me, there will be one ; but th'- » are a thousand ways liy which our resp" .sibili.y may be insisted upon. For instance, let us make a list of all our guests, and then let one of us act as secretary and sign the invitations, which shall be like tickets. No other name need appear, and the hosts will indicate themselves at the place of rendezvous." " My lords." said Lord Squib, " I rise to propose the health of Mr. Secretary Annesley, and I thiidc if any one carry the business through, it "will he he." " I accept the trust. At present, gentlemen, be silent as night ; for we have too much to mature, and our success depends upon our secrecy." CHAPTER X. AnrxBEL Dache, though little apt to cultivate an acquaintance with any one, called on the young duke the morning after their meeting. The truth is, his imagination was touched b> our hero's ap- pearance. His grace possessed all that accomplish- ed manner of which he painfully felt the want, and to which he eagerly yielded his admiration. He earnestly desired the duke's friendship, but with his usual mnm)(iise hunie, their meeting did not ad- vance his wishes. He was as shy and constramed as usual, and being really desirous of appearing to advantage, and leaving an impression in his favour, his manner was even divested of that somewhat impo.sing coldness which was not altogether inef- fective. In short, he was extremely disagreeable. The duke was courteous, as he u.sually was, and ever to the Dacres, but he was not cordial. He dis- liked Arundel Dacre, — in a word, he looked upon him as his favoured rival. The two young men oc- casionally met, but did not grow more intimate. Studiously polite the young duke ever was both to him and to his lovely cousin, for his pride conceal- ed his pique, and he was always afraid lest his man- ner should betray his mind. In the mean time. Sir Lucius Grafton apparently was running his usual course of triumph. It is for- tunate that those who will watch and wonder about every thing are easily satisfied with a reason, and are ever quick in detecting a cause : so Mrs. Dal- lington Vere was the fact that duly accounted for the baronet's intimacy with the Dacres. All was right again between them. It was unusual, to be sure — these rifaclinentof; ,- still she was a charming woman ; and it was well known that Lucius had spent twenty thousand on the county. Where was that to come from, they should like to know, but from old Dallington Vere's Yorkshire estates, which he had so wisely left to his pretty wife by the pink paper codicil 1 And this lady of so many loves, — how felt she 1 Most agreeably, as all dames do who dote upon a passion which they feel convinced vv'ill be returned, but which still waits for a response. Arundel Dacre would yield her a smile from a face more v^orn by thought than joy ; and Arundel Dacre, who was wont to muse alone, was now ever ready to join his cousin and her friends in the ride or the promenade. Miss Dacre, too, had noticed to her a kindly change in her cousin's conduct to her father. He was more cordial to his uncle, sought to ])ay him defe- rence, and seemed more desirous of gaining his good- will. The experienced eye, too, of this pretty wo- man allowed her often to observe that her hero's THE YOUNG DUKE. 285 presence was not particularly occasioned, or par- ticularly inspired, by his cousin. In a word, it was to herself that his remarks were addressed, his at- tentions devoted, and often she caught his dark and liquid eye fixed upon her beaniin^j and refulgent brow. Sir Lucius Grafton proceeded with that strange mixture of craft and passion which characterized him. Each day his heart yearned more for the be- ing on whom his thoughts should never have pon- dered. Now exulting in her increased confidence, she seemed already his victim ; now awed by her majestic spirit, he despaired even of her being his bride. Now melted by her unsophisticated inno- cence, he cursed even the last unhallowed of his purposes ; and now enchanted by her consummate loveliness, he forgot all but her beauty and his own passion. Often had he dilated to her, with the skill of an arch deceiver, on the blessings of domestic joy ; often, in her presence, had his eye sparkled, when he watched the infantile graces of some playful children. Then he would embrace them with a soft care and gushing fondness, enough to melt the heart of any mother whom he was desirous to se- duce, and then, with a half-murmured sigh, he regretted, in broken accents, that he too was not a father. In due time, he proceeded even further. Dark Jiints of domestic infelicity broke unintentionally from his ungoverned lips. May Dacre stared. He quelled the tumult of his thoughts, struggled with his outbreaking feelings, and triumphed ; yet not without a tear, which forced its way down a face not formed for grief, and quivered upon his fair and downy cheek. Sir Lucius Grafton was well aware of the magic of his beauty, and used his charms to betray, as if he were a woman. May Dacre, whose soul was sympathy, felt in silence for this excellent, this injured, this unhap- py, this agreeable man. Ill could even her practised manner check the current of her mind, or conceal from Lady Aphrodite that she possessed her dis- like. As for the young duke, he fell into the lowest abyss of her opinions, and was looked upon as ahke frivolous, heartless, and irreclaimable. But how are the friends with whom we dined yesterday 1 Frequent were the meetings, doep the consultations, infinite the suggestions, innumerable the expedients. In the morning, they met and breakfasted with Annesley ; in the afternoon, they met and lunched with Lord Squib ; in the evening, they met and dined with Lord Darrell ; and at night, they met and supped at the Alhambra. Each council only the more con^'inced them, that the scheme was feasible, and must be glorious. At last their ideas were matured, and Annesley took steps to break the great event to the world, who were on the eve of being astonished. He repaired to Lady Bloomerly. The world sometimes talked of her ladyship and Mr. Annes- ley, the world were quite wrong, as they often are on this subject. Mr. Annesley knew the value of a female friend. By liady Bloomerly's advice, the plan was intrusted in confidence to about a dozen dames equally influential. Then a few of the most considered male friends heard a strange report. Lord Darrell dropped a rumour at the Treasury, but with his finger on his mouth, and leaving himself out of the list, proceeded to give his favourable opinion of the project, merelj as a disinterested and expected guest. Then the duke promised Peacock Piggott one night at the Alham- bra, but swore him to solemn secrecy over a vase of sherbet. Then Squib told his tailor, in con- sideration that his bill should not be sent in , and finally, the Bird of Paradise betrayed the whole affair to the musical world, who were, of course, all agog. Then, when rumour began to wag its hundred tongues, the twelve peeresses found them- selves bound in honour to step into the breach, yielded the plan their decided approbation, and their avowed patronage, puzzled the grumblers, silenced the weak, and sneered down the obsti nate. The invitations began to issue, and the outcry against them burst forth. A fronde was formed, but they wanted De Retz ; and many kept back, with the hope of being bribed from joining it. The four cavaliers soon found themselves at the head of a strong party ; and then, like a faction who have successfully struggled for toleration, they now openly maintained their supremacy. It was too late to cabal. The uninvited could only con- sole themselves by a passive sulk, or an active sneer; but this would not do, and their bilious countenances betrayed their chagrin. The difficulty now was, not to keep the bores away, but to obtain a few of the beauties who hesitated. A chaperon must he found for one ; another must be added on to a party, like a star to the cluster of a constellation. Among those whose presence was most ardently desired, but seemed most doubtful, was May Dacre. An invitation had been sent to her father ; but he was out of town, and she did not like to join so peculiar a party without him : but it was unanimously agreed that without her the affair would be a failure ; and Charles Annesley was sent, envoy extraordinaiy, to arrange. With the good aid of his friend Mrs. Dallington, all was at length settled ; and fervid prayers that the important day might be ushered in by a smiling sun were offered up during the next fortnight, at half-past six every morning, by all civilized society, who then hui-ried to their night's rest. CHAPTER XL Tn^ fete at the " Pavilion" — such was the title of the Twickenham villa — though the subject of universal interest, was anticipated by no one with more eager anxiety than by Sir Lucius Grafton, for that day, he detem:ined, should decide the fate of the Duke of St. James. He was sanguine as to the result — nor without reason. For the last month he had, by his dark machinery, played des- perately upon the feelings of Lady Aphrodite; and more than once had she despatched rapid notes to her admirer, for counsel and for consolation. The duke was more skilftil in soothing her griefs than in devising expedients for their removal. He treated the threatened as a distant evil ! and %viped away her tears in a manner which is almost an encou- ragement to weep. At last the eventful mom arrived, and a scorching sun made those exult to whom the barge and the awning promised a progress equally calm and cool. Wo to the dusty britchska !^— wo to the molten fur nace of the crimson cabriolet ! S86 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. They came, as the stars come out from the hea- vens, vvhat time the sun is in his first repose — now a single hcn>, brilliant as a planet — now a splendid party c!u-toring like a constellation. Music is on the waters, anrl perfume on the land : each moment a bark gliiles up with its cymbals — each moment a cavalcadf bright with bouquets ! Ah ! gathering; of brightness ! — ah ! meeting of lustre ! — why, are you to be celebrated by one so obscure and dull as I am ! Ye Lady Carolines, and ye Lady Franceses — ye Lady Barbaras, and ye Lady B:anches, is it my fault? O ! graceful Lord Francis, why, why have you left us — why, why have you exchanged your Ionian lyre lor an Irish harp! You were not made for politics — leave them to clerks. Fly — fly back to pleasure, to frolic, and fun ! Confess, now, that you sometimes do feel a little queer. I say nothing of the diiference between May Fair and Donny- brook. And thou, too, Luttrell — gayest hard that ever threw o!f a triplet amid the clattering of cabs and the chattering of clubs— -art thou, too, mute ] Where — where dost thou linger 1 Is our druid among;^ the oaks of Ampthill — or, like a truant Etonian, is he lurkingaiiong the beeches of Burnham! What! has the inunortal letter, unlike all other good advice, absolutely not been thrown away ! — or is the jade incorrigible ? Whichever be the case, you need not be silent. There is yet enough to do, and yet eiiough to instruct. Teach us, that wealth is not elegance; that profusion is not magnificence; and that splendour is not beauty. Teach us, that taste is a talisman, which can do greater wonders than the jnil lions of the loan-monger. Teach us, that to vie is notj, to rival; and to imitate not to invent. Teach us, that pretension is a bore. Teach us, that wit is excessively good-natured, and, like Champagne, not onlyr^parkles, but is sweet. Teach us the vulgarity of malignity. Teach us, that envy spoils our complexions, and that anxiety destroys our ligure. Catch the fleeting colours of that sly chameleon, capt, and show what excessive trouble we are ever taking to make ourselves miserable and silly. Teach us ail this, and Aglaia shall stop a crow in its course, and present you with a pen — Thalia hold the golden fluid in a Sevre vase — and Euphrosync support the violet-coloured scrawl. The f )ur husls greeted the arrivals, and assisted the disembarkations, like the famous four sons of Ayinou. Tiiey were all dressed alike, and their costHme excited great attention. At first, it was to have been very plain, — black and white, and a single rose; but it was settled that sirnphcity had been ovej-d >ne. and, like a country-girl after her first season, had turned into a most affected bag- gage, — so they agreed to be regal ; and fancy uni- forms, worttiy of the court of Obenm, were the order of iha d .y. I shall not describe them, for the description of costvnne is the most inventive pro- vine lit <),n- 'iist)rical novelists, and I never like to be uufa;r. or irench upon my neighbour's lands or rights; lui: the Alhambra button indicated a mysti.Ml i oiifederacy, anti made the women quite frant;<- witii curios-ity. The guests wandered through the gardens, always vmims, and now a paradise of novelty. There we e fmr brothers, fresh from the wildest recesses ol' !he Carpathian mount, who threw out such w:)odnot.-s wild, that all the artists stared ; and it was universally agreed, that had they not been French chorus-singers, they would have been quit* a miracle. But the Lapland sisters were the true prodigy, who danced the mazurka in the national style. There was also a fire»eater; but some said he would never set the river in flames, though he had an antidote against all poisons! But, then, our Mithridates always tried its virtues on a stuffed poodle, whose hark evinced its vitality. There also was a giant in the wildest parts of the shrub- bery, and a dwarf, on whom the ladies showered their sugar-plums, and who, in return, offered them tobacco. But it was not true that the giant sported stilts, or that the dwarf was a sucking babe. Some people are so suspicious. Then a bell rang, and assembled them in the concert- room; and the Bird of Paradise, who, to-day, wa3 consigned to the cavaliership of Peacock Piggott, condescended to favour them with a new song, which no one had ever heard, and which, conse- quently, made them feel more intensely all the sublimity of cxclusiveness. Shall I forget the panniers of shoes which Melnotte had placed in every quarter of the gardens T I will say nothing of Maradan's cases of caps, because, for this inci- dent. Lord Bagshot is my authority. On a sudden, it seemed that a thousand bugles broke the blue air, and they were summoned to a df'jeuner in four crimson tents, worthy of Sarda- napalus. Over each waved the scutcheon of tlie president. Glittering were the glories of the hun-, dred quarterings of the house of Darrell. " iSV nxn evero c ben fnivdto," was the motto. Lord Darrell's grandfather had been a successful lawyer. Lord Squib's emblazonry was a satire on its owner. '^ Ifo/dfast." was the motto of a mail who -had let loose. Annesley's simple shield spoke of the cor.- qucst : but all paled before the banner of the house of Hautevillc, for it indicated an alliance with royalty. The attendants of each pavilion wore the livery of its lord. Shall I attempt to describe the delicacy of this banquet, where imagination had been racked for novel luxury 1 Through the centre of each table ran a rivulet of rose-water, and gold and silver fish glanced in its unrivalled course. The bou- quets were exchanged every half-hour, and n.usic soft and subdued, but constant and thrilling, wound them up by exquisite gradations to that pitch of refined excitement which is so strange a union of delicacy and voluptuousness, when the soul, as it vvere, becomes sensual, and the body, as it were, dissolves into spirit. And in this choice assembly, where all was youth, and elegance, and beauty, was it not right that every sound should be melody, every sight a sight of loveliness, and every thought a thought of pleasure ? They arose, and assembled on the lawn, whei'fl they found to their surprise had arisen in their absence a Dutch fair. Numerous were the booths, — innumerable were the contents. The first artists had arranged the picture and the costumes: the first artists had made the trinkets and the toys. And what a very agreeable fair where all might suit their fincy without the permission of that sulky tyrant, — a purse ! All were in excellent humour, and no mauvaise honte prevented them from plun- dering the boutiques. The noble pro[)rietors set the example. Annesley offered a bouquet of pre- cious stones to Charlotte Bloomerly, and it wan accepted : and the Duke of St. James showered a sack of whimsical breloques among a ecrambling THE YOUNG DUKE. 387 crowd of laughing beauties. Among them was May Dacre. He had not observed her. Their eyes met, and she laughed. It seemed that he had never felt happiness before. Ere the humours of the fair could be exhausted, they were summoned to the margin of the river, where four painted and gilded galleys, which might have sailed down the Cydnus, and each owning its peculiar cliief, prepared to struggle for pre-eminence in speed. All betted ; and the duke, encouraged by the smile, hastened to Miss Dacre to try to win back some of the Doncaster losses ; but Arundel Dacre had lier arm in his, and slie was evidently deUghted with his discourse. His grace's blood turned, and he walked away. It was sunset when they returned to the lawn ; and then the ball-room presented itself; but the twilight was long, and the night was warm ; there were no hateful dews, no odious mists, and there- fore' a great number danced on the lawn. The fair was illuminated, and all the little marchandes and their lusty porters walked about in their costume. The duke again rallied his courage, and seeing Arundel Dacre with Mrs. Dallington Vere, he ab- solutely asked May Dacre to dance. She was engaged. He doubted, and walked into the house disconsolate ; yet if he had waited one moment he would have seen Sir Lucius Grafton rejoin her, and lead her to the cotillun that was forming on the turf. The Juke sauntered to Lady Aphrodite, but she would not dance, — yet she did not yield his arm, and proposed a stroll. They wandered away to the extremity of the grounds. Fainter and fainter grew the bursts of the revellers, yet neither oif them spoke much, for both were dull. Yet at length her ladyship did speak, and amply made up for her previous silence. All former scenes, to this, were but as the preface to the book. All she knew and all she dreaded, all her suspicions, all her certainties, all her fears, were poured forth in painful profusion. This night was to decide her fate. She threw herself on his mercy, if he had forgotten his love. Out dashed all those argu- ments, all those appeals, all those assertions, which they say are usual under these circumstances. She wa.s a woman-, he was a man. She had staked her happiness on this venture ; he had a thousand cards to play. Love, and fust love with her, as with all women, was every thing; he and all men, at the worst, had a thousand resources. He might plunge into politics, — he might game, — he might fight, — he might ruin himself in innumerable ways, but she could only ruin herself in one. Miserable woman! Miserable sex ! She had given him her all. She knew it was little : woulil she had more ! She knew she was unworthy of him : would she were not ! She did not ask him to sacrifice himself to her: she could not expect it; she did not even de- sire it. Only, she thought he ought to know exact- ly the state of ailairs and of con-equences, and tliat certainly if they were parted, which assuredly they would be, most decidedly she would droop, and fade, and die. She wept, she sobbed ; his entrea- ties alone seemed to prevent hysterics. These scenes are painful at all times, and even the callous, they say, have a twinge ; but when the acti-ess is really beautiful and pure, as this lady was, and the actor young, and inexperienced, and amiable, as this actor was, the consequences are more serious than is usual. The Duke of St. James was unhappy — he was discontented — he was dis- satisfied with himself. He did not love this lady, if love were the passion which he entertained for May Dacre, — but she loved him. He knew thai she was beautiful, and he was convinced that she was excellent. The world is malicious, — but the world had agreed that Lady Aphrodite was an un- blemished pearl ; yet this jewel was reserved for him ! Intense gratitude almost amounted to love In short, he had no idea at this moment that feeluigs are not in our power. His were captive, even if entrapped. It was a great responsibihty to desert this creature, the only one fri)m whom he had ex- perienced devotion. To coixclude : a season of extra- ordinary dissipation, to use no harsher phrase, had somewhat exhausted the nervous powers of our hero : his energies were deserting him ; he had not heart, or hearyessness enough to extricate himself from this dilenuna. It seemed that if this being, to whom he was indebted for so much joy, were miserable he must be unhappy ; that if she died, life ought to have — could have no charms for him. He kissed away her tears — he pledged his faith — and Lady Aphrodite Grafton was his betrothed ! She wonderfully recovered. Her deep but silent joy seemed to repay him even for this bitter sacri- fice. Compared with the late racking of his feel- ings, the present calm, which was merely tlie result of suspense being destroyed, seemed happiness. His conscience whispered approbation, and he felt that, for once, he had sacrificfed himself to another. They re-entered the villa, and he took the first opportunity of wandering alone to the least fre- quented parts of the grounds : — ^his mind demanded solitude, and his soul required soliloquy. " So the game is up ! Truly, a most lame and impotent conclusion ! And this, then, is the result of all my high fancies and indefinite aspirations ! Verily, I am a very distinguished hero, and have not abused my unrivalled advantages in the least ! What ! am I bitter on myself 1 There will be enough to sing my praises, without myself joinuig in this chorus of congratulation. ! fool, fool ! Now I know what fully is. But barely fifteen months since, I stepped upon these shores, full of hope and full of pride ; and now I leave them — ■ how 1 O ! my dishonoured fathers ! Even my posterity, which God grant I may not have, will look on my memory with hatred, and on hers with scorn ! " Well, I suppose we must live for ourselves. We both of us know the world ; and Heaven can bear witness that we should not be haunted by any uneasy hankering after what has brought us such a heartache. If it were for love — if it were for — but away ! I will not profane her name. If it were for her that I was thus sacrificing myself, I could bear it — I could welcome it. I can imagine perfect and everlasting bliss in tlie sole society of one single being — but she is not that l)eing. Let nie not con- ceal it; let me wrestle with this bitter conviction! " And am I, indeed, bound to close my career thus — to throw away all hope, all chance of feli. ity, at my age, for a point of honour'! ISo, no, it is not that. After all, I have experienced that widi her, and from her, which I have with no other woman ; and she is so good, so gentle, and all agree so lovely ! How infinitely worse would her situation be, if deserted, than mine is, as her perpetual ci mpanion ! The very thought makes my heart bleed. Yes! amiable, devoted, dearest Aly, I throw aside these morbid feelings — you shall never repent uivLng 288 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. placed your trust in me. I will be proud and happy of such a friend, and you shall be mme for- ever !" A shriek broke on the air : he started. It was near : he hastened after the sound. He entered into a small green glade surrounded by shrubs, where had been erected a fanciful hermitage. There he found Sir Lucius Grafton on his knees, grasping the hand of the indignant but terrified May Dacre. The duke rushed forward ; Miss Dacre ran to meet him ; the baronet rose. " This lady, Sir Lucius Grafton, is under my protection,'" said the young duke, with a flashing eye but a calm voice. She clung to his arm ; he bore her away. The whole was the aflair of an instant. The duke and his companion proceeded in silence. She tried to hasten, but he felt her limbs shake upon his arm. He stop"ped : — no one, not even a servant, was near. He could not leave her for an instant. There she stood trembling, her head bent down, and one hand clasping the other which rested on his arm. Terrible was her strug- gle, but she would not tliint, and at length succeeded in repressing her. emotions. They were yet a considerable way from the house. She motioned with her left hand to advance ; but still she did not speak. On they walked, though more slowly, for she was exhausted, and occasionally stopped for breath, or strength. At length she said, ' in a faint voice, — " I cannot join the party. I must go home directly. How can it be done ?" " Your companions," said the duke — • " Are of course engaged, or not to be found; but surely, somebody, I know, is departing. Manage it — manage it : say I am ill." '' O ! Miss Dacre, if you knew the agony of my mind !" "Do not speak — for Heaven's sake do not speak !" He turned off from the lawn, and approached by a small circuit the gate of the ground. Suddenl}', he perceived a caniage on the point of gomg off. It was the Dutchess of Shropsliire's. '• There is the Dutchess of Shropshire ! You know lier — but not a minute is to be lost. There is such a noise, they will not hear. Are you afraid to stop here one instant by yourself? I shall not be out of sight, and not away a second. I run very quick." " No — no, I am not afraid. Go — go !" Away rushed the Didie of St. James, as if hie life were on his speed. He stopped the carriage, spoke, and was back in an instant. " Lean — lean on me with all your strength. I have told every thing necessary to Lady Shropshire. Nobody will speak a word, because they believe you have a terrible headach. I will say every thing necessary to Mrs. Dallington and your cousin. Do not give yourself a moment's uneasiness And, ! Miss Dacre, if I might say one word !" She did not stop him. •• If," continued he, " it be your wish that the outrage of to-night should be known only to myself and him, I pledge my word it shall be so ; though willingly, if I were authorized, I would act a differ- ent part in this affair." " It is my wish." She spoke in a low voice, with lier eyes still upon the ground — " And I thank you for this, and for all." They had now joined the Shropshires ; but it was now discovered Miss Dacre had no shawl ; and sundry other articles were wanting, to the evident dismay of the Ladies Wrekin. They offered theirs, but their visiter refused, and would not allow the duke to fetch her own. OIT they drove ; but when they had proceeded about half a mile, a continued shout on the road, which the fat coachman, for a long time, would not hear, stopped them, and up came the Duke of St. James, covered with dust, and panting like a racer, with Mis.s Dacre's shawl. CHAPTER XIL So much time was occupied by this adventure of the shawl, and by making requisite explana- tions to Mrs. Dallington Vere, that almost the whole of the guests had retired, when the duke found himself again in the saloon. His brother- hosts, too, were off with various parties, to which they had attached themselves. He found the Fitz- pompeys, and a few still lingering for their car- riages ; and Arundel Dacre and his fair admirer. His grace had promised to return with Lady Afy, and was devising some scheme by which he might free himself from this, now not very suitable en- gagement, when she claimed his arm. She was leaning on it, and talking to Lady Fitz-pompey, when Sir Lucius approached, and with his usual tone, put a note into the duke's hand, saying at the same time, " This appears to belong to you. I shall go to town with Piggot ;" — and then he walked away. With the wife leaning on his arm, the young duke had the pleasure of reading the following lines, written with the pencil of the husband. " After what has just occurred, only one more meeting can take place between us, and the sooner that takes place the better for all parties. This is no time for etiquette. I shall be in Kensington Gardens, in the grove on the right side of the sum- mer-house, at half-past six to-morrov^^ morning, and shall doubtless find you there." Sir Lucius was not out of sight when the duke had finished reading his cartel. Making some confused excuse to Lady Afy, which was not ex- pected, he ran after the baronet, and soon reached him. " Sir Lucius Grafton, I shall be punctual : but there is one point on which I wish to speak to you at once. The cause of this meeting jnay be kept, I hope, a secret 1" " As far as I am concerned, an inviolable one," bowed the baronet, very stiffly ; and they parted. The duke returned satisfied, for Sir Lucius Grafton ever observed his word — to say nothing of the great interest which he surely had this time in maintaining his pledge. Our hero thought that he never should reach London. The journey seemed a day; and the effort to amuse Lady Afy, and to prevent her from suspecting, by his conduct, that any thing liad occurred, was most painful. Silent, however, he at last became; but her mind too was engaged; THE YOUNG DUKE. and she supposed that her admirer was quiet only because, like herself, he was happy. At length they reached her house, but he excused hiroself from entering, and drove on immediately to An- nesley. He was at Lady Bloomerly's. Lord Darrell had not returned, and his servant did not expect him. Lord Squib was never to be found. The duke put on a great-coat over his uniform, and drove to White's : it was really a wilderness. Never had he seen fewer men there in his life, and there were none of his set. The only young-looking man was old Colonel Carlisle, who, with his skil- fully enamelled cheek, flowing auburn locks, shining teeth, and tinted whiskers, might have been mistaken for gay twenty-seven, instead of gray seventy-two ; but the colonel had the gout, to say nothing of any other objections. The duke took up the Courier, and read three or four advertisements of quack medicines — but no- body entered. It was nearly midnight : he got nervous. Somebody came in — Lord Hounslow for his rubber. Even his favom-ed child, Bagshot, would be better than nobody. The duke protested that the next acquaintance who entered should be his second, old or young. His vow had scarcely been registered, when Arundel Dacre came in alone. He was the last man to whom the duke wished to address himself, but fate seemed to have decided it, and the duke walked up to him. " Mr. Dacre, I am about to ask of you a favour to which I have no claim." Mr. Dacre looked a little confused, and mur- mured his willingness to do any thing, " To be exphcit, I am engaged in an affair of honour of a very urgent nature. Will you be my friend ]" " With the greatest willingness." He spoke with more ease, "May I ask the name of^ the other party, — the — the cause of the meeting]" " The other party is Sir Lucius Grafton." " Hum !" said Arundel Dacre, as if he were no longer curious about the cause, " When do you meef?" " At half past six, in Kensington Gardens, to- morrow — I believe I should say, this mornmg." " Your grace must be wearied," said Arundel, with unusual ease and animation. " Now, follow my advice. Go home at once, and get some rest. Give yourself no trouble about preparations : leave every thing to me, I will call upon you at half past five precisely, with a chaise and post-horses, which will divert suspicion. Now, good-night !" " But, really, your rest must be considered — and tlien all this trouble I" " O ! I have been in the habit of sitting up all night. Do not think of me, — nor am I quite inexperienced in these matters, in too many of which I have unfortunately been engaged in Ger- ffiny." The youn^ men shook hands with great cor- liality, and the duke hastened home. Fortunately, the Bird of Paradise was at her own establishment in Baker street, a bureau where her secretary, in her behalf, transacted business with the various courts of Europe, and the numerous cities of Great Britani. Here many a negotiation was carried on for opera engagements at Vienna, or Paris, or Ber- lui, or St. Petersburg. Here many a diplomatic correspondence conducted the fate of the musical festivals of York, or Norwich, or Exeter. 37 CHAPTER Xin. Let us return to Sir Lucius Grafton, He is as mad as any man must be who feels that the impru- dence of a moment has dashed to the ground all the plans, and all the hopes, and all the great re- sults over which he had so often pondered. The great day from which he had expected so much had passed, nor was it possible for four-and-twenty hours more completely to have reversed all his feel- ings, and all his prospects. May Dacre had shared the innocent but unusual and excessive gayety, which had properly become a scene of festivity at once so agreeable, so various, and so novel. Sir Lucius Grafton had not been insensible to the ex- citement. On the contrary, his impetuous pas- sions seemed to recall the former and more fervent days of his career, and his voluptuous mind dan- gerously sympathized with the beautiful and lux- urious scene. He was elated too with the thought, that his freedom would perhaps be sealed this even- ing, and still more by his almost constant atten- dance on his fascinating companion. As the par- ticular friend of the Dacre family, and as the secret ally of Mrs. Dallington Vere, he in some manner contrived always to be at May Dacre's side. With the laughing but insidious pretence that he wag now almost too grave and staid a personage for such scenes, he conversed with f^fir others, and humorously maintaining that his " dancing days were over," danced with none but her. Even when her attention was engaged by a third person, he lingered about, and with his consummate know- ledge of the world, easy wit, and constant resources, generally succeeded in not only sliding into the conversation, but engrossing it. Arundel Dacre, too, although that young gentleman had not de- parted from his usual coldness in favour of Sir Lucius Grafton, the baronet would most provo- kingly consider as his particular friend : never seemed to be conscious that his reserved companion was most punctilious in his address to him, but on the contrary called him m return, " Dacre," and sometimes " Arundel." In vain young Dacre struggled to maintain his position. His manner was no match for that of Sir Lucius Grafton. Annoyed with himself, he felt confused, and often quitted his cousin that he might be free of his friend. Thus Sir Lucius Grafton contrived never to permit Miss Dacre to be alone with Arundel, and to her he was so courteous, so agreeable, and so useful, that his absence seemed always a blank, or a period in which something ever went wrong. The triumphant day rolled on, and each moment Sir Lucius felt more sanguine and more excited. We will not dwell upon the advancing confidence of his desperate mind. Hope expanded into cer- tainty, — certainty burst into impatience. In a des- perate moment he breathed his passion. May Dacre was the last girl to feel at a loss in such a situation. No one would have rung him out of a saloon with an air of more contemptuous majesty. But the shock, — the solitary strangeness of the scene, — the fear, for the first time, that none were near, and perhaps, also, her exhausted energy, frightened her, and she shrieked. One only had heard that shriek, yet that one was Legion. Sooner might the whole world know the worst, tlian thin SB 290 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. person suspect the least. Sir Lucius was left silent with rage, mad with passion, desperate with hate. He gasped for breath. Now his brow burnt, — now the cold dew ran off his countenance in streams. He clenched his fist, — he stamped with agony, — he found at length his voice, and he blasphemed to the unconscious woods. His quick brain flew to the results like light- ning. The duke had escaped from his mesh ; his madness had done more to win this boy May Dacre's heart than an age of courtship. He had lost the ido|, of his passion, he was fixed for ever with the creature of his hate. He loathed the idea. He tottered into the hermitage, and buried his face in liis hands. Something must be done. Some monstrous act of energy must repair this fatal blunder. He appealed to the mind which had never deserted him. The oracle was mute. Yet vengeance might even slightly redeem the bitterness of despair. This fellow should die ; and his girl — for already he hated May Dacre — should not triumph in her minion. He tore a leaf from his tablets, and wrote the lines we have already read. The young duke reached home. You expect, of course, that he sat up all night making his will and answering letters. By no means. The first object that caught his eye was an enormous ottoman. He threw himself upon it without undressing and without speaking a word to Luigi, and in a mo- ment was fast asleep. He was fairly exhausted. Lui- gi started, and called Spiridion to consult. They agreed that they dare not go to bed, and must not leave their lord ; so they played ecarte, till at last tliey quarrelled and fought with the candles over the table. But even this did not wake their un- reasonable master ; so Spiridion threw down a few chairs by accident ; but all in vain. At half-past five there was a knocking at the gate, and they hurried away. Arundel Dacre entered with them, woke the duke, and praised him for his punctuality. His grace thought that he had only dozed a few mi- nutes ; but time pressed ; five minutes arranged his toilet, and they were first on the field. In a moment Sir Lucius and Mr. Piggot ap- peared. Arundel Dacre, on the way, had anx- iously inquired as to the probability of reconciliation, but was told at once it was impossible, so now he measured the ground and loaded the pistols with a calmness which was admirable. They fired at once ; the duke in the air, and the baronet in his friend's side. When Sir Lucius saw his grace fall his hate vanished. He ran up with real anxiety and unfeigned anguish. " Have I hit you, by h-U !" His grace was of course magnanimous, but the case was urgent A surgeon gave a favourable report, and extracted the ball on the spot. The tiuke was carried back to his chaise, and in an hour was in the state bed, not of the Alhambra — but of his neglected mansion. Arundel Dacre retired when he had seen lus friend home, but gave urgent commands that he should be kept quiet No sooner was the second out of sight, than the principal ordered \he room to be cleared with the exception of Spiridion, and then, rising in his bed, wrote this note, which the page was secretly to deliver. « House, , 1S2-. " Dear Miss Dacre, — A very unimportant but somewhat disagreeable incident has occurred. I have been obliged to meet Sir Lucius Grafton, and our meeting has fortmiately terminated without any serious consequences. Yet, I wish that you should hear of this first from me, lest you might imagine that I had not redeemed my pledge of last night, and that I had placed for a moment my own feel- ings in competition with yours. This is not the case, and never shall bo, dear Miss Dacre, with one whose greatest pride is to subscribe himself " Your most obedient and faithful servant, " St. James." CHAPTER XIV. The world talked of nothing but the duel be- tween the Duke of St. James and Sir Lucius Grafton. It was a thunderbolt ; and the phenome- non was accounted for by every cause but the right one. Yet even those who most confidently solved the riddle were the most eagerly employed in investigating its true meaning. The seconds were of course applied to. Arundel Dacre was pro- verbially unpumpable ; but Peacock Piggott, whose communicative temper was an adage, how came he on a sudden so di{)lomatic 1 Not a syllable oozed from a mouth which was ever open : not a hint from a countenance which never could conceal its mind. He was not even mysterious, but really looked just as astonished, and just as curious as themselves. Fine times these for " The Universe," and " The New World !" All came out about Lady Afy ; and they made up for their long and previous ignorance, or, as they now boldly blustered, their long and considerate forbearance. Sheets given away gratis,— edition on Saturday night for the country, and wood-cuts of the Pavilion fete ; — the when, the how, and the wherefore. A. The summer-house, and Lady Aphrodite meeting the young duke. B. The hedge behind which Sir Lucius Grafton was concealed. C. Kensington Gardens, and a cloudy morning ; and so on. Cruik- shanks did wonders. Let us endeavour to ascertain the feelings of the principal agents in this odd affair. Sir Lucius now was cool, and the mischief being done, took a calm review of the late mad hours. As was his custom, he began to inquire whether any good could be elicited from all evil. He owed his late adversary sundry moneys, which he had never contemplated the possibility of repaying to the person who had eloped with his wife. Had he shot his creditor, the accomit would equally have been cleared ; and this consideration, although it did not prompt, had not dissuaded the- late despe- rate deed. As it was, he now appeared still to enjoy the possession both of his wife and his debts, and had lost his friend. Bad generalship. Sir Lucy ! Reconciliation was out of the question. The duke's position was a good one. Strongly in- trenched with a flesh wound, he had all the sym- pathy of society on his side : and after having been confined for a few weeks, he could go to Paris for a few months, and then retiurn, as if the Graftons had never crossed his eye, rid of a troublesome THE YOUNG DUKE. 291 iTi.istress and a troublesome friend. His position was certainly a good one, but Sir Lucius was astute, and he determined to turn this Shumla of his grace. The quarrel must have been about her ladyship. Who could assign any other cause for it 1 And the duke must now he weak with loss of blood and anxiety, and totally unable to resist any appeal, particularly a personal one, to his feelings. He determined, therefore, to drive Lady Afy into his grace's arms. If he could only get her into the house for an hour, the business would be settled. These cunning plans were, however, nearly being crossed by a very simple incident. Annoyed at finding that her feelings could be consulted only by sacriiicing those of another woman, May Dacre, quite confident that, as Lady Aphrodite was inno- cent in the present instance, she must be immacu- late, told every thing to her father, and stifling her tears, begged him to make all public ; but Mr. Dacre, after due consideration, enjoined si- lence. In the mean time, the young duke was not in so calm a mood as the baronet. Rapidly the late extraordinary events dashed through his mind, and already those feelings which had prompted his soliloquy in the garden were no longer his. All forms, all images, all ideas, all memory, meJted into May Dacre. He felt that he loved her with a perfect love ; that she was to him' what no other woman had been, even in the factitious delirium of early passion. A thought of her seemed to bring an enth-ely novel train of feelings, impressions, wishes, hopes. The world with her must be a totally different system, and his existence in her society a new and another life. Her very purity refined the passion which raged even in his exhausted mind. Gleams of virtue, morning streaks of duty, broke upon the horizon of his hitherto clouded soul ; an obscure suspicion of the utter worthlessness of his life whispered in his hollow ear ; he darkly felt that happiness was too philosophical a system to be the result, or the reward, of impulse, however unbounded, and that principle alone could create, and could support, that bliss which is our being's end and aim. But when he turned to himself, he viewed his situation with hoiTor and yielded almost to despair. What — what could she think of the impure liber- tine who dared to adore her ] If ever time could bleach his own soul, and conciliate hers, what — what was to become of Aphrodite 1 Was his new career to commence by a new crime 1 Was he to desert this creature of his affections, and break a heart which beat only for him ] It seemed that the only compensation he could offer for a life which had achieved no good, would be to establish the felicity of the only being whose happiness seemed in his power. Yet what a prospect 1 If before he had trembled — now — But his harrowed mind and exhausted body no longer allowed him even anxiety. Weak, yet excited, his senses fled ; and when Arundel Dacre returned in the evening he found his friend de- lirious. He sat by his bed for many hours. Sud- denly the dulie speaks. Arundel Dacre rises : — he leans over the sufferer's couch. Ah ! why turns the face of the listener so pale — and why gleam those eyes with terrible fire? The perspiration courses down his clear but sallow cheek : he throws his dark and clustering curls aside, and passes his hand over his damp brow, as if to ask whether he, too, had lost his senses from this fray. The duke is agitated. He waves his arm in the air, and calls out in a tone of defiance and of hate. His voice sinks ; it seems that he breathes a milder language, and speaks to some softer being. There is no sound, save the long-drawn breath of one on whose countenance is stamped infinite amazement. Arundel Dacre walks the room disturbed ; often he pauses, plunged in deep thought. 'Tis an hour past midnight, and he quits the bedside of the young duke. He pauses at the threshold, and seems to respire even the noisome air of the metropolis as if it were Eden. As he proceeds down Hill Street, he stops, and gazes for a moment on the opposite house. What passes in his mind we know not. Perhaps he is reminded that in that mansion dwell beauty, wealth and influence — and that all might be his. Perhaps love prompts that gaze — perhaps ambition. Is it passion or is it power ] or does one struggle with the other ? As he gazes, the door opens, hut without ser- vants ; and a man, deeply shrouded in his cloak, comes out. It was night, and the individual was disguised ; but there are eyes which can pierce at all seasons, and through all concealments, — and Arundel Dacre marked with astonishment Sir Lu- cius Grafton. CHAPTER XV. Whkx it was understood that the Duke of St. James had been delirious, public feeling reached what is called its height ; that is to say, the cu- riosity and the ignorance of the world were about equal. Everybody was indignant, — not so much because the young duke had been shot, but because they did not know why. If the sympathy of wo- men could have consoled him, our hero might have been reconciled to his fate. Among these, no one appeared more anxious as to the result, and more ignorant as to the cause, than Mrs. Dallington Vere. Arundel Dacre called on her the morning ensuing his midnight observation, but understood that she had not seen Sir Lucius Grafton, who, they said, had quitted London, which she thought probable. Nevertheless, Arundel thought proper to walk down Hill Street at the same hour, and, if not at the same minute, yet, in due course of time, he discovered the absent baronet. In two or three days the young duke was de- clared out of immediate danger, though his attend- ants must say, he remained exceedingly restless, and by no means in a satisfactory state ; yet, with their aid, they had a right to hope the best. At any rate, if he were to go oft', his friends would have the satisfaction of remembering, that all had been done that could be. So saying. Dr. X. took his fee, and Surgeons Y. and Z. prevented his con duct from being singular. Now began the operations on the Graflon side A letter from Lady Aphrodite full of distraction. She was fairly mystified. What could have in- duced Lucy suddenly to act so puzzled her, as well it might. Her despair, and yet her confidence in his grace, seemed equally great. Some talk there was of going oflf to Cleve at once. Her husband, on the whole, maintained a rigid silence and studied 292 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. coolness. Yet he had talked of Vienna and Flo- rence, and even murmured something about public disgrace and public ridicule. In short, the poor lady was fairly worn out, and wished to terminate her harassing career at once, by cutting the Gor- dian knot. In a word, she proposed coming on to her admirer, and, as she supposed, her victim ; and having the satisfaction of giving him his coohng draughts and arranging his bandages. If the meeting between the young duke and Sir Lucius Grafton had been occasioned by any other cause than the real one, I cannot say what might have been the fate of this proposition. My own opinion is, that this work would have been in two volumes; for the requisite morality would have made out the present one : but, as it was, the image of May Dacre hovered above our hero as his guar- dian genius. He despaired of ever obtaining her ; but yet he determined not wUfuUy to crush all hope. Some great eflbrt must be made to right his position. Lady Aphrodite must not be deserted — the vei-y thought increased his fever. He wrote, to gain time ; but another billet, in immediate answer, only painted mcreased terrors, and described the growing urgency of her persecuted situation. He was driven into a comer ; but even a stag at bay is awful — what then must be a young duke, the most noble animal in existence 1 111 as he was, he wrote these lines, not to Lady Aphrodite, but to — her husband. " Mr DEAR Grafton : — You will be surprised at hearing from me. I trust you will not be dis- pleased. Is it necessary for me to assure you, that my interference on a late occasion was quite acci- dental 1 And can you, for a moment, maintahi that, under the circumstances, I could have acted in a different manner ? I regret the whole unhappy business ; but most I regret that we were placed in colhsion. " I am ready to cast all memory of it into obU- vion ; and as I most unintentionally offended, I indulge the sweet hope that, in this conduct, you will bear me company. " Surely men like us are not to be dissuaded from following our inclinations by any fear of the opinion of the world. The whole affair is, at present, a mystery; and, I think, with our united fancies, sozne explanation may be hit upon which will ren- der the mystery quite impenetrable, while it pro- fesses to offer a satisfactory solution. *' I do not know whether this letter expresses my meaning, for my mind is somewhat agitated and my head not very clear ; but if you be inclined to understand it in the right spirit, it is sufficiently lu- cid. At any rate, my dear Grafton, I have once more the pleasure of subscribing myself, faithfujly yours, St. James." This letteir was marked " immediate," consigned to the custody of Luigi, with positive orders to de- liver it i^rsonally to Sir Lucius ; and if not at home, to follow till he found him. He was not at honje^ and he was found at 's club-house. Sullen, dissatisfied with himself, doubt- ful as to the result of his fresh manoeuvres, and brooding over his infernal debts, Sir Lucius had stepped uito , and passed the whole morning gaming desperately with Lord Hounslow and Baron de Berghen. Never had he experienced such a Bmasliing; morning. He had long far exceeded his banker's account, and was proceeding with a vague idea that he should find money somehow or other, when this note was put into his hand, as it seemed to him, by Providence. The signature of Semirar mis could not have imparted more exquisite deUghl to the mysterious Mr. Upcott, or lucid Dawson Turner, whose letter is not forgotten among the Apennines. (6) Were his long views, his com- phcated objects, and doubtful results, to be put in competition a moment with so decided, so simple^ and so certain a benefit 1 Certainly not, by a gamester. He rose from the table, and with strange elation wrote these lines. " Mx DEAHEST PRiEiTD : — You forgive me — bul can I forgive myself? I am plunged in the most overwhelming grief. Shall I come onl Youi mad but devoted friend, Lucius Graftoit." " The Duke of St. James," &c. &.C. &c. They met the same day. After a long consulta- tion, it was settled that Peacock Piggott should be intrusted, in confidence, with the secret of the affair — merely a drunken squabble, " growing out" of the Bird of Paradise. Wine, jealousy, an artful woman, and headstrong youth, will account for any thing — they accounted for the present affair. The story was believed, because the world were always puzzled at Lady Aphrodite being the cause. The baronet proceeded with promptitude to make the version pass current. He indicted " The Universe* and " The New World ;" he prosecuted the cari caturists ; and was seen everywhere with his wife "The Universe" and "The New World" revenged themselves on the signora ; and then she indicted them. They could not now even Ubel an opera- singer with impunity — where was the boasted liberty of the press 1 In the mean time, the young duke, once more easy in his mind, wonderfully recovered ; and on the eighth day after the Ball of Beauty, he returned to the Pavilion, which had now resumed its usual calm character, for fresh air and soothing quiet. CHAPTER XVI. On the morning of the young duke's departure for Twickenham, as Miss Dacre and Lady Caro- hne St. Maurice were sitting together at the house of the former, and moralizing over the last night's ball, Mr. Arundel Dacre was announced. " You have just arrived in time to offer your con- gratulations, Arundel, on an agreeable event," said Miss Dacre. " Lord St. Maurice is about to lead to the hymeneal altar " " Lady Sophy Wrekin — I know it." " How extremely diplomatic I The attache in your very air. I thought, of course, I was to sur- prise you ; but future ambassadors have such ex- traordinary sources of information." " Mine is a very simple one. The dutchess, imagining, I suppose, that my attentions were di- rected to the wrong lady, warned me some weeks past. However, my congratulations shall be duly paid. Lady CaroUne St. Maurice, allow me to express " " All that you ought to feel," said Miss Dacre, " But men at the present day pride themselves on insensibiUty." THE YOUNG DUKE. 093 "Do you think I am insensible, Lady Caroline 1" asked Arundel. " I must protest against unfair questions," said her ladyship. " But it is not unfair. You are a person who have now seen me more than once, and therefore, according to May, you ought to have a perfect knowledge of my character. Moreover, you do not share the prejudices of my family. I ask you, then, do you think I am so heartless as May would insinuate 1" " Does she insinuate so muchi" " Does she not call me insensible, because I am not in raptures that your brother is about to marrj- a young lady, who, for aught she knows, may be the object of my secret adoration'?" " Arundel, you are perverse," said Miss Dacre. " No, May, I am logical." " I have always heard that logic is much worse than wilfulness," said Lady Caroline. " But Arundel always was both," said Miss Dacre. " He is not only unreasonable, but he will always prove that he is right. Here is your purse, sir," she added, with a smile, presenting him with the result of her week's labour. " This is the way she always bribes me. Lady Caroline. Do you approve of this corruption V " I must confess, I have a slight, though secret, kindness for a little bribery. Mamma is now on her way to Mortimer's, on a very con-upt embassy. The nouvelle mariee, you know, must be reconciled to her change of lot by quite a new set of play- things. I can give you no idea of the necklace that our magnificent cousin, in spite of his wound, has sent Sophy." "But, then, such a cousin!" said Miss Dacre. " A young duke, like the young lady in the fair}'- tale, should scarcely ever speak without producing brilliants." " Sophy is highly sensible of the attention. As she musingly observed, except himself marrying her, he could scarcely do more. I hear the car- riage. Adieu, love ! Good morning, Mr. Dacre." " Allow me to see you to your carriage. I am to dine at Fitz-pompey House to-day, I believe." Arundel Dacre returned to his cousin, and seat- ing himself at the table, took up a book, and began reading it the wrong side upwards ; then he threw down a ball of silk, then he cracked a netting- needle, and then, with a husky sort of voice, and a half-blush, and altogether an air of infinite confu- sion, he said, " This has been an odd affair. May, of the Duke of St. James and Sir Lucius Grafton." " A very distressing affair, Arundel." " How singular that I should have been his second, May !" " Could he have found any one more fit for that office, Arundel 1" " I think he might. I must say this ; that had I known at the time the cause of the fray, I should have refused to attend him." She was silent, and he resumed. " An opera singer at the best ! Sir Lucius Graf- ton showed more discrimination. Peacock Piggott was just the character for his place, and I think my principal, too, might have found a more congenial sprite. What do you think, May 1" " Really, Arundel, this is a subject of which I know nothing." " Indeed ! Well, it is very odd, May ; but do you know 1 I have a queer suspicion that you know more about it than anybody else 1" "I! Arundel]" she exclaimed, with marked confusion. " Yes, you. May," he repeated,with great firmness, and looked her in the face with a glance wliich would read her sovd. "Ay ! I am sure you do." " Who says so 1" " ! do not fear that you have been betrayed. No one says it ; but I know it. We future ambas- sadors, you know, have such extraordinary sources of information." " You jest, Arundel, on a grave subject." " Grave I — yes, it is grave, May Dacre. It '<) grave that there should be secrets between us; it 4 grave, that our house should have been insulted ; t is grave that you, of all others, should have been outraged ; but ! it is much more grave, it is bit- ter, that any other arm than this should have avenged the wrong." He rose from his chair, he paced the room in fearful agitation, and gnashed his teeth with an expression of vindictive hate, tliat he tried not to suppress. " ! my cousin, my dear, dear cousin ! spare me, spare me !" She hid her face in her hands, yet she contmued speaking in a broken voice, " I did it for the best. It was to suppress strife, to prevent bloodshed. I knew your temper, and I feared for your life — yet I told my father, I told him all ; and it was by his advice that I have maintained throughout the silence which I, perhaps too hastily, at first adopted." " My own dearest May ! spare me, spare me. I cannot mark a tear from you without a pang. How I came to know this, you wonder. It was the de- lirium of that person who should not have played so proud a part m this affair, and who is yet our friend ; it was his delirium that betrayed all. In the madness of his excited brain, he reacted the frightful scene, declared die outrage, and again avenged it. Yet, believe me, I am not tempted by any petty feeling of showing I am not ignorant of what is con- sidered a secret, to declare all this. I know, I feel your silence was for the best, — that it was prompted by sweet and holy feelings for my sake. Believe me, my dear cousin, if any thing could increase the infinite aflection with which I love you, it would be the consciousness that, at all times, whenever my image crosses your mind, it is to muse for my benefit, or to extenuate my errors. " Dear May, you, who know me better than the world, know well my heart is not a mass of ice ; and you, who are ever so ready to find a good reason even for my most wilful conduct, and an excuse for my most irrational, will easily credit, that in inter- fering in an affair in which you are concerned, I am not influenced by an unworthy, an officious, or a meddlmg spirit. No, my own May, it is because I tliink it better for you that we should speak upon this subject, that I venture to treat upon it. Per- haps, I broke it in a crude, but, credit me, not in an uiJund spirit. I am well conscious I have a some- what ungracious manner; but you, who have par- doned it so often, will excuse it now. To be brief, it is of your companion to that accursed fete that I would speak." "Mrs. Dallingtonl" " Surely, she. Avoid her. May. I do not like that woman. You know I seldom speak at hazard • if I do not speak more distinctly now, it is because I will never magnify suspicions into ci-rtaintiea, 2 B 2 294 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. which we must do even if we mention them. But I suspect — greatly suspect. An open rupture would be disagreeable — would be unwaiTantable — would be impolitic. The season draws to a close. Quit town somewhat earlier than usual, and, in the mean time, receive her, if necessary — but, if possible, never alone. You have many friends ; and, if no other, Lady Caroline St. Maurice is worthy of your so- ciety." He bent down his head, and kissed her forehead : she pressed his faithful hand. " And now, dear May, let me speak of a less im- portant object, — of myself. I find this borough a mere delusion. Every day new difficulties arise ; and every day my chance seems weaker. I am wasting precious time, for one who should be in ac- tion. I think, then, of returning to Vienna, and at once. I have some chance of being appointed sec- retary of legation, and I then shall have achieved what was the great object of my life — indepen- dence." " This is always a sorrowful subject to me, Arun- del. You have cherished such strange — do not be offended if I say such erroneous ideas on the sub- ject of what you call independence, that I feel that, upon it, v^'e can consult neither with profit to you nor satisfaction to myself. Independence ! Who is independent, if the heir of Dacre bow to any one 1 Independence ! Who can be independent, if the future head of one of the first fomilies in this great counti-y will condescend to be the secretary even of a kingl" " We have often talked of this. May, and perhaps I have carried a morbid feeling to some excess ; but my paternal blood flows in these veins, and it is too late to change. I know not how it is, but I seem misplaced in life. My existence is a long blun- der." " Too late to change, dearest Arundel ! O ! thank you for those words. Can it, can it ever be too late to acknowledge error 1 Particularly if, by that very acknowledgment, we not only secure our own hap- piness, but that of those we love, and those who love us." " Dear May ! when I talk with you, I talk with my good genius ; but I am in closer and more con- stant converse with another mind, and of that I am the slave. It is my own. I will not conceal from you, from whom I have concealed nothing, that doubts and dark misgivings of the truth and wisdom of my past feelings and my past career will ever and anon flit across my fancy, and obtrude them- selves upon my consciousness. Your father — yes ! I feel that I have not been to him what nature in- tended, and what he deserved." " 0, Arundel !" she said, with streaming eyes, "he loves you like a son. Yet, yet, be one !" He seated himself on the sofa by her side, and took her small hand, and bathed it with his jcisses. " My sweet and faithful friend — my very sister. I am overpowered with feelings to which I have hitherto been a stranger. There is a cause for all this contest of my passions. It must out. My being has changed. The scales have fallen from my sealed eyes, and the fountain of my heart o'cr- flows. Life seems to have a new purpose, and ex- istence a new cause. Listen to me, listen; and if you can. May, comfort me !" CHAPTER XVIL At Twickenham, the young duke recovered rapidly. Not altogether displeased with his recent conduct, his self-complacency assisted his conva- lescence. Sir Lucius Grafton visited him daily Regularly, about four or five o'clock, he galloped down to the Pavilion, with the last ora dit : some gay message from the bow-window, a mot of Lord Squib, or a trait of Charles Annesley. But while he studied to amuse the wearisome hours of hia imprisoned friend, in the midst of all his gayety an interesting contrition was ever breaking forth, not so much by words as looks. It was evident that Sir Lucius, although he dissembled his aflliction. was seriously afiected by the consequence of his rash passion ; and his amiable victim, whose mag- nanimous mind was incapable of harbouring an inimical feeling, and ever responded to a soft and generous sentiment, felt actually more aggrieved for his unhappy friend than for himself. Of Arundel Dacre the duke had not seen much. That gentle- man never particidarly sympathized with Sir Lucius Grafton, and now he scarcely endeavoured to co?> ceal the little pleasure which he received from the baronet's society. Sir Lucius was the last man not to detect this mood ; but as he was confident that the duke had not betrayed him, he could only sup- pose that Miss Dacre had confided the affair to her family, and therefore, under all circumstances, he thought it best to be unconscious of any alteration in Arundel Dacre's intercourse with him. Civil, therefore, they were when they met; the baronet was even courteous ; but they both mutually avoided each other. At the end of three weeks the Duke of St. James returned to town in perfect condition, and received the congratulations of his friends. Mr. Dacre had been of the few who had been permitted to visit him at Twickenham. Nothing had then passed between them on the cause of his illness ; but his grace could not but observe, that the manner of his valued friend was more than commonly cordial. And Miss Dacre, with her father, was among the first to hail his return to health and the metropolis. The Bird of Paradise, who, since the incident, had been several times in hysterics, and had written various notes, of three or four lines each, of inquiries and entreaties to join her noble friend, had been kept off from Twickenham by the masterly tactics of Lord Squib. She, however, would drive to the duke's house the day after his arrival in town, and was with him when sundry loud knocks, in quick succession, announced an approaching levee. He locked her up in his private room, and hastened to receive the compliments of his visiters. In the same apartment, among many others, he had the pleasure of meeting, for the first time. Lady Aphro- dite Grafton, Lady Caroline St. Maurice, and Miss Dacre, all women whom he had either promised, intended, or offered to marry. A curious situation this ! And really, when our hero looked upon them once more, and viewed them, in delightful rivalry, advancing with their congratulations, he was not surprised at the feelings with which they inspired him. Far, far exceeding the bonhomie of Macheath, the duke could not resist remembering, that had it been his fortune to have lived in the land in which lus historiographer will soon be wandering — in short, THE YOUNG DUKE. 295 to have been a pasha instead of a peer, he might have married all three. A prettier fellow and three prettier women had never met since the immortal incident of Ida. It required the thorough breeding of Lady Afy to conceal the anxiety of her passion ; May Dacre's eyes showered triple sunshine, as she extended a hand not too often offered ; but Lady Caroline was a cousin, and consanguinity, therefore, authorized as well as accounted for the warmth of her greeting. CHAPTER XVin. A VERT few days after his return, the Duke of St. James dined with Mr. Dacre. It was the first time that he had dined with him durmg the season. The Fitz-pompeys were there ; and, among others, his grace had the pleasure of again meeting a few of his Yorkshire friends. Once more he found himself at the right hand »f May Dacre. All his career, since his arrival in England, flitted across his mind. Doncaster, dear Doncaster, where he had first seen her, teemed only with delightful reminiscences to a man whose fa- vourite had bolted. Such is the magic of love ! Then came Castle Dacre and the Orange Terrace, and their elegant romps, and the delightful party to Hauteville ; and then Dacre Abbey. An involun- tary shudder seemed to damp all the ardour of his soul ; but when he turned and looked upon her Deaming face he could not feel miserable. He thought that he had never been at so agreea- ble a party in his life : yet it was chiefly composed of the very beings whom he daily execrated for their powers of boredom. And he himself was not very entertaining. He was certainly more silent than loquacious, and found himself very often gazing with mute admiration on the little mouth, every word breathed forth from which seemed inspiration. Yet he was happy ; ! what happiness is his who •lotes upon a woman ! Few could observe from his conduct what was passing in his mind ; yet the quivering of his softened tones, and the mild lustre of his mellowed gaze ; his subdued and quiet man- ner ; his unpcrceived yet infinite attentions ; his memory of httle incidents, that all but lovers would have forgotten ; the total absence of all compli- ment, and gallantry, and repartee — all these, to a fine observer, might have been gentle indications of a strong passion ; and to her to whom they were addressed, sutficiently intimated that no change had taken place in his feelings, since the warm hour in which he first whispered his o'erpowering love. The ladies retired, and the Duke of St. James fell into a revery. A political discourse of the most elaborate genus now arose. Lord Fitz-pompey got parliamentary. Young Faulcon made his es- cape, having previously whispered to another youth, not unheard by the Duke of St. James, that his mother was about to depart, and he was con- voy. His grace, too, had heard Lady Fitz-pompey say that she was going early to the opera. Shortly afterward, parties evidently retired. But the debate still raged. Lord Fitz-pompey had caught a stout Yorkshire squire, and was delightedly astounding, with official graces, his stern opponent. A sudden thought occurred to the duke : he stole out of the room, and gained the saloon. He found it almost empty. With sincere plea- sure, he bid Lady Bahnont, who was on the point of departure, farewell, and promised to look in at her box. He seated himself by Lady Greville Nu gent, and dexterously made her follow Lady Bal- mont's example. She withdrew with the conviction that his grace would not be a moment behind her. There was only old Mrs. Hungerford and her rich daughter remaining. They were in such raptures with Miss Dacre's singing, that his grace was quite in despair; but chance favoured him. Even old Mrs. Hungerford this night broke through her rule of not going to more than one house, and she drove oft' to Lady de Courcy's. They were alone. It is sometimes an awful thing to be alone with those we love. " Sing that again !" asked the duke, imploringly " It is my favourite air ; it always reminds me of Dacre." She sang, she ceased ; she sang with beauty, and she ceased with grace ; but all unnoticed by the tumultuous soul of her adoring guest. His thoughts were intent upon a greater object. The opportunity was sweet ; and yet those boisterous wassailers, they might spoil all. " Do you know that this is the first time that I have seen your rooms lit up 7" said the duke. " Is it possible ! I hope they gain the approbation of so distinguished a judge." " I admire them exceedingly. By-the-by, I sea a new cabinet in the next room. Swaby told me the other day that you were one of his lady patron- esses. I wish you would show it me. I am very curious in cabinets." She rose, and they advanced to the end of another and a longer room. "This is a beautiful saloon," said the duke. "How long is if?" " I really do not know ; but I thmk, between forty and fifty feet." " O ! you must be mistaken. Forty or fifty feet. I am an excellent judge of distances. I will try. Forty or fifty feet. Ah ! the third room included. Let us walk to the end of the next room. Each of my paces shall be one foot and a half." They had now arrived at the end of the third room. " Let me see," resumed the duke ; " you have a small room to the right. O ! did I not hear that you had made a conservatory 1 I see — I see it — lit up too ! Let us go in. I want to gain some hints about London conservatories." It was not exactly a conservatory ; but a balcony of large dimensions had been fitted up on each side with coloured glass, and was open to the gardens. It was a rich night of fragrant June. The moon and stars were as bright as if they had shone over the terrace of Dacre, and the perfume of the flowers reminded him of his favourite orange trees. The mild, cool scene was such a contrast to the hot and noisy chamber they had recently quitted, that for a moment they were silent. " You are not afraid of this delicious air 1" asked his grace. " Midsummer air," said Miss Dacre, " must surely be harmless." Again there was silence ; and Miss DacTB, afler having plucked a flower and tendered a plant, seemed to express an intention of withdrawing. Suddenly he spoke, and in a gushing voice of heaii- felt words. 296 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. " Miss Dacre, you are too kind, too excellent to De oflcnded, if I dare to ask whether any thing could induce you to view with more indulgence one who sensibly feels how utterly he is unworthy of you 1" " My lord, you are the last man whose feelings I should wish to hurt. Let us not revive a con- versation to which, I can assure you, neither of us looks back with satisfaction." " Is there then no hope 1 Must I ever live with the consciousness of being the object of your scorn V " ! no, no ! My lord, as you will speak, let us understand each other. However I may approve of my decision, I have lived quite long enough to repent the manner in which it was conveyed. I cannot, without the most unfeigned regret — I can- not for a moment remember, that I have addressed a bitter word to one to whom I am under the great- est obligations. If my apologies — " " Pray, pray be silent I" " I must speak. If my apologies, my most com- plete, my most humble apologies, can be any com- pensation for treating with such lightness feehngs which I now respect, and oilers by which I now consider myself honoured, — accept them !" " ! Miss Dacre, that flital word — respect !" " My lord, we have warmer words in this house for you. You are now our friend." " I dare not urge a suit which may offend you ; yet if you could read my heart, I sometimes think that we might be happy. Let me hope !" " My dear Duke of St. James, I am sure you will not ever ofl'end me, because I am sure you will not ever wish to do it. There are few people in this world for whom I entertain a more sincere regard than yourself. I am convinced, I am conscious, that when we met, I did sufficient justice neither to your virtues nor your talents. It is impossible for me to express with what satisfaction I now feel, that you have resumed that place in the aftections of this family to which you have a hereditary right. I am grateful, truly, sincerely grateful for all that you feel with regard to me individually ; and be- lieve me, in again expressing my regret that it is not in my power to view you in any other light than as a valued friend, I feel that I am pursuing that conduct which will conduce as much to your happiness as my own." " My happiness, Miss Dacre I" " Indeed, such is my opinion. I will not again endeavour to depreciate the feelings which you en- tertain for me, and by which, ever remember, I feel honoured ; but these very feelings prevent you from viewing their object as dispassionately as I do." " I am at a loss for your meaning — at least, favour me by speaking explicitly : — you see, I respect your sentiments, and do not presume to urge that on which my very happiness depends." " To he brief, then, my lord, I will not affect to onceal that marriage is a state which has often reen the object of my meditations. I think it the duty of all women that so important a change in their destiny should be well considered. If I know any thing of myself, I am convinced that I should never survive an unhappy marriage." " But why dream of any thing so utterly impos- fiiblel" " So very probable, — so very certain, you mean, my lord. Ay ! I repeat my words, for they are Uuth. If I ever marry, it is to devote every feeling, and every thought, each hour, each mstant of exist- ence, to a single being for whom I alone live. Such devotion I expect in return ; without it, I should die, or wish to die; but such devotion can never be returned by you." " You amaze me ! I ! who live only on you image." " My lord, your education, the habits in which you have been brought up, the maxims which have been instilled into you from your infancy, the sys- tem which each year of your life has more matured, the worldly levity with which every thing connected with woman is viewed by you and your compa- nions ; whatever may be your natural dispositions, — all this would prevent you — all this would render it a perfect impossibility, — all this will ever make you utterly unconscious of the importance of the subject on which we are now conversing. My lord, pardon me for saying it — you know not of what you speak. Yes ! however sincere may be the expression of your feelings to me this moment, I shudder to think on whom your memory dwelt but yesterday, even this hour. I never will peril my happiness on such a chance ; but there are others, my lord, who do not think as I do." " May Dacre ! save me, save me ! If you knew all, you would not doubt. This moment is my des- tiny." " My lord, save yourself. There is yet time. You have my prayers." " I^et me then hope — " " Indeed, indeed, it cannot be. Here our con- versation on this subject ends forever." " Yet we part friends !" He spoke in a broken voice. " The best and truest !" She extended her arm ; he pressed her hand to his impassioned lips, and quitted the house, mad with love and misery. This scene should have been touching : but, I know not why, when I read it over it seems to me a tissue of half-meanings. What I meant is stamped upon my brain, if indeed I have a brain; but I have lost the power of conveying what I feel, if indeed that power were ever mine. I write with an aching head and quivering hand ; yet I must write, if but to break the solitude, which is to me a world quick with exciting life : I scribble to divert a brain which, though weak, will struggle with strong thoughts, and lest my mind should muse itself to madness. The mmd is an essence, there is no doubt, and infinitely superior to the grosser body. Yet some- how that rebel will turn round upon its chief, and wonderfully mar our great careers. Mind is a fine thing, I won't deny it, and mine was once as full of pride and hope as infant empire. But where are now my deeds and aspirations, and where the fame I dreamed of when a boy 1 I find the world just slipping through my fingers, and cannot grasp the jewel ere it falls. I quit an earth where none will ever miss me, save those whose blood requires no laurels to make them love my memory. My life has been a blunder and a blank, and all ends by my adding one more slight ghost to the shadowy realm of fotal precocity ! These are the rubs that make QS feel the vanity of life — the littleness of man. Yet I do not groan, and will not murmur. My punish- ment is no caprice of tyranny. I brought it on my- self, as greater men have done before. Prometheus is a lesson how to bear torture ; but I think my case is most like Nebuchadnezzar's. But this is dull. I know not how it is : but, as is the custom to observe, when sometliing is about THE YOUNG DUKE. 297 to be said particularly flat, I have " a shrewd sus- picion," that our light talc is growing tragical. When men have been twice rejected, their feelings are somewhat strange ; and when men feel keenly, they act violently. I have half a mind to give it up, and leave these volumes in imperfect beauty, like two lone columns on an Argive plain. Perhaps it is the hour, — perhaps the place ; but I am gloomy. The moon is in her midnight bower, and from the walls of the huge hall in which I sit many a marble chief and canvass cardinal frown, as it were, upon the intrusive stranger, who sits scrib- bling in their presence, and whom, if they were alive, they would no more think of stabbing, poison- ing, or burning, than of eating flesh in Lent. A moan is heard, too, in the lengthening galleries, and doors slam in chambers wliich none e'er enter. There is nothing so vast and desolate as an Italian palace. lama great votary of the genus loci : it is a doc- trine I have often proved. Now, if I were seated in some Albanian chambers, all varnished mahogany, and crimson damask, round tables, and square couches, with dwarf bookcases, which hold not too many volumes, and ever and anon crowned with a bronze or bust, some slight antique, which just re- minds us that had we lived at Athens or at Eome we are of the select few who would have joined Aspasian coteries and Horatian suppers, — or if even I had taken refuge in a temporary apartment in dingy Jermyn Street, or sly St. James's Palace, some little room, small, snug, and smoky, cozy, neat, and warm, and vtry comfortable, — why then aflairs would alter. I'd snuff my candles, and I'd poke my fire, and, with a pen brisk as the morn, glance off a chapter which might make some people stare ; for even the critics, never much my friends, confess I have shown a considerable turn for satire. But after one-and-twenty, men grow mild — at least I did. And so this rare gift gets thrown by with cricket, boxing, fencing, foils, and fives,— all pursuits, excellence in which, as iji satire, depends on hitting hard. So a little calm gaycty is all I now allow myself, and after that, I am ever doubly se- rious, as thrifty housewives occasionally indulge in a slight debauch, and tax the ensuing week the butcher's bill. I said the critics were never much my friends, which I regret, and which has occasioned me many a heartache. Because we all know, that they are always right, and never make a miss. So, their approbation is a feather in an author's cap, and in- finitely to be preferred to public sympathy and pri- vate praise. I don't know how it was, but certainly I did not hit the fancy of these gentry. I suppose I tried to mount the throne without the permission of the Praetorians. In the literary as in all other worlds, tlie way to rise is to be patronised. " Talent" is admired ; but then it must be docile, and defer. In spite of my many faults, the cant of the clique was wanting, and the freemasons discovered I was not a brother. I am sure I had no wish, and no inten- tion to mingle in their ranks. I dressed some crude inventions in a thoughtless style, without any idea my page would live beyond the week that gave it birth. I was brought up m due abhorrence of this unthrifty life, and was kept from ink as some boys are kept from wine, or from what grave signers think even worse. There also was § rumour ripe and deep, that I 3S had ventured to doubt the inspiration of some ex alted bards, whose seats upon Parnassus were so high, that I suppose they were covered with the clouds, for I had never yet detected their divinity- ships. But nevertheless it was voted, nem. con., that innocent I must be the blaspheming rogue, and so all Grub street sent its toothless mastiffs at my heretic feet. There is nothing so virulent as an irritated dunce, particularly if he be on a wrong scent. In short, I was voted quite a dangerous character— T-one of those who would not cry ei^ux^t o'er a genius not yet found, or fall into ecstasies at the originality of an echo. I understand that it was settled that I should be vrritten down. I wonder why these kind gentle- men did not succeed. I am sure I did every thing I could to help them. Sometimes I was very fine, and sometimes much too witty. Then, I have seen even purer English than my earliest page; but per- haps my foreign slip-slop made up for that, which indicated the travelled man. But the public backed me, as we back the weaker party in a boisterous row. The public will some- times read the book they ought not. " 'Tis true, 'tis pity, pity 'tis 'tis true." But this blundering brings gall to the critic's lip, and many a bilious " article" flows from a pen which itself has failed where the stigmatised has succeeded. When I begin again I shall know better. I am not one of those minds on which experience is thrown away. I will get a magazine or so to say something for me sweet and soft. Who knows then what I muy not come to ! Perhaps some congenial editor may some day hail me as " a talented young man I" Perhaps, in the long perspective of my glory, I may even in time be reckoned a supernumerary of the " two thousand most distinguished writers of the day." And, after all, it is amusing to find even my boyish nonsense, the flagrant defects of which could only be excused by the speedy oblivion which awaited them, upon the Rhine, the Danube, and the Elbe. I have had my back, too, patted on the Seine, and shrugged my shoulders over indiscretions which had travelled even as far as where the mountains shoot the turbid Arno from their dark green womb. If I might be permitted to give an opinion, which I never do, I should say that bluster was scarcely the right way to stifle youth. A sneer is the inost active hostility that I should recommend under such circumstances ; but the best would be silence. As we advance, quiet is the to k^aov of existence; but when we are juvenals, and think the world a great matter, and ourselves not altogether the most insig- nificant part of it, we are but too ready to put on the gloves, and young blood is not exactly the fluid to be bullied. I am sure that my first literary of- fence would have been my last, if I had not been dared ; but when scribbling became a point of honour, I set to, and would not prove a craven. The public backed me: I am very willing to ascribe their support merely to their good nature, for I have found mankind far more amiable than, misled by books, I once dared to hope. But lest this cause alone should be considered a slur upon their discrimination, I will believe, that some few sparks of feeling rose from my false inventions, some slight flame of truth broke out from my dark crudities, and won their sympathy. In this artificial world, we pine for nature, and we sigh for truth. It is this that makes us hasten to fictitious worlds to find what in our own should be. 298 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. and yet is not. It is this that makes us prize Uie page that makes us leel. It is this that bows us down before the magic of creative mind, wliose in- spiration is but tho voice of disabused humanity. He who, while he shares the passions of his race, yet muses deeply on their deep results, and search- ing into his own breast, can transform experience into existence, and create past passions into present ]ife — he who can do all this without the cynic's sneer or sophist's gloss, is a rare being ; — but where is he 1 Since the Thunderer sank to night in Mis- solonghi's fatal marsh, the intellectual throne has remained vacant. His chiefs and rivals will neither claim nor yield the proud pre-eminence. Each feels that supremacy must be the meed of novel conquests ; and it is too late for that. Some, like Napoleon's marshals, have grown fixt and rich ; some, which is much worse, lean and gray. So, these heroes divide the provinces, and repose under their laurels, that is to say, they amuse themselves with some slight deeds, which, by their contrast, keep alive the memory of their great achievements. One founds a school ; another writes a school-book. Having enchanted the fatliers, they condescend to conjure before the children. Moore alone, like Murat charging in the hottest fight, still maintains the war. O ! long may victory poise on his unsullied plume ! long may the trench- ant sabre of his wit gleam in our ranks, and long his trumpet sound to triumph ! Mcthinks that whenever he may leave us — on that day, the sun will be less warm, the stars less bright, the moon less soft ; — that a cloud will burst over the gardens of Cashmere, and the peris grow pale in tb.e pala- ces of Amrabad ; — that every nightingale will pine, and every rose will fade ! But while the Paladins surround the throne with their broad shields, and in oligarchical disdain support the literary regency, a far difi'erent scene opens without the pale. There I view a vast tu- multuous crowd, mad with the lust of praise, and fierce with the ungorged appetite of insatiable vanity. Fired with the glory tliat the great captains have won in long campaigns, and flushed with the prospect of the distant crown, bands rush to fight, and, as they hope, to conquer. How wide the combat ! How innumerable the combatants ! What itiflnite rashness ! What unprecedented self-confi- dence ! What vast variety of manojuvres ! What complicated tactics ! What bootless and yet unceasing stratagems ! What deceitful exultation! What idle boasting! What false triumph ! What struggling, what panting, what cursing, and what a dust ! But when that dust subsides, — as ever and anon a calm will hang o'er battle,— ^what see we then 1 The throne still empty, and the guard unbroken ; and the plain strewn only with the exhausted bodies and brittle armour of the hot but weak assailants. Then the game begins again. A fresh hero darts on the field, amid the hired cheers of hollow tribes ; but ere their leader throws his boastful lance, he turns a craven. Each moment has its miracle, that proves a cheat ; each hour its fresh prophet, that predicts the past. I say notliing, because I am no judge ; but I will Bay this, that all cannot be the right man. The minds of men are, on the whole, very similar, and genius is, whatever some may think, a very rare production. When I watch this scene of ineffect- 1 ual strife, and mark them chasing shadows, in spitfc of all their high fantastic tricks, their elaborate caprice, their affected novelty, their disguised and salted staleness, their stolen beauty and their stu- died grace, first as I would be, to hail a master-sprite, I see nothing but the Protean forms of a multiplied mediocrity. They are too many. As in the last days of the fated city, each alley has its prophet. All I hope is, that before I eat a kabob in Persia, they will have discovered the true leader ; and that when I return, if I do return, I may find a good literary creed, strong, vehement, and infallible, I wash my hands of any participations in this contest. What I am I know not, nor do I care. I have that within me which man can neither give nor take away, which can throw light on the dark- est passages of life, and draw, from a discordant world, a melody divine. For it I would live, and foritalone. O ! my soul, must we then, parti Is this the end of all our conceptions, all our musings, our panting thoughts, our gay fancies, our bright imaginings, our delicious reveries, and extiuisite communing'! Is this the end, the great and full result, of all our sweet society 1 I care not for myself ; I am a wretch be- neath even pity. My thousand errors, my ten thousand follies, my infinite corruption, have well deserved a bitterer fate than this. But thou ! — I feel I have betrayed thee. Hadst thou been the inmate of more spiritual clay, bound with a brain less head- strong, and with blood less hot, thou mightest have been glorious. I care not for myself, but thou — the bright friend that ne'er was wanting, that in my adversity hast softened sorrow, and in my days of joy have tripled rapture, who hast made obscuri- ty an empire, and common life a pageant — thou, Haram of my life, to whose inviolable shrine I fled in all my griefs, and found a succour, must we then part indeed, my delicate Ariel ! and must thou quit this earth without a record ! ! mistress, that I have ever loved ! — ! idol, that I have ever worshipped ! how like a fond wife, who clings even closer when we wrong her most, how faithful art thou, even in this hour of need, and how consoling is thy whispering voice ! Where are we 1 I think I was saying, that 'tis difficult to form an opinion of ourselves. They say it is impossible ; which sounds like sense, and probably is truth. And yet, I sometimes think I write a pretty style, though spoiled by that con- founded ptippyism ; but then mine is the puppy age, and that will wear otT. Then, too, there are my vanity, my conceit, my affectation, my arro- gance, and my egotism ; all very heinous, and painfully contrasting with the imperturbable propri- ety of my fellow-scribblers, — " All gentlemen in stays, as stifl'as stones." But I may mend, or they fall off, and then the odds will be more equal. Thank heavens ! I am emancipated. It was a hard struggle, and cost me dear. Born in the most artificial country of this most artificial age, was it wonderful that I imbibed its false views, and shared its fatal passions ? But I rode out the storm, and found a port, although a wreck. I look back with disgust upon myself, — on them, with pity. A qualm comes over me when, for a moment, I call to mind tlieir little jealousies and tlieir minute hatreds, their wretched plans, and miserable purpo- ses ; their envy, their ignorance, and their malice ; their strife, their slander, their struggles, their false excitement, and their fictitious rapture; their short- sighted views, and long delusions. THE YOUNG DUKE. 299 Is it not wisdom, then, to fly from all this hot anxiety and wearing care, and to forget these petty griefs, and pettier joys, hy the soft waters of this southern sea? Here I find all that I long have thirsted for. Here my soul throws off tlie false ideas of vulgar life, and recurs to its own nature. Here each beam is rapture, and each breeze is bliss. Here my days are reveries, and my nights are dreams. Here, each warm morn, I muse o'er exquisite creation ; and, when the twilight blushes in the west, I heal- a whispering sound that nature sends, which tells me secrets man cannot invent. O ! why cannot life be passed in perpetual thought, and in the excitement of beautiful ideas ! And here, as far as converse is concerned, I now could live without mankind ; but I should miss their exquisite arts, which render existence more intense. Ah ! that my earliest youth had wan- dered here I Ah ! that my fathers ne'er had left their shores ! I check the thought, for while I muse, my memory wanders to another region, and too well I feel that, even amid the blue iEgean isles, my thoughts will fly to a remoter land and colder sea. O, England ! — O ! my country — not in hate I left thee — not in bitterness am I wandering here. My heart is thine, although my shadow falls upon a foreign strand ; and although full many an eastern clime and southern race have given me something of their burning blood, it flows for thee ! I rejoice that my flying fathers threw their ancient seed on the stern shores which they have not dishonoured : J am proud to be thy child. Thy noble laws have fed with freedom a soul that ill can brook constraint. Among thy hallowed hearths, I own most beautiful aflections. In thy abounding tongue my thoughts find music; and with the haughty fortunes of thy realm my destiny would mingle ! What though the immortal glory which here shoots forth from out the tombs of empires, bathes with no lambent gleams thy immemorial clifl's ! Still there we proudly witness the more active sublimity of great and growing empire. What Rome and Carthage were, thou art conjoined, my country ! In each eternal zone there floats the sovereign standard of St. George, and each vast deep groans with the haughty bulwarks of the globe. Earth has none like unto thee, thou queen of universal waters ! Europe watches thy nod. The painted Indian vails his feathery crown to thee, l^hce sultry Afric fears ; and dusky Asia is thy teeming dower ! VVhat though no purple skies, no golden suns, gild in thy land the olive and the vine — yet beauty Ungers in thy quiet vales, and health still wanders on thy peaceful plains, rich with no hu- man gore. Nature has given thee much ; and all that she has denied, is the quick tribute of the hast- ening climes. Free are thy sons, and high their rising hearts, that pant for power ; and whom in the harams of the glowing earth, whither I bend my fated steps, shall I find to match the dazzling daughters of my native land ! Alas ! that hot anxiety should spoil the noblest nation that ever rose to empire ! O ! my country- men, think — think ere it is too late, that life is love, and love is heaven. Feel — feel, that wealth is but a means, and power an instrument. Away, then, with the short-sighted views of harsh utility ! Our hours are few, — they might be beautiful. Our life is brief, — but pleasiue lengthens days. Man is made for absolute enjoyment. " It is thy vocation, Hal !" and they may preach and groan, growl an«[ hiss, but for this we live, and sooner or later to this we shall recur. The new philosophy that is at hand is but an appeal to our five senses. I may not live to hear its gay decrees, nor may my son ; but I feel confident the golden age is not far off. The world is round, so is eternity, and so is time. The iron age must cease, although by polish we have contrived to make it steel. Man can bear it no longer, — and then King Saturn will hold his court again. We have had enough of bloody Jupiter. And so, fare- well my country ! Few can love thee better than he who traces here these idle lines. Worthier heads are working for thy glory and thy good ; but if ever the hour shall call, my brain and life are thine. Meantime, I cast my fortune on the waters. Let them waft me where they wist. Where'er my fate may urge me, I can view the world with a deep passion, that can extract a moral from the strange and draw from loneliness delight. My gentle reader ! — gentle you have been to me, and ever kind — broad seas and broader lands divide \is. We no longer meet. Take, then, these pages as a morning call. Methinks, even as I write, my faithful steed stops at thy cherished door. Once more thy smoky knocker soils my rosy glove ; once more thy portal ojiens, and the geranium gale heralds the sweetness of thy chambers. We meet, and while you net a purse, or some small work, which exercises at the same time the body and the mind, you are also excessively amusing. How ami- able is your scandal ! How piquant your morality ! Aurelia is about to be married, but she herself is not sure to which brother : she is so good-natured ! And Brilliant says, that Louisa's eyebrows fell off in the agitation of a new dance, — but he is not to be believed : he is so ill-natured ! And thus glides on an hour in easy chat, until a pealing knock drives me away — a nervous man who shuns a strange incursion. We part with the hope, that the park or the opera may again bring together, in the course of four-and-twenty hours, the two most amusing people in town. Dreams I dreams ! O ! why from out the misty caves of memory call I these visions to the light of life 1 And yet there is a charm in just remem- bering we have been charmed. There is some- thing soft and soothing in the reminiscence of a lounging hour. But, hark! The convent bell sends forth a matin peal. I hear the wakening of an early bird — I feel the freshness of the growing morn. I have exceeded all bounds, and shall get reported, for I have a spy in my establishment. That I have long discovered. I think it must be my valet ; but he vows it is the cook, who again protests — but I'll unearth the traitor, and put him on board-wages for his pains. In the mean time, I must prepare for a rowing letter by return of post. CHAPTER XIX. The duke threw himself into his carriage in thai mood which fits us for desperate deeds. What he intended to do, indeed, was doubtful, but something very vigorous, very decided, perhaps very terrible. An indefinite great efibrt danced, in misty magni- ficence, before the visions of his mind. Hi« whola 9oe D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. being was to be changed — his life was to be revo- lutionized. Such an alteration was to take place, that even she could not doubt the immense, yet in- credible result. Then despair whispered its cold- blooded taunts, and her last hopeless words echoed in his car. But he was too agitated to be calmly miserable, and, in the poignancy of his feelings, he even meditated death. One thing, however, he could obtain — one instant relief was yet in his power — solitude. He panted for the loneliness of his own chamber, broken only by his agitated musings. The carriage stopped ; the lights and noise called him to life. This, surely, could not be home ! Whirled open the door, down dashed the steps, with all that prompt precision which denotes the practised hand of an aristocratic retainer. " What is all this, Symmons 1 Why did you not drive home?" " Your grace forgets that Mr. Annesley and some gentlemen sup with your grace to-night at the Alhambra." " Impossible ! Drive home." " Your grace perhaps forgets that your grace is expected," said the experienced servant, who knew when to urge a master, who, to-morrow, might blame him for permitting his caprice. '♦ What am I to do 1 Stay here. I will run up stairs and put them off." He ran up into the crush-room. The opera was just over, and some parties, who were not staying the ballet, had already assembled there. As he passed along, he was stopped by Lady Fitz-pompey, who would not let such a capital opportunity escape of exhibiting Caroline and the young duke together. " Bulkley," said her ladyship, " there must be something wrong about the carriage." An expe- rienced, middle-aged gentleman, who jobbed on in society by being always ready, and knowing his cue, resigned the arm of Lady Caroline St. Mau- rice, and disappeared. " George," said Lady Fitz-pompey, " give your arm to Carry, just for one moment." If it had been anybody but his cousin, the duke would have easily escaped ; but Caroline he inva- riably treated with marked regard ; perhaps be- cause his conscience occasionally reproached him that he had not treated her with a stronger feeling. At this moment, too, she was the only being in the world, save one, whom he could remember with satisfaction. He felt that he loved her most affectionately, but, somehow, she did not inspire bim with those peculiar feelings which thrilled his heart at the recollection of May Dacre. In this mood he offered an arm, which was ac- cepted ; but he could not in a moment assume the tone of mind befitting his situation and the scene. He was silent ; for him a remarkable circumstance. " Do not stay here," said Lady Caroline, in a soft voice, which her mother could not overhear. " I know you want to be away. Steal off"." " Where can I he better than with you. Carry 1" said the young duke, determined not to leave her, and loving her still more for her modest kindness ; and thereon he turned round, and, to show that he was sincere, began talking with his usual s[)irit. Mr. Bulkley, of course, never returned, and Lady Fitz-pompey felt as satisfied with her diplomatic talents as a plenipotentiary who has just arranged an advantageous treaty. J andel Dacre came up, and spoke to Lady Fitz-pompey. Never did two persons converse to- gether who were more dissimilar in their manner and their feelings; and yet Arundel Dacre did contrive to talk — a result which he could not al ways accomplish, even with those who could sym- pathize with him. Lady Fitz-pompey listened to liim with attention ; for Arundel Dacre, in spite of his odd manner, or perhaps in some degree in con- sequence of it, had obtained a distinguished repu- tation both among men and women ; and it was the great principle of Lady Fitz-pompey to attach to her the distinguished youth of both sexes. She was pleased with this public homage of Arundel Dacre ; because he was one who, with the reputa- tion of talents, family, and fashion, seldom spoke to any one, and his attentions elevated their object. Thus she maintained her empire. St. Maurice now came up to excuse himself to the young duke for not attending at the Alhambra to-night. " Sophy could not bear it," he whis- pered ; " she had got her head full of the most ridiculous fancies, and it was in vain to speak : so he had promised to give up that, as well as Crock- ford's." This reminded our hero of his party, and the purpose of his entering the opera. He determined not to leave Caroline till her carriage was called; and lie began to think that he really must go to the Alhambra after all. He resolved to send them off at an early hour. " Any thing new to-night, Henry ]" asked his grace of Lord St. Maurice. " I have just come in." " O ! then you have seen them !" "Seen whom"!" " The most knowing forestieri we ever had. We have been speaking of nothing else the whole evening. Has not Caroline told you ? Arundel Dacre introduced me to them." " Who are they 1" " I forget their names. Dacre, how do you call the heroes of the night 1 Dacre never answers. Did you ever observe that 1 But, see ! there they come." The duke turned, and observed Lord Darrell advancing with two gentlemen, with whom his grace was well acquainted. These were Prince Charles do Whiskerburg and Count Frill. None of your paltry ***** princes, none of your scampy ***** counts, but noiiles such as Hungary and Britain can alone produce. M. de Whisker- burg was the eldest son of a prince, who, besides being the premier noble of the empire, possessed in his own country a very pretty park of two or three hundred miles in circumference, in the boundaries of which the imperial mandate was not current, but hid'its diminished head before the supremacy of a subject worshipped under the title of John the Twenty-fourth. M. de Whiskerburg was a very young man, very tall, with a very line figure, and very fine features. In short, a sort of Hungarian Apollo ; only his beard, his mustachios, his whis- kers, his favor is, his padishas, his sultanas, his mignonettas, his dulcibellas, did not certainly en- title him to the epithet of imberbis, and made him rather an after-representative of the Hungarian Hercules. Count Frill was a very different sort of person- age. He was all rings and ringlets, ruffles, and a little rouge. Much older than his companion, short in stature, plump in figure, but with a most defined waist, fair, blooming, with a nmltiplicity THE YOUNG DUKE. sot of long light curls, and a perpetual smile playing upon his round countenance, he looked like the Cupid of an opera Olympus. The Duke of St. James had been very intimate with these distinguished gentlemen in their own country, and had received from them many and most distinguished attentions. Often had he ex- pressed to them his sincere desire to greet them in his native land. Their mutual anxiety of never again meeting was now removed. If his heart, instead of beuig bruised, was absolutely broken, still honour, conscience, the glory of his house, his individual reputation, alike urged him not to be cold or backward at such a moment. He advanced, therefore, with a due mixture of grace and wannth, and congratulated them on their arrival. At this moment Lady Fitz-pompey's carriage was an- nounced. Promising to return to them in an in- stant, he hastened to his cousin ; but Mr. Arundel Dacre had already offered his arm, which, for Arun- del Dacre, was really pretty well. The duke was now glad that he had a small re- union this evening, as he could at once pay a courtesy to his foreign friends. He ran into the signora's dressing-room, to assure her of his pre- sence. He stumbled upon Peacock Piggott as he came out, and summoned him to fill the vacant place of St. Maurice, and then sent him with a message to some ladies who yet lingered in their box, and whose presence he thought might be an agreeable addition to the party. You entered the Alhambra by a Saracenic clois- ter, from the ceiling of which an occasional lamp tlirew a gleam upon some eastern arms hung up against the wall. This passage led to the armoury, a room of moderate dimensions, but hung with rich contents. Many an inlaid breastplate — many a Mameluke scimitar and Damascus blade — many a gemmed pistol and pearl-embroidered saddle might there be seen, though viewed in a subdued and quiet light. All seemed hushed, and still, and shrouded in what had the reputation of being a palace of pleasure. In this chamber assembled the expected guests. His grace and the Bird of Paradise arrived first, w ilh their foreign friends. Lord Squib, and Lord Darrell, Sir Lucius Grafton, Mr. Annesley, and Mr. Peacock Piggott, followed, but not alone. There were two ladies who, by courtesy, if by no other right, bore the titles of Lady Squib, and Mrs. An- nesley. There was also a pseudo Lady Aphrodite Grafton. There was Mrs. Montfort, the famous hlnnde, of a beauty which was quite ravishmg, and dignified as beautiful. Some said, (but really peo- ple say such tilings,) that there was a talk, (I never believe any thing I hear,) that had not the Bird of Paradise flown in, (these foreigners pick up every thing,) Mrs. Montfort would have been the Dut- chess of St. James. How this may be I know not : certain, however, this superb and stately donna did not openly evince any spleen at her more fortunate rival. Probably, although she found herself a guest at the Alhambra instead of being the mistress of the palace : probably, like many other ladies, she looked upon this affair of the sing- ing-bird as a freak that must end — and then, per- haps, his grace, who was a charming young man, would return to his senses. There, also, was her sister, a long, fair girl, who looked sentimental, but was only silly. There was a Uttle French actress, like a highly-finished miniature ; and a Spanish | danseuse, tall, dusky, and lithe, glancing \ike a lynx, and graceful as a jennet. Having all arrived, they proceeded down a small gallery to the banquetmg-room. The doors are thrown open. Pardon me, if for a moment I do not describe the chamber; but really the blaze affects my sight. The room was large and lofty. It was fitted up as an eastern tent. The walls were hung with scarlet cloth, tied up with ropes of gold. Round the room crouched recumbent lions richly gilt, who grasped in their paw a lance, the top of which was a coloured lamp. The ceiling was emblazoned with the Hauteville arms, and was radiant with burnished gold. A cresset lamp was suspended from the centre of the shield, and not only emitted an equable flow of soft though brilliant light, but also, as the aromatic oil wasted away, distilled an exquisite perfume. The table blazed with golden plate, for the Bird of Paradise loved splendour. At the end of the room, under a canopy and upon a throne, the shield and vases lately executed for his grace now ap- peared. Every thing was gorgeous, costly, and imposing; but there was no pretence, save in the original outline, at maintaining the oriental cha- racter. The furniture was French ; and opposite the throne Canova's Hebe, by Bartolini, hounded with a golden cup from a pedestal of ormolu. The guests are seated ; but after a few minutes the servants withdraw. Small tables of ebony and silver, and dumb-waiters of ivory and gold, con- veniently stored, are at hand, and Spiridion never leaves the room. The repast was most refined, most exquisite, and most various. It was one of those meetuigs where all eat. When a few persons, easy and unconstrained, unencumbered with cares, and of dispositions addicted to enjoyment, get to- gether at past midnight, it is extraordinarj' what an appetite they evince. Singers also are proverbially prone to gormandise ; and though the Bird of Paradise unfortunately possessed the smallest mouth in all Singingland, it is astonishmg how she pecked I But they talked as well as feasted, and were really gay. It was amusing to observe, — that is to say, if you had been a dumb-waiter, and had time for observation, — how characteristic was the afiecta- tion of the women. Lady Squib was witty, Mrs. Annesley refined, and the pseudo Lady Afy fashion- able. As for Mrs. Montfort, she was, as her wont, somewhat silent, but excessively sublime. The Spaniard said nothmg, but no doubt indicated the possession of Cervantic humour by the sly calm- ness with which she exhausted her own waiter, and pillaged her neighbours'. The Uttle Frenchwoman scarcely ate any thing, but drank Champagne and chatted, with equal rapidity and equal composure. " Prince," said the duke, " I hope Madame de Harestein approves of your trip to England 1" The prince only smiled, for he was of a silent disposition, and therefore wonderfully well suited liis travelling companion. "Poor Madame de Harestein!" exclaimed Count Frill. " What despair she was in when you left Vienna, my dear duke ! Ah ! mon Dieu ! I did what I could to amuse her. I used to take my guitar, and sing to her morning and night, but with- out the least effect. She certainly would have died of a broken heart, if it had not been for tlie danc- ing-dogs." " The dancing-dogs !" minced the pseudo Lady Aphrodite. " How shocking !" 2C 302 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. "Did they bite herl" asked Lady Squib, "and so inoculate her with gayety." " O ! the dancing-dogs, my dear ladies ! every- body was mad about the dancing-dogs. They came from Peru, and danced the mazurka in green jackets with a.jahof. O ! what ajabot /" " I dislike animals excessively," remarked Mrs. Annesley. " Dislike the dancing-dogs !" said Count Frill. " Ah ! my good lady, you would have been en- chanted. Even the kaiser fed them with pistachio nuts. ! so pretty ! delicate leetle things, soft, shining little legs, and pretty Utile faces ! so sensi- ble, and with such Jabuls /" " I assure you, they were excessively amusing," said the prince, in a soft, confidential under-tone to his neighbour, Mrs. Montfort, who, admiring his silence, which she took for state, smiled and bowed with fascinating condescension. " And what else has happened very remarkable, count, since I left you ]" asked Lord DaiTcll. " Nothing, nothing, my dear Darrell. This befise of a war has made us all serious. If old Clamstandt has not married that gipsy Uttle Du- giria, I really think I should have taken a turn to Belgrade." " You should not eat so much. Poppet !" drawled Charles Annesley to the Spaniard. " Why not !" said the little French lady, with great animation, always ready to fight anybody's battle, provided she could get an opportunity to talk. " Why not, Mr. Annesley 1 You never will let anybody eat — I never eat myself, because every night, having to talk so much, I am dry, dry, dry, — so I drink, drink, drink. It is an extraordi- nary thing, that there is no language which makes you so thirsty as French. I always have heard that all the southern languages, Spanish and Italian, make you hungry." " What can be the reason l" seriously asked the pseudo Lady Afy. " Because there is so much salt in it," said Lord Squib. " Delia," drawled Mr. Annesley, " you look very pretty to-night!" " I am charmed to charm you, Mr. Annesley. Shall I tell you what Lord Bon Mot said of you!" " No, ma migtioniie .' I never wish to hear my ©wn good things." " Spoiled, you should add," said Lady Squib, "if Bon Mot be in the case." " Lord Bon Mot is a most gentlemanly man," said Delia, indignant at an admirer being attacked. " He always wants to be amusing. Whenever lie dines out, he comes and sits with me for half an hour to catch the air of a Parisian badinage." "And you tell him a variety of little things?" asked Lord Squib, insidiously drawling out the secret tactics of Bon Mot. " BKiiccoup, beaticoiip," said Delia, extending two little white hands sparkling with gems. " If he come in ever so — how do you call it 1 heavy — Not that — in the domps — Ah ! it is that — If ever he come in the domps, he goes out always like a soujflee." " As empty, I have no doubt," said Lady Squib. "And as sweet, I have no doubt," said Lord Squib ; " for Delcroix complains sadly of your ex- cesses, Delia." " Mr. Delcroix complain of me ! That, indeed, e too bad. Just because I recommended Mont- morency de Versailles to him for an excellent cus- tomer, ever since he abuses me, merely because Montmorency has forgot, in the hurry of going oflf, to pay his little account." "But he says you have got all the things," said Lord Squib, whose great amusement was to put Delia in a passion. "What of that?" screamed the little lady. " Montmorency gave them me." " Don't make such a noise," said the Bird of Paradise. " I ;jiever can eat when there is a noise. St. James," continued she, in a fretful tone, " they make such a noise !" " Annesley, keep Squib quiet." " Delia, leave that young man alone. If Isidora would talk a little more, and you eat a little more, I think you would be the most agreeable little ladies I know. Poppet! put those Z/o/jiwis in your pocket. You should never eat sugarplums in company." Thus talking agreeable nonsense, tasting agree- able dishes, and sipping agreeable wines, an hour ran on. Sweetest music from an unseen source ever and anon sounded, and Spiridion swung a censer full of perfumes round the chamber. (7) At length the duke requested Count Frill to give them a song. The Bird of Paradise would never sing for pleasure, only for fame and a slight check. The count begged to decline, and at the same time asked for a guitar. The signora sent for hers ; and his excellency, preluding with a beautiful simper, gave them some slight thing to tliis effect : I. Charming Bisrnella ! charmina; Bignetla ! Whal a gay liille girl is charming Bignetla! She (lances, she prallle's, She rides ami she rallies ; But she always is charming— ihat charming jjignellat ir. Charming Bignetla ! charming Bignelta ! What a wild litlle witch is charming Bignetta ! When she smiles I'm all madness ; When she fnnvns I'm all sadness ; But she always is smiling— that charming Bignelta ! III. Charming Bignetta ! charming Bignelta ! What a wicked young rogue is charming Bignetta ! She laughs at my shyness. And flirts wiih his highness; Yet still she is charming— that charming Bignetla ! IV. Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetla ! What a dear litlle girl is charming Bignetla! " Think me only a sister," Said slie trembling: I kiss'd her. What a charming young sister is— charming Bignetla. He ceased ; and although " the Ferrarese To choicer music chimed his gay guitar In Esie's halls," or Casti himself, or rather Mr. Rose, choicely ring.q> yet still his song served its purpose, for it raided a smile. " I wrote that for Madame Sapiepha. at the con gress of Verona," said Count FrilL " It has been thought amusing." " Madame Sapiepha !" exclaimed the Bird of Paradise. " What ! that pretty httle woman who has such pretty caps !" " The same ! Ah ! what caps ! 3Ion Dieuf what taste ! what taste !" " You like caps, then 1" asked the Bird of Para, dise, with a sparkling eye. THE YOUNG DUKE. 303 " O ! if there be any thing more than other that ] I know most, it is the cap. Here, void!" said he, rather oddly unbuttoning his waistcoat, " you see what lace I have got. Void! void!" \ " Ah ! me ! what lace ! what lace !" exclaimed the Bird, in rapture. " St. James, look at his lace. Come here, come here, sit next me. Let me look at that lace." She examined it with great atten- tion, then turned up her beautiful eyes with a fas- cinating smile. " Ah ! c'est jolie, n'est-ce pas ? But you like caps. I tell you what, you shall see my caps. Spiridion, go, mon cher, and tell Ma'amselle to bring my caps — all my caps — one of each set." In due time entered the Swiss, with the caps — all the caps — one of each set. As she handed them in turn to her mistress, the Bird chirped a panegyric upon each. " That is pretty, is it not — and this also ? but this is my favourite. What do you think of this border ! c'est belle, cetie garniture ? et ce jabot, c'est tres seduisant, ?i'est-ce pas ? Mais void, the cap of Princess Lichtenstein. C'est superb, c'est mon favori. But I also love very much this of the Duchcsse de Berri. She gave me the pattern her- self. And, after all, tliis corvette a petite sante of Lady Blaze is a dear little thing; then, again, this coiffe a dentelle of Lady Macaroni is quite a pet." " Pass them down," said Lord Squib ; " we want to look at them." Accordingly they were passed down. Lord Squib put one on. " Do I look superb, sentimental, or only pretty!" asked his lordship. The example was contagious, and most of die caps were appropriated. No one laughed more than their mistress, who, not having the slightest idea of the value of money, would have given theih all away on the spot ; not from any good-natured feeling, but from the remembrance that to-morrow she might amuse half an hour in buying others. While some were stealing, and she remon- strating, the duke clapped his hands like a caliph. The curtain at the end of the apartment was immediately withdrawn, and the ball-room stood revealed. It was the same size as the banqueting-hall. lis walls exhibited a long perspective of gilt pilas- ters, the frequent piers of which were entirely of plate-looking glass, save where, occasionally, a pic- ture had been, as it were inlaid in its rich frame. Here was the Titian Venus of the Tribune, de- hciously copied by a French artist; there, the Roman Fornariana, with her delicate grace, beamed like the personification of Raflaelle's genius. Here, Zuleikah, living in the light and shade of that magician Guercino in vain summoned the passions of the blooming Hebrew ; and there, Cleopatra, preparing for her last immortal hour, proved by what we saw that Guido had been a lover. The ceiling of this apartment was richly painted and richly gilt; from it were suspended three lustres of golden cords, which threw a softened light upon the floor of polished and curiously inlaid woods. At the end of the apartment was an orchestra, and here the pages, under the direction of Carlstein, offered a very efficient domestic band. Round the room waltzed the elegant revellers. Softly and slowly, led by their host, they glided along like spirits of air ; but each time that the duke passed the musicians, the music became livelier, and the motion more brisk, till at length you might have mistaken them for a college of spinning dervishes. One by one, an exhausted couple slunk away. Some threw themselves on a sofa, some monopolized an easy chair ; but in twenty minutes all the dancers had disappeared. At length Peacock Piggott gave a groan, which denoted returning energy, and raised a stretching leg in air, bringing up, though most unwittingly, upon his foot, one of the Bird's sublime and beau- tiful caps. " Halloo ! Piggott, armed cap au pied, I see," said Lord Squib. This joke was a signal for general resuscitation. The Alhambra formed a quadrangle ; all the chambers were on the basement story. In the middle of the court of the quadrangle was a most beautiful fountain ; and the court was formed by a conservatory, which was built along each side of the interior square, and served, like a cloister or covered way, for a communication between th« different parts of the building. To this conserva- tory they now repaired. It was very broad, full of the rarest and most delicious plants and flowers, and briUiantly illuminated. Busts and statues were intermingled with the fairy grove ; and a rich, warm hue, by the skilful arrangement of a coloured lamp, was thrown over many a nymph and fair divinity, — many a blooming hero and beardless god. Here they lounged in dilferent parties, talking on such subjects as idlers ever fall upon ; now and then plucking a flower, — now and then listening to the fountain, — now and then lingering over the distant music, — now and then strolling through a small apartment which opened to their walks, and which bore the title of the Temple of Gnidus. Here, Canova's Venus breathed an atmosphere of per- fume and of light — that wonderful statue whose full-charged eye is not very classical, to be sure — but then how true ! While thus they were whiling away their time, Lord Squib proposed a visit to the theatre, which he had orderetl to be lit up. To the theatre they repaired. They rambled over every part of the house, amused themselves, to the horror of Mr. An- nesly, with a visit to the gallery, and then collected behind the scenes. They vvere excessively amused with the properties ; and Lord Squib proposed they should dress themselves. Enough Champagne had been quaffed to render any proposition palatable, and in a few minutes they were all in costume. A crowd of queens and chambermaids, Jews and chimney-sweepers, lawyers and charleys, Spanish Dons, and Irish officers, rushed upon the stage. The little Spaniard was Almaviva, and fell into magnificent attitudes, with her sword and plume. Lord Squib was the old woman of Brentford, — and very funny. Sir Lucius Grafton, Harlequin ; and Darrell, Grimaldi. The prince and the count, without knowing it figured as watchmen. Squib whispered Annesley, that Sir Lucius O'Trigger might appear in character, but was prudent enough to suppress the joke. The band was summoned, and they danced quadrilles with infinite spirit, and finished the night, at the suggestion of Lord Squib, by break- fasting on the stage. By the time this meal waa despatched, the purple light of mom had broker into the building, and the ladies proposed an im- mediate departure. Mrs. Moiitfort and her sister were sent home in one of the duke's carriages ; anu 304 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. the foreign guests were requested by him to be their escort. The respective parties drove off. Two cabriolets Ungered to the last, and finally car- ried away the French actress and the Spanish dancer, Lord Barrel!, and Peacock Piggott ; but whether the two gentlemen went in one and the two ladies in the other, I cannot aver. I hope not. There was at length a dead silence, and the young duke was left to solitude and the signora ! BOOK THE FOURTH. CHAPTER L Thb arrival of the two distinguished foreigners reanimated the dying season. All vied in testifying their consideration, and the Duke of St. James ex- ceeded all. He took them to see the alterations at Hauteville House, which no one had yet witnessed ; and he asked their opinion of his furniture, which no one had yet decided upon. Two fifes in the same week established, as well as maintained, his character as the archduke of fashion. Remember- ing, however, the agreeable month which he had spent in the kingdom of John the Twenty-fourth, he was reminded with annoyance, that his confu- sion at Hauteville prevented him from receiving his fiiends en grand seigneur in his hereditary castle. Metropolitan magnificence, which, if the parvenu could not equal, he at least could imitate, seemed a poor return for the feudal splendour and imperial festivity of a Hungarian magnate. "While he was brooding over these reminiscences, it sud- denly occurred to him that he had never made a progress into his western territories. Pen Bronnock Palace was the boast of Cornwall, though its lord had never paid it a visit The Duke of St. James sent for Sir Carte Blanche. Besides entertaining the foreign nobles, the young duke could no longer keep olTthe constantly recurring idea, that something must be done to entertain himself. He shuddered to think where and what he should have been, had not these gen- tlemen so providentially arrived. As for again repeating the farce of last year, he felt that it would no longer raise a smile, Yorkshire he shunned. Doncaster made him tremble, A week with the Duke of Burlington at Marringworth ; a fortnight with the Fitz-pompeys at Malthrope ; a month with the Graftons at Cleve ; and so on — he shuddered at the very idea. Who can see a pantomime more than once 1 Who could survive a pantomime the twentieth time? All the shifting scenes, and flitting splendour — all the motley crowds of spark- ling characters — all the quick changes, and full variety, are, once, enchantment. But when the splendour is discovered to be monotony ; the cJiange, order; and the caprice, a system ; when the characters play ever the same part, and the variety never varies ; how dull, how weary, how infinitely flat, is such a world to that man who requires from ts converse, not occasional relaxation, but constant excitement ! Pen Bronnock was a new object. At this mo- ment in his life novelty was indeed a treasure. If he could cater for a month, no expnse should be grudged ; as for the future, he thrust it from his mind. By taking up his residence, too, at Pen Bronnock, he escaped from all invitations, — and so, in a word, the worthy knight received orders to make all preparations at the palace for the recep- tion of a large party in the course of three weeks. Sir Carte, as usual, did wonders. There was, fortunately for his employer, no time to build or paint, but some dingy rooms were hung with scar let cloth : cart-loads of new furniture were sent down ; the theatre was reburnished ; the stables put in good order ; and, what was of infinitely more importance in the estimation of all Englishmen, the neglected pile was " well aired." CHAPTER n, I THINK — at least, I think I think , for I have been too often wrong to be ever sure, and never back my opinion with a bet, the only test; — but I do think, that we have had some very agreeable villeggiaturas in these immortal \olumes. For how do I know that they are not immortal "] Famo is half an accident. I always hope the best ; and if I he wrong, why, then, I must put up instead with three months' praise and some slight profit. Our reunions too have, I trust, been various in their character as well as in their number, I never take the reader into the country merely for change of air ; but because at different houses one sometimes catches a dift'erent trait. The politician, and the sportsman, and the fashionist, have all their caste ; and although in the blending of so- ciety these characters often meet, still at their man- sions, and particularly in the provinces, the ruling passion will predominate. Men pass their autumns, some in slaughtering birds, — some in retailing the faded graces of the faded spring, — some in antici- pating the coming struggles of the approaching Houses. And such i* life ! What is 1 Heaven knows, not I ! Philosophers have preached, and ▼owed that human life is the simplest compound, except clear wate^, that e'er was offered for the draught of man ; but I must say, who always speak the truth when I can get clear of lies, which is difficult, for in this world they are like the air we breathe, — without tc.<.-n, we should die ; I say, that I have been very desu\yus of discovering the mysteries of our beings and our wills, — and what have I gained 1 A clouded genius, and an aching head. For life, I am clear, is no simple cate, mild in its flavour, easy of digestion ; but a made dish — some- times perhaps a calf 's-head surprised. Its ardent sauces and its fragrant spices ; its skin and bone, its richness and its leanness, are all so many dif- ferent tastes and morsels, which are, unhappily, unfairly served. And so one vows the dinner is right good, while others execrate the bungling cook ; but for my part, although I don't complain, I care but little for this early course, and if not served ex- actly as I wish, console myself for the unsavoury fare, by the anticipation of the dessert. We are in the country, and such a country, that even in Italy I think of thee, native Hesperia ! Here myrtles grow, and fear no blasting north, oi THE YOUNG DUKE, 305 blighting east. Here the south wind blows with that soil breath which brings the bloom to flesh. Here the land breaks in gentle undulations; and here blue waters kiss a verdant shore. Hail I to thy thousand bays and deep-red earth, thy marble quarries and thy silver veins ! Hail ! to thy far extending landscape, whose sparkling villages and streaky fields no clime cqn match ! Some gales I owe to thee of balmy breath, some gentle hours when life had fewest charms. And I am grateful for all this — to say nothing of your cider and your junkets. The duke arrived just as the setting sun crowned the proud palace with his glcamy rays. It was a pile which the immortal Inigo had raised in sym- pathy with the taste of a noble employer, who had passed his earliest years in Lombardy. Of stone, and sometimes even of marble, with pediments and balustrades, and ornamented windows, and richly chased keystones, and flights of steps, and here and there a statue, the structure was quite Palla- dian, though a little dingy, and, on the whole, very imposing. There were suites of rooms which had no end, and staircases which had no beginning. In this vast pile nothing was more natural than to lose 3'our way — an agreeable ■ amusement on a rainy morning. There was a collection of pictures, very various, — by which phrase we understand not se- lect. Yet they were amusing ; and the Canalettis were unrivalled. There was a regular ball-room, and a theatre ; so resources were at hand. The scenes, though dusty, were numerous ; and the duke had provided new dresses. Tlw park was not a park ; by which I mean, that it was rather a chase than the highly-finished enclosure which we associate with the first title. In fact, Pen Bron- nock Cha^e was the right name of the settlement ; but some monarch travelling, having been seized with a spasm, recruited his strength under the roof of his loyal subject, then the chief seat of the house of Hauteville, and having in his urgency been obliged to hold a privy council there, the su- preme title of palace was assumed by right. The domain was bounded on one side by the sea ; and here a yacht and some slight craft rode at anchor in a small green bay, and offered an oppor- tunity for the adventurous, and a refuge for the wearied. When you have been bored for an hour or two on earth, it sometimes is a change to be bored for an hour or two on water. The house was soon full, and soon gay. The guests, and the means of amusing them, were equally numerous. But this was no common vil- leggiatura, — no visit to a family with their regular pursuits and matured avocations. The host was as much a guest as any other. The young duke ap- pointed Lord Squib master of the ceremonies, and gave orders for nothing but constant excitement. Constant excitement his lordship managed to maintain, for he was experienced, clever, careles and gay, and, for once in his life, had the comir of unoounded resources. He ordered, he inv he prepared, and he expended. They ac' danced, they hunted, they sailed, they fe masqueraded ; and when they he^' wearied of themselves, and ♦' diversion gradually vanish was given twice a-week west of England invi*' ' ideas; new f^- were delighted with the young duke, — and flattery from novel quarters will for a moment whet even the appetite of the satiated. Simplicity, too, can interest. There were some Misses Gayweather who got unearthed, who never had been at Lon- don, though nature had given them sparkling eyes and springing persons. This tyranny was too bad. Papa was quizzed, mamma flattered, and the daughters' simplicity amused these young lord- lings. Rebellion was whispered in the small ears of the Gayweathers. The little heads too of the Gayweathers were turned. They were the con- stant butt and the constant resource of every lounging dandy. The Bird of Paradise also arranged her profes- sional engagements, so as to account with all pos- sible propriety for her professional visit at Pen Bronnock. The musical meeting at Exeter over, she made her appearance, and some concerts were given, which electrified all Cornwall. Count Frill was very strong here ; though, to be sure, he also danced, and acted, in all varieties. He was the soul, too, of a masked ball ; but when compli- mented on his accomfilishments, and thanked for his exertions, he modestly deprecated his worth, and panegyrized the dancing-dogs. As for the prince, on the whole, he maintained his silence ; but it was at length discovered by the fair sex that lie was not stupid, but sentimental. When this was made known he rather lost ground with the brown sex, who, before thinking him thick, had vowed that he was a devilish good fel- low ; but now, being really envious, had their tale and hint, their sneer and sly joke. M. de Whis- kerburg had one active accomplishment — this was his dancing. His gallopade was declared to be divine : he absolutely sailed in the air. His waltz, at his will, either melted his partner into a dream, or whirled her into a frenzy ! Dangerous M. do Whiskerburg! CHAPTER in. It is said that the conduct of refined society, in a literary point of view, is, on the whole, produc- tive but of slight interest ; that all we can aspire to is, to trace a brilliant picture of brilliant man- ners; and that when the dance and the festival have been duly inspired by the repartee and the sarcasm, and the gem, the robe and the plume adroitly lighted up by the lamp and the lustre, our cunning is exhausted. And so your novelist generally twists this golden thread with some sub- stantial silken cord, for use, and works up, with the light dance, and with the heavy dinner, some secret marriage, or some shrouded murder. And thus, by EngHsh plots and German mysteries, the '- on. or jolts, till, in the end, justice will ' the two •' ' —■' com- 306 D ' I S R A E L r S NOVELS. and manners. Bodies of men who pursue the same object must ever resemble each other : the life of the majority mus^t ever be imitation. Thought is a labour to which few are competent; and truth requires for its deveiopcmerit as much courage as acuteness. So conduct becomes conventional, and opinion is a legend ; and thus all men act and think alike. But this is not peculiar to what is called fashion- able life — it is peculiar to civilization, which gives the passions less to work upon. Mankind are not more heartless because they are clothed in ermine ; it is, that their costume attracts us to their charac- ters, and we stare because we find the prince or the peeress neither a conqueror nor a heroine. The great majority of human beings, in a country like England, glide through existence in perfect ignorance of their natures, so coniplicatcil and so controlling is the machinery of our social life ! Few can break the bonds that tie them down, and struggle for self-knowledge; fewer, when the talis- man is gained, can direct their illuminated ener- gies to the j'urposes with which they sympathize. A mode of life which encloses in its circle all the dark and deep results of unbounded indulgence, however it may appear to some who glance over tlie sparkling surface, does not exactly seem to me one cither insipid or uninteresting to the moral specidator; and, indeed, I have long been induced to spspect, that the seeds of true sublimity lurk in a life which, like this book, is half fashion and half passion. Not that they will germinate here, for the seed, to rise, requires the burning sunbeam and the moistening shower; and passions, to be put in action, demand a more blazing brain and bubliling pulse than heat my toqiid soul. In the mean time, I drop the hint fir others, and proceed to sketch a feehng or to catch a trait. I know not how it was, but about this time an unaccountable, almost an imperceptible coolness seemed to spring up between our hero and Ladv Aphrodite. If I were to puzzle my brains for ever, I could not give you the reason. Nothing hap- pened — nothing had been said or done, which could indicate its origin. Perhaps this luas the origin ; perhaps the duke's conduct had become, though unexceptionable, too negative. But here I only throw up a straw. Perhaps, — if I must go on suggesting, anxiety ends in callousness. His grace had thought so much of her feelings, that he had quite forgotten his own, or worn them out. Her ladyship, too, was perhaps a little disap- pointed at the unexpected reconciliation. When we have screwed our courage up to the sticking point, we like not to be balked. Both too, per- haps, — I go on perlirrpsins; — both, too, I repeat, perhaps, could not help mutually viewing each other as the cause of nuich mutual care and mu- tual anxiousnpss. Both, too, perhaps, were a little tired — but without knowing it. The most curious thing, and which would have augured worse to a calm judge, was, that they silently seemed to agree I not to v ' hat any altera*' taken. ' ' im, wh' ■" tl -'s f ■ much, and those explanations entered iipon which explain so little. After all, I may be mistaken, and they may be on the very best terms. Time alone can show, which can do all things, even write this book, which, whether it ever be written or not, is doubt- ful, and also not of the slightest importance. Yet, 'tis agreeable to find this certain existence, in all other respects, one great uncertainty. Where w» may be to-morrow, or what do, is just a mystery For aught we know, the world may end. Now think one moment on that single line. Methinks I hear the restless brooding of the panting waters. What a catastrophe ! And should not this, my friends, teach us well not to think over-much of coming days, and more, much more, of ourselves 1 From ourselves all those feelings spring, and in ourselves all centre, which are our happiness. There is that within us duly competent, whatever be our lot in life, to fulfil its divine and beautiful ordination, and each man might be, if he chose, without a care. But we will not listen to the monitor, — we fly from the Delphi of our breasts, and we aspire after all science, but that knowledge which alone can be perfect. Alas! alas! for fallen man! Would — would that I could raise him ! And sometimes, as I pace my lonely hall, I will not quite despair, but dare to muse o'er things I will not whisper. But soon the glow flies from my faded cheek, and soon my fluttering pulse subsides again to languor. The drooping pen falls from my powerless hand, and I feel — I keenly feel myself what indeed I am — far the most prostrate of a fallen race ! Could I recall the power, when, like a conqueror from a mountain height, I gazed upon a new and opening world, I would dare the trial. Ah! if our energy and our experience were bom but twins, we should be gods ! As it is, we are, at the best, but Titans, and so get crushed, as is but just. There is no characteristic of this age of steel to me more fearful than its total neglect of moral philosophy. And here I would dilate on greater things than some imagine; but, unfortunately, I am engaged. For Newmarket calls fcSir Lucius and his friends. We will not join them, having lost enough. His grace half promised to be one of the party ; but when the day came, just ronem- bered the Shropshires were expected, and was very sorry, — and the rest. Lady Aphrodite and himself parted with a warmth which remarkably contrasted with their late intercourse, and which neither of them could decide whether it were reviving aiiec- tion, or factitious elfort. M. de Whiskerburg and Count Frill departed with Sir Lucius, being extremely desirous to be initiated in the mysteries of the turf, and, above all, to see a real English jockey. CHAPTER IV. wspapers continued to announce the de- the ^" ■" visiters to the Duke of St '**' " ' upon the protracted and ■1 Bronnock. But while his lot, and hundreds THE YOUNG DUKE. aspirinpr to share it, what indeed was the condition ol' our hero ! A month or two had rolled on, and if he had not absolutely tasted enjoyment, at least he had thrust off reflection ; but as the autumn wore away, and as each day he derived less diversion or distraction from the repetition of the same routine, carried on by difierent actors, he could no longer control feelings which would be predomi- nant, and those feelings ware not such as, perhaps, might have been expected from one who was re- ceiving the homage of an admiring world. In a word, the Duke of St. James was the most misera- ble wretch that ever treated. " Where is this to end ?" he asked himself. " Is this year to close, to bring only a repetition of the past 1 Well ! I have had it all — and what is it ? My restless feelings are, at last, laid — my indefinite appetites are, at length, exhausted. I have known this mighty world ; and where am I ? Once all prospects, all reflections merged in the agitating, the tremulous, and panting lust with which' I sighed for it. Have I been deceived 1 Have I been disappointed 1 Is it different from what I ex- pected ] Has it fallen short of my fancy 1 Has tlie devterity of my musings deserted me 1 Have I under-acted the hero of my reveries 1 Have I, in short, mismanaged my debut ? Have I blun- dered \ No, no, no ! Far — far has it gone beyond even my imagination, and my life has, if no other, realized its ideas ! " Who laughs at mc ] Who does not bum in- cense before my shrine ! What appetite have I not gratified 1 What gratification has proved bit- ter] My vanity! Has it been, for an instant, mortified ] Am I not acknowledged the most bril- liant hero of the most brilhanl society in Europe] Intense as is my self-love, has it not been gorged ] Luxury and splendour were my youthful dreams, and have I not realized the very romance of indul- gence and magnificence ] My career has been one long triumph. My palaces, and my gardens, a my jewels, my dress, my furniture, my equip my horses, and my festivals — these used to ( my meditations, when I could only medita' have my determinations proved a delusion the admiring world ! "And now for the great point to which v^ was to tend, which all this was to fascinf' subdue, to adorn, to embellish, to delight, to i — Woman ! O ! when I first dared, amoj fields of Eton, to dwell upon the soft yet ag fancy, that some day my existence might p be rendered more intense, by the admiral these maddening but then mysterious crea* could — could I have dreamed of what h; pened 1 Is not this the very point in wli caieer has most out-topped my lofty hopes " I have read, and sometimes heard, of s It must then be satiety f^*"' ' more like a door^- ' of blood an'' What tb Satiety ness! as bitter results, perhaps as bitter a fate — f heavens ! I am half tempted at this moment f myself from off the cliff — and so end all. " Why should I live % For virtue and f — to compensate for all my folly, and to some slight good end with my abused anf leled means. Ay ! it is all vastly rati vastly sublime, — but it is too late. I fer tion is above me. I am a lost man, " We cannot work without a pur aim. I had mine, although it was a f I succeeded. Had I one now, I i again — but my heart is a dull void. — that gentle girl will not give mf and to offer her but half a heart and I would not bruise that delic my dukedom. Those sad, sil' have already done mischief f see DarrcU, and will at least him, and will make him nr God ! God I why am I not her, and all will change. I which could put all right. / could give the power. " Now see what a fare Heaven knor's how ! T like me soon to I dread to in my tempei myself than ; facility which, guarantee of ■ others are, at ■ tainly render i hear the busy my demon. N I shall die like and '' H "m and feel tai 01 b 308 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. CHAPTER V. BoTJTHUT, that virtuous man, whom wisdom calls own, somewhere thanks God that he was not to a great estate. I quite agree with the seer iswick : it is a bore. Provided a man can every personal luxury, what profits it that ig waves on castles you never visit, and that mt rents which you never receive ? And ? are some things which your miserable, incomes cannot command, and which one ' to have — for instance, a band. 'ete, a consummate band, in uniforms of ^ velvet, with a highly-wrought gold tipped with a single pink topaz, seems '.■xKov. When I die, " band" will be =!d upon my heart, like " frigate" on ^n. The negroes should have their -11 as their cars, and hung with ^he kettledrums should be of sil- a great estate, no doubt it to get free of them, the estate d then it is even worse. Elec- L your members are thrown 'ected influence. Agricultu- ' all your '" -ms are thrown ^d ' Harassed by 1 mines, you are )rn out by these ing it somewhat undred thousand r enjoyment, you 0- manages every 1 his energy, his inated by your in- , disappearance of ">duce him lent; 'lis much ; but when, as you well know, my only ob- ject has been to keep things square, it is most an- noying. One thing may console us, — I cannot live cheaper. There is Antonio : you know Antonio well ! He is quite a treasure, and really costs me nothing. Those Italians are most invaluable, and live on air. Then there is Luigi : I could not do without Luigi, since you have taken away my Enghsh groom. He is quite my right-hand. I am sure Luigi is just the servant that you'd quite approve. Then there's my Greek : he is plump, to be sure, and lazy ; but eiitre nous, such a favourite with the sex, that his perquisites are so great, I mean to cut him down, I doubt whether my table costs me a sequin a week. " Sn, on my honour, sir, as I'm a sinner, I ralher gain than lose by every dinner." Then there are my horses. As you desired it, I have cut down one ; though, to be sure, as I have bought two more, there is no great saving yet upon that head. But I mean to breed. I find the fellows here will give a long figure for an English horse. I have got a mare from an officer at Malta ; so we may consider this as part of our plan of retrench- ment, and quite another account Therefore, per- haps, you will permit me to draw for this alone. I give only five-and-twenty pounds a year for my palace, and let out lodgings to an English fami- ly. I could not live in London in a garret for that price : therefore, you see, I am saving desperately. I fear, however, I must turn out ray tenants. Their maids corrupt the morals of my men ; and when I am scribbUng something very fine, the little Tom- Idnses play at battledore. I buy no pictures, cameos, or mosaics, and never patronise the belle arti. They think me here quit3 an ultra-montane, sir. Lady Albania Silky vows she never saw one so barbarous who was so clever. I hope, therefore, you will take into considera- tion the various topics I presume to hint. I flatter myself, that, upon reflection, you'll thank your stars the matter is no worse. Our friends, I hope, re well: my compliments to all. When next you by the post, send me some news, and keep •owing for the envoy's bag. where is our hero 1 Is he forgotten 1 Never ! the dumps, blue devils, and so on. A little , it may be, and dull. He scarcely would you at this moment. So I come fonvard a graceful bow — the jack-pudding of our doc- vho is behind. short, that is to say, in long, — for what is the f this atfected brevity ? When this tale is done, . have you got 1 So let us make it last. I ! repent of having intimated so much : in fu- it is my intention to develope more, and to de- and to delineate, and to define, and, in short, ire. You know the model of this kind of — Richardson, whom I shall revive. In lu- hall. as a novelist, take Clarendon's Rebel- ■> mv hero's notes, or ■r or a broken • a duke, nseen His lis eye be- THE YOUNG DUKE. 309 h was the cireary end of dull November, and the fest company were breaking otf. The Bird of Pa- radise, according to her desire, had gone to Brigh- ton, where his grace had presented her with a tene- ment, neat, Ught, and finished ; and though situat- ed amid the wilds of Kemptown, no more than one hyena on a niglit ventured to come down from the adjacent mountains. He had half promised to join her, because he thought he might as well be there as here, and consequently he had not invited a fresh supply of visiters from town, or rather from the country. As he was hesitating about what he should do, he received a letter from his bankers which made him stare. He sent for the groom of the chambers, and was informed the house was clear, save that some single men yet lingered, as is their wont. They never take a hint. His grace ordered his carriage ; and, more alive than he had been for tlie last two months, dashed off to town. CHAPTER VI. The letter from his bankers informed the Duke of St. James that not only was the half-million ex- hausted, but, in pursuance of their powers, they had sold out all his stock, and, in reliance on his credit, had advanced even beyond it. They were ready to accommodate him in every possible way, and to advance as much more as he could desire — at five per cent. Sweet five per cent. ! ! magical five per cent. ! Lucky the rogue now who gets three. Nevertheless, they thought it but proper to call his grace's attention to the circumstance, and to put him in possession of the facts. I always know some- thing unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth. The Duke of St. James had never affected to be a man of business ; still he had taken it for granted, that pecuniary embarrassment was not ever to be counted among his annoyances. He wanted some- thing to do, and determined to look into his affairs, merely to amuse himself. The bankers were most pohte. They brought their books, also several packets of papers most neat- ly tied up, and were ready to give e\ery informa- tion. The duke asked for results. He found that the turf, the Alhambra, the expenses of his outfit in purchasing the lease and furniture of his mansion, liveries, carriages, and the rest, had, with his ex- penditure, exhausted his first year's income ; but he reconciled himself to this, because he chose to con- sider them extraordinary expenses. Then the fes- tivities of Pen Bronnock counterbalanced the eco- nomy of his more scrambling life the preceding year; yet he had not exceeded his income — much. Then he came to Sir Carte's account. He began to get a little frightened. Two hundred and fifty thou- sand had been swallowed by Hauteville Castle ; one hundred and twenty thousand by Hauteville House. Ninety-six thousand had been paid for furniture. There were also some awkward mis- cellanies which, in ad.htion, exceeded the half million. This was smashing work ; but castles and pa- laces, particularly of the correctest style of architect- ure, are not to be had for nothing. The duke had always devoted the half-million to this object; but he had intended that simi to be suflacient. What puzzled and what annoyed him was a queer suspi- cion, that his resources had been exhausted without his result being obtained. He sent for Sir Carte, who gave every information, and assured him, that had he had the least idea that a limit was an object, he would have made his arrangements accordingly. As it was, he assured the young duke that he would be the lord of the most sumptuous and accurate castle, and of the most gorgeous and tasteful palace in Europe. He was proceeding with a cloud of words, when his employer cut him short by a pe- remptory demand of the exact sum requisite for the completion of his plans. Sir Carte was confused, and requested time. The estimates should be sent in as quickly as possible. The clerks should sit up all night, and even his own rest should not be an object, any more than the duke's purse. So they parted. The duke determined to run down to Brighton for change of scene. He promised his bankers to examine every thing on his return ; in the mean time, they were to make all necessary advances, and honour his 'drafts to any amount. He found the city of chaUc and shingles not quite so agreeable as last year. He discovered that it had no trees. There was there, also, just every- body that he did not wish to see. It was one great St. James's street, and seemed only an anticipation of that very season which he dreaded. He was half inclined to go somewhere else, but could not fix upon any spot. London might be agreeable, as it was empty — but then those confounded ac- counts awaited him. The Bird of Paradise was a sad bore. He really began to suspect that she was httle better than an idiot: then, she ate so much, — and he hated your eating women. He gladly shuttled her off on that fool, Count Frill, who daily brought his guitar to Kemptown. They just suited each other. What a madman he had been to have embarrassed himself with this creature ! It would cost him a pretty ransom now, before he could obtain his freedom. How we change ! Already the Duke of St. James began to think of pounds, shillings, and pence. A year ago, as long as he could extricate himself from a scrape by force of cash, he thought himself a lucky fellow. The Graftons had not arrived, but were daily expected. He really could not stand them. As for Lady Afy, he execrated the green-hornism which had made him feign a passion, and then get caught where he meant to capture. As for Sir Lucius, he wished to Heaven he would just take it into his head to repay him the fifteen thousand he had lent him at that confounded election, — to say nothing of any thing else. Then, there was Burlington, with his old loves and his new dances. He wondered how the dense that fellow could be amused with such frivolity, and always look so serene and calm. Then, there was Squib, — that man never knew when to leave off joking; and Annesley, with his false refinement; and Darrell, with his petty ambition. He felt quite sick, and took a solitary ride: but he flew from Scylla to Chary bdis. Mrs. Montfort could not for- get their many delightful canters last season to Rottindean — and, lo ! she was at his side : — he wished her down the cliff. In this fit of the spleen, he vrent to the theatre : there were eleven people in the boxes. He listened to " The School for Scandal." Never was slander more harmless. He sat it all out, and was sorry 310 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. ^hen it was over, but was consoled by the devils of Der Freischutz. How sincerely, how ardently did he long to sell himself to the demon ! It was eleven o'clock, and he dreaded the play to be over, as if he were a child. What to do with himself, or where to go, he was equally at a loss. The door of the box opened, and entered Lord Bagshot. If it must be an acquaintance, this cub was better than any of his retJned and lately cherished companions. " Well, Bag, what are you doing with yourself?" "Oil don't know : just looking in for a lark. Any game !" " On my honour, I can't say." " What's that girl ] O ! I see ; that's little Wilkins. There's Moll Otway, Nothing new. I shall go and rattle the bones ahttle — eh! my boy?" " Rattle the bones ! what is that ?" "Don't you know?" and here this promising young peer manually explained his meaning. " What do you play at ?" asked the duke. " Hazard, for my money ; but what you like." "Where?" " We meet at De Berghem's. There is a jolly set of us. All crack men. When my governor is here, I never go. He is so jealous. I suppose there must he only one gamester in the family, eh ! — my covey !" Lord Bagshot, excited by the un- usual aflabihly of the young duke, grew quite familiar. " I have half a mind to look in with you," said his grace, with a careless air. " O ! come along, by allmeans. They'll be devil- ish glad to see you. De Berghem was saying, the other day, what a nice fellow you were, and how lie should like to know you. You don't know De Berghem, do you ?" " I have seen him. I know enough of him." The two young noblemen quitted the theatre to- gether, and under the guidance of Lord Bagshot, stopped at a door in Brunswick Terrace. There they found collected a numerous party, but all persons of consideration. The baron, who had once been a member of the diplomatic corps, and now lived in England, by choice, on his pension and private fortune, received them with the most marked courtesy. Proud of his companion. Lord Bagshot's hoarse, coarse, idiot voice seemed ever liraying. His frequent introductions of the Duke of St. Jameii were excruciating, and it required all the freezing of a finished manner to pass through this fiery ordeal. His grace was acquainted with most of the guests by sight, and to 6on)e he even bowed. They were chiefly men of a certain age, with the exception of two or three young peers like himself. Tiiere was the Earl of Castlcfort, plump and luxurious, with a youthful wig, who, though a sex- agenarian, liked no companion better than a mirror. His lordship was the most amiable man in the world, and the most lucky ; but the first was his merit, the second was not his fault. There was the juvenile Lord Dice, who boasted of having done Cis brothers out of their miserable .5000/. jjatrimony, and all in one night. But the wrinkle that had already rufiled his once clear brow, his sunken eye, and bis convulsive lip had been thrown, I suppose, into the bargain, and. in my opinion, made it a dear one. There was Temple Grace, who had run through four fortunes, and ruined four sisters. Withered, though only thirty, one thing alone remained to be lost — what he called his honour, which was already on the scent to play booty. There was Cogit, who, when he was drunk, swore that he had had a father ; but this was deemed ihe only exception to in vino veriluc. Who he was, the goddess of chance could alone decide ; and I have often thought that he might bear the same relation to her, as vEneas to the goddess of beauty. His age was as great a mystery as any thing else. He dressed still like a boy, — yet son)e vowed he was eighty. He must have been Salalhiel. Pro- perty he never had, — and yet he contrived to live ; connexion he was not born with, — yet he was up- held by a set. He never played, yet he was the most skilful dealer going. He did the honours of a rvtige et nuir table to a miracle ; and looking, as he thought, most genteel in a crimson waistcoat and a gold chain, raked up the spoils, or compla- cently announced aprcs. Lord Custleforl had few secrets from him ; he was the jackal to these prowl- ing beasts of prey ; looked out for pigeons, — got up little parties to Richmond or Brighton, — ^sang a song when the rest were too anxious to make a noise, and yet desired a little life, and yet perhaps could cog a die, arrange a looking-glass, or mix a tumbler. Unless the loss of an occasional Napoleon at a German watering-place is to be so stigmatized, gaming had never formed one of the numerous follies of the Duke of St. James. Rich, and gifted with a generous, sanguine, and luxurious dispo- sition, he had never been tempted by the desire of gain, or, as some may perhaps maintain, by the desire of excitement, to seek assistance or enjoyment in a mode of lil'e which stultifies all our fine iancies, deadens all our noble emotions, and mortifies all our beautiful aspirations. I know that I am broaching a doctrine which many will start at, and which some will protest against, when I declare my belief, that no person, whatever be his rank, or apparent wealth, ever yet gamed, except from the prospect of immediate gain. We hear much of want of excitement, of tnnui, of satiety ; and then the gaming-table is announced as a sort of substitute for opium, wine, or any other mode of obtaining a more intense vitality at the cost of reason. Gaming is too active, too anxious, too complicated, too troublesome, — in a word, toD sensible an affair for such spirits, who fly only to a sort of dreamy and indefinite distraction. 'I'he fact is, gaming is a matter of business. Its object is tangible, clear, and evident. There is nothing high, or inflammatory, or exciting ; no false magnificence, no visionary elevation, in the afliur at all. It is the very antipodes to enthusiasm of any kind. It pre- supposes in its votary a mind essentially mercantile. All the feelings that are in its train are the most mean, the most commonplace, and the most annoy- ing of daily life ; and nothing would tempt the gamester to experience them, except the great ob- ject which, as a matter of calculation, he is willing i to aim at on such terms. No man flies to the gaming-table in a paroxysm. The first visit re- quires the courage of a forlorn hope. The first stake will make the lightest mind anxious, the firmest hand tremble, and the stoutest heart falter. After the first stake, it is all a matter of calculation and management, even in games of chance. Night after night will men play at rouge et iioir, uj)on what they call a system, and for hours their atten- tion never ceases, any more than it would if they were in the shop, or on the wharf. No manual THE YOUNG DUKE. 311 Jabour is more fatiguing, and more degrading to the labourer, than gaming. Every gamester (I speak not of the irreclaimable) feels ashamed. And this vice, this worst vice, from whose embrace moralists daily inform us man can never escape, is just the one from which the majority of men most com- pletely and most often emancipate themselves. Infinite are the men who have lost thousands in their youth, and never dream of chance again. It is this pursuit which, oftener than any other, leads man to self-knowledge. Appalled by the absolute destruction on the verge of which he finds his early youth just stepping — aghast at the shadowy crimes which, under the influence of this life, seem, as it •were, to rise upon his soul, — often he hurries to emancipate himself from this fatal thraldom, and with a ruined fortune and marred prospects, yet thanks his Creator that his soul is still white, his conscience clear, and that, once more, he breathes the sweet air of heaven. And our young duke, I must confess, gamed, as all othtr men have gamed — for money. His satie- ty had fled the moment that his affairs were embar- rassed. The thought suddenly came into his head, while Bagshot was speaking. He determined to make an effort to recover : and so completely was it a matter of business with him, that he reasoned, that in the present state of his affairs, a few thousands more would not signify, — that these few thousands might lead to vast results, and that, if they did, he would bid adieu to the gaming-table with the same coolness with which he had saluted it. Yet he felt a little odd, when he first rattled the bones ; and his affected nonchalance made him con- strained. He fancied every one was watching him ; while on the contrary, all were too much interested in their own different parties. This feeling, however, wore off. According to every novelist, and the moralists " our betters," the Duke of St. James should have been fortunate at least to-night. You always win, at first, you know. If so, I advice said children of fancy and of fact to pocket their gains, and not play again. The young duke had not the oppor- tunity of thus acting. He lost fifteen hundred pounds, and at half past five he quitted the baron's. Hot, billious, with a confounded twang in his mouth, and a cracking pain in his head, he stood one moment and snuffed in the salt sea-breeze. The moon was unfortunately on the waters, and her cool, beneficent light reminded him, with dis- gust, of the hot, burning glare of the baron's saloon. He thought of May Dacre, but clenched, his fist, and drove her image from his mind. CHAPTER VII. He rose late, and as he was lounging over his breakfast, entered Lord Bagshot and the baron. Already the young duke began to experience one of the gamester's curses, — the intrusive society of those of whom you are ashamed. Eight-and-forty hours ago, Lord Bagshot would no more have dared to call upon the Duke of St. James than to call at the Pavilion ; and now, with that wreck- less want of tact which marks the innately vulgar, he seemed to triumph in their unhallowed intimacy, and lounging into his grace's apartmcYit with that half-shulfling, half-swaggering air indicative of the " cove," hat cocked, and thumbs in his great- coat pockets, cast his complacent eye around, and praised his grace's '"rooms." Lord Bagshot, who for the occasional notice of the Duke of St. James had been so long a ready and patient butt, now appeared to assume a higher character, and address- ed his friend in a tone and manner which were authorized by the equality of their rank and th sympathy of their tastes. If this change had taken place in the conduct of the viscount, it was not a singular one. The duke, also, to his surprise, found himself addressing his former butt ni a very different style to that which he had assumed in tlie ball-room of Doncaster. In vain he tried to rally, — in vain he tried to snub. It was indeed in vain. He no longer possessed any right to ex press his contempt of his companion. That con- tempt, indeed, he still felt. He despised Lord Bagshot still, but he also despised himself. The soft and silly baron was a very different sort of personage; but there was something sinister in all his elaborate courtesy and highly artificial man- ner, which did not touch the feelings of the duke, whose courtesy was but the expression of his noble feelings, and whose grace was only the impulse or his rich and costly blood. Baron dc Berghem was too attentive and too deferential. He smiled aiul bowed too much. He made no allusion to the last night's scene, nor did his tutored companion, but spoke of very different aijd lighter subjects, in a manner which at once proved his experience ot society, the Hveliness of his talents, and the cul- tivation of his taste. He told many stories, all very short and poignant, and always about princes or princesses. Whatever was broached, he always had his apropos of Vienna, and altogether seemed an experienced, mild, tolerant man of the world, not bigoted to any particular opinions upon any subject, but of a truly liberal and philosophic mind. When they had sat chattering for half an hour, the baron developed the object of his visit, which was to endeavour to obtain the pleasure of his grace's company at dinner ; to taste some wild-boar, and try some tokay. The duke, who longed again for action, accepted the invitation, and then they parted. Our hero was quite surprised at the feverish anxiety with which he awaited the hour of union. He thought that seven o'clock would never come. He had no appetite for breakfast, and after that he rode, but luncheon was a blank. In the midsi of the operation he found himself in a brown study, calculating chances. All day long his imagination had been playing hazard, or rouge ct nnir. Once he thought he had discovered an infallible way o. winning at the latter. On the long run he was convinced it must answer, and he panted to prove it. Seven o'clock at last arrived, and he departed to Brunswick Terrace. There was a brilliant party to meet him : the same set as last night, but select. He was faint, and did justice to the cuisine of his host, which was indeed remarkable. When we are drinking a man's good wine it is difficult to dislike him. Prejudice decreases with every draught. His grace began to think the baron as good-hearted as agreeable. He was grateful for the continued attentions of old Castlefort, who he now found out, had been very well acquainted with his father, and once even made a trip to Spa w'ith him. Lord Dice he could not manage lo endure. 312 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. though that worthy was, for him, remarkably cour- teous, and grinned with his parchment-tace, like a good humoured ghoul. Temple. Grace and the duke became almost intimate. There was an ami- able candour in that gentleman's address, a softness in his tones, and an unstudied and extremely in- teresting delicacy in his manner, which in this so- ciety was remarkable. Tom Cogit never presumed tJ co'.ne near the yoang duke, but paid hina constant attention. He sat at the bottom of the table, and was ever sending a servant with some choice wine, or recommending him, through some third person, some choice dish. It is pleasant to be " made much of," as Shakespeare says, even by scoundrels. To he king of your company is a poor ambition, — yet homage is homage, and smoke is smoke — whether it comes out of the chimney of a palace or of a workhouse. The banquet was not hurried. Though all wished it finished, no one liked to appear urgent. It was over at last, and they walked up-stairs, where the tables were arranged for all parties and all play. Tom Cogit went up a few minutes before them, like the lady of the mansion, to review the lights and arrange the cards. Feminine Tom Cogit ! The events of to-night were much the same as of the preceding one. The duke was a loser, but his losses were not considerable. He retired about the same hour, with a head not so hot or heavy ; and he never looked at the moon, or thought of May Dacre. The only wish that reigned in his soul was a longing for another opportunit}', and he had agreed to dine with the baron before he left Brunswick Terrace. Thus passed a week — one night the Duke of St. James redeeming himself another falling back to his old position, now pushing on to Madrid, now recrossing the Tagus. On the whole, he had lost four or live thousand pounds, a mere trifle to what, as he had heard, had been lost and gained by many of his companions during only the present season. On the whole, he was one of the most moderate of these speculators, generally played at the large table, and never joined any of those private cote- ries, some of which he had observed, and some of which he had heard. Yet this was from no pru- dential resolve or temperate resolution. The young duke was heartily tired of the slight results of all his anxiety, hopes, and plans, and ardently wished for some opportunity of coming to closer and more decided action. The baron also had resolved that an end should be put to this skirmishing, — but he was a calm head, and never hunied any thing. "I hope your grace has been lucky to-night 1" said the baron, one evening, strolling up to the duke : " as for myself, really, if Dice goes on play- ing, I shall give up banking. That fellow must have a tahsman. I think he has broken more banks than any man living. The best thing he did of that kmd was the roulette story at Paris. You have heard of that 1" "Was that Lord Dice?" O, yes ! he does every thing. He must have cleared his hundred thousand last year. I have suflered a E;ood deal since I have been in England, (^astlcfort has pulled in a great deal of my money. 1 wonder to whom he will leave his property !" " You think him rich ]" "0 ! he will cut up very large!" said the baron, elevating his eyebrows. " A pleasant man too ! I do not know any man that I would sooner play with than Castlefort — no one who loses his monej with better tem;»e^." " Or wins it," said his grace. " That we all do," said the baron faintly laugh- ing. " Your grace has lost, and you do not seem particularly dull. You will have your revenge. Those who lose at first are always the children of fortune. I always dread a man who loses at first. All I beg is, that you will not break my bank." " Why ! you see I am not playing now." '' I am not surprised. There is too much heat and noise here," said he. " We will have a quiet dinner some day, and play at our ease. Come to- morrow, and I will ask Castlefort and Dice. I should uncommonly like, entre nous, to win some of their money. I will take care that nobody shall be here whom you would not like to meet. By- the-by, whom were you riding with this morning 1 Fine woman !" CHAPTER VIII. The young duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem for to-morrow, and accord- ingly, himself. Lords Castlefort and Dice, and Temple Grace, assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hovir. The dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk ; yet every thing was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve, in his usual silent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without any one observing him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely presumed to bow to the duke. He was very busy about the wine, and dressed the wild fowl in a man- ner quite unparalleled. Tom Cogit was the man for a sauce for a brown bird. What a mystery he made of it ! Cayenne, and Burgundy, and limes were ingredients ; but there was a magic in the incantation, with which he alone was acquainted. He took particular care to send a most perfect por- tion to the young duke, and he did this, as he paid all attentions to infiucntial strangers, with the most marked consciousness of the sufferance which per- mitted his presence ; never addressing his grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, " Take this to the duke;" or asking the attendant, ''whether his grace would try the hermitage 1" After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to ccurfr. Without having exchanged a word upon the sulv ject, there seemed a general understanding among all the parlies, that to-night was to be a pitched battle, and they began at once, very briskly. Yet, in spite of their universal determination, midnight arrived without any thing very decisive. Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the baron's elbow, and whispering in a voice that every body could understand. All this meant that su])per was ready. It was brought into the room. Gaming has one advantage — it gives you an ap- petite ; that is to say, as long as you have a chance remaining. The duke had thousands, — for at l)resent his resources were unimpaired, and he was exhausted by the constant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over the delicacies, and went to the side-tf:neA to few THE YOUNG DUKE. 327 things more calculated l.o make a man gloomy. But the House always ran riot, taking every thing for granted, and cracked their universal sides be- fore he opened his mouth. The fault of Mr. Brougham is, that he holds no intellect at present in great dread, and, consequently, allows himself on all occasions to run wikl. Few men hazard more unj)hilosophical observations ; but he is safe because there is no one to notice them. On all great occasions Mr. Brougham has come up to the mark, — an infallible test of a man of genius. I hear that Mr. Babington Macauley is to be re- turned. If he speaks half as well as he writes, the House will be in fashion again. I fear that he is one of those who, like the individual whom he has most studied, " will give up to party what was meant for mankind." At any rate, he must get rid of his rabidit}'. He writes now on all subjects, as if he certiiinlj' in- tended to be a renegade, and was determined to make the contrast complete. Mr. Peel is a model of a minister, and improves as a speaker ; though, like most of the rest, he is fluent without the least style. He should not get so often in a passion, either, or, if he do, slioidd not get out of one so easily. His sweet apologies are cloying. His candour — ^he will do well to get rid of that He can make a present of it to Mr. Hus- kisson. Mr. Huskisson is a memorable instance of the value of knov^'ledge, which maintains a man under all circumstances and all disadvantages, and will. I am not sure now, if I were king, — which, thank God ! I am not, because I should then be prevented from being the most dutiful of subjects, which, thank God! I am, — I am not sure, I say, if I were his most gracious majesty, and the present cabinet could not go on, I am not sure that I should not send for Mr. Huskisson. "Huskisson!"' I should say, " the duke can whip it on no longer. If you liJce to try, you may. But, hark ye ! no more coalitions, and no more ex- planations. I have no idea of the first estate of the realm having again to do the duty of the two others. If you have a party strong enough, you shall have a fair trial. You need not speak at pre- sent. Luncheon is in the next room. When you have taken a bottle of hock, we shall get a little truth out of you." In the Lords I admire The Duke. The readiness with which he has adopted the air of a debater shows the man of genius. There is a gruff, husky sort of a downright Montaignish naivete about him, which is quaint, unusual, and tolls. You plainly perceive that he is detennined to be a civilian ; and he is as offended if you drop a hint that he occasionally wears a uniform, as a servant on a holyday if you mention the word livery. Lord Grey speaks with feeling, and is better to hear than to read, though ever strong and impres- sive. Lord Holland's speeches are like a refucci- mento of all the suppressed passages in Clarendon, and the notes in the new edition of Bishop Bur- net's Memoirs : but taste throws a delicate hue over the curious medley, and the candour of a phi- losophic mind shows, that in the library of Hol- land House he can sometimes cease to be a parti- san. Lord Goderich speaks too often, and not suffi- ciently to the purpose; but he is a man of talents. These Canningites sadly want a leader, and are scattered about in a very loose style, indeed. I think I must come over. It would take a month though, I should think, to knock up the present administration, provided it were February, and not leap-year. But then I must be consistent, and not compromise my principles, which will never do in England — more than once a-ycar. Let me see: what are they ? Am I a whig or a tory I I forget. As for the tories, I admire antiquity, particularly a ruin ; even the relics of the temple of intolerance have a charm. I think I am a tory. But then the whigs give such good dinners, and are the most amusing. I think I am a whig; but then the tories are so moral, and morality is my forte : I must be a tory. But the whigs dress so much better ; and an ill-dressed party, like an ill-dressed man, must be wrong. Yes ! I am a decided whig. And yet — I feel like Gariick between tragedy and comedy. I think I will be a whig and tory alternate nights, and then both will be pleased ; or I have no ob- jection, according to the fashion of the day, to take a place under a tory minister, provided I may vote against them. One thing is quite clear, — that a man may speak very well in the House of Commons, and fail very completely in the House of Lords. There are two distinct styles requisite; I intend, in the course of my career, if I have time, to give a specimen of both. In the lower House, Don Juan may perhaps be our model ; in the upper House, Paradise Lost. CHAPTER VIL Nothing was talked of in Yorkshire but Mr. Arundel Dacre's speech. All the world flocked to Castle Dacrc, to compliment and to congratulate ; and a universal hope was expressed that he might come in for the county, if indeed the success of his eloquence did not enable his uncle to preoccupy that honour. Even the cahn Mr. Dacre shared the general elation, and told the Duke of St. James regularly every day that it was all owing to him. May Dacrc was enthusiastic; but her gratitude to him was synonymous with her love for Arundel, and valued accordingly. The duke, however, felt that he had acted at once magnanimously, gene- rously, and wisely. The consciousness of a noble action is itself ennoblmg. His spirit expanded with the exciting eflects which his conduct had produced ; and he felt consolation under all his misery, from the conviction that he had now claims to be remembered, and perhaps regarded, when he was no more among them. The bill went swimmingly through the Com- mons, the majority of two gradually swelling into eleven ; and the important night in the Lords was at hand. " Lord Faulconcourt writes," said Mr. Dacre, " that they expect only thirty-eight against us." " Ah ! that terrible PIousc of Lords !"' said May Dacre. " Let us see : when does it come on — the day after to-morrow ] Scarcely forty-eight hours and all will be over, and we shall be just where we were. — You and your friends manage very badly in your House," she added, addressing herself to the duke. " I do all I can," said his grace, smiling : " B ji lington has my proxy." " That is exactly what I complain of. On such 328 D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. an occasion therp shoiilJ be no proxies. Personal attendance would indicate a keener interest in the result. Ah ! if I were the Duke of St. James for one night!" "Ah! thnt you would be the Dutchess of St. James !" thought the duke ; but a despairing lover has no heart for jokes, and so he did not give utter- ance to the wish. He felt a little agitated, and caught May Dacre's eye. She smiled and sHghtly blushed, as if she felt the awkwardness of her re- mark, though too late. The duke retired early, but not to sleep. His mind was busied on a great deed. It was past midnight before he could compose his agitated feel- ings to repose, and by five o'clock he was again up. He dressed himself, and then put on a rough tra- velling coat, which, with a shawl, effectually dis- guised his person ; and putting in one pocket a shirt, and in the other a few articles from his dress- ing-case, the Duke of St. James stole out of Castle Dacre, leaving a note for his host accounting for his sudden departure by urgent business at Haute- ville, and promising a return in a day or two. The fresh morn had fully broke. He took his hurried way through the long dewy grass, and, crossing the park, gained the road, which however was not the high one. He had yet another hour's rapid walk before he could reach his point of desti- nation ; and when that was accomplished, he found himself at a small public-house, bearing for a sign his own arms, and situated in the high road oppo- site his ovvn park. He was confident that his per- son was unknown to the host, or to any of the early idlers who were lingering about the mail, then break- " Any room, guard, to London V " Room inside, sir, — just going off." The door was opened, and the Duke of St. James took his scat in the Edinburgh and York Mail. He had two compatiions : the first, because apparently the most important, was a hard-featured, gray- headed gentleman, with a somewhat supercilious look, and a mingled air of acutoness and conceit; the other was an humble-looking widow in her weeds, middle-aged, and sad. These persons had recently roused themselves from their nocturnal slumbers, and now, after their welcome meal and hurried toilet, looked as fresh as birds. " Well ! now we are off," said the gentleman. " Very neat, cleanly little house this, ma'am," con- tinued he to his companion. " What is the sign V — " The Hauteville arms." — " ! Hauteville — that is — that is — let me see ! — the St. James family. Ah I a pretty fool that young man has made him- self, by all accounts — eh! sirl" " I have reason to believe so," said the duke. "I suppose this is his park — eh 1 Hem ! going to London, sirl" " I am." " Ah ! hem ! Hauteville Park, I suppose, this. Fine ground wasted. What the use of parks is, I can't say." " The place seems well kept up," said the widow. " So much the worse — I wish it were in ruins." '' Well, for my part," continued the widsw, in a low voice, " I think a park the most beautiful thing we have. Foreigners, you know, sir — " " Ah ! 1 know what you are going to say," ob- served the gentleman, in a curt, grufhsh voice. " It •s all nonsense. Foreigners are fools. Don't talk to me of beauty — a mere word. What is the use of all this I It produces about as much benefit t« society as its owner does." " And do you think his existence, then, perfectly useless?" asked the duke. " To be sure, I do. So the world will, some day or other. We are opening our eyes fast. Men begin to ask themselves what the use o( an aristo- cracy is 1 That is the test, sir." " I think it not very difficult to demonstrate the use of an aristocracy," mildly observed the duke. " Pooh ! nonsense, sir ! I know what you arc going to say ; but we have got beyond all that Have you read this, sirl This article on the aris- tocracy in ' The Screw and Lever Review V " " I have not, sir." " Then I advise you to make yourself master of it, and you will talk no more of the aristocracy. A few more articles like this, and a few more noble- men like the man who has got this park, and peo- ple will open their eyes at last." " I should think," said his grace, " that the follies of the man who has got this park have been pro- ductive of evil only to himself. In fact, sir, according to your own system, a prodigal noble seems to be a very desirable member of the commonwealth, and a complete leveller.'' " We shall get rid of them all soon, sir," saiiJ his companion, with a malignant smile. " I have heard that he is very young, sir," re- marked the widow. " What is that to you or mel" " Ah ! youth is a very trying time. Let us hope the best ! He may turn out well yet, poor soul !" " I hope not. Don't talk to me of poor souls. There is a poor soul," said the utilitarian, pointing to an old man breaking stones on the highway. " That is vi'hat I call a poor soul, not a young pro- digal, whose life has been one long career of infa- mous debauchery." " You appear to have heard much of this young nobleman," said the duke; " but it does not follow, sir, that you have heard truth." " Very true, sir," said the widow. " The world is very foul-mouthed. Let us hope he is not so very bad." " I tell you what, my friends ; you know nothing about what you are talking. I don't speak without foundation. You have not the least idea, sir, how this fellow has lived. Now what I am going to tell you is a fact : I know it to be a fact. A very inti- mate friend of mine, who is an intimate friend of a friend who knows a person who is a very intimate friend of an intimate friend of a person who knows the Duke of St. James, told me himself, that one night they had flir supper — what do you thinlc, ma'am ! — Venison cutlets, each served up in a hun- dred pound note, and sovereign sauce." " Mercy !" exclaimed the widow. "And do you believe if!" asked the duke. " Believe it ! I know it !" " He is very young," said the widow. " Youth is a very trying time." " Nothing to do with his youth. It's the system — the infernal system. If that man had to work for his bread, like everybody else, do you think he would dine oil' bank-notes'! No! to be sure he wouldn't ! It's the system." " Young people are very wild !" said the widovc. " Pooh I ma'am, nonsense ! Don't talk cant. If a man be properly educated, he is as capable at one-and-twcnty of managing any thing as at ani; THE YOUNG DUKE. 329 time in his life : more capable. Look at the men who write ' The Screw and Lever' — the first men in the country. Look at them. Not one of age. Look at the man who wrote this article on the aristo- cracy — young Duncan Macmorrogh. Look at him, I say — the first man in the country by far." " I never heard his name before," calmly observed the duke. "Not heard his name? — not heard of young Duncan Macmorrogii — first man of the day, by far, — not heard of him ! Go and ask the Marquis of Sheepshead what he thinks of him. Go and ask Lord Two and Two what he thinks of him. Dun- can dines with Lord Two and Two every week." The duke smiled, and his companion proceeded. " Well, again, look at his friends. There is young First Principles. What a head that fellow has got ! Here, this article on India is by him. He'll knock up their charter. He is a clerk in the India House. Up to the detail, you see. Let me read you this passage on monopolies. Then there is young Tribonian Quirk. By G — , what a mind that fellow has got ! By G — , nothing but first principles will go down with these fellows ! They laugh at any thing else. By G — , sir, they look upon the administration of the present day as a parcel of sucking babes ! When I was last in town Quirk told me that he would not give that for all the public men that ever existed ! He is keep- ing his temis at, Gray's Inn. This article on a new code is by him. Shows as plain as light that by sticking close to first principles the laws of the coun- try might be carried in every man's waistcoat pocket." The coach stopped, and a colloquy ensued. " Any room to Selby ?" " Outside or in ?" •* Out, to be sure." " Room inside only." " Well ! in then." The door opened, and a singularly quaint-look- ing personage presented himself. He was very stiff and prim in his appearance ; dressed in a blue coat, and scarlet waistcoat, with a rich bandanna handkerchief tied very neatly round his neck, and a very new hat, to which his head seemed little habituated. " Sorry to disturb you, ladies and gentlemen ; not exactly the proper place for me. Don't be alarmed. I'm always respectful wherever I am. My rule through Ufe is to be respectful." " Well, now, in with you," said the guard. " Be respectful, my friend, and don't talk so to an old soldier who has served his king and his countiy." Off I hey went. "Majesty's se^^'ice?'' asked the stranger of the duke. " I have not that honour." " Hum ! Lawyer, perhaps 1" " Not a lawyer." " Hum ! A gentleman, I suppose 1" The duke was silent ; and so the stranger ad- dressed himself to the anti-aristocrat, who seemed vastly annoyed by the intrusion of so low a per- sonage. " Going to London, sirl" " I tell you what, my friend, at once. I never answer impertinent questions." " No offence, I hope, sir ! Sorry to offend. I'm al- ways respectful. Madam ! I hope I don't inconveni- enceyou ; I should be sorry to do that. We sailors,you know, are always ready to accommodate the ladies." 42 " Sailor !" exclaimed the acute utilitarian, hii curiosity stifling his hauteur. " Why ! just now I thought you were a soldier." " Well ! so I am." " Well, my friend, you are a conjurer, then." " No, I a'n't ; I'm a marine." " A very useless person, then." " What do you mean 1" " I mean to say, that if the sailors were properly educated, such an amphibious corps would never have been formed, and some of the most atrocious sinecures ever tolerated would consequently not have existed." " Sinecures ! I never heard of him. I served under Lord Combermere. Maybe you've heard of him, ma'am 1 A nice man, — a beautiful man. I have seen him stand in a field like that, with the shot falling about him like hail, and caring no more for them than peas." " If that were for bravado," said the utilitarian, " I think it a very silly thing." " Bravado ! I never heard of him. It was for his king and country." " Was it in India?" asked the widow. " In a manner, ma'am," said the marine, very courteously. " At Bhurtpore, up by Pershy, and thereabouts — the lake of Cashmere, where all the shawls come from. Maybe you have heard of Cashmere, ma'am 1" " M''ho has not heard of the lake of Cashmere 1" hummed the duke to himself "Ah! I thought so," said the marine; "all people know much the same ; for some have seen, and some have read. I can't read, but I have served my king and country for five-and-twenty years, and have used my eyes." " Better than reading," said the duke, humour- ing the character. " I'll tell you what," said the marine, with a knowing look. " I suspect there is a d — d lot of lies in your books. I landed in England last 7th of June, and went to see St. Paul's. ' This is the greatest building in the world,' says the man. Thinks I, ' You lie.' I did not tell him so, because I am always respectful. I tell you what, sir; maybe you think St. Paul's the greatest building in the world, but I tell you what, it's a lie. I have seen one greater. Maybe, ma'am, you think I am telling you a lie too ; bvit I am not. Go and ask Captain Jones, of the 58ih : I went with him : I give you his name : go and ask Ca])tain Jones of the 58th, if I be telling you a lie. The building J mean is the palace of the Sultan Acber; for I have served my king and country five-and-twenty years last 7th of June, and have seen strange things — all built of precious stones, ma'am. What do you think of that? All built of precious stones: cor- nelian, of which you make your seals: as sure as I'm a sinner saved. If I a'n't speaking the truth, I am not going to Selhy. Maybe you'd like to know why I am going to Selby. FU tell you what. Five-and-twenty years have I served my king and country last 7th of June. Now I will begin with the beginning. I ran away from home, when I was eighteen, you see ; and after the siege of Bhurtpore, I was sitting on a bale of silk alone, and I said to myself, I'll go and sec my mother Sure as I am going to Selby, that's the whole. I landed in England last 7th of June, absent five-and- twenty years, serving my king and country. I sent them a letter last night. I put it in the pes* 2e2 330 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. myself. Maybe I shall be there before my letter now." " To be sure you will," said the utilitarian : " what made you do such a silly thing? Why, your letter is in this coach." " Well ! I shouldn't wonder. I shall be there before my letter now. All nonsense, letters : my wife wrote it at Falmouth." " You are married, then 1" said the widow. " A'n't I, though ] — the sweetest cretur, madam, tliough I say it hefore you, that ever lived." " Why did not you bring your wife with you 1" asked the widow. " And wouldn't I be very glad to 1 but she wouldn't come among strangers at once ; and so I have got a letter, which she wrote for me, to put in the post, in case they ai'e glad to see me, and then she will come on." " And you, I suppose, are not sorry to have a holyday ?" said the duke. " A'n't I, though 1 A'n't I as low about leaving her, as ever as I was in my life 1 and so is the poor cretur. She won't eat a bit of victuals till I come back, I'll be sworn, — not a hit, I'll be bound to say that — and I myself, although I am an old soldier, and served my king and country for fi\'e-and-twenty years, and so got knocked about, and used to any thing, as it were — I don't know how it is, but I always feel queer whenever I am away from her. I shan't make a hearty meal till I see her. Some- how or other, when I am away from her, every thing feels dry in the throat." " You are very fond of her, I see ?" said the duke. " And ought I not to be 1 Didn't I ask her three times before she said i/es? Those are the wives fpr wear, sir. None of the fruit that fall at a shak- ing for me ! Hasn't she stuck by me in every climate, and in every land I was in ] Not a fellow in the company had such a wife. W^ouldn't I throw myself off this coach this moment, to give her a moment's peace 1 That I would, though, — d — n me if I wouldn't." " Hush ! hush !" said the wido,w ; " never swear. — I am afraid you talk too much of your love," she added, with a faint smile. " Ah ! you don't know my wife, ma'am. — Are you married, sir?" " I have not that happiness," said the duke. " Well ! there is nothing like it ! Iiut don't take the fruit that falls at a shake. But this, I suppose, is Selby." The marine took his departure, having staved long enough to raise in tlie young duke's mind curious feelings. As he was plunged in revery, and as the widow was silent, conversation was not resumed until the coach stopped for dinner. " We stop here half an hour, gentlemen," said the guard. " Mrs. Burnet," he continued, to the widow, '' let me hand you out." They entered the parlour of the inn. The duke, who was ignorant of tlie etiquette of the road, did not proceed to the discharge of his duties, as the youngest guest, with all the promptness desired by his fellow-travellers. " Now, sir," said an outside, " I will thank you for a slice of that mutton, and will join you, if you have no objection, hi a bottle of sherry." •• What you please, sir. May I have the pleasure of lielping you, ma'am ?" After dinner, the duke took advantage of a vacanf outside place. Tom Rawlins was the model of a guard. Young, robust, and gay, he had a letter, a word, or a wink for all he met. All seasons were the same to him; night or day, he was ever awake, and ever alive to all the interest of the road : now jouiing m conversa- tion with a passenger, shrewd, sensible, and respect- ful ; now exchanging a little elegant badiniige with the coachman; now bowing to a pretty girl ; now quizzing a passer-by ; — he was on' and on his seat in an instant; and, hi the whilf of his cigar, would lock a wheel, or unlock a passenger. From him the young duke learned that his fellow- inside was Mr. Duncan Macmorrogh, senior, a writer at Edinburgh, and, of course, the father of the first man of the day. Tom Rawlins could not tell his grace as much about the principal writer in "The Screw and Lever Review" as we can ; for Tom was no patron of our periodical literature, further than a police report in the Publican's Journal. Young Duncan Macmorrogh was a limb of the law, who had just brought himself into notice by a series of articles in " The Screw and Lever," in which ha had subjected The Universe piecemeal to his critical analysis. Duncan Macmorrogh cut up the creation, and got a name. His attack upon mountains was most violent, and proved by its personality, that he had come from the Lowlands. He demonstrated the inutility of all elevation, and declared that the Andes were the aristocracy of the globe. Rivers he rather patronised; but flowers he quite pulled to pieces, and proved them to be the most useless of existences. Duncan Macmorrogh informed us,^hat we were quite wrong in supposing ourselves to be the miracle of the creation. On the contrary, he avowed that already there were various pieces of machinery of far more importance than man ; and he had no doubt, in time, that a superior race would arise, got by a steam-engine on a spinning-jenny. The other " inside" was the widow of a former curate of a Northumbrian village. Some friend had obtained for her only child a clerkship in a public office, and, for some time, this idol of her heart had gone on prospering; but, unfortunately, of late, Charles Bumet had got into a bad set, was now involved in a terrible scrape, and, as Tom Rawlins feared, must lose his situation and go to ruin. "She was half distracted when she heard it first, poor creature ! I have known her all my life, sir. Many the kind word and glass of ale I have had at her house, and that's what makes me feel for her, you see. I do what I can to make the journey easy to her ; for it is a pull at her years. God bless her ! there is not a better body in this world ; that I will say for her. When I was a boy, I used to be the playfellow in a manner with Charley Burnet, a gay lad, sir, as ever you would wish to see in a sum- mer's day, — and the devil among the girls always, and that's been the ruin of him ; and as open a hearted fellow as ever lived. Damn me! I'd walk to the land's end to save him, if it were only for his mother's sake, — to say nothuig of himself." "And can nothing be done?" asked the duke. " Why, you see, he is back in £ s. d. ; and, to make it up, the poor body must sell her all, aiid he won't let her do it, and wrote a letter like a prince — (No room, sir) — as fine a letter as ever you read — (Hilloa, there ! What! are you asleep?) — as ever you read on a summer's day. I didn't see it, but my mother told me it was as good as e'er a one THE YOUNG DUKE. 331 of the old gentleman's sermons. 'Mother,' said ne, ' my sms be upon my own liead. I can bear disgrace,' — (How do, Mr. Wilkins?) — 'but I can- not bear to see you a beggar !' " "Poor fellow!" " Ah ! sir, as good a hearted fellow as ever you'd wish to meet !" "Is he involved to a great extent, think you 1" ■ " O ! a long figure, sir — (I say, Betty, I've got a letter for you fr^ra your sweetheart) — a very long figure, sir — (Here, take it !) — I should be sorry — (Don't blush — no message !) — I should be sorry to take two hundred pounds to pay it. No, I wouldn't take two hundred pounds, that I wouldn't! — (I say, Jacob, stop at old Bag Smith's.") Night came on, and the duke resumed his inside place. Mr. Macmorrogh vi'ent to sleep over his son's article : and the duke feigned slumber, though he was only indulging in revery. He opened his eyes, and a light, which they passed, revealed the counte- nance of the widow. Tears were stealing down her face. " I have no mother — I have no one to weep for me," thought the duke ; " and yet, if I had been in this youth's station, my career probably would have been as fatal. Let me assist her. Alas ! how I have misused my power, when, even to do this slight deed, I am obUged to hesitate, and consider whether it be practicable." The coach again stopped for a quarter of an hour. The duke had, in consideration of the in- definite period of his visit, supplied himself amply with money on repairing to Dacre. Besides his purse, which was well stored for the road, he had somewhat more than three hundred pounds in his note-book. He took advantage of their tarrying to enclose it and its contents in a sheet of paper, with these lines — " An unknown friend requests Mrs. Burnet to accept this token of his sympathy with suffering virtue." Determined to find some means to put this in her possession before their parting, he resumed his place. The Scotchman now prepared for his night's repose. He produced a pillow for his back, a bag for his feet, and a cap for his head. These, and a glass of brandy and water, in time produced a due effect, and he was soon fast asleep. Even to the widow night brought some solace. The duke alone found no repose. Unused to travelling in public conveyances at night, and unprovided with any of the ingenious expedients of a mail-coach adventurer, he felt all the inconveniences of an in- experienced traveller. The seat was unendurablj' hard, his back ached, his head whirled, the con- founded sherry, slight as was his portion, had made him feverish, and he felt at once excited and ex- hausted. He was sad, too, very depressed. Alone, and no longer surrounded with that splendour which had hitherto made solitude precious, life seemed stripped of all its ennobling spirit. His energy vanished. He repented his rashness ; and the im- pulse ef the previous night, which had gathered tresh power from the dewy moon, vanished. He felt alone, and without a friend, and night passed without a moment's slumber, watching the driving clouds. The last fifteen miles seemed longer than the whole journey. At St. Alban's he got out, took a cup of coffee with 'I'om Kawhns, and although the morning was raw, again seated himself by his side. In the first gloomy little suburb Mrs. Burnet got out. The duke sent Rawlins after her with the par- cel, with peremptory instructions to leave it. He watched the widow protesting it was not hers, his faithful emissary appeahng to the direction, and, with delight, he observed it left in her hands. They rattled into London, stopped in Lombard-street, reached Holborn, entered an archway ; the coach- man threw the whip and reins from his now care- less hands. The duke bade farewell to Tom Raw- lins, and was shown to a bed. CHAPTER VIIL The return of morning had in some degree dissi- pated the gloom that had settled on the young duke during the night. Sound and light made him feel less forlorn, and for a moment his soul again re- sponded to his high purpose. But now he was to seek necessary repose. In vain. His heated frame and anxious mind were alike restless. He turned, he tossed in his bed, but he could not banish from his ear the whirling sound of his late conveyance, the snore of Mr. Macmorrogh. and the voice of Tom Rawlins. He kept dwelling on every petty incident of his journe}', and repeating in his mind every petty saying. His determination to slumber made him even less sleepy. Conscious that repose was absolutely necessary to the performance of his task, and dreading that the boon was now unat- tainable, he became each moment more feverish and more nervous ; a crowd of half-formed ideas and images flitted over his heated brain. Failure, mise- ry. May Dacre, Tom Rawlins, boiled beef; Mrs. Burnet, the aristocracy, mountams and tlie marine, and the tower of St. Alban's cathedral, hurried along in infinite confusion. But th^re is nothing Hke experience. In a state of distraction, he re- membered the hopeless but refreshing sleep he had gained after his fatal adventure at Brighton. He jumped out of bed, and threw himself on the floor, and in a few minutes, from the same cause, his ex- cited senses subsided into slumber. He awoke : the sun was shining through his rough shutter. It was noon. He jumped up, rang the bell, and asked for a bath. The chambermaid did not seem exactly to comprehend his meaning, but said she would speak to the waiter. He was the first gentleman who ever had asked for a bath at the Dragon with Two Tails. The waiter in- formed him that he might get a bath, he believed, at the Hummums. The duke dressed, and to the Hummums he then took his way. As he was leav- ing the yard, he was followed by an ostler, who, in a voice musically hoarse, thus addressed him. " Have you seen missis, sirl" • " Do you mean me 1 No, I have not seen your missis," and the duke proceeded. " Sir, sir," said the ostler, running after him, " I think you said you had not seen missis?" " You think right," said .the duke, astonished , and again he walked on. " Sir, sir," sard the pursuing ostler ; " I don't think you have got any luggage?" "Oil beg your pardon," said the duke ; " I see it. I am in your debt; but I meant to return." " No doubt on't, sir ; but when gemmen don't have no luggage, they sees missis before they go, sir '" 332 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Well, what am I in your debt 1 I can pay you nere." " Five shillings, sir." "Here!" said the duke; "and tell me when a coach leaves this place to-morrow for Yorkshire." " Half-past six o'clock in the morning precisely," said the ostler, " Well, my good fellow, I depend upon your se- curing me a place ; and that is for yourself," ailded his grace, throwing him a sovereign. " Now, mind ; I depend upon you." The man stared, as if he had been suddenly taken into partnership with missis ; at length, he found his tongue. " Your honour may depend upon me. Where would you like to sit ? In or out 1 Bac"k to your horses, or the front 1 Get you the box, if you like. Where's your great-coat, sir ] I'll brush it for you." The bath and the breakfast brought our hero round a good deal, and at half-past two he stole to a solitary part of 8t. James' Park, to stretch his legs and collect his senses. We must now let our read- ers into a secret, which perhaps they have already unravelled. The duke had rushed up to London, with the determination not only of attending the de- tiate, but of participating in it. His grace was no politician ; but the question at issue was one sim- ple in its nature, and so domestic in its spirit, that few men could have arrived at his period of life without having heard its merits, both too often and too amply discussed. He was master of all the points of interest, and he had sufhcient confidence in himself to believe that he could do them justice. He walked up and down, conning over in his mind, not only the remarks which he intended to make, but the very language in which he meant to otler them. As he formed sentences, almost for the first time, his courage and his fancy alike warmed : his sanguine spirit sympathized with the nobility of the imaginary scene, and inspirited the intonations of his modulated voice. About four o'clock he repaired to the House. W alking up one of the passages, his progress was stopped by the back of an individual bowing with great servility to a patronising peer, and my-lording him with painful repetition. The nobleman was Lord Fitz-pompey ; the bowing gentleman Mr. Duncan Macmorrogh, the anti-aristocrat, and fa- ther of the lirst man of the day. " George ! is it possible!" exclaimed Lord-Fitz- pompcy. " I will speak to you in the House," said the duke, passing on, and bowing to Mr. Donald Macmorrogh. He recalled his proxy from the Duke of Builing- toti, and accounted for his presence to many as- tonished friends by being on his way to the Conti- nent : and, passing through London, thought he might as well be present, particularly as he was about to reside for some time in Catholic countries. It was the least compliment that he could pay his future hosts. " Give >ne a pinch of snulf." The debate began. Don't be alarmed. I shall not describe it. Five pr six peers had spoken, and one of the ministers had just sat down when the Duke of St. James rose. He was extremely ner- vous, but he repeated to himself the name of May Dacrc for the hundredth time, and proceeded. He was nearly commencing " May Dacre," instead of " My Lords," but he escaped this blunder. For the first five or ten minutes, he spoke in almost as cold and lifeless a style as when he echoed the king' speech ; but he was young, and seldom troubled them, and was listened to therefore with indulgence. The duke warmed, and a courteous " hear, hear," frequently sounded ; the duke became totally free from embarrassment, and spoke with equal elo- quence and energy. A cheer, a stranger in the House of Lords, rewarded and encouraged him. As an Irish landlord, his sincerity could not be dis- believed, when he expressed his conviction of the safety of emancipation ; but it was as an English proprietor and British noble, that it was evident that his grace felt most keenly upon this important measure. He described with power the peculiar injustice of the situation of the English Catholics. He professed to feel keenly upon this subject, be- cause his native comity had made him well ac- quainted with the temper of this class ; he painted in glowing terms, the loyalty, the wealth, the influ- ence, the noble virtues, of his Catholic neighbours ; and he closed a speech of an hour's duration, in which he had shown that a worn subject was sus- ceptible of novel treatment and novel interest, amid loud and general cheers. The lords gathered round him while he spoke, and many personally congratu- lated him upon his distinguished success. The debate took its course. At three o'clock the pro- catholics found themselves in a minority, but in a minority in which the prescient might have well discovered the herald of future justice. The address of the Duke of St. James was the crack speech of the night. The duke walked into White's. It was crowd- ed. The first man who w.elcomed him was Annes- ley. He congratulated the duke with a warmth for which the world did not give him credit. " I assure you, my dear St. James, that I am one of the few people whom this display has not sur- prised. I have long observed that you were formed for something better than mere frivolity. And, between ourselves, I am sick of it. Don't be sur- prised if you hear that I go to Algiers. Depend upon it, that I am on the point of doing something dreadful." " Sup with me, St. James," said Lord Squib ; " I will ask O'Connell to meet you." Lord Fitz-pompey and Lord Darrell were pro- fuse in congratulations ; but he broke away from them to welcome the man who now advanced. He was one of whom he never thought without a shud- der, but whom, for all that, he greatly liked. " My dear Duke of St. James," said Anmdel Dacre, "how ashamed I am that this is the first time I have personally thanked you for all your goodness !" " My dear Dacre, I have to thank you for proving for the first time to the world, that I was not with- out discrimination." " No, no," said Dacre, gayly and easily ; " all the congratulations and all the compliments to- night shall be for you. Believe me, my dear friend, I share your triumph.'' They shook hands with earnestness. " May will read your speech with exultation,' said Arundel. "I think we must thank her for making you an orator." The duke faintly smiled, and shook his head. "And how are all your Yorkshire friends'!" continued Arundel. " I am disappointed again in THE YOUNGDUKE. (jetting down to them ; but I hope, in the course of the month, to pay them a visit." " I shall see them in a clay or two," saiJ the duke. " I pay Mr. Dacre one more visit before my de- parture from England." "Arc you then indeed going 1" asked Arundel, in a kind voice. " Forever." ■' Nay, nay, ever is a strong word." " It becomes then my feelings. However, we will not talk of this. Can I bear any letter for you ]" " I have just written," replied Arundel, in a gloomy voice, and with a changing countenance, " and therefore will not trouble you. And yet — " " What !" " And yet the letter is an important letter — to me. The post, to be sure, never does miss : — but if it were not troubling your grace too much, I almost would ask you to be its bearer." " It will be there as soon," said the duke, " for I shall be olf in an hoiar." " I will take it out of the box, then," said Arun- del, and he fetched it. " Here is the letter," said he on his return : " pardon me if I impress upon you its importance. Excuse this emotion, — but, indeed, this letter decides my fate. My happiness for life is dependent on its reception !" He spoke with an air and voice of agitation. The duke received the letter in a manner scarcely less disturbed ; and with a hope that they might meet before his departure, faintly murmured by one party, and scarcely responded to by the other, they parted. " Well, now," said the duke, " the farce is com- plete : — and I have come to London to be the bearer of his oflered heart ! I like this, now. Is there a more contemptible — a more ludicrous — absolutely ludicrous ass than myself? Fear not for its deli- very : most religiously shall it be consigned to the hand of its owner. The fellow has paid a compli- ment to my honour or my simplicity : I fear the last, — and really I feel rather proud. But away with these feelings ! Have not I seen her in his arms'! Pah, pah, pah ! Thanli God ! I spoke. At least, I die in a blaze. Even Annesley does not think me quite a fool. 0, May Dacre, May Dacre ! — if you were but mine, I should be the happiest fellow that ever breathed !" He breakfosted, and then took his way to the Dragon with Two Tails. The morning was bright, and fresh, and beautiful, even in London. Joy came upon his heart, in spite of all his loneliness, and he was glad and sanguine. He arrived just in time.. The coach was about to start. The faithful ostler vvaa there with liis great-coat, and the duke found that he had three tiellow-passcngers. They were lawyers, and talked for the first two hours of nothing but the case respecting which they were going into the country. At Woburn a despatch arrived with the newspapers. All purchased one, and the duke among the rest. He was well reported, and could now sympathize with, instead of smile at, the anx- iety oi" Lord Darrell. " The yoimg Duke of St. James seems to have distinguished himself very much," said the first lawyer. " So I observe," said the second one. " The lead- ing article calls our attention to his speech as the most brilliant delivered." blood, you 333 " I am surprised," said the third, " I thought he was quite a different sort of person." " By no means," said the first : " I have always had a very high opinion of him. I am not one of those who think the worse of a young man because he is a little wild." " Nor I," said the second. " Young know, is young blood." " A very intimate friend of mine who knows the Duke of St. James well, once told me," rejoined tha first, " that I was quite mistaken about him , that he was a person of no common talents, well read, quite a man of the world, and a good deal of wit too ; and let me tell you that in these days wit is no common thing." " Certainly not," said the third. " We have no wit now." "And a very kind-hearted, generous fellow," continued the first, " and very unaffected." " I can't bear an affected man," said the second, without looking off his paper. " He seems to have made a very fine speech, indeed." " I should not wonder his turning out something great," said the third. " I have no doubt of it," said the second. " Many of these wild fellows do." "He is not so wild as we think," said the first. " But he is done up," said the second. "Is he indeed?" said the third. " Perhaps, by making a speech, he wants a place ?" " People don't make speeches for nothing," said the third. " I shouldn't wonder if he is after a place in the Household," said the second. " Depend upon it, he looks to something more active," said the first. " Perhaps he would like to be head of the Admi- ralty 1" said the second. '• Or the Treasury V said the third. " That is impossible 7" said the first. " He is too young." " He is as old as Pitt," said the third. " I hope he will resemble him in nothing but his age then," said the first. " I look upon Pitt as the first man that evei lived," said the third. " What !" said the first. " The man wno worked up the national debt to nearly eight hundred mil- lions !" " What of that ?" said the third. " I look upon the national debt as the source of all our pros- perity." " The source of all our taxes, you mean." " What is the harm of taxes V " The harm is, that you will soon have no trade ; and when you have no trade, you will have no duties : and when you have no duties, you will have no dividends ; and when you have no dividends, you will have no law; and then where is your source of prosperity 1" said the first. But here the coach stopped, and the duke got out for an hour. By midnight they had reached a town not more than thirty miles from Dacre. The duke was quite exhausted, and determined to stop. In half an hour he enjoyed that deep, dreamless slumber vnth which no luxury can compete. One must have passed restless nights for years to be able to appro ciate the value of sound sleep. 334 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. CHAPTER IX. He rose early ami iiiana£];ctl to reach Dacre at the lireakfast hour of the family. He tlischargci! his chaise at the park gate, and entered the house un- seen. He took his way along a corridor lined with j)lants, which led to the small ami favourite room in which the morning meetings of May and himself always took place when they were alone. As he lightly step]ied along, he heard a voice that he could not mistake, as it were in animated converse. Agi- tated hy sounds which ever created in him emotion, for a moment he paused. He starts, — his eye sparkles with strange delight, — a flush conies over his panting features, half of modesty, half of trium])h. He listens to his own speech from the lips of the woman he loves. She is reading to her father with melodious energy the passage in which he dcscrilics the high ipialities of his Catholic neighbours. The intonations of the voice indicate the deep sympathy of the reader, ^he ceases. He hears the admiring exclamation of his host. He rallies his strength, — he advances, — he stands before them. She utters almost a shriek of delightful surprise, and welcomes him with both her hands. How much there was to say ! — how much to ask ! — how much to answer ! Even Mr. Dacre poured forth questions like a boy. But May — she could not speak, but leaned forward in her chair with an eager ear, and look of congratulation, that rewarded him for ill his exertion. Every thing was to be told. How ne went ; — whether he slept in the mail, — where he went ; — what he did ; — whom he saw; — what they said; — what they thought: — all must be answered. Then fresh exclamations of wonder, delight, and triumph. The duke forgot every thing but his love, and for three hours felt the hajipiest of men. At length Mr. Dacre rose and looked at liis watch with a shaking head. " I have a most im- portant ai)pointment,*' said he, "and I must gallop to keep it. God bless you, my dear St. James ! I could stay talking with you forever; but you must be utterly wearied. Now, my dear boy, go to bed." "Tolled!" exclaimed the duke. " Why, Tom Ifawlins would laugh at you !" " And who is Tom Rawlins !" "Ah! I cannot tell j'ou every thing: hut assu- ledly I am not going to bed." " Well, May, I leave him to your care; but do not let him talk any more." " ! sir," said the duke, " I really had forgotten. ' 1 am the bearer to you, sir, of a letter from Mr. Arundel Dacre." He gave it him. As Mr. Dacre read die communication, his countenance changed, and the smile which before was on 4iis face vanished. But whether he were displeased, or only serious, it was impossible to ascertain, although the duke watched him narrowly. At length lie said, " May ! here is a letter from Arundel, in which you are much interested." " {Jive it me then, papa." "No, my love ; we nmst speak of thi.s together. But I am pressed for time. When I come home. Remember I" He quitted the room. They were alone : the duke began again talk- ing, and Miss Dacre put her finger to her mouth, with a smile. "I assure you," said he, "I am not half so wearied as the daj' after hunting. I slept at y, and the only thing I now want is a good walk. Let me be your companion ihis morning!" " I was thinking of paying nurse a visit. What say you." " O ! I am ready ; anywhere." She ran for her l)onnet, and he kissed her hand- kerchief, which she left behind, and, I believe, every thing else in the room which bore the slight- est relation to her. And then the recollection of .•\runders letter came over him, and his joy fled. When she returned, he was standing before the fire, gloomy and dull. " I fear you are tired," she said. " Not in the least." " I shall never forgive myself if all this exertion make you ill." " Why not?" " Because, although I will not tell papa, I am sure my nonsense is the cause of your having gone to London." " It is probable; for you are the cause of all that does not disgrace me." He advan(;ed, and was about to seize her hand ; but the accursed minia- ture occurred to him, and he repressed his feelings, almost with a groan. She, too, had turned away her head, and was busily engaged in tending a flower. " Because she has explicitly declared her feelings to me, and, sincere in that declaration, honours me by ai friendship of which alone I am unworthy, am I to persecute her with my dishonom-ed overtures — the twice rejected 1 No, no !" He took up his hat, and oflcred her his arm. They took their way through the park, and he soon succeeded in reassuming the tone that befitted their situation. Traits of the debate, and the de- baters, which newspapers cannot convey, and which he had not yet recounted, — anecdotes of Annesley and their friends, and other gossip, were otTered for her amusement. But if she were amused, she was not lively, but singularly, unusually silent. There was only one point on which she seemed interested, and that was his speech. When he was cheered, and who particular!}^ cheered; who gathered round him, and what they said after the debate : on all these points she was most inquisitive. They rambled on : nurse was quite forgotten and at length they found themselves in the beauti- ful valley, rendered more lovely by the ruins of the abbey. It was a place that the duke couM never forget, and which he ever avoided. He had neves' renewed his visit since he first gave vent, among its reverend ruins, to his o'ercharged and most tumultuous heart. They stood in silence before the holy pile with its vaulting arches and crumbling walls, mellowed by the mild lustre of the declining sun. Not two years had fled since liere he first staggered after the breaking glimpses of self-knowledge, .and strug- gled to call order from out of the chaos of hig mind. Not two years, and yet what a change had come over his existence ! How diametrically opposite now were all his thoughts, and views, and feelings, to those which then controlled his fatal sou! ! How capable, as he firmly believed, was he no\r cf discharging hia duty to his Creator and his fel'ow-men ! and y.-'t the b ing soul, as, one by one, those of the other beauty sadly stole away, and then we bless our stars, and feel quite sure that we have found perfection in a petticoat. What shall I do, then ? Why, sir, if you have cash enough, marry ; but if not, go to Paris for a month — not Bath or Brighton — you may find her there — and forget her. For, believe me, who, being a bachelor, may be allowed to put in a word in favour of a system in which I am not interested, love without marriage is "both expensive, immoral, and productive of the most disagreeable consequences. It tries the con- stitution, heart, and purse. Profligacy is almost an impossibility ; and even dissipation, as this work well proves, soon gets a bore. What we call morality is nothing else but common sense, and the experience of our fellow-men codified for our common good. And if, if marriage did not require such an in- come (they say three thousand now will scarcely do, even for us younkcrs. What times we live in !) — I have half a mind (I think we must come down) really to look about me ; (one gets tired of wandering ;) and, no doubt, there is great pleasure in a well-regulated existence, particularly if no children come in after dinner. But our duke — where are wel He had read woman thoroughly, and consequently knew how to value the virgin pages on which his thoughts now fixed. He and May Dacre wandered in the woods, and nature seemed to them more beautiful from their beautiful loves. They gazed upon the sky ; a brighter light fell o'er the luminous earth. Sweeter to them the fragrance of the sweetest flowers, and a more balmy breath brought on the universal promise of the opening year. They wandered in the woods, and there they breathed their mutual adoration. She to him was all in all, and he to her was like a new divinity. She poured forth all that she long had felt, and scarcely could suppress. From the moment he tore her from the insulter's arms, his image fixed THE YOUNG DUKE. 337 in her heart, and the struggle which she expe- rienced to repel his renewed vows was great indeed. When she heard of his misfortunes, she had wept ; hut it was the strange delight she experienced when his letter arrived to her father, that first con- vinced her how irrevocably her mind was his. And now she does not cease to blame herself for all her past obduracy — now she will not for a mo- ment yield that he could have been ever any thhig but all that was pure, and beautiful, and good. CHAPTER XII. But although we are in love, business must not be utterly neglected, and Mr. Dacre insisted that the young duke should for one morning cease to wander in his park, and listen to the result of his exertions during the last three months. His grace listened. Rents had not risen, but it was hoped that they had seen their worst ; the rail-road had been successfully opposed ; and coals had im- proved. The London mansion and the Alhambra had both been disposed of, and well : the first to the new French ambassador ; and the second to a gray- headed stock-jobber, veiy rich, who, having no so- ciety, determined to make solitude amusing* The proceeds of these sales, together with sundry sums obtained by converting into cash the stud, the fur- niture, and the hijuuterie, produced a most respect- able fund, which nearly paid off the annoying mis- cellaneous debts. For the rest, Mr. Dacre, while he agreed that it was on the whole advisable that the buildings should be completed, determined that none of the estates should be sold, or even mortgaged. His plan was, to procrastinate the ter- mination of these undertakings, and to allow each year itself to afford the necessary supplies. By annually setting aside one hundred thousand pounds, in seven or eight years he hoped to find every thing completed and all debts cleared. He did not think that the extravagance of the duke could justify any diminution in the sum which had hitherto been apportioned for the maintenance of the Irish establishments ; but he was of opinion, that the decreased portion which" they, as well as the western estates, now afforded to the total incomes, was a sufficient reason. Fourteen thousand a-year were consequently allotted to Ireland, and seven to Pen Eronnock. There remained to the duke about ihirty thousand per annum ; but then Hautevillc was to be kept up with this. Mr. Dacre proposed that the young people should reside at Rosemount, and that, consequently, they might form their esta- l)lishment from the castle, without reducing their Yorkshire appointments, and avail themselves, without any obligation, or even the opportunity of great expenses, of all the advantages afforded by the neccssaiy expenditure. Finally, Mr. Dacre presented his son with his town-mansion and fur- niture ; and as the young duke insisted that the settlements upon her grace should be prepared in full reference to his inherited and future income, this generous father at once made over to him the great bulk of his personal property, amounting to upwards of a hundred thousand pounds, and a little ready money, of which he now knew the value. 'J'lie Duke of St. James had duly informed his um-'e, the Earl of Fitz-pompey, of the intended 43 change in his condition, and in answer received the following letter. " Fitz-pompey Hall, May, 18—. " Mr BEAU Geouge : — Your letter did not give us so much surprise as you expected ; but, I assure you, it gave us as much pleasure. You have shown your wisdom and your taste in your choice; and I am free to confess, that I am acquainted with no one more worthy of the station which the Dutchess of St. James must always fill in society, and more calculated to maintain the dignity of your iamily than the lady whom you are about to intro- duce to us as our niece. Believe me, my dear George, that the notification of this agreeable event has occasioned even additional gratification both to your aunt and to myself, from the reflection that you are about to ally yourself with a family in whose welfare we must over take an especial inte- rest, and whom we may in a manner look upon as our own relatives. For, my dear George, in an- swer to your flattering and most pleasing commu- nication, it is my truly agreeable duty to inform you (and, believe me, you are the first person out of our immediate family to whom this intelligence is made known) that our Caroline, in whose hap- piness wo are well assured you take a lively inte- rest, is about to be united to one who may now be described as your near relative, namely, Mr. Arun- del Dacre. " It has been a long attachment, though, for a considerable time, I confess, unknown to cs ; and, indeed, at first sight, with Caroline's rank and other advantages, it may not appear, in a mere worldly point of view, so desirable a connexion as some perhaps might expect. And, to be quite con- fidential, both your aunt and myself were at first a little disinclined (great as our esteem and regard have ever been for him) — a little disinclined, I say, to the union. But Dacre is certainly the most rising man of the day. In point of family he is second to none ; and his uncle has indeed behaved in the most truly liberal manner. I assure you, he considers him as a son ; and even if there were no other inducement, the mere fact of your connexion with the family would alone not only reconcile, but, so to say, make us perfectly satisfied with the arrangement. It is unnecessary to speak to you of the antiquity of the Dacres. Arundel will ulti- mately be one of the richest commoners, and I think it is net too bold to anticipate, taking into consideration the fimnly into which he marries, and, above all, his connexion with you, that we may finally succeed in having him called up to us. You are, of course, aware that there was once a barony in the family. " Everybody talks of your speech. I assure you, although I ever gave you credit for uncom- mc-n talents. I was astonished. So you are to have the vacant riband ! Why did you not tell me 1 I learned it to-day from Lord Bobbleshim. But wo must not quarrel with men in love for not commu nicating. " You ask me for news of all your old friends. You, of course, saw the death of old Annesley. The new lord took his seat yesterday — he was in- troduced by Lord Bloomerly. I wag not surprised to hear in the evening, that he was about to be married to Lady Charlotte, though the world affect to be astonished. I should not forget to say tlmt Lord A. asked most particularly after you. 2F 338 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. " I think I have now written you a very long letter. I once more congratulate you on your udiniruhlt selection ; and witli the united remem- brance of our family circle — particularly Caroline, who will write perhaps by this post to Mi?s D. — believe me, dear George, your truly affectionate uncle, J. P. '• P. 8. — Lord Marylebone is very unpopular — luite a brute. We all miss you." It is not f be supposed that this letter conveyed the first intimation to the Duke of St. James of the most interesting event of which it spoke. On the contrary he had long been aware of the whole affair ; but I have been too much engaged with his own conduct to find time to let the reader into the secret, which, like all secrets, is to be hoped, was no secret. Next to gaining the affections of May Dacre, it was impossible for any event to occur more delightful lo our hero than the present. His heart had often misgiven him when he had thought of Caroline. Now she was happy, and not only happy, but connected with him for life, just as he wished. Arundel Dacre, too, of all men he most ■wished to like, and indeed most liked. One feel- ing alone had prevented them from being bosom friends, and that feeling had long triumphantly vanished. May Dacre had been almost from the beginning the confidant of his cousin. In vain however, had she beseeched him to intrust all to her father. Although he now repented his past feelings, he would not work upon himself to change ; and not till he had entered parliament and succeeded, and gained a name which would reflect honour on the family with which he wished to identify himself, could he impart to his uncle the secret of his heart, and gain that support, without which his great object could never have been achieved. The Duke of St. James, by returning him to parliament, had been the unconscious cause of all his happiness, and ardently did he pray that his generous friend might succeed in what he was well aware was his secret aspiration, and that his beloved cousin might yield her hand to the only man whom Arundel Dacre considered worthy of her. CHAPTER XIII. AjfOTiiF.n week brought another letter from the Earl of Fitz-pompey. THE EARL OF FITZ-POMPET TO TUE DUKE OF ST. JAMES. [Read this alone.'] " Mr DEAR George, — Ibegyou will not be alarm- ed by the above memorandum, which I thought it but prudent to prefix. A very disagreeable affair has just taken place, and to a degree exceedingly alarming; but it might have turned out much more distressing, and on the whole, we may all congratulate ourselves at the result. Not to keep you in fearful suspense, I beg to recall your recollection to the rumour, which is in cii-culation, of the intention of Lady Aphrodite Grafton to oppose the divorce. A few days back, her brother. Lord Wariston, with whom I was previously unacquainted, called upon me by niipointment, having previously requested a private interview. The object of his seeing me was no less than to submit to my inspection the letters, by aid of which it was anticipated that the divorce might be successfully opposed. You will be astounded to hear that these consist of a long series of correspondence of Mrs. Dallington Vere's, de- veloping, I am shocked to say, machinations of a very alarming nature, the effect of which, my dear George, was no less than very materially to control your fortunes in life, and those of that charming and truly admirable lady whom you have delighted us all so much, by declaring to be our future rela- tive. " From the very delicate nature of the disclo- sures, Lord Wariston felt the great importance of obtaining all necessary results without making them public ; and, actuated by these feelings, he applied to me, both as your nearest relative, and an ac- quaintance of Sir Lucius, and, as he expressed it, and I may be permitted to repeat, as one whose experience in the management of difficult and deli- cate negotiations was not altogether unknown, in order that I might be put in possession of the facts of the case, advise and perhaps interfere for the common good. " Under these circumstances, and taking into consideration the extreme difficulty attendant upon a satisfactory arrangement of the affair, I thought fit, in confidence, to apply to Arundel, whose talents I consider of the first order, and only equalled by his prudence and calm temper. As a relation, too, of more than one of the parties concerned, it was perhaps only proper that the correspondence should be submitted to him. " I am sorry to say, my dear George, that Arun- del behaved in a very odd manner, and not at all with that discretion which might have been ex- pected, both from one of his remarkably sober and staid disposition, and one not a little experienced in diplomatic life. He exhibited the most unequivo- cal signs of his displeasure at the conduct of the parlies princij)ally concerned, and expressed him- self in so vindictive a manner against one of them, that I very much regretted my application, and re- quested him to be cool. " He seemed to yield to my solicitations ; but, I regret to say, his composure was only feigned, and the next morning he and Sir Lucius Grafton met. Sir Lucius fired first without efVect, but Arundel's aim was more fatal, and his ball was lodged in the thigh of his adversary. Sir Lucius has only been saved by amputation ; and I need not remark to you, that to such a man, life on such conditions is scarcely desirable. All idea of a divorce is quite given over. The letter in question was stolen from his cabinet by his valet, and given to a soubrefle of his wife, whom Sir Lucius considered in his interest, but who, as you see, betrayed him. " For me remained the not very agreeable office of seeing Mrs. Dallington Vere. I madfT known to her, in a manner as little ofTensive as possible, the object of my visit. The scene, my dear George, was very trying ; and I think it very hard, that the follies of a parcel of young people should really place me in such a distressing position. She fainted, &c., wished the letters to be given up ; but Lord W would not consent to this, though he pro- mised to keep their contents secret, provided she quitted the country. She goes directly ; and I am well assured, which is not the least surprising part of this strange liistory, that her affairs are in a state THE YOUNG DUKE. 339 of great distraction. The relatives of her late husband are about again to try the will, and with every prospect of success. She has been negotiat- ing with them for some time through the agency of Sir Lucius Grafton, and the late expose will not favour her interests. " If any thing further happen, my dear George, depend upon my writing ; but Arundel desires me to say, that on Saturday he will run down to Dacre for a few days, as he very much wishes to see you and all. With our united remembrance to Mr. and Miss Dacre, " Ever, my dear George, " Your very aflectionate uncle, " FiTZ-POMPET." The young duke turned with trembling and disgust from these dark terminations of unprinci- pled careers, and their fatal evidences of the indul- gence of unbridled passions. How nearly too had he been shipwrecked in this moral whirlpool ! With what gratitude did he not invoke the benefi- cent Providence that had not permitted the innate seeds of human virtue to be blighted in his wild and neglected soul ! With what admiration did he not gaze upon the pure and beautiful being whose virtue and whose loveliness were the causes of his regeneration, the sources of his present, and the guarantees of his future joy. Four years have now elapsed since the young Duke of St. James was united to May Dacre ; and it would not be too bold to declare, that during that period he has never for an instant ceased to con- sider himself the happiest, and the most fortunate of men. His life is passed in the agreeable discharge of all the important duties of his exalted station, and his present career is by far a better answer to the lucubrations of young Duncan Mac- morrogh, than all the abstract arguments that ever yet were offered in flivour of the existence of an aristocracy. Hauteville House and Hauteville Castle pro- ceeded in regular course — their magnificent dwell- ings will never erase simple and delightful Rose- mount from the sji'ateful memory of the Dutchess of St. James. Parliament, and in a degree society, invite the duke and dutchess each year to the me- tropolis, and Mr. Dacre is generally their guest. Their most ioMmate and beloved friends are Arun- del and Lady Caroline; — and as her ladyship now heads the establishment of Castle Dacre, they are seldom ser^rafp'1 But amone their most agreeable company is a young gentleman styled by courtesy Dacre, Marquis of Hauteville ; and his young sister, who has not yet escaped from her beautiful mother's arms, and who beareth the blooming title of the Lady May. Reader ! our tale is told, and the sweet shades who for three long weeks have stolen from decay its consciousness, and lent life even to languor, vanish into air. The syllables are sailing on the wind, that are the sting of life. Farewell ! ! word of wo ! O ! sound of sorrow ! and yet the necessary termination of all joy. NOTES. Page 240.— (1) Lady Morgan, in her very agreeable work, " The Book of Uie BoudoTr," has a most amusing chapter on Raamteurs. Laily Morgan is certainly a woman of considerable talents, and has been what is called ■' hardly used." But I suspect that this lively writer is one who would prefer excessive abuse to moderate comniendstion. Why does Lady Morgan give her critics such unnecessary advantages 1 Why,"for instance, in the volumes of v^fhich I am speaking, and in which there is so much to admire, is the " Menagiana," and that too more than once, quoted and panegyrized as the work of Menage? Why do^a Vandyke, too, figure as the court painter of Henry the Eighth 1 Why— but I cease this ungracious office. I know that there is a delightful giddiness in Irish brains, which will perfectly account for these errors, without seeking fur a harsher cause ; but then, what use is the " English Tius- band" who is introduced to us with such triumph 1 Surely Sir Charles might be permitted to read the proofs, and to extinguish by \he frisorific influence of his Saxon blood, these inarula in the flaming luminary of Kildare street. Page 250 — (2) This important principle is much more ably expressed in the witty memoirs of the brilliant Henry Pelham. Had I his gay volumes at command, Ishould have pleasure in referring to them more particularly The au- thor of " Pelham " is one of the few rising writers to whom we may lookup for the maintenance of the honour of English literature. Page 257.— (3) Con. Don Juan. Cant. I. s. 216. Page 257. — (-1) Haifa century ago, when gentlemen were curious in their port wine, to which, ere long, we shall return, the Oporto Company made a present of sundry pipes to a royal duke of England. Small portions of tliis offering, by some villanous methods, reached other cellars besides tliat of the prince, and were known among connois- seurs hy the title of " duke wine."— My earliest recollec- tions are of this Lusitanian nectar. Page 259.— (5) I quote this line from a poem by Mr. Mill- man, whose initial oilein "The Martyr of Antioch " would have entitled him to the crown at Athens. Page 292.— (6) Dawson Turner, Esq. of Yarmouth, a gentleman whose taste and talents are appreciated by a large circle of distinguished friends, possesses, amone other literary treasures, an unrivalled collection of autograph letters. Page 302.— (7) This was the invariable custom at Straw berry Hill. C N T A R I N I F L E M T N G A PSYCOLOC.ICAL AUTOBIOGRAPHY. CONTARINI FLEMING. I. Wandeiiing in those deserts of Africa that border the Erythraean sea, I came to the river Nile, to that ancient, and mighty, and famous stream, whose waters yielded us our earliest civilization, and which, after liaving witnessed the formation of so many states, and the invention of so many creeds, still flow on with the same serene beneficence, like all that we can conceive of Deity ; in form sublime, in action systematic, in nature bountiful, in source unknown. My solitary step sounded in the halls of the Pha- raohs. I moved through those imperial chambers, supported by a thousand columns, and guarded by colossal forms seated on mysterious thrones; I passed under glittering gates meet to receive the tri- umphal chariot of a Titan ; I gazed on sublime obe- lisks pointing to the skies, whose secrets their mys- tic characters atl'ected to conceal. Wherever I threw my sight, I beheld vast avenues of solemn sphinxes reposing in supernatural beauty, and melancholy groups of lion-visaged kings; huge walls vividly pictured with the sacred riles and the domestic offices of remote antiquity, or sculptured with the breathing forms of heroic warfare. And all this might, all this magnificence, all this mystery, all this beauty, all this labour, all this high invention — where were their originators? I fell into deep musing. And the kingdoms of the earth passed before me, from the thrones of the Pharaohs to those enormous dominations that sprang out of the feudal chaos, the unlawful children of Ignorance and Expediency. And I surveyed the generations of man from Rameses the Great, and Memnon the Beautiful, to the solitary pilgrim, whose presence now violated the sanctity of their gorgeous sepul- chres. And I found that the history of my race was but one tale of rapid destruction or gradual decay. And in the anguish of my heart, I lifted up my hands to the blue ether, and I said, "Is there no hope] What is knowledge, and what is truth"! How shall I gain wisdom 1" The wind arose, the bosom of the desert heaved, pillars of sand sprang from the earth and whirled across the plain, sounds more awful than thunder came rushing from the south; the fane and the palace, the portal and the obelisk, the altar and the throne, the picture and the frieze, disappeared from my sight, and darkness brooded over the land. I knelt down and hid my face in the movable and buriung soil, and as the wind of the desert passed over me, methought it whispered, "Child of na- ture, learn to unlearn!" We are the slaves of false knowledge. Our me- mories are filled with ideas that have no origin in truth. We learn nothing from ourselves. The sum of our experience is but a dim dream of the conduct of past generations, generations that lived in a total ignorance of their nature. Our instructers are the unknowing and the dead. We study human nature in a charnel-house, and, like the nations of the East, we pay divine honours to the maniac and the fool. A series of systems have mystified existence. We believe what our fathers credited, because they were convinced without a cause. The faculty of thought has been destroyed. Yet our emasculited minds, without the power of fruition, still pan for the charms of wisdom. It is this that makes us fly with rapture to false knowledge — to tradition, to prejudice, to custom. Delusive tradition, destruc- tive prejudice, degenerating custom! It is this that makes us prostrate ourselves with reverence before the wisdom of by-gone ages, in no one of which has man been the master of his own reason. I am desirous of writing a book which shall be all truth, a work of which the passion, the thought, the action, and even the style, -should spring from my own experience of feeling, from the meditations of my own intellect, from my own observation of incident, from my own study of the genius of ex- pression. When I turn over the pages of the metaphysician, I perceive a science that deals in words instead of facts. Arbitrary axioms lead to results that violate reason; imaginary principles establish systems that contradict the common sense of mankind. All is dogma, no part demonstration. Wearied, perplexed, doubtful, I throw down the volume in disgust. When I search into my own breast, and trace the developement of my own intellect, and the for- mation of my own character, all is light and order. The luminous succeeds to the obscure, the certain to the doubtful, the intelligent to the illogical, the practical to the impossible, and I experience all that refined arjd ennobling satisfaction that we derive from the discovery of truth and the contemplation of nature. I have resolved, therefore, to write the history of my own life, because it is the subject of which I have the truest knowledge. At an age when some have scarcely entered upon their career, I can look back upon past years spent in versatile adventure and long meditation. My thought has been the consequence of my or- ganization ; my action the result of a necessity not less imperious. My fortune and my intelligence have blended together, and formed my character. I am desirous of executing this purpose while my brain is still fed by the ardent though tempered flame of youth; while I can recall the past with ac- curacy, and record it with vividness; while my me- mory is still faithful, and while the dewy freshness of youthful fancy still lingers on the flowers of mj mind. 343 344 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. I would bring to this work the illumination of an intellect emancipated from the flital prejudices of an irrational education. This may be denied me. Yet some exemption from the sectarian prejudices that imbitter life may surely be expected from one who, by a curious combination of circumstances, finds himself without country, without kindred, and with- out friends; nor will he be suspected of indulging in the delusion of worldly vanity, who, having acted in the world, has retired to meditate in an inviolate solitude, and seeks relief from the overwhelming vitality of thought in the flowing spirit of creation. II. When I can first recall existence, I rememoer myself a melancholy child. My father. Baron Flem- ing, was a Saxon nobleman of ancient family, who, being opposed to the French interest, quitted, at the commencement of this century, his country, and after leading for some years a wandering life, entered into the service of a northern court. At Venice, yet a youth, he married a daughter of the noble house of Contarini, and of that marriage I was the only offspring. My entrance into this world was marked with evil, for my mother yielded up her life while investing me with mine. I was christened with the name of her illustrious race. Thus much, during the first years of my childhood, I casually learned, but I know not how; I feel I was early conscious that my birth was a subject on which it was proper that I should not speak, and one, the mention of which, it was early instilled into me, would only occasian my remaining parent bitter sorrow. Therefore upon this topic I was ever silent, and with me, from my earliest recollection, Venice was a name to be shunned. My father again married. His new bride was a daughter of the country which had adopted him. She was of high blood, and very wealthy, and beau- tiful in the fashion of her land. This union pro- duced two children, both males. As a child, I view- ed them with passive antipathy. They were called my brothers, but nature gave the lie to the reiterat- ed assertion. There was no similitude between us. Their blue eyes, their flaxen hair, and their white visages claimed no kindred with my Venetian coun- tenance. Wherever I moved, I looked around me, and beheld a race different from myself. There Was no sympathy between my frame and the rigid clime whither I had been brought to live. I knew not why, but I was unhappy. Had I found in one of my father's new children a sister, all might have been changed. In that sweet and singular tie, I might have discovered solace, and the variance of constitution would perhaps, between different sexes, have fostered, rather than discouraged affection. But this blessing, which 1 have ever considered the choicest boon of nature, was denied me, I was alone, I loved my father dearly and deeply, but I seldom saw him. He was burit d in the depth of affairs. A hurried kiss and a passing smile were the fleet- ing gifts of his affection. Scrupulous care however was taken tha* I should never be, and should never feel, neglected, I was overloaded with attentions, even as an infant. My stepmother, swayed by my father, and perhaps by a well-regulated mind, was vigilant in not violating the etiquette of maternal duty. No favour was shown to my white brethren Inch was not extended also to me. To me also, as the eldest, the preference, if necessary, was evir yielded. But for the rest, she was cold, and I was repulsive, and she stole from the saloon, which I rendered interesting by no infantile graces, to the nursery, where she could lavish her love upon her troifljlesome, but sympathizing offspring, and listen to the wondrous chronicle which their attendants daily supplied of their marvellous deeds and almost oracular prattle. Because I was unhappy, I was sedentary and silent, for the lively sounds and the wild gambols of children are but the unconscious outpourings of joy. They make their gay noises, and burst into their gay freaks, as young birds in spring chant in the free air, and flutter in the fresh boughs. But I could not revel in the rushing flow of my new blood, nor yield up my frame to its dashing and voluptu- ous course. I could not yet analyze my feelings; I could not indeed yet think; but I had an instinct that I was different from my fellow-creatures, and the feeling was not triumjih, but horror. My quiet inaction gained me the reputation of stupidity. In vain they endeavoured to concealfrom me their impression. I read it in their looks ; in their glances of pity full of learned discernment, in their telegraphic exchanges of mutual conviction. At last, in a moment of irritation, the sec.et broke from one of my white brothers. I felt that the urchin spoke truth, but I cut him to the ground. He ran howling and yelping to his dam, I was sur- rounded by the indignant mother and the domestic police. I listened to their agitated accusations, and palpitating threats of punishment, with sullen indif- ference. I offered no defence. I courted their ven geance. It came in the shape of imprisonment, I was conducted to my room, and my door was locked on the outside. I answered the malignant sound by bolting it in the interior. I remained there two days deaf to all their entreaties, without sustenance, feeding only upon my vengeance. Each fresh visit was an additional triumph. I never an- swered ; I never moved. Demands of apology wer£ exchanged for promises of pardon : promises of par- don were in turn succeeded by offers of reward. I gave no sign. I heard them stealing on tiptoe to the portal, full of horrible alarm, and even doubtful of my life. I scarcely would breathe. At length the door was burst open, and in rushed the half- fainting baroness, and a posse of servants, with the children clinging to their nurses' gowns. Planted in the most distant corner, I received them with a grim smile. I was invited avsay, I refused to move. A man-servant advanced and touched me. I stamped, I gnashed my teeth, I gave a savage growl, that made him recoil with dread. The baroness lost her remaining presence of mind, withdrew her train, and was obliged to call in my father, to whom all was for the first time com- municated. I heard his well-known step upon the stair, I be- held the face that never looked upon me without a smile, if in carelessness, still, still a smile. Now it was grave, but sad, not harsh. " Contarini," he said, in a serious, but not angried voice, " what is all this 1 " I burst into a wild cry, I rushed to his arms. He pressed me to his bosom. He tried to kiss away the flooding tears, that each embrace called forth more plenteously. For the first time in my life I felt happy, because for the first time in my life J felt loved. CONTARINI FLEMING. 345 III. It was a beautiful garden, full of terraces and • iched walks of bowery trees. A tall fountain bj.vang up from a marble basin, and its glittering co- l«..nn broke in its fall into a thousand coloured drops, ai.d woke the gleamy fish that would have slept in the dim water. And I wandered about, and the enchanted region seemed illimitable, and at each turn more magical and more bright. Now a white vase shining in the light, now a dim statue shadowy in a cool grot. I would have lingered a moment at the mossy hermitage, but the distant bridge seemed to i-nvite me to new adventures. It was only three miles from the city, and be- longed to the aunt of the baroness. I was brought here to play. When the women met there was much kissing, and I also was kissed, but it gave me no pleasure, for I felt even then that it was a form, and I early imbibed a hatred of all this mechanical domestic love. And they sat together, and took out their work,and talked without ceasing, chiefly about the children. The baroness retold all the wonder- ful stories of the nurses, many of which I knew to be false. I did not say this, but the conviction gave me, thus early, a contempt for the chatter of women. As soon as I was unobserved, I stole away to the garden. Even then it was ravishing to be alone. And although I could not think, and knew not the cause of the change, I felt serene, and the darkness of my humour seemed to leave me. All was so new and so beautiful. The bright sweet flowers, and the rich shrubs, and the tall trees, and the flitting birds, and the golden bees, and the gay butterflies, and that constant and soothing hum, broken only ever and anon by a strange shrill call, and that wonder ful blending of brilliancy and freshness, and perfume and warmth, that strong sense of the loveliness and vitality of nature which we feel amid the growing life of a fair garden,. entered into my soul, and dif- fused themselves over my frame, softened my heart, and charmed my senses. But all this was not alone the cause of my hap- piness. For to me the garden was not a piece of earth belonging to my aunt, but a fine world. I wandered about in quest of some strange adven- ture, which I would fain believe, in so fair a region must quickly occur. The terrace was a vast desert over which I travelled for many days, and the mazy walks, so mysterious and unworldly, were an unex- plored forest fit for a true knight. And in the her- mitage, I sought the simple hospitality of a mild and aged host, who pointed to the far bridge as surely leading to a great fulfilment, and my com- panion was a faithful esquire, whose fidelity was never wanting, and we conversed much, but most respecting a mighty ogre, who was to fall be- neath my puissant arm. Thus glided many a day in unconscious and creative revery, but sometimes, when I had explored over again each nook and corner, and the illimitable feeling had worn off", the power of imagination grew weak. I found myself alone amid the sweets and sunshine, and felt sad. But I would not quit this delicious world without an eflbrt, and invented a new mode of mingling in its life. I reclined beneath a shady tree, and I covered my eyes with my little hand, and I tied to shut out the garish light, that seemed to destroy the visions \vhich were ever flitting before me. 44 They came in their beauty, obedient to my call- And I wandered in strange countries, and achieved many noble acts, and said many noble words, and the beings with whom I acted were palpable as my- self, with beautiful faces and graceful forms. And there was a brave young knight, who was my friend, and his life I ever saved, and a lovely princess, who spoke not, but smiled ever, and ever upon me. And we were lost in vast forests, and shared hard food, and as the evening drew on, we came to the gates of a castle. "Contarini! Contarini!"a voice sounded from the house, and all the sweet visions rushed away like singing birds scared out of a tree. I was no longer a brave knight : I was a child. I rose mise- rable and exhausted, and in spite of a repeated cry, I returned with a slow step and a sullen face. I saw there was an unusual bustle in the house. Servants were running to and fro doing nothing, doors were slammed, and there was much calling. I stole into the room unperceived. It was a new comer. They were all standing around a beautiful girl, expantling into prime womanhood, and all talking at the same time. There was also much kissing. It appeared to me that there could not be a more lovely being tlian the visiter. She was dressed in a blue riding-coat, with a black hat, which had fal- len off her forehead. Her full chestnut curls had broken loose. Her rich cheek glowed with the ex- citement of the meeting, and her laughing eyes sparkled with social love. I gazed upon her unperceived. She must have been at least eight years my senior. This idea crossed me not then, I gazed upon her unperceived, and it was fortunate, for I was entranced, I could not move or speak. My whole system changed. My breath left me. I panted with great difficulty. The colour fled from my cheek, and I was sick from the blood rushing to my heart. I was seen, I was seized, I vvas pulled forward. I bent down my head. They lifted it up, drawing back my curls ; they lifted it up covered with blushes. She leant down, she kissed me — O ! how unlike the dull kisses of the morning. But I could not return her embrace ; I nearly swooned upon her bosom. She praised, in her good-nature, the pretty boy, and the tone in which she spoke made me doubly feel my wretched insignificance. The bustle subsided ; eating succeeded to talk- ing. Our good aunt was a great priestess in the mysteries of plum-cake and sweet wine. I had no appetite. This was the fruitful theme of much dis- cussion. I could not eat : I thought only of the fair stranger. They wearied me with their wonder- ment and their inquiries. I was irritated and I was irritable. The baroness schooled me in that dull tedious way which always induces obstinacy. At another time, I should have been sullen, but my heart was full and softened, and I wept. My step- mother was alarmed lest, in an unguarded moment, she should have passed the cold, strict line of ma- ternal impartiality which she had laid down for her constant regulation. She would have soothed me with commonplace consolation. I was miserable and disgusted. I fled again to the garden. I regained with hurrying feet my favourite haunt, again I sat under my favourite tree. But not now to build castles of joy and hope, not now to com- mune with my beautiful creation, and revel in the warm flow of my excited fancy. AH, all had fled ; 346 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. all, all had changed. I shivered under the cold horror of reality. I thought I heard beautiful music, but it was only the voice of a woman. " Contarini," said the voice, " why do you weep1" I looked up ; it was the stranger, it was Chris- tiana. " Because," I answered, sobbing, " I am miserable." " Sweet boy," she said, as she knelt down beside me, " dry, dry your tears, for we all love you. Mamma meant not to be cross." " Mamma ! She is not my mamma." " But she loves you like a mother." " No one loves me." "All love you, dearest — I love you," and she kissed me with a thousand kisses. " O ! Christiana," I exclaimed, in a low, tremu; lous voice, " love me, love me always. If you do not love me I shall die !" I threw my arms around her neck, and a gleam of rapture seemed to burst through the dark storm of my grief. She pressed me to her heart a thou- sand times, and each time I clung with a more ardent grasp — and by degrees, the fierceness of my pas- sion died away, ancl heavy sobs succeeded to my tor- rents of tears, and light sighs at last came flying af- ter, like clouds in a clearing heaven. Our grief dies away like a thunder-storm. IV. Th ^ visit of Christiana was the first great inci- dent of my life. No day passed without my seeing her, either at the garden-house, or at our town, and each day I grew happier. Her presence, the sound of her voice, one bright smile, and I was a different being; but her caresses, her single society, the pos- session of her soft hand — all this was maddening. When I was with her in the company of others, I was happy, but I indicated my happiness by no ex- terior sign. I sat by her side, with my hand locked in hers, and I fed in silence upon my tranquil joy. But when we were alone, then it was that her in- fluence over me broke forth. All the feelings of my heart were hers. I concealed nothing. I told her each moment that I loved her, and that until I knew her I was unhappy. Then I would communicate to her in confidence all my secret sources of enjoy- ment, and explain how I had turned common places into enchanted regions, where I could always fly for refuge. She listened with fondness and de- light, and was the heroine of all my sports. Now I had indeed a princess. Strolling with her, the ber- ceau was still more like a forest, and the solace of the hermit's cell still more refreshing. Her influence over me was all-powerful, for she seemed to change my habits and my temper. In kindness she entered into my solitary joys; in kind- ness she joined in my fantastic amusements; for her own temper was social, and her own delight in pastimes that were common to all. She tried to rouse me from my inaction, she counselled me to mingle with my companions. How graceful was this girl! Grace was indeed her characteristic, her charm. Sometimes she would run away swifter than an arrow, and then, as she was skimming along, suddenly stop, and turn her head with an expression so fascinating, that she appeared to me always like a young sunny fawn. "Contarini!" she would cry, in a clear flute-like voice. How I rushed to her! I became more amiable to my brothers. I courted more the members of my little society. I even joined in their sports. It was whispered that Con- tarini was much improved, and the baroness glanced at me with a kind of patronising air, that seemed to hint to the initiated not to press me too heavily with their regulations, or exercise towards one so unpractised, perhaps so incapable, all the severity of their childish legislation. The visit of Christiana drew to a close. There was a children's ball at our house, and she con- descended to be its mistress. Among my new com- panions, there was a boy who was two years my senior. He had more knowledge of the world than most of us, for he had been some time at school. He was gay, vivacious, talkative. He was the leader in all our diversions. We all envied him his supe- riority, and all called him conceited. He was ever with Christiana. I disliked him. I hated dancing, but to-night I had determined to dance, for the honour of our fair president. When the ball opened, I walked up to claim her hand as a matter of course. She was engaged — she was engaged to this youthful hero. Engaged! Was it true] Engaged! Horrible jargon! Were the hollow forms of mature society to interfere with our play of love? She expressed her regret, and promised to dance with me afterward. She pro- mised what I did not require. Pale and agitated, I stole to a corner, and fed upon my mortified heart. I watched her in the dance. Never had she looked more beautiful; what was worse, never more happy. Every smile pierced me through. Each pressure of my rival's hand touched my brain. I grew sick and dizzy. It was a terrible effort not to give way to my passion. But I succeeded, and escaped from the chamber, with all its glaring lights and jarring sounds. I stopped one moment on the staircase for breath. A servant came up and asked if I wanted any thing. I could not answer. He asked if I were unwell. I struggled with my choking voice, and said I was very well. I stole up to my bed-room. I had no light, but a dim moon just revealed my bed. I threw myself upon it and wished to die. My forehead was burning hot, my feet were icy cold. My heart seemed in my throat. I felt quite sick. I could not speak; I could not weep; I could not think. Every thing seemed blended in one terrible sensation of desolate and desolating wretchedness. Much time perhaps had not elapsed, although it seemed to me an age, but there was a sound in the room, light and gentle. I looked around, I thought that a shadowy form passed between me and the window. A feeling of terror crossed me. I nearly cried out; but as my lips moved, a warm mouth sealed them with sweetness. " Contarini," said a voice I could not mistake, "are you unwell?" I would not answer. "Contarini, my love, speak to Christiana!" But the demon prevailed, and I would not speaL "Contarini, you are not asleep"!" Still I was silent. "Contarini, you do not love me." I would have been silent, but I sighed. "Contarini, vi^at has happened? Tell me, tell me, dearest. Tell your Christiana. You know you always tell her every thing." I seized her hand — I bathed it with my fast-flow- ing tears. CONTARINI FLEMING. 34: She knelt down as she did on our first meeting in the garden, and clasped me in her arms; and each moment the madness of my mind grew greater. I was convulsed with passion. And when I grew more calm, she again spoke, and asked me what made me so unhappy; and I said, between my wild sobs, " ! Christiana, you too have turned against me!" "Dear, sensitive child," she said, as she pressed me to her bosom, "if you feel so keenly, you will never be happy. Turn against you! O! Conta- rini, who is your friend if not Christiana ! Do I not love you better than all the world! Do I not do all I can to make you happy and good ? And why sliould I turn against Contarini when he is the best and dearest of boys, and loves his Christiana with all his heart and soul?" She raised rae from the bed, and placed me in her lap. My head reposed upon her fond and faith- ful heart. She was silent, for I was exhausted, and I felt her sweet breath descending upon my cheek. "Go," I said, after some little time, and in a fee- ble voice, "go, Christiana. They want you." "Not without you, dearest. I came to fetch you." "I cannot go. It is impossible; I am so tired." "O! come dearest! I shall be so unhappy if you do not come. You would not have me unhappy the whole evening, this evening that we were to be so gay. See! I will run and fetch a light, and be with you in a moment." And she kissed me and ran away, and in a momen t returned. "Dearest Christiana! I cannot go. What will they think of mel" " Nobody knows even that you are away ; all are busy." " What will they think of me 1 Really I cannot go, and my eyes are so red." "Nonsense! They are the blackest and most beautiful eyes I ever saw." " O ! they are horridly red," I answered, looking in the glass, " I cannot go, Christiana." "They are not the least red. I will wash them with some eau de Cologne and water." "O! Christiana, do you really love me 1 Have you really made it upl" " I love you more than ever, dear ! There, let me brush your curls. Is this your brush ! What a funny little brush! Dear Contarini, how pretty you look!" V. When I was eight years of age, a tutor was in- troduced into the house, and I was finally and for- mally emancipated from the police of the nursery, and the government of women. My tutor was well qualified for his office, according to the existing ideas respecting education, which substitute for the noblest of sciences the vile art of teaching words. He was learned in his acquirements, and literary in his taste, with a calm mind, a bland manner, and a mild voice. The baroness, who fancied herself a great judge of character, favoured him, before the commencement of his labours, with an epiton* of mine. After a year's experience of his pupil, he ventured to express his opinion, that I was by no means so slow as was supposed, that although I had no great power of application, I was not averse to acquiring knowledge, and that if I were not en- dowed with any very remarkable or shining qualities, my friends might be consoled for the absence of these high powers by my being equally destitute of those violent passions and that ungovernable voli- tion which were usually attendant upon genius, and too often rendered the most gifted miserable. I was always a bad learner, and although I loved knowledge from my cradle, I liked to acquire it in my own way. I think that I was born with a detes- tation of grammars. Nature seemed to whisper to me the folly of learning words instead of ideas, and my mind would have grown sterile for want of ma- nure, if I had not taken its culture into my own hands, and compensated by my own tillage for my tutor's bad husbandry. I therefore, in a quiet way, read every book that I could get hold of, and studied as little as possible in my instructer's museum of verbiage, whether his specimens appeared in the anatomy of a substantive, or the still more disgust- ing form of a dissected verb. This period of my life was too memorable for a more interesting incident than the introduction of my tutor. For the first time I visited the theatre. Never shall I forget the impression. At length I perceived human beings conducting themselves as I wished. I was mad for the playhouse, and I had the means of gratifying my mania. I so seldom fixed my heart upon any thing, I showed, in general, such little relish for what is called amusement, that my father accorded me his permission with pleasure and facility, and as an attendant to this magical haunt, I now began to find my tutor of great use. I had now a pursuit, for when I was not a spec- tator at the theatre, at home I was an actor. I re- quired no audience — I was happier alone. My chivalric reveries had been long gradually leaving me; now they entirely vanished. As I learned more of life and nature, I required for my private world something which, while it was beautiful and uncommon, was nevertheless natural and could live. Books more real than fairy tales and feudal ro- mances had already made me muse over a more real creation. The theatre at once fully introduced to me this new existence, and there arose accordingly in my mind new characters. Heroes succeeded to knights, tyrants to ogres, and boundless empire to enchanted castles. My character also changed with my companions. Before all was beautiful and bright, but still and mystical. The forms that sur- rounded me were splendid, the scenes through which I passed glittering, but the changes took place without my agency, or if I acted, I fulfilled only the system of another — for the foundation was the supernatural. Now, if every thing were less beau- tiful, every thing was more earnest. I mingled with the warlike and the wise, the crafty, the suffering, the pious — all depended upon our own exertions, and each result could only be brought about by their own -simple and human energies — for the foundation was the natural. Yet at times even this fertile source of enjoy- ment failed, and the dark spirit which haunted in my first years would still occasionally descend upon my mind. I knew not how it was, but the fit came upon me in an instant, and often when least counted on. A star, a sunset, a tree, a note of music, the sound of the wind, a fair face flitting by me in un- known beauty, and I was Jost. All seemed vapid, dull, spiritless, and flat. Life had no object and no beauty ; and I slunk to some solitary corner, where I was content to lie down and die. These were moments of bitter agony, these were moments in 349 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. which if I were spoken to I had no respect for per- sons. Once I remember my father found me be- fore the demon had yet flown, and, for the first time, he spoke without being honoured. At last I had such a lengthened lit that it at- tracted universal attention. I would scarcely move, or speak, or eat for days. There was a general alarm. The baroness fell into a flutter, lest my father should think I had been starved to death, or ill-used, or poisoned, and overwhelmed me with inquiries, each of which severally procrastinated my convalescence. For doubtless, now that I can analyze my past feelings, these dark humours arose only from tlie want of being loved. Physicians were called in. There were immense consulta- tions. They were all puzzled, and all had recourse to arrogant dogmas. I would not, nay, I could not assist them. Lying upon the sofa with my eyes shut, as if asleep, 1 listened to their confer- ences. It was settled that I was suffering from a want of nervous energy. Strange jargon, of which their fellow-creatures are the victims ! Although young, I looked upon these men with suspicion, if not contempt, and my after life has both increased my experience of their character, and confirmed my juvenile impression. Change of air and scene were naturally pre- scribed for an effect by men who were ignorant of the cause. It was settled that I should leave town, accompanied by my tutor, and that we should re- side for a season at my father's castle. VI. " And I, too, will fly to Egeria !" We were discoursing of Pompilius when the thought flashed across me. I no longer listened to his remarks, and ceased also to answer. My eyes were indeed fixed upon the page, but I perceived nothing; as it was not yet my hour of liberty, I remained in a soft state of dreamy abstraction. When I was again free I wandered forth into the park, and I hastened, with a rushing, agitated step, to the spot on which I had fixed. It was a small dell, and round it grew tall trees with thin and light-coloured leaves ; and the earth was everywhere covered with thick fern and many wild flowers. And the dell was surrounded at a very slight distance by a deep wood, out of which white glancing hares each instant darted to play upon the green sunny turf. It was not indeed a sparry grot, cool in the sparkling splendour of a southern scene ; it was not indeed a spot formed in the indefinite, but lovely, mould of the regions of my dreams, but it was green, and sweet, and wondrous still. And I threw myself upon the soft yielding fern, and covered my eyes. And a shadow}' purple tint was all that I perceived, and as my abstraction grew more intense, the purple lightened into a dusky white, and this new curtain again into a glittering veil, and the veil mystically disappeared, and I be- held a beautiful and female face. It was not unlike Christiana, but more dazzling, and very pensive. And the eyes met mine, and they were full of serious lustre, and my heart beat, and I seemed to whisper with a very low, but almost ecstatic voice, "Egeria !" Yet indeed my lips did not move. And the vision beamed with a melancholy smile. And suddenly I found myself iV, a spacious cave, and I looked up into the face of a beautiful woman, and her rountenance was the countenance of the vision. And we were in deep shade, but far out I could perceive a shining and azure land. And the sky was of a radiant purple, and the earth was streaming with a golden light. And there were blue mountains, and bright fields, and glittering vineyards. And I said nothing, but I looked upon her face, and dwelt upon her beauty. And hours flew, and the sun set, and the dew descended. And as the sky became less warm, the vision gradually died away, and I arose in the long twilight, and I re- turned home pensive and grave, but full of a soft and palpitating joy. And when I returned, I could not eat. My tutor made many observations, many inquiries, but he was a simple man, and I could always quiet him. I sat at the table full of happiness, and almost without motion. And in the evening I stole into a corner, and thought of the coming day with all its rich strange joys. My life was now one long stream of full felicity. It was indeed but one idea, but that idea was as beautiful as it was engrossing. Each day I has- tened to the enchanted dell, each day I returned with renewed rapture. I had no thought for any thing but my mystic mistress. My studies, always an effort, would now have been insupportable, had I not invented a system by which I rendered even their restraint a new source of enjoyment. I had now so complete a command of my system of ab- straction, that while my eye apparently was em- ployed and interested with my allotted page, I in fact perceived nothing but my visionary nymph My tutor, who observed me always engrossed, could not perceive that I was otherwise than a student, and when I could remember, I would turn over a leaf, or affect with much anxiety to look out a word in the lexicon, so that his deception was per- fect. Then at the end of the day I would snatch some hasty five minutes to gain an imperfect ac- quaintance with my task, imperfect enough te make him at length convinced that the baroness's opinion of my intellect was not so erroneous as he had once imagined. A short spring and a long summer had passed away thus delightfully, and I was now to leave the castle and return to the capital. The idea of being torn away from Egeria was harrowing. I became again melancholy, but my grief was tender, not savage. I did not recur to my ancient gloom, for I was prevented by the consoling conviction that I was loved. Yet to her the sad secret must be con- fided. I could not quit her without preparation. How often in solitary possession of the dreadful fact, have I gazed upon her incomparable face, how often have I fancied that she was conscious of the terrible truth, and glanced reproachfully even amid her looks of love. It was told : in broken acts of passionate wc with streaming eyes, and amid embraces of mac dening rapture, it was told, I clung to her, i would have clung to her forever, but a dark and irresistible destiny doomed us to part, and I was left to my uninspired loneliness. Returning home from my last visit to the dell, I met my tutor. He came upon me suddenly, other- wise I would have avoided him, as at this moment I would have avoided any thing else human. My swollen cheeks, my eyes dim with weeping, mv wild and broken walk, attracted even his attention. CONTARINI FLEMING. 349 He inquired what ailed me. His appearance, so different from the radiant being from whom I had lately parted, his voice so strange after the music which yet lingered in my ear, his salutation so varying in style to the one that ever welcomed me, and ever and alone was welcome, the horrible con- trast tliat my situation formed with the condition I had the instant quitted — all this overcame me. I expressed my horror by my extended arms and my averted head. I screamed, I foamed at the mouth, I fell into violent convulsions, vir. Although I have delineated with some detail the feelings of my first boyhood, I have been in- debted for this record to the power of a faithful and analytic memory, and not to any early indul- gence in the habits of introspection. For indeed, in these young years I never thought about myself, or if some extraordinary circumstances impelled me to idiosyncratic contemplation, the result was not cheering. For I well remember that when, on the completion of my eleventh year, being about to repair to a college where I was to pass some years preparatory to the university, I meditated on this great and coming change, — I was impressed with a keen conviction of inferiority. It had some- times indeed crossed my mind that I was of a dif- ferent order to those around me, but never that the difference was in my favour, and brooding over the mortifying contrast which my exploits exhibited in my private and my public world, and the general opinion which they entertained of me at home, I was at times strongly tempted to consider myself even half a fool. Though change was ever agreeable, I thought of the vicissitude that was about to occur with the same apprehension that men look forward to the indefinite hoiror of a terrible operation. And the strong pride that supported me under the fear, and forbade me to demonstrate it, was indeed the cause of my sad forebodings. For I could not tolerate the thought that I should become a general jesf, and a common agent. And when I perceived the state preparing for me, and thought of Egeria, I blushed. And that beautiful vision that had brought me such delicious solace was now only a source of depressing mortification. And for the first time in my life, in my infinite tribulation, and in the agony of my fancy, I mused why there should be such a devilish and tormenting variance between my thought and my action. The hour came, and I was placed in the heart of a little and a busy world. For the first time in my life I was surrounded by struggling and excited beings. Joy, hope, sorrow, ambition, craft, courage, wit, dulness, cowardice, beneficence, awkwardness, grace, avarice, generosity, wealth, poverty, beauty, hideousness, tyranny, suffering, hypocrisy, truth, love, hatred, energy, inertness — they were all there, and all sounded, and moved, and acted about me. Light laughs, and bitter cries, and deep impreca- tions, and the deeds of the friendly, the prodigal, and the tyrant, and the exploits of the brave, the graceful, and the gay, and the flying words of na- tive wit, and the pompous sentences of acquired knowledge — how new, how exciting, how won- derful ! Did I tremble 1 Did I sink into my innermost self] Did I fly 1 Never, As I gazed upon them, a new principle rose up in my breast, and I per- ceived only beings whom I was determined to con- trol. They came up to me with a curious glance of half-suppressed glee, breathless and mocking. They asked me questions of gay nonsense with a serious voice and a solemn look. I answered in their kind. On a sudden I seemed endowed with new powers, and blessed with the gift of tongues. I spoke to them with a levity which was quite new to me, a most unnatural ease. I even, in my turn, presented to them questions to which they found it difficult to respond. Some ran away te communi- cate their impressions to their comrades, some stayed behind, but these became more serious and more natural. When they found that I was endowed with a pregnant and decided character, their eyes silently pronounced me a good fellow, they vied with each other in kindness, and the most impor- tant led me away to initiate me in their mysteries. Weeks flew away, and I was intoxicated with my new life and my new reputation. I was in a state of ceaseless excitement. It seemed that my tongue never paused: yet each word brought forth a new laugh, each sentence of gay nonsense fresh plaudits. All was rattle, frolic, and wild mirth. My companions caught my unusual manner, they adopted my new ])hrases, they repeated my extra- ordinary apophthegms. Every thing was viewed and done according to the new tone which I had introduced. It was decided that I was the wittiest, the most original, the most diverting of their so- ciety. A coterie of the most congenial insensibly formed around me, and my example gradually ruled the choice spirits of our world. I even mingled in their games, although I disliked the exertion, and in those in which the emulation was very strong, I even excelled. My ambition conquered my nature. It seemed that I was the soul of the school. Wher- ever I went, my name sounded, whatever was done, my opinion was quoted. I was caressed, adored, idolized. In a word, I was popular. Yet sometimes I caught a flying moment to turn aside, and contrast my present situation with my past one. What was all this] Wag I the same be- ing? But my head was in a whirl, and I had not time, or calmness, to solve the perplexing inquiry. There was a boy, and his name was Musseus, He was somewhat my elder. Of a kind, calm, do- cile, mellow nature, moderate in every thing, uni- versally liked, but without the least influence, — he was the serene favourite of the school. It seemed to me that I never beheld so lovely and so pensive a countenance. His face was quite oval, his eyes deep blue: his rich brown curls clustered in hya- cinthine grace upon the delicate rose of his downy cheeks, and shaded the light blue veins of his clear white forehead. I beheld him : I loved him. My friendship was a passion. Of all our society, he alone crowded not around me. He was of a cold temperament, shy and timid. He looked upon me as a being whom he could not comprehend, and rather feared. I was unacquainted with his motives, and piqued with his conduct. I gave up my mind to the ac- quisition of his acquaintance, and of course I suc- ceeded. In vain he endeavoured to escape. Wher- ever he moved, I seemed unintentionally to hover around him: whatever he vianted, I seemed provi- dentially to supply. In the few words that this slight intercourse called forth, I addressed him in a tone strange to our rough life ; I treated him with 2G 350 D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. a courtesy which seemed to elevate our somewhat coarse condition. He answered nothing, was con- fused, thankful, agitated. He yielded to the unac- customed tenderness of my manner, to the unexpe- rienced elegance of my address. He could not but feel the strange conviction, that my conduct to him was different to my behaviour to others, for in truth his presence ever subdued my spirit, and repressed my artificial and excited manner. Mus£eus was lowly born, and I was noble; he poor, and I wealthy ; I had a dazzling reputation, he but good» report. To find himself an object of interest, of quiet and tender regard, to one to whose notice all aspired, and who seemed to exist only in a blaze of cold-hearted raillery and reckless repartee, developed even his dormant vanity. He looked upon me with interest, and this feeling soon ma- tured into fondness. ! days of rare and pure felicity, when Mu- sfBus and myself, with our arms around each other's neck, wandered together amid the meads and shady woods that formed our limits. I lavished upon him all the fanciful love that I had long stored up, and the mighty passions that yet lay dormant in my ob- scure soul, now first began to stir in that glimmer- ing abyss. And indeed conversing with this dear companion was it, that I first began to catch some glimpses of my yet hidden nature. For the days of futurity were our usual topic, and in parcelling out their fortunes, I unconsciously discovered my own desires. I was to be something great, and glorious, and dazzling, but what we could not de- termine. The camp and the senate, the sword and the scroll, that had raised, and had destroyed, so many states — these were infinitely discussed. And then a life of adventure was examined, full of daring delight. One might be a corsair or a bandit. Foreign travel was what we could surely command, and must lead to much. I spoke to him, in the ful- ness of our sweet confidence, of the strangeness of my birth, and we marvelled together over myste- rious Venice. And this led us to conspiracies, for which I fancied that I had a predisposition. But in all these scenes, Musseus was to be never absent. He was to be my heart's friend from the beginning to the death. And I mourned that nature had given me no sister, wherewith I could bind him to me by a still stronger and sweeter tie. And then, with a shy, hesitating voice, for he delighted not in talking of his home, he revealed to me that he ,was more blessed : and Caroline Musmus rose up at once to me like a star, and without having seen her, I was indeed her betrothed. Thus, during these bright days, did I pour forth all the feelings I had long treasured up, and in en- deavouring to communicate my desires to another, I learned to think. I ascended from indefinite revery to palpable cogitation. 1 was now seldom alone. To be the companion of Musffius, I participated in many pastimes which otherwise I should have avoided, and in return he, although addicted to sports, was content, for my sake, to forego much former occupation. With what eagerness I rushed, when the hour of study ceased — with what wild eagerness I rushed to re- sume our delicious converse ! Nor indeed was his image ever absent from me, and when, in the hour of school, we passed each other, or our counte- nances chanced to meet, there was ever a sweet, faint smile, that, unmarked by others, interchanged our love A love that I thought must last forever, and for- ever flow like a clear, bright stream, yet at timea my irritable passions would disturb even these sweet waters. The temperament of Musreus was cold and slow. I was at first proud of having in- terested his aflection, but, as our friendship gre\* apace, I was not contented with this calm sympathy and quiet regard. I required that he should re- spond to my ail'ection with feelings not less ardent, and energetic than mine own. I was sensitive, I was jealous. I found a savage joy in harrowing his heart — I triumphed when I could draw a tear from his beautiful eye ; when I could urge him to unaccustomed emotion ; when I forced him to as- sure me, in a voice of agitation, that he loved me alone, and prayed me to be pacified. From sublime torture to ridiculous teasing, too often Musoeus was my victim. One day I detected an incipient dislike to myself, or a growing affection for another : then, I passed him in gloomy silence, because his indispensable engagements had obliged him to refuse my invitation to our wdk. But the letters with which I overwhelmed him under some of these contingencies — these were the most vio- lent infliction. What pages of mad eloquence ! — solemn appeals, bitter sarcasms, infinite ebulli- tions of frantic sensibility. For the first time in my life, I composed. I grew intoxicated with my own eloquence. A new desire arose in my mind, novel asjiirations which threw light upon old and often-experienced feelings. I began to ponder over the music of language ; I studied the collocation of sweet words, and constructed elaborate sentences in lonely walks. Poor Musaeus quite sunk under the receipt of my effusions. He could not write a line, and had he indeed been able, it would have been often diflicult for him to have discovered the cause of our separations. The brevity, the simpli- city of his answers were irresistible and heart-rend- ing. Yet these distractions brought with them one charm, a charm to me so captivating, that I fear it was sometimes a cause — reconciliation was indeed a love-feast. The sessions of our college closed. The time came that Musreus and myself must for a moment part, but for a moment, for, I intended that he should visit me in our vacation, and we were also to write to each other every week. Yet even under these palliating circumstances parting was anguish. The eve of the fatal day, we took our last stroll in our favourite meads. The whole way I wept, and leaned upon his shoulder. With what jealous care 1 watched to see if he too shed a tear. One clear drop at length came quivering down his cheek, like dew upon a rose. I pardoned him for its beauty. The bell sounded. I embraced him, as if it sounded for my execution, and we parted. viir. I WAS once more at home, once more silent, once more alone. I found myself changed. My ob- scure aspirations after some indefinite happiness, my vague dreams of beauty, or palpable personifi- cations of some violent fantastic idea, no longer in- spired, no longer soothed, no longer haunted me. I thought only of one subject, which was full of earnest novelty, and abounded in interest, curious, serious, and engrossing. I speculated upon my own nature. My new life had developed many quahties, and had filled me with sclf-confidenco C N T A R I N 1 FLEMING. 351 The clouds seemed to clear off from the dark land- scape of my mind, and vast ambition might be distinguished on the far horizon, rearing its head like a mighty column. My energies stirred within me, and seemed to pant for the struggle and the strife, A deed was to be done, but what 1 I enter- tained at this time a deep conviction that life must be intolerable, unless I were the greatest of men. It seemed that I felt within me the power that could influence my kind. I longed to wave my in- spiring sword at the head of armies, or dash into the very heat and blaze of eloquent faction. When I contrasted my feelings and my situation I grew mad. The constant jar between my con- duct and my conceptions was intolerable. In ima- gination a hero, I was in reality a boy. I returned from a victorious field to be criticised by a woman : in the very heart of a deep conspiracy, which was to change the fate of nations, to destroy Rome or to free Venice, I was myself the victim of each petty domestic regulation. I cannot describe the insane irritability which all this produced. Infinite were the complaints of my rudeness, my violence, my insufferable impertinence : incessant the threats of pains and penalties. It was universally agreed that college had ruined me. A dull, slow boy I had always been, but, at least, I was tolerably kind and docile. Now, as my tutor's report correctly certified, I was not improved in intellect, and all witnessed the horrible deterioration of my manners and my morals. The baroness was in despair. After several smart skirmishes, we at length had a regular pitched battle. She began her delightful colloquy in the true style of domestic reprimand; dull, drony nonsense, adapted, as I should hope, to no state in which hu- man intellect can ever be found, even if it have received the full benefit of the infernal tuition of nurses, which would be only ridiculous, if its effects weie not so fatally and permanently inju- rious. She told me that whenever I spoke I should speak in a low voice, and that I should never think for myself. That if any thing were refused, I should be contented, and never ask the reason why, because it was not proper ever to ask ques- tions, particularly when we were sure that every thing was done for our good. That I should do every thing that was bidden, and always be ready to conform to everybody's desires, because at my age no one should have a will of his own. That I should never, on any account, presume to give my opinion, because it was quite impossible that one so young could have one. That on no ac- count, also, should I ever be irritable, which never could be permitted; but she never considered that every effect has a cause, and never attempted to discover what might occasion this irritability. In this silly, superficial way she went on for some time, repeating dull axioms by rote, and offering ■to me the same useless advice that had been equal- ly thrown away upon the tender minds of her generation. She said all this, all this to me, all this to one who, a moment before, was a Ciesar, an Alcibiades. Now I had long brooded over the connexion that subsisted between myself and this lady. I had long formed in my mind and caught up from books, a conception of the relations which must exist be- tween a stepmother and her unwelcome son. I Was therefore prepared. She grew pale as I de- scribed in mad heroics our exact situation. She had no idea that any people, under any circum- stances, could be influenced by sucL violent, such wicked, such insane sentiments. She stared, in stupid astonishment, at my terrible and unexpected fluency. She entirely lost her presence jf mind, and burst into tears — tears not of affection, but of absolute fright, the hysteric offspring of a cold, alarmed, puzzled mind. She vowed she would tell my father. I inquir- ed, with a malignant sneer, of what 1 She pro- tested she certainly would tell. I dilated on the probability of a stepdame's tale. Most certainly she would tell. I hurst into a dark, foaming rage. I declared that I would leave the house, that I would leave the country, that I would submit no longer to my intolerable life, that suicide (and here I kicked down a chair) should bring me immediate relief. The baroness was terrified out of her life. The fall of the chair was the perfection of fear. She was one of those women who have the highest respect for furniture. She could not conceive a human being, much less a boy, voluntarily kicking down a chair, if his feelings were not very keen indeed. It was becoming too serious. She tried to soothe me. She would not speak to my fither. All should be right, all should be forgotten, if I only would not commit suicide, and not kick down the chairs. After some weeks, Musasus paid his long medi- tated visit. I had never, until I invited him, an- swered his solitary letter. I received him with a coldness which astonished me, and must have been apparent to any one but himself. I was distressed by the want of unction in my manner, and tried to compensate by a laboured hospitality which, like ice, was dazzling, but frigid. Many causes, per- haps, conduced to occasion this change, tlien in- scrutable to me. Since we had [larted, I had indulged in lofty ideas of self, and sometimes re- membered, with a feeling approaching to disgustful mortification, the influence which had been exer- cised over me by a fellow-child. The reminiscence savoured too nvach of boyish weakness, and pain- fully belied my proud theory of universal supe- riority. At home, too, when the permission for the invitation was accorded, there was much discussion as to the quality of the invited. They wished to know who he was, and when informed looked rather grave. Some caution was muttered abou.t the choice of my companions. Even my father, who seldom spoke to me, seemed alarmed at the prospect of a bad connexion. His intense worldli- ness was shocked. He talked to me for an unusual time upon the subject of school friendships, and his conversation, which was rare, made an impres- sion. All this influenced me, for at that age I was, of course, the victim of every prejudice. Must I add to all this, what is perhaps the sad and dreary truth, that in loving all this time Musreus with such devotion, I was in truth rather enamoured of the creature of my imagination than the companion of my presence. Upon the foundation which he had supplied, I had built a beautiful and enchanted palace. Unceasing intercourse was a necessary' in- gredient of the spell. We parted, and the fairy fabric Jissolved into the clouds. Certain it is, that his visit was a failure. Mu- sffius was too little sensitive to feel the change of my manner, and my duty, as his host, impelled mo to conceal it. But the change was great. Ha 352 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. appeared to me to have fallen off very much in his beauty. The baroness thought him a little coarse, and praised the •omplexion of her own children, which was like chalk. Then he wanted constant attention, for it was evident that he had no resources of his own, and certainly he was not very refined. But he was pleased, for he was in a new world. For the first time in his life he moved in theatres and saloons, and mingled in the splendour of high civilization. I took him everywhere ; in fact, I could bear every thing but to be alone with him. So he passed a very pleasant fortnight, and then quitted us. How different from our last parting! Cheerful indeed it was, and, in a degree, cordial. I extended him my hand with a patronising air, and mimicking the hollow courtesy of maturer beings, I expressed, in a flimsy voice of affected regard, a wish that he might visit us again. And six weeks before I had loved this boy better than myself, would have perilled for him my life, and shared with him my fortune ! IX. I iiETURNED to College gloomy and depressed. Kot that I cared for quitting home: I hated home. I returned in the fullness of one of my dark hu- mours, and which promised to be one of the most terrible visitations that had ever fallen upon me. Indeed, existence was intolerable, and I should have killed myself had I not been supported by my am- bition, which now each day became more quicken- ing, so that the desire of distinction and of astound- ing action raged in my soul, and when I recollected that at the soonest many years must elapse before I could realize my ideas, I gnashed my teeth in silent rage and cursed my existence. I cannot picture the astonishment that pervaded jur little society, when they found the former hero of their gayety avoiding all contact and conversa- tion, and moving about always in gloomy silence. It was at first supposed, that some great misfortune had happened to me, and inquiries were soon afloat, but nothing could be discovered. At length one of my former prime companions, I should say, per- haps, patrons, expostulated with me upon the sub- ject: I assured him with grim courtesy that nothing had happened, and wished him good morning. As for Mu^teus, I just contrived the first day to greet him with a faint agonizing smile, and ever after I shunned him. Nothing could annoy Musajus long, and he wuuld soon have forgotten his pain, as he had already perhaps freed his memory of any vivid recollection of the former pleasure v*'hich our friend- ship had undoubtedly brought him. He welcomed enjoyment with a smile, and was almost as cheer- ful when he should have been much less pleased. But although Musajus was content to be thus quiet, the world in which he lived determined that he should be less phlegmatic. As they had nothing better to do, they took his quarrel upon themselves. " He certainly has behaved infamously to Musacus. \ ou know they were always together. I wonder what it can be ! As for the rest of the school, that is in comparison nothing; butMusfeus — you know Ihey were decided cronies. I never knew fellows more together. I wonder what it can be! If I were Musjeus, I certainly would come to an expla- nation. We must put him up to it. If Musajus asks him, he cannot refuse, and then we shall know what it is all about" They at length succeeded in ^eating it into poor MuscEus's head, that he had been very ill-treated, and must be very unhappy, and they urged him to insist upon an explanation. But MusaBus was no hand at de.iianding explanations, and he deputed the task to a friend. I was alone, sitting on a gate in a part of the grounds which was generally least frequented, when I heard a shout which, although I could not guess its cause, sounded in my ear with something of a menacing and malignant expression. The whole school, headed by the deputy, were finding me out, in order that the important question might be urged, that the honour of Musteus might be sup- ported, and their own curiosity gratified. Now at that age, whatever I may be now, I could not be driven. A soft word, and I was an Abel ; an appearance of force, and I scowled a Cain. Had Musajus, instead of being a most common- place character, which assuredly he was, had it been in his nature to have struck out a single spark of ardent feeling, to have indulged in a single sigh of sentiment, he might perhaps yet have been my friend. His appeal might have freed me from the domination of the black spirit, and in weeping over our reconciliation upon his sensitive bosom, I might have been emancipated from its horrid thrall. But the moment that Musaeus sought to influence my private feelings by the agency of public opinion, he became to me, instead of an object of indifference, an object of disgust, and only not of hatred, be- cause of contempt. I did not like the shout, and when, at a conside- rable distance, I saw them advancing towards the gate with an eager run, I was almost tempted to retire; but I had never yet flinched in the course of my life, and the shame and sickness which I now felt at the contemplation of such an act impelled me to stay. They arrived, they gathered round me, they di(^ not know how to commence their great business; breathless and agitated, they looked first at their embarrassed leader, and then at me. When I had waited a sufficient time for my dig- nity, I rose to quit the place. " We want you, Fleming," said the chief. "Well!" and I turned round and faced the speaker. "I tell you what, Fleming," said he, in a rapid nervous style, "you may think yourself a very great man; but we do not exactly understand the way you are going on. There is Musseus; you and he were the greatest friends last half, and now you do not speak to him, nor to any one else. And we all think that you should give an explanation of your conduct. And, in short, we come here to know what you have got to say for yourself." "Do you!" I answered, with a sneer. "Well, what have you got to say T' he conti- nued in a firmer voice and more peremptory tone. "Say! say that either you or I must leave this gate. I was here first, but as you are the largest number, I suppose 1 must yield." I turned my heel upon him and moved. Some one hissed. I returned, and inquired in a very calm, mild voice, "Who hissed 1" Now the person who hissed was a boy, who was indeed my match in years, and perhaps in force, but a great coward. I knew it was he, because he was just the fellow who would hiss, and looked quite pale when I asked the question. Besides, iw CONTARINl FLEMING. 353 one answered it, and he was almost the only boy who, under such circumstances, would have been silent. "Are you afraid to own it?" I asked, in a con- temptuous tone, but still very subdued. This great mob of nearly two hundred boys were very much ashamed at the predicament in which their officious and cowardly member had placed them. So their leader, proud in a fine frame, a great and renowned courage, unrivalled achieve- ments in combat, and two years of superiority of age over myself, advanced a little and said, "Suppose I hissed, what then?" "What then!" I exclaimed,ina voice of thunder, and with an eye of lightning — " what then ! Why, then I will thrash you." There was an instantaneous flutter and agitation, and panting monosyllabic whisper in the crowd; they were like birds when the hawk is first detect- ed in airy distance. Unconsciously, they withdrew like waves, and the arena being cleared, my oppo- nent and I were left in opposition. Apparently there never was a more unequal match : but indeed he was not fighting with Contarini Fleming, but with a demon that had usurped his shape. "Come on, then," he replied, with brisk confidence. And I came — as the hail upon the tall corn. I flew at him like a wild beast; I felt not his best blow, I beat down his fine guard, and I sent him to the ground, stunned and giddy. He was up again in a moment, and indeed I would not have waited for their silly rules of mock combat, but have destroyed him in his prostration. But he was up again in a moment. Again I flew upon him. He fought with subtle energy, but he was like a serpent with a tiger. I fixed upon him: my blows told with the rapid precision of machinery. His bloody visage was not to be distinguished. I believe that he was terrified with my frantic air. I would never wait between the rounds. I cried out in a voice of madness for him to come on. There was breathless silence. They were thunder- struck. They were too generous to cheer their leader. They could not refrain from sympathizing with inferior force and unsupported courage. Each time that he came forward, I made the same dread- ful spring, beat down his guard, and never ceased working upon his head, until at length my fist seemed to enter his very brain, and after ten rounds he fell down quite blind, I never felt his blows — I never lost my breath. He could not come to time — I rushed forward — I placed my knee upon his chest. "I fight no more," he faintly cried. "Apologize," I exclaimed; "apologize." He did not speak. "By heavens, apologize," I said, "or I know not what I shall do." "Never!" he replied. I lifted up my arm. Some advanced to interfere. "OlT, dogs," I shouted; "Olf, ofl'." I seized the fallen chief, rushed through the gate, and dragged him like Achilles through the mead. At the bottom there was a dung hill : upon it I flung the half- inanimate body. X. I STROLLED away to one of my favourite haunts; r was calm and exhausted; rny face and hands were smeared with gore. I knelt down by the side 43 of the stream, and drank the most delicious dratight that I had ever quaffed. I thought that I should never have ceased. I felt invigorated, and a plunge in the river soon completed my renovation. I reclined under a branching oak, and moralized on the part. For the first time in my life, I had acted. Hitherto I had been a creature of dreams, but within the last month unconsciously I found myself a stirrer in existence. I jjerceived that I had suddenly become a responsible agent. There were many passions, many characters, many incidents. . Love, hatred, faction, vengeance, Musfeus, myself, my antagonist, his followers, who were indeed a world; our soft walks, the hollow visit, the open breach, the organized party, the great and triumph- ant struggle. And as I mused, all these things flitted across my vision, and all that had passed was again present, and again performed, except indeed that my part in the drama was of a more studied and perfect cast. For I was conscious of much that might have been finely expressed and dexterously achieved; and to introduce all this, I indulged in imaginary scenes. There was a long interview between myself and Musa3us, most harrowing; a logomachy between myself and the chief of the faction, most pungent. I became so excited, that I coufd no longer restrain the outward expression of my strong feeling. My voice broke into impassioned tones; I audibly ut- teied the scornful jest. My countenance was in harmony with my speech ; my action lent a more powerful meaning to my words. And suddenly there was a great change- whose order I cannot trace. For Musa;us, though he looked upon me, was not Musa;us, but a youth in a distant land, and I was there in a sumptuous dress, with a brilliant star; and we were friends. And a beauti- ful woman rose up, a blending of Christiana and Egeria. Both of us loved her, and she yielded her- self to me, and Musceus fled for aid. And there came a king with a great power, and as I looked upon his dazzling crown, lo! it encircled the brow of my late antagonist. And I beheld and felt all this growing and ex- panding life with a bliss so keen, so ravishing, that I can compare it to nothing but to joys, which I was then too young even to participate. My brain seemed to melt into a liquid, rushing stream ; my blood quickened into action, too quick even to re- cognise pulsation, fiery and fleet, yet delicate and soft. With difficulty I breathed, yet the oppression was delicious. But in vain I endeavour to paint the refined excitement of this first struggle of my young creation. The drama went on, nor was it now in my power to restrain it. At length, oppressed with the vita- lity of the beings I had fonned, dazzled with the shifting brilliancy of the scenes in which they moved, exhausted with the mnrvellous action of my sha- dowy self, who figured before me in endless exploit, now struggling, now triumphing, now pouring forth his soul in sentences of burning love, now breath- ing a withering blast of proud defiance, I sought for means to lay the wild ghosts that I had unconscious- ly raised. I lifted my hand to my face, that had been gazing all this time, in fixed abstraction, upon a crimson cloud. T'here was a violent struggle, which I did not comprehend. Every thing was chaos, but soon, as it were, a mystic music came rising out of the incongruous mass, a mighty secret was 2c2 354 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. revealed to me, all was harmony, and order, and repose, and beauty. The whirling scene no longer changed; there was universal stillness; and the wild beings ceased their fierce action, and bending down before nie in humility, proffered their homage to their creator. " Am I then," I exclaimed, looking around with an astonished and vacant air, "am I then, after all, a poetl" I sprang up — I paced up and down before the .tree, but not in thought. The perspiration ran down my forehead — I trembled — I panted — I was lost. I was not conscious of my existence. My memory deserted me — the rudder of my mind broke away. My thought came back — I threw myself upon the ground. "Yes," I exclaimed, "beautiful beings, I will release you from the prison-house of my brain. I will give you to freedom and to light. You shall exist not only for me — you shall go forth to the world to delight and to conquer." And this was the first time in my life that the idea of literary creation occurred to me. For I dis- liked poetry, of which indeed I had read little except plays, and although I took infinite delight in prose fiction, it was only because the romance, or the novel, offered to me a life more congenial to my feelings, than the world in which I lived. But the conviction of this day threw light upon my past existence. My imaginary deeds of conquest, my heroic aspirations, my long, dazzling dreams of fanci- ful adventure, were perhaps but sources of ideal ac- tion; that stream of eloquent and choice expression that seemed ever flowing in my ear was probably intended to be directed in a dillercnt channel than human asse;nblies, and might melt, or kindle the passions of mankind in silence. And the visions of beauty and the vows of love — were they too to glitter and glow only in imagination. XI. I REPAiKED the next day to my favourite tree, armed with a pencil and a paper book. My mind was, as I thought, teeming with ideas. I had com- posed the first sentence of rny work in schooltime — it seemed full of music. I had repeated it a thou- sand times — I was enchanted with its euphony. It was now written, fairly written. With rapture I perceived it placed in its destined position. But what followed ? — Nothing. In vain I rubbed my forehead ; in vain I summoned my fancies. The traitors would not listen. My mind seemed full to the very brink, but not a drop of the rich stream overflowed. I became anxious, nervous, fretful. I walked about; I reseated myself. Again I threw down the pencil. I was like a man disenchanted. I could scarcely recall the visions of yesterday, and if, with an effort, I succeeded, they appeared cold, tame, dull, lifeless. Nothing can describe my blank despair. They know not, they cannot tell — the cold, dull world — they cannot even remotely conceive the agony of doubt and des[iair which is the doom of vouthful genius. To sigh for Fame in obscurity is like sighing in a dungeon for light. Yet the votary and the captive share an equal hope. But to feel the strong necessity of fame, and to be conscious without intellectual excellence life must be insup- portable, to feel all this with no simultaneous fiiith in your own power — these are moments of de- spondency for which no immortality cuii con pensate. As for myself, repeated experiments only lirough' repeated failures. I would qotdie without a strug- gle, but I struggled only to be vanquished. One day was too hot; another I fancied too cold. Then again I was not well, or perhaps I was too anxious. I would trj' only a sentence each day. The trial was most mortifying, for I found when it came to this practical test, that in fact I had nothing to write about. Yet my mind had been so full, and even now a spark, and it would again light up ; but the flame never kindled, or if ever I fanned an appearance of heat, I was sure only to extinguish it. AYhy could I not express what I seemed to feell All was a mystery. I was most wretched. I wandered about in very great distress, for my pride was deeply wounded, and I could no longer repose on my mind with con- fident solace. My spirit was quite broken. Had I fought my great battle now, I should certainly have been beaten. I was distracted with disquietude — I had no point of refuge— hope utterly vanished. It was impossible that I could be any thing. I must always fail. I hated to think of myself. The veriest dunce in the school seemed my superior. I grew meek and dull. I learned my dry lessons — I looked upon a grammar with a feeling of reve- rence; my lexicon was constantly before me. But I made little advance. I no longer ascribed my i'l progress to the iminteresting task, but to my own incapacity. I thought myself, once more, half a fooi XII. Had I now been blessed with a philosophir friend, I might have found consolation and assist- ance. But my instructers, to whom I had a right to look up for this aid, were, of course, wanting. The system which they pursued taught them to consider their pupils as machines, which were to fulfil a certain operation, and this operation was word-learning. They attempted not to discover, or to develope, or to form character. Predisposi- tion was to them a dark oracle : organization, a mystery in which they were not initiated. The human mind was with them always the same soil, and one to which they brought ever the same til- lage. And mine was considered a sterile one, for they found that their thistles did not flourish where they should have planted roses. I was ever coirsidered a lazy, idle boy, because I required ideas instead of words. I never would make any further exertion than would save me from their punishments: their rewards I did not covet. Yet I was ever reading, and in general knowledge was immeasurably superior to all the students — for aught I know, to all the tutors. For indeed in any chance observations in which they might indulge, I could even then perceive that they were individuals of the most limited intelligence. They spoke sometimes of great men, I suppose for our emulation, but their great men were always commentators. They sometimes burst into a eulogium of a great work; you might be sure it was ever a huge bunch of annotations. An un- rivalled exploit turned out to be a happy conjecture a marvellous deed was the lion's skin that co- vered the ears of a new reading. I was confounded to hear the same epithets applied to their obsctire dcmi-gods that I associated with the names of Csesar CONTARINI FLEMING. 355 and Socrates, and Pericles, and Cicero. It was per- plexing to find that Pharsalia or a Philippic — the groves of Academus or the fanes of the Acropoli-;, could receive no Ijigher admiration than was lavished upon the unknown exploits of a hunter af- ter syllables. After my battle, I was never annoyed by my former friends. As time advanced I slightly relaxed in my behaviour, and when it was necessary, we in- terchanged words, but I never associated with any one. I was however no longer molested. An idea got afloat that I was not exactly in my perfect senses, and on the whole, I was rather feared than disliked. Reading was my only resource. I seldom in- dulged in revery. The moment that I perceived my mind wandering, I checked it with a mixed feeling of disgust and terror. I made, however, duritig this period, more than one attempt to write, and always with signal discomfiture. Neither of the projected subjects in any way grew out of my own character, however they might have led to its delineation, had I proceeded. The first was a theme of heroic life, in which I wished to indulge in the gorgeousness of remote antiquity. I began with a line description, which again elevated my hopes, but when the scene was fairly painted, my actors would not come on. I flung the sheet into the river, and cursed my repeated idiotism. After an exposure of this kind, I always in- stantaneously became practical, and grave, and stupid ; as a man, when he recovers from intoxica- tion, vows that he will never again taste wine. Nevertheless, during the vacation, a pretty little German lady one night took it into her head to nar- rate some of the traditions of her country. Among these I heard, for the first time, the story of the Wild Huntsman of Rodenstein. It was most un- lucky. The baroness, who was a fine instrumen- tal musician, but who would never play when I re- quested her, chanced this night to be indulging us. The mystery and the music combined their damna- ble spells, and I was again enchanted. Infinite characters and ideas seemed rushing in my mind. I recollected that I had never yet given my vein a trial at home. Here I could command silence, soli- tude, hours unbroken and undisturbed. I walked up and down the room, once more myself. The music was playful, gay, and joyous. A village dance was before my vision — I marked with delight the smiling peasantry bounding under the cluster- ing vines, the girls crowned with roses — the youth adorned with flowing. ribands. Just as a venerable elder advanced, the sounds became melancholy, wild, and ominous. I was in a deep forest, full of doubt and terror — the wind moaned — the big branches heaved — in the distance I heard the bay- ing of a hound. It did not appear, for suddenly the trumpet announced a coming triumph : I felt that a magnificent procession was approaching, that each moment it would appear : each moment the music became louder, and already an advanced and splendid guard appeared in the distance. I caught a flashing glimpse of a sea of waving plumes and glistening arms. The music ceased — the proces- sion vanished — I fell from the clouds, I found my- self in a dull drawing-room, a silly boy, very ex- hausted. I felt so excessively stupid that I instantly gave up all thoughts of the Hunter of Rodenstein — and went to bed gloomy and without hope ; but in the morning when I rose, the sun was shining so softly, the misty trees and the dewy grass were so tender and so bright, the air was so fresh and fragrant, that my first feeling was the desire of composition, and I walked forth into the park cheerful, and moved by a rising faith. The excited feelings of the evening seemed to return, and when I had sufiiciently warmed my mind with revery, I sat down to my table sur- rounded by every literary luxury that I could re- member. Ink enclcsed in an ormolu Cupid, clear and brilliant, quires of the softest cream-coloured paper, richly gilt, and a perfect magazine of the finest pens. I was exceedingly nervous, but on the whole not unsuccessful. I described a young tra- veller arriving at night at a small inn on the borders of a Bohemian forest. I did not allow a single portion of his dress to escape, and even his steed and saddle-bags duly figured. The hostess was founded on our own housekeeper, therefore I was master of my subject. From her ear-rings to her shoe-buckles, all was perfect. I managed to supply my hero with supper, and at length I got him, not to bed, but to his bed-room — for heroes do not get into bed, even when wearied, with the expedition of more commonplace characters. On the con- trary, he first opened the window, it was a lattice window, and looked at the moon. I had a very fine moonlight scene. I well remember that the trees were tipped with silver, but O ! trium.ph of art, for the first time in my life, I achieved a si.aiile, and the evening breeze came sounding in his ear soft as a lover's sigh ! This last master-touch was too much for me. I was breathless, and indeed exhausted. I read over the chapter. I could scarcely believe its exist- ence possible. I rushed into the park — I hurried to some solitude where, undisturbed by the sight of a human being, I could enjoy my intense exist- ence. I was so agitated, I was in such a tumult of feli- city, that for the rest of the day I could not even think. I could not find even time to determine on my hero's name, or to ascertain the reason for which I had brought him to such a wild scene, and placed him in such exceedingly uncomfortable lodgings. The next morning I had recovered my self-possession. Calm and critical, I reviewed the warm product of brain which had the preceding day so fascinated me. It appeared to m.e that it had never been my unfortunate fate to read more crude, ragged, silly stuff in the whole course of my expe- rience. The description of costume, which I had considered so perfect, sounded like a catalogue of old clothes. As for the supper, it was very evident that so lifeless a personage could never have an ap- petite. What he opened the window for I cer- tainly knew not, but certainly if only to look at the moon he must have been disappointed, for in spite of all my asseverations it was very dim indeed, and as for the lover's sigh, at the same time so tame, and so forced, it was absolutely sickening. I threw away the wretched eflfusion, the beautiful inkstand, the cream-coloured paper, the fine pens — away they were all crammed in a drawer, which I was ever after ashamed to open. I looked out of the window, and saw the huntsman going out. I called to him, I joined him. I hated field-sports. I hated every bodily exertion except riding, which 356 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. indeed is scarcely one, but now any thing that was bodily, that was practical, pleased, and I was soon slaughtering birds in the very bowers in which I had loved Egeria. On the whole, this was a most miserable and wretched year, I was almost always depressed, often felt heartbroken. I entirely lost any confi- dence in my own energies, and while I was de- prived of the sources of pleasure which I had been used to derive from revcry, I could acquire no new ones in the pursuits of those around me. It was in this state of mind that after a long soli- tary walk I found myself at a village which I had never before visited. On the skirts was a small Gothic building, beautiful and ancient. It was evening. The building was illuminated, the door open. I entered — I found myself in a Cathohc church, A Lutheran in a Lutheran country, for a moment I trembled, but the indifference of my Hither on the subject of religion had prevented me at least from being educated a bigot, and in my Venetian meditations I sometimes would recollect, that my mother must have professed the old faith. The church was not very full — groups were kneeling in several parts. All was dusk except at the high altar. There, a priest in a flaming vest officiated, and, ever and anon, a kneeling boy, in a scarlet dress, rang a small, and musical, and silver bell. Many tall white candles, in golden sticks, illu- minated the sacred table, redolent of perfumes, and adorned with flowers. Six large burnished lamps were suspended above, and threw a magical light upon a magical picture. It was a Magdalen kneel- ing and weeping in a garden. Her long golden hair was drawn off" her ivory forehead, and reached to the ground. Her large blue eyes, full of ecstatic melancholy, pierced to heaven. The heavy tears studded like pearls her wan, but delicate cheek. Her clasped hands embraced a crucifix. I gazed upon this pictured form with a strange fascination, I came forward, I placed myself near the altar. At that moment, the organ burst forth, as if heaven were opening ; clouds of incense rose and wreathed round the rich and vaulted roof, the priest advanced and revealed a God, which I fell down and worshipped. From that moment I be- came a Catholic. XIIL Theke was a mystery in the secret creed full of delight. Another link too seemed broken in the chain that bound me to the country, which, each day, I more detested. Adoration also was ever a resource teeming with rapture, for a creed is ima- gination. The Magdalen succeeded to Christiana and to Egeria. Each year my mistress seemed to grow more spiritual. First reality, then fancy, now l>ure spirit : a beautiful woman, a mystical nymph, a canonized soul. How was this to endl Per- haps I was ultimately designed for angelic inter- course, perhaps I might mount the skies, with the presiding essence of a star. My great occupations were devout meditation and solitary prayer. I inflicted upon myself many penances. I scrupulously observed every fast. My creative power was exercised in the production of celestial visitants ; my thirst for expression grati- fied in infinite invocation. Vv'herever I moved, I ]ierceived the flashing of a white wing, the stream- ing of radiant hair ; however I might apparently be employed, I was, in fact, pondering over the music of my next supplication. One mundane desire alone mingled with these celestial aspirations, and in a degree sprang out of their indulgence. Each day I languished more for Italy, It was a strong longing. Nothing but tlie liveliness of my faith could have solaced and sup- ported me under the want of its gratification. I pined for the land where the true religion flourished in becoming glory, the land where I should behold temples worthy of the beautiful mysteries which were celebrated within their sumptuous walls, the land vi'hich the Vicar of God and the Ruler of Kings honoured and sanctified by his everlasting presence, A pilgrimage to Rome occupied my thoughts. My favourite retreat now, when at the college, were the ruins of a Gothic abbey, whither an hour's stroll easily carried me. It pleased me much to sit among these beautiful relics, and call back the days when their sanctity was undefiled, and their loveliness unimpaired. As I looked upon the rich framework of the oriel window, my fancy lent perfection to its shattered splendour. I beheld it once more beaming with its saints and martyrs, and radiant with chivalric blazonry. My eye wan- dered down the mouldering cloisters, I pictured a procession of priests solemnly advancing to the high altar, and blending in sacred melody, with their dark garments and their shining heads, ele- vating a golden and gigantic crosier, and waving on high a standard of Madonna. One day, as I was indulging in these soothing visions I heard a shout, and looking around, I ob- served a man seated at no great distance, wlio, by his action, had evidently called to me. I arose, and coming out of the ruins, advanced to him. He was seated on a mass of ancient brick-work, and ap- peared to be sketching. He was a tall man, fair and blue-eyed, but very sunburnt. He was hawk- nosed, with a quick glancing vision, and there was an air of acuteness in his countenance which was very striking. His dress was not the dress of our country, but I was particularly pleased with his cap, which was of crimson cloth, with a broad border of fur, and fell on one side of his head like a cap in a picture, " My little man," said he, in a brisk, clear voice, "I am sorry to disturb you, but as probably you know this place better than I, you can perhaps tell me whether there be a spring at hand." " Indeed, sir, a very famous one, for I have often drank its water, which is most sweet, and clear, and cold, and if you will permit me, I will lead you to it." " With all my heart, and many thanks, my little friend." So saying, he arose, and placing his port- foho under one arm, with the other lifted up a knapsack, which I oflTered to carry. " By no means, kind sir," said he, in a most cheerful voice, " I am ever my own servant." So leading him on round the other side of the abbey, and thence through a small but very fragrant mead, I brought him to the spring of which I had spoken. Over it was built a small, but fair arch, the keystone being formed of a mitre' escutcheon, and many parts very much covered with thick ivy The eye of the stranger kindled with pleasure when he looked upon the arch, and .hc.i, sitting down upon the bank, anu opening his knapsack, he C N T A R I N I FLEMING. 357 took out a large loaf and broke it, and, as I was retiring, he said, " Pritlice do not go, my little friend, but stay and share my meal. It is rough, but there is plenty. Nay, refuse not, little gentle- man, for I wish to prolong our acquaintance. In not more than as many minutes, you have con- lerred upon me two favours. In this world such characters are rare. You have given me that which I love better than wine, and you have furnished me with a divine sketch, for indeed this arch is of a finer style than any part of the great building, and must have been erected by an abbot of grand taste, I warrant you. Come, little gentleman, cat, prithee, eat." " Indeed, sir, I am not hungry ; but if you would let me look at your drawing of the abbey, I should be most delighted." " What, dost love art 1 What ! have I stumbled upon a little artist !" " No, sir, I cannot draw, nor indeed do I under- stand art, but I love every thing which is beautiful." " Ah ! a comprehensive taste," and he gave me the portfolio. " O !" I exclaimed, " how beautiful !" for the drawing turned out, not, as I had anticipated, a lean skeleton pencil sketch, but one rapidly and richly coloured. The abbey rose as in reality, only more beautiful, being suffused with a warm light, for he had dashed in a sunset full of sentiment. " ! sir, how beautiful ! I could look at it for- ever. It seems to me that some one must come forth from the pass of those blue mountains. Can- not you fancy some bright cavalier, sir, with a flowing plume, or even a string of mules, even that would be delicious !" "Bravo! bravo! my little man," exclaimed the stranger, shooting a sharp, scrutinizing side glance. " You deserve to see sketches. 'I'here ! undo that strap and open the folio, for there are many others, and some which may please you more." I opened it as if I were about to enter a sanc- tuary. I perceived it very full. I culled a draw- ing which appeared the most richly coloured, as one picks the most glowing fruit. There seemed a river and many marble palaces on each side, and long, thin, gliding boats shooting in every part, and over the stream there sprang a bridge, a bridge with a single arch, an ancient and solemn bridge, covered ■with buildings, I gazed upon the scene for a mo- ment with breathless interest, a tear of agitating pleasure stole down my cheek, and then I shouted, "Venice! Venice!" " Little man," said ^the stranger, " what is the matter 1" " O ! sir, I beg your pardon, you must think me very foolish indeed. I am sure I did not mean to call out, but I have been longing all my life to go to Venice, and when I see any thing connected with it, I feel, sir, quite agitated. Your drawing, sir, is so beautiful, that I know not how — I thought for a moment that I was really looking upon these beautiful palaces, and crossing the famous Rialto." "Never apologize for showing feeling, my friend. •Remember that when you do so, you apologize for truth. I too am fond of Venice ; nor is there any city where I have made more drawings." " What, sir, have you been at Venice V " Is that so strange a deed 1 I have been in much stranger places." " ! sir, how happy you m ist be ! To see Venice, and to travel in the distant countries, 1 could die at the condition of such enjoyment." " You know as yet too little of life to think of death," said the stranger. " Alas ! sir," I mournfully sighed, " I have often wished to die." "But can one so young be unhappy]" asked the stranger. " ! sir, most, most unhappy.