Book. z:^ 
 
 CoipghtN". 
 
 150^ 
 
 COPyRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
FANSHAWE 
 
 AND OTHER PIECES 
 
 BY 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 New York : 85 Fifth Avenue 
 
 m)t Bitoet^iDe pre??, Cambribge 
 
LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two CoDies Received 
 
 JUN 23 1904 
 
 '^ Ooo.vrlffht Entry 
 CLASS «- XXO. No. 
 ,..CpJ?Y. B . 
 
 
 COPYRiG)aT^l6>6 p\"j/vMB^B^ dfedoOD AND CQ'ltftANY 
 
 COPYRiGftT I5c4' bV H(3uGHT'6n, "MIFFLIN ANl>'cO. 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 — ♦ 
 
 Page 
 Fanshawe 7 
 
 Biographical Sketches: — 
 
 Mrs. Hutchinson . . . . . . 167 
 
 Sir William Phips 177 
 
 Sir William Pepperell 185 
 
 Thomas Green Fessenden . . . . 196 
 
 Jonathan Cilley 215 
 
FAN SH AWE. 
 
FANSHAWE. 
 
 t^B^«p5JB 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Our court shall be a little Academe," — Shakespeare. 
 
 N an ancient tliougli not very populous settle- 
 ment in a retired corner of one of the New 
 England States arise the walls of a seminary 
 of learning, which, for the convenience of a name, shall 
 be entitled " Harley College." This institution, though 
 the number of its years is inconsiderable compared with 
 the hoar antiquity of its European sisters, is not without 
 some claims to reverence on the score of age; for an 
 almost countless multitude of rivals, by many of which 
 its reputation has been eclipsed, have sprung up since 
 its foundation. At no time, indeed, during an existence 
 of nearly a century, has it acquired a very extensive 
 fame; and circumstances, which need not be particular- 
 ized, have of late years involved it in a deeper obscurity. 
 There are now few candidates for the degrees that the 
 college is authorized to bestow. On two of its annual 
 "Commencement Days," there has been a total defi- 
 ciency of baccalaureates ; and the lawyers and divines, 
 1* 
 
10 FANSHAWE. 
 
 on whom doctorates in their respective professions are 
 gratuitously inflicted, are not accustomed to consider the 
 distinction as an honor. Yet the sons of this seminary 
 have always maintained their full share of reputation, in 
 whatever paths of life they trod. Few of them, perhaps, 
 have been deep and finished scholars; but the college 
 has supplied — what the emergencies of the country de- 
 manded — a set of men more useful in its present state, 
 and whose deficiency in theoretical knowledge has not 
 been found to imply a want of practical abihty. 
 
 The local situation of the college, so far secluded from 
 the sight and sound of the busy world, is peculiarly 
 favorable to the moral, if not to the literary habits of its 
 students ; and this advantage probably caused the found- 
 ers to overlook the inconveniences that were inseparably 
 connected with it. The humble edifices rear themselves 
 almost at the farthest extremity of a narrow vale, which, 
 winding through a long extent of hill-country, is well- 
 nigh as inaccessible, except at one point, as the Happy 
 Valley of Abyssinia. A stream, that farther on becomes 
 a considerable river, takes its rise at a short distance 
 above the college, and affords, along its wood-fringed 
 banks, many shady retreats, where even study is pleas- 
 ant, and idleness delicious. The neighborhood of the 
 institution is not quite a solitude, though the few habi- 
 tations scarcely constitute a village. These consist prin- 
 cipally of farm-houses, of rather an ancient date (for the 
 settlement is much older than the college), and of a little 
 inn, which even in that secluded spot does not fail of a 
 moderate support. Other dwellings are scattered up and 
 down the valley ; but the difficulties of the soil will long 
 
FANSHAWB. 11 
 
 avert the evils of a too dense population. The character 
 of the inhabitants does not seem — as there was, perhaps, 
 room to anticipate — to be in any degree influenced by 
 the atmosphere of Harley College. They are a set of 
 rough and hardy yeomen, much inferior, as respects 
 refinement, to the corresponding classes in most other 
 parts of our country. This is the more remarkable, as 
 there is scarcely a family in the vicinity that has not pro- 
 vided, for at least one of its sons, the advantages of a 
 " liberal education." 
 
 Having thus described the present state of Harley 
 College, we must proceed to speak of it as it existed 
 about eighty years since, when its foundation was recent, 
 and its prospects flattering. At the head of the institu- 
 tion, at this period, was a learned and Orthodox divine, 
 whose fame was in all the churches. He was the author 
 of several works which evinced much erudition and depth 
 of research ; and the pubHc, perhaps, thought the more 
 highly of his abilities from a singularity in the purposes 
 to which he applied them, that added much to the curi- 
 osity of his labors, though little to their usefulness. 
 But, however fanciful might be his private pursuits. Dr. 
 Melmoth, it was universally allowed, was dihgent and 
 successful in the arts of instruction. The young men of 
 his charge prospered beneath his eye, and regarded him 
 with an affection that was strengthened by the little 
 foibles which occasionally excited their ridicule. The 
 president was assisted in the discharge of his duties by 
 two inferior officers, chosen from the alumni of the col- 
 lege, who, while they imparted to others the knowledge 
 they had already imbibed, pursued the study of divinity 
 
12 FANSHAWE. 
 
 under the direction of their principal. Under such aus- 
 pices the institution grew and flourished. Having at 
 that time but two rivals in the country (neither of them 
 within a considerable distance), it became the general 
 resort of the youth of the Province in which it was sit- 
 uated. Eor several years in succession, its students 
 amounted to nearly fifty, — a number which, relatively 
 to the circumstances of the country, was very consid- 
 erable. 
 
 From the exterior of the collegians, an accurate ob- 
 server might pretty safely judge how long they had been 
 inmates of those classic walls. The brown cheeks and 
 the rustic dress of some would inform him that they had 
 but recently left the plough to labor in a not less toil- 
 some field; the grave look, and the intermingling of 
 garments of a more classic cut, would distinguish those 
 who had begun to acquire the polish of their new resi- 
 dence ; and the air of superiority, the paler cheek, the 
 less robust form, the spectacles of green, and the dress, 
 in general of threadbare black, would designate the high- 
 est class, who were understood to have acquired nearly 
 all the science their Alma Mater could bestow, and to 
 be on the point of assuming their stations in the world. 
 There were, it is true, exceptions to this general descrip- 
 tion. A few young men had found their way hither 
 from the distant seaports; and these were the models 
 of fashion to their rustic companions, over whom they 
 asserted a superiority in exterior accoraphshments, which 
 the fresh though unpoHshed intellect of the sons of the 
 forest denied them in their literary competitions. A 
 third class, differing widely from both the former, con- 
 
 V 
 
FANSHAWE. 13 
 
 sisted of a few young descendants of the aborigines, to 
 whom an impracticable philanthropy was endeavoring to 
 impart the benefits of civilization. 
 
 If this institution did not offer all the advantages of 
 elder and prouder seminaries, its deficiencies were com- 
 pensated to its students by the inculcation of regular 
 habits, and of a deep and awful sense of religion, which 
 seldom deserted them in their course through life. The 
 mild and gentle rule of Dr. Melmoth, like that of a 
 father over his children, was more destructive to vice 
 than a sterner sway ; and, though youth is never with- 
 out its follies, they have seldom been more harmless than 
 they were here. The students, indeed, ignorant of their 
 own bliss, sometimes wished to hasten the time of their 
 entrance on the business of life ; but they found, in after- 
 years, that many of their happiest remembrances, many 
 of the scenes which they would with least reluctance live 
 over again, referred to the seat of their early studies. 
 The exceptions to this remark were chiefly those whose 
 vices had drawn down, even from that paternal govern- 
 ment, a weighty retribution. 
 
 Dr. Melmoth, at the time when he is to be introduced 
 to the reader, had borne the matrimonial yoke (and in 
 his case it was no light burden) nearly twenty years. 
 The blessing of children, however, had been denied him, 
 — a circumstance which he was accustomed to consider 
 as one of the sorest trials that checkered his pathway ; 
 for he was a man of a kind and affectionate heart, that 
 was continually seeking objects to rest itself upon. He 
 was inclined to believe, also, that a common offspring 
 would have exerted a meliorating influence on the tem- 
 
14 FANSHAWE. 
 
 per of Mrs. Melmoth, the character of whose domestic 
 government often compelled him to call to mind such 
 portions of the wisdom of antiquity as relate to the 
 proper endurance of the shrewishness of woman. But 
 domestic comforts, as well as comforts of every other 
 kind, have their drawbacks ; and, so long as the balance 
 is on the side of happiness, a wise man will not murmur. 
 Such was the opinion of Dr. Melmoth ; and with a little 
 aid from philosophy, and more from religion, he jour- 
 neyed on contentedly through life. When the storm 
 was loud by the parlor hearth, he had always a sure and 
 quiet retreat in his study ; and there, in his deep though 
 not always useful labors, he soon forgot whatever of dis- 
 agreeable nature pertained to his situation. This small 
 and dark apartment was the only portion of the house 
 to which, since one firmly repelled invasion, Mrs. Mel- 
 moth's omnipotence did not extend. Here (to reverse 
 the words of Queen Elizabeth) there was " but one mas- 
 ter, and no mistress " ; and that man has little right to 
 complain who possesses so much as one corner in the 
 world where he may be happy or miserable, as best suits 
 him. In his study, then, the doctor was accustomed to 
 spend most of the hours that were unoccupied by the 
 duties of his station. The flight of time was here as 
 swift as the wind, and noiseless as the snowflake ; and it 
 was a sure proof of real happiness, that night often caaie 
 upon the student before he knew it was midday. 
 
 Dr. Melmoth was wearing towards age (having lived 
 nearly sixty years), when he was called upon to assume 
 a character to which he had as yet been a stranger. He 
 had possessed in his youth a very dear friend, with whom 
 
FANSHAWE. 15 
 
 his education had associated him, and who in his early 
 manhood had been his chief intimate. Circumstances, 
 however, had separated them for nearly thirty years, half 
 of which had been spent by his friend, who was engaged 
 in mercantile pursuits, in a foreign country. The doctor 
 had, nevertheless, retained a warm interest in the welfare 
 of his old associate, though the different nature of their 
 thoughts and occupations had prevented them from cor- 
 responding. After a silence of so long continuance, 
 therefore, he was surprised by the receipt of a letter 
 from his friend, containing a request of a most unex- 
 pected nature. 
 
 Mr. Langton had married rather late in life; and his 
 wedded bliss had been but of short continuance. Cer- 
 tain misfortunes in trade, when he was a Benedict of 
 three years, standing, had deprived him of a large portion 
 of his property, and compelled him, in order to save the 
 remainder, to leave his own country for what he hoped 
 would be but a brief residence in another. But, though 
 he was successful in the immediate objects of his voyage, 
 circumstances occurred to lengthen his stay far beyond 
 the period which he had assigned to it. It was difficult 
 so to arrange his extensive concerns that they could be 
 safely trusted to the management of others ; and, when 
 this was effected, there was another not less powerful 
 obstacle to his return. His affairs, under his own in- 
 spection, were so prosperous, and his gains so considera- 
 ble, that, in the words of the old ballad, "He set his 
 heart to gather gold " ; and to this absorbing passion he 
 sacrificed his domestic happiness. The death of his wife, 
 about four years after his departure, undoubtedly con- 
 
16 FAN SH AWE. 
 
 tributed to give him a sort of dread of returning, which 
 it required a strong effort to overcome. The welfare of 
 his only child he knew would be little affected by this 
 event ; for she was under the protection of his sister, of 
 whose tenderness he was well assured. But, after a few 
 more years, this sister, also, was taken away by death ; 
 and then the father felt that duty imperatively called 
 upon him to return. He realized, on a sudden, how 
 much of life he had thrown away in the acquisition of 
 what is only valuable as it contributes to the happiness 
 of life, and how short a time was left him for life's true 
 enjoyments. Still, however, his mercantile habits were 
 too deeply seated to allow him to hazard his present 
 prosperity by any hasty measures ; nor was Mr. Lang- 
 ton, though capable of strong affections, naturally liable 
 to manifest them violently. It was probable, therefore, 
 that many months might yet elapse before he would 
 again tread the shores of his native country. 
 
 But the distant relative, in whose family, since the 
 death of her aunt, Ellen Langton had remained, had 
 been long at variance with her father, and had unwill- 
 ingly assumed the office of her protector. Mr. Langton's 
 request, therefore, to Dr. Melmoth, was, that his ancient 
 friend (one of the few friends that time had left him) 
 would be as a father to his daughter till he could himself 
 relieve him of the charge. 
 
 The doctor, after perusing the epistle of his friend, 
 lost no time in laying it before Mrs. Melmoth, though 
 this was, in truth, one of the very few occasions on 
 which he had determined that his will should be absolute 
 law. The lady was quick to perceive the firmness of his 
 
FANSHAWE. 17 
 
 purpose, and would not (even had slie been particularly 
 averse to the proposed measure) hazard her usual author- 
 ity by a fruitless opposition. But, by long disuse, she 
 had lost the power of consenting graciously to any wish 
 of her husband's. 
 
 "I see your heart is set upon this matter," she ob- 
 served ; " and, in truth, I fear we cannot decently refuse 
 Mr. Langton's request. I see little good of such a 
 friend, doctor, who never lets one know he is alive, till 
 he has a favor to ask." 
 
 " Nay ; but I have received much good at his hand," 
 replied Dr. Melmoth ; " and, if he asked more of me, it 
 should be done with a willing heart. I remember in my 
 youth, when my worldly goods were few and ill managed 
 (I was a bachelor, then, dearest Sarah, with none to look 
 after my household), how many times I have been be- 
 holden to him. And see — in his letter he speaks of 
 presents, of the produce of the country, which he has 
 sent both to you and me." 
 
 " If the girl were country -bred," continued the lady, 
 "we might give her house-room, and no harm done. 
 Nay, she might even be a help to me ; for Esther, our 
 maid-servant, leaves us at the month's end. But I war- 
 rant she knows as little of household matters as you do 
 yourself, doctor." 
 
 " My friend's sister was well grounded in the re f ami- 
 liariy'' answered her husband ; " and doubtless she hath 
 imparted somewhat of her skill to this damsel. Besides, 
 the child is of tender years, and will profit much by your 
 instruction and mine." 
 
 ''The cliild is eigliteen years of age, doctor," observed 
 
 B 
 
18 FANSHAWE. 
 
 Mrs. Melmoth, " and she has cause to be thankful that 
 she will have better instruction than yours." 
 
 This was a proposition that Dr. Melmoth did not 
 choose to dispute ; though he perhaps thought that his 
 long and successful experience in the education of the 
 other sex might make bim an able coadjutor to his wife 
 in the care of Ellen Langton. He determined to journey 
 in person to the seaport where his young charge resided, 
 leaving the concerns of Harley College to the direction 
 of the two tutors. Mrs. Melmoth, who, indeed, antici- 
 pated with pleasure the arrival of a new subject to her 
 authority, threw no difficulties in the way of his inten- 
 tion. To do her justice, her preparations for bis journey, 
 and the minute instructions with which she favored him, 
 were such as only a woman's true affection could have 
 suggested. The traveller met with no incidents impor- 
 tant to this tale ; and, after an absence of about a fort- 
 night, he and Ellen Langton alighted from their steeds 
 (for on horseback had the journey been performed) in 
 safety at his own door. 
 
 If pen could give an adequate idea of Ellen Langton's 
 loveHness, it would achieve what pencil (the pencils, at 
 least, of the colonial artists who attempted it) never 
 could ; for, though the dark eyes might be painted, the 
 pure and pleasant thoughts that peeped through them 
 could only be seen and felt. But descriptions- of beauty 
 are never satisfactory. It must, therefore, be left to the 
 imagination of the reader to conceive of. something not 
 more than mortal, nor, indeed, quite the perfection of 
 mortality, but charming men the more, because they felt, 
 that, lovely as she was, she was of like nature to them- 
 selves. 
 
FANSHAWE. 19 
 
 From the time that Ellen entered Dr. Melmoth's habi- 
 tation, the sunny days seemed brighter, and the cloudy 
 ones less gloomy, than he had ever before known them. 
 He naturally dehghted in children; and Ellen, though 
 her years approached to womanhood, had yet much of 
 the gayety and simple happiness, because the innocence, 
 of a child. She consequently became the very blessing 
 of his life, — the rich recreation that he promised himself 
 for hours of literary toil. On one occasion, indeed, he 
 even made her his companion in the sacred retreat of his 
 study, with the purpose of entering upon a course of in- 
 struction in the learned languages. This measure, how- 
 ever, he found inexpedient to repeat ; for Ellen, having 
 discovered an old romance among his heavy folios, con- 
 trived, by the charm of her sweet voice, to engage his 
 attention therein till all more important concerns were 
 forgotten. 
 
 With Mrs. Mel moth, Ellen was not, of course, se 
 great a favorite as with her husband ; for women cannot, 
 so readily as men, bestow upon the offspring of other;? 
 those affections that nature intended for their own ; and 
 the doctor's extraordinary partiality was anything rather 
 than a pledge of his wife's. But Ellen differed so far 
 from the idea she had previously formed of her, as a 
 daughter of one of the principal merchants, who were 
 then, as now, like nobles in the land, that the «tofk 
 of dislike which Mrs. Melmoth had provided was found 
 to be totally inapplicable. The young stranger strove so 
 hard, too (and undoubtedly it was a pleasant labor), to 
 win lier love, that she was successful to a degree of 
 which the lady herself was not, perhaps, aware. It was 
 
20 FANSHAWE. 
 
 soon seen that lier education had not been neglected in 
 those points which Mrs. Melmoth deemed most impor- 
 tant. The nicer departments of cookery, after sufficient 
 proof of her skill, were committed to her care ; and the 
 doctor's table was now covered with delicacies, simple 
 indeed, but as tempting on account of their intrinsic 
 excellence as of the small white hands that made them. 
 By such arts as these, — which in her were no arts, but 
 the dictates of an affectionate disposition, — by making 
 herself useful where it was possible, and agreeable on all 
 occasions, Ellen gained the love of every one within the 
 sphere of her influence. 
 
 But the maiden's conquests were not confined to the 
 members of Dr. Melmoth's family. She had numerous 
 admirers among those whose situation compelled them 
 to stand afar off, and gaze upon her loveliness, as if 
 she were a star, whose brightness they saw, but whose 
 warmth they could not feel. These were the young men 
 of Harley College, whose chief opportunities of beholding 
 Ellen were upon the Sabbaths, when she worshipped with 
 them in the little chapel, which served the purposes of a 
 church to all the families of the vicinity. There was, 
 about this period (and the fact was undoubtedly attrib- 
 utable to Ellen's influence), a general and very evident 
 decline in the scholarship of the college, especially in 
 regard to the severer studies. The intellectual powers 
 of the young men seemed to be directed chiefly to the 
 construction of Latin and Greek verse, many copies of 
 which, with a characteristic and classic gallantry, were 
 strewn in the path where Ellen Langton was accustomed 
 to walk. Tliey, however, produced no perceptible effect; 
 
FANSHAWE. 21 
 
 nor were the aspirations of another ambitious youth, who 
 celebrated her perfections in Hebrew, attended with their 
 merited success. 
 
 But there was one young man, to whom circumstances, 
 independent of his personal advantages, afforded a supe- 
 rior opportunity of gaining Ellen's favor. He was nearly 
 related to Dr. Melmoth, on which accouut he received his 
 education at Harley College, rather than at one of the 
 English universities, to the expenses of which his fortune 
 would have been adequate. This connection entitled him 
 to a frequent and familiar access to the domestic hearth 
 of the dignitary, — an advantage of which, since Ellen 
 Langton became a member of the family, he very con- 
 stantly availed himself. 
 
 Edward Walcott was certainly much superior, in most 
 of the particulars of which a lady takes cognizance, to 
 those of his fellow-students who had come under Ellen's 
 notice. He was tall ; and the natural grace of his man- 
 ners had been improved (an advantage which few of his 
 associates could boast) by early intercourse with polished 
 society. His features, also, were handsome, and prom- 
 ised to be manly and dignified when they should cease to 
 be youthful. His character as a scholar was more than 
 respectable, though many youthful follies, sometimes, per- 
 haps, approaching near to vices, were laid to his charge. 
 But his occasional derelictions from discipline were not 
 such as to create any very serious apprehensions respect- 
 ing his future welfare ; nor were they greater than, per- 
 haps, might be expected from a young man who possessed 
 a considerable command of money, and who was, besides, 
 the fine gentleman of the little community of which he 
 
22 FANSHAWE. 
 
 was a member, — a character wliicli generally leads its 
 possessor into follies that he would otherwise have 
 avoided. 
 
 With this youth, Ellen Langton became familiar, and 
 even intimate ; for he was her only companion, of an age 
 suited to her own, and the difference of sex did not occur 
 to her as an objection. He was her constant companion 
 on all necessary and allowable occasions, and drew upon 
 himself, in consequence, the envy of the college. 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 'Why, all deliglits are vain, but that most vain. 
 Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain : 
 As painfully to pore upon a book 
 
 To seek the light of truth, while truth, the while 
 Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look." 
 
 Shakespeake. 
 
 N one of the afternoons which afforded to the 
 students a relaxation from their usual labors, 
 Ellen was attended by her cavalier in a little 
 excursion over the rough bridle-roads that led from her 
 new residence. She was an experienced equestrian, — a 
 necessary accomplishment at that period, when vehicles 
 of every kind were rare. It was now the latter end of 
 spring ; but the season had hitlierto been backward, with 
 only a few warm and pleasant days. The present after- 
 noon, however, was a delicious minghng of spring and 
 summer, forming in their union an atmosphere so mild 
 and pure, that to breathe was almost a positive happiness. 
 There was a little alternation of cloud across the brow of 
 heaven, but only so much as to render the sunshine more 
 delightful. 
 
 The path of the young travellers lay sometimes among 
 tall and thick standing trees, and sometimes over naked 
 
24 FANSHAWE. 
 
 and desolate liills, whence man had taken the natural 
 vegetation, and then left the soil to its barrenness. In- 
 deed, there is little inducement to a cultivator to labor 
 among the huge stones which there peep forth from the 
 earth, seeming to form a continued ledge for several 
 miles. A singular contrast to this unfavored tract of 
 country is seen in the narrow but luxuriant, though 
 sometimes swampy, strip of interval, on both sides of the 
 stream, that, as has been noticed, flows down the valley. 
 The light and buoyant spirits of Edward Walcott and 
 Ellen rose higher as they rode on ; and their way was 
 enlivened, wherever its roughness did not forbid, by their 
 conversation and pleasant laughter. But at length Ellen 
 drew her bridle, as they emerged from a thick portion of 
 the forest, just at the foot of a steep hill. 
 
 "We must have ridden far," she observed, — "farther 
 than I thought. It will be near sunset before we can 
 reach home." 
 
 "There are still several hours of daylight," replied 
 Edward Walcott; " and we will not turn back without 
 ascending this hill. The prospect from the summit is 
 beautiful, and will be particularly so now, in this rich 
 sunlight. Come, Ellen, — one light touch of the whip, — 
 your pony is as fresh as when we started." 
 
 On reaching the summit of the hill, and looking back 
 in the direction in which they had come, they could see 
 the little stream, peeping forth many times to the day- , 
 light, and then shrinking back into the shade. Farther 
 on, it became broad and deep, though rendered incapable 
 of navigation, in this part of its course, by the occasional 
 interruption of rapids. 
 
FANSHAWE. 25 
 
 " There are Lidden wonders of rock and precipice and 
 cave, in that dark forest," said Edward, pointing to the 
 space between them and the river. " If it were earlier 
 in the day, I should love to lead you there. Shall we try 
 the adventure now, Ellen ? " 
 
 "0 no!" she replied. "Let us delay no longer. 1 
 fear I must even now abide a rebuke from Mrs. Mel- 
 moth, which I have surely deserved. But who is this, 
 who rides on so slowly before us ? " 
 
 She pointed to a horseman, whom they had not before 
 observed. He was descending the hill ; but, as his steed 
 seemed to have chosen his own pace, he made a very in- 
 considerable progress. 
 
 " 0, do you not know hira ? But it is scarcely pos- 
 sible you should," exclaimed her companion. " We must 
 do him the good office, Ellen, of stopping his progress, 
 or he will find himself at the village, a dozen miles farther 
 on, before he resumes his consciousness." 
 
 " Has he then lost his senses ? " inquired Miss Langton. 
 
 " Not so, Ellen, — if much learning has not made him 
 mad," repUed Edward Walcott. " He is a deep scholar 
 and a noble fellow ; but I fear we shall follow him to his 
 grave erelong. Pr. Mel moth has sent him to ride in 
 pursuit of his health. He will never overtake it, how- 
 ever, at this pace." 
 
 As he spoke, they had approached close to the subject 
 of their conversation ; and Ellen had a moment's space 
 for observation before he started from the abstraction in 
 which he was plunged. The result of her scrutiny was 
 favorable, yet very painful. 
 
 The stranger could scarcely have attained his twentieth 
 
 2 
 
26 FANSHAWE. 
 
 year, and was possessed of a face and form sncli as Nature 
 bestows on none but her favorites. There was a noble- 
 ness on his high forehead, wliich time would have deep- 
 ened into majesty ; and all his features were formed with 
 a strength and boldness, of which the paleness, produced 
 by study and confinement, could not deprive them. The 
 expression of his countenance was not a melancholy one : 
 on the contrary, it was proud and high, perhaps trium- 
 phant, like one who was a ruler in a world of his own, 
 and independent of the beings that surrounded him. But 
 a blight, of which his thin pale cheek, and the brightness 
 of his eye, were alike proofs, seemed to have come over 
 him ere his maturity. 
 
 The scholar's attention was now aroused by the hoof- 
 tramps at his side; and, startiu'g, he fixed his eyes on 
 Ellen, whose young and lovely countenance was full of 
 the interest he had excited. A deep blush immediately 
 suffused his cheek, proving how well the glow of health 
 would have become it. There was nothing awkward, 
 however, in his manner; and, soon recovering his self- 
 possession, he bowed to her, and would have rode on. 
 
 " Your ride is unusually long to-day, Fanshawe," ob- 
 served Edward Walcott. " When may we look for your 
 return ? " 
 
 The young man again blushed, but answered, with a 
 smile that had a beautiful effect upon his countenance, 
 " I was not, at the moment, aware in which direction my 
 horse's head was turned. I have to thank you for arrest- 
 ing me in a journey which was likely to prove much longer 
 than I intended." 
 
 The party had now turned their horses, and were about 
 
FANSHAWE. 27 
 
 to resume tlieir ride in a homeward direction ; but Ed- 
 ward perceived that Fanshawe, having lost the excite- 
 ment of intense thought, now looked weary and dispirited. 
 
 " Here is a cottage close at hand/' he observed. " We 
 have ridden far, and stand in need of refreshment. Ellen, 
 shall we alight ? " 
 
 Slie saw the benevolent motive of his proposal, and 
 did not hesitate to comply with it. But, as they paused 
 at the cottage door, she could not but observe, that its 
 exterior promised few of the comforts which they re- 
 quired. Time and neglect seemed to have conspired for 
 its ruin ; and, but for a thin curl of smoke from its clay 
 chimney, they could not have believed it to be inhabited. 
 A considerable tract of land in the vicinity of the cottage 
 had evidently been, at some former period, under culti- 
 vation, but was now overrun by bushes and dwarf pines, 
 among which many huge gray rocks, ineradicable by hu- 
 man art, endeavored to conceal themselves. About half 
 an acre of ground was occupied by the young blades of 
 Indian-corn, at which a half-starved cow gazed wistfully 
 over the mouldering log-fence. These were the only agri- 
 cultural tokens. Edward Walcott, nevertheless, drew 
 the latch of the cottage door, after knocking loudly but 
 in vain. 
 
 The apartment which was thus opened to their view 
 was quite as wretched as its exterior had given them 
 reason to anticipate. Poverty was there, with all its 
 necessary and unnecessary concomitants. The intruders 
 would have retired, had not the hope of affording relief 
 detained them. 
 
 The occupants of the small and squalid apartment 
 
28 FANSHAWE. 
 
 were two women, both of them elderly, and, from the 
 resemblance of their features, appearing to be sisters. 
 The expression of their countenances, however, was very 
 different. One, evidently the younger, was seated on 
 the farther side of the large hearth, opposite to the door, 
 at which the party stood. She had the sallow look of 
 long and wasting illness ; and there was an unsteadiness 
 of expression about her eyes, that immediately struck 
 the observer. Yet her face was mild and gentle, therein 
 contrasting widely with that of her companion. 
 
 The other woman was bending over a small fire of 
 decayed branches, the flame of which was very dispro- 
 portionate to the smoke, scarcely producing heat suffi- 
 cient for the preparation of a scanty portion of food. 
 Her profile only was visible to the strangers, though, 
 from a slight motion of her eye, they perceived that she 
 was aware of their presence. Her features were pinched 
 and spare, and wore a look of sullen discontent, for 
 which the evident wretchedness of her situation afforded 
 a sufficient reason. This female, notwithstanding her 
 years, and the habitual fretfulness (that is more wearing 
 than time), was apparently healthy and robust, with a 
 dry, leathery complexion. A short space elapsed be- 
 fore she thought proper to turn her face towards her 
 visitors ; and she then regarded them with a lowering 
 eye, without speaking, or rising from her chair. 
 
 " We entered," Edward Walcott began to say, " in 
 the hope — " But he paused, on perceiving that. the sick 
 woman had risen from her seat, and with slow and tot- 
 tering footsteps was drawing near to him. She took his 
 hand in both her own ; and, though he shuddered at the 
 
FANSHAWE. 29 
 
 touch of age and disease, he did not attempt to with- 
 draw it. She then perused all his features with an ex- 
 pression, at first of eager and hopeful anxiety, which 
 faded by degrees into disappomtmeut. Then, turning 
 from him, she gazed into Fanshawe's countenance with 
 the like eagerness, but with the same result. Lastly, 
 tottering back to her chair, she hid her face, and wept 
 bitterly. The strangers, though they knew not the 
 cause of her grief, were deeply affected ; and Ellen ap- 
 proached the mourner with words of comfort, which, 
 more from their tone than their meaning, produced a 
 transient effect. 
 
 " Do you bring news of him ? " she inquired, raising 
 her head. "Will he return to me? Shall I see him 
 before I die ? " Ellen knew not what to answer ; and, 
 ere she could attempt it, the other female prevented 
 her. 
 
 "Sister Butler is wandering in her mind," she said, 
 " and speaks of one she will never behold again. The 
 sight of strangers disturbs her, and you see we have 
 nothing here to offer you." 
 
 The manner of the woman was ungracious; but her 
 words were true. They saw that their presence could 
 do nothing towards the alleviation of the misery they 
 witnessed ; and they felt that mere curiosity would not 
 authorize a longer intrusion. So soon, therefore, as 
 they had relieved, according to their power, the poverty 
 that seemed to be the least evil of this cottage, they 
 emerged into the open aii. 
 
 The breath of heaven felt sweet to them, and removed 
 a part of the weight from their young hearts, which were 
 
30 FANSHAWE. 
 
 saddened bj; the sight of so much wretchedness. Per- 
 ceiving a pure and bright little fountain at a short dis- 
 tance from the cottage, they approached it, and, using 
 the bark of a birch-tree as a cup, partook of its cool 
 waters. They then pursued their homeward ride with 
 such diligence, that, just as the sun was setting, they 
 came in sight of the humble wooden edifice which was 
 dignified with the name of Harley College. A golden 
 ray rested upon the spire of the little chapel, the bell of 
 which sent its tinkling murmur down the valley to sum- 
 mon the wanderers to evening prayers. 
 
 Panshawe returned to his chamber that night, and 
 lighted his lamp as he had been wont to do. The books 
 were around him, which had hitherto been to him like 
 those fabled volumes of Magic, from which the reader 
 could not turn away his eye till death were the conse- 
 quence of his studies. But there were unaccustomed 
 thoughts in his bosom now; and to these, leaning his 
 head on one of the unopened volumes, he resigned him- 
 self. 
 
 He called up in review the years, that, even at his 
 early age, he had spent in solitary study, in conversation 
 with the dead, while he had scorned to mingle with the 
 living world, or to be actuated by any of its motives. 
 He asked himself, to what purpose was all this destruc- 
 tive labor, and where was the happiness of superior 
 knowledge. He had climbed but a few steps of a ladder 
 that reached to infinity : he had thrown away his life in 
 discovering, that, after a thousand such lives, he should 
 still know comparatively nothing. He even looked for- 
 ward with dread — though once the thought had been 
 
FANSHAWE. 31 
 
 dear to him — to tlie eternity of improvement that lay 
 before him. It seemed now a weary way, without a 
 resting-place and without a termination; and at that 
 moment he would have preferred the dreamless sleep of 
 the brutes that perish, to man's proudest attribute, — of 
 immortality. 
 
 Faushawe had hitherto deemed himself unconnected 
 with the world, unconcerned in its feelings, and unin- 
 fluenced by it in any of his pursuits. In this respect he 
 probably deceived himself. If his inmost heart could 
 have been laid open, there would have been discovered 
 that dream of undying fame, which, dream as it is, is 
 more powerful than a thousand realities. But, at any 
 rate, he had seemed, to others and to himself, a solitary 
 being, upon whom the hopes and fears of ordinary men 
 were ineffectual. 
 
 But now he felt the first thrilling of one of the many 
 ties, that, so long as we breathe the common air, (and 
 who shall say how much longer ?) unite us to our kind. 
 The sound of a soft, sweet voice, the glance of a gentle 
 eye, had wrought a change upon him ; and in his ardent 
 mind a few hours had done the work of many. Almost 
 in spite of himself, the new sensation was inexpressibly 
 delightful. The recollection of his ruined health, of his 
 habits (so much at variance with those of the world), — 
 all the difficulties that reason suggested, were inadequate 
 to check the exulting tide of hope and joy. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 'And let the aspiring youth beware of love, — 
 Of the smooth glance beware; for 'tis too late 
 Wlien on his heart the torrent softness pours ; 
 Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame 
 Dissolves in air away." Thomson. 
 
 FEW mouths passed over the heads of Ellen 
 Langton and her admirers, unproductive of 
 events, that, separately, were of sufficient im- 
 portance to be related. The summer was now drawing 
 to a close ; and Dr. Melmoth had received information 
 that his friend's arrangements were nearly completed, 
 and that by the next home-bound ship he hoped to return 
 to his native country. The arrival of that ship was daily 
 expected. 
 
 During the time that had elapsed since his fii'st meet- 
 ing with Ellen, there had been a change, yet not a very 
 remarkable one, in Fanshawe's habits. He was still the 
 same solitary being, so far as regarded his own sex ; and 
 lie still confined himself as sedulously to his chamber, 
 except for one hour — the sunset hour — of everyday. 
 At that period, unless prevented by the inclemency of 
 the weather, he was accustomed to tread a path that 
 
FANSHAWE. 33 
 
 wound along the banks of the stream. He had discov- 
 ered that this was the most frequent scene of Ellen's 
 walks; and this it was that drew him thither. 
 
 Their intercourse was at first extremely slight, — a 
 bow on the one side, a smile on the other, and a passing 
 word from both ; and then the student hurried back to 
 his solitude. But, in course of time, opportunities oc- 
 curred for more extended conversation ; so that, at the 
 period with which this chapter is concerned, Fanshawe 
 was, almost as constantly as Edward Walcott himself, 
 the companion of Ellen's walks. 
 
 His passion had strengthened more than proportion- 
 ably to the time that had elapsed since it was conceived ; 
 but the first glow and excitement which attended it had 
 now vanished. He had reasoned calmly with himself, 
 and rendered evident to his own mind the almost utter 
 hopelessness of success. He had also made his resolu- 
 tion strong, that he would not even endeavor to win 
 Ellen's love, the result of which, for a thousand reasons, 
 could not be happiness. Firm in this determination, and 
 confident of his power to adhere to it ; feeling, also, that 
 time and absence could not cure his own passion, and 
 having no desire for such a cure, — he saw no reason for 
 breaking off the intercourse that was established between 
 Ellen and himself. It was remarkable, that, notwith- 
 standing the desperate nature of his love, that, or some- 
 thing connected with it, seemed to have a beneficial effect 
 upon his health. There was now a slight tinge of color 
 in his cheek, and a less consuming brightness in his 
 eye. Could it be that hope, unknown to himself, was 
 yet alive in his breast ; that a sense of the possibil- 
 2* 
 
34 FANSHAWE. 
 
 ity of earthly happiness was redeeming him from the 
 grave ? 
 
 Had the character of Ellen Langton's mind been dif- 
 ferent, there might, perhaps, have been danger to her 
 from an intercourse of this nature with such a being as 
 Tanshawe; for he was distinguished by many of those 
 asperities around which a woman's affection will often 
 chng. But she was formed to walk in the calm and 
 quiet paths of life, and to pluck the flowers of happiness 
 from the wayside where they grow. Singularity of char- 
 acter, therefore, was not calculated to win her love. She 
 undoubtedly felt an interest in the solitary student, and 
 perceiving, with no great exercise of vanity, that her 
 society drew him from the destructive intensity of his 
 studies, she perhaps felt it a duty to exert her influence. 
 But it did not occur to her that her influence had been 
 sufficiently strong to change the whole current of his 
 thoughts and feehngs. 
 
 Ellen and her two lovers (for both, though perhaps 
 not equally, deserved that epithet) had met, as usual, at 
 the close of a sweet summer day, and were standing by 
 the side of the stream, just where it swept into a deep 
 pool. The current, undermining the bank, had formed 
 a recess, which, according to Edward Walcott, afforded 
 at that moment a hiding-place to a trout of noble size. 
 
 "Now would I give the world,'* he exclaimed with 
 great interest, " for a hook and line, a fish-spear, or any 
 piscatorial instrument of death ! Look, Ellen, you can 
 see the waving of his tail from beneath the bank ! " 
 
 " If you had the means of taking him, I should save 
 him from your cruelty, thus," said Ellen, dropping a 
 
FANSHAWE. 35 
 
 pebble into the water, just over the fish. " There ! he 
 has darted down the stream. How many pleasant caves 
 and recesses there must be under these banks, where he 
 may be happy ! May there not be happiness in the life 
 of a fish?" she added, turning with a smile to Fan- 
 shawe. 
 
 " There may," he replied, " so long as he lives quietly 
 in the caves and recesses of which you speak. Yes, there 
 may be happiness, though such as few would envy ; but, 
 then, the hook and line — " 
 
 "Which, there is reason to apprehend, will shortly 
 destroy the happiness of our friend the trout," inter- 
 rupted Edward, pointing down the stream. "There is 
 an angler on his way toward us, who will intercept 
 him." 
 
 " He seems to care little for the sport, to judge by the 
 pace at which he walks," said Ellen. 
 
 "But he sees, now, that we are observing him, and 
 is willmg to prove that he knows something of the art," 
 replied Edward Walcott. "I should think him well 
 acquainted with the stream ; for, hastily as he walks, he 
 has tried every pool and ripple where a fish usually hides. 
 But that point will be decided when he reaches yonder 
 old bare oak-tree." 
 
 " And how is the old tree to decide the question ? " 
 inquired Eanshawe. "It is a species of evidence of 
 which I have never before heard." 
 
 " The stream has worn a hollow under its roots," an- 
 swered Edward, — "a most delicate retreat for a trout 
 Now, a stranger would not discover the spot ; or, if he 
 did, the probable result of a cast would be the loss of 
 
36 FANSHAWE. 
 
 hook and line, — an accident that has occurred to me 
 more than once. If, therefore, this angler takes a fish 
 from thence, it follows that he knows the stream." 
 
 They observed the fisher, accordingly, as he kept his 
 way up the bank. He did not pause when he reached 
 the old leafless oak, that formed with its roots an ob- 
 struction very common in American streams ; but, throw- 
 ing his line with involuntary skill as he passed, he not 
 only escaped the various entanglements, but drew forth 
 a fine large fish. 
 
 "There, Ellen, he has captivated your protege, the 
 trout, or, at least, one very like him in size," observed 
 Edward. "It is singular," he added, gazing earnestly 
 at the man. 
 
 " Why is it singular ? " inquired Ellen Langton. 
 "This person, perhaps, resides in the neighborhood, 
 and may have fished often in the stream." 
 
 "Do but look at him, Ellen, and judge whether his 
 life can have been spent in this lonely valley," he re- 
 plied. " The glow of many a hotter sun than ours has 
 darkened his brow ; and his step and air have something 
 foreign in them, like what we see in sailors who have 
 lived more in other countries thau in their own. Is it 
 not so, Ellen ? for your education in a seaport must have 
 given you skill in these matters. But come, let us ap- 
 proach nearer." 
 
 They walked towards the angler, accordingly, who 
 still remained under the oak, apparently engaged in ar- 
 ranging his fishing-tackle. As the party drew nigh, he 
 raised his head, and threw one quick, scrutinizing glance 
 towards them, disclosing, on his part, a set of bold and 
 
FANS H AWE. 37 
 
 rather coarse features, weather-beaten, but indicatmg the 
 age of the owner to be not above thirty. In person he 
 surpassed the middle size, was well set, and evidently 
 strong and active. 
 
 "Do you meet with much success, sir?" inquired 
 Edward Walcott, when within a convenient distance 
 for conversation. 
 
 "I have taken but one fish," replied the angler, in 
 an accent which his hearers could scarcely determine to 
 be foreign, or the contrary. "I am a stranger to the 
 stream, and have doubtless passed over many a likely 
 place for sport." 
 
 "You have an angler's eye, sir," rejoined Edward. 
 "I observed that you made your casts as if you had 
 often trod these banks, and I could scarcely have guided 
 you better myself." 
 
 " Yes, T have learned the art, and I love to practise 
 it," replied the man. " But will not the young lady try 
 her skill?" he continued, casting a bold eye on Ellen. 
 "The fish will love to be drawn out by such white hands 
 as those." 
 
 Ellen shrank back, though almost imperceptibly, from 
 the free bearing of the man. It seemed meant for cour- 
 tesy ; but its effect was excessively disagreeable. Ed- 
 ward Walcott, who perceived and coincided in EUen's 
 feelings, replied to the stranger's proposal. 
 
 " The young lady will not put the gallantry of the fish 
 to the proof, sir," he said, " and she will therefore have 
 no occasion for your own." 
 
 " I shall take leave to hear my answer from the young 
 lady's own mouth," answered the stranger, haughtily. 
 
38 FANSHAWE. 
 
 "If you will step this way, Miss Langton" (here he 
 interrupted himself), — '"if you will cast the line by 
 yonder sunken log, I think you will meet with suc- 
 cess." 
 
 Thus saying, the angler offered his rod and line to 
 Ellen. She at first drew back, then hesitated, but finally 
 held out her hand to receive them. In thus complying 
 with the stranger's request, she was actuated by a desire 
 to keep the peace, which, as her notice of Edward Wal- 
 cott's crimsoned cheek and flashing eye assured her, was 
 considerably endangered. The angler led the way to 
 the spot which he had pointed out, which, though not 
 at such a distance from Ellen's companions but that 
 words in a common tone could be distinguished, was 
 out of the range of a lowered voice. 
 
 Edward Walcott and the student remained by the 
 oak : the former biting his lip with vexation ; the latter, 
 whose abstraction always vanished where Ellen was con- 
 cerned, regarding her and the stranger with fixed and 
 silent attention. The young men could at first hear the 
 words that the angler addressed to Ellen. They related 
 to the mode of managing the rod ; and she made one or 
 two casts under his direction. At length, however, as 
 if to offer his assistance, the man advanced close to her 
 side, and seemed to speak, but in so low a tone, that 
 the sense of what he uttered was lost before it reached 
 the oak. But its effect upon Ellen was immediate and 
 very obvious. Her eyes flashed ; and an indignant blush 
 rose high on her cheek, giving to her beauty a haughty 
 brightness, of which the gentleness of her disposition in 
 general deprived it. The next moment, however, she 
 
FANSHAWE. 39 
 
 seemed to recollect herself, and, restoring the angling- 
 rod to its owner, she tui'ned away calmly, and approached 
 her companions, 
 
 " The evening breeze grows chill ; and mine is a dress 
 for a summer day," she observed. " Let us walk home- 
 ward." 
 
 "Miss Langton, is it the evening breeze alone that 
 sends you homeward ? " inquired Edward. 
 
 At this moment the angler, who had resumed, and 
 seemed to be intent upon, his occupation, drew a fish 
 from the pool, which he had pointed out to Ellen. 
 
 " I told the young lady," he exclaimed, " that, if she 
 would listen to me a moment longer, she would be 
 repaid for her trouble; and here is the proof of my 
 words." 
 
 "Come, let us hasten towards home," cried Ellen, 
 eagerly ; and she took Edward Walcott's arm, with a free- 
 dom that, at another time, would have enchanted him. 
 He at first seemed mchned to resist her wishes, but com- 
 phed, after exchanging, unperceived by Ellen, a glance 
 with the stranger, the meaning of which the latter ap- 
 peared perfectly to understand. Eanshawe also attended 
 her. Their walk towards Dr. Melmoth's dwelling was 
 almost a silent one ; and the few words that passed be- 
 tween them did not relate to the adventure which occu- 
 pied the thoughts of each. On arriving at the house, 
 Ellen's attendants took leave of her, and retired. 
 
 Edward Walcott, eluding Fanshawe's observation with 
 little difficulty, hastened back to the old oak-tree. Erom 
 the intelligence with which the stranger had received his 
 meaning glance, the young man had supposed that he 
 
40 FANSHAWE. 
 
 would here await his return. But the banks of the 
 stream, upward and downward, so far as his eye could 
 reach, were solitary. He could see only his own image 
 in the water, where it swept into a silent depth; and 
 could hear only its ripple, where stones and sunken trees 
 impeded its course. The object of his search might, in- 
 deed, have found concealment among the tufts of alders, 
 or in the forest that was near at hand ; but thither it was 
 in vain to pursue him. The angler had apparently set 
 Uttle store by the fruits of his assumed occupation ; for 
 the last fish that he had taken lay, yet alive, on the bank, 
 gasping for the element to which Edward was sufficiently 
 compassionate to restore him. After watching him as he 
 glided down the stream, making feeble efforts to resist 
 its current, the youth turned away, and sauntered slowly 
 towards the college. 
 
 Ellen Langton, on her return from her walk, found 
 Dr. Melmoth's little parlor unoccupied ; that gentleman 
 being deeply engaged in his study, and his lady busied 
 in her domestic affairs. The evening, notwithstanding 
 Ellen's remark concerning the chillness of the breeze, 
 was almost sultry ; and the windows of the apartment 
 were thrown open. At one of these, which looked into 
 the garden, she seated herself, listening, almost uncon- 
 sciously, to the monotonous music of a thousand insects, 
 varied occasionally by the voice of a whippoorwill, who, 
 as the day departed, was just commencing his song. A 
 dusky tint, as yet almost imperceptible, was beginning 
 to settle on the surrounding objects, except where they 
 were opposed to the purple and golden clouds, which 
 the vanished sun had made the brief inheritors of a por- 
 
FANS H AWE. 41 
 
 tiou of his brightness. lu these gorgeous vapors, Ellen's 
 fancy, in the interval of other tlioughts, pictured a fairy- 
 land, and longed for wings to visit it. 
 
 But as the clouds lost their brilliancy, and assumed 
 first a dull purple, and then a sullen gray tint, Ellen's 
 thoughts recurred to the adventure of the angler, which 
 her imagination was inclined to invest with an undue 
 singularity. It was, however, sufficiently unaccountable 
 that an entire stranger should venture to demand of her 
 a private audience ; and she assigned, in turn, a thou- 
 sand motives for such a request, none of which were in 
 any degree satisfactory. Her most prevailing thought, 
 though she could not justify it to her reason, inclined 
 her to beheve that the angler was a messenger from her 
 father. But wherefore he should deem it necessary to 
 communicate any intelligence that he might possess only 
 by means of a private interview, and without the knowl- 
 edge of her friends, was a mystery she could not solve. 
 In this view of the matter, however, she half regretted 
 that her instinctive delicacy had impelled her so suddenly 
 to break off their conference, admitting, in the secrecy 
 of her own mind, that, if an opportunity were again to 
 occur, it might not again be shunned. As if that un- 
 uttered thought had power to conjure up its object, she 
 now became aware of a form standing in the garden, at 
 a short distance from the window where she sat. The 
 dusk had depeened, during Ellen's abstraction, to such a 
 degree, that the man s features were not perfectly distin- 
 guishable ; but the maiden was not long m doubt of his 
 identity, for he approached, and spoke in the same low 
 tone in which he had addressed her when they stood by 
 the stream. 
 
42 FANSHAWE. 
 
 " Do yon still refuse my request, when its object is 
 
 but your own good, and that of one who should be most 
 dear to you ? " he asked. 
 
 EUeu's first impulse had been to cry out for assist- 
 ance ; her second was to fly : but, rejecting both these 
 measures, she determined to remam, endeavoring to per- 
 suade herself that she was safe. The quivering of her 
 voice, however, when she attempted to reply, betrayed 
 her apprehensions. 
 
 " I cannot listen to such a request from a stranger," 
 she said. " If you bring news from — from my father, 
 why is it not told to Dr. Melmoth ? " 
 
 " Because what I have to say is for your ear alone," 
 was the reply ; " and if you would avoid misfortune now, 
 and sorrow hereafter, you wiU not refuse to hear me." 
 
 " And does it concern my father ? " asked Ellen, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " It does — most deeply," answered the stranger. 
 
 She meditated a moment, and then replied, " I will not 
 refuse, I will hear — but speak quickly." 
 
 " We are in danger of interruption in this place, and 
 that would be fatal to my errand," said the stranger. " I 
 will await you in the garden." 
 
 With these words, and giving her no opportunity for 
 reply, he drew back ; and his form faded from her eyes. 
 This precipitate retreat from argument was the most 
 probable method that he could have adopted of gaining 
 his end. He had awakened the strongest interest in 
 Ellen's mind; and he calculated justly in supposing 
 that she would consent to an interview upon his own 
 terms. 
 
FANSHAWE. 43 
 
 Dr. Melmoth had followed his own fancies in the 
 mode of laying out his garden; and, in consequence, the 
 plan that had undoubtedly existed in his mind was utterly 
 incomprehensible to every one but himself. It was an 
 intermixture of kitchen and flower garden, a labyrinth 
 of winding paths, bordered by hedges, and impeded by 
 shrubbery. Many of the original trees of the forest were 
 still flourishing among the exotics which the doctor had 
 transplanted thither. It was not without a sensation of 
 fear, stronger than she had ever before experienced, that 
 Ellen Langton found herself in this artificial wilderness, 
 and in the presence of the mysterious stranger. The 
 dusky light deepened the lines of his dark, strong fea- 
 tures ; and Ellen fancied that his countenance wore a 
 wilder and a fiercer look than when she had met him by 
 the stream. He perceived her agitation, and addressed 
 her in the softest tones of which his voice was capable. 
 
 " Compose yourself," he said ; " you have nothing to 
 fear from me. But we are in open view from the house, 
 where we now stand ; and discovery would not be with- 
 out danger to both of us." 
 
 " No eye can see us here," said Ellen, trembhng at the 
 truth of her own observation, when they stood beneath a 
 gnarled, low-branched pine, which Dr. Melmoth's ideas of 
 beauty had caused him to retain in his garden. " Speak 
 quickly ; for I dare follow you no farther." 
 
 The spot was indeed sufficiently solitary ; and the stran- 
 ger delayed no longer to explain his errand. 
 
 " Your father," he began, — " do you not love him ? 
 Would you do aught for his welfare ? " 
 
 "Everything that a father could ask I would do," 
 
44 FANSHAWE. 
 
 exclaimed Ellen, eagerly. " Where is my fatlier ? and 
 when shall I meet him ? " 
 
 "It must depend upon yourself, whether you shall 
 meet him in a few days or never." 
 
 " Never ! " repeated Ellen. *' Is he ill ? Is he in dan- 
 ger ? " 
 
 " He is in danger," rephed the man, " but not from 
 illness. Your father is a ruined man. Of all his friends, 
 but one remains to him. That friend has travelled far to 
 prove if his daughter has a daughter's affection." 
 
 " And what is to be the proof ? " asked Ellen, with 
 more calmness than the stranger had anticipated ; for she 
 possessed a large fund of plain sense, which revolted 
 against the mystery of these proceedings. Such a course, 
 too, seemed discordant with her father's character, whose 
 strong mind and almost cold heart were little likely to 
 demand, or even to pardon, the romance of affection. 
 
 "This letter will explain," was the reply to Ellen's 
 question. "You will see that it is in your father's 
 hand ; and that may gam your confidence, though I am 
 doubted." 
 
 She received the letter ; and many of her suspicions of 
 the stranger's truth were vanquished by the apparent 
 openness of his manner. He was preparing to speak fur- 
 ther, but paused, for a footstep was now heard, approach- 
 ing from the lower part of the garden. From their situa- 
 tion, — at some distance from the path, and in the shade 
 of the tree, — they had a fair chance of eluding discovery 
 from any unsuspecting passenger ; and, when Ellen saw 
 that the intruder was Eanshawe, she hoped that his usual 
 abstraction would assist their concealment. 
 
FANSHAWE. 45 
 
 But, as the student advanced along the path, his air 
 was not that of one whose deep inward thoughts withdrew 
 his attention from all outward objects. He rather resem- 
 bled the hunter, on the watch for his game ; and, while he 
 was yet at a distance from Ellen, a wandering gust of 
 wind waved her white garment, and betrayed her. 
 
 " It is as I feared," said Fanshawe to himself. He 
 then drew nigh, and addressed Ellen with a calm author- 
 ity that became him well, notwithstanding that his years 
 scarcely exceeded her own. "Miss Langton," he in- 
 quired, " what do you here at such an hour, and with 
 such a companion ? " 
 
 Ellen was sufficiently displeased at what she deemed 
 the unauthorized intrusion of Eaushawe in her affairs ; 
 but his imposing manner and her own confusion pre- 
 vented her from replying. 
 
 " Permit me to lead you to the house," he continued 
 in the words of a request, but iu the tone of a command. 
 " The dew hangs dank and heavy on these branches ; and 
 a longer stay would be more dangerous than you are 
 aware." 
 
 Ellen would fain have resisted ; but though the tears 
 hung as heavy on her eyelashes, between shame and an- 
 ger, as the dew upon the leaves, she felt compelled to 
 accept the arm that he offered her. But the stranger, 
 who, since Fanshawe's approach, had remained a little 
 apart, now advanced. 
 
 " You speak as one in authority, young man," he said. 
 " Have you the means of compelling obedience ? Does 
 your power extend to men ? Or do you rule only over 
 simple girls ? Miss Langton is under my protection. 
 
46 FANSHAWE. 
 
 and, till you can bend me to your will, she shall remain 
 so." 
 
 Eanshawe turned calmly, and fixed his eyes on the 
 stranger. "Retire, sir," was all he said. 
 
 Ellen almost shuddered, as if there were a mysterious 
 and unearthly power in Eanshawe's voice ; for she saw 
 that the stranger endeavored in vain, borne down by the 
 influence of a superior mind, to maintain the boldness 
 of look and bearing that seemed natural to him. He 
 at first made a step forward, then muttered a few half- 
 audible words ; but, quailing at length beneath the young 
 man's bright and steady eye, he turned and slowly with- 
 drew. 
 
 Fanshawe remained silent a moment after his oppo- 
 nent had departed ; and, when he next spoke, it was in 
 a tone of depression. Ellen observed, also, that his 
 countenance had lost its look of pride and authority; 
 and he seemed faint and exhausted. The occasion that 
 called forth his energies had passed ; and they had left 
 him. 
 
 " Eorgive me. Miss Langton," he said almost humbly, 
 " if my eagerness to serve you has led me too far. There 
 is evil in this stranger, more than your pure mind can 
 conceive. I know not what has been his errand; but 
 let me entreat you to put confidence in those to whose 
 care your father has intrusted you. Or if I — or — or 
 Edward Walcott — But I have no right to advise you ; 
 and your own calm thoughts will guide you best." 
 
 He said no more ; and, as Ellen did not reply, they 
 reached the house, and parted in silence. 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 " The seeds by nature planted 
 Take a deep root in the soil, and though for a time 
 The trenchant share and tearing harrow may 
 Sweep all appearance of them from the surface, 
 Yet Math the first wami rains of spring they '11 shoot. 
 And with their rankness smother the good grain. 
 Heaven grant, it may n't he so with him." 
 
 Riches. 
 
 HE scene of this tale must now be changed to 
 the little inn, which at that period, as at the 
 present, was situated in the vicinity of Harley 
 College. The site of the modern establishment is the 
 same with that of the ancient; but everything of the 
 latter that had been built by hands has gone to decay 
 and been removed, and only the earth beneath and 
 around it remams the same. The modern building, a 
 house of two stories, after a lapse of twenty years, is 
 yet unfinished. On this account, it has retained the 
 appellation of the "New Inn," though, like many who 
 have frequented it, it has grown old ere its maturity. 
 Its dingy whiteness, and its apparent superfluity of win- 
 dows (many of them being closed with rough boards), 
 give it somewhat of a dreary look, especially in a wet 
 day. 
 
48 FANSHAWE. 
 
 The ancient inn was a house, of which the eaves 
 approached within about seven feet of the ground; 
 while the roof, sloping gradually upward, formed an 
 angle at several times that height. It was a comforta- 
 ble and pleasant abode to the weary traveller, both in 
 summer and winter ; for the frost never ventured within 
 the sphere of its huge hearths; and it was protected 
 from the heat of the sultry season by three large elms 
 that swept the roof with their long branches, and seemed 
 to create a breeze where there was not one. The device 
 upon the sign, suspended from one of these trees, was 
 a hand holding a long-necked bottle, and was much more 
 appropriate than the present unmeaning representation 
 of a black eagle. But it is necessary to speak rather 
 more at length of the landlord than of the house over 
 which he presided. 
 
 Hugh Crombie was one for whom most of the wise 
 men, who considered the course of his early years, had 
 predicted the gallows as an end before he should arrive 
 at middle age. That these prophets of ill had been 
 deceived was evident from the fact that the doomed 
 man had now passed the fortieth year, and was in more 
 prosperous circumstances than most of those who had 
 wagged their tongues against him. Yet the failure of 
 their forebodings was more remarkable thau their ful- 
 filment would have been. 
 
 He had been distinguished, almost from his earliest 
 infancy, by those precocious accomplishments, which, 
 because they consist in an imitation of the vices and 
 follies of maturity, render a boy the favorite plaything 
 of men. He seemed to have received from nature the 
 
FANSHAWE. 49 
 
 convivial talents, which, whether natural or acquired, 
 are a most dangerous possession ; and, before his twelfth 
 year, he was the welcome associate of all the idle and 
 dissipated of his neighborhood, and especially of those 
 who haunted the tavern of which he had now become 
 tlie landlord. Under this course of education, Hugh 
 Crombie grew to youth and manhood ; and the lovers 
 of good words could only say in his favor, that he was 
 a greater enemy to himself than to any one else, and 
 that, if he should reform, few would have a better chance 
 of prosperity than he. 
 
 The former clause of this modicum of praise (if 
 praise it may be termed) was indisputable; but it may 
 be doubted, whether, under any circumstances where his 
 success depended on his own exertions, Hugh would 
 have made his way well through the world. He was 
 one of those unfortunate persons, who, instead of being 
 perfect in any single art or occupation, are superficial in 
 many, and who are supposed to possess a larger share of 
 talent than other men, because it consists of numerous 
 scraps, instead of a single mass. He was partially ac- 
 quainted with most of the manual arts that gave bread 
 to others ; but not one of them, nor all of them, would 
 give bread to him. By some fatality, the only two of 
 his multifarious accomplishments in which his excel- 
 lence was generally conceded were both calculated to 
 keep him poor rather than to make him rich. He was a 
 musician and a poet. 
 
 There are yet remaining in that portion of the coun- 
 try many ballads and songs, — set to their own peculiar 
 tunes, — the authorship of which is attributed to him. 
 
 3 D 
 
50 FANSHAWE. 
 
 In general, bis productions were upon subjects of local 
 and temporary interest, and would consequently require 
 a bulk of explanatory notes to render them interesting 
 or intelligible to the world at large, A considerable 
 proportion of the remainder are Anacreontics; though, 
 in their construction, Hugh Crombie imitated neither the 
 Teian nor any other bard. These latter have generally 
 a coarseness and sensuality intolerable to minds even of 
 no very fastidious delicacy. But there .are two or three 
 simple little songs, into which a feeling and a natural 
 pathos have found their way, that still retain their influ- 
 ence over the heart. These, after two or three centuries, 
 may perhaps be precious to the collectors of our early 
 poetry. At any rate, Hugh Crombie's effusions, tavern- 
 haunter and vagrant though he was, have gained a con- 
 tinuance of fame (confined, indeed, to a narrow section 
 of the country) which many who called themselves poets 
 then, and would have scorned such a brother, have failed 
 to equal. 
 
 During the long winter evenings, when the farmers 
 were idle round their hearths, Hugh was a courted 
 guest ; for none could while away the hours more skil- 
 fully than he. The winter, therefore, was his season of 
 prosperity ; in which respect he differed from the butter- 
 flies and useless insects, to which he otherwise bore a 
 resemblance. During the cold months, a very desirable 
 alteration for the better appeared in his outward man. 
 His cheeks were plump and sanguine; his eyes bright 
 and cheerful; and the tip of his nose glowed with a 
 Bardolphian fire, — a flame, indeed, which Hugh was so 
 far a vestal as to supply with its necessary fuel at all 
 
FANSHAWE. 51 
 
 seasons of the year. But, as the spring advanced, he 
 assumed a lean and sallow look, wilting and fading in 
 the sunshine that brought life and joy to every animal 
 and vegetable except himself. His vrinter patrons eyed 
 him with an austere regard; and some even practised 
 upon him the modern and fashionable courtesy of the 
 " cut direct." 
 
 Yet, after all, there was good, or something that Na- 
 ture intended to be so, in the poor outcast, — some 
 lovely flowers, the sweeter even for the weeds that 
 choked them. An instance of this was his affection for 
 an aged father, whose whole support was the broken reed, 
 — his son. Notwithstanding his own necessities, Hugh 
 contrived to provide food and raiment for the old man : 
 how, it would be difficult to say, and perhap^ as well not 
 to inquire. He also exhibited traits of sensitiveness to 
 neglect and insult, and of gratitude for favors ; both of 
 which feelings a course of life like his is usually quick to 
 eradicate. 
 
 At length the restraint — for such his father had ever 
 been — upon Hugh Crombie's conduct was removed by 
 his death ; and then the wise men and the old began to 
 shake their heads; and they who took pleasure in the 
 follies, vices, and misfortunes of their fellow-creatures, 
 looked for a speedy gratification. They were disap- 
 pointed, however ; for Hugh had apparently determined, 
 that, whatever might be his catastrophe, he would meet 
 it among strangers, rather than at home. Shortly after 
 his father's death, he disappeared altogether from the 
 vicinity; and his name became, in the course of years, 
 an unusual sound, where once the lack of other topics of 
 
i)-Z FANSHAWE. 
 
 interest had given it a considerable degree of notoriety. 
 Sometimes, however, when the winter blast was loud 
 round the lonely farm-house, its inmates remembered 
 him who had so often chased away the gloom of such an 
 hour, and, though with little expectation of its fulfilment, 
 expressed a wish to behold him again. 
 
 Yet that wish, formed, perhaps, because it appeared so 
 desperate, was finally destined to be gratified. One sum- 
 mer evening, about two years previous to the period of 
 this tale, a man of sober and staid deportment, mounted 
 upon a white horse, arrived at the Hand and Bottle, to 
 which some civil or military meeting had chanced, that 
 day, to draw most of the inhabitants of the vicinity. 
 The stranger was well though plainly dressed ; and any- 
 where but in a retired country town would have attracted 
 no particular attention : but here, where a traveller was 
 not of every-day occurrence, he was soon surrounded by 
 a little crowd, who, when his eye was averted, seized the 
 opportunity diligently to peruse his person. He was 
 rather a thick-set man, but with no superfluous flesh ; 
 his hair was of iron-gray ; he had a few wrinkles ; his 
 face was so deeply sunburnt, that, exceptmg a half- 
 smothered glow on the tip of his nose, a dusky yellow 
 was the only apparent hue. As the people gazed, it was 
 observed that the elderly men, and the men of substance, 
 gat themselves silently to their steeds, and hied home- 
 ward with an unusual degree of haste ; till at length the 
 inn was deserted, except by a few wretched objects to 
 whom it was a constant resort. These, instead of re- 
 treating, drew closer to the traveller, peeping anxiously 
 into his face, and asking, ever and anon, a question, in 
 
FANS H AWE. 53 
 
 order to discover the tone of his voice. At length, with 
 one consent, and as if the recognition 'had at once burst 
 upon them, they hailed their old boon-companion, Hugh 
 Crombie, and, leading him into the inn, did him the 
 honor to partake of a cup of welcome at his expense. 
 But, though Hugh readily acknowledged the not very 
 reputable acquaintances who alone acknowledo-ed him, 
 they speedily discovered that he was an altered man! 
 He partook with great moderation of the liquor for 
 wJiich he was to pay; he decHned all their flattering 
 entreaties for one of his old songs; and finally, being 
 urged to engage in a game at aU-fours, he calmly ob- 
 served, almost ill the words of an old clergyman on a 
 like occasion, that his principles forbade a profane appeal 
 to the decision by lot. 
 
 On the next Sabbath Hugh Crombie made his appear- 
 ance at public worship m the chapel of Harley College; 
 and here his outward demeanor was unexceptionably 
 serious and devout, — a praise which, on that particu- 
 lar occasion, could be bestowed on few besides. From 
 these favorable symptoms, the old established prejudices 
 against him began to waver ; and as he seemed not to 
 need, and to have no intention to ask, the assistance of 
 any one, he was soon generally acknowledged by the 
 rich as well as by the poor. His account of his past 
 life, and of his intentions for the future, was brief, but 
 not unsatisfactory. He said that, since his departure, 
 he had been a seaftiring man, and that, having acquired 
 sufficient property to render him easy in the decline of 
 his days, he had returned to live and die in the town of 
 liis nativity. 
 
54) FANSHAWE. 
 
 There was one person, and the one whom Hugh was 
 most interested to please, who seemed perfectly satisfied 
 of the verity of his reformation. This was the landlady 
 of the inn, whom, at his departure, he had left a gay, 
 and, even at thirty-five, a rather pretty wife, and whom, 
 on his return, he found a widow of fifty, fat, yellow, 
 wrinkled, and a zealous member of the church. She, 
 like others, had at first cast a cold eye on the wanderer ; 
 but it shortly became evident to close observers, that a 
 change was at work in the pious matron's sentiments re- 
 specting her old acquaintance. She was now careful to 
 give him his morning dram from her own peculiar bottle, 
 to fill his pipe from her private box of Virginia, and to 
 mix for him the sleeping-cup in which her late husband 
 had delighted. Of all these courtesies Hugh Crombie 
 did partake v/ith a wise and cautious moderation, that, 
 while it proved them to be welcome, expressed his fear 
 of trespassing on her kindness. For the sake of brevity, 
 it shall suffice to say, that, about six weeks after Hugh's 
 return, a writing appeared on one of the elm-trees in 
 front of the tavern (where, as the place of greatest resort, 
 such notices were usually displayed), setting forth that 
 marriage was intended between Hugh Crombie and the 
 Widow Sarah Hutchins. And the ceremony, which made 
 Hugh a landholder, a householder, and a substantial man, 
 in due time took place. 
 
 As a landlord, his general conduct was very praise- 
 worthy. He was moderate in his charges, and attentive 
 to his guests ; he allowed no gross and evident disorders 
 in his house, and practised none himself; he was kind 
 and charitable to sucli as needed food and lodging, and 
 
FANSHAWE. 55 
 
 had not wherewithal to pay, — for with these his expe- 
 rience had doubtless given him a fellow-feeling. He was 
 also sufficiently attentive to his wife ; though it must be 
 acknowledged that the religious zeal which had had a 
 considerable influence in. gaining her affections grew, by 
 no moderate degrees, less fervent. It was whispered, 
 too, that the new landlord could, when time, place, and 
 company were to his mind, upraise a song as merrily, and 
 drink a glass as joUily, as in the days of yore. These 
 were the weightiest charges that could now be brought 
 against him ; and wise men thought, that, whatever might 
 have been the evil of his past Hfe, he had returned with 
 a desire (which years of vice, if they do not sometimes 
 produce, do not always destroy) of being honest, if op- 
 portunity should offer; and Hugh had certainly a fair 
 one. 
 
 On the afternoon previous to the events related in the 
 last chapter, the personage whose introduction to the 
 reader has occupied so large a space was seated under 
 one of the elms in front of his dwelling. The bench 
 which now sustained him, and on which were carved the 
 names of many former occupants, was Hugh Crombie's 
 favorite louugiug-place, unless when his attentions were 
 -required by his guests. No demand had that day been 
 made upon the hospitality of the Hand and Bottle ; and 
 the landlord was just then murmuring at the unfrequency 
 of employment. The slenderness of his profits, indeed, 
 were no part of his concern ; for the Widow Hutchins's 
 chief income was drawn from her farm, nor was Hugh 
 ever miserly inclined. But his education and habits had 
 niade him delight in the atmosphere of the inn, and in 
 
56 FANSHAWE. 
 
 the society of those who frequented it ; and of this species 
 of enjoyment his present situation certainly did not afford 
 an overplus. 
 
 Yet had Hugh Crombie an enviable appearance of in- 
 dolence and ease^, as he sat unddr the old tree, polluting 
 the sweet air with his pipe, and taking occasional draughts 
 from a brown jug that stood near at hand. The basis of 
 the potation contained in this vessel was harsh old cider, 
 from the widow's own orchard; but its coldness and 
 acidity were rendered innocuous by a due proportion of 
 yet older brandy. The result of this mixture was ex- 
 tremely felicitous, pleasant to the taste, and producing a 
 tinghug sensation on the coats of the stomach, uncom- 
 monly delectable to so old a toper as Hugh. 
 
 The landlord cast his eye, ever and anon, along the 
 road that led down the valley in the direction of the vil- 
 lage ; and at last, when the sun was wearing westward, 
 he discovered the approach of a horseman. He immedi- 
 ately replenished his pipe, took a long draught from the 
 brown jug, summoned the ragged youth who officiated in 
 most of the subordinate departments of the inn, and who 
 was now to act as hostler, and then prepared himself for 
 confabulation with his guest. 
 
 " He comes from the sea-coast," said Hugh to himself, 
 as the traveller emerged into open view on the level road. 
 " He is two days in advance of the post, with its news of 
 a fortnight old. Pray Heaven he prove communicative ! " 
 Then, as the stranger drew nigher, " One would judge 
 that his dark face had seen as hot a sun as mine. He 
 has felt the burning breeze of the Indies, East and West, 
 I warrant him. Ah, I see we shall send away the ef en. 
 
FANSHAWE. 57 
 
 ing merrily ! Not a penny shall come out of his purse, — 
 that is, if his tongue runs glibly. Just the man I was 
 praying for— Now may the Devil take me if he is ! " 
 interrupted Hugh in accents of alarm, and starting from 
 his seat. He composed his countenance, however, with 
 the power that long habit and necessity had given him 
 over his emotions, and again settled himself quietly ou 
 the bench. 
 
 The traveller, coming on at a moderate pace, alighted, 
 and gave his horse to the ragged hostler. He then ad- 
 vanced towards the door near which Hugh was seated, 
 whose agitation was manifested by no perceptible sign, 
 except by the shorter and more frequent puffs with which 
 he plied his pipe. Their eyes did not meet till just 
 as the stranger was about to enter, when he started ap- 
 parently with a surprise and alarm similar to those of 
 Hugh Crombie. He recovered himself, however, suffi- 
 ciently to return the nod of recognition with which he 
 was favored, and immediately entered the house, the 
 landlord following. 
 
 " This way, if you please, sir," said Hugh. '' You will 
 find this apartment cool and retired." 
 
 He ushered his guest into a small room the windows 
 of which were darkened by the creeping plants that clus- 
 tered round them. Entering, and closing the door, the 
 two gazed at each other a little space without speaking. 
 The traveller first broke silence. 
 
 " Then this is your living self, Hugh Crombie ? " he 
 said. The landlord extended his hand as a practical re- 
 ply to the question. The stranger took it, though with 
 no especial appearance of cordiality. 
 
58 FANSHAWE. 
 
 "Ay, this seems to be flesh and blood," he said, in 
 the tone of one who would willingly have found it other- 
 wise. " And how happens this, friend Hugh ? I little 
 tliought to meet you again in this life. When I last 
 heard from you, your prayers were said, and you were 
 bound for a better world." 
 
 " There would have been small danger of your meeting 
 me there," observed the landlord, dryly. 
 
 "It is an unquestionable truth, Hugh," replied the 
 traveller. " For which reason I regret that your voyage 
 was delayed." 
 
 " Nay, that is a hard word to bestow on your old com- 
 rade," said Hugh Crombie. " The world is wide enough 
 for both of us ; and why should you wish me out of it ? " 
 
 "Wide as it is," rejoined the stranger, "we have 
 stumbled against each other, — to the pleasure of nei- 
 ther of us, if I may judge from your countenance. 
 Methinks I am not a welcome guest at Hugh Crombie's 
 inn." 
 
 "Your welcome must depend on the cause of your 
 coming, and the length of your stay," replied the land- 
 lord. 
 
 " And what if I come to settle down among these quiet 
 hills where I was born ? " inquired the other. " What 
 if I, too, am weary of the life we have led, — or afraid, 
 perhaps, that it will come to too speedy an end ? Shall 
 I have your good word, Hugh, to set me up in an honest 
 way of life ? Or will you make me a partner in your 
 trade, since you know my qualifications ? A pretty pair 
 of publicans should we be ; and the quart pot would have 
 little rest between us." 
 
FANSHAWE. 59 
 
 "It may be as well to replenish it now," observed 
 Hugh, stepping to the door of the room, and giving 
 orders accordingly. "A meeting between old friends 
 should never be dry. But for the partnership, it is 
 a matter in which you must excuse me. Heaven 
 knows I find it hard enough to be honest, with no 
 tempter but the Devil and my own thoughts; and, if 
 I have you also to contend with, there is little hope 
 of me." 
 
 "Nay, that is true. Your good resolutions were 
 always like cobwebs, and your evil habits like five-inch 
 cables," replied the traveller. "I am to understand, 
 then, that you refuse my offer?" 
 
 "Not only that; but, if you have chosen this valley 
 as your place of rest, Dame Crombie and I must look 
 through the world for another. But hush ! here comes 
 the wine." 
 
 The hostler, in the performance of another part of his 
 duty, now appeared, bearing a measure of the liquor that 
 Hugh had ordered. The wine of that period, owing to 
 the comparative lowness of the duties, was of more mod- 
 erate price than in the mother-country, and of purer and 
 better quality than at the present day. 
 
 " The stuff is well chosen, Hugh," observed the guest, 
 after a draught large enough to authorize an opinion. 
 " You have most of the requisites for your present sta- 
 tion; and I should be sorry to draw you from it. I 
 trust there will be no need." 
 
 " Yet you have a purpose in your journey hither," ob- 
 served his comrade. 
 
 " Yes ; and you would fain be informed of it," replied 
 
60 FANSHAWE. 
 
 the traveller. He arose, and walked once or twice across 
 the room ; then, seeming to have taken his resolution, he 
 paused, and fixed his eye steadfastly on Hugh Crombie. 
 " I could wish, iny old acquaintance," lie said, " that your 
 lot had been cast anywhere rather than here. Yet, if you 
 choose it, you may do me a good office, and one that shall 
 meet with a good reward. Can I trust you ? " 
 
 "My secrecy, you can," answered the host, "but 
 nothing further. I know the nature of your plans, and 
 vvliither they would lead me, too well to engage in them. 
 To say the truth, since it concerns not me, I have little 
 desire to hear your secret." 
 
 "And I as little to tell it, I do assure you," rejoined 
 the guest. " I have always loved to manage my affairs 
 myself, and to keep them to myself. It is a good rule ; 
 but it must sometimes be broken. And now, Hugh, how 
 is it that you have become possessed of this comfortable 
 dwelling and of these pleasant fields ? " 
 
 "By my marriage with the Widow Sarah Hutchins," 
 replied Hugh Crombie, staring at a question which 
 seemed to have little reference to the present topic of 
 conversation. 
 
 "It is a most excellent method of becoming a man 
 of substance," continued the traveller; "attended with 
 little trouble, and honest withal." 
 
 "Why, as to the trouble," said the landlord, "it fol- 
 lows sucli a bargain, instead of going before it. And for 
 honesty, — I do not recollect that I have gained a penny 
 more honestly these twenty years." 
 
 " I can swear to that," observed his comrade. " Well, 
 niine host, I entirely approve of your doings, and, more- 
 
FANSHAWE. 61 
 
 over, have resolved to prosper after the same fashion 
 myself." 
 
 " If that be the commodity you seek," replied Hugh 
 Crombie, " you will fiud none here to your mind. We 
 have widows in plenty, it is true ; but most of them have 
 children, and few have houses and lands. But now to 
 be serious, — and there has been something serious in 
 your eye all this while, — what is your purpose in com- 
 ing hither ? You are not safe here. Your name has had 
 a wider spread than mme, and, if discovered, it will go 
 hard with you." 
 
 " But who would know me now ? " asked the guest. 
 
 " Few, few indeed ! " replied the landlord, gazing at 
 the dark features of his companion, where hardship, 
 peril, and dissipation had each left their traces. " No, 
 you are not like the slender boy of fifteen, who stood on 
 the hill by moonhght to take a last look at his father's 
 cottage. There were tears in your eyes then; and, as 
 often as I remember them, I repent that I did not turn 
 you back, instead of leading you on." 
 
 "Tears, were there? Well, there have been few 
 enough since," said his comrade, pressmg his eyelids 
 firmly together, as if even then tempted to give way to 
 the weakness that he scorned. " And, for turning me 
 back, Hugh, it was beyond your power. I had taken 
 my resolution, and you did but show me the way to exe- 
 cute it." 
 
 " You have not inquired after those you left behind," 
 observed Hugh Crombie. 
 
 " No — no ; nor will I have aught of them," exclaimed 
 the traveller, starting from his seat, and pacing rapidly 
 
61 FANSHAWE. 
 
 across the room. '' My father, I know, is dead, and I 
 have forgiven him. My mother — what could I hear of 
 her but misery ? I will hear nothing." 
 
 "You must have passed the cottage as you rode 
 hitherward," said Hugh. " How could you forbear to 
 enter ? " 
 
 " I did not see it," he replied. " I closed my eyes, 
 and turned away my bead." 
 
 " O, if I bad bad a mother, a loving mother ! if there 
 had been one being in the world that loved me, or cared 
 for me, I should not have become an utter castaway," 
 exclaimed Hugh Crombie. 
 
 The landlord's pathos, like all pathos that flows from 
 the wniecup, was sufficiently ridiculous; and his com- 
 panion, who had already overcome his own brief feelings 
 of sorrow and remorse, now laughed aloud. 
 
 " Come, come, mine host of the Hand and Bottle," he 
 cried in his usual hard, sarcastic tone; "be a man as 
 much as in you lies. You had always a foolish trick of 
 repentance ; but, as I remember, it was commonly of a 
 morning, before you had swallowed your first dram. 
 And now, Hugh, fill the quart pot again, and we will to 
 business." 
 