* I am alone sup- ported in this world by a fervent persuasion, that the holy Magdalen has condescended to take me under her especial protection." "The holy Magdalen!" exclaimed the stranger, with an air of great astonishment — "indeed! and what made you unhappy before the holy Magdalen condescended to take you under her especial pro- tection ! I)o you think, or has anybody told you, that you have committed any sin1" "No! sir, my life has been, I hope, very inno- cent; nor do I see indeed how I could commit any sin, for 1 have never been subject to any temptation. But I have ever heen uidiappy, because I am per- plexed about myself. I feel that I am not like other persons, and that which makes them happy is to me a source of no enjoyment." "But you have, perhaps, some sources of enjoy- ment which are peculiar to yourself, and not open to them. Come, tell me how you have passed your liic. Indeed, you have excited my curiosity, for I observed to-day, while I was drawing, that you were a good four hours reclined in the same position." " Four hours, sir ! I thought that I had been there but a few minutes." "Four hours by the sun, as well as by this watch. What were you doing] Were you thinking of the blessed Magdalen]" "No, sir!" I gravely replied, "not to-day." " How then]" "Indeed, sir!" I answered, reddening, "if I teil you, I am afraid, you will think me very foolish." " Speak out, little man. We are all very foolish ; and I have a shrewd suspicion, that if we under- stood each other better, you might perhaps turn out the least foolish of the two. Open, then, your mind, and fear nothing. For believe me, it is dishonour- able to blush when you speak the truth, even if it be to your shame." There was something in the appearance and man- ner of the stranger that greatly attracted me. I sought him with the same eagerness with which I aKvays avoided my fellow-creatures. From the first, conversation with him was no shock. His presence seemed to sanctify, instead of outraging my solitude. His voice subdued my sullen spirit, and called out my hidden nature. He inspired me not only with confidence, but even with a degree of fascinating curiosity. "Indeed, sir," I began, still with a hesitating voice, but a more assured manner — "indeed, sir, I have never spoken of these things to any one, for I feel they could not believe or comprehend what I would wish to express, nor indeed is it delightful to be laughed at. But know that I ever like to be alone, and it is this — that when I am alone, I can indulge in thought, which gives me great pleasure. For I would wish you to comprehend, sir, that I have ever lived in, as it were, two worlds, a public world and a private world. But I should not be un- happy in the private world but for one reason, which is nothing, but I was ever most happy ; buJ 358 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. n the public world, I am indeed miserable. For you must know, sir, that when I am alone, my mind is full with whatseem to me beautiful thoughts, nor indeed are they thoughts alone that make me so happy, but in truth I perform many strange and noble acts, and these too in distant countries, and in unknown places, and other persons appear, and tiiey also act. And we all speak in language more beautiful than common words. And, sir, many other things occur, which it would take long to re- count, but which, indeed, I am sure, that is, I think, would make any one very happy." •'But all this is a source of happiness, not of un- happiness," said the stranger. " Am I to compre- hend, then, the source has dried upl" '■O! no, sir, for only this morning I had many visions, but I checked them." " But why check IhemT' "Ah! sir," I answered, heaving a deep sigh, "it is this which makes me unhappy ; for when I en- ter into this private world, there arises in the end a desire to express what has taken place in it, which indeed I cannot gratify." The stranger for a moment mused. Then he sud- denly said, "And when you looked upon my sketch of the abbey, there seemed to you a cavalier advanc- ing, I think you saidi" "From the pass of the blue mountains, sir. When ever I look upon pictures, it is thus." "And when you beheld the Rialto, tell me what occurred then ]" " There was a great rush, sir, in my mind, and when my eye caught that tall young signior who is stepping oft" the stairs of a palace into a gondola, I wished to write a tale of which he should be the hero." "It appears to me, my young friend," said the stranger, in a serious tone, and looking at me very keenly — "it appears to me, my young friend, that you are a poet." "Alas! sir," I exclaimed, extremely agitated and nearly seizing his hand — "alas! alas! sir, I am not. For I once thought so myself, and have often tried to write; and cither I have not produced a line, or something so wretchedly flat and dull that even I have felt it intolerable. It is this that makes me so miserable, so miserable that were it not for feeling, in the most marked manner, that I am under the especial protection of the blessed Magdalen, I think I should kill myself." A gentle smile played upon the lip of the stranger, but it was in an instant suppressed. Then turning to me he said, " Supposing a man were born with a predisposition for painting, as I might have been myself, and that he were enabled to fancy pictures in his eye, do you think that if he took up a brush for the first time, he could transfer these pictures to the canvass?" " By no means, sir, for the artist must learn his art." " And is not a poet an artist, and is not writing n art, equally with painting 1 Words are but chalk and colour. The painter and the poet must follow the same course. Both must study before they ex- ecute. Both must alike consult nature and invent the beautiful. Those who delineate imitate nature, and those who describe her must equally study her, if they wish to excel in their own creations; and for man, if the painter study the outward form of the animal, the inward must be equally investigated by the poet. Thus far for the natural; and for the ideal, which is an improvement upon nature, and which you will some day more clearly comprehend, remember this, that the painter and the poet, how- ever assisted by their own organization, must alike perfect their style by the same process — I mean by studying the works themselves of great painters and great poets. See, then, my young friend, how un- reasonable you are, that because you cannot be a great artist without studying your art, you are un- happy." " ! sir, indeed, indeed, I am not. There is no application — there is no exertion, I feel, I feel it strongly, of which I am not capable to gain know- ledge. Indeed, sir, you speak to me of great things, and my mind opens to your wisdom, but how am I to study V " Be not too rapid. Before we part, which will be in a moment, I will write you some talismanic rules, which have been of great service to myself. I copied them from oft' an old obelisk amid the ruins of Thebes. They will teach you all that is now ne- cessary." "O! sir, how good, how kind you are. How different would have boon my life, had I been taught by somebody like you." " Where, then, were you educated 1" "I am a student of the college about two miles off. Perhaps you may have passed it!" " What, the large house upon the hill, where they learn words'!" said the stranger, with a smile. " Indeed, sir, it is too true. For though it never occurred to me before, I see novvf why, with an ardent love of knowledge, I have indeed there gained nothing but an ill name." "And now," said the stranger, rising, "I must away, for the sun will in a few-minutes sink, and I have to reach a village which is some miles olf for my night's encampment." I beheld him prepare to depart with a feeling of deep regret. I dropped for a moment into profound abstraction ; then rushing to him, I seized his hand, and exclaimed, " 0, sir, I am noble, and I am rich, yet let me follow you !" "By no means," said the stranger, very good- naturedly, "for our professions are different." " Yet a poet should see all things." " Assuredly. And you too will wander, but your hour has not yet come." " And shall I ever see Venice V " I doubt not, for when a mind Uke yours thinks often of a thing it will happen." "You speak to me of mysteries." " There is little mystery ; there is much igno- rance. Some day you will study metaphysics, and you will then understand the nature of volition." He opened his knapsack and took out two small volumes, in one of which he wrote some lines. "This is the only book," he said, "I have with me, and, as, like myself, you are such a strong Venetian, I will give it you, because you love art and artists, and are a good boy. When we meet again, I hope I may call you a great man. " Here," he said, giving them to me, " they are full of Venice. Here, you sec, is a view of the Rialto. This will delight you. And in the blank leaf I have written all the advice you at present re- quire. Promise me, however, not to read it till you return to your college. And so farewell, my littla man — farewell !" He extended me his hand. I took it, and although it is an awkward thing at all times, and chiefly fo' CONTARINI FLEMING. 359 a boy, I began telling him my name and condition, but te checked me. " I never wish to know any- body's name. Were I to become acquainted with every being who iiits across me in life, the callous- ness of my heart would be endangered. If your acquaintance be worth preserving, fate or fortune will some day bring us again together." He departed. I watched his figure until it melted m the rising haze of evening. It was strange the ascendancy that this man exercised over me. When he spoke I seemed listening to an oracle, and now that he had departed, I felt as if some supernatural visitant had disappeared. I quickened my walk home from the intense anxiety to open the volume in which I was to find the talismanic counsel. When I had arrived, I read written in pencil these words. "Be patient. Cherish hope. Read more. Pon- der less. Nature is more powerful than education. Time will develope every thing. Trust not over- much in the blessed Magdalen: learn to protect yourself." XIV. Indeed I could think of nothing but the stranger. All night his image was before my eyes, and his voice sounded in my ear. I recalled each look, I repeated each expression. When I woke in the morning, the first thing I did was to pronounce from memory his oracular advice. I determined to be patient, I resolved never to despair. Revery was no longer to be endured, and a book was to be ever in my hand. He had himself enabled me to comply with this last rule. I seized the first opportunity to examine his present. It was the History of Venice in French, by Amelot de la Houssaye — a real history of Venice, not one written years after the extinction of the republic by some solemn sage, full of first principles and dull dissertations upon the vicious constitution — a prophet of the past, trying to shuffle off his commonplace deductions for authentic in- spiration — but a history of Venice written by one who had witnessed the doge sitting on his golden throne, and receiving awe-struck ambassadors in his painted halls. I read it with an avidity with which I had never devoured any book : some parts of it indeed with absolute rapture. When I came to the chapter upon the nobility, a dimness came over my sight : for a moment I could not proceed. I saw them all ; I marked all the divisions ; the great magniflcoes, who ranked with crowned heads, the nobles of the war of Candia, and the third, and still inferior class. I was so excited, that for a moment I did not observe that the name of Contarini did not ap- pear. I looked for it with anxiety. But when I read that there were yet four families of such pre- eminent ancestry, that they were placed even above th(?- magnificoes, being credited descendants of Ro- man consular families, and that of these the unri- valled house of Contarini was the chief, I dashed down the book in a paroxysm of nervous exultation, and rushed into the woods. I ran about like a madman for some time, cutting down the underwood that opposed my way with a sharp stick, leaping trenches, hallooing, spouting, fihouting, dashing, through pools of water. At length I arrived at a more open part of the wood. At a slight distance was a hill. I rushed on up the hill, and never stopped till I had gained th» summit. That steep ascent a little tamed me. I ft4und myself upon a great ridge, and a vast savage view opened upon all sides. I felt now more at ease, for the extent of the prospect harmonized with the largeness and swell of my soul. " Ha ! ha !" I cried, like a wild horse. I snorted in the air, my eyes sparkled, my crest rose, waved my proud arm. " Ha ! ha ! have I found it out at last ! I knew there was something. Nature whispered it to me, and time has revealed it. He said truly ; time has develoi)ed every thing. But shall these feelings subside into poetry 1 Away ! give me a sv^'ord, give me a sword I My consular blood demands a sword. Give me a sword, ye winds, ye trees, ye mighty hills, ye deep cold waters, give me a sword. I will fightl by heavens, I will fight ! I will conquer. Why am I not a doge1 A curse upon tlie tyranny of man, why is she not free ! why am I not a doge 1 By the God of heaven, I will be a doge ! ! thou fair and melancholy saint," I continued, falling on my knees, " who in thy infuiite goodness condescended, as it were, to come down from heaven to call me back to the true and holy faith of Venice, and to take me under thy especial protection, blessed and beautiful Mary Magdalene, look down from thy glorious seat above, and smile upon thy elected and favourite child !" I rose up refreshed by this short prayer, calmer and cooler, and began to meditate upon what was now fitting to be done. That Contarini Fleming must with all possible despatch erase to be a school- boy was indeed evident, necessary, and indispensa- ble. The very idea of the great house upon the hill, where they teach words, was hidicrous. Nor indeed would it become me ever again, under any pretence whatever, to acknowledge a master, or, as it would appear, to be subject to any laws, save the old laws of Venice, for I claimed for my- self the rights and attributes of a Venetian noble of the highest class, and they were those pertaining to blood royal. But when I called to my recollection the cold, worldly, practical character of my father, the vast quantity of dull, lowering, entangling ties that formed the great domestic mesh, and bound me to a country which I detested, covered me with a climate which killed me, surrounded me with man- ners with which I could not sympathize, and duties which nature impelled me not to fulfil, I felt that, to ensure my emancipation, it was necessary at once to dissolve all ties of blood and afTection, and to break away from those links which chained me as a citizen to a country which I abhorred. I re- solved therefore immediately to set out for Venice. I was, for the moment, I conceived, sufiiciently well supplied with money, for I possessed one hundred rix-dollars, more than any five of my fellow-stu- dents together. This, with careful husbandry, I counted would carry me to the nearest sea-port, perhaps even secure me a passage. And for the rest, I had a lively conviction that something must always turn up to assist me in any difficulties, for I was convinced that I was a hero, and heroes are never long forlorn. On the next morning, therefore, long ere the sun had risen, I commenced my adventures. I did not steal away. First I kissed a cross three times, which I carried next to my breast, and then recommend- ing myself to the blessed Magdalen, I walked off proudly and slowly, in a manner becoming Corio* 3G0 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. lanus or C-Esar, who, after some removes, were both of them, for aught I knew, my great-grandfathers. I carried in a sort of knapsack, which we used for our rambles, a few shirts, my money, a pair of jiocket pistols, and some ammunition. Nor did I forget a large loaf of bread — not very heroic food, but classical in my sight, from being the victual of the mysterious stranger. Like him also I dcter- nined in future only to drink water. XV. I jounxETEi) for some hours without stopping along a road, about which all I knew was, that it was opposite to the one that had tirst carried me to the college, and consequently, I supposed, did not lead home. I never was so delighted in my life. I had never been up so early in my life. It was like living in a new world. Every thing was still, fresh, fragrant. I wondered how long it would last, how long it would be before the vulgar days, to which I had been used, would begin. At last a soft luminous appearance commenced in the hori- zon, and gradually gathered in strength and bright- ness. Then it shivered into brilliant streaks, the clouds were dabbled with rich flaming tints, and the sun rose. I felt grateful when his mild but vivif)*- ing warmth fell upon my face, and it seemed to me that I heard the sound of trumpets, when he came forth, like a royal hero, out of his pavilion. All the birds began singing, and the cocks crowed with renewed pride. I felt as if I myself could sing, my heart was so full of joy and exulta- tion. And now I heard many pleasant rural sounds. A horse neighed, and a whip smacked, there was a wViistle, and the sound of a cart-wheel. I came to a large farm-house. I felt as if I were indeed travel- ling, and seeing the world and its wonders. When I had rambled about before, I had never observed any thing, for I was full of nonsensical ideas. But now I was a practical man, and felt capable, as the stranger said, of protecting myself. Never was I so cheerful. There was a great barking, and several dogs rushed out at me, all very fierce, but I hit the larg- est over the nose with my slick, and it retreated yelping into the yard, where it ac:ain barked most furiously behind the gate ; the lesser dogs were so frightened that they slunk away immediately through different hedges, nor did they bark again till I passed the gate; but I heard them then, though very feeble, and rather snappish than fierce. The farmer was coming out of the gate, and saluted me. I returned him the salute with a firm voice and a manly air. He spoke then of the weather, and I differed with him to show that I was a thinking being, and capable of protecting myself. I made some inquiries respecting the distance of certain places, and I acquired from him much in- fiirmation. The nearest town was fifteen miles oft'. 1'liis I wished to reach by night, as there was no great village, and this I doubted not to do. When the heat increased, and I felt a little fa- tigued, I stopped at a beautiful spring, and taking my loaf out of my knapsack like the stranger, I ate with a keen relish, and slaked my slight thirst in the running water. It was the coldest and purest v/ater that I had ever tasted. I felt qiiile happy, and was full of confidence and self-gratulation at my pros[)erous progress. I reposed here till noon, and as the day, though near midsummer, became cloudy, I then recommenced my journey without dread of the heat. On I went, full of hope. The remembrance of the cut that I had given the great dog over the nose had wonderfully inflamed my courage. I longed to knock down a man. Every step was charming. Every flower, every tree gave me delight, which they had not before yielded. Sometimes, yet sel- dom, for it was an unfrequented road, I met a tra- veller, and always prepared myself for an adven- ture. It did not come, but there was yet time. Every person I saw, and every place I observed, seemed strange and new : I felt in a far land. And for adventures, my own consciousness was surely a suihcient one, fur was I not a nobleman incognito, going on a piljjrimage to Venice ] To say nothing of the adventures that might then occur, here were materials for the novelist ! Pah ! my accursed fancy was again wandering. I forgot that I was no longer a poet, but something which, though dif- ficult to ascertain, I doubted not in the end all would agree to be infinitely greater. As the afternoon advanced, the thin gray clouds melted away, the sun mildly shone in the warm, light-blue sky. This was again fortunate, and in- stead of losing my gay heart with tke decline of day, I felt inspired with fresh vigoiir. and shot on joyous and full of cheerfulness. The road now ran through the skirts of a forest. It was still less like a commonplace journey. On each side was a large plot of turf, green and sweet. Seated on this at some little distance I perceived a group of men and women. My heart beat at the pros- pect of an incident. I soon observed them with more advantage. Two young women were seated together repairing a bright garment, which greatly excited my wonder. It seemed of very fine stuff, and richly embroidered with gold and silver. Greath' it contrasted with their own attire and that of their com.panions, which was plain, and indeed shabby. As they worked, one burst into repeated fits of laughter, but the other was more sedulous, and looking grave, seemed to reprove her. A man was feeding with sticks a fire, over which boiled a great pot; a middle-aged woman was stirring its contents. A young man was lying asleep upon the grass ; an older one was furbishing up a sword. A lightly built but large wagon was on the other side of the road, the unharnessed horses feeding on the grass. A little dog shrilly barked when I came up, but I was not afraid of dogs. I flourished my stick, and the laughing girl called out "Harlequin," and the cur ran to her. I stopped and inquired of the fire-lighter the distance to the town where I hoped to sleep. Not only did he not answer me, but he did not even raise up his head. It was the first time in my life that I had not obtained an answer. I was astonished at his insolence. "Sir," I said, in a tone of ofli^nded dignity, " how long is it since you have learned not to answer the inquiry of a gentleman V The laughing girl burst into a renewed fit. All stopped their pursuits. The fire-lighter looked up with a puzzled soitr face, the old woman stared with her mouth open, and the furbisher ran up to u with his naked weapon. He had the oddest and most comical fiice that I had ever seen. It was like that of a seal, but full of ludicrous mobility. Ho came rushing up, saying, with an air and voice of mock heroism, " To arms, to arms !" CONTARINI FLEMING. 361 I was aslonished, and caught the eye of the laughing girl. She was very fair, with a small nose, and round cheeks breaking into most charm- ing dimples. When I caught her eye, she made a wild grimace at me, and I also laughed. Al- though I was trudging along with a knapsack, my dress did not befit my assumed character, and in a jnoment of surprise, I had given way to a manner which still less became my situation. Women are quicker than men in judging of strangers. The two girls were evidently my friends from the first, and the fair laugher beckoned me to come and sit dov\'n by her. This gay wench had wonderfully touched my fancy. I complied with her courteous offer without hesitation. I threw away my knap- sack and my stick, and stretched my legs with the air of a fine gentleman. I was already ashamed of my appearance, and forgot every thing in the desire to figure to the best advantage to my new friend. "This is the first time," I drawled out, with a languid air, and looking in her face, "this is the first time in life that I ever walked, and I am heartily sick of it." "And why have you walked, and where have you come from, and where are you going to ]" eagerly she demanded. " I was tired to death of riding every day of my life," I rejoined, with the tone of a man who had exhausted pleasure. "lam not going anywhere, and I forget where I came from." "O! you odd thing!" said the wench, and she gave me a pinch. The other girl, who was handsome, but dark, and of a more serious beauty, at this moment rose, and went and spoke to the crusty fire-lighter. When she returned, she seated herself on my other side, so I was now between both, but as she seated herself, though doubtless unconsciously, she pressed my hand in a very sentimental manner. "And what is your namel" asked the laughing girl. "Theodora! how can you be so rude 1" remark- ed the serious beauty. " Do you know," said the laughing girl, whisper- ing in my ear, " I think you must be a little count." I only smiled in answer, but it was a smile which complimented her penetration. " And now, may I ask who you may be, and whither you may be going]" " We are going to the next town," replied the serious beauty, "where, if we find the public taste not disinclined, we hope to entertain them with some representations." " You are actors, then. ! what a charming profession. How I love the theatre. When I am at home I go in my father's box every night. I have often wished to be an actor." " Be one," said the serious beauty, pressing ni}' hand. "Join us," said the laughing girl, pinching my elbow. "Why not?" I replied, and abnost thought. "Youth must be passed in adventure." Tile fairy nymph produced a box of sugarplums, and taking out a white almond, kissed it, and push- ed it into my mouth. While I laughed at her wild kitten-like action, the dark girl drew a deep-colour- ed rose from her bosom, and pressed it to my nose. I was nearly stifled with their joint sweets and kind- ness. Neither of them would take away their hands. The dark girl pressed her rose with in- 46 creased force ; the sugarplum melted away, but I found in my mouth the tip of a little finger scarcely larger, and as white and sweet. There was gig- gling without end ; I sank down upon my back. The dark girl snatched a hasty embrace, her com- panion fell down by my side, and bit my check. "You funny little count!" said the fair lieauty. " I shall keep these in remembrance of a happy moment," said her friend, with a sentimental air, and she glanced at me with her flashing eye. So saying, she picked up the scattered leaves of the rose. "And I! am I to have nothing?" exclaimed the blue-eyed girl with an air of mock sadness, and she crossed her arms upon her lap with a drooping head. I took a light iron chain from my neck, and threw it over hers. " There," 1 said, "Miss Sugaiplum. that is for you." She jumped up from the ground, and bounded about as if she were the happiest cf creatures, laughing without end, and kissing the slight gift. The dark girl rose and began to dance full of grace and expression : Sugarplum joined her, and they fell into one of their stage figures. The serious beauty strove to excel, and indeed was the greater artist of the two, but there was a wild grace about her companion which pleased me most. "Can you dance, little count]" she cried. "I am too tired," I answered. " Nay, then, another day, for it is pleasant to look forward to frolic." The man with the odd face now advanced to- wards me. He fell into the most ridiculous atti- tudes. I thought that he would never have finished his multiplied reverences. Every time he bowed he saluted me with a new form of visage. It was the most ludicrous medley of pomposity, and awkward- ness, and humour. I thought that I had never seen such a droll person, and was myself a little impreg- nated with his oddity. I also made him a bow with assumed dignity, and then he became more subdued. " Sir," said he, placing his huge hand u])on his breast, and bowing nearly to the ground, " I assure you, sir, indeed, sir, the greatest honour, sir, your company, sir, a very great honour indeed." "I am equally sensible of the honour," I replied, "and think myself most fortunate to have found so many and such agreeable friends," "The greatest honour, sir, the greatest honour, indeed, sir, very sensible, sir, always sensible, sir." He stopped, and I again returned his reverence, but this time without speaking. "The greatest liberty, sir, the greatest liberty in- deed, sir, never take liberties, sir, but fear you will consider it a very great liberty, a very great liberty indeed, sir." " Indeed, I shall esteem myself very fortunate to comply with any wish that you can express." " ! sir, you are too kind, sir, too kind, indeed, sir, always are kind, have no doubt, no doubt at all, sir, but our meal, sir, our humble meal, very hum- ble indeed, we venture to request the honour, very great honour indeed, sir, your company, sir," and he pronounced the last and often-repeated mono- syllable with a musical shake, and renewed reve- rence. " Indeed I fear that I have already too much, and too long intruded." " come, pray come !" and each girl seized aD arm and led me to their banquet. 2H 363 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. I sat down between my two friends. The fire- lighter, who was the manager, and indeed proprie- tor of the whole concern, now received me with great courtesy. When they were all seated, they called several" times, "Frederick, Frederick," and then the young man who was on the ground jumped up, and seated himself. He was not ill- looking, but I did not like the expression of his face. His countenance and his manner seemed to me vulgar. I took rather a prejudice against him. Kor indeed did my appearance seem much to please him, for he stared at me not very com teously, and when the manager mentioned that I was a young gentleman travelling, who had done them the ho- nour to join their repast, he said nothing. The repast was not very humble. There was plenty to eat. While the manager helped the soup, they sat very quiet and demure ; perhaps my pre- sence slightly restrained them. Even the laughing girl was, for a moment, calm. I had a keen appe- tite, and though I at first, from shame, restrained it, I played my part well. The droll carved a great joint of boiled meat. I thought I should have died ; he seldom spoke, but his look made us all full of merriment. Even the young man sometimes smiled. " We prefer living in this way to sojourning in dirty inns," said the manager, with an air of dignity. " You are quite right," I replied. " I desire no- thing better than to live always so." "Inns are indeed wretched things," said the old mother. " How extravagantly they charge for what costs them in a manner nothing !" Wine was now produced. The manager filled a oup, and handed it to me. I was just going to ob- serve, that I drank only water, when Sugarplum, first touching it with her lips, placed it in my hand, and pledging them all, I drank it oil". " You are eating rough fire," said the old mo- ther, " but you are welcome." " I never enjoyed any thing so much in my life," I truly replied. " How I envy you all the happy life you lead !" " Before you style it happy you should have ex- |x;rienced it," remarked Frederick. " What you say is in part true. But if a person have imagination, experience appears to me of lit- tle use, since both are means by which we can equally arrive at knowledge." '■ I know nothing about imagination," said the young man, " but what I know, I owe to experience. It may not have taught me as much as imagination has taught you." " Experience is every thing," said the old mother, shaking her head. "It sometimes costs dear," said the manager. "Terrible, terrible," observed the droll with a most sad and solemn shake of the head, and lifting up his hands. I- burst into a fit of laughter, and poured down another draught of wine. Conversation now oecanie more brisk, and I took more than my share of it, but I being new, they all wished me to talk. I got very much excited by my elocution, as much as by the wine. I discussed upon actmg, which I pronounced to be one of the first and finest of arts. I treated this subject in- deed very deeply, and in a spirit of aesthetical criti- cism, with which they seemed unacquainted, and a 'ittle surprised. " Should we place it," I asked, " before painting?" 46 "Before scene-painting, certainly," said the droll, in a hoarse thick voice, " for it naturally takes its place there." " I never knew but one painter," said the old mother, " and therefore cannot give an opinion." The manager was quite silent. " All employments are equally disgusting," said the young man. '• On further reflection," I continued, " it appears to me that if we exiimine" — but here the white girl pinched me so severely under the table, that I could not contain myself, and was obliged to call out. All stared, and she looked quite demure, as if nothing had happened. After this all was merriment, fun, and frolic. The girls pelted the droll with plums, and he un- furled an umbrella to protect himself, I assisted them in the attack. The young man lighted his pipe and walked off. The old mother in vain pro- claimed silence. I had taken too much wine, and for the first time in my life. All of a sudden I felt the trees dancing and whirling round. I took another bumper to set myself right. In a few mi- nutes I fell down quite flat, and remember no- thing more XVI. "I MUST get out. I am so hot." " You shall not," said Thalia. " I nnist, I must. I am so very hot." "Will you desert meV exclaimed Melpomene. ' "0! how hot I am. Pray let me out." " No one can get out at night," said the darfe girl, earnestly, and in a significant voice, which in- timated to her companion to take up the parable. " No, indeed," said her friend. " Why not ?" I asked. " Because it is a rule. The manager will not permit it." " Confound the manager I Vv^hat is he to me ] I will get out." " ! what a regular little count," said Thalia, " Let me out, let me out. I never was so hot in my life." "Hush ! hush ! hush ! or you will wake them." " If you do not let me out, I will scream." The manager and the droll were in the fore part of the wagon affecting to drive, but they were both asleep. The old mother was snoring behind them. They had put me in the back part of the wagon with my two friends. " Let him out, Theodora," for the other was afraid of a contention. " Never," said Theodora, and she embraced me with increased energy. Mv legs were in the other girl's lap. I began to kick and struggle, " ! yon naughty little count," said one, "Is this the return for all our love !" exclaimed the other. " I will get out, and there is an end of it. I must have some air. I must stretch my legs. Let me out at once, or I will wake them all." " Let him out, Theodora." " He is certainly the wickedest little count, — but promise you will come back in five minutes." " Any thing, I will promise any thing ; only let me out." They imbolted the back of the wagon, tho fresh air came in. They shivered, but I felt it de- lightful. 2H CONTARINl FLEMING. 363 "Farewell, dearest," exclaimed ^vlelpomene, " one paiting embrace. How heavily will the moments roll until we again meet !" " Adieu, count," said Thalia, " and remember you are to come back in live minutes." I jumped into tiie road. It was a clear, sharp night, the stars shining very brightly. The young man was walking behind, wrapped up in a great- coat, and smoking his pipe.^ He came up and as- sisted rae in shutting the door with more courtesy than he hud hitherto shown, and asked me if I would try a cigar. I declined this offer, and for some little way we walked on in silence. I felt unwell, my head ached, my mouth was parched. I was conscious that I had exposed myself. I had commenced the morn- ing by vowing that I would only drink water, and, for the first time in my life, I had got tipsy with wine. I had committed many other follies, and al- together felt much less like a hero. I recalled all my petty vanity and childish weaknesses with re- morse. Imagination was certainly not such a sure guide as experience. Was it possible that one who had already got into such scrapes, could really achieve his great purpose ! My conduct and my / situation were assuredly neither of them Roman. As I walked on, the fresh air did its kind ofiice. My head was revived by my improved circulation, my companion furnished me with an excellent draught of water, Hope did not quite desert my invigorated frame. I began to turn in my mind how I might yet prosper. " I feel better," I said to my companion, with a feeling of gratitude. '• Ay ! ay ! that wagon is enough to make any one ill, at least any one accustomed to a more de- cent conveyance. I never enter it. To say nothing of their wine, which is indeed intolerable to those who may have tasted a fair glass in the course of this sad life." " You find life, then, sad 1" I inquired, with a mixed feeling of curiosity and sympathy. '• He who knows life will hardly style it joyous." " Ah! ah !" I thought to myself, " here is some chance of philosophical conversation. Perhaps I have found another stranger, who can assist me in self-knowledge." I began to think that I was ex- ceedingly wrong in entertaining a prejudice against this young man, and in a few minutes I had settled that his sullen conduct was the mark of a very su- perior mind, and that he himself must be a very interesting personage. " I have found life very gloomy myself," I re- joined; "but I think it arises from our faulty edu- cation. We are taught words and not ideas." " There is something in that," said the young man, thoughtfully. " After all, perhaps, the best is to be patient,-and cheri Winter, I should repair to the capital. Hiihcr he was bound — and for myself, both from his ad- vice, and his own impulse, I had resolved to return home. On the next morning the woodman went not to his usual labour, but remained with his son. Tlsey strolled out togcllier, but in a shod time returnttl. The mother bustled about preparing a good dinner. For her, this was full employment, but time hung heavy on the old man. At last he took his axe-, and fairly set at work at an old tree near his dwelling, which he had long condemned, and never found time to execute. His son and he had few ideas 'o exchange, and he enjoyed his happiness more while CONTARINI FLEMING. 367 he was employed. Winter proposed to me a ram- ble, and I joined him. He was very gay, but would not talk about him- self, which I wished. I longed to know what he exactly was, but deemed a direct inquiry indelicate. He delighted to find out places he had known when he was young, and laughed at me very much about my adventures. " You see what it is to impart knowledge to youth like you. In eight-and-forty hours all these valua- ble secrets are given to Master Frederick, who will perhaps now turn out a great poet." I bore his rallying as good-humouredly as he could wish, and tried to lead our conversation to subjects which interested me. " Ask me no more j questions," he said, " about yourself — I have told you every thing. All that I can recommend you now is to practise sclf-forgetfulness." We rested ourselves on a bank, and talked about foreign countries, of which, though he himself never figured in his tales, he spoke without reserve. My keen attention proved with what curiosity and de- light I caught each word. Whenever he paused, I led him by a question to fresh narrative. I could not withstand expressing how I was charmed by such conversation. " All that I tell you," he said, "and much more, may be found in books. Those tliat cannot themselves obserN'e, can at least acquire the observation of others. These are indeed sha- dows, but by watching these shadows we learn that there are substances. Little man, you should read more. At your time of life, you can do no- thing better than read good books of travellers." " But is it not better myself to travel ]" " Have I not told you that your wandering days have not yet come] Do you wish to meet another Mr. Frederick 1 You are much too young. Tra- vel is the great source of true wisdom, but to travel with profit, you must have such a thing as previous knowledge. Do you comprehend 1" " Ah ! sir ! I fear me much that I am doomed to be unhappy." " Pooh ! pooh ! Clear your he^d of all such non- sense. There is no such thing as unhappiness." " No such thing as unhappiness, sir] •How may this be, for all men believe — " " All men believe many things which are not true ; but remember what I say, and when you have lived as long as I have, you will perhaps dis- cover that it is not a paradox. In the mean time it is nonsense talking about it, and I have got an enormous appetite. A fine dinner to-day for us, I warrant you.'' So we returned home at a brisk pace. The old woman looked out at the door when she heard our steps, and nodding to her son with a smile of fond- ness, " You must walk in the garden a .while, Pe- ter," she said, " for I am busy getting the room ready. Now, I dare say, you are thinking of the din- ner, but you cannot tell me what there is for Peter, that you cannot. But I'll tell you, for if you fret yourself with guessing, mayhap it will hurt your relish. Do you remember crying once for a pig, Peter, and father saying a woodman's boy must not expect to live like the forest farmer's son ] Well, he may say what he hkes, Peter, there is a pig." The father joined us cleanly shaved, and in his Sunday raiment. I never saw any one look so truly respectable as did this worthy old peasant in Dis long blue coat with brge silver buttons, deep | waistcoat covered with huge pink flowers and small green leaves, blue stockings, and massy buckles. The three days at the woodman's cottage flew away most pleasantly. I was grieved when they were gone, and in spite of my natural courage, which was confirmed by meditation, and heightened by my constantly trying it in ideal conjectures, I thought of my appearance at home with a little anxiety. We were to perform our journey on foot. The morning of the third day was to light us into the city. Ail was prepared. I parted with my kind friends with many good wishes, hearty shakes of the hand, and freijuent promises of another visit. Peter was coming to them again very shortly. They hoped I might again be his companion. The father walked on with us some little wav. The mother stood in the cottage door till we were out of sight, smiUng through her tears, and waving her hand with many blessings. "I must take care of my knapsack," said the younger Winter ; " evil habits are catching." " Nevertheless, I hope you will sometimes let mc carry it. At any rate, give me your portfolio." " No, no, you ai'e not to be trusted, and so come XX. "But, my dear friend, you have lodged, j'ou have fed, )'ou have befi-icnded, you have supported me. If my father were to laiow that we parted thus, he would never forgive me. Pray, pray, tell me." ■ " Prithee, no more. You have told me your name, which is against my rules ; you know mine, no one of my fellow-travellers ever did before ; and yet you are not contented. You grow unreasonable Did I not say that if our acquaintance were worth maintaining, we should meet again. Well ! I say the same thing now — and so good-bye." " Dear sir, pray, pray — " " This is my direction — your course lies over that bridge — look sharp about you, and do not enter into your private world, for the odds are, you may find your friend Count Frederick picking a pocket. Good morning, little man." We parted. I crossed the bridge. The stir of man seemed strange after the silence of the woods. I did not feel quite at my ease ; my heart a little misgave me. I soon reached the street in which my father resided. I thought of the woodman's cottage, and the careless days I had spent under that simple roof. I wished myself once more by Schinkel's oak, talking of Arabia the Blessed v.i'.h that strange man with whom my acquaintance, although so recent, seemed now only a dream. Did he really exist — were they all real beings with whom I seemed lately to have consorted ] Or had 1 in- deed been all this time plunged in one of my incu- rable reveries ! I thought of the laughing girl, and her dark sentimental friend. I felt for the chain which I always wore round my nedi. It was gone. No doubt, then, it must all be true. I had reached the gate. I uttered an involuntary sigh. I took up the knocker. It was for a moment suspended. I thought of the Contarinis, and my feeble knock hurried into a sharp rap. .. entered, " 'Tis a nervous business," thought I, "there is no concealing it. 'Tis flat rebellion — 'tis desertion— 'tis an outrage of all parental orders — 'tis a viola- 368 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. tion of the law of nature and of nations." I sighed again. '• Yet these arc all bng-bears, for what can they do to me ] Is there any punishment that they can inflict that I care for ] Certainly not, and 'tis likely it will all blow over. Yet the explanations, and the vile excuses, and the petty examinations, there is something pitiful, and contemptible, and undignified in the whole process. What is it that 60 annoys me '? 'Tis not fear. I think it is the dis- gust of being accountable to any human being." I went up stairs. My father, I felt sure, was away. I found the baroness alone. She started when I entered, and looked sullen. Her counte- nance, she flattered herself, was a happy mixture cf the anxiety which became both a spouse and a mother, pity for my father, pity for me, and decided indignation at my very improper conduct. " How do you do, madam V I inquired, in as quiet a tone as I could command. " My father is, I suppose, at his office." " I am sure I cannot tell," she replied, speaking in a very subdvied, serious tone, as if there were death in the house. " I believe he has gone out to-day. He has been very agitated indeed, and I think is extremely unwell. We have all been extremely agitated and alarmed, I have kept my- self as quiet as I can, but can bear no noise what- ever. The baron has received a fine letter from your tutor," she continued, in a brisker and rather malignant tone, "but your father will speak to you, I know nothing about these things, I wished to have said something to soothe him, but I know I never interfere for any good." " Well," I observed, with a dogged, desperate tone, speaking through my teeth, " well ! all I can say is, that if my father has been prejudiced against me by a parcel of infamous falsehoods, as it appears by your account, I know how to protect myself. I see how tlie ground lies ; I see that I have already been judged, and am now to be plinished with>)ut a trial. But I will not submit any longer to such persecution. Kindness in this house I never ex- pect, but justice is a right enjoyed by a common woodman, and denied only to me," " Dear me, Contarini, how violent you are ! I never said your father was even angry, I only said I thought he was a little unwell — a little bi- lious, I think. My dear Contarini, you are always so very violent, I am sure I said I was confident you would never have left college without a very good cause indeed, I have no doubt you will explain every thing in the most satisfactory manner possible, I do not know what you mean always liy talking of not expecting kindness in this house, I am sure I never interfered with you, I make it a rule always, when your interest is in the least concerned, never to give an opinion, I am sure I wish you were quite happy and less violent. As for judging and punishing without a trial, you know your father never punishes any one, nor has he decided any thing, for all he knows is from the letter of your tutor, and that is merely a line, merely saying you had (juittcd the college without leave, and, as they .supposed, had gone home. They said, too, that they were the more surprised, as your general behaviour was quite unexceptionable. Not at all against you the letter was, not at all, I assure you. I pointed out to your father more than once, that the letter was, if any thing, rather in your favour, because I had no doubt that you would explain Uie step in the most satisfactory manner ; and they said, you see, that your conduct, otherwise, was perfectly unexceptionable." " Well, my dear madam, I am very sorry it [ have offended you. How are my brothers V "I am very willing to forget it. You may say and think what you please, Contarini, as long as you are not violent. The children are pretty well. Ernest quite ready to go to college, and now there is no one to take care of him. I always thought of your being there with quite a feeling of satisfac- tion, for I was sure that you would not refuse to do what you could for him among the boys. As it is, I have no doubt he will be killed the first half year, or, at least, have a limb broken, for, pool dear boy, he is so delicate, he cannot fight." " Well, my dear madam, if I be not there, I can recommend him to some one who will take care of him. Make yourself quite easy. A little rough life will do him no harm, and I will answer he is not killed, and even have not a limb broken. Now, what do you recommend me to do about my father ■• Shall I walk down to him 1" " I certainly think not. You know that he will certainly be at home this afternoon, though, to be sure, he will be engaged, but to-morrow, or the day after, I have no doubt he will find half an hour to speak to you. You know he is so very busy." I immediately resolved to walk down to him. 1 had no idea of having a scene impending over me in this manner for days. My father at this time filled the oflice of Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. He had been appointed to this post re cently, and I had never yet visited him at his new office. I repaired to it im.mediately. It was at some distance from his house. His horses were waiting at the door, therefore I was sure that he was to be found. When I entered, I found myself in a hall. A porter was loitering in a large chair. I asked him for Baron Fleming. He did not deign to answer me, but pointed to a mahogany door. I entered, and found myself in a large well-furnished room, fitted up with desks. At the end, two young men were fencing. Another, seated at a round table covered with papers, was copying music, and occasionally trying a note on his guitar. A fourth was throwing himself into attitudes before a pier- glass ; and the fifUi, who was the only one whose employment was in any degree of a political na- ture, was seated at his desk, reading the newspaper. No one noticed my entrance. I looked in vain for my father, and with some astonishment at those I found in his place. Then I inquired for Baron Fleming, and, for the second time in one day, I did not receive any answer, I repeated my query in a more audible tone, and the young gentleman who was reading the newspaper, without taking his eyes off' the columns, demanded, in a curt voice, what I wanted with him, " What is that to you 1" I ingenuously asked. This unusual reply excited attention. They all looked at me, and when they had looked at me, they looked at each other, and smiled. My aj^pear- 'ance indeed, of which, till I had seen myself in the pier-glass, I was not sensible, was indeed well cal- culated to excite a smile, and to attract a stare. My clothes were not untattercd, and were very much soiled, being covered with shrcdsof moss and blades of grass, and stuck over with thistle-tops ; my boots had not been cleaned for a week, my shirt frill, which fell over my shoulders, was torn and dirtied, my dishevelled and unbrushcd locks reachea my C N T A R I N I FLEMING. 369 npck, and could scarcely be said to be covered by the small forester's cap, which I always wore at school, and in which I had decamped. Animate the countenance of this strange figure with that glow of health which can only be obtained by the pedestrian, and which seemed to shock the nerves of this company of dapper youths. "If you want Baron Fleming, then you must go up stairs," said the student of the newspaper in a peevish voice. As I shut tlie door, I heard the burst of laughter, I mounted up the great staircase and came into an antechamber. " What do you want, sir, what do you want, sir ] You must not come here," said a couple of pom- pous messengers, nearly pushing me out. "I shall not go away," I replied; "I want Baron Fleming." " Engaged, young gentleman, engaged — caTi't see any one — impossible." " I shall wait, then." " No use waiting, young gentleman ; better go." " It is not such an easy matter, I perceive, to see one's father," I thought to myself. I did not know which was his room, otherwise I would have gone in : but turning round, I detected written on a door, " Under Secretary's Office," and I ran to it. " Stop, sir, stop," said the messengers. But I had hold of the lock. They pulled me, I kicked the door, and out came the private secretary of the under secretary. " What is all this, what is all this 1" asked the private secretary. He was a fit companion for the young gentlemen I had left down stairs. " I want Baron Fleming," I replied, " and these rnen will not tell mc where he is, and therefore I come to the under secretary to ask.'' So saying, I most indignantly freed my arm from the capture of one of the messengers, and kicked the shin of the other. " May I ask who you are ]" demanded the private secretary. " I am Baron Contarini Fleming," I replied. " Pray sit down," said the private secretary, " I will be with you in a moment." The two messengers darted back, and continued bowing without turning their backs, until they un- expectedly reached the end of the room. The private secretary returned with the under secretary. The under secretary told me that my father was engaged with the chancellor, and that Ids door was locked, but that the moment the door was luilocked, and the chancellor departed, he v\'ould take care that he was informed of my arri- val. In the mean time, as he himself had a deputa- tion to receive in his room, who were to come to- day to complain in form of what tliey had for months been complaining informally, he begged that I would have the kindness to accompany his private secretary to the room down stairs. The room down stairs I again entered. The private secretary introduced me. Ail looked very confused, and the young gentleman who was still reading the newspaper immediately handed it to me. I had never read a newspaper in my life, but I accepted his ofl'er to show my importance. As I did not understand politics, I turned the back ol the sheet, v/here there is generally an article on the fine arts, or a review of a new book. My wandering eye fixed upon a memoir of the Che- 47 valier de Winter. I was equally agitated and as- tonished. My eye quivered over the page. I saw in an instant enough to convince me it was my friend, and that my friend was styled " a great or- nament to the country," and the Northmen were congratulated on at length producing an artist whom the Italians themselves acknowledged un- rivalled among the living. I learned how he was the son of a peasant: how his genius for painting early developed itself; how he had led four years an eccentric and wandering life ; how he had return- ed to Rome, and at once produced a master-piece : how he had gained prizes in academies : how he was esteemed and honoured by foreign princes ; how his own illustrious monarch, ever alive to the patron- age of the fine arts, had honoured him with two com- missions ; how he had returned to his native country with these magnificent pictures, which were daily exhibiting at the Royal Academy of Arts ; how the king had conferred on him the collar of a high order and offered him a great pension ; how he had re- fused the pension, and requested only that a com- petency might be settled on his parents. I was bewildered, I fell into a deep revery, the paper dropped from my hand, the door opened, and the private secretary summoned me to the presence of my father. XXI. It is time you should know something of my father. You must remember that he was little more than a score of 3'cars my senior. Imagine then a man about four-and-thirty years of age, tall and thin, slightly bald, handsome and elegant, pensive and pale. His clear broad brow, his aquiline, but deli- cately-chiselled nose, his gray, deep-set, and pene- trating eye, and his compressed lips, altogether formed a countenance which enchanted women, and awed men.' His character is more difficult to delineate. It was perhaps inscrutable. I will attempt to sketch it, as it might then have appeared to those who con- sidered themselves qualified to speculate upon hu- man nature. His talents were of a high order, and their exer- cise alone had occasioned his rise in a country in which he had no interest and no connexions. He had succeeded in every thing he had undertaken. As an orator, as a negotiator, and in all the details of domestic administration he was alike eminent, and his luminous interpretation of national law had elevated the character of his monarch in the opinion of Europe, and had converted a second- rate power into the mediator between the highest. The minister of a free people, he was the per- sonal as well as the political pupil of Mettemich, Yet, he respected the institutions of his country, because they existed, and because experience proved that, under their influence, the natives had become more powerful machines. His practice of politics was compressed in two words — subtelty and force. The minister of an emperor, he would liavc maintained his system by armies ; in the cabinet of a small kingdom, he com- pensated for his deficiency by intrigue. His ]iprfection of human nature was a practical man. He looked upon a theorist either with alarm or with contempt. Proud in his own energies, and conscious that he owed every thing to his ow dexterity, he believed all to depend upon the inll 370 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. ence of individual character. He required men not to think but to act, not to examine but to obey, and animating their brute force with his own intel- ligence, he found the success wliich he behevcd could never be achieved by the rational conduct of an enlightened people. Out of the cabinet, the change of his manner might perplex the supcrlicial. The moment that he entered society, his thoughtful face would break into a fascinating smile, and he listened with in- terest to the talcs of levity, and joined with readiness m each frivolous pursuit. He was sumptuous in his habits, and was said to be even voluptuous. Perha{)s he affected gallantry because he was deeply impressed with the influence of women, both upon public and upon private opinion. With them he was a universal favourite ; and as you beheld him assenting with conviction to their gay or serious nonsense, and waving, with studied grace, his per- fumed handkerchief in his delicately-white and jewelled hand, you might have supposed him for a moment a consummate lord-chatnberlain — but only for a moment, — f ^r had you caught his eye, you would have witluhawiiyour gaze with precipitation, and perhaps with awe. For the rest, he spoke all languages, never lost his self-possession, and never in my recollection, had displayed a spark of strong feeling. I loved my father deeply, but my love was mixed with more than reverence ; it was blended with fear. He was the only person before whom I ever quailed. To me he had been universally kind. I could not recall, in the whole period of my existence, a single harsh word directed to myself that had ever escaped him. Whenever he saw me, he smiled and nodded ; and sometimes, in early days, when I requested an embrace, he had pressed my lips. As I grew in years, every thing v^'as ar- ranged that could conduce to my happiness. What- ever I desired v^'as granted, whatever wish I expressed was gratified. Yet with all this, by some means or other which I could not comprehend, the intercourse lietweeii my father and myself seemed never to advance. I was still to him as much an infant as if I were yet a subject of the nursery, and the impending and important interview might be considered the first time that it was ever my fortune to engage with him in serious converse. The door was opened, my heart palpitated, the ))rivate secretary withdrew, I entered the lofty room. My father was writing. He did not look up as I came in. I stood at his table a second. He raised his eyes, stared at my odd appearance, and then pointing to a chair, he said, " How do you do, Contarini 1 I have been expecting you some days." Then he resumed his writing. I was rather surprised, but my entrance had so agitated me that I was not sorry to gain time. A clock was opposite to mc, and I employed myself in watching the hands. They advanced over one, two, three minutes very Mowly and solemnly ; still my father wrote; even five minutes disappeared, and my father continued writing. I thought five minutes had never gone so slowly ; I began to think of what I should say, and to warm up my courage by an imaginary conversation. Suddenly I observed tliat ten minutes had Hown, and these last five had scudded in a most surprismg manner. Still my father was employed. At length he rang his bell. One of my friends the messengers entered. My fa- tlier sent for Mr. Strelamb, and before Mr. Strelumb, who v\'as his private secretar)'-, appeared, he had finished his letter and given it to the other messen- ger. Then Mr. Strelamb came in and seated him- self opposite to my father, and took many notes with an attention and quickness which appeared to me quite marvellous, and then my father, looking at the clock, said he had an apj»oinlment with the Prussian ambassador at his palace ; but, while ?vlr. Strelamb was getting some papers in order for him, he sent for the under secretary and gave him so many directions, that I thought the under secretary must have the mostwonderful memory in the world. At length my father left the room, saying, as he quitted it, " Rest you here, Contarini." I was consoled for his neglect by the conscious- ness that my father was a very great man indeed. I had no idea of such a great man. I was filled with awe. I looked out of the window to see him mount his horse, but just as he had one foot in his stirrup, a carriage dashed up to the door, my father withdrevsf his foot, and saluting the person in the carriage, entered it. It was the Austrian ambas- sador. In ten minutes he came out, but just as the steps were rattled up, and the chasseur had closed the door with his best air, my father returned to the carriage, liut he remained only a minute, and then, mounting his horse, galloped off. " This is indeed a great man," I thought, " and I am his son." I began to muse upon this idea of political greatness. The simple woodman, and his decorous cottage, and his free forest life recurred to my mind, unaccompanied by that feeling of satis- faction wliich I had hitherto associated with them, and were pictured in faded and rather insipid colours. Poetry, and jihilosophy, and t!>e delights of solitude, and the beauty of truth, and the rapture of creation — I know not how^ it was, they certainly did not figure in such paramount beauty and colossal importance as I had previously viewed them. I thought of my harassing hours of doubt and diffidence with disgust, I sickened at the time wasted over imperfect efforts, at what, when per- fect, seemed somehow of questionable importance. I was dissatisfied with my past life. Ambassadors, and chancellors, under secretaries, and private secretaries, and public messengers, flitted across my vision. I was sensibly struck at the contrast between all this greatness achieved, and moving before me in its quick and proud reality, and my weak meditations of unexecuted purposes and dreamy visions of imaginary grandeur. I threw myself in my father's chair, took up a pen, and, insensibly to myself, while I indulged in these r«^ flections, scribbled Contarini Fleming over every paper that afforded itself for my signature. My father was a long while away. I fell into a profound revery. He entered the room. I did not observe him, I was entirely lost. I was engaged in a conversation with both the Prussian and Aus- trian ambassadors together. My father called me ; I did not hear him. My eyes were fixed on va- cancy, but I was listening with the greatest atten- tion to their excellencies. My father approached, lilted me gently from his seat, and placed me in my original chair. I stared, looked up, and shook myself hke a man awakened. He slightly smiled, and then seating himself, shrugging up his shoulders at my labours, and arranging his papers, he said, at the same time, " Now, Contarini, I wish you to tell me why you have left your college 1" CONTARINI FLEMING. 371 This was a home query, and entirely brought me to myself. With the greatest astonishment, I found that I had no answer. I did not speak, and my fiitlier commenced writing. In two or three instances he said, " Well can you answer my question]" " Yes, sir," I replied, to gain time. "Well! tell me." " Because, sir, because it was no use staying tliere." " Why V " Because I learned nothing !" " Were you the first boy in the school, or the last ] had j'ou learned every thing that they could teach you, or nothing]" " I was neither first nor last. Not that I should be ashamed of being last where I considered it no honour to be first." " Why notr' " Because I do not think that it is an enviable situation to be the first among tlie learners of words." My father gave me a sharp glance, and then said, " Did you leave college because you con- sidered that tliey taught ytu only words]" " Yes, sir, and because 1 wished to learn ideas." " Some silly book has filled your head, Contarini, with these ridiculous notions about the respective importance of words and ideas. Few ideas are correct ones, and what are correct no one can as- certain. But with words we govern men." This observation completely knocked up all my philosophy, and I was without an answer. "I tell you what, Contarini: I suspect that there must be some, other reason for this step of yours. I wish you to tell it to me. If you were not making there that progress which every intelli- gent youth desires, such a circumstance might be a very good reason for your representing your state to your parent, and submitting it to his considera- tion, but you — you have never complained to me upon the subject. You said nothing of the kind when you were last with me, you never communi- cated it by letter. I never heard of a boy running away from school because they did not teach him suflicient, or sufiiciently well. Your instructers do not complain of your conduct, except with regard to this step. I'here must be some other reason which induced you to adopt a measure Which, I (latter myself, you have already learned to consider as both extremely unauthorized and very injudi- cious.'' I had a good mind to pour it all out. I had a good mind to dash Venice in his teeth, and let him chew it as he could. I was on the point of ask- ing a thousand questions, which I had been burn- ing all my life to know, but the force of early im- pressions was too strong. I shunned the fatal word, and remained silent with a clouded brow, and my eyes fixed upon the ground. " Answer me, Contarini," he continued ; "you know that all I ask is only for your good. An- swer me, Contarini ; I request that you answer me. Were you uncomfortable ! Were you unhappy ]" " [ am always unhappy," I replied, in a gloomy tone. My father moved round his chair. " You asto- nish me, Contarini. Unhappy ! always unhappy ! Why are you unhappy 1 I should have thought you the happiest boy of my acquaintance. I am iiure I cannot conceive what makeri you unhappy. ^ Pray tell me. Is there any thing you want ? Have you done, has anybody done any thing to annoy you 1 Have you any thing upon your mindl" I did not answer, my eyes were still fixed upon the ground, the tears stealing down my cheek, tears not of tenderness, but rage. " My dear Contarini," continued my father, '• I must indeed earnestly request you to answer mc. Throughout life you have never disobeyed me. Do not let to-day be an epoch of rebellion. Speak to me frankly. Tell me why you are unhappy." " Because I have no one I love, because there is no one who loves me, because I hate this country, because I hate every thing and everybody, because I hate myself." I rose from my seat and stamped about the room. My father was perfectly astounded. He had thought that I might possibly have got into debt, or had a silly quarrel, but he did not lose his self- command. " Sit down, Contarini," he said very calmly, " never give way to your feelings. Explain to me quietly what all this means. What book have you been reading to fill your head with all this nonsense ! What could have so suddenly altered your character ?" " I have read no book, my character is what I always was, and I have only expressed to-day, for the first time, what I have ever felt. Life is in- tolerable to me, and I wish to die." " What can you mean by persons not loving vou?" resumed my father, "I am sure the baro- ness—" " The baroness !" I entcrrupted him in a sharp tone; " what is the baroness to me 1 Always this WTetched nursery view of life — always considered an insignificant, unmeaning child — What is the baroness, and her petty persecutions to me ] — Pah !" I grew bold. The truth is, my vanity was flat- tered by finding the man, who was insensible to all, and before whom all trembled, yield his sympathy and his time to me. I began to get interested iu the intervievv. I was excited by this first conversa- tion with a parent. My suppressed character began unconsciously to develope itself, and I uninteii- tionally gave way to my mind, as if I were in one of my own scenes. " I should be sorry if there were even petty per- secutions," said my father, " and equally so, if you were insensible to them ; but I hope that you speak only under excited feelings. For your father, Contarini, I can at least answer, that his conscience cannot accuse him of a deficiency in love fjr one who has such strong claims upon a father's affec- tion. I can indeed say that I have taken no im- portant step in life which had not for its ulterior purpose your benefit ; and what, think you, can sweeten this all-engrossing and perhaps fatal labour, to which I am devoted, but the thought that I am toiling for the future happiness of my child 1 You are young, Contarini. Some day vou will become acquainted with the feelings of a father, and you will then blush with shame and remorse that you have ever accused me of insensi- bility." While he spoke I was greatly softened. The tears stole down my cheek. I leaned my arm upon the table, and tried to shade my face with my hand. My father rose from his seat, turned tho key of the door, and resumed his place 373 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. " Occupied with affairs," he resumed, " which do not always allow me sleep, I have never found lime for those slight parental offices which I do not think less delightful because it has been my misfortune not to fulfil, or to enjoy them. But you, Contarini, have never been absent from my thoughts, and I had considered that I had made such arrangements as must secure you the gratifi- cation of every innocent desire. But to-day I find, for the first time, that I have been mistaken for years. I regret it : I wish, if possible, to compen- sate for my unhappy neglect, or rather unfortunate ignorance. Tell me, Contarini, what do you wish zne to do?" " Nothing, nothing," I sobbed and sighed. " But if necessity have hitherto brought us less together than I could wish, you are now, Con- tarini, fast advancing to that period of life, to which I looked forward as a consolatory recompense for this deplorable estrangement, I hoped to find in you a constant companion. I hoped that I might have the high gratification of forming you into a great and good man — that I might find in my son, not merely a being to be cherished, but a friend, a counsellor, a colleague — yes ! Contarini, perhaps a successor." I clasped my hands in agony, but restramcd a cry. " And now," he continued, " I am suddenly told, and by himself, that I have never loved him ; but still more painful, still more heart-rending, is the accompanying declaration, which indeed is what I could not be prepared for. Misconception on his part, however improbable, might have accounted for his crediting my coldness, but alas ! I have no room for hoj)e or doubt ; his plain avowal can never be misconstrued. I must then yield to the terrible conviction tliat I am an object of abhon-ence to my cliild." I flung myself at his feet, I seized his hand, I kissed it, and bathed it with my tears. "Spare me, ! spare me," I faintly muttered. " Henceforth I will be all you wish !" I clung upon his hand, I would not rise till he pardoned me. " Pardon me," I said, " pardon me, I beseech you, father, for I spoke in madness ! Pardon me, pardon me, dear father ! It was in madness, for indeed there is something which comes over me sometimes like madness, but now it will never come, because you love me. Only tell me that you love me, and I will always do every thing. I am most grieved for what I said about the baroness. She is too good ! I will never give you again an uneasy moment, not a sm- gle uneasy moment. Now that I know that you love me, you may depend upon me, you may indeed. You may depend upon me forever." He smiled, and raised me from the gi-ound, and kissed my forehead. " Compose yourself, dearest boy ! Strelamb must soon come in. Try more to repress your feelings. There, sit down and calm yourself." He resumed his writing directly, and I sat sob- bing myself into composure. In about a quarter of an 'hour, he said, "I must send for Strelamb now, love. If you go into the next room, you can wash your face." W hen I returned, my father said, " Come ! come ! you look quite blooming. By-the-by, are you aware what a very strange figure you are, Conta- rini 1 After being closeted all the morning with me, they will think, from your costume, that you ] are a foreign ambassador. Now, go home, and dress, for I have a large dinner-party to-day, and 1 wish you to dine with me. Inhere are several persons whom you should know. And, if you like, you may take my horses, for I had rather walk home." XXII. I WAS SO very happy that, for some time, I did not think of the appalling efli)rt that awaited me. It was not till I had fairly commenced dressing, that I remembered, that in the course of an hour, for the first time in my life, I was to enter a room full of strangers, conducting themselves with ease in all that etiquette of society in which I was entirely unpractised. My heart misgave me. I wished myself again in the forest. I procrastinated my toilet to the last possible moment. Ignorant of the art of dress, I found myself making a thousand experiments, all of which failed. The more I consulted my glass, the less favourable was the impression. I brushed my hair out of curl. I confined my neck for the first time in a cravat. Each instant my appearance became more awk- ward, more formal, and inetfective. At last I was obliged to go down, and less at my ease, and conscious of appearing worse than I ever did in my life, at the only moment of that life in which appearance had been of the slightest consequence, and had ever occupied my thoughts, I entered the room at the side door. It was very full, as I had expected. I stole in, without being observed, which a little reanimated my courage. I looked round in vain for a person I knew ; I crept to a corner. All seemed at their ease. All were smil- ing, all exchanging words, if not ideas. The wo- men all appeared beautiful, the men all elegant. I painfully felt my wretched inferiority. I watched the baroness, magnificently attired, and sparkling with diauionds, wreatlied with smiles, and scatter- ing, without effort, phrases which seemed to ditluse universal pleasure. This woman, whom I had presumed to despise, and dared to insult, became to me an object of admiration and of envy. She even seemed to me beautiful. I was bewildered. Suddenly a gentleman approached me. It was the under secretary. I was delighted by his notice. I answered his many uninteresting questions about every school pastime, which I detested, as if I felt the greatest interest in their recollection. All that I desired was, that he would not leave me, that I might at least appear to be doing what the others were, and might be supposed to be charmed, although I was in torture. At length he vt^alked ofi'to another group, and I found myself once more alone, apparently without a single chance of keep- ing up the ball. I felt as if every one were watch- ing with wonder, the strange, awkward, ugly, silent boy. I coined my cheek into a base smile, but I found that it would not pass. I caught the eye of the baroness ; she beckoned me to come to her. I joined her without delay. She introduced me to a lady who was sitting at her side. This lady had a son at the college, and asked me many questions. I answered in the most nervous, rapid manner, as if her son were my most intimate friend, gave the anxious mother a complete detail of ail his orcu- pations, and praised the institution up to the scventli heaven. I was astonished at the tone of affection with which tlie baroness addressed me, at the inte- CONTARINI FLEMING. 373 rest which she took in every thing; which concerned 1 very novel one, and I was astonished at observing me. It was ever " Contarini, dear" — " Contarini, my love" — " You have been riding to-day. Where have you been 1 I have hardly had time to speak to you. He only came home to-day. He is look- mg vastly well — very well indeed — very much grown — O ! amazingly — quite a beau for you, ba- roness — ! yes, quite delightful." What amiable people, I thought, and what would I give to be once more in old Winter's cottage ! The door opened, the Chevalier de Winter was announced. My fellow-traveller entered the room, though I could scarcely recognise him in his rich, and even fanciful dress, and adorned with his bril- liant order. I was struck with iiis fine person, his noble carriage, and his highly-polished manner. Except my father, I had never seen so true a noble- man. The baron went forward to receive him with his most courteous air, and most fascinating smile. I withdrew as he led him to my mother. I watched the baroness as she rose to greet him. I was sur- prised at the warmth of her welcome, and the tone of consideration with which she received him. Some of the guests, who were the highest nobles in the country, requested my father to present them to him : with others Winter was already acquaint- ed, and they seemed honoured by his recognition. " This also is a great man," I exclaimed, " but of a different order." Old feelings began to boil up from the abyss in which I had plunged them. I sympathized with this great and triumphant artist. In a few days it seemed that the history of genius had been acted before me for my instruction, and for my encouragement. A combination of cir- cumstances had allowed me to trace this man from his first hopeless obscurity. I had seen ail — the strong predisposition, the stubborn opposition of fortune, the first efforts, the first doubts, the par- amount conviction, the long struggle, the violated ties, the repeated flights, the deep studies, the sharp discipline, the great creation, and the glorious triumph. My father, crossing the room, saw me. " Con- tarini," he said, "where have you been all this time 1 I have been often looking for you. Come with me, and I will introduce you to the Chevalier de Winter, one of the first painters in the world, and who has just come from Rome. You must go and see his pictures ; every one is talking of them. Always know ennnent men, and always be master of the subject of the day. Chevalier," for we had now come up to him, " my son desires your ac- quaintance." "Ah! fellow-traveller, welcome, welcome — I told you we should soon meet again," and he pressed my hand with warmth. " Sir, I had a prescience that I had been the companion of a great man." This was pretty well said for a bashful youth, but it was really not a compliment. The moment I addressed Winter, I resumed unconsciously my natural tone, and, reminded by his presence that higher accomplishments and qualities existed than a mere acquaintance with etiquette, and the viva- city which could enliven the passages of ordinary conversation, I began to feel a little more at my ease. Dinner was announced. The table was round. I sat between the under secretary and the lady to whom I had been introduced. The scene was a a magnificent repast, which all seemed to pique themselves upon tasting as little as possible. They evidently assembled here, then, I thought, for the sake of conversation, yet how many are silent, and what is said might be omitted. But I was then ignorant of the purposes for which human beings are brought together. My female companion, who was a little wearied by a great general, who, al- though a hero and a strategist, was soon beaten and bewildered in a campaign of repartee, turned round to amuse herself with her other supporter. Her terrific child was again introduced. I had drank a glass or two of wine, and altogether had, in a great degree, recovered my self-possession. I could sup- port her tattle no longer. I assured the astonished mother that I had never even heard of her son ; that, if really at college, he must be in a different part of the establishment ; and that I had never met him, that I did not even know the name, that the college was a very bad college indeed, that no- body learned any thing there, that I abhoiTed it, and that I hoped I should never return, and then I asked her to do me the honour of taking wine. XXIII. The day after the party, I went with the baroness to sec the great pictures of Winter in the Royal Academy of Arts. They both of them seemed to me magnificent, but one, which was a national subject, and depicted the emancipating exploits of one of the heroic monarchs, was the most popular. I did not feel so much interested with this. I did not sympatliize with the gloomy, savage scene, the black pine forests, the rough mountains, the feudal forms and dresses ; but the other, which was of a very different character, afforded me exquisite delight. It represented a procession going up to sacrifice at a temple in a Grecian isle. The bril- liant colouring, the beautiful and beautifully-clad forms, the Ionian fane, seated on a soft acclivity covered with sunny trees, the classical and lovely background, the deep-blue sea, broken by a tall white scudding sail, and backed by undulating and azure mountains — I stood before it in a trance, a crowd of ideas swiftly gathered in my mind. It was a poem. After this, I called upon Winter, and found him in his studio. Many persons were there, and of high degree. It was the first time I had ever been in the studio of an artist. I was charmed with all I saw; the infinite sketches, the rough studies, the unfinished pictures, the lay figure, the beautiful cast, and here and there some choice relic of anti- quity, a torso, a bust, or a gem. I rtmained here the whole morningexamininghis Venetian sketches: and a day seldom passed over that I did not drop in to pay my devotions at this delighttul temple. I was indeed so much at home, that if he were engaged, I resumed my portfolio without notice, so that in time I knew perhaps more about Venice than many persons who had passed their whole lives there. When I had been at home a fortnight, my father one day invited me to take a ride with him, and began conversing with me on my plans. He said that he did not wish me to return to college, but that he thought me at least a year too young t«) repair to the university, whither, on every account, 21 374 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. he desired me to go. "We should consider, then," he continued, " how this interval can be turned to the greatest advantage. I wish you to mix as much as is convenient with society. I apprehend that you have, perhaps, hitherto indulged a little too much in lonely habits. Young men are apt to get a little abstracted, and occasionally to tliink that there is something singular in their nature, wjien the fact is, if they were better acquainted with their fellow-creatures, they would find they were mistaken. This is a common error, indeed the commonest. I am not at all surprised that you have fallen into it. All have. The most practical business-like men that exist have many of them, when children, conceived themselves totally disqua- lified to struggle in the world. You may rest as- sured of this. I could mention many remarkable instances. All persons, when young, are fond of solitude, and when they are beginning to think, are sometimes surprised at their own thoughts. There is nothing to be deplored, scarcely to be feared, in this. It almost always wears oil"; but sometimes it happens, that they have not judicious friends by them to explain, that the habits whirh they think peculiar are universal, and, if unreasonably in- dulged, can ultimately only turn them into indolent, insignificant members of society, and occasion them lasting unhappiness." I made no reply, but gave up all idea of writing a tale, which was to embrace both Venice and Greece, and which I had been for some days me- ditating. "But to enter society with pleasure, Contarini, you must be qualified for it. I think it quite time for you to make yourself master of some accom- plishments. Decidedly, you should make your- self a good dancer. Without dancing, you can never attain a perfectly graceful carriage, which is of the highest importance in life, and should be every man's ambition. You are yet too j'oung fully to comprehend how much in life depends upon manner. Whenever you see a man who is successful in society, try to discover what makes him pleasing, and, if possible, adopt his system. You should learn to fence. For languages, at })resent, French will be suflicicnt. You speak it iliirly — try to speak it elegantly. Read French authors. Read Rochefoucault. The French wri- ters are the finest in the world, for they clear our heads of all ridiculous ideas. Study precision. '' Do not talk loo much at present — do not iry to talk. But, whenever you speak, speak with self- possession. Speak in a subdued tone, and always look at the person whom you are addressing. Before one can engage in general , conversation with any effect, there is a certain acquaintance with trifling, but amusing subjects, which must be first attained. You will soon pick up sufiicient by listening and observing. Never argue. In society nothing must be discussed — give only results. If any person differ with you — bow, and turn the conversation. In society, never think — always be on the watch, or you will miss many opportunities, und say many disagreeable things. " Talk to women — talk to women as much as you can. This is the best school. This is the Avay to gain fluency — because you need not care what you say, and had better not be sensible. They, too, will rally you on many points, and, as Ihey are women, you will not be offended. No- lliing is of so much importance, and of so much use, to a young man entering life, as to be well crit'- cised by women. It is impossible to get rid of those bad habits which we pick up in boyhood without this supervision. Unfortunately, you have no sisters. But never be tffended iif a woman rally you. Encourage her. Otherwise, you will never be free from your awkwardness, or any little oddities, and certainly never learn to dress. " You ride pretty well, but you had better go through the manege. Every gentleman should be a perfect cavalier. You shall have your own groom and horses, and I wish you to ride regularly every day. " As you are to be at home for so short a time, and for other reasons, I tliink it better that you should not have a tutor in tiie house. Parcel out your morning, then, for your separate masters. Rise early and regularly, and read for three hours. Read the memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz — the life of Richelieu — every thing about Napoleon — read works of that kind. Strelamb will prepare you a list. Read no history — nothing but biography, for that is life without theory. Then fence. Talk an hour with your French master, but do not throw the burden of the conversation upon him. Give him an account of something. De- scribe to him the events of yesterday, or give him a detailed account of the constitution. You will have then sufliciently rested yourself for youi danc- ing. And, after that, ride and amuse yourself as much as you can. Amusement to an observing mind is study." I pursued the system which my father had pointed out with exactness, and soon with plea- sure. I sacredly observed my hours of reading, and devoted myself to the study of the lives of what my father considered really great men — that is to say, men of great energies and violent volition, who look upon their fellow-creatures as mere tools, with which they can build up a pedestal for their solitary statue, and who sacrifice every feeling, whii'h should sway humanity, and every high work which genius should really achieve, to the short- sighted gratification of an irrational and outrageous selfism. As for my manners, I flattered myself that they had advanced in measure with mj mind, although I already emulated Napoleon. I soon overcame the fear which attended my first experi- ments in society, and by scrupulously observing the paternal maxims, I soon became very self- satisfied. I listened to men witli a delightful mix- ture of deference and self-confidence: were they old, and did I differ with them, I contented myself by positively stating my opinion in a most subdued voice, and then either turning the subject or turn- ing upon my heel. But as for women, it is asto- nishing how well I got on. The nervous rapidity of my lirst rattle soon subsided into a continuous flow of easy nonsense. Impeitinent and flippant, I was universally hailed an original and a wit. But the most remarkable incident was, that the baroness and myself became the greatest friends. I was her constant attendant, and rehearsed to her flattered ear all my evening performance. She was the person with whom I practised, and as she had a taste in dress, I encouraged her opinions. Un conscious that she was at once my lay figure and my mirror, she loaded me with presents, and an- nounced to all her coterie, that I was the most delightful young man of her acquaintance. From all this, it may easily be suspected that, at CONTARINI FLEMING. 375 the age of fifteen, I had unexpectedly become one of the most affected, conceited, and intolerable atoms that ever peopled the sunbeam of society. A few days before I quitted home for the univer- sity, I paid a farewell visit to Winter, who was himself on the point of returning to Rome. " Well, my dear chevalier," I said, seizing his hand, and speaking in a voice of affected interest, " I could not think of leaving town without seeing you. I am off to-morrow, and you — you, too, are going. But what a difference — a Gothic university and immortal Rome ! Pity me, my dear chevaUer," and I shrugged my shoulders. " O ! yes, certainly — I tliink you are to be pitied." " And how does the great work go on ? Your name is everywhere. I assure you. Prince Besbo- rodsko was speaking to me last night of nothing else. By-the-by, shall you be at the opera to- night ]" " I do not know." " O ! you must go. I am sorry I have not a box to offer you. But the baroness's, I am sure, is al- ways at your service." " You are vastly kind." "'Tis the most charming opera. I think his master-piece. That divine air — I hum it all day. I do indeed. What a genius ! I can bear no one else. Decidedly the greatest composer that ever existed." . " He is certainly very great, and you are, no doubt, an excellent judge of his style ; but the air you meant to hum is an introduction, and by Pa- cini." "Is it, inde(.d 1 Ah ! Italy is the land of music. We men of the north must not speak of it.'' " Why is Italy the land of music 1 Why not Germany 1" " Perhaps music is more cultivated in Germany at present, but do not you think that it is, as it were, more indigenous in Italy 1" " No." As I never argued, I twirled my cane, and asked his opinion of a new Casino. " Ah ! by-the-by, is it true, chevalier, that you have at last agreed to paint the princess-royal] I toll you what I recommend you seriously to do — most seriously, I assure you — most decidedly it is my opinion — most important thing, indeed — should not be neglected a day. Certainly, I should not think of going to Italy without doing it." "Well, well!" " Countess Arnfeldt, chevalier. By heavens, she is divine ! What a neck, and what a hand ! A perfect study." " Poh !" " Don't you think so, really 1 Well, I see I am terribly breaking into your morning. Adieu ! Let us hope we may soon meet again. Perhaps at Rome — who knows ? Au revoir, au rcvoir." I kissed my hand, and tripped out of the room in all the charming fulness of a perfectly graceful mamier. PART THE SECOND. I. Our schoolboy days are looked back to by all with fondness. Oppressed with the cares of life, we contrast our worn and harassed existence with that sweet prime, free from anxiety, and fragrant with innocence. I cannot share these feelings. I was a most miserable child, and school I detested more than I ever abhorred the world in the darkest moments of my experienced manhood. But the university — this new life yielded me different feel- ings, and still commands a gratefvd reminiscence. My father, who studied to foster in me every worldly feeling, sought all means which might tend to make me ertamoured of that world to which he was devoted. An extravagant allowance, a lavish establishment, many servants, numerous horses were forced upon, rather than solicited by me. Ac- cording to his system, he acted dexteiously. My youthful brain could not be insensible to the bril- liant position in which I was placed. I was now, indeed, my own master, and every thing around me announced that I could command a career flat- tering to the rising passions of my youth. I well remember the extreme self-complacency with which I surveyed my new apartments, how instanta- taneously I was wrapped up in all the mysteries of furniture, and how I seemed to have no other purpose in life than to i)lay the honoured and honourable part of an elegant and ' accomplished host. My birth, my fortune, my convivial habits, rallied around me the noble and the gay, the flower of our society. Joyously flew our careless hours, while we mimicked the magnificence of men. I had no thought but for the present moment. I discoursed only of dogs and horses, of fanciful habiliments and curious repasts. I astonished them by a new fashion, and decided upon the exaggerated charms of some ordinary female. How long the novelty of my life would have been productive of interest, I know not. An uicident occurred which changed my habits. A new professor arrived in the university. He washy birth a German. I attended, by an accident, his preliminary lecture on Grecian history. I had been hunting, and had suddenly returned home. Throwing my gown over my forest frock, I strolled, for the sake of change, into the theatre. I nodded, with a smile, to some of my acquaintance, I glanced with hstlessness at their instructor. His abstracted look, the massiness of his scull, his large luminous eye, his long gray hair, his earnest and impassioned manner, struck me. Ho discoursed on that early portion of Grecian history which is entirely un- known. I was astonished at the fulness of his knowledge. That which to a common student appears but an inexplicable or barren tradition, be- came, in his magical mould, a record teeming with deep knowledge and picturesque interest. Hordes, who hitherto were only dimly distinguished wan- dering over the deserts of antiquity, now figured as great nations, multiplying in beautiful cities, and moving in the grand and progressive march of civi- lization ; and I listened to animated narratives o± their creeds, their customs, their manners, their philosophy, and their arts. I was deeply impressed with this mystical creation of a critical spirit, I was charmed with the blended profundity and im- agination. I revelled in the sagacious audacity of his revolutionary theories. I yielded to the full spell of his archaic eloquence. The curtain was removed from the sacred shrine of antique ages, and an inspired prophet, ministeruig in the sanctu- ary, expounded the mysteries which had perplexed 576 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. the imperfect intelligence of their remote pos- terity. 'i'he lecture ceased; I was the first who broke into plaudits ; I advanced, I oflered to our master my congratulations and my homage. Now that his office had finished, I found him the meekest, the most modest, and nervous being that ever trem- bled in society. With difficulty he would receive the respectful compliments even of his pupils. He l)cwed, and blushed, and disappeared. His reserve only the more interested me. I returned to my rooms, musing on the high matters of his discourse. Upon my table was a letter from one of my com- panions, full of ribald jests. I glanced at its un- congenial lines, and tossed it away unread. I fell into a revery of Arcadian loveliness. A beautiful temple rose up in my mind like the temple in the picture of Winter. The door opened, a band of loose revellers burst into their accustomed gather- ing room. I was silent, reserved, cold, moody. Their inane observations amazed me. I shrunk from their hollow tattle, and the gibberish of their foul slang. Their unmeaning, idiotic shouts of laughter tortured me. I knew not how to rid my- self of their infernal presence. At length one offered me a bet. I rushed out of the chamber. I did not stop until I reached the room of the professor. I found him buried in his books. He stared at my entrance. I apologized, I told him all I felt, all I vi'anted ; the wretched fife I was leading, my deep sympathy "with his character, my infinite disgust at my own career, my unbounded love of knowledge, and admiration of himself. The simplicity of the professor's character was not shocked by my frank enthusiasm. Had he been a man of the world, he would have been alarmed, lest my strong feeling and unusual con- duct should have placed us both in a ridiculous position. On the contrary, without a moment's hesitation, he threw aside his papers, and opened his heart to all my wants. My imperfect know- ledge of the Greek language was too apparent. Nothing could be done until I mastered it. He ex- plained to me a novel and philosophical mode of acquiring a full acquaintance with it. As we pro- ceeded in our conversation, he occasionally indi- cated the outlines of his grand system of meta- physics. I was fascinated by the gorgeous pros- pect of comprcliending the unintelligible. The professor was gratified by the etlect that his first eflusion had produced. He was interested by the ardour of my mind. He was flattered in finding an enthusiastic votary in one whose mode of life had hitherto promised any thing but study, and whose position in society was perhaps an apology, if not a reason, for an irrational career. I aimounced to my companions that I was going to read. They stared, they pitied me. Some deemed the avowal affectation, and trusted that in- creased frolic would repay them for the abstinence of a week of application. Fleming and his books was only a fresh instance of his studied eccentricity. But they were disappointed. I worked at Greek for nearly fourteen hours a-day, and at the end of a month I had gained a very ample acquaintance with the construction of the language, and a still fuller one of its signification. So much can be done by an ardent and willing spirit. I had been for six or seven years nominally a Greek student, and had learned nothing, and how many persons waste even six or seven more, and only find them selves in the same position ! I was amply rewarded for my toilsome effort. I felt the ennobling pride of learning. It is a fine thing to know that which is unknown to others, it is still more dignified to remember that we have gained it by our own energies. The struggle after knowledge too is full of delight. The intellectual chase, not less than the material one, brings fresh vigour to our pulses, and infinite palpitations ot strange and sweet suspense. The idea that is gained with effort affords far greater satisfaction than that which is acquired with dangerous facility. We dwell with more fondness on the perfume of tlie flower that we have ourselves tended, than on the odour which we cull with carelessness, and cast away without remorse. The strength and sweetness of our knowledge depend upon the im- pression which it makes upon our own minds. It is the liveliness of the ideas that it affords, which renders research so fascinating, so that a trifling fact or deduction, when discovered or worked out by our own brain, aflbrds us infinitely greater pleasure than a more important truth obtained by the exertions of another. I thought only of my books ; I was happy, I was quite emancipated from my painful seltisra. My days passed in unremitting study. My love of composition unconsciously developed itself. My note-books speedily filled, and my annotations soon swelled into treatises. Insensibly I had become an author. I wrote with facility, for 1 was master of my subject. I was fascinated with the expanding of my own mind. I resolved to become a great historical writer. Without intention, I fixed upon subjects in which imagination might assist era- dition. I formed gigairtic schemes which many lives could not have accomplished : yet I was san- guine I should achieve all. I mused over an ori- ginal style which was to blend profound philosophy, and deep learning, and brilliant eloquence. The nature of man, and the origin of nations, were to be expounded in glowing sentences of oracular majesty. Suddenly the university announced a gold medal for the writer of the ablest treatise upon the Dorian people. The subject delighted me. Similar ones had already engaged my notice. I determined to be a candidate. I shut myself up from all liuman beings ; I col- lected all the variety of information that I could glean from the most ancient authors, and the rarest modern treatises. I moulded the crude mat- ter into luminous order. A theory sprang out of the confused mass like light out of chaos. The moment of composition commenced. I wrote the fir.st sentence while in chapel, and under the influ- ence of music. It soxmded.like the organ that in- spired it. The whole was composed in my head before I comm.itted it to paper, — composed in my daily rides, and while pacing my chamber at mid- night. The action of my body seemed to lend vi- tality to my mind. Never shall I forget the moment when I finished the last sentence of my fair copy, and, sealing it, consigned it with a motto to the princi))al. It was finished, and at the very instant, my mind seemed exhausted, my power vanished. The excitement had cea.sed. I dashed into the forest, and throwing myself under a tree, passed the first of many day< CONTARINI FLEMING. 377 that flew away in perfect indolence, and vagne and unmeaning revery. In spite of my great plans, which demanded the devotion of a life, and were to command the ad- miration of a grateful and enlightened world, I was so anxious about the fate of my prize essay, that all my occupations suddenly ceased. I could do nothing. I could only think of sentences which might have been more musical, and deductions which might have lieen more logically true. Now that it was finished, I felt its imperfectness. Week after week I grew more desponding, and the very morning of the decision I had entirely discarded all hope. It was announced : the medal was awarded, — and to me. Amid the plaudits of a crowded thea- tre, I recited my triumphant essay. Full of vic- tory, my confident voice lent additional euphony to the flowing sentence, and my bright, firm eye added to the acuteness of my reasoning, and en- forced the justice of my theory. I was entirely satisfied. No passage seemed weak. Noble, wealthy, the son of the minister, congratulations came thick upon me. Th6 seniors complimented .each other on such an example to the students. I was the idol of the university. The essay was printed, lavishly praised in all the journals, and its author, full of youth and promise, anticipated as the future ornament of his country. I returned to my father in a blaze of glory. ir. I ADDRESSED him witli the confidence that I was now a man, and a distinguished one. My awe of his character had greatly worn off. I was most cordial to the baroness, but a slight strain of con- descension was infused into my courtesy. I had long ceased to view her with dislike : on the con- trary, I had even become her protege. That was now over. We were not less warm, but I was now the protector, and if there was a slight indica- tion of pique, or a chance ebullition of temper, in- stead of their calling forth any simultaneous senti- ments on my side, I only bowed with deference to her charms, or mildly smiled on the engaging weaknesses of the inferior sex. I was not less self- conceited or less affected than before, but my self- conceit and my affectation were of a nobler nature. I did not consider myself a less finished member of society, but I was also equally proud of being the historiographer of the Dorians. I was never gloomy. I was never in repose. Self-satisfaction sparkled on my countenance, and my carriage was agitated with the earnestness and the excitement with which I busied myself with the trivial and the trite. My father smiled, half with delight and half with hu- mour, upon my growing consciousness of impor- tance, and introduced me to his friends with in- creased satisfaction. He even listened to me while, one day after dinner, I disserted upon the Pelasgi, but when he found that I believed in innate ideas, he thought my self-delusion began to grow serious. As he was one of those men who believe that di- rectly to oppose a person in his opinions is a certain mode of confirming him in his error, he attacked me by a masked battery. Affecting no want of in- terest in my pursuits, he said to me one day, in a very careless tone, " Contarini, I am no great friend to reading, but as you have a taste that way, if I 48 were you, during the vacation, I would turn over Voltaire." Now I had never read any thing of Voltaire's. The truth is, I had no very great opinion of the philosopher of Ferney, for my friend the professor assured me that Voltaire knew nothing of the Do- rians, that his Hebrew also was invariably incorrect, and that he was altogether a very superficial per- son, — but I chanced to follow my father's counsel. I stood before the hundred volumes ; I glanced with indifierence upon the wondrous and witching shelf. History, poetry, philosophy, the lucid nar- rative, and the wild invention, and.the unimpas- sioned truth — they were all before me, and with my ancient weakness for romance I drew out Zadig. Never shall I forget the ellect this work produced on me. What I had lieen long seeking offered itself This strange mixture of brilliant fantasy and poignant truth, this unrivalled blending of ideal creation and worldly wisdom — it all seemed to speak to my two natures. I wandered a ])oet in the streets of Babylon, or on the banks of the Tigris. A philosopher and a statesman, I moralized over the condition of man and the nature of government. The style enchanted me. I delivered myself up to the full abandonment of its wild and brilliant p;race. I devoured them all, volume after volume. Morning, and night, and noon, a volume was ever my companion. I ran to it after my meals, it re- posed under my pillow. As I read, T roared, I laughed, I shouted with wonder and admiration, I trembled with indignation at the fortunes of my race, my bitter smile sympathized with searching ridicule and withering mockery. Pedants, and priests, and tyrants, the folios of dunces, the fires of in(iuisitors, and the dungeons of kings, and the long, dull system of imy)0sture and mi.srule, that had sat like a gloating incubus on the fair neck of nature, and all our ignorance, and all our weakness, and all our folly, and all our infinite imperfection — I looked round — I thou2;ht of the dis- sertation of the Dorians, and I considered myself the most contemptible of my wretched species. I returned to the university: I rallied round me my old companions, whom I had discarded in a fit of disgusting pedantry. But not now merely to hold hiffh revels. The goblet indeed still encircled, Init a bust of the author of " Candide" over the head of the president, warned us, with a smile of prophetic derision, not to debase ourselves, and if we drank deep, our potations were perhaps neces- sary to refresh the inexperienced eflorts of such no- vices in philosophy. Yet we made way : even the least literary read the romances, or parts of the Philosophical Dictionary : the emancipation of our minds was rapidly efiecting, we entirely disembar- rassed ourselves of prejudice, we tried every thing by the test of first principles, and finally we resolved ourselves into a Secret Union for the Amelioration of Society. Of this institution I had the honour of being elected president by acclamation. My rooms were the point of meeting. The members were in num- ber twelve, chiefly my equals in rank and fortune. One or two of them were youths of talents, and not wholly untincturcd by letters ; the rest were ardent, delighted with the novelty of what they did and heard, and, adopting our thoughts, arrived at con elusions the truth of which they did not doubt My great reputation at the university Ion": pre vented these meetings from being viewed with sua 2 I 2 378 D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. jDicion, and when the revolutionary nature of our opinions occasionally developed itself in a disregard for the authorities by some of our society, who per- haps considered such license as the most delightful portion of the new philosophy, mj' interest often tucceeded in stifling a public explosion. In course of time, however, the altered tenor of my own con- duct could no longer be concealed. IVIy ah.sence from lectures had long been overlooked, from the conviction that the time thus gained was devoted to the profundity of private study ; but the systematic assembly at my rooms of those who were most emi- nent for their disregard of discipline, and their ne- plcct of study, could no longer be treated with inat- tention, and after several intimations from inferior officer's, I was summoned to the presence of the High Principal. This great personage was a clear-headed, cold- minded, unmanageable individual. I could not cloud his intellect, or control his purpose. My ever-successful sophistry, and my ever-fluent speech failed. At the end of every appeal, he recurred to his determination to maintain the discipline of the university, and repeated with firmness that this was the last time our violation of it should be privately noticed. I returned to my rooms in a dark rage. My natural impatience of control and hatred of re- eponsibility, which had been kept olfof late years by the fondness of society, which developed itself with my growing passions, came hack upon me. I cursed authority, I paced my room like Cataline. At this moment my accustomed companions as- sembled. They were ignorant of what had passed, but they seemed to me to look like conspirators. Moody and ferocious, I headed the table, and filling a bumper, I drank confusion to all government. They were surprised at such a novel commence- ment, for, in general, we only arrived at this great result by the growing and triumphant truths of a long evening, but they received my proposition, as indeed they ever did, with a shout. The wine warmed me. I told them all. I even exaggerated in my rage the annoying intelligence. I described our pleasant meetings about to cease for ever. I denounced the iniquitous system which would tear us from the pursuit of real knowledge and ennobling truths — knowledge that illuminated, and truths that should support the destinies of ex- isting man — to the deplorable and disgusting study of a small collection of imperfect volumes, written by Greeks, and preserved by Goths. It was bitter to think that we must part. Surely society, cruel society, would too soon sever the sweet and agree- able ties that bound our youth. Why should we be parted ever 1 Why, in pursuance of an unna- tural system, abhorred by all of us — why were we to he dispersed and sent forth to delude the world in monstrous disguises of priests, and soldiers, and statesmen '? Out upon such hypocrisy ! A curse light upon the craven knave who would not strug- gle for his salvation from such a monotonous and degrading doom. The world was before us. Let us seize it in our prime. Let us hasten away — let us form a society in some inviolate solitude founded upon the eternal i>rincii)les of truth and justice. Let us fly from the feudal system. Nobles and wealthy, let us cast our titles to the winds, and our dross to the earth which produced it. Let us pride ourselves only on the gifts of nature, and exist only Oil her beneficence. I ceased, and three loud rounds of cheering an- nounced to the High Principal and all his slaves thjxt we had not yet yielded. We drank deep. . A proposition came forth with the wine of every glass. We all talked of America. Already we viewed ourselves in a primeval forest, existing by the chase, to which many of us were devoted. The very necessary toil of life .seemed, in such an existence, to consist of what, in this worn-out world, was considered the choicest pa.s time and the highest pleasure. Arid the rich cli mate, and the simple manners, and the intelligible laws, and the fair aborigines, who must be attracted by such interesting strangers — all hearts responded to the glowing vision. I alone was grave and thoughtful. The remembrance of Master Frederick and tlie Venetian expedition, although now looked back to as .a childish scrape, rendered me neverthe- less the most practical of the party. I saw imme- diately the invincible difficulty of our reaching with success such a distant land. I lamented the glo- rious times when the forests of our own northern land could afford an asylum to the brave and free. The young Count de Pahlen Vv'as a great hunter. Wild in his life, and daring in his temper, he pos- sessed, at the same time, a lively and not unculti- vated intellect. He had a great taste for poetry, and, among other accomplishments, was an excel- lent actor. He rose up as I spoke, like a volcano out of the sea. " I have it, Fleming, I have it !" he shouted, with a dancing eye and exulting voice. " You know the great f irest of Jonsterna. Of'en have I hunted in it. The forest near us is but, as it were, a huge root of that vast woodland. Nearly in its centre is an ancient and crumbling castle, which, like all old ruins, is of course haunted. No peasant dare approach it. At its very mention the face of the forest-farmer will grow grave and serious. Let us fly to it. Let us become the scaring ghosts whom all avoid. We shall be from man — we shall live only for ourselves — we — " but his proposition was drowned in our excited cheers, and rising to- gether, we all pledged a sacred vow to stand or fall by each other in this great struggle for freedom and for nature. The night passed in canvassing plans to render this mighty scheme practicable. The first point was to baffle all inquiries after our place of refuge, and to throw all pursuers oft' the scent. Wc agreed that on a certain day, in small and separate parties, we should take our way by different routes to the old castle, which we calculated was about sixty miles distant. Each man was to bear with him a rifle, a sword, and pistols, a travelling cloak, his knapsack, and as much ammunition as he could him- self carry. Our usual hunting dress aftbrded an excellent uniform, and those who were without it were immediately to supply themselves. We were to quit the university without notice, and each of us on the same day was to write to his friends, to notify his sudden departure on a pedestrian tour in Norway. Thus we calculated to gain time, and effectually to bafile pursuit. In .spite of our lavish allowances, as it ever hap- pens among young men, money was wanted. All that we jjossessed was instantly voted a common stock, but several men required rifles, and the funds were deficient. I called for a crucible : I opened a cabinet: I drew out my famous gold medal. I gazed at it for a moment, and the classic chee» CONTARINl FLEMING. 379 amid which it had been awarded seemed to rise upon luy ear. I dashed away the recollection, and in a few minutes the splendid reward of my profound researches was melting over the fire, and affording tlie means of our full equipment. III. It was the fjurth morning of our journey. My companion was Ulric de Braho. He was my only junior among the band, delicate of frame and af- fectionate in disposition, though hasty if excited, but my enthusiastic admirer. Jle was my great friend, and I was almost as intent to sujjport him under the great fatigue, as about the success of our enterprise. I had bought a donkey in our progress of a larmer, and loaded it with a couple of kegs of tile brandy of the country. We had travelled the last two days entirely in the forest, j)assing many farmhouses, and several villages, and as we be- lieved, were now near our point of rendezvous. I kicked on the donkey before me, and smiled on Ulric. I would have carried his rifle, as well as my own, but his ardent temper and devoted love main- tained him, and when I expressed any anxiety about his toil, he only laughed, and redoubled his pace. We were pushing along an old turf road cut through the thick woods, when suddenly, at the end of a side vista, I beheld the tower of a castle. '■ Jonsterna!" I shouted, and I ran forward without the donkey. It was more distant than it appeared, but at length we came to a large piece of clear land, and at the other side of it we beheld the long- dreamt-of building. It was a vast structure, rather dilapidated than ruined. With delight I observed a human being moving upon the keep, whom I recognised by his uniform to be one of us, and as we approached nearer we distinguished two or three of our comates stretched upon tlxe turf. They all jumped up and ran forward to welcome us. How heartily we shook hands, and congratulated each other on our reunion ! More than half were already assembled. All had contrived, besides their own equipments, to bring something for the com- mon stock. There was jilenty of bread, and brandy, and game. Some were already out collecting wood. Before noon the rest arrived, except Pahlen and his comrade. And they came at last, and we re- ceived them with a cheer, for the provident vice- president, like an ancient warrior, was seated in a cart. " Do not suppose that I am done up, my boys," said the gay dog, " I have brought gun- powder." When we had all assembled we rushed into the castle, and, in the true spirit of boyhood, examined every thing. There was a large knights'-hall, covered with tapestry, and tattered banners. This was settled to be our chief apartment. We even found a huge oak table, and some other rude and ancient furniture. We appointed committees of examination. Some surveyed the cellars and dun- geons, some the out-buildings. We were not afraid of ghosts, but marvellously fearful that we might have been anticipated by some human beings, as wild and less philosophical than ourselves. It was a perfect solitude. We cleared and cleaned uut the hall, lighted an immense fire, arranged our stores, appointed their keeper, made beds with our cloaks, piled our arms, and cooked our dinner. An hour alter sunset our first meal was prepared, and the Secret Union for the Amelioration of Society resumed their sittings almost in a savage state, I shall never forget the scene, and the proud exultation with which I beheld it. The vast and antique hall, the mystic tapestry, moving and moan- ing with every gust of the windy night — the deep shades of the distant corners, the flickering light tlung by the lilazing hearth, and the huge pine torches, the shining arms, the rude but plenteous banquet, the picturesque revellers, and I iheir pre- sident, with my sword pressing on a frame ready to dare all things. "This, this is existence," I ex- claimed. " ! let us live by our own right arms, and let no law be stronger than qur swords!" I was even surprised by the savage yell of exulta- tion with which my almost unconscious cxclamatiou was received. But we were like young tigers, who, for a moment tamed, had for the first time tasted blood, and rushed back to their own natures. A band of philosophers, we had insensibly placed our- selves in the most antiphilosophical position. Fly- ing from the feudal system, we had, unawares, taken refuge in its favourite haunt. All our artificial theories of universal benevolence vanished. We determined to be what fortune had suddenly made us. We discarded the abstract truths which had in no age of the world ever been practised, and were, of course, therefore impracticable. We smiled at our ignorance of human nature and ourselves. The Secret Union for the Amelioration of Society sud- denly turned into a corps of bandits, and their phi- losophical president was voted their captain. IV. It was midnight. They threw themselves upon their rough couches, that they might wake fresh with the morning. Fatigue and brandy in a few minutes made them deep slumbcrers, but I could not sleep. I flung a log upon the fire, and paced the hall in deep communion with my own thoughts. The rubicon was passed. Farewell my father, farewell my step-country, farewell literary inven- tion, maudlin substitute for a poetic life, farewell effeminate arts of morbid civilization ! From this moment I ceased to be a boy. I was surrounded by human beings, bold and trusty, who looked only to my command, and I was to direct them to danger, and guide them through peril. No child's game was this, no ideal play. W^e were at war, and at war with mankind. I formed my plans, I organized the whole system. Action must be founded on knowledge. I would have no crude abortive eflorts. Our colossal thoughts should not degenerate into a frolic. Before we com- menced our career of violence, I was determined that I would have a thorough acquaintance with the country. Every castle and every farmhouse should be catalogued. I longed for a map, that I might muse over it like a general. I looked upon our good arms with complacency. I rejoiced that most of us were cunning of fence. I determined that they should daily exercise with the broadsword, and that each should become a dead shot with his rifle. In the perfection of our warlike accomplish- ments, I sought a substitute for the weakness of our numbers. The morning at length broke. I was not the least fatigued. I longed to commence my arrange- ments. It grew very cold. I slept for an hour. I was the first awake. I determined in future to have 380 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. a constant guarJ. I rousetl Palilcn. He looked fierce in his sleep. 1 rejoiced in his determined visage. I appointed him my lieutenant. I im- pressed upon him how much I depended upon his energy. We ligiited an immense lire, arranged the chamber, and prepared their meal before any woke. I was determined that their resolution should be su]iported by the comfort which they found around tliem. I felt that cold and hunger are great sources of cowardice. They arose in high spirits. Every thing seemed delightful. The morn ajipeared only a continua- tion of the enjoyment of the evening. When they were emboldened by a good meal, I developed to them my plans. I ordered Ulric de Brahe to be first on guard, a duty from which no one was to be exempt but Pahien and myself. The post was the tower, which had given me the fa-st earnest of their fealty in assembling. No one could now approach the castle without being perceived, and we took measures that the guard should be perfectly con- cealed. Parties were then ordered out in diHerent directions, who were all to bring their report iiy the evening banquet. Pahien alone was to repair to a more distant town, and to be absent four days. He took his cart, and we contrived to dress him as like a peasant as our wardrobe would permit. His purpose was to obtain different costumes, which were necessary for our enterprise. I remained with two of my men, and worked at the interior arrange- ments of our dwelling. Thus passed a week, and each day the courage of my band became more inflamed. They panted for action. We were in want of meal. I determined to attack a farmer's grange on the ensuing eve, and I resolved to head the enterprise myself. I took with me Uliic and three others. We arrived an hour before sunset at the devoted settlement. It had been already well reconnoitred. Robberies in this country were unknown. We had to encounter no precautions. We [lassed the door of the gra- nary, rifled it, stored our cart, and escaped without a dog barking. We returned two hours before midnight, and the excitement of this evening I never shall forget. All were bursting with mad enthusiasm. I alone looked grave, as if every thing depended upon my mind. It was astonishing the influence, that this assumption of seriousness, in the midst of their wild mirth, already produced upon my companions. I was indeed their chief They placed in me unbounded confidence, and almost viewed me as a being of another order. I sent off Pahien the next day in the disguise of a pedlar to a neighbouring village. The robbery was the topic of universal conversation. Every- body was astounded, and no one was suspected. I determined, however, not to hazard in a hurry another enterprise in the neighbourhood. We wanted nothing except wine. Our guns each day procured us meat, and the farmer's meal was a plentiful source of bread. Necessity developes much talent. Already one of our party was pro- nounced an excellent cook; and the last fellow in the world we should ever have suspected, put an old oven into perfect order, and turned out a most ingenious mechanic. It w;is necessary to make a ^diversion in a distant part of the forest. I sent out my lieutenant with a strong party. They succeeded in driving home from a very rich farm four fine cows in milk. Tnis was a great addition to our luxuries, and Pahien, remaining behind, paid in disguise an observatory visit to another village in the vicinity, and brought us home the gratifying intelligence, that it was settled that the robbers were a party from a town far away on the other side of the forest. These causes of petty plundering prepared my band for the deeper deeds which I always contem- plated. Parties were now out for days together. We began to be familiar with every square mile of country. Through this vast forest-land, but much removed from the castle, ran a high road on which there was great tratTic. One evening, as Ulric and myself were prowling in this neighbourhood, we perceived a band of horsemen approaching. They were cloth-merchants, returning from a great fair, eight in number, but only one or two armed, and merely with pistols. A cloth-merchant's pistol, that had been probably loaded for years, and was borne, in all likelihood, by a man who would trem- ble at its own fire, did not appear a very formida ble weapon. The idea occurred to both of us si- nudtaneously. We put on our masks, and one of us ran out of each side of the road, and seized the bridle of the foremost horseman. I never saw a man so astonished in my life. He was, perhaps, even more astonished than afraid. But we gave them no time. I can scarcely describe the scene. There was dismounting, and the opening of the saddle-bags, and the clinking of coin. I remember wishing them good-night in the civilest tone possi- ble, and then we were alone. I stared at Ulric, Ulric utared at me, and then we burst into a loud laugh, and danced about the road. I quite lost my presence of mind, and re- joiced that no one but my favourite friend was present to witness my unheroic conduct. We had a couple of forest ponies, that we had driven home one day from a friendly farmer, tied up in an ad- joining wood. We ran to them, jumped on, and scampered away without stopping for five or six hours, at least I think so, for it was an hour after sunset before the robbery was committed, and it was the last ho"r of the moon before we reached our haunt. " The ca]itaui is come, the captain is come," was a sound that always summoned my band ; fresh faggots were thrown on the fire, beakers of wine and brandy placed on the tables. I called for Pahien and my pipe, flung myself on my seat, and dashing the purses upon the board, " Here," I said, " my boys, here is our first gold." This affair of the cloth-merchants made us quite mad. Four parties were stopped in as many (lays. For any of our companions to return without booty, or what was much more prized, without an adventure, was considered flat treason. Our whole band was now seldom assembled. The travellers to the fair were a never-failing source of prolit. Each day we meditated bolder exploits, and un- derstanding that a wedding was about to take [)lacc at a neig'ibouring castle, I resolved to sur- prise the revellers in their glory, and capture the bride. One evening, as seated in an obscure comer of the hall, I w-as maturing my plans for this great achievement, and most of my companions were assembled at their meal, Pahien unexpectedly re- turned. He was evidently much fatigued. He CONTARIxNI FLEMING. 381 panted for breath, he was covered with sweat and dirt, his dress was torn and soiled, he reached the table with staggering steps, and seizing a mighty dask of Rhenish, emptied it at a draught. "Where is the captain!" he anxiously in- quired. I advanced. He seized me by the arm, and led me out of the chamber. "A strong party of police and military have en- tered the forest. They have taken up their quar- ters at a town not ten miles olf. Their orders to discover our band are peremptory. Every spot is to be searched, and the castle will be the first. Not daring to return by our usual route, I have fought my way through the uncut woods. You must decide to-night. What will you do V " Their strength 1" " A company of infantry, a party of rangers, and a sufficiently stout body of police. Resistance is impossible." " It seems so." " And escape, unless we fly at once. To-mor- row wc shall be surromided." " The devil !" " I wish to heaven we were once more in your rooms, Fleming !" " Why, it would be as well ! But, for Heaven's sake, be calm. If we quaver, what will the rest do ? Let us summon our energies. Is conceal- ment impossible ] The dungeons ?" " Every hole will most assuredly be searched." "An ambush might destroy them. We must fight if they run us to bay." " Poh !" " Blow up the castle, then !" " And ourselves 1 "Well?" " Heavens ! what a madman you are ! It was all you, Fleming, that got us in this infernal scrape. Why the devil should we become robbers, whom society has evidently intended to be robbed 1" "You are poignant, Pahlen. Come, let us to our friends." I took him by the ai'm, and we en- tered the hall together. " Gentlemen," I said, " my lieutenant brings im- portant intelligence. A strong party of military and. police have entered the forest to discover and secure us. They are twenty to one, and therefore too strong for open combat; the castle cannot stand an hour's siege, and ambush, although it might prove successful, and gain us time, will eventually only render our escape more difficult, and our stay here impossible. I propose, therefore, that we should disperse for a few days, and before our departure, take heed that no traces of recent residence are left in this building. If we succeed in baffiing their researches, we can again assemble here, or, which I conceive will be more prudent and more practicable, meet once more only to ar- range our plans for our departure to another and a more distant country. We have ample funds, we can purchase a ship. Mingling with the crew as amateurs, we shall soon gain sufficient science. A new career is before us. The Baltic leads to the Mediterranean. Think of its blue waters, and beaming skies, its archipelagoes, and picturesque inhabitants. We have been bandits in a northern forest, let us now become pirates on a southern sea !" No sympathetic cheer followed this eloquent ap- peal. There was a deep, dull, dead, dismal silence. ' watched them narrowly. All looked with fixed eyes upon the table. I stood with folded arms. The foot of Pahlen nervously patting against the ground was the only sound. At length, one by one, each dared to gaze upon another, and tried to read his fellow's thoughts. They could, without difficulty, detect the lurking, but terrible alarm. " Well, gentlemen," I said, " time presses, I still trust I am your captain 1" " ! Flemnig, Fleming," exclaimed the cook, with a broken voice and most piteous aspect, and dropping my title, which hitherto had been scrupu- lously observed, " How can you go on so ! It is quite dreadful !" There was an assenting murmur. " I am sure," continued the artiste, whom I always knew was the greatest coward of the set, " I am sure I never thought it would come to this, I thought it was only a frohc. I have got led on, I am sure I do not know how. But you have such a way ! W^hat will our fathers think ] Robbers ! How horrible ! And then suppose we are shot! 0, Lord I what will our mothers say ! And after all we are only a parcel of boys, and did it out of fun. 0! what shall I do?" The grave looks with which this comic ebullition was received, proved that the sentiments, however unilignificd in their delivery, were congenial to the band. The orator was emboldened by not being laughed at for the first time in his life, and pro- ceeded — " I am sure I think we had better give ourselves up, and then our families might get us through. We can tell the truth. We can say we only did it for fun, and can give up the money, and as much more as they like. I do not thmk they would hang us. Do you 1 Oh !" "The- devil take the hindmost," said the young Count Bornhoim, rising, " I am olT. It will go hard if they arrest me, because I am out sporting with my gun, and if they do, I will give them my name, and then I should like to see them stop me." '■ That will be best," all eagerly exclaimed, and rose. " Let us all disperse, each alone with hia gun." " Let us put out the fire," said the cook ; " they may see the light." " What, without windows?" said Bornhoim. " O ! these police see every thing. What shall I do with the kettles ? We shall all get detected. To tliink it should come to this ! Shot ! perhaps hmig! Oh!" " Throw every thing down the well," said Pah- len, " money and all." Now I knew it was over. I had waited to hear Pahlen's voice, and I now saw it was all up. I was not sorry. I felt the inextricable difficulties in which we were involved, and what annoyed me most was, that I had hitherto seen no mode of closing my part with dignity. " Gentlemen," I said, " as long as you are still within these walls, I am still your captain. You desert me, but I will not disgrace you. Fly then, fly to your schools and homes, to your affectionate parents and your dutiful tutors. I should have known with whom I leagued myself. I at least am not a boy, and although now a leader witnout followers, I will still, for the honour of my race, and of the world in which we breathe, I will still believe that I may find trustier bosoms, and pursue a more eminent career." 382 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. nric de Crahe rushcil forward and placed him- Belf by my side, — " Fleming," he said, " I will never desert you !" I pressed his hand with the warmth it deserved, but the feeling of solitude had come over me. I •wished to be alone. " No, Ulric," I replied, " we must part. I will lie no one to my broken fortunes. And my friends all, lot us not part in bitterness. Excuse me if, in a moment of irritation, I said aught that was unkind to those I love, depreciating to those whose conduct I have ever had cause to admire. Some splendid hours wc have passed to- gether, some brief moments of gay revel, and glo- rious daring, and sublime peril. We must part. I will believe that our destiny, and not our will, se- parates us. My good sword," I exclaimed, and I drew it from my scabbard, " in future you shall belong to the bravest of the brave," and kissing it I presented it to Pahlen. " And now one brim- ming cup to the past. Pledge me all, and, in spite of every danger, with a merry face." Each man quaffed the goblet till it was dry, and performed the supernaculum, and then I walked to a distant part of tire hall, whispering, as I passed Pahlen, " See that every thing necessai-y is done." The castle well was the general receptacle for all our goods and plunder. In a few minutes the old hall presented almost the same appearance as on our ar- rival. The fire was extinguished. Every thing dis- appeared. By the light of a solitary torch, each man took liis rifle, and his knapsack, and his cloak, and then we were about to disperse. I shook hands with each. Ulric de Brahe lingered behind, and once more whispered his catnest desire to accom- pany me. But I forbade him, and he quitted me rather irritated. I was alone. In a few minutes, when I believed that all had gone forth, I came out. Ere I departed, I stopped before the old castle, and gazed upon it in the gi-ay moonlight. The mighty pines rose tall and black into the dark blue air. AH was silent. The beauty and the stillness blended with my tu- multuous emotions, and in a moment I dashed into poetry. Forgetting the imminent danger in which my presence in this spot, even my voice, might involve me, I poured forth my passionate farewell to the wild scene of my wilder life. I found a fierce solace in this expression of my heart. I discovered a substitute for the excitement of action in the ex- citement of thought. Deprived of my castle and my followers, I lied to my ideal world for refuge. There I foiuid them — a forest far wilder and more extensive, a castle far more picturesque and awful, a band inlinitely more courageous and more true. My imagination supported me under my whelm- ing mortification. Crowds of characters, and inci- dents, and passionate scenes, clustered to my brain. Again I acted, again I gave the prompt decision, again I supplied the never-failing expedient, again we revelled, fought, and plundered'. It was midnight, when wrapping himself in his cloak, and making a bed of fern, the late Lord of Jonsterna betook himself to his solitary slumber b(>nrath the wide canopy of heaven. VI. I Hosr, with the sun, and the first thought that occurred to me was to write a tragedy. The castle in lh(! forest, the Protean Pahlen, the tender-hearted Ulric, the craven cook, who was to be the traitor to betray the all-interesting and marvellous hero, myself — here was material. What soliloquies, what action, what variety of character ! I threw away my cloak, it wearied me, and walked on, waving my arm, and spouting a scene, I longed fir tlie moment that I could deliver to an imperishable scroll these vivid creations of my fancy. I deter- mined to make my way to the nearest town, and record these strong conceptions, ere the fire of my feelings died away. I was suddenly challenged by the advanced guard of a party of soldiers. They had orders to stop all travellers, and bring them to their commanding ofliicer. I accordingly repaired to their chief I had no fear as to the result. I should affect to be a travelling student, and in case of any difficulty, I had determined to confide to the officer my name. B«t this was unnecessary. I went through my ex- amination with such a confident air that nothing was suspected, and I was permitted to proceed. This was the groundwork for a new incident, and in the third act I instantly introduced a visit in disguise to the camp of the enemy. I refreshed myself at a farmhouse, where I found some soldiers billettcd. I was amused with being the subject of their conversation, and felt my imjior- tance. As I thouglit, however, it was but prudent to extricate myself from the forest without any un- neces.sary loss of time, I took my way towards its skirts, and continued advancing in that direction for several days, until I found myself in a country with which I was unacquainted. I had now gained the open country. Emerging from the straggling woodland one afternoon, about an hour before sun- set, I found myself in a highly cultivated and beau- tiful land. A small, but finely formed lake spread before me, covered with wild fowl. On its oprio- site side rose a gentle acclivity, richly wooded, and crowned by a magnificent castle. The declining sun shed a beautiful warm light over the proud building, and its park, and gardens, and the surrounding land, which was covered with orchards, and small lields of tall golden grain. The contrast of all this civilization and beauty with the recent scene of my savage existence, was very striking. I leaned in thought upon my rifle, and it occurred to me that also, in my dark work, although indeed its characteristic was the terrible, there too should be something sunny, and fresh, and fair. For if in nature, and in life, man finds these changes so delightful, so also should it be in the ideal and the poetic. And the thought of a heroine came into my mind. And while my heart was softened by the remembrance of woman, and the long repressed waters of my passionate affec- tions came gu.shing through the stern rocks that had so long beat them away, a fanciful and spark- ling equipage appeared advancing at a rapid pace to the castle. A light and brilliant carriage, drawn by four beautiful gray horses, and the chasseur in a hussar dress, and the caracoling outriders, announ- ced a personage of distiiiction. They advanced, the road ran by my feet. As they apjiroached, I perceived that there was only a lady in the carriage^ I could not distinguish much, but my heart was prophetic of her charriis. The carriage was within five yards of me. Never had I beheld so beautiful and sumptuous a creature. A strange feeling cama over mo, the carriage and the riders suddenly stopped, and its mistress, starting from her seat, exclaimcti almost shouted, "Contarini ! surely Contarini '" CONTARINI FLEMING. 333 vir. I iirsHF.n forward, I seized her. extended hand, die voice called back the sweetness of the past, my memcjry struggled through the mist of many years — " Christiana !" I had seen her once or twice since the golden age of our early loves, but not of late. I had heard too, that she had married, and heard it with a pang. Her husband, Count Norberg, I now learned, was the lord of the castle before us. I gave a hurried explanation of my presence — a walking tour, a sporting excursion, any thing did, while I held her sweet hand, and gazed upon her sparkling fiicc. I gave my gun and knapsack to an attendant, and jumped into the carriage. So many questions uttered in so kind a voice, I never felt happier. Our drive lasted only a few minutes, yet it was long enough for Christiana to tell me, a thousand times, how rejoiced she was to meet me, and how deter- mined that I should be her guest. We dashed through the castle gates. We alighted. I led her tlirough the hall, up the lofty stair- case, and into a suit of saloons. No one was there. She ran with me up stairs, would herself point out to me' my room, and was wild with glee. " I have not time to talk now, Contarini. We dine in an hour. . I will dress as fast as I can, and then we shall meet in the drawing-room." I was alone, I threw myself into a chair, and ut- tered a deep sigh. It even surprised me, for I felt at this moment very happy. The servant entered with my limited wardrobe. I tried to make myself look as nuich like a man of the world, and as little like a bandit as possible ; but I was certainly more picturesque than splendid. When I had dressed, I forgot to descend, and laaned over the mantel- piece, gazing on the empty stove. The remem- brance of my boyhood overpovsrered me. I thought of the garden in which we had first met, of her visit to me iu the dark, to solace my despair; I asked myself why, in her presence, every thing seemed beautiful, and I felt happy ] Some one tapped at the door. '-Are you ready ?" said the voice of voices. I opened the door, and taking her hand, we exchanged looks of joyful love, and descended together. We entered the saloon; she led me up to a middle-aged but graceful personage ; she introduced me to her husband, as the oldest and dearest of hrr friends. There were several other gentlemen in the room, who had come to enjoj tlie chase with their host, but no ladies. We dined at a rounil table, and I was seated by Christiana- The con- versatioa ran almost entirely on the robbers, of whom -I heard the most romantic and ridiculous accounts. I asked the countess how she should like to be the wife of a bandit chief] " I hardly know what I should do," she answered playfully, " were I to meet with some of those in- teresting ruifians of whom vs^e occasionally read ; but I fear in this age of reality, these sentimental heroes would be diHicult to discover." " Yes, I have no doubt," said a young nobleman opposite, "that if we could detect this very captain, of wnom we have daily heard such interesting de- tails, we should find him to be nothing better than a decayed innkeeper, or a broken subaltern at the best." " You think so 1" I replied. "In this age we are as prone to disbelieve in the extraordinary, as we were once eager to credit it. I differ with you about the subject of our present discussion, nor do I believe him to be by any means a common cha- racter." My remark attracted general observation. I spoke in a confident, but slow and serious tone. I wished to impress on Christiana that I was no longer a child. " But may I ask on what grounds you hav formed your opinion 1" said the count. " Principally upon my own observation," I re- plied. " Your own observation !" exclaimed my host. " What ! have you seen him V " Yes." , They would have thought me joking had I not looked so grave, but my serious air ill accorded with their smiles. " I was with him in the forest," I continued, " and had considerable conversation with him. I even accompanied him to his haunt, and witnessed his assembled band." " Are you serious !" all exclaimed. The countess was visibly interested. " But were you not very much frightened V' she inquired. " Why should I be frightened 1" I answered ; " a solitary student olTered but poor prey. He would have passed me unnoticed, had I not sought his acquaintance, and he was a sufficiently good judge of human nature speedily to discover that I was not likely to betray him." " And what sort of a man is he !" asked the young noble. " Is he young V " Very." " Well ! I think this is the most extraordinary incident that ever happened V observed the count " It is most interesting," added the countess. " Whatever may be his rank or appearance, it is all up with him by this time," remarked an old gentleman. " I doubt it," I replied, mild, but firm. " Doubt it ! I tell you what, if you were a little older, and knew this forest as well as I do, you would see that his escape is impossible. Never were such arrangements. There is not a square foot of ground that will not be scoured, and stations left on every cross-road. I was with the com- manding officer only yesterday. He cannot es- cape." " He cannot escape," echoed a hitherto silent guest, who was a great sportsman. " I will bet any sum he is talvcn before the week is over." "If it would not shock our fair hostess. Count Prater," I rejoined, " rest assured you should for- feit your stake." My host and his guests excliangcd looks, as if to ask each other who was this very young man who talked with such coolness on such very ex- traordinary subjects. But they were not cogni- zant of the secret cause of this exhibition. I wished to introduce myself as a man to ' the countess. I wished her to associate my name with something of a more exalted nature than our nursery romance. I did not, indeed, desire that she should conceive that I was less sensible to her influence, but I was determined that she should feel her influence was exercised over no ordinary bemg. I felt that my bold move had already in part succeeded. I more than once caught her eye, and read the blended feelings of 384 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. nstonishmeiit and interest with which she Hstened to me. " Well ! perhaps he may be taken in a week," said the betting Coinit Prater; " it would be an- noying to lose my wager by an hour." " Say a fortnight, then," said the young noble- man. " A fortnight, a year, an age, what you please," observed. "You will bet, then, that he will not be taken 1" asked Count Prater, eagerly. " I will bet that the expedition retires in despair," I replied. "Well! what shall it be?" asked the count, feeling he had an excellent bet, and yet fearful, from my youthful appearance, our host might deem it but delicate to insure its being a light one. " ! what you please," I replied ; " I seldom bet, but when I do, I care not how high the stake may be." " Five, or fifty, or, if you please, five hundred dollars ?" suggested the count. " Five thousand, if you like." " We are very moderate men here, baron," said our host with a smile, "you university heroes frighten us." "Well, then," I exclaimed, pointing to the count- ess's left arm, " you see this ruby bracelet ] the loser shall supply its fellow." " Bravo !" said the young nobleman, and Prater was forced to consent. A great many questions were now asked about the robbers, as to the nature and situation of their haunt, their numbers, their conduct. To all these queries I replied with as much detail as was safe, but with the air of one who was resolved not in any way to compromise the wild outlaws who had recognised his claim to be considered a man of honour. In the evening, the count, and his friends sat down to cards, and I walked up and down the saloon in conversation with Christiana. I found her manner to me greatly changed since the morning. She was evidently more constrained. Evidently she felt that, in her previous burst of cordiality, she had for- gotten that time might have changed me more than it had her. I spoke to her little of home. I did not indulge in the details of domestic tattle. I sur- prised her by the v\'ild and gloomy tone in which I mentioned myself 'and my fortunes. I mingled with my reckless prospect of the future, the bitterest sarcasms on my present lot, and when I almost alarmed her by my malignant misanthropy, I darted into a train of gay nonsense, or tender reminiscen- ces, and piqued her by the easy and rapid mode in which my temper seemed to shift from morbid sen- sibility to callous mockery. VIII. I HETiJiEi) to my room, I wrote a letter to my ervant at the university, directing him to repair to Norberg Castle with my horses and wardrobe. The fire blazed brightly, the pen was fresh and brisk, the idea rushed into my head in a moment, and I com- menced my tragedy. I had already composed the first scene in my head. The plot was simple, and had been finally arranged while walking up and down the room with the countess. A bandit chief falls in love with the wife of a rich noble, the gov- ernor of the province, which is the scene of his ra- vages. I sat up nearly allnight in fervid composition. I wrote with greater facility than before, because my experience of life was so much increased that I had no dilhculty in making my characters think and act. There was indeed little art in my creation, but there was much vitality I rose veiy late, and found the chase liad long ago called forth my fellow-guests. I could always find amusement in musing over my next scene, and I sauntered forth, almost unconscious of what I did. I found Christiana in a very fanciful flower-garden. She was bending down, tending a favourite plant. My heart beat, my spirit seemed lighter, she heard my step, she raised her smiling face, and gave me a flower. " Ah ! does not this remind you," I said, ' of a spot of early days ] I should grieve if you had for- gotten the scene of our first acquaintance." " The dear garden-house," exclaimed Christiana, with an arch smile. " Never shall I forget it. I Contarini, what a little boy you were then !" We wandered about together till the noon had long passed, talking of old times, and then we entered the castle for rest. She was as gay as a young creature in spring, but I was grave though not gloomy. I listened to her musical voice. I watched the thousand ebullitions of her beaming grace. I could not talk. I could only assent to her cheerful observations, and repose in peaceful silence, full of tranquil joy. The morning died away, the hunt- ers returned, we reassembled again to talk over the day's exploits, and speculate on the result of my bet with Count Prater. No tidings were heard of the robbers; nearly every observation of yesterday was repeated. It was a fine specimen of rural conversation. They ate keenly, they drank freely, and I rejoiced when they were fairly seated again at their card-table, and I was once more with Christiana. I was delighted when she quitted the harp, and seated herself at the piano. I care little for a melo- dious voice, as it gives me no ideas, but instrumental music is a true source of inspiration, and as Chris- tiana executed the magnificent overture of a great German master, I moulded my feelings of the morn- ing into a scene, and when I again found myself in my room, I recorded it with facility, or only with a degree of difficulty with which it was exhilarating to contend. At the end of three days my servant arrived, and gave me the first information that myself and my recent companions were expelled, for whicli I cared as little as for their gold medal. 1'hree weeks flew away, distinguished by no par- ticular incident, except the loss of his gage by Count Prater, and my manifold care that he should redeem it. The robbers could not in any manner be traced, although Jonsterna afforded some indications. The wonder increased, and was universal, and my ex- ploits afforded a subject for a pamphlet, the cheap- ness of whose price the publisher earnestly impressed upon us could only be justified by its extensive cir- culation. Three weeks had flown away, three sweet weeks, and flown away in the almost constant presence of Christiana, or in scarcely less delightful composi- tion. My tragedy was finished. I resolved to return home, I longed to bring my reputation to the test, yet I lingered about Christiana. I lingered about her as the young bird about the first sunny fruit his inexperienced love dare not C N T A R I N I F L E M I N G. 385 ttiuch. I was ever wiMi her, and each day grew more silent. I joined her e.xliausted by composi- tion. In her presence I sought refreshing solace, renewed inspiration. I spoke little, for one feeling alone occupied my being, and even of that I was not cognizant, for its nature to me was indefinite and indistinct, although its power was constant and irresistible. But I avenged niyself for this strange silence when I was once more alone, and my fervid page teemed with the imaginary passion, of whose reality my unpractised nature was not yet con- vinced. One evening, as we were walking together in the saloon, and she was expressing her wish that I would remain, and her wonder as to the necessity of my returning, which I described as so impera- tive, suddenly and in the most unpremeditated manner, I made her the confidant of my literary secret. I was charmed with the temper in which she received it, the deep and serious interest which she expressed in my success. " Do you know," she added, " Contarini, you will think it very odd, but I have always believed you were intended for a poet.'' My sparkling eye, sparkling with hope and affec- tioii, thanked her for her sympathy, and it was agreed that on the morrow I should read to her my production. I was very nervous when I commenced. Tliis was the first time that ray composition had beert submitted to a human being, and now this submis- sion was to take place in the presence of the author, through the medium of his voice. As I proceeded, I grew rather more assured. The interest which Christiana really found, or affected to find, encou- raged me. If I hesitated, she said, "beautiful!" whenever I paused, she exclaimed, " interesting !" My voice grew firmer, the interest which I myself took banished my false shame. I grew excited, my modulated voice impressed my sentiments, and my action sometimes explained them. The robber scene was considered wonderful, and full of life and nature. Christiana marvelled how I could have in- vented such extraordinary things and characters. At length I came to my heroine. Her beauty was described in an elaborate, and far too poetic passage. It was a perfect fac-simile of the countess. It was ridiculous. She herself felt it, and looking up, smiled with a faint blush. I had now advanced into the very heart of the play, and the scenes of sentiment had commenced. I had long since lost my irresolution. The encou- ragement of Christiana, and the delight which I really felt in my writing, made me more than bold. I really acted before her. She was susceptible. All know how very easy it is for a very indifferent drama, if well performed, to soften even the callous. Her eyes were sOtTused with tears, my emotion was also visible. I felt like a man brought out of a dungeon, and groping his way in the light. How could I have been so bhnd when all was so evident] It was not until I had recited to Christiana my ficti- tious passion, t'lat I had become conscious of my real feelings. I had been ignorant all this time that I had been long fatally in love with her. I threw away my manuscript, and seizing her hand, " O Christiana!" I exclaimed, "what mockery is it thus to veil truth 1 Before you is the leader of the band of whom you have heard so much. He adores you." She started, I cannot describe the beautiful con- sternation of her countenance. j 49 " Contarini," she exclaimed, " are you mad I what can you mean 7" " Mean !" I poured forth, " is it doubtful ? Yes ! I repeat, I am the leader of that band whose ex ploits have so recently alarmed you. Cannot you now comprehend the story of my visiting then haunt ] Was it probable, was it possible, that I should have been permitted to gain their secret and to retire? The robbers were youth like myself, weary of the dull monotony of our false and wretched life. We have yielded to overwhelming force, but we have baflled all pursuit. For myself I quit forever the country I abhor. Ere a year hag passed, I shall roam a pirate on the far waves of the .'Egean. One tie only binds m.e to this rigid clime. In my life I have loved only one being. I look upon her. Yes ! yes ! it is you, Christiana. On the very brink of my exile, destiny has brought us once more together. ! let us never part ! Be mine, — be mine ! Share with me my glory, my liberty, and my love !" I poured forth this rhapsody with impassionate haste. The countess stared with blank astonish- ment. She appeared even alarmed. Suddenly she sprang up and ran out of the room. IX. I WAS enraged, and I was confused. I do not know whether I felt more shame or more irritation. My vanity impelled me to remain some time with the hope she would return. She did not, and seiz- ing my tragedy, I rushed into the park. I met my servant exercising a horse. I sent him back to the castle alone, jumped on my steed, and in a few minutes was galloping along the high road to the metropolis. It was about one hundred miles distant. When I arrived home I found that my father and the baron- ess were in the country. I was not sorry to be alone, as I really had returned without any object, and had not, in any degree, prepared myself to meet my father. After some consideration I enclosed my tragedy to a most eminent publisher, and I sent it him from a quarter whither he could gain no clew as to its source. I pressed him for a reply without unnecessary loss of time, and he, unUke these gentry, who really think themselves far more important personages than those by whose wits they live, was punctual. In the course of a week he returned me my manuscript, with his complimen-ts, and an extract from the letter of his principal critic, in which my effusion was described as a laboured exaggeration of the most unnatural features of the German school. The day I received tlas my father arrived. He was alone, and had merely come up to town to transact business. He was surprised to see me, but said nothing of my. expulsion, although I felt confident he must be aware of it. We dined to- gether alone. He talked to me at dinner of indif- ferent sul)jccts, of alterations at his castle, and tha state of Europe. As I wished to conciliate him, I affected to take great interest in this latter topic, and I thought he seemed pleased with the earnest readiness with which I interfered ni the discussion. After dinner he remarked, very quietly filling hi8 glass, " Had you communicated with me, Conta- rini, I could perhaps have saved you the disgrace of expulsion." I was quite taken by surprise, and looked very 3S6 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. confused. At last T said, " I fear, sir, I have oc- fasioned you too often great mortification, hut I sometimes cannot refrain from believing that I may yet make a return to you for all your goodness." " Every thing depends upon yourself, Contarini. You have elected to be your own master. You must take the consequences of your courage, or your rashness. What are your plans 1 I do not know whether you mean to honour me with your confidence as a friend. I do not even aspire to the authority of a fither." " O ! pray, sir, do not say so. I place myself entirely at your disposal. I desire nothing more ardently than to act under your command. I as- sure you that you will find me a ven' different personage than you imagine. I am impressed with a most earnest and determined resolution to become a practical man. You must not judge of me by my boyish career. The very feelings that made me revolt at the discipline of schools, will ensure my subordination in the world. I took no interest in their petty pursuits, and their minute legislation interfered with my more extended views." "What views?" asked my father, with a smile. I was somewhat puzzled, but I answered, " I wish, sir, to influence men." "But before you influence others, you must leam to influence yourself. Now those who would iudge, perhaps imperfectly, of your temperament, (Contarini, would suppose that its characteristic was a nature so headstrong and imprudent that it could not fail of involving its possessor in many dangerous, and sometimes even in very ridiculous positions." I was silent, with my eyes fixed on the ground. " I think you have sufficient talents for all that i could reasonably desire, Contarini," continued my father; "I think you have talents indeed for any thing, I mean, that a rational being can desire to attain ; but you sadly lack judgment. I think that you are the most imprudent person with whom I ever was acquainted. You have a great enemy, Contarini, a great enemy in yourself. You have a great enemy in your imagination. I think if you could control your imagination, you might be a great man. " It is a fatal gift, Contarini; for when possessed in its highest quality and strength, what has it ever done for its votaries ] What wore all those great poets of whom we now tallc so nnich, what were they in their lifetime 1 The most miserable of their species. Depressed, doubtful, obscure, or in- volved in petty quarrels and petty precautions, often unappreciated, utterly uninfluential, beggars, flatterers of men unworthy even of their recognition — what a train of disgustful incidents, what a re- cord of degrading circumstances is the life of a great poet 1 A man of great energies aspires that they should be felt in his lifetime, that his existence should be rendered more intensely vital by the con- stant consciousness of his multiplied and multiply- ing power. Is posthumous fame a substitute for all this] Viewed in every light and under evei-y feehng, it is alike a mockery. Nay, even try the greatest by this test, and what is the result 1 Would you sooner have been Homer or Julius Cmsar, Shakspearc or Napoleon? No one doubts. Moral- ists may cloud truth with every possible adumbra- tion of cant, but the nature of our being gives the lie to all their assertions. We are active beings, and our sympathy, above all otlier sympathies is with great action. " Remember, Contarini, that all this time I am taking for granted that you may be a Homer. I^et us now recollect that it is perhaps the most impro- bable incident that can occur. The high poetic talent, — as if to prove that a poet is only, at the best, a wild, although a beautiful error of nature, — the high poetic talent is the rarest in creation What you have felt is what I have felt myself, ia what all men have felt ; it is the consequence of our native and inviolate susceptibility. As you advance in life, and become more callous, more acquainted with man, and with yourself, you will find it, even daily, decrease. Mix in society, and I will answer that you lose your poetic feeling; for in you, as in the great majority, it is not a creative faculty ori- ginating in a peculiar organization, but simply the consequence of a nervous susceptibility that is common to all." I suspected very much, that my father had stumbled on the unhappy romance of the " W^ild Hunter of Rodenstein," which I had left lying about my drawers, but I said nothing. He pio- ceeded. " The time has now arrived which may be consi dered a crisis in your life. You have, although very young, resolved that society should consider you a man. No preparatory situation can now veil your indiscretions. A youth at the university may com- mit outrages with impunity, which will affix a lasting prejudice on a person of the same age, who has quitted the university. I must ask you again, what are your plans ?" " I have none, sir, except your wishes. I feel acutely the truth of all you have observed. I assure you I am as completely and radically cured of any predisposition that I confess I once conceived 1 possessed for literary invention, as even you could desire. I will own to you that my ambition is very great. I do not think that I should find life tolera I lie unless I were in an eminent position, and con sciousthat I deserved it. Fame, although not post- humous fame, is, I feel, necessary to my felicity.. In a word, I wish to devote myself to affairs — 1 attend only your commands." " If it meet your wishes, I will appoint you my private secretary. The post, particularly when confirmed by the confidence which must subsist between individuals connected as we are, is the best school for public affairs. It will prepare you for any office." " I can conceive nothing more delightful. You could not have fixed upon an ap[)ointment moro congenial to my feelings. To be your constant companion, in the slightest degree to alleviate the burden of your labours, to be considered worthy of your confidence — this is all that I could desire. I only fear that my ignorance of routine may at first inconvenience you, but trust me, dear father, that if devotion, and the constant exertion of any talents I may possess can aid you, they will not be want ing. Indeed, indeed, sir, you never shall repeni your goodness." This same evening I consigned my tragedy to the flames. X. I nEvoTF.n myself to my new pursuits with as much fervour as I liad done to the study of Greek. CONTARINI FLEMING. 397 The former secretary initiated me in the mysteries of routine business. My father, although he made no remark, was evidently j)leased at tlie facility and quickness with which I attained this formal, but necessary information. Vattel and Martens were my private studies. I was greatly interested with my novel labours. Foreign policy opened a dazzhng vista of splendid incident. It was enchanting to be acquainted with the secrets of European cabinets, and to control or influence their fortunes. A year passed with more satisfaction than any period of my former life. I had become of essential service to my father. My talent for composition found full exer- cise, and afforded him great aid in drawin,g up state papers and manifestoes, despatches and decrees. We were always together. I shared his entire confidence. He instructed me in the cliaracters of the public men who surrounded us, and of those who were more distant. I was astonished at the scene of intrigue that opened on me. I found that in some, even of his colleagues, I was ojily to per- ceive secret enemies, and in others but necessary tools and tolerated encumbrances. I delighted in the danger, the management, the negotiation, the suspense, the difficult gratification of his high am- bition. Intent as he was to make me a great statesman, he was scarcely less anxious that I should become a finished man of the world. He constantly im- pressed upon me that society was a politician's great tool, and the paramount necessity of cultivating its good graces. He afforded me an ample allowance. He encouraged mo in a lavish expenditure. Above all, he was ever ready to dilate upon the diaracter of women, and while he astonislied me by the tone of depreciation in which he habitually spoke of them, he would even inagnify tlieir influence, and the ne- cessity of securing it. I modelled my character upon that of my father. I imbibed his deep worldliness. With my usual impetuosity, I even exaggerated it. I recognised self-interest as the spring of all action. I received it as a truth, that no man was to be trusted, and no womaw^'bc loved. I gloried in secretly believing myself^e' most callous of men, and that nothing could tempt me to compromise my absorbing self- isni. I laid it down as a principle, that all conside- rations must yield to the gratification of my ambi- tion. The ardour and assiduity with which I ful- filled my duties and prosecuted my studies, had rendered, me, at the end of two years, a very skil- ful poHtician. My great fiult, as a man of affairs, was, that I was too fond of patronising charlntans, and too ready to give every adventurer credit for great talents. The moment a man started a new idea, my active fancy conjured up all the great re- sults, and conceived that his was equally prophetic. But here my father's severe judgment and sharp experience always interfered for my benefit, and my cure was assisted by hearing a few of my black tivvans cackle, instead of chant. As a member of society, I was entirely exempt from the unskilful affectation of my boyhood. I was assured, arrogant, and bitter, but easy, and not ungraceful. The men trembled at my sarcasms, and the women repeated with wonderment my fantastic raillery. My posi- tion in life, and the exaggerated halo with which, in my case, as in all others, the talents of emi- nent youth were injudiciously invested, made me courted by all, especially by the daughters of Eve. I was sometimes nearly the victim of liackncyed experience — sometimes I trifled with affcctionc, which my parental instructions taught me never to respect. On the whole, I considered myself as one of the most important personages in the country, possessing the greatest talents, the profoundest knowledge of men and affairs, and the most perfect acquaintance with society. When I look back upon myself at this period, I liave difficulty in con- ceiving a more miamiable character. XL In the third year of my political life, the prime minister suddenly died. Here was a catastrophe I Who was to be his successor ] Here was a fruitful theme for speculation and intrigue. . Public opinion pointed to my father, who indeed, if qualification for the post were only considered, had no competi- tor ; but Baron Fleming wa.s looked upon by his brother nobles with a jealous eye, and although not unwilling to profit by his labours, they were chary of permitting them too uncontrolled a scope. He was talked of as a new man : he was treated as scarcely national. The state was not to be placed at the disposal of an adventurer. He was not one of themselves. It was a fatal precedent, that the veins of the prime minister .should be filled with any other blood but that of their ancient order. Even many of his colleagues did not affect to con- ceal their hostility to his appointment, and the Count de Moltkc, who was gupipo.sed to possess every quality that should adcjcii the character of a first minister, was openly announced as the certain successor to the vacant office. The Count de Moltke w^as a frivolous old courtier, who had gained his little experience in long service in the household, and, even were he appointed, could only anticipate the practicability of carrying on affairs by implicit conlldence in his rival. The Count de Moltke was a tool. Skilful as my father was in controlling and veil ling his emotion, the occasion v/as too powerful even for his firmness. For the first time in his life he sought a confidant, and, firm in the affection of a son, he confessed to me, with an agitation which was alone sufficient to express his meaning, how entirely he had staked liis felicity on this cast. He could not refrain from bitterly dilating on the state of society, in wliicli secret influence, and the preju- dices of a bigoted class, should for a moment per- mit one, who had devoted all the resources of a high intellect to the welfare of his country, to be placed in momentary competition, still more in per- manent inferiority with such an ineflkble nonentity as the Count de Moltke. Every feeling in my nature prompted me to en- ergy. I counselled my father to the most active exertions, but although subtle, he was too cautiou.s, and where he was himself concerned, even timor- ous. I had no compunction, and no fear, I would .scrui'le at no means which could ensure our end. The feeling of society, was in general, in our fa- vour. Even among the liighest class, the women were usually on tire side of my father. Baroness Engel, who was the evening star that beamed un- rivalled in all our assemblies, and who fancied her self a little Dutchess de Longueville, deUghted in a political intrigue. I affected to make her our con- fidante. We resolved together that the onlymodo was to render our rival ridiculous. I wrote au anonymous pamphlet in favour of the appointmerij 3SS D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. of the Count (Ic Moltkc. It took in cvrryhody, un- til in the last page they read my panojTyric of his cream cheeses. It was in vain that the Count de Moltke, and all his friends, protested that his excel- lency had never made a cream cheese in the whole course of his life. The story was too probable not to be true. He was just the old fool who would make a cream cheese. I secured the channel of our principal journals. Each morning teemed with a diatribe against backstairs influence, the preju- dices of a nobility who were behind their age, and indignant histories of the maladnihiisti-ation of court f ivourifcs. The evening, by way of change, brought only an epigram, sometimes a song. 'J'he fashion took : all the youth were on our side. One day, in imitation of the Tre Giuli, we published a whole volume of epigrams, all on cream cheeses. The baroness was moreover an inimitable caricaturist. The shops were fdlcd with infinite scenes, in which a ludicrous old fribble, such as we might fancy a rrench marquis before the Kevolution, was ever coiHiiiitling something irresistibly ludicrous. In ad- dition to ail this, I hired ballad singers, who were always chanting in the public walks, and even uniier the windows of the palace, the achieve- ments of the unrivalled manufacturer of cream cheeses. In the mean time my father was not idle. He had discovered that the Count dc Bragnaes, one of the most inlluential nobles in the country, and the great sup[)orter of De Moltke, was ambitious of be- coming Secretary for Foreign Aifairs, and that De Moltke had hesitated in pledging himself to this ar- rangement, as he could not perceive how aifairs could be carried on if my fiither was entirely dis- missed. My father opened a secret negotiation with De Bragnaes, and shook before his eyes the glittering seals he coveted. De Bragnaes was a dolt, but my father required only tools, and felt himself ca[)able of fullilling the duties of the wholes ministry. This great secret was not concealed from me. I opposed the arrangement, not only because Dc Bragnaes was absolutely insuiilcient, but be- cause I wished to introduce into the cabinet Baron Engel. The post of chief minister had now been three weeks vacant, and the delay was accounted for by the illness of the sovereign, who was nevertheless in perfect health. All this excitement took place at the very season we were all assembled in the capital for the j)urposes of society. My fiither was everywhere, and each night visible. I contrasted the smiling indifierence of his public appearance with the agonies of ambition, which it was my doom alone to witness. I was alone with my father in his cabinet when a r^/yal messenger summoned him to the presence. 1'he king was at a palace about ten miles from the city. It did not in any way follow from the invita- tion that my father was successful : all that we felt assured of was, that the crisis had arrived. Wc exchanged looks, but not words. Intense as was suspense, business prevented me from attending my father, and waiting in the royal antechamber to hear llie great result. He departed. I had to receive an important deputation, the dis- cussion of whose wishes emi)loyed the whole morn- ing. It was with extreme dilliculty that I could command my attention. Never in my life had I felt so nervous. Each moment a messenger enter- ed, 1 believed that he was the important one. No carriage dashed into the court-yard that did not to my fancy bear my father. At last the deputation retired, and then came private interviews and ur- gent correspondence. It was twilight. The servant had lit one burn- er of the lamp, when the door opened, and my fa- ther stood before me. I could scarcely refrain from crying out. I pushed out the astonished waiting- man, and locked the door. My father looked grave, serious, I thought a littlo depressed. " All is over," thought I, .and in an instant I began speculating on the future, and had created much, when my father's voice called me back to the j)resent scene. " His majesty, Contarini," said my father in a dry, formal marmer, as if he were speaking to one who had never witnessed his weakness — " His ma- jesty has been graciously pleased to appoint me to the supreme office of president of his council; and as a further mark of his entire confidence and full approbation of my past services, he has thought fit to advance me to the dignity of count." Was this frigid form that stotxl unmoved before me the being whom, but four-and-twenty hours ago, I had watched trembling with his high passions 1 Was this curt, unimpassioned tone, the voice in which he should have notified the crowning glory of his fortunes to one who had so struggled in their behalf! I could scarcely sjieak. I hardly con- gratulated him. "And your late post, sirl" I at length inquired. " The seals of this ofhce will be held by the Ba- ron de Bragnaes." I shrugged my shoulders in silence. " The king is not less aware than myself t?iat his excellency can bring but a slight portion of in- tellectual strength to the new cabinet ; that he is one indeed about to he placed in a position, to dis- charge the duties of which he is incapable; but his inujesty as well as myself, has unbounded confi- dence in the perfect knowledge, the energetic assi- duity, and the distinguished talents of the individual who will fulfil the duties of under-secretary. He will be the virtual head of this great department Allow me to be the first to congratulate Count Contarini Fleming on his new dignity, and his en trance into the service of his sovereign." I rushed forward, I seized his hand. " My dear f itlier," I said, " I am quite overwhelmed. I dream- ed not of tliis. I never thought of myself, I thought only of you." He pressed my hand, but did not lose his com- posure. " We dine together to-day alone," he said, " I must now see De Bragnaes. At dinner I will tell you all. Nothing will be announced till to-morrow. Your friend, Engel, is not for- gotten." He quitted the chamber. The moment he dis- appeared I could no longer refrain from glancing in the mirror. Never had I marked so victorious a visage. An unnatural splendour sparkled in my eye, my lip was impressed with energy, my nostril dilated with triumph. I stood before the tall mir- ror, and planted my foot, and waved my arm. So much more impressive is reality than imagination ! Cften, in revcw, had I been an Alberoni, a Kipper- da, a Kichelieu ; but never had I felt, when mould- ing the destinies of the wide globe, a tithe of (he trium])hant exultation which was afforded by the consciousness of the simple fact that I was an un- der-secretary of stale, CONTARINI FLEMING. 389 XII. I HAD achieved by this time what is called a great reputation. I do not know that there was any one more talked of, and more considered in the country, than myself. I was my father's only confidant, and secretly his only counsellor. I managed Dc Bragnacs admirablj^, and always suggested to hina the opinion, which I at the same time requested. He was a mere cipher. As for the Count de Moitke, he was very rich, with an only daughter, and my father had already hinted at, what I had even turned in my own mind, a union with the wealtliy, although not very pleasing, offspring of the maker of cream cheeses. At this moment, in the zenith of my popularity and power, the Norbergs returned to the capital. I had never seen them since the mad morning which, with all my boasted callousness, I ever blushed to remember, for the count had, immedi- ately after my departure, been appointed to a very important, although distant government. Nor had I ever heard of them. I never wished to. I drove their memory from my mind ; but Christiana, who had many correspondents, and among them the baroness, had, of course, heard much of me. Our family was the first they called upon, and, in spite of the mortifying awkwardness of the meet- ing, it was impossible to avoid it, and tliereforc I determined to [)ay my respects tn them immodiate- ly. I was careful to call when I knew I could not be admitted, and the first interview finally took place at our own house. Christiana received me with tiie greatest kindness, although with increased reserve, which might be accounted for by the time that had elapsed since we last met, and the altera- tion that had since taken place both in my age and station. In all probability, she looked upon my present career as a suflicient guaranty that iny head was cleared of the wild fancies of my impetuous boyhood, and rejoicing in this accomplishment, and anticipating our future and agreea!)lo acquaint- ance, she might fairly congratulate herself .on the excellent judgment which had prompted her to pass over in silence my unpardonable indiscretion. Her manner put me so completely at my ease that, in a moment after my salute, I wondered I could have been so foolish as to have brooded over it. The countess was unaltered, except that she looked perhaps more beautiful. She was a rare creation that time loved to spare. That sweet, and blooming, and radiant face, and that tall, and shapely, and beaming form — not a single bad pas- bion had ever marred their light and grace, all the treshness of an innocent heart had embahned their perennial loveliness. The party seemed dull. I, who was usually a great talker, could not speak. I dared not attempt to be alone with Christiana. I watched her only at a distance, and indicated my absorbing mood to others only by my curt and discouraging answers. When all was over, I retired to my own rooms ex- ceedingly gloomy and disj)iritod. I was in these days but a wild beast, who thought himself a civilized and human being, I was pro- foundly ignorant of all that is true and excellent. An unnatural system, like some grand violence of nature, had transformed the teeming and beneficent ocean of my mind into a sandy and arid desert. I had not then discovered even a faint adumbration of the philosophy of our existence. Blessed by nature with a heart that is the very shrine of sen sibility, my infamous education had succeeded in rendering me the most selfish of my species. But nature, as the philosophic Winter impressed upon me, is stronger than education, and the j)re- sence of this woman, this sudden appearance, amid my corrupt, and heartless, and artificial life, of so much innocence, and so much love, and so much simplicity, they fell upon my callous heart like the first rains upon a Syrian soil, and the refreshed earth responded to the kindly influence by an in- stant recurrence to its nature. I recoiled with disgust from the thought of my present life ; I fle\v back with rapture to my old as- pirations. And the beautiful, for which I had so often and so early sighed, and the love that I felt indispensable to my panting frame, and the deep sympathy for all creation that seemed my being, and all the dazzling and extending glory that had hovered, like a halo, round my youthful visions — they returned — they returned in tlieir might and their splendour, and when I remembered what I was, I buried my face in my hanils and wept. I retired to my bed, but I could not sleep. I savv no hope, yet I was not miserable. Christiana could never be mine. I did not wish her to be. I could not contemplate such an incident. I had prided myself on my prolligacy, but this night avenged my innate purity. I threw off my ficti- tious passions. It was the innocence of Christiana that exercised over me a spell so potent. Her un- so{)histicated heart awoke in me a passion for the natural and the pure. She was not made to be the heroine of a hackneyed adventure. To me she was not an individual, but a personification of Nature. I gazed upon her only as I would upon a beautiful landscape, with an admiring symi)athy which en- nobles my feelings, invigorates my intellect, and calls forth the latiuit poetry of my being. The thought darted into my mind in a moment. I cannot tell how it came. It seemed inspiration, but I responded to it with an eager, and even fierce symf)athy. Said I that the thought darted into my mind? Let me recall the weak phrase, let me rather say, that a form rose before me in the depth of the dull night, and that form was myself. That form was myself, yet also another. I beheld a youth who, like me, had stifled the breathing forms of his young creation ; who, like me, in the cold wilderness of the world, looked back with a mourn- ful glance at the bright gates of the sweet garden of fancy he had forfeited. I felt the deep and agonizing struggle of his genius and his fate ; and my prophetic mind, bursting through all the thou- sand fetters that had been forged so cunningly to bind it in its cell, the inspiration of my nature, that beneficent demon who will not desert those who struggle to be wise and good — tore back the curtain of the future, and I beheld, seated on a glorious throne on a jiroud Acropolis, one to whom a sur- rounding and enthusiastic people offered a laurel crown. I laboured to catch the fleeting featured and the changing countenance of him who sat upon the throne. Was it the strange youth, or was it indeed myself? I jumped out of bed. I endeavoured to be calm. I asked myself, soberly, whether I had indeed seen a vision, or whether it were but the invisible phan- tasm of an ecstatic revery ? I looked round me ; there was nothing. The moonbeam was stationary on the wall. I opened the window and looked out 2 ir "X 390 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. upop the vast, and cold, and silent street. The bitterness of the night cooled me. The pulsations of my throbbing head subsided. I regained my bed, and instantly sank into a sweet sleep. The aunt of the Countess Fleming had died, and left to my stepdame the old garden-house, ■vvliich is not perhaps forgotten. As I had always continued on the best possible terms with the countess, and, indeed, was in all points quite her standard of perfection, she had, with great courtesy, permitted me to make her recently-acquired man- sion my haliitation, when important business occa- sionally made me desire for its transaction a spot less subject to constant interruption than my oiHce and my home. To the garden-house I repaired the next morning at a very early hour. I was so eager that I ordered, as I dismounted, my rapid breakfast, and in a few minutes, this being despatched, I locked myself up in my room, giving orders not to be disturbed, except by a message from my father. I took up a pen. I held it in the light. I thought to myself what will be its doom, but I said nothing. I began writing some hours before noon, nor did I ever cease. My thoughts, my passion, the rush of my invention, were too quick for my pen. Page followed page ; as a sheet was finished I threw it on the floor ; I was amazed at the rapid and prolific production, yet I could not stop to wonder. In half a dozen hours I sank back utterlv exhausted, with an aching frame. I rang the bell, ordered some refreshment, and walked about the room. The wine invigorated me, and warmed up my sinking fancy, which however required little fuel. I set to again, and it was midnight before I retired to my bed. The next day I again rose early, and, with a bottle of wine at my side, for I was determined not to be disturbed, I dashed at it again. I was not less successful. This day I finished my first vo- lume. The third morning I had less inclination to write. I read over and corrected what I had com- posed. This warmed up my fancy, and in the afternoon I executed several chapters of my second volume. Each day, although I had not in the least lost my desire of writing, I wrote slower. It was neces- sary for me each day to read my work from the be- ginning, before I felt the existence of the charac- ters sufficiently real to invent their actions. Never- theless, on the morning of the seventh day, the se- cond and last volume was finished. My book was a rapid sketch of the developement of the poetic character. My hero was a youth whose mind was ever combatting with his situation. Gifted with a highly poetic temperament, it was the office of his education to counteract all its en- nobling tendencies. I traced the first indication of his predisposition, the growing consciousness of his powers, his reveries, his loneliness, his doubts, his moody misery, his ignorance of his art, his fail- ures, his despair. I painted his agonizing and in- elfectual eflbrts to exist like those around him. I pi-ured forth my own passion, when I described the fervour of his love. All this was serious enough, and the most sin- gular thing is that all this time, it never struck me that I was dehncating my own character. But now comes the curious part. In depicting the scenes of society in which uiy hero was forced to move, I suddenly dashed, not only into the most slashing satire, but even into malignant personality. All the bitterness of my heart, occasioned by my wretched existence among their false circles, found its full vent. Never was any thing so imprudent. Everybody figured, and all parties and opinions alike suffered. The same hand that immortalized the cream cheeses of poor Count de Moltke, now avenged his wrongs. For the work itself, it was altogether a most crude performance, teeming with innumerable faults. It was entirely deficient in art. The prin- cipal character, although forcil)ly conceived, for it was founded on truth, was not sufficiently develop- ed. Of course the others were much less so. The incidents were unnatural, the serious characters exaggerations, the comic ones caricatures; the wit was too often flifipant, the philosophy too often forced ; yet the vigour was remarkable, the license of an uncurbed imagination not without its charms, and, on the whole, there breathed a freshness which is rarely found, and which, perhaps, with all my art and knowledge, I may never again afford : and indeed when I recall the magnificient enthu- siasm, the glorious heat, with which this little work was written, I am convinced that, with all its errors, the spark of true creation animated its fiery page. Such is the history of " Manstein," a work which exercised a strange influence on my destiny. XIII. I PEnsoNALT.T intrustcd my novel to the sam» bookseller to whom I had anonymously submitteOi my tragedy. He required no persuasion to have the honour of introducing it to the world, and had he hesitated, I would myself have willingly under- taken the charge, for I was resolved to undergo the ordeal. I swore him to the closest secrecy, and, as mystery is part of the craft, I had confi- dence that his interest would prompt him to main- tain his honour. All now being finished, I suddenly and naturally resumed my olivious and usual character. The pouring forth had relieved my mind, and the strong feelings that prompted it having subsided, I felt a little of the lassitude that succeeds exertion. That reaction, to which ardent and inexperienced minds are subject, now also occurred. I lost my confi- dence in my effusion. It seemed impossible that any thing I had written could succeed, and I felt that nothing but decided success could justify a person in my position to be an author. I half de- termined to recall the rash deposite, but a mixture of false shame and lingering hope that I might yet be happily mistaken, dissuaded me. I resolved to think no more or it. It was an inconsiderate ven- ture, but secrecy would preserve me from public shame, and as for my private mortification, I should at least derive from failure a beneficial conviction of my literary incompetency, and increased energy to fcillow up the path which fortune seemed to destine for my pursuit. Official circumstances oc- curred also at this moment, which imperatively demanded all my attention, and which indeed interested my feelings in no ordinary degree. The throne of my royal master had been gua- ranteed to him by those famous treaties which, at the breaking up of that brilliant vision, the French em- pire, had been vainly considered by the great Eu- ropean powers as ensuring the peraiaiient settle- CONTARINI FLEMING. 391 ment of Europe. A change of dynasty had placed tlie kinj in a delicate position, but by his sage coun- cils and discreet conduct the last burst of the revo- lutionary storm passed over without striking his dia- dem. One of the most distinguished instances of the ministerial dexterity of my father was the dis- covery of a latent inclination in certain of our powerful allies, to favour the interests of the abdi- cated dynasty, and ultimately to dispute the suc- cession, which, at the moment, distracted by the multiplicity of important and engrossing interests, they deemed themselves too hastily to have recog- nised. In this conjuncture, an appeal to arms on our part was idle, and all to which we could trust in bringing about a satisfactory adjustment of this paramount question, was diploraaUc ingenuity. For more than three years, secret, but active nego- tiations had been on foot to attain our end, and cir- cumstances had now occurred whic-h induced us to believe that, by certain combinations, the result might be realized. I took a very great interest in these negotiations, and was the only person out of the cabinet to whom they were confided. The situation of the prince royal, himself a very accomplished personage, but whose unjust unpopularity offered no obstacle to the views of his enemies, extremely commanded my sympathy: the secrecy, importance, and refined diffi- culty of the transactions called forth all the play of my invention. Although an affair which, accord- ing to etiquette, should have found its place in the Foreign Office, my father, on his promotion, did not think it fitting to transfer a business of so deli- cate a nature to another functionary, and he con- trived to correspond upon it with foreign courts in his character of first minister. As his secretary, I had been privy to all the details, and I continued therefore to assist him in his subsequent proceed- ings. My father and myself materially differed as to the course expedient to be pursued. He flattered himself that every thing might be brought about by negotiation, in which he was indeed unrivalled, and he often expatiated to me on the evident im- possibility of the king having recourse to any other measures. For myself, when I remembered the time that had already passed without in any way advancing our desires, and believed, which I did most firmly, that the conduct of the great continen- tal powers in this comparatively unimportant affair was only an indication of their resolution to pro- mote the system on which they had based all the European relations — I myself could not refrain from expressing a wish to adopt a very different and far more earnest conduct. In this state of affairs I was one day desired by my father to attend hiin at a secret conference with the ambassadors of the great powers. My father flattered himself that he might this day obtain his long-desired end, and so interested was the mo- narch in the progress, as well as the result, of our conslutations, that he resolved to be present him- self, although incognito. The scene of the conference was the same palace whither my father had been summoned to receive the notification of his appointment as first minister. I can well recall the feelings with which, on the morning of the conference, I repaired to the palace with my father. We were muffled up in our pe- Ibses, for the air was very sharp, but the sun was not without influence, and shone with great bril- liancy. There are times when I am influenced by a species of what I may term happy audacity, for it is a mixture of recklessness and self-confidence which has a very felicitous effect upon the animal spirits. At these moments, I never calculate con- sequences, yet every thing seems to go right. I feel in good fortune — the ludicrous side of every thing occurs to me, — I think of nothing but gro- tesque images, — I astonish people by bursting into laughter, apparently without a cause. Whatever is submitted to me I turn into ridicule. I shrug my shoulders and speak epigrams. I was in one of these moods to-day. My fither covdd not comprehend me. He was very serious, but instead of sympathizing with all his grave hopes and dull fears, I did nothing but ridicule their ex- cellencies, whom we were going to meet, and per- form to him an imaginary conference, in which he also figured. V/e arrived at the palace. I became a little so- bered. My father went to the king. I entered a large Gothic hall, where the conference was to take place. It was a fine room, hung with trophies, and principally lighted by a large Gothic window. At the farther end, near the fire, and portioned off by a large Indian screen, was a round table, covered with green cloth, and surrounded by seats. The Austrian minister arrived. I walked up and down the hall with him for some minutes, ridiculing di- plomacy. He was one of those persons who believe you have a direct object in every thing you say, and my contradictory opinions upon all subjects were to him a fruitful source of puzzled meditation. He thought I was one whose words ought to be marked, and I believe that my nonsense has often occasioned him a sleepless night. The other minis- ters soon assembled, and in a few minutes, a small door opened at the top of the h;ill, and the king and my fattier appeared. We bowed, and took our seats, I, being secretary, seated myself at the desk, to take notes for the drawing up of the protocols. We believed that the original idea of considering the great treaties as only a guaranty to the indivi- dual, and not to his successors, originated at Vienna. Indeed, it was the early acquaintance of my father with the Austrian minister that first assisted him in ascertaining this intention. We believed that the Russian cabinet had heartily entered into this new reading, that Prussia supported it only in de- ference to the court of St. Petersburgh, and that France was scarcely reconciled to the proposed derangement by the impression that it naturally assisted those principles of government by a recur- rence to which the cabinet of Versailles then be- gan to be convinced they could alone maintain themselves. Such had been our usual view of the state of opinion with respect to this question. It had been the object of my father to induce the French court to join with that of St. James's in a strong demon- stration in favour of the present system, and to indicate, in* the event of that demonstration being fruitless, the possibility of their entering with the king into a tripartite party treaty, framed in pursu- ance of the spirit of the invalidated one. He trusted that to-day this demonstration would be made. We entered into business. The object of our opponents was to deny that the tendency of certain acts, of which we complained, was inimical to the present dynasty, but to refrain from proving their 392 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. sincerity, by asf?enting to a new guaranty, on the plea tliat it was unnecessary, since the treaties must express all that was intended. Hours were wasted in multiplied discussions as to the meaning of particular clauses in particular treaties, and as to precedents to justify particular acts. Hours. were wasted, for we did not advance. At length my fa- ther recurred to the sinrit, rather tlian the letter of the affair, and in urging the necessity for the peace of Europe and other high causes, that this aflair should be settled without delay, he gave an excel- lent opportunity for the friends he had anticipated to come forward. They spoke, but indeed it was very vague and unsatisfactory. I marked the lip of the Austrian minister curl as if in derision, and the Russian arranged his papers as if all now were finished. I knew my father well enough by this time to be convinced that, in spite of his apparently unaltered mien, he was l)itter!y disappointed and annoyed. The king looked gloomy. There was a perfect si- lence. It was so awkward that the Austrian minister inquired of me the date of a particular treaty, merely to break the dead pause. I did not immediately answer him. The whole morning my fancy had been busied with the most grotesque images. I had never been a moment impressed with the gravity of the proceedings. The presence of the king alone pre- vented me from constant raillery. When I recol- lected the exact nature of the business on which we were assembled, and then called to mind the cha- racters who took part in the discussion, I could scarcely refrain from laughter. " Voltaire would soon settle this," I thought, " and send Messieurs the Austrian, and the Russian, and the Prussian, with their nmstachios, and hussar jackets, and furs, to their own country. What business have they to interfere with ours V I was strongly impressed with the tyrannical injustice and wicked folly of the whole transaction. The great diplomatists appeared to me so many wild beasts ready to devour our innocent lamb of a sovereign, par- leying only from jealousy who should first attack him. The Austrian minister repeated his question as to the treaty. " It matters not," I replied ; " let us now proceed to business." He looked a little sur- prised. "Gentlemen," I continued, "you must be quite aware, that this is the last conference his majesty can permit us to hold upon a subject which ought never to have been discussed. The case is very simj)Ie, and demands but little consideration. If the guaranty we justly require be not granted, his majesty mast have recourse to a popular appeal. We have no fear about the result. We are pre- pared for it. His majesty will acquire anew, and, if possible, a stronger title to his crown, and see what you will occasion by your squeamishness to uuthenticate the right of a sovereign, who, although not the offspring of a dynasty, acquire^ his throne not by the voice of the peojjle, and has been con- Btantly recognised by all your courts ; you will be the direct cause of a most decided democratic demonstration in the election of a king by the peo- l)lc alone. For us, tbe result has no terrors. Your sxcellencies are the best judges whether your royal aasters possess any territories in our vicinity which mav bcu noculated with our dangerous exam- ple." I was astcnndcd by my audacity. Not till I had ceased speaking had I been aware of what I had dared to do. Once I shot a rapid glance at my father. His eyes were tixed on the ground, and I thought a little pale. As I withdrew my glance, I caught the king's fiery eye, but its expression did not discourage me. It is difficult to convey an idea of the success of my boldness. It could not enter the imagination of the diplomatists that any one could dare to speak, and particularly under such circumstances, without instructions and without authority. They looked upon me only as the mouthpiece of the royal intentions. They were alarmed at our great, and un- wonted, and unexpected resolution, at the extreme danger and invisible results of our purposes. The English and French ministers, who watched every turn, made a vehement representation in our favour, and the conference broke up with an expression of irresolution and surprise in the countenances of our antagonists, quite unusual with them; and which promised a speedy attainment of the satisfactory arrangement which shortly afterwards took place. The conference broke up, my father retired with the king, and desired me to wait for him in the hall. I was alone. I was excited. I felt the triumph of success. I felt that I had done a great action. I felt all my energies. I walked up and down the hall in a frenzy of ambilion, and I thirsted for action. There seemed to me no achievement of which I was not capable, and of which I was not ambitious. In imagination I shook thrones and founded empires. I felt myself a being born to breathe in an atmosphere of revolution. My father came not. Time wore away, and the day died. It was one of those stern sublime sun- sets, which is almost the only appearance in the north, in which nature enchanted me. I stood at the window gazing at the burnished masses that, for a moment, were suspended, in their fleeting and capricious beauty, on the far horizon. I turned aside and looked on the rich trees suffused with the erimson light, and ever and anon irradiated by the dying shoots of a golden ray. The deer were stealing home to their bowers, and I watched them till their golden and glancing forms gradually lost their lustre in the declining twilight. The glory had now departed, and all grew dim. A solitary star atone was shining in the gi'ay sky, a bright and solitary star. And. as I gazed upon the sunset, and the star, and the dim beauties of the coming eve, my mind grew calm. And all the bravery of my late revery passed away. And I felt indeed a disgust for all the worldliness on which I hail been lately pondering. And there arose in my mind a desire to create things beautiful as that golden sun, and that glittering star. I heard my name. The hall was now dark- ened. In the distance stood my father. I joined him. He placed his arm affectionately in mine, and said to me, " My son, you will be prime minister of * * * * *; perhaps something greater." XIV. As we drove home, every thing seemed changed since the morning. My father was in high spirits, for him, even elated : I, on the contrary, was silent and thoughtful. This evening there was a ball at the p;rlace,, which, altlnjugli little inclined, I felt obliged to attend. CONTARINI FLEMING. 393 T arrived late ; the king was surrounded by a brilliant circle, and conversing with his usual fe- licitous affability. I would have withdrawn when I had made my obeisance, but his majesty advanced a step, and immediately addressed me. He con- versed with me for some time. Few men possess a more captivating address than this sovereign. It was difficult at all times not to feel charmed, and now I was conscious that this mark of his favour recognised no ordinary claims to his confidence. I was the object of admiring envy. That night there were few in those saloons, crowded with the flower of the land, who did not covet my position. I alone was insensible to it. A vision of high mountains and deep blue lakes mingled with all the artificial splendour that dazzled around. I longed to roam amid the solitude of nature, and disburthen a mind teeming with creative sympathy. I drew near a group which the pretty Baroness Engel was addressing with more than her usual animation. When she caught my eye, she beck- oned me to join her, and said, " ! Count Contarini, have you read Manstein 1" " Manstein," I said, in a careless tone, " what is itr' " ! you must get it directly. The oddest book that ever was written. We are all in it, we are all in it." " I hope not." " 0, yes ! all of us, all of us. I have not had time to make out the characters, I read it so quickly. My man only sent it to me this morning. I must get a key. Now you, who are so clever, make me one." " I will look at it, if you really recommend me." " You must look at it. It is the oddest book that was ever written. Immensely clever, I assure you, immensely clever. I cannot exactly make it out." " That is certainly much in its favour. The ob- scure, as you know, is a principal ingredient of the sublime." " How odd you are ! But really, now, Count Contarini, get Manstein. Every one must read it. As for your illustrious principal. Baron deBragnaes — he is really hit off to the life."' " Indeed I" I said, with concealed consternation. " O ! no one can mistake it. I thought I should have died with laughing. But we are all there. I am sure I know the author." " W'ho is iti who is it?" eagerly inquired the group. " I do not hnniv, mind," observed the baroness. " It is only conjecture, merely a conjecture. But I always find out evei-ybody." " I that you do," said the group. " Yes, I find them out by the style." " How clever you arc !" exclaimed the group, "but who is if!" " 0, I shall not betray him. Only I am quite convinced I know who it is." " Pray, pray, tell us," entreated the group. " You need not look around, Matilda, he is not here. A friend of yours, Contarini. I thought that young Moskoffsky was in a great hurry to run off to St. Petersburg. And he has left us a legacy. We are all in it, I assure you," she exclaimed, to the one nearest, in an under, but decisive tone. I breathed again. " Young Moskoffsky ! To be sure il is," I observed, with an air of tlioughtful con viol ion. 50 " To be sure it is. Without reading a line, 1 have no doubt of it. I suspected that he meditated something. I must get Manstein directly, if it be by young Moskoffsky. Any thing that young Moskoffsky writes must be worth reading. What an exceffent letter he writes ! You are my oracle, Baroness Engel ; I have no doubt of your discrimi- nation ; but I suspect that a certain correspondence with a brilliant young Muscovite has assisted you in your discovery." " Be contented," rejoined the baroness, with a smile of affected mystery and pique, " that there is one who can enlighten you, and be not curious as to the source. Ah ! there is Countess Norberg — how well she looks to-night !" I walked away to salute Christiana. As I moved through the elegant crowd, my nervous ear con- stantly caught half phrases, which often made me linger. " Very satirical — very odd — very personal — very odd, indeed — what can it all be about ■? Do you know 1 No, I do not — do you ] Baroness Eui^el — all in it — must get it — very witty — very flippant. Who can it be? Young Moskoffsky. Read it at once without stopping — never read any thing so odd — ran off" to St. Petersburgh — always thought him very clever. W^ho can the Duke of Twaddle mean 1 Ah ! to be sure — I wonder it did not occur to me." I joined Christiana. I waltzed with her. I was on the point, once or twice, of asking her if she had read " Manstein," but did not dare. After the dance we walked away. Mademoiselle de Moltke, who, although young, was not charming, but very intellectual, and who affected to think me a great genius, because I had pasquinaded her father, stopped us. " My dear countess, how do you do 1 You look most delightfully to-night. Count Contarini, have you read Manstein ? You never read any thing ! How can you say so ] but you always say such things. You must read Manstein. Everybody is reading it. It is full of imagination, and very personal — very personal, indeed. Baroness Engel says we are all in it. You are there. You are Horace de Beaufort, who thinks every thing and everybody a bore — exactly like you, count, exactly — what I have always said of you. Adieu! mind you get Manstein, and then come and talk it over with me. Now do, that's a good creature I" And this talkative Titania tripped away. " You are wearied, Christiana, and these rooms are insuft"erably hot. You had better sit down." We seated ourselves in a retired part of the room. I observed an unusual smile upon the face of Christiana. Suddenly she said, with a slight flush, and not without emotion, " I shall not betray you, Contarini, but I am convince'd that you are the author of Manstein." I was very agitated — I could not immediately speak. I was ever different to Christiana to what I was to other people. I could not feign to her. I could not dissemble. My heart always opened to hei-, and it seemed to me almost blasphemy to address her in any other language but truth. "You know ms better than all others, Chris- tiana. Indeed, you alone know me. But I would sooner hear that any one was considered the author of Manstein than myself." " You need not fear that I shall be indiscreet, but rest assured it cannot long be a secre*." "Indeed !" I said: " why not 1" 394 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. " O ! Contarini, it is too like," " Like whom V " Nay ! you affect ignorance." "Upon my honour, Christiana, I do not. Have the kindness to believe that there is at least one person in the world to whom I am not affected. If you mean that Manstein is a picture of myself, I can assure you most solemnly that I never less thought of myself than when I drew it. I thought it was an ideal character." " It is that very circumstance that occasions the resemblance ; for you, Contarini, whatever you may appear in this room, you are an ideal cha- racter." *' You'Jiave read it1" I asked. " I have read it," she answered, seriously. "And yoH do not admire it? I feel you do not. Nay f conceal nothing from me, Christiana. 1 can bear truth." " I admire its genius, Contarini. I wish that I could speak with equal approbation of its judgment. It will, I fear, make you many enemies." " You astonish me, Christiana, I do not care for enemies. I care for nobody but for you. But why should it make me enemies?" " I hope I am mistaken. It is very possible I am mistaken. I know not why I talk upon such sub- jects. It is foolish — it is impertinent ; but the in- terest, the deep interest I have always taken in you, Contarini, occasions this conversation, and must excuse it." " Dear Christiana, how good, how very good you are !" " And all these people whom you have ridiculed — surely, Contarini, you have enough already who envy you — surely, Contarmi, it was most impru- dent !'' "People ridiculed! I ijever meant to ridicule any person in particular. I wrote with rapidity. I wrote of what I had seen and what I felt. There :s nothing but truth in it." " You are not in a position, Contarini, to speak truth." " Then I must be in a very miserable position, Christiana." " You are what you arc, Contarini. All must admire you. You are in a very envied, I will hope, a very enviable position." "Alas! Christiana, I am the most miserable fel- low that breathes upon this broad world." She was silent. " Dearest Christiana," I continued, " I speak to you as I would speak to no other person. Think not that I am one of those who deem it interesting to be considered unhappy. Such trifiing I despise. What I say to j'ou I would not conf'ss to another human being. Among these people my vanity would be injured to be considered miserable. But I am unhappy, really tmhappy, most desolately wretched. Enviable position ! But an hour since I was meditating how I could extricate myself from it! Alas! Christiana, I cannot ask you for coun- sel, for I know not what I desire, what I could wish ; but I feel — each hour I feel more keenly, and never more keenly than when I am with you, that I was not made for this life, nor this life for me." '* I cannot advise you, Contarini. What — what can I advise? But I am unhappy to find that you are. I grieve, I grieve deeply, that one ap|)arently with all that can make him happy, should still miss felicity. You are yet very young, Contarini, and I cannot but believe that you will still attain all you desire, and all that you deserve." "I desire nothing. I know not what I want All that I know is, that what I possess I abhor." " Ah ! Contarini, beware of your imagination." XV. The storm that had been apprehended by the prescient affection of Christiana surely burst. I do not conceive that niy publisher betrayed me. I be- lieve internal evidejice settled the alTair. In a fort- night it was acknowledged by all that I was the author of" Manstein," and all were surprised that this authorship could, for a moment, have been a question. I can give no idea of the outciy. Every- body was in a passion — affected to be painfully seTisitive of their neighbours' wrongs. The very personality was ludicrously exaggerated. Every- body took a delight in detecting the originals of ray portraits. Various keys were handed about, all different, and not content with recognising the very few decided sketches from life there really were, and which were sufficiently obvious, and not very malignant, they mischievously insisted, that not a human shadow glided over my pages which might not be traced to its substance, and protested that the Austrian minister was the model of an old woman. Those who were ridiculed insisted that the rid'" cule called in question the very first principles of society. They talked of confidence violated which never had been shared, and faith broken which never had been pledged. Never was so much non- sense talked about nothing since the days of the schoolmen. But nonsense, when earnest, is im- pressive, and sometimes takes you in. If you are in a hurry, you occasionally mistake it for sense. All the people who had read " Manstein," and been very much amused with it, began to think they were quite wrong, and that it was a very im- proper and wicked book, because this was daily reiterated in their ears by half a dozen bores, who had gained an immortality which they did not de- serve. Such conduct, it was universally agreed, must not be encouraged. Where would it end 1 Everybody was alarmed. Men passed me in the street vs'ithout notice — I received anonymous letters — and even many of my intimates grew cold. As I abhor explanations, I said nothing; and although I was disgusted with the folly of much that I heard, I contradicted nothing, however ridiculously false, and felt confident that, in time, the world would discover that they had been gulled iato fighting the battle of a few individuals whom they despised. I found even a savage delight in being an object, for a moment, of public astonishment, and fear, and indignation. But the affair getting at last trouble- some, I fought young De Bragnaes with swords in the Deer Park, and having succeeded in pinking him, it was discovered that I was more amiable. For tiic rest, out of my immediate circle, the work had been from the first decidedly successful. In all this not very agreeable affair, I was de- lighted by the conduct of Christiana. Although she seriously disapproved of what was really ob- jectionable in "Manstein," and although she was of so modest and quiet a temper, that she unwil- lingly exercised that infiuence in society to which her rank, and fortune, and rare accomplishments entitled her, she suddenly became my most active C N T A R I N I FLEMING. 395 an J violent partisan, ridiculed the pretended wrons? and mock propriety that echoed around her, and declaring that the author of " Mansteiri" had only been bold enough to print that which all repeated, tullieriety of your conduct, I sym- pathize too much with this violation of duty." " Of course you could not know my father. You may have heard of him. It has always been to me a source of deep regret that he, did not main- tain his connexion with my mother's family. I inherit something even more Venetian thati her name. But the past is too painful for my fother to love to recall it. My mother, j'ou know — " " I am an or{>han, and can feel all your misfor- tune. I think our house is doomed." " I cannot think so when I sec you." She faintly smiled, but her features settled again into an expression of deep melancholy, that reminded me of her countenance in the church. " I think," I observed, " this is not the first time I have had the pleasure of seeing you." " Indeed ! I am not aware of our having before met." " I may be wrong. I dare say you will think me very strange. But I cannot believe it was a dream, though certainly I was — but really it is too ridiculous. You know the church where are the fijinbs of Qur family V " Yes !" Her voice was low, but quick. I fan- cied she was not quite at case. "Well! I cannot help believing that we v/ere Dnce together before that altar." " Indeed ! I have returned to Venice a week. I have not visited the church since we came back." " O ! this must have been a month ago. It cer- tainly is very strange ; I suppose it must have been a dream ; I have sometimes odd dreams, and yet — it is in consequence of that supposed nieetmg in the church that I recognised you this evening, and iminediately sought an introduction." " I know the church well. To me — I may say to us," she added, with a gentle inclination of the head, "it is, of course, a spot very interesting." " I am entirely Venetian. I have no thought for any other country. This is not a new sentiment excited by the genius of the place. It was as strong amid the forests and snows of the north, as strong, I may traly say, when a child, as at this moment, when I would peril my life and fortunes in her service." " You are indeed enthusiastic. Alas ! enthu- siasm is little considered here. We are, at least, still light-hearted, but what cause we have for gayety, the smilcrs perhaps know. It is my mis- fortune not to be one of them. And yet resigna- tion is all that is left us, and — " " And what V I asked, for she hesitated. " Nothing," she replied, " no'lhing. T believe I was going to addj it is better to forget." " Never ! The recollection of the past is still glory. I would sooner be a Contarini amid our falling palaces, than the mightiest noble of the most flourishing of modern empires." " What will your father say to such romance 1" " I have no father. I have no friend, no relative in the world, except yourself. I have disclaimed my parentage, my country, my allotted career, and all their rights, and honours, and privileges, and fame, and fortune. I have, at least; sacrificed all these for Venice ; for, trifling as the circumstances may be, I can assure you this, merely to find my- self a visitant of that enchanting city, I have thrown to the winds all the duties and connexions of my past existence." '• I3ut why bind your lot to the fallen and the irredeemable ] I have no choice but to die where I was born, and no wish to quit a country from which spring all my associations; but you — you have a real country, full of real interests to engage your affections and exercise your duties. In the north you are a man — your career may be active, intelligent and useful ; but the life of a Venetian is a dream, and you must pass your days like a ghost gliding about a city fading in a vision." " It is this very character that interests me. I have n.o sympathy with reality. What vanity is all the empty bustle of common life! It brings to me no gratification ; on the contrary, most de- grading annoyance. It developes all thS lowering attributes of my nature. In the world, I am never happy but in solitude; and in solitude so beautiful and so peculiar as \^enice, my days are indeed a dream, but a dream of long delight. I gaze upon the beautiful, and my mind responds to the inspira- tion, for my thoughts are as lovely as my visions." " Your imagination supports you. I^ is a choice gift. I feel too keenly my reality." "At least, I cannot imagine that you should either feel, or give rise to, any other feelings but those that are enchanting." " Nay ! a truce to compliments. Let me hear something worthier from you." " Indeed," I said, seriously, " I was not thinking of compliments, nor am I in a mood for such fri- volities. Yet I wish not to conceal, that in meet- ing you this evening, I have experienced the most gratifying incident of my life." " I am happy to have met you — if^andeed, it h possible to be happy about any thing." 406 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Dear Alceste — may I call you Alceste ? — why should so fair a brow be clouded?" " It is not unusually gloomy — my heaven is never serene. But, see ! the rooms are nearly empty, and I am waited for." " But we shall soon meet again 1" " I shall be here to-morrow. I reside with my maternal uncle. Count Delfini. I go out but little, but to-moirow I shall certainly he here." " I shall not exist until we again meet. I entreat you, fliil not." " ! I shall certainly he here ; and, in the mean time, you know," she added, with a smile, " you can dream." " Farewell, dear Alceste ! you cannot imagine how it grieves me to part." " Adieu ! — ^shall I say Contarini'?" X. To say that I was in love, that I was in love at first sight — these are weak, worldly phrases to de- scribe the profound and absorbing passion that filled my whole being. There was a mystical ful- filment in our meeting, the consciousness of which mingled with my adoration, and rendered it quite supernatural. This was the Adrian bride that I had come to greet. This was the great and wor- thy object of so many strange desires, and bewil- dering dreams, and dark coincidences. I returned to my j)alace^-I threw myself into a chair, and sat for hours in mute abstraction. At last, the broad light of morning broke into the chamber — I looked up, glanced round at the ghastly chandeliers, thought of the coining eve, and retired. In the evening I hurried to the opera. I did not see Alceste. I entered the box of the countess. A young man rose as I entered, and retired. " You see," I said, " your magic has in a moment con- verted nie into a man of the world." " I am not the enchantress," said the countess, " although I willingly believe you are enchanted," " What an agreeable assembly you introduced me to last night !" " I hope tliiit I shall find you a constant guest." " I fear that you will find me too faitliful a vo- lar}'. I little imagined, in the morning, that I could lay claim to relationship with so interesting a person as your charming young friend." " Alceste is a great favourite of mine." " She is not here, I believe, to-night 1" " I think not — Count Delfini's box is opposite, and empty." " Count Delfini is, I believe, some connexion — " " Her uncle. They will be soon, as you are perhaps aware, nearer connected," "Indeed I" I said. " You know that Alceste is betrothed to his son. Count Grimani. By-the-by, he quitted the box as you entered. You know himl" I sank back in my chair — I turned pale. " Do you admire this opera 1" I inquired. " It is a pretty imitation." " Very pretty." " Wc shall soon change it," " Very soon." "They have an excellent opera at St. Peters- burg, I understand. You have been there"?" ' Yes — no-— I understand very excellent. This house is very hot." I rose up, bowed, and abruptly departed. I iTistantly quitted the theatre, covered myself up in my cloak, threw myself down in my gondola, and groaned. In a few minutes I arrived home. I was quite unexpected. I ran up stairs. Lau- sanne was about to light the candles. I sent him away, I was alone in the large, dark chamber, which seemed only more vast and gloomy for the bright moon. " Thank God !" I exclaimed, " I am alone. Why do I not die ! Betrothed ! It is false ; she cannot be another's. She is mine; she is my Adrian bride. Destiny has delivered her to me. Why did I pass the AJps ! Keaveh frowned upon the passage. Yet I was expected. I was long expected. Poh ! she ?s mine, I would cut her out from the heart of a legion. Is she happy 1 Her ' heaven is never serene.' Mark that. I will be the luminary to dispel these clouds. Betrothed ! Infamous jar- gon ! She belongs to me. Why did I not slab him! ■ Is there ne'er a bravo in Venice that will do the job ] Betrothed ! What a word ! what an infamous, what a ridiculous word ! She is mine, and she is betrothed to another. Most assuredly, if she be only to bo attained by the destruction of the city, she shall be mine. A host of Delfinis shall not balk me. " Now this is no common affair. It shall be done, and it shall be done quickly. I cannot doubt she loves me. It is as necessary that she should love me, as that I should adore her. We are bound together by Fate. We belong to each other : ' I have been long expected,.' " Ah ! were these words a warning or a prophecy"? Have I arrived too late I Let it be settled at once, this very evening. Suspense is madness. She is mine, most assuredly she is mine. I will not admit for a moment that she is not mine. That idea cannot exist in my thoughts. It is the end of the world, it is doomsday for me. Most assuredly, she is my Adrian bride, my bride, not my hetruthcd merely, but my bride. "Let me be calm. I am calm. I never was calmer in my life. Nothing shall ruffle, nothing shall discompose me. I will have my rights. This diificulty will make our future lives more sweet. We shall smile at it in each other's arms. Grimani Delfini ! If there be blood in that name, it shall flow. Sooner than another should possess her, she should herself be sacrificed, A solemn sacrifice, a sweet and solemn sacrifice, consecrated by my own doom ! I would lead her to the altar like Iphigenia. I — 'O I inscrutable, inexorable destiny, which must be fulfilled ! Doom that mortals must endure, and cannot direct — lo! I kneel down before thee, and I pray ! — Let it end. let it end, let it end at once ! This suspense is insanity. Is she not mine ! Didst thou not whisper it in the solitude of the north, didst thou not conlirm it amid the thunder of the Alps, didst thou not reanimate my drooping courage, even amid this fair city I so much love, this land of long and frequent promise ? And shall it not be ! Do I exist, do I breathe, and think, and dare — am I a nran, and a man of strong passi(m3 and deep thoughts — and shall I, like a vile beggar upon my kn(!es, crave the rich heritage that is my own right 1 If she be not mine, there is no longer Venice, no longer human existence, no longer a beautiful and everlasting world. Let it all cease; let the whole globe crack and shiver ; let all nations and all human hopes expire at once ; let chaos come again, if this girl be not my bride !" CONTARINI FLEMING. 40- I determined to go to the Malbrizzi palace. My spirit rose as I ascended the stairs. I felt confident she was there. Her form was tlie first that occurred to me as I entered the saloon. Several persons were around her, among them Grimani Delfini. I did not care. I had none of the jealousy of petty loves. She was unhappy, that was sufficient ; and if there were no other v^fay of disentangling the mesh, I had a sword that should cut this Gordian knot in his best blood. I saluted her. She pre- sented me to her cousin. I, smiled upon one who, at all events, should be my victim. " I hope that we shall make Venice agreeable to you, count," said Grimani. " There is no doubt," I replied. We conversed for some time on indiflerent sub- jects. My manner was elated. I entered into the spariiling contest of conversation with success. The presence of Alceste was my inspiration. I would not quit her side, and in time, we were once more alone. " You arc ever gay," she remarked. " My face is most joyful when my heart is most gloomy. Happiness is tranquil. Why were you not at the opera 1" " I go out very little." " I went there only to meet you. I detest these assemblies. You are always surrounded by a crowd of moths. Will you dance?" " I have just refused Grimani." " I am glad of it. I abhor dancing. I only asked you to monopolize your company." " And what have you been doing to-day 1 Have you seen all our spectacles]" " I have just risen. I did not go to bed last night. I sat up musing over our strange meeting." " Was it so strange?" " It was stranger than you imagine." "You are mysterious." " Every thing is mysterious, although I have been always taught the reverse." " I believe, too," she remarked, with a pensive air and in a serious tone, " that the courses of this world are not so obvious as we imagine." " The more I look upon you, the more I am convinced that yesterday was not our first meeting. We have been long acquainted. " In dreams?" " What you please. Dreams, visions, prophecies, I believe in them all. You have often appeared to me, and I have often heard of you." " Dreams are doubtless very singular." "They come from heaven. I could tell you stories of dreams that would indeed surprise you." « Tell me." " When I was about to past- the Alps, — but really it is too serious a narrative for such a place. Do you know the villa of the temple on the Brenta?" " Assuredl}', for it is my own." " Your own I Then you are indeed mine." " What can you mean 1" " The temple, the temple — " " And did you write upon the wall?" "Who else? Who else? But why I wrote -that I would tell you." " Let us walk to these rooms. There is a ter- race, where we shall be less disturbed." " And where we have been long expected." " Ah !" xr. "It is wonderful, most wonderful !" and she leaned down and plucked a flower. " I wish I were that flower," I said. " It resembles me more than you, Contarini," and she threw it away. " I see no resemblance." " It is lost." I picked it up and placed it in my bosom. " it is found," I replied, "and cherished." " We are melancholy," said Alceste, "and yet we are not happy. Your philosophy— is it quite correct?" " I am liappy yoii should resemble me, because I wish it." '' Good wishes do not always bring good fortunes." " Destiny bears to us our lot, and destiny is per- haps our own will." "Alas ! my will is brighter than my doom !" " Both should be beautiful, and shall — " " talk not of the future. Come, Contarini, come, come, avi'ay." XII. Shall I endeavour to recall the soft transport which this night sufl'used itself over my being? I existed only for one object; one idea only was impressed upon my brain. The next day passed in a delicious listlessness and utter oblivion of all cares and duties. In the evening, I rose from the couch on which I had the whole day reclined mu- sing on a single thought, and flew to ascertain whether that wizard Imagination had deceived me, whether she were, indeed, so wondrous fair and sweet, and that this earth could indeed be graced by such surpassing loveliness. She was not there. I felt her absence as the greatest misfortune that had ever fallen upon me. I could not anticipate existing four-and-twenty hours without her presence. I lingered in expec- tation of her arrival. I could hear nothing of her; Each moment I fancied she must appear. It seemed ■impossible that so bitter a doom awaited me, as that I should not gaze this night upon her beauty. She did not come. I remained to the last, silent and anxious, and returned home to a sleepless bed. The next morning I called at the Deltiiii palace, to which I had received an invitation. Morning was an unusual time to call, but for this I did not care. I saw the old count and countess, and her ladyship's cavalier, who was the most frivolous and ancient Adonis I had ever witnessed. I talked with them all, all of them with the greatest good humour, in the hope that Alceste would at length appear. She did not. I ventured to inquire after her. I feared she might be unwell. She was quite well, but engaged with her confessor. I fell into one of my silent rages, kicked the old lady's poodle, snubbed the cavalier, and stalked away. In the evening, I was careful to be at the Mal- brizzi palace. The Delfinis were there, but not Alceste. I was already full of suspicions, and had been brooding the whole morning over a conspiracy. " Alceste is not here," I observed to the countess , " is she unwell?" " Not at all. I saw her this morning. She was quite well. — I suppose Count Grimani is jealous " " Hah !" thought I, "has it already come to thati 408 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. Let us begin, then. I feel very desperate. This affair must be settled. Fed by her constant pre- sence and her smiles, the flame of my passion could for a time bum with a calm and steady blaze — but I am getting mad again. I sball die if this state of things last another day. I have half a mind to invite him to the terrace, and settle it at once. Let me see, cannot I do more 1" I mused a moment, quitted the saloon, called the gondola, and told them to row me to the Delfiiii palace. We glided beneath that ancient pile. All was dark, save one opened window, whence proceeded the voice of one singing. I knew that voice. I motioned to the gondoliers to rest upon Lheir oars. " 'Tis the Signora Contarini," whispered Tita, who was acquainted with the fomily. We floated silently beneath her window. Again she sang. I marked a rose bedewed with tears, a white and virgin rose ; and I said, " O ! rose, why do j'ou weep, you are too beautiful for sorrow 1" And she answered, "Lady, mourn not for me, for my grief comes from Heaven." She was silent. I motioned to Tita, who, like many of the gondoliers, was gifted with a fine voice, to answer. He immediately sang a verse from one of the favourite ballads of his city. While he sang, I perceived her shadow, and presently I observed her in the middle of the apartment. I plucked from my breast a flower, which I had borne for her to the Malbrizzi palace, and cutting off a lock of my hair, I tied it round the rose, and threw it into the chamber. It fell upon the table. She picked it up, she stared at it for some moments, she smiled, she pressed it to her lips. I could restrain myself no longer. I pushed the gondola alongside the palace, clambered up the bal- cony, and entered the room. She started, she nearly shrieked, but restrained herself. " You are surprised, Alceste, perhaps you are displeased. They are endeavouring to separate us ; I cannot live without you." She clasped her hands, and looked up to heaven with a glance of anguish. * Yes ! Alceste," I exclaimed, advancing, " let me express what my manner has never attempted to conceal ; let me express to you my absolute ado- ration. I love you, my Alceste, I love you with a passion as powerful as it is pure, a passion which I cannot control, a passion which ought not to be controlled." She spoke not, she turned away her head and deprecated my advances with her extended arms. " Alceste, I know all. I know the empty, the impious ceremony that has doomed you to be the bride of a being whom you must abhor. My Al- ceste is not happy. She herself told me her heaven vvas not serene — the heaven in whose light I would forever lie." I advanced, I stole her hand, I pressed it to my hps. Her face was hidden in her arm, and that reclined upon a pillar. There was for a moment silence. Suddenly she withdrew her hand, and said, in a low, but distinct voice, " Contarini, this must end." "End! Alceste, I adore you. You — you dare not say you do not love me. Our will is not our own Destiny has linked us together, and Heaven has interposed to consecrate our vows. And shall a form, a dull, infamous form, stand between our ardent and hallowed loves !" " It is not that, Contarini, it is not that, though that were much. No, Contarini, I am not yours." " Not mine, Alceste ! not mine 1 Look upon me. Think who I am, and dare to say you are not mine. Am I not Contarini Fleming'! Are not you my Adrian bride 1 Heaven has delivered you to me." " Alas ! alas ! KeaveH keeps me from you." " Alceste, you see kneeling before you one who is indeed nothing, if fame be what some deem. I am young, Alceste, the shadow of my mind has not yet fallen over the earth. Yet there is that within me, — and at this moment I prophesy, — there is that within me which may yet mould the mind and for- tunes of my race — and of this heart, capable of these things, the fountains are open, Alceste, and they flow for you. Disdain them not, Alceste ; pass them not by with carelessness. In the desert of your life, they will refresh you — yes, yes, they can indeed become to you a source of all felicity. " I love 3'ou with a love worthy of your being : I love you a>- none but men like me can love. Blend not the thought of my passion with the common- place affections of the world. Is it nothing to be the divinity of that breathing shrine of inspiration, my teeming mind 1 O ! Alceste, you know not the world to which I can lead you, the fair and glorious garden in which we may wander for- ever !" " I am lost I" she exclaimed, " but I am yours." I caught her in my arms ; yea ! I caught her ir. my arms, that dark-eyed daughter of the land I loved. I sealed her sweet lips with passionate kisses. Her head rested on my breast; and I dried with embraces her fast-flowing tears. XIIL I iiAD quitted Alceste so abruptly that I had made no arrangements for our future meeting. Nor indeed for some time could I think of any thing but my present and overflowing joy. So pa.ssion- ately was I entranced with all that had happened, so deeply did I muse over all that had been said and done, so sweetly did her voice linger in my ear, and so clearly did her fond form move before my vision, that hours elapsed before I felt again the craving of again beholding her. I doubted not that I should find her at the Malbrizzi palace. I was disappointed, but my disappointment was not bitter like the preceding eve. I felt secure in our secret loves, and I soon quitted the assembly again to glide under her window. All was dark. I waited, Tita again sang. No light appeared, no sound stirred. I resolved to call at the palace, to which I had received the usual general invitation. The family were out, and at the Pisani palace. I returned to Ma- dame Malbrizzi's. I looked about for my young Austrian aci]uaintance. I observed him, 1 fell into conversation. I inquired if he knew Count Pisani, and on his answering in the affirmative, I requested him to accompany me there. We soon arrived at the Pisani palace. I met the Delfinis, t)ut no Al- ceste. I spoke to the countess. I listened to several stories about her laj)-dog; I even anticipated her ancient cavaher in picking up her glove. I veu- C N T A R I N I FLEMING. 409 tureil to inquire after Alceste. They believed she was not quite well. I quitted the palace, and re- paired again to the ina2:ical window. Darkness and silence alone greeted me. I returned home, more gloomy than anxious. In the morning, Lausanne brought me a letter. I broke the seal with a trembling hand and with a faint blush. I guessed the writer. The words seemed traced by love. I read. " I renounce our vows, I retract my sacred pledge, I deliver to the winds our fatal love. " Pity me, Contarini, hate me, despise me, but forget me. " Why do I write ? Why do I weep T I am nothing, O ! I am nothing. I am blotted out of this fair creation, and the world that should bring me so many joys, brings me only despair. " Do not hate me, Contarini, do not hate me. Do not hate one who adores you. Yes ! adore — for even at this dread moment, when I renounce your love, let me, let me pour forth my adoration. " Am I insensible ] am I unworthy of the felicity, that for an instant we thought might be minel O ! Contarini, no one is worthy of you, and yet I fondly believe my devotion might compensate for my im- perfectness. ''To be the foithful companion of his life, to be the partner of his joy and sorrow, to sympathize with his glory, and to solace his grief — I ask no more, I ask no more thou Heaven ! Wilt thou not smile upon me I Wilt thou, for whom I sacrifice so much, wilt thou not pity mel "All is silent. There is no sign. No heavenly messenger tells me I may be happy. Alas! alas! I ask too much, I ask too much. It is too great a prize. I feel it, I believe it. My unworthiness is great, but I am its victim. " Contarini, let this console you. I am unworthy of you. Heaven has declared I am unworthy of you. Were I worthy of you. Heaven would not be cruel. O ! Contarini, let this console you. You are destined for higher joys. Think not of me, Contarini, think not of me, and I — I will be silent. " Silent ! and where ? ! world, that I now feel that I could love, beautiful, beautiful world — thou art not for me, thou art not for me, and Heaven, Heaven, to whom I olfer so much, surely, surely, in this agony it will su])port me. " I must write, although my pen refuse to in- scribe my wo ; I must write, although my fast- llowing tears bathe out the record of my misery. O ! my God ! for one moment uphold me. Let " the future at least purchase me one moment of present calm ! Let me spare, at least, him ! Let me at least, in this last act of my love, testify my devotion by concealing my despair. " You must know all, Contarini, you must know all. You must know all, that you niay not hate me. Think me. not light, think me not capricious. It is my constancy that is fatal, it is my duty that is my death. " You love our country, Contarini, you love our Italy. Fatal, fatal Italy ! O ! Contarini, fly, fly away from us. Cross again those Alps that Heaven frowned upon you as you passed. Un- happy country ! I am the victim of thy usages, who was born to breathe amid thy beauty. You know the customs of this land. The convent is our school — it leads to the cloister, that is too often 52 our doom. I was educated at a Tuscan convent. I purchased my release from it, like many of my friends, and the price was my happiness, which I knew not then how to prize. The day that I quitted the convent, I was the betrothed bride of Grimani Delfini. I was not then terrified by that, the memory of which now makes me shudder. It is a common, though an unhallowed incident. "I entered that world of which I had thought so much. My mind developed with my increased sphere of knowledge. Let me he brief. I soon could not contemplate without horror the idea of being the bride of a man I could not love. There was no refuge. I postponed, by a thousand excuses, our union. I had rccouise to a thousand expe- dients to dissolve it. Vain struggling of a slave! In my frenzy, the very day that you entered Italy, I returned to Florence on the excuse of visiting a friend, and secretly devoted myself to the cloister. The abbess, allured by the prospect of attaining my property for her institution, became my confi- dant, and I returned to Venice only to make in secret the necessary preparations for quitting it for ever. " The Dclfinis were on the Brenta. I repaired one dfiy to the villa which you visited, and which, though uninhabited, became, from having been the favourite residence of my father, a frequent object of my visits. As I walked along the terrace, I per- ceived for a moment and at a distance, a stranger crossing the lawn. I retired into the chapel, where I remained more than an hour. I quilted the cha- j)el and walked to the temple. I was attracted liy some writing on the wall. I read it, and although I could ascribe to it no definite meaning, I could not help musing over it. I sat down in a chair at the head of the table. Whether I were tired by the walk, or overpowered by the heat, I know not, but an unaccustomed drowsiness crept over my limbs, and I fell asleep. I not only fell asleep, but, O ! Contarini, I dreamed, and my dream was wonderful and strange. " 1 found myself alone in the cloisters of a con- vent, and I heard afar the solenm chant of an ad- vancing procession. It became louder and louder, and soon I perceived the rmns advancing, with the abbess at their head. And the abbess came for- ward to claim me, and to my horror, her counte- nance was that of Grimani Delfini. And I strug- gled to extricate myself from her grasp, and suddenly the stranger of the morning rushed in and caught me in his arms, and the cloister melted away, and I found myself in a beautiful comitry, and I woke. "The sun had set. I returned home, pensive and wayward. Never had I thought of my un- happy situation with more unhappiness. And each night the figure of the stranger appeared to me in my dreams, and each day I procrastinated my re- turn to Florence. And in the agitation which these strange dreams produced, I detern)iiied to go and pray at the tombs of my fathers. I quitted the villa Delfini with a single female attendant, and returned to it the same day. I entered the church through a private door from the adjoining building, which was a house of charity founded by our family. " You know the rest, Contarini, you know the rest. We met. The stranger of my dreams stood before me. My heart before that meeting "' already yours, and when you whispered to me th. you too — 2 M 410 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Wo ! wo ! why are we not happy ! You said that Heaven had brought us together. Alas ! Con- tarini, Heaven, Heaven has jiarted us. I avoided' you, Contarini, I flew from the spell which each instant grew stronger. You sought me. I yielded. i'es ! I yielded, but long vigils shall atone for that fatal word. " Go, Contarini, go forth in glory and in pride, will pray for you, I will ever think of you, I will ever think of my best, my only beloved. All the prosperity human imagination can devise, and hea- venly love can grant, hover over you ! You will be happy, you must be happy. For my sake j'ou will be happy — and I' — I am alone, but I am alone with my Redeemer, "Alceste. " Ere you have received this, I shall have crossed tire Apennines — pursuit is hopeless ; and my Con- tarini will, I am sure, respect my vow." It was read. My spirit was never more hushed in my life — I was quite calm. She might be in a convent, and it might be necessary to burn the con- vent down, and both of us might probably perish irt the flames. But what was death to the threatened desolation] I sent for Lausanne. "Lausanne," 1 said, "I have a very high opinion of your talents and energy. I have hitherto refrained from putting them to the test, for particular reasons. A circum- stance has occurred in which I require not only their gi'eatest exertion, but devotion and fidelity. If you accomplish my wish, you are no longer my servant, you are my friend for life. If you fail, it matters little, for I shall not survive. But if you betray mc, Lausanne — " and I looked through his very soul. " The consequences may be fatal to me. I under- stand you. "When I entered your service, you are under a mistake if you consider my fidelity re- stricted." " It is well ; I place implicit trust in you. Sig- nora Contarini has quitted Venice suddenly. Her present abode is a secret. She inibrms me that she has departed for Tuscany, and is by this time in a convent. This may be to mislead me, or to gain time — I wish to ascertain it." "There will be no difficulty, my lord," said Lausanne, with a smile. " There are no secrets in Venice to -the rich." " It is well. I shall remain in this room until I hear from you. I care not how much is expended. Away ; and for God's sake, Lausanne, bring me good news." XIV. I WALKED up and down the room without stop- ping. Not an idea crossed my mind. In two hours Lausanne returned. " Well, well?" I exclaimed. "There is, I think, little doubt that the signora departed for the villa Dclfini. She may now have quitted it. I sent Tita to the palace, as he is ac- quainted with the household. This is all he could elicit." " The gondola, the gondola. Rest you here, Lau- sanne, and let mc know when I return what ships are about to leave the port. Tell the banker I shall want money — a considerable sum ; two thousand sequins ; and let the bills be ready for my signature. And, Lausanne," I added in a low tone, " I may '•"(juire a priest. Have your eye upon some fellow who will run over the ceremony without asking questions. If I be anj' time absent, say I liave gone to Trieste." My gondoliers skimmed along. We were soon at Fusina. I shook my purse to the postillion. The horses were ready in an instant. I took Tita with me, as he knew the servants. We dashed off at a rate which is seldom achieved on those dull, sandy roads. We hurried on for three or four hours. I told Tita to have his eye for any of the Delfini household. As we were passing the gate of the villa of the temple, he turned round on the box and said, " By the blood of the holy Baptist, your ex- cellency, there is the little Maiia, Signora Alceste's attendant. She just now entered that side door. I knew her by the rose-coloured ribands which I gave her last carnival." " Did she see usi" " I think not, for the baggage would have smiled." " Drive back a hundred yards." It was sunset. I got out of the carriage, and stole into the gardens of the villa unperceived. I could see no lights in the builditig. From this I inferred that Alceste was perhaps only paying a farewell visit to her father's ho\ise. I ran along the terrace, I observed no one. I gained the chapel. I instinctively trod very lightly. I glanced in at the window. I perceived a form kneeling before the altar. There was a single candle. The kneel- ing figure leaned back with clasped hands. The light fell upon the countenance. I beheld the face of Alceste Contarini. I opened the door gently, but it roused her. I entered. " I come," I said, " to claim my bride." She screamed, she jumped upon the altar, and clung to the great ebony cross. It was the same figure, and the same attitude, that I beheld in my vision in the church. "Alceste," I said, "you are mine. There is no power in heaven or earth, there is no infernal influ- ence that can prevent you from being mine. You are as much part of me as this arm with which I now embrace you." I tore her from the cross, I caiTicd her fainting form out of the chapel. The moon had risen. I rested on a bank, and watched with blended passion and anxiety her closed eyes. She was motionless, and her white arms drooped down apparently without life. She breathed, yes ! she breathed. That large eye o])ened, and darkened into light. She gazed around with an air of vacancy. A smile, a faint, sweet smile played upon her face. She slightly stretched her beautiful frame, as if again to feel her existence, and moved her beautiful arms, as if to try whether she yet retained power over her limbs. Again she smiled, and exclaiming " Contarini !" threw them round my neck. " O ! my Alceste, my long-promised Alceste, you arc indeed mine." " I am yours, Contarini. Do with me what you like." XV. We walked to the temple, in order that she might compose herself before her journey. I sat down in the same chair, but not alone. Alceste was in my arm.s. Happiness is indeed tranquil, for our joy Was full, and we were silent. At length I whispered to lier that we must go. She rose, and we were about to leave the temple, when she would go back and kiss my inscription. CONTARINI FLEMING. 411 She rememhered the mnid, whom I had forgot- ten. I sent Tita to tell his friend that a carriage had arrived from Madame Malbrizzi's for his mis- tress, who was obliged suddenly to return, and that she was to remain behind. I wrapped Alceste in my cloak and placed her in my arms in the car- riage, and then returned to Venice. The gondola glided swiftly to my palace. I car- ried Alceste out, and bore her in my arms to her apartment. She entreated that I would not, for a moment, quit her. 1 was obliged therefore to re- ceive Lausanne's report at the door. There was no vessel immediately about to depart, but a ship had quitted the port that morning for Candia, and was still beating about in the oiling. He had him- self seen the captain, who was content to take pas- sengers, provided they would come out to him. This suited my plane. Lausanne had induced the captain to lie-to till the morning. A priest, he told me, was waiting. I broke to Alceste, lying exhausted upon the sofa, the necessity of our instant departure, and our instant union. She said it was well ; that she should never be at ease till she had quitted Venice, and that she was ready. I postponed our marriage until the night, and insisted upon her taking some refreshment, but she could not eat. I gave direc- tions to Lausanne to prepare for our instant depar- ture. I resolved to talie Tita with me, with whom I wiis well pleased. I was anxious about the marriage, because, al- though I believed it invalid in a Catholic country without a dispensation, it would, as I conceived, hold good in Protestant law. I was careful of the honour of the Contarinis, and at this moment, was not unmindful of the long line of northern ances- try, which I did not wish my child to disgrace. The ingenuity of Lausanne was always remarka- ble at conjunctures like the present. The magic of his character was his patience. This made him quicker and readier, and more successful than all other men. He prepared every thing, and antici- pated wants of which we could not think. Two hours before midnight, I was united, by the forms of the Catholic church, to Alceste Con- larini, the head of the most illustrious house in Europe, and the heiress of a fortune, which, in spite of its decay, was not unworthy of her birth. Two servants were the only witnesses of an act, to fulfil which she imagined herself to peril her eter- nal welfare, and which exercised a more certain an.d injurious influence over her worldly fortunes and reputation. At daybreak, Lausanne roused me, saying that the wind was favourable, and we must he off. He had already despatched Tita to the ship with all our baggage. I rose, wrote to my banker, inform- ing him that I should be absent some time, and re- questing him to manage every thing for my credit, and then I kissed my still sleeping wife. The morning light fell upon her soft face. A slight flush melted away as I gazed upon her, and she opened her eyes and smiled. Never had she looked more-beautiful. I would have given half my fortune to have been permitted to remain at Venice in tranquillity and peace. But doubly sweet is the love that is gained by danger, and guarded by secrecy. All was prepared. We stepped, perhaps for the last time, into a gon- dola. The gray sea was before us, we soon reach- ed the ship, Tita and the captain were standing at the ladder-head. The moment that wc embarked the sails were set, and a dashing breeze bore us along out of the gulf. Long ere noon, that Venice, with its towers and cupolas, which I had forfeited so much to visit, and all those pleasant palaces wherein I could have lived forever, had faded into the blue horizon. XVL Tup. ship was an imperial merchant brig. The wife of the captain was on board, a great conve- nience for Alceste, who was without female attend- ance, and with the exception of some clothes the provident Lausanne had obtained from Tita's sLster, without a wardrobe. But these are light hardships for love, and the wind was favourable, and the ves- sel fleet. Wc were excellent sailors, and bore the voyage without inconvenience, and the novelty of the scene, and the beauty of the sea amused and interested us. I imbibed from this voyage a taste for a sea life, which future wanderings on the waters have only confirmed. I never find the sea monotonous. The sanations of weather, the ingenious tactics, the rich sunsets, the huge, strange fish, the casual meet- ings, and the original and racy character of mari- ners, and perhaps also the frequent sight of land, which oflers itself in the Mediterranean, aflord me constant amusement. I do not think that there is Ml the world a kinder-hearted and more courteous person than a common sailor. - As for their atten- tions to Alceste they were ^ven delicate, and I am sure, that although a passionate lover, I might have 'aken many a hint from their vigilant solicitude. Whenever she was present their boisterous mirth was instantly repressed. She never walked the deck that a ready hand was not quick in clear- ing her path of any impediments, and ere I could even discover she was weary, their watchful eyes anticipated her wants, and they proffered her a rude but welcome seat. Ah ! what a charming voyage was this, when my only occupation was to look upon an ever-smiling face, and to be assured a thousand times each hour, that I was the cause of all this happiness. Lausanne called me one morning on deck. Our port was in sight. I ran up ; I beheld the high- lands of Candia — a rich, wild group of lofty blue mountains, and in the centre, the snowy peak of Mount Ida. As we approached, the plain, extend- ing from the base of the mountains to the coast, became perceptible, and soon a town and harbour. We were surrounded by boats full of beings in bright and strange costumes. A new world, a new language, a new religion, were before us. Our deck was covered with bearded and turbaned men. We stared at each other in all this picturesque con- fusion, but Lausanne, and especially Tita, who spoke Greek, and knew Candia well, saved us from all anxiety. We landed, and, thanks to being in a Turkish province, there was no difficulty about passports, with which we were unprovided, and a few sequins saved the captain from explaining why his passengers were not included in his ship's pa- pers. We landed, and were lodged in the house of a Greek, who officiated as a European vice^ consul. The late extraordinary incidents of our lives ba>l followed each other with such rapidity, that when we woke in the morning, we could scarcely believe «12 B'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. that it was not at all a dream. We looked round our chamber with its strange furniture, and stared at the divans, and small, high windows, shadowed with painted glass, and smiled. Our room was darkened, but, at the end, opened an arch bright in the sun. Beautiful strange plants quivered in tire light. The perfume of orange-trees filled our chamber, and the bees were clustering in the scar- let flowers of the pomegranate. Amid the pleasing distraction of these sweet sounds and scents we distinguished tlie fall of a fountain. We stole forward to the arch like a prince and princess just disenchanted in a fairy tale. We stepped into a court paved with marble, and full of rare shrubs. The fountain was in the centre. Around it were delicate mats of Barbarj', and small bright Persian carpets ; and crouching on a scarlet cushion was a white gazelle. I stepped out. and found our kind host, who spoke Italian. I sent his lovely daughter, Alexina, whose cheeks were like a cleft of pomegranate, to my wife. As for myself, by Lausanne's advice, I took a Turkish bath, which is the most delightful thing in the world, and when I was reduced to a jelly, I repaired to our host's divan, where his wife, and three other daughters, all equally beautiful, and dressed in long flowing robes of dili'erent coloured velvets richly embroidered, and caps of the same material, with tassels of gold, and covered with pearls, came forward. One gave me a pipe seven feet long, another fed me with sweetmeats, a third pressed her hand to her heart, as she presented me cofllee in a small cup of porcelain, resting in a fila- gree frame, and a child, who sparkled like a fairy, bent her knee, as she proffered me a vase of sher- bet. I felt like a pasha, and the good father trans- lated my compliments. I thought that Alceste would never appear, and I sent Lausanne to her door fiftytimes. At length she came, and in a Greek dress, which they had insisted upon her wearing. I thought we should have both expired with laughing. We agreed that we were perfectly happy. This was all very delightful, but it was neces- sary to arrange our plans. I consulted Lausanne. I wished to engage a residence in a retired part of the island. We spoke to our host. He had a country house, which would exactly suit us, and desired a tenant. I sent Lausanne immediately to examine it. It was only fifteen miles away. His report was most satisfactory, and I, at once, closed with the consul's ofl'er. The house was a long, low building, in the east- ern stylo, with plenty of rooms. It was situate on a very gentle, green hill, the last undulation of a chain of Mount Ida, and was perfectly embowered with gardens, and plantations of olive and orange. It was about two miles from the sea, which appear- ed before us in a wild and rocky bay. A peasant, who cultivated the gardens, with his wife and chil- dren, two daughters just breaking into womanhood, and a young son, were offered to us as servants. Nothing could be more convenient. Behold us at length at rest ! XVIL I HAVE arrived at a period of my life which, although it afforded me the highest happiness th-.it was ever the lot of man, of which the recollection IS now my never-ceasing solace, and to enjoy the memory of which is alone worth existence, cannot prove very interesting to those who have been suf- ficiently engaged by my history to follow me to my retirement in ancient Crete. My life was now monotonous, for my life was only love. I know not the palling of passion, of which some write. I have loved onty once, and the recollec- tion of the being to whom I was devoted, fills me at this moment with as much rapture, as when her virgin charms were first yielded to my embrace. I cannot comprehend the sneers of witty rakes, at what they call constancy. If beings are united by any other consideration but love, constancy is of course impossible, and I think, unnecessary. To a man who is in love, the thought of another wo- man is uninteresting, if not repulsive. Constancy is human wature. Instead of love being the- occa- sion of all the misery of this world, as is sung by fantastic bards, I believe that the misery of this world is occasioned by there not being love enovigh. This opinion, at any rate, appears more logical. Happiness is only to be found in a recurrence to the principles of human nature, and the^e will prompt very simple manners. For myself, I be- lieve that jjermanent union of the sexes should be early encouraged ; nor do I conceive that general happiness can ever flourish but in societies where it irf the custom for all the males to marry at eighteen. This custom, I am informed, is not unusual in the United Slates of America, and its consequence is a simjilici'ty of manners, and a p)urity of conduct, which Europeans cannot comprehend, but to which they must ultimately have recourse. Primeval bar- barism, and extreme civilization, must arrive at the same results. Men, under those circumstances, are actuated by their organization ; in the first instance, instinctively ; in tlie second, philosophically. At present, we are all in the various gradations of tl^ intermediate state of corruption. * I could have lived with Alceste Contarini in a solitude for ever. I desired nothing more than to enjoy existence with such a coni[)anion. I would have communicated to her all my thoughts and feelings. I would have devoted to her solitary ear the poetry of my being. Such a life might not suit others. Others influenced by a passion not less ardent, may find its flame fed by the cares of life, cherished by its duties and its pleasures, and flour- ishing amid the travail of society. All is an affair of organization. Ours would differ. Among all men, there are some points of similarity and sym- pathy. There are few alike, there are some per- fectly unlike the mass. The various tribes that people this globe in all probability, spring from dif- ferent a)iimals. Until we know more of ourselves, what use are our systems 1 For myself, I can con- ceive nothing more idle or more usele.ss than what is styled moral philosophy. We speculate upon the character of man ; we divide and we subdivide ; we have our generals, our sages, our statesmen. There is not a modification, of mind that is notma[)- ped in our great atlas of intelligence. We cannot be wrong, because we have studied the past, and we are famous for discovering the future when it has taken place. Napoleon is first consul, and would found a dynasty. There is no doubt of it. Read my character of Cromwell. But what use is the discovery, when the consul is already tearing off his republican robe, and snatching the imperial dia- dem ! And suppose, which has happened, and ma OONTARINI FLEMING. 413 11 J will happen again, suppose a being of adifTerent orginization to Napoleon or Cromwell placed in the ^ame situation, — a being gifted with a combination of intelligence hitherto unknown, where then is our moral philosophy, our nice study of human nature? How are we to speculate upon results, which are to be produced by uuknown causes ! What we want is to discover the character of a man at his birth, and found his education upon his nature. The whole system of moral philosophy is a delusion, fit only for the play of sophists in an age of physiolo- gical ignorance. I leave these great speculations for the dreariness of future hours. Alceste calls me to the golden sands, whither it is oui wont to take our svuiset walk. A Grecian sunset ! The sky is like the neck of a dove, the rocks and waters are bathed with a violet light. Each moment it changes; each moment it .shifts into more graceful and more gleaming sha- dows. And the thin white moon is above all, the thin white moon, followed by a single star — like a lady by a page. XVIII. Vi/'f. had no booksi; no single source of amuse- ment but our own society, and yet the day always appeared a moment. I did indeed contrive to ob- tain for Alceste what was called a mandolin, and ■which, from its appearance, might have been an ancient lyre. But it was quite unnecessary. My tongue never stopped the whole day. I told Alceste every thing. All about my youthful scrapes and fancies, and Musaus and my battle, and Winter, and Christiana, and the confounded tragedy, and, of course, Manstein. If I for a moment ceased, she always said " go on." On I went, and told the same stories over again, which she reheard with the same interest. The present was so delightful to me, that I cared little to talk about the past, and always avoided the future. But Alceste would sometimes turn the conversation to what might happen, and as she now promised to heighten our happiness by bringing us a beautiful stranger to share our delightful existence, the future began to interest even me. I had never written to my fa';her since I arrived at Paris. Every time I drew a bill I expected to find my credit revoked, but it was not so. And I therefore willingly concluded that Lausanne ap- prized him of every thing, and that he thought fit not to interfere. I had never written to my father, because I cannot dissemble, and as my conduct ever since I quitted France had been one continued vio- lation of his commands and wishes, why, correspon- dence was difficult, and could not prove pleasing. But Alceste would talk about my father, and it was therefore necessary to tliink of him. She shuddered at the very name of Italy, and willingly looked for- ward to a settlement in the north. For myself, I was exceedingly happy, and my reminiscences of my fatherland were so far from agreeable, that I was careless as to the future, and although I already began to entertain the possibility of a return, I still wished to pass some considerable time of our youth inviolate by the vulgar cares of life, and under the influence of a glowing sky. In the mean time we rambled about the moim- tains on our little, stout Candiote horses, or amused Oiirselves In adorning our residence. We made a new garden. We collected every choice flower, and rare bird, and beautiful animal that we could assemble together. Alceste was wild for a white gazelle ever since we had seen one in the consul's court. They came from a particular part of Arabia, and are rare. Yet one was obtained, and two of its fawn-coloured brethren. I must confess that we found these elegant and poetical companions ex- tremely troublesome and stupid. They are the least sentimental and domestic of all creatures. The most sedulous attention will not attach them to you, and I do not believe they are ever fairly tame, I dislike them, in spite of their liquid eyes and ro- mantic reputation, and infinitely prefer what are now my constant and ever delightful company, some fine, faithful, honest, intelligent, thorough- bred English dogs. We had now passed nearly eight months in this island. The end of the year was again advancing. O ! the happy, the oharming evenings, when fear- ing for my Alceste, that it grew too cool to walk, we sat within the house, and the large lamp was lit, and the faithful Lausanne brought me my pipe, and the confounded gazelle kicked it over, and the grinning Tita handed us our coffee, and my dear, dear Alceste sang me some delicious Venetian me- lody, and then I left off smoking, and she left off singing, and we were happier and happier every day. Talk of fame and romance — all the glory and adventure in the world are not worth one single hour of domestic bliss ! It sounds like a claptrap, but the solitary splendour with which I ana now surrounded, tells me, too earnestly, it is truth. XIX, The hour approached that was to increase my happiness, my incredible happiness. Blessed, infi- nitely blessed as I was, bountiful Heaven was about to shower upon me a new and fruitful joy. In a few days I was to become a father. We had ob- tained from the town all necessary attendance : an Italian physician, whose manner gave us confidence, a sage woman of great reputation, were at our house. I had myself been cautious that my trea- sure should commit no imprudence. W^e were full of love and hope. My Alceste was not quite well. The physician recommended great quiet. She was taking her siesta, and I stole from her side, because my presence ever excited her, and she could not slumber. I strolled down to the bay, and mused over the character of a father. My imagination dwelt only upon this idea. I discovered, as my revery pro- ceeded, the fine relations that must subsist between a parent and a child. Such thoughts had made no impression upon me before. I thought of my own father, and the tears stole down my check. I vowed to return to him immediately, and give ourselves up to his happiness. I prayed to Heaven to grant me a man-child. I felt a lively confidence that he would be choicely gifted. I resolved to devote my- self entirely to his education. My imagination wandered in dreams of his perfect character, of his high accomplishments, liis noble virtues, his exalted fame. I conceived a philosopher who might mflu- ence his race, a being to whom the regeneration of his kind was perhaps allotted. My thoughts had rendered me unconscious of the hour ; the sun had set without my observation ; tbo 2 iti 2 414 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. growing- twilight callorl me to myself. I looked ifp, I beheld in the distance Alceste. I was sur- prised, disjiloased, alarmed. I could not conceive any thing more imprudent than her eomlnsr forth in the evening, and in her situation. I ran forward to reprimand lier with a kiss, to fold her shawl more closely round her, and bear her in my arms to the house. I ran forward, speaking at the same time. She f lintly smiled. I reached her. Lo ! she was not there ! A moment before, she was on the wide sands. There was no cavern near in which she could have entered. I stood amazed, thunderstruck. I shouted " Alceste." 'I'he shout was answered. I ran hack. Another shout; Tita came to me -running. His agitated fiee struck me with awe. He could not speak ; he seized my arm and dragged me along. I ran to the house. I did not dare to incpiire the cause. Lau- sanue met me at the threshold. His countenance wa.s despair. I stared like a bewildered man, I rushed to her room. Yet I remember the group leaning round our bed. They moved aside. I saw Alceste. She did not sec me. Her eyes were closed, her face pale and changed, her mouth had fallen. " What," I said, " what is all this ] Doctor, doc- tor, how is she]" The physician shook his head. I could not speak. I wrung my hands, more from the inability of thought and speech, than grief, by which I was not influenced. Speak, speak !" I at length said, "is she dead V "My lord " " Speak, speak, speak !" " It appears to me to be desperate. "It is impossible ! Dead ! She cannot be dead. Bleed her, bleed her, sir, before niQ. Dead ! Did 3'ou say dead ? Nonsense, nonsense ! Alceste, Alceste, speak to me. Say you are not dead, only say you are not dead. Bleed her, sir, bleed her." To humour me, he took up his lancet and opened another vein. A few dull drops oozed out. " Ah !" I exclaimed, " See ! she bleeds ! She is not dead. Alceste, Alceste ! you are not dead ! Lausanne, do something, Lausanne. For God's sake, Lausanne, sate her. Do something, Lausanne. My good Lausanne, do something!" He afTected to feel her pulse. I staggered about the room, wringing my hands. " Is she better 1" I inquired. No one answered. " Doctor, save her ! Tell me she is better, and I give you half — my whole fortune." l"he poor physician shook his head. He at- tempted nothing. I rushed to Lausanne, and seized his arm. " Lausanne, I can trust you. Tell me the truth. Is it all over?" " It has too long been over." " Ah !" I waved my hands, and shrieked, and fell. XX. Wur.jf my self-consciousness was restored, I found myself in another room. I was lying in a divan in the arms of Lausanne. I had forgotten every thing. I called Alceste. Then the remcm- hrance rushed into my brain. " Is it true," I said, " I>ausanne, is it true V His silence was an answer. I rose, and walked up and down the room once or twice, and then I said, in a low voice, " Take me to the body, Lau sanne." I leaned upon his arm and entered the chamber of our joys. Even as I entered, I indulged the wild hope that I should find it vmoecupied. I could not believe it. Yes, 5-es, she was dead ! Tall candles were burning in the room ; the walls were hung with solemn drapery. I advanced to the bedside. I took her hand. I motioned to Lau- sanne to retire. We were alone, alone once more. But how alone] I doubtal of every thing. I doubted of my existence. I thought my heart would burst, I wondered why any thing still went on. Why was not all over ] I looked round with idiot eyes, and opened mouth. A horrid contortion was chi selled on my face. Suddenly I seized the corpse in my arms, and fiercely embraced it. I thought I could reanimate it. I felt so much I thought I could reanimate it. I struggled with death. Was she dead ] Was she really dead ] It had a heavy leaden feel. I let her drop from my arms. She dropped like a lifeless trunk. I looked round with a silly grin. It was morning time. The flames of the candles looked haggard. There was a I'nrkish dagger in the closet. I remembered it. I ran to the closet. I cut off her long tresses. I rolled them round my neck. I locked the door. I stole out of the win- dow. I cunningly watched to observe whether I were followed. No one was stirring, or no one suspected me. I scudded away fleetly. I rushed up the hills. I never stopped. For hours I could never have stopped. I have a faint recollection of chasms, and precipices, and falling waters. I leaped every thing. I found myself at length on a peak of Mount Ida. A wide view of the ocean opened before me. As I gazed upon it, my mind became inflamed, — the power of speech was restored to me, — the poetry of my grief prevailed. " Fatal ocean ! f ital ocean !" I exclaimed, — " A curse upon thy waves, for thou wafted us to death. Green hills ! green valleys ! a blight upon thy trees and pastures, for she cannot gaze upon them ! And thou, red sun ! her blood is tipon thy beams. Halt in thy course, red sun ! halt ! and receive my curse! " Our house has fallen, the glorious house has fallen ; and the little ones may now rise. Eagle ! fly away and tell my father he is avenged. For lo ! Venice has he(>n my doom, and here on this toppling crag, I seal all tilings, and thus devete Coutarini Fleming to the infernal gods." I sprang forward, I felt myself in the air. My brain spun round, my sight deserted me, I fell. XXL When I can atrain recall existence, I found my- self in my own house. I was reclining on the divan propped up by cushions. My left arm was in a sling : my head bandaged. I looked a"round me without thought, and then I relapsed into apathy. Lausanne was in the room, and ])assed before me. I observed him, 1ml did not speak. He brought mc refreshment, which I took without notice. The room was darkened. I knew nothing of the course of time, nor did I care or inquire. Sometimes Lausanne quitted the apartment, and then Tita took his place. Sometimes he returned, and changed my bandages and my dress, and I fell asleep. Awake I had no thought, and slumbering I had no dreams. CONTARINl FLEMING. 415 I remained in this state, as I afterward learned, six weeks. One day I looked up, and seeing Tita, spoke in a faint voice, and asked for Lausanne. He ran immediately for him, and while he was a moment absent, I rose from my couch and tore the curtain from the window. Lausanne entered and came up to me, and would have again led mo to my seat, but I bid him " lighten the room." I desired to walk forth into the air, and leaning on his arm, I came out of the house. It was early morn, and I believe the sense of the fresh air had attracted and revived me. I stood for a moment vacantly gazing upon the distant bay, but I was so faint that I could not stand, and Spiro, the little Greek boy, ran and brought me a carpet and a cushion, and I sat down. I asked for a mirror, which was unwillingly afforded me ; but I insisted upon it. I viewed without emotion my emaciated form, and my pallid, sunken visage. My eyes were dead and hollow, my cheek-bones prominent and sharp, my head shaven, and covered with a light turban. Nevertheless, the feeling of the free, sweet air was grateful, and from this moment I commenced gradually to recover. I never spoke, except to express my wants, but my appetite returned, my strength increased, and each day, with Lausanne's assistance, I walked for a stiort time in the garden. My arm, which had been broken, resumed its power ; my head, which had been severely cut, healed. I ventured to walk only with the aid of a stick. Gradually I extended my course, and, in time, I reached the seaside. There, in a slight recess formed by a small head- land, I would sit with my back against a high rock, feel comforted that earth was hidden from my sight, and gaze for hours in vacancy upon the ocean and the sky. At sunset I stole home. 1 found Lausanne always about, evidently expecting me When he perceived me returning, he was soon by my side, but by a way that I could not observe him, and, without obtrusion or any appear- ance of ofKciousness, led, or rather carried me to my dwelling. One morning I bent my way to a small green valley, which opened on the other side of our gardens. It had been one of our most favourite haunts. I know not why I resorted to it this morning, for, as yet, her idea had never crossed my raind, any more than her name my lips. I had an indefinite conviction that I was a lost and fallen man. I knew that I had once been ha]ipy, that I had once mingled in a glorious existence ; but I felt with regard to the past as if it were another system of being, as if I had suddenly flillen from a sta:r, and lighted on a degenerate planet. I was in our valley, our happy valley. I stood still, and my memory seemed to return. The tears stole down my face. I remembered the cluster of orange trees under which we often sat. I plucked some leaves, and I pressed them to my lips. Yet I was doubtful, vmcertain, incredulous. I scarcely knew who I was. Not indeed that I was unable to feel my identity, not indeed that my intelligence was absolutely incapable of fulfilling its office, but there seemed a compact between my body and my mind that existence should proceed without thought. I descended into the vale. A new object at- tracted my attention. I approached it without suspicion. A green mount supported a stone, on which was boldly, but not rudely sculptured, "AlCESTE, CoiTNTESS CoNTARINI FlEMINC." A date recorded her decease, " It must have been many years ago," was my first impression ; " I am Contarini Fleming, and I remember Alceste well, but not in this country, surely not in this country. And yet those orange trees — " My wife, my lost, my darling wife, ! why am I alive ! I thought that I was dead ! I thought that I had flung myself from the mountain-top to join you — ^and it was all a dream !" I threw myself upon the tomb, and my tears poured forth in torrents, and I tore up the flowers that flourished upon the turf, and kissed them, and tossed them in the air. There was a rose, a beautiful white rose, delicate and fragrant ; and I gathered it, and it seemed to me like Alceste. And I sat gazing upon this fair flower, and as my vision was fixed upon it, the past grew up before me, and each moment I more clearly comprehended it. The bitterness of my grief overcame me. I threw away the rose, and a moment after, I was sorry to have lost it. I looked for it. It was not at my feet. My desire for the flower increased. I rose from the tomb, I looked around for the lost treasure. My search led me to the other side of the tablet, and I read the record of the death of my still-born son. XXII. " We must leave this place, Lausanne, and at once." His eye brightened when I spoke. " I have seen all that you have done, Lausanne, it is well, very well. I owe you much. I would have given much for her hair, more than I can ex- press. But you are not to blame. You had much to do." He left the room for a moment, and returned, — returned with the long, the beautiful tresses of my beloved. "O! you have made me so happy. I never thought that I should again know what joy was. How considerate ! How very good !" He broke to me gently that he had found th» tresses around my neck. I rubbed my forehead, I summoned my scattered thoughts, — '■ I remember something," 1 replied, " but I thought it was a dream. I fancied that in a dream I had quitted the house." He told me all. He told me that, after three days' search, he had found me among the moun- tains, hanging to the rough side of the precipice, shattered, stark, and senseless. The bushes had caught my clothes, and prevented a fatal fall. XXIII. A SHIP was about to leave the port for Leghorn. And why not go to Leghorn 1 Anywhere but Venice. Our arrangements were soon made. I determined to assent to the request of his father in taking little S})iro, who was a favourite of Alceste, and had charge of her gazelles. A Greek father is very willing to see his son anywhere but among the Turks. I promised his family not only to charge myself with his future fortunes, but also to remit them an annual allowance through the consul, provided they cherished the tomb of their late mis- tress, and in a fortnight I was again on hoard. The mountains of Candia were long in sight, but I avoided them. Our voyage was very long, 416 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. although not unpleasant. We were often hecahned. The air and change of scene beiaetited me much. I wonderfully resumed my old habits of revery,.and as I paced the deck, which I did nil day without ceasing, I mused over the past with feelings of greater solace than I ever anticipated could associate with it. I was consoled by the remembrance of our perfect love. I could not recall on either of our parts a single fretful word, a single occasion on which our conduct had afforded either of us an anxious, or even annoying moment. We never had enjoyed those lovers' quarrels which are said to be so sweet. Her sufferings had been intense, but they had been brief. It would have been consola- tory to have received her last breath, yet my pre- sence might have occasioned her greater agony. The appearance of her spirit assured me that, at the moment of her departure, her last thought was for me. The conviction of her liaving enjoyed positive happiness supported me. I was confident that had it been possible to make the decision, she would not have yielded her brief and beautiful career for length of days uniilumined by the presence of him who remained to consecrate her memory by liir> enduring love — perhaps by his en- during page. Ah ! old feelings returned to me. I perceived that it was impossible to exist without some object, and fame and poetic creation olfered themselves to my void heart. I remembered that the high calling to which I was devoted had been silently neglected. I recollected the lofty education and loftier results that travel was to afford, and for which travel was to prepare me. I reminded myself that I had already proved many new passions, become ac- quainted with many new modifications of feeling, and viewed many new objects. My knowledge of man and nature was very much increased. My mind was full of new thoughts, and crowded with new images. As I thus mused, that separation of the mere individual from the universal poet, which ever occurred in these high communings, again took place. My own misfortunes seemed but petty incidents to one who could exercise an illimitable power over the passions of his kind. If, amid the common losses of common life, the sympathy of a single friend can bear its balm, could I find no so- lace, even for my great bereavement, in the love of nations, and the admiration of ages ? Thus reflecting, I suddenly dashed into inven- tion, and in my almost constant walks on deck, I poured forth a crowd of characters, and incidents and feelings, and images, and moulded them into a coherent, and, as I hoped, a beautiful form. I longed for the moment when I could record them on a scroll more lasting then my memory, and up- held by this great purpose, I entered with a calm, if not cheerful countenance, the famous port of Leghorn. PART THE FOURTH. I. i WAS at length at Florenca The fair city so much vaunted by poets at first greatly disappointed me. I could not reconcile myself to those un- 6nijhed churches like barns, and those gloomy palaces like prisons. The muddy Arno was not poetical, and the sight of the whole place and the appearance of the surrounding hills, in spite of their white villas, seemed to me confined, monotonous, and dull. Yet there is a charm in Florence, which, al- though difficult precisely to define, is in. its influence very great and growing, and I scarcely know a place that I would prefer for a residence. I think it is the character of art, which both from ancient associations, and its present possessions, is forcibly impressed upon this city. It is full of invention. You cannot stroll fifty yards, you cannot enter a church or a palace, without being favourably re- minded of the power of human thought. It is a famous memorial of the genius of the Italian middle ages, when the mind of man was in ore of its spring-tides, and in which we mark so frequently what at the present day we too much underrate — the influence of individual character. In Florence, the monuments are not only of great men, but of the greatest. You do not gaze upon the tomb of an author, who is merely a great master of composition, but of one who formed the language. The illustrious astronomer is not the di.scoverer of a planet, but the revealer of the whole celestial niaoliinery. The artist and the politician are not merely the first sculptors and statesmen of their time, but the inventors of the very art and the very craft in which they excelled. The study of the fine arts mutually assists each other. In the formation of my style, I have been perhaps more indebted to music and to painting, even than to the great masters of literary composi- tion. The contemplation of the Venetian school had developed in me a latent love of gorgeous elo- quence, dazzling incident, brilliant expression, and voluptuous sentiment. These bi'ought their attend- ant imperfections, exaggeration, effeminacy, the obtrusion of art, the painful want of nature. The severe simplicity of the Tuscan masters chastened my mind. I mused over a great effect produced almost by a single mean. The picture that fixed my attention by a single group illustrating a single passion, was a fine and profitable study. I felt the power of nature delineated Ity a great master, and how far from necessary to enforce her influence, were the splendid accessaries with which my medi- tated compositions would rather have encumbered than adorned her. I began to think more of the individual than the species, rather of the motives of man, than of his conduct. I endeavoured to make myself as perfect in the dissection of his mind, as the Florentine in the anatomy of his body. Atr tempting to acquire the excellence of my models, I should probably have imbibed their defects ; their stiff, and sombre, and arid manner, their want of variety and grace. The Roman school saved me from this, and taught me that a very chaste or severe conception might be treated in a very glow- ing or genial style. But after all, I prefer the Spani.sh to the Italian painters. I know no one to rival Muriilo. I know no one who has blended with such felicity the high ideal with the extren>e simplicity of nature. Later in life, I f)und myself in his native city, in that lovt'ly Seville, more lovely from his fine creations than even from the orange bowers that perfume its gates, and the silver stream that winds about its plain. I well remember the tumult of invention in which I wandered day after day amid the halls and galleries of Florence. Each beautiful face that CONTARINI FLEMING. 417 flitted before me was a heroine, each passion that Dreathed upon the canvass was to be transferred to the page. I conceived at one time the j)lan of writing a series of works in the style of each school. The splendour of Titian, the grace of Raffaelle, the twilight tints of that magician, Guercino, alternately threw my mind into moods analogous to their creations. A portrait of Ippoly to de' Medici in the Pitti palace, of whom I knew nothing, haunted me like a ghost, and I could only lay the spectre by resolving in time to delineate the spirit of Italian feudality. The seraphic Baptist in the w'lderness recalled the solitude I loved. I would have poured forth a monologue amid the mountains of Judea, had not Endymion caught my enraptured vision, and I could dream only of the bright goddess of his shadowy love, I thought only of art. I sought the society of artists and collectors. I unconsciously adopted their iargon. I l>egon to discourse of copies, and middle tints, and changes of style. I was in great danger of degenerating into a dilettante. Little objects as well as great, now interested me. I handled a bronze and speculated upon its antiquity. Yet even these slight pursuits exercised a beneficial tendency upon a mind wild, irregular, and undisci- plined ; nor do I believe that any one can long observe even fine carvings and choice medals, with- out his taste becoming more susceptible, and deli- cate, and refined. My mind was overflowing with the accumulated meditation and experience of two years ; an im- portant interval in all lives, passed in mine in con- stant thought and action, and in a continual struggle with new ideas and novel passions. The desire of composition became irresistible. I recur- red to the feelings with which I entered Leghorn, and from which I had been diverted amid the dis- traction produced by the novelty, the beauty, and the variety of surrounding objects. With these feelings, I quitted the city, and engaged the Villa Caponi, situated on a green and gentle swell of the Apennines, near the tower of Galileo. If there were any thing in the world for which I now entertained a sovereign contempt, it was my unfortunate Manstein. My most malignant critic must have yielded to me in the scorn which I lavished on that immature production, and tlie shame with which I even recollected its existence. No one could be more sensible of its glaring defects, for no one thought more of them, and I was so familiar with its less defective^ parts, that they had lost all their relish, and appeared to me as weak, and vapid, and silly as the rest. I never labour to delude myself I never gloss over my faults. I exaggerate them. I can aflijrd to face truth, for I feel capable of improvement. And indeed I have never yet experienced that complacency with which, it is said, some authors regard their offspring, nor do I think that this paternal fondness will ever be my agreeable lot. I am never satisfied. No sooner have I executed some conception, than my mind soars above its creation, and meditates a higher flight in a purer atmosphere. The very exercise of power only teaches me, that it may be wielded for a greater purpose. I prepared myself for composition in a very dif- ferent mood to that in which I had poured forth my 53 fervid crudities in the garden-house. Calm and collected, I constructed characters on philosophical principles, and mused over a chain of action which should develope the system of our existence. All was art. I studied contrasts and grouping, and metaphysical analysis was substituted for anatomi- cal delineation. I was not satisfied that the con- duct of my creations should be influenced merely by the general principles of their being. I resolved that they should be the very impersonations of the moods and passions of our mind. One was ill- rcgulated will ; another offered the formation of a moral being ; materialism sparkled in the wild gavety and reckless caprice of one voluptuous girl, while spirit was vindicated in the deep devotion of a constant and enthusiastic heroine. Even the lighter temperaments were not forgotten. Frivolity smiled, and shrugged his shoulders before us, and there was even a deep personification of cynic humour. Had I executed my work in strict unison with my plan, it would doubtless have been a very dull affair. For I did not yet possess suflicient know- ledge of human nature to support me in such a creation, nor was I then habituated to those meta- physical speculations, which might have in some degree compensated, by their profundity, for their want of entertainment. But nature avenged her- self, and extricated me from my dilemma. I began to write ; my fancy fired, my brain in- flamed ; breathing forms rose up under my pen, and jostled aside the cold abstractions, whose crea- tion had cost such long musing. In vain I en- deavoured to compose without enthusiasm, in vain I endeavoured to delineate only what I had pre- conceived, in vain I struggled to restrain the flow of unliidden invention. All that I had seen and pondered passed before me, from the proud moment that I stood upon Mount Jura to the present ravish- ing hour that I returned to my long estranged art. Every tree, every cloud, every star and mountain, eveiy fair lake and flowing river, that had fed my fancy with their sweet suggestions in my rambling hours, now returned and illumined my pages with their brightness and their beauty. My mind teemed with similes. Thought and passion came vailed in metaphoric garb. I was delighted, I was bewildered. The clustering of their beauty seemed an evidence of poetic poweV : the management of these bright guests was an art of which I was igno- rant. I received them all. I found myself often writing only that they might be accommodated. I gave up to tliis work many long and unbroken hours. I was determined that it should not sufler from a hurriotl pen. I often stopped to meditate It was in writing this book, that I first learned my art. It was a series of experiments. They wero at length finished, and my volumes consigned to their fate and northern publisher. The critics treated me with more courtesy. What seemed to me odd enough then, although nn puzzle now, was, that they admired what had been written in haste, and without premeditation and generally disapjiroved of what had cost me mucL forethought, and been executed with great care. It was universally declared a most unequal work, and they were right, although they could not detect the causes of the inequality. My perpetual efforts at being imaginative were highly reprobated. Now my efforts had lieen entirely the otlier way. In short, I puzzled them, and no one offered a predic- tion as to my future career. My book, as a whole 418 D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. was rather unintelligible, but parts were favourite?. It was pronounced a rcniarkable compound of originality and dulness. These critiques, whatever might be their tenor, mattered little to me. A long interval elapsed before they reached Florence, and during that period, I had effectually emancipated myself from the thraldom of criticism. I have observed, that after writing a book, my mind always makes a great spring. I believe that the act of composition produces the same invigorat- ing cllect upon the mind, which some exertion docs upon the body. Even the writing of Manstein proiUiccd a revolution in my nature, which cannot be traced by any metaphysical analysis. In tbe course of a few days, I was converted from a hollow- hearted woridling into a noble philosopher. I was indeed ignorant, but I had lost the double ignorance of the Platonists, I was no longer ignorant that I was ignorant. No one could be influenced by a gi-eater desire of knowledge, a greater passion "for the beautiful, or a deeper regard for his fellow- creatures. And I well remember when, on the evening that I wrote the last sentence of this more intellectual eflijrt, I walked out upon the terrace with that feeling of satisfaction, which accompanies the idea of a task completed ; so far was I from being excited by the hope of having written a great work, that I even meditated its destruction. For, the moment it was terminated, it seemed to me that I had become suddenly acquainted with the long-con- cealed principles of my art, which, without doubt, had been slenderly practised in this production. My taste, as it were in an instant, became formed, and I felt the conviction, that I could now produce some lasting creation. I thought no more of criticism. The breath of man has never influenced me much, for I depend more upon myself than upon others. I want no false fame. It would be no delight to me to be considered a prophet, were I conscious of being an impostor. I ever wish to be undeceived ; but if I possess the organization of a poet, no one can pre- vent me from exercising my faculty, any more than he can rob the courser of his fleetness, or the night- ingale of her song. J II. After finishing my work, I read more at Flo- rence than I have at any period of my life. Having formed the principles on which in future I intended to proceed in composition, and considering myself now qualified to decide upon other artists, I deter- mined critically to examine the literary fiction of all counti'ies, to ascertain how far my intentions had been anticipated, and in what degree my predeces- sors might assist me. It appears to me that the age of versification lias passed. The mode of composition must ever be greatly detcnnined by the manner in which the composition can be made public. In ancient days, the voice was the medium by which we became acquainted with the inventions of a poet. In such a method, where those who listened had no time to pause, and no opportunity to tliink, it was necessary that every thing should be obvious. The audience who were perplexed would soon become wearied. The spirit of ancient poetry, therefore, is rather material than metaphysical. Superficial, not inter- nal ; there is much simplicity and much nature, but little passion and less philosophy. To obviate the baldness, which is the consequence of a style where the subject and the sentiments are rather intimated than developed, the poem was enriched by music, and enforced by action. Occasionally were addecl the encjiantmcnt of scenei7, and the fascination of the dance. But the poet did not depend merely upon these brilliant accessaries. He resolved that liis thoughts should be expressed m a manner dif- ferent from other modes of communicating ideas. He caught a suggestion from his sister art, and in- vented metre. And in this modulation, he intro- duced a new system of phraseology, which marked him out fi-om the crowd, and which has obtained the title of " poetic diction." His object in this system of words was to heighten his meaning by strange phrases, and unusual cori- , structions. Inversion was invented to clothe a com- monplace with an air of novelty ; vague epithets were introduced to prop up a monotonous modula- tion ; were his meaning to be enforced, he shrank from wearisoine ratiocination and the agony of precise conceptions, and sought refuge in a bold personification, or a beautiful similitude. The art of poetry was to express natural feelmgs in unnatu- ral language. Institutions ever survive their purpose, and cus- i toms govern us when their cause is extinct. And this mode of communicating poetic invention still remained, when the advanced civihzation of man, in multiplying manuscripts, might have made many suspect that the time had arrived when the poet was to cease to sing, and to learn to write. Had the splendid refinement of imperial Rome not been doomed to such rapid decay, and such mortifying and degrading vicissitudes, I believe that versifica- tion would have worn out. Unquestionably thai empire, in its multifarious population, scenery, creeds, and customs, offered the richest materials for emancipated fiction ; materials, however, far too vast and various for the limited capacity of metrical celebration. That beneficent Omnipotence, before which v^e must bow down, has so ordered it, that imitation should be the mental feature of modern Europe; and has ordained that "we should adopt a Syrian religion, a Grecian literature, and a Koman law. At the revival of letters, we behold the portentous spectacle of national poets communicating their in- ventions in an exotic form. Conscious of the con- fined nature of their method, j^et unable to extricate themselves from its fatal ties, they sought variety in increased artifice of diction, and substituted for the melody of the lyre the barbaric clash of rhyme. A revolution took place in the mode of commu- nicating thought. Now, at least, it was full time that we should have emancipated ourselves forever from sterile metre. One would have supposed that the poet who could not only write, but even print his inventions, would have felt that it was boih useless and unfit that they should be communicated by a process invented when his only medium was simple recitation. One would have supposed that the poet would have rushed with desire to the new world before him, that he would have seized the new means that permitted him to revel in a universe of boundless invention ; to combine the highest ideal creation with the infinite delineation of teeming nature ; to unravel all the dark mysteries of our bosoms, and all the bright purposes of our being; to become the great instructor and champion of his sjiecics ; and not only delight their fancy, and chann CONTARINI FLEMING. 419 Aeir senses, and command their will, but demon- strate their rights, illustrate their necessities, and expound the object of their existence ; and all this too in a style charming and changing with its uni- versal theme, now tender, now sportive, now earnest, now profound, now sublime, now pathetic, and substituting for the dull monotony of metre, the most various, and exquisite, and inexhaustible melody. When I remember the trammels to which the poet has been doomed, and the splendour with which consummate genius has invested them, and when, for a moment, I conceive him bursting asunder his bonds, I fancy I behold the sacred biril snapping the golden chain that binds him to Olympus, and soaring even above Jove ! IV. I HAD arrived at Florence in a very feeble and shattered state of health, of which, however, as I had never been an habitual invalid, I thought little. My confidence in my energy had never deserted me. Composition, however, although I now wrote with facility, proved a greater effort than I had antici- pated. The desire I felt of completing my purpose had successfully sustained 'me throughout, but, during its progress, I was too often conscious of an occasional, but increasing languor, which perplexed and alarmed me. Perfect as might be my concep- tion of my task, and easy as I ever found its execu- tion when. I was excited, I invariably experienced, at the commencement, a feeling of inertness, which was painful and mortifying. As I did not dream of physical inability, I began to apprehend that, however delightful might be the process of medita- tion, that of execution was less delicious. Some- times I even for a moment feared that there might be a lurking weakness in my nature, which might prevent me from ever elfecting a great performance. I remember one evening as I was meditating in my chamber, my watch lying upon the table, and the hour nine, I felt, as I fancied, disturbed by the increased sound of that instrument. I moved it to the other side of the table, but the sound increased, and assured that it was not occasioned by the sup- posed cause, and greatly disturbed, I rang for Lau- sanne, and mentioned the inconvenience. Lau- sanne persisted in hearing nothing, but as the sound became even more audible, and as I now believed that some reptile might be in the room, he examined it in all parts. Nothing was perceived ; the hum grew louder, and it was not until I jumped up from my seat to assist him in his examination, that I dis- covered by the increased sound, occasioned by my sudden rise, that the noise was merely in my own ears. The circumstance occasioned me no alarm. It inconvenienced me for the evening. I retired at an earlier hour, passed, as usual, a restless and dreamy night, but fell asleep towards the morning, and rose tolerably fresh. I can write only in the morning. It is then I execute with facility all that I have planned the ensuing eve. And this day, as usual, I resumed my pen, but it was not obedient. I felt not only languid and indolent, but a sensation of faintness which I had before experienced and disregarded, came over me, and the pen fell from my hand. I rose and walked about the room. My extremities were cold, as of late in the morning I had usually found them. The sun was shining brightly over the sparkling liills. I felt a great desire to warm myself in his beams. I ordered my horse. The ride entirely revived me. I fancieossessit, an intolerable burthen. And nothing but the chance, for I cannot call it hope, of amelioration, prevents me from ter- minating it." " If you remember right, you considered exist- ence equally an intolerable burthen when, as a boy, you first experienced feehngs which you were unable to express." " Well ! what inference do you drawl" " That it is not the first time you have quarrelled with nature." " How so 1" I eagerly replied, and I exerted my- self to answer him, "is disease nature?" " Is your state disease 1" " I have no mind." " You reason." " My brain is eiffected." " You see." " You believe, then, that I am a hypochon- driac 1" " By no means ! I believe your feelings are real and peculiar, but it does not therefore follow that they are evil." " Perhaps," I said, with a dry smile, " you be- lieve them beneficent?" " I do certainly," he replied. " In what respect?" " I believe, that as you would not give nature a holyday, she is giving herself one." ^ I was silent, and mused. " But this infernal brain ?" I replied. "Is the part of the machinery that you have worked most ; and therefore the weakest." " But how is it to be strengthened ?" " Not by medicine. By following exactly a con- trary course to that which enfeebled it." " For fifteen months an idea has not crossed my brain." " Well! you are the better for it; and fifteen months more — " " Alas ! what is life ! At this age I hoped to be famous." " Depend upon it, you are in the right road, but rest assured you must go through every trial that is peculiar to men of your organization. There is no avoiding it. It is just as necessary as that life should be the consequence of your structure. To tell you the truth, which is always best, I only came here to please your father. When he wrote to me of your illness, I mentioned to him that 't 2N 422 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. must have its course, that there was nothing to he alarmed about, and that it was just as much a part of your necessary education as travel or study. But he wished me to see you, and so I came." " My poor father ! Alas ! my conduct to liim — " " Has been just what it ought to be, just what it necessarily must have been, just exactly what my own was to my father. As long as liuman beings are unphilosophically educated, these incidents will take place." " Ah ! my dear Winter, I am a %'illain. I have never even written to him." " Of course you have not. Your father tried to tuni you into a politician. Had he not forced you to write so many letters then, you would not have omitted to vrrite to him now. The whole affair is simple as day. Until men are educated with a reference to their organization, there will be no end to domestic fracas." " You ever jest, my friend. I have not ventured on a joke for many a long month." " Which is a pity ; for, to tell you the truth, although your last work is of the tender and sub- lime, and maketh fair eyes weep, I thinlc your forte is comic." " Do you, indeed V " Ah ! my dear Contarini, those two little volumes of Manstein — " " ! mention not the name. Infamous, URa- dulterated trash I" " Ah ! exactly as I thought of my first picture, which after all has a freshness and a freedom I have never excclJed, — but Manstein, my dear Con- tarini, it certainly was very impertinent. I read it at Rome. I thought I should have died. All our friends. So very true !" " Will you stay with me 1 I feel a good deal better since you have been here, and what you tell me of my father delights me. Pray, pray stay. Well ! you are indeed kind. And if I feel very ill, I will keep away." " ! I should like to see you in one of your fits." VIII. '' i' A«.E a glass of wine," said Winter at dinner. " My dear friend, I have taken one." " Take another. Here is your father's health." " Well, then, here is yours. How is the finest of old men 1" " Flourishing and happy." " And your mother V " Capital!" " And you have never returned T' " No ! and never will, while there are such places as Rome and Naples." " Ah ! I shall never see them." " Pooh ! the sooner you move about the better." " My good friend, it is impossible." *' Why so ■? Do not confound your present con- dition with the state you were in a year ago. Let me feel your pulse. Capital ! You seem to have an excellent appetite.' Don't be ashamed to eat. In cases like yours, the art is to ascertain the mo- ment to make exertion. I look upon yours as a rase of complete exhaustion. If there be any thing more exhausting than love, it is sorrow, and if there be any thing more exhausting than sorrow. It is poetry. You have tried all three. Your body and your mind both required perfect repose. I per- ceive that your body has sufficiently rested. Em- ploy it; and in another year you will find youi mind equally come round." " You console me. But where shall I go ? Home?" " By no means. You require beauty and no- velty. At present I would not go even to the south of this country. It will remind you too much of the past. Put yourself entirely in a new world. Go to Egypt. It will suit you. I look upon you as an Oriental. If you like, go to South America. Tropical scenery will astonish and cure you. Go to Leghorn, and get iftto the first ship that is bound for a country with which you are unac- quainted." IX. WiNTEK remained with me several days, and before he had quitted Florence I had written to my father. I described to him my forlorn situation, my strong desire to see him, and I stated the advice which did not correspond with my wishes. I asked for his counsel, but said nothing of the great cala- mity. I was indeed myself extremely unwilling to return home m my present state, but this unwil- lingness I concealed. I received an answer from my father by a special courier, an answer the most afft'ctionate. He strongly recommended me to- travel for some time, expressed his hope and confidence that I should entirely recover, and that I should return and repay him for all his anxiety. All that he required was, that I should frequently correspond with him. And ever afterward, I religiously respected his request. A ship v/as about to sail from Leghorn to Cadiz. Spain appeared an interesting country, and one of which I knew nothing. It is the link between Europe and Africa. To Spain therefore I resolved to repair ; and in a few days I again quitted Italy, and once more cast my fortunes on the waters ! PART THE FIFTH. I. EcnoPE and Afbic ! I have wandered amid the tombs of Tro\', and stood bj' the altar of Medea, yet the poetry of the Hellespont, and the splendour of the Symplcgades must yield to the majesty of the Straits of Calpe. Like some lone Titian, lurid and sublime, his throne the m.ountains and the clouds his crown, the melancholy Mauritania sits apart, and gazes on the mistress he has lost. And lo ! from out the waves that kiss her feet, and bow before her beauty, she softly rises with a wanton smile. Would she call back her dark-eyed lover, and does the memory of that bright embrace yet dwell within the hallowed sanctuary of her heart 1 It was a glorious union. When were maidens fairer and more faithful — when were men more gentle and more brave 1 When did all that can adorn humanity more brightly flourish, and more sweetly bloom 1 Alas ! for their fair cities, and fine gardens, and fresh fountains ! Alas ! for their delicate pabces, and glowing bowers of per- fumed shade ! CONTARINI FLEMING. 423 Will you fly with me from the dull toil of vulgar life 1 Will you wander for a moment amid tlie plains of Granada 1 Around us are those snowy and purjjle mountains, which a caliph wept to quit. They surrounded a land still prodigal of fruits, in spite of a Gothic government. You are gazing on the rows of blooming aloes, that are the onlj' enclosures, with their flowery forms high in the warm air ; you linger among those groves of Indian fig : you stare with strange delight at the first sight of the sugar-cane. Come away, come away, for on yon green and sunny hill, rises the ruby gate of that precious pile whose name is a spell, and whose vision is romance. Let us enter Alhambra ! See ! here is the Court of Myrtles, and I gather 3'ou a sprig. Mark how exquisitely every thing is proportioned, mark how slight, and small, and deli- cate ! And now we are in the Court of Columns, the far-famed Court of Columns. Let us enter the chambers that open round this quadrangle. How beautiful are their deeply car\'ed and purple roofs, studded with gold, and the wall entirely covered with the most fanciful fret-work, relieved with that violet tint, which must have been copied from their Andalusian skies. Here you may sit in the coolest shade, reclining on your divan with your beads or pipe, and view the most dazzling sunlight in the court, which assuredly must scorch the flowers, if the faithful lions ever ceased from pouring forth that element which you must travel in Spain or Africa to honour. How many chambers ! The Hall of the Ambassadors ever the most sumptuous. How fanciful is its mosaic ceiling of ivory and tor- toise-shell, mother-of-pearl and gold ! And then the Hall of Justic-e with its cedar roof, and the Harem, and the baths — all perfect. Not a single roof has yielded, thanks to those elegant horse-shoe arches and those crowds of marble columns, with their oriental capitals. What a scene ! Is it beau- tiful ? 0,! conceive it in the time of the Boabdils — conceive it with all its costly decorations, all the gilding, all the imperial purple, all the violet relief, all the scarlet borders, all the glittering inscriptions and precious mosaics, burnished, bright, and fresh. Conceive it full of still greater ornaments, the living groups with their splendid, and vivid, and picturesque costume, and above all their rich and shining arms, some standing in conversing groups, some smoking in sedate silence, some telling their beads, some squatting round a storier. Then the bustle and the rush, and the coming horsemen, all in motion, and all glancing in the most brilliant sun. Enough of tliis ! I am alone. Yet there was or.e being with whom I could have loved to roam in these imaginative halls, and found no solitude m the sole presence of her most sweet society. Alhambra is a strong illustration of what I have long thought, that however there may be a standard of taste, there is no standard of style. I must place Alhambra with the Parthe- non, the Pantheon, the Cathedral of Seville, the Temple of Dendera. They are dilTerent combina- tions of the same principles of taste. Thus we maj' equally admire .Eschylus, Virgil, Calderon and Ferdousi. There never could have been a contro- V(!rsy on such a point, if mankind had not con- fused the ideas of taste an^l style. The Saracenic architecture is the most inventive and fanciful, but at the same time the most fitting and delicate that can be conceived. There would be no doubt about its title to be considered among the finest inven- tions of man if it were better known. It is only to be found in any degree of European perfection in Spain, Some of the tombs of the Mamlouk sultans in the desert round Cairo, wrongly styled by the French "the tombs of the caliphs," are equal, I think, to Alhambra. When a person sneers at the Saracenic, ask him what he has seen 1 Perhaps a barbarous, although picturesque building, called the Ducal Palace, at Venice. What should we think of a man, who decided on the architecture of Agrippa by the buildingsof Justinian, or judged the age of Pericles by the restoration of Hadrian 1 Yet he would not commit so gi'eat a blunder. There is a Moorish palace, the Alcazar at Seville, a huge mosque at Cordova turned into a cathedral, vvith partial alteration, Alhambra at Granada, these are the great specimens in Europe, and sufficient for all study. There is a shrine and chapel of a Moorish saint at Cordova, quite untouched, with the blue mosaic and the golden honeycomb roof, as vivid and as brilliant as when the santon was worshipped. In my life have I never seen any work of art more exquisite. The materials are the richest, the ornaments the most costly, and in detail, the most elegant and the most novel, the most fanci- ful and the most flowing, that I ever contemplated. And yet nothing at the same time can be conceived more just than the proportion of the whole, and more mellowed than the blending of the parts, which indeed Palladio could not excel. II. A Spa:vish city sparkling in the sun, with its white walls and verdant jalousies, is one of the most cheerful and most brilliant of the works of man. Figaro is in every street, and Rosina in every balcony. The Moorish remains, the Christian churches, the gay, national dress, a gorgeous priesthood, ever producing, in their dazzUng processions and sacred festivals, an effect upon the business of the day, the splendid pictures of a school of which we know nothing, theatres, alamedas, tertullas, bull fight.s, boleros, — here is matter enough for amusement within the walls, and now let us seiihow they pass their time out of them. When I was in the south of Spain the whole of Andalusia was overrun with robbers. These bands, unless irritated by a rash resistance, have of late seldom committed personal violence, but only lay you on the ground and clear oat your pockets. If however you have less than an ounce of gold, they shoot you. That is their taritT, which they have announced at all ihe principal towns, and it must be confessed is a light one. A weak government resolves society into its original elements, and rob- bery in Spain has become more honourable than war, inasmuch as the robber is paiil, and the soldier is in arrear. The traveller must defend himself. Some combine, some compromise, merchants travel in corsarios or caravans well armed, persons of quality take a military escort, who, if cavalry, scamper oft' the moment they are attacked, and if infantry, remain and participate in the plunder. The government is only anxious about the post, and to secure that pay the brigands black mail. The country is thinly populated, with few vil lages or farmhouses, but many towns and cities. I> chiefly consists of immense plains of pasture lanr 424 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. which, sunburnt in the summer, were a good pre- paration for the desert and intervenina: mountainous districts, such as the Sierra Morena, famous in Cervantes, the Sierra Nivada of Granada, and the Sierra da Ron(ia, a country like the Abruzzi, entirely inhabited by brigands and smugglers, and which I once explored. I must say that the wild beauty of tlie scenery entirely repaid me for some peril and very great hardship. Returning from this district towards Cadiz, you arrive at Oven, one of the finest mountain passes in the world. Its precipices and cork woods would have afforded inexhaustible studies to Salvator. All this part of the country is full of pictures, and of a peculiar character. I recommend Castellar to an fftlventurous artist. I travelled over Andalusia on horseback, and in spite of many warnings, without any escort, or any companions but Lausanne and 'I'ita, and little Spiro, and the muleteers who walk and occasionally increase the burden of a sumpter steed. Li general, like all the Spanish peasants, they are tall, finely made fellows, looking extremely martial with their low, round, black velvet hats and coloured sashes, embroidered jackets and brilliant buttons. We took care not to have too much money, and no baggage that we could not stow in our saddle bags. I even followed the advice of an experienced guide, and was as little ostentatious as possible of my arms, for to a Spanish bandit, foreign pistols are some- times a temptation, instead of a terror. Such pru- dent humility will not, however, answer in the East, where you cannot be too well, or too magnifi- cently armed. We were, in general, in our saddles at four o'clock, and stopped, on account of the heat, from ten till five in the evening, and then proceeded for three or four hours more. I have travelled through three successive nights, and seen the sun set and rise, without quitting my saddk;, which all men cannot say. It is impossible to conceive any thing more brilUant than an Andalusian summer moon. You lose nothing of the landscape, which is only softened, not obscured, and absolutely the beams are warm. Generally speaking, we contrived to reach, lor our ni2;ht's bivouac, some village, which usually boasts a place called a posada. If this failed, there was sometimes a convent, and were we unfor- tunate in this expedient, we made pillows of our saddles, and beds of our cloaks. A posada is in fact a khan, and a very bad one. 'I'he same room holds the cattle, the kitchen, the family, and boards and mats for travellers to sleep on. Your host affords no provisions, and you must cater as you proceed, and, what is more, cook when you have catered. Yet the posada, in spite of so many causes, is seldom dirty ; and for the Spaniards, notwithstanding their reputation, I claim the cha- racter of the most cleanly nation in Europe. No- thing is more remarkable than the delicacy of the ower orders. All that frequent whitewash and constant ablution can effect against a generating sun, they employ. You w.ould think that a Spanish woman had no other occupation than to maintain vhe cleanliness of her chamber. Most assuredly ihey are a clean people. They have loo much self-respect not to be clean. I once remember Lau- sanne rating a muleteer, who was somewhat tardy in his preparations. " What !" exclaimed the pea- sant, reproachfully, " would you have me go with- out a clean shirt ?" Now when we remember that this man only put on his clean shirt to toil on foot for thirty or forty miles, we may admire his high feeling, and doul>t whether we migbt match this incident even by that wonder, an English posti- lion. Certainly the Spaniards are a noble race. They are kind and faithful, courageous and honest, with a profound mind, that will nevertheless break into rich humour, and a dignity which, like their pas- sion, is perhaps the legacy of their oriental sires. • But, see ! we have gaineti the summit of the hill. Behold! the noble range of the Morena mountains extends before us, and at their base is a plain worthy of such a boundary. Yon river, wmding amid bowers of orange, is tlie beautiful Guadalquivir, and that city, with its many spires and mighty mosque, is the famous Cordova ! III. The court-j^ard was full of mules, a body of in- fantry were bivouacking under the colonnades. There were several servants, all armed, and a crowd of muleteers with bludgeons. " 'Tis a great lady from Madrid, .sir," observed Tita, who was lounging in the court. I liad now been several days at Cordova, and intended to depart at sunset for Granada. The country between these two cities is more infested by brigands than any tract in Spain. The town was rife with their daring exploits. Even,- traveller during the last month had been plundered, and only the night before my arrival, they had, in re- venge for some attempt of the governor to interfere, burned down a farmhouse a few miles without the gates. When I entered the hotel, the landlord came up to me, and advised me to postpone my departure for a few hours, as a great lady from Madrid was about to venture the journey, and depart at mid- night towards Malaga with a strong escort. He doubted not that she would consent witii pleasure to my joining their party. I did not feel, I fear, as grateful for his proposition as I ought to have been. I was tired of Cordova — I had made up my mind to depart at a particular hour. I had hitherto escaped the brigands — I began to suspect that their activity was exaggerated. At the worst, I apprehended no great evil. Some persons always escaped, and I was confident in my fortune. " What is all this !" I inquired of Lausanne. " 'Tis a great lady from Madrid," replied Lau- sanne. "And have you seen herl" " I have not, sir, but. I have seen her husband." " ! she has a husband — then I certamly will not stop. At sunset we go." In half an hour's time the landlord again entered my room, with an invitation from the great lady and her lord to join them at dinner. Of course I could yot refuse, although I began to suspect that my worthy host, in his considerate suggestions, had perhays been influenced by other views than tnerely my security. I repaired to the saloon. It was truly a Gil Bias scene. The grandee, in an undress uniform, and highly imposing in appearance, greeted me with dignity. He was of middle age, with a fine form and a strongly marked, true Castilian couiite nance, but very liandsome. The scnora was ex ceedingly young, and really very pretty, with infi nite vivacity and grace. A French valet Icaiiei' CONTARINI FLEMING. 425 ■ever the. husband's chair, and a duenna, broad and supercilious, with beady jet eyes, mahogany com- plexion, and cockcd-up nose, stood by her young mistress, refreshing her with a huge fan. After some general and agi-eeable conversation, the senor introduced the intended journey, and un- derstanding that I was about to proceed in the same direction, otTered me the advantage of his escort. The dama most energetically impressed upon me the danger of travelling alone, and I was brutal enough to suspect that she had more confi- dence in foreign aid than in the courage of her fountrymen. I was in one of those ungallant fits that some- times come over men of shattered nerves. I had looked forward with moody pleasure to a silent moonlit ride. I shrunk from the constant effort of continued conversation. It did not appear that my chivalry vvould he grievously affected in an almost solitaiy cavalier deserting a dame environed by a military force and a band of armed retainers. In short, I was not seduced by the prospect of security, and rash enough to depart alone. The moon rose. I confess our anxiety. The muleteer prophesied an attack. "They will be out," said he, '' for the great lady ; we cannot escape." We passed two travelling friars on their mules, who gave us their blessing ; and I observed to-night by the road-side more crosses than usual, and each of these is indicative of a violent death. We crossed an* immense plain, and entered a Drolicn mule-track through uneven ground. We were challenged by a picquet, and I, who was ahead, nearly got shot for not answering. It was a corsario of armed merchants returning from the fair of Ronda. We stopped and made inquiries, but could learn nothing, and we continued our journey for several hours in silence, by the most brilliant moon. We began to hope we had escaped, when suddenly a muleteer informed us that he could distinguish a trampling of horse in the distance. Ave Maria I a cold perspiration came over us. Decidedly they approached. We drew up out of pure fear. I had a pistol in one hand and my purse in the other, to act accord- ing to circumstances. The band were clearly in sight I was encouraged by finding that they were a rather uproarious crew. They turned out to be a company of actors travelling to Cordova. There were dresses and decorations, scenery and ma- chinery, all on mules and donkeys — the singers rehearsing an opera, the principal tragedian riding on an as», and the buffo most serious, looking as grave as night, with a cigar, and in greater agita- tion than all the rest. The women were in side- saddles like sedans, and there were whole panniers of children. Some of the actresses were chanting an ave, while, in more than one instance, their waists were encircled by the brawny arm of a more robust devotee. All this irresistibly reminded me of Cervantes. Night waned, and, instead of meeting robbers, we discovered that we had only lost our way. At length we stumbled upon some peasants sleeping ui the field amid the harvest, who told us that it was utterly impossible to regain our road ; and so, our steeds and ourselves being equally wearied, we dismounted, and turned our saddles into pillows. I was roused, after a couple of hours' sound slumber, by the Rosario, a singing procession, in which the peasantry congregate to their labours. 54 It is most effective, full of noble chants and melo- dious responses, that break upon the still fresh air, and your fresher feelings, in a manner truly magi- cal. This is the country for a national novelist The out-door life of the natives induces a variety of most picturesque manners, while their semi- civilization makes each district retain, with barba- rous jealousy, their peculiar customs. I heard a shot at no great distance. It was re- peated. To horse, to horse ! I roused Lausanne and Tita. It occurred to me directly. Shots were interchanged. We galloped in the direction of the sound, followed by several peasants, and firing our pistols. Two or three runaway soldiers met us. " Carraho ! Scoundrels, turn back !" we cried. In a few minutes we were in sight of the combat. It was a most unequal one, and nearly finished, A robber had hold of the arm of the great lady of Madrid, who was dismounted, and seated on a bank. Her husband was leaning on his sword, and evidently agreeing to a capitulation. The servants seemed still disposed to fight. Two or three wounded men were lying on the field — soldiers, and mules, and muleteers, running about in all di- rections. Tita, who was an admirable shot, fired the mo- ment he was witliin reach, and brought down his man. I ran up to the lady, but not in time to finish her assailant, who was off' in a flash. The robbers, surprised, disorderly, and plundering, made no ti^itt, and we permitted them to retreat with some severe loss. Exclamations, gratitude, hysterics. Lausanne in the mean time produced order. The infantry rallied, the mules rc-assembled, the baggage was again arranged. The travellers were the Marquis and Marchioness of Santiago, who were about to pay a visit to their relative, the Governor of Malaga. I remained with them until we reached Granada, when the most dangerous portion of this journey was completed, and I parted from these agreeable persons, with a promise to visit them on my arrival at their place of destination. IV There is not a more beautiful and solemn tem- ple in the world than the great cathedral of Seville. When you enter from the glare of a Spanish sky, so deep is the staining of the glass, and so small and few the windows, that, for a moment, you feel in darkness. Gradually the vast design of the Gothic artist unfolds itself to your vision : gra- dually rises up before you the profuse sumptuous- ness of the high altar, with its tall images, and velvet and gold hangings, its gigantic railings ot brass and massy candlesticks of silver — all revealed by the dim and perpetual light of the sacred and costly lamps. You steal with a subdued spirit over the marble pavement All is still, save the hushed muttering of the gliding priests. Around you are groups of kneeling worshippers, some prostrate on the ground, some gazing upwards with their arms crossed in mute devotion, some, beating their breasts and counting their consoling beads. Lo ! the tinkling of a bell. The mighty organ bursts forth. Invo- luntarily you fall upon your knees, and listen lo the rising chanting of the solemn choir. A pro- cession moves from an adjoining chapel. A band of crimson acolytes advance, waving their censers 2n2 426 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. and the mclotly of their distant voices responds to tlic deep-toned invocations of the nearer canons. There are a vast number of chapels in this ca- thedral on each side of the principal nave. Most of them arc adorned with masterpieces of the •Spanish school. Ijct us approach one. The litrht is good, and let us gaze through this iron railing upon the jiicture it encloses. I see a saint falling upon his knees, and extend- ing his cnra])tured ami to receive an infant god. What mingled love, enthusiasm, devotion, reve- rence, blend in the countenance of the holy man ! But, O ! that glowing group of seraphim, sailing and smiling in the sunny splendour of that raxhant sky — who has before gazed upon such grace, such iiiefi'able and charming beauty 1 And in the back- ground is an altar, whereon is a vase holding some hhes, that seem as if they were just gathered. I'here is but one artist who could have designed this picture, there is but one man who could have thus combined ideal grace with natural simplicity, there is but one man who could have painted that diajihonous heaven and those fresh lihes. Inimita- ble MuriUo ! V. A Spa^-ish bull-fight taught me fully to com- prehend the rapturous exclamation of " Panem et Circenses !" The amusement apart, there is something magnificent in the assembled th^fcsands of an amjihithcatre. It is the trait in modern man- ners which most ell'ectually recalls the nobility of antique pastime. The poetry of a bull-fight is very much destroyed by the appearance of the ca- valiers. Instead of gay, gallant knights, bounding on caracoling steeds, three or four shapeless, un- wieldy beings, cased .n armour of stuffed leather, and looking more like Dutch burgomasters than Spanish chivalry, enter the lists on limping rips. The bull is, in fact, the executioner for the dogs, and an approaching bull-fight is a respite for any doomed steed throughout all Seville. The lauridors, in their varying, fanciful, costly, and splendid dresses, compensate, in a great mea- sure, for your disappointment. It is difficult to conceive a more brilliant band. These are ten or a dozen footmen, who engage the bull unarmed, distract him as he rushes at one of the cavaliers by unfolding, and dashing before his eyes a glittering scarf, and saving themselves from an occasional chace by practised agility, which e'icits great ap- plause. The performance of these tauridors is, without doubt, the most graceful, the most ex- citing, and the most surprising portioii of the enter- tainment. 'i'he ample theatre is nearly ' full. Be careful to sit on the shady side. There is the suspense experienced at all public entertainments, only here upon a great scale. Men are gliding about selling fans and refreshments. The governor and his suite enter their box. A trumpet sounds ! all is silent. The knights advance, poising their spears, and for a moment trying to look graceful. The tauri- dors walk behind them, two by two. They pro- ceed around, and across the lists. They bow to the viceregal party, and connnend themselves to the Virgin, whose portrait is suspended above. Another trumjict ! a second, and a third blast. The governor throws trie signal. The den opens, and the bull bounds in. The first spring is ''ery fine. The animal stands for a moment still, stal- ing, stupified. Gradually his hoof moves; he paws the ground ; he dashes about the sand. The knights face him with their extended lances at due distance. The tauridors are all still. One flies across him, and waves his scarf. The enraged bull makes at the nearest horseman. He is frustrated in his attack. Again he plants himself, lashes his tail, and rolls about his eye. He makes another charge, and this time, the glance of the spear does not drive him back. He gores the horse, rips up its body, the steed staggers and falls. The bull rushes at the rider, and his armour will not now preserve him, but, just as his awful horn is about to avenge his future fate, a skilful tauridor skims before him, and flaps his nostrils with his scarf. He flies after his new assailant, and immediately finds another. Now, you are delighted by all the evolutions of this consummate band : occasionally they can only save themselves by leaping the bar- rier. The knight, in the mean time, rises, escapes, and mounts another steed. The bull now makes a rush at another horseman. The horse dexterously veers aside. 'J'he hull ru.shes on, but the knight wovmds him severely in the flank with his lance. The tauridors now ap- pear armed with darts. They rush with extraor- dinary swiftness and dexterity at the now infuriated animal, plant their galling weapons in diflerent parts of his body, and scud awa^". To some of their darts are affixed fireworks, which ignite by the pressure of the stab. The animal is then as bewildered as infuriated. The amphitheatre echoes to his roaring, and witnesses the greatest efforts of his rage. He fliesat all, staggering and streaming with blood ; at length, breathless, and exhausted, he stands at bay, his black swollen tongue hanging out, and his mouth covered with foam. 'Tis horrible. Throughout, a stranger's feelings are for the bull : although this even the fairest Spaniard cannot comprehend. As it is now e\i- dent that the noble victim can only amuse them by Jiis death, there is a imiversal cry for the matador ; and the matador, gayly dressed, appears amid a loud cheer. The matador is a great artist. Strong nerves must combine with quickness, and great experience, to form an accomplished matador. It is a rare character, highly prized. Their fame ex- ists after their death, and diiTerent cities pride themselves on producing, or possessing the eminent. The matador plants himself before the bull, and shakes a red cloalv suspended over a drawn sword. This last insult excites the lingering energy of the dying hero. He makes a violent charge, the mantle Isills over his face, and the sword enters his .spine, and he falls amid thundering shouts. The death is instantaneous, wiffiout a struggle and without a gi-oan. A car, decorated with flowers and ribands, and drawn by oxen, now appears, and bears off' the body in triumph. I have seen eighteen horses killed in a bull-fight, and eight bulls. But the sport is not always in proportion to the slaughter. Sometimes the bull is a craven, and then, if affer having recourse to every mode of excitement he will not charge, he is kicked out of the arena, amid the jeers and hisses of the audience. Every act of skill on the part of the tauridors elicits applause, nor do the spectators hesitate, if necessary, to mark their temper by a contrary method. On the whole, it is a magnificent C N T A R I N I FLEMING. 