 When the landlord had complied with the wishes of 
 his guest, the latter resumed in a lower tone than that 
 of his ordinary conversation, — 
 
 " There is a young lady lately become a resident here- 
 abouts. Perhaps you can guess her name ; for you have 
 a quick apprehension in these matters." 
 
 " A young lady ? " repeated Hugh Crombie. " And 
 what is your concern with her? Do you mean Ellen 
 
FANSHAWE. 63 
 
 Langton, daughter of the old mercliant Langton, whom 
 you have some cause to remember ? " 
 
 " I do remember him ; but he is where he will speed- 
 ily be forgotten," answered the traveller. "And this 
 girl, — I know your eye has been upon her, Hugh, — 
 describe her to me." 
 
 " Describe her ! " exclaimed Hugh with much anima- 
 tion. " It is impossible in prose ; but you shall have 
 her very picture in a verse of one of ray own songs." 
 
 " Nay, mine host, I beseech you to spare me. This is 
 no time for quavering," said the guest. " However, I 
 am proud of your approbation, my old friend ; for tliis 
 young lady do I intend to take to wife. What think 
 you of the plan ? " 
 
 Hugh Crombie gazed into his companion's face for the 
 space of a moment, in silence. There was nothing in its 
 expression that looked like a jest. It still retained the 
 same hard, cold look, that, . except when Hugh had 
 alluded to his home and family, it had worn through 
 their whole conversation. 
 
 " On my word, comrade ! " he at length replied, " my 
 advice is, that you give over your application to the 
 quart pot, and refresh your brain by a short nap. And 
 yet your eye is cool and steady. What is the meaning 
 of tiiis ? " 
 
 " Listen, and you shall know," said the guest. " The 
 old man, her father, is in his grave." 
 
 " Not a bloody grave, I trust," interrupted the land- 
 lord, starting, and looking fearfully into his comrade's 
 face. 
 
 " No, a watery one," he replied calmly. " You see, 
 
61< FANSHAWE. 
 
 Hugh, I am a better man tliau you took me for. The 
 old man's blood is not on my head, though my wrongs 
 are on his. Now listen : he had no heir but this only 
 daughter ; and to her, and to the man she marries, all 
 his wealth will belong. She shall marry me. Think 
 you her father will rest easy in the ocean, Hugh Crom- 
 bie, when I am his son-in-law ? " 
 
 " No, he will rise up to prevent it, if need be," an- 
 swered the landlord. " But the dead need not interpose 
 to frustrate so wild a scheme." 
 
 " I understand you," said his oomrade. " You are of 
 opinion that the young lady's consent may not be so soon 
 won as asked. Pear not for that, mine host. I have a 
 winning way with me, when opportunity serves ; and it 
 shall serve with Ellen Langton. I will have no rivals in 
 my wooing." 
 
 "Your intention, if I take it rightly, is to get this 
 poor girl into your power, and then to force her into a 
 marriage," said Hugh Crombie. 
 
 " It is ; and I think I possess the means of doing it," 
 replied his comrade. " But methinks, friend Hugh, my 
 enterprise has not your good wishes." 
 
 "No; and I pray you to give it over," said Hugh 
 Crombie, very earnestly. " The girl is young, lovely, 
 and as good as she is fair. I cannot aid in her ruiu. 
 Nay, more : I must prevent it." 
 
 " Prevent it ! " exclaimed the traveller, with a darken- 
 ing countenance. " Think twice before you stir in this 
 matter, I advise you. Ruin, do you say ? Does a girl 
 call it ruin to be made an honest wedded wife ? No, no, 
 mine host ! nor does a widow either, else have you much 
 to answer for." 
 
FANSHAWE. 65 
 
 " I gave the Widow Hutchins fair play, at least, which 
 is more than poor Elleu is like to get," observed the 
 landlord. " My old comradfe, will you not give up this 
 scheme ? " 
 
 "My old comrade, I will not give up this scheme," 
 returned the other, composedly. "Why, Hugh, what 
 has come over you since we last met ? Have we not 
 done twenty worse deeds of a morning, and laughed 
 over them at night?" 
 
 " He is right there," said Hugh Crombie, in a medi- 
 tative tone. " Of a certainty, my conscience has grown 
 unreasonably tender within the last two years. This one 
 small siu, if I were to aid in it, would add but a trifle to 
 the sum of mine. But then the poor girl ! " 
 
 His companion overheard him thus communing with 
 himself, and, having had much former experience of his 
 infirmity of purpose, doubted not that he should bend 
 him to his will. In fact, his arguments were so effectual, 
 that Hugh at length, though reluctantly, promised his 
 co-operation. It was necessary that their motions should 
 be speedy ; for on the second day thereafter, the arrival 
 of the post would bring intelligence of the shipwreck by 
 which Mr. Langton had perished. 
 
 " And after the deed is done," said the landlord, " I 
 beseech you never to cross my path again. There have 
 been more wicked thoughts in my head within the last 
 hour than for the whole two years that I have been an 
 honest man." 
 
 " What a saint art thou become, Hugh ! " said his 
 comrade. "But fear not that we shall meet again. 
 When I leave this valley, it will be to enter it no more." 
 
66 FANSHAWE. 
 
 "And there is little danger that any other who has 
 known me will chance upon me here," observed Hugh 
 Crombie. " Our trade was unfavorable to length of 
 days, and I suppose most of our old comrades have 
 arrived at the end of theirs." 
 
 " One whom you knew well is nearer to you than you 
 think," answered the traveller; "for I did not travel 
 hitherward entirely alone." 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 "A naughty night to swim in." — Shakespeare. 
 
 HE evening of the day succeeding the adventure 
 of the angler was dark and tempestuous. The 
 rain descended almost in a continuous sheet ; and 
 occasional powerful gusts of wind drove it hard against 
 the northeastern windows of Hugh Crombie's inn. But 
 at least one apartment of the interior presented a scene 
 of comfort and of apparent enjoyment, the more delight- 
 ful from its contrast with the elemental fury that raged 
 without. A fire, which the chillness of the evening, 
 though a summer one, made necessary, was burning 
 brightly on the hearth ; and in front was placed a small 
 round table, sustaining wine and glasses. One of the 
 guests for whom these preparations had been made was 
 Edward Walcott : the other was a shy, awkward young 
 man, distinguished, by the union of classic and rural 
 dress, as having but lately become a student of Harley 
 College. He seemed little at his ease, probably from 
 a consciousness that he was on forbidden ground, and 
 that the wine, of which he nevertheless swallowed a 
 larger share than his companion, was an unlawful 
 draught. 
 
68 FANSHAWE. 
 
 Ill the catalogue of crimes provided against by the 
 laws of Harley College, that of taverii-hauutiug was one 
 of the principal. The secluded situation of the semi- 
 nary, indeed, gave its scholars but a very limited choice 
 of vices ; and this was, therefore, the usual channel by 
 which the wildness of youth discharged itself. Edward 
 "VYalcott, though naturally temperate, had been not an 
 nufrequent offender in this respect, for which a superflu- 
 ity both of time and money might plead some excuse. 
 But, since his acquaintance with Ellen Langton, he had 
 rarely entered Hugh Crombie's doors ; and an interrup- 
 tion in that acquaintance was the cause of his present 
 appearance there. 
 
 Edward's jealous pride had been considerably touched 
 on Ellen's compliance with the request of the angler. 
 He had, by degrees, imperceptible perhaps to himself, 
 assumed the right of feeling displeased with her con- 
 duct ; and she had, as imperceptibly, accustomed herself 
 to consider what would be his wishes, and to act accord- 
 ingly. He would, indeed, in no contingency have ven- 
 tured an open remonstrance ; and such a proceeding 
 would have been attended by a result the reverse of 
 what he desired. But there existed between them a 
 silent compact (acknowledged perhaps by neither, but 
 felt by both), according to which they had regulated the 
 latter part of their intercourse. Their lips had yet spoken 
 no word of love ; but some of love's rights and priv- 
 ileges had been assumed on the one side, and at least not 
 disallowed on the other. 
 
 Edward's penetration had been sufficiently quick to 
 discover that there was a mystery about the angler, that 
 
FANSHAWE. 69 
 
 there must have been a cause for the blush that rose so 
 proudly on Ellen's cheek ; and his Quixotism had been 
 not a little mortified, because she did not immediately 
 appeal to his protection. He had, however, paid his 
 usual visit the next day at Dr. Melmoth's, expecting 
 that, by a smile of more than common brightness, she 
 would make amends to his wounded feelings; such 
 having been her usual mode of reparation in the few 
 instances of disagreement that had occurred between 
 them. But he was disappointed. He found her cold, 
 silent, and abstracted, inattentive when he spoke, and 
 indisposed to speak herself. Her eye was sedulously 
 averted from his ; and the casual meeting of their 
 glances only proved that there were feelings in her 
 bosom which he did not share. He was unable to 
 account for this change in her deportment ; and, added 
 to his previous conceptions of his wrongs, it produced 
 an effect upon his rather hasty temper, that might have 
 manifested itself violently, but for the presence of Mrs. 
 Melmoth. He took his leave in very evident displeas- 
 ure ; but, just as he closed the dooi^, he noticed an 
 expression in Ellen's countenance, that, had they been 
 alone, and had not he been quite so proud, would have 
 drawn him down to her feet. Their eyes met, when, 
 suddenly, there was a gush of tears into those of Ellen ; 
 and a deep sadness, almost despair, spread itself over 
 her features. He paused a moment, and then went his 
 way, equally unable to account for her coldness, or for 
 her grief. He was well aware, however, that his situa- 
 tion in respect to her was unaccountably changed, — a 
 conviction so disngreoable, tliat, but for a hope that is 
 
70 FANSHAWE. 
 
 latent even in the despair of youthful hearts, he would 
 have been sorely tempted to shoot himself. 
 
 The gloom of his thoughts — a mood of mind the more 
 intolerable to him, because so unusual — had driven him 
 to Hugh Crombie's inn in search of artificial excitement. 
 But even the wine had no attractions ; and his first glass 
 stood now almost untouched before him, while he gazed 
 in heavy thought into the glowing embers of the fire. 
 His companion perceived his melancholy, and essayed to 
 dispel it by a choice of such topics of conversation as he 
 conceived would be most agreeable. 
 
 " There is a lady in the house," he observed. " I 
 caught a glimpse of her in the passage as we came in. 
 Did you see her, Edward ? " 
 
 " A lady ! " repeated Edward, carelessly. " What 
 know you of ladies ? No, I did not see her ; but I will 
 venture to say that it was Dame Crombie's self, and no 
 other." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it might," said the other, doubtingly. 
 " Her head was turned from me, and she was gone like a 
 shadow." 
 
 " Dame Crombie is no shadow, and never vanishes like 
 one," resumed Edward. " You have mistaken the slip- 
 shod servant-girl for a lady." 
 
 " Ay ; but she had a white hand, a small white hand," 
 said the student, piqued at Edward's contemptuous opin- 
 ion of his powers of observation; "as white as Ellen 
 Laugton's." He paused ; for the lover was offended by 
 the profanity of the comparison, as was made evident by 
 the blood that rushed to his brow. 
 
 " We will appeal to the landlord," said Edward, re- 
 
FANSHAWE. 71 
 
 covering his equanimity, and turning to Hugh, who just 
 then entered the room. " Who is this angel, mine host, 
 that has taken up her abode in the Hand and Bottle ? " 
 
 Hugh cast a quick glance from one to another before 
 he answered, " I keep no angels here, gentlemen. Dame 
 Crombie would make the house anything but heaven for 
 them and me." 
 
 " And yet Glover has seen a vision in the passageway, 
 — a lady with a small white hand." 
 
 " Ah, I understand ! A slight mistake of the young 
 gentleman's," said Hugh, with the air of one who could 
 perfectly account for the mystery. "Our passageway 
 is dark ; or perhaps the light had dazzled his eyes. It 
 was the Widow Fowler's daughter, that came to borrow 
 a pipe of tobacco for her mother. By the same token, 
 she put it into her own sweet mouth, and puffed as she 
 went along." 
 
 "But the white hand," said Glover, only half con- 
 vinced. 
 
 " Nay, I know not," answered Hugh. " But her hand 
 was at least as white as her face : that I can swear. 
 Well, gentlemen, I trust you find everything in my 
 house to your satisfaction. When the fire needs renew- 
 ing, or the wine runs low, be pleased to tap on the table. 
 I shall appear with the speed of a sunbeam." 
 
 After the departure of the landlord, the conversation 
 of the young men amounted to little more than monosyl- 
 lables. Edward Walcotf was wrapped in his own con- 
 templations ; and his companion was in a half-slumberous 
 state, from which he started every quarter of an hour, at 
 the chiming of the clock that stood in a corner. The fire 
 
72 FANSHAWE. 
 
 died gradually away ; the lamps began to burn dim ; and 
 Glover, rousing himself from one of his periodical slum- 
 bers, was about to propose a return to their chambers. 
 He was prevented, however, by the approach of footsteps 
 along the passageway ; and Hugh Crombie, opening the 
 door, ushered a person into the room, and retired. 
 
 The new-comer was Fanshawe. The water that poured 
 plentifully from his cloak evinced that he had but just 
 arrived at the inn; but, whatever was his object, he 
 seemed not to have attained it in meeting with the young 
 men. He paused near the door, as if meditating whether 
 to retire. 
 
 " My intrusion is altogether owing to a mistake, either 
 of the landlord's or mine," he said. " I came hither to 
 seek another person; but, as I could not mention his 
 name, my inquiries were rather vague." 
 
 " I thank Heaven for the chance that sent you to us," 
 replied Edward, rousing hunself. " Glover is wretched 
 company ;. and a duller evening have I never spent. We 
 will renew our fire and our wine, and you must sit down 
 with us. And for the man you seek," he continued in a 
 whisper, "he left the inn within a half-hour after we 
 encountered him. I inquired of Hugh Crombie last 
 night." 
 
 Eanshawe did not express his doubts of the correctness 
 of the information on which Edward seemed to rely. 
 Laying aside his cloak, he accepted his invitation to 
 make one of the party, and sat down by the fireside. 
 
 The aspect of the evening now gradually changed. A 
 strange wild glee spread from one to another of the party, 
 which, much to the surprise of his companions, began 
 
FANS II AWE. 73 
 
 with, and was communicated from, Fansliawe. He 
 seemed to overflow with conceptions inimitably ludicrous, 
 but so singular, that, till his hearers had imbibed a por- 
 tion of his own spirit, they could only wonder at, instead 
 of enjoying them. His applications to the wine were 
 very unfrequent ; yet his conversation was such as one 
 might expect from a bottle of champagne endowed by a 
 fairy with the gift of speech. The secret of this strange 
 mirth lay in the troubled state of his spirits, which, like 
 the vexed ocean at midnight (if the simile be not too 
 magnificent), tossed forth a mysterious brightness. The 
 undefined apprehensions that had drawn him to the inn 
 still distracted his mind; but, mixed with them, there 
 was a sort of joy not easily to be described. By degrees, 
 and by the assistance of the wine, the inspiration spread, 
 each one contributing such a quantity, and such quality 
 of wit and whim, as was proportioned to his genius ; but 
 each one, and all, displaying a greater share of both than 
 they had ever been suspected of possessing. 
 
 At length, however, there was a pause, — the deep 
 pause of flagging spirits, that always follows mirth and 
 wine. No one would have believed, on beholding the 
 pensive faces, and hearing the involuntary sighs of the 
 party, that from these, but a moment before, had arisen 
 so loud and wild a laugh. During this interval Edward 
 Walcott (who was the poet of his class) volunteered the 
 following song, which, from its want of polish, and from 
 its application to his present feelings, might charitably be 
 taken for an extemporaneous production : — 
 
 The wine is bright, the wine is bright; 
 And gay the drinkers be: 
 4 
 
74 FANSHAWE. 
 
 Of all that drain the bowl to-night. 
 
 Most jollily drain we. 
 O, could one search the weary earth, — 
 
 The earth from sea to sea, — 
 He 'd turn and mingle in our mirth ; 
 
 For we 're the merriest three. 
 
 Yet there are cares, oh, heavy cares ! 
 
 We know that they are nigh : 
 When forth each lonely drinker fares, 
 
 Mark then his altered eye. 
 Care comes upon us when the jest 
 
 And frantic laughter die ; 
 And care will watch the parting guest — 
 
 late, then let us fly ! 
 
 Hugh Crombie, whose early love of song and min- 
 strelsy was still alive, had entered tlie room at the sound 
 of Edward's voice, in sufficient time to accompany the 
 second stanza on the violin. He now, with the air of one 
 who was entitled to judge in these matters, expressed his 
 opinion of the performance. 
 
 "Really, Master Walcott, I was not prepared for 
 this," he said in the tone of condescending praise that a 
 great man uses to his inferior when be chooses to over- 
 whelm him with excess of joy. "Very well, indeed, 
 young gentleman! Some of the lines, it is true, seem 
 to have been dragged in by the head and shoulders ; but 
 I could scarcely have done much better myself at your 
 age. With practice, and with such instruction as I 
 might afford you, I should have little doubt of your 
 becoming a distinguished poet. A great defect in your 
 
FANSHAWE. 75 
 
 seminary, gentlemen, — the want of due cultivation in 
 this heavenly art." 
 
 "Perhaps, sir," said Edward, with much gravity, "you 
 might yourself be prevailed upon to accept the professor- 
 ship of poetry ? " 
 
 "Why, such an offer would require consideration," 
 replied the landlord. "Professor Hugh Crombie of 
 Harley College : it has a good sound, assuredly. But I 
 am a public man, Master Walcott ; and the public would 
 be loath to spare me from my present office." 
 
 " Will Professor Crombie favor us with a specimen of 
 his productions ? " inquired Edward. 
 
 " Ahem, I shall be happy to gratify you, young gentle- 
 man," answered Hugh. "It is seldom, in this rude 
 country. Master Walcott, that we meet with kindred 
 genius; and the opportunity should never be thrown 
 away." 
 
 Thus saying, he took a heavy draught of the liquor by 
 which he was usually inspired, and the praises of which 
 were the prevailing subject of his song ; then, after much 
 hemming, thrumming, and prelusion, and with many 
 queer gestures and gesticulations, he began to effuse a 
 lyric in the following fashion: — • 
 
 I 've been a jolly drinker this five-aud-twenty year, 
 And stm a jolly drinker, my friends, you see me here : 
 I sing the joys of drinking ; bear a chorus, every man, 
 "With pint pot and quart pot and clattering of can. 
 
 The sense of the professor's first stanza was not in 
 exact proportion to the sound ; but, being executed with 
 great spirit, it attracted universal applause. This Hugh 
 
76 FANSHAWE. 
 
 appropriated with a condescending bow and smile ; and, 
 mailing a signal for silence^ he went on, — 
 
 King Solomon of old, boys (a jolly king was he), — 
 
 But here he was interrupted by a clapping of hands, 
 that seemed a continuance of the applause bestowed on 
 his former stanza. Hugh Crombie, who, as is the cus- 
 tom of many great performers, usually sang with his 
 eyes shut, now opened them, intending gently to rebuke 
 his auditors for their unseasonable expression of delight. 
 He immediately perceived, however, that the fault was 
 to be attributed to neither of the three young men ; and, 
 following the direction of their eyes, he saw near the 
 door, in the dim background of the apartment, a figure 
 in a cloak. The hat was flapped forward, the cloak muf- 
 fled round the lower part of the face ; and only the eyes 
 were visible. 
 
 The party gazed a moment in silence, and then rushed 
 en masse upon the intruder, the landlord bringing up the 
 rear, and sounding a charge upon his fiddle. But, as 
 they drew nigh, the black cloak began to assume a fa- 
 miliar look ; the hat, also, was an old acquaintance ; and, 
 these being removed, from beneath them shone forth the 
 reverend face and form of Dr. Mehnoth. 
 
 The president, in his quality of clergyman, had, late 
 in the preceding afternoon, been called to visit an 
 aged female who was supposed to be at the point of 
 death. Her habitation was at the distance of several 
 miles from Harley College ; so that it was nightfall be- 
 fore Dr. Melmoth stood at her bedside. His stay had 
 been lengthened beyond his anticipation, on account of 
 
FANSHAWE. 77 
 
 the frame of mind in wbicb he found the dying woman ; 
 and, after essaying to impart the comforts of religion to 
 her disturbed intellect, he had waited for the abatement 
 of the storm that had arisen while be was thus engaged. 
 As the evening advanced, however, the rain poured down 
 in undiminished cataracts ; and the doctor, trusthig to 
 the prudence and sure-footedness of his steed, had at 
 length set forth on his return. The darkness of the 
 night, and the roughness of the road, might have ap- 
 palled him, even had his horsemanship and his courage 
 been more considerable than they were; but by the 
 special protection of Providence, as he reasonably sup- 
 posed (for he was a good man, and on a good errand), 
 he arrived safely as far as Hugh Crombie's inn. Dr. 
 Melmoth had no intention of making a stay there ; but, 
 as the road passed within a very short distance, he saw 
 lights in the wmdows, and heard the sound of song and 
 revelry. It immediately occurred to him, that these mid- 
 night rioters were, probably, some of the young men of 
 his charge ; and he was impelled, by a sense of duty, to 
 enter and disperse them. Directed by the voices, he 
 found his way, with some difficulty, to the apartment, 
 just as Hugh concluded his first stanza ; and, amidst the 
 subsequent applause, his entrance had been unperceived. 
 
 There was a silence of a moment's continuance after 
 the discovery of Dr. Melmoth, during which he attempted 
 to clothe his round, good-natured face in a look of awful 
 dignity. But, in spite of himself, there was a little 
 twisting of the comers of his mouth, and a smothered 
 gleam in his eye. 
 
 "This has, apparently, been a vej-y merry meeting. 
 
78 FANSHAWE. 
 
 young gentlemen/' he at length said ; " but I fear my 
 presence has cast a damp upon it." 
 
 " yes ! your reverence's cloak is vret enough to 
 cast a damp upon anything," exclaimed Hugh Crombie, 
 assuming a look of tender anxiety, " The young gentle- 
 men are affrighted for your valuable life. I'ear deprives 
 them of utterance : permit me to relieve you of these 
 dangerous garments." 
 
 " Trouble not yourself, honest man," replied the doc- 
 tor, who was one of the most gullible of mortals. " I 
 trust I am in no danger ; my dwelling being near at 
 hand. But for these young men — " 
 
 " Would your reverence but honor my Sunday suit, — 
 the gray broadcloth coat, and the black velvet small- 
 clothes, that have covered my unworthy legs but once ? 
 Dame Crombie shall have them ready in a moment," 
 continued Hugh, beginning to divest the doctor of his 
 garments. 
 
 " I pray you to appease your anxiety," cried Dr. Mel- 
 moth, retaining a firm hold on such parts of his dress as 
 yet remained to him. "Fear not for my health. I will 
 but speak a word to those misguided youth, and be 
 gone." 
 
 " Misguided youth, did your reverence say ? " echoed 
 Hugh, in a tone of utter astonishment. " Never were 
 they better guided than when they entered my poor 
 house. O, had your reverence but seen them, when I 
 heard their cries, and rushed forth to their assistance. 
 Dripping with wet were they, like three drowned men at 
 the resurrec — Ahem ! " interrupted Hugh, recollecting 
 that the comparison he meditated might not suit the doc- 
 tor's ideas of propriety. 
 
FANSHAWE. 79 
 
 " But why were they abroad on such a night ? " in- 
 quired the president. 
 
 " Ah ! doctor, you little know the love these good 
 young gentlemen bear for you," replied the landlord. 
 " Your absence, your long absence, had alarmed them ; 
 and they rushed forth through the rain and darkness to 
 seek you." 
 
 " And was this indeed so ? " asked the doctor, in a 
 softened tone, and casting a tender and grateful look 
 upon the three students. They, it is but justice to men- 
 tion, had simultaneously made a step forward m order 
 to contradict the egregious falsehoods of which Hugh's 
 fancy was so fertile ; but he assumed an expression of 
 such ludicrous entreaty, that it was irresistible. 
 
 "But methinks their anxiety was not of long con- 
 tinuance," observed Dr. Melmoth, looking at the wine, 
 and remembering the song that his entrance had inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 " Ah ! your reverence disapproves of the wine, I see," 
 answered Hugh Crombie. " I did but offer them a drop 
 to keep the life in their poor young hearts. My dame 
 advised strong waters; 'But, Dame Crombie,' says I, 
 ' would ye corrupt their youth ? ' And in my zeal for 
 their good, doctor, I was delighting them, just at your 
 entrance, with a pious little melody of my own against 
 the sin of drunkenness." 
 
 " Truly, I remember something of the kind," observed 
 Dr. Melmoth. "And, as I think, it seemed to meet 
 with good acceptance." 
 
 " Ay, that it did ! " said the landlord. " Will it please 
 your reverence to hear it ? — 
 
80 FANSHAWE. 
 
 King Solomon of old, boys (a wise man I 'm thinking), 
 
 Has warned you to beware of the horrid vice of drinking — 
 But why talk I of drinking, foolish man that I am ! And 
 all this time, doctor, you have not sipped a drop of my 
 wine. Now I entreat your reverence, as you value your 
 health and the peace and quiet of these youth." 
 
 Dr. Melmoth drank a glass of wine, with the benevo- 
 lent intention of allaying the anxiety of Hugh Crombie and 
 the students. He then prepared to depart ; for a strong 
 wind had partially dispersed the clouds, and occasioned an 
 interval in the cataract of rain. There was, perhaps, a 
 little suspicion yet remaining in the good man's mind re- 
 specting the truth of the landlord's story: at least, it was 
 his evident intention to see the students fairly out of the 
 inn before he quitted it himself. They tlierefore pro- 
 ceeded along the passageway in a body. The lamp that 
 Hugh Crombie held but dimly enlightened them ; and 
 the number and contiguity of the doors caused Dr. Mel- 
 moth to lay his hand upon the wrong one. 
 
 " Not there, not there, doctor ! It is Dame Crombie's 
 bedchamber," shouted Hugh, most energetically. " Now 
 Beelzebub defend me ! " he muttered to himself, per- 
 ceiving that his exclamation had been a moment too 
 late. 
 
 " Heavens ! what do I see ? " ejaculated Dr. Melmoth, 
 lifting his hands, and starting back from the entrance of 
 the room. The three students pressed forward ; Mrs. 
 Crombie and the servant-girl had been drawn to the spot 
 by the sound of Hugh's voice ; and all their wondering 
 eyes were fixed on poor Ellen Langton. 
 
 The apartment in the midst of which she stood was 
 
FANSHAWE. 81 
 
 dimly lighted by a solitary caudle at the farther extrem- 
 ity ; but EUeu was exposed to the glare of the three 
 lamps, held by Hugh, his wife, aud the servant-girl. 
 Their combiued rays seemed to form a focus exactly at 
 the point where they reached her; 'and the beholders, 
 had any been sufficiently calm, might have watched her 
 features in their agitated workings and frequent change 
 of expression, as perfectly as by the broad hght of day. 
 Terror had at first blanched her as white as a lily, or as 
 a marble statue, which for a moment she resembled, as 
 she stood motionless in the centre of the room. Shame 
 next bore sway ; and her blushing countenance, covered 
 by her slender white fingers, might fantastically be com- 
 pared to a variegated rose with its alternate stripes of 
 white and red. The next instant, a sense of her pure 
 and innocent intentions gave her strength and courage ; 
 and her attitude and look had now something of pride 
 aud dignity. These, however, in their turn, gave way ; 
 for Edward Walcott pressed forward, and attempted to 
 address her. 
 
 " Ellen, Ellen ! " he said, in an agitated and quivering 
 whisper ; but what was to follow cannot be known ; for 
 his emotion checked his utterance. His tone and look, 
 however, again overcame Ellen Langton, and she burst 
 into tears. Fanshawe advanced, and took Edward's 
 arm. *' She has been deceived," he whispered. " She 
 is innocent : you are unworthy of her, if you doubt it." 
 
 " Why do you interfere, sir ? " demanded Edward, 
 
 whose passions, thoroughly excited, would willingly have 
 
 wreaked themselves on any one. " What right have you 
 
 to speak of her innocence ? Perhaps," he continued, an 
 
 4* F 
 
82 FAN SH AWE. 
 
 undefined and ridiculous suspicion arising in his mind, — 
 " perhaps you are acquainted with her intentions. Per- 
 haps you are the deceiver." 
 
 Panshawe's temper was not naturally of the meekest 
 character ; and having had a thousand bitter feelings of 
 his own to overcome, before he could attempt to console 
 Edward, this rude repulse had almost aroused him to 
 fierceness. But his pride, of which a more moderate 
 degree would have had a less peaceable effect, came to 
 his assistance ; and he turned calmly and contemptuously 
 away. 
 
 Ellen, in the mean time, had been restored to some 
 degree of composure. To this effect, a feeling of pique 
 against Edward Walcott had contributed. She had dis- 
 tinguished his voice in the neighboring apartment, had 
 heard his mirth and wild laughter, without being aware 
 of the state of feeling that produced them. She had 
 supposed that the terms on which they parted in the 
 morning (which had been very grievous to herself) would 
 have produced a corresponding sadness in him. But 
 while she sat in loneliness and in tears, her bosom dis- 
 tracted by a thousand anxieties and sorrows, of many 
 of which Edward was the object, his reckless gayety had 
 seemed to prove the slight regard in which he held her. 
 After the first outbreak of emotion, therefore, she called 
 up her pride (of which, on proper occasions, she had a 
 reasonable share), and sustained his upbraiding glance 
 with a passive composure, which women have more 
 readily at command than men. 
 
 Dr. Melmoth's surprise had during this time kept him 
 silent and inactive. He gazed alternately from one to 
 
FANSHAWE. 83 
 
 another of those who stood around him, as if to seek 
 some explanation of so strange an event. But the faces 
 of all were as perplexed as his own ; even Hugh Cronibie 
 had assumed a look of speechless wonder, — speechless, 
 because his imagination, prolific as it was, could not sup- 
 ply a plausible falsehood. 
 
 " Ellen, dearest child," at length said the doctor, " what 
 is the meaning of this ? " 
 
 Ellen endeavored to reply ; but, as her composure was 
 merely external, she was unable to render her words 
 audible. Eanshawe spoke in a low voice to Dr. Mel- 
 moth, who appeared grateful for his advice. 
 
 " True, it will be the better way," he replied. " My 
 wits are utterly confounded, or I should not have re- 
 mained thus long. Come, my dear child," he continued, 
 advancing to Ellen, and taking her hand, " let us return 
 home, and defer the explanation till the morrow. There, 
 there: only dry your eyes, and we will say no more 
 about it." 
 
 "And that will be your wisest way, old gentleman," 
 muttered Hugh Crombie. 
 
 Ellen at first exhibited but little desire, or, rather, an 
 evident reluctance, to accompany her guardian. She 
 hung back, while her glance passed almost imperceptibly 
 over the faces that gazed so eagerly at her ; but the one 
 she sought was not visible among them. She had no 
 alternative, and suffered herself to be led from the inn. 
 
 Edward Walcott alone remained behind, the most 
 wretched being (at least such was his own opinion) that 
 breathed the vital air. He felt a sinking and sickness 
 of the heart, and alternately a feverish frenzy, neither 
 
84 FANSHAWE. 
 
 of which his short and cloudless existence had heretofore 
 occasioned him to experience. He was jealous of, he 
 knew not whom, and he knew not what. He was un- 
 generous enough to believe that Ellen — his pure and 
 lovely Ellen — had degraded herself; though from what 
 motive, or by whose agency, he could not conjecture. 
 When Dr. Melmoth had taken her in charge, Edward 
 returned to the apartment where he had spent the even- 
 ing. The wine was still upon the table; and, in the 
 desperate hope of stupefying his faculties, he unwisely 
 swallowed huge successive draughts. The eifect of his 
 imprudence was not long in manifesting itself; though 
 insensibility, which at another time would have been the 
 result, did not now follow. Acting upon his previous 
 agitation, the wine seemed to set his blood in a flame ; 
 and, for the time being, he was a perfect madman. 
 
 A phrenologist would probably have found the organ 
 of destructiveness in strong development, just then, upon 
 Edward's cranium; for he certainly manifested an im- 
 pulse to break and destroy whatever chanced to be with- 
 in his reach. He commenced his operations by upsetting 
 the table, and breaking the bottles and glasses. Then, 
 seizing a tall heavy chair in each hand, he hurled them 
 with prodigious force, — one through the window, and 
 the other against a large looking-glass, the most valuable 
 article of furniture in Hugh Crombie's inn. The crash 
 and clatter of these outrageous proceedings soon brought 
 the master, mistress, and maid-servant to the scene of 
 action ; but the two latter, at the first sight of Edward's 
 wild demeanor and gleaming eyes, retreated with all im- 
 aginable expedition. Hugh chose a position behind the 
 
FANSHAWE. 85 
 
 door, from whence, protruding liis Lead, lie endeavored 
 to mollify his inebriated guest. His interference, how- 
 ever, hud nearly been productive of most unfortunate 
 consequences ; for a massive andiron, with round brazen 
 head, whizzed past him, within a hair's-breadth of his 
 ear. 
 
 " I might as safely take my chance in a battle," ex- 
 claimed Hugh, withdrawing his head, and speaking to a 
 man who stood in the passageway. "A little twist of 
 his hand to the left would have served my turn as well 
 as if I stood in the path of a forty-two pound ball. And 
 here comes another broadside," he added, as some other 
 article of furniture rattled against the door. 
 
 " Let us return his fire, Hugh," said the person whom 
 he addressed, composedly hfting the andiron. ''He is 
 in want of ammunition : let us send him back his own." 
 
 The sound of this man's voice produced a most sin- 
 gular effect upon Edward. The moment before, his ac- 
 tions had been those of a raving maniac ; but, when the 
 words struck his ear, he paused, put his hand to his fore- 
 head, seemed to recollect himself, and finally advanced 
 with a firm and steady step. His countenance was dark 
 and angry, but no longer wild. 
 
 " I have found you, villain ! " he said to the angler. 
 " It is you who have done this." 
 
 "And, having done it, the wrath of a boy— his drunken 
 wrath — will not induce me to deny it," rephed the other, 
 scornfully. 
 
 " The boy will require a man's satisfaction," returned 
 Edward, " and that speedily." 
 
 " Will you take it now ? " inquired the angler, with a 
 
Ob FANSHAWE. 
 
 cool, derisive smile, aud almost in a whisper. At the 
 same time he produced a brace of pistols, and held them 
 towards the young man. 
 
 "Willingly," answered Edward, taking one of the 
 weapons. "Choose your distance." 
 
 The angler stepped back a pace; but before their 
 deadly intentions, so suddenly conceived, could be exe- 
 cuted, Hugh Crombie interposed himself between them. 
 
 "Do you take my best parlor for the cabin of the 
 * Black Andrew,' where a pistol-shot was a nightly pas- 
 time ? " he inquired of his comrade. " And you, Master 
 Edward, with what sort of a face will you walk into the 
 chapel to morning prayers, after putting a ball through 
 this man's head, or receiving one through your own ? 
 Though, in this last case, you will be past praying for, or 
 praying either." 
 
 " Stand aside : I will take the risk. Make way, or I 
 w^ill put the ball through your own head," exclaimed 
 Edward, fiercely : for the interval of rationality that cir- 
 cumstances had produced was again giving way to intox- 
 ication. 
 
 " You see how it is," said Hugh to his companion, un- 
 heard by Edward. " You shall take a shot at me, sooner 
 than at the poor lad in his present state. You have done 
 him harm enough already, and intend him more. I pro- 
 pose," he continued aloud, and with a peculiar glance 
 towards the angler, "that this affair be decided to- 
 morrow, at nme o'clock, under the old oak, on the bank 
 of the stream. In the mean time, I will take charge of 
 these popguns, for fear of accidents." 
 
 " Well, mine host, be it as you wish," said his com- 
 
FANSHAWE. 87 
 
 rade. ''A shot more or less is of little consequence to 
 me." He accordingly delivered Lis weapon to Hugh 
 Crombie, and walked carelessly away. 
 
 " Come, Master Walcott, the enemy has retreated. 
 Victoria ! And now, I see, the sooner I get you to your 
 chamber, the better," added he aside ; for the wine was 
 at last beginning to produce its legitimate effect, in stu- 
 pefying the young man's mental and bodily faculties. 
 
 Hugh Crombie's assistance, though not, perhaps, quite 
 indispensable, was certainly very convenient to our un- 
 fortunate hero, in the course of the short walk that 
 brought him to his chamber. When arrived there, and 
 in bed, he was soon locked in a sleep scarcely less deep 
 than that of death. 
 
 The weather, during the last hour, had appeared to be 
 on the point of changing : indeed, there were, every few 
 minutes, most rapid changes. A strong breeze sometimes 
 drove the clouds from the brow of heaven, so as to dis- 
 close a few of the stars ; but, immediately after, the dark- 
 ness would again become Egyptian, and the rain rush like 
 a torrent from the sky. 
 
CHAPTER VL 
 
 About her neck a packet-mail 
 
 Fraught with advice, some fresh, some stale. 
 
 Of men that walked when they were dead." 
 
 HUDIBEAS. 
 
 CARCELY a word had passed between Dr. Mel- 
 moth and Ellen Laugton, on their way home j 
 for, though the former was aware that his duty 
 towards his ward would compel him to inquire into the 
 motives of her conduct, the tenderness of his heart 
 prompted him to defer the scrutiny to the latest moment. 
 The same tenderness induced, him to connive at Ellen's 
 stealing secretly up to her chamber, unseen by Mrs. Mel- 
 moth ; to render which measure practicable, he opened 
 the house-door very softly, and stood before his half- 
 sleeping spouse (who waited his arrival in the parlor) 
 without any previous notice. This act of the doctor's 
 benevolence was not destitute of heroism; for he was 
 well assured, that, should the affair come to the lady's 
 knowledge through any other channel, her vengeance 
 would descend not less heavily on him for concealing, 
 than on Ellen for perpetrating, the elopement. That she 
 had, thus far, no suspicion of the fact, was evident from 
 
FANSHAWE. 89 
 
 her composure, as well as from the reply to a question, 
 wliich, with more thau his usual art, her husband put to 
 her respecting the non-appearance of his ward. Mrs. 
 Melmoth answered, that Ellen had complained of indis. 
 position, and after drinking, by her prescription, a large 
 cup of herb-tea, had retired to her chamber early in the 
 evening. Thankful that all was yet safe, the doctor laid 
 his head upon his pillow ; but, late as was the hour, his 
 many anxious thoughts long drove sleep from his eyelids. 
 The dimmutiou in the quantity of his natural rest did 
 not, however, prevent Dr. Melmoth from rising at his 
 usual hour, which at all seasons of the year was an early 
 one. He found, on descending to the parlor, that break- 
 fast was nearly in readiness ; for the lady of the house 
 (and, as a corollary, her servant-girl) was not accus- 
 tomed to await the rising of the sun in order to com- 
 mence her domestic labors. Ellen Langton, however, 
 who had heretofore assimilated her habits to those of 
 the family, was this morning invisible, — a circumstance 
 imputed by Mrs. Melmoth to her indisposition of the 
 preceding evening, and by the doctor, to mortification on 
 account of her elopement and its discovery. 
 
 "I think I will step into Ellen's bedchamber," said 
 Mrs. Melmoth, " and inquire how she feels herself. The 
 morning is delightful after the storm, and the air will 
 do her good." 
 
 " Had we not better proceed with our breakfast ? If 
 the poor child is sleeping, it were a pity to disturb 
 her," observed the doctor; for, besides his sympathy 
 with Ellen's feelings, he was reluctant, as if he were 
 the guilty one, to meet her face. 
 
90 FANSHAWE. 
 
 " Well, be it so. And now sit down, doctor ; for the 
 hot cakes are cooling fast. I suppose you will say they 
 are not so good as those Ellen made yesterday morning. 
 I know not how you will bear to part with her, though 
 the thing must soon be." 
 