427 but barbarous spectacle, and however disgusting the jnincipal object, the accessaries of the enter- tainment are so brilliant and interesting, that, whatever may be their abstract disapprobation, those who have witnessed a Spanish bull-fight, will not be surprised at the passionate attachment of the Spanish people to their national pastime. VI. There is a calm voluptuousness about Spanish life that wonderfully accorded with the disposition in which I then found myself; so that, had my in- tellect been at command, I do not know any place v\'here I would more willingly have indulged it. The imagination in such a countiy is ever at work, and beauty and grace are not scared away by those sounds and sights, those constant cares and changing feelings, which are the pioud possession of lands which consider themselves more blessed. You rise early, and should breakfast lightly, al- though a table covered with all fruits, renders that ratlier difficult to those who have a passion for the most delightful productions of nature, antl would willingly linger over a medley of grape, and melon, and gourd, and prickly pear. In the morning, you never quit the house, and these are hours which might be delightfully employed under the inspira- tion of a climate which is itself poetry, for it sheds over every thing a golden hue, which does not ex- ist in the objects themselves illuminated. I could then indulge only in a calm re very, for I found the least exertion of mind instantly aggravate all my symptoms. But to exist, and to feel existence more tolerable, to observe and to remember, to record a thought that suddenly starts up, or catch a new image which glances over the surface of the mind — this was still left to me. But the moment that I attempted to meditate or combine, to ascer- tain a question that was doubtful, or in any way to call the higlier powers of intellect into play, that moment 1 felt a lost man. My brain seemed to palpitate with frenzy. An indescribable feeling of idiocy ca/ne over me, and for hours I was plunged into a state of the darkest despair. When the curse had subsided to its usual dull degree of horror, my sanguine temper called me again to life and hopf. My general health had never been better, and this supported me under the hardships of Spa- nish travelling. I never for a moment gave way to my real feelings, except under a paroxysm, and then I fled to solitude. But I resolved to pursue this life only for a year, and if at the end of that period I found no relief, the convent and the cloister should at least afford me repose. This was a firm determination. But 'tis three o'clock, and all this time we should be at dinner. The Spanish kitchen is not much to my taste, being rich and rather gross. And yet for a pleasant, as well as a picturesque dish, com- mend me to an olla podrida ! After dinnef, comes the famed siesta. I generally slept for two hours. I think this practice conducive to health in hot climates. The aged however are apt to carry it to excess. By the time you have risen, and made your toilet, it is the hour to steal forth, and call upon any agreeable family, whose tcrtullayou may choose to honour, which you do, after the first time, unin- vited, and with them you take your chocolate. This is often in the air ; under the colonnade of the iiatio, or interior quadrangle of the mansion. Here you while away the time with music and easy talk, until it is cool enough for the Alameda, or public promenade. At Cadiz and Malaga, and even at Seville, up the Guadalquivir, you are sure of a de- lightful breeze from the water. The sea-breeze comes like a spirit. The efiect is quite magical. As you are lolling in listless languor in the hot and perfumed air, an invisible guest comes dancing into the party, and touches all with an enchanted wand. All start, all smile. It has come, it is the sea-breeze. There is much discussion, whether it be as strong as, or whether weakerthan the night be- fore. The ladies furl their fans, and seize their man- tillas ; the cavaliers stretch their legs, and give sij: of life. All rise. You offer your arm to Dolores or Catalina, and in ten minutes you are on the Ala- meda. What a change ! All is now life and liveliness. Such bowing, such kissing, such flut- tering of fons, such gentle criticisms of gentle friends ! But the fan is the most wonderful part of the whole scene. A Spanish lady, with her fan, might shame the tactics of a troop of horse. Now she unfurls it with the slow pomp and conscious elegance of the bird of Juno ; now she flutters it with all the languor of the listless beauty, now with all the liveliness of a vivacious one. Now, in tb midst of a very tornado, she closes it with a whirr which makes you start. Pop ! In the midst of your confusion, Dolores taps you on the elbow ; you turn round to listen, and Cataluia pokes you in your side. Magical instrument ! In this land it speaks a particular language, and gallantry requires no other mode to express its most subtle conceits, or its most unreasonable demands, than this delicate machine. Yet we should remember that here, as in the north, it is not confined to the delightful sex. The cavalier also has his fan, and that the habit may not be considered an indication of effeminacy, learn that, in this scorching clime, the soldier will not mount guard without this solace. But night wears on. We seat ourselves, we take a fanal, and fanciful refreshment which also, like the confection ai-y of Venice, I have since dis- covered to be oriental. Again we stroll. Midnight clears the public walk, but few Spanish families retire until a much later hour. A solitary bache • lor, like myself, still wanders, lingering where the dancers softly move in the warm moonlight, and indicate, by the grace of their eager gestures, and the fulness of their languid eyes, the fierceness of their passion. At length the castanet is silent, the tinkling of the last guitar dies away, and the cathe- dral clock breaks up your revery. You, too, seek your couch, and amid a sweet flow of loveliness, and light, and music, and fresh air, thus dies a day in Spain. VII. The Spanish women are veiy interesting. What we associate with the idea of female beauty, is not perhaps very common in this country. There are seldom those seraphic countenances, which strike you dumb, or blind, but faces in abundance which will never pass without commanding admira- tion. Their charms consist in their sensibility. Each incident, every person, every word, touches the fancy of a Spanish lady, and her expressive features are constantly confuting the creed of the Moslemin. But there is nothing quick, harsh, or forced about her. She is extremely unaffected, and not at all French. W^er eyes gleam rather than 428 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. ■sparkle, she speaks; with vivacity, but in sweet tones, and there is in all her- carriage, particularly when she walks, a certain dignified grace which never deserts her, and which is very remarkable. The general female dress in Spain is of black silk, called a hasquina, and a black silk shawl, with which they usually envelope their heads, called a mantilla. As they walk along in this costume in an evening, with their soft dark eyes dangerously conspicuous, you willingly believe in their universal charms. They are remarkable for the beauty of their hair. Of this they are very proud, and indeed its luxuriance is only equalled by the attention which they lavish on its culture. I have seen a young girl of fourteen, whose hair reached her feet, and was as glossy as the curl of a contessa. All day long, even the lowest order are brushing, curling, and arranging it. A fruit-woman has her hair dressed with as much care as the Dutchess of Ossuna. In the summer, they do not wear their mantilla over their heads, but show their combs, which are of very great size. The fashion of these combs varies constantly. Every two or three months you may observe a new form. It is the part of the costume of which a Spanish wo- man is most proud. The moment that a new comb appears, even a servant wench will run to the melter's with her old one, and thus, with the cost of a dollar or two, appear the next holiday in the newest style. These combs are worn at the back of the head. They are of tortoise-shell, and with the very fashionable, they are white. I sat next to a lady of high distinction at a bull-fight at Se- ville. She was the daughter-in-law of the captain general of the province,, and the most beautiful Spaniard I ever met. Her comb was white, and she wore a mantilla of blonde, without doubt ex- tremely valuable, for it was very dirty. The efiect, however, was charming. Her hair was glossy black, her eyes like an antelope's, and all her other features deliciously soft. She was further adorned, which is rare in Spain, with a rosy cheek, for in Spain our heroines are rather sallow. But they counteract this slight defect by never appearing until twilight, which calls them from their bowers, fresh, though languid, from the late siesta. The only fault of the Spanish beauty is, that she too soon indulges in the magnificence of em- bonpoint. There are, however, many exceptions. At seventeen, a Spanish beauty is poetical. Tall, Uthe, and clear, and graceful as a jennet, who can withstand the summer lightning of her soft and languid glance ! As she advances, if she do not lose her shape, she resembles Juno rather than Vejius. Majestic she ever is, and if her feet be less twinkling than in her first bolero, look on her hand, and you'll forgive them all. VIII. At Malaga, I again met the Santiagos, and through their medium, became acquainted with a young French nobleman, who had served in the late expedition against Algiers, and retired from the army in consequence of the recent revolution in his native country. The rapturous tone in which he spoke of the delights of oriental life, and of his intention to settle permanently in Egypt, or some Other part of the Ottoman empire, excited in me a great desire to visit those countries, for which my residence in a Grecian isle had somewhat prepared me. And on inquiry at the quay, finding that there was a vessel bound for tlie Ionian isles at present in harbour, and about to sail, I secured our passage, and in a few days quitted the Iberian peninsula. IX. Iff sight of the ancient Corcyra, I could not forget, that the island I beheld had given rise to one of the longest and most celebrated, and most fatal of ancient wars. The immortal struggle of the Peloponnesus was precipitated, if not occasion- ed, by a feeling of colonial jealousy. There is a great difference between ancient and modem colo- nies. A modern colony is a commercial enterprise, an ancient colony was a political settlement. In the emigration of our citizens, hitherto, we have merely sought the means of acquiring wealth ; the ancients, when their brethren quitted their native shores, wept and sacrificed, and were reconciled to the loss of their fellow-citizens solely by the con- straint of stern necessity, and the hope that they were about to find easier subsistence, and to lead a more cheerful and commodious life. I believe that a great revolution is at hand in our system of colo- nization, and that Europe will soon recur to the principles of the ancient polity. Old Corcyra is now the modern Corfu — a lovely isle, with all that you hope to meet in a Grecian sea — gleamy waters, vi'oody bays, the Cyprus, the olive, and the vine, a clear sky and a warm sun. I learned here that a civil war raged in Albania and the neighbouring provinces of European Tur- key, and, in spite of all advice, I determined, instead of advancing into Greece, to attempt to penetrate to the Turkish camp, and witness, if possible, a campaign. With these views, I engaged a small vessel to carry me to Prevesa. I WAS now in the Ambracian Gulf, those famous waters, where the soft triumvir gained greater glory by defeat than attends the victory of harsher war- riors. — The site is not unworthy of the beauty of Cleopatra. From the sinuosity of the land, this gulf appears like a vast lake, walled in on all sides by mountains more or less distant. The dying glory of a Grecian eve bathed with warm lights, a thousand promontories, and gentle bays, and infi- nite undulations of purple outline. Before me was Olympus, whose austere peak glittered yet in the sun ; a bend of the shore alone concealed from me the islands of Ulysses and of Sappho. As I gazed upon this scene, I thought almost with disgust of the savage splendour and turbulent existence in which perhaps I was about to mingle ; I recurred to the feelings in the indulgence of which I could alone find felicity, and from which an in- exorable destiny seemed resolved to shut mc out. Hark ! the clang of the barbaric horn, and the wild clash of the cymbal. A body of Turkish infantry marched along the shore. I landed, and learned, for the first time, of the massacre of the principal rebel beys at Monastir, at a banquet given liy the grand-vizier on pretence of arranging all ditferenccs. My host, a Frank, experienced in the Turkish character, checked me, as I poured forth my indignation at this savage treachery. " Live a little longer in these countries before you hazard an opinion as to their conduct. Do you indeed think CONTARINI FLEMING. 429 that the rebel heys of Albania were so simple as to place the slightest trust in the vizier's pledge. The practice of politics in the East may be defined by one word — dissimulation. The most wary dis- sembler is the most consummate statesman. The Albanian chiefs went up to the divan in full array, and accompanied by a select body of their best troops. They were resolved to overawe the vizier, perhaps they even meditated, with regard to' him, the very stroke which he had put in execution against themselves. He was the most skilful dis- sembler, that is all. His manner threw them off their guard. With their troops bivouacking in the court-yard, they did not calculate that his highness could contrive to massacre the troops by an ambush, and would dare, at the same moment, to attack the leaders by their very attendants at the banquet. There is no feeling of indignation in the country at the treachery of the conqueror, though a very strong sentiment of rage, and mortification, and revenge." I learned that the grand-vizier had rejoined the main army, and was supposed to have advanced to Yanina, the capital ; that in the mean time, the country between this city and the coast was over- run with prowling bands, the remnants of the rebel army, who, infuriate and flying, massacred, burned, and destroyed all persons and all property. This was an agreeable prospect. My friend dis- suaded me from my plans, but, as I was unwilling to relinquish them, he recommended me to sail up to Salora, and from thence journey to Arta, \yhcre I might seek assistance from Kalio Bey, a Moslemin chief, one of the most powerful and wealthy of the Albanian nobles, and ever faitliful to the Porte. To Salora I consequently repaired, and the next day succeeded in reaching Arta, a town once as beautiful as its site, and famous for its gardens, but now a mass of ruins. The whole place was razed to the ground, the minaret of the principal mosque alone untouched, and I shall never forget the eflect of the muezzin with his rich, and solemn, and sonorous voice, calUng us to adore God in the midst of all this human havoc. I found the Bey of Arta keeping his state, wliich, notwithstanding the suwounding desolation, was not contemptible, in a tenement which was not much better than a large shed. He was a very handsome, stately man, grave but not dull, and remarkably mild and bland in his manner. His polished courtesy might perhaps be ascribed to his recent imprisonment in Russia, where he was treated with so much consideration that he men- tioned it to me. I had lived in such complete solitude in Candia, and had there been so absorbed by passion, that I really was much less acquainted with Turkish manners than I ought to have been. I must confess that it was with some awe that for the first time in my life I entered the divan of a great Turk, and found myself sitting cross-legged on the right hand of a bey, smoking an amber- mouthed chiboque, sipping coffee, and paying him compliments through an interpreter. There were several guests in the room, chiefly his officers. They were, as the Albanians in gene- ral, finely formed men, with expressive counte- nances, and spare forms. Their picturesque dress is celebrated, though to view it with full efiect it should be seen upon an Albanian. The long hair and the small cap, the crimson velvet vest and jacket, embroidered and embossed with golden patterns of the most elegant and flowing forms, the white and ample kilt, the ornamented buskinsj and the belt full of silver-sheathed arms, — it is difiicult to find humanity in better plight. There was a considerable appearance of affairs, and of patriarchal solitude in the divan of Kalio Bey. It is possible that it was not always as busy, and that he was not uninfluenced by the pardonable vanity of impressing a stranger with his importance and beneficence. Many persons entered, and cast- ing off their slippers at the door, advanced and parleyed ; to some was given money, to all direc- tions, and the worthy bey doled out his piastres and his insiractions with equal solemnity. At length, I succeeded in calling my host's attention to the purport of my visit, and he readily granted me an escort of twenty of his Albanians. He was even careful that they should be picked men, and, cal- culating that I might reach the capital in two days, he drew his writing materials from his belt, and gave me a letter to a Turkish bimbashee, or colonel, who was posted witli his force in the mountains I was about to pass, and under the only roof which probably remained between Arta and Yanina. He pressed me to remain his guest, though there was little, he confessed, to interest me, but I was anxious to advance, and so, after many thanks, I parted from the kind Kalio Bey. XL Br daybreak we departed, and journeyed for many hours over a wild range of the ancient Pindus, stopping only once for a short rest at a beautiful fountain of marble. Here we all dismounted, and lighted a fire, boiled the coffee, and smoked our pipes. There were many fine groups, but little Spiro was not as deHghted as I expected at finding himself once more among his countrymen. An hour before sunset we found ourselves at a vast, but dilapidated khan, as big as a Gothic castle, situated on a high range, and built for the accommo- dation of travellers from the capital to the coast, by^ the great Ali Pasha, when his long, sagacious, and unmolested reign permitted him to develope, in a country which combines the excellences of Western Asia and Southern Europe, some of the intended purposes of a beneficent nature. .This khan had now been converted into a military post, and here we found the Turkish commander, to whom Kalio Bey had given me a letter. He was a young man of very eftgant and pleasing exterior, but unluckily could not understand a word of Greek, and we had no interpreter. What was to be done 1 Proceed we could not, for there was not an inhabited place before Yanina, and here was I sitting before sunset on the same divan with my host, who had entered the place to receive me, and would not leave the room while I was there, without the power of com- municating an idea. I was in despair, and also very hungry, and could not therefore, in the course of an hour or two, plead fatigue as an excuse for sleep, for I was ravenous, and anxious to know what prospect of food existed in this wild and deso- late mansion. So we smoked. It is a great He- source. But this wore out, and it was so ludicrous smoking and looking at each other, and dying to talk, and then exchanging pipes by way of compli ment, and then pressing our hands to our hearts by way of thanks. At last it occurred to me that I had some brandy, and that I would offer my host a glass. 430 D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. which might sen-e as a hint for what should follow so vehement a schnaps. Mashallah ! the etlect was indeed miraculous. My mild friend smacked his lips, and instantly asked for another cup. We drank it in coffee-cups. A hottle of brandy was despatched in quicker time, and fairer proportions, than had ever solemnized the decease of the same portion of Burgundy. We were extremely gay. The bimbashee ordered some dried figs, talking all the time, and indulging in the most graceful pan- tomime, examining my pistols, inquiring about percussion locks, which greatly surprised him, handing his own more ornamented although less effective weapons, for my inspection, and finally making out Greek enough to misunderstand most ludicrously every observation comminiicated. But all was taken in good part, and I never met such a jolly lellow in the course of my life. In the mean time I became painfully ravenous, for the dry, round, unsugary fig of Albania is a gi-eat whetter. At last I asked for bread. The bimbashee gravely bowed, and said, "Leave it to me, take no thought," and nothing more occurred. I prepared myself for hungry dreams, when to my great astonishment and delight, a capital supper was brought in, accompanied, to my equal horror, by wine. We ate with our fingers. It was the first time I had performed such an operation. You soon get used to it, and dash, but in turn, at the choice morsels with perfect coolness. One, with a basin and ewer, is in attendance, and the whole process is by no means so terrible as it would first appear to European habits. For drinking — we really drank with a rapidity which, with me, was unprecedented. The wine was not bad, but, had it been poison, the forbidden juice was such a com- pliment from a Moslemin, that I must quaff it all. We quailed it in rivers. The bimbashee called for brandy. Unfortunately there was another bottle. We drank it all. The room turned round, the wild attendants, who sat at our feet, seemed dancing in strange whirls, the bimbashee shook hands with me, he shouted Italian, I Turkish. " Buono, buono," lie had caught up, — " Pecche, pecche," was my rejoinder, which, let me inform the reader, although I do not even now know much more, is very good Turkish. He roared, he patted me on the back. I remember no iriore. In the middle of the night I awoke. I found myself sleeping on the divan, rolled up in its sacred carpet. The bimbashee had wisely reeled to the fire. The thirst I felt was like that of Bives. All were sleeping except two, who kept up, during the nigiit, llie great wood-fire. I rose, lightly stepping over my sleeping companions, and the shining arms, that here and there informed me that the dark mass wrapped up in a capote was a human being. I found Abraham's bosom in a flagon of water. I think I nuist have drunk a gallon at the draught. I looked at the wood-fire, and thought of the blazing blocks in the hall of Jonsterna, asked myself whetber I were indeed in the mountain fastness of a Turkish chief, and shrugging my shoulders went to sleep, and woke without a head- ach. XII. 1 PAHTF.n from my jovial host the next morning very cordially, and gave him my pipe, as a memorial of having got tipsy together. After having crossed one more range of steep mountains, we descended into a vast plain, over which wc journeyed for some hours, the country presenting the same mournful aspect which I had too long observed : villages in ruins, and perfectly desolate — khans deserted, and fortresses razed to the ground — olive woods burnt up, and fruit trees cut dov\n. So complete had been the work of destrnction, that I often unexpectedly found my horse stumbling amid the foundation of a village, and what at first appeared the dry bed of a torrent, often turned out to be the backbone of the skeleton of a ravaged town. At the end of the plain, im- mediately backed by very lofty mountains, and jutting into the beautiful lake that bears its name, we suddenly came upon the city of Yanina: sud- denly, for a long tract of gradually rising ground had hitherto concealed it from our sight. At the distance I first beheld it, this city, once, if not the largest, one of the most thriving and brilliant m the Turkish dominions, was still imposing, but when I entered, I soon found that all preceding desolation had been on^y preparatory to the vast scene of destruction no*w betbre me. We pro- ceeded through a street winding in its course, but of very great length. Kuiued houses, mosques with their tower only standing, streets utterly razed — these are nothing. Wc met great patches of ruin a mile square, as if an army of locusts had had the power of desolating the works of man, as well as those of God. The great heart of the city was a sea of ruin, — arches and pillars, isolated and shat- terea, still here and there jutting forth, breaking tho uniformity of the annihilation, and turning the hor- rible into the picturesque. The great Bazaar, itself a little town,' had been burned down only a few days before my arrival, by an infuriate band of Albanian warriors, who beard of the destruction of their chiefs by the grand vizier.. They revenged themselves on tyranny by destroying civilization. But while the city itself presented tliis mournful appearance, its other characteristics were any thing but sad. At this moment a swarming population, arrayed in every possible and fanciful costume, buzzed and bustled in all directions. As I passed on, and myself of course not unobserved, where a Frank had not penetrated for nine years, a thousand objects attracted my restless attention and roving eye. Every thing was so strange and splendid, that for a moment I forgot that this was an extra- ordinary scene even for the East, and gave up my fancy to full credulity in the now almost obsolete magnificence of oriental life. I longed to w-rite an Eastern tale. Military chieftains, clothed in the most brilliant colours and sumptuous furs, and attended by a cortege of officers equally splendid, continually pa.ssed us. Now for the first time a dervish saluted me ; and now a delhi, with hi.? hijh cap, reined in his desperate steed, as the suite ol' some pasha blocked up some turning of the street. It seemed to me that my first day in a Turkish city brought before me all the popular characteristics of which I had read, and wliich I expected occasionally to observe during a prolonged residence. I rcmem ber, as I rode on this day, I observed a Turkish sheikh in his entirely green vestments, a scribe with his writing materials in his girdle, an ambulatory physician and his boy. I gazed about me with a mingled feeling of delight and wonder. Suddenly a strange, wild, unearthly drum is heard, and at the end of the street, a huge cameJ, CONTARINI FLEMING. 431 with a slave sitting cross-legged on its neck, and playing upon an immense kettledrum, appears, and is the first of an apparently interminable procession of his Arabian brethren. The camels were very large, they moved slowly, and were many in num- ber. There were not less than a hundred moving on one by one. To me who had then never seen a ca- ravan, it was a novel and impressive spectacle. All immediately hustled out of the way of the proces- sion, and seemed to shrink imder the sound of the wild drum. The camels bore corn for the vizier's troops encamped without the walls. At length I reached the house of a Greek physi- cian, to whom I carried letters. My escort repaired to the quarters of their chieftain's son, who was in the city in attendance on the grand vizier, and for myself I was glad enough once more to stretch my wearied limbs under a Christian roof. XIII. The next day, I signified my arrival to the kehaya bey of his highness, and delivered, according to custom, a letter, with which I had been kindly pro- vided by an eminent foreign functionary. The ensuing morning was fixed for my audience. I re- paired at the appointed hour to the celebrated fortress palace of Ali Pasha, which, although greatly battered by successive sieges, is still inhabitable, and still affords a very fair idea of its pristine magnificence. Having passed through the gates of the fortress, I found myself in a number of small dingy streets, like those in the Hberties of a royal castle. These were all full of life, stirring and excited. At length I reached a grand square, in whi'ch, on an ascent, stands the palace. I was hurried through courts and corridors, full of guards, and pages, and attend- ant chiefs, and in short every variety of Turkish population ; for among the orientals all depends upon one brain, and we, with our subdivisions of duty, and intelligent and responsible deputies, can form no idea of the labour of a Turkish premier. At length I came to a vast, irregular apartment, serving as the immediate antechamber of the hall of audience. This was the first thing of the kind I had ever yet seen. In the whole course of my life I had never mingled in so picturesque an assembly. Con- ceive a chamber of very great dimensions, full of the choicest groups of an oriental population, each in- dividual waiting by appointment for an audience, and probably about to wait for ever. It was a sea of turbans, and crimson shawls, and golden scarfs, and ornamented arms. I marked with curiosity the haughty Turk stroking his beard, and waving his beads ; the proud Albanian strutting with his tarra- gan, or cloak, dependent on one shoulder, and touching with impatient fingers his silver-sheathed arms ; tire olive-visaged Asiatic, with his enormous turban and flowing robes, gazing, half with wonder and Jialf with contempt, at some scarlet colonel of the newly-disciplined troops in his gorgeous, but awkward imitation of Frank uniforms ; the Greek, still servile, though no more a slave ; the Nubian eunuch, and the Georgian page. In this chamber, attended by the drogueman, who presented me, I remained about ten minutes — too short a time. I never thought I could have lived to wish to kick my heels in a ministerial an- techamber. Suddenly I was summoned to the awful presence of the pillar of the Turkish empire, the man who has the reputation of being the main* spring of the new system of regeneration, the re- nowned Redschid, an approved warrior, a consum- mate politician, unrivalled as a dissembler in a country where dissimulation is the principal portion of moral culture. The hall was vast, entirely co- vered with gilding and arabesques, inlaid with tor- toise-shell and mother-of-pearl. Here, squatted up in a corner of the large divan, I bowed to a little ferocious-looking, shrivelled, care-worn man, plainly dressed, with a brow covered with wrinkles, and a countenance clouded with anxiety and thought. I entered the shed-like divan of the kind, and com- paratively insigniticant Kalio Bey with a feeling of awe ; I seated myself on the divan of the grand vizier of the Ottoman empire, who, as my attendant informed me, had destroyed, in the course of the last three months, no^ in war, "upwards of four thousand of my acquaintance," with the self-pos- session of a morning visit. At a distance from us, in a group on his left-hand, were his secretary, and his immediate suite. The end of the saloon was lined with tchawooshes, or lackeys, in waiting, in crimson dresses with long silver canes. Some compHments passed between us. I con- gratulated his highness on the pacification of Al- bania, and he rejoined, that the peace of the world was his only object, and the happiness of his fellow- creatures his only wish. Pipes and coilee were then brought, and then his highness waved his hand, and in an instant the chamber was cleared. He then told me that he had read the letter, that the writer was one whom he much loved, and that I should join .the army, although, of course, I was aware that, as a Frank, I could hold no command. I told him that such was not my desire, but that, as I intended to proceed to Stamboul, it would be gratifying to me to feel that I had co-operated, how- ever humbly, in the cause of a sovereign whom I greatly admired. A Tartar now arrived with de- spatches, and I rose to retire, for I could perceive that the vizier was overwhelmed with business, and although courteous, moody and anxious. He did not press me to remain, but desired that I would go and visit his son, Amin Pasha, to whose care he had consigned me. Amin, Pasha of Yanina, was a youth of eighteen, but apparently ten years older. He was the re- verse of his father : incapable in affairs, refined in manners, plunged in debauchery, and magnificeat in dress. I found him surrounded hy his favourites and flatterers, lolling on his divan in a fanciful hus- sar uniform of blue cloth covered with gold and diamonds, and w'orn under a Damascus pelisse of thick maroon silk, lined with wlrite fox furs. I have seldom met with a man of more easy address, and more polished breeding. He paid many compli- ments to the Franks, and expressed his wish to make a visit to the English at Corfu. As I was dressed in regimentals, he offered to show me his collection of military costumes, wliich had been made for him principally at ^^icnna. He also ordered one of his attendants to bring his manuscript book of cavalry tactics, which were unfortunately all ex- plained to me. I mention these slight traits to show how eagerly the modern Turks pique themselves on European civilization. After smoking, and eat- ing sweetmeats, a custom indicative of friendship, he proposed that I should accompany him to the camp, where he was about to review a division of the forces. I assented. We descended together, 433 D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. and I fonnd a boy with a barb magnificently ca- parisoned, waiting at the portal : of both of these Amin begged my acceptance. Mounting, we pro- ceeded to the camp, nor do I think that the cortege of the young pasha consisted of less than a hundred persons, who were all officers of his household, or of the cavaliy regiment which he commanded. XIV. I GiATiLT believe that the increased efficiency of the Turkish troops compensates for their shorn splendour and sorry appearance, A shaven head, covered with a tight red cloth cap, a small blue jacket of coarse cloth, huge trousers of the same material, puckered out to the very stretch of art, yet sitting tight to the knee and calf, mean accoutrements, and a pair of dingy slippers — behold the successor of the superb janissary ! Yet they perform their manoeu- vres with precision, and have straggled even with the Russian infantry with success. The officer makes a better appearance. His dress, although of the same fashion, is of scarlet, and of the finest cloth. It is richly embroidered, and the colonel wears upon his breast a star and crescent of diamonds. At the camp of Yanina, however, I witnessed a charge of delhis with their cimeters, and a more eficctive cavalry I never wish to lead. We returned to the city, and I found that apart- ments were allotted to me in the palace, whither Lausanne and the rest had already repaired. In the evening the vizier sent to me the first singer in Turkey, with several musicians. The singer chanted for an hour in a wild, piercing voice, de- void both of harmony and melody, a triumphant ballad on the recent massacre of Veli Bey and his rebel coadjutors. Nothing appears to me more frightful than Turkish music, yet it produces on those who are accustomed to it a very great effect, and my room was filled with strangers who has- tened to listen to the enchanting and exciting strain. The Turkish music is peculiar and different from that of other Eastern nations. I have seldom listened to more simple and affecting melodies than those with which the boatmen are wont to soothe their labours. The dancing girls followed, and were more amus- ing, but I had not then witnessed the Alwyn of Egypt. A week flew away at Yanina in receiving and returning visits from pashas, agas, and sclictars, in smoking pipes, sipping coffee, and tasting sweet- meats. Each day the vizier, or his son, sent me provisions ready prepared from their table, and in- dicated by some attention their considerate kindness. There is no character in the world higher bred than a Turk of rank. Some of these men, too, I found extremely intelligent, deeply interested in the poli- tical amelioration of their country, and v/arm ad- mirers of Peter the Great. I remember with plea- sure the agreeable hours I have spent m the society of Mehemet Aga, Selictar of the Pasha of Lepanto, a warrior to whom the obstinate resistance of Varna is mainly to be attributed, and a remarkably en- lightened man. Yet even he could not emancipate himself from their fatalism. For I remember when once conversing with him on the equipments of the cavalry, a subject in which he was very much inte- rested, I suggested to liim the propriety of a corps of cuirassitrs. " A cuirass cannot stop the ball that bears your fate," he replied, shragging uj hia shoulder, and exclaiming Mashallah ! While I was leading this novel and agreeable life, news arrived that the Pasha of Scutari, who had placed himself at the head of the insurgent janissaries, and was the champion of the old party, had entered Albania at the head of sixty thousand men, to avenge the massacre of the beys. XV. The grand vizier set off the same night with ten thousand men, reached Okhrida by forced marches, attacked and routed a division of the rebel troops before they supposed him to be apprized of their movements, and again encamped at Monastir, send- ing urgent commands to Yanina for his son to ad- vance with the rest of the army. We met his Tartar on our march, and the divisions soon joined. After a day's rest, we advanced, and entered the pashalic of Scutari. The enemy, to our surprise, avoided an engage- ment. The fierce, undisciplined waniors were frightened at our bayonets. They destroyed all before us, and hung with their vigilant cavalry on our exhausted rear. We had advanced on one side of Scutari; on the other we had penetrated into Romelia. We carried every thing before us, but we were in want of supplies, our soldiers were with- out food, and a skilful general and disciplined troops might have cut off all our communications. Suddenly the order was given to retreat. We retreated slowly, and in excellent order. Two regi- ments of the newly-organized cavalry, with whom I had the honour to act, covered the rear, and were engaged in almost constant skirmishing with the enemy. This skirmishing is very exciting. We concentrated, and again encamped at Okhridi. We were in hopes of now drawing the enemy into an engagement, but he was wary. In this situation the vizier directed that ir^the night a pow- erful division under the command of Mehemet, Pasha of Lepanto, he who stabbed Ali Pasha, should fall back to Monastir with the artillery, and take up a position in the mountains. The ensuing night his highness, after having previously spiked some useless guns, scattered about some tents and baggage-wagons, and given a general appearance of a hurried and disorderly, retreat, withdrew in the same direction. The enemy instantly pursued, rushed on, and attacked us full of confidence. We contented ourselves by protecting our rear, but still retreated, and appeared anxious to avoid an en- gagement. In the evening, having entered the mountain passes, and reached the post of the Pasha of Lepanto,- we drew up in battle array. It was a cloudy morning among the mountains, and some time before the mist drew away. The en- emy appeared to be in great force, filling the gorge through vvhich we had retreated, and encamped on all the neighbouring eminences. When they per- ceived us, a large body instantly charged with the famous janissary shout, the terror of which I con- fess. I was cold, somewhat exhausted, for I had tasted no food for two days, and for a moment my heart sunk. They were received, to their surprise, by a well- directed discharge of artillery from our concealed batteries. They seemed checked. Our ranks open- ed and a body of five thousand troops instantly CONTARINI FLEMING. 433 charged them with the bayonet. This advance was sublime, and so exciting that, what with the shouts and cannonading, I grew mad, and longed to rush forward. The enemy gave way. Their great force was in cavalry, which could not act among the mountains. They were evidently astonished and perplexed. In a few minutes they were routed. The vizier gave orders for a general charge and pursuit, and in a few minutes I was dashing over the hills in rapid chase of all I could catch, cutting, firing, shouting, and quite persuaded that a battle was, after all, the most delightful pastime in the world. The masses still charging, the groups demand- ing quarter, the single horsemen bounding over the hills, the wild scared steeds without a rider, snort- ing and plunging, the dense smoke clearing away, the bright arms and figures flashing, ever and anon, in the moving obscurity, the wild shouts, the strange and horrible spectacles, the solitary shots and shritks now heard in the decreasing uproar, and the gene- ral feeling of energy, and peril, and triumph — it was all wonderful, and was a glorious moment in existence. The enemy was scattered like chaif. To rally them was impossible ; and the chiefs, in despair, were foremost in flight. They oflered no resist- ance, and the very men who, in the morning, would have been the first to attack a battery, sabre in hand, now yielded in numbers without a struggle to an individual. There was a great slaughter, a vast number of prisoners, and plunder without end. My tent was filled with rich amis, and shawls, and stuffs, and embroidered saddles. Lausanne and Tita were the next day both clothed in splendid Albanian dresses, and little Spiro plundered the dead as became a modern Greek. I reached my tent, I dismounted from my horse, I leaned upon it from exhaustion. An Albanian came forward, and offered a flask of Zitza wine. I drank it at a draught, and assuredly experienced the highest sensual pleasure. I took up two Cachemere shawls, and a gun mounted in silver, and gave them to the Albanian. Lucky is he who is com^teous in the hour of plunder ! The vizier I understood te be at Okhrida, and I repaired to that post over the field of battle. The moon had risen, and tinged with its white light all the prominent objects of the scene of destruction ; groups of bodies, and, now and then, a pallid face, distinct and fierce ; steeds, and standards, and arms, and shattered wagons. Here and there a moving light showed that the plunderer was still at his work, and, occasionally seated on the carcass of a horse, and sometimes on the corpse of a human being, were some of the fortunate survivors, smoking with admirable coolness,' as if there were not oif earth such a fearful mystery as death. I found the victorious Redschid seated on a car- pel in the moonlight in a cypress grove, and sur- ro\inded by attendants, to whom he was delivering instructions, and distributing rewards. He appear- ed as calm and grave as usual. Perceiving him ■Jius engaged, I mingled with the crowd, and stood aside, leanhig on my sword : but observing me, he beckoned me to advance, and pointing to his carpet, he gave me the pipe of honour from his own lips. As I seated myself by his side, I could not help viewing this extraordinary man with great interest and curiosity. A short time back, at this very place, he had perpetrated an act which would have ren- 55 dcred him infamous in a civilized land ; the aven- gers meet him, as if by fate, on the very scene of his bloody treachery, and — he is victorious. What is life 1 So much for the battle of Bitoglia or Monastir, a very pretty fray, although not as much talked of as Austerlitz or Waterloo, and which probably would have remained unknown to the great mass of Eu- ropean readers, had not a young Frank gentleman mingled, from a silly fancy, in its lively business. XVL The effect of the battle of Bitogha was the com- plete pacification of Albania, and the temporary suppression of the conspiracies in the adjoining provinces. Had it been in the power of the Porte to have supported, at this moment, its able and faithful servant, it is probable that the authority of the sul- tan would have been permanently consolidated in these countries. As it is, the finest regions in Eu- rope are still the prey of civil war, in too many in- stances excited by foreign powers, for their misera- ble purposes, against a prince, who is only inferior to Peter the Great, because he has profited by his example. For myself, perceiving that there was no imme- diate prospect of active service, I determined to visit Greece, and I parted from his highness with the hope that I might congratulate him at Stamboul. xvn. A COUNTRY of promontories, and gulfs, and islands clustering in an azure sea, a country of wood- ed vales and purple mountains, wherein the cities are built on plains, covered with olive woods, and at the base of an Acropolis, crowned with a temple or a tower. And there are quarries of white marble, and vines, and much wild honey. And wherever you move is some fair and elegant memorial of the poetic past, a lone pillar on the green and silent plain once echoing with the triumphal shouts of sacred games, the tomb of a hero, or the fane of a god. Clear is the sky, and fragrant is the air, and, at all seasons, the magical scenery of this land is coloured with that mellow tint, and invested with that pensive character, which, in other countries, we conceive to be peculiar to autumn, and which beautifully associate with the recollections of the past. Enchanting Greece ! xvm. Is the Argolic Gulf I found myself in the very heart of the Greek tragedy ; Nauplia and Sparta, the pleasant Argos, and the rich Mycene, the tomb of Agamemnon, and the palace of Clytemnestra. The fortunes of the house of Atrcus form the no- blest of all legends. I believe in that destiny before which the ancients bowed. Modern philosophy, with its superficial discoveries, has infused into the breast of man a spirit of skepticism, but I think that, ere long, science will again become imagina- tive, and that, as we become more profound, we may become also more credulous. Destiny is our will, and our will is our nature. The son who in- herits the organization with the father, will be doomed to the same fortunes as his sire, and again the mysterious matter in which his ancestors were moulded may, in other forms, by a necessary 2 O 434 D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. attraction, act upon his fate. All is mystery, but he is a slave who will not sti-uggle to penetrate the dark veil. I quitted the Morea without regret. It is covered with Venetian memorials, no more to me a source of joy, and bringing back to my memory a country on which I no longer loved to dwell. I cast anchor in a small but secure harbour. I landed. I climbed a hill. From it I looked over a vast plain, covered with olive woods, and skirted by mountains. Some isolated hills, of every picturesque form, rose in the plain at a distance from the terminating range. On o!ic of these I beheld a magnificent temple bathed in the sunset. At the foot of the craggy steep on which it rested was a wailed city of con- siderable dimensions, in front of which rose a Doric temple of exquisite proportion, and apparently un- injured. The violet sunset threw over this scene a colouring becoming its loveliness, and, if possible, increasing its refined character. Independent of all associations, it was the most beautiful spectacle that had ever passed before a vision always musing on sweet sights, yet I could not forget that it was the bright capital of my youthful dreams, the fra- grant city of the violet crown, the fair, the sparkling, the delicate Athens ! XIX. The illusion vanished when I entered Athens. I found it in scarcely a less shattered condition than the towns of Albania. Ruined streets, and roof- less houses, and a scanty population. The women were at Egina in security ; a few males remained behind to watch the fortune of war. The Acropolis had not been visited by travellers for nine years, and was open to inspection for the first time the very day I entered. It was still in possession of the Turks, but the Greek Commission had arrived to receive the keys of the fortress. The ancient remains have escaped better than we could hope. The Parthenon and the other temples on the Acro- polis have necessarily suffered in the sieges, but the injury is only in detail ; the general effect is not marred, although I observed many hundred shells and cannon-balls lying about. The Theseum has not been touched, and looks, at a short distance, as if it were just finished by Cimon. The sumptuous columns of the Olympium still rise from their stately platform, but the Chora- gic monument is sadly maimed, although, as I was assured, by English sailors, and not Eastern barba- rians. Probably the same marine monsters, who have commemorated their fatal visit to Egypt, and the name of the fell craft that wafted them there, by covering the granite pillar of Pompey with gigantic characters in black paint. The durability of the Parthenon is wonderful. As far as I could observe, had it not been for the repeated ravages of man, it might at this day have been in as perfect condition as in the age of Pericles. Abstract time it has defied. Gilt and painted, with its pictures and votive statues, it must have been one of the most brilliant creations of human genius. Yet we err if we consider this famous building as an unparalleled effort of Grecian architecture. Compared with the temples of Ionia and the Sicilian fanes, compared even with the Olympium at its feet, the Parthenon could only rank as a ehurch with a cathedral. In art, the Greeks were the children of the Egyptians. The day may yet come when we shall do justice to the high powers of that myste- rious and imaginative people. The origin of Doric and Ionic invention must be traced amid the palaces of Carnac and the temples of Luxoor. For myself I confess I ever gaze upon the marvels of art with a feeling of despair. With horror I re- member that, through some mysterious necessity, civilization seems to have deserted the most favour- ed regions and the choicest intellects. The Per- sian, whose very being is poetry, the Arab, whose subtle mind could penetrate into the very secret shrine of nature, the Greek, whose acute percep- tions seemed granted only for the creation of the beautiful — these are now unlettered slaves in bar- barous lands. The arts are yielded to the flat-nosed Franks. And they toil, and study, and invent theories to account for their own incompetence. Now it is the climate, now the religion, now the gofernment, every thing but the truth, every thing but the mortifying sxispicion that their organization may be different, and that they may be as distinct a race from their models, as they undoubtedly are from the Kalmuck and the Negro. XX. Whatever may have been the faults of the ancient governments, they were in closer relation to the times, to the countries, and to the governed, than ours. The ancients invented their govern- ments according to their wants ; the moderns have adopted foreign policies, and then modelled their conduct upon this borrowed regulation. This cir- cumstance has occasioned our manners and our customs to be so confused, and absurd, and un- philosophical. What business had we, for instance, to adopt the Roman lawl — a law foreign to our manners, and consequently disadvantageous. He, who profoundly meditates upon the situation of modern Europe, v/ill also discover how productive of misery has been the senseless adoption of oriental customs by northern people. Whence came that divine right of kings, which has deluged so many countries with blood 1 — that pastoral and Syrian law of tithes, which may yet ohake the foundation of so many ancient institutions 1 XXI. EvEX as a child, I veas struck by the absurdity of modern education. The duty of education is to give ideas. When our limited intelligence was con- fined to the literature of two dead languages, it was necessary to acquire those languages in order to obtain the knowledge which they embalmed. But now each nation has its literature, each nation possesses, written in its own tongue, a record of all knowledge, and specimens of every modification of invention. Let education, then, be confined to that national literature, and we should soon perceive the beneficial effects of this revolution upon the mind of the student. Study would then be a pro- fitablQ delight. I pity the poor Gothic victim of the grammar and the lexicon. The Greeks, who were masters of composition, were ignorant of all lan- guages but their own. They concentrated their study of the genius of expression upon one tongue. To this they owe that blended simplicity and strength of style, which the imitative Romans, with all their splendour, never attained CONTARINI FLEJVIING. 435 To the few, however, who have leisure or incli- nation to study foreign literatures, I will not re- commend them the English, the Italian, the German, since they may rightly answer, that all these have been in great part founded upon the classic tongues, and therefore it is wise to ascend to the fountain head ; but I will ask them for what reason they would limit their experience to the immortal languages of Greece and Rome 1 Why not study the Oriental ] Surely, in the pages of the Persians and the Arabs, we might discover new sources of emotion, new modes of expression, new trains of ideas, new principles of invention, and new bursts of fancy. These are a few of my meditations amid the ruins of Athens. They will disappoint those who might justly expect an ebullition of classic rapture from one who has gazed upon Marathon by moon- light, and sailed upon the free waters ofSalamis. I regret their disappointment, but I have arrived at an age when I can think only of the future, A mighty era is at hand, prepared by the blunders of long centuries. Ardently I hope that the necessary change in human existence may be effected by the voice of philosophy alone : but I tremble and I am silent. There is no bigotry so terrible as the bi- gotry of a country that flatters itself that it is philo- sophical. XXII. UxDERSTANDiNG that the Turkish squadron I left at Prevesa had arrived in the Negropont, I passed over, and paid a visit to its commander, with whom I was acquainted, Halil Pasha. HaJil informed me that all remained quiet in Albania, but that Redschid did not venture to return. He added that he liimself was about to sail from Stamboul immediately, and proposed that I should accompany him. His offer suited me, and as the wind was fair, in a few hours we were all on board. I had a most splendid view of Sunium, its tolumns against a dark cloud looked like undriven snow, and we were soon among the Cyclades. Sixteen islands were in sight, and we were now making our course in the heart of them. An archipelago by sunset is lovely — small isles of pur- ple and gold studding the glowing waters. The wind sers'ed well through the night, but we were becalmed the next day off Mitylene. In the after- noon, a fresh breeze sprung up and carried us to the Dardanelles. We were yet, I believe, upwards of a hundred miles from Constantinople. What a road to a great city ! narrower and much longer than the Straits of Gibraltar, but not with such sublime shores. Asia and Europe look more kindly on each other than Europe and her more sultry sister. I found myself, the next morning, becalmed off Troy : a vast hilly, uncultivated plain, a scanty rill, a huge tumulus, some shepherds and their flocks — behold the kingdom of Priam, and the successors of Paris ! A signal summoned us on board, the wind was fair and fresh. We scudded along with great swiftness, passing many towns and fortresses. Each dome, each minaret, I thought was Con- stantinople. At last it came ; we were in full sight. Masses of habitations, grouped on gentle acclivities, rose on all sides out of the water, part in Asia, part in Europe ; a gay and confused vision of red buildings, and dark-green cypress groves, hooded domes, and millions of minarets. As we approached, the design became more obvious. The groups formed themselves into three considerable cities, intersected by arms of the sea. Down one of these, rounding the seraglio point, our vessel held her course. We seemed to glide into the heart of the capital. The water was covered with innumerable boats as swift as gondolas, and far more gay, curiously carved, and richly gilt. In all parts swarmed a showy population. The charac- teristic of the whole scene was brilliancy. The houses glittered, the waters sparkled, and flocks of white and sacred birds glanced in the golden air, and skimmed over the blue wave. On one side of the harbour was moored the Turkish fleet, dressed out in all their colours. Our course was ended, and we cast our anchor in the famous Golden Horn. XXIII. No picture can ever convey a just idoa of Con- stantinople. I have seen several that are faithful, as far as they extend, but the most comprehensive can only exhibit a small portion of this cxtra- ordinai-y cit3\ By land or by water, in every di- rection, passing up the Golden Horn to the valley of Sweet Waters, or proceeding on the other hand down the famous Bosphorus to Buyukdere, and Terapia, to the Euxine, what infinite novelty ! New kiosks, new hills, new windings, new groves of cypress, and new forests of chestnut, open on all sides. The two most wonderful things at Constanti- nople are the Bosphorus and the bazaar. Con- ceive the ocean a stream not broader than the Rhine, with shores with all the beauty and variety of that river, running between gentle slopes covered with rich woods, gardens, and summer palaces, ce- meteries, and mosques, and villages, and bounded by sublime mountains. The view of the Euxine from the heights of Terapia, just seen through the end of the straits, is like gazing upon eternity. The bazaar is of a very different order, but not less remarkable. I never could obtain from a Turk any estimate of the ground it covered. Several in the habi? of daily attendance have men- tioned to me that they often find themselves in divisions they have not before visited. Fancy a Parisian panorama passage, fancy perhaps a square mile covered with these arcades, intersectijig each other in all directions, and full of every product of the empire, from diamonds to dates. This will give you some idea of the great bazaar at Constan- tinople. The dealers, in every possible costume, sit cross-legged on their stalls, and dealers in the same article usually congregate together. The ar- mourers, the grocers, the pipemakers, the jewellers, the shawlsellers, the librarians, all have their dis- tinct quarter. Now you walk along a range of stalls, filled with the most fanciful slippers, cloth and leather of all colours embroidered with gold, or powdered with pearls : nov? you are in the street of confectionary, and now you are cheapening a Damascus sabre in the bazaar of arms, or turning over a vividly illuminated copy of Hafiz in that last stronghold of Turkish bigotry, tne quarter of the venders of the Koran. The magnificence, novelty, and variety of goods on sale, the whole nation of shopkeepers all in different dress, the crowds of buyers from all parts of the world — I only hint at these traits. Here every people ha» 436 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. a characteristic costume ; Turks, Greeks, Jews, and Armenians are the staple population, the latter are numerous. The Armenians wear round, and very ijnbecoming black caps, and flowing robes ; the Jews a black hat wreathed with a white handker- chief; the Greeks black turbans. The Turks are fond of dress, and indulge in all combinations of costume. Of late, among the young men in the capital, it has been the fashion to discard the huge turban, and the ample robes, and they have formed an exceedingly ungraceful dress upon the Frank. But vast numbers cling to the national costume, especially the Asiatics, renowned for the prodigious height and multifarious folds of their head-gear. XXIV. Halil Pasha paid me a visit one day at my residence on the Bosphorus, and told me that he had mentioned my name to the sultan, who had expressed a desire to see me. As it is not etiquette for the padishah to receive Franks, I was of course as sensible of the high honour as I was anxious to become acquainted with the extraordinary man who was about to confer it. The sultan was at this moment at a palace on the Bosphorus, not far from Tophana. Hither on the appointed day I repaired with Halil, and the drogueman of the Porte. We were ushered into a chamber, where a principal officer of the household received us, and where I smoked out of a pipe tipped with diamonds, and sipped coffee perfumed with roses in cups studded with precious stones. When we had remained here for about half an hour, Mustapha, the private secretary and favourite of the sultan, entered, and after saluting us, desired us to follow him. We proceeded along a corridor, at the end of which stood two or three eunuchs, richly dressed, and then the door opened, and I found myself in an apartment of moderate size, painted with indifl'erent arabesques in fresco, and surrounded with a divan of crimson velvet and gold. Seated upon this, with his feet on the ground, his arms folded, and in a hussar dress, was the grand signor. As we entered, he slightly touched his heart, ac- cording to the fashion of the Orientals, and Musta- pha, setting us an example, desired us to seat our- selves. I fancied, and I was afterward assured of the correctness of my observation, that the sultan ■was veiy much constrained, and very little at his ease. The truth is, he is totally unused to inter- views with strangers, and this was for him a more novel situation than for me. His constraint wore off' as conversation proceeded. He asked a great many questions, and often laughed, turning round to Mustapha with a familiar nod when my replies pleased him. He inquired much about the Alba- nian war. Without flattering my late commander, it was in my power to do him service. He asked me what service I had before seen, and was evidently urprised when I informed him I was only an ama- teur. He then made many inquiries as to the European forces, and, as I answered them, I intro- duced some opinions on politics which interested him. He asked me who I was. I told liim I was the son of the prime minister of , a power always friendly to the Ottoman. His eyes sparkled, and he repeated several times, " It is well, it is well ;" meaning, I suppose, that he did not repent of the interview. He told me that m two years' time he should have two hundred thousand regular infantry. That if the Russian war could have been postponed another year, he should have beat the Muscovites ; that the object of the war was to crush liis schemes of regeneration ; that he was be- trayed at Adrianople as well as at Varna. He added that he had only done what Peter the Great had done before him, and that Peter was thwarted by unsuccessful wars, yet at last succeeded. I, of course, expressed my conviction that his highness would be as fortunate. The padishah then abruptly said that all his sub- jects should have equal rights, that there should be no difterence between Moslemin and infidel, that all who contributed to the government had a right to the same protection, Here Mustapha nodded to Halil, and we rose, and bowing, quitted the presence of a really great man. I found, at the portal, a fine Arabian, two Cache- mere shawls, a scarlet cloak of honour, with the collar embroidered with gold, and fastened with diamond clasps, a sabre, and two superb pipes. This was my reward for charging with the Turkish cavalry at Bitoglia. XXV. OxE of the most curious things at Constantino- ple is the power you have in the capital of the East of placing yourselves in ten minutes in a lively Frank town. Such is Pera. I passed there the winter months of December and January in very agreeable and intelligent society. My health im- proved, but my desire of wandering increased. I began to think that I should now never be able to settle in life. The desire of fame did not revive. I felt no intellectual energy, I required nothing more than to be amused. And having now passed four or Ave months at Stamboul, and seen all its wonders, from the interior of its mosques to the dancing dervishes, I resolved to proceed. So, one cold morning of February, I crossed over to Scutari, and pressed my wandering foot upon Asia. PART THE SIXTH. I. I WAS now in the great peninsula of Asia Minor, a country admirably fortified by nature, abounding in vast, luxuriant, and enchanting plains, from which a scanty population derive a difficult subsistence, and watered by broad rivers rolling through solitude. As I journeyed along I could not refrain from contrasting the desolation of the present with the refinement of the past, and calling up a vision of the ancient splendour of this famous country. I beheld those glorious Greek-federations that covered the provinces of the coast with their rich cultiva- tion and brilliapt cities. Who has not heard of the green and bland Ionia, and its still more fruitful, although less picturesque sister, the rich ^olial Who has not heard of the fane of Ephesus, andtho Anacreontic Teios ; Chios, with its rosy wine, and Cnidos, with its rosy goddess ] Colophon, Priene, Phoca;a, Samos, Miletos, the splendid Halicamas- CONTARINI FLEMING. 437 BUS, and the sumptuous Cos — magnificent cities abounding in genius and luxury, and all that po- lished refinement that ennobles life "? Everywhere around these free and famous citizens disseminated their liberty and their genius, in the savage Tauris, and on the wild shores of Pontus ; on the banks of the Borysthenes, and by the waters of the rapid 'J'yras. The islands in their vicinity shared their splendour and their felicity ; the lyric Lesbos, and Tenedos with its woods and vines, and those glo- rious gardens, the fortunate Cyprus and the prolific Rhodes, Under the empire of Rome, the peninsula of Asia did not enjoy a less eminent prosperity. The interior provinces vied in wealth and civilization with the ancient colonies of the coast. Then the cavalry of Cappadocia and Paphlagonia were fa- mous as the Lycian mariners, the soldiers of Pontus, and the bowmen of Armenia ; then Galatia sent forth her willing and welcome tribute of corn, and the fruitful Bithynia rivalled the Pamphylian pas- tures, the vines of Phrygia, and the Pisidian olives. Tarsus, Ancyra, Sardos, Ca;sarea, Sinope, Amisus, were the great and opulent capitals of these flourish- ing provinces. Alexandria rose upon the ruins of Tyre, and Nicaea and Nicomedia ranked with the most celebrated cities. And now the tinkhng bell of the armed and wandering caravan was the only indication of hu- man existence ! It is in such scenes as these, amid the ruins of ancient splendour, and the recollection of vanished empire, that philosophers have pondered on the nature of government, and have discovered, as they fancied, in the consequences of its various fonns, the causes of duration or of decay, of glory or of humiliation. Freedom, says the sage, will lead to prosperity, and despotism to destruction. Yet has this land been regulated by every form of government J,hat the ingenuity of man has de- vised. The federal republic, the military empire, the oriental despotism, have in turn controlled its fortunes. The deputies of free states have here assembled in some universal temple which was the bond of union between their cities ; here has the proconsul presided at his high tribunal ; and here the pasha reposes in his divan. The Pagan fane, and the Christian church, and the Turkish mosque, have here alike been erected to form the opinions of the people. The legends of Chaos and Olym- pus are forgotten, the sites of the Seven Churches cannot even be traced, and all that is left are the revelations of the son of Kahrida, a volume, the whole object of which is to convert man into a fanatic slave. Is there then no hope ] Is it an irrevocable doom, that society shall be created only to be de- stroyed ^ When I can accept such a dogma, let me also believe that the beneficent Creator is a malig- nant demon. Let us meditate more deeply, let us at length discover that no society can long subsist that is based upon metaphysical absurdities. The law that regulates man must be founded on a knowledge of his nature, or that law loads him to ruin. What is tlie nature of man 1 In every clime and in every creed we shall find a new defi- nition. Before me is a famous treatise on Human Na- ture, by a professor of Konigsberg. No one has more profoundly meditated on the attributes of his subject. It is evident that in the deep study of his I own intelligence, he has discovered a noble method of expounding that of others. Yet when I close his volumes can I conceal from myself that all this time I have been studying a treatise upon the na- ture — not of man, but — ^bf a German 1 What then ! Is the German a different animat from the Italian 1 Let me inquire in turn whether you conceive the negro of the Gold Coast to be the same being as the Esquimaux, who tracks his way over the polar snows 1 The most successful legislators are those who have consulted the genius of the people. But is it possible to render that which is the occasional con- sequence of fine observation, the certain result ot scientific study 1 One thing is quite certain, tliat the system we have hitherto pursued to attain a knowledge of man has entirely failed. Let us disembarrass ourselves of that " moral philosophy," which has filled so many volumes with words. History will always remain a pleasant pastime ; it never could have been a profitable study. To study man from the past is to suppose, that man is ever the same animal, which I do not. Those who speculated on the career of Nay)oleon had ever a dog's-eared annalist to refer to. The past equally proved that he was both a Cromwell and a W^ashington. Prophetic past ! He turned out to be the first. But suppose he had been neither; suppose he had proved a Sylla ] Man is an animal, and his nature must be studied as that of all other animals. The Almighty Crea- tor has breathed his spirit into us, and we testify our gratitude for this choice boon by never deigaing to consider what may be the nature of our intelli- gence. The philosopher, however, amid this dark- ness, will not despair. He will look forward to an age of rational laws and beneficent education. He will remember that all the truth he has attained has been by one process. He will also endeavour to become acquainted with himself by demonstration, and not by dogma. II. OsTE fair spring mornmg, with a clear blue sky and an ardent but not intense sun, I came in sight of the whole coast of Syria; very high and moun- tainous, and the loftiest ranges covered with snow. I had sailed from Smyrna through its lovely gulf, vaster and more beautiful than the Ambracian, found myself in a new archipelago, the Sporades, and having visited Rhodes and Cyprus, engaged, at the last island, a pilot, to take us to the most convenient Syrian port. Syria is, in fact, an immense chain of mountains, extending fi-om Asia Minor to Arabia. In the course of this great chain, an infinity of branches constantly detach themselves from the parent trunk, forming on each side, either towards the desert or the sea, beautiful and fertile plains. Washed by the Le- vantine wave, on one side we behold the once luxu- rious Antioch, now a small and dingy Turkish town. The traveller can no longer wander in the volup- tuous woods of Daphne. The palace and the gar- den pass away with the refined genius and the deli- cate taste that create them, but nature is eternal, and even yet the valley of the Orontes offers, under the glowing light of an eastern day, scenes of pic- turesque beauty that Switzerland cannot surpass. The hills of Laodicea, once famous for their wirje, 2 o 2 438 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. are now celebrated for producing the choicest to- Ijacco of the East. Tripoli is a flourishing town, embosomed in wild groves of Indian figs, and famous for its fruits and silks. Advancing along the coast we reach the ancient Berytus, whose tobacco vies with Laodicea, and whose silk surpasses that of Tripoli. We arrive at all that remains of the su- perb Tyre ; a small peninsula and a mud village. The famous Acre is still the most important place upon the coast, and Jaffa, in spite of so many wars, is yet fragrant amid its gardens and groves of lemon trees. The towns on the coast have principally been built on the sites and ruins of the ancient cities whose names they bear. None of them have suf- ficient claims to the character of a capital ; but on the other side of the mountains we find two of the most important of oriental cities — the populous Aleppo and the delicious Damascus ; nor must we forget Jerusalem, that city sacred in so many creeds ! In ancient remains, Syria is only inferior to Egypt. All have heard of the courts of Baalbec, and the columns of Palmyra. Less known, be- cause only recently visited, and visited with ex- treme danger, are the vast ruins of magnificent cities in the Arabian vicinity of the Lake Asphal- tites. The climate of this country is as various as its formation. In the plains is often experienced that intense heat so fatal to the European invader; yet the snow that seldom falls upon the level ground, or falls only to vanish, rests upon the heights of Lebanon, and, in the higher lands, it is not difficult at all times to discover exactly the temperature you desire. I travelled in Syria at the commencement of the year, when the short, but violent rainy season had just ceased. It is not easy to conceive a more beautiful and fruitful land. The plains were covered with that fresh green tint so rare under an Eastern sky, the orange and lemon trees were clothed both with fruit and blossom, and then too I first beheld the huge leaf of the banana, and tasted, for the first time, the delicate flavour of its unrivalled fruit. From the great extent of the country, and the con- sequent variation of clime, the Syrian can always command a succession, as well as a variety of lux- uries. The season of the pomegranate will com- mence in Antioch when it ends in Jaffa, and when you have exhausted the figs of Beiroot, you can fly to the gardens of Damascus. Under the worst government that perhapsd in my favour the Contarini estates, to which, independent of the validity of my marriasje, I was entitled through my mother. After much liti2:ation, tlie question had been dccidwl in my behalf a few months before my return to Italy. [ found myself, therefore, unexpectedly, a very rich man. I wrote to the countess, and received from iier a very affectionate reply ; nor should I omit that t wa^5 iionoured by an autograph letter of con- dolence from the king, and an invitation to re-enter his service. As I was now wearied with wandering, and desi- rous of settling down in life, and as I had been deprived of those affections which render home delightful, I determined to find, in the creations of art, some consolation and some substitute for that domestic bliss, which I value above all other bles- smgs. I resolved to create a paradise. I purchased a large estate in the vicinity of Na- ples, with a palace and beautiful gardens. I called in the assistance of the first artists in the country, and I availed myself, above all, of the fine taste of my friend Winter. The palace was a Palladian pile, built upon a stately terrace covered with orange and citron trees, and to which you ascended by broad Hights of marble steps. The formation of the surrounding country was highly picturesque ; hills beautifully peaked or undulating, richly v^'ooded, covered with the cypress and the ilex, and crowned with the stone pine. Occasionally you caught a glimpse of the Wue sea and the brilliant coast. Upon the terrace, on each side of the poi^al, I have placed a collossal sphinx, which were excava- ted when I was at Thebes, and which I was fortu- nate enough to purchase. They are of cream- coloured granite, and as fresh ancj sharp as if they were finished yesterday. There is a soft majesty and a serene beauty in the countenances, which are very remarkable. It is my intention to build in these beautiful do- mains a Saracenic palace, which my oriental col- lections will befit, but which I hope also to fill with the masterpieces of Christian art. At present, in a galler}', I have placed some fine specimens of the Venetian, Roman, and Eclectic schools, and have ranged between them copies in marble, by Bertolini, of the most celebrated ancient statues. In one cabinet by itself is the gem of my collection, a Magdalen, by Murillo, and in another, a sleeping Cupid, by Canova, over which I have contrived by a secret light to throw a rosy flush, that invests the iileal beauty of the sculptor with still more ideal life. At the end of the gallery I have placed the portraits of my father and of my mother; the latter copied by an excellent artist from the miniature. Between them is a frame of richly carved ivory, enclosing a black velvet veil, studded with wliito roses, worked in pearls. Around me, I hope in time to create a sceno which may rival in beauty and variety, although not in extent, the villa of Hadrian, whom I have always cons-idered the most sumptuous and accom- plished character of antiquity. I have already com- menced the foundation of a tower which shall rise at least one hundred and fifty feet, and which I trust will e(iual in the beauty of design, and the solidity of the masonry, the most celebrated works of antiquity. This tower I shall dedicate to the future, and I intend that it shall be my tomb. Lausanne has married, and v^'ill never quit me. He has promised also to form a band of wind in- struments, a solace necessary to solitude. Winter is my ordy friend and my only visiter. He is a great deal with me, and has a studio in the palace. He is so independent, that he often arrives and quits it without my knowledge ; yet I never con- verse with him without pleasure. Here let me pass my life in the study and the creation of the beautiful. Such is my desire ; but whether it will be my career is, I feel, doubtful. My interest in the happiness of my race is too keen to permit me for a moment to be blind to the storms that lower on the horizon of society. Perchance also the political legeneration of the countiy to which I am devoted may not be distant, and in that great work I am resolved to participate. Bitter jest, that the most civilized portion of the globe should be considered mcapable of scll-govenuiient ! When I examine the state of the European so- ciety with the unimpassioned spirit which the phi- losopher can alone command, I perceive that it is in a state of transition — a state of transition fron} feudal to federal principles. This I conceive to be the sole and secret cause of all the convulsions that have Occurred, and arc to occur. ! Circumstances are beyond the control of man ; but his conduct is in his own power. The great event is as sure as that I am now penning this pro- phecy of its occurrence. With us it rcst-s whether it shall be welcomed by wisdom or by ignorance — whether its beneficent results shall be accelerated by enlightened minds, or retarded by our dark passions. What is the arch of the conqueror, what the liu- rel of the poet I I think of the infinity of space, I feel my nothingness. Yet if I am to be remembcrtd, let me be remembered as one who, in a sad ni^ht of gloomy ignorance and savage bigotry, was j^re- scient of the flaming morning-break of bright phi- losophy, — as one who deeply sympathized with his fellow-men, and felt a proud and profound co))"ic- tion of their perfectibility, — as one who dcvo»'e(]l himself to the amelioration of his kind, by tii - Je- struction of error, and the propagation of trutk> THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. AND THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 427 THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. TO ********** Sweet sister ! as 1 wandered on the mountains of Sion, beliold! a gazelle canie bounding o'er the hills! It per- ceived rae, it started back, it gazed at me with trembling surprise. Ah ! fear not ! fair creature, I fondly exclaimed, fear not, and flee not away '. I loo have a gazelle in a dis- tant land ; not less beautiVul her airy form than thine, and her dark eye not less tremulously bright. Ah! little did I deem, my sweetest friend, that ere I pressed that beauteous form again, sorrow should dim the radiance of thy smile, and charge that brilliant eye with many a tear ! Yet trust thee, dearest, in a brother's love, the purest .sympathy of our fallen state ! If I recall one gleam of rapture to thy pensive cheek, not in vain I strike my lonely lyre, or throw these laurels at thy fairy feel ! PREFACE. The time of this Romance is the twelfth century. At that period, this was the political condition of the East. The caliphate was in a state of rapid decay. The Seljiikian sultans, who had been called to the as- sistance of the commanders of the faithful, had be- come, like the mayors of the palace in France, the real sovereigns of the empire. They had carved four kingdoms out of the dominions of the succes- sors of the prophet, which conferred titles on four Seljukian princes, to wit, the sultan of Bagdad, the sultan of Persia, the sultan of Syria, and the sultan of Roum, or Asia Minor. But these warlike princes, in the relaxed disci- pline and doubtful conduct of their armies, began themselves to evince the natural effects of luxury and indulgence. They were no longer the same invincible and irresistible warriors who had poured forth from the shores of the Caspian over the fairest regions of the East, and although they still con- trii'ed to preserve order in their dominions, they witnessed, with ill-concealed apprehension, the rising power of the kings of Karasme, whose con- quests daily made their territories more contiguous. With regard to the Hebrew people, it should be known that after the destruction of Jerusalem, the eastern Jews, while they acknowledged the supre- macy of their conquerors, gathered themselves to- gether for all purposes of jurisdiction, under the control of a native ruler, an as.serted descendant of David, whom they dignified with the title of " The Prince of the Captivity," If we are to credit the enthu.siastic annalists of this imaginative people, there were periods of prosperity when " the princes of the captivity" assumed scarcely less state, and enjoyed scarcely less power than the ancient kings of Judah themselves. Certain it is that their power increased always in an exact proportion with the weakness of the caliphate, and without doubt in some of the most distracted periods of the Ara^jian 57 rule, the Hebrew princes rose into sonie degree of local and temporary importance. Their chief resi- dence was Bagdad, where they remained until the eleventh century, an age f;ital in oriental history, and from the disasters of which " the princes of the captivity" were not exempt. They are heard of even in the twelfth centuiy. I have ventured to place one at Hamadan, a favourite residence of the Hebrews, from being the burial place of Esther and Mordecai. In this state of affairs arose Alroy, a name per- haps unknown to the vast majority of my readers ; yet, if I mistake not, a memorable being, and the dry. record of whose marvellous career I have long considered as enveloping the richest materials of poetic fiction. With regard to the supernatural machinery of this romaiace, it is cabalistical and correct. From the spirits of the tomlis to the sceptre of Solomon, authority may be found in the traditions of the He- brews for all these spiritual introductions. I believe that thai character of oriental life is not unfaithfully portrayed in these pages. It has under- gone less changes than the genius of the Occident. i have had the advantage of studying the Asiatics in their most celebrated countries and capitals. An existence of blended .splendour and repose, varied only by fitful starts of extravagant and overwhelm- ing action, and marvellous vicissitudes of fortune, a strong influence of individual character, a blind submission to destiny, imagination, passion, cre- dulity : these are some of the principal features of society in the most favoured regions of the globe. And now for my style. I must frankly confess that I have invented a new one. I am conscious of the hazard of such innovation, but I have not adopted my system witliout long meditation, and a severe examination of its qualities. I have in another work already ventured to express my opinion that the age of versification has passed. I have there observed, "The mode of composition must ever be greatly determined by the manner in which the composition can be made public. In ancient days, the voice was the medium by which we became acquainted with the inventions of a poet. In such a method, where those who listened had no time to I)ause, and no opportunity to think, it was neces- sary that every thing should be obvious. The audience who were perplexed would soon become wearied. The spirit of ancient poetry, therefore, is rather material than metaphysical. Superficial, not internal; there is much simplicity and much nature, but little pa.ssion, and less philosophy. To obviate the baldness, which is the consequence of a style where the subject and the sentiments arc rather in- timated than developed, the poem was enriched by music and enforced by action. Occasionallv, were 2 p 3 44^^ 450 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. added the enchantment of scenery, and the fascina- tion of the dance. But the poet did not depend merely upon these brilliant accessaries. He resolved that his thoughts should be expressed in a manner ditlerent from other modes of communicating ideas. He caught a suggestion from his sister art, and in- vented metre. And in this modulation, he intro- duced a new system of phraseology, which marked him out from the crowd, and which has obtained the title of ' poetic diction.' " His object in this system of words was to heighten his meaning by strange phrases, and un- usual constructions. Inversion was invented to clothe a commonplace with an air of novelty ; vague epithets were introduced to prop up a monotonous modulation; were his meaning to be enforced, he shrank from wearisome ratiocination and the agony of precise conceptions, and sought refuge in a bold personification, or a beautiful similitude. The art of poetry was to express natural feelings in unnatu- ral language. " Institutions ever survive their purpose, and customs govern us when their cause is extinct. And this mode of communicating poetic invention still remained, when the advanced civilization of man, in multiplying manuscripts, might have made many suspect that the time had arrived when the poet was to cease to sing, and to learn to write. Had the splenchd refinement of imperial Rome not been doomed to such rapid decay, and such mortifying and degrading vicissitudes, I believe that versifica- tion would have worn out. Unquestionably that empire, in its multifarious population, scenery, creeds and customs, offered the richest materials for emancipated fiction ; materials, however, far too vast and various for the limitedtcapacity of metrical celebration. " That beneficent Omnipotence, before which we must bow down, has so ordered it, that imitation should be the mental feature of modei'n Europe ; and has ordained that we should adopt a Syrian religion, a Grecian literature, and a Roman law. At the revival of letters, we behold the portentous spectacle of national poets communicating their in- ventions in an exotic form. Conscious of the con- fined nature of their method, yet unable to extricate tliemselves fi-om its fatal ties, they sought variety in increased artifice of diction, and substituted for the melody of the lyre, the barbaric clash of rhyme. " A revolution took place in the mode of com- municating thought. Now, at least, it was full time that we should have emancipated ourselves for- ever from sterile metre. One would have supposed that the poet who could not only write, but even print his inventions, would have felt that it was both useless and unfit that they should be communicated by a process invented when his only medium was simple recitation One would have supposed, that the poet would have rushed with desire to the new world before nim, that he would have seized the riftvv means that permitted him to revel in a uni- verse of boundless invention ; to combine the highest ideal creation with the infinite delineation of teem- ing nature ; to unravel all the dark mysteries of our bosoms, and all the bright purposes of our being ; to become the great instrucicr and champion of his species ; and not only delight their fancy, and charm their senses, and command their will, but ilemonstrate their rights, illustrate their necessities, and expound tlic object of their existence ; and all this too in a style charming and changing with its universal theme, now tender, now sportive ; now earnest, now profound ; now sublime, now pathetic ; and substituting for the dull monotony of metre, the most various, and exquisite, and inexhaustible melody."* While I have endeavoured to effect my own emancipation from the trammels of the old style, I do not for a moment flatter myself that the new one, which I offer, combines those rare qualities which I anticipate may he the ultimate result of this revolution. But such as it is, it stands upon its own merits, and may lead abler men to achieve abler consequences. It has been urged by a very ingenious and ele- gant critic, when commenting, perhaps with the apprehensive indignation of a versifier, upon the passage which I have quoted, " that the melodies of language are the echoes of the melodies of thought : as in hearing martial music, the step in- voluntarily takes a statelier tread, as to gayer airs, a lighter and more buoyant one ; so does the ele vated idea take a more noble, or the feelings of tenderness a sweeter tone, than those of ordinary discourse." I perfectly assent to this remark, which was in- tended to show "the fallacies" of my system. I do not oppose melody because I oppose verse. Thoughts are not always melodious, ideas always noble, and feelings always tender. The curse of metre is, that it makes all thoughts, ideas, and feel- ings — all action and all passion alike monotonous, and is at the same time essentiully limited in its capacity of celebration. As for myself, I never hesitate, although I discard verse, to have recourse to rhythm whenever I consider its introduction de- sirable, and occasionally even to rhyme. There is no doubt that the style in which I have attempted to write this work is a delicate and dithcult instru- ment for an artist to handle. He must not abuse his freedom. He must alike beware the turgid and the bombastic, the meager and the mean. He must be easy in his robes of state, and a degree of elegance and dignity must accompany him even in the camp and the markethouse. The language must rise gradually with the rising passions of the speakers, and subside in harmonious unison with their jinking emotions. With regard to the conduct of this tale, it will speedily be observed to be essentially dramatic. Had, indeed, the drama in this country not been a career encompassed with difficulties, I should have made Alroy the hero of a tragedy. But as, at the present day, this is a mode of composition which for any practical effect is almost impossible, I have made him the hero of a dramatic romance. The author, therefore, seldom interferes in the conduct of the story. He has not consiiSered it his duty to step in between the reader and the beings of his imagination, to develope and dwell upon their feel- ings, or to account for their characters and actions. He leaves tliem in general to explain eveiy thing for themselves, substituting on his part description for scenery, and occasional bursts of lyric melody for that illustrative music, without which all dra- matic representations are imperfect, and which ren- ders the serious opera of the Italians the most effective performance of modern times, and most nearly approaching the exquisite drama of the an cicnt Greeks. ♦ Goniarini Fleming. THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 4M To the Tale of Alroy I have added the history «f a Christian hero placed in a somewhat similar position, but achieviMf a very ditferent end ; and I hope the reader will*xperience the pleasure of an agreeable contrast in the Rise of the great Is- kander. PART I. The cornets sounded a final flourish as the prince of the captivity dismounted from his white mule ; his train shouted as if they were once more a peo- ple, and had it not been for the contemptuous leer which played upon tlie countenances of' the Mos- lerain bystanders, it might have been- taken for a day of triumph rather than of tribute. " The glory has not departed !" exclaimed the venerable Bostenay, as he entered the hall of his mansion. " It is not as the visit of Sheba unto Solomon; nevertheless the glory has not yet de- parted. You have done well, faithful Caleb." The old man's courage waxed more vigorous as each step within his own walls the more assured him against the recent causes of his fear — the audi- ble curses and the threatened missiles of the un- believing mob. " It shall be a day of rejoicing and thanksgiving," continued the prince ; " and look, my faithful Caleb, that the trumpeters be well served. That last flourish was bravely done. It was not as the blast before Jericho ; nevertheless it told that the Lord of Hosts was for us. How the accursed Ishmaelites started! Did you mark, Caleb, that tall Turk in green upon my left 1 By the sceptre of Jacob, he* turned pale ! ! it shall be a day of rejoicing and thanksgiving ! And spare not the wine, nor the flesh-pots for the people. Look you to this, my child, for the people shouted bravely, and with a stout voice. It was not as the great shout in the c*tiip when the ark returned, but, ne- vertheless, it was-boldly done, and showed that the glory had not yet departed. So spare not the wine, my son, and drink to the desolation of Ish- mael in the juice which he dare not quaff." " It has indeed been a great day for Israel !" ex- claimed Caleb, echoing his master's exultation. " Had the procession been forbidden," continued Bostenay, " had it been reserved for me of all the princes to have dragged the accursed tribute upon foot, without trumpets and without guards, by this sceptre, my good Calel), I really think, that slug- gishly as this old blood now runs, I would but it is needless now to talk — the God of our fathers hath been our refuge." " Verily, my lord, we were as David in the wil- derness of Zipli ; but now we are as the Lord's anointed in the stronghold of Engedi !" " The glory truly has not yet utterly departed," resumed the prince in a more subdued tone ; " yet if — I tell you what, Caleb — praise the Lord that you are young." " My prince may yet live to see the good day." " Nay, my child, you misinterpret me. Your prince has lived to see the evil day. 'Twas not of the coming that I thought when I bid you praise the TiOrd because you were young — the more my sin. I was thinking, Caleb, that if your hairs were as mine, if you could call back like me th« days that are gone by — the days when it needed no bribe to prove we were princes — the glorious days when we led captivity captive — I was thinking, I say, my son, what a gainful heritage it is to be born after the joys that have passed away." " My father lived at Babylon," said Caleb. "O! name it not! — name it not!" exclaimed the old chieftain. " Dark was the day that we lost that second Sion ! We were then also slaves to the Egyptian ; but verily we ruled over the realm of Pharaoh. Why, Caleb, Caleb, you who know all — the days of toil — the nights restless as a love- sick boy's, which it has cost your prince to gain permission to grace our tribute day with the paltry presence of half a dozen guards — you who know all my difficulties, who have witnessed all my mor- tification, what would you say to the purse of dirhems, surrounded by seven thousand cime- ters 1" " Seven thousand cimeters !" " Not one less ; my father flourished one." " It was indeed a great day for Israel !" " Nay, that is nothing. When old Alroy was prince — old David Alroy — for thirty years, good Caleb — thirty long years we paid no tribute to the caliph." "No tribute ! no tribute for thirty years ! What marvel then, my prince, that the Philistines have of late exacted interest ?" " Nay, that is nothing," continued old Bostenay, unmindful of his servant's ejaculations. " When Moctador was caliph, he sent to the same Prince David, to know why the dirhems were not brought up, and David immediately called to horse, and at- tended by all tlie chief people rode to the palace, and told the caliph that tribute was an acknowledg- ment made from tiie weak to the strong to insure protection and support, and inasmuch as he and his people had just garrisoned the city for ten years against the Seljuks, he held the caliph in arrear." " We shall see an ass mount a ladder,"* ox- claimed Caleb with uplifted eyes of wonder. " It is true though," continued t!ie prince ; " often have I heard my father tell the tale. He was then a child, and his mother held him up to see the pro- cession return, and all the people shouted, ' The sceptre has not gone out of Jacob !' " " It was indeed a great day for Israel." " Nay, that is nothing. I could tell you such things ! But we prattle ; our business is not yet done. You to the people ; the widow and the orphan are waiting. Give freely, good Caleb, give freely ; the spoils of the Canaanite are no longer ours ; nevertheless the Lord is still our God, and, after all, even this is a great day for Israel. And Caleb, Caleb, bid my nephew, David Alroy, know that I would speak with him." "I will do all promptly, good master! We wondered that our honoured lord, your nephew, went not up with the donation this day." " Who hid you wonder 1 Begone, sir ! How long are you to idle here ] — Away ! " They wonder he went not up with the tribute to-day. Ay ! surely — a common talk. This boy will be our ruin : a prudent hand to wield our shat- tered sceptre ! I have observed him from his in- fancy ; he should have lived in Babylon. The old Alroy blood flows in his veins, a stiif-necked race * Hebrew Proverb 452 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. When I was a youth his grandsire was my friend ; I had some fancies then myself. Dreams, dreams ! we have fallen on evil days, and yet wc prosper. I have lived long enough to feel a rich caravan, laden with the shawls of India, and the stuffs of Samarcand, if not exactly like dancing before the ark, is still a goodly sight. And our hard-hearted rulers, with all their pride, can they subsist without us ] Still we wax rich. I have lived to see the haughty caliph sink into a slave, viler far than Israel, And the victorious and voluptuous Seljuks, even now they tremble at the dim mention of the distant name of Arslan. Yet I, Bostenay, and the frail remnant of our scattered tribes, still we exist, and still, thanks to our God, we prosper. But the age of power has past ; it is by prudence now that we must flourish. The jibe, the jest, the curse, perchance the blow, Israel must now bear, and with a calm, or even smiling visage. What then ] For every jibe and jest, for every curse, I'll have a dirhem ; and every blow — let him look to it who is my creditor, or wills to be so. But see, he comes, my nephew ! His grandsire was my friend. Me- thinks I look upon him now ; the same Alroy that was the partner of my boyish hours. And yet that fragile form and girlish face but ill consort with the dark passions, and the dangerous fancies, I fear lie hidden in that tender breast. Well, sir 1" " You want me, uncle"!" " What then 1 Uncles often want what nephews seldom ofler." " I at least can refuse nothmg ; for I have naught to give." " You have a jewel which I greatly covet." " A jewel ! See my chaplet ! You gave it me, my uncle ; it is yours." " I thank you. Many a blazing ruby, many a soft and shadowy pearl, and many an emerald glowing like a star in the far desert, I behold, my child. They are choice stones, and yet I miss a jewel far more precious, which, when I gave you this rich chaplet, David, I deemed you did possess." " How do you call it, sir V " Ot)edience." " 'Tis a word of doubtful import, sir ; for to obey, when duty is disgrace, is not a virtue." " I see you read my thought. In a word, I sent for you to know, wherefore you joined me not to- day in offering C^t — " " Tribute." " Be it so : tribute. , .'Ky were you absent ?" " Because it was a tribute : ? pay none." "But that the dreary course of s^evcnty winters has not erased the memory of my bo^iish follies, David, I should esteem you mad. Think you, be- cause I am old, I am enamoured of disgrace, and love a house of bondage. If hfe were a mere ques- tion between freedom and slavery, glory and disho- nour, all could decide. Trust me, there needs but little spirit to be a moody patriot in a sullen home, and vent your heroic spleen upon your fellow-suf- ferers, whose sufferings you cannot remedy. But of such stuff your race were ever made. Such de- liverers ever abounded in the house of Alroy. And what has been the result ? I foiuid you, and your sister, orphan infants, your sceptre broken, and your tribes dispersed. The tribute, which now at least we pay like princes, was then exacted with the scourge, and offered in chains. I collected our scattered people, I re-established our ancient throne, EJid this day, which you look upon as a day of hu- miliation, and of mourning, is rightly considered bv all a day of triumph, and of feasting ; for has it not proved, in the very teeth of the Ishmaelites, that the sceptre has not yet departedTrom Jacob 1" " I pray you, imcle, speak not of these things I would not willingly forget you are my kinsman, and a kind one. Let there be no strife between us. What my feelings are is nothing. They are my own : I cannot change them. And for my ances- tors, if they pondered much, and achieved little, why, then, 'twould seem our pedigree is pure, and I am their true son. At least one was a hero." " Ah ! the great Alroy ; you may well be proud of such an ancestor." " I am ashamed, uncle, — ashamed, ashamed." " His sceptre still exists. At least, I have not betrayed him. And this brings me to the real pur- port of our interview. That sceptre I would return." "To whom]" " To its right owner, to yourself" " O ! no, no, no — I pray you, pray you, uncle, I pray you not. I do entreat you, sir, upon my knees, forget I have a right as utterly as I myself disclaim it. That sceptre — you have wielded it wisely and well; I do beseech you keep it. Indeed, good uncle, I have no sort of talent for all the busy duties of this post." " You sigh for glory, yet you fly from toil." " Toil without glory is a menial's lot." " You are a boy ;' you may yet live to learn that the sweetest lot of life consists in tranquil duties and well-earned repose." " If my lot be repose, I'll find it in a lair." " Ah I David, David, there is a wilderness in your temper, boy, that makes me often tremble. You are already too much alone, child. And for this, as well as vveighter reasons, I am desirous that you should at length assume the office you inherit. What my poor experience can afford t© aid you, as your counsellor, I shall ever proffer; and for the rest, our God will not desert you, an orphan child, and born of royal blood." " Pr'y thee, no more, kind uncle. I have but little heart to mount a throne, which orjy ranks me as the first of slaves." " Pooh, pooh, you are young. Live we like slaves? Is this hall a servile chamber? These costly carpets, and these rich divans, in what proud harem shall we find their match ? I feel not like a slave. My coffers are full of dirhems. Is that slav- ish? The wealthiest company of the caravan is ever Bostenay's. Is that to be a slave ] Walk the bazaar of Bagdad, and you will find my name more potent than the caliph's. Is that a badge of sla- very?" " Uncle, you toil for others." " So do we all, so does the bee, yet he is free and happy." " At least he has a sting." " Which he can use but once; and when he stings — " "He dies, and like a hero. Such a death is sweeter than his honey." " Well, well, you are young, you are young. I once, too, had fancies. Dreams all. dreams all. I willingly would see you happy, cliild. Come, let that face brighten ; after all, to-day is a great day. If you had seen what I have seen, David, you too would feci grateful. Come, let us feast, let us feast. The Ishmaclite, the accursed child of H agar, he does confess to-day you are a prince : this day also you THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 453 complete your eighteenth year. The custom of our people now requires you should assume the attributes of manhood. To-day, then, your reign commences ; and at our festival I will present the elders to their prince. For a while farewell, my child. Array that face in smiles. I shall most anxiously await your presence." " Farewell, sir." He turned his head and watched his uncle as he departed ; the bitter expression of his countenance gradually melted away as Bostenay disappeared ; dejection succeeded to sarcasm; he sighed, he threw himself upon a couch, and buried his face in his hands. Suddenly he arose, and paced the chamber with an irregular and moody step. He stopped, he leaned against a column. He spoke in a tremulous and smothered voice. " O ! my heart is full of care, and my soul is dark with sorrow ! What am 1 1 What is all this T A cloud hangs heavy o'er my life. God of my fathers ! let it burst. " I know not what I feel — yet what I feel is madness. Thus to be, is not to live, if life be what I sometimes dream, and dare to think it might be. To breathe, to feed, to sleep, to wake and breathe again — again to feel existence without hope ; if this be life, why then these brooding thoughts that whisper death were better 1 " Away ! away ! The demon tempts me. But to what, to what? What nameless deed shall dese- crate this hand ! No, no, it must not be ; the royal blood of twice two thousand years, it must not die — die like a dream. ! my heart is full of cai-e, and my soul is dark with sorrow ! " Hark ! the trumpets that sound our dishonour. ! but that they sounded to battle ! Lord of Hosts ! Let me conquer or die ! Let me conquer like David, or die, Lord, like Saul. " Ah ! were I in the woods once more, a melan- choly child ! Each flower, that raised its haughty head, should be the turbaned enemy, and I would wave some sword of straw, and find revenge in every blow, that quelled their painted pride. " 'Tis over now ; that sweet, sweet prime, when fancy solaced solitude. Yet I am still alone. But how alone 1 The madness of the past and the de- spair of the future — are not these the choice com- panions of my pleasant life 1 " I once remember, when, a child, I cried to be a man — and now, methinks, I'll sit me down and cry to be a child. Ah ! tears of bliss, though shed in sadness, unutterable joys ! No more the sunshine of the breast succeeds those freshening showers of grief; light season of my boyish spring, when care was but a mimic game, and wo a wild delusion ! " Behold this chaplet rich and rare ; its stones might deck a soldan's brow ! Could I but weep, for each bright tear I'd give a flaming gem ; could I but weep, for each soft sob I'd yield a lustrous pearl. Alas! the age of tears is o'er, and yet — my heart is full of care, and my soul is dark with sor- row. " Why do I live 1 Ah ! could the thought that lurks within my secret heart but answer — not the trumpet's blast when echoing on the noisy hills, could speak as loud or clear. The votary of a false idea, I linger in this shadowy life, and feed on silent images which no eye but mine can gaze on, until, at length, they are invested with all terrible circum- stances of life, and breathe, and act, fonn a stir- ring world of fate and beauty, time, and death, and glory. And then from out this dazzling wil- derness of deeds I wander forth and wake, and find myself in this dull house of bondage, even as I do now. Horrible ! horrible ! " God of my fathers ! for indeed I dare not style thee God of their wretched sons — yet by the memory of Sinai let me tell thee that some of the antique blood yet beats withiir these pulses, and there yet is one who fain would commune with thee face to face — commune and conquer. " And if the promise unto which we cling be not a cheat, why let him come, come, and come quickly, for thy servant Israel, Lord, is now a slave so infa- mous, so wo-begone, and so contemned, that even when our fathers hung their harps by the sad waters of the Babylonian stream, why, it were paradise again to what we suffer. "Alas! they do not suffer; they endure and do not feel. Or by this time our shadowy cherubim would guard again the ark. It is the will that is the father to the deed, and he who broods over some long idea, however wild, will find his dream was but the prophecy of coming fate. " And even now a vivid flash darts through the darkness of my mind — methinks, methinks — Ah ! worst of woes to dream of glory in despair. No, no, I hve and die a most ignoble thing ; beauty and love, and fame and mighty deeds, the smile of wo- men and the gaze of men, and the ennobling con- sciousness of worth, and all the fiery course of the creative passions — these are not for nw aiid I, Alroy, the long posterity of sacred kings, and with a soul that pants for empire, I stand here extending my vain arm for my lost sceptre, a most disho- noured slave ! And do I still exist ? Exist ! ay, merrily. Hark ! Festivity holds her fair revel in these light-hearted walls. We are gay to-day ; and yet ere yon proud sun, whose mighty course was stayed before our swords, that now he even does not deign to shine upon : ere yon proud sun shall, like a hero from a glorious field, enter the bright pavilion of his rest ; there shall a deed be done. " My fathers, my heroic fathers, if this feeble arm cannot redeem thy heritage, if the foul boar must still wallow in thy sweet vineyard, Israel, at least, I'll not disgrace ye. No ! let me perish. The house of David is no more : no more our sacred seed shall lurk and linger, like a blighted thing in this degenerate earth. If we cannot flourish, why then we'll die !" " ! say not so, my brother !" A voice broke on the air, so soft, so sweet, so wildly musical — it sounded like a holy bell upon a summer day, a holy bell that calls to prayer, and stills each fierce emotion. And softly kneeling at his side behold a female form ! Her face is hid, her lips are pressed against the hand she gently steals. And now she raises up her head, and waits with tender patience for a glance from one who seldom smiles. " ! say not so, my brother !" He turns, he gazes on a face beauteous as a starry night — a starry night in those fair climes where not a cloud is marked in heaven, where all below on earth's so sweet, and all above in air so still, that every passion melts away, and Ufe seems but a fragrant dream. I, too, have wandered in those lands, and ro.amed 454 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 'mid Jordan's vocal bowers. Ah ! could the night- ingale that sang lo Syria's rose how sing to me, I'd give the fame of coming years to listen to that lay! He turns, he gazes, and he bends ; his heart is full, his voice is low. " Ah, Miriam ! thou queller of dark spirits ! is it thou ] Why art thou here ]" " Why am I here 1 Are you not here "? and need I urge a stronger plea 1 O ! brother deal", I pray you come, and mingle in our festival ! Our walls are hung with flowers you love ;* I culled them by the fountain's side ; the holy lamps are trimmed and set, and you must raise their earliest flame. Without the gate my maidens wait to offer you a robe of state. Then, brother dear, I pray you come and mingle in our festival." " Why should we feast?" " Ah ! is it not in thy dear name these lamps are lit — these garlands hung] To-day to us a prince is given, to-day — " " A prince without a kingdom." " But not without i/iat which makes kingdoms ])recious, and which full many a royal heart has sighed for — willing subjects, David." " Slaves, Miriam, fellow-slaves." " What we are, my brother, our God has willed; and let us bow and tremble." " I will not, I cannot tremble." " Hush, David, hush ! It was this haughty spirit that called the vengeance of the Lord upon us." " It was this haughty spirit that conquered Ca- naan." " ! my brother, my dear, dear brother ! they told me the dark spirit had fallen on thee, and I came, and hoped thy Miriam might have charmed it. What we have been, Alroy, is a bright dream ; and what we may be, at least as bright a hope ; and for what we are, thou art my brother. In thy love I find present felicity, and value more thy chance embraces and thy scanty smiles, than all the vanished splendour of our race, our gorgeous gardens, and our glittering halls." " Who waits without there !" " Caleb." " Caleb ?" "My lord." " Go tell my uncle I presently will join the ban- quet. Leave me a moment, dearest. I'll soon be with thee. Nay, dry these tears, my life, or let me stop them with a soft kiss." " O I Alroy, they are not tears of sorrow !" " God be with thee, angel ! fare thee well, though but for a moment. Thou art the charm and con- solation of my hfe. Farewell, farewell. "I do observe the influence of women very po- tent over me. 'Tis not of such sUitY that they make heroes. I know not love, save that pure af- fection that does subsist between me and this girl — an orphan and my sister. We arc so alike, that when, last Passover, in mimicry, she twined my turban round her graceful head, our uncle called her David. " The daughters of my tribe, they please me not, though they are passing fair. Were our sons as brave as they are beautiful, we still might dance * It is the custom of the Hebrews in many of their festi- vals, especially in the feast of the tabernacle, to hang the ■walla of their chambers with garlands of tlowers. on Sion. Yet have I often thought that I could pillow this moody brow upon some snowy bosom that were my own, and dwell in the wilderness, far from the sight and ken of man, and all the care, and toil, and wretchedness, that groan, and sweat, and sigh about me, I might haply lose this deep sensation of o'erwhelming wo, that broods upon my being. No matter^life is but a di'eam and mme must be a dull one." 11. Without the gates of Hamadan, a very short distance from the city, was an enclosed piece of elevated ground, in the centre of which rose an ancient sepulchre, the traditionary tomb of Esther and Mordecai.* This solemn and solitary spot was an accustomed haunt of Alroy ; and thither escaping from the banquet, about an hour before sunset, he this day repaired. As he unlocked the massy gate of the burial- place, he heard behind him the trampling of a horse ; and before he had again secured the en- trance, some one shouted to him. He looked up, and recognised the youthful and voluptuous Alschiroch, the governor of the city, and brother of the sultan of the Scljuks. He was attended only by a single running footman, an Arab, a detested favourite, and notorious minister of his pleasures. " Dog !" exclaimed the. irritated Alschiroch, " art thou deaf, or obstinate ? or both 1 Are we to call twice to our slaves ? Unlock that gate !" " Wherefore 1" inquired Alroy. " Wherefore ! By the holy prophet, he bandies questions with us. Unloclf that gate, or thy head shall answer for it !" " Who art thou," inquired Alroy, " whose voice is so loud ? Art thou some holiday Turk, who hast transgressed the orders of thy prophet, and drunken aught but water 1 Go to, or I will sum- mon thee before thy cadi ;" and so saying, he turned towards the tomb. " By the eyes of my mother, the dog jeers us. But that we are already late, and this horse is like an untamed tiger, I would impale him on the spot. Speak to the dog, Mustapha ! manage him !" " Worthy Hebrew," said the silky Mustapha, advancing, "apparently you are not aware that this is our lord Alschiroch. His highness would fain walk his horse through the bmual-ground of thy excellent people, as he is obliged to repair, on urgent matters, to a holy santon, who sojourns on the other side of the hill, and time presses." " If this be our lord Alschiroch, thou, doubtless, art his faithful slave Mustapha." " I am, indeed, his poor slave. What, then, young master]" " Deem thyself lucky that the gate is closed. It was but yesterday thou didst insult the sister of a * I accompanied the priest through the town over much ruin and rubbish, to an enclosed piece of srounii, rather more elevated than any in its imnipdiaie vicinity. In the centre was the Jewish tomb, a square buiUtini; nf lirick, of a musquelike form, with a rather eloniratpd dome at the top. Tlie door is in the ancient sepulchral fashion of the country, very small, consisting of a single stone of great thickness, and turning on its own pivots from one side, lis key is always in possession of the eldest of the Jews resident at Hamadan. Witliin the tomb aro two sarco- pliagi, made of a very dark wood, carved with great iulri- cncy of pattern and richness of twisted ornameiil, with a line of inscription in Hebrew, iScc. — Sir R. A'. Por'.tr'i Travels in Persia, vol. ii. p. 107. THE WQNDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 455 Bcrvant of my house. I would not willingly sully my hands with such miserable blood as thine — but away, wretch, away !" "Holy prophet! who is this dogi" exclaimed the astonished governor. " 'Tis the young Alroy," whispered Mustapha, who had not at first recognised him, " he they call their prince — a most headstrong youth. My lord, we had better proceed." " The young Alroy ! I mark him. They must have a prince, too ! The young Alroy ! Well, let us away — and, dog !" shouted Alschiroch, rising in his stirrups and shaking his hand with a threat- ening air, " dog ! remember thy tribute !" Alroy rushed to the gate, but the massy lock was slow to open ; and ere he could succeed, the fiery steed had borne Alschiroch beyond pursuit. An expression of baffled rage remained for a moment on his countenance ; for a moment he re- mained with his eager eye fixed on the route of his vanished enemy, and then he walked slowly towards the tomb ; but his excited temper was now little in unison with the still revery in which he had re- paired to the sepulchre to indulge. He was rest- less and disquieted, and at length he wandered into the woods which rose on the summit of the burial- place. He found himself at length upon a brow, crested with young pine trees, in the midst of which rose a mighty cedar. He threw himself underneath its thick and shadowy branches, and looked upon a valley small and green ; in the midst of which was a marble fountain, the richly carved cupola,* sup- ported by twisted columns, and banded by a broad inscription in Hebrew characters. The bases of the white pillars were covered with wild flowers, or hidden by beds of variegated gourds. The trans- parent sunset flung over the whole scene a soft but brilliant light. The tranquil hour, the beauteous scene, the sweetness and the stillness blending their odour and serenity, the gentle breeze that softly rose, and summoned forth the languid birds, to cool their plumage in the twilight air, and wave their radiant wings in skies as bright — Ah ! what stern spirit will not yield to the soft genius of subduing eve] And Alroy gazed upon the beauteous loneliness of earth, and a tear stole down his haughty cheek. " 'Tis singular ! but when I am thus alone at this still hour, I ever fancy I gaze upon the Land of Promise. And often in my dreams, some sunny spot, the bright memorial of a roving hour, will rise upon my sight, and when I wake, I feel as if I had been in Canaan. Why am I not 1 The caravan that bears my uncle's goods across the desert, would bear me too. But I rest here, my miserable life running to seed in the dull misery of this wretched city, and do nothing. Why ! the old captivity was empire to our inglorious bondage. W^e have no Esther now to share their thrones, no politic Mordecai, no purple-vested Daniel. O Jeru- salem, Jerusalem ! I do believe one sight of thee would nerve me to the sticking point. And yet to * The vast magnificence and elaborate fancy of the tombs' and fountains is a remarkable feature of oriental architecture. The eastern nations devote to these struc- tures the richest and the most durable materials. While the palaces of Asiatic inonarchs are in seneral built only of wood, painted in fresco, the rarest marbles are dedicated 10 the sepulchre and llie spring, which are often richly gill, and adjrned even with precious stones. gaze upon thy fallen state — my uncle teiis me that of the temple not a stone remains. 'Tis horrible. Is there no hopel" " The bricks are fallen, hut ive u'ill rebuild with marble ; the sycamores are cut down, but we will replace iheinwith cedars." " The chorus of our maidens, as tiiey pay their evening visit to the fountain's side.* The burden is prophetic. " Hark again ! How beautifully, upon the soft and flowing air, their sweet and mingled voices blend and float !" " Yet again I imllbuild thee, and thou shall be built, Virgin of Israel / Yet again shalt thou deck thyself with thy tabrets, and go forth in the daiice of those that make merry. Yet again shalt thou plant vineyards on the mountains of Samaria." " See ! their white forms break through the spark- ling foliage of the sunny shrubs as they descend, with measured step, that mild acclivity. A fair society in bright procession : each one clothed in solemn drapery, veiling her shadowy face witli mo- dest hand, and beaj-ing on her graceful head a grace- ful vase. Their leader is my sister. " And now they reach the fountain side, and dip their va.ses in the water, pure and beauteous as themselves. Some repose beneath the marble pil- lars ; some, seated 'mid the flowers, gather sweets, and twine them into garlands ; and that wild girl, now that the order's broke, touches with light fin- gers her moist vase, and showers startling drops of glittering light on her serener sisters. Hark ! again they sing.'-' " vine of Sibmah ! upon thy sum- mer fruits, and upon thy vintage, a spoiler hath fallen .'" A scream, a shriek, a long wild shriek, confusion, flight, despair ! Behold ! from out the woods a turbaned man rushes, and seizes the leader of the chorus. Her companions fly on all sides, Miriam alone is left ui the arms of Alschiroch. The water cohunn wildly raising, from the breast of summer ocean, in some warm tropic clime, when the sudden clouds too well discover, the holi- day of heaven is over, and the shrieking sea-birds tell a time of fierce commotion, the column rising from the sea, it was not as wild as he — the yoimg Alroy. Pallid and mad, he svfiftly up-sprang, and he tore up a tree by its lusty roots, and down the declivity dashing with rapid leaps, panting and wild, he struck the ravisher on the temple with the mighty pine. Alschiroch fell lifeless on the sod, and Mi- riam fainting into her brother's arms. And there he stood, fixed and immovable, gaz- ing upon his sister's deathly face, and himself ex- hausted by passion and his exploit, supporting her cherished but senseless body. One of the fugitive maidens appeared reconnoi- tring in the distance. When she observed her * It is still the custom for the women in the east to repair at sunset in company to the fountain for their supply of water. In Esypt you may observe at twilight the women descending the banks of the Nile in procession fn m every town and village. Their graceful drapery, their long veils, not concealingtheir Hashing eyes, and the classical forms of their vases, render this a most picturesque and agreeable spectacle. 456 D'lSRAELI'S NOVEl-S. mistress in the arms of one of her own people, her courage revived, and desirous of rallying her scat- tered companions, she raised her voice and sang : " Haste, daus;hters of Jerumltni, / littsle, for the Lord has avenged us, and the spoiler is spoiled." And soon the verse was responded to from various quarters of the woods, and soon the virginS' re- assembled, singing, " We come, O dangliier of Jerusalem ! we come ,• for the Lord has avenged us, and the spoiler is spoiled." They gathered round their mistress, and one loosened her veil, and another brought water from the fountain, and sprinkled her reviving counte- nance. And Miriam opened her eyes and said, "My brother I" And he answered, " I am-here." And she replied, in a low voice, " Fly, David, fly, for the man you have stricken is a prince among the people." " He will be merciful, my sister ; and, doubtless, since he first erred, by this time he has forgotten my oifence." " Justice and mercy ; O, my brother, what can these foul tyrants know of either ! Already he has perhaps doomed you to some refined and procrasti- nated torture, already — Ah ! what unutterable wo is mine — fly, my brother, fly !" " There is no fear, my Miriam ; would all his accursed race could trouble us as little as their some- time ruler. See, he sleeps soundly. But his car- cass shall not defile our fresh fountain, and our fragrant flowers. I'll stow it in the woods, and stroll here at night to listen to the jackals at their banquet." " You speak wildly, David. What ! No ! It is impossible ! He is not dead ! You have not slain him ! He sleeps — he is afraid. He mimics death that we may leave his side and he may rise again in safety. Girls, look to him. David, you do not answer. Brother, dear, dear brother; surely he has swooned. I thought he had fled. Bear water, maidens, to that terrible man. I dare not look ujion him." " Away ! I'll look upon him, and I'll triumph. Dead ! Alschiroch dead ! Why ! but a moment since, this clotted carcass was a jjrince, my tyrant. So we can rid ourselves of tliem, eh 1 If the prince ia\\, why not the people 1 Dead, absolutely dead, and I his slayer. Hah ! at length I am a man. I'his, this indeed is life. Let me live slaying !" " Wo ! wo ! our house is f;dlen ! The wildness of his gestures frightens me. David, David, I jiray thee cease. He hears me not, my voice, perchance, is thin. I'tn very faint. Maidens, kneel to your prince, and soothe the madness of his passion." " Sweet is the voice of a sister in the season of sornnc, and wise is the counsel of those who love its." "Why, this is my Goliath ! a pebble or a stick, it is the same. The Lord of Hosts is for us. llightly am I called David." " Deliver us from our enemies, Lord.' from those tvko rise up against us, and those ivho lie in wait for us." " Were but this blow multiplied, were but the servants of my uncle's house to do the same, why, we should see again the days of Elah ! The Phi- listine, the foul, lascivious, damnable Philistine; «nd he must touch my sister. O that all his tribe were here, all, all ! I'd tie such firebrands to their foxes' tails, the blaze should light to freedom !'' While he spoke, a maiden, who had not rejoined the company, came running towards them very swiftly with an agitated countenance. "Fly, fly," she exclaimed; "they come, they come." Miriam was reclining in an attendant's arms, feeble and faint, but the moment her quick ear caught these words, she sjirang up, and seized her brother's arm. " Ahoy ! David, David, brother, brother, sweet brother. I beseech thee, listen — I am thy sistei, thy Miriam, thy fond, beloved Miriam ; — they come, they come, the hard-he;irted, wicked men, they come, they come, to kill, perhaps to torture thee, my tender brother. Rouse thyself, David, rouse thy- self from this wild, fierce dream : save thyself — fly.'' " Ah ! is it t'hou, Miriam 1 Be easy, love, thou seest he sleepeth soundly. I will collect my senses. I was dreaming of noble purposes and mighty hopes. 'Tis over now. I am myself again. What wouldst thou, my sweet treasure]" " They come, the fierce retainers of this fallen man : they come to seize thee. Fly, David." "And leave thee]" " I and my maidens, we have yet time to escape by the private way we entered our uncle's garden. When in his house we are for a moment safe — as safe as our poor race can ever be. Bost^nay is so rich, so wise, so prudent, so learned in man's ways, and knows so well the character and spirit of these men, all will go right: I fear nothing, nothing, nothing. But thou, if thou art here, or to be found, thy blood alone will satiate them. If they be per- suaded that thou hast escaped, as I yet pray thou mayest, their late master here, whom they could scarcely love, why — give me thy arm an instant, sweet Beruna, I am rather faint. So, that's well. I was saying, if well bribed, and they may have all my jewels, why, very soon, he will be as little in their memories, as he is now in life. I can scarcely speak — I feel my words wander, or seem to wander; I could swoon, but will not — nay! do not fear, my love, I will reach home. These maidens are my charge. 'Tis in these crises we should show the worth of royal blood. I'll see them safe — or die with them." " O ! my sister, methinks I never knew I was a brother until this hour. My precious Miriam, what is life ] what is revenge, or even fame and freedom, without thee ] I'll stay." " Sweet is the voice of a sister in the season of sorrow, and tvisc is the coun- sel of those who love us." " Fly, David, fly." " Fly whither, and how ]" The neigh of the horse sounded from the thicket, " Ah ! they come, they come !" exclaimed the distracted Miriam. " All this has come upon us, Lord, yet have ive not forgotten thee, neither have we dealt fahcly in thy covenant." " Hark ! again it neighs ! It is a horse that calleth to its rider. I see it, I see it. Courage, Miriam ! it is no enemy, but a very present friend in time of trouble. It is Alschiroch's courser. He passed me on it by the tomb ere sunset. I marked it well — a very princely steed." " Behold, behold, a ram is caught in the thicket by his horns." THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 457 " Out God hath not forgotten us ! Quick, maid- ens, bring forth the goodly steed. What ! do you trenble ! I'll be his groom." '■ Nay ! Miriam, beware, beware. It is an untamed Deast, wild as the whirlwind. Let me deal with him." He ran after her, kissed her as he passed, dashed into the thicket, and brought forth the horse. Short time I ween that stately steed had parted from his desert home ; his haughty crest, his eye of fire, the glory of his snorting nostril, betokened well his conscious pride and pure nobility of race. His colour was like the sable night shining with a thou- sand stars, and he pawed the ground with his deli- cate hoof, like an eagle flapping its wing. Alroy vaulted on his back, and reined him with a master's hand. "Hah !" he exclaimed, " I feel more like a hero than a fugitive. Farewell, my sister; farewell, ye gentle maidens; fare ye well, and cherish my pre- cious Miriam. One kiss, sweet sister," and he bent down and whispered, " Tell the good Bostenay not to spare his gold, love, for I have a deep per- suasion, that ere a year shall roll its heavy course, I shall return, and make our masters here pay for this hurried ride and bitter parting. Now for the desert !" PART IL Speeti, fleetly speed, thou courser bold, and track the desert's trackless way. Beneath thee is the boundless earth, above thee is the boundless heaven, an iron soil and brazen sky. Speed, swiftly speed, thou courser bold, and track the desert's trackless way ! Ah ! dost thou deem these salty plains* lead to thy Yemen's happy groves, and dost thou scent, on the hot breeze, the spicy breath of Araby ] A sweet delusion, noble steed, for this briny wilderness leads not to the happy groves of Yemen, and the breath thou scentest on the coming breeze is not the spicy breath of Araby. The day has died, the stars have risen, with all the splendour of a desert sky, and now the night descending brings solace on her dewy wings, to the fainting form and pallid cheek of the youthful He- b^ew prince. Still the courser onward rushes, still his mighty heart supports him. Season and space, the glowing soil, the burning ray, yield to the tempest of his frame ; the thunder of his nerves and lightning of his veins. Food or water they have none. No genial fount, no grateful tree, rise with their pleasant company. Never a beast or a bird is there, in that hoary desert bare. Nothing breaks the almighty stillness. Even the jackal's felon cry, might seem a soothing melody. A gray wild rat, with snowy whiskers, out of a withered bramble stealing with a j'outhful snake in its ivory teeth, in the moonlight grins with glee. Tliis is their sole society. Morn comes, the fresh' and fragrant morn, for * I describe the sally deserts of Persia, a locality which my tale required; but I have ventured to inlniduce here, and in the subsequent pages, the principal characteristics of the Great Arabian Deserts — the mirage, the simoom, the eazelle, the oasiSa 58 which even the guilty sigh. Morn comes, and all is visible. And light falls like a signet on the earth, and its face is turned like wax with a seal. Before them, and also on their right, was the sandy desert ; but in the night they had approached much nearer to the mountainous chain, which bounded the desert on the left, and whither Alroy had at first guided the steed. The mountains were a chain of tlie mighty Elburz ; and as the sun rose from behind a lofty peak, the horse suddenly stopped, and neighed as if asking for water. But Alroy, himself exhausted, could only soothe him with caresses. And the horse, full of courage, understood his master, and neighed again more cheerfully. For an hour or two the prince and his faithful companion proceeded slowly, but as the day grew on, the heat became so oppressive, and the desire to drink so overwhelming, that Ahoy again urged on the steed toward the mountains, where ho knew that he should find a well. The courser dashed willingly forward, and seemed to share his master's desire to quit the arid and exhausting wil- derness. More than once the unhappy fugitive debated whether he should not allow himself to drop from his scat and die ; no torture that awaited him at Hamadan, that did not seem preferable to the pro- longed and inexpressible anguish that he now endured. As he rushed along, leaning on his bearer's neck, he perceived a patch of the desert that seemed of a darker colour than the surrounding sand. Here, he believed, might perhaps be found water. He tried to check the steed, but with difliculty he succeeded, and with still greater diffi- culty dismounted. He knelt down and feebly raked up the sand with his hands. It was very moist. He nearly fainted over his fruitless labour. At length, when he had dug about a foot deep, there bubbled up some water. He dashed in his hand, but it was salt as the ocean. When the horse saw the water his ears rose, but when he smelt it, he tm'ned away his head and neighed most piteously. " Alas, poor teast !" exclaimed Alroy, " I am the occasion of thy sutferings, who would be a kind master to thee, if the world would let me. that we were once more by my own fair fountain ! The thought is madness. And Miriam too ! I fear I am sadly tender-hearted." He leaned against his horse's back with a feeling of utter exhaustion, and burst into hysteric sobs. And the steed softly moaned, and turned its head, and gently rubbed its face against his arm, as if to solace him in his suffering. And strange, but Al- roy was relieved by having given way to his emotion, and charmed with the fondness of the faithful horse, he leaned down and took water, and threw it over his feet to cool them, and wiped the foam from his face, and washed it, and the horse again neighed. And now Alroy tried to remount, but his strength failed him, and the horse immediately knelt down and received him. And the moment that the prince was in his seat, the horse rose and again proceeded at a rapid pace in tlie old direction. Towards srmset they were within a few miles of the broken and rocky ground into which the moun- tains descended ; and afar off Alroy recognised the cupola of the long expected well. With reanimated courage and ralUed energies, he patted his courser's 2Q 453 D'ISRAELI'S NOVEL fts. neck, and pointed in tlie direction of the cupola, and tlie horse pricked up its ears, and increased its pace. Just as the sun set, they reached the well. Alroy jumped off the horse, and would have led it to the fountain, but the animal would not advance. It stood drcadl'ully shivering vi'ith a glassy eye, and then it bowed its head, and with a groan fell down and died II. NifiHT brings rest; night brings solace ; rest to the weary ; solace to the sad. And to the desperate night brings despair. The moon has sunk to early rest ; but a thousand stars are in the sky. The mighty. mountains rise severe in the clear and silent air. In the forest all is still. The tried wind no longer moans, but has lightly dropped on its leafy couch, and sleeps like man. Silent all but the fountain's drip. And by the fountain's side a youth is lying. Suddenly a creature steals through the black and broken rocks. Ha, ha! the jackal smells from alar the rich corruption of the courser's clay. Sud- denly and silently it steals, and stops and smells. Brave banqueting I ween to-night for all that goodly company. Jackal, and fox, and martin- cat, haste ye now ere morning's break shall call the vulture to his feast, and rob you of your prey. The jackal lapped the courser's blood, and moaned with .exquisite delight. And in a moment a faint bark was heard in the distance. And the jackal peeled the flesh from one of the ribs, and again burst into a shriek of mournful ecstasy. Hark, their quick tramp ! First six, and then three galloping with ungodly glee. And a marten- cat came rushing down from the woods ; but the jackals, fierce in their numbers, drove her away, and there she stood without the circle, panting, beautiful and baffled with her white teeth and glossy skin, and sparkling eyes of rabid rage.* Suddenly, as one of the half-gorged jackals re- tired from the main corpse, dragging along a stray member by some still palpitating nerves, the marten- cat made a sprmg at her enemy, carried off his prey, and rushed into the woods. Her wild scream of triumph woke a lion from his lair. His mighty form, black as ebony, moved on a distant eminence, his tail flowed like a serpent. He roared, and the jackals trembled, and imme- diately ceased from their banquet, turned their heads in the direction of their sovereign's voice. He ad- vanced ; he stalked towards them. They retired ; he bent his head, examined the carcass with conde- scending curiosity, and instantly quitted it with royal disdain. The jackals again collected around their garbage. The hon advanced to the fountain to drink. He beheld a man. His mane rose, his tail was wildly agitated, he bent over the sleeping prince, he uttered an awful roar, which woke Alroy. * At night-fall, esppciallj^ in Asia Minor, the lonoly horse- man will (iflpn meet Ihe jackals, at, llirir evpnine; prowl. Theirmoaning isoftnn heartl (lining ihe niiht. I remember, when bocalnipil oif Troy, llie most terrible and singular screams were heard at intervals throughout the night, fniin a forpslon ihp opposite shore, which a Grepk sailor assured nie proccedpd frum a irianen-cat, which had probably found the carcass of some horse. III. He awoke ; his gaze met the flaming eyes of the enormous beast fixed upon him with a blended feeling of desire and surprise. He awoke, and from a swoon ; but the dreamless trance had re- freshed the exhausted energies of the desolate wanderer ; in an instant he collected his senses, remembered all that had passed, and comprehended his present situation. He returned the lion a glance as imperious, and fierce, and scrutinizing as his own. For a moment their flashing orbs vied in regal rivalry ; but at length the spirit of the mere animal yielded to the genius of the man. The lion cowed, slunk away, stalked with haughty timidity through the rocks, and then sprang into the forest. IV. Morn breaks ; a silver light is shed over the blue and starry sky. Pleasant to feel is the breath of dawn. Night brings repose, but day brings joy. The carol of a lonely bird singing in the wilder- ness ! A lonely bird that sings with glee ! Sunny and sweet, and light and clear, its airy notes float through the sky, and thrill with innocent revelry. The lonely youth on the lonely bird upgazes from the fountain side. High in the air it proudly floats, balancing its crimson wings, and its snowy tail, long, delicate and thin, shmes like a sparkling meteor in the sun. The carol of a lonely bird singing in the wilder- ness ! Suddenly it downward dashes, and thrice with circling grace it flies around the head of the Hebrevv' prince. Then by his side it gently drops a bunch of fi-esh and fragrant dates. 'Tis gone, 'tis gone! that cheerful stranger, gone to the palmy land it loves ; gone like a bright and pleasant dream. A moment since and it was there, glancing in the sunny air, and now the sky is without a guest. Alas, alas ! no more is heard, the carol of that lonely bird singing in the wilder- ness. " As thou didst feed Ehsha, so also hast thou fed me, God of my fathers !" And Alroy arose, and he took liis turban and unfolded it, and knelt and prayed. And then he ate of the dates, and drank of the fountain, and full of confidence in the God of Israel, the descendant of David pursued his flight. He now commenced the ascent of the moun- tainous chain, a wearisome and painful toil. Two hours past noon he reached the summit of the first ridge, and looked over a wild and chaotic waste full of precipices and ravines, and dark unfathomible gorges. The surrounding hills were ploughed in all directions by the courses of dried-up cataracts, and here and there a few savage goats browsed on an occasional patch of lean and sour jiasture. This waste extended for many miles ; the distance form- ed by a more elevated range of mountains, and beyond these, high in the blue sky, rose the loftiest peaks of Elburz,* shining with sharp glaciers of eternal snow. * Elburz or Elborus, the highest range of the Caucaaoa THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 459 was apparent that Alroy was no stranger in the scene of his flight. He had never hesitated as to his course, and now, after having rested for a short time on the summit, he descended towards flie leit by a natural but intricate path, until his progress was arrested by a black ravine. Scarcely half a dozen yards divided him from the opposite precipice by which it was formed, but the gulf beneath — ]io one could shoot a glance at its invi- sible termination without drawing bacK with a cold shudder. The prince knelt down and examined the sur- rounding ground with great care. At length he raised a small square stone which covered a metallic plate, and taking from his vest a cornelian talisman covered with strange characters,* he knocked thrice upon the plate with the signet. A low solemn murmur sounded around. Presently the plate flew off, and Alroy pivlled forth several yards of an iron chain, which he threw over to the opposite preci- pice. The chain fastened without dilHculty to the rock, and was evidently constrained by some mag- netic influence. The prince, seizing the chain with both his hands, now swung across the ravine. As he landed, the chain parted from the rock, swiftly disappeared down the opposite aperture, and its covering closed with the same low, solemn murmur as before. VI. Alkot proceeded for about a hundred paces through a natural cloister of basalt until he arrived at a large uncovered court of the same formation, v^'hich a stranger might easily have been excused for believing to have been formed and smoothed by art. In its centre bubbled up a perpetual spring icy cold ; the stream had worn a channel through the pavement, and might be traced for some time wandering among the rocks, until it at length leaped from a precipice, into a gorge below, in a gauzy shower of variegated spray. Crossing the court, Alroy now entered a vast cavern. The cavern was nearly circular in form, lighted from a large aperture in the top. Yet a burning lamp in a distant and murky corner indicated that its nihabitant did not trust merely to this natural source of the great blessing of existence. In the centre of the cave was a circular and brazen table, sculptured with strange characters and rnystcrious figures : near it was a couch on which ke several volumes.-j- Suspended from the walls were a shield, some bows and arrows, and other arms. As the prince of the captivity knelt down and kissed the vacant couch, a flgnre advanced from the extremity of the cavern into the light. He was a man of middle age, considerably above the common height, with a remarkably athletic frame, and a strongly marked, but majestic countenance. His black beard descended to his waist, over a dark * Talismans have not in any degree lost their influence in the East. Mnsi that I have seen have been cut upon cornelian. A very precious one of this nature, obtained at great cost and peril, of the most celebrated sorcerer in Cairo, lies at this moment by my side. It secures to its possessor a constancy of good fortune. Unfortunately its presom holder is the exception that proves the rule. t A caliitlisiic tal)le, perhaps a zodiac. The books were doubtless Scphcr Happeliah, the Book of Wonders; Sepher Hakkaiieh, i\ip Bouk of the Pen; and Sepher Habbahir, the Book of Light. This last unfolds the most sublime nvysleries. red robe, encircled by a black girdle embroidered with yellow characters, like those sculptured on the brazen table. Black also was his turban, saad black his large and luminous eyes. The stranger advanced so softly, that Alroy did not perceive him until the prince again rose up. " Jabaster !" exclaimed the jirince. " Sacred seed of David," answered the cabalist,* " thou art expected. I read of thee in the stars last night. They spoke of trouble." " Trouble or triumph, time must prove which it is, great master. At ])resent I am a fugitive and exhausted. The bloodhounds track me, but me- thinks I have baffled them now. I have slain ati Ishmaehte." PART III. It was midnight. Alroy slept upon the couch: his sleep was troubled. Jabaster stood by his side motionless, and gazing intently upon his slumber- ing guest. "The only hope of Israel," murmured the caba- list, " my pupil and my prince ! I have long per- ceived in his young mind the seed of mighty deeds, and o'er his future life have often mused with a prophetic hope. The blood of David, the sacred olTspring of a solemn race. There is a magic in his flowing veins my science cannot reach. " When in my youth I raised our standard by my native Tigris, and called our nation to restore their ark, why, vi'e were numerous, wealthy, potent; we were a people then, and they flocked to it boldly. Did we lack counsel 1 Did we need a leader] Who can aver Jabaster's brain or arm was ever wanting ] And yet the dream dissolved, the glorious vision. O ! when I struck down Marvan, and the caliph's camp flung its blazing shadow o'er the bloody river — ah ! then indeed I lived. Twenty years of vigil may gain a pardon that I then forgot we lacked the chief ingredient in the spell, — the blood that sleeps beside me. " I recall the glorious rapture of that sacred strife amid the rocks of Caucasus. A fugitive, a pro- scribed and outlawed wretch, whose Ufe is common sport, and whom the vilest hind may slay without a bidding. I who would have been Messiah ! * " Simeon ben Jochai, who flourished in the second century, and was a disciple of Akibha, is called by the Jews, the prince of the cabalisls. After the suppression of the sedition, in which his master had Ijeen so unsuccess- ful, he concealed himself in a cave, where, .accord inc; to the Jewish historians, he received revelation's, which he afterwards delivered to his disciples, and which they care- fully preserved in the book called Sohar. His master Akibha, w'ho lived soon after the destruction of Jerusalem, was the author of the famous book Jezirah, quoted by the Jews as of divine authority. When Akibha was far ad- vanced in life appeared the famous imposter Barchoche- bas, who, under the character of the Messiah, promised to deliver his countrymen from the power of the emperor Adrian. Akibha espoused hia cause, and afforded him the protection and supfiort of his name, and an army of two hundred tliousand men repaired to his standard. The Ro- mans at first slighted the insurrection; but when they found the insurgents spread slaushter and rapine wherever they came, they sent out a military force against them. At first, the issue of the contest was doubtful. The Mes- siah himself was not taken until the end of four years." — Enfield ; Philosophy of the Jews, vol. ii. " Two methods of instruction were in use among the Jews, the one public, or exoteric; the other secret, or esoteric. 460 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS " Burn thy books, Jabaster ; break thy brazen Jables ; forget thy lofty science, cabaUst, and read the stars no longer.* But !ast night I stood upon the gulf which girds my dwelling : in one hand, I held my sacred talisman, that bears the name inef- fable ; in the other the mystic record of our holy race. I remember that I had evoked spirits, that I had communed with the great departed, and that the glowing heavens were with me a natural lan- guage. I recalled, as consolation to my gloomy soul, that never had my science e'er been exercised but for a sacred or a noble purpose. And I remem- bered Israel, my brave, my chosen, and my antique race, — slaves, wretched slaves. I was strongly tempted to fling me down this perilous abyss, and end my learning and my life together. "But as I gazed upon the star of David, a sud- den halo rose around its rays, and ever and anon a meteor shot from out the silver veil. I read that there was trouble in the holy seed; and now comes this boy, who has done a deed v^hich — " " The ark, the ark ! I gaze upon the ark I" " The slumberer speaks ; the words of sleep are sacred." " Salvation only from the house of David." The esoteric doctrine was that which was openly taught the people from the law of Moses, and the trad if ions "of the fathers. The esoteric was that which treated of the mys- teries of the divine nature, and other sublime subjects, and was known by the name of the Cabala. The laUer was after the manner of the Pythacorean and Egyptian myste- ries, taught only to certain persons, who were bound, under the most solemn anathema, not to divulge it. Concerning the miraculous origin and preservation of the Cabala, the Jews relate many marvellous tales. They derive these mysteries from Adam ; and assert, that while the first man was in paradise, the angel Easiel brought him a book from heaven, whitli contained the doctrinesof heavenly wisdom, and that when Adam received this book, angels came down to him to learn its contents ; but that he refused to admit them to the knowledge of sacred things entrusted to him alone; that after theTall, this book was taken back into heaven ; that after many prayers and tears God restored it to Adam, from whom it passed to Seih. In the degene- rate age before the flood, this book was lost, and the 'mys- teries it contained almost forgotten ; but they were restored by special revelation to Al)raham, who committed thein to writing in the book Jezirah."— Vid. Enfield, vol. ii. p. 219. " The Hebrew word Cabala," says Cum Calmel, " signi- fies tradition, and the rabbins, who are named Cabal ists, apply themselves principally to \\\q. combination of certain words, numbers, and letters, by meansof which they boasted they could reveal the future, and penetrate the sense of che most difficult passages of Scripture. This science does not appear to have any fixed principles, but depends upon certain ancient traditions, whence its name Cabala. The cabalists have a great number of names which they style sacred, by meansof which they raise spirits, and affect to obtain supernatural intelligence."— See Calviet, art. Ca- bala. " We spake before," says Lightfoot, " of the commonness of maeic among them, one singular means whereby they kept their own in delusion, and whereby they affronted ours. The general expectation of the nation of Messiah's coming when he did, hud this double and contrary effect, that it forwarded those that belonged to God to believe and receive the gospel ; and those that did not, it gave encou- ragement to some to lake upon them they were Christ, or some great prophet, and to others it gave some persuasion to be deluded by them. These deceivers dealt most of them with magic, and that cheat ended not when Jerusa- lem ended, iliDugh one would have thought that had been a fair term of not further expecting Messias ; but since the people were willing to be deceived by s'nch expectation, there rose up deUiders still that were willing to deceive \hcm.''—Ligklfo()t, vol. ii. p. 371 For many curious details df the cabalistical magic, Vid. Basnage, vol. v. p. 3S4, &c. * " The modern Jews," says Basnage, " have a great idea of the influence of the stars." Vol. iv. p. 454. But astrology was most prevalent amom: the Baliylonian rab- bins, of whom Jabaster was one. I.iving in the ancient land of the Chaldeans, these sacred sages imbibed a tasle for the mystic lore of their predecessors^ . The stars moved and formed letters and lines, when consulted by any of the tiigh initiated of the cabalists. This they styled the celes- tial alphabet. " A mighty truth ; my life too well has proved it " He is more calm. It is the holy hour. I'll steal into the court, and gaze upon the star that sways the fortunes of his royal house." n. The moonbeam fell upon the fountain ; the pavement of the court was a flood of light ; the rocks rose dark around. Jabaster, seated by the spring, and holding his talisman in his left hand, shaded his sight with the other, as he gazed upon the luminous heavens. A shriek, his name was called. Alroy, wild and panting, rushed into the court, willi extended arms. The cabalist started up, seized him, and held him in his careful grasp, foanung and in convulsions. " Jabaster, J abaster !" " I am here, my child." " Tile Lord hath spoken." " The Lord is our refuge. Calm thyself, son of David, and tell me all." " I have been sleeping, master ; is it not so ?" "Even so, my child. Exhausted by his flight and the exciting narrative of his exploit, my prince laid down upon the couch and slumbered ; but I fear that slumber was not repose." " Repose and I have naught in common now. Farewell forever to that fatal word. I am the Lord's anointed." "Drink of the fountain, David: it will restore thee." " Restore the covenant, restore the ark, restore the holy city." " The spirit of the Lord hath fallen upon him. Son of David, I adjure thee to tell me all that hath passed. I am a Levite ; in my hand I hold the namd incfiable." " Take thy trumpet, then, summon the people, bid them swiftly raise again our temple. ' The bricks have fallen, but we will rebuild with marble.' Didst hear that chorus, sirl" • " Unto thy chosen car alone it sounded." "Nay, nay, it was not here. And yet Miriam, Miriam, iny sister, my sweet sister, how thou wouldst weep, to know that which has happened, tears, tears of joy, girl ! Where am I ? This is not our fountain. Yet thou didst say, ' The foun- tain.' Think me not wild. I know thee, I know all. Thou art Jabaster ; I am Alroy. But thou didst say, ' The fountain,' and it distracted me, atid called back my memory to " God of Israel, lo, I kneel before thee ! Here, in the solitude of wildest nature, my only witness here this holy man, I kneel and vow. Jjord ! 1 will do thy bitlding. I am young, I am very young, God, and weak ; but thou, Lord, art all-powerful. What God is like to thee ! Doubt not my courage, Lord, and fill me with thy spirit ; but remember, remember her, O Lord, remember Miriam. It is the only worldly thought I have, and it is pure." " Still of his sister — calm thyself, my son." " Holy master, thou dost remember when I was thy pupil in this cavern. Thou hast not forgotten those days of tranquil study, those sweet, long wandering nights of sacred science ! I was dutiful, and hung upon each accent of thy lore with the devotion that nmst spring from love." " I cannot weep, Alroy ; but were it in )ny power, I would yield a tear of homage to the uie- mory of those days." THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 461 " How calmly have we sat on some high brow, and gazed upon the stars." " 'Tis very true, sweet child." " And if thou e'er didst chide me, 'twas half in jest, and only for my silence." " What would he now infer ? No matter, he grows calmer. How solemn is his visage in the moonlight ! And yet not Solomon, upon his youth- ful throne, could look more beautiful." " I never told thee an untruth, Jabaster." " My life upon thy faith." " Fear not the pledge and so believe me — on the mountain brow, watching the starry heavens with thyself, I was not calmer than I feel, sir, now." " I do believe thee." " Then, Jabaster, believe as fully I am the Lord's anointed." " Tell me all, my child." " Know, then, that sleeping on the couch within, my sleep was troubled. Many dreams I had inde- finite and broken. I recall none of their images, except I feel a dim sensation 'twas my lot to live in brighter days than now rise on our race. Sud- denly I stood upon a mountain tall and gray, and gazed upon the stars. And as I gazed, a trumpet sounded. Its notes thrilled through my soul. Never have I heard a sound so awful. The thunder, when it broke over the cavern here, and shivered the peak, whose ruins lie around us, was but a feeble worldly sound to this almighty music. My cheek grew pale, I panted even for breath. A flaming light spread over the sky, the stars rhelted away, and I beheld, advancing from the bursting radiancy, the foremost body of a mighty host. " ! not when Saul led forth our fighting men against the Plrilistine, not when Joab numbered the warriors of my great ancestors, did human vision gaze upon a scene of so much martial splendour. Chariots and cavalry, and gUttering trains of plumed warriors too robust to need a courser's solace ; streams of shining spears, and banners like a sun- set ; reverend priests swinging their perfumed cen- sers, and prophets hymning with their golden harps a most triumphant future. " ' Joy, joy,' they say, ' to Israel, for he cometh ; he cometh in his splendour and his might, the great Messiah of our ancient hopes.' " And, lo ! a mighty chariot now appeared, drawn by strange beasts, whose forms were half obscured by the bright flames on which they seemed to float. Tn that glorious car a warrior stood, proud and im- movable, his form, his countenance — hold my hand, Jabaster, while I speak — that chieftain was myself!" "Proceed, proceed, my son." " I started in my dream, and I awoke. I found myself upsitting on my couch. The pageantry had vanished. Naught was seen but the bright moon- light and the gloomy cave. And as I sighed to think I e'er had wakened, and mused upon the strangeness of my vision, a small still voice de- scended from above and called ' Alroy !' I started, but I answered not. Methought it was my fancy. Again my name was called, and now I murnmred — 'Lord, I am here, what wouldst thoul' Naught responded, and soon great dread came o'er me, and I rushed out and called to thee, my master." " It was ' the Daughter of the Voice '* that * " Both the Talmudic and the later rabbin," says Lishtfoot, "make frequent menlion of But/i Kol, or Filia Voi-is, or an echoing voice whicli served under the spake. Since the captivity 'tis the only mode by which the saints are summoned. Oft have I heard of it, but never in these sad degenerate days has its soft aspiration fallen upon us. These are strange times and tidings. The building of the temple is at hand. Son of David, my heart is full. Let us to prayer !" HI. Day dawned upon Jabaster, still musing in solitude among his rocks. Within the cavern Alroy remained in prayer. Often and anxiously the cabalist shot a glance at his companion, a;id then again relapsed into revery. " The time is come that I must to this youth reveal the secrets of my early life. Much will he hear of glory, much of shame. Naught must I conceal, and naught gloss over. " I must tell how in the plains of Tigris I up- raised the sacred standard of our chosen race, and called them from their bondage ; how, despairing of his recreant flrthers, and inspired by human power alone, I vainly claimed the mighty oflice for iiis sacred blood alone reserved. God of my fathers, grant that future service, the humble service of a contrite soul, may, in the coming glory that awaits us, atone for past presumption ! "But for him great trials are impending. Not lightly must that votary be proved, who fain would free a people. The Lord is faithful to his promise, but the Lord will choose his season and his minis- ter. Courage, and faith, and deep humility, and strong endurance, and the watchful soul temptation cannot sully : these are the fruits we lay upon his altar, and meekly watch if some descending flame will vouchsafe to accept and brightly bles3 them. " It is written in the dread volume of our mystic lore, that not alone the Saviour shall spring fi-om out our house of princes, but that none shall rise to fi"ee us until, alone and unassisted, he have gained the sceptre Solomon antiquely wielded within his cedar palaces. " That sceptre must he gain. This fragile youth, untried and dehcate, unknowing in the ways of this strange world, where every step is danger. How much hardship, how much peril, what withering disappointment, what dull care, what long despond- ency, what never-ending lures, now lie in ambush for this gentle boy ! ! my countrymen, is this thy hope 1 And I, with all my lore, and all my courage, and all my deep intelligence of man ; un- happy Israel, why am I not thy prince 1 second temple for their utmost refuge of revelation. For when TJrim and Thummim, the oracle, was ceased, and prophecy was decayed and gone, they had, as they say, certain slrange and extraordinary voices upon certain ex- traordinary occasions, which were their warnings and ad- verlisemenis in some special matters. Infinite instances of this might be adduced, if they might be believed. _^ Now here it may be questioned, why they call it Bath Kol, the dajighter of a voire, anA niAa. voice itself ? If the strict- ness of the Hebrew word Bath be to be stood upon, which always il is not, it may be answered, that it is called tlie Daughter of a Voice in relation to the oracles of Urim and Thummim. For whereas that was a voice given from off the mercy seat, within the vail, and this, upon the decay of that oracle, came as it were in its place, it might not unfitly or improperly be called a daughter or successor of that vn\ce."—Lightfoot, vol. i. p. 4S.i, 486. Consult also the learned doctor, vol. ii. p. 128, 129; "It was used for a testimony from heaven, but was indeed per formed by magic art.'' 462 ©'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " I check the blasphemous thought. Did not his great ancestor, as young and as untried, a beardless stripling, but with a pebble, a sniall smooth stone, level a mailed giant to the ground, and save his people 1 " He is clearly summoned. The Lord is with him. Be he with the Lord, and we shall prosper." IV. It was sunset, on the third day after the arrival of Alroy at the cave of the cabalist, that the prince of the captivity commenced his pilgrimage in quest of the sceptre of Solomon. Silently the pilgrim and his master took their way to the brink of the ravine, and there they stop- ped to part — perhaps forever, " It is a bitter moment, Alroy. Human feelings are not for beings like us, yet they will have their way. Remember, remember all. Cherish the talisman as thy life — nay ! welcome death with it pressing against thy heart, sooner than breathe without it. Be firm, be pious. Think of thy an- cestors, think of thy God." " Doubt me not, dear master ; if I seem not full of that proud spirit, which was perhaps too much ray wont, ascribe it not to fear, Jabaster, nor even to the pain of leaving thee, dear friend. But ever since that sweet and solemn voice summoned me so thrillingly, — I know not how it is, — but a change has come over my temper ; yet I am firm, O I firmer far than when I struck down the Ishmaelite. Indeed, indeed, fear not for me. The Lord, that knoweth all things, knows full well I am prepared even to the death. Thy prayers, Jabaster, and " " Stop, stop. I do remember me. See this ring : 'tis a choice emerald. Thou mayst have wondered I should wear a bauble. Alroy, I had a brother once: still he may live. When we parted, this was the signal of his love : a love, my child, strong, though we greatly differed. Take it. The hour may come that thou mayst need his aid. It will command it. If he live, he prospers. I know his temper well. He was made for what the worldly deem prosperity. God be with thee, sacred boy : tlie God of our great fathers — the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob." They embraced. ' We linger," exclaimed the cabalist, " we linger. O ! in vain we quell the feelings of our kind. God, God bless and be with thee. Art sure hast all ? thy dagger and thy wallet ] That stall" has seen some service. I cut it on the Jordan. Ah ! that I could be thy mate ! 'Twould be nothing then. At the worst, to die together. Such a fate seems sweeter now than parting. I'll watch thy star, my child. Thou weepcst ! And I too. Why ! what is this 1 Am I indeed Jabaster 1 One more em- brace, and so — we'll not say farewell, but only think it." PART IV. I. TnADiTioN delivered that the sceptre of Solomon could be found only in the unknown sepulchres of llie ancient Hebrew monarchs, and that none might dare to touch it but one of their descendants. Armed with the cabalistic talisman, which was to guide him in his awful and difficult researches, Alroy commenced his pilgrimage to the Holy City. At this time, the love of these sacred wanderings was a reigning passion among the Jews, as well as Christians. The prince of the captivity was to direct his course to the heart of those great deserts which, in his flight to Hamadan, he had only skirted. Fol- lowing the track of the caravan, he was to make his way to Babylon, or Bagdad. From the capital of the caliphs, his journey to Jerusalem was one comparatively easy ; but to reach Bagdad he must encounter hardship and danger, the prospect of which would have divested any one of hope, who did not conceive himself the object of an omnipotent and particular Providence. Clothed only in a coarse black frock, common among the Kourds, girded round his centre by a cord, which held his dagger, his head shaven, and covered with a large white turban, which screened him from the heat, his feet protected only by slip- pers, supported b^ his staff, and bearing on his shoulders a bag of dried meat and parched corn, and a leathern skin of water, behold a youth toiling over the glowing sands of Persia, whose life had hitherto been a long unbroken dream of domestic luxury and innocent indulgence. He travelled during the warm night, or the early starlit morn. During the day he rested : happy if he could recline by the side of some charitable well, shaded by a palm tree, or frighten a gazelle from its resting-place among the rough bushes of some wild rocks. Were these resources wanting, he threw himself upon the sand, and made an awning with his staff and turban. Three weeks had elapsed since he quitted the cavern of the cabalist. Hitherto he had met wim no human being. The desert became less arid. A scanty vegetation sprang up from a more genial soil, the ground broke into gentle undulations, his senses were invigorated with the odour of wild plants, and his sight refreshed by the glancing form of some wandering bird, a pilgrim like himself, but more at ease. Soon sprang up a grove of graceful palm trees, with their tall thin stems, and bending feathery crowns, languid and beautiful. Around, the verdant sod gleamed like an emerald : silver streams, flow- ing from a bubbling parent spring, wound their white forms within the bright green turf. From the grove arose the softening song of doves, and showers of gay and sparkling butterflies, borne on their tinted wings of shifting light, danced without danger in the liquid air. A fair and fresh oasis ! II. Aluot reposed in this delicious retreat for two days, fteding on the living dates, and drinking of the fresh water. Fain would he have lingered, nor indeed until he rested had he been sufficiently con- scious of his previous exertion. But the remem- brance of his great mission made him restless, and steeled him to the suffering which yet awaited him. At the dawn of the second day of his journey from the oasis, he beheld, to his astonishment, faintly but distinctly traced on the far horizon, the THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 463 walls and turrets of an extensive city.* Animated b)' this unexpected prospect, he continued his pro- gress for several hours after sunrise. At length, utterly exhausted, he found refuge from the over- powering heat beneath the cupola of the ruined tomb of some Moslemin saint. At sunset he con- tinued his journey, and in the morning found him- self within a few miles of the city. He halted and watched with anxiety for some evidence of its in- habitants. None was visible. No crowds or cavalcades issued from the gates. Not a single hu- man being, not a solitary camel moved in the vicinity. The day was too advanced for the pilgrim to proceed, but so great was his anxiety to reach this unknown settlement, and penetrate the mystery of its silence, that ere sunset Alroy entered the gates. A magnilicent city, of an architecture with which he was unacquainted, oflered to his entranced vision its gorgeous ruins and deserted splendour; long streets of palaces, with their rich line of lessenir-5 pillars here and there broken by some fallen shaft, vast courts surrounded by ornate and solemn tem- ples, and luxurious baths, adorned with rare mo- saics, and yet bright with antique gilding: now an arch of triumph still haughty with its broken friezes, now a granite obelisk covered with strange charac- ters, and proudly towering o'er a prostrate compa- nion ; sometimes a void and crumbUng theatre, sometimes a long and elegant aqueduct, sometimes a porphyry column, once breathing with the heroic statue that now lies shivered at its base — all suffused with the warm twilight of an eastern eve. He gazed with wonder and admiration upon the strange and fascinating scene. The more he be- held, the more his curiosity was excited. He breathed with difficulty ; he advanced with a blended feeling of eagerness and hesitation. Fresh wonders successively unfolded themselves. Each turn de- veloped a new scene of still and solemn splendour. The echo of his step filled him with awe. He looked around him with an amazed air, a fluttering heart, and changing countenance. All was silent : alone the Hebrew prince stood amid the regal crea- tion of the Macedonian captains. Empires and dynasties flourish and pass away, the proud metro- polis becomes a solitude, the conquering kingdom even a desert; but Israel still remains, still a de- scendant of the most ancient kings breathed amid these royal ruins, and still the eternal sun could never rise without gilding the towers of living Jeru- salem. A word, a deed, a single day, a angle man, and we might be a nation. A shout ; he turns, he is seized ; four ferocious Kourdish bandits grapple and bind him. III. The bandits hurried their captive through a street which appeared to have been the principal way of the city. Nearly at its termination they turned by a small Ionian temple, and clambering over some fallen pillars, they entered a quarter of the city of a more ruinous aspect than that which Alroy had hitherto visited. The path was narrow, * In Persia, and ihe countries of the Tigris and Euphra le^, the travfllpr soniPtimes arrives at deserted cities of great ma?nificence and aniiquity. Such for instance, is the city of Aniieh. I suppose Alroy to have entered one of (he deserted capitals of the Seleucidoe. They are in gene- ral Ihe haunt of bandits. often obstructed, and around were signs of devasta- tion for which the exterior of the city had not pre- pared him. The brilliant but brief twilight of the orient was fast fading away ; a sombre purple tint succeeded to the rosy flush, the distant towers rose black, al- though defined in the clear and shadowy air, and the moon, which, when he first entered, had stud- ded the heavens like a small white cloud, now glit- tered with deceptive light. Suddenly before them rose a huge pile. Oval in shape and formed by tiers of arches, it was evident- ly much dilapidated, and one enomious, irregular, and undulating rent, extending from the top nearly to the foundation, almost separated the side to which Alroy and his companions advanced. Clambering up the remainder of this massy wall, the robbers and their prisoner descended into an immense amphitheatre, which seemed vaster in the shadowy and streaming moonlight. In it were groups of men, horses, and camels. In the extreme distance, reclining or squatting on mats and carpets, was a large assembly engaged in a rough but mer- ry banquet. A fire blazed at their side, its red and uncertain flame mingling with the white and steady moonbeam, and throwing a flickering light over their ferocious countenances, their glistening ar- mour, ample drapery, and shawled heads. " A spy," exclaimed the captors, as they dragged Alroy before the leader of the band. " Hang him, then," said the cliieftain, without even looking up. " This wine, great Scherirah, is excellent, or I am no true Moslemin," said a principal robber ; '' but you are too cruel ; I hate this summary punish- jnent. Let us torture him a little, and extract some useful information." " As you like, Kisloch," said Scherirah ; "it may amuse us. Fellow, where do you come from ] He cannot answer. Decidedly a spy. Hang him up." The captors half untied the rope that bound Al- roy, that it might serve him for another purpose ; when another of the gentle companions of Scheri- rah interfered. " Spies always answer, captain. He is more probably a merchant in disguise." " And carries hidden treasure," added Kisloch ; " these rough coats often cover jewels. We had better search him." " Ay ! search him," said Scherirah, with his rough brutal voice ; " do what you like, only give me the bottle. This Greek wine is choice booty. Feed the fire, men. x\re you asleep 1 And then Kis- loch, who hates cruelty, can roast him, if he likes." The robbers prepared to strip their captiva " Friends, friends !" exclaimed Alroy, "for there is no reason why you should not be friends, spare me, spare me. I am poor, I am young, I am innocent. I am neither a spy nor a merchant. I have no plots, no wealth. I am a pilgrim." " A decided spy," exclaimed Scherirah ; *they are ever pilgrims." " He speaks too well to speak truth," exclaimed Kisloch. " All talkers are liars," exclaimed Scherirah. " That is why Kisloch is the most eloquent of the band." "A jest at the banquet may prove a curse in the field," replied Kisloch. t " Pooh !" exclaimed Scherirah. " Fellows, why do you hesitate 1 Search the prisoner, I say !" 464 D'ISRAELl S NOVELS. They advanced, they seized liim. In vain he struggled. " Captain," exclaimed one of the band, " he wears upon his breast a jewel!" " I told you so," said the third robber. " Give it me," said Scherirah. But Alroy, in despair, at the thought of losing the talisman, remembering the injunction of Jabas- ter, and animated by supernatural courage, burst from his searchers, and seizing a brand from the fire, held them at bay. " The fellow has spirit," said Scherirah, calmly. " 'Tis pity, it will cost him his life." ■• Bold man," exclaimed Alroy, " for a moment hear me ! I am a pilgrim, poorer than a beggar. The jewel they talk of is a holy emblem, worthless to you, to me invaluable, and to be forfeited only by my life. You may be careless of that. Beware of your own. The first man who advances, dies. I pray you humbly, chieftain, let me go." " Kill him I" said Scherirah. " Stab him !" exclaimed Kisloch. " Give me the jewel," said the third robber. " God of David be my refuge, then !" exclaimed Alroy. " He is a Hebrew, he is a Hebrew," exclaimed Scherirah, jumping up. " Spare liim ! spare him ! my mother was a Jewess." The assailants lowered their arms, and with- drew a few paces. Alroy still remained upon his guard. " Valiant pilgrim," said Scherirah, advancing, with a softened voice, " are you for the holy cityl" " The city of ray fathers." " A perilous journey. And whence from V " Hamadan." "A dreary way. You need repose. Your name 1" " David." " David, you are among friends. Rest and re- pose in safety. You hesitate. Fear not ! The memory of my mother is a charm that always changes me." Scherirah unsheathed his dagger, punctured his arm, and, throwing away his wea- pon, offered the bleeding member to Alroy. The prince of the captivity touched the open vein with his lips. " My troth is pledged," said the bandit ; " I can never betray him in whose veins my own blood is flowing."* So saying, he led Alroy to his carpet. IV. " Eat, Davi(U' said Scherirah. " I will eat bread," answered Alroy. " What, have you had so much meat lately that you will refuse this delicate gazelle that I have brought down this morning with my own lance 1 'Tis food for a caliph." " I pray you give me bread." " O ! bread if you Uke. But that a man should prefer bread to meat, and such meat as this, 'tis miraculous." " A thousand thanks, good Scherirah ; but with our people the flesii of the gazelle is forbidden. It is unclean. Its foot is cloven." " I have heard of these things," replied Scheri- rali, with a thoughtful air. " My mother was a * From a slory told by an Arab. Jewess, and my father was a Kourd. Whichever be right, I hope to be saved." " There is but one God, and Mohammed is his prophet !" exclaimed Kisloch ; " though I drink wine. Your health, Hebrew." " I will join you," said the third robber. " My father was a Guebre, and sacrificed his property to his faith ; and the consequence is, his son has got neither." " As for me," said a fourth robber, of very dars complexion and singularly small bright eyes, "I am an Indian, and I believe in the great golden figure with carbuncle eyes, in the temple of Delhi." " I have no religion," said a tall negro, in a red turban, grinnmg with his white teeth ; " they have none in my country, but if I had heard of your God before, Calidas, I would have believed in him." " I almost wish I had been a Jew," exclaimed Scherirah, musing. " My mother was a good wo- man." " The Jews are very rich," said the third rob- ber. " When you get to Jerusalem. David, you will see the Christians," continued Scherirah. " The accursed Giaours," exclaimed Kisloch, " we are all against them." " With their white faces," exclaimed the negro. "And their blue eyes," said the Indian. " What can you expect of men who live in a countiy without a sun!" observed the Guebre. V. Alrot awoke about two hours after midnight. His companions were in deep slumber. The moon had set, the fire had died away, a few red embers alone remaining ; dark masses of shadow hung about the amphitheatre. He arose and cautiously stepped over the sleeping bandits. He was not, in strictness, a prisoner ; but who could trust to the caprice of these lawless men 1 To-morrow might find him their slave, or their companion in some ma- rauding expedition, which might make him almost retrace his steps to the Caucasus or to Hamadan. The temptation to ensure his freedom was irresisti- ble. He clambered up the ruined wall, descended into the intricate windings that led to the Ionic fane, that served him as a beacon, hurried through the silent and starry streets, gained the great portal, and rushed once more into the desert. A vague fear of pursuit made him continue his course many hours without resting. The desert again became sandy, the heat increased. The breeze that plays about the wilderness, and in early spring is often scented with the wild fragrance of aromatic plants, sank away. A lurid brightness sufi'uscd the heavens. An appalling stillness pervaded nature ; even the insects were silent. For the first time in his pilgrimage, a feeling of deep despondency fell over the soul of Alroy. His energy appeared sud- denly to have deserted him. A low hot wind began to rise, and fan his cheeks with pestiferous kisses, and enervate his frame with its poisonous embrace. His head and limbs ached with a dull sensation, more terrible than pain ; his sight was dizzy, his tongue swollen. Vainly he looked around for aid, vainly he extended his forlorn arms, and wrung them to the remorseless heaven. Almost frantic with thirst, the boundless horizon of the desert dis- appeared, and the unhappy victim, in the midst of his torture, found himself apparently surrounded by THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 465 bright and running streams, the fleeting waters of the false mirage ! The sun became biood-rcd, the slcy darker, the sand rose in fierce eddies, tiie moaning wind burst into shrieks and respired a more ardent and still more malignant breath. The pilgrim could no jjonger sustain himself. * Faith, courage, devotion, deserted him with his falli'ng energies. He strove no longer with his destiny, he delivered himself up to despair and death. He fell upon one knee with drooping head, supporting himself by one quiver- ing hand, and then, full of the anguish of baffled purposes and lost affections, raising his face and arm to heaven, thvis to the elements he poured his passionate farewell. " life, once vainly deemed a gloomy toil, I feel thy sweetness now; farewell, O life, farewell my high resolves and proud conviction of almighty fame. My days, my short unprofitable days, melt into the past ; and death, with which I struggle, horrible death, arrests me in this wildness. my sister, could thy voice, thy sweet voice but murmur in my ear one single sigh of love ; could thine eye with its soft radiance but an instant blend with my dim fading vision, the pang were nothing. Fare- well, Miriam ! my heart is with thee by thy foun- tain's side. Fatal blast, bear her my dying words, my blessing. And ye, too, friends, whose too neg- lected love I think of now, farewell ! Farewell, my uncle, farewell, pleasant home, and Hamadan's serene and shadowy bowers ! Farewell, Jabaster, and the mighty lore of which thou wert the priest and I the pupil ! Thy talisman throbs on my faith- ful heart. Green earth and golden sun, and all the beautiful and glorious sights yc fondly lavish on unthinking man, farewell, farewell ! I die in the desert, 'tis bitter. No more, O ! never more, for me the hopeful day shall break, and its fresh breeze rise on its cheering wings of health and joy. Hea- ven and earth, water and air, my chosen country, and my antique creed, farewell, farewell ! And thou, too, city of my soul, I cannot name thee, un- seen Jerusalem — " Amid the roar of the wind, the bosom of the earth heaved and opened, swift columns of sand sprang up to the lurid sky, and hurried towards their victim. With the clang of universal chaos, impenetrable darkness descended on the desert. PART V. I. " Now our dreary way is o'er, now the desert's toil is past. Soon the river broadly flowing through its green and palmy banks, to our wearied limbs shall offer baths which caliphs cannot buy. Allah-illah, Allah-hu. Allah-illah, Allah-hu." " Blessed the man who now may bear a relic from our prophet's tomb, blessed the man who now unfolds the treasures of a distant mart, jewels of the dusky east, and silks of farthest Samarcand. Allah-illah, Allah-hu. Allah-illah, Allah-hu." "Him the sacred mosque shall greet with a * I have endeavoured to paint the simoom as I myself experienced it in llie deseris of Upper Eirypi. My friend and fellow traveller, Mr. Clay, has, I veiuure lo stale, not forgoiien the awful day. 59 reverence grave and low ; him the busy Bezestein shall welcome with confiding smile. Holy mer- chant, now receive the double triumph of thy toil. Allah-illah, Allah-hu. Allah-illah, A!lah-hu." " The camel jibs, Abdallah ! See, there is some- thing in the track." " By the holy stone,* a dead man. Poor devil ! One should never make a pilgrimage on foot. I hate your humble piety. Prick the beast and he will pass the corpse." " The prophet preaches charity, Abdallah. He has favoured my enterprise, and I will practise his precept. See if he be utterly dead." It was the Mecca caravan returning to Bagdad. The pilgrims were within a day's journey of the Euphrates, and welcomed their approach to fertile earth with a triumphant chorus. Far as the eye could reach, the long line of their straggling pro- cession stretched across the wilderness, thousands of camels in strings, laden with bales of merchan- dise, and each company headed by an animal of superior size, leading, with tinkling bells, groups of horsemen, clusters of litters ; all the pilgrims armed to their teeth, the van formed by a strong division of Seljukian cavalry, and the rear protected by a Kourdish clan, who guarantied the security of the pious travellers through their country. Abdallah was the favourite slave of the charita- ble merchant A!i. In obedience to his master's orders, he unwillingly descended from his camel, and examined the body of the apparently lifeless Alroy. " A Kourd, by his dress," exclaimed Abdallah, with a sneer, " what does he here 1" " It is not the face of a Kourd," replied Ali, "perchance a pilgrim from the mountains 1" " Whatever he be, he is dead," answered tho slave : " I doubt not an accursed Giaour." " God is great," exclaimed Ali, " he breathes ; the breast of his caftan heaved." " 'Twas the wind," said Abdallah. " 'Twas the sigh of a human heart," answered Ali. Several pilgrims who were on foot had now gathered round the group. "I am a hakim,"-j- observed a dignified Arme- nian. " I will feel his pulse ; 'tis dull, but it beats." " There is but one God," exclaimed Ali. " And Mohammed is his prophet," resf)onded Ab- dallah. " You do not believe in him, you Arme- nian infidel." " I am a hakim," replied the dignified Armenian. " Although an infidel, God has granted me skill to cure true believers. Worthy Ali, believe, the boy may yet live." " Hakim, you shall count your own dirhems if he breathe in my divan in Bagdad," answered Ali ; " I have taken a fancy to the boy. God has sent him to me. He shall carry my slippers."^ " Give me a camel, and I will save his life. " We have none," said the servant. " Walk, Abdallah," said the master. i " Is a true believer to walk to save the life of a Kourd ? Master slipper-bearer shall answer for * The Caaba.— The Caaba is the same to the Mohamme- dan as ihe holy sepulchre to the Clirisiian. Il is the most unseemly, but ihe mosl sacred, pari of the mosque at Blecca, and is a small, .square stone buildin<;. t /. e. Phijsidan, an almost sacred characier in the east. .4s all Englishmen travid with medicine chests, the Turks are not to be wondered al for considering us pUysiciaua. 466 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. this, if there he any sweetness in the bastinado," murmured Abdallah. The Armenian blooded Alroy ; the blood flowed slowly but surely. The prince of the captivity opened his eyes. " There is but one God !" exclaimed Ali. " The evil eye fall on him !"* muttered Abdallah. The Armenian took a cordial from his vest, and poured it down his patient's throat. The blood Howed more freely. " He will live, worthy merchant," said the phy- sician. " And Mohammed is his prophet," continued Ali. " By the stone of Mecca, I beUeve it is a Jew," shouted Abdallah. " The dog !" exclaimed Ali. " Pah !" said a negro slave, drawing back with disgust. " He will die," said the Christian physician, not even binding up the vein. " And be damned," said Abdallah, jumping again on his camel. 'I'he party rode on, the caravan proceeded. A Kourdish horseman galloped forward. He curbed his steed as he passed Alroy bleeding to death. " What accursed slave has wounded one of my dan 1" The Kourd jumped off his horse, stripped off a slip of his blue shirt, stanched the wound, and carried the unhappy Alroy to the rear. The desert ceased, the caravan entered upon a vast but fruitful plain. In the extreme distance might be detected a long undulating line of palm trees. The vanguard gave a shout, shook their tall lances in the air, and rattled their cimeters in rude chorus against their small round iron shields. All eyes sparkled, all hands were raised, all voices sounded, save those that were breathless from over- powering joy. After months' wandering in the sul- try wilderness they beheld the great Euphrates. Broad, and fresh, and magnfiiccnt, and serene, the mighty waters rolled through the beautiful and fertile earth. A vital breeze rose from their bosom. Every being responded to their genial influence. The sick were cured, the desponding became san- guine, the healthy and light-hearted broke into shouts of laughter, jumped from their camels, and embraced the fragrant earth, or, wild in their reno- vated strength, galloped over the plain, and threw their wanton jcrreeds in the air.-j- as if to show their suflering and labour had not deprived them of that skill and strength, without which it were vain again to enter the haunts of their less adven- turous brethren. The caravan halted on the banks of the broad river glowing in the cool sunset. The camp was ))itchcd, the ])!ain glittered with tents. The camels falling on their knees, crouched in groups, themer- fliandise piled up in masses by their sides. The unharnessed horses rushed neighing aboirt the plaijB^ tossing their glad heads, and rolling in the imaccustomcd pasture. Spreading their mats, and ' The superglilion of ilie evil eye is well known, and is jircvalenl lliroii!»howt the Lfvant. t The Porsiana are morn famous for Uirowing the jerreed than any other nation. Al'ersiun f^enllcriian, while riding' quietly by your side, will suddenly dash olf at lull gallop, then suddenly check his horsf, and lake a Ions aim vvilli Ids lance with admiraliU; precision. [ should doul'l, how- ever, whether he could hurl a lanco a greater dislaiu-e, or with greater force and eftecl, than a Nubian, who will fix a mark at sixty yards with his javelin. kneeling towards Mecca, the pilgrims performed their evening orisons. Never was thanksgiving more sincere. They arose ; some rushed into the river, some lighted lamps, some pounded coffee.* Troops of smiling villagers arrived with fresh pro- visions, eager to prey upon such light hearts and heavy purses. It was one of those occasions when the accustomed gravity of the orient disappears Long through the night the sounds of music and the shouts of laughter were heard on the baidcs of that starry river, long through the night you might have listened with enchantment to the wild tales of the storier, or gazed with fascination on the wilder gestures of the dancing girls.-j- II. The great bazaar of Bagdad afforded a verj- ani- mated and sumptuous spectacle on the day after the arrival of the caravan. All the rare and costly products of the world were collected in that cele- brated mart — the shawls of Cashmere and the silks of Syria, the ivoi-y, and plumes, and gold of Afric, the jewels of Ind, the talismans of Egypt, the per- fumes and manuscripts of Persia, the spices and gums of x\raby, beautiful horses, more beautiful slaves, cloaks of sable, pelisses of ermine, armour alike magnificent in ornament and temper, rare animals, still rarer birds, blue apes in silver collars, white gazelles bound by a golden chain, gray- hounds, peacocks, paroquets. And everywhere strange, and busy, and excited groups ; men of all nations, creeds, and climes — the sumptuous and haughty Turk, the graceful and subtle Arab, the Hebrew with his black cap and anxious counte- nance ; the Armenian Christian, with his dark flowing robes, and mild demeanour, and serene visage. Here strutted the lively, affected, and su- perfine Persian ; and there the Circassian stalked with his long hair and chain cuirass. The fair Georgian jostled the ebony form of the merchant of Dongola or Sennaar. Through the long, narrow, arched, and winding streets of the bazaar, lined on each side with loaded stalls, all was bustle, bargaining, and barter. A passeirger approached, apparently of no common rank. Two pages preceded him, beautiful Georgian boys, clothed in crimson cloth, and caps of the * The origin of the use of coffee is obscure ; but there is great reason to believe that it had not been introduced in the time of Alroy. When we consider that the life of an oriental at the present day mainly consists in drinking coffee and smoking tobacco, we cannot resist from asking ourselves, '• What did he do before either of these compara- tively modern inventions was discovered V For a long lime, I was inclined to suspect lliat tobacco might have been in use iu Asia before it was introduced inio Europe; but a passage in old Sandys, in which he mentions the wretched tobacco smoked in Turkey, and accounts for it by ihalcoimlry being svipplied liy "the dregs of our mar- kets," demonsiraies," that in his time, there was no native growth in Asia. Yet the choicest tobaccos are now grown on the coast of Syria, the real Lev.-mt. Bui did thn Asiatics smidie any other plant or substance before tobacco 1 In Syria, at the present day, they smoke a plant called tiin- hac ; the Cliincse smoke opium; the artificial preparations for the hookah are known to all Indians. I believe, how- ever, that these are all refinements, and for this reason, that in the c!a.'«sic writers, who were as well actiuainted with the oriental nations as ourselves, we find no allusion to the practice of smoking. The anachronism of the pipe I have not therefore ventured to connnil, and that of coflea will, I trust, be pardoned. See a short Kss'ay on Oriental Smoking, in the New Monthly Blagazine for September, 18132, for an account of the eastern tobaccos. t These dancing girls abound throughout Asia. The inost famous are the Alwyn of Egypt, and the Nautclj of India. These last are a caste, "the first only a profes slon. THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 467 same material, setting tight to their heads, with long golden tassels. One bore a blue velvet bag, and the other a clasped and richly bound volume. Four footmen, armed, followed their master, who rode behind the pages on a milk-white mule. He M'as a man of middle age, eminently handsome. flis ample robes concealed the only fault in hi* appearance, a figure which indulgence had rendered somewhat ample. His eyes were large, and soft, and dark ; his nose aquihnc, hut delicately moxild- ed ; his mouth small, and beautifully proportioned; Ills lip full and red ; his teeth regular and dazzling white. His ebony beard flowed, but not at too great a length, in graceful and natural curls, and was richly perfumed ; a delicate mustachio shaded his upper lip, but no whisker was permitted to screen the form and shroud the lustre of his oval countenance and brilliant complexion. Altogether, the animal, perhaps, predominated too much in the expression of the stranger's countenance ; but ge- nius beamed from his passionate eye, and craft lay concealed in that subtle lip. The dress of the rider was sumptuous. His turban, formed by a scarlet Cashmere shawl, was of great breadth, and, con- cealing half of his white forehead, increased by the contrast the radiant height of the other. His under vest was of white Damascus silk, stiff with silver embroidery, and confined by a girdle formed by a Brusa scarf of gold stuff, and holding a dagger, whose hilt appeared blazing with brilliants and ru- bies. His loose and exterior robe was of crimson cloth. His white hands sparkled with rings, and his ears glittered with pendulous gems. " Who is this]" asked an Egyptian merchant, in a lew whisper, of the dealer whose stuffs he was examining. " 'Tis the Lord Honain," replied the dealer. "And who may he bel" continued the Egyp- tian. " Is he the caliph's son 1" " Poh ! a much greater man — his physician," The white mule stopped at the very stall where this conversation was taking place. The pages halted, and stoo4 on each side of their master — the footmen kept off the crowd. " Merchant," said Honain, with a gracious smile of condescension, and with a voice musical as a flute, " Merchant, did you obtain me my wishi" " There is but one God," replied the dealer, who was the charitable Ali, " and Mohammed is his pro- phet. I succeeded, please your highness, in seeing at Aleppo the accursed Giaour of whom I spoke, and, behold, that which you desired is here." So saying, Ali produced several Greek manuscripts, and offered them to his visiter. " Hah !" said Honain, with a sparkling eye, " 'tis well — their cost 1" " The infidel would not part with them under five hundred dirhems," replied Ali. " Ibrahim, see that this worthy merchant receive a thousand." " As many thanks, my Lord Honain." The caUph's physician bowed gracefully. " Advance, pages," continued Honain. " Why tliis stoppage? Ibrahim, see that our way be cleared. What is all this V A crowd of men advanced, pulling along a youth, who, almost exhausted, still singly strug- gled with his ungenerous adversaries. " The cadi, the cadi," cried the foremost of them, who was Abdallah, " drag him to the cadi." " Noble lord," cried the youth, extricating him- self by a sudden struggle from the grasp of his cap tors, and seizijag the robe of Honain, " I am inno- cent and injured. I pray thy help." " The cadi, the cadi," exclaimed Abdallah ; " the knave has stolen my ring — the ring given me by my fjiithful Fatima on our marriage day, and which I would not part with for my master's stores." The youth still clung to the robe of Honain and, mute from exhaustion, fixed upon him hi beautiful and imploring eye. " Silence !" proclaimed Honain ; " I will judge this cause." " The Lord Honain, the Lord Honain — listen to the Lord Honain." " Speak, thou brawler ; of what hast thou to complain 1" said Honain to Abdallah. " May it please your highness," said Abdallah, in a whining voice, " I am the slave of your faith- ful servant, Ali. Often have I had the honour of waiting on your highness. This young knave here, a beggar, has robbed me, while slumbering in a coffee-house, of a ring — I have my witnesses to prove my slumbering. 'Tis a fine emerald, may it please your highness, and doubly valuable to me as a love-token from my Fatima. No considera- tion in the world could induce me to part with it ; and so, being asleep — here are three honest men who will prove the sleep — comes this little vaga- bond, may it please your highness, who, while he pretends to offer me my coffee, takes him my fin- ger, and slips off this precious ring, which he now wears upon his own beggarly paw, and will not restore to me without the bastinado." " Abdallah is a faithful slave, may it please your highness, and a Hadgee," said Ali, his master. " And what say est thou, boy 1" inquired Honain. " That this is a false knave, who lies as slaves ever will." " Pithy, and perhaps true," said Honain. " You call me a slave, you young scoundrel !" exclaimed Abdallah ; " shall I tell you what you are 1 Why, your highness, do not listen to him a moment. It is a shame to bring such a creature into your presence ; for, by the holy stone, and I am a Hadgee, I doubt little ho is a Jew." Honain grew somewhat pale, and bit his lip. He was perhaps annoyed that he had interfered so publicly in behalf of so unpopular a character as a Hebrew ; but he was unwilling to desert one whom a moment before he had resolved to befriend, and he inquired of the youth where he had obtained the ring. "The ring was given to me by my dearest friend when I first set out upon an arduous pilgrim- age not yet completed. There is but one person in the world, except the donor, to whom I would part with it, and with that person I am unacquaint- ed. All this may seem improbable, but all this is true. I have truth alone to support me. I am destitute and friendless; but I am not a beggar, nor will any suffering induce me to become one. Feeling, from various circumstances, utterly ex- hausted, I entered a coffee-house and laid down, it may have been to die. I could not sleep, although my eyes were shut, and nothing would have aroused me from a tremulous trance which I thought was dying, but this plunderer here, who would not wait until death had permitted him quietly to possess himself of a jewel I value more than life." 468 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Show me the jewel." The youth held up his hand to Honain, who felt his pulse, and then took off the ring. " O, my Fatima !" exclaimed Abdallah. " Silence, sir !" said Honain. " Page, call a jeweller." Honain examined the ring very attentively. "U'hethcr he were near-sighted, or whether the de- ceptive light of the covered bazaar prevented him from examining it with ease, he certainly raised his hand to his brow, and for some moments his countenance was invisible. The jeweller arrived, and pressing his hand to his heart, bowed before Honain. " Value this ring," said Honain, in a low voice. The jeweller took the ring, viewed it in all direc- tions with a scrutinizing glance, held it to the light, pressed it to his tongue, turned it over and over, and finally declared he could not sell such a ring under a thousand dirhems. " Whatever be the justice of the case," said Ho- nain to Abdallah, " art thou ready to part with this ring for a thousand dirhems 1" " Most certainly," said Abdallah. " And thou, lad, if the decision be in thy favour, wilt thou take for the ring double the worth at which the jeweller prizes it V " My lord, I have spoken the truth. I catmot part with that ring for the palace of the caliph." " The truth for once is triumphant," said Ho- nain. " Boy, the ring is thine ; and for thee, thou knave," turning to Abdallah, "liar, thief, and slan- derer ! for thee the bastinado* thou destined for this innocent youth. Ibrahim, see that he receives five hundred. Young pilgrim, thou art no longer destitute or friendless. Follow me to my palace," III. The arched chamber was of great size and beau- tiful proportion. The ceiling, encrusted with green fretwork, and studded with silver stars, rested upon clustered columns of white and green marble. In the centre of a variegated pavement of the same material, a fountain rose and fell into a green por- phyry basin, and by the side of the fountain, upon a couch of silver, reposed Honain. He raised his eyes from the illuminated volume on which he had been long intent, he clapped his hands, and a Nubian slave advanced, and folding liis arms upon his breast, bowed in silence before his lord. " How fares the Hebrew boy, Alnaschar?" " Master, the fever has not returned. We gave him the potion ; he slumbered for many hours, and has now wakened, weak but well." " Let him rise and attend me." The Nubian disappeared. "There is nothing stranger than .sympathy," soliloquized the physician of the caliph, with a meditative air; "all resolves itself into this principle, and 1 confess this learned doctor treats it deeply and well. An erudite spirit truly, and an eloquent pen ; yet ae refines too much. 'Tis too scholastic. 0))- servation will teach us more than dogma. Medi- tating upon my passionate youth, I gathered wis- dom. I have seen so much that I have ceased to * The bastinado is iho common punishment of the east, and an effective and dreadful one. It is administered on the soles of the feet, the instrument a long cane or palm branch. Public executions are very rare. wonder. However we doubt, there is a mystery beyond our penetration. An.l yet 'tis near our grasp. I sometimes deem a step, a single step would launch us into light. Here comes my pa- tient. The rose has left his cheek, and his deep brow is wan and melancholy. Yet 'tis a glorious visage — meditation's throne ; and passion lingers in that languid eye. I know not why, a strong at- traction draws me to this lone child. " Gentle stranger, how fares it "with thee V " Very well, my lord. I come to thank thee for all thj' goodness. My only thanks are words, and those too weak ones ; and yet the orphan's blessing is a treasure." " You are an orphan, then 1" " I have no parent but my father's God." " And that God is — " "The God of Israel." "So I deemed. He is a Deity we all must honour, if he be the great Creator, whom we all allow." " He is what he, is, and we are what we are — a fallen people, but faithful still." " Fidelity is strength." " Thy words are truth, and strength must tri- umph." " A prophecy !" " Many a prophet is little honoured, till the fu- ture proves his inspiration." " You are young and sanguine." " So was my ancestor within the vale of Elah. But I speak unto a Moslemin, and this is foolish- ness." " I have read something, and can take your drift. As for my faith, I believe in truth, and wish all men to do the same. By-the-by, might I inquire the name of him who is the inmate of my house 1" " They call me David." " David, you have a ring, an emerald cut with curious characters, Hebrew, I believe." " 'Tis here." " A fine stone, and this inscription means — " " A simple legend — ' Parted, but one,' — the kind memorial of a brother's love." " Your brother?" " I never had a brother." " I have a silly fancy for this ring : you hesitate. Search my palace, and choose the treasure that you deem its match." " Noble sir, the gem is little worth ; but were it such might deck a caliph's brow, 'twere a poor recompense for all thy goodness. This ring is a trust rather than a possession, and strange to say, although I cannot oflTer it to thee who may com- mand, as thou hast saved, the life of its unhappy wearer, some stranger may cross my path to-mor- row, and almost claim it as his own," " And that stranger is — " " The brother of the donor." " The brother of Jabaster ?" " Jabaster !" " Even so. I am that parted brother. " Great is the God of Israel ! Take the ring. But what is this '! the brother of Jabaster a tur- baned chieftain ! — a Moslemin ! Say, O ! but say that thou hast not assumed their base belief, — say, O ! but say, that thou hast not become a traitor to our covenant, and I will bless the fortunes of this hour." " I am false to no God. Calm thyself, sweet youth. These are higher questions than thy fain THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 469 strength can master now. Another time we'll talk of this, my boy. At present of ray brother and thyself. He lives and prospers 1" " He lives in faith ; the pious ever prosper." " A glorious dreamer ! Though our moods are different, I ever loved him. And thyself] Thou art not what thou seemest. Tell me all. Jabas- ter's friend can be no common mind. Thy form has heralded thy fame. Trust me." " I am Alroy." " What ! the prince of our captivity V " Even so." " The slayer of Alschiroch 1" « Ay !" " My sympathy was prophetic. I loved thee from the first. And what dost thou here 1 A price is set upou thy head: thou knowest itl" " For the first time ; but I am neither astonished nor alarmed. I am upon the Lord's business." " What wouldst thou 1" " Free his people." " The pupil of Jabaster : I see it all. Another victim to his reveries. I'll save this boy. David, for thy name must not be sounded within this city, the sun is dying. Let us to the terrace and seek the solace of the twilight breeze." IV. " What is the hour, David?" "Near on midnight. I marvel if thy brother may read in the stars our happy meeting." " Men read that which they wish. He is a learned cabalist." " But what we wish comes from above." " So they say. • We make our fortunes, and we call them fate." " Yet the Voice sounded — the Daughter of the Voice that summoned Samuel." " You have told me strange things ; I have heard stranger solved." " My faith is a rock." " On which you may spUt." " Art thou a Sadducee 1" " I am a man who knows men." " You are learned, hut different from Jabaster." " We are the same, though different. Day and night are both portions of time." " And thy portion is — " " Truth." " That is, light." "Yes; so dazzling that it sometimes seems dark." " Like thy meaning." " You are young." " Is youth a defect V " No, the reverse. Bu^ we cannot eat the fruit while the tree is in blossom." What fruit ]" " Knowledge." " I have studied." "Whatr' " All sacred things." " How know you that they are sacred." " They come from God." " So does every tiling. Is every thing sacred ?" " They are the deep expression of his will." " Accordmg to Jabaster. Ask the man who prays in yonder mosque, and he will tell you that Jabas- ter's wrong." "After all, thou art a Moslemin 1" " No." "What then! " " I have told you — a man." " But what dost thou worship 1" " What is worship 1" " Adoration due from the creature to the Crea- tor." "Which is he?" " Our God." "The God of Israel?" " Even so.'' " A frail minority, then, burn him incense." " We are the chosen people." " Chosen for scoffs, and scorns, and contumelies. Commend me to such choice." " We forgot him, before he chastened us." " Why did we ?" " Thou knowest the records of our holy race." " Yes, I know them : like all records, annals of blood." " Annals of victory, that will dawn again." " If redemption be but another name for carnage, I envy no Messiah." " Art thou Jabaster's brother ?" " So our mother was wont to say : a meek and blessed woman." " Lord Homiin, thou art rich, and wise, and pow- erful. Thy fellow-men speak of thee only with praise or fear, and both are cheering. Thou hast quitted our antique ark ; why — no matter. We'll not discuss it. 'Tis something, if a stranger, at least thou art not a renegade. The world goes well with thee, my lord Honain. But if instead of bows and blessings, thou, like thy brethren, wert greeted only with the cufi'and curse; if thou didst rise each morning only to feel existence was dishonour, and to find thyself marked out among surrounding men as something foul and fatal : if it were thy lot, like theirs, at best to drag on a mean and dull career, hopeless and aimless, or with no other hope or aim but that which is degrading, and all this too with a keen sense of thy intrinsic worth, and deep convic- tion of superior race ; why then perchance Honain might even discover 'twere worth a struggle to be free and honoured." " I pray your pardon, sir, I thought you were Jabaster's pupil, a dreaming student. I see you have a deep am'oition." " I am a prince ; and I fain would be a prince without my fetters." " Listen to me, Alroy," said Honain in a low voice, and he placed his arm round his waist, "I am your friend. Our acquaintance is very brief: no matter, I love you, I rescued you in injury, I tended you in sickness, even now your life is in my power; I would protect it with my own. You cannot doubt me. Our affections are not under our own control ; and mine are yours. The sympathy between us it: entire. You see me, you see what I am: a Hebrew, though unknown, one of that despised, rejected, persecuted people, of whom you are the chief. I too would be free and honoured. Freedom and honour are mine, but I was my own Messiah. I quitted in good time our desperate cause, but I gave it a trial. Ask Jabaster how I fought. Youth could be my only excuse for such indiscretion. I left this country, I studied, and resided among the Greeks. I returned from Constantinople with all their learning, some of their craft. No one knew me. I assumed their turban, and I am the Lord Honain. Take my experience, child, and save 2R 470 D'ISRAELI S NOVELS. yourself much sorrow. Turn your late adventure to good account. No one can recognise you here. I will introduce you among the highest as my child, by some fair Greek. The world is before you. You may fight, you may love, you may revel. War and women, and luxury, are all at your command. With your person and talents you may be grand vizier. Clear your head of nonsense. In the pre- sent disordered state of the empire, you may even carve yourself out a kingdom, infinitely more de- lightful than the barren land of milk and honey. I have seen it, child ; a rocky wilderness, where I would not let my courser graze." He bent down, and fixed his eyes upon his com- panion with a scrutinizing glance. The moon- light fell upon the resolved visage of the prince of the captivity. " Honain," he replied, pressing his hand, " I thank thee. Thou knowest not me, but still I thank thee." " You are resolved then on destruction." " On glory, eternal glory." " Is it possible to succeed V " Is it possible to faill" " You are mad !" " I am a believer." " Enough. Not another word. You have yet one chance. My brother has saddled your enter- prise with a condition, and an impossible one. Gain the sceptre of Solomon, and I will agree to be your subject. You will waste a year in this frolic. You are young, and can afford it. I trust you will experience nothing worse than a loss of time, which is, however, very valuable. My duty will be, after all your suiferings, to send you forth on your adventures in good condition, and to provide you means for a less toilsome pilgrimage than has hitherto been your lot. Trust me, you will return to Bagdad to accept my offers. At present, the dews are descending, and we will re- turn to our divan, and take some coffee." Some few days after this conversation on the terrace, as Alroy was reclining in a bower, in the beautiful garden of his host, meditating on the fu- ture, some one touched him on the back. He looked up. It was Honain. " Follow me," said the brother of .Tabaster. The prince rose, and followed him in silence. They entered the house, and passing through the saloon already described, they proceeded down a long galleiy, which terminated in an arched flight of broad steps, leading to the river. A boat was fastened to the end of the stairs, floating on the blue line of the Tigris bright in the sun. Honain now gave to Alroy a velvet bag, which he requested him to carry, and then they descended the steps and entered the covered boat; and, with- out any directions to the rower, they were soon skimming over the water. By the sound of passing vessels and occasional shouts of the boatmen, Alroy, although he could observe nothing, was conscious that for some time their course lay through a prin- cipal thoroughfare of the city ; but by degrees the sounds became less fretiuent, and in time entirely died away, and all that caught his ear was the re- gular and monotonous stroke of their own oar. At length, after the lapse of nearly an hour from their entrance, the boat stopped, and was moored against a quay. The curtains were withdrawn, and Honain and his companion disembarked. A low but very extensive building, painted in white and gold arabesque, and irregular but pic- turesque in form, with many small domes, and tall thin towers, rose amid groves of cypress on the banks of the broad and silent river. The rapid stream had carried them far from the city, which was visible, liut distant. Around was no habita- tion, no human being. . The opposite bank was occupied by enclosed gardens. Not even a boat passed. Honain, beckoning to Alroy to accompany him, but still silent, advanced to a small portal, and knocked. It was instantly opened by a single Nubian, who bowed reverently as the visiters passed him. They proceeded along a low and gloomy passage, covered with arches of iret>^?ork, until they arrived at a door of tortoise-shell' and mother-of-pearl.* Here Honain, who was in ad- vance, turned round to Alroy, and said, " What- ever happen, and whoever may address you, as you value your life and mine, do not speak." The door opened, and they found themselves in a vast and gorgeous hall. Pillars of many-coloured marbles rose from a red and blue pavement of the same luaterial, and supported a vaulted, circular, and highly-embossed roof of purple, scarlet and gold.j- Around a fountain, which rose fifty-feet in height from an immense basin of lapis-lazuli, and reclining on small yellow Barbary mats, was a group of Nubian eunuchs dressed in rich habits of scarlet and gold,t and armed with ivory battle- axes, the white handles worked in precious ara- besque, finely contrasting with the blue and bril- liant blades. The commander of the eunuch-guard rose on seeing Honian, and pressing his hand to his head, mouth and heart, saluted him. The physician of the caliph motioning Alroy to remain, advanced some paces in front of him, and entered into a whispering conversation with the eunuch. After a few minutes, this ofticer resumed his seat, and Ho- nain, beckoning to Alroy to rejoin him, crossed the hall. Passing through an open arch, they entered a quadrangular court of roses,§ each bed of flowers surrounded by a stream of sparkUng water, and floating like an enchanted islet upon a fairy ocean. The sound of the water and the sweetness of the flowers blended together, and produced a lulling sensation which nothing but his strong and strange curiosity might have enabled Alroy to resist. Pro- ceeding along a cloister of light aiiy workmanship which connected the hall with the remainder of the buildings, they stood before a lofty and sump- tuous portal. It was a monolite gate, thirty feet in height, formed of one block of green and red jasper, and cut into the fanciful undulating arch of the Sara- cens. The consummate artist had seized the ♦ This elesant mode of inlay is common in oriental palaces, and "may be observed also in Alliamlira, at Gra- nade. t In the very first style of Saracenic architecture. See llie hall of the ambassadors in Alhambra, and many other chambers in that exquisite creation. t Thus the guard of Nubian eimuchs of the present pasha of Egypt, Mehenict Ali, or rather caliph, a title which he wislies 10 assume. Tliey ride upon whiio liorses. § So in Alhambra, "The Coukt op Myrtle.s," leading to the court of columns, wherein is the famous fountain of lions. THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 471 advantage afforded to him by the ruddy vems of the precious stone, and had formed them in bold relief into two vast and sinuous serpents, which shot forth from their crested heads and glittering eyes at Honain and his companion. The physician of the cahph taking his dagger from his girdle, struck one of the heads of the ser- pents thrice. The massy portal opened with a whirl and a roar, and before them stood an Abys- synian giant,* holding in his leash a roaring lion. "Hush! Haroun," said Honain to the animal, raising at the same time his arm, and the beast crouched in silence. " Worthy Morgargon, I bring you a remembrance." The Abyssinian showed his tusks, larger and whiter than the lion's, as he grin- ningly received the tribute of the courtly Honain ; and he uttered a few uncouth sounds, but he could not speak, for he was a mute. The jasper portal introduced the comj)anions to a long and lofty and arched chamber, hghted by high windows of stained glass, hung with tapestry of silk and silver, covered with prodigious carpets, and surrounded by immense couches. And thus through similar chambers they proceeded, in some of which were signs of recent habitation, until they arrived at another quadrangle nearly filled by a most singular fountain which rose from a basin of gold encrusted with pearls, and which was sur- rounded by figures of every rare quadruped-j" in the most costly materials. Here a golden tiger with flaming eyes of ruby, and fiowing stripes of opal, stole, after some bloody banquet, to the refreshing brink ; a camelopard raised its slender neck of sil- ver from the centre of a group of every inhabitant of the forest, and brilliant bands of monkeys glit- tering with precious stones, rested, in every variety of fantastic posture, on the margin of the basin. The fountain itself was a tree of gold and silver,^ spreading into innumerable branches, covered with every variety of curious birds, their plumage appro- priately imitated by the corresponding tints of precious stones, and which warbled in beautiful melody as they poured forth from their bills the musical and refreshing element. It was with difficulty that Alroy could refrain from an admiring exclamation, but Honain, eyer quick, turned to him, with his finger pressed on his mouth, and quitting the quadrangle, they entered the gardens. Lofty terraces, dark masses of cypress, winding walks of acacia, in the distance an interminable paradise, and here and there a glittering pavilion and bright kiosk ! Its appearance on the river had not prepared Alroy for the extent of the palace itself. It seemed infinite, and it was evident that he had only viewed a very small portion of it. * A giant is still a common appendage loan oriental court even at the prespnt day. See a very amusins story in the picturesque " Persian Sketches " of that famous elchee. Sir John Malcolm. t " The hall of audience," says Gibbon, from Cardonne, speaking of the magnificence of the Saracen of Cordova, " was encrusted with gold and pearls, and a great basin in the centre was surrounded wilh the curious and costly figures of birds and (lua-drupeds."— Decline and Fall, vol. X. p. 39. $'• Among the other spectacles of rare and stupendous luxury, was a tree of gold and silver, spreading inio eighteen large branches, on which, and on the lesser boughs, sat a variety of birds made of the same precious metals, as well as the leaves of the tree. While the ma- chinery effected spontaneous motions, the several birds warbled their natural harmony."— GtAfiow, vol. x. p. 38, from Abulfeda describing the court of the caliphs of Bag- dad in the decline of their power. While they were moving on, there suddenly arose the sound of trumpets. The sound grew nearer and nearer, louder and louder: soon was heard the tramp of an approaching troop. Honain drew Al- roy aside. A procession appeared advancing from a dark grove of cypress. Four hundred men led as many white bloodhounds with collars of gold and rubies.* Then came one hundred men, each wilh a hooded hawk. Then six horsemen in rich dresses. After them a single horseman, mounted on a steed, marked on its forehead with a star.f The rider was middle aged, handsome, and digni- fied. He was plainly dressed, but the staff of his hunting spear was entirely of diamonds, and the blade of gold. He was followed by a company of Nubian eunuchs, with their scarlet dresses and ivory battle-axes, and the procession closed. "The caliph," whispered Honain, when they passed, placing at the same lime his finger on his lip, to prevent any inquiry. This was the first intimation that had reached Alroy of what he had already suspected, that he was a visiter to the palace of the commander of the faithful. The companions turned down a wild and wind- ing walk, w^hich^ after some time, brought them to a small and gently sloping lawn, surrounded by cedar trees of great size. Upon the lawn was a kiosk, a long and many-windowed building, covered with blinds, and further screened by an overhang- ing roof. The kio.sk was built of white aniJ^green marble, and ascended by a flight of steps the length of the building, alternately of white and green marble, and nearly covered v^'ith rose trees. Honain ascended these steps alone, and entered the kiosk. After a few minutes, he looked out from the blinds and beckoned to Alroy. David advanced, but Honain, fearful of some indiscretion, met him, and said to him in a low whisper between his teeth, " re- member you are deaf, a mute, and a eunuch." Alroy could scarcely refrain from smiling, and the prince of the captivity and the physician of the caliph entered the kiosk together. Two women, veiled, and two eunuchs of the guard received them in an antechamber. And then they passed into a room which ran nearly the whole length of the kiosk, opening on one side to the gardens, and on the other supported by an ivory wall with niches paint- ed in green fresco, and in each niche a rose tree. Each niche, also, was covered with an almost in- visible golden grate, which confined a nightingale and made him constant to the rose he loved. At the foot of each niche was a fountain, but instead of water, each basin was replenished with the purest quicksilver.:^ The roof of the kiosk was of mother-of-pearl, inlaid with tortoise shell ; the pave- ment, a mosaic of rare marbles and precious stones, representing the most delicious fruits, and the most beautiful flowers. Over this pavement a Georgian page flung at intervals refreshing perfumes. At the end of this elegant chamber was a divan of light green silk, embroidered with pearls, and co- vered with cushions of white satin and gold. Upon one of these cushions, in the middle of the divan, sat a lady, her eyes fixed in abstraction upon a * I have somewhere read of an Indian or Persian mo- narch whose coursing was conducted in this gorseous style: if I remember right, it was Mahmoud the Gaznevide. t The sacred steed of Solomon. j " In a lofty pavilion of the gardens, one of those basins and fountains so delightful in a sultry climate, was reple- nished, not wilh water, but wilh the purest quicksilver-'- — Gibbon, vol. x. from Cardonne. 472 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. volume of Persian poesy reclining on her knees, one hand playing- with a rosary of pearls and eme- ralds,* and the other Riding a long gold chain, which imprisoned a white gazelle. The lady looked up as Honain and his compa- nion entered. &liewas very young, as youthl-ul as Alroy. Her long light brown hair, drawn off a high white forehead covered with blue veins, fell braided with pearls over each other. Her eyes were very large, and deeply blue. Her nose small, but high and aquiline. The fairness of her face was dazzling, and when she looked up and greeted Honain, her lustrous cheeks broke into dimples, which was more fascinating from their contrast with the general expression of her countenance, which was haughty and derisive. The lady was dressed in a robe of crimson silk, girded round her waist by a green shawl, from which peeped forth the diamond hilt of a very small poniard.f Her round white arms looked infinitely small, as they occasionally flashed forth from their large loose hanging sleeves. One was covered with jewels, and the right arm was quite bare. Honain advanced, and bending, kissed the lady's proffered hand. Alroy fell into the background. "They told me that the Rose of the World drooped this morning," said the physician, bending again as he smiled, " and her slave hastened at her command to tend her." " It was a south wind. The wind has changed, and the Rose of the World is better," replied the lady, laughing. Honain touched her pulse. " Irregular," said the physician, " Like myself," said the lady. " Is that a new slave?" " A recent purchase, and a great bargain. He IS good-looking, has the advantage of being deaf and dumb, and is harndess in every respect." . " 'Tis a pity," replied the lady ; " it seems that all good-looking people are born to be useless. I, for instance." " Yet rumour whispers the reverse," remarked the physician. " How so V inquired the lady. " The j'oung King of Karasme." " Poh ! I have made up my mind to detest him. A barbarian !" " A hero !" " Did you ever see him V "I have." " Handsome?" "An archangel." " And sumptuous ? "Is he not a conqueror? All the plunder of the world will be yours." " I am tired of magnificence. I built this kiosk to forget it." " It is not in the least degree splendid," said Honain, looking round vifith a smile. "No," answered the lady, with a self-satisfied air; " here at least one can forget one has the mis- fortune to be a princess." " It is certainly a great misfortune," said the jihysician. * Moslemin of rank are never without the rosary, some- tunes of aniler anil rare woods, sonielinies of jewels. The most esteemed, is of that peculiar substance called Mecca Wdoil. ^ The ensignia of a royal female. " And yet it must be the only tolerable lot," re plied the lady. " Assuredly," replied Honain. " For our unhappy sex, at least." " Very unhappy." " If I were only a man !" " M^hata hero you would be !" "I should like to live in endless confusion." " I have not the least doubt of it." " Have you got me the books ?" eagerly inquired the princess. " My slave bears them," replied Honain " Let me see them directly." Honain took the bag from Alroy, and unfolded its contents — the very volumes of Greek romances which Ali, the merchant, had obtained for him. " I am tired of poetry," said the princess, glancing over the costly volumes and tossing them away. " I long to see the world." " You would soon be tired of that," replied the physician. " I suppose common people are never tired," said the princess. " Except with labour," .said the physician ; " care keeps them alive." '"What is care ?" as':ed the princess, with a smile. " It is a god," replied the physician, " invisible, but omnipotent. It steals the bloom from the cheek and lightness from the pulse — it talies away the appetite, and turns the hair gray." " It is no true divinity, then," replied the prin- cess, " but an idol we make ourselves. I am a sincere Moslemin, and will not worship it. Tell me some news, Honain." "The young King of Karasme — " " Again ! the barbarian ! You are in his pay. I'll none of him. To leave one prison, and to be shut up in another — why do you remind me of it ? No, my dear hakim, if I marry at all, I will marry to be free." " An impossibility," said Honain. " My mother was free till she was a queen and a slave. I intend to end as she began. You know what she was." Honain knew well, but he was too politic not to affect ignorance. " The daughter of a bandit," continued the princess, " who fought by the side of her father. That is existence ! I must be a robber. 'Tis in the blood. I want my fate foretold, Honain. You arc an astrologer ; do it." " I have already cast your nativity. Your star is a comet." " That augurs well ; brilliant confusion and erratic splendour. I wish I were a star," added the princess in a deep rich voice, and with a pen- sive air ; " a star in the clear blue sky, beautiful and free. Honain, Honain, the gazelle has broken her chain, and is eating my roses." Alroy rushed forward and seized the graceful truant. Honain shot him an anxious look ; the princess received the chain from the hand of Alroy, and cast at him a .scrutinizing glance. " What splendid eyes the poor beast has got !" exclaimed the princess. " The gazelle ?" inquired the physician. "No, your slave," replied the princess. "Why, he blushes ! Were he not deaf as well as diunb, I could almost believe he understood me." "He is very modest," replied Honain, ralner TITE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 473 alarmed ; " and is frightened at the liberty he has taken." "I hke modesty," said the princess; "it is so interesting. I am modest ; don't you think so 1" "Certainly," said Honain. " And interesting V " Very." " I detest an interesting person. After all, there is nothing like plain dulness." " Nothing," said Honain. "The day flows on so serenely in such society." " It does," said Honain. " No confusion ; no scenes." " None." " I make it a rule only to have ugly slaves." " You are quite right." " Honain, will you ever contradict me ] You know very well I have the handsomest slaves in the world." " Every one knows it." " And do you know I have taken a very great fancy to your new purchase, who, according to your account, is eminently qualified for the post. Why, you don't agree with me !" "Why, yes; I doubt not your highness would find him eminently qualified, and certainly few things would give me greater pleasure than offer- ing him for your acceptance ; but I got into such disgrace by that late affair of the Circassian, that — " " ! leave it to me, leave it to me," said the princess. " Certainly," said the physician, turning the conversation ; " and when the young King of Ka- rasme arrives at Bagdad, you can offer him to his majesty as a present." " Delightful ! and the king is really handsome and young as well as brave ; but has he any taste ]" " You have enough for both." " If he would but make war against the Greeks !" " Why so violent against the poor Greeks'!" " You know they are Giaours. Besides, they might beat him, and then I should have the plea- sure of being taken prisoner." " Delightful !" " Charming ! to see Constantinople and marry the emperor !" " Marry the emperor!" " To be sure. Of course he would fall in love with me." " Of course." " And then — and then, I might conquer Paris !" " Paris !" " Yon have been at Paris ]"* " Yes." " The men are shut up there," said the princess, with a sinile, " are they not ! and the women do what they like V " You will always do what you like," said Honain, rising. " You are going V " My visits must not be too long." " Farewell, dear Honain !" said the princess with a melancholy air. " You are the only person who has an idea in all Bagdad, and you leave me. * Paris was known to the orientals at this time as a city of considerable luxury aud importance. The embassy from Harouii Alraschid to Charlemagne at an earlier date, M of course recollected. 60 A miserable lot is mine, to feel every thing, and be nothing. These books and flowers, these sweet birds, and this fair gazelle — ah ! poets may feign as they please, but how cheerfully would I resign all these elegant consolations of a captive hfe for one hour of freedom. I wrote some verses on my- self yesterday ; take them, and get them blazoned for me bj' the finest scribe in the city ; letters of silver on a violet ground with a fine flowing border ; I leave the design to you. Adieu ! Come hither, mute." Alroy advanced to her beckon, and knelt. " There, take that rosary for thy master's sake, and those dark eyes of thine." The companions withdrew and reached their boat in silence. It was sunset. The musical and sonorous voice of the muezzin resounded from the innumerable minarets of the splendid city. Honain drew back the curtains of the barque. Bagdad rose before them in the huge masses of sumptuous dwellings, seated amid groves and gardens. An infinite population, summoned by the invigorating twilight, poured forth in all directions. The glow- ing river was covered with sparkling caiques, the glittering terraces with showy groups. Splendour, and power, and luxury, and beauty, were arrayed before them in their most captivating forms, and the heart of Alroy responded to their magnificence. " A glorious vision !" said the prince of the captivity. " Very different to Hamadan," said the physician of the caliph. "To-day I have seen wonders," said Alroy. " The world is opening to you," said Honain. Alroy did not reply ; but, after some minutes, he said, in a hesitating voice, " Who was that lady V " The Princess Schirene," replied Honain, " the favourite daughter of the caliph. Her mother was a Georgian and a Giaour." II. The moonlight fell upon the figure of Alroy lying on a couch ; his countenance was hidden in his arm. He was motionless, but did not sleep. He rose and paced the chamber with agitated steps ; sometimes he stopped, and gazed on the pavement, fixed in abstraction. He advanced to the window, and cooled his feverish brow in the midnight air. An hour passed away, and the young prince of the captivity remained fixed in the same position. Suddenly he turned, dashed to a tripod of porphyry, and seizing a rosary of jewels, pressed it to his lips. " The spirit of my dreams, she comes at last, the form for which I have sighed and wept, the form which rose upon my radiant vision when I shut my eyes against the jarring shadows of this gloomy world. " Schirene ! Schirene! here in this solitude I pour to thee the passion long stored up — the passion of my life, no common life, a life full of deep feeling and creative thought. O ! beautiful, O, more than beautiful, for thou to me art as a dream unbroken — why art thou not mine, why lose a moment in our glorious lives, and balk our des- tiny of half its bliss ? " Fool, fool, hast thou forgotten 1 The rapture of a prisoner in his cell, vvlio.se wild fancy for a moment belies his fetters ! The daughter of the caliph and a — Jew ! 2 ii2 474 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Give me my father's sceptre ! " A plague on talismans ! O ! I need no in- spiration but her memory, no magic but her name. By heavens, I'll enter this glorious city a conqueror, or I'll die, " Why, vvliat is life, for meditation mingles ever with my passion — why, what is life ! Throw ac- cidents to the dogs, and tear off the painted mask of false society ! Here am I a hero ; with a mind that can divise all things, and a heart of super- human daring, with youth, with vigour, with a glorious lineage, with a form that has made full many a lovely maiden of our tribe droop her fair head by Hamadan's sweet fount, and I am — nothing, " Out on society ; 'twas not made for me. I'll form my own, and be the deity I sometimes feel. " We make our fortunes and we call them fate. Thou saidst well, Honain. Most subtle Sadducce ! The saintly blood flowed in my father's veins, and they did nothing ; but I have an arm formed to wield a sceptre, and I will win one, " I cannot doubt my triumph. Triumph is a part of my existence. I am born for glory, as a tree is born to bear its fruit, or to expand its flowers. The deed is done. 'Tis thought of, and 'tis done. I'll confront the greatest of my diademed ancestors, and in his tomb. Mighty Solomon ! he weddcil Pharaoh's daughter. Hah ! what a future dawns upon my hope. An omen, a choice omen ! " Heaven and earth are mingling to form my fortunes. My mournful youth I have so often cursed, I hail thee — thou wert a glorious prepara- tion ; and when, feeling no sympathy with the lifa around me, I deemed myself a fool, I find I was a most peculiar being. By heavens, I am joyful ; for the first time in my life I am joyful. I could laugh, and fight, and drink. I am new-born ; I am another being; I am mad ! " ! time, great time, the world belies thy fame. It calls thee swift. Methinks thou art wondrous slow. Fly on, great time, and on thy coming wings bear me my sceptre ! " All is to be. It is a lowering thought. My fancy, like a bright and wearied bird, will sometimes flag and fall, and then I am lost. The young King of Karasme, a youthful hero ! Would he had been Alschiroch ! My heart is sick even at the very name. Alas ! my trials have not yet begun. Jabasler warned me ; good, sincere Jabaster ! His talisman presses on my frantic heart, and seems to warn me. I am in danger. Braggart to stand here, filling the careless air with idle words, while all is unaccomplished. I grow dull. The young King of Karasme ! Why, what am I compared to this same prince ] Nothing, but in my thoughts. In the full bazaar, they would not deem me worthy even to hold his stirrup or his slipper — O ! this contest, this constant, bitter, never-ending contest between my fortune and my fancy ! Why do I exist 1 or, if existing, why am I not recognised as I would be 1 " Sweet voice, that in Jabastcr's distant cave descended from thy holy home above, and whispered consolation, breathe again ! Again breathe thy still summons to my lonely ear, and chase away the thoughts that hover round me. Thoughts dark and doubtful, like fell birds of ])rey hovering round an expected hero s fall, and gloating on their triumph o'er the brave. There is something fiUal in these crowded cities. Faith flourishes in soUtude," He threw himself upon the couch, and, leaning down his head, seemed lost in meditation. He started up, and, seizing his tablets, wrote upon them these words : — " Honain, I have been the whole night like David in the wilderness of Ziph ; but, by the aid of the Lord, I have conquered. I fly from this dangerous city upon his business, which I have too much neglected. Attempt not to discover me, and accept my gratitude," PART YI. I, A sconcHixR sun, a blue and burning sky, on every side lofty ranges of black and barren moun- tains, dark ravines, deep caverns, unfathomable gorges ! A solitary being moved in the distance. Faint and toiling, a pilgrim slowly clambered up the steep and stony track. The sultiy hours moved on, the pilgrim at length gained the summit of the mountain, a small and rugged table-land strewn with huge masses of loose and heated rock. All around was desolation : no spring, no herbage ; the bird and the insect were alike mute. Yet still it was the summit ; no loftier peaks frowned in the distance; the pilgrim stopped, and breathed with more facility, and a faint smila played over his worn and solemn countenance. He rested a few minutes, he took from his wallet some locusts and wild honey, and a small skin of water. His meal was short as well as simple. An ardent desire to reach his place of destination before nightfall urged liim to proceed. He soon passed over the table-land, and commenced the descent of the mountain. A straggling olivo tree occasionally appeared, and then a group, and soon the groups swell into a grove. His way wound through the grateful and unaccustomed shade. He emerged from the grave, and founc^ that he had proceeded down more than half the side of the mountain. It ended precipitously in a very dark and narrow ravine, formed on the side by an opposite mountain; the lofty steep of which was crested by a city gently rising on a very gra- dual slope. Nothing could be conceived more barren, wild, and terrible, than the surrounding scenery, unillu- mincd by a single trace of culture. The city stood like the last gladiator in an amphitheatre of desola- tion. It was surrounded by a lofty turretcd wall, of an architecture to which the pilgrim was unac- customed : gates with drawbridge and portcullis, square towers, and loopholes for the archer. Sen- tinels, clothed in steel and shining in the sunset, paced, at regular intervals, the cautious wall, and on a lofty tower a standard waved, a snowy stan- dard, with a red, red cross I The ))rince of the captivity at length beheld the lost capital of his fathers.* * The finest view of Jerusalem is from the Mount of Olivea. It is little altered since the period when David Alroy is supposed to have gazed upon it, but it is enriched by the splendid mosque ol Omar, built by the Woslemin coniiuer ors on the supposed site of the temple, and which, wilh its gardens, and arcades, aud courts, and fountains, may fairly THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 475 11. A VT.w months back and such a spectacle would have called forth all the latent passion of Alroy ; but time and suflering, and sharp experience, had already somewhat curbed the fiery spirit of the He- brew prince. He gazed upon .Tci'usalem ; he beheld the city of David garrisoned by the puissant war- riors of Christendom, and threatened by the innu- merable armies of the crescent. The two great divisions of the world seemed contending for a prize, which he, a lonely wanderer, had crossed the desert to rescue. If his faith restrained him from doubting the possibility of his enterprise, he was at least deeply conscious that the v^'orld was a very dif- ferent existence to what he had fancied amid the gardens of Hamcdan and the rocks of Caucasus, and that if his purpose could be accomplished, it could only be effected by one means. Calm, per- haps somewhat depressed, but full of pious humi- liation, and not deserted by holy hope, he descended into Oie valley of Jehoshaphat, and so, slacking his thirst at Siloa, and mounting the opposite height, David Alroy entered Jerusalem by the gate of Sion.* He had been instructed that the quarter of his people was portioned near this entrance. He inquired the direction of the sentinel, who did not condescend to answer him. An old man in very shabby robes, who was passing, beckoned to him. " What want you, friend 1" inquired Alroy. ■ "You were asking for the quarter of our people. You nmst be a stranger indeed in Jerusalem, to suppose that a Frank would speak to a Jew. You were lucky to get neither kicked nor cursed." " Kicked and cursed ! Why, these dogs — " " Hush ! hush ! for the love of God," said his new companion, very much alarmed. " Have you lent money to their captain, that you speak thus 1 In Jerusalem our people speak only in a whisper." " No matter ; the cure is not by words. Where is our quarter 1" " Was the like ever seen ! Why, he speaks as if he were a Frank. I saved him from having his head broken by a guantlet, and — " " My friend, I am tired. Our quarter 1" " Whom may you want]" " The chief rabbi." " You bear letters to him 1" _ , "What is that to you 1" - " • '' Hush ! hush ! You don't know what Jerusa- lem is, young man. You must not think of going on in this way. Where do you come from!" " Bagdad." " Bagdad ! Jerusalem is not Bagdad. A Turk is a brute, but a Christian a demon." " But our quarter, our quarter V " Hush ! hush ! You want the chief rabbi V «Ay! ay!" ?' Rabbi Zimri 1" be tlescribed as the most imposing of Moslemin fanes. I eiiileavourpcl lo enter it at llie hazard of my life. I was detPCtPil, and surrounded by a crowd of turlmned fanatics, and escaped with difficulty; but I saw enough to feel that niinule inspection would not belie the general character I formed of it from the IMounl of Olives. I caught a glorious glimpse of splendid conns, and light airy gales of Saracenic triuMipli, flights of noble steps, long arcades, and interior gardens, where silvej fountains spouted their tall streams (iniid the taller cypress. • The gate of Sion still remains, and from it you descend aiio the valley of Siloa " It may be so. I neither know nor care." " Neither knows nor cares I This will never do , you must not go on in this way at Jerusalem. You must not think of it." " Fellow, I see thou art a miserable prattler. Show me to our quarter, and I will pay thee, well — or be off." " Be off! Art thou a Hebrew 1 to say ' be off' to any one. You come from Bagdad ! I'll tell you what — go back to Bagdad. You will never do for Jerusalem." " Your grizzled beard protects you. Old fool, I am a pilgrim just arrived, wearied beyond ex- pression, and you keep me here listening to your flat talk !" " Flat talk ! Why ! what would you 1" " Lead me to the Rabbi Zimri — if that be his name." " If that be his name ! Why, every one knows Rabbi Zimri, the chief rabb' of Jerusalem, the suc- cessor of Aaron. We have our temple yet, say what they like. A very learned doctor is Rabbi Zimri." " Wretched driveller. I am ashamed to lose my patience with such a dotard." "Driveller! dotard! Why, who are you 1" " One you cannot comprehend. Without another word, lead me to your chief." " Chief ! you have not far to go. I know no one of the nation who holds his head higher, than I do here, and they call me Zimri." " What, the chief rabbi — the very learned doc- tor !" " No less ; I thought you had heard of him." " Let us forget the past, good Zimri. When great men play the incognito they must sometimes hear rough phrases. It is the caliph's lot as well as yours. I am glad to make the acquaintance of so great a doctor. Though young, and roughly habited, I have seen the world a little, and may offer next Sabbath in the synagogue more dirhems than you would perhaps suppose. Good and learned Zimri, I would be your guest." " A very worshipful young man ! And he speaks low and soft now ! But it was lucky I was at hand. Good — what's your name 1" " David." " A very honest name — good David. It was lucky I was at hand when you spoke to the sentinel though. A Jew speak to a Frank, and a sentinel too ! Hah ! hah ! hah ! that is very good. How Rabbi Maimon will laugh ! Faith, it was very lucky, now, was it not 1" " Indeed, most fortunate." " Well, that is candid ! Here ! this way. 'Tis not far. We number few, sir, of our brethren here, but a better time will come — a better time will come." " I think so. This is your door V " An humble one. Jerusalem is not Bagdad, but you are welcome." III. " KixG PiHGAif Dicus* entered them,"said Rabbi Maimon ; " but no one since." ♦ According to a Talmudical story, however, of which I find a note, this monarch was not a Hebrew, but a Gentile, and a veiT wicked one. He once invited eleven famous doctors of the holy nation to supner. They were received in the most magnificent style, and were then invited, under paiu of death, either to eat pork, to accept a pagan mistress, 476 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. "And when did he live?" inquired Alroy. " His reign is recorded in the Talmud," answered Rabbi Zimri, " but in the Talmud there are no dates." " A long while ago ]" said A,lroy. " Since the captivity," ans«vered Rabbi Maimon. " I doubt that," said Rabbi Zimri, " or why should he be called king 1" " Was he of the house of David 1" said Alroy. " Without doubt," said Rabbi Maimon ; " he was one of our greatest kings, and conquered Julius Csesar."* " His kingdom was in the northernmost parts of Africa," said Rabbi Zimri, " and exists to this day, if we could hut tind it." " Ay, truly," added Rabbi Maimon, " the sceptre has never departed out of Judah ; and he rode al- ways upon a white elephant." " Covered with cloth of gold," added Rabbi Zimri. " And he visited the tombs of the kings V'j^ in- quired Alroy. " Without doubt," said Rabbi Maimon. " The whole account is in the Talmud." " And no one can now find them !" "No one," replied Rabbi Zimri : " but according to the learned Doctor Moses Hallevy, they are in a valley in the mountains of Lebanon, which was sealed up by the archangel Michael." " The illustrious Doctor Abarbanel, of Babylon," or to drink wine consecrated lo idols. Afler long congiilla- tion, the doctors, in great tribulation, agreed to savethpjr heads by accepting the last alternative, since the two first were forbidden by tlie law of iMoses, and llie last only liy the rabbin. The king assented, the doctors drank the impure wine, and, as it was exceedingly good, drank freely. The wine, as will sometimes happen, created a terrible ap- petite; the table was covered with dishes, and the doctors, heated by the grape, were not sufficiently careful of what they partook. In short, the wicked king Pirsandicus con- trived that they should sup off pork, and lleing carried from the table nuite tipsy, each of the eleven had the mor- tification of finding himself next morning in the arms of a pa^an mistress. In the course of the year all the eleven died sudden deaths; and this visitation occurred to them, not because Ihey had violated the law of Muses, but because they had believed that ilie precepts of the rabbin coulJbe outraged with more impunity than the word of God. *Thi3 classic hero often figures in the erratic pa" es of the Talmud. + The present pilgrim to Jerusalem will have less trouble than Alroy in discovering the tombs of the kings, though he probably would nut as easily obtain the sceptre of Solo- mon. The tomliS that bear this title are of the lime of the Asmonean princes, and of a moreambiiiuuscharacter than any other of the remains. An open court about fifty feet in breadth, and exn-emely deep, is excavated out of the rock. One side is furmed iiy a portico, tlie frieze of wliich is sculpuired in a goud Syro-Greek style. There is no grand portal ; you crawl into the tombs Ijy a small opening on one of the sides. There are a few small cliambers witit niches, recesses, and sarcophagi, some sculptured in the same flowing siyleas the frieze. This isthe most important monument at Jerusalem : and Dr. Clarke, who has lavished wonder and aduuration on llie tomtis of Zachariah and Aljsalum, has announced the tombs of the kings as one of the marvellous productions of anli(iuily. But tlie truth is, all that we speof artin Jerusalem is of the most mean and contemptible cliaracler, exhibiting not the slightest feeling for the beautiful or the grand, amf not for a inomenl lo be mentioned witli ilie creation of a neighbouring country. It is of course uul of the question to speak of the pyramids uf Memphis, and the obelisk of Heliopolis, the temples of Kariiak. and the palaces ofLuxoiir, the sigantic cavern fanes of Ipsambul, the imaginative l)endera,"and the refined Phila;; but it is not toomuch to say, that there are in many Egyptian towns, lo wliich the satiated traveller cannot spare a parting glance, more surprising mcmuments than in all Jerusalem together; ranges of painted sepulchres, in- finitely more striking from their exlent and beauty than the tombs of the kings; and relics of temples which must have cost more time and treasure than the whole valley of Jehoshaphat. said Rabbi Maimon, "gives one hundred and twenty reasons in his commentary on the Gemara to prove that they sunk under the earth at the taking of the temple." " No one reasons like Abarbanel of Babylon," said Rabbi Zimri. " The great Rabbi Akiba, of Pundcbita, has an- swered them all," said Rabbi Maimon, " and holds that they were taken up to heaven." " And which is right V inquired Rabbi Zimri. " Neither," said Rabhi Maimon, " One hundred and twenty reasons are strong proof," said Rabbi Zimri. " The most learned and illustrious Doctor Aaron Mendola, of Granada," said Rabbi Maimon, '' has shown that we must look for the tombs of the kings in the south of Spain." "All that Mendola writes is worth attention," said Rabbi Zimri. " Rabbi Hiilel,* of Samaria, is worth two Men- dolas any day," said Rabbi Maimon. " 'Tis a most learned doctor," said Rabbi Zimri ; " and what thinks he 1" " Hiilel proves that there are two tombs of the kings," said Rabbi Maimon, " and that neither of them are the right ones." " What a learned doctor !" exclaimed Rabbi Zimri. " And very satisfactory," remarked Alroy. " These are high subjects," continued Maimon, his blear eyes twinkling with complacency. "Your guest, Rabbi Zimri, must read the treatise of the learned Shimei, of Damascus, on ' Elfecting Im- possibilities.' " " That is a work !" exclaimed Zimri. " I never slept for three nights afler reading that work," said Rabbi Maimon. " It contains twelve thousand live hundred and thirty-seven quotations from the Pentateuch, and not a single original ob- servation." " There were giants in those days," said Zimri " we are children now." " The first chapter makes equal sense, read backward or forward," continued Rabbi Maimon. " Ichabod !" exclaimed Rabbi Zimri. " And the initial letter of every section is a cabalistical type of a king of Judah !" " The temple will yet be built," said Rabbi Zimri. " Ay, ay ! that is learning I" exclaimed Rabbi * " Rabbi Hiilel was one of the eminentest that ever was among the Jewish doctors, both for birth, learning, rule, and children. He was of the seed of Pavid by his moiher's side, being of the posterity of Shephaliah, tlie son of Aliilal, David's wife. He was brought up in Babel, I'rom whence he came up to Jerusalem "at forty years old. and there sludied the law forty years more under Shemaiah and Ab- talion, and after them he was president of the sanhedrim forty years more. The beginning of his presidency is generally concluded upon to have been just one hundred years before the temple was destroyed : Ijy which acotiimt he began eight-and-twenly years before our Saviour was born, and died when he was about twelvp years old. He is renowned for his fourscore scliolars." — Lighifoot, vol. ii. p. -2003. The great rival of Hiilel was Shammai. Their conlro- versies, and the fierceness of their partisans, are a princi ['al feature of rabl'inical history. They werp the same as) the Scotisls and Thomists. At last the Balli Kol interfered, and decided for Hiilel. but in a spirit of conciliatory dex- terity. " The Bath Kol came f irward and spake thus : — 'The words both of the one party and the other are the words of the living God, but the certain decision uf iha matter is according to the decrees of ihe school of Hiilel. K\\i\ from hencefurih, whoever shall transgress the deciee^ of the school of HHlel is guilty of death.' " THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 477 Maiinon ; " but what is the great treatise on Effect- ing Impossibilities to that profound, admirable, and " " Holy rabbi !" said a youthful reader of the synagogue, who now entered, "the hour is at hand." " You don't say so ! Learned Maimon, I must to the synagogue. I could sit here all day listen- ing to you. Come, David, the people await us." Zimri and Alroy quitted the house, and proceeded along the narrow hilly streets to the chief temple of the Hebrews. '• It grieves the venerable Maimon much that he cannot join us," said Rabbi Zimri. " You have doubtless heard of him at Bagdad ; a most learned doctor." Alroy bowed in silence. " He bears his years well. You would hardly believe that he was my master." " I perceive that you inherit much of his erudi- tion." " You are kind. If he have breathed one year, Rabbi Maimon will be a hundred and ten next Passover." " I doubt it not." " When he is gathered to his fathers, a great light will be extinguished in Israel. You wanted to know something about the tombs of the kings ; I told you he was your man. How full he was ! His mind, sir, is an egg." " A somewhat ancient one. I fear his guidance will hardly bring me the enviable fortune of King Pirgandicus." " Between ourselves, good David, talking of King Pirgandicus, I cannot help fancying that the learned Maimon made a slight mistake. I hold Pirgandi- cus was only a prince. It was after the captivity, and I know no authority for any of our rulers since the destruction, assuming a higher title. Clearly a prince, eh ] But, though I would whisper to no one but you, I think our worthy friend grows a little old. We should remember his years, sir. A hundred and ten, next Passover. 'Tis a great burden." " Ay ! with his learning added, a very fearful burden indeed !" "You have been a week in Jerusalem, and have not yet visited our synagogue. It is not of cedar and ivory, but it is still a temple. This way. Is it only a week that you have been here 1 Why, you look another man ! I shall never forget our first meeting : you did not know me. That was good, eh 1 And when I told you I was the chief Rabbi Zimri, how you changed ! You have quite re- gamed your appetite. Ah ! 'tis pleasant to mix once more with our own people. To the left. So ! we must descend a little. We hold our meetings in an ancient cemetery. You have a finer temple, I warrant me, in Bagdad. Jerusalem is not Bag- dad, but this has its conveniences. 'Tis safe, and we are not very rich, nor wish to seem so." IV. A LONG passage brought them to a number of small square low chambers leading into each other.* They were lighted by brass lamps, placed at inter- vals in vacant niches, that once held corpses, and * These excavated cemeteries which abound in Palestine and Egypt were often converted into places of worship by the Jews and early Christians. Sandys thus describes the synagogue at Jerusalem in his time. which were now soiled by the smoky flame. Be- tween two and three hundred individuals were assembled in these chambers, at first scarcely dis- tinguishable by those who descended from tho broad daylight : but by degrees the eyesight became accustomed to the dim and vaporous at- mosphere, and Alroy recognised in the final and more illumined chamber a high cedar cabinet, the type of the ark, and which held the sacred vessels, and the sanctified copy of the law. ''• Standing in lines, with their heads mystically covered,* the forlorn remnant of Israel, captives in their ancient city, avowed, in spite of all their suffering, their fidelity to their God, and notwith- standing all the bitterness of hope delayed, their faith in the fulfilment of his promises. Their simple service was completed, their prayers were read, their responses made, their law exhibited, and their charitable offerings announced by their high priest. After the service, the venerable Zimri, opening a volume of the Talmud, and fortified by the opinions of all these illustrious and learned doctors, the heroes of his erudite conversations with the aged Maimon, expounded the law to the congregation of the people, j- " It is written," said the rabbi, " ' Thou shalt have none other God but me.' Now know ye, what our father Abraham said when Nim rod ordered him to worship fire ] ' Why not water,' answered Abraham, ' which can put out fire 1 why not the clouds, which can pour forth water 1 why not the winds, which can produce clouds I why not God, which can create winds V " A murmur of approbation sounded throughout the congregation. " Eliezer," said Zimri, addressing himself to a young rabbi, " it is written, that He took a rib from Adam when he was asleep. Is God then a rob- ber ]" The young rabbi looked puzzled, and cast his eyes on the ground. The congregation was very perplexed and a little alarmed. " Is there no answer]" said Zimri. " Rabbi," said a stranger, a tall, swarthy African pilgrim, standing in a corner, and enveloped in a red mantle, over which a lamp threw a flickering light. " Rabbi, some robbers broke into my house last night, and stole an earthen pipkin, but they left a golden vase in its stead." " It is well said, it is well said," exclaimed the congregation. The applause was loud. " Learned Zimri," continued the African, " it is written in the Gemara, that there was a youth in Jerusalem who fell in love with a beautiful damsel, and she scorned him. And the youth was so stricken with his passion that he could not speak ; but when he beheld her, he looked at her implor- ingly, and she laughed. And one day the youth, not knowing what to do with himself, went out into the desert ; and towards night he returned home, but the gates of the city were shut. And he went down into the valley of Jehoshaphat, and entered the tomb of Absalom and slept ;:f: and ♦ The Hebrews cover their heads during their prayers with a sacred shawl. t The custom, I believe, even to the present day among the Hebrews, a remnant of llieir old academies, once so fa- mous. t In the vale of Jehoshaphat, amone many other tombs, are two of considerable size, and which, although of a corrupt Greciin architecture, are dignified by the titles o', tombs of Zachariah and Absalom. 478 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. he dreamed a dream : and next morning he came into the city smilinq^. And the maiden met him, and she said, 'Is that then; art thou a hiiighcr'?' And he answered, ' Behold, yesterday being dis- consolate, I went out of the city into the desert, and I returned home, and the gates of the city were shut, and I went down into the valley of Je- hoshaphat, and I entered the tomb of Absalom, and I slept, wid I dreamed a dream, and ever since then I hfwe laughed.' And the damsel said, ' Tell me thy dream.' And he answered and said, ' I may not tell my dream only to my wife, for it regards her honour.' And the maiden grew sad curious, and said, ' I am thy wife, tell me thy dream.' And straightforth they went and were married, and ever after they both laughed. Now, learned Zimri, what means this tale, an idle jest for a master of the law, yet it is written by the greatest doctor of the captivity 1" " It passeth my comprehension," said the chief rabbi. Rabbi EHezer was silent; the congregation groaned. " Now hear the interpretation," said the African. " The youth is our people, and the damsel is our lost Sion, and the tomb of Absalom proves that salvation can only come from the house of David. Dost thou hear this, young man ]" said the Afri- can, coming forward, and laying his hand on Alroy, " I speak to thee, because I have observed a deep attention in thy conduct." The prince of the captivity started, and shot a glance at the dark visage before him, hut the glance read nothing. The upper part of the countenance of the African was half concealed by masses of dark matted hair, and the lower by his uncouth robes. A flashing eye was its only characteristic, which darted forth like lightning out of a black cloud. " Is my attention the only reason that induces you to address me 1" inquired Alroy. "Who ever gave all his reasons?" replied the African with a laughing sneer. " I seek not to learn them. Suffice it, stranger, that how much soever you may mean, as much I can understand." " 'Tis well — learned Zimri, is this thy pupil ] I congratulate thee. I will match him against the hopeful Eliezer." So saying, the lofty African stalked out of the chamber. The assembly also broke up. Alroy would willingly have imme- diately followed the African, and held some further and more private conversation with him ; but some minutes elapsed, owing to the officious atten- tions of Zimri, before he could escape ; and when he did, his search after the stranger was vain. He inquired among the congregation, but no one knew the African. He was no man's guest, and no man's debtor, and apparently had never before been seen. The trumpet was soundmg to close the gates, as Alroy passed the Sion entrance. The tempta- tion was irresistible. He rushed out, and ran for more than one hundred yards without looking hack, and when he di'ould not have him eat unclean things with tlie Ishmaelites." " Lord, sir ! our people gather to him from all quarters. 'Tis said Jabaster, the great cabalist, has joined him from the mountains with ten thousand men." " The great Jabaster ! then there is some chance. I know Jabaster well. He is too wise to join a despe- rate cause. Art sure about Jabaster ? 'Tis a great namd, a very potent spirit. I have heard such things of that Jabaster, sir, would make you stare like Sau! before the spirit ! Only think of our David, Caleb, making all this noise ! I am full of hope. I feel not like a prisoner. He beat the harem guard, and now he has got Jabaster, he will beat them all." " The messenger told me he captured the harem only to free his uncle and his sister." " He ever loved me ; I have done my duty to him ; I think I have. Jabaster ! why, man, the name is a spell ! There are men at Bagdad who will get up in the night to join Jabaster. I hope David will follow his counsels in all things. I would I had seen his servant, I could have sent hira a message." " Lord, sir ! the Prince Alroy has no great need of counsellors, I can tell you. 'Tis said he bears the sceptre of great Solomon, which he himself ob- tained in the unknown tombs of Palestine." " The sceptre of Solomon ! — could I but believe it ! 'Tis an age of wonders ! Where are we ? Call for Miriam, I'll tell hor this. Only think of David — a mere child — our David with the sceptra of Solomon I and Jabaster too ! 1 have great faitk. The Lord confound liis enemies !" 2S 482 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. III. " Gextlt: Rachel, I fear I trouble you ; sweet Beruna, I thank you for your zeal. I am better now; the shock was great. These are strange tidings, maidens." " Yes, dear lady ! who would have thought of our brother turning out a captain?" "I am sure I always thought he was the quietest person in the world," said Beruna, " though he did kill Alschiroch." " One never could gel a word out of him," said Kachel. " He was always moping alone," said Beruna. " And when one spoke to him he always turned away," said Leah. " Or blushed," added Imra. " Well, for my part," said the beautiful Bath- sheba, "I always tliought Prince David was a genius. He had such beautiful eyes !" "I hope he will conquer Hassan," said Rachel. " So do I," said Beruna. " I vvonder what he has done with the harem," said Leah. " I don't think he will dare to speak to them," ^sgidlmra. " ' i' Ygjiare very much mistaken," said Bathsheba. "llark!" said Miriam. I-*-' Tis Hassan," said Bathsheba; " may he never rfniirn !" The wild drum of the Seljuks sounded, then a flourish of their fierce trumpets, and soon the tramp of horse. Behind the blinds of their chamber, Miriam and her maidens beheld the magnificent troop of turbaned horsemen, who, glittering with splendid armour and bright shawls, and proudly bounding on their fieiry steeds, now went forth to crush and conquer the only hope of Israel. Upon an Arab, darker than night, rode the superb Hassan, and as he passed the dwelling of his late prisoners, whether from the exulting anticipation of coming triumph, or from a soft suspicion that, behind that l;ittice, bright eyes and brilliant faces were gazing on his state, the haughty but handsome Seljuk flourished his cimeter over his head, as he threw liis managed steed into attitudes that developed, the skill of its rider. " He is handsomer than Alschiroch," said Ra- chel. " What a shawl !" said Beruna. " His cimeter was like lightning," said Leah. " And his steed like thunder," said Imra. " The evil eye fall on him !" said Bathsheba. "Lord, remember David !" said Miriam, " and all his afflictions!" IV. The deserted city of the wilderness presented a very different appearance to that which met the astonished gaze of Ahoy when he first beheld its noble turrets, and wandered in its silent streets of jialaces. Without the gates was pitched a numerous camp of those low black tents common among the Kourds and Turkmans ; the princi{)al street was full of busy groups engaged in all the preparations of warfare, and all the bustling expedients of an irregular and adventurous life ; steeds were stalled in ruined chambers, and tall camels raised their still visages among the clustering columns, or crouched in kneeling tranquillity amid fallen statues and pros- trate obelisks. Two months had scarcely elapsed since Alroy and Jabaster had sought Scherirah in his haunt, and announced to him their sacred mission. The callous heart of him, " whose mother was a Jewess," had yielded to their inspired annunciations. He embraced their cause with all the fervour of con- version, and his motley band were not long skeptical of a creed which, while it assuredly offered danger and adventure, held out the prospects of wealth and even empire. From the city of the wilderness the new Messiah sent forth his messengers to the neigh- bouring cities to announce his advent to his brethren in captivity. The Hebrews, a proud and stiff-necked race, ever prone to rebellion, received the an nouncement of their favourite prince with transport. The descendant of David, and the slayer of Alschi roch, had double claims upon their confidence and allegiance, and the flower of the Hebrew youth in the neighbouring cities of the caliphate repaired in crowds to pay their homage to the recovered sceptre of Solomon. The afliiir was at first treated by the government with contempt, and the sultan of the Seljuks con- tented himself with setting a price upon the head of the murderer of his brother ; but when several cities had been placed under contribution, and more than one Moslemin caravan stopped and plundered in the name of the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, orders were despatched from Bagdad to the new Governor of Hamadan, Hassan Subah, to suppress the robbers, or the rebels, and to send David Alroy dead or alive to the capital. The Hebrew malcontents were well apprized bj' their less adventurous, but still sj^mpathizing breth- ren, of every thing that took place at the head- quarters of the enemy. Spies arrived on the same day at the city of the wilderness, who informed Alroy that his uncle was thrown into a dungeon at Hamadan, and that a body of chosen troops were about to escort a royal harem of Bagdad into Persia. Alroy attacked the escort in person, utterly dis- comfited them, and captured their charge. It proved to be the harem of the Governor of Hama- dan, and if, for a moment, the too sanguine fancy of the captor experienced a passing pang of disap- pointment, the prize at least obtained, as we have seen, the freedom and security of his dear, though distant friends. This exploit precipitated the expe- dition which was preparing at Hamadan for his de- struction. The enraged Hassan Subah started from his divan, seized his cimeter, and without waiting for the auxiliaries he had summoned from the neighbouring chieftains, called to horse, and at the head of two thousand of the splendid Seljukian cavalry, hurried to vindicate his love, and satiate his revenge. Within the amphitheatre which he first entered as a prisoner, Alroy sat in council. On his right was Jabaster ; Scherirah on his left. A youth, lit- tle his senior, but tall as a palm tree, and strong as a young lion, was the fourth captain. In the dis- tance, some standing, some reclining, were about fifty men completely anned. "Are the people numbered, Abner 1" inquired Alroy of the youth. " Even so ; three hundred effective horsemen, and two thousand footmen; but the footmen lack arms." THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 483 " The Lord will send them in good time," said .Tabaster, " meanwhile let them continue to make yivelins." " Trust in the Lord," murmured Scherirah, bend- ing his head, with his eyes fixed on the ground. A loud shout was heard throughout the city. Alroy started from his carpet. The messenger had returned. Pale and haggard, covered with sweat and sand, the faithful envoy was borne into the amphitheatre almost upon the shoulders of the peo- ple. In vain the guard endeavoured to stem the passage of the multitude. They clambered up the tiers of arches, they filled the void and crumbling seats of the antique circus, they supported them- selves upon each other's shoulders, they clung to the capitals of the lofty columns. The whole multi- tude had assembled to hear the intelligence ; the scene recalled the ancient purpose of the building, and Alroy and his fellow-warriors seemed like the gladiators of some old spectacle. " Speak," said Alroy, " speak the worst. No news can be bitter to those whom the Lord will avenge." " Ruler of Israel ! thus saith Hassan Subah," answered the messenger ; " My harem shall owe their freedom to nothing but my sword. I treat not with rebels, but I war not with age or woman ; and between Bostenay and his household on one side, and the prisoners of thy master on the other, let there be peace. Go tell Alroy, I will seal it in his best blood. And lo ! thy uncle and thy sister ere again in their palace." Alroy placed his hand for a moment to his eyes, and then instantly resuming his self-possession, he inquired as to the movements of the enemy. " I have crossed the desert on a swift dromedary* lent to me by Shelomi of the Gate, whose heart is with our cause, I have not tarried, neither have I slept. Ere to-morrow's sunset, the Philistines will be here, led by Hassan Subah himself. The Lord of Hosts be with us ! Since we conquered Canaan, Israel hath not struggled with such a power !" A murmur ran through the assembly. Men exchanged inquiring glances, and involuntarily pressed each other's arms. " The trial has come," said a middle-aged He- brew, who had fought twenty years ago with Ja- baster. " Let me die for the ark !" said a yomig enthusi- ast of the band of Abncr. " I thought we should get into a scrape," whis- pered Kisloch, the Kourd, to Calidas, the Indian. " What could have ever induced us to give up robbing in a quiet manner 1" " And turn Jews !" said the Guebre, with a sneer. " Look at Scherirah," said the Negro, grinning. " If he is not kissing the sceptre of Solomon !" " I wish to heaven he had only hung Alroy the first time he met him," said Calidas. "Sons of the Covenant!" exclaimed Alroy, "the Lord hath delivered them into our hands. To-morrow eve we march to Hamadan !" A cheer followed this exclamation. " It is written," said Jabaster, opening a volume, •" Lo ! I will defend this city, to save it, for mine own sake, and for my servant David's sake. " ' And it came to pass that night, that the angel of the Lord went out and smote in the camp of the * The difference between a camel and a dromedary is the difference between a hack and a Ihorough-bred horse, ere is no other. Assyrians, an hundred fourscore and five thousand . and when they arose early in the morning, behold ! they were all dead corpses.' " Now, as I was gazing upon the stars this morn, leading that celestial alphabet* known to the true cabalist, behold ! the star of the house of David and seven other stars moved and met together, and formed into a circle. And the word they formed was a mystery to me ; but lo ! I have opened the book, and each star is the initial letter of each line of the targum that I have now read to you. There- fore the fate of Sennacherib is the fate of Hassan Subah! " Trust in him at all times, ye people ; pour out your heart before him : Gud is a refuge for us. Se- lah .'" Suddenly a female form appeared upon the very top of the amphitheatre, upon the slight remains of the uppermost tier, of which a solitary arch alone was left. The chorus instantly died away, every tongue was silent, every eye fixed. Hushed, mute, and immovable, even Kisloch and his companions were appalled as they gazed upon Esther the pro- phetess. Her eminent position, her imposing action, the flashing of her immense eyes, her beautiful but awful countenance, her black hair, that hung al- most lo her knees, and the white light of the moon, just rising over the opposite side of the amphithea- tre, and which threw a silvery flash upon her form, and seemed to invest her with some miraculous emanation, while all beneath her were in deep gloom, all these circumstances combined, rendered her an object of universal interest and attention, while in a powerful, but very high voice, she thus addressed them. " They come, they come ! But will they go ] Lo ! hear ye this, O house of Jacob, which are called by the name of Israel, and are come forth out of the waters of Judah ! I hear their drum in the desert, and the voice of their trumpets is like the wind of eve, but a decree hath gone forth, and it says, that a mortal shall be more precious than fine gold, yea, a man than the rich ore of Ophir, "They come, they come! But will they go? I see the flash of their cimeters, I mark the pranc- ing of their cruel steeds ■ but a decree hath gone forth, and it says, a gleaning shall be left among them, as in the shaking of the olive tree; two or three berries on the top of the uppermost bough ; four or five on the straggling branches. " They come, they come ! But will they go ? Lo ! a decree hath gone forth, and it says, Hama- dan shall be to thee for a spoil, and desolation shall fall upon Babylon. And there shall the wild beasts of the desert lodge, and howling monsters shall fill their houses, and there shall the daughters of the ostrich dwell, and there .shall the screech-owl pitch her tent, and there shall the night-raven lay her eggs, and there shall the satyrs hold their revels, and wolves shall howl to one another in their pala- ces, and dragons in their voluptuous pavilions. Her time is near at hand, her days shall not be prolonged, the reed and the lotus shall wither in her rivers, and the meadows by her canals shall he as the sands of the desert. For is it a light thing that the Lord should send his servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob, and to restore the preserved of * See a former note* 484 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. Israel ? Sing, heavens, and be joyful, O earth, and break forth into singing, O mountains, for the Lord hath comforted his people, and will have mercy upon his afflicted I" She ceased, she descended the precipitous side of the amphitheatre, with rapid steps, vaulting from tier to tier, and bounding with wonderful agility from one mass of ruin to another. At length she reached the level ; and then, foaming and panting, she rushed to Alroy, threw herself upon the ground, embraced his feet, and wiped ofl' the dust from his sandals with her hair. The assembly broke into long and loud acclama- tions of supernatural confidence, and sanguine en- thusiasm. They beheld their Messiah wave his miraculous sceptre. They thought of Hassan Su- bah and his Scljuks only as of victims, and of to- moiTow only as of a day which was to commence a new era of triumph, freedom and empire ! Hassan Suuaii, after five days of forced marches, pitched his sumptuous pavilion in that beautiful oasis, which had afforded such delightful refresh- ment to Alroy when a solitary pilgrim. Around, for nearly half a mile, were the tents of his war- I riors, and of the numerous caravans that had accom- ' panicd him, laden with water and provisions for his troops. Here, while he reposed, he also sought in- formation as to the position of his enemy. A party of observation, which he had immediate- ly despatched, returned almost instantly with a small caravan that had been recently plundered by the robbers. The merchant, a venerable and pious Moslcmin, was ushered into the presence of the governor of Hamadan. "From the robbers" haunt 1" inquired Hassan. " Unfortunately so," answered the merchant. "Is it farl" " A day's journey." " And you quitted iti" " Yesterday morn." " What is their force ]" The merchant hesitated. " Do they not make prisoners ?" inquired the governor, casting a scrutinizing glance at his com- panion. " Holy prophet ! what a miserable wretch am I!" exclaimed the venerable merchant, bursting in- to tears. " A faithful subject of the caliph, I am obliged to serve rebels — a devout Moslemin, I am forced to aid Jews ! Order me to be hanged at once, my lord," continued the unfortunate mer- chant, wringing his hands. " Order me to be hanged at once. I have lived long enough." "What is all this]" inquired Hassan ; "speak, friend, without fear." " I am a faithful subject of the caliph," answer- ed the merchant : " I am a devout Moslemin, but I have lost ten thousand dirhems." " I am sorry for you, sir ; I also have lost some- thing, but my losses are nothing to you, nor yours to me." " Accursed be the hour when these dogs tempt- ed me ! Tell me, is it a sin to break faith with a Jew 1" " On the contrary, I could find you many reve- rend mollahs, who will tell you that such a breach IS the highest virtue. Come, come, I see how it is : you have received your freedom on condition of not betraying your merciful plunderers. Promises exacted by terror are the bugbears of fools. Speak, man, all you know. Where are they 1 What is their force 1 Are we supposed at hand V " I am a faithful subject of the caliph, and I am bound to serve him," replied the merchant ; " I am a devout Moslcmin, and 'tis my duty to destroy all Giaours, but I am also a man, and I must look af- ter my own interest. Noble governor, the long and the short is, these scoundrels have robbed me of ten thousand dirhems, as my slaves will tell you ; at least, goods to that amount. No one can prove that they be worth less. It is true that I include in that calculation the fifty per cent. I was to make on my shawls at Hamadan, but still to me it is as good as ten thousand dirhems. Ask my slaves if such an assortment of shawls was ever yet be- held." " To the point, to the point. The robbers 1" " I am at the point. The shawls is the point. For when I talked of the shawls and the heavi- ness of my loss, you must know that the captain of the robbers — " " Alroy ]" " A very fierce young gentleman ; I don't know how they call him. Says the captain to me, ' Mer- chant, you look gloomy.' ' Gloomy,' says I, ' you would look gloomy if you were a prisoner, and had lost ten thousand dirhems.' ' What, is this trash worth ten thousand dirhems V says he. ' With the fifty per cent. I was to make at Hamadan,' says I. ' Fifty per cent,' says he, ' you are an old knave.' ' Knave,' said I, ' I should like to hear any one call me a knave at Bagdad.' ' Well, knave or not,' says he, ' you may get out of this scrape.' ' How V says I. ' Why you are a very respectable looking man,' says he, ' and are a good Moslemin into the bar- gain, I warrant.' ' That I am,' says I ' although you be a Jew : but how the faith is to serve me here I am sure I do not know, unless the angel Gabriel, as in the fifty-fifth verse of the twenty- seventh chapter of the Koran — ' " " Hush, hush, hush !" exclaimed Hassan ; " to the point ! — to the point !" " I always am at the point, only you put me out However, to make it as short as possible, the cap- tain knows all about your coming, and is fright- ened out of his wits, although he did talk big ; I could easily see that. And he let me go, you see, with some of my slaves, and gave me an order for five thousand dirhems on one Bostcnay, of Hama- dan, (perhaps you know him, I don't ; is he a good man ?) on condition that I would fall in with you, and, Mohammed forgive me, tell you a lie !" " A lie !" • " Yes ! a lie ; but these Jewish dogs don't un- derstand what a truly rehgious man is, and when I began to tell the lie, I was soon put out. Now, noble Hassan, if a promise to a Jew be not bind- ing on a true believer, and you will see me straight with the five thousand dirhems, I will betray every thing at once. " Be easy about the five thousand dirhems, good man, and tell me all." " You will see mc paid ?" " My honour upon it." " 'Tis well ! Know then, the infamous dogs are very weak, and terrified at the news of your progress : one, whom I think they call Jabaster, has departed with the great majority of the people into the interior of the desert, about seven hua THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 485 tired strong. I heard so ; but mind, I don't know it. The young man, whom you call Alroy, being wounded in a recent conflict, could not depart with them, but remains among the ruins with some female prisoners, some treasure, and about a hun- dred companions hidden in sepulchres. He gave me m}^ freedom on condition I fell in with you, and assured you that the dogs, full five thousand strong, had given you the go by in the night, and marched towards Hamadan. They wanted me to frighten you ; it was a lie, and I could not tell it. And now you know the plain truth ; and if it be a sin to break faith with an infidel, you are respon- sible for it, as well as for the five thousand dirhenis, which, by-the-by, ought to have been ten." " Where is your order 1" " 'Tis here," said the merchant, drawing it from liis vest, " a very business-like document, drawn upon one Bostenay, whom they described as very rich, and who is here enjoined to pay me five thousand dirhems, if, in consequence of my infor- mation, Hassan Subah, that is, yourself, return forthwith to Hamadan without attacldng them." " Old Bostenay 's head shall answer for this." " I'm glad of it. But were I you, I would make him pay me first." " Merchant," said Hassan, " have vou any ob- jection to pay another visit to your friend Alroy ]" " Allah forbid !" " In my company ]" " That makes a dilference.' " Be our guide. The diihems shall he doubled." " That will make up for the fifty per cent. I hardly like it ; but in your company, that makes a difference. Lose no time. If you push on, Alroy must be captured. Now or never ! The Jewisli dogs, to rifle a true believer !" " Oglu," said Hassan to one of his officers. " To horse ! You need not strike the tents. Can we reach the city by sunset, merchant V " An hour before, if you be off at once." " Sound the drums. To horse, to horse !" VI. Thf, Seljuks halted before the walls of the, de- serted city. Their commander ordered a detach- ment to enter and reconnoitre. They returned and reported its apparent desolation. Hassan Su- bah, then directing that a guard should surround the walls to prevent any of the enemy from es- caping, passed with his warriors through the vast portal into the silent street. The still magnificence of the strange and splen- did scene influenced the temper even of this ferocious cavalry. They gazed around them with awe and admiration. The fierceness of their visages was softened, the ardour of their impulse stilled. A supernatural feeling of repose stole over their senses. No one brandished his cimeter, the fiery courser seemed as subdued as his lord, and no sound was heard but the melanchol3^ mechanical tramp of the disciplined march, unrelieved by martial music, inviolate by oath or jest, and unbroken even by the ostentatious caracoling of any showy steed. It was sunset : the star of eve glittered over the white Ionian fane that rose serene and delicate in the flashing and purple sky. " This way, my lord," said the merchant guide, turning round to Hassan Subah, who, surrounded Dy his officers, led the van. The whole of the great way of the city was filled v/ith the Seljukian warriors. Their ebon steeds, their snowy turbans, adorned with plumes of tlie black eagle and the red heron, their dazzling shawls, the blaze of their ar- mour in the sunset, and the long undulating per- spective of beautiful forms and brilliant colours, — this regiment of heroes in a street of palaces, — war had seldom afforded a more imposing, or a more picturesque spectacle. " This way, my lord," said the merchant, point- ing to the naiTow turning that, at the foot of the temple, led, through ruined streets, to the amphi- tlieatre. " Halt !" exclaimed a wild, shrill voice. Each warrior suddenly arrested his horse. " Who spoke V exclaimed Hassan Subah. " 1 1" answered a voice. A female form stood in the portico of the temple, with uplifted arras, "And who art tlioul" inquired Hassan Subah, not a little disconcerted. " Thy evil genius, Seljuk !" Hassan Subah, pale as his ivory battle-axe, did not answer ; every man within hearing shuddered ,• still the dread woman remained immovable within the porch of the temple. " Woman, witch, or goddess," at length ex- claimed Hassan Subah, " what wouldst thou here ?" "Seljuk ! behold this star. 'Tis a single drop of light, yet who even of thy wild band can look upon it without awe. And yet thou, worse than Sisera, thou comc^st to combat agaiufrt those, foe whom even ' the stars in courses fought.' " " A Jewish witch !" exclaimed the Seljuk. " A .lewish witch ! Be it so ; behold then my spell falls upon thee, and that spell is Destruction. " Awake, awake, Deborah; awake, awake, uttei a song ; arise, Barak, and lead thy captivity captive, thou son of Abinoam !" Immediately the sk}' appeared to darken, a cloud of arrows and javelins broke from all sides upon the devoted Seljuks: immense masses of stone and marble were hurled from all directions, horses were stabbed by spears impelled by invisible hands, and riders foil to the ground without a struggle, and were trampled upon by their disordered and af- frighted brethren. " We are betrayed," exclaimed Hassan Subah, hurling a javelin at the merchant, but the mer- chant was gone. The Seljuks raised their famous war-(rry. " Oglu, regain the desert," ordered the chieftain. But no sooner had the guard without the walls heard the war-cry of their companions, than, alarm- ed for their safety, they rushed to their assistance. The retreating forces of Subah, each instant di- minishing as they retreated, were baffled in their project by the very eagerness of their auxiliaries. The unwilling contention of the two parties in- creased the confusion ; and when the Seljuks, recently arrived, having at length formed into some order, had regained the gate, they found to their dismay that the portal was barricadoed and garri- soned by the enemy. Uninspired by the presence of their commander, who was in the rear, the puzzled soldiers were seized with a panic, and, spurring their horses, dispersed in all directions of the city. In vain Hassan Subah endeavoured to recall order. The moment was past. Dashmg with about thirty men to an open ground, which his quick eye had observed in his progress dowr: the street, and dealing destruction with every blow 486 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. the dreaded Governor of Hamadan, like a true sol- dier, awaited an inevitable fate, not wholly despe- rate that some ehance might yet turn up to extri- cate him from his forlorn situation. j And now, as it were by enchantment, wild armed men seemed to arise from every part of the city. From every mass of ruin, from every crumbling temple and mouldering mansion, from every cata- comb and cellar, from behind every column and every obelisk, upstarted some desperate warrior with a bloody weapon. The massacre of the Scl- juks was universal. The horsemen dashed wildly about the ruined streets, pursued by crowds of foot- men ; sometimes formed in small companies, the Seljuks frequently charged and fought desperately ; but however stout might be their resistance to the open foe, it was impossible to withstand their secret enemies. They had no place of refuge, no power of gaining even a moment's breathing time. If they retreated to a wall, it instantly bristled with spears; if they endeavoured to form in a court, they sank under the falling masses which were showered upon them from all directions. Strange shouts of denunciation blended with the harsh crving of horns, and the clang and clash of cym- bals and tambours sounded in every quarter of the city. " If we could only mount the walls, Ibrahim, and leap into the desert," exclaimed Hassan Su- bah to one of his few remaining comrades. " 'Tis our only chance. We die here like dogs ! Could 'I but meet Alroy !" Three of the Seljuks dashed swiftly across the open ground in front, followed by several Hebrew horsemen. " Smite all, Abner. Spare none, remember Ama- lek!" exclaimed their youthful leader, waving his bloody cimeter. " They are down, — one, two, — there goes the third. My javelin has done for him." " Your horse bleeds freely. Where's Jabaster 1" " At the gates : my arm aches with slaughter. The Lord hath delivered them into our hands. Could I but meet their chieftain !" " Turn, bloodhound, he is here," exclaimed Has- san Subah. " Away, Abner, this affair is mine." " Prince, you have already slain your thousands." " And Abner his tens of thousands. Is it so 1 This business is for me only. Come on, Turk." " Art thou Alroy 1" " The same." " The slayer of Alschiroch 1" " Even so." " A rebel and a murderer." What you please. Look to yourself." The Hebrew prince flung a javelin at the Seljuk. It glanced from the breast-plate ; but Hassan Subah stasgered in his seat. Recovering, he charged Alroy with great force. Their cimeters crossed, and the blade of Hassan shivered. " He who sold me that blade, told me it was charmed, and could be broken only by a caliph," said Hassan Su'oali. " He was a liar!" "As it may he," said Alroy, and he cut the Seljuk to the ground. Abner had dispersed his comrades. Alroy leaped from his fainting steed, and mounting the ebon courser of his late enemy, dashed again into the thickest of the fight. The shades of night descended, the clamour gradually decreased, tlie struggle died away. A few unhappy Moslemin, who had quitted their saddles and sought concealmeni among the ruins, werfi occasionally hunted out, and brought forward and massacred. Long ere midnight the last of the Seljuks had expired.* The moon shed a broad light upon the street of palaces crowded with the accumulated slain and the living victors. Fires were lit, torches illumined, the conquerors prepared the eager meal as they sang hymns of praise and thanksgiving. A procession approached. Esther, the prophetess, clashing her cymbals, danced before the Messiah of Israel, who leaned upon his victorious cimeter, sur- rounded by Jabaster, Abner, Scherirah and his chosen chieftains. Who could now dcibt the validity of his mission 1 The wide and silent desert rang with the acclamations of his enthusiastic vota- VII. Hkavily the anxious hours crept on in the Jewish quarter of Hamadan. Again and again the venerable Bostenay discussed the chances of success with the sympathizing but desponding ciders. Miri- am was buried in constant prayer. Their most sanguine hopes did not extend beyond the escape of their prince. A fortnight had elapsed, and no news had been received of the progress of the expedition, when suddenly towards sunset, a sentinel on a watch- tower announced the appearance of an armed force in the distance. The walls were instantly lined with the anxious inhabitants, the streets and squares fdled with curious crowds. Exultation sat on the triunijihant brow of the Moslemin : a cold tremor stole over the fluttering heart of the Hebrew. " There is but one God," said the captain of the gate. " And Mohammed is his prophet," responded a sentinel. " To-morrow we will cut off the noses of all these Jewish dogs." " The sceptre has departed,'' exclaimed the de- spairing Bostenay. " Lord, remember David !" whispered Miriam, as she threw herself upon the court of the palace, and buried her face in ashes. The mollahs in solemn procession advanced to the ramparts to shed their benediction on the victo- rious Hassan Subah. The muezzin ascended the minarets to watch the setting sun, and proclaim the power of Allah with renevred enthusiasm. " I wonder if Alroy be dead or alive," said the captain of the gate. " If he be alive, he will be impaled," responded a sentinel. " If dead, the carcass will be given to the dogs," rejoined the captain ; " that is the practice." " Bostenay will be hung," said the sentinel. " And his niece, too," answered the captain. " Hem !" said the sentinel. " Hassan Subah loves a black eye." " I hope a true Moslemin will not touch a Jewess," exclaimed an hidignant black eunuch. * The orientals are famous for their massacres : that »f the IMamlouk by the present Pasha of Egypt, and of the Janissaries by the sullan, are notorious. Rut one of the most territ'le, anil etfected under the most diflicult and dan serous circumstances, was the massacre of the AUianian beys liy the present grand vizier in the autumn of 1830. 1 was in Albania at the lirae. THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 487 " They approach. What a dust !" said the cap- tain of the gate. " I see Hassan Subah !" said the sentinel. " So do I," said the eanuch, " I know his black horse." " I wonder how many dirhcras old Bostenay is worth," said the captain. " Immense !" said the sentinel. " No plunder, I suppose V said the eunuch. " We shall see," said the captain ; " at any rate, I owe a thousand to old Shelomi. We need not pay now, you know." " Certainly not," said the black eunuch. " The rebels !" A body of horsemen dashed forward. Their leader in advance reined in his fiery charger be- neath the walls. "In the name of the prophet, who is thatl" ex- claimed the captain of the gate, a little confused. '' I never saw him before," said the sentinel, " although he is in the Seljuk dress. 'Tis some one from Bagdad, I guess." A trumpet sounded. " Who keeps the gate 1" called out the warrior. '' I am the captain of the gate," answered our friend. " Open it then to the King of Israel." " To whom 1" inquired the astonished captain. " To King David. The Lord hath delivered Hassan Subah and his host into our hands, and of all thy proud Seljuks none remaineth. Open thy gates, I say, and lose no time. I am Jabaster, a lieutenant of the Lord ; this cimeter is my commis- eion. Open thy gates, and thou and thy people shall have that mercy which they have never shown ; but if thou delayest one instant, thus saith the king, our master — ' I will burst open your portal, and emite, and utterly destroy all that you have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.'" " Call forth the venerable Lord Bostenay," said the captain of the gate, with chattering teeth. " He will intercede for us." " And the gentle Lady Miriam," said the sentinel. " She is ever charitable." " I will head the procession," said the black eunuch ; " I am accustomed to women." The procession of mollahs shuffled back to their college with most profane precipitation ; the sun set, and the astounded muezzin stood with their mouths open, and quite forgot to announce the power of their deity, and the validity of their prophet. The people all called out for the venerable Lord Bostenay and the gentle Lady Miriam, and ran in crowds to see who could first kiss die hem of their garments. The principal gate of Hamadan opened into the square of the great mosque. Here the whole popu- lation of the city appeared assembled. The gates were thrown open ; Jabaster and his companions mounted guard. The short twilight died away, the shades of night descended. The minarets were illumined,* the houses hung with garlands, the ramparts covered with tapestiy and carpets. A clang of drums, trumpets, and cymbals an- nounced the arrival of the Hebrew army. The people shouted, the troops without responded with * So, I remember, at Constanlinople, at the coQimence- ment of 1S31, ai ihe departure of the Mecca caravan, and also at the annual feasi of Ramadan. a long cheer of triumph. Amid the blaze of torches a youth, waving his cimeter, upon a coal-black steed, bounded into the city, at the head of his guards. The people fell upon their knees, and shouted, " Long five Alroy !" A venerable man, leading a beauteous maiden, with downcast eyes, advanced. They headed a deputation of the chief inhabitants of the city. They came to solicit mercy and protection. At their sight the youthful warrior leaped from his horse, flung away his cimeter, and clasping the maiden in his arms, e.Kclaimed, " Miriam, my sister, this, this indeed is triumph !" VHL "DRi?fK," said Kisloch the Kourd, to Calidas the Indian ; " you forget, comrade, we are no longer Moslemin." " Wine, methinks, has a peculiarly pleasant flavour in a golden cup," said the Guebre. " I got this little trifle to-day in the bazaar," he added, holding up a magnificent vase studded with gems. " I thought plunder was forbidden," grinned the negro. " So it is," replied the Guebre : " but we may purchase what we please — upon credit." " Well, for my part, I am a moderate man," ex- claimed Calidas the Indian, " and would not injure even those accursed dogs of Turks. I have not cut my host's throat, but only turned him into my por- ter, and content myself with his harem, his baths, his fine horses, and other little trifles." " What quarters we are in I there is nothing like a true Messiah!" exclaimed Kisloch, very devoutly. " Nothing," said Calidas ; " though, to speak truth, I did not much believe in the efllcacy of Solomon's sceptre, till his majesty clove the head of the valiant Seljuk with it." " But now there's no doubt of it !" said the Guebre. " We should indeed be infidels if we doubted now," replied the Indian. " How lucky," grinned the negro, " as I had no religion before, that I have now fixed upon the right one!" " Most fortunate !" said the Guebre. " What shall we do to amuse ourselves to-night?" " Let's go to the coffee-house and make the Turks drink wine," said Calidas the Indian. " What say you to burning down a mosque l" said Kisloch the Kourd. " I had great fun with some dervishes this morn- ing," said the Guebre. " I met one asking alms with a wire run through his cheek,* so I caught another, bored his nose, and tied them both together!" " Hah ! hah ! hah 1" burst the negro. IX. Asia resounded with the insurrection of the Jews, and the massacre of the Seljuks. Crowds of Hebrews, from the rich cities of Persia, and the populous settlements on the Tigris and the Eu- phrates, hourly poured into Hamadan. The irritated Moslemin persecuted the brethren of the successful rebel, and this impolicy precipitated * Not uncommon. These dervishes fr jquent the bazaars 488 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. their flight. The wcahh of Bagdad flowed into the Hebrew capital. Seated on the divan of Hassan Subah, and wielihngthe sceptre of Solomon, the King of Israel received the homage of his de- voted subjects, and despatched his envoys to Syria and to Egypt. The well-stored magazines and arsenals of Hamadan soon converted the pilgrims into warriors. The city was unable to accommo- date the increased and increasing population. An extensive camp, under the command of Abncr, was formed without the walls, where the troops were daily disciplined, and where they were prepared for greater exploits than a skirmish in the desert. Within a month after the surrender of Hamadan, the congregation of the people assembled in the square of the great mosque, now converted into a synagogue. The multitude was disposed in ordered ranks, and the terrace of every house was crowded. In the centre of the square was an immense altar of cedar and brass, and on each side stood a com- pany of priests, guarding the victims, one young bullock and two rams without blemish. Amid the flourish of trumpets, the gates of the sj-nagogue opened, and displayed to the wondering eyes of the Hebrews a vast and variegated pavilion, planted in the court. The holy remnant, no longer forlorn, beheld that tabernacle, of which they had so long dreamed, once more shining in the sun, with its purple and scarlet hangings, its curtains of rare skins, and its furniture of silver and of gold. A procession of priests advanced, bearing, with staves of cedar, run through rings of gold, a gor- geous ark, the work of the most cunning artificers of Persia. Night and day had they laboured, under the direction of Jabaster, to profluce this wondrous spectacle. Once more the children of Israel beheld tlie chernbim. They burst into a triumphant hymn of thanksgiving, and many drew their swords, and cried aloud to be led against the Canaanites. From the mysterious curtains of the tabernacle, Alroy came forward, leading Jabaster. They ap- proached the altar. And Alroy took robes from the surrounding priests, and put them upon Jabas- ter, and a girdle, and a breastplate of jewels. And Alroy took a mitre, and placed it upon the head of Jabaster, and upon the mitre he placed a crown ; and, pouring oil upon his head, the pupil anointed the master, high priest of Israel. The victims were slain, the sin-offerings burnt. Amid clouds of incense, bursts of music, and the shouts of a devoted people ; amid odour, and melody, and enthusiasm, Alroy mounted his charger, and at the head of twenty thousand men, departed to conquer Media. X. The extensive and important province of Ader- bijan, of which Hamadan was the capital, was formed of the ancient Media. Its fate was decided ny one battle. On the plain of Nehauend, Alroy met the hastily-raised levies of the Atabek of Kcr- manshah, and entirely routed them. In the course of a month, every city of the province had acknow- ledged the sujjremacyof the new Hebrew monarch, and, leaving Abncr to complete the conquest of Louristan, Alroy entered Persia. The incredible and irresistible progress of Alroy routed 'I'n.^rul, the Turkish Sultan of Persia, from the luxurious indolence of the palaces of Nishabur. He summoned his emirs to meet him at the im- perial city of Rhey, and crush, by one overwhelm- ing effort, the insolent rebel. Religion, valour, and genius alike inspired the arms of Alroy, but he was, doubtless, not a little assisted by the strong national sympathy of his singular and scattered people, which ever insured him prompt information on all the movements of his enemy. Without any preparation, he found agents in every court, and camp, and cabinet, and by their assistance he anticipated the designs of his adversaries, and turned even their ingenuity to their confusion. The imperial city of Rhey was sur- prised in the night, sacked and burnt to the ground. The sacred and baffled emirs who escaped, fled to the Sultan Togrul, tearing their beards, and pro- phesying the approaching termination of the world. The palaces of Nishabur resounded with the im- precations of their master, who, cursing the Jewish dogs, and vowing a pilgrimage to Mecca, placed himself at the head of a motley multitude of war- riors, and rushed upon the plains of Irak, to exter- minate Alroy. The Persian force exceeded the Hebrew at least five times in number. Besides a large division of Seljuks, the Caucasus had poured forth its strange inhabitants to swell the ranks of the faithful. The wild tribes of the Bactiari were even enlisted with their fatal bows, and the savage Turkmans, tempted by the sultan's gold, for a moment yielded their liberty, and shook their tall lances in his ranks. But what is a wild Bactiari, and what is a savage Turkman, and what evn a disciplined and im- perious Seljuk, to the warriors of the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob ? At the first on- set, Alroy succeeded in dividing the extended centre of Togrul, and separating the greater part of the Turks from their less disciplined comrades. At the head of his Median cavalry the Messiah charged and utterly routed the wamors of the Caucasus. The wild tribes of t?ie Bactiari shot their arrows and fled, and the savage Turkmans plundered the baggage of their own commander. The Turks themselves fought desperately ; hut, deserted by their allies, and surrounded by an inspired foe, their eflorts were unavailing, and their slaugh- ter terrible. Togrul was slain while heading a des- perate and fruitless charge, and after his fall, the battle resembled a massacre rather than a combat. The plain was clotted with Scljukian gore. No quarter was given or asked. Twenty thousand chosen troops fell on the side of the Turks; the rest dispersed and gained the mountains. Leaving Scherirah to restore order, Alroy the next morning pushed on to Nishabur at the head of three thou- sand horsemen, and summoned the city ere the in- habitants were apprized of the defeat anj death of the sultan. The capital of Persia escaped the fate of Rhey by an inglorious treaty, and a lavish tribute. The treasures of the Chosroes and the (Jasncvides were despatched to Hamadan, on which city day dawncil, only to bring intelligence of a victory or a conquest. While Alroy dictated peace on his own terms in the palaces of Nishabur, Abner, having reduced Louristan, crossed the mountains, and entered Persia with the reinforcements he had received from Jabaster. Leaving the government and garrisoning of his new conquests to this valiant captain, Alroy, at the head of the conquerors of Persia, in consequence of intelligence received from Hamadan, returned by forced marches to that city THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 489 XI. Leatikr the army within a day's march of the capital. Ahoy, accompanied only by his staff, en- tered Hamadan in the evening, and immediately repairing to the citadel, summoned Jabaster to council. The night was passed by the king and the high priest in deep consultation. The next morning a decree apprized the inhabitants of the return of their monarch, of the creation of the new "kingdom of the Medes and Persians," of which Hamadan was appointed the capital, and Abner the viceroy, and of the intended and imme- diate invasion of Syria, and reconquest of the land of promise. The plan of this expedition had been long ma- tured, and the preparations to effect it were con- siderably advanced. Jabaster had not been idle during the absence of his pupil. One hundred thousand warriors were now assembled* at the capital of the " kingdom of the Medes and Per- sians;" of these the greater part were Hebrews, but many Arabs, wearied of the Turkish yoke, and many gallant adventurers from the Caspian, easily converted from a vague idolatry to a religion of conquest, swelled the ranks of the army of the " Lord of Hosts." The plain of Hamadan was covered with tents, the streets were filled with passing troops, the bazaars loaded with military stores ; long caravans of camels laden with supplies every day arrived from the neighbouring towns ; each instant some high-capped Tartar with his despatches rushed into the city and galloped his steed up the steep of the citadcl.-j- The clang of arms, the prance of horses, the flourish of warlike music, resounded from all quarters. The business and the treasures of the world see"med, as it were in an instant, to have become concentrated in Hamadan. Every man had some great object ; gold glittered in every hand. All great impulses were stirring; all the causes of human energy were in lively action. Every eye sparkled, every foot stood firm and fast. Each man acted as if the universal fate depended on his exertions ; as if the universal will sympa- thized with his particular desire. A vast popula- tion influenced b}' a high degree of excitement is the most sublime of spectacles. The commander of the faithful raised the stand- ard of the prophet on the banks of the Tigris. It was the secret intelligence of this intended event that had recalled Alroy so suddenly from Persia. The latent enthusiasm of the Moslemin was ex- cited by the rare and mystic ceremony, and its efifects were anticipated by previous and judicious preparations. The Seljuks of Bagdad alone amounted to fifty thousand men : the Sultan of Syria contributed the warriors who had conquered the Arabian princes of Damascus and Aleppo, while the ancient provinces of Asia Minor, which formed the rich and powerful kingdom of Seljukian Roum, poured forth a myriad of that matchless cavalry which had so often bafiled the armies of the • * In crmntries where the whole populntion are armed, a vast military force is soon assemljled. Barchochebas was speedily at the head of uvo hundred thousand fifrhiina men, and held the Romans long in check; under one of their most powerful emperors. 1 1 have availed myself of a familiar character in oriental life, but the use of a Tartar as a courier in the time of Alroy is, I fear, an anachronism. Cffisars. Never had so imposing a force been col- lected on the banks of the Tigris since the reign of Haroun Alraschid. Each day some warlike Atabek* at the head of his armed train poured into the capital of the caliphs, or pitched his pa- vilion on the banks of the river; each day the proud emir of some remote principality astonished or aflrighted the luxurious Babylonians by the strange or uncouth warriors that had gathered round his standard in the deserts of Arabia, or on the shores of the Euxine. For the space of twenty miles, the banks of the river were, on either side, far as the eye could reach, covered v»ith the varie- gated pavilions, the glittering standards, the flow- ing streamers and twinkling pennons of the mighty host, of which Malek, the Grand Sullan of the Sel- juks, and governor of the caliph's palace, was chief commander. Such was the power assembled on the plains of Asia to arrest the progress of the Hebrew prince, and to prevent the conquest of the memorable land promised to the faith of his fathers, and forfeited by their infidelity. Before the walls of Hamadan, Alroy reviewed the army of Israel — sixty thousand heavy armed footmen, thirty thousand archers and light troops, and twenty thousand cavalry. Be- sides these, a body of ten thousand picked horse- men had been formed, all of whom had served in the Persian campaign, styled " the sacred guard." In their centre, shrouded in a case of wrought gold, studded with carbuncles, and carried on a lusty lance of cedar, a giant — for the height of Elnebar exceeded that of common men by three feet — bore the sceptre of Solomon. The sacred guard was commanded by Asricl, the brother of Abner. 'J'he army was formed into three divisions. All marched in solemn order before the throne of Al- roy, raised upon the ramparts, and drooped their standards and lances as they passed t^eir heroic leader. Bostenay, and Miriam, and the whole po- pulation of the city, witnessed the inspiring spec- tacle from the walls. That same eve, Scherirah, at the head of forty thousand men, pushed on to- wards Bagdad, by Kermanshah ; and Jabaster, who commanded in his holy robes, and who had vowed not to give up his sword until the rebuilding of the temple, conducted his division over the vic- torious plain of Nehauend. They were to concen- trate at the pass of Kerrund, which conducted into the province of Bagdad, and await the arrival of the king. At dawn of day, the royal division and the sacred guard, the whole imder the command of As- riel, quitted the capital. Alroy still lingered, and for some hours the warriors of his staff might have been observed lounging about the citadel, or prac- tising their skill in tlirowing the jerreed as they exercised their impatient chargers before the gates. The king was witii the Lady Miriam. The king was with the Lady Miriam, walking hi (he garden of their micle. His arm was wound round her delicate waist, and with the other he clasped her soft and graceful hand. The hca^'y tears burst from her downcast eyes, and stole along her pale and pensive cheek. They walked in silence, the brother and the sister, before the purity of whose surpassing love even ambition vanished. Ho * I was at Yanina, the capital of Albania, when the grand vizier summoned the chieftains of the coimtry, anu was struck by iheir niaguilicem arrays each day pouriug idw the city. 490 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. opened the lattice gate. They entered into the valley small and green ; before them was the mar- hie fountain with its columns and cupola, and, in the distance, the charger of Ahoy and his single attendant. They stopped, and Alroy gathered flowers, and placed them in the hair of Miriam. He would have softened, the bitterness of parting with a smile. Gently he relaxed his embracing arm — almost in- sensibly he drojjped her quivering hand. " Sister of my soul," he whispered, " when we last parted here, I was a fugitive, and now I quit you a conqueror." She turned, she threw herself upon his neck, and buried her face in his breast. " My beautiful, restrain yourself — we shall meet at Bagdad." He beckoned to her distant maidens they ad- vanced — he delivered Miriam into their arms. He seized her hand and pressed it to his mouth, and rusliing to his horse, mounted and disappeared. xn. A BOUT of irregular cavalry feebly defended the pass of Kerrund. It was carried with slight loss by the vanguard of Scherirah, and the fugitives pre- pared the host of the caliph for the approach of the Hebrew army. Upon the plain of the Tigris, the enemy formed into battle array. The centre was commanded by Malek, the Grand Sultan of the Seljuks himself; the right wing, headed by the Sultan of Syria, was protected by the river ; and the left, under the Sul- tan of Roum, was posted upon the advantageous position of some irregular and rising ground. Thus, proud in the number, valour, discipline, and disposition of his forces, Malek awaited the con- queror of Persia. The glittering columns of the Hebrews might even now be perceived defding from the mountains, and forming at the extremity of the plain. Before nightfall the camp of the invaders was pitched within hearing of that of Malek. The moving lights in the respective tents might plainly be dis- tinguished ; and ever and anon the flourish of hos- tile music fell with an ominous sound upon the ears of the opposed foemen. A few miles only separated those mighty hosts. Upon to-morrow depejided, perhaps, the fortunes of ages. How awful is the eve of battle ! Alroy, attended by a few chieftains, personally visited the tents of the soldiery, promising them on the morrow a triumph, before which the victories of Nehaucnd and IVishabur would sink into insig- nificance. 1'hcir fiery and excited visages proved at once their courage and their faith. The sceptre of Solomon was paraded throughout the camp in solemn procession. On the summit of a huge tu- mulus, perhaps the sepulchre of some classic hero, Esther the prophetess, surrounded by the chief zealots of the host, poured forth her inspiring in- spiration. It was a grand picture, that beautiful wild girl, the grou[)s of stern devoted warriors, the red flame of the watch-fires mixing with the silver shadows of the moon as they illumined the va- riegated turbans and gleaming armour of her votaries . _ In tne pavilion of Alroy, .labaster consulted witli his pupil on the conduct of the morrow. " This is a ditfcreiit scene from the cavern of the Caucasus," said Alroy, as the high priest rose to retire. " It has one great resemblance, sire ; the God of our fathers is with us." " Ay ! the Lord of Hosts. Moses was a great man. There is no career except conquest." " You muse !" " Of the past. The present is prepared. Too much thought will mar it." " The past is for wisdom, the present for action, but for joy the future. The fecHng that the build- ing of the temple is at hand that the Lord's anointed will once again live in the house of Da- vid, absorbs my spirit ; and when I muse over our coining glory, in my fond ecstasy I almost lose the gravity that doth beseem my sacred oflice." " Jerusalem — I have seen it. How many hours to dawn?" " Some three." " 'Tis strange — I could sleep. I remember, on the eve of battle I was ever anxious. How is this, Jabaster 1" " Your faith, sire, is profound." " Yes, I have no fear. My destiny is not com- plete. Good night, Jabaster. See Asriel, valiant priest. Pharez !" " My lord." " Rouse me at the second watch. Good night, boy." " Good night, my lord." " Pharez ! " Be sure you rouse me at my second watch. Think you it wants three hours to dawn V " About three hours, my lord." " Well ! at the second watch, remember — good night." XIIL "It is the second watch, my lord." " So soon ! Have I slept 1 I feel fresh as an eagle. Call Scherirah, boy. " 'Tis strange, I never dream now. Before my flight, my sleep was ever troubled. Say what they like, man is made for action. My life is now har- monious, and sleep has now become what nature willed it, a solace, not a contest. Before, it was a struggle of dark passions and bright dreams, in whose creative fancy andfair vision my soul sought refuge from the dreary bale of daily reality. " I will withdraw the curtains of my tent. O < most majestic vision ! And have I raised this host '^ O'er the wide plain, far as my eye can range, thel snowy tents studding the purple landscape, embat tied legions gather round their flags, to struggle fo. my fate. It is the agony of Asia. " A year ago, upon this very spot, I laid mt down to die, an unknown thing, and known and recognised only to be despised ; and now the sul- tans of the world come fortli to meet me. I have no fear. My destiny is not complete. And whi- ther tends it? Let that power decide that hitherto has fashioned all my course. " Jerusalem, Jerusalem — ever harping on Jeru- salem. With all his lore, he is a narrow-minded zealot, whose dreaming memory would fondly make a future like the past. O ! Bagdad, Bagdad, within thy glittering halls there is a charm worth all his cabala I " Hah ! Scherirah ! The dawn is near at hanJ — the stars still shininsr. The air is very pleasant; THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY 491 To-morrow will be a great day, Scherirah, for Israel anil for you. You lead the attack. A moment in my tent, my brave Scherirah !" XIV. The dawn broke — a strong column of Hebrews, commanded by Scherirah, j)oured down upon the centre of the army of the caliph. Another column, commanded by Jabaster, attacked the left wing, headed by the Sultan of Roum. No sooner had Alroy perceived that the onset of Scherirah had succeeded in penetrating the centre of the Turks, than he placed himself at the head of the sacred guard, and by an irresistible charge completed their disorder and confusion. The division of the Sultan of Syria, and a great part of the centre were en- tirely routed and driven into the river, and the remainder of the division of Malek was eflectually separated from his left wing. But while to Ahoy the victory seemed already decided, a far different fate awaited the division of .labaster. The Sultan of Roum, posted in an extremely advantageous position, and commanding troops accustomed to the discipline of the Romans of Constantinople, received the onset of Jabaster without yielding, and not only repelled his attack, but finally made a charge which completely dis- ordered and dispersed the column of the Hebrews. In vain Jabaster endeavoured to rally his troops, in vain he performed prodigies of valour, in vain he himself struck down the standard-bearer of the sultan, and once even penetrated to the pavilion of the monarch. His division was fairly routed. The eagerness of the Sultan of Roum to effect the annihilation of his antagonists prevented him from observing the forlorn condition of the Turkish centre. Had he, after routing the division of Ja- baster, only attacked Alroy in the rear, the fortune of the day might have been widely diflerent. As it was, the eagle eye of Alroy soon detected his inadvertence, and profited by his indiscretion. Leaving Ithamar to keep the centre in check, he charged the Sultan of Roum with the sacred guard, and afforded Jabaster an opportunity of rallying some part of his forces. The Sultan of Roum, perceiving that the day was lost by the ill-conduct of his colleagues, withdrew his troops, retreated in haste, but in good order, to Bagdad, carriod off the caliph, his harom, and some of his treasure, and effected his escape into Syria. In the mean time the discomfiture of the remaining Turkish army was complete. The Tigris was dyed with their blood, and the towns through which the river flowed were apprized of the triumph of Alroy by the floating corpses of his enemies. Thirty thou- sand Turks were slain in battle : among them the Sultans of Bagdad and Syria, and a vast number of atabeks, emirs, and chieftains. A whole division finding themselves surrounded, surrendered on terms, and delivered up their arms. The camps and the treasure of the three sultans were alike captured, and the troops that escaped so completely dispersed, that they did not attempt to rally, but, disbanded and desperate, prowled over and plun- dered the adjoining provinces. The loss of the division of Jabaster was also severe, but the rest of the army suffered little. Alroy himself was slightly wounded. The battle lasted barely three hours. Its results were immense. David Alroy was now master of the East. XV. The plain was covered with the corpses of men and horses, arms and standards, and prostrate tents. Returning from the pursuit of the Sultan of Roum, Alroy ordered the trumpets to sound to arms, and covered with gore and dust dismounted from his charger, and stood before the pavilion of Malek, leaning upon his bloody cimeter, and sur- rounded by liis victorious generals. " Ah, Jabaster !" said the conqueror, giving his hand to the pontiff, " 'twas well your troops had such a leader. No one but you could have rallied them. You must drill your lads a little before they meet again the Cappadocian cavalry. Brave Scherirah, we shall not forget our charge. Asriel, tell the guard, for me, that the victory of the Tigris was owing to their cimeters. Ithamar, what are our freshest troops 1" " The legion of Aderbijan, sire." " How strong can they muster?" " It counts twelve thousand men : we might collect two-thirds." " Valiant Ithamar, take the Aderbijans, and a division of the guard, push on towards Bagdad, and summon the city. If his sultanship of Roum offer battle, take up a position, and he shall quickly have his desire. For the present, after these hasty marches and sharp fighting, the troops must rest. I guess he will not tarry. Summon the city, and say that if any resistance be offered, I will make it as desolate as old Babylon. Treat with no armed force. Where is the soldier that saved me a cracked scull — his name Benaiah !" " I wait your bidding, sire." " You're a captain. Join the division of Itha mar, and win fresh laurels ere we meet again. Gentle Asriel, let your brother know our fortune." " Sire, several Tartars have already been des- patched to Hamadan." " 'Tis well. Send another with these tablets to the Lady Miriam. Despatch the pavilion of Ma- lek as a trophy for the town. Elnebar, Goliath of the Hebrews, you bore our sacred standard like a hero ! How tares the prophetess 1 I saw her charging in our ranks, wavijig a sabre with her snowy arm, her long dark hair streaming like a storm, from whence her eyes flashed Ughtning." " The king bleeds," said Jabaster. " Slightly. It will do me service. I am some- what feverish. A kingdom for a draught of water ! And now for our wounded friends. Asriel, do you marshal the camp. It is Sabbath eve.* Time presses." * " They Itpgan tlipir Sabballi from sunset, and the same time of day they ended \i:'~Talm. Hierosolym in Sheveiih. fol. 33. col. 1. " The eve of the Sabbath, or the day before, wag called thR day of preparation fnrthe Sabbath."— tM/ce xxxiii. 54. " And from the lime of the evening sacrifice and forward, they began to fit themselves for the'Sabbalh, and to cease from their works, so as not to go to the barber, not to sit ia judgment, &c. ; nay, thenceforward they would not set things on working which being set a-work, would complete their business of themselves, unless il would be completed before the Sabbath came— a^ wool teas not put to dt/e, iintess it could lake roloitr while it was i/el day," ^-c. — I'aliri. in Sat), par. 1 ; Lightfoot, vol. i. p. 218. "Towards sunseltin^, when the Sabbath was now ap- proaching, they lighted up the Sabbath lamp. Men and women were bound to have a lamp lighted up in their houses on the Sabbath though ihey were never so poor — nay, though they were forced to go a becging for oil for this purpose: and the lighting up of this lamp was a part of making the Sabbath a delight: and women were especially commanded to look to this business."— Momo/izdes in Sab. par. 36. 492 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. XVI. The dead were plundered, and thrown into the river, the encampment of the Hebrews completed. Alroy, with his principal officers, visited the wounded, and praised the valiant. The bustle which always succeeds a victory, was increased in the present instance by the anxiety of the army to observe with grateful strictness the impending Sabbath. When the sun set, the Sabbath was to com- mence. The undulating horizon rendered it diffi- cult to ascertain the precise moment of his fall. The crimson orb sunk behind the purple moun- tains, the sky was flushed with a rich and rosy glow. Then might be perceived the zealots, proud in their Talmudical lore, holding a skein of white silk in their hands, and announcing the approach of the Sabbath by their observation of its shifting tints. While the skein was yet golden, the forge of the armourer still sounded, the fire of the cook still blazed, still the cavalry led their steeds to the river, and still the busy footmen braced up their tents, and hammered at their pallisades. The skein of silk became rosy, the armourer worked with renewed energy, the cook pulfed with increas- ed zeal, the horsemen scampered from the river, the footmen cast an anxious glance at the fading twilight. The skein of silk became blue ; a dim, dull, sepulchral, leaden tinge fell over its purity. The hum of gnats arose, the bat flew m circling whirls over the tents, horns sounded from all quarters, the sun had set, the Sabbath had commenced. The forge was mute, the fire extinguished, the prances of horses and the bustle of men in a moment ceased. A deep, a sudden, and all-pervading still- ness dropped over that mighty host. It was night ; the sacred lamp of the Sabbath sparkled in every tent of the camp, which vied in silence and in brillianc}' with the mute and glowing heavens. Morn came ; the warriors assembled around the altar and the sacrifice. The high priest and his attendant Levites proclaimed the unity of the omnipotence of the God of Israel, and the sym- pathetic responses of his conquering and chosen people re-echoed over the plain. They retired again to their tents, to listen to the expounding of the law ; even the distance of a Sabliath walk was not to exceed that space that lies between Jerusa- lem and the Mount of Olives. This was the distance between the temple and the tabernacle ; it had been nicely measured, and every Hebrew who ventured forth from the camp this day might be observed counting the steps of a Sabbath-Jay's journey. At length the sun again set, and on a sudden fires blazed, voices sounded, men stirred, in the same enchanted and instantaneous manner that had characterized the stillness of the jircccding eve. Shouts of laughter, bursts of music, an- nounced the festivity of the coming night; sup- plies poured in from all the neighbouring villages, and soon the jiious conquerors commemorated their late triumph in a round of banqueting. On the morrow, a Tartar arrived from Ithamar, informing Alroy thai, the Sultan of Koum had retreated into Syria, tnat Bagdad was undefended, but that ho had acceded to the request of the in- habitants that a deputation should wait upon Alroy before the troops entered the city, and had accorded » safe conduct for their passage. XVII. Ox the morrow messengers announced the ap- proach of the deputation. All the troops were imdcr arms. Alroy directed that the suppliants should be conducted through the whole camp before they arrived at the royal pavilion, on each side of which the sacred guard was mustered in array. The curtains of his tent withdrawn displayed the conqueror himself seated on a sumptuous divan. On his right hand stood Jabaster in his priestly robes, on his left Scherirah. Behind him, the giant Elnebar supported the sacred sceptre, A crowd of chieftains was ranged on each side of the pavilion. Cymbals sounded, muffled kettle-drums, and the faint flourish of trumpets; the commencement of the procession might be detected in the long per- spective of the tented avenue. First came a com- pany of beauteous youths, walking two b}' two, and strewing flowers, then a band of musicians in flow- ing robes of cloth of gold, plaintively sounding their silver trumpets. After these followed slaves of all climes, bearing a tribute of tlie most rare and costly production of their comitries : negroes with tusks and teeth of the elephant, plumes of ostrich feathers, and caskets of gold dust ; Syrians with rich armour ; Persians with vases of atar-gul, and Indians with panniers of pearls of Ormuz, and soft shawls of Cashmere. Encircled by his child- ren, each of whom held alternately a white or fawn- coloured gazelle, an Arab, clothed in his blue bor- nouz, led by a thick cord of crimson silk a tall and tawny giratfe. Fifty stout men succeeded two by two, carrying in company a silver shield laden with golden coin, or chased goblets studded with gems. The clash of cymbals announced the presence of the robes of honour,* culled from the wardrobe of the commander of the faithful ; the silk of Aleppo and the brocades of Damascus, lined with the furs of the sal)le and the ermine, down from the breast of the swan, and the skins of white foxes. After these followed two gray dromedaries with furniture of silver, and many caparisoned horses, each led by a groom in rich attire. The last of these was a snow-white steed, upon whose front was the likeness of a ruby star, a courser of the sacred stud of Solomon, and crossed only by the descendants of the prophet. The mufHed kettle-drums heralded the company of black eunuchs, with their scarlet vests and ivory battle-axes. They surrounded, and shrouded from the vulgar gaze, fourteen beautiful Circassian girls, whose brilliant visages and perfect forms were otherwise concealed by their long veils and ample drapery. 'I'he gorgeous procession, as they approached the conqueror, bowed humbly to Alroy, and formed in order on each side of the broad avenue. The deputation appeared : twelve of the principal citi- zens of Bagdad, with folded arms, and downcast eyes, and disordered raiment. Meekly and mutely each touched the earth with his hand, and kissed it in token of submission, and then moving aside, made way f >r the chief envoy and orator of the company — Honain ! * Thr-se are over carried in prnc,ession,anJ iheir numl'er linnous llie r.aiili; anil quality of the chief, or of the indivi. dual 10 whom Ihey are oifBred. THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 493 XVIII. HuMBiT, but gracefully, the physician of the caliph boweil before the conqueror of the East. His appearance and demeanour afforded a contrast to the aspect of his brother envoys ; not less calm or contented his countenance; not less sumptuous or studied his attire, than when he iirst rescued Al- roy in the bazaar of Bagdad from the gripe of the false Abdallah. He spoke, and every sound was hushed before the music of his voice. " Conqueror of the world, that destiny with which it is in vain to struggle, has placed our lives and fortunes in your power. Your slaves offer for your approbation specimens of their riches ; not as tribute, for all is yours : but to show you the products of weeunty and peace, and to induce you to believe that mercy may be a policy as profitable to the conqueror as to the conquered ; that it may be better to pre- serve than to destroy ; and wiser to enjoy than to extirpate. " Fate ordained that we should be bom the slaves of the caliph ; that same fate has delivered his sceptre into your hands. We offer you the same devotion we yielded to him, and we entreat the same protection he accorded to us. " Whatever may be your decision we must bow to your decree with the humility that recognises su- perior force. Yet we are not without hope. We cannpt forget that it is our good fortune not to be addressing a /barbarous chieftain unable to sympa- thize with the claims of civilization, the creation of art, and the finer impulses of humanity. We ac- knowledge your irresistible power, but we dare to hope every thing from a prince whose genius all acknowledge and admire, who has spared some portion of his youth from the cares of government and the pursuits of arms, for the ennobling claims of learning, whose morality has been moulded by a pure and sublime faith, and who draws his lineage from a sacred and celebrated race, whose unrivalled antiquity even the prophet acknow- ledges." He ceased ; a buzz of approbation sounded throughout thepavihon which was hushed instantly as the lips of the conqueror moved. " Noble emir," replied Alroy, " return to Bagdad, and tell your fellow-subjects that the King of Israel grants protection to their persons, and security to their property." " And for their faith 1" inquired the envoy m a lower voice. "Toleration," rephed Alroy, turning to Ja- baster. " Until further regulations," added the high priest. " Emir," said Alroy, " the person of the caliph will be respected." " May it please your highness," replied Honain, "the Sultan of Roum has retired with our late ruler." "And his harem 1" " And his harem." " It was needless. We war not with women." " Men, as well as women, must acknowledge the gracious mercy of your highness." " Benomi," said Alroy, addressing himself to a young officer of the guard, " command the guard of honour that will attend this noble emir on his return. We soldiers deal only in iron, sir, and canix)t vie with the magnificence of Bagdad, yet wear this dagger for the donor's sake ;" and Al- roy held out to Honain a poniard flaming with gems. The envoy of Bagdad advanced, took the dagger, kissed it, and placed it in his vest.* " Scherirah," continued Alroy, " this noble emir is your charge. See that a choice pavilion of the host be for his use, and that his train complain not of the rough customs of our camp." "May it please your highness," replied Honain, " I have done my duty, and with your gracious permission would at once return. I have business only less urgent than the present, because it con- cerns myself." " As you will, noble emir. Benomi, to your post. Farewell, sir." The deputation ad/anced, bowed, and retired. Alroy turned to Jabaster. " No common person that, Jabaster." " A very gracious Turk, sire." " Think you he is a Turkl" " By his dress." " It may be so. Asriel, break up the camp. We'll march at once to Bagdad." XIX. The chiefs dispersed to make the necessary ar- rangements for the march. The news that the army was immediately to advance to Bagdad soon circulated througjiout the camp, and excited the most lively enthusiasm. Every hand was at work, striking the tents, preparing the arms and horses. Alroy retired to his pavilion. The curtains were drawn. He was alone, and plunged in profound meditation. " Alroy !" a voice sounded. He started and looked up. Before him stood Esther the prophetess. "Esther! is it thou?" " Alroy! enter not into Babylon." " Indeed." " As I live, the Lord hath spoken it. Enter not into Babylon." " Not enjoj' my fairest conquest, maiden V " Enter not into Babylon." " What affrights thee 1" " Enter not into Babylon." " I shall not surely change the fortunes of my life without a cause !" " The Lord hath spoken. Is not that a cause ?" " I am the Lord's anointed. His warning has not reached me. " Now it reaches thee. Doth the king despise the prophetess of the Lord? It is the sin of Ahab." " Despise thee ! despise the mouth that is the herald of my victories ! 'Twere rank blasphemy. Prophecy triumph, Esther, and Alroy will never doubt thy inspiration. " He doubts it now. I see he doubts it now. ! my king, I say again, enter not into Babylon." " Beauteous maiden, those eyes flash lightning. Who can behold their wild and liquid glance, and doubt that Esther is inspired ! Be calm, sweet girl, some dream disturbs thy fancy." " Alroy, Alroy, enter not into Babylon !" * The elegant mode in which the orientals receive pr» seuta. 2T 494 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. " I have no fear — I bear a charmed hfe." " Ah me ! he will not listen. All is lost !" " All is gained, my beautiful." " I would we were upon the holy mount, and gazing on the stars of sacred Sion." " Esther," said Alroy, advancing, and gently taking her hand, " the capital of the East will soon unfold its marvels to thy sight. Prepare thyself for wonders. Girl, we are no longer in the desert. Forget thy fitful fancies. Come, choose a husband from my generals, child, and I will give thee a kingdom for thy dower ; I would gladly see a crown upon that tall imperial brow. It well deserves one." 'i'he prophetess turned her dark eyes full upon Alroy. What passed in her mind was neither evident nor expressed. She gazed intently upon the calm and inscrutable countenance of the con- queror, she tiung away liis hand, and rushed out of tiie pavihon. PART VIII. I. The waving of banners, the flourish of trumpets, the neighing of steeds, and the glitter of spears ! On the distant horizon, they gleam like the morn- ing, when the gloom of the night shivers bright into the day. •> Hark ! the tramp of the foemen, like the tide of the ocean, flows onward and onward, and conquers the shore. From the brow of the mountain, like the rush of a river, the column defiling melts into the plain. Warriors of Judah ! holy men that battle for the Lord ! The land wherein your fathers wept, and touched their plaintive psaltery ; the haughty city •where your sires bewailed their cold and distant hearth : your steeds are prancing on its plain, and you shall fill its palaces. Warriors of Judala ! holy men that battle for the Lord ! March, onward march, ye valiant tribes, the hour has come, the hour has come ! All the promises of ages, all the signs of sacred sages, meet in this ravishing hour. Where is now the op- pressor's chariot, where your tyrant's purple robe ? The horse and the rider are both overthrown, the horse and the rider are both overthrown ! Kisc, Kachel, from the wilderness arise, and weep no more. No more thy lonely palm Iree's shade need shroud thy sacred sorrowing. The Lord hath heard the widow's sigh, the Lord hath stilled the widow's tear. Be comforted, be comforted, thy children live again ! Yes ! yes ! upon the bounding plain fleet Asriel glances like a star, and stout Scherirah shakes his spear by stern Jabastcr's cimeter. And he is there, the chosen one, hymned by prophetic harps, whose life is like the morning dew on Sion's holy hill : the chosen one, the chosen one, that leads his race to victory, warriors of Judah! holy men that battle for the Lord ! They come, they come, they come! The ramparts of the city were crowded with the inhabitants, the river sparkled with ten thousand boats, the Inizaars were shut, the streets lined with the populace, and the terrace of every house covered with spectators. In the morning, Itliamar had entered with his division and garrisoned the city. And now the vanguard of the Hebrew army, afie. having been long distinguished in the distance, approached the walls. A large body of cavalry at full speed dashed forward from the main force. Upon a milk-white charger, and followed by a glit- tering train of warriors, amid the shouts of the vast multitude, Alroy galloped up to the gates. He was received by Ithamar and the members of the deputation, but Honain was not there. Accom- panied by his staff and a strong detachment of the sacred guard, Alroy was conducted through the principal thoroughfares of the city, until he arrived at the chief entrance of the sejail, or palace of the caliph. The vast portal conducted him into a large quadrangular court, where he dismounted, and where he was welcomed by the captain of the eu nuch guard. Accompanied by his principal gene- rals and his immediate attendants, Alroy was then ushered through a suite of apartments, which re minded him of his visit with Honain, until he ar- rived at the grand council chamber of the caliphs. The conqueror threw himself upon the gorgeous divan of the commander of the faithful. " An easy seat after a long march," said Alroy, as he touched the cotTee with his lips, which the chief of the eunuchs presented to him in a cup of transparent pink porcelain, studded with pearls.* " Ithamar, now for your report. What is the tem- per of the city ] where is his sultanship of Koum 1" " The city, sire, is calm, and, J believe, content. The sultan and the caliph are still hovering on the borders of the province." " So I supposed. Scherirah will settle that. Let the troops be encamped without the walls, the gar- rison, ten thousand strong, must be changed month- ly. Ithamar, you are governor of the city : Asriel commands the forces. Worthy Jabaster, draw up a report of the civil afi'airs of the capital. Youi quarters arc the college of the dervishes. Brave Scherirah, I cannot aiford you a long rest. In three days time you must have crossed the river with your division. It will be quick work. I foresee the'y will not fight. Meet me all here in council by to-morrow's noon. Farewell. The chieftains retired, tlie high priest lingered. " Were it not an intrusion, sire, I would fain en- treat a moment's audience." " My own Jabaster, you have but to speak." " Sire, I would speak of Abidan, as valiant a warrior as any in the host. It grieves me much, by some fatality, his services seem ever overcast." " Abidan ! I know him well, — a valiant man, but a dreamer, a dreamer." " A dreamer, sire ! Believe me, a true son of Israel, and one whose faith is deep." " Good Jabaster, we are all true sons of Israel. Yet let me have men about me who see no visions in the mid-day sun. We must beware of dreamers." " Dreams are the oracles of God." " When God sends them. Very true, Jabaster. But this Abidan, and the company with whom he consorts, arc tilled with high-flown notions, caught from old traditions, which if acted on, would render government impracticable — in a word, they arc dangerous men." " The very flower of Israel ! Some one has poi- soned your sacred ear against them." * Thus, a great Turk, who afforded me hospitality, was accustomed to drluk his cotfee. THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 495 " No one, worthy Jabaster. I have no counsellor except yourself. They may be the flower of Israel, but they are not the fruit. Good warriors, — bad subjects : excellent means, by which we may ac- complish greater ends. I'll have no dreamers in authority. I must have practical men about me — practical men. See how Abner, Asriel, Ithamar, Medad, — see how these conform to what surrounds them, yet invincible captains, invincible captains. But then they are practical men, Jabaster; they have eyes and use them. They know the difference of times and seasons. But this Abitlan, he has no oilier thought but the rebuilding of the temple : a narrow-souled bigot, who would sacrifice the essence to the form. The rising temple soon would fall again with such constructors. Why, sir, what think you, — this very same Abidan preached in the camp against my entry into what the quaint fanatic chooses to call ' Babylon,' and bored me with some vision !"' " There was a time your majesty thought not so ill of visions." " Am I Abidan, sir 1 Are other men to mould their conduct or their thoughts by me ? In this world I stand alone, a being of another order to yourselves, incomprehensible even to you. Let this matter cease. I'll hear no more, and have heard too much. To-morrow at council, to-morrow at council." The high priest withdrew in silence. " He is gone — at length I am alone. I cannot bear the presence of these men, except in action. Their words, even their looks, disturb the still cre- ation of my brooding thought. I am once more alone ; and loneliness hath been the cradle of my empire. Now I do feel inspired. There needs no mummery now to work a marvel, " The sceptre of Solomon ! It may be so. What then 1 Here's now the sceptre of Alroy. What's that without his mind 1 The legend said that none should free our people, hut he who bore the sceptre of great Solomon. The legend knew that none could gain that sceptre, but with a mind, to whose supreme volition the fortunes of the world would bow like fate. I gained it ; I confronted the spec- tre monarchs in their sepulchre ; and the same hand that grasped their shadowy rule, hath seized the diadem of the mighty caliphs by the broad rushing of their imperial river. " The world is mine : and shall I yield the prize, the universal and heroic prize, to realize the dull tradition of some dreaming priest, and consecrate a legend] He conquered Asia, and he built the temple. Are these my annals 1 Shall this quick blaze of empire sink to a glimmering and a twilight sway over some petty province, the decent patriarch of a pastoral horde 1 Is the I/Ord of Hosts so slight a God that we must place a barrier to his sove- reignty, and fix the boundaries of Omnipotence between the Jordan and the Lebanon ? It is not thus written : and were it so, I'll pit my inspiration against the presence of my ancestors. I also am a prophet, and Bagdad shall be my Sion. The Daugh- ter of the Voice ! Well, I am clearly summoned. I am the Lord's servant, not Jabaster's. Let me make his worship universal as his power ; and where's the priest shall dare impugn my faith be- cause his altars smoke on other hills than those of Judah ] "I must see Honain. That man has a great mind. He aloae can comprehend my pijrpose. Universal empire must not be founded on sectarian prejudices and exclusive rights. Jabaster would massacre the Moslemin like Amalek ; the Moslemin, the vast majority, and most valuable portion of my subjects. He would depopulate my empire, that it might not be said that Ishmael shared the heritage of Israel. Fanatic ! I'll send him to conquer Ju- dah. We must conciliate. Something must be done to bind the conquered to our conquering for- tunes. That bold Sultan of Roum, — I wish Abner had opposed him. To run off with the harem ! I have half a mind to place myself at the head of the pursuing force, and — passion and policy alike com- bine — and yet — Honain is the man — I might send him on a mission. Could we make terms 1 I de- test treaties. My fancy flies from all other topics. I must see him. Could I but tell him all I think ! This door — where leads iti Hah ! methinks I do remember yon glittering gallery ! No one in at- tendance. The discipline of our palace is somewhat lax. My warriors are no courtiers. What an ad- mirable marshal of the palace Honain would make! Silence everywhere. So ! 'tis well. These sa- loons I have clearly passed through before. Could I but reach the private portal by the river side, unseen or undetected ! 'Tis not impossible. Here are many dresses. I will disguise myself. Trusty cimeter, thou hast done thy duty, rest a while. 'Tis lucky I am beardless. I shall make a capital eunuch. So ! a very handsome robe. One dagger for a pinch, slippers powdered with pearls,* a caftan of cloth of gold, a Cashmere girdle, and a pelisse of sables. One glance at the mirror. Good! I begin to look like the conqueror of the world !" II. It was twilight : a small and solitary boat, with a single rower, glided along the Tigris, and stopped at the archway of a house that descended into the river. It stopped, the boatman withdrew the cur- tains, and his single passenger disembarked, and descended the stairs of the archway. The stranger reached the landing-place, and, unfastening a golden grate, proceeded along a gal- ler)% and entered a beautiful saloon of white and green marble, opening into gardens. No one was in the apartment ; the stranger threw himself upon a silver couch, placed at the side of the fountain that rose from the centre of the chamber, and fell into a porphyry basin. A soft whisper roused the stranger from his revcry, a soft whisper, that faintlv uttered the word " Honain." The stranger looktil up, a figure, enveloped in a veil, that touched the ground, advanced from the gardens. " Honain !" said the advancing figure, throwing off the veil, " Honain ! Ah ! the beautiful mute returned !" A woman more lovely than the rosy morn, beheld an unexpected guest. They stood, the lady and the stranger gazing on each other in silence. A man, with a light, entered the extremity of the hall. Carefully he closed the portal, slowly he advanced, with a subdued step ; he approached the lady and the stranger. " Alroy !" said the astonished Honain, the light fell from his hand. * The slippers in the East form a very fanciful portion of the costume. It is not uncommon to see them thus adorned, ami beautifully embroidered. In precious em- broidery and enamelling, the Turkish artists are unri vailed. 496 D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Alroy !" exclaimed the lady, with a bewildered air : she turned pale, and leaned against a column. " Daughter of the caliph !" said the leader of Israel ; and he advanced, and fell upon his knee, and stole her passive hand, "I am indeed that Alroy to whom destiny has delivered the empire of thy sire ; but the Princess Schirene can have nothuig to fear fi-om one who values, above all his victories, this memorial of her good-will ;" and he took from his breast a rosary of pearls and emeralds, and rising slowly, left it in her trembling hand. The princess turned and hid her face in her arm, which reclined against the column. " My kind Honain," said Alroy, " you thought me forgetful of the past, — you thought me ungrate- ful. My presence here proves that I am not so. I come to inquire all your wishes. I come, if in my power to gratify and to fulfil them." " Sire," replied Honain, who had recovered from the emotion in which he rarely indulged, and from the surprise which seldom entrapped him, " Sire, my wishes are slight. You see before you the daughter of my master. An interview, for which I fear I shall not easily gain that lady's pardon, has made you somewhat acquainted with her situation and sentiments. The Princess Schirene seized the opportunity of the late convidsions to escape from a mode of life long repugnant to all her fcehngs, and from a destiny at which she trembled. I was her onl3' counsellor, and she may feel assured, a faith- ful, although perhaps an indiscreet one. The irresistible solicitations of the inhabitants, that I should become their deputy to their conqueror, prevented us from escaping as we had intended. Since then, from the movement of the troops, I have deemed it more prudent that we should re- main at present here, although I have circulated the intelligence of my departure. In the kiosk of my garden, the princess is now a willing prisoner. At twilight she steals forth for the poor relaxation of my society, to listen to the intelligence which I acquire during the day in disguise. The history, sire, is short and simple. We are in your power; but instead of deprecating your interference, I now solicit your protection." " Dear Honain, 'tis needless. The Princess Schi- rene has only to express a wish that it may be ful- filled. I came to speak with you on weighty mat- ters, Honain, but I retire, for I am an intruder now. To-morrow, if it please you, at this hour, and in this disguise, I will again repair here. In the mean time, this lady may perchance express to you her wishes, and you will bear them to me. If an escort to any country, if any palace or province for her rule and residence — but I will not offer to one who should command. Lady! farewell. Pardon the past ! To-morrow, good Honain ! pr'ythee let us meet. Good even !" III. " The royal brow was clouded," said Ithamar to Asriel, as departing from the council they entered their magnificent bark. " With thought ; he has so much upon his mind, 'tis wondrous how he bears himself." " I have seen him gay on the eve of battle, and lively though calm, with weightier matters than now oppress him. His brow was clouded, but not, me- thinks, with thought; one might rather say with temper. Mark you, how he rated Jabastcr ]" " Roundly ! The stem priest writhed under it, and as he signed the ordinance, shivered his reed in rage. I never saw a man more pale." " Or more silent. He looked like an imbodied storm. I tell you what, Asriel, that stern priest loves not us." " Have you just discovered that secret, Ithamar? We are not of his school. Nor, in good faiih, is our ruler. I am glad to see the king is so stanch about Abidan. Were he in council, he would support Jabaster." " ! his mere tool. What think you of Sche- rirahl" " I would not trust him. As long as there is fighting, he will meddle with nothing else ; but, mark my words, Ithamar : in quiet times he will support the priest." " Medad will have a place in council. He is with us." " Heart and soul. I would your brother were here, Asriel : he alone could balance Jabaster. Alroy loves your brother like himself. Is it true he marries the Lady Miriam 1" " So the king wishes. 'Twill be a fine match for Abner." " The world is all before us. I wonder who will be viceroy of Syria." " When we conquer it. Not Scherirah. Mark my words, Ithamar : he never will have a govern- ment. You or I, perchance. For my own part, I would sooner remain as I am." " Yours is a good post ; the best." " With the command of the city. It should go with the guard." " Well, then, help me in getting Syria, and you can ask for my connnand." " Agreed. Jabaster will have that in a Hebrew monarchy, the chief priest is in fact the grand vizier." " Alroy will be his own minister." " I am not so sure of that. He may choose to command the Syrian expedition in person ; he must leave some head at Bagdad. Jabaster is no gene- ral." " ! none at all. Alroy will be glad to leave him at home. The Sultan of Roum may not be always so merciful." " Hah ! hah ! that was an escape !" " By heavens ! I thought it was all over. You made a fine charge." " I shall never forget it. I nearly ran over Ja- baster." " Would that you had !" IV. It is the tender twilight hour, when maidens in their lonely bower, sigh softer than the eve ! The languid rose her head upraises, and listens to the nightingale, while his wild and thrilling praises, from his trembling bosom gush : the languid rose her head upraises and listens with a blush. In the clear and rosy air, sparkling with a single star, the sharp and spiry cypress tree, rises like a gloomy thought, amid the flow of revelry. A sing- ing bird, a single star, a solemn tree, an odorous flower, are dangerous in the tender hour, when maidens in their twilight bower, sigh softer than the eve ! The daughter of the caliph comes forth to breathe the air : her lute her only company. She sits her THE WONDROUS TALE OF A L R Y. 497 f^ iwn by a fountain's side, and gazes on the water- fall. Her cheek reclines upon her arm, like fruit upon a graceful bough. Very pensive is the face of that bright and beauteous lady. She starts ; a warm voluptuous lip presses her soft and idle hand. It is her own gazelk*. With his large and lustrous eyes, more eloquent than many a tongue, the fond attendant mutely asks the cause of all her thought- fulness. " Ah ! bright gazelle ! ah ! bright gazelle I" the princess cried, the princess cried; "thy lips are softer than the swan, thy lips are softer than the swan ; but his breathed passion, when they pressed, my bright gazelle ! my bright gazelle !" "Ah! bright gazelle! ah! bright gazelle!" the princess cried, the princess cried ; " thine eyes are like the stars of night ; thine eyes are like the stars of night ; but his glanced passion when they gazed, my bright gazelle ! my bright gazelle !" She seized her lute, she wildly threw her fingers o'er its thrilling chords, and gazing on the rosy Bky, to borrow all its poetry, thus, thus she sang ; thus, thus she sang. 1. He rose in beauty, like ihe morn, Thai brightens in our Syrian skies; Dark passion gliuered in his eye, And empire sparkled in his form ! 2. My soul ! thou art the dusky earth. On which his sunlight fell ; The dusky earth that, dim no longer, Now breathes with light, now beams with love ! 3. He rose in beauty, like the morn, That brightens on the Syrian skies ; Dark passion glittered in his eye. And empire sparkled in his form ! " Once more, once more ! Ah ! sing that strain once more !" The princess started and looked around. Before her stood Alroy. She rose, she would have re- tired ; but, advancing, the conqueror stole her hand. " Fair princess," said Alroy, " let it not be said my presence at once banished beauty and music." " Sire, I doubt not, Honain awaits you. Let me summon him." " Lady, it is not with Honain that I would speak." He seated himself by her side. His countenance was pale, his heart trembled. " This garden," at length he observed in a low voice ; " this garden — a brief, brief space has glided away since first I wandered within its beau- teous limits, and yet those days seem like the dis- tant memory of another life." " It is another life," said the princess. " Our- selves, the world, all forms and usages, all feelings and all habits, verily, they have changed as if we had breathed within another sphere." " 'Tis a great change." " Since first you visited my bright kiosk. Pretty bauble ! I pray it may be spared." " It is sacred like yourself" " You are a courteous conqueror 1" " I am no conqueror, fair iScbirene, but a slave more lowly than when I first bowed humbly in your presence." " And bore away a token not forgotten. Your rosary is here." " Let me claim it. It has been my consolation in much peril, beauteous lady. On the eve of bat- tle I wound it round my heart." 63 She held forth the rosary, and turned away her head. Her hand remained in his : he pressed it to his lips. His right arm retained her hand, he wound the other round her waist, as he fell upon his knee. " ! beautiful, O ! more than beautiful ! for thou to me art like a dream unbroken," exclaimed the young leader of Israel, " let me, let me breathe my adoration. I offer thee not empire ; I offer thee not wealth ; I offer thee not all the boundless gra- tification of magnificent fancy — these may be thine, but all these thou hast proved ; but if the passionate affections of a spirit, which ne'er has yielded to the power of woman, or the might of man — if the deep devotion of the soul of Alroy be deemed an offering meet for the shrine of thy surpassing love- liness, I worship thee, Schirene, I worship thee, I worship thee! " Since I first gazed upon thee, since thy beauty first rose upon my presence like a star bright with my destiny, in the still sanctuary of my secret love, thy idol has ever rested. Then, then I was a thing whose very touch thy creed might count a contumely. I have avenged the insults of long centuries in the best blood of Asia ; I have returned, in glory and in pride, to claim my ancient sceptre, but sweeter far than vengeance, sweeter far than the quick gatheiing of my sacred tribes, the rush of triumph and the blaze of empire, is this brief mo- ment of adoring love, wherein I pour the passion of my life! " ! my soul, my life, my very being ! thou art silent, but thy silence is sweeter than others' speech. Yield, yield thee, dear Schirene, yield to thy sup- pliant ! Thy faith, thy father's faith, thy native customs, these, these shall be respected, beauteous lady ! Pharaoh's daughter yielded her dusky beauty to my great ancestor. Thy face is like the bright mspiringday ! Let it not be said the daugh- ter of the Nile shared Israel's crown — the daughter of the Tigris spurned our sceptre. I am not Solo- mon, but I am one that, were Schirene the partner of my tlirone, would make his glowing annals read like a wearisome and misty tale to our surpassing lustre!" He ceased, the princess turned her hitherto hid- den countenance, and bowed it on his heart. " ! Alroy," she exclaimed, " I have no creed, no coun- try, no life, but thee !" V. " The king is late to-day." " Is it true, Asriel, there is an express from Hamadan ]" " Of no moment, Ithamar. I had private letters from Abner. All is quiet." " 'Tis much past the hour. When do you de> part, Scherirah V " The troops are ready. I wait orders. This morning's council will perchance decide." " This morning's council is devoted to the settle- ment of the civil affairs of the capital," remarked Jabaster. " Indeed I" said Asriel. " Is your report pre- pared, Jabaster ?" " 'Tis here," replied the high priest. " The Hebrew legislator requires but little musing to shape his order. He lias a model which time can- not destroy, nor thought improve." Ithamar and Asriel exchanged significant glances, 2Ta 498 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. Pcherirah looked solemn. There was a pause, which was broken by Asriel. " 'Tis a noble city, this Bagdad. I have not yet visited your quarters, Jabaster. You are well placed." " As it may be. I hope we shall not tarry here long. The great point is still not achieved." '•How far is it to the holy city?" inquired Scherirah. " A month's march," replied Jabaster. "And when you get there]" inquired Ithamar. " You may fight with the Franks," replied Asriel. "Jabaster, how large is Jerusalem]" inquired Ithamar. " Is it true, as I have sometimes heard, that it is not bigger than the serail here, gardens and all]" " Its glory hath departed," replied the high priest ; " die bricks have fallen, but we will rebuild with marble ; and Sion, that is now without the Christian walls, shall yet sparkle, as in the olden time, with palaces and pavilions." A flourish of trumpets, the portals flew open, and Alroy entered, leaning on the arm of the envoy of Bagdad. " Valiant leaders," said Alroy to the astonished chieftains, " in this noble stranger you see one like yourselves, intrusted with my unbounded con- fidence. Jabaster, behold thy brother !" " Honain ! Art Ihoit, Honain ]" exclaimed the pontiff, starting from his seat. " I have a thousand messengers after thee." With a countenance al- ternately pallid with surprise and burning with affection, Jabaster embraced his brother, and, over- powered with emotion, hid his face on his shoulder. " Sire," at length exclaimed the high priest in a low and tremulous voice, " I must pray your par- don that for an instant in this character I have in- dulged in any other thoughts but those that may concern your welfare. 'Tis past ; and you, who know all, will forgive me." " All that respects Jabaster must concern my welfare. He is the pillar of my empire ;" and holding forth his hand Alroy placed the high priest on his right. '• Scherirah, you depart this eve." The rough captain bowed in silence. " What is this ]" continued Alroy, as Jabaster offered him a scroll. " Ah ! your report. ' Order of the Tribes' — ' Service of the Levites' — ' Princes of the People' — ' Elders of Israel!' The day may come wheu this may he effected. At present, Ja- baster, we must be moderate, and content ourselves with arrangements that may insure that order may be maintained, property respected, and justice ad- ministered. Is it true a gang has rifled a mosque ]" " Sire ! of that I would speak. They are no plunderers, but men, perhaps too zealous, who have read and who have remembered that 'ye shall utterly destroy all the places, wherein the nations which ye shall possess, served their gods upon the liigh mountains, and upon the hill, and under every green tree. And ye shall overthrow their altars, and' " " Jabaster, is tliis a synagogue ] Come I to a council of valiant statesmen, or dreaming rabbis ] For a thousand centuries we have been quoting the laws we dare not practise ! Is it with such aid we captured Nishabar, and crossed the Tigris ] Valiant, wise Jabaster, thou art worthy of better things, and capable of all. I entreat thee urge such matters for the last time. Are these fellows in custody!" " They were in custody. I have freed them." " Freed them ! Hang them ! Hang them on the most public grove. Is this the way to make the Moslcniin a duteous subject ] Jabaster, Israel honours thee ; and I, its chief, know that one more true, more valiant, or more learned, crowds not around our standard ; but I see, the cfwerns of Cau- casus are not a school for empire." " Sue, I had humbly deemed the school for em- pire was the law of Moses." " Ay ! adapted for tliese times." " Can aught divine be changed?" "Am I as tall as Adam] If man, the crown, the rose of all this fair creation, the most divine of all divine inventions, if time have altered even this choicest of all godlike works, why shall it spare a law made but to rule his conduct ] Good Jabaster, we must establish the throne of Israel — that is my mission, and for the means, no matter how — or where. Asriel, what news of Mcdad ]" " All is quiet between the Tigris and Euphrates, It would be better to recall his division, which has been harassed. 1 thought of relieving hira by Abidan." " I think so, too. We may as well keep Abidan out of the city. If the truth were known, I'll wager some of his company plundered the mosque. We must issue a proclamation on that subject. My good Jal)aster, we'll talk over these matters alone. At present I will leave you with your brother. Scherirah, sup with me to-night, before you quit us. Asriel, come with me to my cabinet." VI. " I MUST see the king !" " Holy priest, his highness has retired. It is impossible." " I must see the king. Worthy Pharez, I take all peril on myself." ".Indeed his highness's orders are imperative. You cannot see him." " Knowest thou who I am ]" " One whom all pious Hebrews reverence." " I say I must see the king." " Indeed, indeed, holy Jabaster, it cannot be." " Shall Israel perish for a menial's place ] Go to ; I'll see him." " Nay ! if you will. I'll struggle for my duty." " Touch not the Lord's anointed. Dog, you shall suffer for this !" So saying, Jabaster threw aside Pharez, and, with the attendant clinging to his robes, rushed into the royal chamber. " What is all this ]" exclaimed Alroy, starting from the divan. " Jabaster ! Pharez, witlidraw I How now, is Bagdad in insurrection ]" " Worse, much worse, Israel soon will be." " Ay !" " My fatal brother has told me all, nor would I sleep until I lifted up my voice to save thee." " Am I in danger]" " In the wilderness, when the broad desert qui- vered beneath thy trembling feet, and the dark heavens poured down their burning torrents, thou wert less so. In that hour of death, one guarded thee, who ne'er forgets his fond and faithful off- spring, and now, when he has brought thee out of the house Qf bondage ; now, when thy fortunes, like a noble cedar, swell in the air, and shadow all the land thou the very leader of his people, his THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY 499 chosen one, for whom lie hath worked such marvels — thy heart is turned from thy father's God, and hankers after strange abominations." Through the broad arch that led into the gardens of the serail, the moonlight fell upon the tall figure and the upraised arm of the priest ; Alroy stood with folded arms at some distance, watching Jabas- ter as he spoke, with a calm but searching glance. Suddenly he advanced with a quick step, and, placing his hand upon Jabastcr's arm, said in a low, inquiring tone, " You are speaking of this mar- riage 1" " Of that which ruined Solomon." " Listen to me, Jabaster," said Alroy, interrupt- ing him, in a calm, but peremptory tone. " I can- not forget that I am speaking to my master, as well as to my friend. The Lord, who knowcth all things, hath deemed me worthy of his mission. My fitness for this high and holy office was not ad- mitted without proof. A lineage, which none else could offer, mystic studies, shared by few, a mind that dared encounter all things, and a frame that could endure most, — these were my claims ; — but no more of this. I have passed the great ordeal, the Lord of Hosts hath found me not unworthy of his charge ; I have established his people, his altars blaze with sacrifices, his priests are honoured — bear witness thou, Jabaster — his omnipotent unity is declared. What wouldst thou more 1 " "All!" "Then Moses knew ye well. It is a stiff-necked people." " Sire, bear with me. If I speak in heat, I speak in zeal. You ask me what I wish : my answer is, a national existence, which we have not. You ask me what I wish : my answer is, the Land of Pro- mise. You ask me what I wish : my answer is, Jerusalem. You ask me what I wish : my answer is, the temple — all we have forfeited, all we have yearned after, all for which we have fought — our beauteous country, our holy creed, our simple manners, and our ancient customs." "Manners change with time and circumstances; customs may be observed everywhere. The ephod on thy breast proves our faith ; and for a country, is the Tigris less than Siloah, or the Euphrates in- ferior to the Jordan 1" " Alas ! alas ! there was a glorious prime when Israel stood aloof from other nations, a fair and holy thing that God had hallowed. We were then a chosen family, a most peculiar people, set apart for God's entire enjoyment. All about us was solemn, deep, and holy. We shunned the stranger as an unclean thing that must defile our solitary sanctity, and keeping to ourselves, and to our God, our fives flowed on in one great solemn tide of deep religion, making the meanest of our multitude feel greater than the kings of other lands. It was a glorious time ; I thought it had returned — but I awake from this, as other dreams." " We must leave off dreaming, good Jabaster, — we must act. Were I, by any chance, to fall into one of those reveries, with which I have often lost the golden hours at Hamadan, or in our old cave, I should hear, some fine morning, his sultanship of Roum rattling at my gates." Alroy smiled as he spoke : he would willingly have introduced a lighter tone into the dialogue, but the solemn countenance of the priest was not sympathetic with his levity. " My heart is full, and yet I cannot speak; the memory of the past o'erpowers my thought. I had vainly deemed my voice, inspired by the soul of truth, might yet preserve him ; and now I stand here in his presence, silent and trembling, like a guilty thing. O, my prince ! my pupil !" said the priest, advancing, falling on his knee, and seizing the robe of Alroy, " by thy sacred lineage, by the sweet memory of thy ardent youth, and our united studies — by all thy zealous thoughts, and solemn musings, and glorious aspirations after fame — by all thy sufferings, and by all thy triumph, and chiefly by the name of that great God, who hath elected thee his favoured child — by all the marvels of thy mighty mission, — I do adjure thee ! Arise, Alroy, arise and rouse thyself. The lure that snared thy fathers may trap thee-^this Delilah may shear thy mystic lock. Spirits like thee act not by halves. Once fall out from the straight course before thee, and though thou deemest 'tis but to saunter 'mid the summer trees, soon thou wilt find thyself in the dark depths of some Infernal forest, where none may rescue thee !" " What if I do inherit the eager blood of my great ancestor, at least I hold his sceptre. Shall aught of earthly power prevail against the supernatural sway of heaven and hades !" " Sire, sire, the legend that came from Sinai is full of high instruction. But shape thy conduct by its oracles, and all were well. It says our people can only be established by him who rules them with the verge of Solomon. Sire, when the Lord offered his pleasure to that mighty king, thou knowest his deep discretion. Riches, and length of days, empire and vengeance — these were not the choice of one to whom all accidents were proffered. The legend bears an inward spirit, as well as out- ward meaning. The capture of the prize was a wise test of thy imperial fitness. Thou hast his sceptre, but without his wisdom — 'tis but a staff of cedar." " Hah ! Art thou there 1 I am glad to see Jabaster politic. Hear me, my friend. What my feelings be unto this royal lady, but little matters. Let them pass, and let us view this question by the light wherein you have placed it, the flame of policy and not of passion. I am no traitor to the God of Israel, in whose name I have conquered, and in whose name I shall rule ; but thou art a learned doctor, thou canst inform us. I have heard no mandate to yield my glorious empire for my mean- est province. I am lord of Asia, so would I have my long posterity. Our people are but a remnant, a feeble fraction of the teeming millions that own my sway. What I hold I can defend ; but my children may not inherit the spirit of their sire. The Moslemin will recognise their rule with readier hearts, when they remember a daughter of their caliphs gave them life. You see I too am politic, my good Jabaster !" " The policy of the son of Kareah* — 'twas fatal. He preferred Egypt to Judah, and he suffered. Sire, the Lord hath blessed Judah : it is his land. He would have it filled by his peculiar people, so that his worship might ever flourish. For this he has, by many curious rites and customs, marked us out from all other nations, so that we cannot, at the same time, mingle with them, and yet be true to him. We must exist alone. To preserve that Vid. Jeremiah, cap. 4^ 500 D'lSRAELI^S NOVELS. loneliness, is the great end and essence of our law. ■\V'hat have we to do with Bagdad, or its people, where every instant we must witness some violation of our statutes 1 Can we pray with them 1 Can we eat with them 1 In the highest duties, and the lowest occupations of existence, alike we cannot mingle. From the altar of our God, to our own domestic boards, we are alike separated from them. Sire, you may be King of Bagdad, but you cannot, at the same time, be a Jew." " I am what I am. I worship the Lord of Hosts. Perhaps, in his mercy, he will accept the days of Nishabur and the Tigris, as a Compensation for some slight relaxation in the ritual of the baker and the bath." " And mark my words : it was by the ritual of the baker and the bath, that Ahoy rose, and without it he will fall. The genius of the people raised him, which he shared, and that genius has been formed by the law of Moses. Based on that law, he might indeed have handed down an empire to his long posterity ; and now, though the tree of his fortunes seems springing up by the waterside, fed by a thousand springs, and its branches covered with dew, there is a gangrene in the sap, and to- morrow he may sink Ukc a shrivelled gourd. Alas! alas ! for Israel ! We have long fed on mallows ; but to lose the vuitage in the very day of fruition, 'tis very bitter. Ah ! when I raised thy exhausted form in the cavern of Genthesma, and the star of David beamed brightly in the glowing heavens upon thy high fulfilment, who could have dreamed of a night like this 1 Farewell, sire." " Stop, Jabaster ! earliest, dearest friend, pr'ythee, pr'ythee stop !" The priest slowly turned, the prince hesitated. " Part not in anger, good Jabaster." "In sorrow, sire, only in sorrow ; but deep and terrible." "Israel is lord of Asia, my Jabaster. Why should we fearl" " Solomon built Tadmor in the wilderness, and his fleet brought gold from Ophir ; and yet Alroy was born a slave." " But did not die one. The sultans of the world have fallen before me. I have no fear. Nay, do not go. At least you'll place some credence in the stars, my learned cabalist. See, my planet shines as brightly as my fortunes." Alroy withdrew the curtain, himself and Jabaster stepped on to the teij-ace. A beautiful star glittered on high. As they gazed, its colour changed, and a blood-red me- teor burst from its circle, and fell into space. The conqueror and the priest looked at each other at tlie same time. Their countenances were pale, inquir- ing and agitated. " Sire," said Jabaster, " march to Judah." " It portends war," replied Alroy, endeavouring to recover himself. " Perchance some troubles in Persia." " Troubles at home, no other. The danger is nigh. Look to thyself." A wild scream was heard in the gardens. It sounded thrice. " What is all this V exclaimed Alroy, really agi- tated. "Rouse the guard, Jabaster, search the gardens." " 'Tis useless, and may do harm. It was a spirit ihat shrieked." "What said it 1" "Mene, Mene, Tekel, Uphabsin !" vn. " The old story, the priest against the king," said Honain to Alroy, when, at his morrow's interview, he had listened to the events of the preceding night. " My pious brother wishes to lead you back to the theocracy, and is fearful that if he pray at Bagdad, instead of Sion, he may chance to become only the head of an inferior sect, instead of revelling in the universal tithes of a whole nation. As for the me- teor, Scherirah must have crossed the river about the same time, and the Sultan of Koum may explain the bloody portent. For the shriek, as I really have no acquaintance with spirits, I must leave the mira- culous communication to the favoured cars and initiated intelligences of your highness and my bro- ther. It seems, it diflered from ' the Daughter of the Voice' in more respects than one, since it was not only extremely noisy, but, as it would appear, quite unintelligible, except to the individual who had an interest in the interpretation — an ingenious one, I confess. W^hen I enter upon my functions as your highness's chamberlain, I will at least guaranty that your slumbers shall not be disturbed either by spirits or more unwelcome visiters." " Enter upon them at once, good Honain. How fares my Persian rose to-day, my sweet Schirene 1" " Feeding on your image m your absence. She spares no word to me, I do assure your highness." " Nay, nay, we know you are a general favourite with the sex, Honain. I' faith I'm jealous." " I wouhl your highness had cause," said Ho- nain, very demurely. vni. The approaching marriage between the King of the Hebrews and the Princess of Bagdad was pub- lished throughout Asia. Preparations were made on the plain of the Tigris for the great rejoicing. Whole forests were felled to provide materials for the building and fuel for the banqueting. All the governors of provinces and cities, all the chief offi- cers and nobility of both nations, were specially in- vited, and daily arrived in state at Bagdad. Among them the viceroy of the Medes and Persians, and his recent bride, the Princess Miriam, were conspi- cuous, followed by a train of nearly ten thousand persons. A throne, ascended by one hundred steps, co- vered with crimson cloth, and crowned by a golden canopy, was raised in the middle of \he plain : on each side two thrones less elevated, but equally gorgeous. In the front of these thrones an im- mense circus was described, formed by one hundred chartaks or amphitheatres, ample room for the ad- mittance of the multitude being left between the buildings. These chartaks were covered with bright brocades and showy carpets — on each was hoisted a bright and brilliant banner. In some of them were bands of choice musicians, in others companies of jugglers, bufibons, and storiers. Five chartaks on each side of the thrones were allotted for the convenience of the court, the rest were filled by the different trades of the city. In one, the fruit- erers had formed a beautiful garden, glowing with pomegranates, and gourds, and watermelons, oranges, almonds, and pistachio nuts ; in another, the butchers exhibited their meats carved in the most fanciful shapes, and the skins of animals THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 501 dressed up in very ludicrous figures. Here assem- bled the furriers, all dressed in masquerade, like leopards, lions, tigers, and foxes ; and in another booth mustered the upholsterers, proud of a camel made of wood, and reeds, and cord, and painted linen, a camel which walked about as if alive, though ever and anon the interior man drawing aside a curtain, discovered to the marvelling multi- tude the workman in his own piece. Further on might be perceived the cotton manufacturers, whose chartak was full of birds of all shapes and ])lumage, yet nevertheless formed of their curious plant ; and of the same material, with the help of reeds, al- though ever)' one imagined it to be built with bricks and mortar, rose in the centre a lofty mina- ret. It was covered with embroidered work, and on the top was placed a stork so cunningly devised, that the children pelted it with pistacliio nuts. The saddlers showed their skill in two litters, open at top, each carried on a dromedary, and in each a beautiful woman, who diverted the sjiectators with light balls of gilt leather, throwing them up both with their hands and feet. Nor were the mat- makers backward in the proof of their dexterity, since, instead of a common banner, they exhibited a large standard of reeds worked with two lines of writing in Kufic, proclaiming the happy names of Alroy and Schirene. But, indeed, in every char- tak might be witnessed some wondrous specimens of the wealth of Bagdad, and of the ingenuity of its unrivalled artisans. Around this mighty circus, on every side, for the space of many miles, the plain was studded with innumerable pavilions. At measured intervals were tables furnished with every species of provi- sion, and attended by appointed servants, flagons of wine and jars of sherbets mingled with infinite baskets of delicious fruits and trays of refi-eshing confectionary. Although open to all comers, so great and rapid was the supply, that these ban- queting tables seemed ever laden ; and that the joys of the people might be complete, they were allowed to pursue whatever pleasures they thought fit without any restraint, by proclamation, in these terms. "This is the time of feasting, pleasure, arid rejoicing. Let no person reprimand or complain of another : let not the rich insult the poor, or the strong the weak ,• let no one ask another, ' Why have you done this ?'" Millions of people were collected in this para- dise. They rejoiced, they feasted, they frolicked, they danced, they sang. They listened to the tales of the Arabian storier, at once enchanted and enchanting, or melted to the strain of the Persian poet, as he painted the moonlit forehead of his heroine, and the wasting and shadowy form of his lovesick hero : they beheld with amazement the feats of the juggler of the Ganges, or giggled at the practised wit and the practical buffoonery of the Syrian mime. And the most delighted could still spare a fascinated glance to the inviting gestures and the voluptuous grace of the dancing girls of Egypt.* Everyvi'here were melody and merri- ment, rarity and beauty. For once mankind for- got their cares, and delivered themselves up to in- finite enjoyment. " I grow courteous," said Kisloch the Kourd, assisting a party into one of the shows. • A sculptor might find studies in the Egyptian Alwyn. " And I humane," said Calidas the Indian. " Fellow, how dure you violate the proclamation, by thrashing that child 1" He turned to one of the stewards of the tables, who was belabouring the unfortunate driver of a camel which had stumbled, and, in its fall, had shivered its burden, two pan- niers of porcelain. " Mind your own business, fellow," replied the steward, " and be thankful that for once in your life you can dine." " Is this the way to speak to an oflScer 1" said Calidas the Indian ; " I have half a mind to cut your tongue out." " Never mind, little fellow," said the Guebre, " here is a dirhem for you. Run away and be merry." " A miracle," grinned the Negro, " he giveth alms." " And you are witty," rejoined the Guebre. " 'Tis a wondrous day." " What shall we do V' said Kisloch. " Let us dine," proposed the Negro, "Ay! under this plane tree," said Calidas. " 'Tis pleasant to be alone. I hate everybody but ourselves." " Here, stop, you rascal," said the Guebre. " What's your name 1" " I anr a hadgee," said our old friend Abdallah, the servant of the charitable merchant Ali, and who was this day one of the officiating stewards. "Are you a Jew, you scoundreH" said the Guebre : " that is the only thing worth being Bring some wine, you accursed Giaour !" " Instantly," said Kisloch, " and a pilau." " And a gazelle stufled with almonds," said Ca- lidas. " And some sugarplums," said the Negro. "Quick, you infernal Gentile, or I'll send this javelin in your back," hallooed the Guebre. The servile Abdallah hastened away, and soon bustled back, carrying two flagons of wine, and followed by four servants, each with a tray covered with dainties. " Where are you going ? you accursed scoun- drels," grumbled Kisloch : " wait upon the true believers." " We shall be more free alone," whispered Ca- lidas. " Away, then, dogs," growled Kisloch. Abdallah and his attendants hurried off, but were soon summoned back. " Why did not you bring Schiras winel" asked Calidas, with an eye of fire. " The pilau is overdone," thundered Kisloch. " You have brought a lamb stuffed with pistachio nuts, instead of a gazelle with almonds," said the Guebre. " Not half sugarplums enough," said the Negro. " Every thing is wrong," said Kisloch. " Go, and get us a kabob."* In time, however, even this unmanageable crew were satisfied, and seated under their planetree, and stuffing themselves with all the dainties of the East, they became more amiable as their appetites decreased. " A bumper, Calidas, and a song," said Kisloch. * A most capital thing. Square lumps of meat run upon a skewer, and belween~each piece of meal, a most delicate slice of onion, and quickly Isroiled. A very favourite dish with the Turks. A kabob shop is like an English chop- house. 502 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " 'Tis rare stuff," saitl the Guebre : " Come, CdUy, it should inspire you." ■ Here goes, then — mind the chorus." THE SONG OFCALIDAS. Prink, drink, deeply drink, Never feel, and never think. Wlial's love ? what's fame t a sigh, a smile, Friendship but a hollow wile. If you've any thought or wo, Drown them in the goblet's flow. Yes ! dash them in this brimming cup, Dash them in, and drink them up. Drink, drink, deeply drink. Never feel, and never think. " Hark, the trumpets ! The king and queen ! The procession is coming. Let's away." " Again ! they must be near. Hurry, hurry, for good places." "Break all the cups and dishes. Come along!" The multitude from all quarters hurried to the great circus amid the clash of ti>n thousand cym- bals, and the blast of innumerable trumpets. In the distance, issuing from the gates of Bagdad, might be detected a brilliant crowd, the advance company of the bridal procession. There came five hundred maidens crowned with flowers, and beauteous as the buds that girt their hair. Their flowing robes were whiter than the swan, and each within her hand a palm branch held. Followed these a band of bright musicians, clothed in golden robes, and sounding silver trum- pets. Then five hundred youths, brilliant as stars, clad in jackets of white fox-skin, and alternately bearing baskets of fruit or flowers. Followed these a band of bright musicians, clothed in silver robes, and sounding golden trumpets. Six choice steeds, sumptuously caparisoned, each led by an Arab groom.* The household of Medad, in robes of crimson, lined with sable. The standard of Medad. Medad, on a coal-black Arab, followed by three hundred officers of his division, all mounted on steeds of a pure race. Slaves, bearing the bridal present of Medad, six Damascus sabres of unrivalled temper.-j- Twelve choice steeds, sumptuously caparisoned, each led by an Anatolian groom. The household of Ithamar, in robes of violet, ined with ermine. The standard of Ithamar. Ithamar, on a snow-white Anatolian charger,i: followed by six hundred officers of his division, all mounted on steeds of a pure race. Slaves bearing the marriage present of Ithamar. A golden vase of rubies, borne on a violet throne. One hundred negroes, their noses bored, and * Led horses always precede the advent of a great man. I think there were usually twelve before the sultan when he went to mosque, whicli he did in public every Friday. t But sabres are not to be found at Damascus, any more than cheese at Stilton, or oranges at Malta. The art of watering the blade is, however, practised, I believe, in Persia. A fine Damascus blade will fetch a long figure, fifty, or even one hundred guineas English. i The finest horses in the world are the Anatolian or Asiatic Turkish, from which all our best breeds have sprung, and not from the AraLiian, which I believe to be little worth. It is against reason that the race should be so preeminent in a land without pasture. See an excellent letter on this subject signed " Stud," in a recent number of that capital per ludical, the Sporting Magazine. hung with rings of brilliants, playing upon wind instruments and kettle-drums. The standard of the city of Bagdad. The deputation from the citizens of Bagdad. Two hundred mules with caparisons of satin, embroidered with gold, and adorned with small golden bells. These bore the sumptuous wardrobe, presented by the city to their princess. Each mule was attended by a girl, dressed like a peri, with starry wings, and a man, masked as a hideous Dive. The standard of Egypt. The deputation from the Hebrews of Egypt, mounted on dromedaries, with silver furniture. Fifty slaves, bearing their present to the princess, with golden cords, a mighty bath of jasper, beauti- fully carved, the sarcophagus of some ancient ten* pie, and purchased for an immense sum. The standard of Syria. The deputation from the Hebrews of the Holj Land, headed by Rabbi Zimri himself, each carry- ing in his hand his olfering to the nuptial pair, a precious vase, containing earth from the mount of Sion. The standard of Hamadan. The deputation from the citizens of Hamadan, headed by the venerable Bostenay himself, whose sumptuous charger was led by Caleb. The present of the city of Hamadan to David Alroy, offered at his own suggestion — the cup in which the prince of the captivity carried his tribute now borne full of sand. Fifty choice steeds, sumptuously caparisoned, each led by a Median or Persian groom. The household of Abner and Miriam, in number twelve hundred, clad in chain armour of ivory and gold. The standard of the Modes and Persians. Two white elephants, with golden litters, bearing the viceroy and his princess. The offering of Abner to Alroy. Twelve ele- phants of state, with furniture embroidered with jewels, each tended by an Indian clad in chain armour of ivory and gold. The offering of Miriam to Schirene. Fifty plants of roses from Rocnabad,* a white shawl of Cash- mere, fifty feet in length, which folded into the handle of a fan ; fifty screens, each made of a feather of the roc ;■[- and fifty vases of crystal, full of exquisite perfumes, and each sealed with a talis- man of precious stones. After these followed the eunuch guard. Then came the band of the Serail, consisting of three hundred dwarfs, hideous indeed to behold, but the most complete musicians in the world. The steeds of Solomon, in number one hundred, each with a natural star upon its front, uncapari- soned, and led only by a bridle of diamonds. The household of Alroy and Schirene. Fore- most, the Lord Honain riding upon a chestnut charger shod with silver ; the dress of the rider pink with silver stars. From his rosy turban de- pended a tremulous aigrette of brilliants,^: blazing with a thousand .shifting tints. Two hundred j)ages followed him; and then * A river in Persia famous for its bowery banks of roses. + The screens and fans in the East, made of the plumaga of rare birds, with jewelled handles, are very ggrgeous. t Worn only by personages of the highe.si ranlr. The sultan presented Lord Nelson after the lialile of the Nile with au aigrette uf diamonds. THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 503 servants of both sexes gorgeously habited, amount- ing to nearly two thousand, carrying rich vases, magnificent caskets, and costly robes. The trea- surer, and two hundred of his underlings, came after, showering golden dirhems on all sides. The sceptre of Solomon, born by Asriel himself. 'A magnificent and lofty car, formed of blue ena- mel, with golden wheels, and axletrces of turquoises and brilliants, and drawn by twelve snow-white and sacred horses, four abreast — in the car, Alroy and Schirene. Five thousand of the sacred guard closed the procession. Amid the exclamations of the people, this gor- geous procession crossed the plain, and moved around the mighty circus. The conqueror and his bride ascended their throne — its steps were covered by the youths and maidens. On the throne, upon their right, sat the venerable Bostenay ; on the left, the gallant viceroy and his princess. The chartaks on each side were crowded with the court. The deputations made their offerings, the chiefs and captains paid their homage, the trades of the city moved before the throne in order, and exhi- bited their various ingenuity. Thrice was the pro- clamation made, amid the sound of trumpets, and then began the games. A thousand horsemen dashed into the arena and threw the jcrreed. They galloped at full speed, they arrested their fiery chargers in mid course, and flung their long javelins at the minute but sparkling target, the imitative form of a rare and brilliant bird. The conquerors received their prizes from the hand of the princess herself — bright shawls, and jewelled daggers, and rosaries of gems. Sometimes the trumpets announced a prize from the vice-queen, sometimes from the venerable Bos- tenay, sometimes from the victorious generals, or the loyal deputations, sometimes from the united trades, sometimes from the city of Bagdad, some- times from the city of Hamadan. The hours flew away in gorgeous and ceaseless variety. " I would we were all alone, my own Schirene," said Alroy to his bride. " I would so, too ; and yet I love to see all Asia prostrate at the feet of Alroy." " Will the sun ne'er set 1 Give me thy hand to play with." " Hush ! See, Miriam smiles." "Lcrvest thou my sister, my own Schirene 1" " None dearer but thyself." "Talk not of my sister, but ourselves. Tliinkest thou the sun is nearer setting, love V " I cannot see — thine eyes, they dazzle me — they are so brilHant, sweet I" " O ! my soul, I could pour out my passion on thy breast." " Thou art very serious," " Love is ever so." " Nay, sweet ! It makes me wild and fanciful. Now I could do such things — but what I know not. I would we had wings, and then we would fly away." " See, I nmst salute this victor in the games. Must I unloose thy hand 1 Dear hand, farewell ! Think of me while I speak, my precious life. 'Tis done. Give back thy hand, or else methinks I'll die. What's this!" A horseman, in no holiday dress, but covered with dust, rushed into tho circus, bearing in his hand a tall lance, on which was fixed a scroll. The marshals of the games endeavoured to pre- vent his advance, but he would not be stayed. His message was to the king alone. A rumour of news from the army circulated throughout the crowd. And news from the army it was. Another vic- tory ! Scherirah had defeated the Sultan of Roum, who was now a suppliant for peace and aUiance. Sooth to say, the intelligence had arrived at dawn of day ; but the courtly Honain had contrived that it should be communicated at a later and a more effective moment. There scarcely needed this additional excite- ment to this glorious day. But the people cheered, the golden dirhems were scattered with renewed profusion, and the intelligence was received by all parties as a solemn ratification by Jehovah, or by Allah, of the morning ceremony. The sun set, the court arose, and returned in the same pomp to the serail. The twilight died away, a beacon fired on a distant eminence announced the entrance of Alroy and Schirene into the nup- tial chamber; and suddenly, as by magic, the mighty city, every mosque, and minaret, and tower, and terrace, and the universal plain, and the num- berless pavilions, and the immense circus, and the vast and winding river, blazed with light. From every spot a lamp, a torch, a lantern, tinted with every hue, burst forth ; enormous cressets of silver radiancy beamed on the top of each chartak ; and huge bonfires of ruddy flame started up along the whole horizon. For seven days and seven nights, this unparal- leled scene of rejoicing, though ever various, never ceased. Long, long was remembered the bridal feast of the Hebrew prince and the caliph's daugh- ter ; long, long did the peasantry on the plains of Tigris sit down by the side of that starry river, and tell the wondrous tale to their marvelling posterity. Now what a glorious man was David Alroy, lord of the mightiest empire in the world, and wedded to the most beautiful princess, surrounded by a prosperous and obedient people, guarded by invincible armie?, one on whom earth showered all its fortune, and heaven all its favour — and all by the power of his own genius ! PART IX. I. 'TwAS midnight, and the storm still raged : 'mid the roar of the thunder and the shrieks of the wind, the floods of forky lightning each instant revealed the broad and billowy breast of the trouliled Tigris. Jabaster stood gazing upon the wild scene from the gallery of his palace. His countenance was solemn, but disquieted. " I would that he were here !" exclaimed the high priest. " Yet why should I desire his pre- sence, who heralds only gloom ] Yet, in his ab- sence am I gay ? I am nothing. This Bagdad weighs upon me like a cloak of lead — my spirit is dull and broken. " They say Alroy gives a grand banquet in the serail to-night, and toasts his harlot 'mid the thun- derbolts. Is there no hand to write upon the wall 1 He is found wanting — he is weighed, and is indeed found wanting. The parting of his kingdom soon 504 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. Tvill como, and then 1 could weep, ! I could weep, and down these stern and seldom yielding cheeks, pour the wild anguish of my desperate wo. So young, so great, so favoured ! But one more step, a god — and now, a ''juI Belshazzar!" " Was it for this his gentle youth was past in musing solitude and mystic studies 1 Was it for this the holy messenger summoned his most re- ligious spirit? Was it for this he crossed the fiery desert and communed with his fathers in their tombs ] Is this the end of all his victories, and all his vast achievement '! To banquet with a wanton ! " A year ago this very night, it was the eve of battle, I stood within his tent to wait his final word. He mused awhile, and then he said, ' Good night, Jabaster !' I believed myself the nearest to his heart, as he has ever been nearest to mine, but that's all over. He never says, ' Good night, Jabaster,' now . Why, what's all this ] Methinks I am a child. " The Lord's anointed is a prisoner now in the light grating of a bright kiosk, and never gazes on the world he conquered. Egypt and Syria, even farthest Ind, send forth their messengers to greet Alroy, the great, the proud, the invincible. And where is he? In a soft paradise of girls and eunuchii crowned with flowers, listening to melting lays, and the wild thrilling of the amorous lute. He spares no hours to council, all is left to his prime favourites, of whom the leader is that juggling fiend I sometmie called my brother. " Why rest I here 1 Where should I fly ? Me- thinks my presence is still a link to decency. Should I tear off the cphod, I scarcely fancy 'twould blaze upon another's breast. He goes not to the sacri- fice ; they say he keeps no fast, observes no ritual, and that their festive fantasies will not be balked, eve/i l)y the Sabbath. I have not seen him thrice since the marriage. Honain has told her I did oppose it, and she bears to me a hatred that only women feel. Our strong passions break into a thousand purposes : women have one. Their love is dangerous, but their hate is fatal. " See! a boat bounding on the waters. On such a night, — but one would dare to venture." Now visible, now in darkness, a single lantern at the prow, Jabaster watched with some anxiety the slight bark bufleting the waves. A tremen- dous flash of lightning illuminated the whole river, and tipped with a spectral light even the distant piles of building. The boat, and the toiling figure of the single rower, were distinctly perceptible. Kow all again was darkness, the wind suddenly subsided, in a few minutes the plash of the oars was audilile, and the boat apparently stopped beneath tiie palace. There was a knocking at the private portal. " Who knocks'!" inquired Jabaster. " A friend to Israel." " Abidan, by his voice. Art thou alone 1" " The prophetess is with me ; only she." " A moment. I'll open the gate. Draw the boat within the arch." Jabaster descended from the gallery, and in a few moments returned with two visiters : the youthful prophetess Esther, and her companion, a man short in stature, but with a veiy powerful and well-knit frame. His countenance was very melancholy, and with much harshness in the lower part, not without a degree of pensive beauty in the broad clear brow, and sunken eyes, unusual in oriental visages. " A rough night," said Jabaster. " To those who fear it," replied Abidan. " The sun has brought so little joy to me, I care not for the storm." "What news 1" " Wo ! wo ! wo !" " Thy usual note, my sister. Will the day ne'er come when we may change itl" " Wo ! wo ! wo ! unutterable wo !" " Abidan, how fares iti" " Verj' well." ■ " Indeed !" " As it may turn out." " You are brief." " Bitter." " Have you been to court, that you have learned to be so wary in your words, my friend 1" " I know not what may happen. In time we may become all courtiers, though I fear, Jabaster, we have done too much to be rewarded. I gave him my blood, and you something more, and now we are at Bagdad. 'Tis a fine city. I wish to heaven the shower of Sodom would rain upon its terraces." • " I know thou hast something terrible to tell. I know it by that gloomy brow of thine, that lowers like the tempest. Speak out, man. I can bear the worst, for which I am prepared." " Take it, then. Alroy has proclaimed himself caliph, Abner is made Sultan of Persia. Asriel, Ithamar, Medad, and the chief captains, viziers ; Honain, their chief. Four Moslemin nobles are sworn into the council. The princess goes to mosque in state next Friday; 'tis said thy pupil doth accompany her." "I'll not believe it! . By the God of Sinai, I'll not believe it ! Were my own eye the accursed witness of the deed, I'd not believe it. Go to mosque ! They play with thee, my good Abidan, they play with thee," " As it may be. 'Tis a rumour, but rumours herald deeds. The rest of my intelligence is true. I had it from my kinsman, stout Zalmunna. He left the banquet." " Shall I go to him ? Methinks one single word — to mosque ! only a rumour and a false one. I'll never believe it ; no, no, no, never, never ! Is he not the Lord's anointed ] The ineffable curse upon this daughter of the Moabite ! No marvel tliat it thunders ! By heavens, I'll go and beard him in his orgies!" " You know your power better than Abidan. You bearded him before his marriage, yet " " He married. 'Tis true. Honain, their chief. And I kept his ring ! Honain is my brother Have I ne'er a dagger to cut the bond of brother- hood V " We have all daggers, Jabaster, if we know but how to use them," " 'Tis strange — we met after twenty j'cars of severance. You were not in the chamber, Abidan. 'Twas at council. We met after twenty years of severance. He is my brother. 'Tis strange, I say ; I felt that man shrink from my embrace." " Honain is a philosopher, and believes in sym- pathy. 'Twould appear there was none between you. His system, then, absolves you from all ties." " You are sure the rest of the intelligence ia true 1 I'll not believe the mosque — the rest is baj enough." THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 505 " Zalmuniia left the banquet. Hassan Subah's i brother sat above him." ■ " Subah's brother ! 'Tis all over, then. Is he of the council V " Ay, and others." " Where now is Israeli" " She should be in her tents." "Wo! wo! wo! unutterable wo!" exclaimed the prophetess, who, standing motionless in the back of the chamber, seemed inattentive to their conversation. * Jabaster paced the gallery with agitated steps. Suddenly he stopped, and, walking up. to Abidan, seized his arm, and looked him sternly in the face. " I know thy thought, Abidan," exclaimed the priest; "but it cannot be. I have dismissed, — henceforth and forever I have dismissed all feeling from my mind ; now I have no brother, no friend, no pupil, and, I fear, no saviour. Israel is all and all to me. I have no other life — 'tis not compunc- tion, then, that stays my arm. My heart's as hai-d as thine." " Why ftays it, then 1" " Because with him we fall. He is the last of all his sacred line. There is no other hand to grasp our sceptre." " Our sceptre ! — what sceptre ]" " The sceptre of our kings." « Kings !" '* Ay, why dost thou look so dark 1" " How looked the prophet when the stiifnecked populace forsooth must have a king 1 Did he smile ? Did he shout, and clap his hands, and cry, God save his majesty ! O, Jabaster ! honoured, rare Jabaster ! thou second Samuel of our light-headed people ! there was a time when Israel had no king except their God. Were we viler then ? Did kings conquer Canaan 1 Who was Moses, who was Aaron, who was mighty Joshua 1 Was the sword of Gideon a kingly sword 7 Did the locks of Samson shade royal temples ] Would a king have kept his awful covenant like solemn Jephtha 1 Royal words are light as air, when, to maintain them, you injure any other than a subject ! " Kings ! why what's a king 1 Why should one man break the equal sanctity of our chosen race ] Is their blood purer than our own 1 We are all the seed of Abraham. Who was Saul, and who was David 1 I never heard they were a diti'erent bi'eed unto our fathers. Grant them devout, which they were not; and brave and wise, which other men were ; have their posterity a patent for all virtues 1 No, Jabaster ! thou ne'er didst err, but when thou placed a crown upon this haughty stripling. What he did a thousand might have done. 'Twas thy mind inspired the deed. And now he is a king ; and now, Jabaster, the veiy soul of Israel, who should be our judge and leader — Jabaster trembles in disgrace, while our unhallowed sanhedrim is filled with Ammonites !" " 0, Abidan ! thou hast touched me to the quick : thou hast stirred up thoughts that ever and anon, like strong and fatal vapours, have risen from the dark abyss of thought, and I have quelled them." " Let them rise, I say — let them drown the beams of that all-scorching sun we suffer under, that drinks all vegetation up, and makes us languish with a dull exhaustion." " Joy ! joy ! unutterable joy !" " Hark ! the prophetess has changed her note ; and ««t she hears us not. The spirit of the Lord 64 is truly with her. Come, Jabaster, see thy heart is opening to thy people's sufferings : thy»people, my Jabaster, for art not thou our judge] at least, thou shalt be." " Can we call back the theocracy 1 — Is't possi- ble 1" " But say the word, and it is done, Jabaster. Nay, stare not. Dost thou think there are no true ears in Israel ! Dost thou suppose thy children have beheld, without a thought, the foul insults poured on thee — thee, their priest, their adored high priest, one who recalls the best days of the past — the days of their great judges. But one word, one single movement of that mitred head, and But I speak unto a mind that feels more than I can ex- press. Be silent, tongue, thou art a babbling counsellor. Jabaster's patriot soul needs not the idle schooling of a child. If he be silent, 'tis that his wisdom deems the hour's not ripe : but when her leader speaks, Israel will not be slack." "The Moslemin in council! We know what must come next. Our national existence is in its last agony. Methinks the time is very ripe, Abidan." " Why, so we think, great sir ; and say the word, and twenty thousand spears will guard the ark. I'll answer for my men. Stout Scherirah looks grimly on the Moabites. A word from thee, and the whole Syrian army will join our banner — the lion of Judah, that shall be our flag. The tyrant and his satraps, let them die, and then the rest must join us. We'll proclaim the covenant, and, leav- ing Babylon to a bloody fate, march on to Sion !" " Sion, his youthful dream, Sion !" " You muse 1" " King or no king, he is the Lord's anointed. Shall this hand, that poured the oil on his hallowed head, wash out the balmy signet with his blood 1 Must I slay him 1 Shall this kid be seethed even in its mother's milk V " His voice is low, and yet his face is troubled. How now, sir V " What art thou ? Ah ! Abidan, trusty, stanch Abidan ! You see, Abidan, I was thinking, my good Abidan, all this may be the frenzy of a reveL To-morrow's dawn may summon cooler councils. The tattle of the table, it is sacred. Let us forget it; let us pass it over. The Lord may turn his heart. Who knows, who knows, Abidan V " Noble sir, a moment since your mind was like your f^ith, firm and resolved, and now " " School me not, school me not, good Abidan. There is that within my mind you cannot fathom ; some secret sorrows which arc all my own. Leave me, good friend, leave me a while. When Israel calls me I shall not be wanting. Be sure of that, Abidan, be sure of that. Nay, do not go ; the night is very rough, and the fair prophetess should r,ot stem again the swelling river. I'll to my closet, and will soon return." Jabaster quitted the gallery, and entered a small apartment. Several large volumes, unclasped and open, were lying on various parts of the divan. Before them stood his brazen cabalistic table. He closed the chamber with a cautious air. He ad- vanced into the centre of the apartment. He lifted up his hands to heaven, and clasped them with an expression almost of agony, " Is it come to this?" he muttered in a tone of deep oppression. " Is it come to this ] What is' I have heard 1 what done 1 Down, tempting devil 3U 506 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. dawn . O ! life, O ! glory, O ! my country, my chosen,people, and my sacreel creed ! — why do we live, why act, why have we feeling for aught that's famous, or for aught that's holy ! Let me die, let — let me die. The torture of existence is too great." He flung himself upon the couch, he buried his awful countenance in his robes. His mighty heart was convulsed with passion. There did he lie, that great and solemn man, prostrate and wo-be- gone. II. *' The noisy banquet lingers in my ear ; I love to be alone." " With meV " Thou art myself; I have no other life. " Sweet bird ! It is now a caliph." " I am what thou wiliest, soul of my sweet ex- istence ! Pomp and dominion, fame and victory, seem now but flawed and dimly-shaded gems com- pared with thy bright smile I" "My plaintive nightingale, shall we hunt to- day 1" " Alas ! my rose, I'd sooner lie upon this lazy couch, and gaze upon thy beauty !" " Or sail upon the cool and azure lake, in some bright hark, like to a sea-nymph's shell, and fol- lowed by the swans'!" " There is no lake so blue as thy deep eye ; there is no swan so white as thy round arm !" " Or shall we lance our falcons in the air, and bring the golden pheasant to our feetl" "I am the golden pheasant at thy feet, why wouldst thou richer prey ]" " Rememberest thou thy earliest visit to this dear kiosk, my gentle mute 1 There thou stoodest with folded arms, and looks demure as day, and ever and anoH, with those dark eyes, stealing a glance which made my cheek quite pale. Methinks I see thee even yet, shy bird. Dost know, I was so foolish when it quitted me, dost know I cried ]" " Ah, no ! thou didst not cry 1" " Indeed, I think I did." " Tell me again, my own Schirene, indeed didst cry]" " Indeed I did, my soul !" " I would those tears were in some crystal vase, I'd give a province for the costly urn." She threw her arms around iiis neck, and cover- ed his face with kisses. Sunset sounded from the minarets. They arose and wandered together in the surrounding paradise. The sky was tinted with a pale violet flush, a sin- gle star floating by the side of the white moon, that beamed with a dim lustre, soft and shapely as a pearl. " Beautiful !" exclaimed the pensive Schirene, a-s she gazed upon the star. " ! my Alroy, why cannot wc ever live alone, and ever in a para- dise ]" " I am wearied of empire," replied Alroy with a smile, " let us fly !" " Is there no island with all that can make life charming, and yet impervious to man 1 How littler do we require ! Ah ! if these gardens, instead of being surroinided by hateful Bagdad, were only en- compassed by some beautiful ocean !" " My heart, we live in a paradise, and are seldom disturbed, thanks to Honain !" " But the very consciousness that there are any other persons existing but ourselves is to mc pain- ful. Every one who even thinks of you seems to rob me ^f a part of your being. Besides, I am weary of pomp and palaces. I should like to live in a sparry grot, and sleep upon a couch of sweet leaves !" This interesting discussion was disturbed by a dwarf, who, in addition to being very small, and very ugly, was dumb. He bowed bclbre the princess, and then had recourse to a great deal of pantomimic action, by which she at length dis- covered that it was dinner time. No other person could have ventured to disturb the royal pair, but this little being was a privileged favourite. So Alroy and Schirene entered the serail. An immense cresset-lamp, fed with perfumed oil, threw a soft light round the sumptuous chaml)er. At the end stood a row of eunuchs in scarlet dresses, and each holding a tall silver staff. The caliph and the sultana threw themselves upon a couch covered with a hundred cushions ; on one side stood a group consisting of the captain of the guard and other officers of the household, on the other, of beautiful female slaves magnificently attired. The line of domestics at the end of the apart- ment opened, and a body of slaves advanced, car- rying trays of ivor}% and gold, and ebony, and silver, covered with the choicest dainties, most curiously prepared. These were in turn oflered to the caliph and the sultana by their surrounding at- tendants. The princess accepted a spoon made of a single pearl, the long, thin golden handle of which was studded with rubies, and condescended to partake of some salTron soup, of which she was very fond. Afterwards she regaled herself with the breast of a cygnet stuflTed with almonds, and stewed with violets and cream. Having now a little satisfied her appetite, and wishing to show a mark of her favour to a particular individual, she ordered the captain of the guard instantly to send him the whole of the next course* with her com- pliments. Her attention was then engaged with a dish of those delicate ortolans that feed upon the vine-leaves of Schiraz, and with which the gover- nor of Nishabur took especial care that she should be well provided. Tearing their delicate forms to pieces with her still more delicate fingers, she in- sisted upon feeding Alroy, who of course yielded to her solicitations. In the mean time they re- freshed themselves with their favourite sherbet of pomegranates, and the golden wine of mount Le- banon.-}- The caliph, who could eat no more orto- lans, although fed by such delicate fingers, was at length obliged to call for " rice," which was sy- nonymous to commanding the banquet to disap- pear. The attendants now brcjght to each, basins of gold, and ewers of rock crystal filled with rose- water, with towels of that rare Egyptian linen, which can only be made of the cotton that grows upon the banks of the Nile. While they amused themselves with eating sugarplums, and drinking coflee flavoured with cinnamon, the I'cmale slaves * These compliments from the tables of the great are not uncomiimu in llie East. Wlien at tlie liead-quariers of the gr.uul vizier at Vanina, liis liighness spin lo myself and my travc^tling companions, a course fi'om hij tabic, singers and (lancing airls. + A most (ielicious wine, from its colour, brilliancy, and rare llavour, justly meriting this title, is made on Lebanon; but it will not. unforninately, liear exportation, and even materially sutlers in the voyage from the coast lo Alexaa I dria. THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 507 danced before them in the most graceful attitudes to the melody of invisible musicians. " My enchanting Schirene," said the caliph, " I have dined, thanks to your attention, very well. These slaves of yours dance admirably, and are exceedingly beautiful. Your music, too, is beyond all praise ; but, for my own part, I would sooner be quite alone, and listening to one of your songs." " I have written a new one to-day. You shall hear it." So saying, she clapped her little white hands, and the whole of the retinue immediately withdrew. III. "The stars are stealing forth, and so will I. Sorry sight! to view .Tabaster, with a stealthy step, skulk like a thing dishonoured ! O ! may the purpose consecrate the deed — the die is cast." So saying, the high priest, muffled up in his robe, emerged from his palace into the busy streets. It is at night that the vitality of oriental life is most impressive. The narrow winding streets, crowded with population breathing the now sufl'erable air, the illuminated coffee-houses, the groups of gay, yet sober revellers, the music and the dancing, and the animated recitals of the poet and the storier, all combine to invest the starry hours with a beguil- ing, and even fascinating, character of enjoyment and adventure. It was the Jiight after the visit of Abidan and the prophetess. Jabaster had agreed to meet Abidan in the square of the great mosque two hours after sunset, and thither he now repaired. " I am somewhat before my time," he said, as he entered the great square, over which the rising moon threw a full flood of light. A few dark sha- dows of human beings alone moved in the dis- tance. The world was in the streets and coffee- houses. " I am somewhat before my time," said Jabaster. " Conspirators are watchful. I am anxious for the meeting, and yet I dread it. Since he broke this business I have never slept. My mind is a chaos. I'll not think. If 'tis to be done, let it be done at once. I am more tempted to sheathe this dagger in Jabaster's breast than in Alroy's. If life or empire were the paltry stake, I'd end a life that now can bring no joy, and yield authority that hath rip charm ; but Israel, Israel, thou for whom I have endured so much — let me forget Jabaster had a mother. "But for this thought that links me with my God, and leads ray temper to a higher state, how vain and savl, how wearisome and void, were this said world they think of! But for this thought I could sit down and die. Yea ! my great heart could crack, worn out, worn out : my mighty passions, with their tierce but flickering flame, sink down and die, and the strong brain that e'er hath urged my course, and pricked me onward with perpetual thought, desert the rudder it so long hath held, like some baffled pilot in blank discomfiture, in the far centre of an unknown sea. " Study and toil, anxiety and sorrow, mighty action, perchance time and disappointment, which is worse than all, have done their work, and not in vain. I am no longer the same Jabaster that gazed upon the stars of Caucasus. Methinks even they look dimmer than of yore. The glory of my life is fading. My leaves are sear, tinged, but not tainted. I am still the same in one respect — I have not left my God, in deed or thought. Ah ! whc art thou V " A friend to Israel." " I am glad that Israel hath a friend. Noble Abidan, I have well considered all that hath passed between us. Sooth to say, you touched upon a string I've played before, but kept it for my loneli- ness ; a jarring tune, indeed a jarring tune, but so it is, and being so, let me at once unto your friends, Abidan." " Noble Jabaster, thou art what I deemed thee." " Abidan, they say the consciousness of doing justly is the best basis of a happy mind." " Even so." " And thou believest it 1" " Without doubt." " We are doing very justly 1" " 'Tis a weak word for such a holy purpose." " I am most wretched I" IV. The high priest and his companion entered the house of Abidan. Jabaster addressed the already assembled guests. " Brave Scherirah, it joys me to find thee here. In Israel's cause when was Scherirah wanting "? Stout Zalmunna, we have not seen enough of each other ; the blame is mine. Gentle prophetess, thy blessing ! " Good friends, why we meet here is known to all. Little did we dream of such a meeting when we crossed the Tigris. But that is nothing. We come to act and not to argue. Our great minds, they are resolved ; our solemn purpose requires no demonstration. If there be one among us who would have Israel a slave to Ishmael, who would lose all we have prayed for, all we have fought for, all which we have won, and all for which we are pre- pared to die — if there be one among us who would have the ark polluted, and Jehovah's altar stained with a Gentile sacrifice — if there be one among us who does not sigh for Sion, who would not yield his breath to build the temple and gain the heritage his fathers lost, why, let him go ! There is none such among us; then stay and free your country !" " We ai'e prepared, great Jabaster ; we are pre- pared, all, all !" " I know it ; you are like myself. Necessity hath taught decision. Now for our plans. Speak, Zalmunna." " Noble Jabaster, I see much difficulty. Alroy no longer quits his palace. Our entrance unwatched is, you well know, impossible. What say you, Scherirah 1" " I doubt not of my men, but war against Alroy is, to say naught of danger, a doubtful issue." " I am prepared to die, but not to fail," said Abi- dan. " We must be certain. Open war I fear. The mass of the army will side with their leaders, and they are with the tyrant. Let us do the deed, and they must join us." " Is it impossible to gain his presence to some sa- crifice in honour of some bygone victory — what think ye!" " I doubt much, Jabaster. At this moment he little wishes to sanction our national ceremonies with his royal person. The woman assuredly will stay him. And even if he come, success is difficult, and therefore doubtful." " Noble warriors, list to a woman's voice," ex- claimed the prophetess, coming forward. "'Tis 508 D'lSRAELPS NOVELS. weak, but with such instruments, even the as- pirations of a child, the Lord will commune with his chosen people: There is a secret way by which I can gain the gardens of the palace. To-morrow night, just as the moon is in her midnight bower, behold the accursed pile shall blaze. Let Abidan's troop be all prepared, and at the moment the flames first mount, march to the seraglio gate as if with aid. The alhighted guard will olTer no opposition. While the troops secure the portals, you your- selves, Zalmunna, Abidan,and .labaster, rush to the royal chamber and do the deed. In the mean time, let brave Scherirah, with his whole division, sur- round the palace, as if unconscious of the mighty work. Then como you forward, show, if it need, with tears, the fated body to the soldiery, and an- nounce the theocracy." " It is the Lord who speaks," said Abidan, who was doubtless prepared for the proposition ; " he has delivered them into our hands.'' " A bold plan," said Jaliaster, musing, " and yet I like it. "Tis quick, and that is something. I think 'tis sure." "It cannot fail," exclaimed Zalmunna, " for if the flame ascend not, still we are but where we Were." " I am for it," said Scherirah. " Well, then," said Jabaster, " so let it be. To- morrow's eve will see us here again, prepared. Good night." " Good night, holy priest. How seem the stars, Jabaster !" " Very troubled ; so have they been some days. What they portend I know not." " Health to Israel." "Let us hope so. Good night, sweet friends." " Good night, holy Jabaster. Thou art our comer-stone." " Israel hath no other hope but in Jabaster." " My lord," said Abidan, " remain, I pray, one moment." " What is't 1 I fain would go." " Alroy must die, my lord, but dost thou think a single death will seal the covenant ?" " The woman V " Ay ! the woman ! I was not thinking of the woman. Asriel, Ilhamar, Medad 1" " Valiant soldiers ! doubt not we shall find them useful instruments. I do not fear such loose com- panions. They follow their leaders, like other beings born to obey. Having no head themselves, they must follow us who have." " I think so too. There is no other man who might be dangerous ?" Zalmunna and Scherirah cast their eyes upon the ground. There was a dead silence, broken by the prophetess. " A judgment hath gone forth against Honain !" "Nay ! he is Lord Jabastcr's brother," said Abi- dan. " It is enough to save a more inveterate foe to Israel, if such there be." " I have no brother, sir. The man you speak of I will not slay, since there are others who may do that deed. And so again, good night." It was the dead of night, a single lamp burned in the chamber, which opened into an arched gallery, that descended by a flight of steps into the gardens of tlie serail. A female figure ascended the flight with slow and cautious steps. She paused on the gallery, she looked around, one foot was in the chamber. , She entered. She entered a chamber of small dimensions, but richly adorned. In the farthest corner was a couch of ivory, hung with a gaiizy curtain of silver tissue, which, without impeding respiration, protected the slumberer from the fell insects of an oriental night. Leaning against an ottoman was a large brazen shield of ancient fashion, and near it some helmets and curious weapons. "An irresistible impulse hath carried me into this chamber !'' exclaimed the prophetess. " The light haunted me like a spectre ; and wheresoe'er I moved, it seemed to summon me. " A couch and a slumbei'er !" She approached the object, she softly withdrew the curtain. Pale and panting she rushed back, yet with a light step. She beheld Alroy ! For a moment she leaned against the wall, over- powered by her emotions. Again shs advanced, and gazed on her unconscious victim. " Can the guilty sleep like the innocent ] Who would deem this gentle slumberer had betrayed the highest trust that ever heaven vouchsafed to favoured man ] He looks not like a tyrant and a traitor ; calm his brow, and mild his placid breath I His long dark hair, dark as the raven's wing, hath broken from its fillet, and courses, like a wild and stormy night, over his pale and moonlit brow. His cheek is delicate, and yet repose hath brought a flush ; and on his lip there seems some word of love, that will not quit it. It is the same Alroy that blessed our vision, when, like the fresh and glittering star of morn, he rose up in the desert, and, bringing joy to others, brought to me only — " O ! hush, my heart, and let thy secret lie hid in the charnel-house of crushed aflections. Hard is the lot of woman ; to love and to conceal is our sharp doom !- O, bitter life ! O, most unnatural lot ! Man made society, and made us slaves. And so we droop and die, or else take refuge in idle fantasies, to which we bring the fervour that is meant for nobler ends. " Beauteous hero ! whether I bear thee most ha- tred or most love, I cannot tell. Die you must; yet I feel I should die with thee. O ! that to-night could lead at the same time unto our marriage bed and funeral pyre. Must that white bosom bleed ? and must those delicate limbs be hacked and handled by these bloody butchers 1 Is that justice ? They lie, the traitors, when they call thee false to our God. Thou art thyself a god, and I could worship thee ! See those beauteous lips — they move. Hark to the music I" " Schirene, Schirene!" "There wanted but that word to summon back my senses. O ! fool, fool ! where is thy fancy wandering? I'll not wait for tardy justice. I'll do the deed myself. Shall I not kill my Sisera V She seized a dagger from the ottoman, a rare and high- ly-tempered blade. Up she raised it in the air, and dashed it to his heart, with superhuman force. It struck against the talisman which Jabaster had given Alroy, and which, from a lingering supersti- tion, he still wore ; it struck, and shivered into a thousand pieces. The caliph sprang from his couch, his eyes met the prophetess, standing over him in blank despair, with the hilt of the dagger in her hand. THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY, 509 « What is all this 1 Schirene ! Who art thou 1 Esther !" He jumped from the couch, called to Pharez, and seized her by both hands. " Speak I" he continued. "Art thou Esther? What dost thou here !" She broke into a wild laugh ; she wrestled with his grasp, and pulled him towards the gallery. He beheld the chief tower of the serail in flames. Join- ing her hands together, grasping them both in one of his, and dragging her towards the ottoman, he seized a helmet, and flung it upon the mighty shield. It sounded like a gong. Pharez started from his slumbers, and rushed into the chamber. " Pharez I Treason ! treason ! Send instant orders that the palace gates are open on no pretence whatever. Go, fly ! Sec the captain himself. Summon the household. Order all to arms. Speed for our lives !" The whole palace was now roused. Alroy de- livered Esther, exhausted and apparently senseless, to a guard of eunuchs. Slaves and attendants poured in from all directions. Soon arrived Schi- rene, with dishevelled hair and hurried robes, at- tended by a hundred maidens, each bearing a torch. " My soul, what ails thee ?" Nothing, sweetest ; all will soon be well," re- plied Alro)', picking up, and examining the frag- ments of the shivered dagger, which he had just discovered. " My life has been attempted ; the palace is in flames ; I suspect the city is in insurrection. Look to your mistress, maidens!" Schirene fell into their arms. "I'll soon be back." So saying, he rushed to the grand court. Several thousand persons, for the population of the serail and its liberties was very considerable, were assembled in the grand court ; eunuchs, wo- men, pages, slaves and servants, and a few soldiers. All m confusion and alarm, fire raging within, and mysterious and terrible outcries without. A cry of "the caliph! the caliph!" announced the arrival of Alroy, and produced a degree of comparative silence. " Where's the captain of the guard 1" he ex- claimed. "That's well. Open the gates to none. Who will leap the wall, and bear a message to Asriel ] You 1 That's well too. To-morrow you shall yourself command. Where's Mesrour 1 Take the eunuch guard and the company of gardeners,* and suppress the flames at all cost. Pull down the intervening buildings. Abidan's troop arrived with succour, eh 1 I doubt it not. I expected them. Open to none. They force an entrance — eh 1 I thought so. So that javeUn has killed a traitor. Feed me with arms. I'll keep the gate. Send again to Asriel. Where's Pharez 1" " By your side, my lord." " Run to the queen, my faithful Pharez, and tell her that -all's well. I wish it were ! Didst ever hear a din so awful 1 Methinks all the tambours and the cymbals of the city are in full chorus. Foul play, I guess. O ! for Asriel ! Has Pharez re- turned "?" " I am by your side, my lord." " How's the queen ■?" " She would gladly join your side." " No, no ! Keep the gates there. Who says they are making fires before theml 'Tis true. • These gardeners of the serail form a very efBcienl body of police. We must sally, if the worst come to the worst, and die at least like soldiers. O Asriel ! Asriel !" " May it please your highness, the troops are pouring in from all quarters." " 'Tis Asriel." " No ! your highness, 'tis not the guard. Me- thinks they are Scherirah's men." " Hum I What it all is, I know not ; but very foul play, I do not doubt. Where's Honain 1" " With the queen, sire." " 'Tis well. What is that shouf?" " Here's the messenger from Asriel. Make way ! way !" < " Well ! how is't, sir 1" " Please your highness, I could not reach the guard." " Could not reach the guard ! God of my fa- thers ! who should let thee V " Sire, I was taken prisoner." " Prisoner ! By the thunder of Sinai, are we at war ■? Who made thee prisoner 1" " Sire, they have proclaimed thy death." "Who!" " The council of the elders. So I heard. Abidan, Zalmunna — " " Rebels and dogs ! Who else V " The high priest !" " Hah ! Is it there 1 Pharez, fetch me some drink. Is it true Scherirah has joined them V " His force surrounds the serail. No aid can reach us without cutting through his ranks." " O ! that I were there with my good guard ! Are we to die here like rats, fairly murdered 1 Cowardly knaves ! Hold out, hold out, my men ! 'Tis sharp work, but some of us will smile at this hereafter. Who stands by Alroy to-night bravely and truly, shall have his heart's content to-morrow. Fear not, fear not : I was not born to die in a civic broil. I bear a charmed life. So to it." VI. " Go to the caliph, good Honain, I pray thee go. I can support myself, he needs thy counsel. Bid him not expose his precious life. The wicked men ! Asriel must soon be here. What sayestthou 1" " There is no fear. Their plans are ill-devised. I have long expected this stormy night, and feel even now more anxious than alarmed." " 'Tis I they aim at — it is I they hate. The high priest, too ! Ay, ay ! Thy proud brother, good Honain, I have ever felt he would not rest until he drove me from this throne, my right; or washed my hated name from out our annals in my life's blood. Wicked, wicked Jabaster ! He frowned upon me from the first, Honain. Is he indeed thy brother 1" " I care not to remember. He aims at some- thing further than thy life ; but time will teach us more than all our thoughts." II. The fortifications of the serail resisted all the ef- forts of the rebels. Scherirah remained in his quarters with his troops under arms, and recalled the small force that he had originally sent out as much to watch the course of events as to assist Abidan. Asriel and Ithamar poured down their columns in the rear of that chieftain, and by dawn a division of the guard had crossed the river, the care of which had been intrusted to Sch»« 2u2 510 D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. rirah, and had thrown themselves into the palace. Alroy sallied forth at the head of these fresh troops. His presence decided a result which was perhaps never doubtful. The division of Abidan fought with the desperation tliat became their fortunes. The carnage was dreadful, but their discomfiture complete. They no longer acted in masses, orw"h any general system. They thought only of self- preservation, or of selling their lives at the dearest cost. Some dispersed, some escaped. Others in- trenched themselves in houses, others fortified the bazaar. All the horrors of war in the streets were now experienced. The houses were in flames, the thoroughfares flowed with blood. At the head of a band of fiiithful followers Abidan proved himself by his courage and resources worthy of success. At length, he was alone, or only sur- rounded by his enemies. With his back against a building in a narrow street, where the number of his opponents only embarrassed them, the three foremost of his foes fell before his irresistible cime- ter. The barricadoed door yielded to the pressure of the multitude. Abidan rushed up the narrow stairs, and gaining a landing-place, turned .suddenly round, and cleaved the skull of his nearest pursuer. He hurled the mighty body at his followers, and re- tarding their advance, himself dashed onward, and gained the terrace of the mansion. Three soldiers of the guard followed him as he bounded from ter- race to terrace. One armed with a dart, hurled the javelin at the chieftain. The weapon slightly wounded Abidan, who, drawing it from his arm, sent it back to the heart of its owner. The two other soldiers, armed only with swords, gained upon him. He arrived at the last terrace in the cluster of buildings. He stood at bay on the brink of the precipice. He regained his breath. They ap- proached him. He dodged them in their course. Suddenly, with admirable skill, he flung his cimeter edgewise at the legs of the f irthest foe, who stopped short, roaring with pain. The chieftain sprang at the foremost, and hurled him down into the street below, where he was dashed into atoms. A trap- door offered itself to the despairing eye of the rebel. He descended and found himself in a room filled with women. They screamed, he rushed through tliem, and descending a staircase, entered a cham- ber tenanted by a bed-ridden old man. The an- cient mvalid inquired the cause of the uproar, and died of fright before he could 'receive an answer, at the sight of the awful being before him, covered with streaming blood. Abidan secured the door, washed his blood-stained face, and disguising him- self in the dusty robes of the deceased Armenian, sallied forth to watch the fray. The obscure street was silent. The chieftain proceeded unmolested. At the corner he found a soldier holding a charger for his captain. Abidan, unarmed, seized a poniard from the soldier's belt, and stabbed him to the heart, and vaulting on the steed galloped towards the river. No boat was to be found ; he breasted the stream upon the stout courser. He reached the opposite bank. A company of camels were reposing by the Bide of a fountain. Alarm had dispersed their dri- vers. He mounted the fleetest in appearance ; he dashed to the nearest gate of the city. Tiie guard at the gate refused him a passage. He concealed his agitation. A marriage procession arrived re- turning from the country. He rushed into their centre, and overset the bride in her gilded wagon. In the midst of the confusion, the shrieks, the oaths, and the scuflfle, he forced his way through the gate, scoured over the country, and never stopped until he gained the desert. vni. Thf, uproar died away. The shouts of warriors, the shrieks of women, the wild clang of warfare, all were silent. The flames were extinguished, the carnage ceased. The insurrection was suppressed, and order restored. The city, all the houses of which were closed, was patroled by the conquer- ing troops, and by sunset the conqueror himself, in his hall of state, received the reports and the con- gratulations of his chieftains. The escape of Abi- dan seemed counterbalanced by the capture of Jabaster. After performing prodigies of valour, the high priest had been overpowered, and was now a prisoner in the serail. The conduct of Scherirah was not too curiously criticised ; a com- mission was appointed to inquire into the myste- rious affair, and Alroy retired to the bath* to refiresh himself after the fritigues of the first victory which he could not consider a triumph. As he reposed upon his couch, melancholy and exhausted, Schirene was announced. The princess threw herself upon his neck, and covered him with embraces. His heart yielded to her fondness, his spirit became fighter, his depression melted away. " My ruby !" said Schirene, and she spoke in a low smothered voice, her face hidden and nestled in his breast. " My ruby ! dost thou love me 1" He smiled in fondness as he pressed her to his heart. " My ruby, thy peari is so frightened, it dare not look upon thee. Wicked men! 'tis I they hate, 'tis I they would destroy !" "There is no danger, sweet. 'Tis over now. Speak not — nay, do not think of it." " Ah ! wicked men ! There is no joy on earth while such things five. Slay Alroy, their mighty master, who, from vile slaves, hath made them princes ! Ungrateful churls ! I am so alarmed — I ne'er shall sleep again. What! slay my innocent bird, my pretty bird, my very heart ! I'll not believe it. It is I they hate. I am sure they'll kill me. You shall never leave me, no, no, no, no ! You shall not leave me, love ; never, never ! Didst hear a noise 1 Methinks they are ever here, ready to plunge their daggers in our hearts — our soft, soft hearts ! I think you love me, child : indeed, I think you do !" "Take courage, heart! There is no fear, my soul; I cannot love thee more, or else I would." " All joy is gone ! I ne'er shall sleep again. O my soul! art thou indeed alive 1 Do I indeed embrace my own Alroy, or is it all a wild and troubled dream, and are not my arms clasi<;ed round a shadowy ghost, myself a spectre in a sepulchre ! Wicked, wicked men ! Can it indeed be true 1 What, slay Alroy ! my joy, my only life ! Ah ! wo is me ; our bright felicity hath fled forever !" " Not so, sweet child ; we are but as we were. A few quick hours, and all will be as bright, as if no storm had crossed our sunny days." "Hast seen Asriel? He says such fearftil things !" ♦ The bath is a principal scone of oriental life. Here the Asiatics pass a great uurtion of iheir day. The tiali* consists of a long suite ot chambers of various tempera, lures, in which ihe various processes of Ibe elalxraie ceremony are performed. THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 511 "How now?" " Ah me ! I am desolate, I have no friend." " Schirene !" " They'll have my blood ; I know they'll have my blood." ■" Indeed, an idle fancy." " Idle ! ask Asriel, question Ithamar. Idle ! 'tis written in their tablets, their bloody scroll of rapine and of murder. Thy death led only to mine, and had they hoped my bird would but have yielded his gentle mate, they would have spared him. Ay ! ay ! 'lis I they hate, 'tis I they would destroy. This form, I fear it has lost its lustre, but still 'tis thine, and once tliou saidst thou lovedst it; this form was to have been hacked and mangled, this ivorj' bosom was to have been ripped up and tortured, and this warm blood, that flows alone for thee, that fell Jabaster was to pour its tide upon the altar of his ancient vengeance. He ever hated me !" " Jabaster ! Schirene ! Where are we, and what are wel Life, life, they lie, that call thee nature! Nature never sent these gusts of agony. O ! my hoart will break. I drove him from my thought, arii^ now she calls him up, and now must I remember he is my — prisoner ! God of heaven, God of my fathers, is it come to this 1 Why did he not escape 1 '';hy must Abidan, a common cut- throat, save his gt iceless life, and this great soul, this stern and mighty being — ah me! I have lived long enough. Would they had not failed, would—" " Stop, stop, Alroy ! I pray thee, love, be calm. I came to soothe thee, not to raise thy passions. I did not say Jabaster willed thy death, though As- riel says so ; 'tis I he wars against : and if indeed Jabaster be a man so near thy heart — if he indeed be one so necessary to thy prosperity, and cannot live in decent order with thy slave that's here, I know my duty, sir. I would not have thy fortunes marred to save my single heart, although I think 'twill break. I'll go, I'll die, and deem the hardest accident of life but sheer prosperity if it profit tfaee." " 0, Schirene ! what wouldst thou ? This — this is torture." " To see thee safe and happy ; nothing more." " I am both if thou art." " Care not for me, I am nothing," " Thou art all — to me," " Calm thyself, my soul. It grieves me much that when I c^me to soothe I only galled thee All's well, all's well. Say that Jabaster lives. What then ] He lives, and may he prove more duteous than before : that's all." " He lives, he is my prisoner, he awaits his doom. It must be given." " Yes, yes !" " Shall we pardon ?" " My lord will do that which it pleases him." " Nay, nay, Schirene, I pray thee be more kind. I am most wretched. Speak, what wouldst thou 1" " If I must speak, I say at once — ^his life," " Ah me !" " If our past loves have any charm, \f the hope of future joy, not less supreme, be that which binds thee to this shadowy world, as it does me, and does alone, I say his life, his very carnal hfe. He stands between us and our loves, Alroy, and ever has. There is no happiness if Jabaster breathe ; nor can I be the same Schirene to thee as I have been, if this proud rebel live to spj' my con- duct." " Banish him, banish him !" " To herd with rebels. Is this thy pohcy ?" " O, Schirene ! I love not this man, although methinks I should ; yet didst thou know but all !" " I know too much, Alroy. From the first he has been to me a hateful thought. Come, come, sweet bird, a boon, a boon unto thy own Schirene, who was so frightened by these wicked men ! 1 fear it has done more mischief than thou deemest. Ay ! robbed us of our hopes. It may be so. A boon, a boon ! it is not much I ask — a traitor's head. Come, give me thy signet ring. It will not ; nay, then, I'll take it. What, resist ! I know a kiss, thou hast often told me, sir, could vanquish all denial. There it is. Is't sweet 1 Shalt have another, and another too. I've got the ring ! Fare- well, my lovely bird, I'll soon return to pillow in thy nest." IX. " She has got the ring ! What's this ? what's thisl Schirene! art gone? Nay, surely not. She jests, Jabaster ! A traitor's head 1 What ho ! there, Pharez, Pharez !" " My lord." " Passed the queen that way 1" " She did, my lord." " In tears'!" " Nay, very joyful." " Call Honain — quick as my thought. Honain ! Honain ! He waits without. I have seen the best of life, that's very sure. My heart is cracking. She surely jests. Hah ! Honain. Pardon these distracted looks. Fly to the armoury ! fly ! fly !' " For what, my lordl" " Ay ! for what — for what ! My brain it wan- ders. Thy brother — thy great brother — the queen — the queen has stolen my signet ring, that is, I gave it her. Fly, fly ! or, in a word, Jabaster is no more. He is gone. Pharez, your arm — I swoon '"' X. " His highness is sorely indisposed to-day.' "They say he swooned this morn." " Ay, in the bath." " No, not in the bath. 'Twas when he heard Jabastpr's death." " How died he, sir 1" "Self-strangled. His mighty heart could not endure disgrace, and thus he ended all his glorious deeds." " A great man !" " We shall not soon see his match. The queen had gained his pardon, and herself flew to the armoury to bear the news — alas I too late." " These are strange times. Jabaster dead !" " A veiy great event." " Who will be high priest 1" " I doubt the appointment will be filled up." " Sup you with the Lord Ithamar to-night ]" " I do." " I also. We'll go together. The queen had gained his pardon. Hum ! 'tis strange." " Passing so. They say Abidan has escaped." " I hear it. Shall we meet Medad to-night ?" " 'Tis likely." 512 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. PART X. " She comes not j'ct ! her cheerful form, not yet it sparkles in our mournful sky. She comes not yet! the shadowy stars seem sad and lustreless without their quren. She comes not yet!" " We are the watchers of the moon, and live in loneliness to herald light." " She comes not yet ! her sacred form, not yet it summons to our holy feast. She comes not yet ! our brethren far wait mute and motionless the saintly beam. She comes not yet !" " We are the watchers of the moon, and live in loneliness to herald light.'* " She comes, she comes ! her beauteous form sails with soft splendour in the glittering air. She comes, she comes ! The beacons fire, and tell the nation that the month begins ] She comes, she comes !" "We are the watchers of the moon,* to tell the nation that the month begins." Instantly the holy watchers fired the beacons on the mountain top, and anon a thousand flames blaze round the land. From Caucasus to Lebanon, on every peak a crown of light ! 11. " SiiiE ! a Tatar has arrived from Hamadan, who will see none but thyself. I have told him your highness was engaged, and sent him to the Lord Honain ; but all denial is lost upon him. And, as I thought perhaps the Lady Miriam — " " From Hamadan 1 You did well, Pharez. Ad- mit him." The Tatar entered. " Well, sir, good news, I hope !' " Sire, pardon me, the worst. I come from the Lord Abner, with orders to see the caliph, and none else." * The Feast of the New Moon is one of the most impor- tant festivals of the Hebrews. " Our year," says the learned author of the ' Kites and Ceremonies,' " is divided into twelve lunar months, some of which consist of twenty- nine, others of thirty days, which difference is occasioned by the various appearance of the new moon, in point of time; for if it appeared on the 30th day, the -9th was the last day of the precedent month : but if it did not appear till the 31st, the 30th was the last day, and the 31st the first of the subsequent month ; and that was an intercalary moon, of all which take the following account. " Our nation heretofore, not only observing the rules of some fixed calculation, also celel)rated the Feast of the New Moon, according to the phasis, or first appearance of the moon, which was done in compliance with God's com- mand, as our received traditions inform us. " Hence it came to pass that the first appearance was not to be determined only by rules of art, but also by the testi- mony of such persons as deposed before the sanhedrim, or great senate, that they had seen the new moon. So a com- mittee of three were appointed from among the said san- hedrim to receive the deposition of the parties aforesaid, who, after having calculated what time the moon might possibly appear, despatched some persons into higli and mountainous places, to observe and give their evidence accordingly, concerning the first appearance of the mooji. "As soon as the new moon was either consecrated, or appointed to be observed, notice was given by the sanhe- drim to the rest of the nation, what day had been fixed for the new noon, or first day of the month, because that was to be the rule and measure according to which they were obliged to keep their feasts and fasts in every month respec- tively. "This notice was given to them In time of peace, by firuig of beacons, set up for that purpose, (which was look- ed upon as tlie readiest way of communication,) but in lime of war, when all places were full of enemies, who made use of beacons to amuse our nation with, it was thought fit to discontinue it." " Well, sir, you see the caliph. Your mission ? What of the viceroy 1" " Sire, he bid me tell thee, that the moment the beacon that announced the feast of the new moon was fired on Caucasus, the dreaded monarch of Karasme, the great Alp Arslan, entered thy king- dom, and now o'erruns all Persia." "Hah! and Abner?" " Is in the field and prays for aid." " He shall have it. This indeed is great news ! When left you Hamadan 1" " Night and day I have journeyed upon the swiftest dromedary. The third morn sees me at Bagdad." " You have done your duty. See this faithful courier be well tended, Pharez. Summon the Lord Honain." " Alp Arslan ! Hah ! a very famous warrior. The moment the beacon was fired. No sudden impulse then, but long matured. I like it not." " Sire," said Pharez, re-entering, " a Tatar has ar- rived from the frontiers of the province, who will see none but thyself. I have told him your high- ness is deeply busied, and as methinks he brings but the same news, I — " " 'Tis very likely ; yet never think, good Pharez. I'll see the man." The Tatar entered. " Well, sir, how now ! — from whom 1" " From Mozul. The governor bid me see the caliph atid none else, and tell your highness, that the moment the beacon that announced the feast of the new moon was fired on the mountains, the fell rebel Abidan raised the standard of Judah in the province, and proclaimed war against your ma jesty." " In any force ?" " The royal power keeps within their walls." " Sufficient answer. Part of the same movo ment. We shall have some trouble. Hast sum- moned Honain 1" " I have, sir." " Go, see this messenger be duly served, and, Pharez come hither; let none converse with them. You understand 1" " Your highness may assure yourself." " Abidan come to life I He shall net escape so well this time. I must see Scherirah. I much sus^ pect what's this 1 More news !" A third Tatar entered. " May it please your highness, tliis Tatar has ar- rived from the Syrian frontier." " Mischief in the wind, 1 doubt not. Speak out, knave." " Sire ! pardon me, I bear but sad intelli- gence." " Out with the worst !" " I come from the Lord Medad. " Well I has he rebelled 1 It seems a catching fever." " Ah ! no, dread sire. Lord Medad has no thought but for thy glory. Alas ! alas ! he has now to guard it 'gainst fearful odds. Lord Medad bid me see the caliph and none else, and tell your highness, that the moment the beacon that announced the feast of the new moon was fired on l/cbanon, the Sultan of Roum and the old Arabian caliph unfurled the standard of their prophet in great array, and are now marching towards Bagdad." " A clear conspiracy ! Has Honain arrived ! Suramon a council of the viziers instantly. The THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 513 world is up against me. Well ! I'm sick of peace. They shall not find me napping !" III. " Yop see, my lords," said Alroy, ere the council broke up, "we must attack them singly. There can be no doubt of that. If they join, we must combat at great odds. 'Tis in detail that we must rout them. I will myself to Persia. Ithamar must throw himself between the sultan and Ahidan ; Medad fall back on Ithamar. Scherirah must guard the capital. Honain, you are regent. And so, fare- well. I shall set off to-night. Courage, brave companions. ' Tis a storm, but many a cedar sur- vives the thunderbolt." The council broke up. "My own Scherirah !" said the caliph, as they retired, " stay a while. I would speak with you alone. Honain," continued Alroy? following the grand vizier out of 'the chamber, and leaving Scheri- rah alone : " Honain, I have not interchanged a word with you in private. What think you of all this ?" " Sire, I am prepared for the worst, but hope for the best." "'Tis wise. If Abner could only keep that Karassiman in check ! I am about to speak with Scherirah alone. I do suspect him much." " I'll answer for his treason." " Hah ! I do suspect him. Therefore I give him no command. I would not have him too near his old companion, eh 1 We'll garrison the city with his rebels." " Sire, these are not moments to be nice. Sche- rirah is a valiant captain, a very valiant captain, but lend me thy signet ring, I pray thee, sire." Alroy turned pale. " No, sir, it has left me once, and never shall again. You have touched upon a string that makes me sad. There is a burden on my conscience — why, or what, I know not. I am innocent, you know I am innocent, Honain V " I'll answer for your highness. He who has enough of the milk of human kindness to spare a thing like Scherirah when he stands in his way, may well be credited for the nobler mercy "tliat spared his better." " Ah me ! there's madness In the thought. Why is he not here ! Had I but followed — tush ! tush ! Go see the queen and tell her all that has happened. I'll to Scherirah." The caliph returned. " Thy pardon, brave Scherirah ; in these mo- ments my friends will pardon courtesy." " Your highness is too considerate." " You see, Scherirah, how the wind blows, brave heart. There's much to do, no doubt. I am in sad want of some right trusty friend, on whose devoted bosom I can pillow all my necessities. I was think- ing of sending you against this Arslan, but perhaps 'lis better that I should go myself. These are mo- ments one should not seem to shrink, and yet we know not how affairs may run — no, we know not. The capital, the surrounding province — one disas- ter, and these false Moslemin may rise against us. I should stay here, but if I leave Scherirah I leave myself I feel that deeply — 'tis a consolation. It may be that I must fall back upon the city. Be prepared, Scherirah. Let me fall back upon sup- porting friends. You have a great trust. O ! use it wisely ! worthily I am sure you must do." 65 " Your highness may rest I have no other thought h it for your weal and glory. Doubt not my devo- tion, sire. I am not one of those mealy-mouthed youths, fidl of their own deeds and lip-worship, sire, but I have a life devoted to your service, and 'ready at all times to peril all things." " I know that, Scherirah, I know it, I feel it deeply. What think you of these movements !" " They are not ill combined, and yet I doubt not your majesty will prove your fortunes most tri- umphant." " Think you the soldiery are in good cue 1" " I'll answer for my own. They are rough fel- lows, like myself, a httle too blunt, perhaps, your highness. We are not holiday guards, but we know our duty, and we will do it." " That's well, that's all I want. I shall review the troops before I go. Let a donative be distri- buted among them ; and, by-the-by, I have always forgotten it, your legion should be called the legion of Syria. We owe our first province to their arms." " I shall convey to them your highness's wish. Were it possible, 'twould add to their devotion." " I do not wish it. They are my very children. Sup at the serail to-night, Scherirah. We shall be very private. Yet let us drink together ere we part. We are old friends, you know. Hast not forgotten our ruined city 1" IV. Alhot entered the apartment of Schirene. "My soul ! thou knowest all 1" She sprang forward and threw her arms around his neck. " Fear not, my life, we'll not disgrace our queen. 'Twill be quick work. Two-thirds of them have been beaten before, and for the new champion, our laurels must not fade, and his blood shall nourish fresh ones." " Dearest, dearest Alroy, go not thyself, I pray thee. May not Asriel conquer 1" " I hope so in my company. For a time we part, a short one. 'Tis our first parting : may it be our last !" " ! no, no, no : O ! say not we must part." " The troops are under arms ; to-morrow's dawn will hear my trumpet." - "I will not quit thee, no! I will not quit thee. What business has Schirene without Alroy 1 Hast thou not often told me I am thy inspiration 1 In the hour of danger shall I be wanting 1 Never! I will not quit thee ; no, I will not quit thee." " Thou art ever present in my thoughts, my soul. In the battle I shall think of her for whom alone I conquer." "Nay, nay, I'll go, indeed I must, Alroy. I'll be no hinderance, trust me, sweet boy, I will not. I'll have no train, no, not a single maid. Credit me, I know how a true soldier's wife should bear herself. I'll watch thee sleeping, and I'll tend thee wounded, and when thou goest forth to combat, I'll gird thy sabre round thy martial side, and whisper triumph with victorious kisses." "My own Schirene, there's victory in thine eyes, We'll beat them, girl." " Abidan, doubly false Abidan ! would he were doubly hanged ! Ere she died the fatal prophetess foretold this time, and gloated on his future trea- chery." 514 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. " Think not of him." "And the Karasmian — think you he is very strong 1" " Enough, love, for our glory. He is a potent warrior : I trust that Abner will not rob us of our intended victory." , " So you triumph, I care not by whose sword. Uost go indeed to-morrow 1" " At the break of dawn. I pray thee stay, my sweet !" "Never! I will not quit thee. I am quite pre- pared. At the break \)f dawn! 'Tis near on midnight now. I'll lay me down upon this couch a while, and travel in my litter. Art sure Alp Arslan is himself in the field." " Quite sure, my sweet." " Confusion on his crown ! We'll conquer. Goes Asriel with us f "Ay!" " That's well ; at break of dawn. I'm somewhat drowsy. Melhinks I'll sleep a while." " Do, my best heart ; I'll to my cabinet, and at break of dawn I'll wake thee witii a kiss." The caliph repaired to his cabinet, where his secre- taries were occupied in writing. As he paced the chamber, he dictated to them the necessary instruc- tions. " Who is the officer on guard 1" "Benaiah, sire." " I remember him. He saved me a broken skull upon the Tigris. This is for him. The queen accompanies us. She is his charge. These papers for the vizier. Let the troops be under arms by day break. This order of the day for the Lord As- riel. Send this instantly to Hamadan. Is the Tatar despatched to Medad ] 'Tis well. You have done your duty. Now to rest. Pharez !" " My lord !" " I shall not sleep to-night. Give me my drink. Go rest, good boy. I have no wants. Good night." "Good night, my gracious lord !" " Let me ponder ! I am alone. I am calm, and yet my spirit is not quick. I am not what I was. Four-and-twenty hours ago who would have dreamed of this 1 All at stake again ! Once more in the field, and struggling at once for empire and existence I I do lack the mighty spirit of my for- mer days. I am not what I was. I have little faith. All about me seems changed and dull and grown mechanical. Where are those flashing eyes and conquering visages that clustered round me on the battle eve, round me, the Lord's anointed ! I see none such. They arc changed, as I am. Why ! this Abidan was a host, and now he fights against me. She spoke of the prophetess ; I remember that woman was the stirring trumpet of our ranks, and now where is she 1 The victim of my justice ! And where is he, the mightier far, the friend, the counsellor, the constant guide, the master of my boyhood ; the firm, the fond, the faithful guardian of all my bright career, whose days and nights were one unbroken study to make me glorious ! Alas ! I feel more like a doomed and desperate renegade than a young hero on the eve of battle, flushed with the memory of unbroken triumphs ! " Hah ! what awful form art thou that rises from fae dusky earth before me 1 Thou shouldsl be one 1 dare not name, yet will — the likeness of Jabaster, Away ! why frowncf l tnou upon me ? I did not slay thee. Do I liv ^ or dream, or what. I see him, ay ! I see thee, I fear thee not. I fear no- thing. I am Alroy. " Speak ! O ! speik! I do conjure thee, mighty spectre, speak. I3y all the memory of the past, although 'tis madness, I do conjure thee, let me hear again the accents of my boyhood." " Alroy, Alroy, Alroy .'" " I listen, as to the last trump." " Meet me on the plain of NehauendP " 'Tis gone ! As it spoke, it vanished. It was Jabaster ! God of my fathers, it was Jabaster ! Life is growing too wild. My courage is broken ! I could he down and die. It was Jabaster ! The voice sounds in my ear like distant thunder ! ' Meet me on the plain of Nehauend.' I'll not fail thee, noble ghost, although I meet my doom. Ja- baster ! Have I seen Jabaster ! Indeed, indeed ! Methinks I'm mad. Hah ! what's that ]" An awful clap of thunder broke over the palace, followed by a strange clashing sound that seemed to come from one of the chambers. The walls of the serai 1 rocked. " An earthquake !" exclaimed Alroy. "Would the earth would open and swallow all. Hah ! Pharez, has it roused thee too ! Pharez ! Pharez ! we live in strange times." " Your highness is very pale." " And so art thou, lad ! Wouldst have me mer- ry 1 Pale ! we may well be pale, didst thou know all. Hah ! that awful sound again ! I cannot bear it, Pharez, I cannot bear it. I have borne many things, but this I cannot." " My lord, 'tis in the armoury." " Run, see. No, I'll not be alone, I'll not be alone. Where's Benaiah? Let him go. Stay with me, Pharez, stay with me. I pray thee stay, my child." Pharez led the caliph to a couch, on which Alroy lay pale and trembling. In a few minutes he en- quired whether Benaiah had returned. " Even now he comes, sire." " Well, how is it ?" " Sire ! a most awful incident. As the thunder broke over the palace, the sacred standard fell from its resting-place, and has shivered into a thousand pieces. Strange'to say, the sceptre of Solomon can neither be found nor traced." " Say nothing of the past as ye love me, lads. Let none enter the armoury. Leave me, Benaiah, leave me, Pharez." They retired. Alroy watched their departure with a glance of inexpressible anguish. The mo- ment that they had disappeared, he flew to the couch, and throwing himself upon his knees, and covering his face with his hands, burst into passion- ate tears, and exclaimed : — " O, my God, I have deserted thee, and now thou hast deserted mc !" VI. ExKArsTET) and desperate, .sleep crept over the senses of the caliph. He threw himself upon the divan, and was soon buried in profound repose. He might have slept an hour ; he awoke suddenly. From the cabinet in which he slept, you entered through a lofty and spacious arch, generally covered wjth drapery, which was now withdrawn, into an innnense hall. To the astonishment of Alroy, this presence-chamber apparently at tliis moment blazed THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 515 with light. He rose sudtlenly from his couch, he advanced — he perceived, with feelings of curiosity and fear, that the liall was filled with beings, terrible indeed to behold, but to his sight more terrible than strange. In the colossal and mysterious forms that lined the walls of the mighty chamber, and each of which held in its extended arm a streaming torch, he recognised the awful Afrites. At the end of the hall, upon a sumptuous throne,.surrounded by priests and courtiers, there was seated a monarch, on whom Alroy had before gazed, Solomon the great ! Alroy beheld him in state and semblance, the same Solo- mon whose sceptre the prince of the captivity had seized in the royal tombs of Judah. The strange assembly seemed perfectly, uncon- scious of the presence of the child of earth, who, with a desperate courage, leaned against a column of the arch, and watched, with wonder, their mute and motionless society. Nothing was said, nothing done. No one moved, no one, even by gesture, seemed sensible of the presence of any other appa- rition save himself Suddenly there advanced from the bottom of the hall, near unto Alroy, a procession. Pages and dancing girls, with eyes of fire, and voluptHous gestures, warriors with mighty arms, and venerable forms, with ample robes and flowing beards. And as they passed, even with all the activity of their gestures, they made no sound ; neither did the mu- sicians, whereof there was a great band playing upon harps and psalteries, and timbrels and comets, break, in the slightest degree, the almighty silence. This great crowd poured on in beautiful order, the procession never terminating, yet passing thrice round the hall, bowing to him that was upon the throne, and ranging themselves in ranks before the Afrites. And there came in twelve forms, bearing a great seal. The stone green, and the engraven charac- ters of living flame, and the characters were those on the talisman of Jabaster, which Alroy still wore next to his heart. And the twelve forms placed the great seal before Solomon, and humbled them- selves, and the king bowed. At the same moment, Alroy was sensible of a pang next to his heart. He instantly put his hand to the suffering spot, and lo ! the talisman crumbled into dust. The procession ceased, a single form advanced. Recent experience alone prevented Alroy from sink- ing before the spectre of Jabaster. Such was the single form. It advanced, bearing the sceptre. It advanced, it knelt before the throne, it offered the sceptre to the crowned and solemn vision. And the form of Solomon extended its arm, and took the sceptre, and instantly the mighty assembly •vanished ! Alroy advanced immediately into the chamber, but all was dark and silent. A trumpet sounded. He recognised the note of his own soldiery. He groped his way to a curtain, and pulling it aside, beheld the first streak of dawn. VII. Jnce more upon his charger, once more sur- rounded by his legions, once more his senses dazzled and inflamed by the waving banners and the in- spiring trumpets, once more conscious of the power still at his command, and the mighty stake for which he was about to play, Alroy in a great degree re- covered his usual spirit and self-possession. His energy returned with his excited pulse, and the vastness of the impending danger seemed only to stimulate the fertility of his genius. He pushed on with forced marches towards Media, at the head of fifty thousand men. At the end of the second day's march, fresh couriers arrived from Abner, informing him that, unable to resist f Ue valiant and almost innumerable host of the King of Karasme he had entirely evacuated Persia, and had concentrated his forces in Louristan. Alroy, in consequence of this information, despatched orders to Scherirah, to join him with his division instantly, and leave the capital to its fate. They passed again the mountains of Kerrund, and joined Abner and the army of Media thirty thousand strong, on tlie river Abzah. Here Alroy rested one night, to refresh his men, and on the ensuing morn pushed on to the Persian frontier, unexpectedly attacked the advanced posts of Alp Arslan, and beat them back, with g^^eat loss, into the province. But the force of the King of Karasme was so considerable, that the caliph did not venture on a general engagement, and there- fore he fell back, and formed in battle array upon the neighbouring plain of Nehauend, the theatre of one of his earliest and most brilliant victories, where he awaited the hourly expected arrival of Scherirah. The King of Karasme, who was desirous of bring- ing alfairs to an issue, and felt confident in his su- perior force, instantly advanced. In twe or three days at farthest, it was evident that a battle must be fought that would decide the fate of the East. On the morn ensuing their arrival at Nehauend, while the caliph was out hunting, attended only by a few officers, he was suddenly attacked by an am- bushed band of Karasmians, Alroy and his com- panions defended themselves with such desperation that they at length succeeded in beating off their assailants, although triple their amount in number. The leader of the Karasmians, as he retreated, hurled a dart at the caliph, which must have been fatal, had not a young officer of the guard inter- posed his own breast, and received the deadly wound. The party, in confusion, returned with all speed to the camp, Alroy liimself bearing the expiring victim of desperate loyalty and military enthusiasm. The bleeding officer was borne to the royal pa- vilion, and placed upon the imperial couch. The most skilful leech was summoned ; but he examined the wound, and shook his head. The dying war- rior was himself sensible of his desperate condition. His agony could only be alleviated by withdrawing the javelin, which would occasion his immediate decease. He desired to be left alone with his sovereign. " Sire !" said the officer, " I must die ; and I die without a pang. To die in your service, I have ever considered the most glorious end. Des- tiny has awarded it to me ; and if I have not met my fate upon the field of battle, it is some conso- lation that my death has preserved the most valua- ble of lives. Sire ! I have a sister." " Waste not thy strength, dear friend, in naming her. Rest assured I shall ever deem thy relatives my own." ." I doubt it not Would I had a thousand lives for such a master! I have a burden on my conscience, sire, nor can I die in peace unless I name it." 516 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. " Speak, speak freely. If thou hast injured any one, and the power or wealth of Alroy can redeem thy oppressed spirit, he'll not spare — he'll not spare, be assured of that." " Noble, noble master, I must be brief; for although while this javelin rests within my body, I yet may live, the agony is great. Sire, the deed of which I speak doth concern thee." " Ay V " I was on guard the day Jabaster died." " Powers of heaven ! I am all ears. Speak on, speak on !" " He died self-strangled, so they say!", " So they ever told me." " Thou art innocent, thou art innocent, I thank my God, my king is innocent." '' Rest assured of that, as there is hope in Israel. I pray thee, tell me all." "The queen came with the signet ring. To such authority I yielded way. She entered, and after her, the Lord Honain. I heard high words, I heard Jabaster's voice. He struggled, yes ! he struggled ; but his mighty form, wounded and fet- tered, could not long resist. Foul play, foul play, sire ! What could I do against such adversaries I- They left the chamber with a stealthy step. Her eyes met mine. I never could forget that fell and glittering visage." " Thou ne'er hast spoken of this awful end V " To none but thee. And why I speak it now I cannot tell, save that it seems some inspiration urges me ; and methinks they, who did this, may do even feller works, if such there be." " Thou hast robbed me of all peace and hope of peace — and yet I thank thee. Now I know the worth of life. I have never loved to think of that sad day, and yet, though I ha'/e sometimes dreamed of villanous work, the worst were innocence to thy dread tale." " 'Tis told ; and now I pray thee secure thy se- cret, by drawing from my agonized frame this javelin." " Trusty heart, 'tis a sad office." "I shall die with joy if thou performest it!" " 'Tis done." " God save Alroy !' vm. While Alroy, plunged in thought, stood over the body of the officer, there arose a flourish of triumphant music, and a eunuch, entering the pa- vihon, announced the arrival of Schirene from Kerrund. Almost immediately afterwards the princess, descending from her litter, entered the tent ; Alroy tore off his robe, and threw it over the corpse. " My own," exclaimed the princess, as she ran up to the caliph, " I have heard all. Be not alarmed for me. I dare look upon a corpse. You know I am a soldier's bride. I am used to blood." " Alas ! alas!" " Why art thou so pale 1 Thou dost not kiss me ! Has this unhinged thee sol 'Tis a sad deed ; and yet to morrow's dawn may light up thousands to as grim a fate. Why ! thou tremblest! Alas ! kind soul ! The single death of this fond, faithful heart hath quite upset my love. Yet art thou used to battle. Why ! this is foolishness. Art not glad to see mel What, not one smile 1 And I have come to fight for thee ! I will be kissed !" She flung herself upon his neck. Alroy faintly returned her embrace, and bore her to a couch He clapped his hands, and two soldiers entered and bore away the corpse. " The pavilion, Schirene, is now fitter for thy presence. Rest thyself ; I shall soon return." Thus speaking, he quitted her. He quitted her, but her humbled look of sorrow- ful mortification pierced to his heart. He thought of all her love, and all her loveliness ; he called to mind all the marvellous story of their united fortunes. He felt that for her, and her alone, he cared to live ; that without her quick sympathy, even success seemed unendurable. His judgment fluctuated in an eddy of passion and reason. Passion conquered. He dismissed from his intelligence all cognizance of good and evil; he determined, under all circum- stances, to cling ever to her ; he tore from his mind all memory of the late disclosure. He returned to the pavilion with a countenance beaming with af- fection; he found her weeping, he folded her in his arms, he kissed her with a thousand kisses, and wliispered between each kiss his ardent love IX. 'TwAS midnight. Schirene reposed in the arms of Alroy. The caliph, who was restless and anx- ious for the arrival of Scherirah, w^as scarcely slum- bering, when the sound of a voice perfectly aroused him. He looked around ; he beheld the spectre of Jabaster. His hair stood on end, his limbs seemed to loosen, a cold dew crept over his frame as he gazed upon the awful form within a yard of his couch. Unconsciously he disembarrassed hia arms of their fair burden, and rising on the couch, leaned forward. " Alroy, Alroy, Alroy .'" " I am here." " To-morrow Israel is avenged /" " Who is that V exclaimed,the princess, waken- ing. In a frenzy of fear, Alroy, quite forgetting the spectre, turned and pressed his hand to her sight When he again looked round, the apparition was invisible. " What wouldst thou, Alroy 1" " Nothing, sweet ! A soldier's wife must bear strange sights, y(St I would save you some. One of my men, forgetting you were here, burst into my tent in such a guise as scarce would suit a female eye. I must away, my child. I'll call thy slaves. One kiss ! Farewell ! but for a time." X " To-mohhow Israel will be avenged. What, in Karasmian blood 1 I have no faith. No matter. All is now beyond my influence. A rushing des- tiny carries me onward. I cannot stem the course, nor guide the vessel. How now ! Who is the officer on guard 1" " Benomi, sire, thy servant." " Send to the viceroy. Bid him meet me here. Who is this?" " A courier from the Lord Scherirah, sire, but just arrived. He passed last night the Kerrund mountains, sire, and will be with you by the break of day." " Good news, good news. Go fetch Abner. Haste ! He'll find me here anon, I'll visit the camp a while. Well, my brave fellows, you have hither come to conquer again with Alvoy. You THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 517 ha e fought before, I warrant, on the plain of Nehauend. 'Tis a rich soil, and shall be richer with Karasmian gore." " God save your majesty ! Our lives are thine." " Please you, my little ruler," said a single sol- dier, addressing Alroy ; " pardon my bluntness, but I knew you before you were a caliph." " Stout heart, I like thy freedom. Pr'ythee say on." " I was saying, I hope you'll lead us in the charge to-morrow. Some say you will not." " They say falsely." " I thought so. I'll ever answer for my Uttle ruler — but then the queen ?" " Is a true soldier's wife, and lives in the camp." " That's brave ! There, I told you so, comrades ; you would not believe me, hut I knew our little ruler before you did. I lived near the gate at Hamadan, please your highness — old Shelomi's son." " Give me thy hand — a real friend. What is't ye eat here, boys ] Let me taste your mess. I' faith I would my cook could dress me such a pilau ! 'Tis admirable !" The soldiers gathered round their chieftain with eyes beaming with adoration. 'Twas a fine picture — the hero in the centre, the various groups around, some conversing with him, some cooking, some making coffee, all offering him by word or deed some testimonial of their devotion, and blending with that devotion the most perfect frankness. " We shall beat them, lads !" " There is no fear with you, you always beat." " I do my best, and so do you. A good general without good troops, is little worth." " I' faith that's true. One must have good troops. What think you of Alp Arslani" " I think he may give us as much trouble as all our other enemies together, and that's not much." "Brave, brave! God save Alroy!" Benomi approached, and announced that the viceroy was in attendance. " I must quit you, my children," said Alroy. " We'll sup once more together when we have con- quered." " God save you, sire ; and we will confound your enemies." " Good night, my lads. Ere the dawn break we may have hot work." " We are ready, we are ready. God save Alroy !" "They are in good cue, and yet 'twas a different spirit that inspired our early days. That I strongly feel. These are men true to a leader, who has never failed them, and confident in a cause that leads to — plunder. They are but splendid mer- cenaries. No more. O ! where are now the fight- ing men of Judah ! Where are the men who, when they drew their cimeters, joined in a conquer- ing psalm of holy triumph ! Last eve of battle you would have thought the field a mighty synagogue. Priests and altars, flaming sacrifices, and smoking censers, groups of fiery zealots hanging with frenzy on prophetic lips, and sealing with their blood and hoUest vows, a solemn covenant to conquer Ca- naan All is changed, as I am. How now, Abner 1 You are well muffled !" " Is it true Scherirah is at hand 1" " I doubt not all is right. Would that the dawn would break !" "The enemy is advancing. Some of their columns are in sight. My scouts have dodged j them. They intend doubtless to form upon tho I plain." " They are in sight, eh ! Then we will attack them at once, ere they are formed. Rare, rare ! We'll beat them yet. Courage, dear brother. Scherirah will be here at dawn in good time, very good time — very, very good time." " I like the thought." " The men are in good heart. At break of dawn charge with thirty thousand cavalry upon their forming ranks. I'll take the right, Asriel the left. It shall be a family alfair, dear Abner. How is Miriam?" . " I heard this mom, quite well. She sends you her love and prayers. The queen is here 1" " She came this eve. Quite well." " She must excuse all courtesy." " Say nothing. She is a soldier's wife. She loves thee well, dear Abner." " I know that ; I hope my sword may guard her children's throne ." " Well, give thy orders. Instant battle, ehl" " Indeed, I think so." " I'll send couriers to hurry Scherirah. All looks well. Reserve the guard." " Ay, ay ! Farewell, dear sire. When we meet again, I trust your enemies may be your slaves !' XL At the first streak of dawn the Hebrew cavalry, with the exception of the guard, charged the ad- vancing columns of the Karasmians with irresistible force, and cut them to pieces. Alp Arslan rallied his troops, and at length succeeded in forming his main body in good order. Alroy and Asriel led on their divisions, and the battle now became general. It raged for several hours, and was on both sides well maintained. The slaughter of the Karasmians was great, but their stern characters and superior numbers counterbalanced for a time all the impe- tuosity of the Hebrews, and all the energy of their leaders. This day Alroy threw into a shade all his fonner exploits. Twelve times he charged at the head of the sacred guard, and more than once penetrated to the pavilion of Alp Arslan. In vain he endeavoured singly, and hand to hand, to meet that famous chieftain. Both mo- narchs fought in their ranks, and yet fiite decided that their cimeters should never cross. Four hours before noon it was evident to Airoy, that unless Scherirah arrived, he could not prevail against the vast superiority of numbers. He was obliged early to call his reserve into the field, and although the number of the slain on the side of Arslan exceeded any in the former victories of the Hebrews, still the Karasmians maintained an immense front, which was constantly supplied by fresh troops. Confident m his numbers, and aware of the weakness of his antagonists, Arslan contented himself with acting on the defensive, and wearying his assailants by re- sisting their terrible and repeated charge. For a moment, Alroy at the head of the sacred guard had withdrawn from the combat. Abner and Asriel still maintained the fight, and the caliph was at the same time preparing for new efforts, and watching with anxiety the arrival of Scherirah. In the fifth hour, from an eminence he marked with exultation the advancing banners of his expected succours. Confident now that the day was won, he announced the exhilarating intelhgence to his sol- 2X 518 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. diers; and while they were excited by the animat- ing intelligence, led them once more to the charge. It was irresistible; Scherirah seemed to have arrived only for the pursuit, only in time to complete the victory. What then was the horror, the consterna- tion of Alroy, when Benaiah, dashing up to him, informed him that the long-expected succours con- sisted of the united forces of Scherirah and Abidan, and had attacked him in the rear. Human genius could afiord no resource. The exhausted Hebrews, whose energies had been racked to the utmost, were surrounded. The Karasmians made a general and simultaneous advance. In a few minutes the Hebrew army was disorganized. The stoutest war- riors threw away their swords in despair. Every one thought only of self-preservation. Even Abner fled towards Hamadan. Asriel was slain. Alroy, finding that it was all over, rushed to his pavilion at the head of about three hundred of the guards, seized the fainting Schirene, and threw her before him on his saddle, and cutting his way through all obstacles, dashed into the desert. For eight-and-foity hours they never stopped. Their band was soon reduced one-third. On the morning of the third day they dismounted and re- freshed themselves at a well. Half only regained their saddles. Schirene never spoke. On they rushed again, each hour losing some exhausted co- mate. At length, on the fifth day, about eighty strong, they arrived at a grove of palm trees. Here they dismounted. And Alroy took Schirene in his arms, and the shade seemed to revive her. She opened her eyes, and pressed his hand and smiled. He gathered her some dates, and she drank some water. " Our toils will soon be over, sweetest," he whispered to her; "I have lost every thing but thee." Again they mounted, and proceeded at a less rapid pace, they arrived towards evening at the ruined city, whither Alroy all this time had been directing his course. Dashing down the great street, they at length entered the old amphitheatre. They dismounted. Alroy made a couch with their united cloaks for Schirene. Some collected fuel, great stores of which was found, and lit large fires. Others, while it was yet light, chased the gazelles, and were sufficiently fortunate to provide their banquet, or fetched water from the well known to their leader. In an hour's time, clustering round their fires in groups, and sharing their rude fare, you might have deemed them, instead of the dis- comfited and luxurious guards of a mighty mo- narch, the accustomed tenants of this wild abode. " Come, my lads," said Alroy, as he rubbed his hands over the ascending flame, " at any rate this is better than the desert!" XII. After all his exertions, Alroy fell into a profound and dreamless sleep. When he awoke, the sun had been long up — Schirene was still slumbering. He kissed her, and she opened her eyes and smiled. " You are now a bandit's bride," he said, with a smile. " How like you our new life !" " Well ! with thee." " Rest here, my sweetest ; I must rouse our men, and see how fortune speeds." So saying, and tripping hghtly over many a sleeping form, he touched Benaiah. " So ! my brave captain of the guard, still nap- ping 1 Come ! stir, stir." Benaiah jumped up with a cheerful face. " I am ever ready, sire." " I know it ; but remember I am no more a king, only a comate. Away with me, and let us form some order." The companions quitted the amphitheatre, and reconnoitred the adjoining buildings. They found many stores, the remains of old days — mats, tents, and fuel, drinking bowls, and other homely furni- ture. They fixed upon a building for their stable, and others for the accommodation of their band. They summoned their companions to the open place, the scene of Hassan Subah's fate, where Al- roy addressed them, and developed to them his plans. They were divided into companies — each man had his allotted duty. Some were placed on guard at different parts ; some v^'ere sent out to the chase, or to collect dates from the oasis ; others le-d the horses to the contiguous pasture, or remained to complete their interior arrangements. The am- phitheatre was cleared out. A rude but convenient pavilion was formed for Schirene. They covered its ground with mats, and each emulated the other in his endeavours to study her accommodation. Her kind words and inspiring smiles animated at the same time their zeal and their invention. They soon became accustomed to their rough but adventurous life. Its novelty pleased them, and the perpetual excitement of urgent necessity left them no time to mourn over their terrible vicis- situdes. While Alroy lived, hope indeed never deserted their sanguine bosoms. And such was the influence of his genius, that the most despond- ing felt that to be discomfited with him was prefer- able to conquest with another. They were a faith- ful and devoted band, and merry faces were not wanting when at night thej' assembled in the am- phitheatre for their common meal. No sooner \\ad Alroy completed his arrange- ments, than he sent forth spies in all directions, to procure intelligence, and especially to communi- cate, if possible, with Ilhamar and Medad, provided they still survived and maintained themselves m any force. A fortnight passed away without the approach of any stranger ; at the end of which there arrived four personages at their haunt, not very welcome to their chief, who, however, concealed his chagrin at their appearance. These were Kisloch the Kourd, and Calidas the Indian, and their insepara- ble companions, the Guebre and the Negro, XIII. "Noble captain," said Kisloch, "we trust that you will permit us to cnlisf in the band. This is not the first time we have served under your orders in this spot. Old comates, i'faith, who have seen the best and the worst. We suspected where you might be found, although, thanks to the ever feli- citous invention of man, it is generally received that you died in battle. I hope your majesty is well," added Kisloch, bowing to Schirene. "You are very welcome, friends," replied Alroy — "I know your worth. You have seen, as you say, the best and the worst, and will, I trust, see better. Died in battle, eh ! that's good." '/HE WONDROUS TALE OF A L R O Y. 519 **'Tis so receireJ," said Calidas. '* And what nev/6 yi our friends'!" "Not over goo J, bul stranpie," "How «'• ■* Ifamadan is taker." "I am prepared — tell me all." " Old Bostenay a.id the Lady Miriam are borne jjfisoners to Bagdad." " Prisoners I" " But so — all will be well with them, I trow. The Lord Honain is in high favour with the con- queror, and will doubtless protect them." " Honain in favour 1" "Even so. He made terms for the city, and right good ones." " Hah ! he was ever dexterous. Well ! if he save my sister, I care not for his favour." " There is no doubt. All may yet be well, sir." " Let us act and hope. Where's Abner ]" " Dead." "Howl" ' In battle." "Art surel" " I saw him fall, and fought beside him." " A s-jldier's death is all our fortune now. I am glad he was not captured. Where's Medad, Itha- marl" "Flefl into Egypt." "We have no force whatever, then!" " None but your guards here." " They are strong enough to plunder a caravan, Honain, you say, in favour?" '* Very high. He'll make good terms for us." " This is strange news." " Very, but true." " Well ! you are welcome. Share our fare. *Tis rough, and somewhat scanty; but we have feasted, and may feast again. Fled into Egypt, eh?" "Ay! sir." " Schirene, shouldst like to see the Nile ?" "I have heard of crocodiles." XIV. If the presence of Kisloch and his companions were not very pleasing to Alroy, with the rest of the band they soon became great favourites. Their local knowledge, and their experience of desert life, made them valuable allies, and their boisterous jocularity, and unceasing merriment, were not un- welcome in the present monotonous existence of the fugitives. As for Alroy himself, he meditated an escape to Egypt. He determined to seize the first opportunity of procuring some camels, and then dispersing his band, with the exception of Be- naiah and a few faithful retainers, he trusted that, disguised as merchants, they might succeed in crossing Syria, and entering Africa by Palestine. With these plans and prospects, he became each day more cheerful, and more sanguine as to the future. He had in his possession some very va- luable jewels, which he anticipated parting willi at Cairo for a sum sufficient for all his purposes ; and having exhausted all the passions of life while yet a youth, he looked forward to the tranquil termina- tion of hi 5 existence in some poetic solitude with his beautiful companion. One evening, as they returned from the oasis, Alroy guiding the camel that bore Schirene, and ever and anon looking up in her iiispiring face, her sanguine spirit would have indulged in a delightful future. " Thus shall we pass the desert, sweet," said Schirene. " Can this be toil I" " There is no toil with love," replied Alroy. " And we were made for love, and not for em- pire," rejoined Schirene. " The past is a dream," said Alroy. " So sages teach us ; but until we act their wisdom is but wind. I feel it now. Have we ever lived in aught but deserts, and fed on aught but dates 1 Methinks 'tis vei-y natural. But that I am tempted by the security of distant lands, I could remain here a free and happy outlaw. Time, custom, and necessity, form our natures. When I first met Scherirah in these ruins, I shrank with horror from degraded man ; and now I sigh to be his heir. We must not think !" " No, love, we'll only hope," replied Schirene — and they passed through the gates. The night was beautiful, the air was still warm and sweet. Schirene gazed upon the lu- minous heavens. " We thought not of these skies when we were at Bagdad," she exclaimed ; " and yet, my life, what was the brightness of our palaces compared to these 1 All is left to us that man should covet — freedom, beauty, and youth. I do believe, ere long, Alroy, we shall look back upon the wondrous past, as another and a lower world. Would this were Egypt ! 'Tis my only wish." " And it shall soon be gratified. All will soon be arranged. A few brief days, and then Schirene will mount her camel for a longer ride than just to gather dates. You'll make a sorry traveller, I fear !" " Not I— I'll tire ye all." They reached the circus and seated themselves round the blazing fire. Seldom had Alroy, since his fall, appeared more cheerful. Schirene sang an Arab air to the band, who joined in joyous chorus. It was late ere they sought repose ; and they retired to their rest sanguine and contented. A few hours after, at the break of dawn, Alroy was roused from his slumbers by a rude pressure on his breast. He started — a ferocious soldier was kneeling over him. He would have spurned him — he found his hands manacled. He would have risen — his feet were bound. He looked round for Schirene, and called her name — he was answered only by a shriek. The amphitheatre was filled with Karasmian troops. His own men were sur- prised and overpowered. Kisloch and the Guehre had been on guard. He was raised from the ground, and flung upon a camel, which was in- stantly trotted out of the circus. On every side he beheld a wild scene of disorder and dismay. He was speechless from passion and despair. The camel was dragged into the desert. A body of ca- valry instantly surrounded it, and they set ofl it a rapid pace. The whole seemed the work o. an instant. How many days had passed Alroy knew not. He had taken no count of time. Night and day were to him the same. He was in a stupor. But the sweetness of the air, and the greenness of the earth, at length partially roused his attention. He was just conscious that they had quitted the desert. Before him was a noble river — he beheld the Eu- phrates from the very spot he had first viewed it in his pilgrimage. The strong association of ideas called back his memory. A tear stole down his 520 D'ISRAELI S JJOVELS. cheek — the bitter drop stole to his parched lips — he askeu tne nearest horseman for wateV. The guard gave him a wetted sponge, with which with dithculty he contrived to wipe his lips, and then he let it fall to the ground. The Karasmian struck him. They arrived at the river. The prisoner was taken from the camel and placed in a covered boat. After some hours, they stopped and disembarked at a small village. Alroy was placed upon a donkey with his back to its head. His clothes were soiled and tattered. The children pelted him with mud. An old woman, with a I'anatic curse, placed a crown of paper on his brow. With difficulty his brutal guards prevented their victim from being torn to pieces. And in such fashion, tovs'ards noon of the fourteenth day, David Alroy again entered Bagdad. XV. The intelligence of the capture of Alroy spread through the agitated city. The moolahs bustled about as if they had received a fresh demonstration of the authenticity of the prophetic mission. All the dervishes began begging. The men discussed affairs in the coffee-houses, and the women chatted at the fountains.* " They may say what they like, but I wish him well," said a fair Arab, as she arranged her veil. " He may be an impostor, but he was a very hand- some one." " All the women are for him, that's the truth," responded a companion ; " but then we can do him no good." " We can tear their eyes out," said a third. " And what do you tliink of Alp Arslan, truly V inquired a fourth. " I wish he were a pitcher, and then I could break his neck," said a fifth. " Only think of the princess," said a sixth. " Well ! she has had a glorious time of it," said a seventh. " Nothing was too good for her," said an eighth. " I like true love," said a ninth. " Well ! I hope he will be too much for them all yet," said a tenth. " I should not wonder," said an eleventh. " He can't," said a twelfth, " he has lost his sceptre." '' You don't say so," said a thirteenth. •' It is too true," said a fourteenth. "Do you think he was a wizard 1" said a fifteenth, " I vow if there be not a fellow looking at us behind those trees." " Impudent scoundrel !" said a sixteenth. " I wish it were Alroy. Let us all scream, and put down our veils." And the group ran away. XVI. I'wo stout soldiers were playing chess-j- in a coffee-house * The balh and Ihe fountain are the favourite scenes of feminine conversation. tOu llie walls of the palace of Anienoph the Second, called MedeenelAbuh, at Kgyplian Thebes, the king is re- presented playing chess with the queen. This monarch feigned long Ijefore the Trojau war. " May I slay my mother," said one, " but I can not make a move. I fought under him at Nehau- end ; and though I took the amnesty, I have half a mind now to seize my sword and stab the first Turk that enters." " 'Twcre but sheer justice," said his companion " By my father's blessing, he was the man for a charge. They may say what they like, but com- pared with him. Alp Arslu.^'. is a white-livered Giaour." " Here is confusion to him and to thy last move. There's the dirhem, I can play no more. May I slay my mother, though, but I did not think he would have let himself be taken." " By the blessing of my father, nor I ; but then he was asleep." " That makes a difference. He was betrayed." " All brave men are. They say Kisloch and liis set pocket their fifty thousand by the job." " May each dirhem prove a plague spot !" " Amen ! Dost remember Abner ?" '' May I slay my mother if I ever forget him." " He spoke to his men like so many lambs. What's become of the Lady Miriam]" " She is here." " That will cut Alroy." " He was ever fond of her. Dost remember she gained Adoram's life'?" " O ! she could do any thing — next to the queen." " Before her, I say before her. He has refused the queen, he never refused the Lady Miriam." " Because she asked less." " Dost know it seemed to me that things never went on so well after .labasters death 1" "So say I. There was a something, ehl" " A sort of a peculiar, as it were, kind of some-- thing, eh 1" " You have well described it. Every man felt the same. I have often mentioned it to my comrades. Say what you like, said I, but slay my mother, if ever since the old gentlemen strangled himself things don't seem, as it were, in their natural pro- pinquity. 'Tvvas the phrase I used." " A very choice one. Unless there's a natural propinquity, the best arranged matters will fall out. However, the ass sees farther than his rider, and so it was with Alroy, the best commander I ever served under, all the same." " Let's go forth and see how affairs run." " Ay, do. If we hear any one abuse Alroy, we'll cleave his skull." " That will we. There are a good many of our stout fellows about ; we might do something yet." "Who knows 1" XVIL A subtetihanf.a'v dungeon of the citadel of Bag- dad held in its gloomy limits the late lord of Asia. The captive did not sigh, or weep, or wail. He did not speak. He did not even think. For several days he remained in a state of stupor. On the morning of the fourth day, he almost uncon- sciously partook of the wretched provision which his jailers brought him. Their torches, round which the bats whirled and flapped their wings, and twinkled their small eyes, threw a ghastly glare over the nearer walls of the dungeon, the extremity of which defied the vision of '.he piisoner; and THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 521 tvhen the jailers retired, Alroy was in complete darkness. The image of the past came back to him. He tried in vain to penetrate the surrounding gloom. His hands were manacled, his legs also were loaded with chains. The notion that his life might per- haps have been cruelly spared in order that it might linger on in this horrible state of conscious annihilation, filled him with frenzy. He would have dashed his fetters against his brow, but the chain restrained him. He flung himself upon the damp and rigid ground. His fall disturbed a thousand obscene things. He heard the quick glide of a serpent, the creeping retreat of the clus- tering scorpions, and the swift escape of the dash- ing rats. His mighty calamities seemed sliglit, when compared with these petty miseries. His great soul could not support him under these noisome and degrading incidents. He sprang, in disgust, upon his feet, and stood fearful of moving lest every step should introduce him to some new abomination. At length, exhausted nature was unable any longer to sustain him. He groped his way to the rude seat, cut in the rocky wall, which was his only accommodation. He put forth his hand. It touched the slimy fur of some wild animal, that instantly sprang away, its fiery eyes sparkling in the dark. Alroy recoiled with a sen- sation of wo-begone dismay. His shaken nerves could not sustain him under this base danger, and these foul and novel trials. He could not refrain from an exclamation of despair ; and when he re- membered that he was far beyond the reach of all human solace and sympathy, even all human aid, for a moment his mind seemed to desert him ; and he wrung his hands in forlorn and almost idiotic wo. An awful thing it is — the failing energies of a master-mind. He who placed implicit confidence in his genius, will find himself some day utterly defeated and deserted, 'Tis bitter! Every paltry hind seems but to breathe to mock you. Slow, indeed, is such a mind to credit that the never- failing resource can at last be wanting. But so it is. Like a dried-up fountain, the perennial flow and bright fertility have ceased, and ceased for- ever. Then comes the madness of retrospection. Draw a curtain ! draw a curtain ! and fling it .)ver this agonizing anatomy — I can no more. The days of childhood, his sweet sister's voice and smiling love, their innocent pastimes, and the kind solicitude of faithful servants, all the soft de- lail of mild domestic life, — these were the sights and memories that flitted in wild play before the burning vision of Alroy, and rose upon his tortured mind. Empire and glory, his sacred nation, his iimperial bride, — these, these were nothing. Their worth had vanished with the creative soul that called them into action. The pure sympathies of nature alone remained, and all his thought and grief, all his intelligence, all his emotion, were eentred in his sister. It was the seventh morning. A guard entered at an accustomed hour, and, sticking a torch into a niche in the wall, announced that a person was without who had permission to speak to the prisoner. They were the first human accents that had met the ear of Alroy during his captivity, which seemed to him an age, a long dark period, that cancelled all things. He shuddered at the narsh tones. He tried to answer, but his un- 66 accustomed lips refused their office. He raised his heavy arras, and endeavoured to signify his con- sciousness of what had been uttered. Yet, indeed, he had not listened to the message without emotion. He looked forward to the grate with strange curiosity ; and as he looked, he trembled. The visiter entered, muffled in a dark caftan. The guard disappeared ; and the caftan falling to the ground, revealed Honain. "My beloved Alroy," said the brother of Jabas- ter ; and he advanced, and pressed him to his bosom. Had it been Miriam, Alroy might have at once expired ; but the presence of this worldly man called back his worldliness. The revulsion of his feelings was wonderful. Pride, perhaps even hope, came to his aid ; all the associations seemed to counsel exertion ; for a moment he seemed the same Alroy. " I rejoice to find at least thee safe, Honain." " I also, if iny security may lead to thine." " Still whispering hope !" " Despair is the conclusion of fools." " O, Honain ! 'tis a great trial. I can play my part, and yet methinks 'twere better we had not again met. How is Schirene ?" " Thinking of thee." " 'Tis something that she can think. My mind has gone. Where's Miriam 1" " Free." "That's something. Thou hast done that. Good, good Honain, be kind to that sweet child, if only for my sake. Thou art all she has left." " She hath thee." " Her desolation." " Live, and be her refuge." " How's that 1 These walls — escape ? No, no ; it is impossible." " I do not deem it so." "Indeed! I'll do any thing. Speak! speak! Can we bribe ] can we cleave their skulls ] can we—" " Calm thyself, my friend. There is no need of bribes, no need of bloodshed. We must make terms." " Terms ! We might have made those upon the plains of Nehauend. Terms ! Terms with a captive victim ?" " Why victim?" " Is Arslan then so generous ?" " He is a beast, more savage than the boar that grinds its tusks within his country's forests." " Why speakest thou then of hope !" " I spoke of certainty. I did not mention hope." " Dear Honain, my brain is weak ; but I can bear strange things, or else I'd not be here. I feel thy thoughtful friendship ; but indeed there needs no winding words to tell my fate. Pr'ythee, speak out." " In a word, thy life is safe." " What, spared !" " If it please thee." " Please me ! Life is sweet. I feel its sweet- ness. I want but little. Freedom and solitude are all I ask. My life spared ! I'll not believe it. Thou hast done this deed, thou mighty man, that masterest all souls. Thou hast not forgotten me, thou hast not forgotten the days gone by, thou hast not forgotten thine own Alroy ! Who calls thee worldly is a slanderer. O, Honain ! thou art too faithful !" " I have no thought but for thy service, prince." 2x2 522 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. " Call me not prince, call me thine own Alroy. My life spared ! 'Tis v^'onderful ! When may I go 1 Let no one see me. Manage that, Honain. Thou canst manage all tilings. I'm for Egypt. Thou hast hcen to Egypt, hast thou not, Honain T' " A very wondrous land, 'twill please thee much." "When may I go 1 Tell me when may I go. When may I quit this dark and noisome cell 1 'Tis worse than all their tortures, dear Honain. Air and light, and I really think my spirit never would break, but this horrible dungeon — I scarce can look upon thy face, sweet friend. 'Tis serious." " Wouldst thou have me gay V *' Yes ! if we arc free." " Alroy, thou art a great spirit, the gi-eatest that e'er I knew, or ever I have read of. I never knew thy like, and never shall." " Tush, tush, sweet friend, I am a broken reed, but still I am free. This is no time for courtly phrases. Let's go, and go at once." "A moment, dear Alroy. I am no flatterer. What I said came from my heart, and doth concern us much and instantly. I was saying thou hast no common mind, Alroy — indeed thou hast a mind unlike ail others. Listen, my prince. Thou hast read mankind deeply and truly. Few have seen more than thyself, and none have so rare a spring of that intuitive knovvdedge of thy race, which is a gem to which experience is but a jeweller, and without which no action can befriend us." '•Well, well!" " A moment's calmness. Thou hast entered Bagdad in triumph, and thou hast entered the same city with every contumely the base spirit of our race could cast upon its victim. 'Twas a great lesson." " I feel it so." "And teaches us how vile and valueless is the opinion of our fellow-men." " Alas ! 'tis true." " I am glad to see thee in this wholesome temper. 'Tis full of wisdom." " The miserable are often wise." " But to believe is nothing unless we act. Spe- culation should only sharpen practice. The time has come to prove thy lusty faith in this philosophy. I told thee we could make terms. I have made them. To-morrow it was doomed Alroy should die, and what a death ! A death of infinite tor- ture ! Hast ever seen a man impaled ?''* • "Hah!" " To view it is alone a doom." "God of heaven !" " It is so horrible, that 'tis ever marked, that when this direful ceiemony occurs, the average deaths in cities greatly increase. 'Tis from the turning of the blood in the spectators, who yet from some ungovernable madness can ne'er refrain from hurrying to the scene. I speak with some authority — I speak as a physician." " Speak no more. I cannot endure it." " To-morrow this doom awaited thee. As for Schirene — " " Not fo! her, O ! surely not for her !" " No, they were merciful. She is a caliph's * A friend of mine witnessed lliis horrible punislinient 111 Unjipr Kt;ypl. The victim was :i man who had secretly iiiiirJcrpd lime persons. He held an ofTu-ial post, and iivitiHl iravfUers and pilsriins to liis luuisp, whom he remdarly disposed of and pluiiderod. I regret that I have mislaid his MS. account of the ceremony. daughter. 'I'is not forgotten. The axe would close her life. Her fair neck would give slight trouble to the headsman's art. But for thy sister, but for Miriam — she is a witch, a Jewish witch I They would have burnt her aUve." " I'll not believe it, no, no, I'll not believe it : damnable, bloody demons ! When I had power I spared all — all but — ah me! ah me! why did I live !" " Thou dost forget thyself; I speak of that which was to have been, not of that which is to be. I have stepped in and communed with the conqueror. I have made terms." " What are they — what can they be V "Easy. To a philosopher like Alroy an idle ceremon)'." "Be brief, be brief." " Thou seest thy career is a great scandal to the Moslemin. I marked their weakness, and I have worked upon it. Thy mere defeat or death will not blot out the stain upon their standard and their faith. The public mind is wild with fantasies since Alroy rose. Men's opinions flit to and fro with that fearful change that bodes no stable settle- ment of states. None know what to cling to, oi where to place their trust. Creeds are doubted — authority disputed, yhcy would gladly account for thy success by other than human means, yet must deny thy mission. There also is the fame of a fair and mighty princess, a daughter of their caliphs, which they would gladly clear. I mark ail this, observe, and work upon it. So, could we devise some means by which thy lingering fol- lowers could be forever silenced, this great scandal fairly erased, and the public frame brought to a sounder and more tranquil pulse, why, they would concede much, much, very much." " Thy meaning, not thy means, are evident." " They are in thy power." " In mine ? 'Tis a deep riddle. Pr'ythee solve it." " Thou wilt be summoned at to-morrow's noon before this Arslan. There, in the presence of the assembled people, who are now with him as much as they were with thee, thou wilt be accused of magic, and of intercourse with the infernal powers. Plead guilty." " Well ! is there more 1" " Some trifle. They will then examine thee about the princess. It is not difficult to confess that Alroy won the caliph's daughter by an irre- sistible spell — and now 'tis broken." " So, so. Is that all ?" " The chief. Thou canst then address some phrases to the Hebrew prisoners, denying thy divine mission, and so forth — to settle the public mind, observe, upon this point forever." " Ay, ay, and then !" ■ " No more, except for form, (upon the comple- tion of the conditions, mind, you will be conveyed to what land you please, with such amount of treasure as you. choose,) there is no more, except, I say, for form, I would, if I were you, ('twill be expected,) I would just publicly affect to renounce our faith, and bow before their prophet." "Hah ! Art thou there] Is this thy freedom"? Get thee behind me, tem))tcr ! " Never, never, never ! not a jot, not a jot : I'll not yield a jot. Were my doom one everlasting torture, I'd spurn thy terms ! Is this thy high contempt of our poor kind — to outrage my God ! THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 523 to prove myself the vilest of the vile, and baser than the basest ! Rare philosophy ! 0, Honain ! would we had never met !" " Or never parted. True. Had my word been taken, Alroy would ne'er have been betrayed." " No more, no more ; I pray thee, sir, no more. Leave me." " Were this a palace, I would. Harsh words are softened by a friendly ear, when spoken in af- fliction." " Say what they will, I am the Lord's anointed. As such I should have lived, as such at least I'll die." " And Miriam 1" " The Lord will not desert her : she ne'er de- serted him." " Schirenel" " Schirene ! why ! for her sake alone I'll die a hero ! Shall it be said she loved a craven slave, a base impostor, a vile renegade, a villanous dealer in drugs and charms 1 O ! no, no, no ! if only for her sake, her sweet, sweet sake, my end shall be like my great life. As the sun I rose, like him I set. Still the world is warm with my bright f\ime, and my last hour shall not disgrace my noon, stormy indeed but glorious !" Honain took the torch from the niche, and ad- vanced to the grate. It was not fastened : he drew it gently open, and led forward a veiled and female figure. The veiled and female figure threw herrelf at the feet of Alroy, who seemed lost to what was passing. A soft lip pressed his hand. He started, his chains clanked. " Alroy !" softly murmured the kneeling female. "What voice is thaf?" wildly exclaimed the prince of the captivity. " It falls upon my ear like long forgotten music. I'll not believe it. No ! I'll not believe it. Art thou Schirene ?" " I am that wretched thing they called thy bride." " ! this indeed is torture ! What impalement can equal this sharp moment 1 Look not on me, let not our eyes meet ! They have met before, like to the confluence of two shining rivers blend- iuj; in one great stream of rushing light. Bear off mat torch, sir. Let impenetrable darkness cover our darker fortunes." " Alroy !" " She speaks again. Is she mad, as I am, that thus she plays with agony 1" " Sire," said Honain, advancing, and laying his hand gently on the arm of the captive, "I pray thee moderate this passion. Thou hast some faith- ful friends here, who would fain commune in calm- ness for thy lasting welfare." " Welfare ! He mocks mc." " I beseech thee, sire, be calm. If, indeed, I speak unto that great Alroy that all men feared, and still may fear, I pray remember, 'tis not in palaces, or in the battle field alone, the heroic soul tan conquer and command. Scenes like these are the great proof of a superior soul. While we live, our body is a temple where our genius pours forth its godlike inspiration, and while the altar is not overthrown, the deity may still work marvels. I'hen rouse thyself, great sire ; bethink thee, a caUph or a captive, there is no man within this breathing world like to Alroy. Shall such a being fall without a struggle, like some poor felon, who has naught to trust to but the dull shufiling acci- dents of chance ? I too ara a prophet, and I feel Ihou still wilt nquer." " Give me my sceptre then, give me the sceptre ! I speak to the wrong brother. It was not thou — it was not thou that gave it me." " Gain it once more. The Lord deserted David for a time, yet still he pardoned him, and still he died a king." " A woman worked his fall." " But thee a woman raises. This great princess, has she not suffered too I Yet her spirit is still un- broken. List to her counsel : it is deep and fond." " So was our love." " And is, my Alroy !" exclaimed the princess. " Be calm, be calm, I pray thee ! For my sake ; I am calm for thine. Thou hast listened to all Ho- nain has told thee ; that wise man, my Alroy, that never erred. 'Tis but a word he counsels, an empty word, a most unmeaning foiTn. But speak it, and thou art free, and Alroy and Schirene may blend again their glorious careers, and lives of sweet fruition. Dost thou not remember when walking in the garden of our joy, and palled with empire, how often hast thou sighed for some sweet isle un- known to man, where thou mightest pass the days with no companion but my foitliful self, and no ad- ventures but our constant loves 1 ! my beloved, that life may still be thine ! And dost thou falter 1 Dost call thyself forlorn with such fidelity, and deem thyself a wretch, when paradise with all its beauteous gates but woo t!iy entrance 1 O ! no, no, no ! thou hast forgot Schirene : I fear me much, thy over-fond Schirene, who dotes upon thy image in thy chains more than she did when those sweet hands of thine were bound with gems, and played with her bright locks !" " She spealis of another world. I do remember something. Who has sent this music to a dun- geon 1 My spirit softens with' her melting words. My eyes are moist. I weep ! 'Tis pleasant. Sor- row is joy compared with my despair. I never thought to shed a tear again. My brain methinks is cooler." " Weep, weep, I pray thee weep ; but let me kiss away thy tears, my soul ! Didst think thy Schirene had deserted thee ? Ah ! that was it that made my bird so sad. It shall be free, and fly in a sweet sky, and feed on flowers with its faithful mate. Ah me ! I am once more happy with my boy. There was no misery but thy absence, sweet ! Methinks this dungeon is our bright kiosk ! Is that • the sunbeam, or thy smile, my love, that makes tlie walls so joyful !" " Did I smile ? — I'll not believe it." " Indeed you did. Ah ! see, he smiles again. Why, this is freedom ! There is no such thing as sorrow. 'Tis a lie to frighten fools !" " Why, Honain, what's this ! 'Twould seem I am really joyful. There's inspiration in her very breath. I am another being. Nay ! waste not kisses on those ugly fetters." " Methinks they are gold." They were silent. Schirene drew Alroy to his rough seat, and gently placing herself on his knees, threw her arms round his neck, and buried her face in his breast. After a few minutes she raised her head, and whispered in his ear in irresistible accents of sweet exultation, " We shall be free to- morrow !'' "To-morrow! is the trial so near?" exclaimed the captive with an agitated voice and changing countenance. "To-morrow!" He threw Schirene aside somewhat hastily, and sprang from his seat. 524 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " To-morrow ! would it were ovei ! To-morrow ! Methinks there is within that single word the fate of ages ! Shall it be said to-morrow Alroy — " Hah ! what art thou that risest now before me 1 Dread, mighty spirit, thou hast come in time to save my last perdition. Take me to thy bosom, 'tis not stabbed. They did not stab thee. Thou seest me here communing with thy murderers. What then 1 I am innocent. Ask them, dread ghost, and call upon their fiendish souls to say I am pure. They would make me dark as themselves, but shall not." " Honain, Honain !" exclaimed the princess in a terrible whisper, as she flew to the physician. " He is wild again, he is wild. Calm him, calm him. Mark ! how he stands with his extended arms, and fixed and vacant eyes, muttering most awful words ! My spirit fails me. It is too fear- ful." The physician advanced and stood by the side of Alroy, but in vain attempted to catch his atten- tion. He ventured to touch his arm. The prince started, turned round, and recognising him, ex- claimed in a shrieking voice, " Oft", fratricide !" Honain recoiled, pale and quivering. Schirene sprang to his arm. " What said he, Honain 1 Thou dost not speak. I never saw thee pale before. Art thou, too, mad '!" " Would I were !" " All men are growing wild. I am sure he said something. I pray thee tell me. What was itl" " Ask him." " I dare not. Tell me — tell me, Honain !" "That I dare not." "Was it a word"!" " Ay ! a word to wake the dead. Let us be- gone." "Without our end? Coward! I'll speak to him. My own Alroy," sweetly whispered the princess, as she advanced before him. " What, has the fox left the tigress ! Is't so, eh, eh 1 Are there no judgments 1 Are the innocent only haunted 1 I am innocent ; I did not strangle thee ! He said rightly. Beware, beware ! they who did this, may do even fouler deeds. And here they are quick at their damned work. Thy body suffered, great Jabaster, but me they would strangle body and soul !" The princess shrieked, and fell into the arms of the advancing Honain, who bore her out of the dungeon. xvin. Afteu the fall of Hamadan, Bostenay and Mi- riam had been carried prisoners to Bagdad. Through the interference of Honain, their imprisonment had been exempted from the usual hardships ; but they were still confined to their chambers in the citadel. Hitherto all the endeavours of Miriam to visit her brother had been fruitless. Honain was the only person to whom she coidd apply for assistance, and he, in answer to her inqjortunities, only regretted his want of power to aid her. In vain had she at- tempted, by the olfer of some remaining jewels, to secure the co-operation of her guards, with whom her loveliness and the softness of her manners had already ingratiated her. 8he had not succeeded even in communicating with Alroy. But after the unsuccessful mission of Honain to the dungeon, the late vizier visited the sister of the captive, and breaking to her with delicate skill, the intelligence of the impending catastrophe, he announced that he had at length succeeded in obtaining for her the desired permission to visit her brother, and while she shuddered at the proximity of an event for which she had long attempted to prepare herself, Honain, with some modifications, whispered the means by which he flattered himself it might yet be averted. Miriam listened to him in silence, nor could he with all his consummate art succeed in extracting from her the slightest indication of her own opinion as to their expediency. They parted, Honain as sanguine as the wicked ever are. As Miriam dreaded, both for herself and for Alroy, the shock of an unexpected meeting, she availed herself of the influence of Honain to send Caleb to her brother, to prepare him for her pre- sence, and to consult him as to the desirable mo- ment. Caleb found his late master lying exhausted on the floor of his dungeon. At first he would not speak, or even raise his head, nor did he for a long time apparently recognise the faithful retainer of his uncle. But at length he grew milder, and when he fully comprehended who the messenger was, and the object of the mission, he at first seemed altogether disinclined to see his sister, but in the end, postponed their meeting for the present, and, pleading great exhaustion, fixed for that sad union, the first hour of dawn. The venerable Bostenay had scarcely ever spoken since the fill of his nephew : indeed it was but too evident that his faculties, even if they had not en- tirely deserted him, were at least greatly impaired. He never quitted his couch, he took no notice of what occurred. He evinced no curiosity, scarcely any feeling. If indeed he occasionally did mutter an observation, it was generally of an initable cha- racter, nor truly did he appear satisfied if any one approached him, save Miriam, from vi'hom alone he would accept the scanty victuals which he ever ap- peared disinclined to touch. But his devoted niece, amid all her harrowing affliction, could ever spare to the j)rotector of her youth a placid countenance, a watchful eye, a gentle voice, and a ready hand. Her religion and her virtue, the strength of her faith, and the inspiration of her innocence, suf)- ported this pure and hapless lady amid all her un- deserved and unparalleled sorrows. It was long past midnight, the young widow of Abner repo'sed upon a couch in a soft slumber. The amiable Beruiia, and the beautiful Bathsheba, the blinds withdrawn, watched the progress of the night. "Shall I wake her!" said the beautiful Bathsheba. " Methinks the stars arc paler ! She bid me rouse her long before the dawn." " Her sleep is too beautiful ! Let us not wake her," replied the amiable Beruna. " We rouse her only to sorrow." " May her dreams at least be happy," rejoined the beautiful Bathsheba. " She sleeps tranquilly as a flower." "The veil has fillen from her head." said the amiable Beruna. " I will replace it lightly on hei brow. Is that well, my Bathsheba]" " It is vv'cll, sweet Beruna. Her face shrouded by the shawl is like a pearl in its shell. See ! she moves !" " Bathsheba 1" " I am here, sweet lady." " Is it near dawn V " Not yet, sweet lady ; it is yet night. It ^ THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 525 long past the noon of night, sweet lady : raethinks I scent the rising breath of morn ; but still 'tis night, and the young moon shines like a sickle in the heavenly field, amid the starry harvest." " Beruna, gentle girl, give me thy arm. I'll rise." The maidens advanced, and gently raising their mistress, supported her to the window. " Since our calamities," said Miriam, " I have never proved such tranquil slumber. My dreams were slight but soothing., I saw him, but he smiled. Have I slept long, sweet girls 1 Give me a kiss. Ye are very watchful." * " Dear lady, let me bring thy shawl. The air is fresh — " " But sweet : I thank thee, no. My brow is not so cool it needs a covering. 'Tis a fair night !" Miriam gazed upon the wide prospect of the moonlit capital. The eminent position of the citadel afforded an extensive view of the mighty groups of buildings, each in itself a city, broken only by some vast and hooded cupola, the tall, thin, white minarets of the mosques, or the black and sfiral form of some lonely cypress, and through which the rushing Tigris, flooded with light, sent forth its broad and brilliant torrent. All was silent ; not a single boat floated on the fleet river, not a solitary voice broke the stillness of slumbering millions. She gazed, and she gazed, she could not refrain from contrasting the present scene, which seemed the sepulchre of all the passions of our race, with the unrivalled excitement of that stirring spectacle which Bagdad afforded on the celebration of the marriage of Alroy. How diflerent then, too, was her position to her present, and how happy ! The only sister of a devoted brother, the lord and conqueror of Asia, the bride of his most victorious captain, one worthy of all her virtues, and whose youthful valour had encircled her brow with a dia- dem. For Miriam, exalted station had brought neither cares nor crimes. It had, as it were, only rendered her charity universal, and her benevolence omnipotent. She could not accuse herself — this blessed woman — she could not accuse herself, even in this searching hour of self-knowledge — she could not accuse herself, with all her meekness, and modesty, and humility, of having for a moment for- gotten her dependence on her God, or her duty to her neighbour. But when her thoughts recurred to that being, from whom they were indeed scarcely ever absent ; and when she remembered him, and all his life and all the thousand incidents of his youth, mysteries to the world, and known only to her, but which were indeed the prescience of his fame, and thought of all his surpassing qualities, and all his sweet aflfeetion, his unrivalled glory, and his impending fate, the tears, in silent agony, forced their way down her pale and pensive cheek. She bowed her head upon Bathsheba's shoulder, and sweet Beruna pressed her quivering hand. The* moon set, the stars grew white and ghastly, and, one by one, vanished away. Over the distant plain of the Tigris, the scene of the marriage pomp, the dark purple horizon, shivered into a rich streak of white and orange. The solemn strain of the muezzin sounded from the minarets. Some one knocked at the door. It was Caleb. " I am ready," said Miriam ; and for a moment she covered her face with her right hand. " Think of me, sweet maideas ; pray for me I" XIX. Leaning on Caleb, and lighted by a jailer bearing torches, Miriam descended the damp and broken stairs that led to the dungeon. She faltered as she arrived at the gate. She stopped, and leaned against the cold and gloomy wall. The jailer and Caleb preceded her. She heard the voice of Al roy. It was firm and sweet. Its accents reas sured her, Cabel came forth with a torch, and held it to her feet; and as he bent down, he said, " My lord bids me beg you to be of good heart, for he is." The jailer having stuck his torch in the niche, withdrew. Miriam desired Caleb to stay without. Then, summoning up all her energies, she entered the dreadful abode. Alroy was standing to receive her. The fight fell upon his countenance. It smiled. Miriam could no longer restrain herself. She ran forward, and pressed him to her heart. " O, my best, my long beloved," whispered Al- roy : " such a meeting indeed leads captivity captive !" But the sister could not speak. She leaned her head upon his shoulder, and closed her eyes, that she might not weep. " Courage, dear heart : courage, courage!" whis- pered the captive. " Indeed I am very happy !" " My brother, my brother !" " Had we met yesterday, you would have found me perhaps a little vexed. But to-day I am myself* again. Since I crossed the Tigris, I know not that I have felt such self-content. I have had sweet dreams, dear Miriam, full of solace, and more than dreams. The Lord hath pardoned me, I truly think," " 0, my brother ! your words are full of comfort ; for, indeed, I too have dreamed, and dreamed of consolation. My spirit since our fall has never been more tranquil." " Indeed I am very happy." " Say so again, my David ; let me hear again these words of solace 1" " Indeed, 'tis very true, my faithful friend. It is not spoken in kind mockery to make you joyous. For know, last eve, whether the Lord repented of his wrath, or whether some dreadful trials, of which we will not speak, and wish not to remember, had made atonement for my manifold sins — but so it was, that about the time my angel Miriam sent her soothing message, a feeling of repose came over me, such as I long have coveted. Anon, I fell into a slumber, deep and sweet, and, for those wild and whirling images that of late have darted from my brain when it should rest, — glimpses of empire and conspiracy, snatches of fierce wars and mock- ing loves, — I stood beside our nati^e fountain's brink and gathered flowers with my earliest friend. As I placed the fragrant captives in your flowing locks and kissed you when you smiled, there came Jabaster, that great, injured man, no longer stem and awful, but with benignant looks, and full of love. And he said, ' David, the Lord hath marked thy faithfulness, despite the darkness of thy dun- geon.' So he vanished. He spoke, my sister, of some strange temptations by heavenly aid withstood. No more of that. I awoke. And lo ! I heard my name still called. Full of my morning dream, I thought it was you, and I answered, ' Dear sister art thou here ]' But no one answered ; and then 536 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. reflecting, my memory recognised those thrilling tones that summoned Alioy in Jabaster's cave." " The Daughter of the Voice 1" " Even that sacred messenger, I am full of faith. Tlie Lord liath pardoned me. Be sure of that." " I cannot doubt it, David. You have done great things for Israel ; no one in these latter days has risen like you. It you have fallen, you were young, and strangely tempted." " Yet Israel, Israel ! Did I not feel a worthier leader awaits my country yet, my heart would crack. I have betrayed my country !" " O no, no, no ! You have shown what we can do, and shall. Your memory alone is inspiration. A great career, although balked of its end, is still a landmark of human energy. Failure, wlien sublime, is not without its purpose. Great deeds are great legacies, and work with wondrous usury. By what man has done, we learn what man can do ; and gauge the power and prospects of our race." " Alas ! there is no one to guard my name. Twill be reviled ; or worse, 'twill be forgotten !" " Never, never ! the memory of great actions never dies. The sun of glory, though a while ob- scured, will shine at last. And so, sweet brother, perchance some poet, in some distant age, within wliose veins our sacred blood may flow, his fancy fired with the national theme, may strike his harp to Alroy's wild career, and consecrate a name too long forgotten !" " May love make thee a prophetess !" exclaimed Alroy, as he bent down his head and embraced her. " Sweetest," he whispered, " do not tarry. 'Tis better we should part in this firm mood." She sprang from him, she clasped her hands. " We will not part," she exclaimed, with energy : « I will die vi'ith thee." " Blessed girl, be calm, he calm ! Do not unman me." " I am calm. See ! I do not weep. Not a tear, not a tear. They are all in my heart." " Go, go, my Miriam, angel of light and loveli- ness ! Tarry no longer ; 1 pray thee go. I would not think of the past. Let all my mind be centred in the present. Thy presence calls back our by- gone days and softens me too much. My duty to my uncle. Go, dearest, go !" " And leave thee, leave thee to ! my David,, ihou hast seen, thou hast heard Honain !" " No more, no more ; let not that accursed name profane those holy lips. Raise not the demon in me." " I am silent, I am silent. Yet, yet 'tis madness, 'tis madness ! ! my brother, thou hast a fearful trial." " The God of Israel is my refuge. He saved our fathers in the fiery furnace. He will save me." " I am full of faith. I pray thee let me stay." "I would be silent, I would be alone. I cannot speak, Miriam. I ask one favour, the last and dearest from her who has never had a thought but for my wishes — blessed being, leave me." " I go. O ! Alroy, farewell ! Let me kiss you. Again, once more ! Let me kneel and bless you. Brother, beloved brother, great and glorious brother, I am worthy of you : I will not weep. I am prouder this dread moment of your love, than all your foes can be of their hard triumph !" XX. Beruna and Bathsheba received their misircss when she returned to the chamber. They marked her desolate air. She was silent, pale, and cold. They bore her to her couch, whereon she sat with a most listless and unmeaning look, her quivering lips parted, her eyes fixed upon the ground in va- cant abstraction, and her arms languidly folded be- fore her. Beruna stole behind her, and supported her back with pillows, an'd Bathsheba, unnoticed, wiped the slight foam from her mouth. Thus Miriam remained for several hours, her faithful maidens in vain watching for any indication of her self-consciousness. Suddenly a trumpet sounded. " What is that!" exclaimed Miriam, in a shrill voice, and looking up with a distracted glance. Neither of them answered, since they were aware it betokened the going forth of Alroy to his trial. Miriam remained in the same posture, and with the same expression of wild inquiry. Another trumpet sounded, and after that a shout of the peo- ple. Then she raised up her arms to heaven, and bowed her head — and died. XXL " Has the second trumpet sounded 1" " To be sure ; run, run for a good place. W^here is Abdallah 1" " Selling sherbet in the square. We shall find him. Has Alroj' come forth"!" " Yes ! he goes the other way. We shall be too late. Only think of Abdallah selling sherbet !" " Father, let me go 1" " You will be in the way ; you are too young ; you will see nothing. Little boys should stay at home." " No, they should not. I will go. You can put me on your shoulders." "Where is Ibrahim 1 Where is Ali? We must all keep together. We shall have to fight for it. I wish Abdallah were here. Only think of his selling sherbet !" " Keep straight forward. That is right It is no lise going that way. The bazaar is shut. There is Fakreddin, there is Osman Eflendi. He has got a new page." "So he has, I declare; and a very pretty boy too." " Father, will they impale Alroy alive ?" " I am sure I do not know. Never asl< questions, my dear, Little boys never should." " Yes, they should. O my ! I hope they will impale him alive. I shall be so disappointed if they do not." '• Keep to the loft. Dash through the butcher's bazaar : that is open. All right, all righT. Did you push me, sir?" "Suppose I did push you — what then, sir?" " Come along, don't quarrel. That is a Karas- mian. They think they are to do what they hkc. We are five to one to be sure, but still there is no- thing like peace and quiet. I wish Abdallah were here with his stout shoulders. Only think of hi* selling sherbet !" THE WOAdROUS tale OF ALROf. XXII. The square of the gnu. ^ mosque, the same spot where Jabaster met Abidan by appointment, was the intended scene of the pretended trial of Alroy. Thither by break of day the sin^ht-ioving thousands of the capital had repaired. In the centre of the square a large circle was described by a crimson cord, and guarded by Karasmian soldiers ; around this the swelling multitude pressed like the gather- ing waves of ocean, but whenever the tide set in with too great an impulse, the savage Karasmians appeased the ungovernable element by raising their brutal battle-axes, and breaking the crowns and be- labouring the shoulders of their nearest victims. As the morning advanced, the terraces of the surround- ing houses, covered with awnings, were crowded with spectators. All Bagdad was about. Since the marriage of Alroy, there had never been such a merry morn as the day of his impalement. At one end of the circle was erected a magnifi- cent throne. Halfway between the throne and the other end of the circle, but farther back, stood a company of Negro enunchs, hideous to behold, who, clothed in white and armed with various in- struments of torture, surrounded the enormous stakes, tail, thin, and sharp, that were prepared for the final ceremony. The flourish of trumpets, the clash of cymbals, and the wild eat oi the tambour, announced the arrival of Alp Arslan from the serail. An avenue to the circle had been preserved through the multi- tude. The royal procession might be traced as it wound through the populace by the sparkling and undulating line of plumes of honour, and the daz- zling forms of the waving streamers, on which were inscribed the names of Allah and the prophet. Suddenly, amidst the bursts of music and the shouts of the spectators, many of whom on the terraces humbled themselves on their knees. Alp Arslan mounted the throne, around which ranged them- selves his chief captains, and a deputation of the moolahs, and imams, and cadis, and other principal personages of the city. The King of Karasme was very tall in stature, and somewhat meager in form. He was fair, or rather sandy-coloured, with a red beard, and blue eyes and a flat nose. The moment he was seated a trumpet was heard in the distance from the oppo- site quarter, and it was soon understood throughout the assembly that the great captive was about to appear. A band of Karasmian guards first entered the circle and ranged themselves round the cord with their backs to the spectators. After them came fifty of the principal Hebrew prisoners, with their hands bound behind them, but evidently more for form than security. To these succeeded a small covered wagon drawn b)' mules, and surrounded by guards, from which was led forth, his legs re- lieved from their manacles, but his hands still in heavy chains, David Alroy ! A universal buzz of blended sympathy, and won- der, and fear, and triumph, arose throughout the whole assembly. Each man involuntarily stirred. The va.^t populace moved to and fro in agitation. His garments soiled and tattered, his head bare, and his long locks drawn off his forehead, pale, and very thin, but still unsubdued, the late conqueror and Caliph of Bagdad threw tyound a calm and imperial glanee upon those who were but recently his slaves. 527 The trumpets again sounded, order was called, and a crier announced that his highness Alp Arslan, the mighty sovereign of Karasme, their lord, protector and king., and avenger of x-Mlah and the prophet, against all rebellious and evil-minded Jews and Giaours, was about to speak. 'I'here was a deep and universal silence, and then sounded a voice high as 'che eagle's in a storm. " Ddvid Alroy !" said his conqueror. " You are brought here this day neither for trial nor for judg. ment. Captured in arms against your rightful sovereign, you are of course prepared, like other rebels, for your doom. Such a crime alone deserves the most avenging punishments. What then do you merit, who are loaded with a thousand infa- mies, who have blasphemed Allah and the prophet, and by the practice of magic arts, and the aid of the infernal powers, have broken the peace of king- doms, occasioned infinite bloodshed, outraged all law, religion, and decency, misled the minds of your deluded votaries, and especially, by a direct com pact with Eblis, by the most horrible spells and in- famous incantations, captivated the senses of an illustrious princess, heretofore famous for the prac- tice of every virtue, and a descendant of the pro- phet himself. "Behold those stakes of palm wood sharper than a lance ! The most terrible retribution that human ingenuity has devised for the guiltA' aits yju. But your crimes haffie all Lw-man vengeance. Look forward for your satisfactory reward to those infer- nal powers by whose dark co-operation you have occasioned such disasters. Your punishment is public, that all men may know that the guilty never escape, and that, if your heart be visited by the slightest degree of compunction for your numerous victims, you may this day, by the frank confession of the irresistible means by which you seduced them, exonerate your victims from the painful ami ignominious end with which, through your influ- ence, they are now threatened. Mark, O assem- bled people, the intinite mercy of the vicegerent of Allah ! He allows the wretched man to confess his infamy, and to save, by his confession, his un- fortunate victims. I have said it. Glory to Allah !" And the people shouted, " He has said it ! He has said it I Glory to Allah! He is great, he is great! and Mohammed is his prophet !" "Am I to speak"!'' inquired Alroy, when the tumult had subsided. The melody of his powerful voice commanded universal attention. Alp Arslan nodded his head in approbation. " King of Karasme ! I stand here accused of many crimes. Now hear my answers. 'Tis said I am a rebel. My answer is, I am a prince, as thou art, of a sacred race, and far more ancii^nt. I owe fealty to no one but to my God, and if I have bro- ken that, I am yet to learn Alp Arslan is the avenger of his power. As for thy God and prophet, I know not them, though they acknowledge mine. 'Tis well understood in every polity, my people stand apart from other nations, and ever will, despite of suffering. So much for blasphemy ; I am true to a deep faith of ancient days, which even the sacred writings of thy race still reverence. For the arts magical I practised, and the communion with in- fernal powers 'tis said I he\d, know, king, I raised the standard of my faith, by the direct command- ment of my God, tlie great Creator of the universe. What need of magic, theni what need paltcruig with petty fiends, when backed by his omnipotence 1 528 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. My magic was his inspiration. Need I prove why, with such aid, my people crowded around mel The time will come from out our ancient seed, a worthier chief shall rise, not to be quelled, even by thee, sir. "For that unhappy princess of whom something was said, with no great mercy as it seemed to me, that lady is my wife, my willing wife, the daughter of a caliph — still my wife, although your stakes may make her soon a widow. I stand not here to account for female fancies. Believe me, sire, she gave her beauty to my raptured arms with no per- suasions but .such as became a soldier and a king. It may seem strange to thee upon thy throne, the flower of Asia should be plucked by one so vile as I am, sir. Eemember, the accidents of fortune are most strange. I was not always what I am. We have met before. There was a day, and that too not long since, when, but for the treachery of some knaves I mark there, fortune seemed half inclined to reverse our fates. Had I conquered, I trust I should have shown more mercy." The King of Karasme was the most passionate of men. He had made a speech according to the advice and instructions of his counsellors, who had assured him, that the tone he adopted would induce Alroy to confess all that he required, and especially to vindicate the reputation of the Princess Schirene, who had already contrived to persuade Alp Arslan that she was the most injured of her sex. The King of Karasme stamped thrice on the platform of his throne, and exclaimed, with great fire, " By my beard ye have deceived me ; the dog has con- fessed nothing !" All the counsellors, and chief captains, and the moolahs, and the imams, and the cadis, and the principal personages of the city, were in great con- sternation. They immediately consulted together, and after much disputation, agreed that before they proceeded to extremities it was expedient to prove what the prisoner would not confess. A most venerable sheikh, clothed in flowing robes of green, with a long white beard, and a turban like the tower of Babel, then rose. His sacred reputation procured silence while he himself delivered a long prayer, supplicating Allah and the prophet to confound all blaspheming Jews and Giaours, and to pour forth words of truth from the mouths of religious men. And then the venerable sheikh summoned all wit- nesses against David Alroy. Immediately advanced Kisloch the Kourd, who being placed in an emi- nent position, the Cadi of Bagdad drew forth a scroll from his velvet bag, and read to him a depo- sition wherein the worthy Kisloch stated, that he first became acquainted with the prisoner, David Alroy, in some ruins in the desert; the haunt of banditti, of whom Alroy was the chief ; that he, Kisloch, was a reputable merchant, and that his caravan had been plundered by these robbers, and he himself captured : that on the second night of his imprisonment, Alroy appeared to him in the hkcness of a lion, and on the third, of a bull with fiery eyes : that he was in the habit of constantly transforming himself; that he frequently raised spirits ; that at length, on one terrible night, Eblis himself came in great procession, and presented Alroy with the sceptre of Solomon Ben Daoud ; and that the next day Alroy raised his standard, and soon after massacred Hassan Subah and his Seljuks, by the visible aid of many terrible demons, CaUdas the Indian, the Guebre, and the Negro, and a few congenial spirits, were not echpsed in the satisfactory character of their evidence by the lumi nous testimony of Kisloch the Kourd. The irre- sistible career of the Hebrew conqueror was unde- niably accounted for, and the honour of the Mosle- min arms, and the purity of the Moslemin faith, were established in their pristine glory, and all their unsullied reputation. David Alroy was proved to be a child of Eblis, a sorcerer, and a dealer in channs and magical poisons. The people listened with horror and with indignation. • They would have burst through the guards and have torn him to pieces, had not they been afraid of the Karasmian battle-axes. So they consoled themselves with the prospect of his approaching tortures. The Cadi of Bagdad bowed himself before the King of Karasme, and whispered at a respectful distance in the royal ear. The trumpets sounded, the criers enjoined silence, and the royal lips again moved. " Hear, O ye people ! and be wise. The cliief cadi is about to read the deposition of the royal Princess Schirene, chief victim of the sorcerer." And the deposition was read which stated that David Alroy possessed, and wore next to his heart, a talisman, given him by Eblis, of which the virtue was so great, that if once it were pressed to the heart of any woman, she was no longer mistress of her will. Such had been the unhappy fate of the daughter of the commander of the faithful. " Is it so written !" inquired the captive. " It is so written," replied the cadi, " and bears the imperial signature of the princess." " It is a forgery." The King of Karasme started from his throne, and in his rage nearly descended its steps. His face was like scarlet, his beard like a flame. A fa- vourite minister ventured gently to restrain the royal robe. " Kill the dog on the spot," muttered the King of Karasme. " The princess is herself here," said the cadi, " to bear witness to the spells of which she was a vic- tim, but from which, by the power of Allah and the prophet, she is now released." Alroy started ! " Advance, royal princess," said the cadi, " sind if the deposition thou hast heard be indeed true, condescend to hold up the imperial hand that adorned it with thy signature." A band of eunuchs near the throne gave way, a female figure veiled to her feet appeared. She held up her hand amid the breathless agitation of the whole assembly ; the ranks of the eunuchs again closed; a loud shriek was heard, and the veiled figure disappeared. " I am ready for thy tortures, king," said Alroy, in a tone of deep depression. His firmness ap- peared to have deserted him. His eyes were cast upon the ground. Apparently he was buried in profound thought, or had delivered himself up to despair. " Prepare the stakes," said Alp Arslan. An involuntary, but universal shudder might be distinguished through the whole assembly. A slave advanced, and ofli^rcd Alroy a scroll. He recognised the Nubian vv'ho belonged to Honain. His former minister informed him that he was at hand, that the terms he oflcred in the dungeon might even yet be grante^, that if Ahoy would, as he doubted not, as he entreated him, accept them, THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 529 he was to place the scroll in his bosom, but that if he were still inexorable, still madly determined on a horrible and ignominious end, he was to tear the scroll, and throw it into the arena. Instantly Alroy took the scroll, and with great energy tore it into a thousand pieces. A puff of wind carried the frag- ments far and wide. The mob fought for these last memorials of David Alroy ; and this Uttle inci- dent created a great confusion. In the mean time the negroes prepared the instru- ments of torture and of death. " The obstinacy of this Jewish dog makes me mad," said the King of Karasme to his courtiers. " I will hold some parley with him before he dies." The favourite minister entreated his sovereign to be content ; but the royal beard grew so red, and the royal eyes flashed forth such terrible sparks of fire, that even the favourite minister at length gave way. The trumpets sounded, the criers called silence, and the voice of Alp Arslan was again heard. " Thou dog, dost see what is preparing for theel Dost know what awaits thee in the halls of thy master Eblisi Can a Jew be influenced even by false pride T Is not life sweet 1 Is it not better to be my slipper-bearer than to be impaled ?" " Magnanimous Alp Arslan," replied Alroy, in a tone of undisguised contempt ; " thinkest thou that any torture can be equal to the recollection that I have been conquered by thee V " By my beard, he mocks me," exclaimed the Karasmian monarch, " he defies me. Touch not my robe. I will parley with him. Ye see no far- ther than a hooded hawk, ye sons of a blind mother. This is a sorcerer ; he hath yet some master-spell ; he will yet save himself. He will fly into the air, or sink into the earth. He laughs at our tortures." The King of Karasme precipitately descended the steps of his throne, followed by his favourite mi- nister, and his counsellors, and chief captains, and the cadis, and the moolahs, and the imams, and the principal personages of the city. " Sorcerer !" exclaimed Alp Arslan, " insolent sorcerer ! base son of a base mother ! dog of dogs ! dost thou defy us ] Does thy master Eblis whisper hope 1 Dost thou laugh at our punishments 1 Wilt thou fly into the air ] wilt thou sink into the earth 1 eh, eh] Is it so, is it so ]" The breathless monarch ceased, from the exhaustion of passion. He tore his beard up by the roots, he stamped with imcontroUable rage. " Thou art wiser than thy counsellors, royal Arslan ; I do defy thee. My master, although not Eblis, has not deserted me. I laugh at thy punish- ments. Thy tortures I despise. I shall both sink into the earth, and mount into the air. Art thou answered V 67 " By my beard," exclaimed the enraged Arslan, " I am answered. Let Eblis save thee if he can •" and the King of Karasme, the most famous master of the sabre in Asia, drew his blade like lightning from its sheath, and carried off the head of Alroy at a stroke. It fell, and as it fell, a smile of trium- phant derision seemed to play upon the dying fea- tures of the hero, and to ask of his enemies, " Where now are all their tortures]"* « In the German Davidis o/Ganz translated into Latin by Vorstius, Lug. 1G54, is an extract from a Helirew MS>. containing an account of Alroy. I subjoin a passase re- specting his death for the learned reader. "■ Snibit R. Maimonides, Sultanuni interrogasse Mum, num esset Messtas, et dixisse, Sum, et quasivisse ab illo regem, quodnam signum habes ? Et respondisse, ut pracideret I aput, ut se in vilam reversurum. Tunc regem jussisse et caput ejus aviputarent, et obiisse ; sed hoc illi dixisse, ne gravibus lormenlis ipsum enecaret." " Septem annis ante decretum hoc, de rjuo supra locuti suinus, habuerunt Israelilae veheiiipnles anguslias propter virum Belial, qui seipsum fecit INTpssiam; el rex atque principes valde accensi sunt excandescenlia contra Ju- daeos, ut dicerent, eos quaerere interitum regni sui IMessiae peiitidne. Maledicli hujus nomen vocatura fuit David Kl-David aut Alroy ex urbe Omadia ; et erat ibi coetus magnus, circilermille familias deviies, refertas, honeslas el felices continens. Atque Ecclesia hajc erat principium caetuum habitantium circa fluvium Sabhathion, atque erant plus quam centum EcclesiEe Erat hie initium regionis Medioe, atque lingua eoruni erat idiom Thargum , inde autem usque ad resionem Golan est iter 50 dierum, el sunt sub imperio Regis Fersiae, cui dantquotannis tributuni a 15 annis et ultra aureum unum. Vir autem hie David El-David studuit coram principe captiviiaiis Chasdai e: coram excellente Scholarcha in urbe Bagdad, qui eximus erant sapiens in Thalmude et omnibus scieniiis Exoticis, atque in omnibus libris divinatorum, magorum et Chaldseo- rum. Hie vero David El-David ex audacia et arrogantia cordis sui elevavit manum contra regem, et collegit Ju- daeiis habitanies in monie Chophtan, eiseduxil eos, ut exi- renl in prselium cum omnibus genlibus. Oslendit iis signa ; sed ignorabant quanam virtule ; erant enim homines, qui asserebanl islud per niodum magiae et prEestigialionis fieri, allii dicebant, potentiam ejus magnam esse propter manum Dei. Qui consortium ejus veniebant, vocabant eum Mes- siam, eumque laudabaat el extoUebant. "In regno Persiae alio qundam tempore surrexitvirquidam JudcBus, et seipsum fecit Blessiam, atque valde prospere pffil ; et numerosus ex Israele ad ilium confiuxil populus. Cum vero audirel rex omnem ejus polenliam, aique propo- siium ejus esse descendere in praelium cum ipso, misit ad Judaeos congregaius in regione sua, iisque dixit: Nisi egerent cum hocce viro, ut e medio toUeiur, certo sciant, se eos omnes gladio inlerempturum et uno die infantes ac fceminas delplurum. Tunc congregatus est tolus populug Israelis simul, atque conlendit ad virum ilium, ceciditque coram ; illo in lerram ; vehementersupplicatus est, clama- vit atque ploravit, ut reveteretur a visa sua : et cur seipsum et omnes affiictos conjiceret in periculum ; jam enim regem jurasse se immissurum ei.s gladium, et quomodo possel intupri aitliclionem omnium ctEtuum Persiae. Respondil^ Veni scrvalum vos, et non vul/is. Quern 7nctiiistis f Quisnam coram 7ne consislet? Etquidagct rev Persies, ut nonreformidet 7ne et gladium meum'f Interrogarunt eum, quod nam signum habereiquod esset Messias. Kespon- dil, ai'IA FELICITER BE.M GERERET, NEaUE MeSSIAM OPUS HABERE ALIO siGNo. Rpsponderunt mullos similiter egisse, neque prospera usos fuisse fortuna' tunc rejecit eos a facie sua cumsuperba indignaiione.'' 3 Y THE RISE OF ISKANDER. The sun had set behind the mountains, and the rich plain of Athens was suffused with the violet glow of a Grecian eve. A light breeze rose ; the olive groves awoke from their noonday trance, and rustled with returning animation, and the pennons of the Turkish S(iuadron, that lay at anchor in the harbour of Pirseus, twinkled in the lively air. From one gate of the city the women came forth in pro- cession to the fountain ; from another, a band of sumptuous horsemen sallied out, and threw their wanton javelins in the invigorating sky, as they galloped over the plain. The voice of birds, the buzz of beauteous insects, the breath of beauteous flowers, the quivering note of the nightingale, the pittcring call of the grasshopper, and the perfume of the violet, shrinking from the embrace of the twilight breeze, fdled the purple air with music and cdour. A solitary being stood upon the towering crag of the Acropolis, amid the ruins of the temple of Minerva, and gazed upon the inspiring scene. Around him rose the matchless memorials of an- tique art; immortal columns whose symmetry baf- fles modern proportion, serene caryatides, bearing with greater grace a graceful burden, carvings of delicate precision, and friezes breathing with heroic life. Apparently the stranger, though habited as a Moslemin, was not insensible to the genius of the locality, nor indeed would his form and counte- nance have misbecome a contemporary of Pericles and Phidias. In the prime of life, and far above the common stature, but with a frame, the muscular povs'er of which was even exceeded by its almost ideal symmetry, his high white forehead, his straight profile, his oval countenance, and his curling lip, exhibited the same visage that had inspired the sculptor of the surrounding demi-gods. The dress of the stranger, although gorgeous, was, however, certainly not classic. A crimson shawl was wound round his head, and glittered with a trembling aigrette of diamonds. His vest, which sat tight to his form, was of green velvet, richly em- broidered with gold and pearls. Over this he wore a very light jacket 'of crimson velvet, equally em- broidered, and lined with sable. He wore also the full white camese common among the Albanians ; and while his feet were protected by sandals, the lower part of his legs was guarded by greaves of embroidered green velvet. From a broad belt of scarlet leather peeped forth the jewelled hilts of a variety of daggers, and by his side was an enor- mous cimeter, in a scabbard of chased silver. The stranger gazed upon the wide prospect be- fore him with an air of pensive abstraction. " Beau- tiful Greece," he exclaimed, "thou art still my I country. A mournful lot is mine, a strange and mournful lot, yet not uncheered by hope. I am at least a warrior ; and this arm, though trained to war against thee, will not well forget, in the quick hour of battle, the blood that flows within it. Themistocles saved Greece and died a satrap ; I am bred one — let me reverse our lots, and die at least a patriot." At this moment the evening hymn to the Virgin arose from a neighbouring convent. The stranger started as the sacred melody floated towards him, and taking a small golden cross from his heart, he kissed it vvith devotion, and then descending the steep of the citadel, entered the city. He proceeded along the narrow winding streets of Athens until he at length arrived in front of a marble palace, in the construction of which the architect had certainly not consulted the surround- ing models which time had spared to him, but which, however it might have offended a classic taste, pre- sented altogether a magnificent appearance. Half a dozen guards, whose shields and helmets some- what oddly contrasted with two pieces of cannon, one of which was ostentatiously placed on each side of the portal, and which had been presented to the Prince of Athens by the republic of Venice, loung- ing before the entrance, and paid their military homage to the stranger as he passed them. He passed them and entered a large quadrangular gar- den, surrounded by arcades, supported by a con- siderable number of thin, low pillars, of barbarous workmanship and various-coloured marbles. In the midst of the garden rose a fountain, whence the bubbling waters flowed in artificial channels through vistas of orange and lemon trees. By the side of the fountain, on a luxurious couch, his eyes fixed upon a richly-illuminated volume, reposed Nicaeus, the youthful Prince of Athens. "Ah! is it youl" said the prince, looking up with a smile, as the stranger advanced. " You have arrived just in time to remind me that we must do something more than read the Persee — we must act it." " My dear Nicsus," replied the stranger, " I have arrived only to bid you farewell." " Farewell I" exclaimed the prince in a tone of surprise and sorrow, and he rose from the couch. " Why ! what is this V " It is too true," said the stranger, and he led the way down one of the walks. "Events have oc- curred which entirely baffle all our plans and pros- pects, and placed me in a position as difficult as it is harrowing. Hunniades has suddenly crossed the Danube in great force, and carried every thing before him. I am ordered to proceed to Albania in- stantly, and to repair to the camp at the head of the Epirots," 531 532 D ISRAELIS NOVELS. "Indeed!" said Nicreus, with a thoughtful air. "My letters did not prepare me for this. 'Tis sud- den ! Is Amurath himself in the field 1" " No ; Karem Bey commands. I have accounted for my delay to the sultan hy pretended diiBculties in our treaty, and have held out the prospect of a large tribute." " When we are plotting that that tribute should be paid no longer !" added Nicseus with a smile. " Alas ! my dear friend," replied the Turkish commander, " my situation has now become critical. Hitherto my services for the Moslemin have been confined to acting against nations of their own faith. I am now suddenly summoned to combat against my secret creed, and the best allies of what I must yet call my secret country. The movement, it appears to me, must be made now or never, and I cannot conceal from myself, that it never could have been prosecuted under less auspicious circum- stances." "What, you desponding!" exclaimed Nicaeus, "then I must despair. Your sanguine temper has alone supported me throughout all our dangerous hopes." "And J3schylus?" said the stranger smiling. "And .^schylus, certainly," replied Nicaeus; "but I have lived to find even ^schylus insipid. I pant for action." " It may be nearer than we can foresee," replied the stranger. " There is a God who fashions all things. He will not desert a righteous cause. He knoweth that my thoughts are as pure as my situation is difficult. I have some dim ideas still brooding in my mind, but we will not discuss them now. I must away, dear prince. The breeze serves fairly. Have you ever seen Hunniadesl" " I was educated at the court of Transylvania," replied Nicjeus, looking down with a somewhat embarrassed air. "• He is a famous knight, Chris- tendom's chief bulwark." The Turkish commander sighed. " When we meet again," he said, " may we meet with brighter hopes and more buoyant spirits. At present, I must, indeed, say farewell." The prince turned with a dejected countenance, and pressed his companion to his heart. " 'Tis a sad end," said he, "to all our happy hours and lofty plans." " You are as yet too young to quarrel with for- tune," replied the stranger, " and, for myself, I have not yet settled my accounts with her. However, for the present, farewell, dear Niceus !" " Farewell," replied the Prince of Athens, " Fare- well, dear Iskander !" n. IsKANnMi was the youngest son of the Prince of Epirus, who, with the other Grecian princes, had, at the commencement of the reign of Amurath the Second, in vain resisted the progress of the Turk- ish arms in Europe. The Prince of Epirus had obtained peace by yielding his four sons as hostages to the Turkish sovereign, who engaged that they should be educated in all the accomplishments of their rank, and with a due deference to their faith. On the death of the Prince of Epirus, however, Amurath could not resist the opportunity that then oflered itself of adding to his empire the rich prin- cipality he had long coveted. A Turkish force in- etantly marched into Epirus, and seized upon Croia, the capital city, and the children of its late ruler were doomed to death. The beauty, talents, and valour of the youngest son, saved him, however from the fate of his poisoned brothers. Iskander was educated at Adrianople, in the Moslemin faith, and as he, at a very early age, excelled in feats of arms all the Moslemin warriors, he became a prime favourite of the sultan, and speedily rose in his ser- vice to the highest rank. At this period the irresistible progress of the Turkish arms was the subject of alarm throughout all Christendom. Constantinople, then the capital of the Greek empire, had already been more than once besieged by the predecessors of Amurath, and had only been preserved by fortunate accidents and humiliating terms. The despots of Bosnia, Servia, and Bul- garia, and the Grecian princes of ^tolia, Macedon, Epirus, Athens, Phocis, Boeotia, and indeed of all the regions to the straits of Corinth, were tributa- ries to Amurath, and the rest of Europe was only preserved from his grasp by the valour of the Hun- garians and the Poles, whom a fortunate alliance had now united under the' sovereignty of Uladis- laus, who, incited by the pious eloquence of the Cardinal of St. Angelo, the legate of the pope, and, yielding to the tears and supplications of the despot of Servia, had, at the time our story opens, quilted Buda, at the head of an immense army, crossed the Danube, and joining his valiant viceroy, the famous John Hunniades, vaivodc of Transylvania, defeated the Turks with great slaughter, relieved all Bulgaria, and pushed on to the base of Mount Hremus, known in modern times as the celebrated Balkan. Here the Turkish general, Karam Bey, awaited the Christians, and hither to his assistance was Iskander commanded to repair at the head of a body of janissaries, who had accompanied him to Greece, and the tributary Epirots. Had Iskander been influenced by vulgar ambi- tion, his loftiest desires might have been fully gra- tified by the career which Amurath projected for him. The Turkish sultan destined for the Gre- cian prince the hand of one of his daughters, and the principal command of his armies. He lavished upon Inm the highest dignities and boundless wealth ; and, whether it arose from a feeling of remorse, or of aflection for a warrior, whose unex- ampled valour and unrivalled skill had already added some of the finest provinces of Asia to his rule, it is certain that Iskander might have exer- cised over Amurath a far greater degree of influence than was enjoyed by any other of his courtiers. But the heart of Iskander responded with no sym- pathy to these flattering fivours. His Turkish education could never eradicate from his memory the consciousness that he was a Greek ; and al- though he was brought up in the Moslemin faith, he had, at an early period of his career, secretly recurred to the creed of his Christian fathers. He beheld in Amurath the murderer of his dearest kinsmen, and the oppressor of his country ; and although a certain calmness of temper, and cool- ness of judgment, which very early developed them- selves in his character, prevented him from ever giving any indication of his secret feelings, Iskan- der had long meditated on the exalted duty of free- ing his country. Despatched to Greece, to arrange the tributes and the treaties of the Grecian princes, Iskander became acquainted with the young Nica;us; a;id THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 533 their acquaintance soon matured into friendship. Nicasus was inexperienced: but nature had not in- tended him for action. The young Prince of Athens would loll by the side of a fountain, and dream of the wonders of old days. Surrounded by his eunuchs, his priests, and his courtiers, he envied Leonidas, and would have emulated The- mistocles. He was passionately devoted to the ancient literature of his country, and had the good taste, rare at that time, to prefer Demosthenes and Lysias to Chrysostom and Gregory, and the choruses of the Grecian theatre to the hymns of the Greek church. The sustained energy and noble simpli- city of the character of Iskander, seemed to recall to the young prince the classic heroes, over whom he was so often musing, while the enthusiasm and fancy of Niceeus, and all that apparent weakness of will, and those quick vicissitudes of emotion, to which men of a fine susceptibility are subject, equally engaged the sympathy of the more vigor- ous, and constant, and experienced mind of his companion. To Nicffius, Iskander had, for the first time in his life, confided much of his secret heart ; and the young prince fired at the inspiring tale. Often they consulted over the fortunes of their country, and, excited by their mutual invention, at length even dared to hope that they might effect its deli- verance, when Iskander was summoned to the army. It was a mournful parting. Both of them felt that the last few months of their lives had owed many charms to their companionship. The part- ing of friends,- united by sympathetic tastes, is al- ways painful ; and friends, unless their sympathy subsist, had much better never meet. Iskander stepped into the ship, sorrowful, but serene; NicsEus returned to his palace moody and fretful ; lost his temper with his courtiers, and, when he was alone, even shed tears. III. TuREE weeks had elapsed since the parting of Iskander and Nicaeus, when the former, at the head of ten thousand men, entered, by a circuitous route, the defiles of Mount Hsemus, and approached the Turkish camp, which had been pitched upon a vast and elevated table-ground, commanded on all sides by superior heights, which, however, were fortified and well garrisoned by janissaries. The Epirots halted, and immediately prepared to raise their tents, while their commander, attended by a few of his officers, instantly proceeded to the pavi- lion of Karam Bey. The arrival of Iskander diffused great joy among the soldiery ; and as he passed through the en- campment, the exclamations of the Turkish war- riors announced how ready they were to be led to the charge by a chieftain who had been ever suc- cessful. A guard of honour, by the orders of Ka- ram Bey, advanced, to conduct Iskander to his presence; and soon, entering the pavilion, the Gre- cian prince exchanged courtesies with the Turkish general. After the formal compliments had passed, Karam Bey waved his hand, and the pavilion was cleared, with the exception of Mousa. the chief secretary, and favourite of Karam. " You have arrived in good time, Iskander, to assist in the de- struction of the Christian dogs," said the bey. " Flushed with their accursed success, they have advanced too far. Twice they have endeavoured to penetrate the mountains; and each time they have been forced to retire with great loss. The passages are well barricadoed with timber and huge fragments of rock. The dogs have lost all heart, and are sinking under the joint sufferings of hun- ger and cold. Our scouts tell me they exhibit symptoms of retreat. We must rush down from the mountains, and annihilate them." " Is Hunniades here in person "?" inquired Is- kander. " He is here," replied Karam, " in person — the dog of dogs ! Come, Iskander, his head would be a fine Ramadan present to Amurath. 'Tis a head worth three tails, I guess?" Mousa, the chief secretary, indulged in some suppressed laughter at this joke. Iskander smiled. "If they retreat we must assuredly attack them," observed Iskander, musingly. " I have a persua- sion that Hunniades and myself will soon meet." "If there be truth in the prophet!" exclaimed Karam, " I have no doubt of it. Hunniades is re- served for you, bey. We shall hold up our heads at court yet, Iskander. Vou have had letters lately!" " Some slight words." "No mention of us, of course!" " Nothing, except some passing praise of your valour and discretion." " We do our best, we do our best. Will Isa Bey have ^tolia, think you !" " I have no thoughts. Our royal father will not forget his children, and Isa Bey is a most valiant chieftain." " You heard not that he was coming herel" in- quired Karam. " Have you ?" responded the cautious Iskander. "A rumour, a rumour," replied Karam. "He is at Adrianople, think you V " It may be so : I am, you know, from Athens." " True, true. We shall beat them, Iskander, we shall beat them." " For myself, I feel sanguine," replied the prince, and he arose to retire. " I must at present to my men. We must ascertain more accurately the movements of the Christians before we decide on our own. I am inclined myself to reconnoitre them. How far may it be ]" " There is not room to form our array between them and the mountains," replied Karam. " 'Tis well. Success attend the true believers ! By to-morrow's dawn we shall know more." IV. Iskander returned to his men. Night was coming on. Fires and lights blazed and sparkled in every direction. The air was clear but very cold. He entered his tent, and muffling himself up in his pelisse of sables, he mounted his horse, and declining any attendance, rode for some little distance, until he had escaped from the precincts of the camp. Then he turned his horse towards one of the wildest passes of the mountain, and galloping at great speed, never stopped until he had gained a considerable ascent. The track became steep and rugged. The masses of loose stone ren- dered his progress slow; but his Anatolian charger still bore him at intervals bravely, and in three hours' time he had gained the summit of Mount Hfemus. A brilliant moon flooded the broad plains of Bulgaria with shadowy light. At the base of the mountainous range, the red watch-fires denoted the situation of the Christian camp. 534 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. Iskandcr proccecleJ down the descent with an audacious rapidity; but his charger was thorough- bred, and his moments were golden. Ere mid- night, he had reached the outposts of the enemy, and was challenged hy a sentinel. " Who goes there V " A friend to Christendom." " The word 1" " I has'e it not — nay, calmly. I am alone, but I am not unarmed. I do not know the word. I come from a far country, and bear important tidings to the great Hunniades; conduct me to that chief." " May I be crucified if I will," responded the sentinel, " before I know who and what you are. Come, keep off, unless you wish to try the effect of a Polish lance," continued the sentinel; "'tis something, I assure you, not less awkward than your Greek fire, if Greek indeed you be." "My friend, you are a fool," said Iskander, "but time is too precious to argue any longer." So saying, the Turkish commander dismounted, and taking up the brawny sentinel in his arms with the greatest ease, threw him over his shoulder, and, threatening the astounded soldier with instant death if he struggled, covered him with his pelisse, and entered the camp. They approached a watch-fire, around which several soldiers were warming themselves. " Who goes there V inquired a second sentinel. " A friend to Christendom," answered Iskander. "The word?" Iskander hesitated. "The word, or I'll let fly," said the sentinel, ele- vating his cross-bow. "The Bridge of Buda," instantly replied the terrified prisoner beneath the pelisse of Iskander. " WHiy did not you answer before, thenl" said one of the guards. "And why do you mock us by changing your voice?" said another. "Come, get on with you, and no more jokes." Iskander proceeded through a street of tents, in some of which were lights, but all of which were silent. At length he met the esquire of a Polish knight returning from a convivial meeting, not a little elevated. "Who are you?" inquired Iskander. "I am an esquire," replied the gentleman. " A shrewd man, I doubt not, who would make his fortune," replied Iskander. " You must know great things have happened. Being on guard, I have taken a prisoner, who has deep secrets to di- vulge to the Lord Hunniades. Thither, to his pavilion, I am now bearing him. But he is a stout barbarian, and almost too much for me. Assist me in carrying him to the pavilion of Hunniades, and you shall have all the reward and half the fame." "You are a very civil spoken young gentleman," said the esquire. " I think I know your voice. Your name, if I mistake not, is Leckinski?" " A relative. We had a common ancestor." " I thought so. I know the Leckinskies ever by their voice. I am free to help you on the terms you mention — all the reward and half the fame. 'Tis a strong barbarian, is it. We cannot cut its threat, or it will not divulge. All the reward and half the fame ! I will be a knight to-morrow. It seems a sort offish, and has a smell." The esquire seized the shoulders of the prisoner, who would have spoken had he not been terrified by the threats of Iskander, who carrying the legs of the sentinel, allowed the Polish gentleman to lead the way to the pavilion of Hunniades. Thither they soon arrived ; and Iskander, dropping his bur- den, and leaving the prisoner without to the charge of his assistant, entered the pavilion of the general of the Hungarians. He was stopped in a small outer apartment by an officer, who inquired his purpose, and to whom he repeated his desire to see the Hungarian leader, without loss of time, on important business. The officer hesitated ; but, summoning several guards, left Iskander in their custody, and stepping behind a curtain, disappeared. Iskander heard voices, but could distinguish no words. Soon the officer re- turned, and, ordering the guards to disarm and search Iskander, directed the Grecian prince to fol- low him. Drawing aside the curtain, Iskander and his attendant entered a low apartment of conside- rable size. It was hung with skins. A variety of armour and dresses were piled on couches. A middle-aged man, of majestic appearance, muffled up in a pelisse of furs, with long chestnut hair, and a cap of crimson velvet and ermine, was walking up and down the apartment, and dictating some instructions to a person who was kneeling on the ground, and writing by the bright flame of a brazen lamp. The bright flame of the brazen lamp fell full upon the face of the secretary. Iskander beheld a most beautiful woman. She looked up as Iskander entered. Her large dark eyes glanced through his soul. Her raven hair descended to her shoulders in many curls on each side of her face, and was braided with strings of immense pearls. A broad cap of white fox-skin crowned her whiter forehead. Her features were very small, but sharply moulded, and a delicate tint gave animation to her clear fair cheek. She looked up as Iskander entered, with an air rather of curi- osity than embarrassment. Hunniades stopped, and examined his visiter with a searching inquisition. " Whence come you ?" inquired the Hungarian chieftain. " From the Turkish camp," was the answer "An envoy or a deserter?" "Neither." " What then ?" " A convert." "Your name?" "Lord Hunniades," said Iskander, "that is fo. your private ear. I am unarmed, and were I other- wise, the first knight of Christendom can scarcely fear. I am one in birth a'hd rank your equal; if not in fame, at least, I trust, in honour. My time is all-precious : I can scarcely stay here while my horse breathes. Dismiss your attendant." Hunniades darted a glance at his visiter which would have baffled a weaker brain, but Iskander stood the scrutiny calm and undisturbed. "Go, Stanislaus," said the vaivode to the ofl'icer. "This lady, sir," continued the chieftain, "is my daughter, and one from whom I have no secrets." Iskander bowed lowly as the ofliccr disappeared. " And now," said Hunniades, " to business. Your purpose?" " I am a Grecian prince, and a compulsory ally of the Moslemin. In a word, my purpose here is to arrange a plan by which we may effect at the same time your triumph and my freedom.'' "To whom, then, have I the honour of speak- ing?" inquired Hunniades. "My name, great Hunniades, is perhaps no< THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 535 altogether unknown to you: they call me Iskan- der." " What, the right arm of Amurath, the conqueror of Caramania, the flower of Turkish chivalry 1 Do I indeed behold that matchless warrior ]" exclaimed Hunniades, and he held forth his hand to his puest, and ungirding his own sword, offered it to the prince. "Iduna," continued Hunniades, to his daughter, " you at length behold Iskander." " My joy is great, sir," replied Iduna, " if I indeed rightly understand that we may count the Prince Iskander a champion of the cross." Iskander took from his heart his golden crucifix, and kissed it before her. " This has been my com- panion and consolation for long years, lady," said Iskander; "you, perhaps, know my mournful his- tory, Hunniades. Hitherto, my pretended sovereign has not required me to bare my cimeter against my Christian brethren. That hour, however, has at length arrived, and it has decided me to adopt a line of conduct long meditated. Karam Bey, who is aware of your necessities, the moment you com- mence your retreat, will attack you. I shall com- mand his left wing. In spite of his superior power and position, draw up in array, and meet him with confidence. I propose, at a convenient moment in the day, to withdraw my troops, and, with the Epirots, hasten to my native country, and at once raise the standard of independence. It is a bold measure, but success is the child of audacity. We must assist each other with mutual diversions. Single-handed it is in vain for me to commence a struggle, which, with all adventitious advantages, will require the utmost exertion of energy, skill, and patience. But if yourself and the King Uia- dislaus occupy the armies of Amurath in Bulgaria, I am not without hope of ultimate success, since I have to inspire me all the most urgent interests of humanity, and combat, at the same time, for my God, my country, and my lawful crown." " Brave prince, I pledge you my troth," said Hunniades, coming forward, and seizing his hand ; "and while Iskander and Hunniades live, they will never cease until they have achieved their great and holy end." "It is a solemn compact," said Iskander, "more sacred than if registered by the scribes of Christen- dom. Lady Iduna, your prayers!" " They are ever with the champions of the cross," replied the daughter of Hunniades. She rose, the large cloak in which she was enveloped, fell from her exquisite form. " Noble Iskander, this rosary is from the holy sepulchre," continued Iduna ; " wear it for the sake and memory of that blessed Saviour, who died for our sins." Iskander held forth his arm and touched her delicate hand as he received the rosary, which, pressing to his lips, he placed round his neck. "Great Hunniades," said the Grecian prince, "I must cross the mountains before dawn. Let me venture to entreat that we should hear to-morrow that the Christian camp is in retreat." " Let it be even so," said the Hungarian, after some thought, "and may to-morrow's sun bring brighter days to Christendom." And with these words terminated the brief and extraordinary visit of Iskander to the Christian general. V. The intelligence of the breaking up of the Chris- tian camp, and the retreat of the Christian army, soon reached the divan of Karam Bey, who im- mediately summoned Iskander to consult on the necessary operations. The chieftains agreed that instant pursuit was indispensable, and soon the savage Hsemus poured forth from its green bosom, swarms of that light cavalry which was perhapa even a more fatal arm of the Turkish power than the famous janissaries themselves. They hovered on the rear of the retreating Christians, charged the wavering, captured the unwary. It was im- possible to resist their sudden and impetuous move- ments, which rendered their escape as secure as their onset was overwhelming. Wearied at length by the repeated assaults, Hunniades, who, attended by some chosen knights, had himself repaired to the rear, gave orders for the army to halt and offer battle. Their pursuers instantly withdrew to a distance, and gradually forming into two divisions, awaited the arrival of the advancing army of the Turks. The Moslemin came forward in fierce array, and with the sanguine courage inspired by expected triumph. Very conspicuous was Iskander bound- ing in his crimson vest upon his ebon steed, and waving his gleaming cimeter. The janissaries charged calling upon Allah ! with an awful shout. The Christian knights, in- voking the Christian saints, received the Turks at the point of their lances. But many a noble lance was shivered that morn, and many a bold rider and worthy steed bit the dust of that field, borne down by the irresistible numbers of their fierce adversaries. Everywhere the balls and the arrows whistled through the air, and sometimes an isolated shriek, heard amid the general clang, announced another victim to the fell and mysterious agency of the Greek fire. Hunniades, while he performed all the feats of an approved warrior, watched with anxiety the dis- position of the Turkish troops. Hitherto, from the nature of their position, but a portion of both armies had interfered in the contest, and as yet, Iskander had kept aloof. But now, as the battle each instant raged with more fury, and it was evident that ere long the main force of both armies must be bro'" into collision, Hunniades, with a terrible »• watched whether the Grecian prince " or even capable of executin"' ' ' this fulfilment, the Ch'' ceal from himself '' against the crbs' In the mear events with Already Kar ed him to ' sentcd ; h his positi than rag secretary his coUe views a rounded mountec a wide-s of Karr his CO' live»^ CO' 536 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. He deems that a battle is not to be won by loitering under a shadowy tree. Now I differ with him, and I even mean to win this day by such a piece of truancy. However, it may certainly now be time for more active work. You smile encouragement, good Mousa. Giorgio, Demetrius, to your duty !" At these words, two stout Epirots advanced to the unfortunate secretary, seized and bound him, and placed him on horseback before one of their comrades. " Now all who love their country follow me !" exclaimed Iskander. So saying, and at the head of five thousand horsemen, Iskander quitted the field at a rapid pace. VI. With incredible celerity Iskander and his ca- valry dashed over the plains of Roumelia, and never halted except for short and hurried intervals of rest and repose, until they had entered the moun- tainous borders of Epirus, and were within fifty miles of its capital, Croia. On the eve of entering the kingdom of his fathers, Iskander ordered his guards to produce the chief secretary of Karam Bey. Exhausted with fatigue, vexation, and terror, the disconsolate Mousa was led forward. "Cheer up, worthy Mousa!" said Iskander, lying his length on the green turf. " We have had a sharp ride ; but I doubt not we shall soon find ourselves, by the blessing of God, in good quarters. There is a city at hand which they call Croia, in which once, as the rumour runs, the son of my father should not have had to go seek for an entrance. No matter. Methinks, worthy Mousa, thou art the only man in our society that can sign thy name. Come, now, write me an order signed Karam Bey to the governor of this said city, for its delivery up to the valiant champion of the crescent, Iskander, and thou shalt ride in future at a pace more suit- able to a secretary." The worthy Mousa humbled himself to the ground, and then taking his writing materials from his girdle, inscribed the desired order, and delivered it to Iskander, who, glancing at the inscription, 'lushed it into his vest. I shall proceed at once to Croia, with a few Is," said Iskander; "do you, my bold com- *" this eve in various parties, and '" id of the. second night, 'ates of Croia !" ^d for his now re- '' by two hundred "■f period to his mountains, de- us. , Iskander and '' the plain a It was sur- ed by square 3 eminence, ice. Behind ins of very aks capped :h troops of 'ike a sheet ' >-n breast ^"uses. ■ old hall for strangers, or their own seed." So saying, he spur red his horse, and with panting hearts and smiling faces, Iskander and his company had soon arrived in the vicinity of the city. The city was surrounded by a beautiful region of corn-fields and fruit trees. The road was arched with the overhanging boughs. The birds chirped on every spray. It was a blithe and merry morn. Iskander plucked a bunch of olives as he cantered along. " Dear friends," he said, looking round with an inspiring smile, " let us gather our first harvest!" And, thereupon, each putting forth his rapid hand, seized, as he rushed by, the emblem of possession, and following the example of his leader, placed it in his cap. They arrived at the gates of the city, which was strongly garrisoned ; and Iskander, followed by his train, galloped up the height of the citadel. Alight- ing from his horse, he was ushered into the divan of the governor, an ancient pasha, who received the conqueror of Caramania with all the respect that became so illustrious a companion of the crescent. After the usual forms of ceremonious hospitality, Iskander, with a courteous air, presented him the order for delivering up the citadel ; and the old pasha, resigning himself to the loss of his post with oriental submission, instantly delivered the keys of the citadel and town to Iskander, and requested permission immediately to quit the late scene of his command. Quitting the citadel, Iskander now proceeded through the whole town, and in the afternoon re- viewed the Turkish garrison in the great square. As the late governor was very anxious to quit Croia that very day, Iskander insisted on a considerable portion of the garrison accompanying him as a guard of honour, and returning the next morning. The rest he divided in several quarters, and placed the gates in charge of his own companions. At midnight the Epirots, faithful to their orders, arrived and united beneath the walls of the city, and after interchanging the signals agreed upon, the gates were opened. A large body instantly marched and secured the citadel. The rest, con- ducted by appointed leaders, surrounded the Turks in their quarters. And suddenly, in the noon of night, in that great city, arose a clang so dreadful that people leaped up from their sleep and stared with stupor. Instantly the terrace of every house blazed with torches, and it became as light as day. Troops of armed men were charging down the streets brandishing their cimeters and yataghans, and exclaiming, "The Cross, the Cross!" — "Iji- berty !" — "Greece!" — "Iskander and Epirus!" The townsmen recognised their countrymen by their language and their dress. The name of Is- kander acted as a spell. They stopped not to in quire. A magic sympathy at once persuaded them that this great man had, by the grace of heaven, re- curred to the creed and country of his fathers. And so every townsman, seizing the nearest weapon, with a spirit of patriotic frenzy, rushed into the streets, crying out, " The Cross, the Cross ! Liberty ! Greece! Iskander and Epirus!" Ay! even the women lost all womanly fears, and stimulated in stead of soothing the impulse of their masters. 'I'hey fetched them arms, they held the torches, they sent them forth with vows, and prayers, and imprecations, their children clinging to their robes, and repeating with enthusiasm, phrases which they could not comprehe..n.(1 THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 537 X he Turks fought with the desperation of men who feel that they are betrayed, and must be victims. The small and isolated bodies were soon massacred, and with cold steel, for at this time, although some ofthe terrible inventions of modern warfare v^-ere introduced, their use was not general. The citadel, mdeed, was fortified with cannon ; but the greater part of the soldiery trusted to their crooked swords, and their unerring javelins. The main force ofthe Turkish garrison had been quartered in an old pa- lace ofthe archbishop, situated in the iniddle ofthe city on a slightly rising and open ground, a massy building of rustic stone. Here the Turks, although surrounded, defended themselves desperately, using their cross-bows with terrible etTect; and hither, the rest of the city being now secured, Iskander himself prepared to achieve its complete deliverance. The Greeks had endeavoured to carry the princi- pal entrance of the palace by main force, but the strength of the portal had resisted their utmost ex- ertions, and the arrows of the besieged had at length forced them to retire to a distance. Iskander direct- ed that two pieces of cannon should be dragged down from the citadel, and then played against the entranee. In the mean time, he ordered immense piles of damp fagots to be litbefore the building, the smoke of which prevented the besieged from taking any aim. The ardour of the people was so great, that the cannon were soon served against the palace, and their effects were speedily remarked. The massy portal shook; a few blows ofthe batter- ing ram, and it fell. The Turks sallied forth, were received with a shower of Greek fire, and driven in with agonizing yells. Some endeavoured to es- cape from the windows, and were speared or cut down ; some appeared wringing their hands in de- spair upon the terraced roof. Suddenly the palace was announced to be on fire. A tall white bluish flame darted up from a cloud of smoke, and soon, as if by magic, the whole back of the building was encompassed with rising tongues of red and raging light. Amid a Babel of shrieks, and shouts, and cheers, and prayers, and curses, the roof of the pa- lace fell in with a crash, which prodaccd amid the besiegers an awful and momentary silence, but. in an instant they started from their strange inactivity, and rushing forward, leaped into the smoking ruins, and at the same time completed the massacre and achieved their freedom. VII. At break of dawn Iskander sent couriers through- out all Epirus, announcing the fall of Croia, and, that he had raised the standard of independence in his ancient country. He also despatched a trusty messenger to Prince Nicsus, at Athens, and to the great Hunniades. The people were so excited throughout all Epirus, at this great and unthought of intelligence, that they simultaneously rose in all the open country, and massacred the Turks, and the towns were only restrained in a forced submis- sion to Amurath, by the strong garrisons of the eultan. Now Iskander was very anxious to effect the re- moval of these garrisons without loss of time, in order that if Amurath sent a great power against him, as he expected, the invading army might have nothing to rely upon but its own force, and that his attention might not in any way be diverted from effecting their overthrow. Therefore, as soon as 68 his troops had rested, and he had formed his new recruits into some order, which, with their willing spirits, did not demand many days, Iskander set out from Croia, at the head of twelve thousand men, and marched against the strong city of Pe- trella, meeting in his way the remainder of the garrison of Croia on their return, who surrendered themselves to him at discretion. Petrella was only one day's march from Croia, and when Iskander arrived there he requested a conference with the governor, and told his tale so well, representing the late overthrow of the Turks by Hunniades, and the incapacity of Amurath at present to relieve him, that the Turkish commander agreed to deliver up the place, and leave the country with his troops, particularly as the alternative of Iskander to these easy terms was ever conquest without quarter. And thus, by a happy mixture of audacity and adroitness, the march of Iskander throughout Epi- rus, was rather like a triumph than a campaign, the Turkish garrisons imitating, without any ex- ception, the conduct of their comrades at Petrella, and dreading the fate of their comrades at the capital. In less than a month, Iskander returned to Epirus, having delivered the whole country from the Moslemin yoke. Hitherto Iskander had heard nothing either of Hunniades or Nicseus. He learned therefore with great interest as he passed through the gates of the city that the Prince of Athens had arrived at Croia on the preceding eve, and also that the messenger had returned from the Hungarian camp. Amid the acclamations of an enthusiastic people, Iskander once more ascended the citadel of Croia. Nicteus received him at the gate. Iskander sprang from his horse, and embraced his friend. Hand in hand, and followed by their respective trains, they entered the fortress palace. " My dear friend," said Iskander, when they were once more alone, " you see we were right not to despair. Two months have scarcely elapsed since we parted without a prospect, or with the most gloomy one, and now we are in a fair way of achieving all that we can desire. Epirus is free !" " I came to claim my share in its emancipation," said NicjEus with a smile, "but Iskander is another Csesar !" " You will have many opportunities yet, believe me, Nicreus, of proving your courage and your patriotism," replied Iskander; "Amurath will never allow this affair to pass over in this quiet manner. I did not commence this struggle without a con- viction that it would demand all the energy and patience of a long life, I shall be rewarded if I leave freedom as a heritage to my countrymen ; but for the rest, I feel that I bid farewell to every joy of life, except the ennobling consciousness of performing a noble duty. In the mean time, I un- derstand a messenger awaits me here from the great Hunniades. Unless that shield of Christen- dom maintain himself in his present position, oui chance of uitiinate security is feeble. With his constant diversion in Bulgaria, we may contrive here to struggle into success. You sometimes laugh at my sanguine temper, NicEUs. To say the truth, I am more serene than sanguine, and was never more conscious of the strength of my opponent than now, when it appears that I have beaten him. Hark ! the people cheer. I love the people, NicfEus, who are ever influenced by genuine and generous feelings. They cheer as if they had 538 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. once more gained a country. Alas ! they little know what they must endure even at the best. Nay ! look not gloomy ; we have done great things, and will do more. Who waits without there ? Demetrius ! Call the messenger from Lord Hun- niadcs." An Epirot bearing a silken packet was now in- troduced, which he delivered to Iskandei. Re- verently touching the hand of his chieftain, the messenger then kissed his own and withdrew. Is- kander broke the seal, and drew forth a letter from the silken cover. " So ! this is well !" exclaimed the prince with great animation, as he threw his quick eye over the letter. " As I hoped and deemed, a most com- plete victory. Karam Bey himself a prisoner, baggage, standards, great guns, treasure. Brave soldier of the cross! (may I prove so!) Your perfectly devised movement, (poh, poh!) Hah! what is this?" exclaimed Iskander, turning pale; his lip quivered, his eye looked dim. He walked to an arched window. His companion, who sup- posed that he was reading, did not disturb him. " Poor, poor Hunniades!" at length exclaimed Iskander, shaking his head. " What of him 1" inquired Nicaeus quickly. " The sharpest accident of war !" replied Iskan- der. " It quite clouds my spirit. We must forget these things, we must forget. Epirus ! he is not a patriot who can spare a thought from thee. And yet, so young, so beautiful, so gifted, so worthy of a hero ! — when I saw her by her great father's side, sharing the toils, aiding his councils, supply- ing his necessities, methought I gazed upon a min- istering angel ! — upon — " " Stop, stop in mercy's name, Iskander !" ex- claimed NicfEus in a very agitated tone. " What is all this? Surely no, — surely not — surely Iduna — !" " 'Tis she !'"' '• Dead ?" exclaimed Nicajus, rushing up to his companion, and seizing his arm. " Worse, much worse !" God of heaven !" exclaimed the young prince, with almost a frantic air. " Tell me -all, tell me all! This suspense fires my brain. Iskander, you know not what this woman is to me — the sole ob- ject of my being, the bane, the blessing of my life ! Speak, dear friend, speak ! I beseech you ! where is Iduna?" " A prisoner to the Turk." " Iduna a prisoner to the Turk! I'll not believe it ! Why do we wear swords 1 Where's chivalry ! Iiluna a prisoner to the Turk ! 'Tis false. It can- not be. Iskander, you are a coward! I am a cow- ard ! All are cowards ! A prisoner to the Turk ! Iduna! What, the rose of Christendom! has it been plucked by such a turbaned dog as Amurath 1 Farewell, Epinis! Farewell, classic Athens! Fare- well, bright fields of Greece, and dreams that made them brighter ! The sun of all my joy and hope is set, and set forever !" So saying, Nicrrus, tearing his hair and gar- ments, flung himself upon the floor, and hid his face in his robes. Iskander paced the room with a troubled step and thoughtful brow. After some minutes he leaned down by the Prince of Athens, and endea- voured to console him. " It is in vain, Iskander, it is in vain," said Ni- csEUS. " I wish to die." ' Were I a favoured lover, in such a situation," replied Iskander, "I should scarcely consider death my duty, unless the sacrifice of myself preserved my mistress." "Hah!" exclaimed Nicaeus, starting from the ground. " Do you conceive, then, the possibility of rescuing her." " If she live, she is a prisoner in the seraglio at Adrianople. You are as good a judge as myself • of the prospect that awaits your exertions. It is, without doubt, a difficult adventure, but such, me- thinks, as a Christian knight should scarcely shun." " To horse," exclaimed Nicaeus, " to horse — and yet what can I do ? Were she in any other place but tUc capital I might rescue her by force, but in the heart of their empire — it is impossible. Is there no ransom that can tempt the Turk 1 My principality would rise in the balance beside this jewel." " That were scarcely wise, and certainly not just," replied Iskander; "but ransom will be of no avail. Hunniades has already off'ered to restore Karam Bey, and all the prisoners of rank, and the chief trophies, and Amurath has refused to listen to any terms. The truth is, Iduna has found fa- vour in the e3-es of his son, the young Mahomed." " Holy Virgin ! hast thou no pity on this Chris- tian maid V exclaimed Nicaeus. " The young Mahomed ! Shall this licentious infidel — ah ! Is- kander, dear, dear Iskander, you who have so much wisdom, and so much courage ; you who can de- vise all things, and dare all things ; help me, help me ; on my knees I do beseech you, take up this crying cause of foul oppression, and for the sake of all you love and reverence — your creed, your country, and perchance your friend, let your great genius, like some solemn angel, haste to the rescue of the sweet Iduna, and save her, save her !" " Some thoughts like these were rising in my mind when first I spoke," replied Iskander. "This is a better cue, far more beseeming princes than boyish tears, and all the outward misery of wo, a tattered garment and dishevelled locks. Come, Nic.TBUs, we have to struggle with a mighty fortune. Let us be firm as fate itself." VIII. Immediately atter his interview with Nicjeus, Iskander summoned some of the chief citizens of Croia to the citadel, and submitting to them his arrangements for the administration of Epirus, an- nounced the necessity of his instant departure for a short interval ; and the same evening, ere the moon had risen, himself and the Prince of Athens quitted tiie city, and proceeded in the direction of Adrianople. They travelled with great rapidity until they reached a small town upon the frontiers, where they hailed for one day. Here, in the bazaar, Iskander purchased for himself the dress of an Armenian physician. In his long dark robes, and large round cap of black wool, his face and hands stained, and his beard and mustachios shaven, it seemed impossible that he could be recognised. Nicaeus was habited as his page, in a dress of coarse red cloth, setting tight to his form, with a red cap, with a long blue tassel. He carried a large bag containing drugs, some surgical instruments, and a few books. In this guise, as soon as the gates were open on the morrow, Iskander mounted on a very small mule, and Nicaeus on a very large don- key, the two princes commenced the pass of the THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 539 mountainous range, an arm of the Balkan, which divided Epirus from ^oumelia. " I broke the wind of the finest charger in all Asia when I last ascended these mountains," said Iskander ; " I hope this day's journey may be ac- cepted as a sort of atonement." " Faith ! there is little doubt I am the best mounted of the two," said Nicseus. " However, I hope we shall return at a sharper pace." " How came it, my Nica;us," said Iskander, " that you never mentioned to me the name of Iduna when we were at Athens ? I little sup- posed when I made my sudden visit to Hunniades, that I was about to appear to so fair a host. She is a rarely gifted lady." " I knew of her being at the camp as little as yourself," replied the Prince of Athens, "and for the rest, the truth is, Iskander, there are some slight crosses in our loves, which time, I hope, will fashion rightly." So saying, Nicaeus pricked on his donkey, and flung his stick at a bird which was perched on the branch of a tree. Iskander did not resume a topic to which his companion seemed disinclined. Their journey was tedious. Towards nightfall they reached the summit of the usual track ; and as the descent was difficult, they were obliged to rest until daybreak. On the morrow they had a magnificent view of the rich plains of Roumelia, and in the extreme distance, the great city of Adrianople, its cupolas and minarets blazing and sparkling in the sun. This glorious prospect at once revived all their energies. It seemed that the moment of peril and of fate had arrived. They pricked on their sorry steeds; and on the morning of the next day, pre- sented themselves at the gates of the city. The thorough knowledge which Iskander possessed of the Turkish character, obtained them an entrance, which was at one time almost doubtful, from the irritability and impatience of Nicsus. They re- paired to a caravansera of good repute in the neigh- bourhood of the seraglio; and having engaged their rooms, the Armenian physician, attended by his page, visited several of the neighbouring coffee- houses, announcing, at the same time, his arrival, his profession, and his skill. As Iskander felt pulses, examined tongues, and distributed drugs and charms, he listened with in- terest and amusement to the conversation of which he himself was often the hero. He found that the Turks had not yet recovered from their consterna- tion at his audacity and success. They were still wondering, and if possible more astounded than indignant. The politicians of the coffee-houses, chiefly consisting of janissaries, were loud in their murmurs. The popularity of Amurath had va- nished before the triumph of Hunniades, and the rise of Iskander. "But Allah has in some instances favoured the faithful," remarked Iskander; "I heard in my tra- vels of your having captured a great princess of the Giaours'?" " God is great !" said an elderly Turk with a long white beard. "The hakim congratulates the faithful because they have taken a woman !" " Not so, merely," replied Iskander ; " I heard the woman was a princess. If so, the people of Franguestan will pay any ransom for their great women ; and by giving up this fair Giaour, you xnav free many of the faithful." "Mashallah !" said another ancient Turk, sip- ping his coffee. " The hakim speaks wisely." "May I murder my mother!" exclaimed a young janissary, with great indignation. " But this is the very thing that makes me wild against Amu- rath. Is not this princess a daughter of that ac- cursed Giaour, that dog of dogs, Hunniades 1 and has he not offered for her ransom our brave Karam Bey himself, and his chosen warriors'? and has not Amurath said nay 1 And why has he said nay 1 Because his son, the Prince Mahomed, instead of fighting against the Giaours, has looked upon one of their women, and has become a mejnoun. Pah! May I murder my mother, — but if the Giaours were in full march to the city, I'd not fight. And let him tell this to the cadi who dares ; for there are ten thousand of us, and we have sworn by the kettle — but we will not fight for Giaours, or those who love Giaours !" " If you mean me, Ali, about going to the cadi," said the chief eunuch of Mahomed, who was stand- ing by, " let me tell you I am no tale-bearer, and ?corn to do an unmanly act. The young prince can beat the Giaours without the aid of those who are noisy enough in a coffee-house, when they are quiet enough in the field. And, for the rest of the business, you may all ease your hearts; for the frangy princess you talk of, is pining away, and will soon die. Tlie sultan has offered a hundred purses of gold to any one who cures her ; but the gold will never be counted by the hasnadar, or I will double it." " Try your fortune, hakim," said several laugh- ing loungers to Iskander. "Allah has stricken the frangy princess," said the old Turk with a white beard. " He will strike all Giaours," said his ancient companion, sipping his coffee. " 'Tis so written." " Well ! I do not like to hear of women-slaves pining to death," said the young janissary, in a softened tone, " particularly when they are young. Amurath should have ransomed her, or he might have given her to one of his officers, or any young fellow that had particularly distinguished himself." And so, twirhng his mustachios, and flinging down his piastre, the young janissary strutted out of the coffee-house. " When we were young," said the old Turk with the white beard to his companion, shaking his head, " when we were young — " "We conquered Anatolia, and never opened our mouths," rejoined his companion. " I never offered an opinion till I was sixty," said the old Turk ; " and then it was one which had been in our family for a century." " No wonder Hunniades carries every thing be- fore him," said his companion. "And thafaccursed Iskander," said the old man. The chief eunuch, finishing his vase of sherbet, moved away. The Armenian physician followed him. IX. The chief eunuch turned into a burial-ground, through which a way led, by an avenue of cypress- trees, to the quarter of the seraglio. The Armeniaii physician, accompanied by his page, followed him. " Noble sir !" said the Armenian physician ; " may I trespass for a moment on your lordship's attention V 540 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. " Worthy hakim, is it you ?" replied the chief eunuch, turning round with an encouraging smile of courteous condescension, — " your pleasure V " I would speak to you of important matters," said the physician. The eunuch carelessly seated himself on a richly-, carved tomb, and crossing his legs with an air of pleasant superiority, adjusted a fine emerald that sparkled on his finger, and bade the hakim address him without hesitation. " I am a physician," said the Armenian. The eunuch nodded. " And I heard your lordship in the coffee-house mention that the sultan, our sublime master, had offered a rich reward to any one who could effect the cure of a favourite captive." " No less a reward than one hundred purses of gold," remarked the eunuch. "The reward is proportioned to the exigency of the case. Beheve me, worthy sir, it is desperate." " With mortal means," replied the Armenian ; "but I possess a talisman of magical influence, which no disorder can resist. I would fain try its efficacy." " This is not the first talisman that has been of- fered us, worthy doctor," said the eunuch, smiling incredulously. " But the first that has been offered on these terms," said the Armenian. "Let me cure the captive, and of the one hundred purses, a moiety shall belong to yourself. Ay ! so confident am I of success, that I deem it no hazard to commence our contract by this surety." And so saying, the Armenian took from his finger a gorgeous carbun- cle, and offered it to the eunuch. The worthy de- pendant of the seraglio had a great taste in jewel- lery. He examined the stone with admiration, and placed it on his finger with complacency. "I require no inducements to promote the interests of science, and the purposes of charity," said , the eunuch, with a patronising air. " 'Tis assuredly a pretty stone, and, as the memorial of an inge- nious stranger, whom I respect, I shall, with plea- sure, retain it. You were saying something about a talisman. Are you serious 1 I doubt not that there are means which might obtain you the desired trial ; but the Prince Mahomed is as violent when displeased or disappointed as munificent when gra- tified. Cure this Christian captive, and we may certainly receive the promised purses ; fail, and your head will as assuredly be flung into the seraglio moat, to say nothing of my own." "Most noble sir!" said the physician; "I am willing to undertake the experiment on the terms you mentioned. Kest assured that the patient, if alive, must, with this remedy, speedily recover. You marvel ! Believe me, had you witnessed the cures which it has already effected, you would only wonder at its otherwise incredible influence." "You have the advantage," replied the eunuch, 'of addressing a man who has seen something of the world. I travel every year to Anatolia with the Prince Mahomed. Were I a narrow-minded bigot, who had never been five miles from Adrianople in the whole course of my life, I might indeed be skeptical. But I am a patron of science, and have heard of talismans. How much might this ring weigh, think you !" " I have heard it spoken of as a carbuncle of un- common size," replied the Armenian. " Where did you say you lodged, hakim ?" " At the khan of Bedreddin." " A very proper dwelling. Well, we shall see. Have you more jewels ] I might, perhaps, put you in the way of parting with some at good prices. The khan of Bedreddin is very conveniently si- tuated. I may, perhaps, towards evening, taste your coffee at the khan of Bedreddin, and we will talk of this said talisman. Allah be with you, worthy hakim !" The eunuch nodded, not without encouragement, and went his way. " Anxiety alone enabled me to keep my coun- tenance," said Nicseus. " A patron of science, forsooth ! Of all the insolent, shallow-brained, rapacious coxcombs " " Hush, my friend !" said Iskander, with a smile " The chief eunuch of the heir apparent of the Turkish empire is a far greater man than a poor prince, or a proscribed rebel. This worthy can do our business, and I trust will. He clearly bites, and a richer bait will, perhaps, secure him. In the mean time, we must be patient, and remember whose destiny is at stake." X. The chief eunuch did not keep the adventurous companions long in suspense ; for before the muez- zin had announced the close of day from the mina- rets, he had reached the khan of Bedreddin, and inquired for the Armenian physician. " We have no time to lose," said the eunuch to Iskander. " Bring with you whatever you may re- quire, and follow me." The eunuch led the way, Iskander and Nicaeus maintaining a respectful distance. After proceed- ing down several streets, they arrived at the burial- ground, where they had conversed in the morning ; and when they had entered this more retired spot, the eunuch fell back, and addressed his companion. "Now, worthy hakim," he said, " if you deceive me, I will never patronise a man of science again. I found an opportunity of speaking to the prince this afternoon of your talisman, and he has taken from my representations such a fancy for its im- mediate proof, that I found it quite impossible to postpone its trial even until to-morrow. I men- tioned the terms. I told the prince your life was the pledge. I said nothing of the moiety of the re- ward, worthy hakim. That is an affair between ourselves. I trust to your honour, and I always act thus with men of science." " I shall not disgrace my profession or your con- fidence, rest assured," replied Iskander. " And am I to see the captive to-nightl" " I doubt it not. Are you prepared 1 We might, perhaps, gain a little time, if very necessary." " By no means, sir ; truth is ever prepared." Thus conversing, they passed through the burial- ground, and approached some high, broad walls, forming a terrace, and planted with young syca more trees. The eunuch tapped, with his silver stick, at a small gate, which opened and admitted them into a garden, full of large clumps of massy shrubs. Through these a winding walk led foi some way, and then conducted them to an open lawn, on which was situated a vast and irregular building. As they approached the pile, a young man of very imperious aspect rushed forward from a gate, and abruptly accosted Iskander. "Are you the Armenian physician?" he in- quired. THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 541 Iskander bowed assent. " Have you got your talisman? You know the terms 1 Cure this Christian girl, and you shall name your own reward ; fail, and I shall claim your forfeited head." " The terms are well understood, mighty prince," said Iskander, for the young man was no less a per- sonage than the son of Amurath, and future con- queror of Constantinople; "but I am confident there will be no necessity for the terror of Christen- dom claiming any other heads than those of his enemies." " Kaflis will conduct you at once to your patient," said Mahomed. "For myself, I cannot rest until I know the result of your visit. I shall wander about these gardens, and destroy the flowers, which is the only pleasure now left me." Kaflis motioned to his companions to advance, and they entered the seraglio. At the end of a long gallery they came to a great portal, which Kaflis opened, and Iskander and Ni- caeus for a moment supposed that they had ar- rived at the chief hall of the tower of Babel, but they found the shrill din only proceeded from a large company of women, who were employed in distilling the rare atar of the jessamine flower. All their voices ceased on the entrance of the strangers, as if by a miracle ; but when they had examined them, and observed that it was only a physician and his boy, their awe, or their surprise, disappeared ; and they crowded round Iskander, some holding out their wrists, others lolling out their tongues, and some asking questions, which perplexed alike the skill and the modesty of the adventurous dealer in magical medicine. The annoyance, however, v.-as not of great duration, for Kaflis so belaboured their fair shoulders with his oflicial baton, that they instantly retreated with precipitation, uttering the most violent shrieks, and bestowing on the eunuch so many titles, that Iskander and his page were quite astounded at the intuitive knowledge which the imprisoned damsels possessed of that vocabulary of abuse, which is in general mastered only by the experience of active existence. Quitting this chamber, the eunuch and his com- panions ascended a lofty staircase. They halted, at length, before a door. " This is the chamber of the tower," said their guide, " and here we shall find the fair captive." He knocked, the door was opened by a female slave, and Iskander and Nicjeus, with an anxiety they could with difficulty conceal, were ushered into a small but sumptuous apart- ment. In the extremity was a recess covered with a light gauzy curtain. The eunuch bidding them keep in the background, advanced, and cautiously withdrawing the curtain slightly aside, addressed some words in a low voice t6 the inmate of the re- cess. In a few minutes the eunuch beckoned to Iskander to advance, and whispered to him : " She would not at first see you, but I have told her you are a Christian, the more the pity, and she con- sents." So saying, he withdrew the curtain, and exhibited a veiled female figure lying on a couch. " Noble lady," said the physician in Greek, which he had ascertained the eunuch did not comprehend ; "pardon the zeal of a Christian friend. Though habited in this garb, I have served under your illus- trious sire. I should deem my life well spent in serving the daughter of the great Hunniades." " Kind stranger," replied the captive, " I was ill- prepared for such a meeting. I thank you for your sympathy, but my sad fortunes are beyond human aid." " God works by humble instruments, noble lady," said Iskander, " and with his blessing we may yet prosper." " I fear that I must look to death as my only re- fuge," replied Iduna, "and still more, I fear that it is not so present a refuge as my oppressors them- selves imagine. But you are a physician ; tell me then how speedily nature will make me free." She held forth her hand, which Iskander took and involuntarily pressed. "Noble lady," he said, " my skill is mere pretence to enter these walls. The only talisman I bear with me is a message from your friends." " Indeed !" said Iduna, in a very agitated tone. " Restrain yourself, noble lady," said Iskander, interposing, "restrain j^ourself. Were you any other but the daughter of Hunniades, I would not have ventured upon this perilous exploit. But I know that the Lady Iduna has inherited something more than the name of her great ancestors — their heroic soul. If ever there were a moment in her life in which it behoved her to exert all her energies, that moment has arrived. The physician who ad- dresses her, and his attendant who waits at hand, are two of the Lady Iduna's most devoted friends. There is nothing that they will not hazard to effect her delivery ; and they have matured a plan of es- cape which they are sanguine must succeed. Yet its completion will require, on her part, great anx- iety of mind, greater exertion of body, danger, fatigue, privation. Is the Lady Iduna prepared for all this endurance, and all this hazard]" "Noble friend," replied Iduna, "for I cannc* deem you a stranger, and none but a most chivalric knight could have entered upon this almost forlorn adventure ; you have not, I trust, miscalculated my character. I am a slave, and unless Heaven will interpose, must soon be a dishonoured one. My freedom and my fame are alike at stake. There is no danger, and no suffering which I will not gladly welcome, provided there be even a remote chance of regaining my liberty and securing my honour." "You are in the mind I counted on. Now, mark my words, dear lady. Seize an opportunity this evening of expressing to your jailers that you have already experienced some benefit from my visit, and announce your rising confidence in my skill. In the mean time I will make such a report that our daily meetings will not be difficult. For the present, farewell. The Prince Mahomed waits without, and I would exchange some words with him before I go." " And must we part without my being acquainted with the generous friends to whom I am indebted for an act of devotion which almost reconciles me to my sad fate 1" said Iduna. "You will not, per- haps, deem the implicit trust reposed in you by one whom you have no interest to deceive, and who, if deceived, cannot be placed in a worse position than she at present fills, as a very gratifying mark of confidence, yet that trust is reposed in you , and let me at least soothe the galling dreariness of my solitary hours, by the recollection of the friends to whom I am indebted for a deed of friendship which has filled me with a feeling of wonder from which I have not yet recovered." " The person who has penetrated the seraglio of Constantinople in disguise, to rescue the Lady Iduna," answered Iskander, "is the Prince Nicceus. ' " NicjBus !" exclaimed Iduna, ia an agitated tone 2 643 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. "The voice to which I listen is surely not that of the Prince Nicseus; nor the form on which I gaze," she added, as she unveiled. Beside her stood the tall figure of the Armenian physician. She beheld his swarthy and unrecognised countenance. She cast her dark eyes around with an air of beautiful perplexity. " I am a friend of the Prince Nicseus," said the physician. " He is here. Shall he advance 1 Alexis," called out Iskander, not waiting for her reply. The page of the physician came forward, but the eunuch accompanied him. "All is right," said Iskander to Kafiis. " We are sure of our hundred purses. But, without doubt, with any other aid, the case were desperate." " There is but one God," said the eunuch, polish- ing his carbuncle, with a visage radiant as the gem. " I never repented patronising men of science. The prince waits without. Come along." He took Iskander by the arm. " Where is your boy 1 What are you doing there, sir?" inquired the eunuch, sharply, of Nicaeus, who was tarrying behind and kissing the hand of Iduna. " I was asking the lady for a favour to go to the coffee-house with," replied Nicsus, with pouting lips; "you forget that I am to have none of the hundred purses." " True," said the eunuch ; " there is something in that. Here, boy, here is a piastre for you. I like to encourage men of science, and all that belong to them. Do not go and spend it ail in one morn- ing, boy, and when the fair captive is cured, if you remind me, boy, perhaps I may give you another." XI. Kaflis and his charge again reached the garden. The twilight was nearly past. A horseman gal- loped up to them, followed by several running 'botmen. It was the prince. " Well, hakim," he inquired, in his usual abrupt style, "can you cure her1" "Yes," answered Iskander, firmly. "Now listen, hakim," said Mahomed. "I must very shortly leave the city, and proceed into Epirus at the head of our troops. I have sworn two things, and I have sworn them by the holy stone. Ere the new moon, I will have the heart of Iduna and the head of Iskander !" The physician bowed. "If you can so restore the health of this frangy girl," continued Mahomed, " that she nigy attend me within ten days into Epirus, you shall claim from my treasury what sum you like, and become physician to the seraglio. What say you ?" " My hope and my belief is," replied Iskander, " that within ten days she may breathe the air of Epirus." " By my father's beard, you are a man after my own heart," exclaimed the prince; "and since thou lealcst in talismans, hakim, qan you give me a charm that will secure me a meeting with this Epirot rebel within the term, so that I may keep my oath. What say you T — what say you?" " There are such spells," replied Iskander. "But mark, I can only secure the meeting, not the head." " That is my part," said Mahomed, with an ar- rogant sneer. " But the meeting, the meeting ?" " You know the fountain of Kallista in Epirus. Its virtues are renowned." "I have heard of it." " Plunge your cimeter in its midnight watCrr thrice, on the eve of the new moon, and each tim« summon the enemy you would desire to meet. He will not fail you." " If you cure the captive, I will credit the legend, and keep the appointment," replied Mahomed, thoughtfully. " I have engaged to do that," replied the phy- sician. " Well, then, I shall redeem my pledge," said the prince. " But mind," said the physician, " while I engage to cure the lady, and produce the warrior, I can secure your highness neither the heart of the one nor the head of the other." " 'Tis understood," said Mahomed. XII. The Armenian physician did not fail to attend his captive patient at an early hour on the ensuing morn. His patron Kaflis received him with an encouraging smile. "The talisman already wctfks," said the eunuch: " she has passed a good night, and confesses to an improvement. Our purses are safe. Methinks I already count the gold. But I say, worthy hakim, come hither, come hither," and Kaflis looked around to be sure that no one was within hearing. " I say," and here he put on a very mysterious air indeed, "the prince is gene- rous : you understand ? We go shares. We shall not quarrel. I never yet repented patronising a man of science, and I am sure I never shall. The prince you see is violent, but generous. I would not cure her too soon, eh V " You take a most discreet view of aflairs," re- sponded Iskander, with an air of complete assent, and they entered the chamber of the tower. Iduna performed her part with great dexterity ; but indeed it required less skill than herself and her advisers had at first imagined. Her malady, although it might have ended fatally, was, in its origin, entirely mental, and the sudden prospect of freedom, and of restoration to her country and her family, at a moment when she had delivered herself up to despair, afforded her a great and instantaneous benefit. She could not indeed sufiicienlly restrain her spirits, and smiled incredu- lously when Iskander mentioned the impending exertion and fatigues, with doubt and apprehension. His anxiety to return immediately to Epirus, de- termined him to adopt the measures for her rescue without loss of time, and on his third visit, he prepared her for making the great atten)pt on the ensuing morn. Hitherto Iskander had refrained from revealing himself to Iduna. He was induced to adopt this conduct by various considerations. He could no longer conceal from himself that the daughter of Hunniades exercised an influence over his feelings which he was unwilling to encourage. His sincere friendship for Nicmus, and his convic- tion that it was his present duty to concentrate all his thought and afleition in the cause of his coun- try, would have rendered him anxious to have resisted any emotions of the kind, even could he have flattered himself that there was any chance of their being returned by the object of his rising passion. But Iskander was as modest as he was brave and gifted. The disparity of age between himself and Iduna appeared an insuperable barrel to his hopes, even had there been no other obstacle THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 543 Iskander struggled with his love, and with his strong mind the struggle, though painful, was not without success. He felt that he was acting in a manner which must uUimately tend to the advan- tage of his country, the happiness of his friend, and perhaps the maintenance of liis own self-respect ; for he had too much pride not to be very sensible to the bitterness of rejection. Had he perceived more indications of a very cordial feeling subsisting between Nicseus and Iduna, he would, perhaps, not have persisted in maintaining his disguise. But he had long sus- pected that the passion of the Prince of Athens was not too favourably considered by the daughter of Kunniades, and he was therefore exceedingly anx- ious that Nicaius should possess all the credit of the present adventure, which Iskander scarcely doubted, if successful, would allow Nicceus to urge irresisti- ble claims to the heart of a mistress whom he had rescued, at the peril of his life, from slavery and dishonour, to offer rank, reputation, and love. Is- kander' took, therefore, several opportunities of lead- ing Iduna to believe that he was merely a confi- dential agent of Nicssus, and that the whole plan of her rescue from the seraglio of Adrianople had been planned by his young friend. In the mean time, during the three days on which they had for short intervals met, very few words had been inter- changed between Nicajus and his mistress. Those words, indeed, had been to him of the most inspir- ing nature, and expressed such a deep sense of gratitude, and such lively regard, that Nicaeus could no longer resist the delightful conviction that he had at length created a permanent interest in her heart. Often he longed to rush to her couch, and jpress her hand to his lips. Even the anticipation tf future happiness could not prevent him from envying the good fortune of Iskander, who was allowed to converse with her without restraint; and bitterly, on their return to the khan, did he execrate the pompous eunuch for all the torture which he occasioned him by his silly conversation, and the petty tyranny of office with which Kaflis always repressed his attempts to converse for a moment with Iduna. In the mean time all Adrianople sounded with the preparations for the immediate invasion of Epirus, and the return of Iskander to his country became each hour more urgent. Every thing being prepared, the adventurers determined on the fourth morning to attempt the rescue. They repaired as usual to the serail, and were attended by Kaflis to the chamber of the tower, who congratulated Is- kander on their way on the rapid convalescence of the captive. When they had fairly entered the chamber, the physician being somewhat in advance, Nicceus, who was behind, commenced proceedings by knocking down the eunuch, and Iskander instantly turning round to his assistance, they suc- ceeded in gagging and binding the alarmed and astonished Kaflis. Iduna then habited herself in a costume exactly similar to that worn by Nicaius, and which her friends had brought to her in their bag. Iskander and Iduna then immediately quitted the serail without notice or suspicion, and hurried to the khan, where they mounted their horses, that were in readiness, and hastened without a moment's loss of time to a fountain without the gates, where they awaited the arrival of Nicaeus with anxiety. After remaining a few minutes in the chamber of the tower, the Prince of Athens stole out, taking care to secure the door upon Kaflis. He descended the staircase, and escaped through the serail with- out meeting any one, and had nearly reached the gate of the gardens, when he was challenged by some of the eunuch guard at a little distance. " Hilloa !" exclaimed one, " I thought you passed just now1" " So I did," replied Nicaeus, with nervous effron- tery ; " but I came back for my bag, which I left behind," and giving them no time to reflect, he pushed his way through the gate with all the im- pudence of a page. He rushed through the burial ground, hurried through the streets, mounted his horse, and galloped through the gates. Iskander and Iduna were in sight, he waved his hand for them at once to proceed, and in a moment, without exchanging a word, they were all galloping at full speed, nor did they breathe their horses until sunset. By nightfall they had reached a small wood of chestnut trees, where they rested for two hours, more for the sake of their steeds than their own refreshment, for anxiety prevented Iduna from in- dulging in any repose, as much as excitement pre- vented her from feeling any fatigue. Iskander lit a fire and prepared their rough meal, unharnessed the horses, and turned them out to their pasture. Nicaeus made Iduna a couch of fern, and sup- ported her head, while, in deference to his entreaties, she endeavoured in vain to sleep. Before midnight they were again on their way, and proceeded at a rapid pace towards the mountains, until a few hours before noon, when their horses began to sink under the united influence of their previous exer- tions and the increasing heat of the day. Iskander looked serious, and often threw a backward glance in the direction of Adrianople. " We must be beyond pursuit," said Nicseus. " I dare say poor Kaflis is still gagged and bound." " Could wc but once reach the mountains," re- plied his companion, " I should have little fear, but I counted upon our steeds carrying us there with- out faltering. We cannot reckon upon more than three hours' start, prince. Our friend Kaflis is too important a personage to be long missed." " The holy Virgin befriend us !" said the Lady Iduna. "I can urge my poor horse no more." They had now ascended a small rising ground which gave them a wide prospect over the plain. Iskander halted, and threw an anxious glance around him. " There are some horsemen in the distance whom I do not like," said the physician. "I see them," said Nicaeus; " travellers like our- selves." " Let us die sooner than be taken," said Iduna. "Move on," said the physician, "and let me observe these horsemen alone. I would there were some forest at hand. In two hours we may gain the mountains." The daughter of Hunniades and the Prince of Athens descended the rising ground. Before them, but at a considerable distance, was a broad and rapid river, crossed by a ruinous Roman bridge. The opposite bank of the river was the termination of a narrow plain, which led immediately to the mountains. " Fair Iduna, you are safe," said the Prince of Athens. " Dear Nieasus," replied his companion, " ima gine what I feel. It is too wild a moment to ex- press my gratitude." 544 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. "I trust that Iduna wil! never express her grati- tude tc Nicaus," answered the prhice ; " it is. not, I assure you, a favourite word with him." Their companion rejoined them, urging his wea- ried horse to its utmost speed. " Nicoeus !" he called out, " halt !" They stopped their willing horses. " How now !" my I'.iend," said the prince ; "you look grave !" " Lady Iduna !" said the Armenian, " we are pursued." Hitherto the prospect of success, and the con- sciousness of the terrible destiny that awaited fail- ure, had supported Iduna under exertions which, under any other circumstances, must have proved fatal. But to learn, at the very moment that she was congratulating herself on the felicitous co!n- plelion of their daring enterprise, that that dreaded failure was absolutely impending, demanded too great an exertion of her exhausted energies. She turned pale ; she lifted up her imploring hands and eyes to heaven in speechless agony, and then bend- ing down her head, wept with unrestrained and harrowing violence. The distracted Nica3us sprung from his horse, endeavoured to console the almost insensible Iduna, and then wofully glancing at his fellow-adventurer, wrung his hands in despair. His fellow-adventurer seemed lost in thought. "They come," said Nicajus, starting; " methinks I see one on the brow of the hill. Away ! fly ! Let us at least die fighting. Dear, dear Iduna, would that my life could ransom thine. God ! this is indeed agony." "Escape is impossible," said Iduna, in a tone of calmness which astonished them. " They must overtake us. Alas! brave friends, I have brought ye to this! Pardon me! pardon me! I am ashamed of my selfish grief. Ascribe it to other causes than a narrow spirit and a weak mind. One course is alone left to us. We must not be taken prisoners. Ye are warriors, and can die as such. I am only a woman, but I am the daughter of Hun- niades. Nicasus, you are my father's friend ; I be- seech you, sheathe your dagger in my breast." The prince in silent agony pressed his hands to his sight. His limbs quivered v^ith terrible emo- tion. Suddenly he advanced and threw himself at the feet of his hitherto silent comrade. " ! Iskander !" exclaimed Nicrcus, "great and glorious friend ! my head and heart are both too weak for these awful trials — save her, save her !" " Iskander !" exclaimed the thunderstruck Iduna. " Iskander !" " I have, indeed, the misfortune to be Iskander, beloved lady," he replied. " This is, indeed, a case almost of desperation, but if I have to endure more than most men, I have, to inspire me, influences which fall to the lot of few — yourself and Epirus. Come ! Nicffius, there is but one chance — we must gain the bridge." Thus speaking, Iskander caught duna in his arms, and remounting his steed, and followed by the Prince of Athens, hurried towards the river. "The water is not fordable," said Iskander, when they had arrived at its bank. " The bridge I shall defend ; and it will go hard if I do not keep thern at bay long enough for you and Iduna to gain the mountains. Away ; think no more of me ; nay ! no tear, dear lady, or you will unman me. An in- spiring smile, and all will go well. Hasten to Croia, and let nothing tempt you to linger in the vicinity, with the hope of my again joining yea, Believe me, we shall meet again, but act upon what I say, as if they were my dying words. God bless you, Nicffius! No murmuring. For once let the physician, indeed, command his page. Gentle lady, commend me to your father. Would I had such a daughter in Epirus, to head my trusty brethren if I fall ! Tell the great Hunniades, my legacy to him is my country. Farewell, farewell !" " I will not say farewell," exclaimed Iduna, " I too can fight. I will stay and die with you." " See, they come ! Believe me, I shall conquer Fly, fly, thou noble girl ! Guard her well, Nicaeus. God bless thee, boy ! Live and be happy. Nay, nay, not another word. The farther ye are both distant, trust me, the stronger will be my arm. In- deed, indeed, I do beseech ye, fly !" NicfBus placed the weeping Iduna in her saddle, and after leading her horse ov^?"- the narrow and broken bridge, mounted his own, and then they ascended together the hilly and winding track. Is- kander watched them as they went. Ofterk Iduna waved her kerchief to her forlorn champion. In the mean time Iskander tore olT his Armenian robes and flung them into the river, tried his footing on the position he had taken up, stretched his limbs, examined his daggers, flourished his cime- ter. The bridge would only permit a single rider to pass abreast. It was supported by three arches, the centre one of very considerable size, the others small, and rising out of the shallow water on each side. In many parts the parapet wall was broken, in some even the pathway was almost impassable, from the masses of fallen stone and the dangerous fissures. In the centre of the middle arch was an immense key-stone, on which was sculptured, in high relief, an enormous helmet, which indeed gave among the people of the country, a title to the bridge. A band of horsemen dashed at full speed, with a loud shout, down the hill. They checked their horses, when to their astonishment they found Is- kander with his drawn cimeter, prepared to resist their passage. But they paused only for a mo- ment, and immediately attempted to swim the river. But their exhausted horses drew back with a strong instinct from the rushing waters : one of the band alone, mounted on a magnificent black mare, succeeding in his purpose. The rider was halfway in the stream, his high-bred steed snorting and struggling in the strong current. Iskander, with the same ease as if he were plucking the ripe fruit from a tree, took up a ponderous stone, and hurled it with fatal precision at his adventurous enemy. The rider shrieked and fell, and rose no more: the mare, relieved from her burden, exerted all her failing energies, and succeeded in gaining the opposite bank. There, rolling herself in the welcome pasture, and neighing with a note of tri- umph, she revelled in her hard escape. " Cut down the Giaour !" exclaimed one of the horsemen, and he dashed at the bridge. His fragile blade shivered into a thousand pieces as it crossed the cimeter of Iskander, and in a moment his bleeding head fell over the parapet. Instantly the whole band, each emulous of re- venging his comrades, rushed without thought at Iskander, and endeavoured to overpower him by their irresistible charge. His cimeter flashed like lightning. The two foremost of his enemies fell. THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 545 cut the impulse of the numbers prevailed, and each instant, although dealing destruction with every blow, he felt himself losing ground. At length he was on the centre of the centre arch, an eminent position, which allowed him for a moment to keep them at bay, and gave him breathing-time. Sud- denly he made a desperate charge, clove the head of the leader of the band in two, and beat them back several yards; then swiftly returning to his former position, he summoned all his supernatural strength, and stamping on the mighty, but moul- dering key-stone, he forced it from its form, and broke the masonry of a thousand years. Amid a loud and awful shriek, horses and horsemen, and the dissolving fragments of the scene for a moment mingled, as it were, in airy chaos, and then plunged with a horrible plash into the fatal depths below. Some fell, and, stunned by the massy fragments, rose no more; others struggled again into light, and gained with difficulty their old shore. Amid them, Iskander, unhurt, swam like a river-god, and stabbed to the heart the ordy strong swimmer that was making his way in the direction of Epirus. Drenched and exhausted, Iskander at length stood upon the opposite margin, and wrang his garments, while he watched the scene of strange destruction. Three or four exhausted wretches were lying bruised and breathless on the opposite bank : one drowned horse was stranded near them, caught by the rushes. Of all that brave company the rest had vanished, and the broad, and blue, and sunny waters rushed without a shadow beneath the two remaining arches. " Iduna ! thou art safe," exclaimed Iskander. "Now for Epirus!" So saying, he seized the black mare, renovated by her bath and pasture, and vaulting on her back, was in a few minutes bound- ing over his native hills. xin. In the mean time let us not forget the Prince of Athens and the Lady Iduna. These adventurous companions soon lost sight of their devoted cham- pion, and entered a winding ravine, which gradu- ally brought them to the summit of the first chain of the Epirot mountains. From it they looked down upon a vast and rocky valley, through which several mule tracks led in various directions, and entered the highest barrier of the mountains which rose before them, covered with forests of chestnut and ilex. Nicfeus chose the track which he considered least tempting to pursuit, and towards sunset they had again entered a ravine washed by a mountain stream. The course of the waters had made the earth fertile and beautiful. Wild shrubs of gay and pleasant colours refreshed their wearied eye- sight, and the perfumes of aromatic plants invigo- rated their jaded senses. Upon the bank, too, of the river, a large cross of roughly carved wood brought comfort tdr their Christian hearts, and while the holy emblem filled them with hope and consolation, and seemed an omen of refuge from iheir Moslemin oppressors, a venerable eremite, with a long white beard descending over his dark robes, and leaning on a staff of thorn,* came forth from an adjoining cavern to breathe the evening air and pour forth his evening orisons. Iduna and Nicseus had hitherto prosecuted their sorrowful journey almost in silence. Exhausted with anxiety, affliction, and bodily fatigue, with 69 difficulty the daughter of Hunniades could preserve her seat upon her steed. One thought alone in- terested her, and, by its engrossing influence, main- tained her under all sufferings — the memory of Iskander. Since she first met him, at the extraor- ''inary interview in her father's pavilion, often had the image of the hero recurred to her fancy, often had she mused over his great qualities and strange career. His fame, so dangerous to female hearts. w&s not diminished by his presence. And now, when Iduna recollected that she was indebted to him for all that she held dear, that she owed to his disinterested devotion, not only life, but all that rentiers life desirable, — honour and freedom, country and kindred, — that image was invested with asso ciations and with sentiments, which, had Iskander himself been conscious of their existence, would have lent redoubled vigour to his arm, and fresh in- spiration to his energy. More than once Iduna had been on the point of inquiring of Nicsus the reason which had induced alike him and Iskander to preserve so strictly the disguise of his companion. But a feeling which she did not choose to analyze, struggled successfully with her curiosity : she felt a reluctance to speak of Iskander to the Prince of Athens. In the mean time, Nicteus himself was not apparently very anxious of conversing upon the subject, and after the first rapid expressions of fear and hope as to the situation of their late com- rade, they relapsed into silence, seldom broken by Nicaeus, but to deplore the sufferings of his mis- tress, — lamentations which Iduna answered with a faint smile. The refreshing scene wherein they had now en- tered, and the cheering appearance of the eremite were subjects of mutual congratulation, and Nicoeus, somewhat advancing, claimed the attention of the holy man, announcing their faith, imprisonment, escape, and sufferings, and entreating hospitality and refuge. The eremite pointed with his staff to the winding path, which ascended the bank of the river to the cavern, and welcomed the pilgrims in the name of their blessed Saviour to his wild abode and simple fare. The cavern widened when they entered, and comprised several small apartments. It was a work of the early Christians, who had f)und a refuge in their days of persecution, and art had completed the beneficent design of nature. The cavern was fresh, and sweet, and clean. Heaven smiled upon its pious inmate through an aperture in the roof; the floor was covered with rushes; in one niche rested a brazen cross, and in another a perpetual lamp burned before a picture, where Madonna smiled with meek tenderness upon her young di- vinity. The eremite placed upon a block of wood, the surface of which he had himself smoothed, some honey, some dried fish, and a wooden bowl filled with the pure stream that flowed beneath them : a simple meal but welcome. His guests seated themselves upon a rushy couch, and while they refreshed themselves, he gently inquired the history of their adventures. As it was evident that the eremite, from her apparel, mistook the sex of Iduna, Nicseus thought fit not to undeceive him, but passed her off as his brother. He described themselves as two Athenian youths, who had been captured while serving as volunteers under the great Hun- niades, and who had effected their escape from Adrianople under circumstances of great peril and 2z2 546 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. difficulty; and when he had gratified the eremite's curiosity respecting their Christian brethren in Paynim lands, and sympathetically marvelled with him at the advancing fortunes of the crescent, NictEus, who perceived that Iduna stood in great need of rest, mentioned the fatigues of his more fragile brother, and requested permission for him to retire. Whereupon the eremite himself, fetching 3 load of fresh rushes, arranged them in one of the cells, and invited the fair Iduna to repose. The daughter of Hunniades, first humbling herself be- fore the altar of the Virgin, and offering her grati- tude for all the late mercies vouchsafed unto her, and then bidding a word of peace to her host and her companion, withdrew to her hard-earned couch, and soon was buried in a sleep as sweet and inno- cent as herself. But repose fell not upon the eyelids of NicKus in spite of all his labours. The heart of the Athe- nian prince was distracted by the two most powerful of passions — love and jealousy — and when the eremite, pointing out to his guest his allotted rest- ing-place, himself retired to his regular and simple slumbers, Nicajus quitted the cavern, and standing upon the bank of the river, gazed in abstraction upon the rushing waters foaming in the moonlight. The Prince of Athens, with many admirable quali- ties, was one of those men who are influenced only by their passions, and who, in the affairs of life, are invariably guided by their imagination instead of their reason. At present all thought and feeling, all considerations, and all circumstances, merged in the overpowering love he entertained for Iduna, his determination to obtain her at all cost and peril, and his resolution that she should never again meet Iskander, except as the wife of Nicsus. Com- pared with this paramount object, the future seemed to vanish. The emancipation of his country, the welfare of his friend, even the maintenance of his holy creed, all those great and noble objects for which, under other circumstances, he would have been prepared to sacrifice his fortune and his life, no longer interested or influenced him; and while the legions of the crescent were on the point of pouring into Greece to crush that patriotic and Christian cause over which Iskander and himself had so often mused, whose interests the disinterested absence of Iskander, occasioned solely by his devo- tion to Nicajus, had certainly endangered, and, perhaps, could the events of the last few hours be known, even sacrificed, the Prince of Athens re- solved, unless Iduna would consent to become his, at once to carry off" the daughter of Hunniades to some distant country. Nor, indeed, even with his easily excited vanity, was Nicaus sanguine of ob- taining his purpose by less violent means. He was already a rejected suitor, and under circumstances which scarcely had left hope. Nothing but the sole credit of her chivalric rescue could perhaps have obtained for him the interest in the heart of Iduna which he coveted. For while this exploit proftcred an irresistible claim to her deepest grati- tude, it indicated also, on the part of her deliverer, the presence and possession of all those great qtialitics, the absence of which in the character and conduct of her suitor, Iduna had not, at a former period, endeavoured to conceal to be the principal cause of his rejection. And now, by the unhappy course of circumstances, the very deed on which he CDuntcd, with sanguine hope, as the sure means of Lis success, seemed as it were to have placed him in a still inferior situation than before. The con stant society of his mistress had fanned the flame which, apart from her and hopeless, he had endea- voured to repress, to all its former force and ardour; while, on the other hand, he could not concea. from himself, that Iduna must feel that he had played in these great proceedings but a secondary part; that all the genius and all the generosity of the exploit rested with Iskander, who, after having obtained her freedom by so much energy, peril, sagacity, and skill, had secured it by a devoted courage which might shame all the knights of Christendom, perhaps, too, had secured it by his own life. What if Iskander were no morel It was a great contingency. The eternal servitude of Greece, and the shameful triumph of the crescent, were involved, perhaps, in that single event. And could the pos- session of Iduna compensate for such disgrace and infamy 1 Let us not record the wild i espouse of passion. It was midnight ere the restless NicaBUs, more exhausted by his agitating revery, than by his pre- vious exertions, returned into the cavern, and found refuge in sleep from all his disquietudes. XIV. The eremite rose with the sun : and while he was yet at matins, was joined by Iduna, refreshed and cheerful after her unusual slumbers. After per- forming their devotions, her venerable host pro- posed that they should go forth and enjoy the morning air. So, descending the precipitous bank of the river, he led the way to a small glen, the bed of a tributary rivulet, now nearly exhausted. Beau- tiful clumps of birch trees, and tall thin poplars, rose on each side among the rocks, which were covered with bright mosses, and parasitical plants of gay and various colours. One side of the glen was touched with the golden and grateful beams of the rising sun, and the other was in deep shadow. " Here you can enjoy nature and freedom in se- curity," said the eremite; " for your enemies, if they have-not already given up their pursuit, will scarcely search this sweet solitude." " It is indeed sweet, holy father," said Iduna " but the captive, who has escaped from captivity, can alone feel all its sweetness." " It is true," said the eremite ; "I also have been a captive." "Indeed ! holy father. To the infidels'?" " To the infidels, gentle pilgrim." "Have you been at Adrianople?" " My oppressors were not the Paynim," replied the eremite, " but they were enemies far more dire — my own evil passions. Time was when my eye sparkled like thine, gentle pilgrim, and my heart was not as pure." " God is merciful," said Iduna, " and without his aid, the strongest are but shadows." " Ever think so," replied the eremite, " and you will deserve rather his love than his mercy. Thirty long years have I spent in this solitude, meditating upon the past, and it is a theme yet fertile in in- struction. My hours are never heavy, and memory is to me what action is to other men." "You have seen much, holy father?" " And felt more. Yet you will perhaps think the result of all my experience very slight, for I can only say unto thee, Trust not in thyself." THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 547 " It is a great truth," rcmaikcd Iduna, " and leads to a higher one." "Even so," replied the eremite. "We are full of wisdom in old age, as in winter this river is full of water, but the fire of youth, like the summer sun, dries up the stream." Iduna did not reply. The eremite attracted her attention to a patch of cresses on the opposite bank of the strctkn. " Every morn I rise only to discover fresh instances of omnipotent benevolence," he ex- claimed. " Yesterday ye tasted my honey and my lish. To-day I can otier ye a fresh dainty. \\c will break our fast in this pleasant glen. Rest thou here, gentle youth, and I will summon thy brotlier to our meal. I fear me much he does not bear so content- ed a spirit as thyself." " He is older, and has seen more," replied Idur^fi The eremite shook his head, and leaning on ''Is staff, returned to the cavern. Iduna remained, #'4t- ed on a mossy rock, listening to the awaking I i!l*ds, and musing over the fate of Iskander. While she was indulging in this revery, her name was called. She looked up with a blush, and beheld Nica-us. "How fares my gentle comrade?" inquired the Prince of Athens. " As well as I hope you are, dear Nicaus. We have been indeed fortunate in finding so kind a host." "I think I may now congratulate you on your safety," said the prince. "This unfrequented pass will lead us in two days to Epirus, nor do I indeed now fear pursuit." " Acts and not words must express in future how much we owe to you," said Iduna. " My joy would be complete if my father only knew of our safety, and if our late companion were here to share it." "Fear not for my friend," replied Nica;us. "I have faith in the fortune of Iskander." "If any one could succeed under such circum- stances, he doubtless is the man," rejoined Iduna ; " but it was indeed an awful crisis in his fate." " Trust me, dear lady, it is wise to banish gloomy thoughts." " We can give him only our thoughts,", said Iduna, " and when we remember how much is de- pendent on his life, can they be cheerful V " Mine must be so, when I am in the presence of Iduna," replied IVicaius. The daughter of Hunniades gathered moss from the rock and tlirew it into the stream. " Dear lady," said the Prince of Athens, seating himself by her side, and stealing her gentle hand. "Pardon me if an irrepressible feeling at this mo- ment impels me torecur to a subject, which, I would fain hope, were not so unpleasing to you, as once so unhappily you deemed it. 0! Iduna, Iduna, best and dearest, we are once more together ; once more I gaze upon that unrivalled form, and listen to the music of that matchless voice. I sought you, I per- haps violated my pledge, but I sought you in captivity and sorrow. Pardon me, pity me, Iduna! O ! Iduna, if possiltle, love me!" She turned away her head, she turned away her streaming eyes. " It is impossible not to love my deliverer," she replied, in a low and tremulous voire, " even could he not prefer the many other claims to atVection which are possessed by the Prince of Athens. I was not prepared for this re- newal of a most painful subject, perhai)s under no circumstances ; but least of all under those in which we now find ourselves. " Alas !" exclaimed the prince ; " I can no longer control my passion. My life, not my happiness merely, depends upon Iduna becoming mine. Bear with me, my beloved, bear with me ! Were you Nica;us, you too would need forgiveness." "I beseech you, cease!" exclaimed Iduna, in a firmer voice; and withdrawing her hand, she sud- denly rose. "This is neither the time nor jjlace for such conversation. I have not forgotten that, but a few days back, I was a hopeless captive, and that my life and fame are even now in danger. Great mercies have been vouchsafed to me; but still I perhaps need the hourly interposition of heavenly aid. Other than such worldly thoughts should fill my mind, and do. Dear iN'ica?us," she continued, in a more soothing tone, "you have nobly commenced a most heroic enterprise ; fulfil it in like spirit." He would have replied ; but at this moment, the staff of the eremite sounded among the rocks. Baffled, and dark with rage and passion, the Prince of Athens quitted Iduna, and strolled towards the upper part of the glen, to conceal his anger and dis- appointment. " Eat, gentle youth," said the eremite. " Will not thy brother join us ? What may be his name 1" "Nicffius, holy father." " And thine?" Iduna blushed and hesitated. At length, in her confusion, she replied " Iskander." " Nica;us !" called out the eremite, " Iskander and myself await thee !" Iduna trembled. She was agreeably surprised when the prince returned with a smiling counte- nance, and joined in the meal, with many cheerful words. " Now, I propose," said the eremite, " that your- self and your brother Iskander should tarry with me some days, if, indeed, my simple fare have any temptation." " I thank thee, holy father," replied Nicseus, " but our affairs are urgent ; nor indeed could I have tar- ried here at all, had it not been for my young Is- kander here, who, as you may easily helieve, is little accustomed to his late exertions. But, indeed, towards sunset, we must proceed." " Bearing with us," added Iduna, " a most grate- ful recollection of our host." "God be with ye, wherever ye may proceed," re- plied the eremite. "My trust is indeed in him," rejoined Iduna. XV. And so, two hours before sunset, mounting their refreshed horses, Nicteus and Iduna quitted, with many kind words, the cavern of the eremite, and took their v/ay along the winding of the river. Throughout the moonlit night they travelled, as- cending the last and highest chain of mountains, and reaching the summit by dawn. The cheerful light of morning revealed to them the ha[)py plains of a Christian country. With joyful spirits they descended into fertile land, and stopped at a beauti- ful Greek village, embowered in orchards and groves of olive trees. The Prince of Athens instantly inquired for the primate, or chief personage of the village, and wa:« conducted to his house ; but its master, he was in formed, was without, supervising the commence- 548 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. ment of the vintage. Leaving Iduna with the fa- mily of the primate, Nicseiis went in search of him. The vineyard was full of groups, busied in the most elegant and joyous of human occupations, gathering, with infinite bursts of merriment, the harvest of the vine. Some mounted on ladders, fixed against the festooning branches, plucked the rich bunches,- and threw them below, where girls, singing in chorus, caught them in panniers, or their extended drapery. In the centre of the vineyard, a middle-aged man watched with a calm, but vigi- lant eye, the whole proceedings, and occasionally stimulated the indolent, or prompted the inexpe- rienced. "Christo!" said the Prince of Athens, when he had approached him. The primate turned round, but evidently did not immediately recognise the person who addressed him. " I see," continued t'he prince, " that my medi- tated caution was unnecessary. My strange garb is a sufficient disguise." "The Prince IS'icagus!" exclaimed the primate. " He is, indeed, disguised, but will, I am sure, par- don his faithful servant." "Not a word, Christo!" replied the prince. "To be brief. I have crossed the mountains from Rou- melia, and have only within this hour recognised the spot whither I have chanced to arrive. I have a companion with me. I would not be known. You comprehend ? Affairs of state. I take it for granted that there are none here who will recognise me, after three years' absence, in this dress." "You may feel secure, my lord," replied Christo. " If you puzzled mc, who have known you since you were no bigger than this bunch of grapes, you will quite confound the rest." " 'Tis well. I shall stay here a day or two, in order to give them an opportunity to prepare for my reception. In the mean time, it is necessary to send on a courier at once. You must manage all this for me, Christo. How are your daughters!" " So, so, please your highness," replied Christo. " A man with seven daughters has got trouble for every d^.ty in the week." "I3ut not when they are as pretty as yours are?" " Poh! poh ! Handsome is that handsome does; and as for Alexina, she wants to be married." "Very natural. Let her marry, by all means." " But Helena wants to do the same." "More natural still; for, if possible, she is pret- tier. For my part, I could marry them both." " Ay, ay ! that is all very well ; but handsome is that handsome does. I have no objection to Alexina marrying, and even Helena; but then there is Lais ." " Hah ! hah ! hah !" exclaimed the prince. " I see, my dear Christo, that my foster sisters give you a proper portion of trouble. However, I must be off to my travelling companion. Come in as soon as you can, my dear fellow, and we will settle every thing. A good vintage to you, and only as much mischief as is necessary." So saying, the jjrince tripped away. " Well ! who would have thought of seeing him here!" exclaimed the worthy primate. "The same gay dog as ever ! What can he have been doing in Roumelial Affairs of state, indeed ! I'll wager my new epiphany scarf, that, whatever the affairs are, there is a pretty girl in the case." XVL The fair Iduna, after all her perils and suffering?, was at length sheltered in safety under a kind and domestic roof. Alexina, and Helena, and Lais, and all the other sisters emulated each other in the attentions which they lavished upon the two bro thers, but especially the youngest. Their kind- ness, indeed, was only equalled by their ceaseless curiosity, and had they ever waited for the answeris; of Iduna to their questions, the daughter of Hun- niades might, perhaps, have been somewhat puzzled to reconcile her responses with probability. Helena answered the questions of Alexina: Lais antici- pated even Helena. All that Iduna had to do, was to smile and be silent, and it was universally agre&l that Iskander was singularly shy as well as exces- sively handsome. In the mean time, when Ni- crsas met Iduna in the evening of the second day of their visit, he informed her that he had been so fortunate as to resume an acquaintance with an old companion in arms in the person of a neighbouring noble, who had invited them to rest at his castle at the end of their next day's journey. He told her likewise that he had despatched a courier to Croia to inquire after Iskander, who, he expected, in the course of a very few days, would bring them intelli- gence to guide their future movements, and decide whether they should at once proceed to the capital of Epirus, or advance into Bulgaria, in case Hun- niades was still in the field. On the morrow, there- fore, they proceeded on their journey. Nicaeus had procured a litter for Iduna, for which her delicate health was an excuse to Alexina and her sisters, and they were attended by a small body of well- armed cavalry, for, according to the accounts which Nicrcus had received, the country was still dis- turbed. They departed at break of day, Nica3us riding by the side of the litter, and occasionally making the most anxious inquiries after the well- being of his fair charge. An hour after noon they rested at a well, surrounded by olive trees, until the extreme heat was somewhat allayed : and then re- mounting, proceeded in the direction of an undu- lating ridge of green hills, that partially intersected the wide plain. Towards sunset the Prince of Athens withdrew the curtains of the litter, and called the attention of Iduna to a very fair castle, rising on a fertile eminence and sparkling in the quivering beams of dying light. "I fear," said Nicoeus, "that my friend Justinian will scarcely have returned, but we are old com- rades, and he desired me to act as his seneschal. For your sake I am sorry, Iduna, for I feel con- vinced that he would please you." " It is, indeed, a fair castle," replied Iduna, " and none but a true knight deserves such a noble resi- dence." While she spoke, the commander of the escort sounded his bugle, and they commenced the ascent of the steep, a winding road, cut through a thick wood of evergreen shrubs. The gradual and easy ascent soon brought them to a portal flanked with towers, which admitted them into the outworks of the fortification. Here they found several soldiers on guard, and the commander again sounding his bugle, the gates of the castle opened, and the seneschal, attended by a suite of many domestics, advanced and welcomed Nicsus and Iduna. The Prince of Athens dismounting, assisted his fair THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 549 companion from the litter, ami leaJing her hy the hand, and preceded by the seneschal, entered the castle. They passed through a magnificent hall, hung with choice armour, and ascending a staircase, of Pentelic marble, were ushered into a suite of lofty chambers, lined with oriental tapestry, and furnished with many costly couches and cabinets. While they admired a spectacle so dilVerent to any thing they had recently beheld or experienced, the senes- chal, followed by a number of slaves in splendid attire, advanced and oflered them rare and choice refreshments, cofl'ee and confectionary, sherbets and spiced wines. When they had partaken of this elegant cheer, Nicsus intimated to the seneschal that the Lady Iduna might probably wish to retire, and instanllv a discreet matron, followed by six most beautiful girls, each bearing a fragrant torch ■of cinnamon and roses, advanced and offered to conduct the Lady Iduna to her apartments. The matron and her company of maidens con- ducted the daughter of Hunniades down a long gallery, which led to a suite of the prettiest cham- bers in the world. The first was an antechamber, painted like a bower, but filled with the music of living birds ; the second, which was much larger, was entirely covered with Venetian mirrors, and resting on a bright Persian carpet, were many couches of crimson velvet, covered with a variety of sumptuous dresses; the third room was a bath, made in the semblance of a gigantic shell. Its roof was of transparent alabaster, glowing with shadowy light. xvn. A FLounisH of trumpets announced the return of the Lady Iduna, and the Prince of Athens, magni- ficently attired, came forv^'ard with a smile and led her, with a compliment on her resuming the dress of her sex, if not of her country, to the banquet. Iduna was not uninfluenced by that excitement which is insensibly produced by a sudden change of scene and circumstances, and especially by an unexpected transition from hardship, peril, and suf- fering, to luxury, security, and enjoyment. Their spirits were elevated and gay : she smiled upon Nicajus with a cheerful sympathy. They feasted, they listened to sweet music, they talked over their late adventures, and animated by their own enjoy- ment, they became more sanguine as to the fate of Iskander. " In two or three days we shall know more," said Nicajus. "In the mean time, rest is absolutely necessary to you. It is only now that you will i)egin to be sensible of the exertion you have made. If Iskander be at Croia, he has already informed your father of your escape; if he have not arrived, I have arranged that a courier shall be despatched (o Hunniades from that city. Do not be anxious. Pry to be happy. I am myself sanguine that you will find all well. Come, pledge me your father's nealth, fair lady, in this goblet of Tenedos !" " How know I that at this moment he may not DC at the point of death?" replied Iduna. " When I am absent from those I love, I dream only of their unhappiness." " At this moment also," rejoined Nicaus, " he dreams perhaps of your imprisonment among bar- barians. Yet how mistaken ! Let that considera- tion support you. Come ! here is to the eremite." " As willing, if not as sumptuous a host as our present one," said Iduna; and when,by-the-by, do you think that your friend, the Lord Justinian, will arrive." " O ! never mind him," said Nicteus. " He would have arrived to-morrow, but the great news which I gave him has probably changed his plans. 1 told him of the approaching invasion, and he has perha|)s found it necessary to visit the neighbour- ing chieftains, or even to go on to Croia." " Well-a-day !" exclaimed Iduna, " I would we were in my father's camp !" " We shall soon be there, dear lady," replied the prince. " Come, worthy seneschal,'' he added, turning to that functionary, "drink to this noble lady's happy meeting with her friends." XVIII. Three or four days passed away at the castle of Justinian, in which Nica'.us used his utmost exer- tions to divert the anxiety of Iduna. One day was spent in examining tlie castle, on another he amused her with a hnwking-party, on a third he carried her to the neighbouring ruins of a temple, and read his favourite ^■Eschylus to her amid its lone and elegant columns. It was impossible for any one to lie more amiable and entertaining, and Iduna could not resist from recognising his many virtues and accomplishments. The courier had not yet returned from Croia, which NicECUs ac- counted for by many satisfactory reasons. The suspense, however, at length became so painful to Iduna, that she proposed to the Prince of Athens that they should, without further delay, proceed to that city. As usual, Nica?us was not vvanting in many plausible arguments in favour of their re- maining at the castle, but Iduna was resolute. " Indeed, dear Nicfeus," she said, " my anxiety to see my father, or hear from him, is so great, that there is scarcely any danger which I would not en- counter to gratify my wish. I feel that I have already taxed your endurance too much. But we are no longer in a hostile land, and guards and guides are to be engaged. Let me then depart alone !" " Iduna !" exclaimed Nicfcus. reproachfully "Alas! Iduna, you are cruel, but I did not expect this!" "Dear Nicscus!" she answered, "you always misinterpret me! It would infinitely delight me to be restored to Hunniades by yourself, but these are no common times, and you are no common person. You forget that there is one that has greater claims upon you even than a forlorn maiden — your country. And whether Iskander be at Croia or not, Creece requires the presence and exertions of the Prince of Athens." " I have no country," replied Nicajus, mourn- fully, " and no object for which to exert myself." "Nicaeus! Is this the poetic patriot who was yesterday envying Theniistocles 1" "Alas ! Iduna, yesterday you were my muse. I do not wonder you are wearied of this castle," con- tinued the prince, in a melancholy tone. " This spot contains nothing to interest you ; but for me, it holds all that is dear, and — O ! gentle maiden, one smile from you, one smile of inspiration, and I wouM not envy Themistocles, and might perhaps rival him." They were walking together in the hall of the castle; Iduna stepped aside and alTected to eia 550 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. mine a curious buckler. Nicteus followecl her, and placing his arm gently in hers, led her away. " Dearest Iduna," he said, " pardon me, but men struggle for their fate. Mine is in your power. It is a contest between misery and happiness, glory and perhaps infamy. Do not then wonder that I will not yield my chance of the brighter fortune without an effort. Once more I appeal to your pity if not to your love. Were Iduna mine, were she to hold out but the possibility of her being mine, there is no career — solemnly I avow what solemnly I feel — there is no career of which I could not be capable, and no conditions to which I would not willingly subscribe. But this certainty, or this contingency, I must have : I cannot exist without the alternative. And now, upon my knees, I im- plore her to grant it to me !" " Nicffius," said Iduna, "this continued recur- rence to a forbidden subject is most ungenerous." " Alas ! Iduna, my life depends upon a word, which you will not speak, and you t:Uk of gene- rosity ! No ! Iduna, it is not I that am ungene- rous." " Let me say then unreasonable, Prince Nica;us." " Say what you like, Iduna, provided you say that you are mine." " Pardon me, sir; I am free." "Free! You have ever underrated me, Iduna. To whom do you owe this boasted freedom ?" " This is not the first time," remarked Iduna, " that you have reminded me of an obligation, the memory of which is indelibly impressed upon my heart, and for which even the present conversation cannot make me feel less grateful. I can never for- get that I owe all that is dear to yourself and your companion." " My companion !" replied the Prince of Athens, pale and passionate. " My companion ! Am I ever to be reminded of my companion?" " Nicfeus !" said Iduna; "if you forget what is due to me, at least endeavour to remember what is due to yourself!" " Beautiful being !" said the prince, advancing and passionately seizing her hand; "pardon me! — pardon me ! I am not master of my reason ; I am nothing, I am nothing while Iduna hesitates." " She does not hesitate, Nicaus. I desire — I re- quire that this conversation shall cease — shall never, never be renewed." " And I tell thee, haughty woman," said the Prince of Athens, grinding his teeth, and speaking with violent action, " that I will no longer be despised with impunity. Iduna is mine, or is no one else's." " Is it possible !" exclaimed the daughter of Hun- ntades. " Is it indeed come to this 1 But why am I surprised 1 I have long known Nicaeus. I quit this castle instantly." "You are a prisoner," replied the prince, very •almly, and leaning with folded arms against the wall. " A prisoner!" exclaimed Iduna, a little alarm- ed — "A prisoner ! I defy you, sir. You are only a guest like myself. I will appeal to the seneschal in the absence of his lord. He will never permit the honour of his master's flag to be violated by the irrational caprice of a passionate boy." " What lord 1" inquired Nicajus. " Your friend, the Lord Justinian," answered Iduna. " He could little anticipate such an abuse of his hospitality." " My friend, the Lord Justinian !" replied Ni CfEus, with a malignant smile. " I am surprised that a personage of the Lady Iduna's deep discrimi- nation should so easily be deceived by ' a passionate boy I' Is it possible that you could have supposed for a moment that there was any ether lord of this castle, save your devoted slave 1" " What !" exclaimed Iduna, really frightened. " I have indeed the honour of finding the Lady Iduna my guest," continued Nicsus, in a tone of bitter raillery. " This castle of Kallista, the fairest in all Epirus, I inherit from my mother. Of late I have seldom visited it ; but indeed it will become a favourite residence of mine, if it be, as I antici- pate, the scene of my nuptial ceremony." Iduna looked around her with astonishment, then threw herself upon a couch, and burst into tears. The Prince of Athens walked up and down the hall with an air of determined coolness. "Perfidious!" exclaimed Iduna between her sobs. "Lady Iduna," said the prince, and he seated himself by her side. "I will not attempt to pal- liate a deception which your charms could alone in- spire and can alone justify. Hear me. Lady Iduna, hear me with calmness. I love you ; I love with a passion which has been as constant as it is strong. My birth, my rank, my fortunes, do not disqualify me for a union with the daughter of the great Hun- niades. If my personal claims may sink in com- parison with her surpassing excellence, I am yet to learn that any other prince in Christendom can urge a more effective plea. I am young ; the ladies of the court have called me handsome ; by your great father's side I have broken some lances in your honour; and even Iduna once confessed she thought me clever. Come, come, be merciful ! Let my beautiful Athens receive a fitting mistress. A holy father is in readiness, dear maiden. Come now, one smile ! In a few days we shall reach your father's camp, and then we will kneel, as I do now, and beg a blessing on our happy union." As he spoke, he dropped upon his knee, and stealing her hand, looked into her face. It was sorrowful and gloomy. " It is vain, Nicteus," said Iduna, " to appeal to vour generosity ; it is useless to talk of the past ; it is idle to reproach you for the present. I am a woman, alone and persecuted, where I could least anticipate persecution. Nicfeus, I never can be yours ; and now I deliver myself to the mercy of Almighty God." " 'Tis well," replied Nicseus. " From the tower of the castle you may behold the waves of the Ionian sea. You will remain here a close prisoner, until one of my galleys arrives from Piraeus, to bear us to Italy. Mine you must be, Iduna. It re- mains for you to decide under what circumstances. Continue in your obstinacy, and you may bid fare- well for ever to your country and to your father. Be reasonable, and a destiny awaits you which oflfers every thing that has hitherto been considered the source or cause of happiness." Thus speak- ing, the prince retired, leaving Lady Iduna to her own unhappy thoughts. XIX. The Lady Iduna was at first inclined to view the conduct of the Prince of Athens as one of those passionate and passing ebullitions in which her THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 551 long acquaintance with him had tauc;ht her he was accustomed to indulge. But when on retiring soon after to her apartments, she was informed by her attendant matron that she must in future consider herself a prisoner, and not venture again to quit them without permission, she began to tremble at the possible violence of an ill-regulated mind. She endeavoured to interest her attendant in her behalf; but the matron was too well schooled to evince any feeling or express any opinion on the subject; and indeed, at length, fairly informed Iduna that she was commanded to confine her conversation to the duties of her ofTice. The Lady Iduiiavvas very unhappy. She thought of her father, she thought of Iskander. The past seemed a dream ; she was often tempted to believe that she was still, and had ever been, a prisoner in the serail of Adrianople; and that all the late won- derful incidents of her life were but the shifting scenes of some wild slumber. And then some Blight incident, the sound of a bell, or the sight of some holy emblem, assured her she was in a Christian land, and convinced her of the strange truth that she was indeed in captivity, and a pri- soner, above all others, to the fond companion of her youth. Her indignation at the conduct of Ni- cseus roused her courage ; she resolved to make an elTort to escape. Her rooms were only lighted from above ; she determined to steal forth at night into the gallery ; the door was secured. She hastened back to her chamber in fear and sorrow, and wept. Twice in the course of the day the stern and silent matron visited Iduna with her food ; and as she retired, secured the door. This was the only individual that the imprisoned lady ever beheld. And thus heavily rolled on upwards of a week. On the eve of the ninth day, Iduna was surprised by the matron presenting her a letter as she quitted the chamber for the night. Iduna seized it with a feeling of curiosity not unmixed with pleasure. It was the only incident that had occurred during her captivity. She recognised the handwriting of Ni- csEUs. and threw it down with vexation at her silli- ness in supposing, for a moment, that the matron could have been the emissary of any other person. Yet the letter must be read, and at length she opened it. It informed her that a ship had arrived from Athens at the coast, and that to-morrow she must depart for Italy. It told her also, that the Turks, under Mahomed, had invaded Albania; and that the Hungarians under the command of her father, had come to support the cross. It said nothing of Iskander. But it reminded her that little more than the same time that would carry her to the coast to embark for a foreign land, would. were she wise, alike enable Nica3us to place her in her father's arms, and allow him to jc)in in the great struggle for his country and his creed. The letter was written with firnmess, but tenderly. It left, however, on the mind of Iduna, an impression of the desperate resolution of the writer. Now it so happened that as this unhappy lady jumped from her couch, and paced the room in the perturbation of her mind, the wind of her drapery extinguished her lamp. As her attendant or jailer, had paid her last visit for the day, there seemed little chance of its being again illumined. The miserable are always more unhappy in the dark. Light is the greatest of comforters. And this little misfortune seemed to the forlorn Iduna almost over- whelming. And as she attempted to look around, and wrung her hands in very wo, her attention was attracted by a brilliant streak of light upon the wall, which greatly surprised her. She groped her way in its direction, and slowly stretching forth hei hand, observed that it made its way through a chink in the frame of one of the great mirrors which were inlaid in the wall. As she pressed the frame, she felt to her surprise that it sprang for- ward. Had she not been very cautioaBk-tl-e ad- vancing mirror would have struck her '^p great force, but she had presence of mind to withdraw her hand very gradually, repressing the swiftness *: of the spring. The aperture occasioned by the ^ opening of the mirror consisted of a recess, formed by a closed up window. An old wooden shutter, or blind, in so ruinous a state, that the light freely made its way, was the only barrier against the ele- ments. Iduna seizing the handle which remained, at once drew it open with little difficulty. The captive gazed with gladdened feelings upon the free and beautiful scene. Beneath her rose the rich and aromatic shrubs tinged with the soft and silver light of eve : before her extended the wide and fertile champaign, skirted by the dark and un- dulating mountains: in the clear sky, glittering and sharp, sparkled the first crescent of the new moon, an auspicious omen to the Moslemin invaders. Iduna gazed with joy upon the landscape, and then hastily descending from the recess, she placed her hands to her eyes, so long unaccustomed to the light. Perhaps, too, she indulged in momentary meditation. For suddenly seizing a number of shawls which were lying on the couches, she knotted them together, and then s'riving with ail her force, she placed the heaviest couch on one end of the costly cord, and then throwing the other out of the window, and intrusting herself to the merciful care of the holy Virgin, the brave daughter of Hunniades successfully dropped down into the garden below. She stopped to breathe, and to revel in her eman- cipated existence. It was a bold enterprise gal lantly achieved. But the danger had now only commenced. She found that she had lighted at the back of the castle. She stole along upon tip- toe, timid as a fawn. She remembered a small wicket-gate that led into the open country. She arrived at it. It was of course guarded. The sin- gle sentinel was kneeling before an image of St. George beside him was an empty drinking-cup and an exhausted wine-skin. " Holy saint !" exclaimed the pious sentinel, "preserve us from all Turkish infidels!" Iduna stole behind him. "Shall men who drink no wine conquer true Christians !" continued the sentinel. Iduna placed her hand upon the lock. " We thank thee for our good vintage," said the sentinel. Idana opened the gate with the noiseless touch which a feminine finger alone can command. "And for the rise of Lord Iskander !" added the sentinel. Iduna escaped ! Now she indeed was free. Swiftly she ran over the wide plain. She hoped to reach some town or village before her escape could be discovered, and she hurried on for three hours without resting. She came to a beautiful grove of olive trees that spread in extensive ramifications about the plain. And through this beautiful grove of olive trees her path seemed to lead. So she entered and advanced. And when she had journeyed for about a mile, she came to an open and very verdant piece of ground. 