 " It will be a sore trial, doubtless," replied Dr. Mel- 
 moth, — " like tearing away a branch that is grafted on 
 an old tree. And yet there will be a satisfaction in de- 
 livering her safe into her father's hands." 
 
 " A satisfaction for which you may thank me, doctor," 
 observed the lady. " If there had been none but you to 
 look after the poor thing's doings, she would have been 
 enticed away long ere this, for the sake of her money." 
 
 Dr. Melmoth's prudence could scarcely restrain a smile 
 at the thought that an elopement, as he had reason to 
 believe, had been plotted, and partly carried into execu- 
 tion, while Ellen was under the sole care of his lady, and 
 had been frustrated only by his own despised agency. 
 He was not accustomed, however, — nor was this an 
 eligible occasion, — to dispute any of Mrs. Melmoth's 
 claims to superior wisdom. 
 
 The breakfast proceeded in silence, or, at least, 
 without any conversation material to the tale. At its 
 conclusion, Mrs. Melmoth was again meditating on the 
 propriety of entering Ellen's chamber ; but she was now 
 prevented by an incident that always excited much 
 interest both in herself and her husband. 
 
 This was the entrance of the servant, bearing the 
 letters and newspaper, with which, once a fortnight, 
 the mail-carrier journeyed up the valley. Dr. Melmoth's 
 situation at the head of a respectable seminary, and his 
 
FANSHAWE. 91 
 
 character as a scholar, had procured him an extensive 
 correspondence among the learned men of his own coun- 
 try; and he had even exchanged epistles with one or 
 two of the most distinguished dissenting clergymen of 
 Great Britain, But, unless when some fond mother en- 
 closed a one-pound note to defray the private expenses 
 of her son at college, it was frequently the case, that the 
 packets addressed to the doctor were the sole contents 
 of the mail-bag. In the present uistance, his letters were 
 very numerous, and, to judge from the one he chanced 
 first to open, of an unconscionable length. While he 
 was engaged in their perusal, Mrs. Melmoth amused her- 
 self with the newspaper, — a httle sheet of about twelve 
 inches square, which had but one rival in the country. 
 Commencing with the title, she labored on through ad- 
 vertisements old and new, through poetry lamentably 
 deficient in rhythm and rhymes, through essays, the 
 ideas of which had been trite since the first week of 
 the creation, till she finally arrived at the department 
 that, a fortnight before, had contained the latest news 
 from all quarteirs. Making such remarks upon these 
 items as to her seemed good, the dame's notice was at 
 length attracted by an article which her sudden excla- 
 mation proved to possess uncommon interest. Casting 
 her eye hastily over it, she immediately began to read 
 aloud to her husband ; but he, deeply engaged in a long 
 and learned letter, instead of listening to what she 
 wished to communicate, exerted his own lungs in oppo- 
 sition to hers, as is the custom of abstracted men when 
 disturbed. The result was as follows : — 
 
 "A brig just arrived in the outer harbor," began Mrs. 
 
92 FANSHAWE. 
 
 Melmotli, "reports, tliat on the morning of the 25tli 
 ult. — " Here the doctor broke in, " Wherefore I am 
 compelled to diifer from your exposition of the said pas- 
 sage, for those reasons, of the which I have given you a 
 taste; provided — " The lady's voice was now almost 
 audible, " ship bottom upward, discovered by the name 
 on her stern to be the Ellen of — " " and in the same 
 opinion are Hooker, Cotton, and divers learned divines 
 of a later date." 
 
 The doctor's lungs were deep and strong, and victory 
 seemed to incline toward him ; but Mrs. Melmoth now 
 made use of a tone whose peculiar shrillness, as long 
 experience had taught her husband, augured a mood of 
 mind not to be trifled with, 
 
 " On my word, doctor," she exclaimed, " this is most 
 unfeeling and unchristian conduct ! Here am I endeav- 
 oring to inform you of the death of an old friend, and 
 you continue as deaf as a post." 
 
 Dr. Melmoth, who had heard the sound, without 
 receiving the sense, of these words, now laid aside the 
 letter in despair, and submissively requested to be in- 
 formed of her pleasure. 
 
 " There, read for yourself," she replied, handing him 
 the paper, and pointing to the passage containing the 
 important intelligence, — " read, and then finish your 
 letter, if you have a mind." 
 
 He took the paper, unable to conjecture how the 
 dame could be so much interested in any part of its 
 contents ; but, before he had read many words, he grew 
 pale as death. " Good Heavens ! what is this ? " he ex- 
 claimed. He then read on, " bein^ the vessel wherein 
 
FANSHAWE. 93 
 
 that eminent son of New England, John Langton, Esq., 
 had taken passage for his native country, after an ab- 
 sence of many years." 
 
 " Our poor Ellen, his orphan child ! " said Dr. Mel- 
 moth, dropping the paper. "How shall we break the 
 intelligence to her ? Alas ! her share of the affliction, 
 causes me to forget my own." 
 
 "It is a heavy misfortune, doubtless ; and Ellen will 
 grieve as a daughter should," replied Mrs. Melmoth, 
 speaking with the good sense of which she had a com- 
 petent share. "But she has never known her father; 
 and her sorrow must arise from a sense of duty, more 
 than from strong affection. I will go and inform her of 
 her loss. It is late, and I wonder if she be still asleep." 
 
 " Be cautious, dearest wife," said the doctor. " Ellen 
 has strong feelings ; and a sudden shock might be dan- 
 gerous." 
 
 " I think I may be trusted. Dr. Melmoth," replied the 
 lady, who had a high opinion of her own abilities as a 
 comforter, and was not averse to exercise them. 
 
 Her husband, after her departure, sat listlessly turn- 
 ing over the letters that yet remained unopened, feeling 
 little curiosity, after such melancholy intelligence, re- 
 spectmg their contents. But, by the handwriting of the 
 direction on one of them, his attention was gradually 
 arrested, till he found himself gazing earnestly on those 
 strong, firm, regular characters. They were perfectly 
 familiar to his eye ; but from what hand they came, he 
 could not conjecture. Suddenly, however, the truth 
 burst upon him ; and after noticing the date, and read- 
 ing a few Hues, he rushed hastily in pursuit of his wife. 
 
94 FANSHAWE. 
 
 He had arrived at the top of his speed and at the mid- 
 dle of the staircase, when his course was arrested by the 
 lady whom he sought, who came, with a velocity equal 
 to his own, in an opposite direction. The consequence 
 was a concussion between the two meeting masses, by 
 which Mrs. Melmoth was seated securely on the stairs ; 
 while the doctor was only preserved from precipitation 
 to the bottom by clinging desperately to the balustrade. 
 As soon as the pair discovered that they had sustained 
 no material injury by their contact, they began eagerly 
 to explain the cause of their mutual haste, without those 
 reproaches, which, on the lady's part, would at another 
 time have followed such an accident. 
 
 " You have not told her the bad news, I trust ? " cried 
 Dr. Melmoth, after each had communicated his and her 
 intelligence, without obtaining audience of the other. 
 
 " Would you have me tell it to the bare walls ? " in- 
 quired the lady in her shrillest tone. "Have I not just 
 informed you that she has gone, fled, eloped? Her 
 chamber is empty; and her bed has not been occu- 
 pied." 
 
 " Gone ! " repeated the doctor. " And, when her 
 father comes to demand his daughter of me, what an- 
 swer shall I make?" 
 
 " Now, Heaven defend us from the visits of the dead 
 and drowned ! " cried Mrs. Melmoth. " This is a serious 
 affair, doctor, but not, I trust, sufficient to raise a ghost." 
 
 " Mr. Langton is yet no ghost," answered he ; " though 
 this event will go near to make him one. He was for- 
 tunately prevented, after he had made every preparation, 
 from taking passage in the vessel that was lost." 
 
FANSHAWE. 95 
 
 " And where is lie now ? " she inquired. 
 
 " He is in New England. Perhaps he is at this mo- 
 ment on his way to us," replied her husband. "His 
 letter is dated nearly a fortnight back ; and he expresses 
 an intention of being with us in a few days." 
 
 " Well, I thank Heaven for his safety," said Mrs. Mel- 
 moth. " But truly the poor gentleman could not have 
 chosen a better time to be drowned, nor a worse one to 
 come to life, than this. What we shall do, doctor, I 
 know not ; but had you locked the doors, and fastened 
 the windows, as I advised, the misfortune could not have 
 happened." 
 
 " Why, the whole country would have flouted us ! " 
 answered the doctor. " Is there a door in all the Prov- 
 ince that is barred or bolted, night or day ? Neverthe- 
 less, it might have been advisable last night, had it oc- 
 curred to me." 
 
 " And why at that time more than at all times ? " she 
 inquired. " We had surely no reason to fear this event." 
 
 Dr. Melmoth was silent ; for his worldly wisdom was 
 sufficient to deter him from giving his lady the oppor- 
 tunity, which she would not fail to use to the utmost, 
 of laying the blame of the elopement at his door. He 
 now proceeded, with a heavy heart, to Ellen's chamber, 
 to satisfy himself with his own eyes of the state of affairs. 
 It was deserted too truly; and the wild-flowers with 
 which it was the maiden's custom daily to decorate her 
 premises were drooping, as if in sorrow for her who had 
 placed them there. Mrs. Melmoth, on this second visit, 
 discovered on the table a note addressed to her husband, 
 and containing a few words of gratitude from Ellen, but 
 
96 FANSHAWE. 
 
 no explanation of her mysterious flight. The doctor 
 gazed long on the tiny letters, which had evidently been 
 traced with a trembling hand, and blotted with many 
 tears. 
 
 " There is a mystery in this, — a mystery that I can- 
 not fathom," he said. "And now I would I knew what 
 measures it would be proper to take." 
 
 " Get you on horseback. Dr. Melmoth, and proceed as 
 speedily as may be down the valley to the town," said 
 the dame, the influence of whose firmer mind was some- 
 times, as in the present case, most beneficially exerted 
 over his own. "You must not spare for trouble, no, 
 nor for danger. Now — 0, if I were a man ! " — 
 
 " 0, that you were ! " murmured the doctor, in a per- 
 fectly inaudible voice. "Well — and when I reach the 
 town, what then?" 
 
 " As I am a Christian woman, my patience cannot 
 endure you ! " exclaimed Mrs. Melmoth. " O, I love 
 to see a man with the spirit of a man ! but you — " 
 And she turned away in utter scorn. 
 
 "But, dearest wife," remonstrated the husband, who 
 was really at a loss how to proceed, and anxious for her 
 advice, " your worldly experience is greater than mine, 
 and I desire to profit by it. What should be my next 
 measure after arriving at the town?" 
 
 Mrs. Melmoth was appeased by the submission with 
 which the doctor asked her counsel ; though, if the truth 
 must be told, she heartily despised him for needing it. 
 She condescended, however, to instruct him in the 
 proper method of pursuing the runaway maiden, and 
 directed him, before his departure, to put strict inquiries 
 
FANSHAWE. 97 
 
 to Hugh Crombie respecting any stranger wlio niiglit 
 lately have visited his inn. That there would be wisdom 
 in this, Dr. Melmoth had his own reasons for believing ; 
 and still, without imparting them to his lady, he pro- 
 ceeded to do as he had been bid. 
 
 The veracious landlord acknowledged that a stranger 
 had spent a night and day at his inn, and was missing 
 that morning; but he utterly denied all acquaintance 
 with his character, or privity to his purposes. Had 
 Mrs. Melmoth, instead of her husband, conducted the 
 examination, the result might have been different. As 
 the case was, the doctor returned to his dwelling but 
 little wiser than he went forth ; and, ordering his steed 
 to be saddled, he began a journey of which he knew not 
 •what would be the end. 
 
 In the mean time, the intelHgence of Ellen's disap- 
 pearance circulated rapidly, and soon sent forth hunters 
 more fit to follow the chase than Dr. Melmoth. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "There was racing and chasing o'er Cannobie Lee." 
 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 HEN Edward Walcott awoke the next morning 
 from his deep slumber, his first consciousness 
 was of a heavy weight upon his mind, the cause 
 of which he was unable immediately to recollect. One 
 by one, however, by means of the association of ideas, 
 the events of the preceding night came back to his 
 memory; though those of latest occurrence were dim 
 as dreams. But one circumstance was only too well 
 remembered, — the discovery of Ellen Langton. By a 
 strong effort he next attained to an uncertain recollec- 
 tion of a scene of madness and violence, followed, as he 
 at first thought, by a duel. A little further reflection, 
 however, informed him that this event was yet among 
 the things of futurity ; but he could by no means recall 
 the appointed time or place. As he had not the slightest 
 intention (praiseworthy and prudent as it would unques- 
 tionably have been) to give up the chance of avenging 
 Ellen's wrongs and his own, he immediately arose, and 
 began to dress, meaning to learn from Hugh Crom- 
 bie those particulars which his own memory had not 
 
FANSHAWE. 99 
 
 retained. His chief apprehension was, that the appointed 
 time had already elapsed; for the early sunbeams of 
 a glorious morning were now peeping into his cham- 
 ber. 
 
 More than once, during the progress of dressing, he was 
 inclined to believe that the duel had actually taken place, 
 and been fatal to him, and that he was now in those 
 regions to which, his conscience told him, such an event 
 would be likely to send him. This idea resulted from 
 his bodily sensations, which were in the highest degree 
 uncomfortable. He was tormented by a raging thirst, 
 that seemed to have absorbed all the moisture of his 
 throat and stomach ; and, in his present agitation, a cup 
 of icy water would have been his first wish, had all 
 the treasures of earth and sea been at his command. 
 His head, too, throbbed almost to bursting; and the 
 whirl of his brain at every movement promised little 
 accuracy in the aim of his pistol, when he should meet 
 the angler. These feelings, together with the deep 
 degradation of his mind, made him resolve that no cir- 
 cumstances should again draw him into an excess of 
 wine. In the mean time, his head was, perhaps, still 
 too much confused to allow him fully to realize his 
 unpleasant situation. 
 
 Before Edward was prepared to leave his chamber, the 
 door was opened by one of the college bed-makers, who, 
 perceiving that he was nearly dressed, entered, and 
 began to set the apartment in order. There were two 
 of these officials pertaining to Harley College; each of 
 them being (and, for obvious reasons, this was an in- 
 dispensable qualification) a model of perfect ugliness ia 
 
iUU FANSHAWE. 
 
 her own way. One was a tall, raw-boned, liuge-jointed, 
 double-fisted giantess, admirably fitted to sustain the 
 part of Glumdalia, in the tragedy of Tom Thumb, Her 
 features were as excellent as her form, appearing to have 
 been rough-hewn with a broadaxe, and left unpolished. 
 The other was a short, squat figure, about two thirds the 
 height, and three times the circumference, of ordinary 
 females. Her hair was gray, her complexion of a deep 
 yellow; and her most remarkable feature was a short 
 snub nose, just discernible amid the broad immensity of 
 her face. This latter lady was she who now entered 
 Edward's chamber. Notwithstanding her deficiency in 
 personal attractions, she was rather a favorite of the 
 students, being good-natured, anxious for their comfort, 
 and, when duly encouraged, very communicative. Ed- 
 ward perceived, as soon as she appeared, that she only 
 waited his assistance in order to disburden herself of 
 some extraordinary information ; and, more from com- 
 passion than curiosity, he began to question her. 
 
 " Well, Dolly, what news this morning ? " 
 
 " Why, let me see, — 0, yes ! It had almost slipped 
 my memory," replied the bed-maker. "Poor Widow 
 Butler died last night, after her long sickness. Poor 
 woman ! I remember her forty years ago, or so, — as 
 rosy a lass as you could set eyes on." 
 
 " Ah ! has she gone ? " said Edward, recollecting the 
 sick woman of the cottage which he had entered with 
 Ellen and Eanshawe. " Was she not out of her right 
 mind, Dolly?" 
 
 " Yes, this seven years," she answered. " They say 
 she came to her senses a bit, when Dr. Melmoth visited 
 
TANSHAWE. 101 
 
 her yesterday, but was raving inad when she died. Ah, 
 that son of hers ! — if he is yet alive. Well, well ! " 
 
 " She had a son, then ? " inquired Edward. 
 
 " Yes, such as he was. The Lord preserve me from 
 such a one ! " said Dolly. " It was thought he went off 
 with Hugh Crombie, that keeps the tavern now. That 
 was fifteen years ago." 
 
 "And have they heard nothing of him since ? " asked 
 Edward. 
 
 " Nothing good, — nothing good," said the bed-maker. 
 " Stories did travel up the valley now and then; but for 
 five years there has been no word of hun. They say 
 Merchant Laugton, Ellen's father, met him in foreign 
 parts, and would have made a man of him; but there 
 was too much of the wicked one in him for that. Well, 
 poor woman! I wonder who'll preach her funeral 
 sermon." 
 
 " Dr. Melmoth, probably," observed the student. 
 
 " No, no ! The doctor will never finish his journey 
 in time. And who knows but his own funeral will be 
 the end of it," said Dolly, with a sagacious shake of her 
 head. 
 
 " Dr. Melmoth gone a journey ! " repeated Edward. 
 " What do you mean ? Eor what purpose ? " 
 
 " For a good purpose enough, I may say," replied she. 
 " To search out Miss Ellen, that was run away with last 
 night." 
 
 " In the Devil's name, woman, of what are you speak- 
 ing ? " shouted Edward, seizing the afl'righted bed-maker 
 forcibly by the arm. 
 * Poor Dolly had chosen this circuitous metliod of com- 
 
102 FANSHAWE. 
 
 municating her intelligence, because slie was well aware 
 that, if she first told of Ellen's flight, she should find no 
 ear for lier account of the Widow Butler's death. She had 
 not calculated, however, that the news would produce so 
 violent an effect upon her auditor ; and her voice faltered 
 as she recounted what she knew of the affair. She had 
 hardly concluded, before Edward — who, as she pro- 
 ceeded, had been making hasty preparations — rushed 
 from his chamber, and took the way towards Hugh Crom- 
 bie's inn. He had no difficulty in finding the landlord, 
 who had already occupied his accustomed seat, and was 
 smoking his accustomed pipe, under the elm-tree. 
 
 "Well, Master Walcott, you have come to take a 
 stomach-reliever this morning, I suppose," said Hugh, 
 taking the pipe from his mouth. " What shall it be ? — 
 a bumper of wine with an egg ? or a glass of smooth, 
 old, oily brandy, such as Dame Crombie and I keep for 
 our own drinking ? Come, that will do it, I know," 
 
 " No, no ! neither," replied Edward, shuddering in- 
 voluntarily at the bare mention of wine and strong drink. 
 *' You know well, Hugh Crombie, the errand on which I 
 come." 
 
 "Well, perhaps I do," said the landlord. "You 
 come to order me to saddle my best horse. You are 
 for a ride, this fine morning." 
 
 " True ; and I must learn of you in what direction to 
 turn my horse's head," replied Edward Walcott. 
 
 " I understand you," said Hugh, nodding and smiling. 
 " And now. Master Edward, I really have taken a strong 
 liking to you ; and, if you please to hearken to it, you 
 shall have some of my best advice." * 
 
FANSHAWE. 103 
 
 "Speak," said the young man, expecting to be told 
 in what direction to pursue the chase. 
 
 " I advise you, then," continued Hugh Crorabie, in a 
 tone in which some real feeling mingled with assumed 
 carelessness, — "I advise you to forget that you have 
 ever known this girl, that she has ever existed; for she 
 is as much lost to you as if she never had been born, or 
 as if the grave had covered her. Come, come, man, toss 
 off a quart of my old wine, and keep up a merry heart. 
 This has been my way in many a heavier sorrow than 
 ever you have felt ; and you see I am alive and merry 
 yet." But Hugh's merriment had failed him just as he 
 was making his boast of it ; for Edward saw a tear in 
 the corner of his eye. 
 
 " Forget her ? Never, never ! " said the student, 
 while his heart sank within him at the hopelessness of 
 pursuit which Hugh's words implied. "I will follow 
 her to the ends of the earth." 
 
 " Then so much the worse for you and for my poor 
 nag, on whose back you shall be in three minutes," 
 rejoined the landlord. "I have spoken to you as I 
 would to my own son, if I had such an incumbrance. — 
 Here, you ragamuffin ; saddle the gray, and lead him 
 round to the door." 
 
 "The gray? I will ride the black," said Edward. 
 "I know your best horse as well as you do yourself, 
 Hugh." 
 
 " There is no black horse in my stable. I have parted 
 with him to an old comrade of mine," answered the land- 
 lord, with a wink of acknowledgment to what he saw 
 were Edward's suspicions. "The gray is a stout nag. 
 
104 FAKSHAWE. 
 
 and will carry you a round pace, tliough not so fast as 
 to bring you up with them you seek. I reserved him 
 for you, and put Mr. Fanshawe oif with the old white, 
 on which I travelled hitherward a year or two since." 
 
 "Fanshawe! Has he, then, the start of me?" asked 
 Edward. 
 
 " He rode off about twenty minutes ago," replied 
 Hugh; "but you will overtake him within ten miles, 
 at farthest. But, if mortal man could recover the girl, 
 that fellow would do it, even if he had no better nag 
 than a broomstick, like the witches of old times." 
 
 "Did he obtain any information from you as to the 
 course?" inquired the student. 
 
 " I could give him only this much," said Hugh, point- 
 ing down the road in the direction of the town. "My 
 old comrade trusts no man further than is needful, and 
 I ask no unnecessary questions." 
 
 The hostler now led up to the door the horse which 
 Edward was to ride. The young man mounted with all 
 expedition; but, as he was about to apply the spurs, 
 his thirst, which the bed-maker's intelligence had caused 
 him to forget, returned most powerfully upon him. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, Hugh, a mug of your sharpest 
 cider ; and let it be a large one ! " he exclaimed. " My 
 tongue rattles in my mouth like — " 
 
 "Like the bones in a dice-box," said the landlord, 
 finishing the comparison, and hastening to obey Edward's 
 directions. Indeed, he rather exceeded them, by ming- 
 ling with the juice of the apple a gill of his old brandy, 
 which his own experience told him would at that time 
 have a most desirable effect upon the young man's inter- 
 nal svsteni. 
 
FANSHAWE. 105 
 
 " It is powerful stuff, mine host ; and I feel like a new- 
 man already," observed Edward, after draining the mug 
 to the bottom. 
 
 " He is a fine lad, and sits his horse most gallantly," 
 said Hugh Crombie to himself as the student rode off. 
 "I heartily wish him success. I wish to Heaven my 
 conscience had suffered me to betray the plot before it 
 was too late. Well, well, a man must keep his mite of 
 honesty." 
 
 The morning was now one of the most bright and 
 glorious that ever shone for mortals ; and, under other 
 circumstances, Edward's bosom would have been as light, 
 and his spirit would have sung as cheerfully, as one of 
 the many birds that warbled around him. The raindrops 
 of the preceding night hung like glittering diamonds on 
 every leaf of every tree, shaken, and rendered more brill- 
 iant, by occasional sighs of wind, that removed from the 
 traveller the superfluous heat of an unclouded sun. In 
 spite of the adventure, so mysterious and vexatious, in 
 which he was engaged, Edward's elastic spirit (assisted, 
 perhaps, by the brandy he had unwittingly swallowed) 
 rose higher as he rode on; and he soon found himself 
 endeavoring to accommodate the tune of one of Hugh 
 Crombie's ballads to the motion of the horse. Nor did 
 this reviving cheerfulness argue anything against his un- 
 wavering faith, and pure and fervent love for Ellen Lang- 
 ton. A sorrowful and repining disposition is not the 
 necessary accompaniment of a " leal and loving heart " ; 
 and Edward's spirits were cheered, not by forget fulness, 
 but by hope, which would not permit him to doubt of 
 the ultimate success of his pursuit. The uncertainty 
 5* 
 
106 FANSHAWE. 
 
 itself, and the probable danger of the expedition, were not 
 without their charm to a youthful and adventurous spirit. 
 In fact, Edward would not have been altogether satisfied 
 to recover the errant damsel, without first doing battle 
 in her behalf. 
 
 He had proceeded but a few miles, before he came in 
 sight of Fanshawe, who had been accommodated by the 
 landlord with a horse much inferior to his own. The 
 speed to which he had been put had almost exhausted 
 the poor animal, whose best pace was now but little 
 beyond a walk. Edward drew his bridle as he came up 
 with Eanshawe. 
 
 " I have been anxious to apologize," he said to him, 
 " for the hasty and unjust expressions of which I made 
 use last evening. May I hope, that in consideration of 
 my mental distraction, and the causes of it, you will for- 
 get what has passed ? " 
 
 " I had already forgotten it," replied Eanshawe, freely 
 ofTering his hand. " I saw your disturbed state of feel- 
 ing, and it would have been unjust both to you and to 
 myself to remember the errors it occasioned." 
 
 "A wild expedition this," observed Edward, after 
 shaking warmly the offered hand. "Unless we obtain 
 some further information at the town, we shall hardly 
 know which way to continue the pursuit." 
 
 " "We can scarcely fail, I think, of lighting upon some 
 trace of them," said Eanshawe. " Their flight must have 
 commenced after the storm subsided, which would give 
 them but a few hours the start of us. May I beg," he 
 continued, noticing the superior condition of his rival's 
 Iiorse, " that you will not attempt to accommodate your 
 pace to mine ? " 
 
FANSHAWE. 107 
 
 Edward bowed, and rode on, wondering at tte cliange 
 which a few months had wrought in Fanshawe's charac- 
 ter. On this occasion, especially, the energy of his mind 
 had communicated itself to his frame. The color was 
 strong and high in his cheek ; and his whole appearance 
 was that of a gallant and manly youth, whom a lady 
 might love, or a foe might fear. Edward had not been 
 so slow as his mistress in discovering the student's affec- 
 tion; and he could not but acknowledge in his heart 
 that he was a rival not to be despised, and might yet 
 be a successful one, if, by his means, Ellen Langton were 
 restored to her friends. This consideration caused him 
 to spur forward with increased ardor ; but all his speed 
 could not divest him of the idea that Eanshawe would 
 finally overtake him, and attain the object of their mutual 
 pursuit. There was certainly no apparent ground for 
 this imagination; for every step of his horse increased 
 the advantage which Edward had gained, and he soon 
 lost sight of his rival. 
 
 Shortly after overtaking Eanshawe, the young man 
 passed the lonely cottage formerly the residence of the 
 Widow Butler, who now lay dead within. He was at 
 first inchned to alight, and make inquiries respecting the 
 fugitives ; for he observed through the windows the 
 faces of several persons, whom curiosity, or some better 
 feeling, had led to the house of mourning. Recollecting, 
 however, that this portion of the road must have been 
 passed by the angler and Ellen at too early an hour to 
 attract notice, he forbore to waste time by a fruitless 
 delay. 
 
 Edward proceeded on his journey, meeting with no 
 
108 FANSHAWE. 
 
 other noticeable event, till, arriving at the summit of a 
 hill, he beheld, a few hundred yards before him, the Rev. 
 Dr. Melmoth. The worthy president was toiling onward 
 at a rate unexampled in the history either of himself or 
 his steed ; the excellence of the latter consisting in sure- 
 footedness rather than rapidity. The rider looked round, 
 seemingly in some apprehension at the sound of hoof- 
 tramps behind him, but was unable to conceal his satis- 
 faction on recognizing Edward Walcott. 
 
 In the whole course of his life. Dr. Melmoth had never 
 been placed in circumstances so embarrassing as the 
 present. He was altogether a cliild in the ways of the 
 world, having spent his youth and eai'ly manhood in ab- 
 stracted study, and'his maturity in the solitude of these 
 hills. The expedition, therefore, on which fate had now 
 thrust him, was an entire deviation from the quiet path- 
 way of all his former years ; and he felt like one who 
 sets forth over the broad ocean without chart or com- 
 pass. The affair would undoubtedly have been perplex- 
 ing to a man of far more experience than he ; but the 
 doctor pictured to himself a thousand difficulties and 
 dangers, which, except in his imagination, had no exist- 
 ence.. The perturbation of his spirit had compelled him, 
 more than once since his departure, to regret that he 
 had not invited Mrs. Melmoth to a share in the adven- 
 ture ; this being an occasion where her firmness, decision, 
 and confident sagacity — which made her a sort of 
 domestic hedgehog — would have been peculiarly appro- 
 priate. In the absence of such a counsellor, even Ed- 
 ward Walcott — young as he was, and indiscreet as the 
 doctor thouo-ht him — was a substitute not to be de- 
 
FANSHAWE. 109 
 
 spised; and it was singular and rather ludicrous to 
 observe how the gray -haired man unconsciously became 
 as a child to the beardless youth. He addressed Edward 
 with an assumption of dignity, through which his pleas- 
 ure at the meeting was very obvious. 
 
 " Young gentleman, this is not well," he said. " By 
 what authority have you absented yourself from the walls 
 of Alma Mater during term-time ? " 
 
 " I conceived that it was unnecessary to ask leave at 
 such a conjuncture, and when the head of the institution 
 was himself in the saddle," replied Edward. 
 
 " It was a fault, it was a fault," said Dr. Melmoth, 
 shaking his head ; " but, in consideration of the motive, 
 I may pass it over. And now, ray dear Edward, I ad- 
 vise that we continue our journey together, as your 
 youth and inexperience will stand in need of the wisdom 
 of my gray head. Nay, I pray you lay not the lash to 
 your steed. You have ridden fast and far ; and a slower 
 pace is requisite for a season." 
 
 And, in order to keep up with his young companion, 
 the doctor smote his own gray nag ; which unhappy 
 beast, wondering what strange concatenation of events 
 had procured him such treatment, endeavored to obey 
 his master's wishes. Edward had sufficient compassion 
 for Dr. Melmoth (especially as his own horse now exhib- 
 ited signs of weariness) to moderate his pace to one 
 attainable by the former. 
 
 "Alas, youth ! these are strange times," observed the 
 president, " when a doctor of divinity and an under- 
 graduate set forth, like a knight-errant and his squire, in 
 search of a stray damsel. Mcthinks I am an epitome of 
 
110 PANSHAWE. 
 
 the church militant, or a new species of polemical divin- 
 ity. Pray Heaven, however, there be no encounter in 
 store for us ; for I utterly forgot to provide myself with 
 weapons." 
 
 "I took some thought for that matter, reverend 
 knight," replied Edward, whose imagination was highly 
 tickled by Dr. Melmoth's chivalrous comparison. 
 
 " Ay, 1 see that you have girded on a sword,'' said the 
 divine. " But wherewith shall 1 defend myself, my hand 
 being empty, except of this golden-headed staff, the gift 
 of Mr. Langton ? " 
 
 " One of these, if you will accept it," answered Ed- 
 ward, exhibiting a brace of pistols, " will serve to begin 
 the conflict, before you join the battle hand to hand." 
 
 " Nay, I shall find little safety in meddling with that 
 deadly instrument, since I know not accurately from 
 which end proceeds the bullet," said Dr. Melmoth. 
 "But were it not better, seeing we are so well pro- 
 vided with artillery, to betake oarselves, in the event 
 of an encounter, to some stone-wall or other place of 
 strength ? " 
 
 " If I may presume to advise," said the squire, " you, 
 as being most valiant and experienced, should ride for- 
 ward, lance in hand (your long staff serving for a lance), 
 while I annoy the enemy from afar." 
 
 " Like Teucer behind the shield of Ajax," interrupted 
 Dr. Melmoth, " or David with his stone and sling. No, 
 no, young man ! I have left unfinished in my study a 
 learned treatise, important not only to the present age, 
 but to posterity, for whose sakes I must take heed to my 
 safety. — But, lo ! who ride yonder ? " he exclaimed, in 
 
FANSHAWE. Ill 
 
 manifest alarm, pointing to some horsemen upon the 
 brow of a hill at a short distance before them. 
 
 "Fear not, gallant leader," said Edward IValcott, who 
 had already discovered the objects of the doctor's terror. 
 "They are men of peace, as we shall shortly see. The 
 foremost is somewhere near your own years, and rides like 
 a grave, substantial citizen, — though what he does here, 
 I know not. Behind came two servants, men likewise of 
 sober age and pacific appearance." 
 
 " Truly your eyes are better than mine own. Of a 
 verity, you are in the right," acquiesced Dr. Melmoth, 
 recovering his usual quantum of intrepidity. " We will 
 ride forward courageously, as those who, in a just cause, 
 fear neither death nor bonds." 
 
 The reverend knight- errant and his squire, at the time 
 of discovering the three horsemen, were within a very 
 short distance of the town, which was, however, concealed 
 from their view by the hill, that the strangers were de- 
 scending. The road from Harley College, through almost 
 its whole extent, had been rough and wild, and the coun- 
 try thin of population ; but now, standing frequent, amid 
 fertile fields on each side of the way, were neat little 
 cottages, from which groups of wliite-headed children 
 rushed forth to gaze upon the travellers. The three 
 strangers, as well as the doctor and Edward, were sur- 
 rounded, as they approached each other, by a crowd of 
 this kind, plying their little bare legs most pertinaciously 
 in order to keep pace with the horses. 
 
 As Edward gained a nearer view of the foremost rider, 
 his grave aspect and stately demeanor struck him with 
 involuntary respect. There were deep lines of thought 
 
112 FANSHAWE. 
 
 across Lis brow ; and his calm yet bright gray eye be- 
 tokened a steadfast soul. There was also an air of con- 
 scious importance, even in the manner in which the stran- 
 ger sat his horse, which a man's good opinion of himself, 
 unassisted by the concurrence of the world in general, 
 seldom bestows. The two servants rode at a respectable 
 distance in the rear ; and the heavy portmanteaus at their 
 backs intimated that the party had journeyed from afar. 
 Dr. Melmoth endeavored to assume the dignity that 
 became him as the head of Harley College ; and with a 
 gentle stroke of his staff upon his wearied steed and a 
 grave nod to the principal stranger, was about to com- 
 mence the ascent of the hill at the foot of which they 
 were. The gentleman, however, made a halt. 
 
 "Dr. Melmoth, am I so fortunate as to meet you?" 
 he exclaimed in accents expressive of as much surprise 
 and pleasure as were consistent with his staid demeanor. 
 " Have you, then, forgotten your old friend ? " • 
 
 " Mr. Langton ! Can it be ? " said the doctor, after 
 looking him in the face a moment. " Yes, it is my old 
 friend indeed : welcome, welcome ! though you come at 
 an unfortunate time." 
 
 " What say you ?" How is my child? Ellen, I trust, 
 is well ? " cried Mr. Langton, a father's anxiety over- 
 coming the coldness and reserve that were natural to 
 him, or that long habit had made a second nature. 
 
 "She is well in health. She was so, at least, last 
 night," replied Dr. Melmoth, unable to meet the eye of 
 his friend. " But — but I have been a careless shep- 
 herd ; and the lamb has strayed from the fold while I 
 slept." 
 
FANSHAWE. 113 
 
 Edward Walcott, who was a deeply interested observer 
 of this scene, had anticipated that a burst of passionate 
 grief would follow the disclosure. He was, however, al- 
 together mistaken. There was a momentary convulsion 
 of Mr. Langton's strong features, as quick to come and 
 go as a flash of lightning ; and then his countenance was 
 as composed — though, perhaps, a Httle sterner — as 
 before. He seemed about to inquire into the particulars 
 of what so nearly concerned him, but changed his pur- 
 pose on observmg the crowd of children, who, with one 
 or two of their parents, were endeavoring to catch the 
 words that passed between the doctor and himself. 
 
 " I will turn back with you to the village," he said in 
 a steady voice ; " and at your leisure I shall desire to 
 hear the particulars of this unfortunate affair." 
 
 He wheeled his horse accordingly, and, side by side 
 with Dr. Melmoth, begali to ascend the hill. On reach- 
 ing the summit, the little country town lay before them, 
 presenting a cheerful and busy spectacle. It consisted 
 of one long, regular street, extending parallel to, and at 
 a short distance from, the river ; which here, enlarged by 
 a junction with another stream, became navigable, not 
 indeed for vessels of burden, but for rafts of lumber and 
 boats of considerable size. The houses, with peaked 
 roofs and jutting stories, stood at wide intervals along 
 the street ; and the commercial character of the place 
 was manifested by the shop door and windows, that oc- 
 cupied the front of almost every dwelling. One or two 
 mansions, however, surrounded by trees, and standing 
 back at a haughty distance from the road, were evidently 
 the abodes of the aristocracy of the village. It was not 
 
114 FANSHAWE. 
 
 difficult to distinguish the owners of these — self-impor- 
 tant personages, with canes and well-powdered periwigs 
 — among the crowd of meaner men who bestowed their 
 attention upon Dr. Melmoth and his friend as they rode 
 by. The town being the nearest mart of a large extent 
 of back country, there were many rough farmers and 
 woodsmen, to whom the cavalcade was an object of curi- 
 osity and admiration. The former feeling, indeed, was 
 general throughout the village. The shop-keepers left 
 their customers, and looked forth from the doors ; the 
 female portion of the community thrust their heads from 
 the windows ; and the people in the street formed a lane 
 through which, with all eyes concentrated upon them, 
 the party rode onward to the tavern. The general apti- 
 tude that pervades the populace of a small country town 
 to meddle with affairs not legitimately concerning them 
 was increased, on this occasion, by the sudden return of 
 Mr. Langton after passing through the village. Many 
 conjectures were afloat respecting the cause of this retro- 
 grade movement; and, by degrees, something like the 
 truth, though much distorted, spread generally among 
 the crowd, communicated, probably, from Mr. Langton' s 
 servants. Edward "Walcott, incensed at the uncourteous 
 curiosity of which he, as well as his companions, was the 
 object, felt a frequent impulse (though, fortunately for 
 himself, resisted) to make use of his riding-switch in 
 clearing a passage. 
 
 On arriving at the tavern, Dr. Melmoth recounted to 
 his friend the little he knew beyond the bare fact of 
 Ellen's disappearance. Had Edward Walcott been called 
 to their conference, he might, by disclosmg the adventure 
 
FANSHAWE. 115 
 
 of the angler, have thrown a portion of light upon the 
 affair; but, since his first introduction, the cold and 
 stately merchant had honored him with no sort of notice. 
 
 Edward, on his part, was not well pleased at the sud- 
 den appearance of Ellen's father, and was little incHned 
 to co-operate in any measures that he might adopt for 
 her recovery. It was his wish to pursue the chase on 
 his own responsibility, and as his own wisdom dictated : 
 he chose to be an independent ally, rather than a subor- 
 dinate assistant. But, as a step preliminary to his pro- 
 ceedings of every other kind, he found it absolutely 
 necessary, having journeyed far, and fasting, to call upon 
 the landlord for a supply of food. The viands that were 
 set before him were homely but abundant; nor were 
 Edward's griefs and perplexities so absorbing as to over- 
 come the appetite of youth and health. 
 
 Dr. Melmoth and Mr. Langton, after a short private 
 conversation, had summoned the landlord, in the hope of 
 obtaining some clew to the development of the mystery. 
 But no young lady, nor any stranger answering to the 
 description the doctor had received from Hugh Crombie 
 (which was indeed a false one), had been seen to pass 
 through the village since daybreak. Here, therefore, the 
 friends were entirely at a loss in what direction to con- 
 tinue the pursuit. The village was the focus of severol 
 roads, diverging to widely distant portions of the country; 
 and which of these the fugitives had taken, it was impos- 
 sible to determine. One point, however, might be con- 
 sidered certain, — that the village was the first stage of 
 their flight ; for it commanded the only outlet from the 
 valley, except a rugged path among the hills, utterly im- 
 
116 FANS H AWE. 
 
 passable by horse. In tliis dilemma, expresses were sent 
 by each of the different roads ; and poor Ellen's impru- 
 dence — the tale nowise decreasing as it rolled along — 
 became known to a wide extent of country. Having 
 thus done everything in his power to recover his daugh- 
 ter, the merchant exhibited a composure which Dr. Mel- 
 moth admired, but could not equal. His own mind, 
 however, was in a far more comfortable state than when 
 the responsibility of the pursuit had rested upon himself. 
 
 Edward Walcott, in the mean time, had employed but 
 a very few moments in satisfying his hunger ; after which 
 his active intellect alternately formed and relinquished a 
 thousand plans for the recovery of Ellen. Fanshawe's 
 observation, that her flight must have commenced after 
 the subsiding of the storm, recurred to him. On inquiry, 
 he was informed that the violence of the rain had con- 
 tinued, with a few momentary intermissions, till near day- 
 light. The fugitives must, therefore, have passed through 
 the village long after its inhabitants were abroad; and 
 how, without the gift of invisibility, they had contrived 
 to elude notice, Edward could not conceive. 
 
 " Eifty years ago," thought Edward, " my sweet Ellen 
 would have been deemed a witch for this trackless jour- 
 ney. Truly 1 could wish I were a wizard, that I might 
 bestride a broomstick, and follow her." 
 
 While the young man, involved in these perplexing 
 thoughts, looked forth from the open window of the apart- 
 ment, his attention was drawn to an individual, evidently 
 of a different, though not of a higher, class than the 
 countrymen among whom he stood. Edward now rec- 
 ollected that he had noticed his rough dark face among 
 
FANSHAWE. 117 
 
 the most earnest of those who had watched the arrival of 
 tlie party. He had then taken him for one of the boat- 
 men, of whom there were many in the village, and who 
 had much of a sailor-like dress and appearance. A sec- 
 ond and more attentive observation, however, convinced 
 Edward that this man's life had not been spent upon fresh 
 water ; and, had any stronger evidence than the nameless 
 marks which the ocean impresses upon its sons been ne- 
 cessary, it would have been found in his mode of locomo- 
 tion. Wbile Edward was observing him, he beat slowly 
 up to one of Mr. Langton's servants who was standing 
 near the door of the inn. He seemed to question the 
 man with affected carelessness ; but his countenance was 
 dark and perplexed when he turned to mingle again with 
 the crowd. Edward lost no time in ascertaining from the 
 servant the nature of his inquiries. They had related to 
 the elopement of Mr. Langton's daughter, which was, 
 indeed, the prevailing, if not the sole, subject of conver- 
 sation in the viUage. 
 
 The grounds for supposing that this man was in any 
 way connected with the angler were, perhaps, very slight; 
 yet, in the perplexity of the whole affair, they induced 
 Edward to resolve to get at the heart of his mystery. To 
 attain this end, he took the most direct method, — by ap- 
 plying to the man himself. 
 
 He had now retired apart from the throng and bustle 
 of the village, and was seated upon a condemned boat, 
 that was drawn up to rot upon the banks of the river. 
 His arms were folded, and his hat drawn over his brows. 
 The lower part of his face, which alone was visible, evinced 
 gloom and depression, as did also the deep sighs, which. 
 
118 FANSHAWE. 
 
 because lie tliou^lit no one was near him, lie did not 
 attempt to restrain, 
 
 " Friend, 1 must speak with you," said Edward Wal- 
 cott, laying his hand upon his shoulder, after contem- 
 plating the man a moment, himself unseen. 
 
 He started at once from his abstraction and his seat, 
 apparently expecting violence, and prepared to resist it ; 
 but, perceiving the youthful and solitary intruder upon 
 liis privacy, he composed his features with much quick- 
 ness. 
 
 " What would you with me ? " he asked. 
 
 " They tarry long, — or you have kept a careless 
 watch," said Edward, speaking at a venture. 
 
 For a moment, there seemed a probability of obtain- 
 ing such a reply to this observation as the youth had 
 intended to elicit. If any trust could be put in the 
 language of the stranger's countenance, a set of words 
 different from those to which he subsequently gave utter- 
 ance had risen to his lips. But he seemed naturally slow 
 of speech ; and this defect was now, as is frequently the 
 case, advantageous in giving him space for reflection. 
 
 "Look you, youngster : crack no jokes on me," he at 
 length said, contemptuously. " Away ! back whence you 
 came, or — " And he slightly waved a small rattan that 
 he held in his right hand. 
 
 Edward's eyes sparkled, and his color rose. "You 
 must change this tone, fellow, and that speedily," he ob- 
 served. " I order you to lower your hand, and answer 
 the questions that I shall put to you." 
 
 The man gazed dubiously at him, but fiually adopted 
 a more conciliatory mode of speech. 
 
FANSIIAWE. 119 
 
 " Well, master ; and what is your business with me ? " 
 he inquired. " 1 am a boatman out of employ. Any 
 commands in my line ? " 
 
 " Psliaw ! I know you, my good friend, and you can- 
 not deceive me," replied Edward Walcott. "We are 
 private here," he continued, looking around. " I have 
 uo desire or intention to do you harm ; and, if you 
 act according to my directions, you shall have no cause 
 to repent it." 
 
 "And what if I refuse to put myself under your 
 orders?" inquired the man. "You are but a yoiing 
 captain for such an old hulk as mine," 
 
 " The ill consequences of a refusal would all be on 
 your own side," replied Edward. " I shall, in that case, 
 deliver you up to justice : if I have not the means of 
 capturing you myself," he continued, observing the sea- 
 man's eye to wander rather scornfully over his youthful 
 and slender figure, "there are hundreds within call 
 whom it will be in vain to resist. Besides, it requires 
 little strength to use this," he added, laying his hand on 
 a pistol. 
 
 "If that were all, I could suit you there, my lad," 
 muttered the stranger. He continued aloud, "Well, 
 what is your will with me? D d ungenteel treat- 
 ment this ! But put your questions ; and, to oblige you, 
 I may answer them, — if so be that I know anything of 
 the matter." 
 
 "You will do wisely," observed the young man. 
 "And now to business. What reason have you to 
 suppose that tlie persons for whom you watch are not 
 already beyond the village?" 
 
120 PANSHAWE. 
 
 The seaman paused long before lie answered, and 
 gazed earnestly at Edward, apparently endeavoring to 
 ascertain from his countenance the amount of his knowl- 
 edge. This he probably overrated, but, nevertheless, 
 hazarded a falsehood. 
 
 " I doubt not they passed before midnight," he said. 
 " I warrant you they are many a league towards the sea- 
 coast, ere this." 
 
 " You have kept watch, then, since midnight ? " asked 
 Edward. 
 
 " Ay, that have I ! And a dark and rough one it 
 was," answered the stranger. 
 
 "And you are certain, that, if they passed at all, it 
 must have been before that hour ? " 
 
 " I kept my walk across the road till the village was 
 all astir," said the seaman. " They could not have 
 missed me. So, you see, your best way is to give chase ; 
 for they have a long start of you, and you have no time 
 to lose." 
 
 " Your information is sufficient, my good friend," said 
 Edward, with a smile. " I have reason to know that 
 they did not commence their flight before midnight. 
 You have made it evident that they have not passed 
 since : ergo, they have not passed at all, — an indis- 
 putable syllogism. And now will I retrace my foot- 
 steps." 
 
 ■ " Stay, young man," said the stranger, placing himself 
 full in Edward's way as he was about to hasten to the 
 inn. " You have drawn me in to betray my comrade ; 
 but, before you leave this place, you must answer a ques- 
 tion or two of mine. Do you mean to take the law with 
 
FANSHAWE. 121 
 
 you ? or will you right your wrongs, if you have any, 
 with your own right hand ? " 
 
 "It is my intention to take the latter method. But, 
 if I choose the former, what then ? " demanded Ed^ 
 ward. 
 
 " Nay, nothing : only you or I might not have gone 
 hence alive," replied the stranger. " But as you say he 
 shall have fair play — " 
 
 "On my word, friend," interrupted the young man, 
 " I fear your intelligence has come too late to do either 
 good or harm. Look towards the inn : my companions 
 are getting to horse, and, my life on it, they know 
 whither to ride." 
 
 So saying, he hastened away, followed by the stranger. 
 It was indeed evident that news of some kind or other 
 had reached the village. The people were gathered in 
 groups, conversing eagerly; and the pale cheeks, up- 
 lifted eyebrows, and outspread hands of some of the 
 female sex filled Edward's mind with undefined but 
 intolerable apprehensions. He forced his way to Dr. 
 Melmoth, who had just mounted, and, seizing his bri- 
 dle, peremptorily demanded if he knew aught of Ellen 
 Langton. 
 

 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Full many a miserable year hath passed : 
 She knows him as one dead, or worse than dead ; 
 And many a change her varied life hath known ; 
 But her heart none." Matukin. 
 
 INCE her iuterview witli the angler, which was 
 interrupted by the appearance of Eanshawe,. 
 Ellen Langton's hitherto calm and peaceful 
 mind had been in a state of insufferable doubt and dis- 
 may. She was imperatively called upon — at least, she 
 so conceived — to break through the rules which nature 
 and education impose upon her sex, to quit the protec- 
 tion of those whose desire for her welfare was true and 
 strong, and to trust herself, for what purpose she scarcely 
 knew, to a stranger, from whom the instinctive purity 
 of her mind would involuntarily have shrunk, under 
 whatever circumstances she had met him. The letter 
 which she had received from the hands of the angler 
 had seemed to her inexperience to prove beyond a doubt 
 that the bearer was the friend of her father, and author- 
 ized by him, if her duty and affection were stronger than 
 her fears, to guide her to his retreat. The letter spoke 
 vaguely of losses and misfortunes, and of a necessity for 
 
FANSHAWE. 123 
 
 concealment on her father's part, and secrecy on hers; 
 and, to the credit of Ellen's not very romantic under- 
 standing, it must be acknowledged that the mystery of 
 the plot had nearly prevented its success. She did not, 
 indeed, doubt that the letter was from her father's hand ; 
 for every line and stroke, and even many of its phrases, 
 were familiar to her. Her apprehension was, that his 
 misfortunes, of what nature soever they were, had af- 
 fected his intellect, and that, under such an influence, he 
 had commanded her to take a step which nothing less 
 than such a command could justify. Ellen did not, how- 
 ever, remain long in this opinion; for when she repe- 
 rused the letter, and considered the firm, regular char- 
 acters, and the style, — calm and cold, even in requesting 
 such a sacrifice, — she felt that there was nothing like 
 insanity here. In fine, she came gradually to the belief 
 that there were strong reasons, though incomprehensible 
 by her, for the secrecy that her father had enjoined. 
 
 Having arrived at this conviction, her decision lay 
 plain before her. Her affection for Mr. Langton was 
 not, indeed, — nor was it possible, — so strong as that 
 she would have felt for a parent who had watched over 
 her from her infancy. Neither was the conception she 
 had unavoidably formed of his character such as to 
 promise that in him she would find an equivalent for all 
 she must sacrifice. On the contrary, her gentle nature 
 and loving heart, which otherwise w^ould have rejoiced 
 in a new object of aifection, now shrank with some- 
 thing like dread from the idea of meeting her father, — 
 stately, cold, and stern as she could not but imagine 
 him. A sense of duty was therefore Ellen's only sup- 
 
124 FANSHAWE. 
 
 port in resolving to tread tlie dark path that lay before 
 her. 
 
 Had there been any person of her own sex in whom 
 Ellen felt confidence, there is Uttle doubt that she would 
 so far have disobeyed her father's letter as to communi- 
 cate its contents, and take counsel as to her proceedings. 
 But Mrs. Melmoth was the only female — excepting, in- 
 deed, the maid-servant — to whom it was possible to 
 make the communication; and, though Ellen at first 
 thought of such a step, her timidity, and her knowledge 
 of the lady's character, did not permit her to venture 
 upon it. She next reviewed her acquaintances of the 
 other sex ; and Dr. Melmoth first presented himself, as 
 in every respect but one an unexceptionable confidant. 
 But the single exception was equivalent to many. The 
 maiden, with the highest opinion of the doctor's learning 
 and talents, had sufficient penetration to know, that, in 
 the ways of the world, she was herself the better skilled 
 of the two. Eor a moment she thought of Edward Wal- 
 cott ; but he was light and wild, and, which her delicacy 
 made an insurmountable objection, there was an untold 
 love between them. Her thoughts finally centred on 
 Fanshawe. In his judgment, young and inexperienced 
 though he was, she would have placed a firm trust ; and 
 his zeal, from whatever cause it arose, she could not 
 doubt. 
 
 If, in the short time allowed her for reflection, an op- 
 portunity had occurred for consulting him, she would, 
 in all probability, have taken advantage of it. But the 
 terms on which they had parted the preceding evening 
 had afforded him no reason to hope for her confidence ; 
 
FANSHAWE. 125 
 
 and he felt that there were others who had a better right 
 to it than himself. He did not, therefore, throw himself 
 ill her way ; and poor Ellen was consequently left with- 
 out an adviser. 
 
 The determination that resulted from her own unas- 
 sisted wisdom has been seen. When discovered by Dr. 
 Melmoth at Hugh Crombie's inn, she was wholly pre- 
 pared for flight, and, but for the intervention of the 
 storm, would, ere then, have been far away. 
 
 The firmness of resolve that had impelled a timid 
 maiden upon such a step was not likely to be broken 
 by one defeat; and Ellen, accordingly, confident that 
 the stranger would make a second attempt, determined 
 that no effort on her part should be wanting to its suc- 
 cess. On reaching her chamber, therefore, instead of 
 retiring to rest (of which, from her sleepless thoughts 
 of the preceding night, she stood greatly in need), she 
 sat watching for the abatement of the storm. Her medi- 
 tations were now calmer than at any time since her first 
 meeting with the angler. She felt as if her fate was 
 decided. The stain had fallen upon her reputation : she 
 was no longer the same pure being in the opinion of 
 those whose approbation she most valued. 
 
 One obstacle to her flight — and, to a woman's mind, 
 a most powerful one — had thus been removed. Dark 
 and intricate as was the way, it ft^as easier now to pro- 
 ceed than to pause; and her desperate and forlorn situa- 
 tion gave her a strength which hitherto she had not felt. 
 
 At every cessation in the torrent of rain that beat 
 against the house, Ellen flew to the window, expecting 
 to see the stranger form beneath it. But the clouds 
 
126 PANS H AWE. 
 
 would again thicken, and the storm recommence with its 
 former violence ; and she began to fear that the approach 
 of morning would compel her to meet the now dreaded 
 face of Dr. Melmoth. At length, however, a strong and 
 steady wind, supplying the place of the fitful gusts of 
 the preceding part of the night, broke and scattered the 
 clouds from the broad expanse of the sky. The moon, 
 commencing her late voyage not long before the sun, 
 was now visible, setting forth like a lonely ship from the 
 dark line of the horizon, and touching at many a little 
 silver cloud the islands of that aerial deep. Ellen felt 
 that now the time was come ; and, with a calmness won- 
 derful to herself, she prepared for her final departure. 
 
 She had not long to wait, ere she saw between the 
 vacancies of the trees the angler, advancing along the 
 shady avenue that led to the principal entrance of Dr. 
 Melmoth's dwelling. He had no need to summon her 
 either by word or signal ; for she had descended, emerged 
 from the door, and stood before him, while he was yet at 
 some distance from the house. 
 
 "You have watched well," he observed in a low, 
 strange tone. " As saith the Scripture, ' Many daugh- 
 ters have done virtuously ; but thou excellest them all. ' " 
 
 He took her arm ; and they hastened down the ave- 
 nue. Then, leaving Hugh Crombie's inn on their right, 
 they found its master in a spot so shaded that the moon- 
 beams could not enlighten it. He held by the bridle 
 two horses, one of which the angler assisted Ellen to 
 mount. Then turning to the landlord, he pressed a purse 
 into his hand ; but Hugh drew back, and it fell to the 
 ground. 
 
FANSHAWE. 127 
 
 " No ! this would not have tempted me ; nor will it 
 reward me," he said. " If you have gold to spare, there 
 are some that need it more than I." 
 
 " I understand you, mine host. I shall take thought 
 for them ; and enough will remain for you and me," re- 
 plied his comrade. ''I have seen the day when such 
 a purse would not have slipped between your fingers. 
 Well, be it so. And now, Hugh, my old friend, a shake 
 of your hand ; for we are seeing our last of each other." 
 
 " Pray Heaven it be so ! though I wish you no ill," 
 said the landlord, giving his hand. 
 
 He then seemed about to approach Ellen, who had been 
 unable to distinguish the words of this brief conversa- 
 tion ; but his comrade prevented him. " There is no time 
 to lose," he observed. " The moon is growing pale 
 already, and we should have been many a mile beyond the 
 valley ere this." He mounted as he spoke ; and, guiding 
 Ellen's rein till they reached the road, they dashed away. 
 
 It was now that she felt herself completely in his 
 power ; and with that consciousness there came a sud- 
 den change of feeling, and an altered view of her con- 
 duct. A thousand reasons forced themselves upon her 
 mind, seeming to prove that she had been deceived ; 
 while the motives, so powerful with her but a moment 
 before, had either vanished irom her memory, or lost 
 all their efficacy. Her comBauion. who fjazed search- 
 ingly into her face, where the moonlight, coming down 
 between the pines, allowed him to read its expres- 
 sion, probably discerned somewhat of the state of her 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Do you repent so soon ? " he inquired. "We have 
 
128 FANSHAWE. 
 
 a weary way before us. Eaint not ere we have well 
 entered upon it." 
 
 " I have left dear friends behind me, and am going I 
 know not whither/' replied Ellen, tremblingly. 
 
 "You have a faithful guide/' he observed, turning 
 away his head, and speaking in the tone of one who 
 endeavors to smother a laugh. 
 
 Ellen had no heart to continue the conversation ; and 
 they rode on in silence, and through a wild and gloomy 
 scene. The wind roared heavily through the forest, and 
 the trees shed their raindrops upon the travellers. The 
 road, at all times rough, was now broken into deep gul- 
 lies, through whicli streams went murmuring down to 
 mingle with the river. The pale moonlight combined 
 with the gray of the morning to give a ghastly and 
 unsubstantial appearance to every object. 
 
 The difficulties of the road had been so much increased 
 by tlie storm, that the purple eastern clouds gave notice 
 of the near approach of the sun just as the travellers 
 reached the little lonesome cottage which Ellen remem- 
 bered to have visited several months before. On arriv- 
 ing opposite to it, her companion checked his horse, and 
 gazed with a wild earnestness at the wretched habitation. 
 Then, stifling a groan that would not altogether be re- 
 pressed, he was about to pass on ; but at that moment 
 the cottage-door opened, and a woman, whose sour, un- 
 pleasant countenance Ellen recognized, came hastily forth. 
 She seemed not to heed the travellers; but the angler, 
 his voice thrilling and quivering with indescribable emo- 
 tion, addressed her. 
 
 " Woman, whither do you go ? " he inquired. 
 
FANSHAWE. 129 
 
 Slie started, but, after a momentary pause, replied, 
 " There is one within at the point of death. She strug- 
 gles fearfully; and I cannot endure to watch alone by 
 her bedside. If you arc Christians, come in with me." 
 
 Ellen's companion leaped hastily from hfs horse, as- 
 sisted her also to dismount, and followed the woman into 
 the cottage, having first thrown the bridles of the horses 
 carelessly over the branch of a tree. Ellen trembled at 
 the awful scene she would be compelled to witness ; but, 
 when death was so near at hand, it was more terrible to 
 stand alone in the dim morning light than even to watch 
 the parting of soul and body. She therefore entered the 
 cottage. 
 
 Her guide, his face muffled in his cloak, had taken his 
 stand at a distance from the death-bed, in a part of the 
 room which neither the increasing daylight nor the dim 
 rays of a solitary lamp had yet enlightened. At Ellen's 
 entrance, the dying woman lay still, and apparently calm, 
 except that a plaintive, half-articulate sound occasionally 
 wandered through her lips. 
 
 " Hush ! Eor mercy's sake, silence ! " whispered the 
 other woman to the strangers. " There is good hope 
 now that she will die a peaceable death ; but, if she is 
 disturbed, the boldest of us will not dare to stand by her 
 bedside." 
 
 The whisper by which her sister endeavored to pre- 
 serve quiet perhaps reached the ears of the dying female ; 
 for she now raised herself in bed, slowly, but with a 
 strength superior to what her situation promised. Her 
 face was gliastly and wild, from long ilhiess, approaching 
 death, and disturbed intellect ; and a disembodied spirit 
 6* I 
 
130 FANSHAWE. 
 
 could scarcely be a more fearful object than one whose 
 soul was just struggling forth. Her sister, approaching 
 with the soft and stealing step appropriate to the cham- 
 ber of sickness and death, attempted to replace the cov- 
 ering around her, and to compose her again upon the 
 pillow. "Lie down and sleep, sister," she said; "and, 
 when the day breaks, I will waken you. Methinks your 
 breath comes freer already. A little more slumber, and 
 to-morrow you will be well." 
 
 " My illness is gone : I am well," said the dying 
 woman, gasping for breath. " I wander where the fresh 
 breeze comes sweetly over my face ; but a close and 
 stifled air has choked my lungs." 
 
 " Yet a little while, and you will no longer draw your 
 breath in pain," observed her sister, again replacing the 
 bedclothes, which she continued to throw off. 
 
 "My husband is with me," murmured the widow. 
 "He walks by my side, and speaks to me as in old 
 times ; but his words come faintly on my ear. Cheer 
 me and comfort me, my husband ; for there is a terror 
 in those dim, motionless eyes, and in that shadowy 
 voice." 
 
 As she spoke thus, she seemed to gaze upon some ob- 
 ject that stood by her bedside ; and the eyes of those who 
 witnessed this scene could not but follow the direction 
 of hers. They observed that the dying woman's own 
 shadow was marked upon the wall, receiving a tremulous 
 motion from the fitful rays of the lamp, and from her 
 own convulsive efforts. "My husband stands gazing on 
 me," she said again ; " but my son, — where is he ? 
 And, as I ask, the father turns away his face. Where 
 
FANSHAWE. 131 
 
 is our son? Tor his sake, I have longed to come to 
 this land of rest. Eor him I have sorrowed many years. 
 Will he not comfort me now ? " 
 
 At these words the stranger made a few hasty steps 
 towards the bed; but, ere he reached it, he conquered 
 the impulse that drew him thither, and, shrouding his 
 face more deeply in his cloak, returned to his former 
 position. The dying woman, in the mean time, had 
 thrown herself back upon the bed ; and her sobbing and 
 wailing, imaginary as was their cause, were mexpressibly 
 ajffecting. 
 
 "Take me back to earth," she said; "for its griefs 
 have followed me hither." 
 
 The stranger advanced, and, seizing the lamp, knelt 
 down by the bedside, throwing the light full upon his 
 pale and convulsed features. 
 
 " Mother, here is your son ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 At that unforgotten voice, the darkness burst away at 
 once from her soul. She arose in bed, her eyes and her 
 whole countenance beaming with joy, and threw her 
 arms about his neck. A multitude of words seemed 
 struggling for utterance ; but they gave place to a low 
 moaning sound, and then to the silence of death. The 
 one moment of happiness, that recompensed years of sor- 
 row, had been her last. Her son laid the lifeless form 
 upon the pillow, and gazed with fixed eyes on his moth- 
 er's face. 
 
 As he looked, the expression of enthusiastic joy that 
 parting life had left upon the features faded gradually 
 away ; and the countenance, though no longer wild, as- 
 sumed the sadness which it had worn through a long 
 
IS'Z FANSHAWE. 
 
 course of grief and pain. On beholding tliis natural con- 
 sequence of death, the thought, perhaps, occurred to 
 him, that her soul, no longer dependent on the imperfect 
 means of intercourse possessed by mortals, had com- 
 muned with his own, and become acquainted with all its 
 guilt and misery. He started from the bedside, and cov- 
 ered his face with his hands, as if to hide it from those 
 dead eyes. 
 
 Such a scene as has been described could not but have 
 a powerful effect upon any one who retained aught of 
 humanity ; and the grief of the son, whose natural feel- 
 ings had been blunted, but not destroyed, by an evil life, 
 was much more violent than his outward demeanor 
 would have expressed. But his deep repentance for the 
 misery he had brought upon his parent did not produce 
 in him a resolution to do wrong no more. The sudden 
 consciousness of accumulated guilt made him desperate. 
 He felt as if no one had thenceforth a claim to justice or 
 compassion at his hands, when his neglect and cruelty 
 had poisoned his mother's life, and hastened her death. 
 Thus it was that the Devil wi'ought witli him to his own 
 destruction, reversing the salutary effect which his mother 
 would have died exultiugly to produce upon his mind. 
 He now turned to Ellen Langton with a demeanor sin- 
 gularly calm and composed. 
 
 " We must resume our journey," he said, in his usual 
 tone of voice. "The sun is on the point of rising, 
 though but little light finds its way into this hovel." 
 
 Ellen's previous suspicions as to the character of her 
 companion had now become certainty so far as to con- 
 vince her that she was in the power of a lawless and 
 
FANSHAWE. 133 
 
 guilty man ; though what fate he intended for her, she 
 was unable to conjecture. An open opposition to his 
 will, however, could not be ventured upon ; especially as 
 she discovered, on looking round the apartment, that, 
 with the exception of the corpse, they were alone. 
 
 "Will you not attend your mother's funeral?" she 
 asked, trembhng, and conscious that he would discover 
 her fears. 
 
 "The dead must bury their dead," he replied. "I 
 have brought my mother to her grave, — and what can 
 a son do more ? This purse, however, will serve to lay 
 her in the earth, and leave something for the old hag. 
 Whither is she gone ? " interrupted he, casting a glance 
 round the room in search of the old woman. "Nay, 
 then, we must speedily to horse. I know her of 
 old." 
 
 Thus saying, he threw the purse upon the table, and, 
 without trusting himself to look again towards the dead, 
 conducted Ellen out of the cottage. The first rays of 
 the sun at that moment gilded the tallest trees of the 
 forest. 
 
 On looking towards the spot where the horses had 
 stood, Ellen thought that Providence, in answer to her 
 prayers, had taken care for her deliverance. They were 
 no longer there, — a circumstance easily accounted for 
 by the haste with which the bridles had been thrown 
 over the branch of the tree. Her companion, however, 
 imputed it to another cause. 
 
 " The hag ! She would sell her own flesh and blood 
 by weight and measure," he muttered to himself. " This 
 is some plot of hers, I know well." 
 
134 FANSHAWE. 
 
 He put his hand to his forehead for a moment's space, 
 seeming to reflect on the course most advisable to be 
 pursued. Ellen, perhaps unwisely, interposed. 
 
 " Would it not be well to return ? " she asked, timidly. 
 " There is now no hope of escaping ; but I might yet 
 reach home undiscovered." 
 
 " Return ! " repeated her guide, with a look and smile 
 from which she turned away her face. " Have you for- 
 gotten your father and his misfortunes ? No, no, sweet 
 Ellen : it is too late for such thoughts as these." 
 
 He took her hand, and led her towards the forest, in 
 the rear of the cottage. She would fain have resisted ; 
 but they were all alone, and the attempt must have been 
 both fruitless and dangerous. She therefore trod with 
 him a path so devious, so faintly traced, and so over- 
 grown with bushes and young trees, that only a most 
 accurate acquaintance in his early days could have 
 enabled her guide to retain it. To him, however, it 
 seemed so perfectly familiar, that he was not once com- 
 pelled to pause, though the numerous windings soon 
 deprived Ellen of all knowledge of the situation of the 
 cottage. They descended a steep hill, and, proceeding 
 parallel to the river, — as Ellen judged by its rushing 
 sound, — at length found themselves at what proved to 
 be the termination of their walk. 
 
 Ellen now recollected a remark of Edward Walcott's 
 respecting the wild and rude scenery through which the 
 river here kept its way ; and, in less agitating circum- 
 stances, her pleasure and admiration would have been 
 great. They stood beneath a precipice, so high that the 
 loftiest piue-tops (and many of them seemed to soar to 
 
FANSHAWE. 135 
 
 heaven) scarcely surmounted it. This line of rock has 
 a considerable extent, at unequal heights, and with many 
 interruptions, along the course of the river ; and it seems 
 probable, that at some former period it was the boundary 
 of the waters, though they are now confined within far 
 less ambitious limits. The inferior portion of the crag, 
 beneath which Ellen and her guide were standing, varies 
 so far from the perpendicular as not to be inaccessible by 
 a careful footstep. But only one person has been known 
 to attempt the ascent of the superior half, and only one 
 the descent ; yet, steep as is the height, trees and bushes 
 of various kinds have clung to the rock, wherever their 
 roots could gain the slightest hold ; thus seeming to pre- 
 fer the scanty and difficult nourishment of the cliff to a 
 more luxurious life in the rich interval that extends from 
 its base to the river. But, whether or no these hardy 
 vegetables have voluntarily chosen their rude resting- 
 place, the cliff is indebted to them for much of the beauty 
 that tempers its sublimity. When the eye is pained and 
 wearied by the bold nakedness of the rock, it rests with 
 pleasure on the cheerful foHage of the birch, or upon the 
 darker green of the funereal pine. Just at the termina- 
 tion of the accessible portion of the crag, these trees are 
 so numerous, and their foliage so dense, that they com- 
 pletely shroud from view a considerable excavation, 
 formed, probably, hundreds of years since, by the fall of 
 a portion of the rock. The detached fragment still lies 
 at a little distance from the base, gray and moss-grown, 
 but corresponding, in its general outline, to the cavity 
 from which it was rent. 
 
 But the most singular and beautiful object in all this 
 
136 FANSHAWE. 
 
 scene is a tiny fount of crystal water, that gushes forth 
 from the high, smooth forehead of the cliff. Its per- 
 pendicular descent is of many feet ; after which it finds 
 its way, with a sweet diminutive murmur, to the level 
 ground. 
 
 It is not easy to conceive whence the barren rock pro- 
 cures even the small supply of water that is necessary to 
 the existence of this stream ; it is as unaccountable as 
 the gush of gentle feeling which sometimes proceeds 
 from the hardest heart : but there it continues to flow 
 and fall, undiminished and unincreased. The stream is 
 so slender, that the gentlest breeze suffices to disturb its 
 descent, and to scatter its pure sweet waters over the 
 face of the cliff. But in that deep forest there is seldom 
 a breath of wind ; so that, plashing continually upon one 
 spot, the fount has worn its own little channel of white 
 sand, by which it finds its way to the river. Alas that 
 the Naiades have lost their old authority ! for what a 
 deity of tiny loveliness must once have presided here! 
 
 Ellen's companion paused not to gaze either upon the 
 loveliness or the sublimity of this scene, but, assisting 
 her where it was requisite, began the steep and difficult 
 ascent of the lower part of the cliff. The maiden's inge- 
 nuity in vain endeavored to assign reasons for this move- 
 ment ; but when they reached the tuft of trees, which, 
 as has been noticed, grew at the ultimate point where 
 mortal footstep might safely tread, she perceived through 
 their thick branches the recess in the rock. Here they 
 entered ; and her guide pointed to a mossy seat, in the 
 formation of which, to judge from its regularity, art had 
 probably a share. 
 
FANSHAWE. 137 
 
 " Here you may remain in safety," he observed, " till 
 I obtain the means of proceeding. In this spot you 
 need fear no intruder ; but it will be dangerous to ven- 
 ture beyond its bounds." 
 
 The meaning glance that accompanied these words 
 intimated to poor Ellen, that, in warning her against 
 danger, he alluded to the vengeance with which he would 
 visit any attempt to escape. To leave her thus alone, 
 trustmg to the iDfluence of such a threat, was a bold, 
 yet a necessary and by no means a hopeless measure. 
 On Ellen it produced the desired effect ; and she sat in 
 the cave as motionless, for a time, as if she had herself 
 been a part of the rock. In other circumstances this 
 shady recess would have been a delightful retreat during 
 the sultry warmth of a summer's day. The dewy cool- 
 ness of the rock kept the air always fresh, and the sun- 
 beams never thrust themselves so as to dissipate the 
 mellow twilight through the green trees with which 
 the chamber was curtained. Ellen's sleeplessness and 
 agitation for many preceding hours had perhaps dead- 
 ened her feehngs ; for she now felt a sort (5f indifference 
 creeping upon her, an inability to realize the evils of her 
 situation, at the same time that she was perfectly aware 
 of them all. This torpor of mind increased, till her eye- 
 hds began to grow heavy, and the cave and trees to 
 swim before her sight. In a few moments more, she 
 would probably have been in dreamless slumber; but. 
 rousing herself by a strong effort, she looked round the 
 narrow limits of the cave in search of objects to excite 
 her worn-out mind. 
 
 She now perceived, wherever the smooth rock afforded 
 
138 FANSHAWE. 
 
 place for them, the initials, or the full-length names, of 
 former visitants of the cave. What wanderer on moun- 
 tain-tops or in deep solitudes has not felt the influence of 
 these records of humanity, telling him, when such a con- 
 viction is soothing to his heart, that he is not alone in 
 the world ? It was singular, that, when her own myste- 
 rious situation had almost lost its power to engage her 
 thoughts, Ellen perused these barren memorials with 
 a certain degree of interest. She went on repeating 
 them aloud, and starting at the sound of her own voice, 
 till at length, as one name passed through her lips, she 
 paused, and then, leaning her forehead against tlie let- 
 ters, burst into tears. It was the name of Edward Wal- 
 cott ; and it struck upon her heart, arousing her to a 
 full sense of her present misfortunes and dangers, and, 
 more painful still, of her past happiness. Her tears 
 had, however, a soothing, and at the same time a 
 strengthening effect upon her mind; for, when their 
 gush was over, she raised her head, and began to medi- 
 tate on the means of escape. She wondered at the spe- 
 cies of fascination that had kept her, as if chained to the 
 rock, so long, when there was, in reality, nothing to bar 
 her pathway. She determined, late as it was, to attempt 
 her own deliverance, and for that purpose began slowly 
 and cautiously to emerge from the cave. 
 
 Peeping out from among the trees, she looked and 
 listened with most painful anxiety to discover if any 
 living thing were in that seeming solitude, or if any 
 sound disturbed the heavy stillness. But she saw only 
 Nature in her wildest forms, and heard only the plash 
 and murmur (almost inaudible, because continual) of the 
 
FANSHAWE. 139 
 
 little waterfall, and the quick, sliort tlirobbing of her 
 own heart, against which she pressed her hand, as if to 
 hush it. Gathering courage, therefore, she began to 
 descend ; and, starting often at the loose stones that 
 even her liglit footstep displaced and sent rattling down, 
 she at length reached the base of the crag in safety. 
 She then made a few steps in the direction, as nearly as 
 she could judge, by which she arrived at the spot, but 
 paused, with a sudden revulsion of the blood to her 
 heart, as her guide emerged from behind a projecting 
 part of the rock. He approached her deliberately, an iron- 
 ical smile writhing his features into a most disagreeable 
 expression ; while in his eyes there was something that 
 seemed a wild, fierce joy. By a species of sophistry, of 
 which oppressors often make use, he had brought himself 
 to believe that he was now the injured one, and that 
 Ellen, by her distrust of him, had fairly subjected herself 
 to whatever evil it consisted with his will and power to 
 inflict upon her. Her only restraining influence over 
 Lim, the consciousness, in his own mind, that he pos- 
 sessed her confidence, was now done away. Ellen, as 
 well as her enemy, felt that this was the case. She 
 knew not what to dread ; but she was well aware that 
 danger was at hand, and that, in the deep wilderness, 
 there was none to help her, except that Being with 
 whose inscrutable purposes it might consist to allow the 
 wicked to triumph for a season, and the innocent to be 
 brought low. 
 
 "Are you so soon weary of this quiet retreat?" de- 
 manded her guide, continuing to wear the same sneering 
 smile. " Or has your anxiety for your father induced 
 
140 FANSHAWE. 
 
 you to set forth alone in quest of the afflicted old 
 man?" 
 
 " 0, if I were but witji him ! " exclaimed Ellen. 
 "But this place is lonely and fearful; and I cannot 
 endure to remain here." 
 
 "Lonely, is it, sweet Ellen?" he rejoined; "am I 
 not with you ? Yes, it is lonely, — lonely as guilt 
 could wish. Cry aloud, Ellen, and spare not. Shriek, 
 and see if there be any among these rocks and woods to 
 hearken to you ! " 
 
 " There is, there is One," exclaimed Ellen, shuddering, 
 and affrighted at the fearful meaning of his countenance. 
 " He is here ! He is there ! " And she pointed to 
 heaven. 
 
 " It may be so, dearest," he replied. " But if there 
 be an Ear that hears, and an Eye that sees all the evil of 
 the earth, yet the Arm is slow to avenge. Else why do 
 I stand before you a living man ? " 
 
 " His vengeance may be delayed for a time, but not 
 forever," she answered, gathering a desperate courage 
 from the extremity of her fear. 
 
 " You say true, lovely Ellen ; and I have done enough, 
 erenow, to insure its heaviest weight. There is a pass, 
 when evil deeds can add nothing to guilt, nor good ones 
 take anythii:ig from it." 
 
 " Think of your mother, — of her sorrow through life, 
 and perhaps even after death," Ellen began to say. But, 
 as she spoke these words, the expression of his face was 
 changed, becoming suddenly so dark and fiend-like, that 
 she clasped her hands, and fell on her knees before him. 
 
 " I have thought of my mother," he replied, speaking 
 
FANSHAWE. 141 
 
 very low, and putting his face close to hers. " I remem- 
 ber the neglect, the wrong, the lingering and miserable 
 death, that she received, at my hands. By what claim 
 can either man or woman henceforth expect mercy from 
 me ? If God will help you, be it so ; but by those words 
 you have turned my heart to stone." 
 
 At this period of their conversation, when Ellen's peril 
 seemed most imminent, the attention of both was at- 
 tracted by a fragment of rock, which, falling from the 
 summit of the crag, struck very near them. Ellen 
 started from her knees, and, with her false guide, gazed 
 eagerly upward, — he in the fear of interruption, she in 
 the hope of deliverance. 
 
CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 " At length, he cries, behold the fated spring ! 
 Yon rugged cliff conceals the fountain blest. 
 Dark rocks its crystal source o'ershadowing." 
 
 Psyche. 
 
 HE tale now returns to Fansliawe, who, as will 
 be recollected, after being overtaken by Edward 
 Walcott, was left with little apparent prospect 
 of aiding in the dehverance of Ellen Langton. 
 
 It would be difficult to analyze the feelings with which 
 the student pursued the chase, or to decide whether he 
 was influenced and animated by the same hopes of suc- 
 cessful love that cheered his rival. That he was con- 
 scious of such hopes, there is little reason to suppose ; 
 for the most powerful minds are not always the best 
 acquainted with their own feelings. Had Eanshawe, 
 moreover, acknowledged to himself the possibility of 
 gaining Ellen's affections, his generosity would have 
 induced him to refrain from her society before it was too 
 late. He had read her character with accuracy, and had 
 seen how fit she was to love, and to be loved, by a man 
 who could find his happiness in the common occupations 
 of the world ; and Eanshawe never deceived himself so 
 
FANSHAWE. 143 
 
 far as to suppose tliat this would be the ease with him. 
 Indeed, he often wondered at the passion with which 
 Ellen's simple loveliness of mind and person had inspired 
 him, and which seemed to be founded on the principle of 
 contrariety, rather than of sympathy. It was the yearn- 
 ing of a soul, formed by Nature in a pecuhar mould, for 
 communion with those to whom it bore a resemblance, 
 yet of whom it was not. But there was no reason to 
 suppose that Ellen, who differed from the multitude only 
 as being purer and better, would cast away her affections 
 on the one, of all who surrounded her, least fitted to 
 make her happy. Thus Eanshawe reasoned with himself, 
 and of this he believed that he was convinced. Yet ever 
 and anon he found himself involved in a dream of bliss, 
 of which Ellen was to be the giver and the sharer. Then 
 would he rouse himself, and press upon his mind the 
 chilling consciousness that it was and could be but a 
 dream. There was also another feeling, apparently dis- 
 cordant with those which have been enumerated. It 
 was a longing for rest, for his old retirement, that came 
 at intervals so powerfully upon him, as he rode on, that 
 his heart sickened of the active exertion on which fate 
 had thrust him. 
 