553 ©'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. which was, as it were, the heart of the grove. In its centre rose a fair and antique structure of white marble, shrouding from the noonday sun the peren- nial fiow of a very famous fountain. It was near pn midnight. Iduna was wearied, and she sat down upon the steps of the fountain for rest. And while she was musing over all the strange adven- tures of her life, she heard a rustling in the wood, no being alarmed, she rose and hid herself behind tree. And while she stood there, with palpitating heart, the figure of a man advanced to the fountain ficni an opposite direction of the grove. He went up the steps, and looked down upon the spring as if he were about to drink, but instead of doing that, he drew his cimeter and plunged it into the water, and called out with a loud voice the name of " Iskanderi" three times. Whereupon Iduna, actuated by an irresistible impulse, came forward from her hiding-place, but instantly gave a loud shriek when she beheld — the Prince Mahomed ! " O ! night of glory !" exclaimed the prince, ad- vancing, " Do I indeed behold the fair Iduna ! This is truly magic!'' " Away ! away !" exclaimed the distracted Iduna, as she endeavoured to fly from him. " He has kept his word, that cunning leech, bet- ter than I expected," said Mahomed, seizing her. " As well as you deserve, ravisher !" exclaimed a majestic voice. A tall figure rushed forward from the wood and dashed back the Turk. "I am here to complete my contract. Prince Mahomed," said the stranger, drawing his sword. " Iskander!" exclaimed the prince. " We have met before, prince. Let us so act now that we may meet for the last time." "Infamous, infernal traitor," exclaimed Maho- med, " dost thou, indeed, imagine that I will sully my imperial blade with the blood of my runaway slave ! No ! I came here to secure thy punish- ment, but I cannot condescend to become thy pun- isher. Advance, guards, and seize him! Seize them both I" Iduna flew to Iskander, who caught her in one arm, while he waved his cimeter with the other. The guards of Mahomed poured forth from the side of the grove whence the prince had issued. "And dost thou, indeed, think, Mahomed," said Iskander, "that I have been educated in the seraglio to be duped by Moslemin craft? I offer thee sin- gle combat if thou desirest it, but combat as we may, the struggle shall be equal." He whistled, and instantly a body of Hungarians, headed by Hunniades himself, advanced from the side of the grove whence Iskander had issued. " Come on, then," said Mahomed ; " each to his inan." Their swords clashed, but the principal attendants of the son of Amurath, deeming the affair, under the present circumstances, assumed the character of a mere rash adventure, bore away the Turkish prince. " To-morrow, then, this fray shall be decided, on the plains of Kallisla," said Mahomed. " Epirus is prepared," replied Iskander. The Turks withdrew. Iskander bore the sense- less form of Iduna to her father. Hunniades em- braced his long lost child. They sprinkled her face with water from the fountain. She revived. " Where is Nica^us," inquired Iskander ; " and how came you again, dear lady, in the power of Mahomed 1" " Alas ! noble sir, my twice deliverer," answered Iduna, " I have, indeed, again been doomed to captivity, but my persecutor, I blush to say, was this time a Christian prince." " Holy Virgin !" exclaimed Iskander. " Who can this villain be 1" " The villain. Lord Iskander, is your friend; and your pupil, dear father." "Nicaeusof Athens!" exclaimed Hunniades. Iskander was silent and melancholy. Thereupon the Lady Iduna recounted to her fa- ther and Iskander, sitting between them on the margin of the fount, all that had occurred to her, since herself and Nicajus parted with Iskander; nor did she omit to relate to Hunniades all the devo- tion of Iskander, respecting which, like a truly brave man, he had himself been silent. The great Hunniades scarcely knew which rather to do, to lavish his affection on his beloved child, or his gra- titude upon Iskander. Thus they went on con- versing for some time, Iskander placing his own cloak around Iduna, and almost unconsciously winding his arm around her unresisting form. Just as they were preparing to return to the Christian camp, a great noise was heard in the grove, and presently, in the direction whence Iduna had arrived, there came a band of men, bearing torches and examining the grove in all directions i'.i great agitation. Iskander and Hunniades stood upon their guard, but soon perceived they were Greeks. Their leader, seeing a group near the fountain, advanced to make inquiries respecting the object of his search, but when he indeed re- cognised the persons who formed the group, the torch fell from his grasp, and he turned away his head and hid his face in his hands. Iiluna clung to her father; Iskander stood with his eyes fixed upon the ground, but Hunniades, stern and terrible, disembarrassing himself of the grasp of his daughter, advanced and laid his hand upon the stranger. "Young man," said the noble father, "were it contrition instead of shame that inspired this atti- tude, it might be better. I have often warned you of the fatal consequences of a reckless indulgence of the passions. More than once I have predicted to you, that however great might be your confi- dence in your ingenuity and your resources, the hour would arrive when such a career would place you in a position as despicable as it was shameful. That hour has arrived, and that position is now filled by the Prince of Athens. You stand before the three individuals in this world whom you have most injured, and whom you were most bound to love and to protect. Here is a friend, who has ha- zarded his property and his existence for your life and your happiness. And you have made him a mere pander to your lusts, and then deserted him in his greatest necessities. This maiden was the companion of your youth, and entitled to your kindest offices. You have treated her infinitely worse than her Turkish captor. And for myself, sir, your father was my dearest friend. I endea- voured to repay his friendship by supplying his place to his orphan child. How I discharged my duty, it becomes not me to say: how you have dis- charged yours, this lady here, my daughter, your late prisoner, sir, can best prove." "O! spare me, spare me, sir," said the Prince of Athens, turning and falling upon his knee. " I am most wretched. Every word cuts to my very core THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 553 Just Providpnce has baflleJ all my arts, and I am grateful. Whether this lady can, indeed, forgive me, I hardly dare to think, or even hope. And yet forgiveness is a heavenly boon. Perhaps the memory of old days may melt her. As for your- self, sir — but I'll not speak, I cannot. Noble Iskander, if I mistake not, you may whisper words in that fair ear, less grating than my own. May you be happy! I will not profane your prospects with my vows. And yet I'll say farewell!" The Prince of .\lhens turned away with an air of complete wretchedness, and slowly withdrew. Iskander followed him. "Nic£Eiis," said Iskander; but the prince entered the grove, and did not turn round. " Dear Nica;us," said Iskander. The prince hesitated. " Jjct us not part thus," said Iskander. " Iduna is most unhappy. She bade me tell you she had forgotten all." '• God bless her, and God bless you too!" replied Nicffius. " I pray you let me go." "Jsay! dear Nieajus, are we not friends 1" " The best and truest, Iskander. I will to the camp, and meet you in your tent ere morning break. At present, I would be alone." " Dear Nicoeus, one word. You have said upon one point, what I could well wish unsaid, and dared to prophesy what may never happen. I am not made for such supreme felicity. Epirus is my mistress, my Nicaeus. As there is a living God, my friend, most solemnly I vow, I have had no thoughts in this affair, but for your_ honour." " I know it, my dear friend, I know it," replied Nica;us. " I keenly feel your admirable worth. Bay no more, say no more ! She is a fit wife for a hero, and you are one!" XX. Aftkr (he battle of the bridge, Iskander had hurried to Croia without delay. In his progress, he had made many fruitless inquiries after Iduna and Nicscus, but he consoled himself for the unsatisfac- tory answers he received by the opinion that they had taken a different course, and the conviction that all must now be safe. The messenger from Croia that informed Hunniades of the escape of his daughter, also solicited his aid in favour of Epirus against the impending invasion of the Turks, and stimulated by personal gratitude as well as bv pub- lic duty, Hunniades answered the solicitation in person, at the head of twenty thousand lances. Hunniades and Iskander had mutually flattered themselves when apart, that each would be able to quell the anxiety. of the other on the subject of Iduna. The leader of Epirus flattered himself thift his late companions had proceeded at once to Tratisylvania, and the vaivode himself had in- dulged in the delightful hope that the first person be should embrace at Croia would be his long-lost child. VVMien, therefore, they met, and were mu- tually incapable of imparting any information on the subject to each other, they were filled with astonishment and disquietude. Events, however, gave them little opportunity to indulge in anxiety or grief. On the day that Hunniades and his lances arrived at Croia, the invading army of the Turks under the Prince Mahomed crossed the 70 mountains, and soon after pitched their camp on the fertile plain of Kallista. As Iskander, by the aid of Hunniades and the neighbouring princes, and the patriotic exertions of his countrymen^, was at this moment at the head of a force which the Turkish prince could not have anticipated, he resolved to march at once to meet the Ottomans, and decide the fate of Greece by a pitched battle. ^^ The night before the arrival of Iduna at the fa- mous fountain, the Christian army had taken up its position within a few miles of the Turks. The turbaned warriors wished to delay the engagement until the new moon, the eve of which was at hand. And it happened on that said eve that Iskander, calling to mind his contract with the Turkish prince made in the gardens of the seraglio at Adrian- ople, and believing from the superstitious character of Mahomed that he would not fail to be at the appointed spot, resolved, as we have seen, to repair to the fountain of Kallista. And now from that fountain the hero retired, bearing with him a prize scarcely less precious than the freedom of the country, for which he was to combat on the morrow's morn. Ere the dawn had broken, the Christian power was in motion. Iskander commanded the centre, Hunniades the right wing. The left was intrusted at his urgent request to the Prince of .Athens. A mist that hung about the plain, allowed Nieajus to charge the right wing of the Turks almost unper- ccived. He charged with irresistible fury, and soon disorcfered the ranks of the Moslemin. Mahomed with the reserve hastened to their aid. A mighty multitude of janissaries, shouting the name of Allah and his prophet, penetrated the Christian centre Hunniades endeavoured to attack them on their flank, but was himself charged by the Turkish cavalry. The battle was now general, and raged with terrible fury. Iskander had secreted in his centre a new and powerful battery of cannon, pre- sented to him by the pope, and which had just ar- rived from Venice. This battery played upon the janissaries with great destruction. He himself mowed them down with his irresistible cimeter. Infinite was the slaughter! awful the uproar! But of all the Christian knights, this day, no one performed such mighty feats of arms as the Prince of Athens. With a reckless desperation, he dashed about the field, and every thing seemed to yield to his inspiring impulse. His example animated his men with such a degree of enthusiasm, that the division to which he was opposed, although en- couraged by the presence of Mahomed himself, could no longer withstand the desperate courage of the Christians, and they fled in all directions. Then, rushing to the aid of Iskander, Nicsjus, at the head of a body of picked men, dashed upon the rear of the janissaries, and nearly surrounded them. Hunniades instantly made a fresh charge upon the left wing of the Turks. A panic fell upon the Moslemin, who were little prepared for such a demonstration of strength on the part of their adversaries. In a few minutes their order seemed generally broken, and their leaders in vain endea- voured to rally them. Waving his bloody cimeter, and bounding on his black charger, Iskander called upon his men to secure the triumph of the cross and the freedom of Epirus. Pursuit was now general. 3A 554 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. XXI. The Turks were massacred by thousands. Ma- homed, when he found that all was lost, fled to the mountains, with a train of guards and eunuchs, and left the care of his dispersed host to his pashas. The hills were covered with the fugitives and their pursuers. Some also fled to the sea-shore, where the Turkish fleet was at anchor. The plain was strewn with corpses and arms, and tents and stand- ards. The sun was now high in the heavens. The mist had cleared away ; but occasional clouds of smoke still sailed about. A solitary Christian knight entered a winding pass in the green hills, apart from the scene of strife. The slow and trembling step of his wearied steed would have ill qualified him to join in the trium- phant pursuit, even had he himself been physically enabled ; but the Christian knight was covered with gore, unhappily not alone that of his enemies. He was, indeed, streaming with desperate wounds, and scarcely could his fainting form retain its tot- tering scat. The winding pass, which, for some singular reason, he now pursued in solitude, instead of re- turning to the busy camp for aid and assistance, conducted the knight to a small green valley, covered with sweet herbs, and entirely surrounded by hanging woods. In the centre rose the ruins of a Doric fane: three or four columns gray and majestic. All was still and silent, save that in the clear blue sky an eagle flew, high in the air, but whirling round the temple. The knight reached the ruins of the Doric fane, and with difficulty dismounting from his charger, fell upon the soft and flowery turf, and for some moments was motionless. His horse stole a few yards away, and, though scarcely less injured than Its rider, instantly commenced cropping the inviting pasture. At length the Christian knight slowly raised his head, and leaning on his arm, sighed deeply. His face was very pale; but as he looked up and per- ceived the eagle in the heaven, a smile played upon his pallid cheek, and his beautiful eye gleamed with a sudden flash of light. " Glorious bird !" murmured the Christian war- rior, " once I deemed that my career might resemble thine ! 'Tis over now ; and Greece, for which I would have doi e so much, will soon forget my immemorial name. I i»ave stolen here to die in silence and in beauty. This blue air, and these green woods, and these lone columns, which oft to me have been a consolation, breathing of the poetic past, and of the days wherein I fain had lived, I have escaped from the fell field of carnage to die among them. Farewell ! my country ! Farewell to one more beautiful than Greece — farewell, Idu- na!" These were the last words of Nicsus, Prince of Athens ! XXII. While the unhappy lover of the daughter of Hunniades breathed his last words to the solitary elements, his more fortunate friend received, in the centre of his scene of triumph, the glorious con- gratulations of his emancipated country. The dis- comfiture of the Turks was complete, and this overthrow, coupled with their recent defeat in Bul- garia, secured Christendom from their assaults during the remainder of the reign of Amurath the Second. Surrounded by his princely allies, and the chieftains of Epirus, the victorious standards of Christendom, and the triumphant trophies of the Moslemin, Iskander received from the great Hun- niades the hand of his beautiful daughter. — "Thanks to these brave warriors," said the hero, " I can now offer to your daughter a safe, an honourable, and a Christian home." " It is to thee, great sir, that Epirus owes its se- curity," said an ancient chieftain, addressing Iskan- der, " its national existence, and its holy religion. All that we have to do now is to preserve them ; nor indeed do I see that we can more effectually ob- tain these great objects than by entreating the* to mount the redeemed throne of thy ancestors. There- fore I say, God SAVE Iskander, King of Epirus !" And all the people shouted and said, " God sate THE king! God save Iskandeb, King of Epi- HENRIETTA TEMPLE. A LOVE STORY. HENRIETTA TEMPLE. ' Quoih Sancho, ' Read il out, by all means ; for I mighily delight in hearing of love-fltories.' " BOOK I. CHAPTER I. «OME ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF AKMUfE, ASD ESPECIALLT OF Sill FERDIXAJfD AND SIR H AT- CLIFFE. The family of Armine entered England with William the Norman. Ralph D'Ermyn was stand- ard bearer of the Conqueror, and shared prodigally in the plunder, as appears by Domesday Book. At the time of the general survey, the family of Ermy n, or Armyn, possessed numerous manors in Notting- hamshire, and several in the shire of Lincoln. William d'Armyn, lord of the honour of Armyn, was one of the subscribing barons to the Great Charter. His predecessor died in the Holy Land before Ascalon. A succession of stout barons and valiant knights maintained the high fortunes of the family; and, in the course of the various struggles with France, they obtained possession of several fair castles in Guienne and Gascony. In the wars of the Roses the Armyns sided with the house of Lancaster. Ferdinand Armyn, who shared the exile of Henry the Seventh, was knighted on Bosworth Field, and soon after created Earl of Tewkesbury. Faithful to the Church, the second Lord Tewkes- bury became involved in one of those numerous risings that harrassed the last years of Henry the Eighth. The rebellion was unsuccessful. Lord Tewkesbury was beheaded, his blood attainted, and his numerous estates forfeited to the crown. A younger branch of the family, who had adopted Protestantism, married the daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, and attracted, by his talents in nego- tiation, the notice of Queen Elizabeth. He was f-ent on a secret mission to the Low Countries, where, having greatly distinguished himself, he ob- tained on his return the restoration of the family estate of Armine, in Nottinghamshire, to which he retired after an eminently prosperous career, and amused the latter years of his life in the construc- tion of a family mansion, built in that national style of architecture since described by the name of his royal mistress, at once magnificent and convenient. His son, Sir Walsingham Armine, figured in the first batch of baronets under James the First. During the memorable struggle between the frown and the Commons, in the reign of the un- happy Charles, the Armine family became most disiingui>^hcd cavaliers. The second Sir Walcing- ham riused a troop of horse, and gained great credit by charging at the head of his regiment, and de- feating Sir Arthur Hasclrigg's cuirassiers. It was the first time tliat that impenetrable band had been taught to fly ; but the conqueror was covered with wounds. The same Sir Walsingham also success- fully defended Armine House against the Com- mons, and commanded the cavalry at the battle of Newbury, where two of his brothers were slain. For these various services and suflferings Sir Wal- singham was advanced to the dignity of a baron of the realm, by the title of Lord Armine, of Armine, in the county of Nottingham. lie died without issue, but the baronetcy devolved on his youngest brother. Sir Ferdiiiando. The Armine family, who had relapsed into popery, followed the fortunes of the second James, and the head of the house died at St. Germains. His son, however, had been prudent enough to remain in England and support the new dynasty, by which means he contrived to secure his title and estates. Roman Catholics, however, the Armincs always remained, and this circumstance accounts for this once distinguished family no longer figuring in the history of their country. As far, therefore, as the house of Armine was concerned, time flew during the next century with immemorable wing. The family led a secluded life on their estate, intermarry- ing only with the great Catholic families, and duly begetting baronets. At length arose, in the person of the last Sir Ferdinand Armine, one of those extraordinary and rarely gifted beings who require only an opportu- nity to influence the fortunes of their nation, and to figure as a Casar or an Alcibiades. Beautiful, brilliant, and ambitious, the young and restless Armine quitted, in his eighteenth year, the house of his fathers, and his stepdame of a country, and entered the Imperial service. His blood and creed gained him a flattering reception ; his skill and valour soon made him distinguished. The world rang with stories of his romantic bravery, his gal- lantries, his eccentric manners, and his political in- trigues, for he nearly contrived to be elected King of Poland. Whether it were disgust at being foiled in this high object by the influence of Austria, or whether, as was much whispered at the time, he had dared to urge his insolent and unsuccessful suit on a still more delicate subject to the Empress Queen herself, certain it is that Sir Ferdinand sud- denly quitted the Imperial service, and appeared at Constantinople in person. The man, whom a point of honour prevented from becoming a Pro- ^a2 557 558 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. testant in his native country, had no scruples about nis professiup, of faith at Stamboul ; certain it is, that the English baronet soon rose high in the favour of the sultan, assumed the Turkish dress, conformed to the Turkish customs, and, finally, led against Austria a division of the Turkish army. Having gratified his pique by defeating the Impe- rial forces in a sanguinary engagement, and obtain- ing a favourable peace for the Porte, Sir Ferdinand Armine doffed his turban, and suddenly reappeared in his native country. After the sketch we have given of the last ten years of his life, it is unneces- sary to observe that Sir Ferdinand Armine imme- diately became what is called extremely fashionable, and, as he was now in Protestant England, the empire of fashion was the only one in which the young Catholic could distinguish himself. Let us then charitably set down to the score of his political disabilities the fantastic dissipation and the frantic prodigality in which the liveliness of his imagina- tion, and the energy of his soul, exhausted them- selves. After three startling years he married the Lady Barbara Ratclille, whose previous divorce from her husband, the Earl of Faulconville, Sir Ferdinand had occasioned. He was, however, separated from his lady during the first year of their more hallowed union, and, retiring to Rome, Sir Ferdinand became apparently very devout. At the end of a year he offered to transfer the whole of his property to the Church, provided the Pope would allow him an annuity, and make him a Car- dinal. His Holiness not deeming it fit to consent to the proposition, Sir Ferdinand quitted his capi- tal in a huff, and, returning to England, laid claim to the peerages of Tewkesbury and Armine. Al- though assured of failing in these claims, and him- self, perhaps, as certain of ill success as his lawyers. Sir Ferdinand, nevertheless, expended upwards of 60,000/. in their promotion, and was amply repaid for the expenditure in the gratification of his vanity in keeping his name before the public. He was, indeed, never content, except when he was astonish- ing mankind, and while he was apparently exert- ing all his efforts to become a King of Poland, a Roman cardinal, or an English peer, the crown, the coronet, and the scarlet hat, were in truth ever secondary points with him, compared to the sensa- tion throughout Europe, which the effort was con- trived and calculated to ensure. On his second return to his native country, Sir Ferdinand had not re-entered society. For such a man, indeed, society, with all its superficial excite- ment, and all the shadowy variety with which it attempts to cloud the essential monotony of its na- ture, was intolerably dull and commonplace. Sir Ferdinand, on the contrary, shut himself up in- Armine, having previously announced to the world that he was going to write his memoirs. This his- tory, the construction of a castle, and the prosecu- tion of his claims before the House of Lords, apparently occupied his time to his satisfaction, for he remained quiet for several years, until, on the creaking out of the French Revolution, he hastened to Paris, became a member of the Jacobin Club, and of the National Convention. The name of Citizen Armine ap[)ears among the regicides. Per- liaps in this vote he avenged the loss of the crown (if Poland, and the still more mortifying repulse he received from the mother of Marie Antoinette. After the execution of the royal victims, however, it was discovered that Citizen Armine had made them an offer to save their lives and raise an insur- ruction in La Vendee, provided he was made lieu- tenant-general of the kingdom. At his trial, which from the nature of the accusation and the character of the accused, occasioned to his gratification a great sensation, he made no effort to defend him- self; but seemed to glory in the chivalric crime. He was hurried to the guillotine, and met his fate with the greatest composure, assuring the pubHc with a mysterious air, that, had he lived four-and- twenty hours longer every thing would have been arranged, and the troubles which he foresaw im- pending for Europe prevented. So successfully had Armine played his part, that his mysterious and doubtful career occasioned a controversy, from which only the appearance of Napoleon distracted universal attention, and which, indeed, only wholly ceased within these few years. What were his intentions ] Was he or was not he a sincere Jacobin ] If he made the offer to the royal family, why did he vote for their death 1 Was he resolved, at all events, to be at the head of one of the parties? A middle course would not suit such a man ; and so on. Interminable were the queries and their solutions, the pamphlets and the memoirs, which the conduct of this vain man occasioned, and which must assuredly have appeased his manes. Recently it has been discovered that the charge brought against Armine was perfectly false and purely ma- licious. Its victim, however, could not resist the dazzling celebrity of the imaginary crime, and he preferred the reputation of closing his career by conduct which at once perplexed and astonished mankind, to a vindication which would have de- prived his name of some brilliant accessories, and spared him to a life of which he was, perhaps, wearied. By the unhappy victim of his vanity and passion Sir Ferdinand Armine left one child, a son, whom he had never seen, now Sir Ratcliffe. Brought up in sadness artd seclusion, education had faithfully developed the characteristics of a reserved and me- lancholy mind. Pride of lineage and sentiments of religion, which even in early youth darkened into bigotry, where not incompatible with strong affec- tions, a stern sense of duty, and a spirit of chival- ric honour. Limited in capacity, he was, however, firm in purpose. Trembling at the name of his father, and devoted to the unhappy parent whose presence he had scarcely ever quitted, a word of reproach had never escaped his lips against the chieftain of his blood, and one too whose career, how little soever his child could sympathize with it, still maintained, in men's mouths and minds, the name and memory of the house of Armine. At the death of his father, Sir Ratcliffe had just at- tained his majority, and he succeeded to immense estates encumbered with mortgages, and to con- siderable debts, which his feelings of honour would have compelled him to discharge, had they indeed been enforced by no other claim. The estates of the family, on their restoration, had not been en- tailed ; but, until Sir Ferdinand, no head of the house had abused the confidence of his ancestors, and the vast possessions of the house of Armine has descended unimpaired ; and unimpaired, as far as he was concerned. Sir Ratcliffe determined they should remain. Although, by the sale of the estates, not only the incumbrances and liabilities HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 559 might have been discharged, but himself left in pos- session of a moderate independence, Sir KatclilVe at once resolved to part with nothing. Fresh sums were raised for the payment of the debts, and the mortgages now consumed nearly the whole rental of the lands on which they were secured. Sir Rat- clifTe obtained for himself only an annuity of three hundred per annum, which he presented to his mo- ther, in addition to the small portion which she had received on her first marriage; and for himself, visiting Armine Place for the first time, he roamed for a few days with sad complacency about that magnificent demesne, and then, taking down from the walls of the magnificent hall the sabre with which his father had defeated the Imperial host, he embarked for Cadiz, and very shortly after his arrival obtained a commission in the Spanish ser- vice. Although the hereditary valour of the Armines had descended to their forlorn representative, it is not probable that, under any circumstances, Sir Rat- cliffe would have risen to any particular eminence in the country of his temporary adoption. His was not one of those minds born to command and to create ; and his temper was too proud to serve and to solicit. His residence in Spain, however, was not altogether without satisfaction. It was during this sojourn that he gained the little knowledge of life and human nature he possessed ; and the creed and solemn manners of the land harmonized with his faith and habits. Among these strangers, too, the proud young Englishman felt not so keenly the degradation of his house ; and sometimes — though his was not the fatal gift of imagination — some- times he indulged in day-dreams of its rise. Un- practised in business, and not gifted with that intui- tive quickness which supplies experience and often baffles it, Ratcliffe Armine, who had not quitted the domestic hearth even for the purposes of education, was yet fortunate enough to possess a devoted friend ; and this was Glastonbury, his tutor, and soiifessor to his mother. It was to him that Sir Ratcliffe intrusted the management of his affairs, with a confidence which was deserved ; for Glas- tonbury sympathized with all his feelings, and vi'as so wrapped up in the glory of the family, that he had no greater ambition in life than to become their historiographer, and had been for years employed in amassing materials for a great work dedicated to their celebrity. When Ratcliffe Armine had been absent about three years, his mother died. Her death was unex- pected. She had not fulfilled two-thirds of the al- lotted period of the Psalmist, and in spite of many sorrows she was still beautiful. Glastonbury, who communicated to him the intelligence in a letter in which he vainly attempted to suppress his own overwhelming affliction, counselled his inmediate return to England, if but for a season, and the un- happy Ratclilfe followed his advice. By the death of his mother Sir Ratcliffe Armine became possess- ed, for the first time, of a very snmll but still an in- dependent income; and having paid a visit, soon after his wturn to his native country, to a Catholic nobleman, to whom his acquaintance had been of some use when travelling in Spain, he became ena- moured of one of his daughters, and his passion be- ing returned, and not disapproved by the father, he was soon after married to Constance, the eldest daughter of Lord Grandison. CHAPTER II. ARMINE DESCniBED, Aftkr his marriage Sir Ratcliffe determined to reside at Armine. In one of the largest parks in England there yet remained a fragment of a vast Elizabethan pile, that in old days bore the name of Armine Place. When Sir Ferdinand had com- menced building Armine Castle, he had j)ullcd down the old mansion, partly for the sakl''^ its site, and partly for the sake of its materials.^ Bong lines of turreted and many-windowed walls, tall towers, and lofty arches now rose in picturesque confusion on the green ascent where heretofore old Sir Walsingham had raised the fair and convenient dwelling, which he justly deemed might have served the purpose of a long posterity. The hall and chief staircase of the castle, and a gallery, alone were finished; and many a day had Sir Ferdinand passed in arranging the pictures, the armour, and choice rarities, of these magnificent apartments. The rest of the building was a mere shell ; nor was it in all parts even roofed in. Heaps of bricks and stone, and piles of timber, appeared in all direc- tions; and traces of the sue ; for dinner is at hand. Let me show you to your room. I fear you have had a hot day's journey — thank God, we are together again — Give me your staff — I will take care of it — no fear of that — so, this way — you have seen the old Place before 1 — Take care of that step — I say, Constance," said Sir Ratclilfe, in a sup- pressed voice, and running back to his wife, " how do you like him!" " Very much, indeed." "But do you really 1" " Really, truly." " Angel !" exclaimed the gratified Sir Ratcliffe, CHAPTER IV. PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS AT ARMINE. Life is adventurous. Events are perpetually occurring, even in the calmness of domestic exist ence, which change in an instant the whole train and tenor of our thoughts and feelings, and often materially influence our fortunes and our character. It is strange, and sometimes as profitable as it is singular, to recall our state on the eve of some ac- quaintance which transfigures our being ; with some man whose philosophy revolutionizes our minds; with some woman whose charms metamorphose our career. These retrospective meditations are fruitful of self-knowledge. The visit of Glastonbury was one of those inci- dents, which, from the unexpected results that they occasion, swell into events. He had not been long a guest at Armine before Sir Ratcliffe and his lady could not refrain from mutually communicating to each other the gratification they should feel could Glastonbury be induced to cast his lot among them. His benevolent and placid temper, his many ac- complishments, and the entire affection which he evidently entertained for everybody that bore the name and for every thing that related to the fortunes of Armine, all pointed him out as a friend alike to be cherished and to be valued. Under his auspicea the garden of the fair Constance soon flourished; his taste guided her pencil and his voice accompa- nied her lute. Sir Ratclilfe, too, thoroughly enjoyed his society ; Glastonbury was with him the only link, in life, between the present and the past. They talked over old times together ; and sorrow- ful recollections lost half their bitterness from the tenderness of his sympathetic reminiscences. Sir Ratcliffe, too, was conscious of the value of such a companion for his gifted wife. And Glastonbury, moreover, among his many accomplishments, had the excellent quality of never being in the way. He was aware that young people, and especially young lovers, are not averse sometimes to being alone ; and his friends, in his absence, never felt that he was neglected, because his pursuits were so various, and his resources so numerous, that they were sure he was employed and amused. In the plaisance of Armine, at the termination of a long turfen avenue of purple beeches, there was a turreted gate, flanked by round towers, intended by Sir Ferdinand for one of the principal entrances of his castle. Over the gate were small but conve- nient chambers, to which you ascend by a winding staircase in one of the towers ; the other was a mere shell. It was sunset; the long vista gleamed in the dying rays, that shed also a rich breadth of light over the bold and baronial arch. Our friends had been examining the chambers, and Lady Ar- mine, who was a little wearied by the exertion, stood opposite the building, leaning on her hus- band and his friend. "A man might go far, and find a worse dwell- ing than that portal," said Glastonbury, mus- ingly. "Methinks life might glide away plea santly enough in those little rooms, with one's HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 563 books and drawings, and this noble avenue for a pensive stroll." " I wish to heaven, rily dear Glastonbury, you would try the experiment," said Sir Katclille. "Ah ! do, Mr. Glastonbury," added Lady Armine, " take pity upon us !" " At any rate, it is not so dull as a cloister," add- ed Sir Ratclifle, "and, say what they like, there is nothing like living among friends." "You will find me very troublesome," replied Glastonbury with a smile, and then, turning the conversation, evidently more from embarrassment than distaste, he remarked the singularity of the purple beeches. Their origin was uncertain ; but one circumstance is sure ; that, before another month had passed, Glastonbury was tenant for life of the portal of Ar- mine Castle, and all his books and collections were safely stowed and arranged in the rooms with which he had been so much pleased. The course of time for some years flowed on hap- pily at Armine. In the second year of their mar- riage Lady Armine presented her husband with a son. Their fimily was never afterwards increaseJjjl but the proud father was consoled by the sex of BB child for the recollection that the existence of his line depended upon the precious contingency of a single life. The boy was christened Ferdinand. With the exception of an annual visit to Lord Grandison, the Armine fiimily never quitted their home. Necessity as well as taste induced this re- gularity of life. The affairs of Sir Ratclilfe did not irufirove. His mortgagees were more strict in their demands of interest, than his tenants in payment of their rents. His man of business, who had made his fortune in the service of the family, was not wanting in accommodation to his client ; but he was a man of business: he could not sympathize ■with the peculiar feelings and fancies of Sir Rat- clifle, and he persisted in seizing every opportunity of urging on him the advisability of selling his estates. However, by strict economy and tempo- rary assistance from his lawyer. Sir Ratclilfe, during the first ten years of his marriage, managed to carry on affairs, and though occasional embarrassment sometimes caused him fits of gloom and despond- ency, the sanguine spirit of his wife, and the confi- dence in the destiny of their beautiful child which she regularly enforced upon him, maintained on the whole his courage. All their hopes and joys were indeed centered in the education of the little Ferdinand. At ten years of age he was one of those spirited, and at the same time docile, boys, who seem to eomlxne w'ith the wild and careless grace of childhood the thoughtfulness and self-disci- pline of mat.-.rer age. It was the constant and truthful boast of his parents, that in spite of all his liveliness, he had never in the whole course of his life disobeyed them. In the village, where he was idolized, they called him " the little prince ;" he was so gentle and so generous ; so kind, and yet so digni- fied in his demeanour. His education was very remarkable; for though he never quitted home, and lived indeed in such extreme seclusion, so richly gifted were those few persons with whom he passed his life, that it would have been diflicult to have fixed upon a youth, however favoured by fortune, who enjoyed greater advantages for the cultivation of his mind and manners. From the first dawn of the intellect of the young Armine, Glastonbury had devoted himself to its culture ; and the kind scholar, who had not shrunk from the painful and patient task of impregnating a young mind with the seeds of knowledge, had bedewed its budding promise with all the fertilizing influence of his learning and his taste. As Ferdinand advanced in years, he had participated in the accomplishments of his mother ; from her he derived not only a taste for the fine arts, but no unskilful practice. She, too, had culti- vated the rich voice with which nature had endow- ed him ; and it was his mother who t;\ught him not only to sing, but to dance. In more manly accomplishments Ferdinand could not have found a more skilful instructor than his father, a consum- mate sportsman, and who, like all his ancestors, was remarkable for his finished horsemanship, and the certainty of his aim. Under a roof, too, whose inmates were distinguished for their sincere piety and unaffected virtue, the higher duties of existence were not forgotten ; and Ferdinand Armine was early and ever taught to be sincere, dutiful, charita- ble, and just; and to have a deep sense of the great account hereafter to be delivered to his Creator. The very foibles of his parents which he imbibed tended to the maintenance of his magnanimity. His illustrious lineage was early impressed upon him, and inasmuch as little now was left to them but their honour, so was it doubly incumbent upon him to preserve that chief treasure, of which fortune could not deprive them, unsullied. This much of the education of Ferdinand Ar- mine. With great gifts of nature, with lively and highly cultivated talents, and a most affectionate and disciplined temper, he was adored by the friends, who nevertheless had too much sense to spoil him. But for his character, what was thatl Perhaps, with all their anxiety and all their care, and all their apparent opportunities for observation, the parents and the tutor are rarely skilful in discover- ing the character of their child or charge. Custom blunts the fineness of psychological study : those with whom we have lived long and early, are apt to blend our essential and our accidental qualities in one bewildering association. The consequences of education and of nature are not sufficiently dis- criminated. Nor is it, indeed, marvellous, that for a long time temperament should be disguised and even stifled by education ; for it is, as it were, a contest between a child and a man. There were moments when Ferdinand Armine loved to be alone ; when he could fly from all the fondness of his friends, and roam in solitude amid the wild and desolate pleasure-grounds, or wander for hours in the halls and galleries of the castle, gazing on the pictures of his ancestors. He ever experienced a strange satisfaction in beholding the portrait of his grandfather. He would stand some- times abstracted for many minutes before the por- trait of Sir Ferdinand, in the gallery, painted by Reynolds, before his grandfather left England, and which the child already singularly resembled. But vi'as there any other resemblance betvi'een them than form and feature I Did the fiery imagination and the terrible passions of that extraordinary man lurk in the innocent heart and the placid mien of his young descendant! Awful secrets these, which this history shall unfold. No matter now ! Be- hold, he is a light-hearted and airy child ! Thought passes over his brow like a cloud in a summer-sky, or the shadow of a bird over the sunshiny earth ; and he skims away from the silent hall and his momentary revery, to fly a kite or chase a butterfly ', 564 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. CHAPTER V. A D05IESTIC SCENE. I'eahs glided away without any remarkable in- cidents in the Hfe of young Ferdinand. He seldom quitted home, except as companion to Glastonbury in his pcdestrain excursions, when he witnessed a different kind of life to that displayed in an annual visit which he paid to Grandison. The boy amused his grandfather, with whom, therefore, he became a favourite. The old lord, indeed, would have had no objection to his grandson passing half the year with him ; and he always returned home with a benediction, a letter full of praises, and a ten-pound note. Lady Armine was quite delighted with these symptoms of affection on the part of her father towards her child ; and augured from them the most important future results. But Sir Ratcliffe, who was not blessed with so sanguine a tempera- ment as his amiable lady, and who, unbiassed by blood, was perhaps better qualified to form 'an opinion of the character of his father-in-law, never shared her transports, and seldom omitted an oppor- tunity of restraining. " It is all very well, my dear," he would observe, " for Ferdinand to visit his relations. Lord Gran- dison is his grandfather. It is very proper that he should visit his grandfather. I like him to be seen at Grandison. That is all very right. Grandison is a first-rate establishment, where he is certain of meeting persons of his own class, with whom cir- cumstances unhappily" — and here Sir Ratcliffe sighed — "debar him from mixing: and your father, Constance, is a very good sort of man. I like your father, Constance, you know, very much. No person ever could be more courteous to me than your father has ever been. I have no complaints to make of your father, Constance; or your brother, or indeed of any member of your family. I like them all ; I like them very much. Persons more kind, or more thoroughly bred, I am sure I never knew. And I think they like us — I do indeed — I think they like us very much. They appear to me to be always really glad to see us, and to be unaf- fectedly sorry when we quit them. I am sure I should be very happy if it were in my power to return their hospitality, and welcome them at Ar- mine: but it is useless to think of that. God only knows whether we shall be able to remain here ourselves. All I want to make you feel, my love, is, that if you are building any castle in that little brain of yours on the ground of expectations from Grandison, trust me, you will be disappointed, my dear, you will indeed." " But my love — " " If your father die to-morrow, my dear, he will not leave us a shilling. And who can complain? I cannot. He has always been very frank. I re- member when we were going to marry, and I was obliged to talk to him al)out your portion — I re- member it as if it were only yesterday — I remember his saying, with the most flattering smile in the world, ' I wish the £5,000, Sir Ratcliffe, were JE.50,000, for your sake ; particularly, as it never will be in my power to increase it.' " " But my dear Ratcliffe, surely he may do some- thing for his favourite, Ferdinand?" " jMy dear Constance — there you are again ! Why favourite ? I hate the very word. Your father is a good-natured man. a very good-natured man — your father is one of the best-natured men I ever was acquainted with. He has not a single care in the world, and he thinks nobody else has; and what is more, my dear, nobody ever could per- suade him that anybody else has. He has no idea of our situation ; he never could form an idea of our situation. If I chose to attempt to make him understand it, he would listen with the greatest politeness, shrug his shoulders at the end of the story, tell me to keep up my spirits, and order another bottle of Madeira, in order that he might illustrate his precept by practice. He is a good natured selfish man. He likes us to visit him, be cause you are gay and agreeable, and because I never asked a favour of him in the whole course of our acquaintance : he likes Ferdinand to visit him, because he is a handsome, fine-spirited boy, and his friends congratulate him on having such a grandson. And so Ferdinand is his favourite ; and next year I should not be surprised were he to give him a pony; and perhaps, if he die, he will leave him fifty guineas to buy a gold ^Jatch." \u Well, I dare say you are right, Ratcliffe ; but still nothing that you can say, will ever persuade me that Ferdinand is not papa's decided favour- ite." " Well ! we shall soon see what this favour is worth," retorted Sir Ratcliffe, rather bitterly. "Re- gularly every visit for the last three years, your father has asked me what I intended to do with Ferdinand. I said to him last year, more than I thought I ever could say to any one — I told him that Ferdinand was now fifteen, and that I wished to get him a commission ; but that I had no influ- ence to get him a commission, and no money to pay for it, if it were offered me. I think that was pretty plain ; and I have been surprised ever since, that I ever could have placed myself in such a de- grading position as to say so much." " Degrading, my dear Ratcliffe," said his wife. " I felt it as such ; and such I still feel it." At this moment Glastonbury, who was standing at the other end of the room, examining a large folio, and who had evidently been very uneasy during the whole conversation, attempted to quit the room. " My dear Glastonbury," said Sir Ratcliffe, with a forced smile, "you are alarmed at our domestic broils. Pray, do not leave the room. You know we have no secrets from you." " No, indeed, do not go, Mr. Glastonbury," added Lady Armine : " and if indeed there be a domestic broil," — and here she rose and kissed her hus- band, — " at any rate witness our reconciliation." Sir Ratcliffe smiled, and returned his wife's em- brace with much feeling, " My own Constance," he said, " you are the dearest wife in the world; and if I ever feel un^ happy, believe me it is only because I do not sea you in the position to which you are entitled." " I know no fortune to be compared to your love, Ratcliffe ; and as for our child, nothing will ever persuade me that all will not go right, and that he will not restore the fortunes of the family." " Amen !" said Glastonbury, closing the book with a reverberating sound. " Nor indeed can I believe that Providence will ever desert a great and pious line !" HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 565 CHAPTER VI. eoXT.llXIXO ANOTHEU DOMESTIC SCES'K. Ladt Ahminb and Gliistonliury were both too mui'li interested in the welfare of Sir KatchlTe, not lo ohscrve with deep concern that a great, although gradual, change had occurred in his character dur- ing the last live years. He had become moody and querulous, occasionally even irritable. His consti- tutional melancholy, long diverted by the influence of a vigorous youth, the society of a charming woman, and the interesting feelings of a fother, began to reassert its ancient and essential sway, and at times even to deepen into gloom. Some- times whole days elapsed without his ever indulg- ing in conversation ; his nights, once tranquil, vs'ere now remarkable for their restlessness; his wife was alarmed at the siglis and agitation of his dreams. He quite abandoned also his field sports, and none of those innocent sources of amusement, in which it was once his boast their retirement was so rich, now interested him. In vain Lady Arminc sought his society in her walks, or consulted him about her flowers. His frigid and monosyllabic replies discouraged all her eilbrts. No longer did he lean over her easel, or call for a repetition of his favourite song. At times these dark fits passed away, and if not cheerful, he was at least serene. But, on the whole, he was an altered man ; and his wife could no longer resist the miserable conviction, that he was an unhappy one. She, however, was at least spared the mortifica- tion, the bitterest that a wife can experience, of feeling that this change in his conduct was occa- sioned by any indillerence towards her ; for, averse as Sir KatclifTe was to converse on a subject so hopeless and ungrateful as the stale of his fortune, Btill there were times in which he could not refrain from communicating to the partner of his bosom all the causes of his misery, and these, indeed, too truly had she divined. "Alas!" she would sometimes say, as she tried to compose his restless pillow ; " what is this pride, to which you men sacrifice every thing 1 For me, who am a woman, love is sufficient. O ! my Rat- clilTc, why do you not feel like your Constance 1 What if these estates be sold, still we are Armincs ! and still our dear Ferdinand is spared to us ! Be- lieve me, love, that if deference to your feelings has prompted my silence, I have long felt that it would be wiser for us at once to meet a necessary evil. For God's sake, put an end to the tortures of this life, which is destroying us both. Poverty, abso- lute poverty, with you and with your love, I can meet even with cheerfulness ; but indeed, my Rat- clifle, I can bear our present life no longer ; I shall die, if you be unhappy. And O ! dearest Ratclitle, if that were to happen which sometimes I fear has happened, if vou were no longer to love me — " But here ^ir Ratelifte assured her of the reverse. "Only think," she would continue, '-if when wc married we had voluntarily done that which we may now be forced to do, we really should have been almost rich people; at least we should have had quite enough to live in ease, and even elegan.tc. And now we owe thousands to that horrible Bag- sto.-, who, I am sure, cheated your father out of nocse and home, and, I dare say, after all, wants to (•uy Armine for himself." " He buy Armine ! An attorney buy Armine ! Never, Constance, never — I will be buried in its ruins first. There is no sacrifice that I would not sooner make — " " But, dearest love, suppose we sell it to some one else, and suppose, after paying every thing, we have thirty thousand pounds left. How well we could live abroad on the interest of thirty thousand pounds !" "There would not be thirty thousai^pounds left now !" ^H^ "Well, five-and-twenty, or even tweTOf. I could manage on twenty. And then we could buy a commission for dear Ferdinand." " But to leave our child !" " Could not he go into the Spanish service. Per- haps yoti could get a commission in the Spanish Guards for nothing. They must remember you there. And such a name is Armine ! I have no doubt that the king would be quite proud lo have another Armine in his guard. And then we could live at Madrid ; and that would be so delightful ; because you speak Spanish so beautifully, and I could learn it very quickly. I am very quick at learning languages. I am indeed." " I think you are very ([uick at every thing, dear Constance. I am sure you are really a treasure of a wife ; I have cause every hour to bless you ; and if it were not for my own sake, I should say that I wished you had made a happier marriage." "O I do not say that, Ratclilfe; say any thing but that, Ratcliffe. If you love me, I am the hap- piest woman that ever lived. Be sure always of that." " I wonder if they do remember me at Madrid !" " To be sure they do. How could they forget you — how could they forget my Ratclilfe T I dare say, you go to this day by the name of the hand- some Englishman." • " Poh ! I remember when I left England before — I had no wife then, no child, bull remembered who I vvas — and when I thought I was the last of our race, and that I was in all probability going to spill the little blood that was spared of us in a foreign soil — O ! Constance, I do not think I ever could forget the agony of that moment. Had it been for England, I would have met my fate without a pang. No ! Constance, I am an Englishman — I am proud of being an Englishman. My fathers helped to make this country what it is ; no one can deny that, and no consideration in the world shall ever induce me again to quit this island." " But suppose we do not quit England. Sup pose we buy a small estate, and live at home." " A small estate at home ! A small, new estate ! Bought of a Mr. Hopkins, a great tallow-chandler, or some stock-jobber about to make a new flight from a lodge lo a park. no ! that would bo too degrading." " But suppose we keep one of our own manors!" " And be reminded every instant of every day of those we have lost ; and hear of the wonderful improvements of our successors. I should go mad." " But suppose we live in London 1" " Where V " I am sure I do not know, but I should think we might get a nice little house somewhere." " In a suburb ! a fitting lodgment for Lady Armine. No I at any rate we will have no wit- nesses to our fall." " But could not we try some place near my fa- ther's]" 3B 566 D' ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " And be patronised by the great family with t\'hom I had the good fortune of being connected. Ko ! my dear Constance, I like your father very well, but I could not stand his eleemosynary haunches of venison, and great baskets of apples and cream cheeses sent with the housekeeper's duty." " But what shall we do, dear Ratcliffe V " My love, there is no resisting fate. We must live or die at Arraine, even if we starve." "Perhaps something will turnup. I dreamed the other night that dear Ferdinand married an heiress. Suppose he were 1 What do you think V "Why, even then, that he would not be as lucky as his father. Good night, love !" CHAPTER VII. COXTAIIfING AN UNEXPECTED VISIT TO LONDON AND ITS CONSEaUENCES. The day after the conversation in the library to which Glastonbury had been an unwilling listener, he informed his friends that it was necessary lOr him to visit the metropolis; and as young Ferdi- nand had never yet seen London, he proposed that he should accompany him. Sir Ratclifl'e and Lady Armine cheerfully assented to this proposition ; and as for Ferdinand, it is ditlicult to describe the delight which the anticipation of his visit occa- sioned him. The three days that were to elapse before his departure did not seem sufficient to en- sure the complete packing of his portmanteau; and his excited manner, the rapidity of his conversa- tion, and the restlessness of his movements, were very diverting. " Mamma ! is London twenty times bigger than Tsoltingham? How big is it, then ] Shall we travel all night ! What o'clock is it now ? I Ti'onder if Thursday will ever come ? I think I shall go to bed early, to finish the day sooner. Do you think my cap is good eno,ugh to travel in 1 I shall buy a hat in London. I shall get up early the very first morning, and buy a hat. Do you think my uncle is in London ? I wish Augustus were not at Eton, perhaps he would be there. I Tvonder if Mr. Glastonbury will take me to see St. Paul's ! I wonder if he will take me to the play ! I'd give any thing to go to the play. I should like to go to the play and St. Paul's ! Mamma ! do you think six shirts are enough 1 I think I had better take eight. I am sure there must be room for eight. What fun it will be dining on the road I" It did indeed seem that Thursday never would come ; yet it came at last. The travellers were obliged to rise before the sun, and drive over to IVottingham to meet their coach ; so they bade their adieus the previous eve. As for Ferdinand, so fearful was he of losing the coach that he scarcely slept, and was never convinced that he was really in time until he found himself planted in breath- less agitation outside of the Dart light post-coach. It was the first time in his life that he had ever tra- velled outside of a coach. He felt all the excite- ment of expanding experience and advancing man- hood. They whirled along : at the end of every stage Ferdinand followed the example of his fellow- travellers and dismounted, and then with sparkling eyes hurried to Glastonbury, who was inside, to inquire how he sped. " Capital travelling, isn't it, sir ? Did the ten miles within the hour. You have no idea what a fellow our coachman is ; and the guard, such a fellow our guard ! — Don't wait here a moment. Can I get any thing for youl We dine at Millfield. What fun !" Away whirled the dashing Dart over the rich plains of our merry midland ; a quick and daz- zling vision of golden corn-liclds, and lawny pas- ture land ; farmhouses embowered in orchards and hamlets shaded by the straggling members of some vast and ancient forest. Then rose in the distance the dim blue towers or the graceful spire of some old cathedral, and soon the spreading causeways an- nounce their approach to some provincial capital The coachman flanks his leaders, who break into a gallop ; the guard sounds his triumphant bugle ; the coach bounds over the noble bridge that spans a stream covered with craft; public buildiwgs, guildhalls, and county jails, rise on each side. Rattling through many an inferior way, they at length emerge into the High Street, the observed of all observers, and mine host of the Red Lion or the White Hart, followed by all his waiters, ad- vances from his portal with a smile to receive the " gentlemen passengers." "The coach stops here half an hour, gentlemen : dinner quite ready !" 'Tis a delightful sound. And what a dinner! What a profusion of substantial delicacies ! What mighty and Iris-tinted rounds of beef! What vast and marble-veined ribs ! What gelatinous veal pies ! What colossal hams ! Those are evi- dently prize cheeses ! And how invigorating is the perfume of those various and variegated pickles ! Then the bustle emulating the plenty ; the ringing of bells, the clash of thoroughfare, the summoning of ubiquitous waiters, and the all-per- vading feeling of omnipotence, from the guests, who order what they please, to the landlord, who can produce and execute every thing they can de- sire. 'Tis a wondrous sight ! Why should a man go and see the pyramids and cross the desert, when he has not beheld York Minster or travelled on the Road ! Our little Ferdinand, amid all this novelty, heartily enjoyed himself, and did ample justice to mine host's good cheer. They were soon whirling again along the road, but at sunset, Ferdinand, at the instance of Glastonbury, availed himself of his inside place, an-d, wearied by the air and the excite- ment of the day, he soon fell soundly asleep. Several hours had elapsed when, awaking from a confused dream, in which Armine and all he had lately seen were blended together; he found his fellow-travellers slumbering, and the mail dashing along through the illuminated streets of a great city. The streets were thickly thronged. Ferdi- nand stared at the magnificence of the shops blaz- ing with lights, and the multitude of men and vehicles moving in all directions. The guard sounded his bugle with treble energy, and the coach suddenly turned through an arched entrance into the court-yard of an old-fashioned inn. His fellow- passengers started, and rubbed their eyes. "So! we have arrived, I suppose;" grumbled one of these gentlemen, taking off his night-cap. " Yes, gentlemen, I am hajipy to say our journey is finished," said a more polite voice ; " and a very pleasant one I have found it. Porter, have uie goodness to call me a coach." HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 567 " And one for me," added the grufT voice, " Mr. Glastonbury," wliisperod the awe-struck Ferdinand, "is this London !" "This is London; but we have yet two or three miles to 50 before we reach our quarters. I think we had better alight and look after our luggage. Gentlemen, good evening !" It was ten o'clock. Mr. Glastonbury hailed a coach, in which, having safely deposited their port- manteaus, lie and Ferdinand entered : but our young friend was so entirely overcome by his feel- ings and the genius of the place, that he was quite unable to make an observation. Each minute the streets seemed to grow more spacious and more brilliant, and the multitude more dense and more excited. Beautiful buildings, too, rose before him ; palaces, and churches, and streets, and squares of imposing architecture; to his inexperienced eye and unsophisticated spirit, their route appeared a never-ending triumph. To the hackney-coachman, however, who had no imagination, and who was quite satiated with metropolitan experience, it only appeared that he had an exceedingly good fare, and that he was jogging up from Bishopgate street to Charing Cross. When Jarvis, therefore, had safely deposited his charge at Morley's Hotel, in Cockspur street, and had extorted from them an extra shilling, in con- sideration of their evident rustication, he bent his course to the Opera House, for clouds were gather- ing, and, with the favour of Providence, there seemed a chance about midnight of picking up some helpless beau, or desperate cabless dandy, the choicest victim in a midnight shower of these pub- lic conveyances. The coflfee-room at Morley's was a new scene of amusement to Ferdinand, and he watched with great diversion the two evening papers portioned out among twelve eager quidnunc?!, and the evident anxiety which they endured, and the nice diploma- cies to which they resorted to oWtain the envied journals. The entrance of our two travellers, so alarmingly increasing the demand over the supply, at first seemed to attract considerable and not very friendly notice ; but when a malignant half-pay officer, in order to revenge himself for the restless watchfulness of his neighbour, a very political doc- tor of divinity, offered the journal, which he had long finished, to Glastonbury, and it was declined, the general alarm visibly diminished. Poor Mr. Glastonbury had never looked into a newspaper in his life, save the County Chronicle, to which he occasionally contributed a communication giving an account of the digging up of some old coins, signed Antiquarius; or of the exhumation of some fossil remains, to which he more boldly appended his initials. Ill spile of the strange clatter in the streets, Fer- dinand slept well, and the next morning, after an early breakfast, himself and his fellow-traveller set out on their peregrinations. Young and sanguine, full of health and enjoyment, innocent and happv, it was with dilBculty that Ferdinand could restrain his spirits, as he mingled in the bustle of the streets. It was a bright sunny morning, and, al- tliough the end of June, the town was yet quite full. "Is this Charing Cross, sir 1 — I wonder if we shall ever be able to get over. — Is this the fullest part of the town, sir? — What a fine day, sir ? — How lucky we arc in the weather? — We are lucky in every thing! — Whose house is that? — Northum- berland House ! — Is it the Duke of IVorthumber- land's ? Does he live there 1 How I should like to see it ! — Is it very fine? — Who is that ? — What is this 1 — The Admiralty ; O ! let me see, the Ad- miralty ! — The Horse Guards. — ! where, where ] Let us set our watches by the Horse Guards. The guard of our coach always sets his watch by the Horse Guards. — Mr. Glastonbury, which is the best clock, the Horse Guards or St. Paul's ! — Is that the Treasury 1 Can we go in 1 — That is Downing street, is it ? — I never heard of Downing street. — What do they do in Downing street? — Is this Charing Cross still, or is it Parliament street ? — Where does Charing Cross end, and where does Parliament street begin ? — By Jove, I see West- minster Abbey !" After visiting Westminster Abbey, and the two Houses of Parliament, Mr. Glastonbury, looking at his watch, said it was now time to call upon a friend of his who lived in St. James's Square. This was the nobleman with whom early in life Glastonbury had been connected, and with whom and whose family he had become so great a fa- vourite,, that, notwithstanding his retired life, they had never permitted the connexion entirely to sub- side. During the very few risits which he had made to the metropolis, he always called in St. James's Square, and his reception always assured him that his remembrance imparted pleasure. When Glastonbury sent up his name he was instantly admitted, and ushered up stairs. The room was very ftill, but it consisted only of a family party. The old dutchess, who was a most interest- ing personage, with fine gray hair, a clear blue eye, and a most soft voice, vi'as surrounded by her grand- children, who were at home for the midsummer holidays, and who had gathered together at her house this morning to consult upon amusements^ Among them was her grandson, the heir presump- tive of the house, a youth of the age of Ferdinand, and of a very prepossessing appearance. It was difficult to meet a more amiable and agreeable fa- mily, and nothing could exceed the kindness with which they all welcomed Glastonbury. The duke himself soon appeared in his morning gown. "My dear, dear Glastonbury," said the kind-hearted old gentleman, " I heard you were here, and I would come. Caroline will not let me enter her rooms in these rags, but to-day I am to be excused. This shall be a holiday for us all. Why, man, you bury yourself alive!" " Mr. Armine," said the dutchess, pointing to Ferdinand. " Mr. Armine, how do you do? Your grand- father and I were very well acquainted. I am proud and glad to know his grandson. I hope your father. Sir Katclilfe, and Lady Armine are quite well. Well, my dear Glastonbury, I hope you have come to stay a long, long time. You must dine with us every day, you must indeed. You know we arc very oldfashioned people ; wo do not go much into the world ; so you will find us at home every day ; and we will do what wo can to amuse your young friend. Why! I should think he was about the same age as Digby ? Is he at Eton ? His grandfather was ! I never shall forget the time he cut olT old Barnard's pirrtail. He was a wonderful man — Poor Sir Ferdinand' — He was indeed !" While his grace and Glastonbury maintainetl 568 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS their conversation, Ferdinand conducted himself with so much spirit and propriety towards the rest of the party, an.d gave them such a Hvely and graceful narrative of all his travels up to town, and the wonders he had already witnessed, that they were quite delighted with him ; and, in short, from this moment, during his visit to London, he was scarcely ever out of their society, and every day became a greater favourite with them. His letters to his mother, for he wrote to her almost every day, recounted all their successful efllarts for his amuse- ment, and it seemed that he passed his mornings in a round of sight-seeing, and that he v^ent to the play every night of his life. Perhaps there never existed a human being who at this moment more thoroughly enjoyed life than Ferdinand Armine. In the mean time, while he thought only of amusement, ?/Ir. Glastonbury was not inattentive to his more important interests; for the truth is that this excellent man had introduced him to the family only with the hope of interesting the feel- ings of the duke in his behalf. His grace was a man of a very generous disposition. He sympa- thized with the recital of (jlastonbury, as he de- tailed to him the unfortunate situation of this youth, sprung from so illustrious a lineage, and yet cut off by a combination of unhappy circumstances, from almost all those natural sources whence he might have expected support and countenance. And when Glastonbury, seeing that the duke's heart was moved, added, that all he required for him, Ferdinand, was a commission in the army, for whic4i his parents were jirepared to advance the money, his grace instantly declared that he would exert all his influence to obtain their purpose. Mr. Glastonbury was, therefore, more gratified than surprised when, a few days after the conver- sation which we have mentioned, his noble friend informed him, with a smile, that he believed all might he arranged, provided his young charge could make it convenient to quit England at once. A vacancy had unexpectedly occurred in a regiment just ordered to Malta, and an ensigncy had been promised to Ferdinand Armine. Mr. Glastonbury gratefully closed with the oiler. He sacrificed a fourth part of his moderate independence in the purchase of the commission and the outfit of his young friend, and had the supreme satisfaction, ere the third week of their visit was completed, of for- warding a gazette to Armine, containing the ap- pointment of Ferdinand Armine as ensign in the Royal Fusileers. CHAPTER Vlir. A VISIT TO GLASTOXBURy's CHAHrHEH. It was arranged that Ferdinand should join his regiment by the next Meiliterranean packet, which ^as not to quit Falmouth for a fortnight. Glaston- bury and himself, therefore, lost no time in bidding adieu to their kind friends in London, and hasten- ing to Armme. They arrived the day after the gazette. They found Sir RatclilTe waiting for them at the town, and the fond smile and cordial embrace with which he greeted Glastonbury, more than re- paid that good man for all his exertions. There was, notwithstanding, a perce[)tible degree of con- straint both on the part of the baronet and his for- jner tutor. It was very evident that Sir Ratcliife had something on his mind, of which he wished to disburden himself; and it was equally apparent that Glastonbury was very unwilling to afford him an ojiportunity. Under these rather awkward cir^ cumstances, it was perhaps fortunate that Ferdinand talked without ceasing, giving his father an account of all he had seen, done, and heard, and of ail the friends he had made, from the good Duke of , to that capital fellow, the guard of the coach. They were at the park gates: Lady Armine was there to meet them. The carriage stopped ; Ferdi- nand jumped out and embraced his mother. She kissed him, and ran forward and extended both her hands to Mr. Glastonbury. "Deeds, not words, must show her feelings," she said ; and the tears glittered in her beautiful eyes; Glastonbury, with a blush, pressed her hand to his lips. After dinner, during which Ferdinand recounted all his adven- tures. Lady Armine invited him, when she rose, to walk with her in the garden. It was then with an air of considerable confusion, clearing his throat, and tilling his glass at tlie same time, that Sir Rat- cliife said to his remaining guest, " My dear Glastonbury, you cannot suppose that I believe that the days of magic have returned. This commission — both Constance and myself feel, that is, we are certain — that you are at the bottom of it all. The commission is purchased. I could not expect the duke, deeply as I feel bis generous kindness, to purchase a commission for my son : I could not permit it. No, Glastonbury," and here Sir Ratclifle became more animated, "?/oz« could not permit it; my honour is safe in your hands 1" Sir Ratcliife paused for a reply. " On that score my conscience is very clear," replied Glastonbury. " It is then, it must be then as I suspect," rejoin- ed Sir Ratcliffe. " I am your debtor for this great service." " It is easy to count your obligations to me," said Glastonbury; "but mine to you and yours are in calou labile." " My dear Glastonbury," said Sir Ratclifle, push- ing his glass away, as he rose from his seat and walked up and down the room, "I may be proud, but I have no pride for you, I owe you too much — indeed, my dear friend, there is nothing that I would not accept from you, were it in your power to grant what you vi'ould desire. It is not pride, my dear Glastonbury, do not mistake me, it is not pride that prompts this explanation — but, but, had I your command of language, I would explain my- self more readily — but the truth is, I, I — I cannot permit that you should sufler for us, Glastonbury, I cannot indeed." Mr. Glastonbury looked at Sir Ratcliffe steadily; then rising from his seat, he took the baronet's arm, and without saying a word walked slowly towards the gates of the castle where he lodged, and which we have before described. When he had reached the steps of the tower, he withdrew his arm, and saying, "let me be pioneer," invited Sir R.itcliffo to follow him. They accordingly entered his chamber. It was a small room lined with shelves of books except in one spot, where was suspended a portrait of Lady Barbara, which she had beijueathed him in her will. The floor was covered with so many boxes and cases, that it was not very easy to steer a course when you had entered. Glastonbury however, beckoned to his companion to seat him- HENRIETTA TEMPLK. 569 8«lf in one of his two chairs, while he unlocked a small cabinet, from a drawer of which he brought forth a paper. " It is my will," said Glastonbury, handing it to Sir Ralclirt'e, who laid it down on the table. "Nay, I wish you, my dear friend, to peruse it, for it concerns yourself." " I would rather learn its contents from yourself, if you positively desire me," replied Sir Ratclilfe. "I have left every thing to our child," said Glas- tonbury ; for thus, when speaking to the father alone, he would often style the son. " .May it he long before he enjoys the bequest," said Sir Ratclifle, brushing away a tear, " long, very long." " As the Almighty pleases," said Glastonbury, crossiuiT himself with great devotion. " ]5ut living or dead, I look upon all as Ferdinand's, and hold myself but the steward of his inheritance, which I will never abuse." " O ! Glastonbury, no more of this, I pray ; you have wasted a precious life upon our forlorn race. Alas! how often and how keenly do I feel, that had it not been for the name of Armine, your great talents and goodness might have gained for you an enviable portion of earthly felicity ; yes, Glaston- bury, you have sacriliced yourself to us," " Would that I could I" said the old man, with brightening eyes and an unaccustomed energy of manner. " Would that I could ! would that any act of mine — I care not what — could revive the fortunes of the house of Armine. Honoured for- cvi;r be the name, which with me is associated with all that is great and glorious in man, and (here his voice faltered, and he turned away his face) exqui- site and enchanting in woman ! "No, Ratclilfe," he resumed, "by the memory of one I cannot name — by that blessed and sainted being from whom you derived your life, you will not, you cannot, deny this last favour I ask, I en- treat, I supplicate you to accord me — me, who have ever eaten of your bread, and whom your roof hath ever shrouded !" " My friend, I cannot speak," said Sir RatclilTe, throwing himself back in the chair, and covering his face with his right hand. " I know not what to say ; I know not what to feel." Glastonbury advanced and gently took his other hand. " Dear Sir Ratclilfe," he observed, in his usual calm, sweet voice, "if I have erred you will pardon me. I did believe that, after my long and intimate connexion with your house; after having for nearly f()rty years sympathized as deeply with all your fortunes as if, indeed, your noble blood flowed in these old veins; after having been honoured on your side with a friendship which has been the consolation and charm of iiiy existence — indeed, too great a blessing, I did believe, more es- pecially when I reminded myself of the unrestrained manner in which I had availed myself of the ad- vantagns of that friendship, I did believe — actuated by feelings which perhaps I cannot describe, and thoughts to which I cannot now cive utterance — that I might venture, without offence, upon this slight service. Ay, that the offering might be made in the spirit of the most respectful affection, and not altogether be devoid of favour in your sight." "Excellent, kind-hearted man!" said Sir Rat- cl-iffe, pressing the hand of Glastonbury in his own ; " I accept your offering in the spirit of per- 72 feet love. Believe me, dearest friend, it was no feeling of false pride that for a moment influenced me ; T only Jolt — " "That in venturing upon this humble service, I deprived myself of some portion of my means of livelihood ; you have mistaken. When I east my lot at .\rmirie, I sank a portion of my capital on mj life; so slender are my wants here, and so little does your dear lady permit me to desire, that, be- lieve me, I have never yet expended upon myself this apportioned income ; and, as for the rest, it is, as you have seen, destined for our Ferdinand. Yet a little time, and Adrian Glastonbury must be gathered to his fathers. Why, then, deprive him of the greatest gratification of his remaining years ? the consciousness that, to be really serviceable to those he loves, it is not necessary for him to cease to exist." " May you never repent your devotion to our house !" said Sir Ratclilfe, rising from his seat. "Time was we could give them who served us something better than thanks; but, at any rate, these come from the heart." CHAPTER IX. THE LAST DAT AXD THE LAST NIGHT. l-x the mean time, the approaching departure of Ferdinand was the great topic of interest at Ar- mine. It was settled that his father should accom- pany him to Falmouth, where he was to embark; and that they should pay a visit on their way to his grandfather, whose scat was situated in the west of England. This separation, now so near at hand, occasioned Lady Armine the deepest afllic- tion, but she struggled to suppress her emotion. Yet often, while apparently busied with the com mon occupations of the day, the tears trickled down her cheek; and often she rose from her restless seat, while surrounded by those slie loved, to set^k the solitude of her chamber, and indulge her over whelming sorrow. Nor was, indeed, Ferdinand less sensible of the bitterness of this separation. With all the excitement of his new prospects, and the feeling of approaching adventure and fancied independence, so flattering to inexperienced youth, he could not forget that his had been a very happy home. Nearly seventeen years of an innocent existence had passed, undisturbed by a single bad passion, and unsullied by a single action that he could rcsret. The river of his life had glided along, reflecting only a cloudless sky. But if he, indeed, had been dutiful and happy — if at this mo- ment of severe examination his conscience were indeed serene — he could not but feel how much this enviable state of mind was to be attributed to those who had, as it were, imbued his life with love; whose never-varyiiig affection had developed all the kindly feelings of his nature, had anticipated all his wants, and listened to all his wishes; had assisted him in dilTieulty, and guided him in doubt; had invited conlidence by kindness, and deserved it by sympathy; had robbed instruction of all its la^ hour, and discipline of all its harshness. It was the last day ; on the morrow he was to quit Armi le. He strolled about among the mould- ering chambers of the castle, and a host of thoughts and passions, like clouds in a stormy sky, coursed 3b3 570 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. over his hitherto serene and Hght-hearted breast. In this first great struggle of his Soul, sojiie symp- tems of his latent nature deveiojici] thrinsclves, and, amid the rifts of the mental teiii|)es;, occa- sionally he caught some glimpses of self-knowledge. Nature, that had endowed him with a fiery imagi- nation and a reckless courage, had tempered those dangerous, and hitherto those undeveloped and untried gifts, with a heart of infinite sensibility. Ferdinand Armine was, in truth, a singular blend- ing of the daring and the soft; and now, as he looked around him, and thought of his illustrious and fallen race, and especially of that extraordinary man, of whose splendid and ruinous career — that man's own creation — the surrounding pile seemed a fitting emblem, he asked himself if he had not inherited the energies with the name of his grand- sire, and if their exertion might not yet revive the glories of his line. He felt within him alike the power and the will: and vihile he indulged in magnificent reveries of fame, and glory, and heroic action, of which career, indeed, his approaching departure was to be the commencement, the asso- ciation of ideas led his recollection to those beings from whom he was about to depart. His fancy dropped like a bird of paradise in full wing, tum- bling exhausted in the sky; he thought of his imiocent and happy boyhood ; of his father's thoughtful benevolence, his sweet mother's gentle assiduities, and Glastonbury's devotion : and he demanded aloud, in a voice of misery, whether fate indeed could supply a lot more exquisite than to pass existence in these calm and beauteous bowers with such beloved companions. His name was called : it was his mother's voice. He dashed away a desperate tear, and came forth with a smiling face. His mother and father were walking together at a little distance. He joined them. "Ferdinand," said Lady Armine, with an air of affected gayety, " we have just been settling that you are to send me a gazelle from ?nalta." And in this strain, speaking of slight things, yet all in some degree touching upon the mournful incident of the morrow, did Lady Armine for some time converse, as if she were all this time trying the fortitude of her mind, and accustoming herself to a catastrophe which she was resolved to meet with fortitude. While they were walking together, Glastonbury, who was hurrying from his rooms to the Place, for the dinner hour was at hand, joined them, and they entered their home together. It was singular at dinner, too, in what excellent spirits everybody determined to be. The dinner, also, generally a very simple repast, was almost as elaborate as the demeanour of the guests, and, although no one felt inclined to cat, consisted of every dish and delicacy which was supposed to be a favourite with Ferdi- nand. Sir Ratclilfe, in general so grave, was to-day quite joyous, and produced a magnum of claret, which he had himself discovered in the old cellars, and of which even Glastonbury, an habitual water- drinker, ventured to partake. As for Lady Armine, she scarcely ever ceased talking ; she found a jest m every sentence, and seemed only uneasy I'hen there was silence, Ferdinand, of course, yielded himself to the apparent spirit of the party ; and, liad a stranger been present, he could only have supposed that they were celebrating some anniver- sary of domestic joy. It seemed rather a birthday feast than the last social meeting of those who had lived together so long, and loved each other so dearly. But, as the evening drew on, their hearts began to grow heavy, and every one was glad that the early departure of the travellers on the morrow was an excuse for speedily retiring. " No adieus to-night !" said Lady Armine with a gay air, as she scarcely returned the habitual cm- brace of her son. "We shall be all up to-morrow." So wishing his last good night, with a charged heart and faltering tongue, Ferdinand Armine took up his candle and retired to his chamber. He could not refrain from exercising an unusual scru- tiny when he had entered the room. He held up the light to the old accustomed walls, and threw a parting glance of aflection at the curtains. 'J'here was the glass vase which his mother had never omitted each day to fill with fresh flowers, and the counterpane that was her own handiwork. He kissed it; and, flinging off his clothes, was glad when he was surrounded by darkness, and buried in his bed. There was a gentle tap at his door. He started, "Are you in bed, my Ferdinand T' inquired his mother's voice. Ere he could reply he heard the door open, and he observed a tall white figure approaching him. Lady Armine, without speaking, knelt down by his bedside, and took him in her arms. She buried her face in his breast. He felt her tears upon his heart. He could not move; he could not speak. At length he sobbed aloud. "May our Father that is in heaven bless you, my darling child ; may He guard over you ; may He preserve you !" Very weak was her still solemn voice. "I would have spared you this, my darling. For you, not for myself, have I controlled my feel- ings. But I knew not the strength of a mother's love. Alas ! what mother has a child like thee 1 O I Ferdinand, my first, my only-born — child of love, and joy, and happiness, that never cost me a thought of sorrow, so kind, so gentle, and so duti- ful ! — must we, O ! must we indeed part? "It is too cruel," continued Lady Armine, kiss- ing with a thousand kisses her weeping child. " What have I done to deserve such misery as this 1 Ferdinand, beloved Ferdinand, I shall die." " I will not go, mother, I will not go," wildly ex- claimed the boy, disengaging himself from her em- brace, and starting up in his bed. " Mother, I cannot go. No, no, it never can be good to leave a home like this." " Hush ! hush ! my darling. What words are these ? How unkind, how wicked is it of me to say all this ! Would that I had not come ! I only meant to listen at your door a minute, and hear you move, perhaps to hear you speak — and like a fool — how naughty of me ! — never, never shall I forgive myself — like a miserable fool I entered." "My own, own mother — what shall I say? — what shall I do ! I love you, mother, with all my heart, and soul, and spirit's strength; I love you, mother. There is no mother loved as you are loved !" " 'Tis that that makes me mad. I know it. 0! why are you not like other children, Ferdinand ] When your uncle left U5, my father said 'Good- bye,' and shook his hand, and he, hi scarcely kissed us, he was so glad to leave his home ; but you- -To- morrow — no, not to-morrow. Can it be to-morrow !" HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 571 '' Mother, let me get up and call my father, and tell him I will not go." " Good God ! what words are these 1 Not go ! 'Tis all your hope to go ; all ours, dear child, M'liat would your I'alher say were he to hear me speak thus ] O ! that I had not entered ! What a«fool I am !" " Dearest, dearest mother, believe me we shall soon meet." "Shall we soon meet! God! how joyous will be the day !" " And I — I will write to you by every ship." " O ! never fail, Ferdinand, never fail." " .\nd send you a gazelle, and you shall call it by my name, dear mother." "Darling child!" " You know I have often stayed a month at grandpapa's, and once six weeks. Why ! eight times six weeks, and I shall be home again." "Home ! home again ! eight times six weeks — A year, nearly a year ! It seems eternity. Winter, and spring, and summer, and winter again — all to pass away. And for seventeen years he has scarcely been out of my sight. O ! my idol, my beloved, my darling Ferdinand, I catniot believe it ; I cannot believe that we are to part." " Mother, dearest mother, think of my father, dearest ; think how much his hopes are placed on me — think, dearest mother, how much I have to do. All now depends on me, you know. I must restore our house." " O ! Ferdinand, I dare not express the thoughts that rise upon me ; yet I would say that, had I but my child, I could live in peace, how or where I care not." " Dearest mother, you unman me." " It is very wicked. I am a fool — I never, no ! never shall I pardon myself for this night, Ferdi- nand." "Sweet mother, I beseech you calm yourself. Believe me we shall indeed meet very soon, and, somehow or other, a little bird whispers to me we shall yet be very happy." " But will you be the same Ferdinand to me as before 1 Ay ! there it is, my child. You will be a man when you come back, and be ashamed to love your mother. Promise me now," said Lady Ar- mine with extraordinary energy, " promise me, Ferdinand, you will always love me. Do not let them make you ashamed of loving me. They will joke, and jest, and ridicule all home affections. You are very young, sweet love, very, very young, and very inexperienced and susceptible. Do not let them spoil your frank and beautiful nature. Do not let them lead you astray. Kcmember Armine, sweetest dear, dear Armine, and those who live there. Trust me, ! yes, indeed believe me, dar- ling, you will never find friends in this world like those you leave at Armine." " I know it," exclaimed Ferdinand, with stream- ing eyes; "God be my witness how deeply I feel that truth. If I forget thee and them, dear mother, may God indeed forget me." " .My darling, darling Ferdinand," said Lady .Ar- mine, in a calm tone, "I am better now. I hardly am sorry that I did come now. It will be a conso- lation to me in your absence to remember all you have saiu. Good night, my beloved child, my dar- ling love, good nisiht. I shall not come down to- morrow, dear. We will not meet again — I will say qpod-bye to you from the window. Be happy, 0! be happy, my dear Ferdinand, and as; you say, in- deed, we shall soon meet again. Eight-and-forty weeks ! Why what are eight-and-forty weeks ! It is not quite a year. Courage, my sweet boy ! let u-s keep up each other's spirits, love. Who knows what may yet come from this your first venture in the world ? I am full of hope. I trust you will find all that you want. I packed up every thing myself. Whenever you want any thing write to your mother. Mind you have eight pack- ages; I have written them down on a card, and placed it on the hall table. And take the greatest care of old Sir Ferdinand's sword. lam very super stitious about that sword, and while you have it I am sure you will succeed. I have ever thought that, had he taken it with him to France, all would have gone right with him. God bless, God Al- mighty bless you, child. Be of good heart. I will write you every thing that takes place, and, as you say, we shall sooii meet. Indeed after to-night," she added in a mournful tone, " we have naught else to think of but of meeting. I fear it is very late. Your father will be surprised at my absence." She rose from his bed and walked up and down the room several times in silence; then again ap- proaching him, she folded him in her arms and in- stantly quitted the chamber, without again speak- ing. CHAPTER X. the advantage of being a fat* urite ghattiison. The exhausted Ferdinand found consolation in sleep. When he woke the dawn was just break- ing. He dressed and went forth to look, for the last time, on his hereditary woods. The air was cold, but the sky was perfectly clear, and the beams of the rising sun soon spread over the blue heaven. How fresh, and glad, and sparkling was the sur- rounding scene ! With what enjo^'ment did he inhale the soft and renovating breeze. The dew quivered on the grass, and the carol of the vt-aken- ing birds, roused from their slumbers by the spread- ing warmth, resounded from the groves. From the green knoll on which he stood, he beheld the clustering village of Armine, a little agricultural settlement, formed of the peasants alone who li > 1 on the estate. The smoke began to rise in blue curls from the cottage chimneys, and the church clock struck the hour of five. It seemed to Fer- dinand that those labourers were far happier than he, since the setting sun would find them still at Armine : happy, happy Armine ! The sound of carriage-wheels aroused him from his revery. The fatal moment had arrived. He hastened to the gate according to his promise, to bid farewell to Glastonbury. The good old man was up. He pressed his pupil to his bosom and blessed him with a choking voice. " Dearest and kindest friend !" murmured Fer- dinand. Glastonbury placed around his neck a small golden crucifix that had belonged to Lady Barbara. "Wear it next your heart, my child," said he: "it will remind you of your God, and of us all." Ferdinand quitted the tower with a thousand bless- ings. When he came in sight of the Place he saw his 572 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. father standing by the carnage, which was aheaJy packed. Ferdinand ran into tlie house to get the card which had been left on the hall table for him by his mother. He ran over the list with the old and faithful domestic, and shook hands with him. Nothing now remained. All was ready. His fa- ther was seated. Ferdinand stood a moment in khought. " Let me run up to my mother, sir V " You had better not, my child," replied Sir Ratcliffe, " she does not expect you. Come, come along." So he slowly seated himself, with his eyes fixed on the window of his mother's chamber; and, as the carriage drove ofl", the window opened, and a hand waved a white handkerchief. He saw no more ; but as he saw it, he clenched his hand in agony. Hovv different was this journey to London from his last ] He scarcely spoke a word. Nothing interested him but his own feelings. The guard and the coachman, and the bustle of the inn, and the passing spectacles of the road, appeared a col- lection of impertinences. All of a sudden it seemed that his boyish feelings had deserted him. He was glad when they arrived in London, and glad that they were to stay in it only a single day. Sir Rat- cliffe and his son called upon the duke ; but, as they had anticipated, the family had quitted town. Our travellers put up at Hatchett's, and the follow- ing night started for Exeter in the Devonport mail. Ferdinand arrived at the western metropolis with- out having interchanged with his father scarcely a hundred sentences. At Exeter, after a night of most welcome rest, they took a post-chaise, and proceeded by a cross-road to Grandison. When Lord Grandison, who as yet perfectly un- acquainted with the revolutions in the Armine family, had clearly comprehended that his grand- son had obtained a commission vs'ithout either troubling him for his interest, or putting him in the disagreeable predicament of refusing his money, there were no bounds to the extravagant testimo- nials of his affection, both towards his son-in-law and his grandson. He seemed, indeed, quite proud of such relations ; he patted Sir Ratcliffe on his back, asked a thousand questions about his darling Constance, and hugged and slobbered over Ferdi- nand, as if he were a child of live years old. He informed all his guests daily (and the house was very full) that Lady Armine was his favourite daughter, and Sir RatclilFe his favourite son-in-law, and Ferdinand especially his favourite grandchild. He insisted upon Sir Ratcliffe always sitting at the head of his table, and always placed Ferdinand on his own right hand. He asked his butler aloud at dinner why he had not given a particular kind of Burgundy, because Sir Ratcliffe Armine was here. " Darbois," said the old nobleman, "have not I lold you that that Clos de Vougoct is always to be kept for Sir Ratcliffe Armine 1 It is his favourite wine. Clos de Vougoet directly to Sir Ratcliffe Ar- mine. I do not think, my dear madam, (turning to a fair neighbour,) that I have yet had the pleasure of introducing you to my son-in-law, my favourite son-in-law. Sir Rateliffi? Armine. — He married my daughter Constance, my favourite daugh- ter Constance. — Only here for a few days, a very, very few days indeed. — Quite a flying visit. — I wish I could see the whole family of- tener and longer. — Passing through to Falmouth with his son, this young gentleman on my right my grandson, my favourite grandson, Ferdinand. — Just got his commission. — Ordered for Malta im- mediately. — He is in the Fusileers, the Royal Fusileers. — Very difficult, my dear madam, in. these days to obtain a commission, especially £( commission in the Roj'al Fusileers. — Very great interest required, very great interest indeed. — But the Arminesare a most ancient family, very highly connected — very highly connected ; and, between you and me, the Duke of would do any thing for them. — ^Come, come. Captain Armine, take a glass of wine with your old grandfather." " How attached the old gentleman appears to be to his favourite grandson," whispered the lady to her neighbour. " Delightful ! yes !" was the reply ; '' I believe he is the favourite grandson." In short, the old gentleman got so excited by the universal admiration lavished on his favour te grandson, that he finally insisted on seeing the young hero in his regimentals ; and when Ferdi- nand took his leave, after a great many whimpered blessings, his domestic feelings were worked up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, that he absolutely presented his grandson with a hundred-pound note. " Thank you, my dear grandpapa," said the astonished Ferdinand, who really did not expect more than fifty — perhaps even a moiety of that more moderate sum ; " thank you, my dear grand- papa; I am very much obliged to you, indeed." " I wish I could do more for you ; I do, indeed," said Lord Grandison ; " but nobody ever thinks of paying his rent now. You are my grandson, my favourite grandson, my dear fiivonrite daughter's only child. And you are an officer in his majesty's service — an officer in the Royal Fusileers — only think of that! It is the most unexpected thing that ever happened to me. To see you so well and so unexpectedly provided for, my dear child, has taken a very great load off my mind ; it has indeed. You have no idea of a parent's anxiety in these matters ; you have not indeed, especially of a grandfather. You will someday, I warrant you," continued the noble grandfather, with an expres- sion between a giggle and a leer ; " but do not be wild, my dear Ferdinand, do not be too wild, at least. Young blood must have its way ; but be cautious ; now, do ; be cautious, my dear child. Do not get into any scrapes ; at least do not get into any very serious scrapes; and, whatever hap- pens to you," and here his lordship assumed a very serious, and even a solemn tone, " remember you have friends ; remember, my dear boy, you have a grandfather, and that you, my dear Ferdinand, are his favourite grandson." This passing visit to Grandison rather rallied the spirits of our travellers. When they ;urived at Falmouth, they found, however, that the packet, which waited for governnaent despatches, was not yet to sail. Sir Ratcliffe scarcely knew whether lie ought to grieve or to rejoice at the reprieve ; but he determined to be gay. So Ferdinand and him- self passed their mornings, in visiting the mines, Pendennis Castle, and the other lions of the neigh- bourhood ; and returned in the evening to their cheerful hotel, with good appetites for their agree- able banquet, the mutton of Dartmoor and the cream of Devon. At length, however, the hour of separation ap- proached ; a message awaited them at the inn, HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 573 on their return from one of their rambles, that Fer- dinand must be on board at an early hour on the morrow. That evening the conversation between Sir Ratclill'i; and his son was of a graver nature than they usually indulged in. He spoke to him in confulence of his allliirs. Dark hints, indeed, liad before reached Ferdinand ; nor, although his parents had ever spared his feelings, could his in- telligent mind have altogether refrained from guess- ing much that liad never been formally communi- cated. Yet the truth was worse even than he had anticipated. Ferdinand, however, was young and sanguine. He encouraged his father with his hopes, and supported him by his sympathy. He expressed to !: 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS He sang with her, he plaj^ed with her ; he was always projecting long summer rides, and long summer walks. Then his conversation was so dif- ferent to every thing to which she had ever listened. He had seen so many things and so many persons; every thing that was strange, and everybody that was famous. His opinions were so original, his illustrations so apt and lively, his anecdotes so in- exhaustible and sparkling ! Poor, inexperienced, innocent Katherine ! Her cousin in four-and- twenty hours found it quite impossible to fall in love with her ; and so he determined to make her fall in love with him. He quite succeeded. She adored him. She did not believe that there was any one in the world so handsome, so good, so clever ! No one, indeed, who knew Ferdinand Armine, could deny that he was a rare being ; but, had there been any acute and unprejudiced ob- servers who had known him in his younger and happier hours, they would perhaps have remarked some diflerence in his character and conduct, and not a favourable one. He was indeed more bril- liant, but not quite so interesting as in old days ; far more dazzling, but not quite so apt to charm. No one could deny his lively talents and his per- fect breeding, but there was a restlessness almut him, an excited and exaggerated style, which might have made some suspect that his demeanour was an effort, and that under a superficial glitter, by which so many are deceived, there was no little deficiency of the genuine and sincere. Katherine Grandison, however, was not one of those profound observers. She was easily captivated. Ferdinand, who really did not feel sufficient emotion to venture upon a scene, made his proposals to her when they were riding in a green lane ; the sun just setting, and the evening star glittering through a vista. The lady blushed, and wept, and sobbed, and hid her fair and streaming face, but the result was as satisfactory as our hero could desire. The young equestrians kept their friends in the Crescent at least two hours for dinner, and then had no appe- tite for the repast when they had arrived. Never- theless the maiden aunt, although a very particular personage, made this day no complaint, and was evidently far from being dissatisfied with anybody or any thintr. As for Ferdinand, he called for a tumbler of Champagne, and secretly drank his own health, as the luckiest fellow of his acquaintance, with a pretty, amiable, and high-bred wife, with all his debts paid, and the house of Armine restored. CHAPTER HI. IN^ WHICH FERDI3!fAND HETUHNS TO AIlMIJfE. It was settled that a year must elapse from the death of Lord Grandison before the young couple could be miited, a reprieve which did not occasion Ferdinand any very acute grief In the mean time the Grandisons were to pass at least the autumn at Armine, and thither the united families proposed Boon to direct their progress. Ferdinand, who had been nearly two months at Bath, and was a little wearied of courtship, contrived to quit that city before his friends, on the plea of visiting London, to arrange about selling his commission; for it was agreed that he should quit the army. On bis arrival in London, having spoken to his agent, and finding town quite empty, he set ofT im. mediately for Armine, in order that he might have the pleasure of being there a few days without the society of his intended; run through the woods on the ajiproaching first of September ; and, especially, embrace his dear Glastonbury. For it must not be supposed that Ferdinand had forgotten for a moment this invaluable friend; on the contrary, he had written to him several times since his arrival ; always assuring him that nothing but important business could prevent him from instantly paying him his respects. It was with feelings of no common emotion, it was with feelings even of agitation, that Ferdinand beheld the woods of his ancient home rise in the distance, and soon the towers and turrets of Ar- mine Castle. Those venerable bowers, that proud and lordly house, were not then to pass away from their old and famous line ] He had redeemed the heritage of his great ancestry ; he looked with un- mingled complacency on the magnificent landscape, once to him a source of as much anxiety as affec- tion. What a change in the destiny of the Ar- mines ! Their glory restored ; his own devoted and domestic hearth, once the prey of so much care and gloom, crowned with ease, and happiness, and joy ; on all sides a career of splendour and felicity. And Ae had done all this! What a pro- phet was his mother ! She had ever indulged the fond conviction that her beloved son would be their restorer. How wise and pious was the undeviat- ing confidence of kind old Glastonbury in their fate ! With what pure, what heartfelt delight, would that faithful friend listen to his extraordinary communication ! His carriage dashed through the park gates as if the driver were sensible of his master's pride and exultation. Glastonbury was ready to welcome him, standing in the flower-garden, which he had made so rich and beautiful, and which had been the charm and consolation of many of their hum- bler hours. " My dear, dear father," exclaimed Ferdinand, embracing him, for thus he ever styled his old tutor. But Glastonbury could not speak ; the tears quivered in his eyes and trickled down his faded cheek. Ferdinand led him into the house. " How well you look, dear father," continued Ferdinand; "you really look younger and heartier than ever. You received all my letters, I am sure; and yours — how kind of you to remember and to write to me ! I never forgot you, my dear, dear friend. I never forgot you. Do you know I am the happiest fellow in the world ] I have the greatest news in the world to tell my Glastonbury ! and we owe every thing to you, every thing. What would Sir RatclifTe have been without you 1 what should I have been 1 Fancy the best news you can, dear friend, and it is not as good as I have got to tell. You will rejoice, you will be delighted ! We shall furnish a castle ! by Jove, we shall fur- nish a castle! we shall, indeed, and you shall build it ! No more gloom ; no more care. The Ar- mines shall hold their heads up again, by Jove they shall ! Dearest, dearest of men, I dare say you think me mad. I am mad ; mad with joy. How that Virginian creeper has grown ! I have brought you such lots of plants, my father ! a complete Sicilian Hortus Siccus. Ah, John, faithful John! give me your hand. How is your wife? Take care of my pistol-case. Ask Louis ; he knows al. HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 577 about every thing. Well, my dear, clear Glaston- bury, and how have you been ] how is the old tower 1 how are the old books, and the old staff, and old arms, and the old every thing 1 dear, dear, Glastonbury !" While the carriage was unpacking, and the din- ner table prepared, the friends walked in the gar- den, and from thence strolled towards the tower, where ihcy remained some time pacing up and down the heechen avenue. It was very evident, on their return, that Ferdinand had comuiunicated his great intelligence. The countenance of Glaston- bury was quite radiant with delight. Indeed, al- though he had dined, he accepted with readiness Ferdinand's invitation to repeat the ceremony ; nay, he qualYed more than one glass of wine : and, I believe, even drank tiie health of ever)- member of the united families of At mine and Grandison. It was late, very late, before the companions parted, and retired for the night; and I think, before they bade each other good night, they must have talked over every circumstance that had occurred in their experience since the birth of Ferdinand. CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH SOME LIGHT IS TUIIOWX OX THE TITLE OF THIS WORK. How delicious, after a long, long absence, to walk on a sunny morning, and find ourselves at home ! Ferdinand could scarcely credit that he was really again «t Armine. He started up in his bed, and rubbed his eyes, and stared at the unac- customed, yet familiar sights, and, for a moment, Malta, and the Royal Fusilcers, Bath and his be- Irothed, were all a dream; and then he remembered the visit of his dear mother to this very room on the eve of his first departure. He had returned ; in safety he had returned, and in happiness, to ac- complish all her hopes, and to reward her for all her solicitude. Never felt any one more content than Ferdinand Armine — more content and more grateful. He rose and opened the casement ; a rich and exhilarating perfume filled the chamber; he looked with a feeling of delight and pride over the broad and beautiful park ; the tall trees rising and fling- ing their taller shadows over the bright and dewy turf, and the last mists clearing away from the dis- tint woods, and blending wiih the spotless sky. Every thing was sweet and still, save, indeed, the carol of the birds, or the tinkle of some restless bell-wether. It was a rich autumnal morn. And yet, with all the excitement of his new views in life, and the blissful consciousness of the happiness of those he loved, he coul3 not but feel that a great change had come over his spirit since the davs he was wont to ramble in this old haunt of boyhood. His innocence was gone. Life was no longer that deep unbroken trance of duty and of love from which he had been roused to so much care; and if not remorse, at least to so much compunction. He had no secrets then. Existence was not then a sirliterfuge, but a calm and candid state of serene enjoyment. Feelings then were not compromised for interests ; and then it was the excellent that vrgis studied, not the expedient. " Yet such I sup- 73 pose is life," murmured Ferdinand; " we moralize when it is too late; nor is there any thing more silly than to regret. One event makes another: what we anticipate seldom occurs ; what we least expect generally happens; and time can oidy prove which is most for onr advantage. And surely I am thi? last person who should look grave. Our ancient house rises from its ruins; the beings I love , most in the world are not only happy, but indebted ' to me for their happiness, and I — I mj'sclf, with ! every gift of fortune suddenly thrown at my feet — what more can I desire 1 Am I not satisfied? Why do I even ask the question! I am sure I ] know not. It rises like a devil in my thoughts, and sjjoils every thing. The girl is young, noble, and fair — and loves nie'. And her — I love her — at least I suppose I love her. I love her at any rate as much as I love, or ever did love, woman. There is no great sacrifice, then, on my part; there should be none ; there is none ; unless, indeed, it be that a man does not like to give up without a struggle all his chance of romance and rapture. " I know not how it is, but there are moments I almost wish that I had no father and no mother; ay ! not a single friend or relative in the world, and that Armine was sunk into the very centre of the earth. If I stood alone in the world, mcthinks I might find a place fiiat suits me; — now every thing seems ordained for me, as it were, beforehand. My spirit has had no play. Something whispers me that, with all its flush prosperity, this is neither wise nor well. God knows tliat I am not heartless, and would be grateful ; and yet, if life can afford me no deeper sympathy than I have yet expe- rienced, I cannot but hold it, even with all its sweet affections, as little better than a dull delusion." While Ferdinand was thus moralizing at the casement, Glastonbury appeared beneath ; and his appearance dissipated in an instant this gathering gloom. " Let us breakfast together," proposed Ferdinand. " I have breakfasted these two hours," replied the hermit of the gate. " I hope that on the first night of your return to Armine you have proved auspicious dreams." "My bed and I are old companions," said Fer- dinand ; " and v^'e agreed very well. I tell you what, my dear Glastonbury, we will have a stroll together this morning, and talk over our plans of last night. Go into the library and look over my sketch-books. You will find them on my pistol- case, and J will be with you anon." In due time the friends commenced their ramble. Ferdinand soon became excited by Glastonbury's various suggestions for the completion of the castle; and as for the old man himself, between his archi- I tectural creation and the restoration of the family, to which he had been so long devoted, he was in 1 a rapture of enthusiasm, which alTorded an amus- ing contrast to his usual meek and subdued de- j meanour. I " Your grandfather was a great man," said Glab- i tonburv, who in old days seldom ventured to mcn- I tion the name of the famous Sir Ferdinand : " there is no doubt he was a very great man. He had great ideas. How he would glory in our present ' prospects ! "I'is strange what a strong confidence I I have ever had in the destiny of your house. 1 ! felt sure that Providence would not (!»"- ' There is no doubt we must have a port* I " Decidedly a portcullis," said Ferdini 3C \ ^. b78 D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. shall make all the drawings yourself, my dear Glas- tonbury, and supervise every thing. We will not have a single anachronism. It shall be perfect." " Perfect," echoed Glastonbury; "really perfect! It shall be a perfect Gothic castle. I have such treasures for the work. All the labours of my life have tended to this object. I have all the embla- zonings of your house since the conquest. There shall be three hundred shields in the hall. I will paint them myself. ! there is no place in the world like Armine !" " JVothing," said Ferdinand ; " I have seen a gieat deal, but, after all, there is nothing like Ar- mine." "Had we been born to this splendour," said Glastonbury, "we should have thought little of it. We have been mildly and wisely chastened. I cannot sufficiently admire the wisdom of Provi- dence, which has tempered, by such a wise dispen- sation, the too eager blood of your race." " I should be sorry to pull down the old Place," said Ferdinand. " It nuist not be," said Glastonbury ; " we have lived there happily, though humbly." " I would we could move it to another part of the park, like the house of Loretto," said Ferdi- nand with a smile. " W^e can cover it with ivy," observed Glaston- bury, looking somewhat grave. The morning stole away in these agreeable plans and prospects. At length the friends parted, agree- ing to meet again at dinner. Glastonbury repaired to his tower, and Ferdinand, taking his gun, saun- tered into the surrounding wilderness. But he felt no inclination for sport. The con- versation with Glastonbury had raised a thousand thoughts over which he longed to brood. His life had been a scene of such constant excitement, since his return to England, that he had enjoyed little opportunity of indulging in calm self-commu- nion ; and now that he was at Armine, and alone, the contrast between his past and his present situa- tion struck him so forcibly, that he could not refrain from falling into a revery upon his fortunes. It is wonderful — all wonderful — very, very wonderful. There seemed, indeed, as Glastonbury affirmed, a providential dispensation in the whole transaction. 'J'lie fall of his family — the heroic, and, as it now appeared, prescient lirmness with which his father had clung, in all their deprivations, to his unpro- ductive patrimony — his own education — the ex- tinction of his mother's house — his very follies, once to him a cause of so much unhappiness, but which it now seemed were all the time compelling him, as it were, to his jtrosperity; — all these, and a thousand other traits and circumstances, flitted over liis mind, and were each in turn the subject of his manifold meditation. Willing was he to credit that destiny had reserved for him the character of restorer: that duty, indeed, he had accepted, and yet — He looked around him as if to see what devil was whispering in his ear. He was alone. No one was there or near. Around him rose the silent bowers, and scarcely the voice of a bird or the hum of an insect disturbed the deep tranquillity. Buta cloud seemed tc:,ijf;pt on the fair and pensive brow of Ferdinand / jine. He threw himself on the turf, leaning hi .cad on one arm, and with the other plucking wild flowers, which he as hastily, almost as fretfi; /, flung away. " Conceal it c^s I will," he exclaimed, "I am a victim ; disguise them as I may, all the considera- tions are worldly. There is, there must be, some- thing better in this world than power, and wealth, and rank; and surely there must be felicity more rapturous even than securing the happiness of a parent. Ah ! dreams in which I have so oft and so fondly indulged, are yet, indeed, after all, but fantastical and airy visions 1 Is love, indeed, a de- lusion, or am I marked out from men alone to be exempted from its delicious bondage 1 It must be a delusion. All laugh at it, all jest about it, all agree in stigmatizing it the vanity of vanities. And does my experience contiadict this harsh but common fame ] Alas ! what have I seen or known to give the lie to this ill-report? No one — nothing. Some women I have met more beautiful, assuredly, than Kate, and many, many less fair; and some have crossed my path with a wild and brilliant grace, that has for a moment dazzled my sight, and, per- haps, for a moment lured me from my way. But these shooting stars have but glittered transiently in my heaven, and only made me, by their evanes- cent brilliancy, more sensible of its gloom. Let me believe then, ! let me of all men then believe, that the forms that inspire the sculptor and the painter have no models in nature ; that that combi- nation of beauty and grace, of fascinating intelli- gence and fond devotion, over which men brood in the soft hours of their young loneliness, is but the promise of a better world and not the charm of this one. " But, what terror in that truth ! what despair ! what madness ! Yes ! at this moment of severest scrutiny, how profoundly I feel that life without love is worse than death ! How vain and void, how flat and fruitless, appear all those splendid accidents of existence for which men struggle, without this essential and pervading charm ! V hat a world without a sun ! Yes ! without this 'ranscendent sympathy, riches and rank, and even power and fame, seem to me at best but jewels set in a coronet of lead ! "And who knows whether that extraordinary being, of whose magnificent yet ruinous career this castle is in truth a fitting emblem, I say who knows whether the secret of his wild and restless course is not hidden in this same sad lack of love ? Perhaps, while the world, the silly superficial world, marvel- led and moralized of his wanton life, and poured forth their anathemas against his heartless selfish- ness, perchance he all the time was sighing for some soft bosom whereon to pour his overwhelm- ing passion — even as I am ! " O ! nature ! why art thou beautiful ? My heart requires not, imagination cannot paint, a sweeter or a fairer scene than these surrounding bowers. This azure vault of heaven, this golden sunshine, this deep and blending shade, these rare and fra^ grant shrubs, yon grove of green and tallest pines, and the bright gliding of this swan-crowned lake — my soul is charmed with all this beauty and this sweetness ! I feel no disappointment here ; my mind does not here outrun reality ; here there is no cause to mourn over ungratified hopes and fanciful desires; Is it then my destiny that I am to be baffled only in the dearest desires of my heart?" At this moment the loud and agitated barking of his dogs at some little distance roused Ferdinand from his revery. He called them to him, and soon one of them obeyed his summons, but instantly re- turned to his companion with such significant ge«- HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 579 ftires, panting and j-elpinjr, that Ferdinand supposed that Basto was caught perhaps in sonie trap ; so, taking up his gun, he proceeded to the dog's rescue. To his great surprise, as lie was about to emerge from a berceau on to a plot of turf, in the centre of which grew a very large cedar, he beheld a lady in a riding-habit standing before the tree, and evident- ly admiring its beautiful proportions. Her countenance was raised and motionless. It seemed to him that it was more radiant than the sunshine. He gazed with rapture on the dazzling brilliancy of her complexion, the delicate regularity of her features, and the large violet-tinted eyes, fringed with the longest and the darkest lashes that he had ever beheld. From her position her hat had fallen to the very back of her head, revealing her lofty and pellucid brow, and the dark and lustrous locks that were braided over her tem|)les. The whole countenance combined that brilliant health and that classic beauty which wc associate with the idea of some nymph tripping over the dew- bespangled meads of Ida, or glancing amid the hal- lowed groves of Greece. Although the lady could scarcely have seen eighteen summers, her stature was above the common height ; but language can- not describe the startling symmetry of her superb figure. There is no love but love at first sight. This is the transcendent and surpassing oflspring of sheer and unpolluted sympathy. All other is the illegiti- mate result of observation, of reflection, of compro- mise, of comparison, of expediency. The passions that endure flash like the lightning : they scorch the soul, but it is warmed forever. Miserable man whose love rises by degrees upon the frigid morn- ing of his mind ! Some hours indeed of warmth and lustre may perchance fall to his lot; some mo- ments of meridian splendour, in which he basks in what he deems eternal sunshine. But then how often overcast by the clouds of care, how often dusked by the blight of misery and misfortune ! And certain as the gradual rise of such affection is its gradual decline, and melancholy set. Then, in the chill dim twilight of his soul, he execrates custom; be- cause he has madly expected that feelings could be habitual that were not homogeneous, and because he has been guided by the observation of sense, and not by the inspiration of sympathy. Amid the gloom and travail of existence suddenly to behold a beautiful being, and, as instantaneously, to feel an overwhelming conviction that with that fair form forever our destiny must be entwined; that there is no more joy but in her joy, no sor- row but when she grieves; that in her sight of love, in her smile of fondness, hereafter is all bliss; to feel our flaunty ambition fade away like a shrivel- led gourd before her visions ; to feel fame a juggle and posterity a lie ; and to be prepared at once, for tliis great object, to forfeit and fling away all former hopes, ties, schemes, views; to violate in her favour every duty of society ; — this is a lover, and til is is love! Magnificent, sublime, divine senti- ment! An immortal flame burns in the breast of that man who adores and is adored. He is an ethe- real being, The accidents of earth touch him not. Kevolutions of empires, changes of creed, mutations of opinion, arc to him but the clouds and meteors of a stormy sky. The schemes and struggles of mankind are, in his thinking, but the anxieties of pigmies, and the fantastical achievements of apes. Nothing can subdue him. He laughs alike at loss of fortune, loss of friends, loss of character. The deeds and thought of men are to him equally indif- ferent. He does not mingle in their paths of callous bustle, or hold himself responsible to the airy im- postures before which they bow down. He is a mariner, who, in the sea of life, keeps his gaze fixedly on a single star; and, if that do not shii' he lets go the rudder, and glories when his bar^^-o descends into the bottomless gulf. Yes! it was this mighty passion that now raged in the heart of Ferdinand Armine, a.s, pale, tremb- ling, panting, he withdrew a few paces from the overwhelming spectacle, and leaned against a tree in a chaos of emotion. What had he seen 1 What ravishing vision had risen upon his sight 1 What did he feel ] What wild, vvhat delicious, what maddening impulse now pervaded his frame 1 A storm seemed raging in his soul — a mighty wind, dispelling in its course the sullen clouds and vapours of long years. He was, indeed, as one possessed, waving his agitated arm to heaven, and stamping his restless foot upon the uncongenial earth. Silent he was, indeed, for he was speechless ; though the big drop that quivered on his brow, and the slight foam that played upon his lip, proved the difficult triumph of passion over expression. But, as the wind clears the heaven, passion eventually tran- quillizes the soul. The tumult of the mind gradu- ally subsided ; the flitting memories, the scudding thoughts, that for a moment had coursed about in such wild order, vanished and melted away, and a feeling of bright serenity succeeded, a sense of beauty and of joy, and of hovering and circumam- bient happiness. He advanced, he gazed again ; the lady was still there. Changed, indeed, her position; her front was towards him. She had gathered a flower, and was examining its beauty. " Henrietta!" exclaimed a manly voice from the adjoining wood. Before she could answer, a stran- ger came forward, a man of middle age, but of an appearance remarkably prepossessing. He was tall and dignified, fair, with a very aquiline nose. One of Ferdinand's dogs followed him barking. " I cannot find the gardener anywhere," said the stranger; " I think we had better remount." " Ah, mc ! what a pity," exclaimed the lady. " Let me be your guide," said Ferdinand, a-' vancing. The lady rather started ; the gentleman, not at all discomposed, welcomed Ferdinand with great elegance, and said, " I feel that wc are intruders, sir. But we were informed by the woman at the lodge that the family were not here present, and that we should find her husband in the grounds." "The family arc not at Armine," replied Ferdi- nand ; " I am sure, however, Sir Hatclitrc would be most happy for you to walk about the grounds as much as you please ; and as I am well acquainted with them, I should feel delighted to be your guide." "You are really too courteous, sir," replied the gentleman ; and his beautiful companion rewarded Ferdinand with a smile like a sunbc-n, that played about her countenance till it finally settled into two exquisite dimples, and revealed to him rows of teeth that, for a moment, he I eved to be even the most beautiful feature of th: irpassing visage. They sauntered along, every i developing new beauties in their progress, and .citing from his companions renewed expressions " rapture. The dim bowers, the shining glades, the tali rare trs«c, 580 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. the luxuriant shrubs, the silent and sequestered lake, in turn enchanted them, until, at length, Fer- dinand, who had led them with experienced taste through all the most striking points of the plai- sance, brought them before the walls of the castle. " And here is Armine Castle," he said ; " it is little better than a shell, and yet contains something which you might like to see." " O ! by all means," exclaimed the lady. " But we are spoiling your sport," suggested the gentleman. "lean always kill partridges," replied Ferdinand, laving down his gun ; " but I cannot always find agreeable companions." So saying, he opened the massy portal of the castle, and they entered the hall. It was a lofty chamber, of dimensions large enough to feast a thousand vassals, with a dais and a rich Gothic screen, and a gallery for the musicians. The walls were hung with arms and armour admirably ar- ranged ; but the parti-coloured marble floor was so covered with piled-up cases of furniture, that the general effect of the scene was not only greatly marred, but it was even difficult in some parts to trace a path. " Here," said Ferdinand, jumping upon a huge case, and running to the wall, " here is the standard of Ralph D'Ermyn,who came over with the Con- queror, and founded the family in England. Here is the sword of William D'Armyn, who signed Magna Charta. Here is the complete coat armour of the second Ralph, who died before Ascalon. This case contains a diamond-hilted sword, given by the empress to the great Sir Ferdinand, for de- feating the Turks ; and here is a Mameluke sabre, given to the same Sir Ferdinand by the sultan, for defeating the empress." " ! I have heard so much of that great Sir Ferdinand," said the lady, " I think he must have been the most interesting character that ever ex- isted." " He was a marvellous being," answered her guide, with a peculiar look, " and yet I know not whether his descendants have not cause to rue his genius." " O ! never, never !" said the lady ; " what is wealth to genius 1 How much prouder, were I an Armine, should I be of such an ancestor, than of a thousand others, even if they had left me this castle as complete as he wished it to be !" " Well, as to that," replied Ferdinand, "Ibelieve I am somewhat of your opinion ; though I fear he lived in too late an age for such order of minds. It would have been better for him, perhaps, if he had succeeded in becoming King of Poland." " I hope there is a portrait of him," said the lady; " there is nothing I long so much to see. I feel quite in love with the great Sir Ferdinand." "I rather think there is a portrait," replied her companion, somewhat dryly. " We will try to find it out. Do not you think I make an excellent cicerone ?" " Indeed, most excellent," replied the lady. " I perceive you are master of your subject," re- plied the gentleman, thus affording Ferdinand an easy opportunity of telling them who he was. The hint, however, was not accepted. " And now," said Ferdinand, " we will ascend the staircase." Accordingly they mounted a large spiral stair- case, which indeed filled the space of a round tower, and was lighted from the top by a lantern of rich coloured glass, on which were emblazoned the arms of the family. Then they entered the vestibule, — an apartment spacious enough for a saloon ; which, however, was not fitted up in the Gothic style, but of which the painted ceiling, the gilded panels, and iniaid floor, were more suitable indeed to a French palace. The brilliant doors of this vestibule opened in many directions upon lo7ig suites of state-chambers, which indeed merit- ed the description of shells. They were nothing more : of many the flooring was not even laid down ; the walls of all were rough and plastered. "Ah !" said the lady, "what a pity it is not finished !" " It is indeed desolate," observed Ferdinand, " but here perhaps is something more to your taste." So saying, he opened another door, and ushered them into the picture gallery. It was a superb chamber, nearly two hundred feet in length, and contained only portraits of the fomily, or pictures of their achievements. It was of a pale green colour, lighted from the top ; and the floor, of oak and ebony, was partially covered with a single Persian carpet, of the most fanciful pattern and brilliant die, a present from the sultan to the great Sir Ferdinand. The earlier annals of the family were illustrated by a series of paintings, by modern masters, representing the battle of Has- tings, the siege of Ascalon, the meeting at Runny- mede, the various inv-iwions of France, and some of the most striking incidents in the wars of the Roses, in all of which a valiant Armyn promi- nently figured. At length they stood before the first contemporary portrait of the Armyn family, one of Cardinal Stephen Armyn, by an Italian master. The great dignitary was legate of the pope in the time of the seventh Henry, and in his scarlet robes and ivory chair, looked like a papal Jupiter, not unworthy himself of wielding the thunder of the Vatican. From him the series of the family portraits was unbroken ; and it was very interesting to trace, in this excellently arranged collection, the history of national costume. Hol- bein had commemorated the Lords Tewkesbury rich in velvet, and golden chains, and jewels. The statesmen of Elizabeth and James, and their beau- tiful and gorgeous dames, followed ; and then came many a gallant cavalier by Vandyke. One admi- rable picture contained Lord Armine and his brave brothers, seated together in a tent round a drum, on which his lordship was apparently planning the operations of the cam-paign. Then followed a long series of unmemorable baronets, and their more interesting wives and daughters, touched by the pencil of Kneller, of Lely, or of Hudson, squires in wigs and scarlet jackets, and powdered dames in hoops and farthingales. They stood before the crowning efTort of the room, the masterpiece of Reynolds. It represented a full-length portrait of a young man, apparently just past his minority. The side of the figure was alone exhibited, and the face glanced at the spec- tator over the shoulder, in a favourite position of Vandyke. It was a countenance of ideal beauty. A profusion of dark brown cuds was dashed aside from a lofty forehead of dazzling brilliancy. The fiice was perfectly oval ; the nose, though small, was high and aquiline, and exhibited a remarkable dilation of the nostril ; the curling lip was shaded by a very delicate mustachio ; and the general HENRIETTA TEMPLE. BTpression, indeed, of the mouth and of the large gray eyes, would have l)eeii porliaps arrogant and imperious, had not the extraordinary beauty of the whole countenance rendered it fascinating. It war. indeed a picture to gaze upon and to re- turn to ; one of those visages which, after having once beheld, haunt us at all hours, and flit across our mind's eye unexpected and unbidden. So great indeed was the effect that it produced upon the present visiters to the gallery, that they stood before it for some minutes in silence; the scrutiniz- ing glance of the gentleman indeed was more than once diverted from the portrait to the countenance of his conductor, and the silence was eventually broken by our hero. " And what think you," he inquired, " of the fa- mous Sir Ferdinand]" The lady started, looked at him, withdrew her glance, and appeared somewhat confused. Her com[)anion replied, " I think, sir, I cannot err in believing that I am indebted for much courtesy to his descendant." "I believe," said Ferdinand, laughing, " that I should not have much trouble in proving my pedi- gree. I am generally considered an ugly hkencss of my grandfather." The gentleman smiled, and then said, " I hardly know whether I can style myself your neighbour, for I live nearly ten miles distant. It would, how- ever, afford me sincere gratification to see you at Ducie Bower. I cannot welcome you in a castle. My name is Temple," he continued, offering his card to Ferdinand. " I need not now introduce you to my daughter. I was not unaware that Sir Ratcliffe Armine had a son, but I understood that he was abroad." " I have returned to England within these two months," replied Ferdinand, " and to Armine with- in these two days. I deem it fortunate that my re- turn has afforded me an opportunity of welcoming you and Miss Temple. But you must not talk of our castle, for that you know is our folly. Pray come now and visit our older and humbler dwelling ; and take some refreshment after your long ride." This offer was declined, hiit with great courtesy. They quitted the castle, and M/. Temple was about to direct his steps towards the lodge, where he had left hi'i own and his daughter's horses ; but Ferdi- nand persuaded them to return through the park, which he proved to them very satisfactorily must be the nearest way. He even asked permission to accompany them ; and. while his groom was sad- dling his horse, he led them to the old Place, and the flower-garden. " You must be very fatigued. Miss Temple. I wish that I could persuade you to enter and rest yourself" " Indeed, no : I love flowers too much to leave them." " Here is one that has the recommendation of novelty as well as beauty," said Ferdinand, pluck- ing a strange rose, and presenting it to her. "I sent it to my mother from Barbary." " You live amidst beaut}'." " I think that I never remember Armine looking so well as to-day." " A silvan scene requires sunshine," replied Miss Temple. " We have, indeed, been most for- tunate in our visit." " It is something brighter than the sunshine that makes it so fair," replied Ferdinand; but at tlus moment the horses appeared. CHAPTER V. IX ■Wllica CAPTAIX AHMINE IS TEIIV ABSENT DURING DINNER. " You are well mounted," said Mr. Temple to Ferdinand. " 'Tis a barb — I brought it over with me." "'Tis a beautiful creature," said Miss Temple. " Hear that, Selim," said Ferdinand; "prick up thine ears, my steed. I perceive that you are an accomplished horsewoman, Miss Temple. You know our country, I dare say, well 1" " I wish I knew it better. This is only the second summer that we have passed at Ducie." " By-the-by ; I suppose you know my landlord, Captain Armine ]" said Mr. Temple. '*No," said Ferdinand; "I do not know a single person in the county. I have myself scarcely been at Armine for these five years, and my father and mother do not visit any one." " What a beautiful oak !" exclaimed Miss Tem- ple, desirous of turning the conversation. " It has the reputation of being planted by Sir Francis Walsingham," said Ferdinand. " An an- cestor of mine married his daughter. He was the father of Sir Walsingham, the portrait in the gal- lery with the white stick. You remember it?" " Perfectly : that beautiful portrait ! It must be at all events a very old tree." "There are few things more pleasing to me than, an ancient place," said Mr. Temple. " Doubly pleasing when in possession of an an cient family," added his daughter. " I fear such feelings are fast wearing away," said Ferdinand. " There will be a reaction," said Mr. Temple. " They cannot destroy the poetry of time," said the lady. " I hope I have no very inveterate prejudices," said Ferdinand ; " but I should be sorry to see Armine in any other hands than our own, I con- fess." "I never would enter the park again," said Miss Temple. "As far as worldly considerations are concerned," continued Ferdinand, "it would, perhaps, be much better for us if we were to part with it." " It must, indeed, be a costly place to keep up," said Mr. Temple. " Why, as far as that is concerned," said Ferdi- nand, " we let the kine rove and the sheep browse where our fathers hunted the stag and flew their falcons. I think if they were to rise from their graves, they would be ashamed of us." " Nay !" said Miss Temple, " I think yonder cattle are very picturesque. But the truth is, any thing woi.ld look well in such a park as this. There is such a variety of prospect." The park of Armine, indeed, differed very ma- terially from those vamped-up sheep-walks and ambitious paddocks which are now honoured with the title. It was, in truth, the old chase, and little shorn of its original proportions. It was many miles in circumference, abounding in hill and dale, and offering nmch variety of appearance. Sometimes it was studded with ancient timber, single trees of extraordinary growth, and rich clumps that seemed coeval with the foundation of the family. Tracts of wild champaign succeed these, covered with gorse and fern. Then came stately avenues of 3c3 5^82 D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. eycamore or Spanish chestnut, fragments of stately woods, that in old days, doubtless, reached the vicinity of the mansion house. And these were in turn succeeded by modern coverts. At length our party reached the gate whence Ferdinand had calculated that they should quit the park. He would willingly have accompanied them. He bade them farewell with regret, which was sof- tened by the hope expressed by all of a speedy meeting. " I wish, Captain Armine," said Miss Temple, " we had your turf to canter home upon. Now, mind you do not get locked up in the picture gal- lery, by mistake, and forget to come to Diicie." " That is, indeed, impossible," said Ferdinand. " By-the-by, Captain Armine," said Mr. Temple, "ceremony should scarcely subsist between country neighbours, and certainly we have given you no cause to complain of our reserve. As you are alone at Armine, perhaps you would come over and dine with us to-morrow. If you can manage to come early, we will see whether we may not contrive to kill a bird together; and pray remember we can give you a bed, which I think, all things considered, it would be but wise to accept." "I accept every thing," said Ferdinand, smiling; "all your oilers. Good morning, my dearest sir; good morning. Miss Temple." " Miss Temple, indeed !" exclaimed Ferdinand, when he had watched them out of sight. " Ex- quisite, enchanting, adored being ! Without thee, what is existence 1 How dull, how blank does every thing even now seem ! It is as if the sun had just set. 0! that form ! that radiant counte- nance! that musical and thrilling voice! Those tones still vibrate on my ear, or I should deem it all a vision ! Will to-morrow ever come 1 O ! that I could express to you, my love, my over- whelming, my absorbing, my burning passion ! Beautiful, beautiful Henrietta ! Thou hast a name, methinks, I ever loved. Where am I ? — what do I say 1 — what wild, what maddening words are these ? Am I not Ferdinand Armine, the be- trothed — the victim 1 Even now methinks I hear the chariot wheels of my bride. God ! if she be there — if she indeed be at Armine on my return — I'll not see her — I'll not speak to them — I'll fly. I'll cast to the winds all tics and duties — I will not be dragged to the altar, a miserable sacrifice, to re- deem, by my forfeited felicity, the worldly fortunes of my race. 0! Armine, Armine — she would not enter thy walls again, if other blood but mine swayed thy fair demesne : and I, shall I give thee another mistress, Armine'' It would indeed be treason ! Without her I cannot live. Without her form bounds over this turf, and glances in these arbours, I never wish to view them. All the in- ducements to make the wretched sacrifice once meditated then vanish; for Armine without her is a desert — a tomb — a hell. I am free then. Ex- cellent logician ! But this woman — I am bound to her. Bound 1 The word makes me tremble. I shiver: I hear the clank of my fetters. Am I, indeed, bound ] Ay! in honour, honour and love. A contest! Pah! The idol must yield to the divinity !" With these wild words and wilder thoughts bursting from his lips and dashing through his mind ; his course as irregular, and as reckless as his fancies; now fiercely galloping, now breaking into a sudden halt, Ferdinand at length arrived at home ; and his quick eye perceived, in a moment» that the dreaded arrival had not taken place. Glas- tonbury was in the flower-garden, on one knee be- fore a vase, over which he was training a creeper. He looked up as he heard the approach of Ferdi- nand. His presence and benignant smile in some degree stilled the fierce emotions of his pupil. Ferdinand felt that the system of dissimulation must now commence ; besides, he was always care- ful to be most kind to Glastonbury. He would not allow that any attack of spleen, or even illness, could ever justify a careless look or expression to that dear friend. "I hope, my dear father," said Ferdinand, "I am punctual to our hour!" " The sun-dial tells me," said Glastonbury, "that you have arrived to the moment; and I rather think that yonder approaches a summons to our repast. I hope you have passed your morning agreeably V " If all days would pass as sweet, my father, I should indeed l)e blessed." " I, too, have had a fine morning of it. You must come to-morrow, and see my grand embla- zonry of the Ratcliffe and Armine coats ; I mean it for the gallery." With these words they entered the Place. " You do not eat, my child," said Glastonbury to his companion. " I have taken too long a ride, perhaps," said Ferdinand ; who, indeed, was much too excited to have an appetite, and so abstracted that any one hut Glastonbury would have long before detected his absence. " I have changed my hour to-day," continued Glastonbury, "for the pleasure of dining with you; and I think to-morrow you had better change your hour, and dine with me." " By-the-by, my dear father, you, who know every thing, do you happen to know a gentleman of the name of Temple in this neighbourhood!" " I think I heard that Mr. Ducie had let the Bower to a gentleman of that name." "Do you know who he is?" " I never asked ; for I feel no interest except about proprietors, because they enter into my County History. But I think I once heard that this Mr. Temple had been our minister at some foreign court. You give me a fine dinner, and eat nothing yourself. This pigeon is very savoury." "I will trouble you. I think there once was a Henrietta Armine, my father 1" " The beautiful creature !" said Glastonbury, laying down his knife and fork ; "she died young She was a daughter of Lord Armine, and the Queen, Henrietta Maria, was her god-mother. It grieves me much that we have no portrait of her. She was very fair, her eyes of a sweet light blue." "O, no ! dark, my father; dark and deep as the violet." " My child, the letter-writer, who mentions her death, describes them as light blue. I know of no other record of her beauty." " I wish they had been dark," said Ferdinand, recovering himself; "However, I am glad there was a Henrietta Armine; 'tis a beautiful name." " I think that Armine makes any name sound well," said Glastonbury. "No more wine, indeed, my child. Nay ! if I must," continued he with a benevolent smile, "I will drink to the health of Miss Grandison !" HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 583 " Ah !" almost shrieked Ferdinand. "My child, what is the matter?" inquired Glas- tonbury "A gnat, a fly, a wasp; somcthinar stung me. O ! pah ! — it is Ijcttcr now," saiti Ferdinand. "Try some remedy," said Glastonbury; "let me fetch my oil of lilies. 'Tis a specific." " O ! no ; 'tis notliing ; nothing indeed. A fly, only a fly ; nothing more ; only a venomous fly. Sharp i0if moment ; nothing more." Th^^dinIler was over : they retired to the library. Ferdinand walked about the room restless and moody.^tAt length he bethought himself of the piano, and atlecting an anxiety to hear some old favourite compositions of Glastonbury, he contrived to occupy his companion. In time, however, his old tutor invited him to take his violoncello and join him in a concerto. Ferdinand, of course, complied with this invitation, but the result was not very satisfactory. After a series of blunders, which were the natural result of his thoughts be- ing occupied on other objects, he was obliged to plead a hcadach, and was glad when he could escape to his chamber. Rest, however, no longer awaited him on his old pillow. It was at first delightful to escape from the restraint upon his revery which he had lately experienced. He leaned for an hour over his empty fire-place in mute abstraction. The cold, however, in time drove him to bed, but he could not sleep. His eyes indeed were closed, but the vision of Henrietta Temple was not less apparent to him. He recalled every feature of her coun- tenance, every trait of her conduct, every word in- deed that she had expressed. The whole series of her observations, from the moment he had first seen her, until the moment they had parted, were accurately repeated, her very tones considered, and her verj' attitudes pondered over. Many were the hours that he heard strike : he grew restless and feverish. Sleep would not be commanded. He jumped out of bed, he opened the casement, he beheld in the moonlight the Barbary rose-tree of which he had presented her a flower. This con- soling spectacle assured him that he had not been, as he had almost imagined, the victim of a dream. He knelt down and invoked all heavenly and earthly blessings on Henrietta Temple and his love. The night air, and the earnest invocation together, cooled his brain, and nature soon delivered him ex- hausted to repose. CHAPTER VI. IX wincn CAPTAix armink pats nis first tisit TO nucir.. Yes ! it is the morning. Is it possible 1 Shall he again behold her ? That form of surpassing lK?auty, that bright, that dazzling countenance, li^ain are they to bless his entranced vision. Shall he speak to her again 7 That musical and thrilling voice, shall it again sound and echo in his enrap- tured earl Ferdinand had reached Armine so many days before his calculated arrival, that he did not expect his family, and the Grandisons, to arrive for at least a week. What a respite did he not now feel this delay : if ever he could venture to think of the subject at all. He drove it indeed from hia thoughts. The fascinating present completely en- grossed his existence. He waited until the post arrived. It brought no letters ; letters now so dreaded ! He jumped Upon his horse and galloped towards Ducie. Now while our hero directs his course towards the mansion of his beloved, the reader will perhaps not be displeased to learn something more of the lady and her father than Ferdinand gleaned from the scanty knowledge of Glastonbury. Mr. Tem- ple was the younger son of a younger branch of a noble family. He inherited no patrimony, but had been educated for the diplomatic service, and the influence of his family had early obtained him very distinguished appointments. He was envoy to a German court, when a change of ministry occa- sioned his recall, and he retired after a long career of able and assiduous service, comforted by a pen- sion and glorified by a privy-councillorship. He was an acute and accomplished man, practised in the world, with great self-control, yet devoted to his daughter, the only otispring of a wife whom he had lost early and loved much. Deprived at a very tender age of that parent of whom she would have become peculiarly the charge, Henrietta Tem- ple found in the devotion of her father all that con- solation of which her forlorn state was susceptible. She was not delivered over to the custody of a go- verness, or to the even less sympathetic supervi- sion of relations. Mr. Temple never permitted his daughter to be separated from him ; he che- rished her life and he directed* her education. Re- sident in a city which arrogates to itself, not with- out justice, the title of the German Athens, his pupil availed herself of all those advantages which were offered to her by the instruction of the most skilful professors. Few persons were more ac- complished than Henrietta Temple, even at an ear- ly age, but her rare accomplishments were not her most remarkable characteristics. Nature, who had accorded to her that extraordinary beauty which we have attempted to describe, had endowed her with great talents, and a soul of sublime temper. It was often remarked of Henrietta Temple — and the circumstance may doubtless be in some degree accounted for by the little interference and influ- ence of women in her education — that she never was a girl. She expanded at once from a charm- ing child into a magnificent woman. She had en- tered life very early, and had presided at her fa- ther's table for a year before his recall from his mission. Few women, in so short a period, had received so much homage: but she listened to compliments with a careless, though courteous ear, and received more ardent aspirations with a smile. The men, who were puzzled, voted her cold and heartless; but men should remember that fineness of taste, as well as apathy of temperament, jnay account for an unsuccessful suit. Assuredly Hen- rietta Temple was not deficient in feeling. She entertained for her father sentiments almost of idol- atry ; and those more intimate or dependent ac- quaintances best qualifii'd to form an o[)inion of her character, spoke of her always as a soul gush ing with tenderness. Notwithstanding their mu- tual devotion to each other, there were not many pointsof resemblance between the characters of Mr. Temple and his daughter — for she was remarked for a frankness of demeanour and a simplicity, yet strength of thought which remarkably contrasted 684 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. with the artificial manners, and the conventional opinions and conversations of her sire. A mind at once thoughtful and energetic, permitted Henri- etta Temple to form her own judgments ; and an artless candour, which her father never could era- dicate from her habits, generally impelled her to ex- press them. It was, indeed, impossible, even for him long to find fault with these ebullitions, how- ever the diplomatist might deplore them ; for na- ture had so imbued the existence of this being with that indefinable charm which we call grace, that it was not in your power to behold her a moment without being enchanted. A glance, a movement, a sunny smile, a word of thrilling music, and all that was left to you was to adore. There was, in- deed, in Henrietta Temple that rare and extraordi- nary combination of intellectual strength, and physical softness, which marks out the woman ca- pable of exercising an irresistible influence over mankind. In tlie good old days, she might have occasioned a siege of Troy or a battle of Actium. She was one of those women who make nations mad, and for whom a man of genius would willingly peril the empire of the world ! So at least deemed Ferdinand Armine as he can- tered through the park, talking to himself, apostro- phizing the woods, and shouting his passion to the winds. It was scarcely noon when he reached Ducie Bovver. This was a Pallatlian pavilion, situat- ed in the midst of the most beautiful gardens, and surrounded by green hills. The sun shone brightly, the sky was without a cloud ; it appeared to him that he had never beheld a more elegant and spark- ling scene. It was a temple worthy of the divinity it enshrined. A fagade of four Ionic columns fronted an octagonal hall, adorned with statues, which led into a saloon of considerable size and exquisite proportion, Ferdinand thought that he had never in his life entered so brilliant a chamber. The lofty walls were covered with an Indian paper of vivid fancy, and adorned with several pictures, which his practised eye assured him were of great merit. The room, without being inconveniently crowded, was amply stored with furniture, every article of vt-hich bespoke a refined and luxurious taste ; easy chairs of all descriptions, most inviting couches, cabinets of choice inlay, and grotesque tables covered with articles of virtu; all those charming infinite nothings, which a person of taste might some time back have easily collected during a long residence on the Continent. A large lamp of Dresden china was suspended from the painted and gilded ceiling. The three tall windows opened on the gardens, and admitted a perfume so rich and various, that Ferdinand could easily believe the fair mistress, as she told him, was indeed a lover of flowers. A light bridge in the distant wood, that bounded the furthest lawn, indicated that a stream was at hand. What with the beauty of the cham- ber, the richness of the exterior scene, and the bright sun that painted every object with its magical colouiing and made every thing appear even more fair and brilliant, Ferdinand stood for some moments quite entranced. A door opened, and Mr. Temple came forward and welcomed him with great cordiality. After they had passed a half hour in looking at the pictures and in conversation to which they gave rise, Mr. Temple, proposing an adjournment to luncheon, opened a door exactly opposite to the one by which he had entered, and conducted Fer- dinand into a dining-room, of which the suitable decoration wonderfully pleased his taste. A sub- dued tint pervaded every part of the chamber: the ceiling was painted in gray tinted frescos of a classical and festive character, and the side table, which stood in a recess supported by four magni- ficent columns, was adorned with very choice Etruscan vases. The air of repose and stillness which distinguished this apartment, was heighten- ed by the vast conservatory into which it led, blaz- ing with light and beauty, rows of orSj^^ trees in bloom, clusters of exotic plants of radiant tint, the sound of a fountain, and gorgeous fori^s of tropic birds. " How beautiful !" exclaimed Ferdinand, " 'Tis pretty," said Mr. Temple, carving a pasty, " but we are very humble people, and cannot vie with the lords of Gothic castles." " It appears to me," said Ferdinand, " that Ducie Bower is the most exquisite place I ever be- held." " If you had seen it two years ago, you would have thought differently," said Mr. Temple; "I assure ymi I dreaded becoming its tenant. Henri- etta is entitled to all the praise, as she took upon herself the whole responsibility. There is not on the banks of the Brenta a more dingy and desolate villa than Ducie appeared when we first came ; and as for the gardens, they were a perfect wilderness. She made every thing. It was one vast desolate and neglected lawn, used as a sheep-walk when we arrived. As for the ceilings, I was almost tempted to whitewash them, and yet you see they have cleaned wonderfully; and after all it only re- quired a little taste and labour. I have not laid out much money here. I built the conservatory, to be sure. Henrietta could not live without a conservatory." " Miss Temple is quite right," pronounced Fer- dinand. " It is impossible to live without a con- servatory." At this moment the heroine of their conversation entered the room, and Ferdinand turned pale as death. She extended to him her hand with a most graceful smile ; as he touched it, he trembled from head to foot. " You were not fatigued, I hope, by your ride. Miss Temple," at length he contrived to say. "0, no! not in the least! I am an experienced horsewoman. Papa and I take the longest rides together." As for eatmg with Henrietta Temple in the room, Ferdinand found that quite impossible. The moment she appeared, his appetite vanished. Anx- ious to speak, yet deprived of his accustomed fluency, he began to praise Ducie, "You must see it," said Miss Temple; "shall we walk round the grounds 1" "My dear Henrietta," said her father, "I dare say Captain Armine is at this moment sufliciently tired ; besides, when he moves, he will like, per- haps, to take his gun ; you forget he is a sportsman, and that he cannot waste his morning in talking to ladies and picking flowers." " O! indeed, sir, I assiife you," said Ferdinand, " there is nothing I like so much as talking to ladies, and picking flowers; that is to say, when the ladies have as fine taste as Miss Temple, and the flowers are as beautiful as those at Ducie," " Well, you shall sec my conservatory. Captain Armine," said Miss Temple ; " and you shall go HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 585 cnJ kill partridges afterwards." So saying, she en- tered the conservatory, and Ferdinand followed her, leaving Mr. Temple to his pasty. " These orange groves remind me of Palermo," said Ferdinand. ".\h!" said Miss Temple, "I have never been in the sweet south !" " You srem to me a person born to live in a Sicilian pataee," said Ferdinand; "to wander in pcrfumey[^ groves, and to glance in a moonlight warmer than this sun." " I see you pay compliments," said Miss Temple, looking at him archly, and meeting a glance serious and soft. " Believe me, not to you." " What do you think of this flower 1" said Miss Temple, turning away rather quickly, and iiointing to a strange plant. " It is the most singular thing in the world ; but if it be tended by any other per- son than myself, it withers. Is it not droll ]" " I think not," said Ferdinand. " I excuse you for your incredulity ; no one does believe *it ; no one can ; and yet it is quite true. Our gardener gave it up in despair. I wonder what it can be." " I think it must be some enchanted prince," said Ferdinand. "O! if I thought so, how I should long for a wand to emancipate him !" said Miss Temple. " I would break your wand if you had one," said Ferdinand. " Why ?" said Miss Temple. "O! I don't know," said Ferdinand, "I sup- pose because I believe you are sufficiently enchant- ing without one." " I am bound to consider that most excellent logic," said Miss Temple. "Do you admire my fountain and my birds?" she continued, after a short pause. " After Armine, Ducie appears a little tawdry toy." " Ducie is Paradise," said Ferdinand. " I should like to pass my life in this conservatory." " As an enchanted prince, I suppose," said Miss Temple. " Exactly," said Captain Armine ; "I would wil- lingly this instant become a flower, if I were sure Miss Temple would cherish my existence." " Cut otf your tendrils, and drown you with a watering pot," said Miss Temple; "you really arc very Sicilian in your conversation. Captain Ar- mine." " Come," said Mr. Temple, who now joined them, " if you really should like to take a stroll round the ground*, I will order the keeper to meet us at the cottage " " A very excellent proposition," said Miss Tem- ple. " But yod must get a bonnet, Henrietta — I must forbid your going out uncovered." " No, p(i[)a, this will do," said Miss Temple, taking a handkerchief, twisting it round her head, and tying it under her chin. " You look like an old woman, Henrietta," said her fatiier, smiling. —^^ " I shall not say what you look like, Miss Tem- ple," said Captain Armine, with a glance of admi- ration, " lest you should think that I was this time even talking Sicilian." " I reward you for your forbearance with a rose," said Miss Temple, plucking a flower. "It is a re- turn for vour beautiful present of yesterday." 74 Ferdinand pressed the gift to his lips. They went forth ; they stepped into a paradise, where the sweetest flowers seemed grouped in every combination of the choicest forms — baskets, and vases, and beds of inlhiite fancy. A thousand bees and butterflies filled the air with their glancing shapes and cheerful music, and the birds from the neighbouring groves joined in the chorus of melody. The wood walks through which they now rambled, admitted at intervals glimpses of the ornate land- scape, and occasionally the view extended beyond the enclosed limits, and exhibited the clustering and embowered roofs of the neighbouring village, or some woody hill studded with a farmhouse, oi^' a distant spire. As for Ferdinand, he strolled along, full of beautiful thoughts and thrilling fancies, in a dreamy state which had banished all recollection or consciousness but of the present. He was hap- py; positively, perfectly, supremely happy. He was happy for the first time in his life. He had no con- ception that life could aflbrd such bliss as now filled his being. What a chain of miserable, tame facti- tious sensations seemed the whole course of his past existence. Even the joys of yesterday were nothing to these; Armine was associated with too much of the commonplace and the gloomy to realize the ideal in which he now revelled. But now all circumstances contributed to enchant him. The novelty, the beauty of the scene, harmoniously blended with his passion. The sun seemed to him a more brilliant sun than the orb that illumined Armine; the sky more clear, more pure, more odorous. There seemed a magic sympathy in the trees, and every flower reminded him of its mis- tress. And then he looked around and beheld her. Was he positively awake ! Was he in England ? Was he in the same globe in which he had hitherto moved and acted] What was this entrancing form that moved before him 1 Was it indeed a woman 1 O ! dea cerl6 ! That voice, too, now wilder than the wildest bird, now low, and hushed, yet always sweet — where was he, what did he listen to, what did he behold, what did he feel ? The presence of her father alone restrained him from falling on his knees and ex- pressing to her his adoration. At length our friends arrived at a picturesque and iv3'-grown cottage, where the keeper with their guns and dogs awaited Mr. Temple and his guest Ferdinand, although a keen sportsman, beheld the spectacle with dismay. He execrated, at the same time, the existence of partridges, and the invention of gunpowder. To resist his fate, however, was impossible ; he took his gun and turned to bid his hostess adieu. "I do not like to quit Paradise at all," he said ia alow voice; "must I go?" "0 ! certainly," said Miss Temple. " It will do you a great deal of good. Take care you do not shoot papa, for, somehow or other, you really ap- pear to be very absent to-day." The caution of Miss Temple, although given in jest, was not altogether without some foundation, Captain Armine did contrive not to kill her father, but that was all. Never did any one, especially foi the first hour, shoot more wildly. In time, however, Ferdinand sufliciently rallied to recover his reputa- tion with the keeper, who from his first observation began to wink his eye to his son, an attendant bush- beater, and occasionally even thrust his tongue in 586 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. side his clieek — a significant gesture perfectly understood by the imp. " For the life of me, Sam," he afterwards profi)undly observed, "I couldn't make out this here captain by no manner of means whatsomevcr. At first I thought as how he ■was going to put the muzzle to his shoulder. Hang me, if ever I see sich a gentleman. He missed every thing; and at last if he didn't hit the longest flying shots without taking aim. Hang me, if ever I see sich a gentleman. He hit every thing. That ere captain puzzled me, surely." The party at dinner was increased by a neigh- bouring squire and his wife, and the rector of the parish. Ferdinand was placed at the right hand of Miss Temple. The more he beheld her, the more beautiful she seemed. He detected every moment some charm before unobserved. It seemed to him that he never was in such agreeable society, though, sooth to say, the conversation was not of a very brilliant character. Mr. Temple recounted the sport of the morning to the squire, whose ears kin- dled at a congenial subject, and every preserve in the county was then discussed, with some episodes on poaching. The rector, an old gentleman, who had dined in old days at Armine Place, reminded Ferdinand of the agreeable circumstance, sanguine, perhaps, that the invitation might lead to a renewal of his acquaintance with that hospitable board. He was painfully profuse in his description of the pub- lic days of the famous Sir Ferdinand. From the service of plate to the thirty servants in livery, no- thing was omitted. "Our friend deals in Arabian tales," whispered Ferdinand to Miss Temple ; "you can be a witness that we live quietly enough now." "I shall certainly never forget my visit to Ar- mine," replied Miss Temple ; " it was one of the most agreeable days of my life." " And that is saying a great deal, for I think your life must have abounded in agreeable days." " I cannot, indeed, lay any claim to that misery which makes many people interesting," said Miss Temple; " I am a very commonplace person, for I have been always happy." When the ladies withdrew, there appeared but little inclination on the part of the squire and the rector to follow their example; and Captain Ar- mine, therefore, soon left Mr. Temple to his fate, and escaped to the drawing-room. He glided to a seat on an ottoman, by the side of his hostess, and listened in silence to the conversation. What a conversation ! At any other time, under any other circumstances, Ferdinand would have been teazcd and wearied with its commonplace current ; all the dull detail of country tattle, in which the squire's lady was a proficient, and with which Miss Tem- ple was too highly bred not to appear to sympathize — and yet the conversation, to Ferdinand, appeared quite charming. Every accent of Henrietta's sounded like wit; and when she bent her head in assent to her companion's obvious deductions, there was about each movement a grace so ineffable, that Ferdinand could have sat in silence and lis- tened, entranced, forever; and, occasionally, too, she turned to Captain Armine, and appealed on some point to his knowledge or his taste. It seemed to him that he had never listened to sounds so sweetly thrilling as her voice. It was a birdlike burst of music, that well became the sparkling sun- shine of her 1 iolet eyes, ^ His late companions entered. Ferdinand rose from his seat; the windows of the saloon were open; he stepped forth into the garden. He felt the ne- cessity of being a moment alone. He proceeded a few paces beyond the ken of man, and ihen lean- ing on a statue, and burying his face in his arm, he gave way to irresistible emotion. What wild thoughts dashed through his impetuous soul at that instant, it is ditficult to conjecture. Perhaps it was passion that inspired that convulsive revery ; per- chance it might have been remorse. Ilid he aban- don himself to those novel sentiments which in a few brief hours had changed all his aspirations, and coloured his whole existence; or was he tortured by that dark and perplexing future, from which his imagination in vain struggled to extricate him 1 He was roused from his revery, brief but tumul- tuous, by the note of music, and then by the sound of a human voice. The stag detecting the hunts- man's horn could not have started with more wild emotion. But one fair organ could send forth that voice. -He approached, he listened ; the voice of Henrietta Temple floated to him on the air, breath- ing with a thousand odours. In a moment he was at her side. The s(juire's lady was standing by her; the gentlemen, for a moment arrested from a political discussion, formed a group in a distant part of the room, the rector occasionally venturing in a practised whisper to enforce a disturbed argu- ment. Ferdinand glided in unobserved by the fair performer. Miss Temple not only possessed a voice of rare tone and compass, but this delightful gift of nature had been cultivated with refined art. Ferdinand, himself a musician, and passionately devoted to vocal melody, 'listened with unexagge rated rapture. " O ! beautiful !" exclaimed he, as the songstress ceased. "Captain Armine I" cried Miss Temple, looking round with a wild, bewitching smile. " I thought you were meditating in the twilight." " Your voice summoned me." "You care for musici" "For little else." "You singi" " I hum." " Try this." " With you 1" Ferdinand Armine was not unworthy of singing with Henrietta Temple. His mother had been his able instructress in the art even in his childhood, and bis frequent residence at Naples and other parts of the south, had afforded him ample oppor- tunities of perfecting a talent thus early cultivated But to-night the love of something beyond his ar* inspired the voice of Ferdinand. Singing with Henrietta Temple, he poured forth to her in safety all the passion which raged in his soul. The squire's lady looked confused ; Henrietta herself grew pale ; the politicians ceased even to whisper, and advanced from their corner to the instrument, and when the duet was terminated, Mr. Temple offered his sincere congratulations to his guest, Henrietta also turned with some words of com- mendation to Ferdinand; but the words were faint and confused, and finally re(iuesting Captain Ar- mine to favour them by singing alone, she rose and vacated her seat. Ferdinand took up the guitar; and accompanied himself to a Neapolitan air. It was gay and fes- tive, a rilornella which might summon your mis- tress to dance in the moonlight. And then, aniid HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 587 many congratulations, he offered the guitar to Miss Temiilc. '• No one will listen to a simple melody after any thing so brilliant," said Miss Temple, as she touch- ed a string, and, after a slight prelude, sang these words: — THE DESERTED. I. Yes! wpppins is madness, Away with this ii^ar, " Let no sign of sadiifss BetiJiy ihe wild aiit'iiish I fear. Whpii wp nieel liiin lo-nighl, Be mute UiPn my lieari! And my smile be as bright, As if we were never lo pari. II. Girl ! give me the mirror Thai said I was fair; Alas! falal prri>r, This picuire reveals my dpspair. Smiles no longer can pass. O'er this faded lirow, 4nd I shiver ihis glass, l/lke his love and his fragile vow I "The music," said Ferdinand, full of enthusiasm, " is — " " Henrietta's," replied her father. "And the words'? — " " \\'erc found in my canary's cage," said Hen- rietta Temple, rising and putting an end to the conversation. CHAPTER Vir. IX WHICH CAPTAIX AHMIXE INDULGES IX A IIEVEIIX. The squire's carriage was announced, and then came his lady's shawl. How happy was Ferdi- nand, when he recailected that he was to remain at Ducie. Remain at Durie! Remain under the same roof as Henrietta Temple. What bliss I — what ravishing bliss! All his life — and his had not been a monotonous one — it seemed that all his life could not afford a situation so adventurous and so sweet as this. Now they have gone. The squire and his lady, and the worthy rector who recollected Armine so well — they have all departed, all the adieus are uttered ; after this little and una- voidable bustle, silence reigns in the saloon of Ducie. Ferdinand walked to the window. The moon was up ; the air was sweet and hushed ; the landscape clear though soft. O ! what would he not have given to have strolled in that garden with Henrietta Temple, to liave poured forth his whole soul to her, to have told her how wondrous fair she was, how wildly bewitching, and how he loved her, how he sighed to bind his fate with hers, and live forever in the brilliant atmosphere of her grace and beauty. "Good night. Captain Armine," said Henrietta Temple. He turned hastily round, he blushed, he grew ii'. There she stood, in one hand a light, the oiher extended to her father's guest. He pressed her hand, he sighed, he looked confused ; then suddenly lotting go her hand, he walked quickly towards the door of the saloon, which he opened that she might retire. "'J'hc happiest day of my life has ended," he muttered. "You are so easily content, then, that I think you must always be happy." " I fear I am not as easily content as you ima- gine." She has gone. Hours, many and long hours, must elapse before he sees her again, before he again listens to that music, watches that airy grace, and meets the bright flashing of that fascinating eye. What misery was there in this ideal How little had he seemed hitherto to prize the joy of being her companion. He cursed the hours which had been wasted away from her in the morning's sport; he blamed himself that he had not even sooner quitted the dining-room, or that he had left the saloon for a moment, to commune with his own thoughts in the garden. With difficulty he re- strained himself from reopening the door, to listen for the distant sound of her footsteps, or catch, per- haps, along some corridor, the fading echo of her voice. But Ferdinand was not alone — iMr. Tem- ple still remained. That gentleman raised his face from the newspaper, as Captain Armine advanced to him ; and, after some observations about the day's sport, and a hope that he would repeat his trial of the Ducie preserves to-morrow, proposed their retirement. Ferdinand of course assented, and, in a moment, he was ascending \\M\ his host the noble and Italian staircase ; and he then was ushered from the vestibule into his room. His previous visit to this chamber had been so hurried, that he had only made a general observa- tion on its appearance. Little inclined to slumber, he now examined it more critically. In a recess was a French bed of simple furniture. On the walls, which were covered with a rustic paper, were suspended several drawings, representing views in Saxon Switzerland. They were so bold and spirited that they arrested attention : but the quick eye of Ferdinand instantly detected the initials of the artist in the corner. They were let- ters that made his heart tremble, as he gazed with admiring fondness on her performances. Before a sofa, covered with a cliintz of a corresponding pat- tern with the paper of the walls, was placed a small French table, on which were writing materials; and his toilet table and his mantelpiece were pro- fusely ornamented with rare flowers; on all sides were symptoms of female taste and feminine con- sideration. Ferdinand carefully withdrew from his coat the flower that Henrietta had given him in the morn- ing, and which he had worn the whole day. He kissed it; he kissed it more than once ; he pressed its somewhat faded form to his lips with cautious delicacy ; then tending it with the utmost care, he placed it in a vase of water, which holding in his hand, he threw himself into an easy chair, with his eyes flxed on the gift he most valued in the world. An hour passed, and Ferdinand Armine remain- ed fixed in the same position. But no one who beheld that beautiful and pensive countenance, and the dreamy softness of that large gray eye, could for a moment conceive that his thoughts were less sweet than the object on which they appeared to gaze. No distant recollections disturbed him now, no memory of the past, no fear of the future. The delicious present monopolized his existence. The ties of duty, the claims of domestic affection, the worldly considerations that by a cruel dispensation had seemed, as it were, to taint even b.is innocent and careless boyhood, even the urgent appeals of 588 D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. his critical and perilous situation — all, all were for- gotten in one intense delirium of absorbing love. Anon he rose from his seat, and paced his room for some minutes, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Then throwing off his clothes, and taking the flower from the vase, which he previously placed on the table, he deposited it in his bosom. " Beau- tiful, beloved flower," exclaimed he ; " thus, thus will I win and wear your mistress !" ; CHAPTER VIII. A STRANGE DUEAM. Restless are the dreams of the lover that is young. Ferdinand Armine started awake from the agony of a terrible slumber. He had been walking in a garden with Henrietta Temple — her hand was clasped in his — her eyes fixed on the ground, as he whispered most delicious words. His face was flushed, his speech panting and low. Gently he wound his vacant arm around her grace- ful form ; she looked up, her speaking eyes met his, and their trembling lips seemed about to cling into a — When Id ! the splendour of the garden faded, and all seemed changed and dim : instead of the beautiful arched walks, in which a moment before they appeared to wander, it was beneath the vaulted roof of some temple that they now moved ; instead of the bed of glowing flowers from which he was about to pluck an oflbring for her bosom, an altar rose, from the centre of which upsprang a quick and lurid tongue of fire. The dreamer gazed upon his companion, and her form was tinted with the dusky hue of the flame, and she held to her countenance a scarf, as if oppressed by the unna- tural heat. Great fear suddenly came over him. With haste, yet with delicacy, he himself with- drew the scarf from the face of his companion, and this movement revealed the visage of Miss Grandison. Ferdinand Armine awoke and started u[) in his bed. Before him still appeared the unexpected figure. He jumped out of the bed — he gazed upon the form with staring eyes and open mouth. She was there — assuredly she was there : it was Kathe- rine — Katherine his betrothed — sad and reproach- ful. The figure faded before him ; he advanced with outstretched hand ; in his desperation he de- termined to clutch the escaping form ; and he found in his grasp his dressing-gown, which he had thrown over the back of a c'rair. "A dream, and but a dream, after all," he mut- tered to himself ; " and yet a strange one." His brow was heated ; he opened the casement. It was still night ; the moon had vanished, but the stars were still shining. He recalled with an ef- fort the scene with which he had become acquainted yesterday for the first time. Before him, serene and still, rose the bowers of Ducie. And their mistress ] That angelic form whose hand he had clasped in his dream, was not then merely a shadow. She breathed, she lived, and under the same roof Henrietta Temple was at this moment under the same roof as himself ; and what were her slumbers? Were they wild as his own, or sweet and innocent as herself! Did his form flit over her closed vision at this charmed hour, as hers had visited his ? Had it been scared away by an apparition as awful ] j Bore any one to her the same relation as Kathe- rine Grandison to him 1 A fearful surmise, that had occurred to him now for the first time, and which it seemed could never again quit his brain. The stars faded away — the breath of morn was abroad — the chant of birds arose. Exhausted in body and in mind, Ferdinand Armine flung him- self upon his bed, and soon was lost in slumbe''8 undisturbed as the tomb. CHAPTER IX. WHICH I HOPE MAT PKOVE AS AGEEEABLE TO THE READEIl AS TO OUB HEUO. Ferdinand's servant, whom he had despatched the previous evening to Armine, returned early in tlie morning with his master's letters ; one from his mother, and one from Miss Grandison. They were all to arrive at the Place on the day after the mor- row. Ferdinand opened these epistles with a trembling hand. The siglit of Katherine's, his Katherine's liandwriting was almost as terrible as his dream. It recalled to him, with a dreadful re- ality, his actual situation, which he had driven from his thoughts. He had quitted his family, his family who were so devoted to him, and whom he so loved, happy, nay, triumphant, a pledged and re- joicing bridegroom. What had occurred during the last eight-and-forty hours seemed completely to have changed all his feelings, all his wislies, all his views, all his hopes ! He had in that interval met a single human being, a wom:ui, a girl, a young and innocent girl ; he had looked upon a girl and listened to her voice, and his soul was as changed as the earth by the sunrise. As lying in his bed he read these letters, and mused over their contents, and all the thoughts that tliey suggested, the strangeness of life, the mystery of human nature, were painfully impressed upon him. His melan- choly father, his fond and confiding mother, the devoted Glastonbury, all the mortifying cir- cumstances of his illustrious race, rose in painful succession before him. Nor could he forget his own wretched follies and that fatal visit to Bath, of which the consequences clanked upon his me- mory like a degrading and disgraceful fetter. The burthen of existence seemed intolerable. That domestic love, which had so solaced his existence, recalled now only the most painful associations. In the wilderness of his thoughts, he wished him- self alone in the world, to struggle with his fate and mould his fortunes. He felt himself a slave and a sacrifice. He cursed Armine, his ancient house, and his broken fortunes. He felt that death was preferable to life without Henrietta Temple But even supposing that he could extricate himself from his rash engagement ; even admitting that ali worldly considerations might be thrown aside, thai the pride of his father, and his mother's love, and Glastonbury's pure hopes might all be outraged ; what chance, what hope, was there of obtaining ills great object 1 What was he — what was he, Ferdinand Armine, free as the air from the claims of Miss Grandison, with all sense of duty rooted out of his once sensitive bosom, and existing only for the gratification of his own wild fancies 1 A beg- gar, worse than a beggar, without a home, without the possibility of a home to oiler »Jie lady of his passion ; nay, not even secure that the harsh pro HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 5S9 ees3 of the law might not instantly claim its victim, and he himself be hurried from the altar to the jail ! Moody and melancholy, he repaired to the sa- loon, he beheld Henrietta Temple, and the cloud left his brow and lightness came to his heart. Never had she looked so beautiful, so fresh and bright, so like a fair flower with the dew upon its leaves. Her voice penetrated his soul, her sunny smile warmed his breast. Her father greeted him too with kindness, and inquired after his slumbers, which he assured Mr. Temple had been satisfac- tory. " I find," continued Mr. Temple, " that the post has brought me some business to-day which, I fear, claims the morning to transact. But I hope you will not forget your promise to try again our preserves. I fear they are not very rich ; but we poor tenants of the soil can scarcely vie with you lords of the land. The keeper will be ready when- ever you summon him." Ferdinand muttered something about trouble and intrusion, and the expected arrival of his family, but Mi^s Temple pressed him to accept the olTer with so much expression that refusal was impossible. After breakfast Mr. Temple retired to his library, and Ferdinand found himself alone for the first time with Henrietta Temple. She was copying a miniature of Charles the First. Ferdinand looked over her shoulder. " A melancholy countenance !" he observed, " It is a favourite one of mine," she replied. " Yet you are always gay V " Always." " I envy you. Miss Temple." " What, are you melancholy 1" " I have every cause." " Indeed, I should have thought the reverse." " I look upon myself as the most unfortunate of human beings," replied Ferdinand. He spoke so seriously, in a tone of such deep and bitter feeling, that Miss Temple could not resist looking up at her companion. His countenance was indeed most gloomy. " You surprise me," said Miss Temple ; " I think that few people ought to be unhappy, and I rather suspect fewer are than we imagine." " All I wish is," replied he, " that the battle of Newbury had witnessed the extinction of our fa- mily as well as our peerage." " A peerage, and such a peerage as yours, is a fine thing," said Henrietta Temple, " a very fine thing ; but I would not grieve, if I were you, for that; I would sooner be an Armine without a coro- net, than many a brow I wot of, with." " You misconceived a silly phrase," rejoined Ferdinand. " I was not thinking of the loss of our coronet, though that is only part of the system. Our family I am sure are fated. Birth without ho- nour, estates without fortune, life without happi- ness, that is our lot." "As for the first," said Miss Temple, "the ho- nourable are always honoured ; money, in spite of what they say, I feel is not the greatest thing in the world ; and as for misery, I confess I do not verj- readily believe in the misery of youth." " May you never prove it," replied Ferdinand ; " may you novpr be, as I am, the victim of family prolligacy and family pride." So saying, he turn- ed away, and taking up a book, for a few minutes seemed wrajiped in his reflections. He suddenly resumed the conversation in a more cheerful tone. Holding a volume of Petrarch in his hand, he touched lightly, but with grace, on Italian poetry ; then diverged into his travels, re- counted an adventure with sprightliness, and re- plied to Miss Temple's lively remarks with gayety and readiness. The morning advanced ; .Miss Temple closed her portfolio, and visited her flowers, inviting him to follow her. Her invitation was scarcely necessary : his movements were regulated by hers ; he was as faithful to her as her shadow. From the conservatory they entered the garden. Ferdinand was as fond of gardens as his mistress. She praised the flower-garden of Armine. He gave her some account of its principal creator. The character of Glastonbury highly interested Miss Temple. Love is confidential; it has no fear of ridicule ; Ferdinand entered with freedom, and yet with grace, into family details, from which, at another time and to another person, he would ha%'e been the first to shrink. The imagination of Miss Temple was greatly interested by his simple, and, to her, aflecting account of this ancient line living in their hereditary solitude, with all their noble pride and haughty poverty. The scene, the circumstances, were all such as please a maiden's fancy ; and he, the natural hero of this singular history, seemed deficient in none of those heroic qualities which the wildest spirit of romance might require for the completion of its spell. Beautiful as his ancestors, and, she was sure, as brave, young, sjiirited, grace- ful, and accomplished; a gay and daring spirit blended with the mournful melody of his voice, and occasionally contrasted with the somewhat sub- dued and chastened character of his demeanour. " Well, do not despair," said Henrietta Temple " riches did not make Sir Ferdinand happy. I feel confident the house will yet flourish." " I have no confidence," replied Ferdinand ; " I feel the straggle with our fite to be fruitless. Once, indeed, I felt like you; there was a time when I took even a fancied pride in all the follies of my grandfather. But that is past; I have Uved to execrate his memory " "Hush! hush!" " Yes, to execrate his memory ; I repeat, to exe- crate his memory ; his follies stand between ma and my happiness." " Indeed I see not that." " May you never ! I cannot disguise from my- self that I am a slave, and a wretched one, and that his career has entailed this curse of servitude upon me. But away with this! You must think me, Miss Temple, the most egotistict.1 of human beings, and yet, to do myself justice, I scarcely ever re- member having spoken of myself so nmch before." " Will you walk with me," said Miss Temple, after a moment's silence; "you seem little inclined to avail yourself of my father's invitation to soli- tary sport. But I cannot stay at home, for I have visits to pay, although I fear you will consider them rather dull ones." " Why so 1" " My visits are to cottages." " I love nothing better. I used ever to be my mother's companion on such occasions." So, crossing the lawn, they entered a beautiful wood of considerable extent, which formed the boundary of the grounds, and after some time passed in most agreeable conversation, emerged upon a common of no ordinary extent or beauty, for it was thickly studded in some parts with lofty 3D &90 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. timber, while in others the furze and fern gave rich- ness and variety to the vast wilderness of verdant turf, scarcely marked except by the light hoof of Miss Temple's palfrey. " It is not so grand as Armine Park," said Miss Temple ; " but we are proud of our common." The thin gray smoke that rose in different direc- tions, was a beacon to the charitable visits of Miss Temple. It was evident that she was a visiter both habitual and beloved. Each cottage door was fami- liar to her entrance. The children smiled at her approach ; their mothers rose and courtesied with affectionate respect. How many names and how many wants had she to remember; yet nothing was forgotten ! Some were rewarded for industry, some were admonished not to be idle; but all were treated with an engaging suavity more efScacious than gifts or punishments. The aged were solaced by her visits ; the sick forgot their pains : and as she listened with sympathizing patience to long narratives of rheumatic griefs, it seemed her pre- sence in each old chair, her tender inquiries and sanguine hopes, brought even more comfort than her plenteous promises of succour from the Bower in the shape of arrowroot and gruel, port wine and flannel petticoats. This scene of sweet simplicity brought back old days and old places to the memory of Ferdinand Armine. He thought of the time when he was a happy boy at his innocent home ; his mother's boy, the child she so loved and looked after, when a cloud upon her brow brought a tear into his eye, and when a kiss from her lips was his most dear and desired reward. The last night he had passed at Armine, before his fust departure, rose up to his recollection ; all his mother's passionate fondness, all her wild fear that the day might come when her child would not love her as dearly as he did then. That time had come. But a few hours back — ay ! but a few hours back — and he had sighed to be alone in the world, and had felt those domestic ties which had been the joy of his existence, a burden, and a curse. A tear stole down his cheek ; he stepped forth from the cottage to conceal his emo- tion. He seated himself on the trunk of a tree, a few paces withdrawn ; he looked upon the setting sun that gilded the distant landscape with its rich yet pensive light. The scenes of the last five years flitted across his mind's eye in fleet succession ; his dissipation, his vanity, his desperate folly, his hol- low worldliness. Why, O ! why had he ever left his unpolluted home ] Why could he not have lived and died in that silvan paradise 1 Why, O ! why was it impossible to admit his beautiful com- panion into that sweet and serene society ? Why should his love for her make his heart a rebel to his hearth? Money, horrible money ! It seemed to him that the contiguous cottage and the labour of his hands with her, were preferable to palaces and crowds of retainers without her inspiring pre- sence. And why not screw his courage to the sticking-point, and commune in confidence with his parents 1 They loved him ; yes, they idolized him ! For him, for him alone, they sought the restoration of their house and fortunes. Why, Henrietta Temple was a treasure richer than any his ancestors had counted. Let them look on her, let them listen to her, let them breathe as he had done in her enchantment; and could they wonder, could they murmur at his conduct? Would they not, O ! would they not rathei admire, extol it ! But then, his debts, his infernal, his overwhelming debts. All the rest might be ficed. His desperate engagement might be broken, his family might be reconciled to obscurity and poverty : but, ruin ! what was to grapple with his impending ruin 1 Now his folly stung him, now the scorpion entered his soul. It was not the profligacy of his ancestor, it was not the pride of his family then, that stood between him and his love ; it was his own culpable and heartless career ! He covered his face with his hands ; something touched him lightly, it was the parasol of Miss Temple. " I am afraid," she said, " that my visits have wearied you ; but you have been very kind and good." He rose rapidly with a slight blush. " Indeed," he replied, "I have passed a most delightful morn- ing, and I was only regretting that life consisted of any thing else but cottages and yourself." They were late ; they heard the first dinner-bell at Ducie as they re-entered the wood, "We must hurry on," said Miss Temple ; " dinner is the only subject on which papa is a tyrant. What a sun- set ! I wonder if Lady Armine will return on Saturday. When she returns, I hope you will make her call upon us, for I want to copy all the pictures in your gallery." " If they were not heirlooms, I would give them you," said Ferdinand ; " but as it is, there is onjy one way by which I can manage it." " What way 1" inquired Miss Temple, very in- nocently. " I forget," replied Ferdinand with a peculiar smile. Miss Temple seemed to comprehend a littlo more clearly, and looked a little confused. CHAPTER X. AN EVENING STROLL. In spite of his perilous situation, an indefinable sensation of happiness pervaded the soul of Ferdi- nand Armine, as he made his hurried toilet, and hastened to the domestic board of Ducie, where he was now the solitary guest. His eye caught Miss Temple's as he entered the room. It seemed to beam upon him with interest and kindness. His courteous and agreeable host welcomed him with polished warmth. It seemed that a feeling of inti- macy was already established among them, and he fancied himself already looked upon as an habitual memiier of their circle. All dark thoughts are driven away. He was gay and pleasant, and duly maintained with Mr. Temple that conversation in which his host excelled. Miss Temple spoke little, but listened with evident interest to her father and Ferdinand. She seemed to delight in their society, and to be gratified by Captain Armine's evident sense of her father's agreeable qualities. When dinner was over, they all rose together, and repaired to the saloon. " I wish Mr. Glastonbury were here," said Miss Temple, as Ferdinand opened the instrument. " You must bring him, some day, and then our concert will be perfect." Ferdinand smiled, but the name of Glastonbury made him shudder. His countenance changed at the future plans of Miss Temple. " Some day," indeed, when he might also take the oj'^ortuni'jr HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 591 of introducing his betrothed ! But the voice of Ht'iirielta Temple drove all care from his bosom ; he abandoned himself to the intoxicating present. She sang alone; and then they sang together; and, as he arranged her books, or selected her theme, a thousand instances of the interest with which she inspired him developed themselves. Once he touched her hand, and he pressed his own, unseen, to his lips. Though the room was lit up, the windows were open and admitted the moonlight. The beautiful saloon was full of fragrance and of melody ; the fairest of women dazzled Ferdinand with her pre- sence ; his heart was full; his senses ravished ; his hopes were high. Could there be such a demon as care in such a paradise? Could sorrow ever enter here 7 Was it possible that these bright hails and odorous bowers could be polluted by the miserable considerations that reigned too often su- preme in his unhappy breast 1 An enchanted scene had suddenly risen from the earth for his delight and fascination. Could he be unha|)[>y'? Why, if all went darker even than he sometitnes feared, that man had not lived in vain who had be- held Henrietta Temple! All the troubles of the world were folly here ; this was fairyland, and he, some knight who had fallen from a gloomy globe upon some starry regions flashing with perennial lustre. The hours flew on ; the servants brought in that liaht banquet whose entrance in the country seems the only method of reminding our guests that there is a morrow. "'Tisthe last night," said Ferdinand, smiling, with a sigh. "One more song; only one more. Mr. Temple, be indulgent ; it is the last night. I feel, ' he added, in a lower tone, to Henrietta, " I feel exactly as I did when I left Armine for the first time." "Because you are going to return to it ? That is wilful !" " Wilful or not, I would that I might never see it again." " For my part, Armine is to me the very land of romance." " It is strange." " No spot on earth ever impressed me more. It is the finest combination of art, and nature, and poetical associations I know ; it is indeed unique." " I do not like to difler with you on any subject." "We should be dull companions, I fear, if we agreed upon every thing." "I cannot think it." " Papa," said Miss Temple, "one little stroll upon the lawn ; one little, little stroll. The moon is so bright ; and autumn, this year, has brought us as yet no dew." And as she spoke, she took up her scarf and wound it round her head. "There," she said, "I look like the portrait of the Turkish page in Armine gallery ; don't IV' There was a playful grace about Henrietta Tem- ple, awik! and brilliant simplicity, which was the nvore charming, because it was blended with pecu- liarly high breeding. No person in ordinary society was more calm, or enjoyed a more complete solf- possession ; yet no one, in the more intimate rela- ! tions of life, indulged more in those little unstudied ' bursts of nature, which seemed almost to remind' one of the playful child rather than the polished , woman ; and which, under such circimistances, ' are infioite.y captivating. As for Ferdinand Ar- ' mine, he looked upon the Turkish page with a countenance beaming with admiration; he wished it was Turkey wherein he then beheld her, or any other strange land, where he could have placed her on his courser, and galloped away in pursuit of a fortune wild as his soul. They walked in the garden, the arms of Henrietta Temple linked between her father's and Captain Armine's. Though the year was in decay, sum- mer had lent this night to autumn, it was so soft and sweet. The moonbeam fell brightly upon Ducie Bower, and the illumined saloon contrasted effectively with the natural splendour of the exte- rior scene. Mr. Temple reminded Henrietta of a brilliant fete which had been given at a Saxon pa- lace, and which some circumstances of similarity recalled to his recollection. Ferdinand could no' speak, but found himself unconsciously pressing Henrietta Temple's arm to his heart. 'l"he Saxon palace brought back to Miss Teiiiple a wild melody which had been sung in the gardens on that night. She asked her father if he recollected it, and hum- med the air as she made the inquiry. Her gentio murmur soon expanded into song. It was one of those wild and natural lyrics that spring up in mountainous countries, and which seem to mimic the prolonged echoes that in such regions greet the ear of the pastor and the huntsman. ! why did this night ever have an end ! CHAPTER XL A MOUNING WALK. It was solitude that brought despair to Ferdi- nand Armine. The moment he was alone his real situation thrust itself upon him ; the moment that he had quitted the presence of Henrietta Temple, he was as a man under the influence of music when the orchestra suddenly stops. The source of all his inspiration failed him; this last night at Ducie was dreadful. Sleep was out of question ; he did not aflect even the mimicry of retiring, but paced up and down his room the whole night, or flung him- self, when exhausted, upon a restless sofa. Occa- sionally he varied these UKmotonous occupations, by pressing his lips to the drawings which bore her name; then, relapsing into a profound rcvery, he sought some solace in recalling the scenes of the morning, all her movements, every word she had uttered, every look which had illumined his soul. In vain he endeavoured to find consolation in the fond belief that he was not altogether without in- terest in her eyes. Even the conviction that his passion was returned, in the situation in which he was plunged, would, however flattering, be rather a source of tresh anxiety and perplexity. He took a volume from the single shelf of books that was slimg against the wall ; it was a volume of Corinne. The fervid eloquence of the poetess sublimated his passion : and, without disturbing the tone of his excited mind, relieved in some degree its ten- sion, by busying his imagination with otiier, though similar, emotions. As he read, his mind became more calm and his feelings deeper, and, by the time his lam]) grew ghastly in the purple light of morn- ing that now entered his chamber, his soul seemed so stilled, that he closed the volume, and though sleep was impossible, he remained nevertheles* calm and absorbed. 592 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. When the first sountls assured him that some were stirring in the house, he quitted his room, after some difficulty found a maid-servant by whose aid he succeeded in getting into the garden. He took his way to the common where he had observed, the preceding day, a fine sheet of water. The sun had not risen more than an hour ; it was a fresh and ruddy morn. The cottagers were just abroad. The air ot the plain invigorated him, and the singing of the birds, and all those rural sounds, that rise with the husbandman, brought to his mind a won- derful degree of freshness and serenity. Occa- sionally he heard the gun of an early sportsman, to him at all times an animating sound; but when he had plunged into the water, and found himself strug- gling with that inspiring element, all sorrow seemed to leave him. His heated brow became cool and clear — his aching limbs vigorous and elastic — his jaded soul full of hope and joy. He lingered in the liquid and vivifying world, playing with the stream, for he was an expert and practised swimmer; and often, after nights of southern dissipation, had re- curred to this natural bath for health and renovation. The sun had now risen far above the horizon ; the village clock had long struck seven ; Ferdinand was three miles from Ducie Bower. It was time to return, yet he loitered on his way, the air was so sweet and fresh, the scene so pretty, and his mind, in comparison with his recent feelings, so calm, and even happy. Just as he emerged from the woods, and entered the grounds of Ducie, he met Miss Temple. She stared, and she had cause. Ferdi- nand, indeed, presented rather an unusual figure ; his head uncovered, his hair matted, and his coun- tenance glowing with his exercise, but his figure clothed in the identical evening dress in which he had bid her a tender good night. " Captain Armine !" exclaimed Miss Temple, "you are an early riser, I see." Ferdinand looked a little confused. " The truth is," he replied, "I have not risen at all. I could not sleep ; why, I know not ; the evening, I suppose, was too happy for so commonplace a termination ; so I escaped from mj' room as soon as I could do so without disturbing your household; and I have been bathing, which refreshes me always more than slumber." " Well, I could not resign my sleep, were it only for the sake of my dreams." " Pleasant I trust they were. ' Rosy dreams and slumbers light' are for ladies as fiiir as you." "I am grateful that I always fulfil the poet's wish ; and what is more, I wake only to gather roses —see here!" She extended to him a flower. " I deserve it," said Ferdinand, " for I have not neglected your first gift," and he offered her the rose she had given him the first day of his visit. <' 'Tis shrivelled," he added, " but still very sweet — at least to me." " It is mine now," said Henrietta Temple. " Ah ! you will throw it away." "Do you thitdc me, then,, so insensible to gal- lantry so delicate V "It cannot be to you what it is to me," replied Ferdinand. '• It is a memorial," said Miss Temple. " Of what, and of whom 1" inquired Ferdi- nand. " Of friendship and a friend." " 'Tis something to be Miss Temple's friend." | " I am glad you think so. I believe I am very vain, but certainly I like to be — liked." " Then you can always gain your wish without an effort." "Now I think we are very good friends," said Miss Temple, " considering we have known each other so short a time. But then papa likes you so much," " I am honoured as well as gratified by the kind ly disposition of so agreeable a person as Mr. Tern pie. I can assure his daughter that the feeling is mutual. Your father's opinion influences you ''" " In every thing. He has been so kind a father, that it would be worse than ingratitude to be less than devoted to him." " Mr. Temple is a very enviable person." "But Captain Armine knows the delight of a parent who loves him. I love my father as you lovs your mother," " I have, however, lived to feel that no person's opinion could influence me in every thing; I have lived to find that even filial love — and God knows mine was powerful enough — is, after all, but a pal- lid moonlight beam, compared with " " See ! my father kisses his hand to us from the window. Let us run and meet him. CHAPTER XIL CONTAINING AN OMINOUS INCIDENT. The last adieus are bidden ; Ferdinand is on his road to Armine, flying from the woman whom he adores, to meet the woman to whom he is betrothed. He reined in his horse as he entered the park. As he slowly approached his home, he could not avoid feeling that, after so long an absence, he had not treated Glastonbury with the kindness and conside- ration he merited. While he was torturing his invention for an excuse forhisconduct, he observed his old tutor in the distance; and riding up and dismounting, he joined that faithful friend. Whether it be that love and falsehood are, under any cir- cumstances, inseparable, Ferdinand Armine, whose frankness was proverbial, found himself involved in a long and confused narrative of a visit to a friend, whom he had unexpectedly met, whom he had known abroad, and to whom he was under the greatest obligations. He even affected to regret this temporary estrangement from Armine after so long a separation, and to rejoice at his escape. No names were mentioned, and the unsuspicious Glastonbury, delighted again to be his companion, inconvenienced him with no cross-examination. But this was only the commencement of the system of degrading de- ception which awaited him. Willingly would Ferdinand have devoted all his time and feelings to his companion ; but in vain he struggled with the absorbing passion of his soul. He dwelt in silence upon the memory of the last three days, the most eventful period of his exist- ence. He was moody and absent, silent when he should have spoken, wandering when he should have listened, hazarding random observations in- stead of conversing, or breaking into hurried and inappropriate comments; so that to any worldly critic of his conduct he would have appeared at the same time both dull and excited. At length ho made a desperate effort to accompany Glastonburj to the picture gallery, and Usten to his plans. The HENRIETTA 'J' E M P L E. 69$ «cene. indeed, was not ungrateful to him, for it was associated with llie existence and the conversation of the lady of his heart: he stood entranced before the picture of the Turkish page, and lamented to Glastonbury, a thousand times, that there was no portrait of ifenrictta Armine. "I would sooner have a portrait of Henrietta Armine. than the whole gallery together," said Ferdinand. tilastonbury stared. " I wonder if there ever will be a portrait of Henrietta Armine. Come, now, my dear Glaston- bury," he continued, with an air of remarkable excitement, " let us have a wager upon it. What are the odds? Will there ever be a portrait of Henrietta Armine? I am quite fantastic to-day. You are smilint; at me. Now do you know, if I had a wish certain to be gratified, it should be to add a portrait of Henrietta Armine to our gallery ?" "She died very young," remarked (Jiastonbury. " But my Henrietta Armine should not die young," said Ferdinand. " She should live, breathe, snrile — she — " Glastonbury looked very confused. So strange is love, that this kind of veiled allu- sion to bis secret passion relieved and gratiliod the overcharged bosom of Ferdinand. He pursued the subject with enjoyment. Anyl)ody but Glaston- bury might have thought that he had lost his senses, he laughed so loud, and talked so fast about a subject which seemed almost nonsensical ; but the good Glastonbury ascribed these ebullitions to the wanton spirit of youth, and smiled out of sym- pathy, though he knew not why, except that his pupil appeared happy. At length they quitted the gallery; Glastonbury resumed bis labours in the ball, where he was copy- ing an escutcheon ; and, after hovering a short time restlessly around his tutor, now escaping into the garden that he might muse over Henrietta Temple undisturbed, and now returning for a few minutes to his companion, lest the good Glastonbury should feel mortified by his neglect, Ferdinand broke away altogether, and wandered far into the plaisance. He came to the green and shady spot where he had first beheld her. There rose the cedar, spread- ing its dark form in solitary grandeur, and holdinjr, as it were, its state among its subject woods. It was the same scene, almost the same hour: but where was she 1 He waited for her form to rise, and yet it came not. He shouted Henrietta Tem- ple, yet no fair vision blessed his. expectant sight. Was it all a dream? Had he been but Ivinc; be- neath these branches in a rapturous trance, and had be only woke to the sbivcrinsi dulness of reality ] What evidence was there of the existence of such a being as Henrietta Temple 1 If such a being did not exist, of what value was life ? After a glimpse of paradise, could he breathe again in this tame and frigid world? Where was Ducio? V/here were its immortal bowers, those roses of supernatural fra- grance, and the celestial melody of its halls ? That garden, wherein be wandered and huni» upon her accents; that wood, among whose shadowy l>onn;hs she glided like an antelope ; that pensive twilight, on which be bad gazed with such subdued emo- tion; that moonliccht walk, when her voice Hoated, like Ariel's, in the purple sky : were these ail phantoms ? Could it be that tliis morn, this very morn he had beheld Henrietta Temple, had con- 75 versed with her alone, had bidden her a soft adieu? What — was it this day that she had given him tho rose ? He threw himself upon the turf, and gazed upon the flower. The flower was young and beautiful as herself, and just expanding into perfect life. To the fantastic brain of love there seemed a resemblance between ibis rose and her who had culled it. Its stem was tall, its countenance was brilliant, an aromatic essence pervaded its being. As he held it in bis hand, a bee came hovering round its charms, eager to revel in its h-agrant loveliness. More than once bad Ferdinand driven the bee away, when suddenly it succeeded in alight- ing on the rose. Jealous of his rose, Ferdinand, in bis haste, shook the flower, and the fragile head fell from the stem ! A feeling of deep melancholy came over him, with which he found it in vain to struggle, and which he could not analyze. He rose, and press- ing the flower to his heart, he walked away and rejoined (ilastonbury, whose task was nearly ac- complished. Ferdinand seated himself upon one of the higli cases which had been stowed away in the hall, folding his arms, swinging his legs, and whistling the German air which Miss Temple had sung the preceding night. '• That is a wild and pretty air," said Glastonbury, who was devoted to music. " I never heard it be- fore. You travellers pick up choice things. Where did you find it ?" " I am sure I cannot tell, my dear Glastonbury; I have been asking myself the same question the whole morning. Sometimes I think I dreamt it." "A few more such dreams would make you a rare composer," observed Glastonbury, smiling. " Ah ! my dear Glastonbury, talking of music, I know a musician, such a musician, a musician whom I should like to introduce you to above all persons in the world." " You always loved music, dear Ferdinand ; 'tis in the blood. You come from a musical stock on your mother's side. Is Miss Grandison musical ?" " Yes — no — that is to say, I forget — some com- monplace accomplishment in the art, she has, I believe ; but I was not thinking of that sort of thing ; I was thinking of the lady who taught me this air." "A lady!" said Glastonbury; "the German la- dies are highly cultivated." " Yes ! the Germans, and the women especially, have a remarkably line musical taste," rejoined Ferdinand, recovering from his blunder. " I like the Germans very much," said Glaston- bury, "and I admire that air." " ! my dear Glastonbury, you shall hear it sun not per- petually require their ideas. But an acquaintance, as I am, only an acquaintance, a miserable ac- quaintance, unless I speak or listen, I have no busi- ness to be here; unless I in some degree contribute to the amusement or the convenience of ray com- panion, I degenerate into a bore." " I think you are very amusing, and you may be useful if you like, very;" and she oflered him a skein of silk, which she requested him to hold. It was a beautiful hand that was extended to him, a beautiful hand is an excellent thing in woman; it is a charm that never palls, and, better than all, it is a means of fiiscination that never disappears. Women carry a beautiful hand with them to the grave, when a beautiful face has long ago vanished or ceased to enchant. The expression of the hand, too, is inexhaustible ; and when the eyes we may have worshipped no longer flash or sparkle, the ringlets with which we may have played are covered with a cap, or worse, a turban, and the symmetri- cal presence which in our sonnets has reminded us so oft of antelopes and wild gazelles, have all, all vanished; the hand, the immortal hand, defying alike time and care, still vanquishes, and still tri- umphs; and, small, soft, and fair, by an airy atti- tude, a gentle pressure, or a new ring, renews with untiring grace the spell that bound our cnamoureil and adoring youth ! But in the present instance there were eyes as bright as the hand, locks more glossy and luxuriant than Helen of Troy's, a cheek pink as a shfll, and breaking into dimples like a May morning into sun- shine, and lips from which stole forth a perfume sweeter than the whole conservatory. Ferdinand sat down on a chair opposite Miss Temple, with the extended skein. "Now this is better than doing nothing!" she said, catching his eye with a glance half kind, half arch. " I suspect. Captain .-Vrmine, that your melancholy originates in idleness." 598 D'lSRAELTS NOVELS. " Ah ! if I could only be employed every day in this manner !" ejaculated Ferdinand. "Nay ! not with a distaff; but you must do some- thing. You must get into parliament." " You forget that I am a Catholic," said Ferdi- nand. Miss Temple slightly blushed, and talked rather quickly about her work ; but her companion would not relinquish the subject. " I ho};e you are not prejudiced against my faith," said Ferdinand. " Prejudiced ! Dear Captain Armine, do not make me repent too seriously a giddy word. I feel it is wrong that matters of taste should mingle with matters of belief; but, to speak the truth,' I am not quite sure that a Howard or an Armine, who was a Protestant, like myself, would quite please my fancy as much as in their present position, which, if a little inconvenient, is very pictur- esque." Ferdinand smiled. " My great-grandmother was a Protestant," said Ferdinand, " Margaret Armine. Do you think Margaret a pretty name V "Queen Margaret! yes! a line name, I think: barring its abbreviation." " I wish my great-grandmother's name had not been Margaret," said Ferdinand very seriously. "No,v, why should that respectable dame's bap- tism disiurb your fancy V inquired Miss Temple. " I wish her name had been Henrietta," replied Ferdinand. "Henrietta Armine. You know there was a Henrietta Armine once 1" " Was there ■?" said Miss Temple, rising. " Our skein is finished. You have been very good. I must go and see my flowers. Come." And as she said this little word, she turned her fair and finely finish- ed neck, and looked over her shoulder at Ferdinand with an arch expression of countenance peculiar to her. That winning look, indeed, that clear, sweet voice, and that quick graceful attitude, blended into a spell, which was irresistible. His heart yearned for Henrietta Temple, and rose at the bid- ding of her voice. From the conservatory they stepped into the gar- den. It was a most delicious afternoon ; the sun had sunk behind the grove, and the air, which had been throughout the day somewhat oppressive, was now warm, but mild. At Ducie there was a fine old terrace facing the western hills, that bound the valley in which the Bovs'er was situated. These hills, a ridge of moderate elevation, but of very pictur- esque form, parted just opposite the terrace, as if on purpose to admit the setting sun, like inferior existences that had, as it were, made way before the splendour of some mighty lord or conqueror. The lofty and sloping bank which this terrace crowned was covered with rare shrubs, and occasionally a group of tall trees sprang up among them, and broke the view witii an interference which was far from ungraceful — while ivy and other creepers, preading forth from large marble vases, had ex- ..ended over their trunks, and sometimes even in their play, had touched their topmost branches. Between the terrace and the distant hills extended a vast tract of pasture land, green and well wooded by its rich hedge-rows ; not a roof was visible, though many farms and hamlets were at hand ; and, m the heart of a rich and populous land, here was a region where the shepherd or the herdsman were the only evidences of human existence. It was tiiither, a grateful spot at such an hour, that Miss Temple and her companion directed their steps. The last beam of the sun flashed across the flam- ing horizon as they gained the terrace ; the hills, well wooded, or presenting a bare and acute out- line to the sky, rose sharply defined in form ; while in another direction some more distant elevations were prevaded with a rich purple tint, touched sometimes with a rosy blaze of soft and flickering light. The whole scene, indeed, from the humble pasture land that was soon to creep into darkness, to the proud hills whose sparkling crests were yet touched by the living beam, was bathed with lucid beauty and luminous softness, and blended with the glowing canopy of the lustrous sky. But on the terrace, and the groves that rose beyond it, and the glades and vistas into which they opened, fell the full glory of the sunset. Each moment a new sha- dow, now rosy, now golden, now blending in its shifting tints all the glory of the iris, fell over the rich pleasure-grounds, its groups of rare and noble trees, and its dim or glittering avenues. The vespers of the birds were faintly dying away, the last low of the returning kine sounded over the lea, the tinkle of the sheep-bell was heard no more, the thin white moon began to gleam, and Hesperus glittered in the fading sky. It was the twilight hour ! That delicious hour that softens the heart of man — what is its magic T Not merely its beauty ; it is not more beautiful than the sunrise. It is its repose. Our tumultuous passions sink with the sun ; there is a fine sympathy between us and our world, and the stillness of nature is responded to by the serenity of the soul. At this sacred hour our hearts are pure. All worldly cares, all those vulgar anxieties and aspira* tions that at other seasons hover like vultures over our existence, vanish from the serene atmosphere of our susceptibility. A sense of beauty, a senti- ment of love pervade our being. But if at such a moment solitude is full of joy — if, even when alone, our native sensibility suffices to entrance us with a tranquil, yet thrilling, bliss — how doubly sweet, how multiplied must be our fine emotions, when the most delicate influence of human sympathy combines with the power and purity of material and moral nature, and completes the exquisite and en- chanting spell ! Ferdinand Armine turned from the beautiful world around him, to gaze upon a countenance sweeter than the summer air, softer than the gleam- ing moon, brighter than the evening star. The shadowy light of purple eve fell upon the still and solemn presence of Henrietta Temple. Irresistible emotion impelled him; softly he took her gentle hand, and scarcely winding round her waist his trembling arm, he bent his head, and murmured to her, " Most beautiful, I love thee !" As in the oppressive stillness of some tropic night, a single drop is the refreshing harbinger of a shower that clears the heavens, so even this slight expression relieved in an instant the intensity of his o'erburdened feelings, and warm, quick, and gushing, flowed the words that breathed his fervid adoration. "Yes!" he continued, "in this fair scene, O! let me turn to something fairer still. Beautiful, beloved Henrietta, I can repress no longer the emotions that, since I first beheld you, have vanquished my existence. I love you, I adore you, life in your society is heaven ; without you I can- not live. Deem me, O ! deem me Hot too bold, HENRIETTA TEMPLE, 599 sweet lady ; I am not worthy of you, yet let me love! I am not worthy of you, but who can be? Ah ! if I (iared but venture to offer you my heart, if indeed that humblest of all possessions might in- deed be yours, if my adoration, if my devotion, if the consecration of my life to you, might in some degree compensate for its little worth, if I might live even but to hope " You do not speak, my treasure ; my beloved is silent. Miss Temple, Henrietta, admirable Henri- etta, have I olfendod you? am I indeed the victim of hopes too high and fancies too supreme 1 O ! par- Jon me, most beautiful, I pray your pardon. Is it a crime to feel, perchance too keenly, the sense of beauty like to thine, dear lady 1 Ah ! tell me I am forgiven ; tell me indeed you do not hate me. I will be silent, I will never speak again. Yet, let me walk with you. Cease not to be my companion because I have been too bold. Pity me, pity me, dearest, dearest Henrietta. If you but knew how I have suffered, if you but knew the nights that brought no sleep, the days of fever, that had been mine since first we met; if you but knew how I have fed but upon oneswcet idea, one sacred image of absorbing life, since first I gazed on your trans- cendent form, indeed I think that you would pity, that you would pardon, that you might even " Tell mo, is it my fault that you arc beautiful? ! how beautiful, my wretched and exhausted soul too surely feels ! Is it my fault those eyes arc like the dawn, that thy sweet voice thrills through my frame, and but the lightest touch of that light hand falls like a spell on my entranced form 1 Ah! Henrietta, be merciful, be kind !" He paused for a second, and yet she did not answer; but her cheek fell upon his shoulder, and the gentle pressure of her hand was more eloquent than language. That slight sweet signal was to him as the sunrise on the misty earth. Full of hope, and joy, and confidence, he took her in his arms, sealed her cold lips with a burning kiss, and vowed to her his eternal and almighty love ' He bore her to an old stone bench placed on the terrace. Still she was silent : but her hand clasped his, and her head rested on his bosom. The gleam- ing moon now glittered, the hills and woods were silvered by its beams, and the far meads were bathed with its clear, fair light. Not a single cloud cur- tained the splendour of the stars. What a rapturous soul was Ferdinand Armine's as he sat that night on the old bench, on Ducia terrace, shrouding from the rising breeze the trembling form of Henrietta Temple! And yet it was not cold that made her shiver. The clock of Ducie church struck ten. She moved, saying, in a faint voice, "We must go home, my Ferdinand !" BOOK III, CHAPTER I. ry WHICH c.vptai.v armine pnovr.s himself a COMPLKTE TACTICIAX. Tiir. midnight moon flung its broad heams over the glades and avenues of Armine, as Ferdinand, riding Miss Temple's horse, re-entered the park. His countenance was paler than the spectral light that guided him on his way. He looked little like a pledged and triumphant lover ; but in his con- tracted brow and compressed lip might be read the determination of his soul. There was no longer a contest between poverty and pride, between the maintenance or destruction of his ancient house, between his old engagement anil his present pas- sion ; that was past. Henrietta Temple was the light in the Pharos, amid all his stormy fortunes ; thither he directed all the energies of his being ; and to gain that port, or sink, was his unflinching resolution. It was deep in the night before he again beheld the towers and turrets of his castle, and the ivj'- covered fragment of the old Place seemed to sleep in peace under its protecting influence. A wild and beautiful event had happened since last he quitted those ancient walls. And what would be its influence upon them? But it is not for the passionate lover to moralize. For him, the regrets of the past and the chances of the future are alike lost in the ravishing and absorbing present. For a lover that has just secured the object of his long and tumultuous hopes, is as a diver who has plucked a jewel from the bed of some rare sea. Panting and wild he lies upon the beach, and the gem tiiat he clutches is the sole idea that engrosses his ex- istence. Ferdinand is within his little chamber; that little chamber where his mother had bid him so pas- sionate a farewell. Ah ! he loves another woman better than his mother now ! Nay, even a feeling of embarrassment and pain is associated with the recollection of that fond and elegant being, that he had recognised once as the model of all feminine perfection, and who had been to him so gentle an so devoted. He drives his mother from his thoughts It is of another voice that he now muses ; it is the memory of another's glance that touches his eager heart. He fiills into a revery ; the passionate past is acted again before him; in his glittering eye and the rapid play of his features may be traced the tumult of his soul. A doubt crosses his brow. Is he indeed so happy — is it not all a dream? He takes from his bosom the handkerchief of Henrietta Temple. He recognises upon it her magical ini- tials, worked in her own fine dark hair. A smile of triumphant certainty irradiates his countenance, as he rapidly presses the memorial to his lins, and imprints upon it a thousand kisses ; and, holding this cherished testimony of his felicity to his heart, sleep at length descended upon the exhausted frame of Ferdinand Armine. But the night that brought dreams to Ferdinand Armine, brought him not visions more marvellous and magical than his waking life. He who loves, lives in an ecstatic trance. The world that sur- rounds him is not the world of working man: it is fairyland. He is not of the same order as the labouring myriads on which he seems to tread. They are to him but a swarm of humble-minded and humble-mannered insects. For him, the hu- man species is represented by a single individual, and of her he makes an idol. All that is bright and rare is but invented and devised to adorn and please her. Flowers for her were made so sweet and birds so musical. All nature seems to bear an in- timate relation to the being we adore; and, as to us life would now appear intolerable, a burden o. insupportable and wearing toil, without this trans- cendent sympathy, so we cannot help fancying too D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. that were its sweet and subtle origin lierself to quit this inspired scene, the universe itself would not be unconscious of its deprivation, and somewhat of the world's lustre might be missed, even by the most callous. The morning burst, as beautiful as such love. A rosy tint sufi'used the soft and tremulous sky, and tinted with a delicate hue the tall trees and the wide lawns, freshened with the light and vanishing dew. The air was vocal with a thousand songs ; ail was bright and clear, cheerful and golden. Fer- dinand awoke from delicious dreams, and gazed upon the scene that responded to his own bright and glad emotions, and inhaled the balmy air, ethe- real as his own soul. Love, that can illumine the dark hovel and the dismal garret, that sheds a ray of enchanting light over the close and busy city, seems to mount with a lighter and more glittering pinion in an atmosphere as brilliant as its own plumes. Fortunate the youth, the romance of whose existence is placed in a scene befitting its fair and marvellous career ; fortunate the passion that is breathed in palaces, amid the ennobling creations of surrounding art, and greets the object of its fond solicitude amid perfumed gardens, and in the shade of green and silent woods ! What- ever may be the harsher course of his career, how- ever the cold world may cast its dark shadows upon Ills future path, he may yet consider himself thrice blessed to whom this graceful destiny has fallen, and amid the storms and troubles of after-life may look back to these hours, fair as the dawn, beautiful as the twilight, with solace and satisfaction. Dis- appointment may wither up his energies, oppres- sion may bruise his spirit ; but balked, daunted, deserted, crushed, lone where once all was sym- pathy, gloomy where all was light, still he has not lived in vain. Business, however, rises with the sun. The morning brings cares, and, although with rcbraced energies and renovated strength then is the season that we are best qualified to struggle with the ha- rassing brood, still Ferdinand Armine, the involved son of a rained race, seldom rose from his couch, seldom recalled consciousness after repose, without a pang. Nor was there indeed magic withal in the sweet spell that now bound him to preserve him from this black invasion. Anxiety was one of the ingredients of the charm. He might have forgotten his own broken fortunes, his audacious and san- guine spirit might have built up many a castle for the future, as brave as that of Armine; but the very inspiring recollection of Henrietta Temple, the very remembrance of the past aud triumphant eve, oidy the more forced upon his memory the conviction that he was, at this moment, engaged also to another, and bound to be married to tv\'o women. Something must be done; Miss Grandison might arrive this very day It was an improbable inci- dent, but still it might occur. While he was thus musing, his servant brought him his letters, which had arrived the preceding- day — letters from his mo- ther and Katherine, his Katherine. They brought present relief. The invalid had not amended ; their movements were still uncertain. Katherine, "his own Kate," expressed even a fond faint wish that he would return. His resolution was taken in an instant. He decided with the prescient J'roraptitude of one who has his dearest interests at slake. He wrote to Katherine that he would instantly fly to her, only that he daily expected hi* attendance would be required in town, on military business of urgent importance to their happiness. This might, this must, necessarily delay their meet- ing. The moment he received his summons to attend the Horse Guards, he should hurry ofl". In the mean time, she was to write to him here ; and at all events not to quit Bath for Armine, without giving him a notice of several days. Having de- spatched this letter, and another to his mother, Ferdinand repaired to the tower, to communicate to Glastonbury the necessity of his immediate depar- ture for London, but he also assured that good old man of his brief visit to that city. The pang of this unexpected departure was softened by the posi- tive promise of returning in a very few days, and returning with his family. Having made these arrangements, Ferdinand now felt that come what might, he had at least se- cured for himself a certain period of unbroken bliss. He had a faithful servant, an Italian, in whose discretion he had justly unlimited confidence. To him Ferdinand intrusted the duty of bringing, each day, his letters to his retreat, which he had fixed upon should be that same picturesque farm- house, in whose friendly porch he had found the preceding day such a hospitable shelter, and where he experienced that charming adventure which now rather delighted than perplexed him. CHAPTER IL A DAT OF LOVE. Meanwhile the beautiful Henrietta sat in her bower, her music neglected, her drawing thrown aside. Even her birds were forgotten and her flowers untended. A soft tumult filled her frame : now rapt in revery she leaned her head upon her fair hand in charmed abstraction ; now rising from her restless seat she paced the chamber, and thought of his quick coming. What was this mighty re- volution that a few short days — a few brief hours had occasioned 1 How mysterious, yet how irre- sistible — how overwhelming ! Her father was ab- sent, that father on whose fond idea she had alone lived; from whom the slightest separation had once been pain ; and now that father claims not even her thoughts. Another and a stranger's image, is throned in her soul ! She who had moved in the world so variously — who had received so much homage, and been accustomed from her childhood to all that is considered accomplished and fascinat- ing in man, and had passed through the ordeal with a calm clear spirit; behold, she is no longer the mistress of her thoughts or feelings; she had fallen before a glance, and yielded in an instant to a burning word ! But could she blame herself? Did she repent the rapid and ravishing past ? Did regret mingle with her wonder 7 Was there a pang of rernoise, however slight, blending its sharp tooth with all her bliss ? ! no ! Her love was perfect, and her jojr was full. She offered her vows to that Heaven that had accorded her hap]iiness so supreme; she felt only unworthy of a destitiy so complete. She marvelled in the meekness and purity of her spirit, why one so gifted had been reserved for her, and HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 601 what he could recognise in imperfect and inferior qualities to devote to tliem the fondness of his rare existence. Ferdinand Armine I Did there indeed ever breathe, had the wit of poet ever yet devised, a being so choice 1 So young, so beautiful, so Uvely and accomplished, so deeply and variously interest- ing ! Was that sweet voice, indeed, only to sound in her enchanted ear — that graceful form to move only for the pleasure of her watchful eyel That quick and airy fancy but to create for her delight, and that soft, gentle heart, to own no solicitude but foi- her will and infinite gratification 1 And could it be possible that he loved her, that she was indeed his pledged and panting bride, that the accents of his adoration still echoed in her ear, and his fond embraces .still clung to her mute and trembling lips ! Would he always love her ] Would he always be so fond ] Would he be as faithful as he was now devoted ? Ah ! she would not lose him. That heart should never escape her. Her life should be one long vigilant device to en- chain his being. What was she five days past? Is it possible that she lived before she met him? Of what did she think, what do? Could there be pursuits without this companion, plans or feelings without this sweet friend ? Life must have been a blank, vapid, and dull, and weary. She could not recall herself before that morning ride to Armine. How rolled away the day ! How heavy must have been the hours ! All that had been uttered before she listened to Ferdinand seemed without point ; all that was done before he lingered at her side aim- less and without an object. O, Love ! in vain they moralize ; in vain they teach us thou art a delusion; in vain they dissect thine inspiring sentiment, and would mortify us into misery by its degrading analysis. The sage may announce that gratified vanity is thine aim and end ; the lover glances with contempt at his cold-blooded philosophy. Nature assures him thou art a beautiful and sublime emotion ; and, he answeis, canst thou deprive the sun of its heat because its ray may be decomposed ; or does the diamond blaze with less splendour because thou canst analyze its cfl'ulgence ? A gentle rustling sounded at the window ; Hen- rietta looked up, but the sight deserted her fiiding vision, as Ferdinand seized with softness her softer hand, and pressed it to his lips. A moment since, and she had longed for his presence as the infant for its mother; a moment since, and she had murmured that so much of the morn had passed without his society; a moment since, and it had seemed that no time could exhaust the expression of her feelinsis. How she had sighed for his coinmg! How she had hoped that this day she might convey to him what last night she had «o weakly, so imperfectly attempted! j\nd now •she sat trembling and silent, with downcast eyes luid chansing countenance ! " My Henrietta !" exclaimed Ferdinand ; " My beautiful Henrietta, it seemed we never should meet again, and yet I rose almost with the sun." " My Ferdinand," replied Miss Temple, scarcely daring to meet his glance, " I cannot speak; I am BO happy that I cannot speak." "Ah! tell me, sweetest, have you thought of me very much ! Did you observe I stole j'our hand- 76 kerchief last night ? See ! here it is ; when I slept, I kissed it and wore it next my heart." " Dear handkerchief! Ah ! give it me, my Fer- dinand," she faintly murmured, extending her hand ; and then she added, in a firmer and livelier tone, " .\nd did he really kiss it! did he really kiss it before he slept, and wear it near his heart!" " Near thine ; for thine it is, love ! Sweet, you look so beautiful to-day ! It seems to me you never looked half so fair. Those eyes are so bril- liant — so very blue — so like the violet! There is nothing like your eyes." "Except your own." " You have taken away your hand. Give me back my hand, my Henrietta. I will not quit it. The whole day it shall be clasped in mine. Ah! what a hand ! so soft — so very soft ! There is nothing like your hand." " Yours is as soft, Ferdinand." " O ! Henrietta ! I do love you so ! I wish that I could tell you how I loved you ! As I rode home last night, it seemed that I had not conveyed to you a tithe, nay, a thousandth part of what I feel." " You cannot love me, Ferdinand, more than I love you." " Say so again ! Tell me very often — tell me a thousand times, how much you love me. Unless you tell me a thousand times, Henrietta, I never can believe that I am so blessed." They went forth into the garden. Nature, with the splendid sky and the sweet breeze, seemed to smile upon their passion. Henrietta plucked the most beautiful flowers, and placed them in his breast. "Do you remember the rose at Armine?" said Ferdinand, with a fond smile. " Ah ! who would have believed that it would have led to^his !" said Henrietta, with downcast eyes. " I am not more in love now than I was then," said Ferdinand. "1 dare not speak of my feelings," said Miss Temple. "Is it possible that it can be but five days back since we first met! It seems another era." " I have no recollection of any thing that occur- red, before I saw you beneath the cedar," replied Ferdinand ; " that is the date of my existence. I saw you, and I loved. My love was at once com- plete; I have no confidence in any other; I have no confidence in the love that is the creature of ob- servation, and reflection, and comparison, and cal- culation. Love, in my opinion, should spring from innate sympathy ; it should be superior to all situa- tions, all ties, all circumstances." " Such, then, we must believe, is ours," replied Henrietta, in a somewhat grave and nmsing tone; "I would willingly embrace your creed. I know not why I should be ashamed of my feelings. They are natural, and they are pure. And yet I tremble. But as long as you do not think lightly of me, Ferdinand, for whom should I care ?" " My Henrietta ! my angel ! my adored and beautiful ! I worship you — I reverence you. Ah ! my Henrietta, if you only knew how I doat upon you, you would not speak thus. Come, let us ramble in our woods." So saying, he withdrew her from the moie pub- lic situation in which they were then placed, and entered, by a winding walk, those beautiful b( wers 3E 602 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. that had given so fair and fitting a name to Ducie. Ah ! that was a ramble of rich delight, as, winding his arm round her light waist, he poured into her palpitating ear all the eloquence of his passion. Each hour that they had known each other was analyzed, and the feelings of each moment were compared. What sweet and thrilling confessions! Eventually it was settled, to the complete satisfac- tion of both, that both had fallen in love at the same time, and that tliey had been mutually and unceasingly thinking of each other from the first instant of their meeting. The conversation of lovers is inexhaustible. Hour glided away after hour, as Ferdinand alter- nately expressed his passion and detailed the his- tory of his past life. For the curiosity of woman, lively at all times, is never so kern, so exacting, and so interested, as in her anxiety to become acquainted with the previous career of her lover. Hhe is jealous of all that he has done before she knew him ; of every person to whom he has spoken. She will be assured a thousand times that he never loved before, yet she credits the first affirmation. She envies the mother who knew him as a child, even the nurse that may have rocked his cradle. She insists upon a minute and finished portraiture of his character and life. Why did he not give it] More than once it was upon his lips to reveal all; more than once he was about to pour forth all his sorrows, all the en- tanglements of his painful situation; more than once he was about to make the full and mortifying confession, that, though his heart was hers, there existed another, who even at that moment might claim the hand that Henrietta clasped with so much tenderness. But he checked himself. He would not break the charm that surrounded him; he would not disturb the clear and brilliant stream in which his life was at this moment flowing; he had not courage to change by a worldly word the scene of celestial enchantment in which he now moved and breathed. Let me add, in some degree for his justification, that he was not altogether unmindful of the feelings of Miss Grandison. Suf- ficient misery remained, at all events, for her, with- out adding the misery of makin? her rival a confi- dant in her mortification. The deed must be done, and done promptly ; but, at least, there should be no unnecessary witnesses to its harrowing achievement. So he looked upon the radiant brow of his Hen- rietta, wreathed with smiles of innocent triumjih, sparkling with unalloyed felicity, and beaming with unbroken devotion. Should the shade of a dark passion for a moment cloud that heaven, so bright and so serene"! Should even a momentary pang of jealousy or distrust pain that pure and unsullied breast 1 In the midst of contending emotions, he jiressed her to his heart with renewed energy, and, bending down his head, imprinted an embrace upon her blushing forehead. They seated themselves on a bank, which, it would seem, nature had created for the convenience of lovers. The softest moss and the brightest flowers decked its elastic and fragrant side. A spreading beech tree shaded their heads from the sun, which now indeed was on the decline; and occasionally its wide branches rustled with the soft breeze, that passed over them in renovating and gentle gusts. The woods widened before them, and, at the termination of a well-contiived avenue, they caught the roofs of the village and the tal' tower of Ducie Church. They had wandered for hours without weariness, yet the repose was grate- ful, while they listened to the birds, and plucked beautiful wild flowers. " Ah ! I remember," said Ferdinand, " that it was not far from here, while slumbering indeed in the porch of my pretty farmhouse, that the fairy of the spot dropped on my breast these beautiful flow ers that I now wear. Did you not observe them, my sweet Henrietta? Do you know that I am rather mortified, that they have not made you at least a little jealous!" " I am not jealous of fairies, dear Ferdinand." " And yet I half believe that you are a fairy, my Henrietta." " A very substantial one, I fear, my Ferdinand. Is this a compliment to my form !" "Well, then, a sylvan nymph, much more, I as- sure you, to my fancy ; perhaps the rosy dryad ot this fair tree; rambling in woods, and bounding over commons, scattering beautiful flowers, and dreams as bright." " And were your dreams bright yesterday morn- ing," "Idreamt of you." "And when you awoke?" " I hastened to the source of my inspiration. " And if you had not dreamt of me?" " I should have come to have inquired the reason why." Miss Temple looked upon the ground ; a blended expression of mirth and sentiment played over her features, and then looking up with a smile contend- ing with her tearful eye, she hid her face in hia breast and murmured, "I watched him sleeping Did he indeed dream of me ?" " Darling of my existence," exclaimed the en- raptured Ferdinand ; " exquisite, enchanting being! Why am I so happy ? What have I done to de- serve bliss so inefiable ? But tell me, beauty, tell me how you contrived to appear and vanish with- out witnesses. For my inquiries were severe, and these good people must have been less artless than I imagined to have withstood them successfully." " I came," said Miss Temple, " to pay them a visit, with me not uncommon. When I entered the porch I beheld my Ferdinand asleep. I looked upon him for a moment, but I was frightened and stole away unperceived. But I left the flowers more fortunate than your Henrietta!" " Sweet love !" " Never did I return home," continued Miss Tem- ple, " more sad and more dispirited. A thousand times I wish that I was a flower, that I might be gathered and worn upon your heart. You smile, my Ferdinand. Indeed I feel I am very foolish, yet I know not why, I am now neither ashamed nor afraid to tell you any thing. I was so misera- ble when I arrived home, my Ferdinand, that I went to mv room and wept. And he then came ! O ! what heaven was mine ! I wiped the tears fron? my face and came down to see him. He looked so beautiful and happy !" "And you, sweet child, O! who could have be- lieved, at that moment, that a tear had escaped from those bright eyes !" " Love makes us hypocrites, I fear, my Ferdi- nand ; for a moment before I was so wearied that I was lying on my sofo quite wretched. And then, when I saw him, I pretended that I had not been HENRIETTA TEMPLE. G03 out, and was just thinkin<3r of a stroll. ! my Ferdinand I will you pardon me?" " It seems to me that I never loved you until this moment. Is it possible that human beings ever loved each other as we do?" Now came the hour of twilight. While in this fond strain the lovers interchaiiijcd their hearts, the sun had sunk, tiie birds grown silent, and the star of evening twinkled over the tower of Ducie. The bat and the beetle warned them to return. They rose reluctantly and retraced their steps to Ducie, with hearts even softer than the melting hour. "Must we then part?" exclaimed Ferdinand. "0 ! must we part? How can I exist even an in- stant without your presence, without at least the consciousness of existing under the same roof? O ! would I were one of your serving-men, to listen to your footstep, to obey your bell, and ever and anon to catch your voice! O! now I wish indeed Mr. Temple were here, and then I might be your guest." " My father!" exclaimed Miss Temple, in a some- what serious tone. "My poor father! I ought to have written to him to-day ! Why have I not ? O ! talk not of my father, speak only of yourself." They stood in silence as they were about to emerge upon the lawn, and then Miss Temple said, "Dear Ferdinand, you must go; indeed you must. Press me not to enter, darling. If you love me, now- let us part. I shall retire immediately, that the morning may sooner come. God bless j-ou, my Ferdinand. May he guard over you, and keep you forever and ever. Sweet, sweet love, you weep! Indeed you must not; you will drive me mad if you do this. Ferdinand, darling, darling Ferdi- nand, be good, be kind ; for my sake do not this. I love you, sweetest ; what can I do more ? The time will come we will not part, but now we must. Good night, my Ferdinand ; good night, idol of my soul ! Nay, if you will, these lips indeed are yours. Promise me you will not remain here. Well, then, when the light is out in my chamber, leave Dncic. Promise me this, sweet, and early to-morrow, earlier than you think, I will pay a visit to your cottage. Now, sweet, be good, and to-morrow we will break- fast together. There, now !" she added in a gay tone, "you see woman's wit has the advantage." And so without another word she ran away. CHAPTER III. WHICH OS THE WUOLE IS FOUND VERY CON- SOLING. The separation of lovers, even with an immediate pros])ect of uniiin, involves a sentiment of deep melancholy. The reaction of our solitary emotions, after a social impulse of such peculiar excitement, very much disheartens and depresses us. Mutual passion is complete sympathy. Under such an in- iluence there is no feeling so strong, no fancy so delicate, that it is not instantly responded to. Our heart has no secrets, though our life may. Under such an influence, each unconsciously labours to en- chant the other; each struggles to maintain the reality of that ideal, which has heen reached in a moment of happy inspiration. Then is the season when the voice is ever soft, the eye ever bright, and every movement of the frame airy and pictur- esque ; each accent is full of tenderness, each glance of affection, each gesture of grace. We live in a heaven of our own creation. All happens that can contribute to our perfect satisfaction, and can insure our comi)lete self-complacency. We give and we receive felicity. We adore and we are adored. Love is the May-day of the heart. But a cloud nevertheless will dim the genial lus- tre of that soft and brilliant sky, when we are alone; when the soft voice no longer sighs, and the bright eye no longer beams, and the form we worship no longer moves befure our enraptured vision. Our hap- piness becomes too much the result of reflection. Our faith is not less devout, but it is not so fervent. We believe in the miracle, but we no longer witness it. And as the light was extinguished in the cham- ber of Henrietta Temple, Ferdinand Armine felt for a moment as if his sun had set forever. There seemed to be now no evidence of her existence. Would t j-morrow ever come? And if it came, would the rosy hours indeed bring her in their ra- diant car? What if this night she died? He shud- dered at this wild imagination. Yet it might be; such direful calamities had been. And now he felt his life was involved in hers, and that under such circumstances his instant death must complete the catastrophe. There was then much at stake. Had it been yet his glorious privilege that her fair cheek should have found a pillow on his heart; could ho have been permitted to have rested without her door but as her guard; even if the same roof at any dis- tance had screened both their heads; such daik conceptions would not perhaps have risen up to torture him ; but as it was, they haunted him like evil spirits as he took his lonely way over the com- mon to gain his new abode. Ah! the morning came, and such a morn! Bright as his love! Ferdinand had passed a dreamy night, and when he woke he could not at first recognise the locality. It was not Armine. Could it be Ducie ? As he stretched his limbs and rubbed his eyes, he might be excused for a momcnc fancying that all the happiness of yesterday was indeed a vision. He was, in truth, sorely perplex- ed, as he looked around the neat but humble cham- ber, and caught the first beam of the sun struggling through a casement shadowed by the jessamine. But on his heart there rested a curl of dark and flowing hair, and held together by that very tur- quoise of which he fancied he had been dreaming. Happy, happy Ferdinand ! Why shouldst thou have cares ! and may not the course even of thy true love run smooth ? He recks not of the future ! .What is the future to one so blessed ? The sun is up, the lark is sing- ing, the sky is bluer than the loved jewel at his heart. She will be here soon. No gloomy images disturb him now. Cheerfulness is the dowry of tho dawn. Will she indeed be here ? Will Henrietta Tem- ple indeed come to visit him ? Will that consum- mate being before whom, but a few days back, ha stood entranced — to whose mind the very idea of his existence had not then even occurred — will she be here anon to visit him ? to visit her beloved ! What has he done to be so happy ? What fairy has touched him and his dark fortunes with her wand ? What talisman does he grasp to call up such bright adventures of existence. He does not err. He is an enchanted being: a s[)cll indeed pervades his frame ; he moves in truth in a world of marvels and miracles. For what fairy has a wand 6G4 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. like love, what talisman can achieve the deeds of passion. He quitted the rustic porch, and strolled up the Jane that led to Ducie. He started at a sound ; it was but the spring of a wandering bird. Then the murmur of a distant wheel turned him pale ; and he stopped and leaned on a neighbouring gate with a panting heart. Was she at hand 1 There is not a moment when the heart palpitates with such deli- cate suspense as when we await our mistress in the spring days of our passion. Man watching the sunrise from the mountain, awaits not an incident to him more beautiful ; more genial, and more im- pressive. With her presence it would seem that both light and heat fall at the same time upon our heart; our emotions are warm and sunny, that a moment ago seemed dim and frigid; a thrilling sense of joy pervades our frame ; the air is sweeter, and our ears seem to echo with the music of a thou- sand birds. The sound of the approaching wheel became more audible; it drew near, nearer; but lost the delicacy that distance lent it. Alas ! it did not propel the car of a fairy, or the chariot of a heroine, but a cart, whose taxed springs bowed beneath the portly form of an honest yeoman, who gave Captain Armine a cheerful good-morrow as he jogged by, and flanked his jolly whip with unmerciful dexte- rity. The loudness of the unexpected salute, the crack of the echoing thong, shook the fine nerves of a fanciful lover, and Ferdinand looked so con- fused, that if the honest yeoman had only stopped to observe him, tlie passenger might have really been excused for mistaking him for a poacher, at the least, by his guilty countenance. This little worldly interruption broke the wings of Ferdinand's soaring fancy. He fell to earth. Doubt came over him whether Henrietta would in- deed come. He was disappointed, and so he became distrustful. He strolled on, however, in the direc- tion of Ducie, yet slowly, as there was more than one road, and to miss each other would have been mortifying. His quick eye was in every quarter; nis watchful ear listened in every direction; still she was not seen, and not a sound was heard except the hum of day. He became nervous, agitated, and began to conjure up a crowd of unfortunate inci- dents. — Perhaps she was ill ; that was very bad. — Perhaps her father had suddenly returned. Was that worse 1 Perhaps something strange had hap- pened. — Perhaps — Why ! why does his face turn so pale, and why is his step so suddenly arrested 1 Ah ! Ferdinand Armine, is not thy 'conscience clear"! That pang was sharp. No, no, it is impossible ; clearly, ab- solutely impossible ; this is weak, indeed. See ! he smiles! He smiles at his weakness. He waves his arm as if in contempt. He casts away, with defiance, his idle apprehensions. His step is more assured, and the colour returns to his check. And yet her father must return. Was he prepared for that occurrence 1 This was a searching question. It induced a long, dark train of harassing recollec- tions. He stopped to ponder. In what a web of circumstances was he now involved ! Howsoever he might act, self-extrication appeared impossible. Perfect candour to Miss Temple might be the de- struction of her love ; even modified to her father, would certainly produce his banishment from Ducie. As the betrothed of Miss Grandison, Miss Temple would abjure him ; as the lover of Miss Temple, under any circumstances, Mr. Temple would reject him. In what light would he appear to Henrietta were he to dare to reveal the truth 1 Would sha not look upon him as the unresisting libertine ot the hour, engaging in levity her heart, as he had already trifled with another's 1 For that absorbing and overwhelming passion, pure, primitive, and profound, to which she now responded with an enthusiasm as fresh, as ardent, and as immaculate; she would only recognise the fleeting fancy of a vain and worldly spirit, eager to add another tri- umph to a long list of conquests, and proud of another evidence of his irresistible iiiflucnce. What security was there for her that she too should not in turn be forgotten for another 1 that another eye should not shine brighter than hers, and another voice sound to his ear vvith a sweeter tone 1 O, no! he dared not disturb and sully tb.e bright flower of his present existence ; he shrank from the fatal word that would dissolve the spell that enchanted them, and introduce all the calculating cares of a harsh world into the thoughtless Eden in which they now wandered. And, for her father, even if the sad engagement with Miss Grandison did not exist, with what front could Ferdinand solicit the hand of his daughter 1 Vv^hat prospect could he hold out of worldly prosperity to the anxious con sideration of a parent ? V/as he himself inde- pendent ] Was he not worse than a beggar t Could he refer Mr. Temple to Sir Ratcliffe 1 Alas ! it would be an insult to both ! In the mean time, every hour, Mr. Temple might return, or something reach the ear of Henrietta fatal to all his aspira- tions. Armine, with all its cares, Bath, with all its hopes ; his melancholy father, his fond and san- guine mother, the tender-hearted Kalherine, tha devoted Glastonbury, all rose up before him, and crowded on his tortured imagination. In the agony of his mind he v\ished himself alone in the world" he sighed for some earthquake to swallow up Ar mine and all its fatal fortunes ; and as for those parents, so affectionate and virtuous, and to whom he had hitherto been so dutiful and devoted, he turned from their idea with a sensation of weari- ness, almost of hatred. He sat down on the trunk of a tree and buried his face with his hands. His revery had lasted some time, when a gentle sound disturbed him. He looked up ; it was Henrietta. She had driven over the common in her pony-chaise, and unat- tended. She was but a few steps from him ; and, as he looked up, he caught her fond smile. He sprang from his seat ; he was at her side in an in- stant ; his heart beat so tumultuously, that he could not speak ; all dark thoughts were forgotten ; he seized with a trembling touch her extended hand, and gazed upon her with a glance of ecstasy. For, indeed, she looked so beautiful, that it seemed to him he had never before done justice to her sur- passing loveliness. There was a bloom upon her check, as upon some choice and delicate fruit ; her violet eyes sparkled like gems; while the dimples played and quivered on her cheeks ; as you jnay sometimes watch the sunbeam on the pure sur- focc of fair water. Her countenance, indeed, was wreathed with smiles. She seemed the happiest thing on earth ; the very personification of a ])oetic spring; lively, and fresli, and innocent; sparkling, and sweet, and soft. When he beheld her, Ferdi- HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 605 nand was reminded of some gay bird, or airy ante- lope ; she looked so bright and joyous ! " Ilf is to get in," said Henrietta, with a smile, " and drive her to their cottage. Have I not ma- naged well to come alone 1 We shall have such a charming drive to-day." "You are so beautiful," murmured Ferdinand. "I am content if you but think so. You did not hear me a|)proach 1 Wliat were you doing ] Plunged in meditation] Now tell me truly, were you thinking of her?" '• Indeed, I have no other thought. O, my Hen- rietta ! you are so beautiful to-day. I cannot talk of any thing but your beauty." "And how did you sleep? Are you comfortable? I must see your room. I have brought you some flowers to make it pretty." They soon reached the farmhouse. The good- wife seemed a little surprised when she observed her guest driving Miss Temple, but far more pleased. Henrietta ran into the house to see the children, spoke some kind words to the little maiden, and fisked if their guest had breakfisted. Then, turn- ing to Ferdinand, she said, " Have you forgot that you are to give me a breakfast? It shall be in the porch. Is it not sweet and pretty ? See, here are your flowers, and I have brought you some fruit'" The breakfast was arranged. Miss Temple made tea for Ferdinand, and prepared every tiling for hini. "But you do not play your part, sweet Henrietta," he said ; "I cannot breakfast alone." She affected to share his repast, that he might partake of it; but, in truth, she only busied herself in arranging the (lowers. Yet she conducted her- self with so much dexterity, that Ferdinand had the opportunity of gratifying his appetite, without being placed in a position, awkward at all times, insufferable for a lover, that of eating in the pre- sence of others who do not join you in the occupa- tion. " Now," she suddenly said, sitting by his side, and placing a rose in his dress, " I have a little plan to-day, which I think will be quite delightful. You shall drive her to Armine." Ferdinand started. He thought of Glastonbury. His miserable situation recurred to him. This was the bitter drop in the cup ; yes ! in the very plenitude of his rare felicity he experienced a pang. His confusion was not unobserved by Miss Tem- ple; for she was very quick in her perception; but she could not comprehend it. It did not rest on her mind, particularly when Ferdinand assented to her proposition, but added, " I forgot that Armine is more interesting to you than to me. All my associations with Armine are painful. Ducie is my delight." '• Ah ! my romance is at Armine ; yours at Diicie. "What we live among, we do not always value. And yet I love my home," she added, in a fiomewhat subdued, even serious tone ; " all my a.ssipciations with Ducie arc sweet and pleasant. Will they always be so?" She hit upon a key to which the passing thoughts of Ferdinand too completely responded ; but he restrained the mood of his mind. As he grew grave, he affected cheerfulness. " My Henrietta must always be happy," he said, "at least, if her Ferdinand's love can make her so." She did not reply, but she pressed his hand. Then, after a moment's silence, she said, "My Ferdinand must not be low-spirited ahout dear Armine. I have confidence in our destiny, sweet; I see a happy, a very happy future." W'ho could resist so fair a prophet ? Not the sanguine mind of the enamoured Ferdinand Ar- mine. He drank inspiration from her smiles, and dwelt with delight on the tender accents of her animating sympathy. "I never shall be low- spirited with you, my beloved," he replied; "you are my good genius. O ! Henrietta ! what heaven it is to be together !" " Darling ! I bless you for these words. We will not go to Armine to-day. Let us walk. And to speak the truth — for I am not ashamed of say- ing any thing to you — it would be hardly discreet, perhaps, to be driving about the country in this guise. And yet," she added, after a moment's he- sitation, "what care I for what people say? O! Ferdinand, I think only of you !" That was a delicious ramble which these young and enamoured creatures took that sunny morn ! The air was sweet, the earth was beautiful, and yet they were insensible to every thing but their mutual love. Inexhaustible is the converse of fond hearts ! A simple story, too, and yet there are so many ways of telling it ! " How strange that we should have ever met !" said Henrietta Temple. " Indeed, I think it most natural," said Ferdi- nand, " I will believe it the fulfilment of a happy destiny. For all that I have sighed for now I meet, and more, much more than my imagination could ever hope for!" " Only think of that morning drive," resumed Henrietta, " such a little time ago, and yet it seems an age! Let us believe in destiny, sweet Ferdi- nand, or you must think of me, I fear, that which I would not wish." " My darling, darling Henrietta, I can think of you only as the noblest and the sweetest of beings My love is ever equalled by my gratitude!" " Sweet Ferdinand, I had read of such feelings, but did not believe in them. I did not believe, at least, that they were reserved for me. And yet I have met many persons, and seen something more, much more than falls to the lot of women of my age. Believe me, indeed, my Ferdinand, my eye has hitherto been undazzled, and my heart un- touched." He pressed her hand. "And then," she resumed, "in a moment — !iut it seemed not like a common life. That beautiful wilderness, that ruinous castle! As I gazed around me, I felt not as is my custom. I felt as if some fate were impending, as if my life and lot were bound up, as it were, with that strange and silent scene. And then he came forward, and I beheld him so unlike all other men — so beautiful, so pen- sive ! O ! my Ferdinand, pardon me for loving you!" and she gently turned her head, and hid her face on his breast. "Darling, darling Henrietta," lowly breathed the enraptured lover, " best, and sweetest, and loveliest of women, your Ferdinand, at that moment, w.is not less moved than you were. Sjieechless and pale I had watched my Henrietta, and I felt that I beheld the being to whom I must dedicate my ex- istence." 3E2 606 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. " O ! I shall never forget the moment when I stood before the portrait of Sir Ferdinand and recognised my child. Do you know my heart was prophetic; I wanted not that confirmation of a strange conjecture. I felt that you must be an Armine. I had heard so much of your grandfather, so much of your family. I loved them for their glory, and for their lordly sorrows." "Ah! my Henrietta, 'tis that alone that galls me. It is bitter to introduce my bride to our house of cares," " You shall never^ think it so," she replied with animation. "I will prove a true Armine. Hap- pier in the honour of that name, than in the most rich possessions ! O ! my Ferdinand, you do not know me yet. Your wife shall not disgrace you or your lineage. I have a spirit worthy of you, Ferdinand; at least, I dare to hope so. I can break, but I will not bend. We will wrestle to- gether with all our cares; and my Ferdinand, ani- mated by his Henrietta, shall restore the house." "Alas! my noble-minded girl, I fear a severe trial awaits us. I can offer you only love." "Is there any thing else in this world?" " But, to bear you from a roof of luxury, where you have been cherished from your cradle, with all that ministers to the delicate delights of woman, to — ! my Henrietta, you know not the disheart- ening and depressing burden of domestic cares." His voice faltered as he recalled his melancholy father; and the disappointment, perhaps the de- struction, that his passion was preparing for his roof. " There shall be no cares, my Ferdinand ; I will endure every thing; I will animate all. I have energy; indeed I have, my Ferdinand. I have, young as I may be, I have often inspirited, often urged on my father. Sometimes, he says, that had it not been for me, he would not have been what he is. He is my father, the best and kindest parent that ever loved his child ; yet, what are fothers to you, my Ferdinand ; and, if I could assist him, what may I not do for — " "Alas! my Henrietta, we have no theatre for action. You forget our creed." " It was the great Sir Ferdinand's. He made a theatre." " My Henrietta is ambitious," said Ferdinand, smiling. " Dearest, I would be content — nay ! that is a weak phrase — I would, if the choice were in my power now to select a life most grateful to my views and feelings, choose some delightful solitude, even as Armine, and pass existence with no other aim but to delight my Ferdinand. But we were speaking of other circumstances. Such hapj)incss, it is said, is not for us. And I wished to show yon that I have a spirit that can struggle with adversity, and a soul prescient of overwhelming it." " You have a spirit I reverence, and a soul I wor- ship, nor is there a happier being in the world than Ferdinand Armine. With such a woman as you every fate must be a triumph. You have touched, my darling, upon a chord of my heart that has sounded before, though in solitude. It was but the wind that played on it before ; but now that tone rings with a purpose. This is glorious sympathy. Let us leave Armine to its fate. I have a sword, and it shall go hard if I do not carve out a destiny worthy even of Henrietta Temple." CHAPTER IV. henhietta visits aumine, which ieads to ▲ hather perplexing encounter. The communion of this day, of the spirit of which the conversation just noticed may convey an intimation, produced a very inspiriting effect on the mind of Ferdinand. Love is inspiration ; it encourages to great deeds, and developes the crea- tive faculty of our nature. Few great men have flourished, who, were they to be candid, would not acknowledge the vast advantages they have expe- rienced in the earlier years of their career from the spirit and sympathy of woman. It is woman whose prescient admiration strings the lyre of the desponding poet, whose genius is afterwards to be recognised by his race, and which often embalms the memory of the gentle mistress whose kindness solaced him in less glorious hours. How many an official portfolio would never have been carried, had it not been for her sanguine spirit and assidu- ous love ! How many a depressed and despairing advocate has clutched the Great Seal, and taken his precedence before princes, borne onv/ard by the breeze of her inspiring hope, and illumined by the sunshine of her prophetic smile! A female friend, amiable, clever, and devoted, is a possession more valuable than parks and palaces ; and, without such a muse, few men can succeed in life — none be content. The plans and aspirations of Henrietta Temple had relieved Ferdinand from a depressing burden. Inspired by her creative sympathy, a new scene opened to him, adorned by a magnificent perspec- tive. His sanguine imagination sought refuge in a triumphant future. That love for which he had hitherto schooled his mind to sacrifice every worldly advantage, appeared suddenly to be transformed into the very source of earthly success. Henrietta Temple was to be the fountain, not only of his bliss, but of his prosperity. In the revel of his au- dacious fancy he seemed, as it were, by a beautiful retribution, to be already rewarded for having devoted, vsith such unhesitating readiness, his heart upon the altar of disinterested aflection. Lying on his cottage couch, he indulged in dazzling visions; he wandered in strange lands with his beautiful companion, and offered at her feet the quick re- wards of his unparalleled achievements. Kccurring to his immediate situation, he resolved to lose no time in bringing his affairs to a crisis. He was even working himself up to his instant departure, solaced by the certainty of his immediato return, when the arrival of his servant announced to him that Glastonbury had quitted Armine ou one of those antiquarian rambles to which he was accustomed. Gratified that it was now in his power to comply with the wish of Henrietta to visit his home, and perhaps, in truih, not very much mortified that so reasonable an excuse had arisen for the postponement of his intended departure, Ferdinand instantly rose, and as speedily as possi- ble took his way to Diicic. * He found Henrietta in the garden. He had arrived, perhaps, earlier than he was expected ; yet what joy to see him. And, when he himself pro- p)Osed an excursion to Armine. her grateful smile melted his very heart. Indeed, Ferdinand this morning was so gay and light-hearted, thai his HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 607 excessive nierriment might almost have been a| suspicious as his passing gloom the previous day. Not less tender and fond than before, his sportive fancy indulged in infniite expressions of playful humour, and delicate pranks of love. When he first recognised her, gatliering a nosegay, too, for him, himself unobserved, he stole behind her on tiptoe, and sutidcniy clasping her delicate waist, and raisinc: her gently in the air, " Well, lady-bird," he exclaimed, "I too will pluck a flower!" Ah! when she turned round her beautiful face, full of charminc; confusion, and uttered a faint cry of fond astonishment, as she caught his bright glance, what happiness was Ferdinand Armine's, as he felt this enchanting creature was his, and pressed to his bosom her noble and throbbing form! " Perhaps this time next year, we may be travel- ling on mules, love," said Ferdinand, as he flou- rished his whip, and the little pony trotted along. Henrietta smiled. "And then," continued he, "we shall remember our pony-chaise, that we turn up our noses at now. Donna Henrietta, jogged to death over dull vegas, and picking her way across rocky sierras, will be a very different person to Miss Temple, of Ducic Bower. I hope you will not be very irritable, my child ; and pray vent your spleen upon your muleteer, and not upon your husband." " Now, Ferdinand, how can you be so ridicu- lous!" " ! I have no doubt I shall have to bear all the blame. ' You brought me here,' it will be, ' un- grateful man, is this your love ? not even post- horses !' " " As for that," said Henrietta, " perhaps we shall have to walk. I can fancy ourselves — you with an Andalusian jacket, a long gun, and, I fear, a cigar; and I with all the baggage." " Children and all," added Ferdinand. Miss Temple looked somewhat demure, turned away her face a little, but said nothing. "But what think you of Vienna, sweetestl" inquired Ferdinand, in a more serious tone; "upon my honour I think we might do great things there. A regiment and a chamberlainsiiip at the least !" " In mountains or in cities I shall be alike content, provided Ferdinand be my companion," replied Miss Temple. Ferdinand let go the reins, and dropped his whip. " My darling, darling Henrietta," he ex- claimed, looking in her face, "what an angel you are!" This visit to Armine was so delightful to Miss Temple, — she experienced so much gratification in wandering about the park, and over the old castle, and gazing on Glastonbury's tower, and wondering when she should see him, and lalkinc: fo her Fcr dinand about every member of his family, — that Captain Armine, unable to withstand the irresisti- ble current, postponed from d.ay to day his decisive visit to Bath, and, confident in the future, would not permit his soul to be the least daunted by any possi!)le conjuncture of ill-f )rtune. A week, a whole happy week glided awav. and spent almost entirely at Armine. 'I'heir presence there was scarcely no- ticed by the single female servant who remained ; and, if her curiosity had been excited, she possessed no power of communicating it into Somersetshire. Besides, she was unaware that her young master was nominally in liOndon. Sometimes an hour Was snatched by Henrietta from roaming in the plaisance, and interchanging vows of mutual love and admiration, to the picture gallery, where she had already commenced a miniature copy of the portrait of the great Sir Ferdinand. As the sun set they departed in their little equipage. Ferdi- nand wrapped his Henrietta in his fur cloak, for the autumn dews began to rise, and, thus protected, the journey often miles was ever found too short. It is the habit of lovers, however innocent their pas- sion, to grow every day less discreet ; for every day their almost constant companionship becomes more a necessity. Miss Temple had almost unconscious- ly contrived at first tliat Cajjtain Armine, in the absence of her father, should not be observed too often at Ducie; but now Ferdinand drove her home every evening, and drank tea at the Bower,and the evening closed with music and song. Each night he crossed over the common to his farmhouse more fondly and devotedly in love. One morning at Armine, Henrietta being alone in the gallery busied with her drawing, Ferdinand having left her for a moment to execute some light commission for her, she heard someone enter, and, looking up to catch his glance of love, she beheld a venerable man, of a very mild and benignant ap- pearance, and dressed in black, standing, as if a little surprised, at some distance. Herself not less confu.sed, she nevertheless bowed, and the gentle- man advanced with hesitation, and with a faint blush returned her salute, and apologized for his intrusion. " He thought Captain Armine might be there." " He was here but this moment," replied Miss Temple ; " and doubtless will instantly return." Then she turned to her drawing with a trembling hand. " I perceive, madam," said the gentleman, ad- vancing and speaking in a very soft and engaging tone, while looking at her labour with a mingled air of diffidence and admiration, " that you are a very fine artist." " My wish to excel may have assisted my per- formance," replied Miss Temple. " You are copying the portrait of a very extraor- dinary personage," said the stranger. " Do you think that it is like Captain Armine 1" inquired Miss Temple, with some hesitation. " It is always so considered," replied the stranger Henrietta's hand faltered ; she looked at the door of the gallery, then at the portrait ; never was she yet so anxious for the reappearance of Ferdinand. There was a silence wliich she was compelled to break, for the stranger was both mute and motionless, and scarcely more assured than herself. " Captain Armine will be here immediately, I have no doubt." The stranger bowed. " If I might presume to criticise so finished a performance," he remarked, "I should say that you had conveyed, madam, a more youthful character than the original pre- sents." Henrietta did not venture to confess that such was her intention. She looked again at the door, mixed some colour, then cleared it iumiediately ofl ' her palette. " What a beautiful gallery is this !" 1 she exclaimed, as she changed her brush, which I was, however, without a fault. " It is worthy of Armine," said the stranger " Indeed there is no place so interesting, saiJ Miss Temple. 60S D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. "It pleases me to hear it praised," said the stranger. " You are well acquainted with it?" inquired Miss Temple. " I have the happiness to hve here," said the stranger. " I am not then mistaken in believing that I speak to Mr. Glastonbury." "Indeed, madam, that is my name," replied the gentleman ; " I fancy we have often heard of each other. This is a most unexpected meeting, madam, but for that reason not less delightful. I have my- self just returned from a ramble of some days, and entered the gallery little aware that the family had arrived. You met, I suppose, my Ferdinand on the road. Ah ! you wonder, perhaps, at my fami- liar expression, madam. He has been my Ferdi- nand so many years, that I cannot easily school myself no longer to style him so. But I am aware that there are now other claims — " " My dearest Glastonbury," exclaimed Ferdi- nand Armine, starting as he re-entered the gallery, and truly in as great a fright as a man could well be, who, perhaps, but a few hours ago, was to con- quer in Spain or Germany. At the same time, pale and eager, and talking with excited rapidity, he embraced his tutor, and scrutinized the countenance of Henrietta to ascertain whether his fatal secret had been discovered. That countenance was fond, and, if not calm, not more confused than the un- expected appearance under the circumstances might account for. " You have often heard me mention Mr. Glastonbury," he said, addressing himself to Henrietta. " Let me now have the pleasure of making you acquainted. My oldest, my best friend, my second father — an admirable artist, too, I can assure you. He is qualified to decide even upon your skill. And when did you arrive, my dearest friend 1 and where have you been 1 Our old haunts, our old haunts? Many sketches, many sketches ? What abbey have you explored, what antique treasure have you discovered 1 I have such a fine addition for your herbal ! The Barbary cactus, just what you wanted ; I found it in my volume of Shelley ; and beautifully dried— beauti- fully ; it will quite charm you. What do you think of this drawing 1 Is it not beautiful ? quite the character, is it not?" — ■ lack of breath. " I was just observing as you entered," said Glas- tonbury, very quietly, "to Miss — " " I have several letters for you," said Ferdinand, interrupting him, and trembling from head to foot lest he might say Miss Grandison. " Do you know that you are just the person I wanted to see ? How fortunate that you should just arrive ! I was so annoyed to find you were away. I cannot tell you how much I was annoyed." "Your dear parents?" inquired Glastonbury. "Are quite well," said Ferdinand, "perfectly well. They will be so glad to see you — so very glad. They do so long to see you, my dearest Glaston- bury. You cannot imagine how they long to see you." "I shall find them within, think you?" inquired Glastonbury. " O .' they are not here," said Ferdinand ; " they have not yet arrived. I expect them every day. Every day I expect them. I have prepared every thing for them— every thing. What a wonderful autumn it has been !" And Glastonbury fell into the lure, and talked "about the weather, for he was learned in the sea- sons, and prophesied by many circumstances a hard winter. While he was thus conversing, Ferdinand extracted from Henrietta that Glastonbury had not been in the gallery more than a very few minutes ; and he felt assured that nothing very fatal had transpired. All this time Ferdinand was review- ing his painful situation with desperate rapidity and prescience. All that he aspired to now was that Henrietta should quit Armine in as happy ignorance as she had arrived ; as for Glastonbury, Ferdinand cared not what he might suspect, or ultimately discover. These were future evils, that subsided into insignificance compared with any dis- covery on the part of Miss Temple. Comparatively composed, Ferdinand now sug- gested to Henrietta to quit her drawing, which, in- deed, was so advanced, that it might be finished at Ducie; and, never leaving her side, and watching every look, and hanging on every accent of his old tutor, he even ventured to suggest that they should visii the tower. The proposal, he thought, might lull any suspicion that might have been excited on the part of Miss Temple. Glastonbury expressed his gratification at the suggestion, and they quitted the gallery, and entered the avenue of beech trees. " I have heard so much of your tower, Mr Glas- tonbury," said Miss Temple, "I am sensible, I as- sure you, of the honour of being admitted." The extreme delicacy that was a characteristic of Glastonbury preserved Ferdinand Armine from the dreaded danger. It never for an instant entered Glastonbury's mind that Henrietta was not Miss Grandison ; he thought it a little extraordinary, in- deed, that she should arrive at Armine only in the company of Ferdinand ; but much might be allowed to plighted lovers ; besides, there might be some female companion, some aunt or cousin, for aught he knew, at the Place. It was only his parents that Ferdinand had said had not yet arrived. At all events, he felt at this moment that Ferdinand, perhaps, even because he was alone with his in- tended bride, had no desire that any formal intro- duction or congratulations should take place, and only pleased that the intended wife of his pupil Ferdinand paused for I should be one so beautiful, so gifted, and so gracious, one apparently so worthy in every way of his choice and her lot, Glastonbury relapsed into his accus- tomed ease and simplicity, and exerted himself to amuse the young lady with whom he had become so unexpectedly acquainted, and with whom, in all probability, it was his destiny in future to be so in- timate. As for Henrietta, nothing had occurred in any way to give rise to the slightest suspicion in her mind. The agitation of Ferdinand at this un- expected meeting between his tutor and his betroth- ed was in every respect natural. Their engage- ment, as she knew, was at present a secret to all ; and although, under such circumstances, she her- self at first was disposed not to feel very much at her ease, still she was so well acquainted with Mr. Glastonbury from report, and he was so unlike the common characters of the censorious world, that she •was, from the first, far less annoyed than she other- wise would have been, and soon regained her usual composure, and was even gratified and amuseil with the adventure. A load, however, fell from the h%jnt of Ferdinand, when he and his beloved bade Glastonbury a good HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 609 afternoon. This accidental, and almost fatal inter- view, terrilily reminded him of his dillicull and dan- gerous position; it seemed the commencement of a series of misconceptions, mortifications, and mis- fortunes, wiiich it was absolutely necessary to pre- vent by instantly arresting them with the utmost energy and decision. It was bitter to quit Armine and all his joys, but in truth the arrival of his family was very doubtful ; and, until the confession of his real situation was made, every day might bring some disastrous discovery. Some ominous clouds in the horizon formed a capital excuse fur hurrying Henrietta oil' to Ducie. They (juitted Armine at an unusually early hour. As they drove along, Ferdinand revolved in his mind the adventure of the morning, and endeavoured to stimulate himself to the exertion of instantly repairing to Bath. But he had not courage to confide his purpose to Henri- etta. When, however, they arrived at Ducie, they were welcomed with intelligence which rendered the decision, on his part, absolutely necessary. But we will reserve this for the next chapter. CHAPTER V. VTHICH COXTAINS SOMETHING VERT UNEXPECTED. Miss Temple had run up stairs to take ofi" her bonnet ; Ferdinand stood before the wood-firc in the saloon. Its clear and fragrant flame was agree- able after the cloudy sky of their somewhat chill drive. He was musing over the charms of Henri- etta, and longing for her reappearance, when she entered : but her entrance filled him with alarm. She was very pale, her lips nearly as white as her forehead. An expression of dread was impressed on her agitated countenance. Ere he could speak she held forth her hand to his extended grasp. It was cold, it trembled. "Good God ! my sweetest; you are ill I" he ex- claimed. "No!" she faintly murmured, "not ill." And then she paused, as if stifled, leaning down her head with eyes fixed upon the ground. The conscience of Ferdinand pricked him. Had she heard But he was reassured by her accents of kindness. " Pardon me, dearest," she said ; "I am agitated — I shall soon be better." He held her hand with firmness while she leaned upon his shoulder, .\fter a few minutes of harrow- ing silence, she said, in a smothered voice, " Papa returns to-morrow." Ferdinand turned as pale as she ; the blood fled to his heart, his frame trembled, his knees tottered, his passive hand scarcely retained hers ; he could not speak. All the possible results of his return flashed across his mind, and presented themselves, in terrible array, to his alarmed imagination. He could not meet Mr. Temple, — that was out of the question. Some explanation must immediately and inevitably ensue, and that must precipitate the fatal discovery. The great object was to prevent any communication between Mr. Temple and Sir Ratclitfe before Ferdinand had broken his situation to his father. How he now wished he had not post- poned his departure for Bath! Had he only quitted Armine when first convinced of the hard nci-essity, the harrowing future would now have been the past; the impending scenes, however dreadful, 77 would have ensued ; perhaps he might have beeu at Ducie at this moment, with a clear conscience and a frank purpose, and with no difliculties to overcome but those which must necessarily arise from Mr. Temple's natural consideration for the welfare of his child. These, however diliicult to combat, seemed light in comparison with the per- plexities of his involved situation. Ferdinand bore Henrietta to a scat, and hung over her in agitated silence, which she ascribed only to his sympathy in her distress, but which, in truth, was rather to be attributed to his own uncertain purpose, and to the confusion of an invention which he now ran- sacked for desperate expedients. While he was thus revolving in his mind the course which he must now pursue, he sat down on the ottoman on which her feet rested, and pressed her hand to his lips while he summoned to his aid all the resources of his imagination. It at length appeared to him that the only mode by which he could now gain time, and secure himself from dan- gerous explanations, was to involve Henrietta in a secret engagement. There was great dilliculty, he was aware, in accomplishing this purpose. Miss Temple was devoted to her father ; and though for a moment led av^'ay, by the omnipotent influence of an irresistible passion, to enter into a compact without the sanction of her parent, her present agi- tation too clearly indicated her keen sense that she had not conducted herself tow^ards him in her ac- customed spirit of unswerving and immaculate duty; that, if not absolutely indelicate, her be- haviour must appear to him very inconsiderate, very rash, perhaps even unfeeling. Unfeeling ! What — to that father, that fond and widowed father, of whom she was the only and cherished child ! All his goodness, all his unceasing care, all his anxiety, his ready sympathy, his watchfulness for her amusement, her comfort, her happiness, his vigilance in her hours of sickness, his pride in her beauty, her accomplishments, her affection, the smiles and tears of long, long y.ears — all passed be- fore her — till at last she released herself with a quick movement from the hold of Ferdinand, and, clasping her hands together, burst into a sigh so bitter, so profound, so full of anguish, that Ferdi- nand started from his scat. "Henrietta!" he exclaimed, "my beloved Hen- rietta !" " Leave me," she replied, in a tone almostof stern- ness. He rose and walked up and down the room, overpowered by contending emotions. The severity of her voice, that voice that hitherto had fallen upon his car like the warble of a summer bird, filled him with consternation. The idea of having offended her, of having seriously oflTended her — of being to her, to Henrietta, his Henrietta, that divinity to whom his idolatrous fimcy clung with such rapturousdevotion, in whose very smiles and accents it is no exaggera- tion 10 say he lived and iiad his being — the idea of being to her, even for a transient moment, an object of repugnance, seemed something too terrible for thought, too intolerable for existence. All his troubles, all his cares, all his impending sorrows, vanished into thin air compared with this unfore- seen and sudden visitation. O ! what was future evil, what was to-morrow, pregnant as it might he. with misery, compared with the quick agony of tho instant ? As long as she smileil, every dilficulty appeared surmountable; as long as he could listen to her accents of tenderness, there was no disoeu- 610 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. sation with which he could not struggle. Come what come may, throned in the palace of her heart he was a Ko\creign who might defy the world in arms ; but, thrust from that great seat, he was a fu- gitive without a hope, an aim, a desire; dull, timid, exhausted, broken-hearted ! And she had bid him leave her. Leave her ! Henrietta Temple had bid him leave her ! Did he leave 1 Was this the same world in which a few hours back l.e breathed, and blessed his God for breathing ! What had happened 1 What strange event, what miracle had occurred, to work this awful, this portentOMS change 1 Why, if she had known all, it' she had suddenly shared that sharp and perpetual wo, every gnaviing at his own secret heart, even amid his joys ; if he had revealed to her, if any one had betrayed to her his distressing secret, could she have said more 1 Why ! it was to shun this, it was to spare himself this horrible catastrophe, that he had involved himself in his agonizing, his inextricable difficulties. Inextricable they must be now ; for where, now, was the inspiration that be- fore was to animate him to such great exploits 1 How could he struggle any longer with his fate? How could he now carve out a destiny 1 All that remained for him now was to die ; and, in the mad- ness of his sensations, death seemed to him the most desirable consummation. The temper of a lover is exquisitely sensitive. Mortified and miserable, at any other time Ferdi- nand, in a fit of harrassed love and irritable devo- tion, might have instantly quitted the presence of a mistress who had treated him with such unexpect- ed and such undeserved harshness. But the thought of the morrow — the mournful conviction that this was the last opportunity for their undisturbed com- munion — the recollection that, at all events, their temporary separation was impending; all these considerations had checked his first impulse. Be- sides, it must not be concealed that more than once it occurred him that it was utterly impossible to permit Henrietta to meet her father in her present mood. With her determined spirit and strong emotions, and her difficulty of concealing her feel- ings ; smarting, too, under the consciousness of hav- ing parted with Ferdinand in anger, and of having treated him with injustice; and, therefore, doubly anxious to bring affairs to a crisis, a scene in all probability would instantly ensue: and Ferdinand recoiled at present from the consequences of any explanations. Unhappy Ferdinand ! It seemed to him that he had never known misery before. He wrung his hands in despair — his mind seemed to desert him. Suddenly he stopped — he looked at Henrietta, — her face was still pale, her eyes fixed upon the de- caying embers of the fire, her attitude unchanged. Either she was unconscious of his presence, or she did not choose to recognise it. What were her thoughts ? Still of her father 1 Perhaps she contrasted that fond and fiiithfid friend of her existence, to whom she owed such an incalculable debt of gratitude, with the acquaintance of the hour, to whom, in a moment of insanity, she had pledged the love that could alone repay it. Perhaps, in the spirit of self- torment, she conjured up against this too success- ful stranger all the menacing spectres of suspicion, distrust, and deceit ; recalled to her recollection the too just and too frequent tales of man's impurity and ingratitude; and tortured herself by her own apparition, the merited victim of his harshness, his neglect, or his desertion. And when she had at the same time both shocked and alarmed her fancy by these distressful and degrading images, exhausted by these imaginary vexations, and eager for conso- lation in her dark despondency, she may have re- curred to the yet innocent cause of her sorrow and apprehension, and perhaps accused herself of cruelty and injustice for visiting on his head the mere con- sequences of her own fitful and morbid temper. She may have recalled his unvarying tenderness, his unceasing admiration; she may have recollected those im.passioned accents that thrilled her heart, those glances of rapturous affection that fixed her eye with fascination. She may have conjured up that form over which of late she had mused in a trance of love — that form bright with so much beauty, beaming with so many graces, adorned with so much intelligence, and hallowed by every romantic association that could melt the heart or mould the spirit of woman; she may have conjured up this form, that was the god of her idolatry, and rushed again to the altar in an ecstasy of devotion. Tlie shades of evening were fast descending — the curtains of the chamber were not closed — the blaze of the fire had died away. The flickering light fell upon the solemn countenance of Hen- rietta Temple, now buried in the shade, now tran- siently illuminated by the fitful flame. On a sudden he advanced, with a step too light even to be heard, knelt at her side, and, not ventur- ing to touch her hand, pressed his lips to her arm, and with streaming eyes, and in a tone of plaintive tenderness, murmured, " What have I done 1" She turned — her eyes met his — a wild expres- sion of fear, surprise, delight, played over her coun- tenance ; then, bursting into tears, she threw her arms round his neck, and hid her face upon his breast. He did not disturb this effusion of her suppressed emotions. His throbbing heart responded to her tumultuous soul. At length, when the strength of her passionate alTections had somewhat decreased — when the convulsive sobs had subsided into gen tie sighs, and ever and anon he felt the pressure of hei sweet lips sealing her remorseful love and charm ing repentance upon his bosom — he dared to say, "O ! my Henrietta, you did not doubt your Ferdi- nand 1" " Darling, beloved, dearest, sweetest Ferdinand, you are too good, too kind, too faultless — and I am very wicked." He raised himself gently from her side, hearing up her form at the same time, and contrived, with one arm round her waist, to place himself in her chair, and seat her on his knee. Then taking her hand and covering it with kisses, while her head rested on his shoulder, he said, in a distinct hut very low voice, " Now tell me, darling, why were you unhappy V '• Papa," sighed Henrietta, " dearest papa, that the day should come when I should grieve to meet him !" " And why should my darling grieve !" said Ferdinand. "I know not; I ask myself what have I done? what have I to fear? It is no crime to love; it may be a misfortune — God knows I have almost felt to-night that such it was. But no, I never will believe that it can be cither wrong or unhappy to love ycu.'' HENRIETTA TEMPLE. €11 " Bless you, my sweetest, for such sweet words," replied Ferdinand. " If my heart can make you hap|)y, felicity should be your lot." " It is my Ibt. I am happy, quite happy, and grateful for my happiness." "And your father, our father let me call him, (she pressed his hand when he said this,) he will he happy too V " So I would hope." " If the fulfilment of my duty can content him," continued Ferdinand, "Mr. Temple shall not re- pent his son-in-law." "O! do not call him Mr. Temple; call him father. I love to hear you call him father." "Then what alarms my child ?" " I hardly know," said Henrietta in a hesitating tone. " I think, I think it is the suddenness of all this. He has gone — he comes again ; he went — he returns ; and all has happened. So short a time, too, Ferdinand. It is a life to us; to him, I fear," and she smiled and hid her face, " it is only a fortnight." " We have seen more of each other, and known more of each other, in this fortnight, than we might have in an acquamtance which had continued a life." " 'Tis true — 'tis very true. We feel this, Ferdi- nand, hecause w'e know it. But papa will not feel like us: we cannot expect him to feel like us. He does not know my Ferdinand as I know him. Papa, too, though the dearest, kindest, fondest father that ever Uved, though he had no thought but for my happiness, and lives only for his daughter, papa naturally is not as young as we are. He is, too, what is called a man of the world. He has seen a great deal — he has formed his opinions on men and life. We cannot expect that he will change them in your, I mean our, favour. Men of the world are of the world, worldly. I do not think they are always right — I do not myself believe in their infallibility. There is no person more clever and more judicious than papa. No person is more considered. But there arc characters so rare, that men of the world do not admit them into their ge- neral calculations — and such is my Ferdinand's." Here Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought, but he pressed her hand, though he said nothing. " He will tl ink we have known each other too short a time," continued Miss Temple. " He will be niortilied, perhaps alarmed, when I inform him I am no longer his." " Ther do not inform him," said Ferdinand. She started. " Let me inform him," continued Ferdinand, giving another turn to his meaning, and watching her countenance with an unfaltering eye. " Dearest Ferdinand — always prepared to hear every burden !" exclaimed Miss Temple. " How generous and good you are ! No. it would be bet- ter for me to speak first to my father. My soul, I will never have a secret from you, and you, I am sure, will never have one from your Henrietta. This is the truth ; I do not repent the past, I glory HI it; I am yours, and I am proud to be yours. Were the past to be again acted, I would not falter. But I cannot conceal from myself that, as far as my father is concerned, I have not conducted myself towards him with frankness, with respect, or with kindness. There is no fault in loving you. Even were he to regret, he could not blame such an oc- currence ; but he will regret, he will blame, he has a right both to regret and blame, my doing more than love you : my engagement, without his ad- vice, his sanction, his knowledge, or even his suspi- cion!" " You take too refined a view of our situation, sweet Henrietta," replied Ferdinand. " Why should you not spare your father the pain of such a com- munication, if painful it would be] What has passed is between ourselves, and ought to be be- tween ourselves. If I request his permission to offer you my hand, and he yields his consent, is not that ceremony enougli 1" " I have never concealed EUiy thing from papa," said Henrietta, " but I will be guided by you." "Leave, then, all to me," said Ferdinand; "be guided but by the judgment of your own Ferdi- nand, my sweet Henrietta, and believe me all will go right. I will break this intelligence to your father. So we will settle it?" he ccntinued in- quiringly. " It shall be so." "Then arises the question," said Ferdinand, " when it would be most advisable for me to make the communication. Now, your father, Henrietta, who is a man of the world, will of course expect that, when I do make it, I shall be prepared to speak delinitely to him upon all matters of busi- ness. He will think, otherwise, that I am trifling with him. To go and request of a man like your father, a shrewd, experienced man of the world, like Mr. Temple, permission to marry his daughter, without showing to him that I am prepared with the means of maintaining a fomily ; is little short of madness. He would be offended with me, he would' be prejudiced against me. I must, there- fore, settle something first with Sir Ratcliffe. M/ich you know, unfortunately, I cannot offer your father; but still, sweet love, there must at least be an ap- pearance of providence and management. We must not disgust your father with our match." " O ! how can he be disgusted with my Ferdi- nand !" " Darling! This, then, is what I propose — that, as to-morrow we must comparatively bo separated, I should take advantage of the next few days, I should rush to Bath, and bring affairs to some ar- rangement. Until my return I would advise you to say nothing to your father." " ! how can I live under the same roof with him, under such circumstances V exclaimed Miss Temple; "how can I meet his eye — how can I speak to him, with the consciousness of a secret engagement, with the recollection that, all the time he is lavishing his affection upon me, my heart is yearning for another, and that, while he is laying plans of future companionship, I am meditating, perhaps, an eternal separation !" " Sweet Henrietta, listen to me one moment. Suppose I had quitted you last night for Bath, merely for this purpose, as indeed we had onco thought of; and that your father had arrived at Ducie before I had returned to make my communi- cation ; would you style your silence, under such circumstances, a secret engagement! No, no, dear love; this is an abuse of terms. It would be a delicate consideration for a parent's feelings." " ! Ferdinand, would we were united, and had no cares !" " You would not consider our projected union a secret engagement, if, after passing tomorrow with your father, you expected me on the next day to 612 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. communicate to him our position. Is it any more a secret engagement because six or seven d^ys are to elapse, before this communication takes place, instead of one 1 My Henrietta is indeed fighting with shadows !" " ! Ferdinand, I cannot reason like you ; but I feel unhappy when I think of this." "Dearest Henrietta! feel only that you are loved. Think, darling, the day will come when we shall smile at all these cares. All will flow smoothly yet; and we shall all yet live at Armine — Mr. Temple and all." " Papa likes you so much, too, Ferdinand, I should be miserable if you offended him." " Which I certainly should do if I were not to communicate with Sir Ratcliffe first." " Do you, indeed, think so V " Indeed I am certain." "But cannot you write to Sir Ratcliffe, Ferdi- nand ? Must you, indeed, go? Must we, indeed, be separated ? I cannot believe it; it is inconceiv- able ; it is impossible ; I cannot endure it." " It is, indeed, terrible," said Ferdinand, most sincerely. " This consideration alone reconciles me to the necessity : I know my father well ; his only answer to a communication of this kind vrould be an immediate summons to his side. Now, is it not better that this meeting should take place when we must necessarily be much less together than be- fore, than at a later period, when we may, perhaps, be constant companions with the sanction of our parents V " O ! Ferdinand, you reason — I only feel." Let us pause here one instant, to reflect upon the character and situation of Ferdinand Armine. Henrietta Temple told him that he reasoned, and did not feel. Such an observation from one's mis- tress is rather a reproach than a compliment. It was made, in the present instance, to a man whose principal characteristic was, perhaps, his too dan- gerous susceptibility ; a man of profound and violent passions, yet of a most sweet and tender temper ; capable of deep reflection, yet ever acting from the impulse of sentiment, and ready at all times to sacrifice every consideration to his heart. The prospect of separation from Henrietta, for however short a period, was absolute agony to him ; he found difficulty in conceiving existence without the influence of her perpetual presence: their part- ing even for the night was felt by him as an oner- ous deprivation. The only process, indeed, that could at present prepare and console him for the impending sorrow, would have been the frank indulgence of the feelings which it called forth. Yet behold him, behold this unhappy victim of circumstances, forced to deceive, even for her hap- piness, the being whom he idolized ; compelled, at this hour of anguish, to bridle his heart, lest he should lose for a fatal instant his command over his head ; and — while he was himself conscious that not in the wide world, perhaps, existed a man who was sacrificing more for his mistress — obliged to endure, even from her lips, a remark which seemed to impute to him a deficiency of feeling. And yet it was too much ; he covered his eyes with his hand, and said, in a low and broken voice, " Alas ! my Henrietta, if you knew all, you would not say this !" " My Ferdinand, my darling Ferdinand," she exclaimed, touched by that tender and melancholy one, " why — what is this ? you weep ! Let me kiss away these tears ! What have I said — what done 1 Dearest, dearest Ferdinand, do not do this." And she threw herself on her knees before him, and looked up into his face with scrutinizing affection. He bent down his head, and pressed his lips to her forehead. "O, Henrietta!" he exclaimed, "we have been so happy !" " And shall be so, my love, my own Ferdinand. Doubt not my word, all will go right, sweet soul. I am so sorry, I am so miserable, that I made you unhappy to-night. I shall think of it when you are gone. I shall remember how naughty I was. It was so wicked — so very, very wicked ; and he was so good !" "Gone! what a dreadful word ! And shall we not be together to-morrow, Henrietta '? ! what a morrow ! Think of me, dearest ! Do not let me for a moment escape from your memory !" " Tell me exactly your road; let me know exactly where you will be at every hour; write to me on the road ; if it be only a line, only a little word , only his dear name; only Ferdinand. Let me have a letter with only 'Ferdinand' in it, that I may kiss the dear name with a thousand kisses !" " And how shall I write to you, my beloved ' Shall I direct to you here ?" Henrietta looked perplexed. " Papa opens the bag every morning, and every morning you must write, or I shall die. Ferdinand, what is to be donel" "I will direct to you at the post-office. You must send for your letters." " I tremble. Believe me, it will be noticed. It will look so. — so — so — so clandestine." "I will direct them to your maid. She must be our confidant." " Ferdinand !" " 'Tis only for a week." "0, Ferdinand! love teaches us strange things." " My darling, believe me, it is wise and well. Think how desolate we should be without constant correspondence. As for myself, I shall write to you every hour, and unless I hear from you as often, I shall believe only in evil !" " Let it he as you wish. God knows my heart is pure. I pretend no longer to regulate my des- tiny. I am yours, Ferdinand. Be you responsible for all that affects my honour or my heart." " A precious trust, my Henrietta, and dearer to me than all the glory of my ancestors." The clock sounded eleven. Miss Temple rose. " It is so late, and we in darkness here ! What will they think 1 Ferdinand, sweetest, rouse the fire. I ring the bell. Lights will come, and then — " Her voice faltered. " And then — " echoed Ferdinand. He took up his guitar, but he could not command his voice. "'Tis your guitar." said Henrietta; "I am happy that it is left behind." The servant entered with lights, drew the curtains, renewed the fire, arranged the room, and withdrew, " Little knows he our misery," said Henrietta, " It seemed strange, when I felt my own mind, that there could be any thing so calm and mechanical in the world." Ferdinand was silent. He felt that the hour of departure had indeed arrived, yet he had not courage to move. Henrietta, too, did not speak. She laid down on the sofa, as it were, exhausted, and placed HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 613 her handkerchief over her face. Ferdinand leaned over the lire. He was nearly tempted to give up his project, confess all to his father by letter, and await his decision. Then he conjured up the dreadful scenes at Bath, and then he remembered that, at all events, to-morrow he must not appear at Ducie. " Henrietta !'' he at length said. " A minute, Ferdinand, yet a minute," she ex- claimed, in an excited tone ; " do not speak — I am preparing myself." He remained in his leaning posture; and, in a few moments, Miss Temple rose and said, " Now, Ferdinand, I am ready." He looked round. Her countenance was quite pale, but fixed and calm. "Let us embrace," she said, "but let us say nothing." He pressed her to his arms. She trembled. He imprinted a thousand kisses on her cold lips ; she received them with no return. Then siie said in a low voice, "Let me leave the room first;" and, giving him one kiss upon the forehead, Henrietta Temple disappeared. When Ferdinand, with a sinking heart and a staggering step, quitted Ducie, he found the night so dark that it was with extreme difliculty that he traced, or rather groped, his way through the grove. The absolute necessity of vs'atching every step he took, in some degree diverted his mind from his painful meditations. The atmosphere of the wood was so close, that he congratulated himself when he had gained its skirts; but just as he was about to emerge upon the common, and was looking forward to the light of some cottage, as his guide in this gloomy wilderness, a flash of lightning that seemed to cut the sky in twain, and to descend like a flight of fiery steps from the highest heavens to the lowest earth, revealed to him for a moment the whole broad bosom of the common, and showed to him that nature to-night was as disordered and perturbed as his own heart. A clap of- thunder, that might have been the herald of doomsday, woke the cattle from their slumbers, which began to moan and low to the rising wind, and cluster under the trees, that sent forth, indeed, with their wailing branches, sounds scarcely less dolorous and wild. Avoiding the woods, and striking into the most open part of the country, Ferdinand watched the progress of the tempest. For the wind, indeed, had now risen to such a height, that the leaves and branches of the trees were carried about in vast whirls and eddies, while the waters of the lake, where, in serener hours, Ferdinand was accustomed to bathe, were lifted out of their bed, and inundated the neighbouring settlements. Lights were now seen moving in all the cottages, and then the forked lightning, pouring down at the same time from opposite quarters of the sky, exposed with an awful distinctness, and a fearful splendour, the wide-spreading scene of dan- ger and devastation. Now descended the rain in such overwhelming torrents, that it was as if a waterspout had burst, and Ferdinand gasped for breath beneath its op- pressive ])ower, while the blaze of the variegated lightning, the crash of the thunder, and the roar of the wind, all simultaneously in movement, indicated the fulness of the storm. Succeeded then that strange lull that occurs in the heart of a tempest, when the unruly and disordereil elements pause as it were for breath, and seem to concentrate their energies for an increased and final explosion. It came at last ; and the very earth seemed to rock in the passage of the hurricane. Exposed to all the awful chances of the storm, one solitary being alone beheld them without ter- ror. The mind of Ferdinand Armine grew calm, as nature became more disturbed. He moralized amid the whirlwind. He contrasted the present tumult and distraction with the sweet and beautiful serenity which the same scene had presented, when, a short time back, he first beheld it. His love, too, had commenced in stillness and in sunshine; was it, also, to end in storm and destruction ? BOOK IV. CHAPTER L WHICH COiVTAIXS A LOVE-LETTEK. Let us pause. We have endeavoured to trace, in the preceding portion of this history, the deve- lopement of that passion that is at once the principle and end of our existence ; that passion, compared to whose delights all the other gratifications of our nature — wealth, and power, and fame — sink into insignificance ; and which, nevertheless, by the ineffable beneficence of our Creator, are open to his creatures of all conditions, qualities, and climes. Whatever be the lot of man, however unfortunate, however oppressed, if he only love and be loved, he must strike a balance in favour of existence, for love can illume the dark roof of poverty, and can lighten the fetter of the slave. But, if the most miserable position of humanity be tolerable with its support, so also the most splendid situations of our life arc wearisome with- out its inspiration. The golden palace requires a mistress as magnificent; and the fairest garden, besides the song of birds, and the breath of flowers, calls for the sigh of sympathy. It is at the foot of woman that we lay the laurels that, without her smile, would never have been gained : it is her image that strings the lyre of the poet, that ani- mates our voice in the blaze of eloquent faction, and guides our brain in the august toils of stately councils. But this passion, so charming in its nature, so equal in its dispensation, so universal in its influ- ence, never assumes a power so vast, or exerts an authority so captivating, as when it is experienced for the first time. Then it is truly irresistible and enchanting, fiiscinating, and despotic; and, whatever may be the harsher feelings that life may devclope, there is no one, however callous or constrained he may have become, whose brow will not grow pen- sive at the memory of first love. The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end. It is the dark conviction that feel- ings the most ardent may yet grow cold, and that emotions the most constant and confirmed, are, nevertheless, liable to change, that taints the feebler spell of our later passions, though they may spring from a heart that has lost little of its original fresh- ness, and be offered to one infinitely more worthy of the devotion than our first idolatry. To gaze upon a face, and to believe that forever we must behold it with the same adoration ; that those eyes, in whose light we live, will forever meet ours with mutual glances of rapture and devotcdness; to b« 3F 614 ©'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. conscious that, all conversation with others sounds vapid and spiritless, compared with the endless ex- pression of our aflection ; to feel our heart rise at the favoured voice ; and to believe that life must hereafter consist of a ramble through the world, pressing but one fond hand, and leaning but upon one faithful breast; — O I must this sweet creduUty indeed be dissipated ! Is there no hope for them so full of hope 1 — no pity for them so abounding with love ] And can it be possible that the hour can ever arrive when the former votaries of a mutual passion so exquisite and engrossing can meet each other with indilTercnce, almost with unconsciousness, and recall with an ctfort their vanished scenes of feli- city — that quick yet profound sympathy, that ready yet boundless confidence, all that charming alian- donment of self, and that vigilant and prescient fondness that anticipates all our wants and all our wishes '! It makes the heart ache hut to picture such vicissitudes to the imagination. They are mages full of distress, and misery, and gloom. The knowledge that such changes .can occur flits over the mind like the thought of death, obscuring all our gay fancies with its batlike wing, and taint- ing the healthy atmosphere of our happiness with its venomous expirations. It is not so much ruined cities, that were once the capital glories of the world, or mouldering temples, breathing with ora- cles no more believed, or arches of triumph, that have forgotten the heroic name they were piled up to celebrate, that fill my nund with half so mourn- ful an impression of the instability of human for- tunes as these sad spectacles of exhausted aflfections, and, as it were, traditionary fragments of expired passion. The morning, that broke sweet, and soft, and clear, brought Ferdinand, with its first glimmer, a letter from Henrietta. HENRIETTA TO FERDINAND. Mine own, own love ! I have not lain down the whole night, I have been so anxious about my Fer- dinand. What a terrible, what an awful night! To think that he was in the heart of that fearful storm ! What did, what could you do 1 How I long to be with you ! And I could only watch the tempest from my window, and strain my eyes at every flash of lightning, in the vain hope that it might reveal him! Is he well — is he unhurt"! Until my messenger return I can imagine only evil. How often I was on the point of sending out the household, and yet I thought it must be useless, and might displease him ! I knew not what to do. I beat about my chamber like a silly bird in a cage. Tell me the truth, my Ferdinand — conceal nothing. Do not think of moving to-day. If you feel the least unwell, send immediately for advice. Write to me one line, only one hue to tell me you are well. I shall be in despair until I hear from you. Do not keep the messenger an instant. He is on my pony. He promises to return in a verj', very short time. I pray for you, as I prayed for you the whole long night, that seemed as if it would never end. God bless you, my dear and darling Ferdinand ! Write only one word to your own Henrietta. ferdinand to henrietta. Sweetest, dearest Henrietta ! — I am quite well, and love you, if that could be, more than ever. Darling, to send to see after her Ferdinand ! A wet jacket, and I experienced no greater evil, does not frighten me. The storm was magnilicent ; I would not have missed it for the world. But I re- gret it now, because my Henrietta did not sleep. Sweetest love, let me come on to you ! your page is inexorable. He will not let me write another line God bless you, my Hern-ietta, my beloved, my matchless Henrietta ! Words cannot tell you how I love you, how I dote upon you, my darling. Tut Ferdinand. henrietta to ferdinand. No! you must not come here. It would be unwise, it would be silly. We could only be together a moment, and though a moment with you is heaven, my Ferdinand, I cannot endure again the agony of parting. O, Ferdinand ! what has that separation not cost me ! Pangs that I could not conceive any human misery could occa.sion. My Ferdinand may we some da}' be happy ! It seems to me now that happiness can never come again. And yet I ought to be grateful that he was uninjured last night. I dared not confess to you before what evils I anticipated. Do you knov/ she was so foolish that she thought every flash of lightning must descend on the head of her Ferdi- nand ] She dares not now own how foolish she was. God be praised that he is well. But is he sure that he is quite well ] If you have the slightest cold, dearest, do not move. Postpone that journey on which all our hopes are fixed. Colds bring fever. But you laugh at me : you are a man and a soldier ; you laugh at a woman's caution, ! my Ferdinand, I am so selfish that I should not care if you were ill, if I might only be your nurse. What happiness, what exquisite happiness would that be ! Darling, do not be angry with your Henrietta, but I am nervous about concealing our engagement from papa. What I have promised I will perform, fear not that ; I will never deceive you, no, not even for your fancied benefit ; but sweet, sweet love, I feel the burden of this secrecy more than I can express, more than I wish to express, I do not like to say any thing that can annoy you, espe- cially at this moment ; when I feel, from my own heart, how you must require all the support and solace of unbroken fondness. I have such confidence in your judgment, my Ferdinand, that I feel con- vinced that you have acted wisely ; but come back, my sweetest, come back as soon as you can. I know it must be more than a week; I know that that prospect was only held out by your aflection for your Henrietta. Days must elapse before you can reach Bath ; and I know, Ferdinand, I know your office is more difficult than you will confess. But come back, my sweetest, as soon as you can, and write to me at the postoflice, as vou set- tled. If you are well, as you say, leave the farm di- rectly. The consciousness that you are so near, my darling, makes me restless. Remember, in a few hours papa will be here. I wish to meet him with as much calmness as I can command. Ferdinand, I must bid you adieu ! My tears are too evident. Sec, they fall upon the page. It is stained. Kiss it, Ferdinand, just here. I will ])ress my lips just here ; do you also press yours. 'J''hink of me always. Never let your Henrietta be absent from your thoughts. If you knew how HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 615 desolate this house is ! Your guitar is on the soia, ; a ghost of departed joy ! Farewell, Fcnlinaiid ! farewell, my Ferdinand ! Ah ! there is pride, there is bliss, in that remem- brance ! If you knew, sweetest, how proud I am of you, how keenly I feel my own unworthiness ; but my lieart is yours. I cannot write, darling. I cannot restrain my tears. I know not what to do. I almost wish papa would return, though I dread to see him. I feel the desolation of this house, I am so accustomed to see you here ! Heaven be with you, dearest, ane, Lady Bellair, after scanning every thing and every bod}' with the utmost scrutiny, indicated some in- tention of enterhig, when suddenly she turned round — " Man, there's something wanting. I had three things to take charge of. 'i'lie parrot and my charm- ing friend — that is only two. There is a third. What is it ] You don't know ! Here, you man, who are you] Mr. Temple's servant. I knew your master when he was not as high as that cage. What do you think of that]" continued her ladyship, with a triumphant smile. " What do you laugh at, sir] Did you ever see a woman ninety years old before ] That I would wager you have not. What do I want ] I want something. Why do you tease me by not remembering what I want. Now, I knew a gentleman who made his fortune by once remem- bering what a very great man wanted. But then the great man was a minister of state. I dare say if I were a minister of state, instead of an old woman ninety years of age, you would contrive somehow or other to find out what I wanted. Never mind, never mind. Come, m}' charming friend, let me take your arm. Now I will introduce you to the prettiest, the dearest, the most innocent and charming lady in the world. She is my greatest favourite. She is always my favourite. You are my favourite, too ; but you are only my favourite for the moment. I always have two favourites : one for the moment, and one that I never change, and that is my sweet Henrietta Tem- ple. You see I can remember her name, though I couldn't yours. But you are a good creature, a dear good soul, though you live in a bad set, my dear, a very bad set, indeed ; vulgar people, my dear; they may be rich, but they have no ton. This is a fine place. Stop, stop," Lady Bellair ex- claimed, stamping her little foot, and shaking her little arm, "Don't drive away, I remember what it was. Gregory ! run, Gregory ! It is the page ! There was no room for him behind, and I told liim to lie under the seat. Poor dear boy ! He must be smothered. I hope he is not dead. ! there he is. Has Miss Temple got a page ] Does her page wear a feather ] My page has not got a fea- ther, but he shall have one, because he was not smothered. Here ! woman, who are you ] The housemaid. I thought so. I always know a house- maid. You shall take care of my page. Take him at once, and give him some milk and water ; and, page, be very good, and never leave this good young woman, unless I send for you. And, wo- man, good young woman, perha[is you may find an old leather of Miss Temple's page. Give it to this good little boy, because he was not smo thered." HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 619 CHAPTER IV. CON'TAIMXG SOMK ACCOUNT OF TlIK VISCOUNTESS DOWAGEll BELLAin. The Viscountess Dowager Bcllair was the last rcniiiining link between the two centuries. Her- self horn of a noble family, and dislinguishetl both for her beauty and lier wit, she had reigned for a quarter of a century the favourite subject of Sir Joshua ; had flirted with Lord Carlisle, and chatted with Dr. Johnson. But the most remarkable qua- lity of her ladyship's destiny was her preservation. Time, that had rolled on nearly a century since her birth, had spared alike her physical and mental powers. 8he was almost as active in body, and quite as lively in mind, as when seventy years before she skipped in Mary lebone Gardens, or puzzled the gentlemen of the Tuesday IVight Club at Mrs. Comely 's masquerades. 'I'hosc wonderful seventy years, indeed, had passed to Lady Bellair like one of those very masked balls in which she formerly sparkled; she had lived in a perpetual crowd of strange and brilliant characters. All that had been famous for beauty, rank, fashion, wit, genius, had been gathered round her throne ; and at this very liour a fresh and admiring generation, distinguished for these qualities, cheerfully acknowledged her supremacy, and paid to her their homage. The heroes and heroines of her youth, her middle life, even of her old age, had vanished ; brilliant orators, profound statesmen, inspired bards, ripe scholars, illustrious warriors, beauties whose daz- zling charms had turned the world mad ; choice spirits, whose Hying words or fanciful manners made ever}' saloon smile or wonder — all had dis- appeared. She had witnessed revolutions in every counti-y in the world ; she remembered Brighton a fishing-town, and Manchester a village ; she had shared the pomp of nabobs and the profusion of loan-mongers ; she had stimulated the early ambi- tion of Charles Fox, and had sympathized with the last aspirations of George Canning; she had been the confidant of the loves alike of Byron and Allieri ; had worn mourning for General Wolfe, and given a festival to the Duke of Wellington ; had laughed with George Selvvyn, and smiled at Lord Alvanley ; had known the first macaroni and the last dandy ; remembered the Gunnings, and introduced the Shcridans! But she herself was unchanged ; still restless for novelty, still eager for amusement; still anxiously watching the entrance on the stage of some new stream of characters, and indei'atigable in attracting the notice of every one whose talents might contribute to her entertainment, or whose attention might gratify her vanity. And, really, when one recollected Lady Bellair's long career, and witnessed at the same time her diminutive form and her unrivalled vitality, one might almost be tempted to believe, that if not absolutely im- mortal, it was at least her strange destiny not so much vulgarly to die, as to grow like the heroine of tlie fairy tale, each year smaller and smaller, " Fine by degrees and beautifully less." antil her ladyship might at length subside into airy nothingness, and so rather vanish than expire. It was the fashion to say her ladyship had no heart; in most instances an unmeaning phrase; in her case certaiidy an unjust one. IN'inety years of experience had assuredly not been thrown away on a mind of remarkable acuteness, but Lady Bellair's feelings were still quick and warm, and could be even profound. Her fancy was so lively, that her attention was soon engaged ; her taste so refined, that her affection was not so easily obtained Hence she acquired a character^or caprice, because she repented at leisure those first impressions which with her were irresistible ; for, in truth. Lady Bell air, though she had nearly comiileted her centurj', and had passed her whole life in the most artificial circles, was the very creature of impulse. Her first homage she always declared was paid to talent, her second to beauty, her third to blood. The favoured individual who might combine these three splendid qualifications, was, with Lady Bell- air, a nymph, or a demi-god. As for mere wealth she really despised it, though she liked her favour- ites to be rich. Her knowledge of human nature, which was considerable, her acquaintance with human weak- nesses, which was unrivalled, were not thrown away upon Lady Bellair. Her ladyship's percep- tion of character was fine and quick, and nothing delighted her so much as making a person a tool. Capable, where her heart was touched, of the finest sympathy and the most generous actions — where her feelings were not engaged, she experienced no compunction in turning her companions to account, or, indeed, sometimes in honouring them with her intimacy for that purpose. But if you had the skill to detect her plots, and the courage to make her aware of your consciousness of them, you never displeased her, and often gained her friendship. For Lady Bellair had a fine taste for humour, and when she chose to be candid — an indulgence which was no^rare with her — she could dissect her own character and conduct with equal spirit and impar- tiality. In her own instance it cannot be denied that she comprised the three great qualifications she so much prized : for she was very witty ; had blood in her veins, to use her own expression ; and was the prettiest woman in the world for her years. For the rest, though no person was more highly bred, she could be very impertinent; but if you treated her with servility, she absolutely loathed you. Lady Bellair, after the London season, always spent two or three months at Bath, and then pro- ceeded to her great-grandson's, the yiresent vis- count's, seat in the North, where she remained until London was again attractive. Part of her domestic diplomacy was employed each year, during her Bath visit, in discovering some old friend, or making some new acquaintance, who would bear her in safety, and save her harmless from all ex- penses and dangers of the road, to Northumber- land ; and she displayed often in these arrangements talents which Talleyrand might have envied. Bur- ring the present season, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, the widow of a rich East Indian, whose intention it was to proceed to her estate in Scotland at the end of the autumn, had been presented to Lady Bellair by a friend well acquainted with her lady ship's desired arrangements. What an invaluable acquaintance at such a moment for Lady Bellair ! Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, very rich and very anx ious to be fashionable, was intoxicated with the flattering condescension and anticipated compiuiion- ship of Lady Bcllair. At first. Lady B. had quietly suugcsted that they should travel together to North- umberland. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd was enchanted 630 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. with the proposal. Then Lady Bellair regretted that her servant was very ill, and that she must send her to town immediately in her own carriage; and then Mrs. Montgomery Floyd insisted, in spite of the oflers of Lady Bellair, that her ladyship should take a seat in her carriage, and would not for an instant hear of Lady Bellair defraying, un- der such circumstances, any portion of the expense. Lady Bellair held out to the dazzled vision of Mrs. Montgomery Floyd a brilliant perspective of the noble lords and wealthy squires whose splendid seats, under the auspices of Lady Bellair, they were to make their resting-places during their progress ; and in time Lady Bellair, who had a particular fancy for her own carriage, proposed that her servants should travel in that of Mrs. Mont- gomery Floyd. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd smiled a too willing assent. It ended by Mrs. Mont- gomery Floyd's servants travelling to Lord Bellair's, where their mistress was to meet them, in that lady's own carriage, and Lady Bellair travelling in her own chariot with her own servants, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd defraying the expenditure of both expeditions. CHAPTER V. IN "WHICH LADY BELLAIR GIVES SOME ACCOUiNT OP SOME OF HER FRIENDS. Lapt Bellair really loved Henrietta Temple. She was her prime and her permanent favourite, and she was always lamenting that Henrietta would not come and stay with her in London, and marry a duke. Lady Bellair was a great match- maker. When, therefore, she was welcomed by tlie fair mistress of Ducie Bower, Lady Bellair was as genuine as she was profuse in her kind phrases. " My sweet, sweet young friend," she said, as Henrietta bowed her head and offered her lips to the little old lady, " it is something to have such a friend as you. What old woman has such a sweet friend as I have ! Now let me look at you. It does my heart good to see you. I feel younger. You are handsomer than ever, I declare you are. Why will you not come and stay with me, and let me find you a husband ] There is the Duke of De- randale — he is in love with you already; for I do nothing but talk of you. No, you should not marry him, he is not good enough. He is not refined. I love a duke, but I love a duke that is refined more. You shall marry Lord Fitzwarrene. He is my favourite ; he is worthy of you. You laugh ; I love to see you laugh. You are so fresh a7id innocent ! There is your worthy father talk- ing to my friend Mrs. Twoshoes ; a very good creature, my love, a very worthy soul, but no ton ; I hate French words, but what other can I use ; and she will wear gold chains, which I detest. You never wear gold chains, I am sure. The Duke of would not have me, so I came to you," continued her ladyship, returning the salutation of Mr. Temple, " Don't ask me if I am tired, I am never tired. There is nothing I hate so much as being asked if I am well. I am always well. There, I have brought you a charming friend; give her your arm ; and you shall give me yours," said tlie old lady, smiling to Henrietta ; " we make a good contrast ; I like a good contrast, but not an Ugly one. I cannot bear any tlung that is ugly ; unless it is a very ugly man indeed who is a genius and very fashionable. I liked Wilkes, and I liked Curran ; but they were famous, the best company in the world. When I was as young as you, Lady Lavington and I always hunted in couples, because she was tall, and I was called the Queen of the Fairies. Pretty women, my sweet child, should never be alone. Not that I was very pretty, but I was always with pretty women, and at last the men began to think that I was pretty too." " A superbly pretty place," simpered the magni- ficent Mrs. Montgomery Floyd to Mr. Temple, " and of all the sweetly pretty persons I ever met, I assure you I think Miss Temple the most charming. Such a favourite too with Lady Bellair ! You know she calls Miss Temple her real favourite," added the lady, with a playful smile. The ladies v\ere ushered to their apartments by Henrietta, for the hour of dinner was at hand, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd indicated some anxiety not to be hurried in her toilet. Indeed, when she reappeared, it might have been matter of marvel how she could have effected such a complete trans- formation in so short a period. Except a train, she was splendid enough for a birth-day at St. James's, and wore so many brilliants that she glit- tered like a chandelier. However, as Lady Bellair loved a contrast, this was perhaps not unfortunate; for certainly her ladyship, in her simjile costume, which had onl}^ been altered by the substitution of a cap that should have been immortalized by Mieris or Gerard Douw, afforded one not a little startling to her sumptuous fellow-traveller. " Your dinner is very good," said Lady Bellair to Mr. Temple. " I eat very little and very plainly, but I hate a bad dinner; it dissatisfies everybody else, and they are all dull. The best diimcrs now are a new man's ; I forget his name,; the man who is so very rich. You never heard of him, and she (pointing with her fork to Mrs. Montgomery) knows nobody. What is his name 1 Gregory, what is the name of the gentleman I dine with so often ] the gentleman I send to when I have no other engagement, and he always gives me a dinner, but who never dines with me. He is only rich, and I hate people who are only rich ; but I must ask him next year. I ask him to my evening parties, mind ; I don't care about them ; but I will not have stupid people, who are only rich at my dinners. Gregory, what is his name V " Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady." " Yes, that is the man, good Gregory. You have no deer, have you V inquired her ladyship of Mr. Temple. "I thought not. I wish you had deer. You should send a haunch in my name to Mr. Million de Stockville, and that would be as good as a dinner to him. If your neighbour, the duke, had received me, I should have sent it from thence. I will tell you what I will do; I will write a note from this place to the duke, and get him to do it for me. He will do any thing for me. He loves me, the duke, and I love him : but his wife hates me." " And you have had a gay season in town this year, Lady Bellair 1" inquired Miss Temple. " My dear, I always have a gay season." " What happiness!" softly exclaimed Mrs. Mont- gomery rio_yd. " I think nothing is more deligh'.ful than gayety." " And how is my friend Mr.Bonmot, this year V said Mr. Temple. HENRIETTA TEMPLE 62t " My dear, Bonrnot is growing very old. He tells the same stories pvcr again, and therefore I never see him. I cannot bear wits that have run to seed ; I cannot ask Bonmot to my dinners, and I told him the reason why ; but I said I was at home every mornini? from two till six, and he might come then — for he does not go out to evening parties — and he is hulTy — and so we have quar- relled." " Poor Mr. Bonmot," said Miss Temple. '• My dear, there is the most wonderful man in the world — I forget his name — but everybody is mad to have him. He is quite the fashion. I have him to my parties instead of Bonmot, and it is much better. Everybody has Bonmot; but my man is new, and I love something new. Lady Frederick Berrington brought him to me. Do you know Lady Frederick Berrington 1 O ! I forgot, poor dear, you are buried alive in the country ; I must introduce you to I^ady Frederick. She is charming — she will taste you — she will be your friend ; and you cannot have a better friend, my dear, for she is very pretty, very witty, and has got blood in her veins. I won't introduce you to Iiady Frederick," continued T^ady Belhiir to Mrs. Mont- gomery Floyd ; " she is not in your way. I shall introduce you to Lady Splash and Dashaway — she is to be your friend." Mrs. Montgomery Floyd seemed consoled by the splendid future of being the friend of Lady Splash and Dashaway, and easily to endure with such a compensation the somewhat annoying remarks of her noble patroness. " But as for Bonmot," continued Lady Bcllair, "I will have nothing to do with him. General Fancville, he is a dear good man and gives me din- ners. I love dinners : I never dine at home, except when I have company. General Fancville not only gives me dinners, but lets me always choose my own party. And he said to me the other day — ' Now, Lady Bellair, fix your day and name your party.' I said directly — ' General, anybody but Bon- mot.' You know Bonmot is his particular friend." " But surely that is very cruel," said Henrietta Temple, smiling. •' I am cruel," said Lady Bellair, " when I hate a person I am very cruel — and I hate Bonmot. Mr. Fox wrote me a copy of verses once, and called me ' cruel fair ;' but I was not cruel to him, for I dearly loved Charles Fox: and 1 love you, and I love your father. The first party your father ever was at, was at my house. There, what do you think of that ! And I love my grandchildren ; I call them all my grandchildren. I think great-grandchildren sounds silly : I am so happy tliat they have married so well. Mv dear Sclina is a countess ; you shall be a countess, too," added the old lady, laughing. '' I must see you a countess before I die. Mrs. Grenvillc is not a countess, and is rather poor ; but they will be rich some day ; and Grenvillc is a good name — it sounas well. That is a great thing. I hate a name thai does not sound well." CHAPTER VL CO^TAIJ«IXG A COTrrF.nSATION NOT aUITE SO amujIxg as the last. ly the evening, Henrietta amused her guests with music. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd was entliu- siastically fond of music and very proud of her inti- mate friendship with Pa.sta. " O ! you know her, do you 1" said Lady Bel- lair. " Very well : you shall bring her to my house; she shall sing at all my parties : I love music at my evenings, but I never pay for it, never. If she will not come in the evening, I will try to ask her to dinner, once at least. I do not like singers and tumblers at dinner — but she is very fashionable, and young men like her, and what I want at my dinners are young men, young men of very great fashion. I rather want young men at my dinners. I have some — Lord Languid always comes to me, and he is ver}- fine, you know, very fine indeed. He goes to very few places, but he always comes to me." Mrs. Montgomery Floyd quitted the piano, and seated herself by Mr. Teni])le. Mr. Temple was gallant, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd anxious to obtain the notice of a gentleman whom Lady Bel- lair had assured her was of the first ton. Her ladyship herself beckoned to Henrietta Temple to join her on the sofa, and, taking her hand verj' af- fectionately, explained to her all the tactics by which she intendeil to bring about a match between her and Lord Fitzwarrene, very much regretting, at the same time, that her dear grandson. Lord Bellair, was married ; for he, after all, was the only person worthy of her. " He would taste you, my dear; he Avould understand you. Dear Bellair ! he is so very handsome, and so very witty. M'hy did he go and marry ? And yet I love his wife. Do you know her 1 ! she is charming : so very pretty, so very witty, and such good blood in her veins. I made the match. Why were you not in England ] If you had only come to England a year sooner, you should have married Bellair. How provoking !" " But really, dear Lady Bellair, your grandson is very happy. What more can you wish ?" " Well, my dear, it shall be Lord Fitzwarrene, then. I shall give a series of parties this year, and ask Lord Fitzwarrene to every one. Not that it is very easy to get him, my child. There is nobody so difficult as Lord Fitzwarrene. 'i'hat is quite right. Men should always be diflicult, I cannot; bear men who come and dine with you when you want them." " What a charming place is Ducie !" sighed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd to Mr. Temple. " The country is so delightful." "But you would not Hke to live in the country only," said Mr. Temple. " Ah ! you do not know me !" sighed the senti- mental Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. "If you, only knew how I loved flowers ! — I wish you could but see my conservatory in Park lane." " And how did you find Bath this year. Lady Bellair 1" inquired Miss Temple. " ! my dear, I met a charming man there. I forget his name, but the most distinguished person I ever met ; so very handsome, so very witty, and with blood in his veins, only I forget his name, and it is a verj' good name, too. My dear," addressing herself to Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, "tell me tlie name of my favourite." Mrs. Montgomery Floyd looked a little puzzled " My great favourite !" exclaimed the irritated Lady Bellair, rapping her fan against the sofa. " O ! why do you not remember names ! I love people who remember names. My favourite, my Bath favourite. What is liis name ] He is to dine with me in lowu 623 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. What is the name of my Bath fovourite who is certainly to dine with me in town." " Do you mean Captain Arminel" inquired Mrs. iviontgoraery Floyd. Miss Temple turned quite pale. " That is the man," said Lady Bellair. O ! such a charming man. You shall marry him, my dear, you shall not marry Lord Fitz- warrene." " But you forget he is going to be married," said Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. Miss Temple tried to rise, but she could not. She held down her head. She felt the fever in her check. " Is our engagement then so notorious !" she thought to herself. " Ah ! yes, I forgot he was going to be married," said Lady Bellair. " Well, then, it must be Lord Fitzwarrene. Besides, Captain Armine is not rich, but he has got a very line place, though, and I will go and stop there some day. And, besides, he is over head and ears in debt, so they say. How- ever he is going to marry a very rich woman, and 60 all will be right. I like old families in decay to get round again." Henrietta dreaded that her father should observ'e her confusion ; she had recourse to every art to prevent it. " Dear Ferdinand," she thought to her- self, " thy very rich wife will bring thee, I fear, but a poor dower. Ah ! would he were here I" " Who is Captain Armine going to marry T' in- quired Mr. Temple. " O ! a very proper person," said Lady Bellair. " I forget her name. Miss Twoshoes, or something. What is her name, my dear"!" "You mean Miss Grandison, madam?" respond- ed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. " To be sure, Miss Grandison, the great heiress. The only one left of the Grandisons. I knew her grandfather. He was my son's schoolfellow." " Captain Armine is a near neighbour of ours," s-aid Mr. Temple. " ! you know him," said Lady Bellair, " Is he not charming 1" " Are you certain he is going to be married to Miss Grandison 1" inquired Mr. Temple. " O ! there is no doubt in the world," said Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. " Every thing is quite settled. My most particular friend, Lady .lulia Hartevillc, is to be one of the bride's-maids. I have seen all the presents. Both the families are at Bath at this very moment. I saw the happ}' pair together every day. They are related, you know. It is an ex- cellent match, for the Armines have great estates, mortgaged to the very last pound. I liave heard that Sir Ratclilfe Armine has not a thousand a-year he can call his own. We are all so pleased," add- ed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, as if she were quite one of the family. " Is not it delightful V " They are to be married next month," said Lady Bellair. " I did not quite make tlie match, but I did something. I love the Grandisons, be- cause Lord Grandison was my son's friend fifty ^ years ago." " I never knew a person so pleased as Lady Ar- mine is," continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. " The truth is, Captain Armine has been very wild, very wild indeed ; a little of a roue ; but then .such a fine young man, so very handsome, so truly distinguished, as Lady Bellair says, what could you expect 1 But he has sown his wild oats now. They have been engaged these six months — ever since he came from a^ road. He has been at Bath all the time, except for a fortnight or so, when ho went to his place to make the necessary prepara- tions. We all so missed* him. Captain Armine was quite the life of Bath. I am almost ashamed to repeat what was said of him," added Mrs. Mont- gomery Floyd, blusliing through her rouge ; "but they said every woman was in love with him." " Fortunate man !" said Mr. Temple, bowing, but with a grave expression. " And he says, he is only going to marry, be- cause he is wearied of conquests," continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd; "how impertinent, is it not^ But Captain Armine says such things ! He is quite a privileged person at Bath !" Miss Temple rose and left the room. When the hour of general retirement had arrived, she had not returned. Her maid brought a message that her mistress was not very well, and offered her excuses for not again descending. CHAPTER VII. in which mr. temple tats a visit to his daughter's chamber. Hexrietta, when she quitted the room, nevei stopped until she had gained her own chamln'r. She had no light, but a straggling moonbeam reveat- ed sufficient. She threw herself upon her bed, choked with emotion. She was incapable of thought ; a chaos of wild images flitted over her brain. Thus had she remained, perchance an hour, with scarcely self-consciousness, when her servant entered with a light to arrange her chamber, and nearly shrieked when, on turning round, she be- held her mistress. This intrusion impressed upon Miss Temple the absolute necessity of some exertion, if only to pre- serve herself at this moment from renewed inter- ruptions. She remembered where she was, she called back with an effort some recollection of her guests, and she sent that message to her father, which we have already noticed. Then she was again alone. How she wished at that moment that she might ever be alone ; that the form and shape of human being should no more cross her vision ; that she might remain in this dark chamber until she died ! There was no more joy for her; her sun was set, the lustre of her life was gone ; the lute had lost its tone, the flower its perfume, the bird its airy wing. Ah ! what a fleet, as well a5 fatal tragedy ! How swift upon her improvidence had come her heart-breaking pang ! There was an end of foilh, for he was faithless ; there was an end of love, for love had betrayed her ; there was an end of beauty, for beauty had been her bane. All that hitherto made life delightful, all the fine emo- tions, all the bright hopes, and the rare accomplish- ments of our nature, were dark delusions now, cruel mockeries, and false and cheating phantoms! What humiliation ! what despair ! And he had seemed so true ; so pure, so fond, so gifted ! What — could it be — could it be that a few short weeks back this man had knelt to her, had adored her ] And she had hung upon his accents, and lived in the light of his enraptured eyes, and pledged to him her heart; dedicated to him her life, devoted to him all her innocent and passionate affections, worshipptxJ HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 623 him as an idol ! Why, what was life that it coulJ bring upon its swift wing such ilarU, such agoniz- ing vicissitudes as these ? It was not life — it was frenzy ! Some one knorked gently at her door. She did not answer — sht: feigned sleep. Yet the door open- ed — she felt, though her eyes were shut and her back turned, that there was a light in the room. A tender step approached her bed. It could be but one person — that person whom she had herself de- ceived. She knew it was her father Mr. Temple seated hrmself by her bedside ; he bent his head and pressed his lips upon her forehead. In her desolation some one still loved her. She could not resist the impulse — she held forth her hand without opening her eyes — her father held it clasped in his. " Henrietta," he at length said, in a tone of pe- culiar sweetness. " O ! do not speak, my father. Do not speak. You alone have cause to reproach me. Spare me ; spare your child." " I came to console, not to reproach," said Mr. Temple. " But, if it please you, I will not speak ; let me, however, remain." " Father, we must speak. It relieves me e^en to confess my indiscretion, my fatal folly. Father, I feel — yet why, I know not — I feel that you know all !" " I know much, my Henrietta, but I do not know all." " And, if you knew all, you would not hate me V " Hate you, my Henrietta ! These are strange words to use to a father— to a father, I would add, like me. No one can love you, Henrietta, as your father loves you ; yet, speak to me not merely as a father ; speak to me as your earliest, your best, your fondest, your most faithful friend." , She pressed his hand, but answer — that she could not. " Henrietta, dearest, dearest Henrietta, answer me one question." '• I tremble, sir." " Then we will speak to-morrow," " O ! no, to-night, to-night. To-morrow may never come. There is no night for me ; I cannot sleep. I should go mad if it were not for you. I will speak ; I will answer any questions. My con- science is quite clear except to you ; no one, no power on earth or heaven, can reproach me except my father." " He never will. But, dearest, tell me ; summon up your courage to meet my question ; are you engaged to this person 1 " " I was." " Positively engaged ?" " Long ere this I had supposed we should have claimed your sanction. He left me only to speak to his father." " This may be the idle tattle of chattering wo- men V " No, no," said Henrietta, in a voice of a deep melancholy ; " my fears had foreseen this dark reality. This week has been a vcrj' hell to me; and yet, I hoped, and hoped, and hoped. O ! what a fool have I been !" " I know this person was your constant com- panion in my absence : that you have correspond- «i with him. Has he written very recently?" " Within two days." " And his letters 1" " Have been of late most vague. O ! my father : uideed, indeed I have not conducted myself so ill as you perhaps imagine. I shrunk from this secret engagement ; I oj)posed by every argument in my power, this clandestine correspondence ; but it was only for a week, a single week ; and reasons, plau- sible and specious reasons, were plentiful. Alas ! alas ! all is explained now. All that was strange, mysterious, perplexeil in his views and conduct, and which, when it crossed my mind, I dismissed with contempt — all is now too clear." "Henrietta, he is unworthy of you." " Hush ! hush ! dear father. An hour ago I loved him. Spare him, if you only wish to spare me." " Cling to my heart, my child, my pure and faultless child ! A father's love has comfort. Is it not so V " I feel it is ; I feel calmer since you came and we have spoken. Father, I never can be happy again ; my spirit is quite broken. And yet I feel I have a heart now, which I thought I had not before you came. Dear, dear father," she said, rising and putting her hands round Mr. Temple's neck and leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet yet very mournful voice, " henceforth your happiness? shall be mine. I will not disgrace you ; you shal. not see me grieve ; I will atone, I will endeavour to atone, for my great sins, for sins they were, towards you." " My child, the time will come when we shall remember this bitterness only as a lesson. But I know the human heart too well to endeavour to stem your sorrow now ; I only came to soothe it. My blessing is upon you, my sweet child. Let us talk no more. Henrietta, do me one favour ; let me send your maid to you. Try, my love, to sleep ; try to compose yourself." "These people. — to-morrow, — what shall I do?" " Leave all to me. Keep your chamber until they have gone. You need appear no more." " ! that no human being might again see me !" "Hush ! sweetest ! that is not a wise wish. Be calm ; we shall yet be happy. To-morrow we will talk ; and so good night, my child, good night, my own Henrietta." Mr. Temple left the room. He bid the maid go to her mistress in as calm a tone as if, indeed, her complaint had been only a headach ; and then he entered his own apartment. Over the mantelpiece was a portrait of his daughter, gay and smihne as the spring ; the room was adorned with her draw- ings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed for some time abstracted upon the flame, and Uien hid his weeping countenance in his hands. He sobbed convulsively. CHAPTER Vni. IN -WHICH OLASTOXBCUT Ifi VERT MCCU ASTO >-ISHEIl. It was a gusty autumnal night; Glastonbury sat alone in his tower; every now and then the wind, amid the chorus of groaning branches, and hissing rain, dashed against his window, then ifa power seemed gradually lulled, and perfect stillnes* 624 D'lSRAELTS NOVELS. succeeded, until a low moan was heard again in the distance, which gradually swelled into storm. The countenance of the good old man was not so serene as usual. Occasionally his thoughts seemed to wander from the folio opened before him ; and he fell into fits of revery which impressed upon his visage an expression rather of anxiety than study. The old man looked up to the portrait of the un- appy Lady Armine, and heaved a deep sigh. Were his thoughts of her, or of he/ child 1 He closed his book, he replaced it upon its shelf, and taking from a cabinet an ancient crucifix of carved ivory, he bent down before the image of his Redeemer. Even while he was buried in his devotions, pray- ing perchance for the soul of that sinning yet sainted lady, whose memory was never absent from his thoughts, or the prosperity of that family to whom he had dedicated his faithful life, the noise of ascending footsteps was heard in the sudden stillness, and immediately a loud knocldng at the door of his outer chamber. Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, Glastonbury rose, and inquired the object of his yet unseen visiter ; but, on hearing a well-known voice, the door was instantly unbarred, and Ferdi- nand Armine, pale as a ghost, and deluged to the skm, appeared before him. Glastonbury ushered his guest into his cell, replenished the fire, re- trimmed the lamp, and placed Ferdinand in his own easy seat. " My Ferdinand, you have surprised me ; but you are wet, I fear, thoroughly V " It matters not," said Captain Armine, in a hol- low voice. " From Bath 1" inquired Glastonbury. But his companion did not reply. At length he said, in a voice of utter wretchedness, "Glastonbury, you see before you the most miserable of human beings." The good father started. " Yes !" continued Ferdinand ; " this is the end of all your care, all your affection, all your hopes, all your sacrifices. It is over, our house is fated, my life draws to an end." " Speak, my Ferdinand," said Glastonbury, for his pupil seemed to have relapsed into moody silence ; " speak to your friend and fother. Disbur- den your mind of the weight that presses on it. Life is never without hope, and while this remains," pointing to the crucifi.K, "never v/ithout consola- tion." " I cannot speak ; I know not what to say. My brain sinks under the effort. It is a wild, a com- plicated tale ; it relates to feelings with which you cannot sympathize, thoughts that you cannot share. O, Glastonbury ! there is no hope; there is no solace." " Calm yourself, my Ferdinand ; not merely as your friend, but as a priest of our holy church, I call upon you to speak to me. Even to me, the humblest of its ministers, is given a power that can sustain the falling and make whole the broken spi- rit. Speak, and speak fearlessly ; nor shrink from exposing the very inmost recesses of your breast, for I can sympathize with your passions, be they even as wild as I believe them." Ferdinand turned his eyes from the fire, on which he was gazing, and shot a scrutinizing glance at his kind confessor, but the countenance of Glas- Uinbury was placid though serious. " You remember," Ferdinand at length mur- mured, " that we met — we met unexpectedly — some six weeks back." " I have not forgotten it," replied Glastonbury. " There was a lady," Ferdinand continued, in a hesitating tone, " Whom I mistook for Miss Grandison," ob- served Glastonbury, " but who, it turned out, bore another name." " You know it 1" " I know all ; for her father has been here." " Where are they 1" exclaimed Ferdinand eagerly, starting from his seat, and seizing the hand of Glastonbury. " Only tell me where they are — only tell me where Henrietta is — and you will save me, Glastonbury. You will restore me to hfe, to hope, to heaven." " I cannot," said Glastonbury, shaking his head. " It is more than ten days ago that I saw this lady's father, for a few brie*, and painful moments ; for what purpose your conscience may inform you. From the unexpected interview between ourselves in the gallery, my consequent misconception, and the conversation which it occasioned, I was not so unprepared for this interview with him as I other- wise might have been. Believe me, Ferdinand, I was as tender to your conduct as was consistent with my duty to my God and to my neighbour." " You betrayed me, then," said Ferdinand. " Ferdinand !" said Glastonbury, reproachfully, " I trust that I am free from deceit of any kind. In the present instance I had not even to communi- cate any thing. Your own conduct had excited suspicion : some visiters from Bath, to this gentle- man and his family, had revealed every thing : and, in deference to the claims of an innocent lady, I could not refuse to confirm what was no secret to the world in general — what was already known to them in particular ; what was not even doubted — and, alas ! not dubitable." " O ! my father, pardon me, pardon me ; pardon the only disrespectful expression that ever escaped the lips of your Ferdinand towards you ; most humbly do I ask your forgiveness. But if you knew all God ! God ! my heart is breaking. You have seen her, Glastonbury, you have seen her. Was there ever on earth a being like her 1 So beautiful, so highly gifted — with a heart as fresh, as fragrant, as the dawn of Eden ; and that heart mine — and all lost — all gone and lost. ! why am I alive?" He threw himself back in his chair, and covered his face, and wept. " I would that deed or labour of mine could re- store you both to peace," said Glastonbuiy, with streaming eyes. "So innocent, so truly virtuous!" continued Ferdinand. " It seemed to me I never knew what virtue was till I knew her. So frank, so generous ! I think I see her now, with that dear smile of hers, that never more may welcome me !" " My child, I know not what to say — I know not what advice to give — I know not what even to wish. Your situation is so complicated, so myste- rious, that it passes my comprehension. There are others whose claims, whose feelings, should be con- sidered. You are not, of course, married 1" Ferdinand shook his head. " Does Miss Grandison know all 1 " Nothing." " Your family V Ferd'iiand shook his head again. HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 625 " What do you yourself wish ? What ohjprt I are you aiming at 7 What game have you your- self been playing 1 I speak not in harshness ; but I really do not understand what you have been about If you have your grandfather's passions, you have his brain too. I did not ever suppose that you were ' infirm of purpose.' " "I have only one wish, only one object. Since I first saw Henrietta, my heart and resolution have never for an instant faltered ; and if I do not now succeed in thorn, I am determined not to live." " The God of all goodness have mercy on this distracted house !" exclaimed Glastonbury, as he lifted his pious hands to heaven. " You went to Bath to communicate this great change to your father," he continued. " Why did you not 1 Painful as the explanation must be to Miss Grandison, the injustice of your conduct to- wards her is aggravated by delay." '* There were reasons," said Ferdinand, " reasons which I never intended any one to know — but now I have no secrets. Dear Glastonburj', even amid all this overwhelming misery, my cheek burns when Iconfess to you that I have, and have had for years, private cares of my own, of no slight nature." " Debts V inquired Glastonbury. " Debts," replied Ferdinand, " and considerable ones." " Poor child !" exclaimed Glastonbury. " And this drove you to the marriage V "To that every worldly consideration impelled me : my heart was free then : in fact I did not know I had a heart, and I thought the marriage would make all happy. But now — as far as I am myself concerned — O ! I would sooner be the com- monest peasant in this country, with Henrietta Temple for the partner of my life, than live at Armine with all the splendour of my ancestors." " Honour be to them ; they were great men," ex- claimed Glastonbury. " I am their victim," replied Ferdinand. " I owe my ancestors nothing — nay ! worse than nothing, I owe them — " ''Hush! hush!" said Glastonbury. "If only for my sake, Ferdinand, be silent." '•For yours, then, not tor theirs." "But why did you .amain at Bath!" inquired Glastonbury. " I had not been the t more than a day or two, when my principal err .litor came down from town and menaced me. He had a power of attorney from a usurer at Malta, and talked of applying to the Horse Guards. The report that I was going to marry an heiress had kept these fellows quiet; but the delay, and my absence from Bath, had excited bis suspicion. Instead, therefore, of coming to an immediate explanation with Katherine, brought about, as I had intended, by my coldness and neg- lect, I was obliged to be constantly seen with her in public, to prevent myself from being arrested. Yet I wrote to Ducie daily. I had confidence in my energy and skill, I thought that Henrietta might be for a moment annoyed or su-^jiitious ; I thought, however, she would be supported by the fervour of m\ love — I anticipated no other evil. Who could have supposed that those inft'rn.-\l visit- ers would have come at such a moment to this retired spot!" " And now, is all known now V inquired Glas- tonbur)'. "Nothing," replied Fcnlinand; "the dilficultv 79 of my position was so great, that I was about to cut the knot, by quitting Bath and leaving a letter addressed to Katherine confessing all. But the sudden silence of Henrietta drove me mad. Day after day elapsed ; two, three,- four, five, six days, and I heard nothing. The moon was bright — the mail was just going off. I yielded to an iriesistiblo impulse. I bid adieu to no one. I jumped in. I was in London only ten minutes. I dashed to Ducie. It was deserted ; an old woman told me the family had gone, had utterly departed. Siw knew not where, but she thought for foreign parts. I sank down, I tottered to a seat in that hall where I had been so happy. Then it flashed across my mind, that I miglit discover their course and pursue them. I hurried to the nearest posting town. I found out their route. I lost it forever at the next stage. The clue was gone ; it was market-daj', and, in a great city, where horses are changed every minute, there is so much confusion, that my inquiries were utterh' baffled. And here I am, Mr. Glastonburj'," added Ferdinand, with a kind of mad smile. " I have travelled four days, I have not slept a wink, I have tasted no food ; but I have drank, I have drank well. Here I am, and I have half a mind to set fire to that cursed pile, called Armine Castle, for my funeral pyre." "Ferdinand, you are not well," said Air. Glas- tonbury, grasping his hand. " You need rest. You must retire; indeed you must. I must be obeyed. My bed is yours." "No ! Let me go to my own room," murmured Ferdinand, in a faint voice. " That room where my mother said the day would come — ! what did my mother say 1 Would there were only mother's love, and then I should not be here or thus." " I pray you, my child, rest here." " No ! Let us to the Place. For an hour ; I shall not sleep more than an hour. I am off again directly the storm is over. If it had not been for the cursed rain, I should have caught them. And yet perhaps they arc in countries where there is no rain. Ah ! who would believe what hapjicns in this world ? Not I for one. Now ! give me your arm. Good Glastonbury ! you are always the same. You seem to me the only thing in the world that is unchanged." Glastonbury, with an air of great tenderness and anxiety, led his former pupil down the slaii-s. The weather was more calm. There were some dark blue rifts in the black sky, which revealed a star or two. Ferdinand said nothing in their progress to the Place except ojice, when he looked up to the sky, and said, as it were to himself, " She loved the stars." Glastonbury had some difficult}' in rousuig the man and his wife, who were the inmates of the Place : but it was not very late, and, fortunately, (hey had not retired for the night. Lights wci-c brought into Lady Armine's drawing-room. Glas- tonburj- led Ferdinand to a sofa, on which he rather permitted others to place him than seated himself. He totik no notice of any thing that was going on, but remained with his eyes 0[>ca, gazing feebly with a rather vacant air. Then the goinl Glastonbury.- looked to the arrange- ment of his sleeping-room, drawing the curtains, seeing that the bed was well aired and warmed, and himself adding blocks to the wood fire which soon kindled. Nor did he forget to prepare, with 3 G bM D'ISRAE LI'S NOVELS. (he aid of the good woman, some hot potion that might soothe and comfort liis stricken and ex- hausted ciiarge, who in this moment of distress and desolation had come as it were and thrown himself on the bosom of liis earHest friend. When all was arranged, Glastonbury descended to Ferdinand, whom he found in exactly the same position as that in which he left him. He offered no resist- ance to the invitation of Glastonbury to retire to his chamber. He neither moved nor spoke, and yet seemed aware of all they were doing. Glas- tonbury and the stout serving-man bore him to his chamber, relieved him from his wet garments, and jilaced him in his earliest bed. When Glastonbury hade him good night, Ferdinand faintly pressed his hand, but did not speak ; and it was remarkable, that while he passively submitted to their undress- ing him, and seemed incapable of affording them the slightest aid, yet he thrust forth his hand to guard a lock of dark hair that was placed next to liis heart. CHAPTER LX. IN WHICH GLASTONBtTRT FINDS THAT A SERENE TEMPER DOES NOT ALWAYS BRING A SERENE LIFE. Those quiet slumbers, that the regular life and innocent heart of the good Glastonbury generally insured, were sadly broken this night, as he lay awake meditating over the distracted fortunes of the house of Armine. They seemed now indeed to be most turbulent and clouded ; and that brilliant and happy future, in which of late he had so fondly indulged, offered nothing but gloom and dis- quietude. Nor was it indeed the menaced dis- ruption of those tics whose consummation was to restore the greatness and splendour of the flimily, and all the pain, and disappointment, and mortifica- tion, and misery that must be its consequence, that alone made him sorrowful. Glastonbury had a reverence for that passion which sheds such a lustre over existence, and is the pure and prolific source of much of our better conduct; the time had been when he, too, had loved, and with a religious sanc- tity worthy of his character and oflice ; he had been for a long life the silent and hopeless votary of a passion almost ideal, yet happy though " he never told his love ;" and, indeed, although the uncon- scious mistress of his affections had been long re- moved from that world where his fidelity was al- most her only coinfort, that passion had not waned, and the feelings that had been inspired by her pre- sence were now cherished by her memory. His tender and romantic nature, which his venerable gray hairs had neither dulled nor hardened, made him deeply sympathize with his unhappy pupil ; tlie radiant image of Henrietta Temple, too, vividly impressed on his memory as it was, rose np before him ; he recollected his joy that the chosen partner of his Ferdinand's bosom should be worthy of her destiny ; he thought of this fair creature, perchance in solitude and sii-kness, a prey to the most mortify- ing and miserable emotions, with all her line and generous feelings thrown back upon herself; deem- ing herself deceived, deserted, outraged, where she had looked for nothing but fidelity, and fondness, and support; losing all confidence in the world and tlie world's ways ; but recently so lively with ex- pectation and airy with enjoyment, and now aim- less, hopeless, wretched — perhaps broken-hearted. The tears trickled down the pale cheek of Glas- tonbury, as he revolved in his mind these mournful thoughts ; and almost unconsciously he -.vrung nis hands as he felt his utter want of power to remedy these sad and piteous circumstances. Vei ne was not absolutely hopeless. There was p' er oi)en to the pious Glastonbury one perennial source of trusi and consolation. This was a fountain that was evet fresh and sweet, and he took refuge from the world's harsh courses and exhausting cares in its salutary flow and its refreshing shade; wherj, kneeling before his crucifix, he commended the un- happy Ferdinand and his family to the superintend- ing care of a merciful Omnipotence. The morning brought fresh anxieties, Glaston- bury was at the Place at an early hour, and found Ferdinand in a high state of fever. He had not slept an instant, was very excited, talked of de- parting immediately, and rambled in his discourse. Glastonbury blamed himself for having left him for a moment, and resolved to do so no more. He en- deavoured to soothe him ; assured him that if he would be calm, all would go well ; and they would consult together what was best to be done : and that he would make inquiries after the Temple family. In the mean time he despatched the servant for the most eminent physician of the county ; but, as hours must necessarily elapse before his arrival, the difficulty of keeping Ferdi- nand still was very great. Talk he would, and of nothing but Henrietta. It was really agonizing to listen to his frantic appeals to Glastonbury, to exert himself to discover her abode ; yet Glaston- bury never left his side ; and with promises, ex- pressions of confidence, and the sway of an affected calmness — for in truth dear Glastonbuiy waa scarcely less agitated than his patient — Ferdinand was prevented from rising, and the physician at length arrived. After examining Ferdinand, with whom he re- mained a very short space, this gentleman quietly invited Glastonbury to descend below, and they left the patient in the charge of the servant. " This is a bad case," said the physician. " Almighty God preserve him !" exclaimed the agitated Glastonbury. " Tell me the worst !" " Where are Sir RatcUffe and Lady Armine?" " At Bath." " They must be sent for instantly." "Is there any hope"!" " There is hope ; that is all. I shall now bleed him copiously, and then blister; but I can do little. We must trust to nature. I am afraid of the brain. I cannot account for his state by his getting wet, or his rapid travelling. Has he any thmg on his mind V " Much," said Glastonbury. The physician shook his head. " It is a precious life !" said Glastonbury, seizing his arm. " My dear doctor, you must not leave us." They returned to the bed-chainber. " Captain Armine," said the physician, taking his hand and seating himself on tlie bed, " you have a bad cold and some fever — I think we shouW lose a little blood." *• Can I leave Armine to-day, if I am blooded ?' inquired Ferdinand, eagerly. " For go I must." " I would not move to-day," said the physiciati. HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 627 I must, indeed I must. Mr. Glastonbury will tell you I must " "If you set off early to-morrow, you will get over as much ground in four-and-twcnty hours as if you went this evening," said the physician, fix- ing the bandage on the arm as he spoke, and nod- dhig to Mr. G!;isfonbury to prepare the basin. "To-morrow morning?" said Ferdinand. " Yes, to-morrow," said the physician, opening his lancet " Are you sure that I shall he able to set off to- morrow V said Ferdinand. " Quite," said the physician, opening the vein. The dark blood flowed sullenly ; the physician exchanged an anxious glance with Glastonbury ; at length the arm was bandaged up, a composing th-aught, with which the physician had been pre- pared, given to Ills patient, and the doctor and Glastonbury withdrew. The former now left Ar- minc for three hours, and Glastonbury prepared himself for his painful office of communicating to the parents the imminent danger of their only child. Never had a more difficult task devolved upon an individual than that which now fell to the lot of the good Glastonbury in conducting the affairs of a family labouring under such remarkable miscon- ceptions as to the position and views of its various members. It immediately occurred to him, that it was highly probable that Miss Grantluson, at such a crisis, would choose to accompany the parents of her intended husband. What incident, under the present circumstances, could be more awkward and more painful ? Yet how to prevent its occurrence ! How crude to communicate the real state of such affairs at anj' time by letter ! How impossible at tlie moment he was preparing the parents for the alarming, perhaps fatal, illness of their child, to enter on such subjects at all, much more when the very revelation, at a moment which required all their energy and promptitude, would only be occa- BJoning at Bath scenes scarcely less distracting and disastrous than those occurring at Armine. It \Vas clearly impossible to enter into any details at pre- sent; and yet Glastonbury, while he penned the gorrowful lines, and softened the sad communica- tion with his sympathy, added a somewhat sly post- •cript, wherein he impressed upon Lady Armine the advisability, for various reasons, that she should only be accompanied by her husband CHAPTER X. IK WlllCn FEIIDINANI) ARMINR IS MUCH COW- CEUNKn, TiiE contingency which Glastonbury feared, Kurely happened. Miss (Jrandison insisted upon immediately rushing to her Ferdinand ; and as the maiden aunt was still an invalid, and was quite in- capable of enduring the fatigues of a rapid and anxious journey, she was left behind. Within a few hours of the receipt of Glastonbury's letter, Sir Rdtcliffe and Lady Armine, and their niece, were «>n their way. 'i'hev found letters from Glaston- bury in London, which made them travel to Armine, even through the night In spite of all his remedies, the brain fever, which the physician foresaw, had occurred ; and vi'hen his family arrived, the life of Ferdinand was not only in danger, but desperate. It was impossi- ble even that the parents could .see their child, and no one was allowed to enter his cliamber but his nurse, the pliy.sician, and occasionally Glastonbury ; for this name, with others less familiar to the house- hold, sounded .so often on the frenzied lips of the sufferer, that it was recommended that Glastonbury should often be at his bedside. Yet he must leave it, to receive the wretched Sir Ratcliffc and his wife, and their disconsolate companion. Never was so much uiihappincss congregated together under one roof; and yet, perhaps, Glastonbury, though tho only one who retained the least connnand over him- self, was, with liis sad secret, the most wo-begone of tlic tribe. As for Lady Armine, she sat without the door of her son's chamber the whole day and night, clasp- ing a crucifix in her hands; nor would she ever undress, or lie down, except upon a sofa which was placed for her, but was absorbed in silent prayer. Sir Ratcliffe remained below, prostrate. The un- happy Katherine in vain offered the consolation she herself so needed ; and would have wamlered about that Armine of which .she had heard so much, and where she was to have been so happy, a forlorn and solitary being, had it not been for the attentions of the considerate Glastonburj', who embraced every opportunity of being her companion. His patience, his heavenly resignation, his pious hope, his vigi- lant care, his spiritual consolation, occasionally even the gleams of agreeable converse with which he attempted to divert her brooding mind, consoled and maintained her. How often did she look at his benignant countenance, and not wonder that the Armincs were so attached to this engaging and devoted friend. For three days did this unhappy family expect in teiTible anticipation that each m.omcnt would wit ness the last event in the life of tlieir son. His distracted voice caught too often the vigilant and agonized ear of his motlier ; yet she gave no evi- dence of the pang, except by clasping her crucifix with increased energy. She had promised the physician that she would command herself, that no sound should escape her lips, and she rigidly ful- filled the contract on which she was permitted to remain. On the eve of the fourth day Ferdinand, who had never yet closed his eyes, but who had become, during tlie last twelve hours, somewhat more com- posed, fell into a slumber. The physician lightly dropped the hand which he had scarcely ever quitted, and, stealing out of the room, beckoned, his finger pressed to his lij), to Lady Armine to follow him. Assured by the symbol that the worst had not yet happened, she followed the physician to the end of the gallery, and he then told her that irnmc^diale danger was past. Lady Armine swooned in his arms. " .\nd now, my dear madam," said the physician to her, when she had revived, " you must breathe some fresh air. Oblige me by descending." Lady Armine no longer refused ; she repaired with a slow stop to Sir RatclilVe : she leaned upon her husband's breast as she murmured to him her hopes. They went forth together. Katherine and Glastonbury were in the garden. The appearance of Lady Armine gave them hopes. There was a faint smile on her face which needed not words tc 628 D'ISRAELI S NOVELS. explain it. Katherine sprang forward, and threw her arms around her aunt's neck. " He may be saved, he may be saved," whispered the mother ; for in this hushed house of impending death tliey had lost almost the power, as well as the habit, of speaking in any other tone. " He sleeps," said the physician, " all present danger is past." " It is too great joy," murmured Katherine ; and Glastonbury advanced and caught in his arms her insensible form. CHAPTER Xr. IN WHICH FERDINAND BEGINS TO GET A LITTLB TROUBLESOME. From the moment of this happy slumber, Fer- dinand continued to improve. Each day the bul- letin was more favourable, until his progress, though glow, was declared certain, and even relapse was no longer apprehended. But his physician would not allow him to see any one of his family- It was at night, and during his slumbers, that Lady Armine stole into his room to gaze upon her be- loved child ; and if he moved even in the slightest degree, faithful to her promise and the injunction of the physician, she instantly glided behind his curtain, or a large Indian screen which she had placed there purposely. Often, indeed, did she re- main in this fond lurking-place, silent and trembling, when her child was even awake, listening to every breath, and envying the nurse, that might gaze on him undisturbed ; nor would she allow any suste- nance that he was ordered, to be prepared by any but her own fair, fond hands ; and she brought it herself even to his door. For Ferdinand himself, though his replies to the physician satisfactorily attested the healthy calmness of his mind, he in- deed oAerwise never spoke, but lay on his bed without repining, and seemingly plunged in mild and pensive abstraction. At length one morning he inquired for Glastonbury, who, with the sanction of the physician, immediately attended him. When he met the eye of that faithful friend, he tried to extend his hand. It was so wan, that Glastonbury trembled while he touched it. " I have given you much trouble," he said in a faint voice. " I think only of the happiness of your recovery," said Glastonbury. " Yes, I am recovered," murmured Ferdinand ; " it was not my wish." " O ! be grateful to God for this great mercy, my Ferdinand." " You have heard nothing 1" inquired Ferdi- nand. Glastonbury shook his head. " Fear not to speak ; I can struggle no more, I am resigned. I am very much changed." " You will be happy, dear Ferdinand," said Glastonbui^, te whom this mood gave hopes. " Never " ne said in a more energetic tone. " Never." " There are so many that love you," said Glas- tonbury, leading his thoughts to his family. " Love !" exclaimed Ferdinand, with a sigh, and in a tone almost reproachful. " Youi dear mother," said Glastonbury. " Yes ! my dear mother," replied Ferdinand, musingly. Then in a quicker tone. " Does she know of my illness 1 Did you write to them V " She knows of it." " She will be coming, then. I dread her coming, I can bear to see no one. You, dear Glastonbury, you — it is a consolation to see you, because you have seen" — and here his voice faltered — "you have seen her." " My Ferdinand, think only of your health ; and happiness, believe me, will yet be yours." " If you could only find out where she is," con- tinued Ferdinand, " and go to her. Yes ! my dear Glastonbury, good, dear Glastonbury, go to her," he added in an imploring tone ; " she would believe you ; every one believes you. I cannot go, I am powerless ; and if I went, alas ! she would not be- lieve me." " It is my wish to do every thing you desire," said Glastonbury, " I should be content to be ever labourmg for your happiness. But I can do nothing unless you are calm." " I am calm ; I will be calm ; I will act entirely as you wish. Only I beseech you see her." " On that head let us say no more," replied Glastonbury, who feared that excitement might lead to relapse ; yet anxious to soothe him, he added, " Trust in my humble services ever, and in the bounty of a merciful Providence." " I have had dreadful dreams," said Ferdinand. " I thought I was in a farmhouse ; every thing was so clear, so vivid. Night after night she seemed to be sitting on this bed. I touched her, her hand was in mine, it was so burning hot ! Once, ! once, once I thought she had forgiven me !" "Hush! hush! hush!" " No more : we will speak of her no more. When comes my mother ?" " You may see her to-morrow, or the day after." " Ah ! Glastonbury, she is here," " She is." " Is she alone ■?" " Your father is with her." " My mother and my father. It is well." Then after a minute's pause he added with some ear- nestness, " Do not deceive me, Glastonbury ; see what deceit has brought me to. Are you sure that they are quite alone ]" " There are none here but your dearest friends, none whose presence should give you the slightest care." " There is one," said Ferdinand. " Dear Ferdinand, let me now leave you, or sit by your side in silence. To-morrow you will see your mother." " To-morrow. Ah ! to-morrow. Once to me to-morrow was brighter even than to-day." He turned his back and spoke no more: Glastonbury glided out of the room. CHAPTER XIL CONTAINING THE INTIMATION OF A SOMEWHAT MTSTERIOUS ADVENTURE, It was absolutely necessary that Lady Armine's interview with her son should be confined merely HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 6-29 to observations about his health. Any allusion to the past might not only proiluce a relapse of his fever, but occasion explanations, at all times most painful, but at the present full of difficulty and danger. It was therefore with feelings of no un- common anxiety, that Glastonbury prepared the mother for this first visit to her son, and impressed upon her the absolute necessity of not making any allusion at present to Miss Grandison, and espe- cially to her presence in the house. lie even made for this purpose a sort of half-confidant of the physician, who, in truth, had heard enough duruig the fever to excite his suspicions ; but this is a class of men essentialh" discreet, and it is well, for few are the family secrets ultimately concealed from them. The interview occurred without any disagreeable results. The next day, Ferdinand saw his father for a few minutes. In a few days, Lady Arminc was established as nurse to her son ; Sir Ratclitle, easy in his mind, amused himself with his sports ; and Glastonbury devoted himself to Miss Grandi- son. The intimacy, indeed, between the tutor of Ferdinand and his intended bride became daily more complete, and Glastonbury was almost her in- separable companion. She found him a very in- teresting one. He was the most agreeable guide amid all the haunts of Armino and its neighbour- hood, and drove her delightfully in Lady Armiiic's pony phaeton. He could share, too, all her pur- suits, and open to her many new ones. Though time had stolen something of its force from the voice of Adrian Glastonbury, it still was wondrous sweet ; his musical accomphshments were complete ; and he could guide the pencil or prepare the herbal, and indite fair stanzas in his fine Italian liand- writing in a lady's album. All his collections, too, ■were at Miss Grandison's service. She handled with rising curiosity his medals, copied his choic e drawings, and even began to study heraldr}-. His interesting conversation, his mild and benig- nant manners, his captivating simplicity, and the elegant purity of his mind, secured her confidence and won her heart. She loved him as a father, and he soon exercised over her an influence almost irresistible. Every morning as soon as he awoke, every even- ing before he composed himself again for his night's repose, Ferdinand sent for Glastonbury, and always saw him alone. At first he requested his mother to leave the room, but Lady Annine, who attributed these regular visits to a spiritual cause, scarcely needed the expression of this desire. His first questions to Glastonbury were ever the same. " Had he heard any thing ? Were there any let- ters 1 He thought there might be a letter — was he sure 1 Had he sent to Bath — to London — for his letters'?" When he was answered in tlie ne- gative, he usually dwelt no more uj'on the subject. One morning he said to Glastonbury, " I kjiow Katherine is in the house." " Miss Grandison is here," replied Glaston- bury. " Why don't they mention her ? Is all known V " Nothing is known," said Glastonbury. " Why don't they mention her, then ? Are you sure all is not known?" " At my suggestion, her name has not been mentioned. I was unaware how j'ou might re- ceive the intelligence ; but tlie true cause of my suggestion is still a secret." " I must see her," said Ferdinand, " I must speak to her." " You can see her when you please," replied Glastonbury ; " but I would not speak upon the great suhject at present." " But she is existing all this time under a delu- sion. Every day makes my conduct to her more infamous." " Miss Grandison is a wise and most admirable young lady," said Glastonbury^ " I love her from the bottom of my heart ; I would recommend no conduct that could injure her, assuredly none that can disgrace you." " Dear Glastonbury, what shall I doT' " Bo silent; the time will come when you may speak. At present, however anxious she may be to see you, there are plausible reasons for your not meeting. Be patient, my Ferdinand." " Good Glastonbury, good, dear Glastonbury, I am too (juick and fretful. Pardon me, dear friend. You know not what I feel. Thank God you do not, but my heart is broken." When Glastonbury returned to the library, he found Sir Katclilfe playing with his dogs, and Miss Grandison copying a dravk'ing. " How is Ferdinand V inquired the father. "He mends daily," replied Glastonbury. "If only ,May-day were at hand instead of Christmas, he would soon be himself again ; but I dread the winter," "And yet the sun shines 1" said Miss Grandi- son. Glastonbury went to the window and looked at the sky. " I think, my dear lady, we might almost venture upon our promised excursion to the Abbey to-day. Such a day as this may not quickly be re- peated. We might take our sketch book." " It would be delightful," said Miss Grandison ; " but before I go, I must pick some flowers for Fer- dinand." So saying, she sprang from her seat, and ran out into tlie garden. " Kate is a sweet creature," said Sir Ratcliflfe to Glastonbuiy. "Ah! my dear Glastonbury, you know not what happiness I experience in the thought that she will soon be my daughter." Glastonbury could not refrain from sighing. He took up the pencil and touched her drawing. " Do you know, dear Glastonbury," resumed Sir Katclilfe, " I had little hope in our late visita- tion. I cannot say I had prepared myself for the worst, but I anticipated it. We have had so much unhappiness in our family, that I could not per- suade myself that the cup was not gomg to be dashed from our lips." " God is merciful," said Glastonbury. " You are his minister, dear Glastonbury,'-, and a worthy one. I know not what we should have done without you in this awful trial ; but, indeed, what could I have done Uiroughout life without you?" " Let us hope that every thmg is for the best,'' said Glastonbury. " And his mother, his poor mother — what would have become of her ! She never could have sur- vived his loss. As for myself, I would have quilted England forever, and gone into a monaster)-." '• Let us only remember that he lives," said Glastonbury. "And that we shall soon all be happj," said Sir Katcliife, in a more animated tone. " Tho 3g3 630 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. future is, indeed, full of solace. But we must take care of him ; he is too rapid in his movements. He has my father's blood in him, that is clear. I never could well make out why he left Bath so suddenly, and rushed down in so strange a manner to this place." " Youth is impetuous," said Glastonbury. " It was lucky you were here, Glastonbury." " I thank God that I was," said Glastonbury, earnestly ; then checking himself, he added — " that I have been of any use." " You are always of use. What should we do without you 1 I should long ago have sunk. Ah I Glastonbury, God in his mercy sent you to us." " See here," said Katherine, entering, her fair cheek glowing with animation ; " only dahlias, but they will look pretty, and enliven his room. ! that I might write him a little word, and tell him I am here ! Do not you think I might, Mr. Glas- tonbui7 V " He will know that you are here to-day," said Glastonbury. " To-morrow — " " You always postpone it," said Miss Grandison, in a tone half playful, half reproachful; "and yet it is selfish to murmur. It is for his good that I bear this bereavement, and that thought should con- sole me. Heigho !'' Sir Ratclitfe stepped forward and kissed his niece. Glastonbury was busied on the drawing : lie turned away his face, for a tear was trickling down his cheek. Sir Ratcliffe took up his gun. " God bless you, dear Kate," he said : " a pleasant drive and a choice sketch. We shall meet at dinner." " At dinner, dear uncle ; and better sport than yesterday." " Ha ! ha !" said Sir Ratcliife. " But Armine is not like Grandison. If I were in the old pre- serves, you should have no cause to sneer at my sportsmanship." Miss Grandison's good wishes were prophetic : Sir Ratcliffe found excellent sport, and returned home very late, and in capital spirits. It was the dinner hour, and yet Katherine and Glastonbury had not returned. He was rather surprised. The shades of evening were fast descending, and the distant lawns of Armine were already invisible ; the low moan of the rising wind might be just dis- tinguished ; and the coming night promised to be raw and cloudy, perhaps tempestuous. Sir Rat- cliffe stood before the crackling fire in the dining- room, otherwise in darkness — but the flame threw a bright yet glancing light upon the Snyders, so that the figures seemed really to move in the shifting shades, the eye of the infuriate boar almost to emit sparks of rage, and there wanted but the shouts of the huntsmen and the panting of the dogs to complete the tumult of the chase. Just as Sir Ratcliffe was anticipating some mis- chance to his absent friends, and was about to steal upon tiptoe to Lady Armine, who was with Ferdi- nand, to consult her, the practised ear of a man who lived much in the air caught the distant sound of wheels, and he went out to welcome them. " Why, you are late," said Sir Ratcliffe, as the phaeton approached the house. " All right, I hope." He stepped forward to assist Miss Grandison. The darkness of the evening prevented htm from observing her swollen eyes and agitated counte- nance. She sprang out of the carriage in silence, and immediately ran up into her room. As for Glastonbury, he only observed it was very cold, and entered the house with Sir Ratclitfe. " This fire is hearty," said Glastonbuiy, warm- ing himself before it ; " you have had good sport, I hope ! We are not to wait dinner for Miss Gran- dison, Sir Ratcliffe. She will not come down this evening ; .she is not very well." " Not very well ! Ah ! the cold, I fear. You have been very imprudent in staying so late. I must run and tell Lady Armine." " Oblige me, I pray, by not doing so," said Glastonbury ; " Miss Grandison most particularly requested that she should not be disturbed." It was with difBculty that Glastonbury could con- trive that Miss Grandison's wishes should be com- plied with ; but at length he succeeded in getting Sir Ratcliffe to sit down to dinner, and affecting a cheerfulness which was, indeed, far from his spirit. The hour of ten at length arrived, and Glastonbury, before retiring to his tower, paid his evening visit to Ferdinand. CHAPTER Xin. IN^ WHICH THK FAMILY PEIIPLEXITIES RATHER INCHEASE THAN DIMIXISH. If ever there were a man who deserved a serene and happy life, it was Adrian Glastonbury. He had pursued a long career without injuring or of- fending a human being ; his character and conduct were alike spotless ; he was void of guile ; he had never told a falsehood, never been entangled in the slightest deceit ; he was very easy in his circum- stances ; he had no relations to prey upon his purse or his feelings; and though alone in the world, was blessed with such a sweet and benignant tem- per, gifted with so many resources, and adorned with so many accomplishments, that he appeared to be always employed, amused, and content. And yet, by a strange contrariety of events, it appeared this excellent person had become placed in a situa- tion which is generally the consequence of impe- tuous passions not very scrupulous in obtaining their ends. That breast, which heretofore would have shrunk from being analyzed only from the refined modesty of its nature, had now become the reposi- tory of terrible secrets; the day could scarcely pass over without finding him in a position which ren- dered equivocation on his part almost a necessity; while all the anxieties inseparable from pecuniary embarrassments were forced upon his attention, and his feelings were racked from sympathy with individuals who were bound to him by no other tie, but to whose welfare he felt himself engaged to sa- crifice all his pursuits, and devote all his time and labour. And yet he did not murmur, although he had scarcely hope to animate him. In whatever light he viewed coming events, they apjiearcd omi- nous only of evil. All that he aimed at now was to soothe and support, and it was his unshaken confidence in Providence that alone forbade him to despair. When he repaired to the Place in the morning, he found every thing in confusion. Miss Grandison was very unwell; and Lady Armine, frightened by the recent danger from which they had escaped, very alarmed. She could no longer conceal from Ferdinand that his Katherine was here, and perhaps HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 631 Lady Arminc was somewhat surprised at the calm- ness with which her son received the intelligence. But Miss Grandison was not only very unwell, but very obstinate. She would not leave her room, but insisted that no medical advice should be called in. Lady Ariniiie protested, supplicated, adjured ; Miss Grandison appealed to Mr. Glastonbury ; and Glas- tonbury, who was something of a physician, was called in, and was obliged to assure I-ady Arminc that Miss Grandison was only sufiering from a cold, and only required repose. A very warm friendship subsisted between Lady Armine and her niece. She had always been Katherine's favourite aunt, and during the past year there had been urgent reasons why Jjady Armine should have cherished this predisposition in her favour. Lady Armine was a very fascinating person, and all her powers had been employed to obtain an influence over the heiress. They had been quite successful. Miss Grandison looked forward almost with as much plea- sure to being Lady Armine's daughter as Iier son's bride. The intended mother-in-law was in turn as warm-hearted as her niece was engaging ; and event- ually Lady Armine loved Katheiine, not merely because she was to marry her son, and make his fortune. In a few days, however, Miss Grandison an- nounced she was quite recovered, and Lady Armine again devoted her unbroken attention to her son, who was now about to rise for the first time from his bed. But, although Miss Grandison was no longer an invalid, it is quite certain thai if the atten- tion of the other members of the family had not been so entirely engrossed, that a very great change in her behaviour could not have escaped their no- tice. Her flowers and drawings seemed to have lost their relish ; her gayety to have deserted her. She passed a great portion of the morning in her own room, and although it was announced to her that Ferdinand was aware of her being an inmate of the Place, and that in a day or two they might meet, .she scarcely e\ inced, at this prospect of resum- ing his society, as much gratification as might have been expected ; and though she daily took care that his chamber should still be provided with flowers, it might have been remarked that the note she had been so an.xious to send him, was never written. But how much, under the commonest course of circumstances, happens in all domestic cir- cles, that is never observed, or never remarked, till the observation is too late ! At length the day arrived when Lady Armine invited her niece to visit her son. Miss Grandison expressed her readiness to accompany her aunt, but took an opportunity of requesting Glastonbury to join them ; and all three proceeded to the chamber of the invalid. The white curtain of the room was drawn, but though the liglit was softened, the apartment was by no means obscure. Ferdinand was sitting in an easy chair, supported by pillows. A black hand- kerchief was just twined round his forehead, for his head had been shaved, except a few curls on the side and front, which looked stark and lustreless. He was so thin and pale, and his eyes and cheeks were so wan and hollow, that it was scarcely credi- ble that in so short a space of time a man could have become such a wreck. W hen he saw Kathe- rine he involuntarily dropped his eyes, but extended nis hand to her with some etfort of earnestness. She was almost as pale as he. but she took his hand. It was so light and cold, it felt so much like death, that the tears stole down her cheek. " You hardly know me, Katherine," said Ferdi- nand, very feebly. "This is good of you to visit a sick man." Miss Grandison could not reply, and Lady Ar- mine made an observation to break the awkward pause. "And how do you like Armine ?" said Ferdi- nand. " I wish that I could be your guide. But Glastonbury is so kind !" A hundred times Miss Grandison tried to reply, to speak, to make the commonest observation, but it was in vain. She grew paler every moment; her lips moved, but they sent forth no sound. " Kate is not well," said Lady Armine. " She has been very unwell. This visit," she added in a whisper to Ferdinand, " is a little too much f jr her," Ferdinand sighed. "Mother," he at length said, "you must ask Katherine to come and sit here with you; if indeed she will not feel the imprisonment." Miss Grandison turned in her chair, and hid her face with her handkerchief. " My sweet child," said Lady Armine, rising and kissing her, " this is too much for you. You really must restrain yourself. Ferdinand will soon be himself again, he will indeed." Miss Grandison sobbed aloud. Glastonbury was much distressed, but Ferdinand avoided catching his eye ; and yet, at last, Ferdinand said with an effort and in a very kind voice, " Dear Kate, come and sit by me." Miss Grandison went into hysterics, Ferdinand sprang from his chair and seized her hand ; Lady Armine tried to restrain her son ; Glastonbury held the agitated Katherine. " For God's sake, Ferdinand, be calm," exclaimed Lady Armine. "This is most unfortunate. Dear, dear Katherine — but slie has such a heart ! All the women have in our family, but none of the men, 'tis so odd. Mr. (ilastonbuiy, water if you please, that glass of water — sal volatile ; where is the sal volatile 1 My own, own Katherine, pray, pray re- strain yourself! Ferdinand is here; remember Ferdinand is here, and he will soon be well ; soon quite well. Believe me, he is already quite another thing. There, drink that, darling, drink that. You arc better now?" " I am so foolish," said Miss Grandison, in a mournful voice. " I can never pardon myself for this. Let me go." Glastonbury bore her out of the room; Lady Ar- mine turned to her son. He was lying back in his chair, his hands covering his eyes. The mother stole gently to him, and wiped tenderly his brow, on which hung the light drops of perspiration, oc- casioned by his recent exertion. " We have done too much, my own Ferdinand. Yet who could have expected that dear girl would have been so aflectcd 1 Glastonbury was indeed right in preventing you so long from meeting. And yet it is a blessing to see that she has so fond a heart. You are fortunate, my Ferdinand ; you will indeed be happy with her." Ferdinand groaned. " I shall never be happy," he murmured. " Never happy, my Ferdinand ! O I you must not be so low-spirited. Think how much better you are ; think, my Ferdinand, what a change there in for the better. You will soon be well, dearest, and 633 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. then, my love, you Icnow you cannot help being happy." " Mother," said Ferdinand, " you are deceived, you are all deceived — 1, I — " " No ! Ferdinand, indeed we are not. I am con- fident, and I pniise God for it, that you are getting better every day. But you have done too much, that is the truth. I will leave 3'ou now, love, and send the nurse, for my presence excites you. Try to sleep, darling." And Lady Armine rang the bell and quitted the room. CHAPTER XIV IX WHICn SOME LIRHT TS THnoWN UPOX SOMF. CIRCU^ISTANCES WHICH WERE liEFOUE RA- THER MTSTEHIOCS. Lapt Armixe now proposed that the family should meet in Ferdinand's room after dinner; but Glastonbury, whose opinion on most subjects gene- rally prevailed, scarcely approved of this suggestion. It w.as, therefore, but once acted upon during the week that followed the scene described in our last chapter, and on that evening Miss Grandison had so very severe a headach, that it was quite impos- sible for her to join the circle. At length, however, Ferdinand made his appearance below, and esta- bhshed himself in the library : it now, therefore, became absolutely necessary that Miss Grandison should steel her nerves to the altered state of her betrothed, which had at first apparently so much affected her sensibility, and, by the united influence of hal)it and Mr. Glastonbury, it is astonishing what progress she made. She even at last could so command her feelings, that she apparently greatly contriliuted to his amusement. She joined in the family concerts, once even read to him. Every morning, too, she brought him a flower, and often offered him her arm. And yet Ferdinand could not resist observing a very great difference in her behaviour towards him since he had last quitted her at Bath. Far from conducting herself as he had nervously apprehenn." " Katherine, beloved Katherine !" exclaimed the distracted Ferdinand, "why did we ever partT' "No, Ferdinand, let us not deceive ourselves. For ine, that separation, however fruitful, at the present moment, 4n morlilication and unhappiness, must not he considereil altogether an event of un- mingled mist'ortune. In my opinion, t'erdinand, it is better to Ix; despised for a moment, tlian to be neglected for a life." " Despised ! Katherine, for God's sake spare me ; for God's sake do not use such language I Despised ! Katlierine, at this moment I declare most soK^nnly all that I feel is, how thoroughly, how infamously unworthy I am of you! Dearest Kaiheriiir, we cannot recall the past, we cannot amend it, but let me assure you that at this very hour tlierc is no being on earth I more esteem, more reverence, than yourself." " It is well, Ferdinand. I would not willingly Dclieve that your feelings towards me were other- wise than kind and generous. But let us under- stand each other. I shall remain at present undef this roof. Do not misapprehend my views. I seek not to recall your aftcctions. The past has proved to mc that we are completely unlitted for each other. I have not those dazzling quaUties that could enchain a fiery brain like yours. I know myself; I know you; and there is nothing that would (ill me with more terror now than our anti- cipated union. Anil, now, after this frank conver- sation, let our future intercourse be cordial and unembarrassed ; let us remember we are kinsfolk. The feelings between us should bjy^ture be kind and amiable : no incident has occurred to disturb them ; for I have not injured or oU'ended you ; and us for your conduct towards me, from the bottom of my heart I pardon and forget it." " Katherine," said Ferdinand, with streaming eyes, " kindest, most generous of women ! My heart is too moved, my spirit too broken, to express what I feel. We are kinsfolk ; let us be more. You say my motlier is your mother. Let me assert the privilege of that admission. Let me be a brother to you ; you shall thid me, if I live, a faithful one." CHAPTER XV. WHICH LEAVES AFFAIIIS IN' GEXEHAI, IW A SCAIICKLY M0HE SATISFACTOIH POSITION THAJT THE FOHMEIl ONE. Fehdixand felt much calmer in his mind after this conversation with his cousin. Heralfectionate attention to him now, instead of fdling him, as it did before, with remorse, was really a source of consolation, if that be not too strong a phrase to describe the state of one so thoroughly wretched as Captain Armine ; for his terrible illness and im- pending death had not in the slightest degree allayed or aflected his profound passion for Hen- rietta Temple. Her image unceasingly engaged his thoughts; he still clung to the wild idea that she might yet be his. But his health improved so slowly, that there was faint hope of his speedily taking any steps to induce such a result. All his inquiries after her — and Glastonbury, at his suggestion, had not been iJle — were quite fruitless. He made no douht that she had quitted England. What might not happen, far away from liim, and believing herself betrayed and deserted ? Often, when he brooded over these terrible contingencies, he regretted his recovery. Yet his family — thanks to the considerate con- duct of his admirable cousin — were still content and hap[ty. His slow convalescence now was their only source of anxiety. They regretted the unfa- vourable season of the year: they h)oked forward with hope to the genial influence of tlie coming spring. That was to cure all their cares ; and vet they might well suspect, when they watched his ever ptensive and often sutlering, countenance, that there were deeper causes tlian physical dehility and bodily i)ain to account for that moody and wo-t)e- gone expression. Alas ! how changed from that Ferdinand Armine, so full of hope, and courage, and youth, and beauty, that had hurst upon their enraptured vision, on his return from Malta. Where was that gayety now that made all eyes sparkle, tliat vivacious spirit that kindled energy in every bosom ? How miserable to see him crawling 634 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. about with a wretched stick, with his thin, pale face, and tottering limbs, and scarcely any other pursuit than to creep about the plaisance, where, when the day was fair, his servant would place a campstool opposite the cedar tree where he had first beheld Henrietta Temple ; and there he would sit, until the unkind winter breeze would make him shiver, g;zin<^ on vacancy; yet peopled to his mind's eye with beautiful and fearful apparitions. And it is love, it is the most delightful of human passions, that can oring about such misery ! Why will its true course never run smooth I Is there a spell upon our heart that its finest emotions should lead only to despair 1 When Ferdinand Armine, in his reveries, dwelt upon the past; when he re- called the hour that he had first seen her, her first glance, the first sound of her voice, his visit to Du- cie, all the passionate scenes to which it led — those sweet wanderings through its enchanted bowers — those bright mornings, so full of expecta- tion that was never balked — those soft eyes, so re- dolent of tenderness that could never cease — when from the brigb.t, and glowing, and gentle scenes his memory conjured up, and all the transports and the thrill that surrounded them like an atmosphere of love — he turned to his shattered and broken-hearted self, the rigid heaven above, and what seemed to his, perhaps unwise and ungrateful, spirit, the me- chanical sympathy and commonplace aflbction of his companions — it was as if he had wakened from some too vivid and too glorious dream, or as if he had fallen from some Irighter and more favoured planet upon our cold, dull earth. ;■ And yet it would seem that the roof of Armine Place protected a family that might ■yield to few in the beauty and engaging qualities of its inmates, their liappy accomplishments, and their kind and cordial hearts. And all were devoted to him. It was on him alone the noble spirit of'diis father dwelt still with pride and joy ; it was to soothe and gratify him that his charming mother exerted all her graceful care and all her engaging gifts. It was for him, and his sake, the generous heart of his cousin had submitted to mortification without a nmrmur, or indulged her unhappiiiess only in soli- tude ; and it was for him that Glastonbury exer- cised a devotion that might alone induce a man to think with complacency both of his species and himself. But the heart, the heart, the jealous and despotic heart ! it rejects all substitutes, it spurns all compromise, and it will have its purpose or it will break. What may he the destiny of Ferdinand Armine, whether a brighter light is to fall on his gloomy fortunes, or whether his sad end may add to our moral instances another example of the fatal conse- quences of unbridled passions and ill-regulated conduct, will be recorded in the future books of fhis eventful history. BOOK V. CHAPTER I. CONTAINING THE APPEARANCE ON OUll STAGE OF A NEW AND IMPORTANT CHARACTER. The Marruess op Montfort was the grand- son of tliat nobleman who had been Glastonbury's earliest patron. The old duke had been dead some years; his son had succeeded to his title, and Digby, that youth whom the reader may recollect was about the same age as Ferdinand Armine, and was his companion during that happy week in London which preceded his first military visit to the Mediterranean, now bore the second title of the family. The young marquess vv'as an excellent specimen of a class superior in talents, inteihgcnce, and ac- complishments, in public spirit and in private vir- tues, to any in the world — -the English nobility. His complete education had been carefully con- ducted ; and although his religious creed, (for it will be remembered that he was a Catholic.) had deprived him of the advantage of matriculating at an English university, tlie zeal of an able and learnc<^l tutor, and the resources of a German alma mater, had afforded every opportunity to the de- velopement of his considerable talents. Nature had lavished upon him other gifts besides his distin- guished intelligence and his amiable temper : his personal beauty was remarkable, and his natural grace was not !i»y evident than his many acquired accomplishments. On quilting the university of Bonn, Lord Mont- fort had passed several years on the continent of Europe, and had visited and resided at most of its courts and capitals — an admired and cherished guest : for, deliarred at the period of Our story from occupying the seat of his ancestors in the senatf his native country offered no very urgent claims upon his presence. He had ultimately fixed upon Rome as his principal residence, for he was devoted to the arts, and in his palace were collected some of the rarest specimens of ancient and modern in- vention. At Pisa, Lord Montfort iiad made the acquaint- ance of Mr. Temple, who was residing in that city for the benefit of his daughter's health ; who, it was feared by her physician, was in a decline. I sav, the acquaintance of Mr. Temple ; for Lord Mont- fort was aware of the existence of his daughter only by the occasional mention of her name; for Miss Tenjple was never seen. The agreeable manners, varied information, and accomplished mind of Mr. Temple, had attracted and won the attention of the young nobleman, who shrank in general from the travelling f^nglish, and all their arrogant ignorance. Mr. Temple was in turn equally pleased with a companion alike refined, amiable, and enlightened ; and their acquaintance would have ripened into intimacy, had not the illness of Henrietta, and her repugnance to see a third person, and the unwill- ingness of her father that she should be alone, olTered in some degree a bar to its cultivation. Yet Henrietta was glad that her fatlier had found a friend and was amused, and impressed upon him not to think of her, but to accept Lord Montfort's invitations to his villa. But Mr. Tem- ple invariably declined them. " I am always uneasy when I am from you, dearest," said Mr. Temple: " I wish you would go about a little. Believe me, it is not for myself that I make the suggestion, but I am sure you would derive benefit from the exertion. I wish you would go with me and see Lord Montfort's villa. There would be no one there but himself. He would not in the least annoy you, he is so quiet; and he and I could stroll about, and look at the busts, and talk to each other. You would HENRIETTA TEMPLE, 635 iiarJly know he w is present. He is such a very quiet person." Henrietta shook her head, and Mr. Temple would not urge the request. Fate, however, had decided that Lord Montfort and Henrietta Temple should beeome acquainted. iShc had more tlian once expressed a wish to see Uie Campo Santo; it was almost the only wish that she had expressed since siie left England. Her father, pleased to Ihid that any thing could interest her, w;is in tiie habit of almost daily reminding her of ihis desire, and suggesting tivat she should gra- tity it. But there was ever an excuse for procras- tination. When the hour of exertion came, she would say, with a fiiint smile, " ]Vot to-day, dearest papa ;" anil then arranging her shawl, as if even in this soft elinie she shivered, compo.sed lierself upon lliat sofa which novv she scarcely ever quitted. And this was Henrietta Temple ! that gay and glorious being, so full of graceliil power and beau- tiful energy, tbat seemed born for a throne, and to command a nation of adoring subjects I What are those political revolutions, whose strange and mighty vicissitudes we are ever dilating on, com- pared with tbe moral mutations that are passing daily under our own eye; uprooting the iiearts of families, shattering to pieces domestic circles, scat- tering to the winds the plans and prospects of a generation, and blasting, as with mildew, the ripen- ing harvest of long cherished affection. ''It is here that I would he buried," said Hen- rietta Temple. They were standing, the father and daughter, in the Campo Santo. She had been gayer tiiat morn- ing: her father had seized a happy moment, and she had gone fortii — to visit the dead. That vast and cloistered ecmctciy was silent and undisturbed: not a human being was there save themselves and the keeper. The sun shone brightly on the austere and ancient frescoes, and Henrietta stood opposite tluit beautiful sarcopha- gus, that seemed prepared and fitting to receive her destined ashes. " It is here that I would be buried," said she. Her father almost unconsciously turned his head to gaze upon the countenance of his daughter, to see if there were indeed reason that she should talk of death. That countenance was changed since the moment I first feebly attempted to picture it. That flashing eye had lost something of its bril- liancy, that superb form something of its roundness and tliat staglike state; the crimson glory of that mantling clieek had faded like the fading eve; and yet — it might be thought, it might be suffering, perhaps the anticipation of approachuig death, and as it were the imaginary contact with a serener existence ; but certainly there was a more spiritual expression diffused over tbe whole appearance of Henrietta Temple, and wliich by many might be preferred even to that more lively and glowing iieauty which, in her happier hours, made her the very queen of flowers and sunshine. "It is strange, dear papa," she continued, "that my first visit should be to a cemeter}-." At this moment their attention was attracted by the somid of the distant gates of the cemetery open- ing, and several persons soon entered. This party consisted of some of the authorities of the city, and some porters bearing on a slab of verd antique a magnificent cinerary vase, that was about to be placed in the Campo. In reply to his inquiries Mr. Temple learned that the vase had been recently excavated in Catania, and that it had been pur chased, and presented to the Campo by the Mar- quess of Montfort. Henrietta would have hurrieU her father away, but, with all her haste, tliey had not reached the gates before Lord Montfort ap- peared. Mr. Temple found it impossible, although Henri- etta pressed his arm in token of disapprobation, not to present Lord Montfort to his daughter. He then admired his lordshijj's urn, and then his lord- ship requested that he might have the pleasure of showing it to them himself. They turned; Lord Montfort explained to them its rarity, and pointed out to them its beauty. His voice was soft and low, his manner simple but rather reserved. While he paid that deference to Henrietta which her sex de- manded, he addressed himself chiefly to her father. Siie was not half so much annoyed as she had im- agined : she agreed with her fatiier that he was a very quiet man ; she was even a little interested by his conversation, which w-as elegant yet full of intel • ligenee ; and she was delighted that he did not seera to require her to play any part in the discourse, bu appeared quite content in being her father's friend. Lord Montfort pleased her very much, if only for this circumstance, that he seemed to be attached to her father, and to appreciate him. And this was al- ways a great recommendation to Henrietta Temple. The cinerary urn led to a little controversy be- tween Mr. Temple and his friend ; and Lord Mont- fort wished that Mr. Temple would some day call on him at his house in the Lung' A mo, and he would show hirn some specimens whicli he thought might influenee his opinion. " I hardly dare to ask you to come novv," said his lordshij), looking at Miss Temple ; " and yet Miss Temple might like to rest." It was evident to Henrietta that her father would be very pleased to go, and yet that he was about to refuse for lifer sake. She could not bear that he should be deprived of so nuich and sjuch refined amusement, and be doomed to an luiinteresting morning at home, merely to gratify her humour. She tried to speak, but could not at first connnand her voice; at length she expressed her wish thai. Mr. Temple should avail himself of the i:.-. itation. Lord Montfort bowed lowly, Mr, Temple seemed very gratified, and they all turned together and quitted the cemetery. As they walked along to the house, conversation did not flag. Lord Montfort expressed his admira- tion of Pisa. " Silence and art are two great charms," said his lordship. At length they arrived at his palace. A vene- rable Italian received them. They jiassed through an immense hall, in which were statues, ascended a magnificent double staircase, and entered a range of saloons. One of them was furnished with more attention to comfort than an Italian cares for ; and herein was the cabinet of urns and vases his lord- ship had mentioned. "This is little more than a barrack," said Lord Montfort ; " but I can find a sofa for Miss Temple." So saying, he arranged with great care the cushions of the couch, atid, when she seated herself, placed a footstool near her. " I wish you would allow me some day to welcome you at Rome," said tlie young marquess. " It is there that I indeed reside." Lord Montfort and Mr. Temple examined the 636 ^'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. contents of the cabinet. There w^as one vase which Mr. Temple greatly admired for the elegance of its form. His host immediately brought it and placed it on a small pedestal near Miss Temple. Yet he scarcely addressed himself to her, and Henrietta ex- perienced none of that troublesome attention, from which, in the present state of her health and mind, she shrank. While Mr. Temple was interested with his pursuit, Lord Montfort went to a small cabinet opposite, and brought forth a curious casket of antique gems. " Perhaps," he said, placing it by Miss Temple, " the contents of this casket might amuse you ;" and then he walked away to her father. In the course of an hour a servant brought in some fruit and wine. " The grapes are from my villa," said Lord Montfort. " I ventured to order them, because I have heard their salutary effects have heen marvel- lous. Besides, at this season, even in Italy, they are rare. At least you cannot accuse me of pre- scribing a very disagreeable remedy," he added with a slight smile, as he handed a plate to Miss Tem- ple. She moved to receive them. Her cushions slipped from behind her, Lord Montfort immediately arranged them with the greatest skill and care. He was so kind that she really wished to thank him ; but before she could utter a word, he was again conversing with her father. At length Mr. Temple indicated his intention to retire ; and spoke to his daughter. " This has been a great exertion for you, Henri- etta," he said ; " this has indeed been a busy day." " I am not wearied, papa ; and I am sure we have been very much pleased." It was the firmest tone in which she had spoken for a long time. There was something in her manner which recalled to Mr. Temple her vanished animation. Tlie af- fectionate father looked for a moment quite happy. The sweet music of these simple words dwelt on his ear. He went forward and assisted Henrietta to rise ; she closed the casket with care, and delivered it herself to her considerate host. Mr. Temple bid him adieu; Henrietta bowed and nearly extended her hand. Lord Montfort attended them to the gate — a carriage was waiting there. " Ah ! we have kept your lordship at home," said Mr. Temple. " I took the liberty of ordering the caiTiage for Miss Temple," said his lordship. " I feel a little responsible for her kind exertion to-day." CHAPTER II. JN WUICn LORD MOXTFOUT CONTRIVES THAT MISS TEMPLE SHOULD BE LEFT ALONE. " And how do you Uke my friend, Henrietta ?" said Mr. Temple, as they drove home. " I like your friend very much, papa. He is quite as quiet as you said ; he is almost the only person I have seen since I quitted England, who has not jarred my nerves. I felt quite son-y that I had so long prevented you both from cultivating each other's acquaintance. He does not interfere with me in the least." " I wish I had asked him to look in upon us in the evening," said Mr. Temple, rather inquiringly. "Not to-day," said Henrietta. "Another day dearest papa." The next day Lord Montfort sent a note to Mr. Temple, to inquire after his daughter, and to press upon her the importance of eating his grapes. His servant left a basket. The rest of the note was about cinerary urns. Mr. Temple, while he thanked him, assured him of the pleasure it would give both his daughter and himself to see him in the evening. This was the first invitation to his house that Mr. Temple had ventured to give, though they had now known each other for some time. In the evening Lord Montfort appeared. Hen- rietta was lying on her sofa, and her father would not let her rise. Lord Montfort had brought Mr. Temple some English journals, which he had re- ceived from Leghorn. The gentlemen talked a little on foreign politics ; and discussed the charac- ter of several of the most celebrated foreign minis- ters. Lord Montfort gave an account of his visit to Prince Esterhazy. Henrietta was amused. Ger- nSan politics and society led to German literature. Lord Montfort on this subject seemed completely informed. Henrietta could not refrain from joining in a conversation for which she v/as fully qualified. She happened to deplore her want of books. Lord Montfort had a library ; but it was at Rome ; no matter ; it seemed that he thought nothing of send- ing to Rome. He made a note very quietly of some books that Henrietta expressed a wish to see, and liegged that Mr. Temple would send the memoran- dum to his servant. " But surely to-morrow will do," said Mr. Tern pie. " Rome is too far to send to this evening." " That is an additional reason for instant depa*" ture," said his lordship, very calmly. Mr. Temple summoned a servant. " Send this note to my house," said his lordship. " My courier will bring us the books in four days," he added, turning to Miss Temple. " I am sorry you should have to wait, but at Pisa I really have nothing." From this day, Lord Montfort passed every even- ing at Mr. Temple's house. His arrival never dis- turbed Miss Temple ; she remained on her sofa. If she spoke to him, he was always ready to con- verse with her, yet he never obtruded his society. He seemed perfectly contented with the company of her fiither. Yet Vt'ith all this calmness and re- serve, theiT was no air of affected indifference, no intolerable nonchalance ; he was always attentive, always considerate, often kind. However appa- rently engaged with her father, it seemed that his vigilance anticipated all her wants. If she moved, he was at her side ; if she required any thing, it would appear that he read her thoughts, for it was always offered. She found her sofa arranged as if by magic. And if a shawl were for a moment missing. Lord Montfort always knew where it had been placed. In the mean time, every morning brought something for the amusement of Mr. Tem- ple and his daughter ; books, prints, di'awings. newspapers, journals, of all countries, and carica- tures from Paris and London, were mingled with engravings of Henrietta's flivourite Campo Santo. One evening Mr. Temple and his guest were speaking of a very celebrated professor of the uni- versity. Lord ]*Iontfort described his extraordinary acquirements and discoveries, and his rare simpli- city. He was one of those eccentric geniuses that are sometimes found in decayed cities with ancient HEXIHETTA TEMPLE. 637 Institutions of learning. Henrietta was interested m his description ; almost without thought she ex- pressed a wish to see him. " He shall come to-morrow," said Lord Montfort, " if you please. Believe me," he added, in a tone of great kindness, " that if you could prevail upon yourself to cultivate Italian society a little, it would repay you." The professor was brought. Miss Temple was very much entertained. In a few days he came again, and introduced a friend scarcely less dis- tinguished. The society was so easy, that even Henrietta found it no burden. She remained upon her sofa; the gentlemen drank their coilee and conversed. One morning, Lord Montfort had pre- vailed on her to visit the studio of a celebrated sculptor. The artist was full of enthusiasm for his pursuit, and showed them, with pride, his gieat work, a Diana that might have made one envy Endymion. The sculptor declared it was the perfect resemblance of Miss Temple, and appealed to her father. Mr. Temple could not deny the very striking likeness. Miss Temple smiled ; she looked almost herself again ; even the reserved Lord Mont- fort was in raptures. " ! it is very like," said his lordship. " Yes ! now it is exactly like. Miss Temple does not often smile ; but now one would believe she really was the model." They were bidding the sculptor farewell. '' Do you like him ]" whispered Lord Montfort to Miss Temple. " Extremely ; he is full of ideas." " Shall I ask him to come to you this even- ing." "Yes! do." And so it turned out that in time Henrietta found herself the centre of a little circle of eminent and accomplished men. Her health improved as she brooded less over her sorrows. It delighted her to witness the pleasure of her father. She was not always on her sofa now. Lord Montfort had sent her an English chair, wliich suited her delightfully. They even began to take drives with him in tlie country an hour or so before sunset. The country round Pisa is rich as well as picturesque. And their companion always contrived that there should be an object in their brief excursions. He spoke, too, the dialect of the country, and they paid, under his auspices, a visit to a Tuscan farmer. All this was agreeable; even Henrietta was persuaded tliat it was better than staying at home. The variety of pleasing objects diverted her mind in spite of herself. She had some duties to perform in this world yet remaining. There washer father ; her father who had been so devoted to her — who had never uttered a single reproach to her for all her faults and follies, and who, in her hour of tribu- lation, had clung to her with such fidelity. Was it not some source of satisfaction to see liim again comparatively happy 1 How selfish for her to mar this graceful and innocent enjoyment ! She exerted herself to contribute to the amusement of her father and his kind friend, as well as to share it. The colour returned a little to her cheek ; some- times she burst for a moment into something like her old gayety, and, though these ebullitions were often followed by a gloom and moodiness, against whit-h she found it in vain to contend, still, on the whole, the change for the better was decided, and Mr. Temple yet hoped that in time his sight might again be blessed, and his Ufe illustrated by his own brilliant Henrietta. CHAPTER m. IN WHICH MH. TEMPLE AND HIS DACGHTEll, 'WITH TllEin NEW FHIESI), MAKE AN UNEXPECTED EXCCRSION. One delicious morning, remarkable even in the south. Lord Montfort called upon them in his carriage, and proposed a little excursion. Mr. Tem- ple- looked at his daughter, and was charmed that Henrietta consented. She rose from her seat, indeed, with unwonted animation, and the three friends liad soon quitted the city and entered its agreeable environs. " It was wise to pass the winter in Italy," said T>ord Montfort, " but to see Tuscany in perfection, I should choose the autumn. I know nothing more picturesque, than the carts laden with grapes, and drawn by milk-white steers." They drove gayly along at the foot of green hills, crowned ever and anon by a convent or a beautiful stone pine. The landscape attracted the admira- tion of Miss Temple. A Palladian villa rose from the bosom of a gentle elevation, crowned with these picturesque trees. A broad terrace of niarble extended in front of the villa, on which were ranged orange trees. On cither side spread an olive grove. The sky was without a cloud, and deeply blue, the bright beams of the sun illuminated the building. The road had wound so curiously into this last branch of the Apennine, that the party found them- selves in a circus of hills, clothed with Spanish chestnuts and olive trees, from which there was ap- parently no outlet. A soft breeze, which it was evident had passed over the wild flowers of the mountains, refreshed and charmed their senses. " Could you believe we were only two hours' drive from a city V said Lord Montfort. " Indeed," said Henrietta, " if there be peace in this world, one would think that the dweller in that beautiful villa enjoyed it." " He has little to disturb him," said Lord Mont- fort ; " thanks to his destiny and his temper." " I believe we make our miseries," said Henri- etta, w'ith a sigh. " After all, nature always ofiers us consolation. But who lives herel" " I sometimes steal to this spot," repUed his lord- ship. " ! this then is your villa ! Ah ! you have sur- prised us." " I aimed only to amuse you." " You are very kind. Lord Montfort," said Mr. Temple, " and we owe you much." They stopped — they ascended the terrace — they entered the villa. A few rooms only were furnished, but their appearance indicated the taste and pursuits of its occupier. Busts and books were scattered about ; a table was covered with the implements of art ; and the principal apartment opened into an English garden. '• Tl-.is is one of my native tastes," said Lord Montfort, " that will, I think, never desert me." The memory of Henrietta was recalled to the flowers of Ducie and of Armine. Amid all the sweets and sunshine she looked sad. She walked 3H 638 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. away from her companions ; she seated herself on the terrace — her eyes were suffused with tears. Lord Montfort took the arm of Mr. Temple, and led him away to a bust of Germanicus. " Let me sliow it to Henrietta," said Mr. Tem- ple ; " I must fetch her." Lord Montfort laid his hand gently on his com- panion. The emotion of Henrietta had not escaped his quick eye. " Miss 'I'emple has made a great exertion," he said. " Do not think me pedantic, but I am some- thing of a physician. I have long perceived that although Miss Temple should be amused, she must sometimes be left alone." Mr. Temple looked at his companion ; but the countenance of Lord Montfort was inscrutable. His lordship oflered him a medal, and then opened a portfolio of Marc Antonius. " These are very rare," said Lord Montfort ; " I bring them into the country with me, for really at Rome there is no time to study them. By-the-by, I have a plan," continued his lordship, in a some- what hesitating tone ; " I wish I could induce you and Miss Temple to visit me at Rome." Mr. Temple shrugged his shoulders and sighed. " I feel conlldent that a residence at Rome would benefit Miss Temple," said his lordship, in a voice a little less calm than usual. "There is much to see, and I woidd take care that she should see it in a manner which would not exhaust her. It is the most delightful climate, too, at this period. The sun shines here to-day, but the air of these hills at this season is sometimes treacherous. A calm life, with a variety of objects, is what she requires. Pisa is calm, but for her it is too dull. Believe me, there is something in the blended refinement and interest of Rome, that she vvould find exceedingly beneficial. She would see no one but ourselves ; society shall be at her command if she desires it." " My dear lord," said Mr. Temple, " I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your con- siderate sympathy ; but I cannot flatter myself that Henrietta could avail herself of your really friendly offer. My daughter is a great invalid. She " But here Miss Temjile joined them. "We have a relic of a delicate temple here," said Lord Montfort, directing her gaze to another window. " You see it now to advantage — the columns glitter in the sun. There, perhaps, was worshipped some wood-nymph or some river god." The first classic ruin that she had yet beheld attracted the attention of Miss Temple. It was not far, and she acceded to the proposition of Lord Montfort to visit it. That little rainhle was delight- ful. The novelty and the beauty of the object greatly interested her. It was charming also to view it under the auspices of a guide so full of information and feeling. " Ah I" said Lord Montfort. " If I might only be your cicerone at Rome!" " What say you, Henrietta 1" said Mr. Temple, with a smile. " Shall wc go to Rome ?" The proposition did not alarm Miss Temple as much as her father anticipated. Lord Montfort pressed the suggestion with delicacy ; he hinted at some expedients by which the journey might he rendered not very laborious. But as she did not reply, his lordship did not press the subject ; sufficiently pleased, perhaj)s, that she had not met H with an immediate and decided negative. When they returned to the villa they found a collation prepared for them worthy of so elegant an abode. In his capacity of a host, Lord Mont- fort departed a little from that placid and even con- strained demeanour which generally characterizctl him. His manner was gay and flowing ; and he poured out a goblet of Monte Pulciano and pre- sented it to Miss Temple. " You must pour a libation," said he, " to the nymph of the fane." CHAPTER IV. SHOWING THAT IT IS THE FIUST STEP THAT IS i:vi:r the most i)ifficui.t. AiiouT a week after this visit to the villa, Mr. Temple and his daughter were absolutely induced to accompany Lord Montfort to Rome. It is im- possible to do justice to the tender solicitude with which his lordship made all the arrangements for the journey. Wherever they halted, they found preparations for their reception ; and so admirably had every thing been concerted, that Miss Temple at length found herself in the Eternal City, with almost as little fatigue as she had reached the Tuscan villa. The palace of Lord Montfort was in the most dis- tinguished quarter of the city, and situated in the midst of vast gardens full of walls of laurel, arches of ilex, and fountains of lions. They arrived at twilight, and the shadowy hour lent even addi- tional space to the huge halls and galleries. Yet m the suite of rooms prepared for the reception of Mr, Temple and his daughter, every source of comfort seemed to have been collected. The marble floors were covered with Indian mats and carj)ets, the windows were well secured from the air which might have i)roved fatal to an invalid, while every species of chair, and couch, and sofa courted the languid or capricious form of Miss Temple — and she was ever favoured with an English stove, and guarded by an Indian screen. The apartments were supphcd with every book which it could have been supposed might amuse her: there were guitars of the city and of Florence, and even an English piano ; a library of the choicest music; and all the materials of art. The air of elegance and cheerful comfort that per- vaded these apartments, so unusual in this land, the bright blaze of the fire, even the pleasant wax- lights, all combined to deprive the moment of that feeling of gloom and exhaustion which attends an arrival at a strange place at a late hour — and Hen- rietta looked around her, and almost fancied she was once more at Ducie. Lord Montfort introduced his fellow-travellers to their apartments, presented to them the servant who was to assume the manage- ment of their little household, and then remindirig them of their mutual promises, that they were to Im3 entirely their own masters, and not trouble then)- selves about him any more than if they were at Pisa, he shook them both by the hand, and bad« them good-night. It nmst be confessed that the acquaintance of Lord Montfort had afforded great consolation to Henrietta Temple. It was impossible to be insen- sible to the sympathy and solicitude of one so highly gifted and so very amiable. Nor should it be denied that this homage, from one of his distin- guished rank, was entirely without its charm. 'J'« HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 639 find ourselves, when deceived and deserted, unex- pectedly an object of regard and consideration, will bring balm to most bosoms ; but to attract, in such a situation, the friendship of an individual whose deferential notice, under any circumstances, must be flattering; and to be admired by one wliom all admire — these are accidents of fortune which few could venture to despise. And Henrietta had now few opportunities to brood over tlie past ; a stream of beautiful and sublime olijects passed unceasingly before her vision. Her lively and refined taste, and her highly-cuhivated mind, could not refrain from responding to these glorious spectacles. She saw before her all that she had long read of, all that she had long mused over. Her mind became each day more serene and harmonious, as she gazed on these ideal creations, and dwelt on their beautiful repose. Her companion, too, exerted every art to prevent these amusements from degenerating into fatiguing expeditions. The Vatican was open to Lord Mont- fort, when it was open to none others. Short vi- sits, but numerous ones, was his system ! Some- times they entered merely to see a statue or a pic- ture thej were reading or conversing about the pre- ceding eve ; and then they repaired to some mo- dern studio, where their entrance always made the sculptors' eyes sparkle. At dinner there was always some distinguished guest, whom Henrietta wished to see; and as she thomughly understood the lan- guage, and spoke it indeed with fluency and grace, she was tempted to enter into conversations, where all seemed delighted that she played her part. Sometimes, indeed, Henrietta would fly to her chamber to sigh, but suddenly the palace resounded with tones of the finest harmony, or the human voice, with its most felicitous skill, stole upon her from the distant galleries. Although Lord Montfort was not himself a musician, and his voice could not pour forth those fatal sounds that had ravished her soul from the lips of Ferdinand Armine, he was well acquainted with the magic of music ; and while he hated a formal concert, the most eminent perform- ers were often at hand in his palace to contribute at the fitting moment to the delight of his guests. Who could withstand the soft influence of a life so elegant and serene, or refuse to yield up their spirit to its gentle excitement and its mild distraction ? The colour returned to Henrietta's check and the lustre to her languid eye ; her form regained its airy spring of health ; the sunsliine of her smile burst forth once more. It would have been impossible for an indilTerent person not to perceive that l^ord Montfort witnessed these changes with feelings of no slight emotion. Perhaps he prided himself upon his skill as a physi- cian, but he certainly watched the apparent conva- lescence of his friend's daughter with zealous inte- rest. And yet Henrietta herself was not aware that Lord Montfort's demeanour to her differed in any degree from what it was at Pisa. She had never Dcen alone with him in her life ; she certainly spoke more to him than she used, but then she spoke more to everybody ; and I^ord Montfort certainly seemed to think of nothing but her pleasure, and conve- nience, and comfort; but he did and said every thing so quietly, that all this kindness and solicitude ap- peared to be the habitual impulse of his generous nature. He certainly was more intimate, much more intimate, than during the first week of their acquaintance, but scarcely more kind; for she re- membered he had arranged her sofa tlie very first day they met, though he did not even remain U receive her thanks. One day a discussion rose about Italian society between Mr. Temple and his host. His lordship was a great admirer of the domestic character and private life of the Italians. He maintained that there was no existing people who more completely fulfilled the social duties than this much scandalized nation, respecting whom so many silly prejudices are entertained by the Engli.sh, whose travelling fellow-countrymen, by-the-by, seldom enter into any society but that tainted circle that must exist in all capitals. " You have no idea," he said, turning to Henri- etta, " what amiable and accomplished people are the better order of Itidians. I wish you would let me light up this dark house some night and give you an Italian party." " I should like it very much," said IMr. Temple. Whenever Henrietta did not enter her negative, Lord Montfort always implied her assent, and it was resolved that the Italian party should be given. All the best ilunilies in Konie were present, and not a single P^nglish pierson. There were some, perhaps, whom Lord Montfort might have wished to have invited, but Miss Temple had chanced to express a wish that no English might be there, and he instantly acted upon her suggestion. The palace was magnificently illuminated. Hen- rietta had scarcely seen before its splendid treasures of art. Lord Montfort, in answer to her curiosity, had always playfully depreciated them, and said that they must be left for rainy days. The most splen- did pictures and long rows of graceful or solemn statues, were suddenly revealed to her; rooms and galleries were opened that had never been observed before ; on all sides cabinets of vases, groups of im- perial busts, rare bronzes, and vivid masses of tesse- lated pavement. Over all these choice and beau- tiful objects, a clear yet soft light was diffused, and Henrietta never recollected a spectacle more com- plete and effective. These rooms and galleries were scon filled with guests, and Henrietta could not be insensible to the graceful and engaging dignity with which Lord Montfort received the Roman world of fashion. That constraint which at first she had attributed to reserve, but which of late she had ascribed to mo- desty, now^ entirely quitted him. Frank, yet always dignified, smiling, apt, and ever felicitous, it seemed that he had a pleasing word for every ear, and a particular smile for every face. She stood at some distance lea-iing on her father's arm, and watching bim. Suddenly he turned and looked around. I was they whom he wished to catch. He came up to Henrietta and said, "I wish to introduce you to the Princess . She is an old lady, but of the first distinction here. I would not ask this favour of you, unless I thought you would be pleased." Henrietta could not refuse his request Lord Montfort presented her and her father to the prin- cess, the most agreeable and important person in Rome ; and having now provided for their imme- diate amusement, he had time to attend to his guests in general. An admirable concert now in .some de- gree hushed the general conversation. The voices of the most beautiful women in Rome echoed in those apartments. When the music ceased, the guests wandered about the galleries, and at length the principal saloons were filled with dancers. Lord Montfort approached Miss Temple. "There is one 640 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 'oom in the palace you have never yet visited," he «aid, " my tribune ; 'tis open to-night for the first time." Henrietta accepted his offered arm. "And how do you Uke the princess?" he said as they walked along. " It is agreeable to live in a country where your guests amuse themselves." At the end of the principal gallery, Henrietta perceived an open door, which admitted them into a small octagon chamber, of Ionic architecture. The walls were not hung with pictures, and one work of art alone solicited their attention. Elevated on a pedestal of porphyry, surrounded by a rail of bronze arrows of the lightest workmanship, was that statue of Diana, which they had so much admired at Pisa. The cheek, by an ancient process, the secret of which has been recentlv regained at Rome, was tinted with a delicate glow. " Do you approve of it," said Lord Montfort to the admiring Henrietta. " Ah ! dearest Miss Tem- ple," he continued, " it is my happiness that the rose has also returned to a fairer cheek than this." CHAPTER V. ■WHICH COJfTAIJfS S05IE FARTHER PAINFUL EXPLA- NATIONS. The reader will not, perhaps, be very much sur- prised that the Marquess of Montfort soon became the declared admirer of Miss Temple. His lordship made the important declaration after a very different fashion to the unhappy Ferdinand Armine; he made it to the lady's father. Long persuaded that Miss Temple's illness had its origin in the mind, and believing that in that case the indisposition of a young lady had probably arisen, from one cause or another, in the disappointment of her affections, Lord Montfort resolved to spare her feelings, unpre- pared, the pain of a personal appeal. The beauty, the talent, the engaging disposition, and the languid melancholy of Miss Temple, had excited his admi- ration and his pity, and had finally won a heart ca- pable of deep affections, Imt gifted with great self- control. He did not conceal from Mr. Temple the conviction that impelled him to the course which he had thought proper to pursue, and this delicate conduct relieved Mr. Temple greatly from the una- voidable embarrassment of his position. Mr. Tem- ple contented himself with communicating to Lord Montfort, that his daughter had indeed entered into an engagement with one who was not worthy of her affections, and that the moment her father had been convinced of the character of the individual, he had quitted England with his daughter. He expressed his unqualified approbation of the over- ture of Lord Montfort, to whom he was indeed sin- cerely attached, and which gratified all those worldly feelings from which Mr. Temple was naturally not exempt. In such an alliance Mr. Temple recognised the only mode by which his daughter's complete recovery could be secured. Lord Montfort in him- self offered every thing which it would seem that the reasonable fancy of woman could desire. He was young, handsome, amiable, accomplished, sin- cere, and exceedingly clever ; while, at the same time, as Mr. Temple was well aware, his great po- sition would insure that reasonable gratification of vanity from which none are free, which is a fertile source of happiness, and which would, at all time* subdue any bitter recollections which might occa- sionally arise to cloud the retrospect of his daugh- ter. It was Mr. Temple who, exerting all the arts of his abandoned profession, now indulging in intima- tions and now in panegyric, conveying to his daughter, with admirable skill, how much the inti- mate acquaintance with Lord Montfort contributed to his happiness, gradually fanning the feeling of gratitude to so kind a friend, which had already been excited in his daughter's heart, into one of zealous regard, and finally seizing his opportunity with practised felicity — it was Mr. Temple who at length ventured to communicate to his daughter the overture which had been confided to him. Henrietta shook her head. " I have too great regard for Lord Montfort, to accede to his wishes," said Miss Temple. " He de- serves something better than a bruised spirit, if not a broken heart." "But, my dearest Henrietta, you really take a wrong, an impracticable view of affairs. Lord Mont fort must be the best judge of what will contribute to his own happiness." " Lord Montfort is acting under a delusion," replied Miss Temple. " If he knew all that had occurred, he would shrink from blending his life with mine." " Lord Montfort knows every thing," said tlie father ; " that is, every thing he should know." " Indeed !" said Miss Temple. " I wonder he does not look upon me with contempt, at the least with pity." " He loves you, Henrietta," said her father. " Ah ! love, love, love ! name not love to me. No, Lord Montfort cannot love me. It is not love that he feels." " You have gained his heart, and he offers you his hand. Are not these proofs of love V " Generous ! good young man !" exclaimed Hen rietta; "I respect, I admire him. I might have loved him. But it is too late." " My beloved daughter, O ! do not say so ! For my sake do not say so," exclaimed Mr. Temple. " I have no wish — I have had no wish, my child, but for your happiness. Lean upon your father, listen to him, be guided by his advice. Lord Mont- fort possesses every quality which can contribute to the happiness of woman. A man so rarely gifted I never met. There is not a woman in the world, however exalted her rank, however admirable her beauty, however gifted her being, who might not feel happy and honoured in the homage of such a man. Believe me, my dearest daughter, that this is a union which must lead to happiness. Indeed, were it to occur, I could die content. I should have no more cares, no more hopes. All would then have happened that the most sanguine parent, even with such a child as you, could wish or imagine. We should be so happy ! For his sake, for my sake, for all our sakes, dearest Henrietta, grant his wish. Beheve me, believe me, he is in'decd worthy of you." " I am not worthy of him," said Henrietta, in a melancholy voice. " Ah ! Henrietta, who is like you !" exclaimed the fond and excited father. At this moment the servant announced that Lord Montfort would, with their permission, wait upon them. Henrietta seemed plunged in thought, HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 641 Suddenly she said, "I cannot rest until this is] settled. Papa, leave me with him a few moments alone." Mr. Temple retired. A faint blush rose to tlie check of her visiter when he perceived that Miss Temple was alone. He seated himself at her side, but he was unusually constrained. " My dear Lord Montfort," said Miss Temple, very calmly, " I have to sj)cak upon a jiainful sul> ject, but I have undergone so much suffering, that I shall not shrink from this. Papa has informed me this morning that you have been pleased to pay me the highest compliment that a man can pay a woman. I wish to tliaiik you for it. I wish to acknowledge it in terms the strongest and the warmest I can use. I am sensible of the honour, the high honour that you have intended me. It is indeed an honour of which any woman might be proud. You have offered me a heart of which I know the worth. No one can appreciate the value of your character better than myself. I do justice, full justice, to your virtues, your accomplishments, your commanding talents, and your generous soul. Except my father, there is no one who holds so high a place in my affections as yourself. You have been my kind and true friend; and a kind and true friendship, faithful and sincere, I return you. More than friends we never can be, for I have no heart to give." " Ah ! dearest Miss Temple," said Lord Mont- fort, in an agitated tone, " I ask nothing but that friendship; but let me enjoy it in your constant society ; let the world recognise my right to be your consoler." " You deserve a better and a brighter fate, my lord. I should not be your friend if I could enter into such an engagement." " The only aim of my life is to make you happy," said Lord Montfort. " I am sure that I ought to be happy with such a friend," said Henrietta Temple, " and I am happy. How different is the world to me to what it was before I knew you ! Ah ! why will you disturb this life of consolation! Why will you call me back to recollections that I would fain banish? Why"— "Dearest Miss Temple," said Lord Montfort, " do not reproach me! You make me wretched. Remember, dear lady, that I have not sought tins conversation ; that if I were presumptuous in my plans and hopes, I at least took precautions that I should be the only sufferer by their non-fulfilment." " Best and most generous of men ! I would not for the world be unkind to you. Pardon my dis- tracted words. But you know all 1 Has papa told you all 1 It is my wish." " It is not mine," replied Lord Montfort; "I wish not to penetrate your sorrows, but only to soothe them." " ! if we had but met earlier," said Henrietta Temple ; " if we had but known each other a year ago ! when I was — not worthy of you — but more worthy of you. But now, with health shattered, the lightness of my spirit vanished, the freshness of my feelings gone — no ! my kind friend, my dear and gentle friend, my affection for you is too sin- cere to accede to your request ; and a year hence, Lord Montfort will thank me for my denial." " I scarcely dare to speak," said Lord Montfort, in a low tone, as if suppressing his emotion. " If I were to express my feelings, I might agitate you. 81 I will not then venture to reply to what you have urged : to tell you I think you the most beauliful and engaging being that ever breathed ; or how I dote upon your pensive spirit, and can sit for hours together gazing on the language of those dark eyes. O ! Miss Temple, to me you never could have been more beautiful, more fascinating. Alas ! I may not even breathe my love ; I am unfortunate. And yet, svi'eet lady, pardon this agitation I have occasioned you ; try to love me yet ; endure at least my pre- sence ; and let me continue to cherish that intimacy that has thrown over my existence a charm so in expressible." So saying, he ventured to take her hand, and pressed it with devotion to his Ups. CHAPTER VI. WHICH CONTAINS AN EVKNT NOT I.KSS IMPORTANT THAN THE ONE WHICH CONCLUDEU OUIl FOUHTH CHAPTER OF THE FOUIITH BOOK. Lord Montfort was scarcely disheartened by this interview with Miss Temple. His lordship was a devout bchever in the influence of time. It was unnatural to suppose that one so young and so gifted as Henrietta could ultimately maintain that her career was terminated because her affections had been disappointed by an intimacy which was con- fessedly of so recent an origin as the fatal one in question. Lord Montfort differed from most men m this respect, that the consciousness of this inti- macy did not cost him even a pang. He preferred, in- deed, to gain the heart of a w oman like Miss Tem- ple, who, without having in the least degree for- feited the innate purity of her nature and the native freshness of her feelings, had yet learned in some de- gree to penetrate the mystery of the passions, to one so untutored in the world's ways, that she mighthave bestowed upon him a heart less experienced indeed, but not more innocent. He was convinced that the affection of Henrietta, if once obtained, might be relied on, and that the painful past would only make her more finely appreciate his high-minded devotion, and amid all the dazzling characters and seducing spectacles of the world, cling to him with a finner gratitude and a more faithful fondness. And yd Lord Montfort was a man of deep emo- tions, and of a very fastidious taste. He was a man of as romantic a temperament as Ferdinand Ar- mine; but with Lord Montfort, life W'as the romance of reason, with Ferdinand, the romance of imagina- tion. The first was keeidy alive to ail the imper- fections of our nature, but he also gave that nature credit for all its excellencies. He observed finely, he calculatetl nicely, and his result was generally happiness. Ferdinand, on the contrary, neither observed nor calculated. His imagination created fantasies, and his impetuous passions struggled to realize them. Although Jjord Montfort carefully abstained from pursuing the subject which nevertheless en- grossed his thoughts, he had a vigilant and skilful ally in Mr. Tcmj>le. That gentleman lost no op- portunity of pleading his lordship's cause, while he appeared only to advocate his own ; and this was the most skilful mode of controlling the judgment of his daughter. Henrietta Temple, the most affectionate and dj tiful of children, left to reflect, sometimes asked hci 3 u 3 642 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. self whether she vnere justifiecl, that from what she endeavoured to believe was a mere morbid feeling, from accomplishing the happiness of that parent who loved her so well 1 There had been no conceal- ment of her situation, or of her sentiments. There had been no deception as to the past. Lord Mont- fort knew all. She had told him she could only bestow a broken spirit. Lord Montfort aspired only to console it. She was young. It was not probable that the death which she had once sighed for would be accorded to h^r. Was she always to lead this life ? Was her father to pass the still long career which probably awaited him, in ministering to the wearisome caprices of a querulous invalid 1 This was a sad return for all his goodness — a gloomy catastrophe of all his bright hopes. And if she could ever consent to blend her life with another's, what individual could offer pretensions which might ensure her tranquillity, or even hafipiness, equal to those proffered by Lord Montfort 1 Ah ! who was equal to him ? — so amiable, so generous, so interesting ! It was in such a mood of mind that Henrietta would sometimes turn with a glance of tenderness and gratitude to that being who seemed to breathe only for her solace and gratification. If it be agonizing to be deserted, there is at least consola- tion in behig cherished. And who cherished her ] One whom all admired — one, to gain whose ad- miration, or even attention, every woman sighed. What was she before she knew Montfort 1 If she had not known Montfort, what would she have been even at this present] She recalled the hours of anguish, the long days of bitter mortification, the dull, the wearisome, the cheerless, hopeless, un- eventful hours that were her lot when lying on her solitary sofa at Pisa, brooding over the romance of Armine and all its passion — the catastro[ihe of Ducie, and all its baseness. And now there was not a moment without kindness, without sympathy, without considerate attention and innocent amuse- ment. If she were querulous, no one murmured ; if she were capricious, every one yielded to her fan- cies ; but if she smiled every one was happy. Dear, noble Montfort, thine was the magic that had worked this change ! And for whom were all these dioice exertions made? For one whom another had trifled with, deserted, betrayed ! And Mont- fort knew it. He dedicated his life to the consola- tion of a despised woman. Leaning on the arm of Lord Montfort, Henrietta Temple might meet the eye of Ferdinand Armine and his rich bride, at least without feeling lierself an object of pity ! Time had flown on. The Italian spring, with all its splendour, illumed the glittering palaces and purple shores of Naples. Lord Montfort and his friends were returning from Capua in his galley. Miss Temple was seated between her fiither and their host. The Ausonian clime, the beautiful scene, the sweet society, had all combined to pro- duce a day of exquisite enjoyment. Henrietta Temple could not refrain from expressing her de- light. Her eye sparkled like the star of eve that glittered over the glowing mountains ; her cheek was as radiant as the sunset. " Ah ! what a happy day has tliis been !" she eacclaimed. The gentle pressure of her hand reminded her of the delight her exclamation had afforded one of her companions. Strange to say, that pressure was returned. With a trembling heart Lord Mont- fort leaned back in the galley ; and yet, ere the morning sun had flung its flaming beams over the city Henrietta Temple was his betrothed. BOOK VL CHAPTER L WHICH CONTAINS A REMAHKABLE CHANGE OF FORTUNE. Although Lord Montfort was now the received and recognised admirer of Miss Temple, their in- tended union was not immediate. Henrietta was herself averse to such an arrangement, but it was not necessary for her to urge this somewhat un- gracious desire, as Lord Montfort was anxious that she should be introduced to his family before their marriage, and that the ceremony should be performed in his native country. Their return to England, therefore, was now meditated. That event was hastened by an extraordinary occurrence. Good fortune in this world, they say, is seldom sing.le. Mr. Temple at this moment was perfectly content with his destiny. Easy in his own circum- stances, with his daughter's future prosperity about to be provided for by a union with the heir to ons of the richest peerages in the kingdom, he had no- thing to desire. His daughter was happy, he enter- tained the greatest esteem and affection for his future son-in-law, and the world went well with him in every respect. It was in this fulness of his happiness that destiny, with its usual wild caprice, resolved " to gild refined gold, and paint the lily ;" and it was determined that Mr. Temple should wake one morning among the wealthiest commoners of Eng- land. There happened to be an old baronet, a great humourist, without any very wear relations, who had been a godson of Mr. Temple's grandfather. He had never invited or encouraged any intimacy or connexion with the Temple family, but had always throughout life kept himself aloof from any acquaintance with them. Mr. Temple, indeed, had only seen him once, but certainly under rather dis- advantageous circumstances. It was when Mr, Temple was minister at the German court, to which we have alluded, that Sir Temple Devereux was a visiter at the capital at which Mr. Templo was resident. The Minister had shown him some civilities, which was his duty : and Henrietta had appeared to please him. But he had not remained long at this place ; had refused at the time to b« more than their ordinaiy guest ; and had never, by any letter, message, or other mode of communication, conveyed to them the slightest idea that the hos- pitable minister and his charming daughter had dwelt a moment on his memory. And yet Sir Temple Devereux had now departed from the world. where it had apparently been the principal object of his career to avoid ever making a friend, and had left the whole of his immense fortune to the Right Honourable Pelliam Temple, by this bequest proprietor of one of the finest estates in the county of York, and a very considerable personal property, the accumulated savings of a large rental and h long life. This was a great event, Mr. Temple had the HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 643 most profound respect for property. It was impos- Biblc for the late baronet to have left his estate to on intlivulual who could more thoroughly appreciate its possession. Even personal property was not without its charms — hut a large landed estate, and a large landed estate in the county of York, and that large landed estate in the county of York flanked by a good round sum of three per cent, consols duly recorded in the Rotunda of Threadneedle street — it was a combination of wealth, power, con- eideration, and convenience, which exact!)' hit the ideal of Mr. Temple, and to the fascination of which I should rather think the taste of few men would be insensilile. ATr. Temjile being a man of family, had none of the awkward embarrassments of parvenu to contend with. " It was the luckiest thing in the world," he would say, " that poor Sir Temple was my grandfather's godson, not only be- cause in all probability it olilaiiied us his fortune, but because he bore the name of Temple ; we shall settle down in Yorkshire scarcely as strangers, we shall not be looked upon as a new family, and in a little time the whole affair will be considered rather one of inheritance than beiiuest. But, after all, what is it to me ] It is only for your sake, Digby, tliat I rejoice. I think it will please your family. I will settle every thing innnediately on Henrietta. They shall have the gratification of knowing that their son is about to marry the richest heiress in England." The richest heiress in England ! Henrietta Temple the richest heiress in England ! Ah ! how many feelings will that thought arise ! Strange to say, the announcement of this extraordinary event brought less joy than might have been supposed to the heiress herself. It was in her chamber and alone, that Henrietta Temple mused over this freak of destiny. It was m vain to conceal it, her thoughts recurred to Fer- dinand. They might have been so happy ! Why was he not true ! And perhaps he had sacrificed himself to his family, perhaps even personal distress had driven him to the fatal deed. Her kind, femi- nine fancy conjured up everj' possible extenuation of his dire offence. She grew very sad. She could not believe that he was flilse at Ducie ; O, no ! she never could believe it ! He must have been sincere : and if sincere, O ! what a heart was lost there ! What would she have not given to have been the means of saving him from all his sorrows ! She recalled his occasional melancholy, his desponding words, and how the gloom left his brow and his eyes brightened when she fondly prophesied that she would restore the house. She might restore it now ; and now he was another's, and she — what was she ? A slave like him. No longer her own mistress, at the only moment she had the power to save him. Say what they like, there is a pang in balked ailcction, for which no wealth, power, or place, watchful indulgence or sedidous kindness, •an compensate. Ah ! the heart, the heart ! CHAPTER n. »r WHICn THF, READER IS AOAIIT IHTRODUCED ro CAPTAIJI ARMINK, DURING HIS TISIT TO tON'DOir. Wf. must not forget our friends at Armine Place. ^ei^ career was not as eventful as tliat of the Temple family. Miss Grandison had resolved upon taking a house in London for the season, and had obtained a promise from her uncle and aunt to be her guest Lady Armirie's sister was to join them from Bath. As for Ferdinand, the spring had gradually restored him to health, but not to his former frame of mind. He remained moody and indolent, incapable of exertion, and a prey to the darkest humours ; circumstances however occurred, which rendered some energy on his part absolutely necessary. His creditors grew importunate, and the arrangement of his affairs, or departure from his native land, was an alternative now become ine- vitable. The month of April, which witnessed the arrival of the Temples and Lord Montfort in Eng- land, welcomed also to IjOiidon Miss Grandison and her guests. A few weeks after, Ferdinand, who had evaded the journey with his family, and who would not on any account become a guest of his cousin, settled himself down at a quiet hotel in the vicinity of Grosvenor Square; but not quite alone, for almtxst at the last hour Glastonbury had requested permission to accompany him, and Fer- dinand, who dul}' valued the society of the only person with whom he could converse about his broken fortunes and his blighted hopes without reserve, acceded to his wish with the greatest satis- faction. A" sudden residence in a vast metropolis, after a life of rural seclusion, has, without doubt, a >ery peculiar effect upon the mind. The immense po- pulation, the multiplicity of objects, the important interests hourly impressed upon the intelligence, the continually occurring events, the noise, the bustle, the general and widely-spread excitement, all combine to make us keenly sensible of 6ur in dividual insignificance ; and those absorbing pas sions, that in our solitude, fed by our imagination, have assumed such gigantic and substantial shapes, rapidly subside, by an almost imperceptible process, into less colossal proportions, and sec:n invested, as it were, with a more shadowy aspect. As Ferdi- nand Armine jostled his way through the crowded streets of London, urged on by his own harassing and inexorable affairs, and conscious of the im- pending peril of his career, while power and wealth dazzled his eyes in all directions, he began to Ipok back upon the passionate past with feelings of less keen sensation than heretofore, and almost to regret that a fatal destiny, or his impetuous soul, had en- tiiled upon him so much anxiety, and prompted him to reject the glittering cup of fortune that had been proffered to him so opportunely. He sighed for enjoyment and repo.se : the memory of his re- cent sufferings made him shrink from that reckless indulgence of the passions, of which the conse- quences had been so severe. It was in this mood, exhausted by a vi?it to his lawyer, that he stepped into a military club, of which he was a member, and took up a newspaper. Caring little for politics, his eye wandered over, uninterested, its pugnacious leading articles and tedious parliamentar)' reports; and he was about to throw it down, when a paragraph caught his notice, which instantly engrossed all his attention. It was in " the Morning Post" that he thus read : — "The Marquis of Montfort, the eldest son of the Duke of , whose return to England we recent- ly noticed, has resided for several years in Italy. His lordship is considered one of the most accotn- pUshcd noblemen of the day, and was celebrated at 644 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. Rome for his patronag'e of the arts. Lord Mont- fort will shortly he united to the beautiful Miss Temple, the only daughter of the Right Honoura- ble Pelham Temple. Miss Temple is esteemed one of the richest heiresses in England, as she will dou!)tless inherit the whole of the immense fortune to which her father so unexpectedly acceded : Mr. Temple is a widower, and has no son. Mr. Tem- ple was formerly our minister at several of the Ger- man courts, where he was distinguished by his abilities, and his hospitality to his travelUng coun- trymen. It is said that the rent-roll of the York- shire estates of the late Sir Temple Devereux is not less than £15,000 per annum. The personal pro- perty also is very considerable. We understand that Mr. Temple has purchased the mansion of the Duke of ****, in Grosvenor Square. Lord Mont- ♦ort accompanied Mr. Temple and his amiable daughter to this country." What a wild and fiery chaos was the mind of Ferdinand Armine, when he read this paragraph. The wonders it revealed succeeded each other with such rapidity, that for some time he was deprived of the power of reflection. Henrietta Temple in England ! — Henrietta Temple one of the greatest heiresses in the country ! — Henrietta Temple about to be immediately married to another I His Hen- rietta Temple, the Henrietta Temple who had join- ed her lips to his, whom he adored, and by whom he had been worshipped ! — The Henrietta Temple whose beautiful lock was at this very moment on his heart 1 — The Henrietta Temple, for whom he had forieited fortune, family, power, almost life ! O, woman, woman ! Put not thy trust in woman ! And yet, could he reproach her ! Did she not be- lieve herself trifled with by him, outraged, deceived, deluded, deserted ? And did she, could she love another ] Was there another, to whom she had poured forth her heart as to him, and all that beau- tiful flow of fascinating and unrivalled emotion ? Was there another, to whom she had pledged her pure and passionate soul 1 Ah ! no ; he would not, he could not believe it. Light and false Hen- rietta could never be. She had been seen, she had been admired, she had been loved — who that saw her would not admire and love ] and he was the victim of her pique, perhaps of her despair. But, she was not yet married. They were, ac- cording to these lines, to be soon united. It appear- ed they had travelled together ; that thought gave him a pang. Could he not see her? Could he not explain all 1 Could he not prove his heart had ever been true and fond ? Could he not tell her ail that had happened, all that he had suffered, all the madness of his misery ; and could she resist that voice whose accents had once been her joy, that glance which had once filled her heart with rapture 1 And, when she found that Ferdinand, her own Ferdinand, had never deceived her, was worthy of her choice affection, and suffering even at this moment for her sweet sake, what were all the cold-blooded ties in which she had since in- volved herself] She was his, by an older and more ardent bond — should he not claim his right ? Oould she deny it ! Claim what 1 The hand of an heiress ! Should 11 be said that an Armine came crouching for lucre, where he ought to have commanded for love ? Never ! Whatever she might think, his conduct had been faultless to her. It was not for Henrietta to complain. She was not the victim, if one, in- 1 deed, there might chance be. He had loved her ; she had returned his passion ; for her sake he had made the greatest of sacrifices, forfeited a splendid inheritance, and a fond and faithful heart. When he had thought of her before, pining perhaps in some foreign solitude, he had never ceased reproaching himself for his conduct, and had accused himself of deception and cruelty ; but now, in this moment of her flush prosperity, " esteemed one of the richest heiresses in England," (he ground his teeth as he recalled that phrase,) and the affianced bride of a great noble, (his old companion. Lord Mont- fort, too; what a strange thing is life!) proud, smiling, and prosperous, while he was alone, with a broken heart, and worse than desperate fortunes, and all for her sake, his soul became bitter ; he re- proached her with want of feeling; he pictured her as void of genuine sensibility, he dilated on her in- difference since they had parted ; her silence, so strange, now no longer inexplicable ; the total want of interest she had exhibited as to his career ; he sneered at the lightness -of her temperament ; he ■ cursed her caprice ; he denounced her mfernal treachery ; in the (Jistorted phantom of his agonized imagination, she became to him even an object of hatred. ■ Poor Ferdinand Armine ! it was the first time he had experienced the maddening pangs of jea- lousy. Yet how he had loved this woman ! How he had doted on her. And now they might have been so happy ! There is nothing that depresses a man so much as the conviction of bad fortune. There seemed, in this sudden return, great fortune, and impending marriage of Henrietta Temple, such a combination as far as Ferdinand Armine was con- cerned, of vexatious circumstances; it would ap- pear that he had been so near perfect happiness and missed it, that he felt quite weary of existence, and seriously meditated depriving himself of it. It so happened that he had promised this day to dine at his cousin's ; for Glastonbury, who was usually his companion, had accepted an invitation this day to dine with the noble widow of his old patron. Ferdinand, however, found himself quite incapable of entering into any society, and he hur- ried to his hotel to send a note of excuse to Brook street. As he arrived, Glastonbury was just about to step into a hackney-coach, so that jp'erdinand had no opportunity of communicating his sorrows to his friend, even had he been inclined. CHAPTER III. IN WHICH GLASTONBURT MEETS THE TERY I.*.ST PERSON IN THE WORLD HE EXPECTED, AND THS STRANGE CONSEQUENCES. > When Glastonbury arrived at the mansion of the good old dutchess, he found nobody in the drawing-room but a young man of very distin guished appearance, whose person was unknown to him, but who, nevertheless, greeted him with remarkable cordiahty. The good Glastonbury re turned, with some confusion, his warm salutation. " It is many years since we last met, Mr. Glaa tonbury," said the young man. " I am not sur- prised you have forgotten me. I am Lord Mont- fort ; Digby, perhaps vou recollect V HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 645 " My Jear child ! my dear lord ! You have in- lecd changed ! You are a man, and ^ am a very old one." " Nay ! my dear sir, I do assure you I ohscrve little change. Believe me, I have often recalled your imago in my long absence, and I find now that my memory has not deceived me." Glastonbury and his companion fell into some conversation about his lordship's travels, and resi- dence at Rome, in the midst of which their hostess entered. '' I have asked you, my dear sir, to meet our family circle," said her grace, " for I do not think I can well ask you to meet any who love you better. It is long since you have seen Digby." " Mr. Glastonbury did not recognise me, grand- mamma," said Lord Montfort. " These sweet children have all grown out of j'our sight, Mr. Glastonbury," said the dufchess, "but the)' are very good. And as fot Digby, I really think he comes to see his poor grandmother every day." [ The duke and dutchess, and two vcrj' young daughters, were now announced. " I Vv-as so sorry that I was not at home when you called, Glastonbury," said his grace, " but I thought I should soon hear of you at grimdmamma's." " And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, why did you not come up and see me V said the younger dutchess. " And, dear Mr. Glastonburj', do you remember meV said one beautiful daughter. "And me, Mr. Glastonbury, me ; I am Isabella." Blushing, smiling, bowing, constrained from the novelty of his situation, and yet eveiy now and then quite at ease when his ear recalled a familiar voice, dear Mr. Glastonbury was very gratified and very happy. The duke took him aside, and they were soon engaged in conversation. " How is Henrietta to-day, Digby ?" inquired Isabella. " I left her an hour ago ; we have been riding, and expected to meet you all. She will be here immediately." There was a knock, and soon the drawing-room door opened, and Miss Temple was announced. " I must make papa's apologies," said Henrietta, advancing and embracing the old dutchess. " I hope he may get here in the evening : but he bade me remind your grace thut your kind invitation was only provisionally accepted." " He is quite right," said the old lady ; " and in- deed I hardly expected him, for he told me there was a public dinner which he was obliged to at- tend, I am sure that our dinner is a very private one, indeed," continued the old lady with a smile hand of the duke, and opposite their hostess ; the two young ladies in the middle. Ail the guests had been seated without Glastonburj' and Henrietta re- cognising each other; and, as he sat on the same side of the table as Miss 'J'emple, it was not until Lord Montfort asked Mr. Glastonbury to take wine with him that Henrietta heard a name that might well, indeed, turn her pale. Glastonbury ! It never entered into her head at the moment that it was the Mr. Glastonbury ! whom she had known. Glastonbury! — what a name I What dreadful associations did it not induce ! She looked forward — she caught the well-remend)ered visage — she sunk back in her chair. But Henri- etta Temple had a strong mind; this was surely an occasion to prove it. Mr. Glaslonburj's attention was not attracted to her : he knew, indeed, there was a lady at the table called Henrietta, but he was engrossed with his neighbours, and his eye never caught the daughter of Mr. Temple. It was not until the ladies rose to ritire that Mr. Glastordiury beheld that form which he had not forgotten, and looked upon a lady whose name was associated in his memory with the most disastrous and mournful moments of his life. Miss Temple followed the dutchess out of the room, and Glastonbury, per- plexed and agitated, resumed his seat. But Henrietta was tlie prey of emotions far more acute and distracting. It seemed to her that .she had really been unacquainted with the state of her heart until this sudden apparition of Glastonburv. How his image recalled the past I She had school- ed herself to consider it all a dream ; now it lived before her. Here was one of the principal per- fi)rmers in that fatal tragedy of Armine. Glaston- bury in the house — under the same roof as she ! Where was Ferdinand 1 There was one at hand who could tell her. Was he married 1 She had enjoyed no opportunity of ascertaining since her return: she had not dared to ask. Of course he was maiTied ; but was he happy T And Glaston- bury, who, if he did not know all, knew so much — how strange it must be to (ilastonbury to meet her ! Dear Glastonbury ! She had not forgotten the days when she so fondly listened to Ferdinand's charming narratives of all his amiable and simple life ! Dear, dear Glastonbvu'y, whom she was so to love ! And she met him now, and did not speak to him, or looked upon him as a stranger; and he, he would, perhaps, look upon her with pity, cer- tainly with pain. O ! life — what a heart-breaking thing is life ! And our affections, our sweet and pure affections, fountains of such joy and solace, that nourish all things, and make the most barren " It is really a lainily party, though there is one ' and rigid soil teem with life and beauty — ! why do we disturb the flow of their sweet waters and pollute their immaculate and salutary source ! Ferdinand, Ferdinand Armine, why were you false T The door opened. Mr. Glastonbury entered, fol- lowed by the dulie and his son. Henrietta was sit- member of the family here whom you do not know, my dear Miss Temple, and whom I am sure, you will love as much as all of us 4J0. Digby, where is 1" At this moment dinner was announced. Lord Montfort offered his arm to Henrietta. "There, lead the way," said the old lady ; "the girls must ' ting in an easy chair — one of Lord .Montfort's sis- beau themselves, for I have no young men to-day ters, seated on an ottoman at her side, held hei for them. I suppose man and wife must be parted, hand. Henrietta's eye met Glastonbury's; she 60 I must take my son's arm ; Mr. Glastonbury, 1 bowed to him. you will hand down the dutchess." But, before " How your hand trembles, Henrietta !" said the Glastonbury's name was mentioned, Henrietta was 1 young lady, halfway down stairs. Glastonburv' approached her with a hesitating The duke and his son presided at the dinner, step. He blushed faintly — he looked exceedingly Henrietta sat on one side of Lord .Montfort, his ! perplexed — at lemrth he reached her, and stood be- mother on the other. Glastonbury sat on the right J fore her, and said nothing. D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. "You have forgotten me, Mr. Glastonbury," said Henrietta ; for it was absolutely necessary that some one should break the awkward silence, and she pointed to a chair at her side. " That would indeed be impossible," said Glas- tonbury. " ! you knew Mr. Glastonbuiy before," said the young lady. " Grandmamma, only think, Hen- rietta knew Mr. Glastonbury before." " We were neighbours iu Nottinghamshire," said Henrietta in a quick tone. " Isabella," said her sister, who was seated at the piano, " the harp awaits you." Isabella rose. Lord Montfort was approaching Henrietta, when the old dutchess called to him. Henrietta and Glastonbury were alone. " This is a strange meeting, Mr. Glastonbury," said Henrietta. What could poor Glastonbury say ! Something he murmured, but not very much to the purpose. " Have you been in Nottmghamshire lately V said Henrietta. " I left it about ten days back with" (and here G las- tonbury stopped) " witli a friend," he concluded. " I trust all your friends arc well," said Henriet- ta, in a tremulous voice. " No — yes — tliat is," said Glastonbury, " some- thing better than they were." " I am sorry that my fither is not here," said Miss Temple ; " he has a lively remembrance of all your kindness." " Kindness, I fear," said Glastonbury, in a me- lancholy tone, " that was most unfortunate." " We do not deem it so, sir," was the reply. "My dear young lady," said Glastonbury, but his voice faltered as he added, " we have had great unhappiness." " I regret it," said Henrietta ; " you had a mar- riage, I believe, expected in your family 1" " It has not occurred," said Glastonbury. " Indeed !" "Alas! madam," said her companion, " if I might venture indeed to speak of one whom I will not name, and yet — " " Pray speak, sir," said Miss Temple, in a kind, yet hushed voice. " The child of our affections, madam, is not what he was. God, in his infinite mercy, has visited him with great afflictions." " You speak of Captain Armine, sir I" " I speak, indeed, of my broken-hearted Ferdi- nand; I would I could say yours. ! Miss Tem.- ple, he is a wreck." " Yes ! yes !" said Henrietta, in a low tone. "What he has endured," continued Glaston- bury, "passes all description of mine. His life has indeed been spared, but under circumstances that almost make me regret he lives." " He has not married V muttered Henrietta. " He came to Ducie to claim his bride, and she was gone," said Glastonbury ; " his mind sunk un- der the terrible bereavement. For weeks he was a maniac ; and, though Providence spared him again to us, and his mind, thanks to God, is again whole, he is the victim of a profound melancholy, that sseems to defy alike medical skill and worldly vicis- situde." "Digby, Digby !" exclaimed Isabella, who was at the harp, " Henrietta is fainting." Lord Montfort rushed forward just in time to seize her cold hand. " The room is too hot," said one sister. " The coffee is too strong," said the other. " Air," said the young dutchess. Lord Montfort carried Henrietta into a distant room. There was a balcony opening into a gar- den. He seated her on a bench, and never quitted her side, but contrived to prevent any one approach- ing her. The women clustered together. " Sweet creature !" said the old dutchess, " she often makes me tremble ; she has but just recover- ed, Mr. Glastonbury, from a long and terrible ill ness." " Indeed !" said Glastonbury. " Poor dear Digby," continued her grace, " thi? will quite upset him again. He was in such spi- rits about her health the other day." " Lord Montfort]" inquired Glastonbury. " Our Digby. You know that he is to be mar- ried to Henrietta next month." " Holy Virgin !" muttered Glastonbury ; and, taking up Lord Montfort's hat by mistake, he seized advantage.of the confusion, and effected his escape. CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH iwn. GLASTONBURY INFORMS CAPTAIS AHMINE OF HIS MEETING WITH MISS TEMPT.E. It was still an early hour when Mr. Glaston bury arrived at his hotel. He understood, however, that Captain Armine had already returned and re- tired. Glastonbury knocked gently at his door, and was invited to enter. The good man was pale and agitated. Ferdinand was already in bed. Glas tonbury took a chair and seated himself by his side. "My dear friend, what is the matter 1" saio Ferdinand. " I have seen her — I have seen her," said Glaa tonbury. " Henrietta ! seen Henrietta !" inquired Ferdi nand. Glastonbury nodded assent, but with a mosl rueful expression of countenance. " What has happened ? what did she say I" asked Ferdinand in a quick voice. " You are two innocent lambs," said Glaston- bury, wringing his hands. " Speak — speak, my Glastonbury." "I wish that my death could make you both happy," said Glastonbury : " but I fear that would do you no good." " Is there any hope !" said Ferdinand. " None," said Glastonbury. " Prepare yourself, my dear chikl, for the worst." " Is she married 1" inquired Ferdinand. " No ; but she is going to be." " I know it," said Ferdinand. Glastonbury stared. " You know it ? what, to Digby ?" " Digby, or whatever his name may be ; damn him." " Hush ! hush !" said Glastonburj'. " May all the curses " " God forbid," said Glastonbury, interrupting liim, " Unfeeling, fickle, false, treacherous " " She is an angel," said Glastonbury, " a v«-y angel. She has fainted, and nearly in my arms." HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 647 " Fainted ! nearly in your anns ! O ! tell me ail, tell me all, (Jlastonliury," exclaimed Ferdinand, starting up in his bed with an eager voice and sparkling eyes. " Does she love mc 1" " I fear so," said Glastonbury. " Fear !" " O ! how I pily her poor innocent heart," said Glastonbury. " When. I told her of all your sufferings — " " Did you tell her I What then V " And she herself has barely recovered from a long and terrible illness." " My own Henrietta ! Now I could die happy," said Ferdinand. "I thought it would break your heart," said Glastonbury. " It is the only happy moment I have known for months," said Ferdinand. " I was so overwhelmed that i lost my presence of mind," said Glastonbury. " I really never meant to tell you any thing. I do not know how I came into your room." " Dear, dear Glastonbury, I am myself again !" " Only think," said Glastonbury, " I never was 80 unhappy in my life." " I have endured for the last four hours the tor- tures of the damned," said Ferdinand, " to think that she was going to be married, to be married to another ; that she was happy, proud, prosperous, totally regardless of me, perhaps utterly forgetful of the past, and that I was dying like a dog in this cursed caravanserai — O ! Glatitonbury, nothing that I have ever endured has been equal to the hell of this day ! And now you have come and made me comparatively happy. I shall get up directly." Glastonburj' looked quite astonished ; he could not comprehend how tliis fatal intelligence could nave produced effects so directly contrary to those he had anticipated. However, in answer to Ferdi- nand's reiterated inquiries, he contrived to give a detailed account of every thing that had occurred, and Ferdinand's running commentary continued to be one of constant self-congratulation. " There is however one misfortune," said Fer- dinand, " with which you are unacquainted, my dear friend." " Indeed !" said Glastonbury, " I thought I knew enough." " Alas ! she has become a great heiress !" "Is that itl" said Glastonbury. " 'Tis the devil," said Ferdinand. " Were it not for that, by the soul of my grandfather, I would tear her from the arms of this stripling!" " Stripling !" said Glastonbury. " I never saw a truer nobleman in my hfe." " The dense," said Ferdinand. " Nay ! second scarcely to yourself. I could not believe my eyes," continued Glastonbury. " He was but a child when I saw him last, but so were you, Ferdinand. Believe me, he is no ordijiary rival." " Good-looking 1" "Altogether of a most princely presence. I have rarely met a personage so highly accomplished, or who more quickly impressed you with liis moral and intellectual excellence." "And they are positively engaged 1" *' To be married next month," replied Glaston- bury. " O ! Glastonbury, why do I live '" exclaimed Ferdinand, "why did I recover !" " My dear child, but just now you were compa- ratively happy." " Happy ! you cannot mean to insult me Happy ! O ! is there in this world a thing so d3- plorablc as I am !" " I thought I did wrong to say any thing," said Glastonbury, speaking as it were to himself, " I have got a wrong hat too !" Ferdinand made no observation. He turned himself in his bed, with his face averted from Glastonbury. " Good night," said Glastonbury, after remaining some time in silence. "Good night," said Ferdinand, in a faint and mournful tone. CHAPTER V. WHICH, ox THE WHOLE, IS PEHHAPS AS RE- MAUKABLE A CUAPTEK AS ANY IN THE WOIIK. WnETCHEi) as he was, the harsh business of life could not be neglected; Captain Armine was obliged to be in Lincoln's Inn by ten o'clock the next morning. It was on his return from his lawyer, as he was about to cross Berkley Square, that a carriage suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, and a female hand apparently beckoned to him from the window. He was at first very doubtful, whe- ther he were indeed the person to whom the signal was addressed, but as on looking around, there was not a single human being in sight, he at length slowly approached the equipage, from which a white handkerchief now waved with considerable agitation. Somewhat perplexed by this incident, the mystery was, however, immediately explained by the voice of Lady Bellair. " You wicked man," said her little ladyship, in a great rage. " O ! how I hate you ! I could cut you into minced meat ; that I could. Here I have been giving parties every night, all for you too. And yftu have been in town ; never called on me. Tell me your name. How is your wife 7 O ! you arc not married. You should marry ; I hate a ci-devant jeime Iwmme. However, you can wait a little. Here, James, Thomas, Peter, what is your name, open the door and let him in. There, get in, get in ; I have a great deal to say to you." And Ferdinand found that it was absolutely neces- sary to comply. "Now, where shall we go?" said her ladyship ; " I have got till two o'clock. I make it a rule to be at home every day from two till six, to receive my friends. You must come and call upon me. You may come every day if you like. Do not leave your card. I hate people v\-ho leave cards. I never see them ; I order all to be burned. I cannot bear people who leave bits of paper at my house. Do you want to go anywhere ! — You do not I — Why do not you 7 How is your worthy father. Sir Peter ? — Is his name Sir Peter or Sir Paul ! — Well, never mind ; you know who I mean. And your charming mother, my favourite friend ? — She is charming ; she is quite one of my favourites. — And were not you to marry 1 — Tell me, why have you not? — Miss — Miss — you know whom I mean, whose grandfather was my son's tViend. In town are they ? — Where do they live 1 — Brook Street ! — I will go and call upon them. There, pull th« string, and tell him where tliey live." 648 D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. And so, in a few minutes, Lady Bellair's car- riage stopped opposite the house of Miss Grandison. " Are they early risers V said her ladyship ; " I get up every morning at six. I dare say they will not receive me, but do you show yourself, and then they caimot refuse." In consequence of this diplomatic movement, Lady Bcllair efiectcd an entrance. Leaning on the arm of Ferdinand, her ladyship was ushered into the morning-room, where she found Lady Ar- niine and Katherine. " My dear lady, how do you do ? And my sweet miss ! — O ! your eyes are so bright, that it makes me young to look upon them ! I quite love you, that I do. — Your grandfather and my poor son were bosom friends. — And, my dear lady, where have you been all this time ? Here have I been giving parties every night, and all for you ; all for my Bath friends ; teUing everybody about you ; talking of nothing else ; everybody longing to see you ; and you have never been near me. My din- ner parties are over; I shall not give any more dinners until June. But I have three evenings yet ; to-night you must come to me, to-night, and Thursday, and Saturday ; you must come on all three nights. — O ! why did you not call upon me ] I should have asked you to dinner. — I would have asked you to meet Lord Colonnade and Lady Ionia I They would have just suited you ; they would have tasted you ! — But I tell you what I will do ; I will come and dine with you some day. — Now, when will you have me 1 — Let me see, when am I free 1" So saying, her ladyship opened a little red book, which was her inseparable companion in London. " All this week I am ticketed ; Monday, the Derricourts — dull, but then he is a duke. Tuesday I dine with Bonmot; we have made it up; he gives me a dinner. Wednesday — Wednes- day — where is Wednesday 1 General Faneviile, my own party, Thursday, the Maxburys — had dinner, but good company. Friday, Waring Cutts — a famous house for eating ; but that is not in my way ; however, I must go, for he se^ds me pines. And Saturday I dine off a rabbit, by my- self, at one o'clock, to go and see my dear, darling Lady St. Julian at Richmond. So it cannot be this or next week. I will send you a note ; I will tell you to-night And now I must go, for it is five minutes to two — I am always at home from two to six — I receive my friends — you may come every day — and you must come to see my new squirrel ; my darling, funny, little grandison gave it to me — and, my dear miss, where is that wicked Lady Grandison ! Do you ever see her, or are you enemies 1 — She has got the estate, has not she ? — She never calls upon me — tell her she is one of my greatest favourites — O I why does not she come 1 — I .should have asked her to dinner ; and now all my dinners are over till June. Tell me where she lives, and I will call upon her to- morrow." So saying, and bidding them all farewell very cor- dially, her ladyship took Ferdinand's arm and retired. Captain Armine returned to his mother and cousin, and sat an hour with them, until their car- riage was arniouncei Just as he was going away. he ODserved Lady Bellair's little red book, which hhe had left behind. "Poor Lady Bellair ! what will she do I" said Miss Grandison; "we must take it to her imme- diatfjl"-" " I will leave it," said Ferdinand, "I shall pasi her house." Bellair House was the prettiest mansion in May Fair. It was a long building, in the Italian style, situated in the midst of gardens, which, though not very extensive, were laid out with so much art and taste, that it was veiy difBcult to believe that you were in a great city. The house was furnished and adorned with all that taste for which Lady Bellair was distinguished. All the receiving-room.s were on the ground floor, and were all connecteJ. Ferdinand, who remembered Lady Bellair's in- junctions not 1,0 leave cards, attracted by the spot, and not knowing what to do with himself, deter- mined to pay her ladyship a visit, and was ushered into an octagon library, lined with well-laden dwarf-cases of brilliant volumes, crownei'; with no lack f>f marble busts, bronzes, and Et''v,s:can vases. On each side opened a magnificent saloon, fur- nished in that classic style which t'ne late accom- plished and ingenious Mr. Hope first rendered po- pular in this country. The wings, projecting far into the gardens, comprised respectively a dining- room and a conservatory of considerable dimen- sions. Isolated in the midst of the gardens was a long building, called the summer-room, lined with Indian matting, and screened on one side from the air merely by Venetian blinds. The walls of this chamber were almost entirely covered with carica- tures and prints of the country seats of Lady Bell- air's friends, all of which she took care to visit. Here also were her parrots, and some birds of a sweeter voice, a monkey, and the fiimous squiprel. Lady Bellair was seated in a chair, the back of which was much higher than her head; at her side was a little table with writing materials, and on which also was placed a magnificent bell, by Ben- venute Cellini, with which her ladyship summoned her page, who, in the mean time, loitered in the hall. " You have brought me my hook !" she ex- claimed, as Ferdiirand entered with the mystical volume. " Give it me — give it me. Here I can- not tell Mrs. Fancourt what day I can dine with her. I am engaged all this week and all next, and I am to (line with your dear family when I like. But Mrs. Fancourt must choose her day, because they will keep. You do not know this gentleman?" she said, turning to Mrs. Fancourt. " Well, I shall not introduce you ; he will not suityou ; he is a fine gentleman, and only dines with dukes." Mrs. Fancourt consequently looked very anxious for an introduction. " General Faneviile," Lady Bellair continued to a gentleman on her left, " what day do I dine with you ? Wednesday. Is our party full ] You must make room for him ; he is my greatest fa- vourite. All the ladies are in love with him." General Faneviile expressed his deep sense of tho high honour ; Ferdinand protested he was engaged on Wednesday ; Mrs. Fancourt looked very disap- pointed that she had thus lost another opportunity of learning the name of so distinguished a per- sonage. There was another knock. Mrs. Fancourt de- parted. Lady Maxbury, and her daughter, Lady Selina, were announced. " Have you got him V asked Lady Bellair, very eagerly, as her new visiters entered. " He has promised most positively," answered Lady Maxbury. HENRIETTA TEMPLE. C19 " Dear, good creature !" exclaimed Lady Bellair, "you arc the dearest creature that I know ! And vou are cluirming," slie continued, addressing her- self to Lady Sclina; "if I were a man, I would marry you directly. There, now, he (turning to Ferdinand) cannot marry you, because he is mar- ried already; but he should, if he were not. And how will he come 1" inquired Lady Bellair. " He will find his way," said Lady Maxbury. " And I am not to pay any thing V inquired Lady Bellair. " Not any thing," said Lady Maxburj-. " I cannot bear paying," said Lady Bellair. " But will he dance, and will he bring his bows and arrows ? Lord Dorfield protests 'tis nothing with- out the bows and arrows." " What, the New Zealand chief. Lady Bellair?" inquired the general. "Have you seen himl" inquired Lady Bellair, eagerly. " Not yet," replied the gentleman. " Well, then, you will see him to-night," said Lady Bellair, with an air of triumph. " He is coming to me to-night." Ferdinand rose, and was about to depart. " You nuist not go without .seeing my squirrel," said her ladyship, " that my dear funny grandson gave me — he is such a funny boy ! You must see it, you must see it," added her ladyship in a pe- remptory tone. " There, go out of that door ; and you will find 3'our way to my summer-room, and tliere you will find my squirrel." The restless Ferdinand was content to quit the hbrary, even with the stipulation of first visiting the squirrel. He walked through a saloon, entered the conservatory, emerged into the garden, and at length fo\uid himself in the long summer-room. At the end of the room a lady was seated looking over a liook of prints ; as she heard a footstep she raised her eyes, and the thunderstruck Ferdinand beheld — Henrietta Temple ! He was literally speechless ; he felt rooted to the ground; all power of thought and motion alike de- serted him. There he stood confounded and aghast. Nor indeed was his companion less disturbed. She remained with her eyes fixed on Ferdinand, with an ex[)ression of fear, astonishment, and distress impressed upon her features At length Ferdi- nand in some degree rallied, and he followed the first impulse of his mind — when mind indeed re- turned to him — he moveu to retire. He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if human voice indeed it were that sent forth tones so full of choking anguish, pronounced his name. "Captain Armine !" said the voice. How he trembled, yet mechanically obedient to his first impulse, he still proceeded to the door. " Ferdinand !" said the voice. He st'ijiped, he turned, she waved her hand wildly, and then leaning her arm on the table, bu- ried her face in it. Ferdinand walked to the table at which she was sitting ; she heard his footsteps near her, yet she neither looked up nor spoke. At length he said in a still yet clear voice, " I am here." " I have seen Mr. Glastonburj'," she muttered. " I know it," he replied. " Your illness has distressed me," she said, after a slight [)ause, her face still concealed, and speak- ing in a very hushed tone. Ferdinand made no 82 reply : and there was another pause, which Misa Temple broke. " I would that we were at least friends," she said. The tears came into Ferdinand's eyes when she said this, for her tone, though low, was now sweet. It touched his heart. " Our mutual feelings now are of Uttle conse- quence," he replied. She sighed, but made no reply. At length Fer- dinand said, " Farewell, Miss Temple." She started, she looked up, her mournful coun- tenance harrowed his hearts He knew not what to do ; what to say. He could not bear her glance, he in his turn averted his eyes. " Our miser)', is — has been great," she said, in a firmer tone, " but was it of my making 1" " The miserable can bear reproaches : do not spare me — my situation, however, proves my sin- cerit)'. I have erred, certainly," said Ferdinand ; " I could not believe that you could have doubted me. It was a mistake," he added, in a tone of great bitterness. Miss Temple again covered her face, as she said, " I cannot recall the past : I wish not to dwell upon it. I desire only to express to you the inte- rest I take in your welfare, my hope that you may yet be happy. Yes ! you can be happy, Ferdinand — Ferdinand, tor my sake you will be happy." " O ! Henrietta, if Henrietta I indeed may call you, this is worse than that death I curse myself for having escaped." " No, Ferdinand, say not that. Exert yourself only exert yourself, bear up against irresistible fate. Your cousin — ever)' one says she is so amiable — surely — " " Farewell, madam, I th.ank yon for your coun- sel." " No, Ferdinand, you shall not go, you shall not go, in anger. Pardon me, pity me, I spoke for your sake, I spoke for the best." " I, at least, will never be false," said Ferdinand, with energy. " It shall not be said of me, that I broke vows consecrated by the finest emotions of our nature. No, no, I have had my dream ; it was but a dream ; but while I live, I will live upon its sweet memory." " Ah ! Ferdinand, why were you not frank, why did you conceal your situation from me ]" " No explanations of mine can change our re- spective situations," said Ferdinand ; " I content myself therefore by saying, that it was not .Miss Temple who had occasion to criticise my conduct." " You are very bitter." " The lady whom I injured, pardoned me. She is the most generous, the most amiable of her sex ; if only in gratitude for all her surpassing good- ness, I would never affect to offer her a heart which never can be hers. Katherine is indeed more than woman. Amid my many and almost unparalleled sorrows, one of my keenest pangs is the recollection that I should have clouded the life, even for a moment, of that admirable person. Alas ! alas ! that in all my miserj', the only woman who sympathizes with my wretchedness, is the woman whom I have injured. And so delicate as well as so generous ! She would not even inquire the name of the individual who had occasioned our mutual desolation." " Would tliat she knew all!" murmured Henri etta, " would tliat I knew her !" 3 I 650 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Your acquaintance could not influence affairs. My very affection for my cousin, the complete ap- preciation wliich I now possess of her character, before so little estimated and so feebly compre- hended by me, is the very circumstance, that, with my feelings, would prevent our union. She may — I am confident she will yet, be happy. I can never make her so. Our engagement in old days was rather the result of family arrangements than of any sympathy. I love her far better now than I did then, and yet she is the very last person in the world that I would marry. I trust, I believe that my conduct, if it have clouded for a moment her life, will not ultimately, will not long obscure it; and she has every charm and virtue, and accident of fortune, to attract the admiration and attention of the most favoured. Her feelings towards me at any time could have been hut mild and calm. It is a mere abuse of terms to style such sentiments love. But," added he, sarcastically, " this is too delicate a subject for ine to dilate on to Miss Tem- j»le." "For God's sake do not be so bitter,"' she ex- claimed ; and then she added, in a voice half of anguish, half of tenderness, " let me never be taunted by those lips ! ! Ferdinand, why cannot we be friends'!" " Because we are more than friends. To me such a word from your lips is mere mockery. Let us never meet. That alone remains for us. Little did I suppose that we ever sjiould have met again. I go nowhere — I enter no single house ; my visit here this morning was one of these whimsical va- garies which cannot be coimted on. This old lady, indeed, seems, somehow or other, connected with our destiny. I believe I am greatly indebted to her ■?" The page entered the room. " Miss Temple," said the lad, " my lady bid me say the dutchess and Lord Montfort were here." Ferdinand started — and darting, almost uncon- sciously, a glance of fierce reproach at the misera- ble Henrietta, he rushed out of the room ; and made his escape from BcUair House without re- entering the library. CHAPTER VL CONTAINING AN EVENING ASSEMBLY AT BELLAIR HOUSE. Seated on an ottoman in the octagon library, occasionally throwing a glance at her illuminated and crowded saloons, or beckoning, with a fan al- most as long as herself, to a distant guest. Lady Bellair received the world on the evening of the day that had witnessed the strange renconti'e be- tween Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine. Her page, who stood at the library door in a new fancy dress, received the announcement of the com- pany from the other servants, and himself commu- nicated the information to his mistress. " Mr. Million do Stockviile, my lady," said the page. " Hem !" said her ladyship, rather gruffly, as, with no very amiable expression of countenance, she bowed, with her haughtiest dignity, to a rather comnidU-Iooking personage in a very gorgeously embroidered waistcoat. " I>ady Ionia Colonnade, my lady." Lady Bellair bestowed a smiling nod on this fair and classic dame, and even indicated, bv a move- ment of her fan, that she might take a seat on her ottoman. " Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine, my lady, and Miss Grandison." " Dear, good people !" exclaimed Lady Bellair, " how late you are ! and where is your wicked son ] There, go into the next room, go, go, and see the wonderful man. Lady Ionia, you musi know Lady Armine ; she is like you ; she is one of my favourites. Now, then, there all of you go to- gether. I will not have anybody stay here, ex- cept my niece. This is my niece," Lady Bellaii added, pointing to a veiy young lady seated by hei side ; " I give this party for her." " General Faneville, my lady." " You are very late," said Lady Bellair. "I dined at Lord Rochfort's," said the genera), bowing. " Rochfort's ! ! where are they ? — where are the Rochfort's '! they ought to be here. I must — I will see them. Do you think Lady Rochfort wants a nursery governess ! Because I have a charming person who would just suit her. Go and find her out, general, and inquire; and if she do not want one, find out some one who does. Ask Lady Maxbury. There, go — go." " Mr. and Miss Temple, my lady." " O ! my darling !" said Lady Bellair, " my real darling ! sit by me. I sent Lady Ionia away, be- cause I determined to keep this place for you. I give this party entirely in your honour, so you ought to sit here. You are a good man," she con- tinued, addressing Mr. Temple ; " but I can't love you as well as your daughter." " I should be too fortunate," said Mr. Temple, smiling. " I knew you when you eat pap," said Lady Bellair, laughing. " Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, my lady." Lady Bellair assumed her coldest and haughtiest glance. Mrs. Montgomery appeared more gorgeous than ever. The splendour of her sweeping train almost required a page to support it ; she held a bouquet which might have served for the centre- piece of a dinner-table. A slender youth, rather distinguished in appearance, simjily dressed, with a rose-bud just twisted into his black coat, but whose person distilled odours whose essence might have exhausted a conservatory, lounged at her side. " May I have the honour to present to your lady- ship Lord Catchimwhocan," breathed forth Mrs. Montgomery, exulting in her companion, perhaps in her conquest. Lady Bellair gave a short and ungracious nod. Mrs. Montgomery recognised Mr. and Miss Temple. There, go, go," said Lady Bellair, interrupting her, " nobody must stop here ; go and see the wonderful man in the next room." " Lady Bellair is so strange," whimpered Mrs. Montgomery in an apologetical whisj)er to Miss Temple, and she moved away, covering her retreat by the graceful person of Lord Catchimwhocan. " Some Irish guardsman, I suppose," said Lady Bellair. " I never heard of him ; I hate guards- men." " Rather a distinguished looking man, I think," said Mr. Temple. " Do you think so 1" said Lady Bellair, who was HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 651 always influenced by flip last word. " I will ask him for Thursday and Saturday. I think I must have known his grandfather. I must tell him not to go about with that horrid woman. She is so very fine, and she uses inusk ; she puts me in mind of the Queen of Siieba," said the little lady, laughini^, " all precious stones and frankincense, I quite hate her.'' " I thooRht she was quite one of your favourites, Lady Bellair !" said Henrietta Temple, rather ma- liciously. " A Bath favourite, my dear, a Bath fiivourite. I wear my old bonnets at Batli, and use my new friends ; but in town I have old friends and new dresses." " Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady." " ! my dear Lady Frederick, now I will give you a treat. I will introduce you to my sweet, sweet friend, whom I am always talking to you of You deserve to know her; you will taste her, there, sit down, sit by her, and talk to her, and make love to her." " Lady Womandeville, my lady." " Ah ! she will do for the lord — she loves a lord. My dear lady, you come so late, and yet I am al- ways so glad to see you. I have such a charming friend for you, the handsomest, most fashionable, witty person, quite captivating, and his grand- father was one of my dearest friends. What is his name 1 what is his name 1 Lord Catchimwhocan. Mind, I introduce you to him, and ask him to your house very often." Lady Womandeville smiled, expressed her de- light, and moved on. ' Lord Montfort, who had arrived before the Tem- ples, approached the ottoman. " Is the dutchess here V inquired Henrietta, as she shook hands with him. "And Isabella," he replied. Henrietta arose, and, taking his arm, bid adieu to Lady Bellair. " God bless you," said her ladyship, with great emphasis. '■ I will not have you speak to that odious Mrs. Floyd, mind." When Lord Montfort and Henrietta .succeeded in discovering the dutchess, she was in the con- servatory, which was gayly illumined with coloured lamps among the shrubs. Her grace was con- Tersing with great cordiality with a lady of very prepossessing appearance, and in w hom the traces of a beauty once distinguished were indeed still considerable, and her companion, an extremely pretty person, in the very bloom of girlhood. Lord Montfort and Henrietta were immediately intro- duced to these ladies, as Lady Arminc and Miss Grandison. After the scene of the morning, it was not very easy to deprive Miss Temple of her equa- nimity ; after that shock, indeed, no incident con- nected with the Armine family could be very sur- prising ; she was even desirous of becoming ac- quainted with Miss Grandison, and she congi-atu- lated herself upon the opportunity which had so speedily offered itself to gratify her wishes. The dutchess was perfectly delighted with Lady Ar- mine, whose manners, indeed, were very fascinat- ing; between the families there was some distant connection of blood, and Lady Armine, too, had always retained a lively sense of the old duke's services to her son. Henrietta had even to listen to inquiries made after Ferdinand, and she learned that he was recovering from an almost fatal illness, that he could not yet endure the fatigues of society, and that he was even living at a hotel for tl " — • of quiet. Henrietta watched the countena. Katlierine, as Lady Armine gave this informati^ • It was serious, but not disturbed. Her grace di-^ not separate from her new friends the whole of the evening, and they parted with a mutually cxi)rcssed wish that they might speedily and often meet. The dutchess pronounced Lady Armine the most charming person she ever met, while, on the other hand, Miss Grandison wa.s warm in her admira- tion of Henrietta Temple and Lord Montfort, w hom she thought quite worthy even of so rare a prize. CHAPTER Vn. CONTAISIXG A TElir IMPOUTAXT COMMC^flCA- TIO.\. Between the unexpected meeting with Captain Armine in the morning, and the evening assembly at Bellair House, a communication had been made by Miss Temple to Lord Montfort, which ought not to be quite unnoticed. She had returned home with his mother and himself, and her silence and depression had not escaped him. Soon after their arrival they were left alone, and then Henrietta said, " Digby, I wish to speak to you !" " My own !" said Lord Montfort, as he seated himself by her on the sofa ; and took her hand. Miss 7\'mi)le was calm, but he would have been a light observer, who had not detected her sup- pressed agitation, '• Dearest Digby," she continued, " you are so generous and so kind, that I ought to feel no re- luctance in speaking to you upon this subject ; and yet it pains me very much," She hesitated — " I can only express my sympathy with any sorrow of yours, Henrietta," said Lord Montfort, " Speak to me as you always do, with that frank- ness which so much delights me." " Let your thoughts recur to the most painful incident of my life, then," stud Henrietta, " If you require it," said Lord Montfort, in a serious tone, " It is not my fault, dearest Digby, that a single circumstance connected with that unhappy event should be unknown to you, I wished originally that you should know all, I have a thousand times since regretted that your consideration for my feel- ings should ever have occasioned an imperfect con- fidence between us ; and something has occurred to-day, which makes me lament it most bitterly," " No, no, dearest Henrietta; you feel too keenly," said Lord Montfort. " Indeed, Digby, it is so," said Henrietta, very mournfully. " Speak, then, dearest Henrietta." "It is necessary that you should know tlio name of that person who once exercised an influence over my feelings, which I never atlected to disguise to you," " Is it indeed necessary V inquired Lord Mont- fort, " It is for my happiness," replied Henrietta. "Then, indeed, I am anxious to learn it," "He is in this country," s.aid Henrietta; "he is in this town ; he may be in the same room with you to-morrow ; he has been in the same room with me even this day," 652 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. " Indeed !" said Lord Montfort. " He bears a name not unknown to you," said Henrietta, " a name, too, that I must teach myself to mention, and yet " Lord Montfort rose and took a pencil and a sheet of paper from tiie table. " Write it," he said in a most kind tone. Henrietta took the pencil, and wrote — " Ar- MINK." " The son of Sir Ratcliffe V said Lord Montfort, " The same," replied Henrietta. "You heard then of him last night?" inquired her companion. " Even so ; of that, too, I was about to speak." " I am aware of the connexion of Mr. Glaston- bury with the Armine family," said Lord Montfort, very quietly. There was a dead pause. At length Montfort said, " Is there any thing you wish me to do !" " Much," said Henrietta. "Dearest Digby," she continued, after a moment's hesitation, "do not misinterpret me ; my heart, if such a heart be indeed worth possessing, is yours. I can never forget who solaced me in all my misery ; I can never forget all your delicate tenderness, my Digby. Would that I could make a return to you more worthy of all your goodness; but, if the grateful devotion of my life can repay you, you shall be satisfied." He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. " It is of you, and of your happiness, that I can alone think," he murmured. "Now let me tell you all," said Henrietta, with desperate firnmess. " I have done this person great injustice." "Hah!" said Lord Montfort. " It cuts me to the heart," said Henrietta. " You have then misconceived his conduct 1" in- quired Lord Montfort. " Utterly." " It is indeed a terrible situation for you," said Lord Montfort ; " for all of us," he added, in a lower tone. " No, Digby ; not for all of us ; not even for my- self; for, if you are happy, I will be. But for him — yes ! I will not conceal it from you — I feel for him." " Your destiny is in your own hands, Henrietta." " No, no, Digby ; do not say so," exclaimed Miss Temple, very earnestly ; " do not speak in that tone of sacrifice. There is no need of sacrifice ; there shall be none. I will not — I do not falter. Be you firm. Do not desert me in this moment of trial. It is for su}>port I speak ; it is for consolation. We are bound together by ties the purest, the holiest. Who shall sever them 1 No ! Digby, we will lie happy ; but I am interested in the destiny of this unhappy person. You — you can assist me in ren- dering it more serene ; in making him, perhaps, not less happy than ourselves." " I would spare no labour," said Lord Montfort. " ! that you would not !" exclaimed Miss Temple. "You are so good, so noble! You would sympathize even with him. What other man in your situation would !" " What can be done V " Listen : he was engaged to his cousin, even on that fatal day when we first met ; a lady with every charm and a went up stairs witiiout being announced, and found in the drawing-room, besides his mother and Kathe- rine, the dutchess. Lord Montfort, and Henrietta Temple. The young ladies were in their riding-habits, Henrietta appeared before him, the same Henriett;i whom he had met, for the first time, m the plaisanco HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 653 at Armlne. Retreat was impossible. Her grace received Ferdinand very cordially, and reminded him of old days. Henrietta bowed, but she was sitting at some distance with Miss Grandison, look- ing at some work. Her occupation covered her confusion. Lord Moatlbrt came forward with ex- tended hand. " I have the pleasure of meeting a very old friend," said his lordship. Ferdinand just touched his lordship's finger, and bowed rntlier stiOly ; then turning to his mother he gave her Lady Uellair's note. " It concerns you more than myself," he observed. '•You were not at Lady Bellair's last night, Captain Arniine," said her grace. " I never go anywhere," was the answer. " He has been a great invalid," said Lady Ar- mine. " Where is Glastonbury, Ferdinand ]" said Lady Armine. " He never comes near us." " He goes cvei-y day to the British Museum." " I wish he would take me," said Katherine. " I have never been. Have you V she inquired, turning to Henrietta. " I am ashamed to say never," replied Henrietta. " It seems to me that London is the only city of which I know nothing." " Ferdinand," said Katherine, " I wish you would go with us to the Museum some day. Miss Temple would like to go. You know Miss Tem- ple," she added, as if she of course supposed he had not that pleasure. Ferdinand bowed ; Lord Montfort came forward, and turned tlie conversation to Egyptian antiquities. VV'hen a quarter of an hour had passed, Ferdinand thought that he might now withdraw. "Do you dine at home, Katherine, to-day 1" he inquired. Miss Grandison looked at Miss Temple; — the foung ladies whispered. "Ferdinand," said Katherine, "what are you going to do ?" " Nothing — particular." " We arc going to ride, and Miss Temple wishes you would come with us." " I should be very happy ; but I have some busi- ness to attend to." " O ! dear Ferdinand, that is what you always say. You really appear to me to be the most busy person in the world." " Pray come, Captain Armine," said Lord Mont- fort. " Thank you; it is really not in my power." His hat was in his hand ; he was begging her grace to bear his compliments to the duke, when Henrietta rose from her scat, and, coming up to him, said — •• Do, Captain Armine, come with us ; I ask it as a favour." That voice ! O ! it came o'er his ear " like the sweet south" — it unmanned him quite. He scarcely knew where he was. He trembled from head to foot. His colour deserted him, and the un- lucky hat fell to the ground ; and yet she stood before him awaiting his reply — calm, quite calm — t^erious — apparently a little anxious. The dutchess was in earnest conversation with his mother. Lord Montfort had walked up to Miss Grandison, and apparently was engaged in arranging a pattern for her. Fenlinand and Henrietta were quite unob- served. He looked up — he caught her eye — and then he whispered — " This is hardly fair." She stretched forth her hand, took his hat, and laid it on the table ; then, turning to Katherine, she said, in a tone which seemed to admit of no doubt, " Captain Armine will ride with us ;" and she seated herself bj- Lady Armine. The expedition was a little delayed by Ferdinand having to send for his horse; the others had, in the mean time, arrived. Yet this half hour, by some contrivance, did at length disappear. Lord Mont- fort continued talking to Miss Grandison. Henri- etta remained seated by Lady Armine. Ferdinand revolved a great question in his mind — and it was this : Was Lord Montfort aware of the intimate ac- quaintance between himself and Miss Temple ? And what was the moving principle of her present conduct 1 He conjured up a thousand reasons, but none satisfied him. His curiosity was excited, and, instead of regretting his extracted promise to join the cavalcade, he rejoiced that an ojiportunitj' was thus afforded him of perhaps solving a problem in the secret of which he now began to feel extremely interested. And yet in truth when Ferdinand found himself really mounted, and riding by the side of Henrietta Temple once more, for Lord Montfort was very im- partial in his attentions to his fair companions, and Ferdinand continually found himself next to Hen- rietta, he really began to think the world was be- witched, and was almost skeptical whether he was or was not Ferdinand Armine. The identity of his companion too was so complete : Henrietta Temple in her riding-habit was the verj- image most keenly impressed upon his memory. He looked at her and stared at her with a face of curious perplexity. She did not, indeed, speak much ; the conversation was always general, and chiefly maintained by Lord Montfort, who, though usually silent and reserved, made on this occasion the most successful efforts to be amusing. His attention to Ferdinand too was remarkable; it was impossible to resist such ge- nuine and unaffected kindness. It smote Ferdi- nand's heart that he had received his lordship's first advances so ungraciously. Compunctitm rendered him now doubly courteous ; he was even once or twice quite gay. The day was as fine as a clear sky, a warm sun, and a warm western breeze could render it. Tempted by so much enjoyment, their ride was very long. It was late, much later than they ex- pected, when they returned home by the green lanes of pretty Willesden, and the Park was quite empty when they emerged from the Edgewarc Road into Oxford Street. " Now the best thing we can all do is to dine in St. James's Square," said Lord Montfort. " It is ten minutes past eight, good people. We shall just be in time, and then wc can send messages to Grosvenor Square and Brook Street. What say you, Armine? you will come, of course?" " Thank you, if you would excuse me." "No, no; why excuse you?" said Lord Mont- fort: "I think it shabby to desert us now, after all our adventures." " Really you are verj^ kind, but I never dine out." "Dine out! What a phrase I You will not meet a human being ; perhaps not even my father. If you will not come it will spoil cverj- thing." " I cannot dine in a frock." said Ferdinand. "I shall," said Lord Montfort, "and these ladiet must dine in their habits, I suspect." " ! certainly, certainly," said the ladies. 3i 2 654 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Do come, Ferdinand," said Katherine. " I ask you as a favour," said Henrietta, turning to him and speaking in a low voice. " Well," said Ferdinand, slirugging his shoulders. "That is well," said Lord Montfort; "now let MS trot throiigh the Park, and the groom can call in Grosvenor Square and Brook Street, and gallop after us. This is amusing, is it notl" CHAPTER IX. ■WHICH IS ON THE WHOLE ALMOST AS PEHPLEXING AS THE PRECEDING ONE. When Ferdinand found himself dining in St. James's Square, in the very same room where he had passed so many gay hours during that boyish month of glee which preceded his first joining his regiment, and then looked opposite to him and saw Henrietta Temple, it seemed to him that, by some magical process or other, his life was acting over again, and the order of the senses and characters had, by some strange mismanagement, got con- fused. Yet he yielded himself up to the excite- ment which had so unexpectedly influenced him; he was inflamed by a species of wild delight, which he could not understand, nor stop to analyze ; and when the dutchess retired with the young ladies to their secret conclave in the drawing-room, she said, " I like Captain Armine very much, he is so full of spirit and imagination. When we met him this morning, do you know I thought him rather stiff and fine 1 I regretted the bright boyish flow that I 60 well recollected, but I see I was mistaken." " Ferdinand is very much changed," said Miss Grandison. " He was once the most brilUant per- son I think that ever lived ; almost too brilliant; everybody by him seemed so tame ! But since his illness he has quite changed. I have scarcely heard him speak or seen him smile these six months. There is not in the whole world a person so wretch- edl)*jiltered. He is quite a wreck. I do not know what is the matter with him to-day. He seemed once almost himself." " He indulged his feelings too much, perhaps," said Henrietta; " he lived perhaps too much alone af>er — after so severe an illness." " O ! no, it is not that," said Miss Grandison. " It is not exactly that. Poor Ferdinand I he is to be pitied. I fear he will never be happy again." " Miss Grandison should hardly say that," said the dutchess, "if report speaks truly." Katherine was about to reply, but checked her- self. Henrietta arose from her seat rather suddenly, and asked Katherine to touch the piano. The dutchess took up the Morning Post. " Poor Ferdinand ! he used to sing once so beau- tifully too !" said Katherine to Miss Temple in a hushed voice: "he never sings now." " You must make him," said Henrietta. Miss Grandison shook her head. " You have influence vs'ith him ; you should ex- ert it," said Henrietta. " I neiiher have, nor desire to have, influence with him," said Miss Grandison. "Dearest Miss Temple, the world is in error with respect to my- imlf and my cousin ; and yet I ought not to aav. to you what I have not thought proper to confess even to my aunt." Henrietta leaned over and kissed her forehead. " Say what you like, dearest Miss Grandison : you speak to a friend, who loves you, and will respect your secret." The gentlemen at this moment entered the room, and interrupted this interesting conversation. "You must not quit the instrument. Miss Gran- dison," said Lord Montfort, seating himself by her side. Ferdinand fell into conversation with the dutchess ; and Miss Temple was the amiable victim of his grace's passion for ecarte. " Captain Armine is a most agreeable person," said Lord Montfort. Miss Grandison rather stared. " We were just speaking of Ferdinand," she replied. " and I was lamenting his sad change." " Severe illness, illness so severe as his must for the moment change anyone; we shall soon see him himself again." " Never," said Miss Grandison, mournfully. " You must inspire him," said Lord Montfort. " I perceive you have great influence with him." " I give Lord Montfort credit for much acuter perception than that," said Miss Grandison. Their eyes met; even Lord Montfort 's dark vision shrank before the searching glance of Miss Grandison. It conveyed to him that his purpose was not undiscovered. " But you can exert influence, if you please," said Lord Montfort. " But it may not please me," said Miss Grandi- son. At this 7Tioment Mr. Glastonbury was an- nounced. He had a general invitation, and was frequently in the habit of paying an evening visit when the family were disengaged. When he found Ferdinand, Henrietta, and Katherine, all assembled together, and in so strange a garb, his perplexity was wondrous. The tone of comparative ease too with which Miss Temple addressed him completed his confusion. He began to suspect that soma critical explanation had taken place. He looked around for information. " We have all been riding," said Lord Montfort. "So I perceive," said Glastonbury. " And, as we were too late f()r dinner, took re- fuge here," continued his lordship. " I observe it," said Glastonbury. " Miss Grandison is an admirable musician, sir." " She is an admirable lady in every respect," said Glastonbury. " Perhaps you will join her in some canzonette ; I am so stupid as not to be able to sing. I wish I could induce Captain Armine." " He has left off singing," said Glastonbury, mournfully. " But Miss Temple 1" added Glaston- bury, bowing to that la;!y. "Miss 'J'emple has left off singing too," said Lord Montfort, very quietly. " Come, Mr. Glastonbury," said the dutchess, "time was when you and I have sung together. Let us try to shame these young folks." So saying her grace seated herself at the piano, and the grati- fied Glastonbury summoned all his energies to ac- company her. Lord Montfort seated himself by Ferdinand " You have been severely ill, I am sorry to hear/' " Yes : I have been rather shaken." HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 655 "This spring will bring you round." " So everj' one tells me. I cannot say I feel its beneficial influence.'' ■ " You should," said Lord Montfort. " At our age wc ought to rally quickly." "Yes! Time is the great physician, I cannot say I have much more faith in him than in the spring." " Well, then, there is hope ; what think you of •that?" " I have no great faith," said Ferdinand, affect- ing to smilo. " Believe then in optimism," said Henrietta Temple, without taking her eyes off the cards. " Whatever is, is best." "That is not my creed. Miss Temple," said Ferdinand, and he rose and was about to retire. "Must you go? Let us all do something to- morrow !" said Lord Montfort, interchanging a glance with Henrietta. "The British Museum; Miss Grandison wishes to go to the British Mu- seum. Pray come with us." "You are very good, but — " "Well! I will write you a little note in the morning and tell you our plans," said Lord Mont- fort. " I hope you will not desert us." Ferdinand bowed and retired : he avoided catch- ing the eye of Henrietta. The carriages of Miss Temple and Miss Grandi- son were soon announced, and, fatigued with their riding-dresses, these ladies did not long remain. "I will not go home with you to-night, dear Henrietta," said Lord Montfort; " I wish to speak to Glastonbury." "To-day has been a day of trial. What do you think of affairs 1 I saw you speaking to Kathc- rine. What do you think ?" " I think Ferdinand Armine is a very formidable rival. Do you know I am rather jealous?" " Digby ! can you be ungenerous 1" "My sweet Henrietta, pardon my levity, I »poke in the merest playfulness. Nay," he con- tinued, for she seemed really hurt, "say good night very sweetly." "Is there any hope?" said Henrietta, " All's well that ends well !" said Lord Mont- fort, smiling; " God bless you," Glastonliury was about to retire, when Lord Montfort returned and asked him to come up to his lordship's own apartments, as he wished to show him a curious antique carving, •' You seemed rather surprised at the guests you found here to-night," said Lord Montfort when they were alone. Glastonbury looked a Uttle confused. "It was certainly a curious meeting, all things considered," continued Lord Montfort: "Henrietta has. never concealed any thing of the past from me, but I have always wished to spare her details. I told her this morning I should speak to you upon the subject, and that is the reason why I have asked you here." " It is a painful history," said Glastonbury. " As painful to me as to any one," said his lord- ship ; " nevertheless it must be told. When did you first meet Miss Temple?" "I shall never forget it," said Glastonbury, sigh- ing and moving very uneasily in his chair, " I took her for Miss Grandison." And Glastonbury now entered into a complete history of every thing that had occurred. " It is a strange, a wonderful story," said Lord Montfort, and you communicated every thing to Miss Grandison ?" " Every thing but the name of her rival. To that she would not listen. It was not just, she said, to one so unfortunate and so unhappy." "She seems an admirable person, that Miss Grandison," said Lord Montfort, " She is indeed as near an angel as any thing earthly can be," said Glastonbury. " Then it is still a secret to the parents ?" "Thus she would have it," said Glastonbury. " She clings to them, who love her indeed as a daughter ; and she shrank from the desolation that was preparing for them." " Poor girl !" said Lord Montfort, " and poor Armine ! By heavens, I pity him firom the bottom of my heart." " If you had scrn him as I have,'' said Glaston- bury, " wilder than the wildest bedlamite ! It was an awful sight." " Ah ! the heart, the heart," said Lord Montfort: "it is a delicate organ, Mr. Glastonbury. And think you his father and mother suspect nothing ?" "I know not what thoy think," said Glaston- bury, " but they must soon know all." And he seemed to shudder at the thought. " Why must they ?" asked Lord Montfort. Glastonbury stared. " Is there no hope of softening and subduing all their sorrows ?" said Lord Montfort ; " cannot we again bring together these young and parted spirits ?" " It is my only hope," said Glastonbury, " and yet I sometimes deem it a forlorn one," " It is the sole desire of Henrietta," said Lor*! Montfort, " cannot you assist us ? Will you enta. into this conspiracy of affection with us ?" " I want no spur to such a righteous work," said Glastonbury, " but I cannot conceal from myseb the extreme difficulty, P'erdinand is the most impetuous of human beings. His passions are a whiriwind ; his volition more violent than becomes a suffering mortal." " You think then there is no difficulty but with him?" " I know not what to say," said Glastonbury "calm as appears the temperament of Miss Grandi- son, she has heroic qualities. O ! what have I not seen that admirable young lady endure ! Alas! my Digby, my dear lord, few passages of this ter rible story are engraven on my memory more deeply than the day when I revealed to her the fatal secret. Yet, and chiefly for her sake, it was my duty." " It was at Armine ?" " At Armine — I seized an opportunity when we were alone togclhcr, and without fear of being dis- turbed. Wc had gone to view an old abbey in the neighbourhood. We were seated among its ruins, when I took her h .mil and endeavoured to prepare her for the fatal intelligence, ' All is not right with Ferdinand,' she immediately said ; 'there is some mystery, I have long suspected it,* She listened to my recital, softened as much as I could for her sake, in silence. Yet her ])ale- ness I never can forget- She looked like a saint in a niche. When I had finished, she whispered me to leave her for some short time, and I walked away out of sight indeed, but so near that she might easily summon me. I stood alone until it 6 6 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. was twilight, in a state of mournful suspense that I recall even now with anguish. At last I heard iny name sounded, in a low, yet distinct voice, and I looked round and she was there. She had been weeping. I took her hand and pressed it, and led her to the carriage. When I approached our unhappy home, she begged me to make her excuses to the family, and for two or three days we saw her no more. At length she sent for me, and told me she had been revolving all these sad circumstances in her mind, and she felt for others more even than for herself; that she forgave Ferdinand, and pitied him, and would act tovs'ards him as a sister; that her heart was distracted with the thoughts of the unhappy lady, whose name she would never know, but that if by her assistance I could effect their union, means should not be wanting, though their source must be concealed ; that for the sake of her aunt, to whom she is indeed passionately attached, she would keep the secret, until it could no longer be maintained, and that in the mean time it was to be hoped, that health might be restored to her cousin, and Providence in some way interfere in favour of this unhappy family." "Angelic creature!" said Lord Montfort. "So young too; I think so beautiful! Good God! with such a heart what could Arminc desire!" " Alas !" said Glastonbury, and he shook his head. " You know not the love of Ferdinand Armine for Henrietta Temple. It is a wild and fearful thing ; it passcth human comprehension." Lord Montfort leaned back in his chair, and covered his face with his hands. After some minutes he looked up and said in his usual placid tone, and with an unruffled brow. " Will you take any thing before you go, Mr. Glastonbury 1" CHAPTER X. IN WHICH CAPTAIIf AHMINE INCREASES HIS KNOWLEDGE OF THE VALUE OF MONEY, AND ALSO BECOMES AWARE OF THE ADVANTAGE OF AN ACaUAINTANCE WHO BURNS COALS, Ferdinand returned to his hotel in no very good humour, revolving in his mind Miss Tern- pie's advice about optimism. What could she mean 1 Was there really .i conspirac*- to make him marry his cousin ; and was Miss Temple one of the conspirators'? He could, indeed, scarcely believe this, and yet it was the most probable de- duction from all that had been said and done. He had lived, indeed, to witness such strange occur- rences, that no event ought now to astonish him. Only to think that he had been sitting quietly in a drawing room with Henrietta Temple, and she avowedly engaged to be married to another person, who was present; and that he, Ferdinand Armine, should be the selected companion of their morning drive, and be calmly invited to contribute to their daily amusement by his social presence ! What next ■? If this were not an insult — a gi-oss, fla- grant, unendurable outrage — he was totally at a loss to comprehend what was meant by offended pride. Optimism indeed ! He felt far more inclined to embrace the faith of the Manichec ! And what a fool was he to have submitted to such a despica- ble, such a degrading situation ! What infinite Weakness not to be able to resist her influence, the influence of a woman who had betrayed him ! Yes ! lietrayed him. He had fur some period re- conciled his mind to entertaining the idea of Henri- etta's treachery to him. Softened by time, atoned for by long suffering, extenuated by the constant sincerity of Iris purpose, his original imprudence, to use his own phrase in describing his miscon- duct, had gradually ceased to figure as a valid and sufficient cause for her behaviour to him. When he recollected how he had loved this woman, what he had sacrificed for her, and what misery he had in consequence entailed upon himself and all those dear to him ; when he contrasted his present perilous situation with her triumphant prosperity, and remembered that while he had devoted himself to a love which proved false, she, who had d'eserted him, was, by a caprice of fortune, absolutely re- warded for her fickleness ; he was enraged, he was disgusted, he despised himself for having been her slave — he began even to hate her. Terrible mo- ment when we first dare to view with feelings of repugnance the being that our soul has long idolized! It is the most awful of revelations. We start back in horror, as if the act of profanation. Other annoyances, however, of a less ethereal character, awaited our hero on his return to hh hotel. There he found a letter from his lawyer, informing him that he could no longer parry the determination of one of Captain Armine's princi- pal creditors to arrest him instantly for a very con- siderable sum. Unfortunately, too, it was a judg ment debt, which there were no means of avoiding, except by payment, bail being inadmissable. Poor Ferdinand, mortified and harassed, with his heart and spirits alike broken, he could scarcely refrain from a groan ! However, some steps must be taken. He drove Henrietta from his thoughts, and endeavouring to rally some of his old energy, re- volved in his mind what desperate expedient yet remained. His sleep was broken by dreams of bailiffs, and a vague idea of Henrietta Temple triumphing in his misery ; but he rose early, wrote a most diplo- matic note to Ills menacing creditor, which he felt confident must gain him time, and then making a very careful toilet, for when a man is going to try to borrow money, it is wise to look prosperous, he took his way to a quarter of the town where lived a gentleman, with whose brother he had had some previous dealings at Malta, and whose acquaintance he had made in England in reference to them. It was in that gloomy quarter called Golden Square, the murky repose of which strikes so mys- teriously on the senses, after the glittering bustle of the adjoining Regent Street, that Captain Ar- mine stopped before a noble, yet now dingy man- sion, that in old and happier days might probably have been inhabited by his grandfather, or some of his gay friends. A brass plate on the door informed the world that here resided Messrs. Morris and Levison, following the not very ambitious calling of coal merchants. But if all the pursuers of that somewhat humble trade could manage to deal in coals with the same dexterity as Messrs. Morris and Levison, what very great coal merchants they would be ! The ponderous portal obeyed the signal of the bell, and apparently opened without any human means ; and Captain Armine, proceeding down a dark, yet capacious passage, opened a door, which invited him by an inscription on ground glass that HENRIETTA TEMPLE. C57 Assured him he was enterlnc; the countint^-house. Here several clerks, ensconsed within lofty walls of the dnrkest and dullest mahogany, were busily employed ; yet one advanred to an aperture in this fortification, and accepted the card which the visiter offered him. The clerk surveyed the ticket with a peculiar glance, and then, begging the visiter to be seated, disappeared. He was not long absent, but soon invited Ferdinand to follow him. , Captain Armine was ushered up a noble staircase, and into a saloon that once was splendid. The ceiling was richly carved ; and there still might be detected the remains of its once gorgeous embellishment, in the faint forms of faded deities and the traces of murky gilding. The walls of this apartment were crowded with- pictures, arranged, however, with little regard to taste, effect, or style. A sprawling copy of Titian's Venus flanked a somewhat prim peeress by Hoppner ; a landscape that smacked of Gains- borough was the companion of a dauby moonlight, that must have figured in the last exhibition ; and insipid Koman matrons by Hamilton, and stiff English heroes by Northcote, contrasted with a vast quantity of second-rate delineations of the orgies of Dutch boors, and portraits of favourite racers and fancy dogs. The room was crowded with ugly furniture of all kinds, very solid, and chiefly of mahogany ; among which were not less than three escritoires, to say nothing of the huge horsehair sofas. A sideboard of Babylonian pro- portions was crowned by three massy and enor- mous silver salvers, and immense branch candle- sticks of the same precious metal, and a china punch- bowl which might have suited the dwarf in Brob- dignag. The floor was covered with a faded Turkey carpet But, amid all this solid splendour, there were certain intimations of feminine elegance in the veil of finely pink paper which covered t!ie nakedness of the empty but highly polished fire- place, and in the hand-screens, which were pro- fusely ornamented with riband of tlie same hue, and one of which afforded a most accurate, if not picturesque view of Margate, while the other glowed with a huge wreath of cabbage roses and jonquils. Ferdinand was not long alone, and Mr. Lcvison, the proprietor of all this splendour, entered. He was a short, stout man, with a grave but handsome countenance, a little bald, but nevertheless with an elaborateness of raiment which might have become a younger man. He wore a plurn-coloured frock c^at of the very finest cloth ; his green velvet waistcoat was guarded by a gold chain, which would have been the envy of a new town councrl ; an immense opal gleamed on the breast of his em- broidered shirt ; and his fingers were covered with very fine rings. " Your sarvant, captin," said Mr. Lcvison ; and he placed a chair for his guest. " How are you, Levison 1" responded our hero in a very easy voice. "Any news'?" Mr. Levison shrugged his shoulders, as he mur- mured, " Times is very bad, captin." " O ! I dare say, old fellow," said Ferdinand, " I wish they were as well with me as with you. By Jove, Levison, you must be making an infernal fortune." Mr. Levison shook his head, as he groaned out, " I work hard, captin ; but times is terrible." " Fiddlededee! Come ! I want you to assist me a little, old fellow, no humbug between us." •'0!" groaned Mr. Lcvison, "you could not 83 come at a worse time; I don't know what mo- ney is." " Of course. However, the fact is, money I must have, and so, old fellow, we are old friends ; and so, damn it, you must get it." " What do you want, captin 1" slowly spoke Mr, Levison, with an expression of misery. " ! I want rather a tolerable sum, and that is the truth ; but I only want it for a moment." "It is not the time, 'tis the money," said Mr Levison. " You know me and my pardner, cap- tin, are always anxious to do what we can to sarve you." " Well, now yoH can do me a real service, and, by Jove, you shall never repent it. To tlie point — I must have 1500/." " One thousand five hundred pound !" exclaim- ed Mr. Levison. " 'Ta'n't in the country." " Humbug. It must be found. What is the use of all this stuff with me 1 I want 1500/., and you must give it me." " I tell you what it is, captin," said ?vf r. Levison, leaning over the back of a chair, and speaking with callous composure, "I tell you what it is, me and my pardner are very willing always to assist you ; but we want to know when this marriage is to come off, and that's the truth." "Damn the marriage," said Captain Armine, rather staggered. " There it is, thougli," said Mr. Levison, very quietly. "You know, captin, there is the arrears on that 'ere annuity, three years next Michaelmas. I think it's Michaelmas — let me see." So saying, Mr. Levison opened an escritoire, and brought for ward A most awful-looking volume, and, consulting the terrible index, turned to the name of Armine. " Yes ! three years next Michaelmas, captin." " Well, you will be paid," said Ferdinand. " We hope so," said Mr. Levison ; " but it is a long figure." " Well, but you get capital interest." " Pish !" said Mr. Levison ; " ten per cent ' W"hy ! it is giving away the money. Why ! that's the raw, captin. With this here new bill, annuities is nothing. Me and my pardner don't do no an nuities now. It's giving money away ; and all this here money locked up — and all to sarve you." "Well; you will not help me?" said Ferdi nand, rising. " Do you raly want fifteen hundred V asked Mr. Levison. " By Jove, I do." " Well now, captin, when is this marriage to come off ? " " Have I not told you a thousand times, and Morris too, that my cousin is not to marry until one year has passed since my grandfather's death. It is barely a year. But of course, at this moment, of all others, I cannot afford to he short." '• Very true, captin ; and we are men to sarve you if we could. But we cannot Never was such times for money ; there is no seeing it How- ever, we will do what we can. Things is going very b;ul at Malta, and that's the truth. There's thai young Catchiniwhocan, we are in with him wery deep; and now he haii left the Fusilecrs, and got into parliament, he don't care this for us. If he would only pay us. you should have the money ; so help me you should." '• But he won't p^y you," said Ferdinand, " What can you do 1" 658 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. " Why, I have a friend," said Mr. Levison, " who I know has got three hundred pound at his banker's, and he might lend it us ; but we sliall have to pay for it." " I suppose so," said Ferdinand, " Well, three hundred." "I have not got a shilling myself," said Mr. Le- vison. " Young Touchemup left us in the lurch yesterday for £750, so help me, and never gave us no notice. Now, you are a gentleman, captin ; you never pay, but you always give us notice." Ferdinand could scarcely resist smiling at Mr. Levison's idea of a gentleman. " Well, what else can you do 1" " W"hy, there is two hundred coming in to-mor- row," said Mr. Levison ; " I can depend on that." " Well, that is five." " And you want fifteen hundred," said Mr. Le- vison. " Well, me and my pardner always like to sarve you, and it is very awkward certainly for you to want money at this moment. But if you want to buy jewels, I can get you any credit you like, you know." " We will talk of that by and by," said Ferdi- nand. •' Fifteen hundred pound," ejaculated Mr. Levi- son. " Well, I suppose we must make it jETOO aomehow or other, and you must take the rest in coals." " ! by Jove, Levison, that is too bad." " I don't see no other way," said Mr. Levison, rather doggedly. " But, damn it, my good fellow, my dear Levi- son, what the dense am I to do with £800 worth of coals V " Lord ! my dear captin, £800 worth of coals is a mere nothing. Witli your connexion you will get rid of tliem in a morning. All you have got to do, you know, is to give your friends an order on us, and we will let you have cash at a little dis- count." " Then you can let me have the cash now at a little discount, or even a great — I cannot get rid of £800 worth of coals." " Why it a'n't four hundred chaldron, captin," rejoined Mr. Levison. "Three or four friends would do the thing. Why ! Baron Squash takes ten thousand chaldron of us every year. But he has such a knack ; he gits the clubs to take them." " Baron Squash, indeed ! Do you know who you are talking to, Mr. Levison 1 Do you think that I am going to turn into a coal merchant ; your working partner, by Jove ! No, sir, give me the £700 without the coals, and charge me what in- terest you please." " We could not do it, captin. 'Ta'n't our way." " I ask you once more, Mr. Levison, will you let me have the money, or will you notl" " Now, captin, don't be so high and mighty ! 'Ta'n't the way to do business. Me and my pard- ner wish to sarve you, we does indeed. And if a hundred pound will be of any use to you, you shall have it on your acceptance, and wewon't be curious about any name that draws, we won't in- deed." " Well, Mr. Levison," said Ferdinand, rising, " I see we can do nothing to-day. The hundred pounds would be of no use to me. I will think over your proposition. Good morning to you." " Ah, do !" said Mr. Levison, bowing and open- the door. " Do, captin. We wish to sarve you, we does, indeed. See how we behave about that arrears. Think of the coals, now do. Now i'or a bargain, come ! Come, captin, I dare say novf you could get us the business of the Junior Sar- vice Club, and then you shall have the seven hun- dred on your acceptance for three months at two shilling in the pound, come !" CHAPTER XI, IN WHICH CAPTAIN AIlMIJfE UN EXPECTEDLT HE- SUME8 HIS ACaCAINTANCE WITH LOllD CATCH IMWHOCAN, WHO IKTRODtJCES HEM TO MR, BOND SHAUPE, FERniNAND quitted his kind friend Mr. Levison in no very amiable mood ; but just as he was leaving the house, a cabriolet, beautifully painted of a bril- liant green colour, picked out with a somewhat cream-coloured white, and drawn by a showy Hol- stein horse of a tawny tint, with a flowing and milk-white tail and mane, and caparisoned in har- ness almost as precious as Mr. Levison's sideboard, dashed up to the door. " Armine. by Jove !" exclaimed the driver, with great cordiality. "Ah! Catch, is it you"!" " What! have you been here?" said Lord Cateh- imwhocan. " At the old work, eh 1 Is * me and my pardner' troublesome, for your countenance is not very radiant?" " By Jove, old fellow !" said Ferdinand, in a de- pressed tone, " I am in an infernal scrape, and also in a cursed rage. Nothing is to be done here." " Never mind," said his lordship ; " keep up your spirits, jump into my cab and we will see how we can carry on the war. I am only going to speak one word to ' me and rpy pardner.' " So saying, his lordship skipped into the house as gay as a lark, although he had a bill for a good round sum about to be dishonoured in the course of a few hours. " Well, my dear Armine," he resumed, when he reappeared and took the reins, " now, as I drive along, tell me all about it. For if there be a man in the world whom I should like to ' sarve,' it is thyself, my noble Ferdinand." With this encouragement. Captain Armine was not long in pouring his cares into a congenial bosom. " I know the man to ' sarve' you," said Catch- imwhocan, " The fact is, these fellows here are regular old-fashioned humbugs. The only idea they have is money, money. They have no en- lightened notions, I will introduce you to a regular trump, and if he does not do our business I am much mistaken. Courage, old fellow. How dc you like this start 1" " Deused neat, By-the-by, Catch, my boy, you are going it rather, I see." " To be sure. I have always told you there is a certain system in aftairs which ever prevents men being floored. No fellow is ever dished who has any connexion. What man that ever had his run was really ever fairly put hors de combat, unless he was some one who ought never to have entered the arena, blazing away without any set, making himself a damned fool, and everybody his enemy. As l»ng as a man bustles about and is iJi a good HENRIETTA TEMPLE 659 set, something always turns up. I got into par- liament, yoa see; and you, you are going to be married." All this time the cabriolet was dashing down Re;?eiit Street, twisting through the Quadrant, whirling along Pall Mall, until it finally entered Cleveland Row, and stopped before a newly painted, newly pointed, and exceedingly compact man.sion, the long brass knocker of whose green door sounded beneath the practised touch of his lordship's tiger. Even the tawny Holslein horse, with the white flowing mane, seemed conscious of the locality, and stopped Iwforc the accustomed resting-place in the most natural manner imaginable. A very tall serving-man, very well powdered, and in a very dark and well appointed livery, immediately ap- peared. " At home 1" inquired Liird Catchirawhocan, with a peculiarly confidential expression. " To you, my lord," responded the attendant. " Jump out, Armine," said his lordsliip, and they entered the house. " Alone 1" said his lordship. "Not alone," said the servant, ushering the friends into the dining-room, "but he shall have your lordship's card immediately. There arc scwral gentlemen waiting in the third drawing- room ; so I have shown your lordship in here, and shall take care that he sees your lordship before any one." " That's a devilish good fellow," said Lord Catchimwhocan, putting his hand into his waist- coat pocket to give him a sovereign ; but not find- ing one, he added, " I shall remember you." The dining-room into which they were shown was at the back of the house, and looked into very agreeable gardens. The apartment, indeed, was in some little confusion at this moment, for their host gave a dinner to-day, and his dinners were famous. The table was arranged for eight guests — its ap- pointments indicated refined taste. A candelabra of Dresden china was the centre piece ; there was a whole service of the same material, even to the handles of the knives and forks; and the choice variety of glass attracted Ferdinand's notice. The room was lofty and spacious ; it was very simplj' and soberly furnished ; not an object which could distract the taste or disturb the digestion. But the sideboard, which filled a recess at the end of the apartment, presented a crowded group of gold plate that might have become a palace — magnificent shields, tall vases, ancient tankards, goblets of carved ivory set in precious metal, and cups of old ruby glass mounted on pedestals, glittering with gems. This accidental display certainly offered an amusing coiih-ast to the perpetual splendour of Mr. I^evison's beaufct; and Ferdinand was wondering whether it would turn out that there was as marked a ditrcr- ence between the two owners, when his companion and himself were summoned to the presence of Mr. Bond Sharpe. They ascended a staircase perfumed with flowers, and on each landing-place was a classic tripod or pedestal crowmed with a bust. And then they were ushered into a drawing-room of Parisian ele- gance ; buhl cabinets, marqueterie tables, hangings of the choicest damask suspended from burnished cornices of old carving. The chairs had been rifled from a Venetian palace ; the couches were part of the spoils of the French revolution. There were glass screens in golden frames, and a clock that represented the death of Hector, the chariot whee of Achilles conveniently telling the hour. A round table of Mosaic, mounted on a golden pedestal, was nearly covered with papers; and from an easy chair supported by air cushions, half rose to wel- come them Mr. Bond Shaqje. He was a man not many years the senior of Captain Armine and his friend, of a very elegant appearance, pale, pensive, and prepossessing. Deep thought was impressed upon his clear and protniding brow, and the ex- pression of his gray sunk eyes, which were deli- cately arched, was singularly searching. His figure was slight, but compact. His dress plain, but a model in its fashion. He was habited entirely in black, and his only ornament were his studs, which were turquoise and of great size ; but there never were such boots, so brilliant and so small ! He welcomed Lord Catchimwhocan in a voice scarcely above a whisper, and received Captain Armine in a manner alike elegant and dignified. " My dear Sharpe," said his lordship, " I am go- ing to introduce to ytju my most particular friend, and an old brother officer. This is Captain Armine, the only son of Sir Ratcliffe, and the heir of Armine Castle. He is going to be married very soon to his cousin. Miss Grandison, the greatest heiress ui England." "Hush, hush," said Ferdinand, shrinking under this false representation, and Mr. Sharpe, with con- siderable delicacy, endeavoured to check his lord- ship. " Well, never mind, I will say nothing about that," continued Lord Catchimwhocan. " The long and the short of it is this, that my friend Ar- mine is hard up, and we must carry on the war till we get into winter quarters. You are just the man for him, and b}' Jove, my dear Sharpe, if you wish sensibly to oblige me, who I am sure am one of your warmest friends, you will do every thing for Armine that human energy can possibly effect." " What is the present diflicully that you have V inquired Mr. Sharpe of our hero, in a calm whisper. " Why, the present difficulty that he has," said Lord Catchimwhocan, " is that he wants £1500." " I suppose you have raised money. Captain Armine 1" said Mr. Sharpe. " In every way," said Captain Armine. " Of course," said Mr. Sharpe, " at your time of life one naturally does. And I suppose you are bothered for this £ 1 500 !" "I am threatened with immediate arrest, and arrest in execution." " Who is the party T" " Why, I fear an unmanageable one, even by you. It is a house at Malta." " Mr. Bolus, I suppose 1" "Exactly." " I thought so." " Well, what can be donel" said Lord Catch- imwhocan. " ! there is no difficulty," said Mr. Sliarpe very quietly. " Captain Armine can have any money he likes." " I shall be happy," said Captain Armine, " to pay any consideration you think fit." "0! my dear sir, I cannot think of that. Money is a drug now. I shall be happy to accommodate j^ou without giving yow any trouble. You can have the £1500 if you please this moment." " Really you are very generous," said Ferdi- nand, very much surprised, " but I feel I am not 660 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. entitled to such favours. What security can I give your' " I lend the money to you. I want no security. You cnn repay me when you Uke. Give me your note of h;md." So saying, Mr. Sharpe opened a drawer, and taking out his check-book drew a draft for the £1500. " I believe I have a stamp in the house," he continued, looking about. " Yes, here is one. If you fill this up, Captain Aniline, the aifair may be concluded at once." " Upon my honour, Mr. Sharpe," said Ferdinand, very confused, "I do not like to appear insensible to this extraordinary kindness, but really I came here by the merest accident, and without any in- tention of soliciting or receiving favours. And my kind friend here has given you much too glowing an account of my resources. It is very probable I shall occasion you great inconvenience." " Really, Captain Armine," said Mr. Sharpe, with a slight smile, " if we were talking of a sum of any importance, why, one might be a little more punctilious, but for such a bagatelle as £1500 we have already wasted too much time in its discussion. I am happy to serve you." Ferdinand stared, remembering Mr. Levison and the coals. Mr. Sharpe himself drew up the note, and presented it to Ferdinand, who signed it and pocketed the draft. "I have several gentlemen waiting," said Mr. Bond Sharpe, " I am sorry I cannot take this op- portunity of cultivating your acquaintance. Captain Armine, but I should esteem it a great honour if you would dine with me to-day. Your friend. Lord Catchimwhocan, favours me with his com- pany, and you might meet a person or two who would amuse you." " I really shall be very happy," said Ferdinand. And Mr. Bond Sharpe again slightly rose and bowed them out of the room. " Well, is not he a trump 1" said Lord Catchim- whocan, when they were once more in the cab. " I am so astonished," said Ferdinand, " that I cannot speak. Who in the name of fortune is this great man V "A genius," said Lord Catchimwhocan. "Don't you think he is a devilish good-looking fellow!" " The best-looking fellow I ever saw," said the grateful Ferdinand. " And capital manners 1" " Most elegant." " Neatest dressed man* in town !" " Exquisite taste !" " What a house !" "Capital!" " Did you ever see such furniture 1 It beats your rooms at Malta." " I never saw any thin^ more complete in my life." " What plate !" " Miraculous !" " And believe me, we shall have the best dinner in town." " Well, he has given rne an appetite," said Fer- dinand. "But who is hel" " Why, by business he is what is called a con- veyancer ; that is to say, he is a lawyer by in- spiration." " He is a wonderful man," said Ferdinand. " He must be very rich." " Yes ; Sharpe must be worth his quarter of a million. And he has made it in such a devilish short time !" " Why, he is not much older than we are 1" " Ten years ago that man was a prizefighter ;" said Lord Catchimwhocan. " A prizefighter !" exclaimed Ferdinand. "Yes; and licked everybody. But he was too great a genius for the ring, and took to the turf." " Ah !" " Then he set up a hell." "Hum!" " And then he turned it into a subscription- house." " Hoh !" " He keeps his hell still, but it works itself now. In the mean time, he is the first usurer in tlie world, and will be in the next parliament." "But if he lends mone)^ on the terms he ao- commodates me, he will hardly increase his fortune." " O ! he can do the thing when he likes. He took a fancy to you. The fact is, my dear fellow, Sharpe is very rich, and wants to get into society. He likes to obHge young men of distinction, and can afibrd to risk a few thousands now and then. By dining with him to-day, you have quite repaid him for his loan. Besides, the fellow has a great soul ; and, though born on a dunghill, nature in- tended him for a palace, and he has placed himself there." " Well, this has been a remarkable morning," said Ferdinand Armine, as Lord Catchimwhocan put him down at his club. "I am very much obliged to you, dear Catch !" " Not a word, my dear fellow. You have helped me before this, and glad am I to be the means of assisting the best fellow in the world, and that we all think you. Au revoir ! We dine at eight." CHAPTER XII. MISS GHANDISOKT MAKES A HEMARKABLE DISCO- VERT. In the mean time, while the gloomy morning which Ferdinand had anticipated terminated with so agreeable an adventure, Henrietta and Miss Grandison, accompanied by Lord Montfort and Glastonbury, paid their promised visit to the Bri- tish Museum. " I am sorry that Captain Armine could not accompany us," said Lord Montfort. " I sent to him this morning very early, but he was already out." " He has many affairs to attend to," said Glas- tonbury. Miss Temple looked grave; she thought of poor Ferdinand and all his cares. She knew well what were those aflairs to which Glastonbury alluded. The thought that perhaps at this moment he was strug- gling with rapacious creditors, made her melancholy. The novelty and strangeness of tlie objects which awaited her, diverted, however, her mind from those painful reflections. Miss Grandison, who had never quitted England, was delighted with every thing she saw ; but the Egyptian gallery prin- cipally attracted the attention of Miss Temple. Lord Montfort, regardful of his promise to Henrietta, was very attentive to Miss Grandison. " I cannot help regretting that your cousin is not here," said his lordship, returning to a key that ho HENRIETTA TEMPLE. C61 had ulreaJy touched. But Kaiherine made no answer, " He seemed so much better for the exertion he made yesterday," resumed Lord Monlfort. " I think it would do him good to be more witli us." " He seems to like to be alone," said Kathcrine. " I wonder at that," said Lord Montfbrt, " I cannot conceive a happier life tlian we all lead." " You have cause to he ha[)py, and Ferdinand has not," said Miss Grandison very calmly. " I should have tbought that he halay. There was, therefore, at first little conversation, save criticism on the perform- ances before them, and that chiefly panegyrical ; each dish was delicious, each wine exquisite; and yet, even in these occasional remarks, Ferdinand was pleased with the lively fancy of his neighbour, affording an elegant contrast to the somewhat gross unction with which Lord Castiefyshe, who.se very soul seemed wrapped up in his occupation, occa- sionalh" expressed himself. " Will you take some wine. Captain Armine 1" said the Count Mirabel, with a winning smile. " You have recently returned here 1" " Very recently," said Ferdinand. " And you are glad V " As it may be, I hardly know whether to rejoice or not." " Then, by all means rejoice," said the count ; " for, if you are in doubt, it surely must be best to decide upon being ])lcased." " I think this is the most infernal country there ever was," said Lord Catchimwhocan. " My dear Catch !" said the Count Mirabel, "you think so, do you? You make a mistake, you think no such thing, my dear Catch. Why is it the most infernal ? Is it because the wo- men are the handsomest, or because the horses are the best? Is it because it is the only country where you can get a good dinner, or because it is the only country where there are fine wines'? Or is it because it is the only place where you can get a coat made, or where you can pla^ without being cheated, or where you can listen to an opera without your ears being destroyed ? Now, my dear Catch, you pass your life in dressing and in playing hazard, in eating good dinners, in drinking good wines, in making love, in going to the opera, and in riding fine horses. Of what, then, have you to complain ?" " O ! the damned climate I" " On the contrary, it is the only good climate there is. In England you can go out every day, and at all hours ; and then, to those who love variety, like myself, you are not sure of seeing the same sky every morning you rise, which, for my part, I think the greatest of all existing sources of ennui." " You reconcile me to my country, count." said Ferdinand, smiling. 664 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. •' Ah ! you are a sensible man ; but that dear Catch is always repeating nonsense which he hears from somebody else. To-morrow," he added, m a low voice, " he will be for the climate." The conversation of men when they congregate together is generally dedicated to one of two sub- jects : politics or women. In the present instance, the party was not political; and it was the fair sex, and particularly the most charming portion of it, in the good metropolis of England, that were subjected to the poignant criticism, or the profound specula- tion, of these practical philosophers. There was scarcely a celebrated beauty in London, from the proud peeress to the vain opera-dancer, whose charms and conduct were not submitted to their masterly analysis. And yet it would be but fliir to admit, that their critical ability was more emi- nent and satisfactory than their abstract reasoning upon this interesting topic ; for it was curious to observe that, though every one present piqued himself upon his profound knowledge of the sex, not two of the sages agreed in the constituent principles of female character. One declared that women were governed by their feelings ; another maintained that they had no heart; a third pro- pounded that it was all imagination ; a fourth that it was all vanity. Lord Castlefyshe muttered something about their passions, and Charley Dori- court declared that they had no passions whatever. But they all agreed in one thing, to wit, that the man who permitted himself a moment's uneasiness about a woman was a fool. All this time, Captain Armine spoke little, but ever to the purpose and chiefly to the Count Mira- bel, who pleased him. Being very handsome, and moreover of a very distinguished appearance, this silence on the part of Ferdinand made him a gene- ral favourite, and even Mr. Bevil whispered his approbation to Lord'Catchimwhocan. " The fact is," said Charles Doricourt, " it is only boys and old men who are plagued by women. Thev take advantage of either state of childhood. Eh f Castlefyshe V "In that respect, then, somewhat resembling you, Charley," replied his lordship, who did not admire the appeal. " For no one can doubt you plagued your father ; I was out of my teens, for- tunately, before you played ecarte." " Come, good old Fyshe," said Count Mirabel, " take a glass of claret, and do not look so fierce. You know very well Charley learned every thing of you." " Ho never learned of me to spend a fortune upon an actress," said his lordship ; " I have spent a fortune, but, thank Heaven, it was on myself" " Well, as for that," said the count, " I think there is something great in being ruined for one's friends. If I were as rich as I might have been, I wouL not spend much on myself My wants are few; — a fine house, fine carriages, fine horses, a complete wardrobe, the best opera box, the first cook, and pocket money — that is all I require. I have these, and I get on pretty well ; but if I had a princely fortune, I would make every good fellow I know ([uite hap|)y." " Well," said Charles Doricourt, " you are a lucky fellow, Mirabel. I have had horses, houses, carriages, opera boxes, and cooks, and I have had a great estate ; Imt pocket money I never could got. Pocket money was the tiling wliich always cost me the most to buy of all." The conversation now fell upon the theatre, Mr. Bond Sharpe was determined to have a theatre. He believed it was reserved for him to revive the drama. Mr. Bond Sharpe piqued himself upon his patronage of the stage. He certainly had a great admiration of actresses. There was some- thing in the management of a great theatre which pleased the somewhat imperial fancy of Mr. Bond Sharpe. The manager of a great theatre is a kind of monarch. Mr. Bond Sharpe longed to seat himself on the throne, with the prettiest women in London for his court, and all his fashionable friends rallying round their sovereign. He had an impression that great results might be obtained with his organizing energy and illimitable capital. Mr. Bond Sharpe had unbounded confidence in the power of capital. Capital was his deity. He was confident that it could always produce alike genius and triumph. Mr. Bond Sharpe was right: capital is a wonderful thing, but we are scarcely aware of this fact until we are past thirty ; and then, by some singular process which we vi'ill not now stop to analyze, one's capital is in general sensibly diminished. As men advance in life, all passions resolve themselves into money. Love,' ambition, even poetry, end in this. "Are you going to Shropshire's this autumn, Charley ?" said Lord Catchimwhocan. " Yes, I shall go." " I don't think I shall," said his lordship, " it is such a bore." " It is rather a bore, but he is a good fellow." " I shall go," said Count Mirabel. " You are not afraid of being bored 1" said Fer- dinand, smiling. " Between ourselves, I do not understand what this being bored is," said the count. " He who is boretl appears to me a bore. To be bored supposes the inability of being amused ; you must be a dull fellow. Wherever I may be, I thank Heaven that I am always diverted." "But you have such nerves, Mirabel;" said Lord Catchimwhocan. "By Jove I I envy you, you are never floored;" " Floored ! what an idea ! What should floor me ] I live to amuse myself, and I do nothing that docs not amuse me. Why should I be floored V " Why, I do not know, but every other man is floored now and then. As for me, my spirits are sometimes something dreadful." " When you have been losing." " Well, we cannot always win. Can we, Sharpe ? That would not do. But, by Jove ! you are always in a good humour, Mirabel, when you lose." " Fancy a man ever being in low spirits," said the Count Mirabel. " Life is too short for such betises. The most unfortunate wretch alive calcu- lates unconsciously tiiat it is better to live than to die. Well, then, he has something in his favour. Existence is a pleasure, and the greatest. The world cannot rob us of that, and if it be better to live than to die, it is better to live in a good humour than a bad one. If a man be convinced that ex- istence is the greatest pleasure, his happiness may he increased by good fortune, but it will be essen- tially independent of it. He who feels that the greatest source of pleasure always remains to him, ought never to be miserable. The sun shines on all; every man can go to sleep; if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is something to look upon cue HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 665 if you have not a fine ilinncr, there is some amuse- ment in a rruft of bread and Gruyere. Feci slightly, think little, never plan, never brooJ. Every thing depends upon the circulation ; take care of it. Take the world as you find it, enjoy every tiling. Vive la bagatelle !" Here the gentlemen arose, took their coffee, and ordered their carriages, " Come with us," said Count Mirabel to Ferdi- nand. Our hero accepted the offer of his agreeable ac- quaintance. There was a great prancing and rush- ing of horses and cabs and vis-a-vis, at Mr. Bond Sharpe's door, and in a fi'w minutes the whole par- ty were dashing up St. James's Street, where they stopped before a splendid building, resplendent with lights and illuminated curtains. " Come, we will make j-ou an honorary member, mon cher Ca[)tain Annine," said the Count; "and do not say, Oh ! lasciate ogni speranza, when you enter here." They ascended a magnificent staircase, and en- tered a sumptuous and crowded saloon, in which the entrance of the Count Mirabel and his friends made no little sensation. Mr. Bond Sharpe glided along, dropping oracular sentences, without conde- scending to stop to speak to those whom he ad- dressed. Charley Doricourt and Mr. Blandford walked away together towards a further apartment. Lord Castlefyshe and Lord Catchimwhocan were soon busied with ecarte. " Well, Faneville, good general, how do you do!" said the Count Mirabel. " Where have you dined to-day 1 — at the Balcombes' 1 You are a verv- brave man, mon general ! Ah ! Stock, good Stock, excellent Stock," he continued, addressing Mr. Million de Stockville, "that Burgundy you sent me is capital. Hov\' are you, my dear fellow ? Quite well ? Fit7.warrene, I did that for you : your business is all right. Ah ! my good Massey, mon cher, mon brave, Anderson will lot you have that horse. And what is doing here 1 Is there any fun'? Fitzwarrcne, let me introduce you to my friend Captain Armine :" (in a lower tone) " excel- lent garden ! You will like him very much. We have been all dining at Bond's." " A good dinner 1" " Of course a good dinner. I should like to see a man who would give me a bad dinner ; that would be a bf^tise, to ask me to dine, and then give me a bad diinier !" " I say, Mirabel," exclaimed a young man, "have you seen Horace Poppington about the match?" "It is arranged; 'tis the day after to-morrow, at nine o'clock." " Well, I bet on you, you know." "Of course you bet on me. Would you think of betting on that good Pop, with that gun 1 Pah ! Eh bien ! I shall go in the next room." And the Count walked away, followed by Mr. Bovil. Ferdinand remained talking for some time with Lord Fitzwarrcne. By degrees the great saloon had become somewhat thinner ; some had stolen away to the House, where a division was expected ; quiet men, who just looked in after dinner, had re- tired ; and the play-im-n were etigaged in the con- tiguous apartments. Mr. Bond Sharpe approached Ferdinand, and Lord P^itzwarrene took this oppor- tunity of withdrawing. "I bt'lieve yui never play, Captain Armine," ■aid Mr. Bond Sharpe. 84 " Never," said Ferdinand. " You are quite right." " I am rather surprised at your being of that op nion," said Ferdinand, with a smile. Mr. Bond Sharpe shrugged his shoulders " There will always be votaries enough," said Mr. Bond Sharpe, " whatever may be my o[)inion." " This is a magnificent establishment of yours," said Ferdinand. " Yes ; it is a very magnificent establishment. I have spared no exjiensc to produce the most per- fect thing of the kind in Europe ; and it is the most perfect thing of the kind. I am confident that no noble in any country has an establishment better appointed. I despatched an agent to the Continent to procure this furniture : his commission had no limit, and he was absent two years. My cook was with Charles X.; the cellar is the most choice and con- siderable that was ever collected. I take a pride in the thing; but I lose money by it." " Indeed !" " I have made a fortune ; there is no doubt of that ; but I did not make it here." " It is a great thing to make a fortune," said Fer- dinand. " Very great," said Mr. Bond Sharpe. " There is only one thing greater, and that is, to keep it when made." Ferdinand smiled. " Many men can make fortunes ; few can keep them," said Mr. Bond Sharpe. " Money is power, and rare are the heads that can withstand the pos- session of great power." " At any rate, it is to be hoped tliat you have dis- covered this more important secret," said Ferdinand; " though, I confess, to judge from my own expe- rience, I should fear that you are too generous." " I had forgotten that to wliich you allude," said his companion, very quietly. " But with regard to myself, whatever may be my end, I have not yet reached my acme." " Yon have at least my good wishes," said Fer- dinand. " I may some day claim them," said Mr. Bond Sharpe. "My position," he continued, "isdiflicult. I have risen by pursuits which the world does not consider reputable, yet if I had not had recourse to them, I should be less than nothing. My mind, I think, is equal to my fortune. I am still young, and I would now avail m^'self of my power and esta- blish myself in the land, a recognised member of so- ciety. But this cannot be. Society shrinks from an obscure foundling, a prize fighter, a leg, a hell- keeper, and a usurer. Debarred therefore from a fair theatre for my energy and capital, I am forced to occupy, perhaps exhaust, myself in multiplied speculations. Hitherto they have flourished, and perhaps mj' theatre, or my newspaper, may be as profitable as my stud. But — I would gladly eman- ci[)ate myself. These eflorts seem to me, as it were, unnecessary and unnatural. The great object has been gained. It is a tempting of fate. I have sometimes thought myself the Aapoleon of the sport- ing world ; I may yet find my St. Helena." " Forewarned, forearmed, Mr. Sharpe." "I move in a magic circle: it is diliicult to extri- cate myself from it. Now, for instance, there is not a man in that room who is not my slave. You seo how they treat me. They place me upon an equal- ity with them. They know my weakness, they fool me up to the top of mv bent. And yet there is not ska b66 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. a mail in that room, who, if I were to break to-mor- row, would walk down St. James's Street to serve nie. Yes ! there is one — there is the count. He has a great and generous soul. I believe Count Mirabel sympathizes with my situation. I beheve he does not think, because a man has risen from an origin the most ignoble and obscure, to a very pow- erful position, by great courage and dexterity, and let me add also, by some profound thought; by strug- gling too, be it remembered, with a class of society as little scrupulous though not as skilful as himself, that he is necessarily an infamous character. What if, at eighteen years of age, without a friend in the world, trusting to the powerful frame and intrepid spirit with which nature had endowed me, I flung myself into the ring ] Who should be a gladiator if I were not? Is that a crime? What if, at a later period, with a brain for calculation which none can rival, I invariably succeeded in that in which the greatest men in the country fail ] Am I to be branded, because I have made half a million by a good book 1 WHiat if I have kept a gambling house '? From the back parlour of an oyster shop, my hazard table has been removed to this palace. Had the j)lay been foul, this metamorphosis would never have occurred. It is true I am a usurer. My dear sir, if all the usurers in this great metropolis could only pass in procession before you at this moment, how you would start! You might find some Right Honourables among them ; many a great function- ary, many a grave magistrate ; fathers of families, liie very models of respectable characters, patrons and presidents of charitable institutions, and sub- scribers for the suppression of those very gaming houses, whose victims in nine cases out of ten are their principal customers. I speak not in bitterness. On the whole I must not complain of the world, but I have seen a great deal of mankind, and more than most of what is considered its worst portion. The world. Captain Armine, believe me, is neither as Dad nor as good as some are apt to suppose. And, after all," said Mr. Sharpe, shrugging up his shoul- ders, "perhaps we ought to say with our friend the count, ' Vive la bagatelle !' Will you take some supper ■?" CHAPTER XIV. MISS OnANBISOX PiaCES THE CURIOSITY OF LORD MONTFORT, AND COUNT MIRABEL DRIVES FF.R- DINAND DOWN TO RICHMOND, WHICH DRIVE ENDS IN AN AGKEF.ABLE ADVENTURE AND AN UNEXPECTED CONFIDENCE. 1 HE discovery that Henrietta Temple was the secret object of Ferdinand's unhappy passion, was a secret which Miss Grandison prized like a true wo- man. Not only had she made this discovery, but from her previous knowledge and her observation during her late interview with Miss Temple, Kathe- rine was persuaded that Henrietta must still love her cousin as before. Miss Grandison was extreme- ly attached to Henrietta ; she was interested in her cousin's welfare, and devoted to the Armine family. All her thoughts and all her energies were now en- gaged in counteracting, if possible, the consequences of those unhappy misconceptions which had placed them all in this painful situation. It was on the next day that she had promised to accompany the dutchoss and Henrietta on a water excursion. Lord Montfort was to be their cavalier. In tlie morning she found herself alone with his lordship in St. James's Square. " What a charming day !" said Miss Grandison. " I anticipate so much pleasure ! Who is our party 1" " Ourselves alone," .said Lord Montfort. " Lady Armine cannot come, and Captain Armine is en- gaged. I fear you v/ill find it very dull, Miss Grandison." " O ! not at all. By-the-by, do you know I was very much surprised yesterday at finding that Fer- dinand and Henrietta were such old acquaintances." " Were you V said Lord Montfort, i.'i a very pe- culiar tone. " It is very odd that Ferdinand never will go with us anywhere. I think it is very bad taste." " I think so too," said Lord Montfort. " I should have thought that Henrietta was the very person he would have adjnircd ; that he would have been quite glad to be with us. I can easily understand his being wearied to death with a cousin," said Miss Grandison ; " but Henrietta, it is so very strange that he should not avail himself of the delight of being with her." " Do you really think that such a cousin as Miss Grandison can drive him away ?" " Why, to tell you the truth, my dear Lord Mont- fort, Ferdinand is placed in a very awkward position with me. You are our friend, and so I speak to you in confidence. Sir Ratclifle and Lady Armine both expect that Ferdinand and myself are going to be married. Now neither of us have the slight- est intention of any thing of the sort." " Very strange, indeed," said Lord Montfort " The world will be very much astonished, more so than myself, for I confess to a latent suspicion on the subject." " Yes, I was aware of that," said Miss Grandi- son, " or I should not have spoken with so much frankness. For my own part, I think we are very wise to insist upon having our own way, for an ill- assorted marriage must l)e a most melancholy busi- ness." Miss Grandison spoke with an air almost of levity, which was rather unusual with her. " An ill-assorted marriage," said Lord Montfort. " And what do you call an ill-assorted marriage, Miss Grandison 1" " Why, many circumstances might constitute such a union," said Katherine ; " but I think if one of the jiarties were in love with another person, that would be quite sufficient to insure a tolerable portion of wretchedness." '' I think so, too," said Lord Montfort ; " a union, under such circumstances, would be very ill-assort- ed. But Miss Grandison is not in that situation]" he added with a faint smile. " That is scarcely a fair question," said Kathe- rine, with great gayety, " but there is no doubt Fer- dinand Armine is." " Indeed !" " Yes ; he is in love, desperately in love ; that I have long discovered. I wonder with whom it can be?" " I wonder !" said Lord Montfort. "Do you"?" said Miss Grandison. "Well, I have sometimes thought that you might have a la- tent suspicion of that subject, too. I thought you were his confidant." " I !" said Lord Montfort ; " I, of all men in the world !" " And why not you of all men in the world 1" said Miss Grandison. HENRIETTA TEMPLE. CG7 "Our intimacy is so slight," said Lord Mont- fort. "Hum!" said Miss Graiidison. "And now I tliink of it, it does appear to inc very strange how wc have all become suddenly such intimate friends. The Armines and your family not previously ac- quainted ; Miss Temple, too, unknown to my aunt and uncle. And yet we never live now out of each other's siu;ht. I am sure I am veiy grateful for it ; I am sure it is very agreeable, but still it docs ap- pear to me to be very odd. 1 wonder what the reason can be 1" ' "It is that you are so charming, Miss Grandi- son," said Lord Montfort. " A comjiliment from. you !" "Indeed, no compliment, dearest Miss Grandi- son," said Lord Montfort, drawing near her. " Fa- voured as Miss Temple is in so many respects, in none, in my opinion, is she more fortunate than in the possession of so admirable a friend." " Not even in the possession of so admirable a lover, my lord 1" " All must love Miss Temple who are acquainted with her," said Lord Montfort, very seriously. " Indeed, I diink so," said Kathcrine, in a more subduod voice, " I love her ; her career fills nie with a strange and singular interest. May she be happy, for happiness she indeed deserves I" " I have no fonder wish than to secure that hap- piness, Miss Grandison," said Lord Montfort ; — " by any means," he added. " She is so interesting I" said Katherine. " When you first knew her she was very ill ?" " Very." " She seems quite recovered." " I hope so." " Mr. Temple says her spirits are not what they used to be. I wonder what was the matter with her?" liOrd Montfort was silent. " I cannot bear to see a fine spirit broken," con- tinued .Miss Grandison. " There was Ferdinand. I if you had but known my cousin before he was unhappy. ! that was a spirit ! ! he was the most brilliant being that ever lived. And then 1 was with him during all his illness. It was so terrible. I almost wish that we could have loved each other. It is very strange, he must have been ill at Armine, at the very time Henrietta was ill in Italy. And I was with him in England, while you were solacing her. And now we an- all friends. Tiicre seems a sort of strange destiny in our lots, does there not 1" " A happy lot that can in any way be con- nected witli Miss Grandison," said Lord Mont- fort. At this moment her grace and Henrietta entered; the carriage was ready ; and in a few minutes they were driving to Vhitehall Stairs, where a beautiful boat awaited them. In the mean time Ferdinand .\rmine was re- volving the strange occurrences of yesterday. Al- foffethcr it was an exciting and satisfactory day. In the first place, he had extricated himself from his most ]>re.ssing difliculties ; in the next, he had been greatly amused; and, tliirdly, he had made a very interesting- aciiuaintance, for such he esteemed Count Mirabel. Just at the very moment when, lounging over a very late breakfast, he was think- ing of Bond Sharpe and his great career, and then turning in his mind whether it were possible to follow the gay counsels of his friends of yesterday and never plague himself about a woman again, the Count Mirabel was announced. " Mon chcr Armine," said the count, " you see I kept my promise, and would find you at home." The count stood before him, the best dressed man in London, fresh and gay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye bright with bonhomie. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very last to desert the recent mysteries of Mr. Bond Sharpe's ; and, as usual, the daijplcd light of dav.n had guided liim to his luxurious bed — that bed that always afforded him serene slumbers, vi'hatever might be the adventures of the day, or the result of the night's campaign. How the Count Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils, who wake only to morali/,e over their own follj- with broken spirits and aching heads ! Care — he knew nothing about; time he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. He had never been ill in his life, even for five minutes. Ferdinand was really very glad to see him ; there was something in the Count Mirabel's very pre- sence which put everybody in good spirits. His light-iieartcdncss was caught by all. Melancholy was a farce in the pre=encc of his smile ; and there was no possible combination of scrapes that could vyithstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the present moment Ferdinand was in a sufficiently good humour with his destiny, and he kept up the ball with efl'ect; so that nearly an hour passed in very anmsing conversation. " You were a stranger among us yesterday. ' said Count Mirabel, " I think you were rather di- verted. I saw you did justice to that excellent Bond Sliarpe. That shows that you have a mind above prejudice. Do you know he was by far the best man at table except ourselves 1" Ferdinand smiled. " It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old Castlefyshe has neither. As for the rest of our friends, some have hearts without brains, and the rest brains without hearts. Which do you pre- fer?" " 'Tis a fine question," said Ferdinand ; " and yet I confess I should like to be callous." " Ah ! but you cannot be," said the count, " you have a soul of great sensibihty — I see that in a moment." " You sec very far, and very quicklj'. Count Mirabel," said Ferdinand, with a little reserve. "Yes; in a minute," said the count, "in a minute I read a person's character. I know you are very much in love, because you changed coun- tenance yesterday when we wp'e talking of wi>- men." Ferdinand changed countenance again. " You are a veiy extraordinary man, count," he at length observed. " Of course ; but, mon cher Armine, what a fine day this is ! What are you going to do with your- self!" " Nothing ; I never do any thing," said Ferdi nand in an almost mournful tone. "A melancholy man! Quelle betise! I will cure you; I will be your friend, and put you all right. Now, we will just drive down to Rich- mond ; wc will have a light dinner — a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of Champagne, and llien we will go to the French play. I will introduce yoo to Jenny Vertpre. She is full of wit ; perhaps shr 66S D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. will ask us to supper. Allons, mon ami, mon cher Armine; allons, mon brave I" Ceremony was a farce with Alcibiades de Mira- bel. Ferdinand had nolhinar to do; he was at- tracted to his companion. The effei-vescence pro- duced by yesterday's fortunate adventure had not quite subsided ; he was determined to forget his sorrows, and, if only for a day, join in the lively chorus of Vive la bagatelle ! So, in i few moments he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabrio- let in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud consciousness of its mas- ter. The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Rich- mond as if he had never been to Richmond in his life. The warm sun, the western breeze, every ob- ject he passed and that passed him, called for his praise or observation. He inoculated Ferdinand with his gayety, as Ferdinand listened to his light lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of merriment, and poignant truth, and daring fancy. When they had arrived at the Star and Garter, and ordered their dinner, they strolled into the Park, along the Terrace walk ; and they had not proceeded fifty paces, when they came up with the dutchess and her party, who were resting on a bench and looking over the vallev. Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and passed on ; but that was impossible. He was obliged to stop and speak to them, and it was difficult to disembarra'^s himself of friends who greeted him so kindly. Ferdinand presented his companion. The ladies were very charmed to know so celebrated a gentleman, of whom they had heard so much. Count Mirabel, who had the finest tact in the world, but whose secret spell, after all, was perhaps only that he was always natural, adapted himself in a moment to the characters, the scene, and the occasion. He was quite delighted at these unex- pected sources of amusement, that so unexpectedly revealed themselves ; and in a few n\inutes they had all agreed to walk together, and in due time the dutchess was begging Ferdinand and his friend to dine with them. Before Ferdinand could frame an excuse, Count Mirabel had ac- cepted the proposition. After passing the morn- ing together so agreeably, to go and dine in sepa- rate rooms, it wotdd be a betise. This word betise settled every thing with Count Mirabel ; when once he declared that any thing was a betlse, he would hear no more. It was a most charming stroll. Never was Count Mirabel more playful, more engaging, more com- pletely winning. Henrietta and Katherine alike smiled upon him, and the dutchess was quite en- chanted. Even Lord Montfort, who might rather have entertained a prejudice against the covmt be- fore he knew him — and none can after — and who was prepared for something rather brilliant, but pre- tending, presumptuous, fantastic, and affected, q\iite yielded to his amiable gayety, and his racy and thoroughly genuine and simple manner. So they walked, and talked, and laughed, and all agreed that it was the most fortunately fine day and the most felicitous rencontre that had ever occurred, until the dinner hour was at hand. The count was at her grace's side, and she was leaning on Miss Tem- ple's arm. Lord Montfort and Miss Grandison had fallen back apace, as their party had increased. Ferdinand fluttered between Miss Temple and his cousin; but would have attached himself to the lat- ter, had not Miss Temple occasionally addressed him. He was glad, however, when they returned to dinner. " We have only availed ourselves of your grace's permission to join our dinners," said Count Mira- bel, offering the dutchess his arm. He placed him- self at the head of the table, Lord Montfort took the other end. To the surprise of Ferdinand, Miss Grandison, with a lieedlessness that was quite re- markable, seated herself next to the dutchess, so that Ferdinand was obliged to sit by Henrietta Temple, who was thus separated from Lord Montfort. The dinner was as gay as the stroll. Ferdinand was the only person who was rather silent. " How amusing he is !" said Miss Temple, turn ing to Ferdinand, and speaking in an under tone "Yes; I envy him his gayetv." " Be gay." " I thank you, I dare say I shall in time, I ha^e not yet quite embraced all Count Mirabel's philoso- phy. He says that the man who plagues himself for five minutes about a woman, is an idiot. When I think the same, which I hope I may soon, I dare say I shall be as gay." Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Ferdi- nand. They returned by water. To Ferdinand's great annoyance, the count did not hesitate for a moment to avail himself of the dutchess's proposal that he and his companion should form part of the crew. He gave immediate orders that his cabriolet should meet him at Whitehall Stairs, and Ferdinand found there was no chance of escape. It was a delicious summer evening. The setting sun bathed the bowers of Fulham with refulgent light, just as they were oft' delicate Rosebank; but the air long continued warm, and always soft, and the last few miles of their pleasant voyage were tinted by the young and glittering moon. "I wish we had brought a guitar," said Miss Grandison ; " Count Mirabel, I am sure, would sing to us V '• And you, you will sing to us without a guitar, will you not!" said the count, smiling. "Henrietta, will you sing !" said Miss Grandi son. " With you." " Of course ; now you must," said the count, so they did. This gliding home to the metropolis on a sum- mer eve so soft and still, with beautiful faces, as should always be the case, and with sweet sounds, as was the present, — there is something very ravish- ing in the combination. The heart opens; it is a dangerous moment. As Ferdinand listened once more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it was blended with the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, the passionate past vividly recurred to him. For- tunately he did not sit near her; he had taken care to be the last in the boat. He turned away his face, but its stern expression did not escape the ob- servation of the Count Mirabel. " And now. Count Mirabel, you must really fa- vour us," said the dutchess. " Without a guitar," said the count, and he began thrumming on his arm, for an accompaniment. " Well, when I was with the Due d'Angouleme in Spain, we sometimes indulged in a serenade at Seville. I will try to remember one." HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 669 A SEUENADE OF SEVILLE. fonip forth, comB forth, the sxai we love If hL'h ii'er Guadaliiiiivrr's move, And lirus each tree with snlden lichl; Ah! Rosalie, one smile from theo were far more bright! n. Come forth, come fonli, the flowers that fear To blossom in the sun's carper, The moonlight with ilieir odours greet; Ah! Rosalie, one sigli from thee were far more sweet! III. Come forth, come forth, one hour of niirht, When flowers are fresh, and stars are bright, Were worth nn aire of mainly day ; Then, Rosalie, fly, fly io me ; nor longer stay ! " I hope the lady came," said Miss Temple, " af- t< r such a pretty sonff." " Of course," said the count, " they always come." " Ferdinand, will you sing i" said Miss Grandi- iwn. " I cannot, Katherine." " Henrietta, ask Ferdinand to sing," said Miss Grandison; ''he makes it a rule never to do any tiling I ask him, but I am sure you have more in- fluence." Lord Montfort came to the rescue of Miss Tem- ple. " Miss Temple has spoken so often to us of your singing, Captain Armine !" said his lordship, and yet Lord Montfort, in this allegation, a little departed from the habitual exactitude of his state- ments. " How very strange !" thought Ferdinand ; " her callousness or her candour baffles me. " I will try to sing," he continued aloud, " but it is a year really since I ever did." In a voice of singular power and melody — and with an expression which increased as he proceeded, until the singer seemed scarcely able to control his emotions — Captain Armine thus proceeded — CAPTAIIT ARMINe's SONO. I. My heart is like a silent lute Some faithless hand has thrown aside. Those cliords are dumb, those tones are mule, That once sent forth a voice of pride ! Yet even o'er the lute neclecteo The wind of heaven will sometimes fly, And even thus the heart dejected. Will sometimes answer to a sigh! II. And yet to feel another's power May Lrrasp the prize for which I pine. And 01 hers now may plucit the flower I cherish'd for this heart of mine — No more, no more ! The hand forsaking, The lutP must fall, and shiver'd lie In silence: and my heart, thus breaking Responds not even to a sigh ! Miss Temple seemed busied with her shawl ; perhaps she felt the cold ; Count Mirabel, next whom she sat, was about to assist her. Her face was turned to the water ; it was streaming with tears. Without appearing to notice. Count Mirabel leant forward, and engaged everybody's attention ; so that she was unobserved and had time to recover. And yet she was aware that the Count Mirabel had remarked her emotion, and was grateful for his (piick and delicate consideration. It was very for- tunate that Westminster Bridge was now in sight, for after this song of Captain Armine, every one became very dull or very pensive ; even Count Mi- rabel was silent. The ladies and Lord Montfort entered their britch- ska. They bid a cordial adieu to Count Mirabel, and begged him to call upon them in St. James's Square, and the count and Ferdinand were alone. " Cher Armine," said .'he count, as he was driv- ing up Charing Cross, " Catch told me you were going to marry your cousin. Which of those two young ladies is your cousin ]" " 'I'he fair girl, Miss Grandison." " So I understood. She is very pretty, but you are not going to marry her, are you ]" " No ; I am not." " And who is Miss Temple 1" " She is going to be married to Lord Montfort." " Diablo ! But what a fortunate mani What do you think of that Miss Temple 1'' *' I think of her as all, I suppose, must." " She is beautiful , she is the most beautiful wo- man I ever saw. She marries for money, I sup- po.se 1" " She is the richest heiress in England; she is much richer than lay cousin." " C'est drolc. But she does not want to marry Lord Montfort." 'Why!" " Because, my dear fellow, she is in love with you." " By Jove ! Mirabel, what a fellow you are ! What do you mean 1" " Mon cher Armme, I like you more than any- body. I wish to be, I am your friend. Here is some cursed contretemps. There is a mystcrj', and both of you are victims of it. Tell me every thing. I will put you right." " Ah ! my dear Mirabel, it is past even your skill. I thought I could never speak on these things to a human being, but I am attracted to you by the same sympathy which you flatter me by expressing for myself. I want a confidant, I need a friend — I am most wretched." " Eh bien ! we will not go to the French play. As for Jenny Vertpre, we can sup with her any night. Come to my house, and we will talk over every thing. But trust me, if you wish to marry Henrietta Temple, you are an idiot if you do not have her." So saying, the count touched his bright horse, and in a few minutes the cabriolet stopped before a small but admirably appointed house in Berkeley Square. " Now, mon cher," said the count, " coffee and confidence !" CHAPTER XV. IJf WHICH THE COUNT MIIIAMF.I. COMMENCES HIS OPERATIONS WITH GIIKAT SUCCESS. Is there a more gay and graceful spectacle in the world than Hyde Park, at the end of a long sun- / ny morning in the merry month of May or June ? Where can we see such beautiful women, such gallant cavaliers, such fine horses, and such bril- liant equipages ? The scene, too, is worthy of such agreeable accessaries : the groves, the gleam- ing waters, and the triumphal arches. In the dis- tance, the misty heights of Surrey, and the bow- ery glades of Kensington. It was the day after the memorable voyage from Richmond. Eminent among tl e glittering throng. C70 D'lSRAELI'S NO\^ELS. Count Mirabel cantered along on his Arabian, scat- tering gay recognitions and bright words. He rein- ed in his steed beneath a tree, under whose shade were assembled a knot of listless cavaliers. The count received their congratulations, for this morn- ing he had won his pigeon match. " Only think of that old fool, Castlefyshe, bet- ting on Poppingfon," said the count. " I want to see him — old idiot ! Who knows where Char- ley is?" " I do, Mirabel," said Lord Catchimwhocan. " He has gone to Richmond with Blandford and the two little Fiirzlers." " That good Blandford ! Whenever he is in love, he always gives a dinner. It is a droll way to succeed." " Apropos, will you dine with me to-day, Mira- •>en" said Mr. de Stockville. " Impossible, my dear fellow ; I dine with Fitz- warrene." " I say, Mirabel," drawled out a young man, " I saw you yesterday driving a man down to Rich- mond yourself Who is your friend 1" " No one you know, or will know. 'Tis the best fellow that ever lived ; but he is under my guidance, and I shall be very particular to whom he is introduced." " Lord ! I wonder who he can be V said the young man. " I say, Mirabel, you will be done on Goshawk, if you don't take care, I can tell you that." " Thank you, good Coventry ; if you like to bet the odds, I will take them." " No, my dear fellow, I do not want to bet ; but at the same time " " You have an opinion that you will not back. That is a luxury, for certainly it is of no use. I would advise you to enjoy it." " Well, I nuist say, Mirabel," said Lord Catchim- whocan, " I think the same about Goshawk." "0.! no, Catch, you do not think so; — you think you think. Go and take all the odds you can get upon Goshawk. Come, now, to-morrow you will tell me you have a very pretty book. Eh ! mon cher Catch V " But do you really think Goshawk Avill win V asked Lord Catchimwhocan, very earnestly. " Certain !" " Well, damned if I don't go and take the odds," said his lordship. " Mirabel," said a young noble, moving his horse close to the count, and speaking in a low voice, " shall you be at home to-morrow morning T" " Certainly. But what do you want ?" " I am in a devil of a scrape ; I do not know what to do. I want you to advise me." The count moved aside with this cavalier. "And what is itl" said he, " Have you been losing?" " No, no," .said the young man, shaking his head. " Much worse. It is the most infernal busi- ness ; I do not know what I shall do. I tliink I shall cut my throat." * Betise ! It cannot be very bad, if it be not money." " O ! my dear Mirabel, you do not know what tro\ible I am in." " Mon chor Henri, soyez tranquille," said the ccnuit, in a kind voice. " I am your friend. Rest assured I will arrange it. Thiidc no more of it until to-morrow at one o'clock, and then call ou me. sent.' If you like, I am at your service at pre " No, no — not here : there are letters. " Ha ! ha ! Well, to-morrow — at one. In the mean time, do not write any nonsense." I At this moment the dutchess, with a party of equestrians, passed and bowed to the Count Mira- , bel. " I say, Mirabel," exclaimed a young man, " who is that girl ? I want to know. I have seen her ! several times lately. By Jove, she is a fine crea- ture !" " Do you not know Miss Temple ?" said the count. " Fancy a man not knowing Miss Tem- ple ! She is the only woman in London to be looked at." Now there was a great flutter in the band, and nothing but the name of Miss Temple was heard. All vowed they knew her very well — at least by .sight — and never thought of anybody else. Some asked the count to present them — others meditated plans by which that great result might be obtained ; but, in the midst of all this agitation. Count Mira- bel cantered away, and was soon by the very lady's side. " What a charming voyage yesterday," said the count to Miss Temple. " You were amused ?" " Very." " And to think you should all know my friend Armine so well ! I was astonished, for he will never go anywhere, or speak to any one." " You know him very intimately ?" said Miss Temple. " He is ray brother ! There is not a human be- ing in the world I love so much ! If you only knew him as I know him. Ah ! chere Miss Temple, there is not a man in London to be compared with him, so clever and so good ! What a heart ! so tender ! and what talent ! There is no one so spirituel !" " You have known him long, count ?" " Always : but of late I find a great change in him. I cannot discover what is the matter with him. He has gi-own melancholy. I think ho will not live." " Indeed !" " ?io : I am never wrong. That cher Armiiie will not live." " You are his friend, surely " " Ah ! yes ; but — I do not know what it is. Even me he cares not for. I contrive sometimes to get him about a little ; yesterday, for instance ; but to-day, you see, he will not move. There he is, sitting alone, in a dull hotel, with his eyes fixed on the ground, dark as night. Never was a man so changed. I suppose something has happened to him abroad. When you first knew him, I dare say now, he was the gayest of the gay ?" " He was indeed very different," said Miss Tem- ple, turning away her face. " You have known that dear Armine a long time ?" " It seems a very long time," said Miss Temple. "If he dies, and die he must, I do not think I shall ever be in very good spirits again," said the count. " It is the only thing that would quite upset me. Now do you think ]\liss 'i'emple, that our cher Armine is the most interesting per-son you ever met ?" " I believe Captain Armine is admired by aU those who know liim." HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 671 " He is so good, so tender, and so clever. Lord Montfort, he knows him very well 1" " They were companions in boyhood, I believe ; but they have resumed their acquaintance only re- cently." " VVe must interest Lord Montfort in his case. Lord Montfort nuist assist in our endeavours to bring him out a little." " Lord Montfort needs no prompting, count. Wc are all alike interested in Captain Armine's welfare." " I wish you would try to find out what is on his mind," said Count Mirabel. " After all, men cannot do much. It requires a more delicate sym- pathy than we can oiler. And yet I would do any thing for the cher Armine, because I really love him the same as if he were my brother." " He is fortunate in such a friend." • Ah ! he does not think so any longer," said the count, " he avoids mc, he will not tell me any thing. Chcre Miss Temple, this business haunts me ; it will end badly. I know that dear Armine so well ; no one knows him like mc ; his feelings are too strong ; no one has such strong feelings. Now, of all my friends, he is the only man I know who is capable of committing suicide." " God forbid !" said Henrietta Temple with em- phasis. " I rise every morning with apprehension," said the count. " When I call upon him, every day, I tremble as I approach his hotel." " Are you indeed serious?" " Most serious. 1 knew a man once in the same state. It was the Due de Crillon. He was my bro- ther friend, like this dear Armine. We were at college together ; we were in the same regiment. He was exactly like tliis dear Armine — young, beautiful, and clever, but with a heart all tender- ness, terrible passions. He loved Mademoiselle de Guise, my cousin ; the most beautiful girl in France. Pardon me, but I told Armine yesterday, that you reminded me of her. They were going to be married ; but there was a contretemps. He sent for me ; I was in Spain ; she married the Vis- count dc Maisagnac. Until that dreadful morning he remained exactly in the same state as our dear Armine. Never was a melancholy so profound. After the ceremony he shot himself." " No, no I" exclaimed Miss Temple, in tlie greatest agitation. " Perfectly true. It is the terrible recollection of that dreadful adventure that overcomes me when I see our dear friend here. Because I feel it must be love. I was in hopes it was his cousin. But it is not so ; it must be something that has happened abroad. Love alone can account for it. It is not his debts that would so overpower him. What are his debts ! I would pay them myself. It is a heart- rending business. I am now going to him. How I tremble !" ''How good you are !" exclaimed Miss Temple, with streaming ryes. " I never shall be grateful ; I mean, we all must. ! do go to him ; go to him directly ; tell him to be happy." " It is the song I ever sing," said the count ; " I wish some of you would come and see him, or send him a message. It is wise to show him that there are some who take interest in his existence. Now, give me that flower, for instance, and let me give it to him from you." " He will not care for it," said Miss Temple. " Try. It is a fancy I have. Let me bear it." Miss Temple gave the flower to the count, who cantered off with his piize. It was about eight o'clock ; Ferdinand was sit- ting alone in his room, having just parted with Glastonbun,', who was going to dine in Brook Street. The sun had set, and yet it was scarcely dark enough for artificial light, particularly for a per- son without a pursuit. It was just that dreary, dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pen- sive, if they be alone. And Ferdinand was par- ticularly dull ; a reaction had followed the excite- ment of the last eight-and-forty hours, and he was at this moment feeling singidarly disconsolate, and upbraiding himself for being so weak as to permit himself to be influenced by Mirabel's fantastic pro- mises and projects, when his door flew open, and the count, full dressed and graceful as a Versailles Apollo, stood before him. " Cher ami ! I cannoi stop one minute. I dine with Fitzwarrenc, and I am late. I have done your business capitally. Here is a pretty flower! Who do you think gave it me ] She did, pardy. On condition, however, that I should bear it to you, with a message — and what a message ! — that you should be happy." " Nonsense, my dear count." " It is true ; but I romanced at a fine rate for it. It is the only way with women. She thinks we have known each other since the Deluge. Do not betray me. But, my dear fellow, I cannot stop now. Only, mind, ail is changed. Instead of being gay, and seeking her society, and amusing her, and thus attempting to regain your influence, as we talked of last night ; mind, suicide is Uie sj'stem. To-morrow I will tell you all. She has a firm mind and a high spirit, w'hich she thinks is priftciple. If we go upon the tack of last night, slie will marry Montfort, and fall in love with you afterwards. That will never do. So we must work upon her fears, her gene- rosity, pity, remorse, and so on. It is all planned in my head, but I cannot stop. Call upon me to- morrow morning, at half-past two ; not before, be- cause I have an excellent boy coming to ne at one who is in a scrape. At half-past two, ciier, cher Armine, we will talk more. In the mean time, enjoy your flower; and rest assured, that it is your own fault if you do not fling the good Montfort in a very fine ditch." CHAPTER XVL IN WHICH Mn. TEMPLE smpnisEs nis daughter WEEPING. The Count Mirabel proceeded with his projects with all the ardour, address, and audacity of one habituated to success. By some means or other he contrived to see Miss Temple almost dally. He paid assiduous court to the dutchess, on whom he had made a very favourable impression from the first; in St. James's Square he met Mr. Temple, who was partial to the society of an accomplished foreigner. He was delighted with Count Mirabel. As for Miss Grandison, the count absolutely made her his confidant, thou.xh he concr^alcd this bold step from Ferdinand. He established his intimacy in the three families, and even mystified Sir Ralclilfc and Lady Armine so completely, that they imagined he must be some acquaintance that Ferdinand had made abroad; and iliej' received him accordingly as one of their son's oldest aTul most cherished friends. But the most amusing circumstance of all, was, 673 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. h the count, who even in business neve) lost sight ot what might divert or interest him, became great friends even with Mr. Glastonbury. Count Mira- bel quite comprehended and appreciated that good man's character. All Count Mirabel's efforts were directed to restore tlie influence of Ferdinand Armine over Henrietta Temple ; and with this view he omitted no oppor- tunity of impressing the idea of his absent friend on that lady's susceptible brain. His virtues, his ta- lents, his accomplishments, his sacrifices; but, above all, his mysterious sufferings, and the fatal end which the count was convinced awaited him ; were placed before her in a light so vivid, that they wholly en- grossed her thought and imagination. She could not resist the fascination of talking about Ferdinand Armine to Count Mirabel. He, was, indeed, the constant subject of their discourse. All her feel- ings, indeed, now clustered round his image. She had quhe abandoned her old plan of marrying him to his cousin. That was desperate. Did she regret it 1 She scarcely dared urge to herself this secret question ; and yet it seemed that her heart, too, would break, were Ferdinand another's. But, then, what was to become of him 1 Was he to be left desolate? Was he indeed to diel And Digby, the amiable, generous Digby — ah ! why did she ever meet him 1 Unfortunate, unhappy woman ! And yet she was resolved to be firm ; she would not falter; she would be the victim of her duly, even if she died at the altar. Almost she wished that she had ceased to live — and then the recollec- tion of Armine came back to her so vividly ! And those long days of passionate delight ! All his ten- derness and all his truth; for he had been true to her, always had he been true to her. She was not the person who ought to complain of his conduct. He said so, and he said rightly. And yet she was the person who alone punished him. How different was the generous conduct of his cousin 1 She had pardoned all ; she sympathized with him, she sor- rowed for him, she tried to soothe him. She laboured to unite him to her rival. What must he thiidc of herself! How hard-hearted, how selfish, must the contrast prove her ! Could he indeed be- lieve now that she ever loved him I ! no, he must despi-ie her. He must believe that she was sacrificing her heart to the splendour of rank. O ! could he believe this ! Her Ferdinand, her romantic Ferdinand, who had thrown fortune and power to the winds, but to gain that very heart! What a return had she made him ! And for all his fidelity he was punished ; lone, disconsolate, forlorn, over- powered by vulgar cares, heart-broken, meditating even death . The picture was too terrible, too harrowing. She hid her face in the pillow of the sofa on which she was seated, and wept most bitterly. She felt an arm softly twined round her waist ; she looked up, it was her father. " My child," he said, " you are agitated." " Yes : yes ; I am agitated," she said, in a low voice. " You are unwell." " Worse than unv^^ell." " Tell me what ails you, Henrietta." " Grief for which there is no cure." " Indeed ! I am greatly astonished." His daughter only sighed. " Speaic to me, Henrietta. Tell me what has happened." " I cannot speak ; notliing has happened ; I have liotliing to say." " To see you thus makes me most unhappy," said Mr. Temple ; " if only for my sake, let me know the cause of this overwhelming emotion." " It is a cause that will not please you. Forget, sir, what you have seen." " A father cannot. I entreat you, tell me. If you love me, Henrietta, speak." " Sir, sir, I was thinking of the past." " Is it so bitter 1" " ! God I that I should live," said Miss Temple. " Henrietta, my own Henrietta, my child, I be- seech you tell me all. Something has occurred, something must have occurred, to revive such strong feelings. Has, has — I know not what to say, but so much happens that surprises me — I know, I have heard, that you have seen one who once in- fluenced your feelings, that you have been thrown in unexjiected contact with him — he has not, he has not dared — " " Say nothing harshly of him," exclaimed Miss Temple, wildly, " I will not bear it even from you." " My daughter !" " Ay ! your daughter, but still a woman. Do I murmur, do I complain ? Have I urged you to compromise your honour] I am ready for the sa- crifice. My conduct is yours, but my feelings ara my own." " Sacrifice, Henrietta ! What sacrifice 1 I have heard only of your happiness ; I have thought only of your happiness. This is a strange return." " Father, forget what you have seen ; forgive what I have said. But let this subject drop for- ever." " It cannot drop here. Captain Armine prefers his suit V continued Mr. Temple, in a tone of stern inquiry. " VVhat if he did ? He has a right to do so." " As good a right as he had before. You are rich now, Henrietta, and he perhaps would be faithful." " ! Ferdinand," exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting up her hands and eyes to heaven, " and you must endure even this !" " Henrietta," said Mr. Temple, in a voice of af- fected calmness, as he seated himself by her side. " Listen to me: I am not a harsh parent; you cannot upbraid me with insensibility to your feelings. They have ever engrossed my thought and care, and how to gratify, and when necessary how to soothe them, has long been the principal occupation of my life. If you have known misery, girl, you made that misery yourself. It was not I that in- volved you in secret engagements, and clandestine correspondence ; it was not I that made you — you, my daughter, on whom I have lavished all the so- licitude of long years — the dupe of the first calcu- lating libertine who dared to trifle with your affec- tions, and betray your heart." " 'Tis false !" exclaimed Miss Temple, interrupt- ing him ; " he is as true and pure as I am ; more, much more," she added, in a voice of anguish. " No doubt he has convinced you of it," said Mr. Temple, with a laughing sneer. " Now mark me," he continued, resuming his calm tone, " you interrupted me ; listen to me. You are the betrothed bride of liOrd Montfort — Lord Montfort, my friend, the man I love most in the world ; the most gene- rous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most gifted of human beings. You gave him your hand freely, under circumstances which, even if he did not possess every quality that ought to secure the affection of a woman, should bind you to him with an unswerving faith. Falter one Joint, and I HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 673 v'hlstle you off forever. You are no more daughter ■ •f mine. I am as firm as I am fond ; nor would I to this, but tliat I know well I am doing rightly. \es! take this Armine once more to your heart, «id you receive my curse, the deejjest — the sternest —the deadliest that ever descended on a daughter's iead." •' My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved father !" exclaimed Miss Temple, throwing herself at his feet. " ! do not say so ; O ! recall those words, tiiose wild — those terrible words. Indeed, indeed, my heart is breaking. Pity me, pity me; for God's sake pity me." " I would do more than pity you ; I would save you." " It is not as you think," she continued with streaming eyes ; " indeed it is not. He has not preferred his suit, he has urged no claim. He has behaved in the most delicate, the most honourable, the most considerate manner. He has thought only of my situation. He met me by accident. My friends are his friends. They knovv not what has taken place between us. He has not breathed it to liuman being. He has absented himself from his liome, that we might not meet." " You nuist marry Lord Montfort at once." " O ! my father — even as you like. But do not curse me — dream not of such terrible things — recall those fearful word* >^5 me, love me — say I am your child. And Dig/ A am true to Uigby — who says I am false to Digny 1 — But, indeed, can I re- call the past, can I alter it 1 It* memory overcame me. Digby knows all ; Digby knows we met ; he did not curse me — he was kind and gentle. O ! my father I" '• My Henrietta, my beloved Henrietta !" said M'. Temple, very much moved: "my child, my darling child !" " ! my father ! I will do all you wish ; but speak not again as you have done of Ferdinand. We liave done him great injustice ; I have done him great injury. He is good and pure ; indeed he is: if you knew all, you would not doubt it. He was ever faithful : indeed, indeed he was. Once you liked him. Speak kindly of him, father. He is the victim. If you meet liim, be gentle to him, sir; for, indeed, if you knew all, you would pity him." CHAPTER XVII. IN' WHICH FERDINAND HAS A VF.llT STOIIMT IX- TKHVIEW WITH HIS FATHER. If we pause now to take a calm and compre- hensive review of the state and prospects of the three families, in whose feelinsrs and fortunes we have attempted to interest the reader, it must be confessed that, however brilliant and satisfactory they might appear on the surface, the elements of discord, gloom, and unhappiness might be more profoundly discovered, and indeed might even be licld as rapidly stirring into movement. Miss Tem- ple was the affianced bride of Lord Montfort, but her heart was Captain Anninc's ; Captain .Ermine, in the estimation of his parents, was the pledged husband of Miss Grandison, while he and his cousin had, in fact, dissolved their eiigagcincnt. Mr. Temple more than suspected his dauiihtir's par- tiality for Ferdinand. 8ir Katclilfe, very much sur- prised at seeing so little of his son. and resolved that tlic marriage should be no further delayed, was about to precipitate confessions, of which he did not dream, and which were to shipwreck all the hopes of his Ufe. The Count Mirabel and Miss Grandison were both engaged in an active conspiracy. Lord Montfort alone was calm, and, if he had a purpose to conceal, inscrutable. All things, however, fore- boded a crisis. Sir Ratcliffe, astonished at the marked maimer in which his son absented himself from Brook Street, resolved upon bringinghim to an explanation. At first he thought there might l>e some lovers' quarrel ; but the demeanour of Kathcrine, and the easy tone in which she ever spoke of her couFin, soon disabused him of this fond hope. He ' pnsulted his wife. Now, to tell the tnith, Lady Armine, who was a very shrewd woman, was not without her doubts and perplexities, but she would not con- fess them to her Imsband. Many circumstances had bom observed by her which filled her with dis- quietude, but she had staked all her hopes upon ('tis cast, and she was of a very sanguine temper. She was leading an agreeable life. Katherine ap- peared daily more attached to her, and her ladyship was quite of opinion that is always very injudicious to interfere. She endeavoured to persuade Sir Ratcliffe that every thing was quite right, and she assured him that tlie season would terminate, as all seasons ought to tenninate, by the marriage. And, perhaps, Sir liatcliffe would have followed her example, only it so happened that as he was returning home one morning, he met his son in ©rosvenor Square. " Why, Ferdinand, we never see you now V said Sir Ratcliffe. " O ! you are all so gay," said Ferdinand. " How is my mother ]" " She is very well. Katherine and herself have gone to see the balloon, with Lord Montfort and Count Mirabel. Come in," said Sir Ratcliffe, for he was now almost at his door. The father and .son entered. Sir Ratcliffe walked into a little hbrary on the ground floor, which was his morning room. " We dine at home to-day, Ferdinand," said Sir Ratcliffe. " Perhaps you will come." " Thank you, sir, I am engaged." " It seems to me you are always engaged. For a person who does not like gayety, it is very odd." " Heigho I" said Ferdinand. " How do you like your new horse, sir V " Ferdinand, I wish to speak a word to you," said Sir RatcUlfe. " I do not like ever to interfere unnecessarily with your conduct ; but the anxiety of a j>arent will, I think, excuse the question I am about to ask. When do you propose being married ]" " ! I do not know exactly." " Your grandfather has been dead now, you know, much more than a year. I cannot help thinking your conduct very singular There is no- thing wrong between you and ivatlierine, is there !" " Wrong, sirl"' " Yes, wrong. I mean, is there any misunder standing"! Have you quarrelled 1" " No, sir, we have not quarrelled ; we perfectly understand each other." "I am glad to hear it, for I must say I think your conduct is very uidike that of a lover. .All [ can say is, I did not win your mother'* heart by such proceedings." " Katherine has made no complaint of me, sir!" " Certainly not, and that surprises me stillmore." 674 D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought. The si- lence lasted some minutes. Sir RatclifTe took up the newspaper ; his son leant over the mantelpiece, and gazed upon the empty fireplace. At length he turned round and said, " father, I can bear this no longer ; the engagement between Katherine and myself is dissolved." " Good God ! when and why V exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, the newspaper falling from his hand. " Long since, sir : and ever since I loved another woman, and she knew it." '• Ferdinand ! Ferdinand !" exclaimed the un- happy lather : but he was so overpowered that he could not give utterance to his thoughts. He threw himself in a chair, and wrung his hands. Ferdi- nand stood still and silent, like a statue of destiny, gloomy and inflexible. " Speak again," at length said Sir Ratcliffe. " Let me hear you speak again. I cannot believe what I have heard. Is it, indeed, true that your engage- ment with your cousin has been long terminated 1" Ferdinand nodded assent. " Your poor mother !" exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe. " This will kill her." He rose from his scat, and walked up and down the room in the greatest agi- tation. " I knew all was not right," he muttered to him- self, "She will sink under it ; we must all sink under it. Madman ! you know not what you have done !" " It is in vain to regi-et, sir ; my sufferings have been greater than yours." • " She will pardon you, my boy," said Sir Rat- cliffe, in a quicker and kinder tone. " You have lived to repent your impetuous folly ; Katherine is kind and generous ; she loves us all ; she must love you ; she will pardon you. Yes ! entreat her to forget it ; your mother, your mother has great in- fluence with her ; she will exercise it, she will interfere, you are very young, all will yet be well." " It is as impossible for me to marry Katherine Grandison, as for yourself to do it,, sir," said Fer- dinand, in a tone of great calmness. " You are not married to another V " In faith; lam bound by a tie which I can never break." " And who is this person?" " She must be nameless for many reasons." " Ferdinand," said Sir Ratcliffe, " you know not what you are doing. My life, your mother's, the existence of our family, hang upon your con- duct. Yet, there is lime to prevent this desolation. I am controlling my emotions ; I wish to save us — you — all ! Throw yourself at your cousin's feet. She is soft-hearted ; she may yet be yours !" " Dear father, it cannot be." " Then — then welcome ruin," exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe in a hoarse voice. " And," he continued, pausing between every word, from the dillicuity of utterance, "if the conviction that you have de- stroyed all our hopes, rewarded us for all our af- fection, our long devotion, by blasting every fond idea that has ever illumined our sad lives, that I and Constance, poor fools, have clung and clung to, if this conviction can console you, sir, enjoy it " Ferdinand ! my son, my child, that I never have s|)oken an unkind word to, that never gave me cause to blame or check him, your mother will be home soon, your poor, poor mother. Do not let me welcome her with ail this misery. Tell me it is not true ; recall what you have said ; let us forget tliese harsh words ; reconcile yourself to your cousin ; let us be happy." " Father, if my heart's blood could secure youi happiness, my life were ready; but this I cannot do.'' " Do you know what is at stake 1 Every thing All, all, all ! We can see Armine no more ; ou) home is gone. Your mother and myself must be exiles. O ! you have not thought of this; say you have not thought of this." Ferdinand hid his face — his father, emboldened, urged the strong plea. " You will save us, Fer dinand, you will be our preserver 1 It is all forgotten, is it not 1 It is a lover's quarrel, after all V "Father, why should I trifle with your feehngsT why should I feign what can never be 1 This sharp interview, so long postponed, ought not now to be adjourned. Indulge ho hopes ; for there are none." " Then, by every sacred power, I revoke every blessing that since your birth I have poured upon your head. I recall the prayers that every night I have invoked upon your being. Great God ! I can eel them. You have betrayed your cousin ; you have deserted your mother and myself; you have first sullied the honour of our house, and now you have destroyed it. Why were you born ? What have we done that your mother's womb should produce such a curse 1 Sins of my father — they are visited upon me ! And Glastonbury, what will Glastonbury say 1 Glastonbury, who sacrificed his fortune for you." " Mr. Glastonbury knows all, sir, and has al- ways been my confidant." " Is he a traitor 1 For when a son deserts me, I know not whom to trust." " He has no thoughts, but for our welfare, sir. He win convince you, sir, I cannot marry my cousin." " Boy, boy ! you know not what you say. Not marry your cousin ! Then let us die. It were better for us all to die." " My father ! Be calm, I beseech you ; you have spoken harsh words — I have not deserted you nor my mother ; I never will. If I have wronged my cousin, I have severely suffered, and she has most freely forgiven me. She is my dear friend. As for our house ; tell me, would you have that house preserved at the cost of my happiness ? You are not the father I supposed, if such indeed be your wish." " Happiness ! Fortune, family, beauty, youth, a sweet and charming spirit — if these will not secure a man's happiness, I know not what might. And these I wished you to possess." "Sir, it is vain for us to converse upon this sub- ject. See Glastonbury, if you will. He can at least assure you that neither my feelings are light, nor my conduct hasty. I will leave you now." Ferdinand quitted the room ; Sir Ratcliffe did not notice his departure, although he was not unaware of it. He heaved a deep sigh, and was apparently plunged in profound thought. CHAPTER XVm, FERDINAND IS ARRKSTED BY MESS RS. MORRIS AK» LEVISOjr, AND TAKEN TO A SPUNOINd HOUSE. It must be confessed that the aflfairs of our friends were in a critical state ; every one interested felt that something decisive in their respective foi- HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 675 times was at hand. And yet, so vain are all hu- 1 man plans and calculations, that the unavoidable crisis was brought about by an incident which no one anticipated. It so happened that the stormy interview Itetwcen Sir Ratcliflc and his son was overhi-anl by a servant. This servant, who had been engaged by Miss Grandison in London, was a member of a club to which a confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and Levison belonged. In the en- suing evening, when this worthy knight of the shoulder-knot just dropped out for an hour to look in at this choice society, smoke a pipe, and talk over the aifairs of his mistress and the nation, he announced the important fact that tlie match be- tween Miss Grandison and Captain Armine was "no go," which, for his part, he did not regret, as he thought his mistress ought to look higher. The confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and Levison Ustened in silence to this important intelligence, and communicated it the next morning to his em- ployers. And so it happened that, a very few days afterwards, as Ferdinand was lying in bed at his hotel, the door of his chamber suddenly opened, and an individual, not of the most prepossessing appearance, being very much marked with small- pox, reeking vi'ith gin, and wearing top hoots and a belcher handkerchief, rushed into his room and inquired whether he were Captain Armine. " The same," said Ferdinand. " And pray, sir, who are you V " Don't wish to be unpleasant," was the answer, " but, sir, you are my prisoner." There is something exceedingly ignoble in an arrest : Ferdinand felt that sickness come over him, which the uninitiated in such ceremonies must ex- perience. However, he rallied and inquired at whose suit these proceedings were taken. " Messrs. Morris and Levison, sir." " Cannot I send for my lawyer and give bail 1" Tlie bailiff shook his head. " You see, sir, you are taken in execution, so it is impossible." " And the amount of the debt !" " Is £2800, sir." " Well, what am I to do V " Why, sir, you must go along with us. We will do it very quietly. My follower is in a hack- ney coach at the door, sir. You can just step in as pleasant as possible. I suppose you would like to go to a spunging house, and then you can send for your friends, you know." " Well, if you will go down stairs, I will come to you." The bailiff grinned. " Can't let you out of my sight, sir." *• Why — I cannot dress, if you are here." The bailiff examined the room to see if there were any mode of escape ; there was no door but the entrance ; the window offered no chance. " Well, sir," he said, " I likes to do things pleasant. I can stand outside, sir, but you must be quick." Ferdinand rang for his servant. When Louis clearly understood the state of affairs, he was ex- ceedingly anxious to throw the bailiff out of the window, but his master prevented him. Mr. Glastonbury had gone out some two hours ; Fer- dinand sent Louis with a message to his family, to say he was about leaving town for a few days, and impressing upon him to be most careful not to let them know in Brook Street what had occurred, he completed his rapid toilette, and accompanied tlie sheriff's officer to the hackney coach that was prepared for hbn. As they jogged on in silence, Ferdinand re volved in his mind how it would be most advisable for him to act. Any appHcation to his own lawyer was out of the question. That had been tried before, and he felt assured that there was not the slightest chance of that gentleman dis- charging so large a sum, especially when he was aware that it was only a portion of his client's liabilities; he thought of applying for advice to Count Mirabel or Lord Catchimwhocan, but with what view ? He would not borrow the money of them, even if they would lend it ; and as it was, he bitterly reproached himself, for having availed himself so easily of Mr. Bond Shai'pe's kind oihces. At this moment, he could not persuade himself that his conduct had been strictly honourable to that gentleman. He had not been frank in tlie ex- position of his situation. The money had been advanced under as false impression, if not abso- lutely borrowed under a false pretence. He cursed Catchimwhocan and his levity. The honour of the Armines was gone, hke every thing else that once belonged to them. The result of Ferdinand's reflections was that he was utterly done up ; that no ho[)c, or chance of succour remained for him ; that his career was closed ; and not daring to con- template what the consequences might be to his miserable parents, he made a desperate effort to command his feelings. Here the coach turned up a dingy street, leading out of the lower end of Oxford Street, and stopped hcfore a large but gloomy dwelling, which Ferdi- nand's companion informed him was a spunging house. " I suppose j'ou would like to have a pri- vate room, sir ; you can have every accommoda- tion here, sir, and feel quite at home, I assure you." In pursuance of this suggestion. Captain Armine was ushered into tlie best drawing-room with bar- red windows, and treated in the most aristocratic manner. It was evidently the chamber reserved onlj' for unfortunate gentlemen of the utmost dis- tinction. It was amply furnished with a mirror, a loo-table, and a very hard sofa. 1'he walls were hung with old-fashioned caricatures by Bunbury, the fire-irons were of polished brass, over the man- tel-piece was the portrait of the master of the house, which was evidently a speaking likeness, and in which Captain Armine fancied he traced no slight resemblance to his friend Mr, Levison, and there were also some sources of liteiaiy amusement in the room, in the shape of a Hebrew Bible and the Racing Calendar. After walking up and down the room for an hour, meditating over the past — for it seemed hope- less to trouble himself any further with the future — Ferdinand began to feel very faint, for it may be recollected that he had not even bceak fasted. So pulling the bell rope with such force that it fell to the ground, a funny little waiter immediately ap- peared, awed by the sovereign ring, and having, in- deed, received private intelligence from the bailiff that the gentleman in the drawing-room was a re- gular nob. And here, perhaps, I should remind the reader, that of all the great distinctions in life, none per- haps is more important than that which divides mankind into the two great sections of Nods and Snobs. It might seem at the first glance, that if there were a place in the world which should level all distinctions, it would be a debtor's prison. Bui this would be quite an error. Almost at the very 676 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. moment that Captain Armine arrived at his sorrow- ful hotel, a poor devil of a tradesman, who had been arrested for fifty pounds, and torn from his wife and family, had been forced to repair to the same asy- lum. He was introduced into what is styled the Cofiec-room, being a long, low, unfurnished, sanded chamber, with a table and benches; and beino- very anxious to communicate with some friend, in order, if possible, to effect his release, and prevent himself from being a bankrupt, he had continued meekly to ring at intervals for the last half hour, in order that he might write and forward his letter. The waiter heard the coffee-room bell rijig, but never dreamed of noticing it, though the moment the signal of the private room sounded, and sound- ed with so much emphasis, he rushed up stairs, three steps at a time, and instantly appeared be- fore our hero : and all this difference was occasion- ed by the simple circumstance, that Captain Armine was a Nob, and the poor tradesman a Snob. " I am hungry," said Ferdinand. " Can I get any thing to eat at this damned place V "What would you like, sir] Any thing you choose, sir. Mutton chop, rump steak, veal cutlet ] Do you a fowl in a quarter of an hour ; roast or boiled, sir ?" " I have not breakfasted yet, bring me some breakfast." " Yes, sir," said the httle waiter. « Tea, sir 1 Coffee, eggs, toast, buttered toast, sir 1 Like any meat, sir 1 Ham, sir ? Tongue, sir ? Like a devil, sir 1 " Any thing, every thing, only be quick." " Yes, sir," responded the waiter. " Beg par- don, sir. No offence, I hope, but custom to pay here, sir. Shall be happy to accommodate you, sir. Know what a gentleman is." " Thank you, I will not trouble you," said Fer- dinand ; " get me that note exchanged." all their hopes. Little less than a year ago and bo was at Bath, and they were all joy anics, if you will be so kind as to remain half an hour in this dungeon. I shall quit it directly : I shall go to jail at once." Poor Glastonbury, he did not like to go, and yet it v\as a most melancholy visit What could they converse about ? Conversation, except on the interdicted subject of Ferdinand's affairs, seemed quite a mockery. At last Ferdinand said, " Dear Glastonbun,-, do not stay here ; it only makes us both unhappy. Send Louis with some clothes for me, and some books. I will let you know before I leave this place. LTpon reflection, I shall not do 80 for two or three days, if I can stay as long. See my lawyer, not that he will do any thing, nor Ciii I expect him, but he may as well call and see me. Adieu, dear friend." { Glastonbury was. about to retire, when Ferdi- ' nand called him back. " This affair should be kept quiet," he said. " I told Louis to say I was out of town in Brook Street. I should be sorry were Miss Temple to hear of it, at least until after her marriage." Ferdinand was once more alone with the mirror, the loo-table, the hard sofa, the caricatures, which he hated even worse than his host's portrait, the Hebrew Bible, and the Racing Calendar. It seemed a year that he had been shut in this apartment, instead of a day, he had grown so familiar with every object. And yet the visit of Glastonbury had been an event, and he could not refrain from pondering over it. A sponging house seemed such a strange, such an unnatural scene, for such a cha- racter. Ferdinand recalled to his memory the tower at Armine, and all its glades and groves, shining in the summer sun, and freshened in the summer breeze. What a contrast to this dingy, confined, close dungeon ! And was it possible, that he had wandered at will in that fair scene with a companion fairer? Such thoughts might well drive a man mad. \\'ith all his eavs, and all his disposition at present not to ext^raatc them, Ferdinand Ar- mine could not refrain from esteeming himself unlucky. Perhaps it is more distressing to believe ourselves unfortunate, than to recognise ourselves as imprudent. A fond mistress or a faithful friend — either of these are great blessings ; and whatever may be one's scrapes in life, either of these may well be sources of consolation. Ferdinand had a fond mistress once, and had Henrietta Temple loved him, why, he might struggle with all these calami- ties ; but that sweet dream was past. As for friends, he had none, at least he thought not. Not that he had to complain of human nature. He had experienced much kindness from mankuid, and many were the services he had received from kind acquaintance. With tlie recollection of Catch, to say nothing of Bond Sharpe, and above all Count Mirabel, fresh in his mind, he could not complain of his companions. Glastonbury was indeed a friend, but Ferdinand sighed for a friend of his own age, knit to him by the same tastes and sympathies, and capable of comprehenduig all his secret feel- ings ; a friend who could even whisper hope, and smile in a spunging house. The day wore away, the twilight shades were descending, Ferdinand became every moment more melancholy, when suddenly his constant ally, the waiter, rushed into the room. " My eye, sir, here is a regular nob inquiring for you. I told you it would be all right." "Who is itl" " Here he is coming up." Ferdinand caught Uie triumphant tones of .Mira- bel on the staircase. " Which is the room 1 Show me directly. Ah I Armine ! mon ami ! mon cher! Is this your frirnd- ship? To be in this cursed hole, and not send for me ! C'est une mauvaise plaisanterie to pretend we are friends ! How are you, good fellow, fine fellow, excellent Armine 1 If you were not here I would quarrel with you. There, go away, man." The waiter disappeared, and Count Mirabel seatc** himself on the hard sofa. " My dear fellow," continued the count, twirling the prctnest cane in the ^vorld, " this is a Ix^tise of you to be here and not send forme. Who has put you here .'" C80 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " My dear Mirabel, it is all up.'' " Bptise ! How much is it?" " I tell you I am done up. It has got about that the marriage is off, and Morris and Levison have nabbed me for all the arrears of my cursed annui- ties." "But how much !" " Between two and three thousand." The Count Mirabel gave a whistle. " I brought five hundred, which I have. We must get the rest somehow or the other." " My dear Mirabel, you are the most generous fellow in the world ; but I have troubled my friends too much. Nothing will induce me to take a sous from you. Besides, between ourselves, not my least mortification at this moment is some =£1500, which Bond Sharpe let me have the other day fur nothing through Catch." " Pah ! I am sorry about that, though, because he would have lent us this money. I will ask Bevil." " I would sooner die." " I will aak him for myself." " It is impossible." _ " We will arrange it; Twill tell you who will do it for us. He is a good fellow and immensely rich — it is Fitzwarrene ; he owes me great favours." " Dear Mirabel, I am delighted to see you. This is good and kind. I am so damned dull here. It quite gladdens me to see you ; but do not talk about money." '■ Here is £500 ; four other fellows at £500, we can manage it." " No more, no more ! I beseech you." " But you cannot stop here. Queldrole apparte- ment! Before Charley Doricourt was in Parlia- ment he was always in these sort of houses, but I got him out somehow or other ; I managed it. Once I bought of the fellow five hundred dozen of Champagne." " A new way to pay old debts, certainly," said Ferdinand, smiling. " I tell you, have you dined V " I was going to ; merely to have something to do." " I will stop and dine with you," said the count, ringing the bell, " and we will talk over affairs. Laugh, my friend; laugh, my Armine ; this is only a scene. This is life. What can we have for dinner, man 1 I shall dine here." " Gentleman's dinner is ordered, my lord ; quite ready," said the waiter. " Champagne in ice, my lord ]" " To be sure ; every thing that is good. Mon cher Armine, we shall have some fun." " Yes, my lord," said the waiter, running down stairs. " Dinner for the best drawing-room directly, green pea soup, turbot, beefsteak, roast duck, and boiled chicken, every thing that is good, Champagne in ice, two regular nobs !" The dinner soon appeared, and the two friends seated themselves. " Potagc admirable !" said Count Mirabel. " The best Champagne I ever drank in my life ! Mon brave, your health. This must be Charley's man, by the wine. I think we shall have him up ; he will lend us some money. Finest turbot I ever ate! I will give you some of the tins. Ah! you are glad to see me, my Armine, you are glad to tee your friend 1 Encore Champagne ! Good Armine ! excellent Armine! Keep up your spirits, I will manage sliese fellows. You must take some bifteak. The most tender bifteab I ever tast» t ! This is a fine dinner. Encore un verre ! Man, you may go — don't wait." " By Jove, Mirabel, I never was so glad to see anybody in my life. Now you are my liiend, I feel quite in spirits!" " To be sure ! always be in spirits. C'est un betise not be in spirits. Every thing is sure to go well. You will see how I will manage these fellows, and I will come and dine with you every day, until you are out — you shall not be here eight and forty hours. As I go home, I will stop at Mitchell's, and get you a novel by Paul de Kock. Have you ever read Paul de Kock's books '?" " Never !" said Ferdinand. " What a fortunate man to be arrested ! Now you can read Paul de Kock. You must absolutely read Paul do, Kock. C'est un betise, not to read Paul de Kock. By Jove, you are the most lucky fellow I know. You see you thought yourself very miserable in being arrested. 'Tis the finest thing in the world, for now you will read AFon Vuisiti Ray- mo7id. There are always two sides to a case." " I am content to believe myself veiy lucky in having such a friend as you," said Ferdinand : " but now, as these things are cleared away, let us talk over affairs. Have you seen Henrietta 1" " Of course, I see her every day." " I hope she will not hear of my crash, until she has married 1" " She will not, unless you tell her." " And when do you think she will be married V " When you please." " Cher ami ! point de moquerie !" " By Jove, I am quite serious," exclaimed the count. " I am as certain that you will marry hex as that we are in this damned spunging house." " Nonsense." " The very finest sense in the world. If you will not marry her, I will myself, for I am resolved that good Montfort shall not. It sh;dl never be said that I interfered without a result. V/hy, if she were to marry Montfort now, it would ruin my character. To marry Montfort, after all my trouble — dining with that good Temple, and opening the mind of that little Grandison, and talking fine things to that good dutchess — it would be a betise." " What an odd fellow you are, Mirabel !" " Of course ! Would yon have me like other people and not odd ? We will drink la belle Henri- etta! Fill up ! You will be my friend, when you are married, eh 1 Mon Armine, excellent gar^on ! How we shall laugh some day ; and then, this dinner, this dinner will be the best dinner we ever had !" " But why do you think there is the slightest hope of Henrietta not marrying Montfort 1" " Because my knowledge of human nature assures me that a young woman, very beautiful, very rich, with a very high spirit, and an only daughter, will never go and marry one man when she is in love with another, and that other one, my deal fellow, like you. You are more sure of getting her because she is engaged." What a wonderful thing is a knowledge of human nature! thought Ferdinand to himself. The count's knowledge of human nature is like my friend the waiter's experience. One assures me that I am certain to marry a woman because she is engaged to another person, and the other, diat it is quite clear my debts will be paid because they are so very large. The count remainiid with his friend unti' f\e «P HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 681 o'clock, when everybody was lorkoil up. He invited himself to dine with him to-morrow, and promised that he should liavc a whole collection of French novels before he awoke. And assuring him over and over again that he looked upon him as ihc most fortunate of all his friends, and that if he broke tiic baidi at Crocky's to-night, v^'hich he fancied he should, he would send him two or three thousand pounds, at the same time he shook him hcarlily by the hand, and descended the staircase of the spunging house, humming l^'ive la baga- telle ! CHAPTER XXr. THE CllISIS. .^LTHoroii, when Ferdinand was once more left alone to his reflections, it did not appear to him that any thing had, indeed, occurred which should change his opinion of his forlorn lot, — there was something, nevertheless, very inspiring in the visit of his friend Count Mirabel. It did not seem to him, indeed, that he was one w-hit nearer extrication from his dinkulties than before ; and as for the wild hopes as to Henrietta, he dismissed them from his mind as the mere fantastic schemes of a sanguine spirit, and yet his gloom, by some process diflicult to analyze, had in great measure departed. It could not be the Champagne, for that was a remedy he had previously tried ; it was in some degree doubt- less the magic sympathy of a joyous temperament : but chiefly it might, perhaps, be ascribed to the flattering conviction that he possessed the heartv friendship of a man, wliose good-will vcas, in every view of the case, a ven,- enviable possession. With such a friend as Mirabel, he could not deem him- self quite so unlucky as in the morning. If he were fortunate, and fortunate so unexpectedly, in this instance, he might be so in others. A vague presentiment that he had seen the worst of life, came over him. It was equally in vain to justify the consoling conviction, or to resist it; and Fer- dinand Armine, although in a spunging house, fell asleep in better humour with his destiny than he had been for the last eight months. His dreams were charming : he fancied that he was at Armine, standing by the Barbary rose tree. It was moonlight ; it was, perhaps, a slight recol- lection of the night he had looked upon the garden from the window of his chamber, the night after he had first seen Henrietta. Suddenly Henrietta Temple appeared at his window, and waved her hand to him with a smiling face. He immediately [)lucked for her a flower, and stood with his oflcr- ing beneath a window. She was in a riding habit, and told him that she had just returned from Italy. He invited her to descend, and she disappeared ; but instead of Henrietta, there came forward from the old Place — the dutchess, who immediately in- quired whether he had seen his cousin ; and then her grace, by some confused process common in dreams, turned into Glastonbury, and pointed to the rose tree, where, to liis surprise, Katherine was walking with Lord Montfort. Ferdinand called out for Henrietta, but, as she did not appear, he entered the Place, where he found Count Mirabel dining by hunself, and just drinking a glass of Champagne. He complained to Mirabel that Hen- rietta had disajipeared, but his friend laughed at him, and said that, after such a long ride, leaving Italy only yesterday, he could scarcely expect to sec her. Satisfied with this explanation, Ferdi- nand joined the count at his banquet, and was woke from his sleep and his dream apparently by Mirabel drawing a cork. Ah! why did he ever wake 1 It was so real; he had seen her so plainly ; it was life ; it was the verj' smile she wore at Ducic ; that sunny glance, so full of joy, beauty, and love, which he could hvc to gaze on ! And now he was in prison, and she was going to be married to another. O! there are things in this world that may well break hearts ! The cork of Count Mirabel was, however, a sub- stantial sound — a gentle tap at his door : he answer- ed it, and the waiter entered his chamber. " Beg pardon, sir, for disturbing you ; only eight o'clock." " 'i'hen why the deuse do you disturb me?" " There h;is been another nob, sir. I said as how you were not up, and he sent his compliments, and said as how he would call in an hour, as he wished to see you particular." " Was it the count ?" "No, sir; but it wa^ a regular nob, sir, for he had a coronet on his can. But he would not leave his name." " Catch, of course," thought Ferdinand to him- self. "And sent by Mirabel. I should not wonder if, after all, they have broken the bank at Crocky's. Nothing shall induce me to take a ducat" However, Ferdinand thought fit to rise, and con- trived to descend to the best drawing-room about a quarter of an hour after the appointed time. To his extreme surprise he found Lord Montfort " My dear friend," said Lord Montfort looking a little confused, "I am afraid I have sadly disturbed you. But I could not contrive to find you yester- day until it was so late, that I was ashamed to knock them up here, and I thought, therefore, you would excuse this early call, as — as — as — I wished to see you very much indeed." " You are extremely kind," said Captain Ar- mine. " But really I verj' much regret that your lordship should have had all this trouble." " O ! what is trouble under such circumstances !" replied his lordship. "I cannot pardon myself for being so stupid as not reaching you yesterday. 1 never can excuse myself for the inconvenience you have experienced." Ferdinand bowed, but was so perplexed that he could not say a word. " I hope, my dear Armine," said his lordship, advancing rather slowly, putting his arm within that of Ferdinand, and then walking up and down the room together — " I hope you will act at tliis moment towanis me as I would towards you, were our res])ective situations changed !" Ferdinand bowed, but said nothing. " Money, you know, my good fellow," continued Lord Montfort " is a disagreeable thing to talk about but there are circumstances which should deprive such conversation between us of any awkwardness which otherwise might arise." " I am not aware of them, my lord," said Ferdi- nand, " though your good feelings command my gratitude." " I think, upon reflection, we shall find that there are some," said Lord Montfort. " For the moment I will only hope that you will esteem those good feelings — and which, on my part, I am anxious should ripen into the most sincere and intimate friendship — as suflkient authority for my »)lacing 682 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. your affairs in general, in that state, that they may in future never ileprive your family and friends of society neces^sary to their happiness." " My lord, I am sure that adversity has assumed a very graceful hue with me ; for it has confirmed my most amiable views of hiunan nature. I shall not attempt to express what I feel towards your lordship for this generous goodness, but I will say I am profoundly impressed with it; not the less, be- cause I cannot avail myself in the sUghtest degree of your offer." " You are too much a man of the world, I am sure, my dear Armine, to be offended with my frankness. I shall therefore si)eak without fear of misconception. It does appear to me that the offer which I have made you is worthy of a httle more consideration. You see, my dear friend, that you have placed yourself in such a situation that, how- ever you may act, the result cannot be one com- pletely satisfactory. 