 After being overtaken by Edward Walcott, Eanshawe 
 continued his journey with as much speed as was attain- 
 able by his wearied horse, but at a pace infinitely too 
 slow for his earnest thoughts. These had carried him 
 far away, leaving him only such a consciousness of his 
 present situation as to make diligent use of the spur, 
 when a horse's tread at no great distance struck upon 
 his ear. He looked forward and behind ; but, though a 
 
1^4 FAN S HAW E. 
 
 considerable extent of the narrow, roclcy, and grass, 
 grown road was visible, he wais the only traveller there. 
 Yet again he heard the sound, which, he now discovered, 
 proceeded from among the trees that lined the roadside. 
 Alighting, he entered the forest, with the intention, if 
 the steed proved to be disengaged, and superior to his 
 own, of appropriating him to his own use. He soon 
 gained a view of the object he sought ; but the animal 
 rendered a closer acquaintance unattainable, by imme- 
 diately taking to his heels. Eanshawe had, however, 
 made a most interesting discovery ; for the horse was 
 accoutred with a side-saddle ; and who but Ellen Lang- 
 ton could have been his rider? At this conclusion, 
 though his perplexity was thereby in no degree dimin. 
 ished, the student immediately arrived. Returning to 
 the road, and perceiving on the summit of the hill a 
 cottage, which he recognized as the one he had entered 
 with Ellen and Edward Walcott, he determined there to 
 make inquiry respecting the objects of his pursuit. 
 
 On reaching the door of the poverty-stricken dwelling, 
 he saw that it was not now so desolate of inmates as on 
 his previous visit. In the single inhabitable apartment 
 were several elderly women, clad evidently in their well- 
 worn and well-saved Sunday clothes, and all wearing a 
 deep grievous expression of countenance. Eanshawe 
 was not long in deciding that death was within the cot' 
 tage, and that these aged females were of the class who 
 love the house of mourning, because to them it is a house 
 of feasting. It is a fact, disgusting and lamentable, that 
 the disposition which Heaven, for the best of purposes, 
 has implanted in the female breast — to watch by the 
 
FANSHAWE. 145 
 
 sick, and comfort the afflicted — frequently becomes 
 depraved into an odious love of scenes of pain and death 
 and sorrow. Such women are like the Ghouls of the 
 Arabian Tales, whose feasting was among tombstones 
 and upon dead carcasses. 
 
 (It is sometimes, though less frequently, the case, that 
 this disposition to make a "joy of grief" extends to in- 
 dividuals of the other sex. But in us it is even less 
 excusable and more disgusting, because it is our nature 
 to shun the sick and afflicted ; and, unless restrained by 
 principles other than we bring into the world with us, 
 men might follow the example of many animals in de- 
 stroying the infirm of their own species. Indeed, in- 
 stances of this nature might be adduced among savage 
 nations.) Sometimes, however, from an original lusus 
 naturae, or from the influence of circumstances, a man 
 becomes a haunter of death-beds, a tormentor of afflicted 
 hearts, and a follower of funerals. Such an abomination 
 now appeared before Fanshawe, and beckoned him into 
 the cottage. He was considerably beyond the middle 
 age, rather corpulent, with a broad, fat, tallow-com- 
 plexioned countenance. The student obeyed his silent 
 call, and entered the room, through the open door of 
 which he had been gazing. 
 
 He now beheld, stretched out upon the bed where she 
 had so lately laid in life, though dying, the yet uncof- 
 fined corpse of the aged woman, whose death has been 
 described^ How frightful it seemed ! — that fixed coun- 
 tenance of ashy paleness, amid its decorations of muslin 
 and fine linen, as if a bride were decked for the marriage- 
 chamber, as if death were a bridegroom, and the coffin 
 7 J 
 
146 PANSHAWE. 
 
 a bridal bed. Alas that the vanity of dress should ex- 
 tend even to the grave ! 
 
 The female who, as being the near and only relative 
 of the deceased, was supposed to stand in need of com- 
 fort, was surrounded by five or six of her own sex. 
 These continually poured into her ear the stale, trite 
 maxims which, where consolation is actually required, 
 add torture insupportable to the wounded heart. Their 
 present object, however, conducted herself with all due 
 decorum, holding her handkerchief to her tearless eyes, 
 and answering with very grievous groans to the words 
 of her comforters. Who could have imagined that there 
 was joy in her heart, because, since her sister's death, 
 there was but one remaining obstacle between herself 
 und the sole property of that wretched cottage? 
 
 While Fanshawe stood silently observing this scene, 
 a low, monotonous voice was uttering some words in his 
 ear, of the meaning of which his mind did not imme- 
 diately take note. He turned, and saw that the speaker 
 was the person who had invited him to enter. 
 
 " What is your pleasure with me, sir ? " demanded the 
 student. 
 
 "I make bold to ask," replied the man, "whether you 
 would choose to partake of some creature comfort, be- 
 fore joining in prayer with the family and friends of our 
 deceased sister ? " As he spoke, he pointed to a table, 
 on which was a moderate-sized stone jug and two oi 
 three broken glasses ; for then, as now, there were few 
 occasions of joy oi grief on which ardent spirits were 
 not considered indispensable, to heighten the one or to 
 alleviate the other. 
 
FANSHAWE. 147 
 
 "I stand in no need of refreshment," answered Ean' 
 shawe ; " and it is not my intention to pray at present." 
 
 "I pray your pardon, reverend sir," rejoined the 
 other; "but your face is pale, and you look M^earied. 
 A drop from yonder vessel is needful to recruit the out- 
 ward man. And for the prayer, the sisters will expect 
 it ; and their souls are longing for the outpouring of the 
 Spirit. I was intending to open my own mouth with 
 such words as are given to my poor ignorance, but — " 
 
 Fanshawe was here about to interrupt this address, 
 which proceeded on the supposition, arising from his 
 black dress and thoughtful countenance, that he was a 
 clergyman. But one of the females now approached 
 him, and intimated that the sister of the deceased was 
 desirous of the benefit of his conversation. He would 
 have returned a negative to this request, but, looking 
 towards the afllicted woman, he saw her withdraw her 
 handkerchief from her eyes, and cast a brief but pene- 
 trating and most inteUigent glance upon him. He im- 
 mediately expressed his readiness to offer such consolation 
 as might be in his power. 
 
 "And in the mean time," observed the lay-preacher, 
 " I will give the sisters to expect a word of prayer and 
 exliortation, either from you or from myself." 
 
 These words were lost upon the supposed clergyman, 
 who was already at the side of the mourner. The fe- 
 males withdrew out of ear-shot to give place to a more 
 legitimate comforter than themselves. 
 
 " What know you respecting my purpose ? " inquired 
 Fanshawe, bending towards her. 
 
 The woman gave a groan — the usual result of all 
 
148 FANSHAWE. 
 
 efforts at consolation — for the edification of the com- 
 pa,ny, and tlien replied in a whisper, which reached only 
 the ear for which it was intended. " I know whom you 
 come to seek : I can direct you to them. Speak low, 
 for God's sake ! " she continued, observing that Pan- 
 shawe was about to utter an exclamation. She then 
 resumed her groans with greater zeal than before, 
 
 " Where — where are they ? " asked the student, in a 
 whisper which all his efforts could scarcely keep below 
 his breath. "I adjure you to tell me." 
 
 " And, if I should, how am I like to be bettered by 
 it ? " inquired the old woman, her speech still preceded 
 and followed by a groan. 
 
 " God ! The auri sacra fames ! " thought Fanshawe 
 with a sickening heart, looking at the motionless corpse 
 upon the bed, and then at the wretched being, whom the 
 course of nature, in comparatively a moment of time, 
 would reduce to the same condition. 
 
 He whispered again, however, putting his purse into 
 the hag's hand. " Take this. Make your own terms 
 when they are discovered. Only tell me where I must 
 seek them — and speedily, or it may be too late." 
 
 " I am a poor woman, and am afflicted," said she, tak- 
 ing the purse, unseen by any who were in the room. " It 
 is little that worldly goods can do for me, and not long 
 can I enjoy them, " And here she was delivered of a 
 louder and a more heartfelt groan than ever. She then 
 continued, "Follow the path behind the cottage, that 
 leads to the river-side. Walk along the foot of the rock, 
 and search for them near the water-spout. Keep a slow 
 pace till you are out of siglit," she added, as tlie student 
 started to his feet. 
 
lANSHAWE. 
 
 149 
 
 The guests of the cottage did uot attempt to oppose 
 Pansliawe's progress, when they saw him take the path 
 towards the forest, imagining, probably, that he was re- 
 tiring for the purpose of secret prayer. But the old 
 woman laughed behind the handkerchief with which she 
 veiled her face. 
 
 " Take heed to your steps, boy," she muttered ; " for 
 they are leading you whence you will not return. Death, 
 too, for the slayer. Be it so." 
 
 I'anshawe, in the mean while, contrived to discover, 
 and for a while to retain, the narrow and winding path 
 that led to the river-side. But it was originally no more 
 than a track, by which the cattle belonging to the cottage 
 went down to their watering-place, and by these four- 
 footed passengers it had long been deserted. The fern- 
 bushes, therefore, had grown over it ; and in several 
 places trees of considerable size had shot up in the midst. 
 These difficulties could scarcely have been surmounted 
 by the utmost caution ; and as Eanshawe's thoughts were 
 too deeply fixed upon the end to pay a due regard to the 
 means, he soon became desperately bewildered both as 
 to the locality of the river and of the cottage. Had he 
 known, however, in which direction to seek the latter, he 
 would not, probably, have turned back ; not that he was 
 infected by any chivalrous desire to finish the adventure 
 alone, but because he would expect little assistance from 
 those he had left there. Yet he could not but wonder — 
 though he had not in his first eagerness taken notice of 
 it — at the anxiety of the old woman that he should pro- 
 ceed singly, and without the knowledge of her guests, on 
 the search. He nevertheless continued to wander on, — 
 
150 FANSHAWE. 
 
 pausing often to listen for tlie rush of the river, and then 
 starting forward with fresh rapidity, to rid himself of the 
 sting of his own thoughts, which became painfully intense 
 "when undisturbed by bodily motion. His way was now 
 frequently interrupted by rocks, that thrust their huge 
 gray heads from the ground, compelling him to turn 
 aside, and thus depriving him, fortunately perhaps, of all 
 remaining idea of the direction he had intended to pur- 
 sue. 
 
 Thus he went on, his head turned back, and taking 
 little heed to his footsteps, when, perceiving that he trod 
 upon a smooth, level rock, he looked forward, and found 
 himself almost on the utmost verge of a precipice. 
 
 After the throbbing of the heart that followed this nar- 
 row escape had subsided, he stood gazing down, where 
 the sunbeams slept so pleasantly at the roots of the tall 
 old trees, with whose highest tops he was upon a level. 
 Suddenly he seemed to hear voices — one well-remem- 
 bered voice — ascending from beneath ; and, approach- 
 ing to the edge of the cliff, he saw at its base the two 
 whom he sought. 
 
 He saw and interpreted Ellen's look and attitude of 
 entreaty, though the words with which she sought to 
 soften the ruthless heart of her guide became inaudible 
 ere they reached the height where Fanshawe stood. He 
 felt that Heaven had sent him thither at the moment of 
 her utmost need, to be the preserver of all that was dear 
 to him ; and he paused only to consider the mode in 
 which her deliverance was to be effected. Life he would 
 have laid down willingly, exultingly : his only care was, 
 that the sacrifice should not be in vain. 
 
FANSHAWE. 151 
 
 At lengtli, when Ellen fell upon her knees, he lifted a 
 small fragment of rock, and threw it down the cliif. It 
 struck so near the pair, that it immediately drew the at- 
 tention of both. 
 
 When the betrayer, at the instant in which he had 
 almost defied the power of the Omnipotent to bring help 
 to Ellen, became aware of Eanshawe's presence, his hardi- 
 hood failed him for a time, and his knees actually tot- 
 tered beneath him. There was something awful, to his 
 appreliension, in the slight form that stood so far above 
 him, like a being from another sphere, looking down upon 
 his wickedness. But his half-superstitious dread endured 
 only a moment's space ; and then, mustering the courage 
 that in a thousand dangers had not deserted him, he pre- 
 pared to revenge the intrusion by which Eanshawe had a 
 second time interrupted his designs. 
 
 " By Heaven, I will cast him down at her feet ! " he 
 muttered through his closed teeth. " There shall be no 
 form nor likeness of man left in him. Then let him rise 
 up, if he is able, and defend her." 
 
 Thus resolving, and overlooking all hazard in his eager 
 hatred and desire for vengeance, he began a desperate 
 attempt to ascend the cliff. The space which only had 
 hitherto been deemed accessible was quickly passed ; and 
 in a moment more he was half-way up the precipice, cling- 
 ing to trees, shrubs, and projecting portions of the rock, 
 and escaping through hazards which seemed to menace 
 inevitable destruction. 
 
 Eanshawe, as he watched his upward progress, deemed 
 that every step would be his last ; but when he perceived 
 that more than half, and apparently the most difficult 
 
152 FANSHAWE. 
 
 part, of the ascent was surmounted, his opmion changed. 
 His courage, however, did not fail him as the moment of 
 need drew nigh. His spirits rose buoyantly ; his limbs 
 seemed to grow firm and strong ; and he stood on the 
 edge of the precipice, prepared for the death-struggle 
 which would follow the success of his enemy's attempt. 
 
 But that attempt was not successful. When within a 
 few feet of the summit, the adventurer grasped at a twig 
 too slenderly rooted to sustain his weight. It gave way 
 in his hand, and he fell backward down the precipice. 
 His head struck against the less perpendicular part of 
 the rock, whence the body rolled heavily down to the 
 detached fragment, of which mention has heretofore been 
 made. There was no life left in him. With all the pas- 
 sions of hell alive in his heart, he had met the fate that 
 he intended for Fanshawe. 
 
 The student paused not then to shudder at the sudden 
 and awful overthrow of his enemy ; for he saw that Ellen 
 lay motionless at the foot of the cliff. She had indeed 
 fainted at the moment she became aware of her deliv- 
 erer's presence; and no stronger proof could she have 
 given of her firm reliance upon his protection. 
 
 Eanshawe was not deterred by the danger, of which he 
 had just received so fearful an evidence, from attempting 
 to descend to her assistance ; and, whether owing to his 
 advantage in lightness of frame, or to superior caution, 
 he arrived safely at the base of the precipice. 
 
 He lifted the motionless form of Ellen in his arms, 
 and, resting her head against his shoulder, gazed on her 
 cheek of lily paleness with a joy, a triumph, that rose 
 almost to madness. It contained no mixture of hope; 
 
FANSIIAWE. 153 
 
 it had no reference to the future : it was the perfect bliss 
 of a moment, — an insulated point of happiness. He bent 
 over her, and pressed a kiss — the first, and he knew it 
 would be the last — on her pale lips ; then, bearing her 
 to the fountain, he sprinkled its waters profusely over her 
 face, neck, and bosom. She at length opened her eyes, 
 slowly and heavily ; but her mind was evidently wander- 
 ing, till Fanshawe spoke. 
 
 " Eear not, Ellen : you are safe," he said. 
 
 At the sound of his voice, her arm, which was thrown 
 over his shoulder, involuntarily tightened its embrace, 
 telling him, by that mute motion, with how firm a trust 
 she confided in him. But, as a fuller sense of her situa- 
 tion returned, she raised herself to her feet, though still 
 retaining the support of his arm. It was singular, that, 
 although her insensibility had commenced before the fall 
 of her guide, she turned away her eyes, as if iustiuctively, 
 from the spot where the mangled body lay ; nor did she 
 inquire of Fanshawe the manner of her deliverance. 
 
 "Let us begone from this place," she said in faint, 
 low accents, and with an inward shudder. 
 
 They walked along the precipice, seeking some pas- 
 sage by which they might gain its summit, and at length 
 arrived at that by which Ellen and her guide had de- 
 scended. Chance — for neither Ellen nor Eanshawe 
 could have discovered the path — led them, after but 
 little wandering, to the cottage. A messenger was sent 
 forward to the town to inform Dr. Melmoth of the re- 
 covery of his ward ; and the intelligence tlius received 
 had interrupted Edward Walcott's conversation with the 
 seaman. 
 
 7* 
 
154? FANSHAWE. 
 
 It would have been impossible, in the mangled remains 
 of Ellen's guide, to discover the son of the Widow But- 
 ler, except from the evidence of her sister, who became, 
 by his death, the sole inheritrix of the cottage. The his- 
 tory of this evil and unfortunate man must be comprised 
 within very narrow limits. A harsh father, and his own 
 untamable disposition, had driven him from home in his 
 boyhood ; and chance had made him the temporary com- 
 panion of Hugh Crombie. After two years of wandering, 
 when in a foreign country and in circumstances of ut- 
 most need, he attracted the notice of Mr. Langton. The 
 merchant took his young countryman under his protec- 
 tion, afforded him advantages of education, and, as his 
 capacity was above mediocrity, gradually trusted him in 
 many affairs of importance. During this period, there 
 was no evidence of dishonesty on his part. On the con- 
 trary, he manifested a zeal for Mr. Langton's interest, 
 and a respect for his person, that proved his strong sense 
 of the benefits he had received. But he unfortunately 
 fell into certain youthful indiscretions, which, if not 
 entirely pardonable, might have been palliated by many 
 considerations that would have occurred to a merciful 
 man. Mr. Langton's justice, however, was seldom tem- 
 pered by mercy ; and, on this occasion, he shut the door 
 of repentance against his erring protege, and left him in 
 a situation not less desperate than that from which he 
 had relieved him. The goodness and the nobleness, of 
 which his heart was not destitute, turned, from that 
 time, wholly to evil ; and he became irrecoverably ruined 
 and irreclaimably depraved. His waudering life had led 
 him, shortly before the period of this tale, to his native 
 
FANSHAWE. 155 
 
 country. Here the erroneous intelligence of Mr. Lang- 
 ton's death had reached him, and suggested the scheme, 
 which circumstances seemed to render practicable, but 
 the fatal termination of which has been related. 
 
 The body was buried where it had fallen, close by the 
 huge, gray, moss-grown fragment of rock, — a monu- 
 ment on which centuries can work little change. The 
 eighty years that have elapsed since the death of the 
 widow's son have, however, been sufficient to obliterate 
 an inscription, which some one was at the pains to cut 
 in the smooth surface of the stone. Traces of letters 
 are still discernible ; but the writer's many efforts could 
 never discover a connected meaning. The grave, also, is 
 overgrown with fern-bushes, and sunk to a level with 
 the surrounding soil. But the legend, though my ver- 
 sion of it may be forgotten, will long be traditionary in 
 that lonely spot, and give to the rock and the precipice 
 and the fountain an interest thrilling to the bosom of 
 the romantic wanderer. 
 

 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 " Sitting tlien in shelter shady, 
 To observe and mark his mono. 
 Suddenly I saw a lady 
 Hasting to him all alone, 
 Clad in maiden-white and green. 
 Whom I judged the Forest Queen." 
 
 The Woodman's Beae. 
 
 URING several weeks succeeding her dange? 
 and deliverance, Ellen Langton was confined to 
 her chamber by illness, resulting from the agita- 
 tion slie had endured. Her father embraced the earliest 
 opportunity to express his deep gratitude to Eanshawe 
 for the inestimable service he had rendered, and to inti- 
 mate a desire to requite it to the utmost of his power. 
 He had understood that the student's circumstances 
 were not prosperous, and, with the feeling of one who 
 was habituated to give and receive a qtdd pro quo, he 
 would have rejoiced to share his abundance with the 
 deliverer of his daughter. But Eanshawe' s flushed brow 
 and haughty eye, when he perceived the thought that 
 was stirring in Mr. Langton's mind, sufficiently proved 
 to the discerning merchant that money was not, in the 
 present instance, a circulating medium. His penetra- 
 
FANSHAWE. 157 
 
 Hon, in fact, very soou informed liim of the motives by 
 which the young man had been actuated in risking his 
 life for Ellen Langto^ ; but he made no allusion to the 
 subject, conceahng his intentions, if any he had, in his 
 own bosom. 
 
 During Ellen's illness, Edward Walcott had manifested 
 the deepest anxiety respecting her : he had wandered 
 around and within the house, like a restless ghost, in- 
 forming himself of the slightest fluctuation in her health, 
 and thereby graduating his happiness or misery. He 
 was at length informed that her convalescence had so 
 far progressed, that, on the succeeding day, she w^ould 
 vent ure below. From that time, Edward's visits to Dr. 
 Melmoth's mansion were relinquished. His cheek grew 
 pale, and his eye lost its merry light ; but he resolutely 
 kept himself a banished man. Multifarious were the 
 conjectures to which this course of conduct gave rise ; 
 but Ellen understood and approved his motives. The 
 maiden must have been far more bhnd than ever woman 
 was in such a matter, if the late events had not convinced 
 her of Eanshawe's devoted attachment ; and she saw that 
 Edward "Walcott, feeling the superior, the irresistible 
 strength of his rival's claim, had retired from the field. 
 Eanshawe, however, discovered no intention to pursue 
 his advantage. He paid her no voluntary visit, and even 
 declined an invitation to tea, with which Mrs. Melmoth, 
 after extensive preparations, had favored him. He 
 seemed to have resumed all the habits of seclusion by 
 which he was distinguished previous to his acquaintance 
 with Ellen, except that he still took his sunset walk on 
 the banks of the stream. 
 
158 FANSHAWE. 
 
 On one of these occasions, lie stayed his footsteps by 
 the old leafless oak which had witnessed Ellen's first 
 meeting with the angler. Here he jnused upon the cir- 
 cumstances that had resulted from that event, and upon 
 the rights and privileges (for he was well aware of them 
 all) which those circumstances had given him. Perhaps 
 the loveliness of the scene and the recollections connected 
 with it, perhaps the warm and mellow sunset, perhaps 
 a temporary weakness in himself, had softened his feel- 
 ings, and shaken the firmness of his resolution, to leave 
 Ellen to be happy with his rival. His strong affections 
 rose up against his reason, whispering that bliss — on 
 earth and in Heaven, through time and eternity — might 
 yet be his lot with her. It is impossible to conceive of 
 the flood of momentary joy which the bare admission 
 of such a possibility sent through his frame; and, just 
 when the tide was highest in his heart, a soft little hand 
 was laid upon his own, and, starting, he beheld Ellen at 
 his side. 
 
 Her illness, since the commencement of which Ean- 
 shawe had not seen her, had wrought a considerable, 
 but not a disadvantageous change in her appearance. 
 She was paler and thinner ; her countenance was more 
 intellectual, more spiritual ; and a spirit did the student 
 almost deem her, appearing so suddenly in that solitude. 
 There was a quick vibration of the delicate blood in her 
 cheek, yet never brightening to the glow of perfect 
 health : a tear was glittering on each of her long, dark 
 eyelashes; and there was a gentle tremor through all her 
 frame, which compelled her, for a little space, to support 
 herself against the oak. Fanshawe's first impulse was 
 
FANSHAWE. 159 
 
 to address lier in words of rapturous delight ; "but he 
 checked himself, and attempted — vainly indeed — to 
 clothe his voice in tones of calm courtesy. His remark 
 merely expressed pleasure at her restoration to health ; 
 and Ellen's low and indistinct reply had as little relation 
 to the feelings that agitated her. 
 
 " Yet I fear," continued Eanshawe, recovering a de- 
 gree of composure, and desirous of assigning a motive 
 (which he felt was not the true one) for Ellen's agitation, 
 — "I fear that your walk has extended too far for your 
 strength." 
 
 " It would have borne me farther with such a motive,'* 
 she replied, still trembling, — " to express my gratitude 
 to my preserver." 
 
 " It was needless, Ellen, it was needless ; for the deed 
 brought with it its own reward," exclaimed Eanshawe, 
 with a vehemence that he could not repress. " It was 
 dangerous, for — " 
 
 Here he interrupted himself, and turned his face away. 
 
 " And wherefore was it dangerous ? " inquired Ellen, 
 laying her hand gently on his arm ; for he seemed about 
 to leave her. 
 
 " Because you have a tender and generous heart, and 
 I a weak one," he replied. 
 
 " Not so," answered she, with animation. " Yours is 
 a heart full of strength and nobleness ; and if it have a 
 weakness — " 
 
 " You know well that it has, Ellen, — one that has 
 swallowed up all its strength," said Eanshawe. " Was 
 it wise, then, to tempt it thus, when, if it yield, the result 
 must be your own misery ? " 
 
160 FANSHAWE. 
 
 Ellen did not affect to misunderstand his meaning. 
 On the contrary, with a noble frankness, she answered to 
 what was implied rather than expressed. 
 
 " Do me not this wrong," she said, blushing, yet 
 earnestly. " Can it be misery ? Will it not be happi- 
 ness to form the tie that shall connect you to the world ? 
 to be your guide — a humble one, it is true, but the one 
 of your choice — to the quiet paths from which your 
 proud and lonely thoughts have estranged you? O, 
 I know that there will be happiness in such a lot, from 
 these and a thousand other sources ! " 
 
 The animation with which Ellen spoke, and, at the 
 same time, a sense of the singular course to which her 
 gratitude had impelled her, caused her beauty to grow 
 brighter and more enchanting with every word. And 
 when, as she concluded, she extended her hand to Fan- 
 shawe, to refuse it was like turning from an angel, who 
 would have guided him to heaven. But, had he been 
 capable of making the woman he loved a sacrifice to her 
 own generosity, that act would have rendered him un- 
 worthy of her. Yet the struggle was a severe one ere 
 he could reply. 
 
 " You have spoken generously and nobly, Ellen," he 
 said. " I have no way to prove that I deserve your 
 generosity, but by refusing to take advantage of it. 
 Even if your heart were yet untouched, if no being more 
 happily constituted than myself had made an impression 
 there, even then, I trust, a selfish passion would not be 
 stronger than my integrity. But now — " He would 
 have proceeded ; but the firmness which had hitherto 
 sustained him gave way. He turned aside to hide the 
 
FANSHAWE. 161 
 
 tears whicli all the pride of liis nature could not restrain, 
 and which, instead of relieving, added to his anguish. 
 At length he resumed, "No, Ellen, we must part now 
 and forever. Your life will be long and happy. Mine 
 will be short, but not altogether wretched, nor shorter 
 than if we had never met. When you hear that I am in 
 my grave, do not imagine that you have hastened me 
 thither. Think that you scattered bright dreams around 
 my pathway, — an ideal happiness, that you would have 
 sacrificed your own to realize." 
 
 He ceased ; and Ellen felt that his determination was 
 unalterable. She could not speak ; but, taking his hand, 
 she pressed it to her lips, and they saw each other no 
 more. Mr. Langton and his daughter shortly after 
 returned to the seaport, which, for several succeeding 
 years, was their residence. 
 
 After Ellen's departure, Eanshawe returned to his 
 studies with the same absorbing ardor that had formerly 
 characterized him. His face was as seldom seen among 
 the young and gay ; the pure breeze and the blessed 
 sunshine as seldom refreshed his pale and weary brow ; 
 and his lamp burned as constantly from the first shade of 
 evening till the gray morning light began to dim its 
 beams. Nor did he, as weak men will, treasure up his 
 love in a hidden chamber of his breast. He was in 
 reality the thoughtful and earnest student that he seemed. 
 He had exerted the whole might of his spirit over itself, 
 and he was a conqueror. Perhaps, indeed, a summer 
 breeze of sad and gentle thoughts would sometimes visit 
 him ; but, in these brief memories of his love, he did not 
 wish that it should be revived, or mourn over its event. 
 
162 FANSHAWE. 
 
 There were many who felt an interest in Fanshawe ; 
 but the influence of none could prevail upon liim to lay 
 aside the habits, mental and physical, by which he was 
 bringing himself to the grave. His passage thither was 
 consequently rapid, terminating just as he reached his 
 twentieth, year. His fellow- students erected to his mem- 
 ory a monument of rough-hewn granite, with a wliite 
 marble slab for the inscription. This was borrowed from 
 the grave of Nathanael Mather, whom in his almost 
 insane eagerness for knowledge, and in his early death, 
 Fanshawe resembled. 
 
 THE ASHES OF A HARD STUDENT AND A GOOD SCHOLAR. 
 
 Many tears were shed over his grave ; but the thought- 
 ful and the wise, though turf never covered a nobler 
 heart, could not lament that it was so soon at rest. He 
 left a world for which he was unfit ; and we trust, that, 
 among the innumerable stars of heaven, there is one 
 where he has found happiness. 
 
 Of the other personages of this tale, — Hugh Crombie, 
 being exposed to no strong temptations, lived and died 
 an honest man. Concerning Dr. Melmoth, it is un- 
 necessary here to speak. The reader, if he have any 
 curiosity upon the subject, is referred to his Life, which, 
 together with several sermons and other productions of 
 the doctor, was published by his successor in the presi- 
 dency of Harley College, about the year 17G8. 
 
 It was not till four years after Fanshawe's death, that 
 Edward Walcott was united to Ellen Langton. Their 
 future lives were uncommonly happy. Ellen's gentle, 
 almost imperceptible, but powerful influence drew her 
 
FANSHAWE. 
 
 163 
 
 husband away from the passions and pursuits that would 
 have interfered with domestic felicity; and he never 
 regretted the worldly distinction of which she thus de- 
 prived him. Theirs was a long life of calm and quiet 
 bliss ; and what matters it, that, except in these pages, 
 they have left no name behind them ? 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, 
 
MRS. HUTCHINSON. 
 
 HE character of tliis female suggests a train of 
 thouglit wliicli will form as natural an Intro- 
 duction to her story, as most of the Prefaces 
 to Gay's Tables, or the tales of Prior ; besides that, the 
 general soundness of the moral may excuse any want of 
 present applicability. We will not look for a Uving re- 
 semblance of Mrs. Hutchinson, though the search might 
 not be altogether fruitless. But there are portentous 
 indications, changes gradually taking place in the habits 
 and feelings of the gentle sex, which seem to threaten 
 our posterity with many of those public women, whereof 
 one was a burden too grievous for our fathers. The 
 press, however, is now the medium through which femi- 
 nine ambition chiefly manifests itself; and we will not 
 anticipate the period (trusting to be gone hence ere it 
 arrive) when fair orators shall be as numerous as the fair 
 authors of our own day. The hastiest glance may show 
 how much of the texture and body of cisatlantic litera- 
 ture is the work of those slender fingers from which only 
 a light and fanciful embroidery has heretofore been re- 
 quired, that might sparkle upon the garment without 
 enfeebling the web. Woman's intellect should never 
 
168 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 give the tone to that of man ; and even her morality is 
 not exactly the material for masculine virtue. A false 
 liberality, which mistakes the strong division-lines of 
 Nature for arbitrary distinctions, and a courtesy, which 
 might polish criticism, but should never soften it, have 
 done their best to add a girlish feebleness to the totter- 
 ing infancy of our literature. The evil is likely to be 
 a growing one. As yet, the great body of American 
 women are a domestic race ; but when a continuance of 
 ill-judged incitements shall have turned their hearts away 
 from the fireside, there are obvious circumstances which 
 will render female pens more numerous and more prolific 
 than those of men, though but equally encouraged ; and 
 (limited, of course, by the scanty support of the public, 
 but increasing indefinitely within those limits) the ink- 
 stained Amazons will expel their rivals by actual press- 
 ure, and petticoats wave triumphantly over all the field. 
 But, allowing that such forebodings are slightly exag- 
 gerated, is it good for woman's self that the path of 
 feverish hope, of tremulous success, of bitter and igno- 
 minious disappointment, should be left wide open to 
 her? Is the prize worth her having, if she win it? 
 Pame does not increase the peculiar respect which men 
 pay to female excellence, and there is a delicacy (even 
 in rude bosoms, where few would think to find it) that 
 perceives, or fancies, a sort of impropriety in the display 
 of woman's natal mind to the gaze of the world, with 
 indications by which its inmost secrets may be searched 
 out. In fine, criticism should examine with a stricter, 
 instead of a more indulgent eye, the merits of females at 
 its bar, because they are to justify themselves for an 
 
MRS. HUTCHINSON. 169 
 
 irregularity wliich men do not commit in appearing 
 there; and woman, when she feels the impulse of gen- 
 ius like a command of Heaven within her, should be 
 aware that she is relinquishing a part of the lovehness 
 of her sex, and obey the inward voice with sorrowing 
 reluctance, like the Arabian maid who bewailed the gift 
 of prophecy. Hinting thus imperfectly at sentiments 
 which may be developed on a future occasion, we pro- 
 ceed to consider the celebrated subject of this sketch. 
 
 Mrs. Hutchinson was a woman of extraordinary talent 
 and strong imagination, whom the latter quality, follow- 
 ing the general direction taken by the enthusiasm of the 
 times, prompted to stand forth as a reformer in religion. 
 In her native country, she had shown symptoms of 
 irregular and daring thought, but, chiefly by the influ- 
 ence of a favorite pastor, was restrained from open indis- 
 cretion. On the removal of this clergyman, becoming 
 dissatisfied with the ministry under which she lived, she 
 was drawn in by the great tide of Puritan emigration, 
 and visited Massachusetts within a few years after its 
 first settlement. But she bore trouble in her own 
 bosom, and could find no peace in this chosen land. She 
 soon began to promulgate strange and dangerous opin- 
 ions, tending, in the peculiar situation of the colony, and 
 from the principles which were its basis, and indispen- 
 sable for its temporary support, to eat into its very exist- 
 ence. We shall endeavor to give a more practical idea 
 of this part of her course. 
 
 It is a summer evening. The dusk has settled heavily 
 upon the woods, the waves, and the Trimountain peniii' 
 sula, increasing that dismal aspect of the embryo town, 
 8 
 
170 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 ■whicli was said to have drawn tears of despondency from 
 Mrs. Hutchinson, though she believed that her mission 
 thither was divine. The houses, straw thatched and lowly 
 roofed, stand irregularly along streets that are yet rough- 
 ened by the roots of the trees, as if the forest, departing 
 at the approach of man, had left its reluctant footprints 
 behind. Most of the dwellings are lonely and silent : 
 from a few we may hear the reading of some sacred text, 
 or the quiet voice of prayer ; but nearly all the sombre 
 life of the scene is collected near the extremity of the 
 village. A crowd of hooded women, and of men in 
 steeple-hats and close-cropped hair, are assembled at the 
 door and open windows of a house newly built. An 
 earnest expression glows in every face ; and some press 
 inward, as if the bread of life were to be dealt forth, 
 and they feared to lose their share ; while others would 
 fain hold them back, but enter with them, since they 
 may not be restrained. We, also, will go in, edging 
 through the thronged doorway to an apartment which 
 occupies the whole breadth of the house. At the upper 
 end, behind a table, on which are placed the Scriptures 
 and two ghmmering lamps, we see a woman, plainly 
 attired, as befits her ripened years : her hair, complex- 
 ion, and eyes are dark, the latter somewhat dull and 
 heavy, but kindling up with a gradual brightness. Let 
 us look round upon the hearers. At her right hand, his 
 countenance suiting well with the gloomy light which 
 discovers it, stands Vane, the youthful governor, pre- 
 ferred by a hasty judgment of the people over all the 
 wise and hoary heads that had preceded him to New 
 England. In his mysterious eyes we may read a dark 
 
MRS. HUTCHINSON. 17L 
 
 enthusiasm, akin to that of the woman whose cause he 
 has espoused, combined with a shrewd worldly foresight, 
 which tells him that her doctrines will be productive of 
 change and tumult, the elements of his power and de- 
 light. On her left, yet slightly drawn back, so as to 
 evince a less decided support, is Cotton, no young and 
 hot enthusiast, but a mild, grave man in the decline of 
 life, deep in all the learning of the age, and sanctified 
 in heart, and made venerable in feature, by the long 
 exercise of his holy profession. He, also, is deceived 
 by the strange fire now laid upon the altar ; and he alone 
 among his brethren is excepted in the denunciation of 
 the new apostle, as sealed and set apart by Heaven to 
 the work of the ministry. Others of the priesthood stand 
 full in front of the woman, striving to beat her down with 
 brows of wrinkled iron, and whispering sternly and sig- 
 nificantly among themselves as she unfolds her seditious 
 doctrines, and grows warm in their support. Foremost 
 is Hugh Peters, full of holy wrath, and scarce containing 
 himself from rushing forward to convict her of damnable 
 heresies. There, also, is Ward, meditating a reply of 
 empty puns, and quaint antitheses, and tinklmg jests 
 that puzzle us with nothing but a sound. The audience 
 are variously affected ; but none are indifferent. On the 
 foreheads of the aged, the mature, and strong-minded, 
 you may generally read steadfast disapprobation, though 
 here and there is one whose faith seems shaken in those 
 whom he had trusted for years. The females, on the 
 other hand, are shuddering and weeping, and at times 
 they cast a desolate look of fear around them ; while the 
 young men lean forward, fiery and impatient, fit instru- 
 
172 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 ments for whatever rash deed may be suggested. And 
 what is the eloquence that gives rise to all these pas- 
 sions ? The woman tells them (and cites texts from the 
 Holy Book to prove her words) that they have put their 
 trust in unregenerated and uncommissioned men, and 
 have followed them into the wilderness for nought. 
 Therefore their hearts are turning from those whom 
 they had chosen to lead them to heaven ; and they feel 
 like children who have been enticed far from home, and 
 see the features of their guides change all at once, as- 
 suming a fiendish shape in some frightful solitude. 
 
 These proceedings of Mrs. Hutchinson could not long 
 be endured by the provincial government. The present 
 was a most remarkable case, in which religious freedom 
 was wholly inconsistent with public safety, and where 
 the principles of an illiberal age indicated the very 
 course which must have been pursued by worldly policy 
 and enlightened wisdom. Unity of faith was the star 
 that had guided these people over the deep; and a 
 diversity of sects would either have scattered them from 
 the land to which they had as yet so few attachments, 
 or, perhaps, have excited a diminutive civil war among 
 those who had come so far to worship together. The 
 opposition to what may be termed the Established 
 Church had now lost its chief support by the removal of 
 Vane from office, and his departure for England; and 
 Mr. Cotton began to have that light in regard io his 
 errors, which will sometimes break in upon the wisest 
 and most pious men, when their opinions are unhappily 
 discordant with those of the powers that be. A synod, 
 the first in New England, was speedily assembled, and 
 
MRS. HUTCHINSON. 173 
 
 pronounced its condemnation of the obnoxious doc- 
 trines. Mrs. Hutchinson was next summoned before 
 tlic supreme civil tribunal, at which, however, the most 
 eminent of the clergy were present, and appear to have 
 taken a very active part as witnesses and advisers. We 
 shall here resume the more picturesque style of narra- 
 tion. 
 