'Jlie course you should pursue, therefore — as, indeed, all conduct in this world should be — is a matter of nice calculation. Have you well considered the consequences of your rush- ing upon ruin 1 In the fij:|t place, your family will receive a blow from which even future prosperity may not recover them. Your family estate, already in a delicate position, may be irrecoverably lost ; the worldly consequences of such a vicissitude are very considerable ; whatever career you pursue, as long as you visibly possess Armine, you rank always among the aristocracy of the land, and a family that maintains such a position, however de- cayed, will ultimately recover. I hardiv know an exception to this rule ; I do not think, of all men, that you are most calculated to afford one." " What you say has long pressed itself upon us," said Captain Armine. " Then again," resumed Lord Montfort, " the feelings and even interests of your friends are to be considered. Poor Glastonbury ! I love that old man myself. The tall of Armine might break his heart ; he would not like to leave his tower. You see I know your place." " Poor Glastonbury !" said Ferdinand. "But above all," continued Lord Montfort, "the happiness, nay, the very health and life of your pa- rents, fi-om whom all is now concealed, would per- haps be the last and costliest sacriiices of your nashness." Ferdinand threw himself on the sofa, and cover- ed his face. " Yet all this misery, all these misfortunes, may be avoided, and you yourself become a calm and happy man, by — for I wish not to understate your view of the subject, Armine — putting yourself un- der a pecuniary obligation to me. A circumstance to be avoided in the common course of life, no doubt ; but is it better to owe me a favour and save your family estate, preserve your position, maintain your friend, and prevent the misery and probable death, of your parents, or be able to pass me in the street, in haughty silence if you please, with the consciousness that the luxury of your pride has been satisfied at the cost of every circumstance which makes existence desirable 1" " You put the case strongly," said Ferdinand ; ' but no reasoning can ever persuade me that I am justified in borrowing j£i;3,0U0, which I can never repay." " Accept it, tlien." " 'Tis the same thing," said Ferdinand. I " I think not," said Lord Montfort ; " but why do you say ' never V " " Because it is utterly impossible that I ever can." " How do you know you may not marry a wo- man of innnense fortune V said Lord .Montfort. " Now, you seem to me exactly the sort of man who would marry an heiress." " You are thinking of my cousin," said Ferdi- nand. " I thought that you had discovered, or that you might have learned, that there was na real in- tention of our union." " No, I was not thinking of your cousin," said Lord Montfort, " though, to tell you the truth, I was once in hopes that you would marry her. However, that I well know is entirely out of the question, for I believe Miss Grandison will marry some one else." " Indeed !" exclaimed Ferdinand, a little agi- tated. " Well ! may she be happy ! She deserves happiness. I love Kate from the bottom of my heart. But who is the fortunate fellow V " 'Tis a lady's secret," said Lord Montfort " But let us return to our argument. To be brief; either, my dear Armine, you must be convinced by my reasoning, or I must remain here, a prisoner like yourself; for, to tell you the truth, there is a fair lady, before whom I cannot present myself, except in your company." Ferdinand changed countenance. There wanted but this to confirm his resolution, which had scarcely wavered. To owe his release to Henri- etta's influence with Lord Montfort, it was too de- grading. " My lord," he said, " you have touched upon a string that I had hoped might have spared me. This conversation must indeed cease. My mouth is sealed from giving you the reasons, which never- theless render it imperative on me to decline your generous offer." " Well, then," said Lord Montfort, " I must see if another can be more successful," and he held forth a note to the astonished Ferdinand, in Henri- etta's writing. It dropped from Ferdinand's hand as he took it. Lord Montfort picked it up, gave it him again, and walked to the other end of the room. It was with extreme difficulty that Ferdinand pre- vailed on himself to break the seal. The note was very short ; the hand tliat had traced the letters must have trembled. Thus it ran. " Dearest Ferdinand. Do every fhinn; that Dighy wishes. He is our best friend. God bltsa you ! Your faithful Henrietta. Dighy is going to marry Katherine — are not you glad?" Lord Montfort looked round ; Ferdinand Armine was lying senseless on the sofa. Our friend was not of a swooning mood, but we think the circumstances may excuse the weakness. As for the young nobleman, he immediately rang the bell for the little waiter, who, the moment he saw what had occurred, hurried away and rushed up stairs again with cold water, a bottle of brandy, and a blazing sheet of brown paper, which he de- clared was an infallible specific. By some means or other, Ferdinand was in time recovered, and the little waiter was fairly expelled, "My dear friend," said Ferdinand, in a faint voice, "I am the happiest man that ever lived; I HENRIETTA TEMPLE. G83 hope you wil! je, I am sure you will be — Katlierine is an angel. But I cannot speak. It is so strange." " My dear fellow, you really must take a glass of brandy," said Lord Montfort, " it is very strange certainly. But we are all very happy." "I hardly know where I am," said Ferdinand, after a few minutes, "am I really alive 1" "Let us think how we are to get out of this place. I sui>pose they will take my cheque. If not I must be oil"." "O! do not go," said Ferdinand. " If you go I shall not believe it is true. My dear Montfort, is it really true?" " Vou see, my dear Armine," said Lord Mont- fort, smiling, " it was fated that I should marry a lady you rejected. And to tell you the truth, the reason why I did no get to you yesterday, as I ought lo have done, was an unexpected conversa- tion I had with Miss Grandison. I really think this arrest was a most fortunate incident. It brought aTairs to a crisis. We should have gone on play- ir>g at cross-puqioses forever." He»e the little waiter entered again vi'ith a note and a packet. " The same messenger brought them 1" asked Ferdinand. '• No, sir ; the count's servant brought the note, and waits for an answer ; the packet came by an- other person." Ferdinand opened the note and read as fol- lows ; — Berkelei/ Square, half-past 7 morning. Mox ATiIl ! Best joke in the world ! I broke Crocky's bank three times. Of course ; I told you so ! Then went out and broke three or four small hells. I win jE 15,000. Directly I am awake I will send you the three thousand, and I will lend you the rest till your marriage. It will not be very long. I write tliis before I go to bed, that you may have it early. Adieu, chcr ami ! Votre affection, Dz Mirabel. " Mj' arrest was certainly the luckiest incident in the world," said Ferdinand, handing the note to Lord Montfort. " Mirabel dined here yesterday, and went and played on purpose to save me. I treated it as a joke. But what is this]" Ferdi- nand opened the packet. The handwriting was unknown to him. Ten bank notes of £300 each fell to the ground. "Do I live in fairy land?" he exclaimed. "Now who can this be 1 It cannot be you; it cannot be Mirabel 1 It is wondrous strange." " I think I can throw some light upon it," said Lord Montfort. " Katherine was mysteriously en- gaged with Glastonbury yesterday morning. They were out togc-ther, and I know they went to her lawyer's. 'J'here is no doubt it is Katherine. I think, under the circumstance of the case, we need have no delicacy in. availing ourselves of this fortu- nate remittance. It will at least save us time," said Lord Montfort, rinc;ing the bell. " Send your master here directly," he continued to the waiter. The sheriff's officer appeared ; the debt, the fees, all were paid, and the discharge duly taken. Fer- dinand in the mean time went up stairs to lock up his dressing-case, the little waiter rushed after him to pack his portmanteau. Ferdinand did not forget his zealous friend, who whis|)ered hope when all was black. The little waiter chuckled as he put his if guineas in his pocket. " You sec, sir," he said, " I was quite right. Knowcd your friends would stump down. FaP''y a. nob like you being sent to quod I Fiddlededee! You see, sir, you weren't used to it." And so Ferdinand Anpine bade adieu to the spunging he-use, where, in the course of less than eight-and-fo) ty hours, he had known alike despair and rapture. liOrd Montfort drove along with a gayety unusual to him. "Now, my dear Armine," he said, "I am not a jot the less in love with Henrietta than before. I love her as you love Katherine. What folly to marry a woman who was in love with another per- son ! I should have made her miserable, when the great object of all my conduct was to make her hapjiy. Now Katherine really loves me as much as Henrietta loves you. I have had this plan in my head for a long time. I calculated iinely ; I was convinced it was the only way to malie us all happy-. Apd now we shall all be related ; we shall be constantly together; and vvc will be brother friends." " Ah ! my dear Montfort," said Ferdinand, "what will Mr. Templ^say ]" " Leave him to me,' said Lord Montfort. "I tremble," said Ferdinand, "if it were possible to anticipate difficulties to-day." "I shall go to him at once," said Lord Montfort; " I am not fond of suspense myself, and now it is of no use. All will be right." " I trust only to you," said Ferdinand, " for I am as proud as Temple. He dislikes me, and he is too rich for me to bow down to him." " I take it upon myself," said Lord Montfort. " Mr. Temple is a calm, sensible man. You will laugh at me, but the truth is, with him it must be a matter of calculation : on the one hand, his daughter's happiness, a union with a family second to none in blood, alliances, and territorial position, and only wanting his wealth to revive all its splen- dour; on the other, his daughter broken-hearted, and a duke for his son-in-law. Mr. Temple is too sensible a man to hesitate, particularly when I re- move the greatest difhculty he must experience. Where shall I put you down ] — Berkeley Square 1" CHAPTER XXn. FERDINAND MEDITATES OVER IIIS GOOD FORTUNK. In moments of deep feeling, alike in sudden bursts of prosperity as in darker hours, man must be alone. It requires some self-communion to pre- pare ourselves for good fortune, as well as to en- counter difficulty, and danger, and disgrace. This violent and triumphant revolution in his prospects and his fortunes, was hardly yet completely com- prehended by our friend, Ferdinand Armine: and when he had left a note for the generous Mirabel, whose slumbers he would not disturb at this eai'ly hour, even with good news, he strolled along up Charles Street, and to the park, in one of those wild and joyous reveries in which we brooded over com- ing bliss, and create a thousand glorious conse- quences. It was one of those soft symmer mornings, which are so deliglitful in a great city. The sky was clear, the air was bland, the water sparkled in the sun, and the trees seemed doubly green and fresh to one who so recently had gazed only on iron bars, Ferdinand felt his freedom as well as his happiness He seated himself on a bench and thought of Hen 684 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. rletta Temple ? he took out her note, and read it over and over again. It wa-^ indeed her handwrit- ing ! Restless with impending; joy, he sauntered to the bridge, and leaned over the balustrade, gaz- ing on the waters in charmed and charming va- cancy. How many incidents, how many charac- ters, how many feelings flitted over his memory ! Of what sweet and bitter experience did he not chew the cud I Four-and-twenfy hours ago, and he deemed himself the most miserable and forlorn of human beings, and now all the blessings of the world seemed showered at his feet? A beautiful bride awaited him, whom he had loved with intense passion, and who, he had thought, but an hour ago, was another's. A noble fortune, which would per- mit him to redeem his inheritance, and rank him among the richest commoners of the realm, was to be controlled by one, a few hours back a prisoner for desperate debts. The most gifted individuals in the land emulated each other in proving which en- tertained for him the most sincere affection. What man in the world had friends like Ferdinand Ar- mine ? Ferdinand Armine, who, two days back, deemed himself alone in the world ! The unswerv- ing devotion of Glastonbury, tlie delicate affection of his sweet cousin, all the magnanimity of his high-souled Montfort, and the generosity of the ac- complished Mirabel, passed before him, and won- derfully affected him. He could not flatter himself that he indeed merited such singular blessings ; and yet, with all his faults, which with him indeed were but the consequences of his fiery youth, Ferdinand had been faithful to Henrietta. His constancy to her was now rewarded. As for his friends, the fu- ture must prove his gratitude to them. Ferdinand Armine had great tenderness of disposition, and somewhat of a meditative mind ; schooled by ad- versity, there was little doubt that his coming career would justify his favourable destiny. It was barely a year since he had returned from Malta — but what an eventful twelvemonth ! Every thing that had occurred previously seemed of an- other life ; all his experience was concentrated in that wonderful drama that had commenced at Bath, and the last scene of which was now approaching, — the characters, his parents, Glastonbury, Kathe- rine, Henrietta, Lord Montfort, Count Mirabel, him- self and — Mr. Temple. Ah ! that was a name that a little disturbed him ; and yet he felt confidence now in Mirabel's pre- science ; he could not but believe that with time even Mr. Tem])Ie might be reconciled ! It was at this moment that the sound of military music fell upon his ear ; it recalled old days ; parades and guards at Malta — times when he did not know Henrietta Temple — times when, as it seemed to him now, he had never paused to think or moralize. That was a mad life. What a Neapolitan ball was his career then ! It was indeed dancing on a volcano. And now all had ended so happily ! ! could it indeed be true ] Was it not all a dream of his own crea- tion, while his eye had been fixed in abstraction on that bright and flowing river ? But then there was Henrietta's letter. He might be enchanted, but that was the talisman. In the present unsettled, though hopeful state of affairs, Ferdinand would not go home. He was resolved to avoid any explanations until he heard from Lord Montfort. He shrank from seeing (ilastonbury or his cousin. As for Henrietta, it seemed to him that he could never have the heart to meet her again, unless they were alone. Count Mirabel was the only person to whom he coul3 aliandon his soul, and Count Mirabel was still in his first sleep. So Ferdinand entered Kensington Gardens, and walked in those rich glades and stately avenues. It seems to the writer of this history, that the inha- bitants of London are scarcely sufficiently sensible of the beauty of its environs. On every side the most charming retreats open to them, nor is there a metropolis in the world ■surrounded by so many rural villages, picturesque parks, and elegant casi- nos. With the exception of Constantinople, there is no city in the worlady Annabel that herself and lior family were debarred from the advantage of more ij-equcnt and convenient spiritual consolation ; but at this time, the parochial discipline of the Church of England was not so strict as it fortunately is at present. Cherbury, though a vicarage, possessed neither parish church, nor a residence for the clergyman ; V E N E T I A . 695 nor was there indeed a vllagc. The peasants on the estate, or labourers as they arc now styled, a term whose introduction into our rural world is much to be lamented, lived in the respective farm-houses on the lands which they cultivated. These were scattered about at considerable dis- tances, and many of their inmates found it more convenient to attend the church of the contiguous parish than to repair to the hall chapel, where the household and the dwellers in the few cottages scattered about the park and woods always assembled. The Lady Annabel, whose lot it had been in life to find her best consolation in religion, and who was influenced by not only a sincere, but even a severe piety, had no other alternative, therefore, but engaging a chaplain ; but tliis, after much consideration, she had resolved not to do. She was indeed her own chaplain, herself performing each day such parts of our morning and evening service whose celebration l)ecomes a laic, and reading portions from the writings of those eminent divines, who, from the Restoration to the conclusion of the last reign, have so eminently distinguished the communion oi our national Church. Each Sunday, after the performance of divine service, the Rev. Dr. Masham dined with the family, and he was the only guest at Cherbury Venetia ever remembered seeing. The doctor was a regular orthodox divine of the eighteenth centurv' ; with a large cauliflower wig, shovel-hat, and huge knee-buckles, barely covered by his top- boots ; learned, jovial, humorous, and somewhat courtly ; tmly pious, but not enthusiastic ; not for- getful of his tithes, but generous and charitable when they were once paid ; never neglecting the sick, yet occasionally following a fox ; a fine scholar, an active magistrate, and a good shot; dreading the pope, and hating the presbyterians. The doctor was attached to the Herbert family not merely because they had given him a good living. He had a great reverence for an old English race, and turned up his nose at the Wal- polian loanmongers. Lady Annabel, too, so l)eautlful, so dignified, so amiable and highly bred, and, above all, so pious, had won his regard. He was not a little proud, too, that he was the only person in the county who had the honour of her acquaintance, and yet was disinterested enough to regret that she led so secluded a life, and often lamented that notlung would induce her to show her elegant person on a race-course, or to attend an assize ball, an assembly which was then l)ecoming much the fashion. The little Venetia was a ciiarming child, and the kind-hearted doc- tor, though a bachelor, loved children ; "Ol inalre piilchra, filia pulclirior," was the Rev. Dr. Masham's apposite and favourite i}uotation after his weekly visit to Cherbury. Divine service was concluded; the doctor had preached a capiUil sermon ; for he had been one of the shining lights of his university until his rich but isolating preferment had apparently closed the great career which it was once supposed awaited Inia. The accustomed walk on the terrace was completed, and dinner was announced. This meal was always celebrated at Cherbury, where new fishions stole down with a lingering pace, in the great hall itself. An ample table was placed in the centre on a mat of rushes, sheltered by a large screen covered with huge maps of the shire and the neighbouring counties. The Lady Annabel and her good pastor seated themselves at each end of the table, while Venetia, mounted on a high chair, was waited on by Mistress Paunce- I'ort, who never condescended by any chiince attention to notice the presence of any other individual but her little charge, on whose chair she just leaned with an air of condescending devotion. The butler stood behind his lady, and two other servants watched the doctor; rural bodies all, but decked on this day in gorgeous livery coats of blue and silver, %vhich had been made originally for men of very different size and bearing. Simple as was the usual diet at Cher- bury, the cook was permitted on Sunday full play to her art, whifeh in the eighteenth cen- tury, indulged in the production of dishes more numerous and substantial than our refined tastes could at present tolerate. The doctor appreciated a good dinner, and his countenance glistened with approbation as he surveyed the ample tureen of pottage royal, with a boned duck swimming in its centre. Before him still scowled in death the countenance of a huge roast pike, flanked on one side by a leg of mutton a-hi-dauhp, and on the other by the tempting delicacies of bombarded veal. To these succeeded tliat master-piece of the culinary art, a great battalia pie, in which the bodies of chickens, pigeons and rabbits were embalmed in spices, cocks' combs, and savory balls, and well bedewed with one of those rich sauces of claret, anchovj', and sweet herbs, in which our great-grandfathers delighted, and which was technically termed a Lear. But the grand essay of skill was the cover of this pasty, whereon the curious cook had contrived to represent all the once-living forms that were now entombed in that gorgeous sepulchre. A Florentine tourte or tansey, an old English custard, a more refined blamango, and a riband jelly of many colours, offered a pleasant relief after these vaster inven- tions, and the repast closed with a dish of oyster loaves and a pompetone of larks. Notwithstanding the abstemiousness of his hostess, the doctor was never deterred from doing justice to her hospitality. Few were the dishes that ever escaped him. The demon dyspepsia had not waved its fell wings over the eighteenth century, and wonderful were the feats then achieved by a rountry gentleman with the united aid of a good digestion and a good conscience. The servants had retired and Dr. Masham had taken his last glass of port, and then he rang a bell on the table, and — I trust my fiiir readers will not be frightened from proceeding with this historj' — a servant brought him his pipe. The pipe was well stuffed, duly lighted, and duly puffed ; and then, taldng it from his mouth, the doctor spoke. " And so, my honoured lady, you have got a neighbour at last." " Indeed I" exclaimed Lady Annabel. But the claims of the pipe prevented tlie good doctor from too quickly satisfying her natural curiosity. Another puff or two, and he then continued. " Yes," said he, " the old abbey has at last found a tenant." " A tenant, doctor 1" " Ay ! the best tenant in the world — ^iti I proprietor." 696 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " You quite surprise me. When did this occur?" "They have been tl.ere these three days; I have paid them a vibit. Mrs. Cadurcis has come to live at the abbey with the little lord." " This is indeed news to us," said Lady Anna- bel ; and what kind of people are they V '• You know, my dear madam," said the doctor, just touching the ash of his pipe with his tobacco- stopper of chased silver, " that the present Lord is a very distant relative of the late one !" Lady Annabel bowed assent. " The late Lord," continued the doctor, " who was as strange and wrong-headed a man as ever breathed, though I trust he is in the kingdom of heaven for all that, left all his property to his unlawful children, with the exception of tliis estate laitailed on the title, as all estates should be. 'Tis a fine place, but no great rental. I doubt whether 'tis more than a clear twelve hundred a-ycar." " And Mrs. Cadurcisl" inquired Lady Annabel. " Was an heiress," replied the doctor, " and the late Mr. Cadurcis a spendthrift. He was a bad manager, and, worse, a bad husband. Provi- dence was pleased to summon him suddenly from this mortal scene, but not before he had dissipated the greater part of his wife's means. Mrs. Cadurcis, since she was a widow, has lived in strict seclusion with her little boy, as you may, ray dear lady, with your dear little girl. But I am afraid," said the doctor, shaking his head, " .she has not been in the habit of dining as well as we have to-day. A very limited income, my dear madam ; a very limited income, indeed. And the guardians, I am told, will only allow the little Lord a hundred a-year ; but, on her own income, whatever it may be, and that addition, she has resolved to live at the abbey ; and I believe — I believe she has it rent-free ; but I don't know." " Poor woman !" said Lady Annabel, and not without a sigh. " I trust her child is her consolation." Venetia had not spoken during this conversa- tion, but she listened to it very attentively. At length she said, " Mamma, is not a widow a wife that has lost her husband ?" " You are right, my dear," said Lady Annabel, rather gravely. Venetia mused a moment, and then replied, " Pray, mamma, are you a widow ]" " My dear little girl," said Dr. Masham, " go and give that beautiful peacock a pretty piece of cake.'' Lady Annabel and the doctor rose from the table with Venetia, and took a turn in the park, while the doctor's horses were getting ready. " I think, my good lady," said the doctor, " it would be but an act of Christian charity to call apon Mrs. Cadurcis." " 1 was thinking the same," said Lady Annabel ; " I am interested by what yon have told me of her history and fortunes. We have some woes in common — T hope some jo3's. It seems that this rase shoulil indeed be an exception to my rule." " I would not ask you to sacrifice your inclina- tions to the mere pleasures of the world," said the Doctor : " Viut duties, my dear lady, duties ; there are such things as duties to our neighbour ; and nere is a case where, believe me, they might b^ fulfilled." The doctor's horses now appeared. Both master and groom wore their pistols in their holsters. The doctor shook hands warmly with Lady Annabel, and patted Venetia on the head, as she ran up from a little distance, with an eagei countenance, to receive her accustomed blessing. Then mounting his stout mare, he once more waved his hand with an air of courtliness to his hostess, and was soon out of sight. Lady Amiabel and ^"^cnctia retmned to the terrace room. CHAPTER V. ' And so I would, my lady," said Mistress Pauiicefort, when Lady Annabel communicated to her faithful attendant, at night, the news of the arrival of the Cadurcis family at the abbey, and her intention of paying Mrs. Cadurcis a visit ; " and so I would, my lady," said Mistress Paunce- fort, " and it would be but an act of Christian charity after all, as the doctor says ; for, although it is not for me to complain when my betters are satisfied, and after all I am always content, if your ladyship be ; still there is no denying the fact, that this is a terrible lonesome life after all. And I cannot help thinking your ladyship has not been looking so well of late, and a little society would do your ladyship good ; and Miss Venetia, too, after all, she wants a playfellow ; I am certain sure that I was as tired of playing at ball with her this morning as if I had never sat down in my born days ; and, I dare say, the little lord will play with her all day long. " If I th((Ught that this visit would lead to what is understood by the word society, my good Paunccfort, I certainly should refrain from paying it," said Lady Annabel, very quietly. " O ! Lord, deal" my lady, I was not for a moment dreaming of any such thing," replied Mistress Paunccfort ; " society, I know as well as any one, means grand balls, Ranelagh, and the masquerades. I can't abide the thought of them, I do assure your ladysiiip ; all I meant was that a quiet dinner now and then with a few friends, a dance perhaps in the evening, or a hand of whisk, or a game of romps at Christinas, when the abbey vvill of course be quite full, a — " " I believe there is as little chance of the abbey being full at Christmas, or any other time, as there is of Cherbury," said Lady Annabel. " Mrs. Cadurcis is a widow, with a very slender fortune. Her son will not enjoy his estate until he is of age, and its rental is small. I am led to believe that they will live quite as quietly as ourselves ; and when I spoke of Christian charity, I was thinking only of kindness towards them, and not of amusement for ourselves." "Well, my lady, your la'ship knows best," replied Mistress Paunccfort. evidently very disa.})- pointed; for she had indulged in momentary visions of noble visiters and noble valets ; " I am always content, you know, when your la'ship is ; but, I nuist say, I think it is very odd for a lord to be so poor. I never heard of such a thing. I think they will turn out richer than you have an idea, my lady. Your la'ship knows 'tis quite a saying, ' As rich as a lord.' " Lady Annabel smiled, but did not repiy. The next morning the old fawn-coloured chariot, which had not been used since Lady Annabel'B VENETIA, 697 iTiival at CherTiury, and four black long-tailed coach-horses, tliat from ahsolutc necessity had Deen dej^adcd, in the interval, to the service of the cart and the plough, made their appearance, after much bustle and ellbrt, before the hall-door. Al- though a morning's stroll from Cherbury through the woods, Cadurcis wx'^ distant nearly ten miles by the road, and that road was in great part im- passable, save in favourable seasons. This visit, therefore, was an expedition ; and I.ady Annabel, fearing the fatigue for a child, determined to leave Venetia at home, from whom she had actually never been separated one Iiour in her life, Vene- tia could not refrain from shedding a tear when her mother embraced and quitted her, and begged, as a last favour, that she might accompany her through the park to the avenue lodge. So Paunce- fort and herself entered the chariot, that rocked like a ship, in ^ite of all the skill of the coach- man and the postilion, Venetia walked home with Mistress Paiancefort, but Lady Annabel's little daughter wais not in her usual lively spirits ; many a butterfly glanced around without attracting her pursuit, and the deer trooped by without eliciting a single observa- tion. At length she said, in a veiy thoughtful tone, " !\Tistress Paunccfort, I should have liked to have gone and seen the little boy." " You shall go and sec him another da}^ Miss," replied her attendant. "Mistress Pauncefort," said Venetia, "are 5'ou a widow 1" Mistress Pauncefort almost started ; had the inquir}- been made by a man, she would almost have supposed he was going to be vcr}' rude. She was indeed very much surprised, " And pra)', Miss Venetia, what could put it in your head to a.sk such an odd question ?" ex- claimed Mistress Paunccfort, " A widow ! Miss Venetia; I have never yet changed my name, and I shall not in a hurry, that I can tell you." "Do widows change their names?" said Ve- netia. " All women change tlieir names when they marry," responded Mistress Pauncefort, " Is mamma married 1" inquired Venetia, " La ! Miss Venetia, Well, to be sure, you do nsk the strangest questions. Married ! To be sure she is married," said Mistress Pauncefort, exceed- ingly flustered, " And whom is she married to 1" pursued the unwearied Venetia. " Your papa, to be sure," said Mistress Paunce- fort, blushing up to her eyes, and looking very confused ; " that is to say. Miss Venetia, you are never to ask questions about such subjects. Have not I often told you it is not pretty 1" " Why is it not pretty V said Venetia, " Because it is not proper," said Mistress Paunccfort ; " because your mamma does not like you to ask such questions, and she will be very angry witli me for answering them, I can tell you that," " I tell you what. Mistress Pauncefort," said Venetia, " I think mamma is a widow." " And what then, Miss Venetia ] There is no shame in that," " tSname !" exclaimed Venetia. " What is fihamc '" 88 " Look, there is a pretty butterfly !" exclaimed Mistress Paunccfort, " Did you ever see such a pretty butterfly, Miss T" " I do not care about butterflies to-day. Mistress Paunccfort; I like to talk about widows," " Was there ever such a child 1" exclaimed Mistress Paunccfort, with a wondering glance. " I must have had a papa," said Venetia ; " all the ladies I read about had papas, and married husbands. Then whom did my mamma marry ?" " Lord ! Miss Venetia, you know very well your mamma always tells you that all those books you read are a pack of stories," observed Mistress Pauncefort, with an air of triumphant art. " There never were such persons, perhaps,'' said Venetia, " but it is not true that there never were such things as papas and husbands, for all people have papas ; you must have had a papa. Mistress Paunccfort ?" " To be sure I had," said Mistress Pauncefort, bridling up. " And a mamma too 1" said Venetia. " As honest a woman as ever lived," said Mis- tress Pauncefort. " Then if I have no papa, mamma must be a ■wife that has lost her husband, and that, mamma told me at dinner yesterday, was a widow." " Was the like ever seen ?" exclaimed Mistress Paunccfort. " And what then. Miss Venetia 1" " It seems to me so odd that only two people should live here, and both be widows," said Venetia, " and both have a little child ; the only difference is, that one is a little boy, and I am a little gid," " When ladies lose their husbands, they do not like to have their names mentioned," said Mistress Paunccfort; " and so yon mu.st never talk of your papa to my lady, and that is the truth," " I will not now," said Venetia, When they returned home. Mistress Pauncefort brought her work, and seated herself on the ter- race, that she might not lose sight of her charge. Venetia played about for some little time ; she made a castle behind a ti'ce, and fancied .she was a knight, and then a lady, and conjured up an ogre in the neighbouring shrubbery ; but these day- dreams did not amuse her as much as usual. She went and fetched her book, but even " The Seven Champions" could not intefest her. Her eye was fixed upon the page, and apparently she was absorbed in her pursuit, but her mind wandered, and the page was never turned. She indulffcd in an unconscious revery ; her fancy was with her motlier on her visit ; the old abbey rose up before her : she painted the scene without an effort : the court, with the fountain ; the grand room, with the tnpcstrj- hangings ; that desolate garden, with the fallen statues ; and that long, gloomy jrallery. And in all these scenes appeared tliat little boj-, who, somehow or other, seemed wonderfully blended with her imaginings. It was a very long day this ; Venetia dined alone with Mistress i Paunccfort ; the time hung very heavy ; at length she fell a-slcep in Mistress Pauncefort's lap, A sound roused her — the carriage had returned : she ran to greet her mother, but there was no news ; — Mrs. Cadurcis had been absent; she hud gore to a distant town to buy .some furniture ; and, after all, Lady Annabel had not seen the little boy. 3N 698 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. CHAPTER VI. A FEW days after the visit to Cadurcis, when Lady Annabel was sitting alone, a post-chaise drove up to the hall, whence issued a short and very stout woman with a rubicund countenance, and dressed in a style which remarkably blended the shabby with the tawdry. She was accompa- nied by a boy between eleven and twelve years of age, whose appearance, however, very much con- trasted with that of his mother, for he was very pale and slender, with long curling black hair and large black eyes, which occasionally, by their transient flashes, agreeably relieved a face, the general expression of which might be esteemed somewhat shy and sullen. The lady, of course, was Mrs. Cadurcis, who was received by Lady Annabel with the greatest courtesy. " A terrible journey," exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, fanning herself as she took her seat, and so very hot ! Plantagenet, my love, make your bow ; liave not I always told you to make a bow when you enter a room, especially where there are strangers 1 This is Lady Annabel Herbert, who was so kind as to call upon us. Make your bow to Lady Annabel.' The boy gave a sort of sulky nod, but Lady Annabel received it so graciously and expressed herself so kindly to him that his features relaxed a little, though he was quite silent and sat on the edge of his chair, the picture of dogged indiffer- ence. " Charming country. Lady Annabel," said Mrs. Cadurcis, " but worse roads, if possible, than we had in Northumberland, where, indeed, there were no roads at all. Cherbury a delightful place, very unlike the abbey ; dreadfully lonesome I assure you I find it. Lady Annabel. Great change for us from a little town and all our kind neigh- bours. Very different from Morpeth ; is it not, Plantagenet 1" " I hate Morpeth," said the boy. " Hate Morpeth !" exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, " Well, I am sure, that is very ungrateful, with so many kind friends as we always found. Besides Plantagenet, have I not always told you that you are to hate nothing ] It is very wicked. The trouble it costs me, Lady Aimabel, to educate this dear child !" continued Mrs. Cadurcis, turning to Lady Annabel, and speaking in a semi-tone. " I have done it all myself, I assure you; and, when he likes, he can be as good as any one. Can't you, Plantagenet 1 Lord Cadurcis gave a grim smile ; seated him- self at the very back of the deep chair and swung his feet, which no longer reached the ground, to and fro. " I am sure that Lord Cadurcis always behaves well," said Lady Annabel. " There, Plantagenet," exclaimed Mrs. Cadur- cis, " only listen to tliat. Hear what Lady Anna- bel Herbert says ; she is sure you always behave well. Now mind, never give her ladyship cause to change her opinion. Plantagenet curled his lip, and half-turned his oack on his companions. '' I regretted so much that I was not at home when you did me the honour to call," resumed Mrs. CaduiT.is ; " but I had gone over for the day it is to buy furniture, Lady Annabel !" added Mrs. Cadurcis, with a piteous expression. " It is indeed very troublesome," said Lady Annabel. " Ah ! you have none of these cares," continued Mrs. Cadurcis, surveying the pretty apartment. " V/hat a difference between Cherbury and the abbey ! I suppose you have never been there 1" " Indeed it is one of my favoiirite walks," answered Lady Annabel, " and some two years ago I even took the liberty of walking through the house." " Was there ever such a place !" exclaimed Mrs, Cadurcis. "I assure you my poor head turns, whenever I try to find my way about it. But the trustees offered it us, and I thought it my duty to my son to reside there. Besides it 'Was a great offer to a widow ; if poor Mr. Cadurcis had beea alive it would have been different. I hardly know what I shall do there, particularly in v/inter. My spirits are always dreadfully low. I only hope Plantagenet will behave well. If he goes into his tantarums at the abbey, and particularly in winter, I hardly know what will become of me I" " I am sure Lord Cadurcis will do every thing to make the abbey comfortable to you. Besides it is but a very short walk from Cherbury, ani you must come very often and see us." O ! Plantagenet can be good if he likes, I can assure you. Lady Annabel ; and behave as properly as any little boy I know. Plantagenet my dear, speak. Have not I always told you, when you pay a visit, that you should open your mouth now and then. I don't like chatting chil- dren," added Mrs. Cadurcis, " but I like them to answer when they are spoken to." " Nobody has spoken to me," said Lord Cadur- cis, in a sullen tone. " Plantagenet, my love !" said his mother, in a solemn voice. " Well, mother, what do you want?" " Plantagenet, my love, you know you promised me to be good !" " Well ! what have I done 1" .«r, " Lord Cadurcis," said Lady Annabel, interfeiS ing, " do you like to look at pictures 1" ' Thank you," replied the little lord, in a more to Soudiport, buying furniture. What a busmess 1 like a man." courteous tone, " I like to be left alone." " Did you ever know such an odd child !" said Mrs. Cadurcis ; " and yet. Lady Annabel, you must not judge him by what you see. I do assure you he can behave, when he likes, as pretty as possible." " Pretty !" muttered the little lord between his teeth. " If you had only seen him at Morpeth some- times at a little tea-party," said Mrs. .Cadurcis ; " he really was quite the ornament of the com- pany." " No, I wasn't," said Lord Cadurcis. ■ " Plantagenet !" said his mother again in a solemn tone, "have I not always told you that you are never to contradict any one 1" The little lord indulged in a suppressed giowl. " There was a httle play last Christmas," con tinned Mrs. Cadurcis, " and he acted quite delight- fully. Now you would not, think that from the way he sits upon that chair. Plantagenet, my dear, I do insist upon your behaving youi^selfl Sit VENETIA. 699 " I am not a man, said Lord Cadurcis very quietly ; " I wish I were." " Plaiitagcnet !" said llae mother, " have not I always told you that you arc never to answer me 1 It is not proper for children to answer. ! Lady Annabel, if you Icnew what it cost me to educate my son. lie never does any thing I wish, and it IS so provoking, because I know that he can behave as properly as possible if he likes. He does it to provoke me, — you know you do it to provoke me, you little brat ; row, sit properly sir ; I do desire you fo sit properly. How vexa- tious tliat you shoula call at Cherbury for the first time, and behave in this manner ! Plantagcnet, db you hear me?" exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, with a face reddening to scarlet, and almost menacing a move from her seat. " Yes, everj- body hears you, Mrs Cadurcis," said the httie lord. ' ' Don't call me Mrs. Cadmcis," exclaimed the mother in a dreadful rage. " That is not the way to speak to your mother. I will not be called Mrs. Cadurcis by you. Don't answer me, sir, — I desire you not to answer me. I have half a mind to get up and give you a good shake, that I have, Lady Annabel," sighed Mrs. Cadurcis, while a tear trickled down her check, " if you only knew the life [ lead, and what trouble it costs me to educate that child !" " My dear madam," said Lady Annabel, " I am sure that Lord Cadurcis has no other wish but to please you. Indeed you have misiuiderstood him." " Vea .' she always misunderstand* me," said Lord Cadurcis, in a softer tone, but with pouting lips and suffused eyes. " Now he is going on," said bis mother, begin- ning herself to cry dreadfully. " He knows my weak heart ; he knows nobody in the world loves him like his mother ; and Uiis is the way he treats " My dear Mrs. Cadarcls," said Lady Annabel, " pray take luncheon, after your long drive ; and Lora Cadurcis, I ain sure you must be fatigued." " Thank you, I never eat, my dear lady," said Mrs. Cadurcis, " except at my meals. But one glass of Mountain, if you please, I would just take the liberty of tasting, for the weather is so dread- fully hot ; and Plantagcnet has so aggravated me, I really do not feel myself" cajolery, now \<^ith menace, till at length, worked up by the united stimulus of her copious draughts of Moiuitain and her own ungovernable rage, she dashed down the glass and unfinished slice of cake, and before the astonished Lady Annabel, rushed forward to give him what she had long threatened, and what she in gcneraJ vdtimately had recourse to — a good shake. Her agile son, experienced in these storms, es- caped in time, and pushed liis chair before his in- furiated mother ; Mrs. Cadurcis, however, rallied, and clla^^cd him round the room ; once more she flattered herself she had captured him, once more he evaded hex , in iier despair she took up Veno- tia's " Seven Champions," and threw the volume at his head ; he laughed a fiendish laugh, as, duck- ing Ids head, the book flew on, and dashed through a pane of glass; Mrs. Cadurcis made a desperate charge, and her son, a little frightened at her almost uianiacal passion, saved himself by sudden- ly seizing Lady Annabel's work-table, and whirling it before her ; Mrs. Cadurcis fell over the leg of the table, and went into violent hysterics ; while the blood-hovmd, who had long started from hia repose, looked at his mistress for instructions, and in the meantime continued baiking. The aston- ished and agitated Lady Annabel assisted Mrs. Cadurcis to rise, and led her to a. couch. Lord Cadurcis, pale and dogged, stood in a comer, and after all this uproar there was a comparative calm, only broken by the sobs of the mother, each instant growing fainter and fainter. At this moment the door opened, and Mistress Pauncefort ushered in the little ^'enetia. She really looked like an angel of peace sent from heaven on a mission of concord, with her long golden hair, her bright face, and smile of ineffable loveliness. " Manmia !" said Venetia, in the sweetest tone. " Hush ! darhng," said Lady Annabel, " this lady is not very well." Mrs. Cadurcis opened her eyes and sighed- She beheld Venetia and stared at her with a feel- ing of wonder. " O ! Lady Annabel," she faintly exclaimed, " what must you think of me ! But was there ever such an unfortunate mother ! and I have not a thought in the world but for that boy. I have devoted my life to him, and never would have buried myself in this abbey but for his sake. And this is the way he treats me, and his father Lady Annabel sounded her silver hand-bell, and before him treated me even worse. Am I not the the butler brought some cakes and tlie Mountain. Mis. Cadurcis revived by virtue of her single glass, and the providential co-operation of a few subse- quent ones. Even the cakes and the Mountain, however, would not tempt her son to open his mouth ; and this, in spite of her returning com- posure, drove her to desperation. A conviction that the Mountain and the calves were delicious, an amiable desire that tlie palate of her spoiled child should be gratified, somQ reasonable maternal anxiety that after so long gind fatiguing a drive he in fact needed some rcfresIuJ|uttfad Ifte agonising consciousness that all b|^^^Hp^^cal }>lcasure at the moment was de^pH^^the mental suffer- ings she endured at haMflg quarrelled with her son, and that he was depriving himself of what was so agrrealile only to pique her. quite over- whelmed the ill-regidatcd mind of lliis fund mo- ther. Between each sip and each mouthful, she! Plantagcnet, appealed to him to follow her example, now withj heert," most mifcrtunate woman you ever knew ?' " My dear madam," said the kind Lady Anna- bel, in a soothing tone, "you will be very happy yet. All will be quite right and quite happy." "Is this angel your cliildl" inquired I^lrs. Ca- durcis, in a low voice. " This is my little girl — Venetia. Come liither, Venetia, and speak to Mrs. Cadurcis." '■How do you do, Mrs. Cadurcis]" said Ve- netia. "I am so glad you have come to live at the abbey." " The angel !" exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis. " The sweet seraph ! Oh ! why did not my Plantagcnet speak to you. Lady Annaliel, in the same tone 1 And he can, if he likes : — he can, indeed. It was his silence that so mortified me ; it was his silence that led to all. I am so proud of lum . and then he comes here and never speaks a word. O . I am sure vou will break my 700 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. Venetia went up to the little lord in the comer, and gently stroked his dark cheek. " Are you the little boy V she said. Cadurcis looked at her ; at first the glance was rather fierce, but it instantly relaxed. " What is your name?" he said, in a low, but not unkind, tone. " Venetia." " I like you, Venetia," said the boy. " Do you live here !" " Yes, with my mamma." " I like your mamma, too ; but not as much as you. I like your gold hair." " Oh, how funny ! to like my gold hair !" " If you had come in sooner," said Cadurcis, " we should not have had this row." " What is a row, little boy T" said Venetia. " Do not call me little boy," he said, but not in an unkind tone ; " call me by my name." " What is your namel" " Lord Cadurcis ; but you may call me by my Christian name, because I like you." " What is your Christian name ] " " Plantagenet." " Plantagenet ! What a long name !" said Venetia. " Tell me, then, Plantagenet, what is a row V " What often takes place between me and my mother, but which I am very sorry now has hap- pened here, for I like this place, and should like to fome often. A row is a quarrel." " A quarrel ! What ! do you quarrel with your mammal" " Oiten." " Why, then, you are not a good boy." " Ah ! my mamma is not like yours," said the little lord, with a sigh. " It is not my fault. But now I want to make it up ; how shall I do it 1 " " Go and give her a kiss." " Poh ! that is not the way." " Shall I go and ask my mamma what is best It} dol" said Venetia, and she stole away on tip- toe, and whispered to Lady Annabel that Planta- genet wanted her. Her mother came forward and invited Lord Cadurcis to walk on the terrace with )ier, leaving Venetia to amuse her other guest. Lady Annabel, though very kind, was very frank and firm in her unexpected confidential in- terview with her new friend. She placed before him very clearly the enormity of his conduct, which no provocation could justify ; it was a vio- lation of divine law as well as human propriety. She found the little lord attentive, tractable, and repentant, and, what might not have been expect- ed, exceedingly ingenious and intelligent. His observations, indeed, were distinguished by re- markable acuteness ; and though he could not, and indeed did not even attempt to vindicate his conduct, he incidcntly introduced much that might 1)6 urged in its extenuation. There was, indeed, in this his milder moment, something very winning in his demeanour, and Lady Annabel deeply re- gretted that a nature of so nnioh promise and capacity should, by the injudicious treatTuent of a parent, at once fond and violent, afl'ord such slight hopes of future happiness. It was arranged be- tween Lord Cadurcis and Lady Annabel that she should lead him to his mother, and that he should la- ment the past, and ask her forgiveness ; so they re- entered the room. Venetia was listening to a very I«np story from Mrs. Cadurcis, who appeared to have entirely recovered herself; but her counten- ance assumed a befiting expression of grief and gravity, when she observed her son. " My dear madam," said Lady Annabel, " your son is very unhappy that he should have ofiended you, and he has asked my kind offices to effect a perfect reconciliation between a chdd who wishes to be dutiful to a parent who, he feels, has always been so affectionate." Mrs. Cadurcis began crying, " Mother," said her son, " I am sorry for what has occurred ; mine was the fault. I shall not be happy till you pardon me." " No, yours was not the fault," said poor Mrs. Cadurcis, crying very bitterly. " Oh ! no, it was not ; I was in fault, only I. There, Lady Anna- bel, did I not tell you he was the sweetest,dearest, most generous-hearted creature that ever lived 1 Oh ! if he vi'ould only always speak so, I am sure I siiould be the happiest woman that ever breathed ! He puts me in mind quite of his poor dear lather, who was an angel upon earth, he was indeed, when he was not vexed. O ! my dear Plantagenet ! my only hope and joy ! you are the treasure and consolation of my life, and always will be. God bless you m}' darling child ! You shall have that pony you wanted ; I am sure I can manage it; I did not think I could." As Lady Annabel thought it was as well that the mother and the son should not be imme- diately thrown together after this storm, she very kindly proposed that they should remain, and pass the day at Cherbury ; and as Plantagenet's eyes brightened at the proposal, it did not require much trouble to persuade his mother to accede to it. The day, that had commenced so inauspiciously, turned out one of the most agreeable, both to Mrs. Cadurcis and her child. The two mothers con- versed together, and, as Mrs. Cadurcis was a great workwoman there was at least one bond of sympa- thy between her and the tapestry of her hostess. They all took a stroll in the park ; and as Mrs. Cadurcis was not able to walk for any length of time, the children were permitted to stroll about together, attended by Mistress Pauncefort, while Mrs. Cadurcis, chatting without ceasing, detailed to Lady Annabel all the history of her life, all the details of her various complaints and her econo- mical arrangements, and all the secrets of her husband's treatment of her, — that favourite subject on which she ever waxed most eloquent. Plan- tagenet, equally indulging in confidence, which with him, however, was very unusual, poured all his soul into the charmed ear of Venetia. He told her how he and his mother had lived at Mor- peth, and how he hated it ; how poor they had i)een, and how rich he should be ; how he loved the abbey, and cspecio.lly the old gallery, and the drums and armour ; how he had been a day- scholar at a little school which he abhorred, and how he was to go some day to Eaton, of which he was very proud. At length they were obliged to return, and when dinner was over the post-chaise was announced. Mrs. Cadurcis parted from Lady Annabel with all the warm expressions of a heart naturally kind and generous ; and Phmtagencl embraced Venetia, and promised that the next day he would find his way alone from Cadurcis, through the wood, and come and take another walk with her. V E N E T I A . 701 CHAPTER VII. Tfirs settlement of Mrs. Cadurc'.s and her son tn the neighbourhood was an event of no slight importance in the life of the family at Chcrbury. Venetia at length found a companion of her own age, itself an incident which, in its inllucnce upon her character and pursuits, was not to he disre- garded. There grew up between the little lord and the daughter of Lady Annabel that fond inti- macy which not rarely occurs in childhood. Plan- tagenet and \''enctia quickly imbibed for each other a singular aliVction, not displeasing to Lady Annabel, who observed, without dissatisfaction, the increased happiness of her own child, and encouraged by her kindness the frequent visits of the boy, who i?oon learnt the shortest road from the abbey, and almost daily scaled the hill, and traced his way through the woods, to the hall. There was much, indeed, in the character and the situation of Lord Cadurcis which interested Lady Annabel Herbert. His mild, engaging, and affec- tionate manners, when he was removed from the injudicious influence of his mother, won upon her feelings; she felt for this lone child, whoai nature had gifted with so soft a heart and with a thought- ful mind whose out-breaks not unfrequently at- tracted her notice ; with none to guide him, and with only one heart to look up to for fondness ; and that, too, one that had already contrived to forfeit the respect even of so young a child. Yet Lady Annabel was too sensible of the paramount claims of a mother — herself, indeed, too jealous of any encroackment on the full privi- leges of maternal love — to sanction in the slightest degree, by her behaviour, any neglect of Mrs. Cadurcis by her son. For his sake, therefore, she courted the societj- of her new neighbour ; and although Mrs. Cadurcis offered little to engage Lady Annabel's attention as a companion, though she was violent in her temper, far from well in- formed, and — from the society in which, in spite of her original good birth, her later years liad passed — very far from being rctined, she was not without her good qualities. She was generous, kind-hearted, and grateful ; not insensible of her own deficiencies, and respectable from her misfor- tunes. Ladj' Annabel was one of those who always judged individuals rather by their good qualities than their bad. With the exception of her violent temper, which — under the control of Lady Annabel's presence, and bj' the aid of all that kind person's skilful management — Mrs. Ca- durcis generally contrived to bridle, her principal faults were those of manner, which, from the force of habit, every day became less painful. Mrs. Cadurcis — who, indeed, was only a child of a larger growth — became scarcely less attached to the Herbert family than her son ; she felt that her life, under their influence, was happier and serener than of yore ; that there were less domestic broils than in old days ; that her son was more dutiful ; and, as she could not help suspecting, though she found it difficult to analyse the cause, herself more amiable. The truth wasf Lady Annabel always treated Mrs. Cadurcis with studied respect ; and the children, and especially Venetia, followed her example. Mrs. Cadurcis' self-complacency was not only less shocked, but more gratified than before ; and tliis was the secret of her happiness. For no one w.as more mortified by her rages, when they were past, than Mrs. Cadurcis herself; she felt they compromised her dignity, and had lost her all moral command over a child whom she loved at the bottom of her heart with a kind of wild passion, though she would menace and .strike him, and who often jirccipitated these paroxysms by denying his mother that duty and affection which were, after all, the great charm and pride of her existence. As Mrs. Cadurcis was unable to walk to Cher- bury, and as Plar.tagenet soon fell into the habit of passing every morning at the hall, Lady Anna- bel was frequent in her visits to the mother, and soon she persuaded Mrs. Cadurcis to order the old post-chaise regularly on Saturday, atid remain at Chcrbury until the following Monday ; by these means both families united together in tlie chapel at divine service, while the presence of Dr. Masham, at their now increased Sunday dinner, was an incident in the monotonous life of Mrs. Cadurcis far froiVi displeasing to her. The doctor gave her a little news of the neighbourhood, and of the country in general ; a'.nused her with an occa- sional anecdote of the queen and the young prin- cesses ; and always lent her the last number of " Sylvanus Urban." This W'eeklj' visit to Chcrbury, the great per- sonal attention which she always received there, and the frequent morning walks of Lady Annabel to the abbey, effectually repressed on the whole the jealousy whicli was a characteristic of Mrs. Cadurcis' nature, and which the constant absence of her son from her in the mornings might other- wise liave fatallj' developed. But Mrs. Cadurcis could not resist the conviction that the Herberts were as much her friends a-s her child's ; her jea- lousy was balanced by her gratitude ; she was daily, almost hourly, sensible of some kindness of Lady Annabel, for there were a thousand services in the power of the opulent and ample establish- ment of Chcrbury to afford the limited and deso- late household at the abbey. Living in seclusion, it is difficult to refrain from imbibing even a strong regard for our almost solitary companion, however incompatible may be our pursuits, and however our tastes may var\% especially when that compa- nion is gniteful, and duly sensible of the conde- scension of our intimacy. And so it happened that, before a year had elapsed, that very Mrs. Ca- durcis, whose first introduction at Chcrbury had been so unfavourable to her, and from whose tem- l)er and manners the elegant demeanour and the disciplined mind of Lady Annabel Herbert might have been excused for a moment revolting, had succeeded in establishing a strong hold upon the affections of her refined neighbour, who .nought, on every occasion, her society, and omitted few opportunities of contributing to her comfort and welfare. In the mean time her son was the companion of Venetia, both in her pastimes and studies. The education of Lord Cadurcis had received no fur- ther assistance than was afforded by the little grammar-school at Morpeth, where he had passed three or four years as a day scholar, and where his mother had invariably taken his part on every occasion that he had incurred the displeasure «if his master. There he had obtained some imper- fect knowledge of Latin ; yet the boy was fond of reading, and had picked up, in an odd wav, moi 3 N 2 ro3 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. knowledge than might have been supposed. He had read "Baker's Chronicle," and "The Old Universal History," and " Plutarch ;" and had turned over — in the book-room of an old gentle- man at Morpeth, who had been attracted by his intelligence — not a few curious old folios, from which he had gleaned no contemptible store of curious instances of human nature. His g^iardian, whom he had never seen, and who was a great nobleman and lived in London, had signified to Mrs. Cadurcis his intention of sending liis ward i!:to Eton ; but that time had not yet arrived, and Mrs. Cadurcis, who dreaded parting with her son, determined to postpone it by evciy maternal arti- fice in her power. At present it would have seemed that her son's intellect was to be left ut- terly uncultivated, for there was no school in the neighbourhood which he could attend, and no occasional assistance which could be obtained; and to the constant presence of a tutor in the house Mrs. Cadurcis was not less opposed than his lordship could have been himself. It was by degrees that Lord Cadurcis became the partner of Venetia in her studies. Lady An- nabel had consulted Dr. Masham about the poor little boy, whose neglected state she deplored ; and the good doctor had offered to ride over to Cher- bury at least once a week, besides Sunday, prO' vided Lady Annabel would undertake that his directions, in his absence, should be attended to. This her ladyship promised cheerfully ; nor had she any dithculty in persuading Cadurcis to con- bent to the arrangement. He listened with docility and patience to her representation of the fatal effects, in his after-life, of his neglected education ; of the generous and advantageous offer of Dr. Masham ; and how cheerfully she would exert herself to assist his endeavours, if Plantagenet would willingly submit to her supervision. The little lord expresped to her his determination to do all that she desired, and voluntarily promised her that she should never repent her goodness. And he kept his word. So every morning, with the full concurrence of Mrs. Cadurcis, whose advice and opinion on the affair were most formally so- licited by Lady Annabel, Plantagenet arrived early at the hall, and took his writing and French lessons with Venetia, and then they alternately read aloud to Lady Annabel from the histories of Hooke and Echard. When Venetia repaired to her drawing, Cadurcis sat down to his Latin excr- (•ise, and, in encouraging and assisting him, Lady Annabel, a proficient in Italian, began herself to learn the ancient language of the Eonians. With such a charming mistress even these Latin exer- cises were achieved. In vain Cadurcis, after turn- ing leaf over leaf, would look around with a piteous air to his fair assistant — " O ! Lady Annabel, I am sure the word is not in the dictionary ;" Lady An- nabel was in a moment at his side, and, by some magic of her fair fingers the word would somehow or other make its appearance. After a little expo- sure of this kind, Plantagenet would labour with double energy, until, heaving a deep sigh of ex- haustion and vexation, he would burst forth — " O ! Lady Annabel, indeed there is not a nominative case in this sentence." And then Lady Annabel would quit her easel, with her pencil in her hand, and give all her intellect to the puzzling construc- tion; at length, she would say, "I think* Plan- tagenet, this must be our nombiative case ;" and so it always was. Thus, when Wednesday came, the longest and most laborious morning of all Lord Cadurcis' studies, and when he neither wrote, nor read, nor learnt French with Venetia, but gave up all his soul to Dr. Masham, he usually acquitted himself to that good person's satisfaction, who left him, in general, v,'ith commendations that were not lost on the pupil, and plenty of fresh exercises to oc- cupy him and Lady Annabel until the next week. When a year had thus passed away, the happiest year yet in Lord Cadurcis' life, in spite of all his disadvantages, he had contrived to make noincort- siderablc progress. Almost deprived of a tutor, he had advanced in classical acquirement more than during the whole of his preceding years of scholar- ship, while his hand-writing began to become intel- ligible ; he could read French with comparative facility, and had turned over many a volume in the well-stored library at Cherbury. CHAPTER VIIL Whex the hours of study were past, the chil dren, with that zest for play which occupation can alone secure, would go forth together, and wander in the park. Here they had made a little world for themselves, of which no one dreamed ; for Ve- netia had poured forth all her Arcadian lore into the ear of Plantagenet, and they acted together many of the adventures of the romance, under the fond names of Musidorus and Philoclea. Cher- bury was Arcadia, and Cadurcis Macedon; while the intervening woods figured as the forests of Thessaly, and the breezy downs were the heights of Pindus. Unwearied was the innocent sport of their virgin imaginations ; and it was a great treat if Venetia, attended by Mistress Pauncefort, were permitted to accomjiany Plantagenet some way on his return. Then they parted with an embrace in the woods of Thessaly, and Musidorus strolled home with a heavy heart to his Macedonian realm. Parted from Venetia, the magic suddenly seemed to cease, and Musidorus was instantly transformed into the little Lord Cadurcis, exhausted by the uncon- scious efforts of his fancy, depressed by the separa- tion from his sweet companion, and shrinking from the unpoetical iTception which at the best awaited him in his ungcnial home. Often, when thus alone, would he loiter on his way and seat himself on the ridge, and watch the setting svm, as its dy- ing glory illumined the turrets of his ancient house, and burnished the waters of the lake, until the tears stole down his check ; and yet he knew not why. No thoughts of sorrow had flitted through his minol, nor indeed had ideas of any description occurred to him. It was a trance of unmeaning abstraction ; all that he felt was a mystical pleasure in watching the sunset, and a conviction that, if lie were not with Venetia, that which he loved next best was to be alone. The little Cadurcis in general returned home moody and silent, and his mother too often, irri- tated by his demeanour, indulged in all the ex- pressions of a quick and offended temper; but since his intimacy with the Herberts, Plantagenet had learnt to control his emotions, and often sue- VENETIA. ?03 ccssfully laboured to prevent those scenes of do- mcstic recrimination once so paLnfully frequent. There often, too, was a note from Lady Annabel to Mrs. Cadurcis, or sonic other slight memorial, borne by her son, which enlisted all the kind feel- ings of that lady in favour of her Chcrbury friends, and then the cvcnincr was sure to pass over in .secure him a quiet evening at Cadurcis ; and when- ever this had not been obtained, the last words of Venclia were ever not to loiter, and to remember to speak to his mother as much as he possibly could. Vcnctia returner a moment two other horsemen who followed the cart ; but Cadurcis, to his infinite alarm and mortification, soon recognised Dr. Masham and Peter. When the gipsies fi)und their leader was cap- tive, they no longer attempted to conceal them- selves; they all came forward, and would have clustered round the cart, had not the riders, as well as those who more immediately guarded the prisoner, prevented them. Morgana spoke some words in a loud voice to the gipsies, and they im- mediately appeared less agitated, then turning to Dr. Masham, he said in English, "Behold your child !•' Instantly two gipsy men seized Cadurcis, and led him to the doctor. " How, now, my lordl" said the worthy rector, in a stem voice, " is this your duty to your mother and your friends 1" Cadurcis looked down, but rather dogged than ashamed. " You have brought an iimoccnt man into great peril," continued the doctor. " This person, no longer a prisoner, has been arrested on suspicion of robbery, and even murder, through your freak. Morgana, or whatever your name may be, here is some reward for your treatment of this child, and some compensation for your detention. Mount your pony Lord Cadurcis, and return to your home with me." " Tliis is my home, sir," said Plantagcnet. "Lord Cadurcis, this childish nonsense must cease : it has already endangered the life of your mother, nor can I answer for her safety, if you lose a moment in returning." " Child, you must return," said Morgana. " Child!" said Plantagcnet, and he walked some steps away, and leant against a tree. " You pro- mised that I should remain," ?aid he, addressing himself reproachfully to Morgana. " You are not your own master," said the gipsy ; " your remaining here will only endanger and dis- turb us. Fortunately wc have nothing to fear froni laws we have never outraged ; but had there been a judge less wise and gentle than the master here, our peaceful family might have been all harassed and hunted to the very death." He waved his hand, and addressed some words to his tribe, whereupon two brawny fellows seized Cadurcis, and placed him again, in spite of his struggling, upon his pony, with the same irresisti- ble facility with which they had a few nights be- fore dismounted him. The little lord looked very sulky, but his position was beginning to get ludi- crous. Morgana, pocketing his five guineas, leaped over the side of tlie cart, and offered to guide the doctor and his attendants through the forest. They moved on accordingly. It was the work of an instant, and Cadurcis suddenly found himself returning home between the rector and Peter. Not a word, however, escaped his lips ; once, only, he moved ; the light branch of a tree, aimed with delicate precision, touched his back; he looked round; it was Bcruna.. She kissed her hand to him, and a tear stole down his pale, sullen check, as, taking from his breast his handkerchief, he threw it behind him, unperceivcd, that she might pick it up nnd keep it for his sake. After proceeding two or three miles, under the guidance of Morgana, the equestrians gained the road, though it still rim through the forest. Here the doctor dismissed the gipsyman, with whom he had occasionally conversed during their progress ; but not a sound ever escaped from the mouth of Cadurcis, or rather, the aiptive who was now sub- stituted in Morgana's stead. The doctor now addressing himself to Plantagcnet, informed him that it was of importance that they should make the best of their way, and so he put spurs to his marc, and Cadurcis sullenly complied with the intimation. At this rate, in the course of Uttle more than another hour, they arrived in sight of the demesne of Cadurcis, where they pulled up their steeds. They entered the park — they approached the portal of the abbey — at length they dismounted. Their coming was announced by a senant, wno 718 D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. nad recognised his lord at a distance, and had ran I let him find a mother in you." She never spoke on before with the tidings. When they entered the abbey, they were met by Lady Annabel in the cloisters ; lier countenance was veiy serious. She shook hands with Doctor Masham, but did not speak, and immediately led him aside. Cadurcis remained standing in the very spot where Doctor Masham left him, as if he were quite a stranger in the place, ;ind was no longer master of his own conduct. Suddenly Doctor Masham — who was at the end of the cloister, while Lady Annabel was mounting the staircase — looked round with a very pale face, and said in an agitated voice, " Lord Cadurcis, Lady Annabel wishes to speak to you in the saloon. Cadurcis immediately, but slowly, repaired to the saloon. Lady Annabel was walking up and down it. She seemed gi'eatly disturbed. When she saw him, she put her arm round his neck vciy atfectionately, and said in a low voice, " My dearest Plantagcnet, it has devolved upon me to communicate to you some very distressing intelli- gence." Her voice faultered, and the tears stole down her cheek. " My mother, then, is dangerously ill 1" he in- quired in a calm but softened tone. " It is even sadder news than that, dear child." Cadurcis looked about him wildly, and then with an inquiring glance at Lady Annabel — " There can be but one thing worse than that," he at length said. " What if it have happened V said Lady Anna- bel. He threw himself into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. After a few minutes he looked up and said, in a low but distinct voice — " it is too terrible to think of ; it is too terrible to mention ; but, if it have happened, let me be alone." Lady Annabel approached him with a light step ; she eml)raccd him, and, whispering that she should be found in the next room, she quitted the apartment. Cadurcis remained seated for more than half an hour without changing in the slightest degree his position. The twilight died away ; it grew quite dark ; he looked up with a slight shiver, and then quitted the apartment. In the adjoining room, Lady Annabel was seated with Doctor Masham, and giving him the details of the fatal event. It had occurred that morning. Mrs. Cadurcis, who had never slept a wink since her knowledge of her son's undoubted departure, and scarcely for an hour been free from the most violent epileptic fits, had fallen early in the morning into a doze, which lasted about half an hour, and from which her medical attendant, who with Pauncefort had set up with her during ihe night, augured the most unfavourable conse- •juences. About half-past six o'clock she woke, and inquired whether Plantagenet had returned. They answered her that Dr. Masham had not yet arrived, but would probably be at the abbey in the course of the morning. She said it would be too late. They endeavoured to encourage her, but she asked to see I^ady Annabel, who was immedi- ately called, and lost no time in repairing to her. When Mrs. Cadurcis recognised her, she held out her hand, and said in a dying tone — " It was my fciult ; it was ever my fault ; it is too late now : again, and in the course of an hour expired. While Lady Annabel and the doctor were dwelling on these sad circumstances, and debating whether he should venture to approach Plantage- net, and attempt to console him — for the evening was now far advanced, and nearly three hours had elapsed since the fatal communication had been made to him — it happened that Mistress Paunce- fort chanced to pass Mrs. Cadurcis' room, and as she did so she heard some one violently sobbing. She listened, and hearing the sounds frequently repeated, she entered the room, which, but for her candle, would have been quite dark, and there she found Lord Cadurcis kneeling and weeping by his mother's bed-side. He seemed annoyed at being seen and disturbed, but his spirit was too broken to murmur. " La ! my lord," said Mistress Paunce- fort, " you must not take on so ; you must not, indeed. I am sure this dark room is enough to put any one in low spirits. Now do go down stairs, and sit with my lady and the doctor, and try to be cheerful ; that is a dear good young gen- tleman. I wish Miss Venetia were here, and then she would amuse you. But you must not take on, because there is no use in it. You must exert yourself, for what is done cannot be undone ; and, as the doctor told us last Sunday, we must all die ; and well for those who die with a good conscience ; and I am sure the poor deal' lady that is gone, must have had a good conscience, because she had a good heart, and I never heard any one say the contrary. Now do* exert yourself, my dear lord, and try to be cheerful, do ; for there is nothing like a little exertion in these cases, for God's will must be done, and it is not for us to say yea or nay, and taking on is a murmuring against God's provi- dence." And so Mistress Pauncefort would have continued urging the usual topics of coarse and common-place consolation ; but Cadurcis only answered with a sigh that came from the bottom of his heart, and said with streaming eyes, " Ah ! Mrs. Pauncefort, God had only given me one friend in this world, and there she lies !" CHAPTEE XVIIL The first conviction that there is death in the house is perhaps the most awful moment of youth. When we are young, we think that not only our- selves, but that all about us, are immortal. Until the arrow has struck a victim round our ovnx hearth, death is merely an unmeaning word ; until then, its casual mention has stamped no idea upon our l)rain. There are few, even among those least suscc]>tib!c of thought and emotion, in whose hearts and minds the first death in the family does not act as a very powerful revelation of the mysteries of life, and of their own being ; there are few who, after such a catastrophe, do not look upon the world and the world's ways, at least for a time, with changed and tempered feelings. It recalls the past, it makes us ponder over the future ; and youth, gay and light-hearted youth, is taught, for the first time, to regret and to fear. On liord Cadurcis, a child of pensive tempera- ment, and in whose strange and yet undeveloped character there was, amid lighter elements, a con VENETIA. 719 •stitutional principle of melancholy, the sudden i decease of his mother produced a \cry profound ' fllect. All was forgotten of his parent, except the intimate and natural tie, and her warm and genu- ine aflcction. He was now alone in the world ; for reflection impressed upon him at this moment, what the course of existence too generally teaches to us all, that mournful truth, that, alter all, we have no friends that we can depend upon in this life but our parents. All other intimacies, how- ever ardent, arc liable to cool ; all other confidence, however unlimited, to be violated. In the phan- tasmagoria of life, the friend with whom we have cultivated mutual trust for years is often suddenly or gradually estranged from us, or becomes, from painful, yet irresistible, circumstances, even our deadliest foe. As for women, as for the m.isti'esses of oui" hearts, who has not learnt that the links of passion are fragile as they are glittering; and that the bosom on which we have reposed with idolatry all out secret sorrows and sanguine hopes, even- tually becomes the very heart that exults in our miser}' and baflles our welfare ] Where is the enamoured face that smiled upon our early love, ' and was to shed tears over our gravel Where are the choice companions of our vouth, with whom wv were to brea.st the difficulties and share tlie triumphs of existence T Even in this incon- stant world, what changes like the heart 1 Love is a dream, and friendship a delusion. No wonder we grow callous ; for how few have the opportu- nity of returning to the hearth which they quitted in levily or thoughtless weariness, yet which alone is faithful to them ; whose sweet affections require not the stimulous of prosperity or fame, the lure of accomplishments, or the tribute of flattery ; but which are constant to us in distress, and console us even in disgrace '^ Before she retired for the night. Lady Annabel ■was anxious to see Plantagenet. Mistress Paunce- fort had informed her of his visit to his mother's room. Lady Annabel found Cadurcis in the gal- lery, now partially lighted by the moon, which had recently risen. She entered with her light, as if she were on her way to her own room, and not 6eeking him. " Dear Plantagenet,'* she said, " will you not go to bed?" " I do not intend to go to bed night," he re- plied. She approached him .md took him by the hand, which he did not withdraw firom her, and they walked together once or twice up and down tlie gallerv'. " I think, dear child," said Lady Annabel, " you had better come and sit with us." " I like to be alone," was his answer ; but not in a sullen voice, low and faltering. " But in sorrow we should be with our friends," said Lady Annabel. " I have no friends," he answered. " I only had one." " I am your friend, dear child ; I am your mo- ther now, and you shall find me one if you like. And Vcnetia, have you f ircroften your sister 1 Is flhe not your friend ? And Dr. Masham, surely you cannot doubt his friendship 1" Cadurcis tried to stifle a sob. " Ay, Lady An- nabel," he said, " vou arc mv friend now, and so are you all ; and you know I love you very much. But you were not my friends two years ago ; and things will change again ; they will indeed. A mother is your friend as long as she hves ; she cannot help being your friend." " You shall come to Cherbury, and live with us," said Lady Annabel. " You know you love Cherbury, and you shall find it a home, a real home." He pressed her hand to his lips ; the hand was covered with tears. " We will go to Cherbury to-morrow, dear Plantagenet ; remaining here will only make you sad." " I will never leave Cadurcis again while my mother is in this house," he said, in a firm and serious voice. And then, after a moment's pause, he added. " I wish to know when the burial is to take place." " We will ask Dr. Masham," replied Lady An- nabel. " Come, let us go to liim ; come, my ovm child." He permitted himself to be led away. They descended to the small apartment where Lady Annabel had been previously sitting. They found the doctor there ; he rose and pressed Plantagenet's hand with great emotion. They made room for him at the fire between them ; he sat in silence with his gaze intensely fixed upon the decaying embers, yet did not quit his hold of Lady Anna- bel's hand. He found it a consolation to him ; it linked him to a being who seemed to love him. As long as he held her hand he did not seem quite alone in the world. Now nobody spoke; for Lady Annabel felt that Cadurcis was in some degree solaced; and she thought it unwise to interrupt the more composed train of his thoughts. It was, indeed, Plantagenet himself who first broke silence. " I do not think I can go to bed. Lady Anna- bel," he said. " The thought of this night is ter- rible to mo. I do not think it ever can end. I would much sooner sit up in this room." " Nay ! my child, sleep is a great consoler ; try to go to bed, love." " I should like to sleep in my mother's room," was his strange reply. " It seems to me that I could sleep there. And if I woke in the night I should like to see her." Lady Annabel and the doctor exchanged looks. " I think," said the doctor, " you had better sleep in my room, and then, if you wake in the night, vou will have some one to speak to. You will find that a comfort." " Yes, that you will," said Lady Annabel. " I will go and have the sofa bed made up in the doc- tor's room for you. Indeed that will be the very best plan." So at last, but not without a struggle, they per- suaded Cadurcis to retire. Lady Annabel em- braced him tenderly when she bade him good night ; and, indeed, he felt consoled by her affec- tion. As nothing could persuade Plantagenet to leave the abbev until his mother was buried. Lady An- nabel resolved to take up her abode there, and she sent the next morning for ^'enetia. There were a great many arrangements to make about the burial and the mourning ; and Lady Annabel and Dr. Masham were obliged, in consequence, to go the next morning to Southport ; but they delayed tbei. 730 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. departure until the arrival of Venetia, that Cadur- cis might not be left alone. The meeting between himself and Venetia was a very sad one, and yet her companionship was a great solace. Venetia urged every topic that she fancied could re-assure his spirits, and upon the happy home he would find at Cherbury. " Ah !" said Cadurcis, " they will not leave me here ; I am sure of that. I think our happy days are over, Venetia." What mourner has not felt the magic of time 1 Before the funeral could take place, Cadurcis had recovered somewhat of his usual cheerfulness, and would indulge with Venetia in plans of their future life. And living, as they all were, under the same roof, sharing the same sorrows, participating in the same cares, and all about to wear the same mournful emblems of their domestic calamity, it was difficult for him to believe that he was indeed that desolate being he had at first correctly esti- mated himself. Here were true friends, if such could exist ; here were fine sympathies, pure af- fections, innocent and disinterested hearts ! Every domestic tie yet remained perfect, except the spell-bound tie of blood. That wanting, all was a bright and happy vision, that might vanish in an instant, and for ever ; that perfect, even the least graceful, the most repulsive home, had its irresisti- ble charms ; and its loss, when once experienced might be mourned forever, and could never be re- stored. CHAPTER XIX. After the funeral of Mrs. Cadurcis, the family returned to Cherbury with Plantagenet, who was hereafter to consider it is home. All that the most tender solicitude could devise to reconcile him to the change in liis life was fulfilled by Lady Anna- bel and her daughter, and under their benignant influence, he soon regained his usual demeanour. His days were now spent as in the earlier period of their acquaintance, with the exception of those painful returns to home, which had once been a source to him of so much gloom and unhappincss. He pursued his studies as of old, and shared the amusements of Venetia. His allotted room was ornamented by her drawings, and in the evenings they read aloud by turns to Lady Annabel the volume which she selected. The abbey he never visited again after his mother's funeral. Some weeks had passed in this quiet and con- tented manner, when one day Doctor Masham, who, since the death of his mother, had been in correspondence with his guardian, received a letter from that nobleman, to announce that he had made arrangements for sending his ward to Eton, and to request that he would accordingly instantly proceed to the metropolis. This announcement occasioned both Cadurcis and Venetia poignant affliction. The idea of separation was to both of them most painful; and although Lady Annabel herself was in some degree prepared for an ar- rangement, which sooner or later she considered inevitable, she was herself scarcely less distressed. The good doctor, in some degree to break the bit- terness o*" parting, proposed accompanying Plan- tagenet to London, and himself personally deliver- ingr the charge, in whose welfare they were so much interested, to his guardian. Nevertheless, i{ was a very sad affair, and the week which was ti» intervene before his departure foimd both himself and Venetia often in tears. They no longer took any delight in their mutual studies, but passed the day walking about and visiting old haunts, and endeavouring to console each otiiCT for what thej both deemed a great calamity, and which was, in- deed, the only serious misfortune Venetia had her self experienced in the whole course of her seren» career. " But if I were really your brother," said Plan tagenet, " I must have quitted you the same Venetia. Boys always go to school ; and then w< shall be so happy when I return !" " O ! but we are so happy now, Plantagenet. I cannot believe that we aje going to part. And are you sure that you will return 1 Perhaps your guaidian will not let you, and will wish you ta spend your holidays at his house. His house will be your home now." It was impossible for a moment to forget the sorrow that was impending over them. There were so many preparations to be made for his de- parture, that every instant something occurred to remind them of their sorrow. Venetia sat with tears in her eyes marking his new pocket hand- kerchiefs, which they had all gone to Southport to purchase, for Plantagenet asked, as a particular favour, that no one should mark them but Venetia. Then Lady Annabel gave Plantagenet a writing- case, and Venetia filled it with pens and paper, that he might never want means to communicate with them; and her evenings were passed in working him a purse, which Lady Annabel took care should be well stocked. All day long there seemed something going on to remind them of what was about to happen ; and as for Paunce- fort, she flounced in and out the room fifty times a-day, with " what is to be done about my lord's shirts, my lady 1 I think his lordship had better have another dozen, your la'ship. Better too much than too little, I always say ;" or " ! my lady, your la'ship cannot form an idea of what a state my lord's stockings are in, my lady. I think I had better go over to Southport with John, my lady, and buy him some ;" or " Please, my lady, did I understand your la'ship spoke to the tailor on Thursday about my lord's things ? I suppose your la'ship knows my lord has got no great- coat 1" Every one of these inquiries made Venetia's heart tremble. Then there was the sad habit of dating every coming day by its distance from the fatal one. There was the last day hut four, and the last day but three, and the last day but two. The last day but one at length arrived ; and at length, too, it seemed incredible, the last day itself. Plantagenet and Venetia both rose very early, that they might make it as long as possible. They sighed involuntarily when they met, and then they went about to pay last visits to every creature and object of which they had been so long fond. Plantagenet went to bid farewell to the horses, and adieu to the cows, and then walked down to the woodman's cottage, and then to shake hands with the keeper. He would not say " Good b'ye " to the household until the very last moment ; and as for Marmion, the blood-hound, he accompanied both of them so faithfully in this melancholy V E N E T I A . 721 -amble, and kept so close to both, that it was uselctis to break the sad intelligence to him yet. " I tliink. now, Venetia, we have been to sec everything," said Plantagenct, "I shall see the peacocks at brciUcfast time. I wish Eton was near Cherbury, and then I could come home on Sunday. I caiuiot bear going to Cadurcis again, but I should like you to go once a week, and try to keep u)) our garden, and look after every thing, though there is not much that will not take care of itself, except the garden. We made that together, and I could not bear its being neglected." Venetia could not assure him that no wish of his should be neglected because she was weeping. " I am glad the doctor,'" he continued, " is going to take me to town. I should be very wretched by myself. But he will put me in mind of Cher- bury, and we can talk together of Lady Annabel and you. Hark ! the bell rings ; we must go to breakfast, the last breakfast but one." Lady Annabel endeavoured, by unusual good spirits, to cheer up her little friends. She spoke of Plantagenet's speedy return so much as a mat- ter of course, and the pleasant things they were to do when he came back, that she really succeeded in exciting a smile in Venetia's April face, for she was smiling amid tears. Although it was the last day, time hung heavily on their hands. After breakfast they went over the house together ; and Cadurcis, half with ge- nuine feeling and half in a spirit of mockery of their sorrow, made a speech to the inanimate walls, as if they were aware of his intended departure. At length, in their progress, they passed the door of the closed apartments, and here, holding Ve- netia's hand, he stopped, and, with an expression of irresistible humour, making a very low bow to them, he said, very gravely, " And goodb'ye rooms that I have never entered ; perhaps, before I come back, Venetia will find out what is locked up in youl" Doctor Masham arrived for dinner, and in a post-chaise. The unusual conveyance reminded them of the morrow very keenly. Venetia could not bear to see the doctor's portmanteau taken out and carried into the hall. She had hopes, until then, that something would happen and prevent all this misery. Cadurcis whispered her, " I say, Venetia, do not you wish this was winter ]" "Why, Plantagenet ?" " Because then we might have a good snowstorm, and be blocked up again for a week." Venetia looked at the sky, but not a cloud was to be seen. The doctor was glad to wann himself at the hall-fire, for it was a fresh autumnal afternoon. " Are you cold, sir 1" said Venetia approaching him. " I am, mv little maiden," said the doctor. " Do you think there is any chance of its snow- ing. Doctor Masham 1" "Snowing! my Uttle maiden ; what can you be thinking of !" The dinner was rather gayer than might have been cxpwcted. The doctor was jocular. Lady Annabel veiy lively, and Plantagenet excited by an extraordinary glass of wine. Venetia alone re- mained dispirited. The doctor made mock speeches and proposed toasts, and told Phmtagenet that he must learn to make speeches too, or what would he do when he was in the House of Lords 1 And 91 then Plantagenet tned to make a speech, and pro- posed Venetia's health ; and then Venetia, who could not bear to hear herself praised by hira on such a day — the last day — burst into tears. Her mother called her to her side and consoled her, and Plantagenet jumped up and wiped her eyes with one of those very pocket handkerchiefs on which she had embroidered his cipher and coronet with her own beautiful hair. Towards evening, Plantagenet began to expe- rience the reaction of his artificial spirits. The doctor had fallen into a gentle slumber. Lady An- nabel had quitted the room, Venetia sat, with her hand in Plantagenet's, on a stool by the fire-side. Both were very sad and silent. At last Venetia said, " 0, Plantagenet, I wish I were your real sister ! Perhaps, when I see you again, you will forget this," and she turned the jewel that was suspended round her neck, and showed him the inscription. " I am sure when I see you again, Venetia," he replied, " the only diflcrence will be that I shall love you more than ever." " I hope so," said Venetia. " I am sure of it. Now remember what we are talking about. When we meet again, we shall see which of us two will love each other most." " Plantagenet, I hope they will be kind to you at Eton." " I will make them." " And, whenever you are the least unhappy, you will write to us 1" " I shall never be unhappy about any thing bnt being away from you. As for the rest, I will make people respect me ; I know what I am. " Because, if they do not behave well to you, mamma could ask Doctor Masham to come and see you, and they will attend to him ; and I would ask him too." " I wonder," she continued, after a moment's pause, " if you have ever)' thing you want. I am quite sure, the instant you are gone, we shall re- member something you ought to have ; and then I shall be quite broken-hearted." " I have got every thing." " You said you wanted a large knife." " Yes ! but I am going to buy one in London. Doctor Masham says he will take me to a place where the finest knives in the world are to be bought. It is a great thing to go to London with Doctor Masham." "I have never written your name in your Bible and Prayer Book. I will do it this even- ing." " Lady Annabel is to write it in the Bible, and you are to write it in the Prayer Book." " You are to write to us from London by Doctor Ma-sham, if only a line." " I shall not fail." "Never mind about your hand-writing; but mind you write." At this moment Lady Annabel's step was heard, nnd PlanUigenet said, "Give me a kiss, A'enetia, for I do not mean to bid good b'yc to- night." " But you will not go to-morrow before we are up." ^ " "i es, wc shall." " Now, Plantagenet, I shall be np to bid yot good b'yc ; mind that." 3P 732 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. Laily Annabel entered, the doctor woke, lights followed, the servant made up the fire, and the room looked cheerful again. After tea, the names were duly written in the Bible and Prayer Book ; the last arrangements were made, all the baggage was brought down into the hall, all ransacked their memory and fancy to see if it were possible that any thing that Plantagenet could require was either ibrgotten or had been omitted. The clock struck ten; Lady Annabel rose. The travellers were to part at an early hour : she shook hands with Doctor Masham, but Cadurcis was to bid her farewell in her dressing-room, and then, with heavy hearts and glistening eyes, they all separated. And thus ended the last day ! CHAPTER XX. Vexetia passed a restless night. She was so lesolved to be awake in time for Plantagenet's de- parture, that she could not sleep ; and at length, towards morning, fell, from exhaustion, into a slight slumber, from which she sprang up convul- sively, roused by the sound of the wheels of the post-chaise. She looked out her window, and saw the servant strapping on the portmanteaus. Shortly after this she heard Plantagenet's step in the vestibule ; he passed her room, and proceeded to her mother's dressing-room, at the door of which she heard him knock, and then there was silence. " You are in good time," said Lady Annabel, who was seated in an easy chair when Plantage- net entered her room. " Is the doctor up 1 " " He is breakfasting." " And have you breakfasted 1" " I have no appetite." " You should take something, my child, before you go. Now, come hither, my dear Plantagenet," .she said, extending her hand ; " listen to me, one word. When you arrive in London, you will go to your guardian's. He is a great man, and I be- lieve a very good one, a'nd the law and your father's will have placed fiim in the position of a parent to you. You must therefore love, honour, and obey him ; and I doubt not he will deserve all your affection, respect, and duty. Whatever he desires or counsels you will perform and follow. As long as you act according to his wishes, you cannot be wrong. But, my dear Plantagenet, if by any chance it ever happens, for strange things sometimes happen in this world, that you are in trouble and require a friend, remember that Cher- l)ury is also your home; the home of your heart, if not of the law ; and that not merely from my own love for you, but, because I promised your poor moth-cr on her death-bed, I esteem myself morally, although not legally, in the light of a parent to you. You will find Eton a great change ; you will experience many trials and temp- tations ; but you will trium{)h over and withstand them all, if you wili attend to these few directions. Fear God; momin); »."d night, let nothing induce you ever to omit your prayers to him ; you will find that praying will make you happy. Obey your superiors, always treat your masters with respect. Ever speak the truth. As long as you adhere to this rule, you never can be involved in any serious misfoilune. A deviation from truth is, in general, the foundation of all misery. Be kind to your companions, but be firm. Do not be laughed ijito doing that which you know to be wrong. Be modest and humble, but ever respect yourself. Remember who you are, and also that it is your duty to excel. Providence has given you a great lot. Think ever that you are born to perform great duties. " God bless you, Plantagenet !" continued her ladyship, after a slight pause, with a faltering voice — " God bless you, my sweet child. And God will bless you, if you remember him. Try also to remember us," she added, as she embraced him, and placed in his hand Venetia's well-Uned purse. " Do not-^orget Cherbury and all it con- tains ; hearts that love you dearly, and will pray ever for your welfare." Plantagenet leaned upon her bosom. He had entered the room resolved to be composed, with an air even of cheerfulness, but his tender heart yield- ed to the first appeal to his affections. He could only murmur out some broken syllables of devo- tion, and almost unconsciously found that he had quitted the chamber. With streaming eyes and hesitating steps he was proceeding along the vestibule, when he heard his name called by a low sweet voice. He looked round ; it was Venetia. Never had he beheld such a beautiful vision. She was nuiffled up in her dressing-gown, her small white feet only guarded from the cold by her slippers. Her golden hair seemed to reach her waist, her cheek was flushed, her large blue eyes glittered with tears. " Plantagenet," said she — Neither of them could speak. They embraced, they mingled their tears together, and every instant they wept more plenteously. At length a footstep was heard ; Venetia murmured a blessing, and vanished. Cadurcis lingered on the stairs a moment to compose himself. He wiped his eyes ; he tried to look undisturbed. All the servants were in the hall ; from Mistress Pauncefort to the scullion there was not a dry eye. All loved the httle lord, he was so gracious and so gentle. Every one asked leave to touch his hand before he went. He tried to smile and say something kind to all. He recog- nised the gamekeeper, and told him to do what he liked at Cadurcis ; said something to the coach- man about his pony ; and begged Mistress Paunce- fort, quite aloud, to take great care of her young mistress. As he was speaking, he felt something rubbing against his hand ; it was Marmion, the old blood-hound. He also came to bid his adieus. Cadurcis patted him with great affection, and said " Ah ! my old fellaw, we shall yet meet again." 1'he doctor appeared, smiling as usual, made his inquiries whether all were right, nodded to the weeping household, called Plantagenet his brave boy, and ])atted him on the back, and bade him jump into the chaise. Another moment, ana Doctor Masham had also entered ; the door was closed, the fatal " All right" sung out, and Lord Cadurcis was whirling away from that Cherbury where he was so loved ! VENETIA. 723 BOOK II. CHAPTER I. Life is not dated merely by years. Events are sometimes the best calendars. There are epochs in our existence which cannot be ascertained by a formal appeal to the reerts. Venetia grew in years, and grace, and loveliness; each day. apparently more her mother's joy, and each day bound to that mother by, if possible, more ardent love. She had never again experienced those uneasy thoughts which at times had haunted her from her infancy ; sepa- rated from her mother, indeed, scarcely for an hour tocrether, she had no time to muse. Her studies, each day becoming more various and interesting, and pursued with so gifted and charming a com- panion, entirely engrossed her ; even the exercise that was her relaxation was participated by Lady Annabel; and the mother and daughter, bounding together on their steeds, were fanned by the eame 728 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. Iireeze, and freshened by the same graceful andi healthy exertion. One day the post, that seldom an-ived at Cher- bury, brought a letter to Lady Annabel, the perusal of which evidently greatly agitated her. Her countenance changed as her eye glanced over the pages; her hand trembled as she held it. But she made no remark ; and succeeded in subduing her emotion so quickly, that Venetia, although she watchcil her mother with anxiety, did not feel justified in interfering with inquiring sympathy. But while Lady Annabel resumed her usual calm demeanour, she relapsed into unaccustomed silence, and, soon rising from the breakfast table, moved to the window, and continued apparently gazing on the garden, with her face averted from Venetia for some time. At length she turned to her, and said, " I think, Venetia, of calling on the doctor to-day ; there is business on which I wish to consult him, but I will not trouble you, dearest, to accompany me. I must take the carriage, and it is a long and tiring drive." There was a tone of decision even in the slight- est observations of Lady Annabel, which, however sweet might be the voice in which they were ut- tered, scarcely encouraged their propriety to be canvassed. Now, Venetia was far from desirous of being separated from her mother this morning. It was not a vain and idle curiosity, prompted by the receipt of the letter and its consequent effects, both in the emotion of her mother and the visit which it had rendered necessary, that swayed her breast. The native dignity of a well-disciplined mind exempted Venetia from such feminine weak- ness. But some consideration might be due to the quick sympathy of an affectionate spirit that had witnessed with corresponding feeling, the disturbance of the being to whom she was devoted. V/hy this occasional and painful mystery that ever and anon clouded thu heaven of their love, and flung a frigid shadow over the path of a sunshiny life 1 Why was not Venetia to share the sorrow or the care of her only friend, as well as participate in her joy and her content 1 There were other claims, too, to this confidence, besides those of the heart. Lady Annabel was not merely her only friend, she was her parent, her only parent, almost, for aught she had ever heard or learnt, her only relative. For her mother's family, though she was aware of their existence by the freedom with which Lady Annabel ever mentioned them, and though Venetia was conscious that an occasional correspondence was maintained between them and Cherbury, occupied no station in Venetia's heart, scarcely in her memory. That noble family were nulhtes to her ; far distant, apparently estranged from her heart, except in form, she had never seen them ; they were associated in her recollection with none of the sweet ties of kindred. Her grandfather was dead without her ever having re- ceived his blessing; his successor, her uncle, was an ambassador, long absent from his country ; her only aunt married to a soldier, and established at a foreign station. Venetia envied Dr. Masham the confidence which was extended to him ; it seemed to her, even leaving out of sight the inti- mate feelings that subsisted between her and her mother, that the claims of blood to this confidence, were at least as strong as those of friendship. But Venetia stifled her emotions ; she parted from her mother with a kind, yet somewhat mournful expression. Lady Annabel might have read a slight sentiment of affectionate reproach in the demeanour of her daughter when she bade her farewell. Whatever might be the consciousness of the mother, she was successful in concealing her impression. Very kind, but calm and inscrut- able. Lady Annabel, having given directions for postponing the dinner-hour, embraced her child and entered the chariot. Venetia, fi'om the ten-ace, watched her mother's progress through the park. After gazing for some minutes, a tear stole down her cheek. She started, as if surprised at her own emotion. And now the carriage was out of sight, and Venetia would have recurred to some of those resources which were ever at hand for the employment or amusement of her secluded life. But the favourite volume ceased to interest this morning, and almost fell from her hand. She tried her spinet, but her ear seemed to have lost its music ; she looked af her easel, but the cunning had fled from her touch. Restless and disquieted, she knew not why, Venetia went forth again into the garden. All nature smiled around her ; the flitting birds were thi-owing their soft shadows over the sunny lawns, and rustling amid the blossoms of the variegated groves. The golden wreaths of the laburnum and the silver knots of thfe chestnut streamed and glittered around; the bees were as busy as the birds, and the whole scene was sufiused and pene- trated with brilhancy and odour. It still was spring, and yet the gorgeous approach of summer, like the advancing procession of some triumphant king, might almost be detected amid the lingering freshness of the year; a lively and yet magnificent period, blending, as it were, Attic grace with Ro- man splendour ; a time when hope and fruition for once meet, when existence is most full of de- light, alike delicate and voluptuous, and when the human frame is most sensible to the gayety and grandeur of nature. And why was not the spirit of the beautiful and innocent Venetia as bright as the surrounding scene 1 There are moods of mind that baffle analysis, that arise from a mysterious sympathy we cannot penetrate. At this moment the idea of her lather irresistibly recurred to the imagination of Venetia. She could not withstand the convic- tion that the receipt of the mysterious letter and her mother's agitation were by some inexplicable connexion linked with that forbidden subject. Sti-ange incidents flitted across her memory : her mother weeping on the day they visited Marring- hurst, the mysterious chambers — the nocturnal visit of Lady Annabel that Cadurcis had witnessed — her unexpected absence from her apartment, when Venetia in her despair had visited her, some months ago. What was the secret that enveloped her existence? Alone, which was unusual, — dis- spirited, she knew not why, — and brooding over thoughts which haunted her like evil spirits, Ve- netia at length yielded to a degree of nervous excitement which amazed her. She looked up to the uninhabited wing of the mansion with an almost fierce desire to penetrate its mysteries. It seemed to her that a strange voice came whispering on the breeze urging her to the fulfilment of a mystical mission. With a vague, yet wild pur- pose, she entered the house, and took her way to VENETIA. 72!) ner mother's chamlier. Misti-css Paunccfort was there. Venetia endeavoured to assume her accus- tomed serenity. The waiting-woman hustled ahout, arranging the toilot-tahle, which had been for a moment discomposed, putting away a cap, folding up a shawl, and indulging in a multitude of inane observations which little harmonised with the high strung tension of Venetia's mind. Mistress Pauncefort opened a casket with a spring lock, in which she placed some trinkets of her mistress. Venetia stood by her in silence ; her eye, vacant and wandering, beheld the interior of the casket. There must have been something in it, the sight of which greatly agitated her, for Venetia turned pale, and in a moment left the chamber and retired to her owTi room. She locked her door, threw herself in a chair al- most gasping for breath, she covered her face with her hands. It was some minutes before she reco- vered comparative composure ; she rose and looked in the mirror ; her face was quite white, but her eyes glittering with excitement. She walked up and down her room with a troubled step, and a scarlet flush alternately returned to and retired from her changing cheek. Then she leaned against a cabinet in thought. She was disturbed from her musings by the sound of Pauncefort's step along the vestibule, as she quitted her mother's chamber. In a few minutes Venetia herself step ped forth into the vestibule, and listened. All was silent. The golden morning had summoned the whole household to its enjoyment. Not a voice, not a domestic sound, broke the complete stillness. Venetia again repaired to the apartment of Lady Annabel. Her step was light, but agitated ; it seemed that she scarcely dared to breathe. Shi opened the door, rushed into the cabinet, pressed the spring lock, caught at something that it con^ tained, and hurried again to her own chamber. And what is this prize that the trembling Vene^ tia holds almost convulsively in her grasp, appa- rently without daring even to examine iti I this the serene and light-liearted girl, whose face was like the cloudless splendour of a sunny day ? Why is she so pallid and perturbed 1 What strong impulse tills her frame 1 She clutches in her hand a key ! On that tempestuous night of passionate sorrow which succeeded the first misunderstanding be tween Venetia and her mother, when the voice of Lady Annabel had suddenly blended with that of her kneeling child, and had ratified with her devo- tional concurrence her wailing supplications; even at the moment when Venetia, in a rapture of love and duty, felt herself pressed to her mother's rc' conciled heart, it had not escaped her that Lady Annabel held in her hand a key ; and, thoush the feelings wliifh that night had so forcibly developed, and which the subsequent conduct of Lady Anna- bel had so larefully and skilfully cherished, had impelled Venetia to banish and erase from her thought and memory all the associations which that spectacle however slight was calculated to awaken, still, in her present mood, the unex- pected vision of the same instnmient, identical she could not doubt, had triumphed in an instant over all the long discipline of h-^r mind and conduct, in an instant had baffled and dispersed her self-con- trol, and been hailed as the providential means by which she might at length penetrate that mystery ich she now felt no longer supportable. 92 The clock of the belfiy of Gherbury at this mo- ment struck, and Venetia instantly sprang from her seat. It reminded her of the preciousness of the present morning. Her mother was mdeed ab- sent, but her mother would rctum. Before that event a great fulfilment was to occur. Venetia, still gi-asping the key, as if it were the talisman of her existence, looked up to heaven, as if she re- quired for her allotted task an immediate and spe- cial protection ; her lips seemed to move, and then she again quitted her apartment. As she passed through an oriel in her waj' towards the gallery, she observed Pauncefort in the avenue of the park, moving in the direction of the keeper's lodge. This emboldened her. With a humed step she advanced along the galler}', and at length stood be- fore the long-sealed door that had so often excited her strange curiosity. Once she looked around ; but no one was near, not a sound was heard. With a faltering hand she touched the lock with the key ; but her powers deserted her : for a mi- nute she believed that the key, after all, would not solve the mystery. And yet the difliculty arose only from her own agitation. She rallied her courage ; once more she made the trial ; the key fitted with completeness, and the lock opened with ease, and Venetia found herself in a small and scantily-furnished antechamber. Withdrawing then the key from the lock, and closing the door with noiseless care, Venetia stood trembling in the mysterious chamber, where apparently there was nothing to excite wonder. The door of the cham- ber into which the anteroom opened was still closed, and it was some minutes before the adven- turous daughter of Ladj' Annabel could summon couracre for the enterprise which awaited her. Her hand is upon the lock ; it yields without an effort. Venetia steps into a spacious and lofty chamber. For a moment she paused almost upon the threshold, and looked around her with a vague and misty vision. Anon she distinguished some- thing of the character of the apartment. In the recess of a large oriel window, that looked upon the park, and of which the blinds were nuAfly drawn, was an old-fashioned yet sumptuous t li'.et- table of considerable size, arranged as if foi use. Opposite this window, in a corresponding 7 ;cess, was what might he deemed a hridal-bed, its fur,iiture being of white satin, richly embroidered ; th<; cur- tains half closed ; and suspended from a cjnopy was a wreath of roses, that had once emulaied, or rather excelled, the lustrous purity of the hangings, but now were wan and withered. The centre of the inlaid and polished floor of the apartment was covered with a Tournay carpet, of brilliant yet tasteful decoration. An old cabinet of fanciful workmanship, some chairs of ebony, and some gi- randoles of silver, completed the furniture of the room, save that at its extreme end, exactly oppo- site to the door by which Venetia entered, covered with a curtain of green silk, was what she con- cluded must be a picture. An awful stillness pervaded the apartment: Venetia herself, with a face paler even than the hangings of the mysterious bed, stood motionless, with suppressed breath, gazing on the distant cur- tain, with a painful glance of agitated fascinatioiu At length, summoning her energies as if for the achievement of some terrible yet inevitable enter- prise, she crossed the room, and nvertinr: her face, and closing her eyes in a laroxysm of ners'ous ex 730 D'ISRA.ELrS NOVELS. citement, she stretched forth her arm, and with a rapid motion withdrew the curtain. The harsli sound of the brass rings drawn quickly over the rod, the only noise that had yet met her ear in this mystical chamber, made her start and ti'cmble. She looked up — she beheld, in a very broad and massy frame, the full-length portrait of a man. A man in the very spring of sunny youth, and of radiant beauty. Above the middle height, and very slender, yet with a form that displayed exqui- site grace, he was habited in a green tunic that developed his figure to advantage, and became the scene in which he was placed — a park, with a cas- tle in the distance 5 while a groom at hand held a noble steed, that seemed impatient for the chase. The countenance of its intended rider met fully the gaze of the spectatoi'. It was a countenance of singular loveliness and power. The lips and the moulding of the chin resembled the eager and im- passioned tenderness of the shape of Antinous ; but, instead of the effeminate sullenness of the eye, and the narrow smoothness of the forehead, shone an expression of profound and piercing thought. On each side of the clear and open brow descended, even to the shoulders, the cluster- ing locks of golden hair ; while the eyes large, and yet deep, beamed with a spiritual energy, -and shone like two wells of crystaline water that reflect the all-beholding heavens. Now when Venetia Herbert beheld this coun- tenance a change came over her. It seemed that, when her ejes met the eyes of the portrait, some mutual interchange of sympathy occurred between them. She fr(;ed herself in an instant from the apprehension and timidity that before oppressed her. Whatever might ensue, a vague conviction of having achieved a great object pervaded, as it were, her being. *ome great end, vast, though indefinite, had been fulfilled. Abstract and fear- less, she gazed upon the dazzling visage with a prophetic heart. Her soul vpas in a tumult, op- pressed with thick-coming fancies too big for words, panting for expression. There was a word which must be spoken : it trembled on her convul- sive lip, and would not sound. She looked around her with an eye ghttering with unnatural fire, as if to supplicate some invisible and hovering spirit to her rescue, or that some floating and angelic chorus might warble the thrilling word, whose ex- pression seemed absolutely necessary to her exist- ence. Her cheek is flushed, her eye wild and tremulous, the broad blue veins of her immaculate brow quivering and distended ; her waving hair falls back over her forehead, and rustles like a wood before the storm. She seems a priestess in the convulsive throes of inspiration, and about to breathe the oracle. The picture, as we have mentioned, was hung in a broad and massy frame. In the centre of its base was worked an escutcheon, and beneath the shield this inscription, — Mahmiox Herbert, jet. XX. Yet there needed not these letters to guide the agitated spirit of Venetia, for, before lier eye had reached them, the word was spoken ; and, falling on her knees before the portrait, the daughter of liady Annabel had exclaimed " My father !" CHAPTER V. The daughter still kneels before the form of the father, of whom she had heard for the first time in her life. He is at length discovered. It was, then, an irresistible destiny, that, after the wild musings and baflied aspirations of so many years, had guided her to this chamber. She is the child of Marmion Herbert; she beholds her lost parent. That being of supernatural beauty, 011 whom she gazes with a look of blended reverence and love, is her father. What a revelation ! Its reality ex- ceeded the wildest dreams of her romance ; her brightest visions of grace and loveliness and genius, seemed personified in this form ; the form of one to whom she was bound by the strongest of all earthly ties — of one on whose heart she had a claim second only to that of the being by whose lips his name was never mentioned. Was he, then, no more 1 Ah ! could she doubt that bitter- est calamity 1 Ah ! was it, was it any longer a inarv'el, that one who had lived in the light of those seraphic eyes, and had watched them until their terrestrial splendour had been forever extinguished, should shrink from the converse that could remind her of the catastrophe of all her earthly hopes ! Tlris chamber, then, was the temple of her mother's wo — the tomb of her baffled affections and bleed- ing heart. No wonder that Lady Annabel, the desolate Lady Annabel, that almost the same spring must have witnessed the most favoured and the most disconsolate of women, should have fled from the world, that had awarded her at the same time a lot so dazzling and so full of despair. Ve- netia felt that the existence of her mother's child, her own frasrile being, could have be«n that mo- ther's sole link to life. The heart of the young widow of Marmion Herbert must have broken but for Venetia ; and the consciousness of that remain- ing tie, and the duties that it involved, could have alone sustained the victim under a lot of such un- paralleled bitterness. The tears streamed down her cheek as she thought of her mother's misery, and her mother's gentle love ; the misery that she had been so cautious her child should never share ; the vigilant affection that, with all her own hopes blighted, had still laboured to compensate to her child for a deprivation, the fulness of which Vene- tia could only now comprehend. When, where, why — did he die 1 O ! that she might talk of him to her mother for ever ! It seemed that life might pass away in Hstening to his praises. Marmion Herbert ! — and who was Marmion Herbert 1 Young as he was, command and genius, the pride of noble passions, all the glory of a creative mind, seemed stamped upon his brow. With all his marvellous beauty, he seemed a being born for greatness. Dead — in the veiy burst of his spring, a spring so sweet and splendid — could he be dead 1 Why, then, was he ever born 1 It seemed to her that he could not be dead ; there was an animated look about the form, that seemed as if it could not die without leaving mankind a prodigal legacy of fame. Venetia turned and looked upon her parents' bridal bed. Now that she had discovered her father's portrait, every article in the room interested her, for her imagination connected every thing with him. She touched the wreath of withered VENETIA. 731 rtjsscs, and one instantly broke away from the cir- cle, and fell ; she knelt down and gathered up the scattered leaves, and placed them in her bosom. She approached the table in the oriel ; in its centre was a volume, on which reposed a dagger of curi- ous workmanship ; the volume bound in velvet, and the word " Ax]>rABEL" embroidered upon it in gold. Venetia unclasped it. The volume was MS. ; in a fly-leaf were written these words — "to tue lady of mt lote, from her mahmion HEUBERT." With a fluttering heart, yet sparkling eye, Ve- netia sank into a chair, which was placed before the table, with all her soul concentrated in the contents of this volume. Leaning on her right hand, which shaded her agitated brow, she turned a page of the volume with a trembling hand. It contained a sonnet, delineating the feelings of a lover at the first sight of his beloved, — a being to him yet unknown. Venetia perused with breath- less interest the graceful and passionate picture of her mother's beauty. A series of similar compo- sitions detailed tlie history of the poet's heart, and all the thrilling adventures of his enchanted life. Not an incident, not a word, not a glance, in that spell-bound prime of existence, that was not com- memorated by his lyre in strains as sweet and as witching! Now he poured forth his passion; now his doubts ; now his hopes ; now came the glow- ing hour when he was first assured of his felicity ; the next page celebrated her visit to the castle of his fathers and another led her to the altar. With a flushed cheek and an excited eye Vene- tia had rapidly pored over these ardent annals of the heart from whose blood she had sprung. She turns the page — she starts — the colour deserts her countenance — a mist glides over her vision — she clasps her hands with convulsive energy — she sinks back in her chair. In a few moments she extends one hand, as if fearful again to touch the book that had excited so muclr emotion — raises herself in her seat — looks around her with a vacant and perplexed gaze — apparently succeeds in col- lecting herself — and then seizes, with an eager grasp, the volume, and throwing herself on her knees before the chair — her long locks hanging on each side over a cheek crimson as the sunset — loses her whole soul in the lines which the next page reveals. ON THE NIGHT OUR DAUGHTER WAS BORN. Within onrhf>aven nf love, the new-horn star We long devoutly waicheil, like shepherd kings, Steals into ligltt, and, floating from aldir, Melhinks some bright transcendant seraph sings, Waving with flashing light her radiant wings, Immortal welcome to the stranger fair ! To us a child is born. Witli transport clings The mother to the liabe she sighed to bear ; Of all our treasured loves, the long-expected heir! My dausV.ter! can it be a dauehter now SnaU greet my being with her infant smile 1 Arid shall I press that fair and taintless brow With iny fond lips, and tempt, with many a wile Of playful love, those features to beguile A parent with their mirth 1 In the wild sea Of this dark life, behold a little isle Rises amid the waters, bright and free, A haven for my hopes of fond security ! And thou shalt bear a name my line has loved, And their fair daughters owned for many an age, Since first our fiery Ijlood a wanderer roved, And made in sunnier lands his pilgrimage. Where proud defiance with the waters wage The sea-born city's walls; the graceful towers Loved by the bard and honoured by the sage ! IVIy own Venetia, now shall gild our bowers. And with her spell enchain our life's enchanted hours ( O! if the blessing of a father's heart Hath aught of sacred in its deep breath'd prayer, Skilled to thy gentle being to imparl, As thy bright form itself, a fate as f;iir ; On thee I breathe that blessing! Let me share, O God ! her joys ; and if the dark behest Of wo resistless, and avoidless care, Hath not gone forth, oh ! spare this gentle guest, And wreak tliy needful wrath on my resigned breast! An hour elapsed, and Venetia did not move. Over and over again she conned the only address from the lips of her father that had ever reached her ear. A strange inspiration seconded the exer- tion of an exercised memory. The duty was ful- filled — the task completed. Then a sound was heard without. The thought that her mother had returned occurred to her; she looked up, the big tears streaming down her face ; she listened, like a young hind just roused by the still-distant hunts- man, quivering and wild ; — she listened, and she sprang up — replaced the volume— arranged the chair — cast one long, lingering, feverish glance at the portrait — skimmed tlirough the room — hesitated one moment in the antechamber — opened, as all was silent, the' no longer mysterious door — turned the noiseless lock — tripped lightly along the vesti- bule — glided into her mother's empty apartment — reposited the key that had opened so many won- ders in the casket, — and then, having hurried to her own chamber, threw herself on her bed in a paroxysm of contending emotions, that left her no power of pondering over the strange discovery that had already given a new colour to her existence. CHAPTER VI. Her mother had not returned ; it was a false alarm ; but Venetia could not quit her bed. There she remained, repeating to herself her father's verses. Then one thought alone filled her being. Was he dead 1 Was this fond father, who had breathed this fervent blessmg over her birth, and invoked on his own head all the wo and misfor- tunes of her destiny, was he, indeed, no more 1 How swiftly must the arrow have sped after he received the announcement that a child was given to him — " Of all his treasured loves the long-expected heir !" He could scarcely have embraced her ere the great Being, to whom he had oflTered his prayer, summoned him to his presence ! Of "hat father she had not the slightest recollection , she had ascer- tained that she had reached Cherbury a child, even in arms, and she knew that her father had never lived under the roof. What an awful be- reavement ! Was it wonderful that her mother was inconsolable? Was it wonderful that she could not endure even his name to be mentioned 732 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. in her presence — that not the shghtost alUision tor wonder. Lady Annabel sat hy the bedside, still his existence could be tolerated by a wife, who had ' holding her daughter's hand in hers, ^¥atching her been united to such a peerless being, only to be- with a glance of great anxiety. hold him torn away from her embraces 1 O ! could he, indeed be dead ! That inspired counte- nance that seemed immortal, had it in a moment been dimmed ; and all the symmetry of that match- less form, had it indeed been long mouldering in the dust ? Why should she doubt it 1 Ah ! why, indeed ? How could she doubt it ? Why, ever and anon, amid the tumult of her excited mind, came there an unearthly whisper to her ear, mock- ing her with the belief that he still lived 1 But he was dead ; he must be dead ; and why did she live 1 Could she survive what she had seen and learnt this day ? Did she wish to survive it 1 But her mother, her mother, with all her sealed-up sorrows, had survived him. Why 1 For her sake ; for her child, for " his own Venetia !" His own ! She clenched her feverish hand — her temples beat with violent palpitations — her brow was burn- ing hot. Time flew on, and every minute Vene- tia was more sensible of the impossibility of rising to welcome her mother. That mother at length returned ; Venetia could not again mistake the wheels of the returning carriage. Some minutes passed, and there was a knock at her door. With a choking voice Venetia bade them enter. It was Pauncefort. " Well, Miss," she exclaimed, " if yon a'n't here, after all ! I told my lady, ' My lady,' says I, ' I am sure Miss Venetia must be in the park, for I saw her go out myself, and I have never seen her come home.' And, after all, you are here. My lady has come home, you know. Miss, and has been inquiring for you several times." " Tell mamma that I am not very well," said Venetia, in a low voice, " and that I have been obliged to lie down." " Not well. Miss !" exclaimed Pauncefort ; " and what can be the matter with you 1 I am afraid you have walked too much ; overdone it, I dare say ; or, mayhap, you have caught cold ; it is an easterly wind ; for I was saying to John this morning, ' John,' says I, ' if Miss Venetia will walk about with only a handkerchief tied round her head, why — what can be expected V " " I have only a headache, a very bad headache, Pauncefort ; I wish to be quiet," said Venetia. Pauncefort left the room accordingly, and straightway proceeded to Lady Annabel, when she communicated the information that Miss Ve- netia was in the house, after all, though she had never seen her return, and that she was lying down because she had a very bad headache. Lady Annabel, of course, did not lose a moment in visit- ing her dai'ling. She entered the room very softly, so softly that she was not heard ; Venetia was ly- ing on her bed, with her back to the door. Lady Annabel stood by her bedside for soiiie moments unnoticed At length Venetia heaved a deep sigh. Her mother then said, in a very soft voice, " Are you in pain, darling 1" " Is that mamma !" said Venetia, turning with quickness. " You are ill, dear," said Lady Annaocl, talcing her hand. " Your hand is hot ; you are feverish. How long has my Venetia felt ill 1" Venetia could not answer ; she did nothing but sigh. Her strange manner excited her mother's ' Answer me, my love," she repeated in a voice of tenderness. "What do you feel?" " My head, my head," murmured Venetia. Her mother pressed her own hand to her daugh- ter's brow ; it was very hot. " Does that pain you V inquired Lady Annabel ; but Venetia did not reply ; her look was wild and abstracted. Her mother gently withdrew her hand, and then summoned Pauncefort, with whom she communi- cated without permitting her to enter the room. " Miss Herbert is very ill," said Lady Annabel, pale, but in a firm tone. " I am alarmed about her. She appears to me to have a fever ; send instantly to Southport for Mr. Hawkins ; and let the mes- senger use and urge all possible expedition. Be in attendance in the vestibule, Pauncefort ; I shall not quit her room, but she must be kept perfectly quiet," Lady Annabel then drew her chair to the bed- side of her daughter, and bathed her temples at intervals with rose-water ; but none of these atten- tions apparently attracted the notice of the sufferer She was, it would seem, utterly unconscious of all that was occurring. She now la\' with her face turned towards her mother, but did not exchange even looks with her. She was restless, and occa- sionally she sighed veiy deeply. Once, by way of experiment, Lady Annabel again addressed her, but Venetia gave no answer Then the mother concluded what, indeed, had be- fore attracted her suspicion, that Venetia's head was affected. But, then, what was this strange, this sudden, attack, which appeared to have pros- trated her daughter's faculties in an instant 1 A few hours back, and Lady Annabel had parted from Venetia in all the glow of health and beauty The season was most genial ; her exercise had doubtless been moderate ; as for her general healthy so complete was her constitution, and so calm the tenor of her life, that Venetia had scarcely expe- rienced in her whole career a single hour of indis- position. It was an anxious period of suspense until the medical attendant arrived from Southport. Fortunately he was one in whom, for reputation, Lady Annabel was disposed to place great trust; and his matured years, his thoughtful manner, and acute inquiries, confirmed her favorable opinion of him. All that Mr. Hawkins could say, however, was, that Miss Herbert had a great deal of fever, hut the cause was concealed, and the suddenness of the attack pei-plexed liim. He administered one of the usual remedies ; and after an hour had elapsed, and no favourable change occurring, he blooded her. He quitted Cherbury, with the pro- mise of returning late in the evening, having seve- ral i^atients whom he was obliged to visit. The night drew on ; the chamber was now quite closed, but Lady Annabel never quitted it. She sat reading, removed from her daughter, that her presence might not disturb her, for Venetia seemed inclined to sleep. Suddenly Venetia spoke ; but said only one word — " Father?" Lady Annabel started — her book nearly fell from her hand — she grew veiy pale. Quite breath- less, she listened, and again Venetia spoke, and again called upon her father. Now, with a great effort. Lady Annabel stole on tiptoe to the bedside of her daughter. Venetia was lying on her back. VENETIA. 733 fier eyes wete closed, her lips still, as it were, qui- vering with the strange word they had dared to pronounce. Again her voice sounded ; she chant- ed, in an unearthly voice, verses. The perspira- tion stood in large drops on the pallid forehead of her mother as she listened. Still Vcnetia proceed- ed ; and Lady Annabel, throwing herself on her knees, held iip her hands to heaven in an agony of astonishment, terror, and devotion. Now there was again silence ; but her mother remained apparently buried in prayer. Again Ve- netia spoke ; again she repeated the mysterious stanzas. With convulsive agony her mother lis- tened to every fatal line that she unconsciously l)ronounced. The secret was then discovered. Yes ! Venetia must have penetrated the long-closed chamber ; all the labours of long years had in a moment been subverted ; Vcnetia had discovered her parent, and the effects of the discovery might, perhaps, be her death. Then it was that Lady Annabel, in the torture of her mind, poured forth her supplications that the life or the heart of her child might never be lost to her. " Grant, merciful God !" she exclaimed, " that this sole hope of my being may be spared to me. Grant, if she be spared, that she may never desert her mother I And for him, of whom she has heard this day for the first time, let him be to her as if he were no more ! May she never learn that he lives! May she never com- prehend the secret agony of her mother's life ! Save her, God ! save her from his fatal, K(s irre- sistible influence ! May she remain pure and vir- tuous as she has yet lived ! May she remain true to thee, and true to thy servant, who now bows before thee .' Look down upon me at this moment with gracious mercy ; turn to me my daughter's heart ; and, if it be my dark doom to be in this world a widow, though a wife, add not to this bit- terness that I shall prove a mother without a child !" At this moment the sm-geon returned. It was absolutely necessary that Lady Annabel should compose herself. She exerted all that strength of character for which she was remarkable. From this moment she resolved, if her life were the for- feit, not to quit for an instant the bedside of Vc- netia until she was declared out of danger ; and feeling conscious that, if she once indulged her own feelings, she might herself soon be in a situation scarcely less hazardous than her daughter's, she controlled herself with a mighty effort. Calm as a statue, she received the medical attendant, who took the hand of the unconscious Vcnetia with apprehensions too visibly impressed upon his grave countenance. As he took her hand, Venetia opened her eyes, stared at her mother and her at- tendant, and then immediately closed them. " She has slept ?" inquired Lady Annabel. " No," said the surgeon, " no : this is not sleep ; it is a feverish trance, that Vmngs her no refresh- ment." He took out his watch, and marked her pulse with great attention ; then he placed his hand on her brow, and shook his head. " These beautiful cu'ls must come of," he said. Lady An- nabel glided to the table, and instantly brought the scissors, ai if the delay of an instant might be fital. The surgeon cut off those long golden locks. \ cnetia raised her hand to her head, and said, in a low voice, " 'J'hey are for my father." Laily Annabel leaned upon the surgeon's arm, and shook. Now he led the mother lo the window, and spoke in a verj' hushed tone. " Is it possible that there is any thing on your daughter's mind. Lady Annabel V he inquired. The agitated mother looked at the inquirer, and then at her daughter ; and then for a moment she raised her hand to her eyes ; then she replied, in a low but firm voice, " Yes." " Your ladyship must judge whether you wish me to be acquainted with it," said Mr. Hawldns, very calmly. " My daughter has suddenly become acquaint- ed. Sir, with some family incidents of a very pain- ful nature, and the knowledge of which I have hitherto spared her. They axe events long past, and their consequences are now beyond ail con- trol." " She knows, then, the worst." " Without her mind, I cannot answer that question," said Lady Annabel. " It is my duty to tell you that Miss Herbert is in imminent danger ; she has every appearance of a fever of the most malignant character. I cannot answer for her hfc." " God !" exclaimed Lady Annabel. " Yet you must compose yourself, my dear lady. Her chance of recovery greatly depends upon the vigilance of her attendants. I shall Meed her again, and place leeches on her temples. There is inflam- mation on the brain. There are other remedies also not less powerful. We must not despair : we have no cause to despair until %vo find these fail. I shall not leave her again ; and, for your satisfac- tion, not for my own, I shall call in additional ad- vice, — the aid of a physician." A messenger accordingly was instantly des- patched for the physician, who resided at a town more distant than Southport ; the very town, by- the-by, where Morgana, the gipsy, was arrested. They contrived, with the aid of Pauncefort, to undress Venetia, and place her in her bed, for hitherto they had refrained from this exertion. At this moment the withered leaves of a white rose fell from Vcnctia's dress. A sofa-bed, was then made for Lady Annabel, of which, however, she did not avail herself. The whole night she sat by her daughter's side, watching every movement of Venetia, refreshing her hot brow and her parched lips, or arranging, at every opportunity, her disordered pillows. About an hour past mid- night the surgeon retired to rest, for a few hours, in the apartment prepared for him, and Paunce- fort, bv the desire of her mistress, also withdrew : Lady Annabel was alone with her rliild, and with those agitated thoughts which the strange occur- rences of tlie day were well calculated to excite. CHAPTER VII. Eaut.t in the morning the physician arrived at Cherbury. It remained for him only to approve of the remedies which had been pursued. No material change, however, had occun-ed in the state of Venetia : she had not slept, and still she seemed unconscious of what was occurring. The gracious interposition of Nature seemed the onlv 3 Q 734 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. hope. When the medical men had withdrawn to consult in the terrace-room. Lady Annabel beck- oned to Pauncefort, and led her to the window of Venetia's apartment, which she would not quit. " Pauncefort," said Lady Annabel, " Venetia has been in her father's room." " O ! impossible, my lady," burst forth Mistress Pauncefort ; but Lady Annabel placed her finger on her lip, and checked her. " There is no doubt of it, there can be no doubt of it, Pauncefort ; she entered it yesterday ; she must have passed the morning there, when you believed she was in the park." "But, my lady," said Pauncefort, "how could it be 1 For I scarcely left your la' ship's room a second, and Miss Venetia, I am sure, never was near it. And the key, my lady, the key is in the casket. I saw it half an hour ago with my own eyes." " There is no use arguing about it, Pauncefort," said Lady Annabel with decision. " It is as I say. I fear great misfortunes are about to commence at Cherbury." " ! my lady, don't think of such things," said Pauncefort, herself not a little alarmed. " What can happen 1" " I fear more than I know," said Lady Annabel," " but I do fear much. At present I can only think of her." " Well ! my lady," said poor Mistress Paunce- fort, looking very bewildered, " only to think of such a thing ! and after all the pains I have taken ! I am sure I have not opened my lips on the subject these fifteen years ; and the many questions I have been asked too ! I am sure there is not a servant in the house — " " Hush ! hush !" said Lady Annabel, " I do not blame you, and therefore )'ou need not defend yourself. Go, Pauncefort, I must be alone." Pauncefort withdrew, and Lady Annabel resumed her seat by her daughter's side. On the fourth day of her attack, the medical attendants observed a favourable change in their patient, and were not, of course, slow in commu- nicating this joyful intelligence to her mother. The crisis had occurred, and was past: Venetia had at length sunk into slumber. How different was her countenance from the still, yet settled features, they had before watched with such anx- iety ! She breathed lightly, the tension of the eyelids had disappeared, her mouth was slightly open. The physician and his colleague declared that immediate danger was past, and they coun- selled Lady Annabel to take repose. On condition that one of them should remain by the side of her daughter, the devoted yet miserable mother quitted, for the first time, her child's apartment Paunce- fort followed her to her room. " () ! my lady," said Pauncefort, " I am so glad your la'ship is going to lie down a bit." " I am not going to lie down, Pauncefort, give iiie the key." And Lady Annabel proceeded alone to the for- bidden chamber, — that chamber which, after what has occurred, we may now enter with her, and where, with so much labour, she had created a loom exactly imitative of their bridal apartments at her husband's castle. Willi a slow but resolved step she entered the apartment, and proceeded im- mediately to the table, took up the book ; it opened at the stanzas to Venetia. The pages had recent, ly been bedewed with tears. Lady Annabel theiv looked at the bridal bed, and marked the missing rose in the garland ; it was as she expected. She seated herself then in the chair opposite the por- trait, on which she gazed with a glance rather stern than fond. "Marmion!" she exclaimed, " for fifteen years, a solitary votary, I have mourned over, in this temple of baffled affections, the inevitable past The daughter of our love has found her way, per- haps by an irresistible destiny, to a spot sacred to ni}' long-concealed sorrows. At length she knows her father. May she never know more ! May she never learn that the being, whose pictured form has commanded her adoration, is unworthy of those glorious gifts that a gracious Creator has bestowed upon him ! Marmion, you seem to smile upon me ; you seem to exult in your triumph over the heart of your child. But there is a power in a mother's love that yet shall baffle you. Hi- therto I have come here to deplore the past ; hitherto I have come here to dwell upon the form that, in spite of all that has happened, I still was, perhaps, weak enough to love. Those feelings are past for ever. Yes ! you would rob me of my child, you would tear from my heart the only consolation you have left me. But Venetia shall still be mine; and I, I am no longer yours. Our love, our still lingering love, has vanished. You have been my enemy ; now I am yours. I gaze upon your por- trait for the last time ; and thus I prevent the magical fascination of that face again appealing to the sympathies of my child. Thus, and thus!" — She seized the ancient dagger, that we have men- tioned as lying on the volume, and, springing on the chair, she plunged it into the canvas ; then, tearing with unflinching resolution the severed parts, she scattered the fragments over the chamber, shook into a thousand leaves the melancholy gar- land, tore up the volume of his enamoured Muse, and then quitting the chamber, and locking and double locking the door, she descended the stair- case, and, proceeding to the great well of Cherbury, hurled into it the fatal key. " O ! my lady," said Mistress Pauncefort, as she met Lady Annabel returning in the vestibule, " Doctor Masham is here." " Is hel" said Lady Annabel, as calm as usual. " I will see him before I lie down. Do not go into Venetia's room. She sleeps, and Mr. Haw- kins has promised me to let me know when she wakes." CHAPTER VIIL As Lady Annabel entered the terrace-room, Doc- tor Masham came forward and grasped her hand. " You have heard of our sorrow !" said her lady- ship in a faint voice. " But this instant," replied the doctor, in a tone of great anxiety. " Immediate danger — " " Is past. She sleeps," replied Lady Annabel. " A most sudden and unaccountable attack," said the doctor. It is difficult to describe the contending emotiont of the mother as her companion maile this obser vation. At length she replied, " Sudden, cer- tainly sudden; but not unaccountable. O! mv VENETIA. 735 friend," she added, after a moment's pause, " they will not be content until they have torn my daughter from me." " They tear your daughter from you !" exclaimed Doctor Mashara. " Who ?" "Ho, he," muttered Lady Annabel; her speech was incoherent, her manner very disturbed. " My dear lady," said the doctor, gazing on her with extreme anxiety, "you are yourself unwell." Lady Annabel heaved a deep sigh ; the doctor ^ bore her to a seat " Shall I send for any one, any thing ?" " No one, no one," quickly answered Lady An- nabel. " With you, at least, there is no conceal- ment necessary." She leaned back in her chair, the doctor holding her hand, and standing by her side. Slill Lady Annabel continued sighing deeply : at length she looked up and said, " Does she love me 1 Do you think, after all, she loves me 1" " Venetial" inquired the doctor, in a low and doubtful voice, for he was greatly perplexed. " She has seen lum ; she loves him ; she has forgotten her mother." '• My dear lady, you require rest," said Doctor Masham. " You are overcome with strange fan- cies. Who has your daughter seen?" " Marmion." " Impossible : you forget he is — " " Here also." " He has spoken to her : she loves him : she will recover : she will fly to him — sooner let us both die !" " Shall I send for Pauncefort 1" "No, let me be alone with you, with you. You know all, Pauncefort knows all ; and she, she knows every thing. Fate has baflled me ; we cannot struggle with fate. She is his child ; she is like him ; she is not like her mother. O ! she hates me ; I know she hates me." " Hush ! hush ! hush !" said the doctor, himself very much agitated. " Venetia loves you, only you.i' Why should she love any one else 1" " Who can help it 1 I loved him. I saw him : I loved him. His voice was music. He has spoken to her, and she yielded — she yielded in a moment. I stood by her bed-side. She would not speak to me ; she would not know me ; she shrank from me. Her heart is with her father — only with him." " Where did she see him ? How V " His room — his picture. She knows all. I was away with you, and she entered his chamber." "Ah!" " O ! doctor, you have influence with her. Speak to her. Make her love me ! Tell her she has no father ; tell her he is dead." " We will do that which is well and wise," re- plieil Doctor Masham : " at present lot us be calm ; if you give way, her life may be the forfeit. Now is the moment for a mother's love." " You are right. I would not have left her for an instant I would not have her wake, and find her mother not watching over her. But I was tempted. She slept ; I left her for a moment ; I went to destroy the spell. She cannot see him again. No one shall see him again. It was my weakness, the weakness of long years; and now I am its victim." " Nay, nay, my sweet lad}', all will be quite well Be but calm ; Venetia will recover." " But will she love me ] O ! no, no, no. She will think only of him. She will not love her mother. She will yearn for her father now. She has seen him, and she will not rest until she is In his arms. She will desert me, I know it." " And I know the contrary," said the doctor, attempting to reassure her ; " I will ans^ver for Venetia's devotion to you. Indeed she has no thought but your happiness, and can love only you. When there is a fitting time, I will speak to her; but now — now is the time for repose. And you must rest, you must indeed." "Rest! I cainiot. I slumliered in the chair last night by her bedside, and a voice roused me. It was her own. She was speaking to her father. She told him how she loved him ; how long, how much she thought of him ; that she would join him when she was well, for she knew he was not dead ; and, if he were dead, she would die also. She never mentioned me." " Nay ! the light meaning of a delirious brain." " Truth — truth — bitter, inevitable truth. ! doctor, I could bear all but this ; but my child — my beautiful fond child, tliat made up for all my sorrows. My joy — my hope — my life ; I knew it would be so ; I knew he would have her heart. He said she never could be alienated from him; he said she never could be taught to hate him. I did not teach her to hate him. I said nothing. I deemed, fond foolish mother, that the devotion of my life might bind her to me. But what is a mo- ther's love ] I cannot contend with him. He gained the mother; he will gain the daughter too." " God will guard over you," said Masham, with streaming eyes : " God will not desert a pious and virtuous woman." " I must go," said Lady Annabel, attempting to rise, but the doctor gently controlled her ; " per- haps she is awake, and I am not at her side. She will not ask for me, she will ask for him ; but I will be there ; she will desert me, but she shall not say I ever deserted her." "She will never desert you," said the doctor; " my life on her pure heart. She has been a child of unltroken love and duty ; still she will remain so. Her mind is for a moment overpowered by a marvellous discovery. She will recover, and be to you as she was before." " We'll tell her he is dead," said Lady Annabel, eagerly. " You must tell her. She will believe you. I cannot speak to her of him ; no, not to secure her heart ; never — never — never can I speak to Venetia of her father." " I will speak," replied the doctor, " at the just time. Now let us think of her recoverv'. She is no loncer in danger. We should be grateful, we should be glad." " Let us pray to God 1" Let us humble our- selves," said Lady Annabel. "I-tare>'et.' And as a brother I always loved you ; had I indeed been your sister, I could not have loved you more warmly and more truly." "I am not your brother, Venetia, I wish not to be loved as a brother ; and yet I must be loved by you, or I shall die." "What then do you wishl" inquired Venetia, with great simplicity. " I wish you to marry me," replied L ord Cadurcis "Marry!" exclaimed Venetia, with a face of wonder. "Marry! Marry you! Morry you, Plantagenet !" 3r2 750 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Ay ! is that so wonderful 1 I love you, and, if you love me, why should we not marry 1" Venetiawas silent, and looked upon the gi'ound, not from agitation, for she was quite calm, but in thought ; and then she said, " I never thought of marriage in my life, Plantagenet; I have no in- tention, no wish to marry ; I mean to live always with mamma." " And you shall always live with mamma, but that need not prevent you from marrying me," he replied. " Do not we all live together now 1 What will it signify if you dwell at Cadurcis and Lady Annabel at Chcrbury 7 Is it not one home ? But, at any rate, this point shall not be an obsta- cle ; for, if it please you, we will all live at Cher- bury." " You say that we are happy now, Plantagenet ; O, let us remain as we are !" " My own sweet girl, my sister, if you please, any title so it be one of fondness, your sweet sim- plicity charms me ; but, believe me, it cannot be as you wish ; we cannot remain as we are, unless we marry." "Why not?" " Because I shall be wretched, and must live elsewhere, if indeed I can live at all.' " O ! Plantagenet, indeed I thought you were my brother ; when I found you after so long a se paration as kind as in old days, and kinder still, I was so glad ; I was so sure you loved me ; I thought I had the kindest brother in the world. Let us not talk of any other love. It will, indeed it will, make mamma so miserable !" " I am greatly mistaken," replied Lord Cadur- cis, who saw no obstacles to his hopes in their conversation hitherto, " if on the contrary , our union would not prove far from disagreeable to your mother, Venetia ; I will say our mother, for indeed to me she has been one." " Plantagenet," said Venetia, in a very earnest tone, " I love you very much ; but, if you love me, press me on this subject no more at present. \ ou have surprised, indeed you have bewildered me. There are thoughts, there are feelings, there are considerations, that must be respected, that must influence me. Nay ! do not look so sorrow- ful, Plantagenet. Let us be happy now. To- morrow — only to-morrow — and to-morrow we are sure to meet, we will speak further of all this ; but now — now — for a moment let us forget it, if we can forget any thing so strange. Nay ! you shall smile !" He did. Who could resist that mild and win- ning glance ! And indeed Lord Cadurcis was scarcely disappointed, and not at all mortified, at the reception, or, as he esteemed it, the progress had suddenly succeeded all the excitement of the day. The doctor, who was wearied, retired imme- diately. Lady Annabel pressed Cadurcis to remain and take tea, or, at least, to ride home ; but his lordship, protesting that he was not in the slightest degree fatigued, and anticipating their spced}^ union on the morrow, bade her good night, and, pressing with fondness the hand of Venetia, retraced his steps to the now solitary abbey. CHAPTER VIL Cadurcis returned to the abbey, but not to slumber. That love of loneliness which had haunted him from his boyhood, and which ever asserted its sway when under the influence of his passions, came over him now with irresistible power. A day of enjoyment had terminated, and it left him melancholy. Hour after hour he paced the moon-lit cloisters of his abbey, where not a sound disturbed him, save the monotonous fall of the fountain, that seems by some inexplicable as- sociation always to blend with, and never to dis- turb, our feelings ; gay when we are joyful, and sad amid our sorrow. Yet was he sorrowful ! He was gloomy, am. fell into a revery about himself, a subject to him ever perplexing and distressing. His conversation of the morning with Doctor Masham recurred to him. What did the doctor mean by his character not being formed, and that he might yet live to change all his opinions 7 Character ! what was character 1 It must be will ; and his will was vio- lent and firm. Young as he was, he had early ha- bituated himself to reflection, and the result of his musings had been a desire to live away from the world, with those he loved. The world, as other men viewed it, had no channs for him. Its pur- suits and passions seemed to him on the whole paltry and faint. He could sympathise with great deeds, but not with bustling life. That which was common did not please him. He loved things that were rare and strange; and the spell that bound him so strongly to Venetia Herbert was her unusual life, and the singular circumstances of her destiny that were not unknown to him. True he was young ; but, lord of himself, youth was as- sociated with none of those mortifications wliich make the juvenile pant for manhood. Cadurcis valued his youth, and treasured it. He could not conceive love, and the romantic life that love should lead, without the circumambient charm of vouth adding fresh lustre to all that was bright of his suit. The conduct of Venetia he attributed i and fair, and a keener relish to every combination entirely to her unsophisticated nature, and the timidity of a virgin soul. It made him prize even more dearly the treasure that he believed awaited him. Silent, then — though for a time they both struggled to speak on indifferent subjects — silent, and almost content, Cadurcis proceeded, with the arm of Venetia locked in his, and ever and anon unconsciously pressing it to his heart. The rosy twilight had fiidcd away, the stars were stealing forth, and the moon again glittered. With a soul softer than the tinted shades of eve. and glowing like the heavens, CadurciS joined his companions as they entered the gardens of Cherbury. When they had arrived home, it seemed that exhaustion of enjoyment. The moonbeam fell upon his mo- ther's monument — the tablet on the cloister wall that recorded the birth and death of Kathehine Cadurcis. His thoughts flew to his ancestry They had conquered in France and Palestine, and left a memorable name to the annalist of his coun- tiy. Those days were past, and yet Cadurcis felt within him the desire, perhaps the power, of emu- lating them ; but what remained 1 What career was open in this mechanical age to the chivalric genius of his race 1 Was he misplaced then in life ? The applause of nations — there was some- thing grand and exciting in such a possession. To be the marvel of mankind, what would he nd VENETIA. 751 hazard 1 Dreams, dreams ! . If his ancestors were valiant and celebrated, it remained for him to rival, to excel them, at least in one respect. Their co- ronet had never rested on a brow fairer than the one for which he destined it. Venetia, then, inde- pendent of his passionate love, was the only appa- rent object worth his pursuit — the only thing in this world that had realised his dreams — dreams sacred to his own musing soul, that even she had never shared or guessed. And she, she was to be his. He could not doubt it ; but to- morrow would decide ; to-morrow would seal his triumph. His sleep was short and restless ; he had almost outwatched the stars, and yet he rose with the early mom. His first thought was of Venetia ; he was impatient for the interview — the interview she promised, and even proposed. The fresh air was grateful to him ; he bounded along to Cherlnny, and brushed the dew in his progress from the tall grass and shrubs. In sight of the hall, he for a moment paused. He was before his accustomed hour ; and yet he was always too soon. Not to- day, though, not to-day ; suddenly he rushes for- ward, and springs down the green vista, for Vene- tia is on the terace, and alone ! " Always kind, this morning she greeted him with unusual affection. Never had she seemed to him so exquisitely beautiful. Perhaps her coun- tenance to-day was more pale than wont. There seemed a softness in her eyes unusually so bril- liant, and even dazzling ; the accents of her salu- tation were suppressed and tender. " I thought you would be here early," she re- marked, and therefore I rose to meet you." Was he to infer from this artless confession that his image had haunted her in her dreams, or only that she would not delay the conversation on which his happiness depended ] He could scarcely doubt which version to adopt when she took his arm and led him from the ten-ace, to walk where they could not be disturbed. " Dear Plantagenet," she said — " for indeed you are very dear to me — ^I told you last night that I would speak to you to-day on your wishes, that are so kind to me, and so much intended for my happiness. I do not love suspense ; hut indeed, last night, I was too much surprised, too much overcome, by what occurred, that, exhausted as I naturally was by all our pleasure, I could not tell you what I wished ; indeed I could not, dear Plan- tagenet." " My own Venetia !" " So I hope you will always deem me ; for I should be very unhappy if you did not love me, Plantagenet — more unhappy than I have even been these last two years ; and I have been very unhappy, very unhappy indeed, Plantagennet." " Unhappy ! Venetia ; my Venetia unhappy ?" " Listen ! I will not weep. I can control my feelings. I have learned to do this ; it is very sad, and very different to what my life once was ; but I can do it." " Yon amaze me !" Venetia sighed and then resumed, but in a tone mournful and low, and yet to a degree firm. " You have been away five years, Plantagenet." " But you have pardoned that." " I never blamed you ; I had nothmg to pardon It was well for you to be away ; and I rejoice your absence has been so profitable to you." "But it was wicked to have been so silent." " Oh ! no, no, no. Such ideas never entered into my head, nor even mamma's. You were very yfflung ; you did as all would, as all must do. Har- bour not such thoughts. Enough you have re- turned, and love us yet." " Love ! I adore !" " Five j'ears are a long space of time, Plantage- net. Events will happen in five years, even at Cherbury. I told you I was changed." ' Yes !" said Lord Cadurcis, in a voice of some anxiety, with a scrutinising eye. ' You left me a happy child ; you find me a wo- man, — and a miserable one." ' Good God ! Venetia, this suspense is awful. Be brief, I pray you. Has any one — " Venetia looked at him with an air of perplexity. She could not comprehend the idea tliat impelled his interruption. ' Go on," Lord Cadurcis added, after a short pause; "I am, indeed, all anxiety." ' You remember that Christmas which you passed at the hall, and walking at night in the gallery, and — " " Well ! Your mother — I shall never forget it. " You found her weeping when you were once at Marringhurst. You told me of it." ■ Av ! ay !' We " There is a wing of our house shut up. often talked of it." " Often, Venetia ; it is a mystery." " I have penetrated it," replied Venetia, in a so- lemn tone ; " and I never have known what hap- piness is since." " Yes, yes !" said Lord Cadurcis, very pale, and speaking in a whisper. " Plantagenet, I have a father.' Lord Cadurcis started, and for an instant hie arm quitted Venetia's. At length he said, in a gloomy voice, " I know it." " Know it !" exclaimed Venetia with astonish- ment. " Who could have told you the secret !" " It is no secret," replied Cadurcis ; " would that it were !" " Would that it were ! How strange you speak, how strange you look, Plantagenet ! If it be no secret that I have a father, why this concealment then 7 I know that I am not the child of shame !" she added, after a moment's pause, with an air of pride. A tear stole down the cheek of Ca- durcis. " Plantagenet ! dear, good Plantagenet ! my brother ! my own brother ! — see, I kneel to you ; Venetia loieels to you ! your own Venetia ! — Venetia that you love ! O ! if you knew the load that is on my spirit, bearing me dovra to a grave which I would almost welcome, you would speak to me ; you would tell me all. — I have sighed for this ; I have longed for this ; I have prayed for this. To meet some one who would speak to me of my father — who had heard of him, who knew him — has been for years the only thought of my being, the only object for which I existed. And now here comes Plantagenet, my brother ! my own brother .' and he knows all, — and he will tell me ; yes, that he will ; he will tell his Venetia all — all !" "Is there not your mother 1" said Lord Cadur- cis, in a broken tone. " Forbidden, utterly forbidden. If I speak, they tell me her heart will break ; and therefore mine is breaking." 752 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Have you no friend V "Are not you my friend 1" " Dr. Masham V " I have applied to him ; he tells me that he lives, and then he shakes his head." " You never saw your father ; think not of him." " Not think of him !" exclaimed Venetia, with extraordinary energy. " Of what else 1 For what do I live but to think of him 1 What object have I in life but to se'e him 1 I have seen him — once." " Ah !" " I know liis form by heart, and yet it was but a shade. O I what a shade ! — what a glorious, what an immortal shade ! If gods were upon earth, they would be like my father !" " His deeds, at least, are not godlike," observed Lord Cadurcis dryly, and vi'ith some bitterness. " I deny it !" said Venetia, her eyes sparkling with fire, her form dilated with enthusiasm, and involuntarily withdrawing her arm from her com- panion. Lord Cadurcis looked exceedingly asto- nished. " Yon deny it !" he exclaimed. " And what should you know about it ?" " Nature whispers to me that nothing but what is grand and noble could be breathed by those lips, or fulfilled by that form." " I am glad you have not read his works," said Lord Cadurcis, with increased bitterness. " As for his conduct, your mother is a livhig evidence of his honour, his generosity, and his virtue." " My mother !" said Venetia, in a softened voice ; " and yet he loved my mother !" " She was his victim, as a thousand others may have been." " She is his wife !" replied Venetia, with some anxiety. " Yes, a deserted wife ; is that preferable to being a cherished mistress 1 More honourable, but scarcely less humiliating." " She must have misunderstood him," said Ve- netia. "I have perused the secret vows of his passion, I have read his praises of her beauty, I have pored over the music of his emotions when he first became a father ; — yes, he has gazed on me — even though but for a moment — with love ! Over me he has breathed forth the hallowed bless- ing of a parent ! That transcendant form has pressed his lips to mine, and held me with fondness to his heart ! And shall I credit aught to his dis- honour 1 Is there a being in existence who can persuade me he is heartless or abandoned 1 No ! I love him ! I adore him ! I am devoted to him with all the energies of my being ! I live only on the memory that he lives, and, were he to die, I should pray to my God that I might join him, without delay, in a world where it cannot be jus- tice to separate a child from a father." And this was Venetia ! — the fair, the serene Venetia ! the young, the inexperienced Venetia ! pausing, as it were, on the parting threshold of girlhood, whom, but a few hours since, he had fancied could scarcely have proved a passion ; who appeared to him barely to comprehend the mean- ing of his advances ; for whose calmness or whose coldness he had consoled himself by the flattering conviction of her unknowing innocence. Before him stood a beautiful and inspired Maenad, her syc flashing supernatural fire, her fonn elevated above her accustomed stature, defiance on her swelling brow, and passion on her quivering lip ! Gentle and sensitive as Cadurcis ever appeared to those he loved, there was in his soul a deep and unfathomed well of passions that had been never stirred, and a bitter and mocking spirit in his brain, of which he was himself unconscious. He had repaired this hopeful morn to Cherbury, to receive, as he believed, the plighted faith of a simple and aifectionate, perhaps grateful, girl. That her un- sophisticated and untutored spirit might not receive the advances of his heart with an equal and cor- responding ardour, he was prepared. It pleased him that he should watch the gradual develope- ment of this bud of sweet affections, waiting, with proud anxiety, her fragrant and her full-blown love. But now it appeared that her coldness, or her indilierence, might be ascribed to any other cause than the one to which he had attributed it, — the innocence of an inexperienced mind. This girl was no stranger to powerful passions ; she could love, and love with fervency, with devotion, with enthusiasm. This child of joy was a woman of deep and thoughtful sorrows, brooding in soli- tude over high resolves and passionate aspirations. Why were not the emotions of such a tumultuous soul excited by himself ] To him she was calm and imperturbable ; she called him brother — she treated him as a child. But a picture, a fantastic shade, could raise in her a tempestuous swell of sentiment, that transfonned her whole mind, and changed the colour of all her hopes .and thoughts. Deeply prejudiced against her father, Cadurcis now hated him, and with a fell and ferocious ear- nestness that few bosoms but his could prove. Pale with rage, he ground his teeth, and watched her with a glance of sarcastic aversion. " You led me here to listen to a communication which interested me," he at length said ; " have I heard itl" His altered tone, the air of haughtiness which he assumed, were not lost upon Venetia. She endeavoured to collect herself, but she hesitated to reply. " I repeat my inquiry," said Cadurcis. ' Have you brought me here only to inform me that j'ou have a father, and that you adore him, or his pic- ture V " I led you here," replied Venetia, in a subdued tone, and looking on the ground, "to thank you for your love, and to confess to you that I love another." " Love another !" exclaimed Cadurcis in a tone of derision. " Simpleton ! The best thing your mother can do is to lock you up in the chamber with the picture that has produced such marvellous effects." " I am no simpleton, Plantagenet," rejoined Ve- netia, very quietly, " but one who is acting as she thinks right ; and not only as her mind, but as her heart, prompts her." They had stopped in the earlier part of this con- versation on a little plot of turf surrounded by shrubs ; Cadurcis walked up and down this area with angry steps, occasionally glancing at Venetia with a look of mortification and displeasure. " I tell you, Venetia," he at length said, " that you are a little fool. What do you mean by say- ing that you cannot marry me, because you love another? Is not that other, by your own account, your father 1 Love him as much as you like. Is VENETIA. 753 ftiat to prevent you from loving your husband also V " Plantagenet, you are rude, and unnecessarily so," said Venetia. " I repeat to you again, and for the last time, that all my heart is my father's. It would be wicked in me to marry you, because I cannot love j^ou as a husband should be loved. I can never love you as I love my father. How- ever, it is useless to talk upon this subject. I have not even the power of marrying you if I wished, for I have dedicated myself to my father in the name of God ; and I have offered a vow, to be registered in Heaven, that thenceforth I would exist only for the purpose of being restored to his heart." ^ " I congratulate you on your parent, Miss Her- bert." " I feel that I ought to be proud of him, though, alas ! I can only feel it. But, whatever your opi- nion may be of my father, I beg you to remember that you are speaking to his child." " I shall state my opinion respecting your father, madam, v>'ith the most perfect unreserve, wherever and whenever I choose; quite convinced that, however you esteem that opinion, it will not be widely dilfcrent from the real sentiments of the only parent whom you ought to respect, and whom you are bound to obey." " And I can tell, you, sir, that, whatever your opinion is on any subject, it will never influence mine. If, indeed, I were the mistress of my own destiny — which I am not — it would have been equally out of my power to have acted as you have so singularly proposed. I do not wish to marry, and marry I never will ; but were it in my power, or in accordance with my wish, to unite my fate for ever with another's, it should at least be with one to whom I could look up ■yvith reverence, and even with admiration. He sHould be at least a man, and a great man ; one with whose name the world rung ; perhaps, like my father, a genius and a poet." " A genius and a poet !" exclaimed Lord Cadur- cis, in a fury, stamping with passion ; " are these fit terms to use, when speaking of the most aban- doned profligate of his age 1 — A man whose name is synonymous with infamy, and which no one dares to breathe in civilised life ; — whose very blood is pollution, as you will some day feel ; — ■who has violated every tie, and derided every prin- ciple, by which society is maintained ; — ^whose life is a living illustration of his own shameless doc- trines ; who is, at the same time, a traitor to his King and an apostate from his God !" Curiosity, overpowering even indign«.tion, had permitted Venetia to listen even to this tirade. Pale as her companion, but with a glance of with- ering scorn, she exclaimed, " Passionate and ill- mannered boy ! words cannot express the disgust and the contempt with which you inspire me." She spoke, and she disappeared. Cadurcis was neither able nor desirous to arrest her flight. He remained rooted to the ground, muttering to him- self the word " boy !" Suddenly raising his arm, and looking up to the sky, he exclaimed, " The illusion is vanished ! Farewell, Cherbury ! — fare- well, Cadurcis I a wider theatre awaits me ! I have been the slave too long of soft affections ! — I root them out of my heart for ever!" and, fitting the action to the phrase, it seemed tbat he hurled bpon tire earth all the tender emotions of his soul. 03 " Woman ! henceforth you shall be my sport ! I have novsr no feelings but for myself. When she spoke, I might have been a boy ; — I am a boy no longer. What I shall do I know not ; but this I know, the world shall ring with my name ; I will be a man, and a great man !" CHAPTER Vni. The agitation of Venetia on her return was not unnoticed by her mother ; but Lady Annabel ascribed it to a far ditferent cause than the real one. She was rather surprised when the break- fast passed, and Lord Cadurcis did not appear; somewhat perplexed when her daughter seized the earliest opportunity of retiring to her own cham- ber ; but, with that self-restraint of which she was so complete a mistress, Lady Annabel uttered no remark. Once more alone, Venetia could only repeat to herself the wild words that had burst from Planta- genet's lips in reference to her father. What could they mean 1 His morals might be misrepre- sented, his opinions might be misunderstood ; stu- pidity might not comprehend his doctrines — ma- lignity might torture them ; the purest sages have been accused of immorality — the most pious philo- sophers have been denounced as blasphemous ; but, " a traitor to his king" — that was a tangible, an intelligible proposition — one with which all might grapple — which could be easily disproved if false, scarcely propounded were it not true. "False to his king I" How false 1 Where? When 1 What mystery involved her life 1 Un- happy girl ! in vain she struggled with the over- whelming burden of her sorrows. Now she re- gretted that she had quarrelled with Cadurcis ; it was evident that he knew evei-y thing, and would have told her all. And then she blamed him for his harsh and unfeeling demeanour, and his total want of sympathy with ber cruel and perplexing situation. She had intended, she had struggled to be so kind to hiin ; she thought she had such a plain tale to tell, that he would have listened to it in considerate silence, and bowed to her necessary and inevitable decision without a murmur. Amid all these harassing emotions her mind tossed about like a ship without a rudder, until, in her despair, she almost resolved to confess every thing to her mother, and to request her to soothe and enlighten her agitated and confounded mind. But what hope was there of solace or information from such a quarter ? Lady Annabel's wns not a mind to be diverted from her purpose. Whatever might have been the conduct of her husband, 't was evident that Lady Annabel had traced out t course from which she had resolved not to depart. She remem- bered the earnest and repeated advice of Doctor Masham, that virtuous and intelligent man, who never advised any thing but for their benefit. How solemnly had he enjoined upon her never to speak to her mother upon the subject, unless she wished to produce misery and distress I And what could her mother tell her? Her father lived — he had abandoned her — he was looked upon as a cri- minal, and shunned by the society whose laws and prejudices he had alike outraged. Why should she revive, amid the comparative happiness and serenity in which her mother now lived, the bittei 754 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. recollection of the almost intolerable misfortune of her existence 1 No ! Venetia was resolved to be a solitary victim. In spite of her passionate and romantic devotion to her father, she loved her mo- ther with perfect affection — the mother who had dedicated lier life to her child, and at least hoped she had spared her any share in their common un- happiness. And tliis father, whose image haunted her dreams — whose unknown voice seemed some- times to float to her quick ear upon the wind — could he be that abandoned being that CadurcL« nad described, and that all around her, and all tlie circumstances or her nie, wouia seem lo inaicate t Alas ! it might be truth ; alas ! it seemed like truth : and for one so lost, so utterly irredeemable, was she to murmur against that pure and benevo- lent parent who had cherished her with such de- votion, and snatched her perhaps from disgrace, dislronour, and despair ! And Cadurcis — would he return 1 With all his violence, the kind Cadurcis ! Never did she need a brother more than now ; and now he was absent, and she had parted with him in anger, deep, almost deadly : she, too, who had never before ut- tered a harsh word to a human being, who had been involved in only one quarrel in her life, and that almost unconsciously, and which had nearly broken her heart. She wept, bitterly she wept, tliis poor Venetia ! By one of those mental efforts which her strange lot often forced her to practise, Venetia at length composed herself, and returned to the room where she believed she would meet her mo- ther, and hoped she should see Cadurcis. He v/as not there ; but Lady Annabel was seated as calm and busied as usual ; the doctor had depart- ed. Even his presence would have proved a re- lief, however slight, to Venetia, who dreaded at this moment to be alone with her mother. She had no cause, however, for alarm ; Ijord Cadurcis never a})peared, and was absent even from dinner ; the day died away, and still he was wanting ; and at length Venetia bade her usual good night to Lady Annabel, and received her usual blessing and embrace, without his name having been even mentioned. Venetia passed a disturbed night, haunted by painful dreams, in which her father and Cadurcis were both mixed up, and with images of pain, confusion, disgrace, and misery ; but the morrow, at least, did not prolong her suspense ; for, just as she joined her mother at the breakfast. Mistress Pauncefort, who had been despatched on some do- mestic mission by her mistress, entered, with a face of wonder, and began as usual — " Only think, my lady ; well to be sure, w!io would have thought t ■? I am quite confident far my own part I was '^uite taken aback when I heard it ; and I could not have believed my ears, if John had not told me himself, and he had it from his lordship's own man." "Well, Pauncefort, what have you to say''" inquired Lady Annabel, vei^ calmly, " And never to send no note, my lady ; at least I have not seen one come up. That makes it so very strange." " Makes what, Pauncefort V " Why, my lady, doesn't your la'ship know his lordship left the abbey yesterday, and never said nothing to nobody ; rode off without a word, by j'our leave, or with your leave 1 To be sure, he always was the oddest young gentlemen as ever I met with ; and, as I said to John ; John, says I, I hope his lordship has not gone to join the gipsies again." Venetia looked into a teacup, and then touched an egg, and then twirled a spoon ; but Lady An- nabel seemed quite imperturbable, and only ob- served, " Probably his guardian is ill, and he has been suddenly summoned to town. I wish you would bring my knitting-needles, Pauncefort." The autumn passed, and Lord Cadurcis never returned to the abbe}', and never -wrote to any of his late companions. Lady Annabel never men- tioned his name ; and, although she seemed to have no other obj ect in life but the pleasure and happiness of her child, this strange mother never once consulted Venetia on the probable occasion of his sudden departure and his strange conduct. BOOK IV. CHAPTER L Party feeling perhaps never ran higher in England than during the period immediately sub- sequent to the expulsion of the Coalition Ministry. After the indefatigable faction of the American war, and the flagrant union with Lord North, the Whig party, and especially Charles Fox, then in the full vigour of his bold and ready mind, were stung to the quick that all their remorseless effort to obtain and preserve the government of the country, should terminate in the preferment, and apparent permanent power, of a mere boy. Next to Charles Fox, perhaps the most eminent and influential member of the Whig party was Lady Monteagle. The daughter of one of the oldest and most powerful Peers in the kingdom, possessing very lively talents and many fascinating accomplishments, the mistress of a great establish- ment, very beautiful, and although she had been married some years, still young, the celebrated wife of Lord Monteagle found herself the centre of a circle alike powerful, brilUant, and refined. She was the Muse of the Whig party, at whose shrine every man of wit and fashion was proud to offer his flattering incense ; and her house became not merely the favourite scene of their social plea- sures, but the sacred temple of their political rites : here many a manoeuvre was planned, and many a scheme suggested ; many a convert enrolled, and many a votary initiated. Reclining on a couch in a boudoir, which she was assured was the exact fac-simile of that of Marie Antoinette, Lady Monteagle, with an eye sparkling with excitement, and a cheek flushed with emotion, appeared deeply interested in a volume, from which she raised her head as her husband entered the room. " Gertrude, my love," said his lordship, I have asked the new bishop to dine with us to-day." " My dear Henry," replied her ladyship, " what could induce you to do any thing so strange V " I suppose I have made a mistake, as usual," said his lordship, shrugging his shoulders, with a smile. " My dear Henry, you know you may ask whomever you like to your house. I never find fault with what you do. But what could induc« VENETIA. 756 you io ask a Tory bishop to meet a dozen of our own people?" " 1 thought I had done wrong directly I had ask- ed him," rejoined his lordship ; " and yet he would not come if I had not made such a point of it. I think I will put him off." " No my love, that would be wrong ; you can- not do that." " I cannot think how it came into my head. The fact is, I lost my presence of mind. You know he was my tutor at Christchurch, when poor dear Herbert and I were such friends, and very kind he was to us both ; and so, the moment I saw him, I walked across the house, introduced myself, and asked him to dinner." " Well, never mind," said Lady Monteagle, smiling. " It is rather ridiculous ; but I hope no- thing will be said to offend him." " O ! do not be alarmed about that : he is quite a man of the world, and, although he has his opinions, not at all a partisan. I assure you poor dear Herbert loved him to the last, and, to this very moment, has the greatest respect and affection for him." " How very strange that not only your tutor, but Herbert's, should be a bishop," remarked the lady, smiling. " It is very strange," said his lordship, " and it only shows that it is quite useless in this world to lay plans or reckon on any thing. You know how it happened ?" " Not I, ifndeed ; I have never given a thought to the business ; I only remember being very vexed that that stupid old Bangerford should not have died when we were in office, and then, at any rate, we should have got another vote." " Well, you know," said his lordship, " dear old Masham, that is his name, was at Weymouth this year ; with whom do you think, of all people in the world V " How should I know ? Why should I think about it, Henry V " Why, with Herbert's wife." " What, that horrid woman !" " Yes, Lady Annabel." " And where was his daughter 1 Was she there?" " t)f course. She has grown up, and a most beautiful creature they say she is : exactly like her father." " Ah ! I shall always regret I never saw him," said her ladyship. " Well, the daughter is in bad health ; and so, after keeping her shut up all her life, the mother was obliged to take her to Weymouth ; and Ma- sham, who has a living in their neighbourhood, which, by-the-by, Herbert gave him, and is their chaplain and counsellor, and friend of the family, and all that sort of thing, though I really believe he has always acted for the best, he was with them. Well, the King took the greatest fancy to these Herberts ; and the Queen, too, quite singled them out ; and, in short, they were always with the royal family. It ended by his Majesty making Masham a chaplain ; and now he has made him a bishop." " Very droll, indeed," said her ladyship ; " and the drollest thing of all is, that he is now coming to dine here." " Have you seen Cadurcis to-day V said Lord Monteagle, " Of course," said her ladysip. " He dines here?" " To be sure. I am reading his new poem ; it will not be published till to-morrow." " Is it good 1" " Good ! What crude questions you do always ask, Henry !" exclaimed Lady Monteagle. "Good! Of course it is good. It is something better than good." " But I mean is it as good as his other things I Will it make as much noise as his last thing]" " Thing ! Now, Henry, you know very well that, if there be any thing I dislike in the world, it is calling a poem a thing." " Well, my dear, you know I am no judge of poetry. But, if you are pleased, I am quite con- tent. There is a knock. Some of your friends. I am off. I say, Gertrude, be kind to old Masham, that is a dear creature !" Her ladyship extended her hand, to which his lordship pressed his lips, and just effected his e* cape as the servant announced a visiter, in the person of Mr. Horace Pole. " ! my dear Mr. Pole, I am quite exhausted,'' said her ladyship ; " I am reading Cadurcis' new poem ; it will not be published till to-morrow, and it really has destroyed my nerves. I have got people to dinner to-day, and I am sure I shall not be able to encounter them." " Something outrageous, I suppose," said Mr. Pole with a sneer. " I wish Cadurcis would study Pope." " Study Pope ! My dear Mr. Pole, you have no imagination." " No, I have not, thank Heaven," drawled out Mr. Pole. " Well do not let us have a quarrel about Ca- durcis," said Monteagle. " All you men are jealous of him." " And some of you women, I think, too," said Mr. Pole. Lady Monteagle faintly smiled. " Poor Cadurcis !" she exclaimed ; " he has a very hard life of it. He complains bitterly that so many women are in love with him. But then he is such an interesting creature, what can he expect?" "Interesting!" exclaimed Mr. Pole. "Now I hold he is the most conceited, affected fellovsr, that I ever met," he continued with unusual energy. " Ah ! you men do not understand him," said Lady Monteagle, shaking her head. " You can- not," she added, with a look of pity. " I cannot, certainly," said Mr. Pole, " or his writings either. For ray part, I think the town has gone mad." " Well you must confess," said her ladyship, with a glance of triumph, " that it was very lucky for us that I made him a Whig." " I cannot agree with you at all on that head," said Mr. Pole. " We certainly are not very po- pular at this moment, and I feel convinced that a connexion with a person who attracts so much notice as Cadurcis unfortunately does at this mo- ment, and whose opinions on morals and religion must be so offensive to the vast majority of the English public, must ultimately prove any thing but advantageous to our party." " O ! my dear Mr. Pole," said her ladyship, in a tone of affected deprecation, " think what a go nius he is!" 766 D'lSRAELl'S MOVELS. " We have different ideas of genius, Lady Mont- eagle, I suspect," said her visiter. " You cannot deny," replied her ladyship, rising from her recumbent posture, v?ith some animation, " that he is a poet ]" " It is difficult to decide upon our contempora' ries," said Mr. Pole, dryly, " Charles Fox thinks he is the greatest poet that ever existed," said her ladyship, as if she were determined to settle the question. " Because he has written a lampoon on the royal family," rejoined Mr. Pole. " You are a very provoking person," said Lady Monteagle ; " but you do not provoke me ; do not flatter yourself you do." " That I feel to be an acliievement alike beyond my power and my ambition," replied Mr. Pole, slightly ])owing, but with a sneer. " Well, read this," said Lady Monteagle, " and then decide upon the merits of Cadurcis." Mr. Pole took the extended volume, but with no great willingness, and turned over a page or two, and read a passage here and there. " Much the same as his last effusion, I think," he obsei-ved, " as far as I can judge from so cursory a review. Exaggerated passion, bombastic lan- guage, egotism to excess, and which, perhaps, is the only portion that is genuine, mixed with com- mon-place scepticism, and impossible morals, and a sort of vague dreamy philosophy, which, if it mean any thing, means atheism, borrowed from his idol, Herbert, and which he himself evidently does not comprehend." " Monster !" exclaimed Lady Monteagle, with a mock assumption of indignation, " and you are going to dine with him here to day. You do not deserve it." " It is a reward which is unfortunately too often obtained by me," replied Mr. Pole. " One of the most annoying consequences of your friend's po- pularity. Lady Monteagle, is that there is not a dinner party where one can escape him. I met him yesterday at Fanshawe's. He amused him- self by eating only biscuits, and calling for soda water, while we quaffed our Burgundy. How very original ! What a thing it is to be a great poet!" " Perverse, provoking mortal !" exclaimed Lady Monteagle. " And on what should a poet live! On coarse food, like you coarse mortals ! Cadurcis is alu spirit, and in my opinion his diet only makes him more interesting." " I understand," said Mr. Pole, " that he cannot endure a woman to eat at all. But you are all spirit, Lady Monteagle, and therefore of course are not in the least inconvenienced. By-the-by, do you mean to give us any of those charming little suppers this season 1" " I shall not invite you," replied her ladyship ; " none but admirers of Lord Cadurcis enter this house." " Your menace effects my instant conversion," replied Mr. Pole. " I will admire him as much as you desire only do not insist upon my reading his works." " I have not the slightest doubt you know them by heart," rejoined her ladyship. Mr. Pole smiled, bowed and disappeared ; and Lady Monteagle sat down to write a billet to Lord Cadurcis, to entreat him to be with her at five o'clock, wluch was at least half an hour before the other guests were expected. The Monteagles were considered to dine ridiculously late. CHAPTER IL The readers of this work will infer, from the preceding chapter, that a very considerable change had occurred in the lives and situations of all, and the views and opinions also of some, of those indi- viduals in whose conduct and destiny it has hitherto been the attempt of the writer to interest them. The time likewise has arrived when they should perhaps be formally and particularly ap- prised of those passages in the early lives of the parents of our heroine involved in our preceding volume in so much mystery ; a mysteiy, however, which has been gradually clearing away. They should learn, therefore, that Marmion Herbert, sprung from one of the most illustrious families in England, became at a very early age the inheritor of a great estate, to which however he did not succeed with the prejudices or opinions usually imbibed or professed by the class to which he belonged. While yet a boy, Marmion Herbert afforded many indications of possessing a mind alike visionary and inquisitive, and both — although not in an equal degree — sceptical and creative. Nature had gifted him with very precocious talents ; and with a temperament essentially poetic, he was nevertheless a great student. His early reading, originally by accident, and afterwards by an irre- sistible inclination, — had fallen among the works of the English free-thinkers, — with all their errors, a profound and vigorous race, and much superior to the French philosophers, who were, after all, only their pupils and their imitators. While his juvenile studies, and in some degree the predispo- sition of his mind, had thus prepared him to doubt, and finally to challenge, the propriety of all that was established and received, the poetical and stronger bias of his mind enabled him quickly to supply the place of eveiy thing he would remove and destroy ; and far from being the victim of those frigid and indifferent feelings which must ever be the portion of the mere doubter, Herbert, on the contrary, looked forward with ardent and sanguine enthusiasm to a glorious and ameliorat- ing future, which should amply compensate and console a misguided and unhappy race for the miserable past and the painful and dreary present. To those therefore who could not sympathise with his views, it will be seen that Herbert, in attempt- ing to fulfd them, became not merely passively noxious from his example, but actively mischievous from his exertions. A mere sceptic, he would havo been perhaps merely pitied ; a sceptic with a pe- ■ culiar faith of his own, which he was resolved to promulgate, Herbert became odious. A solitary votary of obnoxious opinions, Herbert would have been looked upon only as a madman ; but the moment he attempted to make proselytes, he rose into a conspirator against society. Young, irresistibly prepossessing in his appear ance, with great eloquence, crude but considerable knowledge, an ardent imagination and a subtle mind, and a generous and passionate soul, — under any circumstances he must have obtained and exercised influence, even if his Creator had not VENETIA -^57 also bestowed upon him a spirit of indomitable courage : but these great gifts of nature being aonibincd with accidents of fortune scarcely less qualified to move mankind, — high rank, vast wealth, and a name of traditionary glory, — it will not be esteemed surprising that Marmion Herbert, at a very early period, should have attracted around him many enthusiastic disciples. At Christchurch, whither he repaired at an unu- sually early age, his tutor was Dr. Mashain ; and the profound respect and singular alfection with which that able, learned, and amiable man early inspired his pupil, for a time controlled the spirit of Herbert ; or rather confined its workings to so limited a sphere, that the results were neither dan- gerous to society nor himself. Perfectly compre- hending and appreciating the genius of the youth intrusted to his charge, deeply interested in his spiritual as well as worldly welfare, and strongly impressed with the importance of enlisting his pupil's energies in favour of that existing order, both moral and religious, in the truth and indis- pensableness of which he was a sincere believer. Dr. Masham omitted no opportunity of combating the heresies of the young inquirer ; and as the tu- tor, equally by talent, experience, and learning, was a competent champion of the great cause to which he was devoted, his zeal and ability for a time checked the developcment of those opinions of which he witnessed the menacing influence over Herbert with so much fear and anxiety. The col- lege life of Marmion Herbert therefore passed in ceaseless controversy with his tutor ; and as he possessed, among many other noble qualities, a high and piiilosophic sense of justice, he did not consider himself authorised, while a doubt remain- ed on his own mind, actively to promulgate those opinions, of the propriety and necessity of which he scarcely ever ceased to be persuaded. To this cause it must be mainly attributed that Herbert was not expelled the university ; for had he pur- sued there the course of which his cruder career at Eton had given promise, there can be little doubt that some flagrant outrage of the opinions held sacred in that great seat of orthodoxy would have quickly removed him from the salutary sphere of their control. Herbert quitted Oxford in his nineteenth year, yet inferior to few that he left there, even among the most eminent, in classical attainments, and, with a mind naturally profound, practised in all the arts of ratiocination. His general knowledge also was considerable, and he was a proficient in those scientific pursuits which were then rare. Notwithstanding his great fortune and position, his departure from the university was not a signal with him for that abandonment to the world, and that unbounded self-enjoyment, naturally so tempt- ing to youth. On the contrary, Herbert shut him- self up in his magnificent castle, devoted to solitude and study. In his splendid library he consulted the sages of ajitiquity, and conferred with them on the nature of existence, and of the social duties ; while in his laboratory or his dissecting-room he occasionally flattered himself he might discover the great secret which had perplexed generations. The consequence of a year passed in this severe discipline and during which he scarcely allowed time even for the necessaries of life, was unfortu- nately a complete recurrence to those opinions tliat he had early imbibed, and which now seemed fixed in his conviction beyond the hope or chance of again faltering. In politics a violent republican., and an advocate — certainly a disinterested one — of a com[)lete equality of property and conditions, utterly objecting to the very foundation of our moral system, and especially a strenuous antago- nist of marriage, which he taught himself to esteem not only as a most unnatural tie, but as eminently unjust towards that softer sex, who had been so long the victims of man ; discarding as a mockery the received revelation of the divine will ; and, if no longer an atheist, substituting merely for such an outrageous dogma a subtle and shadowy Pla- tonism ; doctrines, however, which Herbert at least had acquired by a profound study of the works of their great founder ; the pupil of Dr. Ma- sham at length deemed himself qualified to enter that world which he was resolved to regenerate ; prepared for persecution, and steeled even to mar- tyrdom. But while the doctrines of the philosopher had been forming, the spirit of the poet had not been inactive. Loneliness — after all, the best of Muses — had stimulated the creative faculty of his being. Wandering amid his solitary woods and glades at all hours and seasons, the wild and beautiful appa- ritions of nature had appealed to a sympathetic soul. The stars and winds, the pensive sunset and the sanguine break of morn, the sweet solemnity of night, the ancient trees and the light and eva- nescent flowers, — all signs and sights and sounds of loveliness and power, — fell on a ready eye and a responsive ear. Gazing on the beautiful, he longed to create it. Then it was that the two passions, which seemed to share the being of Her- bert, appeared simultaneously to assert their sway, and he resolved to call in his Muse to the assist- ance of his philosophy. Herbert celebrated that fond world of his imagi- naiton, which he wished to teach men to love. In stanzas glittering with the most refined images, and resonant with the most subtle symphony, he called into creation that society of immaculate purity and unbounded enjoyment, which he be- lieved was the natural inheritance of unshackled man. In the hero he pictured a philosopher, young and gifted as himself: in the heroine, his idea of a perfect woman. Although all those peculiar doctrines of Herbert, — which, undisguised, must have excited so much odium, — were more or less developed and inculcated in this work ; neverthe- less they were necessarily so veiled by the highly spiritual and metaphorical language of the poet, that it required some previous acquaintance with the system enforced, to be able to detect and recog- nise the esoteric spirit of his Muse. The public read only the history of an ideal world, and of creatures of exquisite beauty, told in language that alike dazzled their fancy and captivated their ear. They were lost in a delicious maze of metaphor and music, and were proud to acknowledge an addition to the glorious catalogue of their poets in a young and interestmg member of their aris- tocracy. In the mean while Herbert entered that great world that had long expected him, and hailed his ; advent with triumph. How long might have ' elapsed before they were roused by the conduct of Herbert to the error under which they were labour- I ing as to his character, it is not difficult to conjee - i ture ; but before he could commence those philan 3 S 758 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. tliropic exertions which apparently absorbed him, he encountered an individual who most uncon- sciously put his philosophy not merely to the test, but partially even to the rout ; and this was Lady Annabel Sydney. Almost as new to the world as himself, and not less admired, her unrivalled beauty, her unusual accomplishments, and her pure and dignified mind, — combined, it must be confessed, with the most flattering admiration of his genius, — entirely captivated the philosophical antagonist of marriage. It is not surprising that Marmion Her- bert — scarcely of age, and with a heart of extreme susceptibility — resolved, after a struggle, to be the first exception to his system, and, as he faintly flattered himself, the last victim of prejudice. He wooed and won the Lady Annabel. The marriage ceremony was performed by Doc- tor Masham, who had read his pupil's poem, and had been a little frightened by its indications ; but this happy union had dissipated all his fears. He would not believe in any other than a future career for him alike honourable and happy ; and he trust- ed that, if any wild thoughts still lingered in Her- bert's mind, they would clear ofl' by the same lite- rary process ; so that the utmost ill consequences of his immature opinions might be an occasional line that the wise would have liked to blot, and yet which the unlettered might scarcely be compe- tent to comprehend. Mr. and Lady Annabel Her- bert departed after the ceremony to his castle, and Doctor Masham to Marringhurst, a valuable living in another county, to which his pupil had just presented him. Some months after this memorable event, ru- mours reached the ear of the good doctor that all was not as satisfactory as he could desire in that establishment, in the welfare of which he naturally took so lively an interest. Herbert was in the habit of corresponding with the rector of MaiTing- hurst, and his first letters were full of details as to his happy life and his perfect content ; but, gra- dually, these details had been considerably abridged, and the correspondence assumed chiefly a literary or philosophical character. Lady Annabel, how- ever, was always mentioned with regard, and an intimation had been duly given to the doctor that she was in a delicate and pronrising situation, and that they were both alike anxious that he should christen their child. It did not seem very sur- prising to the good doctor, who was a man of the world, that a husband, six months after marriage, should not si)eak of the memorable event with all the fulness and fondness of the honeymoon ; and, being one of those happy tempers that always an- ticipate the best, he dismissed from his mind, as vain gossip and idle exaggerations, the ominous whispers that occasionally reached him. Immediately after the Christmas ensuing his marriage, the Herberts returned to London, and the doctor, who happened to be a short time in the metropolis, paid them a visit. His observa- tions were far from unsatisfactory ; it was certainly too evident that Marmion was no longer in love with Lady Annabel, but he treated her apparently with courtesy, and even cordiality. The presence of Dr. Masham, tended, perhaps, a little to revive old feelings, for he was as much a favourite with the wife as with the husband ; but, on the whole, the doctor quitted them with an easy heart, and sanguine that the interesting and impending event would, in all probability, revive affection on the part of Herbert, or at least afford Lady Annabel the only substitute for a husband's heart. In due time the doctor heard from Herbert that his wife had gone down into the country to lie-in ; bul was sorry to observe that Herbert did not ac- company her. Even this disagreeable impression was removed by a letter, shortly after received from Herbert, dated from the castle, and written in high spirits, informing him that Lady Annabel had been safely delivered of the most beautiful little girl in the world. During the ensuing three months Mr. Herbert, though he resumed his resi- dence in London, paid frequent visits to the castle, where Lady Annabel remained ; and his occasional correspondence, though couched in a careless vein, still, on the whole, indicated a cheerful spirit; though ever and anon were sarcastic observations as to the felicity of the married state, which, he said, was an undoubted blessing, as it kept a man out of all scrapes, though unfortunately under the penalty of total idleness and inutility in life. On the whole, however, the reader may judge of the astonishment of Dr. Masham when, in common with the world, very shortly after the receipt of this letter — Mr. Herbert having previously pro- ceeded to London, and awaiting, as was said, the daily arrival of his wife and child — his for mer tutor learned lliat Lady Annabel, accompa- nied only by Paunccfort and Venetia, had sought her father's roof; declaring that circumstances had occurred which rendered it quite impossible that she could live with Mr. Herbert any longer, and entreating his succour and parental protec- tion. Never was such a hubbub in the world ! In vain Herbert claimed his wife, and expressed his astonishment ; declaring that he had parted from her with the expression of perfect kind feeling on both sides. No answer was given to his letter, and no explanation of any kind conceded him. The world universally declared Lady Annabel an injured woman, and trusted that she would even- tually have the good sense and kindness to gratify them by revealing the mysteiy ; while Herbert, on the contrary, was universally abused and shunned, — avoided by his acquaintances, and denounced as the most depraved of men. In this extraordinary state of affairs Herbert acted in a manner the best calculated to secure his happiness, and the very worst to preserve his cha- racter. Having ostentatiously shown himself in every public place, and courted notice and inquiry by every means in his power, to prove that he was not anxious to conceal himself or avoid any in- quiry, he left the country, free at last to pursue that career to which he had always aspired, and in which he had been checked by a blunder, from the consequences of which he little expected that he should so speedily and strangely emancipate himself. It was in a beautiful villa on the lake of Geneva that he finally established himself, and there for many years he employed himself in the publication of a series of works, which whether they were poetry or prose, imaginative or investi- gative, all tended to the same consistent purpose, namely, the fearless and unqualified promulgation of those opinions, on the adoption of which he sincerely believed the happiness of mankind de- pended ; and the opposite principles to which, in his own case, had been productive of so much mortification and misery. His works, which wera VENETIA. 759 published in England, were little read, and uni- versally decried. The critics were always hard at work, proving that he was no poet, and demon- strating in the most logical manner that he was quite incapable of reasoning on the commonest topic. In addition to all this, his ignorance was self-evident ; and though he was very fond of quoting Greek, they doubted whether he was ca- pable of reading the original authors. The general impression of the English public, after the lapse of some years, was, that Herbert was an abandoned being, of the most profligate habits, opposed to all the institutions of society that kept his infamy in check, and an avowed atheist ; and as scarcely any one but a sympathetic spirit ever read a line he Wrote — for indeed the very sight of his works was pollution — it is not very wonderful that this opi- nion was so generally prevalent. A calm inquirer might, perhaps, have suspected that abandoned profligacy is not very compatible with severe study, and that an author is seldom loose in »Js life, even if he be licentious in his wi;' tings. A calm inqui- rer might, perhaps, have been of opinion that a solitary sage may be the antagonist of a priesthood, without absolutely denying the existence of a God ; but there never are calm inquirers. The world, on every subject, however unequally, is divided into parties ; and even in the case of Herbert and his writings, those who admired his genius, and the generosity of his soul, were not content with- eut advocating, principally out of pique to his ad- versaries, his extreme opinions on every subject — moral, political, and religious. Besides, it must be confessed, there was another circumstance which was almost as fatal to Her- bert's character in England as his loose and hereti- cal opinions. The travelling English, during their visits to Geneva, found out that their countryman solaced or enlivened his solitude by a mistress. It is a habit which very young men, who are sepa- rated from, or deserted by, their wives, occasionally have recourse to. Wrong no doubt, as most things are, but it is to be hoped, venial ; at least in the case of any man who is not also an atheist. This unibrtuirate mistress of Herbert was magnified into a seraglio ; the most extraordinary tales of the voluptuous life of one who generally at his studies outwatched the stars, were rife in English society ; and " Hoary Marquisses and stripling Dukes," who were either protecting opera dancers, or, still worse, making love to their neighbours' wives, either looked grave when the name of Herbert was mentioned in female society, or affectedly confused, as if they could a tale unfold, if they were not convinced that the sense of propriety among all present was mfinitely superior to their sense of cu- riosity. The only person to whom Herbert communi- cated in England was Dr. Masham. He wrote to him immediately on his establishment at Geneva, in a calm, yet sincere and serious tone, as if it were useless to dwell too fully on the past. Yet he declared, although now that it was all over he avowed his joy at the interposition of his destiny, and the opportunity which he at length possessed of pursuing the career for which he was adapted, that he had to his knowledge given his wife no eause of offence which could authorise her conduct. As for his daughter, he said he should not be so cruel as to tear her from her mother's breast though, if any thing could induce him to such behaviour, it would be the malignant and ungene- rous menace of his wife's relatives, that the}' would oppose his preferred claim to the guardianship of his child, on the plea of his immoral life and athe- istical opinions. With reference to pecuniary arrangements, as his chief seat was entailed on male heirs, he proposed that his wife should take up her abode at Cherbury, an estate which had been settled on her and her children at her mar- riage, and which, therefore, would descend to Ve- netia. Finally, he expressed his satisfaction that the neighbourhood of Marringhurst would permit his good and still faithful friend to cultivate the society and guard over the welfare of his wife and daughter. During the first ten year's of Herbert's exile, for such indeed it might be considered, the doctor maintained with him a rare, yet regular corres- pondence ; but after that time a public event occur- red, and a revolution took place in Herbert's life which terminated all communication between them ; a termination occasioned, however, by such a simultaneous conviction of its absolute necessity, that it was not attended by any of those painful communications which are too often the harrow- ing foreruimers of a formal disruption of ancient ties. This event was the revolt of the American colo- nies ; and this revolution in Herbert's career, his junction with the rebels against his native coun- try. Doubtless it was not without a struggle, perhaps a pang, that Herbert resolved upon a line of conduct, to which it must assuredly have re- quired the strongest throb of his cosmopolitan sympathy, and his amplest definition of philanthro- py to have impelled him. But without any vin- dictive feelings towards England, for he ever pro- fessed and exercised charity towards his enemies, attributing their conduct entirely to their ignorance and prejudice, upon this step he nevertheless felt it his duty to decide. There seemed in the open- ing prospects of America, in a world still new, which had borrowed from the old as it were only so much civilisation as was necessary to create and maintain order ; there seemed in the circumstances of its boundless teiTitoiy, and the total absence of feudal institutions and prejudices, so fair a field for the practical introduction of those regenerating principles to which Herbert had devoted all tlie thought and labour of his life, tha,t he resolved, after long and perhaps painful meditation, to sacri- fice every feeling and future interest to its fulfil- ment. All idea of ever returning to his native country, even, were it only to mix his ashes with the generations of his ancestors ; all hope of recon- ciliation with his wife, or of pressing to his heart that daughter, often present to his tender fancy, and to whose affections he had feelingly appealed in an out-burst of passionate poetry — all these chances, chances which, in spite of his philosophy, had yet a lingering charm, must be discarded for ever. They were discarded. Assigning his estate to his heir upon conditions, in order to prevent its forfeiture, with such resources as he could com mand, and which were considerable, Marmion Herbert arrived at Boston, where his rank, his wealth, his distmguished name, his great talents, and his undoubted zeal for the cause of liberty, procured him an eminent and gratifying reception 760 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. He offered to raise a regiment for the republic, and the offer was accepted ; and he w^s enrolled among the citizens. All this occurred about the time that the Cadurcis' family first settled at the abbey, and this narrative will probably throw light upon seve- ral slight incidents which heretofore may have at- tracted the perplexed attention of the reader : such as the newspaper brought by Dr. Masham at the Christmas visit ; the tears shed at a subsequent period at Marringhurst, when he related to her the last intelligence that had been received from Ame- rica. For, indeed, it is impossible to express the misery and mortification which this last conduct of her husband occasioned Lady Annabel, brought up, as she had been, with feelings of romantic loyal- ty and unswerving patriotism. To be a traitor seemed the only blot that remained for his sullied scutcheon, and she had never dreamed of that. An infidel, a profligate, a deserter from his home, an apostate from his God ! one infamy alone remained, and now he had attained it; — a traitor to his King ! Why, every peasant would despise him I General Herbert, however, for such he speedily became, at the head of his division, soon arrested the attention, and commanded the respect, of Europe. To his exerticvis the successful result of the strug- gle was, in a great measure, attributed ; and he received the thanks of the Congress, of which he became a member. His military and political re- putation exercised a beneficial influence upon his literary fame. His works were reprinted in America, and translated into French, and published at Ge- neva and Basle, whence they were surreptitiously introduced into France. The Whigs, who had become very factious, and nearly revolutionary, during the American war, suddenly became proud of their countryman, whom a new world hailed as a deliverer, and Paris declared to be a great poet and an illustrious philosopher. His writings be- came fashionable, especially among the young ; numerous editions of them appeared ; and in time it was discovered that Herbert was now not only openly read, and enthusiastically admired, but had founded a school. The struggle with America ceased about the time of Lord Cadurcis' last visit to Cherbury, when from his indignant lips Venctia first learned the enormities of her father's career. Since that period some three years had elapsed until we in- troduced our readers to the boudoir of Lady Mont- eagle. During this period, among the Whigs and their partisans the literary fame of Herbert had arisen and become established. How they have passed in regard to Lady Annabel Herbert and her daughter, on the one hand, and Lord Cadurcis himself on the other, we will endeavour to ascer- tain in the following chapter. CHAPTER m. From the last departure of Lord Cadurcis from Cherbury, the health of Venetia again declined. The truth is, she brooded in solitude over her strange lot, until her nerves became relaxed by intense revery and suppressed feeling. The atten- tion of a mother, so wrapped up in her child as Lady Annabel, was soon attracted to the increasing languor of our heroine, whose eye each day seemed tc grow less bright, and her graceful form less lithe and active. No longer fond of the sun and breeze, as a beautiful bird, was Venetia seen, as hereto- fore, glancing in the garden, or bounding over the lawns ; too often might she be found reclining on the couch, in spite of all the temptations of the spring ; while her temper, once so singularly sweet, that it seemed there was not in the world a word that could ruffle it, and which required so keenly and responded so quickly to sympathy, became re- served, if not absolutely sullen, or at times even captious and fretful. This change in the appearance and demeanouf of her daughter filled Lady Annabel with anxiety and alarm. In vain she expressed to Venetia her conviction of her indisposition ; but Venetia, though her altered habits confirmed the suspicion, and authorised the inquiry of her parent, persisted ever in asserting that she had no ailment. Her old medical attendant was, however, consulted, and, being perplexed with the case, he recom- mended change of air. Lady Annabel then con- sulted Dr. Masham, and he gave his opinion in favour of change of air for one reason ; and that was, that it would bring with it what he had long considered Venetia to stand in need of, and that was change of life. Dr. Masham was right ; but then to guide him in forming his judgment, he had the advantage of some psychological knowledge of the case, which, in a great degree, was a sealed book to the poor puzzled physician. We laugh very often at the errors of medical men; but if we would only, when we consult then, have strength of mind enough to extend to them something better than a half-confidence, we might be cured the sooner. How often, when the unhappy disciple of Esculapius is perplexing himself about the state of our bodies, we might throw light upon his obscure labours by simply detailing to him the state of our minds ! The result of these consultations in the Her bert family was a final resolution on the part of Lady Annabel, to quit Cherbury for a while. As the sea air was especially recommended to Venetia, and as Lady Annabel shrank with a morbid ap- prehension from society, to which nothing could persuade her she was not an object either of odium or impertinent curiosity, she finally resolved to visit Weymouth, then a very small and secluded wa- tering-place, and whither she arrived and settled herself, it not being even the season when its few customary visiters were in the habit of gather- ing. This residence at Weymouth quite repaid Lady Annabel for all the trouble of her new settlement, and for the change in her life, very painful to her confirmed habits, which she experienced in leaving, for the first time for such a long series of years, her old hall; for the rose soon returned to the cheek of her daughter, and the western breezes, joined with the influence of the new objects that surrounded her, and especially of that ocean, and its strange and inexhaustible variety, on which she gazed for the first time, gradually, but surely, com- pleted the restoration of Venetia to health, and with it to much of her old vivacity. When Lady Annabel had resided about a year at Weymouth, in the society of which she had in- variably made the indisposition of Venetia a reason for not entering, a great revolution suddenly oc- curred a this little quiet watering-place ; for it was fixed upon as the summer residence of the English VENETIA. 761 court. The celebrated name, the distinguished ap- pearance, and the sechided habits of Lady Anna- bel and her daughter, had rendered them the ob- jects of veiy general interest. Occasionally they were met in a sea-side walk, by some fellow wan- derer over the sands, or toiler over the shingles ; and romantic reports of the dignity of the mo- ther, and the daughter's beauty, were repeated by the fortunate observers to the lounging circle of the public library or the baths. The moment that Lady Annabel was assured that the royal family had positively fixed upon Weymouth for their residence, and were even daily expected, she resolved instantly to retire. Her stern sense of duty assured her that it was neither delicate nor loyal to obtrude before the presence of an outraged monarch the wife and daughter of a traitor; her haughty, though ■wounded spirit shrank from the revival of her husband's history, which must be the consequence of such a conjunction, and from the startling and painful remarks which might reach the shrouded ear of her daughter. With her characteristic de- cision, and with her usual stern volition. Lady Annabel quitted Weymouth instantly, but she was in some degree consoled for the regret and appre- hensiveness which she felt at thus leaving a place that had otherwise so happily fulfilled all her hopes and wishes, and that seemed to agree so en- tirely with Venetia, by finding unexpectedly a ma- rine villa, some few miles further up the coast, which was untenanted, and which offered to Lady Annabel all the accommodation she could desire. It so happened this summer that Dr.' Masham paid the Herberts a visit, and it was his habit occa- sionally to ride into Weymouth to read the news- paper, or pass an hour in that easy lounging chat, which is, perhaps, one of the principal diversions of a watering-place. A great dignitary of the church, who was about the king, and to whom Dr. Masham was known not merely by reputa- tion, mentioned his presence to his majesty ; and the king, who was fond of the society of eminent divines, desired that Dr. Masham should be pre- sented to him. Now, so favourable was the im- pression that the rector of Marringhurst made upon his sovereign, that from that moment the king was scarcely ever content unless he was in attendance. His majesty, who was happy in asking questions, and much too acute to be baffled when he sought information, finally elicited from the doctor, all that, in order to please Lady Annabel, he long struggled to conceal ; but when the king found that the deserted wife and daughter of Herbert were really living in the neighbourhood, and that they had quitted Weymouth on his arrival, from a feeling of delicate loyalty, nothing would satisfy the kind-hearted monarch, but personally assuring them of the interest he took in their v^'elfare ; and, accordingly, the next day, without giving Lady Annabel even the preparation of a notice, his ma- jesty and his royal consort, attended only -by a lord in waiting, called at the marine villa, and fairly introduced themselves. An acquaintance, occasioned by a sentiment of generous and condescending sympathy, was estab- lished and strengthened into intimacy, by the per- sonal qualities of those thus delicately honoured. The King and Queen were equally delighted with the wife and daughter of the terrible rebel ; and although, of course, not an allusion was made to 96 his existence. Lady Annabel felt not the lesa acutely the cause to which she was indebted for a notice so gratifying, but which she afterwards ensured by her own merits. How strange are the accidents of life ! Venetia Herbert, who had been bred up in unbroken solitude, and whose converse had been confined to two or three beings, suddenly found herself the guest of a King, and a visiter to a court ! She stepped at once from solitude into the most august circle of society ; yet, though she had enjoyed none of that initiatory experience which is usually held so indispensable to the vota- ries of fashion, her happy nature qualified her to play her part without effort and with success. Serene and graceful, she mingled in the strange and novel scene, as if it had been forever her lot to dazzle and to charm. Ere the royal family re- turned to London, they extracted from Lady Anna- bel a compliance with their earnest wishes, that she should fix her residence, during the ensuing season, in the metropolis, and that she should her- self present Venetia at St. James's. The wishes of kings are commands ; and Lady Annabel, who thus unexpectedly perceived some of the most painful anticipations of her solitude at once dissi- pated, and that her child, instead of being subject- ed, on her entrance into life, to all the mortifica- tions she had imagined, would, on the contrary, find her first introduction under auspices the most flattering and advantageous, bowed a dutiful assent to the condescending injunctions. Such were the memorable consequences of this visit to Weymouth ! The return of Lady Anna- bel to the world, and her intei^dcd residence in the metropolis, while the good Masham preceded their arrival to receive a mitre. Strange events, and yet not improbable ! In the mean time. Lord Cadurcis had repaired to the university, where his rank and his eccentric qualities quickly gathered round him a choice circle of intimates, chiefly culled from his old schoolfellows. Of these, the great majority were his seniors, for whose society the maturity of his mind qualified him. It so happened that these companions were in general influenced by those liberal opinions which had become in vogue during the American war, and from which Lord Cadurcis had hitherto been preserved by the society in which he had previously mingled in the house of his guardian. With the characteristic caprice and impetuosity of youth, Cadurcis rapidly and ardently imbibed all these doctrines, captivated alike by their boldness and their novelty. Hitherto the child of prejudice, he flattered himself that he was now the creature of i-eason, and, determined to take nothing for granted^ he soon learned to question every thing that was received. A friend intro- duced him to the writings of Herbert, — that very Herbert whom he had been taught to look upon with so much terror and odium. Their perusal operated a complete revolution of his mind ; and in a little more than a year from his flight from Cherbury, he had become an enthusiastic votary of the great master, for his violent abuse of whom he had been banished from those happy bowers. The courage, the boldness, the eloquence, the imagination, the strange and romantic career of Herbert, carried the spirit of Cadurcis captive. The sympathetic companions studied his works., and smiled with scorn at the prejudice of which their great model had been the victim, and dC 3s2 763 D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. which they had heen so long the dupes. As for Cadurcis, he resolved to emulate him, and he com- menced his noble rivalship by a systematic neglect of all the duties and the studies of his college hfe. His irregular habits procured him constant repri- mands, in which he gloried ; he revenged himself on the authorities by writing epigrams, and by keeping a bear, which he declared should stand for a fellowship. At length, having wilfully out- raged the most important regulations, he was expelled ; and he made his expulsion the subject of a satire equally personal and philosophic, and which obtained applause for the great talent which it displayed, even from those who lamented its want of judgment and the misconduct of its writer. Flushed with success, Cadurcis at length found, to his astonishment, that Nature had intended him for a poet. He repaired to I^ondon, where he was received with open arms by the Whigs, whose party he immediately embraced, and where he published a poem, in which he painted his own character as the hero, and of which — in spite of all the exaggeration and extravagance of youth — the genius was undeniable. Society sympathised with a young and noble poet ; his poem was read by all parties with enthusiasm ; Cadurcis became the fashion. To use his own expression, " One morning he awoke, and found himself famous." Young, singularly handsome, with every gift of nature and fortune, and with an inordinate vanity that raged in his soul, Cadurcis soon forgot the high philosophy that had for a moment attracted him, and delivered himself up to the absorbing egotism which had ever been latent in his passion- ate and ambitious mind. Gifted with energies that few have ever equalled, and fooled to the bent by the excited sympathies of society, he poured forth his creative and daring spirit with a license that conquered all obstacles, from the very audacity with which he assailed them. In a word, the young, the reserved, and unknowli Cadurcis — who, but three years back, was to have lived in the domestic solitude for which he alone felt himself fitted — filled every heart and glittered in every eye. •The men envied, the women loved, all admired him. His life was a perpetual triumph ; a bril- liant and applauding stage, on which he ever played a dazzling and heroic part. So sudden and so startling had been his apparition, so vigor- ous and unceasing the efforts by which he had maintained his first overwhelming impres- sion, and not merely by his writings, but by his unusual manners and eccentric life, that no one had yet found time to draw his breath, to observe, to inquire, and to criticise. He had risen, and still flamed, like a comet ; as wild as it was beau- tiful, and strange as it was brilliant. CHAPTER IV. We must now return to the dinner party at Lord Monteagle's. When the Bishop of entered the room, he found nearly all the expected guests assembled, and was immediately presented by his host to the lady of the house, who received him with all that fascinating address for which she was celebrated.cxpressing the extreme delight which she felt at thus becoming formally acquainted with ene whom her husband had long taught her to admire and reverence. Utterly unconscious who had just joined the circle, while Lord Monleagle was introducing his newly arrived guest to many present, and to all of whom he was unknown ex- cept by reputation. Lord Cadurcis was standing apart, apparently wrapt in his own thoughts ; but the truth is, in spite of all the excitement in which he lived, he had difficulty in overcoming the na- tural reserve of his disposition. " Watch Cadurcis," said Mr. Horace Pole to a very fine lady. " Does not he look sublime V " Show me him," said the lady, very eagerly ; " I have never seen him yet ; I am actually dying to know him. You know we have just come to town ]" " And have caught the raging epidemic, I see," said Mr. Pole, with a sneer. " However, there is the marvellous young gentleman ! ' Alone in a crowd,' as he says in his last poem. Very in- teresting !" " Wonderful creature !" exclaimed the dame. "Charming!" said Mr. Pole. "If you ask Lady Monteagle, she will introduce him to you, and then, perhaps, you will be fortunate enough to be handed to dinner by him." " ! how I should like it !" " You must take care, however, not to eat ; he cannot endure a woman who eats." t " I never do," said the lady, very simply ; " at least at dinner." " Ah ! then you will quite suit him ; I dare say he will write a sonnet to you, and call j'ou Thyrza." "I wish I could get him to write some lines in my book," said the lady ; " Charles Fox has written some ; he was staying with us in the autumn, and he has written an ode to my little dog." " How very amiable !" said Mr. Pole ; " I dare say they are as good as his elegy on Mrs. Crewe's cat. But you must not talk of cats and dogs to Cadurcis. He is too exalted to commemorate any animal less sublime than a tiger or a barb." " You forget his beautiful lines on his New- foundland," said the lady. " Very complimentary to us all," said Mr Horace Pole. " The interesting misanthrope !" " He looks very unhappy." " Very," said Mr. Pole. " Evidently something on his conscience." " They do whisper very odd things," said the lady with great curiosity. " Do you think there is any thing in them 1" " O ! no doubt," said Mr. Pole ; " look at him ; you can detect crime in every glance." " Dear me, how shocking ! I think he must be the most interesting person that ever lived. I should like to know him ! They say he is so very odd." " Very," said Mr. Pole. " He must be a man of genius ; he is so unlike every body ; the very tie of his cravat proves it. And his hair, so savage and dishevelled ; none but a man of genius would not wear powder. Watch him to-day, and you will observe that he will not condescend to perform the slightest act like an ordinary mortal. I met him at dinner yesterday at Fanshawe's, and he touched nothing but biscuits and soda water Fanshawc, you know, is famous for his cook. Very complimentary and gratifying, was it noti" " Dear me !" said the lady, « I am delighted to VENETIA, 763 see him ; and yet I hope I shall not sit by him at dinner, I am quite afraid of him." " He is really very awful !" said Mr. Pole. In the mean time, the subject of these observa- tions slowly withdrew to the further end of the saloon, apart from every one, and threw himself upon a couch, with a somewhat discontented air, Lady Monteagle, whose eye had never left him for a moment, although her attentions had been necessarily commanded by her guests, and who dreaded the silent rages in which Cadurcis con- stantly indulged, and which when once assumed for the day, were with great difficulty dissipated, seized the first opportunity to join and soothe him. " Dear Cadurcis," she said, " why do you sit here 1 You know I am obliged to speak to all these odious people, and it is very cruel of you." '' You seem to me to be extremely happy," re- plied his lordship, in a sarcastic tone. " Now, Cadurcis, for heaven's sake, do not play with my feelings," exclaimed Lady Monteagle, in a deprecating tone. " Pray be amiable. If I think you are in one of your dark humours, it is quite impossible for me to attend to these people ; and you know it is the only point on which Monteagle over has an opinion ; he insists upon my attending to his guests." " If you prefer his guests to me, attend to them." " Now, Cadurcis ! I ask you as a favour, a favour to me, only for to-day. Be kind, be amiable, you can if you like ; no person can be more amiable ; now, do !" "I am very amiable," said his lordship, "I am perfectly satisfied, if 3'ou are. You made me dine here." " Now, Cadurcis !" " Have I not dined here to satisfy you 1" " Yes ! It was very kind." "But, really, that I should be wearied with all the common-places of these creatures who come to eat j'our husband's cutlets, is too much," said his lordship. And you, Gertrude, what necessity can there be ia your troubling yourself to amuse people whom you meet every day of your life, and who, from the vulgar perversity of society, value you in exact proportion as you neglect them ?" " Yes, but to-day I must be attentive ; for Hen- y, with his usual thoughtlessness, has asked this new bishop to dine with us." "The Bishop of 1" inquired Lord Cadur- cis, eagerly. " Is he coming 1" " He has been in the room this quarter of an hour." " What, Masham ! Doctor Masham !" continued Lord Cadurcis. " Assuredly." Lord Cadurcis changed colour, and even sighed. He rose rather quickly, and said, " I must go and speak to him." So, quitting Lady Monteagle, he crossed the room, and with all the simplicity of old days, which instantly returned on him, those melancholy eyes sparkling with animation, and that languid form quick with excitement, he caught the doctor's glance, and shook his extended hand with a hear- tiness which astonished the surrounding spectators, accustomed to the elaborate listlessness of his usual " My dear doctor ! my dear lord I I am glad tc say," said Cadurcis, " this is the greatest and the most unexpected pleasure I ever received. Of all persons in the world, you are the one whom I was most anxious to meet." The good bishop appeared not less gratified wdth the rencounter than Cadurcis himself; but, in the midst of their mutual congratulations, dinner was announced and served ; and, in due order. Lord Cadurcis foxmd himself attending that veiy fine lady whom Mr. Horace Pole had, in jest, sug- gested should be the object of his services ; while Mr. Pole himself was seated opposite to him at table. The lady, remembering all Mr. Pole's intima- tions, was really very much frightened ; she at first could scarcely reply to the casual observations of her neighbour, and quite resolved not to eat any thing. But his livety and valuable conversation, his perfectly unaffected manner, and the noncha- lance with which he helped himself to every dish that was offered him, soon reassured her. Her voice became a little firmer, her manner less embarrassed, and she even began meditating a delicate assault upon a fricassee. "Are you going to Ranelagh to-night 1" inquired Lord Cadurcis ; " I think I shall take a round. There is nothing like amusement ; it is the only thing worth living for; and I thank my destiny I am easily amused. We must persuade Lady Mont- eagle to go with us. Let us make a party, and re- turn and sup. I hke a supper ; nothing in the world more charming than a supper — "A lobster salad, and cliampagne and chat." That is life, and very delightful. Why, really, my dear madam, you eat nothing. You will never ba able to endure the fatigues of a Ranelagh campaign on the sustenance of a pate. Pole, my good fel- low, will you take a glass of wine 1 We had a pleasant party, yesterday, at Fanshawe's, and ap- parently a capital dinner. I was sorry that I could not play my part ; but I have led rather a raking life lately. We must go ar.d dine with him again ; I long to sweat his Burgiuidy." Lord Cadurcis' neighbour and Mr. Pole ex- changed looks ; and the lady, emboldened by the unexpected conduct of her cavalier, and the ex- ceeding good friends which he seemed resolved to be with her and every one else, began to flatter herself that she might yet obtain the much-desired inscription in her volume. So, after making the usual approaches, of having a great favour to re- quest, which, however, she could not flatter herself would be granted, • and which she even was afraid to mention ; encouraged by the ready declaration of Lord Cadurcis, that he should think it would be quite impossible for any one to deny her any thing, the lady ventured to state that Mr. Fox had written something in her book, and she should be the most honoured and happiest lady in the land if— " ! I shall be most happy," said Lord Cadur- cis ; " I really esteem your request quite an honour : you know I am only a literary amateur, and can- not pretend to vie with your real authors. If you want them, you must go to Mrs. Montagu. I would not write a line for her, and so the blues have quite excommunicated me. Nevermind; I 764 D'ISRAELl S NOVELS. leave them to Miss Hannah More : but you — you are quite a difierent sort of person. What shall I write !" " I must leave the subject to you," said his gra- tified friend. " Well, then," said his lordship, " I dare say you have got a lapdog or a broken fan ; I don't think I could soar above them. I think that is about my tether." This lady, though a very great person, was not a beauty, and very little of a wit, and not calculated in any respect to excite the jealousy of Lady Monteagle. In the mean time that lady was quite delighted with the unusual animation of Lord Ca- durcis, who was much the most entertaining mem- ber of the party. Every one present would circu- late throughout the world that it was only at the Monteagles' that Lord Cadurcis condescended to be amusing. As the bishop was seated on her right hand. Lady Monteagle seized the opportunity of making inquiries as to their acquaintance ; but she only obtained from the good Masham that he had once resided in his lordship's neighbourhood, and had known him as a child, and was greatly attached to him. Her ladyship was anxious to obtain some juvenile anecdotes of her hero ; but the bishop contrived to be amusing without degc- nerating into gossip. She did not glean nmch, except that all his early friends were more asto- nished at his present career than the bishop him- self, who was about to add that he always had some misgivings, but, recollecting where he was, he converted the word into a more gracious term. But if Lady Monteagle were not as successful as she could wish in her inquiries, she contrived still to speak on the, to her, ever-interesting subject, and consoled herself by the communications which she poured into a guarded yet not unwilling car, respecting the present life and conduct of the bishop's former pupil. The worthy dignitary had been prepared by public fame for much th'at was dazzling and eccentric ; but it must be confessed that he was not a little astonished by a great deal to which he listened. One thing, however, was clear, — that whatever might be the demeanour of Cadurcis to the circle in which he now moved, time, and the strange revolutions of his life, had not affected his carriage to his old friend. It gra- tified the bishop when he listened to Lady Mont- eagle's details of the haughty, reserved, and melan- choly demeanour of Cadurcis, which impressed every one with an idea that some superior beins had, as a punishment, lieen obliged to visit their humble globe, to recall the apparently heartfell cordiality with which he had resumed his old acquaintance with the former Rector of Marring- hurst. And indeed, to speak truth, the amiable and unpretending behaviour of Cadurcis this day was entirely attributable to the unexpected meeting with this old friend. In the hurry of society he could scarcely dwell upon the associations which it was calculated to call up ; yet more than once he found himself quite absent, dwelling on sweet lecollections of that Cherbury that he had so loved. And ever and anon the tones of a familiar voice caught his ear, so that they almost made him start : they were not the less striking, because, as Masham was seated on the same side of the table as Cadur- is, his eye had not become habituated to the bishop's presence, which sometimes lie had almos doubted. He seized the first opportunity after dinner ot engaging his old tutor in conversation. He took him affectionately by the arm, and led him, as if unintentionally to a sofa, apart from the rest of the company, and seated himself by his side. Cadur- cis was agitated, for he was about to inquire of some whom he could not mention without emo- tion. " Is it long since you have seen our friends 1" said his lordship, "if indeed I may call them mine." "Lady Annabel Herbert 1" said the bishop. Cadurcis bowed. " I parted from her about two months back," continued the bishop. " And Cherbury, dear Cherbury, is it un changed V " They have not resided there for more than two years." " Indeed !" " They have lived, of late, at Weymouth, for the benefit of the sea air." " I hope neither Lady Annabel nor her daughter needs it]" said Lord Cadurcis, in a tone of great feeling. " Neither now, God be praised," replied Ma- sham; "but Miss Herbert has been a great inva- lid." There was a rather awkward silence. At length, Lord Cadurcis said, " We meet rather unexpected- ly, my dear sir." " Why, you have become a great man," said the bishop, with a smile ; " and one must expect to meet you." " Ah ! my dear friend," exclaimed Lord Cadur- cis, with a sigh, " I would willingly give a whole existence of a life like this, for one year of happi- ness at Cherbury." " Nay !" said the bishop, with a look of good- natured mockery, " this melancholy is all very well in poetry ; but I always half suspected, and I am quite sure now, that Cherbury was not parti- cularly adapted to you. " You mistake me," said Cadurcis, mournfully shaking his head. " Hitherto, I have not been so very wrong in my judgment respecting Lord Cadurcis, that I am inclined very easily to give up my opinion," re- plied the Bishop. " I have often thought of the conversation to which you allude," replied Lord Cadurcis ; " ne- vertheless, there is one opinion I never changed, one sentiment that still reigns paramount in my heart." " You think so," said his companion ; " but, perhaps, were it more than a sentiment, it would cease to flourish." " No," said Lord CadiUcis, firmly, " the only circumstance in the world of which I vcntuie to feel certain is my love for Venetia." "It raged certainly during your last visit to Cherbury," said the Bishop, " after an interval of five years: it has been revived slightly to-day, after an interval of three more, by the sight of a mutual acquaintance, who has reminded you of her. But what have been your feelings in the mean time, my Lord] Confess the truth, and admit you have very rarely spared a thought to VENETIA. 765 the person to whom you fancy yourself at this mo- ment so passionately devoted." " You do not do me justice," said Lord Cadur- eis ; " you are prejudiced against me." " Nay ! prejudice is not my humour, my good Lord. I decide only from what I myself observe ; I give my opinion to you at this moment as freely as I did when you last conversed with me at the abbey, and when I a little displeased you, by speak- ing what you will acknowledge has since turned out to be the truth." " You mean, then, to say," said his lordship, with some excitement, " that you do not beUeve that I love Venetia 1" " I think you do, at this moment, ver{ much," replied Masham; "and I think," he continued, smiling, "that you may probably continue very much in love with her, even during the rest of the week." " You mock me 1" " Nay ! I am most sincerely serious." " What, then, do you mean?" " I mean that your imagination, my Lord, dwell- ing for the moment with great power upon the idea of Venetia, becomes inflamed, and your whole mind is filled with her image." " A metaphysical description of being in love," said Lord Cadurcis rather dryly. "Nay !" said Masham, "I think the heart has something to do with that." " But the imagination acts upon the heart," re- joined his companion. " But it is in the nature of its influence not to endure. At this moment, I repeat, your lordship may, perhaps, love Miss Herbert ; you may go home and muse over her memory, and even deplore in passionate verses your miserj' in being separated from her ; but, in the course of a few days, she will be again forgotten." "But were she mine 1" urged Lord Cadurcis, eagerly. " Why, you would probably part from her in a year, as her father parted from Lady Anna- bel." " Impossible ! for my imagination could not conceive any thing more exquisite than she is." " Then it would conceive something less ex- quisite," said the Bishop. " It is a restless quality, and is ever creative, either of good or of evil." "Ah! my dear doctor — excuse me for again calling you doctor, it is so natural," said Cadurcis, in a tone of affliction. " Call me what you will, my dear Lord," said the good Bishop, whose heart was moved ; " I can never forget old days." " Believe me, then," continued Cadurcis, " that you misjudge me in respect of Venetia. I feel assured that, had we married three years ago, I should have been a much happier man." " Why, you have every thing to make you happy," said the Bishop ; " if you are not happy, who should be 1 You are young, and you are fa- mous : all that is now wanted is to be wise." Lord Cadurcis shrugged his shoulders. " I am tired of this life," he said ; " I am wearied of the same hollow bustle, and the same false glitter day after day. Ah ! my dear friend, when I remember the happy hours when I used to roam through the woods of Cherbuiy with Venetia, and ramble in that delicious park — both young, both innocent — lit by the sunset and guided by the stars , and then remember that it has all ended in this, and that this is success, glory, fame, or whatever be the proper title to baptise the bubble, the burthen of existence is too great for me." ' "Hush, hush!" said his friend, rising from the sofa ; " you will be happy if you be wise." " But what is wisdom?" said Lord Cadqrcis. " One quality of it, in your situation, my Lord, is to keep your head as calm as you can. Now, I must bid you good night," The Bishop disappeared, and Lord Cadurcis was immediately surrounded by several fine ladies, who were encouraged by the flattering bulletin that his neighbour at dinner, who was among them, had given of his lordship's temper. They were rather disappointed to find him sullen, sar- castic, and even morose. As for going to Eanelagh, he declared that, if he had the power of awarding the punishment of his bitterest enemy, it would be to consign him for an hour to the barbarous inflic- tion of a promenade in the temple of ennui ; and as for the ownier of the album, who, anxious about her verses, ventured to express a hope that his lordship would call upon her, the contemptuous bard gave her what he was in the habit of styling " a look," and quitted the room, without deigning otherwise to acknowledge her hopes and her courtesy. CHAPTER V. We must now return to our friends 'the Her berts, who, having quitted Weymouth, without even revisiting Cherbury, are now on their journey to the metropolis. It was not without considerable emotion that Lady Annabel, after an absence of nearly nineteen years, contemplated her return to the scene of some of the most extraordinary and painful occurrences of her life. As for VeneJ;ia, who knew nothing of towns and cities, save from the hasty observations she had made in travelling, the idea of London, formed only from books and her imagination, was invested with even awful attributes. Mistress Pauncefort alone looked for- ward to their future residence simply with feelings of self-congratulation at her return, after so long an interval, to the theatre of former triumphs and pleasures, and where she conceived herself so emi- nently qualified to shme and to enjoy. The travellers entered town towards nightfall, by Hyde Park Corner, and proceeded to an hotel in St. James' Street, where Lady Annabel's man of business had engaged them apartments. Lon- don, with its pallid parish lamps, scattered at long intervals, would have presented liut a gloomy ap- pearance to the modern eye, habituated to all the splendour of gas; but to Venetia it seemed diffi- cult to conceive a scene of more brilliant bustle ; and she leaned back in the carriage, distracted with the lights and the confusion of the crowded streets. When they were once safely lodged in their new residence, the tumult of unpacking the carriages had subsided, and the ceaseless tongue of Paunce- fort had in some degree refrained from its weary ing and worrying chatter, a feeling of loneliness, after all this agitation and excitement, simultane 766 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. ously came over tlie feelings of both mother and daughter, though they alike repressed its expres- sion. Lady Annabel was lost in many sad thoughts, and Venetia felt mournful, though she could scarce- ly define the cause. Both were silent, and they soon sought refuge from fatigue and melancholy in sleep. The next morning, it being now April, was for- tunately bright and clear. It certainly was a happy fortune that the fair Venetia was not greeted with a fog. She rose refreshed and cheerful, and joined her mother, who was, however, not a little agitated by an impending visit, of which Venetia had been long apprised. This was from Lady Annabel's brother, the former ambassador, who had of late returned to his native country. The brother and sister had been warmly attached in youth, but the awful interval of time that had elapsed since they parted, filled Venetia's mother with many sad and serious reflections. The- earl and his family had been duly informed of Lady Annabel's visit to the metropolis, and had hastened to offer her the hos- pitality of their home ; but the offer had been de- clined, with feelings, however, not a little gratified by the earnestness with which it had been prof- fered. Venetia was now, for the first time in her life, to see a relative. The anticipated meeting excited in her mind rather curiosity than sentiment. She could not share the agitation of her mother, and yet she looked forward to the arrival of her uncle with extreme inquisitiveness. She was not long kept in suspense. Their breakfast was scarcely finished when he was announced. Lady Annabel turned very pale; and Venetia, who felt herself as it were a stranger to her blood, would have retired, had not her mother requested her to remain ; so she only withdrew to the background of the apartment. Her uncle was ten years the senior of his sister, but not unlike her. Tall, graceful, with those bland and sympathising manners that easily win hearts, be entered the room with a smile of affec- tion, yet with a composure of deportment that expressed at the same time how sincerely delighted he was at the meeting, and how considerably de- termined at the same time not to indulge in a scene. He embraced his sister with tenderness, assured her that she looked as young as ever, softly chided her for not making his house her home, and hoped that they should never part again ; and he then turned to his niece. A fine observer, one less interested in the scene than the only witnesses, might have detected in the earl, notwithstanding his experienced breeding, no ordi- nary surprise and gratification at the sight of the individual whose relationship he was now to claim for the first time. " I must claim an uncle's privilege," he said, in a tone of great sweetness and some emotion, as he pressed with his own the beautiful lips of Venetia. " I ought to be proud of my niece. W^hy ! Anna- bel, if only for the honour of our family, you should Tiot have kept this jewel so long enshrined in the casket of Cherbury." The earl remained with them some hours ; and his visits were really prolonged by the unexpected jileasure which he found in the society of his rela- tions. He would not leave them until they pro- mised to dine with him that day, and mentioned that he had prevented his wife from calling with him that morning, because he thought, after so long a separation, it might be better to meet thus quietl}'. Then they parted with affectionate cor- diality on both sides ; the earl enchanted to find delightful companions where he was half afraid he might only meet tiresome relatives ; Lady An- nabel proud of her brother, and gratified by his kindness ; and Venetia anxious to ascertain whe- ther all her relations were as charming as her uncle. CHAPTER VL Whex Lady Annabel and her daughter re- turned from their morning drive, they found the visiting ticket of the Countess on the table, who had also left a note, with which she had provided herself in case she was not so fortunate as to me«t her relations. The note was very affectionate, and expressed the great delight of the writer at again meeting her dear sister and forming an acquaintance with her charming niece. " More relations !" said Venetia, with a some- what droll expression of countenance. At this moment the Bishop of , who had already called twice upon them unsuccessfully, entered the room. The sight of this old and dear friend gave great joy. He came to engage them to dine with him the next day, having already in- effectuaUy endeavoured to obtain them for perma nent guests. They sat chatting so long with him, that they were obliged at last to bid him an .abrupt adieu, and hasten and make their toilets for their dinner. Their hostess received her relations with a warmth which her husband's praises of her sister-in-law and niece had originally prompted, but which their appearance and manners instantly confirmed. As all the Earl's children were married, theii party consisted to-day only of themselves ; but it was a very happy and agreeable meeting' for every one w-as desirous of being amiable. Ta be sure they had not many recollections or associations in common, and no one recurred to the past ; but London, and the history of its fleeting hours, was an inexhaustible source of amusing conversation • and the Countess seemed resolved that Venetia should have a very brilliant season; that she should be very much amused and very much ad- mired. Lady Annabel, however, put in a plea for moderation, at least until Venetia was presented ; but that the Countess declared must be at the next drawing-room, which was early in the ensuing week. Venetia listened to glittering narratives of balls and routs, operas and theatres, breakfasts and masquerades, Ranelagh and the Pantheon, with the same smiling composure as if she had been accustomed to them all her life, instead of having been shut up in a garden, with no livelier oi brighter companions than birds and flowers. After dinner, as her aunt and uncle and Lady Annabel sat round the fire, talking of her maternal grandfather, a subject which did not at all interest her, Venetia stole from her chair to a table in a distant part of the room, and turned over some books and music that were lying upon it. Among these was a literary journal, which she touched almost by accident, and which opened, with the name of Lord Cadurcis on the top of its page. VENETIA. r67 This, of coiirse, instantly attracted her attention. Her eye passed hastily over some sentences which greatly astonished her, and, extending her arm for a chair without quitting the book, she was soon deeply absorbed by the marvels which rapidly un- folded themselves to her. The article in question was an elaborate criticism as well of the career as the works of the noble poet; for, indeed, as Vc- netia now learned, they were inseparably blended. She gathered from these pages a faint and hasty, yet not altogether unfaithful, conception of the strange revolution that had occurred in the cha- racter, pursuits, and position of her former com- panion. In that mighty metropolis, whose wealth and luxury and power had that morning so vividly impressed themselves upon her consciousness, and to the history of whose pleasures and brilliant and fantastic dissipation she had- recently been listen- ing with a lively and diverted ear, it seemed that, by spine rapid and magical vicissitude, her little Plantagenet, the faithful and affectionate compa- nion of her childhood, whose sorrows she had so often soothed, and who in her pure and devoted love had always found consolation and happiness, had become the " observed of all observers," — the most remarkable where all was striking, and daz- zling where all were brilliant ! His last visit to Cherbury, and its strange con- sequences, then occurred to her ; his passionate addresses, and their bitter parting. Here was surely matter enough for a maiden's revery, and into a revery Venetia certainly fell, from which she was roused by the voice of her uncle, who could not conceive what book his charming niece could find so interesting, and led her to feel what a very ill compliment she was paying to all present. Venetia hastily closed the volume, and rose rather confused from her seat ; her radiant smile was the best apology to her uncle ; and she compensated for her previous inattention, by playing to him on the harpsichord. All the time, however, the image of Cadurcis flitted across her vision, and she was glad when her mother moved to retire, that she might enjoy the opportunity of pondering in si- lence and unobserved over the strange history that she had read. London is a wonderful place ! Four-and-twenty hours back, with a feeling of loneliness and depres- sion amounting to pain, Venetia had fled to sleep as her only refuge ; now only a day had passed, and she had both seen and heard many things that had alike startled and pleased her ; had found powerful and charming friends ; and laid her head upon her pillow in a tumult of emotion that long banished slumber from her beautiful eyes. CHAPTER VII. Vexetia soon found that she must bid adieu forever, in London, to her old habits of solitude. She soon discovered that she was never to be alone. Her aunt called upon them very early in the morning, and said that the whole day must be devoted to their court dresses; and, in a few minutes, they were all whirled off to a celebrated milliners. After innumerable consultations and experiments, the dress of Venetia was decided on ; her aunt and Lady Annabel were both assured that it would excee-J in splendour and propriety any dress at the drawing-room. Indeed, as the great artist added, with such a model to work from it would reflect but little credit on the esta- blishment, if any approaclied Miss Herbert in the effect she must inevitably produce. While her mother was undergoing some of those attentions to which Venetia had recently submitted, and had retired for a few minutes into an adjoining apartment, our little lady of Chcrbuiy strolled about the saloon in which she had been left, until her attention was attracted by a portrait of a young man, in an oriental dress, standing very sublimely amid the ruins of some desert city ; a palm tree in the distance, and by his side a crouch- ing camel, and some recumbent followers slumber- ing amid the fallen columns.' " That is Lord Cadurcis, my love," said her aunt, who at the moment joined her, " the famous poet. All the young ladies are in love with him. I dare say you know his works by heart." " No, indeed, aunt," said Venetia ; " I never even read them ; but I should like veiy much." " Not read Lord Cadurcis' p«cms ! O ! we must go and get them directly for you. Every body reads them. You will be looked upon quite as a little barbarian. We will stop the carriage at Stockdalc's, and get them for you." At this moment Lady Annabel rejoined them ; and, having made all their arrangements, they re-entered the Countess's carriage. " Stop at Stockdale's," said her ladyship to the servant ; " I must get Cadurcis' last poem, for Venetia. She will be quite back in her learning, Annabel." " Cadurcis' last poem !" said Lady Annabel ; " do you mean Lord Cadurcis 1 Is he a poet 1" " To be sure ! Well, you are countryfied not to know Lord Cadurcis!" " I know him veiy well," said Lady Annahd, gravely ; " but I did not know he was a poet." The Countess laughed, the carriage stopped, the book was bought ; Lady Annabel looked very uneasy, and tried to catch her daughter's counten- ance, but, strange to say, for the first time in her life was quite unsuccessful. The Countess took the book, and immediately gave it Venetia. " There, my dear," said her aunt, " there never was any thing so charming. I am so provoked that Ca- durcis is a Whig." "A W"hig!" said Lady Annabel, "he was not a Whig when I knew him." " O ! my dear, I am afraid he is worse than a Whig. He is almost a rebel ! But then he is such a genius ! Every thing is allowed, you know, to a genius !" said the thoughtless Countess. Lady Annabel was silent ; but the stillness o! her emotion must not be judged from the stillness of her tongue. Her astonishment at all she had heard was only equalled by what we may justly term her horror. It was impossible that she could have listened to any communication at the same time so astounding, and to her so fearful. " We knew Lord Cadurcis when he was very young, aunt," said Venetia, in a very quiet tone. " He lived near mamma, in the country." " ! my dear Annabel, if you see him in town, bring him to me," said the Countess ; " he is the most difficult person in the world to get to one's house, and I would give any thing if he would come and dine with me." The Countess at last set her relations down al 768 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS, their hotel. When Lady Annabel was once more alone with her daughter, she said — " Venetia, dearest, give me that book your aunt lent you." Venetia immediately handed it to her, but her mother did not open it; but saying — "The Bishop dines at four, darling, I think it is time for us to dress," Lady Annabel left the room. To say the truth, Venetia was less surprised than disappointed .by this conduct of her mother's ; but she was not apt to murmur, and she tried to dismiss the subject from her thoughts. It was with unfeigned delight that the kind- hearted Masham welcomed under his own roof his two best and dearest friends. He had asked nobody to meet them ; it was settled that they were to be quite alone, and to talk of nothing but Cherl)ury and Marringhurst. When they were seated at table, the Bishop, who had been detained at the House of Lords, and had been rather hurried to be in time to receive his guests, turned to his servant, and inquired whether any one had called. " Yes, my Lord, Lord Cadurcis," was the re- piy- " Our old companion," said the Bishop to Lady Annabel, with a smile. " He has called upon me twice, and I have on both occasions unfortunately been absent." Lady Annabel merely bowed an assent to the Bishop's remark. Venetia longed to speak, but found it impossible. " What is it that represses me V she asked herself. " Is there to be another forbidden subject insensibly to arise between us 1 I must struggle against this indefinable despotism that seems to pervade my life." " Have j'ou met Lord Cadurcis, Sir 1" at length asked Venetia. " Once ; we resumed our acquaintance at a din- ner party one day ; but I shall soon see a great deal of him, for he has just taken his seat. He is of age, you know." " I hope he has come to years of discretion in every sense," said Lady Annabel, " but I fear not.'"' " O ? my dear lady," said the Bishop, " he has become a great man ; he is our star. I assure you there is nobody in London talked of but Lord Ca- durcis. He asked me a gi-eat deal after you and Cherbury. He will be delighted to see you." " I cannot say," replied Lady Annabel, " that the desire of meeting is at all mutual. From all I hear, our connexions and opinions are very diffe- rent, and I dare say our habits likewise." " My aunt lent us his new poem to-day," said Venetia, very boldly. " Have you read it 1" asked the Bishop. " I am no admirer of modern poetry," said Lady Annabel, somewhat tartly. " Poetry of any kind is not much in my way," said the Bishop, " but if you like to read his poems, I will lend them to you, for he gave me a copy ; esteemed a great honour, I assure you." "Thank you, my Lord," said Lady Annabel, " both Venetia and myself are very much engaged now ; and I do not wish her to read while she is in London. When we return to Cherbury she will have abundance of time, if desirable." Both Venetia and her worthy host felt that the present subject of conversation was not very agree- able to Lady Annabel, and it was immediately (Ranged. They fell upon more gracious topics, and, in spite of this somewhat sullen commence- ment, the meeting was quite as delightful as they anticipated. Lady Annabel particularly exerted herself to please, and, as was invariably the case under such circumstances with this lady, she was eminently successful ; she apparently endeavoured, by her remarkable kindness to her daughter, to atone for any unpleasant feeling which her previous manner might for an instant have occasioned. Ve- netia watched her beautiful and affectionate parent, as Lady Annabel now dwelt with delight upon the remembrance of their hapjiy home, and now re- curred to the anxiety she naturally felt about her daughter's approaching presentation, with feelings of love and admiration, which made her accuse herself for the recent rebellion of her heart. She thought only of her mother's sorrows, and her de- votion to her child ; and, grateful for the unex- pected course of circumstances which seemed to be leading every member of their former little society to honour and happiness, she resolved to persist in that career of duty and devotion to her mother, from which it seemed to her she had never deviated for a moment, but to experience sorrow, misfor- tune, and remorse. Never did Venetia receive her mother's accustomed embrace and blessing with more responsive tenderness and gratitude than this night. She banished Cadurcis and his poems from her thoughts, confident that, as long as her mother approved neither of her continuing his acquaint- ance nor perusing his writings, it was well that the one should be a forgotten tie, and the other a sealed book. CHAPTER Vni Among the most intimate acquaintances of Ladj Annabel's brother was the nobleman who had been a minister during the American war, and who had also been the guardian of Lord Cadurcis, of whom, indeed, he was likewise a distant relative. He had called with his lady on Lady Annabel, after meet- ing her and her daughter at her brother's, and had fj cultivated her acquaintance with great kindness and assiduity, so that Lady Annabel had found it impossible to refuse his invitation to dinner. This dinner occurred a few days after the visit of the Herberts to the Bishop, and that excellent personage, her own family, and some others equal- ly distinguished, but all of the ministerial party, were invited to meet her. Lady Annabel found herself placed at table between a very pompous courtier, who, being a gourmand, was not very prompt to disturb his enjoyment by conversation, and a young man, whom she found very agreeable, and who at first, indeed, attracted her attention by his resemblance to some face with which she feU she was familiar, and yet which she was not suc- cessful in recalling. His manners were remarkably frank and ingenuous, yet soft and refined. With- out having any peculiar brilliancy of expression, he was apt and fluent, and his whole demeanour characterised by a gentle modesty that was highly engaging. Apparently he had travelled a grcal deal, for he more than once alluded to his expe- rience of foreign countries, but this was afterwards explained by Lady Annabel discovering, from an ob- servation he let fall, that he was a sailor. A passing question from an opposite guest also told her that he was a m of parliament. While she was V E N E T I A. 769 father anxiously wishing to know who he might lie, and congratulating herself that one in whose favour she was so much prepossessed, should be on the right side, their host saluted him from the top of the table, and said, " Captain Cadurcis, a glass of wine." The countenance was now explained. It was, indeed, Lord Cadurcis whom he resembled, though his eyes were dark blue, and his hair light brown. This then was that cousin who had been sent to sea to make his fortune, and whom Lady Annabel had a faint recollection of poor Mrs. Cadurcis once mentioning. George Cadurcis had not exactly made his fortune, but he had distinguished himself in his profession, and especially in Rodney's victory, and had fought his way up to the command of a frigate. The frigate had recently been paid off, and he had called to pay his i-espects to his noble relative, with the hope of obtaining his interest for a new command. The guardian of his cousin, very much mortified with the conduct of his hopeful ward, was not very favourably impressed towards any one who bore the name of Cadurcis, yet George, with no pretence, had a winning, honest manner that made friends ; his lordship took a fancy to him, and, as he could not at the moment obtain him a ship, he did the next best thing for him in his power ; a borough was vacant, and he put him into parliament. " Do you know," said Lady Annabel to her neighbour, "I have been fancying all dinner time, that we had met before ; but I find it is that you only resemble one with whom I was once acquaiiit- cd." "My cousin!" said the Captain, "he will be rery mortified when I go home, if I tell him your ladyship speaks of his acquaintance as one that is past." " It is some years since we met," said Lady An- nabel, in a more reserved tone. " Plantagcnet can never forget what he owes to you," said Captain Cadurcis. " How often has he spoken to me of you and Miss Herbert ! It was only the other night — yes! not a week ago — that he made me sit up with him all night, while he was telling stories of Cherbury ; you see I am quite familiar with the spot," he added, smiling. "You are very intimate with your cousin, I see," said Lady Annabel. " I live a great deal with hira," said George Ca- durcis. " You know we had never met or com- municated ; and it was not Plantagenet's fault, I am sure ; for of all the generous, amiable, loveable beings, Cadurcis is the best I ever met with in this world. Ever since we knew each other, he has been a brother to me ; and, though our politics and opinions are so opposed, and we naturally live in such a different circle, he would have insisted even upon my having apartments in his house, nor is it possible for me to give you the slightest idea of the delicate and unceasing kindness I experience from him. If we had lived together all our lives, it would be impossible to be more united." This eulogium rather softened Lady Annabel's heart ; she even observed, " I always thought Lord Cadurcis naturally well disposed ; I always hoped he would turn out well ; but I was afraid, from what I heard, he was very ming noblemen found Ranelagh very crowded, but the presence of Lord Cadurcis occa- sioned a great sensation the moment he was recog- nised. Every where the whisper went round, and many parties crowded near to catch a glimpse of the hero of the day. " Which is he 1 That fair, tall young man 1 No, the other to be sure. Is it really he 1 How very distinguished ! How veiy melancholy ! Quite the poet. Do you think he is really as unhappy as he looks 1 I would sooner see him than the king and queen. He seems very young, but then he has seen so much of the world ! Fine eyes, beautiful hair ! I wonder who is his friend 1 How proud he must be ! Who is that lady he bowed to 1 That is the duke of speaking to him." Such were the remarks that might be caught in the vicinity of Lord Cadurcis as he took his round, gazed at by the assembled crowd, of whom many knew him only by fame, for the charm of Ranelagh was that it was rather a popular than a mere fashionable assembly. So- ciety at large blended with the court, which main- tained and renewed its influence by being witnessed under the most graceful auspices. The personal authority of the aristocracy has decreased with the disappearance of Ranelagh and similar places of amusement, where rank was not exclusive, and luxury by the gratification it occasioned others seemed robbed of half its selfism. In his second round. Lord Cadurcis recognised the approach of the Herberts. They formed a por- tion of a very large party. Lady Annabel was leaning on her brother, whom Cadurcis knew by sight ; Venetia was at the side of her aunt, and several gentlemen were hovering about them ; among them, to his surprise, his cousin, George Cadurcis, in his uniform, for he had been to court and to the Court Ball. Venetia was talking with I animation. She was in her comt dress and in VENETIA. 771 powder. Her appearance was strange to him. He could scarcely recognise the friend of his child- hood ; but without any doubt in all that assembly, unrivalled in the whole world for beauty, grace, and splendour, she was without a parallel ; a cyno- sure on which all eyes were fixed. So occupied were the ladies of the Herbert party by the conversation of their numerous and bril- liant attendants, that the approach of any one else but Lord Cadurcis might have been unnoticed by them, but a hundred tongues before he drew nigh, had prepared Venetia for his appearance. She was indeed most anxious to behold him, and though she was aware that her heart fluttered not slightly as the moment was at hand, she com- manded her gaze, and her eyes met his although she was very doubtful whether he might choose or care to recognise her. He bowed almost to the ground ; and when Venetia had raised her respon- sive head he had passed by. "Why, Cadurcis, you know Miss Herbert 1" said his friend in a tone of some "astonishment. " Well ; but it is a long time since I have seen her." " Is she not beautiful V " I never doubted on that subject ; I tell you, Scrops, we must contrive to join her party. I wish we had some of our friends among them. Here comes the Monteagle ; aid me to escape her." The most fascinating smile foiled in arresting the progress of Cadurcis ; fortunately, the lady was the centre of a most brilliant band ; — all that he had to do, therefore, was boldly to proceed. "Do you think my cousin is altered since you knew him]" inquired George Cadurcis of Ve- netia. " I scarcely had time to observe him," she re- pUed. " I wish you would let me bring him to you. He did not know until this moment you vv^ere in town. I have not seen him since we met yester- day." " 0, no," said Venetia; " Do not disturb him." In time, however, Lord Cadurcis was again in sight; and now, without any hesitation, he stop- ped, and fpUing into the line by Miss Herbert, he addressed her : " I am proud of being remembered by Miss Herbert," he said. " I am most happy to meet you," replied Vene- tia, with unaffected sincerity. " And Lady Annabel, I have not been able to catch her eye — is she quite well 1 I was ignorant that you were in London until I heard of your triumph this night." The countess whispered her niece, and Venetia accordingly presented Lord Cadurcis to her aunt This was a most gratifying circumstance to him He was anxious, by some means or other, to effect his entrance into her circle ; and he had an in-e sistible suspicion that Lady Annabel no longer looked upon him with eyes of favour. So he re- solved to enlist the aunt as his friend. Few per- sons could be more winning than Cadurcis, when he willed it ; and every attempt to please from one whom all emulated to gratify and honour, was sure to be successful. The countess, who, in spite of politics, was a secret votary of his, was quite prepared to be enchanted. She congratulated herself on forming, as she had long wished, an acquaintance with one so celebrated. She longed 10 pass Lady Monteagle in triumph. Cadurcis improved his opportunity to the utmost. It was impossible for any one to be more engaging ; live- ly, yet at the same time gentle, and deferential with all his originality. He spoke, indeed, more to the aunt than to Venetia; but when he ad- dressed the latter, there was a melting, almost a mournful, tenderness in his tones, that alike af- fected her heart and charmed her imagination. Nor could she be insensible to the gratification she experienced as she witnessed, every instant, the emotion his presence excited among the passers by, and of which Cadurcis himself seemed so properly and so utterly unconscious. And this was Plantagenet ! Lord Cadurcis spoke of his cousin, who, on his oining the party, had assisted the arrangement by moving to the other side ; and he spoke of him with a regard which pleased Venetia, though his lordship envied him his good fortune in having the advantage of a prior acquaintance with Miss Her- bert in town ; " but then we are old acquaintances in the country," he added, half in a playful, half in a melancholy tone, " are we noti" " It is a long time that we have known each other, and it is a long time since we have met," replied Venetia. ' A delicate reproach," said his lordship ; " but perhaps rather my misfortune than my fault. My thoughts have been often, I might say ever, at Cherbury." " And the abbey ; have you forgotten the abbey 1" " I have never been near it since a morning you perhaps remember," said his lordship in a low voice. " Ah ! Miss Herbert," he continued, with a sigh, " I was young then ; I have lived to change many opinions, and some of which you then dis- approved." The party stopped at a box just vacant, and in which the ladies seated themselves while their carriages were inquired for. Lord Cadurcis, with a faltering heart, went up to pay his respects to Venetia's - mother. Lady Annabel received him with a courtesy, that however was scarcely cordial, but the Countess instantly presented him to her husband with an unction which a little astonished her sister-in-law. Then a whisper, but unobserved, passed between the Earl and his lady, and in a minute Lord Cadurcis had been invited to dine Vi^ith them on the next day, and meet his old fi-iends from the country. Cadurcis was previously en- gaged, but hesitated not a moment in accepting the invitation. The Monteagle party now passed by ; the lady looked a little surprised at the com- pany in which she found her favourite, and not a little mortified by his neglect. What business had Cadurcis to be speaking to that Miss Herbert'! Was it not enough that the whole day not another name had scarcely crossed her ear, but the night must even witness the conquest of Lord Cadurcis by the new beauty 1 It was such bad ton, it was so unlike him, it was so underbred, for a person of his position immediately to bow before the new idol of the hour — and a Tory girl too ! It was the last thing she could have expected from him. She should, on the contrary, have thought that the very universal admiration which this Miss Herbert commanded would have been exactly the reason why a man like Cadurcis would have seemed almost unconscious of her existence. She determined to remonstrate with him ; and she was 772 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. sure of a speedy opportunity, for he was to dine ' with her en the morrow. CHAPTER X. NoTWiTHSTAXDiNfj Lady Annabel's reserved demeanour, Lord Cadurcis, supported by the pre- sence of his cousin, who he had discovered to be a favourite of that lady, ventured to call upon her the next day, but she was out. They were to meet, however, at dinner, where Cadurcis deter- mined to omit no opportunity to propitiate her. The Countess had a great deal of tact, and she contrived to make up a party to receive him in which there were several of his friends, among them his cousin and the Bishop of — , and no strangers who were not, like herself, his great admirers ; but if she had known more she need not have given herself this trouble, for there was a charm among her guests of which she was igno- rant, and Cadurcis went determined to please and to be pleased. At dinner he was seated next to Lady Annabel, and it was impossible for any person to be more deferential, soft, and insinuating. He spoke of old days with emotion which he did not attempt to suppress ; he alluded to the present with infinite delicacy. But it was very difficult to make way. Lady Annabel was courteous, but she was reserved. His lively reminiscences elicited from her no cor- responding sentiment ; and no art would induce her to dwell upon the present. If she only would have condescended to compliment him, it would have given him an opportunity of expressing his distaste of the life which he no%v led, and a des- cription of the only life which he wished to lead ; but Lady Annabel studiously avoided affording liira any opening of the kind. She treated him like a stranger. She impressed upon him without clFort that she would only consider him an ac- quaintance. How Cadurcis, satiated with the incense of the whole world, sighed for one single congratulation from Lady Annabel I Nothing could move her. " I was so surprised to meet you last night," at length he again observed. " I have made so many inquiries after you. Our dear friend, the Bishop, was, I fear, almost wearied with my inquiries after Cherbury. I know not how it was, I felt quite a pang when I heard that you had left it, and that all these years, when I have been conjuring up so many visions of what was passing under that dear roof, you were at Weymouth." " Yes. We were at Weymouth some time." "But do not you long to see Cherbury again? T cannot tell you how I pant for it. For my part, I have seen the world, and I have seen enough of it. After all, the end of all our exertions is to be happy at home ; that is the end of every thing ; don't you think so V '' A hap})y home is certainly a great blessing," replied Lady Annabel ; " and a very rare one." " But why should it be so rarel" inquired Lord (yadurcis. " It is our own fault," said Lady Annabel ; " our vanity drives us from our hearths." " But we soon return again, and calm and cooled. For my part I have no object in life but to settle down at the old abbey, and never to quit again our woods. But I shall lead a dull life without my neighbours," he added, with a smile, and in a tone half coaxing. "I suppose you never see Lord******* nowl" said Lady Annabel, mentioning his late guardian. There was, as Cadurcis fancied, some sarcasm in the question, though not in the tone in which it was asked. " No, I never see him," his lordship answered, firmly ; " we differ in our opinions, and I diffei from him with regret ; but I differ from a sense of duty, and therefore I have no alternative." " The claims of duty are of course paramount,' observed Lady Annabel. " You know my cousin ?" said Lord Cadurcis to turn the conversation. " Yes, and I like him very much ; he appears to be a sensible, amiable person, of excellent prin- ciples." " I am not bound to admire George's principles," said Lord Cadurcis, gaily ; " but I respect them, because I know that they are conscientious. I love George; he is my only relation, and he is my friend." "I trust he will always be your friend, for I think you will then, at least, know one person on whom you can depend." " I believe it. The friendships of the world are wind." " I am surprised to hear you say so," said Lady Annabel. " Why, Lady Annabel 1" " You have so many friends." Lord Cadurcis smiled. "I wish," he said, after a little hesitation, " if only for ' Auld lang syne,' I might include Lady Annabel Herbert among them." " I do not think there is any basis for friendship between us, my lord," she said, very dryly. " The past must ever be with me," said Lord Cadurcis, " and I should have thought a sure and solid one." " Our opinions on all subjects are so adverse, that I must believe that there could be no great sympathy in our feelings." " My feelings are beyond my control," he re- plied ; " they are, and must ever be, totally inde- pendent of my opinions." Lady Annabel did not reply. His lordship felt baffled, but he was resolved to make one more effort. " Do you know," he said, " I can scarcely be- lieve myself in London to-day 1 To be sitting next to you, to see Miss Herbert, to hear Doctor Masham's voice — ! does it not recall Cherbury, or Marringhurst, or that day at Cadurcis, when you were so good as to smile over my rough re- past. Ah ! Lady Annabel, those days were happy ! those were feelings that can never die ! All the glitter and hubbub of the world can never make me forget them, — can never make you, I hope, Lady Annabel, quite recall them with an effort. We were friends then : let us be friends now." " I am too old to cultivate new friendships," said her ladyship ; " and if we are to be friends, Lord Cadurcis, I am sorry to say that, after the interval that has occurred since we last parted, we should have to begin again." VENETIA. 773 " It is a long time," saiJ his lordship, mourn- fully, a " very long time, and one — in spite of what the world may think — to which I cannot look baclf with any self-congratulation. I wished three years ago never to leave Cadurcis again. Indeed I did ; ;-ind indeed it was not my fault that I quitted it." " It was no one's fault, I hope, my lord. What- ever the cause may have been, I have ever remain- ed quite ignorant of it ; I wished, and wish, to remain ignorant of it. I, for one, have ever considered it the wise dispensation of a merciful Providence." Cadurcis ground his teeth ; a dark look came over him which, when once it rose on his brow, was with difficulty dispelled ; and for the remain- der of the dinner he continued silent and gloomy. He was, however, not unobserved by Venetia. She had watched his evident attempts to conciliate her mother, with lively interest ; she had witnessed their failure with sincere sorrow. In spite of that stormy interview, the results of.wb.ich — in his hasty departure, and the severance of their acquaintance — she had often regretted, she had always retained for him the greatest affection. During these three years he had still, in her inmost heart, remained her own Plantagenet — her adopted brother, whom she loved, and in whose welfare her feelings were deeply involved. The mysterious circumstances of her birth, and the discoveries to which they had led, had filled her mind with a fanciful picture of human nature, over which she had long brooded. A great poet had become her ideal of man. Some- times she had sighed — when musing over her fa- ther and Plantagenet on the solitary sea-shore at Weymouth — that Cadurcis, instead of being the merely amiablej and somewhat narrow-minded be- ing, that she supposed, had not been invested with those brilliant and commanding qualities which she felt could alone master her esteem. Often had she, in those abstracted hours, played with her imagination in combining the genius of her father with the soft heart of that friend to whom she was so deeply attached. She had w'ished, in her reve- ries, that Cadurcis might have been a great man ; that he might have existed in an atmosphere of glory, amid the plaudits and admiration of his race ; and that then he might have turned from all that fame, so dear to them both, to the heart which could alone sympathise with the native simplicity of his childhood. The ladies withdrew. The Bishop and another of the guests joined them after a short interval. The rest remained below, and drank their wine with the fieedom not unusual in those days. Lord Cadurcis among them, although it was not his habit. But he was not convivial, though he never passed the bottle untouched. He was in one of those dark humours of which there was a latent spring in his nature, but which, in old days, had been kept in check by his simple life, his inexperi- enced mind, and the general kindness that greeted him, and which nothing but the caprice and per- versity of his mother could occasionally develope. But since the great revolution in his position, since circumstances had made him alike acquainted with his nature, and had brought all society to acknow- ledge its superiority ; since he had gained and felt his irresistible power, and had found all the world, and all the glory of it, at his feet, these moods had become more frequent. The slightest reaction in the self-complacency that was almost unceasingly stinnilated by the applause of applauded men, and the love of the loveliest women, instantly took the shape and found refuge in the immediate form of the darkest spleen, generally indeed brooding in silence, and, if speaking, expressing itself only in sarcasm. Cadurcis was, indeed, — as we have al- ready' described him, — the spoiled child of society ; a froward and petted darling, not always to be con- ciliated by kindness, but furious when neglected or controlled. He was habituated to triumph ; it had been his lot to come, to see, and to conquer ; even the procrastination of certain success was intolera- ble to him ; his energetic volition could not endure a check. To Lady Annabel Herbert, indeed, he was not exactly what he was to others ; theie was a spell in old associations from which he uncon- sciously could not emancipate himself, and from which it was his opinion he honoured her, in not desiring to be free. He had his reasons for wish- ing to regain his old, his natural influence, over her heart; he did not doubt for an instant that, if Cadurcis sued, success must follow the condescend- ing effort. He had sued, and he had been met with coldness, almost with disdain. He had ad- dressed her in those tones of tenderness which ex- perience had led him to believe were irresistible, yet to which he seldom had recourse, for hitherto he had not been under the degrading necessity of courting. He hod dwelt with fondness on the in- «gnificant past, because it was connected with her ; he had regretted, or affected even to despise, the glorious present, because it seemed, for some indefinite cause, to have estranged him from her hearth. Yes ! he had humbled himself before her: lie had thrown with disdain at her feet all that dazzling fame and expanding glory which seemed his peculiar and increasing privilege. He had de- licately conveyed to her that even these would he sacrificed, not only without a sigh, but with cheer- ful delight, to find himself once more living, as of old, in the limited world of her social afti;ctions. Three years ago he had been rejected by the daugh- ter, because he was an undistinguished youth. Now the mother recoiled from his fame. And who was this woman 1 The same cold, stern heart, that had alienated the gifted Herbert ; the same narrow, rigid mind, that had repudiated ties that every other woman in the world would have gloried to cherish and acknowledge. And with her he had passed his prejudiced youth, and fancied, like an idiot, that he had found sympathy ! Yes, as long as he was a slave, a mechanical, submissive slave, bowing his mind to all the traditionary bigotry which she adored, never daring to form an opinion for himself, worshipping her idol custom, and la- bourhig by habitual hypocrisy to perpetuate the delusions of all around her ! In the mean time, while Lord Cadurcis was chewing the cud of these bitter feelings, we will take the opportunity of explaining the immediate cause of Lady Annabel's frigid reception of his friendly advances. All that she had heard of Ca- durcis, all the information which she had within these few days so rapidly acquired of his character and conduct, were indeed not calculated to dispose her to witness the renewal of their intimacy with feelings of remarkable satisfaction. But this morn- ing she had read his poem, the poem that all Lon- don was talking of and she had read it with -hor- ror. She looked upon Cadurcis as a lost man. With her, indeed, since her marriage, an imagina- 3t2 774 D'ISRAEL['vS NOVELS. tire mind had become an object of tenor; but there were some peculiarities in the tone of Cadur- cis' genius, which magnified to excess her general apprehension on this head. She traced, in every line, the evidences of a raging vanity, whicli she was convinced must prompt its owner to sacrifice, on all occasions, every feeling of duty to its gratifi- <;ation. Amid all the fervour of rebellious passions, and the violence of a wayward mind, a sentiment of profound egotism appeared to her impressed on every page she perused. Great as might have been the original errors of Herbert — awful as in her esti- mation were the crimes to which they had led him, they might in the first instance be traced rather to a perverted view of society than of himself. But self was the idol of Cadurcis ; self distorted into a phantom that seemed to Lady Annabel pregnant not only with terrible crimes, but with the basest and most humiliating vices. The certain degra- dation which in the instance of her husband had been the consequences of a bad system, would, in her opinion, in the case of Cadurcis, be the result of a bad nature ; and when she called to mind that there had once been a probability that this indivi- dual might have become the husband of her Venetia, her child whom it had been the sole purpose of her life to save from the misery of which she herself had been the victim ; that she had even dwelt on the idea with complacency, encouraged its pro- gress, regretted its abrupt termination, but consoled herself by the flattering hope that time, with even more favourable auspices, would mature it into ful- filment; she trembled, and turned pale. It was to the Bishop that, after dinner, Lady Annabel expressed some of the feelings which the re-appearance of Cadurcis had occasioned her. " I see nothing but misery for his future," she exclaimed ; " I tremble for him when he addresses me. In spite of the glittering surface on which he now floats, I foresee only a career of violence, degra- dation, and remorse." " He is a problem difficult to solve," replied Ma- sham, " but there are elements not only in his character, but his career, so different from those of the person of whom we were speaking, that I am not inclined at once to admit, that the result must necessarily be the same." " I see none," replied Lady Annabel ; " at least, none of sufllcient influence to work any material change." " What think you of his success 1" replied Ma- sham. " Cadurcis is evidently proud of it. With all his affected scorn of the world, he is the slave of society. He may pique the feelirigs of mankind, but I doubt whether he will outrage them." " He is on such adhzy eminence," replied Lady Annabel, " that I do not believe he is capable of calculating so finely. He does not believe, I am sure, in the possibility of resistance. His vanity will tempt him onwards." " Not to persecution," said Masham. " Now my opinion of Cadurcis is, that his egotism, or selfism, or whatever you may style it, will ulti- mately presei-vc him from any very fatal, from any irrecoverable excesses. He is of the world — world- ly. All his works, all his conduct, tend only to astonish mankind. He is not prompted by any visionary ideas of ameliorating his species. The instinct of self-preservation will serve him as bal- last." " We shall see," said Lady Annabel ; " for my- self, whatever may be his end, I feel assured that great and disgraceful vicissitudes are in store for him." " It is strange after what, in comparison with such extraordinary changes, must be esteemed so brief an interval," obsei-ved Masham, with a smile, " to witness such a revolution in his position. I often think to myself, can this indeed be ovu" little Plantagcnet!" " It is awful !" said Lady Annabel ; " much more than strange. For m3'self, when I recall certaiir indications of his feelings when he was last at Cadurcis, and think for a moment of the results to which they might have led, I shiver ; I assure you, my dear lord, I tremble from head to foot. And I encouraged him ! I smiled with fond-' ness on his feelings ! I thought I was securing the peaceful happiness of my child ! What can we trust to in this world ! It is too dreadful to dwell upon ! It must have been an interposition of Providence that Venetia escaped !" '' Dear little Venetia !" exclaimed the good Bi- shop ; " for I believe I shall call her little Venetia to the day of my death. How well she looks to- night ! Her aunt is, I think, very fond of her. See !" " Yes, it pleases me," said Lady Annabel ; " but I do wish my sister was not such an admirer of Lord Cadurcis' poems. You cannot conceive how uneasy it makes me. I am quite anno3'ed that he was asked here to-day.- Why ask himl" " ! there is no harm," said Masham ; " you must forget the past. By all accounts, Cadurcis is not a marrying man. Indeed, as I understood, marriage with him is at present quite out of the question. And as for Venetia, she rejected hira before, and she will, if necessary, reject him again, He has been a brother to her, and after that he can be no more. Girls never fall in love with thosa with whom they are bred up." " I hope — I believe there is no occasion for ap- prehension," replied Lady Annabel ; indeed it has scarcely entered my head. The very charms he once admired in Venetia, can have no sway over him, as I should think, now. I should believe him as little capable of appreciating Venetia now, as he was when last at Cherbury of anticipating the change in his own character." " You mean opinions, my dear lady, for charac- ters never change. Believe me, Cadurcis is radi- cally the same as in old days. Circumstances have only developed his latent predisposition." " Not changed, my dear lord ; what, that inno- cent, sweet-tempered, docile child — " " Hush ! here he comes." The earl and h.is guests entered the room ; a circle was fonned round Lady Annabel ; some evening visiters arrived ; there was singing. It had not been the intention of Lord Cadurcis to return to the drawing-room after his rebuff by Lady Annabel ; he had meditated making his peace at Monteagle House ; but when the moment of his projected departure arrived, he could not resist the temptation of again seeing Venetia. He entered the room last, and some moments after his compa- nions. Lady Annabel, who watched the general entrance, concluded he had gone, and her atten- tion was now fully engaged. Lord Cadurcis re- mained at the end of the room alone, apparently abstracted, and looking far from amiable ; but hia eye, in reality, was watching Venetia. Suddenly VLNETIA. "75 her aunt approached her, and invited the lady who was conversing with Miss Herbert to sing ; Lord Cadurcis immediately advanced and took her seat. Venetia was surprised that for the first time in her life with Plantagenet she felt embarrassed. She had met his look when he approached her, and had welcomed, or, at least, intended to welcome him with a smile, but she was at a loss for words ; she was haunted with the recollection of her mother's behaviour to him at dinner, and she looked down on the ground, far from being at ease. " Venetia !" said Lord Cadurcis. She started. " We are alone," he said ; " let me call you Ve- netia when we are alone." She did not — she could not reply ; she felt confused ; she felt, indeed, the blood rise to her cheek. " How changed is every thing !" continued Ca- durcis. " To think the day should ever arrive when I should have to beg your permission to call you Venetia !" She looked ug ; she met his glance. It was mournful ; nay, his eyes were suffused with tears. She saw at her side the gentle and melancholy Plantagenet of her childhood. " I cannot speak ; I am agitated at meeting you," she said with her native frankness. " It is so long since we have been alone ; and, as you say, all is so changed." "But are you changed, Venetia?" he said in a. voice of emotion, " for all other change is no- thing." "I meet you with pleasure," she replied; "I hear of your fame with pride. .You cannot suppose that it is possible I should cease to be interested in your welfare." " Your mother does not meet me with pleasure ; she hears of nothing that has occurred with pride ; your mother has ceased to take an interest in my welfare; and why should you be vmchanged 1" " You mistake my mother." "No, no," replied Cadurcis, shaking his head, " I have read her inmost soul to-day. Your mother hates me, — me, whom she once styled her son. She was a mother once to me, and you were my sister. If I have lost her heart, why have I not lost yours V " My heart, if you care for it, is unchanged," said Venetia. " ! Venetia, whatever you may think, I never wanted the solace of a sister's love more than I do at this moment." " I pledged my affection to you when we were children," replied Venetia ; " you have done nothing to forfeit it, and it is yours still." " When we were children," said Cadurcis, mu- singly ; when we were innocent , when we vi'ere happy. You, at least, are innocent still ; are you happy, Venetia?" " Life has brought sorrows even to me, Plemta- genet." The blood deserted his heart when she called liim Plantagenet; he breathed with difficulty. " When I last returned to Cherbury," he said, " you told me you were changed, Venetia ; you revealed to me on another occasion the secret cause of your affliction. I was a boy then, — a foolish, ignorant boy. Instead of sympathising with your heart-felt anxiety, my silly vanity was offended by feelings I should have shared, and soothed, and honoured. Ah ! Venetia, well had it been for on.e of us that I had conducted myself more kindly, more wisely." " Nay, Plantagenet, believe me, I remember that interview only to regret it. The recollection of it has always occasioned me great grief. We were both to blame ; but we were both children then. We must pardon each other's faults." " You will hear, — that is, if you care to listen, Venetia, — much of my conduct and opinions," continued Lord Cadurcis, " that may induce 3"ou to believe me headstrong and capricious. Perhaps I am less of both in all things than the world imagines. But of this be certain, that my feelings towards you have never changed, whatever you may permit them to be ; and if some of my boy- ish judgments have, as was but natural, undergone some transformation, be you, my sweet friend, in some degree consoled for the inconsistency, since I have at length learned duly to appreciate one of whom we then alike knew little, but whom a na- tural inspiration taught you, at least, justly to ap- preciate — I need not say I moan the illustrious father of your being." Venetia could not restrain hei tears ; she endea- voured to conceal her agitated countenance be- hind the fan with which she was fortunately provided. " To me a forbidden subject," said Venetia, " at least with them I could alone converse upon it, but one that my nund never deserts." " O ! Venetia," exclaimed Lord Cadurcis witli a sigh, " would we were both with him !" '' A wild thought," she murmured, " and one I must not dwell upon." " We shall meet, I hope," said Lord Cadurcis ; " we must meet — meet often. I called upon your mother to-day, fruitlessly. You must attempt to conciliate her. Why should we be parted ? We, at least, are friends, and more than friends. I cannot exist unless we meet, and meet with the frankness of old days." " I think you mistake mamma ; I think you may, indeed. Remember how lately she has met you, and after how long an interval ! A little time, and she will resume her former feelings, and believe that you have never forfeited yours. Be- sides, we have friends, mutual friends. My aunt aduiires you, and here I naturally must be a great deal. And the bishop, — he still loves "you ; that I am sure he does ; and your cousin, — mamma likes your cousin. I am sure, if you can manage only to be patient, — if you will only attempt to concili- ate a little, all will be as before. Remember, too, how changed your position is," Venetia added with a smile ; " you allow me to forget you aie a great man, but mamma is naturally restrained by all this wonderful revolution. When she finds that you really are the Lord Cadurcis whom she knew such a very little boy, — the Lord Cadurcis who, without her aid, would never have been able even to write his fine poems, — ! she must love you again ! How can she help it ?" Cadurcis smiled. "We shall see,'" he said, " In the meantime do not you desert me, Vene- tia." "That is impossible," she repUed: "the hap- piest of my days have been past with you. You 776 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. remember the inscription on the jewel 1 I shall keep to my vows." " That was a very good inscription as far as it went," said Cadurcis; and then, as if a little alarmed at his temerity, he changed the subject. " Do you know," said Yenetia, after a pause, " I am treating you all this time as a poet, merely in deference to public opinion. Not a line have I been permitted to read ; but I am resolved to rebel, and you must arrange it all." "Ah!" said the enraptured Cadurcis, "this is fame !" At this moment the countess approached them, and told Venetia that her mother wished to speak to her. Lady Annabel had discovered the tete-d- t te, and resolved instantly to terminate it. Lord Cadurcis, however, who was quick as lightning, read all that was necessary in Venctia's look. In- stead of instantly retiring, he remained some little time longer, talked a great deal to the countess, — who was perfectly enchanted with him, — even sauntered up to the singers, and complimented them, and did not make his bow until he had con- vinced at least the mistress of the mansion, if not her sister-in-law, that it was not Venetia Herbert who was his principal attraction in this agreeable society. CHAPTER XL The moment he had quitted Venetia, Lord Ca- durcis returned home. He could not endure the usual routine of gayety after her society ; and his coachman, often waiting until five o'clock in the morning at Monteagle House, could scarcely as- sure himself of his good fortune in this exception to his accustomed trial of patience. The vis-a-vis stopped, and Lord Cadurcis bounded out with a light step and a lighter heart. His table was co- vered with letters. The first one that caught his eye was a missive from Lady Monteagle. Cadur- cis seized it like a wild animal darting on its prey, tore it in half without opening it, and, grasping the poker, crammed it with great energy into the fire. This exploit being achieved, Cadurcis began walk- ing, up and down the room ; and indeed he paced it for nearly a couple of hours in a deep revery, and evidently under a considerable degree of ex- citement, for his gestures were violent, and his voice often audible. At length, about an hour after midnight, he rang for his valet, tore off his cravat, and hurled it in one corner of the apartment, called for his robe de chambre, soda water, and more lights, seated himself, and began pouring forth, faster almost than a pen could trace the words, the poem that he had been meditating ever since he had quitted the roof where he had met Yenetia. She had expressed a wish to read his j)oems ; he had resolved instantly to compose one for her solitary perusal. Thus he relieved his Jieart : — T. Within a cloisler'd pile, wlioae Gothic towera Rose by the margin of a sedgy lake, Emljosom'il in a valley of green bowers. And girl by many a grove, and ferny brakfl Loved by the anller'd deer; a tender youth Whom time to childhood's gentle sway of love Still spared ; yet innocent as is the dove, Vor wounded yet by care's relentless tooth j Stood musing: of that fair antique domain The orphan lord ! And yet no childish thought With wayward purpose holds its transient reign In his young mind, with deeper feelings fraught; Then mystery all to him, and yet a dream. That lime has touched with his revealing beam. IF. There came a maiden to that lonely boy, And like to him as is the morn to night; Her sunny face a very type of joy. And with her soul's unclouded lustre bright. Still scantier summers had licr urow illumed Than that on which she threw a witchins smile, Unconscious of the spell that could beguile His being of the burden ii was doom'd By his ancestral blood to bear— a spirit Kife with desponding thoughts and fancies drear. A moody soul that men sometimes inherit, And worse than all the woes the world may beafj Bui when he met that maid'in's dazzling eye, He bade each gloomy image baffled fly. III. Amid the shady woods and supny lawns The maiden and the youth now wander, gay As the bright birds, and happy as the fawns, Their S|xifiive rivals, that around Ihem play ; Their liidit hands linked in love, the golden hours Unconscious fly, while thus they graceful roam, And careless ever till the voice oi" home KecaU'd tliem from their sunshine and their flowtrs , . For then they parted : to his lonely pile The orphan chief, for though, his wo to lull, The maiden call'd him brother, her fond smile Gladden'd another hearth, while his was dull. Yet, as they parted, she reproved his sadness, And, for her sake she gayly whisper'd gladness. IV. She was the daughter of a noble race. That beauteous girl, and yet she owed her name To one who needs no herald's skill to trace His blazon'd lineage, for his lofty fame Lives in the mouth of men, and distant climes l!e-echo his wide glory ; where the brave Are hotiour'd, where 'tis noble deem'd to save A prostrate nation, and for future times Work with a high devotion, that no taunt, Or ribald lie, or zealot's eager curse, Or the short-sighted world's neslect can daunt. That name is worshipp'd! His immortal verse Blends with his godlike deeds, a double spell To bind the coming age he loved loo well ! V. For from his ancient home, a sratlerling. They drove him forth, unconscious of their fize, And liranded as a vile unhallow'd 'thing, The man who struggled only to be wise. And even his hearth rebell'd, the duteous wife Whose bosom well might soothe in that dark hour, Swell'd with her gentle force the world's harsh powers And aim'd her dart at his devoted life. That struck ; the rest his mighty soul might scorn, Bill when his household gods averted stood, 'Twas the last pang ihal cannot well be borne ■When tortured e'en to torpor: his heart's blood Flow'dto the unseen blow: then forth he went, And gloried in his ruthless banishment. VL A new-born pledire of love within his home. His alien's home, the exiled father left; And when, like Cain, he wander'd forth to roanii A Cain without his solace, all bereft: Stole down his pallid cheek the scalding tear, To think a stranger to his lender love His child must crrow, untroubled where might rova His restless life, or taught, perchance, to fear Her father's name, and, bred in sullen hale, Shrink frotn his image. Thus the gentle maid. Who with her smiles had soothed an orphan's fate Had fell an orphan's pang ; yet undismay'd. Though tausht to deem her sire the child of sharaj She clung with instinct to that reverent name ! VII. Time flew ; the boy became a man, no more His shadow falls upon his cloisler'd hall. But to a stirring world he leari;'d lo pour The passion of his being, skilled lo call From the deep caverns of his musing tliought^ Shadows lo which Ihey bow'd, and on their mind To stamp the image of his own; the wind. Though all unseen, willi force or ardour fraught. VENETIA. 777 Can sway mankind, and thus a poet's voice, Now toiich'd with sweetness, now inflamed with rage, Though breath, can make us grieve and then rejoice ; Sucli is the spell of his creative page, Thai blends with all our moods; and thoughts can yield That all have felt, and yet till then were seal'd. VIII The lute is sounding in a chamber bright With a higli festival,— on every side. Soft, in the gleamy blaze of mellfflw'd light. Fair women smile, and dancers graceful glide ; And words still sweeter than a serenade Are breathed with guarded voice and speaking eyes, By-joyous hearts, in spile of all their sighs; But bygone fantasies that ne'er can fade Retain the pensive spirit of the youth ; Reclined against a column he surveys His laughing compeers with a glance, in sooth, Oreless of {ill their mirth : for other days Enchain him with their vision, the bright hours Fass'd with the maiden in their sunny bowers. LX. Why turns this brow so pale, why starts to life That languid eye ? What form before unseen, With all the spells of hallow'd memory rife, Now rises on liis vision 1 As the Queen Of Beauty from her bed of sparkling foam Sprang to the azure light ; and felt the air — Soft as her cheek, the wavy dancers bear To his rapt sight a mien that calls his home. His cloisler'd home, liefore him, with his dreams Prophetic strangely blending. The bright muse Of his dark childhood still divinely beams Upon his being; glowing with the hues That painters love, when raptured pencils soar To trace a form that nations may adore I X. One word alone within her thrilling ear Breathed with hush'd voice the broVher of her heart. And that for aye is hidden. With a tear Smiling she strove toconquer, see her start, The bright blood rising to her quivering cheek. And meet the glance she hasten'd once to greet, When not a thought had he, save in her sweet And solacing society ; to seek Her smiles, his only life ; ah ! happy prime Of cloudless purity, no stormy fame His unknown sprite then stirr'd, a golden time Worth all the restless splendour of a name. And one soft accent from those gentle lips Might all the plaudits of a world eclipse. XI. My tale is done; and if some deem it strange My fancy thus should droop, deign then to learn My tale is truth : imagination's range Its bounds exact may touch not : to discern Far stranger things than poets ever feign, In life's perple.xing annals, is the fate Of those who act, and musing penetrate The mystery of lijitune: to whose reign Tlie haughtiest brow must bend : 'twas passing strange, The youth of these fond children ; strange the flush Of his high fortunes and his spirit's change ; Strange was the maiden's tear, the maiden's blush ; Strange were his musing thoughts and trembling heart; 'Tis strange they met, and stranger if they part ! CHAPTER XII. Whex liady Monteagle discovered, which she did a very few hour.s after the mortifying event, where Lord Cadurcis had dined the day on which he had promised to be her guest, she was very indignant, but her vanity was more offended than her self-complacency. She was annoyed that Ca- durcis should have compromised his exalted repu- tation by so publicly dangling in the train of the new beauty ; still more that he should have signi- fied in so marlted a manner the impression which the fair stranger had made upon him, by instantly accepting an invitation to a house so totally un- coiiiaected witli his circle, and where, had it not 98 been to meet this Miss Herbert, it would of course never have entered his head to be a visiter. But, on the whole. Lady Monteagle was rather irritated than jealous ; and far from suspecting that there was the slightest chance of her losing her influ- ence, such as it might be, over Lord Cadurcis, all that she felt was, that less lustre must redound to her from its possession and ejfercise, if it were obvious to the world that his attentions could be so easily attracted and commanded. When Lord Cadurcis, therefore, having de- spatched his poem to Venetia, paid his usual visit on the next day to Monteagle House, he was received rather with sneers than reproaches, as her lad3'ship, with no superficial knowledge of society or of his lordship's character, was clearly of opi- nion that this new fancy of her admirer was to be treated rather with ridicule than indignation ; and, in short, as she had discovered that Cadurcis was far from being insensible to mockery, that it was clearly a fit occasion, to use a phrase then very much in vogue, for quizzing. " How d'ye do V said her ladyship, with a very arch smile, " I really could not expect to see you !" Cadurcis looked a little confused ; he detested scenes, and now he dreaded one. " You seem quite distrait," continued Lady Monteagle, after a moment's pause, which his lord- ship ought to have broken. " But no wonder, if the world be right." " The world cannot be wrong," said Cadurcis, sarcastically. " Had you a pleasant party yesterday 1" " Very." " Lady must have been quite charmed to have got you at last," said Lady Monteagle. " I suppose she exhibited you to all her friends, as if you were one of the savages that went to court the other day." " She was very courteous." " O! I can fancy her flutter ! For my part, if there be one character in the world more odious than another, I think it is a fussy woman. Lady , with Lord Cadurcis dining with her, and the new beauty for a niece, must have been in a most delec- table state of bustle." " I thought she was rather quiet," said her companion, with provoking indilTerence, " Slie seemed to me a very agreeable person." "I suppose you mean Miss Herbert 1" said Lady Monteagle. "0 ! these are very moderate expressions to use in reference to a person like Miss Herbert." " You know what they said of you two at Ra- nelaghl" said her ladyship. " No," said Lord Cadurcis, somewhat changing colour, and speaking through his teeth. " Some- thing devilish pleasant, I dare say." " They call you Sedition and Treason." said Lady Monteagle. "Then we are well suited," said Lord Cadur- cis. " She certainly is a most beautiful creattjre," said her ladyship. " I think so," said Lord Cadurcis. " Rather too tall, I think." " Do you 1" " Beautiful complexion, certainly ; wants deli- cacy, I think." " Do you 1" " Fine eyes ? Gray, I believe. Cannot say I ns D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. admire gray eyes. Certain sign of bad temper, I (relieve, gray eyes." " Arc they f" " I did not observe lier hand. I dare say a httle coarse. Fair people, who are tall, generally fail in the hand and arm. What sort of a hand and arm has she ]'' " I did not observe any thing coarse about Miss Herbert." " Ah ! you admire her. And )-ou have cause. No one can deny she is a fine girl, and every one must regret, that with her decidedly provincial air and want of style altogether, which might naturally be expected, considering the rustic way I under- stand she has been brought up, (an old house in the country, with a methodistica! mother,) that she should have fallen into such hands as her aunt. Lady is enough to spoil any girl's fortune in London." " I thought that the were people of the highest consideration," said Lord Cadurcis. " Consideration !" exclaimed Lady Monteagle. " If you mean that they are people of rank, and good blood, and good property, they are certainly people of consideration ; but they are Goths, Van- dals, Huns, Calmucks, Canadian savages ! They have no fashion, no style, no ton, no influence in the world. It is impossible that a greater misfortune could have befallen your beauty than having such an aunt. Why, no man who has the slightest re- gard for his reputation would be seen in her com- pany. She is a regular quiz, and you cannot ima- gine how everybody was laughing at you the other night." " I am \cvj much obliged to them," said Lord Cadurcis. " And, upon my honour," continued Lady Monteagle, " speaking merely as your friend, and not being the least jealous — Cadurcis, do not sup- pose that — not a twinge has crossed my mind on that score ; but still I must tell you that it was most ridiculous for a man like you, to whom everybody looks up, and from whom the slightest attention is an honour, to go and fasten yourself the whole night upon a rustic simpleton, something between a wax doll and a dairy-maid, whom every fool in Iiondon was staring at ; the very reason why you should not have appeared to have been even aware of her existence." " We have all our moments of weakness, Ger- trude," said Lord Cadurcis, perfectly charmed that the lady was so thoroughly unaware and unsuspi- cious of his long and intimate connexion with the Herberts. " I suppose it was my cursed vanity. I saw, as you say, every fool staring at her, and so I determined to show that in an instant I could en- gross her attention." " Of course, I know it was only that; but you should not have gone and dined there, Cadurcis," added the lady, very seriously. " That compro- mised you ; but, by cutting them in future in the most marked manner, you may get over it." " You really think I may ]" inquired Lord Ca- durcis, with some anxiety. '' O ! I have no doubt of it," said Lady Mont- eagle." " What it is to have a friend like you, Gertrude," said Cadurcis, " a friend who is neither a Goth, nor a Vandal, nor a Hun, nor a Calmuck, nor a Canadian savage ; but a woman of fashion, style, ton, influence in the world. It is impossible that a greater piece of good fortune could have befallen me than having you for a friend !" " Ah ! mechant ! you may mock !" said the lady, triumphantly, for she was quite satisfied with the turn the conversation had taken ; " but I am glad for your sake that you take such a sensible view of the case." Notwithstanding, however, this sensible view of the case, after lounging an hour at Monteagle House, Lord Cadurcis' carriage stopped at the door of Venetia's Gothic aunt. He was not so fortu- nate as to meet his heroine ; but, nevertheless, he did not esteem his time entirely thrown away, and consoled himself for the dif^ajipointment by con- firming the favourable impression he had already made in this establishment, and cultivating an inti- macy, which he was assured must contribute many opportunities of finding himself in the society of Venetia. From this day, indeed, he was a frequent guest at her uncle's, and generally contrived also to meet her several times in the week at some great as- sembly ; but here, both from the occasional presence of Lady' Monteagle, although party spirit deterred her from attending many circles where Cadurcis was now an habitual visitant, and from the crowd of admirers who surrounded the Herberts, he rarely found an opportunity for any private conversation with Venetia. His friend the bishop also, notwith- standing the prejudices of Lady Annabel, received him always with cordiality, and he met the Her- berts more than once at his mansion. At the opera and in the Park also he hovered about them, in spite of the sarcasms or reproaches of Lady Mont- eagle ; for the reader is not to suppose that that lady continued to take the same self-complacent view of Lord Cadurcis' acquaintance with the'' Herberts which she originally adopted, and at first flattered herself was the just one. His admiration of Miss Herbert had become the topic of general conversation ; it could no longer be concealed or disguised. But Lady Monteagle was convinced that Cadurcis was not a marrying man, and per- suaded herself that this was a fancy which must evaporate. Moreover, Monteagle House still con- tinued his spot of most constant resort ; for his op- portunities of being with Venetia were, with all his exertions, very limited, and he had no other resource which pleased him so much as the conversation and circle of the bright goddess of his party. After some fiery scenes therefore with the divinity, which only led to his prolonged absence, for the profound and fervent genius of Cadurcis revolted from the base sentiment and mock emotions of society, the lady reconciled herself to her lot, still believing her- self tlie most envied woman in London, and often ashamed of being jealous of a country girl._ The general result of the fortnight which elapsed since Cadurcis renewed his acquaintance with his Cherbury friends, was, that he had become con- vinced of his inability of i)ropitiating Lady Anna- bel, was devotedly attached to Venetia, though he had seldom an opportunity of intimating feelings, which the cordial manner in which she ever con- ducted herself to him gave him no reason to con- clude desperate ; at the same time that he had contrived that a day should seldom elapse, which did not, under some circumstances, however unfa-< vourable, bring them together, wlrile her intimate friends and the circles in which she passed most of her life always witnessed his presence with favour. V E N E T I A. CHAPTER XIII. Wk must, however, endeavour to be more inti- mately acquainted with the heart and mind of V'enetia in her present situation, so strongly con- trasting with the serene simplicity of her former life, than the limited and constrained opportunities of conversuig with the companion of his childhood enjoyed by Lord Cadurcis could possibly enable him to become. Let us recur to her on the night when she returned home, after having met with Piantagenet at her uncle's, and having pursued a conversation with him, so unexpected, so strange, and so affecting ! She had been very silent in the carriage, and retired to her room immediately. She retired to ponder. The voice of Cadurcis lingered in her ear ; his tearful eye still caught her vision. She leaned her head upon her hand, and sighed ! Why did she sigh 1 ViHiat at this instant was her uppermost thought 1 Ker mother's dislike of Ca- durcis. " Your mother hates me." These had been his words ; these were the words' she repeated to herself, and on whose fearful sounds she dwelt. " Your mother hates me." If by some means she had learned a month ago at Weymouth, that her mother hated Cadurcis, that his general conduct had been such as to excite Lady Annabel's odium, Venetia might have for a moment been shocked that her old companion, in whom she had once been so interested, had by his irregular behaviour incurred the dislike of her mother, by whom he had once been so loved. But it would have been a very transient emotion. She might have mused over past feelings and past hopes in a solitary ram- ble on the sea-shore ; she might even have shed a tear over the misfortunes or infelicity of one who had once been to her a brother ; but, perhaps, nay probably, on the morrow the remembrance of Pian- tagenet would scarcely have occurred to her. Long years had elapsed since their ancient fondness ; a very considerable interval since even his name had met her ear. She had heard nothing of him that could for a moment arrest her notice or command her attention. But now the irresistible impression that her mo- ther disliked this very individual filled her with intolerable grief. What occasioned this change in her feelings, this extraordinary difference in her emotions ? There was, apparently, but one cause. She had met Cadurcis. Could then a glance, could even the tender intonations of that unrivalled voice, and the dark passion of that speaking eye, Vfork in an instant such marvels 1 Could they re- vive the past so vividly, that Piantagenet in a mo- ment resumed his ancient place in her affections. No, it was not that : it was less the tenderness of the past that made Venetia mom-n her mother's sternness to Cadurcis, than the feelings of the future. For now she felt that her mother's heart was not more changed towards this personage than was her own. In truth, she loved him, and no longer as a brother. It seemed to Venetia that even before they met, from the very moment that his name had so strange- ly caught her eye in the volume on the first even- ing she had visited her relations, that her spirit suddenly turned to him. She had never heard that name mentioned since without a fluttering of the heart which she could not repress, and an emotion she could ill conceal. She loved to hear others ta^Jc of him, and yet scarcely dared speak of him herself. She recalled her emotion at unexpectedly seeing his portrait when with her aunt, and her mortification when her mother deprived her of the poem which she sighed to read. Day after day something seemed to have occun'ed to fix her brooding thoughts with fonder earnestness on his image. At length they met. Her emotion when she first recognised him at Eanelagh and felt him approaching her, was one of those tumults of the heart that form almost a crisis in our sensations. With what difficulty had she maintained herself! Doubtful whether he would even formally acknow- ledge her presence, her vision as if by fascination had nevertheless met his, and grew dizzy as ho passed. In the interval that had elapsed between his first passing and then joining her, what a chaos was her mind ! What a wild blending of all the scenes and incidents of her life ! What random answers had she made to those with whom she had been before conversing with ease and animation ! And then, when she unexpectedly found Cadurcis at her side, and" listened to the sound of that familiar voice, familiar and yet changed, expressing so much tenderness in its tones, and in its words such de- ference and delicate respect — existence felt to her that moment affluent with a blissful excitement of which she had never dreamed ! Her life was a revery until they met again, in which she only mused over his fame, and the strange relations of their careers. She had watched the conduct of her mother to him at dinner with poig nant sorrow ; she scarcely believed that she should have an opportunity of expressing to him her sym path}'. And then what had followed ] A conver- sation, every word of which had touched her heart, a conversation that would have entirely controlled her feelings even if he had not already subjected them. The tone in which he so suddenly had pro- nounced " Venetia," was the sweetest music to which she had ever listened. His allusion to her father had drawn tears, which could not be restrained even in a crowded saloon. Now she wept plen teously. It was so generous, so noble, so kind, so affectionate ! Dear, dear Cadurcis, is it wonderful that you should be loved ! Then falling into a revery of sweet and unbroken stillness, with her eyes fixed in abstraction on the fire, Venetia reviewed her life from the moment she had known Piantagenet. Not an incident that had ever occurred to them that did not rise obedient to her magical bidding. She loved to dwell upon the time when she was the consolation of his sor- rows, and when Cherbury was to him a pleasant refuge ! O ! she felt sure her mother must remem- ber those fond days, and love him as she once did ! She pictured to herself the little Piantagenet of hei- childhood, so serious and so pensive when alone or with others, yet with her at times so gay, and wild, and sarcastic : forebodings of all that deep and bril- liant spirit, which had since stirred up tlie heart of a great nation, and dazzled the fancy of an admiring world. The change too in their mutual lots was also, to a degree, not free from that sympathy that had ever bound them together. A train of strange accidents had brought Venetia from her spell-bound seclusion, placed her suddenly in the most brilliant circle of civilization, and classed her among not the least admired of its favoured members. And whom had she come to meet 1 Whom did she find in this new and splendid life the most courted and con- sidered of its community ; crowned as it were with 780 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. garlands, and perfumed with the incense of a thou- sand altars 1 Her own Plantagenet. It was pass- ing strange. The morrow brought the verses from Cadurcis. They greatly aficcted her. The picture of their childhood, and of the singular sympathy of their mutual situations, and the description of her father, called forth her tears ; she murmured, however, at Jhe allusion to her other parent. It was not just, it could not be true. These verses wrere not, of course, shown to Lady Annabel. Would they have been shown, even if they had not contained the allusion] The question is not perplexing. Venetia had her secret, and a far deeper one than the mere rerej)tion of a poem ; all confidence be- tween her and her mother had expired. Love had Btepped in, and before his magic touch, the discipline of a life expired in an instant. Such is a slight sketch of the state and progress ofVenetia's feelings; and from this, however weak, the reader may form an idea of the mood in which, during the fortnight liefore alluded to, she was in the habit of meeting Ijord Cadurcis. During this period not the slightest conversation respecting him had occurred between her mother and herself. Lady Annabel never mentioned him, and her brow clouded when his name, as was often the case, was mtroduced. At the end of this fortnight, it hap- pened that her aunt and mother were out together m the carriage, and had left her in the course of the morning at her uncle's house. During this mterval, Lord Cadurcis called, and having ascer- tained, through a garrulous servant, that, though liis mistress was out. Miss Herbert was in the drawing-room, he immediately took the opportu- nity of being introduced. Venetia was not a little surprised at his appearance, and, conscious of her mother's feelings upon the subject, for a moment a little agitated, yet, it must be confessed, as much pleased. She seized this occasion of speaking to him about his verses, for hitherto she had only been able to acknowledge the receipt of them by a word. While she expressed without affectation the emo- tions they had occasioned her, she complained of his injustice to her mother : this was the cause of an interesting conversation of which her father was the subject, and for which she had long sighed. With what deep, unbroken attention she listened to her companion's enthusiastic delineation of his character and career ! What multiplied questions did she not ask him, and how eagerly, how amply, how affccti-onately he satisfied her just and natural curiosity ! Hours flew away while they indulged in this rare communion. " O ! that I could see him !" sighed Venetia. " You will," replied Plantagenet, "your destiny requires it. *You will see him as surely as you be- held that portrait that it was the labour of a life to jjievent you beholding." Venetia shook her head ; " And yet," she added musingly, " my mother loves him." " Her life proves it," said Cadurcis, bitterly. " I think it docs," replied Venetia, sincerely. "I pretend not to understand her heart," he an- swered, " it is an enigma that I cannot solve. I ought not to believe that she is without one ; but, at any rate, her pride is deeper than her love." "They were ill-suited," said Venetia, mourn- fully ; " and yet it is one of my dreams that they may yet meet." " Ah ! Venetia," he exclaimed in a voice of great softness, " they had not known each other from theii childhood, like us. They met, and they parted, alike in haste." Venetia made no reply ; her eyes were fixed in abstraction on a hand-screen, which she was uncon- scious that she held. " Tell me," said Cadurcis, drawing his chair close to hers ; " tell me, Venetia, if — " At this moment a thundering knock at the do^^r announced the return of the countess and her sister- in-law. Cadurcis rose from his seat, but his chair, which still remained close to that on which Vene- tia was sitting, did not escape the quick glance of her mortified mother. The countess welcomed Ca- durcis with extreme cordiality ; Lady Annabel only returned his very courteous bow. " Stop and dine with us, my dear lord," said the countess. '• We are only ourselves, and Lady Annabel and Venetia," " I thank you, Clara," said Lady Annabel, "but we cannot stop to-day." "O!" exclaimed her sister. "It will be such a disappointment to Philip. Indeed you must stay," she added, in a coaxing tone. " We shall be such an agreeable little party, with Lord Cadurcis." " I cannot, indeed, my dear Clara," replied Lady Annabel ; " not to-day, indeed not to-day. Come Venetia, we must be going." CHAPTER XIV. Ladt Annabel was particularly kind to Vene- tia on their return to their hotel, otherwise her daughter might have fancied that she had offended her, for she was very silent. Venetia did not doubt that the presence of Lord Cadurcis was the reason that her mother would not remain and dine at her uncle's. This conviction grieved Venetia, but she did not repme ; she indulged the fond hojie that time would remove the strong prejudice which Lady Annabel now so singularly entertained against one in whose welfare she was originally so deeply interested. During their simple and short repast Venetia was occupied in a revery, in which, it must be owned, Cadurcis greatly figured, and answered the occasional though very kind remarks of her mo- ther with an absent air. After dinner. Lady Annabel drew her chair to- wards the fire — for, although May, the weather was chill — and said, " A quiet evening at home, Vene- tia, will be a relief after all this gayety." Venetia assented to her mother's observation, and nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed without another word being spoken. Venetia had taken up a book, and Lady Annabel was apparently lost in her reflections. At length she said, somewhat abruptly, " It is more than three years, I think, since Lord Cadurcis left Cherbury ?" " Yes ; it is more than three years," replied Ve- netia. " He quitted us .suddenly." " Very suddenly," agreed Venetia. " I never asked you whether you knew the cause, Venetia," continued her mother, " but I always con- cluded that you did, I suppose I was not in error?" This was not a very agreeable inquiry. Vene- tia did not reply to it with her previous readiness and indifference. That, indeed, was impossible, VENETIA. 