 It is a place of humble aspect where the elders of 
 the people are met, sitting in judgment upon the dis- 
 turber of Israel. The floor of the low and narrow hall 
 is laid with planks hewn by the axe ; the beams of the 
 roof still wear the rugged bark with which they grew up 
 in the forest ; and the hearth is formed of one broad, 
 unhammered stone, heaped with logs that roll their blaze 
 and smoke up a chimney of wood and clay. A sleety 
 shower beats fitfully against the windows, driven by the 
 November blast, which comes howling onward from the 
 northern desert, the boisterous and unwelcome herald of 
 a New England winter. Rude benches are arranged 
 across the apartment, and along its sides, occupied by 
 men whose piety and learning might have entitled them 
 to seats in those high councils of the ancient church, 
 whence opinions were sent forth to confirm or supersede 
 the gospel in the belief of the whole world and of posterity. 
 Here are collected all those blessed fathers of the land, 
 who rank in our veneration next to the evangelists of 
 Holy Writ ; and here, also, are many, unpuritied from 
 the fiercest errors of the age, and ready to propagate the 
 religion of peace by violence. In the highest place sits 
 Wiuthrop, — a man by whom the innocent and guilty 
 might alike desire to be judged; the first confiding in his 
 
174 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 integrity and wisdom, the latter hoping in his mildness. 
 Next is Endicott, who would stand with his drawn 
 sword at the gate of heaven, and resist to the death 
 all pilgrims thither, except they travelled his own path. 
 The infant eyes of one in this assembly beheld the fagots 
 blazing round the martyrs in Bloody Mary's time : in 
 later life he dwelt long at Leyden, with the first who 
 went from England for conscience' sake; and now, in 
 liis weary age, it matters little where he lies down to die. 
 There are others whose hearts were smitten in the high 
 meridian of ambitious hope, and whose dreams still 
 tempt them with the pomp of the Old World and the 
 din of its crowded cities, gleaming and echoing over the 
 deep. In the midst, and in the centre of all eyes, we 
 see the woman. She stands loftily before her judges 
 with a determined brow ; and, unknown to herself, there 
 is a flash of carnal pride half hidden in her eye, as she 
 surveys the many learned and famous men whom her 
 doctrines have put in fear. They question her ; and her 
 answers are ready and acute : she reasons with them 
 shrewdly, and brings Scripture in support of every argu- 
 ment. The deepest controversialists of that scholastic 
 day find here a woman, whom all their trained and 
 sharpened intellects are inadequate to foil. But, by the 
 excitement of the contest, her heart is made to rise 
 and swell within her, and she bursts forth into elo- 
 quence. She tells them of the long unquietness which 
 she had endured in England, perceiving the corruption 
 of the Church, and yearning for a purer and more perfect 
 light, and how, in a day of solitary prayer, that hght was 
 given. She claims for herself the peculiar power of dis- 
 
MRS. HUTCHINSON. 175 
 
 tinguisliiug between the chosen of man, and the sealed 
 of Heaven, and affirms that her gifted eye can see the 
 glory round the foreheads of saints, sojourning in their 
 mortal state. She declares herself commissioned to 
 separate the true shepherds from the false, and de- 
 nounces present and future judgments on the land, if 
 she be disturbed in her celestial errand. Thus the 
 accusations are proved from her own mouth. Her judges 
 hesitate ; and some speak faintly in her defence ; but, 
 with a few dissenting voices, sentence is pronounced, 
 bidding her go out from among them, and trouble the 
 land no more. 
 
 Mrs. Hutchinson's adherents throughout the colony 
 were now disarmed ; and she proceeded to Rhode Island, 
 an accustomed refuge for the exiles of Massachusetts in 
 all seasons of persecution. Her enemies believed that 
 the anger of Heaven was following her, of which Gov- 
 ernor Winthrop does not disdain to record a notable 
 instance, very interesting in a scientific point of view, 
 but fitter for his old and homely narrative than for 
 modern repetition. In a little time, also, she lost her 
 husband, who is mentioned in history only as attending 
 her footsteps, and whom we may conclude to have been 
 (like most husbands of celebrated women) a mere insig- 
 nificant appendage of his mightier wife. She now grew 
 uneasy away from the Hhode Island colonists, wliose 
 liberality towards her, at an era when liberality was not 
 esteemed a Christian virtue, probably arose from a com- 
 parative insolicitude on religious matters, more distaste- 
 ful to Mrs. Hutchinson than even the uncompromising 
 narrowness of the Puritans. Her final movement was 
 
176 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 to lead her family within the limits of the Dutch juris- 
 diction, where, having felled the trees of a virgin soil, 
 she became herself the virtual head, civil and ecclesias- 
 tical, of a little colony. 
 
 Perhaps here she found the repose hitherto so vainly 
 sought. Secluded from all whose faith she could not 
 govern, surrounded by the dependants over whom she 
 held an unlimited influence, agitated by none of the 
 tumultuous billows which were left swelhng behind her, 
 we may suppose that, in the stillness of Nature, her 
 heart was stilled. But her impressive story was to have 
 an awful close. Her last scene is as difficult to be 
 described as a shipwreck, where the shrieks of the vic- 
 tims die unheard, along a desolate sea, and a shapeless 
 mass of agony is all that can be brought home to the 
 imagination. The savage foe was on the watch for 
 blood. Sixteen persons assembled at the evening prayer : 
 in the deep midnight their cry rang through the forest ; 
 and daylight dawned upon the lifeless clay of all but one. 
 It was a circumstance not to be unnoticed by our stern 
 ancestors, in considering the fate of her who had so 
 troubled their religion, that an infant daughter, the sole 
 survivor amid the terrible destruction of her mother's 
 household, was bred in a barbarous faith, and never 
 learned the way to the Christian's heaven. Yet we will 
 hope that there the mother and child have met. 
 
Hi 
 
 SIR WILLIAM PHIPS. 
 
 EW of the personages of past times (except sucli 
 as have gained renown in fireside legends as well 
 as in written history) are anything more than 
 mere names to their successors. They seldom stand up 
 in our iiii aginations like men. The knowledge communi- 
 cated by the historian and biographer is analogous to that 
 which we acquire of a country by the map, — minute, 
 perhaps, and accurate, and available for all necessary 
 purposes, but cold and naked, and wholly destitute of the 
 mimic charm produced by landscape-painting. These de- 
 fects are partly remediable, and even without an absolute 
 violation of literal truth, although by methods rightfully 
 interdicted to professors of biographical exactness. A 
 license must be assumed in brightening the materials 
 .which time has rusted, and in tracing out half-obliterated 
 inscriptions on the columns of antiquity: Fancy must 
 throw her reviving light on the faded incidents that indi- 
 cate character, whence a ray will be reflected, more or 
 less vividly, on the person to be described. The portrait 
 of the ancient governor whose name stands at the head 
 of tliis article will owe any interest it may possess, not 
 to his internal self, but to certain peculiarities of his for- 
 tune. These must be briefly noticed. 
 
 8* L 
 
178 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 The birth and early life of Sir William Phips were 
 rather an extraordinary prelude to his subsequent dis- 
 tinction. He was one of the twenty-six children of a 
 gunsmith, who exercised his trade — where hunting and 
 war must have given it a full encouragement — in a small 
 frontier settlement near the mouth of the river Kennebec. 
 Within the boundaries of the Puritan provinces, and 
 wherever those governments extended an effectual sway, 
 no depth nor solitude of the wilderness could exclude 
 youth from all the common opportunities of moral, and 
 far more than common ones of religious education. Each 
 settlement of the Pilgrims was a little piece of the Old 
 World inserted into the New. It was like Gideon's 
 fleece, unwet with dew : the desert wind that breathed 
 over it left none of its wild influences there. But the 
 first settlers of Maine and New Hampshire were led 
 thither entirely by carnal motives : their governments 
 were feeble, uncertain, sometimes nominally annexed to 
 their sister colonies, and sometimes asserting a troubled 
 independence. Their rulers might be deemed, in more 
 than one instance, lawless adventurers, who found that 
 security in the forest which they had forfeited in Europe. 
 Their clergy (unlike that revered band who acquired so 
 singular a fame elsewhere in New England) were too 
 often destitute of the religious fervor which should have 
 kept them in the track of virtue, unaided by the restraints 
 of human law and the dread of worldly dishonor; and 
 there are records of lamentable lapses on the part of those 
 holy men, which, if we may argue the disorder of the sheep 
 from the unfitness of the shepherd, tell a sad tale as to 
 the morality of the eastern provinces. In this state of 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS. 179 
 
 society, the future governor grew up; and many years 
 after, sailing witli a fleet and an army to make war upon 
 the French, he pointed out the very hills where he had 
 reached the age of manhood, unskilled even to read and 
 write. The contrast between the commencement and 
 close of his life was the effect of casual circumstances. 
 During a considerable time, he was a mariner, at a period 
 when there was much license on the high-seas. After 
 attaining to some rank in the EngHsh navy, he heard of 
 an ancient Spanish wreck off the coast of Hispaniola, of 
 such mighty value, that, according to the stories of the 
 day, the sunken gold might be seen to glisten, and the 
 diamonds to flash, as the triumphant billows tossed about 
 their spoil. These treasures of the deep (by the aid of 
 certain noblemen, who claimed the lion's share) Sir 
 William Phips sought for, and recovered, and was suffi- 
 ciently enriched, even after an honest settlement with the 
 partners of his adventure. That the land might give him 
 honor, as the sea had given him wealth, he received knight- 
 hood from King James. Returning to New England, he 
 professed repentance of his sins (of which, from the na- 
 ture both of his early and more recent Hfe, there could 
 scarce fail to be some slight accumulation), was baptized, 
 and, on the accession of the Prince of Orange to the 
 throne, became the first governor under the second char- 
 ter. And now, having arranged these preliminaries, we 
 shall attempt to picture forth a day of Sir William's life, 
 introducing no very remarkable events, because history- 
 supplies us with none such convertible to our purpose. 
 
 It is the forenoon of a day in summer, shortly after the 
 governor's arrival ; and he stands upon his doorsteps, 
 
180 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 preparatory to a walk through the metropolis. Sir Wil- 
 liam is a stout man, an inch or two below the middle size, 
 and rather beyond the middle point of life. His dress is 
 of velvet, — a dark purple, broadly embroidered ; and his 
 sword-hilt and the lion's head of his cane display speci- 
 mens of the gold from the Spanish wreck. On his head, 
 in the fashion of the court of Louis XIV,, is a superb 
 full-bottomed periwig, amid whose heap of ringlets his 
 face shows like a rough pebble in the setting that befits a 
 diamond. Just emerging from the door are two foot- 
 men, — one an African slave of shiniug ebony, the other 
 an English bond-servant, the property of the governor 
 for a term of years. As Sir WilUam comes down the 
 steps, he is met by three elderly gentlemen in black, 
 grave and solemn as three tombstones on a ramble from 
 the burying-ground. These are ministers of the town, 
 among whom we recognize Dr. Increase Mather, the late 
 provincial agent at the English court, the author of the 
 present governor's appointment, and the right arm of his 
 administration. Here follow many bows and a deal of 
 angular politeness on both sides. Sir William professes 
 his anxiety to re-enter the house, and give audience to 
 the reverend gentlemen : they, on the other hand, cannot 
 think of interrupting his walk ; and the courteous dispute 
 is concluded by a junction of the parties ; Sir William 
 and Dr. Mather setting forth side by side, the two other 
 clergymen forming the centre of the column, and the 
 black and white footmen bringing up the rear. The 
 business in hand relates to the dealings of Satan in the 
 town of Salem. Upon this subject, the principal minis- 
 ters of the province have been consulted ; and these three 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS. 181 
 
 eminent persons are their deputies, commissioned to 
 express a doubtful opinion, implying, upon tlie whole, an 
 exhortation to speedy and vigorous measures against the 
 accused. To such councils. Sir William, bred in the 
 forest and on the ocean, and tinctured with the super- 
 stition of both, is well inclined to listen. 
 
 As the dignitaries of Church and State make their way 
 beneath the overhanging houses, the lattices are thrust 
 ajar, and you may discern, just in the boundaries of light 
 and shade, the prim faces of the little Puritan damsels, 
 eying the magnificent governor, and envious of the bolder 
 curiosity of the men. Another object of almost equal 
 interest now appears in the middle of the way. It is a 
 man clad in a hunting-shirt and Indian stockings, and 
 armed with a long gun. His feet have been wet with 
 the waters of many an inland lake and stream ; and the 
 leaves and twigs of the tangled wilderness are intertwined 
 with his garments : on his head he wears a trophy which 
 we would not venture to record without good evidence 
 of the fact, — a wig made of the long and straight black 
 hair of his slain savage enemies. This grim old heathen 
 stands bewildered in the midst of King Street. The gov- 
 ernor regards him attentively, and, recognizing a play- 
 mate of his youth, accosts him with a gracious smile, 
 inquires as to the prosperity of their birthplace, and the 
 life or death of their ancient neighbors, and makes appro- 
 priate remarks on the different stations allotted by fortune 
 to two individuals born and bred beside the same wild 
 river. Finally he puts into his hand, at parting, a shilling 
 of the Massachusetts coinage, stamped with the figure of 
 a stubbed pine-tree, mistaken by King Charles for the 
 
182 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 oak wliicli saved his royal life. Then all the people 
 praise the humility and bountifulness of the good gov- 
 ernor, who struts onward flourishing his gold-headed 
 cane ; while the gentleman in the straight black wig is 
 left with a pretty accurate idea of the distance between 
 himself and his old companion. 
 
 Meantime, Sir William steers his course towards the 
 town dock. A gallant figure is seen approaching on the 
 opposite side of the street, in a naval uniform profusely 
 laced, and with a cutlass swinging by his side. This is 
 Captain Short, the commander of a frigate in the service 
 of the English king, now lying in the harbor. Sir Wil- 
 liam bristles up at sight of him, and crosses the street 
 with a lowering front, unmmdful of the hints of Dr. Ma- 
 ther, who is aware of an unsettled dispute between the 
 captain and the governor, relative to the authority of the 
 latter over a king's ship on the provincial station. Into 
 this thorny subject. Sir William plunges headlong. The 
 captain makes answer with less deference than the dignity 
 of the potentate requires : the affair grows hot ; and the 
 clergymen endeavor to interfere in the blessed capacity 
 of peacemakers. The governor lifts his cane; and the 
 captain lays his hand upon his sword, but is prevented 
 from drawing by the zealous exertions of Dr. Mather. 
 There is a/urious stamping of feet, and a mighty uproar 
 from every mouth, in the midst of which his Excellency 
 inflicts several very sufficient whacks on the head of the 
 unhappy Short, Having thus avenged himself by manual 
 force, as befits a woodman and a mariner, he vindicates 
 the insulted majesty of the governor by committing his 
 antagonist to prison. This done, Sir Wilham removes 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS. 183 
 
 Ills periwig, wipes away the sweat of the encouuter, and 
 gradually composes himself, givhig vent to a few oaths, 
 like the subsiding ebullitions of a pot that has boiled 
 over. 
 
 It being now near twelve o'clock, the three ministers 
 are bidden to dinner at the governor's table, where the 
 party is completed by a few Old Charter senators, — men 
 reared at the feet of the Pilgrims, and who remember the 
 days when Cromwell was a nursing-father to New Eng- 
 land. Sir William presides with commendable decorum 
 till grace is said, and the cloth removed. Then, as the 
 grape-juice glides warm into the ventricles of his heart, it 
 produces a change, like that of a running stream upon 
 enchanted shapes ; and the rude man of the sea and wil- 
 derness appears in the very chair where the stately gov- 
 ernor sat down. He overflows with jovial tales of the 
 forecastle and of his father's hut, and stares to see the 
 gravity of his guests become more and more portentous 
 in exact proportion as his own merriment increases. A 
 noise of drum and fife fortunately breaks up the session. 
 
 The governor and his guests go forth, like men bound 
 upon some grave business, to inspect the trainbands of 
 the town. A great crowd of people is collected on the 
 common, composed of whole families, from the hoary 
 grandsire to the child of three years. All ages and both 
 sexes look with interest on the array of their defenders ; 
 and here and there stand a few dark Indians in their 
 blankets, dull spectators of the strength that has swept 
 away their race. The soldiers wear a proud and martial 
 mien, conscious that beauty will reward them with her 
 approving glances ; not to mention that there are a few 
 
184 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 less influential motives to contribute to keep up an heroic 
 spirit, such as the dread of being made to " ride the 
 wooden horse " (a very disagreeable mode of equestrian 
 exercise, — hard ridmg, in the strictest sense), or of 
 being "laid neck and heels," in a position of more com- 
 pendiousness than comfort. Sir William perceives some 
 error in their tactics, and places himself with drawn 
 sword at their head. After a variety of weary evolu- 
 tions, evening begins to fall, like the veil of gray and 
 misty years that have rolled betwixt that warlike band 
 and us. They are drawn into a hollow square, the offi- 
 cers in the centre ; and the governor (for John Dunton's 
 authority will bear us out in this particular) leans his 
 hands upon his sword-hilt, and closes the exercises of the 
 day with a prayer. 
 
SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 
 
 HE mighty man of Kittery has a double claim 
 to remembrance. He was a famous general, 
 the most prominent military character in our 
 ante-Revolutionary annals ; and he may be taken as the 
 representative of a class of warriors peculiar to their age 
 and country, — true citizen-soldiers, who diversified a 
 life of commerce or agriculture by the episode of a city 
 sacked, or a battle won, and, having stamped their names 
 on the page of history, went back to the routine of peace- 
 ful occupation. Sir William Pepperell's letters, written 
 at the most critical period of his career, and his conduct 
 then and at other times, indicate a man of plain good 
 sense, with a large share of quiet resolution, and but 
 little of an enterprising spirit, unless aroused by external 
 circumstances. The Methodistic principles, with which 
 he was slightly tinctured, instead of impelling him to ex- 
 travagance, assimilated themselves to his orderly habits 
 of thought and action. Thus respectably endowed, we 
 find him, when near the age of fifty, a merchant of 
 weight in foreign and domestic trade, a provincial coun- 
 sellor, and colonel of the York County militia, filling a 
 large space in the eyes of his generation, but likely to 
 
186 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 gain no other posthumous memorial than the letters on 
 his tombstone, because undistinguished from the many 
 worshipful gentlemen who had lived prosperously and 
 died peacefully before him. But in the year 1745, an 
 expedition was projected against Louisburg, a walled 
 city of the Prench in the island of Cape Breton. The 
 idea of reducing this strong fortress was conceived by 
 William Yaughau, a bold, energetic, and imaginative 
 adventurer, and adopted by Governor Shirley, the most 
 bustling, though not the wisest ruler, that ever presided 
 over Massachusetts. His influence at its utmost stretch 
 carried the measure by a majority of only one vote in the 
 legislature : the other New England provinces consented 
 to lend their assistance ; and the next point was to select 
 a commander from among the gentlemen of the country, 
 none of whom had the least particle of scientific soldier- 
 ship, although some were experienced in the irregular 
 warfare of the frontiers. In the absence of the usual 
 qualifications for military rank, the choice was guided by 
 other motives, and fell upon Colonel Pepperell, who, as 
 a landed proprietor in three provinces, and popular with 
 all classes of people, might draw the greatest number 
 of recruits to his banner. When this doubtful specula- 
 tion was proposed to the prudent merchant, he sought 
 advice from the celebrated "Whitefield, then an itinerant 
 preacher in the country, and an object of vast antipathy 
 to many of the settled ministers. The response of the 
 apostle of Methodism, though dark as those of the Ora- 
 cle of Delphos, intimating that the blood of the slain 
 would be laid to Colonel Pepperell's charge, in case of fail- 
 ure, and that the envy of the living would persecute him. 
 
SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 187 
 
 if victorious, decided liim to gird on liis armor. That 
 the French might be taken unawares, the legislature had 
 been laid under an oath of secrecy while their delibera- 
 tions should continue; this precaution, however, was 
 nullified by the pious perjury of a country member of 
 the lower house, who, in the performance of domestic 
 worship at his lodgings, broke into a fervent and invol- 
 untary petition for the success of the enterprise against 
 Louisburg. We of the present generation, whose hearts 
 have never been heated and amalgamated by one univer- 
 sal passion, and who are, perhaps, less excitable in the 
 mass than our fathers, cannot easily conceive the enthu- 
 siasm with which the people seized upon the project. A 
 desire to prove in the eyes of England the courage of 
 her provinces ; the real necessity for the destruction of 
 this Dunkirk of America; the hope of private advan- 
 tage ; a remnant of the old Puritan detestation of Papist 
 idolatry ; a strong hereditary hatred of the French, who, 
 for half a hundred years, had shed the blood of the Eng- 
 lish settlers in concert with the savages ; the natural 
 proneness of the New-Englanders to engage in temporary 
 undertakings, even though doubtful and hazardous, — 
 such were some of the motives which soon drew together 
 a host, comprehending nearly all the effective force of 
 the country. The officers were grave deacons, justices 
 of the peace, and other similar dignitaries ; and in the 
 ranks were many warm householders, sons of rich farm- 
 ers, mechanics in thriving business, husbands weary of 
 their wives, and bachelors disconsolate for want of them. 
 The disciples of Whitefield also turned their excited 
 imaginations in this direction, and increased the resem- 
 
188 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 blance borne by the provincial array to the motley 
 assemblages of the first crusaders, A part of the pecul- 
 iarities of the affair may be grouped in one picture, by 
 selecting the moment of General Pepperell's embarkation. 
 It is a bright and breezy day of March; and about 
 twenty small white clouds are scudding seaward before 
 the wind, airy forerunners of the fleet of privateers and 
 transports that spread their sails to the sunshine in the 
 harbor. The tide is at its height ; and the gunwale of a 
 barge alternately rises above the wharf, and then sinks 
 from view, as it lies rocking on the waves in readiness to 
 convey the general and his suite on board the Shirley 
 galley. In the background, the dark wooden dwellings 
 of the town have poured forth their inhabitants ; and 
 this way rolls an earnest throng, with the great man of 
 the day walking in the midst. Before him struts a guard 
 of honor, selected from the yeomanry of his own neighbor- 
 hood, and stout young rustics in their Sunday clothes ; 
 next appear six figures who demand our more minute 
 attention. He in the centre is the general, a well-pro- 
 portioned man with a slight hoar-frost of age just visible 
 upon him; he views the fleet in which he is about to 
 embark, with no stronger expression than a calm anxiety, 
 as if he were sending a freight of his own merchandise to 
 Europe. A scarlet British uniform, made of the best of 
 broadcloth, because imported by himself, adorns his per- 
 son ; and in the left pocket of a large buff waistcoat, near 
 the pommel of his sword, we see the square protuberance 
 of a small Bible, which certainly may benefit his pious 
 soul, and, perchance, may keep a bullet from his body. 
 The middle-aged gentleman at his right hand, to whom 
 
SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 189 
 
 he pays sucli grave attention, in silk, gold, and velvet, 
 and "with a pair of spectacles thrust above his forehead, is 
 Governor Shirley. The quick motion of his small eyes in 
 their puckered sockets, his grasp on one of the general's 
 bright military buttons, the gesticulation of his forefinger, 
 keeping time with the earnest rapidity of his words, have 
 all something characteristic. His mind is calculated to 
 fill up the wild conceptions of other men with its own 
 minute ingenuities ; and he seeks, as it were, to climb 
 up to the moon by piling pebtle-stones, one upon 
 another. He is now impressing on the general's recol- 
 lection the voluminous details of a plan for surprising 
 Louisburg in the depth of midnight, and thus to finish 
 the campaign within twelve hours after the arrival of the 
 troops. On the left, forming a striking contrast with the 
 unruffled deportment of Pepperell, and the fidgety vehe- 
 mence of Shirley, is the martial figure of Vaughan : with 
 one hand he has seized the general's arm ; and he points 
 the other to the sails of the vessel fluttering in the breeze, 
 while the fire of his inward enthusiasm glows through 
 his dark complexion, and flashes in tips of flame from his 
 eyes. Another pale and emaciated person, in neglected 
 and scarcely decent attire, and distinguished by the ab- 
 stracted fervor of his manner, presses through the crowd, 
 and attempts to lay hold of Pepperell's skirt. He has 
 spent years in wild and shadowy studies, and has 
 searched the crucible of the alchemist for gold, and 
 wasted the life allotted him, in a weary effort to render 
 it immortal. The din of warlike preparation has broken 
 in upon his solitude ; and he comes forth with a fancy of 
 his half-maddened brain, — the model of a flying bridge. 
 
190 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 — by which the army is to be transported into the heart 
 of the hostile fortress with the celerity of magic. But 
 who is this, of the mild and venerable countenance 
 shaded by locks of a hallowed whiteness, looking like 
 Peace with its gentle thoughts in the midst of uproar 
 and stern designs ? It is the minister of an inland par- 
 ish, who, after much prayer aud fasting, advised by the 
 elders of the church and the wife of his bosom, has taken 
 his staif, and journeyed townward. The benevolent old 
 man would fain solicit the general's attention to a method 
 of avoiding danger from the explosion of mines, and of 
 overcoming the city without bloodshed of friend or 
 enemy. We start as we turn from this picture of Chris- 
 tian love to the dark enthusiast close beside him, — a 
 preacher of the new sect, in every wrinkled line of whose 
 visage we can read the stormy passions that have chosen 
 religion for their outlet. Woe to the wretch that shall 
 seek mercy there ! At his back is slung an axe, where- 
 with he goes to hew down the carved altars and idol- 
 atrous images in the Popish churches ; and over his 
 head he rears a banner, which, as the wind unfolds it, 
 displays the motto given by Whitefield, — Christo Duce, 
 
 — in letters red as blood. But the tide is now ebbing ; 
 and the general makes his adieus to the governor, and 
 enters the boat : it bounds swiftly over the waves, the 
 holy banner fluttering in the bows : a huzza from the 
 fleet comes riotously to the shore ; and the people thun- 
 der back their many- voiced reply. 
 
 When the expedition sailed, the projectors could not 
 reasonably rely on assistance from the mother-country. 
 At Canso, however, the fleet was strengthened by a 
 
SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 191 
 
 squadron of British sliips-of-tlie-line and frigates, under 
 Commodore Warren; and this circumstance undoubt- 
 edly prevented a discomfiture, although the active busi- 
 ness, and all the dangers of the siege, fell to the share 
 of the provincials. If we had any confidence that it 
 could be done with half so much pleasure to the reader 
 as to ourself, we would present a whole gallery of pic- 
 tures from these rich and fresh historic scenes. Never, 
 certainly, since man first indulged his instinctive appe- 
 tite for war, did a queerer and less manageable host sit 
 down before a hostile city. The officers, drawn from 
 the same class of citizens with the rank and file, had 
 neither the power' to institute an awful discipline, nor 
 enough of the trained soldier's spirit to attempt it. Of 
 headlong valor, when occasion off'ered, there was no lack, 
 nor of a readiness to encounter severe fatigue ; but, with 
 few intermissions, the provincial army made the siege one 
 long day of frolic and disorder. Conscious that no mili- 
 tary virtues of their own deserved the prosperous result 
 which followed, they insisted that Heaven had fought as 
 manifestly on their side as ever on that of Israel in the 
 battles of the Old Testament. We, however, if we con- 
 sider the events of after-years, and confine our view to a 
 period short of the Revolution, might doubt whether the 
 victory was granted to our fathers as a blessing or as a 
 judgment. Most of the young men who had left their 
 paternal firesides, sound in constitution, and pure in 
 morals, if they returned at all, returned with ruined 
 health, and with minds so broken up by the mterval of 
 riot, that they never after could resume the habits of 
 good citizenship. A lust for military glory was also 
 
192 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 awakened in the country; and France and England 
 gratified it with enough of slaughter ; the former seek- 
 ing to recover what she had lost, the latter to complete 
 the conquest which the colonists had begun. There was 
 a brief season of repose, and then a fiercer contest, raging 
 almost from end to end of North America. Some went 
 forth, and met the red men of the wilderness ; and when 
 years had rolled, and the settler came in peace where 
 they had come in war, there he found their unburied 
 bones among the fallen boughs and withered leaves of 
 many autumns. Others were foremost in the battles of 
 the Canadas, till, in the day that saw the downfall of the 
 Trench dominion, they poured their blood with "Wolfe on 
 the Heights of Abraham. Through all this troubled time, 
 the flower of the youth were cut down by the sword, or 
 died of physical diseases, or became unprofitable citizens 
 by moral ones contracted in the camp and field. Dr. 
 Douglass, a shrewd Scotch physician of the last century, 
 who died before war had gathered in half its harvest, 
 computes that many thousand blooming damsels, capa- 
 ble and well inclined to serve the state as wives and 
 mothers, were compelled to lead lives of barren celibacy 
 by the consequences of the successful siege of Louis- 
 burg. But we will not sadden ourselves with these 
 doleful thoughts, when we are to witness the triumphal 
 entry of the victors into the surrendered town. 
 
 The thundering of drums, irregularly beaten, grows 
 more and more distinct, and the shattered strength of 
 the western wall of Louisburg stretches out before the 
 eye, forty feet in height, and far overtopped by a rock- 
 built citadel. In yonder breach the broken timber, frac- 
 
SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 193 
 
 tured stones, and crumbling earth prove the effect of 
 the provincial cannon. The drawbridge is down over 
 the wide moat; the gate is open; and the general and 
 British commodore are received bj the French authori- 
 ties beneath the dark and lofty portal arch. Through 
 the massive gloom of this deep avenue there is a vista 
 of the main street, bordered by high peaked houses, in 
 the fashion of old France ; the view is terminated by the 
 centre square of the city, in the midst of which rises a 
 stone cross ; and shaven monks, and women with their 
 children, are kneeling at its foot. A confused sobbing 
 and half-stifled shrieks are heard, as the tumultuous 
 advance of the conquering army becomes audible to 
 those within the walls. By the light which falls through 
 the archway, we perceive that a few months have some- 
 what changed the general's mien, giving it the freedom 
 of one acquainted with peril, and accustomed to com- 
 mand ; nor, amid hopes of more solid reward, does he 
 appear insensible to the thought that posterity will 
 remember his name among those renowned in arms. 
 Sir Peter Warren, who receives with him the enemy's 
 submission, is a rough and haughty English seaman, 
 greedy of fame, but despising those who have won it 
 for him. Pressing forward to the portal, sword in hand, 
 comes a comical figure in a brown suit, and blue yarn 
 stockings, with a huge frill sticking forth from his 
 bosom, to which the whole man seems an ai)pendage : 
 this is that famous worthy of Plymouth County, who 
 went to the war with two plain shirts and a ruffled one, 
 and is now about to solicit the post of governor in 
 Louisburg. In close vicinity stands Vaughan, worn 
 
 9 M 
 
194 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 down with toil and exposure, the effect of which has 
 fallen upon him at once in the moment of accomplished 
 hope. The group is filled up by several British officers, 
 who fold their arms, and look with scornful merriment 
 at the provincial army, as it stretches far behind in 
 garments of every hue, resembling an immense strip 
 of patchwork carpeting thrown down over the uneven 
 ground. In the nearer ranks we may discern the variety 
 of ingredients that compose the mass. Here advance 
 a row of stern, unmitigable fanatics, each of whom 
 clinches his teeth, and grasps his weapon with a fist of 
 iron, at sight of the temples of the ancient faith, with 
 the sunlight glittering on their cross-crowned spires. 
 Others examine the surrounding country, and send scru- 
 tinizing glances through the gateway, anxious to select 
 a spot, whither the good woman and her little ones in 
 the Bay Province may be advantageously transported. 
 Some, who drag their diseased limbs forward in weari- 
 ness and pain, have made the wretched exchange of 
 health or life for what share of fleeting glory may fall 
 to them among four thousand men. But these are all 
 exceptions, and the exulting feelings of the general host 
 combine in an expression like that of a broad laugh 
 on an honest countenance. They roll onward riotously, 
 flourishing their muskets above their heads, shuffling 
 their heavy heels into an instinctive dance, and roaring 
 out some holy verse from the New England Psalmody, 
 or those harsh old warlike stanzas which tell the story 
 of "Lovell's Figlit." Thus they pour along, till the 
 battered town and the rabble of its conquerors, and the 
 shouts, the drums, the singing, and the laughter, grow 
 dim, and die away from Pancj's eye and ear. 
 
SIR WILLIAM PLPPEIIELL. 195 
 
 The arDis of Great Britaiu were not crowued by a 
 more brilliant acliievemeut during that unprosperous 
 war; and, in adjusting the terms of a subsequent peace, 
 Louisburg was an equivalent for many losses nearer 
 home. The English, with very pardonable vanity, at- 
 tributed the conquest chiefly to the valor of the naval 
 force. On the continent of Europe, our fathers met with 
 greater justice, and Voltaire has ranked this enterprise 
 of the husbandmen of New England among the most 
 remarkable events in the reign of Louis XV. The 
 ostensible leaders did not fail of reward. Shirley, origi- 
 nally a lawyer, was commissioned in the regular army, 
 and rose to the supreme military command in America. 
 Warren, also, received honors and professional rank, and 
 arrogated to himself, without scruple, the whole crop of 
 laurels gathered at Louisburg. Pepperell was placed at 
 the head of a royal regiment, and, first of his country- 
 men, was distinguished by the title of baronet. Vaughan 
 alone, who had been soul of the deed from its adventur- 
 ous conception till the triumphant close, and in every 
 danger and every hardship had exhibited a rare union of 
 ardor and perseverance, — Vaughan was entirely neg- 
 lected, and died in London, whither he had gone to make 
 known his claims. After the great era of his life, Sir 
 William Pepperell did not distinguish himself either as a 
 warrior or a statesman. He spent the remainder of his 
 days in all the pomp of a colonial grandee, and laid down 
 his aristocratic head among the humbler ashes of his 
 fathers, just before the commencement of the earliest 
 troubles between Endand and America. 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 
 
 EOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN was the eldest 
 of nine children of the Rev. Thomas Eessenden. 
 He was born on the 22d of April, 1771, at 
 Walpole, in New Hampshire, where his father, a man of 
 learning and talent, was long settled in the ministry. 
 On the maternal side, likewise, he was of clerical ex- 
 traction; his mother, wliose piety and amiable qualities 
 are remembered by her descendants, being the daughter 
 of the Rev. Samuel Kendal of New Salem. The early 
 education of Thomas Green was chiefly at the common 
 school of his native place, under the tuition of students 
 from the college at Hanover ; and such was his progress, 
 that he became himself the instructor of a school in New 
 Salem at the age of sixteen. He spent most of his 
 youthful days, however, in bodily labor upon the farm, 
 thus contributing to the support of a numerous family ; 
 and the practical knowledge of agriculture which he then 
 obtained was long afterwards applied to the service of 
 the public. Opportunities for cultivating his mind were 
 afforded him, not only in his father's library, but by the 
 more miscellaneous contents of a large bookstore. He 
 had passed the age of twenty-one when his inclination for 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 197 
 
 mental pursuits determined liim to become a student at 
 Dartmouth College. His father being able to give but 
 little assistance, his chief resources at college consisted 
 in his wages as teacher of a village school during the 
 vacations. At times, also, he gave instruction to an 
 evening class in psalmod}'. 
 
 From his childhood upward, Mr. Fessenden had shown 
 symptoms of that humorous turn which afterwards so 
 strongly marked his writings ; but his first effort in 
 verse, as he himself told me, was made during his resi- 
 dence at college. Tlie themes, or exercises, of his fellow- 
 students in English composition, whether prose or 
 rhyme, were well characterized by the lack of native 
 thought and feeling, the cold pedantry, the mimicry of 
 classic models, common to all such productions. Mr. 
 Fessenden had the good taste to disapprove of these 
 vapid and spiritless performances, and resolved to strike 
 out a new course for himself. On one occasion, when 
 his classmates had gone through with their customary 
 round of verbiage and threadbare sentiment, he electrified 
 them and their instructor. President Wheelock, by reading 
 " Jonathan's Courtship." There has never, to this day, 
 been produced by any of our countrymen a more original 
 and truly Yankee effusion. He had caught the rare art 
 of sketching familiar manners, and of throwing into verse 
 the very spirit of society as it existed around him ; and 
 he had imbued each line with a peculiar yet perfectly 
 natural and homely humor. This excellent ballad com- 
 pels me to regret, that, instead of becoming a satirist in 
 politics and science, and wasting his strength on tempo- 
 rary and evanescent topics, he had not continued to be a 
 
198 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 rural poet. A volume of such sketches as " Jonathan's 
 Courtship," describing various aspects of life among the 
 yeomanry of New England, could not have failed to gain 
 a permanent place in American literature. The effort in 
 question met with unexampled success : it ran through 
 the newspapers of the day, reappeared on the other side 
 of the Atlantic, and was warmly applauded by the 
 English critics ; nor has it yet lost its popularity. New 
 editions may be found every year at the ballad-stalls ; 
 and I saw last summer, on the veteran author's table, a 
 broadside copy of his maiden poem, which he had him- 
 self bought in the street. 
 
 Mr. Eessenden passed through college with a fair repu- 
 tation for scholarship, and took his degree in 1796. It 
 had been his father's wish that he should imitate the 
 example of some of his ancestors on both sides, by de- 
 voting himself to the ministry. He, however, preferred 
 the law, and commenced the study of that profession at 
 Rutland, in Vermont, with Nathaniel Chipman, then the 
 most eminent practitioner in the State. After his admis- 
 sion to the bar, Mr. Chipman received him into partner- 
 ship. But Mr. Eessenden was ill qualified to succeed in 
 the profession of law, by his simplicity of character, and 
 his utter inability to acquire an ordinary share of shrewd- 
 ness and worldly wisdom. Moreover, the success of 
 " Jonathan's Courtship," and other poetical effusions, 
 had turned his thoughts from law to literature, and had 
 procured him the acquaintance of several literary lumina- 
 ries of those days ; none of whose names, probably, have 
 survived to our own generation, save that of Joseph 
 Dennie, once esteemed the finest writer in America. His 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 199 
 
 intercourse with these people tempted Mr. Fessenden to 
 spend much time in writing for newspapers and periodi- 
 cals. A taste for scientific pursuits still further diverted 
 him from his legal studies, and soon engaged him in an 
 affair which influenced the complexion of all his after-life. 
 A Mr. Langdon had brought forward a newly invented 
 hydraulic machine, which was supposed to possess the 
 power of raising water to a greater height than had 
 hitherto been considered possible. A company of me- 
 chanics and others became interested in this machine, 
 and appointed Mr. Fessenden their agent for the pur- 
 pose of obtaining a patent in London. He was, likewise, 
 a member of the company. Mr. Fessenden was urged to 
 hasten his departure, in consequence of a report that cer- 
 tain persons had acquired the secret of the invention, 
 and were determined to anticipate the proprietors in 
 securing a patent. Scarcely time was allowed for test- 
 ing the efiicacy of the machine by a few hasty experi- 
 ments, which, however, appeared satisfactory. Taking 
 passage immediately, Mr. Fessenden arrived in London 
 on the 4th of July, 1801, and waited on Mr. King, then 
 our minister, by whom he was introduced to Mr. Nicliol- 
 son, a gentleman of eminent scientific reputation. After 
 thoroughly examining the invention, Mr. Nicholson gave 
 an opinion unfavorable to its merits ; and the question 
 was soon settled by a letter from one of the Vermont 
 proprietors to Mr. Fessenden, informing him that the 
 apparent advantages of the machine had been found alto- 
 gether deceptive. In short, Mr. Fessenden had been lured 
 from his profession and country by as empty a bubble as 
 that of the perpetual motion. Yet it is creditable both to 
 
SOO BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 his ability and energy, that, laying hold of what was really 
 valuable in Langdon's contrivance, he constructed the 
 model of a machine for raising water from coal-mines, and 
 other great depths, by means of what he termed the 
 " renovated pressure of the atmosphere." On communi- 
 cating this invention to Mr. Nicholson and other eminent 
 mechanicians, they acknowledged its originality and inge- 
 nuity, and thought that, in some situations, it might be 
 useful. But the expenses of a patent in England, the 
 difficulty of obtaining patronage for such a project, and 
 the uncertainty of the result, were obstacles too weighty 
 to be overcome. Mr. Eessenden threw aside the scheme, 
 and, after a two months' residence in London, was pre- 
 paring to return home, when a new and characteristic 
 adventure arrested him. 
 
 He received a visit, at his lodging in the Strand, from 
 a person whom he had never before seen, but who intro- 
 duced himself to his good-will as being likewise an Ameri- 
 can. His business was of a nature well calculated to ex- 
 cite Mr. Pessenden's interest. He produced the model 
 of an ingenious contrivance for grinding corn. A patent 
 had already been obtained ; and a company, with the 
 lord-mayor of London at its head, was associated for the 
 construction of mills upon this new principle. The in- 
 ventor, according to his own story, had disposed of one- 
 fourth part of his patent for five hundred pounds, and 
 was wilhng to accommodate his countryman with another 
 fourth. After some inquiry into the stranger's character 
 and the accuracy of his statements, Mr. Fessenden became 
 a purchaser of the share that was offered him ; on what 
 terms is not stated, but probably such as to involve his 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 201 
 
 whole property in the adventure. The result was disas- 
 trous. The lord-mayor soon withdrew his countenance 
 from the project. It ultimately appeared that Mr. Fcs- 
 senden was the only real purchaser of any part of the 
 patent ; and, as the original patentee shortly afterwards 
 quitted the concern, the former was left to manage the 
 business as he best could. With a perseverance not 
 less characteristic than his credulity, lie associated him- 
 self with four partners, and undertook to superintend 
 the construction of one of these patent-mills upon the 
 Thames. But his associates, who were men of no re- 
 spectability, thwarted his plans ; and after much toil of 
 body, as well as distress of mind, he found himself utterly 
 ruined, friendless and penniless, in the midst of London. 
 No other event could have been anticipated, when a man 
 so devoid of guile was thrown among a set of crafty ad- 
 venturers. 
 
 Being now in the situation in which many a literary 
 man before him had been, he remembered the success of 
 his fugitive poems, and betook himself to the pen as his 
 most natural resource. A subject was offered him, in 
 which no other poet would have found a theme for the 
 Muse. It seemed to be his fatality to form connections 
 with schemers of all sorts ; and he had become acquainted 
 with Benjamin Douglas Perkins, the patentee of the 
 famous metallic tractors. These implements were then 
 in great vogue for tlie cure of inflammatory diseases, by 
 removing the superfluous electricity. Perkinism, as tlie 
 doctrine of metallic tractors was styled, had some con- 
 verts among scientific men, and many among the people, 
 but was violently opposed by the regular corps of phy- 
 9* 
 
202 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 sicians and surgeons. Mr. Pessenden, as might be ex- 
 pected, was a believer in the efficacy of the tractors, and, 
 at the request of Perkins, consented to make them the 
 subject of a poem in Hudibrastic verse, the satire of 
 wliich was to be levelled against their opponents. " Ter- 
 rible Tractoration " was the result. It professes to be 
 a poetical petition from Dr. Christopher Caustic, a medi- 
 cal gentleman who has been ruined by the success of the 
 metallic tractors, and who applies to the Royal College 
 of Physicians for relief and redress. The wits of the 
 poor doctor have been somewhat shattered by his mis- 
 fortunes; and, with crazy ingenuity, he contrives to 
 heap ridicule on his medical brethren, under pretence of 
 railing against Perkinism. The poem is in four cantos, 
 the first of which is the best, and the most characteristic 
 of the author. It is occupied with Dr. Caustic's descrip- 
 tion of his mechanical and scientific contrivances, em- 
 bracing all sorts of possible and impossible projects ; 
 every one of which, however, has a ridiculous plausibil- 
 ity. The inexhaustible variety in which they flow forth 
 proves the author's invention unrivalled in its way. It 
 shows what had been the nature of Mr. Pessenden's 
 mental toil during his residence in London, continually 
 brooding over the miracles of mechanism and science, 
 his enthusiasm for which had cost him so dear. Long 
 afterwards, speaking of the first conception of this poem, 
 the author told me that he had shaped it out during a 
 solitary day's ramble in the outskirts of London; and 
 the character of Dr. Caustic so strongly impressed itself 
 on his mind, that, as he walked homeward through the 
 crowded streets, he burst into frequent fits of laughter. 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 
 
 203 
 
 The trutli is, that, in tlie sketch of this wild projector, 
 Mr. Eessenden had caricatured some of his own features ; 
 and, when he laughed so heartily, it was at the percep- 
 tion of the resemblance. 
 
 "Terrible Tractoration " is a work of strange and 
 grotesque ideas aptly expressed: its rhymes are of a 
 most singular character, yet fitting each to each as ac- 
 curately as echoes. As in aU Mr. Pessenden's produc- 
 tions, there is great exactness in the language; the 
 author's thoughts bemg thrown off as distinctly as im- 
 pressions from a type. In regard to the pleasure to be 
 derived from reading this poem, there is room for diver- 
 sity of taste ; but, that it is an original and remarkable 
 work, no person competent to pass judgment on a liter- 
 ary question will deny. It was first published early in 
 the year 1803, in an octavo pamphlet of above fifty 
 pages. Being highly applauded by the principal re- 
 views, and eagerly purchased by the public, a new edi- 
 tion appeared at the end of two months, in a volume of 
 nearly two hundred pages, illustrated with engravings. 
 It received the praise of Gifford, the severest of English 
 critics. Its continued success encouraged the author to 
 publish a volume of " Original Poems," consisting chiefly 
 of his fugitive pieces from the American newspapers. 
 This, also, was favorably received. He was now, what 
 so few of his countrymen have ever been, a popular au- 
 thor in London ; and, in the midst of his triumphs, he 
 bethought himself of his native land. 
 
 Mr. Fessenden returned to America in 1804. He 
 came back poorer than he went, but with an honorable 
 reputation, and with unstained integrity, although his 
 
204 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 evil fortune had connected him with men far unlike him- 
 self. His fame had preceded him across the Atlantic. 
 Shortly before his arrival, an edition of " Terrible Trac- 
 toration" had been published at Philadelphia, with a 
 prefatory memoir of the author, the tone of which proves 
 that the American people felt themselves honored in the 
 literary success of their countryman. Another edition 
 appeared in New York, in 1806, considerably enlarged, 
 with a new satire on the topics of the day. It is symp- 
 tomatic of the course which the author had now adopted, 
 that much of this new satire was directed against Dem- 
 ocratic principles and the prominent upholders of them. 
 This was soon followed by "Democracy Unveiled," a 
 more elaborate attack on the same political party. 
 
 In "Democracy Unveiled," our friend Dr. Caustic 
 appears as a citizen of the United States, and pours out 
 six cantos of vituperative verse, with copious notes of 
 the same tenor, on the heads of President Jefferson and 
 his supporters. Much of the satire is unpardonably 
 coarse. The literary merits of the work are inferior to 
 those of " Terrible Tractoration " ; but it is no less origi- 
 nal and peculiar. Even where the matter is a mere ver- 
 sification of newspaper slander. Dr. Caustic's manner 
 gives it an individuality not to be mistaken. The book 
 passed through three editions in the course of a few 
 months. Its most pungent portions were copied into 
 all the opposition prints; its strange, jog-trot stanzas 
 were familiar to every ear; and Mr. Pessenden may 
 fairly be allowed the credit of having given expression 
 to the feelings of the great Federal party. 
 
 On the 30th of August, 1806, Mr. Pessenden com- 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 205 
 
 mciiced the publication, at New York, of " The Weekly 
 Inspector," a paper at first of eight, and afterwards of 
 sixteen, octavo pages. It appeared every Saturday. The 
 character of this journal was mainly political ; but there 
 are also a few flowers and sweet-scented twigs of litera- 
 ture intermixed among the nettles and burs, which alone 
 flourish in the arena of party strife. Its columns are 
 profusely enriched with scraps of satirical verse in 
 which Dr. Caustic, in his capacity of ballad-maker to 
 the Federal faction, spared uot to celebrate every man 
 or measure of government that was anywise susceptible 
 of ridicule. Many of his prose articles are carefully and 
 ably written, attacking not men so much as principles 
 and measures ; and his deeply felt anxiety for the wel- 
 fare of his country sometimes gives an impressive dignity 
 to his thoughts and style. The dread of French domi- 
 nation seems to have haunted him like a nightmare. 
 But, in spite of the editor's satirical reputation, "The 
 Weekly Inspector" was too conscientious a paper, too 
 sparingly spiced with the red pepper of personal abuse, 
 to succeed in those outrageous times. The publication 
 continued but for a single year, at the end of which we 
 find Mr. Pessenden's valedictory to his readers. Its 
 tone is despondent both as to the prospects of the coun- 
 try and his own private fortunes. The next token of 
 his labors that has come under my notice is a small 
 volume of verse, published at Philadelphia in 1809, 
 and alliteratively entitled " Pills, Poetical, Political, and 
 Philosophical; prescribed for the Purpose of purging 
 the Public of Piddling Philosophers, Penny Poetasters, 
 of Paltry Politicians, and Petty Partisans. By Peter 
 
206 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Pepper-Box, Poet and Physician." This satire had been 
 written during the embargo, but, not making its appear- 
 ance till after the repeal of that measure, met with less 
 success than " Democracy Unveiled." 
 
 Everybody who has known Mr, Fessenden must have 
 wondered how the kindest hearted man in all the world 
 could have likewise been the most noted satirist of his 
 day. For my part, I have tried in vain to form a con- 
 ception of my venerable and peaceful friend as a champion 
 in the stormy strife of party, flinging mud full in the 
 faces of his foes, and shouting forth the bitter laughter 
 that rang from border to border of the land ; and I can 
 hardly believe, though well assured of it, that his antago- 
 nists should ever have meditated personal violence against 
 the gentlest of human creatures. I am sure, at least, 
 that Nature never meant him for a satirist. On careful 
 examination of his works, I do not find in any of them 
 the ferocity of the true bloodhound of literature, — such 
 as Swift, or Churchill, or Cobbett, — which fastens upon 
 the throat of its victim, and would fain drink his life- 
 blood. In my opinion, Mr. Pessenden never felt the 
 slightest personal ill-will against the objects of his satire, 
 except, indeed, they had endeavored to detract from his 
 literary reputation, — an offence which he resented with 
 a poet's sensibility, and seldom failed to punish. With 
 such exceptions, his works are not properly satirical, but 
 the offspring of a mind inexhaustibly fertile in ludicrous 
 ideas, which it appended to any topic in hand. At times, 
 doubtless, the all-pervading frenzy of the times inspired 
 him with a bitterness not his own. But, in the least 
 defensible of his writings, he was influenced by an honest 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 207 
 
 zeal for the public good. There was nothing mercenary 
 in bis connection with poUtics. To an antagonist who 
 liad taunted liim with being poor, he cahnly reph.ed, that 
 he "need not have been accused of the crime of poverty, 
 could he have prostituted his principles to party pur- 
 poses, and become the hireling assassin of the dominant 
 faction." Nor can there be a doubt that the adminis- 
 tration would gladly have purchased the pen of so popu- 
 lar a writer. 
 
 I have gained hardly any information of Mr. Fessen- 
 den's life between the years 1807 and 1812 ; at which 
 latter period, and probably some time previous, he was 
 settled at the village of Bellows Falls, on Connecticut 
 River, in the practice of the law. In May of that year, 
 he had the good fortune to become acquainted with Miss 
 Lydia Tuttle, daughter of Mr. John Tuttle, an inde- 
 pendent and intelligent farmer at Littleton, Mass. She 
 was then on a visit in Vermont. After her return home, 
 a correspondence ensued between this lady and Mr. 
 Fessenden, and was continued till their marriage, in Sep- 
 tember, 1813. She was considerably younger than 
 himself, but endowed with the qualities most desirable 
 in the wife of such a man ; and it would not be easy to 
 overestimate how much his prosperity and happiness 
 were increased by this union. Mrs. Fessenden could 
 appreciate what was excellent in her husband, and sup- 
 ply what was deficient. In her affectionate good sense 
 he found a substitute for the worldly sagacity which he 
 did not possess, and could not learn. To her he in- 
 trusted the pecuniary cares, always so burdensome to a 
 literary man. Her influence restrained him from such 
 
208 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 imprudent euterprises as had caused the misfortunes of 
 his earlier years. She smoothed his path of life, and 
 made it pleasant to him, and lengthened it; for, as he 
 once told me (I believe it was while advising me to take, 
 betimes, a similar treasure to myself), he would have 
 been in his grave long ago, but for her care. 
 
 Mr. Eessenden continued to practise law at Bellows 
 Falls till 1815, when he removed to Brattleborough, and 
 assumed the editorship of "The Brattleborough Re- 
 porter," a political newspaper. The following year, in 
 compliance with a pressing invitation from the inhabit- 
 ants, he returned to Bellows Falls, and edited, with 
 much success, a literary and political paper, called " The 
 Intelligencer." He held this employment till the year 
 1822, at the same time practising law, and composing a 
 volume of poetry, " The Ladies' Monitor," besides com- 
 piling several works in law, the arts, and agriculture. 
 During this part of his hfe, he usually spent sixteen 
 hours of the twenty-four in study. In 1822 he came 
 to Boston as editor of " The New England Farmer," a 
 weekly journal, the first established, and devoted princi- 
 pally to the diffusion of agricultural knowledge. 
 
 His management of the Farmer met unreserved ap- 
 probation. Having been bred upon a farm, and passed 
 much of his later life in the country, and being thor- 
 oughly conversant with the writers on rural economy, he 
 was admirably qualified to conduct such a journal. It 
 was extensively circulated throughout New England, and 
 may be said to have fertilized the soil like rain from 
 heaven. Numerous papers on the same plan sprung up 
 in various parts of the country; but none attained the 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 209 
 
 standard of tlieir prototype. Besides his editorial labors, 
 Mr. Fesseiiden published, from time to time, various 
 compilations on agricultural subjects, or adaptations of 
 English treatises to the use of the American husbandman. 
 Verse he no longer wrote, except, now and then, an ode 
 or song for some agricultural festivity. His poems, 
 being connected with topics of temporary interest, ceased 
 to be read, now that the metallic tractors were tlirown 
 aside, and that the blending and merging of parties had 
 created an entire change of political aspects, shice the 
 days of " Democracy Unveiled." The poetic laurel with- 
 ered among his gray hairs, and dropped away, leaf by 
 leaf. His name, once the most familiar, was forgotten 
 in the list of American bards. I know not that tliis 
 oblivion was to be regretted. Mr. Fessenden, if my 
 observation of his temperament be correct, was peculiarly 
 sensitive and nervous in regard to the trials of author- 
 sliip : a little censure did him more harm than much 
 praise could do him good ; and methinks the repose of 
 total neglect was better for him than a feverish notoriety. 
 Were it worth while to imagine any other course for the 
 latter part of his life, which he made so useful and so 
 honorable, it might be wished that he could have devoted 
 himself entirely to scientific research. He had a strong 
 taste for studies of that kind, and sometimes used to 
 lament that his daily drudgery afforded him no leisure to 
 compose a work on caloric, which subject he had thor- 
 oughly investigated. 
 
 In January, 1836, I became, and continued for a few 
 months, an inmate of Mr. Eessenden's family. It was 
 my first acquaintance with him. His image is before my 
 O N 
 
210 BIOGRAPPIICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 mind's eye at this moment ; slowly approacliing me with 
 a lamp in his hand, his hair gray, his face solemn and 
 pale, his tall and portly figure bent with heavier infirmity 
 than befitted his years. His dress, though he had im- 
 proved in this particular since middle life, was marked 
 by a truly scholastic negligence. He greeted me kindly, 
 and with plain, old-fashioned courtesy ; though I fancied 
 that he somewhat regretted the interruption of his even- 
 ing studies. After a few moments' talk, he invited me 
 to accompany him to his study, and give my opiuion 
 on some passages of satirical verse, which were to be 
 inserted in a new edition of " Terrible Tractoration." 
 Years before, I had lighted on an illustrated copy of this 
 poem, bestrewn with venerable dust, in a corner of a 
 college library ; and it seemed strange and whimsical 
 that I should find it still in progress of composition, and 
 be consulted about it by Dr. Caustic himself. While 
 Mr. Fessenden read, I had leisure to glance around at 
 his study, which was very cliaracteristic of the man and 
 his occupations. The table, and great part of the floor, 
 were covered with books and pamphlets on agricultural 
 subjects, newspapers from all quarters, manuscript arti- 
 cles for "The New England Farmer," and manuscript 
 stanzas for " Terrible Tractoration." There was such a 
 litter as always gathers around a literary man. It be- 
 spoke, at once, Mr. Eessenden's amiable temper and liis 
 abstracted habits, that several members of the family, old 
 and young, were sitting in the room, and engaged in 
 conversation, apparently without giving him the least 
 disturbance. A specimen of Dr. Caustic's inventive 
 genius was seen in the " Patent Steam and Hot -Water 
 
THOMAS GREEN EESSENDEN. 211 
 
 Stove," "wliicli heated the apartment, and kept up a 
 pleasant singing sound, hke that of a teakettle, thereby 
 making the fireside more cheerful. It appears to me, 
 that, having no children of flesh and blood, Mr. Tessen- 
 den had contracted a fatherly fondness for this stove, as 
 being hi^ mental progeny ; and it must be owned that the 
 stove well deserved his affection, and repaid it with much 
 warmth. 
 
 The new edition of " Tractoration " came out not long 
 afterwards. It was noticed with great kindness by the 
 press, but was not warmly received by the public. Mr. 
 Fessenden imputed the failure, in part, to the illiberality 
 of the "trade," and avenged himself by a little poem, 
 in his best style, entitled "Wooden Booksellers"; so 
 that the last blow of his satirical scourge was given in 
 the good old cause of authors against pubhshers. 
 
 Notwithstanding a wide difference of age, and many 
 more points of dissimilarity than of resemblance, Mr. 
 Fessenden and myself soon became friends. His par- 
 tiality seemed not to be the result of any nice discrimi- 
 nation of my good and evil qualities (for he had no 
 acuteness in that way), but to be given instinctively, 
 like the affection of a child. On my part, I loved the 
 old man because his heart was as transparent as a foun- 
 tain; and I could see nothing in it but integrity and 
 purity, and simple faith in his fellow-men, and good-will 
 towards all the world. His character was so open, that 
 I did not need to correct my original conception of it. 
 He never seemed to me like a new acquaintance, but as 
 one with whom I had been famihar from my infancy. 
 Yet he was a rare man, such as few meet with in the 
 course of a lifetime. 
 
'212 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 
 
 It is remarkable, that, with such kindly affections, Mr. 
 Tessenden was so deeply absorbed in thought and study 
 as scarcely to allow himself time for domestic and social 
 enjoyment. During the winter when I first knew him, 
 his mental drudgery was almost continual. Besides 
 "The New England Farmer," he had the editorial 
 charge of two other journals, — " The Horticultural 
 Register," and " The Silk Manual " ; in addition to 
 which employment, he was a "member of the State legis- 
 lature, and took some share in the debates. The new 
 matter of " Terrible Tractoration " likewise cost him 
 intense thought. Sometimes I used to meet him in the 
 street, making his way onward apparently by a sort of 
 instinct ; while his eyes took note of nothing, and would, 
 perhaps, pass over my face without sign of recognition. 
 He confessed to me that he was apt to go astray when 
 intent on rhyme. With so much to abstract him from 
 outward life, he could hardly be said to live in the world 
 that was bustling around him. Almost the only relaxa- 
 tion that he allowed himself was an occasional perform- 
 ance on a bass-viol which stood in the corner of his 
 study, and from which he loved to elicit some old-fash- 
 ioned tune of soothing potency. At meal-times, how- 
 ever, dragged down and harassed as his spirits were, 
 he brightened up, and generally gladdened the whole 
 table with a flash of Dr. Caustic's humor. 
 
 Had I anticipated being Mr. Fessenden's biographer, 
 I might have drawn from him many details that would 
 have been well worth remembering. But he had not the 
 tendency of most men iu advanced life, to be copious in 
 personal reminiscences; nor did he often speak of the 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 213 
 
 noted writers and politicians with wLom the chauces of 
 earlier years had associated him. Indeed, lacking a turn 
 for observation of character, his former companions had 
 passed before him like images in a mirror, giving him 
 little knowledge of their inner nature. Moreover, till 
 his latest day, he was more inchned to form prospects 
 for the future than to dwell upon the past. I remember 
 — the last time, save one, that we ever met — I found 
 him on the bed, suffering with a dizziness of the brain. 
 He roused himself, however, and grew very cheerful; 
 talking, with a youthful glow of fancy, about emigrating 
 to Illinois, where he possessed a farm, and picturing a 
 new life for both of us in that Western region. It has 
 since come to my memory, that, while he spoke, there 
 was a purple flush across his brow, — the harbinger of 
 death. 
 
 I saw him but once more alive. On the thirteenth 
 day of November last, while on my M^ay to Boston, ex- 
 pecting shortly to take him by the hand, a letter met me 
 with an invitation to his funeral. He had been struck 
 with apoplexy on Friday evening, three days before, and 
 had lain insensible till Saturday night, when he expired. 
 The burial took place at Mount Auburn on the ensuing 
 Tuesday. It was a gloomy day; for the first snow- 
 storm of the season had been drifting through the air 
 since morning ; and the " Garden of Graves " looked the 
 dreariest spot on earth. The snow came down so fast, 
 that it covered the coffin in its passage from the hearse 
 to the sepulchre. The few male friends who had fol- 
 lowed to the cemetery descended into the tomb ; and it 
 was there that I took my last glance at the features of 
 
214 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 a man who will liold a place in my remembrance apart 
 from other men. He was like no other. In his long 
 pathway through life, from his cradle to the place wliere 
 we had now laid him, he had come, a man indeed in 
 intellect and achievement, but, in guileless simplicity, a 
 child. Dark would have been the hour, if, when we 
 closed the door of the tomb upon his perishing mor- 
 tality, we had believed that our friend was there. 
 
 It is contemplated to erect a monument, by subscrip- 
 tion, to Mr. !Fessenden's memory. It is right that he 
 should be thus hon&red. Mount Auburn will long re- 
 main a desert, barren of consecrated marbles, if worth 
 like his be yielded to oblivion. Let his grave be marked 
 out, that the yeomen of New England may know where 
 he sleeps ; for he was their familiar friend, and has visited 
 them at all their firesides. He has toiled for them at 
 seed-time and harvest : he has scattered the good grain 
 in every field ; and they have garnered the increase. 
 Mark out his grave as that of one worthy to be remem- 
 bered both in the literary and political annals of our 
 country, and let the laurel be carved on his memorial 
 stone ; for it will cover the ashes of a man of genius. 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 
 
 HE subject of this brief memorial had barely 
 begun to be an actor in the great scenes where 
 his part could not have failed to be a prom- 
 inent one. The nation did not have time to recognize 
 him. His death, aside from the shock with which the 
 manner of it has thrilled every bosom, is looked upon 
 merely as causing a vacancy in the delegation of his 
 State, which a new member may fill as creditably as the 
 departed. It will, perhaps, be deemed praise enough to 
 say of Cilley, that he would have proved himself an 
 active and efficient partisan. But those who knew him 
 longest and most intimately, conscious of his high talents 
 and rare qualities, his energy of mind and force of char- 
 acter, must claim much more than such a meed for their 
 lost friend. They feel that not merely a party nor a sec- 
 tion, but our collective country, has lost a man who had 
 the heart and the ability to serve her well. It would 
 be doing injustice to the hopes which lie withered upon 
 his untimely grave, if, in paying a farewell tribute to 
 his memory, we were to ask a narrower sympathy tban 
 that of the people at large. May no bitterness of party 
 prejudices influence him who writes, nor those, of what- 
 e>^er political opinions, who may read ! 
 
216 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Jonathan Cilley was born at Nottingham, N. H., on 
 the 2d of July, 1802. His grandfather, Colonel Joseph 
 Cilley, commanded a New Hampshire regiment during the 
 Revolutionary War, and established a character for energy 
 and intrepidity, of which more than one of his descendants 
 have proved themselves the inheritors. Greenleaf Cilley, 
 son of the preceding, died in 1808, leaving a family of 
 four sons and three daughters. The aged mother of this 
 family, and the three daughters, are still living. Of the 
 sons, the only survivor is Joseph Cilley, who was an officer 
 in the late war, and served with great distinction on the 
 Canadian frontier. Jonathan, being desirous of a liberal 
 education, commenced his studies at Atkinson Acad- 
 emy, at about the age of seventeen, and became a mem- 
 ber of the freshman class of Bowdoin College, Bruns- 
 wick, Me., in 1821. Inheriting but little property from 
 his father, he adopted the usual expedient of a young 
 New-Englander in similar circumstances, and gained a 
 small income by teaching a country school during the 
 winter months both before and after his entrance at 
 college. 
 
 Cilley's character and standing at college afforded 
 high promise of usefulness and distinction in after-life. 
 Though not the foremost scholar of his class, he stood in 
 the front rank, and probably derived all the real benefit 
 from the prescribed course of study that it could bestow 
 on so practical a mind. His true education consisted in 
 the exercise of those faculties which fitted him to be a 
 popular leader. His influence among his fellow-students 
 was probably greater than that of any other individual ; 
 and he had already made himself powerful in that limited 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 217 
 
 sphere, by a free and natural eloquence, a flow of per- 
 tinent ideas in language of unstudied appropriateness, 
 which seemed always to accomplish precisely the result 
 on which he had calculated. This gift was sometimes 
 displayed in class meetings, wlien measures important 
 to those concerned were under discussion ; sometimes in 
 mock trials at law, when judge, jury, lawyers, prisoner, 
 and witnesses were personated by the students, and 
 Cilley played the part of a fervid and successful ad- 
 vocate ; and, besides these exhibitions of power, he 
 regularly trained himself in the forensic debates of a 
 literary society, of which he afterwards became presi- 
 dent. Nothing could be less artificial than his style 
 of oratory. After filling his mind with the necessary 
 information, he trusted everything else to his mental 
 warmth and the inspiration of the moment, and poured 
 himself out with an earnest and irresistible simplicity. 
 There was a singular contrast between the flow of thought 
 from his lips, and the coldness and rest)-aint with which 
 he wrote ; and though, in maturer life, he acquired a 
 considerable facility in exercising the pen, he always felt 
 the tongue to be his peculiar instrument. 
 
 In private intercourse, Cilley possessed a remarkable 
 fascination. It was impossible not to regard him with 
 the kindliest feelings, because his companions were intui- 
 tively certain of a like kindliness on his part. He had 
 a power of sympathy which enabled him to understand 
 every character, and hold communion with human na- 
 ture in all its varieties. He never shrank from the inter- 
 course of man with man ; and it was to his freedom in 
 this particular that he owed much of his subsequent 
 \0 
 
218 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 popularity among a people who are accustomed to take 
 a personal interest in the men whom they elevate to 
 office. In few words, let us characterize him at the 
 outset of life as a young man of quick and powerful in- 
 tellect, endowed with sagacity and tact, yet frank and 
 free in his mode of action, ambitious of good influence, 
 earnest, active, and persevering, with an elasticity and 
 cheerful strength of mind which made difficulties easy, 
 and the struggle with them a pleasure. Mingled with 
 the amiable qualities that were like sunshine to his 
 friends, there were harsher and sterner traits, which 
 fitted him to make head against an adverse world ; but 
 it was only at the moment of need that the iron frame-_ 
 work of his character became perceptible. 
 
 Immediately on quitting college, Mr. Cilley took up 
 his residence in Thomastou, and began the study of 
 law in the office of John Ruggles, Esq., now a senator 
 in Congress. Mr. Ruggles being then a prominent mem- 
 ber of the Democratic party, it was natural that the pupil 
 should lend his aid to promote the political views of his 
 instructor, especially as he would thus uphold the princi- 
 ples which he had cherished from boyhood. From year 
 to year, the election of Mr. Ruggles to the State legis- 
 lature was strongly opposed. Cilley's services in over- 
 coming this opposition were too valuable to be dispensed 
 with ; and thus, at a period when most young men still 
 stand aloof from the world, he had already taken his post 
 as a leading politician. He afterwards found cause to 
 regret that so much time had been abstracted from his 
 professional studies ; nor did the absorbing and exciting 
 nature of his political career afford him any subsequent 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 219 
 
 opportunity to supply the defects of his legal education. 
 He was admitted an attorney-at-law in 1829, and in April 
 of the same year was married to Miss Deborah Prince, 
 daugliter of Hon. Hezekiah Prince of Thomaston, where 
 Mr. Cilley continued to reside, and entered upon the 
 practice of his profession. 
 
 In 1831, Mr. Ruggles having been appointed a judge 
 of the court of common pleas, it became necessary to 
 send a new representative from Thomaston to the legis- 
 lature of the State. Mr. Cilley was brought forward as 
 the Democratic candidate, obtained his election, and took 
 his seat in January, 1832. But in the course of this 
 year the friendly relations between Judge Ruggles and 
 Mr. Cilley were broken off. The former gentleman, it 
 appears, had imbibed the idea that his political aspira- 
 tions (which were then directed towards a seat in the 
 Senate of the United States) did not receive all the aid 
 -which he was disposed to claim from the influence of his 
 late pupil. When, therefore, Mr. Cilley was held up as 
 a candidate for re-election to the legislature, the whole 
 strength of Judge Ruggles and his adherents was exerted 
 against him. This was the first act and declaration of a 
 political hostility, which was too warm and earnest not 
 to become, in some degree, personal, and which rendered 
 Mr. Cilley's subsequent career a continual struggle with 
 those to whom he might naturally have looked for friend- 
 ship and support. It sets his abilities and force of char- 
 acter in the strongest light, to view him, at the very 
 outset of public life, without the aid of powerful connec- 
 tions, an isolated young man, forced into a position of 
 hostility, not merely with the enemies of his party, but 
 
220 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 likewise with a large body of its adherents, even accused 
 of treachery to its principles, yet gaining triumph after 
 triumph, and making his way steadily onward. Surely 
 his was a mental and moral energy which death alone 
 could have laid prostrate. 
 
 We have the testimony of those who knew Mr. Cilley 
 well, that his own feelings were never so imbittered by 
 those conflicts as to prevent him from interchanging the 
 courtesies of society with his most violent opponents. 
 While their resentments rendered his very presence in- 
 tolerable to them, he could address them with as much 
 ease and composure as if their mutual relations had beeu 
 those of perfect harmony. There was no aff'ectation in 
 this : it was the good-natured consciousness of his own 
 strength that enabled him to keep his temper: it was 
 the same chivalrous sentiment which impels hostile war- 
 riors to shake hands in the intervals of battle. Mr. Cil- 
 ley was slow to withdraw his confidence from any man 
 whom he deemed a friend ; and it has been mentioned as 
 almost his only weak point, that he was too apt to suffer 
 himself to be betrayed before he would condescend to 
 suspect. His prejudices, however, when once adopted, 
 partook of the depth and strength of his character, and 
 could not be readily overcome. He loved to subdue his 
 foes ; but no man could use a triumph more generously 
 than he. 
 
 Let us resume our narrative. In spite of the opposi- 
 tion of Judge Ruggles and his friends, combined with 
 that of the Whigs, Mr. Cilley was re-elected to the legis- 
 lature of 1833, and was equally successful in each of the 
 succeeding years, until his election to Congress. He was 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 221 
 
 five successive years the representative of Thomaston. 
 In 1834, wlien Mr. Dunlap M'as nominated as the Demo- 
 cratic candidate for governor, Mr. Cilley gave bis support 
 to Governor Smith, in the belief that the substitution 
 of a new candidate liad been unfairly cflFected. He con- 
 sidered it a stratagem intended to promote the election 
 of Judge Ruggles to the Senate of the United States. 
 Early in the legislative session of the same year, the 
 Ruggles party obtained a temporary triumph over Mr. 
 Cilley, effected his expulsion from the Democratic cau- 
 cuses, and attempted to stigmatize him as a traitor to his 
 political friends. But Mr. Cilley's high and honorable 
 course was erelong understood and appreciated by his 
 party and the people. He told them, openly and boldly, 
 that they might undertake to expel him from their cau- 
 cuses ; but they could not expel him from the Demo- 
 cratic party : they might stigmatize him with any appel- 
 lation they might choose ; but they could not reach the 
 height on which he stood, nor shake his position with 
 the people. But a few weeks had elapsed, and Mr. Cil- 
 ley was the acknowledged head and leader of that party 
 in the legislature. During the same session, Mr. Speaker 
 Clifford (one of the friends of Judge Buggies) being 
 appointed attorney-general, the Ruggles party were de- 
 sirous of securing the election of another of their ad- 
 herents to the chair; but, as it was obvious that Mr. 
 Cilley's popularity would gain him the place, the incum- 
 bent was induced to delay his resignation till the end of 
 the term. At the session of 1835, Messrs. Cilley, Davee, 
 and McCrote being candidates for the chair, Mr. Cilley 
 withdrew in favor of Mr. Davee. That gentleman was 
 
9M^. 
 
 BIOGUAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 accordingly elected; but, being soon afterwards ap- 
 pointed sheriff of Somerset County, Mr. Cilley succeeded 
 liim as speaker, and filled the same office during the ses< 
 sion of 1836. All parties awarded him the praise of 
 being the best presiding officer that the house ever 
 had. 
 
 In 1836, he was nominated by a large portion of the 
 Democratic electors of the Lincoln Congressional Dis- 
 trict as their candidate for Congress. That district has 
 recently shown itself to possess a decided Whig ma- 
 jority; and this would have been equally the case in 
 1836, had any other man than Mr. Cilley appeared on 
 the Democratic side. He had likewise to contend, as in 
 all the former scenes of his poKtical life, with that por- 
 tion of liis own party which adhered to Mr. Huggles. 
 There was still another formidable obstacle, in the high 
 character of Judge Bailey, who then represented the 
 district, and was a candidate for re-election. All these 
 difficulties, however, served only to protract the contest, 
 but could not snatch the victory from Mr. Cilley, who 
 obtained a majority of votes at the third trial. It was a 
 fatal triumph. 
 
 In the summer of 1837, a few months after his elec- 
 tion to' Congress, I met Mr. Cilley for the first time 
 since early youth, when he had been to me almost as 
 an elder brother. The two or three days which I spent- 
 in his neighborhood enabled us to renew our former 
 intimacy. In his person there was very little change, 
 and that little was for the better. He had an impend- 
 ing brow, deep-set eyes, and a thin and thoughtful 
 countenance, which, in his abstracted moments, seemed 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 223 
 
 almost stem ; but, in tlie intercourse of society, it was 
 brightened with a khidly smile, that will live in the 
 recollection of all who knew him. His manners had not 
 a fastidious polish, but were characterized by the sim- 
 plicity of one who had dwelt remote from cities, holding 
 free companionship with the yeomen of the land. I 
 thought him as true a representative of the people as 
 ever theory could portray. His earlier and later habits 
 of life, his feelings, partialities, and prejudices, were 
 those of the people : the strong and shrewd sense which 
 constituted so marked a feature of his mind was but a 
 higher degree of the popular intellect. He loved the 
 people and respected them, and was prouder of nothing 
 than of his brotherhood with those who had intrusted 
 their public interests to his care. His continual strug- 
 gles in the political arena had strengthened his bones 
 and sinews: opposition had kept him ardent; while 
 success had cherished the generous warmth of his na- 
 ture, and assisted the growth both of his powers and 
 sympathies. Disappointment might have soured and 
 contracted him ; but it appeared to me that his trium- 
 phant warfare had been no less beneficial to his heart 
 than to his mind. I was aware, indeed, that his harsher 
 traits had grown apace with his milder ones; that he 
 possessed iron resolution, indomitable perseverance, and 
 an almost terrible energy; but these features had im- 
 parted no hardness to his character in private inter- 
 course. In the hour of public need, these strong quali- 
 ties would have shown themselves the most prominent 
 ones, and would have encouraged his countrymen to 
 rally round him as one of their natural leaders. 
 
224 BIOGUAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Ill Lis private and domestic relations, Mr. Cilley was 
 most exemplary; and he enjoyed no less happiness than 
 he conferred. He had been the father of four children, 
 two of whom were in the grave, leaving, I thought, a 
 more abiding impression of tenderness and regret than 
 the death of infants usually makes on the masculine 
 mind. Two boys — the elder, seven or eight years of 
 age ; and the younger, two — still remained to him ; and 
 the fondness of these children for their father, their evi- 
 dent enjoyment of his society, was proof enough of his 
 gentle and amiable character within the precincts of his 
 family. In that bereaved household, there is now an- 
 other child, whom the father never saw. Mr. Cilley's 
 domestic habits were simple and primitive to a degree 
 unusual, in most parts of our country, among men of 
 so eminent a station as he had attained. It made me 
 smile, though with anything bat scorn, in contrast to the 
 aristocratic stateliness which I Itive witnessed elsewhere, 
 to see him driving home his own cow after a long search 
 for her through the village. That trait alone would 
 have marked him as a man whose greatness lay within 
 himself. He appeared to take much interest in the cul- 
 tivation of his garden, and was very fond of flowers. He 
 kept bees, and told me that he loved to sit for whole 
 hours by the hives, watching the labors of the insects, 
 and soothed by the hum with which they fdled the air. 
 I glance at these minute particulars of his daily life, 
 because they form so strange a contrast with the cir- 
 cumstances of his death. Who could have believed, 
 that, with his thoroughly New England character, in so 
 short a time after I had seen him in that peaceful and 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 225 
 
 happy home, among those simple occupations and pure 
 enjoyments, he would be stretched in his own blood, — 
 slain for an almost impalpable punctilio ! 
 
 It is not my purpose to dwell upon Mr. Cilley's brief 
 career in Congress. Brief as it was, his character and 
 talents had more than begun to be felt, and would soon 
 have linked his name with the history of every important 
 measure, and have borne it onward with the progress of 
 the principles which he supported. He was not eager 
 to seize opportunities of thrusting himself into notice; 
 but, wheu time and the occasion summoned him, he 
 came forward, and poured forth his ready and natural 
 eloquence with as much effect in the councils of the 
 nation as he had done in those of his own State. With 
 every effort that he made, the hopes of his party rested 
 more decidedly upon him, as one who would hereafter 
 be found in the vanguard of many a Democratic victory. 
 Let me spare myself the details of the awful catastrophe 
 by which all those proud hopes perished; for I write 
 with a blunted pen and a head benumbed, and am the 
 less able to express my feelings as they lie deep at heart, 
 and inexhaustible. 
 
 On the 23d of February last, Mr. Cilley received a 
 challenge from Mr. Graves of Kentucky, through the 
 hands of Mr. Wise of Virginia. This measure, as is 
 declared in the challenge itself, was grounded on Mr. 
 Cilley's refusal to receive a message, of which Mr. 
 Graves li.ad been the bearer, from a person of disputed 
 respectability; although no exception to that person's 
 character had been expressed by Mr. Cilley; nor need 
 such inference have been drawn, unless Mr. Graves were 
 10* o 
 
^26 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 conscious that public opinion held his friend in a doubt- 
 ful light. The challenge was accepted, and the parties 
 met on the following day. They exchanged two shots 
 with rifles. After each shot, a conference was held be- 
 tween the friends of both parties, and the most generous 
 avowals of respect and kindly feeling were made on the 
 part of Cilley towards his antagonist, but without avail. 
 A third shot was exchanged; and Mr. Cilley fell dead 
 into the arms of one of his friends. While I write, a 
 Committee of Investigation is sitting upon this affair: 
 but the public has not waited for its award; and the, 
 writer, in accordance with the public, has formed his 
 opinion on the official statement of Messrs. Wise and 
 Jones. A challenge was never given on a more shad- 
 owy pretext ; a duel was never pressed to a fatal close 
 in the face of such open kindness as was expressed by 
 Mr. Cilley: and the conclusion is inevitable, that Mr. 
 Graves and his principal second, Mr. Wise, have gone 
 further than their own dreadful code will warrant them, 
 and overstepped the imaginary distinction, which, on 
 their own principles, separates manslaughter from mur- 
 der. 
 
 Alas tliat over the grave of a dear friend, my sorrow 
 for the bereavement must be mingled with another grief, 
 — that he threw away such a life in so miserable a cause ! 
 Why, as he was true to the Northern character in all 
 things else, did he swerve from his Northern principles 
 in this final scene ? But his error was a generous one, 
 since he fought for what he deemed the honor of New 
 England ; and, now that death has paid the forfeit, the 
 most rigid may forgive him. If that dark pitfall — that 
 
SKETCH OF JONATHAN CILLEY. 227 
 
 bloody grave — had not lain in the midst of his path, 
 whither, whither might it not have led him! It has 
 ended there : yet so strong was my conception of his 
 energies., so like destiny did it appear that he should 
 achieve everything at which he aimed, that even now 
 my fancy will not dwell upon his grave, but pictures 
 him still ainid the struggles and triumphs of the present 
 and the future.* 
 
 1838. 
 
 * A very subtile and searching description of Cilley's mental 
 and moral qualities is given in Hawthorne's American Note- 
 Books, Vol. I. p. 71. 
 
JUN 23 1904 
 
liiliii' 
 
 016 117 502 A