781 bai. with her accustomed frankness, after a mo- ment's hesitation, she answered, " Lord Cadurcis never specifically stated the cause to me, mamma. Indeed I was myself surprised at his departure, but Bome conversation had occurred between us on the very morning he quitted Cadurcis, which, on reflec- tion, I could not doubt occasioned that departure." " Lord Cadurcis preferred his suit to you, Vene- tia, and you rejected him 1" said Lady Annabel. " It is as you believe," replied Venetia, not a little agitated. " You did wisely, my child, and I was a fool ever to have regretted your conduct." '' Why should you think so, dearest mamma?" " Whatever may have been the cause that im- pelled your conduct then," said Lady Annabel, " I shall ever esteem your, decision as a signal interpo- sition of Providence in your favour. Except his extreme youth, there was apparently no reason which should not have induced you to adopt a very different decision. I tremble when I think what might have been the consequences." "Tremble I dearest mother?" "Tremble, Venetia. My only thought in this life is the happiness of my child. It was in peril." " Nay, I trust not that, mamma : you are preju- diced against Plantagenet. It makes me very un- happy, and him also." "He is again your suitor?" said Lady Annabel, with a scrutinizing glance. " Indeed he is not." " He will be," said Lady Annabel. " Prepare yourself Tell me, then, are your feelings the same towards him as when he last quitted us ^" " Feehngs, mamma !" said Venetia, echoing her mother's words ; for, indeed, the question was one ■very difficult to answer, " I ever loved Plantagenet ; I love him still." " But do you love him now as then ? Then you looked upon him as a brother. He has no soul now for sisterly affections. I beseech you tell me, my child — me, your mother, your friend, your best, your only friend — tell me, have you for a moment repented that you ever refused to extend to him any other affection ?" " I have not thought of the subject, mamma ; I have not wished to think of the subject; I have had no occasion to think of it. Lord Cadurcis is not my suitor now." " Venetia !" said Lady Annabel, " I cannot doubt you love me." " Dearest mother !" exclaimed Venetia, in a tone of mingled fondness and reproach, and she rose from her seat and embraced Lady Annabel, " My happiness is an object to you, Venetia?" continued Lady Annabel. " Mother, mother," said Venetia, in a depreca- tory tone. " Do not ask such cruel questions ! Whom should I love but you, the best, the dearest mother that ever existed ! And what object can I have in life that for a moment can be placed in competition with your happiness?" " Then, Venetia, I tell you," said Lady Annabel, in a solemn, yet excited voice, " that that happi- ness is gone forever, nay, my very life will be the forfeit, if I ever live to see you the bride of Lord Cadurcis." " I have no thought of being the bride of any one," said Venetia. " I am happy with you. I wish never to leave you." " My child, the fulfilment of such a wish is not in. the nature of things," replied Lady Annabel. " The day will come when we must part; I am prepared for the event, — nay, T look forward to it not only with resignation, but delight, when I think it may increase your happiness ; but were that step to destroy it — ! then, then I could live no more. I can endure my own sorrows, I can strug- gle with my own bitter lot, I have some sources of consolation which enable me to endure my own misery without repining, but yours, yours, Venetia, I could not bear. No ! if once I were to behold you lingering in life as your mother, with blighted hopes and with a heart broken, if hearts can break, I should not survive the spectcale ; I know myself, Venetia, I could not survive it." "But why anticipate such misery? Why in- dulge in such gloomy forebodings? Am T not hap- py now ? Do you not love me ?" Venetia had drawn her chair close to that of her mother ; she sat by her side and held her hand. " Venetia," said Lady Annabel, after a pause of some minutes, and in a low voice, " I must speak to you on a subject on which we have never con- versed. I must speak to you," and here liad)' Annabel's voice dropped lower and lower, but still its tones were very distinct, although she express- ed herself with evident effort — " I must sjpeak to you about — your father." Venetia uttered a faint cry, she clenched her mother's hand with a convulsive grasp, and sank upon her bosom. She struggled to maintain her- self, but the first sound of that name from her mo- ther's hps, and all the long-suppressed emotions that it conjured up, overpowered her. The blood seem- ed to desert her heart, still she did not faint ; she clung to Lady Annabel, pallid and shivering. Her mother tenderly embraced her, she whisper- ed to her words of great affection. She attempted to comfort and console her. Venetia murmured. " This is very foolish of me, mother ; but speak, I speak of what I have so long desired to hear." "Not now, Venetia!" " Now, mother ! yes, now ! I am quite composed. 1 could not bear the postponement of what you are about to say. I could not sleep, dear mother, if you did not speak to me. It was only for a moment I was overcome. See I I am quite composed." And indeed she spoke in a calm and steady voice, but her pale and suflfering countenance expressed the painful struggle which it cost her to command herself " Venetia," said Lady Annabel, " it has been one of the objects of my life, that you should not share my sorrows." Venetia pressed her mother's hand, but made no other reply. " I concealed from you for years," continued Lady Annabel, " a circumstance in which, indeed, you were deeply interested, but the knowledge of which could only bring you unhappiness. Yet it was destined that my sohcitude should eventually be baffled. I know that it is not from my lips that you learn for the first time that you have a father — a father living." " Mother, let me tell you all !" said Venetia ea- gerly. " I know all," said Lady Annabel. " But, mother, there is something that yoxi do not know ; and now I would ODufess it." " 'I'here is nothing that you can confess with 3 U 782 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. which I am not acquainted, Venetia ; and I feel assured, I have ever felt assured, that your only reason for concealment was a desire to save me pain." "That, indeed, has ever been my only motive," replied Venetia, " for having a secret from my mo- ther." " In my absence from Cherbury, you entered the chamber," said Lady Annabel, very calmly. " In the delirium of your fever, I became acquaint- ed with a circumstance which so nearly proved fatal to you." Venetia's cheek turned scarlet. " In that chamber you beheld the portrait of your father," continued Lady Annabel. " From our friend you learned that father was still living. That is all ?" said Lady Annabel, inquiringly. " No, not all, dear mother ; not all. Lord Ca- durcis reproached me at Cherbury with — with — with having such a father," she added, in a hesitat- ing voice. " It was then I learned his misfortunes, mother ; his misery." " I thought that misfortunes, that misery, were the lot of your other parent," replied Lady Anna- bel, somewhat coldly. " Not with my love," said Venetia, eagerly ; " not with my love, mother. You have forgotten your misery in my love. Say so, say so, dearest mother." And Venetia threw herself on her knees before Lady Annabel, and looked up with earnest- ness in her face. The expression of that countenance had been for a moment stern, but it relaxed into fondness, as Lady Annabel gently bowed her head, and press- ed her lips to her daughter's forehead. " Ah ! Ve- netia," she said, " all depends upon you. I can en- dure, nay, I can forget the past, if my child be faithful to me. There are no misfortunes, there is no misery, if the being to whom I have consecrated the devotion of my life will only be dutiful, will only be guided by my advice, will only profit by my sad experience." *' Mother, I repeat I have no thought but for you," said Venetia. " My own dearest mother, if my duty, if my devotion can content you, you shall be happy. But wherein have I failed 1" " In nothing, love. Your life has hitherto been one tnibroken course of affectionate obedience." " And ever shall be," said Venetia. " But you were speaking, mother, you were speaking of — of my — my father I" " Of him !" said Lady Annabel, thoughtfully. " You have seen his picture ?" Venetia kissed her mother's hand. " Was he less beautiful than Cadurcrs 1 Was he less gifted 1" exclaimed Lady Annabel, with animation. " He could whisper in tones as sweet, and pour out his vows as fervently. Yet what am I ! " O my child," continued Lady Annabel, " be- ware of such beings ! They bear within them a spirit on which all the devotion of our sex is la- vished in vain. A year — no ! not a year, not one short year !— -and all my hopes were blighted ! O ! Venetia, if your future should be like my bitter past ! — and it might have been, and I might have contributed to the fulfilment ! — can you wonder that J should look upon Cadurciswith aversion 1" " JJut, mother, dearest mother, we have known Plantagenet from his childhood ! You ever loved him ; you ever gave hini credit for a heart — most tender and aflectionate." " He has no heart." " Mother !" " He cannot have a heart. Spirits like him are heartless. It is another impulse that sways their existence. It is imagination ; it is vanity ; it w self, disguised with glittering qualities that dazzle our weak senses, but selfishness, the most entire, the most concentrated. We knew him as a child, — ah ! what can women know ! We are born to love, and to be deceived. We saw him young, helpless, and abandoned ; he moved our pity. We knew not his nature; then he was ignorant of it himself. But the young tiger, though cradled at our hearths and fed on milk, will in good time re- tire to its jungle and prey on blood. You cannot change its nature ; and the very hand that fostered it will be its first victim." " How often have we parted !" said Venetia, in a deprecating tone ; " how long have we been se- parated ! and yet we find him ever the same ; h^ loves you now, the same as in old days. If you had seen him, as I have seen him, weep when he recalled your promise to be a parent to him, and then contrasted with such sweet hopes your present reserve, ! you would believe he had a heart, you would, indeed I" " Weep I" exclaimed Lady Annabel, bitterly, " ay ! they can weep. Sensibility is a luxury which they love to indulge. Their very suscepti- bility is our bane. They can weep ; they can play upon our feelings ; and our emotion, so easily ex- cited, is an homage to their own power, in wliich they glory. " Look at Cadurcis," she suddenly resumed , " bred with so much care ; the soundest princi- ples instilled into him with such sedulousness; imbibuig them apparently with so much intelli- gence, ardour, and sincerity, with all that fervour, indeed, with which men of his temperament for the moment pursue every object; but a few years back, pious, dutiful, and moral, viewing perhaps with intolerance too youthful all that differed from the opinions and the conduct he had been educated to admire and follow. And what is he now 1 The most lawless of the wild ; casting to the winds every salutary principle of restraint and social dis- cipline, and glorying only in the abandoned energy of self. Three years ago, you yourself confess to me, he reproached you with your father's conduct; now he emulates it. There is a career which such men must nm, and from which no influence can divert them ; it is in their blood. To-day Cad.ir- cis may vow to you eternal devotion ; but, if the world speaks truth, Venetia, a month ago he was equally enamoured of another — and one, too, who cannot be his. But grant that his sentiments to- wards you are for the moment sincere ; his imagi- nation broods upon your idea, it transfigures it with a halo which exists only to his vision. Yield to him ; become his bride ; and you will have the mortification of finding, that before six months have elapsed, his restless spirit is already occupied with objects which may excite your mortification, your disgust, even your horror !" " Ah ! mother, it is not with Plantagenet as with my father ; Plantagenet could not forget Cherbury, he could not forget our childhood," said Venetia. " On the contrary, while you lived together these recollections would be wearisome, commonplace to him; when you had separated, indeed, mellowed bv distance, and the comparative vagueness with VENETIA. 783 which your ahsence would invest them, they would Deconie the objects of his muse, and he would in- sult you by making the public the confidant of all your most dehcate domestic feelings." Lady Annabel rose from her seat, and walked up and down the room, speaking with an excite- ment very unusual with her. " To have all the soft secrets of your life revealed to the coarse won- der of the gloating multitude; to find yourself the object of the world's curiosity — still worse, their pitv, their sympathy ; to have the sacred conduct of y^our hearth canvassed in every circle, and be the grand subject of the pros and cons of every paltry journal, — ah! Venetia, you know not, you cannot understand, it is impossible you can com- prehend, the bitterness of such a lot." " My beloved mother !" said Venetia, with streaming ej^es, " you cannot have a feeling that I do not share." " Venetia, you know not what I had to endure !" exclaimed Lady Annabel, in a tone of extreme bitterness. " There is no degree of wretchedness that you can conceive equal to what has been the life of your mother. And what has sustained me — what, throughout all my tumultuous troubles, has been the star on which I have ever gazed 1 — My child ! And am I to lose her now, after all my sufferings, all my hopes that she at least might be spared my miserable doom ! Am I to witness her also a victim !" Lady Annabel clasped her hands in passionate grief. " Mother ! mother!" exclaimed Venetia, in agony, " spare yourself, spare me !" " Venetia, you know how I have doted upon you; you know how I have watched and tended you from your infancy. Have I had a thought, a wish, a hope, a plan ! — has there been the slightest action of my life, of which you have not been the object 1 All mothers feel, but none ever felt like me : you were my solitary joy." Venetia leaned her face upon the table at which she was sitting, and sobbed aloud. " My love was baffled," Lady Annabel con- tinued. " I fled, for both our sakes, from the world in which my family were honoured ; — I sacrificed without a sigh, in the veiy prime of my youth, every pursuit which interests woman ; but I had my child I I had my child !" "And you have her still!" exclaimed the mise- rable Venetia. " Mother, you have her still !" " I have schooled my mind," continued Lady Annabel, still pacing the room with agitated steps ; " I have disciplined my emotions ; I have felt at my heart the constant, the undying pang, and yet I have smiled, that you might be happy. But I can struggle against my fate no longer. No longer can I suffer my unparalleled, — yes, my unjust doom. What have I done to merit these afflictions ? — Now, then, let me struggle no more ; let me die !" Venetia tried to rise ; her limbs refused their office; she tottered; she fell again into her seat with an hysteric cry. " Alas ! alas !" exclaimed Lady Annabel, " to II mother, a child is every thing ; but to a child, a parent is only a link in the chain of her existence, it was weakness, it was folly, it was madness to itake every thing on a source which must fail me. I feel it now, but I feci it too late." Venetia held forth her arms; she could not «peak ; she was stifled with her emotion. ■'Tint was it wonderful that I was so weak?" continued her mother, as it were communing only with herself. " What child was like mme 1 O ! the joy, the bliss, the hours of rapture that I have passed, in gazing upon my treasure, and dreaming of all her beauty and her rare qualities ! I was so happy ! — I was so proud ! Ah ! Venetia, you know not how I have loved you !" Venetia sprang from her scat ; she rushed forward with convulsive energy ; she clung to her mother, threw her arms round her neck, and buried her passionate wo in Lady Annabel's bosom. Lady Annabel stood for some minutes supporting her speechless and agitated child ; then, as her sobs became fainter, and the tumult of her gi-ief gra- dually died away, she bore her to the sofa, and seated herself by her side, holding Venetia's hand in her own, and ever and anon soothing her with soft embraces, and still softer words. At length, in a faint voice, Venetia said, " Mother, what can I do to restore the past] How can wc be to each other as we were, for this I cannot bear?" " Love me, my Venetia, as I love you ; be faith- ful to your mother ; do not disregard her counsel ; profit by her errors." " I will in all things obey you," said Venetia, in a low voice ; " there is no sacrifice I am not pre- pared to make for your happiness." " Let us not talk of sacrifices, my darling child ; it is not a sacrifice that I require. I wish only t» prevent your everlasting misery." " What, then, shall I do ?" " Make me only one promise ; whatever pledge you give I feel assured that no influence, Venetia, will ever induce you to forfeit it." " Name it, mother." " Promise me never to marry Lord Cadurcis," said Lady Anabel,^in a whisper, but a whisper of which not a word was lost by the person to whom it was addressed. " I promise never to marry, but with your appro- bation," said Venetia, in a solemn voice, and utter- ing the words with great distinctness. The countenance of Lady Annabel instantly brightened ; she embraced her child with extreme fondness, and breathed the softest and the sweetest expressions of gratitude and love. CHAPTER XV. When Lady Monteagle discovered that of whicfi her good-natured friends took care she should not long remain ignorant, — that Venetia Herliert had been the companion of Lord Cadurcis' childhood, and that the most intimate relations had once sulv sistcd between the two families, — she became the prey of the most violent jealousy ; and the bitter- ness of her feelings was not a little increased, when she felt that she had not only been abandoned, but duped ; and that the new beauty, out of his fancy for whom she had flattered herself she had so tri- umphantly ralUed him, was an old friend, whom he had always admired. She seized the first occa- sion, after this discovery, of relieving her feelings, by a scene so violent, that Cadurcis had never again entered Monteagle House ; and then repent- ing of this mortifying result, which she had her- self precipitated, she overwhelmed liini with letters. 784 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. which, next to scenes, were the very things which Lord Cadurcis most heartily abhorred. These, — now indignant, now passionate, now loading him with reproaches, now appealing to liis love, and now to his pity, — daily arrived at his residence, and were greeted at first only with short and sar- castic replies, and finally by silence. Then the lady solicited a final interview, and Lord Cadurcis having made an appointment to quiet her, went out of town the day before to Richmond, to a villa belonging to Venetia's uncle, and where, among other guests, he was of course to meet Lady Anna- bel and her daughter. The party was a most agreeable one, and as- sumed an additional interest with Cadurcis, who had resolved to seize this favourable opportunity to bring his as])irations to Venetia to a crisis. The day after the last conversation with her, which we have noticed, he had indeed boldly called upon the Herberts at their hotel for that purpose, but with- out success, as they were again absent from home. He had been since almost daily in the society of Venetia ; but Loudon, to a lover who is not smiled upon by the domestic circle of his mistress, is a ver}' unfavourable spot for confidential conversations. A villa life, with its easy, unembarrassed habits, its gardens and lounging walks, to .say nothing of the increased opportunities resulting from being together at all hours, and living under the same roof, was more promising; and here he flattered himself he might defy even the Argus eye and ceaseless vigilance of his intended mother-in-law, his enemy, whom he could not propitiate, and whom he now fairly hated. His cousin George, too, was a guest, and his cousin George was the confidant of his love. Upon this kind relation devolved the duty — far from a disagreeable one — of amusing the mother ; and as Lady Aimabcl, though she relaxed not a jot of the grim courtesy which she ever extended to Lord Ca- durcis, was no longer seriously uneasy as to his in- fluence after the promise she had extracted from ner daughter, it would seem that circumstances combined to prevent Lord Cadurcis from being dis- appointed at least in the first object which he ■wished to obtain — an opportunity. And yet several days elapsed before this offered itself, — passed by Cadurcis, however, very plea- santly in the presence of the being he loved, and very judiciously too, for no one coukl possibly be more amiable and ingratiating than our friend. Every one present, except Lady Annabel, ap- peared to entertain for him as much affection as admiration : those who had only met him in throngs were quite surprised how their superficial observa- vation and the delusive reports of the world had misled them. As for his hostess, whom it had ever been his study to please, he had long won her heart ; and, as she could not be blind to his pro- jects and pretensions, she heartily wished him suc- cess, assisted him with all her efforts, and desired nothing more sincerely than that her niece should achieve such a conquest, and she obtain so distin- guished a nephew. Notwithstanding her promise to her mother, Venetia felt justified in making no alteration in her conduct to one whom she still sincerely loved ; and, under the immediate influence of his fascination, it was often, when she was alone, that she mourned with a sorrowing heart over the opinion which her mother entertained of him. Could it indeed be possible that Plantagenet, — the same Plantagenet she had known so early and so long, to her invari- ably so tender and so devoted, — could entail on her, by their union, such unspeakable and inevitable misery 1 Whatever might be tlie view adopted by her mother of her conduct, Venetia felt every hour more keenly that it was a sacrifice, and the greatest; and she still indulged in a vague yet de- licious dream, that Lady Annabel might ultimately withdraw the harsh and perhaps heart-breaking interdict she had so rigidly decreed. " Cadurcis," said his cousin to him one morning, " we are all going to Hampton Court. Now is your time; Lady Annabel, the Vcrnons, and my- self, will fill one carriage; I have arranged that. Look out, and something may be done. Speak to the countess." Accordingly Lord Cadurcis hastened to make a suggestion to a friend always flattered by his notice. " My dear friend," he said, in his softest tone, " let you, Venetia, and myself, manage to be together ; it will be so delightful ; we shall quite enjoy our- selves.^' The countess did not require this animating compliment to effect the object which Cadurcis did not express. She had gradually fallen into the unacknowledged conspiracy against her sister-in- lavv', whose prejudice against her friend she had long discovered, and had now ceased to combat. Two carriages, and one filled as George had ar- ranged, accordingly drove gay ly away ; and Venetia, and her aunt, and Lord Cadurcis, were to follow them on horseback. They rode with delight through the splendid avenues of Bushey, and Ca- durcis was never in a lighter or happier mood. The month of May was in its decline, and the cloudless sky, and the balmy air such as suited so agreeable a season. The London season was ap- proaching its close ; for the royal birthday was, at the period of our histoiy, generally the signal of preparation for country quarters. . The carriages arrived long before the riding party, for they had walked their steeds, and they found a messenger who lequested them to join their friends in the apartments which they were visiting. " For my part," said Cadurcis, " I love the sun that rarely shines in this land. I feel no inclination to lose the golden hours in these gloomy rooms. What say you, ladies fair, to a stroll in the gardens 1 It will be doubly charming after our ride." His companions cheerfully assented, and they walked away, congratulating themselves on their escape from the wearisome amusement of palace- hunting, straining their eyes to see pictures hung at a gigantic height, and solemnly wandering through formal apartments full of state beds, and massy cabinets, and modern armour. Taking their way along the terrace, they struck at length into a less formal path. At length the countess seated herself on a bench. " I must rest," she said, " but yon young people may roam about; only do not lose me." " Come, Venetia !" said Lord Cadurcis. Venetia was hesitating ; she did not like to leave her aunt alone, but the countess encouraged her. " If you will not go, you will only make me con- tinue walking," she said. So Venetia proceeded, and for the first time since her visit was alone with Plantagenet. VENETIA. 785 " I quite love your aunt," said Lord Cadurcis. " It is difficult indeed not to love her," said Venetia. " Ah ! Venetia, I wish your mother was like your aunt," he continued. It was an observation which was not heard without some emotion by his companion, though it was imperceptible. " Vene- tia," said Cadurcis, " when I recollect old days, how strange it seems that we now never should be alone, but by some mere accident, like this, for in- stance." " It is of no use thinking of old days," said Venetia." " No use !" said Cadurcis. " I do not like to hear you say that, Venetia. Those are some of the least agreeable words that were ever uttered by that mouth. I cling to old days ; they are my only joy and my only hope." " They are gone," said Venetia. •' But may they not return?" said Cadurcis. '' ]\ever," said Venetia, mournfully. The)- had walked on to a marble fountain of gigantic proportions and elaborate workmanship, an assemblage of divinities and genii, all spouting water in fantastic attitudes. " Old days," said Plantagenet, " are like the old fountain at Cadurcis, dearer to me than all this modern splendour." " The old fountain at Cadurcis," said Venetia, musingly, and gazing on the water with an ab- stracted air, " I loved it well !" "Venetia," said her companion, in a tone of extreme tenderness, yet not untouched with melan- choly, " dear Venetia, let us return, and return together, to that old fountain and those old days !" Venetia shook her head. " Ah ! Plantagenet," she exclaimed, in a mournful voice, " we must not speak of these things." " Why not, Venetia ?" exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, eagerly. " Why should we be estranged from each other 1 I love you ; I love only you ; never have I loved another. And you — have you forgotten all our youthful aflection ? . You cannot, Venetia. Our childhood can never be a blank." " I told you, when first we met, my heart was unchanged," said Venetia, in a very serious tone. " Remember the vows I made to you, when last at Cherbury," said Cadurcis. " Years have flown ©n, Venetia ; but they find me urging the same. At anj rate, now I know myself; at any rate I am not now an obscure boy ; yet vyhat is manhood, and what is fame, without the charm of my infancy and my youth. Yes, Venetia, you must — you will be mine 1" "Plantagenet," she replied, in a solemn tone, " yours I never can be." " You do not, then, love me V said Cadurcis, reproachfully, and in a voice of great feeling. " It is impossible for you to be loved more than I love you," said Venetia. " My own Venetia !" said Cadurcis; "Venetia that I dote on ! what does this meani Why, then, will you not be mine 1" " I cannot ; there is an obstacle — an insuperable obstacle." " Tell it me," said Cadurcis, eagerly ; " I will overcome it." " I have promised never to marry without the approbation of my mother; her approbation you never can obtain." 99 Cadurcis' countenance fell ; this was an obstacle which he felt that even he could not overcome. " I told you your mother hated me, Venetia." And then, as she did not reply ,Jie continued. " You confess it, I see you confess it. \pnce you flattered me I was mistaken ; but now, nov*?' you confess it." " Hatred is a word which I cannot understand," replied Venetia. " My mother has reasons for disapproving my union with you ; not founded on the circumstances of your life, and therefore re- movable — for I know what the world says, Plan- tagenet, of you — but I have confidence in your love, and that is nothing but founded on your character, on your nature; they may be unjust, but they are insuperable, and I must yield to them." " You have another parent, Venetia," said Ca- durcis, in a tone of almost irresistible softness, " the best and greatest of men ! Once you told me that his sanction was necessary to your marriage. I will obtain it. O ! Venetia, be mine, and we will join him ; join that ill-fated and illustrious being, who loves you with a passion second only to mine ; him, who has addressed you in language whicli rests on every lip and has thrilled many a heart that you even can never know. My ad(3red Venetia, picture to yourself for one moment, a life with him ; resting on my bosom, consecrated by his paternal love ! Let us quit this mean and miserable existence, which we now pursue, which never could have suited us ; let us shun forever this dull and degrad- ing life, that is not life, if life be what I deem it ; let us fly to those beautiful solitudes, where he com- munes with an inspiring nature ; let us — let us be happy !" He uttered these last words in a tone of melting tenderness ; he leaned forward his head, and his gaze caught hers which was fixed upon the water. Her hand was pressed suddenly in his ; his eye glittered, his lip seemed still speaking ; he awaited his doom. The countenance of Venetia was quite pale, but it was disturbed. You might see as it were the shadowy progress of thought, and mark the tumultu- ous passage of conflicting passions. Her mind for a moment was indeed a chaos. There was a terri- ble conflict between love and duty. At length a tear, one solitary tear, burst from her burning eye- ball, and stole slowly down her cheek; it relieved her pain. She pressed Cadurcis' hand, and speak ing in a hollow voice, and with a look vague and painful, she said, " I am a victim, but I am resolved. I never will desert her who devoted herself to me." Cadurcis quitted her hand rather abruptly, and began walking up and down on the turf that sur- rounded the fountain. " Devoted herself to you !" he exclaimed, with a fiendish laugh, and speaking, as was his custom, between his teeth, " Commend me to such devotion. Not content with depriving you of a father, now forsooth she must bereave you of a lover too ! And this is a mother, a devoted mother ! The cold- blooded, sullen, selfish, inexorable tyrant !" " Plantagenet !" exclaimed Venetia, with great aninvation. " Nay, I will speak. Victim indeed ! You have ever been her slave. She a devoted mother ! Ay ! as devoted as a mother as she was dutiful as a wife ! She has no heart; she never had a feeling. And she cajoles you with her love, her devotion — the stem hypocrite !" 3U2 786 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. " I must leave you," said Venetia; "I cannot Dear this." " O ! the truth, the truth is precious," said Ca- durcis, taking her hand and preventing her from moving. " Your mother, your devoted mother, has driven one man of genius from her bosom, and his country. Yet there is another. Deny me what I ask, and to-morrow's sun shall light me to another land; to this I will never return ; I will blend my tears with your father's, and I will publish to Europe the double infamy of your mother. I swear it solemnly. Still I stand here, Venetia ; prepared, if you will but smile upon me, to be her son, her dutiful son. Nay ! her slave, like you. She shall not murmur. I will be dutiful ; she shall be devoted ; we will all be happy," he added, in a softer tone. " Now, now, Venetia, my happiness is on the stake, now, now." " I have spoken," said Venetia. " My heart may break, but my purpose shall not falter." " Then my curse upon your mother's head !" aid Cadurcis, with terrible vehemency. "May Heaven rain all its plagues upon her ! The He- aite !" " I will listen no more," exclaimed Venetia, in- dignantly, and she moved away. She had pro- ceeded some little distance when she paused and looked back ; Cadurcis was still at the fountain, but he did not observe her. She remembered his sudden departure from Cherbury, she did not doubt that, in the present instance, he would leave them as abruptly, and that he would keep his word, so solemnly given. Her heai't was nearly breaking, but she could not bear the idea of parting in bitter- ness with the being whom perhaps she loved best in the world. She stopped, she called his name in a voice low indeed, but in that silent spot it reached him. He joined her immediately, but with a slow step. When he had reached her, he said, without any animation, and in a frigid tone, "I believe you called me V Venetia burst into tears. " I cannot bear to part in anger, Plantagenet. I wished to say farewell in kindness. I shall always pray for your happiness. God bless you, Plantagenet !" Lord Cadurcis made no reply, though for a mo- ment he seemed about to speak ; he bowed, and as Venetia approached her amit, he turned his steps in a different direction. CHAPTER XVI. Vr.NETiA stopped for a moment to collect her- self before she joined her aunt, but it was impossi- ble to conceal her agitation from the countess. They had not, however, been long together before they observed their friends in the distance, who had now quitted the palace. A'^enetia made the utmost efforts to compose herself, and not unsuccessful ones. She was sufficiently calm on their arrival, to listen, if not to converse. The countess, with all the tact of a woman, covered her niece's cojifusion by her animated description of their agreeable ride, and their still more pleasant promenade ; and in afew minutes the whole party were walking back to their carriages. When they had arrived at the inn, they found Lord Cadurcis, to whose temporary absence tlie countess had alluded with some casual observa- tion which she flattered herself was very satisfac- tory. Cadurcis appeared rather sullen, and the countess, with feminine quickness, suddenly dis- covered that both herself and her niece were ex- tremely fatigued, and that they had better return in the carriages. There was one vacant place, and some of the gentlemen must ride outside. Lord Cadurcis, however, said that he should return as he came, and the grooms might lead back the ladies' horses : and so in a few minutes the carriages had driven off. Our solitary equestrian, however, was no sooner mounted than he put his horse to its speed, and never drew in his rein, until he reached Hyde Park Corner. The rapid motion accorded with his tu- multuous mood. He was soon at home, gave his horse to a servant, for he had left his groom behind, rushed into his library, tore up a letter of Lady Montcagle's with a demoniac glance, and rang his bell with such force that it broke. His valet, not unused to such ebullitions, immediately appeared. "Has any thing happened, Spalding 1" said his lordship. " Nothing particular, my lord. Her ladyship sent every day, and called herself twice, but I told her your lordship was in Yorkshire." " That was right : I saw a letter from her. When did it cornel" " It has been here several days, my lord." " Mind, I am at home to nobody ; I am not in town." The valet bowed and disappeared. Cadurcis threw himself into an easy chair, stretched his legs, sighed, and then swore ; then suddenly starting up, he seized a mass of letters that were lying on the table, and hurled them to the other end of the apart- ment, dashed several books to the ground, kicked down several chairs that were in his way, and began pacing the room with his usual troubled step ; and so he continued until the shades of twilight entered his apartment. Then he pulled down the other bellrope, and Mr. Spalding again appeared. " Order post-horses for to-morrow," said his lord- ship. " Where to, my lord?" " I don't know ; order the horses." Mr. Spalding again bowed and disappeared. In a few minutes he heard a great stamping and confusion in his master's apartment, and presently the door opened, and his master's voice was heard calling him repeatedly in a very irritable tone. " Why are there no bells in this cursed room V inquired Lord Cadurcis. " The ropes are broken, my lord." "Why are they broken 1" " I can't say, my lord." " I cannot leave this house for a day but I find every thing in confusion. Bring me some Bur- gundy." " Yes, my lord ; there is a young lad, my lord, called a few minutes back, and asked for your lord- ship. He says he has something very particular to say to your lordship. I told him your lordship was out of town. He said your lordship would wish very much to see him, and that he had come from the Abbey." " The Abbey !" said Cadurcis, in a tone of curi- osity. " Why did you not show him in?" "Your lordship said you we:e not ? home to anybody." " Idiot ! Is this anybody ? Of cof; /se I would VENETIA. 787 have seen him. What the devil do I keep you for, sir ] You seem to me to have lost your head." Mr. Spalding retired, " The Abbey ! that is droll," said Cadurcis. " I ovre some duties to the poor Abbey. I should not like to quit England, and leave anybody in trouble at the Abbey. I wish I had seen the lad. Some son of a tenant who has written to me, and I have never opened his letters. I am sorry." In a few minutes Mr. Spalding again entered the room. " The young lad has called again, my lord. He says he thinks your lordship has come to town, and he wishes to see your lordship very much." " Bring lights and show him up. Show him up first." Accordingly, a country lad was ushered into the room, although it was so du.^ky that Cadurcis could only observe his figure standing at the door. " Well, my good fellow," said Cadurcis, " what do you want ? Are you in any trouble 1" The boy hesitated. " Speak out, my good fellow ; do not be alarmed. If I can serve you, or any one at the Abbey, I will do it." Here Mr. Spalding entered with the lights. The lad held a cotton hancJkerchief to his face ; he ap- peared to be weeping; all that was seen of his head were his locks of red hair. He seemed a country lad, dressed in a long green coat with silver but- tons, and he twirled in his disengaged hand a pea- sant's white hat. " That will do, Spalding," said Lord Cadurcis. " Leave the room. Now, my good fellow, my time is precious ! but speak out, and do not be afraid." " Cadurcis !" said the lad, in a sweet and trem- bling voice. " Gertrude, by G — d !" exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, starting. " What infernal masquerade is this V " Is it a greater disguise than I have to bear every hour of my lifel" exclaimed Lady Monteagle, ad- vancing. " Have I not to beau a smihng face with a breaking heart!" " By Jove ! a scene," exclaimed Cadurcis, in a piteous tone. " A scene !" exclaimed Lady Monteagle, bursting into a flood of indignant tears. " Is this the way the expression of my feelings is ever to be stigma- tized ! Barbarous man !" Cadurcis stood with his back to the fireplace, with his lips compressed, and his hands under his coat-tails. He was resolved that nothing should induce him to utter a word. He looked the picture of dogged indifference. " I know where you have been," continued Lady Monteagle. " You have been to Richmond ; you have been with Miss Herbert. Yes ! I know all. I am a victim, but I will not be a dupe. Yorkshire, indeed ! Paltry coward !" Cadurcis hummed an air. " And this is Lord Cadurcis !" continued tlie lady. " The sublime, ethereal Lord Cadurcis, con- descending to the last refuge of the meanest, most commonplace mind, a vulgar, wretched lie ! What could have been expected from such a mind 1 You may delude the world, but I know you. Yes, sir ; I know you. And I will let everybody know you. I will tear away the veil of charlatanism with which you have enveloped yourself. The world shall at length discover the nature of the idol they have worshipped. All your meanness, all your falsehood, all your selfishness, all your baseness, shall be re- vealed. I may be spurned, but at any rate I will be revenged !" Lord Cadurcis yawned. " Insulting, pitiful wretch !" continued the lady " And you think that I wish to hear you speak ! You think the sound of that deceitful voice has any charm for me ! Y'^ou are mistaken, sir. I have listened to you too long. It was not to remonstrate with you that 1 resolved to see you. The tones of your voice can only excite my disgust. I am here to speak myself; to express to you the contempt, the detestation, the aversion, the scorn, the hatred, whicli I entertain for you !" Lord Cadurcis whistled. The lady paused ; she had effected the professed purpose of her visit ; she ought now to have retired, and Cadurcis would most willingly have opened the door for her, and bowed her out of his apart- ment. But her conduct did not exactly accord with her speech. She intimated no intention of moving. Her courteous friend retained his position, and ad- liered to his policy of silence. Here was a dead pause, and then Lady Monteagle, throwing herself into a chair, went into violent hysterics. Lord Cadurcis, following her example, also seated himself, took up a book, and began to read. The hysterics became fainter and fainter ; they experienced all those gradations of convulsive voice with which Lord Cadurcis was so well acquainted ; at length they subsided into sobs and sighs. Finally, there was again silence, now only disturbed by the sound of a page turned by Lord Cadurcis. Suddenly the lady sprang from her seat, and firmly grasping the arm of Cadurcis, threw her- self on her knees at his side. " Cadurcis !" she exclaimed in a tender tone, " do you love me 1" " My dear Gertrude," said Lord Cadurcis, coolly, but rather regretting he had quitted his original and less assailable posture. " You know I like quiet women." " Cadurcis, forgive me !" murmured the lady. " Pity me ! Think only how miserable I am !" " Your misery is one of your own making," said Lord Cadurcis. " What occasion is there for any of these extraordinary proceedings 7 I have told you a thousand times that I cannot endure scenes. Female society is a relaxation to me ; you convert it into torture. I like to sail upon a summer sea ; and you always will insist upon a white squall." '• But you have deserted me !" " I never desert any one," replied Cadurcis, very calmly, raising her from her supplicating attitude, and leading her to a seat. " The last time we met, you banished me your presence, and told me never to speak to you again. Well, I obeyed your orders, as I always do." " But I did not mean what I said," said Lady Monteagle. "How should I know thati" said Lord Ca- durcis. " Your heart ought to have assured you," said the lady. " The tongue is a less deceptive organ than the heart," said her companion. " Cadurcis," said the lady, looking at her sUange disguise, " what do you advise me to do 1" " To go home ; and if you like I will order my- vis-a-vis for you directly," and he rose from his seat to give the order. 788 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. " Ah ! you are sighing to get rid of me," said the lady, in a reproachful, but still very subdued tone, " Why, the fact is, Gertrude, I prefer calling upon you, to your calling upon me. When I am fitted for your society, I seek it ; and, when you are good-tempered, always with pleasure : when I am not in the mood for it, I stay away. And when I am at home I wish to see no one ; — I have business now, and not very agreeable business. I am disturbed by many causes, and yon could not have taken a step which could have given me greater annoyance than the strange one you have adopted this evening." " I am sorry for it now," said the lady, weeping. " When shall I see you again?" " I will call upon you to-morrow, and pray re- ceive me with smiles." " I ever will," said the lady, weeping plenteously. " It is all my fault; you are ever too good. There is not in the world a kinder and more gentle being than yourself. I shall never forgive myself for this exposure." " Would you like to take any thing?" said Lord Cadurcis; "I am sure you must feel exhausted. You see I am drinking wine; it is my only dinner to-day, but I dare say there is some sal-volatile in the house : I dare say, when my maids go into hysterics, they have it !" " Ah ! mocker," said Lady Monteagle, " but I can pardon every thing, if you will only let me see you." "Au revoir! then," said his lordship; "I am sure the carriage must be ready. I hear it. Come, Mr. Gertrude, settle your wig, — it is quite awry. By Jove ! we might as well go to the Pantheon, as you are ready dressed. I have a domino." And so saying. Lord Cadurcis handed the lady to his carriage, and pressed her lightly by the hand, as he reiterated his promise of calling at Monteagle House the next da}'. CHAPTER XVIL Lorh Cadurcis — unhappy at home, and wearied of the commonplace resources of society — had passed the night in every species of dissipation ; his principal companion being that same young nobleman in whose company he had been when he first met Venetia at Ranelagh. The morn was nearly breaking when Cadurcis and his friend ar- rived at his door. They had settled to welcome the dawn with a beaker of burnt Burgundy. " Now, my dear Scrope," said Cadurcis, " now for quiet and philosophy. The laughter of those infernal women, the rattle of those cursed dice, and the oaths of those ruffians, are still ringing in my ears. Let us compose ourselves and moralize." Accustomed to their master's habits — who gene- rally turn night into day — the household were f.U on the alert ; a blazing fire greeted them, and his lordship ordered instantly a devil and the burnt Burgundy. " Sit you down here, my Scrope ; that is the seat of honour, and you shall have it. What is this — a letter ? and marked ' urgent' — and in a man's hand. It must be read. Some good fellow nabbed by a bailiff; or planted by his mistress. Signals of dis- tiess ! We must assist our friends." The flame of the fire fell upon Lord Cadurcis' face as he read the letter; he was still standing, while his friend was stretched out in his easy chair, and inwardly congratulating himself on his comfortable prospects. The countenance of Cadurcis did not change, but he bit his lip, and read the letter twice, and turned it over, but with a careless air ; and then he asked what o'clock it was. The servant informed him, and left the room. " Scrope," said Lord Cadurcis, very quietly, and still standing, " are you very dnmk ?" " My dear fellow, I am as fresh as possible, yoii will see what justice I shall do to the Burgundy." " ' Burgundy to-morrow,' as the Greek proverb saith," observed Lord Cadurcis. " Read that." His companion had the pleasure of perusing a challenge from Lord Monteagle, couched in no gentle terms, and requesting an immediate meeting. " Well, I never heard any thing more ridiculous in my life," said Lord Scrope. " Does he want satisfaction because you have planted her?" " D — n her !" said Lord Cadurcis. " She has occasioned me a thousand annoyances, and now she has spoiled our supper. I don't know, though ; he wants to fight quickly, — let us fight at once. I will send him a cartel now, and then we can have our Burgundy. You will go out with me of course ? Hyde Park, six o'clock, and short swords." Lord Cadurcis accordingly sat down, wrote his letter, and despatched it by Mr. Spalding to Mont- eagle House, with peremptory instructions to bring back an answer. The companions then turned to their devil. " This is a bore, Cadurcis," said Lord Scrope. " It is. I cannot say I am very valorous in a bad cause. I do not like to fight * upon compulsion,' I confess. If I had time to screw my courage up, I dare say I should do it very well, for instance, if ever I am publicly executed, I shall die game." " God forbid," said Lord Scrope. " I say, Ca- durcis, I would not drink any Burgundy if I were you. I shall take a glass of cold water." " Ah ! you are only a second, and so you want to cool your valour," said Cadurcis. " You have all the fun." " But how came this blow-up ?" inquired Lord Scrope. " Letters discovered — eh ? Because I thought you never saw her now ?" " By Jove ! my dear fellow, she has been the whole evening here, masquerading it like a very vixen, as she is ; and now she has committed us both. I have burnt her letters, without reading them, for the last month. Now I call that ho- nourable ; because, as I had no longer any claim on her heart, I would not think of trenching on her correspondence. But honour, what is honour in these dishonourable days ? This is my reward. She contrived to enter my house this evening, dressed like a farmer's boy, and you may imagine what ensued ; rage, hysterics, and repentance. I am sure if Monteagle had seen me, he would not have been jealous. I never opened my mouth, but, like a fool, sent her home in my carriage ; and now I am going to be run through the body for my po- liteness." In this light strain, — blended, however, with more decorous feeling on the part of Lord Scrope, — the young men conversed until the messenger returned, with Lord Monteagle's answer. In Hyde Park, in the course of an hour, himself and Lord Cadv rcis, attended by their friends, were to meet. VENETIA. 789 " Well, there is nothing; like havins^ these affairs over," said Cadurcis, " and, to confess the truth, my dear Scrope, I should not much care if Monteagle were to despatch me to my fathers ; for, in tlie whole course of my miserable life, — and miserable, whatever the world may think, it has been, — I never felt much more wretched than I have during the last four-and-twenty hours. By Jove ! do you know I was going to leave England this morning, and I have ordered my horses too." " Leave England !" " Yes, leave England ; and where I never in- tended to return." " Well you are the oddest person I ever knew, Cadurcis. I should have thousjht you the happiest person that ever existed. Everybody admires, evers'body envies you. You seem to have every thing that man can desire. Your life is a perpetual ti'iumph." " Ah ! my dear Scrope, there is a skeleton in every house. If you knew all, you would not envy me." " Well, we have not much time," said Lord Scrope, " have you any arrangements to make ]" " None. My property goes to George, who is my only relative, without the necessity of a will, otherwise I should leave every thing to him, for he is a good fellow, and my blood is in his veins. Just you remember, Scrope, that I will be buried with my mother. That is all ; and now let us get ready." The sun had just risen when the young men went forth, and the day promised to be as brilliant as the preceding one. Not a soul was stirring in the courtly quarter in which Cadurcis resided ; even the last watchman had stolen to repose. They called a hackney coach at the first stand they reached, and were soon at the destined spot. They were indeed before their time, and strolling by the side of the Serpentine, Cadurcis said, " Yesterday morning was one of the happiest of my life, Scrope, and I was in hopes that an event would have oc- curred in the coursp of the day, that might have been my salvation. If it had, by-the-by, I should not have returned to town, and got into this cursed scrape. However, the gods were against me, and now I am reckless." Now Lord Monteagle and his friend, who was Mr. KForace Pole, appeared. Cadurcis advanced, and bowed : Lord Monteagle returned his bow, stiffly, but did not speak. The seconds chose their ground, the champions disembarrassed themselves of their coats, and their swords crossed. It was a brief affair. After a few passes, Cadurcis received a slight wound in his arm, while his weapon pierced his antagonist hi the breast. Lord Mont- eagle dropped his sword, and fell. " You had better fly. Lord Cadurcis," said Mr. Horace Pole. " This is a bad business, I fear : we have a surgeon at hand, and he can help us to the coach that is waiting close by." " I thank you, sir, I never fly," said Lord Ca- durcis ; " and I shall wait here until I see your prin- cipal safely deposited in his carriage ; he will have no objection to my friend, Lord Scrope, assisting him, who, by his presence to-day, has only ful- filled one of the painful duties that society imposes upon us." The surgeon gave a very unfavourable report of the wound, which he dressed on the field. Lord Monteagle was then borne to his carriage, which was at hand, and Lord Scrope, the moment he had seen the equipage move slowly off, returned to his friend. " Well, Cadurcis," he exclaimed, in an anxious voice, " I hope you have not killed him. "What will you do now V " I shall go home, and await the result, my dear Scrope. I am sorry for you, for this may get you into trouble. For myself, I care nothing." " You bleed !" said Lord Scrope. " A scratch. I almost wish our lots had been the reverse. Come, Scrope, help me on with my coat. Yesterday I lost my heart, last night I lost my money, and perhaps to-morrow I shall lose my arm. It seems we are not in luck." CHAPTER XVIII. It has been well observed, tliat no spectacle is so ridiculous as the British public, in one of its periodi- cal fits of morality.. In general, elopements, di- vorces, and family quarrels, pass with Utile notice. We read the scandal, talk about it for a day, and forget it. But once in six or seven years, our virtue liecomes outrageous. We cannot sulTer the laws of religion and decency to be violated. We must make a stand against vice. We must teach liber- tines that the English people appreciate the impor- tance of domestic ties. Accordingly, some unfortu- nate man, in no respect more depraved than hun- dreds whose offences have been treated with lenity, is singled out as an expiatory sacrifice. If he has cliildren, they are to be taken from him. If he has a profession, lie is to be driven from it. He is cut liy the higher orders, aiid hissed by the lower. He is, in truth, a sort of whipping boy, by whose vica- rious agonies all the other transgressors of the same class are, it is supposed, sufficiently chastised. We reflect very complacently on our own severity, and compare, with great pride, the high standard of morals established in England, with the Parisian laxity. At length, our anger is satiated — our victim is ruined, and heart-broken — and our virtue goes quietly to sleep for seven years more. Thus it happened to Lord Cadurcis ; he was the periodical victim, the scape-goat of English morality, sent into the wilderness with all the crimes and curses of the multitude on his head. Lord Cadurcis had certainly committed a great crime : not his in- trigue with Lady Monteagle, for that surely was not an unprecedented offence ; nor his duel with her husband, for after all it was a duel in self-de- fence ; and, at all events, divorces and duels, under any circumstances, would scarcely have excited, or authorised the storm which was now about to bin-st over the late spoiled child of society. But Lord Cadurcis had been guilty of the offence which, of all offences, is punished most severely: — Lord Cadurcis had been overpraised. He had excited too warm an interest; and the pubhc, with its usual justice, was resolved to chastise him for its own folly. There are no fits of caprice so hasty and so vio- lent as those of society. Society, indeed, is all pas- sions and no heart. Cadurcis, in allusion to his sudden and singular success, had been in the habit of saying to his intimates, that he " woke one morn- ing and found himself famous." He might now 790 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. observe, " I woke one morning and found myself infamous." Before twentj-'four hours had passed over his duel with liOrd Monteagle, he found him- self branded by every journal in London, as an un- principled and unparalleled reprobate. The public, without waiting to think or even to inquire after the truth, instantly selected as genuine the most false and the most flagrant of the fifty libellous narratives that were circulated of the transaction. Stories, Inconsistent with themselves, were all alike eagerly believed, and what evidence there might be for any one of them, the virtuous people, by whom they were repeated, neither cared nor knew. The pubUc, in short, fell into a passion with their darling, and, ashamed of their past idolatiy, nothing would satisfy them but knocking the divinity on the head. Until Lord Monteagle, to the great regret of so- ciety, who really wished him to die in order that his antagonist might commit murder, was declared out of clanger. Lord Cadurcis never quitted his house, and he was not a little surprised that scarcely a human being called upon him except his cousin, who immediately flew to his succour. George, in- deed, would gladly have spared Cadurcis any know- ledge of the storm that was raging against him, and which he flattered himself would blow over before Cadurcis was again abroad, but he was so much with his cousin, and Cadurcis was so extremely acute and naturally so suspicious, that this was im- possible. Moreover, his absolute desertion by his friends, and the invectives and the lampoons with which the newspapers abounded, and of which he was the subject, rendered anj' concealment out of the question, and poor George passed his life in running about contradicting falsehoods, stating truth, fighting his cousin's battles, and then report- ing to him, in the course of the day, the state of the campaign. Cadurcis, being a man of infinite sensibility, suf- fered tortures. He had been so habituated to panegj'ric, that the slightest criticism ruffled him, and now his works had suddenly become the subject of universal and outrageous attack; having lived only in a cloud of incense, he suddenly found him- self in a pilloi-y of moral indignation; his writings, his habits, his temper, his person, were all alike ridiculed and vilified. In a word, Cadurcis, the petted, idolized, spoiled Cadurcis, was enduring that charming vicissitude in a prosperous existence, styled a reaction ; and a conqueror, who deemed himself invincible, suddenly vanquished, could scarcely be more thunderstruck, or feel more impo- tently desperate. The tortures of his mind, however, which this sudden change in his position and in the opinions of society, were of themselves competent to occasion to one of so impetuous and irritable a temperament, and who ever magnilied both miserj' and delight with all the creative power of a brooding imagina- tion, were excited in his case even to the liveliest agony, when he reminded himself of the situation m which he was now placed with Venetia. All nope of ever obtaining her hand had now certainly vanished, and he doubted whether even her love could survive the quick occurrence, after his ardent vows, of this degrading and mortifying catastrophe. He execrated Lady Monteagle with the most heart- felt rage, and when he remembered that all this tmie the world believed him the devoted admirer of this vixen, his brain was stimulated almost to the verge of insanity. His only hope of the truth reaching Venetia was through the medium of his cousin, and he impressed daily upon Captahi Cadurcis tSe infinite consolation it would prove to him, if he could contrive to make her aware of the real facts of the case. According to the public voice. Lady Monteagle at his solicitation had fled to his house and remained there, and her husband forced his entrance into the mansion in the middle of the night, while his wife escaped disguised in Lord Cadurcis' clothes. She did not, however, reach Monteagle House in time enough to escape detection by her lord, who had instantly sought and obtained satisfaction from his treacherous friend. All the monstrous inventions of the first week had now subsided into this circumstantial and undoubted narrative ; at least this was the version believed by those who had been Cadurcis' friends. They cir- culated the authentic tale with the most considerate assiduity, and shook their heads, and said it was too bad, and that he must not be countenanced. The moment Lord Monteagle was declared out of danger. Lord Cadurcis made his appearance in public. He walked into Brookes's, and everybody seemed suddenly so deeply interested in the news- paper, that you might have supposed they had brought intelligence of a great battle, or a revolu- tion, or a change of ministry at the least. One or two men spoke to him, who had never presumed to address him at any other time, and he received a faint bow from a very distinguished nobleman, who had ever professed for him the greatest considera- tion and esteem. Cadurcis mounted his horse and rode down to the House of Lords. There was a debate of some public interest, and a considerable crowd was col- lected round the Peers' entrance. The moment Lord Cadurcis was recognised the multitude began hooting. He was agitated, and grinned a ghastly smile at the rabble. But he dismounted, without further annoyance, and took his seat. Not a single peer of his own party spoke to him. The leader of the opposition, indeed, bowed to him, and, in the course of the evening, he received, from one or two more of his party, some fonrial evidences of frigid courtesy. The tone of his reception by his friends could not be concealed from the ministerial party. It was soon detected, and generally whispei-ed, that Lord Cadurcis was cut. Nevertheless, he sat out the debate and voted. The house broke u,p. He felt lonely ; his old friend, the Bishop of , who had observed all that had occurred, and who might easily have avoided him, came forward, however in the most marked manner, and, in a tone which everybody heard, said, " How do you do, Lord Cadurcis 1 I am very glad to see you," shaking his hand most cordially. This made a great im- pression. Several of the tory lords, among them Venetia's uncle, now advanced and saluted him. He received their advances with a haughty, but not disdainful courtesy ; but when his whig friends, very confused, now hurried to encumber him with their assistance, he treated them with the scorn which they well deserved. " Will you take a seat in my carriage home, Lord Cadurcis ?" said his leader, for it was noto- rious that Cadurcis had been mobbed on his arrival. " Thank you, my lord," said Cadurcis, speaking very audibly, " I prefer returning as I came. We are really both of us such very unpopular person- ages, that your kindness would scarcely be pru- dent." VENETIA. 791 The house had been very fiill ; there was a great scuffle and confusion as the peers were departing ; the mob, now very considerable, were prepared tor the appearance of Lord Cadurcis, and their de- meanour was very menacing. Some shouted out his name ; then it %vas repeated with the most odious and vindictive epithets, followed by fero- cious yells. A great many peers collected round Cadurcis, and entreated him not to return on horse- back. It must be confessed that very genuine and considerable feeling was now shown by men of all parties. And indeed to witness this young, and noble, and gifted creature, but a few days back the idol of the nation, and from whom a word, a glance even, was deemed the greatest and most gratifying distinction — whom all orders, classes, and conditions of men had combined to stimulate with multiplied adulation, — with all the glory and ravishing delights of the world, as it were, forced upon him — to see him thus assailed with the savage execrations of all those vile things who exult in the fall of every thing that is great, and the abasement of every thing that is noble, was indeed a spectacle wliich might have silenced malice and satisfied envy ! " My carriage is most heartily at your service. Lord Cadurcis," said the noble leader of the govern- ment, in the Upper House ; " you can enter it with- out the slightest suspicion by these rufTians." — "Lord Cadurcis; my dear lord ; my good lord — for our sakes, if not for your own — Cadurcis, dear Cadurcis, my good Cadurcis, it is madness, folly, insanity — a mob will do any thing, and an English mob is viler than all — for Heaven's sake !" Such were a few of the varied exclamations which re- sounded on all sides, but which produced on the person to whom they were addressed only the result of his desiring the attendant to call for his horses. The lobby was yet full ; it was a fine thing in the light of the archway to see Cadurcis spring into his saddle. Instantly there was a horrible yell. Yet, in spite of all their menaces, the mob were for a time awed by his courage ; they made way for him ; he might even have rode quickly on for some few yards, but he would not ; he reined his fiery steed into a slow but stately pace, and, with a counte- nance scornful and composed, he continued his progress, apparently unconscious of impediment. Meanwhile, the hooting continued without abate- ment, increasing, indeed, after the first comparative pause, in violence and menace. At length a bolder ruffian, excited by the uproar, rushed forward and seized Cadurcis' bridle. ' Cadurcis struck the man over the eyes with his whip, and at the same time touched his horse with his spur, and the assailant was dashed to the ground. This seemed a signal for a general assault. It commenced with the most hideous yells. His friends at the House, who had watched every thing with the keenest interest, im- mediately directed all the constables who were at hand to rush to his succour; hitherto they had restrainedjthe police, lest their interference might stimulate rather than repress the mob. The charge of the constables was well-timed ; they laid about them with their staves ; _you might have heard the echo of many a broken crown. Nevertheless, though they dispersed the mass, they could not penetrate the immediate barrier that surrounded Lord Cadurcis, whose only defence indeed, for they had cut off his groom, was the terrors of his horse's heels, and whose managed motions he regulated with admirable skill — now rearing, now prancing, now kicking behind, and now turning round with a quick yet sweeping motion, before which the mob retreated. Off his horse, however, they seemed resolved to drag him ; and it was not difficult to conceive, if they succeeded, what must be his eventual fate. They were indeed infuriate, but his contact with his assailants fortunately prevented their comates from hurling stones at him from the fear of endangering their own friends. A messenger to the Horse Guards had been sent from the House of Lords ; but, before the military could arrive, and fortunately — for, with their utmost expedition, they must have been too late — a rumour of the attack got current in the House of Commons. Captain Cadurcis, Lord Scrope, and a few other young men instantly rushed out ; and ascertaining the truth, armed with good cudgels and such other effective weapons as they could instantly obtain, they mounted their horses and charged the nearly triumphant populace, dealing such vigorous blows that their eftbrts soon made a visible diversion in Lord Cadurcis' favour. It is very difficult, indeed, to convey an idea of the exertions and achievements of Captain Cadurcis ; no Paladin of chivalry ever executed such marvels in a swarm of Paynim slaves; and many a bloody coxcomb and broken limb bore witness in Petty France that night to his achievements. Still the mob struggled and were not daunted by the delay in immolating their victim. As long as they had only to fight against men in plain clothes, they were valorous and obstinate enough ; but the mo- ment that the crests of a company of Horse Guards were seen trotting down Parliament Street, eveiy- body ran a».'ay, and in a few minutes all Palace Yard was as still as if the genius of the place rendered a riot impossible. liord Cadurcis thanked his friends, who were profuse in their compliments to his pluck. His manner, usually playful with his intimates of his own standing, was, however, rather grave at pre- sent, though very cordial. He asked them home to dine with him ; but they were obliged to decline his invitation, as a division was expected ; so say- ing " Good-b'ye, George, perhaps I shall see you to- night," Cadurcis rode rapidly off. With Cadurcis there was but one step from the most exquisite sensitiveness to the most violent de- fiance. The experience of this day had entirely cured him of his previous nervous deference to the feelings of society. Society had outraged him, and now he resolved to outrage society. He owed so- ciety nothing ; his reception in the House of Lords and the riot in Palace Yard, had alike cleared his accounts with all orders of men, from the highest to the lowest. He had experienced, indeed, some kindness that he could not forget, but only from his own kin, and those who with his associations were the same as kin. His memory dwelt with gratification on his cousin's courageous zeal, and still more on the demonstration which ?yTasham had made in his favour, which, if possible, argued still greater boldness and sincere regard. That was a trial of true aftection and an instance of moral courage, which Cadurcis honoured, and which he never could forget. He was anxious about Vene- tia ; he wished to stand as well with her as he de- served ; no better ; but he was grieved to think she could believe all those infamous tales at present current respecting himself. But for the rest of the 792 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. world, he delivered them all to the most absolute contempt, disgust, and execration ; he resolved, from this time, nothing should ever induce, him again to enter society, or admit the advances of a single civilized ruflian Vt'ho aflected to be social. The country, the people, their habits, laws, man- ners, customs, ojnnions, and every thing con- nected with them were viewed with the same jaun- diced eye ; and his only object now was to quit England, to which he resolved never to return. CHAPTER XIX. In the mean time we must not forget Venetia, who was perhaps not quite so surprised as the rest of her friends, when, on their return to Rich- mond, Lord Cadurcis was not again seen. She was very unhappy ; she recalled the scene in the garden at Oherbuiy some years back ; and with her knowledge of the impetuosity of his temper, she believed she should never see him again. Poor Plantagenet, who loved her so much, and whose love she so fully returned ! why might they not be happy 1 She neither doubted the constancy of his affection, nor their permanent felicity if they were united. She shared none of her mother's appre- hensions or her prejudices, but she was the victim of duty and her vow. In the course of four-and- twenty hours strange rumours were afloat respect- ing Lord Cadurcis ; and the newspapers on the ensuing morning told the truth, and more than the truth. Venetia could not doubt as to the duel or the elopement; but instead of feeling indignation, she attributed what had occurred to the desperation of his mortified mind ; and she visited on herself all the fatal consequences that had happened. At present, however, all her emotions were quickly ab- sorbed in the one terrible fear, that Lord Montcagle would die. In that dreadful and urgent appre- hension, every other sentiment merged. It was impossible to conceal her misery, and she entreated her mother to return to town. Very differently, however, was the catastrophe viewed by Lady Annabel. She, on the contrary, triumphed in her sagacity and her prudence. She hourly congratulated herself on being the saviour of her daughter; and though she refrained from indulging in any open exultation over Venetia's escape and her own profound discretion, it was nevertheless impossible for her to conceal from her daughter her infinite satisfaction and selt-congratu- lation. While Venetia was half broken-hearted, her mother silently returned thanks to Providence for the merciful dispensation which had exempted her child from so much miseiy. The day after their return to town, Captain Ca- durcis called upon them. Lady Annabel never mentioned the name of his cousin ; but George, finding no opportunity of conversing with Venetia alone, and being indeed to© much excited to speak on any other subject, plunged at once into the full narrative ; defended Lord Cadurcis, abused the Monteaglcs and the slanderous world, and in spite of Lady Annabel's ill-concealed dissatisfaction, fa- voured her with an exact and circumstantial ac- count of every thing that had happened ; how it liappened, when it happened, and where it hap- pened; concluding by a declaration that Cadurcis was tlie best fellow tliat ever lived, the most un- fortunate, and the most ill-used : and that, if he were to be hunted down for an afiliir like this, over which he had no control, there was not a man in London who could be safe for ten minutes. All that George effected by his zeal, was to convince Lady Annabel that his cousin had entirely cor- rupted him ; she looked upon her former favourite as another victim ; but Venetia listened in silence, and not without solace. Two or three days after the riot at the House of Lords, Captain Cadurcis burst into his cousin's roonj with a triumphant countenance. " Well, Plantagenet I" he exclaimed, " I have done it ; I have seen her alone ; and I have put you as right as possible. Nothing can be better." " Tell me, my dear fellow," said Lord Cadurcis, eagerly. " Well, you know, I have called half a dozen times," said George; "but either Lady Annabel was there, or they were not at home, or something always occurred to prevent any private communi- cation. But I met her to-day with her aunt ; I joined them immediately, and kept with them the whole morning. I am sorry to say, she, I mean Venetia, is devilish ill ; she is mj^lced. However, her aunt now is quite on your side, and very kind, I can tell you that. I put her right at first, and she has fought our bat- tle bravely. Well, they stopped to call somewhere, and Venetia was so unwell, that she would not get out, and I was left alone in the carriage with her. Time was precious, and I opened at once. I told her how wretched you were, and that the only tiling that made you miserable was about her, be- cause you were afraid she would think you so pro- fligate, and all that. I went through it all; told her the exact truth, which indeed she had before heard ; but now I assured her on my honour, that it was exactly what had happened ; and she said she did not doubt it, and could not, from some con- versation which you had together the day we were all at Hampton Court, and that she felt that no- thing could have been premeditated, and fully be- lieved that every thing had occurred as I said ; and, however she deplored it, she felt the same for you as ever, and prayed for your happiness. Then she told me what misery the danger of Lord Monfeagle had occasioned her; that she thought his death must have been the forerunner of her own, but the moment he was declared out of danger, seemed the happiest hour of her life. I told her you were going to leave England, ai»d asked her whether she had any message for y©« ; and she said, 'Tell him he is the same to me that he has always been.' So when her aunt returned, I jumped out and ran on to you at once." " You are the best fellow that ever lived, George," said Lord Cadurcis; "and now the world may go to the devil !" This message from Venetia acted upon Lord Cadurcis like a charm. It instantly cleared his mind. He shut himself up in his house for a week, and wrote a farewell to England, gerhaps the most masterly effusion of his powerful spirit. It abounded in passages of overwhelming passion, and almost Satanic sarcasm. ^ Its composition entirely relieved his long-brooding brain. It contained, however, a veiled address to Venetia, — delicate, tender, and irresistibly affecting. He aj)pended also to the publication, the verses he had previously addressed to her. This volume, which was purchased with an VENETIA. 793 avidity exceeding even the eagerness with which his former productions had heen received, exercised the most extraordinary influence on public opinion. It enlisted the feelings of the nation on his side in a struggle with a coterie. It was suddenly dis- covered that Lord Cadurcis was the most injured of mortals, and far more interesting than ever. The address to the unknown object of his adoration, and the verses to Venetia, mystified everj'body. Lady Monteagle was universally abused, and all sympa- thized with the long-treasured and baffled affection of the unhappy poet. Cadurcis, however, was not to be conciliated. He left his native shores in a blaze of glory, but with the accents of scorn still quivering on Iris lip. BOOK V. CHAPTER L The still waters of the broad and winding lake reflected the lustre of the cloudless sky. The gentle declinations of the green hills that immedi- ately bordered the lake, with an undulating margin that now retired into bays of the most picturesque form, now jutted forth into woody promontories, and then opened into valleys of sequestered beauty, which the eye delighted to pursue, were studded with white villas, and cottages scarcely less grace- ful, and occasionally with villages, and even towns ; here and there rose a solitary chapel ; and, scarcely less conspicuous, the black spire of some cypr^ess strikingly contrasting with the fair buildings or the radiant foliage that in general surrounded them. A rampart of azure mountains raised their huge forms behind the nearer hills ; and occasionally peering over these, like spectres on some brilliant festival, were the ghastly visages of the Alpine glaciers. It was within an hour of sunset, and the long shadows had fallen upon the waters ; a broad boat, with a variegated awning, rowed by two men, ap- proached the steps of a marble terrace. The mo- ment they had reached their point of destination, and had fastened the boat to its moorings, the men landed their oars, and immediately commenced singing a simple yet touching melody, wherewith it was their custom to apprise their employers of their arrival. " Will they come forth this evening, think you, Vittoriol" said one boatman to the other. " By our holy mother ! I hope so," replied his comrade, " for this light air that is now rising will do the young signora more good than fifty doctors." " They are good people," said Vittorio. " It gives me more pleasure to row them than any per- Mon who ever hired us." " Ay, ay !" said his comrade, " it was a lucky day when we first put an oar in the lake for them, heretics though they be." " But they may be converted yet," said his com- panion ; " for, as I was saying to Father Francisco last night, if the young signoi-a dies, it is a sad thing to thiidv what will become of her." '' And what said the good Father?" "He shook his head," said Vittorio. 100 " When Father Francisco shakes his head, he means a great deal," said his companion. At this moment a servant appeared on the ter- race, to say the ladies were at hand ; and very shortly afterwards Lady Annabel Herbert, with her daughter leaning on her arm, descended the steps, and entered the boat. The countenances of the boatmen brightened when they saw them, and they both made their inquiries after the health of A^e- netia with tenderness and feeling. " Indeed, my good friends," said Venetia, " I think you are right, and the lake will cure me after all." " The blessings of the lake be upon you, sig- nora," said the boatmen, crossing themselves. Just as they were moving off, came running Mistress Pauncefort, quite breathless. " Miss Her- bert's fur cloak, my lady ; you told me to remem- ber, my lady, and I cannot think how I forgot it. But I really have been so very hot all day, that such a thing as furs never entered my head. And for my part, until I travelled, I always thought furs were only worn in Russia. But live and learn, as I say." They were now fairly floating on the calm, clear waters, and the rising breeze was as grateful to Venetia as the boatmen had imagined. A return of those symptoms which had before so disquieted Lady Annabel for her daughter, and which were formerly the cause of their residence at Weymmith, had induced her, in compliance with the advice of her physicians, to visit Italy ; but the fatigue of travel had exhausted the energies of Venetia — for in those days the Alps were not passed in luxurious travelling carriages — on the very threshold of the promised land ; and Lady Annaliel had been prevailed upon to take a villa on the Lago Maggiore, where Venetia had passed two months, still suffering indeed from great debility, but not without advantage. There are few spots more favoured by nature than the Italian lakes and their vicinity, combining, as they do, the most sublime features of mountain- ous scenery with all the softer beauties and the varied luxuriance of the plain. As the still, bright lake is to the rushing and troubled cataract, is Italy to Switzerland and Savoy. Emerging from the chaotic ravines and tl'io wild gorges of the Alps, the happy land breaks upon us like a beautiful vision. We revel in the sunny light, after the unearthly glare of eternal snow. Our sight seems renovated as we throw our eager glance over those golden plains, clothed with such picturesque trees, spark- ling with such graceful villages, watered by such noble rivers, and crowned with such magnificent ' cities; and all bathed and beaming in an atmos- phere so soft and radiant ! Every isolated object charms us with its beautiful novelty : for the first time we gaze on palaces ; the garden, the terrace, and the statue, recall our dreams beneath a colder sky ; and we turn from these to catch the hallovv-eJ form of some cupolaed convent, crowning the gen- tle elevation of some green hill, and flanked by the cypress or pine. The influence of all these delightful objects and of this benign atmosphere on the frame and mind of Venetia had been considerable. After the ex- citement of the last year of her life, and the harass- ing and agitating scenes with which it closed, she found a fine solace in this fair land and this soft sky, which the sad perhaps can alone experience 3X 794 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. (ts repose alone afforded a consolatory contrast to the ttubulent pleasure of the great world. She looked back upon those glittering and noisy scenes with an aversion which was only modified by her self-congratulation at her escape from their exhaust- ing and contaminating sphere. Here she recurred, — but with all the advantages of a change of scene, and a scene so rich in novel and interesting associ- ations, — to the calm tenor of those days, when not a thought ever seemed to escape from Cherbury and its spell-bound seclusion. Her books, her drawings, her easel, and her harp, were now again her chief pursuits ; pursuits, however, influenced by the genius of the land in which she lived, and therefore invested with a novel interest ; for the literature and the history of the country naturally attracted her attention ; and its fair aspects and sweet sounds, alike inspired her pencil and her voice. She had, in the society of her mother, in- deed, the advantage of communing with a mind not less relined and cultivated than her own. Lady Annabel was a companion whose conversation from reading and reflection was eminently suggestive ; and their hours, though they lived in solitude, never hung heavy. They were always employed, and always cheerful. But Venetia was not more than cheerful. Still very young, and gifted with an imaginative, and, therefore, sanguine mind, the course of circumstances, however, had checked her native spirit, and shaded a brow which at her time of life, and with her temperament, should have been rather fanciful than pensive. If Venetia, sup- ported by the disciplined energies of a strong mind. Lad schooled herself into not looking back to the past with grief, her future was certainly not tinged with the Iris pencil of Hope. It seemed to her that it was her fate that life should bring her no happier hours than those she now enjoyed. They did not amount to exquisite bliss. That was a con- viction which, by no process of reflection, however ingenious, could she delude herself to credit. Ve- netia struggled to take refuge in content, a mood of mind perhaps less natural than it should be to one so young, so gifted, and so fair ! Their villa was surrounded by a garden in the ornate and artiflcial style of the country. A marble terrace overlooked the lake, crowned with many a statue, and vase that held the aloe. The laurel and the cactus, the cypress and the pine, filled the air with their fragrance, or charmed the eye with their rarity and beauty : the walks were festooned with the vine, and they could raise their hands and pluck the glowing fruit which screened them from the beam by which it was ripened. In this en- I chanted domain Venetia might be often seen — a form even fairer than the sculptured nymphs among which she glided — catching the gentle breeze that played upon the surflice of the lake, or watching the white sail that glittered in the sun as it floated over its purple bosom. Yet this beautiful retreat Venetia was soon to quit, and she thought of her departure with a sigh. Her mother had been warned to avoid the neigh- bourhood of the mountains in the winter, and the autumn was approaching its close. If Venetia could endure the .passage of the Apennines, it was the intention of Lady Annabel to pass the winter iin the coast of the Mediterranean ; otherwise to settle in one of the Lombard cities. At all events, in the course of a few weeks they were to quit their villa on the lake. CHAPTER II. A VERT few days after that excursion on the lake with which this volume of our history opened, Lady Annabel and her daughter were both sur- prised and pleased with a visit from a friend whose appearance was certainly very unexpected : this was Captain Cadurcis. On his way from Switzer- land to Sicily he had heard of their residence in the neighbourhood, and had crossed over from Arona to visit them. I'he name of Cadurcis was still dear to Venetia, and George had displayed such gallantry and de- votion in all his cousin's troubles, that she was personally attached to him ; he had always been a favourite of her mother ; his arrival, therefore, was welcomed by each of the ladies with great cordiality. He accepted the hospitality which Lady Annabel offered him, and remained with them a week, a period which they spent in visiting the most beau- tiful and interesting spots of the lake, with which they were already sufficiently familiar to allow them to prove guides as able as they were agreea- ble. These excursions, indeed, contributed to the pleasure and happiness of tlie whole party. There was about Captain Cadurcis a natural cheerfulness which animated every one in his society ; a gay simplicity, difficult to define, but very charming, and which, without eflort, often produced deeper impressions than more brilliant and subtle qualities. Left alone in the world, and without a single ad- vantage save those that nature had conferred upon him, it had often been remarked, that in whatever circle he moved, George Cadurcis always became the favourite, and everywhere made friends. His svxeet and engaging temper had perhaps as much contributed to his professional success as his dis- tinguished gallantry and skill. Other officers, no doubt, were as brave and able as Captain Cadurcis, but his commanders always signalled him out for favourable notice ; and strange to say, his success, instead of exciting envy and ill-will, pleased even his less fortunate competitors. However hard another might feel his own lot, it was soothed by the reflection that George Cadurcis was at least more fortunate. His popularity, however, was no confined to his profession. His cousin's noblo guardian, whom George had never seen until he ventured to call upon his lordship on his return to England, now looked upon him almost as a son, and omitted no opportunity of advancing his inte- rests in the world. Of all the members of tho House of Commons he was perhaps the only one that every body praised, and his success in the world of fashion had been as remarkable as in his profession. These great revolutions in his life and future prospects had, however, not produced the slightest change in his mind and manners ; and this was perhaps the secret spell of his prosperity. Though we are most of us the creatures of affecta- tion, simplicity has a great charm, especially when attended, as in the present instance, with many agreeable, and some noble qualities. In spite of the rough fortunes of his youth, the breeding of Captain Cadurcis was very high ; the recollection of the race to which he belonged had never been forgotten by him. He was proud of his family He had one of those light hearts, too, which enable their possessors to acquire accomplishments with facility : he had a sweet voice, a quick ear, a rapid eye. He acquired a language as some men Jeara V E N E T 1 A. 795 \n air. Then his temper was imperturbable, and although the most obliging and kindest-hearted creature that ever lived, there was a native dignity about him which prevented his good nature from being abused. No sense of interest either could ever induce him to act contrary to the dictates of his judgment and his heart. 'At the risk of offend- ing his patron, he sided with his cousin, although he had deeply offended his guardian, and althougli the whole world was against him. Indeed, the strong affection that Lord Cadurcis instantly en- tertained for George, is not the least remarkable instance of the singular, though silent, influence that Captain Cadurcis everywhere acquired. Lord Cadurcis had fixed upon him for his friend ■ from the first moment of their acquaintance, and though apparently there could not be two characters more dissimilar, there were at bottom some striking points of sympathy and some strong bonds of union, in the generosity and courage that distinguished both, and in the mutual blood that filled their veins. There seemed to be a tacit understanding be- tween the several members of our party that the name of Lord Cadurcis was not to be mentiontd. Lady Annabel made no inquiry after him ; Venetia was unwilling to hazard a question which would annoy her mother, and of which the answer could not bring her much satisfaction ; and Captain Ca- durcis did not think fit himself to originate any conversation on tlie subject. Nevertheless, Venetia could not help sometimes fancying when her eyes met his, that their mutual thoughts were the same, and both dwelling on one who was absent, and of whom her companion would have willingly con- versed. To confess the truth, indeed, George Ca- durcis was on his way to join his cousin, who had crossed over from Spain to Barbary, and journeyed along the African coast from Tangiers to Tripoli. Their point of .reunion was to be Sicily or Malta. Hearing of the residence of the Herberts on the lake, he thought it would be but kind to Plantage- net to visit them ; and perhaps to bear to him some message from Venetia. There was nothing, fndecd, on which Captain Cadurcis was more intent than to effect the union between his cousin and Miss Herbert. He was deeply impressed with the sin- cerity of Plantagenct's passion, and he himself en- tertained for the lady the greatest affection and admiration. He thought she was the only person whom he had ever known, who was really worthy to be his cousin's bride. And, independent of her personal charms and undoubted talents, she had displayed during the outcry against Lord Cadurcis, so much good sense, such a fine spirit, and such modest yet sincere affection for the victim, that George Cadurcis had almost lost his own heart to her, when he was endeavouring to induce her not utterly to reject that of another ; and it became one of the dreams of his life, that in a little time, when all, as he fondly anticipated, had ended as it should, and as he wished it, he should be able to find an occasional home at Cadurcis Abbey, and enjoy the charming society of one whom he had already taught himself to consider as a sister. " And to-night you must indeed go 1" said Venetia, as tney were walking together on the ter- race. It was the only time that they had been alone together during his visit. " I must start from Arena at day-break," replied George; " and I must travel quickly; for in -less than a month I must be in Sicily." " Sicily ! Why are you going to Sicily V Captain Cadurcis smiled. " I am going to join a friend of ours," he answered. " Plantagenet 1" she said. Captain Cadurcis nodded assent. " Poor Plantagenet !" said Venetia. " Here we have been a week together, and no one has ever mentioned his name. He seems quite proscribed.' " His name has been on my lips several times,' said George. " I am sure of that," said Venetia. " Is he wein" ..." " He writes to me in fair spirits," said Captain Cadurcis. " He has been travelling in Spain, and now he is somewhere in Africa ; we are to meet in Sicily or Malta. I think travel has greatly bene- fited him. He seems quite delighted with his glimpse of oriental manners ; and I should scarcely be surprised if he were now to stretch on to Con- stantinople." " I wonder if he will ever return to England," said Venetia thoughtfully. " There is only one event that would induce him," said Captain Cadurcis. And then after a pause he added, " You will not ask me what it is V " I wish he were in England, and were happy," said Venetia. " It is in your power to effect both results," said her companion. " It is useless to recur to that subject," said Venetia. " Plantagenet knows my feelings towards him, but fate has forbidden our destinies to be com- bined." "Then he will never return to England, and never be happy. Ah ! Venetia, what shall I tell him when we meet ] What message am I to hear him from you 1" " Those regards which he ever possessed, and has never forfeited," said Venetia. " Poor Cadurcis !" said his cousin, shaking his head, " if any man ever had reason to be miserable, it is he." " We are none of us very happy, I think," said Venetia mournfully. "I am sure, when I look back to the last few years of my life, it seems to me that there is some curse hanging over our families. I cannot penetrate it ; it baffles me." " I am sure," said Captain Cadurcis with great animation : " Nay, I would pledge my existence cheerfully on the venture, that if Lady Annabel would only relent towards Cadurcis, we should all be the happiest people in the world." " Heigho !" said Venetia. " There are other cares in our house besides our unfortunate acquaint- ance with your cousin. We were the last people in the world with whom he should ever have be- cpme connected." " And yet it was an intimacy that commenced auspiciously," said her friend. " I am sure I have sat with Cadurcis, and listened to him by the hour, while he has told me of all the happy days at Cher- bury when you were both children ; the only haj)py days according to him, that he ever knew." " Yes ! they were happy days," said Venetia. " And what connexion could have offered a more rational basis for felicity than your union V he con- tinued. " Whatever the world may think, I, who know Cadurcis from the very bottom of his heart, feel assured that you never would have repente>Tered, have ever been a restless people, the gentle t jsom of the Euganean Hills was then rarely disturbed amid its green and sequestered valleys. There is not perhaps in all the Italian region, fertile as it is in interesting associations and pictu resque beauty, a spot that tradition and nature have so complet*?ly combined to hallow, as the last resi- dence of Petrarch. It seems, indeed, to have been formed for the retirement of a pensive and poetic spirit. It recedes from the world by a succession of dcUcate acclivities clothed with vineyards and orchards, until winding within these hills, the moun- tain hamlet is at length discovered, enclosed by two ridges that slope towards each other, and seem to shut out all the passions of a troubled race. The houses are scattered at intervals on the steep sides of these summits, and on a little knoll is the man- sion of the poet, built by himself, and commanding a rich and extensive view, that ends indeed only with tlie shores of the Adriatic sea. His tomb, a V E N E T I A. 797 sarcophagus of red marble, supported by pillars, doubtless familiar to the reader, is at hand ; and placed on an elevated site, gives a solemn impres- sion to a scene, of which the character would other- wise be serenely cheerful. Our travellers were surprised to find, that the house of the poet was inhabited by a very dilferent tenant to the rustic occupier they had anticipated. They heard that a German gentleman had within the last year fixed upon it as the residence of him- self and his wife. The peasants were profuse in their panegyrics of this visiter, whose arrival had |)roved quite an era in the history of their village. According to them, a kinder and more charitable gentlemen never breathed ; his whole life was spent in studying and contributing to the happiness of tliose around him. The sick, the sorrowful, and the needy, were ever sure of finding a friend in him, and merit a generous patron. From him came portions to the portionless ; no village maiden need despair of being united to her betrothed, while he could assist her ; and at his own cost he had sent to the academy of Bologna, a youth whom his fa- ther would have made a cowherd, but whom nature predisposed to be a painter. The inhabitants be- lieved this benevolent and generous person was a physician, for he attended the sick, prescribed for their complaints, and had once even performed an operation with great success. It seemed, that since Petrarch no one had ever been so popular at Arqua as this kind German. Lady Annabel and Venetia were interested with the animated narratives of the ever active beneficence of this good man, and Lady Annabel especially regretted that his absence de- prived her of the gratification of becoming acquaint- ed with a character so rare and so invaluable. In the meantime, thoy availed themselves of the offer of his servants to view the house of Petrarch, for their master had left orders, that his absence should never deprive a pilgrim from paying his ho- mage to the shrine of genius. The house, consisting of two floors, had recently been repaired by the present occupier. It was sim- ply furnished. The ground floor was allotted to the servants. The upper story contained five rooms, three of which were of good size, and two closets, in one of these were the traditionary chair and ta- ble of Petrarch, and here, according to their guides, the master of the house passed a great portion of his time in study, to which, by their account, he seemed devoted. The adjoining chamber was his library ; its windows opened on a balcony looking on two lofty and conical hills, one topped with a convent, while the valley opened on the side and spread into a calm and veryjjleasant view. Of the other apart- ments, one served as a saloon, but there was no- thing in it remarkable, except an admirably painted portrtgt of a very beautiful woman, which the ser- vant informed them was their mistress. " But that surelj' is not a German physiog- nomy V said Lady Annabel. " The mistress is an Italian," replied the servant. " She is very handsome, of whatever nation she may be," replied Lady Annabel. " ! how I should have liked to have met these happy people, mamma," said Venetia, " for happy they surely must be." " They seemed to be good people," said Lady A.nnabel. " It really lightened my heart to hear of all this gentleman's kind deeds." "Ah! if the signora only knew the master," said their guide, " she would indeed know a good man !" They descended to the garden, which certainly was not like the garden of their villa ; it had been but lately a wilderness of laurels, but there were evidences that the eye and hand of taste were com- mencing its restoration with effect. " The master did this," said their guide. " He will allow no one to work in the garden but himself. It is a week since he went to Bologna, to see our Paulo. He gained a prize at the academy, and his father begged the master to be present when it was conferred on him ; he said it would do his son so much good ! So the master went, though it is the only time he has quitted Qua since he came to re- side here." " And how long has he resided here 1" inquired Venetia. " 'Tis the second autumn," said the guide, "and he came in the spring. If the signora would only wait, we expect the master home to-night or to- morrow, and he would be glad to see her." " We cannot wait, my friend," said Lady Anna- bel, rewarding the guide; "but you will thank your master in our names, for the kindness we have experienced. You are all happy in such a friend." " I must write my name in Petrarch's house," said Venetia. "Adieu! happy Arqua! Adieu! happy dwellers in this happy valley !" CHAPTER IV. JtJST as the Herberts arrived at Rovigo, one of those sudden and violent storms that occasionally occur at the termination of an Italian autumn raged with irresistible fury. The wind roared with a noise that overpowered even the thunder; then came a rattling shower of hail, with stones as big as pigeon's eggs, succeeded by rain, not in showers, but literally in cataracts. The only thing to«which a tempest of rain in Italy can be compared, is the bursting of a water spout. Venetia could scarcely believe that this could be the same day of which the golden morning had found her among the sunny hills of Arqua. This unexpected vicissitude in- duced Lady Annabel to alter her plans, and she resolved to rest at Rovigo, where she was glad to find that they could be sheltered in a very commo- dious inn. The building had originally been a palace, and in its halls and galleries, and the vast octagonal vestibule on which the principal apartments opened, it retained many noble indications of the purposes to which it was formerly destined. At present, a lazy innkeeper, who did nothing; his bustling wife, who seemed equally at home in the saloon, the kitchen, and even the stable ; and a solitary waiter, were the only inmates, except the Herberts, and a travelling party, who had arrived shortly after them, and who, like them, had been driven by stress of weather to seek refuge at a place where other- wise they had not intended to remain. A blazing fire of pine wood soon gave cheerful- ness to the vast and somewhat desolate apartment in which the Herberts had been ushered ; their sleeping-room was adjoining, but separated. In spite of the lamentations of Pauncefort, who had been drenched to the skin, and who required much more waiting upon than her mistress, Lady Anna 3x2 798 D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. bel and Venetia at length produced some degree of comfort. They drew the table near the fire ; they ale — for a moment her countenance expressed only .firror, but the terror quickly changed into aversion. Suddenly she rushed forward, and exclaimed, in a tone in which decision conquered dismay, '' Restore me my child !" The moment Herbert had recognised his wife, he had dexterously disengaged himself from the grasp of Venetia, whom he left on the chair, and meeting Lady Annabel with extended arms, that seemed to deprecate her wrath, he said, " I seek not to deprive you of her; she is yours, and she is worthy of you ; but respect for a few moments the feelings of a father who has met his only child in a manner so unforeseen." The presence of her mother instantaneously re- stored Venetia to herself. Her mind was in a mo- ment cleared and settled. Her past and peculiar life, and all its incidents, recurred to her with their accustomed order, vividness, and truth. She tho- roughly comprehended her present situation. Ac- tuated by long cherished feelings and the necessity of the occasion, she rose and threw herself at her mother's feet, and exclaimed, " O ! mother, he is my father — love him !" Lady Annabel stood with an averted counte- nance, Venetia clinging to her hand, which she had caught when she rushed forward, and which now fell passive by Lady Annabel's side, giving no sign, by any pressure or motion, of the slightest sympa- thy with her daughter, or feeling for the strange and agonizing situation in which they were both placed. " Annabel," said Herbert, in a voice that trem- bled, though the speaker struggled to appear calm, " be charitable ! I have never intruded upon your privacy — I will not now outrage it. Accident, or some diviner motive, has brought us together this day. If you will not treat me with kindness, look not upon me with aversion before our child." Still she was silent and motionless, her counte- nance hidden from her husband and her daughter, but her erect and haughty form betokening her in- exorable mind. " Armabel," said Herbert, who had now withdrawn to some distance, and leaned against a pillar, " will not then nearly twenty years of desolation purchase one moment of intercourse ? I have injured you. Be it so. This is not the moment I will defend myself. But have I not suf- fered ? Is not this meeting a punishment deeper even than your vengeance could devise ? Is it no- thing to behold this beautiful child, and feel that she is only yours ? Annabel, look on me — look on me only one moment ! My frame is bowed, my hair is gray, my heart is withered ; the principle of existence waxes faint and slack in this attenuated frame. I am no longer that Herbert on whom you once smiled, but a man stricken with many sor- rows. The odious conviction of my life cannot long haunt you — yet a little while, and my memory will alone remain. Think of this, Annabel — I be- seech you, think of it. O ! believe me, when the speedy hour arrives that will consign me to the grave, where I shall at least find peace, it will not be utterly without satisfaction that you will remem- ber that we met if even by accident, and parted at least not with harshness !" " Mother, dearest mother !" murmured Venetia, " speak to him, look on him !" " Venetia," said her mother, without turning her head, but in a calm, firm tone, " your father has seen you, has conversed with you. Between your father and myself there can be nothing to com«nu- nicate, either of fact or feeling. Now let us depart." V E N E T I A. 801 "No, no, not depart!" said Venetia, franticly. " V^ou did not say depart, dear mother! I can- not go," she added in a low and half hysterical voice, '• Desert me then," said the mother. "A fitting consequence of your private communications with your father," she" added, in a tone of bitter scorn ; and Lady Annabel moved to depart, but Venetia, atill kneeling, clung to her convulsively. " Mother, mother, you shall not go ; you shall )iot leave me ; we will never part, mother," con- tinued Venetia, in a tone almost of violence, as she perceived her mother give no indication of yielding to her wish. "Are my feelings then nothing 1" she then exclaimed. " Is this your sense of my fidelity 1 Am I for ever to be a victim !" She loosened her hold of her mother's hand— her mo- ther moved on. Venetia fell upon her forehead, and uttered a faint scream. The heart of Lady Annabel relented when she fancied her daughter suffered physical pam, however slight; she hesi- tated, she turned, she hastened to her child ; her husband had simultaneously advanced; in the rapid movement and confusion her hand touched that of Herbert. "I yield her to you, Annabel," said Herbert, placing Venetia in her mother's arms. " You mis- take me, as you have often mistaken me, if you think I seek to practise on the feelings of this angelic child. She is yours ; may she compensate to you for the misery I have caused you, but never sought to occasion." " I am not hurt, dear mother," said Venetia, as her mother tenderly examined her forehead. " Dear, dear mother, why did you reproach me 1" " Forget it," said Lady Annabel, in a softened tone, " for indeed you are irreproachable." " ! Annabel," said Herbert, " may not this child be some atonement — this child, of whom I solemnly declare I would not deprive you, though I would wilhngly forfeit my life for a year of her affection ; and your— your sufferance," he added. '• Mother ' speak to him," said Venetia, with her head on her mother's bosom, who still, however, remained rigidly standing. But Lady Annabel was silent. " Your mother was ever stern and cold, Vene- tia," said Herbert, the bitterness of his heart at length expressing itself. "Never," said Venetia, with great energy, "never; you know not my mother. Was she stern and cold when she visited each night in secret your portrait 1" said Venetia, looking round upon her astonished father with her bright gray eve. " Was she stern and cold when she wept over your poems — those poems whose characters your own hand had traced 1 Was she stern and cold when she hung a withered wreath on your bridal bed— the bed to which I owe my miserable being? 0! no, my father; sad was the hour of separation for my mother and yourself. It may have dimmed the lustre of her eye, and shaded your locks with premature gray, but whatever may have been its inscrutable cause, there was one vic- tim of that dark hour, less thought of than your- selves, and yet a greater sufferer than both, the being in whose heart you implanted affections whose unfulfilled tenderness has made that wretch- ed thing they call your daughter." "Annabel!" exclaimed Herbert, rapidly ad- vancing, with an imploring gesture, and speaking 101 in a tone of infinite anguish, " Annabel, Annabel, even now we can be happy !" The countenance of his wife was troubled, but its stern expression had disappeared. The long concealed, yet at length irrepressible emotion of Venetia, had touched her heart. In the conflict of affection between the claims of her two parents, Lady Annabel had observed with a sentiment of sweet emotion, in spite of all the fearfulness of the meeting, that Venetia had not faltered in her devo- tion to her mother. The mental torture of hei child touched her to the quick. In the excitement of her anguish, Venetia had expressed a profound sentiment, the irresistible truth of which Lady An- nabel could no longer withstand. She had too long and too fondly schooled herself to look upon the outraged wife as the only victim. There was then, at length it appeared even to this stern- minded woman, another. She had laboured in the flattering delusion, that the devotion of a mother's love might compensate to Venetia for the loss of that other parent which, in some degree, I^ady Annabel had occasioned her; for the worthless husband, had she chosen to tolerate the degrading connexion, might nevertheless have proved a tender father. But nature, it seemed, had shrunk from the vain effort of the isolated mother. The seeds of affection for the father of her being were mysti- cally implanted in the bosom of his child. Lady Annabel recalled the harrowing hours that this attempt by her to curb and control the natural course and rising sympathies of filial love, had cost her child, on whom she had so vigilantly practised it. She recalled her strange aspirations, her in- spired curiosity, her brooding reveries, her fitful melancholy, her terrible illness, her resignation, her fidelity, her sacrifices — there came across the mind of Laily Annabel a mortifying conviction that the devotion to her child, on which she had so rated herself, might after all only prove a subtle form of profound selfishness; and that Venetia, instead of being the idol of her love, might eventually be the martyr of her pride. And, thinking of these thuigs, she wept. This evidence of emotion, which in such a spirit Herbert knew how to estimate, emboldened him to advance ; he fell on one knee before her and her daughter; gently he stole her hand, pressed it to his lips. It was not withdrawn, and Venetia laid her hand upon theirs, and would have bound them together, had her mother been relentless. It seemed ■ to Venetia that she was at length happy, but she would not speak, but she would not disturb the still and silent bliss of the impending reconciliation. Was it then indeed at hand 7 In truth the deport- ment of Herbert throughout the whole interview, so delicate, so subdued, so studiously avoiding the slightest rivalry with his wife in the affections of their child, and so carefully abstaining from at- tempting in the slightest degree to control the feel- ings of Venetia, had not been lost upon Lady An- nabel. And when she thought of him, so changed from what he had been, gray, bent, and careworn, with all the lustre that had once so fascinated her, faded, and talking of that impending fate which his wan though spiritual countenance too clearly inti mated, her heart melted. Suddenly the door burst open, and there stalked into the room, a woman of eminent but most grace- ful stature, and of a most sovereign and voluptuous beauty. She was habited in the Venetian drsss 802 D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. her dark eyes glittered with fire, her cheek was in- flamed with no amiable emotion, and her long black hair was disordered by the violence of her gesture. " And who are these ?" she exclaimed in a shrill voice. All started — Herbert sprang up from his position with a glance of withering rage. Venetia was per- plexed. Lady Annabel looked round, and recognised the identical face, however distorted by passion, that she had admired in the portrait at Arqua. "And who are these 1" exclaimed the intruder, advancing. " Perfidious Marmion ! to whom do 3'ou dare to kneel 1" Lady Annabel drew herself up to a height that seemed to look down even upon this tall stranger. The expression of majestic scorn that she cast upon the intruder made her, in spite of all her violence and excitement, tremble and be silent ; she felt cowed she knew not why. " Come, Venetia," said Lady Annabel with all her usual composure " let me save my daughter at least from this profanation." " Annabel !" said Herbert, rushing after them. " Be charitable, be just !" He followed them to the threshold of the door ; Venetia was silent, for she was alarmed. " Adieu ! Marmion !" said Lady Annabel, look- ing over her shoulder with a bitter smile, but plac- ing her daughter before her, as if to guard her. "Adieu, Marmion, adieu forever !" CHAPTER VL The moon shone brightly on the house of Pe- trarch, and the hamlet slept in peace. Not a sound was heard, save the shrill voice of the grasshopper, so incessant that its monotony blended as it were, with the stillness. Over the green hills, and the far expanse of the sheeny plain, the beautiful light of heaven fell with all the magical repose of the serene hour — an hour that brought to one troubled breast, and one distracted spirit, in that still and simple village, no quietude. Herbert came forth into the balcony of his resi- dence, and leaning over the balustrade, revolved in his agitated mind the strange and stirring incidents of the day. His wife and his child had quitted the inn of Rovigo instantly after that mortifying ren- counter that had dashed so cruelly to the ground all his sweet and quickly rising hopes. As for his companion, she had by his peremptory desire re- turned to Arqua alone; he was not in a mood to endure her society, but he had conducted himself to her mildly, though with firmness ; he had promised to follow her, and in pursuance of his pledge, he rode home alone. He was greeted on his return by his servant, full of the visit of the morning. With an irresistible curiosity, Herbert had made him describe every incident that had occurred, and repeat a hundred times every word that the visiters had uttered. He listened with some consolation, however mournful, to his wife's praises of the unknown stranger's life; he gazed upon with witching interest the autograph of his daughter on the wall of his library. He had not confessed to his mistress the relation which the two strangers bore to him; yet he was influenced in concealing the real circumstances, only by an indefinite sentiment, that made him reluctant to acknowledge to her ties so pure. The feelings of the parent overpowered the principles of the philo- sopher. This lady indeed, although at the moment she had indulged in so violent an ebuUitictn of tem- per, possessed little influence over the mind of her companion. Herbert, however fond of solitude, required in his restricted world the graceful results of feminine superintendence. Time had stilled his passions, and cooled the fervour of his soul. The age of his illusions had long past. This was a connexion that had commenced in no extravagant or romantic mood, and perhaps for that reason had endured. He had become acquainted with her on his first unknown arrival in Italy, from America, now nearly two years back. It had been main- tained on his side by a temper naturally very sweet, and which, exhausted by years of violent emotion, now required only repose ; seeking, indeed, in a female friend, a form that should not outrage an eye ever musing on the beautiful, and a disposition that should contribute to his comfort, and never ruffle his feelings. Separated from his wife by her own act, whatever might have been its impulse, and for so long an interval, it was a connexion which the world in general must have looked upon with charity, which in her calmer hours one would im- agine even Lady Annabel might have glanced over without much bitterness. Certainly it was one which, under all the circumstances of the case, could scarcely be esteemed by her as an outrage oi an insult ; but even Herbert felt, with all his philo- sophy and proud freedom from prejudice, that the rencounter of the morning was one which no wo- man could at the moment tolerate, few eventually excuse, and which of all incidents was that which would most tend to confirm his wife in her stoical obduracy. Of his oflences towards her, whatever were their number or their quality, this surely was the least, and yet its results upon his life and for- tunes would in all probability only be equalled by the mysterious cause that had led to their original separation. But how much more bitter than that original separation was their present parting ! Mor- tifying and annoying as had been the original occur- rence, it was one that many causes and considerations combined to enable Herbert to support. He was then in the very prime of youth, very inexperienced, sanguine, restless, and adventurous, with the whole world and its unknown results before him, and freedom for which he ever sighed to compensate for the loss of that domestic joy that he was then un- able to appreciate. But now twenty years, which in the career of such a spirit were equal to a century of the existence of coarser clay, had elapsed ; he was bowed with thought and suffering, if not by time ; his conscience was light, but it was sad ; his illusions had all vanished ; he knew the world and all that the world could bring, and he disregarded them; and the result of all his profound study, lofty aspirations, and great conduct was, that he sighed for rest. The original catastrophe had been merely a separation between a husband and a wife : the one that had just happened, involved other feel- ings ; the father was also separated from his child — and a child of such surpassing qualities, that his brief acquaintance with her had alone sufficed to convert his dream of domestic repose into a vision of domestic bliss. Beautiful Venetia ! So fair and yet so dutiful ; with a bosom teeming with such exquisite sensi- bilities, and a mind bright with such acute and ele- vated intelligence ! An abstract conception of tht< VENETIA. 803 sentiments that might subsist between a father and a daughter, heightened by all the devices of a glow- ing imagination, had haunted indeed occasionally the solitary musings of Marmion Herbert ; but what was this creation of his poetic, brain, compared with the reality that now had touched his human heart 1 Vainly had he believed that repose was the only eolace that remained for his exhausted spirit. He found that a new passion now swayed his soul ; a passion, too, that he had never proved ; of a nature most peculiar ; pure, gentle, refined, yet ravishing and irresistible, compared with which all former transports, no matter how violent, tumultuous, and exciting, seemed evanescent and superficial : they were indeed the wind, the fire, and the tempest that had gone before, but this was the still small voice that followed, excelled, and survived their might and majesty, unearthly and eternal ! His heart melted to his daughter, nor did he care to live without her love and presence. His philo- sophical theories all vanished. He felt how de- pendent we are in this world on our natural ties, and how limited, with all his arrogance, is the sphere of man. Dreaming of philanthropy, he had broken his wife's heart, and bruised, perhaps irre- parably, the spirit of his child ; he had rendered those miserable who depended on his love, and for whose atiection his heart now yearned to that de- gree, that he could not contemplate existence with- out their active sympathy. Was it then too late ] Was it then impossible to regain that Paradise he had forfeited so weakly, and of whose amaranthine bowers, but a few hours since he had caught such an entrancing glimpse, of which the gate for a moment seemed to reopen ? In spite of all, then, Annabel still loved him — loved him passionately, visited his picture, mused over the glowing expression of their loves, wept over the bridal bed so soon deserted ! She had a dog too when Venetia was a child, and called it Marmion. The recollection of this little trait, so trifling yet so touching, made him weep even with wildness. The tears poured down his cheeks in torrents, he sobbed convulsively, his very heart seemed to burst. For some minutes he leaned over the balustrade in a paroxysm of grief. He looked up. The convent hill rose before him, bright in the moon ; beneath was his garden ; around him the humble roofs that he made happy. It was not without an effort that he recalled the locality — that he remembered he was at Arqua. And who was sleeping within the house 1 Not his wife — Annabel was far away with their daughter. The vision of his whole life passed before him. Study and strife, and fame and love ; the pride of the philosopher, the rapture of the poet, the blaze of eloquence, the clash of arms, the vows of pas- sion, the execration and the applause of millions; both once alike welcome to his indomitable soul ! And what had they borne to him"? Misery. He called up the image of his wife, young, beautiful, and noble, with a mind capable of comprehending his loftiest and his finest moods, with a soul of matchless purity, and a temper whose winning ten- derness had only been equalled by her elevated sense of self-respect; a woman that might have figured in the days of chivalry, soft enough to be his slave, but too proud to be his victim. He called up her image in the castle of his fathers, exercising in a domain worthy of such a mistress, all those I sweet offices of life which, here in this hired roof 1 in a strange land, and with his crippled means, he I had yet found solacing. He conjured before him a I bud by the side of that beauteous flower, sharing all her lustre and all her fragrance — his own Venetia ! What happiness might not have been his ! And for what had he forfeited it ? A dream, with no dream-like beauty ; a perturbed, and restless, and agitated dream, from which he had now woke shat- tered and exhausted. He had sacrificed his fortune, he had forfeited his country, he had alienated his wife, and he had lost his child : the home of his heroic ancestry, the ancient land whose fame and power they had crea- ted, the beauteous and gifted woman who would have clung for ever to his bosom, and her transcen- dent olfspring worthy of all their loves ! Profound philosopher ! The clock of the convent struck the second hour after midnight. Herbert started. And all this time where were Annabel and Venetia '! They still lived, they were in the same country, an hour ago they were under the same roof, in the same chamber; their hands had joined, their hearts had opened, for a moment he had dared to believe that all that he cared for might be regained. And why was it notl The cause — the cause 1 It recurred to him with associations of dislike, of disgust, of wrath, of hatred, of which one whose heart was so tender, and whose reason was so clear, could under the influence of no other feelings have been capable. The surround- ing scene, that had so often soothed his mournful soul, and connected it with the last hours of a spirit to whom he bore much resemblance, was now look- ed upon with aversion. To rid himself of ties, now so dreadful, was all his ambition. He entered the house quickly, and seating himself in his closet, he wrote these words : — " You beheld this morning my wife and cliild ; we can meet no more. All tliat I can effect to con- sole you under this sudden separation shall be done. My banker from Bologna will be here m two days; express to him all your wishes." It was written, sealed, directed, and left upon the table at which they had so often been seated. Her- bert descended into the garden, saddled his horse, and in a few minutes, in the heart of night, had quitted Arqua. CHAPTER Vn. We must now return to Lady Annabel and her unhappy daughter. The moment that the wife of Marmion Herbert re-entered her saloon, she sent for her courier, and ordered horses to her carriage in- stantly. Until they were announced as ready. Lady Annabel walked up and down the room with an impatient step, but was as completely silent as the miserable Venetia, who remained weeping on the sofa. The confusion and curiosity of Mistress Pauncefort were extraordinary. She still had a lurking suspicion that the gentleman was Lord Ca- durcis, and she seized the first opportunity of leav- ing the room, and flouncing "nto that of the stran- ger, as if by mistake, determined to catch a glimpse of him ; but all her notable skill was bafiled, for she had scarcely opened the door before she was met by the Italian lady, who received Mistress Paunce fort's ready-made apology, and bowed her away 804 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. The faithful attendant then hurried down stairs to cross-examine the waiter, but, though she gained considerable information from that functionary, it was of a very perplexing nature ; for from him she only learned that the stranger lived at Arqua. " 'I'hc German gentleman !" soliloquized Mistress I'auncefort; and what could he have to say to Miss Veiietia ! And a married man too ! Well, to be sure there is nothing like travelling for adven- tures! And I must say, considering all that I know, \ .{] how I have held my tongue for nearly twenty real's, I think it is very strange indeed of my lady lO have any secrets from me. Secrets, indeed ! I'oh !" and Mistress Pouncefort flounced again into Lady Annabel's room, with a face of offended pride, knocking the books about, dashing down writing- cases, tossing about work, and making as much noise and disturbance as if she had a separate quar- rel with every single article under her superinten- dence. In the mean tune, the carriage was prepared, to which tlicy were obliged almost to carry Vcnetia; not, indeed, that she made any resistance to their departure — she appeared feeble and stupificd with grief. Uncertain of her course, but anxious in tlie jiresent state of her daughter, for rest and quiet. Lady Arniabel ordered the courier to jjroceed to Padua, at which city they arrived late at night, scarcely a word having been interchanged during the whole journey between Lady Annabel and her child, thovigh infinite were the soft and soothing at- tentions which the mother lavished upon her. Night, however, brought no rest to Vcnetia ; and the next day, her state appeared so alarming to ]ja- dy Annabel, that she would have instantly sum- moned medical assistance, had not it been for Ve- netia's strong objections ; " Indeed, dear mother," slie said, '' it is not physicians that I require. They cannot cure me. Let me be quiet." The same cause, indeed, which during the last five years had at intervals so seriously menaced the existence of this uniiappy girl, was now at work with renovated and even irresistible influence. Her frame could no longer endure the fatal action of lier over-excited nerves. Her first illness, however alarming, had been bafiled by time, skill, and prin- ci})ally by the vigour of an extremely youthful frame, then a stranger to any serious indisposition. At a later period, the change of life induced by their residence at Weymouth had permitted her again to rally. She had quitted England with nv newcd symptoms of her former attack, but a still more powerful change, not only of scene, but of climate and country, and the regular and peaceful life she had led on the Lago Maggiore, had again reassured the mind of her anxious mother. This last adventure at Rovigo, however, prostrated her. The strange surprise, the violent developement of feeling, the agonising doubts and hopes, the terrible suspense, the profound and bitter and overwhelm- ing disappointment, all combined to shake her mind to its very foundations. She felt for the first time, that she co"ild no longer bear up against the torture of her singular position. Her energy was f nlirely exhausted ; she was no longer capable of making the slightest exertion : she took refuge in that turbid resignation that results from utter hope- lessness. Lying on her sofa, with her eyes fixed in listless abstraction, the scene at Kovigo flitted unceasingly before her languid vision. At length she had seen that father, that unknown and mysterious fathe> whose idea had haunted her infancy as if by inspi- ration, to gain the slightest knowledge of 'nhom had cost her such long and acute sufTerinc ; and round whose image for so many years every thought of her intelligence, and every feeling of her heart, had clustered like spirits round some dim and mys- tical altar. At length she had beheld him ; she had gazed on that spiritual countenance ; she had listened to the tender accents of that musical voice; within his arms she had been folded with rapture, and pressed to a heart that seemed to beat only for her felicity. The blessing of her father, uttered by his long-loved lips, had descended on her brow, and been sealed with his passionate embrace. The entrance of her mother, — that terrible con- test of her lacerated heart, when her two parents, as it were, appealed to her love, which they would not share ; — the inspiration of her despair, that so suddenly had removed the barriers of long years, before whose irresistible pathos her father had been a penitent, and her mother's inexorable pride had melted, the ravishing bliss that for a moment had thrilled through her, being experienced too for the first time, when she felt that her parents were again united and bound by the sweet tic of her now hap- py existence — this was the drama acted before her with an almost ceaseless repetition of its transport- ing incidents ; and when she looked round, and be- held her mother sitting alone, and watching her with a countenance almost of anguish, it was indeed vi'ith exteme dilficulty that Vcnetia could persuade herself that all had not been a revery ; and she was only convinced of the contrary, by that heaviness of the heart which too quickly assures us of the reality of those sorrows, of which fancy for a mo- ment may cheat us into skepticism. Nor, indeed, was her mother scarcely less miser able. The sight of Herbert, so changed from tlio form that she remembered ; those tones of heart- rending sincerity, in which he had mournfully ap- pealed to the influence of time and sorrow on his life, still greatly affected her. She had indulged for a moment in a dream of domestic love, she had cast to the winds the inexorable determination of a life, and had mingled her tears with those of her hus- band and her child. And how had she been repaid 1 By a degrading catastrophe, from whose revolting associations her mind recoiled with indignation and disgust. But her lingering feeling for her husband, her own mortification, were as nothing compared with the harrowing anxiety she now entertained for her daughter. To converse with Vcnetia on the recent occurrence, was impossible. It was a sub- ject which admitted of no discussion. They had passed a week at Padua, and the slightest allusion to what had happened had never been made by ei- ther Lady Annabel or her child. It was only by her lavish testimonies of afi'cction, that Lady An- nabel conveyed to Vcnetia how deeply she sympa- thised with her, and how unhappy she was herself. She had, indeed, never quitted for a moment the side of her daughter : and witnessed each day with renewed anguish, her deplorable condition. For Venetia continued in a state which, to those unac- quainted with her, might have been mistaken for insensibility, but her mother knew too well that it was despair. She never moved, she never sighed, or wept ; she took no notice of any thing that oc- curred ; she sought relief in no resources. Books, and drawings, and music were quite forgotten by VENETIA. SOI her ; nothing amused, and nothing annoyed her ; ehe was not even fretful; she had, indeed, appa- rently no physical ailment; she remained pale aod silent, plunged in an absorhing paroxysm of over- whelming wo. The unhappy Lady Annabel, at a loss how to act, yet anxious not to sink under these alHictions, at length thought it might be advisable to cross over to Venice. She felt assured now, that it would be a long time, if ever, before her child could again endure the fatigue of travel ; and she thought that for every reason, whether for domestic comfort or medical advice, or those multifarious considerations which interest the invalid, a capital was by far the most desirable residence for them. I'luuc was a time when a visit to the city that had given her a name, had been a favourite dream of Venctia; she had often sighed to be within " The sea-born city's walls ; the graceful lowers Loved by the bard—" Those lines of her father had long echoed in her ear ; but now the proposition called no light to her glazed eye, nor sunnnoned for an instant tlie colour back to her check. She listened to her mother's BUggestion, and expressed her willingness to do whatever she desired. Venice was to her now only a name ; for, without the presence and the united love of both her parents no spot on earth could in- terest and no combination of circumstances all'ect her. To Venice, however, the Herberts de()arted, having previously taken care that every arrange- ment should be made for their reception. The English ambassador at the ducal court was a re- lative of I/ady Annabel, and therefore, no means or exertions were spared to secure the convenience and accommodation of the invalid. The barge of the ambassador met them at Fusma ; and when Venc- tia beheld the towers and cupolas of Venice, sulfuscd with a golden light and rising out of the bright blue waters, for a moment her spirit seemed to lighten. It is indeed a spectacle as beautiful as rare, and one to which the world oilers few, if any, rivals. Gliding over the great Lagunc, the buildings, with which the pictures at Cherbury liad already made her familiar, gradually rose up before her; the mosque-like church of St. Marc, the tall Campanile red in the sun, the Moresco Palace of the doges, the deadly Bridge of Sighs, and the dark structure to which it leads. Venice had not then fallen. The gorgeous standards of the sovereign republic, and its tri- butary kingdoms, still waved in the Place of St. Marc ; the bucentaur was not rotting in the arsenal, and the warlike galleys of the state cruised without the Lagune ; a busy and picturesque population swarmed in all directions ; and the Venetian noble, the haughtiest of men, might still be seen proudly moving from the council of state, or stepping into B gondola amid a bowing crowd. All was stirring life, yet all was silent ; the fantastic architecture, the glowing sky, the flitting gondolas, and the Drilliant crowd gliding about with noiseless step — this city without sound — it seemed a dream ! CHAPTER VIII. Thf. ambassador had engaged for Lady Annabel a palace on the Grand Canal belonging to Count Manfrini. It was a structure of great size an magnificence, and rose out of the water with a flighl of marble steps. Within was a vast gallery, lined with statues and busts on tall pedestals; suites of spacious apartments, with marble floors and hung with satin; ceilings painted by 'J'iiitoretto and full of Turldsh trophies; furniture, alike sumijtuous and massy ; the gilding, although of two hundred years' duration, as bright and burnished as if it liad but yesterday been touched with the l)rush: sequin gold, as the Venetians tell you to this day with pride ; but even their old furniture will not soon be left to them, as palaces are now daily broken up like old ships, and their colossal spoils consigned to Hanway-yard and Bond-street, whence, rcburnishcd and vamped up, their Titantic proportions hi time appropriately figure in the bou- doirs of May Fair and the miniature saloons of St. James'. Many a fine lady now sits in a doge'3 chair, and many a dandy listens to his doom from a couch that has already witnessed the less inexo- rable decrees of the Council of Ten. Amid all this splendour, however, one mournful idea alone pervaded the tortured consciousness of Lady Annabel Herbert. Daily the dark truth stole upon her with increased conviction, that Venctia had come hither only to die. There seemed, to the agitated ear of this distracted mother, a terrible omen even in the very name of her child; and she could not resist the persuasion that her liiial destiny would, in some degree, be connected with her fanciful appellation. The physicians, for, hopeless as Lady Annabel could not resist esteem- ing their interference, Venctia was now surrounded with iihysicians, shook their heads, prescribed dif- ferent remedies, and gave contrary opinions ; each day, however, their patient became more languid, thinner and more thin, vuitil she seemed like a beautiful spirit gliding into the saloon, leaning on her mother's arm, ant! followed by Pauncefort, who had now learned the fatal secret from her mistress, and whose heart was indeed almost broken at the pros[)ect of the calamity that was impending over them. At Padua Lady Annabel, in her mortified re- veries, outraged as she conceived by her husband, and anxious about her daughter, had schooled herself into visiting her fresh calamities on the head of the unhappy Herbert, to whose intrusion and irresistible influence she ascribed all the illness of her child ; but, as the indisposition of Venetia gradually, but surely, increased, until at length it assumed so alarming an aspect, that Lady Annabel, in the distraction of her mind, could no longer re train from contemplating the most fatal results, she had taught herself bitterly to regret the failure of that approaching reconciliation which now she could not but believe would, at least, have secured her the life of Venetia. Whatever might be the risk of again uniting herself with her husband, whatever might be the mortification and misery which it might ultimately, or even speedily, entail upon her, (here was no unhappiness that she could herself experience, which for one moment she could put into compethion with the existence ofhe» child. When that was the question, every feeling that had hitherto impelled her conduct assumed a totally dilli?rent complexion. That conduct, in her view, had been a systematic sacrifice of self to secure the happiness of her daughter : and the result of all her exertions was, that not.only her happiness was 806 U'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. destroyed, but her life fast vanishing away. To save Venetia, it now appeared to Lady Annabel, that there was no extremity which she would not endure ; and, if it came to a question, whether Ve- netia should survive, or whether she should even be separated from her mother, her maternal heart now assured her that she would not for an instant hesitate in preferring an eternal separation to the death of her child. Her terror, indeed, worked to such a degree upon her character, that she even, at times, half resolved to speak to Venetia upon the subject, and contrive some method of communi- cating her wishes to her father ; but pride, the ha- bitual repugnance of so many years to converse upon the topic, mingled also, as should be confessed, with an indefinite apprehension of the ill-con- sequences of a conversation of such a character on the nervous temperament of her daughter, restreiined her. " My love !" said Lady Annabel, one day to her daughter, " do you think you could go out ? The physicians think it of such great importance that you should attempt to exert yourself, however "slightly." " Dear mother, if any thing could annoy me from your lips, it would be to hear you quote these physicians," said Venetia. '• Their daily presence and inquiries irritate me. Let me be at peace. I wish to see no one but you." " But, Venetia," said Lady Annabel in a voice of great emotion, " Venetia — " and here she paused ; " think of my anxiety." "Dear mother, it would be ungrateful for me t-ver to forget that. But you, and you alone, know that my state, whatever it may be, and to whatever it may be, I am reconciled, is not produced by causes over which these physicians have any control, over which no one has control — now," added Venetia, in a tone of great moumfulness. For kere we must remark that so inexperienced was Venetia in the feelings of others, and so com- pletely did she judge of the strength and purity of their emotions from her own, that reflection, since the terrible adventure of Rovigo, had only con- vinced her that it was no longer in her mother's power to unite herself again with her other parent. She had taught herself to look upon her father's burst of feeling towards Lady Annabel as the mo- mentary and inevitable result of a meeting so unex- pected and overpowering, but she did not doubt that the stranger whose presence had ultimately so fatally clouded that interview of promise, possessed claims upon Marmion Herbertwhich he would nei- ther break, nor, upon reflection, be desirous to question. It was then the conviction that a recon- ciliation between her parents was now impossible, in which her despair originated, and she pictured to herself her father once more at Arqua, disturbed, perhaps for a day or two, as he naturally must be, by an interview so sudden and so harassing ; shed- cling a tear, perhaps, in secret to the wife whom he had injured, and the child whom he had scarcely seen : but relapsing alike from the force of habit and inclination into those previous and confirmed feelings, under whose influence, she was herself a witness, his life had been so serene, and even so laudable. She was confirmed in these opinions by the circumstance of their never having heard since from him. Placed in his situation, if indeed in irresistible influence were not controlling him. would he have hesitated for a moment to have pre- vented even their departure, or to have pursued them ; to have sought at any rate some means of communicating with theml He was plainly re- conciled to his present position, and felt that under these circumstances silence on his part was alike most discreet and kind. Venetia had ceased, therefore, to question the justice or the expediency, or even the al)stract propriety of her mother's con- duct. She viewed their condition how as the result of stern necessity. She pitied her mother, and for herself, she had no hope. There was then much meaning in that little monosyllable with which Venetia concluded her reply to her mother. She had no hope " now." Lady Annabel, however, ascribed it to a very dif- ferent meaning ; she only believed that her daughter was of opinion that nothing would induce her now to listen to the overtures of her father. Prepared for any sacrifice of self. Lady Annabel replied, " But there is hope, Venetia, when your life is in question, there is nothing that should not be done." " Nothing can be done," said Venetia, who, of course, could not dream of what was passing in her mother's mind. Lady Annabel rose from her seat and walked to the window ; apparently her eye watched only the passing gondolas, but indeed she saw them not : she saw only her child stretched perhaps on the couch of death. " We quitted, perhaps, Rovigo too hastily," said Lady Annabel, in a choking voice, and with a face of scarlet. It was a terrible struggle, but the words were uttered. " No, mother," said Venetia, to Lady Annabel's inexpressible surprise, " we did right to go." " Even my child, even Venetia, with all her de- votion to him, feels the absolute necessity of my conduct," thought Lady Annabel. Her pride re- turned ; she felt the impossibdity of making an overture to Herbert; she looked upon their daughter as the last victim of his fatal career. CHAPTER IX. How beautiful is night in Venice ! Then music and the moon reign supreme ; the glittering sky reflected on the waters, and every gondola gliding with sweet sounds ! Around on every side are palaces and temples, rising from the waves which they shadow with their solemn forms, their costly fronts rich with the spoils of kingdoms, and soften- ed with the magic of the midnight beam. The whole city too is poured forth for festival. The people lounge on the quays and cluster on the bridges; the light barks skim along in crowds, just touching the surface of the water, while their bright prows of polished iron gleam in the moonshine, and glitter in the rippling wave. Not a sound that is not graceful — the tinkle of guitars, the sighs of serenaders, and the responsive chorus of gondo- liers. Now and then a laugh, light, joyous, and yet musical, bursts forth from some illuminated cof- fee-house, before which a buffo disports, a tumbler stands on his head, or a juggler mystifies ; and all for a sequin ! The Place of St. Marc, at the period of our story, still presented the most brilliant spectacle of the kind in Europe. Not a spot was more dis VENETIA. .807 tingufelied for elegance, luxury, and enjoyment. It was indeed the inner shrine of the temple of pleasure, and very strange and amusing would be the annals of its picturesque arcades. We must not however step behind their blue awnings, but content ovirselves with the exterior scene; and certainly the Place of St. Marc, with the variegated splendour of its Christian mosque, the ornate archi- tecture of its buildings, its diversified population, a tribute from every shore of the midland sea, and where the noble Venetian, in his robe of crimson silk and long white wig, might be jostled by the Sclavonian with his target, and the Albanian in his kilt, while the Turk sitting cross-legged on his Persian carpet, smoked his long chiboque with se- rene gravity, and the mild Armenian glided by him with a low reverence, presented an aspect, under a Venetian moon, such as we shall not easily find again in Christendom, and, in spite of the dying glory and the neighbouring vice, was pervaded with an air of romance and refinement, compared with which the glittering dissipation of I aris, even in its liveliest and most graceful hours, assumes a cha- racter alilve coarse and commonplace. It is the hour of love and of faro ; now is the hour to press your suit and to break a bank; to glide from the apartment of rapture into the cham- ber of chance. Thus a nohle Venetian contrived to pass the night, in alternations of excitement tliat in general left him sufficiently serious of the mor- row's council. For more vulgar tastes there was the minstrel, the conjurer, and the storyteller, gob- lets of Cypress wine, flasks of sherbet, and con- fectionary that dazzled like diamonds. And for every one, from the grave senator to the gay gon- dolier, there was an atmosphere in itself a spell, and which, after all, has more to do with human happiness than all the accidents of fortune and all the arts of government. Amid this gay and brilliant multitude, one human being stood alone. Muffled in his cloak, and lean- ing against a column in the portico of St. Marc, an expression of oppressive care and affliction was im- printed on his countenance, and ill accorded with the light and festive scene. Had he been crossed in love or had he lost at play ! Was it woman or gold to which his anxiety and sorrovsr were attri- butable, for under one or other of these categories, undoubtedly, all the miseries of man may range. Want of love, or want of money, lies at the bottom of all our griefs. The stranger came forward, and leaving the joyous throng, turned down the Piazzetta, and ap- proached the quay of the Lagune. A gondolier sa- luted him, and he entered his boat. " Whither, signor V said the gondolier. " To the Grand Canal," he replied. Over the moonlit wave tlie gondola swiftly skimmed! The scene was a marvellous contrast to the one which the stranger had Just quitted ; but it brought no serenity to his care-worn coun- tenance, though his eye for a moment kindled as he looked upon the moon, that was sailing in the cloudless heaven with a single star by her side. They had soon entered the Grand Canal, and the gondolier looked to his employer for instruc- tions. "Row opposite to the Manfrini palace," said the stranger, " and rest upon your oar." The blinds of the great window of the palace were withdrawn. Distinctly might be recognised a female figure bending over the recumbent form of a girl. An hour passed away and still the gon- dola was motionless, and still the silent stranger gazed on the inmates of the palace. A servant now came forward and closed the curtain of the chamber. The stranger sighed, and waving his hand to the gondolier, bade him repair to the La- gune. CHAPTER X. It is curious to recall our feelings at a moment wnen a great event is impending over us, and we are utterly unconscious of its probable occurrence. How often does it happen that a subject which almost unceasingly engages our mind, is least thought of at the very instant that the agitating suspense involved in its consideration is perhaps about to be terminated forever ! The very morn- ing after the mysterious gondola had rested so long before the Manfrini Palace, Venetia rose for the first time since the flight from Rovigo, refreshed by her slumbers and tranquil in her spirit. It was not in her power to recall her dreams ; but they had left a vague and yet serene impression. There seemed a lightness in her heart, that long had been unusual with her, and she greeted her mother with a smile, faint indeed, yet natural. Perhaps this beneficial change, slight, but still de- lightful, might be attributed to the softness and the splendour of the morn. Before the approach of winter, it seemed that the sun was resolved to remind the Venetians that they were his children ; and that, although his rays might be soon clouded for a season, they were not to believe that theii parent had deserted them. The sea was like glass, a golden haze suffused the horizon, and a breeze, not strong enough to disturb the waters, was wafted at intervals from the gardens of tlie Brenta, fitful and sweet. Venetia had yielded to the suggestion of her mother, and had agreed for the first time to leave the palace. They stepped into their gondola, and were wafted to an island in the Lagune where there was a convent, and, what in Venice was more rare and more delightful, a garden. Its scanty shrubberies sparkled in the sun ; and a cypress flanked by a pine-tree, offered to the eye unused to trees a novel and picturesque group. Beneath its shade they rested, watching on one side the distant city, and on the other the still and gleaming waters of the Adriatic. While they were thus sitting, renovated by the soft air and pleasant spectacle, a holy father, with a beard like a meteor, appeared and addressed them. " Welcome to St. Lazaro !" said the holy father, speaking in English; "and may the peace that reigns within its walls fill also your breasts !" " Indeed, holy father," said Lady Annabel to the Armenian monk, " I have long heard of your vir- tues and your happy life." " You know that Paradise was placed in ou» country," said the monk with a smile. " We have all lost Paradise, but the Armenian has lost his country too. Nevertheless, Vv^ith God's blessing, on this islet we have found an Eden, pure at least and tranquil." " For the pious. Paradise exists everywhere," said Lady Annabel. " You have been in England, holy father V saia Venetia. 808 ^'ISRAELI'S NOVELS " It has not been my good fortune," replied the monk. " Yet you speak our tongue with a facility and accent that surprise me." " I learned it in America, where I long resided," ••ejoined the Armenian. " This is for your eye, lady," continued the monk, drawing a letter from his bosom. Lady Annabel felt not a little surprised ; but the idea immediately occurred to her that it was some conventual memorial, appealing to her charity. She took the paper from the monk, who imme- diately moved away ; but what was the agitation of Lady Annabel when she recognised the hand- writing of her husband ! Her first thought was to save Venetia from sharing that agitation. She rose quickly ; she commanded herself sufficiently to advise lier daughter in a calm tone, to remain seated, while for a moment she refreshed herself by a stroll. She had not quitted Venetia many paces, when she broke the seal and read these lines : — "Tremble not, Annabel, when you recognise this handwriting. It is that of one whose only aspiration is to contribute to your happiness; and, although the fulfilment of that fond desire may be denied him, it never shall be said, even by you, that any conduct of his should now occasion you annoyance. I am in Venice at the peril of my life, which I only mention because the difficulties in- separable from my position are the principal cause that you did not receive this communication imme- diately after our strange meeting. I have gazed at night upon your palace, and watched the forms of my wife and our child ; but one word from you, and I quit Venice for ever, and it shall not be my fault if you are ever again disturbed by the memory of the miserable Herbert. " But before I go, I will make this one appeal if not to your justice, at least to your mercy. After the fatal separation of a life, we have once more met ; you have looked upon me not with hatred ; my hand has once more pressed yours ; for a mo- ment I indulged the impossible hope, that this weary and exhausted spirit might at length be blessed. With agony I allude to the incident that dispelled the rapture of this vision. Sufficient for me most solemnly to assure you that four-and- twenty hours had not elapsed without that feeble and unhallowed tie being severed forever ! It vanished instantaneously before the presence of my wife and my child. However you decide, it can never again subsist: its utter and eternal dissolu- tion was the inevitable homage to your purity. " Whatefver may have been my errors, whatever my crimes — for I will not attempt to justify to you a single circumstance of my life — I humble myself in the dust before you, and solicit only mercy ; yet whatever may have been my career, ah ! Annabel, in the infinite softness of your soul was it not for a moment pardoned "? Am I indeed to suffer for that last lamentable intrusion? You are a woman, Annabel, with a brain as clear as your heart is pure. Judge me with calmness, Annabel; were there no circumstances in my situation to extenuate that deplorable connexion 1 I will not urge them ; I will not even intimate them ; but surely, Anna- bel, when I kneel before you full of deep repen- tance and long remorse, if you could pardon the past, it is not that incident, however mortifying to you, however disgraceful to myself, that should be on inij)assablc barrier to all my hopes ! " Once you loved me ; I ask you not to love me now. There is nothing about me now that can touch the heart of woman. I am old before my time ; bent with the blended influence of action and of thought, and of physical and moral suifer- ing. The play of my spirit has gone forever My passions have expired like my hopes. The remaining sands of my life are few. Once it was otherwise : you can recall a different picture of the Marmion on whom you smiled, and of whom you were the first love. O ! Annabel — gray, feeble, exhausted, penitent — let me stagger over your threshold, and die ! I ask no more ; I will not hope for your affection ; I will not even count upon your pity ; but endure my presence ; let your roof screen my last days !" It was read ; it was read again, dim as was the sight of Lady Annabel with fast-flowing tears. Still holding the letter, but with hands fallen, she gazed upon the shining waters before her in a fit of abstraction. It was the voice of her child that roused her. " Mother," said Venetia, in a tone of some de- cision, " you are troubled, and we have only one cause of trouble. That letter is from my father," Lady Annabel gave her the letter in silence, Venetia withdrew almost unconsciously a few paces from her mother. She felt this to be the crisis of her life. There never was a moment which she believed required more fully the presence of all her energies. Before she had addressed Lady Annabel, she had endeavoured to steel her mind to great exertion. Yet now that she held the letter, she could not command herself suffi- ciently to read it. Her breath deserted her — her hand lost its power ; she could not even open the lines on which perhaps her life depended. Sud- denly, with a rapid effort, she glanced at the con- tents. The blood returned to her cheek — her eye became bright with excitement — she gasped for breath — she advanced to Lady Annabel, " Ah ! mother," she exclaimed, " you will grant all that it desires !" Still gazing on the wave that laved the shore of the island with an almost imperceptible ripple, Lady Annabel continued silent, " Mother," said Venetia, " my beloved mother, you hesitate," She approached Lady Annabel, and, with one arm around her neck, she grasped with the other her mother's hand. " I implore you, by all that affection which you lavish on me, yield to this supplication. O ! mother, dearest mother, it has been my hope that my life has been at least a life of duty ; I have laboured to yield to all your wishes, I have struggled to make their fulfilment the law of my being. Yes ! mother, your memory will assure you, that when the sweetest emotions of my heart were the stake, you appealed to me to sacrifice them, and they were dedicated to your will. Have I ever murmured 1 I have sought only to repay your love by obedience. Speak to me, dearest mother ! I implore you speak to me ! Tell me can you ever repent relenting in this instance! O ! mother, you will not hesitate ; you will not in- deed ; you will bring joy and content to our long harassed hearth ! Tell me so; I beseech you tell me so ! I wish, O ! how I wish, that you wjuld comply from the mere impulse of your own heart ! But grant that it is a sacrifice ; grant that it may be unwise — that it may be vain ; — I supplicate you to make it! I, your child, who never deserted yuu^ VENETIA. 809 whs will never desert you, pledging my faith to you, in the face of Heaven; for my sake I supplicate you to make it. You do not hesitate — you cannot hesitate; mother, you cannot hesitate. Ah! you would not, if you knew all ; if you knew all the misery of my life, you would be glad — you would be cheerful — you would look upon this as an inter- position of Providence in fovour of your Venetia ; you would, indeed, dear mother I" " What evil fortune guided our steps to Italy !" said Lady Annabel in a solemn tone, and as if in soliloquy. " No, no, mother ; not evil fortune ; fortune the best and brightest," exclaimed her daughter. " We came here to be happy, and happiness we have at length gained. It is in our grasp ; I feel it. It was not fortune, dear mother, it was fate, it was Provi- dence, it was God. You have been faithful to him, and he has brought back to you my father, chastened and repentant. God has turned his heart to all your virtues. Will you desert him 1 No, no, mother, you will not, you cannot ; for his sake, for your own sake, and for your child's, you will not !" " For twenty years I have acted from an impe- rious sense of duty," said Lady Annabel, " and for your sake, Venetia, as much as for my own. Shall the feeling of a moment — '' " O ! mother, dearest mother, say not these words. With me, at least, it has not been the feeling of a moment. It haunted my infancy ; it harassed me while a girl ; it has brought me in the prime of womanhood to the brink of the grave. And with you, mother, has it been the feeling of a moment 1 Ah ! you ever loved him, when his name was never breathed by those lips. You loved him when you deemed he had forgotten you ; when you pictured him to yourself in all the pride of health and genius, wanton and daring ; and now, now that he comes to you penitent, perhaps dying, more like a remorse- ful spirit than a breathing being, and humbles him- self before you, and appeals only to your mercy, ah ! my mother, you cannot reject, you could not reject him, even if you were alone, — even if you had no child !" " My child ! my child ! all my hopes were in my child," murmured Lady Annabel. " Is she not by your side ]" said Venetia. " You know not what you ask ; you know not what you counsel," said Lady Annabel. " It has been the prayer ai)d effort of my life that you should never know. There is a bitterness in the recon- ciliation which follows long estrangement, that yields a pang more acute even than the first disu- nion. Shall I be called upon to mourn over the wasted happiness of twenty years ] Why did he not hate us V " The pang is already felt, mother," said Venetia. " Reject my father, but you cannot resume the feel- ings of a month back. You have seen him ; you have listened to him. He is no longer the character which justified your conduct, and upheld you under the trial. His image has entered your soul ; your heart is softened. Bid him quit Venice without seeing you, and you will remain the most miserable of women." " On his head, then, be the final desolation," said Lady Annabel ; " it is but a part of the lot that he has yielded me." " I am silent," said Venetia, relaxing her grasp ; " I see that your child is not permitted to enter into your consideration." She turned away. 102 " Venetia !" said her mother. "■ Mother !" said Venetia, looking back, but not returning. " Return one moment to me." Venetia slowly rejoined her. Lady Annabel spoke in a kind and gentle, though very serious tone. " Venetia," she said, " what I am about to speak is not the impulse of the moment, but has been long revolved in my mind ; do not, therefore, misappre- hend it. I express without passion what I believe to be truth. I am persuaded that the presence of your father is necessary to your happiness ; nay, more, to your life. I recognise the mysterious in- fluence which he has ever exercised over your existence. I feel it impossible for me any longer to struggle against a power to which I bow. Be happy, then, my daughter, and live. Fly to your father, and be to him as matchless a child as you have been to me." She uttered these last words in a choking voice. " Is this, indeed, the dictate of your calm judg- ment, mother V said Venetia. " I call God to witness, it has of late been more than once on my lips. The other night, when I spoke of Rovigo, I was about to express this." " Then, mother," said Venetia, " I find that I have been misunderstood. At least I thought my feelings towards yourself had been appreciated. They have not ; and I can truly say, my life does not now afford a single circumstance to which I can look back with content. Well will it indeed be for me to die !" " The dream of my life," said Lady Annabel, in a tone of infinite distress, " was that she, at least, should never know unhappiness. It was indeed a dream." There was now a silence of several minutes. Lady Annabel remained in exactly the same posi- tion. Venetia standing at a little distance from her, looking resigned and sorrowful. " Venetia," at length said Lady Annabel, " why are you silent?" " Mother, I have no more to say. I pretend not to act in this life ; it is my duty to follow you." " And your inclination !" inquired I,ady Annabel. " I have ceased to have a wish upon any subject," said Venetia. " Venetia," said Lady Annabel with a great ef- fort, " I am miserable." Tills unprecedented confession of suffering from the strong mind of her mother, melted Venetia to the heart. She advanced, and threw her arms round her mother's neck, and buried her weeping face in Lady Annabel's bosom. " Speak to me, my daughter," said Lady Anna- bel ; " counsel me, for mj'^ mind trembles ; anxiety has weakened it. Nay, I beseech you, speak. Speak, speak, Venetia. What shall I do 1" " Mother, I will never say any thing again but that I love you." " I see the holy father in the distance. Let us walk to him, my child, and meet him." Accordingly Lady Annabel, now leaning on Ve- netia, approached the monk. About five minutes elapsed before they reached him, during which not a word was spoken. "Holy father," said Lady Annabel in a tone of firmness that surprised her daughter and made her tremble with anticipation, "you know the writer of this letter 1" 3 i2 810 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. "Ho is my frien(l of mary years, lady," replied die Armenian: "I know him in America. I owe to him my life, and more than my life. There breathes not his equal among men." A tear started to the eye of Lady Annabel ; she recalled the terms in which the household at Arqua had spoken of Herbert. " He is in Venice 1" she inquired. " He is within these walls," the monk replied. Venetia, scarcely able to stand, felt her mother start. After a momentary pause, Lady Annabel said, " Can I speak with him, and alone?" Nothing but the most nervous apprehension of throwing any obstacle in the way of the interview could have sustained Venetia. Quite pale, with her disengaged hand clenched, not a word escaped her lips. She hung upon the answer of the monk. " You can see him, and alone," said the monk. " He is now in the sacristy. Follow me." "Venetia," said Lady Annabel, "remain in this garden. I will accompany this holy man. Stop ! embrace me before I go, and," she added, in a whis- per, " pray for me." It needed not the admonition of her mother to induce Venetia to seek refuge in prayer, in this agony of her hfe. But for its salutary and stilling influence, it seemed to her that she must have for- feited all control over her mind. The suspense was too terrible for human aid to support her. Seated by the sea-side, she covered her face with her hands, and invoked the Supreme assistance. More than an hour passed away. Venetia looked up. Two beautiful birds, of strange form and spot- less plumage, that perhaps had wandered from the Egean, were hovering over her head, bright and glancing in the sun. She accepted their appearance as a good omen. At this moment she heard a voice, and, looking up, observed the monk in the distance, beckoning to her. She arose, and with a trembling step, approached him. He retired, still motioning to her to follow him. She entered, by a low portal, a dark cloister; it led to an ante-chapel, through which he passed ; her car caught the solemn chorus of the brethren. Her step faltered ; her sight was clouded ; she was as one walking in a dream. The monk opened a door, and retiring waved his hand, as for her to enter. There was a spacious and lofty chamber, scantily furnished, some huge chests, and many sacred garments. At the extreme distance her mother was reclined on a bench, her head supported by a large crimson cushion, and her father kneeling by her mother's side. With a soundless step, and not venturing even to breathe, Venetia approached them, and, she knew not how, found herself embraced by both her parents. BOOK VL CHAPTER L In a green valley of the Apennines, close to the sea-coast between Genoa and Spezzia, is a marine villa, that once belonged to the Malaspina family, n olden time the friends and patrons of Dante. It is rather a fantastic pile, painted in fresco, but spa- cious, in good repair, and convenient. Although little more than a mile from Spezzia, a glimpse of the blue sea can only be caught from one particu- lar spot, so completely is the land locked with hills^ covered with groves of chestnut and olive orchards. From the heights, however, you enjoy magnificent prospects of the most picturesque portion of the Italian coast; a lofty, undulating, and wooded shore, with an infinite variety of bays and jutting promontories ; while the eye, wandering from Leg horn on one side towards Genoa on the other, traces an almost uninterrupted line of hamlets and casinos, gardens and orchards, terraces of vines, and groves of olive. Beyond them, the broad and blue expanse of the midland ocean, glittering in the me- ridian blaze, or about to receive perhaps in its glowing waters, the red orb of sunset. It was in the month of May, in Italy, at least, the merry month of May, and Marmion Herbert came forth from the villa Malaspina, and throwing him- self on the turf, was soon lost in the volume of Plato, which he bore with him, he did not move until in the course of an hour he was roused by the arrival of servants, who brought seats and a table, when, looking up, he observed Lady Annabel and Venetia in the portico of the villa. He rose to greet them, and gave his arm to his wife. " Spring in the Apennines, my Annabel," said Herbert, " is a happy combination. I am more in love each day with this residence. The situatiorj is so sheltered, the air so soft and pure, the spot so tranquil, and the season so delicious, that it realizes all my romance of retirement. As for you, I never saw you look so well ; and as for Venetia, I can scarcely believe this rosy nymph could have been our pale-eyed girl, who cost us such anxiety !" " Our breakfast is not ready. Let us walk to our sea view," said Lady Annabel. "Give me your book to carry, Marmion." "There let the philosopher repose," said Herbert, throwing the volume on tjie turf. " Plato dreamed of what I enjoy." "And of what did Plato dream, papal" said Vb- netia. " He dreamed of love, child." Venetia took her father's disengaged arm. They had now arrived at their sea view, a glimpse of the Mediterranean between two tall crags. "A sail in the oiting!" said Herbert. "How that solitary sail tells, Annabel !" " I feel the sea breeze, mother. Does not it re- mind you of Weymouth 1" said Venetia. " Ah ! Marmion," said Lady Annabel, " I would that you could see Mashani once more. He is the only friend that I regret." " He prospers, Annabel ; let that be our consola- tion: I have at least not injured him." They turned their steps ; their breakfast was now prepared. The sun had risen above the hill, beneath whose shades they rested, and the opposite side of the valley sparkled in light. It was a cheer tul scene. " I have a passion for living in the air," said Herbert ; " I always envied the shepherds in Don Quixote. One of my youthful dreams was living among mountains of rosemary, and drinking only goal's milk. After breakfast I will read you Don Quixote's description of the golden age. I have often read it until the tears came into my eyes." " We must fancy ourselves in Spain," said Lady Annabel ; "it is not dilhcult in this wild green val- ley ; and if we have not rosemaiy, we have scents as sweet. Nature is our garden here, Venetia; and I do not envy even the statues and cypresses of our villa of the lake." VENETIA. 811 « We must make a pilgrimage some day to the jMaggiore, Annabel," said Herbert. " It is hallowed ground to me now." Their meal was finished, the servants brought their work, and books, and drawings ; and Herbert, resummg his natural couch, reopened his Plato, but Venetia ran into the villa, and returned with a volume. " You must read us the golden age, papa," she said, as she offered him, with a smile, his favour- ite Don Qiuxote. " You must fancy the Don looking earnestly up- on a handful of acorns," baid Herbert, opening the book, "while he exclaims, 'O! happy age which our first parents called the age of gold ! not because gold, so much adored in this iron age, was then ea- sily purchased, but because those two fatal words, meuni and tuum, were distinctions unknown to the people of these fortunate times ; for all things were in common in that holy age; men, for their suste- nance, needed only to lift their hands, and take it from the sturdy oak, whose spreading arms liberally invited them to gather the wholesome savoury fruit : while the clear springs, and silver rivulets, with luxuriant plenty, afforded them their pure refresh- ing water. In hollow trees, and in the clefts of rocks, the labouring and industrious bees erected their little commonwealths, that men might reap with pleasure and with ease the sweet and fertile harvest of their toils. The tough and strenuous cork-trees did, of themselves, and without other art than their native hberality, dismiss and impart their broad light bark, which served to cover those lowly huts, propped up with rough hewn stakes, that were first biilt as a shelter against the inclemencies of the air. All then was union, all peace, all love and friendship in the world. As yet no rude plough- share presumed with violence to pry into the pious bowels of our mother earth, for she without com- pulsion kindly yielded from every part of her fruit- ful and spacious bosom, whatever might at once satisfy, sustain, and indulge her frugal children. Then was the time when innocent, beautiful young shepherdesses went tripping over the hills and vales; their lovely hair sometimes plaited, sometimes loose and Howing, clad in no other vestment but what the modesty of nature might require. The Tyrian die, the rich glossy hue of silk, martyred and dissembled into every colour, which are now esteemed so fine and magnificent, were unknown to the innocent simplicity of that age; yet, bedecked with more becoming leaves and flowers, they outshone the proudest of the vain-dressing ladies of our times, arrayed in the most magnificent garbs and all the most sumptuous adornings which idleness and luxury have taught succeeding pride. Lovers then expressed the passion of their souls in the unaffected language of the heart, with the native plainness and sincerity in which they were conceived, and divested of all that artificial contexture which ener- vates what it labours to enforce. Imposture, deceit, and malice had not yet crept in, and imposed them- selves unbribed upon mankind in the disguise of truth: justice, unbiassed either by favour or inter- est, which now so fatally pervert it, was equally and impartially dispensed ; nor was the judge's fancy law, for then there were neither judges nor causes to be judged. The modest maid might then walk alone. But, in this degenerate age, fraud and a legioij of ills infecting the world, no virtue can be safe, rw> honour be secure; while wanton desires diffused into the hearts of men, corrupt the strictest watches and closest retreats, which, though as in- tricate and unknown as the labyrinth of Crete, are no security for chastity. Thus, that primitive in- nocence being vanished, the oppression daily pre- vailing, there was a necessity to oppose the torrent of violence ; for which reason the order of knight- hood errant was instituted, to defend the honour of virgins, protect widows, relieve orphans, and assist all that are distressed. Now I myself am one of this order, honest friends ; and, though all people are obliged by the law of nature to be kind to per- sons of my character, yet since you, without know- ing any thing of this obligation, have so generously entertaii»ed me, I ought to pay you my utmost acknowledgment, and accordingly return you my most hearty thanks.' " There," said Herbert, as he closed the book, in a fit of enthusiasm. " In my opinion, Don Quixote was the best man that ever lived." " But he did not ever live," said Lady Annabel, smiling. " He lives to us," said Herbert. " He is the same to this age as if he had absolutely wandered ove. the plains of Castile and watched in the Sierra Morcna. We cannot, indeed, find his tomb ; but he has left us his great example. In his hero, Cer- vantes has given us the picture of a great and benevolent philosopher, and in his Sancho a com- plete personification of the world, selfish and cun- ning, and yet overawed by the genius that he can- not comprehend : alive to all the material interests of existence, yet sighing after the ideal ; securing his four young foals of the she ass, yet indulging in dreams of empire." " But what do you think of the assault on the windmills, Marmionl" said Lady Annabel. " In the outset of his adventures, as in the outset of our lives, he was misled by his enthusiasm," re- plied Herbert, " without which, after all, we can do nothing. But, the result is, Don Quixote was a redresser of wrongs, and therefore the world esteemed him mad." In this vein, now conversing, now occupied with their pursuits, and occasionally listening to some passage which Herbert called to their attention, and which ever served as the occasion for some critical remarks, that were ever as striking from their original- ity as they were happy in their expression, the fresh- ness of the morning disappeared , the sun now crowned the valley with his meridian beam, and they re-entered the villa. The ladies returned to their cool saloon, and Herbert to his study. It was there he amused himself by composing the following lines : — SPRING IN THE APENNINES. I Spring in the Apennine now holds her court Within an amphilhealre nf hills, CloUied with ihe blooming chestnut; musical With murmuring pines, waving Uieir light green cones, Lilie ynuthful Bacchants; while the ilewy grass, The myrtle and the mountain violet. Blend iheir bright odours with the fragrant treea, And sweeten the soil air. Above us spreads The purple sky, bright with the unseen sun The hills yet screen, although the golden beam Touches the topmost boughs, and lints with li|ht The gray and sparkling crags. The brealli of morn Still lingers in the valley ; but the bee With restless passion liovers on the wing. Waiting the opening flower, of whose embrace The sun shall be the signal. Poised in air, 813 D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. The winged minstrpl of the liquid dawn, The larli pours forth his lyric, and responds To the fresli chorus of the sylvan doves, Tlie siir of branches and the fall of streams : The harmonies of nature ! II. Gentle Spring! Once more, O ! yes ! once more I feel thy breath, And charm of renovation ! To the sl;y Thou bringesl light, and to the glowing earth, A garb of grace : but sweeter than the sliy That haih no cloud, and sweeter than the earth With all its pageantry, the peerless boon Thou bearest to me— a temper like tliine own ; A spring-like spirit, beautiful and glad ' Long years — long years of suiiering and of thought Deeper than wo, had dimmed the eager eye Once quick to catch thy brightness, and the ear That lingered on thy music, the harsh world Had jarred. The freshness of my life was gone. And hope no more an omen in thy bloom Found of a fertile future ! There are minds Like lands but with one season, and that drear; Mine was eternal winter! III. A dark dream, Of hearts estranged, and of an Eden lost Entranced my being, one absorbing thought. Which, if not torture, was a dull despair That agony were light to. But while sad Within the desertoTmy life I roamed. And no sweet springs of love gushed forth to greet My wearied heart -behold two spirits came Floating in light, seraphic ministers, The semblance of whose splendour on me fell As on some dusky stream"the matin ray Touching the gloomy waters with its life. And both were fond and one was merciful ! And to my home long forfeited they bore My vagrant spirit, and the gentle hearth I reckless fled, received me with its shade And pleasant refuge. And our softened hearts Were like the twilight, when our very bliss Calls tears to soothe our rapture ; as the stars Steal forth, then shining smiles their trembling ray Mixed with our tenderness ; and love was there In all his manifold forms ; the sweet embrace, And thrilling pressure of the gentle hand. And silence speaking with the melting eye ! IV^. And now again I feel thy breath, O Spring ! And now the seal hath fallen from my gaze, And thy wild music in my reaily ear Finds a quick echo ! The discordant world Mars not thy melodies; thy blossoms now Are emblems of my heart ; and through my veins The flow of youthful feeling long pent up Glides like thy sunny streaHis! In this fair scene, On forms still fairer I my blessing pour; On her the beautiful, the wise, the good. Who learned the sweetest lesson to forgive ; And on the bright-eyed daughter of our love, Wli'j soothed a mother, and'a father saved ! CHAPTER II. Between the reconciliation of Lady Annabel Herbert with her husband, at the Armenian con- vent at Venice, and the spring morning in the Apennines, which we have just described, half a year had intervened. The political position of Marmion Herbert rendered it impossible for him to remain in any city where there was a representa- tive of his Britannic Majesty. Indeed it was scarcely safe for him to be known out of America. He hatj quitted that country shortly after the strug- gle was over, chiefly frotn considerations for his health. His energies had been fast failing him ; and a retired life and change of climate had been recommended by his physicians. His own feelings induced him to visit Italy, wnere he h;id once in- tended to pass his life, and where he now repaired to await death. Assuming a feigned name, and living in strict seclusion, it is probable that his jire- sence would never have been discovered ; or if de tected, would not have been noticed. Once more united with his wife, her personal influence at the court of St. James', and her powerful connexions might secure him from annoyance ; and Venetia had even indulged in a vague hope of returning to England. But Herbert could only have found himself again in his native country as a prisonei on parole. It would have been quite impossible for him to mix in the civil business of his native land, or enjoy any of the rights of citizenship. If a mild sovereign in his mercy had indeed accorded him a pardon, it must have been accompanied with rigorous and mortifying conditions; and his pre- sence, in ali probability, would have been confined to his country residence and its immediate neighbour- hood. The pride of Lady Annabel herself recoiled from this suftbrance ; and although Herbert — keenly conscious of the sacrifice which a permaner't es- trangement from England entailed upon his wife and child — would have submitted to any restric- tions, however liumiliating, provided they were not inconsistent with his honour, it must be confessed that, when he spoke of this painful subject to his wife, it was with no slight self-congratulation that he had found her resolution to remain abroad under any circumstances was fixed with her habitual de- cision. She communicated, indeed, both to the Bishop of ****** and to her brother, the unexpect- ed change that had occurred in her condition, and she had reason to believe that a representation of what had happened would be made to the royal family. Perhaps both the head of her liouse and her reverend friend anticipated that time might re- move the barrier that presented itself to Herbert's immediate return to England: they confined tlieir answers, however to congratulations on the recon- ciliation, to their confidence in the satisfaction it would occasion her, and to the expression of their faithful friendship ; and neither alluded to a result which both, if only for her sake, desired. The Herberts had quitted Venice a very few days after the meeting on the Island of St. Lazaro ; had travelled by slow journeys, crossing the Apen- nines, to Genoa ; and only remained in that city until they engaged their present residence. It com- bined all the advantages which they desired : se- clusion, beauty, comfort, and the mild atmosphere that Venetia had seemed to require. It was not, however, the genial air that had recalled the rose to Venetia's cheek and the sunny smile to her bright eye, or had inspired again that graceful fortn with all its pristine elasticity. It was a heart content; a spirit at length at peace. The contemplation of the happiness of those most dear to her, that she hourly witnessed ; and the blissful consciousness that her exertions had mainly contributed to, if not completely occasioned, all this felicity, were re- medies of far more efficacy than all the consulta- tions and prescriptions of her physicians. The condnjct of her father repaid her for all her suflcr- ings, and realized all her dreams of domestic ten- derness and delight. Tender, grateful, and affec- tionate, Herbert hovered round her mother like a delicate spirit who had been released by some kind mortal from a tedious and revolting thraldom, and who believed he could never sufficiently testily his devotion. There was so much respect blended with his fondness, that the spirit of her mother was utterly subdued by his irresistible demeanour. All her sadness and icserve, her distrust and her fea» V E N E T I A. 813 nad vaiiishecl ; and rising confidence mingling with the love she had ever borne to him, she taught her- self even to seek his opinion, and be guided by his advice. She could not refrain, indeed, from occa- sionally feeling — in this full enjoyment of his love — that she might have originally acted with too much precipitation ; and that, had she only bent for a moment to the necessity of conciliation, and condescended to the excusable artifices of affection, their misery might have been prevented. Once when they were alone, her softened heart would have confessed to Herbert this painful conviction, but he was too happy and too generous to permit her for a moment to indulge in such a remorseful retrospect. All the error, he insisted, was his own ; and he had been fool enough to have wantonly for- feited a happiness which time and experience had now taught him to appreciate. " We married too young, Marmion," said his wife. " It shall he that then, love," replied Herbert ; " but for all that I have suffered, I would not have avoided my fate on the condition of losing the ex- quisite present !" It is perhaps scarcely necessary to remai-k, that Herbert avoided with the most scrupulous vigi- lance the slightest allusion to any of those peculiar opinions, for which he was unhappily too celebrated. Musing over the singular revolutions which had already occurred in his habits and his feelings to- wards herself. Lady Annabel indeed did not de- spair that his once self-sufircient soul might ulti- mately bow to that blessed faith which to herself had ever proved so great a support and so exquisite a solace. It was, indeed, the inexpressible hope that lingered at the bottom of her heart ; and some- times she even indulged in the delightful fancy that his mild and penitent spirit had by the gracious mercy of Providence, been already touched by the bright sunbeam of conviction. At all events, his subdued and chastened temperament was no un- worthy preparation for still greater blessings. It was this hallowed anticipation which consoled, and alone consoled. Lady Annabel for her own estrange- ment from the communion of her national church. Of all the sacrifices which her devotion to Herbert entailed upon her, this was the one which she felt most constantly and most severely. Not a day elapsed but the Chapel at Cherbury rose before her ; and when she remembered that neither herself nor her daughter might again kneel round the altar of their God, she almost trembled at the step which she had taken, and almost esteemed it a sacrifice of heavenly to earthly duty, which no considera- tions perhaps warranted. This apprehension, in- deed, was the cloud in her life, and one which Ve- netia, who felt all its validity, found difficulty in combating. Otherwise, when Venetia beheld her parents, she felt ethereal, and seemed to move in air ; for her life, in spite of its apparent tranquillity, was to her all excitement. She never looked upon her father, or heard his voice, without a thrill. His society was as delightful as his heart was tender. It seemed to her that she could listen to him forever. Every word he spoke was different to the language of other men ; there was not a subject on which his richly cultivated mind could not pour forth in- Btantaneously a flood of fine fancies and deep in- telligence. He seemed to have read every book in every language, and to have mused over every line he had read. She could not conceive how one, the tone of "whose mind was so original that it sug- gested on every topic some conclusion that struck instantly by its racy novelty, could be so saturated with the learning and the views of other men. AL though they lived in unbroken solitude, and were almost always together, not a day pass;ed that she did not find herself musing over some thought or expression of her father, and which broke from his mind without effort, and as if by chance. Literature to Herbert was now only a source of amusement and engaging occupation. All thought of fame had long fled his soul. He cared not for being disturbed ; and he would throw down his Plato for Don Quixote, or close his ^Eschylus and take up a volume of Madame do Sevigne without a murmur, if reminded by any thing that occurred of a passage which might contribute to the amuse- ment and instruction of his wife and daughter. In- deed, his only study now was to contribute to their happiness. For him they had given up their country and society, and he sought by his vigilant attention, and his various accomplishments, to render their hours as light and pleasant as, under such circum- stances, was possible. His muse, too, was only dedicated to the celebration of any topic which their life or themselves suggested. He loved to lie under the trees, and pour forth sonnets to Lady An- nabel ; and encouraged Venetia, by the readiness and interest with which he invariably complied with her intimations, to throw out every fancy which occurred to her for his verse. A life passed with- out the intrusion of a single evil passion, without a single expression that was not soft, and graceful, and mild, and adorned with all the resources of a most accomplished and creative spirit, required not the distractions of society. It would have shrunk from it — from all its artificial excitement and vapid reaction. The days of the Herberts flowed on in one bright, continuous stream of love, and literature, and gentle pleasures. Beneath them was the green earth, above them the blue sky. Their spirits were as clear, and their hearts as soft as the clime. The hour of twilight was approaching, and the Herberts were preparing for their daily walk. Their simple repast was finished, and Venetia held the verses which her father had written in the morn- ing, and which he had presented to her. " Let us descend to Spezzia," sa>id Herbert to Lady Annabel ; " I love an ocean sunset." Accordingly they proceeded through their valley to their craggy path which led down to the bay. After passing through a small ravine, the magnifi- cent prospect opened before them. The sun was yet an hour above the horizon, and the sea was like a lake of molten gold ; the colour of the sky nearest to the sun of a pale green, with two or three bur- nished streaks of vapour, quite still, and so thin you could almost catch the sky through them, fixed, as it were, in this gorgeous frame. It was now a dead calm, but the sail that had been hovering the whole morning in the ofiing, had made the harbour in time, and had just cast anchor near some coast- ing craft and fishing boats, all that now remained where Napoleon had projected forming one of the arsenals of the world. Tracing their way down a mild declivity, covered with spreading vineyards, and quite fragrant with the .blossom of the vine, the Herberts proceeded through a wood of olives, and emerged on a terrace raised directly above the shore, leading to Spezzia, 814 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. and studded here and there with rugged groups of aloes. "I have often observed here," said Venetia, " about a mile out at sea — there now, where I point — the water rise. It is now a calm, and yet it is more troubled, I think, than usual. Tell me the cause, dear father, for I have often wished to know." " It passes my experience," said Herbert ; " but here is an ancient fisherman ; let us inquire of him." He was an old man, leaning against a rock, and smoking his pipe in contemplative silence ; his face bronzed with the sun and the roughness of many seasons, and his gray hairs not hidden by his long blue cap. Herbert saluted him, and pointing to the phenomenon, requested an explanation of it. " 'Tis a fountain of fresh water, signor, that rises in our gulf," said the old fisherman, " to the height of twenty feet." " And is it constant 1" inquired Herbert. " 'Tis the same in sunshine and in storm, in summer and in winter, in calm or in breeze," said the old fisherman. " And has it always been so V " It came before my time." " A philosophic answer," said Herbert, " and deserves a paul. Mine was a crude question. Adio, good friend." " I should like to drink of that fountain of fresh water, Annabel," said Herbert. " There seems to me something wondrous fanciful in it. Some day we will row there. It shall be calm like this." " We want a fountain in our valley," said Lady Annabel. " We do," said Herbert ; " and I think we must make one ; we must inquire at Genoa. I am curious in fountains. Our fountain should, I think, be classical ; simple, compact, with a choice in- scription, the altar of a Naiad." " And mamma shall make the design, and you shall write the inscription," said Venetia. " And you shall be the nymph, child," said Her- Dert. They were now within a bowshot of the harbour, and a jutting cliflf of marble, more graceful from a contiguous bed of myrtles, invited them to rest, and watch the approaching sunset. " Say what they like," said Herbert, " there is a spell in the shores of the Mediterranean Sea which no others can rival. Never was such a union of natural loveliness and magical associations ! On these shores have risen all that interests us in the past : — Eg3'pt and Palestine, Greece, Eorae, and Carthage, Moorish Spain, and feodal Italy. These shores have yielded us our religion, our arts, our literature, and our laws. If all that we have gained from the shores of the Mediterranean was erased from the memory of man, we should be savages. Will the Atlantic ever be as memorable 1 Its civilization will be more rapid, but will it be as refined 1 and, far more important, will it be as permanent 1 Will it not lack the racy vigour and the subtle spirit of aboriginal genius 1 Will not a colonial character cling to its society ! Feeble, inanimate, evanescent. What America is deficient in, is creative intellect. It has no nationality. Its intelligence has been imported like its manufactured goods. Its inhabi- tants are a people, but are they a nation 1 I wish that the empire of the Incas, and the kingdom of Montezuma, had not been sacrificed. I wish that the republic of the Puritans had blended with the tribes of the wilderness." The red sun was now hovering over the horizon; it quivered for an instant, and then sank. Imme- diately the high, and undulating coast was covered with a crimson flush ; the cliffs, the groves, the bays and jutting promontories, each straggling sail and tall white tower, sufiused with a rosy light Gradually that rosy tint became a bright violet, and then faded into purple. But the glory of the sun- set long lingered in the glowing wett, streaming with every coloTir of the Iris — while a solitary star glittered with silver light amid the shifting splen- dour. " Hesperus rises from the sunset like the fountain of fresh water from the sea," said Herbert. " The sky and the ocean have two natures like .ourselves." At this moment the boat of the vessel, that had anchored about an hour back, put to shore. " That seems an English brig," said Herbert " I cannot exactly make out its trim ; it scarcely seems a merchant vessel." The projection of the shore hid the boat from their sight as it landed. The Herberts rose, and proceeded towards the harbour. There v^'as some rude steps cut in the rock which led from the im- mediate shore to the terrace. As they approached these, two gentlemen in sailors' jackets mounted suddenly. Lady Annabel and Venetia simulta- neously started as they recognised Lord Cadurcisand his cousin. They were so close, that neither party had time to prepare themselves. Venetia found her hand in that of Plantagenet, while Lady Annabel saluted George. Infinite were their mutual inquiries and congratidations, but it so happened that, with one exception, no name was mentioned. It was quite evident, however, to Herbert, that these were very familiar acquaintances of his family, for, in the surprise of the moment. Lord Cadurcis had saluted his daughter by her christian name. There was no slight emotion, too, displayed on all sides. Indeed, independent of the agitations which so un- expected a rencounter was calculated to produce, the presence of Herbert, after the first moments of recognition, not a little excited the curiosity of the young men, and in some degree occasioned the embarrassment of all. Who was this stranger on whom Venetia and her mother were leaning with such fondness 1 He was scarcely too old to be the admirer of Venetia, and if there were a greater disparity of years between them than is usual, his distinguished appearance might well re- concile the lady to her lot, or even justify her choice. Had, then. Cadurcis again met Venetia only to find her the bride or the betrothed of another 1 — a mortifying situation, even an intoler- able one, if his feelings remained unchanged ; and if the eventful year that had elapsed since they parted, had not replaced her image in his susceptible mind by another more cherished, and, perhaps, less obdurate. Again, to Lady Annabel the moment was one of great awkwardness, for the introduction of her husband to those with whom she was re- cently so intimate, and who were then aware that the name of that husband was never even mentioned in her presence, recalled the painful past with a disturbing vividness. Venetia, indeed, did not share these feelings fully, but she thought it un gracious to anticipate her mother in the announce ment. VENETIA. 815 The Herberts turned with Lord Cadurcis and his cousin ; they were about to retrace their steps on the terrace, when Lady Annabel, taking advan- tage of the momentary silence, and summoning all her energy, with a pale cheek, and a voice that slightly faltered, said, " Lord Cadurcis, allow me lo introduce you to Mr. Herbert, my husband," she added, with emphasis, " Good God !" exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, starting; and then outstretching his hand, he contrived to add, " have I, indeed, the pleasure of seeing one I have so long admired 1 " " Lord Cadurcis !" exclaimed Herbert, scarcely less surprised. " Is it Lord Cadurcis 1 This is a welcome meeting." Every one present felt overwhelmed with confu- sion or astonishment ; Lady Annabel sought refuge in presenting Captain Cadurcis to her husband. This ceremony, though little noticed even by those more immediately interested in it, nevertheless served, in some degree, as a diversion. Herbert, who was only astonished, was the first who rallied. Perhaps Lord Cadurcis was the only man in exist- ence whom Herbert wished to know. He had read his works with rapture ; at least those portions which foreign journals had afforded him. He was deeply impressed with his fame and genius ; but what perplexed him at this moment, even more than his unexpected introduction to him, was the singu- lar, the very extraordinary circumstances, that the name of their most celebrated countryman should never have escaped the lips either of his wife or his daughter, although they appeared, and Venetia especially, to be on terms with him of even domes- tit intimacy. ■• Vou arrived here to-day. Lord Cadurcis 1" said Herbert. " From whence ?" "Immediately from Naples, where we last touch- ed," replied his lordship ; " but I have been residing dt Athens." " I envy you," said Herbert. " It would be a fit residence for you," said Lord Cadurcis. " You were, however, in some degree my companion, for a volume of your poems was one of the few books I had with me. I parted with all the rest, but I retained that. It is in my cabin; and full of my scribblement. If you would condescend to accept it, I would offer it you." Mr. Herbert and Lord Cadurcis maintained the conversation along the terrace. Venetia, by whose side her old companion walked, was quite silent. Once her eyes met those of Cadurcis ; his expres- sion of mingled harshness and astonishment was irresistible. His cousin and Lady Annabel carried on a more suppressed conversation, but on ordinary topics. When they had reached the olive grove, Herbert said, " Here lies our way homeward, my lord. If you and your cousin will accompany us, it will delight Lady Annabel and myself." "Nothing I am sure will give George and myself greater pleasure," he replied. " We had, indeed, no purpose when you met us, but to enjoy our es- cape from imprisonment ; little dreaming we should meet our kindest and oldest friends," he added. " Kindest and oldest friends!" thought Herbert to himself. " Well, this is strange indeed." " It is but a slight distance," said Lady Annabel, who thought it necessary to enforce the invitation. " We live in the valley, of which yonder hill forms a part." "And there we have passed our winter and our | spring," added Venet'ia, " almost as delightfully as you could have done at Athens." " Well !" thought Cadurcis to himself, " I have seen many of the world's marvels, bat this day is a miracle." When they had proceeded through the olive wood, and mounted the acclivity, they arrived at a path which permitted the ascent of only one person at a time. Cadurcis was last, and followed Vene- tia. Unable any longer to endure the suspense, he was rather irritated that she kept so close to her father ; he himself loitered a few paces behind, and breaking off a branch of laurel, he tossed it at her. She looked round and smiled; he beckoned to her to fall back. " Tell me, Venetia," he said, " what does all this meanl" " It means that we are at last all very happy," she replied. "Do you not see my father"!" " Yes ; and I am very glad to see him, but this company is the very last in which I expected to have that pleasure." " It is too long a story to tell now ; you must imagine it." " But are you glad to see me 1" " Very." " I don't think you care for me the least." " Silly Lord Cadurcis !" she said, smiling " If you call me Lord Cadurcis, I shall im- mediately go back to the brig, and set sail this night for Athens." " Well then, silly Plantagenet I" He laughed, and they ran on. CHAPTER III. " Weil, I am not surprised that you should have passed your time delightfully here," said Lord Ca- durcis to Lady Annabel, when they had entered the villa ; " for I never beheld so delightful a re- treat. It is even more exquisite than your villa on the lake, of which George gave me so glowing a description. I was almost tempted to hasten to you. Would you have smiled on me 1" he added, rather archly, and in a coaxing tone. " I am more gratified that we have met here," said Lady Annabel. " And thus," added Cadurcis. " You have been a great traveller since we last metl" said Lady Annabel, a little embarrassed. " My days of restlessness are over," said Cadur- cis. "I desire nothing more dearly than to settle down in the bosom of these green hills as you have done." " This life suits Mr. Herbert," said Lady Anna- bel. " He is fond of seclusion, and you know I am accustomed to it." " Ah ! yes," said Cadurcis, mournfully. " When I was in Greece, I used often to wish that none of us had ever left dear Cherbury ; but I do not now." " We must forget Cherbury," said Lady Anna- bel. " I cannot — I cannot forget her who cherished my melancholy childhood. Dear Lady Annabel," he added in a voice of emotion, and offering her his hand, " forget all my follies, and remember that I was your child, once as dutiful as you were affec- tionate." Who could resist this appeal 1 Lady Annabel, not without agitation, yielded him her hand, which bl6 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. he pressed to his lips. " Now I am again happy," said Cadurcis; " now we are all happy. Sweetest of friends, you have removed in a moment the bit- terness of years." Although lights were in the saloon, the windows opening on the portico were not closed. The even- ing air was soft and balmy, and, though the moon had not risen, tlie distant hills were clear in the tarlight. Venetia was standing in the portico con- versing with George Cadurcis. " I suppose you are too much of a Turk to drink our coflee, Lord Cadurcis," said Herbert. Cadur- cis turned and joined them, together with Lady Annabel. " Nay," said Lord Cadurcis, in a joyous tone, " Lady Annabel will answer for me that I always find every thing perfect under her roof Captain Cadurcis and Venetia now re-entered the villa • they clustered round the table, and seated themselves. " Why, Venetia," said Cadurcis, " George met me in Sicily, and quite frightened me about you. It is the air of the Apennines that has worked these marvels, for really you appear to me exactly the same as when we learned the French vocabulary together ten years ago." "'The French vocabulary together, ten years ago!'" thought Herbert ; " not a mere London ac- quaintance, then. This is very strange." " Why, indeed, Plantagenet," rephed Venetia, "I was very unwell when George visited us ; but I really have quite forgotten that I ever was an in- valid, and I never mean to be again." " ' Plantagenet !' " soliloquized Herbert. " And this is the great poet of whom I have heard so much ! My daughter is tolerably familiar with him." " I have brought you all sorts of buffooneries from ed," said Herbert; " for you have had tke happiest inspiration in the climes in which you have resided ; not only are they essentially poetic, but they offer a virgin vein." " I have written a little," replied Cadurcis ; " I will give it you, if you like, some day to turn over Yours is the only opinion that I really care for. I have no great idea of the poetry ; but I am very strong in my costume. I feel very confident about that. I fancy I know how to hit off a pasha, or touch in a Greek pirate now. As for all the things? I wrote in England, I really am ashamed of them. I got up my orientalism from books, and sultans and sultanas at masquerades," he added, archly. " I remember I made my heroines always wear turbans ; only conceive my horror when I found that a Turkish woman would as soon think of put- ting my hat on as a turban, and that it was an article of dress entirely confined to a Bond-street milliner." The evening passed in interesting and diverting conversation ; of course, principally contributed by the two travellers, who had seen so much. Inspirit- ed by his interview with Lady Annabel, and her gracious reception of his overtures. Lord Cadurcis was in one of those frolic humours, which we have before noticed was not unnatural to him. He had considerable powers of mimicry, and the talent that had pictured to Venetia, in old days, with such live- liness, the habits of the old maids of Morpeth, was now engaged on more considerable topics ; an in- terview with a pasha, a peep into a harem, a visit to a pirate's isle, the slave market, the bazaar, the barracks of the janissaries ; all touched with irresisti- ble vitality, and coloured with the rich phrases of unrivalled force of expression. The laughter was loud and continual; even Lady Annabel joined zealously in the glee. As for Herbert, he thought Stamboul," continued Cadurcis ; " sweetmeats, and Cadurcis by far the most hearty and amusing per- slippers, and shawls, and daggers worn only by ; son he had ever known, and could not refrain from sultanas, and with which if necessary they can keep j contrasting him with the picture which his works ■ the harem's lord' in order. I meant to have sent them with George to England, for really I did not anticipate our meeting here." " ' Sweetmeats and slippers,' " said Herbert to himself, " ' shawls and daggers !' What next V "And has George been with you all the time 1" inquired Venetia. " ! we quarrelled now and then, of course. He found Athens dull, and would stay at Constanti- nople, chained by the charms of a fair Perote, to whom he wanted me to write sonnets in his name. I would not, because I thought it immoral. But, on the whole, we got on very well ; a sort of Pylades and Orestes, I assure you ; we never absolutely fought." " Come, come," said George, " Cadurcis is al- ways ashamed of being amiable. We were together much more than I ever intended or anticipated. You know mine was a sporting tour ; and there- fore, of course, we were sometimes separated. But he was exceedingly popular with all parties, espe- cially the Turks, whom he rewarded for their cour- tesy by writing odes to the Greeks to stir them up to revolt." " Well, they never read them," said Cadurcis. " All we, poor fellows, can do," he added, turning to Herbert, " is to wake the Hellenistic raptures of May-fair ; and that they call fame ; as much like fame as a toadstool is like a truffle." " Nevertheless, I hope the muse has not slumber- and the report of the world had occasionally enabled him to sketch to his mind's eye ; the noble, young, and impassioned bard, pouring forth the eloquent tide of his morbid feehngs to an idolizing world, from whose applause he nevertheless turned with an almost misanthropic melancholy. It was now much past the noon of night, and the hour of separation, long postponed, was inevitable. Often had Cadurcis risen to depart, and often, without regaining his seat, had he been tempted by his friends, and especially Venetia, into fresh nar- ratives. At last, he said, " Now we must go. Lady Annabel looks good night. I remember the look," he said, laughing, "when we used to beg for a quarter of an hour more. I Venetia, do not you remember that Christmas, when dear old Masham read Julius Ca3sar, and we were to sit up until it was finished. When he got to the last act I hid his spectacles. I never confessed it until this mo- ment. Will you pardon me, Lady Annabel V and he pressed his hands together in a mockery of sup- plication. " Will you come and breakfast with us to-mor- row 1" said Lady Annabel. " With delight," he answered. " I am used, you know, to walks before breakfast. George — I do not think George can do it, though. George likes his comforts; he is a regular John Bull. He was al- ways calling for tea when we were in Turkey !" At this moment Mistress Pauncefort entered thd V E N E T I A. 817 room, ostensibly on some little affair of her mistress, but really to reconnoitre. "Ah ! Mistress Pauncefort; my old friend. Mis- tress Paunceforf, how do you do!" exclaimed his lordship. "Quite well, my lord, please your lordship; and very glad to see your lordship again, and looking so well too." " Ah ! Mistress Pauncefort, you always flattered me!" "0! dear, my lord, your lordship, no," said Mistress Pauncefort, with a simper. "But you, Pauncefort," said Cadurcis, "why there must be some magic in the air here. I have been complimenting your lady and Miss Venetia , but really, you, I should almost have thought it "ids some younger sister." " O ! my lord, you have such a way," sai-' Mis- tress Pauncefort, retreating with a slow step that still lingered for a remark. " Pauncefort, is that an Italian cap?" said Lord Cadurcis; "you know, Pauncefort, you were al- ways famous for your caps." Mistress Pauncefort disappeared in a fluster of delight. And now they had indeed departed. There was a pause of complete silence after they had disap- peared, the slight and not painful reaction after the mirthful excitement of the last few hours. At length Herbert, dropping, as was his evening custom, a few drops of orange-flower into a tumbler of water, said, "Annabel, my love, I am rather surprised that neither you nor Venetia, should have mentioned to me that you knew so intimately, a man like Lord Cadurcis." Lady Annabel appeared a little confused ; she looked even at Venetia, but Venetia's eyes were on the ground. At length she said, "In truth, Marmion, since we met we have thought only of you." " Cadurcis Abbey, papa, is close to Cherbury," said Venetia. " Cherbury !" said Herbert, with a faint blush, " I have never seen it, and now I shall never see it. No matter, my country is your mother and your- self. Some find a home in their country, I find a country in my home. Well," he added, in a gayer tone, " it has gratified me much to meet Lord Ca- durcis. We were happy before, but now we are even gay. I like to see you smile, Annabel, and hear Venetia laugh. I feel, myself, quite an un- usual hilarity. Cadurcis! It is very strange how often I have mused over that name. A year ago it was one of my few wishes to know him ; my wishes then, dear Annabel, were not very ambitious. They did not mount so high as you have since permitted them. And now I do know him, and under what circumstances ? Is not life strange ? But is it not happy 1 I feel it so. Good night, sweet wife ; my darling daughter, a happy, happy night !" He em- braced them ere they retired ; anil opening a volume composed his mind after the novel excitement of the evening. CHAPTER IV. Cadtthcis left the brig early in the morning alone, and strolled towards the villa. He met Her- bert halfway to Spezzia, who turned back with him towards home. They sat down on a crag opposite 103 the sea; there was a light breeze, the fishing boats were out, and the view was as animated as the fresh air was cheering. " There they go," said Cadurcis, smiling, "catch- ing John Dory, as you and I try to catch John Bull. Now if these people could understand what two great men were watching them, how they would stare ! But they don't care a sprat for us, not they ! They are not part of the world — the three or four thousand civilized savages for whom we sweat our brains, and whose fetid breath perfumed With musk is fame. Pah !" Herbert smiled. " I have not cared much my- self for this same world, my lord." " Why, no ; you have done something, and shown your contempt for them. No one can deny that. I will some day, if I have an opportunity. I owe it them ; I think I can show them a trick or two still.* I have got a Damascus blade in store for their thick hides. I will turn their flanks yet." " And gain a victory where conquest brings no glory. You are worth brighter laurels. Lord Ca- durcis." " Now is not it the most wonderful thing in the world that you and I have met V said Cadurcis. " Now I look upon ourselves as something like, eh ! Fellows with some pith in them. By Jove, if we only joined together, how we could lay it on. Crack, crack, crack ! I think I see them wincing under the thong; the pompous poltroons ! If you only knew how they behaved to me ! By Jove, sir, they hooted me going to the House of Lords, and nearly pulled me off my horse. The ruffians would have massacred me if they could ; and then they all ran away from a drummer-boy and a couple of grenadiers, who were going the rounds to change guard. Was not that good 1 Fine, eh ] A brut- ish mob in a fit of morality about to immolate a gen- tleman, and then scampering off from a sentry. I call tiiat human nature !" " As long as they leave us alone, and do not burn us alive, I am content," said Herbert, "I am cal- lous to what they say." " So am I," said Cadurcis, " I made out a list the other day of all the persons and things I have been compared to. It begins well, with Alcibiades, but it ends with the Swiss giantess or the Polish dwarf, I forget which. Here is your book. Yon see it has been well thumbed. In fact, to tell the truth, it was my cribbing book, and I always kept it by me when I was writing at Athens, like a gradus, a gradus ad Parnussum, you know. But al- though I crib, I am candid, and you see I fairly own it to you." " You are welcome to all I have ever written," said Herbert. "Mine were but crude dreams. I wished to see man noble and happy ; but if he will persist in being vile and miserable, I must even be content. I can struggle for him no more." " Well, you open my mind," said Cadurcis, "1 owe you every thing ; but I quite agree with you that nothing is worth an effort. As for philosophy and freedom, and all that, they tell devilish well in a stanza ; but men have always been fools and slaves, and fools and slaves they always will be." "Nay," said Herbert, " I will not believe that. I will not give up a jot of my conviction of a great and glorious future for human destinies; but if* * "I ihink I know a trick or two would turn yjtl lanks.''— Don Jua.n. 3Z ,818 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. consummation will not be as rapid as I once thought, and in the mean time I die." " Ah ! Death," said Lord Cadurcis, " that is a botherer. What can you make of death? There are those poor fishermen now ; there will be a white squall some day, and they will go down with those lalteen sails of theirs, and be food for the very prey they were going to catch ; and, if you con- tinue living here, you may eat one of your neigh- bours in the shape of a snoal of red mullets, when it is the season. The great secret — we cannot pene- trate that with all our philosophy, my dear Herbert. 'AH that we know is, nothing can be known." Barren, barren, barren ! And yet what a grand world it is ! Look at this bay, these blue waters, the mountains, and these chestnuts — devilish fine! The fact is, truth is veiled, but, like the Shechinah over the tabernacle, the veil is of dazzling light !" " Life is the great wonder," said Herbert, " in which all that is strange and startling resolves it- self. The mist of lamiliarity obscures from us the miracle of our being. Mankind arp constantly starting at events which they consider extraordi- nary. But a philosopher acknowledges only one miracle, and that it is life. Political revolutions, changes of empire, wrecks of dynasties and the opinions that support them, these are the marvels of the vulgar, but these are only transient modifica- tions of life. The origin of existence is, therefore, the first object which a true philosopher proposes te himself. Unable to discover it, he accepts cer- tain results from his unbiassed observation of its obvious nature, and on them he establishes certain principles to be our guides in all social relations, whether they take the shape of laws or customs. Nevertheless, un.til the principle of life be discover- ed, all theories and all systems of conduct founded on theory must be considered provisional." " And do you believe that there is a chance of its being discovered V inquired Cadurcis. " I cannot, from any reason in my own intelli- gence, find why it should not," said Herbert. " You conceive it possible that a man may attain earthly immortality ?" inquired Cadurcis. " Undoubtedly." "By Jove," said Cadurcis, "if I only knew how, I would purchase an immense annuity directly." " When I said undoubtedly," said Herbert, smil- ing, " I meant only to express that I know no in- vincible reason to the contrary. I see nothing inconsistent with the existence of a supreme Crea- tor in the annihilation of death. It appears to me an achievement worthy of his omnipotence. I be- lieve in the possibility, but I believe in nothing more. I anticipate the final result, but not by in- dividual means. It will of course, be produced by some vast, and silent, and continuous operation of nature, gradually effecting some profound and com- prehensive alteration in her order — a change of climate, for instance, the great enemy of life — so that the inhabitants of the earth may attain a patii- archal age. This renovated breed may in turn pro- duce a still more vigorous offspring, and so we may ascend the scale from the three score and ten of the Psalmist, to the immortality of which we speak. Indeed I, for my own part, believe the operation has already commenced, although thousands of centuries may elapse before it is consummated ; the threescore and ten of the Psalmist is already obso- lete; the whole world is talking of the general change of its seasons and its atmosphere. If the origin of America were such as many profound philosophers suppose, viz., a sudden emersion of a new continent from the waves, it is impossible to doubt that such an event must have had a very great influence on the climate of the world. Besides, why should we be surprised that the nature of man should change 1 Does not every thing change? Is not change the law of nature? My skin changes every year, my hair never belongs to me a month, the nail on my hand is only a passing possession. I doubt whether a man at fifty is the same material being that he is at twenty-five." " I wonder," said Lord Cadurcis, " if a creditor brought an action against you at fifty for goods de- livered at five-and-twenty, one could set up the want of identity as a plea in bar. It would be a consolation to an elderly gentleman." "I am afraid mankind are too hostile to philoso- phy," said Herbert, smiling, "to permit so desirable a consummation." "Should you consider a long life a blessing ?" said Cadurcis. " Would you like, for instance, to live to the age of Methusalem?" "Those whom the gods love die young," said Herbert. " For the last twenty years I have wishf ed to die, and I have sought death. But my feel ings, I confess, on that head are at present very much modified." " Youth, glittering youth !" said Cadurcis, in a musing tone ; " I remember when the prospect of losing my youth frightened me out of my wits ; I dreamed of nothing but gray hairs, a paunch, and the gout or the gravel. But I fancy every period of life has its pleasures, and as we advance in life the exercise of power and the possession of wealth must be great consolations to the majority ; we bully our children and hoard our cash." " Two most noble occupations!" said Herbert; " but I think in this world there is just as good a chance for being bullied by our children first, and paying their debts afterwards." " Faith ! you are right," said Cadurcis, laughing, "and lucky is he who has neither creditors nor off- spring, and who owes neither money nor affection ; after all, the most difficult to pay of the two." "It cannot be commanded, certainly," said Her- bert. "There is no usury for love." " And yet it is very expensive, too, sometimes," said Cadurcis, laughing. " For my part sympathy is a puzzler." " Yo» should read Cabanis," said Herbert, " if, indeed, you have not. I thmk I may find it here ; I will lend it you. It has, from its subject, many errors, but it is very suggestive." " Now, that is kind, for I have not a book here, and, after all, there is nothing like reading. I wish I had read more, but it is not too late. I envy you your learning, besides so many other things. However, I hope we shall not part in a hurry ; we have met at last," he said, extending his hand, " and we were always friends." Herbert shook his hand very warmly. " I can a»- sureyou. Lord Cadurcis, you have not a more sincere admirer of your genius. I am happy in your society. For myself, I now aspire to be nothing better than an idler in life, turning over a page, and sometimea noting down a fancy. You have, it appears, known my family long and intimately, and you were, doubtless, surprised at finding me with them. I have returned to my hearth, and I am content. Once I sacrificed my happiness to my philosophy VENETIA. 819 and now I hare sacrificed my philosophy to my happiness." " Dear friend !" said Cadurcis, putting his arm utTectionately in Herbert's, as they walked along — "for, indeed, you must allow me to style you so — all the happiness and all the sorrow of my life alike flow from your roof!" In the mean time Lady Annabel and Venetia came forth from the villa to their morning meals in their amphitheatre of hills. Marmion was not there to greet them as usual. " Was not Plantagenet amusing last night 1" said Venetia : " and are not you happy, dear mother, to see him once more ?" " Indeed I am now always happy," said Lady An- nabel. "And George was telling me last night, in this portico, of all their life. He is more attached to Plantagenet than ever. He says it is impossible for any one to have behaved with greater kindness, or to have led, in every sense, a more calm and ra- tional life. When he was alone at Athens, he did nothing but write. George says that all his former works are nothing to what he has written now." " He is very engaging," said Lady Annabel. "I think he will be such a delightful companion for papa. I am sure papa must like him. I hope he will stay some time; for, after all, poor dear papa, he must require a little amusement besides our society. Instead of being with his books, he might be walking and talking with Plantagenet. I think, dearest mother, we shall be happier than ever!" At this moment Herbert, with Cadiircis leaning on his arm, and apparently speaking with great earnestness, appeared in the distance. " There they are," said Venetia ; " I knew they would be friends. Come, dearest mother, let us meet them." " You see. Lady Annabel," said Lord Cadurcis, " it is just as I said : Mr. George is not here ; he is having tea and toast on board the brig, I warrant him." " I do not believe it," said Venetia, smiling. They seated themselves at the breakfast-table. "You should have seen our Apennine break- fasts in the autumn, Lord Cadurcis," said Herbert; " every fruit of nature seemed crowded before us. It was indeed a meal for a poet or a painter like Paul Veronese ; our grapes, our figs, our peaches, our mountain strawberries — they made a glowing picture. For my part, I have an original prejudice against animal food which I have never quite over- come, and I believe it is only to please Lady Anna- bel that I have relapsed into the heresy of cutlets." " Do you think I have grown fatter. Lady Anna- beH" said Lord Cadurcis, starting up; I brought myself down at Athens to bread and olives, but I have been committing terrible excesses lately, but only fish." "Ah ! here is George !" said Lady Annabel. And Captain Cadurcis appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, bearing a huge case. "George," said Venetia, " I have been defending you against Plantagenet; he said you would not come." " Never mind, George, it was only behind your back," said Lord Cadurcis ; " and under those legitimate circumstances, why, even our best friends cannot expect us to spare them." " I have brought Venetia her toys," said Captain Cadurcis, " and she was right to defend me, as I have been working for her." The top of the case was knocked off, and all th« Turkish buffooneries, as Cadurcis called them, made their appearance : slippers, and shawls, and bottles of perfumes, and little hand-mirrors, beau- tifully embroidered; and fanciful daggers, and rosa- ries, and a thousand other articles, of which they had plundered the bazaars of Constantinople. "And here is a Turkish volume of poetry, beau- tifully illuminated ; and that is for you," said Lord Cadurcis, giving it to Herbert. " Perhaps it is a translation of one of our works. Who knows ? We can always say it is." " This is the second present you have made me this morning. Here is a volume of my works," said Herbert, producing the book that Cadurcis had before given him, " and precious from your auto- graph. I never expected that any thing I wrote would be so honoured. This, too, is the work of which I am the least ashamed, for my wife ad- mired it. There, Annabel, even though Lord Ca- durcis is here, I will present it to you; 'tis an old friend." Lady Annabel accepted the book very graciously, and, in spite of all the temptations of her toys, Venetia could not refrain from peeping over her mother's shoulder at its contents. — " Mother," she whispered, in a voice inaudible save to Lady Anna- bel, " I may read this !" Lady Annabel gave it her. " And now we must send for Pauncefort, I think," said Lady Annabel, " to collect and take care of our treasures." " Pauncefort," said Lord Cadurcis, when that gentlewoman appeared, "I have brought you a shawl, hut I could not bring you a turban, because the Turkish ladies do not wear turbans ; but if I had thought we should have met so soon, I would have had one -made on purpose for you." " La! my lord, you always are so polite !" CHAPTER V. When the breakfast was over, they wandered about the valley, which Cadurcis could not suffi- ciently admire. Insensibly he drew Venetia from the rest of the party, on the pretence of showing her a view at some little distance. They walked along by the side of a rivulet, which glided through the hills, until they were nearly a mile from the villa, though still in sight. " Venetia," he at length said, turning the con- versation to a more interesting topic, "your father and myself have disburdened our minds to each other this morning ; I think we know each other now as well as if we were as old acquaintances as myself and his daughter." " Ah ! I knew that you and papa must agree," said Venetia ; " I was saying so this morning to my mother." " Venetia," said Cadurcis, with a laughing eye, " all this is very strange, is it noti" " Very strange, indeed, Plantagenet ; I should not be surprised if it appeared to you as yet even incredible." " It is miraculous," said Cadurcis, " but not in- credible; an angel interfered, and worked the mi- racle. I know all." Venetia looked at him with a faint flush upon 820 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. her cheek ; she gathered a flower and plucked it to pieces. " What a singular destiny ours has been, Ve- neiia!" said Cadurcis. "Do you know lean sit for an hour together and muse over it?" " Can you, Plantagenet ?" "I have such an extraordinary memory; I do not think I ever forgot any thing. We have had some very remarkable conversations in our time — eh, Venetia 1 Do you remember my visit to Cher- bury before I went to Cambridge, and the last time I saw you before I left England 1 And now it all ends in this! What do you think of it, Vene- tia ?" "Think of what, Plantagenet ■?" "Why, of this reconciliation !" " Dear Plantagenet, what can I think of it but what I have expressed ? — that it is a very wonder- ful event, but the happiest in my life." " You are quite happy now?" "Quite." " I see you do not care for me the least 1" " Plantagenet, you are perverse. Are you not here ?" " Did you ever think of me when I was away?" " You know very well, Plantagenet, that it is impossible for me to cease to be interested in you. Could I refrain from thinking of such a friend V "Friend! Poh ! I am not your friend; and as for that, you never once mentioned my name to your father. Miss Venetia." " You might easily conceive that there were reasons for such silence," said Venetia. " It could not arise on my part from forgetfulness or indifler- ence ; for even if my feelings were changed to- wards you, you are not a person that one would, or even could, avoid speaking of, especially to papa, who must have felt such interest in you ! I am sure, even if I had not known you, there were a thou- sand occasions which would have called your name to my lips, had they been uncontrolled by other considerations. " Come, Venetia, I am not going to submit to compliments from you," said Lord Cadurcfs; "no blarney. I wish you only to think of me as you did ten years ago. I will not have our hearts pol- luted by the vulgarity of fame. I want you to feel for me as you did when we were children. I will not be an object of interest, and admiration, and fiddlestick, to you ; I will not submit to it." " Well, you shall not," said Venetia, laughing. " I will not admire you the least ; I will only think of you as a good little boy." " You do not love me any longer, I see that," said Plantagenet. " Yes, I do, Plantagenet." "You do not love me as much as you did the night before I went to Eton, and we sat over the fire? Ah! how often I have thought of that night when I was at Athens!" he added, in atone of iKlotion. "Dear Plantagenet," said Venetia, "do not be silly. I am in the very highest spirits in the world ; I am quite gay with happiness, and all because you have returned. Do not spoil my pleasure." "Ah! Venetia, I see how it is; you have for- gotten me, or worse than forgotten me." " Well, I am sure I do not know what to say to satisfy you," said Venetia. " I think you very un- reasonable, and very ungrateful too, for I have always been your friend, Plantagenet, and I am sure you know it. You sent me a message before you went abroad." " Darling !" said Lord Cadurcis, seizing her hand, "I am not ungrateful, I am not unreason- alile. I adore you. You were very kind then, when all the world was against me. You shall seo how I will pay them off, the dogs ! and worse than dogs, their betters far ; dogs are faithful. Do yon remember poor old Marmion ! How we were mys- tified, Venetia! Little did we think then who was Marmion's god-father." Venetia smiled ; but she said, "I do not like this bitterness of yours, Plantagenet. You have no cause to complain of the world, and you magnify a petty squabble with a contemptible coterie into a quarrel with a nation. It is not a wise humour, and, if you indulge it, it will not be a happy one." " I will do exactly what you wish on every sub- ject," said Cadurcis, " if you will do exactly what I wish on one." " Well !" said Venetia. "Once you told me," said Cadurcis, "that you would not marry me without the consent of your father; then, most unfairly, you added to your con- ditions the consent of your mother. Now both your parents are very opportunely at hand ; let us fall down upon our knees and beg their blessing." "0! my dear Plantagenet, I think it will be much better for me never to marry. We are both happy now; let us remain so; You can live here and I can be your sister. Will not that do ?" " No, Venetia, it will not." " Dear Plantagenet !" said Venetia, with a falter ing voice, " if you knew how much I had suffered, dear Plantagenet!" " I know it ; I know all," said Cadurcis, taking her arm and placing it tenderly in his. "Now lis- ten to me, sweet girl ; I loved you when a child, when I was unknown to the world, and unknown to myself; I loved you as a youth not utterly inex- perienced in the world, and wlien my rising pas- sions had taught me to speculate on the character of woiden ; I loved you as a man, Venetia, with that world at my foot, that world which I scorn, but which I will command ; I have been constant, Venetia ; your heart assures you of that. You are the only being in existence who exercises over me any influence; and the influence you possess is irresistible and eternal. It springs from some d(!ep and mysterious sympathy of blood which I cannot penetrate. It can neitherbe increased nordiminished by time. It is entirely independent of its action. I pretend not to love you more at this moment than when I first saw you, when you entered the ter- race-room at Cherbury and touched my cheek. From that moment I was yours. I declare to you, most solemnl}' I declare to you, that I know not what love is except to you. The world has called me a libertine ; the truth is, no other woman can command my spirit for an hour. I see through them at a glance, I read all their weakness, frivolity, vanity, affectation, as if they were touched by the revealing rod of Asmodeus. You were born to be my bride. Unite yourself with me, control my destiny, and my course shall be like the sun of yesterday ; but reject me, reject me, and I devote ail my energies to the infernal gods ; I will poui my lava over the earth until all that remains of my fetal and exhausted nature is a black and bareec cone, surrounded by bitter desolation." " Plantagenet, be calm !" VENETIA. 821 «' I am perfectly calm, Venetia. You talk to me i •f your sufferings. What has occasioned them 1 A struggle against nature. Nature has now. tri- umphed, and you are happy. What necessity was there for all the misery that has fallen on your nouse? Why is your father an exile 1 Do you aot think that if your mother had chosen to exert ner influence she might have prevented the most fatal part of his careeerl Undoubtedly despair impelled his actions as much as philosophy, though I give him credit for a pure and lofty spirit, to no man more. But not a murmur against your mother from me! She received my overtures of reconcilia- tion last night with more than cordiality. She is your mother, Venetia, and she once was mine. Indeed, I love her; indeed, you would find that I would study her happiness. For after all, sweet, is there another woman in existence better qualified to fill the position of my mother-in-law? I could not behave unkindly to her; I could not treat her with neglect or harshness; not merely for the sake of her many admirable qualities, but from other considerations, Venetia, — considerations we never can forget. By heavens! I love your mother; I do, indeed, V^enetia; I remember so many things — her last words to me, when I went to Eton. If she would only behave kindly to me, you would see what a son-in-law I should make. You would be jealous, that you should, Venetia. I can bear any thing from you, Venetia, but with others, I cannot forget who I am. It makes me bitter to be treated as Lady Annabel 'treated me last year in London ; but a smile and a kind word, and I recall all her maternal love; I do, indeed, Venetia; last night when she was kind I could have kissed her !" Poor Venetia could not answer, her tears were flowing so plenteously. " I have told your father all, sweetest," said Cadurcis: " I concealed nothing." "And what said hel" murmured Venetia. " It rests with your mother. After all that has passed, he will not attempt to control your fate. And he is right. Perhaps his interference in my favour might even injure me. But there is no cause for despair; all I wanted was to come to an understanding with you ; to be sure you loved me as you always have done. I will not be impatient. I will do every thing to soothe, conciliate, and gratify Lady Annabel; you will see how I will behave! As you say, too, we are happy because we are together ; and therefore, it would be unreasonable not to be patient. I never can be sufficiently grateful for this meeting. I concluded you would be in Eng- land, though we were on our way to Milan to inquire after you. George has been a great com- fort to me in all this affair, Venetia ; he loves you, Venetia, almost as much as I do. I think I should have gone mad during that cursed affair in Eng- land, had it not been for George. I thought you would hate me, but when George brought me your message, I cared for nothing ; and then his visit to the lake was so devilish kind ! He is a noble fel- low and a true friend. My sweet, sweet Venetia, dry your eyes. Let us rejoin them with a smile. We have not been long away; I will pretend we have been violet hunting," said Cadurcis, stooping down and plucking up a handful of flowers. "Do you remember our violets at home, Venetia. Do you know, Venetia, I always fancy every human being is like some object in nature; and you always put me in mind of a violet, so fresh, and sweet, and delicate ' CHAPTER VI . "We have been exploring the happy valley," said Lord Cadurcis to Lady Annabel, " and here is our plunder," and he gave her the violets. " You were always fond of flowers," said Lady Annabel. " Yes, I imbibed the taste from you," said Ca- durcis, gratified by the gracious remark. He seated himself at her feet, examined and admired her work, and talked of old times, but with such infinite discretion, that he did not arouse a single painful association. Venetia was busied with her father's poems, and smiled often at the manuscript notes of Cadurcis. Lying, as usual, on the grass, leaning his head on his left ami, Herbert was listening to Captain Cadurcis, who was en- deavouring to give him a clear idea of the Bospho- rus. Thus the morning wore away, until the sun drove them into the villa. " I will show you my hbrary, Lord Cadurcis," said Herbert. Cadurcis followed him into a spacious apartment, where he found a collection so considerable that he could not suppress his surprise. "Italian spoils chiefly," said Herbert; "a friend of mine purchased an old library at Bologna for me, and it turned out richer than 1 imagined: the rest are old friends that have been with me, many of them at least, at col- lege. I brought them back with me from America, for then they were my only friends." " Can you find Cabanisl" said Lord Cadurcis. Herbert looked about. " It is in this neighbour- hood, I imagine," he said. Cadurcis endeavoured to assist him. "What is this?" he said; "Plato!" "I should like to read Plato at Athens," said Herbert. " My ambition now does not soar beyond such elegant fortune." " We are all under great obligations to Plato," said Cadurcis. "I remember, when I was in Lon- don, I always professed myself his disciple, and it is astonishing what results I experienced. Platonic love was a great invention." Herbert smiled ; but, as he saw Cadurcis knew nothing about the subject, he made no reply. " Plato says, or at least I think he says, that life is love," said Cadurcis. " I have said it myself in a very grand way too ; I believe I cribbed it from you. But what does he mean? I am sure I meant nothing ; but, I dare say, you did." " I certainly had some meaning," said Herbert, stopping in his search, and laughing; "but I do not know whether I expressed it. The principle of every motion, that is, of all life, is desire or love: at present, I am in love with the lost volume of Cabanis, and, if it were not for the desire of obtain- ing it, I should not now be affijrding any testimony of my vitality by looking after it." "That is very clear," said Cadurcis, " but I was thinking of love in the vulgar sense, in the shape of a petticoat. Certainly, when I am in love with a woman, I feel love is life ; but when I am out of love, which often happens, and generally very soon, I still contrive to live." " We exist," said Herbert, "because we sympa thize. If we did not sympathize with the air, we should die. But, if we only sympathized with the air, we should be in the lowest order of brutes, baser than the sloth. Mount from the sloth to the poet. It is sympathy that makes you a poet. It is your desire that the airy children of your brain 3x2 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. should be born anew within another's, that makes you create; therefore, a misanthropical, poet is a contradiction in terms." "But when he writes a lampoon 1" said Cadur- cis. "He desires that the majority, who are not lam- pooned, should share his hale," said Herbert. "But Swift lampooned the species," said Cadur- cis. "For my part, I think life is hatred." "But Swift was not sincere; for he wrote the Drapier's Letters at the same time. Besides, the very flict of your abusing mankind proves that you do not hate them ; it is clear that you are desirous of obtaining their good opinion of your wit. You value them, you esteem them, you love them. Their app1"obation causes you to act, and makes j'ou hapi'.y. As for sexual love," said Herbert, "of which you were speaking, its quality and du- ration depend upon the degree of .symjiathy that subsists between the two persons interested. Plato lielieved, and I believe with him, in the existence of a spiritual aiitctype of the soul, so that when we are born, there is something within us, which, from the instant we live and move, thirsts after its like- ness. This propensity developcs itself with the developement of our nature. The gratification of the senses soon becomes a very small part of that profound and complicated sentiment, which we call love. Love, on the contrary, is a universal thirst for a communion, not merely of the senses, but of our whole nature — intellectual, imaginative, and sensitive. He who finds his antetype, enjoys a love perfect and enduring; time cannot change it, distance cannot remove it; the sympathy is com- plete. He who loves an object that approaches his antetype, is proportionately happy, the .sympathy is feeble or strong, as it may be. If men were properly educated, and their faculties fully deve- loped," continued Herbert, "the discovery of the antetype would be easy ; and when the day arrives that it is a matter of course, the perfection of civili- zation will be attained." "I believe in Plato," said Lord Cadurcis, "and I think I have found my antetype. His theory ac- counts for what I could never understand." CHAPTER Vn. In the course of the evening. Lady Annabel re- quested Lord Cadurcis and his cousin to take up their quarters at the villa. • Independent of the delight which such an invitation occasioned him, Cadurcis was doubly gratified by its being given by her. It was indeed her unprompted solicitation ; for neither Herbert nor even Venetia, however much they desired the arrangement, were aiixious to appear eager for its fulfilment. Desirous of pleasing her husband and her daughter ; a little penitent as to her previous treatment of Cadurcis, now that time and strange events had combined to soften her feelings ; and won by his engaging de- meanour towards herself, Lady Annabel had of her mere impulse resolved upon the act; and she was repaid by the general air of gayety and content which it dilfu.sed through the circle. Few weeks indeed passed ere her ladyship taught herself even to contemplate the possibility of a onion between her daughter and Lord Cadurcis. 'i'he change which had occurred in her own feel- ings and position, had, in her estimation, removed very considerable barriers to such a result. It would not become her again to urge the peculiarity of his temperament as an insuperable objection to the marriage ; that was out of the question, even if the conscience of Lady Annate! herself, now that she was so happy, were perfectly free from any participation in the causes which occasioned the original estrangement between Herbert and herselt Desirous, too, as all mothers are, that her daughterr should be suitably married. Lady Armabel could not shut her eyes to the very great improbability of such an event occurring, now that Vt-netia had as it were resigned all connexion with her native country. As to her daughter marrying a foreigner, the very idea was intolerable to her ; and Venetia appeared therefore to have resumed that singular and delicate position which she occupied at Cher- bury in earlier years, when Lady Annabel had es- teemed her connexion with Lord Cadurcis as so fortunate and auspicious. Moreover, while Lord Cadurcis, in birth, rank, country, and consideration, offered in every view of the case so gratifying an alliance, he was perhaps tlie only Englishman whose marriage into her family would not deprive her of the society of her child. His lordship had a great distaste for England, which he seized every oppor- tunity to express. He continually declared that he would never return there ; and his habits of seclu- sion and study so entirely accorded with those of her husband, that Lady Aimabel did not doubt they would continue to form only one family ; a prospect so engaging to her, that it would perhaps have alone removed the distrust which she had so un- fortunately cherished against the admirer of her daughter; and although some of his reputed opi- nions occasioned her doubtless considerable anxiety, he was nevertheless very young, and far from emancipated from the beneficial influence of his early education. She was sanguine that this sheep would yet return to the fold where once he had been tended with so much solicitude. When too she called to mind the chastened spirit of her hus- band, and could not refrain from feeling that had she not quilted him, he might at a much earlier period have attained a mood so full of promise, and to her so cheering, she could not resist the persua- sion that, under the influence of Venetia, Cadurcis might speedily free himself from the dominion of that arrogant genius to which, rather than to any serious conviction, the result of a studious philoso- phy, she attributed his indifference on the most im- portant of subjects. On the whole, however, it was with no common gratification that Lady An- nabel observed the strong and intimate friendship that arose between her husband and Cadurcis. They were, indeed, inseparable companions. In- dej)endent of the natural sympathy between two highly imaginative minds, there were in the supe- rior experience, the noble character, the vast know ledge, and refined taste of Herbert, charms of which Cadurcis was very susceptible. Cadurcis had not been a great reader himself, and he liked the com- pany of one whose mind was at once so richly cul- tivated and so deeply meditative: thus he obtained matter and spirit distilled through the alembic of another's brain. Jealousy had never had a place in Herbert's temperament ; now he was insensible even to emulation. He spoke of Cadurcis as he thought — with the highest admiration; as one with- out a rival, and in whose power it was to obtain aa VENETIA. 823 Imperishahle fame. It was his liveliest pleasure to assist the full developement of such an intellect, and to pour to him, with a lavish hand, all the trea- sures of his taste, his learning, his fancy, and his meditation. His kind heart, his winning manners, his subdued and perfect temp^^r, and the remem- brance of the relation which he bore to Venetia, completeti the spell which bound Cadurcis to him witTl all the finest feelings of his nature. It was, indeed, an intercourse peculiarly beneficial to Ca- durcis, whose career had hitherto tended rather to the developement of the power, than the refinement of his genius ; and to whom an active communion with an equal spirit of a more matured intelligence was an incident rather to be desired than expected. Herbert and Cadurcis, therefore, spent their morn- ings together, sometimes in the library, sometimes wandering in the chestnut woods, sometimes sail- ing in the boat of the brig, for they were both fond of the sea: in these excursions, George was in ge- neral their companion. He had become a great favourite with Herbert, as with everybody else. No one managed a boat so well, although Cadurcis prided himself also on his skill in this respect; and George was so frank and unaffected, and so used to his cousin's habits, that his presence never embar- rassed Herbert and Cadurcis, and they read or con- versed quite at their ease, as if there were no third person to mar, by his want of sympathy, the full communion of their intellect. The whole circle met at dinner, and never again parted until at a late hour of night. This was a most agreeable life; Cadurcis himself, good humoured because he was happy, doubly exerted himself to ingratiate himself with Lady Annabel, and felt every day that he was advancing. Venetia always smiled upon him, and praised him delightfully for his de- lightful conduct. In the evening, Herbert would read to them the manuscript poem of Cadurcis, the fruits of his Attic residence and Grecian meditations. The poet would sometimes affect a playful bashfulness on this head, perhaps not altogether affected, and amuse Venetia, in a whisper, with his running comments ; or exclaim with an arch air, " I say, Venetia, what would Mrs. Montague and the Blues give for this, eh 1 I can fancy Hannah More in decent ecstacies!" CHAPTER VIII. "It is an odd thing, my dear Herbert," said Ca- durcis to his friend, in one of these voyages, " that destiny should have given you and me the same tutor." •' Masham !" said Herbert, smiling. " I tell you what is much more singular, my dear Cadurcis; it is, that notwithstanding being our tutor, a mitre should have fallen upon his head." " I am heartily glad," said Cadurcis. " I like Masham very much ; I really have a sincere affec- tion for him. Do you know, during my infernal affair abou* those accursed Monteagles, when I went to the House of Lords, and was cut even by my own party, — think of that, the polished ruf- fians! — Masham was the only person who came forward and shook hands with me, and in the most marked manner. A bishop, too ! and the other side' that was good, was it not! But he would not see his old pupil snubbed ; if he had waited ten minutes longer, he might have had a chance of seeing him massacred. And then they complain of my abusing England, my mother country ; a step-dame, I take it." " Masham is in politics a tory, in religion ultra- orthodox," said Herbert. " He has nothing about him of the latitudinarian; and yet he is the most amiable man with whom I am acquainted. Nature has given him a kind and charitable heart, which even his absurd opinions have not succeeded in spoiling." " Perhaps that is exactly what he is saying of us two at this moment," said Cadurcis. " After all, what is truth 1 It changes as you change your clime or your country, it changes with the century. Tiie truth of a hundred years ago is not the truth of the present day, and yet it may have been as genuine. Truth at Rome is not the truth of London, and both of them difl'er from the truth of Constantinople. For my part, I believe every thing." "Well, that is practically prudent, if it be meta- physically possible," said Herbert, laughing. "Do you know that I have alwaj-s been of opinion, that Pontius Pilate has been greatly misrepresented by Lord Bacon in the quotation of his celebrated ques- tion. 'What is truth?' said jesting Pilate, and would not wait for an answer. Let us be just to Pontius Pilate, who has sins enough surely to an- swer for. There is no authority for the jesting humour given by Lord Bacon. Pilate was evi- dently of a merciful and clement disposition ; pro- bably an Epicurean. His question referred to a declaration immediately preceding it, that he who was before him came to bear witness to the truth. Pilate inquired what truth]"' " Well, I always have a prejudice against Pontius Pilate," said Lord Cadurcis ; " and I think it is from seeing him when I was a child, on an old Dutch tile fireplace at Marringhurst, dressed like a burgomaster. One cannot get over one's early im- pressions ; but when you picture hiur to me as an Epicurean, he assumes a new character. I fancy him young, noble, elegant, and accomplished; crowned with a wreath and waving a goblet, and enjoying his government vastly." " Before the introduction of Christianity," said Herbert, " the philosophic schools answered to our present religious sects. You said of a man that he was a Stoic or an Epicurean, as you say of a man now that he is a Calvinist or a Wesleyan." " I should have liked to have known Epicurus," said Cadurcis. " I would sooner have known him and Plato than any of the ancients," said Herbert. " I look upon Plato as the wisest and the protbundest of men, and upon Epicurus as the most humar:^ and gentle." " Now, how do you account for the great popu- larity of Aristotle in modern ages!" said Cadurcis; "and the comparative neglect of these, at least his equals. Chance, I suppose, that settles every thing." " By no means," said Herbert. " If you mean by chance an absence of accountable causp, I do not believe such a quality as chance exists. Every incident that happens, must be a link in a chain. In the present case, the monks monopolized litera- ture, such as it might be, and they exercised their intellect only in discussing words. They, there- 834 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. fore, adopted Aristotle and the Peripatetics. Plato interfered with their heavenly knowledge, and Epicurus, who maintained the rights of man to pleasure and happiness, would have afforded a dangerous and seducing contrast to their dark and miserable code of morals." "I think of the ancients," said Cadurcis, "Al- cibiades and Alexander the Great are my favourites. They were young, beautiful, and conquerors : a great combination." "And among the moderns?" inquired Herbert. "Tiiey don't touch my fancy," said Cadurcis. " Who are your heroes ?" " O ! I have many ; but I confess I should like to pass a day with Milton, or Sir Philip Sidney." "Among mere literary men," said Cadurcis, "I should say, Bayle." " And old Montaigne for me," said Herbert. " Well, I would fain visit him in his feudal cha- teau," said Cadurcis. " His is one of the books which give a spring to the mind. Of modern times, the feudal ages of Italy most interest me. I think that was a springtide of civilization; all the fine arts flourished at the same moment." "They ever will," said Herbert. "All the in- ventive arts maintain a sympathetic connexion between each other, for, after all, they are only va- rious expressions of one internal power, modified by different circumstances either of the individual or of society. It was so in the age of Pericles ; I mean the interval which intervened between the birth of that great man and the death of Aristotle; undoubtedly, whether considered in itself, or with reference to the effects which it produced upon the subsequent destinies of civilized man, the most memorable in the history of the world." " And yet the age 'of Pericles has passed away," said Lord Cadurcis, mournfully, "and I have gazed upon the mouldering Parthenon. O! Herbert, you are a great thinker and muse deeply ; solve me the problem why so unparalleled a progress was made during that period in literature and the arts, and why that progress, so rapid and so sustained, so 80on received a check and became retrograde?" " It is a problem left to the wonder and conjec- ture of posterity," said Herbert. " But its solution, perhaps, may principally be found in the weak- ness of their political institutions. Nothing of the Athenians remains except their genius : but they fulfilled their purpose. The wrecks and fragments of their subtle and profound minds obscurely sug- gest to us the grandeur and perfection of the whole. Their language excels every other tongue of the western world ; their sculptures bafHe all subse- quent artists; credible witnesses assure us that their paintings were not inferior ; and we are only ac- customed to consider the painters of Italy as those who have brought the art to its highest perfection, because none of the ancient pictures have been preserved. Yet of all their fine arts, it was music of which the Greeks were themselves most proud. Its traditionary elfects were far more powerful than any which we experience from the compositions of our times. And now for their poetry, Cadurcis. It is in poetry, and poetry alone, that modern na- tions have maintained the majesty of genius. Do we equal the Greeks? Do we even excel them?" " Let us prove the equality first," said Cadurcis. " The Greeks excelled in every species of poetry. In some we do not even attempt to rival them. We have not a single modem ode or a single modern pastoral. We have no one to place by Pindar, or the exquisite Theocritus. As for the epic, I confess myself a heretic as to Homer; I look upon the Iliad as a remnant of national songs ; the wise ones agree that the Odyssey is the work of a later age. My instinct agrees with the result of their researches. I credit their conclusion. The Paradise Lost is, doubtless, a great production, but the subject is monkish. Dante is national, but he has all the faults of a barbarous age. In general the modern epic is framed upon the assumption that the Iliad is an orderly composition. They are indebted for this fallacy to Virgil, who called order out of chaos; but the yEneid, all the same, appears to me an insipid creation. And now for the drama. You will adduce Shakspeare ?" " There are passages in Dante," said Herbert, "not inferior, in my opinion, to any existing literary composition, but, as a whole, I will not make my stand on him ; I am not so clear that, as a lyric poet, Petrarch may not rival the Greeks. Shak- speare I esteem of ineffable merit." "And who is Shakspeare!" said Cadurcis. "We know of him as much as we do of Homer. Did he write half the plays attributed to him ? Did he ever write a single whole play ? I doubt it. He appears to me to have been an inspired adapter for the theatres, which were then not as good as barns. I take him to have been a botcher up of old plays. His popularity is of modern date, and it may not last ; it would have surprised him marvellously. Heaven knows, at present, all that bears his name is alike admired, and a regular Shakspearean falls into ecstacies with trash which deserves a niche in the Dunciad. For my part, I abhor your irregular geniuses, and I love to listen to the little nightin- gale of Twickenham." " I have often observed," said Herbert, " that writers of a very unbridled imagination themselves, admire those whom the world erroneously, in my opinion, and from a confusion of ideas, esteems correct. I am myself an admirer of Pope, though I certainly should not ever think of classing him among the great creative spirits. And you, you are the last poet in the world, Cadurcis, whom one would have fancied his votary." " I have written like a boy," said Cadurcis, " I found the public bite, and so I baited on with tainted meat. I have never written for fame, only for no- toriety; but I am satiated; I am going to turn over a new leaf." " For myself," said Herbert, " if I ever had the power to impress my creations on my fellow-men, the inclination is gone, and perhaps the faculty is extinct. My career is over; perhaps a solitary echo from my lyre may yet, at times, linger about the world like a breeze that has lost its way. But there is a radical fault in my poetic mind, and I am conscious of it. I am not altogether void of the creative faculty, but mine is a fragmentary mind ; I produce no whole. Unless you do this, you can- not last ; at least, you cannot materially affect your species. But what I admire in you, Cadurcis, is that, with all the faults of youth, of which you will free yourself, your creative power is vigorous, prolific, and complete ; your creations rise fast and fair, like perfect worlds." " Well, we will not compliment each other," said Cadurcis ; " for, after all, it is a miserable craft. What is poetry but a lie, and what are poets but liars V VENETIA. 825 "You are wrong, Cadurcis," said Herbert; " poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world." " I see the towers of Porto Venere," said Ca- durcis, directing the sail ; " we shall soon be on shore. I think, too, I recognise Venetia. Ah ! my dear Herbert, your daughter is a poem that beats all our inspiration !" CHAPTER IX. One circumstance alone cast a gloom over this happy family, and that was the approaching depar- ture of Captain Cadurcis for England. This had been often postponed, but it could be postponed no longer. Not even the entreaties of those kind friends could any longer prevent what was inevi- table. The kind heart, the sweet temper, and the lively and companionable qualities of Captain Ca- durcis, had endeared him to every one; all (elt that his departure would occasion a blank in their life, impossible to be supplied. It reminded the Her- berts also painfully of their own situation, in re- gard to their native country, which the}' were ever unwilling to dwell upon. George talked of re- turning to them, but the prospect was necessarily vague; they felt that it was only one of those fanciful visions with which an affectionate spirit attempts to soothe the pang of separation. His position, his duties, all the projects of his life, bound h?m to England, from which, indeed, he had been too long absent. It was selfish to wish that, for their sake, he should sink down into a mere idler in Italy ; and yet, when they recollected how little his future life could be connected with their own, every one felt dispirited. " I shall not go boating to-day," said George to Venetia; "it is my last day. Mr. Herbert and Plantagenet talk of going to Lavenza ; let us take a stroll together." Nothing can be refused to those we love on the last day, and Venetia immediately acceded to his request. In the course of the morning, therefore, herself and George quitted the valley, in the direc- tion of the coast towards Genoa. Many a white sail glittered on the blue waters; it was a lively and cheering scene ; but both Venetia and her companion were depressed. "I ought to be happy," said George, and sighed. " The fondest wish of my heart is attained. You remember our conversation on the Lago Maggiore, Venetia ? You see I was a prophet, and you will be Lady Cadurcis yet." " We must keep up our spirits," said Venetia ; " I do not despair of our all returning to England yet. So many wonders have happened, that I can- not persuade myself that this marvel will not also occur I am sure my uncle will do something ; I have a secret idea that the bishop is all this time working for papa , I feel assured I shall see Cher- bury and Cadurcis again, and Cadurcis will be your home." " A year ago you appeared dying, and Planta- genet was the most miserable of men," said Cap- tain Cadurcis. "You are both now perfectly well and perfectly happy, living even under the same voof, soon, I feel, to be united, and with the cordial approbation of Lady Annabel. Your father is re- stored to you. Every blessing in the world seems 104 to cluster round your roof. It is selfish for me to wear a gloomy countenance." " Ah ! dear George, you never can be selfish," said Venetia. " Yes, I am selfish, Venetia. What else can make me sad V " You know how much you contribute to our happiness," said Venetia, " and you feel for our sutterings at your absence." " No, Venetia, I feel for myself," said Captain Cadurcis with energy ; " I am certain that I never can be happy, except in your society and Planta- genet's. I cannot express to you how I love you both. Nothing else gives me the slightest interest." "You must go home and marry," said Venetia, smiling. " You must marry an heiress," " Never," said Captain Cadurcis. " Nothing shall ever induce me to marry. " No ! all my dreams are confined to being the bachelor uncle of the family." " Well, now, I think," said Venetia, " of all the persons I know, there is no one so qualified for do- mestic happiness as yourself. I think your wife, George, would be a very fortunate woman, and I only wish I had a sister, that you might marry her." "I wish you had, Venetia; I would give up my resolution against marriage directly." " Alas !" said Venetia, " there is always some bitter drop in the cup of fife. Must you indeed go, George 1" " My present departure is inevitable," he replied ; " but I have some thoughts of giving up my pro- fession and Parliament, and then I will return, never to leave you again." V/hat will Lord say 1 That will never do," said Venetia. " No ; I should not be content unless you prospered in the world, George. You are made to prosper, and I should be miserable if you sacrificed your existence to us. You must go home, and you must marry, and write letters to us by every post, and tell us what a happy man you are. The best thing for you to do, would be to live with your wife at the abbey : or Cherbury, if you liked. You see I settle every thing." "I never will marry," said Captain Cadurcis, seriously. " Yes you will," said Venetia, laughing. " I am quite serious, Venetia. Now, mark my words and remember this day. I never will marry. I have a reason, and a strong and good one, for my resolution." "What is it 1" " Because my marriage will destroy the intimacy that subsists between me and yourself^ — and Plan tagenet," he added. " Your wife should be my friend," said Venetia, laughing. " Happy woman !" said George. "Let us indulge for a moment in a dream of do- mestic bliss," said Venetia, gay ly. "Papa and mam- ma at Cherbury : Plantagenet and myself at the abbey, where you and your wife must remain until we could build you a house; and Dr. Masham coming down to spend Christmas with us. Would it not be delightful ] I only hope Plantagenet would be tame. I think he would burst out a little some- times." "Not with you, Venetia, not with you," said George; "you have a hold over him which no- thing can ever shake. I could always put liim in «s« D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. an amiable mood in an instant by mentioning your name." " I wish you knew the abbey, George," said Ve- netia. " It is the most interesting of all old places. I love it. You must promise me when you arrive m England to go on a pilgrimage to Cadurcis and Cherbury, and write me a long account of it." " I will indeed ; I will write to you very often." " You shall find me a most faithful correspond- ent, which I dare say Plantagenet would not prove." " O ! I beg your pardon," said George, " you tiave no idea of the quantity of letters he wrote me when he first quitted England. And such delight- ful ones I I do not think there is a more lively letter-writer in the world ! His descriptions are so vivid ; a few touches give you a complete picture ; and then his observations, they are so playful ! I jtssure you there is nothing in the world more easy and diverting than a letter of Plantagenet." " If you could only see his first letter from Eton to me!" said Verietia. "I have always treasured it. It certainly was not very diverting; and if by easy you mean easy to decipher," she added, laugh- ing, " his handwriting must have improved very much lately. Dear Plantagenet, I am always afraid I never pay him sufficient respect ; that I do not feel sufficient awe in his presence; but I cannot disconnect him from the playfellow of my infancy: and do you know it seems to me, whenever he ad- dresses me, his voice and air change and assume quite the tone and manner of childhood." " I have never known him but as a great man," said Captain Cadurcis, " but he was so frank and simple with me from the very first, that I cannot t)elieve that it is not two years since we first met." "Ah! I shall never forget that night at Rane- lagh," said Venetia, half with a smile, and half with a sigh. " How interesting he looked ! I loved to see the people stare at him, and to hear them whisper his name." Here they seated themselves by a fountain, over- shadowed by a plane tree, and for a while talked only of Plantagenet. "All the dreams of my life have come to pass," said Venetia. " I remember when I was at Wey- mouth, ill, and not very happy, I used to roam about the sands, thinking of papa, and how I wished Plantagenet was like him, a great man, a great poet, whom all the world admired. Little did I think that before a year had passed, Plantagenet, my unknown Plantagenet, would be the admiration ©f England ; little did I think another year would pass, and I would be living with my father and Plantagenet together, and they should be bosom friends. You see, George, we must never despair." " Under this bright sun," said Captain Cadurcis, " one is naturally sanguine, but think of me alone and in gloomy England." " It is indeed a bright sun," said Venetia; "how wonderful to wake every morning and be sure of meeting its beam !" Captain Cadurcis looked around him with a Bailor's eye. Over the Apennines towards Genoa, there was a ridge of dark clouds piled up with such compactness, that they might have been mistaken in a hasty survey for part of the mountains them- selves. " Bright as is the sun," said Captain Cadurcis, " we may have yet a squall before night." " I was delighted with Venice," said his compa- nion, not noticing his observation ; " I think of a)! places in the world it is the one which Plantagenet would most admire. I cannot believe but that even his delicious Athens would yield to it." " He did "lead the oddest life at Athens you can conceive," said Captain Cadurcis. " The people did not know what to make of him. He lived in the Latin Convent, a fine building, which he had almost to himself, for there are not half a dozen monks. He used to pace up and down the terrace, which he had turned into a garden, and on which he kept all sorts of strange animals. He wrote con- tinually there, indeed he did nothing but write. His only relaxation was a daily ride to Piraeus, about five miles over the plain ; he told me it was the only time in his life he was ever contented with himself, except when he was at Cherbury. He always spoke of London with disgust." " Plantagenet loves retirement and a quiet life," said Venetia ; " but he must not be marred with vulgar sights, and commonplace duties. That is the secret with him." " I think the wind has just changed," said Cap tain Cadurcis. " It seems to me that we shall have a sirocco. There, it shifts again ! We shall have a sirocco for certain." "What did you think of papa when you first saw him?" said Venetia. "Was he the kind of person you expected to see?" " Exactly," said Captain Cadurcis. " So very spiritual ! Plantagenet said to me, as we went home the first night, that he looked like a golden phantom. I think him very like you, Venetia ; ii>- deed there can be no doubt you inherited your face from your father." "Ah! if you had seen his portrait at Cherbury, when he was only twenty!" said Venetia. "That was a golden phantom, or rather he looked like Hyperion. What are you staring at so, George?" " I do not like this wind," muttered Captain Ca- durcis. " There it goes." " You cannot see the wind, George?" " Yes, I can, Venetia, and I do not like it at d'L Do you see that black spot flitting like a shade over the sea. It is like the reflection of a cloud on the water; but there is no cloud. Well, that is th« wind, Venetia, and a very wicked wind, too." " How strange ! Is that indeed the wind !" " We had better return home," said Captain Ca- durcis. " I wish they had not gone to Lavenza." " But there is no danger ?" said Venetia. " Danger ? No ! no danger, but they may get a wet jacket." They walked on ; but Captain Cadurcis was rather distrait : his eye was always watching the wind ; at last he said, " I tell you, Venetia, we must walk quick ; for, by Jove, we are going to have a white squall." They hurried their pace, Venetia mentioned her alarm again about the boat, but her companion re- assured her: yet his manner was not so confident as his words. A white mist began to curl above the horizon, the blueness of the day seemed suddenly to fade, and its colour became gray ; there was a swell on the waters that hitherto had been quite glassy, and they were covered with a scurfy foam. " I wish I had been with them," said Captain Cadurcis, evidently very anxious. "George, you are alarmed," said Venetia, ear- nestly, " I am sure there is danger." VENETIA. 821 Dang'er! How can there be danger, Venetia" Perhaps they are in port by this time. I dare say we shall find them at Spezzia. I will see you home and run down to them. Only hurry, for your own sake, for you do not know what a white squall in the Mediterranean is. We have but a few mo- ments." And even at this very instant, the wind came roaring and rushing with such a violent gust that Venetia could scarcely stand ; George put his arm round her to support her. The air was filled with thick white vapour, so that they could no longer see the ocean, only the surf rising very high all along the coast. " Keep close to me, Venetia," said Captain Ca- durcis ; " hold my arm and I will walk fast, for we shall not be able to see a yard before us in a mi- nute. I know where we are. We are above the olive wood, and we shall soon be in the ravine. These Mediterranean white squalls are nasty things; I had sooner by half be in a south-wester; for one cannot run before the wind in this bay, the reefs stretch such a long way out." The danger, and the inutility of expressing fears which could only perplex her guide, made Venetia silent, but she was terrified. She could not divest herself of apprehension about her father and Plan- tagenet. In spite of all he said, it was evident that her companion was alarmed. They had now entered the valley: the mountains had in some degree kept off the vapour; the air Was more clear. Venetia and Captain Cadurcis stopped a moment to breathe. " Now, Venetia, you are safe," said Captain Cadurcis. " I will not come in ; I will run down to the bay at once." He wiped the mist off his face ; Venetia perceived him deadly pale. "George," said she, "conceal nothing from me; there is danger, imminent danger. Tell me at once." " Indeed, Venetia," said Captain Cadurcis, " I am sure every thing will be quite right. There is some danger, certainly, at this moment, but, of course, long ago, they have run into harbour. I have no doubt they are at Spezzia at this moment. Now, do not be alarmed : indeed there is no cause. God bless you !" he said, and bounded away. " No cause," thought he to himself, as the wind sounded like thunder, and the vapour came rushing up the ravine. " God grant I may be right : but neither between the Tropics nor on the Line have I witnessed a severer squall than this ! What open boat can live in this weather ! ! that I had been with them ! I shall never forgive myself!" CHAPTER X. Vejtktia found her mother walking up and down the room, as was her custom when she was agitated. She hurried to her daughter. " You must change your dress instantly, Venetia," said Lady Atmabel ; " where is George 1" " He has gone dovyn to Spezzia to papa and Plantagenet ; it is a white squall ; it comes on very suddenly in this sea. He ran down to Spezzia instantly, because he thought they would be wet," said the agitated Venetia, speaking with rapidity and trying to appear calm. "Are they at Spezzia?" inquired Lady Annabel, quickly "George has no doubt they are, mother," said Venetia. " No doubt!" exclaimed Lady Annabel, in great distress : "God grant they may be only wet." " Dearest mother," said Venetia, approaching her, but speech deserted her. She had advanced to encourage Lady Annabel, but her own fear checked the words on her lips. " Change your dress, Venetia," said Lady Anna- bel ; " lose no time in doing that. I think I will send down to Spezzia at once." " That is useless now, dear mother, for George is there." " Go, dearest," said Lady Annabel ; " I dare say we have no cause for fear, but I am exceedingly alarmed about your father, about them : I am, in- deed. I do not like these sudden squalls, and I never liked this boating ; indeed, I never did. George being with them reconciled me to it. Now, go, Venetia, go, my love." Venetia quitted the room. She was so agitated that she made Pauncefort a confidant of her appre- hensions. "La! my dear miss," said Mistress Pauncefort, " I should never have thought of such a thing ! Do not you remember what the old man said at Weymouth, ' there is many a boat will live in a rougher tide than a ship ;' and it is such an un- likely thing, it is indeed. Miss Venetia. I am cer- tain sure my lord can manage a boat as well as a common sailor, and master is hardly less used to it than he. La ! miss, don't make yourself nervous about any such preposterous ideas. And I dare say you will find them in the saloon when you go down again. Really, I should not wonder. I think you had better wear your twill dress; I have put the new trimming on." They had not returned when Venetia joined her mother. That, indeed, she could scarcely expect. But in about half an hour, a message arrived from Captain Cadurcis that they were net at Spezzia, but from something he had heard, he had no doubt they were at Sarzana, and he was going to ride on thene at once. He felt sure, however, from what he had heard, they were at Sarzana. This commu- nication aftbrded Lady Annabel a little ease, but Venelia's heart misgave her. She recalled the alarm of George in the morning, which it was in> possible for him to disguise, and she thought she recognised in this hurried message and vague as- surances of safety something of the same appre- hension, and the same fruitless efforts to conceal it. Nowcame the time of terrible suspense. Sar- zana was nearly twenty miles distant from Spez- zia. The evening must arrive before they could receive intelligence from Captain Cadurcis. In the mean time the squall died away ; the heavens became again bright, and though the waves were still tumultuous, the surf was gieatly decreased. Lady Annabel had already sent down more than one messenger to the bay, but they brought no intelligence — she resolved now to go herself, that she might have the satisfaction of herself cross-ex- amining the fishermen who had been driven in from various parts by stress of weather. She would not let Venetia accompany her, who, she feared might already suffer from the exertions and rough weather of the morning. This was a most anxious hour, and yet the absence of her mother was uj 828 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. some degree a relief to Venetia ; it at least freed her from the perpetual effort of assunicd compo- sure. Wiiile her mother remained, Venetia had attempted to read, though her eye wandered list- lessly over the page, or to draw, though the pencil trembled in her hand ; any thing which might guard her from conveying to her mother that she shared the apprehensions which had already dar- kened her mother's mind. But now that Lady Annabel was gone, Venetia muffling herself up in her shawl, threw herself on a sofa, and there she remained without a thought, her mind a chaos of terrible images. Her mother returned, and with a radiant counte- nance. Venetia sprang from the sofa. " There is good news, mother ! have they returned 1" " They are not at Spezzia," said Lady Annabel, throwing herself into a chair panting for breath ; " but there is good news. You see I was right to go, Venetia. These stupid people we send only ask questions, and take the first answer. I have seen a fisiierman, and he says he heard that two persons. Englishmen, he believes, have put into Lerici in an open boat." " God be praised !" said Venetia. " O mother, I can now confess to you the terror I have all along felt." " My own heart assures me of it, my child," said Lady Annabel weeping; and they mingled their tears together, but tears not of sorrow. " Poor George !" said Lady Annabel, " he will have a terrible journey to Sarzana, and be feeling so much for us ! Perhaps he may meet them." " I feel assured he will," said Venetia ; " and perhaps ere long they will all three be here again. Joy ! joy !" " They must never go in that boat again," said Lady Annabel. "O ! they never will, dearest mother, if you ask them not," said Venetia. " We will send to Lerici," said Lady Annabel. " Instantly," said Venetia; " but I dare say they have already sent us a messenger." " No !" said Lady Annabel ; " men treat the danger that is past very lightly. We shall not heai- from them except in person." ♦ Time now flew more lightly. They were both easy in their minds. The messenger was despatch- ed to Lerici ; but even Lerici was a considerable distance, and hours must elapse before his return. Still there was the hope of seeing them, or hearing from them in the interval. " I must go out, dear mother, said Venetia. " Let us both go out. It is now very fine. Let us go just to the Ravine, for indeed it is impossible to remain here." Accordingly they both went forth, and took up a position on the coast which commanded a view on all sides. All was radiant again, and compa- ratively calm. Venetia looked upon the sea, and said, " Ah ! I never shall forget a white squall in the Mediterranean, for all this splendour." It was sunset : they returned home. No news yet from Lerici. Lady Annabel grew uneasy again. The pensive and melancholy hour encou- raged gloom ; but Venetia, who was sanguine, en couraged her mother. " Suppose they were not Englishmen in the boat," said Lady Annabel. " It is impossible, mother What other two per- sons in this neighborhood could have been in an open boat 1 Besides, the man said Englishmen. You remember, he said Englishmen. You are quite sure he did 1 It must be they. I feel as con- vinced of it as of your presence. ' " I think there can be no doubt," said Lady Annabel. " I wish that the nressenger would re- turn." They messenger did return. No two persons in an open boat had put into Lerici ; but a boat, like the one described, with every stitch of canvass set, had passed Lerici just before the squall com- menced, and, the people there doubted not, had made Sarzana " Lady Annabel turned pale, but Venetia was still sanguine. " They are at Sarzana," she said ; " they must be at Sarzana ; you see George was right. He said he was sure they were at Sarzana. Besides, dear mother, he heard they were at Sar- zana." " And we heard they were at Lerici," said Lady Annabel, in a melancholy tone. " And so they were, dear mother ; it all agrees. The accounts are very consistent. Do not you see how very consistent they are 1 They were seen at Lerici, and were ofl" Lerici, but they made Sar- zana ; and George heard tliey were at Sarzana. I am certain they are at Sarzana. I feel quite easy ; I feel as easy as if they were here. They are safe at Sarzana. But it is too far to return to-night. We shall see them at breakfast to-morrow, — all three." " Venetia, dearest ! do not you sit up," said her mother. " I think there is a chance of George re- turning ; I feel assured he will send to-night ; but late, of course. Go, dearest, and sleep." " Sleep !" thought Venetia to herself; but to please her mother she retired. " Good-night, my child," said Lady Annabel. " The moment any one arrives, you shall be aroused." CHAPTER XL Vexetia, without undressing, lay down on ha bed, watching for some sound that might give hei hope of George's return. Dwelling on every in- stant, the time dragged heavily along, and she thought that the night had half passed when Pauncefort entered her room, and she learned, to her surprise, that only an hour had elapsed since she had parted from her mother This entrance of Pauncefort had given Venetia a momentary hope that they had returned. " I assure you, Miss Venetia, it is only an hour," said Pauncefort, " and nothing could have happen- ed. Now do try to go to sleep, that is a dear young lady, for I am certain sure that they will all return in the morning, as I am here. I was telling my lady just now, I said, says I, I dare say they are all very wet, and very fatigued." " They would have returned, Pauncefort," said Venetia, " or they would have sent. They are not at Sarzana." " La ! Miss Venetia, why should they be at Sarzana, why should they not have gone much farther on! For, as Vicenzo was just saying to me, and Vicenzo knows all about the coast. VENETIA. 829 with such a wind as this, I should not be surprised unbroken silence, at a moment when anxiety waa if they were at Leghorn." | universally diflused among the dwellers beneath « ! Pauncefort," said Venctia, " I am sick at that roof, and the heart of more than one of them heart '" was throbbing with all the torture of the most awful " Now really, Miss Venctia, do not take on so !" suspense, that fell upon Venetia's excited nerves said Pauncefort ; " for do you not remember when his lordship ran away from the abbey, and went a gipsying, nothing would persuade poor Mrs. Ca- durcis, that he was not robbed and murdered, and yet you see he was as safe and sound all the time, as if he had been at Cherbury." I '' Does Vicenzo really think they could have readied Leghorn]" said Venetia, clinging to every fragment of hope. " He is morally sure of it. Miss Venetia," said Pauncefort, " and I feel quite as certain, for Vicenzo is always right." " I had confidence about Sarzana," said Venetia ; " I really did believe they were at Sarzana. If only Captain Cadurcis would return ; if he only would return, and say they were not at Sarzana, I would try to believe they were at Leghorn." " Now, Miss Venetia," said Pauncefort, " I am certain sure that they are quite safe ; for my lord is a very good sailor ; he is, indeed ; all the men say so ; and the boat is as seaworthy a boat as boat can be. There is not the slightest fear, I do assure you, Miss." " Do the men say that Plantagenet is a good sai- lor 1" inquired Venetia. " Quite professional !" said Mistress Pauncefort ; *' and can command a ship as well as the best of them. They all say that." " Hush ! Pauncefort, I liear something." " It's only my lady, Miss. I know her step." "Is my mother going to bedl" said Venetia. " Yes," said Pauncefort, " my lady sent me here to see after you. I wish I could tell her you were asleep," " It IS impossible to sleep," said Venetia, rising up from bed, withdrawing the curtain, and looking at the sky. " V^"hat a peaceful night ! I wish my heart were like the sky. I think I will go to mam- ma, Pauncefort !" " O ! dear, Miss Venetia, I am sure I think you had better not. If you and my lady, now, would just go to sleep, and forget every thing till morn- ing, it would be much better for you. Besides, I am sure if my lady knew you were not gone to bed already, it would only make her doubly anxious. Now, really Miss Venetia, do take my advice, and just lie dov?n again. You may be sure the mo- ment any one arrives I will let you know. Indeed I shall go and tell my lady that you are lying down, as it is, and very drowsy ;" and, so saying. Mistress Pauncefort caught up her candle, and bustled out of the room. Venetia took up the volume of her father's poems, which Cadurcis had filled with his notes. How little did Plantagenet anticipate, when he tiius expressed at Athens the passing impressions of his mind, that ere a year had glided away, his fate would be so intimately blended with that of Herbert! It was impossible, however, for Venetia to Jose heiself in a volume which under any other circumstances might have compelled her spirit ; the very associations with the writers added to the terrible restlessness of her mind. She paused each instant to listen for the wished-for sound, but a mute stillness reigned throughout tlie house and household. There was somethmg in this deep with a very painful and even insulTerable influ- ence. She longed for sound — for some noise that might assure her she was not the victim of a trance. She closed her volume with energy and she started at tlie sound . she had herself created. She rose and opened the door of her chamber very softly, and walked into the vestibule. There were caps, and cloaks, and whips, and canes of Cadurcis and her father, lying about in fa7nUiar confusion. It seemed impossible but that they were sleeping, as usual, under the same roof. And where were they 1 That she should live and be unable to answer that terrible question ! When she felt the utter helplessness of all her strong sym- pathy towai-ds them, it seemed to her that she must go mad. She gazed around her with a wild and vacant stare. At the bottom of her heart there was a fear maturing into conviction too horrible for expression. She returned to her own chamber, and the exhaustion occasioned by her anxiety, and the increased coolness of the night, made her at length drowsy. She threw herself on the bed, and slumbered. She started in her sleep — she awoke — she dreamed they had come home. She rose and looked at the progress of the night. The night was waning fast ; a gray light was on the land- scape ; the point of day approached. Venetia stole softly to her mother's room, and entered it with a soundless step. Lady Annabel had not re- tired to bed. She had sat up the whole night, and was now asleep. A lamp on a small table was burning at her side, and she held, firmly grasped in her hand, the letter of her husband, which he had addressed to her at Venice, and which she had been evidently reading. A tear glided down the cheek of Venetia as she watched her mother retaining that letter with fondness even in her sleep, and when she thought of all the mi- sery, and heartaches, and hanowing hours that had preceded its receipt, and which Venetia be- lieved that letter had cured for ever. What misery awaited them now 1 Why were they watchers of the night 1 She shuddered when these dreadful questions flitted through her mind. She shud- deretl and sighed. Her mother started, and woke. " Who is there 1" inquhed Lady Annabel. " Venetia." "My child, have you not slept?" " Yes, mother, and I woke refreshed as I hopfl you do." " I wake with trust in God's mercy," said Lady Annabel. " Tell me the hourl" " It is just upon dawn, mother." " Dawn ! no one has returned, or come 1" " The house is still, mother." " I would you were in bed, my child." " Mother, I can sleep no more. I wish lo be with you ;" — and Venetia seated herself at her mothers feet, and reclined her head upon her mo- ther's knee. " I am glad the night has passed, Venetia," said Lady Annabel, in a suppressed yet solemn tone. " It has been a trial." And here she placed the letter in her bosom. Venetia could only answer with a sigh. 4 A 830 D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. "I wish Pauncefort would come," said Lady Annabel ; " and yet I do not like to rouse her, she Was up so late, poor creature ! If it be the dawn I should like to send out messengers again ; some- thing may be heard at Spezzia." " Vicenzo thinks they have gone to Leghorn, mother." "Has he heard any thing]" said Lady Annabel, eagerly. " No, but he is an excellent judge," said Vene- tia, repeatmg all Pauncefort's consolatory chatter ; " he knows the coast so well. He says he is sure the wind would carry them on to Leghorn ; and that accounts, you know, mother, for George not returning. They are all at Leghorn." " Would that George would return," murmured Lady Annabel ; " I wish I could see again that sailor wlio said they were at Lerici. He was an mtelligent man." " Perhaps if we send down to the bay he may be there," said Venetia. " Hush ! I hear a step !" said Lady Annabel. Venetia sprung up and opened the door, but it was only Pauncefort in the vestibule. " The household are all up, my lady," said that important personage entering; "'tis a beautiful morning. Vicenzo has run down to the bay, my lady ; I sent him off immediately. Vicenzo says he is certain sure they are at Leghorn, my lady — and this time three years, the very same thing happened. They were fishing for anchovies, my lady, close by, my lady, near Sarzana — two young men, or rather one about the same age as master, and one like my lord — cousins, my lady, and just in the same sort of boat, my lady ; and there came ou a squall, just the same sort of a squall, my lady, and they did not return home ; and every one was frightened out of their wits, my lady, and their wives and families quite distracted — and after all they were at Leghorn ; for this sort of wind always takes your open boats to Leghorn, Vicenzo says." The sun rose, the household were all stirring, and many of them abroad ; the common routine of domestic duty seemed, by some general yet not expressed understanding to have ceased. The ladies descended below at a very early hour, and went forth into the valley, once the happy valley. What was to be its future denomination 1 Vicenzo returned from the bay, and he contrived to return with cheering intelligence. The master of a fe- lucca who, in consequence of the squall had put in at Lerici, and in the evening dropped down to Spezzia, had met an open boat an hour before he reached Sarzana, and was quite confident that if it had put into port, it must have been, from the speed at which it was going, a great distance down the coast. No wrecks have been heard of in the neigh- bourhood. This intelligence, the gladsome time of day, and the non-arrival of Captain Cadurcis, which according to their mood was always a cir- cumstance which counted either for good or for evil, and the sanguine feelings which makes us always cling to hope, altogether reassured our friends ; Venetia dismissed from her mind the dark thought which for a moment had haunted her in the noon of night ; and still it was a suspense, a painful agitating suspense, but only suspense that yet influenced them. " Time !" said Lady Annabel. " Time ! we must wait." Venetia consoled her mother ; she affected even a gayety of spirit ; she was sure that V tenzo would turn out to be right, after all ; Pauncefort said he always was right, and that they were at Leghorn. The day wore apace ; the noon arrived and passed ; it was even approaching sunset. Lady Annabel was almost afraid to counter-order the usual meals, lest Venetia should comprehend her secret terror ; the very same sentiment influenced Venetia. Thus they both had submitted to the ceremony of breakfast, but, when the hour of din- ner approached, they could neither endure the mockery. They looked at each other, and, almost at the same time, they proposed that, instead of dining, they should walk down to the bay. " I trust we shall at least hear something before the night," said Lady Annabel. " I confess I dread the coining night. I do not think I could endure it." " The longer we do not hear, the more certain I am of their being at Leghorn," said Venetia. '• I have a great mind to travel there to-night,' said Lady Annabel. As they were stepping into the portico, Venetia recognised Captain Cadurcis in the distance. She turned pale ; she would have fallen had she not leaned on her mother, who was not so advanced and wlio had not seen him. " What is the matter, Venetia 1" said Lady Ah' nabel, alarmed. " He is here, he is here !" "Marmioni" " No, George. Let me sit down." Her mother tried to support her to a chair. Lady Annabel took off her bonnet. She had not strength to walk forth. She could not speak. She sat down opposite Venetia, and her countenance pic- tured distress to so painful a degree, that at any other time Venetia would have flown to her, but, in this crisis of suspense, it was impossible. George was in sight; he was in the portico ; he was in the room. He looked wan, haggard, and distracted. More than once he essayed to sjjcak, but failed. Lady Annabel looked at him with a strange, delirious expression. Venetia rushed forward and seized his arm, and gazed intently on his face. He shrank from her glance ; his frame trembled. CHAPTER XIL Let us return to Captain Cadurcis at the mo- ment he quitted Venetia on the morning of the white squall. In the heart of the tempest he traced his way in a sea of vapour with extreme danger and ditficulty to the shore. On his arrival at Spezzia, however, scarcely a house was visible, and the only evidence of the situation of the place was the cessation of an immense white surf which otherwise indicated the line of the sea, but the ab- sence of which proved his contiguity to a harbour. In the thick fog he heard tlie cries and shouts of the returning fishermen, and of their wives and children responding from the land to their excla- mations. He was forced, therefore, to wait at Spezzia in an agony of impotent suspeirse until the fury of the storm \vas over, and the sky was partially cleared. At length the objects became gradually less obscure; he could trace the outline VENETIA. 831 of the houses, and catch a glimpse of the water half a mile out ; and soon the old castles which guard the entrance of the strait that leads into the gulf, looming in the distance, and now and then a group of human beings in the vanishing vapour. Of tliese he made some inquiries, but in vain, re- specting the boat and his friends. He then made the brig, but could learn nothing, except their de- parture in the morning. He at length obtained a horse and galloped along the coast towards Lerici, keeping a sharp look out as he proceeded, and stopping at every village in his progress for intelli- gence. When he had arrived in the course of three hours at Lerici, the storm had abated, the sky was clear, and no evidence of the recent squall remained except the agitated state of the waves. At Lerici he could hear nothing, so he hurried on to Sarzana, where he learned for the first time that an open boat, with its sails set, had past more than an hour before the squall commenced. From Sar- zana he hastened on to Lavenza, a little port, the nearest sea-point to Massa, and where the Carrara marble is shipped for England. Here also his inquiries were fruitless, and exhausted by his exer- tions ; he dismounted and rested at the inn, not only for repose but to consider over the course which he should now pursue. The boat had not been seen off Lavenza, and the idea that they had made the coast towards Leghorn now occurred to him. His horse was so wearied that he was obliged to stop some time at Lavenza, for he could procure no other conveyance ; the night also was fast coming on, and to proceed to Leghorn by this dangerous route at this hour was impossible. At Lavenza therefore he remained, resolved to hasten to Leghorn at break of day. This was a most awful night. Although physically exhausted, Captain Cadurcis could not sleep, and after some vain efforts, he quitted his restless bed on which he had laid down undressed, and walked forth to the harbour. Between anxiety for Herbert and his cousin, and for the unhappy women whom he had left behind, he was nearly distracted. He gazed on the sea, as if some sail in sight might give him a chance of hope. His professional experience assured him of all the danger of the squall. He could not conceive how an open boat could live in such a sea, and an instant return to port as soon as the squall commenced appeared the only chance of its salvation. Could they have reached Leg- horn 1 It seemed impossible. There was no hope they could now be at Sarzana or Lerici. When he contemplated the full contingency of what might have occurred, his mind wandered, and re- fused to comprehend the possibility of the terrible conclusion. He thought the morning would never break. There was a cavernous rock by the sea-shore, that jutted into the water, like a small craggy pro- montory. Captain Cadurcis climbed to its top, and then descending, reclined himself upon an in- ferior portion of it, which formed a natural couch, with the wave on each side. There, lying at his length, he gazed upon the moon and stars, whose brightness he thought would never dim. The Mediterranean is a tideless sea, but the swell of the waves, which still set into the shore, bore occa- sionally masses of sea-weed and other marine for- mations, and deposited them around him, plashing, as it broke against the shore, with a melancholy and monotonous sound. The abstraction of the scene, the hour, and the surrounding circumstan- ces brought, however, no refreshment to the ex- hausted, spirit of George Cadurcis. He could not think, indeed he did not dare to think ; but the villa of the Appennines and the open boat in the squall flitted continually before him. His mind was feeble, though excited, and he fell into a rest- less, and yet unmeaning revery. As long as he had been in action, as long as he had been hurry ing along the coast, the excitement of motion, the constant exercise of his senses, had relieved or dis- tracted the intolerable suspense. But this pause — this inevitable pause overwhelmed him. It ofH pressed his spirit, like eternity. And yet what might the morning bring 1 He almost wished that he might remain for ever on this rock, watch- ing the moon and stars, and that the life of the world might never recommence. He started, he had fellen into a light slumber, he had been dreaming, he thought he had heard the voice of Venetia calling him ; he had forgotten where he was ; he stared at the sea. and sky, and recalled his dreadful consciousness. The wave broke with a heavy plash that attracted his atten- tion ; it was, indeed, that sound that had awakened him. He looked around ; there was some object ; he started wildly from his resting-place, sprang over the cavern, and bounded on the beach. It was a corpse ; he is kneeling by its side. It is the corpse of his cousin ! Lord Cadurcis was a fine swimmer, and had evidently made strong efforts for his life, for he was partly undressed. In all the insanity of hope, still wilder than despair, George Cadurcis seized the body and bore it some yards upon the shore. Life had been long extinct. The corpse was cold and stark, the eyes closed, an expression of energy, however, yet lingering in the fixed jaw, and the hair sodden with the sea. Sud- denly Captain Cadurcis rushed to the inn, and roused the household. With a distracted air, and broken speech, and rapid motion, he communicated the catastrophe. Several persons, some bearing torches, others blankets and cordials, followed him instantly to the fatal spot. They huiTied to the body, they applied all the rude remedies of the moment, rather from the impulse of nervous ex- citement than with any practical purposes ; for the case had been indeed long hopeless. While Cap- tain Cadurcis leaned over the body, chafing -the extremities in a hurried frenzy, and gazing intently on the countenance, a shout was heard from one of the stragglers, who had recently arrived. The sea had washed on the beach another corpse : the form of Marmion Herbert ! It would appear that he had made no struggle to save himself, for his hand was locked in his waistcoast, where, at the moment, he had thrust the Phsedo, showing that he had been reading to the last, and was meditat- ing on immortality when he died. BOOK VII. CHAPTER I. Let us return from those beautiful and cele- brated scenes in which we have of late been wan- dering to the once peaceful bowers of Cherbury. The journals of Europe had circulated the tragical end of Herbert and Cadurcis ; and the household 832 D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS, at Cherbury were in daily expectation of the return to welcome her, the household bowed and courte- i)f their unhappy mistress and her disconsolate sied. She smiled on them for a moment graciously daughter, i and kindly, but her countenance immediately re- It was the commencement of autumn. The ' assumed a serious air, and whispering one word to verdure of summer still lingered on the trees, the the strange gentleman, she entered the hall alone, sky if not as cloudless was almost as refulgent as Italy ; and the pigeons bright and glancing, clus- tered on the roof of the hall. The steward was in attendance ; the household all in deep mourning were assembled ; every thing was in readiness for the immediate arrival of Lady Annabel Her- bert. " 'Tis nearly foiir years come Martinmas," said the gray-headed butler, " since ray lady left us." " And no good has come of it," said the house- keeper. " And for my part I never heard of good coming from going to foreign parts." " I shall hke to see Miss Vcnetia again," said a housemaid. " Bless her sweet face !" " I never expected to see her, Miss Venetia, again from all we heard," said a footman. " God's will be done !" said the gray -headed but- ler, " but I hope she will find happiness at home. 'Tis nigh on twenty years since I first nursed her in these arms." " I wonder if theie is any new Lord Cadurcis," said the footman. " I think he was the last of the line.' It would have been a happy day if I had lived to have seen the poor young lord marry Miss Ve- netia," said the housekeeper. " I always thought that match was made in heaven." " He was a sweet-spoken young gentleman," said the housemaid. " For my part," said the footman, " I should like to have seen our real master, Squire Herbert. He was a famous gentleman by all accounts." " I wish they had lived quietly at home," said the housekeeper. " I shall never forget the time when my lord returned," said the gray-headed butler. " I must say I thought it was a match." " Mistress Pauncefort seemed to think so," said the housemaid. " And she understands those things," said the footman. " { see the carriage," said a sei-vant who was at a window in the hall. All immediately bustled aboiit, fifid the housekeeper sent a message to the steward. The carriage might be just discovered at the end of the avenue. It was some time before it entered the iron spates that were thrown open for its recep- tion. Th«! steward stood on the steps with his hat off, the servants were ranged in order at the en- trance. Touching their horses with the spur, and cracking their whips, the postilions dashed round the circular plot and stopped at the hall-door. Un- der any circumstances a return home after an in- terval of years is rather an awful moment ; there was not a servant who was not visibly affected. On the outside of the carriage was a foreign ser- vant and Mistress Pauncefort, who was not so profuse as might have been expected in her recog- nitions of her old friends; her countenance was graver than of yore. Misfortune and misery had subdued even Mistress Pauncefort. The foreign servant opened the door of the carriage ; a young man, who was a stranger to the household but who was in deep mourninu:, alighted, and then f^ady Annabel appeared. The steward advai^"^^ mvitmg the steward to follow her. " I hope your ladyship is well — welcome home, my lady — welcome again to Cherbury — a welcome return, my lady — hope Miss Venetia is quite well happy to see your ladyship amongst us again, and Miss Venetia too, my lady." Lady Annabel acknowledged these salutations with kindness, and then saying that Miss Herbert was not very well and was fatigued with her journey, she dismissed her humble but trusty friends. Lady Annabel then turned and nodded to her fellow traveller. Upon this Lord Cadurcis — if we must, indeed, use a title from which he himself shrank — carried a shrouded form in his arms into the hall, where the steward alone lingered, though withdrawn to the back part of the scene ; and Lady Annabel, advancing to meet him, embraced his treasured burthen — her own imhappy child. " Now, Venetia, dearest Venetia," she said, " 'tis past ; we are at home." Venetia leaned upon her motlier, but made no reply. " Up stairs, dearest," said Lady Annabel ; " a little exertion, a very little." Leaning on her mo- ther and Lord Cadurcis, Venetia ascended the staircase, and they reached the terrace-room. Ve- netia looked around her as she entered the cham- ber, — that scene of her former life, endeared to her by so many happy hours and so many sweet inci- dents ; that chamber where she had first seen Plantagenet. Lord Cadurcis supported her to a chair, and then, overwhelmed by irresistible emo- tion, she sank back in a swoon. No one was allowed to enter the room but Pauncefort. They revived her; Lord Cadurcis holding her hand, and touching, with a watchful finger, her pulse. Venetia opened her eyes, and looked around her. Her mind did not wander* she immediately recognised where she was, and recollected all that had happened. She faintly smiled, and said, in a low voice, " You are all too kind, and I am very weak. After our trials, what is this 1 George," she added, struggling to appear animated, " you are at length at Cherbury." Once more at Cherbury ! It was, indeed, an event that recalled a thousand associations. In the wild anguish of her first grief, when the dreadful intelligence was broken to her, if any one had whispered to Venetia that she would yet find her- self once more at Cherbury, she would have es- teemed the intimation as mockery. But time and hope will struggle with the most poignant afiliction, and their infiuenee is irresistible and inevitable- From her darkened chamber in their Mediterranean villa, Venetia had again come forth, and crossed mountains, and traversed immense plains, and journeyed through many countries. She could not die, as she had supposed at first that she must, and therefore sb.e had exerted herself to qiait. and to quit speedily, a scene so terrible as their late abode. She was the veiy first to propose their return to England, and to that spot where she had passed her early life, and where she now wished to fulfil, in quiet and seclusion, the allotment of her remaining years ; to meditate over the man.-el- . lous past, and cherish its sweet and bitter recoUec- VENETIA. 833 fions. The native firmness of Lady Annabel, her long exercised conti'ol over her emotions, the sad- ness and subdued tone which the early incidents of her career had cast over her character, her pro- found sympathy with her daughter, and that reli- gious consolation which never deserted her, had alike impelled and enabled her to bear up against the catastrophe with more fortitude than her child. Tho arrow, indeed, had struck Venetia with a double barb. She was the victim ; and all the cares of Lady Annabel had been directed to soothe and support this stricken lamb. Yet perhaps these unhappy women must have sunk under their un- paralleled calamities, had it not been for the devo- tion of their companion. In the despair of his first emotions, George Cadurcis was nearly phmg- ing himself headlong into the wave that had already proved so fatal to his house. But when he thought of Lady Annabel and Venetia in a foreign land, without a single friend in their deso- lation, and pictured them to himself with the dread- ful news abruptly communicated by some unfeeling stranger; and called upon, in the midst of their overwhelming agony, to attend to all the heart- rending arrangements which the discovery of the bodies of the beings to whom they were devoted, and in whom all their feelings were centred, must necessarily entail upon them — he recoiled from what he contemplated, as an act of infamous deser- tion. He resolved to live, if only to preserve them from all their impending troubles, and with the hope that his exertions might tend, in however slight a degree^ not to alleviate — for that was im- possible — but to prevent, the increase of that terri- ble wo, the very conception of which made his brain stagger. He carried the bodies, therefore, with him to Spezzia, and then prepared for that fatal interview, the commencement of which we first indicated. Yet it must be confessed that, though the bravest of men, his courage faltered as he entered the accustomed ravine. He stopped and looked down on the precipice below ; he felt it utterly impossible to meet them ; his mind nearly deserted him. Death, some great and universal catastrophe, an earthquake, a deluge, that would have buried them all in an instant and a common fate, would have been hailed by George Cadurcis, at that moment, as good fortune. He lurked about the ravine for nearly three hours before he could summon up heart for the awful interview. The position he had taken as- sured him that no one could approach the villa, to which he himself dared not advance. At length, in a paroxysm of energetic despair, he had rushed forward, met them instantly, and confessed with a whirling brain, and almost unconscious of his ut- terance, that " they could not hope to see them again in this world." What ensued must neither be attempted to be described, nor even remembered. It was one of those tragedies of life which enfeeble the most faithful memories at a blow, shatter nerves beyond the faculty of revival, cloud the mind for ever, or turn the hair gray in an instant. They carried Venetia delirious to her bed. The very despair, and almost madness of her daughter, forced Lady Annabel to self-exertion, of which it was difficult to suppose that even she was capable. And George, too, was obliged to leave them. He stayed only the night. A few words nassed between 105 Lady Annabel and himself; she wished thebodiet to be embalmed, and borne to England. There was no time to be lost, and there was no one to be in- trusted except George. He had to hasten to Ge- noa to make all these preparations, and for two days he was absent from the villa. When he re- turned Lady Annabel saw him, but Venetia was for a long time invisible. The moment she grew composed, she expressed a wish to her mother in- stantly to return to Cherbury. All the an-ange- ments necessary devolved upon George Cadurcis. It was his study that Lady Annabel should be troubled upon no point. The household were dis- charged, all affairs wound up, the felucca hired which was to bear them to Genoa, and in readi- ness, before he notified to them that the hour of departure had arrived. The most bitter circum- stance was looking again upon the sea. It seemed so intolerable to Venetia, that their departure was delayed more than one day in consequence ; but it was inevitable ; they could reach Genoa in no other manner. George carried Venetia in his arms to the boat, with her face covered with a shawl, and bore her in the same manner to the hotel at Genoa, where their travelling can'iage awaited them. They travelled home rapidly. All seemed to be impelled as it were by a restless desire for repose. Cherbury was the only thought in Venetia's mind. She observed nothing; she made no remark dur- ing their journey ; they travelled often throughout the night ; but no obstacles occuiTcd, no inconve- niences. There was one in this miserable society whose only object in life was to support Venetia under her terrible visitation. Silent, but with an eye that never slept, George Cadurcis watched Venetia, as a nurse might a child. He read her thoughts, he anticipated her wishes without in- quiring them ; every arrangement was unobtru- sively made that could possibly consult her com- fort. They passed through London without stopping there. George would not leave them for an in- stant ; nor would he spare a thought to his own affairs, though they urgently required his atten- tion. The change in his position gave him no con- solation ; he would not allow his passport to be made out with his title ; he shuddered at being called Lord Cadurcis ; and the only reason that made him hesitate about attending them to Cher- bury was its contiguity to his ancestral seat, which he resolved never to visit. There never in the world was a less selfish and more single hearted man than George Cadurcis. Though the death of his cousin had invested him with one of the most ancient coronets in England, a noble residence, and a fair estate, he would willingly have sacrificed his life to have recalled Plantagenet to existence, and to have secured the happiness of Venetia Hert«rt. CHAPTER n. The reader must not suppose from the irresisti ■ ble emotion that overcame Venetia at the very moment of her return, that she was entirely proi*- trated by her calamities. On the contrary, her mind had been employed during the whole of hei journey to England, in jj silent effort to endur« 4a2 834 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS, hei lot with resignation. She had resolved to bear up against her misery with fortitude, and she in- herited from her mother sufficient firmness of mind to enable her to achieve her purpose. She came back to Cherbury to live with patieii'e and submission ; and though her dreams of happiness might be vanished for ever, to contribute as much as was in her power to the content of that dear and remaining relative who was yet spared to her, and who depended in this world only upon the affection of her child. The return to Cherbury was a pang, and it was over. Venetia struggled to avoid the habits of an invalid : she purposed re- suming, as far as was in her power, all the pursuits and duties of her life ; and if it were neither possi- ble nor even desirable to forget the past, she dwelt upon it neither to sigh nor to murmur, but to che- rish in a sweet and musing mood the ties and affections round which all her feelings had once ga- thered with so much enjoyment and so much hope. She rose, therefore, on the morning after her re- turn to Cherbury, calm, if not cheerful ; and she took an early opportunity, when George and her mother were engaged, and absent from the terrace- room, to go forth alone, and wander amid her old haunts. There was not a spot about the park and gardens, which had been favourite resorts of her- self and Pianlagenet in their childhood, that she did not visit. They were unchanged ; as green, and bright, and still, as in old days, but what was she 1 The freshness, and brilliancy, and careless happiness of her life, were fled for ever. And here he lived, and here he roamed, and here his voice sounded, now in glee, now in melancholy, now in wild and fanciful amusement, and now pouring into her bosom all hiis domestic sorrows. It was but ten years since he first arrived at Cherbury, and who could have anticipated that little silent, resented boy should, ere ten years had passed, have filled a wide and lofty space in the world's thought : that his existence should have influenced the mind of nations, and his death eclipsed their gaycty ! His death ! Terrible and disheartening thought! Plantagenet was no more. But he had not died without a record. His memory was embalmed in immortal verse, and he had breathed his passion to his Venetia in language that lingered in the ear, and would dwell for ever on the lips, of his fellow men. Among these woods, too, had Venetia first mused over her father ; before her rose those mysterious chambers, whose secret she had penetrated at the risk of her life There were no secrets now. Was she happier 1 Now she felt that even in her early mystery there was delight, and that hope was veiled beneath its ominous shadow. There was now no future to ponder over ; her hope was gone, and memoiy alone remained. All the dreams of those musing hours of her hidden reveries had been realised. She had seen her father, that sur- passing parent, who had satisfied alike her heart and her imagination ; she had been clasped to his bosom ; she had lived to witness even her mother yield to his penitent embrace. And he too was gone ; she could never meet him again in this world — in this world in which they had expe- rienced such exquisite bliss ! And now she was once more at Cherbury ! O ! give her back her girlhood, with all its painful mystery and harassing doubt ! Give her again a future ! She returned to the hall ; she metGeorge on the terrace, she welcomed him with a sweet, yet mourn- ful smile. " I have been very selfish," she said, " for I have been walking alone. I mean to in- troduce you to Cherbury, but I could not resist visiting some old spots." Her voice faltered at these last words. They re-entered the terrace-room to- gether, and joined her mother. " Nothing is changed, mamma," said Venetia, in a more cheerful tone. " It is pleasant to find sqfne- thing that is the same." Several days passed, and Lord Cadurcis evinced no desire to visit his inheritance. Yet Lady An- nabel was anxious that he should do so, and had more than once impressed upon him the propriety. Even Venetia at length said to him, " It is very selfish in us keeping you here, George. Your presence is a great consolation, and yeP— yet, ought you not to visit your home!" She avoided the name of Cadurcis. " I ought, dear Venetia," said George, " and I will, I have promised Lady Annabel twenty times, but I feel a terrible disinclination. To-morrow, perhaps." " To-moiTow, and to-mon'ow, and to-morrow," murmured Venetia to herself, " I scarcely compre- hend now what to-morrow means." And then again addressing him, and with more liveliness, he said, " We have only one friend in the world now, George, and I think that we ought to be very grateful that he is our neighbour." " It is a consolation to me," said Lord Cadurcis, " for I cannot remain here, and othei-wise I should scarcely know how to depart." " I wish you would visit your liome, if only for one morning," said Venetia ; " if only," she added with a smile, " to know how very near you are to us." " I dread going alone," said Lord Cadurcis. " I cannot ask Lady Annabel to accompany me, he- cause — '' He hesitated. " Because 1" inquired Venetia. " I cannot ask or wish her to leave you." " You are always thinking of me, dear George," said Venetia, artlessly. " I assure you, I have come back to Cherbury to be happy. I must visit your home some day, and I hope I shall visit it often. We will all go — soon," she added. " Then I will postpone my visit to that day," said George. " I am in no humour for business, which I know awaits me there. Let me enjoy a little more repose at dear Cherbury." " I have become very restless of late, I thirdi," said Venetia, "but there is a particular spot in the garden that I wish to see. Come with me, George." Lord Cadurcis was only too happy to attend her. They proceeded through a winding walk in the shrubberies, until they aiTived at a small and open plot of turf, where Venetia stopped. " There are some associations," she said, "of this spot connected with both those friends that we have lost. I have a fancy that it should be in some visible manner consecrated to their memories. On this spot, George, Plantagenet once spoke to me of my father. I should like to raise their busts here ; and indeed it is a fit place for such a pur- pose ; for poets," she added, faintly smiling, " should be surrounded with laurels." " I have some thoughts on this head that I aia revolving in my fancy myself," said Lord Cadurcis, " but I will not speak of them now." VENETIA. 835 ** Yes, now, George ; for indeed it is a satisfac- tion to me to speak of them, at least with you, wi(h one who understood them so well, and loved them scarcely less than I did." George tenderly put his arm into hers and led her away. As they walked along, he explained to her his plans, which yet were somewhat crude, but which greatly interested her ; but they were roused from their conversation by the bell of the hall sounding, as if to summon them, and there- fore they directed their way immediately to the terrace. A ser\ant running met them ; he brought a message from Ladj' Annabel. Their friend the Bishop of * * * * had arrived. CHAPTER III. Well, my little daughter," said the good Ma- sham, advancing as Venetia entered the room, tenderly embracing her, and affecting a cheerful- ness which he did not feel, but which lightened the first painful embarrassment of the interview. Venetia responded to his salutation in the same vein ; the kind-hearted old man maintained a con- versation on indifferent subjects, with animation, for some minutes ; and thus a meeting, the antici- pation of which would have cost Venetia hours of pain and anxiety, occurred with feelings which were alike easy and agreeable. Masham had hastened to Cherbury the moment he heard of the return of the Herberts to England. He did not come to console but to enliven. He was well aware that even his eloquence, and all the influence of his pietj% could not soften the irreparable past ; and knowing, from experience, how in solitude the unhappy brood over sorrow, he fancied that his arrival, and perhaps his aiTival only, might tend in some degree at this moment to their alleviation and comfort. He brought Lady Annabel and Venetia letters from their relations, with whom he had been staying, at their country residence, and who were anxious that their unhap- py kinsfolk should find change of scene under their roof. " They are very affectionate," said Lady Anna- bel, " but I rather think that neither Venetia nor myself will feel inclined to quit Cherbury at pre- sent." "Indeed, not, mamma," said Venetia. " I hope we shall never leave home again." " You must come and see me some day," said the bishop ; then turning to George, whom he was glad to find here, he addressed him in a hearty tone, and expressed his delight at again meeting him. Insensibly to all parties this arrival of the good Masham exercised a very beneficial influence on their spirits. They could sympathise with his dieerfulness, because they were convinced that he sympathised with their sorrow. His interesting conversation withdrew their minds from the pain- ful subject on which they were always musing. It seemed profanation to either of the three mourn- ers when they were together alone, to indulge in any topic bvit the absorbing one, and their utmost effort was to speak of the past with composure : but they all felt relieved, though at first uncon- sciously, when one, whose interest in their feel- ings could not be doubted, gave the signal of withdrawing their reflection from vicissitudes which it was useless to deplore. Even the social forms which the presence of a guest rendered in- dispensable, and the exercise of the comtesies of hospitality, contributed to this result. They with- drew their minds from the past. And the worthy bishop, whose tact was as eminent as his good humour and benevolence, evincing as much deli- cacy of feeling as cheerfulness of temper, a very few days had elapsed before each of his compa- nions was aware that his presence had contributed to their increased content. "You have not been to the abbey yet. Lord Ca- durcis," said Masham to him one day, as they were sitting together after dinner, the ladies having re- tired. " You should go." " I have been imwilling to leave them," said George, " and I could scarcely expect them to ac- company me. It is a visit that must revive painful recollections." " We must not dwell on the past," said Masham, " We must think only on the future." " Venetia has no future, I fear," said Lord Ca- durcis. " Why not 1" said Masham, " she is yet a girl, and with a prospect of a long life. She must have a future, and I hope, and I believe it will yet be a happy one." " Alas !" said Lord Cadurcis, " no one can form an idea of the attachment that subsisted be- tween Plantagenet and Venetia. They were not common feelings, or the feelings of common minds, my dear lord." " No one knew them both better than I did," said Masham, "not even yourself: they were my children." " I feel that," said George, " and therefore it is a pleasure to us all to see you, and to speak with you." "' But we must look for consolation," said Ma- sham ; " to deplore is fruitless. If we live, we must struggle to live happily. To tell you the truth, though their immediate return to Cherbury was inevitable, and their residence here for a xime is scarcely to be deprecated, I still hope they will not bm-y themselves here. For my part, after tiie necessary interval, I wish to see Venetia once more in the world." Lord Cadurcis looked very mournful and shook his head. " As for her dear mother, she is habituated to soiTow and disappointment," said Masham. " As long as Venetia lives Tiady Annabel will be con- tent. Besides, deplorable as may be the past, there must be solace to her in the reflection that she was reconciled to her husband before his death, and contributed to his happiness. Venetia is the stricken lamb, but Venetia is formed for happiness, and it is in the nature of things that she will be happy. We must not, however, yield unnecessa- rily to our feelings. A violent exertion would be unwise, but we should habituate ourselves gradu- ally to the exercise of our duties, and to our accus- tomed pursuits. It would be well for you to go to Cadurcis. If I were you I would go to-morrow. Take advantage of my presence ; and return and give a report of your visit. Habituate Venetia to talk of a spot with which ultimately she must re- new her intimacy." Influenced by his advice. Lord Cadurcis rose early on the next morning and repaired to the spst 836 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. of Ms fathers, where hitherto his foot had never trod. When the circle at Cherbury assembled at their breakfast table, he was missing, and Masham had undertaken the office of apprising his friends of the cause of his absence. He returned to din- ner, and the conversation fell naturally upon the Abbey and the impressions he had received. It was maintained at first by Lady Annabel and the Bishop, but Venetia ultimately joined in it and with cheerfulness. Many a trait and incident of former days was alluded to ; they talked of Mrs. Cadurcis, whom George had never seen ; they settled the chambers he should inhabit ; they men- tioned the improvements which Plantagenet had once contemplated, and which George must now accomplish. " You must go to London first," said the bishop ; " you have a great deal to do, and you should not delay such business. I think you had better re- turn with me. At this time of the year you need not be long absent; you will not be detained ; and when you return, you will find yourself much more at ease ; for after all, nothing is more haras- sing than the feeling, that there is business which must be attended to, and which, nevertheless, is neglected." Both Lady Annabel and Venetia enforced this advice of their friend ; and so it happened that ere a week had elapsed Lord Cadurcis, accompanying Mdshajn, found himself once more in London. CHAPTER IV. Ve^tetia was now once more alone with her mother ; it was as in old times. Their life was the same as before the visit of Plantagenet previous to his going to Cambridge, except indeed that they had no longer a friend at Marringhurst. They missed the sabbath visits of that good mair; his successor, indeed, performed the duties of the day, which had been a condition when he was pre- sented to the hving, but the friend who knew all the secrets of their hearts was absent. Venetia continued to bear herself with great equanimity, and the anxiety which she observed instantly im- pressed on her mother's countenance, the moment she fancied there was an unusual gloom on the brow of her child, impelled Venetia doubly to exert herself to appear resigned. And in truth, when Lady Annabel revolved in her mind the mournful past, and meditated over her early and unceasing eflforts to secure the happiness of her daughter, and then contrasted her aspirations with the result, she could not acquit herself of having been too often unconsciously instrumental in for- warding a very ditTerent conclusion than that for which she had laboured. This conviction preyed upon the mother, and the slightest evidence of reaction in Venetia'stranquillised demeanour occa- sioned her the utmost remorse and grief. The absence of George made both Lady Annabel and Venetia still more finely appreciate the solace of his society. Left to themselves they felt how much they had depended on his vigilant and considerate attention, and how much his sweet temper and his unfailing sympathy had contributed to their conso- lation. He wrote, however, to Venetia, by every post, and his letters, if possible, endeared him still more to their hearts. Unwilling to dwell upon their mutual sorrows, yet always expressing suffi cient to prove that distance and absence had not impaired his sympathy, he contrived with infinite delicacy even to amuse their solitude with the ad- ventures of his life of bustle. The arrival of the post was the incident of the day ; not merely let- ters arrived, — one day brought books, another music ; continually some fresh token of his thought and affection reached them. He was, however, only a fortnight absent ; but when he returned, it was to Cadurcis. He called upon them the next day ; and indeed every morning found him at Cherbury : but he returned to his home at night, and so, without an effort, from their guest he had become their neighbour. Plantagenet had left the whole of his property to his cousin : his mother's fortune, which, as an accessary fund, was not inconsiderable, besides the estate. And George intended to devote a portioa of this to the restoration of the abbey. Venetia was to be his counsellor in this operation, and therefore there were ample sources ot amusement for the remainder of the year. On a high ridge, which indeed was one of the beacons of the coun- ty, and which moreover marked the junction of the domains of Cherbury and Cadurcis, it was his intention to raise a monument to the united memo- ries of Marmion Herbert, and Plantagenet Lord Cadurcis. He brought down a design with him from London ; and this was the project wliich he had previously whispered to Venetia. With George for her companion too, Venetia was in- duced to resume her rides. It was her part to make him acquainted with the county in which he was so important a resident. Time, therefore, at Cherbury, on the whole flowed on in a tide of tranquil pleasure, and Lady Annabel observed with interest and fondness the continual presence beneath her roof of one who, from the first day she had met him, had engaged her fine feelings, and had since become intimately endeared to her. The end of November was, however, now ap- proaching, and Parliament was about to re-assem- ble. Masham had written more than once to Lord Cadurcis, impressing upon him the propriety and expediency of taking his seat. He had shown these letters, as he showed every thing, to Venetia, who was his counsellor on all subjects, and Vene- tia agreed with their friend. " It is right," said Venetia ; " you have a duty to perform, and you must perform it. Besides, I do not wish the name of Cadurcis to siidi again into obscurity. I shall look forward with interest to Lord Cadurcis taking the oaths and his seat. It will please me ; it will indeed." " But, Venetia," said George, " I do not like to leave this place. I am happy, if we may be happy. This life suits me. I am a quiet man. I dislike London. I feel alone there." " You can write to us ; you will have a great deal to say. And I shall have something to say to you now. I must give you a continual report how they go on at the abbey. I will be your steward, and superintend every thing." " Ah !" said George, "what shall I do in Lon- don without you — without your advice ? There will be something occurring every day, and 1 shall have no one to consult. Indeed I shall feel quite miserable ; I shall indeed." " It is quite impossible that, with your station. VENETIA. 837 and at your time of life, 3rou should bury yourself in the country," said Venetia. " You have the whole world before you, and you must enjoy it. It is very well for mamma and myself to lead this life. I look upon ourselves as two nuns. If Ca- durcis is an abbey, Cherbury is now a convent." " How can a man wish to be more than happy 1 I am quite content here," said George. " What is London to me !" " It may be a great deal to you, more than you think," said Venetia. " A great deal awaits you yet. However, there can be no doubt you should take your seat. You can always return if you wish. But take your seat, and cultivate dear Masham. I have the utmost confidence in his wisdom and goodness. You cannot have a friend more respect- able. Now mind my advice, George." " I always do, Venetia. CHAPTER V. Tr?rE and Faith are the great consolers : and neither of these precious sources of solace were wanting to the inhabitants of Cherbury. They were again living alone, but their lives were cheer- ful ; and if Venetia no longer indulged in a world- ly and blissful future, nevertheless in the society of her mother, in the resources of art and litera- ture, in the diligent discharge of her duties to her humble neighbours, and in cherishing the memory of the departed, she experienced a life that was not without its tranquil pleasures. She maintained with Lord Cadurcis a constant correspondence ; he wrote to her, indeed, every day, and although they were separated, there was not an incident of his life, and scarcely a thought, of which she was not c-sgnisant. It was indeed with great difliculty that George could induce himself to remain in London ; but Masham, who soon obtained over him all the influence which Venetia desired, ever opposed his return to the abbey. The good Bishop was not unaware of the feelings with which Lord Cadurcis looked back to the Hall of Cherbui-y, and himself of a glad and sanguine temperament, he indulged in a belief in the consummation of all that happiness for which his young friend, rather scep- tically, sighed. But Masham was aware that time cmild alone soften the bitterness of Venetia's sor- row, and prepare her for that change of life which he felt confident would alone ensure the happiness both of herself and her mother. He therefore de- tained Lord Cadurcis in London the whole of the session, so that on his return to Cherbury, his so- ciety might be esteemed a novel and agreeable in- cident in the existence of its inhabitants, and not be associated merely with their calamities. It was therefore about a year after the catastro- phe, which had so suddenly changed the whole tenor of their lives, and occasioned so unexpected a revolution in his owrn position, that Lord Cadurcis arrived at his ancestral seat, with no intention of again speedily leaving it. He had long and fre- quently apprised his friends of his approaching presence, and arriving at the abbey late at night, he was at Cherbury early on the following morn- in?- Although no inconsiderable interval had elapsed fflnce Lord Cadurcis had parted from the Herberts, the continual correspondence that had been main- tained between himself and Venetia, divested his visit of the slightest embarrassment. They met as if they had parted yesterday, except perhaps with greater fondness. The chain of their feehngs was unbroken. He was indeed welcomed, both by Lady Annabel and her daughter, with warm affec- tion ; and his absence had only rendered him dearer to them by affording an opportunity of feeling how nmch his society contributed to their felicity. Ve- netia was anxious to know his opinion of the im- provements at the abbey, which she had superin- tended ; but he assured her that he would examine nothing without her company, and ultimately tliey agreed to walk over to Cadurcis. It was a summer day, and they walked through that very wood wherein we described the journey of the child Venetia, at the commencement of this very history. The blue patches of wild hyacinths had all disappeared, but there were flowers as sweet. What if the first feelings of our heart fade, like the first flowers of spring, succeeding years, like the coming summer, may bring emotions not less charming, and, perchance, far more fervent ! "I can scarcely believe," said Lord Cadurcis, "that I am once more with you, I know not what surprises me most, Venetia, that we should be walking once more together in the woods of Cherbury, or that I ever should have dared to quit them." " And yet it was better, dear George," said Ve- netia. " You must now rejoice that you have fulfil- led your duty, and yet you are here again. Besides, the abbey never would have been finished if you had remained. To complete all our plans, it re- quired a mistress." I wish it alwaj s had one," said George. "Ah Venetia, once you told me never to despair." " And what have you to despair about, George ?" " Heigh ho !" said Lord Cadurcis, " I never shall be able to live in this abbey alone." " You should have brought a wife from London," said Venetia. " I told you once, Venetia, that I was not a mar- r3dng man," said Lord Cadurcis ; " and certainly I never shall bring a wife from London." " Then j'ou cannot accustom yourself too soon to a bachelor's life," said Venetia. " Ah ! Venetia," said George, " I wish I were clever ; I wish I were a genius ; I wish I were a great man." " Why, George?" " Because, Venetia, perhaps," and Lord Cadur- cis hesitated, " perhaps you would think different ly of me 1 I mean perhaps your feelings towards mc might — ah ! Venetia, perhaps you might think me worthy of you — perhaps you might love me." " I am sure, dear George, if I did not love you, I should be the most ungrateful of beings: you are our only friend." • " And can I never be more than a friend to you, Venetia ]" said Lord Cadurcis, blushing very deeply. " I am sure, dear George, I should be very sorry for your sake, if you wished to be more," said Ve- netia. " Why V said Lord Cadurcis. " Because I should not like to see you unite your destiny with that of a very unfortunate, if not a very unhappy person." " The sweetest, the loveliest of women !" said Lord Cadurcis. " O ! Venetia, I dare not express 838 D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS what I feel, still less what I could hope. I think so little of myself, so highly of you, that I am con- vinced my aspirations are too arrogant for me to breathe them." " Ah ! dear George, you deserve to be happy," said Venetia. '' Would that it were in my power to make you." " Dearest Venetia, it is, it is," exclaimed I^ord Cadurcis : then checking himself, as if frightened by his boldness, he added in a more subdued tone, " I feel I am not worthy of you." Was it an unconscious pressure of his arm that emboldened Lord Cadurcis, and suddenly gifted him with all the flow of passionate eloquence 1 They stood upon the breezy down that divided the demesnes of Cherbury and the Abbey. Beneath them rose, " embosomed in a valley of greets bowers," the ancient pile lately 'renovated under the studious care of Venetia. " Ah !" said Lord Cadurcis, " be no less kind to the master of these towers, than to the roof that you have fostered. You have renovated our halls — restore our happiness ! There is a union that will bring consolation to more than one hearth, and baffle all the crosses of adverse fate. Venetia, beautiful and noble-minded Venetia, condescend to fulfil it !" Perhaps the reader will not be surprised that within a few months of this morning walk, the hands of George, Lord Cadurcis, and Venetia Herbert were joined in the chapel at Cherbury by the good Masham. Peace be with them ! 3i+77-i; Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: March 2009 Preservationlechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111